Psecret Psociety Pshort Pstories, vol. 1 Read online

22. Overheard & Overhead (May 2014)

  I had been craving – to the point of carving – a Taco Bell Cantina Bowl (yes, believe it or not) all the live-long May morning in east Charlotte. And, I know what you’re thinking; well, actually, I don’t – maybe Ernie the electronic earwig (the ringleader of psecret psociety) does. What’s more, I know this opening paragraph is a bit obtuse, but hang on and bang on. Our little story gets more focused.

  Ok, moreover than under, when I got back to our east Charlotte abode the puns ceased. I immediately commenced with some persuasive, steering-to-leading, questioning of my wife Monique, the gorgeous Agent 32.

  “Say, how would you like to bike it over to Taco Bell, mahal? [mahal, love in Tagalog] It’s less than two miles away.”

  “I don’t know, 33; it’s kind of hot outside, isn’t it?” I thought that he hated to ride in sauna weather.

  “Well, yeah, it is; but, it’s only a 13-minute jaunt. We can outrun the sweat.” I doubt that. / It’s a lie, but maybe she will believe me.

  “Thirteen minutes, Parkaar? [my ailing alias] Are you sure about that? Did you time our last trip there?”

  “No, but my bike computer did, Monique.” Why, of course.

  “Oh, I should’ve known.” He’s always measuring and logging everything. And, I’m sure he’s already recording.

  “Aren’t you hungry for a Cantina Bowl? Remember how much you loved them in Asheboro? [mentioned in the Zoo Are You? short story] You devoured two a day.”

  “They were bigger in Asheboro.” What?

  “Well, I just know that this is our lucky day.”

  “Our lucky day? A mass-produced fast-food dinner via bicycle in sweaty weather at a Taco Bell? Have you been sniffing rubber cement again, 33?” Rubber cement?

  “Monique, you make it seem so ordinary. And, well, you know that I don’t allow anything to be ordinary, especially when the recorder is running.” I knew it. He’s already switched on the digital audio recorder. I better watch what I say.

  “Now I’ve heard everything.” Monique then rolled her eyes.

  “Ah, what do ya say? C’mon, let’s burn some calories.”

  “And, then add several hundred more calories.”

  “Which we will burn off on the ride back home.”

  Monique sighed. “Ok, whatever, Parkaar; let’s do it. Can you get my bike out of the furnace room?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Salamat, [Thank you in Tagalog and Cebuano] Agent 33.” Yey! I convinced her to go.

  I got Monique’s pink Electra Townie bike out and checked the chain guard, which had come unbolted on a previous ride. It looked ok; the lock washer was doing the trick. Seems secure.

  Then I wheeled our bikes out of the house and up the driveway. We were all set.

  “Do we have everything, Parkaar?”

  “I think so. We’re good to go.”

  “Ok, let’s hit it, artsy-sportsy.” She remembers.

  And with that, we were off and rolling down Kavanaugh Drive. No traffic was spotted on Somerdale Lane, so we just did a flying merge. We coasted to Abbeydale Drive and turned right. An immediate, heart-pumping incline greeted us.

  “Time to pump those pedals, Agent 32!” I shouted like a football coach. Then I laughed.

  Monique just looked at me as she shifted into first gear and began the ascent. Farther up we passed some tuggies, [sic] (as Monique calls them) of various races, who promptly yelled some nastiness at us. We didn’t stop; we just kept on rolling.

  After a long climb, we made a right turn onto busy North Sharon Amity Road. Well, actually, onto the western sidewalk, which is essentially an elevated bike lane, as there is no planting strip (no blocked sightlines) and rarely any pedestrians to navigate.

  I stayed on guard for turning cars as we crossed Sudbury Road. And then we passed Love Avenue. I noticed that the street sign was higher up the pole than most. I bet that sign gets stolen a lot. That’s why they have it set way up there.

  Next, we crossed Tarrywood Lane, and after that, Auburndale Road. And when I saw the cacti garden on the right, I knew it was time to stop. End of this sideline.

  We dismounted our bikes. When there was a sufficient gap in the southbound traffic, we walked our bikes to the eight-foot-wide concrete median. There we waited for a break in the stream of two-lane northbound traffic. The feeling at this point was six or a half dozen.

  When a large gap opened (after about a minute), we made the crossing to the other sidewalk like a wide receiver tiptoeing into the end zone after leaving a defender down on the field.

  A quarter of a mile down the sidewalk, we turned to the left to enter a carless church parking lot. We exited the newly-paved asphalt lot onto Wilora Lake Drive. Next, we turned right onto Stilwell Oaks and rode it all the way down to the partially torn-down, four-foot-high, galvanization-failing, chain-link fence, narrowly evading a footloose and collar-free dog.

  Using the concrete steps and adjacent dirt trail, we walked our bikes down to the back service road of the old, now-rubble-ized [sic] Eastland Mall. All those late-‘70s and early-‘80s memories … now in the dust.

  We cut across the wide, weeds-in-the-cracks, parcelizing [sic] asphalt parking lot, and pumped it up the hill to the traffic light at Central Avenue.

  Once across, we pedaled on the empty sidewalk to Burger King. I prepared to stop, while Monique kept going. She then looked back at me and I realized my mistake.

  “Oh, yeah; we’re going to Taco Bell. Sorry, 32. My bad.”

  She just grinned. Her facial expression seemed to suggest that she was thinking of something. Perhaps it was: He’s tired. Those long 10-and-a-half-hour days are making him mentally unfocused. Hope he stays off a car’s hood. Or, doesn’t end up under one.

  We soon had the bikes locked up around a well-planted, sturdy Handicapped Parking Only metal signpost.

  “You think it’s ok to lock them up to this signpost, Parkaar?”

  Monique was concerned. She thought that the manager might impound them. Well, actually, I am not so sure what she was thinking.

  “They should be ok here, Agent 32,” I replied. “They don’t have a bike rack proper.” A bike rack proper? He’s speaking for future readers again.

  “But, it’s a handicapped sign. It’s kind of insulting to tie bicycles to it, when the person parking in front of it may not be able to walk.”

  “Hey, I’m handicapped, Monique. Mentally handicapped. I have that shunt, you know. It affects my bike-mooring decisions.” Bike-mooring decisions? He’s just being silly now.

  “Ok, that’s enough, Parkaar. I’m hungry. Let’s go inside and get something to eat.” She needs to carb up, and quick.

  I nodded. “Stellar idea, Monique.”

  Once inside the fast foodery, [sic] we moved right up to the counter. The only other customer was picking up their bag of grub and leaving. Ah, perfect timing. No line.

  At the place-your-order-here register, a familiar face greeted us. It was the kewl, [sic] young, attentive black dude with the Rasta dreads. He, too, recognized us from past visits.

  “Back again for Cantina Bowls?” he cheerfully asked in a very professional manner.

  “You got it, man,” I said.

  “We’re addicted,” Monique added and laughed. This could be a commercial at this point.

  He noticed our bike helmets. “You guys biked it again, I see.” Darn, forgot to lock the bike helmets up outside.

  “Yep, you know it,” I said.

  Monique tacked on another line. “He loves to ride his bike everywhere in Charlotte.” I don’t think I would ride to the airport.

  “Hey, I just got a bike,” our Taco Bell Employee-of-the-Month said.

  “Ah, most excellent,” I said.

  “I rode it to my mom’s house last weekend,” the lad said.

  “And, where is that?” I asked, not sure of what place I would here.

  “Off Barrington Drive.”
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  “Ok,” I said to show my interest was still there, as well as to keep the conversation flowing. “And whereabouts do you live?” How far away from Hampshire Hills?

  “Down on Village Lake Drive,” he calmly stated.

  “Wow, you rode your bike from Village Lake to Barrington?” I asked, somewhat stunned by the distance he travelled, while wondering what route he took.

  “Yeah,” he said with no sense of accomplishment.

  “That’s cranking it, dude!”

  Then he let out a little laugh. “It was a ride, alright.” He smiled. “Listen, I’ll have your Cantina Bowls right out. You guys can go have a seat.”

  “Thanks,” Monique said.

  “Appreciate that, man,” I said as we began to walk away.

  Our Cantina Bowls soon arrived. They looked fresh and smelled pretty good for a fast-food behemoth.

  Monique studied the size of the portions. “See, 33, these are not as big as the ones in Asheboro. Now, what did I say?”

  Sometimes a low-hanging pun can’t go unpicked; thus, I said, “See, 33, these are not as big as the ones in Asheboro.”

  “Ah, very Airplane-ish, Parkaar.” (We had recently watched the movie Airplane on TV.)

  “You got me there, 32.”

  “I always get you.”

  “Yep, yep, yep.”

  “Hey, don’t go Malloy [a character in the Mysterieau of San Francisco novella, and in the short stories A Search for Sidle on N and Vermont Street] on me, 33.”

  “Ok, I won’t. Say, did you like the movie Airplane, Agent 32?”

  “Well, it pounds on the puns. That’s for sure.”

  “But, better than punning on the pounds.”

  “Such excessive wordplay, 33. I guess it was right up your alley.”

  “Yep.”

  Our kind and now familiar Taco Bell employee returned to our table from behind the counter. “Need anything else?”

  “No, we’re good, man,” I replied. “Thanks for asking, though.”

  “Are you a writer, by chance?” he asked. What a question? How did he know? Is he already in psecret psociety and all chummy with Ernie?

  “Well, I kind of slid into it. I had to shift gears after my great – feel free to chortle – wabble-a-dabble art career went a-thud.” Wabble-a-dabble? He clearly said that for the microphone.

  He chuckled. This guy is baked.

  “I wrote a novel titled Gold, a summer story, but it sells like ice in a Canadian snowstorm.”

  “That’s funny stuff, man,” he said. “Do you do comedy?”

  “No, that would be my brother in Florida. I primarily write little short stories, usually around two thousand words, give or take a few hundred.”

  “Folded-up short stories?” he asked with a look of theory-confirming discovery.

  “Did you find one of my quadra-folds?” This is so unbelievable. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. My Parkaaroni [sic] has done it again. I guess it was a lucky day for him. Still like the Taco Bell in Asheboro better, though.

  “A quadra-fold?” He looked puzzled by the term.

  “Oh, a single sheet of paper folded into fourths. A horizontal fold and a vertical fold. And maybe in that order.” No letting up with him today.

  “Yeah, I did. It was orange. Kind of weird. I forget what it was about.” He then chuckled.

  “It was that good, huh?” I laughed, too.

  “I remember that it involved recording. Any recording devices on now?”

  “Step outside and smile for that red weather balloon,” I replied.

  23. Carolina Beached (June 2014)

  A cold, windy, fabulously forlorn, thought-inducing winter day in late January of 1986. Canal Drive, Carolina Beach. As reviewer/critic Scott Homewood would later say: “You could roll a bowling ball all the way down that street and not hit a single person or thing.” Nothing, except for the Hotel Astor at the end, some 1.3 miles away.

  It was now dusk. A chillier, eerier dusk. Otherworldly clouds were moving in from the north, flying low and scraping rooftops. A sense of foreboding infused the chilly air.

  The old four-story inn, the Hotel Astor, with its iconic sign on the roof, transfixed our gaze. The sign consisted of individual block letters on a welded metal frame. The red letters slowly pulsed (seemingly in sync with our baked brains).

  We – my 20-year-old brother Joe (future agent number unknown), Frank von Peck (future Agent 107), age 21, and I (future Agent 33), age 21 – were standing in their just-rented, stilted bungalow’s concrete driveway, mesmerized by that sign. (It had been a green brownie kind of day, kidding yew in knots.)

  I finally spoke out a passing thought, hoping that my mouth could satisfactorily annunciate the English syllables coherently.

  “Ah, the old Hotel Astor. That place sure has some history.”

  “I wonder when it was built,” Joe said.

  Frank then chimed in. “Probably in the ‘50s.”

  Now I could show off my newly acquired locale knowledge. “Guys, it was actually built in 1936, and the original name was Hotel Royal Palm. In 1983 it became Hotel Astor. Notice how the lower support bar for the word ASTOR is too long. This is because it originally supported two words: ROYAL PALM.”

  “Where did you find that out?” Joe asked.

  “I’ll tell you later, in a safer place,” I replied, chuckled, and then continued. “Over the decades, numerous people have fallen inside and outside that hotel. In fact, on this day in 1945, the hotel manager, a fellow named James Hayes, fell down the elevator shaft.”

  “Who told you this, Mr. Arty Smarty?” Frank asked.

  “Ok, ok … I admit that I did some crack research on Carolina Beach before I left Charlotte,” I told them.

  Joe then added an anecdote. “I know some dudes and chicks who have partied on that roof, right next to that sign.”

  “Damn, that’s some risky shit!” I interjected.

  Joe continued. “They rented rooms on the fourth floor and climbed out the windows and onto the roof.”

  “Did they get busted?” Frank asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Joe said. “They got away with it, I believe. And, they said that the sign is not silent; it is actually quite noisy with electric sounds - humming and clicking.”

  “Then, a-humming and a-clicking we shall go!” Frank announced.

  “Where?” I asked, fearing what he was going to say.

  “To the Hotel Astor!” Franked enthusiastically blasted.

  “Have you lost your mind?!” I asked.

  “What? Don’t be a wimp.”

  Frank was really wanting to go. I could see it in his crazed eyes. He is hell-bent on doing something risky tonight.

  “I don’t know, Frank,” I said while giving a shake of the head.

  “Are we just going to stare at a sign all night? C’mon, dudes; let’s have some adventure. Mike, you’re acting like an old man.”

  I thought up a retort. “You guys just got this killer three-bedroom beach house with a nice sound view. Do you really want to spend $80 on a hotel room, just to have access to the roof on a cold-ass winter night?”

  No reply. Frank and Joe were both non-swayed.

  Joe remembered the rear of the hotel. Then he suggested a plan of attack. “We don’t have to rent a room at the hotel. The fire escape ladder runs down the backside of the building, and is only eight feet above the ground. We could go in my work van. I can park it under the ladder. Once on top of the van, it’s a very easy climb to the roof.” Oh, dear.

  “But, what about the cops?” I asked out of utmost legal concern. “Isn’t the CBPD [Carolina Beach Police Department] station down there?”

  Joe had that prefigured into his ascending equation. “It is, but their limited off-season staff is just focused on the boardwalk bars. We’ll just wear dark clothing. We should be fine. Trust me.” Oh, boy.

  Frank then turned and looked at me. “Looks
like it’s two to one in my favor, dude. Don’t wuss out on us.”

  “Ok, Frank; I’ll play along. But, if we should get caught …”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know the drill; it will all be my idea, all my fault. Sure, you can pin it all on me.”

  We went back in the house and changed into our darkest clothes and coats. A Pink Floyd CD was still playing in the living room. It was Wish You Were Here. Strange, the little details one remembers.

  We quickly ate some snack food and slugged down a final beer. Well, my brother and I had one last brew. Frank, never much for alcohol of any formulation, elected for a glass of chocolate milk. He was already thoroughly weed-woven, which meant he was on his A game (A for astonishing).

  “Ok, you guys ready to do this?” Frank asked. He was now ready to roll. Hope this crazy stunt goes off without a hitch – a police hitch.

  Joe gulped down his Old Milwaukee and chucked the aluminum can towards the kitchen trash can. It bounced off the dark wood paneling and we all laughed (for some reason). He looked at Frank. “Sure, I’m ready. Just one second. Let me get my keys.”

  Joe soon returned from his bedroom with his keys and we were out the door. Frank took the shotgun position in the van. The engine started and Joe carefully backed up, making sure that his mirrors didn’t get clipped by the house-support pilings.

  Joe slid a Bad Company CD in the slot and carefully observed the 25 MPH speed limit as we slowly neared our hotel destination, looming and pulsating up ahead. It was so strangely quiet outside.

  “How long do you plan on staying up there on the roof?” I asked Frank.

  “Until we feel cold.” We?

  And with that remark, the in-transit conversation ceased. Everyone was pensive. I spied the moon for a few seconds, but then the white-gray clouds quickly covered it back up.

  Joe cautiously passed the Hotel Astor and made a right turn onto Raleigh Avenue. That’s when I saw the rusty, faded off-yellow, narrow fire-escape ladder that he was talking about. So, that’s our way to the roof. Sure hope there are no rusted-out rungs. A forty-foot fall would truly suck. Well, for a couple of seconds.

  No one was on the street. There was just a lone green sedan behind the hotel. And, no one appeared to be in the car.

  Joe calmly backed up his Dodge Tradesman 100 van under the old fire escape. Then he cut the engine off. We looked at each other, gauging our resolve to this crazy idea. I guess we’re going to do this. So far, so good. Hope the cops don’t see us.

  “Well, we’re here,” Joe finally said. “Now, who wants to go up first?”

  I looked at Frank. “Frank, I think that’s your cue.”

  Frank looked around. The coast was clear. “I’m going for it, dudes.”

  And, out the door Frank went, vanishing behind the van. He used the rear bumper to slither up to the van’s roof. With an easy 14-inch step up, he was on the first rung of the old fire-escape ladder, and he wasn’t waiting for us. Wow, there he goes with no hesitation.

  Frank stormed up the rust-flaked, but still structurally solid, ladder like a commando, and was almost at the top when a police cruiser passed by and looked at the van. Oh, crapola! This aint good. Think fast, Mike.

  “I’ll take care of this, Joe.”

  I quickly got out of the van and looked at the right front tire (as a diversion). My brother picked up on what I was doing, and walked over to examine the tire with me.

  The police cruiser backed up as Frank made it to the roof and out of sight of anyone on the ground. The CBPD car stopped right in front of our van, blocking us, and then the white, rotund, slack-jowled, 50-something cop got out.

  “Having some tire trouble, are we?” he asked. His face reflected thirty-five hard years on the beach-town force.

  I quickly thought of a ruse. Then I spoke to the police officer, trying to sound like an innocent, dopy tourist. Hope I sound convincing.

  “Oh, I heard a bottle shatter under this tire, officer. We were just making sure that no shards of glass had punctured it.”

  The veteran CBPD officer shined his black flashlight on the tire. “Looks fine to me. Go ahead and drive it around and see if it loses any air. You can’t leave it here.”

  “Ok, sure, sir,” Joe said.

  “Thanks,” I added.

  And with that, we – my brother and I – were gone, leaving Frank on the hotel roof. As we began to go back down Canal Drive, my brother spoke up.

  “Hey, what about Frank? We can’t leave him on the roof.”

  “We can’t go back there, Joe; if we do, the cops will know something is up. Frank will be ok. He probably saw the whole episode. He can drop eight feet without getting hurt.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. And, it’s only a little over a mile to our house. Frank can walk that far, even if he has to chain-smoke his way back over the course of an hour.”

  “Yeah, he’ll huff and puff his way back, Joe. He’ll wait until it’s all clear.”

  We continued tootling north on Canal Drive. It was still very quiet outside – so unlike six months prior (the summer tourist season). Many bungalows and condos appeared to be unoccupied.

  A couple of minutes later, and Joe was parking his van under the bungalow. We went inside. It was 8:35 PM. We popped a beer and talked about our lucky close call.

  “You don’t think that Frank could fall off the roof in his stupor?” I asked my brother.

  “Stupor? He’s not in a stupor; he’s in a super.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. He seems to get more agile on weed, where as I – and most people – get accident-prone.”

  “Mike, he could scale that hotel like Spiderman right now. Well, maybe not quite that agile, but more so than most.”

  “Yeah, no doubt; I agree.”

  At 9:17 PM there was a loud knock on the door.

  “I think that’s our man,” I said.

  Joe opened the door. It was a shivering Frank.

  “Get me to some heat and pronto. It’s cold as hell out here!” Frank was very white in the face. “Oh, and thanks for leaving me up on that roof. That was one frigid, long-ass walk. Thanks for the lift. Not.”

  “I guess you saw what happened to us down below,” I ventured.

  “Yep, I saw the whole dilemma unfold.”

  “Frank, we couldn’t go back,” Joe said.

  “How was it up there?” I asked out of curiosity.

  “A nice, frozen view, even with the low clouds. And, yes, the sign is way noisy.”

  “Any spatial distortions?” I asked.

  “That was Wrightsville Beach, dude. Get on the right beach. Stay on the current story.” Currents. Connecting currents.

  “Right,” I replied. “Sorry, my bad, Frank.”

  “Hey dudes, I did read some strange graffiti on the sign support frame,” Frank revealed with a more animated expression. He was thawing out.

  “Let me guess … notes of a rooftop romp, or some amorous announcement?” I suggested.

  “No, not the usual relationship graffiti – a one-liner that stopped me dead in my shingle-scaling tracks.”

  I looked at Frank. “Ok, enough with the suspense, Frank. What did the graffiti say?”

  “The penknife engraving read: ‘I will burn this place down in 2005, signed JPS.’ Is that whacked or what? Announcing your arson 19 years in advance to rooftop partiers.”

  “Yeah, that’s majorly whacked, Frank,” I said.

  “I don’t know anyone with those initials,” my brother added.

  “Maybe it stands for a phrase,” I said. “You know, like FTW means Fuck The World.”

  “Just Puke Silently,” Joe submitted.

  We all laughed.

  “Well, we’ll have something to talk about someday.”

  And with that we all puffed the porcelain dragon (Frank’s bong) and crashed.

  ________________________________________________

  And on July 18, 2006 from the WECT
website in Wilmington:

  The man who burned down an historic Carolina Beach hotel is on his way to prison.

  John Patrick Shannon pleaded guilty Tuesday to attempted first-degree arson. A judge sentenced him to three years behind bars.

  Shannon apparently set fire to the Astor Hotel (aka Hotel Astor) in Carolina Beach last year. Dozens of witnesses told police they saw Shannon around the hotel at the time of the fire. The blaze started when a couch on the front porch was ignited.

  The hotel was later bulldozed to the ground.

  24. Windmill with a View (June 2014)

  Prefaçorial [sic] remarks.

  Yes, another short story centered around that knowhere [sic] bar called Sidle on N. I know what you are thinking: Jeez, Mike, another one? Really?

  Please bear with me for just a few more. The vault of 2014 is now almost emptied.

  These Sidle on N short stories led up to the Mysterieau of San Francisco novella. Some of the characters, scenes and plot ideas made it to the novella; others are lying in the fog somewhere in westernmost San Francisco.

  Curiously enough, Mr. Malloy was on holiday for this one. Maybe there was a Giants home game.

  Any ways and all waves, thanks for your interest, time and mind space.

  -MB

  It was back in the summer of 1992, while in a small studio apartment in downtown San Francisco (in the infamous Tenderloin) – way before psecret psociety was created and formally promulgated on Facebook (and obviously long before Facebook) – that I imagined myself as some kind of meta-real agent. I knew the agency part would fall into place sooner or later (actually, much later).

  I found myself having another end-of-day grog at Sidle on N on Judah Street. (The bar, Sidle on N, is featured in the Mysterieau of San Francisco novella, as well as in the short stories, A Search for Sidle on N; Water Hammer; Ok, Roll the Dice; and The Right Triangle.) As usual, and as prescribed, only three people were in the little dive bar in the Outer Sunset district of San Francisco.

  There was a 40-something, slightly pudgy, mustachioed, white guy in a cowboy hat, who kept nervously looking out the door at the perennial late-day fog passing by. He seemed paranoid. Who is he looking out for? Is he hallucinating? Is he a marked gaucho from a lost gulch? I need to write that line down on a piece of napkin. Might use it twenty or so years from now.

  There was an Asian couple, probably college age, talking softly in a corner. They’re probably reviewing notes for an upcoming exam.

  Behind the bar today was an Amerasian dude named Dash. I was never sure if that was his birth name or just an adopted American nickname. I never asked him. He was about my age at that time: 28.

  I got used to seeing him in there on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Today was a Wednesday. A Wednesday near-evening that seemed to hang by a mid-week tendril on a branch of disbelief. Well, perhaps.

  However, no one in this so-easy-to-pass-right-on-by joint was howling for abstract poetry at this moment. And, believe the essence of yew, they weren’t aware of the cancer-fighting potential. And, for that matter, neither was I.

  I laughed to myself when that last couplet sailed through my cranium, glancing off some remnants of gray matter. Dash caught my nascent chortle.

  “Something funny, eh?” Where did he pick up that Canadian accent? Toronto? Montréal? Hamilton? Or, maybe in Yellowknife with a steak knife? Internal laughter.

  I recomposed my countenance for anyone counting. But, wasn’t sure if Dash was.

  “Yeah, just a one-two combination that I might use sometime in the future. That’s if I ever start writing.”

  “Twenty-two years from now?” How odd that he would pick 22 years. It’s always odd in here, though. Shouldn’t really be surprised anymore.

  “Maybe so, Dash.”

  “You think that you’ll still be alive?”

  “I don’t know. Hard to say. Do you mean exactly 22 years from now, not an even 20?” Score.

  “Yeah, I think that I will stick with that number. Repeating digits, you know. Maybe some magic there.”

  “Dash, you’re mad, man. But, you’re no madman.”

  “You funny American guy, Mike.”

  “I’ll let you in on a little secret: It’s only parfait [perfect in French] if you can make it pay, mon ami. [‘my friend’ in French] Got to pay those bills. Must stay afloat in this stagnant moat.”

  “You better write that one down, man, before you forget it.”

  He handed me a red ball-point pen and a cardboard PBR (Pabst Blue Ribbon) beer coaster. I jotted the line down and dated it. Then I tossed it into my green backpack and zipped it shut.

  “Speaking of making it pay, how do you make it, Dash, just working three days a week? Do you have a second job somewhere? I mean, this is one expensive-ass city.”

  “You aint kidding, pal. Let’s just say that I cut out a big expense.”

  “Let me guess: You drive an older car that is already paid for; thus, no car payment.”

  “True in part, Mike; I have no car payment. But, it’s because I have no car.”

  “Well, I don’t have a car, either. This is one of the few American cities that you can live in delightfully without an automobile.”

  “True dat, bro.”

  “But, Dash, how do you make the rent if I may be so bold to ask?”

  “I live rent-free, man.” What?!

  “Are you a squatter in some Lower Haight, soon-to-be-razed, faltering flophouse? Or, are you in government-subsidized housing in the Western Addition?”

  “No, no, Mike; nothing like that.” I bet he camps in Golden Gate Park and showers at the Y.

  Dash grabbed his stringy goatee and ran his fingers through it like a four-tined rake. “I live in a very interesting, unique place,” he cautiously announced.

  “A mental hospital?” I chuckled at my little zinger.

  “You are very funny guy, Mike.”

  “Oh, I’m just joking with ya.”

  “You must want to be comedian.”

  “No, not me.”

  When Dash noticed that I was serious again, he continued with his lodging revelation. “I have a place in Golden Gate Park for the time being.” Ah-ha! Golden Gate Park. I knew it. Just as I suspected: a camper in the bushes.

  “Oh, is that so?”

  “Listen, I’d like to tell you where, but my girlfriend has sworn me to secrecy. She doesn’t want us to lose our kewl [sic] digs.” Digs? Maybe they live underground. Or, semi-underground. Or, maybe in a lean-to. A lean-to-a-sand-dune.

  “So, somewhere in Golden Gate Park. That’s some prime, publicly owned, surreal [sic] estate if you can maintain the subterfuge. I hope they don’t find your tent behind North Lake.”

  “Oh, trust me; we’re not living in a tent. I’ll give you a hint: It’s a permanent structure. That’s all I can say. I think that I shouldn’t have even said that. Can I take that hint back?” Don’t think so.

  “Sure, Dash; consider it erased from my bean.” Not.

  He looked at me and grinned. “One more dark brew to-go for the train ride back home?”

  “Sure. Please put it in a brown paper bag, Dash. Thanks in advance and in retrograde.” What a strange one he is.

  “I remember the routine, Mr. Mike.” Mr. Mike?

  “And that is why I tip you so well.”

  “You just want my sister’s phone number.” He’s onto my little scheme.

  “Yeah, maybe so.” Of course you do.

  “Maybe so next time,” Dash concluded.

  I put a $5 bill and five quarters down on the bar and exited the tantalizing travesty of a tavern. I crossed Judah. Lucky me, an N-line train was waiting at the western terminus. Ah, just like I ordered it.

  I jumped aboard the front car. I couldn’t stop wondering where Dash and his girlfriend were living in Golden Gate Park. Are they living in a large storm drain vault? No, that would be too damp. Couldn’t imagine a 20-something female volunta
rily living in such a space. Are they really living in some subterranean void? Where do they use the bathroom? Outside in the woods? No, I couldn’t imagine a girl living like that. I can tell that he’s not living like that, either; he is getting a fresh shower every day. Does he have a key to some park maintenance building? I bet that’s it. I’ll have to poke around out there this weekend.

  The MUNI train stopped at 22nd Avenue. The man from Sidle on N with the cowboy hat crossed the street with his head down, headed south. He glanced at the front of the train as he passed by. The last new passenger got on the rear car of the train, and we were rolling again. I never saw him leave the bar. I wonder what his story is. Lost to time. Another mystery gone to the fog.

  Twenty-two minutes later, the N train pulled into the below-Market-Street Civic Center station. I got out and walked up to my Hyde Street studio apartment, wading through the aggressive panhandlers. I couldn’t stop wondering about where Dash and his girlfriend were living in Golden Gate Park.

  Four days later, I spent a whole Sunday checking out the various structures in the park for signs of human habitation. Nothing looked remotely lived in, even when I zoomed in on the sheds and maintenance shop windows with my binoculars. I was ready to call it quits in the southwestern corner of the park, when I noticed the old, broken-down, closed-up, sail-less Murphy Windmill.

  I glanced at the little rectangular windows. In a middle one, I thought I saw a face. I quickly looked through my binoculars. There was a young Asian female’s face surrounded by long black hair. She was looking down at me. What the heck! Is she a ghost? Am I really seeing this?

  I saw her just for a few milliseconds. Then she was gone. She disappeared that quickly. So suddenly in fact that I wondered if I had truly seen a real living person. I then doubted the visage altogether, and wrote it off as just another one of my dehydration delusions. Need some water, and quick.

  However, a trip to Sidle on N the next Wednesday confirmed my initial impression.

  25. Ok, Roll the Dice (June 2014)

  Staying in the summer of ’92 in San Francisco, and staying planted in that how-did-I-ever-stumble-into-and-root-myself-into-such-a-displacement-in-knowhere [sic], the mind-sink called Sidle on N; well, this me wondered, as yet another MUNI train clanged its way on by, parting the fog with well-learnt pry-cision. [sic] Molecular memory?

  It was another mild, overcast, foggy-in-spots, August Thursday. Another one that I had grown to love.

  Dash wasn’t working today, as he only worked on Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Ok, I think we covered that in a previous installment (but, just in case you are reading this first, Dash was an Amerasian bartender at a fabulously forlorn joint in the Outer Sunset district of San Francisco that went under the pun-ishing [sic] moniker of Sidle on N.)

  Yeah, I can remember the little, silhouette-style, rusty metal sign. Or, was it made out of wood and painted to look like metal? I should’ve taken it as a souvenir. Darn it!

  Often times the trio of Shoulda, Coulda and Woulda would be spreading Gouda cheese on some thin windmilled crackers. Ok, ok, enough nonsense. Message received, loud and clear. Let’s get this tale moving nose-ward.

  Maria was behind the cherry wood bar today. She was originally from Honduras, in her late 40s, and worked as you might have surmised, every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. (The 333-square-foot demi-lounge was closed on Sundays; at least, I tend to think it was.)

  It was now about 3:30. They usually opened the door at three. And once it was open, no one seemed to close it.

  We were the only two people in the place. I never said much to Maria. I just figured – ignorantly – that she took the part-time gig to pay bills, and had no creative interests or inclinations, or any attention to be paid outside of the day-to-day mundanities [sic] of life.

  Boy oh boy, was I wrong, as I shelled out my sails to sea. I mean, as I shall set out to see. Or, wri-type. [sic] I think you get the jist of my drift. Enough noodling!

  Anyway, I was doodling mindlessly on a copy of SF Weekly when Maria walked by the little table where I was sitting. She glanced at my little cartoonish rendering.

  “Are you an artist?” she asked with just a slight south-of-the-border accent.

  I looked up at her. “I think the jury is still out on that, Maria,” I replied.

  “What do you mean by that? Does someone have to certify that you are an artist now? What is this silly city coming to?”

  “I mean that I’ve been shopping my art to dozens of galleries in the Bay Area [chronicled in the novella Mysterieau of San Francisco] over the past five months, and I all have is two walls in a South-of-Market coffeehouse and a handful of low-dollar sales. I’m not exactly the next Andy Warhol. I’m just another forever unknown, it would seem.”

  “Oh, I see; you think that only if you become famous can your art be deemed good, worthy or valuable. And, until such time, it must be caca. [Spanish for crap] That’s such Americano loco [‘crazy American’ in Spanish] nonsense. Just keep doing your art and let the chippies [sic] fall where they may, amigo. [friend in Spanish] You understand me?”

  “Sí, [Yes in Spanish] I do. I’ll take that advice. Muchas gracias, [‘Much Thanks’ in Spanish] Maria.”

  “Hey, I really like that little spaceman drawing. Can I buy it?”

  “Buy it? Oh, please. Here, I’ll give it to you.”

  I carefully tore the nine-square-inch doodling off of the back page of the newsprint periodical. I looked at her as I handed it to her. “I hope this brings you some good luck.”

  “Hold on now, amigo; I have got to pay you back with something.”

  “No, really; it’s ok. I don’t want anything for this little sketch.”

  “You stay right there, artistimodo.” [sic] Artistimodo? Did I hear her right?

  “Ok, I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Just uno minuto. [‘one minute’ in Spanish] Let me get my magic dice.” Magic dice? Is she going to hustle me in a craps game? Probably some loaded dice.

  Maria walked back behind the bar. She then bent down and retrieved a small cardboard box. She seemed very excited about the box. Honduran jumping dice?

  When she put the box down on the table where I was sitting, I noticed that it was actually covered in well-worn black velvet. She then sat down across from me.

  “You’ve had this box for a long time, huh, Maria?”

  “For three decades now,” she said with pride.

  “I can tell that you greatly treasure what’s inside this box, Maria. You don’t have to give me your dice. Really. I already have some.” Él no tiene estos. [Spanish for ‘He doesn’t have these.’]

  She didn’t even acknowledge my declination of offer. Maria just undid the interlocking bands and opened the small box to reveal a pair of slightly blue-tinged white dice.

  “I don’t usually play craps, but when I do, I wear man diapers.” Couldn’t resist saying that one. Probably just confused her.

  “What did you just say, amigo?” She was indeed confused by my lame joke.

  “I’m not sure, Maria. It’s like the words just got shot out of my mouth from somewhere, maybe from Yellowknife.” I really need to tone down the nonsense. It’s not fair to her.

  “All of you artists in this town are so silly.”

  “Yeah, you may be right on that, Maria.”

  She then intently looked in my green eyes with her dark brown eyes. “Do you want to know about your future?” she asked.

  “Sure, who doesn’t?”

  “Ok, amigo, grab both dice with one hand.”

  I scooped up the dice, which felt very department-store ordinary, with my right hand. I wonder if she has ever done this trick with Dash.

  I cleared my throat. “Ok, what now, Maria?”

  “Ask a question to yourself – silently – don’t tell me – in which the answer is a number.” Now I see where this is going. A little fortune-teller action. I’ll just play along so as to not h
urt her feelings. Well, I may as well ask a numerically answerable question. I know one: When will I get married?

  I nodded to Maria and then rolled the dice. A lucky seven came up, made up of a six and a one. Too bad I’m not in Reno. Maybe do a weekender next month.

  Maria looked at the dice for a few seconds. She then placed her left hand on her forehead and told me to roll again. She didn’t exactly look happy; in fact, she looked fairly distressed.

  “Ok, Maria, here goes roll number two. Wish me better luck.”

  And with that remark, I rolled the dice again. Boxcars. A twelve – a pair of sixes. Hmmm … 7 + 12 = 19. Do I get married 19 years from now? Jeez, I’ll be 47! I don’t want to be in some cheesy singles bar at 47! Or, does it mean that I get married on July 12th? Or, is it going to be on December 7th? Oh, it’s just nonsense. Just stop thinking about it!

  “Would you like to know what your two dice rolls mean?”

  “Why, certainly! How much does it cost?” Here’s the rub.

  “It’s free, hombre tonto. [‘silly man’ in Spanish] The price is nada. [nothing in Spanish] Nada, nada, nada thing. Remember, amigo, I owe you for that drawing you gave me.”

  “Oh, ok.”

  “Here’s the interpretation as I learned from my maternal grandmother. Your roll of seven had the six die above the one die. While rolling a seven is usually seen as good, this particular combination is not favorable. Due to this result, I had you roll again. You then rolled a twelve. What this means is that something of importance will happen in seven units from now. It could be days, weeks, months, years; only you will know. But, that endeavor will not be successful. However, that endeavor will be re-attempted twelve units later with success. This is all that I can tell you.”

  “Well, thank you, Maria, for that interesting and very intriguing reading of the dice. Buenas noches. [‘Good night’ in Spanish] I’ll probably be back next Tuesday.” If I don’t get run over by a red-light-running car like that guy on the 3rd floor of my apartment building, that is. Man, did that car send him sailing through the air. Brutal. Ughhhh.

  I got up to catch the N train back to downtown. My thoughts as I waited at the tram stop: Divining the future. Such an old game. If it were only as easy as rolling dice. She seems to really believe in it, though. I won’t burst her bubble. That would be cruel and so unnecessary. When I see her next time, I’ll just tell her that I’m still trying to figure out the units of her interpretation.

  In 1999 I would get married to the wrong woman; in 2011 I would get married to the right one.

  26. The Right Triangle (June 2014)

  Got time for one more tale from Sidle on N (a perpetually fogged-in, tiny, dive-to-the-depths-of-knowhere [sic] bar in the Outer Sunset district of San Francisco)? It’s just a short one. I sure-really hope that when/if you whisper ‘Oui’ (Yes in French) that no eavesdropper assumes than you are now referring to yourself in the 1st person plural, as they say that it is much worse than referring to oneself in the 3rd person singular. And that Mike guy, well, he should know us. I can sense that one falling flatter than last year’s cooler-compacted pancake.

  Ok, enough with the preliminary noodling. I’ll behave from here on out. Well, maybe.

  It was a late Friday afternoon in mid-September of ‘92. No, not 1892 at a Haverlys minor league baseball game – a century of change and re-arrange later than that in the city by the bay.

  Dash, the ever-hip, late-20-something, Amerasian M-W-F bartender at Sidle on N, was chatting on his clunky early-1990s bag-phone with his girlfriend Dish. (You know, you can’t make these nicknames up – well, maybe you can. A couple named Dash and Dish, eyes will kid yew in knots.)

  I had just third-sipped my off-brand dark beer (today’s $2 impromptu, unadvertised, unannounced special), when Dash hung up his two-pound, scraped-up, bandage-taped, cellular phone by attaching it to a side of the large, dusty, black battery bag.

  Dash was excited and all a-smile. He quickly and proudly made an announcement: “Dak is going to do it! Yes, Dak is really going to do it!” Dak? Never heard him mention a Dak before.

  “Do what?” I asked. “And, who in the whole wide bay area is Dak?”

  “He’s going to soar, man. Dak is my computer-whiz friend. He aced the SAT. Well, at least the math and logic parts.” Wow, a little bit better than my 960.

  “Very impressive, Dash. So, you’ve got a compu-genius [sic] friend. I would think that is very beneficial to have in this new digital age.”

  “I think so, too, Mike. He will be getting his master’s degree from UC Berkeley in only five years.” Not too shabby. A bright diode there.

  “Ok, and what will he be doing with all that brain power, Dash?” Binary fusion?

  “Dak is going to jump off the Golden Gate Bridge and soar away!” So, the ultra-smart one has an exotic death wish. How sublime.

  “Lovely. Just lovely, Dash. Tell him to wait a few years, and then he can be suicide number 1,000. That way his name will be on a bronze plaque at Fort Point. Oh yeah, and then his name will also be the winning answer to trivial bar bets.”

  “No, he’s not planning on committing suicide, Mike.”

  “Well, that’s what just about always happens when you jump off that bridge. Less than one in a hundred survive the fall. The bridge’s road deck is 245 feet above the bay’s surface. Mean sea-level, of course.” Mean sea-level. Too much.

  “Yeah, I know, I know. But, really, Dak has it all figured out. He’s mega-smart. Top of the league.” Too smart for this life?

  “Dash, the bridge leapers reach speeds approaching 80 miles per hour. At those speeds, the water’s surface is like concrete. Dried, cured, hard concrete.”

  “He knows that. Dak told me that he’s going to take off from the top of the North Tower. He’s done the calculations and has come up with the right triangle.” The right triangle?

  “Well, Dash, his chances of surviving just went from 1% to zilch. Those towers are over 700 feet tall. Seven hundred and forty-six feet to be exact.”

  “How do you know the exact height of the towers and all these other bridge specs?”

  “I took a free brochure from the bridge’s gift shop yesterday. My memory chip has a soft spot for random facts.”

  Dash then handed me a white business card with a right triangle on it in black ink. (Click here to see graphic.)

  > [return mark] Thanks for coming back. You know, I was beginning to wonder.

  I noted the numerical amounts and terms like Glide Path, Top of GGB North Tower, SF Bay surface and Kirby Cove Beach.

  “Wait, did you say take off?” What kind of stunt is this?

  “I sure did. He’s going to have wings, Mike.”

  “His arms will be torn off, Dash. Has your genius-pal not done his homework properly? The human body can’t take those kinds of stresses. We’re not birds.”

  “He’s done all the math, even triple-checked it. Almost all of the stress is taken by an ultra-lightweight, carbon-fiber, slightly curved, 18-foot beam that will go across his back, behind his shoulder blades. The wing material is some new synthetic, composite material. It all weighs less than nine pounds.”

  “You’re kidding me.” This is nutzoid. [sic]

  “Man, I have seen his contraption. It’s real, dude. And, it’s really very light, yet super-strong. He’s already done some testing in the Marin Headlands at night. But please, don’t tell anyone.”

  “Don’t worry; I won’t. I wouldn’t want to short-circuit the upcoming spectacle.”

  “Mike, he can fly with these wings, I tell ya. It’s no joke. It really works. Well, fly is not exactly correct; glide is a better word. He told me that he glided for over 500 feet off a 200-foot-high knoll just a few nights ago.”

  “Ok, Dash, let’s just say that I believe that his math is right and his glide-wings will work. That still leaves a big problem: How does he transport an 18-foot-long apparatus to the top of the North Tower
without being seen?”

  “Inside help, dude. He has a cousin who works in the bridge maintenance division. He will have a key.”

  “But, he can’t just walk down the bridge’s sidewalk with that 18-foot wingspan. Hundreds of passing motorists and pedestrians will see him and report him to the police as a suspected terrorist.”

  “He’s way ahead of you, Mike. It’s no problem. It all folds up into six three-foot-long sections. He’ll re-assemble it in the top of the tower, just under the hatch.” Just under the hatch? What?!

  “If your Dak pulls this off and lives, I’ll give you five Malloy-approved lottery numbers.” Mike knows Malloy?

  “Only five?” Dash laughed. “Listen, Mike, he already has a special duffel bag for it with a customized logo: SoarFree.” I’ve heard everything now. This place never fails to amaze.

  “Dash, your test-genius friend is too smart for his own, dumb, good health.”

  Dash was unfazed by my remark. “Oh, I forgot to tell you this: He wants me to film his epic Golden Gate glide from Battery Spencer.”

  “Oh, so you will be the videographer who documents this poor guy’s death. I’d be careful with that video tape, Dash; you could get called into a courtroom.”

  “Relax, Mike; it’s going to work out fine. Dak is an all-world genius; he’s not some corn-fed rube.” Where did that come from?

  “Is he an epik [sic] with a k all-leaguer?” I think my American friend has had enough drink for today. I will politely cut him off. He won’t miss the alcohol. I think that he has ingested some of those ‘granules of grandeur’ that are going around.

  “Mike, my crazy art-friend, he has done stunts like this before. Many times. And, get this, his record is perfect. No mishaps. No accidents. No injuries. No, not even a scratch. His preparation is always ultra-meticulous.”

  “Ok, ok, Dash. Just for non-argument’s sake, I’ll believe every single word that you have just said. However, there is still a problem. A big all-engulfing problem. I’ll give you a hint: three letters, begins with the letter F.”

  “Fog?” Wow! He guessed it on the first try. Just like in a short story.

  “Yes, fog, Dash. The seemingly ever-present, summertime, pea-soup fog. How will he be able to see where he is going? And, how on Earth will you be able to film him in flight?”

  “I hear you loud and clear. But, have you noticed that the fog is getting thinner, and is sometimes not even present at dusk anymore?”

  “Color me oblivious to it.”

  “There have even been some sunsets this week where you could actually see the Pacific Ocean.”

  “All the way out to Seal Rocks.” I guffawed.

  “No, not the surf. I mean like seven miles out. We’re getting out of the dense summer fog season.”

  “So, he is just waiting for a fog-free evening?”

  “Fog-free and wind-free. A calm twilight.”

  I swilled down the last two ounces in my dark brown beer bottle and got up to leave. “Dash, call me the day that Dak decides to take his leap of faith.”

  “I will.”

  “Give me at least four hours of lead time.”

  “You got it, man. You still want my sister’s phone number?”

  “No, I already have it.” What?! He does?

  “You fucking dog! Get the hell out of here.” He was laughing.

  “Just one last question before I go: Have you seen Malloy [a character in the novella Mysterieau of San Francisco and in the short stories A Search for Sidle on N and Vermont Street] lately?”

  “He was in last Tuesday. He told me that before he won the lottery he won the treble.” What?

  “The treble? Isn’t that a European soccer term that refers to winning three trophies or cups in one season?”

  “Yeah, I think so. But in Mr. Malloy’s case, his treble was divorce, foreclosure and bankruptcy. And in that order.” Ouch!

  “I wouldn’t call that winning.”

  “He said that it set him up to win the lottery.”

  “Malloy is just one lucky bastard. One very amusing old loon. I love how he rationalizes his most propitious stroke of chance, and makes it seem like anyone can win if they follow his golden precepts. Lovely lunacy.”

  “Yep, yep, yep,” Dash said, mimicking Malloy perfectly.

  I exited with a grin. However, when I looked across Judah Street, I saw the back of an N train climbing the incline. Drats! Just missed it. Well, can’t make them all.

  Next, I decided to walk down to Lava Peach for a cappuccino to pass the wait time for the next train.

  Business was brisk at Judah & La Playa. The strong coffee was just what I needed. (I was running on feral fumes.)

  I then looked around for something to read and found a folded sheet of paper in a basket with a story on it – one very similar to the one that you are reading right now.

  An idea flashed across my interior screen: Maybe I should do some zany little quadra-folds like this someday.

  I finished my cup o’ joe as the MUNI streetcar came into view. The fog is thinning, just like Dash said.

  The ride back to Market Street was pleasantly uneventful, except for the man who kept looking for something on the floor. Maybe mentally ill.

  Days passed with me and Sidle on N in separate worlds. To be honest, I forgot about the upcoming Dak event.

  Then at three on Sunday afternoon, October 4th, Dash called me. Tonight was the night.

  I met Dash at Battery Spencer at 7:07 PM. With my binoculars I saw the be-winged Dak atop the North Tower. Wow! There he is with his wing-set. It looks like he is really going to do this. Is he going to fall like a winged boulder?

  Then he leapt. He glided like a giant black raptor. He curved a little and quickly came towards us. Fast. Very fast. And, he zipped right by us with a tight-lipped grin. Wow! It’s working. He’s zooming right along!

  Dak, however, overshot Kirby Cove Beach and disappeared into a fog bank to the west. Where’d he go?

  Dash and I never found him that evening. We just assumed that he glided a few hundred yards out to sea. Since he had a wet suit and life jacket on, we figured that he would be ok and float back in. And tomorrow he would tell us the astonishing details.

  However, later, on the 10:00 PM local news, the Chinese American anchorwoman led off the broadcast with: “Wing-suited man crashes into Point Bonita Lighthouse and dies.”