Fear, frustration and anger seemed to be the entrees for this afternoon. Venting
my feelings helped relieve some of the pressure potpourri, but it wasn't helping ...
Chapter One
I awoke normally from my sleep. Eyes opened to familiar shadows, hearing to quiet sounds. My mind comfortably processed this information. As synapses fired crisper signals, a vague stirring of unease developed. I fully arose from the now shallow depths of my slumber, and anxiety gave way to full-fledged panic. The events of last night [or last year- or the last lifetime] flooded my now too fully coherent consciousness. I immediately felt my abdomen, expecting to find a gaping maw where intestines previously resided. Nothing abnormal! My hand felt only warm intact flesh. I quickly flung the bed covers aside and inspected my lower body for damage. No sign of stitches, bandages, or bruises could be detected. Absolutely nothing was askew. I closed my eyes and fought against the unyielding urge to scream for help. I lay quietly and waited for my emotions to resume a semblance of control. Logic must prevail. Gradually my heart resumed a normal rhythm. Explanations had to be forthcoming. Nothing could be gained by inactivity. Surely a little deductive reasoning and investigation could clarify what now appeared to be an unsolvable dilemma. Last night did exist; it was beyond a shadow of a doubt. It was not a dream or a figment of my imagination. I could only pray that it didn't happen, but it unfortunately, most assuredly it did. I glanced at the digital clock atop my dresser. The display read 12:33 P.M.. If the clock was correct, and assuming it was the morning following, then less than ten hours had elapsed. Less than ten hours since I lay on the cold ground, with trauma so severe that it precluded any hope of rapid recovery. Hell, I thought, I can't even be alive! I died. Recovery my ass! I'm no longer part of this world. I can't be. My dues paying membership has been permanently revoked by Mister double barrel twelve gauge. Well, I thought, dwelling on yesterday's events is futile. This inactivity must end here and now. There will be time to assess the past later. I'll postpone panic until I see if it is warranted.
Having settled on a plan of action, I bounded from my bed. Feet and legs worked, breathing somewhat labored from stressful coping, but nonetheless effective. Arms and torso seemed quite functional too. I threw on my Levi's, socks and shirt, and descended the stairs. I found the kitchen empty, no sign of my family having breakfasted. The coffee maker sat clean and idle. The ashtray on the table was bare, completely void of the several cigarettes my wife smokes each morning. Clean dishes resided in the strainer. I grabbed my coat from it's hanging hook near the door, and my shoes from the boot park on the sun porch next to the kitchen. Donned my coat without buttoning, and kicked into the foot apparel sans lacing. Then out the backdoor into the crisp November air. The day was cloudy and cold. The thermometer mounted on the rear of the house read thirty-two degrees. A promise of snow seemed to fill the moist air. I went cautiously to the garage located twenty-five yards or so from the rear of the house. Last night my dying body lie in the shrubbery bordering the side of the garage. I'm not sure if I expected to find the madman who shot me down still lurking in the nearby vicinity, or perhaps I was terrified of stumbling over my own corpse, but suffice it to say that my feeling was nothing short of horrifying.. Nothing. No lunatic with a gun, nor any dead bodies familiar or otherwise. I looked to the spot where my being ceased and saw only ground damp with dew, and foliage green and devoid of crimson. There was positively no sign of an assault or struggle. All was normal.
Did I say normal? I suddenly realized the silence was deafening. I turned my head and gazed down the driveway to where it intersected Route 40. The usual ongoing rush of traffic was absent. It occurred to me that the everyday din of truck and car transportation was missing. An eerie silence filled the air. Funny I hadn't noticed it before. And it wasn't only the lack of motorized vehicle noise that startled me. It was the absence of any manmade sound at all. It reminded of when I was thirteen years old. I was walking the streets of our small village the day they buried JFK. The silence was profound, not a sign of humanity anywhere, and I remember thinking at the time that I would never again experience such unwanted tranquility. Shaken by this latest development, [though intuition told me this was the calm before the storm] I cast my wary glance to the top of the driveway, and noted that my wife's Wagoneer resided in it's usual parking place. No cause for alarm here, other than the fact that we should both be at work at Fulcher's Tire and Texaco. True, our business was one hundred yards diagonally across the street from our Scenery Hill residence, but this fact had never before discouraged her from commuting to work. Holding my wounded thoughts at bay, I began the short walk to work following the route I had taken thousands of times before. The day was still quelled by an absence of noise. The only sound to be heard was the gentle breeze and the paced footfall of my shoes on the macadam. Route 40 remained lifeless. As I crossed the highway and
approached the T&T I observed a lack of activity in the foreground. No interior lights shone forth. Like sentinels on watch, the gas pumps stood idly at attention. The usual bustle of consumer activity was totally absent.
My short jaunt had now brought me to the front of the garage bay doors. I looked in through the windows and saw just what I expected to see - empty bays. Nonplussed, I walked to the entrance door and found it locked. Extracting my keys from my pocket, I opened the door and entered the waiting room- office area. The dim light of the computer's star field simulation screen saver was the only sign of mechanized life. Everything else was in the idle mode. Unreasonably grateful for the activity on the monitor, I next checked the breaker box that brought the old Fulcher T&T to being. The breakers that were supposed to be in the off position were. Everything in the box was as I had left it, when I shut down the operation on the previous evening. A sinking feeling of helplessness hit me then, and literally drove me to my knees. I fought my way back to a standing position and grabbed the phone from the counter. A dial tone sounded joyfully in my ear. Dialed 911. It rang twenty times. I counted the rings as one does in a calming mental exercise. Gazed out the window at an empty parking lot. Slammed the phone back into it's cradle and turned on the radio. A bothersome speaker hum was the only sound projected. I twisted the channel selector knob and watched the digital display. The same lifeless electronic hum persisted through each turn of the dial. Switched the band to short-wave. Heard various cracklings and static gobbledygook. I unplugged the radio and flung it across the office into the far wall, where it knocked down the team picture of the Pittsburgh Steelers. Shattered glass and plastic cascaded to the floor. Then I goddamned, son of a bitched, and mother-fucked it all. This litany continued for an interminable amount of time. Fear, frustration and anger seemed to be the entrees for this afternoon. Venting my feelings helped relieve some of the pressure potpourri, but it wasn't helping me get any answers to the bizarre state of affairs unfolding around me.
Trying yet again to keep my emotions in check, I picked up the TV remote from the office counter and clicked the on button. I was rewarded with a screen of snow. Analogous to the radio, the channel selector displayed the identical pattern at each click of the button. With a stalwart determination to get to the bottom of this maddening fiasco, I departed the Tire and Texaco. Left the door wide open, and prayed someone would rob and trash the place. I walked in a westerly direction down the street to the home of my friend and neighbor, Seth Woodward. The victim of a shooting accident more than a decade ago, Seth was a wheelchair bound paraplegic. Having come to terms with his debilitation a number of years ago, he now spent his days contentedly as a shut in. His keen mind and wonderful sense of humor, permitted him to spend his time engrossed in a myriad collection of self-fulfilling and entertaining projects. Seth was my barometer of living. If I had a day when the world crapped on me, I had only to visit Seth to restore my faith in humanity and life. He once told me he no longer felt obligated to leave the house to join in society because technology had brought society to him. It was Seth's opinion that mankind had made technological quantum leaps in the last fifteen years, and yet the immense plurality of people either failed to take advantage of the present day wonders or else took them for granted. Seth could not tolerate anyone bitching about their sad station in life. There were marvels to behold and moments to be seized. Those who failed to take advantage of the many wonders provided, were a sorry lot destined for self-imposed unhappiness. With these thoughts in mind, I entered the Woodward domain. In the den where Seth spent the majority of his time, I observed his empty wheelchair parked in front of the computer workstation. On a shelf above the computer, the digital display of a CD player glowed green, and at barely audible volume, sound pleaded to be heard. I picked up the remote control from the saddle bag on Seth's chair and hit the volume button. Lonely, I 'm mister lonely, Oh, how I wish I had someone to call my own. Bobby Vinton assaulted my ears and plucked another handful of feathers from my headdress of sanity. Clutching the arms of the wheelchair, I sank into it more heavily than its beleaguered owner ever had.
Sitting in the chair thinking, coincidence or cosmic joke? Bobby drones on in the background lamenting his sorrow of loneliness. Millions of broken thoughts flashing through my mind. Unable to grasp an idea, a course of action. Images, broken bits of information, filtering across short-circuited synapses. Fear dreadfully sharp, the prominent sensation. Clutching, gasping, willing, praying, beseeching for relief, I scream Seth! Seth! Come walking in to me, on legs that don't work. Hold my hand. Touch the crown of my head. Release me from this kaleidoscopic torment. I fall forward out of the chair. My mind's eye sees the corner of the desk loom ahead, then blessed nothing and darkness.......
My eyes open quickly. Overhead, I see a distorted view of a ceiling light fixture. Inadvertently, I blink rapidly. The focus comes back and the lighting device reveals itself to be a boxed, plastic- screened florescent. I feel my right temple and a prominent bulge constitutes the source of my pain. Bright sunlight streaming through the den window tells me it is still daylight, but what day remains a mystery. Groggily I remove myself from the splayed
position I have assumed on the floor, and achieve a semblance of biped instinct. An oppressive sense of fatigue encompasses my entire being, and I again collapse in the wheelchair, thinking it an appropriate device for my enervated condition. However, my mental state seems surprisingly becalmed, as if the period of unconsciousness was a soothing balm chock full of restorative powers. Or perhaps it is only symptomatic of the amazing human capacity to eventually adjust and handle any adversity. Whatever the case, I am profoundly grateful for my newfound tranquility. Seth's computer monitor displays a scrolling marquee that proclaims "Life is a tale well told." Feeling secure in the chair, I wheel it forward toward the desk and nudge the mouse. The time display in the lower right-hand corner of the screen shows the current hour is 5:00 P.M.. I grab the mouse and guide the cursor to the digital readout and the date appears - Monday, November 14th. Only a few hours have passed since I pitched forward into unconsciousness. Judging by the continued absence of noise outside, nothing has changed. Instinctively, I know my world remains empty. A plan, of sorts, begins to take shape in my mind, but my weakened condition, will temporarily preclude any immediate action. The window currently displayed on the computer monitor is WordPerfect, and I see Seth has been busy composing one of his satirical travelogues. Momentarily lacking the strength for any physical action, and still in a somewhat serene state, I decide to immerse myself in some of Seth's meanderings. I read: Endless days of sunshine are a rare commodity in southwestern Pennsylvania. A succession of periods filled with clouds and gloom is more the expected norm. If weather is a significant factor in influencing your mood, you would be well advised to seek alternate climes. Summers can be unendurably hot and populated with a myriad supply of insect life that may throw entomologists into an ecstasy of bliss, but the average thin-skinned layman would be somewhat less enthralled. The bugs thrive in the insufferable humidity, but creatures lacking a nice, thick carapace are apt to experience meltdown. Granted, a seasonal thunderstorm can significantly cool things down, though the risk of winds on a scale that blew Dorothy and Toto from Kansas, should never be ignored.
I glance away from my reading and see that dusk is fast approaching. Why I continue to sit and aimlessly peruse these on screen words, is beyond my capacity to reason. Darkness will soon capture and hold the remaining minutes of light, yet I am reluctant to leave the tranquil words of my friend. I feel safe in these surroundings that have brought me so much joy. To again chronicle the past dozen hours, will only serve to increase my lassitude. The sentences of my friend buoy my spirits and curl the corners of my mouth with the beginning of a smile. I continue to repress the stark terror and nature of my circumstances, and calmly read:
Summer gradually relinquishes its sizzling claws and gives way to autumn. There is an abundance of inherent beauty in fall. One wishes the foliage, scenes of harvest, and invigorating
You can scare yourself to death
weather could endure forever. Don't pack your bags. By the time you're settled in that quaint little B&B, the wrath of winter has arrived.
I read the preceding passage and gave scant thought to the extra spacing and indecipherable gibberish between the lines. As I scanned the words, my reaction was to treat the paragraph as a poorly formatted section of text. However, knowing that Seth's word processing skills were usually impeccable, I reread the entry. Part of the illegible scrawl found between the lines seemed vaguely familiar. I opened the top desk drawer and located a magnifying glass that Seth used for various purposes. As I inspected the suspect area with my visual aid, it became evident that my friend had changed the font face and size. I viewed:
you can scare yourself to death
The font was in a freehand style. The words were familiar. Innuendoes and references to a former conversation flooded back. My transcendency from fear ceased. The dire consequences of my seemingly hopeless state re-established themselves, and I dared to wonder if my friend was trying to contact me. Was he trying to reach me from whatever chasm he and rest of humanity now resided in? Perhaps it was time to review my sorry condition, and to see if solutions were available, or hope was futile. For lack of a better plan, I turned my mind toward another time, a time somewhat less frightening, and remembered...
Chapter Two
Glorious June day. It's Saturday afternoon and work is finished for the week. Its seventy- some ideal human temperature degrees. A cloudless, bright sunlit sky soothes the eyes. The neighborhood sports the sounds of families and friends at play. You can hear the noise of lawnmowers, hammers and saws, and even this clamor seems geared toward enjoyment. In my back yard there's a magnificent aroma of steaks grilling. The speakers on our deck emit the sharp, feel good guitar chords of Clapton blues. Each ray of sunshine pulsates through the leaves in time with the music. I lay on my hammock and smoke Marlboros and anticipate medium rare T-bones. Clapton sings: I'm tore down, boom boom slam me to the ground. My foot dangles over the side of the hammock, and keeps time to the music. Reaching down with my right hand, I grab an ice cold can of Guinness Stout from the cooler. The dark-brown foam spills out when I pop the tab, and I hoist it hurriedly to my mouth. The bitter liquid spills down my esophagus, and I sigh with contentment. Life is good. My plan too shake the blue funk that has enveloped me like a fog, is in effect.
I don't know where these blues come from. They sneak up on me like a virus. I feel fine one minute and the next I'm on the verge of clinical depression. They anger me, these black moods. Ignoring them is fruitless. They make their presence known. Pretending they don't exist is useless. I can't deal with people when they're upon me. I make myself and everyone around me miserable. People notice. They ask me what's wrong. And I reply honestly, that I have no idea. I have learned to deal with it over the years; I become very quiet and withdrawn. I pull my sadness into myself and try to keep it in check. I try to avoid people, if I can. Find little busy jobs to occupy myself, and sort of orbit on the fringes of the social atmosphere. That's best. The people I'm dealing with aren't to blame. Why should I subject them to these ugly vibes? They just take it personally anyway, as if it was their fault my generally amiable nature gets derailed. So if I can just get through the day, I can work myself out of the nasty disposition. My family is used to me, they leave me alone. I have schooled them well. It's friends and strangers who don't understand. They're the ones I need to escape. My periods of recuperative reflection renew me. I'll spend time on the hammock, couch or bed, depending on the weather and the depth of my mood, and I'll be OK. I have a system. Give me a little time and I'll work it all out. I reflect on it all, I dwell, I mediate, I reason it out. I think it's genetic. I think it's the sad state of the world. It's a lack of faith. It's a failure to achieve world renown success. Contribute it to declining morality. The aging process is taking its toll. It's a hormone or chemical imbalance, a lack of focus, a heartfelt loss for carefree childhood days, a gorging of the planet and a failure to give back, a nagging grief for those who are gone and those who will be, and it's everything. It's life.
Another pull on the dark drought, and another toke on the cancer stick, and some of the sting fades. Later, a visit with Seth, and things will be centered. "Fletch, steaks are done." "Be right there." I yank myself up and away from the doldrums and join my wife at the picnic table. "How you feelin?" She asks. "I'll shake dem' funky blues yet Miss Lady," I reply. "You should go see Seth; he knows how to cheer you up." "You're reading my mind JoBeth." JoBeth comes around behind me and gives me a hug. She nuzzles my ear. "I'll go call Polly and tell her we're coming over. "Yea, tell her we'll be over just as soon as I finish this luscious steak."
My wife walks in the house to place her phone call, and I attack the meal. Funny how the blues never seem to affect my appetite. After gorging myself and helping JoBeth clean up, we walk over to Seth and Polly's. JoBeth heads for the basement, where she'll find Polly working out on her Nordic track, and I enter the den, where I find Seth seated behind his keyboard. "Sethmobile, what's shaken'?" Seth wheeled away from the keyboard and spun the chair to face me. The light twinkled in his blue eyes. A pleasant grin shone through his beard. "Apparently you are once again suffering the illusion that what you do and think, may have some sort of minuscule impact on the world in which we reside," he said. "Fletcher!, Fletcher!,
we've gone over this time and again. And I thought you were such a promising student! So be it! We'll have a crash refresher course. Now then, first off, where have you left your sense of humor? Have you brought it along with you, or do we need to look outside the room?" "The current smile on my face must mean that I brought it along, and it was never really missing. Correct professor?" "We'll start with that assumption. All right, what recent set backs have you experienced that lead you to believe the world is a cruel, ugly place, unfit for habitation by the likes of you? As far as I can determine, you have all the necessary equipment for human existence. Your house provides you with shelter, does it not? And we'll assume the bank is not threatening foreclosure. Correct?" "Correct," I replied. I knew where this was going. We had been down this path many times. But it was a journey I relished. Though I knew the road well, without Seth as a guide and traveling companion, I became hopelessly mired in the wayside mud. It seemed to me that I should be able to navigate solo on my voyage, but without my comrade I kept getting stuck. "That takes care of priority number one," Seth continued. "Let's move on. I see you appear to be warmly clothed, although the weatherman has insinuated that little or no clothing will be needed during the next several tepid days. I must admit I am somewhat appalled at your sense of fashion, but that has nothing to do with our journey of enlightenment. What's with the cut- off jeans, tank top and flip-flops? You look like a third world refugee." "Comfort," I replied. "Not all of us feel the need to dress like a goddamn Englishman on Seville Row. Who you trying to impress anyway? You never leave the damn house." "Clothes make the man my boy, and since I sometimes feel like half a man with these useless legs, I experience the need to don the half that still works with impeccable attire." "Fine," I said. "Can we dispense with the style argument and get back to the topic at hand ?" "Certainly, I see no need to let a petty difference over one's choice of clothing detract from the business at hand, which was, if I correctly recall, cheering your sorry ass up. And a raggedly covered ass it is, I might add. So that leaves us with the final thing of real importance - food. I notice no signs of rickets or scurvy on that frame of yours. The extended belly could be an indication of starvation, but on that premise I must remain highly skeptical, since rumor has it that you gorged yourself on steak and beer before crossing the street to my abode. And since I believe that all sickness manifests itself because the mind is not saturated with harmony, I can give you no quarter on that affliction either." "You got me there doc. I have food, clothing and shelter. I suffer from no life-threatening illnesses. So if I may take a page from the master, I think I'm ready to present a self-diagnosis on the origin of my low down blues. Here goes; these blues are caused by: "Bullshit! "We both cried in unison.
The philosophy that Seth continually tried to indoctrinate me with always boiled down to this simple, two syllable semi-curse word. He had embraced this ideology after years of strife, tragedy and adversity. Some of the stories that he told me in regard to developing his current convictions were frightening, despairing and hilarious. They generally combined all three of these elements. Though his many hardships were enough to lay a normal psyche to waste, he continually amazed me with his ability to deal with them in a focused and fruitful manner. Seth had no formal training as a psychologist, but his diagnoses could fetch millions from the moneyed masses. His premise was simple; he believed people required adequate food, clothing and shelter to achieve contentment and any head trips away from these vitals would only detract one in their search for happiness. He embraced his technological toys with the exuberance of a child, but if necessary he could abandon them at the drop of a hat. It seemed to me that his doctrine was influenced by eastern religions that stressed non-attachment, but this he vehemently denied. He told me that all religions were nothing more than soothing balms imposed by - "great thinkers" who thought they had the mysteries of life figured out. The teeming masses followed them because being human was too terrifyingly and hellish to face. The promise of rest and rewards in some fictional afterlife was a panacea for all the injustices imposed in this world. People had only to look forward to the hour of their death to remove the lifelong shackles of living slavery that bound their minds; yet all but a few were repulsed at the thought. Seth was of the opinion that organized religion had done tenfold more harm than good. So if you would be so kind as to illuminate me as to which particular brand of bullshit has you bogged down young grasshopper," Seth continued, "we can possibly make some inroads to the root of your problem." "I don't know Seth," I replied, "it's one of those things I can't put my finger on. It just seems that I'm disillusioned with everything. Nothing makes sense. Everything I do seems pointless. It's just one of those blue funks I can't shake. I'll wake up tomorrow or the next day and it will be gone. It comes from nowhere and it vanishes back into the same void." "Bullshit, it doesn't come from some mysterious place and then readily depart into some empty vacuum. It comes from that circuitry up there inside your skull that you call a mind, and haven't we learned to be highly suspicious
of anything that issues forth from that particularly undependable resource. Need I remind you of the phrase: garbage in - garbage out ?" Sadly, I did bear reminding of this. My friend's doctrine was based on the precept that as American citizens, we were bombarded daily with dogma designed to drive us slowly insane and rape our natural sense of serenity. Seth had little use for America. "The greedy, consumer society that is obsessed with filthy lucre," was his fond referral to the country in which we were born. He disdained money, "the root of all that is evil," though the accident that caused his paralysis left him amply provided for. Yet I had little doubt that he could separate the tangible aspects of his resources from the mental money games of those he condemned. I could not argue with the logic of his convictions, but somehow I readily fell victim to those ideals he so easily berated. I read the newspapers and magazines and spent wasted hours in front of the glass teat. The mass media had little trouble convincing me that I needed a luxurious new car, a delicious, low cholesterol, high fiber, FDA approved, new steak or soft drink. I suffered countless hours of guilt because I wasn't investing my 'extra money' into some impressive gloriously rich. But I was bright enough to purchase a cell phone, which I desperately needed and have used twice in the past year. Still, I feel a burning need to buy some microwave ovens, refrigerators and color TV's. I worry that the balding spot on the back of my head will be too far gone before I purchase the needed amount of rogaine to restore it to the thick, luster that I had once cherished. And what about my sexual potency? I was quickly approaching my fiftieth birthday. Although Luther still displayed a semi-rigid form when the need arose, I felt that sooner or later he might need Viagra to restore him to his once steely condition. My heretofore acute hearing was impaired from years of clamorous coal mine noise. Doubtless, the day loomed near that I would find it necessary to purchase virtually invisible, in- the- canal hearing aides to restore my keen sense of audio. My computer desk lacked a situations task manager chair; and how was I expected to effectively manage situations without one?
Yet, all of these were just a few monetary concerns. What about the state of my mental health? Half the people I knew were on antidepressants and, or anxiety drugs. Another thirty percent should have been, and another ten percent were insane. Half of the remaining ten percent, myself included, were the self-medicating variety. Coffee, cigarettes, alcohol, and an occasional dabble in the illegal mind expanding and numbing drugs got us through the days and nights. The other 2.5 % were religious zealots. (I envied them their faith. } That left a meager 2.5% sane people that I knew. I thank the zealots' Gods that Seth was one of them. His reasonings weren't arguable. Still, time and again I let the garbage into my head, processed it and spewed it back out as processed garbage.
I shook myself loose from my cerebral meandering and glanced at Seth, who patiently waited for further commentary on his hypotheses. "Yeah, yeah, shit in, shit out," I agreed. "You've forgotten how to listen to your heart Fletcher. I have a distinct advantage over you because I choose, and also have the means, to minimize social contact. Regrettably, you don't have such simple methods to hold the public and it's' myriad influences at bay. You chose to be a self-employed working man, and you must live with the consequences. Yet, if you would just apply the slightest effort to garner a smidgen of wisdom from our illuminating discussions, you too could be free from needless stress. On a daily basis, you let all this crap into your head; you don't filter it with you heart, and you have the audacity to tell me that gloom, despair and agony materialize from nowhere and pick your fertile mind to establish a thriving environment. If you would only take the time to shut off all that needless static echoing around inside your cranium, your heart and soul could be heard clearly. I must say, I am somewhat disappointed. You've shown signs of being such a promising student, I hope I haven't wasted my time with you. There are so many who could gain so much from my teachings. Please tell me I haven't made a mistake."
Seth glared disapprovingly at me, but his eyes glittered behind the mask of sincerity. We both knew I was his only "student." Seth did keep social contact to a minimum, and I couldn't help but wonder if long desperate lines of people would mass at his door if he suddenly decided to embrace a public following. "No, you haven't made a mistake," I replied. "It's just that I sometimes find your edification rather hard to follow. To be perfectly frank, I suspect you make it up as you go along."
"I'm startled to here you say such a thing," Seth vehemently replied. "I've spent innumerable years refining these concepts and you have the unmitigated gall to accuse me of winging it!" "Polly!" he boomed, "fetch me an ice cold Heineken! The riff- raff from across the street has upset my usually placid demeanor. Only an artificial stimulant can restore it now. Bring one for the brazen fool too. If I find the graciousness in my heart to forgive his crude remark, we'll toast to a renewed friendship. Otherwise, I'll use it to crack his sorry skull!" "Simmer down Woodward," I retorted, "I was just pulling your wheelchair." "If you're going to make fun of my infirmities, I'll have to ask you to leave this house."
"Yeah, I should be burdened with only physical shortcomings as opposed to the shit-stained thought process, that I've unveiled for your consideration and repair." "How true, how true," Seth said. "Perhaps I'm being somewhat intolerant of your precarious position. Refreshments are on the way. Lets resume our conversation under the flag of truce. You have brought your poor, tortured soul to me seeking salvation and I've let a small personal insult detract me from the task at hand. Please forgive me, it won't happen again." "Well, I'll let it go this time, but see that it doesn't happen again." "Agreed. Ah, here is fair Polly with the requested beverages. Won't you and Jobeth join us in celebrating our peace accord, dear Polly ?" Polly handed Seth an appealing looking frosted mug of amber beer, and kissed him on his bald pate. "Have you boys made up already, ?" she said, as she handed me an identical frosted mug, "I thought I might have to call the riot squad to restore order." "A mere misunderstanding," Seth replied, "our friend has seen the error of his ways and has begged my forgiveness. My gregarious nature won't allow his stupidity to ruin a fine friendship. "Do you have real high, waterproof boots that you use when the shit gets deep around here, ?" I inquired of Polly. "If you do, order a set for me. I'm size ten." Polly bent down and kissed me on my thinning, but full coverage head of hair. "I threw the boots away years ago," she said. "Now I just wallow bare-foot in the shit. It oozes up between your toes and has a therapeutic effect. You should give in to your temptations and do the same. You'll thank me in the morning." "Don't side with this fool," Seth intoned. "He'll take encouragement from it and then it will be impossible to deal with him." "Uh-Oh," Polly remarked, "just when you think it's safe to go back in the water, the sharks reappear. I think I'll leave you guys to your petty bickering. Jobeth is dropping unwanted pounds on the Nordic track even as I speak. Enjoy your beers and try to get along like nice children. I can't let Jo get a better figure than myself while you two fight over your toys. We'll join you later. Pollys' already perfect figure exited the room and left a lingering scent of intriguing perfume. "Right, like either one of them needs to enroll in weight watchers," I said. "They do have excellent packaging," Seth commented approvingly. "But I regress. Our conversation was not about the lady's charms. We'll reserve that pleasant topic for another you chose to attack and discredit my methods. If you're determined to seek my counsel, I will not tolerate any more derisive comments. Understood?" "It won't happen again," I responded. "Let's put it aside and move on, Great Guru. "Fine, fine, that's the spirit needed to carve vast inroads of progress. Now then, pay attention to what I tell you. You have the ability to think and reason. Wise men have lauded this gift for thousands of years. It separates us from the animals, they say. Only human beings with their massive brain power can create the marvels that we so cherish. The dumb beasts have minuscule brains, good only for instinctual reasoning. Let me ask you, have you ever seen a depressed bunny rabbit ? The rabbit seeks only food and shelter, it's clothes come with the basic bunny rabbit package. It does not have to think; it does not have to process garbage. It does not have to commute to a job it hates everyday, to make more money, to buy more stuff that it never needed in the first place. It never needs a lawyer, it has no litigation to settle. It doesn't need a doctor, because stress is not going to kill it or make it ill. It's job is to be a rabbit, and it does this very well. People ,on the other hand, are ill-equipped at being people. They can't get no satisfaction. Someone is always telling them what to do and why to do it. Our brains are constantly processing information, sorting it out, and asking what's in it for me? I tell you the human mind is a restless snake, contorting and writhing uncontrollably, twenty- four hours a day. It leads us always toward certain chaos. It screams so loud, it drowns out the quiet, soothing voice of the heart and soul. The mind is a dictator, a Nazi tyrant that will be heard. It is the embodiment of your ego, that wispy piece of crap that will twist and convolute anything that stands in the way of it's righteousness. Crap goes in and crap comes out. It's an endless circle. You can scare yourself to death with your own mind. I firmly believe that. The mind is so big, so all-powerful, that you can actually scare yourself to death with it." "Whoa! Back up Stephen King, you made your point. It's not necessary to turn macabre on me." "I'm simply trying to illustrate a point here. Actually it's a theory that I've been supporting for quite some tine now. Do you know what the most frightening human experience is?" "This may shock you, but I do," I replied. "It's a nightmare." "I'm impressed. You're correct. Where do nightmares come from ? The mind, right?" I nodded my assent and wondered where this was going. Seth had a demented look that made me wary. If a subject caught his sudden interest, he could analyze it to death and completely forget the prevailing theme.
"I see a look of agitation on your face my friend," he said in regard to my obvious distress. "You shouldn't subject yourself to needless worry; this will all tie in with our discussion.
Seeing the look of relief that crossed my face, he plunged ahead. "Nightmares are generated by an uncontrolled, squirrelly mind. Given free rein, the mind will gravitate toward it's natural state. The mass of mankind, leading lives of quiet desperation, live a sort of waking nightmare. They go through life afraid - afraid of the unknown. Such a hopeless existence! At night, when they lay down their weary burdens of the day, their thoughts can't be subdued my mere sleep. The subconscious, that part of the waste fill that would love to have complete control, takes over. Read the obituaries. People die in their sleep every day from natural causes. I beg to differ. How do we know their hearts weren't trip hammering away in their chests with sheer terror and simply quit pumping? Crazy people, unable to stop the unrelenting agony of their sick minds, hurl themselves off tall buildings and run gladly into the paths of trailer trucks. They' re awake when they do it, completely conscious, and you're telling me that the powerful subconscious can't scare people to death in the same matter!
"I'm sitting here listening, I'm not arguing with you." "I sense your skepticism. I'm telling you Fletcher, the mind is capable of scaring you literally, to death. Let me tell you about a nightmare I had when I divorced my first wife." He took a long, thirsty pull on his beer, as if he needed fortification to continue with the story.
"Your first wife was a nightmare," I commented, and drained the rest of the beer "Oh yes, she undoubtedly contributed to the disoriented jumble I called a brain in those days." Good old Sunspot Baby, how I miss her." "Sunspot Baby" had taken off with Seth's American Express and put his credit to shame. She stuck him with about six hundred thousand dollars in unpaid bills and had a real good time doing it. The man that sat before me today was not always such a happy camper. "It was when we were living in Reno," he continued. "After Janet, a.k.a. Sunspot Baby, had stripped me of my financial security and testosterone, I moved into a small cabin near Donner Pass in the Sierra Nevada. Actually, it was more of a two-room shack than a cabin. But I had it fixed up comfortably, and it provided me with more than adequate shelter. My head and monetary status were in a fragile state at that time. Yet, I lived well on the six hundred dollars a month that I received from welfare. Remember, this was after I lost my job as an investment banker, and before I started writing travelogues. Take my word for it; no one likes a penniless banker. I slowly made the mental adjustment to being poor again and I had begun to develop an inward peace with the world. The cabin belonged to one of my former clients, a very nice, very rich guy, who happened to own a lot of old mining property. We had been fast friends before the fall, and rather than abandon me in my hour of need as most had done, he had offered to let me use the old mining cabin until things turned around for me. Mark my words Fletcher, when adversity befalls one, you soon find out who your true friends are. After an initial round of sympathy and consolation, and I believe these are expressed solely for the purpose of enhancing the seemingly interested party's gossip knowledge, purported friends shake you loose like a sticky booger. It saddens me to say it, but the teeming masses only care about their own problems. But again, I regress. As I was saying, I was adjusting well to being flat broke for the third time in my life and making progress toward tranquility. My spine was still intact, it had not yet been pierced by a thirty-eight-caliber bullet, and I daily took long walks in the area surrounding the cabin. I often walked to an old sluice gate and rested on it while I contemplated my station in life. It was here, surrounded by the majestic Sierras, that I began to come to grips with this business we refer to as living. I became very passive and the calliope inside my head began to quiet. At the end of six months I had substantially developed the dogma that I embrace today." A huge gaping yawn swallowed my face. "Forgive me," Seth implied in a sincere, apologetic tone. "I bore you. You've heard all this before. We need to move on to the nightmare that well might have scared me to death." I nodded in agreement. "This mother of all nightmares occurred during the first week after I had moved into the cabin. Though the ensuing weeks would provide me with a contentment I had not known before, those initial weeks found me in dire straits. I remember bedding down in my army cot with my mental faculties barely intact. A storm was brewing somewhere in the more distant mountains and the faraway lightning and thunder coalesced with my unsettled mood. I tossed and turned for several hours, wrestling with the waking demons that sought refuge in my already jumbled senses. At last I drifted into a restless, drug-like slumber. The dream started immediately and seemed to plague me relentlessly thorough the remainder of that long night. I found myself in an old Victorian house with similarities to the house Janet and I had shared in Reno. But the dream house was endless in size and scope, and contained fragments of many dwellings that I had previously inhabited or visited. There were hidden rooms within the walls - passages unmarked and mysterious that suddenly appeared and were familiar to me. I could feel a presence of evil throughout the bizarre house. Perhaps evil is not a suitable word. It was something far beyond
evil. I don't think there are human words to describe it. If I believed in the devil incarnate, this sensation could only come from something equivalent to his legendary existence. I felt a rising terror that is unbeknownst in the waking world, and that terror intensified throughout that interminable night. More frightening still, was the sense that this being or spirit resided within me. It was a part of me. As I traversed the house, I found certain sections of it where the unspeakable apprehension would ebb ever so slightly, but I was unexplainably drawn toward those corridors where the source of the tragic situation manifested itself most. Yet, as I have said the experience was within me, while conversely, a part of it was separate, and that part beckoned me forward to some hellish completion. And forward I went, to whatever monstrous conclusion awaited me. As I unwillingly stumbled around this dark abode, I found myself in a passageway between the walls. Studs and plaster lath boards were visible momentarily, and suddenly they opened into a large bedroom filled with fragments of my memory. Some of these fragments were tangible, others were crises that I had suppressed and thought forever buried. A large four poster bed with a canopy, rested embarrassments, pains and wrongs from my troubled past. They lay upon the bed like a nest of poisonous, deformed snakes. Individually, they cried out for my recognition. Of course I was loathe to even look in the general direction of this sordid mess, let alone focus my attention on even one squalid reminder of my life's numerous shortcomings. I felt an emptiness that you could only begin to imagine. I turned from the pile of shit, that I can only describe as the bed in which my unforgivable sins lie, and fled posthaste through the nearest door. As I frantically twisted the door knob, I felt my mind beginning to unhinge. The door sprang open and I found myself in some sort of vaguely familiar closet. It contained shelving on either side. Dusty books lined each row. Their titles all alluded to my past transgressions. I cannot give you specifics as to what they read, but imagine if you will that every misdeed of your life had been chronicled and analyzed by the world's most vengeful critic. At that point, in addition to the barely contained terror I felt, I was inundated with a feeling of the monumental worthlessness of my life. I had no resources left to combat the hopelessness and fear that enveloped me. Had a pistol been handy, I would have ended all right there. But my dream world would not conjure up a pistol, instead it opted to take me onto the brink of no return. I tore my attention away from the incriminating book titles and cast my gaze on the forward facing wall. It contained an antique dumbwaiter that inexplicably housed a state of the art, electronic board that was used to control it's up and down movement. Unwilling to remain another moment inside that daunting cubicle, I hopped up in the apparatus and assumed a required crouch. I glanced at the joystick controller and swiveled it to the down position. I did not hear any gears engage, but nevertheless I felt a downward pull, and the cursed closet slowly slipped from view. I believe the only thing remotely analogous to that ride would be a trip through Dante's inferno. With each foot of descent, I felt myself nearing my nemeses lair. At the same time, the part of it that resided within me compounded and grew. I actually missed the safe confines of the closet I had just left. I wanted to scramble out of the dumb waiter and shinny up the supporting cable to seek refuge elsewhere, instead I found myself suspended in the void with no anchoring device attached to my conveyance. The very vehicle that supported me no longer had walls or a roof The floor on which I sat became increasingly smaller until it's surface area was no larger than a two-by-four. A sickening sensation of vertigo enveloped me as I futilely tried to gain purchase on the ever diminishing slab of flooring. It was as though whatever gaping jaws of horror awaited me at the bottom of this madhouse had lost patience with the preceding events and wanted me instantaneously. I had dreaded heights since childhood. At twelve years of age I had fallen out of a tree and broken both arms. Acrophobia plagued me since that day, and I knew the thing awaiting me at the bottom of this bottomless chasm intuitively understood that, and any and all of my weaknesses. The flooring continued to shrink to the size of a trapeze bar and I gripped this and hung suspended like some terrified circus freak. As my descent continued the void filled with a hideous, incorporeal dread that personified all of mankind's worst fears. At this point my heart was pounding ice cold blood through my arteries. It seemed to congeal and thicken before it could return to its source. I felt all was hopeless and tried to cry out in terror, but my voice would not speak. It was no longer a dream, but a real and horrid final destiny. I was helpless to stop it. I prayed my heart would explode in my chest and end this damnation. I was literally scared to death, but death would not come and free me.
Then I awoke. I was bathed in a sweat and my heart beat a thready gel of liquid through my circulatory system. The dream would not release me. Vivid images remained ingrained on my soul. I still longed for the release of death, but I could not move. Each cell in my body weighed me down like a ship's anchor. The foul bitter, presence of whatever had possessed me still had control. My pocket knife lay ten feet from me on the dry sink, but I was completely paralyzed. My present paralysis seems like an annoying pimple compared to what I felt that morning. I wanted only to rise from my bed and slit my wrists with that cheap Barlowe. I wanted to watch the open veins seep that alien intruder from my body. I was scared to death, but I could not summon death.
Then finally, the dreams' hold slowly began to release me. We are so naive to believe this will always be the final outcome of a dream. I know now that it isn't true. Providence, or fate delivered me ever so slowly from that dream. It could have gone either way. Whether it is permanent or temporary; I do not know. Why I was given that salvation, is a question I still cannot answer. But I do know one thing. It all came from some dark recess of my mind that I hope is closed forever. If it opens again, I have no doubt that it will scare me to death. The means do reside within us.
Seth finished his story and rivulets of sweat flowed from his brow. His useless legs spasmed and he took his shaking hands and held them forcefully down. My voice caught and quavered as I tried to verbalize a response. It took several attempts to clear my throat and utter a weak "wow!" The dream he described didn't really haunt me. It was the images that it provoked. I knew no matter how we tried, we were powerless to articulate the essence of dreams, but Seth's obvious distress evoked memories of corresponding experiences I had suffered in the dream
world. I had a few nightmares that were difficult to shake loose. But to awaken and find them still leeching into your brain, was a little more than I could deal with. As I watched Seth try to gather his composure, the creeps rocked me like a bad acid trip. I tried to dig deep down and recover my sense of humor, unfortunately it seemed to have abandoned me. I couldn't summon an appropriate response to lend the situation an air of levity. Thankfully, Seth recovered first and actually came to my rescue. "Damn! I freaked myself out." he said with a forced laugh, "I still have trouble grappling with that dream. It's like a bad tattoo that's always with you; you know it's there, but you generally ignore it. I didn't mean to distress you with that story. I just wanted to use it as an analogy to show you how a slippery mind can control your very destiny - and that even includes frightening yourself to extinction. Perhaps I should have chosen a more palatable correlation."
I tried to shake off the remaining specter of dread that enveloped me. After a slight pause to collect myself, I was pleasantly surprised to find my voice operational again. "I think you made your point above and beyond a shadow of a doubt," I said, "but if you don't mind, I would prefer a slightly subtler dose of educational aids. My balls are shrunk to size of M&M's and you couldn't get a sewing needle up my puckered asshole. How's yourself ?. You gonna be okay?" "Not to worry. My recollection of the event is sometimes too intense for comfort, but I assure you it will pass with each waking moment. The sleeping moments are another matter. The dream has never recurred, and with a little luck and a healthy outlook, I trust it never will. As far as I'm concerned it's a closed book. My mind is pure and I intend to keep it that way. I am no longer susceptible to the toxic garbage that infiltrates and poisons the process of clear thinking. I'm free. You're the one with bonds to break. Come clean. What's really eating you? I know you too well. You're totally aware of the maggoty piece of slime that's coiling it's way through your head. Give it a name and we'll exorcise it."
Again I squirmed in my seat. Seth's perception was acute. My affliction did have a name. Guilt. I needed to expel it. I had let it eat away at me for years. Yet, I still felt a reluctance to bare all. This gentle man that sat across from me had no such compunction. He willingly shared his awful past with me. He trusted me not to judge him. He had just divulged his greatest fear to me, and still I was hesitant to open a sore that had festered for years. Lost in my inner turmoil and wrestling with reason, I stared blankly at my friend. I had fashioned walls of denial that had begun to crumble. For the past eight years, they had provided an impenetrable fortress. If I punched a hole through the weakening rock, I was unsure if it could bear the exposure to daylight. Eerily, I envisioned Seth's nightmare and wondered if my living one was any less frightening. Seth was right. The blues and discord do originate somewhere. And on this night I was starting to recall the ugly birthplace of my self-imposed pain and sorrow. I didn't know if I had the strength to face something that I managed to bury deep in my subconscious. The walls of forgetfulness had held for eight long years. Lifting the floodgates to let the shit flow free, filled me with an apprehension akin to the terrifying nightmare that so plagued my friend. And the revelations that yearned to be set free would affect Seth on a personal level. A cherished friendship was at stake. Was his compassion and understanding boundless enough to forgive the atrocity I had committed? I focused my eyes and made contact with his. I reached down deep and summoned all my remaining fortitude and vomited out the words: "I'm responsible for your father's death."
Chapter Three
My chin dropped heavily on my chest and I awoke. I found myself amazed that I fallen asleep. Groggily, I opened my eyes and saw that the computer's screen saver had reappeared. I nudged the mouse, and the tiny clock display in the comer of the screen indicated it was now 9:00 p.m. .1 had mused and dozed for four hours. I found this incredulous. Little more than eight hours had passed since this bizarre day had begun. Yet I had managed to dwell on painful past events, and in the course of doing so, actually fall asleep. Here I was, living in some sort of appalling science fiction world, and daydreaming and dozing my way right through it. Still, I felt confident that my memories were an important, integral part of what was happening to me. These conflicts were somehow related to my present circumstances. I instinctively knew this relationship was significant, but where it would lead, I had no clue.
The lights went out. Not just the house lights, but every light in my cursed world. I had never before experienced such a realm of darkness. The silence was profound. No barely audible hum of a florescent light. No indiscernible computer noise. No outside cacophony. Nothing. Silent, and dark as the tomb. Seth's nightmare revisited ? I refused to go there. My entire being was gearing up for a new flood of panic. I declined to give it the satisfaction. I slowly wheeled the chair back from the desk. I reached my hand down into the chair's side pouch and groped around until I found Seth's Bic lighter. I flicked my Bic. Activity staves off fear - a new mantra for me. The negligible light produced by the flame hurt my eyes. Imagine a darkness that deep. No don't. You don't want to know. I got out of the chair and used the minuscule light to guide me to the Woodwards' kitchen junk drawer. From it I ecstatically withdrew a three-cell flashlight. The batteries were dead. I emitted a stream of curses and continued rummaging in the drawer, hoping to find fresh batteries. My luck remained depleted. Think rationally, don't panic, I told myself. The prospect of stumbling around a somewhat unfamiliar house searching for artificial lighting distressed me. The Tire and Texaco, just a stones throw away, contained numerous flashlights and a portable generator, but pondering that short trip did little to appease my falling spirits. Then a light bulb went on upstairs,. [not in the house; in my head.] The Woodwards' burned paper logs in their free standing fireplace. They always kept a box of them near the unit. With my Bic flickering long, disturbing shadows before me, I returned to the den. I found the box of logs in it's customary place, and placed one on the fireplace shovel and lighted it. The room came aglow with an intense illumination that warmed my cold soul. Being careful to not set the house on fire, (although would it really matter?) I cautiously backed out the door into the cold, clandestine night.
I held the shovel before me and proceeded up the sidewalk like some sort of uncivilized tribal witch doctor. For that matter I was uncivilized, because civilization didn't exist. The paper fireplace log burned briskly in the cold night air and emitted showers of sparks that the brisk wind carried away from me. The awful inky darkness succumbed to my manmade torch and I walked quickly toward the garage. I hurried through the open door and into the service bay where I kept my flashlights. I set the improvised lighting on the bare concrete floor and got my five-cell flashlight from the top of my tool box. I confidently switched it on and was rewarded with a bright glow. I shined the light on the utility sink and wondered if the spigot would produce any water. I fetched my radiator filler can from under the sink and turned the faucet handle. Water flowed, but the pressure was poor. However, it was sufficient to fill my can. I carried it to the burning log and doused the flame. Having successfully extinguished the fire, I directed the flashlight's big beam under the workbench where I kept my portable generator. It was a Honda high amperage wheeled model and would supply power aplenty for my coming needs. Removing the fuel cap, I directed the light into the interior of the gas tank. My sight was rewarded with the appearance of a full supply of fuel. I next procured my step ladder from the back storage room and used it to release the lock on the overhead garage door opener. I opened the garage door, got my portable generator from under the bench, and pulled the unit across the street. Some childhood instinct forced me to check for traffic in both directions. Ludicrous!, I thought.
The trip back to home and hearth was anxious, but uneventful. I parked my generator along the side of the house that contained a receptacle box which I had installed several years previously. I then plugged in the power supply cord and choked the carburetor. When I hit the start switch , the engine immediately caught. Lights inside the house flickered and then glowed with a warmth I found immensely pleasurable. I thought that small victories were grossly underrated. I opened the carb choke and ran into what was to my knowledge, the only residence in the world with the marvelous technology of incandescent lighting. The kitchen was awash in an indescribably beautiful immersion of radiance. The forced air gas furnaced a delicious stream of warm air and it cheered me to know that this usually dependable utility still functioned. Flashlight before me, I dashed from room to room flicking on light switches and becoming irrationally happy at the instant arrival of welcome brilliance.
Having temporarily thwarted the problem of infiltrating darkness and gloom, I returned to the kitchen. The soft drone of the refrigerator compressor motor reminded me that I had not eaten all day and I was suddenly famished. In the fridge I found a 16 oz. bottle of Coca-Cola. Upending it, I drained it in two long thirst quenching gulps. Ah! The pause that refreshes. Further exploration revealed Virginia baked ham lunch meat slices and sharp
cheddar cheese. I built a heaping sandwich on French bread and found a carton of chocolate milk to wash it down. Thus supplied, I sat at the table and soothed my demanding appetite. While gorging myself, I reflected on the day's events and found it bewildering that food and light could suppress the awful reality of my present situation. I wondered if the will to survive was so ingrained in human beings that no amount of stress and hardship could suppress it. At what point did we surrender our tenacious hold on life ? Surely, one must reach a stage where suicide was a sweet alternative to existence. I didn't know what that point was - I only knew I hadn't reached it, and I wondered why. The future looked desperately bleak. But I suppose I had procured a tentative foothold on survival, and that would keep me going for at least the short term. I did not have the capacity to think in long range terms, so I would temporarily dwell on the present.
Having finished my repast, I put the soiled dishes and glassware in the sink. I found myself running hot water into the sink basin in preparation for washing the dirty dishes. When I saw the ridiculous effort I was making to clean up after myself, I emitted a dismayed cackle and smashed the dish and glass on the tile floor. I looked vacantly at the mess I had created and got a broom and dust pan from the closet. I cleaned up the clutter and threw it in the kitchen waste can and wished I could join it. It was used up garbage. You could throw it in a bag, set it on the curb and let the garbage man haul it away. The analogy reminded me of Seth, and I wondered if his dogma was strong enough to get me through the upcoming ordeals. With a concentrated effort, I could apply what I had learned from Seth to everyday life and achieve worthwhile results, but the term everyday life no longer had meaning. I had no outside influences to filter out. My normal world had ceased to exist and I was living a life comprised of ultimate strangeness. Curiouser and curious, I thought.
Although time now had little or no meaning, I found myself having a clock fixation. Impulsively, I checked the time on the kitchen clock. The display repeatedly flashed 12:00. The power outage had put it in the default setting. I discovered that this drove me batshit. In a panic, I ran into the living room and checked the time on the battery powered mantel clock. The hands indicated 10:30 p.m. I was overcome with relief beyond description. Thank the gods that faithful timepiece still marked the passage of time. Again I found myself rushing through the house. Room to room I went, setting all the electric clocks to the proper time. It was an obsession I could not control. With each victory of time control, I whooped with delight. Time would march on. I would witness the seconds, minutes, and hours ticking by. A future of difference awaited me. Nothing lasts forever, not even Hell. These were my thoughts as I sat on my bed and rolled the time back on the bedside clock. A heavy weariness cloaked me. I lay down and let it carry me away to another morrow. Enhanced sunshine reflected off of a glossy white surface. Snow. I knew it before I opened my eyes. A startling light pierced my closed lids. It could only come from one source. I opened my eyes and looked out the window. The sill was piled high with pure, fresh-fallen snow. Bright sunlight shone through it and beamed intense rays throughout the room. Cold. I had swaddled myself in the bed coverings. My breath hung suspended in the luminescence. The heat was off. The weather was crystal clear and cold as a witch's tit. I cast a habitual eye at the clock - 9:30 a.m. I had slept soundly for eleven hours. Intuitively, I knew nothing had changed, except for the worse. I had no heat and my crappy world was deeply snowed under.
The deep, dreamless sleep should have refreshed me, but I only felt more weary than the night before. Things had gone from intolerable to worse. There was no one to help me. There had never been anyone so alone. I pulled my covers tighter and likewise, my eyelids. I wanted to sleep until the cows and people came home. Then I heard the generator sputter and die. My precious electric clocks died with it. Enraged, I shed my protective coverings and the meager sanctuary of the bed. I had no need to dress. I was still fully clothed. Unwillingly energized, I made my way down the steps. I stopped in the downstairs hallway and got my hooded parka from the coat rack. I put it on and found my fur lined leather gloves in the right pocket. While stuffing my cold hands in them, I listened to a fierce wind sneak its way through every crack of the old house. I found a wool toboggan hat in the right pocket of my coat and pulled it down over my numb ears. The bitter cold stole my anger. It was replaced with an urgency to achieve warmth.
I went into the family room and opened the screened door of the free standing fireplace - the fireplace that got used on Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years. Fortunately, the woodbox was full of newspapers, kindling and spilt firewood. I opened the flue and built a monster fire. The black chimney pipe actually glowed a dull shade of red and I thought, but didn't care, that I might burn the house down. I turned my back to the fire and let heat soak thorough the parka and underlying garments until I feared self combustion. I added more wood and turned around to absorb frontal warmth. The blaze had a toast-like effect on my chilled bones and radiated a goodly amount of heating comfort to the area immediately in front of the fireplace, but I knew the rest of the cavernous house would remain frigid. Adequate survival would require much more work.
Years earlier, I had installed a coal and wood burning furnace next to the gas furnace in the basement. At the time, cheating the natural gas company out of their inflated monthly bills seemed like an appealing idea. I had the "money saving" furnace installed, bought a chain saw, ear protection, a truck to haul the fire wood, a log spilter to
spilt the wood, and embarked on a misguided journey to swindle the public utility out of its due. At great risk to health and safety, I cut down trees, cut logs to a usable size, loaded the truck with my bounty, sweated a lot, unloaded the truck, spilt the wood, stacked the wood, sweat some more, hauled the wood to the basement, fed the furnace, hauled the ashes, cleaned the chimney and beat the gas company. After further review, I decided that burning coal would be ever so much easier. So I drove to the coal yard, had the truck loaded by mechanical means, paid for the coal, drove the truck home, unloaded the coal and threw it down the coal chute, sweated some more, built belching, smelly fires, hauled the ashes and clunkers, smoked up and dirtied the entire house, listened to my wife gripe, and saved a few dollars. After several years of this, and further review, I shut down the coal and wood burner and twisted the thermostat that controlled the gas furnace. I found instant, on demand heat at my fingertips. Gas company - 10, me - 0.
Rather than dispose of the furnace and its memories, I decided to keep it sitting idle so it could put it to use in case an emergency ever arose. In my most vivid thoughts I had never visualized an emergency of the kind that now stood before me. These reflections and the fire warmed me and I found my mood less desperate than before. Again, a call to action buoyed me and distanced me from the bleak looking future. Thus empowered, I found my insulated Matterhorn mining boots and set about on a course of action.
I knew there was a half ton or so of coal left in the bin. But this would be of little help without electricity to power the furnace blower. My preeminent concern was to refuel the generator. Warmly attired, I stepped out in the frigid air and was greeted with a powerful blast of wind that threatened to wrench the doorknob from my grasp. A good foot of snow had fallen and drifted in senseless patterns. The entire landscape seemed arctic and foreign. The forceful wind penetrated my protective clothing and rendered it insufficient for its purpose. Wind blown snow stung my exposed face like needles and I buried my head deep in the parka. I was used to bad winter storms, but this was something on a scale I had never before experienced. Yet, I mused, it seemed to fit in quite well with my other hardships. I hoped whatever was responsible for my new lifestyle found the situation entertaining. Bent on my quest, and bent by the wind I covered the twenty-five yards to the garage in a stumbling fashion. Wind and snow drifts combined to make the ten-second journey a several minute adventure. Snow was piled three feet high in front of the side door. I kicked it out of the way with my feet and yanked the door open. The wind slammed the door in my back as I did a Quasimodo impression and entered the sanctuary. I paused to regain the breath the frigid air had stole from me, and then found and checked my five-gallon plastic gas can. It's emptiness held no surprise for me. I picked up the empty can and got my snow shovel from the corner. Then I stopped at the garage door and gazed longingly at the white outline of the four wheel drive Jeep parked in the drive. I thought last night would have been a very opportune time to garage it, but unfortunately I was otherwise engaged. Shit in one hand, wish in the other, I speculated, and mentally geared up for the requisite journey to the Tire and Texaco. Shovel and can in hand, I fought my way back outside into the lunar-like landscape. Route 40 loomed before me like a deserted fire trail; only its original contour sketched a barely noticeable delineation from the adjacent properties. PennDot was definitely not keeping up with inclement road conditions. My tax dollars had the day off. I negotiated the neglected highway with a loping gallop, sometimes losing my balance and righting myself with the shovel handle. The going was tough, but the tough had to keep going. After what seemed an interminable amount of time, I found myself at the open door of the Tire and Texaco. The wind blown snow had drifted inside and created sensational looking ripples throughout the garage. My Jeep CJ5 was parked in the extreme back of the far bay. And as luck would have it, {and as of late, luck had been a stranger to me} in anticipation of the coming winter, I had already installed the snowplow. Good fortune smiled upon my head. I got my hand-operated vacuum pump and siphoned gas from the Jeep to my can. Then I threw my shovel and the can in back of the Jeep and fired that sucker up. As my body core temperature dropped to a new low, I dropped the plow and plowed my way back home. Several times the depth of the snow required me to plow ahead, back up and use a zig-zag fashion to forge ahead. I didn't stop until I had plowed alongside the generator. Then I shoveled deep snow from on top of it and cleared a path around its perimeter. This task accomplished, I refilled it with precious petrol and restarted the reliable engine. I blew back into the house and used newspaper and kindling to get the wood and coal burner going. When it caught well, I heaped coal on the flames. As the fire increased in intensity, the welcome sound of the blower motor switching on caressed my ears. Spent from my efforts, I returned upstairs and shed my bulky garments. Drawing a kitchen chair over top the warm air register, I sat down to thaw out. The wolf had been at the door, but I had not let him in.
I knew my work was not done. The meager supply of gasoline I had managed to get would not last through the night. Ironically I owned a gas station, but it was useless without power for the pumps. As I sat and felt the house and my body begin to circulate with warmth, a plan began to form in my head. I needed another generator to power the gas pumps and shore up my supply of fuel. One could be obtained from my brother's garage. It was located only a healthy five-iron shot from my own residence. I lighted a cigarette and reflected on what would be required to tap into the gas pump circuitry. Easily doable, I thought. Out of curiosity, I rose and tried the kitchen sink spigot. I was rewarded with a gaseous sound of air escaping the pipes. Either they were froze, or the water system was now out of service. What did it matter? It was just another hurdle in a life that was suddenly filled with them. I sat back down and contemplated what it would take to restore water service. Before city water, the house was fed by a cistern. I was sure that with the addition of a water pump, I could resurrect this facility. It crossed my mind to just move out and find a house that needed less maintenance for survival, perhaps one with
an oil burning furnace and a full tank of fuel oil - a house that got its water supply from a well. I quickly dismissed the thought. I had naught but my memories, and my house was full of them. I would not rob myself of familiarity. There was little else going for me. Idle hands were the devil's workshop. In a weird way, the adversity I faced was comforting. It kept my mind engaged. The more I had to struggle to stay alive, the less time I had to dwell on circumstances. So far, the constant struggle for simple everyday needs had managed to monopolize most of my time. I had precious little time to reflect on the cause and future outlook of my forlorn environment. Taking a last satisfying drag from the cigarette, I ashed it out and set about taking care of business.
At day's end, I felt content from my efforts. The house was aglow with heat and light. Pressurized water ran hot and cold at the mere turn of a handle. The only modem appliances I lacked were a stove and clothes dryer. I could rectify that by replacing my gas- powered ones with electricity. Life was still absurd, but at least manageable. During the day, I had driven the Jeep down the street and plowed through my brother's garage door. Loaded up the generator and took it to the Tire and Texaco. Did some sloppy splicing and wiring, and got power to the gas pumps. Filled a twenty-gallon barrel with gas and delivered it home. Made a death-defying, anxiety filled, five hundred-yard journey to Scenery Hill Hardware. Loaded the jeep with all manner of plumbing supplies, a brand new water pump, and an electric stove. Hauled it home and did a workmanlike job of installation. Water flowed, lights glowed and heat blew. All the comforts of home. All this industry took me though the daylight and evening hours. The clock read 9:30p.m. I sat at the kitchen table and ate a New York strip steak I had prepared on my George Foreman grill. Two bottles of Lowenbrau quenched my considerable thirst. I popped two Xanax tablets and washed them down with the cold beer. I wanted to be partially paralyzed to face the coming night. The booze and drugs were having one of those immediate systemic effects. Already, my head swam haphazardly with disconnected fleeting thoughts. I grabbed another bottle of beer from the fridge and climbed the steps to the bedroom, where I undressed and climbed under the covers. The wind still howled brutally outside. I lay in bed and nursed my beer. Wavering thoughts peeled off the inside of my head in a drugged cascade. I lighted another cigarette and tried to give attention and a fleeting assessment to each disjointed and demanding thought. The lucidity of my thinking astounded me. I addressed all concerns in rapid-fire succession and let logic prevail. My brain churned out wagon loads of scenarios and I met them with a stalwart resolve.
Realising that at least for the time being, the roads were essentially closed, I gave up the idea of immediate travel. I wanted to make some short reconnaissance runs to discover exactly how widespread and of what nature the strange anomaly of missing humanity was comprised. During my short trip to the hardware store, I didn't encounter any abandoned vehicles. All the ones that I saw were parked neatly in parking spaces or apparently garaged. Intuitively, I surmised that the whole of humankind had left the planet. Yet, I could not help but wonder, if this applied to all animal life. I knew that the weather would eventually warm and make the roads passable, but I couldn't tune in the weather channel to see when this might occur. Yet, I had established adequate shelter and could not envision wanting for clothes. Attention K-mart shoppers: The flashing blue light special will be in effect everywhere for eternity. Food could become a long range problem. I wondered how long canned goods would last before they became unpalatable. Freeze-dried products were an alternative. Did insect life still exist? And what about microorganisms? Fish and fowl? Plant life? My wife's house plants appeared to be thriving, but would this hold true in the rest of the world? If so, and worse came to worse, I could always become a vegetarian.
These reflections seemed asinine. They were ridiculous to dwell on. But I couldn't stop them. The survival instinct was too strong. How could I even think of living in a world by myself? Already I missed my family and friends desperately. True, I enjoyed my occasional moments and hours of solitude, but this was insane. I could not imagine the ramifications of a peopleless planet. Talk about antisocial behavior. This would take it to new heights. I considered an endless range of possibilities to explain my grotesque situation. I was in a coma from the shooting. I would wake up with no recollection of any of this. I was kidnapped by aliens. They created a duplicate environment for me, but forgot the other people. They were studying me as if I were a rat in a cage. They would document their scientific results and beam me back to earth. I was insane. I was sitting somewhere in a mental institution. The shooting had somehow interrupted the blood supply to my brain. A lobotomy was performed and my new partial brain perceived the world I now dwelled in, but the medical staff only saw a twitching, drooling vegetable. My soul was stolen. This is what it's like without a soul. I was transported to another dimension. Some quirky alignment of space and time had altered my world. Beam me up Scotty! Some new experimental drug had been administered to save my life. The side effects were unpredictable. I was having the most intense, vivid hallucinations ever recorded in the annals of history. I had died. This was the afterlife. This could be heaven. This could be hell. This could be the Hotel California. I had unknowingly spent my life as a computer-generated hologram. The program was busted and the programmers were on vacation. Boy! They would be in deep shit
when they returned.
I lay in bed and smoked and drank my beer and watched the infinite array of scenarios present themselves to my stupored state. I couldn't help but feel that I had been transported to another dimension. The vehicle for that transport was the key. You can scare yourself to death, Seth had told me. I was in a place where fear was powerful enough to cause my demise. What had brought me here? I thought I knew part of the answer. Guilt. Guilt could consume parts of your soul. It could rot your mind. It was all powerful. It had been chewing away and poisoning me for years. I thought I could control it - keep it in check. Guilt feeds on itself. It has no master. I knew that now. I had done a yeoman job of deceiving myself. My problems were rooted in guilt, and they wouldn't begin to abate until I addressed their origin. I let the booze and the pills carry me adrift; back to where it all started. I had to relive it, let it be born again and not deny the obvious. I thought back to when it happened and prayed for the strength to face the monsters I had created. Let the cleansing begin.
Chapter Four
We are all just prisoners here of our own device. [Eagles: Hotel California]
"That boy is crazy son. What the hell does he want with that hot tub? You fill the damn bathtub with hot water if you want to soak your ass, and you don't have to spend $5000 to do it." I checked for gas with my methane detector at the face of the longwall tailgate and handed Butch the shearer remote control. "I rather imagine he assumes he can score a lot more pussy in the luxury model as opposed to the standard home fixture," I replied to Butch. "You're free to cut coal and achieve new production records." "Son I hope this god dam shearer and the boy's hot tub both break in half"
I was working in the coal mine in the summer of 92'. Butch was my shearer operator on the longwall face. Butch had a neck so red, it glowed even if your cap lamp was burned out. He was loud, arrogant, and obnoxious. He sported a brush haircut and a pock marked face. A huge chaw of tobacco grossly distended his right cheek. Bib overalls hung limply from his short frame - except where his considerable beer belly caused them to jettison out from the front mid-section. He was an extremely irritating and ignorant man. Butch was my friend. Overshadowing all his many faults, was a big heart that his creator put in the right place. The man had a sense of humor equal to the top comedians. His practical jokes were legendary, admired by many and hated by some of those with less tolerance. If he liked you, he valued you and became a fast friend. If he didn't like you he let you know, and not soon forget it. Butch had a small, regulated mind that drew lines crisply and indelibly. You didn't want to be on the wrong side of those lines.
I had met Butch twenty years earlier, when I had begun my mining career. Southwestern Pa. offered a number of lucrative, high paying, blue- collar jobs at that time. Two, to be exact;: mining and steel working. The former were located some distance from Scenery Hill, while the latter were close by. I arrived at the Lemon Shaft portal of Vesta Mining Company's Washington County Operations for my first day of employment. Unlike most of the new miners, or 'white hats' as we were soon to be called, I was a virgin miner. The great majority of the new miners hired during that time came from mining families. Fathers, grandfathers, uncles and brothers had worked those mines for years. They had a 'rich' tradition of mining coal. I was an enigma. I had no family history of mining. My fore bearers were public utility workers. I had no idea why I was hired. I guess they ran out of candidates with coal coursing through their veins. I had a family to support and I was there for one reason; to make money.
That first day, upon arrival at the portal, the shift foreman directed me to the locker facilities where I could change from my street clothes to mining attire. In my case this was long underwear, flannel shirt, insulated blue jean vest, wranglers, white hard hat and steel toed shoes. He then took me to the lamp house where the lamp man issued me a battery powered cap lamp and a self- rescuer. I was instructed to wear the battery and rescuer on my 'pit belt' and to install the cap lamp on my hard hat. When I inquired as to the purpose of the self-rescuer, he replied something about" in case there is a fire or explosion in the mine" and mumbled something about my "buddy" showing me how to use it. Well this is just fucking great so far, I thought. At that point, the shift foreman collected me and pointed across the lamp house to the bib- overalled Butch. "That's your buddy," he said. "Go introduce yourself and stick with him like glue. I got things to do." I took a tentative glance at Butch and thought about aborting my career before it started. I turned to the shift foreman to lodge a weak protest, but he had disappeared into the mounting sea of miners. Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound, I thought, and walked across the lamp house to meet Butch. Butch saw me coming all right. He stared directly at me and hawked a large, liquid brown chunk of tobacco juice into the Styrofoam cup he was holding. "Butch, I'm Fletcher Fulcher. The shift foreman says you're to be my buddy." I stuck out a hand which he promptly ignored. Butch reached into one of the hundred or so pockets of his bibs and brought out a package of Levi Garrett chewing tobacco. He opened the pouch and inserted a voluminous wad into his already ballooning right cheek. "Are you crazy sonny boy? What the hell do you wanna work in a coal mine for? Go get a job at K-Mart and save yourself a lot of aggravation." Another large projectile of tobacco exploded into the Styrofoam cup. "Well," I said, (I said "well" a lot in those days) the money's good and you work here, so it can't be all bad, can
it?" He looked at me as though confirming his initial impression . "Let's go," he said , time to get on the cage." I followed his broad backside into a waiting elevator where twenty-five or so other miners clustered, awaiting their descent. We jammed in among them, and one of them pushed a button marked bottom, and the doors closed. The ride was rapid, smooth and silent. The doors opened onto a well lit concrete walled tunnel. The walls were white washed. The floor was composed of dingy gray, inch thick dust and the ceiling was corrugated metal with florescent fixtures anchored to it every ten or twelve feet. This isn't so bad, I thought. Rather like working in a large basement. Butch gave me a not so gentle nudge in the back and brought me back to the here and now. "Let's go son," he said, "gotta catch the mantrip." This is great, I reflected, sort like taking the subway to work. I followed Butch through several adjacent, cross corridors that reminded me of a rat maze. At the end of one tunnel sat a dozen mini- buses. They rested on railroad tracks, though of a considerably smaller gauge than I was used to seeing. I saw that these portal buses had three compartments; a middle, a front and a rear. An identical set of operating controls were located at the front and rear sections, and all three compartments contained low bench -type seats, whose backrests tilted toward a severe angle. These mantraps looked comfortably capable of holding a dozen men. "Get in the middle there sunshine," Butch ordered, and being the ever ready miner that I was, I willingly complied. Butch waddled, rolled, grunted and plunked in after me. We both found accommodations on the reclined bench seats, and the mantrip quickly filled with depressed looking miners. A section foreman stuck his head in after we were fully loaded and asked Butch if the new guy was with him. "Yes massah, he be right here," Butch replied, and shined his cap lamp glaringly in my eyes. "All right then let's roll," the boss ordered, and pulled a burlap curtain across the doorway of our compartment. Someone in the front section of the bus put a trolley pole on an overhead wire and we were underway.
You could hear an electric motor engage smoothly and the bus accelerated in response to the controlled torque. The clickety-clack of the steel wheels was the only sound emanating throughout the darkness. This rather relaxing cadence was suddenly compromised by a gaseous blast that, as near as I could tell, originated from somewhere near the area of Butch's broad expanse of ass. A noxious odor immediately followed the anal bellow. Chaos accompanied the foul reek. Pensive, quiet men suddenly erupted forth with a horrid series of cursing: "Butch, you stinkin' bastard!" "You rotten ass son of a bitch!" "You ignorant motherfucker!" "What the hell crawled up your ass and died?" "Shit at home you dumb ass!" The burlap curtain was hurriedly thrown back and men scrambled over one another to catch a reviving breath of dank mine air. All three sections of the mantrip had men hanging out the doors looking for relief from the unbearable stench. Someone turned on a cap lamp and directed it's beam at Butch. His face sported a sly grin. "Ah!" "If you could bottle that fragrance son, you could make millions!," he beamed. He then raised one post-like leg and ripped another deafening and repulsive burst of gas. The pandemonium continued unabated amongst the helpless crew. Though I was as repelled by the noxious odor just as much as my coworkers, I couldn't help but burst into laughter behind the bandanna I had pulled over my nose and mouth. "So do I don this self-rescuer to protect myself from your killer farts son?," I asked. I saw this statement met with his whole- hearted approval. His face stretched into a broad smile directed at me. "Stick with me boy, I'll make you a real miner," he replied. These were the developments of my initial meeting with Butch. He prided himself on his ability to animate his fellow workers through his gift of flatulence. He prided himself on his flatulence. The man knew how to hold the doldrums at bay. Taking things seriously, wasn't his style. I gained his approval by acknowledging his twisted gift for it's true purpose. As I said, Butch was hard to take. His small mind operated in complicated, obtuse ways. The miserable work that we faced was put in perspective by Butch. Sometimes he could even put one's miserable existence into perspective. That day was the beginning of our friendship. It was an unlikely, but rewarding alliance. We were opposite poles of the magnet, yet we both found something in each other that we needed. Strange indeed, how friendships form.
Butch and I worked together for twenty years. He was a veteran miner of ten years experience when I met him. With his limited vocabulary and brain power, he tried to explain the folly of pursuing a mining career. We spent hours discussing the merits and drawbacks of being a coal miner; I the former; he the latter. Butch believed the work was drudgery. "It's a goddam hole in the ground son," he was fond of saying. "There's nothin' here to be proud of. It's black, it's dark and dirty, and nobody gives a shit about us. We're just modern day mules. The only difference is, they're working us to death slowly. The mules didn't last as long, but hey got more respect." I would counter his arguments by trying to romanticize what we did. I explained that mining was a vital necessity. We produced a product that we wrestled from the bowels of the earth.. It fueled the world's economy. It was man's work. His rebuttal would be: "Yea, dumb man's work, and you made a mighty fine comparison when you mentioned pullin' somethin' out of bowels." Because I was young and naive, I believed the words I uttered. I viewed Butch as a chronic complainer. It was his misfortune to be so utterly moronic in understanding the fascinating world of mining coal. I disregarded all his advice. When I had accumulated enough time to be eligible to become a boss, I took the test and passed it. I quickly accepted a position as assistant mine foreman and became even more enchanted with the work. I was put in charge of an eight man continuous miner unit and was given the responsibility and complete control of producing coal from the working face. I was a hard, but fair foreman. I cajoled my crew into doing their best. I praised those I felt deserving and belittled and reamed out those who didn't meet my lofty standards. I set new production records and became the company's fair-haired boy. In the 1980's the coal company purchased longwall rnining equipment and promoted their golden boy to longwall section foreman.
The careers of Butch and I crossed paths many times over the years. We worked on the same shift, and more often than not, I saw him underground on a daily basis. For the first year that I was a white hat, Butch trained me. After that we went separate ways; I on a course of management and he gravitating to the hourly jobs that paid the best. But Butch was always around, keeping a watchful eye on me and demeaning all aspects of underground work. Yet, we remained fast friends and loyal co-workers. Butch held a hidden respect for my desire to achieve. I admired him because he was a beacon of reality. Troublesome and annoying he was, but with his feet firmly planted on the coal seam bottom. Underground or in the lamphouse, his sometimes twisted humor could elevate you above the daily strife. It was hard to be serious work- wise when Butch was near. He would take seemingly insurmountable problems and trivialize them. "Watch out boys, here comes twenty jobs," he would warn his companions when I happened upon their work area. "That boys got his heart set on removing all the coal in western Pennsylvania, and he wants to do it today. Hide or fake a back injury - save yourselves. I can tell by the look in his eye that some catastrophe's keepin' him from his short term goals, and we're the duly appointed to save his bacon."
We took our friendship and differences outside the work area and started socializing. A long grueling day in the mine after an afternoon shift would be reviewed at the local watering hole. Amidst a plethora of drained frosted beer mugs, we held lofty, if not intelligent, conversations concerning mining first, and the general downfall of society second. Butch would patiently let me solve the ills that befell the industry, and after the fourth beer say, "Fuckit son. It don't mean nothin'. What you and I do don't amount to a pimple on a fat woman's ass. I'll not tolerate any more jawin' about that goddamn hole in the ground. Let's switch the chatter to somethin' meaningful - like women." Despite Butch's crassness, he afforded an unidentifiable charm to the ladies. Married once for less than a year, he fathered a son, and consequently divorced his wife. She was glad to be rid of him and the child. How anyone could tolerate living with Butch, for more than a few days was a mystery to me. But Butch could pull all the right switches on the ladies. He complimented them on their looks and sex appeal. He teased them till they blushed and emitted a shy smile. He badgered them into going out with him and they did, and they had fun. The relationships never lasted more than a few weeks. Butch took the girls on a whirlwind ride of lighthearted merriment. They loved it. But soon they came to the conclusion that it was only a ride; Butch had no plans for long term commitment. 'I'll tell you the trouble with society nowadays," he would expound. "That women's lib shit has ruined everything. These women wanna have the power now; they wanna be boss. That shit don't work. Women were made to breed, have babies and stay home and raise them. That's how God designed them. Now they wanna be 'somebody,' go out in the workplace and leave the kids to raise themselves. People wonder what's wrong with the kids today; no morals, no values, no respect for their elders. They're like that cause nobody's raisin' em. They plop in front of the TV and watch some bullshit about some made-up idiot killin' everybody. They sit in front of the TV and play some dumb- ass game where you're supposed to kill somebody before they kill you. They listen to real bad music. All the words say fuck this and fuck that. They're all turnin' into punks, and where's momma while all this is goin' on; she's out pursuin' her career, makin' a name for herself and makin' more money to throw away on the spoiled brats.
He would rage on. 'When I was a kid, Daddy brought home the bacon and Mom kept us kids on the straight and
narrow. And she didn't need Daddy's help to correct us when we screwed up. She would lay into us with a willow stick before Dad got home from work, and still have time to have a hot meal on the table for him. She kept the house clean and us kids clean. She worshiped the ground Daddy walked on and treated that man like the king he was. And that man provided for us. He saw we had everything we needed - and I'm not talkin' only about the stuff money can buy. We didn't have a lot of money, but we had a real family; not this make-believe shit that people call family nowadays. Son, I tell ya' the world's gone to hell in a hand-basket." Hence, the reason the girls ran from Butch after a fortnight or two. I can't say I entirely disagreed with Butch. I had met his son, only a few years younger than myself, and found him to be extremely likeable. Butch had done some sort of yeoman job in raising him. Could Butch's values actually have some merit? Not that father and son got along without some controversy - after all they were father and son. But I could sense a loving respect for one another no matter what underlying tensions happened to prevail. Butch continued his tirade. "You tell me if I ain't right son." He gave me a serious, expectant gaze. I looked reflectively into the bottom of my beer mug. "I'll be happy to share my view with you amigo," I slurred. "We've all been assimilated by the information age. Resistance is futile. We know too much. We've seen too much. The world is moving at a whirlwind pace and we're snails. We're dinosaurs. We can't keep up and wouldn't want to if we could. Nothing is simple anymore. It's all hyped up and blown out of proportion. Everything's a spectacle. P.T. Barnum would have loved it. It's a brave new world and we don't like it. But it's the only world we got. Until they start colonizing the planets, we're screwed."
Butch was nonplused. My learned references to Star Trek and Aldous Huxley sailed over his Cro-Magnon brow. I think the P.T. Barnum thing might have caught, but who can say? A hearty laugh replaced his bewilderment. "I don't know what the hell you're talkin' about sonny," he replied, but I think you said about the same thing as me." And God knows, essentially we were on a bizarre, similar level. The words were different, but the meaning was clear. We both viewed the world as something gone awry, an alien habitat that was inescapable. There was no sanctuary. The vestige of our lost world, our place in society, was rapidly eroding into a memory. The current state of life evoked anger in Butch. He would rant and rave about the unfairness of things and in doing so would cleanse his spirit. He would get it all out of his system, be purified, and switch the conversation to his favorite subject - the Pittsburgh Steelers. I was not afforded that luxury. Societal ills enshrouded me in a dark depression that hung menacingly in the background for days at a time. I could listen to Butch endlessly analyzing the ills and attributes of the Steelers - and participate eagerly in the conversation, but the backstage of my mind wrestled fruitlessly with depressive demons. I had no panacea to displace them, and I envied Butch for his easy shift from anger to contentment. It seemed to me he lived mostly focused in the moment - a cold beer, a flash of anger, an admiring look of pleasure when it was there to be enjoyed, and then move on to the next mood. All so simple, all so desirable, and all so out of my reach.
My desperate pondering was interrupted by Butch's deep booming voice. He had solved the problem with the Steelers, had them Super Bowl bound, and switched the conversation back to mining. "Son, the pit boss says I'm supposed to run shearer for you tomorrow. Is that goddamn longwall high enough for a man to walk through without stoopin' over like some old used up fart?" "It is indeed of sufficient height," I replied, " and I suggest we call an end to the night's frolic so that we'll be well rested for the morrow. The mine awaits us. "Fuckin' coal mine. Be the death of us all some day son." Butch drained the last of his beer. "Let's get the hell outta here."
Chapter Five
"As far as your son's hot tub is concerned, I couldn't give a rat's ass if it breaks in half", I replied to Butch, "but this shearer is another matter. The powers that be are pushing me to load big numbers. I'm tired of them crying about how much money the company is losing. You treat that shearer like it was something precious. Pretend it's your dick."
Butch was with me that June day in 1992. Fate had again put us together on the same production crew. Yesterday his son had bought a hot tub, and Butch's mind had trouble grasping why anyone would spend his hard earned money on such a frivolous object. This sort of thing upset Butch, but that's why he was Butch. "Son, if I pretend it's my dick, the things just gonna sit here and do nothin all shift. That's mainly what my dick's been doin' lately." "Ah shit!" "OK son, don't have a hemorrhage. I'll get this thing goin' and load coal for ya'. I was just fuckin' with ya'." "No, no Butch, that wasn't directed at you. I forgot to bring the methane probe down so I could check for gas in that fall in the out by intersection." When the continuous miner section had driven the gate entries for the longwall unit months earlier, a roof fall had occurred. This wasn't an uncommon occurrence in mining. Fortunately, miners are seldom around when the roof caves in, and that was the case during this roof fall. The fallen rock had long since been loaded up and the jagged cavity secured with roof bolts. But methane, an explosive gas that is released when coal is being cut, is lighter than air. It seeks the high roof areas and accumulates there. Mining law requires that checks for methane accumulations be conducted before electrical power is energized and any work is begun. I had left the methane probe at the headgate entry; 800 feet away at the opposite end of the longwall face. I would have to call on one of the line phones and have one of the other crew members bring it down to me; a process that would cause a good ten minute delay before production could commence. The probe was a fiberglass telescoping rod. A methane detector could be attached to it and then extended up into the fall cavity. A magnifying glass covered the digital read out area of the detector and one could easily read the numbers and conclude if gas was being adequately diluted with air. The ventilation system was designed to move gas and dust away from the working areas and direct it to the return where it would be pulled out of the mine by giant ventilation fans. But air travels best in a course of least resistance, and a roof cavity tends to develop a dead area where movement is minimal. Thus, the urgent need for a gas check in high, cavernous areas. Butch sensed my consternation. "Fuck it son," he said. "There's enough air blowin' through here to fly a kite. You ain't never found any gas in that fall. Call em' up and tell em' to turn the power on. Let's load coal so they'll get off your ass." Reluctant to cause more delay than necessary, and against my better judgment, I went to the nearest page phone and called the headgate entry. "Tell the mechanics to turn the power on and send the rest of the crew down the line," I instructed the headgate operator. "It's safe to load coal. Tell Marvin to stay up there; I want him to hang a ventilation check." "Will do," crackled the headgate operators reply. I walked back to Butch, who was emitting a most gleeful look. "Big Ben the Brain gonna' handle your ventilation jobs today Sonnyboss?" he guffawed. "Lord help us. When he gets done the coal dust'll be blowin' back in our face. I didn't bring my wristwatch today; tell him to let me know when it's quittin time." "Relax Butch,' I told him. "I plan to give him a whole lot of close supervision." A warning siren blasted three shrill notes and the face conveyor started. Butch walked to the coal shearer and turned on the water sprays. Water cascaded in thin streams from the cutting drums, and simultaneously the florescent face lights came on. "That's good son, that boy needs real close supervision. He fell out of the dumb tree and hit every branch on the way down."
Marvin's ineptness as a miner was legendary. Not the sharpest nail in the keg, he got the name Big Ben the Brain because he couldn't tell time. He carried a pocket watch with a cracked face and frozen hands. He consulted it often, and when someone asked him the time he replied, "gettin late." He had been left at the face on more than one occasion when he strayed from the crew at quitting time, and wasn't missed till we hit the cage. He had no business underground, but the union protected his job. He was a danger to himself and others and was usually given a menial job in some out of the way place where he could do the least amount of harm. I was stuck with him today because I was short-handed and there was no other live and literate body to use as a roustabout replacement. Thinking about putting up with Marvin for the day and feeling the effects of last night's
overindulgence of beer, I removed my pit-cap and massaged my temples. Butch was amused at my trepidation. "That's why they pay you bosses the big bucks son. You're earnin' em' now ain't ya?" With a last gleeful smirk and a painful, piercing cap lamp directed in my eyes, he turned from me and started the shearer. As he trammed the machine to the tailgate cut out, the whine of the cutting motors assaulted my ears. Coal began to flow down the face conveyor and the shift was under way. I took a deep breath of dust-filled air and started my return trip to the headgate loading point. I banged my helmet on three of the lower hanging roof supports and tripped over a half dozen relay bars that attached the shield supports to the face conveyor. There were times when the eight-hundred foot journey between the head and tail entries could be agonizing and this was one of them. My head throbbed anew where I had smacked my hard hat on the shield supports and my hangover intensified. After what seemed an ungodly amount of time, I reached the relative comfort of the six and one-half foot high headgate entry and I breathed a sign of relief. I found the rest of the crew lingering around the stage loader, awaiting my instructions.
"Butch is cutting out on the tailgate," I told them. "You might as well wait here until he brings the shearer back up." I noticed Marvin's befuddled face was missing from the crowd. "Where's Marvelous Marvin," I asked. Sam, the headgate operator, spoke up. "He went to hang that ventilation check you wanted." I looked incredulously at him. "Went to hang the check?" I bellowed. "He doesn't know where in the hell I want it! Why didn't someone stop him?" A crew of blank faces gazed back at me. Someone started to speak just as the explosion occurred. I would never forget the sound. I heard a hollow boom as if someone had thrown a stick of dynamite in a tunnel. It was immediately followed by a rumble and gentle shaking. I remember thinking that this must be what an earthquake feels like. I looked around the corner of the face toward the tailgate and witnessed a strangely beautiful, blue ball of flame traveling toward me at an inconceivable rate of speed.
"Everybody run out by!" I screamed. I ran faster than I thought possible up the belt entry. In seconds I felt the heat of the fireball as it shot past my course of life saving travel at a ninety degree angle and headed for the return. I heard a temporary ventilation check rip from it's anchors and suddenly everything was quiet and dark. I had stumbled and fallen. The eerie darkness and silence made me wonder if I was in a coma. Panicked, I reached for the switch on my cap lamp and discovered the lens and bulb had been broken during my fall. I caught a glimmer of light out of the corner of my eye and gratefully beheld my safety light lying along the coal rib. I crawled to it on hands and knees, grabbed it, and turned the wick up to it's highest position. It provided minuscule illumination, but it was brightest light I could ever wish for. I held the light in front of me and crawled under the belt on my belly. I stood up on the other side of the belt, and still holding the light in front of me, inched my way over to the intake entry. Wonderful, fresh air greeted me and I filled my lungs with the pure nectar of it. My initial impulse was to run. I had to struggle to keep my nerves under control. My heart beat was rapid and feathery. Panic dwelled close to the surface, and although I now had plenty of fresh air, I felt as if I couldn't breath. Consequences too horrible to dwell on preyed on my mind, and I could not think. When I finally spurred into action, it was not from a sense of duty or obligation, but rather an unthinking, robot-like response. A sort of calm descended, and it was as if I was watching someone else take control. I saw the flicker of cap lamps some distance out by, and safety light held in front of me, I made my way to them. I encountered two panic stricken crew members some four hundred yards from the face. They looked at me as if I were a ghost. The fear that enveloped them was fairly palpable. In a quaking voice, Sam, my headgate operator, spoke first. "Christ, Fletch- we thought you were dead meat. What the hell happened?" "It looks like there was an explosion Sam," I told him. "I need you to go to the nearest telephone and call outside. Tell them what we think has happened. Have them evacuate the mine. Get them to notify the mine rescue squad. Tell them to kill all the electrical power, but don't shut down the ventilation fans until I assess what's going on. Have them get ambulances here. Take my safety light and give me your cap lamp. Go to the telephone at the belt transfer point and make the call. Stay there and be my communications man. I'll relay news to you." The words poured forth from my mouth on their own. Sam was one of my best men. I knew I could depend on him. Some of the terror left his face. He asked no more questions, but removed his battery lamp and handed it to me. He grabbed my safety light and was off on the mission. Reb, the crew mechanic watched Sam leave and turned to me. "What do you need me to do Fletch," he asked. Reb, another top notch, dependable guy, I thought. If there's a crises, I couldn't ask for two better men. I noticed more lights up ahead. "There's more of the crew," I gratefully exclaimed. "Thank Christ everybody up this way seems to be OK. Reb, go up there and tell them all to grab every fire extinguisher they can find and have them wait at the headgate till they hear from me. You grab a buddy and get the 150 lb. fire extinguisher from the load center. Take it to the return entry across from the belt line. Look down the return and see if anything's burnin'. If something's on fire and you think you can put it out without putting yourself in danger, then do it. If it looks too
hot to handle, then get the fuck out of there. And - I almost forgot, get the self-contained oxygen rescuers from the parts car and make sure everybody puts one on." "I got it boss. What are you fixin to do?" "I'm gonna grab an extinguisher and a rescuer and see if I can make my way down to Butch. If I get to him, I got a bad premonition that I'll find Marvin not far away in the tail entry. Tell the others I'll flag them with my light if it's safe to come down." Reluctantly, I turned away and started toward the scene of the disaster. I had taken only a few steps when Reb called out to me. "Hey Fletch, you want me to grab the fire hose and hook it up to the water line?" "Good thinkin, Reb," I yelled back. "Get it hooked up." Reb had given me an idea. I turned and walked down to the parts car. I grabbed one of the self-contained oxygen rescuers from it's metal storage locker. Then, I broke the metal seal and removed the unit from the case. I inserted the mouthpiece, donned the goggles, removed my hard hat and slipped the straps over my head. As I turned the valve, I felt canned oxygen flow past my lips. I grabbed the nose piece and clamped it over my nose. Quickly, I put my hat back on and snatched an ax from the parts car. I walked across to the headgate and shined my light down the face. I could see small fires burning along the length of the face. I sucked hard on the mouthpiece of the rescuer and started down the line. Fire extinguishers were attached to the shields at 100 foot intervals along the length of the face and I grabbed the first one I came to. Even through the self contained breathing apparatus, I could detect a faint odor of burning coal. Yet I was encouraged by the fact that the smoke and odor were moving from head to tail as intended. True, the movement was slow and nowhere near the proper velocity, but thank God for small favors. I made my way down along the face until I came to the first fire. Loose coal was burning on the face conveyor and discharging a heavy thick smoke. I pulled the pin on the extinguisher and directed it at the base of the flames. When I pulled the trigger , a thick green dust discharged from the nozzle. The fire quickly succumbed to the chemical, but left a potentially dangerous smoldering heap. I drew the ax from my pit belt and cut the plastic ties that anchored the water hose to the gob side of the face conveyor. I thrust the hose up on the smoking pile of coal, then I took the ax and struck the water hose a good blow. I was rewarded with a cascade of water that immediately soaked me and the smoking pile of fossil fuel.
I had to wait some moments for the smoke to dissipate toward the tailgate. When the air cleared, I continued my journey. I picked up the next fire extinguisher I located and used the same procedure. All in all, I encountered seven such fires before I arrived at my destination. The flames proved to be of increasing intensity at each site and each fire took more effort to put out. Each time I punctured the hose, the water pressure dropped in proportion to the lack of resistance. It was necessary to wait in increasing intervals for the noxious clouds to disseminate. Still, the fires were being contained and my progress was unimpeded. Everything was in control until I closed in on my destination. Some seventy five feet from the tailgate, an inferno raged. I could see the shearing machine twisted and bent at a seemingly impossible angle. Beyond it a conflagration burned hopelessly out of control. I could feel the heat from the inferno. Thick, dense, black smoke poured forth. It looked like an oil tanker had exploded. I approached as close as I could, and as the realisation struck me that I would never find Butch, I tripped over him. He was lying in a small puddle of water that the shearer had left behind. Most of his clothes had been burned away. I quickly surmised that he had thrown himself in the water to quench his flaming clothing. He lay face up, and the severed cord of his cap lamp lay coiled upon his chest like a charred snake. My mind fought to grasp the idea that the force of the explosion had blown his helmet from his head. His face was literally melted from the fire. I caught a glimpse of blackened lips and red demon like eyes. The nose was pushed aside as though it were running down his face. His scalp was furrowed with crusty indentations that resembled anything but skin. The cheeks and jaw remained eerily untarnished, but they were stove in. His chest appeared concave beneath the fried remnants of flesh, and unbelievably, it rose and fell with a barely perceptible movement. Adrenaline was my sovereign. I grasped Butch beneath his arms and drug him away from the inferno. It was a super human effort that I could never accomplish under ordinary circumstances. I cannot remember pulling him back towards safety - I remember little of what happened next. I shined my light toward the headgate and made a rapid circular motion with my head. I remember seeing lights coming toward me from some distance away. I cradled Butch's head and upper body in my arms and waited for help. As I removed my rescuer mouthpiece and the goggles, tears spilled out and washed my blackened cheeks. Butch made an effort to speak; a hideous, gasping sound emanated from the lipless hole of his mouth
I don't know what I said. I vaguely remember trying to comfort and quiet him - assuring him that help was on the way. I distinctly remember begging and sobbing for his forgiveness What words I used; I do not know. I do know that there was a litany of - I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please forgive me. And then miraculously he spoke.
The paramedics and doctors told me I was in shock and hallucinating. They said there was no way he survived the initial explosion - he was killed instantly. They told me that after I drug his body to safety, I was no longer rational; my mental defenses had shut down. When they got to me, I had a thousand yard stare and was incommunicado. Somehow, they got me to the hospital and treated me for smoke inhalation. Apparently I had sustained a number of burns. My left arm was broken. I had two fractured ribs. I laid in intensive care for a week and stared vacantly at the ceiling. I spoke to no one. I heard no one.
At the end of a week, I awoke one morning and I was normal. My only recollections of the tragedy were of going down the line with the fire extinguisher and ax. That, and my conversation with Butch. They contributed the latter to post traumatic stress syndrome. It didn't happen, they told me. No one asked the content of the conversation, because quick response and rational thinking had saved lives and the mine. No one but Butch knew I hadn't checked for gas; and he wasn't telling. Neither was I. How could I? If there was any blame to be passed along, it fell on Marvin. Oh, he denied hanging a check and short circuiting the ventilation, but nobody believed him. Who would listen to Marvin the idiot? They found a canvas ventilation check five blocks from the explosion. The anchoring devices for the check and the mechanical tool used to insert them were found nearby. Everyone assumed Marvin hung the check that choked off the air flow, left his tools in the area, and then started walking back to the headgate. Marvin heard the explosion and ran. He ran two miles before a crew of construction men, making their way to safety, stopped him and took him with them. He kept babbling something about, "Lord God Almighty, big 'splosion' up on the wall."
The mine authorities and state and federal investigators considered him a feeble-minded fool. His proclamation of innocence went largely unheeded. Everyone agreed that he alone was responsible for the disaster. The union had protected his job for years and the result was a long, overdue fatality. A ready-made scapegoat was at hand and further inquires and useless investigations into the cause of the tragedy were a waste of time. Marvin was labeled the miscreant and he was shunned and ignored. The press and powers that be had their heroes and villain, nothing more was needed. My speedy reaction saved lives and further damage. The mine rescue squad valiantly extinguished the fire with an experimental foam substance. Within a week, work resumed; I and the rescue team were heaped with praise. Marvin was discharged and destined to live in infamy. A month later, he blew his brains out with a shotgun. People shook their heads and said he couldn't live with the shame. The absence of a suicide note only enforced the belief that he was the cause of the accident. So that was it. I was responsible for Butch's death. I wanted to believe Marvin was guilty. He told everyone that he only drug the check to the area where he thought I wanted it installed. He was waiting for me to tell him where to hang it. The investigation team knew his reputation - knew his retardation level. They couldn't talk to me during the week I was hospitalized. There was no need anyway. I had risked my life. An idiot had caused a catastrophe and I prevented it from turning into mass death and destruction. I rationalized that Marvin was irrevocably at fault. How did I know he didn't hang the check? No one could prove otherwise. I couldn't possibly take any blame for the sordid events. How could I? It all happened just the way they said it did. I was safe and protected. I was a legend. What would you do? You let it be. Marvin fucked up royally. It was his fault. Tell yourself that over and over and you'll start to believe it. I did. Sometimes I still do. I want to believe it. But I know better. I talked to Butch. He knew. He told me so. And he told me more...
Chapter Six
I was jolted awake by the force of my subconscious meandering. All night long, the remembrances of that awful period repeated themselves like freeze frames. My mind felt stuck in gear, unable to shift into the present. The crux of my problem had revealed itself and it was up to me to continue the self analysis and break through the barriers that were holding me hostage in this strange new world. My conversation with Butch, and years later, my revelations to his son Seth, insisted on review. But these crucial keys would have to wait to open more doors, for now I was drained and exhausted from the effort. The prospect of facing the new day, and letting old memories lie, for now, actually brightened my mood. Bring on bizarro world! I was ready.
I drew the curtains and was pleased and encouraged to see that no more snow had fallen. Indeed, it was a bright, sunshiny day, and the weather appeared to have moderated. There was a slight chill in the house, but I assumed the coal fire had died down during the night and needed stoked back up. So, my first order of business was set. I dressed warmly and proceeded to the basement to tend to the fire. It was gratifying to see that lights still burned warmly throughout the house. A glance at the clock told me it was 7:30a.m. I found the coal fire somewhat arrested, but shaking the ashes from the grate and adding more fuel, quickly brought the heat back to a comfortable level. I emptied the ash pan in a metal can that I kept for that purpose, and climbed the steps to the kitchen to check my larder. From the kitchen I could hear the pleasant drone of the generator doing it's job. I opened the cupboards and the refrigerator and noted adequate supplies - enough to last for several days. But in my situation, I deemed this insufficient As God as my witness, I would never go hungry again.
Donning my parka, I went outside. I noted the temperature on the outside thermometer registered a balmy 42 degrees. Compared to yesterday, it felt like a heat wave. Icicles had formed on the house gutters, and dripped in a steady, mesmerizing rhythm. I bounded through the drifted snow to the generator, and was surprised to see a brownish, green area of grass poking through the perimeter I had cleared yesterday. I refilled the generator and brushed snow from the Jeep. I got in it, and turned the key. Old reliable started instantly and I dropped the plow and headed for Route 40. My destination was the Centerville Giant Eagle. The pressing need for adequate provisions was ruling my short term plans. If the temperature continued to rise, perishables would be in jeopardy. It was my intention to stock up on these items before it was to late. It was quite possible the road would prove impassable, but I had to try. The wipers slapped a metronomic rhythm as I peered through the windshield at the storm's aftermath. I guessed the total accumulation to be about eighteen inches. The wind had caused considerable drifting. As the temperature continued to rise, large chunks of snow lost their purchase from tree limbs, and fell in a feather-like beauty to the ground. On impact they exploded in a powdery cascade. Altogether, a lovely winter scene, but my compulsion did not afford me the opportunity for careless enjoyment. I found that by using the zigzag method of plowing that I had developed yesterday, I could do a passable job of road clearing. The short, four wheel drive wheel base proved capable of providing me with excellent traction. When I encountered a significant accumulation of snow, I raised the plow about a foot and pushed on through rather effortlessly. Pleased with my slow, but steady progress, I let my attention wander to my immediate surroundings. Consonant to my recent trip to the hardware store, I saw cars adrift with snow, but neatly parked off the side of the road or at rest in someone's driveway. Apparently, whatever had snatched away humanity, had a keen sense of order and neatness. There were no fresh tire tracks in the snow, nor any sign of footprints. I was still alone.
The Giant Eagle was a five mile drive, west, on route 40. The highway was, for the most part, level, with a few slight inclines that gave me little or no trouble. All in all, my progress continued unimpeded. A few times, I had trouble distinguishing the contour of the road and found I was clearing the shoulder instead of the highway. But I soon found myself on the outskirts of Pitt Gas; the supermarket lay just ahead. I pulled into an empty parking lot. There was a tractor-trailer delivery truck parked on the side of the building, but the lot was vacant of consumer's autos. I expected short lines at the check-out counter. I switched off the Jeep, climbed out, and approached the market doors. They were those pneumatic that open automatically. They remained closed for me. I peered inside. I could see light! An ecstatic joy encompassed me. I screamed hello and yanked on the door handle with both hands. It refused to even budge. Without even thinking, I ran around to the back of the Jeep and unzipped the back window and grabbed my tire iron. I quickly returned to the door and swung with all my might at the glass. As the steel bar impacted the glass and it shattered, a loud bell started ringing. Burglar alarm! I was beside myself with excitement. I kept flailing away at the glass until I had a clear section to stoop through. I got down on my hands and knees and crawled through the opening. I stood up, expecting to see a hysterical store employee pointing a gun at me. If they didn't shoot me right off, I would make them my new best friend.
No friend or foe approached me. The lights, and the alarm that continued to clang away, were battery powered. I looked up at the small, bright lenses, sitting atop their metal boxes, and felt like the world's biggest fool. And I was. My face turn crimson with embarrassment Yet, there was no one but myself who looked upon me as the fool. Dejected again, I slumped down on the floor amidst the glass shards and hung my head in defeat and humiliation. How could I have been so stupid not to see the obvious? A fragment of a Bruce Springsteen song played in my head: And they ain't comin' back, to your hometown. I was so eager to rejoin humanity. I saw lights and heard noise and the world was familiar again. I had believed what I wanted to. It wouldn't happen again. My lesson was learned. They ain't comin back. I sat ass-kicked and stymied like that for awhile. But I refused to drift into the ugly depression that tried to swallow me. Getting up on somewhat shaky legs, I looked around. The squared away drill sergeant that was running this particular show had seen that the aisles remained clear. The shopping carts were neatly arranged along the front wall. I was grateful for the battery lights. Their eerie glow provided decent illumination. I picked my tire iron up off the floor and approached the burglar alarm. The noise had turned from welcome to irritating. With a sense of satisfaction, I bludgeoned it into silence. That accomplished, I grabbed a cart and began my shopping spree. What do you take when it's all free and perhaps final? I had no death row experience to draw upon. And that is what I likened it to. What would you like for your last meal today? You may have another last meal tomorrow, or then again, maybe you won't. Don't forget fresh dairy products may soon be extinct. Not to mention fresh meats. I stood with my hands on the buggy and contemplated. I broke out in a cold sweat and became totally indecisive. You think about it. What would you do? In the end, I reverted back to my tried and true method of shopping impulse. Start at the far aisle. Up it you go and register the items that are displayed. Produce first. It could certainly be the end of all fresh produce. Better grab some tomatoes, potatoes, carrots and peas. My mother says I gotta eat a whole lot of these. Into the cart go onions, celery, grapefruit, radishes, pineapples, grapes, apples, oranges, pears, bananas, leeks, {what's a leek, and do I even like them?} lettuce, cabbage, mushrooms, tangerines, beets, watermelon, nuts, {no they'll keep, put them back; well maybe take a few} cantaloupe and beans. Into the dairy aisle now, and grab milk, and gotta have chocolate milk, and eggs, and cheese, and orange juice, { a day without oj is like a day without sunshine } and bacon, lots of bacon, smell it cooking in the morning, and butter, and margarine, and orange drink. Swing over to the deli. Have to get all matter of luncheon meats. Just take the whole loaf. You can cut it up later. We'll need Virginia baked ham, turkey breast, pastrami, bologna, pepperoni, roast beef, dried beef, capacola, slab bacon, Italian bread, French bread, sandwich buns, nacho shells, tortillas, cooked chicken breasts, more cheeses, {there are so many kinds} and kielbasa and hot dogs and buns.
Two aisles and a back wall covered, and the cart is full - bursting at the seams. The Jeep is a CJ5 model. It has a small storage compartment behind the front seats. I already have enough items to almost fill it. I ask myself if I'm being greedy or just cautious. I don't know. I'm scared. But I can only take so much. Prudent consumerism is called for. I wheel my buggy to the check-out counter and park alongside it. For reasons I cannot fathom, I look in the open register drawer. It's full of money - change and bills and checks. Worthless. All of it worthless. I grab a handful of bills and rip them up. It feels good. I throw them in the air and they fall symbolically to the floor. I stare stupidly at the pieces. The stock market has crashed. I never got a chance to provide for my retirement. The cost of goods has suddenly become dirt cheap. The bad news is they are no longer being manufactured. What would Alan Greenspan think about all this? I feel my thoughts becoming scrambled again, and break away from this nonsense before it consumes me. I roll my groceries out to the Jeep and stow them. I've used up two thirds of the free space in the back, but I still have the passenger seat. I go back inside with a sense of purpose. I have a plan. No more perishables. Flour, canned goods, dried meats, powdered milk and any consumable with longevity are my new victims. I shop as though I'm stocking a fallout shelter. This time, confidently and fearlessly I fill my cart. Soon it has reached capacity, and I push it to the video department where I grab an armful of the latest releases. I lift and shove the cart through the shattered door and deem my shopping spree a success.
The temperature has warmed. It must be in the mid fifties. Small bare patches of macadam are beginning to show. The sun is warm and bright in a cloudless sky. Melting snow is seeking a path to low watersheds. A large chunk slides off the roof of the Jeep and falls heavily to the ground. Up to the minute accuweather with your meteorologist Fletcher Fulcher, has forecast a warming trend. I get in the Jeep and start back home. The clock on the dash reads 3:30 P.M. My foraging has taken up most of the day. I travel the lane I've already cleared and the going is smooth. The return trip takes half as long. Arriving home, I park alongside the back door and start unloading my ill-gotten gains. After numerous trips to the pantry and the basement freezer, I have everything stowed away. I refill the generator and add coal to the fire. My throat is parched. I grab a coke from the fridge and pour it in a frosted mug. The C02 bubbles effervescently down my throat and I voice my pleasure with a sustained ahhaaaaa. I get the fresh baked ham out and build a sizable sandwich on horizontally cut French bread. I spread the bread lavishly with butter, pile on lettuce and onion and stacks of ham. For dessert I dish up a large bowl of black raspberry ice cream. Then, I sit down to table and fairly swoon with gastronomical delight. Such a simple pleasure - eating. In a rat race world there is too little time to enjoy it. No rats in my world, baby. I savored every moment. It was one of the few things left to enjoy. As
I ate, I thought of prisoners in solitary confinement. In a way, my scenario was less adverse than theirs I had certain freedoms These men somehow survived, and they had absolutely no freedom. But then again, they knew a world existed somewhere outside their cell; I was without that assurance. I felt a prisoner of my own mind. I needed to escape. I had to work on my plan. There was certainly time enough for it. All I had was time. We are all just prisoners here of our own device. You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave. I sat and enjoyed my meal while the words of that song repeated themselves over and over. One moment I would feel clarity and realize what I needed to do. The next moment ,everything would become jumbled. I thought about my shopping trip and wondered why I felt guilt. Survivors syndrome? Maybe it was Pavlovian. I was conditioned in a society where marketing expected some sort of payment. None of these musings gave me access to the inner realm. I felt no more confident than I did at the start of this strange new world. And the loneliness was setting back in big time. I could feel it creeping up like some stalking animal.
I perceived that I was starting to bum myself out and hurriedly finished my repast. Unlike last night, I decided to wash and dry my dishes instead of breaking them. I found the mindless activity soothing. I put everything in the cupboards and utensil drawers and retired to the living room. I had placed the pilfered iggle videos on the coffee table. I needed to see and hear human beings. I scanned through the titles and chose October Sky, a story about a young high school boy who would rather make rockets than accept his heritage as the next family member to work in the West Virginia coal mines; circa 1958. I turned on the TV and was again greeted with a snowy screen. This time, I could remedy that. I popped the video in, and eagerly anticipating company, I adjusted my recliner to receive them. It occurs to me that the reader may think my activities rather strange. Perhaps they were, but I was driven by an overwhelming urge. I had to have some sort of contact. The intensity of my solitude was not bearable. I knew of no other way to try and fill that damaging remoteness. I longed to hear voices and to see activity. The immense limbo that surrounded me demanded the mustering of desperate measures. The alienation of life is no small thing. I only hope the reader can begin to fathom my distress. The astounding impact of my isolation can only be imagined. And imagine, if you will, finding yourself in this situation. I can only hope that you would be braver than I, for I felt myself to be a sniveling coward. I would have done anything to thwart the feeling of total helplessness. I had yet to dwell on my missing family and those close to me. It was just too much to bear. I shut out all thoughts of my loved ones, but I knew I would soon have to deal with that also. There is a definable aspect as to what we can tolerate as humans, and I was fast approaching that walled end. Thoughts of suicide kept infiltrating my mind.
And so I lounged back like a space shuttle pilot, turned up the volume, and cherished the two dimensional return of society. Beautiful music poured forth from the surround sound system and caressed my ears with glorious noise. I had broken the sound barrier. I knew how those test pilots felt. Their exultation could be no more than mine. For days now, I had only heard whatever sound I and mother nature could generate. And mother nature was pretty much asleep on the job. The music transported me to a new height. The movie started and I heard glorious voices. Rich timbres of male and female vocal cords resonated through my head. And then, glory to God, my eyes beheld people. Laughing, smiling, crying, friendly, obnoxious, embarrassed, bold, stupid, brilliant, compassionate, mean, boring, fascinating, beautiful, ugly, devious, honorable, despicable, caring, selfish, sexy, unappealing, lovable, hateful, and wondrous people! My emotions ran the gambit. It was probably an OK movie, and without a doubt, the best one I ever saw. I crawled through the screen and was one with them. I shared their dreams and heartbreaks. I got to be alive - a part of life in all its infinite beauty. I saw what it met to receive the gift of life. The struggle, the day to day existence, the eminence of it all. The profound understanding, that it is its own reward. I flew with the angels. And then it was over. Not just the movie. The credits rolled and the screen blackened. I was alone again. I knew I could insert another video cassette. That wasn't the problem. The problem was that I had been given fresh insight into existence and I had no one to share it with. I was the only kid on the block. Only children can experience the true meaning of life. Their world is without pre-conceived notions and prejudices. I had become a child and was granted clarity. I remembered - All the world is a stage and we are but the actors. Somewhere along the line, in the process of growing, we lose that focus. We take everything so seriously; relationships, ego, work, money, possessions, hatreds, politics, despair, illness, death and guilt. We forget it is just life; it is all the adventure of living. The procedure of living is inherent with pain. We build defenses against it. We go to extraordinary lengths to avoid this pain. Why? Innocent children endure their pain and move on to the next scene. They don't carry it with them. They know that if they are constantly on guard they can't enjoy the next scene. When did I lose the ability to dream in purity? I saw through the eyes of a child because I had become one. I was alone and afraid. Yet, the next chapter awaited me. I felt more able to endure now - able to cope with my situation and respect it as a quest. Much of the anxiety had eased. The wonder of it all was beginning to enthrall me. I felt as if I had been granted a fresh start. A new beginning, seen through childlike eyes. I sat in my recliner and wondered where I had left my childhood. When was the last time I felt able to take refuge in my innocence? At what point in time did I cease to be an explorer and trade my spontaneity for the shackles of adulthood? When did it start? I thought I knew...
Chapter Seven
Fletcher pedaled the big 26 inch Schwin up the considerable slope of Oak Street. His feet didn't quite reach the foot pedals, and towards the bottom of the stroke he had to pause until the pedal's arc traveled upward to meet his short leg span. His next door neighbor, scaggy Judie Wilkes, had told him he was going to kill someone with that bike. She said it was too big for him. One of these days he was gonna lose control of it and splatter some poor kid's guts all over the road. Fletcher told her if that ever happened, then he could only hope the guts would be hers. Fletcher hated her guts anyway; it would be cool to see them strung out all over the road.
Fletcher had built the bike all by himself. Well that wasn't completely true. Goofy Larry Taylor had helped him change one of the tires, but the numbnuts had pinched the inner tube and Fletch had to do the job over. The frame was fire engine red. He had found it on the slate dump, and had used his Dads wheelbarrow to push it the two miles back to his house. It had those neat little fender covers on the crossbar. He had hand sanded it down to bare metal, and painted it with the leftover paint his Dad had used on the lawnmower. He traded Jimmy Smith a Bill Mazeroski baseball card for the wheels. The great thing about that was that he had won the card back the very next time him and old Jimmy played flip. Well too bad for Jimmy, but at least he had gotten a new bike on his birthday. The fenders and the handlebars had come from his stash under the chicken coop. It took a little nigger rigging to get them bolted in place, but they turned out O.K. The pissy resistance (as Jimmy would say) were the brand new white sidewall tires. Fletcher's dad had bought them at monkey wards. Just came in and dropped them on the kitchen table. Fletcher was overjoyed and thanked the old man profusely, but all his Pa had said was: "Well son, sometimes it takes a real gully washer to bring out the rainbows." Whatever that meant. His old man was always saying dumb shit that didn't make any sense. But who cared, he had new tires. He pieced together a couple of chains, and baby, he was mobile!. He had sold Cloverine salve to get the nifty headlight, transistor radio, and turn signal combination. He mounted it to the handlebars, and that had made for one cool looking machine. The bike was a little bit big for him, but ugly Judie Wilkes could kiss his rosy red ass. Fletcher, now breathing hard and bathed in a light sweat from his effort, crested Oak and made a right turn on to Maple. Maple Street had a nice down hill grade. Fletch stood up on the pedals and let the big Schwin roll. As the bike accelerated, his layer of perspiration caught the generated air and the feeling of cool relief was glorious. Where the hill bottomed out, he leaned hard left and stood on the brake. The bicycle threw up a spray of gravel as it entered the school yard parking lot. Fletch kept one foot on the pedal and did a rodeo style dismount. 'Nice goin' penis head," Jimmy Smith called out from his perch atop the swing sets. "Some more stunts like that, and those new treads will be maypops in another week." "That's my problem cum wad, "Fletch replied, as he slid his mitt off the handlebars. "Where's everybody at? I thought we were gonna play some ball." Not about to be outdone by Fletcher, Jimmy performed an Olympic style dismount of his own. He squatted on the top bar and threw his legs out behind him. Then he took a series of swings and launched himself off. He landed awkwardly, but quickly recovered his balance and threw his arms out at forty- five degree angles, imitating a star gymnast. He took a small bow, saluted an imaginary flag, and tossed a baseball covered in friction tape to Fletcher. "Hubie and the 'tard' brothers are down at the dairy bar. Jonny and Gordo were here, but they went downtown too. Hubie won big playin' blackjack last night and he's treatin' everybody to lotta colas. I waited here for you to see if you wanted to go along and take advantage of Hubie's unprecedented generosity."
Dilbert's Dairy Bar had an irresistible appeal. All the guys hung out there. It probably had the best jukebox in the county. The burgers and shakes were great, and there were pinball machines in the back. Dilbert always had tipboards and punch cards. You could in great prizes on them. The winner on the current punchcard would be the envied owner of a neat set of battery powered jousting knights. Fletch had had his eye on them all week. The card should sell out today and the winner would be announced. And Hubie springing for lotta colas was like old Silas Marner giving all his money to UNICEF. The ball game could wait. Fletch caught the ball and tossed it and the glove into the Schwins saddlebags. "Cool, lets ride partner. Hubie won all my mallo cup cards the other day when we were playin' canasta. I had almost enough to send for a free box too. The heartless bastard laughed like a maniac when he cleaned me out. He owes me." "Yea, well last one there is an asswipe." Jimmy jumped on his bike and peeled wheels. The balloon he had attached to the fender rubbed against the spokes and emitted a fair replication of high powered exhaust noise. Fletch had to stand on a pedal and get a running start before he could throw his other leg up over the nut buster bar of the big Schwin. Times like these he wished he had a smaller bike, but he caught Jimmy as they turned down hill unto Route 40. They finished in a relative dead heat in front of the dairy bar and were still arguing about who was the asswipe as they swung through the screen door.
Dilbert occupied his usual position in front of the cash register. He greeted Fletch and Jimmy. "Somebody told me you two boys were smart fellers, or wait, maybe that was fart smellers." The mouth below his large hooked nose smiled roguishly. Jimmy responded accordingly. "Here, smell this Dilb." He bent over and grabbed his asscheeks and made a large burrrrrrrppp sound with his mouth. Dilbert came out from behind the counter with a broom and swung it towards Jimmy's backside. But twelve year olds have quick reflexes and Jimmy dodged the blow. "You boys behave yourselves or I'll throw you out of here," Dilbert said, as he resumed his station by the register. He was always threatening to throw someone out, but never did. Fletch asked Dilbert how many tips were left on the punchboard. "I got six left here," he replied, " and if you give me $1.50 we'll see who the winner is." "Sorry Dilb, I only got a quarter." "I'll tell you what Fletcher, you feed Angel for me and I"ll punch out the rest of the numbers and give them to you."
Angel was Dilbert's watch dog. A German Shepherd that he kept chained up outside the rear entrance. A more ferocious beast never lived. It hated everybody, including Dilbert. He was always trying to find some poor sucker to feed her. In desperation, Fletcher had twice accepted the hazardous duty. The last time the crazed animal had almost ate his arm instead of the gravy train. Only the heavy jacket he had been wearing that day saved him from being mangled. Fletch promised himself he would never go near the ill tempered monster again. "Uh, I think I'll pass Dilb, she nearly chewed my arm off the last time." "Why, she didn't even break the skin. She was just playing with you. She's just a big playful puppy." "No thanks. I think I'll just wait to see who wins." Dilbert muttered something about damn kids being spoiled and afraid of a little work, and went back to reading his Pittsburgh Press. Hubie walked out from the back room where the pinball machines were kept and greeted Jimmy and Fletch. "Well if ain't the mean motor scooter and the bad go getter." [a reference to his current favorite song - Alley Oop] He wrapped an arm around Jimmy's neck and gave him a head rub. Lest Fletcher be the next recipient, he took the opportunity to walk over to the jukebox and ask Hubie what he would like to hear. "Play G9 my man, Alley Oop,Oop,Oop, by the Hollywood Argyles.
The fact that Hubie knew all the song title numbers and the artists who sang them, was a source of immense pride to him. While Jimmy howled in pain and struggled to break free of Hubie's choke hold, Hubie called out more selections. "C3, A Million To One, by Jimmy Charles, H7, EL Paso, by the astounding Marty Roberts, and F9, Teen Angel, by the ever popular song stylist, Mark Dining." Hubie paused to consider more choices and Jimmy took the opportunity to squirm free. "Ya' big stupid goon! I'm gonna kick you in the testicles one of these days," Jimmy blurted out. "Yea, just try it pus head and I'll rip your head off and shit down your neck." Jimmy walked over to Fletch who was dropping a quarter in the juke box. "Thanks for your support amigo. When you need me, I'll be there for you too." "Wasn't no sense in both of us suffering the torture treatment. It will be my turn next time and you'll laugh your ass off while I'm on the receiving end." "You're damn right I will. Hey man, play Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini." "You mean L2, by Brian Hyland?" Jimmy grinned. "Yea! That's the one." He palmed an imaginary mike stand and sang in a falsetto voice, "From the locker to the blanket, from the blanket to the shore, from the shore to the water, guess there isn't any more." Fletch paused from pushing buttons and joined in the course: "One, two three, four, tell the people what she wore. It was an itsy, bitsy, teeny, weenie, yellow, polka dot bikini that she wore for the first time today."
They put their arms on each others shoulders and laughed; a carefree, lighthearted laughter. Fletcher had one selection left and chose his favorite - Stagger Lee, by Lloyd Price. He dreamily watched the Wurlitzer grab a
platter from the carousel and lift it to the turntable. Six plays for a quarter, but it was his last quarter. He hoped Hubie would come through with the colas. Then as if the Wurlitzer beheld some magical power, Hubie suddenly appeared behind him and announced that he had bought "you girls" a soda. "I cleaned those suckers out last night," he said as he handed Fletch and Jimmy the lotta colas. "Four dollars and seventy five cents, man! I was on a roll. Will they ever learn not to mess with the master? They should've stayed home and watched Leave it to Beaver. Ward Cleaver might have advised them not to play around with high rollers." Fletch felt compelled to laugh at Hubie's boasting. It could be unhealthy to do otherwise. Secretly, Leave it to Beaver was his favorite show. True, the stupid Beaver was always getting himself in dumb jams, but he admired the way his old man always bailed him out. And of course he would never tell anyone this, but the 'beavs' brother, Wally, was his hero. Fletcher thought he was one cool guy, and he tried to model himself after him. Of course, Wally didn't use swear words like him and Jimmy, but Wally lived in Mayfield, not Scenery Hill. Fletch figured life was a lot softer in Mayfield. The worse thing Wally had to contend with was Eddie Haskell. Scenery Hill had Hubie and his buddies. They could be real pricks sometimes. Compared to them, Eddie Haskell was just a jerk off. Hubie was one of the older guys. He was fourteen. He and Jimmy were still only twelve; not even teenagers yet. Hubie was pretty big for his age, almost six feet tall. He figured his size and age gave him the right to push the younger and smaller guys around. But Hubie wasn't really mean, in a way, he was actually kinda cool. He was really kinda smart and told great jokes and stories. Fletcher supposed his occasional torments were a right of passage. He had read that somewhere, and he rather liked the sound of it. On the other hand, Hubie's good pal, Richie Rotterdam, [Jimmy called him Rotten Richard, but never to his face] was downright mean. He was a bad influence on Hubie, and when they were together the streets weren't safe. He could talk Hubie in to doing things he wouldn't normally do, and that was a never ending source of consternation for the younger kids. Their last exploit together had resulted in two stray cats having their tails tied with a piece of rope and then draped over a tree limb. They fought ferociously till one of them was killed and Rotten Richard had laughed hysterically the whole time. Fletch thought he even sensed disapproval from Hubie on that one, but Hubie had played along and even made him and Jimmy cut the pathetic creatures down. Richard brained the survivor with a ball bat and declared it home run pussy. Fletcher shuddered. He looked around the dairy bar and was relieved to see no sign of twisted Richie. It was too early for him anyway. It was only about 10:00 AM, and lazy Richard didn't get out of bed before noon during summer vacation. "I got ten free games racked up on the pinball machine," Hubie continued. "I tell you I am sailin' along. Come on back and I might let you girls play a ball."
Dilbert had rigged up a couple of speakers in the back and the sound of Marty Robbins fleeing Rosa's cantina increased in volume as they entered the room. Jonny and Gordo were manically pushing flipper buttons and smoking cigarettes. The 'tard' brothers lounged in a corner booth. One was dumping peanuts in his bottle of lotta cola and the other had a straw and was making bubbles in his bottle of cream soda. "You punks had better not have even breathed on my machine," Hubie warned. "If you did I'll turn my evil trolls loose on you." He shoved Jimmy and Fletch toward the tard brothers. "We did, did, did, did, didn't touch noth, noth, nothin," Wesley stuttered. We wa,wa,wa, watched it like you sa, sa, said." Warren pulled out of his cream soda and smiled vacantly. Warren had a lot of vacant looks. "Why is it that for such a small town, we got more idiots per capita than New York City?" Hubie muttered. "Ah, leave em' be Hube," said Gordo Harris. "They're dumb and happy. You'll get old Wesley worked up and he'll start stutterin' up peanuts."
Gordo was Hubie's cousin, and this lofty title gave him immunity from Hubie's occasional wrath. He was thirteen and had a reputation as a peace keeping diplomat. Many times a word from Gordo had spared the younger boys from some form of tortuous hijinx. Gordo got his name honestly. He was rather pear shaped and consumed more Dilbert burgers than the rest of the gang combined. "You tard' brothers are just lucky my favorite cuz' has given you a vote of confidence," Hubie said. Let em' live another day boys. No sense in destroyin'a perfectly good source of comedy." Wesley and Warren Hibbs, the tard brothers, were in fact idiots. Wesley was mildly retarded but his brother Warren was much more mentally debilitated. In 1960 these conditions didn't receive the attention they would get in latter years. They were just dumb kids. People accepted the fact. Terms like attention deficit disorder and learning disability didn't exist. There were just dumb kids and retards. Wesley had, in fact, attended fifth grade the year before last with Jimmy and Fletcher. Last year the school had instituted a mental retardation program and Wesley and Warren were both enrolled in it. It was the very first attempt to educate Warren. Until then, he had never attended school. Warren , who was long and rangy, was the permanent first baseman, whenever they had a pick up game. He couldn't run for shit, but he had an uncanny ability to catch balls thrown at him. Fletcher had once hit a smokin' line drive that nailed Warren right between the eyes. Warren grunted three times, shook
his head twice, pounded his glove, and played on. A lesser man would have been knocked out cold. And when it came to batting, when Warren got hold of the ball, kiss it goodbye. Of course, he only managed to hit it on rare occasions. Usually he swung with all his might, missed, and spun clear around in a circle. Wesley, on the other hand, had gifted athletic abilities, and aside from his stutter, performed admirably in all aspects of baseball. The guys didn't consider the tard brothers inferior in any way. They were part of the gang - just the dumb part.
Jonny Phillips tilted his pinball machine and cursed. "This friggin' machine tilts too damn easy! Dilbert's got it rigged. I was 450 points away from a free game. I'm gonna go see Dilbert and demand a refund." "Yea, right!" Hubie said as he smoothly shoved his machine to within a hairsbreadth of tilting. Take Fulcher along for your interpreter and bring me back five penny pretzels. Hubie gracefully removed one hand from the flipper, grabbed a nickel off the glass, and flipped it to Jonnie. The pinball machine emitted a sound like two boards being slapped together, and Hubie rang up another free game. "I tell you, when you're good, you're good!" He paused to flip Jonny another nickel. "Here stage fright, buy enough for everybody." That was Jonny's nickname - stage fright. He was a painfully shy boy, who lost the ability to talk when he was around strangers. Around the group - the gang, he was perfectly fine. Put him in the presence of a stranger or an adult, and he turned scarlet. His vocal cords froze and he made a high pitched keening noise. Words froze in his mouth and his Adams apple bobbed. He became so nervous he literally shook with fright. After a few moments, you could see him reach deep down inside somewhere, and summon the courage to regain his composure. It was an uncomfortable thing to watch, yet most people were very patient with him. They could sense a kind heart emanating within him. Jonny was good, the very essence of goodness. He was always doing unselfish things, without even being asked. Like last summer, when Hubie's dad had died from a heart attack, Jonny had delivered all the newspapers on Hubie's route for a week. No one told him to do it, he just did things like that. Although Jonny's timidness was fodder aplenty for the gangs ever ready wisecracks and malicious teasing, they mostly left him be and went out of their way to protect him. This even applied to Rotten Richard, although Hubie had to threaten to punch his lights out before he adhered to the unspoken code. Fletcher had once told Jimmie that "Jonny's the best of us. No matter what happens, he'll never change. There's something really good in him that can't be destroyed. He likes who he is, and he loves being a kid. The rest of us are anxious to grow up, but not him. Sometimes I almost forget how neat it is to be a kid, but Jonny always brings that back to me." "Sure Hube, Jonny replied. "I'll bring them back posthaste. C'mon Fletch." That was another thing about Jonny. For a kid that suffered so to blurt out a sentence, he sure loved words. He was always coming up with cool new ones. Fletch loved the stuff he said, and tried to pattern his talk the same way. But Jonny was the hands down master. He used language so effortlessly. When he was relaxed and with his buddies, it was a joy just to hear him talk. 'What's the news?" Fletch asked as they made their way to the counter. "A family of colored people are moving in next door. My father is really upset about it. He says they do not belong in this neighborhood. Do you know any colored people Fletch?" "You mean niggers?" "Yea, though I don't think they like to be called that. They prefer Negro or colored. They find the word nigger offensive." "No, I never knew any, but my dad says they're shiftless and lazy." "I think that's a stereotype." "Stereo-what?" "It's like when people say all Irishmen are drunks. The majority of them like beer and whiskey, so people say they're all drunks." They approached the counter where Dilbert was working the Press crossword puzzle. Jonny nervously thrust the two nickels toward Dilbert and endeavored to ask for ten pretzels. His face immediately began projecting several shades of crimson. His mouth opened and a strangulated noise escaped. Fletch promptly came to his rescue and ordered the penny pretzels. "Give us extra salty ones Dilb," Fletcher requested. Dilbert dropped his paper long enough to grab the pretzel can and slide it towards the two boys. "Can's almost empty, there's a lotta broken ones in there. You can have the whole thing for a dime. Jonny, what's a nine- letter word that means repetitious?" By this time, Jonny was over his timidity seizure. "Try redundant Mr. Dolan. We thank you for the pretzels," he said as he handed over the two nickels. Dilbert cached the nickels with one hand as he penned the blank blocks with the other. "By God, that's it!" he
exclaimed. He looked wondrously at the back of Jonny's departing head.
Returning to the back room, Fletcher and Jonny found a symphonic movement of bells, bumpers, flippers, and wisecracks. Even the tard brothers held vigil around Hubies machine. He had eighteen games racked up and was going for the record. So far, no one had ever amassed more than twenty. A picture of determination, he shot the last ball and played it like an instrument. The crowd shouted encouragement and derision. "You are the pinball wizard!." "If you don't break the record, you don't have a hair on your balls!." "Bea, bea, bea, beat it Hubie!" "Ten cents says he chokes!" "Your momma wears army boots!" "Make it bow to your masterful ability Hube!" "Ooooooooh, oooooooooow!" The taunting and support increased to a crescendo. Hubie kept the ball from draining by employing a last second catch and double flip. The ball shot to the top of the machine . Artfully he juked it into the bonus slot and the machine went wild. Clack, clack, clack, clack, clack! Twenty three games. A spent Hubie raised his hands in victory, and walked away. He sat in the corner booth and humbly accepted accolades. Pandemonium reigned. Amidst much back slapping and arm punching, Hubie maintained a cool, withdrawn presence. He would not ruin his moment in the sun, by compromising it with bluster. The champ exuded a 'this was my destiny' attitude.
When the excitement finally died down, and everyone sat in the booth munching contentedly on salty pretzels, [ Warren presoaked his in cream soda] the conversation turned to the arrival of the coloreds in Scenery Hill. "Jonny says there's a family of niggers movin' in next door to him." Fletcher announced. Hubie was startled. "You're shittin me! There ain't never been no jungle bunnies in town. You sure about this Jonny?" "Oh, I'm positive. They have a son my age. I met him - name's Lamont. We played some catch together. He's got an extraordinary slow curve." "You were throwin' the ball with a coon!" Hubie exclaimed. "You mean they're movin in to the old Phillips place? Gordo asked. "Yes, they're probably moved in by now. And I'm telling you Hubie, you would have difficulty hitting that curve ball. It was a real pleasure to watch that thing break." "I don't care what kind of ball that boy throws," Hubie retorted. "You can't associate with the likes of them. Nobody in this town will tolerate it. Hell, my uncle Steve has KKK roots. Him and his buddies will run the whole lot of them out of town. Fletcher sat silently and pondered this conversation. He had never known any colored people. He saw them portrayed on TV as slow witted step and fetchs its. The closest niggers were in Washington, fifteen miles away. When the family went there, his Dad always took them to Petey's Hot Dog Palace. The grill man was a very black Negro, named Shine. He greeted all the customers that came in with a "how ya' doin today sir." Fletch loved to watch him work the grill. His movements were smooth and fluid. He would smile and sing the current hits while he worked. His voice was wonderful, full of energy and spirit. It flowed out across the counter as he flipped his burgers and dogs in a beautiful choreographed rhythm. As he waited for his food, Fletch would stare wondrously at Shine.. Sometimes Shine would look his way and flash a pearly white grin, and then wink. Fletch always responded with an inadvertent smile.
Fletcher didn't know what to think. Coloreds, right here in town. They were people too, weren't they? Jonny was wise and good, and he seemed to think nothing of hanging around with this Lamont. Yet, Hubie and Gordo were talking as though this were an inexcusable offense. Would Hubie's uncle and his friends really run the family out of town? "They got their own neighborhoods. They got no reason to move in on our town. They're supposed to stay with their own kind," Hubie continued. "That's right," Gordo confirmed. "We got our own misfits to take of. Ain't that right, Wes-oily? "Ra, ra, ra, right Gor, Gor, Gordo," Wesley agreed. Warren munched soggy pretzels and remained noncommittal.
"My pop says they stink," commented Jimmy. "He says they eat possum, and that ain't nothin' but a big rat. He said you can't trust em' either. They'll rob you blind." Hubie glanced at Fletcher. "You got a mouth full of shit, Fulcher? You ain't sayin' nothin". Fletcher was nonplussed. Stagger Lee was playing on the jukebox. [The night was clear and the moon was yellow, and the leaves came tumbling down.] Lloyd Price sang that. He was a Negro. Fletcher loved that song. He wondered if Lloyd Price was shiftless, lazy, stinkin', untrustworthy and a rat eater. It didn't make sense. He liked Shine and Lloyd Price. How could he dislike a whole race of people, just because the majority of his friends said that he should? Hubie was staring him down, waiting for a reply. He looked at Jonny. He had withdrawn into himself, and was gazing at the floor. The others waited expectantly for his input. Fletcher felt as though he were at a crossroads. He groped hopelessly for the right response. Suddenly, it seemed very important to voice his true feelings. Something was happening here. This wasn't kid stuff. It was serious and he felt compelled to give the right answer. He began. "To tell you guys the truth, I think..." The unanticipated appearance of Rotten Richard stopped him in his tracks.
"The Goddamn niggers are movin' in boys! There's one sittin' at the counter right now. I shoved the black bastard out of the way when I came in the door, but he had the audacity to follow me in and perch his sorry black ass on a stool. We gotta do somethin' about this shit!" Richard stood in the doorway. A pack of Luckies was rolled up in the arm of his T-shirt. The rotten cavity between his two front teeth grabbed at your eyes and sucked them in. His greasy black, duck's ass hairdo had a fresh application of Brylcreme, and every hair reluctantly obeyed the slathering. His blue jeans met a pair of spit shined paratrooper boots. He looked, and was, every inch, the hood, the punk and the incorrigible delinquent. "You tellin' me there's one of them out in the dairy bar Rich?" Hubie asked. "I didn't stutter. That's what the fuck I said. The son of a bitchin' burrhead plopped his high black ass down like he owned the place. I say we throw the cocksucker out right now, before they get the idea they can get away with this shit!" Rotten Richard was a prick, but a spineless one. His strength lay in numbers. The smaller guys feared him because of his age and size, not because of his toughness. The whole gang doubted he had shoved the trespasser aside, but no one, with the exception of Hubie, would ever put voice to the suspicion. "Hold on a minute," Hubie implored. "Let me think this thing through." "What's there to think about?" Richie protested. "This shit gotta cease, right here and now!" Hubie held up his hand, gave Richie a baleful stare, and drifted into deep thought. Jonny stood up in the booth and vaulted over the back of the seat. He tried to go around Richie, who still blocked the doorway. "Where you think you're goin' shithead?" Richie grabbed Jonny's arm and twisted it behind his back. "Just sit back down, you pansy- assed creep." He released him and sent a paratrooper boot in the direction of Jonny's retreating backside. "Aw, leave him be Rich," Gordo implored. "He probably just gotta go to the can. Doncha Jonny?" Jonny shook his head no, and tried to disappear into the woodwork. Rotten Richard crowded into the booth across from Hubie. "Hurry up Hube, he's gonna get away." Hubie had his eyes closed, and his chin in his hand. He remained like that, for what seemed to Richie, an undue amount of time. He finally opened his eyes and smiled. "Which one's out there, the old man or the kid?" 'It's the kid," Richie answered. "But he looks like a gorilla - he's one of them bullet headed suckers." Hubbie's smile broadened. "Perfect," he said. "We'll scare the shit out of him so he'll never think about comin' back in here. Our folks will take care of his parents. This one's our job. Here's how we're gonna play it..."
Fletcher had a sick feeling in his stomach as he walked out to the counter with Jimmy. He wished he had never come to the dairy bar. He had been looking forward to the pick up ball game today, and now it was called off and something bad was going to replace it. He wanted to get back on his bike and ride the hell out of Dodge. All the guys were whispering excitedly about Hubbie's plan; everybody but him and Jonny. Jimmy was punching him in the arm and grinning excitedly. "This is gonna be the greatest thing since sliced bread," he was saying. "I bet I'm gonna shit myself laughin."
Jonny was bringing up the rear. Fletch turned and looked at him. You could see his hands shaking and he was actually wheezing. Richie had told him if he didn't play along with the rest of them, his ass would be dog meat. Fletch just wanted to grab Jonny and cut and run. Instead, he beamed at Jimmy and nodded his approval to all the goofy shit he was saying. The nigger was sitting at the counter eating a triple scoop ice cream cone. Hubie and Richie took stools on either side of him. Richie clapped him on the shoulder. "Hey, how you doin' boy! We're the welcome wagon, come to say hello and introduce ourselves." Richie gave name to the various faces hovering close behind him. The colored boy actually stood up and offered his hand to each boy as he was introduced to them. With each handshake he said, "pleased to meetcha," and smiled warmly. When he got to Jonny he clasped his arm with both hands and told him how much he had enjoyed the game of catch, and was looking forward to another. Jonny gave him a shy smile and tried to say something but nothing came out. When he shook Warren's hand, Warren just grunted. He then turned to Richie and extended his hand. Richie put his hand out and then jerked it upward and smoothed his duck's ass. His cavity filled grin was malicious. The nigger simply smiled approval. "And I'm Hubie, the chief guardian of these degenerates." Hubie tickled the boy's palm with his fingers. Lamont granted him the same goodwill gesture. "Name's Lamont Simpson," he said. We just moved into the empty house over on Elm. 'Preciate you all bein' nice 'nuff' to say hello." He sat back down and resumed eating his ice cream. "Come on in the back with us," Hubie urged. "I racked up some games on the pinball machine and you can help me play them off." Lamont shoved the remainder of the cone in his mouth and crunched happily. " That's mighty kind of you. I loves pinball, and that's a fact. Yes sir, I sho do."
Hubie led the procession to the back room. Richie brought up the rear, where he had assumed a shuffling gait, and stuck his lips out in a pout. "Go ahead Lamont," Hubie said, when they reached the machine. "Play one off." Lamont took position in front of the flippers and the other boys formed a spectator circle. Lamont acknowledged his gratitude and hit the free play button. Rotten Richard stood beside him and gleefully proceeded with his role.
"So Lamont, my man, what brings you all to the neighborhood?" "Daddy gots a new job in the coal mine, starts Monday. He worked the mines back home in Alabama, but they all closin' up down dere'." My Uncle Rufus found him work up here. I was a little scared I wouldn't make me no new friends up here, but you guys sure is nice." A beam of sun light shone through the back room window and bathed Richie's giant sized cavity in golden light. " Oh, you won't find no better buddies than us. We takes care of each other and helps each other," mocking him now, playing the smartass, born to the role. "You met Dilbert? He's the owner of this here place. We can getcha on his good side." Lamont shot another ball. "Seems like a real nice fella. He sure heaped that cone up nice with ice cream. I'd like to be friends with him too." "Well you can be," Hubie interjected. "He's got this dog out back named Angel, nice German Shepherd. We take turns feeding it for him and Dilbert gives us lots of free stuff for doing it. You know, pop, candy, gum, nickels for the machine, shit like that. It's Larry Taylor's turn this week, but the dumbass fell outa' of a tree and broke his arm. We could give you Larry's turn and maybe you can show us how to throw that curve Jonny here was talkin' about." Hubie put his arm around Jonny's shoulder and pulled him uncomfortably close. "Yea, Jimmy said. "Angel's a little frisky, but Dilbert keeps her chained up. She just has to get to know you." "She's real friendly after you start feedin',her," Gordo added. "I fa,fa, fa, fa, fed her last week," Wesley stuttered. "Da, da,da, Dilbert gave me a ma,ma, ma, milkshake." Warren grunted knowingly. "It's a sweet deal," Fletcher injected in a quiet voice that aroused a warning look from Richard. "Yea, it is", Jonny agreed as Hubie tightened his embrace. "I likes pups, had me a nice collie back in Bama,' but we had to leave her there. It sho is good of you to give me a turn. I be happy to feed her and get me some free sweets." Hubie released Jonny and winked at Richard. "I'm gonna grab a Coke," Richard announced. "Be right back"
"Well, come on then Lamont", said Hubie. "You might as well feed the mutt now. I know she hasn't been fed yet today. Dilbert keeps the Gravy Train and her bowl right out here on the back porch. I"ll show you where it's at. You other guys can have the rest of these games. I'm gonna show my man Lamont the ropes."
Lamont followed Hubie out the back door to the screened in porch. When they were safely out of range, Jonny spoke up. "You guys know this ain't right! We gotta stop this. Lamont could get hurt! He's a good kid - you know he is. He hasn't done anything to anybody." He looked beseechingly at Fletcher, who turned away. "Aw, we're just gonna scare the shit out of the boy," Jimmy said. "Don't go gettin' all bent out of shape. Hubie's got it all planned out. He'll tell the nigger to back off when Angel lunges at him - he said he would. Anyway, she's chained up. He'll be OK." Gordo re-enforced Jimmy. "Settle down stage fright. Everything's cool. We're just gonna have a little fun, right Fletch?" In spite of the turmoil Fletcher felt, he nodded his head in assent. "I tell you, I don't like it," Jonny protested. "It stinks. Where did Rotten Richard sneak off to? He and Hubie were whisperin' about something after they formulated this 'master' plan. I know Richie's up to no good." "Jeez! You worry too much man," said Jimmy. "Let's go catch the action before it's all over."
They filed out the door behind Jimmy, the tard'brothers, one stuttering and the other always a foolish follower, Gordo awash with excitement, Fletcher feeling as though he were in a bad dream, and poor quivering Jonny. They met Hubie on the back porch. "This is gonna be great," he predicted. Just like a lamb goin' to slaughter. The stupid burrhead bought it hook, line and sinker. Richie's hidin' in the weeds behind the dog house. He's gonna jump out and put a boot in the coon's ass as he's runnin' away. Oh man! That boy might not stop runnin' till he gets back to Alabama. Gather 'round and watch history being made." Lamont carried the pan of Gravy Train and cautiously approached Angel. "Hey girl, that's a nice girl, old Lamont got your dinner here. That's a good girl. Got some nice food here for dis pretty puppy. What a good girl, yes she is!" Angel bared her teeth and her hackles stood on end. A low growl formed somewhere deep in her throat and rumbled free. Richie lay on his stomach, in the weeds behind the dog house. He had taken a circuitous route to arrive unseen and unsmelled. He knew about these things because the old man sometimes took him hunting. Richie didn't know it then, but two years later he would blow the old mans head off during a hunting trip. Rich would swear it had been an accident and the cops couldn't prove otherwise. Richie saw the nigger come out the back door and the mutt spring to attention. This was what he had been waiting for. He belly crawled to the stake that anchored Angel's chain. Good old Dilbert had had an eyehook welded on it and the chain was attached to it with a hasp. How convenient! Almost like, too easy. It didn't get any better than this. While the coon concentrated on soothing the vicious fuckin' dog, he reached out and unclasped the hasp. Man, the fireworks would start now! Everybody was gonna get a real show. They would get to see the master at work. Lamont was continuing his slow approach, beginning to think there was no reasoning with this dog. Better, maybe, to just shove the pan inside the perimeter of the dog run with a stick. Save this making friends business for another time. The dog was ferociously barking now, running back and forth near the end of its chain. Angel backed up and lunged again, and if a dog can be pleased or surprised, the tormented face actually paused and registered a semblance of these emotions. She hesitated, momentarily startled, and then when her K-9 brain grasped the idea that she was no longer tethered, she lunged at Lamont. Lamont was in the process of sitting the pan of dog food down, when she broke free. He had decided the dog was too unreasonable to befriend and that it would be better to just find a stick and push the pan into the circle of fear. The next time he fed her, he would spend more time getting to know her. After all, he was good with animals, and this one just needed some extra attention. As he started to stand up, he caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, and then he felt sharp ragged teeth tearing at his arm.
The boys on the back porch saw it happening, saw the top of Richie's head as he scrambled back into the protective cover of the weeds. Jonny screamed out, "Lamont!" but it was too late then, the dog had him down. Jonny ran past Fletcher, who was frozen in fear. The rest of the boys just stood there in wide eyed terror. Lamont covered his face with his free arm, and cried for help. Angel was on top of him and his arm was clamped in the powerful jaws. She was shaking her head to and fro, ripping Lamont's arm more with each movement. The
blood stained the blue-black arm a bright, opposing crimson, and the dog's muzzle depicted a similar coloring. Lamont thrashed about trying to break free and only intensified the mutilation. Horribly, he begged again for someone to help him and then started an awful whimper. Rotten Richard greedily observed the developments from his hiding place in the weeds. His breath was coming fast, in short gasps. His face was aglow with pleasure and he felt himself getting an erection. He had never had such a fine day. The nigger thrashed around on the ground, but he was no match for Angel's teeth and Richie's ingenuity. Richie felt complete, like he had been born for this. Reluctantly, he embraced the scene and committed it to memory. One last satisfying, lingering look, and it was time to go. The dog might tire of the taste of coon meat and decide to head for the weeds. He didn't want to be there if that happened, and besides things might get a little sticky shortly. He stifled a laugh and began crawling toward safety. He was feeling a glorious tiredness, and thought a little nap was in order. Yea, back home to bed and masturbation, and pleasant dreams. Jonny was grabbing rocks and chucking them at the dog. Tears spilled down his cheeks and blurred his vision and he could barely see. He was yelling over and over, "Fletcher get Dilbert! You gotta get Dilbert!" His voice was strong and clear and he wasn't the least bit shy. Fletcher stood rooted in place. His legs were made of wood, and they wouldn't move. The rest of the guys ran down the steps of the porch and headed for the hills. Fletcher heard Warren making a frightful grunting noise as he lumbered down the steps. Now he was alone and couldn't move. He felt hot urine running down his leg. Lamont lay still. He had stopped struggling. He had stopped everything. Angel was still pulling at the arm, which now looked like a bad butcher's mess. Angel was snarling and growling and dragging Lamont around by his mostly severed appendage. Bits of bone and tendon glistened with a slippery looking viscous liquid. The dog momentarily opened its jaws to gain a new purchase and the sound of bone cracking could be heard as it clamped down in an even more forceful bite. Bright red, arterial blood began spurting from a trauma torn vessel.
It was the sight of all that blood that finally got Fletcher moving. "Its killing him," he thought, "and I'm just standing here." He heard Jonny's, now raspy voice, beseeching him to get help. He broke loose of his panic induced moorings and fled inside, where he found Dilbert still stymied over the crossword puzzle. He did a fair imitation of Jonny at his worst before the words were coherent enough for Dilbert to understand. When Dilbert finally grew cognizant of what was going on out there, he snatched his Louisville slugger out from under the counter and fairly flew out the back door. Fletcher followed in his wake. As Dilbert looked out upon the carnage, he muttered, "Oh! Dear God!" in a barely discernable voice. It was a day when everyone seemed to be having trouble vocalizing. He told a blubbering Jonny to get on the porch with Fletcher, and commanded the Nazi dog to cease and desist. Angel pointed a bloody muzzle in Dilbert's direction, saw little to interest her there, and went back to her happy meal. Dilbert didn't falter. He waded in swinging. The very first blow caved in the side of devil dogs head. But the teeth were reluctant to relinquish their stronghold. A little bit more of Lamont came away with the battered head. The dog was done for, but Dilbert kept swinging away until the head started to separate from the body. It was as though he were seeking retaliation, an eye for an eye, mentality. Finally he was through. In a sick though fitting irony, he removed Angels collar and carried it to where Lamont still lay motionless. He bent down to the boy, and with tears staining his spectacles, (it was a day when tears flowed unabated too) he fashioned a tourniquet. He pulled the collar tight and stanched the pulsing blood flow. Then he yelled at Fletcher and Jonny to run down the block to the fire hall and tell them to send an ambulance. Dilbert gathered Lamont in his arms and held him. He removed his glasses and let the tears fall down on Lamont. They fell on the already drying blood and seemed to try and purify it. But it was too late.
A week later it was pretty much over - becoming history already. Lamont lived. He and his family were already back in Alabama. He would never throw that beautiful, slow curve again. He had no arm below the shoulder. It all worked out pretty well for the boys. They told everyone the same story that they told Lamont. It seemed innocent enough, everybody just trying to befriend a new kid and let him share in some of the small rewards they received. Certainly, no one mentioned Richard's emancipation of Angel. How the chain slipped out of the eye hook was a mystery, but shit happens sometimes. Nobody dwelled on it. It was a shame, what happened to the boy, but secretly most people were relieved. The family of coloreds were gone. Maybe it was just an omen for them to mind their own station in life. Don't try to mingle with the whites. You stay in your world and we'll stay in ours. Jonny lost his shyness after that day. He was never again troubled with a speech affliction. But that something that was good in him, he lost some of that too. When he reached his late teens, he was a drunk. They say his mother died of a broken heart, but that's just talk. Wesley didn't lose his speech affliction. He would always stutter, and he would always be just a dumb kid. When he turned sixteen, he got a job in the town cemetery, digging graves. And he liked it too. Warren, he was the lucky one. Too mentally debilitated to even have an inkling of what happened, he just went around looking retarded. But he lost Wesley. Wesley didn't want him around after that. Wonder if he noticed? Hubie, he lost his cockiness and his tendency to bully. Maybe Jonny's inherent goodness got transferred to him. He sure was a swell guy after that.
Gordo didn't change at all. He just kept on being Gordo. Jimmy lost his best friend, Fletcher. Fetch was civil with him, but it was never the same. The closeness was gone. Jimmy felt a heartache that just wouldn't go away. After he graduated, he married a high school sweetheart. They moved away and were never seen in Scenery Hill again. Rotten Richard, well, he just stayed rotten. The gang shunned him, even Hubie. Richie ended up in Vietnam in 1966, and it was said he enjoyed killing women and babies. One day he stepped on a land mine and it blew his shit away. His names on 'The Wall', down in DC. Fletcher won the jousting knights that he so coveted. But he didn't want them anymore. That's the day Fletcher stopped being a kid. He finally figured out that he loved being a kid too, but that was over. It was the real world from then on. He gave his bike to Larry Taylor, and he just walked after that. When he was a teenager, he would stand in the dark, on the street corner, dressed in a black corduroy jacket with the collar turned up, and smoke cigarettes. He would listen to the oldies on a transistor radio, and think about things. Mostly, he thought about how bad he felt, and wondered why.
Chapter Eight
It was starting to unravel now. I could see a dim light at the end of the tunnel. Like a New York City bag lady, I was carrying all this crap around with me. The shopping cart was overflowing, but I couldn't bear to part with any of its contents. What would I be left with? If I dumped the baggage, I would be exposed, totally stripped of my defenses and vulnerable. What lurked beneath all the clutter? Was I man enough to find out? Seth had said you could scare yourself to death. I viewed that statement in a new light. Yes, you could be scared to death, but maybe that's just what I needed. Some how I had to find a release valve.
I grabbed the recliner chair handle and eased myself forward. The tape had rewound and was playing again. I had been oblivious to it. I seemed to be drifting away to other times and places on an ever increasing basis. So be it. For reasons I could not detect, I found it healing. The wall clock chimed 9:00 PM. I had been running that childhood scene through my mind for several hours. I supposed it took a long time and a lot of work to shed a lifetime of guilt. Yet, I felt the beginning of a metamorphoses. Even though my mood was melancholy, I still felt childlike. I could only hope it would last. That evening, I packed up my cares and woes and slept dreamlessly. ................................................................................................................... Day four. The morning had dawned bright and warm. I had wakened refreshed. An adventurous feeling still resided within me. I had went about the business of what I now considered my routine: emptying the accumulated ash from the furnace, filling the generators with fuel, and checking the state of affairs outside the house. Needless to say, nothing much had changed on that score. No early morning joggers or commuters zipped by. But the weather had changed dramatically. At 9:00, the thermometer registered sixty five degrees. The snow was rapidly disappearing and large puddles were forming. Where the ground was bare, my boots squished into the soft surface and as I pulled them free, they made a sticky, sucking sound. In the areas where my driveway was now free of snow, the black surface glistened. The remaining snow had collapsed in on itself and formed diminutive pancake like mounds. I was encouraged. The highways should be negotiable, with little need for plowing. Chores completed, I prepared breakfast. Pilfered bacon and eggs provided my repast. I washed it all down with fresh chocolate milk. The term fresh would soon be extinct, so I thought it prudent to take advantage, while it was still feasible. I washed and dried the dishes and mentally sketched out the days plan. An irrepressible hope to encounter another life form was my motivation. Today, I intended to drive to the city. I surmised that if I had any hope of finding any type of companionship, it would reside in the more populous areas. Uniontown, a thriving metropolis located some 20 miles east on Route 40 was my first destination. It was my goal to branch out each day in ever increasing distances, until my quest was satisfied. I decided to take the Cherokee. If I should happen upon an impassable stretch of highway, I could always abort the mission. It wasn't as though time were a pressing concern. If worse came to worse, I could turn around, drive back, and trade the Cherokee for my plow- equipped CJ. Barring that, I could always abandon the Cherokee and just grab a tank or something. After all, my world did offer infinite possibilities.
So, around 10:00am, I set out on my journey. For the most part, the road was water logged. Torrents of water splashed up over the hood and inundated the windshield. I had to run the wipers on high speed. But the rapidly melting snow impeded my progress only slightly. The sun baked down on the pavement and quickly diminished the remaining cover. With the front hubs engaged, the Cherokee effortlessly cut through the slush. I drove past the Giant Eagle. Remembering yesterdays debacle, I chuckled to myself. The door, with its broken glass, looked like an abandoned crime scene. I drove on. I felt like an explorer charting unknown territory. But, the virgin land held little surprise. Nothing blocked the highway. Vehicles were still neatly parked off the shoulder of the road, and others rested in driveways and parking lots. I motored robot-like through the desolate landscape. It seemed to be filled with a desert-like sameness. My thoughts wandered. The mutilation of Lamont and the gory death of Butch weighed heavily on my mind. Apparently, I felt totally responsible for these tragedies. A failure to act caused the former, and selfish greed the latter. "From the body of one guilty deed a thousand ghostly fears and haunting thoughts proceed." Who had said that? Dryden? Wordsworth? It rang so true and described my situation with an uncanny accuracy. Would confessing my misdeeds free me from this prison? Was it unabated sin that held me hostage? How many other times had I fucked up beyond redemption? Was I being punished for my transgressions? Had I been banished from humanity because I was such a hopeless fiend? Who constructed this all too real and forbidden world? Where were the keys of freedom hidden? I felt a cumbersome tether holding me from the truth. Lamentably, I was not a religious man. I envied those who had found a faith that anchored their lives. Certainly, I had been open minded enough to listen to all the salesmen of salvation, but I remained an agnostic. The bitter truth was that hardly anyone had ever lived up to my
expectations. I had always felt that I was surrounded by fools and idiots. I concluded that the vast majority of humanity was selfish, and I simply added myself to the list. Could I have been so wrong? Was it possible that I was just a worthless piece of shit, and others had redeeming values that I refused to recognize? I ached for the panacea of prayer, but knew it held no cure for my particular brand of illness.
The strong odor of smoke abruptly halted my pondering. I was approaching the Lane Bane bridge that crossed the Mononghehela river. The town of Brownsville lie on the other side. From my vantage point on the hill above the bridge, I could see thick, voluminous clouds of smoke rising above the village. As I drove to the near side of the bridge, a black haze enveloped my conveyance. Visibility was near zero. I had to slow to a snails pace to keep the car centered on the roadway. Large flecks of black soot rained down upon the windshield. The wipers smeared them across the glass, and I had to run the washers to avoid complete blindness. When I at last crossed the river, I threw the vehicle in park, and stepped out to see the source of the holocaust. My lungs drew in smoke laden air that precipitated a coughing attack. I pulled my T-shirt collar over my mouth and nose and obtained semi- adequate relief. The polluted atmosphere caused my eyes to burn and tear, and I had to blink rapidly to clear them. When the visual distortion lessened, I was able to make out the remnants of an Exxon station. The twisted remains of a tanker truck sat parked near what was once the fuel pumps. The tires proved to be the major source of the polluted air. They had been reduced to smouldering puddles beneath the steel wheels. Oily, black clouds rose from them, and a strong breeze carried them downhill towards the river. A ragged tear protruded from the side of the tanker and the tractor had been flung some twenty yards from it's trailer. It lay in a twisted mass, inside what had once been the convenience store. Only a few charred concrete blocks lent it recognition. What had once been the gas pumps, now resembled an abstract array of deformed plumbing. My red and irritated eyes registered a path of destruction that finalized at the river's edge. The houses and buildings of business, now looked like photos of Hiroshima. The destruction continued as far as the eye could see. Fortunately, the river acted as a firewall and prevented spread to the other side. Up wind the town remained unscathed. The strong breeze had protected it.
I had seen enough. It was time for a hasty departure. For some unknown reason, I felt compelled to push forward rather than retreat. I jumped behind the wheel, dropped the transmission into drive, and mashed the accelerator. The Cherokee burned rubber. The wheels caught and the ass end fished tailed. I steered in what I imagined was a straight line. I could see little or nothing. I knew the road though. It ran bee-line straight for a good quarter of a mile. It was damn the torpedoes and full speed ahead. I had a death grip on the wheel and refused to contemplate the consequences of my foolish action. Up ahead I could see the smoke thinning, and suddenly the day returned clear and bright. I stood on the brake pedal. The tires could find no purchase on the slick pavement. I went spinning in crazy circles. I felt the Jeep leave the roadway and hurtle through the air. Then impact. I was thrown about like a rag doll. The horizon appeared and disappeared in a kaleidoscopic sequence. Then abruptly, all was still. I lay in a heap on the floor. I opened my eyes. I could only see out of one. The other was blinded. Something warm ran down my forehead. Then I knew. I wasn't blind. It was blood running in my eye. I touched the injury. It was a good sized gash, right above the left eyebrow. As I blinked rapidly , things came into a poor focus. I surmised that I was looking at the array of wiring and metal located under the dash. Painfully, I crawled up on the seat and assumed a sitting position. With the exception of the eye, everything seemed to work. I acknowledged that I had numerous bruises and contusions, but excepting the laceration, everything else seemed to be reasonably functional. I noticed that the car listed heavily towards the passenger side, and the hood inclined steeply to the sky. I opened the glove box and the mostly forgotten contents of neglected clutter spilled out on the floor. I found what I needed, though. The small first aid box was clearly visible among the strewn junk. I opened it and got bandages and gauze. Seated awkwardly against the passenger door, I twisted the rear view mirror into position to observe the injury. It reflected a three inch long laceration. The wound was deep and seeped blood steadily. I applied bandages and wrapped my head with the gauze. Thus stabilized, I proceeded to look for quick egress from my confinement. I crawled across the seat to the driver's side and tried the door. It proved immovable. I hit the button for the power window, and incredibly, it motored down. I crawled out head first, slithered down the side of the door, and did a sort of handstand somersault. I was free of the wreckage. Groaning, I stood up and surveyed the situation. The Cherokee had come to rest on top of a Ford Pinto. I hadn't seen one of those loathsome pieces of shit in years. An inadvertent laugh escaped me and sent a shudder of pain through sore ribs and innumerable other pieces of anatomy. Despite the pain, I felt marvelous. I felt alive. I felt like I was living. The rest of the world might be dead on its ass, but by God, I was having an adventure! I was injured, I was bleeding, and I was a fragile human, subject to breakage. That was important. It meant something. What, I didn't know, but it was certainly significant. I just stood there and gloried in my new found wisdom. Perhaps I was concussed, but I didn't care. Bring it on, baby! I'm waiting. I stood there laughing and hurting for a good five minutes. Gradually, I collected myself, and looked around. The Cherokee, now faced back towards the river. Evidently, the accident had caused it to spin and roll several times. It had crossed the four lane highway, and rolled chasis-up, on top of the Pinto. The hapless Pinto was squashed buglike, beneath the Jeep. At any moment, I half expected the ill designed product to burst into flames. I suspected only an inadequate amount of fuel tank gas had prevented combustion.
I looked back down the hill. The dark haze of toxins still blew riverward. The residential part of town, now towards my left, appeared even more ravaged. Something had sparked the ignition of the volatile fuel. Absence of trained fire personal, had caused an unchecked, raging inferno. How quickly my world could turn to chaos! A lesson to be stored for future reference. Appalled, and wearied by the decimation, I hobbled to a nearby parking lot. As luck would have it, the first vehicle I encountered had keys dangling from the ignition. I was the proud, new owner of a 1999 Chevrolet Suburban. With some difficulty, I climbed aboard and checked the fuel gauge. Almost a full tank. The engine started, quiet and smooth. I wheeled out of the lot and continued my journey. As activity returned to normal, I reflected on recent events. I was certain that I would encounter more destruction. I no longer resided in a safe world, policed and protected by trained professionals. The infrastructure would rapidly deteriorate. What I had witnessed, was only the beginning. I did not know what had caused the fire, but it didn't matter. By design, the world subject to disasters, manmade and otherwise. In a peopleless world the rate of chaos would increase dramatically. Altogether, a rather dismal prospect. It appeared I could do little to insure my own safety. Furthermore, did I really want to? Let the chips fall where they may. I resolved to ride out the storms. For now, the drive was uneventful. The sun continued to warm the day. Peaceful farms and rural dwellings slid past the windshield and all was quiet. My thoughts returned to Butch and Lamont. In regard to Lamont, I could feel a healing process taking place. My failure to act on his behalf was inexcusable. But I realized, I had been but a child, and children often make mistakes. The true crime, sin if you will, was my unwillingness to contact Lamont and his family, and beg their forgiveness. Over the years, I had often thought about seeking them out. As time passed, it seemed less and less important. I told myself, it was just dumb kid shit, and I had blown the whole thing out of proportion. In my heart, I knew better. I had sacrificed my honor as a man. I blew Lamont off and trusted that he would adapt to his infirmity. Ignorance was bliss. Belittling things of importance, was always easy. I had sold a little piece of my humanity. The first piece. Many more would follow.
I speed down the highway and tears and blood and seas of highway water stung eyes and glass. I asked Lamont forgiveness and from somewhere he obliged. I felt a weight lift from my shoulders and a clear, profound reality clicked in. At long last, that part was over. I was washed in relief. Butch. That was a lot harder. I wasn't ready for Butch. Or Seth. That had to wait for awhile. That would take a lot of work. But, I could do it. I just had to get it all right in my mind. Gratefully, I eased back to the present. Up ahead in the distance, the Fayette Shopping Mall loomed into view. Unconsciously, I applied my turn signal. I rolled to a stop in front of the Walmart entrance. If anyone was still alive and well, I thought they may possibly be operating on the same frequency as me. It seemed logical for them to do as I had done, and stock their larder. The parking lot contained a fair number of cars. I was within the city limits and I hoped that some lonely soul from the metro area had parked among them.
I exited the truck and made my way to the entrance doors. I saw nothing amiss - no attempts at forced entry. Disheartened, I looked around for some sort of battering ram. A metal trash container near the door would serve my purpose. Holding the can before me, I took a run at the glass. I struck it a mighty blow, and my effort was rewarded with complete success. The single pane shattered to tiny bits. This time, no alarm sounded. Nor did any artificial light brighten my path. The windowless interior captured only the feeble light emitted from the store front. Inside, all was dark shadows. Feeling as though I were replaying a scene from yesterday, I ventured forth. I quickly located some batteries and a flashlight. I roamed the aisles looking for-I know not what. The merchandise on display only served to remind me of my inconsolable loneliness. Meticulously arranged goods waited for consumers who would not show. Intuitively, I knew this place was as abandoned as the rest of my world. With little purpose, I found myself wandering senselessly. For some reason, the aquarium section lured me forward. I shined my light at the empty tanks. The glass and water refracted the beam and eerie shadows bounced off the ceiling. Near the end of the aisle, a tank stood apart from the others. It held vigil like a lonely sentinel, standing watch over the others. I bathed it in my light and glanced at the ceiling to marvel at the reflections. Something interrupted the cloudy penumbra. Silhouettes moved to and fro in a random pattern. Startled, I walked closer to the tank. Four goldfish swam carelessly through the clear water. I literally whooped with delight. No child in the history of Christmas morning could have been more overjoyed. I witnessed the miracle of life. Never, had I known such happiness. The fish swam to and fro in the tank. Their tiny tails flicked and propelled them through the water. I put my hand to the glass and they were drawn toward it. I could feel a powerful life force emanating from them. The golden scales were beautiful to behold. An acid-like rush enveloped me. I was lifted to a glorious pinnacle. Something was alive! My arms wrapped around the aquarium and I kissed the glass. Tears of my joy spilled into the tank and intermingled with the life giving liquid. The fish began leaping out of the water. They swam upward, broke the surface, and splashed back in. They were
starving. They begged to be fed. I checked my euphoria and ran back down the aisle. Near the end, I spotted small, plastic containers of fish food. I grabbed several, and returned to my famished friends. I scattered a liberal quantity through the tank, and in a state of near pandemonium, they devoured it. I watched with pleasure as they fed, and added more feed. I had never been much of a fish man, but I sensed an intense bonding taking place. Hell, I had already given them names and started a conversation. I spent a few more minutes shooting the breeze with my new found friends. Then, it was time to do the family shopping. I had dependents to support. It felt good to be needed. I grabbed a cart and started gathering supplies - a small fish bowl for the ride home, a nice-size aquarium, complete with heater, filter, net and ect.,bags of gravel, a plastic pirate ship, books on fish and more fish food. I took everything but the bowl out to the truck and stowed it. Then I procured another net and used it to transfer the fish to the bowl. I wrapped the top of the bowl with some aluminum foil, punched some holes in the foil, and I was almost ready. As I carried my precious cargo to the truck, I noticed that the day was still quite warm. I placed my charges on the truck floor and rolled down the windows. I wasn't quite ready to leave yet. The cut on my forehead still bleed and needed attention. There was a dentists office located next to the Walmart, and that was my destination. This time, I used the shopping cart as a battering ram. With the cart before me, I took a kamikaze run at the door. For some reason, the glass held, but the door latch gave way. I was rather disappointed. I had become used to the sound of imploding glass. Sighing, I utilized the freshly made egress and limped inside. It seemed that late twentieth century architecture had little use for the old fashioned window. Here too, the dentist's office was all dark shadows. Again, I employed my flashlight. I cast the beam about the waiting room, and determined that the work areas lay beyond a wide hallway. I sallied forth. The first door I tried proved to be a winner. A dental chair occupied the middle of the floor. I began rooting through cupboards, and quickly found what I wanted - a disposable syringe, a vial of novocaine, suture with needle, scissors and tweezers. Another storage area provided fresh bandages and tape. I ripped a mirror off the wall and went back outside. I propped the mirror on a nearby bench. I filled the syringe with novocaine and stuck it in the laceration. From experience, I knew I had to close the cut or it would take forever to heal. I waited several moments until I felt the drug numbing my entire forehead. Then I started to sew. The job was crude, but effective. I studied my work in the mirror. I had closed the cut edges and the bleeding had pretty much stopped. A rather disheveled expression stared back at me. The area around the wound was purplish and crusted with blood. I had several days worth of beard. There were dark circles beneath my eyes and my hair looked as though someone had exploded a grenade in it. Altogether, not a pretty picture. I vowed to clean up my appearance. The fish would be watching.
I applied a fresh bandage and went back to the truck. My new adoptees swam vigorously around the bowl. Somehow, the acquisition of my new friends discouraged me from further pursuit of life signs. Still, in order to satisfy my own curiosity, I drove through a few of the more populous neighborhoods. The searched proved to be useless. There were no signs of occupancy. I turned the truck around and headed for home. As I motored homeward, I pondered the significance of my discovery. I had found fellow creatures. True, they were far from the top of the evolutionary scale, but they did exist. I glanced at the truck floor. There they were. I was not imagining it. Why had they appeared in my empty world? What did it mean? I couldn't help but feel that they were some sort of reward. I had settled the Lamont issue. Was this my gift? It felt right. If so, I needed to settle up with Butch and Seth. These were chains that bound tightly. Would the successful conclusion of that episode give me complete liberation? Murky thoughts pervaded my mind. It seemed an unsolvable dilemma. My damaged head ached. Not from the wound, so much as thinking. I pledged to exorcise the rest of my demons that night. For now, I found the matter to complex to consider. I shook myself loose from the perplexities of it all, and concentrated on the road. The scene of the great fire came into view. I passed the wrecked Jeep and looked toward the bridge. The smoke had abated significantly. Small wisps now rose from the wrecked tanker truck, but the breeze quickly dispersed them. I crossed the bridge without incident. On the other side, two blackbirds flew out of the roadside trees. By God! I was having a day. They soared up into the cloudless sky. The beauty of their flight held me spellbound. I peered through the upper part of the windshield and followed their path. They winged gracefully over the truck and headed towards the river. Gently, I brought the truck to a stop and got out. I followed them till they disappeared from view. I scanned the horizon for other birds, but saw none.
Fish and fowl. The world was getting crowded. What next? A warm blooded mammal? I could only hope. The world was coming to life on day four. What wonders might tomorrow hold? I stood by the truck for a while and thought. In my mind, I kept seeing the blackbirds. When your vision has been deprived of simple living movement, such acts are wondrous to behold. I considered that I had never devoted enough time to the glory of life. I was surrounded by it, and I took it all for granted. The re-emergence of living activity had given me new insight. I stood in awe. How could I have not noticed the almost religious aspect of life. Miracles had occurred by the moment, and in my ignorance, I could not see. I could not see beyond my personal well being. The planet could abound with marvels, and I only acknowledged selfish ego. Give me what I need, and to hell with the rest of it. Now, I was beginning to understand. A door had opened. It had only opened a crack, but that small aperture was abundant with revelation.
You can scare yourself to death. No Seth.- You can choose to hide from the multi-faceted glory that surrounds you. You can tire of it and deem it all bullshit. You can be blind to it all. You can refuse to see. You can build up guilt and sin, and let them rule you. Self conceit can lead to self destruction. Small men live a life of sniveling pettiness. There comes a time when all must answer. You can't check out without a final interview. Death won't release you, if you aren't qualified. You can scare yourself towards death. Isn't that what you meant, Seth? Now being ill-prepared for that death, that's different. That's the final fear.
Chapter Nine
I finished the drive home without further incident. Well, not quite. About a mile from home and hearth, I came upon a fallen tree. It completely blocked both lanes of the road, and I had to circumnavigate it. I drove through what was once someone's yard, and left deep tire tracks in the soggy frontage. The tree seemed old and decayed and I credited its demise to the strong wind. The breeze had intensified during the day and strong gusts lifted up fallen leaves and flung them about. I could sense yet another change in the weather.
At the end of that noteworthy day, I had assembled my aquarium. The fish seemed content in their new environment. The house was comfortably heated, and the hour had grown late. I cooked a frozen pepperoni pizza and satiated my considerable appetite. I bathed, shaved and trimmed my hair. In the bathroom mirror, a more presentable specimen looked back. Satisfied with my freshly groomed appearance, I prepared for the night. I went to bed. Not to sleep, but to summon the apparition of Butch and the memory of Seth. It was time. This time, I did not require booze or pills. I lay in a self-hypnotic state and let it happen. I was so close now. It came easy, and it came hard...
"I'm responsible for your father's death." Seth's response was a blank stare. "What the hell are you talking about?" I had second thoughts. I wasn't sure I could do this. For the second time that evening, I broke out in a cold sweat. "I didn't do my job. If I had, your dad would still be alive." I didn't like the way Seth was looking at me. His usually serene face changed. The eyebrows furrowed and the bearded jaw protruded. I got more uncomfortable by the moment. Finally, he spoke. "Would you care to elucidate?" I went through the whole story. I told him how I had neglected my duty. About how the booze had made me lazy. My being a hero - what a crock of shit that was. I didn't leave anything out. Until I got to the part where I found Butch. I couldn't tell him what he said. I couldn't. I tried. I just couldn't. When I finished, he just sat there. He had quit looking at me. He stared at the ceiling. His big shoulders slumped, and he just sat there. Then he dropped his head in his hands and asked me who else knew about this. Did Jo Beth know? "No. No one. Only you, and me." "How could you live with yourself, Fletcher? All this time, how could you live with yourself?" I started to cry. I couldn't control it. It was one of those moaning, tear gushing, uncontrollable episodes. Snot poured out of my nose, and Seth kept talking. "Do you realise what you have done ? Do you have the vaguest notion? This is unforgivable. To compound lie upon and lie, and futilely try to avoid an inevitable expose` has caused grievous damage."
His words seared through me like a hot poker. How I wished I had never attempted to shed this guilt. My chest heaved spasmodically and the miserable water works escalated. "You deserve what you created. I can not believe how moronic you are! You have taken this burden and let it consume you. I can't imagine the depth of your despair. What kind of friend do you think I am ? Did you think I would abandon you - forsake you ? I am appalled. Not by what you have done Fletcher, but by your failure to confide in me. Have you so little regard for our amity ?" I stopped blubbering. "What?" "These were a series of circumstances that led to a disaster. How noble of you to take sole responsibility! My father always approved of your actions - even the last one he witnessed. He said 'fuck it son' He gave his permission. He knew the dangers as well as you. And what makes you so sure Marvin didn't hang that check? Everyone knew he was a menace. Dad always called him an idiot." I couldn't believe what I was hearing. This crippled giant among men sat there and gave me total support. Floodgates of relief opened and washed over me. I thought I had cried a river of tears, and the river was dry. Somewhere upstream, someone opened a valve and fresh water poured out. "And the hero thing is a crock of shit, huh? With total disregard for your own safety, you took control of the situation. Men owe their lives to you. Do you have any idea how highly you're regarded ? People speak of you as if you are the second coming of Christ. You risked your life for those men. I don't care what the circumstances were.
I have news for you. People make mistakes everyday. No one is immune. Maybe your mistake contributed to the problem - maybe it didn't. We'll never know. It really doesn't matter now. It's done. What matters is your mental well-being. I cannot fathom how you've lived with this burden. That's the true sin. My God man! Haven't you ever heard that confession is good for the soul. I don't want you to dwell on this matter another moment. Neither would Dad. It's time to start healing. What was said here, need not go beyond these walls. You've blown this thing entirely out of proportion. It's time to put it to rest. It's time to live again. Whatever happened down there, I don't care. If it's forgiveness you seek from me, then you have it."
I sat there completely drained. An immense weakness encompassed me. Seth wheeled over and put his arms around me. He patted my back and rocked me as one would an infant. That was appropriate. I felt infantile. He had given penance to my inconsolable guilt, and still I couldn't tell him what his father had said. Seth released me and pulled back. 'Let's not speak of this again. It's done. Dwelling on it will accomplish nothing. Do I have your agreement?" I drew a polka-dot bandana from the rear pocket of my jeans and blew my nose. A copious amount of discharge filled the hanky. I shook my head in the affirmative. I felt like I had been drowned. "Then let's consume more alcohol and celebrate your liberation. Use the facilities and make yourself presentable. I'll have the ladies fetch more beer. And mate, let's have a smile. It's a new beginning. We've slain the beast and he will plague you no more." I flashed him a false smile and a thumbs up. Seth bellowed for more beer and I went to the restroom. I had tears to wash away. When I returned, a party was in progress. The girls had joined Seth and they were laughing at one of his stories. I gave everyone a toothy grin and joined the festivities. Seth winked at me.
All that evening, I kept up a pleasant front. I joined in the merriment and drank far too much. As soon as I consumed one beer, Seth had one of the girls slap another in my hand. Someone lit up a joint and I took a couple of tokes. I remember nothing after that. I awoke on Seth's couch. I was disoriented. It took me a few minutes to gather my senses. Finally, I recognized the familiar room. The wall clock read 3:03am. In my head, someone thought it funny to clang on an anvil. I sat up gingerly and massaged my temples. Snatches of the evening confessional crept back in my thoughts, and I groaned. Would this night never end? From behind the couch, I heard a soft noise, and a shadow passed over me. I turned in the direction of the sound, but whatever made it was gone. Bewildered, I got up and strode to the Woodwards' bedroom. I eased open the door and looked in. A bright moonlight shone through the window, and illuminated Polly's blonde locks. The bed next to her, Seth's bed, was vacant. An empty wheelchair stood beside it. From down the hall, I heard another sound. I followed it and almost tripped over Seth. "Jesus! You scared the shit out of me. I was just coming to check on you. I couldn't sleep, so I decided to stay up and do a little writing. You okay?" I reached over and turned on the hall light. Seth was seated in a collapsible wheelchair. The one he used on his rare outings. The one he stored in the garage. He looked at me with genuine concern. "I... I woke up and heard a noise." I stared quizzically at the wheelchair. He followed my gaze. " I see you notice old port-a-wheels. My regular chair has a sticking front wheel. It was most troublesome, couldn't maneuver you know. I'll oil it in the morning. His gaze remained amiable. "You probably heard me rummaging through my file cabinets. I misplaced some of my notes. I could have sworn I filed them. Not to worry, they'll turn up." My skepticism continued. "Yea, that's probably what I heard. I thought I saw a shadow behind me, though. Could have swore something was moving." "The light from the French doors will play tricks on you. The trees out back cast eerie shadows. More than once, they've freaked me out. Just the other night, Polly thought we were being invaded by aliens. She was hysterical with fear. It was only some branches moving in the wind. It took me a while to calm her down." He chuckled. "That must have been what it was", I conceded. "Guess I over reacted." "Well, in your condition, I doubt it would take much to set you off. You drank a river of booze. JoBeth tried to awaken you from your intoxicated slumber. I convinced her to leave you here. You've had a rather rough night. As they say, better to let sleeping dogs lie." "What say we adjourn to the living room? Rather awkward, talking here." I accepted my friends suggestion and returned to the couch. Seth followed in his chair.
"Seth, I didn't do anything stupid or make a fool of myself, did I ?" He laughed. " No, you were quite the agreeable drunk. JoBeth and Polly draped themselves all over you, and you remained an impeccable gentleman." "That's a relief. You know, sometimes when I've had too much, I tend to wax philosophic-sorta ramble on and on - even been known to talk in my sleep." I waited for a reaction. He ignored the last sentence. "Well, you did have us going there, with your store of homespun words. Terms you said your mother and dad liked to use. I thought the girls were going to piss their pants." "Uh oh, did I say whopperjawed ?" "I believe you used the word to describe a car hood. Seems it wouldn't close because it was whopperjawed. And if I recall correctly, it was also caddywampus." "God! I wonder where those came from. Haven't used them in years." "I guess the alcohol floated them up to your brain surface. After all, you were rather discombobulated." We laughed. The good, hearty laughter of true friends. Inwardly, I cursed myself for ever doubting this man. The laughter felt good. It warmed me. "That one too! I had completely forgotten it." "Oh yes, that one, and a few others. They were priceless too, but at the moment, they evade me. How about some coffee ?" "No thanks, Seth. I had better stumble on home. I think I've overstayed my welcome." "That my friend, can never happen."
We said our goodnights, and I departed. I got into bed with a soundly sleeping JoBeth, and I stared at the ceiling. For the remainder of that night, sleep would be a stranger to me. I had a few demons to wrestle. I wondered if I had talked in my stuporous sleep. If I did, I wondered if Seth had heard me- and if he did, did he now know what I hadn't the courage to tell him ? Did he know what Butch said?
WHAT BUTCH SAID Jobeth lay beside on that night, but now I lie alone. I could hardly separate the two nights. I had done a good job of blocking events from that past night. It hadn't resurfaced in years. I had done a better job of blocking Butch. In my mind, our conversation was almost nonexistent. They told me it didn't happen, and that's the way I came to see it. It was the easy way out. I let the force of the current carry me back to Butch. I returned to that awful scene. The images came back, crisp and clear. I could smell the smoke from the fire. I cradled the almost lifeless body in my arms. The blackened lips sphinctered. Ill-formed words hissed out.
"We're fucked now son. "We're dead." The words were created with little assistance from lips and tongue. Barely audible, the sound was ghastly. I cringed. "We screwed up, big time. I'm the lucky one, I'm dead. You gotta live with it. You'll wish you was dead like me. I know. I'm the one that shot Seth. Tried to kill him. He's no goddamn good. I lived with the guilt of not doing it. You'll live with guilt of causing death. Same thing." I started to lose it then. An important part of me was leaving. I shook my head from side to side. "It's the same thing. So you'll live with it. Fletch, you gotta kill him. He's a monster. You don't know. You can't see. Listen to me. I know you. You're gonna tear yourself apart over this. Go ahead, you can't help it. You're goin' down. So kill him, take him with you.. He's evil. Make this mistake pay. Rid the world of that no good son of a bitch. If you're gonna live in hell, then take him with you. There was a small sane part of my mind left. It insisted that this man, was already crazy. The explosion had unhinged him. He lay dying and insane. The things he told me the were rantings of a lunatic. His reality was shutting down. So was mine. Lights were approaching. Help was near. Butch tried to say more, but an airy bubble of blood forced itself through that cavernous orifice, and then, he was still. A thousand yard stare formed on my face and it stayed there a long time. If you look close, you can still see it.
I had recalled everything in vivid detail. It was done. As I relived my conversation with Butch, the horror
reasserted itself. I tried to run from it, but a stalwart force prevailed. It was like watching a grizzly accident. I wanted to turn away but couldn't. Even now, I could not help but question my memory. So thoroughly, had I erased the event! It still seemed surreal. The little of it that I had reconstructed, that part which I lacked the courage to tell Seth, was nothing like the truth. When I confronted Seth, I meant to tell him that Butch did blame me. Butch knew I was responsible for his death. And I had a vague memory of Butch expressing his displeasure about Seth - telling me not to trust him. The rest was gone. I had completely obliterated it. Surely Butch had been delirious. My friend had never given me cause for suspicion. Yes, the night I awoke on his couch and found the empty wheelchair by his bed, that had given me pause. But his explanation was satisfactory, wasn't it ? I heard noises and saw shadows. I was still immersed in an alcohol haze. I had a foolish scare. Still, it didn't feel right then, and it didn't feel right now. Something was definitely amiss. I was prone to talk in my sleep. Especially so, when I was plastered. Did Seth monitor me while I lay sleeping? Did something ugly come babbling up from my subconscious. Things were falling into place, and I didn't much like it. I could feel forces shifting. I thought the hard work was over. I had summoned up my devils and I was prepared to cast them out. I thought they were all but exonerated. Little did I know, I had only struck the tip of the iceberg. Apparently, much more remained to be done. The octopus had many tentacles. I had succeeded in severing a few. The others clung viciously.
Chapter Ten
Finally, the new day dawned. All that night, I had laid awake and fought to make sense of everything. When I left Seth's that night, I remember feeling disturbed. But as the days passed, I contributed my malaise to the confession and the booze. The whole evening soon became nothing more than a bad day. My friendship with Seth suffered no restraints. We remained as close as ever. Over a year had gone by since that fateful evening, and Seth had not said or done anything to arouse my distrust. I thought about his relationship with Butch. They were father and son. They seemed to respect each other. Nothing in their actions bespoke animosity. Yet, Butch had called Seth a monster. He hated him enough to want him dead. On the other hand, I could not remember a time when Seth spoke ill of his father. If he ever said anything negative about him, it was only in the form of petty bickering. Butch shot Seth - tried to kill him. Seth told me the accident had occurred while he was still living in The Sierra. A stray bullet from a hunters rifle. The perpetrator had never been found. As far as he knew, the hapless hunter didn't even know his bullet had pierced Seth. Seth had never even seen the shooter. He lay paralyzed and helpless. Several hours later a group of hikers found him. A simple concise story - no mystery.
I had turned the thing over and over in my mind, and I wasn't a bit closer to the truth. It all remained a puzzle. I didn't like my new role of detective. It wasn't my strong suit. Still, it didn't look as though anyone else would apply for the job. No rest for the weary. I shook the cobwebs out of my head and got up. I had things to do. I looked out the window. The weather had indeed turned. It was colder. A fresh powder of snow covered the recently thawing ground. I got moving and did my chores. My appetite was stymied. I treated myself to a bowl of Captain Crunch, and called it nourishment. I washed the few dishes and made busy work of this and that. I was postponing the inevitable. I dallied as long as I could, until I started feeling guilty. That did it. I had no desire to start that again. I got my parka and suited up for a little snooping.
Outside, as I was filling the generator, I saw rabbit tracks in the fresh snow. Unlike yesterday, I wasn't beside myself with joy. The discovery pleased me. The world was still renewing. But I had bigger, distasteful fish to fry. I was Woodward bound. The keys to total freedom lay across the road. Thousands of times I had made that journey. It was always a journey of joy. Today, it was one of dread. I felt as though I were breaking a trust. I didn't know what I would find there. I only knew I wasn't looking forward to it. I crossed the road and stepped up on his sidewalk. There were more tracks in the snow. Footprints, and the unmistakable image of skinny tires. The kind a wheelchair would make. A sickening feeling washed over me. I wanted to run, but my legs wouldn't cooperate. Panicky now, I looked around. I had the distinct sensation of being watched. I stared down at the tracks. Someone had been pushing the chair. The imprints led right to Seth's front door. Somehow, I got moving. I cautiously backed away. I couldn't take my eyes from the window. I thought I saw movement. A rapid flash, and then it was gone. I could hear my heartbeat slamming in my ears. On the opposite side of the street, I stumbled on the curb and fell on my ass. I vaulted back up and sprinted for home.
I slammed the door behind me and locked it. I looked out the window for pursuers. Nothing. If my old heart was on the verge of giving out, it had just received the ultimate test. I struggled to regain my breath. I ran to the den, located on the street side of my house, and stood vigil. I peered out the picture window and watched for signs of movement. I could feel my heart muscle working overtime. I stood like that for about twenty minutes. Eventually, my heartbeat and respiration returned to normal. But I wasn't ready to leave my post. I extended a leg and hooked the armrest of my task chair with a foot. I rolled it to me and sat down. I continued my surveillance. All was quiet. Think! What the hell was going on, and what could I do about it? I drew a blank. I had no idea what was happening, and I saw little I could do about it. I possessed no firearms. I didn't believe in them. Now, I questioned my stance on gun control - maybe Charlton Heston was right. In any case, it was a piss poor time to re-evaluate the subject. There had to be something I could do. I couldn't sit here forever. Why was he here ? What did he want? I didn't want to know, but in a way, I did. It didn't matter. I figured I would find out soon enough.
The phone rang. You've heard people say, "I about jumped out of my skin." That's a fairly accurate description. The old circulatory pump was off and running towards a new world record. I thought, rather hoped, I would pass out from fright. The telephone, dead for almost five days, produced an incessant clamor. I wouldn't answer. Nothing there that I wanted to hear. It stopped briefly, then as if to torment me, started again. I gave in then. I hadn't the strength to play these games. I walked over to the desk and picked it up. I could hear breathing on the other end, calm and shallow. Nothing like mine. "What?" I croaked. "What do you want ?" I heard a familiar giggle in the earpiece. This laugh was malicious, not the carefree variety that I fondly remembered. Then he said what I expected him to say. "You can scare yourself to death. And I'll help." He hung up. I dropped the receiver and grabbed my ears. The words made them burn, both of them. I shivered with fright. He had gotten to me. It was his game.
I left the receiver lay on the floor. I had no intention of replacing it. He wouldn't call here again. How had he restored telephone service? Granted, his intellect bordered on genius, but this was something else. And who was pushing the chair? Was he alone or playing games? I prayed for the return of humanity, but I hadn't foreseen this. Was the new world order going to be populated with monsters? I had never felt so helpless. I had to think of a way to combat this. Try as I may, I kept coming up empty. There had to be a way.
All that long day, I sat there. Sat and watched, and waited. I was afraid to look away. I was afraid to look. I deprived myself of food. I held my bursting bladder, till I couldn't. I pissed in a flower pot. He not only held me in terror- he humiliated me. Towards sundown, I heard the sound of a gasoline engine, and across the street, lights came on. At least two places in the world now had electric power. He turned on every light in the house. He opened all the curtains. He turned on the CD player and maxed the speakers. Van Morrison sang Into The Mystic. Through the window, I saw the glow of a computer screen. I never saw him. Darkness fell. Now Lloyd Price sang Stagger Lee. The night was clear and the moon was yellow, and the leaves came tumbling down. That was it. I had had enough. He was done bending my mind. Snippets of a loose plan came into my head. I'd had my fill of this demented asshole. It was time for action. There were no lights on in my house. If I were being watched, the spy couldn't possibly see much. It was full dark now. My window wasn't back lit. Unless he had one of those infrared gadgets, I was virtually invisible. I slithered down my chair. On hands and knees, I crawled to the kitchen. Got a knife and flashlight from the junk drawer. Grabbed my coat. Crept down the basement stairs to the overhead window. Stood on the dryer and crawled out. The truck was parked in the yard. I looked about for stalkers. Saw none. The drone of the generator muffled the sound of my movements. I did a Groucho Marx shuffle to the awaiting escape vehicle. I opened the door. The overhead dome light came on. I cringed. Then breathed a sigh of relief. As far as I could determine, the coast remained clear. I hit the key and slapped it in reverse. Chunks of mud and snow bounced off the fender wells. I dropped it in drive, and tore ass out. I traveled through the back yard until I intersected an alleyway. I followed the alley to the highway. When I hit the main thoroughfare, I was doing sixty. As I shot past Seth's house, I glanced toward it. I didn't see any sign of him. Then I saw him, straight ahead, grinning manically, and running right towards me. I floored the accelerator. Agile as a deer, he jumped over a row of hedges. I grazed the bushes with my fender, and steered back on the highway. As I glanced in my rearview mirror, I saw him vault back over the shrubbery and run towards a parked car. Moments later, I saw reflections in the mirror. No surprise, he was following me. I wanted him to. I would be easy to trail. The tracks in the fresh fallen snow would be mine. He knew that. It wouldn't take an Indian scout to figure it out. All I wanted was a head start. I couldn't let him get too near.
I pushed the truck as much as I dare. The road surface was slick with patches of ice. I appeared to be gaining some distance. I only needed a comfort zone. I wasn't sure what he was driving, but the truck seemed more adept at handling the adverse conditions. I doubted he would try to catch me. He could bide his time. Sooner or later, I would have to stop. I kept referencing the mirror. It looked as though I had a good quarter mile lead, and it appeared to be increasing. Good. That should work nicely. I was westbound on Route 40. Up ahead loomed the intersection for Route 519. I beared right and skidded into the turn. The sure footed truck quickly recovered. I looked back. Far in the distance, a pair of headlights cut through the flurries. At the crossroads, he would have to slow. More precious time for me. I drove two more miles down the highway and made another hard right. I traveled a short distance up a gravel road and came to the fenced enclosure of Spiner Shaft. Crashed through the gate. Checked the glove box for
another flashlight, and scored. Out of the truck now, and down into the bowels of the earth. Six hundred feet down, seven hundred sixty four steps. I was at an air shaft that belonged to my former employer. It was a fresh air intake, and had been fitted with a metal stairway. The stringers were bolted to the concrete wall. Beams, imbedded in the shaft, supported the landings. The shaft served a dual purpose. It provided fresh air to the underground workings, and was also an emergency means of egress. In case of fire or explosion, men could make their way to it and climb away from the danger. I thought it ironic to employ it for above ground hazards, but it would serve the purpose. I turned on my flashlight and began the descent. I grasped a handrail and clattered from one flight to another. I was a solid veteran, and made good time. When a power failure occurred in the mine, the company would deposit foremen at the various portals. It was unlawful, and dangerous, to restore electric power until the mine had been checked for accumulations of gas and other dangers. Each boss would enter a certain area of the mine and make his run. We became quite proficient in quickly arriving at our assigned area. Often, the reward was a shortened shift,. which provided incentive for doing the job quickly. I owned the world's record for fastest descent of Spiner Shaft. Tonight, I intended to break it.
I was perhaps, two thirds of the way to the bottom, when a top side flashlight beam pierced the overhead darkness. Immediately, I extinguished my light, and doubled my effort. Momentarily, the overhead light disappeared. When it returned, a shotgun blast accompanied it and pellets rained down the walls. The gun roared again, and I felt b-b's bounce off my shoulders. Twenty feet down, I could see the bottom. Two more flights. I took the first one in three giant steps. When I hit the landing, I propelled myself over the side. I landed in a heap. I heard something ricocheting off the walls, and sprang to my feet. Two feet away, the spent shotgun splintered into a thousand pieces. I heard something else bouncing off the walls, and thought it prudent to leave, so I ran for the safety of the connecting tunnel. When I was safe under roof cover, I turned on the flashlight and looked back. Rocks rained down the shaft. Fuck you, I thought. Throw anything you want. You're on my playground now. I didn't think he would follow me. I had the advantage. I knew these passages like the back of my hand. Like a mole, I could resurface at any number of different points. I wasn't sure how knowledgeable he was about mining, but I doubted if he had an iota of my expertise. The maze of tunnels would baffle a layman. Score three for Fulcher, and a big, fat goose egg for Woodward. My first order of business was to find food and water. Since breakfast, I had had nothing to eat or drink. My throat was parched from thirst, and my stomach grumbled. I could remedy that. After pausing a moment to get my bearings, I started out. Yesterdays wounds and bruises complained, but with a stalwart determination, I ignored them. I followed the connecting crosscuts to where I thought they should intersect the underground belt line. Several times, I had to reverse direction and backtrack to alternative routes, but eventually, I found the conveyor belt. From here, it was only a matter of following the belt to it's origin at the working face. I walked for perhaps a mile, and came to the coal face. Distance was easy to judge. The coal blocks were one hundred twenty feet long, and fifty of them made a mile. After I arrived at the face, I looked for the dinner hole, the area where the miners ate. Three blocks out by, I found it. A dozen metal dinner buckets were stored on several wooden benches. I hoped the disappearance of humanity occurred before the miners had lunched. I grabbed a bucket, pulled off the lid, and looked inside. The pungent smell of green onions assaulted my nostrils. Inside were two roast beef sandwiches, a snickers bar, twinkies, and wrapped in a baggie, the onions. The thoughtful lunch preparer had even provided a shaker of salt and paper napkins. I removed the pail from the bucket, and in the bottom container, I found a nice supply of water. I drank my fill and polished off the unknown host's repast. With my thirst and hunger now satisfied, I again assumed the roll of scavenger. I gathered up all the lunch pails and put them in a group. I exchanged my parka for a quilt-lined miners jacket. I helped myself to a pair of heavy gloves. As an added bonus, I scored a discarded miners helmet. For good measure, I threw a couple of oxygen rescuers on the pile of buckets. Then I sought out the mechanics tool car. It was nearby, and I found it quickly. From it, I procured a roll of electrical tape, and taped the flashlight to the miners hat. I put the hat on and experienced the luxury of two free hands. A sharp bladed ax lay on top of the car. I took it too. I was unsure of what purpose it would serve, but it felt good in my hands. I wasn't done shopping yet. It took me some time to find the section powder magazine, but inevitably, I did find it. Already, the ax proved useful. I used it to break the lock on the box. I opened the lid and found a goodly supply of gel- stick dynamite, which I stuffed in the pockets of my newly acquired coat. The next entry over, I found the blasting cap box. I employed the same technique to open it, and crammed caps into my pants pockets. I felt like Pancho Vila. I didn't have a gun, but by God, I could blow a maniac to hell. I was armed and dangerous, and I knew how to use the stuff. One more job to do, and I could be on my way. I sought out the charging station for the battery powered scoop tractor. It was a big mine, and I was tired of walking. The versatile scoop was the mine workhorse. Every working section had one. In short order, I found mine. It was parked in the fireproof charging shanty. The charging cables were hooked to the batteries, indicating a recent charge. I climbed atop the large storage battery and
disconnected the leads from the charger. I plugged the power cables into the battery and got in the operator's compartment. To my immense relief, the battery power indicator read full charge. I engaged the power switch and the hydraulic motor whirred to life. I raised the long bucket and trammed to the dinner hole. I threw all my pilfered bounty in the big bucket, then emptied a couple of paper bags containing rock dust, and stored the caps and powder in them. Gingerly, I placed them in the bucket. It was time to head for a more comfortable environment. I turned the scoop around and pointed it out of the mine. The strong headlights provided an intense illumination. I reached up on my hat and turned the flashlight off. It was necessary to conserve the batteries. In the ten years since I had been underground, the mine had changed. It had grown considerably bigger. Still, I had a good working knowledge of the basic layout. I put my prior experience to work and drove in the direction of the underground shop. A few times I had to stop and recall once familiar landmarks and objects. Sometimes I relied on instinct and intuition. As I got closer to the shop, it became easier. Suddenly, I was in well known territory. The scoop hummed quietly along and delivered me to my destination. I parked outside the big steel doors that sealed off the shop. I could feel a large volume of air rushing down the supply slope. The slope contained an inclined railroad track that led directly into the shop. It was used to lower supplies and equipment, and would be featured in my vaguely designed plan. I exited the scoop tractor and opened the steel door. As I went through, a large spring pulled it firmly shut. I dropped a metal bar into two slots welded on the door, and felt a satisfying measure of security. I wasn't sure if the deranged neighbor was following me, but I intended to leave nothing to chance. Inside the shop, one would think he was in a surface facility. The concrete block walls were painted a bright white. Neatness prevailed. The center of the complex was a maintenance facility. It contained all matter of tooling and equipment, even an overhead crane. On either side, bordering the shop proper, were supply rooms and offices. I scouted the supply rooms for a few missing components. In the second room, I found shotfirer wire and a blasting battery. With the remaining items in my possession, I felt a sense of satisfaction. I returned to the scoop and stored them in the bucket. As an after thought, it seemed prudent to pull the scoop inside the sanctuary. Drained from the damning day, and my efforts, I retired to an office. I pulled up a comfortable desk chair and sat down to recount the day's events. For reasons I could barely grasp, Seth was back. It seemed evident that he wished to toy with me. Also, I concluded, he had little regard for my life, such as it was. Logic dictated the fact that he was my original murderer. Had he materialized to finish the job? What kind of force was I dealing with?
I had been chiseling away at the concrete that housed my own guilt. It had cracked and splintered. Just when I thought things were falling into place, my assassin had appeared. The world was returning to bloom - and pestilence. My misdeeds held me imprisoned in this unlikely place. What horrendous crimes had Seth perpetrated ? He was sharing my catastrophic universe, but on a much different level. I sought the keys of freedom. What did he covet ? He didn't seem to view this situation with peril. In fact, he seemed to be thriving in it. It was almost as though he welcomed it. Was this to be my final fear? To embattle evil incarnate? To what purpose? I felt I had done enough. Seth's past had nothing to do with me. I didn't want him here. If Butchs' revelations were correct, then he deserved a richer brand of hell. Transport him to a more hideous place. Get him off of my cloud. I didn't want the responsibility. Someone please take this cup from me. It all made me so weary. I wanted it finished. My mental reserves were inadequate. Earlier, I had thought the climax was near, but now it seemed unlikely. How much more must I bear? All of it, I supposed. My quest was to see it to completion. The very thought chilled me. My childlike sense of adventure was fading fast. Some monsters were figments of the imagination, and others were all too real. I didn't think I had the fortitude to deal with the authentic variety. I signed, a last, desperate sign. There was no escape. Some way, some how, it must be endured. I returned to the scoop tractor for water and another meal. At this point, I didn't know how long I intended to remain in hiding. I had enough sustenance for several days. Courage was another matter. I hoped it would come in adequate quantity. I returned to the office and dined on fried chicken and oreos, then, made a bed with cardboard and rag canvas. I needed strength and rest. Tomorrow, day six, awaited. I had a feeling it would prove to be quite interesting, and decisive.
I spent another restless night. I wasn't sure how much more sleep deprivation I could endure. I awoke groggy and ill tempered. I cursed Seth, and bemoaned my predicament. I had no watch, so I was unsure of the time. I opened the steel doors and looked up the slope. A dusky daylight shone weakly through the portal. Evidently, the dawn was fresh. Judging the hour to be near 6:00 AM,. I locked myself back in the fortress and had breakfast peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I rummaged through the buckets and found an orange for dessert. Then back to the office to polish my tentative plan. I spent the day worrying and conniving. Dragging out my self-imposed exile seemed fruitless. From the supply
room, I secured a strapped leather bag. I filled it with powder, caps , wire and detonator, and stuck the ax in my belt. I waited for dusk. Part of my plan necessitated the concealment of darkness. Night finally fell. The mine had been a kind refuge, but I was ready to depart. Steps bordered the slope supply track. If I remembered correctly, they totaled eight hundred and sixty three. Unsure of what awaited me on the surface, I climbed them slowly. I was in no hurry to meet my destiny. Twenty steps from the top, I shut off the flashlight. I could at least try to emerge undetected from my lair. I poked my head out of the portal and looked around. All appeared quiet on the western front. I was clothed in dark colors. It would take a keen eye to spot me. Stacks of equipment and supplies were strewn about the mine yard. I crept from one place of concealment to another. A pallet of cribbing block was stacked next to the yard enclosure fence. I ran for it's protective cover. Reaching it safely, I used my ax to dig a hole under the fence, and shimmied through. So far, so good. No madmen on the prowl. The yard was located in a rural area. There were a few farmhouses nearby. I needed transportation. Cars were parked inside the mine enclosure, but they presented too great a risk. Even the cars I might find parked at the farms carried an element of danger. I decided it was a fine evening for a stroll. Who knew what evil lurked in the hearts of certain men ? Snow flurries continued to fall. I walked down to the road, and the first thing I saw was a single set of tire tracks. Patrols were about. I shivered. I planted my feet in the indentations, and did my impression of a high wire act. I tramped along for several miles. Everywhere I went, I encountered the tracks. He was methodical. When I came to an intersection, I chose a random fork. If I managed to get myself lost, so much the better. It's hard to find someone who doesn't even know where he is. Finally, I came to a crossroads bereft of tire marks. I left the road then, got down in the woods and broke off a pine branch, and used it to cover my tracks. The bough did a nice job of camouflage. Never much of the outdoors man, I found myself uncomfortable in the role. I had no idea which direction I was heading, nor did I care. I kept mostly to wooded areas, but skirted along bordering fields. It was cold and wet. I cherished the warm miners jacket and waterproof matterhorn boots. In places where the snow had escaped the sun's warming rays, the accumulations were still deep, and the going was cumbersome. Occasionally, when I felt well concealed, I switched on the light. I continued my journey for some distance. As I was climbing a barbed wire fence, an owl screeched. I felt my heart leap up in my throat, and in my desperate struggle to flee, the barbs ripped my pants and skin. Yesterday, I had been joyous over the return of wild life. Tonight, I blasphemed the owl's existence. I got myself untangled and checked the wound. A ten inch gash seeped a steady stream of blood. I dug in the pocket of the miners jacket and produced a none too clean rag. Ah well, dying from infection could be the easy way out. As I bound the wound, the owl questioned, "Who?" "Yea," I replied, "that's what I'd like to know."
Worse for the wear, I continued on. Already, my tentative plan had changed. Scoring a car, seemed to be a bad idea. Out there somewhere, Seth was in pursuit and the snow continued to fall. He could track me like a bloodhound. I needed alternative transportation, and I knew exactly what kind. Actually, this could work out better than I had hoped. I traveled some more miles before I noticed the dark outline of a community. I thought it might be Lone Pine. If so, I had walked about ten miles, and I should be safe from the demon's clutches. As I drew closer, I saw it was indeed the village I prophesied. Quickening my pace, I soon bisected the road leading into town. To my relief, I saw it was free from tracks. For the moment, I had the place to myself. I followed the short main street to the residential area. Then I started checking garages. One after another, I opened doors and peered inside. I had canvassed the entire neighborhood and was on the verge of despair, when I found what I wanted. A snowmobile. It sat there looking like manna from heaven. I checked the fuel tank. The gracious owner had left it filled, and a key hung from the ignition. Occasionally, I thought, even a blind squirrel finds a nut. Ideal transportation awaited. My feeble plan drew new strength.
For the time being, I had to abandon my new found treasure. I snuck through the owner's backyard, and sought hospitality in the house. My feeble flashlight was starting to glow dimly. The unknown host provided fresh batteries. Then the gregarious fellow gave me a clean dressing for my wound and warm corduroy trousers. Here, take this orange hunting hat with earflaps. His beneficence knew no bounds. Next came a double barrel shot gun and a box of shells. The good Samaritan insisted I take a six pack of bottled water and three jars of dried beef. In the fridge was a leftover turkey, quite dry, but nonetheless, edible. I sat down at the table and gnawed on a leg. I washed it down with orange juice. I had to take a moment to assess my situation. Things were looking good. I would load my fresh supplies on the snowmobile. Then, drive the byways to a key spot overlooking Seth's house... I stopped in mid-swallow. Binoculars. A sleeping bag and a tent. Perhaps some sort of Coleman lantern and heater. My benefactor seemed the camping type. Could he meet my needs?
Oh yes! What a fine fellow. In fifteen minutes I had assembled everything and strapped it to the snowmobile. I returned to the house to finish my repast. And to do a little more thinking. As I ate, it occurred to me that I could simply flee. I already had him stymied. Why go back there? Almost anything could happen, and whatever did, I felt it was destined to turn out bad. I remembered that I had neglected to cover my tracks as I left the mine yard. He could already be in pursuit. God only knew what other mistakes I had made. Wouldn't it be better just to run ? I had a head start. With a little luck, he would never find me....... No, I thought. It was time to see this thing through. I had questions. Although I probably wouldn't like them, I wanted answers. The die was cast. I didn't know what ungodly form it would take, but the end was near. The time had come to wrap it up.
Before I left, I rummaged around in the garage and found a good pair of wire cutters. I hoped I hadn't forgotten anything else. I had to fiddle with the choke to get the snowmobile started. Then the engine caught and I was on my way. I had never driven one of these machines, and I found the experience exhilarating. I was impressed with the overall speed. The skis cut smoothly through the fresh snow and the cleated tracks provided excellent traction. I had never been good with directions. I drove in what I thought to be an easterly heading. Wherever possible, I intended to avoid the roads. It would be safer, but one hell of a lot harder, to travel through field and forest. I could not use the moon or stars for navigation aids. They were covered by cloud. Unfortunately, it looked as though dumb luck would be my main guide. Carefully, I skied along. When I came to a fence, and there were many of them, I dismounted and used the wire cutters. I tried running through the woods, but usually the undergrowth was too thick for smooth going. I crossed several roads. They seemed familiar, but I couldn't quite place them. As I was cresting a hill, I startled two deer. Their white flags bobbed up and down as they leaped for the cover of a nearby grove. I thought I was probably more scared than they. Yet, their presence reassured me. At least nature seemed to be making a return to normality. Hoping I was still in the county, I traveled along for about another hour. As I coasted down a steep hill , a railroad trestle came into view. I pointed my headlight in it's direction, and was pleasantly surprised to see graffiti covering the steel side. Well known graffiti. The lettering announced "Cleveland Browns Suck." I knew where I was. The tracks on this side of the trestle led to the mining patch of Marianna. I had missed Scenery Hill by five miles. The good news was that the tracks heading in the opposite direction led straight to Scenery Hill. I could follow them all the way home. I turned the snowmobile in the direction of my destiny and rode it up to the rails. The machine climbed over the squat I-beam and I turned it parallel to the ties. Casey Jones, you better watch your speed. It was foolish to do, but I sounded a fair rendition of a whistle blast, and yelled, " All aboard. Non-stop nightmare to nowhere, now departing." The cross ties made for a bumpy ride, and it was necessary to slow my pace, but one could not ask for a more direct path.
As I drew near my town, I extinguished the headlight. No sense risking premature exposure. The rails passed over a high ridge, and below I saw the village. Lights glowed in only one house - Seth's place. I killed the engine and looked about for a place to make my encampment. About a hundred yards to my right, a pine thicket offered concealment. It was here I unloaded the supplies and set up my bivouac. The rat's lair lay some two hundred fifty yards from my temporary lodging. I arranged the tent so the opening would offer an unobstructed view, then wrapped the sleeping bag around my shoulders, and began my reconnaissance. With the powerful binoculars, I could actually see details through the windows. I even glimpsed the hazy glow of a computer screen. I saw no movement in or about the house. My quarry was either sleeping, or absent. There was no vehicle parked in the driveway, so I assumed the latter. I was prepared to keep a sustained watch. He would not escape my surveillance. Snow continued to fall and the night grew cold. At my unknown benefactor's house, I had found a small Coleman heater. I abandoned my post long enough to set it in a corner of the tent and jury rig a frontal drape. I lit it and stepped outside to make sure the light was undetectable. It proved so. I got a jar of dried beef and container of slushy, bottled water. Needs met, I sat back down to resume my vigil. The heater made the tent down right cozy. I softly sang, "got a case of dynamite, I can stay out here all night."
I sat and patiently waited. Around what I took to be midnight, I saw headlights coming down Route 40. He had returned. The car came down the hill and pulled in the drive. Through my binoculars, I identified it as a Suburu station wagon. The door opened and Seth got out. He stood on two sturdy legs, and bounded up the front steps. I followed his tall, healthy form inside. He removed his coat, and took a seat in front of the computer. He had spent half his waking hours in front of that machine. God only knew what secrets it held. I intended to find out. I kept watch. He remained bent over the keyboard. After awhile, he got up and disappeared from view. A little
later, I saw white plumes of smoke rising from the chimney - he had been feeding the fireplace. He returned shortly, and I saw the computer screen go blank. Then, one after another, the house lights went out. Tracking missing persons was arduous work. It was bedtime. I too, felt exhausted. Fleeing from madmen was just as laborious. I got in the sleeping bag and zipped it up. I left the bottom of the tent flap open, just enough to poke my head out. I didn't want anyone to sneak up on me. I needed my rest. I had a big day planned for tomorrow. I wasn't about to go down there tonight. Undoubtedly, he had set his own traps. In the morning, he would leave. He had to keep looking - me too. There were a few things I needed to see...
Chapter Eleven
TThe morning dawned, clear and cold. Day seven. They say God made the world in seven days. I figured that was about how long I needed to dismantle and re-assemble mine. Yea, seven days ought to do it. I looked up at the sky and gave the creator a thumbs up. Great minds think alike. Thanks for your patronage. I crawled out of the bag and used my visual aid to gather a status report. The wagon remained parked in the drive. I saw no signs of movement. Another meal of dried beef and water, and back to the watchtower. Nothing much happening, so I shirked my duty long enough to gather supplies - powder, caps, wire, detonator and ax. They all went into a spiffy knapsack compliments of the mysterious stranger. The sun rose in the sky. Seth, he rose too, got the fire rekindled, and returned to the computer. He spent about fifteen minutes at it, and then, before I knew it, he was out the door. He scraped ice from the windshield, then left in hot pursuit.
I didn't waste any time. I donned the knapsack and grabbed the shotgun. No mechanized transportation today, I walked, straight down the hill and into the den of iniquity. I went right to his desk and set my charges. I taped six sticks together and put them in a desk drawer. Shoved two caps in them, and snaked the wire through the back. The most time consuming thing was hiding the wire. I shoved it beneath baseboards, under rugs, and fed it through the floor register. Then, down to the basement and out through the bulkhead doors. I grabbed a broom from the utility room and went outside. Shotgun, broom and spool of wire were a handful. Reluctantly, I set the broom and gun alongside the house. I needed both hands free. I unspooled the wire and taped a rock to one end. Assuming a pitcher's stance, I hurled the rock across the overhead phone wires. It landed in the middle of the road, and I used a repeat performance to launch the missile over the wires on the opposite side of the street. After that, it was a simple matter of concealment. I taped the wire to the poles, and buried the rest in the snow. When I got to my back door, I strung the wire through the house and terminated it in the den. Next, I removed the detonator from my knapsack and placed it near the wire. I rushed back across the street and reclaimed my weapon and broom. Again, back to my house, covering all signs of tracks. And then, another sweeping backwards walk to Seth's. Inside, I made straight for the computer. Seth's generator chugged away - I had power. I turned the machine on and waited impatiently for the boot. A grey box came up- password protected - please enter password. I hadn't time for this. My fist banged the top of the desk. I shouldered the shotgun and looked out the window. All clear. What password would he use ? I closed my eyes and rested my head in my hands. It came to me like a bolt out of the blue. I typed in - bullshit. The desktop display opened. - Access granted.
As I rummaged through files, I kept peering out the window. Time was of the essence. My computer skills were moderate, at best. It was frustrating. The man's whole existence was documented somewhere on this computer. Where had he hid it? If only I were more adept at searching! I stumbled on it by accident. It was hidden in the note pad file. An ongoing documentary of the mans life. Reading it here, wasn't an option. I shoved a floppy disk in the drive bay and hit save. Save this, save that, save everything that even looked suspicious. It was taking too long. I grew more nervous by the minute. The disk made an irritating, scratchy sound. I held the shotgun on my thigh, and watched the road. Sweat rolled down the back of my neck. Another grey box appeared on the screen - the disk is full, please insert another. No. Not today. I'll take what I've got and go. I ejected the disk and shut the machine off. I had already prolonged my departure. Exit, stage right.
I took a quick survey of the room. All seemed to be in order. No sign of unwanted intruders. Armed with disk, gun and broom, I left. Covering my trail, I returned home. In the den, I connected the wires to the plunger. I got my laptop and put it on the desk. The gun, I kept within arms reach. Fearing another long wait, I dashed to the kitchen and grabbed food and drink. When I returned, I checked for signs of my dearly departed neighbor. Still quiet. I sat down and opened the laptop. The battery showed a ninety percent charge. Thank God. My generator was idle and the house was cold. I got a blanket from the sofa and draped it over my shoulders. Another precautionary glance out the window, and I inserted the disk. A lot of it was mundane. Most of it wasn't. I scrolled through the boring parts and found a chilling interest in the macabre: What a sea of fools! They are such helpless idiots. They don't know who I am. When I showed up at old man
McCartys, he was beside himself with joy. A week later, the knife was buried in his neck, slammed in just above the sternal notch. . He flopped around like a marionette. Blood from the carotids, sprayed the walls red. I get to see such interesting things. How people must envy me! They walk around clueless, go about their boring business, give no thought to the end - and then I show up. They are shocked to see me. They act as though there must be some mistake. Surely, it can't be me you want! Don't do it, please let me go!
Ah! It's such a pleasure to see them whimper and beg. Such pathetic displays! As if I could change destiny! Yet, there are times when I swell with pride. Not often, but it happens. A few depart with such bravery, such class and astounding courage. They accept fate, they go willingly. I love working with them. I wonder where they get such incredible strength - what carries them through. They led meaningful lives, and they embrace a meaningful death. I am humbled. They do not look upon me with fear. I can't surprise them - they know me. Such heroic fellows. I salute them.
Why can't everyone just let go ? It's so useless to struggle. They prolong the inevitable. They're scared to death. They act as if I'm responsible. I didn't put them in that position - I'm just a mop up guy. I'm their final fear.
I couldn't believe what I was reading. Butch had called him an evil monster. Why couldn't I see it? Could I have been so naive ? A hideous chill ran down my spine. Repulsed and fascinated, I scrolled down the page and read on:
Last night was especially rewarding. She was mutilated and brutally raped. The hammer left distinct indentations in her skull. I figured she was dog meat, but she actually spoke. "I knew it would be you," she said."There was something about you. You don't look right in that chair, you know. You're too healthy looking. It just doesn't fit your image. I should have listened to my inner voice."
I'm always pleased when they recognize me. Let's face it, everyone, even if they try to deny it, takes a little pride in their work. I was no exception. I have a brilliant guise, but every so often, someone sees through. I am flattered. "You are quite astute madam," I said. "I congratulate you. You do understand, of course, it's nothing personal. It's just my job."
I smiled down upon her, but she was fading fast. Her lips spoke a hissing, bloody bubble and she was gone. I was saddened. I had been looking forward to a lively banter. Oh well. Perhaps the next time.
It went on like that - page after page of grisly, detailed documentation. The man had no conscience, and his soul was missing. This was something beyond a sociopath - he was pure evil. I was anxious to push the plunger - blow the bastard to hell. Anticipating his arrival, I set the detonator on my desk. Anxiously, I scanned the highway for movement. Still nothing. Without a doubt, I now knew Seth had been the instrument of my demise. Still, I couldn't explain this netherworld. If I destroyed him, would the status quo return ? And what about the guilt I was shedding ? What purpose did it serve ? It seemed as I got closer to the answers, the issues became more complex. Tension throbbed in my forehead. I was tired - bone tired. I just wanted it to be over. Intuitively, I knew it was at hand. What form it took - that was another matter. For the moment, I had nothing to do but read on. I pushed the down arrow and quickly viewed more of Seth's exploits. Then, something caught my eye:
The old man grows suspicious. I must be wary. I can see the look in his eye. He's sharp. I've done nothing to arouse his curiosity. My modus-operandi hasn't changed. He's got a sixth sense. I feel like he's on the verge of trying something. He won't involve law enforcement - that's not his style. He's the independent type. He'll keep it all to himself and try something stupid. He doesn't understand. His efforts will be futile. I wish I could tell him. He's worried about nothing. Oh well. He's no different than the others. I can't intercede. Like everybody else, he'll live with it. It's a shame. I've grown rather fond of him.
The screen flickered and went dark. Simultaneously, I heard the approach of a car. I hid behind the curtain, and snuck a glance out the window. It was him. He was back.
My stomach did flip-flops. The moment of truth had arrived. He parked in the drive, got out of the car, and leaned on the roof. His head pivoted around in owl like jerks. As he swung his eyes in my direction, he seemed to grin. Wary that I had been spotted, I froze. His gaze lingered a moment, then he turned and made for the house. Unknowingly, I had been holding my breath. I gasped for air. I saw him enter the front door, but lost him in the interior. My sweaty hand grasped the T-bar of the plunger. I stared at his computer desk. Where was he? Was he on to me? I felt a looming sense of panic. He seemed to materialise from nowhere. He sat in the wheelchair and swiveled it around towards me. A momentary look of consternation crossed his face, and his mouth formed a large O. I pushed the plunger.
The deafening explosion was preceded by a white flash. My mind registered everything in slow motion. In the blink of an eye, the chair was propelled backwards. Mirage like, the house gently shimmered. It seemed to implode. The force of the detonation slung the windows and doors outward. Pieces of glass and wood rained down on my front porch. The roof lifted up several feet, and floated back against the exterior walls. Then the whole house caved in on itself. It lay in smouldering ruin. Except for the roof, which remained surprisingly intact, I had created a pile of rubble. My heart raced, and my ears rang. I had to sit down. I stared at the devastation in awe. The deed was done. Overall, I felt only relief, accompanied by bewilderment. Now what, I thought. What the hell is it all about? My head fell forward and my shoulders slumped. I didn't want to have to think anymore. I had just killed a man or something. Yet, I sat there in a drug-like stupor. The repercussions could come later. For now, I relished the blank peace.
I must have sat like that for twenty minutes. I felt selfish. I had spent the better part of a week searching for answers, yet I had virtually nothing, and at that point, I really didn't care. I was numb. I was weary of the game. I just wanted it to fade away. It was the cold that inspired me to get moving. I was bone chilled. They say freezing to death is a good way to go, but first, I think you have to get past the teeth chattering stage. I opted for warmth. The generator needed attention. The rest of my sorry life needed attention. My apathy came to an abrupt halt. When I stepped out the back door, he was coming up the driveway. A mutilated corpse rode in the wheelchair. The chair's wheels were flattened and bent. Their elliptical shape appeared ludicrous - It reminded me of a cartoon. The corpse held a large boombox. Seth smiled and waved, and reached down to depress the play button. Tom Petty sang, The Waiting is The Hardest Part. Seth did a little jig behind the chair and really put his back in to the push. As the chair made begrudging headway, the wheels wobbled and squeaked. He leaned down to put his shoulders in the work, and I saw a large backpack perched on his shoulders. When his efforts drew the chair parallel with me, he stopped and did a muscle flex. He faced me and shouted above the raucous din. "By God! It's been a wild ride hasn't it? I don't know about you, but I'm all a tingle with excitement! It's totally outrageous."
I was on the verge of passing out from fear. I had never been so afraid. I grabbed the side of the house for support. Seth bent over the smoking cadaver and switched the c.d. track. The haunting refrain from Free Falling blared forth. Holding an imaginary guitar over his head, he synced along with the chords. Aghast, I witnessed the spectacle. I felt as though I were watching a demented freak show. In Mick Jagger mimicry, Seth bent over the lifeless body and waved a nonexistent mike in front of the mouth. "Put your soul in it," he implored. "Help me take it on home." "Gonna free fall, out into nothin', gonna leave this world for a while. Twisting and gyrating, he spun the chair to face the highway. As the song closed, he ejected the disc, and popped in another. A deafening silence followed. He broke it with, "Un momento, amigo," then a familiar tune began. I couldn't place it at first. When the lyrics commenced, it bore down on me like a freighter. Carry that Weight - by the Beatles. He stood behind the chair and saluted. He backed up ten paces and clicked his heels together. His right arm rose in a Heil Hitler gesture, and he goose stepped forward. When he got back behind the chair, he bent his leg at the knee, and he launched the mis-shapen contraption down the driveway. At first, it didn't appear to gain any momentum, but gradually it picked up speed and tracked noisily along the pavement. The dead body made jerky motions and slumped to one side. The left wheels rose up in the air. As it hit the highway, it veered slowly right and careened toward Seth's decimated dwelling. The chair hit the fallen roof and shot up the incline. When it struck the peak, it toppled over and the corpse fell out. The dead body bounced along the roof like a marionette. The chair hit something, did a somersault, and landed upright on the damaged chimney. Seth applauded. "Bravo! Bravo! Simply spectacular. I ask you, have you ever witnessed such a sight? How I wish my video-cam was functional. Alas, it was destroyed in the blast. The moment is lost. Ah, well. There will be others. No sense
crying over burnt meat.". He leered at me.
His mad antics sickened me. I felt sour vomit rushing up my esophagus. I heaved and retched until I felt my chest muscles pull. Kaleidoscopic images swam in front of my eyes. A fever burned in the back of my brain. As my eyes focused, they beheld a grinning idiot. He walked toward me. 'Goodness Fletch, are you coming down with something? They say it's going around. Personally, I prescribe plenty of rest. And try to avoid contact with other people. No point in infecting them with your particular strain of madness. Lord knows, they've got problems of their own." In a gesture of dismissal, he threw his arms skyward. I spit the rancid tasting bile from my mouth. Again, I felt faint, and clutched my thighs to maintain balance. The fruitcake stood over me and chuckled. "Nothing like a little regurgitation to purify the system. In a short while, you'll feel like a new man. Do you require any assistance? You know I'm always here for you." The waves of nausea subsided. I started backing away from him. He followed me. "I say, where's your holiday spirit? It's Thanksgiving, you know. I had hoped you would take pity on your bereft neighbor, and preparest a table. I'm homeless - spare a little pity man. Let's stuff the bird and talk. We've got plenty to discuss. You've got questions, we've got answers." He reached for my arm. My arm shot out and knocked his hand away. I wanted no part of his creepy embrace. He shrugged his head in annoyance. "Tsk! Tsk! Aren't you the ungrateful host? Here, I've taken time from my busy schedule to redevelop a lasting friendship, and you spurn my unselfish effort. I must say, I'm highly disappointed. I expected a warmer welcome. On this day of thanks, can't you find it in your heart to forget past transgressions? I know I'm willing. But it takes two to tango. Please, won't you reconsider?" A hangdog expression adorned his face.
I couldn't respond if I wanted to. My vocal cords felt like two brittle ice cubes. I just kept shaking my head in a negative way. "Cat got your tongue? You used to be such a stimulating conversationalist. How fondly I remember our spirited give and take. This won't do at all. Lately, it's been so difficult to engage anyone in tete-a-tete. I implore you to say something - anything." Painfully, the words creaked out. "What do you want?" I stammered. "For Christ's sake, who are you? "They used to call me Speedo, but my real name is Mister Earl." An exuberant guffaw engulfed him. He had a bad case of the high giggles. "Ah, ah, ah, I'll stop," he promised. "You must forgive me. Music hath puns to soothe the savage beast." A new burst of merriment ensued. "I know, I know, I'm wearing it out," he gasped. "I need a moment to regain control, please, bear with me." His body spasmed with stifled laughter. Each time he tried to continue, he was overcome by a new wave of glee. Personally, I failed to find the humor. I thought him ludicrous and pathetic. In fright, and disgust, I turned away. "No, wait, wait," he entreated. "I've got it together, I really do. I was caught up in a cosmic joke, I couldn't help myself. The whole thing's so ridiculous - you'll see. Don't run off, stick around and see how it ends. All will be revealed - you'll love it." That caught my interest. I stopped in my tracks. If enlightenment had to come in the form of an insane ghoul, then so be it. Mustering a quizzical look, I turned to face him. "Now that's the spirit," he said. "You'll catch more flies with honey, than vinegar. Now that I've kindled your curiosity, let's go inside. It's getting damn cold out here. You run along - get the fire stoked up. I'll refill your generator and get it running. I stared at him in amazement - I smelled a rat. I wasn't about to turn my back on him. But he just smiled, and walked to the generator. I heard him fiddling with the fuel cans. I fled into the house and grabbed the shotgun. Cradling the gun, I ran down to the basement and created the world's fastest fire. As I hurried back up the steps , I heard the generator start. I trained the shotgun on the door.
Blowing on his hands, and stomping his feet, he came through the door. He looked directly at me. As I followed him with the gun, he sat down at the table and nonchalantly shrugged out of his backpack. "I sure could use a cup of hot coffee," he stated. He removed his ball cap and the gleam from the kitchen lights reflected off his bald pate. He pointed at the shotgun. "That won't do any good, you know. Who do you think was in the wheelchair? Surely you noticed the resemblance. Didn't the unfortunate fellow remind you of me?"
I didn't want to admit it, but I had noticed. The eyebrows and lashes were burned away and the face was blackened with soot and smoke, but the overall appearance was markedly like the thing sitting at my table. I released my grasp on the gun, and it clattered to the floor. I couldn't win this game. "Why don't you make that coffee while I freshen up?" He picked up the backpack and headed for the powder room. He looked over his shoulder. "When I come back, we'll straighten this mess out."
Chapter Twelve
Outside, the shades of evening were darkening. Through the kitchen window, I saw two squirrels cavorting in a tree. A flock of birds flew overhead, and cast speckled shadows on the freezing snow. My mind wandered a tangled path. I heard the Seth-thing banging around in the powder room. I tore my eyes from the beauty of that days end, and prepared the coffee. It was a good distraction, at least it occupied my attention. As I was pouring the coffee, Seth emerged from the bathroom. He had changed clothes. He was wearing a long, hooded robe. The waist was cinched with a piece of hemp rope. The hood peaked cavernously outward and hid his face in darkness. I was facing the grim reaper. He sat down at the table and pulled the hood back. His demeanor had changed. It was more sober and business like. As he rolled the steaming mug in his hands, he commented that it 'smelled good.' He took a long sip, and paused, seeming to gather his thoughts. I stared in wonder. An air of silence surrounded his reflection. He took another drink and smiled sadly before he spoke. "Please forgive the attire. People seem to expect it. And don't ask where the scythe is - that thing's entirely too cumbersome. Personally, I find the whole package a worn stereotype. You didn't really think that death was faceless, did you?" "No", I said. "Nor did I expect it to wear the face of a friend." I looked at him curiously. He shook his head in resignation. "You don't know how that saddens me. We weren't supposed to get close, it just happened." I looked at him incredulously. "What do you mean, we? I was friends with the body you had such fun desecrating. You're not him - I don't know what the hell you are, but you're not him." "Actually, we're one and the same", he countered, "but let's save that for later. You sense your time is at hand, and so it is. Let me give you a short synopsis of events thus far. Afterwards, we'll have a short question and answer period, to clear up any confusion. All right?" I supposed it was all right. After all, I was staring death in the face, and he appeared to have the distinct advantage. Who was I to argue? I nodded in assent. "Good", he agreed. "Now pay close attention, Fletcher. I don't do this for just any body. As a matter of fact, I've never taken the time or effort to try and explain this to any one. You should feel privileged." I didn't. He began. "All realities exist on all levels. There is only consciousness, all is within. There is no reality outside of mind - it forms all. If you can think it, imagine it, dream it or envision it, it exists. There is no past or future. Both exist simultaneously, in what we call the present. If you could understand time and reality, you would understand all. There is only one being. We are all part of it, and, at the same time, all of it. The universe is endless because the mind is endless. It all exists within. Physicists are trying to explain things at the quantum level - that's actually a good place to start, but it can't be done - it's much deeper, much subtler. No one is on a level to answer these questions. Are you with me so far?" I was with him, albeit confused. The things he said made sense, and they didn't. I gave him a look of consternation, and a skeptical yes. "Just try to grasp the ideas, don't attempt to analyze or seek complete understanding. Lots of things, simply don't have an answer. Bear with me. I'll attempt to elucidate." He continued. "Lets develop a character, and lets call him....oh, say........Fletcher. The character of Fletcher is a victim of his own guilt. He develops a reality to deal with it. Uh, oh, here it comes, I thought. I looked about for a hole to crawl in. Seeing my degree of discomfort, he tried to pacify me. "Don't look so upset. You're too sensitive - always have been. It gets you in trouble. Listen up, it may not hurt as much as you think." "Where did this guilt originate? - I don't know. Fletcher, he thinks he knows. He picked out a few extra traumatic episodes, and fingered them. Certainly, they were major contributors of guilt. But, there were plenty more. Every time he didn't live up to his own, or somebody's expectations, he packed a little more away. He stored it all in his conscience. But his conscience was finite, it could only hold so much. When it was filled, he had to transfer the excess to his mind. He kept packing it in there, and then one day his mind got sick. It didn't work right anymore. At least he thought it didn't. But he wouldn't admit that to anyone, not even himself. Anyway, to make a long story short, he just kept on living with this big bag of guilty despair and a very messed up mind. Then one day, he gets gunned down. Fatally shot by an unknown assailant - he slips into a parallel universe."
"What?" I croaked, "what are you saying?" "Oh yes, they exist. Weren't you paying attention? I told you. All things exist simultaneously at all levels. I'm not here to try and persuade you, believe it, or don't. It makes no difference to me. I'm simply trying to help you through." The whole thing seemed too utterly fantastic. Was this another sick joke? I stared at him in amazement. "Don't take it so personal," he said. It's where everyone goes before final check out. It's not like you're an isolated case. Let me try to explain in terms you can understand. Your life can't end until you are freed from your liabilities. Living and dying involve closure. Remember how I told you about time ? There is always time for the end - time to wrap it up. The period of time that you consider to be your life...how can I put this? Okay, it's like a book that must be read from cover to cover. You can't leave any chapters out. You want to read this book - you have to read it. Oh, you can put it on a shelf, where it will sit and collect dust. The story doesn't care. The story knows time. It will be finished, it's indestructible. Some want to devour the story. Maybe they guess the outcome early on, and the final chapter holds little surprise. Others see the conclusion coming towards the middle of the book, but they steep themselves in denial and refuse to believe it can end like that. Still others savor each page and don't ever want to see an ending. None of it matters. At the end of a story, you'll find it's all been told. The process will see itself through. There is an endless beginning and a seemingly never ending finish. The circle will be joined - it will always conclude - even if it has to slip through time and space to do so.
Doctor Death paused. I digested his information, and wasn't at all sure that I liked the taste. Yet, I had a sneaky suspicion he was telling the truth. It rang so true. He poured more coffee and continued. "Back in that world you're familiar with, you're laying in that shrubbery outside, dying. You've been laying there about two minutes - as we judge time. Your heart is still beating, and will keep beating, until you're finished here. This is your universe - you created it. Why do you think there are no people here?" "Because I didn't want any", I sobbed. My stack of dominoes had started to topple. "That's right", he confirmed. "You wanted to be alone. Everything has always been about you. You have no confidence in your fellow man. You find them useless. Your ego is as big as the sky, yet, you portray yourself as a humble man. Rather than seek help, you opt to manipulate the world so that it conforms to your reality - your standards. I must say, you've chosen a rather unique refuge, it certainly reeks of individualism. You've taken the desperado concept to a new level." It was true. Christ! What had I done? I choked back more heartbreak, and let the infamy flow.
"You needn't think you're some kind of monster. Everyone employs a singular design. Take me, for instance. You remember that nightmare I had in Nevada - the one I said could scare a man to death ? Well, it did. My heart exploded - acute myocardial infarction." One moment I was steeped in my own misery, the next, I was on a keen alert, asking him to repeat what he said. "You heard right, I didn't stutter. You think you got problems? Right now, I'm laying in that mining shack, clutching my chest. Talk about your bad trips! You don't know the half of it. Compared to mine, your brand of atonement seems rather meager." I could only look at him in astonishment. I felt as though I'd fallen down the rabbit hole. "Hey! What can I say? It's a big old goofy world. But somebody's gotta do this job. Apparently, I have outstanding qualifications. Your little trip into the twilight zone will last seven days. Mine's been going on for years, and the end still isn't in sight. But, like I said, time is relative." It kept getting stranger and stranger, it was more than I could process. 'What incredulous tidbit will he reveal next?', I thought.
"Lets not get caught up in my little saga", he advised. "This is all about you. You're stuck, and I'm the liberator. There's an umbilicus that has you tethered on the other side. That's indestructible; it can't be severed. On this side, chains of guilt hold you. Most of them you've broken. There are only a few weak, links left. That's where I come in - I can cut them for you." I sensed the urgency in his voice. Outside, it had grown dark. I glanced at the clock. It was nearly the time of my original death. I looked quizzically at Seth. "Yes, it draws near. I don't want you to be afraid. What will death bring you? I can't answer that. I can tell you that it will be a far better place. You've spent your time in Hell. You've cleansed yourself, and you're ready."
For reasons I could not fathom, I was ready. I was so tired now. I felt as if I'd been struggling forever. I was ready to lay down my burdens. Curiously, the fear was gone. An eerie calm enshrouded me, and I found myself at peace. Seth noticed the transformation. His face broke out in a beatific smile. "I knew it would be easy for you. You never give yourself enough credit. You know, you should have let somebody love you. There were so many that would." I nodded in assent. I had been a fool. But I thought I had forever- don't we all? "Do you have some questions?" he asked. I did. "Seth, who was in the wheelchair? "My protégé, my avatar, my vehicle - your illusion. We're one and the same, he and I. Don't worry about him we'll get back together. We're inseparable." "I thought as much," I confirmed. "You know, all of a sudden, everything's becoming clear to me. I already know what you're going to tell me." He grinned mischievously. "We're one and the same, you and I."
The heavens were opening up. I caught a glimpse of rapture. Seth had me by the arm. He had pulled the hood over his head. I felt a wonderful warm glow. I knew everything was all right. It had always been so. I had been alive. I had frolicked and played in the world. Magnificent sunsets were mine to behold. Starry, starry nights were seen and eulogized. Babies cried and smiled. People fell in love. Nature swaddled you in her majesty. Laughter rang out. Glorious wonders were everywhere. God was alive and well. Peace reigned. Beautiful music played. And I had perceived it - created it all, - all that was and all that was yet to come. As a vibrancy filled my soul, Seth walked with me. A new portal was opening and awaiting my entrance. I was permeated with a transcendental awareness. The past, the present and the future coagulated into one. My life felt complete. At last I thought of my family. I had been so blessed - so lucky. My wonderful life with them clicked by in precious frames. We had reached the shrubbery bordering the garage. I looked up in the sky and saw a million bejeweled stars. Slivers of dark clouds drifted across a full, harvest moon. As I looked skyward, the neighborhood lights came on. Down on Route 40, I heard traffic. The world was alive and well. Seth turned to face me, and embraced my other arm. "All right?", he asked. "Yes Seth," its all right. Thank you." He smiled warmly and released me. As I cast my gaze back to the heavens, he turned away. I heard the shotgun roar, and felt a powerful force propel me into the shrubbery. I relived my death, and the darkness closed in. This time, there was only a blessed - nothing. END
