Psecret Psociety Pshort Pstories, vol. 1 Page 4

10. NoDa Soda (May 2013)

  Monique (Agent 32) and I (Agent 33) moseyed over to The Smelly Cat coffeehouse on East 36th Street in NoDa (North Davidson, Charlotte, NC, USA), after having eaten a tasty Sunday brunch at Cabo Fish Taco. I ordered us a pair of Monique’s favorite: caramel-flavored black coffee, extra sweet, lots of whipped cream. Now she had 600 calories to burn.

  We found a cozy table outside. The April morning air was pleasantly dry and mild. I began to tell Monique about NoDa in the 1990s, starting out with 1991 – the year I arrived on the scene under the nom de brosse (art name) of m. van tryke.

  Monique had virtually no knowledge of NoDa’s history, as she didn’t live in Charlotte prior to 2011 (when we got married). I told her that this energetic guy from the Boston area named Terry Carano (may he rest in peace) got smitten by the art bug late in life and decided to go for it, all out, no marketing methods barred.

  “So, where did Terry go to art school?” Monique asked.

  “Carano graduated from the School of Naïveté with honors. He was determined to create the most famous co-op art gallery in the world: Absinthe.”

  “Absinthe?” Monique asked. “What is Absinthe?”

  “It’s a liquor concoction that 19th century artists would drink for inspiration. The green fairy, they would often call it. It’s made from wormwood” Wigwood?

  “Oh, did you ever drink any?”

  “No, I’ve never tried it, but you can buy it at the ABC store. Terry just wanted an art-related name, I guess.”

  “Did the gallery become world famous?” Monique asked with raised eyebrows. Cute Asian eyebrows.

  “Uh, not exactly, Agent 32. It’s now the place where we just ate.” Agent 32? Yep, he’s recording.

  “Cabo Fish Taco, Agent 33?” She knows I’m recording. Good.

  “Yeah, that would be the space. Actually, that space became 23 Studio during the summer of ‘92. Another artist named Lepton Neutrino – or more commonly known as Steve Holt – kept the ship off the rocks until the fall of 2002. Then the old Woolworth Building was felled, and the Cabo edifice was built.”

  “I see.” Monique was genuinely intrigued by the history.

  “We had quite an amazingly improbable run. All kinds of art and artists passed through there over those 11 years. There were some monumental turnouts on Gallery Crawl nights.”

  “Gallery crawl nights?” Monique asked with a bewildered look.

  “The first Friday of every month. And, later on, the third Friday was added. Though, it was always much smaller than the first Friday.”

  “Was any art being purchased, or was it just a roaming drunk fest?”

  “Art was actually being bought and sold. Just ask Jerry Kirk (Agent 51). And, no, it wasn’t just a mindless drunk fest. Well, not in the beginning, or not in the middle.”

  “How about the artists … did any of you become famous?”

  “No, not that I am aware of. However, Joe Behm (may he rest in peace, too) would announce to everyone that came in the door that we were the best artists in the world.” I chuckled. “It made us feel good. What a showman that guy was. A natural barker.” Barker?

  “Where are Terry and Joe now?”

  “Uh, they’re dead.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “It’s ok. They weren’t spring chickens when they checked out. They had an honest go at it.” I paused for a few seconds to watch some cyclists pass by. “Those early Gallery Crawls were something else. They were pack-a-zoid, [sic] Monique. The sidewalks were so jammed; strollers were forced into the street. Bands – like The Ravelers and Tranzend – would play behind the gallery. Eventually, Pat’s Tavern was internally connected to 23 Studio to facilitate alcohol transit. We even shot Z-Axis public access videos in the gallery. Fun times. Great memories.”

  “Wow! I wish that I could have been here then.”

  “Well, I was looking for you, Agent 32.”

  “I bet you were, 33.” She laughed.

  “Oh, and we had this lounge-like setting inside 23 Studio.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. The artists and their friends would sit on the couches and chairs and chat about art – and many non-art – matters.”

  “A salon?”

  “Of sorts. Of odd sorts. Yeah, it was whey kewl.” [sic]

  “Parkaar, [my ailing alias] I don’t trust your word spellings.”

  “Are you seeing my words again, you synesthesiatic one, 32?”

  Monique laughed for a few seconds. “No, I just know your word games, 33. Remember, I’m your poof weeder [sic] nonpareil.”

  “Oh, yes. Now, how could eyes [sic] forget?”

  “I don’t know. How could they?”

  “Well, I seem to forget many things in my old age.”

  “You’re not that old!”

  “I’m ancient history, Agent 32. I’m yesterday’s slightly emetic aftertaste.”

  “You’re making bizarre statements again for the audio recorder, aren’t you?” Monique asked with a stern look.

  But, before I could respond to Monique’s question, an early 40s Latino hipster dude stopped at our table. He leaned over.

  “Hey man, I heard you guys talking about the NoDa scene in the ‘90s. I was there, too. I was even there in 1990 when it was known as the Historic North Charlotte Arts District.”

  “Yeah, I remember that mouthful of an appellation.”

  “Appalachian?” Monique asked, looking very confused.

  “Well, it sounds like that, Monique, but isn’t quite as inclined.” I looked back at the Hispanic hipster. “Hey, who coined the term NoDa anyway?”

  The Hispanic hipster groomed his goatee. “Boy, I’ve heard that debate many times. One time back in ’94, this guy asked me at 35th and North Davidson: ‘Is this NoDa?’ I just said: ‘No dah. Not, no duh, dude.’ I even repeated it for emphasis.”

  “And, what happened?” I asked, intrigued by his anecdote.

  “He just kept walking up the sidewalk,” the hipster dude said. “Not sure if it sank in with him. He seemed pretty focked [sic] up. Totally wasted.”

  The Latino hipster dude then moved along towards Yadkin Avenue. Twenty seconds later, and he was gone. Wonder where he’s going? / Is he off to get a fix?

  Monique looked across East 36th Street at the Neighborhood Theater. “What is that over there?”

  “Well, it was once a movie theater. Then it was a church. And now, it’s NoDa’s premier music hall. Bands play there. Todd Rundgren played there. And, get this supposedly when Mr. Rundgren saw the marquee sign with his name in assorted letter colors, fonts and sizes, he exclaimed: “Jeez-us effing Christ, what the hell happened to my career?!”

  Monique had a quizzical look. “He’s a famous artist?”

  “Yes, a musical artist. That nice song we heard on the radio the other day: I saw the light. That’s him.”

  “Oh, I see. Did he stop in at 23 Studio?”

  “I don’t think so, Monique. I think he just played, then split for the next town. He’s a busy man.”

  “Did Frank (now-deceased Agent 107; may he rest in peace, as well) and Mike (Agent 2) ever come up here?” Monique asked while continuing to study the marquee.

  “Yes, many times, Monique. Many, many times.”

  “I feel like I got cheated out of something, 33.”

  “Ah, don’t feel like that, 32. That initial NoDa phase was fun, but the current phase is kewl, [sic] too. Though, there sure aren’t many art galleries left.”

  “Maybe the recession of ’08 knocked them out?”

  “Yeah, maybe so. People are more likely to buy beer and coffee before artwork.”

  Monique was still very interested, and continued with her questions. “What was this area initially?”

  “A textile mill village. The little one-bedroom house that I owned on Mercury Street was a millhouse. Thread workers lived in that house long before me.” Thread workers?

  M
onique noticed a dark-haired, 20-something, Asian female walking up. “Gosh, that girl has so many tattoos.”

  “Yeah, the ink flows all over the skin down here. Kind of like in Plasma-Wigwood.” [local slang for the Plaza-Midwood area of Charlotte]

  “Which area do you prefer, Agent 33? The node or the wig?”

  “Nice compact coinages, Agent 32. Glad the recorder is on. I may have forgot that when write-up time came along.”

  “Well, which one, Parkaar?”

  “Hard to say. It seems to vary. I’m just glad that Charlotte finally has more than one hip area. For the longest time this city had no hip scenes - zero, zilch, nil. It was sad.”

  Our conversation went on like this for another thirteen minutes. That’s when the barista came outside and asked if we wanted anything else. We told her that we were good. She thanked us for coming.

  We got up and began to walk back to the van, which I had parked in front of Cabo Fish Taco. We stopped near The Evening Muse for a minute.

  “Ah, if these walls could talk, what language do you think they would speak in, Agent 32?”

  “Mortarese?” [sic] She’s on her game today.

  I laughed. “Good one, Monique. A certified winner there. That’s crisp money. I’ll use that one later.”

  Next, I looked down the sidewalk. In one of the slab cracks was a silver piece of metal. I bent down and picked it up. It was a miniature chrome skull with an eyelet for a chain on top. I showed it to Monique.

  “Yikes!” Monique exclaimed. “That’s creepy as hell.”

  “It must have fallen off of someone’s necklace.” I placed it in my front pocket.

  “You’re going to keep that and bring it into our home?”

  “Why not? A memento of our day in NoDa. I’ll engrave today’s date on it.”

  “It might bring bad luck.”

  “Nah, it’ll be ok. You are watching too many horror movies on Comet with Agent 666.”

  “Ok, but hide it somewhere; I don’t want to see it.”

  “Sure. No problem. Consider it done, 32. Disappeared.”

  Now, back in the old green van, we headed up North Davidson Street. We slowly crossed over the railroad track mound after 36th Street. I then pointed to the right at a small, old, beige-colored millhouse.

  “Well, that was where I lived, Monique, from December of ’94 to December of ’97. Almost exactly three years to the day.”

  “Were you alone in that house for those three years, Parkaar?”

  “Very much alone, I assure you.” Hmmmm …

  I turned right onto Mercury Street and looked at the front porch. Looks about the same. Just a different color of paint. I wonder if the new owners have found those notes about the NoDa Soda formulation.

  We crossed another railroad mound and then turned right onto North Alexander Street to arrive back at 36th Street. I turned right and we passed the Neighborhood Theater. Then I turned left at the light to head south (towards downtown/uptown) on North Davidson Street. As we passed 35th Street, I pointed to the left.

  “A bar called The Aardvark used to be there, Monique. It was Joe Behm’s bar.”

  “When was this?” she asked. “Did he have the bar and a share of Absinthe?”

  “Oh, this is going way back, 32 … probably all the way back to 1992. I believe that he did one before the other, but the chronology escapes me. Anyway, the Aardvark was belly-up by ’96, maybe earlier. It didn’t last that long. Though, I can still remember the late Joe Behm saying, after I rang the tip bell without yet buying anything, ‘Sir, if we lose control of the bell, we lose control of everything!’ Truly epik [sic] with a k. What a character he was.”

  We continued driving towards downtown/uptown Charlotte. We could see the tall buildings rising at the end of the railroad yard.

  “See, it’s not that far from downtown, Monique. It’s probably just two miles as a crow flies.”

  “Does a crow always fly in a straight line, Parkaar?”

  “Only when the crow is trying to live up to that old saying, Agent 32.”

  Monique laughed and looked over to her left. “So, what’s this area called? It looks kinda scary.”

  “This is Villa Heights. Soon it will be trendy, too.”

  “No way!” she retorted.

  “Sure way. Look how close it is to downtown. The millennials love living close to work.”

  We were now crossing 15th Street. Traffic was light.

  I continued with my real estate predictions. “Heck, even this Belmont neighborhood will be bo-ho chic someday.”

  “So, you think NoDa will get scooped someday by the neighborhoods closer to downtown, 33?”

  “I don’t know if NoDa will ever get totally scooped, as these areas down here are pretty much just residential with only a few shops. The main scene will still be in NoDa, I would suspect … but, who knows? Oh, we just passed Area 15. It was once so underground that you had to be in the know to even know where it was. And, look at it now. Oh, how it has sprouted. They have a kewl rehab bike store, too.”

  Monique looked to her right intently. “Oh, yes, I see it.”

  “Once the Lynx Blue Line gets extended, all of these areas should really take off. NoDa will get a big boost out of it, as there will be a station at 36th Street. Even the now-scary Howie Acres at Sugar Creek & Eastway will see an amazing upward transformation. I just wish I had the cash to buy one of those small houses on Bearwood Avenue.”

  “Will it spiralize [sic] upward, Parkaar?”

  “Spiralize.” I chuckled. “Very funny, Monique. I guess you were right on cue with replaying that inanity, as I was starting to sound like a real estate commercial.” “But, you know, thinking back … NoDa in 1990 was scary territory. People would sometimes get mugged after leaving one of the two art galleries. Most of the storefronts were still boarded up … or worse, not boarded up, and being used by crackheads. Thus, we started a citizen’s patrol. We were armed with flashlights. You know how cockroaches hate bright lights. It was actually fairly effective.”

  “Sounds like it was an uphill battle, 33.”

  “Yeah, it definitely was during the first half of the ‘90s decade, Monique.”

  “Can I see that skull trinket that you picked up?”

  “I thought you were afraid of it.”

  “Phobia suddenly cured. Let’s see it, Parkaar. Cough it up.”

  “Ok, one sec, 32.”

  “We need to stop at a pharmacy and get you some cough medicine. I don’t want you to croak on me just yet, 33.” Croak on me? She’s already picking up American idiomatic expressions.

  We both had a laugh.

  Then I retrieved the little chrome skull and gave it to Monique. For some strange unfathomable reason, at that very moment, I remembered a great NoDa/Z-Axis videographer who passed away on June 30, 2000: Bruce Gillenwater (may he rest in peace, too).

  I became lost in thought. Bruce … what a kewl guy he was. And, what a trip down memory lane this has been. I’m going to enjoy writing this one up next Monday. Random Recollections of the 1990s on North Davidson.

  11. Boone There ~ Fun That (May 2013)

  And the search for Jim continued in the NC Mountains …

  Jim. Jim, Jim, Jim, ever heard of him? No, not your best friend, lover, husband, brother, nephew or uncle (or self?) – that Jim. The other one. The odd duck. The uniquely weird one. Unintentionally strange, but not harmful. A minimal art-form in himself, and a resounding arthouse flop.

  Yeah, the neosurreal gem. The meta-real mistake. The one who stopped time with Jill. You know, that less-than-comical series on Facebook. (Relax, 99.999% of the planet has no idea, either.)

  Jim and Jill. The timeless sequence that Jill wants out of, but Jim is content with. (Frames can be seen on the psecret psociety Facebook page.) The one where the characters never move. Yeah, that one, where they only read each other’s thoughts. Why, I know, it seems like an excruciating exercise in
ennui. And it was/is. Trust me. You may need another mug of coffee (or beer) just to survive this preface.

  Jim, the quasi-scientific mind experiment that went awry. They scrambled his bean pretty good. Really overhauled it. The Caucasian middle-age lad isn’t sure if he is – or was – even alive. Poor guy. I’m not a litigious type, but someone deserves to be sued for that.

  Ah, here she comes. Agent 32 is now in the house, or hotel room.

  “Thanks for the extra-spatial [sic] tea, Monique.” [alias of Agent 32]

  Ok, some more background on Jim and Jill. Well, to make a short story slightly longer, Jill said that Jim escaped from some meta-space. Yes, a space beyond a space. (I was lost, as well.) And then, well, she got herself sucked into it, too. This was stated in her last e-mail.

  But, maybe you’ve seen Jim wafting up and down the Boone-area ski slopes. Not sure? No, he doesn’t look like Frankenstein. He’s not a mu-mu (Tagalog for monster, Agent 32 tells me). You can check the psecret psociety page on Facebook. Ok, I’ll save you a trip to the internet: Just jump to the end of this story by clicking here. But, please do return.

  --------------------------{early intermission}-----------------------------

  Ok, I assume that you came back. Thanks. A lot. And a future house. Ok, let’s get this tale moving again. Moving along with cilia action (or, maybe not).

  We arrived at the old Greene’s Motel on US 321 in Boone (NC, USA) on a cold, cloudy, gray December afternoon. Castle weather, we would often call it. I think it was the Thursday between Christmas and New Year’s. Yeah, that sounds about right. Let’s go with that.

  Our glasses touch.

  Well, we got one of the upper level rooms with a nice view of a mountain ridge … and of a tarpaulin-covered pool.

  “No swimming tonight, Agent 32.”

  “Probably not, Parkaar, [my ailing alias] unless you packed our froggish [sic] wetsuits.”

  Monique (my wife) got the luggage unpacked. She checked the drawers for notes and other less obvious clues.

  My son, Agent-to-be 666 (yes, he demanded that number), began to play on the dresser with one of his Hot Wheels cars, a white ’68 Shelby Mustang with a blue duo-stripe.

  I checked the closet for any notes or curios, as you never know who plays the hotel games. And, Jim certainly would participate in them. All ways and all waves.

  Oh, speaking of hotel games, did you know that Marty Balin of Jefferson Airplane/Starship used to carefully remove hotel room artwork from the frame and add sketches of miniature fornicating stick figures? Yes, really. Then he would carefully replace the print in the frame and hang it back on the wall. Apparently he did it so discreetly that you would only notice it if you were zoning in on a detail of the art from, say, four inches away. Sways, eh? Give that man a game ball.

  Relax, we didn’t deface any art at the Greene’s. The velvet Elvis still had the added Camel cigarette. We didn’t do it; it was already there. College hipsters these days.

  We got settled in as darkness fell on the valley of Winkler Creek. Old ripped van Winkler. Where is he now?

  Well, everyone was hungry. I asked 32 to watch 666, as I was going out to procure some food for our dinner.

  I walked over to the nearby Pizza Hut and brought back a couple of thin crusters. [sic] I thought about writing Fold Online on the pizza box, and leaving it for the maid to consider. But, I decided it was way too obscure. Maybe just scrap it. We did.

  After we finished eating, a snow-sleet shower started to sprinkle and tinkle. Then, within thirteen minutes, it was all white snow, and coming down at a jolly good clip.

  We walked out on the balcony to take it all in: a splendid winter night in Appalachia. The onset of snow is always a magic time. Unless, you’ve got 110 miles to drive.

  Then I asked my wife and son if they had any ideas for my next short story – the one you are reading now – and they pondered my question for a few moments.

  My son fired back first. “Dad, how about staging a car accident scene using my Hot Wheels car? You could zoom in on the scene so close that the car would look like a full-size ’68 Shelby Mustang.”

  His idea intrigued me. “Agent 666, that is a grand idea. But, are you sure that you don’t want a different agent number?”

  “I want to keep triple-six for life!” he demanded vociferously.

  “Ok, ok,” I relented. “But, some may be ruffled by it.”

  “I don’t care!” he screamed. “It’s my number!”

  My son continued with his idea for a Boone-based short story. He told me that we could say that we were on Jim’s trail, closing in on him, when we got into a car chase with him. He said that Jim would lose us temporarily on a Blue Ridge Parkway curve. But after passing through a tunnel, we would find his car stuck in a tall wall of snow.

  “I love this idea, son. So, Jim crashes into a snowbank. Let’s go with it.”

  Monique then chimed in. “I’d add some spice to your silly little tale, 33. Female readers love interpersonal drama. Tell them that another head was seen in the car – a female’s head – the head of Jill.” Nice touch.

  “Oh, I like it, 32. Jim and Jill fleeing from us on the Blue Ridge Parkway in an evening snowstorm.”

  Monique went on to tell me to write the story up in a way that made Jill look like the evil mind behind the escapade. I asked Monique what Jill had done wrong – just for our story’s sake. She told me that I could insinuate that Jill really did control the electronic chip inside Jim’s brain.

  Then Monique blurted, “Insist that Jill made Jim walk into the bank and demand money.”

  “What bank?” I asked.

  “A local one. Just say that it was a Boone bank.”

  “So, they’ll be bank robbers?” my son asked.

  I groaned. I was non-elated with this premise. I never saw either of these characters as bank robbers. In fact, I never saw them doing much of anything, action-wise. But then, after a Duck Rabbit dark beer, it won me over.

  I would later ask Agents 32 and 666 how we could tie this in with a Mount Mayon Volcano eruption in the Philippines. But, they just looked at me, mouths agape. My son muttered something about how I always ruin a good story with extraneous material. Monique just sighed, and poured herself a glass of Merlot.

  To tell you the truth, I was quite happy. My body wasn’t in pain, and we were off the icy roads for the night, safely ensconced in a concrete cocoon, composing a surreal short story together as the snow fell outside. A perfect mountain escape from the Charlotte chatter.

  Then a phone was vibrating. It was my cell phone on the nightstand. I grabbed it. An unknown number. I didn’t answer it. The anonymous caller left no message.

  “Monique, could you kindly research the 333 area code?” I kindly asked my wife, who was now lying on the bed closest to the window.

  She quickly looked it up on her tablet computer and reported back her findings. “The 333 area code hasn’t been activated yet. No phone numbers have that area code, Parkaar.” Very strange.

  At first I has completely dumbfounded, but then I had a hunch who it was. My son thought it was Jim, too.

  Monique looked at the door. It was already locked. I told her that we would be ok, and that Jim was just a cerebral killer – not a serial one.

  Future Agent 666 then asked me if I thought that our hotel room was bugged. I told both of them that I saw a column of ants marching on the aluminum window frame, but other than that, all was ok.

  Monique said that she saw an earwig in the tub, but it didn’t look like Ernie, so she smashed it with my Bukowski Earth Poems book. I was like, “Oh, no, you didn’t.” I told her that was my crapper reading material.

  She then scraped the insect’s remains off the back cover with her nail file. Then she wiped the back cover with an alcohol pad.

  And, it went on like this until we burned the popcorn in the ancient, paint-flaking-away, rusted microwave. We were all sound asleep by 2:02 AM.

/>   We awoke to a partly cloudy morning with a few flurries, and decided to get serious about our gem of a ruse. Outside we marched. It was brisk.

  The macro-photo was fairly convincing. If you didn’t study the photo with a magnifying glass, you would think that a real ’68 Shelby Mustang ran off the road into a ten-foot-high snowdrift.

  We agreed to say that neither Jim’s, nor Jill’s, body was ever found. And, that when the cops found the car, Bonaparte’s Retreat was playing.

  Why Bonaparte’s Retreat, you ask? Ok, some much-needed background. Sorry for the temporary disconnect.

  In one of Bukowski’s poems de terre, there is this guy named Fred who loves the song Bonaparte’s Retreat. (In fact, that’s the name of the poem.) He was one of those older guys at the bar who never speaks to anyone. Some drained soul just riding out the clock.

  Well, old Fred died before I could mention him here. I bet when he was a wee lad, he lived up North somewhere where it snows fairly often. Maybe in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Hell, maybe in Minneapolis, North Carolina. Well, he had teeth. Just jesting. Put the gun down, partner. I’m buying.

  I bet as a child, Fred had a small toy car, or maybe four. I bet he made snow sherbet. But, I bet he pronounced it sher-BERT. Sure, Bert. You know that was his pal.

  And more on Jim. Whenever reviewing his past results, Jim would refer to himself as they. He would spout off something like: “Ah, look what they did last year; they can beat that number.” A perplexing use of pronouns, for sure.

  You know that sensation when you’re in a train, waiting to go, and an adjacent train starts to creep along in the opposite direction, and you feel like your train is moving, when, in fact, it’s still stopped? I believe they call it a vection illusion. Well, Jim was vexed by the exact opposite from an early age. He would often feel that his train was stationary, even as the outside scene whizzed by at high speed.

  Driving a car was obviously a bit of a challenge for Jim. He had to take special medications to do it.

  Then my son told me that we had it all wrapped up, and were ready for the bow and ribbon. Yes, it was time to put the icing on this cold-azz [sic] cake.

  Agent 666 told me that we should state that Jim was speeding on an icy road on a snowy night and crashed due to a moment of invection. Sure, why not?

  I told both of them that Ernie would probably buy it. Though, I bet we never see any money. Par for the curse. [sic]

  I reached for Monique’s coffee cup. It was now lukewarm. I set it back down.

  We hid copies of previous short stories throughout the old hotel room. Someone is going to flip their wig when they find these. / I wish I could see the person’s face when they find the first copy. / Dad sure has some strange hobbies.

  Jill and Jim in their timeless existence

  Click here to return to story.

  12. Siquijor Seduction Zone (May 2013)

  Herein lies the initial meeting of Agents 32 and 33.

  Monique (future Agent 32) friend-requested me (future Agent 33) on Facebook on May 10, 2010. We know this was the date because Monique still had the friend-request confirmation e-mail, which she stumbled upon while cleaning up her Yahoo inbox.

  Back at that time, there was no psecret psociety. We were lingering in the shade of the Café 23 flag, meandering to Chet Baker. I would encourage our nascent cottage coterie by stating things like: “Ultimately, there are no non sequiturs – none – undone.”

  It was a lot of punnery, [sic] puzzlery, [sic] and puffoonery. [sic] Some caught the pop fly and had a ball. Others felt wise to do otherwise.

  We waded in wordplay by day; lounged like chaised [sic] lizards by night. We even brought Café 23 to real – physical – bars in Metro Charlotte and Greater Los Angeles. Wait, maybe that was the early psecret psociety phase. Early onset cosmosis. [sic]

  Anyway, we decided to drop the Café 23 banner altogether, as there were java joints around the globe using that alphanumeric name. Lawsuits just didn’t fit our frame of preference. We certainly didn’t want to be pulled into a court room in Rotterdam. Well, actually, if the trip was pre-paid with some free time … yes, that would be very tempting.

  I recall a recon trip to Central Coffee at Louise & Central Avenues (in Charlotte). I asked them if I could leave a few short stories on the literature shelf – like this short story, the one you are reading now – and they stoically declined. I remember thinking: What kind of non-chain coffeehouse doesn’t allow local publications? A boring one.

  I don’t know about you (though, I would bet my imaginary pot farm that you are smarter than me and way more interesting), but local lit is the first thing I alight to when I go into a coffeehouse. Ah, maybe they’re just following the Starbucks model of the sterilized faux coffeehouse experience.

  My thoughts would later be confirmed by an independent older Caucasian lady who noticed our lurid, soccer-length socks and neon shirts, and cheerfully said: “Only happy people wear bright colors.”

  I replied, telling her that we were indeed happy, but the bright colors were primarily for safety, as we were riding our bikes. She smiled and walked on.

  Ah, but let’s get back to 2010. Our amorous online correspondence continued through the spring and summer. Chats, messages, e-mails, and all that ‘hidden between the lines’ stuff. However, no sausage or tunnel shots. We stayed aboveboard, though there were some high swells.

  Then on September 20th, I left for Monique’s mysterious island of Siquijor. “Isla del Fuego,” [Fire Island] the Spanish called it when they sailed past the southern coast in 1565. No, not because the small island was aflame, but because there were so many fireflies (or lightning bugs as they call them here). In fact, they say that they lit up the Narra trees, and were collectively visible from miles away in the Bohol Sea.

  Well, I know that leading off sentences with well is not smiled upon by those steeped in English prose. But after 22 hours of combined flight and airport time, I was in Dumaguete. The coastal city on the southeastern bulge of Negros Oriental was already bustling in the humid, morning heat.

  I then caught the ferry to Siquijor town. The passage was relatively calm, and took about 50 minutes.

  Once on Siquijor Island, I took a 38-minute (yes, I timed it; such a temporal nerd I am) jeepney journey to the town of Lazi on the south coast. A half mile up from the sea, I finally saw Monique for the first time on Aljas Street at Alvarico Street around noon. She was more charming than expected. What a doll. A pinay princess with a heart of gold. I spoke first.

  “Ah, it’s so great to finally meet you, Monique. You look beautiful.”

  “Thank you, Parkaar, [my ailing alias] but those are your words, not mine.”

  “My words are true, my dear. I tell no lie, standing, sitting, or lying.” Or lying?

  “What did you just say?” she asked, sensing a pun run.

  “Come closer, and I’ll whisper it in your ear.”

  She laughed for a couple of seconds. “Ok, sure.”

  Monique walked up to me. I bent my head down and kissed her on the lips. Then I whispered in her right ear: “Mahal kita.” [‘I love you’ in Tagalog, the official Filipino dialect]

  “Wow, are you getting ahead of yourself, kano?” [kano is Filipino slang for an American (from WW2)]

  I chuckled. “I’d pass my self by to get to your self any day, Monique. You are truly better than imagined or advertised.” Advertised? What?!

  “You are making strange statements for your audio recorder that you told me about, aren’t you, Parkaar?”

  “Somehow, I knew that you would say that, Monique. Somehow I just knew.”

  “I am already onto your little game, dodong.” [young man in Cebuano, the primary dialect of the Central Visayas region of the Philippines]

  “Holy dodoy, daday! [made-up nonsensical Cebuano-sounding words] Hey, let’s go to a beach resort, sexy lady.” Yey, he thinks that I’m sexy.

  “How about Salagdoong? It has a great
view of Maria Bay. And, it has air-con, [air-con is Filipino slang for air conditioning or air conditioner] my loverboy.” Condoms? Check. / I hope he’s disease-free.

  “Sure, let’s do it.” Absolutely. / Wow!

  “But, you first have to meet my parents. They are so eager to meet you, Parkaar.”

  “Why, most certainly, Monique!”

  We walked about 100 meters to Monique’s parental home. I met her engaging mom and relaxed dad. After a two-hour chat, we bid them adieu and hailed a pedicab (a motorcycle-powered passenger vehicle, a very common mode of transportation in the Philippines).

  It was a scenic 15-km ride to the resort that took 23 minutes on the Circumferential Road. The pedicab then pulled off the asphalt onto some sandy gravel.

  “Ah, we’re here.” Monique said.

  “Nice place. Good first choice, my gwapa pinay.” [pretty Filipina]

  “Salamat, mahal.” [‘Thank you, love’ in Tagalog]

  “Walay sapayan, [‘You’re welcome’ in Cebuano] mahal.”

  We walked up to the hotel office and got a room on the top (3rd) floor. Once inside the room, I walked out on the balcony. The view was travel-show magnificent. Calling Rick Steves.

  “Wow, you were right, Monique; the view is phenomenal.”

  “I know my little island.” Indeed she does.

  The whole C-shaped shoreline of Maria Bay was visible. The bay’s water was many shades of blue: a splotch of cerulean here, some indigo there, some azure further out to sea. A tropical postcard it most surely was.

  I turned around, and Monique gave me the ‘well, we’re here, and the time is right’ look.

  We got busy in paradise. An order of pumperoni [sic] pizza. Salami in tunneloni. [sic] There were worse places and times on this old orb.

  After the initial round of carnal lust, we made our way down to this craggy small conical island that was connected to the mainland by a gangplank. We climbed up to a rocky precipice, about nine meters (29.5 feet for my American readers) above the crystal-clear water.

  “Want to jump? It looks deep enough, Monique.”

  “No, not today, Parkaar.”

  “Chicken.”

  “Seafood.”

  “Shark!” I exclaimed as I saw a six-footer pass by, right where I planned to hit the water. I passed.

  It was a night of fun and frolic under a giddy gibbous moon. The high clouds were like moving drapes.

  Sleep was full of pleasant dreams, one of which, the last one, involved a found message. However, when I awoke the context quickly crumbled to the sand on the floor.

  We checked out after a simple breakfast, and headed to our 2nd resort: Princesa Bulakna. It was just 2 km away.

  We got a cottage up on the hill. Another magical place. When Monique laid down poolside, I took a photo, which matched the pool’s edge with the bay’s horizon line. One of those ‘the ocean is my infinite pool’ shots.

  Later, I hid a short story – like the one you are reading now –somewhere in the rafters. I wonder if it’s still there.

  I almost fell down placing it. Monique chuckled. It was good times in the equatorial Pacific.

  We fell asleep early, worn out by hiking the grounds. There was a strange in the middle of the night.

  “What was that, Parkaar?!” Monique was scared.

  “I’ll go outside and check it out.”

  “No! Don’t open the door! It’s too risky.”

  I sat back on the bed, holding Monique until she fell back asleep on my chest. Nothing happened. The rest of the night was without a bump or a thump.

  In the morning when I opened the door, I saw a note on one of the stepping stones, which read:

  Don’t forget to check the lizard’s tongue.

  Monique saw me pick it up. “What is that?”

  “Some kind of note.”

  “It looks like a fortune-cookie message.”

  “Yeah, it does.”

  “Do you think someone left it there last night, Parkaar?”

  “Maybe so.”

  Then we walked down to the office to check out. We saw this blue concrete lizard with a similar note on its forked tongue, which read:

  So serene is Serena?

  And with those cues, we were off to the Serena Beach Resort in San Juan on the western side of the island. It was owned by a Japanese couple.

  Ken showed us to our room. We were one of the few guests there that day. A very quiet place. Well, it was until sunset.

  That’s when all hell broke loose. The older Brit next door, a former judge in the UK, had been drinking all day with his pals. They were blotto-splotto-fuck-you drunk. Yes, belligerently intoxicated.

  Suddenly, one of them started to rev their motorcycle very loudly on the other side of the privacy wall. We had to cover our ears. It was that loud.

  Ken saw this and rushed over to confront the Englishman. They began to curse and cuss at each other. They even pulled out WW2 epithets. Very ugly. It got very heated. There were threats of bodily harm. We expected gunfire at any moment.

  Monique was scared. We moved to a position where we couldn’t be struck by a stray bullet. Luckily, no shots were fired. Whew! Tragedy narrowly averted.

  The bluster subsided with both saying that they were going to report the other to the barangay captain (neighborhood leader) in the morning.

  Ken then came back and apologized for the ruckus. I just told him that these things happen when you combine 12 hours of hot sun with 12 hours of heavy drinking.

  We went back to our room and passed out. If I had a dream, it was quickly forgotten … or shot down.

  After a serene breakfast, we checked out. We hailed a jeepney (a Philippines-style bus) and headed down to Coco Grove, only 3 km away.

  This seaside resort, probably the most luxurious and most expensive on the island, was popular with international tourists. We heard Swedish, French, Dutch and German in the main café. Some already-loaded Americans kept staring at Monique. Jeez, I can’t get away from annoying kanos, even halfway around the world!

  Monique was not appreciating their stares. “Why do they keep looking at me?”

  “Your sublime beauty attracts the American males’ eyes.”

  “It annoys me. Let’s go back to our room.”

  We did. Afternoon delight. The dance of the old wang doodle. Well, you get the scene. Life was grand.

  Later, we caught an amazing sunset on the beach. The yellow-orange, ovalized, swollen blob quickly sank below the green mountains of Negros (the island to the west).

  As dusk filtered in, the west wind picked up. It felt good. Refreshing. Mind invigorating.

  The swells were white-capping at the ledge of the coral reef. A floating bottle was being blown in. When it was in only two feet of water, I walked out and grabbed it. There was a note inside. Wow, a message in a bottle. How kewl [sic] is this.

  I removed the cork and shook it. Monique caught the little note as it fell out.

  “Is it from Sidonie Fery?” [mentioned in the Bottled short story]

  “Who’s that?” Monique asked with a curious expression on her tan face.

  “I’ve no idea. It’s like someone or some entity temporarily took over my mouth.”

  “Parkaar, you are one silly kano!” Agreed.

  She then proceeded to read the message aloud.

  “Pag-ibig at tumawa,” [love and laughter in Tagalog] she announced to me with a sexy smile.

  “Is that Tagalog?” I asked.

  “Yes, it is, my Parkaar.” My Parkaar. I like that.

  “Oh, wow, what does it mean, Monique de Mystique?” Monique de Mystique? Looks like I have a word-art-baller on my hands.

  “It means that we have to go to Tumawa to find out.”

  “What! Tumawa? Where is that? I didn’t see it on any map.”

  “Let’s just keep going the way we’ve been going, my dear kano.”

  “Sounds good to me, asawa-to
-be.” [asawa is wife in Filipino] Yey, he wants to marry me!

  “Me, too, my bana-in-waiting kano.” [bana is husband in Cebuano]

  And then, out by the reef’s edge, a dorsal fin passed by. These tropical waters are no joke. Sharks, highly toxic jellyfish, lethal sea snakes, and moray eels. I think I’ll pass on the sea swimming. Don’t want to end up in a hospital … or worse. / Effective notes.

  13. Psatori (June 2013)

  We, Monique (Agent 32) and I (Agent 33), decided to ride our bikes over to the trendy NoDa area (northeast Charlotte), seeking satori, sustenance, and serendipity (with a silent p in front of each s word in the final report). Yeah, pstuff [sic] like that.

  We kept watch on our wheel-view mirrors. I moved up alongside Monique on East 35th Street. Though, boredom was gaining on us by Charles Avenue. Then, a girl on the lawn with her head in her hands.

  “Hey, Monique, is she crying or laughing?”

  “Probably neither, either.” Neither, either? What did she just say?

  “Ah, blame it on the ether, 32” Yep, he’s recording already.

  We arrived at Boudreaux’s at 12:12, m’eyes [sic] will kid you not. We got a small table outside. Well, we couldn’t seek refuge in Frank’s store anymore. (R-I-P, Agent 107.)

  A lesbian couple was having a fascinating conversation at a table beside us. The short African American lady said to the tall Caucasian American lady that she had to leave her now-ex-girlfriend in South Carolina. Something about catching her having sex with some gay dude. WTF!

  The compact, black lady said, “Yeah, he was a common friend, or something. When I confronted her, she said that it doesn’t count as cheating if it’s with a gay dude. Can you imagine that?” Am I really hearing this?

  The white female replied, “But she had a real penis in her vagina!” Wow! Never expected to hear this when I woke up today. Glad the audio recorder is running. Great stuff for a short story. Primo dialogue. This one will write itself.

  I leaned down and furtively whispered to Monique. “Did you hear that exchange, 32?”

  “The women right beside us?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yes, I heard them. Bizarre.”

  “Welcome to the NoDa.”

  At a table just up from ours, an apparent first or second date was in progress. Some goo-goo eyes. Monique looks at the young, black-haired lady.

  Monique then turns her head back to me. “The Asian girl appears to be pinay, [a lady from the Philippines] Parkaar.” [my ailing alias] Monique studied her more closely.

  I glanced at the 20-something Caucasian guy. “And the guy is a hipster dude. Look at those skinny jeans.”

  Monique then mentioned something about finding a note inside a discarded lauan interior door.

  “What did it say, Agent 32? Do tell. Speak into the mic.”

  “Between the thin sheets of Philippine mahogany?”

  “Yes, and between the vertical lines. Hey, we all want to know. Well, sorta, I still think.” I’ll just play along with his game.

  “Well, don’t ask me; ask them.”

  “Who, Monique?”

  “Them. Over there.” She looks at two guys in work clothes.

  “The construction workers?”

  “No. They’re busy. Don’t bother them.” She’s surreally on her game – or on my game – today.

  And it went on like this for the next eight minutes. Utter confusion. No rhyme for reason. No time on the broken wall clock.

  We finally ordered the seafood gumbo. It appeared on our table in just four minutes. It hit the spot. Good stuff for this far inland.

  A cyclist almost got hit making a right turn onto East 36th Street from North Davidson Street. The left-turning motorist wouldn’t yield. Par for the curse [sic] in this burgeoning burgette. [sic]

  “Did you see that, Monique? We almost had a lunch-hour casualty.”

  “I missed that one, Parkaar. I was watching our newly smitten lovebirds.”

  I went on and told Monique that I was now finally writing that novel novel (Gold, a summer story). It wouldn’t be like this – this meandering short story that you are reading right now – it would have some coherence and logical flow to it.

  I continued with my novel spiel. “It will even have a central theme, which would be imported and served to all of the characters. Well, maybe just to the main ones. Outliers gonna lie out of bounds, ya know.”

  “Ok, that’s great.” Monique ran her hands through her long, silky, jet-black hair.

  I smiled then recommenced my novel’s plan of attack. “I’ll dredge up everything at least once. Sift it twice. Replay it thrice. I’ll even agree to the customary conventions of quotation marks, paragraph breaks, discernible referencing, and proper pronoun usage. You know, all that boring stuff. I’ll play by their rules.” What did he just say?

  “Their rules? Oh, please, there is much to be said for a clear, concise syntax.”

  “Sin tax?” He never misses a low-hanging pun.

  “Oh, you’ll pay. One way or another, Agent 33.”

  “Hey, Agent 32, would you like to hear what I have so far?”

  “Sure, lay it on me, Parkaar.” I’ll lay it on her later.

  “Ok, here are some random lines that I will try to weave into the story. One. It can leave holes in the lumber. Two. Oh, the baseball field where I taught my son how to ride a bike is now a drainage canal, but there’s no gold in it. Three. I checked the box four times before returning. Four. It’s lucky Shamrock Drive. Five. She told him how to break writer’s block: When all else fails, just plainly state what is happening in a patently matter-of-fact manner. Patiently reduce it to the simplest terms. For example, start with a sentence like Jack looked at Jane. Even Hemingway would agree to that. Now, the second sentence. See, the strand of possibilities is endless. Block removed. Broken into small pieces. Six. The usual processes were still at work with no vacation in sight. Seven. He kept his mind churning; it smelled like burning rubber. Eight. Gallery graphics are exploding. Nine. Go write a joke. Or, go ride a joke. Ten. He was going all the way. Far away. One day. Until it crashed and burned, he really knew nothing. Eleven. Make sure you tell them what I forgot to say. Twelve. ‘Hey man, want the short line?’ ‘Sure.’ ‘Ok, just hold this wire for me.’ Twelve. ‘Who did you like in that all-Deutschland Champions League Final?’ Thirteen. Grundel.”

  “Fourteen’s enough, Parkaar. You repeated twelve.” Oh?

  Over at table 3, we heard a quick back and forth, apparently triggered by my Champions League remark.

  “Dortmund should’ve scored in the first 12 minutes.”

  “Think so?”

  “Oh, yeah. At least once.”

  “Credit Neuer. He came up big in the biggest game.”

  “No doubt.”

  Their conversation lost steam. I looked into Monique’s pretty dark brown pinay eyes. Such a Siquijor seductress, she is. I’m one lucky guy.

  “Would you like to hear some more lines, Agent 32?”

  “Lines like ‘Big Bang theorist,’ ‘microwave menu for 95 seconds,’ ‘go easy on the toilet paper dispenser,’ ‘weave one for me,’ ‘don’t lose your new spare key where the old one disappeared,’ ‘already in the house and still not home,’ …”

  “Ok, ok, you’re making me cringe now. How did you find my notes, 32?”

  “An agent never tells, 33.”

  “Not even if they are married, Monique?”

  “The code is the code, and we all live and prosper by it, Parkaar.” When?

  Moreover, this was NoDa in 2013 on a crisp spring day. There are worse places we could have been. We could have been stuck in the Mecklenburg County Courthouse, parked in the lawyer’s stall. Yeah, that malodorous. But, at this NoDastic moment, it’s actually a keener kewl scene if you spell it the write [sic] way.

  I began writing notes on the back of a business card as the young lovers glanced our way.

  “A nice day today
, Monique, but I wouldn’t want to be sitting out here in July.”

  “You really do hate hot weather, 33.”

  “Yes, I most sure-really do, 32. You know how I despise it.” I looked back at the first-daters table. “Look.”

  “Where?”

  “Over there.” I nodded towards the amorous couple’s table. “They are now grinning at each other. I bet they are pumping in two hours.”

  “Make it one.”

  “Ok, one and done and won over by one.” What?!

  “Who do you think she is?”

  “Well, she’s not the lady next door. Not today.”

  “I know she’s pinay, Parkaar. She gave me the pinay code look.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Oo.” [Yes in Tagalog and Cebuano]

  “I wonder if it is raining in Boone.” Why?

  “At this very moment?”

  Before I could answer, I saw a squirrel nearly get squashed by a cable TV van. Monique had followed my eyes and saw the rodent’s near-fatality, too.

  “Close call there, 32.”

  “Perhaps she was chasing a nut. After all, aren’t they all?”

  A large semi rolled by on North Davidson Street, slamming its way across 36th Street. So much for the ambiance.

  “Hey, this aint the truck route anymore, pal,” I grumbled, but I doubt the driver heard me.

  Monique then said something about just letting it go.

  I looked around at the adjacent tables. The scene caused my mind to do some more back-reeling. I began to think aloud.

  “The Hotel Astor at Carolina Beach. [featured prominently in the short story Carolina Beached] Why, do any of you remember it? It was at the beginning of Canal Drive. There was that big sign on the roof with the metal supports. Did you climb on it, too? You could see it from a mile down the road in 1986. Nineteen years later it burned down.” An awkward silence.

  Then Monique emitted a muted whistle. I looked at her.

  “What are you saying, Parkaar? Did you put some crystals in your drink when I wasn’t looking?”

  “Huh? And at 1948, the gold melts. Ok, it’s just a working title. We just need to make sure that the total weight of the Au is about 55 pounds. No more than 60; no less than 50. How much is that in kg? More than 100 pounds. It’s hard to find 100 Grand candy bars in this town. Yet, supposedly, hardly anyone likes them. They’re not even in the top 40 of confectionary bestsellers.”

  Monique shook her head and looked at the diners at the nearby tables.

  “Please excuse him,” she announced to the adjacent diners. “He skipped his medication today.”

  “Sorry, folks,” I then added. “I got carried up, up, and away.”

  The surrounding diners hurried their eating and drinking. I guess I shocked them. Must tone it down. Way down. Oh, it’s probably too late.

  Monique coughed. “Parkaar, why do you type and copy these little wandering short stories?”

  “Because I don’t see anyone else doing them, Monique. There’s a niche to be filled. Yeah, stick that copy in that crack. Perfect. Plant one in that nook. Good job. Let’s put this town on the meta-map, cranny by cranny.” Meta-map? He’s already flying high and wide. He got into the jar before we left. It’s obvious.

  Next, the hipsteresque waiter returned. “Are you guys alright? Would you like anything else?”

  “Just the check, mate,” I said. Checkmate. He planned that.

  “Certainly.” The waiter quickly disappeared.

  “Dig these novel lines, 32. ‘Rook out with your bishop out.’ ‘Pawn up as knight falls.’ ‘Frank’s dead and nothing seems to matter with space anymore.’ ‘Awash in astounding credit card debt.’ ‘All their lies matched up diagonally.’ ‘Light down the dashed line.’ ‘Yo, it’s starting to slant.’ ‘Shunt it down, then shut it off.’ ‘I’ll be dead before I live.’ Well, what do ya think, Monique? Am I gaining any headway?”

  She just shook her head and cleared her bowl.

  We paid up and left a nice 22.22% tip.

  Once safely across the street, we posted some short stories on the official NoDaBoard, a triangular bulletin board at North Davidson and East 36th. It had a roof on it. Weather protection, no less.

  “Monique, we are just playing for one swing. Walk off a hero or die a goat in a moat. Yeah, it sounds like a Secteur de Tryke rip-off. And, it probably is. I’ll go back and check those 3.5” floppy discs someday.”

  “You’re really getting some mileage out of those granules, aren’t you, 33?”

  I just continued my semi-surreal ramble. “Well, the plank is already in place, securely affixed to the transom for ransom. And, in that scene, they’re chumming the water with pig’s blood in Sheepshead Bay. Yes, my dad always cursed that anodyne. Why? Because, it never worked, except at the worst possible time. None efficacious, though many still roaming the forested hills in tarnished armor.”

  And, it went on like this for eleven more torturous minutes.

  “Are you finished now, 33?”

  “Monique, I thought you were going to say, ‘Some sharp commotion around that slight corner. It always seems to start out of a slight.’ Am I right?”

  She laughed. “Yeah, that’s it exactly, Parkaar!” Must try to settle him down.

  We walked up to The Smelly Cat (a coffeehouse). A newly arrived couple had just been seated outside. We got within eavesdropping range. He was telling her some myths about Kerouac’s famous On the Road novel.

  “You know, Kate, he did not write that novel in one weekend. It was edited and re-edited over almost a decade. Moreover, it was meticulously crafted and redacted.”

  “But, that now-sacred scroll … why, it travels all around the world now, George,” Kate said.

  “Yeah, but it always winds up the same. Always someone trying to get someone to jump. Higher. Farther. Faster. Always battling with the averages. Hoping for a big win. Le Gran Prix.”

  Monique couldn’t suppress her urge to know. Was that guy now screwing the pinay? Her mind got caught in a loop. And then in columns. Nothing was stacking up right. She could see his eyes. And her eyes. She saw the whole scenario unfolding.

  I knew that the granules had finally zapped her brain, too. Any line was fair game at this stage.

  “How many times did he lie in the lye, 32?”

  “What a caustic gooffoon,” [sic] Monique tersely replied. Gooffoon, that’s a money word. Score one for 32.

  “I’m sure his back was cauterized by now.”

  “What?” Monique was having trouble staying on one train of thought.

  “Hey, Monique, I’ll just give them some of the Gold novel.”

  “You’re going to give the whole plot away for free?”

  “No, just an excerpt. Just a little slice.”

  “Ok, whatever, 33.”

  “How about I give them this for nada: [nothing in Spanish] ‘He had his buddy’s flatbed pull it out the next day. Over the next few weeks, he melted the gold down, and had it recast into little ingots. He could slowly start to sell it, which he did. A jeweler in Wilmington didn’t ask too many questions, and gave him $1000/ounce. He sold the jeweler one 5-pound bar every Monday morning. And, like clockwork, he left at 9:15 AM with a check for $80,000. This went on for six weeks. Then one Monday morning in September, he noticed police cars parked in front of the jewelry store. He never went back. Too risky. The jeweler never called. One Monday, curiosity got the best of him. He called the store. A recording. What happened to him? He hung up. Fearing that they had his cell phone number …’ Well, what do ya think?”

  “Ready to go back now?”

  As we made our exit, some ps thought fragments came into my granulated mind: psatori … pso psuddenly pscintillating … pso psuggestive … pso psays psomeone psomewhere … pso psoon … pshutters … psexual psecrets … pshaded.

  14. Wrightsville Beached (May 2013)

  It all started out innocently enough one June day.


  I think that it was back in the summer of 1985. Yeah, that was the year. (My long-term memory is a lot better than my short-term these days.)

  We, my brother Joe and several friends from Charlotte, were renting a two-story house on Pine Street in east Wilmington’s Winter Park neighborhood. The address was 5002. (Don’t ask me why I remember such trivial things.) Yeah, I’m fairly sure that was the number. I am now certain that was it.

  It was – and still is, I believe – a sturdy house on a sandy corner. It quickly became something of a flophouse for five white dudes, aged 17 to 23. Youthful partying and such. The last goof-off summer before everyone got serious about their great careers.

  Well, anyway, once our other friends back in Charlotte got word that we had secured a party house near the beach, weekend arrivals were nonstop. I still remember an early morning when there were about twenty visitors passed-out throughout the house. Bodies were slumped over in recliners, on sofas, in sleeping bags on the floor, and even unconscious on the lower back roof. It looked like a deadly gas had been released. I think that was the 4th of July weekend. The big blowout.

  However, before that mega-bash, back in late June (Friday, June 21st to be exact), a couple of close friends came down, namely Frank (future Agent 107) and Slim (who never would take an agent number; was always leery of randomly assigned numbers). Upon arrival, they almost immediately wanted to go to Wrightsville Beach to paddle around in the sound in their newly purchased inflatable boats. And, trust me, these were no Zodiacs.

  I consented and we were soon on our way, going east on Oleander Drive as the gray-green smoke inside the cab went west. We crossed the two bridges with no delays to speak of (or type up). Traffic was still light.

  We parked on North Lumina Avenue, near the intersection with Mallard Street. Our put-in was only thirty feet away. I made sure not to infringe on a driveway by even an inch, as aggressive towing was/is the norm at this upscale beach.

  We quickly inflated the two cheap plastic boats on the sidewalk with foot pumps. Slim’s boat was smaller, so I joined Frank in the inflation of the larger one. Eight minutes later, we were all set for sail (or paddle).

  Slim got in the smaller one by himself. Frank and I shared the larger one. We started to paddle towards a marsh island in Little Lollipop Bay (yes, the real name). We could see cars going over the West Salisbury Street Bridge (US 74).

  As we drew closer to the bridge, it seemed that some motorists were screaming at us. Perhaps they got an early start on their vacation? Well, such I thought.

  And, oh, the wind on that morning. Let me tell you, it was like a gale out of the southwest, which put it right in our faces. Our air-filled vessels were rocking in the stiff breeze.

  Frank then grabbed the binoculars. He spotted the target destination and corrected our course heading.

  We paddled in earnest towards what looked to be a small beach on the south side of the marsh island. We would take a break there and chill out for a while.

  Slim had packed a thermos bottle full of Elixium, as he called it. He wouldn’t tell us what it was. He assured us it was an all-natural concoction of high quality. Well, we were young and ready for some high adventure.

  We arrived safely and beached the vessels. The wind had grown so fierce that we had to sit on the boats to prevent them from flying away. I remember Slim joking about us never making it back. His dark brown hair was being ruffled by the wind, and his striped white-and-blue t-shirt looked like a flag (his skinny torso being the mast).

  We passed the metallic jug around, taking a few gulps with each turn. It tasted like a mix of almonds, blackberry and mint with under-currants (punnery in motion), replete with a leathery finish. No, just jesting; it was more like steel wool. It did have a slightly emetic aftertaste. I wondered: What in the world is this? How toxic is it?

  I looked at Slim. “Hey, you didn’t just grind up 1,000 morning glory seeds and make tea with them, did you? I vomit on that stuff! Is this going to be another puke-a-thon?”

  Slim replied in an assuring manner. “Relax, we’re all going to be ok. It’s not that or anything else you’ve ever had before, or even heard about.”

  Then Frank had a question for Slim. “Hey, how long before the effects start?” The bangs on both sides of his middle-parted hair were flapping like wings in the gusts.

  “Usually between 45 and 50 minutes,” Slim scientifically replied.

  “And then what happens?” I asked with some trepidation.

  “Everything,” Slim nonchalantly said. Oh, great. Focking [sic] great. What have I signed up for this time? How will this end? How many drownings?

  There was a Pizza Hut just on the other side of the bridge that caught Frank’s attention. What I feared he would say, he said.

  “Hey guys, we’ve got time to paddle over to that Pizza Hut before we start zooming. Let’s get some food through our gullets before the cosmic onrush commences.”

  “You’re kidding me!” I exclaimed. Frank was a known high-risk-taker.

  Slim seemed unfazed by Frank’s idea. However, he had no intention of going in his boat. “Bring me back a Hawaiian pizza.” Slim then reached in his pocket. “Here’s the money, man. Keep the change as a delivery fee.”

  And with that Frank was ready to disembark on the 375-yard transit. The wind had now died down a little.

  Frank looked at Slim. “Are you sure that you will be ok here alone?” Oh, so Frank plans on me going with him. I’m already feeling disoriented. Their English words sound like a foreign language. Better try to keep my wits about me.

  “Go!” Slim shouted. “I’ll be perfectly fine. You guys will get there much faster with both of you paddling a single craft.” Did he say ‘craft’?

  And with that, we, Frank and I, were off. The wind, fortunately, continued to lessen in intensity. The trek wasn’t too bad, actually. In fact, we were dockside in a mere fourteen minutes without notable incident.

  We tied up our plastic floatie and went inside the restaurant. Frank ordered the pizzas to-go. While waiting, we went out on the sound-side deck. Our little rubber dingy was ok (still pier-tethered).

  Then I looked over the bridge back towards our little marsh island beach. I could see Slim. He was lying down with a towel over his face.

  “I wonder if he is already getting some altitude, Frank.”

  “Who?”

  “Slim. Look down there. See him?”

  “Oh, yeah, I see him. Looks like he’s just chilling out before the launch.”

  We walked back into the restaurant and picked up our pizzas. The aroma was like nothing that I had ever smelled before. At the dock, I noticed that my legs felt a little rubbery as we loaded the two pizzas into the boat. Better watch my step. I feel like Plastic Man.

  We boarded the little rubber dingy. Then Frank untied our inflatable yacht-naught, [sic] and we began our return voyage.

  “The trip back should be easier, Frank. The wind is at our back now.”

  “Yeah, should be,” Frank said as he surveyed the sound.

  “Hey, Frank, could I place you in a future short story?”

  He gave me a puzzled look. “Since when did you become a writer?”

  “Well, maybe at a later date. Just seeking advance permission.”

  “Listen, let’s just focus on paddling for now. We can have nonsensical thoughts when we’re back on that beach. We don’t want to have a mishap out here.” Agreed.

  Slim saw us coming and waved. All was going swimmingly, as we weren’t in the water, nor was the pizza. It was going to be a successful water delivery.

  “Ahoy!” Frank shouted as he skidded the inflatable on the sand. We jumped out with the pizzas and handed them to Slim. Ah, we made it back safely. That wasn’t so bad.

  “You guys made pretty good time,” Slim said. “Elapsed time: 37 minutes, 37 seconds.” Exactly 37:37?

  “Anything noteworthy happen over here while we were gone?” I asked Slim.<
br />
  “It’s too fast for note-taking now,” Slim said. Wow! He’s already zapped.

  We devoured the pizzas within twelve minutes while standing and chatting. Slim kept smiling. I could tell that he was already getting some mental elevation. It was evident from his crazy facial expression … and maniacal laughter.

  “Get ready for lift-off, boys!” Slim yelled. And then he let out a guttural guffaw. “You guys are in for it now. Our roller coaster car is getting ready to go over the apex. Buckle up! It’s going to be a wild ride.”

  After Slim’s words decayed, I noticed that the bridge seemed to be getting farther away. In fact, wherever I looked seemed to be getting farther away from our little beach.

  “Uh, guys, I don’t think I’m going anywhere by boat for a while,” I said. I sat down on the sand. I felt a little dizzy.

  Frank was just beginning to get zonked, too. He had this frozen smirk on his face as he looked at the turbulent sound. “Where are our boats?!” he suddenly asked.

  We all looked around. Both boats had been blown into a tidal creek between our island and a larger marsh island to the west. The wind was blowing both of them farther away from our island. Oh, crap! I knew things were going too smooth. Here’s where the tragedy occurs.

  Slim ran and jumped into the water. He swam ferociously after the boats. He caught his boat about fifty feet from our beach. Luckily, a paddle was still in the oar rest. Slim got himself situated in his boat, rounded up the paddles, and towed the other boat back to the beach rather impressively.

  “Well done, mate!” I said to him. “Excellent craft rescue.”

  Frank looked at Slim. “Hey, what’s that red stuff on your feet?”

  “It’s my blood!” Slim said. He freaked out.

  “Damn, you sliced your feet up pretty good, Slim,” I said while trying to gauge the true severity of the cuts.

  Frank then looked in the water where Slim had walked back on the beach. “I see what cut you, Slim. You stepped on an oyster bed.”

  “Those are razor sharp,” I added.

  We looked back at the soles of Slim’s feet. (He was now sitting down in the sand with his feet up). They were a city map with the streets in blood-red ink. For a moment, unspoken panic.

  “Looks like you’re going to need stitches, Slim,” I said like a TV-show doctor.

  Slim now had a look of shock on his face. He never realized how bad he was cut.

  “Everyone, just relax,” Frank said. “I have some super glue. They use it in emergency rooms.”

  Frank then uncapped a little plastic bottle and pierced the top. He then glued Slim’s sole slices shut.

  “Just continue to lie down with your feet up,” he told Slim.

  It seemed to work. The bleeding stopped.

  “Thanks, doc,” Slim said. His mind began to relax. “How much do I owe you?”

  Frank chuckled. “Nichts. [German for nothing] Consider it a crisis averted.”

  Then another sudden gust of wind, and I swear it looked like the whole western shore was being blown north with the swells, all undulating up the Intracoastal Waterway. Once again, everything that I focused on was moving farther away. A sailboat was 100 yards away. Now it was 200 yards away. Now it was ... Where did it go?

  “Hey, Frank, are you getting any spatial distortions?”

  “Extra-spatial, dude. This shit is keen.”

  “See, I knew you guys would like it,” Slim said. “But, sit tight, the turbo phase is about to kick in.”

  “A turbo phase, Slim?” I asked, wondering if I could take any more psychic voltage. “My mind is oscillating fast enough.”

  “Oh, you’re gonna be speechless, guys.”

  Frank lowered his dark shades and looked at Slim. “This won’t screw up my night, will it? I have a hot date at 8.” He does?

  “Funny that you should use the word screw, Frank,” I said. “My vision is being torqued.”

  “Oh, go torque your dorque,” [sic] Frank humorously interjected.

  Now, not only was everything that I focused on moving farther away, it was also beginning to rotate. Actually, a better word would be spiralize. As the object that I focused on began to move away, it also began to do barrel rolls, leaving a tracer trail that looked like a spiral. Surprisingly, I didn’t feel dizzy anymore. After a while, it slowed down. Finally it all came back to three guys on a tiny marsh island.

  As the orange sun began to set, it all seemed to stop. No headache. No fatigue. Curiously, I felt somewhat refreshed.

  Then I felt a wet sensation on my feet. They were in the water. High tide. I looked over to Slim to congratulate him on his amazing dynamic distancing serum. But, to my surprise, he was gone! And, so was Frank! The boats were gone, too! Those dogs! I thought almost aloud. They’ve pranked me!

  I stood up on the damp sand and thought about what to do. It was dusk now. Soon it would be dark. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of the bottom of Slim’s boat through the marsh plants on the backside of the little island. His boat was upside down. Then I noticed that Frank’s boat was upside down, too. Are they hiding under their boats?

  Even decades later, neither of them would agree with this ending. When shown my story notes, Frank remarked: “This story lacks a sockdolager.” [Sockdolager is German for an exceptional person.]

  But, it was him.

  15. His Name was Ted Maize (February 2014)

  They don’t make them like that anymore. Or, did they ever?

  I (Agent 33) met Agent 8X4 (not to be confused with Agent 32), more commonly known as Charlie, at the Peculiar Rabbit in Plasma-Wigwood (in inner east Charlotte) for an after-work drink. I had something to tell him. Something that I felt that he could decipher, or at least, categorize.

  We were able to get a small table on the third-floor rooftop terrace along the Pecan Avenue side railing, which offered an incredible view of the Charlotte skyline on this unusually cool early June evening. The sun was just starting to dip into the Duke Energy Building’s top handle. We ordered a couple of Guinness drafts from the tattooed hipster-esque waitress. The scene was Chamber of Commerce postcard-perfect.

  Charlie then led off the conversation with a direct question.

  “So, what did you want to tell me, Agent 33?”

  “Charlie, I had a dream last night. A most unusual dream.”

  “Did you wake up in a wet spot?” He started to laugh at his little zinger.

  “Ha-ha-ha. Very funny. No, it was nothing like that.”

  “Let me guess … I was in the dream, pumping your wife with wild abandon, while you watched in jaw-dropping amazement.”

  “No, wrong again, sport. I hate to break it to you, but you weren’t in the dream.”

  “Not even a cameo?”

  “Nope.”

  Our waitress returned with our beers. Charlie winked at her, but she pretended not to notice. I thanked her and she meandered over to another table behind us.

  “Well, who was in your epic dream, 33?” Epik with a k?

  “Someone whom I have never met.”

  “Someone whom you have never met? Quoi le [‘What the’ in French] fuque! [sic] Pardon my faux Français.” [fake French]

  “Pardon granted, Agent 8X4.” I waved my right hand past Charlie’s shoulders, like a priest administering last rites. Then I rejoined his question. “Well, I’m pretty sure that I have never met him. He told me – in the dream – that his name was Ted Maize. He even spelled his last name for me, harping on the i. Yes, I remember writing it down on a form in my office.”

  “Ok, do you remember how it started?”

  “I sure do. Ted walked into my office one afternoon at the community college. He was a very neatly dressed white guy with black hair in a dark suit with a narrow tie. Age-wise, he was probably in his early 20s. Maybe about five-foot-ten in height. He told me that he was taking an international business class, and that he needed to spend at least six hours over the
course of the semester talking with a college administration employee.”

  “And, he just picked you out of the blue?”

  “Yeah, it would have seemed like that.”

  “And, let me guess, you agreed to it?”

  “Yep. I can remember feeling hesitant to accept initially. I didn’t want to have more of my time taken away for something that seemed less than thrilling, to put it mildly. But then, I just said, ‘Ok, sure,’ in this strange dream.”

  “Ok, then what happens? Does he turn out to be an anti-big-bank hacker?”

  “No, nothing like that.” I then swatted at a gnat circling my beer glass.

  “Did you get it?”

  “The gnat? Who knows?”

  “That gnat would most certainly know.” Charlie chuckled. “Ok, back to your weird dream, 33.”

  “Well, we started having Friday lunches together in uptown Charlotte. He would ask me questions about ethics, morals, successful communication, sustainable growth, brand recognition, promotions, project collaboration, client retention, customer service, and all the other usual business world stuff. He really wanted to be a corporate success. He was driven. He wanted an office in one of those skyscrapers out there.”

  “Ew, yuck! How could you stand him?”

  “I could stand him, Charlie, because he was totally genuine. He wanted to do it the right way. No cutting corners. No stepping on people. No cheating. No crooked techniques. No below-board strategies. He had this sincerely positive attitude. Believe me, Charlie; I was very skeptical of him at first. I kept thinking that this 20-something must have just attended some motivational seminar uptown, and was still riding that pumped-up, ultra-positive, the-world-is-my-oyster high. I initially thought he was just buzzing on an endorphin rush.”

  Charlie ran his fingers through his salt-and-pepper beard. “But, if it was just that – a motivational-seminar high – it would have worn off by the second lunch. Those motivational speeches typically have a shelf-life of less than three days.”

  “Yeah, I know, Charlie. But, Ted never wavered. He always had the same upstanding demeanor and wholesome aspirational outlook. From beginning to end.”

  “Are you sure that you weren’t being punked in your dream by Ernie?” Charlie let out a guffaw. Nearby diners looked at us.

  “You know, I can remember thinking that exact thing in the dream. I know that Ernie’s got agents working on all kinds of neural-transmission devices. I did wonder if it was a setup. There was a lucid phase when I really doubted Ted’s sincerity. But with every passing Friday lunch, it was more and more evident that he was the real deal.”

  “Where was he from? Did he tell you in the dream? Was he a Charlotte native?”

  “He had this slight mid-Appalachian-sounding accent, so I asked him where he was originally from. He told me that he grew up near Mortimer.”

  “Mortimer? Where the hell is Mortimer?”

  “It’s several miles down from the Blue Ridge Parkway, off of NC 90. It’s just a little township in the woods, really.”

  Another waitress with long brown hair noticed that our glasses were nearing empty. “Two more dark ones, guys?”

  “Sure,” Charlie quickly answered for both of us. I guess I’ll be here for another forty minutes. Oh, well. Nothing on the docket tonight.

  I continued to recount the strange dream. “Ok, when Ted said Mortimer, I immediately recalled hiking in that area of the Pisgah National Forest in the mid-‘90s. I always thought it was pretty scary – the locals, that is.”

  “A setting for a Deliverance remake?”

  “Yeah, that kind of scary; though, it’s beautiful country, geophysically, and I imagine most of the people there are fine. But, if you’re alone out there when the sun starts to go down, even an inveterate atheist will pray like a moonshined preacher for their engine to start when they turn that ignition key.”

  Our waitress returned and placed two more glasses of Guinness draft beer down, retrieved the empty glasses, and then gave me a cautious look, rolling her eyes towards Charlie (who did not see this), as if to ask ‘is he ok?’ I just nodded. She promptly split, disappearing down the stairway.

  “I heard that, man.” Charlie laughed for a couple of seconds. “Hey, I bet this Ted character has handled the serpent.” He laughed again.

  “Ironic that you should mention that, Charlie. I always tried to steer our lunch conversations away from religion and politics in the dream, because I truly feared where they might go. I didn’t want to end up in Awkwardville with that penguin. I really wanted to keep it on business topics only. However, on the sixth lunch – I believe it was the sixth one – we saw this apparently demented homeless man on the Square (the center of Charlotte) with a cross on his shoulders, spewing off verses from the Bible. Many were misquotes. I believe he was even interjecting whatever came into his mind. Well, Ted just looked at me and said, ‘I can’t laugh; I once kissed a rattlesnake.’ And then as we walked down South Tryon Street a few blocks, there were about a dozen people protesting in front of the Duke Energy Building. He looked at me and said something about the responsible company must never ignore unfavorable comments, reviews or opinions. He went on to say, ‘they need to dig to the root cause and fix it if need be’ and then he said ‘the corporation must maintain a truly stellar image and reputation, not just a fake PR veneer.’ It wasn’t exactly what I was expecting him to say. I remember at this point in the dream, really starting to wonder why I was having such a dream.”

  “Well, this Ted guy sounds like presidential material.”

  “Yeah, really. I know. But, I don’t think Ted Maize would ever make it in the world of politics, Charlie, because he had zero tolerance for manipulation or deception, much less corruption.”

  “But, wouldn’t the ruthless corporate world just spit him out the other end? His approach seems way too naïve to succeed.”

  “I wondered this, too, Charlie. But, after every lunch I found myself thinking that he was probably smart enough to negotiate the minefield of office politics. I could see his managers being afraid to fire him, for fear of an expensive lawsuit, or loss of their own jobs. I could see him quickly being über-connected and highly networked.”

  “Your Ted guy almost sounds like an alien in human form. In your dream, did you ever wonder if he was really from some other planet, or controlled by some programmer? Did you ever notice a compartment door behind his neck or wires sliding out of his sleeves?” Charlie chuckled aimlessly. He was obviously inebriated now. He probably started drinking long before he got here.

  I chuckled, too. “No, I never noticed any wires, doors, diodes, chips or transistors. I never doubted him being human. Well, maybe for a few seconds every now and then. But, man, he sure was polished for his age. And you know me, Charlie; I’m pretty skeptical of these types after being burned in can’t-lose MLM deals. But, I could never find a chink in his thin-lapelled rayon armor.”

  “What about his personal life? Did he date his cousin?” Did that ever come up in your dream? I bet that would explain a lot about his character.”

  “It did come up on the second lunch. He said that he was engaged to a sweet girl from Gastonia. In the dream, he showed me her picture. Blonde hair. Thin. Cute. About his age. He said that she worked at a beauty parlor off of US 321 near I-85. He said that they met at Gaston College.”

  “Well, nothing unusual there.”

  We then heard some chairs moving behind us. Our waitress was back in our area, trying to set down several plates of food. When she had successfully served the table of six, she asked us if we needed another beer. Charlie agreed to have one more, but I passed and opted for ice water.

  “No more suds, 33?”

  “No. Time to wind it down. My luck I would hit a roadblock on Commonwealth. A DWI for just 0.08 would truly suck.”

  “I agree. I’m on foot tonight. Our girl is really working hard now.” Charlie now had a constant toothy smile.

  �
��Yeah, waiting tables is tough work. I don’t think I could do it, Charlie.”

  “Me, either.”

  Our waitress soon returned with a foaming-over Guinness draft and an ice water. We thanked her. Then Charlie had something to ask her.

  “You don’t know a Ted Maize, do you?”

  “No, I can’t say that I do. Sorry.” She wasn’t the least bit startled by Charlie’s impromptu question.

  “No problem. Just checking.”

  She gave Charlie a curious look, smiled, and departed for the next table.

  “That was bold,” I said, somewhat shocked by his question to our waitress.

  “Listen, I had to make sure that you weren’t setting me up, 33. I’ve heard about your mind games. All of the agents have.” They have?

  “Setting you up? I think you lost me there, bud.” I chortled.

  “Ok, so how does this Ted dream end? Do you both get run over by a CATS bus with faulty brakes on Fourth Street?”

  “Third Street.”

  “Really?”

  “No, there was no gory, mangled-body ending, Charlie. No Hollywood explosions. No heroic end-of-saga music.”

  “Wait, I think I’ve got it figured out: Your wife, Agent 32, placed a chip behind your right ear while you were asleep as part of a research project. Am I right?”

  “How did you know?!”

  “Really? That’s it? I guessed it?”

  “Hell, no! Give me a freaking break. You’ve lost your last marble.”

  “Ok, ok, ok. So, how does this Ted Maize dream end?”

  “Can you be serious for a minute? Or, are you too sauced?”

  “I’m mouth-shut and ears-wide-open, pal. Finish your yarn. Stitch it up, Agent 33.”

  “Ok, after our final lunch, Ted and I just diplomatically shook hands and wished each other well. We exchanged e-mail addresses and phone numbers, and promised to stay in touch. But, apparently, we didn’t. Then, ten years later, I’m in my office at the community college, sifting through the morning e-mails when my desk phone rings. The caller ID screen reads: TED MAIZE. At first I am incredulous. Then I reach for the handset with my right hand. That moment … why, it had such a real feeling. I can still see my right hand going towards the phone in slow motion. I grab the cold plastic handset and place it up to my right ear. Three seconds slowly pass. I am mute; I can’t speak; however, the caller can. The male voice then says: ‘Hello, it’s me ­– Ted. Agent 33, you are never going to believe this …’ Then, a pause.”

  “Wow! And then what?”

  ”And then I awoke with the phone in my hand.”

  “Check, please.”

  16. A Tour to the Tower (March 2014)

  I had been to Blowing Rock (NC) dozens of times, but I had never done the Flat Top Mountain hike in the Moses Cone Memorial Park. After doing some research online, I saw that there was an accessible fire tower atop this mountain. Now, I really wanted to go up there, and very soon. It looked very amenable to a psecret psociety pshort pstory. [sic]

  Once we were finally hiking up there, I wondered what story fragments we would stumble upon. I was certain that some premium thoughts would be evoked on this hike. I knew a tale was hanging on a cliff ledge.

  When the desk calendar showed an open March Sunday and Monday, we (Monique, Agent 32, and I, Agent 33) decided to head northwest out of Charlotte in our old Plymouth Voyager van, dubbed The Green Utot (Utot is Tagalog for fart), and give it a whirl.

  It started as a foggy drizzle in the piedmont. As we climbed the Blue Ridge escarpment on US 321 North, the weather changed to a sleety rain, and the temperature dropped from 47° F in central Lenoir to 35° F at Blackberry Road.

  “Wow! The temperature dropped 12 degrees in just 16 miles, Monique. Some major orographic cooling.”

  “Orographic cooling? You’re such a geo-nerdo, Parkaar. [my ailing alias] I take it that you have the DAR (Digital Audio Recorder) on.” Why, of course.

  I nodded. Monique just rolled her eyes and sighed.

  The LED trip odometer hit 100 miles right as we rolled past the WELCOME TO BLOWING ROCK sign. It was only noon. Check-in time at our motel was 2 PM. Thus, we had some kernels of time to mill.

  We kept going north on US 321 and stopped with the rain and sleet in Boone. How nice of the precip [sic] to move eastward.

  We needed some sundry supplies, so we pulled into the Super Walmart. Agent 551’s memo came to mind: Do these spandex shorts give me moose knuckles? Ah, it doesn’t matter; we’re just going to Walmart, anyway.

  Then Monique looked at me. “Need to hit the kapper krapper, [sic] Parkaar?”

  “No, I think I’m ok for now, 32. I can wait for the motel.”

  I began to wonder as I looked at the low clouds ripping by. Kapper krapper? Spelled with k’s, I’m sure. Is Agent 563 feeding me her lines via a cell phone? Maybe I’m just a wee brillig. Brillig from the troves of joves and stoves and groves, or whatever Agent 517 said on the psecret psociety Facebook page. Who died and made him Lord of the Shit Stools? That is a quote from Agent 504. Why am I rethinking such scat?

  “Icy, I see,” I said as we exited the van and began a long trek across the crunchy parking lot. “Watch your step, Monique.”

  “Will do with these new shoes, 33.”

  We entered the mega-store. After wandering around aimlessly for about ten minutes, we found what we needed. Once in the checkout line, I noticed an interesting tabloid headline: ‘Are You Running For God?’ I did a double-take. Wow! Agent 564 posted that. Does she work for this publication?

  The cashier was a white female college student. She asked us where we were from. Agent 54’s memo came to mind.

  “Well, we’re not singing Arrivaderci, Roma,” I said, hoping I pronounced the Italian words sufficiently.

  “Ah, so you guys are from Charlotte?” What?

  “Uh, yeah,” I said. How did she know?

  “That’s un-canned and wacky!” Monique exclaimed.

  I slowly handed the cashier the cash, but my neural circuits were accelerating the thoughts. Wow, Monique just said Agent 400’s word! My brain is entangled in a myriad of agential [sic] stimuli. Myriad, why, that’s Agent 142’s word! Stop this machine! Let me out of this tunnel of magnificently magnified words. Oh, no; that’s Agent 441’s phrase. I’m trapped. Mind-doomed in a mined tomb. And, that’s Agent 288’s terminology. Stop this circular circus!

  We left the store without an arresting incident, and were soon in our motel room (no. 11) at Alpine Village Inn. We started canoodling, just as Agent 1 had suggested.

  The travel stress abated. Flip. Keep. Switch. Mr. Cunnilingus had arrived right on the spot, as Agent 544 had forecast.

  “Monique, what is a lick of sense?” I wilily asked.

  “Not sure, Parkaar, but you can surely taste it.”

  “Backwash,” I shouted. Agent 509’s word jumped right out of my mouth.

  “What did you say, 33?!” Silly boy.

  “Oh, it’s not important now, or even later. But, it’s time to eat food, Monique.”

  “Yes, I’m hungry,” she said while getting redressed.

  Soon we were at Mi Caretta (My Cart in Spanish) Mexican Restaurant after an elevated sidewalk stroll down Main Street. The Mexican-appearing hostess seated us. Soon another sister-to-the-hostess-appearing-waitress took our order. All was moving at a tranquil 2.3 knots per hour. Loose languid knots lazily lingering.

  The food arrived 11:11 later. Well, maybe not exactly 671 seconds later. 11:11 would look interesting in print. Such I thought as I looked at the four-tined fork.

  The south-of-the-lower-48 food was in a commonly used Spanish word: delicioso. Monique devoured the Texas fajitas. I tried to be Mr. Healthy and had a vegetarian side sampler.

  And, par for the curse, [sic] we left copies of previous short stories – just like the one you are reading now – in the bathrooms, in the wine list, and in the bill holder. Must keep spreading this literary virus.


  The night at the inn was largely uneventful, except for a rumbling sound at 3:03 AM.

  “What is that noise?” Monique asked.

  “It’s not my stomach this time,” I replied.

  “Well, it sure is not mellifluous to my ears.” What?

  “Hey, did Agent 50 text you that word, Agent 32?”

  “What in the world are you talking about?” He needs to go back to sleep. Always crazier-than-normal talk when he wakes up in the middle of the night.

  The noise suddenly ceased and we drifted back into a confused sleep. Our dreams started, but then stopped before any conclusion could be drawn. Or, even traced.

  At 8:08 AM, we rolled into a prime parking space at Cone Manor (Blue Ridge Parkway milepost 294). It was a balmy 24° F (- 4.44° C) as we walked past Moses Cone’s mansion.

  “Ready for a frosty 5.6-mile hike, Monique?”

  “The tower is that far away?” Over eleven miles of hiking?!

  “No, that’s the roundtrip distance.” Thank God!

  “Ok, I guess I can do 2.8 miles before taking a break, 33.”

  “Oh, we can take breaks, Agent 32. This isn’t army boot camp.” Yey.

  We walked past the carriage house and then passed through a narrow tunnel under the Parkway. The trail was actually wide enough, gently-sloped enough, and smooth enough for a car. It was an easy walk on the very fine gravel. So far, so good. Piece o’ frozen cake.

  We passed a man and his son and exchanged friendly greetings. They looked a little tired, but were still moving ok.

  Soon we were at the Cone Grave. It was one large headstone with two much smaller adjacent ones. The graves were surrounded by a green wrought iron fence with a locked gate. Why is this locked up?

  “I wonder why we can’t go in there, 33.”

  “They don’t want anyone to steal the flowers, Monique.”

  “But, there are no flowers, Parkaar!”

  “Now, did you take them, 32? If you did, I won’t tell anyone; your absconsion [sic] is safe with me.” Absconsion?

  “Listen, I know that you’re just saying bizarre things because you have that damn audio recorder going.”

  “Well, yeah; that’s my thing.” His thing? Oh, joy!

  We recommenced our hike and soon arrived at a vast meadow. In fact, it looked like an alpine meadow.

  This is an acme sledding hill, Monique.” Acme?

  “Acme? What does that mean?”

  “The best, the high point. Look how long this run is. And, the slope is not too steep, nor too slight. It has no rocks, barbed-wire fences, roads, or creeks in the way. And, it ends with a gentle upslope to bring the sled to a safe stop. It would be a regal sled run.”

  “You are almost 50! You are too old for sledding, Agent 33. Give it up.” She’s probably right.

  We then noticed some shortcuts that traversed the white dormant grass field like dark brown magic-marker lines.

  “Should we take that goat path, Agent 32?”

  “How do you know that a goat made that path?”

  “Oh, it’s just slang for a shortcut across a field or lawn. I remember hearing it at UNCC.” [University of North Carolina at Charlotte]

  “Well, the sign said to stay off the shortcuts, 33.”

  “Ok, let’s abide by the signage and get in the total distance for full credit.”

  “Why do people want to take shortcuts on a hike? Isn’t the point to burn as many calories as possible while taking in all the sights along the trail?”

  “Good point, 32. Maybe some faster hikers use it as a passing lane.”

  Just then, a lone middle-age Caucasian woman with an ASU (Appalachian State University) sweatshirt passed us. She was hiking at a brisk pace.

  “Did you see that gun on her belt?” Monique asked. Gun?

  “No, I missed that detail, 32.”

  “You are probably the most unobservant agent, Parkaar. So lost in your obliviousity, [sic] you are.” I like that word.

  “Now, that’s a keeper, Monique. I’ll be importing that word. I’ll elevate it to the top rung, where it will be duly dried and hung.” Hung dung.

  After a series of a dozen switchbacks under leafless, hoary-barked trees, we arrived at the 44-foot metal tower. We carefully climbed up a few levels. The wind howled through the structure. The gray metal was ice-cold.

  Blowing Rock could easily be seen in the valley below. It was a sunny, clear, crisp day now. We could see the snow on the northern ski runs of Sugar Mountain. We could also see the manmade ridgeline eyesore: Sugar Top (a high-rise hotel).

  “Hey, want to go up farther, Monique?”

  “No, I think that I already have vertigo, 33.”

  We descended. Very carefully. Step by step. Must not have a medical mishap up here. It could take several hours for the paramedics to get here.

  I then noticed a bit of scratched-on graffiti on the lowest section: A TOWERING LIABILITY

  I took the last step down to terra firma and began thinking about that graffiti. Most likely scratched by a safety guy or gal. Why, for sure.

  We had a carbo-lunch on a lightning-struck fallen tree next to the tower. It was still a little chilly, but at least there were no summer insects. The wind whispered syllables in some foreign language. Feuillese? [made-up word]

  On the way down, we passed a young, sprightly Asian couple going up.

  “Well, those were the fifth and sixth persons that we’ve encountered, 32.”

  “No, 33, they were six and seven. Remember the man with the dog?”

  “How did you know that that was the person I forgot to count?”

  “I know you better than you know you.”

  Now, a brief aside: We never saw the blue concrete lizard. However, we did hear some commotion up ahead when we got back to the large alpine meadow. These sounds alternated between animalistic and human.

  Monique turned left and started down the longer shortcut across the wide, horseless pasture. We didn’t talk until we reached the carriage house.

  I left a similar short story in the men’s restroom. As I walked out, a hiker walked in. Enjoy the free krapper kaper. [sic]

  17. Caught Wild in Cotswold (April 2014)

  It was a mild early spring Saturday morning when I approached Agent 32 (code name: Monique) with an actionable question. She seemed to anticipate it.

  “Monique, how would you like to bike it to Panera Bread in Cotswold?”

  “How far away is that, Parkaar?” [my ailing alias] she asked, knowing my penchant for long bike rides.

  “Not that far. Just a shade over six miles, one way,” I replied, hoping that she would consent to a pedaling adventure.

  “Sure! I’ll pedal a dozen miles for that tasty broccoli cheddar soup.” Excellent. I really want to ride my bike today.

  We got our cycling stuff packed and loaded drink bottles on the bikes. We were soon rolling out of the northeast quadrant of the large Windsor Park neighborhood in east Charlotte. This low-50s-Fahrenheit weather sure feels great. It’s perfect morning weather for bicycling.

  Eight minutes later, we were at the Central Avenue intersection, waiting out the red light on Rosehaven Drive. I looked over at the crosswalk sign, and then at Monique.

  “Six, five, four; get ready to go, mahal.” [love in Tagalog]

  Monique nodded. “Ok, 33.”

  The light turned green and we pedaled safely across Central. We stayed on Rosehaven until it came to a T-intersection. So far, so good.

  We then made a left on Winterfield Place. Then a quick right on Driftwood Drive at the 4-way stop. We crossed Edwards Branch. (A previous short story, Legend Has It That - The Edwards Branch Tunnel Legend, takes place on this creek about a mile downstream.)

  Then we began to climb the hill. Next, we made a right on Campbell Drive, followed by a left on Greenbrook Drive, and a right on Briarfield Drive. We took a water break at the first speed hump.

  “How d
o you feel, Monique?”

  “Feeling great, Parkaar.”

  “Excellent, 32. We’re already about halfway there.”

  We recommenced our two-wheeled journey. At the 3-way stop, we made a soft right onto Pierson Drive. After a big descent and a steep rise, we were passing under the Independence Expressway (US 74).

  The new Super Walmart emerged on the other side of the overpass with the glistening Charlotte skyline behind it, about five miles to the west. Man, this burg sure has grown over the past four decades.

  We stopped on the old metal footbridge that spanned an unnamed tributary and took another drink break. I began to clear some of the untrimmed vines that went from railing to railing, blocking our transit.

  “Well, Monique, we’re a little past the halfway mark now.”

 

  “How far past it?” she asked.

  “Oh, we’re probably 3% past it.”

  “So, we’re exactly 53% of the way there.”

  “Yes, that would be my final answer.”

  “Sorry, that wasn’t the big-money question, Parkaar.”

  “The story of my life, 32.”

  After guzzling down several fluid ounces of some energy concoction, we began walking our bikes up a steep, muddy, leaf-covered trail in the woods to the very short segment of Pierson Drive. We walked up to Seifert Circle, saddled up, and continued our ride. This sure is great exercise. / What a workout! What do we do next? Swing from vines?

  As we rolled onto Chippendale Road, I noticed an old, stone-and-mortar-housed, shrub-shrouded, granite sign that read: Amity Gardens 1936. Wow. 1936. That was put up before World War 2.

  Soon we were crossing Monroe Road on Richland Drive in Oakhurst. We bounced over some railroad tracks. My bike’s steerer tube almost snapped. The headset lock nut had worked its way loose again. Those threads must be stripped. Need to fix it when we get back home. Maybe put some chewed gum in there.

  At the stop sign, we turned right onto Craig Avenue. Traffic was light. Less than a half-mile later, we turned left onto McAlway Road and had to deal with a few cars, but nothing too hairy. This is going pretty good. Monique doesn’t seem too fatigued.

  A couple of stop signs later and we were on Walker Road. We turned right onto Bertonley Avenue. Then we took a right onto Faulkner Place for a block, followed by a left back onto McAlway. Finally, a left onto Woodlark Lane got us to Randolph Road.

  “Well, once we cross this street, we’re essentially there, Monique.”

  “Let’s not get run over just before the goal line, 33.”

  “Yes, let’s not.”

  We waited a minute for a gap in the traffic. Then we dashed across the four lanes and rode the sidewalk up to the renovated Cotswold Shopping Center. Ah, we made it.

  We rode past Harris-Teeter to Panera Bread, which had taken over a failed restaurant’s space in the courtyard area.

  We locked the bikes in front, went in, ordered, paid, and took a seat outside at a round, black, metal table that had a reeled-in parasol. I cranked it open for shade. The day was quickly warming. It was a cool 53° F when we left the house; now it felt like 83° F from all of the heart-pumping exertion.

  Our soups arrived six minutes later. The 20-something Caucasian waiter - you guessed it - looked like a hipster. He was ogling the nearby olive-skinned waitress with an earnest eagle’s eye.

  “Looks like our boy is after some tail, Agent 32.”

  “You think they’re pumping, Parkaar?”

  “I think he is still in the size-up phase, Monique.”

  “How long will it take him to enter the approach-and-ask phase?”

  “I don’t think we have that much time, 32. Better eat up before your soup gets cold.”

  “I don’t like it as hot as you do, 33.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Your French onion soup does look delicious, though. Who invented such a strange soup with croutons and cheese floating on top? And, don’t say, ‘Oh, some Frenchman,’ Parkaar.”

  “Maybe a Frenchwoman?” Hmmm … Frenchman is one word. I wonder if Frenchwoman is two words. That would be strange and sexist.

  I finished my cheesy soup and started chewing on the baguette slice, as Monique ended her word thoughts and started on her creamy soup. It wasn’t Paris, but it wasn’t Krapperville, either. And the language barrier was so much lower here.

  “Sure is a nice April day, Monique, and it’s even better because you are here.”

  “Why, salamat, [thank you in Tagalog and Cebuano] my dearest Parkaar. Mahal kita!” [I love you in Tagalog]

  But, before we could get all googly goo-goo, a whiter-than-thou couple in their 60s took a seat next to us. Their attire could best be described as G-S; i.e., Golf-Safari. I made sure my audio recorder was on, and then pointed it at them under our table.

  “I don’t know, darling; they may not have Texas fajitas here,” the older fellow said.

  “Oh, I just want a small burrito, love,” the older lady pleaded. “Just one. I am utterly famished!”

  I quickly realized that they were sitting in the wrong outdoor area. I caught the eye of the older gentleman and said: “I think you guys are looking for Salsarita’s. It’s just next door.”

  “Oh?” The older man was surprised at their error.

  “Yeah, it’s right over there.” I pointed to my left.

  They got up and began to amble over to the adjacent Tex-Mex restaurant. As they passed our table, I couldn’t resist. I reached out with a short story – just like the one that you are reading right now – in my right hand.

  “And, here’s something to read while you wait for your chow,” I cheerfully said to the older man. “Some good, free, financial advice.”

  He took my short story and looked at me with a not-so-sure-about-this expression. And, soon they disappeared around the corner. What did he just do? He’s feeling bold today.

  I returned my gaze to Monique, who was already staring at me. She looked stunned.

  “Great performance there, 33. Bravo! But please, no encore. Not today.”

  “Ok, you got my word. Hey, I just had this pictorial analogy in my mind, Agent 32.”

  “Is it X-rated?” What is she thinking?

  “No, it’s safe for this G-rated scene, Monique.”

  “Well, please divulge the details. We both know that your digital audio recorder is running.” She always knows.

  “Well, have you ever seen a cross-section of a telephone cable with all of those tiny, multicolored wires inside?”

  “Yes, and …”

  “Well, 32, imagine a seemingly endless giant cable with seven billion wires inside.”

  “Ok. Continue, 33.”

  “However, unlike a telephone cable, some wires inside have different lengths and varying widths. Most are between seven and eight meters in length, but some are longer, up to twelve meters in rare instances. However, some are as short as one millimeter!”

  “Eureka! I got it figured out: A meter equals ten years of a person’s life in your multi-stranded model. Am I correct?”

  “Yep, you guessed it, Monique.”

  “And, sadly, one millimeter equals a stillborn baby. Am I right again?”

  “So right you are. You’re two for two.”

  “And, let me guess again … one millimeter of width equals a personal weight of 100 pounds.”

  “Why, you are three for three! Swish, swish and swish. Nothing but net. Fishnet.”

  “You are too much, Parkaar.”

  “Think about it, Agent 32. The wires change in thickness over their length. And the cable itself is getting wider; it’s bulging due to the obesity epidemic. Now, will it explode?”

  “I think that you have too much time on your strands, 33.”

  “Score! Please play along, Monique.”

  “And, if I don’t?”

  “Who will? Don’t early-terminate a possible short story for someone’s time-to-fi
ll train commute.” Time to fill in his brain … with cement.

  “Ok, 33; I’m still onboard. Go.”

  “Look back to the very slender beginning of the cable, 32.”

  “Is there a beginning?” Hmmm, not sure.

  “Gouda won, Monique. Ultra-keen. Splendido in Escondido!”

 

  “Have you ever even been to Escondido?”

  “Knots for sure, but I bet Agent 49 has.”

  “Shhh, quiet down. Here comes the waiter!”

  Our waiter returned and asked us if we needed anything else. I politely told him that we were ok. He pushed a gray communications cable back into its track along the door frame, and then walked back inside.

  “It’s all linked together, Agent 32. Ultimately, there are no non sequiturs.”

  “You’ve already said that, Parkaar. You are starting to loop and lap. Look here.”

  Monique handed me her tablet computer which was on the psecret psociety Facebook page. A previous short story – yep, you guessed it, just like the one you are reading now – was on the screen. I read my repeated phrase. I am slipping worse than a lithium-greased clutch.

  “We’re a long way from that grassy, goat-pathed meadow. [reference to A Tour to The Tower] Doncha think?” Oh, dear.

  Monique just smiled and sighed. “Gosh, my dearest kano, [slang for American in Tagalog and Cebuano] you’re so silly, but I’ll take you over an always-serious type.”

  Seven minutes later our waiter returned one final time. He glanced towards Monique, who was now checking her Facebook page.

  “That Facebook sure is popular,” he said.

  “It really is,” Monique replied. “I check mine several times an hour.”

  “I tell ya, just about every device seems to be tuned to it here,” the waiter added.

  I sensed an opening. I was going for it.

  “Have you ever taken part in a recursive Facebook application?” I asked him.

  The waiter looked at me with a fair degree of bemusement. “Recursive?”

  “Yeah, kind of like word fractals. Repeating sub-themes. Meta-memes. Zany stuff like that.”

  “Uh, no, can’t say that I have. Sounds kinda interesting, though.”

  I quickly handed him a psecret psociety business card. He took it and put it in his black money belt.

  “Thanks, I’ll check it out later,” he said as he walked over to a distant table. He never returned.

  “Do you think that he will submit any words or lines for the next story, Parkaar?”

  “He doesn’t realize it right now, but he already has.”

  “Oh, I mean, via the psecret psociety page.”

  “I’m never quite sure of who will participate, Agent 32; there is no accurate profile.”

  Soon we were off on our bicycles again, making the return trip to east Charlotte.

  Walking our bikes down the muddy slope between the Pierson Drive segments was much trickier in descent mode. A red-clay slip-n-slide. Wow. Must remember to bring a long saw next time to cut and clear this giant-azz [sic] fallen tree. The City seems to have no interest in removing it. Maybe they really don’t want bikes traversing this almost-abandoned public right of way.

  18. That Old Ball Game (April 2014)

  Charlotte had just opened a brand-new downtown minor league baseball stadium a couple of weeks prior to the rain-now-gone evening that found Monique (Agent 32) and I (Agent 33) staring at a yellower than a canary left-field foul pole. We had just consumed some standard ball-park fare in the standing-room-only area, and were now seated as the Durham Bulls came up to bat in the top of the third. The game was still scoreless.

  Monique was now taking in the surroundings. She was noticing the tall buildings behind right and center fields. She then commenced the conversation at BB&T Ballpark.

  “The city skyline certainly is an impressive backdrop, Parkaar. [my ailing alias] They really thought this out.”

  “Yeah, the design is excellent. I’m glad that they placed home plate in the southwest corner of the stadium. That way the infernal late afternoon sun is blocked, unless you sit in the outfield bleachers.”

  “Hey, let me take your picture!”

  “Only if I can take yours.”

  “Sure!”

  We snapped some obligatory photos as the Bulls started putting some men on base. Need a double-play ball.

  Monique was disappointed when she couldn’t make a wireless connection to Facebook to upload the new pics.

 

  “Does this place have free wireless, Agent 33?”

  “Hmmm … I’m not sure, 32.” I bet that he is already recording.

  The next thing you know, we hear that unmistakable sound: the crack of a well-swung wooden bat solidly connecting with a cowhide-covered, three-inch-wide, red-seamed, white ball. And boy was that white ball sailing into the darkening evening sky. Heck, it was headed right for us!

  “Heads-up, Monique!”

  “What? Where is it?”

  Monique had no idea where the baseball was, or where it was going. And, before I could answer her questions, the ball moved back into fair territory, soared over the left-field-corner wall, and bounced off the picnic area canopy. It then hopped and bounded into West 4th Street. What a blast! He sure got all of that one.

  “Wow! That was some home run there, Monique. An epik [sic] with a k blast.”

  Monique followed the ball as it rolled down the sidewalk. “Yeah, it really was, Parkaar. What a swing!”

  “Too bad the wrong team hit it, Monique.”

 

  “Can you hit it that far, 33?”

  “In my dreams. In my fading youthful dreams.”

  We both laughed as the Durham Bulls were finally retired. They now led 3-0.

  “The Knights have got themselves into a bit of a hole, Monique.”

  “But, there’s 72.22% of the game left to go, Parkaar.” I think she may be correct. There are 18 half-innings in a standard baseball game. Five half-innings have been played so far. So, 13/18 equals …

  “Good, quick math, 32.” How did she calculate that so fast? She must have used her calculator on her cell phone.

  The teams tacked on a run each in the fourth, and then the game fell into a fifth-inning lull.

  “You know, Monique, I think that this is the first professional baseball game that I’ve attended since seeing the San Francisco Giants play their archrivals, the Los Angeles Dodgers, in that old, soon-to-be-razed, windy-as-hell Candlestick Park.”

  “And, when was that, Parkaar?”

  “It was Wednesday afternoon, July 29, 1992 to be exact, lovely Agent 32.”

  “No way! You’re making that up, Agent 33.” How would he remember that exact date? Did he find gold out there on that day?

  “No, I’m for real, Monique; that was the date. I looked it up on one of those baseball almanac websites the other day. I remembered that the Grobster – remember him from our wedding? – came out to visit me in late July of ‘92. I can still remember the stadium conditions: sunny, windy, and as cool as a fog sandwich.” What?

  “As cool as a fog sandwich? You’ve got that audio recorder going again. Yes, I can tell. It’s obvious.” I guess fog sandwich was a little too surreal for normal conversation.

  “Oh? Maybe so.”

  “Oh, I know so. But, please continue.”

  “Well, the game-time temperature was 65° F, but it felt like 45. Rob was so amazed that an American city in the lower 48 could be so cool in late July. You know how hot Charlotte is in late July, Monique.”

  “Oh, yes, darling. I’ve experienced two of them already. Even hotter than Manila!”

  “Ok, I remember that the ‘stick [local slang for Candlestick Park] was only half-full. Back then the Giants were practically giving the tickets away. The team almost got relocated to Tampa Bay that year. I think both of us got in for only $10. Crazy cheap. Not like the ever-sold-out and pricy AT&T P
ark of today.”

  Monique just nodded. Then she began to eat the rest of her tucked-away pretzel.

  Neither the Bulls, nor the Knights, scored in the fifth. The game lumbered into the sixth with Durham still up by three, 4 to 1.

  Darkness had completely taken over now. Rectangles of light from the office, apartment and condo towers appeared sporadically in columns and in rows, but I’m not sure if a connect-four was ever scored.

  My mind meandered back to Candlestick Park. I wonder how many people who attended that game in ’92 are still alive. Are any of them here tonight? Maybe a transferred BofA [Bank of America] employee? Were any famous people at that particular game? A now-famous Silicon Valley techie, perhaps? Anyone who later committed a horrific crime. A garotter? [sic] A multi-million-dollar lottery winner?

  Monique noticed that I had become lost in my thoughts. She shifted in her seat and placed her cute, tiny, perfectly bronzed, right hand on my left arm. “What are you thinking, my dearest kano?” [kano, Filipino slang for an American man]

  “Oh, just wondering who might have been at that particular NL [National League] West baseball game back in 1992.” Of all the things to think about.

  “Were you even at that game? Are you sure that you were really there?” She’s just trying to get a rise out of me.

  “Yes, I’m sure. My mind has not completely crumbled yet. Rob and I were really there. You can ask him the next time you see him.”

  “Ok, I believe you, 33. But, I don’t get the cosmic significance of it.”

  “Me, either, Monique. But maybe the butterfly takes effect.” What did he just say?

 

  “Gosh, you can be so loko, [Filipino slang for crazy] my crafty dodoy. [a made-up Filipino-esque word] You lead us out into the middle of a God-forsaken desert of thought to find some buried golden notion, and then you stop and ask who has the map.” Wow! I like her description.

  “Excellent, 32. Yeah, something like that, asawa. [wife in Tagalog and Cebuano] Do keep going. Keep pumping our story along! Send it down the line. Heck, send it over the line. But, let’s keep it in fair territory.” He’s playing for the tiny microphone in his shirt pocket once again.

  “Why is everyone standing up, hon? And, what is that song that everyone is singing?”

  “It’s the seventh-inning stretch, my love. It’s a ritual at every baseball game in the middle of the seventh inning. The song is Take Me Out to the Ball Game. It’s a real oldie that hatched on Tin Pan Alley in New York City. They’ve been singing it for eons. Ok, for over a century. It was penned in 1908. It’s pure Americana.”

  “It’s kind of corny, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, I guess so now, 32.”

  “Maybe it has always been, 33.”

  “Maybe so. I guess they needed to have something to do. I think by the middle of the seventh inning, everyone needed to get their rumplers [sic] out of the hard seats.”

  “Rumpler? I don’t think that’s an English word, Parkaar.”

  “Well, it is now.” I laughed.

 

  “Hey, wait, I think that’s my word. I used it before somewhere. Don’t be using my words, 33. Don’t swipe my lines.” Monique chuckled. What is she writing? A story about me?

  “No, never, know never, and with a psilent [sic] k, w and p, oh, pso klever [sic] …”

  “Ok, that’s enough, 33. Cut it. Pause it. And, stop it.”

  “Icy, I see.”

  “You are intentionally using previous lines again. You really need to tone down your echo, Agent 32.” When is the final echo?

  The Knights drew as close as a single run, thanks to a two-run shot to left-center. The score was now 4-3 in favor of Durham.

  “We’re back in the game, Monique.”

  “Are you running from myths or creating them?”

  I did a double-take. Make that a triple. “Wow! That’s a great turn of phrase, Monique. I’ll be using that one for sure when I write up this wonderful night. Oh, I just remembered that it was the sixth inning when the Dodgers pounded out five runs on that late July day by the bay in ‘92. They would go on to win the game 6-1. San Francisco had won the prior two games of the three-game series. Both teams went absolutely nowhere that year; they both took turns scrubbing the cellar floor. I’m sure that Agents 35, 49, 307, and 344 would’ve liked that result.”

  “Probably so. Those agents bleed Dodger blue, 33.”

  “Yeah, no doubt.”

  “So, it all comes back in bits and fragments, Parkaar?”

  “Uh, more like sharp shards – sharp shards of broken glass.”

  “Yikes!” Monique exclaimed.

  “Relax, 32, these thoughts can’t cut you. Well, at least not from this angle.”

  “Hey 33, let me take a quick, little, five-second video of you announcing the game.”

  “What? I don’t know, Monique. I’ve got that nasty spider bite on my right cheek and I just feel old.”

  “You’re not old!”

  “I’ll be 50 – as in the big five-oh – in July.”

  “So, what?”

  “So, what? When I was 16, I didn’t even think that I would live to be 50. It seemed so very far off.”

  “But, it’s not. Here you are, and still very active; still riding the bike to work.”

  “Well, it aint 30. Let me tell ya. And all that ‘life begins at 50’ stuff is just a load of caca.” [Spanish for crap]

  “You mean cacao?”

  “Uh, I wish.”

  I finally consented to Monique’s video request. She filmed me doing a five-second mock-announcer bit. (The video is posted on the psecret psociety Facebook page; if interested in viewing, scroll back to April 2014.)

  A sudden northwest breeze brought a chill with it. I was wearing a Hawaiian shirt. Monique was smart enough to bring a leather jacket.

  “Monique, I feel a little chilly and I think my butt has had it with this seat.”

 

  “You want to go after the Knights are retired in the seventh?”

 

  “Sure, whatever; that’s fine by me.” I gots to gets out of here.

  The Knights failed to score in the bottom half of the inning. We got up and gathered our things and left via the Graham Street exit. I wonder if the Knights will make a comeback. I’ll just check the 11 o’clock news later.

  We walked west on 4th Street towards our gravel parking lot.

  “Did you enjoy the game, Agent 32?”

  “I did. Very much. That’s a great stadium. Thanks for everything.”

  “Sorry to cut it short. I mis-dressed. I thought that I could macho it out in short sleeves like I did at Candlestick. I guess I’ve lost my cool-stadium-air blood, my dear.”

  “Well, we’re not singing Arrivaderci, Roma.” What?! Which one did she pull that from?

  “Ah, now who is caught in Ernie’s enigmatic echo chamber?”

  We both shared a chuckle as we passed by the Greyhound bus station and skipped under the railroad overpass.

  “This is where the Gateway multimodal station will be built, Monique. Amtrak, Greyhound, the CATS Red Line train and the Gold Line streetcar will all converge here.”

  “Wow! That will be so convenient!”

  “No doubt. Someday soon we can take the Gold Line to Hornets games.”

  We got in our van and drove back to the eastside of town. I would find out later (online) that the Knights would lose the game 8-4.

  I continued to think about the LAD-SFG game at Candlestick Park on July 29, 1992. How many MLB games have been played? Hundreds of thousands? Though, probably less than a million.

  Yes, a seemingly insignificant major league baseball game on a July afternoon in 1992 had a hold on my mind. I remembered that some spectators were even snoozing in the stadium. A cheap place to take a safe catnap, I guess.

  There were also a few reading short stories – just like the one that you are reading now – on f
olded pamphlets. Some were elevated by gusts. And some were blown away.

  19. Water Hammer (May 2014)

  I'll never forget the conversation that I conveniently and surreptitiously overheard – and, yes, recorded – at a now-defunct little, dingy, jaundice-yellow-paint-a-faded, hole-in-the-wooden-lapboard-wall-sided watering hole on Judah Street in the ever-foggy Outer Sunset district of San Francisco.

  It was back in the early spring of 1992. It must have been about 7:00 PM when I sidled on in for a cold dark beer. Yeah, yeah, that was the name: Sidle on N. A clever play on words with the N standing for the N Muni streetcar line that ran past the front door – the olive-colored front door that no one ever cared (or dared?) to close.

  I remember looking at that tilted small poster on the cracked wall. Some purple-costumed loon billing himself as Mysterieau of San Francisco. Ah, but that is another story. (Mysterieau of San Francisco is a novella by yours truly.)

  Well, without further ado, here’s the verbatim transcript from that micro-cassette. Hmmm … where is that PLAY button? Oh, there it is.

  [the sound of a tram passing, clacking down the old, in-the-street, standard-gauge tracks]

  Jim: “John, how do you think your court case will go? Are you going to win?”

  [the sound of a glass being set down on a wooden table]

  John: “I don’t know, Jim; I don’t want to jinx it, but I feel pretty good about it, I guess. At least my lawyer says not to worry.”

  Jim: “Your lawyer says not to worry. Ha! Keep your hand on your wallet, sport.”

  [Jim laughs for a few seconds]

  John: “Yeah, I know, Jim; I should probably worry. Hey, speaking of lawyers, I’ve got to tell you about the most bizarre conversation that I have overheard in some time.”

  Jim: “Ok, shoot. Let’s have it.”

  John: “Well, I was down in the Lower Haight having lunch by myself in a tiny Chinese restaurant about two weeks ago.”

  Jim: “Ok, sounds very believable so far. Continue.”

  John: “And trust me, Jim; I wasn’t eavesdropping, but the joint is so small that you just can’t avoid overhearing conversations in there, especially if you’re eating alone.”

  Jim: “Ok, I got the scene.”

  [a waitress walks up to their table; the sound of stiletto high heels on a concrete slab floor]

  Waitress: “Would you two gentlemen like another round?”

  John: “Sure.”

  Jim: “Yeah, thanks.”

  [the sound of her high heels walking away]

  John: “Ok, where was I?”

  Jim: “On her ass.”

  [Jim chuckles]

  John: “Well, I wouldn’t pass that up. You know you wouldn’t, either, Jim. You’re a dog, too – just a slyer one than me.”

  [Jim coughs and clears his throat]

  Jim: “You were justifying your auditory snooping.”

  John: “Ok, well, there were about four conversations going on in there, but the one that won my mind’s primary attention was the one just behind me. Apparently one of the guys had been screwed out of child custody by a family court lawyer.”

  Jim: “Ah, family court lawyers. Such lovely creatures. The predators of the hyper-emotional. The ghouls of the ghouls. Ok, I’m still following ya. What next?”

  John: “Well, apparently he was really ticked-off by it. I mean REALLY ticked-off. So much so, in fact, that he had his buddy, a licensed plumber, take the lead in his revenge plot.”

  Jim: “A plumber? What did the plumber do? Did he whack the attorney in the head with a piece of galvanized pipe for $500?”

  John: “No, nothing so horribly and bluntly violent like that. Something insidiously ingenious. Something that Hollywood could make a movie around.”

  Jim: “Ok, I’m now waiting with freshly baited [sic] breath. Keep your story pumping. Don’t let your pipe get clogged now.”

  John: “You’re a real comedian today, Jim. Are you high again on something?”

  Jim: “No, I’m as sober as ever, and I’m all ears. Please do continue. I’ll restrain myself for the remainder of your tale. I promise.”

  John: “I doubt that, Jim, but I’ll recommence anyway. Alright, the guy says that he had his plumber pal call the offending lawyer at his Diamond Heights residence, and that he offered him a free promotional water hammer arrestor installation, just on the whim that he might be experiencing a water hammer issue in his home, and, well, you guessed it: He agreed to the installation.”

  Jim: “Wait a second. Water hammer? What the hell is that?”

  [the waitress returns and places two glasses (of beer, I presume) down on the table]

  John: “Thanks.”

  Jim: “Thanks, again.”

  [the sound of the high-heeled waitress walking away]

  John: “What is a water hammer? It’s that banging sound in the pipes that occurs in some houses and apartments after you turn the water faucet off.”

  Jim: “Oh, yeah; I know what you’re talking about now. Ok, resume, master storyteller.”

  John: “Well, next, the plumber gives the pissed-off-at-lawyer dude a new water hammer arrestor from his van.”

  Jim: “Water hammer arrestor? Ok, let me guess … it suppresses the pipe-banging noise.”

  John: “Jim, you must have taken your smart pills today.”

  [John laughs for a few seconds]

  Jim: “But, is he going to install it himself? The lawyer would recognize him, right?”

  John: “No, Jim, he gives it to him so that he can modify it. He takes it apart. Apparently there is a piston mechanism in it and an air chamber. He places some water-soluble poison powder in the air chamber on the end. It becomes a time-released toxin-administering mechanism. The chemical that he inserted is called Thalene.” [sic]

  Jim: “Thalene? You must mean thallium, John.”

  John: “Yeah, that’s it.”

  Jim: “That shit is nasty, John. They can’t even use that on rats or roaches anymore.”

  [the sound of another N train passing]

  John: “Well, slowly, over about six months the lawyer is poisoned to death. The autopsy leads them to believe that it was thallium, but they never find a source. They never find a single grain in the home. Not even a speck. Nothing. Über-clever, isn’t it?”

  Jim: “Woah! Hold on. Wouldn’t others who drank the tap water in that home over those six months be poisoned, too?”

  John: “No, not necessarily. I overheard them say that visiting guests would never get a dangerous amount in their system after a few visits. He was single and no one else lived with him. And, he had no pets. You would have had to have lived in that home with him to have died from it. He said that it slowly accumulates in the body. It’s more of a chronic exposure than an acute one.”

  Jim: “Wow, we’ve got a great screenplay on our hands here, John. The next epic revenge thriller. I can write it up. We’ll be rolling in greenbacks! Hey, it didn’t really come to pass did it?”

  John: “Well, I don’t know, Jim. I haven’t been reading the Chronicle or watching the local news as of late. I guess if we learn of a local lawyer’s mysterious death in the last year, we should go to the cops.”

  [the sound of a wooden chair (mine) sliding on a concrete slab floor]

  The audio tape ended and I turned the old cassette player off.

  Then Monique (Agent 32) walked into the den. I looked up at her. What a cute pinay [Philippine lady] she is.

  “I thought I heard some men talking. What was that, Parkaar?” [my ailing alias]

  “Oh, just an old taped recording of a conversation in San Francisco from a couple of decades ago. I used to use these analog audio snippets in multimedia art back then.”

  “What in the world! Did those people know that they were being recorded?”

  “Uh, I doubt it, 32.”

  “Are you recording me now?”

  20. A Search for Sidle on N
(May 2014)

  So, there we, Monique (Agent 32) and I (Agent 33), were on a seasonally cool August day in 2012, sauntering down Judah Street in extreme western San Francisco, descending towards the Pacific Ocean. Not that we could actually see the sea, as the marine fog curtain had already dropped by three in the afternoon. Must log this fog.

  We had just got off the Muni N Judah streetcar at 40th Avenue. I felt almost certain that that little, now-defunct, jaundice-yellow-faded-paint-sided, olivine-colored-wooden-front-doored, break-in-the-lapboard-wall watering hole was somewhere in this area of the Outer Sunset district. It has to be around here. It has to be!

  It was twenty years since I had stepped foot in there. Nothing looked like the little time-passer of a pub in the first block. We stopped at the intersection with 41st Avenue and waited for the crosswalk sign to turn white. Now, where was it? Is my long-range memory sector already toast?

  “Well, maybe the next block is the one, Monique.” He’s lost.

  “Ok, Parkaar, [my ailing alias] no problem. I’m enjoying the walk, though it is a little chilly for summer.”

  “This town – or, more specifically, this side of town – has the best summer weather of anywhere in my book, princess. Well, Pacifica and Eureka may battle for a close second place.”

  “Only you would say that, 33. You fog-loving freak.”

  “That, I am. That, I am.” Not the nonsense already.

  “Already repeating? It’s not even sundown, 33. Your mind’s clutch is totally shot now.” She’s probably right.

  “Lotsa kewl [sic] fog and sun-shielding overcast skies with no rain. I call that parfait, [French for perfect] Monique.”

  “Parfait, you say? I think I’ll take the dessert, instead.”

 

  “Sure, we can do that later, too.” Oh, boy.

  The crosswalk sign changed to WALK and we continued our very decent descent. I assiduously scanned the storefronts looking for a possible clue, just hoping to notice an architectural feature that would trigger a dormant memory. It has probably been repainted by now. Heck, it needed a paint job three decades ago.

  Alas, we arrived at 42nd Avenue. Then, from out of the fog, a yellow Toyota sedan came whizzing up to the intersection. We were already mid-crosswalk, and I wasn’t sure if it was going to yield to us.

 

  “Hurry, Monique!” I shouted.

  We both made it safely, as the car skidded to a stop on the first wide yellow crosswalk line. It then sped off across Judah.

  “I thought that you said this town was pedestrian-friendly, Agent 33.” Monique was a little shaken.

  “Oh, he must be a former Charlottean.” I chuckled to myself. “Or, maybe from Miami,” I added. “He’s probably cranked-up on meth or crack rock.”

  “Or, maybe his girlfriend just dumped him, [used in the novella Mysterieau of San Francisco] Parkaar.”

  “Yeah, maybe so. Either way, he’s driving like a certified douchebag.”

  “I agree, 33. I just wish that the cops saw his bad driving.”

  “He’s in a rush to get nowhere, and rapidly succeeding.”

  “I thought the saying was, ‘in a rush to get knowhere, [sic] and arriving ahead of pschedule’, [sic] Parkaar.”

  “If you used a silent k and a silent p, that would be above his mental grade.” What is he on about now?

  Monique gave me an odd look as our walk recommenced. This already feels like a strange day. I’m sure he’ll write it up later.

  I kept looking and looking for some façade familiarity. However, there were no businesses – nothing but residences. Where did it go? Where was it?

  We crossed 43rd Avenue without incident. Still nothing. Where the hell is that place? Monique must think I’m bonkers. / Has he lost his mind? What are we searching for?

  We walked past a Presbyterian church and stopped at an adjacent vacant lot. I wonder if this is where it was.

  “Was it here, Parkaar?”

  “Possibly, 32. Possibly.”

  “Maybe they razed it, 33.”

  “Yeah, maybe. That actually sounds believable. And, it’s starting to look like the case.”

  We walked to the next edifice, a gray building with boutique retail on the first level and two stories of apartments on top. I stopped and studied the building.

  Monique then looked at me. “Was this it, 33?” Hmmm … this is close, so very close.

  “This one has that Sidle on N vibe, Monique. Just not totally sure.”

  “Are you sure that we’re on the right side of the street?” Or, even on the right street?

  “Yes, we’re on the right side of the street as we walk away from central San Francisco towards China.”

  “Ok, silly-dilly … I mean, do you think it was on the other side of the street, as in over there?” Monique quickly pointed across Judah.

  “No, I am certain that it was on this side, astute Agent 32.”

  “What makes you so certain of that, 33?”

  “Well, I can remember seeing a few shards of heavily filtered sunlight hit the concrete floor for a few seconds. I can see the dust in the air. Those scenes would not have occurred on the other – south – side of the street.”

  “You remember that?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You remember the oddest things, Parkaar. But, yes, it sounds believable.”

  “My brain is not totally baked just yet, 32; it’s just slightly parboiled.” Parboiled loon.

  “That’s what you say.”

  “Why, of course it’s what I say, Monique. Or, is it that chip you planted behind my left ear last night?” What?

  We both laughed and continued our fabled-bar-seeking trek. Nothing of consequential note appeared between 44th and 48th Avenues. We walked in silence, letting our thoughts bounce down the in-street railroad tracks. If I were a superball …

  Then as we neared La Playa, Monique chirped out her plea.

  “Hey, want to duck into Lava Peach for a cup of hot coffee? I’m freezing!” She even shivered a couple of times.

  “Sure, 32; let’s do it.” I know what he wants later.

  We entered the corner coffeehouse and ordered a couple of caramel mochachinos, or something like that. While waiting, I spotted a psecret psociety quadra-fold on a table near the front window. I showed it to Monique.

  “You sent copies of your short stories here?”

  “I did. To here and many other places in the Bay Area.”

  “Knowing you all too well, 33, I bet you’ll use this occurrence in a future short story.” Of course!

  “Yeah, I would think that is a safe bet, Monique.”

  Our coffees came and we sipped at them at a corner table. They were piping hot and delicious. The whipped cream laced in liquid caramel was sinfully divine. I had to have more.

  I went up and paid for an extra blast-n-drip. Maybe I was at a low-blood-sugar-level moment. But, if I was, that was surely corrected the deficiency.

  We sat back and relaxed, just taking in the scenery and the peoplery. [sic] The busy South American college-age barista was all a-hustle. I don’t think that I could do her job. Hell, I know I couldn’t. What a tough gig when it’s this busy.

  A Caucasian, very bookish-looking, 40-something lady with dark hair was reading at a window-side table. She had the largest-lensed glasses that I had ever seen. She was buried in her new hardback novel. I wonder what she is reading. Romance? Mystery? Mysterious romance? Romantic mystery? How in the world can she read in here? The light is so low and the noise is so high. I couldn’t stay story-focused for one paragraph.

  A bronze-faced, athletically thin, 20-something surfer dude in a black wetsuit walked in with his board under right arm, exhaling visible vapor. He’s probably balling some hottie around here tonight. / I bet he likes the barista … likes to pump her hard.

  A pair of Asian female high-school students were doing their math homework together on a bench sea
t, while occasionally giggling. It was probably a text message. One of them has a crush on some schoolboy. Yeah, it’s obvious.

  An Amerasian businessman was now getting some pastries to-go, while juggling with his cell phone. The wife sure has him jumping. She must be hungry back at the house. / This guy is obviously hen-pecked.

  More sounds of the cash register drawer opening and closing. Business sure is brisk. I wonder how much money this place brings in.

  Then the mixing of soft conversations. Oh, my Lord! Did she say something about an utin? [utin, Tagalog and Cebuano for penis] Is she from the Philippines?

  Some workers were leisurely fixing some issue with the side window’s sill. They were getting ready to shim it and re-caulk it. They seem to be milking this task. They’re probably getting paid by the hour and not by the job.

  And then the sound of the waves in the distance. I wonder how high those waves are. I haven’t even seen the ocean yet due to this dense fog.

  All of a sudden, I noticed separate eddy streams of fog wafting and curling past the open door. This really is Fogville USA. I love it! Wish I could afford it. / His mind is lost in the fog.

  Three Caucasian guys in college sweatshirts were talking about the upcoming ball game near the counter. A skinny white dude in a sleeveless T-shirt was leaning against a utility pole, just outside the front door. Monique was studying him. I wonder if he is bayot. [gay in Cebuano]

  An Hispanic plumber at a table across the room had a water hammer arrestor in his hand. (Reference the Water Hammer short story.) He seemed to be measuring the pipe gauge.

  Then an older white man walked in, saying, “Yep, yep, yep …” That phrase and that man. Very familiar. Is that really him? Is that Malloy?

  I studied him closer. Then I walked up to the late-60-ish- appearing fellow, who was donning an SF Giants cap.

  “Is that you Mr. Malloy?” I politely asked, now fairly confident it was him.

  “Yep, yep, yep,” Mr. Malloy repeated without a stutter. (Mr. Malloy also appears in the Mysterieau of San Francisco novella and in the Vermont Street short story.)

  “You’ve aged well, Malloy. Very well.”

  “Yep, yep, yep, and much, much, much thanks.” He’s still got that repetitive shtick down pat. Or, is it involuntary?

  “Hey, want to pull up a chair and chat with us? I’d love the catch-up conversation. We can put some questions to rest.”

  “Sure, sure, sure.”

  Malloy followed me back to our table. I grabbed a vacant chair from a nearby table for him. He quickly took a seat and cracked his knuckles a few times.

  “Mr. Malloy, this is my wife, Monique,” I announced.

  “Ah, yes, the lovely Agent 32. Yep, yep, yep.” WTF! How did he know her agent number?

 

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Malloy,” Monique said.

  “So, so, so, what would you like to talk about?” Malloy asked, as if time were suddenly of the essence.

  “Oh, just a few of things,” I said. “We won’t keep you long.”

  “Would you like to know how I won the multi-million-dollar lottery?” Malloy asked out of the blue. Holy cow! He won the lottery? Well, that would explain him being able to drop C-notes in Sidle on N. Yeah, it would make sense. He never seemed like the business millionaire type, anyway. This would explain his idle wealth.

  “Why, sure,” I said, not sure of what I would hear.

  “It’s two strikes, not three,” Malloy firmly stated.

  “What do you mean, Mr. Malloy?” Monique asked, very interested to know.

  “Once you pick your set of numbers, don’t change any of them until they have been called twice – not once,” Malloy said while rubbing his right hand across his forehead. “It’s two hits and you’re out at the old Malloy lottery game.”

  “So, don’t change a number the first time it’s called on a non-winning ticket?” Monique asked, while taking mental notes.

  “No, not the first time,” Malloy said while tapping his left index finger on the wooden table. “But, don’t wait for the third strike, either. And, make sure you play every drawing. Skip one and you may be skipping out early.”

  “Thanks for the gambling advice, Malloy, and a big congrats. I guess you’ll be buying the next round of drinks. Hey, I’m just kidding.”

  “Yep, yep, yep,” Malloy beeped out. “What is your second question, Agent 33?” He must know Ernie.

  “Well, Malloy, the real reason that we’re out here in the sunless Sunset today is to revisit the old Sidle on N,” I confessed. “However, we can’t seem to find it. Would you happen to remember exactly where it was?”

  “Sidle on N. Sidle on N. Sidle on N.” Malloy now looked sad.

  “Yeah, Sidle on N,” I confirmed. “Back in ’92. Wasn’t it in the mid-40 avenues, somewhere around 44th or 45th?”

  “Yep, yep, yep. It surely was, Agent 33. But, after Tsula [a character in the Mysterieau of San Francisco novella] died in there, they soon scraped it away.” Oh, no!

  “Tsula is dead? How?!” I could hardly believe it.

  “She was all party-party-party one night with the owner. Too many pills and booze. Overdose, the coroner said. There was a fire, too. Many suspect that there was foul play, and that the fire was intentionally set to cover it. But, no murder or arson conviction ever came about. The place was a total loss. It was finally bulldozed back in January of 1995. The owner later did go to prison, but it was for tax evasion. Yep, yep, yep.” Wow!

  “Woah, what a tragic ending to our old haunt, Malloy,” I said while looking down at the table. What a horrid ending.

  “Where did you end up?” Malloy asked me.

  “Back in Charlotte. But, I bet you already knew that.”

  “Oh, just checking your veracity, Agent 33, Yep, yep, yep. Just check-check-checking.”

  Monique was speechless.

  21. Zoo Are You? (May 2014)

  A delightfully dank, overcast, April Monday found Monique (Agent 32) and I (Agent 33) motoring north up NC 49 towards the NC Zoo. It seemed like a good day to get some help from our animal friends for a short story.

  “Parkaar, [my ailing alias] have you ever been to this zoo?” Agent 32 asked out of the gray.

  “Not in a long, long time, Monique.”

  “How long, 33?”

  “Oh, I think it was 1977, the year after it opened.”

  “That’s 37 years ago! It’s probably much different now.” Those animals have probably died and been replaced.

  “Yeah, maybe so, Monique. Maybe they’ve removed the walls and fences.” I bet that he only said that because of that darn digital audio recorder. I just know that he has already switched it on.

  “Removed the walls and fences? Lions, tigers and elephants running free with the people? Are you crazy?!” Maybe so.

  “Well, you know the answer to that question, Agent 32.”

  Monique laughed for a few seconds. Then the conversation stopped. Our thoughts got lost in the passing forest.

  After three or four news stories on the radio, we were passing a wooden sign that read:

  Welcome to Asheboro – Home of the NC Zoo

  “So, North Carolina has an Asheville and an Asheboro?” Monique suddenly asked.

  “Yep, and neither one is in Ashe County. Figure that out.”

  Monique shook her head. “You crazy kanos! [Filipino slang for Americans] What’s up with that?”

  I scratched my chin. “I have no idea, Agent 32. I wasn’t around back then for the naming of places.”

  Soon we were pulling into the zoo’s North American entrance parking lot. It wasn’t very crowded. We parked away from other vehicles. But, sure enough, one slid in right next to us, on my side.

  “All these open spots, and this guy parks right next to us,” I griped. “Why? What is it with some people?”

  “Oh, just calm down, 33. Don’t be a grouch today.”

  We slugged down some energy fluids a
nd marched on in. I noticed that the asphalt paths were not as smooth as before, as surface roots had created small ridges and cracks. Looks kind of like the Campbell Creek Greenway in Charlotte, the section near the gristmill ruins.

  And then, for some unbeknownst reason, it made me think of a Korean American girl in my 7th grade class at a parochial school in Charlotte, who always put serifs on her 1s, so that they looked like giraffe heads. My calligraphic musing was broken by Monique’s question.

  “Does this zoo have giraffes, Parkaar? And, if so, where are they?” How odd that she should ask about giraffes just now. Psyche-psynchronicity? [sic]

  “I think it does, 32. They’re over in the African section. We’ll make our way over there.”

  We began our tour of the North American section. There were some non-moving American alligators in a cypress swamp, just lying in wait.

  “Are they real?” Monique asked.

  “Oh, yes, very real, Agent 32. You don’t want to fall in there. If you did, you would be amazed at how quickly they come to life.” Yikes! Let me back away from this fence.

  “They look like plastic props in a C-grade horror movie, Parkaar.” She’s right; they do.

  “These ancient reptiles don’t waste energy, Monique; they wait for the right moment to attack.”

  “Do you think that they would eat a cowhide-covered, three-inch-wide, white ball, commonly called a baseball?” Now she’s playing for the recorder.

  “Ah, recycling and refining past lines are we, Monique?” Dang. He remembers them all.

  We both had a laugh and threw out a few more past lines. And that’s about how it went as we passed the bored polar bear. I bet that bear would love to eat us. Tasty human flesh.

  While continuing on our trek, we watched a seal effortlessly swim several underwater laps for us, as we viewed him/her through a subsurface window. I wonder if any agents are here today.

  Then it really went to the bears: black, brown and grizzly. I wonder if they know what I’m thinking. Oh, wait; what am I thinking?

  As we rounded a bend, we came upon a good view of some American bison. They were just lazily grazing on a field, passing time with large boulders.

  Monique then chuckled. “Those two look like Blesseltone and the Suzaffalo! [of Group Z, the enemy camp] Let’s not get too close. We might get an epic anal spray.” Major yuck!

  I laughed. “Gouda won, 32.”

  “Nice coinage, 33. Spare change, dude?”

  I chuckled. Monique had successfully imitated the intonation of the most recent aggressive panhandler that we had encountered in Plasma-Wigwood (hip slang for the Plaza-Midwood area of east Charlotte).

  Next, there were a pair of red wolves trotting the same route over and over. Their narrow path was being worn bare, and quickly becoming an orange-clay gulley. Maybe these guys need a larger pen. They’re going nuts.

  Then it was the hot-and-oh-so-dry Sonora Desert enclosure, surrounded by copious prickly cacti. What an environment.

  “Wow, what is that odor, 33? Did you heavenly utot? [fart in Tagalog] ... again?”

  “No, it wasn’t me; well, not this time.”

  From there, we kind of got lost and decided to sit down and take a break. We overheard some other zoo visitors talking behind us.

  “So, whereabouts are y’all from?” an older white male asked.

  “We’re from Nash County,” a large, white female said.

  “Really? We are, too. Hey, did you hear about old Ed Bullinger?”

  “No, what happened to him?”

  “Well, he was sharpening his lawn mower blades and died.”

  “Oh, my sweet Lord! How in the world did that happen?”

  “He had the tractor-mower’s front-end hoisted up by an old rope – the one that he had been using for the past forty years – but, this time it broke. The coroner said blunt-force chest trauma.”

  “Oh, darn. I hate to hear that. That’s a shame.”

  “But, you know old Ed was always so darn stubborn. He had been warned by Margie-Lynn not to do that time and time again, but you couldn’t tell him anything.”

  “Well, I suppose no one will be telling him anything now, except God. Rest his soul.”

  My audio recorder suddenly chirped. Darn. The battery is already low. Shouldn’t have bought those cheapo batteries.

  The people from Nash County stopped talking and looked at me.

  I pointed at a buzzing overhead light-fixture ballast. “They really need to replace that before OSHA shows up.”

  Then Monique and I got up and walked away. I bet old Ed never knew that he’d get mentioned in a psecret psociety pshort pstory. [sic] His fatal stunt will be immortalized on Facebook, in limited-edition print copies, and on e-book websites.

  “You know, Parkaar, if Kirk were here, he would say, ‘Awkward’!” In Auckland?

  “Yeah, I know, Monique. I can hear his voice saying it right now.”

  We passed through Junction Plaza and entered the African section. First up was the Forest Aviary, in which specific birds practiced general aviation and strafe-bombing without a license. Should have worn that wide-brimmed Australian field hat.

  Then it was on to the baboons. Oh, the baboonery [sic] of it all.

  “Agent 33, what’s the deal with their bright-pink-colored, bald butts?”

  “Severe roid rage, Agent 32. Hemorrhoids on steroids.”

  “Seriously, Parkaar.”

  “Oh, I think it has something to do with mating. You know, keeping the species going.”

  “Ew! It looks so gross! Is that supposed to be arousing?”

  “Maybe to a baboon, Monique.”

  “Let’s move along before I throw up.”

  Next up was a large glade of elephants, gazelle, antelope, and a lone rhino off in the distance.

  “Agent 32, I bet that lone rhino knows that it’s not Wednesday, July 29, 1992 in southeastern San Francisco.”

  “What in the world are you talking about, 33?”

  “For some odd reason, it seemed like the line to say nine seconds ago.”

  “You just might need some professional help, Parkaar.” Maybe so. Maybe so.

  “Yeah? Well, who knows? Hey, I just added it for non-causal effect to keep you guessing, 32.” He must have put some magic granules in his coffee this morning.

  We moved away from the wall, evading the lone rhino’s last charge, and ambled along to the Akiba Tram Stop. Good seats were still available.

  “Want to jump aboard, Monique?”

  “No, I’ve got my best walking shoes on. I’m doing fine. Still got a couple of miles left.”

  “Ok, kewl deal, Agent 32. Let’s keep krushing [sic] those kalories [sic] with hard k’s.” What’s with his hard k kick?

  Just as we came around the bend at the African section entrance/exit, we saw a pair of giraffes and a zebra. Monique raced to the vista point and snapped some pics.

  “Yey! I’m so happy that I got to see the giraffes! They are my favorite animals in the zoo.”

  “I see.”

  “Parkaar, the zoo in Manila didn’t have any. Well, at least not when I went. I was disappointed. I’m so glad to see them here today.”

  “How much did the giraffe win the race by, Monique?”

  “A neck.”

  “How did you know the answer?”

  “Really? Really, 33?”

  We continued looping back towards Junction Plaza, stopping to see the chimps and lemurs.

  “Agent 33, those chimpanzees were so loving of each other, but where were the lions?”

  “They had the day off for good behavior.”

  “Very funny, Parkaar. It says on the map that there are lions in this area.”

  “In this area? On this side of the fence?!”

  Monique laughed. “No, silly, back there.” She was now pointing at the brochure map.

  “Remember that pen where we saw those men working, Agent 32?�
��

  “Yes, Agent 33.” I hope all this agent-number talk doesn’t get us any unwarranted attention by security.

  “Well, that was the lions’ pen, Agent 32.”

  “Well, where did they put them?”

  “Probably in the other parking lot, Monique.” I guffawed.

  Monique was less than amused. “Why did I even ask?” I knew that she was going to ask that rhetorical question. / He seems quite amused with himself now. Did he sell another copy of his ‘Gold’ novel? Probably those extra-spatial grains.

  Monique then noticed that I had become lost in my thoughts once again.

  “What are you thinking, Parkaar?”

  “Well, I can promise you that I wasn’t wondering who might have been at that particular NL [National League] West baseball game back in July of 1992. Not until now.”

  “Give that meaningless baseball game a merciful rest, 33. Focus on the here and now, my bana. [bana is Cebuano for husband] Enjoy this amazing zoo.”

  “Are you including the humans?” Zoomans [sic]

  Monique just rolled her eyes and sighed.

  Soon we were riding on the tram to the North American exit. The cool air felt perfectly refreshing as the three-car tram quietly rounded the curves and went up and down the Uwharrie hills like a senior citizens’ roller-coaster.

  I bought Monique a fuchsia-on-black NC ZOO cap from the gift shop, which was strategically placed just before the exit.

  Then we were out of the lioness-less parking lot and heading back on NC 159 to Asheboro. We grabbed some mid-afternoon grub at the Taco Bell on NC 49/US 64.

  “The Cantina Bowls here have more food than those in Charlotte. [reference the Overheard & Overhead short story] Yey, I like it!”

  “Are you sure about that, Monique?”

  “Yes, 33, the plates are heavier here.” Maybe it’s the plastic?

  After we were finished eating, we went dessert-seeking and landed at a strip-mall slot named Di’Lishi. A white, high-school-age lass took our order.

  “Say, do you ever get tourists in here looking for the Biltmore House?” I asked.

  She pounced. “Are you kidding? All the freakin’ time.”

  “How is Asheboro?” Monique asked.

  “Well, this is the coolest spot in town – a frozen yoghurt joint. Asheville’s got a happening scene; Asheboro’s yet to happen. Asheville’s got the Blue Ridge Parkway; Asheboro’s got the Zoo Parkway. Asheville’s got the Blue Ridge Mountains; Asheboro’s got the Uwharrie mounds.”

  “Well, everyone has been friendly here,” I said. “It seems ok. I think you’re knocking your town too hard. Just get some Zoo Are You? T-shirts printed and away you’ll go.” Zoo are you? Who are these freaks?

  “Where are you all from, anyway?” she asked.

  “Charlotte,” Monique said.

  “Yeah.” Why did she say ‘Yeah’? That was odd. She felt her necklace. “You came up for the zoo, right?”

  “Yep,” we said.

  “And, let me guess … an up and back, never to return again. NC Zoo box: check. One and done.”

  “We’re staying the night, and we’ll probably come back again,” I said.

  “For what?!” she exclaimed.

  “Well, I’m always in need of fresh material,” I said and smiled.

  Monique started to giggle.