Carissa Dixon is a current student at Full Sail University pursuing her bachelors in creative writing. In her free time, she works on finishing the first novel in a series and sharpening her skills in the writing craft. Nothing but A CageHe reads a message from his phone. The Boss, saying to finish the shift without a hitch. Keep the hybrids contained and tended to, and then they would discuss more on getting better pay or days off on holiday another time. He flicks on the lights of the “lab” as he enters. Charts and diagrams on the wall, microscopes, and vials by the only two computers in the building. Looked like a kid played mad scientist with cheap chemistry sets rather than a facility funded by the government on DNA research. He gave a laugh and grabs a canine skull from the desk corner.
“Stuck here during the holiday too,” he says. He flips through a folder of documents and sheets on the genetics and so on. “I am not even getting a bonus for working tonight.” Skull still in hand he leaves the room, wandering to his post. He set down the skull with him and sat in the chair at his table, his “office” on a balcony. The kennels down below being the only view. He pulls a flask from his pocket and tips it back. A sigh and he set the flask on the small table he has as a desk. The skull fit in his palm, small canid teeth, and snout narrow. “Ya’know, they have the healthiest bunch of mutts this fall because of me,” he says. “You not included, but they should show me some more appreciation.” The kennels were quiet, all asleep at this hour. The enclosures warm and clean, all twelve gates secure for the night. The loud chorus of breath gave him a calm clear mind. “The mutts do not even get holidays,” he says “How wrong is that? No appreciation or reward, just nothing but a cage.” The metal railing of the balcony came into focus. “Nothing but a cage,” he says. He clenches and works his jaw and pulls at his shirt collar. A laminated sheet of feed times and other tasks taped to his too small table. “Like I would forget. Been doing this job for a year now,” he says. He tears up the sheets and scatters papers and objects from the table top to the floor. Table cleared of everything, he rests the small skull in the center. He eases back into his chair a slight smile on his lips. He bangs his fist on the tin siding of the kennel fence, his other hand on a control pad opening gates. Claws on the pavement, low growls, and jaws snapping bone fill the air along with a musty and metallic smell. His grins and he leans against the fence “Happy Thanksgiving. Thought you guys deserved a treat.” he says. The fence rattles as the mutt’s yank and wrestle for a bite. He steps back as one stood on its hind legs, front paws, and claws where he had been leaning. Wild black eyes looked back at him. Heart beating fast he punches in the passcode to enter another room. Monitors that record the kennels and the “yard” lined the wall and desk in the small space. Another control panel on the desk that opens the gate into the yard and a final gate that would give access to the forest next to the facility. Fingertips hover above the open. “Just letting them have a bit of fun, we all need a little freedom,” he says. After an hour the mutts still sniff or laid around the grass enclosure, none attempt to return to the kennels. Each kennel the same size as the room he stood in, smaller than some closets. “Should be wild animals, forced into small cages,” he says. The final open option on the control panel glows a soft red. He pauses. A nod and an intake of breath he presses the control panel a final time. The last canine hybrid walks its way out of the facility, its head the same size of his if not larger and eyes too dark to distinguish from its black fur. Back at his post, he sat and reaches for his flask. He stops “Ya’know, I feel great,” he says. He leans back in his chair feet propped on the table next to his skull companion, he smiles and closes his eyes
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Jason Marchant is a new author currently still in school. Jason is a Georgia native but has lived all over the US. Jason has been a member of the USAF since 2009. Jason currently does his writing stationed in Hawaii living with his family. 180 Well, that took a turn.
The brief flight from the bar door to the parking lot wasn’t all together bad. The landing, in the rough gravel, was less pleasant. “Learn some manners before you come back in here again, kid,” said the bouncer. Carl had been having a pretty decent night for a bit there. Nothing a black eye and bloody nose couldn’t cure though. That could have gone better. Sitting up in the lot, getting his bearings straight, he heard a horrible crunch. Not my phone. He reached into his back pocket and took out the remains of his phone. Not getting a cab out of this place now. Home was only a few miles away. He really didn’t want to walk. “Having a rough go of it, buddy?” said a man in a pick-up truck nearby. The adrenalin from the fight was wearing off. The lack thereof coupled with the booze from before cropping back into Carl’s brain, he couldn’t quite make out the man’s face. “Yeah, you could say that.” “Got someone coming to get you,” said the man. “Or do you need a ride?” “My phone got busted and I don’t think my ride is on speaking terms with me right now. I am just off Pine. If it isn’t out of your way?” “No trouble at all, hop in the back. I’ll take it slow.” Well if he is an ax murderer it’ll stick with the theme of the night at least. Carl got into the back of the pick-up with less grace than he would have liked. Propping himself against the cab he asked, “What’s your name, man?” Handing Carl, a bottled water through the window, “Oh, I am,” the engine backfired as the man answered, cutting him off. “I’m Carl. Thanks again for the ride. Do you know the way?” “Sure do, I am not too far past that way myself.” They were on the main road now and only picked up a little of speed. The breeze felt nice to Carl. A small comfort at least. He watched as the bar faded in the distance, eventually taken over by the night. I messed that up. “Well, Carl what is on your mind?” said the man. “We don’t have to talk if you don’t want. Just don’t want you dozing off back there with that nasty lump on your head.” Understandable. “Just thinking about how I could have handled that better.” Ducking would have been nice. “This girl I met a while back, Jess. She has a boyfriend that is a real tool. Never met the guy but for a split-second tonight, that’s just what she said about him. She has been seeing me on the side for months. Told me she finally left him. I guess he didn’t get the memo.” “By the state of your face I’d imagine not. I’ll wager he showed up then?” “You’d win that bet. Didn’t see him come in, not that I know what the guy looks like anyway. I kiss Jess and take a swig of my beer. As I’m putting down my glass, I suddenly get a closeup of his class ring.” “He shouldn’t have done that without knowing what was going on. What did you say his name was again? I might know him.” “Mike, I think it was.” “That would explain you getting thrown out even though he started the fight. He is a longtime patron there.” Just my luck. “That probably didn’t help me, but I got kicked out for a better reason than that.” “Yeah?” “He only hit me the once. I am the one that lost my temper and made sure it was a fight. I should have known better seeing Jess behind his back like that. Bound to be trouble eventually.” Silence passed for the last moments of the drive. The man made the last turn, finally arriving on Pine. “This is your stop, man. What do you plan on doing about the girl? If you don’t mind me asking.” Hopping out of the car looking down the road towards his apartment, “I don’t think I will be seeing her again any time soon. I don’t like being lied to.” Starting to drive off, “Probably a good call. She played us both for fools,” said Mike. “Nice right hook by the way. I’ll buy you a drink sometime.” Well, that took a turn. Stars above DetroitIt was a cold and snowy December when I was handed the address of a “crack house” in one of the deserted and boarded up Detroit neighborhoods once inhabited by happy families whose sustenance was provided by good paying manufacturing jobs. The closing of the automobile plants made the neighborhoods ghost towns. A significant percentage of housing parcels in the city are vacant, with abandoned lots making up more than half of total residential lots in large portions of the city. They call me “Mr. X” around the office because it’s my job to “tag” deserted homes for demolition by spray painting a large red “X” across the front of the homes. It’s my first job since graduating with a degree in drafting. The City of Detroit hired me because I grew up remodeling homes with my father and I knew building materials. My official title was “Building Safety Inspector” but my work had nothing to do with building safety. The City was broke and sent me alone, armed only with pepper spray, into the blighted neighborhoods to identify homes with valuable building materials like copper, used brick, marble, or fine woods, the City could sell before bulldozing the home. My work was dangerous because poking around deserted homes; you’d never know what you’d find. I’ve been chased away by crazed drug addicts, packs of wild dogs, or the stench of decaying human corpses who were drug addicts or sadly, the elderly owners of the home who died silently and forgotten. The address led me to a boarded up Victorian mansion which was the largest home on the block. My instincts told me it would be a treasure trove of valuable building materials which might earn me a raise or promotion. I didn’t realize the old mansion was occupied, but decided to assume the role of a homeless man, hoping the occupants would permit me to stay long enough to assess the value of the building materials. Besides, I was single, and alone in Detroit without family to spend Christmas. Winters are a blessing and a curse in these blighted neighborhoods. The winter cold brought paying “lodgers” like me in off the streets. Ice is plentiful permitting the preservation of food and water for drinking and bathing. There are no utilities to the house. The toilets were removed exposing the sewer pipes permitting direct deposit of feces and urine. Fire for cooking and heat was from wood siding poached from nearby homes. Ride share and taxis won’t come into the neighborhood. The nearest shopping is four, long residential blocks away on 7 Mile, consisting of a discount retail store, independent market, and a few fast food joints. Downtown Detroit is about fifteen miles away. Nobody asked me any questions other than telling me the rent was $5 per day, which provided a roof over my head, along with a blanket and a place to sleep in the hallway amongst junkies. I did my best to hide my red paint colored index finger. Despite the bleak environment, it would be a Christmas I would never forget. It costs a heroin addict $150-$200 per day to support a habit like Roxie’s. It was a long night for Roxie when I encountered her returning home from working as a prostitute. I offered her a cigarette and told her I had just “checked in” as a “lodger” which put her at ease. She told me she made her “bank” and I could tell she was eager for her fix which would anesthetize her throughout the long, dreary, winter day until she would regain consciousness, and prepare for another evening “on the stroll”. Roxie was no older than thirty. She was a beautiful woman born to a Puerto Rican mother who was a prostitute. Her father was a mixed race “John”. Roxie inherited a beautiful exotic face, and an attention-getting curvaceous body, permitting her to earn top dollar from the businessmen traveling through Detroit. She was taken from her mother as a teenager and placed into foster care where she was molested by the husband, and thrown out into the streets when the wife found out. She never reunited with her mother. Roxie’s quite the entrepreneur cultivating a loyal network of hotel concierges, bartenders, and limousine drivers who handed out her business card to Johns in return for her gratuities. We heard a helicopter and Roxie ran to the boarded up window peering through a knot hole to see a fire department helicopter, its spot light trained upon the fully engulfed home down the street. 911 won’t send the fire department, cops, or paramedics into these abandoned neighborhoods because it’s too costly. In the case of fire, it’s less expensive to send the helicopter to assess the need for further action. Most of the time, the helicopter determines the home is vacant and lets it burn to the ground. Even if the fire department wanted to extinguish the fire, the water from the fire hose would freeze up in the winter cold. A man shouted, “Get away from that window girl! If that search light catches your cat eyes we’ll be thrown out of here!” Roxie quickly took her beautiful eyes away from the peep hole. Samuel placed his frail arm around her in an attempt to comfort her, whispering, “Don’t fear the spotlight, child. It’s a reminder the bright, lonely. little star will soon reveal itself, and shine down upon us all”. Samuel was a tall, lanky, balding, black man with a scruffy grey beard who was pushing eighty. He was once a headliner in the best jazz clubs in the States. He became a junky, which ruined his musical career as a tenor saxophonist. Although he kicked the habit decades ago, he’s was an alcoholic, finishing off a fifth of cheap whiskey each day. He sometimes rode the bus into Detroit with Roxie at night where he ‘busked”, playing on street corners for change. His old tenor sax lost its luster, but like a fine wine aging graciously over time, the music coming out was sweet as ever despite the arthritic fingers squeezing out the notes. I slept against the wall in a dark hallway with a few other guys wrapped in blankets. They snored, moaned, and jerked. In a far off corner of the old mansion, a tenor saxophone whaled. The notes invited memories of saying goodbye to somebody you love for the last time. I felt privileged to hear such beauty amongst the desolation. When the tenor sax stopped, I heard the musician, who sounded like Samuel, recite the following, “Come out bright, lonely, little star. Don’t fear the dark clouds, the cold of winter, or the pain below you. Bless us with your divine rays of hope, warm our spirits, and guide us to a peaceful world where every man, woman, child, and animal lives in dignity and happiness. Come out bright, lonely little star. Don’t be shy. We’ll accept you as you are and take you into our hearts.” I drifted into a deep sleep as if being read a lullaby. I awoke to an obese, seventy something, black woman extending a cup of coffee to me, saying, “Hello lodger, I’m Queenie. Follow me down to the kitchen and let’s talk.” I followed the old woman and noticed she had difficulty walking given her age and weight. Her feet were swollen and I suspect she suffered from diabetes. We entered an expansive kitchen found only in mansions staffed with butlers and maids. It was spotless and hadn’t changed since its construction sometime in the early twentieth century. Its walls were lined with sparkling lime green tiles, matching counter tops, butcher block tables, and vintage kitchen appliances with manufacturer’s labels marked, “Dutiful Brand”. There was a breakfast table in the corner of the kitchen where Samuel was sitting, smoking a cigarette, and sipping his coffee. I was invited to sit by Queenie who struggled to sit. Samuel rose like a gentleman and aided her. Queenie reached for my arms and examined each for needle punctures remarking, “You’re not a user are you?” I nodded in agreement saying, “No ma’am. I’m not.” Samuel took a drag of his cigarette, blew the smoke into the air, and agreed, “Yeah, his eyes are clear and he doesn’t have the shakes. He looks clean to me. What’s your game young man?” I nervously replied, “I’m down on my luck and just looking for a roof over my head for Christmas, Sir.” I heard somebody walking swiftly down the hallway and a young man entered the kitchen pulling up a chair. Queenie sternly remarked, “What do you say first thing in the morning, Rascal?” The young man respectfully replied, “Good morning”. Queenie smiled like a proud grandmother remarking, “That’s a proper mornin’ greeting. Let me get ya’ all some oatmeal.” Rascal was a white man in his early twenties, about six feet tall, razor thin, tatted up, pierced, and missing some front teeth. His face was showing the ravages of meth use scars. He was wearing low hanging faded jeans, old sneakers, and a “Red Wings” hockey hoody. Rascal extended his hand to me and we shook. Samuel looked Rascal up and down like a grandfather, scolding him, “Pull your britches up boy! Why don’t you clean up and make something of yourself.” Like a doting grandmother, Queenie defended Rascal, “Leave him alone, old man! Why don’t you clean up and make something of yourself playing that old sax for big dollars at weddings and Bar Mitzvah’s instead of busking on dirty, cold sidewalks. You still got it, old man. Use it!” Samuel stared at the ceiling as if looking into the past, and angrily replied, “Stay out of my business, woman.” Queenie gave each of us a piping hot bowl of oatmeal she prepared atop a butane fueled hotplate. Rascal immediately rose to help her sit. Rascal sat, devouring his oatmeal, washing each mouthful down with a glass of milk. Queenie finished a silent prayer and began to eat her oatmeal with etiquette seeming out of place, given her station in life which made me curious about her background. Queenie spoke with reverence about Samuel, “Back in the day, Samuel was kickin’ it with the likes of Duke, Ella, Basie, Miles, and workin’ the best clubs in the Country. Show ‘em that Downbeat Magazine cover with you on it, Samuel!” Samuel shook his head as he slowly ate his oatmeal, his hands trembling from the effects of alcoholism, and old age. Rascal finished his oatmeal, wiped his mouth with his shirt sleeve out of sight of Queenie, rose from the table, and placed his arms around Samuel boasting, “It’s true, man. I saw the magazine cover. Samuel was a cool young dude on the cover of a sixties Downbeat Magazine. In big letters above his photo, it say’s, New Tenor Sax Virtuoso Makes the Scene. All right folks, got to start my day dumpster divin’. Nice to meet you, Sir.” I was impressed with Rascal’s manners and replied, “My pleasure to meet you Rascal. Good luck out there!” Rascal kissed Queenie on the cheek before exiting the kitchen from the boarded up service entrance. I caught a glimpse of him retrieve a shopping cart hidden within some bushes. In a hushed voice, Queenie remarked, “Rascal was thrown out on the streets by his folks. He came from a good family with parental expectations he couldn’t live up to but he seldom mentions his family. I treat him like my own grandson. He has a sweet temperament but slips into a dark hole of depression, so he self medicates by shooting up. If only he could kick the junk, he still has time to make somethin’ of himself.” Queenie slowly rose from her chair, gathered the bowls and cups, and rinsed them in a bucket. She placed them in a dish rack to dry, took a deep sigh, and said, “Well, it’s time to start my day. I got to hit the food pantries first thing this mornin’. Between Rascal and me, we’ll gather all the fixins for a proper Christmas Dinner. Pay $5 dollars a day room and board, lodger. Leave the money with Samuel. Anything you need to know, just ask him.” Queenie reached for her winter coat hanging on a hook, draped it on, grabbed her hand bag, and headed for the door. Queenie dressed nicely for a homeless woman. My heart was heavy as I watched her slowly walk up the sidewalk, her feet swollen, and her joints aching. I reached into my pocket, pulled out a twenty dollar bill, handed it to Samuel, and said, “It’s the 24th today. I’ll be out on the 26th. Keep the ten dollars change. I’m certain the house can use it.” Samuel rose from his seat and placed the twenty dollar bill into a drawer saying, “Thank you, young lodger. This ‘ol man got to get to sleep before headin’ out tonight but maybe you can help me with a chore, first?” Samuel reached for his tattered pea coat and struggled to get into it. I helped him get into the coat saying, “I’ll be glad to help you with the chore.” We exited the kitchen through the boarded up service entrance out into the cold, sunny day. I followed Samuel into the expansive former back yard of the mansion, now overgrown with weeds, shrubbery, and tree branches. He led me to a baby Christmas tree about three feet tall, alone, in the corner of the backyard. He kneeled next to it as if it were a child saying, “This little tree sprung up out of the ground last spring. I saw it grow inch by inch throughout the springtime. It wanted to survive even amongst all this squalor so I started to water it and it grew faster. It withstood the scorching heat and humidity of summer, the chill of autumn, and here it is in the dead of an icy winter, still alive. It ain’t a big tree but it will make a fine Christmas tree. I’d like you to help me dig it up, pot it, take it inside, and we’ll give it a home for Christmas. It won’t end up on the trash heap like the others. No, Sir! After Christmas, I’ll plant it a couple of blocks away in the City Park so if this old house gets bulldozed, this tree will survive. Will you help me?” “Of course I will, Samuel”, I answered. Samuel retrieved an old spade, pick axe, and a pot filled with fresh potting soil. We carefully dug around the roots of the tree beneath the stare of the boarded up mansion. I asked, “What’s Queenie’s story?” Samuel turned towards the mansion pointing with the spade, saying, “Queenie was the maid for the family who owned the mansion. She lost her son in Vietnam and her job when the owners of the house moved away in the seventies. She drowned her pain with alcohol, struggled as a hotel maid, couldn’t keep it together as she got older, and ended up on the streets. Even though she’s a big woman and sick with the diabetes, she has the grit and determination to be the first in line at the food pantries walkin’ on those frozen, swollen feet” We managed to carefully remove the small tree from the frozen ground. Samuel placed it in the pot and assured the roots were securely planted. As we walked back towards the mansion with the tree, Samuel continued, “Queenie reveres the old mansion like it’s hers. It was owned by a fine family, manufacturing durable stainless steel kitchen appliances used in the finest homes, restaurants, and hotels. The company was called Dutiful Manufacturing and their blenders, mixers, and toasters were called Duty Brand with a reputation for reliability and dependability. Check out the library upstairs and you’ll find a stack of old catalogues showing the history of the brand. Start from the bottom of the stack and it will read like a history book.” We entered the kitchen, removed our coats, and Samuel retrieved a spray bottle of water to tenderly irrigate the potted tree. I asked, “What happened to cause the home to fall into disarray?” Samuel continued, “The business was handed down to a no count son who succumbed to thieving Wall Street bankers convincing him he could make more money by manufacturing with less steel and more plastic. The appliances became shoddy and less reliable. Sales plummeted and the once proud company name became tarnished. The only people who made more money were the Wall Street snakes. When the company went bankrupt, only the brand name had any value, and was sold to a company in China who never used it. The patriarch of the family, and founder of the business, died from a heart attack in the library, pouring over the original blueprints for the “Dutiful Deluxe Blender” when he learned his son bankrupted the company. The family history mirrored the history of Detroit. With each decade, the Dutiful family and Detroit’s manufacturing jobs grew smaller, eventually to the point of extinction. Our little family is like the Dutiful Company and these blighted neighborhoods. We’re threatened with eventual extinction. Those large red X’s spray painted on the houses signify they’re scheduled for demolition. Every day, I see more red in the neighborhood and know it’s a matter of time before we’re extinct!” I roamed the mansion alone. I found the basement, revealing what appeared to be miles of copper plumbing and copper wire. The library, dining room, and most of the house was paneled with fine woods. Marble was abundant in the bathrooms. I was fascinated with the library which was the repository for the manufacturing catalogues of the business, appliance blueprints, and photographs of the family. Samuel was correct. The catalogues read like a history book about a fine, Detroit manufacturing family of a bygone era. I joined Samuel for a cup of coffee in the late afternoon before he and Roxie would catch the bus to Detroit expecting downtown Christmas Eve business to be brisk with travelers and last minute shoppers. Queenie arrived home with a cooked, sliced ham. She had bags of potatoes, a pumpkin pie, vegetables, and fruits. We rose from the table to help the tired old woman carry the groceries inside the kitchen. She was breathing heavy, wiped her brow, and said, “Whew, what a day but I sure did score a fine Christmas dinner for tomorrow night!” Queenie began to wobble on her feet as if passing out. I quickly grabbed her and helped her sit. Samuel brought her a glass of water. I heard high heels hurriedly coming down the hall and Roxie entered the kitchen, dressed to kill, and ready to catch the bus to work. Queenie remarked, “Girl, you ain’t out hustling yet. You’d better get to the stroll while you can sell that pretty face and hot little body before age and the horse catches up with you.” Roxie looked into the glass pane of the kitchen cabinet, primping herself, answering, “I got to buy my fix, first.” Queenie knew the drug dealer would be stopping by shortly to deliver Roxie and Rascal’s heroin. Queenie lamented, “I guess that nasty, no good pusher, Wrangler will be showing his ugly, hillbilly face soon!” We heard Rascal’s old shopping cart with bad wheels approaching the kitchen. Rascal came into the kitchen beaming with pride because he had a great day dumpster diving exclaiming, “Check it out, Christmas ornaments!” Rascal found discount store price tags cut into the shape of stars in red, green, gold, and silver inside a dumpster. Despite the word, “Discount Price” printed on each card, they were beautiful. Rascal also scrounged some plastic Christmas bulbs with the name of the discount store printed on them. He dangled one, asking,”Did you dig up the Christmas tree, Samuel?” Samuel replied, “Me and the lodger dug it up and it’s sittin’ in the livin’ room ready for the ornaments”. Rascal made a dash with the ornaments towards the tree but was stopped by Queenie, pronouncing, “Not so quick, Rascal. We’re decorating the tree tomorrow night, together, like a family.” She tried to get up but fell backwards, sighing, “I sure did wear myself out today.” There was a hard knock at the back door and a man with a stern voice, announced, “It’s Wrangler.” Roxie opened the boarded up service door and Wrangler came in. He was a forty something, medium build, Caucasian man with a menacing look, shaved head, diamond ear ring, and handle bar moustache. He wore a leather jacket and jeans. I noticed his shiny cowboy boots were rattlesnake and his briefcase was genuine alligator. I caught a glimpse of a pistol he had hidden inside his coat. He looked me up and down and I knew he was suspicious of me when he said, “Who’s the other dude?” Queenie was annoyed replying, “He’s our lodger and you pay him no mind. I don’t want you pushin’ your junk in my kitchen. Go do your business in the library.” After Roxie, Rascal, and Wrangler left the kitchen to conduct their “business”, I lamented, “I hope I didn’t scare their pusher away.” Queenie answered, “I never liked that ‘ol redneck. We call ‘em Wrangler because he rides the horse which is slang for the product he’s pushin’, heroin! I’ll bet his grand daddy was lynching Black folk down South.” Samuel piped in, “Now woman, don’t get carried away. Wrangler moved to Detroit with his parents from the South when his daddy got a job at the auto plant. Don’t blame him for not losin’ his Southern drawl. He’s just tryin’ to survive in Detroit like everybody since the auto plants closed down.” Wrangler finished his business and entered the kitchen to leave by the service door saying, “Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.” He turned to leave and Queenie shouted, “Join us for Christmas Dinner, Wrangler. 6pm sharp.” Wrangler’s business of dealing death was a lonely business, and an invitation to join even a ragtag family for Christmas dinner, was a special invitation. He paused as if thinking about the many Christmas dinners he had missed over the years, and gratefully accepted, “Thank you. I’ll be here at 6pm, sharp”. He hurriedly left to deliver more “holiday cheer” to his eager clientele. I helped Queenie in the kitchen prep the Christmas meal. I peeled potatoes, cut string beans and did whatever was asked of me. Samuel prepared a layer of charcoal atop tin foil in the vintage oven which would warm the ham wrapped in aluminum foil. I spent the remainder of Christmas Eve alone in the library, pouring through product catalogues and imagined the cheerful Christmas holiday’s inside the mansion during the heyday of the family business. On Christmas day, Queenie had the meal fully prepared and cooking. Roxie prepared the makeshift dining room table with the paper plates, plastic utensils, and paper cups. I produced crystal champagne glasses I found in the basement which would do justice to the champagne Samuel had purchased. We all retired to the living room to adorn the tree. It was eerily silent as each member hung a star shaped store tag or plastic bulb on the little tree. I suspect each person was remembering happier times with family. Our efforts produced a magnificent Christmas tree. Samuel planned a surprise. He removed the folded up Downbeat Cover from his wallet revealing a handsome young musician, and tacked it above the fireplace. He handed us copies of his poem and asked us to recite it slowly while he played beautiful notes on his tenor sax which he retrieved. Each note conjured up reminiscence of a beautiful lullaby spoken by loving parents to children eagerly waiting for Christmas morning. We held hands and recited, “Come out bright, lonely little star. Don’t fear the dark clouds, the cold of winter, or the pain below you. Bless us with your divine rays of hope, warm our spirits, and guide us to a peaceful world where every man, woman, child, and animal lives in dignity and happiness. Come out bright, lonely little star. Don’t be shy. We’ll accept you as you are and take you into our hearts. Come out bright lonely star, you won’t be judged nor shunned Just loved and adored atop our tree of many beautiful lights Revered and respected for whom you are Beautiful and original as you were created to be You’re a loving reminder that we all have self worth.” Samuel’s beautiful melody triggered memories and painful introspection. It particularly affected Rascal as he appeared to be slipping into his emotional dark space. He rubbed his arms indicating he was in need of a heroin fix. Queenie wiped a tear from her eye but woke us from our dreams of happier times, exclaiming, “My man, Samuel, still has the magic touch. Thank you, ‘ol man. It’s time to eat. Everybody find a seat at the table in the dining room.” Wrangler showed up on time with a bottle of wine and sat next to me at the makeshift dining table. He put his arm around me pulling me close, and whispered, “I saw the red paint on your index finger in the kitchen. You’re “Mr. X”! Leave this old house be so these people can be left to live the small family life they made for themselves. This neighborhood is known to swallow people alive. Strangers come in and never leave if you know what I mean.” I knew it was a veiled threat but Wrangler didn’t know that during my secret inspection of the house, I was able to determine that it qualified as a “Historical Preservation Home” and with a simple check of the box on my inspection form; the mansion would be entered into the city database of “Historic Homes” which couldn’t be demolished. Queenie and Roxie returned from the kitchen with the Christmas dinner, carefully placing the ham, mashed potatoes, vegetables and pies on the table. It was a magnificent feast and the look on everybody’s face was happy and ravenous. Roxie stood and helped Queenie sit, and took her chair at the table. Queenie pronounced, “Everybody take a moment and say a silent prayer of thankfulness.” I looked around the room and everybody, including Wrangler, bowed their head and mumbled a prayer. Queenie was the last to finish her prayer, and gleefully exclaimed, “It’s time to eat, brothers and sisters. Pass the food around family style.” For a moment, I wasn’t aware that we were dining in a boarded up deserted mansion. The food was bountiful, delicious, and the table setting, albeit picnic style, was beautiful. Roxie sat across from Queenie, next to Rascal, saying, “I met an interesting trick last night. He didn’t want to go to the room but paid me to have dinner with him. He’s a big shot talent agent in Hollywood who scouts rappers and R & B talent.” She pulled out a business card, handing it to Queenie, who handed it to Samuel and said, “Go on girl. Keep talkin’. Roxie continued, “I told him about Samuel and the dude lit up saying, Sam is still alive! The man is a living legend. Can I meet him?” Samuel wasn’t flattered saying, “Man, I don’t want to waste no time recounting my past with nobody! I’m retired!” Roxie was persistent, “He said he can line you up with steady, studio work!” Rascal was elated, “That’s fantastic, Samuel. You got to meet this dude!” Roxie continued, “That ain’t all. I mentioned you, too, Rascal. He said he can hook you up as a roadie, and, if you want to learn to drive a truck, he’ll get you into the Teamsters Union as a truck driver with full benefits and great union pay!” Rascal and Samuel were dumbfounded. They had both lived lives of false promises and rejection but this felt real to them. They needed to ponder the reality that their lives could change if they had the motivation to get sober. Queenie was interested in the trick’s motivation asking, “You think this man is sweet on you, baby girl?” Roxie was embarrassed but replied, “Yeah, we kinda have a thing brewin”. Queenie lit up, “Well good for you, girl! You hooked a big fish. Reel him in slow, the traditional, romantic way. Got it, girlfriend?” Roxie had an expression on her face like it was the first time she might be in love answering, “I got it, Ms. Queenie. He wants to have dinner with me, Samuel, and Rascal the day after Christmas.” Roxie made good money on Christmas Eve and was generous. She gifted a pair of orthopedic shoes for Queenie and a set of cashmere gloves with the finger tips removed permitting Samuel to play the sax more comfortably in the cold weather. She bought Rascal a new hoodie and pair of trendy sneakers. During Christmas dinner, Rascal descended deeper into a depression, as thoughts of missing his family weighed heavily upon him. I saw a fresh puncture mark on his arm and knew he shot up before dinner. Rascal was struggling to stay awake. Queenie remarked, “If you’re tired baby boy, go take a rest. It’s ok.” Rascal’s eyes rolled back into his head, his mouth began to foam, and his face fell into his plate. Wrangler shouted, “Get ‘em off the chair and flat on the floor.” Rascal’s lips were blue and his breathing was barely noticeable. Wrangler went for his briefcase, hurriedly opened it, and its contents looked like a salesman’s sample kit of drugs. Samuel shouted, “Shoot ‘em with the Narcan, quick”, Wrangler reached into his briefcase and produced a two pack of “Narcan” nose spray, tearing one dispenser from the package, and pumped the contents into Rascal’s nose. Rascal didn’t respond. Wrangler yelled, “He’s not helping. He doesn’t want to come back. I’ve seen it before. Wake up, Rascal!” Queenie was beside herself with fear but impressed by Wrangler’s fervent efforts to revive Rascal. She placed her arm around Wrangler, whispering, “So, you have a heart after all!” Wrangler replied, “He reminds me of myself when I was young.” Wrangler tilted Rascals head up, placed the second plastic syringe into his nostril and released the spray with a forceful pump. Rascal slowly opened his eyes. Roxie cried tears of joy watching her “brother” of sorts regain consciousness. In all the commotion, nobody had noticed Samuel was slumped against the wall holding his chest and gasping for air. Queenie screamed, “Don’t you die old man! I can’t run this household myself. Please, dear God, let him live!” We huddled around Rascal and Samuel trying to render comfort and aid but there was nothing anybody could do for them in a blighted neighborhood on Christmas, except me. I carried a small flip phone hidden within my jeans. I knew that when I called 911 and identified myself as a City Building Inspector, medical help would arrive swiftly but break up the family, forever, placing each within the penal or the inadequate social services system. The old mansion would be locked up by the cops. I speculated that if given the choice of dying or permitting Queenie and Roxie to go on living in the old mansion, Samuel and Rascal would have elected death, but not calling for help and letting them die, was a choice I didn’t want to make. Samuel’s beautiful notes resounded through my memory of saying goodbye to somebody you love for the last time, and, Wrangler’s admonition to “leave this old house be” were clairvoyant. It was the City of Detroit which led me to the old mansion but it was a loving, flawed little family, who extended their hospitality to a stranger, inviting me to share their love and kindness on Christmas. I looked at my paint stained, red index finger, and knew that I couldn’t be responsible for the “extinction” of the family. I was certain my call to 911 would be a final goodbye and never reached for my phone. I prayed for Rascal and Samuel to recover. It was a sleepless night for everybody but the following morning, Christmas delivered a gift of life to both Rascal and Samuel who were resting comfortably, lovingly tended to by Queenie, Roxie, and Wrangler. I gathered my possessions and discretely removed the little Christmas tree from the living room. I placed a note alongside the Downbeat cover reading, “Tree at City Park”. I left the mansion without saying goodbye, not wanting to interrupt the family in their time of need. It was my hope Roxie would find true and lasting love with the talent agent who would make good on his promise with jobs for Samuel and Rascal. It would be up to Samuel and Rascal to treasure the gift of life and seize any opportunity extended to them. I knew of one certain outcome. As long as Queenie could draw a breath, I knew her love, strength, and inner beauty would hold the family together. Although I found the house to be a treasure trove of recyclable building materials, the most valuable contents were the people who created a loving family despite the bleakest of conditions. I would never forget them. I threw my can of red spray paint in the trash. I left the mansion with the potted Christmas tree which I would plant in the City Park as Samuel wanted. The evening sky was turning to daybreak and I gazed upward finding the lonely little star shining brightly. Angels of Tiburon I gently brushed my hand across the Chinese calligraphy on the marble tombstone spelling out the name of my beloved grandmother. Her name was “Lao Lao” meaning, “maternal grandmother”. The art of writing Chinese characters is called “calligraphy” which dates back about 3000 years. I was melancholy knowing that Lao Lao would never know her great granddaughter soon to be my first child. Judging from the swift kick within my abdomen from my daughter, she, too, was disappointed not to meet her great grandmother. I would make certain the gift of cultural pride instilled in me by Lao Lao would be passed on to my daughter. As I traced the lines of her name, I was reminded of a cathartic moment in my life occurring not too many years ago. I leaned over the railing of the Golden Gate Bridge staring at the choppy waters below and wondered about the many poor souls who jumped to their deaths and tried to relate to the pain they suffered. I was disappointed knowing that all my hard work didn’t result in my admittance to any of the professional schools to which I applied. It was the first time I knew failure but it wasn’t worth jumping to my death. I looked to my right towards San Francisco and imagined the many opportunities the beautiful city would afford me if I had achieved my professional school dream. I looked to my left towards Marin County admiring the comfortable homes of its educated population to which I may never become a member. My position in the middle of the bridge, deciding whether to turn back to San Francisco or travel to Marin was a metaphor for my straddling two cultures, Chinese and American. My thoughts were interrupted by a family of Chinese tourists speaking Mandarin Chinese to me but I couldn’t understand what they were saying. Only through hand gestures, could I figure out that they wanted me to take a picture of the family on the Bridge with the Bay in the background. I obliged. Afterwards, a little Chinese boy, in perfect English, said, “My parent’s thank you for taking the picture and hope you visit Angel Island and learn the history lesson of Chinese immigrants there!” He pointed to the small island adjacent to Alcatraz and just off the coast of Tiburon. I decided to check it out needing a distraction from my disappointment and sorrow. I left my BMW on the San Francisco side of the Bridge and walked across to the Bridge dropping me in Sausalito where I summoned a ride share to take me into the town of Tiburon where I’d catch the ferry boat to Angel Island. Just an hour before arriving at the Bridge, I was presiding over the “Senior Awards Brunch” I organized at the beautiful “Claremont Hotel and Spa” in Berkeley. As President of the Sorority, it was my responsibility to organize and officiate at the awards brunch honoring the senior class for their four years of hard work at the University of California, Berkeley which included mention of their post graduate plans. I was the only Asian member of the sorority and the first Asian President of the elite sorority house which was comprised mostly of the Caucasian daughters from Bay area elite families. I felt a responsibility to my sorority and never shunned requests for tutoring from my sorority sisters. Over the previous four years together, my sorority sisters and I partied hard but while my sisters slept, I kept the “midnight oil” putting in the lost hours of study time. I successfully completed a double major in U.S. History and Biology at Berkeley and set my sights on a career as a patent lawyer specializing in medical related intellectual property. My father was a physician and mom was a patent lawyer. Both my parents graduated from Berkeley. Completing both law and medical school would make them proud of me. Berkeley is a competitive and rigorous university where “A’s” are awarded sparingly. My guidance counselor assured me that my GPA of 3.95, LSAT, and MCAT test scores placing me within the 95% percentile were consistent with admitted students to the professional schools I was applying. I completed applications to the prestigious law school at Berkeley known as “Boalt Hall”, Stanford Law School, and Stanford Medical School, in addition to the other schools comprising the top ten law and medical schools in the United States. It didn’t matter to me whether I was accepted first to law school or medical school. I would complete the degree of the first school admitting me. As I read the names of my sorority sisters, I was surprised to learn of their post graduate plans. Brenda was the daughter of a Silicon Valley tech giant founder who had been accepted to Stanford Business School. I was surprised she was admitted to Stanford because Brenda slept in rather than attending the grueling courses associated with an economics major at Berkeley. I was always happy to lend Brenda my notes and tutor her on the nuances of supply and demand curves although I’m not certain she grasped the concepts. Jacqueline’s father was president of a pharmaceutical company. She was beautiful and a member of the cheerleading squad. Jacqueline’s premedical courses always took a back seat to the demands of cheerleading. Jacqueline was my lab partner and I was always ready to complete her lab work when the demands of cheerleading called. She was admitted to Stanford Medical School where her father had a research laboratory named after his company. Amber was an ambitious, hardworking, African American girl from Oakland who beat the odds of her tough neighborhood and was admitted to Berkeley. Amber’s goal was to attend Harvard Law School but needed a top notch senior honors thesis which would make her application to Harvard stand out. Over the course of our senior year, I spent hours with Amber honing her thesis topic which centered on the stereotypes of upwardly mobile minority groups and the discrimination they encountered. The honors thesis was awarded Summa Cum Laude honors. Amber was accepted to Harvard Law School. When it came time to announce my name, I was humiliated to say, “Amy Lum, undecided” which the sisters knew was “code” for didn’t get accepted to the schools of my choice. I was rejected from all of the professional schools to which I applied. My guidance counselor was surprised and suggested that I may be the victim of admission discrimination against the large number of highly qualified Asian students applying to professional schools. As a history student, I studied the discrimination Jewish students encountered as they applied to Ivy League colleges in the twentieth century whose schools intentionally limited the number of highly competitive Jewish students seeking admittance. I never knew failure and refused to believe the rumors of Asian discrimination at top graduate schools was possible in the twenty-first century. Instead, I accepted the fact that “I didn’t try hard enough” or “I wasn’t good enough”. My parents suggested I try again in a year after an internship at mom’s law firm or dad’s pathology lab, where they would arrange for glowing recommendations from my mentors. I believed reapplication would be futile and was humiliating. At the conclusion of the ceremony, the sisters gathered in cliques and I felt shunned by them. I remained stoic and congratulated each of them before discretely exiting the ballroom and summoning my BMW from the valet. The BMW was a gift from my parents and my pride and joy. It was white with a tan interior. The personalized license plate read, “Amy No1”. I drove towards San Francisco wanting to leave the pain of Berkeley behind me. I drove across the Bay Bridge and into San Francisco. Just inside San Francisco, I pulled over and cried. I wiped the tears from my eyes, looked up, and saw the familiar Golden Gate Bridge. I drove towards the beautiful landmark. I parked my car on the San Francisco side and walked across the Bridge. I thought about calling my boyfriend, Teddy, but knew he wouldn’t be in the mood to hear his girlfriend cry so I would wait for him to call me. I grew up within the affluent city of Burlingame on the San Francisco Peninsula about twenty minutes from downtown San Francisco. I was the only daughter of successful Chinese American parents. Both parents were over-achievers and expected the same from their daughter. I didn’t disappoint them. When I set a goal, I never failed to attain it. I felt invincible and believed anything was possible if I put my mind to it. I was a leader of my Girl Scout Troop earning more badges than my fellow Scouts. I was class officer in both middle and high school. I attended the Burlingame primary, middle, and high school where I was a standout student, valedictorian, captain of the badminton team and debate teams. My high school yearbook named me, “Most likely to succeed”. I was one of only a few Asian students within the prestigious primary and secondary schools of Burlingame. I made friends with the children of the affluent from Kindergarten through High School and wanted to fit in with my Caucasian friends. My friend’s mothers were affluent “stay at home” moms despite holding prestigious university degrees. They chose to stay at home to devote time and energy to their their daughters after school activities. Because my parents were managing demanding careers, my grandmother, Lao Lao, was always eager to pick me up and deliver me to school or play dates. Lao Lao was my most loyal fan. On more than one occasion, I was asked, “Who is that funny looking old Chinese woman who comes to watch you, Amy?” I sheepishly answered, “She’s my grandmother”. At times, I would get upset and tell Lao Lao to “stay home” but Lao Lao simply smiled with love, pride, and admiration for her only granddaughter. Teddy was my childhood friend. He was a natural athlete and enjoyed baseball. Teddy developed quite a fast ball, change up, and curve balls making him a standout baseball recruit by colleges. Teddy’s family was old San Francisco wealthy. His father and grandfather were partners in a prestigious law firm. We were cute toddlers sharing play dates. Teddy’s parents often referred to me as, “Teddy Bear’s cute little Panda cub playmate”. Teddy and I became sweethearts in high school. I never understood why the gracious invitations to visit Teddy’s beautiful home stopped and Teddy’s was “never home” when I called the house. My parents told me it was likely Teddy’s WASP parents could accept a cute Asian play date for their son but wouldn’t tolerate an interracial romance. I refused to believe them. My family embraced Teddy as a “good boy from a good family”. Lao Lao also embraced Teddy; telling him stories of China and preparing Chinese food for us. Teddy loved her Won Ton soup. I was admitted to my first college choice, Berkeley. I joined an elite Sorority, “Chi Nu Album”, also known as “CNA” which consisted of the daughters of Bay Area elite. I was a devoted and reliable sorority sister rising to a prominent position of President within CNA because I always got things done. CNA was instrumental in welcoming me into the privileged Caucasian lives of my sorority sisters which made me distance myself from my Chinese cultural roots. It may have been self loathing but I just didn’t want to feel different. Teddy earned a full athletic scholarship to attend Berkeley and play baseball. He was a member of a fraternity who enjoyed playing frat boy more than studying. We dated and were study mates. Teddy wasn’t my intellectual equal and relied on me for tutoring. It was his goal to attend Bolt Hall Law School at Berkeley like his father and grandfather. My rideshare driver to Tiburon was a student from South Korea who was driving part-time while studying full time at San Francisco State to become an engineer. I didn’t have to work as an undergraduate and couldn’t imagine working part-time while completing my studies. I admired his resolve. I arrived in Tiburon and boarded the ferry. I looked towards San Francisco and imagined the immigrant experiences of my parents, George and Margaret, who were first generation Chinese whose parents emigrated from China. George’s parents owned a hand laundry frequented by the housekeepers delivering the fine garments and linens of the San Francisco’s elite. George and his parents lived in a two bedroom apartment above the laundry. Margaret’s parents, Lao Lao, and my grandfather, who died when I was a child, owned and operated a neighborhood market on the same block and also lived above the market. Margaret and George were prodigal children working within their parents businesses after school and weekends while studying profusely. Both of my parents graduated from high school and attended Berkeley where they were standout undergraduates. George went on to graduate from Stanford Medical School and became a renowned pathologist and clinical professor of Pathology. Margaret graduated from Berkeley’s prestigious law school, Boalt Hall, where she was on law review. She joined high powered patent law firm representing Silicon Valley’s most famous tech giants. My parents married after completing their graduate studies and I was born two years later. Lao Lao moved in to take care of me after her chain smoking husband died from lung cancer and she sold the laundry. George’s parents were deceased. My parents were caught up in the grind of daily life of American professionals and abandoned their cultural identity, unable to pass on Chinese traditions to me, leaving it to Lao Lao. They felt guilty for being too busy to be hands-on parents and showered me with gifts and money to assuage their guilt. Growing up, I was embarrassed by Lao Lao’s thick Chinese accent and difficulty speaking English. Lao Lao was an excellent cook but I was reluctant to invite my friends over to visit because of the strong aromas filling our home. My friends teased me for smelling like “garlic” and always rejected Lao Lao’s gracious invitations to join our family for dinner. I grew distant from Lao Lao. My parents were aware of it as was Lao Lao but they remained silent attributing it to “growing pains”. Lao Lao always attempted to engage me in conversation but I sat silently staring at the television, my cell phone, or lap top. I felt like an American kid and wasn’t uninterested in Lao Lao’s stories of growing up in China and immigrating to the US from Shanghai as a young newlywed. Lao Lao cultivated a small group of friends who played mahjong once a week. She was always talking about her beautiful and brilliant granddaughter with her friends who were always eager to see me. They were old and very Chinese. I didn’t want to spend time with them. She attempted to instill in me our rich heritage and teaching me to speak Chinese. I didn’t understand the language and the traditions were strange and unfamiliar to me so I gravitated away from my heritage, choosing to “fit in” with my Caucasian friends. The ferry arrived at Angel Island and I got off the boat following the signs to the “Immigration Station”. I enjoyed a panoramic view of San Francisco and the East Bay. In the distance, I saw Sather Tower on the Berkeley campus which made me depressed. I began the scenic walk up towards the immigration station buildings. Between 1910 and 1940, approximately 175,000 Chinese immigrants passed through Angel Island under the “Chinese Exclusion Act”. It resembled a detention and deportation center as opposed to an immigrant processing center. The barracks was a prison-like atmosphere where the Chinese immigrants were detained for weeks, months or years. Daily life was humiliating and demoralizing. The immigrants lived in crowed barracks of about 1,000 square feet with one hundred immigrants sleeping in bunk beds placed three high in columns Inside the barracks, I received a text from Teddy. I was eager to hear from him, hoping we would be meeting soon, and I could seek solace from him. His text message read, “Thank you, Amy. I couldn’t have done it without you! You’ll always be my panda cub. Let’s stay in touch.” It was a cruel blow to my heart after a terrible day. I felt rejected, stereotyped, and reduced to a cartoon caricature. I learned Teddy was admitted to Boalt Hall despite having inferior grades and test scores to mine. My parents weren’t surprised and told me Teddy was“legacy” admittance; a privilege of having a father and grandfather who attended Boalt. I looked out the window and saw Asian people of all nationalities sitting underneath the flag pole enjoying the beautiful day with the American fly proudly blowing in the Bay breeze. I wondered what their immigrant experiences might be. I was a privileged child of Chinese parents who were professionals and pondered the experiences of these immigrants from China, Korea, Japan, the Philippines, Southeast Asia, and the Pacific Islands. I was disappointed by the cultural insensitivity of Teddy and his parents who were educated people still harboring stereotypes. I found a concealed place within the barracks, buried my head, and cried myself to sleep. I awoke to hear the Park Ranger shout, “Locking up. Last call for the ferry!” Before I could gather my belongings, rise, and head for the exit, the door slammed shut and was locked. Fearing I broke the law, I refrained from calling for help. I would stay the night until the doors were opened in the morning. I was frightened being in the dark, cold, barracks overnight. I heard creeks and imagined the barking of the guards frustrated with not understanding the language of the inmates. I imagined the weeping and hustle bustle of the barracks. I walked throughout the barracks and came upon poems written in Mandarin which were carved into the wooden walls by the detainees. I ran my hand across the intricate carvings of Chinese calligraphy. I was nicknamed, “Always ready Amy” by my sorority sisters because I was always prepared. I kept a cell phone charger in my purse which enabled me to use the phone’s flashlight and browsing features throughout the night. I was able to find the translations to the poems which spoke to the feelings of the detainees, There are tens of thousands of poems on these walls They are all cries of suffering and sadness The day I am rid of this prison and become successful I must remember that this chapter once existed I must be frugal in my daily needs Needless extravagance usually leads to ruin All my compatriots should remember China Once you have made some small gains, you should return home early. ++++++ This is a message to those who live here not to worry excessively. Instead, you must cast your idle worries to the flowing stream. Experiencing a little ordeal is not hardship. Napoleon was once a prisoner on an island. I garnered strength from the words of the detainees and was indignant at their treatment. Their optimism in the face of their brutal conditions made my disappointments seem shallow in comparison. I began to formulate a plan for my future when the doors opened in the morning and I could return home. I spent the remainder of the long night reviewing photos and videos of my family stored on my phone. Virtually every photo and video showcased Lao Lao beaming with pride and happiness for being with her beloved family. I began to ponder the journey of Lao Lao from China to the United States and wondered about the trials and tribulations she faced along the way. It couldn’t have been easy leaving China for San Francisco as a young wife. I was resolved to make amends with Lao Lao and soak up as much of my culture as she could teach me. I was awakened in the morning by the sounds of the Park Ranger opening the doors and turning on the lights. I immediately dialed my parents both of whom were readying themselves for work and didn’t answer their cell phones. I was cold, hungry, and homesick. I phoned the land line to home and Lao Lao answered. I cried, “Grandma, please come get me. I spent the night on Angels Island!” Lao Lao didn’t ask questions. Without missing a beat, she said, “Don’t worry my dear granddaughter. I’ll be on the next ferry to pick you up.” As the ferry arrived, Lao Lao was at the front of the boat with my down jacket and holding a familiar childhood thermos I knew was filled with my favorite hot cocoa. She also held a bag of Chinese pastries from the bakery we frequented when I was a child. I ran to greet Lao Lao who was helped off the boat by the Captain. For the first time in years, we hugged. No words were spoken. Love and appreciation were communicated between the two hearts generations apart. Lao Lao and I sat closely together, covered by a blanket, as the Ferry left the pier and headed towards San Francisco. A flock of sea birds flew over the ferry boat, and Lao Lao said, “Look my dear granddaughter; it’s the Angels flying over to say good bye and thank you for visiting.” I thought to myself that perhaps the sea birds were the souls of the immigrants I had spent the night with. As the ferry boat moved further from the island, I looked towards the Golden Gate Bridge knowing I no longer wanted to straddle two cultures. I would embrace my Chinese ancestry with the help of Lao Lao. I began spending more time with Lao Lao who taught me our family history, Chinese culture, and Mandarin. I was resolved to use my time wisely and not let my academic disappointments frustrate my new found purpose. I gained strength and determination from the immigrants I met on Angel Island. I found a position as an intern at the “Asian Pacific Islander Law Center” where I quickly rose through the ranks into a paid position after devising a student outreach program for Asian students without a connection to their culture. I wanted to preserve and protect them from assimilation. I enlisted Lao Lao and her friends to be guest speakers which gave them a new found purpose and pleasure in sharing their experiences. I was a fervent fund raiser soliciting prominent Bay Area companies including Silicon Valley behemoths. I completed an evening law school program at Golden Gate University Law School and was the Editor of the Law Review. I rose to become Director of the Law Center and mingled with politicians and the City’s elite. At a fundraiser, I was tapped on the shoulder and the voice was familiar. It was Teddy who had less hair, more of a waistline, and wasn’t sporting a wedding band. Teddy asked, “Hi, Amy. I thought you were a partner by now at a big shot law firm. Where did you end up going to law school? It’s nice to see you again my little Panda.” He leaned into kiss me but I pulled away sarcastically remarking, “Let’s stay in touch”. The uncomfortable meeting was interrupted by the Mayor of San Francisco saying, “Come with me Amy. I want to introduce you to your United States Senator.” Teddy headed for the bar, alone. I’m grateful to the proud souls who shared the evening with me on Angels Island. Our Law Center arranges tours for young people throughout the year so the immigrants are never forgotten. I’m certain they would be proud to know their suffering was not in vain but a valuable teaching opportunity. Although I can’t retrieve the many years I ignored Lao Lao, I’m grateful for reuniting with her. Before she passed, we shared several happy years’ together learning from each other. What appeared to be a life changing setback for me as a young college graduate was actually an invitation to learn my heritage and discover my life’s purpose. Every year on the anniversary of Lao Lao’s death, I visit her grave, place my arms around the tombstone, and say in Mandarin, Wǒ ài nǐ de zǔmǔ
(I love you grandmother)
The Last Match |
Alex Fitzgerald is an aspiring writer who believes in relatable characters and the power of story. Throughout his life, he has created over three-hundred unique characters for his personal projects. Through learning about the human psychology, Alex felt that this was the best way to construct engaging characters. Characters that hold the potential to impact someone’s life. Mr. Fitzgerald has the dream to address the sins of society with storytelling, in hopes of inspiring positive-change for the betterment of our world. |
The Choice
A broken couple stared at another from opposite sides of the room. Raymond was the only one who stood with agonized tears in his eyes. His wife stunned along with the fool beside her. They had been caught in the act.
Raymond couldn’t speak. His heart was ripped out of his chest, that his ribs had been forcibly pried open to expose the empty cavity where his heart used to be. He threw down the gun and gave a look at himself. He was coated in black, earthy dust. While he worn a dense head-to-toe uniform with tattered boots. On his right hand was a black glove while the other had a mechanized drill strapped over his arm. Without hesitation, the glove slapped the floor as he stripped himself of the promise.
A gold wedding band crashed the ground beside two bullet holes. Raymond turned to the door and put on his helmet. All he could say before he left the room was, “You need to leave.”
Raymond thumped down the steps and made his way into the kitchen. His boots stopped when his attention landed on the box.
Before he had went into work, he noticed that his wife was already at the door with a box firmly in her hands. It had been left at the front door that morning after the doorbell rang.
Raymond starred over at that same box, it was a long rectangular box with a red satin bow that was tied elegantly no note was attached.
How could she have done this to us? Why would she do this, doesn’t she love me? Was it what was in the box that caused this?
Raymond caught his hand moving closer before he pulled his hand back.
It wouldn’t resolve anything but feed the endless pit in his stomach. His mind was already scattered. All he wanted was to get away from this, to numb himself of this pain.
Once he stepped outside, a flush of emotions rushed over him. Anger began to burn inside of him like ignited oil that blazed over water. He wanted to turn back. He wanted to kill them both but he had a choice. Raymond put one foot in front of him and didn’t look back.
It wasn’t long until he reached his destination. His feet collided with gravel as he walked up to the gateway. Over on the side a sign read, “Cloverheart's Coal Mine, est. 2018.” Raymond tugged against the fence but felt the locked chains pull back. Without hesitation, he lifted his drill as mechanized steel cut through rustic iron. Metal shackles struck the gravel as the gates opened to their master. A soft breeze welcomed him as shadow clouds began to roll over.
It was around 2am when he had navigated his way deeper into the mine. Raymond ran his hand against the rough walls, he felt the sweat run down his face as oxygen was filtered through the dusty, dark air. Every few yards, he placed an explosive on the wall. He made sure the charge was active before he continued on. He reached a massive wall at the end of the tunnel as sorrow stabbed his heart and dragged him to the ground. Coal tears steamed over the dying fire of his heart. He dried his tears and held the remote in his hand. Raymond’s thumb lightly kissed the detonation trigger.
“God let this be where I begin.”
There was a click that dropped from his hand as series of thunderous bombs shattered the world. With every blast, the walls caved in around him. The earth crashed around Raymond, before darkness enclosed a new beginning.
Marcus Lessard has been published in Frontier Tales, The Write Launch, and has a story forthcoming in Sanitarium Magazine. In writing Bubbles on Fire, Marcus drew from his experience as a chemical engineering student. He wrote portions of this story while he was serving time in prison for the untimely filing of legal documents in violation of a protection order. He lives and works and writes in Boulder, Colorado. You can read some of Marcus’ other short stories at Amazon's Marcus Lessard Page. |
Bubbles on Fire
“Maybe,” the lead engineer turned and said to the man to his right, Frank Patterson, who was the company’s plant manager, “he’s just in there to take a breather.”
A woman in a lab coat nodded. “He did look kind of jumpy when he was handing over those few sheets of calculations he drew up for us. Maybe he’s got anxiety, being in a high-tech environment like this and all. I mean, he’s only a carpet cleaner.”
“Like hell he’s a carpet cleaner,” Patterson snarled, “and like hell he’s trying to help us out with that crap he keeps writing.” Patterson narrowed his eyes in the direction of the closet. “Probably in there texting his bosses over at Cyteck asking how he can further mess with our biz. For pete’s sake, how do we know this guy is not a terrorist! I don’t trust this racket here for a second!” Patterson nudged the tall man standing at the fore of the crowd of dress shirts and lab coats who was in the middle of wiping the smudges of perspiration off of his glasses. “Hold the fort for us, Timmy,” Patterson said. “We’ll talk when I get back. Got a conference call that I’m already five minutes late for because of this bullwhack.”
Tim Sutton nodded. He watched as the plant manager trotted off in the direction of the executive wing. Taking steps away from his colleagues, Tim muttered under his breath so that no one could hear, “Too frumpy looking and wide-eyed to be an imposter. Unless, he’s an imposter of a different sort. Maybe that guy in there is one of us.”
Tim squinted at the clock on the wall.
“In a closet. For five minutes. All the time that one of us might ever need, really.” But then Tim shook himself of the consideration. He knew nothing about the man in the blue coveralls other than the suspicious fact that this man, who had been hired by the company to clean their carpets, was wholly uneducated in the sciences all the while he was about to, maybe, discover for them a cure to the disease known as AIDS.
“I mean, who’s to say this cleaner guy didn’t just lie to us about his ‘I don’t know nothin’ about any of this stuff, guys.’ Or if he is one of us, if he really is a Fire Watcher, that he even knows that he is.” Tim wiped his palms on his pantleg to get some of the sweat off. “Those fifth graders back at Fairlawn Elementary were a whole lot easier on my nerves,” he crooked a smile, disregarding the sideward glances by two or three of the for-hire geneticists.
No fifth graders anymore, because Tim Sutton was now an internationally-renowned scientist, who, by twists of fate unparalleled in the annals of modern synchronistic experience, was now also project manager of the operation at hand. Though, for all his good luck, good looks, worldwide reputation, feature interview in Scientific American magazine, still he and his team of geniuses were not above the occasional brick wall. The worktable in front of them—‘the Motherboard’ he and his associates called it—boasted data sheets that didn’t compute, flow charts that didn’t line up, graphs that were colorful but inconclusive. This was a puzzle that had yet to be solved. Until now.
Maybe.
Tim wiped his palms on his pants again.
Or maybe not.
Rejoining his colleagues, many of them ranking amongst the nation’s brightest in their respective fields, Tim set his sights on the utility closet.
“Lori’s twin brother,” one of the chemical engineers said, interrupting the silence with a nod at the closet. “Can’t you tell, with that round face and finely-combed helmet of blond hair?”
Tim frowned.
The engineer continued, “Heard he quit his cushy job as an insurance agent to start a carpet-cleaning business. Rumor has it that’s why Lori, well, disowned him, I guess you could call it. Says that she never wants to see or talk to him again!”
“Disowned?” a biotechnologist exclaimed. “Can a person disown their own sibling? Is that even possible?”
“And not just any sibling…” The engineer redirected his gaze from the closet door. “A twin sibling. And twins…are closer than close, right? Maybe that’s why Lori went overboard, as whatever twin brother does affects her at some deeper level.” Quieter, the engineer said, “Anyway, I hear there’s more to it than just the career change. Other stuff been going on, too. Besides, you know how Lori can get.”
Tim smiled. So, Lori’s twin brother. Yes, Tim had heard a thing or two about him.
“Oh my god, what’s that!” one of lab techs exclaimed.
Fingers pointed in the direction of the janitor’s closet—at the soft, hazy, orange patch of luminescence from underneath the closet door.
“Fire,” one of the associate lab heads exclaimed. “It’s fire! See, it’s flickering?”
“Someone go get an extinguisher!” a chemist hollered. “Oh my god, break the door down, he might be in trouble!”
Tim stepped forward, raised his voice, “It’s fire under there, all right. But not to worry, everyone. No need to panic. Our little friend will be out momentarily and as right as rain, and with a solution all ready for us.”
The Research and Development area quieted. Wide eyes stared at Tim.
Tim spoke into the silence, “AIDS is a major world problem.” The words echoed all the way to the telephone and clean rooms, there to be heard by the lab techs and business reps who were poking their heads out in curiosity. “Individuals, like this one we got here, arrive on the scene to help solve world problems, both large and small. Oh, like the problems of, say, cancer, climate change, nationalism, globalism, materialism, lack of teleportation modules, civil rights abuses, bad-to-mediocre pop music, no Joe DiMaggio, the list goes on and on. Problems a plenty, fires a few, as the saying goes.” Tim sniggered. “But, first things first. AIDS. We need a cure. And so here comes help in the form of a man with a fire. Helping out’s his MO. And help out, he will. So, no need to worry.”
The door to the janitor’s closet whooshed open.
“I got it! I got it!” the man in the blue coveralls burst out of the closet waving a handful of papers. Rushing headlong toward the converging masses, he exclaimed, “It’s cesium chloride!”
“Cesium chloride?” voices rebutted, surprised.
“That’s what I said—quick, write it down before I forget!”
The handful of papers were sprawled out on the Motherboard, ravenous eyes there to behold the magnum opus of five minutes spent in a utility closet, to behold what would have otherwise taken Tim Sutton and his world-renowned crew upwards of years, decades, even, to figure out on their collective own.
“Get ethyl-pentane into that flow chart! And keep the pressure constant—no, no, that won’t work—right after the condenser sequence, mark it up to 70.3 PSI!”
They marked it up all right. With the man in the blue coveralls orchestrating, scientist and engineer scurried, converged, alighted, compared notes. “Sure enough, the dots connect,” a biochemist took the liberty of announcing, his widening eyes glued to the handwritten pages.
“Rearrange the evaporator with the distiller, and make it steady flow!” the man in the blue coveralls barked at the engineers. They dispersed, some to make calculations at the Motherboard, others to rush off to their computers. And to the chemists: “Use cesium chloride as the reagent. Cesium chloride!”
“Cesium chloride!” the chemists echoed excitedly, flipping through manuals and scanning over graphs and running back and forth.
The voice of Tim Sutton sounded out through the mayhem: “Copies… let’s make some copies of those computations, shall we, people? Before they’re torn to shreds and our little helper here has to venture back into his closet to write them all over again?” Tim let out a deep breath. “If cesium chloride is indeed the missing link,” he said to some blond-haired, lab-coated someone to his left, who was so occupied with the frenetic punching of keys on her laptop to even notice, “then I’ll be damned if we’re not changing the very course of history right now!”
The orders were obeyed. The papers, like the crown jewels, were ushered reverently down to the copier. All the while Lori’s twin brother, the man in the blue coveralls, the man who had been hired to clean their carpets, exhaled long and hard. He wiped his brow.
Tim approached him. “Rob, is it?”
Rob pointed to the name-patch sewn onto the front of his coveralls. “That’s me.”
“Name’s Tim Sutton. I’m in charge here. Won’t you join me for a moment, Rob, in my office? While my associates rummage through your, er, findings?”
“All right.”
* * *
Tim Sutton’s office was not very far, just down the hall.
They entered, whereupon the first thing that Tim did was to direct his visitor’s attention to his computer monitor. “That, Rob, if you’re wondering, and which I’m sure you are, is where my fire is at…” But Rob had his sights instead on all of the anomalies: a portrait of Einstein framed up on the far wall; beakers and flasks of every configuration and size set atop endless rows of shelves; an immense bookcase packed with scientific volumes; and, reposing on a windowsill with legs dangling over the ledge—a stuffed doll, Spongebob, which in this hotbed of science and technology looked almost as anomalous as it was well worn.
“And over here…” Tim repeated for what was now the third time, “we have my computer monitor.” Finally, Rob looked over at it. “And displayed on that computer monitor we have…” Tim swiveled the monitor around for his visitor to see “…a screensaver.” A gleam which bespoke anticipation shone in Tim’s eye. “A Colorado Rocky Mountains screensaver that flares up, bursts into flame, at those very special moments when…”
Confused by this reference to the project manager’s screensaver, Rob wondered if all of the excitement had maybe gotten to the project manager’s head, as sure enough it had gotten to his own! Rob glanced over at the leather chair opposite Tim’s desk.
Tim followed Rob’s gaze. “Have a seat,” Tim offered.
His visitor sat down.
“So—” Tim said.
“Uh-um.” Rob wiggled around in his chair.
“You were saying, this…effect, this visionary intelligence you’ve got going on right now, is short-lived, will wear off? And that’s why you’re having us rush around like…supercharged electrons?”
Rob peeked at his wristwatch. “Correct,” he said. “Kinda hard to explain, but, yes, two or three more minutes, tops. So, you’d better ask whatever questions you have now, as after that I can’t promise anything as my carriage will have since turned back into a pumpkin.”
“A pumpkin.” Tim pondered. “I see.” He leaned forward in his chair. “Rob…may I call you Rob?”
“Call me anything you want, okay? I’m here to help and then I split. No speeches, no awards, no follow-up phone calls, got it?”
Tim eased a smile. He answered, coolly, “Fair enough. Upon the same token though, you’d be a rather difficult fish to just toss back into the sea. Not only have you assisted the chemists and biologists with your postulatory findings, but you’ve put us light-years ahead of the game by then calling over those engineer and biotechnologist contractors we have and actually designing the production process. And yet, you say you’ve no formal education in the sciences?” The project manager looked over. “Tell me, Rob, how long have you been a…”
“Carpet professional?”
“A carpet professional, yes.”
“About three months. Not counting the training. You know, learning how to add the cleaning solution, wheel about the Steam-o-Matic Super II Series, types of rugs to avoid and all.” Rob darted his eyes around in search of a cigarette, a cup of water, a stick of gum, anything to displace the words that he feared might come out. “’Course I used to be an insurance agent for one of those big downtown insurance companies. But, well, you see, I’ve since found bubbles.” Rob cleared his throat. “Actually, it’s the bubbles that found me!”
Rob sighed, assured now that this Sutton guy, a scientist, no less, would, just like his sister and so many others, view him as crazy and discount his “postulatory findings”—or whatever it was that he had called them—entirely.
“Bubbles…” Tim murmured, “…found him. Interesting, perhaps.” Tim raised his voice, “An insurance agent? For one of those big downtown firms? And now, as fate would have it, a carpet cleaner guy? Pardon my asking, Rob, and listen, I’m sure as heck not your guidance counselor, but mightn’t you have found it a bit more fulfilling if you were to…what, what’s wrong?”
“It’s gone. The carriage is gone. It’s left me. I-I don’t think I can be of help anymore.” Rob arose. “Welp, best be getting back to those online-dating site girls that never respond to my messages, to watching Game of Throne reruns, while I wait for my next call for work. Excuse me.” Rob walked--
To the door.
And reaching for the doorknob, watched as it turned all by itself.
A bald man with thick, hairy arms, squarish chin, reddened eyes, baldish head, and a not-so-happy look upon a face that appeared to Rob to have been specially molded as to feature such a look—bulldogged his way into Tim’s office. Rob sat back down.
The man looked from Tim to Rob then back at Tim. “All right, Timmy,” he said. “I’ve heard. And listen here, so long as my name is Frank Patterson this cesium chloride nonsense just ain’t gonna fly.” Patterson eyed Rob. “Who the hell is this!”
“Ah, Plant Manager Patterson. Always a pleasure.” The project manager indeed seemed pleased. “Frank, allow me to introduce a special someone to you. This gentleman here to my left is Rob. Our new little helper. The man in the closet who you maybe didn’t get a chance to see in person because you were over at research for only like a minute.”
Rob waved.
Patterson bypassed the usual courtesy of a handshake, a nod, even a look over. “Bottom line, Timmy, the research area’s a mad house right now, everyone’s going berserk! Will someone please explain what in the high hell has been going on out there?”
“I’ll explain, sir.” Rob attempted a smile. Patterson frowned. “See, sir, it all began when…”
Rob was about to give his usual spiel about lucky guesses, and how terribly sorry he was for having intruded upon their affairs, when he noticed the plant manager’s face began to take on a crimson color, suggesting that maybe this was one of those times when carpet-cleaning guys and the like should just bypass explanation and zip it. Rob stopped talking.
Patterson broke the ominous silence. “Rumor has it, Timmy, that Lori, accountant Lori, was this cleaner guy’s cousin, or ex, or something. She’ll be joining us momentarily.”
The office door opened behind them.
But it wasn’t Lori. Rather, it was a chemist and an engineer, who, rushing in headlong, began to reel off questions so rapid-fire that even Tim appeared unable to distinguish between the tetrafluorides and the hydroxyl-oxylides.
“Oh, Mr. Patterson!” the engineer exclaimed, noticing the plant manager for the first time.
Patterson motioned for the engineer to continue. “Pretend as if I’m not even here.” The chemist and engineer looked at one another. “Go on, ask the stoolie your question!”
The chemist, technically a biotechnologist, stepped forward. “Tell us,” he muttered, “the catalyst for the fourth stage reaction…you left it blank. Surely there is a catalyst for that reaction…”
Rob bit his lip. “Yes, er, surely,” he said. Rob all of a sudden had no idea what a “catalyst” was, nor how to respond to the question posed. He stole a glance over at the periodicals and volumes stacked in piles atop Tim’s desk, there to spot a word that appeared chemistry-sounding enough. “Lawrencium?” he heard the word escape his lips. His eyes widened. “That—might not be right though.”
“It may be wrong, is what he’s saying,” Patterson clarified.
The chemist batted his eyes. “L-L-Lawrencium?” the word fumbled out of his mouth.
“Lawrencium,” the engineer noted from his spot over by the door, “is radioactive.”
“And very expensive, and very hard to come by,” Patterson said with piercing black eyes framed into an expressionless face.
Everyone could hear the steps out in the hallway. A young woman entered Tim’s office, announcing, “Okay, I’m here.”
Everyone noticed the young woman’s eyes spring open the moment they lighted upon the man in the blue coveralls, whom, with the exception of gender, was the very carbon copy of herself. They saw the young woman’s eyes narrow. They heard her curse under her breath.
Patterson addressed chemist and engineer, “All right, you two—scram! Upper management’s got a bone to pick with certain at-risk individuals. Also…” the plant manager added, freezing the chemist’s hand onto the doorknob, “tell ‘em to hold the works out there until I find out what in blazes is goin’ on in here!”
Tim offered the remark that Frank’s “blazes” mention, was, under the circumstances, rather appropriate. Patterson replied that Tim “was acting weird today too.” Everyone waited as engineer and chemist cleared out of Tim’s office. Patterson called out after them, “And don’t you even think about throwing any Lawrencium into that mix!”
Tim Sutton swiveled in his chair. Amusedly, he said, “Pretty sure we don’t have any of that in stock, Frank. It being radioactive and all.”
“Damned right we don’t!” Patterson exclaimed, eyeing Rob.
Patterson’s face went from cougar to kitten in an instant, his features softening. Looking over at the newcomer, he purred in a patronizing tenor, “Well, Lori, and how is finance treating you these days?”
Locking gazes with the man in the blue coveralls, Lori answered after a moment’s pause, “Well, Frank, there are good days, and then there are not so good days…” Lori took a deep breath. “Then, there are those days when one can’t rightly tell good or not-so-good because of how incredibly complicated certain individuals make life out to be.”
It was like he was looking into a mirror when she turned to him. “Well,” Lori said, folding her arms, “and so here we have it: Mr. Clean pays a visit to Lori’s workplace. What’s the deal, now, Rob? Is it maybe that the magic mystery bubbles are none too pleased ‘bout how Lori had landed some hard truth on the chin of their Bubble Master Rob, and now they’re here to float Lori away, or something, as retribution? Or has the Steam-o-Matic maybe come to relay the message to our dear plant manager here that if he converts to Bubbles Believin’, the bubbles will pull some celestial strings and see to it that his Broncos win the Super Bowl next season?”
Patterson stirred. “What’s this about my Broncos?”
Speaking as if to a child, Lori said, “How is it, Rob, you even got in here? No joke, this is a highly restricted area. They call it the re-search and devel-op-ment department. No cleaning guys allowed in, ‘kay?” Lori licked her lips. “Was it to speak to me that you snuck in here? Havin’ some second thoughts, maybe, ‘bout some of those common sense suggestions I offered you?” She stiffened. “Well, you got my phone number. Call, next time, instead of coming over here and creating all of this fuss.”
Deep in thought, Patterson eyed the twins. His gaze appeared to hone in on the identical shape of their noses. “Very interesting,” he said, folding his hands. “So, the dissociation approach, then. That’s your little scheme, eh? Distance yourself from him. Make me think that you despise him. Yes, you’re a very clever girl!”
With a pinched look, Lori responded, “This here’s…Rob Denkins … my much-to-be-pitied twin brother with whom I’ve had some disagreements of late. Little scheme? I don’t know what you’re talking about, Frank.”
Patterson smirked. “Rob Denkins,” he said, his eyes theatrical, borderline hysterical. “The carpet cleaner guy who came out of nowhere and out of the kindness of his heart offered to help us solve the biggest project that this company has ever taken on. No relevant work history. Evidently no education. A total stranger, and yet who insisted that we follow his every directive, which included throwing Lawrencium, a radioactive metal, into the chemical equations that drive the processes to the biggest project this company has ever taken on!” Patterson shuddered with rage. “No wait, phooey to that total stranger bit. This Rob guy, come to find out, is Lori from Accounting’s twin brother. And so why not trust him implicitly!”
Tim cleared his throat. “With all due respect, Frank, shouldn’t you be thankful that he’s come up with a solution to—”
“Solution!” the plant manager roared. “Who the hell comes up with a solution to the AIDS epidemic in five minutes!”
“Only special someones can do things like that,” Lori muttered, cutting a glance over at Tim.
Patterson turned to Rob, smirking. “You’d like to blow us all up, wouldn’t you, twin brother?”
Tim removed his glasses. “Mr. Patterson … Frank … now, you don’t honestly believe—”
“Now, now, Timmy. Let’s not be naïve. We have those competitors over in Salt Lake, yes? White-coat witch doctors over at Cyteck Industries who’d like nothing better than to throw a wrench, a stink-bomb, an undercover chemist posing as janitor—or twin brother, or carpet cleaner dude—into our racket the first chance they can get!”
Tim rolled his eyes. “Sir, have you been drinking again?” he said.
Patterson flinched. “What! ‘Course I ain’t been drinkin’. What the hell kind of question is that!” He took a step forward. “Just you watch yourself, Mr. Timmy. For asking questions like that don’t you know that I could have your ass fired?”
Tim said, musing, “Fired. On Fire. All fired up. We didn’t start the fire.” He turned to Rob. “What do you think the etymology of that word might be, Rob? Fired.”
“Rob is unexpected,” Lori said, “and something different. No question about that. But he’s just a silly goose sometimes, not a chemist or undercover anything. And there’s no secret plot between him, me, and whomever else, Mr. Patterson.”
Rob wanted to thank Lori for words well spoken. Instead he decided to come clean. “The only secret that I have, sir, involves, well, bubbles, and helping people solve problems with the help of, you know…the bubbles!”
Slapping palm up against forehead, Lori shook her head.
Rob stammered, “And … and Lori here—” he cut a glance her way “—works in finance. What does she know about chemistry stuff or about this project?”
“For the record, I’d like to second that emotion,” Tim chimed in, siding a glance over at the plant manager. “About Lori, I mean. There’s really no way she could be an informant for Cyteck, or whomever else. Our offerings out there on the Motherboard have been, up until today, on the level of just brainstorming. Also, the security clearance we’ve got in place for Project SP1000 is highest level. She wouldn’t know much about what we’ve got going on in there.”
“There are ways to find things out,” Patterson said flatly.
Tim continued, “Keep in mind, too, Frank, that it was I who had requested the backup cleaner. And so, that this young man here should turn out to be Lori’s twin brother is, um, well—” Tim exchanged glances with Lori “—on the level of pure coincidence, I guess you could say.” Tim smiled. “You’d be surprised, Frank, at the sheer number of coincidences one may run into when they’re operating along a certain line.”
Patterson narrowed his eyes. “What the hell’s that s’pposed to mean?” he growled.
“Please, everyone,” Rob interjected, “allow me to explain.”
“Oh won’t you!” Patterson erupted. “Explain how a janitor, friggin’ Einstein even, could off the top of his head vomit out information the equivalent to five, seven, ten-plus years of research and development?”
Tim leaned forward in his chair. “Rob, explain for us, please.”
Rob took a deep breath. He would try.“Okay, so, I get a call this morning from your human resources department, saying, ‘Hey, Bubbles Incorporated, we need a carpet cleaned over here, and on the double.’”
“The Motherboard area has been awfully hectic these past few weeks,” Tim interjected softly. “Lab and cleans rooms have needed mopping, carpets in the conference rooms are imbedded all over with shoeprints and coffee stains. Our regular janitor’s been out sick. Got that flu that’s been going around. Like I said, I’d requested that call myself.”
“Anyway, so,” Rob continued, “got in my van and drove over here, like, right away. And needless to say, I knew the way, because, well, this is where Lori works! So, there I was, steam-cleaning away around the—Motherboard, I guess you guys call it. I had one eye on the Steam-o-Matic Super II Series cleaner and the other on the equations and the diagrams on top of the Motherboard, when all of a sudden I realized that, well, I understood the stuff!” Rob shot a glance over at the plant manager, who was looking on with an expression that was deadpan but not altogether menacing. Rob decided it safe to continue: “No sooner, then, did I look down and see that bubbles—just like I had expected, hoped, feared—were floating in torrents out of the cleaning solution tank. Right then and there I knew that it was going to be a long day. So, I locked myself up in the nearby mop closet to be alone with, of course, the bubbles—the source of my inspiration, and to absorb whatever it was that the bubbles at that moment wanted to share with me. Information, it would turn out, that had to do with this fancy project of yours and cutting-edge chemistry-type stuff—all of which I’ve since somehow forgotten.”
The plant manager, Rob noticed, was starting to grow tomato in color all over again. Steadying himself, Rob continued, “Anyway, comin’ out a few minutes later, I felt it my duty to pass along some of that information to a nearby someone. Next thing I know, everyone is wantin’ to know what the stage two reagent is which drives the entire ten-stage reaction that would reverse the HIV-mutation-scheme thingy, and give you your cure. So, I’m back in the closet again. Then, I’m back out of the closet with the equations in hand yelling ‘cesium chloride, cesium chloride!’ Wheh. So, that’s what happened.” Rob swallowed, hard. He exhaled. He looked longingly in the direction of the door.
“Hmmph,” Lori said, but it was a thoughtful hmmph.
Patterson just shook his head.
Tim’s eyes lit up. He nodded. “Rob…” He leaned over his desktop. “I realize this may sound crazy but…I believe you.” And then, almost inaudibly, “Those bubbles were on fire, weren’t they?”
“Well, yeah, those cleaning solution bubbles? Yeah. Fire. How could you possibly have known that?”
Lori looked long and hard at her brother.
Patterson crossed his arms. “Your company is called Bubbles Incorporated? Business card. I’d like to see it, please.”
“See, I got trained and certified online—”
“Business card!”
Rob fumbled a hand into his pocket; out flopped his business card. Rob scooped it up off the floor, handed it over.
Patterson pronounced the words aloud, “Rob-ert Den-kins. Own-er. Op-er-ator.”
Rob coughed. “It’s a one-man operation. I’m just starting out. It’s rough startin’ out, what with all those customers and only one me. Maybe one day, though, I’ll hire an assistant who’ll be able to help me out with things like—”
“Put a sock in it, spy!” Patterson pocketed the business card.
Tim guffawed. He shook his head. “Frank, if you don’t mind my saying, I think maybe you need to calm down a little.”
Patterson scrunched his face up, pursed his lips. Reddening, “I am calmed down!” he bellowed.
Lori smiled over. “He’s right. You should’ve seen him earlier.”
Patterson breathed. He checked his wristwatch. “Ah, cripe. All of this mayhem made me almost forget. C’mon…” He tapped Lori on the shoulder. “The quarterly meeting starts in three minutes. Roundtable for next year’s budget. I hope you’re ready to give those federal sponsors hell!”
“Leaving so soon?” Tim said, rising. He walked over to escort Lori and Patterson out the door of his office, but not before Lori, as she slipped past Rob, mouthed the words, “I’ll be back. We’ll talk.”
The door snapped shut.
As Rob sat eyeing it, pondering it, and many other things besides.
Tim’s exasperation as he fell back into his seat, sighing deeply and repeatedly, was not lost on Rob.
Finally, Tim stopped sighing and looked over. “Look, I’d really like to apologize,” he said, shedding wrapper and popping into his mouth a Fireball candy that he had extracted from his desk drawer. “Patterson’s usually not this edgy. Last few months though…divorce proceedings. Messy. Tense. He’s started drinking again. Wife left him, see.” Tim folded his hands. “Six months of whiskey-drinking, hair loss, high blood pressure, visits to the company psychiatrist…” Tim rocked forward in his chair. “You see, word is that yours-truly may be promoted as the new plant manager, and Frank Patterson booted. I think that’s why Patterson wants this project to fail, as its success would reflect positively on me.”
Tim crinkled up, then flicked the cellophane candy wrapper, landing it on the desktop. Rob’s eyes were greeted with the words on the wrapper in front of him: Atomic Fireball. “Ah, but, shucks, you, of all people, Rob, if you don’t mind my saying, must know as well as anyone just how messy things can get between family members…” His eyes met Rob’s “…am I right?”
Rob saw the bait for what it was, and went for it anyway.
“Sure, I guess I know a thing or two about family feuds,” Rob conceded, fighting but failing to prevent the upwards curve of a knowing smile.
Tim said, “Lori is your, uh, your sister?”
“Twin sister…in case you didn’t notice.”
Tim nodded. “And I noticed something else, too. And now, it’s not because I mean to pry…”
“She’s mad at me. Not talking to me. At all, anymore.” Rob straightened in his chair. “She’s upset over certain, er, decisions I’ve made which she’s described as ‘sucking balls’—” Tim froze in mid-suck; Rob’s pun was however unintentional. He went right on: “Anyway, so, I guess the reason why I’m still here, instead of packin’ up all my cleaning supplies and heading on home is because—”
“Of Lori,” Tim said, his fingers tapping on the desktop. “Hmm. Yes, your sister did mention to me about having a twin, and that she was having a bit of a dilemma, even, in regards to him.” Tim stopped tapping. “Didn’t offer much in the way of details, though. Never even told me your name. Must’ve wanted to handle the situation on her own.” A troubled look darkened Tim’s face. “Should’ve sought me out for further advice,” he mumbled. “And she wonders why she’s only an Intermediary.”
Rob raised an eyebrow. “Intermediary?”
Tim coughed. “Rob…yes, that name does ring a bell, come to think of it. Anyway, my recommendation to her was that she test her twin brother.”
“Test me? For what? What are you talking—?”
“I’m talking about you. And Lori. And how she had whispered in your ear about coming back over here. And so that’s why you are still here.” Tim leveled his gaze. “Right?”
Rob eased back into his chair. “You heard, then.” He pondered. Leaning forward, he said, “See, with Lori bein’ my twin sister and all, I’d really like to get things patched up with her. After Mom and Dad died those few years back in that car accident, she’s now the only family I got.” Rob grew melancholy. “And I hate to say this about my own sister but...” Rob swallowed. “She’s been acting like a regular b-i-t-c-h, lately. I mean, cutting ties completely with her own twin brother because of a career change? It’s not like I’ve been drinking, homeless, taken up a life of crime.”
Yet Rob knew of another reason why he had for staying put. Namely, how had this Tim person known about those “fires” that would flare up whenever Rob experienced his bubble revelations? Also, why testing? For what?
Rob wanted so desperately to know; and yet, something inside him seemed to prevent him from asking the question directly. Afterwards, would Rob consider that it was a full-on Solstine Proliferation that had done the preventing, to draw out the conversation in order to allow Rob to make a fully informed decision about joining the club.
“Yeah, Lori…” Rob said, deciding to speak on about this subject that was really no business of the project manager’s yet which might prove to be the small talk necessary to fill in the time until Lori’s return. “She was pretty peeved after I told her that I’d be ditching my job as insurance agent to clean carpets.”
Rob entertained a sideward glance out of Tim’s window; however, his sights were soon snatched away by the SpongeBob doll reposing in the window’s foreground, legs dangling over the sill, and which seemed to beckon him.
“I guess,” Rob said at SpongeBob, “it’s ‘cause we’re twins, and all our lives have been pretty much, well, inseparable, that Lori’s taking the whole thing personally. She said that I wasn’t living up to my potential, that I was a shame to the family, blah, blah, blah.” Rob shrugged. “You know, that sort of thing.”
The irresistible thought surged into the fore of Rob’s consciousness: SpongeBob means something: he’s important. Tearing his sights away, and continuing in his purpose to bide time with chatter, Rob went on, “In a rare moment, I got, then, all philosophical with Lori. Told her that there were bigger things out there, forever-type things, and it was these things that I wanted to focus on and hopefully partake in by becoming, of course, a carpet cleaner.”
Tim placed his chin in his hand. “Hmm.”
As Rob blabbered on, “Oh, and also, and to try to bring the point home that I was trying to make, I shared then with Lori some of the experiences I’d had on the job with, you know—” Rob fastened his gaze “—the bubbles.” Rob shifted in his seat. “Anyway, so, that’s when Lori went totally off the deep end and stopped talking to me.”
Tim asked, “And she hasn’t talked to you since?”
“Not until today.”
With his cinnamon candy continuing to brand the hollow of his mouth, Tim, furrowing his brow, remarked, “These many things that you’re saying are, gosh, certainly interesting. And for sure there’s something to be said about wanting to be a part of something bigger, as they say.” Tim sat up in his chair. He smiled, broadly.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Rob said.
“The scientist in me, Rob, has calculated that it is time.”
Rob blinked. “What?”
“And I’m sure Lori wouldn’t mind, either. In fact, she’d probably want it this way, all things considered. Besides, I’ve got seniority.” Swiveling his chair around, Tim directed, by way of neck spasm, his visitor’s attention to the office wall behind them—which showcased a window, and beside it, a solitary diploma set in a frame.
Rob noticed that it was a bachelor’s degree, which surprised him. His every expectation was that this individual would have been a PhD of some sort.
Tim said, “You’ll notice, and might think it strange, that this degree you see here is in elementary education.” Rob did think it strange, though not as strange as he might have was not the greater part of his brain still trying to wrap itself around Tim’s lingo about Lori, seniority and such, and had not his sights since shifted sideways to the windowsill, there to hone in on SpongeBob--
Which means something…
That doll, Rob mused. Plush, yellow, goofy smile, dangling skinny legs, a stuffed animal item plunked down into all of this highfalutin academia of books, beakers, quadratic formulas, Einstein posters…
“That’s me,” Tim said, weakly. He looked downright frumpy with his crooked smile on.
Rob blinked. “What?”
Tim stayed his eyes on the diploma. “Me. A teacher. Is who I am, by trade.” Tim raised an eyebrow. “Had not fate intervened, I would right now be working as an elementary school teacher. Teaching is what I love. It’s my passion.” Tim paused. “But then…” He lowered his voice “…a certain screensaver with photo on it of Rocky Mountain National Park entered my life.”
In an even voice that belied his growing aggravation with the project manager’s incessant small talk and inability to at times make any sense at all, Rob asked, “So, what’s all this you’ve been saying about your screensaver…?”
Shaking his head, Tim smiled. “I thought you’d never ask.” He swiveled back around to face his visitor. “You see, Rob … and indulge me here for a moment, if you would. Even though I was certified to work with kids, and did end up working as a fifth-grade teacher, growing up I’d been what you might call a science wiz, even though I didn’t care much for science. My senior year in high school, MIT offered me a scholarship and I had to purposely flunk a physics exam to get the recruits off my back. Ended up majoring in education instead. Got this diploma.”
Tim’s face shone with genuine pride as he craned his neck to behold his framed certificate of accomplishment. “Years passed, and even as I reveled in my dream job as a fifth-grade teacher, the thought kept coming at me that the world would be better served if Tim Sutton served as scientist, instead of schoolteacher. That inner voice, that unction, kept at me. It wouldn’t go away.”
Rob scratched his head. “So, um, you’re telling me all of this because…it’s supposed to have something to do with a screensaver with a picture of some mountains on it?”
“Yes, Rob, yes. For, see, not knowing how else to at all address that inner voice, as a token gesture one day I decided to replace the cartoon screensaver that I’d had on my laptop at the time and which as well as anything captured the essence of my life identity back then—as schoolteacher, with this more grown up—I guess you could say it was more grown up, that was my own thought anyway--natural landscape themed screensaver.” Tim divided glances between his computer monitor, and visitor, until finally they settled on Rob.
“This token act was my message to that inner voice that I was ready to grow up, that I was ready to stop doing what I wanted to do and start doing what needed to be done; that, if the world needed me to trade in my teacher’s ruler for an electron microscope—then I’d do it. Soon afterwards, Rob—well, let’s just say things began to happen.” Tim tapped his fingers on his desktop. “Let’s just say, that a certain screensaver featuring some peaks and precipices topped with fire took it from there.”
In the moment’s silence that ensued, Rob’s ears picked up the back-and-forth rustle of footsteps out in the hallway, the feverish exchange of voices: I created that whole, wild, wondrous mess out there, Rob thought.
No, Tim’s eyes seemed to answer, it was your fire bubbles that did it. Just then Tim’s mouth said:
“And ever since they took it from there—the mountains, that is,” Tim folded his hands. “I rest content to develop ingenious solutions to the world’s antibiotic and antiserum needs. Otherwise boring stuff in my opinion—that’s right, boring!—and yet, because of something unexplainable, magical even, that same boring stuff’s been transformed into a kind of wonderland for me.” Tim leaned back in his chair. “Then, this position was offered to me, right here in Denver, the Mile High City, located at the very base of those Rocky Mountains. It was like the stars were all lining up.”
“We’re in Brighton, actually,” Rob corrected. “Not Denver.”
“Yes, but it’s the Denver area.” Taking a deep breath, “Before,” Tim said, “I educated children by way of words. Now, I educate the world by way of discovery.”
Rob had an inkling. “That…” he said, “…cartoon screensaver, one you’d had on your computer originally, one you’d exchanged for the more, er, grown-up Rocky Mountain deal, it was—?”
“A SpongeBob screensaver, sure enough,” Tim said. “Perhaps you’ve noticed this little guy that I keep parked over here on my windowsill?” Tim swiveled his chair around, pointed. “I keep him there as a reminder to myself of who I am, in contrast with what I am, which is an oftentimes overappreciated and certainly overpaid laureate scientist.”
All very curious, no doubt, but was any of this supposed to be making any kind of sense, Rob wondered? All of a sudden he had more questions than answers. Also, he wondered if Lori was ever going to return.
“But enough about me,” Tim said, raising an eyebrow. Are you ready now, maybe, to clue me in on a little more of the hows, whys, and whats of your exploits out there on our shop floor this morning? Don’t you realize that your findings today have not only saved our butts but the butts of suffering AIDS patients from here to Indonesia? I’d say that’s worthy of a word of explanation.”
Rob was fairly sure that he had shared a word of explanation already. Still, he could see the project manager’s point. Good, Rob thought to himself. He wants me to talk finally about the bubbles. Now we’re getting somewhere.
Last spring, late March.
Flashback video-reels in Rob’s mind spun into motion, which set his knees to shaking, his heart to trembling. With the tenor of his speech alternating between blithe and blustery, Rob recounted how over the course of that previous spring he had “rented one of those new industrial-strength Steam-o-Matic steam cleaners,” and how “Steam-cleanin’ had been just a part-time gig” for him at the time, to supplement his income at the insurance company.
Rob took a deep breath. “Then, one day, the Steam-o-Matic began to bubble, and I’d become aware of stuff.”
“Aware of stuff?” Tim removed his glasses. “Like what?”
“Like, well, for example there was this time that I was steam-cleanin’ this lady’s living room over in Golden when, all of a sudden, the thought struck me that some really important something was hiding out in the shed in her back yard. The vision was so strong that finally I decided to share this premonition I had with Cheryl—”
“Cheryl?”
Rob swallowed. “That was the woman’s name. Anyway, sure enough, we sighted Cheryl’s long-lost wedding ring nestled inside a pair of gardening gloves way at the back of the shed. She was so happy that I even got a kiss on the cheek out of it!”
Rob told of how the bubbles had compelled him to, on a whim, flip the off switch on his Steam-o-Matic, sit down at a nearby piano, and how the bubbles then “used” him and his “total lack of musical ear” to perform a passable rendition of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata specially for ninety-one year-old Boulder resident Henry Fleming. “Only,” Rob put in, “I didn’t know it was for him. The old man had been upstairs at the time, with his lawyer, about to sign the will that would bequeath his estate to his children instead of to the bureaucrats, when all of a sudden the old-timer’s heart began to buck, spasm, fibrillate. I was told afterwards that the honeyed melody of my piano playing that he could hear coming up the stairwell from downstairs soothed his failing heart just long enough for him to put his signature on that will.”
Tim nodded, slowly.
Rob spoke of how on another occasions he was “cleaning this guy’s living room and saw a framed picture of his son on the mantel, and just seeing that picture I knew that the son, who was, like, five-hundred miles away at the time, was all alone in an auto-body shop and pinned underneath a Mazda Miata—”
“Got it, Rob. I think I got it. Thank you.” Tim folded his leg overtop the knee of his other leg. “Now, as for these bubbles themselves…”
“Okay, so…” Rob wet his lips, “just prior to those revelations, I would notice that my Steam-o-Matic would emit these mysterious, well, bubbles…that are encircled by what looks to be fire…darty, reddish-orange flames. There’s no logical explanation for the bubbles, and certainly not for the flames that I keep seeing on those bubbles. I’ve read the user’s manual and butted heads with the help-desk people at Steam-o-Matic, all who insist that the Super II Series is not designed to, nor could it ever possibly, effervesce.”
Rob noticed that his fingernails were like cat’s claws gouging into the leather of his armrest. Giving the chair a reprieve, Rob said, “Anyway, noticing the pattern of one, steam cleanin’, two, bubbles, three, fire on bubbles, and four, revelations, finally I just decided to purchase the Steam-o-Matic outright, quit my day job, and so this is what I do now. I clean carpets and wait for the bubbles, fire and revelations which I know will follow.”
Rob observed that Tim’s expression was neither mocking nor incredulous. “And then, today, this very afternoon, the bubbles showed up again. So … there you have it.”
Tim’s smile grew, and grew, until out came laughter. Not mocking laughter, Rob observed, but of the mirthful sort, as if the project manager might actually not think that Rob was completely out of his gourd.
“That’s a very interesting story!” Finally, Tim stopped laughing. He raised an eyebrow. “Have you come across anyone who actually believes it?”
“No,” Rob answered. He hesitated. “Except for the people whom I help, and only because they can’t think of any other explanation for the solutions that I give them. Also, the bubbles, and the fire, always seem to appear when no one is around. No one has seen them but me.”
Rob sighed. He felt suddenly nauseous. Spilling all the intimate details of the good acts that he had done which in reality he had not done at all—it was the bubbles had done it—made the whole thing feel like stolen valor. He was nothing special.
“Neither was Peter Parker. Nor Clark Kent,” Tim said, a gleam in his eye. “It was what they came into contact with that made them special.”
Rob froze in his chair. “What?” he said.
Tim smiled. “They were nothing special in and of themselves, is what I’m saying.”
Rob relaxed, reminding himself not to allow his thoughts to so easily reveal themselves by way of overwrought facial expression. But then, Rob furrowed his brow, attempting to remember what in fact his face had been doing that moment ago, if anything, in the way of expression.
Straightening his glasses, Tim said, “As a scientist, Rob, and pragmatist, and optimist, I have come to conclude that there are a great many things in this world that we label impossible but in reality ARE possible only we haven’t progressed far enough to properly understand them.”
It wasn’t that Rob didn’t hear, but that he wasn’t listening. The greater part of him just wanted to go home.
“You did what you did to help people, is that it? Or rather, to help the bubbles help you to help people? That’s why you quit your job to become a carpet cleanin’ guy—to facilitate the bubbles, right?” Tim leaned back in his chair. “I understand.”
Rob grumbled something in the affirmative. He stood. “Well, like I said, the revelations I had earlier about your medical research project … have since faded. I can’t, now, be of any help to you any more than any other carpet professional. Oh, and forget what I said earlier about the Lawrencium. That was said post-revelation. I don’t know why I said it.”
“You said it because you’re just a rug-scrubbin’ feller who didn’t know what to say because his fire bubble revelations had since run their course.” Tim fell prey to another bout of laughter. Then Tim stopped laughing. Then Tim winked.
Which intrigued Rob, but not enough to prevent him from rising to say, “Well, maybe I should be going. If Lori still wants to get in touch with me, tell her that she has my number, she can call.” Rob began to put one foot in front of the other in the direction of the door.
Tim jumped up, scampered over, seized Rob by the sleeve of his shirt. “Please, don’t leave just yet. Something else that I want to tell you.”
Rob thought about it. He sighed. He sat back down. “What?” he said.
Gobbling up another Fireball, Tim said, “Perhaps you’ll find what I’m about to say, Rob, a bit difficult to believe—”
“I’m listening.” Rob wiggled around in his seat, wiped a layer of cold sweat off his brow. “I guess.”
“You see…” Tim leaned back in his chair. “There was this time, not so long ago, that I learned to speak Russian—fluent Russian—over the course of a lunch break.”
Rob stretched a slow, sarcastic smile. “Go on.”
“I will. See, in between sips of the Dr. Pepper that I’d had with me that day, I sat here, at this very desk, chatting it up on this very phone with the director of the Russian Bureau for Infectious Diseases, who, after ten minutes of listening to what I had to tell him, quickly connected me with the Kremlin. That’s right, the Kremlin! Connected me with its most esteemed occupant. Imagine, if you would, Mr. Putin’s response when I began expounding for him, not in the language of chemistry, mind you, but in the languages of microbiology and environmental engineering—subjects of which I am, granted, competent, but hardly adept. I explained to him the, er, Volga River Dilemma—my name for it—about how that great Russian river had, at specified locales—as specified by me—become a cesspool of cholera bacterium. Then I advised Putin—in fluent Russian, mind you, and with all the correct scientific terminologies—as to how his country might go about getting rid of the cholera bacterium—an otherwise unorthodox methodology, one that incorporated the use of nineteen dredges, at least one truckload of mesh netting, 231 shovels, 231 sets of hands and arms to man the shovels, five metric tons of electrolyzed CVS-brand shaving cream—the Mountains prescribe generic, go figure!——” Tim shrugged “—7.44 kiloliters of a mystery catalyst that I am however not at liberty to divulge here, Rob—if you don’t mind, as a subcommittee from the United Nations has since swore me to secrecy—and some carbolic acid tinctured with charcoal thrown in as solvent.”
Tim folded his hands together. “Putin, I couldn’t believe it, listened. Fast-forward, then, to a few months afterward when The New York Times published an article headlined Volga River Victory: Putin Creams Cholera. The Russian government had followed my lead. I was right.”
Rob scratched his head. “I do find that kinda hard to believe,” he said, the lines of his face all scrunched up in thought. Tim looked at that face as if hoping it might offer a constructive criticism or two in reply. It didn’t. It wouldn’t. It wasn’t ready. Instead, Rob lamented, “Look, all of this sounds really intriguing, but I still don’t know what it is that you’re trying to tell me.” And yet Rob wondered if maybe he did know.
“I’d no idea,” Tim swiped his hand. “None whatsoever. No prior knowledge of a cholera epidemic, nor of the curative properties of that crazy fix I had reciped up for the Russians, in Russian, that day on my lunch break. The ideas just came to me. They were ideas birthed by fire. And as for my sudden ability to speak fluent Russian? Comrade, it left me the moment I hung up that telephone.” Musing, Tim swiveled his chair around to allow for easier viewing of his bookcase with its miscellany of biochemistry, organic chemistry, particle physics, medical, pharmaceutical, and even a few astronomy titles thrown in for good measure. Tim pointed. “See—that orange paperback at the end there, Complete Idiot’s Guide to Russian? Well, I bought that after the fact just to see if I could recall any of the words and phrases that I’d used in my conversation with Mr. Putin.” Tim shook his head. “The Russian language—” he guffawed “—it’s all Greek to me! I remember nothing.” Tim swiveled his chair back. “And that was just one of the many instances.”
His wits all a scramble, and not knowing quite what to say in response to this long-winded unbosoming, Rob, instead, deferred attention back to the bookcase. “That’s quite a library you got there,” he said. “Amazing how some people can understand all that stuff.”
“Can you?” Tim raised an eyebrow. “Because I sure can’t.” Tim eased a smile. “I mean, yeah, I took a few science courses in college, and have since self-educated myself…” He nodded over at the bookcase. “Still, it’s so often that I will get overwhelmed by the more advanced sciences. Ah, but then there are those times when I’ll open the books and understand it so well it was like I wrote the book myself, formulated the science, even. Of course, it is generally also at those times that my Rocky Mountain National Park mountaintops will be on fire…”
The two men looked at one another.
“That’s right, Rob,” Tim said. His eyes grew large. “I’m like you. I’m one of us. A Fire Watcher.”
“Fire…Watcher?” Rob echoed the words, softly, tonelessly.
“And now you do realize…” Tim stretched his neck, veered it around, as if scanning the premises for eavesdroppers. Satisfied, he continued, “It isn’t just who you are that matters, but whether you’re where the fire’s at. You think that if I’d elected to stay on as elementary school teacher that I would right now be a Fire Watcher? The answer is no.” Tim’s face shed itself of any sign of joking, remolded itself into a mask of solemnity.
“What we’ve come to consider, Rob, is that upon the directives set forth by some…mandate, law of the universe, divine rule, and issued by what could classify as divine, cosmic, even trans-dimensional in origin, examples of which might include: God—the proverbial Great Flame Thrower in the sky—gods, ancient aliens, a trans-dimensional meddler, some super-advanced technology we’re not yet aware of, some cosmic anomaly, or quantum glitch—who can say for sure who, or what, the Great Fire Starter is, or isn’t, or was. I mean, take me for example—” Tim gummed an obsequious smile “—I’m neither philosopher, nor theologian, nor cosmologist, nor for that matter, scientist, when you get right down to it, just a former elementary school teacher who’s experienced fantastic, unexplainable things and who has mind enough to reason and heart enough to believe. Anyway, what we’ve come to conclude, Rob, is that these fire revelations which reveal to us, in us, through us, these secrets such as you have shared with me just now, grant us participation with the great and inestimable Solstine Powers--Solstine, that’s a word you’ll in time become very familiar with, Rob. And now let me be very clear—these fire demonstrations, well, they seem to materialize only when a person does a very specific something, which is, very often, it would seem, to perform an act of personal sacrifice; and yet—” Tim reached for his desk drawer “—not for its own sake, but sacrifice only in so much as it gets us to fall in line with the thoughts, wishes, and contrivances of the Solstine.”
Tim fumbled his hand around inside the drawer, eyes on Rob the whole while, even as he went on: “Such as in your own instance, a sacrifice that was against your every inclination and stood contrary to the approval of friends and family—to assume a carpet-cleaning career. Or, as in the instance of myself, to assume a science and technology career in lieu of teaching.”
Tim interrupted himself to ask if Rob would perhaps like an Atomic Fireball. Rob accepted the candy. Tim pushed the drawer closed. “So, that’s what we’ve come to conclude is the secret to, and methodology of, the fire demonstrations, as in their relation to we, the Fire Watchers.”
“We?” Rob asked, his voice trembling.
“There are more of us, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
Rob cleared his throat in an effort to remove the baseball-sized lump in it. “More of us,” he said, all dazzle-eyed. With heart and mind set ablaze by Tim’s off-the-wall ramblings, Rob all of a sudden had so many things that he wanted to ask about, and yet some shyness suggested that his confession had been overlong already. However, one question in particular begged asking: “I, um…” he said, “couldn’t get my Steam-o-Matic to bubble up for me after those, like, first few times. A sixth sense told me, though, that if I left my job as insurance agent and became a full-time carpet professional, the machine would bubble for me again. So I did. And so it did.”
“You followed the fire to the one place in your own instance where it would meet with you: a carpet-cleaning career. For whatever reason, that’s where it wanted you to be. And what do you get in return? Revelations, by which you are allowed to influence the course of world events, of history itself!” Tim’s eyes lit up. “Rob. Carpet guy. Fellow Fire Watcher. You should see the view from this side of the desk right now. The flames. Oh, the flames!”
Rob started. “Flames?”
“The flames on this computer screen of mine that I keep telling you about. Come, see for yourself.”
Fighting back his excitement, Rob stood, walked around to the business side of Tim’s desk and indulged a look over Tim’s shoulder. That was when he saw them. He exclaimed, “Your snowcapped mountains are on fire!”
“For the last minute or so.”
“Fancy new screensaver?”
Tim looked over. “When was the last time you saw a screensaver with actual—”
“Watch out!”
A jet of fire shot out, like a party favor, catching Tim in the forehead. But Tim was fine. “They don’t hurt,” he said.
Together, silent, spellbound, like kids in front of a campfire, the two men sat watching the mountains and fire on Tim’s computer. “It’s really…” Tim said after a long pause “…wonderful, your being here like this and all. Besides yourself, nobody’s had the chance to see these flames. Except for…oh yeah, Lori.”
Rob stiffened. He knit his brow.
Tim smiled. “You think I’m kidding. I’m not.” Tim leaned back in his chair. His smile fell off, and yet still his eyes were smiling as he raised his voice in the manner of announcement, “And so, seeing, then, Rob, how she’s not arrived just yet, please allow me to speak on behalf of the both of us in saying that…we’re sorry, we had to do this to you.”
Tim shook his head. He said, in his usual tone of voice, “Lori’s acting job though, wasn’t it just off the charts? I mean, didn’t you get the real sense that she was mad at you, at your bubbles-inspired career choice?” Tim chortled. “Brilliant. Just…brilliant!”
Rob walked back to his chair. “What are you talking about?”
“Hold on.” Tim pulled out his phone, punched at some keys. He waited. “Yeah,” Tim said into his phone. “It’s me. Yeah, he’s still here. We’re ready. Are you coming over or what?” A pause. “Yeah, he knows. I just told him.” A pause. Longer this time. “No, he doesn’t appear to be overly upset, or otherwise bowled over. I don’t think. Here, let me ask him…” Tim set his phone down.
“Would you say, Rob, that you are at present experiencing any signs or symptoms of severe emotional distress, seeing as how the project manager whom you thought was a scientist turns out to be a Level XV Liege, and the twin sister whom you thought despised you in fact admires you very much, and gazes at fires in her free time—and is a Level IX Intermediary no less, and who, together, project manager and twin sister, have been pulling your leg for months on end—or at least Lori’s been pulling it—” Tim took a deep breath “—and as a means to, first off, Rob, test the verity of your claimed experiences with the bubbles, because there are so many fakes and wannabes out there, and so we must be careful; and assuming also that you were the real thing, to test your resolve under pressure and opposition and to test also your belief in the unseen, in the impossible.”
Tim picked up his phone, drew it closer to himself so that it, too, could hear as he again raised his voice to proclaim “…and who, together, we, project manager and twin sister, have unofficially officially recognized you, Robert Denkins, as an honest-to-goodness entrant into the Solstine Ring of Fire Gathering, and by which entrance you may, along with us, and those friends of ours scattered across the globe, help change the world.”
Rob sat blinking. “Holy Halloween,” he said under his breath. “Is this for real?”
Tim smiled. “It’s not Halloween. It’s Christmas. Christmas on fire. Now come.” Tim beckoned. “Come join me in watching this marvelous celestial spectacle over here whilst we wait for the third member of our little triad.”
Rob got up, padded over to watch, alongside Tim, the fire on Tim’s computer screen as it danced, alighted, and projected outward in literal 3D flames!
Tim shifted about in his chair. “I like…how they cantilever outward at perfect ninety-degree angles.”
“I like…” Rob offered, “the colors, how bright and vivid they are, and how very real the flames themselves look.”
“There are any number of us.” Tim’s gaze wandered off to the bookcase, to the wall, to fathomless points beyond. “The fire, and more specifically, the revelations, are to us a sacred thing. What we do is on the level of charity work only on a much grander scale, and achieved only at a great personal cost to ourselves.”
Rob sat mesmerized, staring at the flames.
“To some, the fire comes in one way. To others, in another. Possibly it’s dependent upon the individual’s personality, their history, their level of sacrifice … who knows? Within the life and times of the Fire Watcher, everything means something. Still, there’s so much we don’t know. In fact, whoa—” Tim exclaimed, abandoning his thought as he wheeled back his chair.
“Can’t even see the mountains anymore, flames are everywhere!” Rob exclaimed, his curiosity moving him to reach out and touch the tip of one of these flames now spitting rapid-fire out of Tim’s computer screen, the shortest of which extended nearly a yard in length. A literal inferno, it was.
“It’s happening,” Tim breathed. “It’s here.”
Rob retracted his fingertips, the skin bearing no sign of burn. “What’s happening?”
“She’s here.” Tim slanted his eyeballs, which Rob noticed were brimming with wetness. “Your sister, you, me, is what’s happening. The power potential generated when two Fire Watchers get together, Rob, is one thing, but three…?”
They heard the office door swish open. Lori stepped in.
After what could have been seconds, or even whole minutes of lockdown eye-contact, inside of which whole conversations might have been passed between Lori’s shrewd glance and Rob’s inquiring one, Lori, daring to disrupt the electric silence, said, “Rob, listen—” she swiped a swath of hair off of her forehead “—there’s something that I’ve been wanting to talk to you about since that time you came to tell me about your fire-bubble revelations. And then, not five minutes ago this same thought came to mind right after the big boss threatened to fire me as follow-up to this outlandish idea he has that you, Tim, and I, are in some kind of conspiracy with Cyteck. Then Patterson took it back, but not before I told him, ‘Hey, looks like I’ve been fired already, dude, and if not, well, then, I quit!’ And so now I’m out of a job.” With steady stride, Lori glided her business-casual pumps across the carpeted expanse of Tim’s office. Halting in front of her brother’s chair, she nudged him, “Got a question for you, Bubble Master Rob.”
Rob raised his chin up at his sister. “So, you’re out of a job now? That’s not good news. You should be upset. You don’t look upset.”
“Fortunate for me I’m out of a job,” Lori answered. “And fortunate for you. And for the whole world.” Lori slumped her shoulders. “You’re thinking so low-level, Rob. Your expectations need to be, well, bigger.” She looked at Tim. “Maybe he’s just a Level Two, after all.”
“I’d set him at level four, or five, after hearing some of his story.” Tim shrugged. “But who knows. That’s for the council to decide, invariably.”
“Yeah, well, this isn’t just story time. It’s real life.” Lori cleared her throat, petted the carpet with her toe of her shoe. With uncharacteristic shyness, she said, “It’s just that I was wondering, Rob, if you might have room for another employee, an extra hand to help out with this Bubbles Incorporated deal you got going on right now? All those customers, if you know what I mean.”
Rob squirmed in his seat. “Wait a minute. But I thought you said—”
“Desk jobs, don’t get me wrong, are fine and good for what they’re worth.” Lori smiled at her brother. “But it’s just that there are bigger things out there.”
“Mountain-sized big,” Tim put in.
“Though fulfilling in their own way, and necessary in their place, budget reports aren’t much compared to the reports received by us, and because of us, from these benefactors of the Solstine Proliferations. We have the opportunity, and the challenge granted us, Rob, to change the world!” Lori seemed to think about it. “Or at least Denver.”
“Actually,” Tim interjected, slanting a glance and a smile over at Rob, “we’re in Brighton.”
Lori smiled, too. “So, you get your bright on, little brother, and get big sis a job so that she can get her bright on, and together we can get down to the business of starting some fires! Besides,” Lori said, shifting from one foot to the other and folding her arms, “the arrangement could be mutually beneficial in other ways. While you train me on some of the finer points of carpet stuff, I could train you on some of the finer points of…”
Standing beside the seated Tim and Rob, her arms crossed, Lori was to Rob, at that moment, the spitting image of her nine-year-old ponytailed self again, Rob’s childhood best friend.
“I’ve seen them, too, Rob. The fires. The Flames of the Solstine that inspire and direct us, the Watchers. Oh, and there are powers, Rob, opportunities, and contrivances, the likes of which you cannot begin to imagine. Sure, snuffing out lost wedding rings and such is pretty terrific, but just you wait!” Lori stilled herself. A shadow flitted across her face. “But know, too, Rob, that there are forces in this world, other forces, dark forces, some even in the form of inhibitions and doubts that will arise within your own self, which would seek to counteract, to prevent, to so much as destroy, those plans and purposes as revealed to you by your fire-bubbles. You must keep vigilant, then, if ever you are to become, and remain, a Fire Watcher. And so that’s why too…” Lori dropped her eyes, “I was assigned the task of testing you, per protocol—” She looked over at the project manager “—and per Tim’s suggestion. I’m sorry about that.”
Rob scoffed. “You should be.” He curved a smile. “You don’t have to be sorry, Lori.”
Tim removed his glasses, wiped the sweat off of his brow, replaced his glasses. “Solstine Flames, Lori, look, some of them over a yard in length.”
“Yeah, I noticed that. Oh, wow, I’ve never seen them that big before!” Lori shuffled over to get a better look at the flames that were jettisoning, inferno-style, out of Tim’s computer screen. And while they sat, and watched Colorado on fire, Lori offered the passing remark that one day she might even get around to showing Rob a certain bracelet, one that she wore at times advantageous.
Rob furrowed his brow. “What, is it fourteen-karat? Did someone give it to you? Is it really nice or something? I don’t get it.”
“It’s fire,” Lori smiled.
“Coolest thing ever.” Tim’s smile was to the moon. “You’ve just gotta see it.”
Under the spell of some kind of ecstasy, with fire in his eyes, his countenance like lightning, Rob reached for his sister’s hand. “All right,” he said. “I’m in. I have no idea what happens next, or how, or why. All I can say for sure is that, well, I’m in, no turning back.”
“It’ll be historic.” Lori squeezed her brother’s hand gently. “It’ll be fun! We’ll set the world’s pants on fire. It’ll be like…like…”
“Fireworks,” Tim said, leaning back in his chair.
THE END
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ALEX DE CRUZ
ALEX FITZGERALD
ANDREW HART
BLAED A. WOODLEY
BRIAN YEAPLE
CARISSA DIXON
CAROLYN GEDULD
CHARLES HAYES
CHRIS COOPER
CHUKWUDI RAPHAELMARY
DANIEL SAUVE-ROGAN
DEGEN HILL
DON TASSONE
DUKE HAWLEY
ELISE DANIELLE IRWIN
FLO W RYDER
HARRISON ABBOTT
IZOTZ ZUBIZARRETA INTXAUSTI
JACKSON STREHLOW
JAKE SHORE
JAMES TUCKER
JASON MARCHANT
JEREMY BROYLES
JERRY GUARINO
JM SCOTT
JOHN TAVARES
JONATHAN FERRINI
KARL LUNTTA
KEITH BURKHOLDER
KYLE BIERY
LEWIS BRETT SMILER
LINNEA COOLEY
MARCUS LESSARD
MARK MORGANSTERN
MARKO MODIANO
MATTHEW MCAYEAL
MEHREEN IMRAN
MICHAEL CAMPAGNOLI
MIKE FIORITO
M. Y. DOUGLAS
NATALIE SINGLETARY
NT FRANKLIN
OSOKA CHIDINMA
RANEE MCCOMBS
ROXANNE JEWELL
RYAN LAMB
SEEKA ENDUROS
SHARON SINGLETON
STANLEY THOMAS
TAFARI NUGENT
TAMMY TROTTER
T.D CALVIN
TIM MILLER
TOM UKINSKI
XIAOCHEN SU