

[[||]]... from the inside flap...

Two young dudes from east Charlotte, the author and his mythical best friend, a character named Frank, take a psychedelic half-hollow-day excursion to Morrow Mountain State Park, just east of Albemarle, North Carolina (USA).

While hiking under the influence of a mysterious psychoactive elixir, they begin 'searching for tomorrow' along the leaf-covered trails on a majestic March day. Out in the woods, they observe many thought-inducing scenes, leading to creative concepts about life on Earth.

Spoken words soon become jumping-off-on-a-tangent points. The English language gets fluffed and skewered; the verbal tomfoolery is nonstop. Their linguistic madness then begins to affect everyone they encounter, from a veteran policeman to a cute young waitress.

Finally, some three decades later, the magical day's path is carefully retraced and keenly investigated with the author's wife and son.

### To Morrow Tomorrow

a novella by Mike Bozart

Edition: 3-C

© 2014 Mike Bozart, all rights reserved
And now for some somber legalese...

First and foremost, this is a work of fiction. _To Morrow Tomorrow_ is not a factual account of any slice of the space-time continuum on Earth or anywhere else. Names, characters, places, events, incidents, and situations are either the product of the author's warped imagination or are used in a fictitious fashion. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or their otherworldly spirits, or any locales or known objects, is entirely, and without exception, coincidental.

Whew! Glad that's over.

cover art by Mike Bozart
... for all

who knew

him, or

someone

like him.

~|~

Table of Contents

Cover

Inside flap

Title page

Disclaimer

Dedication

Foreword

Preface

Acknowledgments

Epigraph

About the Author

Section 1

Section 2

Section 3

Foreword

First off, let me state that I often hung out with the author from the late '70s through the early '90s on the eastside of Charlotte. Back then I lived in Easthaven, the neighborhood across the creek from his. It was just a ten-minute walk or a three-minute car drive to his house in Idlewild Farms. I still remember the route: Dawnwood – Helmdale – Idlebrook – Hillborn – Powder Horn. Yes, Powder Horn Road – what a name. I guess the developer's street-namer must have been a fan of cowboys-and-Indians movies. Well, who knows?

I am also fairly certain that I hung out on several occasions with the Frank character prominently featured in this tale. I'm sure that one of those times was at Morrow Mountain.

Well, obviously, I wasn't fortunate enough to make the excursion chronicled in this novella, as neither of these slackers called me the night before the adventure took place. However, I could picture each of the scenes very well; I felt like I was there with them. It was certainly an escapade in which I could imagine Mike and this Frank guy partaking.

Upon my first reading of this novella, I assumed that the Frank character was one common friend or acquaintance. However, on second read, he seems to be a composite of two guys from that late 1970s / early 1980s era, who both have sadly left this mortal coil.

Well, whatever the case, may their souls or his soul rest in eternal peace. That Frank character was certainly a one-of-a-kind guy. Someone who you just can't forget.

  * Herman S. Goetze, [Taos, New Mexico]

Preface

I first met the guy who would (largely) become the Frank character in the fall of 1979 in east Charlotte. He showed up in front of our house on Powder Horn Road in the Idlewild Farms subdivision. He was jumping off a plywood ramp on his bicycle with wild abandon and popping long wheelies.

He was fourteen and I was fifteen. He was cool but not arrogant – a most amicable guy. It wasn't long before he, my brother Joe, new friends, John and Tom (brothers), and I were exploring the densely and deeply wooded areas surrounding the newly completed neighborhood. It was a great place in which to be a teenager back then. Today most of the then-forested areas are apartment complexes.

This Frank guy loved adventure. High adventure was to become character Frank's forte. His breakfast bowl was green. Boy, he sure loved his weed (as it stopped his epileptic seizures). But unlike so many teenage stoners, he was never listless or lazy; in fact, he seemed to have a higher energy level than any of us. He was the first to climb a young pine tree (until it bent over). The first to drop his bike into a deep-bowl clearing. The first to make an amazing discovery.

Once we had wheels and drivers licenses, we ventured out farther. Crowders Mountain. Kings Mountain. Pisgah National Forest. The Uwharrie Mountains. But our favorite was always Morrow Mountain State Park, only an hour east.

When he called during a college break and asked if I wanted to go 'to Morrow tomorrow'... well, I was in. All in. In for it.
Acknowledgments

The author would like to thank all who shared their own Frankesque anecdotes, recollections, tidbits, and insights.

Look deep into nature, and

then you will understand

everything better.

  * Albert Einstein

At 6:31 PM on Tuesday, March 8, 1983, my mom knocked on my east Charlotte bedroom door to tell me that I had a phone call. It was from my hip neighborhood friend Frank.

I walked down the long hall, through the den, into the kitchen to find the yellow handset resting astride the cradle clasps. I grabbed it.

"Hello, this is Mike."

"Hey, what are you doing tomorrow, man?" Frank asked. Oh, dear, I wonder what he has in mind.

"Nothing special, but I'm off from UNCC (University of North Carolina at Charlotte) for spring break this week. Why, what's up?" He has some type of mischief in store. I can already sense it.

"Want to go to Morrow tomorrow?" To Morrow tomorrow. Hmmm, I should use that little phrase in a piece of writing someday.

"You mean Morrow Mountain State Park?"

"Yes, sir-ree. Are you up for a magical hike?" Magical? Oh my... me thinks I know where this is going.

"A magical hike? Frank, I don't have the time or the mind for another 14-hour acid trip."

"No, it's not LSD. [Lysergic acid diethylamide] And, it's not mescaline, DMT or psilocybin, either." Ok, then, what could it be? I bet he got some of those emetic seeds.

"Morning glory seeds again? Do you really want to have another puke-a-thon?"

"No, it's not morning glory seeds. I couldn't stomach those nasty things again." Thank God.

"Is it Marezines? That's just too much unreality for me, Frank. I don't want to be picked up by my dad again under the Eastway Drive overpass."

"Nope, you're wrong again." What in the world is it?

"Well, I give up, Frank. You've stumped me." It's probably something toxic. Amanita muscaria mushrooms, I bet. A slow agonizing trip to La Ville de la Mort [the City of Death] via the white-gilled destroying angels.

"I got this extra-spatial, psychoactive, super-smooth, elixir-concoction from that George guy, the weird chemist dude I met last week. He said that you can get glimpses of the future after drinking this stuff. It's a real time-shifter. You can move into tomorrow." What did he just say?

"Move into tomorrow? Did I hear you correctly?"

"Yeah, and, get this... it's totally legal!" Oh, great... another nasty legal high.

"Ok, what are the side-effects? How long does it last? How long does it take to recover some semblance of sanity? Do I end up repeating the same word over and over for thirty-seven weeks?"

"Try thirty-seven years."

"Very funny. Maybe comedy is your calling, Frank."

"Just relax, dude; there are no bad side-effects. And it only lasts about four hours. Five, tops. C'mon, a cool walk in the woods. It will be an adventure. A high adventure." Probably too high.

"I don't doubt that it will be an adventure, Frank. I'm just kind of concerned about where I am when the adventure ends."

"Oh, don't worry; you won't end up on westbound East Independence Boulevard with your right thumb out."

"Then, maybe my left one?"

"Oh, c'mon; don't be a wimpleburger. I bought a two-liter bottle with you in mind." Two liters? Wow! I sure hope that it's a weak, ultra-diluted concentration.

"Two liters! So, you bought a lifetime supply. You garage-qualified! You're already moving up the pyramid, Frank."

"Moving up the pyramid? What in the hell are you talking about? Just settle down. It has a Gatorade-like base. It's a perfect drink for a hike. It replenishes the body as it refinishes the mind. Those were George's exact words." Refinishes the mind? I can't believe that I heard that. It's so hysterical. And yet, Frank seems to have bought it hook, line and sinker.

"Wow. So, he's already got a catchy jingle for his meta-temporal beverage. He must have a day job in advertising."

"Meta-temporal? Ok, so I guess that means I can count you in, meta-tampon?" Meta-tampon?

"Did you just call me a tampon?"

"No, something beyond a stopper." Beyond a stopper?

"I'm not going to be a stopper."

"Good. I'll pick you up at eight tomorrow morning. Be ready to roll when I toot my horn twice. If I toot my horn once, just go back to sleep. If I toot my horn thrice, start running out the back." He's high right now.

"Ok, whatever, I'll play; I'm in. But if we end up in the city jail in Albemarle or in a Stanly County hospital, it was all your idea, all your fault, and I knew nothing about the drink's ingredients. Basically, you will have poisoned me. That's what I will tell them. I swear; I'll pin it all on you." I chuckled.

"Calm the frick down. Trust me; it's not poison. And, sure, I'll take the rap if you stumble off a lakeside cliff and drown. Well, second thought, probably not." He let out a laugh.

I thought about what I might be signing up for, for about three seconds. "Ok, see you tomorrow morning."

"Over, under and all about." <click>

I hung up the phone. What in the world am I in for tomorrow? Jeez, I hope it's not something immediately dangerous to life and health, or something that causes dementia ten or twenty years after ingestion. Well, I am pretty bored just sitting around here. Weather-wise, it looks perfect for a hike tomorrow. Oh, why not. I'm young. You are supposed to do these kinds of things when you are a young man. It will make for quite a story when I'm old... if I ever reach 'old.'

<>

<beep-beep> Frank arrived at 8:02 AM, signaled by a rapid double-toot of his loud horn. So, the clipper ship is now at the dock.

I gathered my knapsack and left the house for his red F-100 pickup truck, which was parked along the front-yard curb, just past the ivy-covered black mailbox. It was a cool 48°F with patchy fog, but it was expected to warm up to the lower 70s. I opened the passenger-side cab door and jumped in. It reeked of stale smoke.

"Did you eat your Wheaties?" Frank asked with a wry grin. He already had his mirror shades on. His shower-wet dark brown hair was parted in the middle. His expression seemed to say, 'Let's get the show on the road, dude; time's a-wasting.' Well, I guess I'm onboard now for this 'let's find tomorrow' odyssey.

"No, I actually didn't eat anything."

"Well, I got a breakfast bowl just for you, cosmonaut." Oh, boy; here we go... wake-n-bake.

Frank passed his preloaded silver metal pipe to me. I grabbed it and took a puff as we drove off. The smoke sure was silky smooth. This is some good shite!

"Wow, what is this stuff, Frank?"

"Blonde Lebanese hash. It's the premium hors d'oeuvre. Inhale all the smoke. Hold it in; let it melt into your lungs and seep into your mind. This stuff is way too expensive to waste." I bet it is.

A nice THC buzzeroni soon took hold. Frank inserted a Peter Gabriel cassette tape into the horizontal dashboard slot. The music sounded like it was from a strange play in a castle theater.

We didn't say much as we left the Charlotte city limits. The small townships and towns to the east began to pass by one after another: Allen, Midland, Locust, Red Cross, Frog Pond, Endy.

Our minds focused on the music.... No one will tell what this is all about / But I will find out / I will find out / I will find out...

Thirty-nine minutes after leaving my parents' house, we were rolling past the western town limits of Albemarle. We continued east on NC 24/27, passing south of the downtown area. At the intersection with NC 740, Frank pulled his truck into a convenience store for some gasoline, snacks and drinks. A Highway Patrol car caught my eye as it sped past. Well, let's not get paranoid... at least not yet.

Loaded up with mission-critical supplies, we continued on our journey. Soon we passed the wooden Morrow Mountain State Park sign. We had made it to the park safely. Ah, we're already here. We're inside our sylvan sanctuary. How will this day go? How will it play out?

Frank veered left at the triangle intersection. We descended towards Lake Tillery. But then he suddenly turned left at the road that went to the swimming pool. What in the world is he thinking? It's way too chilly for a swim.

"I think it's a wee too cold to be in that pool, Frank. Hell, it's not even open." I wonder what his plan is.

Frank kept driving past the pool's stone bathhouse, while turning his head towards me. "Listen, I know it's not open. And that is why this will make a perfect point A." Point A?

He drove all the way to the far end of the vacant parking lot, stopped and cut the engine off. What does he have in mind?

My brain was already in tape-delay mode. "Ok, and where is point B?" I asked like a TV crime show detective.

"That is what we are now going to find out," Frank said while giving me a gigantic, hugely mischievous grin as he pulled a plastic, two-liter bottle from behind his seat. So, that's it. The hemlock extract. I wonder if it is the Socrates brand.

The liquid inside was a translucent red color. It looked like weak cherry soda. What in the world did that George dude mix in this bottle? Will it be the last thing we ever drink? Will we end up permanently deranged? Chemically induced psychosis? Another pair of acid casualties?

"Let me guess... that's what we're going to drink," I coyly ventured.

"You know, you're pretty smart for a goofy, red-haired guy."

I laughed and watched Frank uncap the clear vessel of the mysterious strawberry-colored solution. He slugged down a few ounces of the strange libation. Then he passed it to me.

"Don't I get a cup? I don't know where your mouth has been." I tried to look serious.

"Don't be a wuss. Just drink up." This is how people die.

"What's the recommended dose? One ounce? Two?"

"More, much more," Frank said and then began a proclamation. "To get where we need to go, you need to drink more. When in doubt, just drink more. More and more." More insanity.

"If I didn't know you, I'd say that you were a raving alcoholic."

"The amount of alcohol in this drink is minimal, dude; we won't be getting drunk. You know that I'm not into alcohol. Trust me; you won't be staggering about. Your motor skills will stay sharp; your mind will be ultra-keen, just like a polished chrome ball bearing rolling down the edge of a razor-sharp cutlass sword." Boy, he's reading straight from George's hype card.

Over the next thirteen minutes, we consumed about half of the bottle. Then we got out of the truck. I felt ok, but I sensed a psychic tsunami was fast approaching. My premonition would prove to be most prescient.

For some odd reason, Frank placed the bottle right in the middle of the truck's hood. The morning sun's rays refracted through the fluid. The designs projected onto the red surface seemed alive. Magical hydra-like creatures were dancing about. This is going to be one helluva day; I can already tell. Prepare for sensory overload, me lad.

"Hey, Frank, take a look at this. Is it doing anything for you?"

"Oh, yeah; it's doing plenty. Listen, we better get in the woods and on a trail quickly. Very quickly."

"Why?" I asked, feeling dumfounded and momentarily oblivious to the newly emerging state of mind.

"Because we may soon have trouble communicating verbally with anyone, especially the park ranger." The park ranger? Why did he have to name him in particular? Sheez, thanks for the initial paranoid rush.

"Ok, good idea. Where does the trail start?"

"Not sure." He's not sure?! He doesn't know?

"What?!"

"Let's just go down this slope until we hit a creek. Then we'll walk up the creek until it dries up." What did he just say?!

"You've already lost your mind! Walk up the creek until it dries up? Did you hear what you just said?" His bean is already thoroughly juiced. Full saturation has now occurred.

"Yes, my auditory monitor is working; I heard what I just said. You need to relax. You're not going to get dehydrated and eaten by a bear today. Well, maybe one of two scenarios."

I laughed at his joke. "Very funny, sport. You're already off and soaring. Folks, please make way for the self-launched missile man with the reflecting shades."

Frank just harrumphed as we began to meander down the leaf-covered hillside. We soon reached a small creek. It was actually more of a rill than a creek, as it was only two feet across and only three to four inches deep in the middle; in fact, most of the little stream was less than two inches deep.

"Gosh, we might drown in this river, Frank."

Frank wasn't amused by my ridiculous commentary. "It's the perfect size. I bet it vanishes within two miles." Vanishes?

"But, do we vanish with it?"

"Well, there's only one way to find out. Ready to hike upstream?" Frank sure is his fearless self today.

"Towards tomorrow, right?" I'll play along with the theme.

"Of course."

"Ok, let's go." I sure hope that we make it back to the truck by sundown.

Frank began to hop from stone to boulder to stone in the creek bed, sauntering upstream. After a few strides he hit a wobbly rock, but caught his balance before falling over. Jeez, thank Zeus he didn't fall and bust his noggin. A medical situation would totally suck out here in our inebriated mental states.

"Whew!" Frank gasped. "That was a close one. A real wobbler there. Be sure to watch your step."

"Will do. Thanks for the heads-up... or heads-down."

Frank then looked at me and purposefully rocked the stone back and forth as if giving an on-camera demonstration, before merrily hopping along.

"Why do you think it's wobbly?" I asked from two strides behind him, just to gauge his mindset, as we continued our fluvial assault on tomorrow. I wonder how much his brain has been zapped by that liquid voltage.

"Why are some rocks in creeks wobbly, you ask? Probably because they recently tumbled downstream in a big downpour or a two-day-long deluge, and haven't had sufficient time to resettle into the creek bed." Hmmm... I'm not so sure about that.

"Your stream of consciousness is a little wobbly, Frank, if I do say so. Your theory is teetering in the current. I think it has to do with the shape of the rock. Angular rocks will rock-n-roll. Smooth rounded rocks will just become glued in their silty seats."

"Glued in their silty seats? Are you quoting Shakespeare?"

"No." Why in the world did he think that that line came from Shakespeare?

"Listen, Mr. Mike van Tryke, I think it has to do with what is under the rock. You know, what the rock is resting on. If it's setting on another rock, chances are it's going to wobble. And if it's setting in the silt, sand or mud, it's probably going to be a non-wobbler, regardless of shape." That actually does make some sense.

"Well, you're going to have to choose a theory; you can't run with both. You don't want to waffle then wobble, or vice versa. That's the worst. You can't eat both ends at the same time." I started to laugh at my little word jokes.

"Sure, I can. We can syncretize all three and leave room for a fourth for dessert." Syncretize?

"Wow, Frank, you can still hold three thoughts in your mind at the same time? I can barely finish a... sentence."

"Place an imaginary number beside each thought. You can then keep them in order. Well, until they start to move." His ship has set sail. He's cut the anchor line and left the harbor.

"You're already on a roll, Frank. Good stuff. Bravo. Encore."

"Well, let me tell you something... ok, I confess: I placed that wobbly rock back there yesterday – it was all staged."

"Really?! You're kidding, right?" Did he really do that?

"My God, you are too freaking gullible, dude! Do you really think that I would have driven all the way up here yesterday just to reposition some stones in this little creek? Listen closely to me: Don't talk to anyone for the next four hours." Am I already a liability?

"Not even you?"

He didn't answer. He just tilted his chin up a couple of centimeters. Then he swatted at a gnat. Not sure if he got it; he wasn't, either.

We continued up the small stream at a faster pace. The gradient started very slight, but started getting a little steeper, yet it was nothing like Pisgah.

Our hearts were pumping our blood around a little faster now, but we were far from over-exerting ourselves. It felt good – good to be moving. This is the perfect hike!

After a few hundred feet, we seemed to just somehow know which stones were likely to be wobbly, and avoided stepping on them. Are there no more wobblers in this gulley?... or, are we just incredibly lucky?

When we were next to some ruins that looked like the foundation and lower level of an old 1800s building, we heard the strangest bird call. <oot-oot, ah-kah, ah-kah, ook-ook> What the fruck was that?!

"What kind of bird is that, Frank?"

"Mockingbird."

"It sounded like a flying frog." Flying frog? Why did I say that? Is there a frog that can fly?

"Well, they can mimic the sounds of amphibians. They can even imitate the sounds of crickets and other birds."

"Well, they can mock us if they like."

Frank just smirked as I then heard: wel-lay-kah-mah-kus-eef-dee-ligh.

"Did you hear that, Frank?"

"You sound just like that bird."

"Wow! I guess my brain is serum-saturated already." I guffawed like a loon.

"Your brain was serum-saturated a long, long time ago, pal o' mine. You may want to relax a little. For real. Ease up. It's way too early for the full-blown hysteria." Hysteria?

"Are we early in the first quarter, Frank?"

"Yes, and you're already over-reacting to every first-down discovery." First-down discovery?

"But, it's the Super Basin of Consciousness, man! I can feel it rinsing my cranium, Frank. George's sublime serum is a big-time neuronic hit... and run. Hit. Run. Hit. Run. You know, get on base, take another base, and then another, cross home plate, climb into the stands, shake the hands of the fans, be a grand sport, autograph the programs, kiss the babies' foreheads, shake the hands, chat and tell jokes, smile, smile, smile, and you keep going... and you keep going... and going." I was saying this to Frank as I started to run upstream, sometimes missing the rocks. My shoes and socks were getting wet. This feels great! I'm running into a new existence.

"Woah, slow down," Frank cautioned. "If you slip and fall and break a leg, you're on your own. I'll flee. I'll leave your crippled, intoxicated ass right here for the wolves. I swear to God I will."

"No. No, you won't. I've got your truck keys in my knapsack. You're not going anywhere without me today." Let's see if he falls for it.

Frank patted his front jean pockets. He felt the keys in his right pocket. "You got me that time, you flipped-out flucker." Flucker?

"Ok, I'll admit it; I like George's grog, Frank. Tell him to put me down for a gross. Does he have a Grog-of-the-Month club?"

"Ya know, somehow I knew that I'd end up being the responsible chaperone, while you get to be the free-form, carefree, high-flying space cadet." Am I getting spacy?

"Listen, I'll reel it in at half-time, and we'll switch sides. I'll be the attentive babysitter for the final one-twenty. Deal?"

"Sure, and I am going to hold you to it."

And with a nod of acknowledgment, we continued to up-stone the small, sometimes rocky, cackling creek. It was leading us to tomorrow. I could sense it.

We arrived at the Kron House Restoration parking area in nineteen minutes. That wasn't too bad. My body seems to be functioning pretty well, and my mind is cradling the heavens. This stuff is la crème du cosmos. [the cream of the universe] The best ever. Makes acid seem like the car-battery variety.

We then proceeded on the outside of the chain link fence. Luckily, there wasn't a single car in the parking lot. We both knew about the deceased doctor's house up on the hill; we had checked it out many times. The Krons probably walked along this very creek a century ago. And now we're here. Well, that's life on this Earth.

"Frank, can you imagine this place one hundred years ago? Nothing but dense forest for miles. Virtually no carriage roads, and certainly no cars or trucks. And, no TV or radio."

"But, plenty of bears, like that one behind you." Oh, shit!

I whipped my head around to see... a small creek babbling down the gentle slope. "Touché. You got me there." Am I starting to get paranoid? Hope not. That would ruin this delightful state of mind.

"You should've seen your face, dude. Pure fright."

We chuckled and continued our creek-bed journey. Stone by stone. Boulder by boulder. Root by root.

"Ah, I just had a moment of déjà vu, Frank. I just knew that you were going to step on that grayish rock and not on the slightly mossy one beside it." So uncanny.

"Why would I want to step on a mossy rock? I don't want to bust my ass out here."

"Yeah, yeah, I know; I get that. It's just that I saw the real-life video in my mind just before you actually stepped onto that rock in real-time."

"In real-time? Dude, it's just a sensory mapping error inside your skull." Is that what it is?

"But, what if incidents of déjà vu are simulation errors... or simulations of simulation errors?"

"Oh, no; don't start with that 'all reality is just simulation' stuff. Not now. Not today." Why not?

"Start with or end with; it doesn't matter, Frank."

"Well, just don't slip into a chasm of jamais vu, sportzee."

"Jah may voo? Is that a creole curse?"

"It's French for 'never seen.' It's when you forget a familiar situation. Please don't forget that we're walking in a creek bed, which contains cold water, slippery rocks, moss and mud, and possibly sharp shards of broken glass."

"I don't know how I could forget that, Frank. I mean, c'mon; I'm not that zonked." Maybe I am.

"You could have fooled me."

I chuckled for a couple of seconds. "Hey, speaking of fooling, did you steal my Fake Fate T-shirt?"

"Fake Fate? How would you do that?"

"Bang the con-un-drum, man. Do it. Do it now." I began to laugh like a madman.

"Bang the what? Oh, I get it. It's now the pun hour. Feel free to PUNtificate. Go right ahead. You're due." Yore dew?

"Won and done, Frank." I wonder if Frank thought the word I said was won or one. Ah, the mystery of contextually ambiguous homophones.

And so it went like this, capricious comments coinciding with deft creek steps. After hiking another half-mile, we decided to take a break in a thicket of rhododendron and mountain laurel. Frank was lying on his back looking up at an immense oak tree. I was sitting on the ground with my back against a sycamore tree that had an English ivy vine wrapped around its lower trunk. It looks like that vine is trying to strangle the life out of that tree.

"Did you ever notice all of the Ys in the branches of a tree?" Frank asked with a peaceful yet high-as-a-kite look on his face. He's cruising at 37,000 feet now with no turbulence.

I looked up at the branches of the still-bare oak tree. "Well, I am now."

"Why do the branches fork where they fork? Do you think that there's a Y formula?" A why formula?

"For forking out loud, I'm not a botanist, Frank." 'For forking out loud' I can't believe that I came up with that one... and nearly automatically, without a conscious choice of words. Almost like someone else said it for me. Who? Who has invaded my brain? I've got to squelch these thoughts a little. Turn down the gain. Remain half-sane.

"I know that you're not a botanist, Mike, but I don't think you have to be one to not be able to answer the question."

"To not be able to answer the question? Hey, you found some good space there, friend. I'd be a camper."

"You can be a camper out here tonight if you'd like; I'll be comfortably numb in my bed in Charlotte. Now then, can you answer my question, Mr. College?" Mr. College?

"How about, you answer it, Frank. You seem to already know the answer."

"Oh, I don't know the answer, but it's like whenever something breaks away on its own tangent, the main course will wonder why, right at the Y." Not later?

"The main course? Now, what is this? Dinner in the dingy diner? Are you also planning for a mind-splitting dessert? Something to top it all off. Maybe a maraschino cherry on a bottle rocket? Let 'er rip!" What a sight!

"Why would I want to put a cherry on a bottle rocket and send it off for the ants to eat in the next valley over?" Frank rhetorically declared.

I shook my head and lightly chuckled, and then looked at a fallen oak leaf. I was immediately drawn to the forks in the leaf's veins.

Frank noticed me studying it. "A good day for examining trees and leaves, huh?" Frank casually asked. It most certainly is.

"Absolutely. There is a certain tension at each Y, at each fork. Can you feel it, Frank?"

Frank was studying the oak tree's branches more intently. "No, I can't say that I feel it, but I certainly see it. Everything diverges and merges. Mainlines and spurs. Exit and entrance ramps. Life and death." He's ozoned.

"Life and death? I'm afraid that I'll have to call you on that one, Frank. And, I think that you're forgetting 90-degree crosses; you know, those things called city street intersections."

"You're crossing me up, man. Let's go back one Y... yeah, one don't-ask-why-at-the-Y. Why, even lifelines with deathly Y-forked exits. It's right there to see, dude. Are you seeing this? Are you seeing what I'm seeing?" He's gone... lost in some meta-space. Cosmosis has set in.

"I have no idea what you're seeing. I see trees with branches and their fallen leaves on the ground."

"Wow, thanks for that level-one reality check. Please tell me: Are we on a planet called Earth?" He then laughed in a very hardy-har-har manner.

"Alright, alright, I'll play along. Ok, in your Y model of the universe, can the spirits of the departed re-enter these lifelines? What if it's a dead-ender? What then, Professor von Peck?"

"Don't ask me; ask the Y." Yep, he's toasted. Toasted on both sides and in between.

"You're sliding into the semantic soup, Frank, and I don't want to talk to a tree again. The last time I did that, it didn't end up so good."

"No, it's not about talking to a tree. Just think about it: What if single lines remained single lines? No breakaways. No sidings. No spurs. And no freaking crosses to cross us up! All perfectly parallel or forever askew." Forever askew? That pretty much sums it up.

"What single lines? You're really making less and less sense with each word you utter. I thought it was all about merging and diverging. Have you already chucked that theory to the stream that leads to a cesspool of consciousness?"

"Cesspool of consciousness? Don't worry, Mike; you'll soon be up to speed. You're going to make it; you'll be ok."

"Ah, thanks for the vote of reassurance, Frank. Just stay on your line, and you'll never die in a collision."

"Oh, I'm not worried about me; I'm beginning to worry about you, Mr. Art Z. Sportzee." Man, he is out there now, strumming the stratosphere.

"Art-zee Sportzee? You're overreaching now, Frank. You're entering a dangerous, collapsing, accelerating orbit. Want me to throw you a lifeline?"

"Fret not, friend. Frank is on his A game." He glanced at my back. "Hey, let's get that jug back out of your knapsack." He wants more of the neuro-zap serum?!

I unzipped my knapsack and extracted the plastic bottle of the now-ruby-colored liquid. We slugged down some more of the mind-altering beverage. We almost had it drained after three rounds of gulping.

"Ready to find tomorrow?" Frank asked while jumping to his feet. His expression was completely deadpan, totally stoic. It was no joke.

"Sure. I'm fully recharged." I might as well play along.

After walking upstream another six or seven hundred feet, we noticed a fork in the little creek. There was a slightly smaller branch to the left.

"Well, lo and behold, we've reached our Y moment, Frank."

"Let's take the left fork, man."

"Why? Just kidding; don't re-think it. Lead the way."

The little branch rose quickly and soon became a small cascade, splashing over well-rounded mossy rocks. We stepped out of the creek bed and walked on the bank. Then we saw a silver galvanized pipe, about eighteen inches in diameter. It was protruding from an earthen berm.

"Hmmm... wonder where that pipe goes?" I asked.

"Let's climb this berm and see what's up there," Frank said.

The berm was only about twenty-feet high and the angle was not too steep to climb. Once at the top, we were greeted by a quiet, small, tranquil, green pond. The earthen berm was actually an earthen dam.

"Frank, did you know that this pond was here?"

"No, I didn't. Pretty cool find, huh?"

"Absolutely. I had no idea that there was a pond in this state park. It's not on any map that I've seen."

"Well, George's elixir worked: It led us to a cool new place. We found our point B." Point B sure is the place to be.

"Is this the pond of tomorrow, Frank?" I let out a guffaw.

"Who knows? Sure is a cool place to hang out, though. But, why in the world is it here?" Now, that is a very good question.

"I know. Really. Why would anyone create a small pond in the middle of nowhere?"

"Maybe it's a water supply in the event of a forest fire," Frank stated like he was suddenly a governmental spokesman.

"But, Frank, there's no road access to this pond. And they've got a boat ramp on Lake Tillery on a paved road just a few miles from here. An easily accessible unlimited water supply."

"Yeah, it is kind of weird. You don't think Dr. Kron and his family made it, do you?" I doubt that. The galvanized metal pipe is a giveaway. After 1930 for sure. Post-Kron era.

"Man, that would be a decade or two of shoveling if you had to create this earthen dam by hand, Frank. And it's over a half-mile from their house. And, what about this galvanized metal pipe?"

"Yeah, it was probably created after the Krons died. The more I look at it, the more obvious it is that it was created by earth-moving equipment – a bulldozer and/or backhoe."

"I agree, but why is it here? There are no trails leading to it. The Hattaway Mountain hiking trail does not connect to it. You don't think that we've hiked right out of the state park onto private land? Is this a private pond?" Gosh, I hope not.

"Nah, I don't think so. We would've seen Park Boundary and No Trespassing signs."

Frank was now looking at a wooden walkway that led to what appeared to be an overflow drain. He pointed to it. "Right there is the beginning of that galvanized pipe that we saw back there." Wow, he's right. His brain is still working on some level.

"Yeah, that's it, Frank. It's an overflow pipe to prevent this earthen dam from being washed out during a heavy or prolonged rainstorm. It's a deluge downspout."

The next thing I knew, Frank started walking over to the overflow drain walkway. He walked down the gangplank for about fifteen feet to arrive at a concrete base with a valve wheel that was chained.

"Better not screw with that, Frank. You could drain the whole pond with one wrong turn."

"Why do you always think that I'm going to do unauthorized catastrophic things?" Unauthorized and catastrophic?

"You have a nifty knack for it." I laughed, maybe too loud.

Frank smirked at me. Then he looked at the overflow drain. It was covered by a wooden grate of 2 x 4s to prevent branches and other things – like humans – from falling into it.

"Come out here and check this out," Frank implored. Oh, dear. Please, no pipe tragedy today, dearest demigod.

"Ok, don't fall into that pipe until I get there," I said as I began walking over to the gangplank. Once there, I cautiously walked out to the end, watching out for backed-out nails in the decking.

Frank was now happily standing on the wooden grate that rested atop the vertical overflow pipe, the top of which was at pond-surface level. I noticed that a low volume of pond water was flowing over the lip and splashing below, about three Frank lengths below. Woah!

"Listen to this, man." And with that earnest directive, Frank began to jump up and down on the wooden overflow grate. He was creating a pounding plasmatic percussion. Wow, that sounds kinda cool. That would sound good on some art-rock album.

He then jumped higher, hitting the boards with so much force that I thought they might break. I'm watching the start of a terrible accident. I know it. I'm going to be on the news. I can see the microphone in my face now.

"Woah, Frank, you might break those boards and fall all the way to China." I can see him lodged in that pipe, unable to get out, slowly drowning to death. Then, there I am, in the ranger's residence, being interrogated, and then handcuffed.

He just smiled. "I've already checked the lumber out; it's solid – no rot. Just relax; I've got it all under control." Famous last words.

He continued his stomping performance. The sounds reverberated down – then up – then back down – the pipe. He started to time his jump-beats so that they were syncopated. Soon he had a warbling percussion section going at full volume. It sounded otherworldly.

"Man, that sounds like it's coming from the bowels of the Earth. But, you better hope that that wood doesn't break, or you'll be stuck in a tight space with the pipe snakes."

"There are no snakes in this pipe," Frank retorted.

Frank then started to use the metal handrail next to the valve wheel to jump even higher. He was now soaring up to four feet above the grate. When his white sneakers smashed down on the 2 x 4s, the sound was like that of a giant bass drum passing through a narrow, spiraling railroad tunnel. He then stopped to let the sound echo and slowly decay. It was wow and flutter overload. Wicked!

Then a ripple on the green water's surface caught our eyes. It was a nonpoisonous black water snake making its way to the far shore. Hello! It was a sudden reminder that we were not the only animals at – or in – this pond.

"No snakes, ey? Well, there's one right there," I gloated.

"Holy schick!" Frank exclaimed as he spun around and stepped up onto the concrete base.

"I guess your magnum opus was not a hit with the reptiles in this ponderous pond."

"I guess not," Frank said as he surveyed the rest of the pond's surface for more snakes. However, there didn't appear to be any other slithering serpents.

"I'm getting the hell off of here."

"That's a good idea. A very good idea, Frank."

Frank began retreating down the gangplank to the bank of the pond. He then walked over to where I was on the earthen dam without a single misstep.

"What now?" I asked.

Frank picked up a relatively thin rock and tossed it out on the pond's surface. It skipped twice before sinking. Soon we were both skimming stones on the pond's languid surface. This is actually quite amusing. What if I were a skimming stone? Where would I like to sink? Oh, what am I thinking?

We were about thirty feet from the overflow drainage inlet when I hit the metal railing with a thin piece of blue slate. <ding> The sound seemed to have a longer-than-normal sustain. It's the drink. I'm zonked, too.

"I just rang the bell with that shot, Frank."

"You started the match, but I bet I can skim a rock into the overflow pipe to end it," Frank confidently announced.

"Game on," I replied.

Frank carefully analyzed the small, flat, blue slate stones around his feet, finally settling on one that looked like a fat-in-the-middle potato chip. He picked it up, brushed the dirt off of it, cocked his right arm back, and let it fly.

The round wafer-stone skipped once, twice, and then popped up, landing on the overflow-drain grate. It then slid five inches and fell into a gap between the 2 x 4s. And then a second later... <sploosh>

"Game over," Frank triumphantly stated. "One and done, as you so often say." Won or one?

"Hey, I didn't even get a throw," I mildly protested.

"Tough break, dude. It was sudden death and I won the toss. That's life. It's not always fair. I guess you'll be buying me lunch."

"Are you really hungry? I couldn't imagine eating food right now." Food seems so gross at this moment.

"No, not now. But, I will be when we leave here in a few hours."

"Ok, I'll buy you a late lunch. Where did you want to eat?"

"Pizza Slut!"

"I knew that you would want to eat there. You're still interested in that blonde waitress, aren't you? Wait, have you been seeing her over the winter?"

"Crispy Christy!" What the hell?

"I have no idea what you mean by that. Well, maybe I do." No... I don't.

Frank just smiled. He kept his female relationships close to – and under – his vest for the most part; he was never one to gossip or confide about such.

Then a gust of wind blew through the bare, brown tree limbs. I turned my head towards the refreshingly cool breeze. What an awesome day to be alive on this old orb.

"Can you see the wind?" Frank asked.

"A trick question. I'm not buying you dinner, too."

He laughed for 2.2 seconds. And then there was this Zen-like silence that lasted for about fifteen minutes, maybe seventeen. I had no idea what he was thinking, and to tell you the truth, I wasn't sure what I was thinking. I realized that I was still breathing. I had a pulse. I was still alive. Though, I wasn't sure what I wanted to do – if anything. Wow, it's all just molecules in motion. Yeah, yeah; that's it: molecules in motion.

We were just there, feeling removed from normal time and normal human existence. And then, it hit again: another déjà vu sensation. Only this time it was longer. Instead of foreshadowing just a second or two, I felt like I knew what was going to happen about five seconds before that five seconds actually occurred. I knew that I would turn my head and look towards the wind. And I knew that Frank was going to ask that trick question. This is getting eerie.

"Frank, I just had another déjà vu experience, only this time it was much longer. It was about a five-second sequence."

"Just let me know when it goes into tomorrow," Frank replied.

"I don't think that will ever happen. When you realize the déjà vu moment, you're in the present tense recalling a slice of time that is now in the past. How do you ever get to the future with that?"

"You're getting there. Let me know when you find yourself recalling the present." Recalling the present? He's riding a nice neuron wave.

"When I find myself recalling the present? I think that you've fallen off the boat, Admiral Frankenhouser von Peck. Man overboard in the Sea of Unreality."

"Hold on, dude. I'm right here. I'm not freaking out – like you! Everything is fine with me. Just settle down. We're not under attack. Health-wise, we're fine – at least I am."

Frank then felt his heart and looked at his hands and wrists. He seemed content with his findings. I really hope that he doesn't have some medical condition that manifests itself out here. That might be too much for me to deal with in this state of mind. I'm not sure if I could tie my shoelaces right now.

"I wasn't talking about your physical health; I'm concerned about your mental health. You are making some bizarre, super-schizoid statements."

"You're starting to scare me. You sound like a psychiatric ward doctor. All you need is a white jacket, Dr. Tryke." Am I really coming off like that?

"And, all you need is a white straightjacket, Mr. Peck. Sorry, you left that one out over the middle of the plate. It was an easy yard ball."

Frank chuckled. "You always reduce it to some silly sports analogy, time and time again," Frank said as he felt his left front pants pocket. "Oh, shit!" Gosh, I hope he hasn't lost his truck keys. No, not that!

"What's wrong? You didn't lose the keys to your truck, did you? Holy fock! Please tell me that you still have your keys in your possession."

"Relax, dude; I still have the keys to the truck. However, I seem to have lost my pocket watch." Thank God he didn't lose his truck keys!

"When did you last remember having it on your person?"

"I know that I had it on my person ten minutes ago, because I took a peek at it when we first got up here."

"Ok, let's just backtrack," I plainly stated without a hint of emotion. Gosh, my tone of voice sounded so B-grade TV series, almost like another person – like some unknown actor.

Frank began walking along the shore back to the gangplank that led to the overflow pipe. Once there, he crouched down on his knees on the wooden overflow grate. He peered down into the dark shaft.

"See anything ticking down there, Frank?"

"Actually, I do. It's round, silver and shiny. Yep, that's my pocket watch alright." Oh, great.

"It's probably broken now from the impact. I wouldn't try to retrieve it. You'd most likely get stuck down there. And there's no way I could get you out."

"You're kidding me! Are you serious? Do you really think that I would lower myself down a slimy, eighteen-foot-deep, narrow-ass, vertical pipe shaft to get an $11 pocket watch?"

"Well, I never know what you might attempt. You've got an interesting track record. You'll have to admit that."

"You'll be admitted," Frank said as he began to chortle.

Frank came back over to the shore, and we decided to head back. We descended the earthen dam, grabbing small trees to prevent sliding on the fallen leaves. When we got down to the galvanized overflow pipe outlet, I looked inside.

"Frank, I think I see your pocket watch. There's hardly any water in here. I'll crawl inside and get it for you." I stuck my head inside the pipe. Sure enough, he took the bait.

"Woah, stop! Don't crawl in there. You'll get stuck in that pipe. I've already written off that pocket watch. It's not worth an emergency rescue." That's for sure.

"Gotcha! There's no way that I would slither one foot into that slimy pipe." Did he really think that I would crawl in there?

Frank smiled. "I had a vision of you crawling into that pipe and getting stuck. Dude, it was so real." I bet it was.

"Maybe you need to fine-tune your future channels."

"Fine-tune my future channels? Now, who is speaking blithering nonsense?"

Next, I tripped over an old rotting log, but caught a maple tree's trunk to prevent a fall.

"Almost get tripped up?" Frank sarcastically inquired.

"Oh, I got tripped up about ninety minutes ago." Was it really ninety minutes ago? What time is it?

When we got down to the creek, we decided to turn left and follow it further upstream. We soon noticed that an old roadbed was running parallel with the petite runnel.

"Hey, let's abandon this little rivulet and hike on that logging road," I suggested. "Give our shoes a chance to dry out."

"Sure, I'm game to that. I just got slapped by another tree limb. I'm done with this creek, and I think it's done with me."

"Yeah, I think this little creek has seen enough of us."

"Are you now channeling the creek?" Frank proudly asked, knowing that he had scored a nice play on words.

"Seven points for that one," I said while rubbing a cobweb out of my eyes. I hope there's no spider on my head.

We walked down what appeared to be either a logging road or a fire road, eventually coming to a pair of slate-and-mortar gate pedestals on opposite sides of the roadbed. Some rusty hinge hardware was present, but there was no gate.

"Why in the world would they have a gate here, Frank?"

"What gate?" Frank asked.

"C'mon, Frank, I know the gate itself is gone. I'm not hallucinating. Well, not that badly. But, obviously there was a gate here at one time."

"Yeah, it is an odd place to make such nice pedestals for an access-control gate. It's in the middle of nowhere." Access-control? He's still sharp in spots.

"We're in the middle of knowhere... with a silent k. Get it?"

"Yeah, I got it. Nowhere is ... know where? Right here." He's still flying on a fabulous frequency.

We laughed at the wordplay until some shadows caught our eyes. Several hawks were circling overhead. The sun was bright. It was warmer now, probably in the lower 60s; the morning chill was long gone. Frank tied his long sleeve flannel shirt around his waist. I placed my burgundy windbreaker in my knapsack.

"You ready to head back?" Frank asked.

"Yeah, sure. We don't want to walk out of the park into someone's back yard... and be greeted by a shotgun."

"Yep, that would suck." Majorly!

We marched back down the road, not talking so much now. After about six tenths of a mile, the gravel-and-dirt roadbed was blocked by a chained-shut chain-link-fence gate. It was at least ten feet high.

"This is the Kron House enclosure, Frank."

"Yeah, I know that," Frank barked as he studied the fence. "We can climb over this gate. It shouldn't be that hard." More famous last words. Here's where the injury-producing mishap occurs. I can already see him on the ground.

And with that pronouncement, Frank started scaling the gate. It shook a little as he climbed it with little trouble. He straddled the top for a minute before dropping down on the other side like a professional spy. He took some pride in his deftly accomplished feat.

"Ok, it's your turn, sport," Frank said through the diamond shapes of the silver-to-gray metal fence. It was a challenging remark. Jeez, I'm not so sure of my climbing abilities right now.

I grabbed the two gate sections and pulled on them. To my surprise – and to Frank's – the gate sections separated to such a degree that a slender person could slip through, which I promptly did. What a lucky break.

"Thanks for doing the hard work, Frank. You must've loosened up the chain or pulled the hinges inward while you were shaking on it."

"Unbelievable. You owe me one, dude."

We continued down the old roadbed until it ended at the Kron House parking lot. We then walked up the steps that led up to the knoll that the 19th-century residence set atop.

"Frank, what thoughts do you think went through the Krons' minds up here on March 9, 1883?"

"They probably were focused mainly on survival. Adequate food supply. Praying that no bear would eat their children. Hoping the roof would stop leaking."

"How do you know that the roof was leaking?" I asked as I gazed at the wooden shake roof.

Then Frank followed my gaze to the light brown roof shakes, looking like a building inspector. Then he voiced his field analysis. "These types of roofs always have a leak somewhere. Usually multiple leaks."

"Have you lived anywhere with one of these roofs over your head?"

"No, but take my word for it. I can see the leaks from here." He can see the leaks?

"Is the von Peck hallucination fest now in progress? You can see the leaks from here?" I chuckled. "I'm glad we're done with that magical fluid, because you've certainly had enough. More, much more than enough."

Frank shook his head and grinned skyward. We walked to the back of the house. He almost immediately tried to open the rear door.

"Darn, it's locked," Frank grumbled. "I really wanted to go in there and check it out." He then began to fiddle with the lock with one of his keys.

"We better not go in there, Frank. With our luck, we'd get caught. Listen, I've been in there before, on a school field trip. It's not that big of a deal. You can pretty much see everything through the windows."

We then began to look through the curtain-less single panes of glass. The 1880s-era home life in the North Carolina piedmont had been nicely recreated.

"That narrow stairway sure looks steep," Frank remarked.

"Oh, it is... very steep. One of the school kids almost fell down it."

"Ya know, I could live in a place like this. For real. This is all the space I'd need. Six hundred square feet. All that I'd add would be a fridge, microwave, and a concealed air conditioner in the loft so that I could sleep peacefully in the summer."

"A concealed air conditioner? Would you happen to have a permit for that?" I started to laugh until I wondered what I was laughing about. Am I getting too loony? Too silly? Maybe I shouldn't laugh so much.

Frank looked around, spotting the doctor's office building, an even smaller wood frame structure, about thirty yards away. We both walked over to it and began looking through the old sash windows. The cumulus clouds reflected on the window panes, like out of a luridly illustrated fairy-tale book.

"There is a basement in this one, Frank. I remember walking around in it on that field trip. I think the doctor used it to store medications that needed to be kept cool. No refrigerators back then, you know."

"Hey, look at that little bed. It looks like someone slept in it recently." Gosh, it does! The bottom sheet and bedspread were ruffled. A top corner of the top sheet was turned over.

We then read the signboard about Dr. Kron, which detailed the services he performed and the fees he charged.

"He made house calls," I dryly stated as I read more. "Some long-azz house calls."

"He probably had, too," Frank replied.

Frank then noticed a path leading into the woods behind the doctor's office. "There should be some interesting thoughts waiting for us down at the little graveyard. Want to go?"

"Absolutely. Roll out, Capt. von Peck," I eagerly announced.

"Captain? I want a higher rank than that," Frank pleaded.

"How about kaiser? The Kaiser of Mayhem!"

Frank just kept walking. I didn't see his facial expression. Maybe he didn't care for that appellation.

Soon we crossed a very small creek, tiptoeing around the muck. And in no time, we were standing in the Kron family cemetery. Sadly, most of the headstones were broken. However, the engraved birth and death dates were still legible.

"Frank, he was a Germanic fellow like you," I said as I motioned for him to look closer at the headstone obelisk. "Look, born in 1798 in Trèves, Prussia."

"Yeah, that town is now called Trier; it's in West Germany," Frank matter-of-factly stated.

"You sure know the Fatherland, Frank," I said as I walked over to Mary Catherine Kron's headstone and felt the engraved letters and numerals. "Wow, his wife was born in Tours, France. I wonder how they met."

"Maybe she fell ill on a tour of the duchy, and then the good doctor gave her something extra." Reducing it to sausages and O-rings.

I guffawed and scratched my two-day mustache stubble. Then I looked back at the other headstones of the Kron daughters. "Frank, do you think that they ever thought about strangers in the future, such as us, just chatting away over their graves?" I doubt they did, but who knows?

"It's hard to say," Frank stated with a newscaster expression that was so non-emotional that it looked over-the-top comical.

I couldn't suppress a major guffaw erupting. "Why, is it a thirteen-syllable word?"

"What are you talking about?" Frank asked as he checked his shoelaces and lit a cigarette.

"Ah, nothing... just lost in thought," I said as I gazed at the sky just above the rippling tree line. Maybe I need to reel it in a little. Wow, there are waves running through everything.

"They were alive on a day like this one, dude, a century ago. We are standing on their tomorrow." Hmmm... let me try to figure that out.

"Standing on their tomorrow? Well, I hope the rent is cheap." I wonder if that was the least bit funny? Maybe it was simply disrespectful. Bad karma for me now. I better be cautious from here on out. Stay wary of Kron's revenge.

Frank looked puzzled by my comment. I guess that one bombed. Thud goes the dud.

"And before the Krons were here, well, think of the Native Americans. I wonder how many of them passed by this very spot twelve centuries ago." I wonder what that exact number would be. Even? Odd? Prime? Oh, the things one can never know in this life.

"Well, it certainly wasn't a cemetery before the 1800s." Did he really think that I didn't know that? Does he think my mind is that baked?

"Are you certain of that, Frank?" I'll test him.

"Let's be honest; we can't be certain of anything but life and death." He's still immersed in it. But, let's keep playing.

"And, even that could prove to be ultimately uncertain. Do you follow me, Frank? Or are you having a Y moment?"

"I wouldn't follow you to a gold mine. But go ahead."

"You wouldn't follow me to a certified treasure trove? Not a glory hunter, are you?"

"I'd run the elevator and unload the gold. You could trust a guy like me." Whence this train of thought?

"Yeah, ah-huh. You wouldn't push me down the shaft, would you, when no one was looking?"

"Not until all the gold was out," Frank calmly said while cleaning his silver shades.

A sudden gust of wind then sent several stubbornly attached leaves sailing into the mostly sunny March sky. The leaves looked like strange brown rips in the sky fabric. What a surreal scene this is. This would be an interesting video to watch, over and over again. But, how could I stage what I'm seeing? What am I really seeing? Is that a large leaf or a small bird? Did something just land in my eye?

I rubbed my right eye. Sure enough, a small gnat had flown into it. I wiped the small black mass off of my index finger onto a nearby dogwood tree.

"Don't be fouling the flora," Frank sternly announced, staying in martinet mode.

I let it go; I didn't reply. I just looked ahead, scanning for gnat swarms.

We meandered back up the trail. When we got back up to the main house, we stopped and looked at it for a few seconds before continuing. Some wasps buzzed around the open front porch. You could smell the old wood, drying out from the last rainfall.

"You know, Frank, I wonder if there was a clearing on top of this knoll before they built the house. Or, do you think it was completely forested?"

"Hmmmm..." Frank seemed to be thinking of something else, somewhere else.

"Are you stumped? Excuse the unintended pun."

Frank just happened to be looking down at a broad, oak tree stump. It was nearly flush with the ground, and looked pretty old.

"We all end up rotting away, man. Yet, we think we are so special, so beyond what has happened in the past. 'Our time is the only time that matters.' What silly thinking that is! Ha, we're lucky to be a grain of sand in the universe's hourglass." He's heavy hitting now... sending them far and deep.

"I hear ya, Frank. I'm down with that. The human ego just wants to feel like it is so important, that it will go on and on, that it must go on and on, that the universe depends upon it going on and on, and even revolves around it, and can't go on without it."

"Uh, I think you took a Y off the mainline back there." Why ask Y?

We both had a small laugh over our entanglement of words. Soon we were back down in the parking lot. A brown sedan was pulling in. As the thirty-something Caucasian couple exited their Volvo, we accosted them. I hope this goes ok.

"I assume the restored house is that way," the brown-bearded guy said to us in a New England accent as he pointed towards the steps that led to the knoll. His blonde-haired female companion just smiled.

"Yeah, it's up that hill," I said while pointing. "Caution: The wasps are already out and looking for a way back in," I warned.

The man nodded. Then he looked over at his lady friend.

I felt like I had handled that well, and was proud of not getting my words misaligned. Wait, did I say that right? Did my tongue get stung?

"Thanks," the couple said in near-perfect unison as they passed us and proceeded to the steps.

When we were out of the parking lot (about two hundred feet away), Frank let loose with a mighty, roaring guffaw. "So, the wasps are already out and looking for a way back in... what the frock! Do you know how utterly freaking insane that sounds, man?!" I guess I do now.

"Oops, one clause too many." I realized that it sounded kind of strange with the extra phrase tacked on the end. Damn, I'm still zapped. He's right; I don't need to be talking to anyone.

We kept walking down the asphalt Kron House access road, and forgot to exit into the woods to pick up the trail back to where Frank had parked his pickup truck. Soon we were at a T-intersection with the main park road.

"Well, Frank, we overran our trail. Which way do you want to go now?"

"Let's just cross the road and walk back up, paralleling the road in the woods, out of car sight."

"What's wrong with walking along the shoulder of the road back to the swimming pool parking lot?"

"First and foremost, there's much less chance of you talking with a motorist if we're in the woods." That is true. But what about a passing hiker?

Frank seemed genuinely concerned about my mouth getting us into some kind of trouble. For a second or two I wondered if I was really a loose-thought cannon on the trails, but then concluded that Frank was just getting a little paranoid. I'm not that far off-planet. I'm going to get his goat.

"Do you really think that I'd tell a stranger what I left in your truck?" I gave Frank an expression of somber sincerity. He bought it. He's still quite gullible, too.

"What the hell did you leave in my truck?!" Frank growled.

"The stuff. You know... that stuff."

Frank's eyebrows rose and his lower lip dipped. "What stuff?! What the hell are you talking about?" I better call it off before he totally freaks out.

"Psyche! Man, you are worse than me now." I started to laugh, but Frank shook his head as if to cut me off. He really couldn't believe that he fell for it. Boy is he hyper-gullible.

Our odd odyssey continued. We soon came upon a small rental cabin with cedar siding and a shiny tin roof. It appeared to be vacant. Frank walked over and tried the front door. It was locked. He then peered into the windows.

"Any dead bodies in that hut?" I asked.

"No, no dead bodies; just a lot of dead ants," Frank answered back. "I guess they ran out of food when the last tourists left."

"Or, maybe the recent cold snap took them out."

"Maybe they couldn't get the fireplace going."

"Who? The tourists or the ants?" I laughed insanely at my own little joke, but Frank was unfazed.

"See, this is why I'm glad we're far away from people. It would be a total disaster if a visitor or park official heard you. You really need to check your cord and start retracting." Check my cord? Start retracting? He's divinely delusional.

"But, we haven't found tomorrow yet, Frank. We're still stuck in the middle of today!"

Then, all of a sudden, there was this strange whirling sound. <whizzz–whaaaz-whizzz> The pitch was changing from a high to low tone, and back to high again. And then, just like that, it was gone. Nothing. The sound only lasted for about three seconds.

"What the heck was that, Frank? Some kind of mutated Japanese beetle? A dragonfly dragging a fly?"

"Not sure, but it probably was an insect." An insect from another planet?

"Maybe it was the hutchess of the hut."

"Hutchess? I don't think that's a word."

"Well, you said it, too; thus, it must be a word, Frank."

"I've never heard of such a rule for deciding whether an utterance is a word or non-word."

"Utterance? You heard me clearly. Hutchess today, hut chess tomorrow."

"Hut chess? Your brain is a smoldering French-fried pawn."

"Pawn or prawn?" I quickly interjected, pounding on the punnage.

Frank proceeded as if the question had been overruled by an invisible judge. "Your vat of oil is cooked. You should listen to yourself. What gibberish you now speak!"

"Don't get all ivory tower on me now, Frank. Come down from your Teutonic marble pillar and run for the post." I laughed, maybe a few seconds too long.

"Listen, I'm starting to recede back into level-one reality, but you seem to be submerged in an unfathomable unreality. What am I going to do with you? What if you never come back up from the depths of delirium? I could drive you to Broughton in Morganton and drop you off. Just give me some gas money. That's all I would ask." What a guy. What a deal.

Suddenly, I started to wonder about my sanity. Was I now permanently coo-coo and headed for the loony bin? I rested my chin on my left knuckle. I saw myself in a foam-rubber-walled room with a white plastic spoon in my right hand. I sighed. "When you come to visit me, Frank, bring just one pill: a hydrogen cyanide capsule."

"Hey, snap out of it. It's a joke, man. Just returning fire. I got you pretty good, huh?" Yep.

"Yeah, you certainly did. The vision was very convincing. I was there. I was living it, or sadly enduring it."

"Yeah, I'm sure you were. Seriously, though, let's get back to the truck. Just let me do the talking if we come across anyone. Promise?"

"Do I have to sign on the dotted – or the dashed – refinished line?" I asked amusedly.

Frank just gave me a raised-eyebrows look.

"Ok, ok. Sure, you got it, man. You can be the spokesman; I'll be the muted one." I even nodded to Frank with my lips sealed to assure him.

We walked along to the sound of small twigs snapping underfoot. Eight minutes later we were back in the swimming pool parking lot. The lot was still devoid of other vehicles and people. Frank's red Ford pickup truck seemed to be glowing and pulsing with some unknown energy. Whew, I'm still sailing. Sailing far, wide, and high as a kite. I'm glad I won't be trying to drive that truck.

"No mistaking your truck, Frank. It's redder than my hair."

"Your face is bloody red, too." Oh, gosh, did I get severe sunburn? I should've stayed cognizant of the sun.

"Is it bad?" I asked as I walked over to the passenger-side mirror.

"Ah, you'll survive."

I looked at my reflection in the rounded-corner, square, silver surface. Well, I definitely have some sunburn. Not super-bad, though. Thank Odd.

For some unbeknownst reason, Frank stepped back a few paces. "Hey, my truck's grill kind of looks like a face from this angle and distance. Do you see it?"

I stepped back, too. "Yeah, I do. It looks like you, Frank."

"You're a real funny guy today," Frank said in a somewhat sardonic tone.

We got in the truck and closed the doors. Frank turned the key. The engine started. He revved it a little.

"Hot dog!" Frank exclaimed.

"Hot dog? The Led Zeppelin song?"

He shook his head. "I've been having some trouble with this starter lately," Frank disclosed, as if it was a serious medical condition.

"Now, you tell me. Well, let's not cut the engine off until we're back in Charlotte."

"Sure. Hey, let's go for a little drive in the park."

"Ok, but do you feel alright to drive at this time? The asphalt sure has an interesting texture."

"I'll be fine. Just don't fall out the door on me."

Frank eased out of the parking lot and came to the intersection with the main park road. He looked both ways while packing another bowl.

"Going bowling already?" I asked while watching him meticulously load it up.

"Always bowling, dude. Always puffing strikes."

"Ok, I think we need to go to a commercial now."

"Go to a commercial... puh-lease. There's nothing to fear; I'm on it, man. Which way do you want to go?" Hopefully not off a mountain.

"How about down then up?" Maybe that will trip up his mind.

"Down to the lake?" Frank asked with a quizzical expression.

"Sure, let's take advantage of gravity at this stage in the game." Oh, gosh, I used another sports cliché. Penalty forthcoming. Yellow card in the ref's hand.

Frank smiled and swung the steering wheel to the left, and we descended towards Lake Tillery. His driving seemed ok; he kept the truck on the right side of the road and out of the shoulder rut, even while puffing on his metal pipe, which was way more than I could do at this point.

Soon we were at the boat ramp. Frank circled it, gazing at the lagoon. Then he parked his truck in the large lot near the boathouse, facing the lake. What a splendid scene.

"Imagine this place a hundred years ago, Frank. It was just the undammed Yadkin River. There were probably some decent rapids around here. I bet it was a great moderate-level kayaking run full of class twos and threes."

"Yeah, no doubt. I wonder if that Dutch ferryman every thought that he would be put out of business by a bridge."

"He died a long time ago, Frank. What bridge are you talking about? I just see water. You must've got the dregs."

"The highway 24/27 bridge, dregger."

"I don't know; the NC 24/27 bridge is way south of here, and was built after his death. I just wonder if he ever thought this river would be dammed."

"I wonder if he ever tried to divide by zero." What?!

"Where in the hell did that come from? How did that question enter your mind?"

"Owl be dammed. A mouse in the house."

"Frank, you're beginning to wear that saying out. You said it at least fifty times the last time we cleansed our neural circuits."

Frank just gave me a half-laugh and stared across the lake. "I can see the mouth of the Uwharrie River. Remember our excursion up there in my canoe and your kayak?"

"I sure do. Remember, you fell in the cold water, trying to reposition some items in your craft, as you called it."

"No, you fell in the water, dude. Don't change the story on me, Mike." Did I really fall in the water? Was it me?

"Not so sure about that, Frank."

"Oh, it was you alright. Your socks got soaked and you put them on a tree limb to dry... and then forgot about them. They may still be hanging there. Maybe a thousand birds have crapped on them." Frank began to really enjoy his all-out chortle.

"Ha-ha... ok, ok... maybe it was me. It sure was neat finding that small feeder creek, and paddling up to that abandoned house."

"What abandoned house?" Did he forget?

"The one at the head of the tributary," I said while looking across the lake, recalling our canoe-kayak adventure last fall. The water was almost completely calm at the moment. A few fair weather cumulus clouds reflected in the slight undulations. It almost felt like my head was slightly rocking. And, maybe it was. Wow, what a day to just drift away... forever.

"An abandoned house?" Frank seemed perplexed. "We were in an abandoned house? Are you sure?"

"Yes, that abandoned house over there," I said while pointing across the river. "Oh, c'mon now; you know the one. Remember walking through it, and then hearing a voice?"

"Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah. That one. Remember that old man who entered the house after we were on the upper level? We hid upstairs until he left. We spied him through a hole in the floor." Ok, he remembers.

"Yep, sure do. I remember him saying something under his breath about blowing our legs off with a shotgun. He was not a happy camper."

"Oh, yeah; he was pissed. Not sure why, though. We didn't do anything... except trespass." Frank chuckled.

I then noticed Frank scanning the lake. "What do you think this place looks like a hundred years from now?"

"Lake Norman. Nothing but expensive homes up and down the shoreline."

"Yeah, you're probably right, Frank. Do you ever wonder what cavemen thought?" That should throw him for a loop.

"No, not ordinarily, but now that you have brought it up on this day of heightened awareness... let me guess, you are wondering what cavemen thought about the future, perhaps? What they thought about their tomorrow?" He read my mind.

"Exactly. Think how wrong their assumptions about the distant future were."

"Wait a second. How do you know what cavemen thought? How do you know what their conceptions about the future were like? Are you unearthing their thoughts right now?" Frank gallantly guffawed.

"Well, I think we can safely assume that they couldn't have foreseen all of the technological advances and developments."

"Yeah, I agree. I think I know where you are going." You do?

"The world in 2983... Frank, we really don't have the faintest idea of what that will be like. Heck, it's hard to imagine the Earth in 2083."

"How about imagine this: I turn the truck's engine off and it won't start back up." Oh, schist o' schiste!

I gasped. "No, let's not do that scenario, Frank. I'm not mentally up for automotive troubleshooting. Not now. Please, not now. Let me take a rain check on that."

"Oh, sure you are. You're up for some torque-wrenching in close quarters." Frank smiled with a flash of malice.

I feared the worst. My mind soaring in multiple directions in the stratosphere while toiling under an old pickup truck, trying desperately to fix a seized starter, while the authorities watched, applying maximum psychological pressure. Please, no! Not this scene. Not now.

Frank grabbed the ignition key, paused for dramatic effect, smiled like a mad scientist, and then turned the engine off. He then looked at me for a reaction. Darn, he really did it.

I gave him a look of sincere concern mixed with exaggerated worry. "You just had to do it, didn't you?"

Frank didn't respond. His expression was deadly deadpan. He then turned the key the other way... and... voilà!... the truck's engine started right up again.

Frank, with lit cigarette in hand, then seamlessly shifted the truck's transmission into reverse. We backed up and were soon exiting the parking area. Whew! Glad that wasn't an hour-long, under-the-truck ordeal.

At the triangle intersection, Frank veered to the left and we began to climb Morrow Mountain, the tallest of the ancient, worn-down Uwharrie Mountains. At the stonewall-lined hairpin switchback, I thought that I saw a deer in the woods. Frank kept the truck on the far right, narrowly avoiding a scrape with a small yellow sedan that was a little over the center of the unlined, black, coarse-stone, asphalt road.

"Whew! That was too close for comfort. He was in our lane, wasn't he, Frank?"

"Yeah, he was. But, I anticipated it. I had it all the way." He's certainly in his zone.

"How? How could you see around that hairpin turn?"

"I just had this feeling that I'd better stay way wide right."

"A safety premonition?"

"I guess you could say that."

"Maybe the ghost of Dr. Kron is looking out for us."

"Oh, I really doubt that." Actually, so do I.

Frank expertly negotiated the final turns of the ascent. We entered the parking lot at the top of the big mountain-hill. There were two vehicles parked on opposite ends of the overlook wall. We didn't see any people; perhaps they were hiking below. Frank parked close to the overlook circle.

"Well, if I can't cut the engine off, we may as well turn around and go back to Charlotte," Frank dryly announced.

"What are the odds of it restarting?" I asked nervously.

"Well, this past week it's restarting seventy-five to eighty percent of the time. Last week it was about ninety percent."

"So, it's getting worse, but our chances are still better than a coin toss."

"I've cut the engine off four times today, and it has restarted perfectly all four times. Now, we will find out if we're going five for five." Or six for six? Frank gave me a maniacal grin. Oh, jeez!

With that pronouncement, Frank cut the engine off before I could say anything in protest. Somehow I wasn't as freaked-out about it as before. Well, it's not raining. And, the temperature is ok. If the starter requires a tap or two, at least the weather is ok.

We got out of the red pickup truck and walked up to the large, stone-and-mortar picnic shelter. It had a fireplace and a high-pitched roof under which thirty-or-so people could easily dine.

"You ought to rent this for your wedding reception, Frank."

"I'm not getting married anytime soon," Frank fired back.

We walked out the back of the shelter to the scenic overlook. Frank sat on the split-rail fence. He surveyed the heavily forested land and the teal lake, hundreds of feet below. He was lost in his thoughts; he seemed to be recalling some previous event. Did he screw Christy up here? In this very shelter? That ribald focker!

Next, I thought that I heard someone down the slope, but then realized it was just a gust of wind, rustling some fallen leaves. My brain is still gurgling in that grog.

Frank then turned around and looked back inside the structure, studying the open, exposed-beam rafters. He rested his eyes on the remains of a charred Black Label beer can in the large fireplace. "This sure would make one hell of a house. All you'd have to do is glass-in the openings."

"Yeah, it sure would," I said while noticing some intricate patterns in the slate blocks. "Hey, are you still zooming?"

"Zooming? Zooming in on what?"

"Your bean. Are you still feeling the accelerated rush of thoughticles inside your skull?"

"Thoughticles?" Frank had never heard this coinage before.

"Yeah, thoughticles, man. Thought seeds. Feel the all-out rush to an über-stupendous germination?"

"An über-stupendous German nation? Sure. Whatever, dude. Just keep your flowering thoughts in your own walled garden." Yep, he's still flying high with a keen eye on the ground.

"They keep rushing forward, Frank. I can't stop them."

"Rushing forward to where?"

"To tomorrow – where else?"

"Man, you will believe anything. That tomorrow nonsense was just a sales pitch." I knew that.

"But, what is this stuff, Frank? I know it's not psilocybin, LSD, DMT or mescaline. It's so smooth. I don't feel like my circulation is being cut off to my fingers or toes, like with the other stuff."

"George wouldn't tell me. Trade secret, I guess. As for your circulation concern, maybe the blood is not reaching your brain. Oh, and you look whiter than usual." Oh, no...

"Do I really? Damn, what am I going to do? Maybe I should drink some water or something." Am I getting lightheaded now? What's next?

"Just calm down. Nothing's wrong. Everything's going to be fine. Trust me." Frank rubbed his hands together as if he were cold. But really, he was just excited to go to the next place on our late-winter-day vagabondage.

We walked down to the overlook circle and passed through the split-rail fence. We surveyed the brown-colored slope below. The road and hiking trails were visible through the leafless trees. Looking down the mountainside was mesmerizing. I leaned back against the wooden fence, while Frank looked out towards Lake Tillery, several miles off in the distance.

"Remember that time when you, me, Joe, Tom, John, Hump and Hev smoked an ounce of weed up here in one sitting?" I asked, while turning my head from side to side, making sure no one was within earshot.

"Oh, yeah. That was a half-ounce of primo lamb's breath. That was my highly prized herb. That was one expensive burn, dude. I can't believe that you and Tom, of all people, would continue to smoke up my stash when everyone was already stoned out of their ever-loving gourds."

"You shouldn't have passed out, man."

"I should've never passed you the bag."

"Listen, I'll make it up to you; I'll make you whole as they say in the courtrooms across America."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever."

"Man, I'll never forget watching that clear plastic sandwich bag sail away in an updraft. Up, up, and that one is gone, way gone, folks! You remember that highlight moment?"

"No, I don't. I was already baked like a cake. I was a zombie, man. Remember, I was passed out." Oh, yeah.

I laughed for a split-second, stopping for a jet that suddenly roared overhead. The puffy contrails looked like white acrylic paint streams that had been squeezed from tubes and mashed down onto a cobalt blue canvas. What a most splendid day! One for the mental scrapbook for sure.

It really had turned out to be an ideal day for such an extraordinary excursion. Everything was going as good as could be hoped. This day sure has been perfect so far. Maybe too perfect? Does some form of evil lurk around the corner to even the score?

"I'll admit it, Frank; you picked a great day. Thanks for the invite. It's been a grand slam."

"Sure. No problem, man. I didn't want to be up here on a weekend doing this stuff. Too many people. Too restrictive. Too unpredictable, in a bad way. I hate feeling inhibited when I'm flying high."

"You, inhibited? The guy who gives the girls shark grins. Remember... Clearwater Beach, Florida?"

"Yeah, I remember. You would have to bring that up." Yes, I would.

I chuckled for a few seconds. "It was a great moment in space-time on this planet, Frank! And, I'll always remember that moment. That moment where you were the big star at the Florida beach on a summer day." He just looked up at a passing white cloud.

"You know, I didn't do anything wrong, or even remotely threatening. I just started to jump on the free trolley and you guys wussed out."

"Yeah, I know. It just looked funny from the sidewalk. A wave of fear rippled through those girls when you leaped on the back of that tram."

"Well, I'm glad you guys got a good laugh out of it. I really felt like I looked like some kind of villain."

"Maybe it was the shades. Blame it on those evil shades." I chuckled.

"Yeah, maybe that was it. Or, maybe it was you guys. When the girls looked at the three of you on the curb, then I was linked to your madness. I was dead in the water. Implication by association." Nice run there, Frank.

"How about when you walked out on that rock jetty, and then got swept off by a rogue wave. Then you swam back, but you got cut pretty bad on your feet by that razor-sharp barnacle. Remember that scene?"

"Yeah, yeah; I remember."

"And remember the little boy on the jetty who asked you, 'What is that red stuff on your feet, mister?' And you replied, 'Oh, that's just blood'... before realizing that it was your own blood. Remember that frenetic scene?"

"You're bringing up all of my winning moments – my greatest hits – aren't you?"

"They were pure gold in my book, Frank."

We walked back to Frank's truck beside the low stone wall that ran the length of the parking lot. This wall prevented vehicles from going down the mountain the direct way. When we were almost to his truck, we stopped to check out some graffiti on the slate stones. It was the usual stuff. Josh loves Judy 4-ever / Bob was here on 12-4-79 / Jim Jones Kool-Aid Test / Eat shit, mother-focker / Your mama socks moose cocks

Frank bent down and retrieved something from the ground next to the graffiti on the stone wall. It was a stone fragment. Upon closer inspection we realized that it was the tip of a Native American arrowhead. Wow, what a find.

I studied it closer. "Looks like we found yesterday, instead of tomorrow."

"This may have been made by a Native American some nineteen centuries ago," Frank plainly stated. Time in hand.

"Yeah, probably so. I wonder if the long-gone arrowhead carver ever thought that you would be holding his tool in your hand today."

"Holding his tool in my hand? Such a joker today, aren't you?"

I started laughing... and had a hard time stopping. Frank was not amused. When a car door shut thirty feet away, I snapped out of it.

"Well, what do you think their sense of tomorrow was like back then?" I asked while looking at a fern leaf.

"Sense of tomorrow? It was probably pretty basic. 'Will I be able to find food?' 'Will we be able to spear any animals?' 'Will the weather be good or bad for the hunt when the sun rises again?' I think that was probably the extent of their tomorrow."

"And, don't forget this one: 'Will she want to have sex tomorrow?' You know, that one was on the men's minds constantly. These were primitive people in primitive times, Frank. Sex was the only entertainment."

"Entertainment? No, no – that's your 20th century brain talking. I can assure you that it wasn't entertainment; it was a primal urge to procreate and extend the species. I sincerely doubt that they found it entertaining." Pre-porno primates.

"How about entangling?"

"What do you mean? As in love triangles? Philandering? Jealousy? Secret flings? Drama? That kind of stuff?"

"Well, yeah, maybe so."

"I guess I could see that going on, but on a much less nuanced level than today." Nuanced?

"They must've killed each other more often over sex than men do today. You would agree with that?"

"Perhaps? Jeez, how did we get on this topic?"

"Hell, if I know."

Frank sighed and then carefully scratched Tomorrow was found on 3-9-83 on a clear section of a gray-blue slate stone. "There we go. It's official."

I knelt down to read it. It was quite legible. "I like it, Frank. Cryptically clever, or maybe even cleverly cryptic."

"I'm glad you approve, though it wasn't a requisite." Requisite? He's still finding some nice space.

"Hey, do you think that they'll know that you meant 1983, and not 1883 or 2083?" Or, September 3rd?

"Let them think any century that they want. Now, I'm going to return this arrowhead tip to the Earth, where it rightfully belongs."

"You don't want to bring it home as a souvenir of our half-day sojourn?"

"No, that would invite bad karma, dude." And with that statement, Frank placed the arrowhead tip on the ground next to the stone wall and used his right boot to stomp it into the soft black earth.

We then looked out over the valley. We were facing north and a light breeze was blowing into our faces. It had been a very pleasant four-plus hours of hiking, talking, wondering, wandering and goofing around. No harm. No fouls.

"We really got away with it this time, Frank."

"What are you talking about? I always get away with it."

"That time when that Charlotte police officer questioned you, and you said, 'What seems to be the problem, officer?' And the cop said, 'You tell me, punk.' Well, let me remind you... that was not getting away with it; that was getting caught with it."

"I win ninety-nine times out of one hundred, and what do you focus on? Why, the one miscue, of course."

"It's what everyone focuses on. Listen, Frank, I'm just busting your chops. Your record for escaping high-adventure mishaps is impeccable."

"They should spell that word with a k after I'm dead and gone. I-M-P-E-C-K-A-B-L-E. The impeckable Frank N. Peck." Fine by me.

"Frank, if I ever decide to become a writer – or if it ever decides to become me – I'll make sure to use your spelling of said word."

"Thanks in advance."

"No problem," I said as I sneezed. "No problem."

"Caution: Repetition can lead to admittance," Frank proclaimed as he walked over to the driver-side of his still glowing, multi-red-hued pickup truck, which to me seemed to have a sponge-like texture. He put the key in the door lock. I was relieved that he hadn't lost his keys.

It was time to ride, as a couple of cars were now on both sides of the truck, about twenty-five feet away. People of all ages were milling about.

"Time to roll, dude," Frank announced. "This place is becoming a family circus." His voice sounded like Charles Bronson mixed with Clint Eastwood.

He unlocked his door and jumped inside the cab. He then reached across the bench seat and unlocked the passenger-side door. I stepped in and pulled the door shut a little too hard. <slam>

"Woah, dude, easy does it. Did you break the window?" Frank was none too pleased.

"No, no broken glass. I just rattled the earwigs inside the door. Sorry about the hard slam. I just didn't want them to slide in behind me."

"Who was going to slide in behind you? Earwigs? How do you know that there are earwigs inside my truck's doors?"

"You can't see them?" Another test. Another gauging of his psyche.

Frank craned his head towards the passenger door and began to study the inside door panel in great detail. After about five seconds he retreated and straightened up while lighting a cigarette. He scratched his beard stubble then made a pronouncement: "You better come back down to Earth in an hour, because that's when I'm dropping your wigged-out ass off at your parents' house at 6090 Powder Horn Road."

"Frank, I can't believe how gullible you are in this late-slate hour."

"Late slate?" He grimaced while turning the ignition key to start the engine, which it did – thankfully – start. He backed out of the parking space and began to exit the parking lot. We gave friendly waves to the kids, moms and dads as we passed by.

"Frank, if they only knew where our minds were – and still are – today."

"Yeah, it's best we keep this tuck rolling with your window up. Please don't roll it down. Keep your head inside the cab and look straight ahead." Am I really that much of a rolling risk?

"Am I that bad? You still don't trust my conversational abilities, do you?"

"You go an extra word too far." That's probably true.

The descent down Morrow Mountain felt like a magical roller-coaster ride. Frank slowed for the hairpin turn. A smooth, safe rounding of the sharp curve. Whew! No oncoming car this time. Zank Zeus!

"Hey, why not go down in neutral? Turn your engine off. You'll still have brakes. It'll be neat. You can focus your mind on the sound of the tires on the asphalt." I sounded like an eight-year-old kid, who wanted to mix every chemical in the new chemistry set, just to see what would happen.

"I don't know about that. I will lose my power brakes."

"Oh, don't be a wimpleton. You can still mash down on the brake pedal after you get some Johnny Airtime on this mountain road." I started to laugh. "And, you still have the emergency brake as your fail-safe. Gosh, even Tom did it in his old Toyota Corolla." Well, part of the way.

"Ok, fine," Frank said as he shifted the column lever to N and cut the engine off. We soon picked up speed. His tires squealed a little as we rounded the curves. The G-force slung us from side to side in the truck's cab. Thankfully, no one else was on the road.

"Try to make it to the triangle intersection without hitting your brakes," I suggested, wondering how daring Frank was feeling. I hope he can pull this off. He seems like he is up to his top driving form.

Frank's lips were pursed as he approached the triangle intersection at about 40 MPH. "Hold on, partner," he sternly announced. He then jerked the steering wheel to the left and the rear of the truck slid out several feet. I just hoped that we wouldn't flip over. The right rear tire hit the narrow shoulder and kicked up some gravel and dust. Frank turned the steering wheel back to the right to end the slide. It worked. The slide stopped. The right rear tire hopped back onto the asphalt as Frank turned back to the left like a skilled Formula 1 racecar driver.

"Woah, bro, that was close!" I exclaimed while catching my breath.

"Do you need a new pair of jockey shorts?" Frank asked while chuckling and restarting the engine. Perhaps I do.

"You weren't concerned about losing it?"

"Not for a moment. I know this truck very well. I know what it can do, and where its limits are. I had it all under control."

"But, do you know where your limits are?"

"I have no limits!" Oh, dear...

"That's a foolish man's creed, Frank."

Frank just gave a half-smile and began to light another cigarette. Capt. Stacks never lets his chimney go smokeless.

We were now exiting the state park. Frank slowed down at the gatehouse and looked inside; it was empty. He proceeded through the gate.

"No one in there?" I asked, thinking I sounded a little too much like a comic-book character.

"No one. Just a sign on the chair that read: Gone Fishing."

"Oh, gimme a break. They would never leave such a sign out in public view. They probably don't even have such a sign."

"Ok, you passed the test. If you really believed that there was a Gone Fishing sign in that guard shack, I was going to let you out right here." He's bluffing.

We descended Morrow Mountain Road, finally crossing over a small creek. I noticed a pond on the right side of the road in the middle of a cow pasture.

"You know, Frank, I think Gally-Wally went swimming in that mud hole back in the summer of '79. What a sight that was."

"Oh, yeah, I remember that time. He entered the pond in his tighty whities, but came out in ruddy muddies."

"What a scene, what a scene. I wonder if anyone else has jumped in that farmer's pond."

"Probably so. Our little group doesn't have a monopoly on pond crazy. Pond crazy? You know that once these country boys get liquored up on a hot summer day, many of them will be in that waterhole, splashing and bobbing about."

"Yeah, I can see it now. MudFest '83. July 16th and 17th. Dawn to dusk to dawn. Lawn chairs and coolers permitted. Drink 'til you drown."

"You sound like a radio advertisement."

"Why, thanks. Hey, remember that green pond that we found about five hours ago?"

"Yeah..." Frank seemed to be trying to jog a neural circuit.

"Well, where do you think it is in relation to where we are now?"

"I think that it is north of here, going towards Badin," Frank said as he came to a stop sign. "Hey, speaking of Badin... we got time, let's go up to Badin and check it out."

"Sure. Why not? I'm game. Let's do it."

Frank promptly packed a bowl, made a right turn, and we were off on Valley Drive, a rural, two-lane highway. After a few miles, we rolled into an old neighborhood (the highway had ended suddenly). Frank looked confused for a moment.

"Ah, it's an old mill village, Frank. Housing for the employees who work at the Alcoa aluminum plant."

Frank tootled around, finally arriving at Falls Road. He turned right. "I remember it now. This road goes to the dam."

"What dam?" I asked, feeling a little disoriented.

"The upper dam on Lake Tillery. Oh, what's it called?"

I somehow instantly recalled where we were going. "Falls Dam." Good, my sense of geography is restored.

"Oh, yeah; that's it. I guess that's why they call this street Falls Road." Frank chuckled lightly for a few seconds.

"But, did you know that it's not the dam that holds back Badin Lake?" I bet he isn't aware of this.

"Yeah, yeah; I know that. There's a mile and a half of dead water between Narrows Dam and Falls Dam." Has it been polluted? Is it toxic now?

"Dead water? What are you talking about? I've seen people landing good-size fish in there."

"Dead water, as in it is flat without any current to speak of."

"I'm sure there's a swift current when they open both dams at the same time."

"Well, maybe so, but every time I've been up here, the water looks stagnant. There's even a film on it most times in the summer."

"They say that there's a waterfall up near the Narrows Dam spillway, close to where we used to jump off that rock cliff, but I've never been able to find it. Remember what Joe said about a gar nipping someone's toes near the base of that spillway?"

"Nipping? In the version I heard, the dude's small toe was severed – completely bitten off."

"Oh," I quietly uttered.

Soon we were passing the public boat ramp at the base of a slope on the left. And not much farther up, the road ended with a No Trespassing sign dangling from a cable.

"End of the line," I chimed. I hope he doesn't decide to ram that cable.

"Like the Roxy Music song? Frank asked in a serious tone, while knowing it was just a quip of a question.

"Oh, yeah, from Siren. Man, that's one of your best tapes. Where is it? I began to look for it in the box on the floorboard. I found the cassette and tightened the tape on the reels with a pencil before inserting it. Soon the intro steps for Love is the Drug were clacking through the cab.

Frank then did a three-point turn and began to head back towards Badin. About 1,500 feet down the road, he looked over at a wide trail on the left. There was a cable with pink ribbons stretched across it, blocking vehicular access. He pulled his truck onto the left shoulder.

This spot immediately triggered a memory. "This is where you, me, and Jimmy came out of the park that day we were riding mountain bikes. Do you remember that day? We parked in the Kron House parking lot and took off on that old roadbed that we were walking on earlier – the one near the green pond."

"Yes, I do. I didn't know where we were going, and it started to get dark. Every time we stopped for a puff break, I felt more lost, or loster, as we said on that day." Loster?

"Or, more loster?"

"Yeah, that's it: more loster," Frank said with faux conviction. "Yes, I'll go with that one." He then took a final drag off his cigarette and then grinded the butt into the pull-out ashtray.

"Or, how about most lostest? That would've been you that day. You lost it due to being lost." My mind was now lost in the double meanings.

"Lost what? I didn't lose anything. Once again, I had it all under control." Frank was adamant in his defense.

"Oh, Really?"

"This old roadbed goes to Morrow Mountain Road. It comes out very close to the main gate. Did you know that it was once the primary connecting highway? I bet you didn't know that, Mr. Geo-Nerdo." Mr. Geo-Nerdo?

"Wow. No, I didn't know that, Frank. Who told you?"

"I saw it mentioned in a piece of literature somewhere."

"A piece of literature, huh? A juicy piece?"

"What are you talking about?"

Before I could answer, a Badin police patrol car pulled up next to us. I rolled my window down. The officer was only four feet from me. He was a white guy in his fifties with a mild beer gut, a double chin, and very short white hair that slightly protruded from under his light brown cap. The seven-pointed silver star on his uniform gleamed in the sunlight. OK, don't say something stupid now.

The officer spoke first. "What are you boys up to today?"

"Just doing a little hiking, officer," I quickly answered as I was closer to him than Frank, and for me to say nothing would've been very odd, somewhat awkward, and maybe even suspicious.

"Yes, it's a great day for hiking, but you can't park here. If you want to start hiking down this trail, you need to park across the road in the boat ramp area. Just don't park in a boat-trailer spot."

"Thanks for the information, officer," I politely said. I wonder if my speaking tone sounds weird. It sure sounds strange right now.

Frank soon followed my verbal lead. "I'll move out of here right now, officer."

"Ok, guys, have a nice day from now on," the officer said as he began to pull away. From now on?

We both replied reflexively: "We will. Thanks."

After the patrol car was out of eyesight, I looked at Frank. "Did he really say, 'Have a nice day from now on'? Man, Frank, I think that cop is on something. That kind of sounds insane!" I laughed for four or five seconds.

"Well, at the very least it sounds like he suspects that we were up to no good, having an illicit day of some sort before he accosted us."

"Right, but now that he has set us on the right path, on which we will certainly continue to stay – from now on – all will be well..."

"... and good," Frank sentence-closed on cue.

We both had a major chortle over the interesting prepositional add-on while looking at some billowing clouds. We weren't quite psychically grounded yet. I saw a few familiar faces drifting above. However, we were slowly winding the amperage down.

"You don't really want to do anymore hiking, do you?" I asked, hoping for a negative reply.

"No, I'm hiked out. Let's just head back to Charlotte. Maybe grab something to eat along the way." Good idea.

Frank backtracked to Valley Drive. We cruised right past Morrow Mountain Road. After several miles we were at a stop sign; it was NC 24/27. Frank snapped his head back and forth, and then zoomed across the highway. This section of asphalt was now called Stony Gap Road. We went about a mile and a half. That's when Frank wheeled his truck into the parking lot of Spray's Seafood Restaurant. There was a plastic blue-finned marlin on the roof of the white cinder block building.

I looked at Frank, feeling a little puzzled. "I thought you wanted to eat at Pizza Slut?"

"Changed my mind. Changed my line."

"You think it's safe to eat here?" I asked in a solemn tone.

"The food is fine here. The real question is, 'Is it safe for you to eat here?' Please keep your yap closed. I'll do the ordering."

"Yes sir, Kaiser Frankhelm."

We exited the truck and entered the restaurant. It was 5:04 PM and the dinner crowd was trickling in. A blonde-haired woman in her mid-20s seated us at a small table near the register and disappeared to the other side of the dining area.

I noted our close proximity to the cash register. I looked over at Frank and raised my eyebrows. "Maybe she thinks that we're the dine-and-dash type. Maybe we look suspicious. You really have to kill those shades, man. You look like a freaking terrorist."

"Look like a terrorist?" Frank was trying to appear offended. "I don't look like no freaking terrorist," he tersely replied.

"Easy, easy; you'll be ok. Just smile when the waitress comes, but don't stare at her boobs for more than two seconds. Oh, and order me a sweetened iced tea with a lemon, with a long straw. Hold the mayo."

"What? We need to cut your mic off now." Do I have a microphone on me? Am I being recorded? By whom?

"Hey, you explicitly said that you would do the ordering." I could tell that Frank was flustered. He was wondering if he could place the order correctly. Then our young waitress arrived. She was a cute brunette, probably about seventeen years old. This should get interesting.

"Do you guys know what you'd like to drink?" she asked with a curious smile. I bet she's something else after two glasses of cheap wine and a tightly rolled spleef. Oh, why am I thinking this at this time? Damn me male brain.

Frank looked up from the menu. They made eye contact, and they both had the same thought: sex – steamy, naughty, unsanctioned sex. They both had a clear image of where their tongues were going to be.

Frank recomposed himself and cleared his throat. "We'll both have sweet teas." He then pointed towards me. "My friend has laryngitis; that's why I am ordering for him."

I turned and looked at our waifstress. "He always says that when he sees a pretty girl."

She giggled and smiled at Frank. "I'll be right back with your drinks." She quickly departed to the back of the restaurant.

"How could you say such a thing?!" Frank was thoroughly ruffled by my zinger.

"It's going to be ok. I can tell that she likes you."

Frank placed his downturned head in his hands and muttered something.

"Frank, I couldn't make out what you said."

"I don't know where or when, but I am going to embarrass you royally! You can trust me on that."

In just 77 seconds our waitress was putting two red plastic tumblers of sweet tea on the table. She looked at Frank. "Have you decided what you'd like to order?"

Frank had his face buried in the large bi-fold menu. He then lifted his head. "We'll both have the seafood special, but my funny friend over there wants his broiled instead of fried." Funny friend? That's a three-pointer.

The waitress scribbled some notations down on her little pad with a purple ball-point pen. I caught the ink color out of the corner of my eye. She then looked at me, then back to Frank. "Ok, guys, will that be all?"

Frank quickly answered before I could cause more damage. "Yes, that will do it."

She winked at Frank – or at least I thought she did – and departed for the kitchen's ticket window.

I looked at Frank. "Would you trust a girl who writes in purple ink?" That should get his mind tumbling and twirling.

Frank immediately returned serve with another question. "Would you trust a hot babe in a purple bra?"

"How do you know that her bra is purple? Did you ogle a perv-peek?"

Frank didn't answer. He just tilted his head and looked down at the floor. Then when his face returned to the table, he was guffawing. Chuckling hard. He was having to use his hands to suppress the sound of his runaway laughter.

"What is it?" I asked out of paramount curiosity.

Frank motioned for me to look at the floor next to his seat. I rose up out of my chair and took a look. There on the floor was a single Trojan condom. It was still in its red foil wrapper.

"You're kidding me! Was that just lying there?"

"It is now." Frank began to guffaw manically again.

"And, I'm the one acting ridiculous? Gimme a break! Just pick it up before you cause a scene."

"Oh, just relax. Let's see how this plays out."

A family of four walked by us to pay their bill at the register. No one seemed to notice the condom on the floor. How could they not see it? They practically had to walk over it?

Then I looked under the table and noticed that Frank had swept the condom back under his chair. A third of the condom package could be seen under his left shoe. When he saw our waitress coming with our food, he flicked it back out into the aisle.

Our waitress looked down and spotted the condom as she approached, but didn't bother to pick it up. She placed our seafood platters down on the side of the table. She was still quite composed, seemingly unaffected.

"Ok, now which one of you guys ordered it broiled?"

I pointed to myself, just as Frank pointed to me.

She passed the plate over to me. Her face had no emotion.

I got a whiff of the broiled seafood aroma. "It looks and smells delicious," I politely said. "Thanks so much."

She slid the other large white plate over to Frank. Then she knelt down to pick up the condom with her right hand. She stood up and displayed it to Frank. "Need a condom or a condiment?" she asked in perfunctory manner. She had a clear, plastic squeeze-bottle of tartar sauce in her left hand (the cocktail sauce was already on our plates).

There was a pause. Frank wasn't saying anything, so I spoke up. "I'm good, ma'am," I abruptly stated, and turned my gaze to Frank.

"I think I'll take both," he said. "I don't want to make a mess with the tartar sauce," Frank stated without a hint of humor. And then his spoken words caught up to his liquefied consciousness. His facial expression was now in full retreat.

Our waitress just smiled, placed the condom and tartar sauce bottle down on the table, and quickly walked away, shaking her head. What the hell did he just say?!

I couldn't believe what I had just heard. I was now the one laughing hysterically with my face in my hands. I caught my breath and slowly ceased the convulsions. "Oh, man, that was stellar! Five stars, Frank!"

"I can't believe my mouth said that," Frank said with a look of unnerving disbelief.

"Your mouth is just following your brain. You want to eat and shoot. I can tell; it's written all over your face. Gosh, I can even see the letters to the words, running up and down your schnozzle."

"You're flipping out, man. Calm down." Am I? Maybe I am.

"Are you sure that this high only lasts four to five hours? I think we're approaching the six-hour mark."

"I am feeling like I'm already back down. I mean, I wouldn't have an appetite if I was still zooming."

"Yeah, I know what you mean. Whatever your boy has concocted, it is certainly something very different – pleasantly different, I must say."

Frank looked out the window then down at his plate. "I need a new pair of dreams."

"Frank, what did you just say?"

He didn't answer; he just began wolfing down his fried shrimp after liberally dunking them in tartar sauce. Frank always was the first one to finish at restaurants.

I methodically ate my broiled chow while glancing at the stuffed marlins on the wall, wondering if any of them had slightly moved. Frank noticed me looking at the oceanic taxidermy.

Frank cleared his plate and wiped his mouth with a white table napkin. "Man, that was just what I needed."

"Hey, that fish just wished at me," I spouted.

"It just wished at you? You must mean winked?"

"Yeah, that, too."

"Ok, c'mon, you've done enough damage in here. Let's not add to it. You better let me handle it from here. Just keep your head down, buried in your plate."

"Me? I haven't made a single faux pas, condom conman."

Seven minutes later our waitress had returned. She gathered our empty plates. "Dessert or the check?" she asked in a detached manner.

Frank beat me to the reply to her innocent question. "If we check the dessert can we desert the check?" he blurted.

I zipped in to save us from further descent. "We're done. The food was great. And, so was the service. We'll just take the checkup now and pay up." Darn, I misspoke. Again.

She just grinned and placed the guest check on the center of our table. "You can pay at the register. Thanks for coming. You guys aren't from around here, are you?"

I fired first. "No, we're from Charlotte. We came up for a day of hiking at Morrow Mountain." I was proud that I didn't fumble the words this time.

"Oh, that's such a cool place. Me and my friends go there all the time. Did you find anything interesting while hiking?"

Frank felt that this was his cue for re-entrance to the conversation. "We found a small green pond out in the middle of nowhere. Have you ever been there?"

"No, I haven't. The only body of water that I've ever seen there is Lake Tillery." She looked at Frank, almost like she was sizing him up for extracurricular activities later on. Maybe she was wondering how hard he could pump it. I was certain that she hadn't forgotten about the condom incident.

"Well, it's a really cool place." Frank tore off a corner of a free weekly and printed on it with a carpenter's pencil:

Green Pond Frank 704-535-XXXX

He then handed the two-square-inch bit of newsprint to our waitress. They made eye contact and smiled.

"Just give me a call sometime. We can show you and your friends where it is." Nice non-threatening wording, Frank. Very smooth, Casanova.

"Sure, that sounds great!" our now-excited waitress exclaimed. So, your name is Frank. My name is Elaine. Elaine from Maine... at least, originally." She then looked over at me. "And your name is...?"

"I'm Mike. I'm originally from Mars. Just kidding... Neptune."

"Well, I'm glad you're not from Uranus." She pronounced it 'your anus'.

With that rebuttal, I shrank in my skin a few millimeters, as Frank chortled. Wow, this girl sure has got some game.

Then the restaurant owner, a balding white guy in his mid-60s, yelled, "Elaine, table 6-A needs your attention." And with that, she was gone.

We paid our bill at the register and then went back to the table to leave a generous tip. We looked for our girl, but the restaurant was much busier now; we didn't see her again. We exited under the marlin in a restrained silence.

Once inside the truck, Frank began to laugh uncontrollably. "Did we really do and say all the things I think we did in that restaurant?" he asked, as if he was almost not believing the past thirty-five minutes.

"You were out of control in there. I couldn't believe you asked that waitress out." I wonder if they will hook up.

"I didn't ask her out on a date-date – just an outing." And an eating.

"And that condom stunt... what in the world were you thinking? That could've easily gone horribly wrong."

"Hey, it worked; didn't it? If you never roll the dice, you never win." I guess he's got a point there.

"How did you know that she wouldn't be offended?"

"She had that 'I'm a wild thing' look about her, and she had a tramp stamp."

"A tramp stamp?"

"Right... a butterfly tattoo above her ass crack."

"You were hallucinating, dude. Her butt wasn't showing."

"Not to you, but when she bent over to pick up that condom, I had a front-row view of her rear seal." Quoi le fuque!

"Rear seal? You're still high as a kite. Want me to drive?"

"No flocking way. Just buckle up. It's all going according to Hoyle's plan."

"Who is Hoyle?"

"It's not important. The cards are playing out nicely, including this latest scene."

"So, you had the whole day planned to this place and time, von Peck?"

"Yeah, somehow like that." Somehow?

I resigned the post-dinner banter. Frank turned the key. <click-click-click> He tried again. <click-click-click> Our luck has finally run out.

"Damn starter! Hold on." Frank thought for a second. "Ok, pass me the hammer that's under your seat," Frank demanded.

I reached under the seat and felt the hammer's wooden handle. I retrieved it and handed it to Frank.

"Thanks. Listen, after you hear me tap on the starter, give it a crank."

"Got it." I hope this works. Quickly.

Frank exited the cab and quickly slid under the truck. I heard three quick metal-on-metal taps. I turned the ignition key. The engine started right up. Frank reemerged and I slid back to the passenger side. He handed me the hammer and I put it back under me. Frank then began to examine his knuckles. I saw a little bit of blood on the back of his right hand.

"You think you'll be ok?" I asked nonchalantly, yet still concerned.

"Great. Fawking great. Yeah, I'll be fine; it just stings like a mother-sucker."

"Hey, watch your language... closely... see the letters?"

Frank wasn't amused by puns or illusions at this point. He shifted into R and shot the truck backwards, kicking up some gravel and a whole lot of dust. He then threw it in D and chirped a tire as we left the parking lot and grabbed the road's asphalt. It was obvious that Frank was bummed by his little mishap, but after two bowls of a weed-hashish mix, he seemed to be out of the pain zone.

"Does it still hurt?" I asked three miles later.

"Just when I think about it," Frank curtly answered.

I pondered on his answer. It could mean so much more than his right knuckles. Every body part eventually hurts if you worry about it long enough. Maybe not just body parts. Lofty elated thoughts always get grounded and bruised. What the hell am I thinking? Is that bird going to hit the windshield? Whew, that was close!

Frank just looked at the road as we buzzed past Albemarle. We were quiet, but our minds were still not completely back on terra firma. Then I saw the little sign for Endy and it triggered a memory.

My family had stopped to eat at the Endy Luncheonette back in the mid-70s. Nothing remarkable happened. Yet, for some odd reason, I began to wonder if all the people who were in the restaurant at that time were still alive. And then I realized that there was probably no way to know. And then I realized I was still high if I was thinking such things. And that's kind of where my mind was as we motored back to Charlotte. As for what Frank was thinking, I haven't the smokiest of clues. Wait, he was probably thinking about having wild sex with that waitress, Elaine. Yeah, that's probably what kept a grin on his face as we drove towards that sinking orange sun. Elaine from Maine. She took the train to the south plain. Now Frank's gain.

When we crossed the Rocky River Bridge, I broke the silence. "Whatever happened to Bobbi?"

"She went back to Florida with Kay."

"I remember that night we were hanging out under the bridge. She seemed pretty cool. Did you guys ever go up to Morrow Mountain?"

"Yeah, I took her up there once or twice."

"I bet you did." I started to laugh.

"What's so funny about that?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing... I guess I'm still flying without wings."

"Well, you've got about twenty minutes to get your head back on the ground," Frank said as he glanced over at me with a suddenly serious look.

"I've just been kidding with ya. The whole day was just an act, Frank. I was totally unaffected by the drink. It was all adlibbed. I just played along, and played it up for your amusement."

"Just a big adlib, huh?"

"Yep. And nothing more."

"Then why are your pupils the size of nickels?" What?!

"Really?" Panic quickly set in. I grabbed his rear-view mirror and checked my eyes. They were normal. Thank God!

"Here's some free advice: Don't let anyone try to sell you anything."

"Why?"

"Because you are gullible enough to buy a ticket for a bridge ride over the Atlantic Ocean."

"You mean there's not a bridge connecting North America to Europe? When did they blow it up?"

"Yeah, right." He was not falling for my feigned ignorance.

Frank just kept driving, looking straight ahead. A soft, orange-hued glow coated the tree limbs and nascent buds. Did these buds appear in just one day?

Soon we saw the sign: Entering Mecklenburg County. We were almost back. Wow, we're close now. I think I can keep my act together. I'll just ensconce myself in my room.

A few minutes later we passed the blue Charlotte City Limit sign with the gold crown. The sun was nearing the horizon. It had been a perfect day. So enjoyable. No debilitating mishaps. Five stars.

Frank turned left onto Farm Pond Lane and lit yet another Winston cigarette. "Your parents aren't going to call my parents tonight, are they?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean, you're not going to put your foot through your mouth, are you?" Not foot 'in' mouth?

"Put my foot through my mouth? I feel pretty magical, but I don't think I could pull off that Houdini trick, Frank."

"Are you sure?" Frank seemed genuinely concerned.

"No worries, Frank. Whatever the psychoactive ingredient was in that magical beverage from your pal George, it was certainly not Marezines. I still know who I am, who you are, and where we are."

"That's good to hear. I don't want my mom asking me if I poisoned you."

"I think I'll be alright. Really. I'm just going to go to my bedroom and lock the door."

"No, no... don't do that. That will look very suspicious, dude. A dead giveaway that something is up."

Frank made a left onto Riding Trail Lane, followed by a quick right onto Powder Horn Road. We soon were in front of my house. Both vehicles, a blue 1968 Dodge Polara station wagon and a yellow-and-white 1976 Dodge Sportsman maxivan were in the driveway; mom and dad were home. I assumed that all of my younger siblings were as well.

"Well, it's the end of the line, partner. It's been real... but it's been mostly unreal." Frank chuckled.

"It surreally has. It sure-really has."

"Listen, don't repeat yourself to your parents. Just say each sentence one time. Got it? Just once."

"Ok, sir. Ok, sir."

Frank shook his head. "Time's up. Good luck, sport."

I jumped out, said goodbye to Frank, and walked up to the front door of the brick veneer ranch house with the long vertical windows. The door was unlocked. I entered unobserved and retired to my front bedroom.

The evening was pleasantly uneventful. My parents weren't suspicious of anything, or at least didn't appear to be. My younger brothers and sister seemed content to leave me alone. I just kept replaying select scenes from the day in my mind. It had been a synaptic blast furnace. Images from the day would emerge and slowly decay. Merge and diverge.

<>

It was Saturday morning, March 9, 2013 – thirty years to the day after that zany psychic adventure – that my wife, nine-year-old son, and I found ourselves in the Kron House parking lot. We loaded our backpacks and got out of the 1999 forest-green Plymouth minivan.

"Dad, how far are we going to hike today?"

"Oh, not that far, son. Less than two miles. You can do it, soccer man."

Sharon looked at me and gave me a gorgeous pinay smile. Kirk just sighed. We walked around the fence and then walked alongside the creek, heading upstream. So, this is that little creek on which Frank and I trekked stone-to-stone upstream three decades ago. It still looks the same, I guess. Though, the memory has sadly faded somewhat.

"Kirk, Frank and I walked up this stream thirty years ago on this very date."

"So, that's why you wanted to come up here today, dad. You're searching for the ghost of Frank. Yes, I can tell." Very perceptive.

"Did you see any snakes that day?" Sharon asked.

"Uh, not in this area, hon," I carefully announced.

"Then, in what area?" My wife really wanted to know. She didn't want to encounter a snake. She has ophidiophobia.

"Far from here, hon."

"I'd like to see a snake!" Kirk exclaimed.

"Yeah, I bet you would, son."

We retraced the path that Frank and I had taken three decades ago, only this time no one was walking in the creek. After a half-mile or so, we saw the little tributary on the left. Why, it looks about as imagined.

"Which way?" Kirk asked.

"Let's go up the little chute to the left," I suggested.

We walked up the trickling rivulet and soon were at the protruding galvanized pipe. There was some rust on it now, and when we inspected it further, it was apparent that some of the pipe had entirely corroded away.

I bent down and ran my fingers through the sand and silt in the small plunge pool under the end of the pipe.

"What are you searching for?" Kirk intently asked.

"Frank's pocket watch," I most matter-of-factly stated.

"Did he lose it right there? Why couldn't he find it?" My wife was eager to know.

"No, he actually lost it up there," I said as I pointed up towards the top of the earthen dam.

"What's up there?" my curious son asked.

"Let's go find out," I said, pretending not to know.

We climbed the slippery slope which had some frosty leaves in the shaded areas. When we reached the top of the dam, we were greeted by the green pond. It looks about the same.

We continued walking along the top of the earthen dam until we were near the overflow pipe inlet. I looked at the wooden 2 x 4s that covered the hole. Several were now broken; most were warped. The ravages of time.

"Dad, what is that?"

"It's the overflow inlet. It's where that pipe leads to, and it's where Frank dropped his pocket watch."

"Frank was out on that?" Sharon asked in a surprised tone.

"Yep, he sure was." There he is, jumping up and down. And, gosh, that sound ... )))... )))... ))) will reverberate for eternity.

"So, he walked in the water to get on that," Kirk assumed.

"No, Kirk, there used to be a walkway to it. I guess they removed it."

"I can't believe that Frank was out there, but then maybe, yes, I can," my wife added. "He was so adventurous."

I looked down at some small flat stones. I picked one up and skimmed it towards the overflow inlet. The rock hit the metal railing. <ding>... and then it fell right between the broken boards and into the overflow pipe opening. I couldn't do that again in a hundred years. I'd be dead by then, anyway.

"First shot and I scored on a ricochet, Kirk. Top that!" What are the odds of that? Just like thirty years ago. Maybe the spirit of Frank is indeed with us today.

Kirk skimmed several stones that missed the target. Then he stopped. He seemed to be thinking about something. "Is this where you saw the snakes?" Wow!

"Well, we saw one water snake in this pond. Frank scared it out of its hiding place when he started to jump on the overflow-opening safety cover."

Kirk stepped a few feet back from the pond's shoreline. Then Sharon did the same thing.

"How big was it, dad?"

"About seven feet, Kirk."

"Yikes!" Sharon gasped.

"Don't worry, guys. That snake is probably dead by now." I was trying to allay their herpetological fears.

"But, it probably wasn't alone; probably more snakes hatched over the years," my son said, remembering his reptile studies in science class.

"Yeah, you're probably right, son. But remember, snakes are generally afraid of people."

"What were you and Frank doing out here?" Sharon asked. "Were you out here just to catch water snakes?"

"No, we were trying to find tomorrow," I meekly stated.

"Trying to find tomorrow? That makes no sense. How can you find tomorrow? It's always a day ahead of us, dad."

"I know, son. It's just an expression. We were just goofing around on a day that I was off from college and Frank was off from work. Just a little hiking adventure." More like a marvelous misadventure.

"Ok, we saw the pond. Can we go back now?" Sharon beseeched. She wants to get out of here before something untoward happens. I can tell that she is afraid.

"Sure, hon."

We backtracked to the main creek, crossed it, and then picked up the old roadbed. We turned left and walked down it until we came to the old slate-and-mortar gate pillars. There were still no gates – just more rust on the hinge hardware. Looks about the same.

"Let me guess, you and Frank were here thirty years ago," Kirk surmised.

"Good guess, son. Yep, we were right here. Not much has changed."

"Was there a gate here thirty years ago?" Sharon asked.

"No, hon, I think the actual gate was removed in the '50s or '60s. This was the original entranceway to the park."

We then started to walk back to the van. Kirk and I began to kick a small plastic ball that we found, back and forth, as we proceeded down the gravel roadbed. Sharon seemed lost in her thoughts. Was her mind in tune with the ghost of Frank's ethereal wavelength?

Then she turned and looked at me. "Good for you guys, but I don't think it would be safe for two teenage girls to be out here in the middle of nowhere."

"Maybe not, hon. Maybe not."

We then heard the sound of a vehicle approaching. And then we saw it coming towards us. It was an old, faded orange Jeep Wagoneer. It stopped beside us. A brown-bearded, forty-something, white guy stuck his head out the window and shifted the transmission to P.

"A nice day for a hike, isn't it?" he asked in a Moore County [NC] accent.

"Sure is. Just doing a short up-and-back with the family."

"You didn't see anyone back there, did you?"

"No, didn't see anyone. Why?"

"I'm looking for my crew. They're out cutting the fallen trees from last June's storm."

"Ah, that nasty derecho. I saw the story on the Charlotte TV news."

"It did a job on this state park. It is taking much longer to clear than we thought. We finally got the top section open."

"Oh, cool. In that case, we may go up there later."

"Well, enjoy the day."

"Thanks. You, too."

He shifted the chrome lever with his gloved right hand into D, and gave us a small wave as he drove off.

"I'm glad he wasn't some killer," Sharon confided.

"You and Kirk are watching too many horror movies."

When we got back to the Kron House parking lot, I looked up at the old house on the hill. No one else was around. "Want to check out the house and graveyard, guys?"

"There's a graveyard up there?" Sharon asked.

"Yeah, it's behind Dr. Kron's old office. Maybe one hundred yards into the woods. An easy walk. There's a well-worn trail to it. No bushwhacking required."

"Oh, yeah; I remember it," Kirk shouted, recalling that I had shown him the Kron House on a sleety, gray day four years earlier.

"I don't know, bana; there could be a mumo," Sharon cautioned.

"A mumo? A monster? No, no monsters. Nothing to worry about, hon."

"Well, ok, if you say it's safe," my wife relented.

We walked up the gravel-and-beam steps to arrive at the Kron House on the knoll-top clearing. Sharon and Kirk began to peer into the windows, which caused my mind to recall the images and thoughts from thirty years ago. That day, does it exist in suspension some meta-place?

"So, this is where they lived with no iPad?" Kirk asked.

"And no internet or TV, either, Kirk," Sharon added.

We meandered over to Dr. Kron's office. Kirk remembered what I had told him about this structure on our last visit.

"Sharon, this one has a basement," Kirk proudly told his stepmom.

"Oh, my," Sharon said as she made her way over to the front window. She glanced at the small bed. "Were his patients all children, hon? These beds are quite short for adults." She giggled.

"No, it's just that the people – the European settlers – were shorter back then," I said as a sparrow darted by; its image reflecting on the old glass pane.

Kirk then made his way over to the start of the woods, and quickly found the beginning of a footpath. He glanced at Sharon and proudly exclaimed, "I found it! This is it; this is the trail to the graveyard."

We all began to hike down the trail. Soon we were at the low spot. The little creek was almost completely dried up, making it easy to cross without getting muddy or wet.

"How much farther?" Sharon asked.

"Fifty steps, dearest asawa," I said.

"How do you know that it's fifty steps, dad?"

"I counted them in my head."

"What? How?" Kirk was confused.

"Kirk, your dad is joking you. Fifty steps is just an estimate."

Kirk gave me a bemused look. Then he walked ahead, kicking a pine cone.

"I see it!" Kirk shouted. Once he saw the tall headstone of Dr. Kron, he began to run towards the gravesite. When he got there, he looked at the broken headstone pieces.

Sharon and I arrived ten seconds later. I didn't want him to get out of my eyesight. Who knows what kind of wildlife is down there? Or, human-life!

"So, this is where the family was buried?" Sharon asked.

"Yep, this is it, hon."

"Where is Prussia?" Kirk asked while studying Dr. Kron's obelisk. "I've never heard of that country."

"Prussia was a German kingdom, Kirk. The name Prussia disappeared after World War II."

I grabbed a piece of broken headstone. The piece had a few engraved letters that were split in half. I wonder what letters these were. What was the word? Who carved it? When did the stone carver die? Oh, what does it matter now?

"You and Frank came back here thirty years ago, didn't you?" Sharon asked out of the blue.

"Yes, how did you know?" I asked.

"I could just feel it," my wife said.

My son soon got bored and wanted to go back. We all marched back to the van without speaking. Once inside the verdant minivan, I asked them where they wanted to go. Sharon didn't answer, but Kirk spoke up.

"Let's go to the boat ramp. I want to see the lake." Kirk barked off the order from the back seat like a drill sergeant.

"Yes, sir," I replied in a faux-military fashion. And with that, we were off to the boat ramp on Lake Tillery, which was only a few minutes away.

We parked in the huge, slate-walled lot. There were four other cars, but no person to be seen. I assumed they were probably fishing somewhere nearby or hiking to The Rock, as we called it. I remembered walking there many times with Frank and other common friends, such as the Brownyards. Such fun times. I thought about luring my wife and son into a hike to this salient point, but decided against it, as they seemed quite tired already.

Kirk and Sharon disembarked from the van and began walking over to the lagoon. I told them that I had to get something out of the van and that I would catch up with them in a short while. They meandered off.

I opened the rear hatch door and retrieved a small rectangular cardboard box. Yey, this is it!

I then quickly walked over to the lagoon bridge where they were looking at the turtles in the almost-stagnant water.

Sharon turned to me. "I've already counted three turtles in here, hon."

"Are any of them snapping turtles?" I asked.

"A snapping turtle?" Sharon hadn't heard of this American variety.

Kirk joined the conversation. "Yeah, they are big and mean. They are part alligator. Ferocious shelled reptiles. They can snap your finger off with one bite!"

Sharon suddenly looked scared. "Yikes!" she exclaimed. She quickly sat on the top railing with her shoes resting on the middle rail board.

"Kirk, remember that monster one we saw in Little Sugar Creek in south Charlotte a few summers ago?"

"Oh, yeah; it was this big, Sharon," Kirk announced to her while moving his hands about two feet apart.

"Let's go somewhere else," my wife insisted.

We then walked over to the boat ramp area. There were no boats or vehicles with trailers using it at the moment, so we walked out on the service dock. When we got to the end, Kirk noticed that I had a box in my right hand.

"What's in the box, dad?"

I passed the box to him. "Here, take a look."

Kirk opened the cardboard flaps to discover a vintage Wrist-Rocket slingshot.

"Wow! Where did you get this slingshot, dad?" He was very excited.

"My dad gave it to me many years ago, when I was about your age."

"Is it hard to shoot?" he asked, while carefully examining the parts.

"No, not really. It just takes some practice to become accurate with it."

"I want to try it! What can I shoot first?" He was raring to go. He started looking for a perfect piece of gravel to load in the leather pouch.

I then reached in my right front pants pocket and pulled out a green, golf-ball-size round object. "Hey, why not launch this big, super-size, smoke bomb into the lake in honor of Frank. We all know how he loved smoke. All you have to do is have it land in the water. I don't want us to start the next forest fire up here."

"Sure! I can do it." His eyes got big as he pulled the latex cords back.

Sharon looked at us with a this-is-such-a-silly-boyish-thing-to-do look. But, as I helped Kirk prepare for his big memorial shot, she grew more interested.

I placed the 1.25" diameter smoke bomb in the launch-pouch with the fuse sticking straight up.

"Well, this is our one shot, son. Don't let Frank down."

"I won't, dad."

I helped him pull back the smoke bomb, while igniting the fuse with an old Bic lighter (it may have even been Frank's). I hope this works sans injury.

The fuse sparkled. Kirk pulled it all the way back and let it fly. A hyperbolic contrail of green smoke streamed across the Carolina cerulean sky and over the reflecting glassy lake surface. It came down 60 yards away... right down on a <boink> Slow - No Wake buoy.

"Wow! That was a one-in-a-million shot, son. Frank would've given you another die-cast model car for that one."

"I hit it! I nailed it, dad!" Kirk shouted. He was gleeful, yet amazed, at his luck shot.

"That was some shot, son. A golden goal. Frank is cheering somewhere." Maybe.

"Uh, dad, did we just litter in the lake?"

"No, son; I made that smoke bomb from flour and water-based, nontoxic paste. The carp and the catfish will soon be having a nice unexpected treat."

"You guys are so funny," Sharon chimed in. "I think I hear Frank laughing at you two." He's probably happy to be done with this human phase.

"I do, too," I added. "Right behind that cloud that looks like a chimney with smoke coming out of it. Yeah, that's the one."

"Ah, you're crazy, dad." He could be right.

"Just trying to keep you guys entertained," I said as I watched a hawk soar on a thermal updraft. "Want to go to the top of the mountain?"

"Hike to the top from here?!" Sharon was completely shocked by my idea.

"No, not on foot, hon. We'll just drive up." I could feel her sigh of relief on my left shoulder.

Kirk nodded. I think he was just as relieved.

We walked back to the van. The drive up the mountain brought back memories of riding in Frank's red pickup truck on that fateful day. Soon we were parked in front of a nice vista at the top of Morrow Mountain.

"Well, want to go for a short hike on the upper loop trail?"

"No, I'm too tired," Kirk retorted.

"Me, too," Sharon added.

"Ok, just give me four minutes and I'll be right back."

"Make it five," Sharon said and smiled.

"Make it ten!" Kirk immediately tacked on.

I exited the van and walked along the low-profile, slate-and-mortar wall, searching for the spot where Frank and I had been three decades ago. I know I'm near it. This seems like the area. Yeah, somewhere around here...

Soon I was fairly certain that I had found the spot. There was more graffiti on the slate stones now. All kinds of teenage romance stuff. They're all probably mortal enemies now.

A dragonfly alighted on a slate stone. It flew away two seconds later. I looked closer for Frank's three-decades-old inscription. And there it was! It was still there, though faded, but still legible. Tomorrow was found on 3-9-83. It sure was.

I ruffled the soil directly under Frank's scratched message with my right hiking boot. Nothing but dark dirt turned up. The arrowhead fragment appeared to be gone. However, I saw a small white quartz rock a few feet away. I walked over and retrieved it. Just beneath Frank's inscription I scratched:... and returned on 3-9-13

I walked over to the van. Once back in the driver's seat, Kirk began the interrogation.

"Dad, what were you doing out there?"

"Oh, just looking for a previous time marking."

"A previous time marking? What the heck?" Kirk was a bit puzzled by my remark.

Sharon fired the follow-up question. "Well, did you find it?"

"I did, mahal. And I added a thirty-years-later addendum."

"That's nice," my wife said with a genuine grin.

"Dad, I'm hungry!" The shout came in loud and clear from the rear bench seat. The boy is growing.

"And, I'm thirsty, hon," Sharon added.

I got them satiated at an Albemarle drive-thru. The drive back to Charlotte was largely conversation-less. We all seemed to be lost in our own thoughts. I wondered what Sharon and Kirk were thinking. Were they thinking about Frank, too?

When we crossed Harris Boulevard in east Charlotte, Sharon looked at me as I headed towards the incipient, predominately orange-hued sunset.

"You miss Frank, don't you?" she asked. Absolutely.

"I do. I most certainly do."

"I liked Frank," my son opined.

"I did, too, Kirk. I did, too."

~{~

#

# 

# About the Author

Mike Bozart was born in Newport News, Virginia in July of 1964. After graduating with an Earth Science degree from UNC-Charlotte in 1986, he began a career in safety technical writing. In the early '90s he started writing creatively.

The author has written hundreds of surreal poem-stories under the Secteur de Tryke heading and over thirty quasi-real short stories for Psecret Psociety (on facebook). Gold, a summer story was his first (and only) e-novel (August 2013). Mike is also a visual artist, who does work under the nom de brosse of m. van tryke.

Mr. Bozart is married (Sharon) with a son (Kirk). They live in Charlotte. Former residences in North Carolina include Raleigh, Greensboro, Wilmington, Carolina Beach, High Peak (Etowah) and Asheville. Mike has also lived in downtown San Francisco.

Mike's likes include: single-speed bicycles, cool-air hikes, fog, overcast days, bizarre art, novel ideas, and LFC.

The author has two disc golf aces (Kilborne Park and Black Mountain). After a bike crash in 2012, Mike had to give up the throwing sport.

The adventuresome author has visited Morrow Mountain State Park more than forty times.

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