Psecret Psociety Pshort Pstories, vol. 1 Read online

4. SFO |_| SOFA (November 2012)

  I arrived at the SFO airport via BART train about an hour before Agent 32’s flight from Manila would touch down. The sun was setting on a late August day, as fog billowed over Sweeney Ridge and funneled into the valleys above San Andreas Lake, just like dry ice vapors going down the side of a flask in a chemistry lab.

  Feeling restless, I kept moving around in the airport, taking the AirTrain to all four terminals. I kept thinking about what she said as I paced about the concourses. What kind of surprise did she have in store? Would it really be a game changer? A mind blower? A tickle-me-goo-goo?

  And then, peering around the food court, I wondered who knew I was here. With about 20 minutes left to kill, I ducked into a Peet’s Coffee & Tea in the international terminal. I looked for something to read as I sipped the dark roast.

  I spied an SF Weekly that someone had discarded. I grabbed it and thought back to when I lived on lower Hyde Street, some 20 years ago. I remembered calling the paper’s office. I was going to place a singles ad. It was kind of common back then. The girl who answered the phone was new. She wasn’t sure whom I should speak with. We made some small talk, and then joked about if either of us would remember the conversation twenty years later. I did, but I somehow doubt she did. Ah, but who knows? Is she still alive? She is probably married to a millionaire techie now. Ah, how time ensnares everyone and everything.

  My mind drifted back inside that small studio apartment in the upper Tenderloin district. (This is where my novella Mysterieau of San Francisco begins.) I kept thinking about the surreal art I hid in the building before I left. Was it still in the laundry room walls? Back behind that noisy commercial-size dryer? Oh, well, what does it matter now? Or, even then? Why did I do such frivolous things? And, still do them? Mad artist disease.

  Then I glanced at my cell phone. Ten minutes until Agent 32’s plane would be rolling down the bay-bordered tarmac. I hope there are no mechanical issues with her plane. No crash. Ughhh … that would be too much to deal with.

  I took a seat on a green sofa. It may have been for customers only, but I was tired. No one asked me to move. Then it dawned on me: This would be a great place to hide a copy of Galax_ Galaxy, the short story that I wrote a month or so ago. Yeah, let’s do this.

  I surreptitiously placed a copy between the padding and the base of the sofa. When I looked back up, an older Asian lady was wagging her finger. At first, I thought her ire was directed at me for my little literature-stuffing stunt. Oh, crap. Here comes a lecture. Maybe she’ll even alert security. Arrest this sofa-trash-inserting freak!

  However – to my great relief – she was actually scolding a teenage girl, perhaps her granddaughter, who happened to be passing right behind me at that moment. They moved along. Whew!

  I recomposed myself, and boldly exhibited what I felt to be a nondescript Silicon Valley businessman’s face. I snapped the newspaper to ensure a crisp fold. It was way over-the-top, but hardly anyone even noticed. I then rubbed my eyes, and an announcement began over the public address system:

  “Philippines Airlines flight 104 will be arriving at gate A-12 on time. Flight 104 arriving at gate A-12.” Five minutes!

  I gathered my things and scurried down the concourse. I was almost running. I wanted to make sure that I would have the sight line to see her first. I wanted to get the drop on Agent 32. But, as I hid behind a support column, I suddenly heard an unmistakable Filipina’s voice behind me.

  “You-hoo! Hello there, Agent 33. Are you holding up that post?”

  “You sneaky little thing! How did you get back there without me so much as noticing?”

  “Ha-ha-ha ... This girl has her ways.”

  “I see. Well, you can call me Parkaar – my most recent ailing alias. How shall I address you, Agent 32?”

  “Call me Monique. Monique by the creek!” She burst into uproarious laughter.

  “Monique, you freak! You read that short story?” Where did she find it? Ah, the magic of the internet, I suppose.

  “Yep! Sure did.”

  “That’s freaking amazing! The distribution was, shall we say, very limited.” I chuckled. “Know what I mean?”

  “I do. Oh, yes, I do. I found a copy in the Pisgah National Forest, under a footbridge near the Mills River.” How bizarre! When was she there? Who was she with? Anyone?

  “The South Fork?”

  “Yes!” Truly amazing. Never thought that anyone would ever find that one.

  “Ah, passerelle [footbridge in French] perfect!” Passerelle? “Well, how was the flight?”

  “Long, so very long! The pinay [a Filipino lady] beside me wouldn’t stop talking. So concerned she was about her boyfriend. Always asking me for advice. She was an emotional mess, Parkaar.”

  “I see. Sorry to hear that, Monique. Hey, are you hungry?”

  “Yes, I actually am a little hungry despite eating twice on the plane during the 11-hour flight.” Eleven hours in an aluminum can. God, there’s got to be a better way. [in a Roger Daltry tone] Jeez, my butt hurts just thinking about it.

  “There are a couple of Asian restaurants in the food court.” Oh, good. Yum-yum!

  “Ok, let’s do it!” Wow, there’s an opening.

  “Uh, can we wait until the hotel room?” What a horn-dog.

  “Very sly, Parkaar. Don’t get ahead of the situation.” Must calm down. Take deep breaths. She’s so damn sexy.

  “Well, Monique, you left that line hanging out over the plate as we say in America in the summer.” Only in the summer?

  “Yeah, and you had your fork ready.” She guffawed freely.

  We ambled over to Fung Lum. Monique was rolling her luggage behind her. I noticed that she wasn’t carrying a purse or handbag.

  “Only one piece of luggage?” I asked.

  “I travel light, Parkaar.”

  And there we were at one of those small round airport dining tables. I gazed up at her brown pinay eyes, and could see all the years she spent in Siquijor. I started the volley of word salad.

  “Well now, I do believe you have something to tell me.”

  “No news is good news. Am I right, Parkaar?”

  “You’re right most of time. And, you would be correct again, but this time, Monique …” I turned to look at what Agent 32 was suddenly looking at.

  Off in the near-distance, an overweight, Caucasian, middle-age man sat on the green couch – the one where I left the copy of Galax_ Galaxy. The sofa’s four-inch-high, front, right, pine peg leg broke, and the green couch lurched to the side. The man rolled onto the floor. Onlookers amassed. Some asked if he was hurt. But, he wasn’t. That didn’t look good.

  The sudden motion of the sofa pads caused a corner of the short story copy to protrude. The large rotund man got to one knee and snatched it. He then stood up, steadied himself, grabbed his luggage and hobbled away, muttering something about suing the airport for a million dollars.

  “What did he grab from under that sofa cushion, Parkaar? Was it the manufacturer’s warning label?” She giggled for a few seconds.

 

  “You know, Monique, the trick is for something to stay hidden for just the right amount of time. Discovery needs to be delayed, but not eternally denied.”

  “You’re going daft.” She may be right.

  “Daft due to the evening draft.” What nonsense he speaks.

  “Whatever, 33. You really want to know my secret, don’t you?”

  “Well, I came this far. And I couldn’t imagine returning as the same person.” What did I just say?

  “You never ever stop, do you, Parkaar?” Another chuckle.

  “Well, when the shark stops moving, it dies.”

  “Oh, and are you the shark?”

  Before I could answer, Monique placed a small coin in my right hand. I covered it with my fingers.

  “Is it safe to look at it here?” I asked.

  “Let’s go in a family restroom.” Wow!
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  “What?!” That sure was bold of her.

  “Just kidding. Gotcha.” She sure did. She started giggling like a schoolgirl. “Sure, you can look at it right here.”

  I glanced into the palm of my hand. It was a gold-colored coin, about the size of a US quarter. A snow-capped mountain image was on the obverse with the word Teide under it. On the back was a map of several islands with the words Islas Canarias and the number 2023.

  “Ah, a coin from the Canary Islands,” I proudly stated, remembering my dos centavos del Español (two cents of Spanish). “Did you visit there recently?”

  “No, I’ve never been there. I found it in my luggage.” Strange.

  “Why, that’s kind of odd. Really odd.”

  “Yes, indeed! But look at the year.”

  “Oh, yes, 2023! Obviously, a dye error.”

  “Is this mis-mint [sic] valuable?” Mis-mint? Never heard such coinage.

  “I’m not sure how much the coin is worth for having that future year stamped on it. But, it is no ordinary coin. That, I can assure you. I can tell you more about it over a drink.” Hope that wasn’t too forward.

  “What did you have in mind?” Ah, she’s game.

  “This airport has about everything now. How about that popular American cordial concoction, the mudslide?”

  “I had one in the Cebu airport once. It was so sweet. You know, Parkaar, we pinays love sugary drinks. So, ok, sure.”

  “Ok, I’ll be right back.” I left for the bar counter.

  Monique noticed a pink, folded piece of paper on the vacant adjacent table. Curiosity got the best of her. She quickly reached over and grabbed it. There was a photo of a young lady inside. She appeared to be Southeast Asian. Underneath her image was a bold, one-line caption:

  Full-Body Asian Massage by Jen … 405-619-194_

  I returned with Monique’s brown mixed drink. I looked at the photo. “Who is that? Our next assignment?”

  Monique laughed. “Very funny, Parkaar. I found it on that table. Now, why in the world would this masseuse purposely leave off the last digit of her phone number?”

  “What? Let me see that.”

  Monique then handed me the 3” x 5” black-and-white glossy photo. Hmmm … very strange.

  “Yes, that is very odd, indeed, Monique. Super-strange. We’re in psecret psociety territory now.”

  “Ok, you’ve got your digital audio recorder on. I know it, 33.”

  “Of course, 32.” I winked at her. “Monique, maybe it’s a test to see how bad one wants her massage services.”

  “But, who is willing to call up to nine wrong numbers?”

  “A lot of horny guys would after a few drinks.”

  “Yuck! You men are such dogs.” She sneered.

  “Wait. Are you sure that all but one are wrong numbers?”

  “Well, I would think so, Parkaar.” Sometimes he is so dense.

  “Monique, what if her enterprise is so big that she owns all of the phone numbers with all ten last digits?”

  “Well, I guess that’s a possibility, 33. An outside possibility.”

  “You know, the more I think about it, 32 … well, it just seems like an artful prank.”

  “Just a prank? Ok, I dare you to call just one number.”

  I then dialed the nine listed digits and depressed a random final key with my eyes closed. Oh, what am I doing?

  One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Just before terminating the call, I heard a female voice abruptly ask: “Have you got the coin?”

  5. Plasma & Wigwood (December 2012)

  She was a striking, smiling, stylish, 50-something Asian lady now, who suddenly said: “Hi there, sir. You sure do look familiar. Do I know you from somewhere? A rooftop, perhaps?”

  But first, let’s go back a few days. Well, really, more like years. Decades, even. We can fit through this time portal, this narrow worm hole. Button those loose sleeves. Yep. Here we go. Watch that last step. It’s a woozy doozy.

  Ah, here it is: Charlotte back in the early 1970s. The Plaza-Midwood area of the inner eastside was not the dichotic yupscale gentrification/neo-hipsterdom creation it is today. It was a much seedier, completely non-trendy, often dangerous scene all the way around.

  Back then, drug addicts were selling their blood plasma for another fix. Alcoholics slept it off on the sidewalks, lying in their reeking urine. An X-rated theater featured skin flicks that would have you stuck to your seat. Literally. And no-nonsense working-class greasy-spoon restaurants, where even the salads were deep-fried, were the norm. Ok, a possible exaggeration there.

  PBR (Pabst Blue Ribbon) was drank because it was American and dirt cheap – not because it was the hipster brew of choice. In fact, the current crop of trust-fund scenesters were not even born yet.

  The pigeons were more numerous in those days. But, the exact reason why escapes me at the moment. Oh, wait a sec; it was the bag ladies. I remember seeing them at Central & The Plaza, near the bus stop, tossing out pieces of stale bread. Yeah, that was it. Remember that? No? Looking elsewhere? It’s ok; you’re excused. Sorry about that senseless diversion.

  Well, you get the picture. I’m putting this out as product. And parcel. Sometimes you have to type stuff like this to keep the story going. Or, to momentarily derail it while buying time. Ah, just a little icing on the red velvet cake, which we haven’t even yet baked. But, I digress. Moving night along.

  Ok, now there was this one really bad alcoholic pill-popper. He was a young white dude with light brown hair, of average build, who was a regular at the plasma donation center near Clement & Central. And, lo and behold, he got the nickname, Plasma. I kid you not.

  Well, at first he really despised the moniker, but he grew into liking its fit. Sometimes after downing a six-pack before noon, he would scream, “Mr. Plasma is ready to collect!” That usually cleared the sidewalk.

  Let me stop for a second and tell you that that last Diet Cherry Coke – the one that was on the office floor for seven months – well, some remnants were left on the inside of the plastic bottle after gulping it down – the same remnants which are probably on my insides now. Lovely, I know. And, hey, how about that – a sentence with a back–to–back that. Did you catch that? That is to be avoided, right? Write. And, yes, I do this without Adderall or sign-language sympathy. Ok, enough, enough, enough. Back to our waggish tale.

  Perhaps you are now wondering: Did Plasma have a job? Why, of course not. Where did he live? Would you believe that he rented, via a stipend from good ol’ dad, a back yard 8’ x 10’ metal shed with no heat source for $20/month off Lamar Avenue? And, all through the winter, too, mind you.

  Yes, he wrapped himself in five sleeping bags when it got down to 10°F. Mr. Plasma slept through the frigid nights donning a found-on-the-street Sugar Mountain ski mask.

  He timed his bathroom breaks like a German train. The fast-food restaurant’s sink made for a quick sponge bath at 9:30 AM (after the breakfast rush had passed).

  And, how did he smell? Usually as ripe as a soft, decomposing, post-Halloween pumpkin.

  I can hear one of you out there asking about his lineage – so very important in provincial ‘70s Charlotte, you know. Well, Plasma was the son of a downtown banker. Back then downtown was called, well, downtown – not uptown. Maybe some geologic uplift in the ‘80s? Who knows? That’s another story almost altogether.

  Yes, it was the oh-too-typical story of the only-son rich kid. Pop was always bailing him out of his screw-ups. A pair of downtown lawyers stayed very well-appointed just because of the plasmatic one’s misadventures in the Queen City of the South. (Trivia note: This is also the motto of the city of Cebu in the Philippines.)

  Money for the essentials was never a problem for Plasma. There was no real need for a job with his next-to-nil aspirational outlook. The blood-plasma money became extra beer and pill money. It was all an endless party without an end in sight. Well, it was up until he embarrassed his dad at an impor
tant board meeting.

  Somehow, our boy Plasma gained access to the 29th floor boardroom, staggered in, totally wasted, demanding money.

  He was immediately cut off – financially and otherwise. He would never receive money from, or hear from, his dad again. His financial life-support line was severed in an instant. As for his mother, she died when he was three. Maybe I should have told you that earlier. Sorry. My bad. I’m not the greatest story teller. Please, bear with me. The finish line is nigh. It’s a short story, after all.

  I think that it was early in the summer of ’75 when the 21-year-old, scraggly, frayed, ready-for-the-grave Plasma met up with 20-year-old Marvin Wood. Yeah, that sounds about right. A hot late June day in 1975. I think we’re in the ballpark now. Popcorn! Hot pop porn! [sic]

  Marvin, as fate often has it, was from the wrong side of the tracks: West Charlotte. Wilkinson Boulevard was his beat, and he beat it well. The oldest of five; he was lean, black as night, and wore a red cabbie cap. He knew how hard the street could be, and was as sly as a fox when it came to making a clever move in dire straits. When loot got razor-thin in the spring of ’75, he headed eastward.

  At first Marvin indulged in legitimate – though low pay – work as a bag boy at the original Harris-Teeter grocery store. Sometimes he received some tips, but it was pretty paltry overall. He was just eking out an existence.

  Marvin rented a room in a flophouse on nearby Hawthorne Lane. He often wondered if he should have attended summer school at West Meck as he watched moths circle the unshielded overhead light bulb, night after night. He would have graduated two years ago.

  Another hot, humid, hazy morning. It was just another boring day of bagging vittles on checkout line nine. A can of peas landed in the brown paper bag. Marvin could see his sad face in the reflection on the shiny silver can’s top. He quickly put a loaf of bread over it. He thought: This is nowhere. Must do something. Something else. Something not here.

  Ok, we have our two characters identified, Plasma and Marvin, though not so well developed. No argument there. But, they still have not met yet. Do you now, sage reader, feel a tension in your room/space/mind? Yes, I can feel it over here.

  Something that was elastic … is not anymore. Ok, enough noodling. (Mercifully, I’m not a self-indulgent lead guitarist).

  When a loosely stitched button snapped off his yellow dress shirt, Marvin just sighed, “Just focking [sic] great!” Then a soup can ripped through the brown paper bag. His grocery-store shift was spoiling fast. No, he was not a happy bagger.

  Now, guess who was coming through Marvin’s line with a 12-pack of RWB (Red, White & Blue) beer on an early, maximum A/C, July afternoon? Well, I won’t introduce a third main character in such a short read. Well, not just yet. Yep, it was Plasma.

  The two of them immediately struck up a rapport in fate-filled checkout line nine (lives). When Marvin told Plasma that his last name was Wood, an already inebriated Plasma shouted, “Wigwood!”

  Moreover, they agreed to slug down some brew later that night on the roof of the Plaza Pussycat Theater across the street. They would discuss the next hustle, or so they said.

  At 7:55 PM, Marvin and a hot 19-year-old Asian girl named Jade met Plasma behind the adult theater with a bottle of Scotch whiskey. Plasma had already begun drinking his 12-pack; only eight bottles remained in the cardboard box.

  Plasma scurried up the ladder, beer box under right arm, in a matter of seconds, never missing a rung. He motioned for Marvin and Jade to come on up. Jade ascended first. They all safely landed on the X-rated movie theater’s flat, tar-covered roof.

  There were some low-profile lawn chairs up there. They sat down as twilight descended upon them. They could hear the sounds of the passing cars on Central Avenue, but they couldn’t be seen due to the four-foot-high brick parapet.

  The cheap Scotch got passed around, trailed by a green cigarette. Intoxication quickly set in.

  Soon they were telling tales of life in Plaza-Midwood. Their laughing grew louder and longer. Marvin suddenly jumped up to make a grand announcement, perhaps to impress the ever-sexy Jade, who was studying both of them for any signs of sense.

  However, Marvin’s bare right arm brushed against the building’s electrical service head. Some of the insulation on the hot wire was missing.

  Result: Marvin was electrocuted in seconds. He had been standing in a pool of rainwater.

  Plasma and Jade looked at each other in horror as Marvin’s smoking body dropped off the live conductor. They freaked out. Jade hurried back down the ladder, never to be seen again.

  Plasma thought about what to do for seventeen minutes, then got paranoid, and exited the scene, too, fearing that he would be charged with murder.

  Marvin’s body wasn’t found for another twenty-six days. It made the local area papers and the TV news. The police classified it as suspicious, and never closed the case. Several decades went by, along with thousands of rain clouds, train whistles and horn beeps.

  And then on a hotter-than-normal June day in 2012, Plasma was walking by Bich’s Nail Salon, head-down, when he heard a familiar Asian female’s voice.

  6. Availing Asheville (January 2013)

  The number on the Asheville hotel door was 415. It was my old area code from when I lived in San Francisco, California. As I stared at the plastic numerals, my mind went into rewind mode. Man, oh man, that was a long-azz [sic] time ago. 1992. Two decades over the dam. Almost another lifetime ago. 737 Hyde Street. Apt. 405. Was that the number? Think so. And, I thought I was going to be the next Andy Warhol … or something. Foolish delusions of art-world grandeur. Ha-ha. That sure didn’t happen. Just ended up on the walls of a coffeehouse. What was the name of that joint? Oh yeah, it was called Café Soma. And, what was my phone number? Can’t remember it now. [And, even if I did, would I want to have it printed here?] BART didn’t go to SFO back then; had to jump on a MUNI bus or pay a hefty cab fare. Ok, back to Asheville. Let’s focus on the here and now before we have an accident.

  We, Monique (an alias for Agent 32, my Filipina wife) and I (Agent 33) were staying at the Downtown Inn, a five-story older hotel undergoing some sprucing up. A local artist had painted a lurid mural on the wall around the ground-level swimming pool. This patio pool was closed now, as it was late December (of 2012) and a wee chilly. But, for some odd reason we would wander out there. Oh, yes, it was for the free continental breakfast. Not a bad spread. Bagels, flavored coffee, fresh fruit. It surprised me for a two-star (my best guess) hotel.

  Ah, but back in the room, the sheets looked clean and the mattress was bedbug-free. And the view – now isn’t that why you go to the mountains? – was majestic. We would later watch snow squalls scrape the southern flank of Beaucatcher Mountain. Simply sublime stuff.

 

  It was one of those exterior-entrance, corridor-out-in-the-weather hotels. Motel style. What differentiates a hotel from a motel? John said that exterior doors = motel; interior corridor doors = hotel. But, I always thought that motels were only one or two stories; three levels and above = hotel. Hotel, motel, no-tell, show-and-tell … and the big oak tree fell. Oh, well.

  Well, this is where we were, Agents 32 and 33 of the highly esteemed psecret psociety (a group on Facebook). Agent 32 was calling me Parkaar (my ailing alias) for sport, and for the digital audio recorder.

  Monique was heard to say: “Parkaar, go do some parkour in the park.” [Pritchard Park, that triangle in the middle of downtown Asheville, where the homeless congregate and break bread and break and make bad, sometimes. I usually stayed clear of it. The aggressive panhandling turns me off and seals my wallet shut.] C’mon, do a trick, dude. Make yourself disappear. Ok, that was harsh. Just do something creative. Use your bean. Let it ferment. Don’t be another obnoxious oxy-drunk with an out-of-tune acoustic guitar trying to be the next Bob Dylan. Listen, you sing worse than me … and that’s saying something … terrible!

  Yes, I failed my 9th grade final chorus auditi
on. In fact, my choral teacher said: “Let’s just stick with the academic grade.”

 

  Yep, I still remember that humiliating line. The class laughed. Had to smile. It was that bad. So, I know bad singing firsthand. I can detect it, like really quick … as in five notes or less. Thus, we stayed clear of the terrible triangle.

  Of and on course, we ate at Laughing Seed on trendy Wall Street. Good veggie fare. A wee pricy, though. The waitress wasn’t too kewler-than-thou. [sic] You know, some call it the Asheville attitude, rather than the Asheville altitude. Hey, just relaying what I hear in C-towne (Charlotte). Hope they can’t read my thoughts in here.

  So, anyway, we stayed at the Downtown Inn in room 415 for two nights. Shot some pics that we used in a 70-second artsy video-short (The Asheville Cycle). I think it’s up to 9 views on Youtube. Maybe 12 by now. Not exactly going viral. Oh, well … that’s fine. Psi’s Gangnum record is safe.

 

  In the elevator on the second night, we met a vagabondish dude. He said that he and his buddy drove up to Asheville on the spur of the moment … from Mobile! Yes, from Mobile, Alabama. That’s like a 9-hour drive! Gosh, and I thought the two and a half hour drive from Charlotte to Asheville was long. (I hate driving for more than two hours and two minutes.)

  We saw the famous Biltmore House on day one, as Monique had never been there before. We left clues in the salons. We rode bikes on the estate grounds. It was a little 4-mile loop. Very easy, mostly along the French Broad River. Then we did the wine-tasting thing. Bought a three-bottle box-pack.

  The wine is actually not that bad. We especially loved the Century white. Good stuff. Goes down easy. Nice flourishes of Pisgah piquancies [sic] with a florid finish fit for framing. Oh, those wine descriptions. Walking (and wanking) in adjectival wonderlands. A fennel-maple aftertaste is regally relinquished.

  Any of ways, we took a city bus – an ART bus, mind you – to W AVL (West Asheville) on day two. Scored some deals at the Goodwill store. It was a cold rainy day. One where you just wished it would snow. Well, maybe after we were off the asphalt, safely back in our hotel room. In which case, it did … a little. Some light flurries. But then, there would be these bursts, momentous passing snow squalls.

  There were times when I thought back to when I lived off Charlotte Street. No, not the ritzy north end, but the south end. Had a view of City Hall off the front porch and a view of Mt. Pisgah out the back deck. But, I was with the wrong woman then (the first wife) and it all collapsed. Like a house of ice shards.

  But, Monique is here now, and things are going swimmingly … even if it is a bit cold outside. However, the heat in the room was strong; it heated the room up pronto. There was a slight grinding sound, though. The fan motor may have had an oval bearing. But, other than that, a good deal. No real complaints.

  We walked the streets of downtown Asheville on night two. Even in foul weather, many curious folks stirring about. We were distributing copies of previous works like this (like what you’re reading right now). The format: little colored quasi-literary bifold booklets. Bifocals not included. Have to keep the print small and compact. No time for paragraph breaks or quotation marks. It made it appear like a puzzle at times. But, you’ve made it this far (in this more normal alignment). We’re almost to the back page now where things get re-inchoated. [sic] Now, there’s a neologism.

  We carefully descended the wet brick steps to this basement bar. I think it was on College Street. The name escapes me at the moment. In.Sip.Id Lounge. Yeah, that was it. Divided into syllables. Way too clever to be bland. Well, we open the door and there are about a dozen hipsters just lounging around. Kewl [sic] ambient trance music in the background. But when we get closer, we hear, over and over: “Somewhere … it is all here … somewhere … did you hear? … Somewhere … it is all here … somewhere …”

  I felt a bit awkward, and I could tell that Monique was feeling uneasy, too. I thought, maybe just order a drink to get in the groove. I did.

  The blue elixir relaxed us in no time. Very soon we were all a-buzz with the sights and sounds of this modern speak-easy kind of joint.

  Then, yes then, it got strange. Our thoughts were being projected onto the walls with sound. Holy cow! What a multimedia show! I could see Monique’s thoughts, and I knew it was time to go back to the hotel room. With dueling smiles, we got up to leave.

  The beret-donning hipster-owner asked if we enjoyed our time. I told him that we did indeed, but we had to go now. He seemed kind enough, and his smile slid onto the wall as we turned to leave. Wipe that smirk off your brick face, lad!

  Once out on College Street, I wasn’t sure how long we had been in Asheville, or even how long we had been in that subterranean bar. A pleasant disorientation, it was. I was lucid of my impairment, yet I often thought: Somewhere, it’s all there, though not where all the sums are. Yeah, some kind of nonsense like that. It was the line in my head that night, all night. It was in repeat mode. The phrase that pays on a rainy day.

  Anyway, we marched ourselves back to the Downtown Inn without incident. When we arrived at the door to room 415, we saw a note on the door that read:

  Must have just missed you. Enjoy the town. –Ed

  Monique snatched the taped-on note off the door and asked me who the hell Ed was. I told her that I wasn’t sure, but that it may be an editor who I fired about eight years ago. Of course, she then asked how he would know that we were in Asheville – at this very hotel room, no less.

  I started thinking about the woman at desk, the one who was working when we left. She looked familiar. I relayed this to Monique.

  She then demanded that we take the note down to hotel management. She was scared. Her sudden facial expression: seriously spooked.

  I told her that Ed could be a real joker, and that, even if it was the Ed that I had to dismiss some time ago, he would not do us any harm. He wasn’t that type of guy.

  As we walked to elevator on our way to the front desk, we passed in the 4th floor enclosure, none other than this note-posting Ed. My head was kind of down as we crossed paths. Thus, when I heard him say, “Give me an honorable mention,” I had no time to reply.

  He was quickly around the corner and gone. Yes, just like that. Monique gave me a shocked expression. She thought that I had set the whole thing up in order to create another short story.

  I told her that I didn’t. Over and over, I repeated it. But, I wasn’t sure if she ever believed me.

  Well, Monique didn’t sleep so well on night 2. However, nothing further happened of note, save a bump on the wall at 4:15 AM.

  We drove back to Charlotte at 10 AM the next morning. I got a call from a blocked number as we curved around Lake Lure.

  7. Agent 107: A Final Report (February 2013)

  Agent 107, who went under the alias of Frank von Peck (also Frank N. Peck), escaped from the clutches of this mortal realm on January 6, 2013. He was aged 47 sun orbits. Please allow me some words of obituarial hagiography. A big ‘Thank You’ in advance.

  Mr. Peck always wanted the most physically and psychically daring assignments. Throw in some feminine intrigue, and he was there, first in line, looking fine, and now where do I sign?

  High adventure was his forte. And, he cleaned it off his plate in short order with an artful swoop. Always prepared, heck, always prepping for the next great adventure, often on a motorized two-wheeler.

  He could keep things under his vest, unlike yours truly. Thus, the ringleader, Ernie Earwig, allowed him to join psecret psociety under the radar without being on Facebook. (The only variance ever granted, I do believe.) When asked, he would deny being an agent. He was that secretive. And, smartly so.

  In the early years (‘79 - ‘82), he roamed around east Charlotte in a self-customized brown 1975 Comet that had about 20 plastic green army men glued to the hood. It was a hit at stoplights on Albemarle Road. He later turned the wiper’s nozzles outward and put red dye in the wiper washer fluid’s reservo
ir. You can imagine what he then did when in the center lane.

  But, these were just a couple of the teenage pranks that would presage other matters of real heft and import down the road. And, his road had plenty of jumps on it. Ups and downs. Many miraculous recoveries and ingenious evasions.

  His off-road phase on the old mining and logging roads of southern West Virginia were where he left us some clues on how to ride in high style. How to nimbly cross a swollen creek without becoming a nimrod. How to get the adrenaline flowing without blowing a gasket. How to beat that train through the tunnel … or over that narrow trestle!

  All of the thousands of miles of his travels. The tales from the trails. Well, it’s still back there … invisibly somewhere. Like your life, too, the past, the memories … a story now in the clouds, passing by … forever it would seem. Yeah, let’s get lost and float away!

  And, our Frank could read the clouds. He said that you could see the history of the world in them. One day you might see the history of the Roman Empire pass by. Such graphic scenes.

  And graveyards. Wow! He could tell which of the deceased were at peace, and which were tormented restive spirits. He really didn’t want me to document any of this. Whatever you do, don’t retell any of this. He said that to me. Many times. But, I think he would be ok with it now in his tranquil inurnment.

 

  There was a time in a van – maybe it was mine or my brother’s – when he told us about things that were happening, and getting ready to happen, several miles away from where we were parked. Astounding prescience. Always a step ahead.

  And then, a night in some frozen red-clay ditch. Oh, yeah, we had run off the road somehow. An unknown person in a nondescript car drives by.

  “We’ve got to get out of here now!” I yelled on that cold January night in eastern Mecklenburg County.

  “Why?” Frank asked rhetorically. “That wasn’t a cop.”

  “Are you sure, man?” I asked with some trepidation.

  “I’m always sure, dude,” Frank announced most assuredly.

  I then rocked the van back and forth, shifting the transmission lever from D to R and back again. Suddenly, the van’s rear wheels grabbed the pavement and we were free from the mud trap. Freed from a low spot, physically and psychologically. Another sigh of relief.

  But, that damn car made a U-turn. He or she followed us. Crap! Futher-mucker! [sic] This aint gonna end good.

  Frank barked out the driving orders. “Don’t look back; don’t turn your head around; just look straight ahead.”

  I did as he advised. The trailing car turned left onto a side road and disappeared.

  “Ah, they missed their turn, that’s all,” I said. “Whew!”

  “Where are they going?” Frank asked with a curious look.

  “Home, I suppose.”

  “That wasn’t a driveway.”

  I thought about that for a second. He was right. It just led to a party spot in a clearing (an illegal dumping area).

  “Well, let’s not follow them.”

  “You know, we were all doing this under different faces and names centuries ago. The appearances change, but it all gets recycled. Over and over.” Frank wasn’t joking.

  “You’re sure about that, sport?”

  “Yes, in so many words. In so many worlds.”

  “You’re a real sayer [sic] of sooths, Frank.”

  “Would you rather I be a slayer of sleuths?”

  Sometimes, I would just say something like … “Well, you know ...” and he would quickly pounce and close the open sentence.

  “Well, you know …”

  “The wheel is worn and you need a new face.”

  “Very funny, Frank. Very, very fawking [sic] funny.”

  He liked to keep things in order to be free to move … chaotically, yet on target, it often seemed. Mega-mobility. Always moving towards the next great event with the previous one in tow. Tethered to a loose-fitting mind, who knows what one may find?

  He made us think about life on Earth in this human form. What is the real goal? Are you happy now? Will you really be happy there and then? When you get to the next level of this or that will you just crave the one above? Does it ever end? Destinationitis, [sic] I think he called it. The curse of this modern age.

  And, he told me in so many non-words not to fall into this trap. Live today. Live in the now. Live while reading this. You don’t have to be a hedonist. Just stop the constant discounting of the present.

  Well, no, he did not directly say these things, but they were certainly implied. These nonliterary notes help me. They were all over his desk. These tokens of those times.

  Ah, I knew he liked the new girl. That shark grin. I saw it first in Florida. Clearwater. Epik [sic] with a k. No problem with the ladies. I took mental notes, but could never match his sly, understated technique.

  I wanted to go to Amsterdam with him, but our schedules never would allow it. I wanted to see him smoking weed freely and openly in a Dutch coffeehouse (as opposed to behind a dumpster in Monroe, NC). Oh, well. Maybe when I go back to the ‘dam, I’ll leave copies of this obtuse obit (this meandering thing you are reading now) here and there along the canals. Perhaps a stoned ex-pat will recognize a reference point.

  Yeah, we used to kick back on the Kuck back road and burn a phattie [sic] and listen to some Frank Zappa. A real über-duper in Mint Hill. The Independence High School daze.

  Then add some Marezine mind motion madness in east Charlotte. Dropping miscellaneous items in the old Regency Theater on Albemarle Road. (Oh, they razed it some time back.) His pocket watch, it stopped at the same time the movie ended. Well, he claimed such. It was An American Werewolf in London. I wasn’t there for that one, but I got several congruent reports.

  Oh, we were at Morrow Mountain once. Well, actually numerous times. But, the most momentous occasion was, uh, I think it was on March 9, 1983. [This day would later be the basis of the novella To Morrow Tomorrow.] A Wednesday. It was a nice spring-like day with a cool start.

  There’s a little creek next to the Kron House parking lot. We were hopping from boulder to stone up the creek. Somehow we never lost our footing, and never hit a wobbly rock. We were having a conversation as we sauntered along. It was like a fluvial philosophy lesson. The situation was fabulously fluid. Did I really type that? Such idiocy.

  First it came downstream. It, the big thought flotilla, started flowing all about. But then, we hit a Y … and it was like a recursive trap. You can read this either way. In the leaves. Or, on the stones. Even when the creek turned to clear Jello, we just kept moving. Advancing the plot. Picking at the ploy. Well, you get the jist: We was a-baked like Bundt marble cakes.

  By some magi-chance, [sic] we arrived at a green lagoon. THE Green Lagoon! Not really a lagoon, though; just a small pond in the middle of the woods. It had a short pier going to the overflow drain. Frank stomped on it really hard. You could hear the innards of the Earth reverberating up through that overflow pipe. I can hear it now. We peered down the hole. We saw ourselves with hawks flying overhead. Circling. Life is a fight for survival every second for most creatures. We thought this in so many ways. For so many minutes. For so many millennia it seemed.

  All earthly animals considered, we were glad to be human on that day. We went back to his red F-100 pickup truck. We were thirsty. He had a 2-liter bottle of Shasta strawberry soda. The shadows were magical. In fact and/or knotted fiction (he claimed that fiction if unraveled properly reveals fact), we went on to call it ‘The Magical.’ It was mesmerizing to look at those shadows on the hood of his truck.

  I really thought that he would be around for the 30th anniversary of that psyche-venture. I feel robbed somehow. He got my goat, put it on a boat, and set it afloat in a fathomless moat. Now, where’s my coat?

  Over Narrows dam, the story went wide. Way wide of the mark. How can we go back to these places without the present-day annoyances? Man, I want to dive into that cosmic stre
am. And drown.

  Well, Mr. Peck beat me to it. I wasn’t going to win that race. That trace … lingers.

  Now, I just wait for a signal. Maybe a whisper in the late afternoon wind. Or, just maybe something that he wrote, though he didn’t write so much. Not much of a scribe.

  I forced myself to go back to Morrow Mountain to check for a memento that he may have left behind. I walked to the Kron House graveyard (in the woods behind the old 19th century house). I looked at the family headstones. Sentries for centuries. It was the thought that came into my mind. I spotted a curious slab of marble. I turned it over; it read:

  I got a walk that can’t stand still. – Frank von Peck

  It appeared to have been scratched with a penknife. I remembered it. I stood there for a while. Then I sat down. And, the gray clouds were hanging anxiously, beginning to chide me.

  Then there was a gust of wind that rustled some fallen leaves. One stuck to the stone. When I removed it, there was no writing/etching on it. Gone. It is all here … somewhere … did you hear? … somewhere … it is all here … [the audio track kept looping]

  Ok, back to the green ‘lagoon’ before I close this mind tap off. It seems that they emptied it a decade ago. Gone a muck, gone amok. And, yes, the mystery escaped back into the boggy earth. Or, did it evaporate into the clouds? Probably the latter, and bring your tallest ladder.

  Oh, but it’s been refilled now. Plenty of new water for new thoughts. Plenty of pensive ponding to be had. It’s worth the trek on a gray day. Take a new path. And please don’t litter (one of Frank’s pet peeves).

  And, there was that day, floating in the clouds, reflecting on Lake Tillery. And, well, maybe it’s still there … somewhere. But, really, it all feels so postmortem now. The game has already been played. The adventures have been done. The highs have been reached. And, Frank had no plans for sitting on a rocking chair in his 70s – or even in his 60s – on some plateau chirping out platitudes. Or, did he?

  Hmmmm … I guess that I could have seen him in his early 50s still exhaling a cloud of smoke. “Dude, hit this quick!” But, no, I guess not.

  Well, the well was deep. We fell into it. Down we went into that hidden rabbit hole. So much adventure. Gosh, we had more fun than could’ve been imagined. How did we get away with all of that? Who do we owe?

  I have often wondered if Frank had some sixth sense of impending danger. He was just about always eluding the buzz-killers. Often high, but always keen. Never sloppy or lazy.

  And, lastly, boy did he have a good mechanical feel. He could always get the down vehicle or vessel up and running when things looked mighty grim. The setting sun never panicked him. “Pass me that wrench, man. No, the other one, sportbreath.” And, very soon we were in motion again as darkness gave chase.

  Just then, when I looked down, a sense of ‘goneness’. But the processes go on. No one person’s death stops the sun from coming up in the east. Yet, the sunset seemed to be STOP sign red on this chilly February evening. And the wind … man, I tell you it was whispering non-random syllables. And that shooting star … meteoric, dude! 107 light-years out.

  We’re Peckless now. He was peerless. I’m not tearless.

  8. Disconnected in DC (April 2013)

  Agent 32 (code name: Monique) and I, Agent 33 (code name: Parkaar), were then summoned to Washington, DC. Not a subpoena, mind you, but we had to go. No three ways around it.

  We traveled under the radar from uptown Charlotte, arriving at Union Station via a double-decker Megabus. We transferred to the Metro Red Line, got off at Silver Spring (Maryland), and walked about a kilometer to a one-point-five-star hotel on 13th Street.

  As we walked to the hotel office, we observed the police raiding a hotel room. I thought: Ah, our kind of place. Surely a short story lies in wait here.

  We threw our luggage down in the room and took a short nap. Mine was dreamless. As for Monique’s, well, not sure.

  Twenty-seven minutes later, we hiked over to Lotus Café for some Asian chow. It was tasty and satiated our long-travel-induced hunger. The waiter seemed to be up to something, but we didn’t ask any questions.

  The first night was initially uneventful. No notes were found in the hotel room. The only weird thing was that the tub faucet was fully open at 1:11 AM. Hot water was roaring out of the spout. Steam filled the bathroom.

  At first I feared a major plumbing problem. But, upon twisting the (H) valve handle, the water completely stopped – not even a drip. Now, how did that just happen?

  Monique then woke up. “How do you think that valve opened, Parkaar?”

  “Maybe the maid is deaf and doesn’t realize that the hot water valve is faulty and prone to opening from slight vibrations, Agent 32.” He must have that darn audio recorder running.

  “I’m not buying that explanation, 33. I sincerely doubt that vibration theory, Parkaar.”

  “I don’t know, Monique, that little refrigerator’s compressor has a bit of a kick when it shuts off.”

  Monique just rolled her eyes and pulled the covers back up. “Yeah, whatever, 33. Just get back in this bed before you get hurt.” Get hurt? By what?

  Sleep was uninterrupted until 5:05 AM. That’s when I heard a couple arguing outside our door (# 435). I couldn’t make out the language – maybe it was Hungarian? Well, maybe. Anyway, the volume subsided after a thud on our door.

  Monique was startled. “Did you hear that?!”

  “Yes, I did.”

  We just looked at each other, not sure of the best move (or non-move). A few minutes went by with no sounds – nothing audible. Apparently, the ruckus had passed. Maybe just a domestic squabble.

  We drifted into a half-sleep for 50 minutes. Then we got up and made some coffee. We decided to get ready to go to the embassy.

  We were out the door at 8:00 AM on the dot, and on the Metro by 8:15. The ride was morning-commuter uneventful. Newspapers being read. Coffee being sipped. Distant gazes reflecting off the windows.

  We got off the Red Line at the Dupont Circle stop and looked for the exit.

  “Wow, Agent 33, this has got to be the steepest and longest escalator in the world!” Maybe in the Top 10?

  After Monique exclaimed that, I noticed that it was indeed quite a long and steep escalator. It reminded me of one at a BART station in the San Francisco Bay area, but I forgot which one.

  We then began walking around the circle and soon found Massachusetts Avenue. We turned to the east and marched right past the Embassy of the Philippines (consular affairs). Silly us, we weren’t even looking up.

  We went past Scott Circle. That’s when we stopped and I realized our overshot. We marched back.

  Well, soon I was reaching for a doorknob on a nondescript white building. I turned the brass orb, the door opened, and I was met by the gazes of about two dozen Filipino Americans.

  Monique took care of her passport business. Forty-four minutes later, we were outside the embassy. That wasn’t too bad. Nice friendly staff.

  A young Filipina was standing on the sidewalk in front of the embassy with an automaton. She asked us what our plans were for the day. We told her, Krystal, that we would just be doing the usual tourist thing: taking pics down at the National Mall. She asked if she and her mechanized pal could tag along, and we consented. A Filipina with an automaton. I’ve got to write this up later.

  We strolled down 17th Street to the Washington Monument and took some photos. Then we proceeded towards the Capitol. And, finally we were in front of the White House.

  “Are you hungry?” Monique suddenly asked.

  “Yes, I am,” I said.

  “How about you, Krystal?” Monique asked while looking at her red automaton. What a strange thing. So creepy! Why does she tote that around? I’m sure Parkaar likes it.

  “Yes,” Krystal said. “I could eat a horse!” She giggled.

  We began walking back through the Foggy Bottom area, looking for a restaurant with rice. When we got to M
Street, we turned west. We literally stumbled upon a step-down joint called Sala Thai.

  We were promptly seated. I ordered while the ladies chatted at the large, thick, wooden, ten-seater, communal-style table. Soon the food arrived, and we were chomping away. This is some good grub. If I lived in DC, I’d be here semiweekly. / I love the taste! / They made a good choice.

  More customers entered. It was obviously a popular Asian eatery. However, seating was limited. It got crowded fast. People kept brushing our backs.

  Soon a pair of 50-ish Caucasian gentlemen sat across from each other, right next to us at the long common table. They began an intriguing conversation at a volume that was intended to be overheard. The bearded guy opened the volley with a comment about some spy book.

  “Mazorgski wrote about that affair, Ed. The first 100 pages were riveting. I couldn’t put it down. But, then it got really wonkish. Very inside game.”

  “Blightener is an easy read, but you can tell that he never worked for NSA or the CIA.”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty obvious that he’s guessing in spots.”

  “You think that Kerry can man up to China, Steve?”

  “Well, Ed, Chinese guns were fired at him in ‘nam. He won’t be forgetting that.”

  “I don’t know, Steve, he seems like an egghead pussy. These guys are playing way more ruthless than he realizes.”

  “Well, I guess we shall see.”

  “Ah, our food is here, Steve-O.” Steve-O?

  Their heads turned downward, as they began to feast on their rice-and-curry dishes. After an initial round of devouring, they came up for air and rejoined their conversation.

  “Blightener said that he sometimes leaves first-draft pages of the novel that he is currently working on in random places, Steve. Hotel rooms, coffee shops, even inside newspapers.”

  “That’s crazy as hell, but novel, and sounds just like him, Ed.”

  “He said that he got the idea when he found a short story on a folded pamphlet on a couch in the San Francisco airport.”

 

  “Man, that is seriously whacked. Off-the-charts whacked.”

  Monique then notices that the bearded guy’s (Steve’s) knapsack is unzipped. She very discreetly slips a copy of SFO |_| SOFA (a recent short story) inside. She looks at me and Krystal. I nod.

  Three minutes later, we are all finished eating. We get up to leave. The two intriguing conversationalists seem oblivious to our exit.

  Once outside on the sidewalk, I looked at Monique. “What exactly did you put in that man’s knapsack?”

  “One of the short stories – the San Francisco airport one.” [SFO |_| SOFA is the actual title]

  “Oh, wow! He’s gonna flip when he sees that in there. Excellent move, 32. Ernie will probably give you a bonus for that one.” Yeah, right? Check’s forever in the mail.

  “I wonder if he will look up psecret psociety on Facebook and send us a friend request,” Monique said.

  “Yeah, I wonder,” I replied.

  “Maybe he’ll think it is just too weird. I mean, what are the chances of some obscure, single-sheet-of-paper, short story ending up in your luggage?” Agent 32 asked.

  “Next to nil,” I answered.

  “Heck, I just hope he doesn’t spy on us.” Monique stated.

  “Spy on us?” I asked with a surprised look.

  “Did you hear their conversation? They themselves seem like spies. After all, we are in Washington, 33.”

  Krystal, who had been intently listening to our rambling discussion as we ambled up Connecticut Avenue, finally had a question. “Do you think they left the water on?” What water? / How much does she know?

 

  I started to chuckle to play it off. Soon it was uproarious nervous laughter from all three of us. Yeah, this is definitely worth a write-up.

  And, as the laughter subsided, we were back at Dupont Circle, searching for the Metro entrance.

  “There it is, over there!” Krystal shouted as she led us over to the long and steep escalator. Funny, for a Filipina just up from Florida, she knows Washington pretty good.

  We all hopped aboard for the mile-long descent. Ok, a slight exaggeration there. It is quite an escalator, though. Check it out if/when in DC.

  When we were about two-thirds of the way down, I noticed an orange sheet of paper on the flat metal section between the down and up escalators. It was quietly resting on the snow trap.

  As we went by, I snatched it. It was a half-sheet flyer for some pizza restaurant. Monique saw me grab it.

  “Why did you grab that piece of paper, 33? Do you want pizza tonight?”

  “Well, to be honest, I thought it was something else; I thought it was Galax_ Galaxy.” [another short story like this one that was printed on orange paper]

  “You’ve lost your mind, Parkaar!”

  I just shook my head and grinned.

  Somehow we never lost our footing. Never hit a wobbly tread.

  Krystal then asked to see a copy. Monique handed her one from her backpack.

  “Is this like the other one?” Krystal asked.

 

  “Kinda,” I said. “They’re all similarly dissimilar.” Huh?

  “What?” Krystal asked, looking bewildered. He’s nuts!

  Monique then chimed in to ease the confusion written all over Krystal’s face. “Yeah, they are all just harmless, though somewhat enigmatic, little short stories that lead to knowhere.” [sic]

  “Nowhere?” Krystal asked, still looking puzzled.

  “Depends on how you spell it, Krystal,” I said. “It’s usually best to lead that place off with a silent k.” Silent k?

  “I’m totally confused,” Krystal confessed.

  “The usual state of affairs around here,” Monique then said.

  “Welcome aboard, Krystal,” I said while noticing a jogger in soccer-length purple socks.

  “Who pays you guys?” Krystal then asked.

  “Pay?” Monique rhetorically asked. “You’re picking at the plot, Krystal.”

  “I’m sorry, Krystal, we just can’t answer such questions,” I said. “Well, not at this time and place.”

  Soon the three of us were on the train. There was an awkward silence. After four minutes, I broke it.

  “What’s your stop, Krystal?”

  “Gallery Place,” she shyly announced.

  “If the station were named Gallery Park, I think Parkaar would reach ecstastasis,” [sic] Monique then added. “Sometimes he just walks around saying ‘I don’t know what to say, and I say it all day … in Gallery Park’. Yes, I know; it’s all very crazy.”

  Krystal just sighed. “Oh?” Total bemusement had set in. Her train stop couldn’t come soon enough. What a demented duo these two are.

  When the train arrived at Gallery Place, we said our rudimentary farewells. Krystal quickly disappeared down the platform. She turned, and was gone.

  “Well, do you think she’s got ps-ps [psecret psociety] game, Parkaar?”

  “50-50, Monique. Too soon to tell how she will tilt.”

  As the train rolled into Fort Totten, I found myself looking down at the platform. When the train stopped, I looked at the nearest bench. There was a red piece of paper on it, perhaps the size of a half-sheet (8.5” x 5.5”). Why do I keep seeing this particular paper size? Probably because that’s my printed short story format.

  Then the train screeched into Silver Spring. The sun was bright, but not very warm. We walked past NOAA, down East-West Highway, turned on Newell, and then on Kennett.

  When we turned onto 13th Street, we saw a lurid mural on the building across the street. Frank (deceased Agent 107) would have liked to add something trenchant to that.

  And when we arrived at our green hotel door, we saw a red copy of Agent 107: A Final Report [the prior short story] thumbtacked below the numerals. Krystal’s work? / We’re being played … yet again.

  9. Greensboro Gaffe (May 201
3)

 

  Monique (Agent 32) and I (Agent 33) boarded the 5:15 PM northbound Amtrak in Charlotte. As we rolled out of the rail yard, I wondered: Might this rail journey yield a short story?

  The trip was largely uneventful, except for a strange Caucasian man of slight build, who boarded in Kannapolis. I’d say that he was about 55 to 60 years old. He seemed very agitated, almost frightened. His head kept turning, as if he were looking for – or out for – someone.

  We tried to avoid his gaze, but then he caught Monique spying on him.

  “Have you seen Jim?” he suddenly asked.

  Monique just shook her head. He’s loko. [crazy in Filipino]

  When I looked at him, he turned away, and began fidgeting with his jacket’s zipper. An odd one here. He’s definitely short-story-worthy wort. Must remember this.

  By Salisbury, he had calmed down. And, at High Point, he exited the train and hiked up the station steps and was gone. Wonder what his story is. Another walk-off mystery.

  The train pulled into Greensboro a few minutes earlier than scheduled at 6:45 PM. The sun was going down on a warm April evening. What a perfect spring evening in the Triad.

  Our hotel, The Greensboro Biltmore, was only four blocks west of the station. It was an easy walk. We traveled light. I had a backpack replete with previous short stories like this one – the one that you are now reading right now – however, Monique only had a blue handbag.

  We signed in at the front desk. The young lad gave us room 225. He said that we would like it. I found that to be a somewhat curious remark. Yet, no notes were found in the hotel room.

  The only weird thing that we noticed was that a lower dresser drawer was left open an inch. I promptly accepted the gaping invitation and deposited a copy of Gold (the short story; the novel had not been written yet).

  Monique and I were tired. We decided to take a twenty-minute recharge nap. We were scheduled to meet Agent 14 at 8:00 PM at Thai Pan on South Elm Street. It was just around the corner. zzzzzz

  We woke up at 7:45, and were in front of the closed Asian restaurant by 7:57.

  “Well, Agent 14 was right, Monique; this place is indeed closed,” I said.

  Monique wasn’t buying that explanation. She checked the note on the door.

  “Ok, so what do we do now, Parkaar?” [my ailing alias]

  “I’ll text him.”

  And, I did. Agent 14 promptly re-texted.

  Own m’eye whey, two blocks tew weigh.

  Several minutes went by. Monique was impatient.

  “Just call him, 33.”

  I did. And, as I was talking to Agent 14, I saw him walking down the street. Then he saw me, and we hung up our cell phones.

  Agent 14, a 50-ish Caucasian gent, drifted towards us. He had a hobble in his gait. Is he already smashed?

  We shook hands. He gave Monique a big hug.

  “How would you like to be a part of my next short story, 14?” (He was a voracious reader of all things psecret psociety.)

 

  “Does it involve Jim?” he asked.

  “Funny that you should ask about Jim, Agent 14,” I said.

 

  “Yeah, there was a guy on the train asking about him,” Monique added.

  “Maybe he’s on the steepest and longest escalator in the world,” Agent 14 said. Ah, he read the DC one.

  “What?!” Monique exclaimed.

  “Never mind him, 32; he’s just pulling lines from the previous story,” I explained.

  “Thyme’s sprinkled in a brochure,” 14 then said.

  “I wish that I could see how you spelled that, Agent 14,” I said, knowing that he probably meant the spice spelling.

  “Jest [sic] hold the mirror at the write [sic] angle when you grab that Pilot felt-tip pen, 33,” Agent 14 directed. “Don’t crash and burn again.”

  Well, to make a short story even shorter, we ended up next door at a back table in Crafted – The Art of Taco.

  “It’s great to finally meet you, Agent 14,” Monique said.

 

  “Likewise, 32; 33, not so much.” He smiled.

  I chuckled. “He’s just as advertised; isn’t he, Monique?”

 

  “Agent 14, you are so funny!” Agent 32 said, still laughing.

  We ordered some alcoholic drinks: PBR (Pabst Blue Ribbon) for me and 14; a large, curved glass of Moscato wine for 32.

  “Are you hungry?” Agent 32 asked.

  “Yes, I am, Monique. How about you, 14?”

  “Just hungry for that cook,” Agent 14 said with a leer.

  “Ok, Monique; I think he’ll be on a liquid diet tonight,” I said with a chuckle.

  The conversation moved from where everyone grew up to where we now sat.

  “Why did you change it from Café 23 to psecret psociety, 33?” Agent 14 asked, catching me off-guard, though there wasn’t much to hide or shield.

  “Well, you were there, 14. Remember the night it burned down? Remember that electronic earwig in the smoldering embers?”

  “Ernie!” Monique shouted.

  “Blightener!” Agent 14 blurted.

  “What?!” Agent 32 asked with a stunned expression.

  “Hey, did you follow us to DC, Agent 14?” I asked out of utmost curiosity. “Posting bills on doors, were you?”

  “I am sworn to secrecy. It’s the agent’s code, you know, 33.” Agent 14 announced this very aristocratically.

  “Is that so?” I asked. No reply.

  “Are you wearing a wire, 33?”

  “Possibly. How about you, 14?”

  “Just a push-up for added support,” Agent 14 stated.

  We all laughed. Nearby diners looked at us.

  “Agent 14 is so hilarious, 33,” Monique said.

  “Yeah, he’s on his game tonight.”

  Well, it went on like that for about a half-hour … until Agent 14’s beer glass was empty. I ordered us another round.

  Agent 14 then posed the question of the day to our college-age, tattooed, bo-ho, hipster waitress: “Have you seen Jim?”

  Not one bit confused, she had a quick reply. “Yeah, I saw him last week at the San Francisco airport.” That is whacked.

  I realized that even my current thoughts were lines in the last short story – one just like this one – the one that you are reading now. These recursive looping spirals … always in all ways, well, they do so go.

  Monique noticed that I had fallen into another neural fractalization, and then shouted: “Hey, snap out of it!”

  “Hello!” Agent 14 then said. “Come back and join us.”

  “Still lost in Plasma-Wigwood, 33?”

  I really wanted to tell Monique that I knew that she was going to say that. But, then Agent 14 chimed in, right on cue.

  “They, themselves. Them elves, on them shelves.”

  “What do you mean, 14?” I asked. “That’s not in any short story yet, it’s not even in the SFO one.”

  “Woah, this train of thought is getting away from us,” Agent 14 then said. “Who would have thunked [sic] it, 33?”

  “I don’t know what you guys are talking about,” Monique then quipped.”

  “Me, either,” I said.

  And, it went on like this for another fifteen or twenty minutes, until Agent 14 slammed his empty beer mug down on the wooden table. He had a pronouncement.

  “Here ye, here ye, I have a shortened tall tale to tell. Krystal hid the money in the automaton.”

  “What?” I just shook my head and smiled. Agent 14 is really onto our little game … but how? Were we that obvious? Were our breadcrumbs not biodegrading in the cold March rains?

  So many questions raced through my bean. And, when Agent 14 started talking about leaky faucets, I knew our gig was up.

  “You seem to know a lot, Agent 14,” Monique hinted.

  “Call me the eye in the sky,” Agent 14 said.

  “How do you
know Krystal, Agent 14?” I asked. His answer should be very revealing.

  “Look, there it is!” Agent 14 yelled. “No, it’s over there! Manic misdirection, mates.”

  “But, did you meet Krystal in DC, Agent 14?” Agent 32 asked, hoping for a legitimate answer.

  “Oh, Monique, you know that a psecret [sic] agent can’t reveal his/her sources. And, make sure you place a silent ‘p’ in front of ‘secret’ when you type up this conversation, Agent 33. I know you’ve got your cell phone recording this. I know your sly technique.” Huh?

  “You watch too many spy movies, 14,” I said.

  “He hardly knows how to turn his cell phone on, Agent 14,” Monique said.

  We had a guffaw. I quickly finished my second beer and caught the attention of our waitress. I picked up the tab, and we proceeded to the front door.

  Once on the sidewalk, yet another Agent 14 performance began. Some white dude in his mid-40s of slender build walked by in a black sweater. He stopped about ten feet from us and started talking to some black Rasta hipsters. Agent 14 was very intrigued.

  “Is that you, Jim?” Agent 14 asked.

  He yelled this so loud that everyone on the block could hear him. There was no answer back from the man in the black sweater. Though, he seemed startled and promptly ended his conversation with the Rasta guys, and slipped away down an alley towards Davie Street.

  “I know that was Jim,” Agent 14 said. “I know it was him! C’mon, let’s chase Jim down. He can’t be that fast.”

  Before we could react, Agent 14 was a-hopping and a-skipping down South Elm Street, and then down an alley.

  Monique and I chased after him. As we caught up to Agent 14, he caught up to the man in the black sweater.

  “Jim, what did you do with Jill?” Agent 14 boldly asked.

  The man in the black sweater turned and looked at him. He was purely puzzled.

  “I don’t know who Jill is,” he said as he rubbed his right eye. “You must have me mistaken for someone else. Goodnight, sir.”

  Agent 14 turned and looked at me and Monique. “Faux pas and fox paws.”

  The man disappeared into the Carolina spring night. Agent 14 bowed, and then made another announcement: “Remember, none of this ever happened.”

  After that, he bolted down Hughes Street. And then he was gone. We didn’t see either of them again.

  Monique and I walked back to our hotel. When we got to the unnamed alley adjacent to the hotel, we saw a group of four college students smoking weed next to a dumpster. The odor was pungent. We just glanced at each other, grinned, and proceeded to our room. It had been a long day.

  Once back in the room, Monique glanced up at me with a haggard expression. “When you write this day up, you won’t exaggerate, will you?”

  “Exaggerate? Why, never – just embellish a few details.”

  Monique sighed and rolled her eyes, and was quickly asleep.

  I laid my tired body in the bed beside her, just half-watching The Weather Channel.

  “Only a slight chance of rain tomorrow. Low: 54; high: 73.” Ah, perfect morning walking weather.

  I began to wonder if Jim was in Greensboro. Agent 14 seemed convinced that he was. But, then again, he was pretty loaded.

  I could hear a freight train approaching. The horn blew as the wheels rumbled down the tracks. Then all was quiet again.

  I remembered that I once lived in this town, some 41 years ago, over on Howard Street. I believe the address was 615. Yes, I can see the numerals on the plastic, olive-green trash can that my dad let me paint one April night in 1972. When we moved to Charlotte, we brought it with us. We used it until roll-out garbage containers were issued.

  A sudden burst of white light from across the alley. I glanced through the wooden window louvers. Oh, my!