Chapter Three (a)

FINALLY. I was finally going to meet the great "Professor Waverly" or whatever his name was. My new/temporary employer gave me the very unusual instructions to NOT give my real address or phone number or name. He told me something about Government Intervention, an IRS audit I did not want to deal with. I got a funny vibe from him though. I had learned enough from him already to know this guy (Professor Waverly) was some sort of meal ticket, and he (My 'employer') did not want me taking a chunk of his action away. I suppose I could not blame him. But NOW, after three months of indentured servitude, I would make no REAL promises, though I did make symbolic ones, while my fingers were crossed somewhere to be sure.

We pulled up in front of the great home there on top of the hill. The good Professor's home! It was lovely and tasteful. The lawn was manicured and hedges neat and straight, just as I would have expected. We pulled into the driveway right up behind a very new BMW sedan.

"Let me do all the talking" Alan warned me "You don't say shit, got it? Unless I nod. Like this:" and he did a funny thing with his head, sort of a shake and a nod at the same time. I wondered if he was on drugs already today, even though it was only 9AM.

"Okay!" I agreed. I did not care about his rules ONE WHIT, but I was so close, and this had taken so long I would agree to anything at this point to meet The Professor.

"Come on then" he said, and vibrated out of the car. He was halfway to the front door by the time I got out. Jesus. This guy was wired. Was the mustache real or ironic? I wondered for the four hundredth time in the last two months. He was a sorry specimen. That much was true.

I had to saunter, or jog, whichever verb you choose to prefer, in order to meet him at the front door. I joined him just as he was banging on the door for a second time. It seemed he was banging awfully hard. There was feeling in his banging. I sensed true emotion in his banging. I sensed familiarity, resentment, spite, in his banging. I then took one step back in case the door flew open and a German Shepherd or Mastiff or some other threat answered this assault of banging.

In fairly short order, the door was answered, and not in a violent manner. A Blond woman much younger than I was expecting to see opened the door and stepped outside. She appeared nervous, but composed, and threw her arms around Alan.

"ALAN! How are YOU? Oh Gosh, it is so nice to SEE YOU!" She withdrew and cast her gaze upon me and began to clutch her hands together. "Who is your friend here? Can I get you a coffee or tea? Water?" Alan looked at me.

"This is Zak" He said, using my real name. "No. Is he here? Did he leave already? Where is he?"

The woman shook my hand politely and told me " It is nice to meet you, Zak. I am Anne. We are happy to have you here today. Would you like a coffee or tea? Have you taken your vitamin yet today?" I began to say something and then Alan interrupted:

"Is he here or not? I have a stack of fencing to unload back at the yard."

Anne twitched and looked nervously between Alan and I. She backed up through the open door like a Chinese servant and invited us in. "HE is here. HE is holding the baby right now." She continued to back up, and I followed Alan through the front door after her.

We walked though a giant living room , dining room, past a fireplace and to a darker doorway that lead to a stairway headed down. Anne stopped at the head of it and gestured for us to continue.

“HE is down there” She indicated to the doorway with a nod, and backed up, hands folded still.

Alan marched right down the stairs while I lingered for a moment to tell her : “ Ummm.. Thanks, Anne! Nice to meet you! I’m sure I’ll see you shortly!” Not really believing any of it, but saying it out loud just the same. I turned to follow Alan down the stairs.

The stairway was dark, and there was an herbal aroma of some kind wafting up to green my nostrils. I took the steps slowly, one at a time, while sliding my hand along the wall for support. It appeared dark at floor level as well, but there was enough yellow light cast from naked bulbs to throw deformed shadows against the walls. There were no windows in this basement room. When I reached the bottom, I looked left and right, and found Alan and the man we had come to see whispering in a far corner, near a desk. Alan's hands were twitching and he seemed upset. The man I presumed to be Professor Waverly just sat behind the desk nodding in calm understanding. When he notice me approaching, he stood up, pushing Alan out of his way to greet me.

The Saga - Beginning (Chapter One)

I had an extra $600 and a few hours to kill, so I started driving around, looking for a new old broken car to buy. I do this when I am upset or sad or depressed, and I was upset, but I was not sure why. Feather thought we were going out for a nice little drive, or headed to brunch, but she was wrong. She didn't know about the six hundred dollars, and I wasn't going to tell her about it either.

It was full-tilt Autumn, a sunny day and late morning, although it was getting cold. Leafs were massing up in gold and orange drifts in the gutters beside the sidewalks outside and I was really getting into layering again. This was a fashionable time of year, and I was not going to miss an opportunity to layer, depressed, upset, or no.

I thought I was going to be alone this day, but my girlfriend at the time had called and then shown up 5 minutes after calling, before I even had a chance to check the message. This did not make me happy. This would upset any principled person, on that point I am sure we can all agree. SO, she had come over about a half hour earlier, wanting to go to breakfast, and I made up some excuse not go to. I told her I had work to do, A Guy Coming By, something to box up. She insisted on staying there with me in the shop, so I had to pretend to do something. I got quiet, and plastered a concerned, worried look on my face and began to dart aimlessly around the shop, from car to car, opening and closing their doors.

"What are you looking for?" she asked me. I pretended not to hear her. I walked farther away, into the furthest corner away from her and began to shake old dusty boxes, listening to the noises the contents of each made.

"How long is this going to take?" She yelled across the room.

"What?" I replied, pretending I did not hear her question. I enjoyed this game. "Are you speaking to me?" I shouted back.

"ARE WE GOING TO BE HERE A LONG TIME?" She yelled again. I picked up another box and shook it while staring intently at the ceiling. I replaced the box and then began to walk rapidly across the garage, right towards her. I marched right up to within a foot of her and then stopped short.

"What did you say? I couldn't hear you. I was way over there, TRYING TO FIND SOMETHING." I challenged her

Undeterred, she persisted "I asked if this was going to take a long time. What are you looking for again?"

I stared at her for a moment, trying to think of something funny I could say. Nothing came right to mind, so I thought I would throw her a curve ball.

"Fuck it!" I conceded "Fuck it. I didn't need to mail that thing today anyway. Let's get out of here."

She chose that exact moment to start with the funny business: "No, it's fine, I can wait, find the, the, the thing you were looking for."

RIGHT.

"LISTEN:" I said, and took her hand and gave it a little squeeze for emphasis "I am through with this place. I can not stand to be here any longer today. All I want is to spend some quality time with you. Let's go. ALRIGHT?"

"really?" she tormented me "do you mean it? you sound mad"

I began to turn away, then turned back towards her realizing I had nowhere to turn to in the first place, and then said "Mad? NO. Not yet, anyway. I'm getting there though. Can we please go?"

"I just want you to get your work done and be happy" she said, plunging a flaming dagger into my chest, twisting it back and forth

Feeling dizzy now, I let the silence in the building hang and ripen and get heavy and rot, and only then, I spoke to her and I said " I really want to get out of here, and I want to get out of here with you, and I want to do it right this very instant. Please do not make me say this again. I will scream if I have to say this again. Can we please go?"

She watched my hands clench and unclench into fists and noticed the vein throbbing on my forehead and finally got the message. I wanted to go. "Well, ALRIGHT!" She chirped pleasantly "Let's go have some fun!"

I was all for it! I love fun! We spent the next five minutes looking for the keys to my car, and the fifteen minutes after THAT looking for my wallet. She was a good sport about it though, making little suggestions here and there like "Maybe you should get one of those wallets with the chain.." and "You know, if you put your keys in the same place every time, you wouldn't lose them so often." Things like that. Things a reasonable person would say. Reasonable things. Practical suggestions. I try to block these sort of suggestions from entering my ear holes at all, when these suggestions fly at my ear holes, I can sense them coming, and I very skillfully and minutely shake my head back and forth and wiggle my head up and down in an effort to deflect these helpful suggestions. I know they still make it into my ear holes, but I am so distracted with my head shaking and bobbing that I do not actually register that anything was said to me. These things may make it into my ear holes, but they do not make it into the gray cortex of my brain, to become lodged in some fold or crevasse there. I get a full, rich sense of satisfaction from such avoidant behavior and activity.

After finding my keys, and my wallet, the car I was going to take for our leisurely drive did not start. I swapped batteries with another, less desirable, car's battery, and then the car started, but I managed to get something unpleasant on my tie during the switch and had to take it off. This threw my entire outfit out of whack, necessitating the changing of my shirt. Things were really happening now! I began to feel like she MUST be getting upset at this point, but a quick glance at her indicated she was still occupied with texting someone or other on her cell phone, which usually would have annoyed me, but I generously let it slide this one time, since it was technically my fault she was sitting alone in the car with nothing else to do but wait for me to change my clothes.

So, seven minutes later, we were backing out the garage door in the car with no brake lights. Again, I kept her in the dark about such details. 'Don't Ask Don't Tell' has been a policy that has served me well over the years. I believe in this policy. I would recommend it to anyone willing to listen to me sing it's praises. TRUST ME. You don't want to tell the girl you are about to go driving around with to know that your car has no brake lights. Not that work anyway. She will start with the Funny Business if you tell her. TRUST ME.

After rolling the shop door down in the wake of our departure from the building, I hopped back into the car and put it in reverse, then first, and got the hell out of there.

"You look great!" She lied "That's my favorite shirt. You should get more of them."

"Don't patronize me" I warned her "The shirts too big, and it needs to be ironed. I only wore it because it matched my hair pretty and shoes, and I didn't want to start from scratch with you waiting."

I thought that this admission of concern for her feelings should have bought me some slack on her part. I was wrong.

"You know what?" she asked, rhetorically, "I hate it when you say things like that. I meant it that I liked your shirt. You look great. Don't tell me I'm lying."

I chewed my bottom lip for a minute and then suddenly made a right turn. I was headed for the poor part of town, as it was the start of the month, and certainly THESE people would sell their invalid car for a pittance in order to pay their looming bills and keep the cable on.

A few minutes passed as I made right hand turn after right hand turn in ever-widening orbits, covering every possible street and driveway at six miles an hour, looking left and right, looking for chrome bumpers, looking for blue tarps.

"Ummmm... Where are we going? Why are you driving so slow?" She was annoying me. I did not know how long I could weather this line of questioning. I ignored her for just another moment or two, and continued to make right hand turns idling in first gear.

"It's a surprise!" I made up on the spot, which was a brilliant move on my part. "You'll see!"

She received this news very well and brightened noticeably. Her skin tone became a bit more ruddy, and I could tell she was smiling behind her huge sunglasses. I looked at her across the car from me and smiled myself. She sure was pretty, I thought. She could feel my positive vibrations apparently, because she smiled even larger still and then blew a bubble with her gum, then collapsed it back into her mouth with a series of sharp pops. Surprisingly, my mood suddenly lifted as well, I began to experience happiness, and I wondered again why I was upset in the first place. I could not remember. I kept looking at her, smiling, while making rights and not using my brake pedal. Why was she smiling so much? Where did she think we were actually going? I had no idea, so how could she? Her birthday was still over a month away, certainly she did not imagine I was going to surprise her with a birthday gift or something, but she was smiling like she was expecting just that.

"I don't like the color of that house" she started with me again "Do you? That one there? The white one?"

"MMMmmm Mmm" I hummed without commitment.

"Yes? You DO like that color? Not with those windows though, right? Are those vinyl?"

"mmmmmMMM" I continued to tease her. This was fun!

"OHMIGOSH! Did I tell you what happened to Kate at work this week??!"

"mmmm ______?"

"Well, you remember how I told you her dad was sick last year? The thing with his throat?.."

"NeckThroat." I interrupted her. I was joking. This meant I was was feeling happy.

"Yeah! So, he was really sick, right? Remember? They sent the lady who gives last rights into the hospital room with them and everything, the whaddaya call it? The Spiritual Adviser? ..Spiritual SOMETHING... Anyway, they thought he was going to die, remember? But he got better, remember? Everything was fine and he went home and got better, but then he fell off a ladder trying to clean the gutters and twisted his spine, remember?"

"I seem to recall something about a ladder.." I wondered where in the Hell she was going with this, but she seemed happy, and that made me feel calm.

"Well, he had to hire a Mexican to do work around the house after that happened because he twisted his spine. SO, this Mexican - I think his name is Cervante or Sebante or something like that? Well, Septante or whatever his name is ALSO FELL OFF THE LADDER, but HE broke his ARM not his back, and when Kate's dad tried to call the insurance people.... WHOA!!!" She had time to grab the dash as I slammed on my brakes, taking us from six to zero in a fraction of a second. There it was. A blue tarp covering a forgotten hulk, a light breeze suggestively peeling back one corner of the old blue cover exposing chrome.

"Look at that" I said, whispered really, to no one in particular. "That's gotta be a.. what? .. sixty eight? You see those black rubber things on the bumpers? They started to do that in sixty-seven. Some safety thing. Nader had to go and stick his beak in everyone's business and just RUINED the whole flow of the lines with those fucking overriders" I paused there to check in, to see if she was paying attention. This was important. I could tell she was following, she was into it. She wasn't quite lovin' it, but she was not rolling her eyes either. I really liked this girl. "Ralph Nader was just sucking the cocks of the Big Three you see? Trying to keep out all the foreign cars, at least the European ones. I guess he may have personally felt some guilt over Hiroshima or something because he seemed to find no faults with Hondas or Toyotas, but he just DESTROYED the British car market here. And the French cars? Well you know the French. They were just looking for a reason to tell us where we could stick our safety bumpers..."

I became far too excited to remain seated in the car. I pulled frantically at the door lever in order to be released from the vehicle. "Are we getting out HERE?" I heard her ask from behind me somewhere, someplace in the past.

"Hang on a second. Wait." I answered while plodding, zombie-like, towards the bulging blue tarp.

We had parked in front of a commercial-looking building, an abandoned garage with no sign to speak of outside to indicate a retail name, or private name for that matter. The building was beige and square and boring, except for the tarped vehicle sitting here in front of it. This covered car was rather exciting to me though : I could tell it was a CITROEN DS! How very unusual, and why in this part of town? These good people here would have no appreciation for such a unique and complicated machine. I walked right up to the tarp and then stopped short.

There is something else you should know about me right now: I AM A CIVILIZED PERSON. I am not an animal. I can control my impulses! When I have to 'go' , I don't just drop my trousers right there in the street and squat like some Chinaman while I relieve myself, do I? NO. When it is Cocktail Hour, do I just swill liquor straight from the bottle? NO. I collect a proper highball glass, and if I don't have any fresh lime wedges for the rim, I'm not even going to bother. I have manners. I'll tell you again: I am not an animal!

What this all means, what I am saying, is that I am not going to just walk up to someone's concealed driveway item and take it upon myself to PULL THE BLUE TARP BACK. I can control myself. I am civilized.

Right then, muted and muffled through the windshield behind me, I could hear her shouting "What is THAT? Are we stopping here? Should I get out? THAT'S not the surprise, is it?"

I turned to her, I turned to that windshield and made eye contact with her though it, and I winked. I winked just once, but it did the trick. She was confused. She was confused, and then she became silent. I took that opportunity to go knock on the door.

I walked up to the mandoor in the square boring building and knocked upon it, although all signs indicated no-one was there. I knocked once. I waited. I knocked again, and waited for another two minutes. I looked back over my shoulder at the tarped car and got excited again, I could detect slots in the exposed front bumper, which indicated the car had air conditioning, which was EXTRA UNUSUAL, and then my gaze slid past and onto MY car where Feather sat, and was just now gesturing to me through the window. She did the Fork-To-Plate-To-Mouth-Repeatedly mime, which meant she was hungry, and hungry NOW. I gave her a thumbs-up to let her know I was on top of this thing here. We would be eating soon. Just as soon as I found out about this abandoned car. This was important.

I was beginning to feel a tingle of desperation now, I wanted to learn some names and figures at the very least before I left here today, maybe even close this deal, whatever this deal may be. I walked over to a dirty, large roll-up door and began to beat on it with the flat of my palm, hard. After a few slaps, I heard something fall down inside, making a loud metallic sound against the concrete floor on the other side of the door, followed by the sound of breaking glass. It sounded like something small, I would guess a bottle maybe? I froze and held my breath, listening, and waited a few seconds then exhaled and spun, staying low and guilty while duckwalking back to the covered car.

Catlike I soon regained my composure and stood there in front of it, looking at the flapping corner of tarp folding back to reveal more... then return to cover that which was just exposed. Folding back ... then returning. This peek-a-boo was beginning to annoy me. I had my hands on my hips, then brought them up to my armpits and folded my arms. It was beginning to get cold out here. I looked back at the building. Nothing. I looked over my left shoulder. No-one about, no cars on the street. I looked over my right shoulder. I saw a car drive through an intersection about five blocks away and other than that, nothing. I thought of looking back at my car and the precious cargo contained within, but thought it may be best to put off eye contact for the time being. If I was going to act, this was the time. I stepped forward.

I walked up to beside the flapping corner of tarp and dropped beside it, and began to tie and untie my shoes. I was hidden completely on one side by this car. I looked behind me, into my blind spot just one more time to be sure, then carefully, using a thumb and forefinger only as if I were picking a hair off of my tongue, I pulled the blue tarp back. I told you I was civilized and mannered, but I also have my limits. Any man does. Study a man long enough, and you will learn his limits. We all have them, and I am not ashamed to admit that I have mine. I will not now reveal exactly how many or what those limits are, but know I have them. When pushed far enough, I will pull a blue tarp back without implicit permission to do so. There, I said it. Crucify me, if ye will.

I gingerly pulled the cover back slowly, like a nurse removing a bandage from a nasty burn. Pull too fast, and you just don't know what might happen. You could cause some delayed aftereffects. For example, there could be grit between shroud and clear coat, and a heavy hand in these operations could leave an ugly scratch. Or, there could be a fender-mounted mirror caught up in the tarp which could be dislodged or broken. There could even be a nest of Brown Recluse spiders waiting to spring at your face, or to become lost in your clothing leaving you screaming and beating at yourself in the driveway of a stranger. It pays to exercise caution. I have found out The Hard Way myself. More than once, and not just in regards to car covers. You don't want to know.

I pulled the cover back slowly and carefully and saw that the maroon paint was chipped and scratched and there were rust bubbles here and there and a few leafs which were trapped under the tarp for who-knows-how-long had left vivid stains of their prior existence, their skeletons or veins indelibly and sharply pressed on the surface of the hood, like an ink stamp in monochrome dirty brown. Despite the shabby surface appearance, I was not discouraged. Quite the contrary. I actually become more excited the more filthy and forgotten a car is left to become before I discover and liberate it. A shabby appearance suggests a bargain waiting to be made. An owner who is to wax and shine and Simon-or-Martinize his vehicle before a sale may be expecting to turn an optimistic bit of coin, often too optimistic. I can not abide a pre-sale waxing. It raises more questions and concerns than it may answer. Vacuum the carpets, yes by all means! Moisturize the vinyl or hides, but do not try to play me for The Fool with a quick waxing. You would also be well advised to leave the coconut or peach aromatic trickery for someone else. I would prefer to smell the honest aroma of mildew and old mouse piss than an insulting over-application of Fabreze or 'New Car Smell' from an aerosol can. Trust me on this point: You are fooling nobody. Anyone who hasn't spent a lifetime working in a pulp mill or sulfur-milling-operation will be able to detect the urine and mold smell in addition to vanilla or tangerine or whatever, and will be filled with contempt with your low opinion of their senses.

It was a rare animal indeed, the Citroen DS, looking futuristic and antiquated at the same time. I could tell it had been parked for a long time by the amount of dirt which had collected under the car. I had exposed only the hood and part of the driver’s door, which left me hungry for more. I pulled the cover back a little further, exposing all of the door and over half of the windshield on the driver’s side. The windows were almost opaque with filth accumulated there. I rubbed a clean spot on the front glass with the palm of my hand, and tried to wipe my hand clean on the inside of the cover.

I was trying to make out the VIN # which is usually found there somewhere at the top of the dash visible through the windshield, but there were many papers and wrappers in the way, and I noticed some of the papers looked like important documents of some type. Great! Any legal-type document will probably yield a name if not an address and phone number where the owner could be reached. I was getting more excited still, and in my aroused state began to act in an unbridled fashion, I was not thinking clearly. This car was just left here! This gem of a car forgotten! Important documents on the dashboard right there! I was close! I actually lost control and tried the door handle, lifting again and again with no luck. Locked. I now threw the car cover off entirely without regard to possible ill-effect, and sauntered to the other side of the car to try the other door.

It proved to be locked as well, to my great disappointment. Without thought to my wardrobe I began to wipe the windshield clear on this side with the sleeve of my vintage jacket. I had to lean over the delicate chrome-stalked sideview mirror to get my face close to the glass. I could almost make out a name on an official-looking paper there just two inches away from my nose through the green-tinted glass – Was this the actual vehicle registration card? - I wiped more with my sleeve and then leaned in close, so close my breath fogged the glass every couple of seconds with my exhalations. I had to hold my breath while wiping, nose pressed tight against the glass, heart pounding hard and fast against the hood on which it was pressed, I could almost make out a name there!

That was when I suddenly felt a cold hand on the back of my neck at the exact same time I noticed a dark shadow appear behind me in reflection on the glass I was leaning against. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” spoken there, almost right into my ear.

Surprised, I lost my balance trying to escape and fell against the mirror, snapping it off crudely at the base of it’s beautiful stem. It hit the ground and broke with a crack, and I landed just beside it and rolled over this broken glass on my back in order to get away. Quickly. I have very fast reflexes. You should know this about me.

I popped back up onto my feet about two paces away and spun back to face my attacker head-on. It was HER. She had a hand to her mouth to stifle a scream or yell or laugh, I didn’t know which. ‘JESUS!’ I yelled at her ‘Why did you DO THAT?!!’

She lowered her hands from her face and asked me, trying not to laugh, “ Are you Okay? Did you get cut?”

“OF COURSE I’m alright!” I assured her “I can not say so much for that mirror, though. That won’t be easy to replace. Why did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Sneak up and scare me. Do you think this is a game out here?”

“I didn’t sneak up on you. I got out of the car, closed the door, and walked over to see what you were doing. What were you doing? What is this thing? Why is it so low to the ground? Is it broken? Your coat is dirty. Did you get cut?”

I brushed myself off a few times, and looked left and right up and down the street, and directly behind us at the building again to make sure we had not been discovered or were being watched.

“You should not sneak up behind people like that. That is how accidents happen.” I informed her while picking up the broken mirror. I turned it in my hand, it was lost, burnt, impossible to fix, and scooched the broken glass under the car with my shoe. I shoved the meal frame under the car as well.

“I didn’t sneak up on you” she insisted “Is this the surprise? I don’t understand. What were you looking for? Are we going to eat soon? I think that place closes soon for brunch. I really wanted to be able to get their Benedict Thing. Aren’t you hungry?”

I took hold of her elbow again for emphasis and said “THIS is a CITROEN. I need to find out who owns it. It is not The Surprise. It is A Surprise though. The CarGods have smiled upon us today. We do not ignore Their offerings. I need to get a name here. From a paper. License plate if we have to, but it would be easier if we could get the registration from inside. Then we can go eat. Get the Surprise. See it. I mean, we will get the surprise, too. We’ll eat. Isn’t it cool though? The car?”

“It sure looks dirty.” She complained, typically. “Why is it on the ground like that? Is it broke? The tires aren’t flat, don’t look like it anyway. What did you call this? A Sinsson? I don’t know that that is. Is it old? It looks old.”

“CIT-RON” I corrected her. It is French. It is rare. Come with me.” I pulled her back to the driver’s side of the car, and wiped a clean spot of glass on the front door window with my hand. “ Look at THAT.” I challenged her every sense with an opportunity to admire a Citroen dashboard and steering wheel in realtime. “It sits so low because it has a hydropneumatic suspension that only operates when the car is running, when you shut them off, they sit back down on the ground.” Did she understand what I was saying? More importantly, how was I going to get inside to poke about or grab that registration?

“Oh! That steering wheel looks weird” She replied “ So, the wheels aren’t flat? It just goes up or something when you start it up? Are you SURE the wheels aren’t flat?” She challenged my CarKnowledge, but I barely heard her as I was considering my next move – Should I break a window in order to gain access to the interior? I may have a coathanger in the car we drove up in, maybe I could jimmy the lock? She actually began to kneel at the car’s tires in order to see if they were in fact flat, which they were not. Which I told her already. I could just kill her. I went to the rear door and lifted the handle. The other. Nothing. Then, suddenly :

“LOOK!” She bragged, holding a car key on a rusty old ring up in the air above her head “Do you think this goes to this? It was on top of the tire here. It looks dirty. Do you think it works to this? “

“Give me that!” I commanded and drew it from her grip. “You may damage it if you force it too much. Where was it? Where?” I have a hard time saying THANK YOU. I hate to admit it, but I am man enough to do so. I can admit when I’m wrong. Just usually not at the appropriate time. That goes double for ‘I’M SORRY’. You should know this about me.

I tried the small key in the door lock. I wiggled it back and forth while twisting ever so gently, and I felt the lock give way with a faint click. I looked up at Feather and smiled. I lifted the door handle and opened the door. I was in.

Once inside the car, my sensory organs were overwhelmed. There were swollen moldy paperback books everywhere as well as a few hardback reference books, the spines indecipherable. There were fast food wrappers scattered about as well as candy wrappers, discarded Styrofoam coffee cups, yellow and white pills littered about in various stages of decomposition. The oddest discovery was a huge reel-to-reel tape machine permanently installed in the rear seat, taking up the entire right side of the seat. It appeared to be hard-wired into the car’s wiring harness. The headliner was sagging low in spots and held up in others with bright plastic thumb-tacks. The interior smelled like a combination of leather, mold and vitamins. There was an herbal undertone I could not identify.

“EEEewwwww!” Feather weighed in, poking her head in through the other door. “GROooossss!”

I was inclined to agree a tiny bit, but did not want to encourage this sentiment. This was a critical phase. If the car was ultimately judged as ‘gross’ at this time, it would be difficult to ever get her to appreciate the car at a later time, no matter how much time spent cleaning and scrubbing, no matter how shiny it may become later. It would always be thought of as unsavory.

“Look at the seats though!” I tried to provide a distraction here, and the seats were indeed nice. “Leather! They look perfect too. This will clean up nice. Ten minutes with a few garbage bags and a vacuum cleaner and you wouldn’t recognize it. This is nice.”

She did not look convinced and squinched up her face a tiny bit.

I felt exposed there out in the open, rooting through someone else’s car in a foreign neighborhood, so I began to act fast, rifling through the many papers and documents laying everywhere. I was looking for a name, and I found more than I bargained for. We rummaged quickly under seats, in cubbies crevasses. There were literally hundreds of documents, everything from ticket stubs to an 80-page legal tome indicting the state of Oregon’s involvement in some fishing rights situation. There was too much to go through, and to make matters worse, the same name was rarely found again. There were too many names used here. I did not find a registration card.

At this time, a car drove by slowly, the driver looking in our direction and slowed down a tiny bit to better observe the goings on while passing. This made me nervous. The car went on by and continued out of sight. We had to hurry.

Feather found it in the gloveox, buried there forgotten under several reels of the cellophane music recordings. It was a Little Black Book, just like they say it. It actually was not ‘little’ though, it was sort of medium sized. It was held together with rubber bands and bulging with it’s contents. It was more than just an address book though, it seemed to be a diary, organizer, photo album, and it was literally bursting at it’s seams, so packed with information it was. I opened the front cover and read there in large, careful cursive script “Property of Peter Picksford” This was The Motherlode.

“Well done,” I thanked her “Let’s get out of here.” I tucked the book into my inside jacket pocket, and it barely fit. We closed the car doors, rearranged things as best we could, finally replacing the blue tarp to appear as it had been before our arrival.

Spirit high now, I stepped in front of Feather to beat her to my car and open the door for her so she could sit down and buckle up. I closed her door with a flourish and bounced over to my side of the car, and as I did I could feel the book there in my pocket bouncing substantially there against my chest.

I got in, sat down and started the engine. I patted the book through my coat. I reached over and gave her toned thigh a nice little squeeze and thanked her again for her patience and help. I gave one more squeeze and added, referring to the squeeze “Let’s keep that a little secret between ourselves. Shall we?” She nodded. “Now. Where do you want to go for breakfast, Baby?”

She squealed and I put the car in reverse, backed out into the street, and then we were off.

The Saga Begins (prologue)

I sat there and thought about how this whole thing started with that awful car. That Citroen is to blame for all of this, if a finger must be pointed at all. I thought back over these past events, the search for 'Professor Waverly' which, through a confusing maze of subsequent events, led to this: My sitting strapped down in this 100-ton aluminum tube full of people and jet fuel about to be ignited and pointed into the sky to cross an ocean.

I hate flying. I think it is more my lack of control I find unpleasant than a fear of heights or ignorance of physics. I agree that my reasons for not enjoying flying are not important here, but it is important to know that after my last flight I swore airplanes off altogether, and yet there I was with my white knuckles, squeezing and unsqueezing my knees, despite the generous dose of Valium I was given an hour before.

I glanced at 'Professor Waverly' there in the seat to my right, the window seat, which he insisted on sitting in himself. He told me he required this seat because he was going to take some notes while we crossed over the polar ice cap, something to do with the calving of icebergs or global warming, ultimately something to do with fish, which he had an unnatural obsession with. He appeared pleased with himself as he smiled out the window, humming, then he withdrew the in-flight magazine from the seatback in front of him and actually began to read from whatever spot that just so happened to flop open.

The airplane began to move with a jolt, and then began to taxi about on the runway slowly and ominously. I was very nervous. I wished I had drank a little bit more before boarding. I wondered if my effects were in order, in case the worst did happen? I wondered if I had unplugged my hotplate before leaving, or did I just turn the dial to 'off'? What if it was bumped or disturbed somehow while I was gone? What if the rheostat failed?

I was brought back to the present by the sudden application of brakes accompanied by the loud screaming of all the engines at full throttle. The pilot kept the plane vibrating alarmingly, but immobile and locked in place here on the tarmac like the driver of a dragster at the quarter-mile races, until he was satisfied that there was enough thrust and nothing in the way, and then flipped whatever lever or switch was required to set this vessel free, sending my stomach into my throat, and my hands began to involuntarily clutch at each other in a cold sweaty tangle. I looked at The Professor again for reassurance and he put down the magazine just long enough to tell me matter-of-factly:

"Well, if it is going to go poorly, this is usually when it happens."

Then he brought his reading material back up to his face, pages shaking, and started to hum again.

I watched my hands do their little dance, jostling there in my lap with the bouncing of the aircraft and I began to feel not so good. I started to pray, and I am not a religious person, I should tell you that right now. I closed my eyes and felt my stomach drop as the nose of the airplane lifted up, and with it the rest of the airplane, and as the rubber tires lost their grip on the sweet Earth and gave up and folded away somewhere underneath us, I began to wonder if this was all worth it.

Say HELLO to my little friend!

"I don't like mosquitoes one bit," I warned the mosquito which was floating lazily about the room but drifted a little too close to my face and attracted my attention. This was a mistake. "You would be well advised to steer clear of me. You've been warned."

I was standing at the sink, washing my hands, and then my face with hot soapy water. I did not sleep well the prior night, and I had just risen and begun the morning rituals. I had not had my coffee yet. As I was making adjustments to my hair, then picking something small and hard from the corner of my eye, I saw there in the mirror that mosquito, and it was getting close to my face again. I could almost hear the tinny, high-pitched buzzing in my ear. I froze for a second, hand there by my eye still, and planned my move.

"Keeeeee YAHHHHHH, Fucker!!" I spun and slapped at the thing, and thought I could actually feel the contact, it's body had enough mass for me to detect with my hand, which sort of surprised me. "Told you so. There. Was it worth it?" I half-heartedly looked around on the floor for the body so I could step on it. I didn't see it. It was probably hiding somewhere, on the back of a towel maybe. I had a feeling that wouldn't be the last I would see of the pest. We were on a collision course.

"Well, you better hide." The threat rang hollow in the bathroom, and I felt I was being mocked.

Something for you

It is the middle of the night, quite literally, and I have been laying here awake and staring at the ceiling. Everything takes on a more severe degree of importance in the middle of the night when you can't sleep.

I thought for a while about going back to sleep, then I thought about how it is as close to morning as it is to last night, then I wondered if I should just get a jump on the new day and make coffee now?

Mainly though, I thought about you.

I did get up and make a little foot tour of the grounds in my flip-flops. The new clean areas were visited, the MFFDD was admired, then reviled. The vacuum of some other vehicle's absence was felt. I Stood in that corner in the dark and spun around once or twice and then felt lucky, I don't care how it sounds, and I can't tell you how it is calculated or reconciled, but I am the lucky one.

I have had an image lately about a person living with a Rattlesnake. It is possible for a person to do that, to have feelings for the thing, to look at it and think that it likes or even loves you. I'm sure you don't require me to explain any more about this metaphor. Analogy? I always forget which is which, and it is late. Early.

Two Rattlesnakes? What if there are two? They must be able to live with each other. Do they? Does one always worry in the back of it;s mind if or when the other is going to suddenly turn?

Speaking of 'similar', when you get those far away looks and a worried expression on your face seemingly out of nowhere, and when pressed for information and you say 'nothing', I know what it is about. I know what it is about because I have either seen it before, or I am thinking the same thing. More probably I am thinking the same thing. I think we are the same.

When things are going well, or feel great, instead of remaining there and enjoying it, our minds drift forward in time to the point in which we imagine it is going to fall apart for some reason. When we are looking at each other, up close and noses touching and breath moist and mingling, and you look away slightly, I am thinking the same thing but trying to control my urge to look away slightly, but we are wondering who is going to strike first. Should we say it? Should we trust that we don't want to destroy this? Or, is a pre-emptive strike the best policy in this situation? Talk about Mexican Standoff.

I look at you and see you pull the pin and throw a grenade under the bus.

I wonder if I should go try to pick it up and throw it away, or if I should just stand there and do nothing and hope it does not go off - maybe it was a rubber gag grenade, or wish I would have thrown the grenade first, of if I should make a sacrifice and lay down on top of it, and I wonder if you didn't do it first, would I have? Do we not want to really be happy? Is this FUN? Do we have no control? I look at you and you look at me and there is a happiness, and soon after there is a panic and we are reaching around us, still smiling, looking for our grenades, our EMERGENCY FEATURE, the red button or lever, the self-destruct switch. We are pushing or pulling at it with one hand, behind our backs, while our other hand is touching the other person's face to distract them, or truly enjoying the sensation for what we worry may be the last time.

Enough about that. It is late, or early, and I guess I will have to take a pill after all to be able to sleep, it is important to get some more sleep before I have to try to act normal tomorrow. Act normal? I mean, function properly. I am getting things done. I don't want to stop now. Not yet.


Since we are the same, you could have told me anything and I would have understood. The only thing you could have done wrong was the thing you did: tell me I did something wrong and then disappear to let me worry and wonder and seep in guilt and not even give me the opportunity to speak or ask any questions, no explanations. Presumably no room in your schedule for discussion. Since we are the same, I know you know this was the worst possible move to have made. Since you did this on purpose, this makes you - cruel? - Is a venomous reptile cruel because it does what it does naturally? What feels 'right' to it? When it is taking care of itself? Are we reptiles though? Do we have no control over our impulses?


I could not trust you. I could not trust you now, and I only briefly trusted you then. It took over a month before my actual conscious active defenses went down at all and my hopes went up. I know you were aware of this, and it is probably why you chose that time to strike.

Dramatic Drivel? This? All you and never me, and rattlesnakes and turning and striking and parasites and virus and scars and middle-of-the-nights? SURE. Eleven? Somewhere between nine and eleven, I think that is where we exist. I don't think it makes any of this less true. If anyone should know this and recognize this, it would be you. If no-one else can appreciate it, you should be able to.

Could we ever be able to look at each other in that warm special way and not have to worry what the other person is thinking, and if we need to protect ourselves by blowing everything up in order to feel like we have control?

Very special, Special. Find a path.

Last night I died

The light came in from the back lot, yellow and almost sideways through the big windows with the chicken-wire mesh cast in each pane. The light made her face look orange there in the dark room. Her eyes were blue, but you could not tell what color they were by this jaundiced illumination. He knew her eyes were blue, and if he were awake he would tell you he remembered where he was standing and what she was wearing the first time he ever saw her blue eyes, but he was asleep. His back was turned to her and it was quiet in this room except for his steady breathing and an occasional creak from the building.


Why is the bedroom so cold? Turn away on your side.

She thought about this song right now and how she used to listen to it in high school all the time, back when she wore too much mascara and bought her jeans pre-torn from the tacky store in the mall.

She did feel cold, but it was not coming from his turned back. She felt cold with her secret. She imagined it hard and dull and rough and she pictured it resting in her center, somewhere beside her stomach , behind her heart. The light from outside could never help find this thing inside her. She knew if she told him, she could rid herself of this cancer. She was afraid of what he would say or do.

I AM NOT MANIC RIGHT NOW

But I had the BEST day today, EVER!

I woke up after sleeping for ALMOST NINE HOURS, and felt great. The sun was out, and it was a crisp, bright morning. I put on appropriate attire and set off for a walk/ hike.

I crossed the bridge, and shielding my eyes with a hand looked East at the skyline, picked out a landmark building and imagined her not far away, there doing whatever it is she was doing. I looked, and listened to my mix on my ipod, and felt just fine about everything. Everything is going to be Okay!

My new mix CD : I have felt like this year has really sucked, musically. I have not had many new discoveries, and the year in general has blown, which does not make for necessarily good CD mixes. You want to either fix a completely WONDERFUL time or AWFUL time with the constant listening of a CD mix, so when your year is milquetoast at best, one should not cement those new songs in place.

SO , the mix I have made this year has basically consisted of songs that have been new to me, dropped in the playlist in the order in which I have discovered or been introduced to them, and no 'mixing' has been employed. This means track # 1 is the oldest to me, and track # 17 or whatever is the newest, my last discovery, in fact. I usually mix things around for flow effect, but THIS is actually GREAT! I get the whole year in a blow-by-blow, and it is working. These may be the songs! These may be the series of songs that conjure the genie! I felt something special here. I just noticed yesterday, while I was mopping up blood with a sponge and old socks, that all the lyrics of these songs were exactly appropriate to my current situation and mood, and I felt like each musical artist was speaking DIRECTLY TO ME, and ME ONLY. This was the best playlist I HAD EVER HEARD. This was Universal Intervention tearing across unfathomable distances to make sense to me through my earbuds.

So I stood in the middle of the bridge and looked East, and imagined her there, and didn't feel sad anymore. I held tight to the railing for a moment, then turned right and continued on my journey up the hill.

Even when I got to the top of the hill and had to duck under the bright yellow 'caution' tape and ignore the sign reading " NO ACCESS. PARK CLOSED. NO PEDESTRIANS, HORSES, WALKERS, BIKERS or VEHICLES OF ANY KIND ALLOWED FROM SEPTEMBER THROUGH OCTOBER, 2010" , I knew this sign did not apply to me. I'm a local! I'm getting out and feeling great and not festering in that awful building anymore! Certainly the Multnomah County Park People would not find a problem with me lifting my spirits and getting the juices flowing, would they? NO. And if they have a problem with me, let them bring it! I was prepared to better them in any debate of civic priority.

The forest was wonderful and rejuvenating, AS USUAL. I took deep breaths and even began to jog a little, feeling a real new chapter emerging.

I stopped after a little while and began to ponder a recent story I had been writing - How would I finish it? I thought the male character seemed too unpleasant, and I began to think about how my mood at the time I write TOTALLY influences the dialogue and storyline, and I thought about my newest story, and I had a change of heart about the current path, AND I THOUGHT, RIGHT THEN AND THERE OF THE PROPER DRAMATIC ARC AND RESOLUTION! It would be happy! It could remain entertaining and funny, but provide hope! I was really feeling great now and had to turn around and head back home to mumble my new storyline into my digital voice recorder before I forgot it entirely.

SO I did. I returned. I jogged, I mumbled into my hand-held, I fixed cars, I made something healthy to eat, I engineered new plans. I feel great. My fear is though, that I am not being realistic right now. Am I being realistic right NOW, or am I being realistic when I am wishing I am dead? I don't know. Does it matter? I am going to finish all these stories now. I have targets to aim for.

SO here I am! A VERY PRODUCTIVE DAY, PEOPLE. Great. I am about to go do that thing.

I am making a list.