Exposing Hemo-A I am hungry but I have to keep working because they are still working. It seems only they know. And me. Non-Vs do not believe me. The faster I work, the sooner they may. H-Vamps have grown bold. They are not careful about hiding the syringes in their arms. Why are non-Vs so blind?
You know those commercials on TV, for Hemo-A? Yes, correct, that “vitamin cocktail,” “God’s own panacea,” “a naturally-occurring steroid that will only make you both stronger and smarter”... They sure know how to hook people. But start taking Hemo-A and you’re on a downward spiral. There’s not much food these days, is there. Much easier to pop a Hemo-A, which (though the commercials don’t mention this) also stills hunger. Did you know it’s the same company that makes Dopa-B? I’ve never taken that either. As an asexual fem, I feel no need to waste my time. Sometimes, however, I fantasize about Kristi. I imagine her laugh, and her curves, and that keeps me working like no Hemo-A or retro cup of Joe ever could. You see, they are after her, the H-vamps, particularly her boyfriend Darrel. She doesn’t know, and she would not believe it if I told her. So that’s why I have to keep doing this work, all night, every night, until I can pull the wool off everyone’s eyes. That would save many people, not only Kristi. Why, when she likes me so much, does she go home with him? Down at the Casern, we talk and laugh. We flirt. He goes off to shoot pool, because he knows I see what is up his sleeve. He even saw that I saw one time when he put his arms around her, circling her narrow waist, and was actually pumping her blood. The syringes pump the blood from the victim, then transfer via a tiny tube the Mana right into their hearts. This enables them to continue doing what they do because it gives them vitality and charisma. Everyone turns a blind eye - oh, it’s just a little game, or someone else’s sexual preference. As long as both parties agree, what could be the problem? Problem is, the other party doesn’t even know. How could they not know? How could she? Maybe you’ll think I’m just jealous. I want to go home with Kristi, and he gets to. I’m the one who consoles her when she cries. I’m the one who helps her work through that gunk from her childhood. I’m the one who loves her. Let’s see. I’ve gotten some footage (don’t ask me how) from inside the Hemo-A factory. It is security footage, so I have to watch all the dull work on the factory floor, and sometimes the bosses beating up the workers when they fall. They are tired, you see (a different tired than me, though I haven’t slept in three nights). They do not show the corpses, but sometimes there’s a reference to them when the foreman is not there. The workers, after week-long shifts, slip up in their double-speak. But that part is perfectly legal, even if it doesn’t appear in the commercials. It is called recycling of human matter and is favored by the government. They receive a subsidy, as well as free material to use. The number of homeless dead is staggering and Hemo-A is innovative in their solution. I even wonder why they don’t put it in their commercials. If they still had the news, this would definitely be on it. You know, news? Goddess, am I that old: car accidents, murders, terrorist attacks, and then the giant rats and killer bees and erasure of countries, and immigrants dropping from the sky when there was no where to deport to. Before the Farma replaced farms. The Farma is good; even those who don’t like it say so. They say it has done far more good than harm. I don’t know. I know to say “I don’t know” could get me in trouble. I mean, not like we live in a dictatorship or anything, but everyone would think I am crazy. Let’s see here. If I draw my own blood, let me see what’s in it these days… Well! It is certainly a bit funky. I’ve been clean, and it’s been hard. It is impossible, some say. Sure, it would be better if it was like before when only a minority were addicts. That’s what they called people who needed Farma to survive. But since we do need it now, we have to admit it’s doing more good, even if it’s not all good - that’s what all my progressive friends are saying. I have learned to shut my mouth. If I want to keep any friends, this is necessary. I do want to keep a few friends. Know why? I think some day she might see me. Kristi might turn around and smile at me in a new way, once she knows. Kristi! What is she doing now. The innogulent in the syringe keeps her blissfully ignorant. There are many innogulents in everything. That’s why I don’t eat any more. Sometimes I eat the bio-pill they say is 100% natural and plant-derived. (Who can believe that? Have you ever seen a plant? I have, but not for a long time.) There is an old lady in this building who remembers when people ate big amounts of things that came up out of the ground. I don’t believe all of it. She’s a bit batty. But most people think it would be disgusting to eat something from the ground anyway. When Kristi is off the innogulent - when he hasn’t been around - is when I like her best, though she cries and cries. Through that crying, I feel she might heal and be whole. Through that crying, we might figure something out. I stop her pale, thin wrist as she reaches into her pocket to pop one. Many progressives thought it was a victory when the Universal Farma Act was passed, making it legal to do any of them at any time. Oh! Wait, I need to focus. Look! It is a test being performed right on the factory floor. I knew it! There is a connection between the H-vamps and Hemo-A. Look, look, he is using the syringe on her! She is sobbing and looks like she is suffocating; I think she is just afraid. He takes her blood. A calm washes over her. Others on the factory floor pick her up and glance angrily at him as he saunters out in his suit and tie, the sleeves wide enough to conceal an evil. But what is the exact connection with Hemo-A? I am watching another scene, shortly after, when Kristi calls. Yes, Kristi, please come quick! She is sobbing. I have to be careful. Too much knowledge would freeze her. Too much truth would scare her away, and too much love would melt her into a puddle. “What’s up?” I call, still in my lab corner as she lets herself in. “Myrt! Myrt!” she cries out my name. “I’m here - come over here,” I yell back, eyes still glued to the screen. I want to hug her, but human touch is painful to me. It burns my skin and blanks out my mind. Instead I send out loving thoughts. She seems to receive them and smiles briefly through her bloated face. Usually, she prefers to forget the most blissful moments of her life. She agreed, though. Of course she did. I’m not like him. “Myrt! He has a whole fish-tank of blood. I think it’s mine!” “It’s OK. Calm down. You can stay here. You never have to go back.” “Stay here? Ha! But what would I do?” “I don’t know. Help me out with my research…” “Your research? Haven’t you stopped? You’re crazy!” “All new discoveries start with that accusation, don’t they? If someone had said numbers could bring a man to the moon, the mediaeval people would have scoffed and burned them.” “What kind of evil?” “What? Oh, mediaeval. Never mind.” “I thought maybe he was taking my blood, but not so much of it! No wonder I am always tired.” “Yes.” “Yes, what? You here in your dark little lab… This isn’t reality.” “It may be our only chance of getting there.” “What are you talking about, Myrt? You’re crazy. I won’t hear it!” She covers her ears. “Well! I’m talking about opening up the sky again. Light! Light from high up, that doesn’t need to be plugged in. I’m talking about an end to exploitation, and…” “Shut up!!!” She covers her ears, screams and sings, until she falls to the ground. “Kristi? Why torture yourself. Come on, Kristi…” I want to help her to the bed, but recoil with every scathing touch. Ouch! Of course I long to embrace her. But it just hurts too much. It is a reflex, removing your hands from a fire. I am late. I need to go to my shift, but I don’t want to leave Kristi. There used to be something called calling in sick. Damn Auto-Pill! If I don’t show, I’ll lose my job. I’ll be one of the homeless, and instead of exposing and shutting down Hemo-A, I’ll become it. I know - expose it to whom? Well, I have some ideas on this. There are still people who might listen. For one thing, the entire alternative population are H-Vamps, and it was engineered this way by Hemo-A. If I can show them the link (they are what they are opposing), they may detox. There may still be time. Some still remember how it was and how it came to be. Some H-Vamps don’t want to be this way, and it’s not alternative at all. The false dichotomies or alternatives are symptomatic, and I have an idea of how humans could be free. Kristi! Kristi! I have not succeeded in touching another human for more than ten seconds since I can remember. But as I watch her writhe in the throes of withdrawal, I suddenly do remember. I remember. My mother. She was not a breeder but a bio-mom, and I was hers. She held me, rocking me back and forth, singing. They tore us apart, she went down one chute, me another. Mother! I yelled. I can hear that echoing in my brain. If I can save Kristi, I can somehow save Mother, save us all. I breathe. Deeply, steadily, I consolidate all of my mental and emotional and physical power. I am shaking. My arms burn as I place them under her. I breathe into the excruciating pain. My mind’s eye can see and smell the raw, charring flesh, but I focus on the perfection of my arm in my body-eye, the absence of smells in my body-nose. Someday I’ll get them! The heat of this victory washes over me, momentarily drowning the waves of seething. But as I am placing Kristi on the narrow bed, something falls. From Kristi’s sleeve, a syringe cracks and blood splashes. My own.
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Senior Mementos It was three in the morning when Ruthie awoke and walked from her spacious master bedroom out onto her expansive marble patio with a magnificent view of the Golden Gate Bridge in the exclusive San Francisco neighborhood of “Sea Cliff”. She was a tall, thin, beautiful woman of 72 with straight silver, shoulder length hair, angular face, and green eyes. Ruthie sat at her custom-made wrought iron and glass patio table, transfixed by the early morning fog slowly revealing the car lights crossing the bridge. Ruthie reached for the cassette player, and selected a favorite song from her youth: Strobe lights beam create dreams Walls move minds do too On a warm San Franciscan night Despite wearing only her satin night gown, Ruthie was unaware of the chilly morning air. She focused upon a 50’ luxury sailboat moving under the bridge reminding her of the many worldwide trips she made with her deceased husband Albert, whose photos adorned her mansion, but whose name she couldn’t recall despite being married for fifty years to the founder of the most successful scientific instrument companies in the world. Ruthie pounded the glass table in frustration, unable to remember the name of the man she fell in love with at Berkeley while earning a Master’s degree in literature, married, raising a son and daughter together, who grew to became an attorney and physician respectively. Ruthie became tired and shivered. The expansive patio was dark and she was unable to remember how to return to her bedroom. She chose to lay on the cold marble patio in a fetal position listening to her song before falling into a deep sleep: Old angels young angels feel alright On a warm San Franciscan night Ruthie was discovered by the housekeeper in the morning, and rushed to the hospital where she spent a week staving off pneumonia. Her physician daughter ordered a neurological and cognitive impairment work-up confirming “Stage 4 Moderate Decline Dementia”. Across the Bay, about forty miles from Sea Cliff in the gorgeous wine country of Sonoma, Bobby sat at his antique walnut desk, his floor to ceiling windows showcasing his vineyards he fondly named “Raceway Winery” producing popular chardonnays and burgundies. A walnut display case was filled with Bobby’s many scale-model race cars he built from kits. Each was a testament to Bobby’s steady hand and craftsmanship. The table was scattered with dozens of model car kits in various stages of production, covered with dust and the craftsmanship declined with Bobby’s age of 75. Bobby was a stocky man with a rugged face, full head of silver wavy hair, and hands the size of bear paws which exemplified a life of a man who worked with his hands. Bobby wore magnification lenses as he attempted to assemble the model car. As his hands trembled, he mistakenly reached for a pen knife instead of a glue stick and cut his finger. The sight of blood dripping from his injured finger caused him to panic and he was frozen with indecision. Outside, the breeze was blowing through the vineyards which carried the sounds of roaring engines of the race cars at the Sonoma Raceway about ten miles away, which jarred Bobby from his stupor. He raced outside into his driveway looking for his luxurious, candy apple red, Ford F-150 “Platinum/King Ranch” pickup truck so he could drive to the raceway. Bobby couldn’t find his truck despite it being parked prominently in the driveway. Instead, he mounted his vintage 50’s green and yellow John Deere tractor, and was determined to drive to the raceway. Bobby couldn’t remember how to exit the vineyard to the highway. He drove for an hour throughout the many dirt roads of the extensive vineyard, unaware of his bleeding finger. With each wrong turn, Bobby grew more frustrated, eventually choosing to cut a path directly through the precious ripening vines until members of his vineyard crew noticed the dust clouds, approached the racing tractor, mounting it and bringing it to a halt. They found Bobby incoherent and bleeding profusely. The paramedics were called and were met at the hospital by Bobby’s personal physician who had been monitoring his memory loss for some years. The doctor ordered neurological and cognitive impairment tests revealing “Moderately Severe Decline Stage 5 Dementia”. Bobby was a “gear head” , not a book worm. He worked in the local gas station after school and weekends and became the shop repairman. An Army recruiter convinced him the Army would provide him with the training necessary to repair larger vehicles making him more employable upon discharge. The Army assigned him to the motor pool where he worked on tanks and every type of heavy vehicle imaginable. Bobby loved the Indy 500 and studied the pit crews carefully impressed with their efficient teamwork designed to get the race car back on the track quickly. He was transferred to Vietnam and incorporated the “pit crew” techniques he studied, increasing the productivity of the motor pool. After completing a three year tour of duty, Bobby returned to his former job at the gas station and was given the opportunity to purchase it from the owner who was retiring and offering to finance the purchase. Bobby became the proud owner of a gas station at age 21, and married his high school sweetheart, Mildred, who had completed community college courses in accounting, and was employed as a bookkeeper for an accounting firm. Bobby’s motor pool experience gave him the idea that providing quick oil changes while the customer waited offered faster turnover than traditional auto repair at greater profit margins. By adding a convenience store selling beverages, snacks, and auto accessories, he would supplement the low profit margins associated with solely selling gasoline. Bobby renamed the gas station, “Quik Stop-Pit Stop”, which was an instant success. Mildred didn’t want to interfere with her husband’s ambition by starting a family, and being only in her twenties, knew she had time to have a baby once their business expansion was complete. In ten years, Bobby opened over 100 stores throughout the Midwest with plans to expand nationwide. Mildred’s bookkeeping and accounting experience was an asset to Bobby as he expanded his business, not only in opening and managing stores but keeping Bobby out of risky investments such as ownership of an Indy 500 racecar, whose eager sponsor, a major cigarette maker was likely to harm Bobby’s brand name as the Surgeon General was publishing the hazards of cigarette smoking. After a routine medical examination, Mildred was diagnosed with ovarian cancer, and died without baring children at age 31. Bobby was heartbroken, lost his ambition, and sold the business to a major oil company. He purchased a winery in Sonoma he visited with Mildred on their honeymoon, and learned the wine business. He moved Mildred’s grave to a beautiful location on the winery below a large oak tree Bobby could see from any point in his mansion and blow a kiss to his beloved wife. Ruthie and Bobby were both wealthy and philanthropic, making generous contributions to the two prestigious medical schools in the Bay Area, affording them access to the best medical specialists money could buy, including the world’s leaders in Alzheimer’s and Dementia research who were consulted by Ruthie’s children and Bobby’s personal physician. The medical experts suggested medications may slow the progression of their memory loss permitting them to live at home with care givers, but recommended they attend an innovative adult day care center named, “Memory Redux”, which was an actual small town built to resemble the neighborhoods of the 50’s and 60’s conveniently located in Marin County, about half way from Ruthie and Bobby’s homes. The medical experts explained the mental stimulation of daily attendance in a town resembling fond moments from their youth may slow the progression of dementia while improving both long and short term memory. It was decided by Ruthie’s children and Bobby’s physician to visit Memory Redux and meet its Medical Director and cognitive impairment care experts. As they entered the discretely fenced town, Memory Redux resembled a small town of the 1950’s or 1960’s with vintage cars ranging from classic Thunderbirds, Cadillac’s, Mustangs, station wagons and trucks parked alongside period coin parking meters. They visited a vintage barber shop including magazines and newspapers of the period, an authentic period beauty salon with old style hair dryers, and a storefront grocery store including shelves of grocery items available during the 50’s and 60’s. In the center of town there was a vintage movie theatre with a box office and large marquis advertising, “The Graduate”. The focal point of the town was a combination Beat Generation style coffee house and an authentic period soda fountain adjacent to, but divided by a sliding glass door and sheer drape, providing easy access to both venues. Ruthie and Bobby’s physicians were aware they were consulting one of the world’s leaders in memory care, Dr. Ansh Khan. Although only forty, he was both a psychiatrist and held a doctorate in the field of neuropsychology. Dr. Khan was a notable researcher and clinical professor of geriatric psychiatry at both of the Bay area’s leading medical schools. Dr. Khan’s appearance was akin to that of a graduate student wearing faded jeans, sneakers without socks, and a T-shirt emblazoned with a piece symbol. He was dark- skinned, tall, thin, and wore his long jet black hair in a pony tail. Ruthie’s physician daughter wasn’t put off by Dr. Khan’s unconventional appearance and found him to be passionate, brilliant, and handsome. She learned Dr. Khan teamed up with Hollywood’s most talented set designers to insure Memory Redux replicated the towns of the 50’s and 60’s to the smallest detail. Dr. Khan explained every staff member of the town was trained to observe cognitive and psychiatric behavior of its patients who were referred to as “citizens”. They earned or were completing degrees in psychology, geriatrics, neuroscience, social work, and trained in CPR with access to, and training with defibrillators. With each purchase by a citizen, the employees discretely entered behavioral observations into a computer system built into old style cash registers. Part time employees included Bay area acting students to fill the town with youth dressed in period attire. Memory Redux was expensive, but Dr. Khan said diversity was achieved by accepting minority citizens receiving tuition assistance from generous benefactors. A luxury bus was scheduled to pick up and return the citizen’s home, similar to a school schedule and adherence to a schedule was an essential element of memory care. Dr. Khan invited the guests to the soda fountain where they enjoyed cheese burgers and milk shakes served up by an authentic “soda jerk” named Lori, who was completing her doctorate in the field of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. Lori’s job was to encourage interaction among the citizens and assist them in creating friendships while preventing reclusiveness which was common. It was an uncanny recreation of a period soda fountain filled with young “jocks” wearing “letterman” jackets, “Bobby Soxers”, and “Fonzi” types interacting with the citizens. Ruthie’s daughter observed Lori had a kind heart, which was apparent as she served the patrons food and encouraged dialogue, but she was curious how the citizens paid for their food and merchandise. Dr. Khan explained how each citizen’s ability to handle money was assessed, and those able to handle money were encouraged to pay the period prices only requiring pocket change which was applied to the tuition. Citizens unable to handle money were told the charges would be placed “on their tab”. Ruthie’s children and Bobby’s physician were impressed, and convinced that days spent at Memory Redux would enhance the lives of Ruthie and Bobby. The admission documents were executed and the bus was scheduled to pick up Ruthie and Bobby at 8am the following Monday. The first week was difficult for Ruthie and Bobby with each declining to board the luxury bus. Dr. Khan suggested having their care givers accompany them on the first few bus trips would eliminate the fear of boarding the bus. Each day of the first week, Bobby and Ruthie were each met by a staff member who spent the day introducing them to each of the shops, the staff, and other citizens. By the second week, Ruthie and Bobby were able to travel each morning unaccompanied and spent the day alone investigating the small town. Ruthie and Bobby eventually found their favorite spots. For Ruthie, it was the “Cool Cat’s Coffee Lounge” which was a Beat Generation style coffee house replete with period style furniture, extensive collection of books by Ginsberg, Ferlinghetti, Kerouac, and a small stage affording citizens, staff poets and musicians the opportunity to perform. Ruthie staked out a small table in the front close to the stage always ordering a vanilla latte. The darkness of the coffee house, the aroma of the coffee and the intellectual energy made Ruthie happy spending most of her time listening to poetry, music, and reading. Bobby was attracted to the festive atmosphere of the authentic period soda fountain next store named “Flip Your Lid”. The lively atmosphere of the soda fountain and staff dressed as jocks, gear heads, or cheerleaders brought back happy memories for Bobby as patrons danced to Bobby’s favorite song from the 60’s: When I take her to the track she really shines (giddy up giddy up 409) She always turns in the fastest times (giddy up giddy up 409) My four speed, dual quad, Posi-Traction 409 (409, 409, 409, 409) Bobby chose a corner stool at the counter, and spent his days reading hot rod magazines from the 50’s and 60’s, and made friends with Rusty and Jack, who were student actors hired to play fellow gear heads who sat aside Bobby and talked cars all day over milk shakes, ice cream floats, or banana splits. Although Lori wore a traditional soda fountain waitress uniform, took orders, and served food, she was highly trained in the techniques of creating stimulating friendships among the citizens. She saw how happy Bobby was making friends with Rusty and Jack. As Lori passed the sliding glass window and looked through the sheer drape into the beat coffee house, she observed Ruthie appeared stimulated but lonely. Lori decided to attempt an introduction between Bobby and Ruthie with the hopes of expanding their social circles and breaking their routines. Lori filled Bobby’s coffee cup teasing, “Bobby, check out Ruthie in the coffee house. I think she’s been staring at you.” Bobby had seen Ruthie next door before and rebuked Lori, “Ah, she’s an intellectual college girl out of my league!” Lori insisted, “Bobby, don’t sell yourself short. I’d bet she would enjoy meeting you.” Lori pretended to answer the rotary dial telephone, but was discretely communicating with the waitress at the coffee house who agreed the meeting was timely. Lori exclaimed to Bobby, “You’re in luck, Bobby. Ruthie would like to meet you!” She attempted to gently lead him off the stool but he was reluctant until his two buddies Rusty and Jack insisted, “Go on Bobby, don’t chicken out!” which was enough incentive to get Bobby to follow Lori. As the sliding door opened and Bobby entered the coffee house, the smell of freshly brewed coffee, incense and a joint filled the room. Bobby felt out of his element among the intellectuals, hip period clothing, and incense. Ruthie was transfixed by the musician finishing a very good cover of “Blowin’ in the Wind”: Yes, 'n' how many times must the cannon balls fly Before they're forever banned? The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind The answer is blowin' in the wind The musician finished the song, thanked his guests for their applause, and exclaimed, “I want to introduce a cool cat named Bobby. Let’s give him a warm welcome”. The musician reached for his discretely hidden smart phone playlist linked to the coffee house speakers, and a tune familiar to Bobby and the guests played: Walk right in, sit right down, baby let your hair hang down Everybody's talking 'bout a new way of walking Do you want to lose your mind? Walk right in, sit right down, baby let your hair hang down The audience began snapping their fingers, which was a customary symbol of applause during the Beatnik period. The musician asked Ruthie if Bobby may sit with her to which she nodded affirmatively. Ruthie welcomed Bobby with a handshake. Bobby was approached by a cute waitress in a leather miniskirt, black and white sweater, knee high boots, and a beret who brought him coffee. The musician spied Lori watching with interest through the window and began reading from a book into the microphone, "Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all." Bobby muttered to himself, “He’s reciting Alfred Lord Tennyson.” Ruthie lit up remarking, “You’re a fan of Tennyson?” Bobby humbly replied, “I wasn’t a bookworm, Ruthie. I learned the line the hard way.” Ruthie was curious and asked, “What do you mean the hard way?” Bobby placed both hands around the rotund coffee mug and stared into the rich dark roast sighing, “My wife died from cancer not soon after we were married and we never had children. The poem was read at her funeral”. Ruthie teared up and reached for Bobby’s hand, and in a soothing voice asked, “What kind of work did you do?” Bobby looked up from his mug gripping Ruthie’s hand tightly proudly answering, “I owned a chain of “Quik Stop-Pit Stop” stations which I sold because my heart was broken and I wasn’t interested in the business anymore. I own a winery in Sonoma now named “Raceway Winery.” Ruthie knew Bobby’s pain and remembered the heartache of losing her beloved Albert. Ruthie had beautiful memories of wine tastings with Albert in Sonoma. She studied Bobby’s rugged hands reminding her of Albert, who was a welder nights and weekends putting himself through Berkeley. Although the retired Chairman Emeritus of a multibillion dollar company, Albert showed up to his work bench at corporate headquarters every day wearing the same tattered lab worn since founding the business. Ruthie was intrigued with Bobby and a bond between them was born. It was a rainy day in Marin County, and the luxury bus returning the citizens home became stuck in the mud as it maneuvered through the narrow rain soaked streets. The driver kept placing the transmission into drive, and back to reverse repeating the process and digging the tires deeper into the mud. Bobby leapt to his feet and said, “You’re destroying the transmission. Let me take over!” Bobby sat in the driver’s seat and placed the gear shift in low gear. He pressed the accelerator slowly; allowing the spinning wheels to move the vehicle forward a bit then released the gas and let the vehicle roll backward. He pressed the accelerator again, slowly permitting the bus to roll forward and continued the procedure to build enough momentum to rock the bus out of the mud. Bobby received a thunderous applause and a grateful “thank you” from the driver who didn’t have to call for a tow truck. Bobby returned to his seat next to Ruthie, who was proud of her hero and gave him a hug and kiss. Ruthie fell in love with Bobby that rainy day in Marin County. Ruthie and Bobby were spending more time together. One day in the soda fountain, Bobby felt a tap on his shoulder, turned his head to find Ruthie dressed as a “Bobby Soxer”. She was beautiful. Ruthie gushed, “May I join you gentlemen?” Rusty and Jack both moved over one stool allowing Bobby and Ruthie to sit together. Rusty remarked, “Why have you been hiding your beautiful lady friend?” Bobby apologetically answered, “I’m sorry, please meet Ruthie fellas. Ruthie, meet my buddies Rusty and Jack.” Each shook hands. Lori made eye contact with Rusty and Jack who instinctively headed over to the jukebox and dropped in a coin selecting Sam Cooke’s “Twistin’ the Night Away”: They're twistin', twistin' Man, everybody's feelin' great They're twistin', twistin' They're twistin' the night The soda fountain erupted into dance and was “flipping its lid”. Ruthie grabbed Bobby by the hand and led him to the center of the dance floor twisting like a high school girl. Bobby did his best moving up and down and twisting. As the song ended, they embraced and held hands, returning to the counter to find freshly prepared root beer floats, and Lori wiped a tear from her eye. They decided to attend a matinee showing of “The Graduate”, cheering Benjamin and Elaine’s escape from the marriage ceremony to an unknown future. They walked out of the movie theatre, and Bobby spotted a 1969 green GTO parked out front. Bobby beamed at the car remarking, “I always wanted one of these. It’s got a 350-horse, 400-cube Quadra-jet V-8 engine! Let’s get in and check it out!” The car was unlocked and they sat in the completely restored muscle car with black leather seats. Bobby began to fiddle with some wiring under the dash and in moments, the engine roared, surprising Ruthie. Bobby reached for the stick shift declaring, “Let’s take it for a run!” He “peeled out” from the curb, racing around and around the city square attracting attention from citizens and staff alike, as he shifted through the gears before coming to a slow stop, placing the car in reverse, and expertly parking the car where he found it. He patted the warm hood as if saying “thank you”, reached into his pocket, retrieved a coin and placed it in the parking meter. Ruthie and Bobby made a quick exit. Bobby invited Ruthie to his impressive winery reminding Ruthie of a Monet painting, which included a beautiful ranch home with masculine furnishings including leather sofas, couches, and woven rugs from the southwest. The walls were adorned with oil paintings of Sonoma spanning hundreds of years. A single framed photograph of Mildred was placed upon the massive fireplace mantle portraying a sweet, attractive, Midwest girl in her twenties whose eyes revealed kindness and sincerity. The absence of family photos was apparent to Ruthie and she felt sorrow for Bobby never realizing the joy of raising children. When she entered Bobby’s study, Ruthie was impressed by his collection of scale model cars. Bobby’s work table resembled Albert’s lab table, and her memory was refreshed with Albert’s early days in his lab growing his business. Photos hung on the walls spanning Bobby’s career in the auto repair and winery businesses depicting a man who was an innovator and “hands on” employer, also reminding Ruthie of Albert. Ruthie was enthralled by the beautiful vista provided by the floor to ceiling windows and massive Oak tree shading a grave stone. She instinctively knew it was Mildred and envied their love. They enjoyed a casual lunch on the redwood deck affording a beautiful view of the vineyard. The menu consisted of arugula and endive salad, hearty turkey chili, and warm sourdough bread with butter. The meal was paired with a bottle of Raceway Winery Burgundy emblazoned with the checkered flag label. After lunch, they mounted Bobby’s vintage John Deere tractor which had only one seat, but Ruthie sat on Bobby’s lap, and he gave Ruthie the responsibility of steering the slow moving tractor. They toured the impressive state-of-the art wine production facilities and Ruthie observed how happy each of the workers appeared, each greeting Bobby with admiration and respect. Just before sunset, he drove into the vineyard. He stopped to show Ruthie the ripening grapes, and Bobby’s tender embrace of the vine resembled holding a child’s hand, which caused Ruthie’s heart to skip a beat. He reached down into the rich soil taking a palm full of earth saying, “Wine is her gift to us from Mother Earth, Ruthie.” Ruthie was impressed that a man who spent his life repairing cars covered in grease and oil would also have a poetic appreciation for nature. Her love for Bobby grew stronger. Ruthie reciprocated with a dinner invitation to her beautiful Sea Cliff estate. Bobby was impressed with the expansive view of the Golden Gate Bridge. Bobby found Ruthie’s home to be open and airy, exquisitely decorated with an eclectic mixture of tasteful and expensive furniture including Chippendale, Victorian, Art Deco, Modern, and rare, one of a kinds from Herman Miller and Edward Wormley. The walls were hung with an impressive collection of artwork including Impressionism, Contemporary, and native paintings reflecting her extensive world travel. Bobby was impressed with the many mementos she collected from throughout the world which were placed throughout the mansion, and reminded Bobby how little travel he had completed in his lifetime. On every table, Bobby found framed photos of Ruthie’s life as a wife and mother. Bobby imagined young Albert as a nerdy scientist, but he actually resembled his buddies in high school auto-shop class. Bobby was touched by the photos of the family together, and his heart ached never knowing the joys of having children Ruthie was an expert hostess. The custom built glass patio table was set with a white linen table cloth, candles, sterling silver flatware, and Versace five-piece dinnerware set. They enjoyed an elegant dinner of pear, gorgonzola and walnut salad, followed by grilled salmon with asparagus. Bobby reached for the bottle of “Raceway Winery Chardonnay” which had been placed on the table, and poured Ruthie a glass commenting, “An excellent choice of wine, Ruthie. I know this winery well.” Ruthie giggled, murmuring, “I thought you’d appreciate a great chardonnay pairing with the salmon.” Dessert was “Nectarine Pavlovas” inspired by a Modigliani portrait, and delicious coffee made from expensive Vietnamese ground “Kopi Luwak” coffee beans. After dinner, they watched the headlights cross the Golden Gate Bridge. Bobby held Ruthie tightly around the waist. Bobby turned Ruthie towards him looking her in the eye, whispering, “I love you Ruthie”. Ruthie gently placed her lips to Bobby’s, gushing, “I love you too Bobby”. It was a breakthrough moment as each had placed their lost loves in the past, and relished their romantic moment together. Bobby was invited to spend the night. Dr. Khan’s cognitive testing of Ruthie and Bobby revealed the progression of their dementia states had halted and there was conservative optimism their dementia states would remain at bay. Ruthie arranged a trip to the North Beach neighborhood of San Francisco to visit the City Lights book store followed by dinner. They walked North Beach holding hands enjoying the shops, sights, sounds, and crowds of happy people. Bobby didn’t have much of a fashion sense. His wardrobe consisted primarily of western wear appropriate for living and working on the vineyard, a pair of cowboy boots, and a collection of ball caps. As they passed a hip, fine men’s clothing store, Ruthie insisted, “We’re going in to get you looking sharp!” Bobby emerged from the men’s store wearing a camel color sport coat, black cashmere v-neck sweater, dressy jeans, and a pair of brown Gucci loafers. Ruthie had a beautiful wardrobe and fashion sense selecting a Saint-Laurent classic Bouche motorcycle jacket, Chloe patchwork straight jeans, and Christian Louboutin black suede ankle boots all of which complimented her slim figure. Bobby and Ruthie made an attractive, fashionable, and hip senior couple. Inside City Lights, Ruthie led Bobby up and down the staircases and through the narrow stacks, bringing back fond memories of her Berkeley days. Bobby spotted a shelf of Allen Ginsberg books, and secretly retrieved a copy of Ginsberg’s “Kaddish”. He approached the cashier while Ruthie was still browsing. Bobby reached into his pocket, found his wallet which had a single one hundred dollar bill placed within it for an emergency. The clerk rang up the purchase totaling $10.00. Bobby handed the clerk the $100 bill and before he could receive his change, walked over to Ruthie handing her the book saying, “I found this on the shelf with your name on it, sweetie”. Ruthie was in awe of Ginsberg and gently thumbed through the book with the desire to devour each page. She clutched the book to her chest, and gave Bobby a tender kiss whispering, “You never cease to amaze me darling.” As they exited City Lights, the clerk shouted, “Your change, Sir.” Bobby had long since forgotten the value of money, and simply waived off the confused clerk as he held Ruthie’s hand and they proceeded to their restaurant reservation. On their way to the restaurant, Ruthie and Bobby ran into “Annie” who was Ruthie’s classmate from Berkeley. Ruthie introduced Bobby to Annie who gave Ruthie a “He’s cute” wink. The ladies agreed to meet for afternoon tea at a later date. Ruthie and Bobby dined at a well known restaurant enjoying innovative Italian cuisine. Ruthie was aware of the complimentary stares they were receiving while Bobby enjoyed his seafood pasta. After completing dinner, they approached the cross walk and the green signal invited them to cross the busy street. Bobby was tipsy from the wine, mesmerized to be in the company of beautiful Ruthie, and over-stimulated by the vibrant night life of North Beach. He didn’t notice the steepness of the curb, stepping off and tumbling into the crosswalk, striking his forehead which was bleeding. Good Samaritans carried him out of the crosswalk and sat him down on the curb. Ruthie was beside herself with fear and panic for the man she loved. A waitress from the Italian restaurant appeared with an ice bag which she placed on Bobby’s forehead. Bobby was dazed and incoherent. It took just moments for the paramedics to arrive, asking Bobby a series of questions to which he couldn’t answer, “What’s your name, sir? How many fingers am I holding up?” He was placed into the ambulance, and Ruthie demanded to ride with Bobby to the hospital. The emergency room physician diagnosed Bobby with a superficial head wound, no concussion, but admitted Bobby for two days of observation while notifying his personal physician, who in turn notified Dr. Khan. Ruthie made arrangements to stay at a nearby hotel to spend every day with her love. In the hospital, Bobby was conscious, but not aware of his surroundings and didn’t recognize Ruthie, often referring to her as Mildred. He also didn’t remember his name or where he lived. Ruthie was patient with Bobby but feared the fall exacerbated his dementia and prayed it was only temporary. Dr. Khan visited Bobby in the hospital and completed a thorough neurological and cognitive impairment examination informing Ruthie that a traumatic injury could hasten the progression of Stage 5 dementia, and time would only tell. Bobby was discharged, and returned home under the care of a full time nurse. Dr. Khan recommended that he continue to attend Memory Redux. Bobby was reluctant to leave home but the nurse accompanied Bobby each day. Bobby walked the streets aimlessly looking into each store and asking, “Where is the airport?” These notes were entered into his medical charts by the staff. He was no longer a visitor to the soda fountain, and didn’t recognize Rusty or Jack when they approached him to say hello. Bobby became agitated saying, “I have to report to duty. When is the next bus to the airport coming?” He and Ruthie would spend the day sitting on the park bench holding hands and often saying nothing to each other. Ruthie knew Bobby didn’t recognize her but was determined to remain with her love. Ruthie would try and spark Bobby’s memory but his reply only included two words, “Airport” or “Mildred.” Dr. Khan determined Bobby was now in “Stage 7 Very Serious Decline Dementia”, and recommended placement in a hospice specializing in soon-to-pass dementia patients. Bobby was scheduled to leave the following day by ambulance, and Ruthie made it a point to be with Bobby until her final moment with him. She held his hand on the park bench, thanked him for reviving her memories of Albert, reawakening her ability to love another man, and cried. She couldn’t reach Bobby because he imagined he was sitting in the airport terminal, dressed in his pressed army uniform with polished brass medals and colorful ribbons. His duffle bag was seated alongside him. He turned to Ruthie reassuring her, “Millie, I’ll be home soon. When I return, we’ll raise a family.” Ruthie chose to assume the role of Mildred comforting him, “I’ll be waiting for you my love and I’ll write you every day.” Ruthie remembered lines from a favorite Peter, Paul and Mary ballad whispering them to Bobby as she held his head to her heart: Now the time has come to leave you One more time Let me kiss you… So kiss me and smile for me Tell me that you'll wait for me Hold me like you'll never let me go… The following day, Ruthie and Bobby were joined by Rusty, Jack, Lori, the beat poets, musicians, and Dr. Khan who had come together to say goodbye to their friend. Dr. Khan assembled a box of hot rod magazines to keep Bobby busy at the hospice. The ambulance arrived and Bobby was placed on a gurney, and strapped in. Ruthie managed one last goodbye kiss and whispered, “I love you Bobby. I’ll never forget you” to which he reassured her, “I’ll be home soon Millie. I love you.” Bobby and Ruthie looked into each other’s eyes for the last time. Dr. Khan was retained as Bobby’s physician assuring he would be comfortable until he passed away at the hospice. He advised Ruthie’s children that Ruthie’s demands to visit Bobby would not be constructive and recommended an earnest attempt by staff to help Ruthie make new acquaintances. Over the following six months, the spring in Ruthie’s step and happy glow in her eyes was gone. Ruthie spent all of her time in the beat coffee house, reclusive and resisting any efforts to make new friends, choosing instead to pour over old copies of the New York Times she requested concerning the end of the Vietnam War. One evening at closing time, the beat musician noticed Ruthie’s head was lying atop a newspaper. Believing she fell asleep, he gently nudged her, whispering, “It’s closing time, Ruthie. You’ll miss your bus home” but she was still to his touch. He placed his fingers on her carotid artery, felt no pulse, and knew she passed away. Underneath her beautiful face was a tear stained copy of the New York Times front page reading, January 28, 1973 - Vietnam Peace Pacts Signed; America's Longest War Halts; Out of respect for his favorite patron, the musician located Ruthie’s favorite Dylan song on his playlist, synched it to the speaker system, filling the Cool Cat’s Coffee Lounge with: Take me for a trip upon your magic swirlin' ship
All my senses have been stripped And my hands can't feel to grip And my toes too numb to step Wait only for my boot heels to be wanderin' I'm ready to go anywhere I'm ready for to fade On to my own parade cast your dancin' spell my way I promise to go under it Hey Mister Tambourine Man, play a song for me I'm not sleepy and there ain't no place I'm goin' to Hey Mister Tambourine Man, play a song for me In the jingle jangle morning, I'll come followin' you
THE ROOMThe hotel room there were practically forced to stay in was very cheap. The carpet was rugged, and the beds were stiffer than rock. Walter looked around the room with an expression of guilt and sadness before taking a swig from glass of straight whiskey. Brody barged through the door slamming it shut behind him as he threw the last of what little luggage they had on one of the beds. He looked over at Walter, who hadn’t moved one muscle since they arrived.
“Walter, how long are we going to keep going like this?” Brody said as he began rummaging through the scarce luggage they were able to get away with. “Walt, I’m speaking to you!” Walter looked over at Brody with a look of disdain on his face before he took another long sip from his glass. He was staring directly at a painting of a Stillwater collage with envy. “I didn’t ask you to ride along,” Walter said as he set his glass on the bedside table. “I told you to stay back and just move on with your life.” Brody looked at the older man like he was crazy. He unzipped one of the backpacks that they had brought with them and emptied it out all right in front of Walter. It was filled with nothing but rolled up hundred-dollar bills. He threw the backpack across the room causing it to hit against the wall. Walt jumps up from the bed and grabs Brody, pulling on his shirt. “Just what in the hell do you think you’re doing, huh?” Walter said as he stared Brody down with contempt. He realizes what he’s doing, and let’s go of Brody’s shirt. Walt looks around the room as well as the money on the floor. He glances back at Brody, who’s looking back at him waiting on some sort of response. “How do you expect me to just drop everything and move on when I’m carrying this kind of baggage?” Brody said as pointed down at all the money that is now scattered all over the floor in front of one of the beds. “You pulled me into this shitty world of drug trafficking, and you expect me to just be able to forget about it?” Walter glances back at Brody for a quick second before he rushes over and grabs the backpack the money was stored in. He quickly begins shoveling as much of the money as he can back into it while also discreet as possible, for whatever reason. Once he got every last bit of it back inside the backpack, he shoves it in Brody’s chest. Brody looks at him confused. “Please, just take the money and use to get yourself out of this mess,” Walter said. “Are you freaking kidding me? How do you keep figuring that I’m just going to be able to leave?” “Because the common person doesn’t know where the damn money is coming from, Brody! Trust me, you’ll be fine.” Brody looks back down at the bag one last time before dropping it on the floor. He looked up at Walter and lunged at him with an almost forceful hug. Walter hesitantly hugs back, only using one arm instead of both. Brody pulls away and looks at Walter like he’s about to cry. “I’m sorry, I can’t leave you here to fend for yourself,” Brody said as he picked the bag off the floor and threw back on the bed. “You brought me into this crazy world of yours, and I’m already too far deep to leave at this point.” “So, what are you saying, Brody?” “I’ll stay.” Walter stay looking into Brody’s eyes for a couple moments before giving me a nod of approval. He walks back over to the bed and grabs the glass he was using earlier. He refills with some of the whiskey that he brought with him and takes another discreet swig. As he goes back to looking at the painting on the wall, Brody joins in and sits next to Walter. Walter offers Brody some of the whiskey, and he gladly accepts, taking a long drink from it of his own. Not being used to the hard whiskey, Brody coughs harshly a couple times. Walter chuckles as he places an arm around Brody’s shoulder. “Ya know, you’re alright, kid.” Eyjafjallajökull “Bold, overhanging, and, as it were, threatening rocks, thunderclouds piled up the vault of heaven, borne along with flashes and peals, volcanos in all their violence of destruction, hurricanes leaving desolation in their track, the boundless ocean rising with rebellious force, the high waterfall of some mighty river, and the like, make our power of resistance of trifling moment in comparison with their might. But, provided our own position is secure…they raise the forces of the soul above the height of vulgar commonplace, and discover within us a power of resistance of quite another kind, which gives us courage to be able to measure ourselves against the seeming omnipotence of nature.”
Immanuel Kant, Critique of Judgment. * God, it was good. Unbelievably good. It was an explosion, an earthquake. She thought she’d faint. When it was over and they lay there shaken to the core he whispered into her ear, “Jesus, the earth moved.” It was sublime. * He’d come to her office with his mean little wife and their brats, shopping for an architect. Carolyne had presented the plans for the last house she’d designed. Andy, the owner, was still moving in. The wife had peered meanly while Carolyne cast her professional eye over the husband. He was George Clooney, minus the silver hair. “Shouldn’t there be walls here?” the wife demanded. “You can see directly into the master bedroom.” “I thought you said you knew Andy,” Carolyne objected, her eyes glued to hubby. The wife scrunkled her mean little nose. “I don’t think I’d like this.” “Come and see,” Carolyne urged. “I’m making a site visit.” The wife muttered something about transporting the brats to school but then the husband said, “You drop them, honey. I’ll go report back.” * They puttered down the coast road, rather than the freeway, because the forward gears on Carolyne’s Citroën were slightly malfunctioning (reverse was fine). She clutched the shift so that each time they turned west her knuckles brushed hubby’s thigh. Hubby turned out to be Andy’s tax advisor. “I know this isn’t my brief,” Carolyne remarked as they cornered, “but isn’t your wife paranoid about privacy?” “Paranoid? Yeah, right.” * “Let me prove her wrong,” Carolyne said at Andy’s. “You stay here and I’ll zip up to the bedroom. What I’m going to do,” she called from above, “is strip naked. Now I dare you to see anything. All you can see is my head, right?” “No.” “No?” “I can see your everything.” “Get out. You can’t see below my shoulders.” “Wanna bet?” “What’s my tattoo of, then?” “Minnie Mouse.” Carolyne descended the staircase nude, except for a sheet. “Andy must have let on. Go up and I’ll try.” The husband obliged. “Can you see?” he called. “No,” Carolyne called back. She tiptoed up the stairs in bare feet. “But now I can. Oooh. You’ve got a tattoo as well. I like it.” * After that she was hooked. It was the whole moving earth thingy. At work she surrounded his name with hearts and flowers. When he called, her phone lit up with a picture of him demonstrating another failure of privacy. She’d down tools and race (well, for the Citroën) to Andy’s where she could be sure not to be interrupted—Andy had been advised to go into indefinite tax exile. It was so good that it made her forget everything else, which was the point really. * That’s right, the moving earth thingy. Such an erotic metaphor. But not quite so appropriate for architecture because as things turned out while Carolyne was enjoying tectonic experiences in her client’s bedroom, somewhere seaward of Andy’s address the Pacific Plate was merrily wending its way southeast at about fifteen millimetres a year while, cheek by jowl, the North American Plate ground past at a similar terrapinic speed, the pair building up slippage that finally chose to relieve itself on a sun drenched afternoon in October just when Carolyne had terminated her screaming and just at the moment the husband she was embedded with had said, “The earth really moved that time.” These were his parting words. For at that moment the roof fell in. Actually, a few things happened prior. The bed heaved, a vase smashed, the house groaned, the windows exploded, the power cut off and the ceiling divided in twain. But the roof was the clincher. It wasn’t supposed to fall. Carolyne had designed it to withstand…well…an earthquake. But the contractor, O'Reilly, impatient for their shipment of beams, had obtained some cheaper substitutes. These had not been up to scratch. Of course if there had been walls…but then she wouldn’t have been in that situation. * It took Carolyne a while to realise she wasn’t dead. She could neither see, nor hear, nor move. But she grew certain she still existed. After all, how else could she be certain? And besides she was still breathing, and definitely not in the after world, because she knew that in the after world your mouth wasn’t stuffed with drywall dust and your body didn’t ache as if you’d spent a weekend in a concrete mixer. As time passed a strange coldness began to press against her. With horror she realised that on top of her was a dead body, clutching her in a final, carnal embrace. Then came the aftershocks. The body shuffled, embracing more tightly. She was sealed in a sarcophagus with a corpse. He’d decompose! His flesh would rot and his bare bones would skewer her. She struggled until she almost had a fit, but Andy’s not-to-spec roof stayed put until twenty four hours later rescuers hoisted it and separated her from the dead husband, a howling, gibbering wreck. * As the doctors informed her, Carolyne had been shielded by the skull of the husband who’d been moving the earth for her. Her bones were unbroken and her vital signs were thumbs up. She was soon discharged from hospital and welcomed back to work where thanks to O'Reilly there was plenty to do. But just as her business prospects brightened her personal life span its tail. Carolyne possessed an outgoing personality, but even before the earthquake she’d been plagued by anxiety. Predatory sex had been the one reliable method of keeping her attacks at bay. She knew women who ate chocolate or bought shoes to battle their demons. But although she very much liked and approved of chocolate eating and shoe buying they fell short of the sublime and it was only by sleeping with other women’s husbands—significant numbers of them—that she’d held it together. Post-earthquake that’s what she needed to do. Only she couldn’t. Flashbacks to Andy’s bedroom utterly ruined the mood. “Ahhh!” she’d yelp, leaping naked from someone’s marital bed. “What was that?” “What was what?” the husbands would enquire. “I think the earth just moved.” “Oh, baby.” “No, you idiot, really.” The husbands generally concluded Carolyne was nuts, though once a sympathetic engineer named Max pointed at his bedside seismograph, “Look. It was nothing,” and they’d been able to resume kissing. Next thing she was in the door frame, hands above head. “Shit. This is hopeless!” What could she do? * She must see Dr Pántaloon, her therapist prescribed. Dr Pántaloon was the world’s foremost architectural psychiatrist, the author of such celebrated texts as Folie architecturale and Trottoir fou. His clinic had famously been designed by its own inmates, working from the roof down. No one was better qualified. As a bonus Carolyne discovered, after flying to Paris, that in the flesh Dr Pántaloon was also George Clooney—that’s to say, if you disregarded the non-silver hair and the beard obscuring the chin, and his English, mildly less atrocious than her French. The man was truly yummy. Unfortunately Carolyne’s case proved intractable. « Ahhh! she yelped, leaping naked from the side of the bed normally occupied by the doctor’s second wife. Ce qui était celui? “What was what?” the doctor asked, reaching for cigarettes. — Je pense la terre juste déplacée. “Ooh-la-la.” — Non, tu idiot, vraiment. “Ah, you Americarns.” Ze doctor puffed smoke towards the ceiling mirror. “Always zee ’emingway.” — Oubliez Hemingway. C’est un tremblement de terre! “Ah! Carm back to bed, ma chère, and I will show you ze quake of ze earse.” — Merde! C’est désespéré. » * But Dr Pántaloon wasn’t the sort of Frenchman to admit defeat. “You pearsue me. Yet you raypoolse me also.” Carolyne admitted that this was true. Each time she boarded the plane for Paris she felt a strange liberation, a tingling. Yet when she arrived at Clinique Pántaloon or at the apartment of the doctor’s second wife the liberation and tingling had gone—poof!—and she went to pieces again. “Pearaps eet ees guilt zat you feel.” — Culpabilité? Quelle culpabilité? “Pearaps eet eez guilt about zee uzzer womans?” — Porkwar? “Well, you know, I am sinking zat az zee harchitect you are hallways building, bart…een your private life…you are hallways destroying…you are hallways pooling down. About zees pearaps you are feeling guilty.” Carolyne pondered. — Tu devrie raser, she said inspecting Dr P.’s beard. Alors tu regarderie plutôt George Clooney. “George Clooney? Oo eez ee?” * For six months Carolyne’s predatory sex-life went nowhere. Flying to Paris she felt great, but once there she felt terror. Flying back home again she felt brave, but on the ground she went to pieces. What was happening? The answer came as she was reading Part 3 of the airline edition of Gulliver’s Travels. Simple. On earth she felt anxious, off it she felt sublime. “Bart ow can zees be?” Dr Pántaloon asked. — Le ciel ne tremble pas, Carolyne explained. “Ah,” said Dr Pántaloon reaching for the cigarettes his second wife had left behind when she moved out of the apartment, “zat ees dip.” Deep or not, Carolyne now knew what she must do. * There was a tricky moment towards the close of her interview with the airline company. “I see from your résumé you’re a woman. Excuse me, an architect.” “That’s right.” “Well…I’m just wondering….” “Earthquakes.” “Earthquakes?” “Yes.” “I’m sorry. I must have missed something.” “You don’t have them in the air.” “Oh.” “Architects really hate earthquakes.” “Is that right? Yes. I suppose they would.” Hearing no news from the airline Carolyne decided she wasn’t aiming high enough. However, the space program informed her they were recruiting only ex-military with experience in corporate litigation. Fortunately the airline belatedly responded after its cabin staff struck over working conditions. * The worst of Carolyne’s training was the simulator, a worn out, wingless cabin that shook “like a minor earthquake,” as her instructor crowed. Carolyne hyperventilated. Had the company not already locked out its own staff her traineeship would have been aborted. But she soon found herself pushing a refreshment cart at thirty thousand feet, under harsh industrial conditions, but blissfully free of anxiety. In fact if Carolyne had had her choice she would have worked under the harshest possible conditions, flying continually, never touching ground. She kept her cool even during a mid-air incident when a starboard engine vacuumed a flock of guillemots. And in time she made a singular discovery about her new vocation—that other staff had enlisted with the same motive—captains, navigators, stewards, even cleaners—all were terrified of terra firma and formed a secret band. By faking records, by covering for each other, they managed to avoid rest days, leave, days off and holidays, and live out their lives in the upper atmosphere. They fed on airline food, entertained themselves with airline movies, informed themselves with airline magazines, wore only airline uniforms, and washed themselves in airline bathrooms. For Carolyne it was a wonderful new life, a life of high society. The hum of jets became so constant it went unnoticed, like the music of the spheres, and each aircraft became as familiar as a dorm. Even in her sleep she knew just where she was—today on the Magellan, yesterday on the Bougainville, the day before yesterday on the Icarus. She scarcely bothered what border she was crossing. Mountains, oceans, jungles, dunes were occasionally glimpsed out portholes. But they were post card images, small and remote. With the aid of fellow terraphobics she conducted her affairs entirely off the ground. On one flight she had a dental inspection, on another a pap smear. She met Dr Pántaloon again, returning from a conference, and he introduced her to his third wife. He had shaved and looked, as Carolyne had predicted, even more like George Clooney, still excepting the non-silver hair. But this time she was content to be hands-off. And that was the thing. Flying so far subducted her anxiety that she’d lost the predatory urge. There was ample opportunity in aeroplanes. It really was incredible the effect they had on people. But Carolyne thought now she would wait until Mr Right. * “Look who it is!” the woman passenger hissed, tugging at Carolyne’s sleeve. “It’s him! It’s George Clooney!” It was one of those unavoidable moments between shifts when Carolyne found herself back on earth. She was trying to ventilate normally until they resumed flight. Passengers were always mis-sighting celebrities. Of course it wouldn’t be George Clooney. But the woman was totally Clooniac. “Look! It’s him. I swear.” Carolyne finally looked. Oh, God! This time it really was. Forgetting her anxiety she left the woman’s locker unattended and hurried to the passenger list. George Clooney, George Clooney, George Clooney, George Clooney. Oh. No. It was some random man called Alex. All the same, he could have fooled anyone. He had the eyes exactly, the chin, the silver hair. Everything. He was as close to George Clooney as was humanly possible. He was George Clooney! Sigh. Carolyne swapped aisles with Cindy, the crew member opposite port side, before Cindy had noticed the GC clone. She ran down the aisle to offer him a complimentary headset and when he thanked her he even sounded like George Clooney! But there was also something not right. His eyes darted round the cabin while they taxied. He asked repeatedly to pull the shutter. As they sat on the runway waiting clearance Carolyne strolled past, checking the seat belts and noticed his knuckles. “Is there something wrong, sir?” His hand flashed out and grabbed hers. “I need to use the bathroom.” “After take-off, sir.” “I need to use the bathroom.” “We’ll be airborne momentarily.” “I need to use the bathroom now.” His Clooney tan had drained away. He was shaking as he fumbled with his seat belt. “Sir. Please remain seated, sir. I’m sorry, it’s regulations. You can’t…here, okay, allow me to assist. Is it…no, I’ll help you. Here. Quickly. You might just have time before we commence…no, this one…push this panel…please be as quick…I’ll wait outside….” Carolyne glanced across the bulkhead. Cindy stabbed her finger and mouthed, Is it George Clooney? Carolyne shook her head. She heard a thump. “Sir? Are you okay in there, sir? Is anything the matter? Sir?” Another thump. The engines throttled up. “Sir?” Oh, please God, don’t collapse. Don’t keep us on the ground. “Sir! Can you hear me? Are you okay?” A crash. Carolyne deactivated the lock and tugged open the door. “Sir…Are you…Oh, oh, dear. I’m sorry…What’s happened? Let me. Can I…your trouser…here…Oh, dear…Oh, I’m very sorry…” Carolyne was only familiar with the parts of George Clooney that it was possible to view on screen but she imagined that the parts that didn’t appear on screen might not be unlike what she was seeing now. Or they might be…well, who knows. It didn’t matter. Oh, dear. “Can you just…can I…here let me…oh, look…you have a tattoo…just like…oh, really…maybe we’d better just push this…shut this…door.” There was a violent thundering. The plane’s nose pitched up. They were ready to go. The aircraft roared down the runway. The pair of them squashed together in the tiny space. Her uniform rode up. Everything creaked and bumped and rattled like the world was ending. Oooh! The nose lifted clear. They accelerated faster, faster, faster, and bang, up they went. First the nose. Then the undercarriage. The bumping became a glide. Roaring filled her ears. Oh, dear. Oh, God. The wheels folded up inside the body. Gulp. No, don’t do the screaming. They mustn’t hear. Oh, boy. That’s…Oh, oh, oh, boy. When the aircraft levelled off after the first step in its climbout Carolyne vaguely registered the seatbelt sign ping in the distance. Passengers queued outside. Some knocked before shifting to the other toilet’s longer queue. Carolyne didn’t even get her feet back on the floor before she felt the second step of the climbout as the nose pitched up again. More knocks, another levelling off, then the third step of the climbout. Finally, after the plane had levelled off for the last time and all the flaps and slats were retracted, she let her feet slip down until her toes were wiggling just above the floor. The plane was in the stratosphere and inside it too she was floating on air. Oh, God. Oh, freaking God. It was sublime. She stared Alex/George in the face, which she was now cradling between her hands. “Will you marry me?” she muttered. “No, don’t say it. Don’t say anything. Just nod your head.” * “What the hell were you doing?” Cindy hissed as Carolyne caught up with the refreshment cart. “I was getting engaged,” Carolyne told her, dispensing a diet soda. “Oh, sure you were. In the bathroom.” * When they’d finished with the drinks and the meals and the tea and coffee and Carolyne finally had a free moment she hurried back to Alex/George only to find him, against all expectations, glum. “What is it?” she asked gently stroking his hand. The knuckles were blanched like almonds. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Are you upset about what happened? Is there someone else? Are you married?” He smiled weakly. “No…” “What’s wrong then?” It took him a moment to get the words out. “I’m scared.” “Scared? I’m not dangerous. What are you scared of?” “I’m scared….” “Of what?” “Of flying.” “FLYING?” “I’m scared of flying! I’m terrified of flying!” Carolyne laughed so loudly that heads turned. “But that’s ridiculous! How can you be scared? You’re totally safe up here.” Alex/George looked appalled. “We’re going to crash,” he squeaked. Carolyne laughed again. “Of course we’re not going to crash.” “I want to be back on the ground.” “No you don’t.” “I do. I want to be back on the ground. Something bad’s going to happen.” “For goodness sake, bad things don’t happen up in the air. Was what we just did so bad?” Alex struggled to smile but couldn’t. “Believe me,” she said. “Bad things happen on the ground not in the air.” He shook his head. “Yes, they do.” “What bad things happen on the ground?” “All kinds. You know…things like earthquakes.” Alex/George sat up in his premium economy seat and looked suddenly alert. “You’re worried about earthquakes?” “Very.” “But earthquakes are incredibly rare.” “You think?” “I know. They’re way too rare.” “Well, I happen to know about earthquakes too.” So Carolyne explained about Andy’s house, his tax advisor, the failure of his beams, her nervous breakdown, Dr Pántaloon and how she’d finally come to reside in the air. Alex listened with macabre fascination. Then it was his turn to laugh. Only wretchedly. “I can’t believe this. It’s not possible. It can’t be. Do you know why I’m heading to Iceland?” “Iceland? Is that where we’re going? Well, no. I don’t know why. To see the ice?” Alex shook his head. “What else does Iceland have?” “I really couldn’t say.” “Seismic activity.” Carolyne squealed. “Iceland has a whopping great crack that goes all the way through the earth’s crust.” “Jesus Christ.” “And in twenty four hours—though you won’t know this—it’s going to bust wide open.” “Oh, my god, Alex. Don’t tell me any more. Please.” But it was too late. Now it was Alex’s story time. As he explained to Carolyne, his parents had been missionaries. Not long before his birth the Lord had called them to do His work in a remote, seismically active area of the Philippines. There’d been no hospital for a hundred miles and no village doctor and not only had his mother’s pregnancy been complicated by obstetric hypertension but at the moment of delivery the village had been struck by even more than usually severe earth tremors, causing everyone in attendance to duck for cover. Alex had barely survived. His mother had not. The loss of his cherished wife had led Alex’s father to dedicate his remaining days to saving the souls of the villagers and it was amongst them Alex had grown up, never knowing maternal tenderness. Instead, having been abandoned at the moment of his birth by all other human beings, what had left its lifelong imprint on his neonatal mind was not the face or voice or smell of his mother but the violent shakings of the earth. When the village shuddered—and it unfailingly did so because it was slap bang in the Pacific Ring of Fire—Alex would remain on his feet, blissful, while others skedaddled. On Sundays, after church, he’d climb the adjacent mountain and lie flat, absorbing its motion through his soul. At eighteen he left for London. This, his first plane trip, unexpectedly freaked him out. He found life as a student very hard. His father had enrolled him in divinity, for which he exhibited zero talent. He suffered intense homesickness, not for his father, but for the village that had rocked him in its cradle. As is known, the entire United Kingdom is seismically challenged. Alex spent more and more of his time reading about violent geological events and less and less about God. At the end of his first year he was rock bottom in his divinity class and chronically unwell. He spent his holidays in a hammock on his father’s veranda, convalescing as he watched the white volcanic plumes and felt small eruptions transmitting through the veranda pillars and along the hammock’s ropes. To him these oscillations were lullabies. He recovered quickly enough to take another out freaking flight back to London for the new academic year. But in the second week of classes he was telephoned by the consulate and informed that just like the ancient Greek philosopher Empedocles (the consular official had a First in classics) his father had met his maker after tumbling into the local volcano’s maw. He and some parishioners had hiked to the summit after the mountain had abruptly gone dormant. Alex had no choice but to fly in terror back to the mission. The information proved true. Both his father and the mountain were thoroughly deceased. So now he was doubly bereaved, of not just a cold and distant father but of a warm and trembling step-mother. Returning to London by liner and with no one to dictate his future he chucked divinity to throw himself into a seismology degree, completing his field work on Mt Etna. It was clear that he couldn’t live without a volcano. Yet it also became clear that neither Etna nor Vesuvius nor any of the other volcanos he got to know could truly make him happy. They were not his mother. That was how he came to specialise in new eruptions. From Hawaii to Africa, from Japan to New Zealand, from South America to Indonesia he searched, as men will search, for a reminder of his mother. And as his longing grew so did his fear of flying. The only remedy for his horror of the air was to locate some female passenger who recognised his resemblance to George Clooney sufficiently to be enticed into a bathroom where in the embarrassment and misunderstanding of aeroplane sex he could obliterate his phobia. That was his life. By the time Alex had ended his story Carolyne was in tears. “Oh, Alex.” “I’m sorry. I really am so sorry.” “Oh, Alex. Alex. What on earth am I going to do?” “On earth?” “You know what I mean.” After she’d wept quietly onto his shoulder Carolyne dried her eyes and checked the screen. “Shit. We’re approaching. I have to get ready.” But she didn’t rise from her seat. She broke into new sobs. And then, expecting to feel the plane begin its slow and worrying descent, she was surprised to feel it bank to starboard, throttle up and climb. “That’s weird,” she muttered, wiping her eyes on the airline pillow. “We’re changing course.” She sniffed and cracked open the shutter. Light entered. But it was weak. The sun was high, but dim orange, so dim she could stare without blinking. It was like an ornament. “Look at that.” Alex looked and sat bolt upright. “Oh, Jesus.” “What’s wrong?” “It’s Eyjafjallajökull.” “Aya fairt la yoghurt?” “Eyjafjallajökull,” he repeated vehemently. “It’s started.” The plane banked again and kept climbing, the reverse of what it was meant to be doing. A suave voice came over the intercom. “Your attention please ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain, Roger de Coverley, speaking. Just letting you know about a little change of plan this morning. Due to a slight patch of turbulence up ahead we’ll be running you round to the northwest…” There was the most god-almighty bang, convulsing the entire fuselage. “Jesus Effing Christ, what was that?” “Rog, you’ve still got the mic on.” “I know I’ve got the effing mic on. What bloody happened?” “I think it was a rock.” “A rock? It felt more like a great effing boulder. Christ, there’s another one. Holy shit!” The aircraft lurched this time. And groaned. When Carolyne glanced out the porthole a thick stream of grey mist was hurtling over the airfoil. The cabin lights lost power and returned, dimly, as dimly as the ornamental sun. The fasten-seatbelt sign pinged. Oxygen masks jack-in-the-boxed from overhead lockers. “WHAT’S HAPPENING!” passengers shouted. For minutes there was the sound of heavy rain. Only that was impossible. They were too high for rain. Then, like a really tight, well rehearsed jazz combo, the two jet engines on the starboard wing came to a dead stop at the same moment as the two jet engines on the port wing, so that the storm of crap that had been pummelling the plane’s outside could now be heard in all its brilliance. Down went the nose, so abruptly that the passengers let out a great squeal like the riders of a roller coaster. Carolyne grasped instantly. The plane was commencing emergency engine restart procedure. The crew had rehearsed and rehearsed this. Well, at least once. Down, down, down, lower and lower, swifter and swifter the aircraft plunged in a desperate gamble to clear the turbines and restart the stalled jets, with the passengers screaming in utter panic, until abruptly the aircraft levelled out and the passengers hushed, which allowed Carolyne to hear that none of the engines had completed a restart, which in turn meant basically that they were effed, as Roger, their captain, would have put it. Well and truly effed. The crew had abandoned the attempt and were in an uncontrolled glide. An hysterical calm settled over the cabin. But within seconds there was another terrifying bang and the passengers took up panicking where they’d left off. A detached, almost sinister voice addressed them. “Local time in Reykjavík is now 10.42, if you’re wanting to adjust your sun dials. Ground temperature is just above zero, though under the ground it’s probably considerably warmer. Currently we have a fairly still – ha, ha - day in Reykjavík with a steady rain of ash, volcanic bombs, and ignimbrite. The weather bureau is predicting overcast conditions in the coming decade with a chance of global winter. Thank you for flying Air…Air…whatever the eff we are…It hardly matters now…Oh, and one thing…if you were thinking of cutting anyone cutting your will I’d be punching out a text right now. You never know, we might get close enough to reception for your lawyers to pick it up.” Click. Carolyne looked at Alex. Alex looked back. All around them was pandemonium with some of the passengers stuffing their mouths with chocolate and some of the passengers stealing other passengers’ shoes and even some of the passengers fighting to gain access to the toilets. Then Carolyne recalled that they were still in the air and Alex recalled that they were in the power of a volcano. They squeezed each other’s hand and smiled. And began undressing. Once Carolyne freed herself from her uniform and her sticky underwear she pressed her thumb against the button and Alex’s seat went flat. She pushed her fingers into his silver hair, kissed him on the lips, climbed on top of him and felt at last the courage to be able to measure herself against the seeming omnipotence of nature.
Neighbours |
Kristina Brightharp is a full-time money handling associate, as well as a full-time student at Full Sail University. She is studying for a Bachelor's Degree in Creative Writing for Entertainment. She was a 2012 graduate of Channel View School for Research, and went on to trade school, where she received an Assocites in Office Administration. In her free time, she's an avid reader, writer and artist. She lives in Queens, New York with her parents and two cats, Chloe and Blue. You can find Kristina on Facebook, DeviantART and Wattpad. |
The Housewarming Gift
Her cellphone rang, her mood soaring to discover it was her best friend, Lauren.
“Tabitha!” she exclaimed on the line. “How do you love it?”
“Oh, it’s everything I ever dreamed of!” she replied, jumping up to skip around the living room. “There’s a living room, a full kitchen and dining area, two bedrooms, two baths, a backyard and a shed! I can’t believe you convinced Samantha to sell it to me so cheap!”
“Anything for my bestie,” Lauren said, her smile apparent in her tone.
“Still, isn’t it a bit odd? The price was already cheap on the website; for her to go even lower for a friend of a friend?” she said, rubbing her arm. No matter how she looked it all, it all seemed a little too desperate. She’d had her suspicions from the start: some terrible crime must have occurred here. A murder, most likely. But she’d ultimately been taken in by the charming house and surrounding neighborhood.
“You’re just imagining things,” Lauren replied. “I would kill to have a house like that.”
Just as she was about to ask why she hadn’t stolen it herself, the doorbell rang.
“Oh? I have guests already?” she asked as she sprang for the door.
“Probably your neighbors coming to welcome you properly,” Lauren replied.
“I just moved in yesterday. Did the news get around that quickly?” she asked, glancing out the peephole. Her heart sank when she found there was no one there. “Correction: I’m just being pranked.”
“What do you mean?”
“Some jerk must have rung the bell and ran,” she replied, opening the door. Her heart skipped when she found a package on her porch with a slip of paper on top. “Wait a minute . . .”
“What’s up?” Lauren asked, her voice growing concerned. As Tabitha knelt to inspect the package, the note read in neat script: A housewarming gift. Welcome to the neighborhood!
“My neighbors got me a present,” she murmured, laughing nervously as she carried the box inside.
“See? No jerks, just wholesome spirit!” Lauren said.
She was just about to agree, when she opened the package and found an iPad nestled atop bubble wrap. The screen was streaming video from ‘Camera 1’. Her blood turned to ice as she stared at her own profile on the screen, standing between her living room and her kitchen.
“Lauren,” she whispered, her voice trembling.
“What is it?! Spit it out!” Lauren said, practically screaming with excitement. Tabitha glanced toward the kitchen. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, even though the image suggested there was a camera sitting out in plain sight.
“Lauren, there’s someone playing a sick joke on me,” she said, pressing the home button on the tablet. To her horror, the screen switched monitors. ‘Camera 2’ had her at the opposite angle, somewhere in her living room.
“A joke?” Lauren asked. “I don’t understand, Tabitha. What’s going on?”
No, this wasn’t a joke. This was her suspicions about the house coming to life.
“There’s c-cameras in my house!” she replied, tears springing to her eyes as she pressed the button again, moving slowly deeper into her home. She passed ‘Camera 3’ in the guest bathroom, ‘Camera 4’ in the hallway upstairs, and ‘Camera 5’ peering through the slats of the master bedroom’s closet. “Some homicidal maniac has been in my house!”
“Did you leave?!”
Tabitha seemed to come to her senses, then. “N-no . . . I wanted to see how many cameras were here.”
“Are you insane?!” Lauren screamed. “Get out of there! Call the cops!”
“Right!” she replied, turning to bolt back down the stairs. She almost tripped to her death when she stopped short to look at the screen again. ‘Camera 6’ was streaming, and it was moving through her backyard. “Oh my God, Lauren . . . they’re still here, on the property!”
“Why are you still there! Get out!”
“I can’t,” she whispered, hot tears streaking down her face as the camera displayed her front door. “They’re here. They trapped me.”
She couldn’t believe how quickly her dream house had turned into a nightmare. Now she would die for cheaply priced crown moldings and a tiny, white picket fence.
“I’m calling the cops!” Lauren exclaimed before the line went dead.
That’s when Tabitha took a deep breath and steeled her nerves. Death was imminent, but she wasn’t going down without a fight.
Swallowing her fear, Tabitha cleared the landing, grabbed a knife from the kitchen, and went to open the door.
“SURPRISE!” Lauren screamed, along with Samantha and a few other neighbors. “Welcome to the neighborhood, Tabitha!”
Tabitha froze in the doorway, knife poised over her head like a psychopath. Her neighbors smiled awkwardly, and Lauren struggled to contain her laughter. The knife finally slipped from her fingers and clattered on the pavement. When she deemed it safe, Lauren sprang forward and enveloped her in a tight hug.
“What is happening?” Tabitha whispered.
“It was mostly Samantha’s idea,” Lauren said, motioning to her friend, who waved shyly behind her. “We were discussing the most effective way to bring me out here to surprise you, since we haven’t seen each other in a month. We ended up with this elaborate plan to really scare the life out of you. You know, to make you regret leaving me behind a little.”
“I still have one of the original keys,” Samantha explained, holding up a lone silver key on a ring. “Once I knew you were set to move in, I snuck inside and set up the cameras for today. You can go ahead and change the locks now.”
“Oh, Lauren!” Tabitha replied, coming down from her shock enough to embrace her again. Her body shook with the tears she shed. “You’re a terrible friend for doing this to me, but I guess we’re even. I am sorry I left home so abruptly. I’ve missed you so much!”
Lauren pulled away to dry her tears. “Hey, save the waterworks for later. Are you going to invite us inside for your proper housewarming gift?”
Tabitha looked at her neighbors, brandishing bottles of champagne and homemade pies, and smiled with relish. Now this felt like home.
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ANDRES CALZADILLA
BRIANA MALDONADO
CAMBRIA SCHENCK
CARRIE SCHINDLER
CESAR CASTANEDA
CHANA FEINSTEIN
CHRISTOPHER PERKINS
CHRISTOPHER THORNTON
DANIEL LEBOEUF
DAVID FALLON
DAVID PRATT
DIEGO PENA
FRANK BEGHIN
GERALD RUSSEL
JAMES C. WILSON
JASON SHULER
JEAN E. VERTHEIN
JOHN BETTON
JONATHAN FERRINI
JORDANA HALL
KATE ROSE
KELLEN WOODS
KRISTINA BRIGHTHARP
LILLI REINE
MAITLIN MYERS
MATTHEW MCAYEAL
MATTHEW ROY DAVEY
MIKE WEITZ
NATE WITHERS
QUINTON CONRAD
SEAN WALTON
SIMON BARKER
STEPHEN HEBERT
TONY BILLINGHURST
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