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InterText Vol 12 No 1
======================================
InterText Vol. 12, No. 1 / Summer 2002
======================================
Contents
The Rag Doll Man..............................Patrick Whittaker
Bizarre Crime Shocks Sleepy Neighborhood........Chris J. Magyar
The Food of Love................................Mark McLaughlin
Water Music........................................Chris Duncan
714 and Counting....................................Jason Snell
The Turn on the Trail..........................Gregory E. Lucas
....................................................................
Editor Assistant Editor
Jason Snell Geoff Duncan
<jsnell@intertext.com> <geoff@intertext.com>
....................................................................
Submissions Panelists:
Pat D'Amico, Joe Dudley, Heather Timer, Jason Snell
....................................................................
Send correspondence to <editors@intertext.com>
....................................................................
InterText Vol. 12, No. 1. InterText (ISSN 1071-7676) is
published electronically on an irregular basis. Reproduction of
this magazine is permitted as long as the magazine is not sold
(either by itself or as part of a collection) and the entire
text of the issue remains unchanged. Copyright 2002 Jason Snell.
All stories Copyright 2002 by their respective authors. For more
information about InterText, send a message to
<info@intertext.com>. For submission guidelines, send a message
to <guidelines@intertext.com>.
....................................................................
The Rag Doll Man by Patrick Whittaker
=========================================
....................................................................
Things fall apart. The center cannot hold. But things aren't
all that falls apart.
....................................................................
Damn Jordan. There he goes again, whining and wailing like all
the world's pains were in him and him alone. Why will he not be
quiet?
I've told him. I've said, "Look, Jordan. You haven't got it half
as bad as you think. You're not in pain. You're not dying or
about to become a vegetable. With our help and a little luck,
there's no reason you can't live to a ripe old age."
His self-pity disgusts me.
In the morning, I'll wheel him around the hospital. Give him a
dose of reality. I'll show him the little boys and girls whose
days are spent in chemotherapy, whose daily routine consists of
one injection after another. I'll let him taste their pain --
real pain. And then he can chat with the parents who know that
their little Tommy or Sarah has but months to live.
But would it do any good? There are people who will never accept
their lot in life. They feel the universe should bend to their
will, cater to their every need. Jordan is such a person.
There's not a mark on him. He can breathe without difficulty. He
can talk, cry, shit, and even smile if only he'd give it a try.
Clinically, there is nothing wrong with Jordan. Except, of
course, he's not all there.
Now when I say Jordan's not all there, I'm not referring to his
mental state. I am saying that various parts of his anatomy have
mysteriously disappeared.
But don't go pitying the man. I'm not certain, but somehow I
feel he's brought it all upon himself. And whether or not he is
the agent of his own misfortune, there is a certain justice to
his condition.
I could conceivably forgive Jordan his arrogance, his lack of
fortitude and maybe even his insistence on occupying one of our
precious beds when he could be looked after at home. But I
cannot -- and will not -- forgive the man his occupation.
Jordan is a vivisectionist.
Here we have a man who makes a living by cutting up bunny
rabbits and puppy dogs -- and now something's been taking chunks
out of him. If ever there was an irony fit to be savored, this
is it.
I wonder how he feels about his job now. Does he dream of mice
poisoned by lipstick, of kittens with fractured legs,
disembowelled guinea pigs, rhesus monkeys restrained by leather
straps as lethal volts course through their skulls? Is he
haunted by the ghosts of all the small, furry creatures he has
tortured and killed? And are his victims sitting in Animal
Heaven, rejoicing to see their tormentor getting a taste of his
own medicine?
There he goes again, crying, "Nurse! Nurse!," like a baby with a
sore bottom. He probably wants his brow mopped or spittle wiped
from his chin. I could attend to it, but I won't. I've been
meaning to write these notes for some time, and I'm determined
to get them done before I finish my shift.
Now Jordan's sobbing -- boo hoo, boo hoo -- and he's making no
effort to keep his misery to himself. I'm working down the
corridor in the Senior Orderly's office with the door shut, but
I can still hear him whimpering. The spineless jerk.
Spineless! Ha. Ha. That's rather good for five in the morning.
You see, Jordan no longer has a spine. It disappeared a few days
ago, just after he'd noticed that his left ear was gone. And he
thought things were bad when he lost his foot! That was the week
before last. I remember it quite well.
Staff shortages, cash crises and the general mismanagement that
is commonplace in British hospitals these days had left the
Casualty Department desperately understaffed...
In deference to my seniority, I had a little cubicle all to
myself. It was a standard examination room -- white walls, a bed,
sink, mirror. Medicine cabinet. All beautifully contrived to
afford the patients as little dignity as possible.
"Doctor? Could you see this chap?" A student nurse. She'd
probably been pretty when she'd started her shift but fourteen
hours and an endless stream of wounded humanity had taken its
toll.
I took the white card she proffered. "Let's see. What do we have
here? An amputee?"
"He says he lost his foot during the night."
"How did he manage that?"
"He doesn't know. Apparently he woke up and just found it gone."
"Isn't there an old blues song about that?"
"Search me, Doctor. I'm not a blues fan."
"You'd better send him in."
"Yes, Doctor."
"And one more thing...�"
"Yes, Doctor?"
"Contrary to appearances, I'm not a Doctor. I'm a surgeon. You
should address me as Mr. Coombes."
"Yes, Doctor."
The first time I set eyes on Jordan, I disliked him with the
sort of intensity I generally reserve for football referees and
traffic wardens. He had one of those smug, know-it-all faces
that seem in constant search of a good hard punch.
It was clear he had dressed in either a hurry or something of a
daze. His jacket did not match his trousers and the one shoe he
had on was left untied.
To be honest, he was no sooner in my cubicle than I wanted him
out. I was gripped by an irrational desire to see him wheeled
down to the basement and thrown in the incinerator. Let him burn
alongside the discarded dressings and contaminated needles...
The nurse and an orderly helped Jordan onto the bed. He did
nothing to assist -- just stared fixedly into space and dribbled
like an imbecile.
"What happened?" I asked as the nurse and orderly trooped out.
"Foot," he mumbled. "Gone."
A quick examination uncovered no signs of violence. He was not
concussed, had no contusions or abrasions or anything that need
concern a surgeon at two in the morning. That he had no left
foot was beyond denial, but why make a song and dance about it
now? The skin covering the end of his stump was normal tissue.
There was no sign of scarring, no hint of trauma.
"Mr. Jordan," I said to him. "You haven't lost your left foot.
You never had one in the first place."
"Left foot. Gone."
I came to a quick prognosis. Mr. Jordan was suffering from
amnesia and had forgotten his disability. Or else he was in
denial. Either way, his problems should not be ours.
I tried to get the Mental Health people to take him, but they
were having none of it.
I wanted to send Jordan home, but that idiot of a Registrar
insisted we keep him under observation for a couple of days.
The wards were all full -- except the ones kept closed for lack
of money -- so Jordan landed himself a private room.
And that, I thought, would be the last I ever saw of him. But it
was not to be. Halfway through my next shift, I was summoned to
his room. A nurse and a doctor whose name I can't remember were
frowning at a clipboard. Mr. Jordan looked to be asleep. The
nurse said he'd been sedated.
"Had to do it," announced the doctor with such gravity you'd
have thought he'd just had the patient put down. "The chap was
hysterical."
"Well," I said. "That confirms my original diagnosis. This man
is off his rocker."
The doctor pursed his lips and thrust his hands into the pockets
of his white coat. "Maybe," he said. "Maybe not."
"There's some doubt?"
"Yes, Mr. Coombes. That's why we sent for you. Perhaps you could
tell us how many feet Mr. Jordan had when you admitted him?"
"One."
"Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure. Despite appearances to the contrary, I am a
highly skilled surgeon. You're not trying to tell me that the
other one's grown back, are you?"
Like a magician reaching the climax of a masterful illusion, the
doctor pulled back the bedclothes. It was, I'll admit, an
impressive denouement. "Well?" said the Doctor.
For once in my life, I was speechless. Jordan now had no feet at
all.
Strictly speaking, it wasn't my case. But I was curious, so I
used my seniority to ensure I was kept up to date with
developments. Despite my busy schedule, I popped in to see
Jordan whenever time allowed, and we soon developed a healthy
enmity toward each other.
You may think my attitude toward Jordan is unprofessional, but I
really don't care. As far as I'm concerned, the Jordans of this
world cannot suffer enough.
On one occasion, I came across a rather attractive woman
standing by his bed and I knew instinctively that she was not
his wife.
"Mrs. Jordan?" I asked, pushing the door shut behind me.
Jordan sat up on his elbows. "Piss off, Coombes."
"Not Mrs. Jordan, then? Your sister perhaps?"
The lady (if I may call her that) reddened. "I think I had best
be off."
She left without saying goodbye.
Jordan snarled like a dog caught in barbed wire. "One of these
days, I'm going to kill you, Coombes!"
"With no hands?" A cruel jibe, but he deserved it. His left hand
had disappeared a couple of nights after he'd been admitted. The
right followed suit a few days later.
He is a truly remarkable phenomenon -- the greatest medical
freak since the Elephant Man.
What will the papers call him when they finally cotton to the
story? Perhaps the Rag Doll Man? That seems appropriate. Tug on
his leg. Rip! Off it comes. No blood. No gore. Pull off his arm.
Pluck out his eye.
Even under a magnifying glass, Mr. Jordan's skin looks
immaculate. There is nothing to indicate it has in any way been
torn or breached and no reason to suppose the missing parts of
his anatomy ever existed. Tests indicate nothing in the least
remarkable about Jordan's metabolism. His blood chemicals are
the same as yours and mine. His cells are 100 percent human.
I sat down on the edge of his bed. "Your mistress?"
"None of your damned business." His anger suddenly evaporated,
and he began to cry. "You've got to help me, Doctor. Please!"
"Actually," I told him, "I'm a surgeon. You shouldn't call me
Doctor."
For all his faults, Mr. Jordan does have a certain entertainment
value. Take for instance last week, when the orderlies ran a
sweepstakes on which part of Mr. Jordan would go next. I put in
for three tickets and ended up with his nose, navel and left
buttock.
And I think the situation got to me, because I went home with my
tickets and did a peculiar thing.
An old issue of the _Lancet_ provided two views of the human
male -- front and back. I cut these out and placed them on the
desk in my study. At midnight, I surrounded the pictures with
lighted candles and recited a litany of body parts in Latin. I
took a corkscrew and punched a hole in Jordan's face and pierced
his navel. And then I cut off his left buttock.
This short but poignant ceremony closed with my lottery slips
being baptised in either.
I'm no magician, but I believe I made some mighty juju that
night.
The next time I saw Jordan, his girlfriend had returned. I did
not like her any more than I liked Jordan. Less so now that I
had met Jordan's charming wife.
"So," I said, smiling like the Grim Reaper. "Lost any more
knick-knacks lately?"
Jordan treated me to a look that could have frozen nitrogen. His
mistress made a show of studying her well-manicured nails.
"No," said Jordan, with an edge of triumph in his voice.
"Are you sure?"
"Quite sure."
"Have you checked?"
"Piss off, Coombes. I don't need to check. And I don't need you
coming round here making smart-arsed comments. I'm a very sick
man, you know."
"You're not the least bit sick," I countered. "In fact, you're a
sight healthier than you deserve to be. By the way -- do you
still have a belly button?"
"Yes, thank you."
"And your todger?" A low blow, I'll admit. Especially with his
mistress there. But he was asking for it.
"Listen, Coombes," hissed Jordan. "I want you to stay out of
this room and the hell away from me. Do you hear?"
"Loud and clear. But when your pecker does disappear, don't
expect me to graft on a new one for you."
His mistress decided it was her turn to vent some spleen.
"People like you shouldn't be allowed to practice medicine. I've
a good mind to report you to the BMA -- "
And on and on, but I wasn't listening. I was watching Jordan out
of the corner of my eye. Surreptitiously, he was exploring
beneath his bedclothes with the end of his arms. When he reached
his groin, the blood drained from his face. His eyes widened,
then closed. Jordan muttered a silent prayer. Another fumble. He
grimaced and then plucked up the courage to look under the
bedclothes. His hysterical screams told me that I had not won
the sweepstakes, but I was not in the least disappointed. My day
had been made.
I came second in the sweepstakes. Jordan's navel disappeared a
few hours after his manhood, which left me twenty-five pounds
richer. His torso followed this morning -- but not before I'd
photographed it for prosperity.
I have the photo in front of me now. Jordan looks like the top
half of a tailor's dummy. He has no arms, no legs. One of his
nipples is missing. His skin is smooth and unblemished. His
muscle tone is perfect.
I am reminded of the Venus de Milo.
Jordan will not scream again. He has been silenced forever.
Which is not to say that he is dead -- oh no. There's still
plenty of life in those baby-blue eyes. But now fate has
rendered him all but mute by taking away his larynx.
This may be a bitter blow to the patient, but for the rest of us
it is a mercy long overdue.
I checked on him just now. He lay there and blew raspberries at
me. But I got my own back.
I told him he had two hours to live, which of course was a lie.
The blood drained from his face -- to where, I have no idea --
and he fainted.
It was the perfect opportunity to settle the Jordan problem once
and for all. There's no reason why a mere head should take up a
whole bed, is there? As soon as I can find a big enough box and
some straw, I'll make him a nice, comfy home. I might even buy a
few gerbils to keep him company. Until then, he'll be safe
enough in the linen cupboard.
I'll be glad when this shift is over.
Patrick Whittaker (trashman97@hotmail.com)
--------------------------------------------
Patrick Whittaker is an independent filmmaker with two short
films to his name ("The Red Car" and "Nevermore"). To keep the
wolf from his door, he works as a freelance software analyst in
the airline industry. He is planning on having a midlife crisis
as soon as he can find the time.
Bizarre Crime Shocks Sleepy Neighborhood by Chris J. Magyar
================================================================
....................................................................
Lies have a habit of forcing even more lies. Especially when
you've got a secret to keep.
....................................................................
I returned to the mud, as black and slimy as it ever was. The
sun, after my slippery frolic, caked me and I became a creature
of cracked armor...� exhausted, despicable, in desperate need of
a bath. My clothes were somewhere else, strewn in the grass,
probably getting soaked by mid-afternoon sprinklers. I was
scandalously close to being discovered by an elderly dog-walker,
tottering down the greenbelt path, which was paved tar-black and
rounded to allow runoff from the sprinkler water. Psychically, I
sensed my danger with a moment of chaste clarity, and rolled
behind a particularly thick clump of cattails by the creek bed.
I left a trail of mud, but she wouldn't notice -- who's looking
for a trail of mud in the grass during a stroll?
It took an eternity for her to pass. Her dog, a toy of some
sort, strained against the leash to return home and lap up
water, nearly choking itself with effort. She muttered, half to
the dog and half to herself or whatever dead family member she
used to walk with down this path, and when I was very still, I
caught snippets of her mutters every time the breeze ceased and
the cattails hushed: "...�out of milk...� I told you she
would...� but how...� calm down you mangy...� shoes...�"
When her footsteps were far enough away, I rolled deeper into
the cattail forest, right up to the creek bed where fresh mud
greeted the dry and welcomed it back to the fold -- prodigal
dirt, made mud again by the feast of stagnant water. Then, as
soon as I was alone enough to stand and search for my clothes, a
group of young boys hopped a fence and overtook the grassy
plateau up the hill with a baseball game.
My primal urges fully receded as I realized I was stuck in
left-center field, one prodigious stroke away from being
discovered in a home-run ball hunt. I had two choices: become an
animal, a swamp monster so ferocious that even the teenagers
would dash away in terror and allow me to retreat upstream, or
crawl slowly and quietly through the brush on the other side of
the creek from the game, praying like a ninny that my plump
thirty-year-old flesh wouldn't stick out from the green
hillside. This mud, is it camouflage? Those boys, are they
skittish? Too many uncertain factors for my accountant-by-day
brain. A bat struck a ball. I flinched. The hit barely cleared
their improvised infield. Maybe I would be saved by their
underdeveloped swings.
The mud began itching with sudden and fearful precision: my
testicles, my earlobes, my toes, the small of my back. As hit
after hit failed to reach the slope, I came to the decision that
inaction was my only choice. I nested in my cattail grove,
covering my body piece-by-piece with fallen, soggy stalks (which
also soothed my itching). One boy came running my way, but he
intercepted the rolling ball halfway down the hill. Then I
buried my head, and relied on my ears for warning of their
approach.
With the immediate threat of discovery temporarily at bay, I
turned my fervent mind to the problem of my clothes. They
weren't carefully stashed; in my initial spasms of unrestrained
joy, I thought only to deposit them behind a freestanding
electrical box, shielded from the path but not the backyards
which abut the park. Any one of three houses could expectorate a
homeowner (watering plants perhaps, or pushing children on
swings) and expose my Eddie Bauer plaid shirt, my Dockers, my
silk boxers stained on the inside with small drips of urine
thanks to my ever-failing plumbing.
In my cocoon, I imagined the sighting. It would be a housewife,
just past sexy but still cute in that young mother way, wearing
jeans and a maroon tank top. She would be in the yard with green
gardening gloves on, dutifully pulling at juicy young weeds near
the thorns of her prized roses. As she looked up and wiped her
brow with the back of her wrist, she would squint and see
something unusual on the other side of her ranch fence (lined
with chicken wire to keep the terrier from escaping). What is
that? Someone's shirt? She would stand up slowly (her knees
creaking, her breasts momentarily swelling as she bends over)
and walk to the gate her husband clumsily constructed before the
divorce. With a grunt, she'd force it open and walk over to the
electrical box, ignoring its insistent multilingual warnings of
electrocution, and pick up, say, my boxers. How did these get
here?
Would she notice a trail of trampled grass down to the creek,
and a telltale swatch of mud eastward to my makeshift shelter in
the cattails? Would the sprinklers still be on, preventing her
from examining the pile of garments? Would the cops tell her not
to worry over the phone?
And that's when I found out nothing stops worrisome thoughts
like a baseball landing on your temple.
2
---
There was a bright light. My first thought was to walk toward
it, but it turned out to only be a flashlight glaring in my
eyes, held by some vague man on the other side of my woozy
vision. I realized later that the kids, once they found me,
assumed I was dead. The dread and excitement of their
discovery resulted in a long meandering argument -- I was
to be a secret -- until the pressure of keeping such a secret
burst and someone squealed to their parents. A whole cul-de-sac
came down (it was dusk by now) to relocate me, and it took
quite some time, since the baseball bat the boys planted to
mark my grave fell over shortly after they left. Just as most
of the parents had decided it was all a prank, one guy shined
that flashlight in my face. As I said, I only found this out
much later. My awakening yielded much dimmer epiphanies.
I saw, once my eyes adjusted to the light, a group of frightened
suburban adults staring at me in astonishment. Unfortunately,
the wife in the maroon tank top was not present. Even more
unfortunately, my neighbor Jeff was.
"Jack? Are you okay? Can you tell us who did this to you?"
From the back of the group, I heard Jeff's wife pipe up: "We've
got your clothes, Jack!"
I coughed, and everyone took an instinctual step back. I half
sat up, conscious not to display my bathing suit parts (as my
kids were taught to call them) in the process. Looking back, I
had a golden opportunity there -- just blame some malevolent
perpetrator, some angry teenage hoodlum, some desperate crack
fiend from across the highway. I was stupid. My head throbbed.
My body wouldn't stop shivering. My left ear was clogged with
creek mud.
Whatever the excuse, I said, "I'm fine."
Lots of people said something there, but I only heard Jeff
clearly. "Who did this?"
"Nobody. I did it myself...� I was just playing around."
Sometimes honesty is a real bitch. This is a lesson I've learned
countless times from prime-time sitcoms in that one inevitable
episode, the one in which the family learns that sometimes
little white lies can spare everyone a heap of trouble and
sadness. No matter how hard I tried to retract my statement
later, even though people believed me on the surface, they
mistrusted me for saying that, for saying "playing around."
"I was kidding!" I'd plead, but there must have been something
about the sight of me, naked and mud covered in the creek, that
betrayed the lie -- how could anyone kid about such humiliation?
Especially after just waking up from a brutal beating? (The
baseball hitting me never came up -- thank you, boys -- so it
was assumed, with my help, that I was knocked out with a blunt
object, like the butt of a gun.)
The police, trying to question me gently but itching to do it
the hard way like their heroes on TV, drilled me about "playing
around."
"I was kidding!"
It turned out the suspect was Mexican (easier that way), about
5'10", with a pencil-thin mustache and acne scars on his cheeks.
Oh, and he had a tattoo of a teardrop by his right eye. Oh, and
he was wearing a Broncos jersey, Terrell Davis I believe, and
jeans, and sneakers, and his gun was...� how should I know? I've
never used a firearm in my life, officer. No, he didn't have any
gold teeth. No, no jewelry either. Well, maybe a watch, but it
all happened so fast, you know? He just sprung out from behind
this electrical box and pointed the gun at me and demanded my
wallet and...� gosh, I didn't have it on me, since I was just
going for a stroll...� it was about 2:30...� and the next thing
I knew, he had me in a headlock. He must have known something,
karate or something, and, if you want to know the truth, I'm not
a very strong person. That gym membership is just a moment of
New Year's weakness; I pay them off like a charity...� but
anyway, the guy had me in a headlock and I was trying to bite
his arm but then I don't remember anything but blinding pain...�
must be then when he hit me. I have no idea about the clothes.
Racial anger, I suppose. Or maybe he was going to take them but
they didn't fit, or something. I don't know. I was quite
unconscious at the time. I'm sorry. Can I call my ex-wife now? I
was supposed to pick up the kids like 18 hours ago.
3
---
I knew by the time the cops dropped the third lineup pictures in
front of me that they were pissed. They had run through every
Hispanic suspect in the county in the first two lineups, and the
idea of a crime like this unsolved after a month got under their
skin. Everyone -- my ex, my lawyer, my mother -- egged me to
just finger someone already. I couldn't even believe that I was
pressing charges, but life snowballs like that. It reminded me
of the divorce, actually. One day I said something stupid to
her, and before I knew it a judge was telling me to give her the
couch and the china cabinet in exchange for the television. I
pointed. His tattoo was under his left eye, not his right,
but...� ah, it all happened so fast, you know?
His name was Jose Montoya, and he had three girls, a gorgeous
wife, and one conviction of possession of marijuana in 1993. He
had real bad credit, so the motive turned out to be robbery, and
to explain his bizarre disrobing of the plaintiff, my lawyer
concocted some gang ritual that loosely correlated with his
childhood in El Paso. His lawyer, court-appointed, argued
everything including the kitchen sink but couldn't convince the
jury of his alibi: he was drinking with his buddies between
shifts at the nearby restaurant where he worked as a cook. So
chalk the conviction up to two things: I have a damned good
lawyer (I kept the television, didn't I?) and he has damned bad
drinking habits in the eyes of one suburban county jury.
4
---
Moving quickly now, I know, but shame has an accelerating
effect. Let's just get to the present day, the present hour, the
present circumstances. I'm back in the creek, clothed this time,
a victim of my own bad drinking habits. The moon is close to
full, and summer keeps the ground warm even at four in the
morning.
I'm home. Not home as in the shell of wood and brick I clasped
greedily after the divorce. ("Your Honor, I know it's customary
for the custodian of the children to keep the house, but you
must consider the fact that my client makes barely one third of
what his estranged spouse is pulling in.") Home, as in the
sticks of cattail that are just beginning to flower, spreading a
drift of white fuzz over the creek and clogging up the sewers,
sticking to the freshly-washed cars, pollinating the
carefully-groomed lawns. Home, as in the black mud imported for
this artificial waterway through the neighborhood. ("A river
runs through it," the real estate agent joked.) Home, as in the
state of utter abandon I was trying to capture that fateful
afternoon. Imagine that: capturing utter abandon.
I know it sounds ridiculous, but it's me, an escapee of sorts.
It's what I am now. A tadpole, a minnow, a garter snake. I
belong here, really. I just hope nobody finds me in the morning.
Chris J. Magyar (aphmagyar@msn.com)
-------------------------------------
Chris J. Magyar never goes anywhere without his J. Chris and his
J topped the masthead as owner/editor-in-chief of Go-Go Magazine
in Denver, Colorado, an arts and entertainment bi-weekly
distributed free to anyone who would take it. The relationship
ended at the same time as the money, and Chris and his J now
simultaneously spearhead the Entertainment section of the Denver
Daily News and toil in the production department of a humongous
multinational publishing corporation. The Colorado College saw
fit to give Chris and his J a bachelor's degree in Creative
Writing. This is the first useful thing to come of it. Chris
dreams of living in Sydney, Australia. The J will tag along.
The Food of Love by Mark McLaughlin
=======================================
....................................................................
Never underestimate the wisdom of the old saw, "You can't judge
a book by its cover."
....................................................................
Map moved through the weed-choked outskirts of the city,
thinking about manna. Deep within, she felt her need for more.
She saw a gray slough in the distance and considered dipping
into it. She took a few steps forward, then stopped. Shallow,
still waters held no manna. And yet the slough looked
inviting...� To stop the urge, she stared into the sun for a
moment to clear her mind.
A mewing echoed within a brick building coated with gray filth.
Map listened -- the mewing grew louder. A long, hairless cat
wiggled onto the ledge of a ground floor window and stared at
Map with eyes like yellow marbles.
"Chigger!" A deep voice cried out in the building. "Here
Chigger, Chigger, Chigger!"
Map hid behind a rotting fence. Soon a man came to the window
and picked up his pet. His head was large and round, with a
thick tangle of black hair. His eyes were dark and slightly
bulbous.
Map shouted from behind the fence. "Hello, sir."
The man shaded his eyes and looked out the window. "Who's there?
You shouldn't be outside -- it's too sunny."
Map pressed an eye to a crack in the fence. "Map," she called
out.
The man laughed. "A map won't do you any good. There's nowhere
to go." He kissed his cat on its smooth head and carried it back
into the dark.
Map crept along the fence. The urge for manna throbbed in her
belly. The man made other parts throb.
The dark yellow grass felt crisp under her feet. She pulled up a
few strands and chewed on them, then spit them out. Too sour.
The wind blew a large plastic bag toward her. She caught it and
examined it for holes. Surprisingly, it was in good shape...�
Perfect for carrying manna.
Soon Map heard the sound of running water. She hurried past
soft, twisted trees and collapsed houses until she came to a
dark, bubbling river. Frothy blue-gray masses floated with the
current.
Map filled her belly and her sack with semi-solid chunks of the
froth. How sweet, how delicious -- and how plentiful! But then,
all rivers abounded with manna. Sometimes, when Map wandered too
far from a river and went without manna, she became stupid. This
time, she had retained a good deal of intelligence. Enough to
grab the plastic sack. Enough to remember where the man lived.
She gazed out over the river. Her last husband had explained the
cycle to her. Over the years, rain washed chemical stuff into
the rivers from fields and landfills. Eventually the skies grew
thin and the sun grew strong. When the strong new sun hit the
rivers, the stuff cooked and made the froth. That husband had
called it Satan's manna. Map wasn't sure who Satan was, but it
was good of him to share.
Her husband had thought that manna was poisonous. He didn't know
that manna made wonderful things happen, and Map didn't tell
him. Like her other husbands, he had died from staying out in
the sun too long.
Map loved the sun, and thought it was too bad that it made
husbands get all blistered and smelly.
Map slipped behind the fence. "Sir? Are you home?" she
called out.
After a moment, the dark-haired man came to the window. "Who
is it?"
"May I come in? I've been traveling for days." Map stepped out
from behind the fence. Tall and beautiful she was, with long
red hair and almond-shaped eyes. "I'm afraid. Everyone I know
is dead. Are you a good person, sir? I think so. I can tell
by your eyes."
"Come in," the man said. "Get out of the sun."
Map walked to the building and entered. The carpet of the front
hall was streaked with gray lichens. The man peered at her from
around a door jamb.
"Who are you?" he said. "What's in the sack?"
"My name is Pam. These are my things. Private things." She
clutched the top of the plastic bag. "Please don't try to take
them away."
"I'm Daniel. Don't worry, I won't take your things." He smiled
broadly -- his teeth were large, white and crooked. "I've got
lots of food. Are you hungry?"
He led Map to a room filled with canned goods. Map scanned the
pictures on the labels -- peaches, cherries, green beans,
olives, salmon, and more.
"This building used to be a shelter for the homeless," he said.
"Most of the cans are still pretty good."
The cat writhed into the room and rubbed against its master's
leg. Daniel picked it up and petted it. "Dod, Dod," the cat
muttered.
"I taught him that," Daniel said. "His name is Chigger."
"Your cat is very smart," Map said. "You are a good person. See
how much your cat loves you."
"Dod, Dod," Chigger purred. "Dod, Dod, Dod." It began to lick at
Daniel's chin with a pale yellow tongue.
Weeks passed. The days grew even hotter.
Map hid her sack in a cluttered storage room. She secretly began
to feed Chigger small bits of manna.
She told Daniel she did not like to talk about her past, and he
said that he understood. She found out that Daniel used to cut
people's hair. That had been his job, he said -- for fun, he
used to throw pots. He laughed when Map asked who he threw them
at. He explained that to throw a pot meant to spin clay on a
wheel and shape it into something useful.
Map thought that pot-throwing sounded like a good thing.
Once, when it was cloudy, Daniel went outside to see if he could
find any clay. He brought home a bucket of thick, gray ooze. He
didn't have a wheel, so they each shaped a pot by hand. Daniel
admired Map's work and told her that she had exceptional talent.
Chigger learned to call Map "Mom." The cat grew large -- so
large that Daniel could no longer lift the creature. He cut back
on the amount of canned salmon he fed his pet, and still the cat
piled on rolls of fat.
One morning, Map curled up next to Daniel on a pile of
mouldering coats. "We should make love," she said.
"You're a beautiful woman, Pam," he said. "But I don't feel like
it. I haven't felt like it for years. Just as well. I wouldn't
want to bring a baby into a dead world."
"You would make a good father, Daniel. Chigger loves you."
"Hell, any babies born today would probably end up looking like
Chigger. Big and hairless and ugly."
Map shook her head. "You think too many wrong things. Chigger is
beautiful because he loves us. Chigger! Come here, Chigger!"
Chigger lumbered into the room and threw himself into their
laps. "Mommy. Dod, Doddy."
"I have a surprise for you, Daniel," Map said. "Chigger! Who do
you love?"
The huge cat worked the muscles of his fat cleft lips. "Chiggy
lubs Doddy and Mommy."
"How can he do that?" Daniel whispered, squirming out from under
his pet. "I thought I was doing good to get him to repeat one
syllable, like a parrot."
Chigger blinked. "Doddy lubs Chiggy?"
"You stop that!" Daniel clapped his hand over the cat's mouth.
"Cats aren't that smart!"
Map slapped his hand away. "You are so mean! Chigger and I
wanted to surprise you and now the fun is spoiled. Look,
Chigger's mouth is bleeding."
"Doddy hurd Chiggy!" cried the cat.
Daniel ran from the room. Map and Chigger stared after him.
The cat tilted his head to one side and sobbed.
"Don't be sad." Map pulled a small piece of manna from her
pocket. "Look what I have for you."
That night, while Daniel slept, Map and Chigger slipped out of
the house. They went to the river, feasted on manna and refilled
Map's sack.
"Do you think Doddy would like manna?" Map said. "I've been
eating it for years."
"Doddy silly," Chigger said.
Map nodded. "Doddy is very silly. He doesn't know what is good
and what is bad. We will have to show him."
As they walked through the night, Map found a dilapidated shop
with a mannequin in the window. Instructing Chigger to wait for
her, she entered the shop and began to search. A shriveled
cadaver in a polyester jumpsuit leered at her from behind the
counter. In a back room, she found a large bundle wrapped in
heavy plastic.
Map and the cat did not return to their home with Daniel for
several days.
One morning, Daniel entered the kitchen and found Map preparing
a large breakfast. He took his seat at the table. "Where were
you? Where's Chigger?"
"We had things to do." Map smiled. "Chigger is probably asleep.
Shall I go wake him?"
The man shook his head. "I'm sorry I was so mean. I missed both
of you. Is Chigger's lip better?"
"Of course. Young boys heal fast." Map opened a can of fruit
drink and filled three glasses.
"Chigger is not a boy. He's the latest in a long line of
mutant cats."
"You are so silly, Doddy." A lanky blond boy entered the room
and sat by Daniel's side. "Look at me! I'm a boy and you're my
Doddy."
Map placed a bowl of manna in front of Daniel, and he pushed the
bowl away in disgust. He narrowed his eyes at the boy. "You
can't fool me. I can still see the outline of Chigger if I
squint real hard. He's bigger now...�"
"Doddy is so silly, Mommy! Doddy is so funny!" The little boy
ran a tanned hand through his curly locks and began to laugh.
Map began to laugh, too. "Wait here, Daniel. I'll be right
back." Map rushed to the storage room and threw the wedding
dress over her head. It took a bit of wiggling, but she managed
to work her way into the ill-fitting garment.
She still could hear Daniel talking to Chigger. "I can see
through this trick of yours," he said. "All I have to do is
concentrate."
Map swept back into the kitchen, white lace swirling in her
wake. Still concentrating, Daniel turned from Chigger to the one
he knew as Pam.
"Oh God, Pam. Oh God." He squinted hard, hard. "You had me
fooled all along."
"I'm sorry, Mommy," Chigger said. "I did it all wrong and Doddy
figured us out."
"Not to worry, Chigger," Map said. She smoothed the ruffles of
lace over her thorax with a chitinous claw. Her mandibles
twitched furiously. "Your Doddy doesn't know what is good and
what is bad. So we must show him. Right now."
Chigger reared up out of his seat and threw Daniel to the floor.
The wedding gown ripped as Map's glistening stinger sprang
forth. A milky drop of poison fell from the cylinder's tip.
Daniel's shrieks were muffled by the vestigal limb that Chigger
slapped over his mouth.
"Remember what to say, Chigger," said the enormous mud dauber
wasp as she slid the pointed tube into the base of Daniel's
spine. She squirted once, twice. Not enough to kill him. Just
enough to keep him from ever running away.
"I now pronounce you man and wife." Chigger nodded happily.
"Everything is good now. You may kiss Doddy."
Mark McLaughlin (medusaboy@hotmail.com)
-----------------------------------------
Mark McLaughlin has had fiction, nonfiction and poetry published
in more than 425 magazines, anthologies and websites, including
Galaxy, Talebones, Ghosts & Scholars, and The Year¹s Best Horror
Stories (DAW Books). He is the editor of The Urbanite: Surreal &
Lively & Bizarre.
<http://theurbanite.tripod.com/>
Water Music by Chris Duncan
===============================
....................................................................
Growing up means more than just outgrowing where you came from.
....................................................................
Spitting Spam drowns out NPR this morning. My hell is beginning
this Monday morning like usual: my mother cooking breakfast for
my father, which consists of fried Spam, fried eggs, Nestle Quik
chocolate milk, and one piece of scorched rye toast.
I turn the radio up two notches -- the most I can get away
with without my father lifting his eyes away from the
_Bristol Herald Courier_ and resting them instead on his
"sad excuse for a son."
My mother treads softly in her white nursing shoes. She wrestles
with the hissing skillet like a seasoned snake handler. The
smell of burning toast wafts through the air, settling in my
clothes to serve as a reminder of my sad existence for the rest
of the day.
"Baby, don't forget to get us some safes," my mother says to my
father with a sly grin, ambivalent to the inappropriateness of
making such a request in my presence.
"Um-huh," grunts my father. He bites a piece of loose skin from
his lower lip with his top row of false teeth. He shifts his
weight, throws his right leg over his left, and adjusts his
small silver rimmed glasses. He clears his throat. My father
works at a Quiklube. He doesn't manage a Quiklube or own a
Quiklube. He just works at a Quiklube. His navy blue mechanic's
pants have oil stains in them that have turned his uniform wear
into something approaching a Jackson Pollack, adding to his
incomprehensibility. I look to see what he's reading. My guess
is right: he's reading the funnies.
"Mm'k, babe?" says my mother, serving Dad his Spam and eggs and
scorched toast.
He gives her another "Um huh," and keeps reading the funnies.
I leave the trailer we call home and head for the community
college -- Yes, I live in a trailer park, and yes, I attend a
community college -- and I put my radio headphones on, trying
desperately to pick up Morning Edition.
I have to constantly remind myself to look up, straight ahead,
and not down at the leaf covered sidewalk. I walk on College
Avenue, a side road that leads from the trailer park to the
community college. The walk takes about twenty minutes. I have
my headset on and I am happy. Right on schedule, Mira bounds out
the front door of a neat, smallish ranch house that's across the
street and out of which her father runs a dental practice.
The house is among maple trees and mums and lots of landscaping,
very tastefully done, and is adjacent to the Sinking Springs
town cemetery. Mira attends college at Emory & Henry, a local
liberal arts college, located about a mile from my college. Mira
wants to teach music, hopefully to help the local yokels
appreciate Daquin and Handel. Mira can't believe that the rest
of the world isn't as enthralled with "Water Music" as she is.
Mira always reminds me of a praying mantis when I first see her
in the morning (I'd never tell her this, of course). With her
thick rimless glasses and tightly pulled back black hair, her
flawless white skin, her always full red lips, and her two
crutches -- her two extra limbs -- she has something of an
insectlike appearance. Mira has just missed out on being
stunning instead of interesting looking, I think to myself.
However, it's in this nether world of near-missness that I find
my peace. I smile and take off my headset.
"Hey, you," I say.
Mira is struggling with her walking today. Some days are better
than others. "Do you think Blue has a room?"
I smile and look down at my worn out Adidas tennis shoes.
"Probably."
The Evergreen Motel is a no-tell motel on Route 11 that runs
parallel to I-81. It's close to the college. Sometimes Mira and
I forget our classes and our lives and get a room for free for a
few hours. Our friend Blue works the counter and gives us a room
whenever we want. He's called Blue because he fell into a creek
when he was two years old during the dead of winter. He would
say that he turned Blue as "a goddamned Smurf."
On this day it is just after eight in the morning and Mira and I
are in room B-12. "A real shot in the arm," says Mira, never one
to let a quip go wasted.
As soon as the door is shut and locked I embrace my praying
mantis; her crutches fall to the floor. I do the usual: I turn
on the television to a nothing channel and let the room flood
with white noise; I turn on the bathroom faucet, more white
noise; this is what Mira wants. We take off our glasses and
book-bags and shed our lives, our skins, burnt toast and fried
Spam. Mira's body is a world within itself: a multiplicity of
rain drops her head, her body an inviting eddy swirling in a
stream golden and deep, her legs two roads, pulling me further
and further into a respite of calm decompression. This is how I
see her. We lie on the motel bed, our lips never separating, not
for an instant, and we hold communion, offering ourselves to
God, who'll hopefully take us in as we take in each other, fully
and with beautiful finality.
"I told the bitch hey, look, we don't have Quaker State. We got
Pennzoil and that's all we got. I mean, jeez, how many times do
I have to repeat myself?" so says my father, as he sits down at
the same dining room table, in his same oily clothes, assuming
the same cross-legged position. I sit next to him, in my same
chair, listening to the same radio, listening to the same
station, listening to All Things Considered on NPR. My father is
talking to my mother, who's cooking spitting chicken. She's a
home-health nurse who helps emphysema patients all day long. She
puffs on her Misty Ultra Light Menthol One Hundred Full Flavors
as she cooks. She smiles at her oily baby.
"I'm makin' chicken, babe."
My father rubs his eyes, shifts his weight on the seat, and
adjusts his crotch with his right thumb and forefinger, giving
him a little breathing room.
"You made it to Rite-Aid, didn'tcha, babe? I saw the receipt on
the dresser," my mother says coyly.
I'm listening to All Things Considered; I turn up the radio
another notch. Dad shoots me a look. The chicken spits and
dances in the skillet like it had just been beheaded. Mom
presses down on the chicken titties (mom always calls chicken
breasts chicken titties -- she thinks she's cute) with her
spatula. Frying, burning chicken titties cry out in pain as my
mother playfully smacks her twenty-extra-pound-ass. "I know
whatcha want for dessert," she says, saying _dee-zert_ in a
disgustingly provocative manner, always oblivious that I might
be disturbed by such innuendo.
My mother, still in a giddy mood, says to me. "_Magnum P.I._ is
on tonight, ain't it, Mark? Your favorite. I love that Rick,
flies that airplane -- "
I don't stop listening to All Things Considered. I don't look at
my mother. I say, "Magnum is on _every_ night, and it's T.C.
that's the pilot, not Rick, and it's a helicopter that he flies,
not an airplane."
My mother keeps frying; her smile dissipates ever so slightly;
the corners of her mouth slide down very minutely. "Oh," she
says. Dad shoots me a go to hell look. But Mom is still smiling,
still swaying her hips this way and that, shifting her weight on
her tired nurse's shoes, white and crinkled. I open up the
twenty-ounce Sprite that I just purchased from Klink's Handy
Dandy Mart, which is located between the community college and
the trailer park. The fizz reminds me of earlier, of the white
noise in the Evergreen. I intuit a different reality, one
devoid of --
The phone rings.
Mom answers. "Hello, Mira, baby...� now you tell your daddy that
I've got a molar with his name on it! It's killing me like
crazy!...� Uh huh... Can't hardly sleep -- I rinse my mouth with
salt water but hell...� yeahhh... yeahhhhhhh, it's the truth...�
you tell your daddy the stock in Novocain's fixin' to go up when
he sees me" -- she laughs like a hyena -- "yeahhhh...� chicken,
what else... nothin', listenin' to the damned radio...� wait a
minute, baby...� umm'k, sugar." Mom smiles at me. "Mira," she
says and holds the phone out.
I walk over to the phone. Dad turns off the radio as soon as I
get up, shooting me a take-that-you-little-shit look.
"Hey," I say. Mom presses the hissing chicken titties with her
spatula and makes two loud kissing noises, giving me a
mischievous grin. I turn away from my mother and face the
calendar on the wall. I'm staring at January 23, 1986, even
though it is spring of 2000. Our family is too pathetic to take
down the damned old calendar, stuck in time.
"I'm seriously feeling like I can't breathe," I whisper into the
phone. I stare at my Adidas shoes, scruffy, old pieces of crap.
Mira sighs. "It won't be forever. Tomorrow morning we'll make
like trees. Now just say okay and be happy. Be happy."
I smile. I can't believe it but my world has just dissolved into
something splendid.
"And besides," says Mira, "Daddy's got a tube of new bubble gum
tooth paste for you. Now doesn't that make you happy? Mark? Are
you breathing better?"
"Yes," I say. "Eight o'clock, okay?"
"Okay. Eight o'clock. I wish I could make the night zip by --
don't you?"
"Of course." Mom presses the chicken titties once more with her
spatula. Sizzle. Crackle. Spit. Spit. "Mira," I say.
"What?"
"I love you."
A male nurse makes pretty good money, and the nursing program at
the community college is always looking for males, so, well, I'm
gonna be a nurse. I hate needles and defecation and other
people's problems grate on my nerves, but I'm definitely going
to be a nurse, a male nurse; that's what I'm going to do. My
father always says male nurse when our friends and relatives ask
him what I'm doing in school. "He's in the medicine program up
there," he says, usually adjusting his silver rimmed glasses
before he takes a deep breath and says, "He's gone be a nurse,"
pronouncing it like, "He's gone be a pussy."
Mira and her parents, Ed and Sue, think it's a great idea. Ed
says to me, "Boy, a male nurse can work wherever the hell he
wants. You can pull down an easy-oh, I don't know-forty, fifty
grand a year. Around here that ain't bad. I'm telling you, boy,
by the time all the bills are paid and whatnot, hell, I don't do
much better'n'at myself." Then he smiles and slaps me on the
back. "Gotta make a buck doin' something. Whether you're takin'
blood or wipin' asses or yankin' teeth -- what the hell
difference does it make?"
Ed is known as a "good ol' country dentist" to the people around
here. He's very good to me, mainly because I'm very good to his
daughter. If only he knew how good. But what else can one expect
from any father?
I'm first in my class in the nursing program. I graduate in a
month. I've already got a job at Johnston Memorial Hospital
(with a little help from Ed), which is the town hospital. Things
are looking up.
On this morning it is after six, just after six, and I am
already up and out the door, walking briskly from the trailer
park. I am up before Mom's Spam is frying and before Dad's toast
is burning. The morning is heavy with dampness and cold.
Crickets serenade me. I pull my Celtics jacket up higher on my
neck (I'm one of only a few Celtic fans in southwest Virginia).
I'm meeting Mira at the Emory & Henry College indoor swimming
pool at eight. I'm going to visit the E&H graveyard first. I
have time to kill.
Professors' houses line the narrow, paved road that wends itself
though the E&H campus. A road diverges sharply to the left,
going up another wending road, gravelly and dusty, leading to
the E&H graveyard. Thorny shrubs and weeds line the path. Dogs
yelp, crows caw, dew dances on every blade of grass. The sounds
of roaring weed-eaters and lawnmowers resonate inside my skull;
they are already running full-blast at this early morning hour.
The maintenance crews never stop beautifying the campus. The
college president's wife oversees most of the landscaping done
at E&H. She does have good taste, I must say.
My mind is slow; leaking thoughts run into one another, creating
a wet, runny, watercolor world inside my head. I see my mother,
her innately good-hearted soul, and my father...� my father's a
nice guy. This world weighs heavily on the shoulders of
clip-winged sparrows; this saying repeats itself ad infitum in
my head, born there when I was born. The cicadas' hum provides
an incidental backdrop for my quite, uneven marching up the
gently sloping road, leading to quiet bodies, serene against the
invading, flying shards of freshly cut grass.
Blues leak into reds and pinks invade whites. Swimmin' lessons?
You don't need swimmin' lesson, says Daddy. You don't even like
takin' a bath, Mark, he says, saying Mark like Twerp. Whadya
need to learn how to sink for? You can already do that. Mom
cackles. It's all good-natured ribbing.
The county recreation department is offering free swimming
lessons to whoever wants them. It's only on Monday mornings.
Brian's mom'll take us. C'mon. Pleezee.
Now here's the deal. Now here's the deal: another phrase that
bounds from somewhere behind the silver-rimmed glasses. Now
here's the deal: You're a smart mouth and I didn't raise you to
be no --
Now here's the deal. Now here's the deal, okay, your mom and I
have to have a little afternoon delight, if you know what I
mean. Now, Mark, you're fifteen so I don't have to pretend
you're stupid or nothing. So why don't you make like a tree and
--
The deal is. The deal is you can turn off that radio crap you're
listenin' to. Jesus H. Christ Almighty what's the deal with you,
Mark? Goodness gracious, boy, you can't go through life --
I kick a pebble with my left shoe, and then I kick it with my
right, bouncing it between my feet, a regular countrified Pele.
My grandfather's grave is up on the right. I plop my butt down
on the wet ground and close my eyes. The bright sun gives me the
brilliant backdrop of a red satin curtain, covering my thoughts,
allowing me an intermission. World War II veteran.
My grandfather was a farmer, a poet on his blue Ford tractor. He
died of emphysema. My mother helped treat him, bedridden,
depleted, drinking constantly ice water out of a bending straw
beside his bed. No teeth. My mother, smoking her Menthols as she
bends over him...
I sit on the wet ground and hold communion with my grandfather.
We offer something to one another on this day. As usual, he
gives far more than I do. I press my eyes a bit harder with my
fingers, playing with the colors in my mind, knowing that my
life isn't so bad...� not really. I'm wondering at this moment
if I need Mira's crutches more than she does. I sigh loudly.
Granddaddy, granddaddy, granddaddy.
On this morning, the E&H swimming pool is closed to the public.
The pool is closed, period. Maintenance crews come in and
service the pool around noon. Mira and I have another friend who
assists us. His name is Teddy, and he's a junior at E&H. He also
gets his teeth cleaned at Mira's dad's dental practice. Teddy
works in the athletic department. He doesn't mind. He leaves the
door unlocked for us on cleaning day.
I open the glass door of the athletic department building which
houses the pool, locking it behind me. I know that Mira is
already in the water. I take the next door on the right, a heavy
wooden thing that's very hard to open. I'm in the shower room.
Wetness and chlorine everywhere.
I drop my book bag and kick my shoes off while I'm walking
toward the pool. The lights are off. I'm feeling my way through
the darkness like a late-night trip to the bathroom. I know
where I am. I know exactly where the damned elongated wooden
bench is -- the one that has caused me to almost break my shins
several times. I know where the wastebaskets are. I know where
everything is.
I throw off my shirt and take off my pants, still walking... not
an easy trick. I near the pool, and I step out of my underwear,
and in my final motion I step into the pool, into the deep end,
right beside the high-dive. I feel my testicles pull into my
abdomen. I enjoy the feeling of the cool water covering me like
a blanket, filling every crevice, my ears filling like caves
under a crashing cliff, loving the tide that's rolling in. I
know what time it is.
I throw my head back and then down, down into the water, and I
struggle in the dark abyss to the very bottom, to the drain.
I reach my hand out and I know that I'm right on schedule. I
feel Mira's hair, her black run away hair, slipping between my
fingers, and I know that she is smiling. And we rise together,
swimming the ten feet to the surface, ready to breathe. We are
ready to live, breathe and play like otters for the next couple
of hours.
Mira whispers wetly in my ear, her naked, thin legs wrapped
tightly around my body. "Feels great!" She giggles when she
says this.
Mira hobbles in front of me, her four limbs stubbornly working
together to get her from point A to B. Her hair is still wet and
it leaves a trail behind us both, little droplets that give away
our secret morning. I watch her move, intrigued by the ballet
that I see in front of me, seeing a life in front of me
preparing to play itself out. Droplets of raindrops descend
on the sidewalk and roll on impact, like miniature wet
parachutists. Mira glances back at me. "Never fails --
I just washed my car."
I've never made the connection between just washed cars and the
dislike of rain. Mira says that this is because I never wash my
car. I close my eyes and I put one foot in front of the other,
and I listen to a quiet music play that is just underneath the
surface of my world, yearning every second to sweep me away in
its undertow and carry me out to sea.
Chris Duncan (chrisandstephanie@hotmail.com)
----------------------------------------------
Chris Duncan is a graduate of Virginia Intermont College in
Bristol, Virginia. He's married, has a two-year-old daughter,
and is currently hard at work on his first novel.
714 and Counting by Jason Snell
===================================
....................................................................
America's top export? Entertainment. Export number two? History.
....................................................................
The man with the rabbit skins blocked our path as we tried to
enter the Sampo Hotel. He was wearing a torn jacket made of some
kind of animal, probably vat-grown horsehide. Anyone selling
rabbit skins on a streetcorner in Osaka couldn't afford the
genuine article.
"Out of my way," I said to him in my undoubtedly
American-accented Japanese, flashing my card. He immediately
stepped back, probably out of fear that I might haul him in for
soliciting. Osaka cards don't broadcast whether you're a
detective or a cop, and that was fine with me -- it was a lot
less trouble that way. In L.A., a flashing _PI_ tag was an
invitation to either laugh or draw weapons. Believe me, I
preferred it when they laughed.
As I moved to enter the hotel, the rabbit-skin man immediately
confronted Gehrig. I turned to explain that he was with me, and
shouldn't be bothered, but Columbia Lou had already scared him
away with one firm wave of his hand. I've always been envious of
people who can do that.
"You think this is where he is?" I asked Gehrig as the Sampo's
smudged plastic doors slid open in front of us. The place
smelled dirty -- I couldn't smell the local stink, but the cheap
air freshener in the air let me know that it must have been
fairly putrid.
"The place may have bright lights and moving doors, Ken, but
it's still a cheap hotel. And no matter what century it is,
there are only two places to look if you've lost Babe Ruth: bars
and cheap hotels."
The Sampo had both. We made our way for the bar first.
Laurie was there, of course. I had been to the bar at least
fifty times since Matsushita sent me to Osaka -- who I had
pissed off to get the stranger-in-a-strange-land assignment was
still an open question, but I had about a dozen suspects -- and
she was always there. The first ten times her appearance
reassured me, reminded me of home. Then I was assigned to work
with an American exec. I was astounded when I met her, because
she looked nothing like Laurie. I guess in my time here, I had
begun to think that all American women looked like hookers --
and they don't, no matter what some of my ruder Japanese
friends say. After my experience with the American exec, I tried to forget
all about Laurie. She was a California hooker, and that was all.
No matter where you are in Japan, there are always expatriate
Americans catering both to company boys and to crumbs who have
credit to burn and a taste for the exotic.
"Hey, Kenny, wanna taste of home?"
"No thanks, Laurie. I need to ask you if you've seen someone
around here."
I think she missed what I said entirely, mostly because she had
already focused her attention on Lou. "And who's _this?_" she
asked.
You've got to understand -- no matter what the bizarre
surroundings, Lou Gehrig still looked like he had walked
straight out of 1927. We had given him a modern suit, but it
didn't hang on him right. He was squeaky-clean, with
wholesomeness and purity you'd expect to see in a Capra or
Spielberg, but not roaming the streets of the American. His
manner made him seem like a prime target for Laurie: he was a
U.S. businessman or vacationer far from the States and ripe for
some down-home pleasure.
He took off his hat -- he had insisted on wearing a hat, despite
my protestations -- and nodded his head.
"My name's Lou Gehrig, ma'am. We're looking for a friend of mine
named Babe Ruth."
I pulled the picture I had of Ruth from my pocket and gave it to
her. It had been taken the day before, during yesterday's
Classic Series game. Ruth, wearing an official 1927 New York
Yankees baseball uniform, was touching home plate. He had just
homered off Catfish Hunter to defeat the Oakland Athletics, 6-5.
After the game, Ruth disappeared. He never made it back to the
team's hotel.
"He's a fat one, isn't he? I didn't know they let fatties like
him play baseball."
"Mr. Ruth is good with the bat," I assured her.
"Yeah, that's what Shelly said." She handed the picture back to
me.
"Shelly? The Marilyn Monroe?"
"Yeah, that's _him._ I can't believe that a recon job could be
doing better business than me. Jesus, they took off his dick and
moved his fat around a little, that's all. At least I'm fuckin'
real. As advertised."
"Has Shelly seen Mr. Ruth?"
"Seen him? She _did_ the piglet last night. Said she expected
him to be exhausted after one round, but he kept comin' back,
like a boxer."
"Where is she now?"
"_He's_ upstairs with a client," Laurie said with contempt. "A
local. Little bastards never ask to see his birth certificate,
so he takes 'em for full price. My fuckin' chromosomes should be
worth a little more, you know?"
"What's the room number?"
"1530. And be sure to scare the shit out of _john-san,_ so he
asks for a refund. Serves Sheldon right."
I thanked her, and Lou and I turned to go.
"Come back now, slugger," she said to Lou. This time, Lou didn't
respond. Despite the 150-year gap, he _did_ know when to be
polite and when to ignore.
"Did she say that Ruth was sleeping with a man?" Lou asked as we
entered the elevator.
"Sort of. Reconstructive surgery -- I guess some guys really
have something against their dicks, and want 'em off. Can you
believe that? Lots of them end up as hookers -- they say it's a
great way to affirm their newfound womanhood, but more likely
they're too deep in debt to afford respectable work. Either way,
they usually end up being bartenders or marrying decrepit old
men for their money."
"This is an incredible world you live in," Gehrig said, and
shook his head.
"Not so incredible. There's the same sleaze as before. It's just
shaped different."
I wasn't really talking to Lou Gehrig, of course, no more than
the man that we were chasing was really George Herman Ruth. But
they thought they were, and for all intents and purposes they
acted just like their long-dead counterparts. I don't know the
specifics of how they were created -- it involves artificial
intelligence, chromosome matching, and lots of baseball nuts
doing research into the history of the all-time great baseball
teams.
Matsushita, seeing as it owns half the National League and most
of the teams in the Pacific League, decided to throw some of
their money behind a "greatest baseball series of all time"
event. So they set their technicians and research people at work
on finding the eight greatest teams of all time, getting
information on all their players, and creating exact replicas.
And they did it. Last night, in the fifth game of the semifinal
series, Babe Ruth -- or his ghost, replica, whatever you want to
call it -- hit a home run to send the 1973 Oakland Athletics
(most of whom weren't even born before Ruth had died) back into
the ether from whence they came. Ain't science something?
"The woman we're going to meet looks exactly like Marilyn
Monroe," I told Gehrig.
"Who?"
"I'm sorry -- I thought you knew who she was. Some Yankee player
ended up marrying her."
"Must've been after my time."
The elevator stopped on the fifteenth floor, and as the door
opened we found ourselves looking right in Marilyn Monroe's
face.
"Shelly, we've got to talk."
"Shit," she said, and pulled something from her purse. It was
money. "Here, take three thousand. Just don't pull me in."
"Shelly, you know I'm not feeding for the locals. And where the
hell did you get money like this?"
"All of Scarlett's girls have it on 'em, to make sure they don't
get into any trouble with the cops."
The first time I had met Shelly, she had just been a cheap
hooker, not much different from any other. But now she was
working for Scarlett -- the den-mother-meets-madam who
controlled half of the city's sex trade and a good portion
of its money. Being one of Scarlett's girls carried lots
of perks -- including, it seemed, plenty of bribe money
to keep the cops away.
"This gentleman and I need your help, Shelly. We're looking for
this man." I took her hand, led her into the elevator, and
showed her the picture of Ruth.
"Oh, him," she said, and rolled up her eyes. "I figured he'd be
an easy one, pay me for more than he could actually handle. But
he didn't stop."
"When did you do business with him?"
"Last night, around midnight. He came into the Sampo bar and we
had a few drinks. Then we came upstairs."
"Did he say anything about where he was going after he left
you?"
She paused for a moment, pursing her lips in thought.
"Three or four. The bar had closed for the night. He asked what
else might be open that late, and I told him to head for the
Plaza. Everything's open all night over there."
The door slid open, and we were back in the lobby. I thanked
Shelly, and Lou and I headed for the door.
"You sure I didn't marry her? I mean, later on? My Hollywood
phase?" he asked me.
"Pretty sure." Gehrig knew his life's history up to 1927, but
not beyond. To the Yankees, it seemed as if they had been sucked
through a time machine -- they didn't even know that they were
created beings. I'm sure Lou had spoken to other players from
other eras as they stood on first base, next to him, but I
didn't know if they had mentioned what happened to Lou Gehrig
after 1927.
For the poor bastard's sake, I certainly hope not. To this day,
there's still a Lou Gehrig's Disease -- though depending on
where you live, it's got different names, like ALS and Hawking
Syndrome. There are still people who die slowly as they lose
control of their bodies -- just like Gehrig did. I tried to
picture the huge, incredibly strong man in front of me as a
uncontrollable shaking pile of flesh, and couldn't do it.
"Let's go find him, so we can all get back to work," Gehrig said
as we walked out the door. "We've got to get ready for the
Giants. The game's tomorrow, right?"
"Yeah, tomorrow night." The beginning of the Classic Series.
Great publicity for the Matsushita Corporation. I had to
discreetly find Babe by midnight, or the Corp would send out a
massive search team for him. Publicly admitting the loss of one
of the ghost players wouldn't reflect well on my dear Corp, but
Babe Ruth had to be there for the opening game. He was their
star, the all-time best baseball player in the baseball series
of the ages.
The Corp preferred that I find him quietly. And considering how
well I knew the American, I would have no problem doing just
that. Or so I hoped.
The American District in Osaka is, well, a laugh. Which isn't to
say that it isn't American -- in fact, I came here quite often,
to try and remind myself of what home was really like. It didn't
help.
The American was a strip of movie theaters, fast food
restaurants, cheap hotels, a sports memorabilia shop, a couple
of soldier-of-fortune weapons stores -- and lots of Lizard
Joints.
Lizard Joints were, economically, the glue that held the
American together. They were incredibly popular to the locals.
For them, seeing a Lizard show was the ultimate American
experience, without actually going to America.
I avoided them. My memories of growing up in California included
McDonald's, Hollywood movies, the occasional stay in a Holiday
Inn, cheering on the local sports teams, and even occasional
bursts of gunfire.
But I never -- not even _once_ -- went to a live show featuring
songs like 'My Way,' 'Night and Day,' and 'The Candy Man.' Nor
did I see any Elvis, Beatles, Michael Jackson, or any other
oldies revival show. No singer crooning ditties while his gut
stuck out over the cummerbund of his tuxedo. Not even when I
went to Vegas.
Nobody at the Corp in Osaka could believe it, when I told them.
"You have to see it," they said. "It's the best of America!"
And they took me, kicking and screaming.
I only learned two things from the trip to Sammy's
Sinatra-riffic Sensation In the Heart of the American. First, I
learned that it was up to me, New York, New York. About that
same time, I discovered that I would never go see a Lizard show
again.
"We'll start with the bars," I told Gehrig. "Hopefully we'll
find him soon."
I prayed that George Herman Ruth wasn't downing gin and tonics
while swinging to the groove of 'Feelings' as performed by the
Jerry Vale Memorial Orchestra.
"You seen this guy?" I asked Mark at Rick's American Cafe.
"Fat guy," Mark said in that funny accent of his.
"So you have seen him?"
"Hell, you can tell from that picture that he's a fat guy. Look,
Kenny, you know that information don't come without a price."
"Here's a thousand for your time," I said, and dropped the coins
in his hand. "Got any leads on him?"
"You guys missed him by about three hours. He was here, all
right -- first he got completely drunk, but then he got hold of
some detox pills. Then he proceeded to get drunk all over
again."
"Sounds like our man. Any idea where he went?"
"Look, after he got drunk again, he started playing around with
a couple of local girls. They're hookers, but your fat guy was
trying to _romance_ 'em or something."
"Was there trouble?"
"Nah. They straightened him out. Guess he paid one of 'em,
because they gave him some Randies and then headed for the
door."
"Shit. So he bought Randies and took off with a hooker?"
"That's about it." He tapped his watch. "Time's up."
"Look, thanks for your help. Can you call me if you see him
again?"
"No way," Mark said. "The babes are Scarlett's. The Randies,
too. They walk out the door, it's her business, not mine.
Protective bitch, that one."
"A few thousand help you forget that fear?"
"Not for that fat-ass, it wouldn't. Didn't much like the looks
of him anyway."
I gave Mark my best _fuck-you_ smile. "Let's get out of here," I
said.
"I knew he wouldn't help us," Gehrig said as we headed for the
door.
"Why?"
"Didn't you hear the accent? He's from Brooklyn. They've always
hated the Yankees."
Outside the bar, he dropped his big right hand onto the top of
my shoulder.
"Hold on a second," he said. "Do you mind explaining what all
that was about?"
"What part didn't you get?"
"Well, most of it. I know plenty about girls and booze, but what
are Randies and what's a detox?"
"Pills," I told him. "Randies are slightly psychedelic, plus
they increase sexual drive and potency. Kind of the best of all
worlds. Detox pills are instant sober-ups. Babe probably took a
Detox by mistake, and then popped some Randies to rectify the
situation."
"What a world," Gehrig said, shaking his head. "If we had
sober-up pills in the '20s, Babe might've hit 70 or 80 home runs
a year."
"And if you had Randies in the '920s, he would've ended up dead
in an alley somewhere."
And then it hit me. Randies were no common street drug.
Scarlett's girls had them because they went with the business.
Randied-up johns could still get it up. But, like Scarlett's
girls, Randies cost large sums of money for even the smallest of
doses.
And none of the players had carried any money.
"Oh, man," I said.
Gehrig looked puzzled.
"If I asked you to buy me a drink, could you?" He shook his
head.
"Of course not. I don't have a wallet -- hell, I feel naked
without one."
"Right. So where has Babe gotten the money to pay for his fun?"
I _had_ hoped we could get him back before he had broken any
laws. Now I just hoped we'd get him back before the skin of the
world's greatest batsman was being peddled on an Osaka
streetcorner.
Home base for Scarlett and her girls was, as you might expect, a
mansion known as Tara. And while the hookers didn't resemble any
character in "Gone With the Wind," all of Scarlett's security
people looked exactly like Rhett Butler -- or should I say Clark
Gable?
"What do you want?" one of the Gables at the door asked us.
"We need to see Scarlett," I told him. "We're looking for a
friend of ours."
"Scarlett's real busy," the Gable said. "Who should we say is
callin'?"
"My name's Ken Nishi," I said. "I'm looking for a man named Babe
Ruth."
"Hold on," Gable Number One said, and went inside. Gehrig and I
stood outside with the silent second Gable.
"This Scarlett has identical twin bodyguards?" Gehrig asked me.
"Not quite. The one that just went in is almost two inches
shorter than this one." Lou raised his eyebrows. "I'm a
detective. I notice this stuff."
"Are these bodyguards like that Shelly girl, then?"
"The plumbing's different -- but otherwise, yes."
"I'm sorry," said the first Gable as he emerged from the front
door. "Scarlett can't be disturbed right now. I suggest you call
again tomorrow."
"Sir," Gehrig began, "would you be so kind as to let us go
inside and find our friend?"
The Gable smiled widely. "I'm sorry, pal -- but business is
business. No visitors while work is in session."
I turned away from the Gables and began walking down the steps
that led down to street level.
"Come on, Lou," I said loudly. When we reached the street, I
added: "We'll be back. Just need to make a quick purchase."
We found a couple of Scarlett's girls back at Rick's -- the
problem was getting them interested in us. Scarlett's trained
her girls to be _very_ selective about who they'll bring back to
Tara. The first thing we had to do was make sure that the girls
were first-string -- only the cream of the crop room at Tara.
The dregs, like Shelly, work at shitholes like the Sampo.
After we found out that Sara and Viv were Scarlett's top-of-the
line, we had to convince them that we had money. The
first-string ladies are extremely expensive, and the purchase of
a few Randies is also required.
We managed to pass our john interview by showing them my credit
card (with billions in Corp money backing it) and claiming to be
two of the baseball players from the series. Sara bought
Gehrig's story, which had the virtue of being true. As for me,
well, I told Viv I was legendary Japanese slugger Saduharo Oh.
I guess my credit was good enough that Viv wasn't going to
question my veracity. I do look fairly Japanese, though about
half my family is European-American -- but when it comes to my
clothing, body language, and the way I talk, I'm about as
inauthentic as you can get.
After they took my money, they handed each of us two small green
pills -- Randies. I turned to look at Gehrig, who was staring
into the palm of his hand. He made a small gulping noise.
I smiled at him and dry-swallowed the Randies. I have to give it
to the guy -- he had a lot of guts. He imitated my actions as
soon as I had finished swallowing.
It was a couple blocks to Tara, so we ended up walking there
from Rick's. As I stepped out of the bar and onto the dirty
sidewalks of the American, I felt the whole district slide
around me.
I could tell that the Randies were kicking in, though their
psychedelic effects were mild compared to the drugs I'd taken in
the past. And I wasn't really afraid of getting out of control
-- if I needed it, I had a couple of detox patches in the bottom
of my pocket and a gun hidden against the small of my back.
The randies also had an effect on my libido, and so I suddenly
began to take more notice of Viv. She was
reconstituted-gorgeous, every man's dream and a credit to her
plastician. Though I like to think of myself as a pretty good
detective, I didn't know whether she was a natural male or
female. Some people can take one look at a person's neck and
figure out whether they've had their Adam's apple picked or not.
My hand slid around her back and I could feel the curve of her
hip underneath the strange material her clothes were made out
of. It felt almost alive, more of a second skin than actual
clothing. Then again, it could've just been the Randies talking.
Gehrig, meanwhile, was squeezing Sara's breasts and mumbling to
himself. I didn't suppose the old boy had much experience with
drugs like these, and the double-whammy of sexual drive and
hallucinations had to be more powerful than anything that
existed in Gehrig's time.
I decided to let him enjoy it while it lasted.
It didn't take us very long to reach Tara. As we neared the
front door, a skinseller approached us. It looked like the same
one who had been in front of the Sampo earlier.
"Buy some skin," he said. "Real rabbit!"
This time, under the influence of Randies, I was a bit nicer to
the little man. Rather than ignoring him, I paused briefly to
say hello to the cute bunny skin and pet it a little.
"Nice rabbit you've got there," I told the man. Then Viv pulled
me away from him. It was time to enter Tara.
I blinked as I looked up at the mansion's facade. It seemed
incredibly huge, aristocratic, and completely out-of-place
amidst the cheap neon and plastic crap that made up the rest of
the American.
"My, my," I said, "I do believe the south has risen again." The
girls ignored me, wisely. We went inside.
"Ready, slugger?" Viv asked me. I have to admit, the Randies
were certainly having an effect. I put my hands on her waist,
and then slid them up to her breasts. From there, I moved them
to on her cheeks, as I began kissing her. Then I slid one of my
hands to the nape of her neck and gently stuck a sedative patch
to it.
Twenty seconds later, she was unconscious. Two minutes later,
Gehrig and I had slapped on our detoxes and were searching room
by room for Ruth.
We found the Sultan of Swat half-clothed and face down on a bed
a few doors down from our rooms. One of Scarlett's girls was
sitting on a chair in the corner, surfing the news channels.
"What do you want?" she asked. "Can't you see I've got a
customer?"
"A busy one, too," Gehrig said.
"Look, Scarlett doesn't allow more than one client per girl. And
I've got mine. So you'd better leave."
"He's a friend of ours," I told her. "We've come to take him
back home."
"Oh, no you don't," she said. "He's paid up. I'm supposed to
keep him here until he walks himself out."
"Who asked you to do that?" I asked.
"Scarlett. She told me the fat guy had some big money behind
him, and that I should try to get as much of it out of him as
possible."
"So you'd keep him here, charging him for your services and for
drugs until he finally left?"
"Or until his money ran out, yeah. Why not?"
"Like I said, sister...� we've come to take him home." I nodded
to Gehrig, who went over to the bed and began shaking Ruth
awake.
"Stop it!" the girl shouted. Before she could get protest too
loudly, I walked over to her and slapped a sedative derm on her
neck.
"Hey!" she shouted. "What the hell do you think you're doing?
What's this fucking thing you stuck to me? What did you do to
me? Help! I can' stan'up...�"
Scarlett's girl hit the ground.
Babe Ruth was slowly coming to, under the kind hand of Lou
Gehrig.
"Come on, Babe...� time to get up...� got to get back before the
next game," Gehrig said to the massive home-run king.
"You've done this before," I said.
"Too many times to remember. Like I said...� the drugs and
buildings may have changed, but he's still the same man and a
whorehouse is still a whorehouse."
Gehrig and I pulled the Babe to his feet and began leading him
out of Tara. We were about 10 feet from the back door when an
alarm went off. I heard a woman screaming from upstairs -- it
was Viv. Her constitution was stronger than I had expected.
"He fuckin' knocked me out!" she yelled.
Four Gables were suddenly running toward us, two from the front
door and two more from the hallway that led to the rest of the
building.
"Down!" I yelled to Gehrig and the Babe, and we all fell to the
ground. I pulled my gun, hoping that I could get all four of the
Gables before they got us.
"Frankly, my dear," I said, pulled the trigger, and scored a
direct hit on the head of Gable Number One. "I don't -- " and
Gable Two went down, "give a -- " and Gable three went down,
"damn...�"
And then Gable Number Four's gun shattered my pistol hand. The
gun flew across the floor, but I didn't really notice. I was
screaming so loud that I can't even remember being knocked out
when the Gable kicked me in the head.
When I woke up, I was in a Matsushita hospital bed. I obviously
hadn't been killed by Scarlett -- in fact, she had turned me
back over to the Corp.
There was nothing I could do during the next few days I lay in
that hospital bed but stare at the TV -- so I watched the
Classic Series. It was as exciting as the Corp had hoped it
would be, and they no doubt made a killing on the entire affair.
The series went to seven games, just as they had hoped.
Maximizing profits was the key.
I was amazed the series was that close -- I figured the Yankees
would win in a cakewalk. But they were actually down three games
to two going into game six. Just as the Corp had hoped, the game
ended dramatically -- Babe Ruth, looking just as healthy as he
always seemed to look on those old-time movie reels, doubled off
the top of the centerfield wall in the top of the ninth to score
Lou Gehrig and put the Yankees ahead to stay. That hit sent the
championship of all time to a seventh game. And to think that
just a few days before, Gehrig and I were carrying a half-naked
and stoned out of his mind Babe out of a local whorehouse.
The day of the seventh game, I finally found out how I had
managed to come out of my adventure alive, and how Babe and Lou
had managed to get back in order to play in the series.
My first visitor was a mid-range Matsushita executive named
Mariko Santos, and she sure didn't seem happy to see me. In
fact, when she walked in the door and saw that I was conscious,
she began to scowl. She also refused to make eye contact with
me.
"Well, Nishi, at least you managed to get Ruth back without any
bad publicity," she said.
No publicity? I had blown away three reincarnations of Rhett
Butler in the middle of the biggest brothel in Osaka.
"But you also cost the Corporation a mint, almost all of it
unauthorized. You paid for hookers -- _expensive_ hookers -- and
drugs for both yourself and your assistant, and we had to pay
Scarlett for all the services Ruth paid for while he was out."
"The Corp had to pay for that?"
"Sure did. Scarlett knew that we were behind the series, and she
knew perfectly well who their customer was. So they tried to
wring as much money out of the Corporation as possible."
"Well, I _did_ manage to limit how much time Ruth spent at
Tara," I told her.
"True. But you also managed to kill two of her bodyguards and
seriously wounded a third. We had to pay for his medical bills,
plus yours. Scarlett also demanded a very large sum of money to
keep it all away from the police."
"How large?"
"Extremely large. That's all I'm allowed to say."
"Shit," I said. Once a Corp worker, always a Corp worker.
Matsushita would never fire me -- they'd just transfer me again,
this time to Antarctica. I'd be gutting fish and throwing their
heads into a bucket by Thursday.
"We've got plenty of money, and we got Ruth back in time to have
him play in the series. So you're not going to be disciplined.
But regional will probably want you out."
I nodded. I would be going somewhere else, if not Antarctica,
then somewhere equally unappetizing. Outer Mongolia. Inner
Moscow. Someplace cold, where I couldn't read the street signs.
At least I'd be someplace where I wouldn't be confused with the
locals.
When Santos left the room, Gehrig came in. Right behind him was
Babe Ruth himself.
"You're looking a lot better, Ken," were the first words out of
Gehrig's mouth.
"Yeah, lookin' real good," Ruth said.
"Thanks. Hey, good luck tonight."
Ruth smiled his famous dimpled, fat-cheeked smile.
"And thanks for pullin' me out of that dive the other day," Ruth
said. "I've got hold of some mean stuff in my time, but those
pills really take the cake."
"Look, Ken," Gehrig started, "we can't stay long. I practically
had to beg on my knees before that Santos woman agreed to bring
us here. I just wanted to thank you for all you've done for us.
You did a great job."
"It's the first time anyone's gotten shot up for me," Ruth said
with a laugh. "If there's anything I can do for you, just name
it."
"One thing, Babe," I said. "Hit one out for me tonight."
He smiled again. "You got it, kid."
Whoever made this Ruth character sure got the recipe right.
Ruth hit me a homer, too. It won the series for the Yankees in
the bottom of the ninth inning.
The next day, the simulations of the 1927 Yankees were sent back
into the void from which they came. They were melted down or
erased or whatever you do with computer simulations of real
people.
So I had risked my life for these artificial people and the
integrity of my corporation. And after all that, while I lay in
a hospital bed, the people I had saved were wiped from
existence. The only real souvenir I had of the whole event was
my shattered hand.
Well, not just the hand. The day after the series, as those
players were being dispatched back into oblivion, a Matsushita
courier brought me a special package. Inside was a baseball,
signed by the real live Ruth and Gehrig replicas.
It was good enough for me.
Jason Snell (jsnell@intertext.com)
------------------------------------
Jason Snell is the editor of _InterText_ and TeeVee, and the
editor of _Macworld_ magazine.
A version of this story originally appeared in the December 1991
edition of _Quanta._
The Turn on the Trail by Gregory E. Lucas
=============================================
....................................................................
Sometimes our final acts are, much as we try, unknowable and
indecipherable by others.
....................................................................
Day 31, Lost Day 26, July 5
"I die with...� [unreadable] ...�any regrets."
-- From the journal of a lost hiker
Jane Alton
------------
Dammit, no! Brian's death wasn't a suicide. For two years now,
ever since those hunters found 'im face down in that stream in
Vermont's Green Mountains, I've heard rumors 'bout my brother's
death. I'd say ta myself, "Tell 'em what ya know -- how he tried
ta survive." But I couldn't bring it up. So I did the best I
could ta forget what people said. But now I'll let the dead man
speak through his journal.
I burnt his tent when they brought it ta me. I threw out the
sleepin' bag he starved in. And after I took the notebook outa
his backpack, I put the pack in the attic and haven't gone up
there since. I was able, a bit at a time, ta face the words he'd
written in his last days. Just a page here and there, in no
order the first few times I took it out'a my night table drawer.
But on a rainy night while my husband slept, I began readin'
from page one and kept goin' straight through.
Wayne Langly
--------------
She comes over here, Jane does, with that stuff my son wrote.
"No, I won't read none of id," I tell her. "No sense bringin' up
the past. Leave what's past 'lone. Got more'n I can handle with
your mother on 'er deathbed. That brain cancer's eatin' her
mind," I says, but does she listen? "Won't read none of it?" she
says. And I say, "No, no, take id. Take id with you." But she
let id set here on this scratched up table when she left.
Ned Griegs
------------
Brian. My best friend. We worked together a few years at the
post office in Company, Vermont. Both of us clerks, sorting mail
all day long in that little room. No matter what time a year --
was hot in there. No air. Brian had been there eight years. He
was thirty-eight when he died. Eight years younger than I am
now. Brian was young at heart, even if he looked older than he
really was. String Bean, we'd call him at work. He wasn't more
than 160 pounds, and a little over six feet tall. His arms and
legs were so long and thin that he looked kinda awkward. He
always walked a little stooped over, maybe on account'a being
bent over those letters so much of the time. He had dark
brown eyes, the color of his hair -- his hair was medium
long usually -- and the skin of his face was a little wrinkled.
"Explore the Grand Canyon -- yessirree! That's what I'm gonna do
some day," he'd say. Jungles. Deserts. Mountains. Sea voyages.
Brian never stopped talking about adventures. He'd wipe sweat
of his face and talk about the breezes on tropical islands
he'd go to someday. The only thing keeping him back, he said,
was his job.
"Life's passing me by," he said more than once. "And here I am,
another day sorting mail."
He was a man with a family, though, and since the office didn't
give him much paid time off, he felt like he would be doing his
family wrong by not making every penny he could. But then after
all that awful stuff happened with Annette and the kids, he took
ten days vacation -- decided to hike 135 miles by himself along
the Appalachian Trail.
Jane Alton
------------
We grew up in a mobile home. I hated when people called it a
trailer or said we lived in a trailer park! There _is_ a
difference. Our father was a house painter. Near 70 now. Still
paints homes, but not all day long like he used ta. Says he's
gotta work some still cause he's gotta pay off a small mortgage
on this little house he bought not long ago -- it's a _real_
house, not a mobile -- and besides, he says, "I like workin'."
Cold and silent, that man. Tough speakin' ta 'im. Brian tried.
Tried ta talk with 'im, joke with 'im, or just tell 'im 'bout
school, 'bout ball games. Only thing that ever did was annoy the
man, though. They didn't fight, Brian and Dad, they just didn't
talk or do much together. Uncle Brian. That's who my brother
played catch with, went fishing with, watched ball games with.
Uncle Brian was our mother's brother and my brother was named
after 'im. They were close. Always.
Wayne Langly
--------------
"If'd make any diff'rence I'd read it, but it don't," I says to
Jane when she comes over one night to take care her mother so I
can sleep some 'fore having to get up early and paint 'nother
house. She's mad at me for not readin' it, says I didn't ever
wanna really know who my son was. Believe that? I walk away.
Turn off all the lights. Get into bed. At last I get a little
peace while she's in there with her mom. I took good care'a that
woman. She never had to work none 'cept for a little while when
the kids was both in their teens and growin' so fast that there
wasn't clothes that fit for more'n a month it seemed, and they
eat all that food up so fast. Cashier at the drug store. Only
for a few months.
Not wanna know who my own son was? What the hell's she sayin'?
That son a'mine was lots like me. Jane takes after her mom with
her red hair and copies the way her mom smiled 'fore she got
sick, but Brian'd always took after me. I'm not talkin' looks so
much, but ways. Depression. I admit I got that problem. Get so
low sometimes wish I was never born. And id sticks. I seen Brian
even lower than me but he had a way of changin', real fast.
Brian was always way up or way down. Never much 'tween. Me, I
don't get the up part. That's why I keep quiet. That boy a'mine,
he'd be way up in love one night and down in the dumps soon as
he'd broken up with her. Next day he'd be back up in the sky. In
love, again. Never could believe how up and down he'd be over
girls, women. That's how come I know it was a suicide. That
divorce. Made final and official just a week 'fore he set off.
Married seven years to Annette and then not no more. Id
depressed him. Took the kids with her too. That's why he went in
them woods and never come back. He planned id that way.
Jane Alton
------------
The evenin' 'fore he started out I was over there, at his house,
in his livin' room, talkin' ta 'im. He was busy gettin' his
stuff ready -- tent, ponchos, socks, mosquito net for his face,
matches, clothes. I don't know what all else it was, but it was
lots. Couldn't believe that he could carry all that. Even had a
Coleman lantern and fuel. He said it wasn't the usual thing ta
bring 'long, that lantern, for someone who wanted ta travel
light, but he said that he wanted it and it'd be worth the
weight. "And what's that you're makin'?" I asked 'im when we
were both in the kitchen. And he said, "My special survival
food." Peanut butter, chocolate, nuts, and Oat Bran mixed
together. He scooped and pressed it with a spoon inta some empty
plastic margarine containers and stuffed 'em inta his backpack.
Ned Griegs
------------
Jane called me from his place the evening before he set out. She
said that he was all set, had everything packed and ready to go.
Only thing left he had to do was drive up north to the Daskin
Lake Campsite to store a food supply in a cache. She asked if
I'd like to go along with the two of them. I went.
We parked at a trailhead and hiked a short way through the woods
to the campsite. It was close to sunset then. He slung his food
supply up between trees close to a lean-to so that the black
bears couldn't get to it and then we walked back to the car and
drove off. It was dark by then. On the way there and on the way
home, he didn't say anything about Annette. He joked, sang along
with the Bob Dylan tapes we played, and said that he could
hardly wait to hit the trail the next day. Maybe there was a
minute when he looked lost in thought, a little sad, but it was
nothing much. There's no way I'd say he was depressed, like some
people say he was.
Annette
---------
Another sleepless night. Try another pillow. He's gone into
those woods and is never coming back. Quiet, Annette. Get some
sleep. Sleep. ...�be alive today if it wasn't for you, all your idea, the
divorce, seeing him the first time that night at the diner,
Brian bussing the tables, me with the AA crowd, then they all
leave except me, the last one, and he's there...� movies and
kisses and poetry, reading poetry by the silent TV like it was a
fireplace, me to him, him to me...� putting the kids to sleep
together... his rough beard in our love making, but me and my
booze...� that's what did it... seven years together, happy,
until I...� it was just a slip, Brian, don't worry.
But why? Stop asking why, I don't know why, Brian...�sober here,
a drunk night there, oh come on Brian, let me have a little
fun...� not sure if I love you anymore Brian not as much as I
love to drink, anyway...� leaving you Brian, shocked, that look
on his face...�where were you last night? Shouting, it was just
a one-night stand with a man at the bar, stop prying, forget
it... Forget it? How, Annette? Not that argument again...�
Smashing all the booze bottles in the sink...� Brian, I'll take
the kids...�take the kids? You work, yes, but if there's no way
to pay for day care...
Hated that about him, about us, no money, blue-collar bullshit,
me a college educated woman stuck in that shabby two bedroom
house, those crude folks his friends that I pretended to like,
dirty stinking diapers, and is this all there is to my life?
Taking care of kids and cooking meals and cleaning a home I
can't stand to live in? And it's back to my mother who doesn't
stop prying, and then another man and another drink and then
another man, the barfly you called him, Brian, and you wanted to
know what I saw in him and why I just didn't stop and I couldn't
tell you because I didn't know, and now if I could just sleep
tonight, sleep and forget about you...
But I told him to get on with his life, you've got to forget
about me, Brian...� But she'll sober up -- how could he think
that? hope for that? -- and come back with the kids...� because
he never stopped loving you, even after...� well, at least he
saw his kids almost every day after work, never denied him that,
so you could go out and party with your new boyfriend...� poor
me poor me pour me a drink...� down down down the trail into the
shadows of the trees, they found him in a stream, crawling
toward the voices he said he heard, it wasn't a suicide, yes it
was, but what about what Jane showed you?...� unreadable half of
it so who will ever really know, you don't need to see all the
words, yes you do to be sure, he was depressed when he left,
kept pleading for me to come to my senses the last time I saw
him, but later, on the phone, said he forgave me everything and
wished me the best, sadness in his voice, such sadness...�.
Jane Alton
------------
About three in the afternoon on June 5, 1990 I dropped Brian off
at a trailhead in Betterton. That's in Central Vermont. All day
he'd been anxious ta get goin'. But I got a job at the bank. I'm
a teller. I look at money all day long that I wish I had more of
cause I don't have much of it. I couldn't get off more than a
few hours early ta take 'im. He asked for a kiss on the cheek
after he was out'a the car ready ta set off. That surprised me.
We didn't do that too often -- close as we were -- and I asked
'im why and he said that a sister's kiss brings good luck. So I
kissed 'im lightly on his cheek, then watched 'im set off inta
the forest while I sat behind the wheel. Driving off I said ta
myself I should've given 'im my rabbit foot. I meant ta bring it
'long with me, but I forgot. I know it sounds silly, but
sometimes I think that if I'da gave 'im it, he would've had the
luck he needed ta find his way out'a those woods.
Brian Langly
--------------
Day 1 -- June 5:
Late start -- 3:00. Hiked fast pace. 8.3 miles to Glittering
Lake. Saw no one else on trail. Signed trail register a while
ago. Set up my tent by lake. Was a beautiful day. Lots of
sunshine filtering through the trees and a nice cool breeze.
Perfect hiking weather. Nice half moon tonight. Been sitting
here listening to the loons. Eerie echoing sound they make,
their song a strange beauty. Think there's more than two, maybe
four. Haven't seen them yet. Just keep hearing them. Nice
sparkle of moon on water, a bright trail of flickering silver.
Know now how this lake got its name. Most silvery sheen I've
ever seen on water. Still a nice breeze. Tiny ripples on the
lake. Must turn in soon, tired, but will stay awake a few more
minutes hoping to see loons. Peaceful. Feel God's presence
everywhere in this stillness and solitude.
Jane Alton
------------
God yes, but religion no. My brother didn't go ta church since
he left our parents' house. He once said what his sorta belief
in God was called. It wasn't a word I can remember exactly --
Pan something. Pantheist? I think that's it. Said I should read
Emerson's essay on Nature sometime and then I'd understand. I've
read it since Brian died, but I didn't understand it. Brian
didn't think'a God as a bearded man in the sky. He thought God
was everywhere and that he could sense God when he was alone in
the woods, by lakes, on mountaintops. He also said that God was
in people, only it was harder ta feel God in others than it was
in nature. I don't say I agree with all this. It never made
sense ta me why if God was everywhere or in people why there
were so many bad places and bad people. I go ta a Protestant
church. I go ta just get outta the house once in a while. Really
I don't hardly even think about God or pray unless I'm in
trouble. Then I think about God a lot and pray hard. I prayed
and prayed once I knew Brian was missing.
Brian Langly
--------------
Day 2 -- June 6:
Up at first light. Granola bars and fig bars for breakfast. Hit
trail at sunrise. Hiked 10 miles to lean-to on Little Scar
River. Stopped off for scrub down at Muck's Pond. Not mucky like
name implies. Crystal clean water. No towel to dry off. Used
extra shirt and fresh air. That's camping life. Also passed
beaver hut in small pond. Saw two beavers swimming in pond. Late
morning now. Looks like rain soon. Very cloudy. Sore feet
bothering me a bit. Boots new. Should have broken them in more
before...� [unreadable] ...�such a long...� [unreadable]
...�Plan to soak feet in river and stay put for rest of day.
Annette
---------
I never expected to hear from him while he was on the hike. But
I got a postcard from him. It was postmarked Fisherville, June
7. That would have been day three of his hike. It didn't say
much -- just a few words. "Sore feet but no sore feelings. Say
hi to the kids for me. Sincerely, Brian." Fisherville. That's on
Spencer Road. The trail he was on crossed it. I must've still
been on his mind, or else he wouldn't have sent that card. To me
it shows he was missing the kids. He says he had no sore
feelings, but I don't believe him. That man! He just wouldn't
let go of me and move on with his life. I don't remember if I
told the kids that their Daddy wrote or if I showed 'em the
picture on the card. I think I just got drunk and lost it, threw
it out, or something.
Jane Alton
------------
And there's the postcard he sent us too. Real nice picture of a
waterfall on it. It was addressed ta me and Steve. Steve, he's
my husband. "Havin' a good time," he said, "and tell everyone --
Mom, Dad, Uncle Brian, Ned -- Hi." Seemed happy ta me still,
just like when I dropped 'im off a few days before he sent it.
Annette never did understand Brian as well as I did. She told me
'bout the post card he sent. If he said he had no sore feelings,
that's what he meant. She could always turn his words around to
exactly the opposite of what he said. That was part of the
trouble he had with her. Never did blame Brian for gettin' mad
at her 'bout stuff like that.
Ned Griegs
------------
Forgiveness. That's what that postcard to Annette was all about.
To me it showed that he had already forgiven her. He was doing
just what Annette said he would never do. He'd put their
troubled past behind himself and was moving on with his life.
Brian didn't want to find another woman to make him forget
Annette. He didn't want to forget any of his life, because he
valued all of it, even the rough parts. Rather than forget, or
try to even the score with anyone, he would forgive. Annette's
way was always to forget -- to get drunk and forget, to find
another lover quickly to forget the last one. But that wasn't
Brian's way. It might've taken him a long time when it came to
some people who troubled him, but that's what he eventually did,
forgive.
Wayne Langly
--------------
Jane says that she was over here with a postcard from Brian the
same day she got it, and I seen it and read it, she says. But I
still say she never showed me no postcard.
Brian Langly
--------------
Day 4, June 8:
Deep into the wilderness now. Stopped at Birch Lake and rested a
while. Had to. Just no energy today. Frequent stops a must. Had
to go at slow pace. Stopped a little while at each of the Tucker
Lakes. Each one close together. Very remote lakes. A little
muggy today. Lots of bugs. Good thing I have the face net.
Keeping track of mileage according to guidebook. Covered 40
miles. Not so bad a pace even though I did have to slow down
today. Too much pack weight I think. Maybe should not...�
[unreadable] ...�lantern and fuel. Too bulky. Met another hiker
today...� [unreadable] ...�Lake...� [unreadable] ...�said...�
[unreadable] ...
Edward Winter
---------------
That's him! Shocked me, man. I was just reading the newspaper
after getting odf work at the steel mill -- the razor and saber
mill we sometimes call it -- and there it was, the face. I knew
it was him the sec I saw the picture -- the face of the sick
looking guy I'd seen when I was fishing at Lost Lake. The paper
said he'd been missing and to call this number if anyone had any
info on his whereabouts. So I called right away.
"Yes," I told the ranger, "it was _definitely_ him." And "no," I
told him, "he didn't say he was lost or that he needed help."
"And was there anything unusual about him?" the ranger asked.
"There sure was," I told him.
"What was that?" he asked, and I told him how his tent poles
were sticking out all over the place from his pack and that the
guy looked pale and weak, like he was real sick. I told the
ranger -- I wanted him to know this- that I asked the guy if he
needed help and that the guy said he was doing okay, just a
little tired. So I didn't do nothing to help him, but I sure
would've if the man had asked for help because that's the way I
am. I mean, I always help people out if they need help. I'm not
the kind of guy who's afraid to get involved. Why should I be
afraid to help a man out in the wilderness, even if he did seem
strange with his tent poles all over the place and looking like
a ghost? I'm a big man, six-four, and I work out all the time
lifting weights. I could've even carried the man out if he had
wanted me to, but he didn't look like he was really _that_ bad,
_that_ weak.
"It was by the Lost Lake Dam that I saw him. The dam." I gave
the ranger the exact location. I still can't believe it man -- I
was the last one to see him alive!
Brian Langly
--------------
Day 5, June 9:
Started raining during night. Rain would not let up. Didn't
bring enough food. Not eating enough and am very weak. Never
make my food cache. Too far away, so had to take short cut. Left
original trail. Now at Lean-to on bank of Clear Brook. Pouring.
Plan is to hike 7 miles along this trail offshoot (Teasing Brook
Trail) to Detter Lake Campsite. Looks like there's a road by
there. Will hitchhike (or hike if must) to town of Duster. Can
renew food supply there or most...� [unreadable] ...�Can't get
over how weak I suddenly felt yesterday. Guess I'm aging faster
than I realized.
Jane Alton
------------
It's my belief that he wanted ta call off the rest of the hike,
just get ta that town anyway he could and call me, tell me ta
come get 'im.
Wayne Langly
--------------
Sudden sickness he says he had. Id weren't just that. He was a
broken man. Maybe he was havin' second thoughts 'bout going
through wid the suicide. Maybe that's why he started off toward
that campsite. But he changed his mind back, I say. He's like
me. A man that gets so down that he just don't know where to
head.
Ranger Fisk
-------------
Facts. I stick to those and here's a few: Number one: He signed
the register at Glittering Lake and specified a segment of the
Appalachian Trail. Someone gets lost, that's where we look,
along and near the specified trail route. The farther a hiker
wanders from that, the more difficult it is to locate him. No
one -- I repeat, no one! -- could have guessed that he'd decided
to take an offshoot of the main trail, a short cut 40 miles into
his hike. Fact number...
Brian Langly
--------------
Day 6, Lost Day 1, June 10:
Lost trail. How? Can't believe this. Have tent set up. Ripped
red shirt into 4 pieces. Hung red rags on trees. Hoping someone
will see and follow them to tent. Still pouring. Never stops.
Been praying. Pray and pray. Must stay calm. Sure someone will
look for me if not back soon after scheduled time of return.
Hope so. Maybe if rain stops can find my way out. So hard to see
through pouring rain. Was raining hard early this morning when I
left lean-to on bank of brook. Hiked three-and-a-half, maybe
four miles. Wettest trail I ever imagined. Follows brook, just
like map shows. Didn't expect to have to ford brook so many
times though. Boots sopped. Everything sopped. Am weaker by the
hour. Am looking at map now. Still can't understand why...�
[unreadable] ...�try...� [unreadable] ...�clean.
Ranger Fisk
-------------
...�two. Look at the map and you'll see what confused him.
Teasing Brook Trail does not follow Teasing Brook for the first
3.1 miles. It follows Clear Brook. Then the trail veers away
from the brook and...
Jane Alton
------------
Sonofabitches! What the hell were they thinkin' when they made
that map? If they'd a called the trail what they ought'a called
it, he might'a made it out. Might'a figured the way.
Ranger Fisk
-------------
...�follows a steep ridge. There aren't many markers there and
the ones there, granted, are hard to see, but...
Jane Alton
------------
And how could they not have more markers? Tell me that! The
trail should've been clearly marked.
Ranger Fisk
-------------
...�a more experienced hiker would not have been puzzled. The
map clearly shows that Clear Brook eventually runs into Teasing
Brook and that the Teasing Brook Trail runs almost parallel to
it. But first you must ascend the ridge about twelve hundred
feet.
Jane Alton
------------
It had nothing ta do with experience, like that ranger tried ta
say. Anyone could've gotten lost the way things were.
Ranger Fisk
-------------
Fact three: The fatal error he made was instead of veering off
the brook and following the trail up the steep ridge, he
followed the brook down into the Teasing Brook drainage area.
Ned Griegs
------------
It all added up. He was feverish. He was hungry and weak. The
downpour made it hard to see markers that were hard enough to
see in good weather. The map was confusing. He was alone and
must've been scared. And all that hiking tired him. No wonder he
was lost.
Brian Langly
--------------
Day 7, Lost day 2, June 11:
What to do? Won't stop raining. Sleeping bag wet. Tent leaking.
Ate last of my peanut butter survival food. No more food at all
left. Lantern no help in getting fire started because all wood
is so wet. Cold all the time. Know I have high fever. So weak.
Stay here for another day and rest hoping I get over illness and
recover strength before searching as long as it takes to find
trail? But without food, will strength return? Resolve to stay
put until rescue comes? Head farther down this small brook, even
though no trail is there? Just plunge into deep forest and keep
going in wild hopes of running into trail, people, or road? If
only rain would stop.
Ranger Fisk
-------------
There are little brooks branching from the main stream. An
experienced hiker with a clear mind might have followed the tiny
brook he was near until it took him to the main stream, then
followed it. The map he had shows the main stream eventually
leading to Hunning Road. But he was neither experienced nor able
to think clearly anymore.
Annette
---------
More than anything else in this world, Brian wished he could
have been a poet. He wrote some, but only for himself. His love
poems to me, they were touching, but more for the intention than
for the poems themselves. He knew that he hadn't the gift for
writing poems, so he didn't write much. When he did -- except
during our courtship -- it was strictly for himself. He didn't
keep them. He didn't even let me read many of them -- not that I
really wanted to either. I had enough of that sort of thing from
him. Sure, I found some of it romantic, reading poetry in front
of the TV with the picture on and the sound off, like it was a
fireplace, but it got old after a while, especially when I
started drinking again.
Jane Alton
------------
"Answer me that then, Dad!" I said. "Would he'a eaten insects if
he wanted ta die? No sir! That's a man doing anything and all he
can ta stay alive!"
Wayne Langly
--------------
She shoves that journal'a his right in my face she does and she
says, "Read it." I do and she's shoutin' about him eatin'
insects while I read about it.
So then I say to Jane, I say, "I don't want'a know nothin' 'bout
my son eatin' insects."
But she keeps asking me, "Does that sound like a man who wants
to die?" and I say to her, "I don't know. I don't know, I don't
know, so okay, maybe he was tryin' to live and maybe you're
right. But it don't make no diff'rence to me."
Brian Langly
--------------
Day...�[unreadable]
...�more afraid to eat plants than bugs. Can't tell which plants
are poisonous. Always been a phobia of mine -- poisonous plants
-- but have eaten some clover...� [unreadable] ...�flap open and
bugs fly in. Close flap and eat them. Eating black flies and
snails and beetles.
Ned Griegs
------------
One of my favorite memories of him...�It's a fall day. A
Saturday or a Sunday. Brian and I are out on a pond paddling a
canoe. I can't even remember which pond, Teardrop or Drucker,
one of those I think. He stops paddling. I keep watching him,
waiting for him to dip the paddle and pull again so that we can
move on. I say, "Brian." But he doesn't seem to hear me. He just
keeps looking off to the side while we drift. And I see his face
glowing. He's looking at the sunset. The sunlight's the same mix
of red and gold as the treetops. All but the very top of the sun
has gone down behind 'em. It's not just the sunlight giving his
face such a glow. It's joy -- a special kinda joy, a feeling
that you could only know about if you were real peaceful, it
seems. He keeps watching the reflection of the leaves in the
pond. And he also watches the trail of sunlight that reaches out
from the land to our canoe. God, the colors -- the sparkles on
the water! It's like they got a grip on him, me too by then.
Then he dips his oar into the water, into that stillness. It
makes a little splash but the sound is so quiet that it seems to
be a part of the peacefulness. When we paddle back to the tent,
the peacefulness stays with us. It's like Brian, since he's part
of that memory, has never completely left me.
Ranger Fisk
-------------
His makeshift camp was about a mile off the trail that would
have been his shortcut.
Jane Alton
------------
He sure did love his garden. Had a butterfly garden in his
backyard. All sorts'a pretty flowers in it that were special
cause they were supposed to help attract butterflies. Evenings,
he'd sit out there, a book of poetry in his hand. He'd gaze up
between poems -- he used ta tell me he liked doing this, though
I never saw for myself, he was 'lone while doin' this a'
course -- and watch the butterflies.
Once, just after it had got dark, I went over ta his place -- we
were only 'bout two miles away from each other, his house and my
mobile home -- and I went all through the house lookin' for him.
Knew he was expectin' me. "Out here," he said, and when I
stepped out onto the back patio I saw 'im stooped down low, his
nose ta a flower. That's the way he was -- someone who took the
time ta smell the flowers, someone who wasn't always in such a
hurry that they missed out on the small good things in life.
It's somethin' that I learned how ta do from him. But since it
don't come natural ta me, like it did ta him, I'm not so good
at it as he was. I've got a little garden of my own now. And
just the other day, when I was feeling low on account a my
marriage -- me and Steve, we've got our problems these days,
him takin' up with somebody else, a younger woman than me,
but that's for another time -- I went out ta my garden and
looked at the flowers still in bloom. I just sat there a while
and enjoyed them, the way he would'a.
Brian Langly
--------------
Day 11, Lost Day 6, June 15:
Stopped raining during night. Got a little fire going now, late
afternoon. Know Jane and others must have been concerned when I
was not at destination yesterday. Hoping that rangers are
looking for me now.
Jane Alton
------------
"Just where the hell is he, Ned?" I kept asking him. Thank God
Ned came along. I couldn't a stood the worry all alone. "This is
where he said for us ta meat him, right?" I asked. Ned kept
saying that we were at the right spot, just what he'd written
down. "Maybe it just took him a little longer than he thought it
would," Ned said. Then it got dark and he still wasn't back.
Then Ned looked worried too. "I'll stay here and you go call,"
Ned said. And that's what we did. He waited and I called the
police. The police called the ranger's office.
Brian Langly
--------------
Day 20, Lost Day 15, June 24:
So weak. Can only live off these insects and clover for short
while longer. Am desperate. Can't believe that no one's found me
yet. Where the hell is anyone! Going to die here unless I can
follow that little brook to the bigger stream and that stream
leads me to someone. Tried to make it. Pathetic though. Totally
exhausted after 30 feet from tent to brook. Rested at start of
brook, crawled as far as I could then. Not very far. Too weak.
Took all my strength to get back to tent. Do not want to give up
hope, but believe if not found here will die here.
Ranger Fisk
-------------
No matter how many volunteers we had -- and we had many, more by
the day -- 135 trail miles is difficult, if not impossible to
search. That's dense forest. No one can be seen from a plane
unless perhaps they make themselves visible on a wide stream or
in a clearing. We searched with more and more men and dogs from
the morning after we were notified. We looked along the trail
that he specified in the trail guide, and nearby. That's
standard procedure. I followed standard procedure. Let's be
clear on that. Meanwhile, the family and friends of the lost
hiker did their part by circulating photographs. I made sure
that newspapers in the area along his route had his picture and
that the information for contacting my office was clearly stated
and correct. Days passed without a clue of where he was. Then we
got that call. A fisherman at Lost Lake had seen him.
Brian Langly
--------------
D...� [unreadable]
...�plane with pontoons overhead every day. Set lit lantern on
brook bank every night. Will let it burn every night until out
of fuel. Have made last escape attempt. Must rest, stay still,
preserve strength as best I can.
Ranger Fisk
-------------
Immediately after that call, we concentrated almost all our
search efforts in the area where he had been last seen. We
combed the perimeter of Lost Lake and a big area on either side
of the trail. Every day we flew more volunteers in to search the
Lost Lake area. We never saw his lantern because we only flew
during the day. His lantern was only lit at night.
Jane Alton
------------
Every night I slept at the search headquar ters. Think I'd let
'em quit looking for my brother? I'd do whatever I had ta ta
make 'em keep lookin'. After two weeks I had ta plead. The
ranger said he was sorry, but that it was time ta call off the
search. I cried and cried. And I just wouldn't leave.
Brian Langly
--------------
Day 25, Lost Day 20, June 29:
Am so sorry I missed your birthday Uncle Brian. Love you Uncle
Brian. Love all of them, Mom, Dad, Ned, Jane, the children...�
[unreadable] ...�see my children again...� [unreadable]
...�before bedtime every night and am so glad that I took time
to...� [unreadable] ...�every day. No regrets either about
Annette. Would marry her all over again if I had the chance.
Always knew that my father loved me, even if we had our
troubles. A good man. Even if we did not do so much together, am
all the more grateful for the few special times we did share.
And Mom was so wonderful. Sure do miss Mom's meals now. Can
smell her pies in the oven and wish...� [unreadable] ...�too...�
[unreadable] ...�so dizzy.
Ranger Fisk
-------------
After an exhausting search of the area around Lost Lake we
fanned out another few miles. The sister pleaded hard for me to
continue the search and I told her we'd search until the first
of July.
Brian Langly
--------------
Day 29, Lost Day 24, July 3:
Whatever happened to that plane? But was it ever involved with
search for me? Was never sure of this. Can only crawl and not
far before I collapse. Am helpless. Lantern no longer burns.
Nice day. Sunny. Will listen for 4th of July fireworks and try
to crawl toward sound tomorrow night.
Annette
---------
What was I supposed to tell the kids? You tell me. I didn't know
what to say. "He's on a vacation. He just decided to go away for
a long time, but he's coming back." Was it wrong to say that? I
mean, how do you tell your kids that their father is missing and
that no one can find him? How do you tell them that he's
probably dead but nobody can be sure?
Brian Langly
--------------
Day 31, Lost Day 26, July 5:
Heard fireworks last night. Saw lights in sky. Know where to
head now but am so weak is ridiculous. Could not walk and crawl
more than very short distance. No way could make it out. Wrote
help on tent with ashes and dirt. Am imagining death. What it
will be like. Trying to accept it. Was counting on many more
years. Remembering life. This struggle with survival has taught
me greater appreciation of my brief life. Every minute of what I
had seems to mean so much more to me now. Hope others, if they
find this journal, will...� [unreadable] ...�If I die here, I
die with...� [unreadable] ...�any regrets.
Jane Alton
------------
What some people say that line a his journal says is "I die with
many regrets." Those are the ones who think that his death was a
suicide, the ones who never wanted ta hear how he ate anything
he could, how he tried with the last bit a his strength ta make
it out. I believe what he wrote there, if we could see all the
letters that had been smudged by the dampness, is "I die without
any regrets." It's a world a diff'rence. Some say that line
shows just how unhappy he was. That he was troubled enough ta
take his own life. They're wrong! He had come to terms with his
life. He had learned ta value life more than most a the rest a
us. He was sayin' that life was so precious ta him that he
couldn't regret any of it.
Wayne Langly
--------------
I don't say I ever read all that stuff in that journal, but
Jane, she has me read that line and asks me what I think. I tell
her, "No one dies without at least some regrets." So it can't
mean what she says id means. Still I don't turn them words
against him, way maybe some people would, the people who just
talk and never look at nothin' he wrote. I admit, I was almost
one of them types myself, but I did read most of that journal
after all. Id don't mean that he committed suicide if he died
with some regrets or even many regrets. No, Brian, ya can tell,
he tried hard as he could to stay alive. Wasn't suicide, but how
much diff'rence that makes, I'm not so sure.
Brian Langly
--------------
Day 32, Lost Day 27, July 6:
My last page of notebook. Am so groggy. Why didn't anyone find
me? Amazed to still be alive. Should have lived like I was
amazed to be alive before all this. What my life might have been
like then? Hard to say. Unable to stomach insects anymore, just
a few snails and a little clover. Water never was a problem.
Have full canteen now, but will I be able to even get that far
to fill it if I'm still alive a few days from now? Silly
concern. Doubt if I will be alive much longer. Will use inside
cover of guidebook to write Will and say good-byes.
Jane Alton
------------
"What diff'rence does it make?" my father asks. "If his death
was a suicide," I told 'im, "it'd be like he was sayin' it's
okay ta give up." And if people think his death was a suicide
they don't remember Brian for the person he was. Some times when
I feel down, I think a Brian in the woods, tryin' all he could
ta keep livin'. And all right, maybe no one can die without
regrets. But what comes to mind when I think about his journal
is that we can all try ta live so that we die with as few
regrets as possible. I think that if I try ta live so that I end
up with as few regrets as I can, that somehow the few that I'll
be left with will be easier ta accept, knowin' that I did the
best I could. But what happened ta my brother out there in them
dark deep woods wasn't only 'bout tryin' ta live. It was also
'bout acceptin' death. Once he saw that death was just around
the corner, it seemed that he was able ta accept it, and the
reason I think he could was because he had accepted his life for
what it had been. I believe that somehow made it easier for him
ta die. So it does it make a diff'rence how he died. And now ya
know why I had ta bring up the past, why I had ta fight the
rumors.
Ranger Fisk
-------------
Some facts are not clear. He either was alive long after we
stopped searching for him or the last dates in his journal entry
are incorrect. It is especially hard to believe the date of his
last journal entry, which was written on the back inside cover
of his guidebook.
Brian Langly
--------------
Day...� [unreadable] ...�maybe August 3:
If you find this follow brook and go downstream. Think...�
[unreadable] ...�voices. Am going to keep crawling as far as can
that way.
Sam Moore
-----------
I didn't believe my eyes at first -- a dead man, face down in
the stream. I'd never seen a dead man before. Never! I'm 25
years old and that was the first time. I couldn't say nothing at
first. I just stared. It was the end of October and there was
lots of leaves blowing. We was out hunting, me and my pop.
Leaves clung to one side of his face. It was really just part of
a face because so much of the skin had rotted away. Flies and
other little bugs buzzed around his hair. He had on dirty jeans
and a dirty blue coat. He was in a shallow part of the stream.
His face was down in the froth and one arm was stretched out in
front, like he was reaching for something or trying to pull
himself along. The other arm was twisted back, dangling in the
current. I was just hunting with my pop, ya know. I was shocked
and shouted loud for Pop to come.
Rick Moore
------------
What's wrong? I wondered, as soon as I heard him shouting.
Couldn't be that he had shot game because I never heard a shot.
Then I come and I see. "Go back to the truck. Head for the
nearest phone and call the police," I told him. "I'll stay
here." He did just what I said and I waited until the police
came.
Annette
---------
I waited until his body was found and I was sure he was dead.
Then I told the kids. I didn't know how else to tell them. I
just said it straight out to them one night while I was putting
them to bed. They cried like a storm, but I believe that the
waiting and worry about where he might be, the not knowing, was
worse for them than the certainty of their father's death. I
held them. We all slept together in my big bed that night. "Can
Daddy see us and hear us from heaven?" they asked. "Yes," I told
them. "Yes, he can." Even if I don't believe that -- I'm never
sure of what I believe, the hereafter being so mysterious to
me -- it makes the children feel better, helps all of us who
knew him to think that's so anyway.
Ranger Fisk
-------------
Due to the body's decomposition, the autopsy shed no light on
his death.
Jane Alton
------------
Ned said ta me the other day that he's got a new friend who's a
reporter, someone he knows through the trails club that he
belongs ta, the one that me and Brian also belonged ta. "Why
don't you let me show him this journal of Brian's?" Ned said.
"Maybe he'd write an article about it. Just think how many
people Brian's experience could reach that way," he said. And
now that I've thought about, it sounds like a good idea. I just
might ask Ned ta bring 'im ta me sometime soon.
Ned Griegs
------------
Not so long ago I was paddling a canoe on a small lake. It was a
beautiful fall day -- the wind was cold and the leaves as
colorful as they get. No one was with me. I was fishing. I
hadn't caught much but I liked it out there, so I stayed out.
About sunset I got all my fishing gear together and began
paddling into shore. A minute later I stopped paddling and set
the oar down in the bottom of the boat. I drifted and looked at
the ripples on the water. They were red and bright 'cause of
reflecting the sun. I looked along the path of light crossing
the water and up to the sun. It was mostly hidden behind the
treetops. I watched the sun go below the horizon and the bright
colors of the leaves blend into one dark color. And then I
picked up the paddle. Before I dipped it into the water, I
thanked Brian for showing me how to appreciate that little
part of my life.
Gregory E. Lucas (GLucas6696@aol.com)
---------------------------------------
Gregory E. Lucas has lived in northern Delaware for more than 30
years. He lives in a small house in New Castle with his wife,
two dogs, and four cats. For the past 13 years, he's made his
living as a tutor to homebound students.
=====
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....................................................................
Welcome to the world, Jamie Natalie Snell.
Born November 7, 2001.
..
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e-mail to <setext@tidbits.com>, or contact the InterText staff
directly at <editors@intertext.com>.
$$
