Cecily knew a million things about Ted. She knew that he preferred to sleep on whichever side of the bed was closest to the door. She knew that he didn't mind the taste of orange juice immediately after brushing his teeth. And she knew that he went through the same five phases whenever he pulled up to a stoplight where cars were allowed to make right turns on red.
Phase 1 - The Realization
Ted would pull up to the stoplight and sit there for a few seconds, forgetting that he didn't need to wait for the green light. Sometimes a person behind them in traffic would honk and shove Ted through this phase with little ceremony. Otherwise, Cecily would patiently look at him and watch the realization dawn on Ted's face.
"Oh, right," he might mutter, moving onto the next phase.
Phase 2 - The Panic
Ted would suddenly not know where he was supposed to look. He would look right, then left, then back to the right again. Then he'd check the stoplight to make sure that it was still red, then look to see if he missed a sign somewhere telling him that he wasn't allowed to turn right on a red light. This part always took the longest amount of time. Cecily used to think the internal struggle was cute, but as the years passed by, Ted reminded her more and more of a stereotypically confused old man.
Phase 3 - The Maneuver
Ted would finally affix his head to watch for coming traffic to his left, gently pushing the gas pedal to inch up nearer to the edge of the intersection. Even if the road was perfectly clear, he would wait. Never hurts to be safe, Cecily imagined Ted thinking to himself.
It hurts a little, she would absolutely think to herself.
Phase 4 - The Mistake
Ted would finally begin to make his right on red. This is the moment where one of two things usually happened. Either the street would suddenly be flooded with cars ready to crash into the driver's side should he continue, or Ted would almost hit a pedestrian crossing at the intersection from his right. When Cecily tried to warn him of either thing, he would get irate and tell her that he already saw the thing she was warning him of, as though his anger or the fact that an accident didn't happen would keep her quiet next time.
Years earlier, Cecily had found out that Ted was having an affair with one of his patients. The woman had threatened to reveal everything to Cecily if he didn't give her ten thousand dollars to keep quiet. Ted paid her off, but he made the mistake of carrying on the affair. The woman blew through the money quickly and tried to blackmail Ted again. He came clean to Cecily, told her he'd never do it again and that he'd been driven close to suicide by the stress. Cecily wasn't sure if that was true, that he would consider killing himself. But after Cecily confronted the woman at a crowded restaurant, in front of the woman's new married boyfriend, she knew Ted wouldn't make the mistake again.
That was something else Cecily knew about Ted.
Phase 5 - The Inevitable
Ted would full stop the car after a disturbance, mentally falling back to the internal panic of his second phase in order to get his bearings straight. Inevitably, this is when the light would turn green. Still, Ted would not seem to see it. That is when Cecily would step in to remind him that he could go now, that they could be on their way.
Tuesday, June 30, 2015
Thursday, June 25, 2015
Punk Rock Wannabe in Hunstville, Alabama
For all I know, punk rock music and Huntsville, Alabama have always been synonymous in some select circles. There may very well be a punk-sanctioned map of the United States that pinpoints the Rocket City as a kind of Grand Central Station for youthful acceptance of song lyrics shouted over squirmy guitars, each clocking in around a minute and a half. However, my experience witnessing that incongruous intersection in the mid-1990's felt like I was spying on an alternate universe version of my hometown.
I had known Ryan since I was about five years old. He was always cooler than me when it came to music...well, music and everything else, but especially music. I could easily chalk it up to access, since Ryan's dad was a rock DJ and he did a bit of jockeying himself at the Skate Odyssey roller rink, but Ryan had a knack for gravitating to some really exciting corners of music. And, such as the case with all gems, punk rock music was an assortment of rough stones waiting to be unearthed, though its lack of polish is what gave it value.
I probably followed Ryan to three or four live shows (never called "concerts" for some reason), usually in somebody's weirdly unfurnished house, dark fairgrounds, or the occasional backroom of a Mexican food place. Later, I would seek out shows myself, alone or with my girlfriend Lauren, who seemed much more casually entrenched in punk culture, maybe because her older brother Donny was "old school" and about as authentic of a punk as I'd ever meet. I was a tourist at best; most of the punk guys and girls called me a "poseur" and sometimes, if they were being generous, "new school" (as in, "Nice shoes, new school. Did Pay Less have a sale this week?").
I tore the stuffing out of my grey winter coat to make it look more ragged and cool. It might not have looked more cool that way to anybody else, but at least it was less puffy. However, I stopped short of drawing an Anarchy symbol on it, never sure if that was "conformist" or not. I would buy homemade cassettes of local bands with Xeroxed black-and-white covers and put Vaseline in my hair before going to shows. My head would be shiny and funny-smelling for days afterward, but the energy of the bands I saw was awe-inspiring. Of course, the crowds would be less energetic, usually just casually nodding, save for random acts of "moshing" which would usually lead to short-lived fistfights.
The most notoriously-named and insanely talented band playing in northern Alabama at that time was Joey Tampon and the Toxic Shocks. I only caught one of their live shows at a downtown dive, but Joey was an incredibly nice guy that didn't seem to care that I'd forgotten to put Vaseline in my hair that night. Lauren and I once made a trip to an abandoned shopping mall just to see The Fun Girls perform and were incredibly disappointed to hear that they didn't do the "cross-dressing thing" anymore. Well, that turned out to be untrue and I can't tell you how excited we were to see the guys take to the mall's makeshift stage in full feminine costumes, complete with their burly bass player painted blue from head-to-toe, wearing a tight white dress, a la Smurfette. But my favorite show was one put on by the Grumpies in a cold park near Airport Road that I still believe somehow magically didn't exist during the daytime. The band's songs were poppy and wonderful, their energy palpable, and it was the fastest I've ever seen a guy replace a busted guitar string. Also, I'm pretty sure their drummer was a Vietnam vet forever lost in the throws of combat shock, fueling his rage through the most basic of drum kits.
Before long, Ryan was playing in his own band, though I can't remember the name of it now. I caught him playing a crazy show at a place called Bandito Burrito where he spent about half of his set hiding amongst the crowd while his fifteen-year-old drummer, the Notorious B.O.B., was the only visible part of the band. Still, the crowd loved the gimmick and Ryan's songs took on a life of their own in that way. I congratulated him after the show on a great performance and caught a bit of the following band, fronted by a completely nude man who had strategically lowered the strap on his guitar so that it covered his shame.
I never formed a band during that time, happy enough just to be a fan and play the punk rock part, easily falling short of authenticity. Before long, I started getting attention at my high school for my acting abilities, which led to the inevitable transition from my gutted grey coat and Vaselined hair to old man makeup and plenty of shiny black shoes from Pay Less. But my time exploring Huntsville's punk rock scene gave me a unforgettable glimpse into the fun and dangerous side of a city I called home for the first eighteen years of my life. And I like to believe that the scene still exists there, shouting pure electricity to those who seek out the shadowy corners of town.
I had known Ryan since I was about five years old. He was always cooler than me when it came to music...well, music and everything else, but especially music. I could easily chalk it up to access, since Ryan's dad was a rock DJ and he did a bit of jockeying himself at the Skate Odyssey roller rink, but Ryan had a knack for gravitating to some really exciting corners of music. And, such as the case with all gems, punk rock music was an assortment of rough stones waiting to be unearthed, though its lack of polish is what gave it value.
I probably followed Ryan to three or four live shows (never called "concerts" for some reason), usually in somebody's weirdly unfurnished house, dark fairgrounds, or the occasional backroom of a Mexican food place. Later, I would seek out shows myself, alone or with my girlfriend Lauren, who seemed much more casually entrenched in punk culture, maybe because her older brother Donny was "old school" and about as authentic of a punk as I'd ever meet. I was a tourist at best; most of the punk guys and girls called me a "poseur" and sometimes, if they were being generous, "new school" (as in, "Nice shoes, new school. Did Pay Less have a sale this week?").
I tore the stuffing out of my grey winter coat to make it look more ragged and cool. It might not have looked more cool that way to anybody else, but at least it was less puffy. However, I stopped short of drawing an Anarchy symbol on it, never sure if that was "conformist" or not. I would buy homemade cassettes of local bands with Xeroxed black-and-white covers and put Vaseline in my hair before going to shows. My head would be shiny and funny-smelling for days afterward, but the energy of the bands I saw was awe-inspiring. Of course, the crowds would be less energetic, usually just casually nodding, save for random acts of "moshing" which would usually lead to short-lived fistfights.
The most notoriously-named and insanely talented band playing in northern Alabama at that time was Joey Tampon and the Toxic Shocks. I only caught one of their live shows at a downtown dive, but Joey was an incredibly nice guy that didn't seem to care that I'd forgotten to put Vaseline in my hair that night. Lauren and I once made a trip to an abandoned shopping mall just to see The Fun Girls perform and were incredibly disappointed to hear that they didn't do the "cross-dressing thing" anymore. Well, that turned out to be untrue and I can't tell you how excited we were to see the guys take to the mall's makeshift stage in full feminine costumes, complete with their burly bass player painted blue from head-to-toe, wearing a tight white dress, a la Smurfette. But my favorite show was one put on by the Grumpies in a cold park near Airport Road that I still believe somehow magically didn't exist during the daytime. The band's songs were poppy and wonderful, their energy palpable, and it was the fastest I've ever seen a guy replace a busted guitar string. Also, I'm pretty sure their drummer was a Vietnam vet forever lost in the throws of combat shock, fueling his rage through the most basic of drum kits.
Before long, Ryan was playing in his own band, though I can't remember the name of it now. I caught him playing a crazy show at a place called Bandito Burrito where he spent about half of his set hiding amongst the crowd while his fifteen-year-old drummer, the Notorious B.O.B., was the only visible part of the band. Still, the crowd loved the gimmick and Ryan's songs took on a life of their own in that way. I congratulated him after the show on a great performance and caught a bit of the following band, fronted by a completely nude man who had strategically lowered the strap on his guitar so that it covered his shame.
I never formed a band during that time, happy enough just to be a fan and play the punk rock part, easily falling short of authenticity. Before long, I started getting attention at my high school for my acting abilities, which led to the inevitable transition from my gutted grey coat and Vaselined hair to old man makeup and plenty of shiny black shoes from Pay Less. But my time exploring Huntsville's punk rock scene gave me a unforgettable glimpse into the fun and dangerous side of a city I called home for the first eighteen years of my life. And I like to believe that the scene still exists there, shouting pure electricity to those who seek out the shadowy corners of town.
Monday, June 22, 2015
Night Walk
Drew always suspected that he would see the Mid-air Ghost again, but he didn't think it would be so soon after their first meeting. The first time was during Drew's one and only time skydiving. He initially thought the ghost, which hovered nearby during free fall and vanished shortly after the parachute deployed, was some amazing illusion projected from the airfield until the tandem instructor later confirmed the sighting.
"Did you freakin' see that?" barrel-chested Bailey exclaimed once they were on solid earth again. "It was like a real life ghost, man!" He continued to alternate between wild laughter and saying "I mean...I mean," shaking his head nonstop as he undid the safety harness that connected him to Drew. They were connected in another way after that, so they exchanged phone numbers.
For his own part, Drew never quite felt like himself after the sky encounter. He would oftentimes stop whatever he was doing and look up to see if the sky held any more ghosts, ones that could be seen from the ground.
The second time Drew saw the Mid-air Ghost, it was only a few months later, during one of his night walks on Trower Avenue. This time it appeared to be standing firmly on the ground, causing Drew to think that he might need to reconsider his name for it. He was sure the ghost was the same, however - there was no mistaking its raincloud skin and beckoning arms. Drew stopped a few feet shy of meeting it directly.
"What do you want?" Drew directed toward the ghost's midnight sea foam face. He realized then that Trower Avenue was empty in a way that it usually wasn't. Even the homeless people who camped in concrete nooks along the buildings seemed to be away on vacation. Dawn was near, but no cars passed by them, and the streetlight on the next block blinked red for no one in particular.
"I want to grant you a wish." the Mid-air Ghost said. Its raspy voice didn't come from the ghost itself, but seemed to be trapped in Drew's skull, like a firefly captured in a mason jar.
A wish. Drew considered his options as he tried to not shiver. In the months since the skydiving incident, he had begun waking up mid-slumber with horrible panic attacks, jumping out of bed drenched in cold sweats. Each time he would feel as though the wind were pushed out of his lungs. Then the free fall would start all over again and, for several seconds, Drew would feel as though he were plummeting through the sky, only this time with no Earth to return to. Once the sensation passed, he would usually find himself on his bedroom floor, wide awake.
The first dozen or so times it happened, Drew called Bailey to help calm him down. However, Bailey didn't seem to have the same alarming side effect, and would often sound exhausted during these calls. And then, after a few patient minutes, his voice would become annoyed. Drew took the hint and looked for other means to cope. One night, he walked outside and felt a little better. Through this, he found out that walking up and down Trower Avenue after an episode was the closest thing to a cure that he could muster. Sometimes, he was even able to get back to sleep before sunrise.
But during his second meeting with the nightmarish thing - in his comfort zone, no less - he was frightened to think that the Mid-air Ghost had taken the cure away from him.
"Whatever happens," Drew finally said. "I need to be able to walk it off. Completely."
An oily, flickering rainbow invaded the ghost's ethereal skin, shimmering like crow feathers.
"Walk it off," the Mid-air Ghost repeated from inside Drew's head.
"Yeah, I need to be able to deal with whatever is bothering me by just taking a walk. Day or night. That's my wish."
Without getting any closer, the ghost reached out and Drew felt something like a cool blanket of fog surround his feet, like a thick dry ice smoke pressing around the joints in his ankles. There was a slight jolt that pulsed through his legs and then Drew felt very still.
The ghost rose into the dark early morning sky and disappeared.
Drew stood there for a moment, looking up. It occurred to him that a ghost whose home was somewhere in the sky might be confused by his wish, maybe even a little pissed off. What would the Mid-air Ghost ever need to walk off? Drew had plenty.
He began walking again and instantly felt better with each step. Several cars passed by and the world seemed normal again, the Earth firm beneath Drew's footsteps. After a few blocks, he took out his phone to let Bailey know that he might be getting another visit from their ghost, if he hadn't already, but then Drew decided to get an early breakfast instead. He had a feeling that he would need the energy.
"Did you freakin' see that?" barrel-chested Bailey exclaimed once they were on solid earth again. "It was like a real life ghost, man!" He continued to alternate between wild laughter and saying "I mean...I mean," shaking his head nonstop as he undid the safety harness that connected him to Drew. They were connected in another way after that, so they exchanged phone numbers.
For his own part, Drew never quite felt like himself after the sky encounter. He would oftentimes stop whatever he was doing and look up to see if the sky held any more ghosts, ones that could be seen from the ground.
The second time Drew saw the Mid-air Ghost, it was only a few months later, during one of his night walks on Trower Avenue. This time it appeared to be standing firmly on the ground, causing Drew to think that he might need to reconsider his name for it. He was sure the ghost was the same, however - there was no mistaking its raincloud skin and beckoning arms. Drew stopped a few feet shy of meeting it directly.
"What do you want?" Drew directed toward the ghost's midnight sea foam face. He realized then that Trower Avenue was empty in a way that it usually wasn't. Even the homeless people who camped in concrete nooks along the buildings seemed to be away on vacation. Dawn was near, but no cars passed by them, and the streetlight on the next block blinked red for no one in particular.
"I want to grant you a wish." the Mid-air Ghost said. Its raspy voice didn't come from the ghost itself, but seemed to be trapped in Drew's skull, like a firefly captured in a mason jar.
A wish. Drew considered his options as he tried to not shiver. In the months since the skydiving incident, he had begun waking up mid-slumber with horrible panic attacks, jumping out of bed drenched in cold sweats. Each time he would feel as though the wind were pushed out of his lungs. Then the free fall would start all over again and, for several seconds, Drew would feel as though he were plummeting through the sky, only this time with no Earth to return to. Once the sensation passed, he would usually find himself on his bedroom floor, wide awake.
The first dozen or so times it happened, Drew called Bailey to help calm him down. However, Bailey didn't seem to have the same alarming side effect, and would often sound exhausted during these calls. And then, after a few patient minutes, his voice would become annoyed. Drew took the hint and looked for other means to cope. One night, he walked outside and felt a little better. Through this, he found out that walking up and down Trower Avenue after an episode was the closest thing to a cure that he could muster. Sometimes, he was even able to get back to sleep before sunrise.
But during his second meeting with the nightmarish thing - in his comfort zone, no less - he was frightened to think that the Mid-air Ghost had taken the cure away from him.
"Whatever happens," Drew finally said. "I need to be able to walk it off. Completely."
An oily, flickering rainbow invaded the ghost's ethereal skin, shimmering like crow feathers.
"Walk it off," the Mid-air Ghost repeated from inside Drew's head.
"Yeah, I need to be able to deal with whatever is bothering me by just taking a walk. Day or night. That's my wish."
Without getting any closer, the ghost reached out and Drew felt something like a cool blanket of fog surround his feet, like a thick dry ice smoke pressing around the joints in his ankles. There was a slight jolt that pulsed through his legs and then Drew felt very still.
The ghost rose into the dark early morning sky and disappeared.
Drew stood there for a moment, looking up. It occurred to him that a ghost whose home was somewhere in the sky might be confused by his wish, maybe even a little pissed off. What would the Mid-air Ghost ever need to walk off? Drew had plenty.
He began walking again and instantly felt better with each step. Several cars passed by and the world seemed normal again, the Earth firm beneath Drew's footsteps. After a few blocks, he took out his phone to let Bailey know that he might be getting another visit from their ghost, if he hadn't already, but then Drew decided to get an early breakfast instead. He had a feeling that he would need the energy.
Thursday, June 18, 2015
Applebee's On the Edge of Forever
Sally was a woman with many theories, one of which was the belief that taking a road trip with someone would ultimately reveal that person's true nature. She had used it as a compatibility test in several key relationships in her life. A part of her would always regret not heeding the results of a road trip with Brent, her ex-husband, when they were still dating. She was determined to not make that mistake with Gerald.
There were several key factors to this theory, the most important, Sally believed, being that when two people spent time in a confined environment with little external distraction, they would eventually exhaust polite conversation and move into the open waters of character-revealing ideals and strange philosophies. And many times, rather than waiting for her unwitting test subjects to expose their closeted skeletons and red flags, Sally wanted to see how they would respond to hers.
To this effect, it was midway through a return road trip from Cincinnati when Sally told Gerald that she believed that all paranormal phenomena was the result of human beings mating with aliens from outer space.
"Think about it," Sally said. "Ghosts have humanoid faces and earthly agendas, but they aren't shaped like humans."
"Okay..." Gerald said, his voice getting a little quiet.
"Plus, they can make themselves invisible and fly around," Sally continued. "They also have an unearthly greenish glow."
"This sounds like you're basing a lot of this on that one ghost from Ghostbusters." Gerald said.
"That old onion-headed Slimer?" she replied, and then after a moment of thought. "Well, Dan Aykroyd didn't get that idea from just nowhere."
They had been dating for eight months when Sally decided to give Gerald the travel test during a trip to see her parents, whom he had only met once before. Their prior meeting was somewhat embarrassing for everyone involved, as Gerald happened to bump into both of Sally's parents as he was leaving her apartment early one morning. Yet despite that awkward first impression, they all had gotten along fine and the visit was deemed successful. Sally viewed the return drive home as her last opportunity for lightning rounds and bonus points before the final tabulation of results.
"Wait, invisible?" Gerald said. "Aliens aren't invisible."
"What about the predators from those predator movies?" Sally said.
"You mean Predator?" Gerald said. "And Predator 2?" Sally knew that, if he weren't driving, Gerald would have crossed his eyes for added effect.
"Exactly. You see, it's not a bad theory."
"Right," he said. "So, when exactly are the aliens sexing up all these humans?"
Gerald and Sally were still a few hours from getting back to Sally's apartment, but they had decided to make the return trip in a single day. Due to the time of night and their being between major towns, the road was largely deserted. On the side of the interstate, a road sign advertised food options for the next exit. Only one logo was present.
"Hey, Applebee's!" Sally said. "Mind if we stop?"
"Applebee's?" Gerald said, his voice verging on dismissive. "We had so many more options back in Brewsterville. I could turn back."
"I want a margarita and we're gonna share a bloomin' onion," Sally said. "It's why you love me and it's why we're going to Applebee's."
Gerald shook his head, but smiled as he slowed down and veered toward the off-ramp. At the top, another road sign displayed the logo, with an arrow pointing to the right beneath it.
"Oh, you were asking about when the aliens mate with humans," Sally said. Gerald made the turn onto a small desert road and continued to drive.
"Yeah, that's unclear."
"On their spaceships," she stated. "It's not a usual occurrence. I'm not saying it happens everyday. And I'm not saying all ghost sightings are real either - some jerks are flat out lying about that stuff. But the ones that are telling the truth are actually seeing human/alien hybrids."
"You mean ghosts?"
"Exactly."
"Well, why don't we ever hear about humans giving birth to ghosts? It would be happening in hospitals all over the world."
The desert road stretched on in darkness. There were no buildings visible to the side, but the car's headlights were only supplemented by streetlights about every two hundred feet. Still, they passed by no driveways, mailboxes, or other such signs of life.
"The aliens have the ghosts," Sally said.
"Oh, the aliens have the ghosts. Never the humans, even when they abduct women?"
"Yes, it doesn't matter." Sally was laughing now. "The aliens always get pregnant with the ghosts. It's a special power they have."
"This is getting weird."
"No, it's not. It all makes perfect sense." She was still laughing.
"No, not the...I mean where is this place? There's not an Applebee's out this far, right? They're usually right next to the interstate."
"Oh," Sally said, looking around. "Yeah, did we pass it?"
"Maybe. I'll give it another couple of minutes, then I'll turn around."
They drove in silence for a moment. Sally stared out the passenger side window into the void of night. Clicks and thuds from the road's surface reverberated through the floor of the car.
A moment went by and Gerald finally added, "And how would ghost babies grow to be full sized ghosts anyway?"
"Well, yeah, "Sally replied. "The ghosts aren't babies. They come out fully grown. And scary as hell!"
"Like the Ark of the Covenant from the end of Indiana Jones?" said Greg.
"Exactly like the Ark of the Covenant from the end of Indiana Jones!" said Sally.
They both laughed. Ahead, a bright oasis of parking lot lights emerged and soon the Applebee's sign was visible.
"Niiice," Gerald said. "And you were worried."
"Never," Sally said. "Nobody's gonna take away my bloomin' onion."
Gerald pulled the car into the parking lot, which was mostly empty. A trio of cars occupied the row closest to the entrance, and a dusty pickup truck was parked on the side of the building.
"Well, we'll see if this place is even open," he said. "These cars could be just the kitchen staff and servers. They could be closing up now."
"No way," Sally said, pointing to the time. "It's not even 10 o'clock."
"We'll see..."
Gerald parked the car and they began to walk toward the entrance. There was a constant gust of wind that they hadn't noticed when they were still inside of the car. Overhead, a billion stars shone bright, each of them brimming with the possibility of extraterrestrial life on distant planets throughout the universe.
Sally decided that Gerald deserved an 'A minus' for the road trip test, a 'B plus' at the very least. He had batted down her ghost theory, but here they were at Applebee's, just for her.
"And good luck getting a bloomin' onion," Gerald said as he slipped his arm around Sally's waist. "Those are only at Outback."
"You know what I mean."
"Yes, I know what you mean." Gerald said as he stopped walking and quickly kissed Sally. "Baby alien ghosts." He flung open the door to Applebee's and she giggled as they walked inside.
There were several key factors to this theory, the most important, Sally believed, being that when two people spent time in a confined environment with little external distraction, they would eventually exhaust polite conversation and move into the open waters of character-revealing ideals and strange philosophies. And many times, rather than waiting for her unwitting test subjects to expose their closeted skeletons and red flags, Sally wanted to see how they would respond to hers.
To this effect, it was midway through a return road trip from Cincinnati when Sally told Gerald that she believed that all paranormal phenomena was the result of human beings mating with aliens from outer space.
"Think about it," Sally said. "Ghosts have humanoid faces and earthly agendas, but they aren't shaped like humans."
"Okay..." Gerald said, his voice getting a little quiet.
"Plus, they can make themselves invisible and fly around," Sally continued. "They also have an unearthly greenish glow."
"This sounds like you're basing a lot of this on that one ghost from Ghostbusters." Gerald said.
"That old onion-headed Slimer?" she replied, and then after a moment of thought. "Well, Dan Aykroyd didn't get that idea from just nowhere."
They had been dating for eight months when Sally decided to give Gerald the travel test during a trip to see her parents, whom he had only met once before. Their prior meeting was somewhat embarrassing for everyone involved, as Gerald happened to bump into both of Sally's parents as he was leaving her apartment early one morning. Yet despite that awkward first impression, they all had gotten along fine and the visit was deemed successful. Sally viewed the return drive home as her last opportunity for lightning rounds and bonus points before the final tabulation of results.
"Wait, invisible?" Gerald said. "Aliens aren't invisible."
"What about the predators from those predator movies?" Sally said.
"You mean Predator?" Gerald said. "And Predator 2?" Sally knew that, if he weren't driving, Gerald would have crossed his eyes for added effect.
"Exactly. You see, it's not a bad theory."
"Right," he said. "So, when exactly are the aliens sexing up all these humans?"
Gerald and Sally were still a few hours from getting back to Sally's apartment, but they had decided to make the return trip in a single day. Due to the time of night and their being between major towns, the road was largely deserted. On the side of the interstate, a road sign advertised food options for the next exit. Only one logo was present.
"Hey, Applebee's!" Sally said. "Mind if we stop?"
"Applebee's?" Gerald said, his voice verging on dismissive. "We had so many more options back in Brewsterville. I could turn back."
"I want a margarita and we're gonna share a bloomin' onion," Sally said. "It's why you love me and it's why we're going to Applebee's."
Gerald shook his head, but smiled as he slowed down and veered toward the off-ramp. At the top, another road sign displayed the logo, with an arrow pointing to the right beneath it.
"Oh, you were asking about when the aliens mate with humans," Sally said. Gerald made the turn onto a small desert road and continued to drive.
"Yeah, that's unclear."
"On their spaceships," she stated. "It's not a usual occurrence. I'm not saying it happens everyday. And I'm not saying all ghost sightings are real either - some jerks are flat out lying about that stuff. But the ones that are telling the truth are actually seeing human/alien hybrids."
"You mean ghosts?"
"Exactly."
"Well, why don't we ever hear about humans giving birth to ghosts? It would be happening in hospitals all over the world."
The desert road stretched on in darkness. There were no buildings visible to the side, but the car's headlights were only supplemented by streetlights about every two hundred feet. Still, they passed by no driveways, mailboxes, or other such signs of life.
"The aliens have the ghosts," Sally said.
"Oh, the aliens have the ghosts. Never the humans, even when they abduct women?"
"Yes, it doesn't matter." Sally was laughing now. "The aliens always get pregnant with the ghosts. It's a special power they have."
"This is getting weird."
"No, it's not. It all makes perfect sense." She was still laughing.
"No, not the...I mean where is this place? There's not an Applebee's out this far, right? They're usually right next to the interstate."
"Oh," Sally said, looking around. "Yeah, did we pass it?"
"Maybe. I'll give it another couple of minutes, then I'll turn around."
They drove in silence for a moment. Sally stared out the passenger side window into the void of night. Clicks and thuds from the road's surface reverberated through the floor of the car.
A moment went by and Gerald finally added, "And how would ghost babies grow to be full sized ghosts anyway?"
"Well, yeah, "Sally replied. "The ghosts aren't babies. They come out fully grown. And scary as hell!"
"Like the Ark of the Covenant from the end of Indiana Jones?" said Greg.
"Exactly like the Ark of the Covenant from the end of Indiana Jones!" said Sally.
They both laughed. Ahead, a bright oasis of parking lot lights emerged and soon the Applebee's sign was visible.
"Niiice," Gerald said. "And you were worried."
"Never," Sally said. "Nobody's gonna take away my bloomin' onion."
Gerald pulled the car into the parking lot, which was mostly empty. A trio of cars occupied the row closest to the entrance, and a dusty pickup truck was parked on the side of the building.
"Well, we'll see if this place is even open," he said. "These cars could be just the kitchen staff and servers. They could be closing up now."
"No way," Sally said, pointing to the time. "It's not even 10 o'clock."
"We'll see..."
Gerald parked the car and they began to walk toward the entrance. There was a constant gust of wind that they hadn't noticed when they were still inside of the car. Overhead, a billion stars shone bright, each of them brimming with the possibility of extraterrestrial life on distant planets throughout the universe.
Sally decided that Gerald deserved an 'A minus' for the road trip test, a 'B plus' at the very least. He had batted down her ghost theory, but here they were at Applebee's, just for her.
"And good luck getting a bloomin' onion," Gerald said as he slipped his arm around Sally's waist. "Those are only at Outback."
"You know what I mean."
"Yes, I know what you mean." Gerald said as he stopped walking and quickly kissed Sally. "Baby alien ghosts." He flung open the door to Applebee's and she giggled as they walked inside.
Monday, June 15, 2015
We All Have Our Secrets
Here's a scenario we've all been in: you're chatting with a group of friends and you come up with the perfect thing to say, but not quickly enough to keep up with the flow of conversation. The subject moves on before you can say the perfect thing and you feel like you've lost points. And then there are times when you just can't let it go, so you keep thinking of your precious perfect thing instead of paying attention to whatever subject has replaced it. So then somebody asks you what you think about the current crisis in Ottawa and you dumbly try to reverse the whole conversation back to pornography so that you can admit that you starred in dozens of adult films during your mid-twenties.
That's apparently what happened to Ken, anyway.
We were having a nice dinner on Jack and Kayla Shaffer's patio, co-starring my famous potato casserole, when Ken decided that Canadian politics weren't as interesting as Jack's joke about the porno actress on her wedding night. That's when he told us about his short-lived acting career. We thought he was joking at first.
"Right," Jack said in response. "Me too! I starred in two pornos back-to-back this morning. Threw my back out."
We all laughed and I began to quietly wonder if I wanted to take some potato salad home with me for later. I would need to get it into the Shaffer's fridge until I left so the mayo wouldn't spoil.
"No, seriously," Ken said. "This was almost twenty years ago. I was working as a bartender in Miami and this really hot girl saw me behind the bar and handed me a card. When I called her up later for a date, she asked me if I'd do some nude modelling for her. I thought she was just being funny."
Many people have asked me how I make such an awesome potato salad. I usually joked with them that I bought it at the Kroger's deli and added a pinch of salt. But the truth was more complicated than that. It involved buying those little red potatoes at just the right time and boiling them to perfection. I also liked to peel the skin off, showing no red. That way they wouldn't know if I used the little red potatoes or not.
"So, the next thing I know, I'm 'Bobby Buttz' and doing up to five scenes a week." Ken said as Kayla's mouth slowly fell open. She probably wouldn't want seconds on the potato salad, but Jack might, considering he had gone through three glasses of wine already and appeared to be moving onto hard liquor.
Speaking of wine, I've always believed in making your own vinegar for potato salad. One part water and one part dessert wine, though some people would go two parts wine. Half and half was plenty for mine, especially with a good sherry. There would be a tartness, sure, but the dab of sweetness couldn't be beat. It also made a hell of a good vinaigrette to go on salads. Perfect for the summer months.
"Men, women, it didn't matter. By that point, cocaine was calling the shots and I was just along for the ride." Ken or Bobby or whoever said. It appeared that Kayla and Jack had actually rented a few of his movies back in the day. What a small world.
I always wanted to make my own mayonnaise too, but I was a klutz when it came to adding the oil while whisking the egg mix. I always just got the store-bought kind and added a little paprika to spice it up a bit. I would feel a little guilty because of course everybody assumed the mayo was homemade, but I never got complaints, so I didn't feel that guilty.
Just then I noticed that everybody was looking at me. Jack was holding Kayla, who seemed to be pretty upset. Ken had broken a glass or a plate and was picking pieces up off the ground.
"Is anybody going to want anymore potato salad?" I asked. "I'm just going to pop it in the fridge, if that's okay."
From the floor of the Shaffer's patio, Ken shot me a look that made me feel ridiculous. There were tears in his eyes.
"Yes, I want more potato salad," he said. "It's the only reason I came over here tonight!"
That's apparently what happened to Ken, anyway.
We were having a nice dinner on Jack and Kayla Shaffer's patio, co-starring my famous potato casserole, when Ken decided that Canadian politics weren't as interesting as Jack's joke about the porno actress on her wedding night. That's when he told us about his short-lived acting career. We thought he was joking at first.
"Right," Jack said in response. "Me too! I starred in two pornos back-to-back this morning. Threw my back out."
We all laughed and I began to quietly wonder if I wanted to take some potato salad home with me for later. I would need to get it into the Shaffer's fridge until I left so the mayo wouldn't spoil.
"No, seriously," Ken said. "This was almost twenty years ago. I was working as a bartender in Miami and this really hot girl saw me behind the bar and handed me a card. When I called her up later for a date, she asked me if I'd do some nude modelling for her. I thought she was just being funny."
Many people have asked me how I make such an awesome potato salad. I usually joked with them that I bought it at the Kroger's deli and added a pinch of salt. But the truth was more complicated than that. It involved buying those little red potatoes at just the right time and boiling them to perfection. I also liked to peel the skin off, showing no red. That way they wouldn't know if I used the little red potatoes or not.
"So, the next thing I know, I'm 'Bobby Buttz' and doing up to five scenes a week." Ken said as Kayla's mouth slowly fell open. She probably wouldn't want seconds on the potato salad, but Jack might, considering he had gone through three glasses of wine already and appeared to be moving onto hard liquor.
Speaking of wine, I've always believed in making your own vinegar for potato salad. One part water and one part dessert wine, though some people would go two parts wine. Half and half was plenty for mine, especially with a good sherry. There would be a tartness, sure, but the dab of sweetness couldn't be beat. It also made a hell of a good vinaigrette to go on salads. Perfect for the summer months.
"Men, women, it didn't matter. By that point, cocaine was calling the shots and I was just along for the ride." Ken or Bobby or whoever said. It appeared that Kayla and Jack had actually rented a few of his movies back in the day. What a small world.
I always wanted to make my own mayonnaise too, but I was a klutz when it came to adding the oil while whisking the egg mix. I always just got the store-bought kind and added a little paprika to spice it up a bit. I would feel a little guilty because of course everybody assumed the mayo was homemade, but I never got complaints, so I didn't feel that guilty.
Just then I noticed that everybody was looking at me. Jack was holding Kayla, who seemed to be pretty upset. Ken had broken a glass or a plate and was picking pieces up off the ground.
"Is anybody going to want anymore potato salad?" I asked. "I'm just going to pop it in the fridge, if that's okay."
From the floor of the Shaffer's patio, Ken shot me a look that made me feel ridiculous. There were tears in his eyes.
"Yes, I want more potato salad," he said. "It's the only reason I came over here tonight!"
Tuesday, June 9, 2015
Gloves
The Rockton Nightlife
The internet lit up when Leanna Price went missing in Rockton, CO. Some outlets focused on her numerous film and TV credits, others on the mysterious circumstances of her disappearance. The website I wrote for, OkayY.com, dug into the town itself and found something that the other sites somehow hadn't discovered: Rockton had been experiencing similar disappearances for months, way before Leanna Price had wandered out of her family's cabin and directly into Hollywood infamy.
OkayY.com didn't have the resources of some of the bigger sites, but my editor decided the story was strong enough to send me to Rockton to look into the other missing persons cases. Once I got there, it became obvious that the sheriff's department, led by Sheriff Lowell Brand, didn't want to have anything to do with me, and most of the townsfolk dismissed me as either another nosy outsider or a woman that desperately wanted late-night company at the Lakeview Motel (I didn't). After two weeks, I hadn't gotten very deep below the surface of things, but it was apparently enough for my editor to keep me on the story.
"I'm telling you - there's nothing here but a bunch miserable assholes and about fifty hiking trails perfect for people to go missing on."
"Keep with it, Libby," my editor replied. "Most of the other sites have moved on, back to celebrity gossip and product reviews."
"And what are we posting today?" I asked.
"Celebrity gossip and product reviews." he said. "But an exclusive on the Rockton weirdness could really help us out, especially if there's a connection between the cases."
I found out that there were five cases in all, with Leanna Price being the fourth. Of the five victims total, three were women and two were men. None of their bodies or belongings were found, none had motive to skip town, and none had people that would want them gone for good. Only the first victim, Greg Snowden, seemed to have a troubled life, but he was in a recovery program and showed every sign of improvement before he disappeared. And as much as I wanted to believe the opposite, none of them appeared to be avid hikers.
Leanna Price's was the only case where witnesses verified that she went missing at nighttime, but it was likely that the other disappearances also happened at night, causing the sheriff to put a 9pm curfew in place. However, Rockton was a sleepy town where most of its residents had maintained self-inflicted curfews their entire lives.
Once he finally decided I wasn't going away without a story, Sheriff Brand gave me two conditions for his cooperation. The second one worried me a bit. 1) He wouldn't be available for an interview until the following Saturday evening, just before sundown, and 2) I would have spend the entire night with him at his house.
Canyon Walls
When I drove up to his place in Dogwood Canyon, Sheriff Brand was standing in the driveway, pointing out the best spot to park my rental car. His aviator sunglasses reflected the last of the late afternoon light. I grabbed my equipment and went to shake his hand.
"Thanks again for the invite, Sheriff."
"Yep."
He was wearing jeans, but still had on his uniform shirt, which was untucked, wrinkled, and halfway open, revealing a grey t-shirt underneath. He had a can of Coors Lite in his hand and I could hear music playing.
"Ted Nugent?" I asked, nodding to the source.
"Yes, ma'am. Motor City Madman," the sheriff said as he began to nod his head to the beat.
"Very cool. One of my dad's favorite tracks," I said.
The sheriff removed his sunglasses and I could see from his eyes that he wasn't on his first beer of the day. I almost asked him why the interview had to wait until then, but there was a look in his eyes that told me he had something serious to say. He didn't.
"This one sounds like Deep Purple," he said. "I like 'Got Me a Rock n' Roll Band' better, but that one played already." He quietly belched under his breath. "Whoa, 'scuse me. Well, come around back."
Starting about thirty feet behind the house, the canyon wall curved upward, leaving the better view for the front side of the yard. However, I could see the reason for his preference when we rounded the corner to reveal a large patio area and a fully-stocked bar dug into the back wall of the house. Two waterfall fountains with mosaic tile backdrops decorated the sides of the bar and the music was blasting from hidden speakers.
"What're you drinking?" he asked.
"Uh, well I usually don't drink when-"
"Listen," he cut in. "I ain't gonna force you to drink with me, but this is my night off and I only drink alone when I'm alone." And then he added with a wink, "Takin' a drink don't make this a date."
"Better make it a bourbon then," I said. My editor knew about the mandatory sleepover and I let the sheriff know that people would know where I'd be staying before I accepted his terms. Plus, at this rate he would be passed out long before I even hit a buzz.
"Whew, bourbon sounds good!" he said. "Think I'll join you."
He walked to the bar area, finishing his beer during the journey. I looked around and noticed some sketches on the canyon wall, five distinct points, perhaps the beginnings of a mural. I almost asked about it, but stopped myself. Brand didn't need any more tangents and it was probably best to get started while he was still reasonably intelligible. I laid down my equipment bag and pulled out my tablet, audio recorder, and a notebook.
"You're not going to need that stuff," he said, handing me a glass of bourbon before attending his own.
"Well, I want to make sure that I get everything, you know, for the record."
He mumbled something about "for the record" and took another sip. I suddenly began to feel very thirsty myself, but I didn't want to test my bourbon tolerance just yet. It was better if the sheriff stayed a few rounds ahead of me.
"Okay, screw it. Get it all down!" the sheriff finally said.
The sound of his voice echoed off the canyon wall. Somewhere, the sun was close to setting, but we were shielded from the spectacle here. There was a steady breeze in the shady world of the sheriff's unique backyard that made me glad I'd worn a jacket. He led me over to a couple of wooden chairs facing a fire pit, which he prodded with his feet before sitting down. I sat down too, hit the green button on the recorder and started the interview.
Getting Soulful
"Sheriff Brand, thank you again for agreeing to this interview," I began, sounding to myself like a journalist for the first time in recent memory. "The past few months have been hard for Rockton, but the national press has ignored the situation except for the Leanna Price disappearance. However, four other people are missing and-"
"Shit, is that how you're gonna start?" the sheriff asked. He looked up and squinted, despite our position in the shade. "You ain't even gonna ask me how my day was?"
"Well, I...uh," I glanced down at my notes, weeks of preparation.
The sheriff laughed hoarsely and finished the last sip bourbon from his glass. We hadn't been sitting for more than a minute when he launched himself back over to the bar area. I was about to object to another round so soon, but saw that he had accessed a compartment that contained the stereo. I hadn't even noticed that the music had stopped playing.
"Let's try something a little more soulful," he said as he swayed. "Do you know J.J. Jackson?"
"I don't think so. No, I don't."
Things might have ended differently if I had just said "screw it" and decided to get drunk with the sheriff. It was early enough that maybe we could have called some of his deputy pals over to his place and made it a party. That night could have been the most fun I ever had outside of Denver.
But for whatever reason, "Sho Nuff" by J.J. Jackson started playing and I got pissed off.
People were missing, likely dead, and this was the man tasked with finding them and hopefully bringing their assailant or assailants to justice. It was more than apparent that good ol' boy Sheriff Lowell would rather drink himself stupid than do his job and I wanted nothing more at that moment than to break the son of bitch down. I tossed the contents of my glass into the ashes in the fire pit, set down my notebook, and walked up to the bar where the sheriff was digging for something in a stainless steel fridge. He was muttering again.
"Shit, thought I had another Coors in here. Damn, I hate that." He started to walk through the back entrance, but I stopped him.
"Let's just keep with the bourbon," I said, figuring that he'd lose the ability to walk before he lost his speech mechanics. I held up my empty glass and he smiled.
"Damn, you're just a hell of a drinker!" he said. "Well, alright." He poured us another round.
"You like this music?" he said, after taking another deep sip. "I usually listen this R&B soul stuff around Christmas, but I knew you'd like this one."
"Yeah, it's really great," I said, trying to sound like I meant it. "So, listen. We don't have to be formal about this interview shit, but I'd like to show my boss back in Denver that I wasn't sitting in Rockton for a month with my thumb up my ass."
I was glad to see the sheriff laugh at that. I wasn't worried at this point about him making advances, but it was still better that he found that image funny rather than weirdly sexy. He tilted his glass back again before beginning. Or beginning yet again, I guess it was.
Scary Stories
"You see those drawings on the rock wall back there?" he said, pointing to the canyon. I nodded. "Well, I didn't do that. And I don't know how closely you've been looking, but there are other markings like those around town."
I tried to not let my expression give away that I hadn't noticed, or how worried I was that the sheriff had stumbled upon yet another something else to talk about.
"They started popping up last year, about the time Sandy, my wife, died. I guess I was-"
"I'm sorry to hear that," I cut in, sincere. "I didn't know."
"Yeah...well anyway, I tried to take a vacation, get out and focus on my grief, but it didn't do me no good. Built this deck back here to give myself a project, even though it don't got much of a view. Anyway, I wasn't focused on things and I guess nobody wanted to tell me that it was pretty bad. By the time that junkie Greg Snowden went missing, I was glad to just write his case off as a heroin relapse, figured that his body would turn up in some gutter. And that made it easier get back to feeling sorry for myself, which is where I might have stayed until one of my deputies got my attention by killing himself."
"Frank Liesser," I said.
"That's right."
Finally, something I wanted to know. I had heard parts of this story from a group of people hanging outside a local diner called Skip's. Apparently Liesser had shot himself while on duty one night, but left a suicide note that caused the town to write him off as insane. None of the diner patrons had read it though, and could only seem to agree that the subject matter of the note had to do with "gloves or something".
I shivered a bit, despite my jacket. The sun had officially set, wherever it was. The lights from the patio still bathed much of the yard, including the canyon wall. "Sho' Nuff" had ended, though the sheriff didn't notice. His eyes glazed over a bit as he reminisced.
"Frank was coming up on ten years with the service, but he was never much of a friendly guy. Just a good deputy that seemed to enjoy busting speed demons and running teenagers out of the park at night. He'd been married a few years, though his wife ran off when he wouldn't give her a baby."
Sheriff Brand nodded at the thought, as though remembering a conversation he probably wouldn't repeat to me or anybody else.
"So, anyway. One day he gets back from patrol and says that Rockton's got a glove problem. That's what he said. I said, 'Frank, you need some time off', but he told me that he had to keep the gloves out. The next night, I got the call to come out and identify his body, as though they needed my help."
The sheriff took a long sip of bourbon and I did the same.
"And the day after that, we found out that Sherry Tenenrose was missing."
Sherry Tenenrose was a thirty-year-old waitress that never showed up to a morning shift at Skip's. She had likely disappeared the same night that Frank had shot himself.
"Sherry had a fiancee that everybody called Folsom, because of that Johnny Cash song. Well, you can imagine the kind of guy that gets a nickname from a song about prison. We figured he'd beat her to death and hid the body someplace. I'll tell you, working on that case was probably the most work that I've ever done as sheriff, certainly in the past five or six years. I just knew he'd done it, but we couldn't get anything to stick and he just kept crying and crying through it all. Made me sick at the time. Of course, then he went and accused Frank of having something to do with it, which just pissed off everybody. Things got out of hand after that and, well, we had to cut him loose. But I still think that if one of these cases would have been a copycat, it would have been Folsom killing Sherry."
"Where did Folsom go after you released him?"
"I heard he went up to Boulder to stay with some old piece of shit he used to date before Sherry, but who the hell knows? It was maybe a few weeks later that we had another one and I had to admit I was still on square one for information."
"Stephanie Merle."
"Huh? Oh yeah, Miss Merle. She was younger than the others. Just out of high school. Sad, you know? I still see her folks out there keeping hope alive that she'll turn up. And I hope she does." He trailed off.
I had met Stephanie's parents. Somebody had mentioned that they were only in their fifties, though they could have passed for a decade or two older after the incident. Stephanie had been house sitting for a friend of the family's and was never seen again.
"That's the first time that I noticed the markings," he said. "They were on the street in front of the house she was staying at. I wish that I put these things together faster, but I had to see them again at the Price family cabin and Darren Louden's campsite before I recognized it for the pattern it is."
The Leanna Price story was pretty well covered in the news and on the internet. The Price family owned a summer cabin in Shoulder Canyon, on the other side of Rockton from the sheriff's house. Leanna was between movie projects and met up with her sisters and mother for a week-long vacation. I'd spoken to one of their private detectives about the case, but he said there wasn't much to it. One evening, Leanna walked out with a glass of wine to enjoy the night air and never came back. Like Stephanie Merle's family, the Prices would never let the matter go. Though if my editor was to be believed, the rest of the world was moving on fast.
Darren Louden was camping by himself next to Lake McDonald and never emerged from the surrounding woods. This had happened on the exact day that I came to town and there was something so personal about that fact that I found myself struggling to investigate his case. I was almost thankful that Darren was from out of town, so there wasn't much information available about him in town. This news of the canyon drawings at his campsite was the first noteworthy item I had on him and I didn't know if I trusted the source.
The Rockton Nightlife, Pt. 2
The sheriff hummed a tune and I feared he was about to play another song on the stereo. I suddenly felt tired, though not the sleepy kind. I took a sip of bourbon, more to warm myself up than anything.
"There was one more thing that Frank used to tell me about the gloves," Brand said. "He told me that they could only get hold of one person at a time." He rubbed his eyes. "I guess I'm stupid for not realizing sooner that Frank was the one helping Greg Snowden stay off drugs, and that there might be something more there between them two. It was all in the note though. Frank said he saw whatever is stealing people in Rockton, saw it take Greg. I believe him. And if he says it was gloves, I guess that's what it was."
For a second, I imagined going back to my editor with this story. Maybe the world had already forgotten Leanna Price, and maybe they'd never care about the other four people that went missing in Rockton. But I had a feeling the world might want to know about the drunken sheriff that believed glove monsters were terrorizing his town. Oh, the world might love that story.
"Are we in danger sheriff?" I was choosing my words carefully. "Because of those drawings on the canyon walls?"
"No," he said. "I don't think that you're in danger. I might be though." He stared at me with a sad intensity that would be the first thing I thought of the next morning, when news got out that Sheriff Lowell Brand was the latest missing person case.
"I think I'm starting to believe that there are gloves out there," he continued, shifting his gaze into the last of the bourbon in his glass. "Maybe not physical ones, but something that's grabbing folks and tearing them away without traces." He drank.
The sheriff looked up with watery eyes, above the canyon wall. The stars were out.
"I guess I'm hoping Frank was right and whatever it is can't grab two people at the same time."
I waited for a punchline, for some sense that he was having me on. But then the sheriff rubbed his eyes and looked into his empty glass.
"Maybe I should come back in the morning," I said after a moment. "After you've had some sleep. Maybe we can meet for breakfast?"
"Shit, I'm too sober, if anything. It's still early," he said, forcing a smile as he opened the fridge again. He snapped his fingers. "Oh, that's right. Beers are inside. Can I get you something?"
"No, I'm good," I said. My mind was made up. We'd do the interview another time, sometime during the day and away from alcohol, if he'd ever allow that. I couldn't stay another minute that night listening to the sheriff's bullshit. I certainly didn't want to wade through another round of drinks and listen to another golden oldie. However, I was beginning to be afraid of how the sheriff would react if I tried to go, since my staying the night seemed so important to him. I decided I'd grab my stuff while he was inside and make a break for the rental car.
He left the patio door open as he walked inside. If I was lucky, he'd use the opportunity to take a bathroom break and buy me an extra minute or two of getaway time.
I was lucky.
The internet lit up when Leanna Price went missing in Rockton, CO. Some outlets focused on her numerous film and TV credits, others on the mysterious circumstances of her disappearance. The website I wrote for, OkayY.com, dug into the town itself and found something that the other sites somehow hadn't discovered: Rockton had been experiencing similar disappearances for months, way before Leanna Price had wandered out of her family's cabin and directly into Hollywood infamy.
OkayY.com didn't have the resources of some of the bigger sites, but my editor decided the story was strong enough to send me to Rockton to look into the other missing persons cases. Once I got there, it became obvious that the sheriff's department, led by Sheriff Lowell Brand, didn't want to have anything to do with me, and most of the townsfolk dismissed me as either another nosy outsider or a woman that desperately wanted late-night company at the Lakeview Motel (I didn't). After two weeks, I hadn't gotten very deep below the surface of things, but it was apparently enough for my editor to keep me on the story.
"I'm telling you - there's nothing here but a bunch miserable assholes and about fifty hiking trails perfect for people to go missing on."
"Keep with it, Libby," my editor replied. "Most of the other sites have moved on, back to celebrity gossip and product reviews."
"And what are we posting today?" I asked.
"Celebrity gossip and product reviews." he said. "But an exclusive on the Rockton weirdness could really help us out, especially if there's a connection between the cases."
I found out that there were five cases in all, with Leanna Price being the fourth. Of the five victims total, three were women and two were men. None of their bodies or belongings were found, none had motive to skip town, and none had people that would want them gone for good. Only the first victim, Greg Snowden, seemed to have a troubled life, but he was in a recovery program and showed every sign of improvement before he disappeared. And as much as I wanted to believe the opposite, none of them appeared to be avid hikers.
Leanna Price's was the only case where witnesses verified that she went missing at nighttime, but it was likely that the other disappearances also happened at night, causing the sheriff to put a 9pm curfew in place. However, Rockton was a sleepy town where most of its residents had maintained self-inflicted curfews their entire lives.
Once he finally decided I wasn't going away without a story, Sheriff Brand gave me two conditions for his cooperation. The second one worried me a bit. 1) He wouldn't be available for an interview until the following Saturday evening, just before sundown, and 2) I would have spend the entire night with him at his house.
Canyon Walls
When I drove up to his place in Dogwood Canyon, Sheriff Brand was standing in the driveway, pointing out the best spot to park my rental car. His aviator sunglasses reflected the last of the late afternoon light. I grabbed my equipment and went to shake his hand.
"Thanks again for the invite, Sheriff."
"Yep."
He was wearing jeans, but still had on his uniform shirt, which was untucked, wrinkled, and halfway open, revealing a grey t-shirt underneath. He had a can of Coors Lite in his hand and I could hear music playing.
"Ted Nugent?" I asked, nodding to the source.
"Yes, ma'am. Motor City Madman," the sheriff said as he began to nod his head to the beat.
"Very cool. One of my dad's favorite tracks," I said.
The sheriff removed his sunglasses and I could see from his eyes that he wasn't on his first beer of the day. I almost asked him why the interview had to wait until then, but there was a look in his eyes that told me he had something serious to say. He didn't.
"This one sounds like Deep Purple," he said. "I like 'Got Me a Rock n' Roll Band' better, but that one played already." He quietly belched under his breath. "Whoa, 'scuse me. Well, come around back."
Starting about thirty feet behind the house, the canyon wall curved upward, leaving the better view for the front side of the yard. However, I could see the reason for his preference when we rounded the corner to reveal a large patio area and a fully-stocked bar dug into the back wall of the house. Two waterfall fountains with mosaic tile backdrops decorated the sides of the bar and the music was blasting from hidden speakers.
"What're you drinking?" he asked.
"Uh, well I usually don't drink when-"
"Listen," he cut in. "I ain't gonna force you to drink with me, but this is my night off and I only drink alone when I'm alone." And then he added with a wink, "Takin' a drink don't make this a date."
"Better make it a bourbon then," I said. My editor knew about the mandatory sleepover and I let the sheriff know that people would know where I'd be staying before I accepted his terms. Plus, at this rate he would be passed out long before I even hit a buzz.
"Whew, bourbon sounds good!" he said. "Think I'll join you."
He walked to the bar area, finishing his beer during the journey. I looked around and noticed some sketches on the canyon wall, five distinct points, perhaps the beginnings of a mural. I almost asked about it, but stopped myself. Brand didn't need any more tangents and it was probably best to get started while he was still reasonably intelligible. I laid down my equipment bag and pulled out my tablet, audio recorder, and a notebook.
"You're not going to need that stuff," he said, handing me a glass of bourbon before attending his own.
"Well, I want to make sure that I get everything, you know, for the record."
He mumbled something about "for the record" and took another sip. I suddenly began to feel very thirsty myself, but I didn't want to test my bourbon tolerance just yet. It was better if the sheriff stayed a few rounds ahead of me.
"Okay, screw it. Get it all down!" the sheriff finally said.
The sound of his voice echoed off the canyon wall. Somewhere, the sun was close to setting, but we were shielded from the spectacle here. There was a steady breeze in the shady world of the sheriff's unique backyard that made me glad I'd worn a jacket. He led me over to a couple of wooden chairs facing a fire pit, which he prodded with his feet before sitting down. I sat down too, hit the green button on the recorder and started the interview.
Getting Soulful
"Sheriff Brand, thank you again for agreeing to this interview," I began, sounding to myself like a journalist for the first time in recent memory. "The past few months have been hard for Rockton, but the national press has ignored the situation except for the Leanna Price disappearance. However, four other people are missing and-"
"Shit, is that how you're gonna start?" the sheriff asked. He looked up and squinted, despite our position in the shade. "You ain't even gonna ask me how my day was?"
"Well, I...uh," I glanced down at my notes, weeks of preparation.
The sheriff laughed hoarsely and finished the last sip bourbon from his glass. We hadn't been sitting for more than a minute when he launched himself back over to the bar area. I was about to object to another round so soon, but saw that he had accessed a compartment that contained the stereo. I hadn't even noticed that the music had stopped playing.
"Let's try something a little more soulful," he said as he swayed. "Do you know J.J. Jackson?"
"I don't think so. No, I don't."
Things might have ended differently if I had just said "screw it" and decided to get drunk with the sheriff. It was early enough that maybe we could have called some of his deputy pals over to his place and made it a party. That night could have been the most fun I ever had outside of Denver.
But for whatever reason, "Sho Nuff" by J.J. Jackson started playing and I got pissed off.
People were missing, likely dead, and this was the man tasked with finding them and hopefully bringing their assailant or assailants to justice. It was more than apparent that good ol' boy Sheriff Lowell would rather drink himself stupid than do his job and I wanted nothing more at that moment than to break the son of bitch down. I tossed the contents of my glass into the ashes in the fire pit, set down my notebook, and walked up to the bar where the sheriff was digging for something in a stainless steel fridge. He was muttering again.
"Shit, thought I had another Coors in here. Damn, I hate that." He started to walk through the back entrance, but I stopped him.
"Let's just keep with the bourbon," I said, figuring that he'd lose the ability to walk before he lost his speech mechanics. I held up my empty glass and he smiled.
"Damn, you're just a hell of a drinker!" he said. "Well, alright." He poured us another round.
"You like this music?" he said, after taking another deep sip. "I usually listen this R&B soul stuff around Christmas, but I knew you'd like this one."
"Yeah, it's really great," I said, trying to sound like I meant it. "So, listen. We don't have to be formal about this interview shit, but I'd like to show my boss back in Denver that I wasn't sitting in Rockton for a month with my thumb up my ass."
I was glad to see the sheriff laugh at that. I wasn't worried at this point about him making advances, but it was still better that he found that image funny rather than weirdly sexy. He tilted his glass back again before beginning. Or beginning yet again, I guess it was.
Scary Stories
"You see those drawings on the rock wall back there?" he said, pointing to the canyon. I nodded. "Well, I didn't do that. And I don't know how closely you've been looking, but there are other markings like those around town."
I tried to not let my expression give away that I hadn't noticed, or how worried I was that the sheriff had stumbled upon yet another something else to talk about.
"They started popping up last year, about the time Sandy, my wife, died. I guess I was-"
"I'm sorry to hear that," I cut in, sincere. "I didn't know."
"Yeah...well anyway, I tried to take a vacation, get out and focus on my grief, but it didn't do me no good. Built this deck back here to give myself a project, even though it don't got much of a view. Anyway, I wasn't focused on things and I guess nobody wanted to tell me that it was pretty bad. By the time that junkie Greg Snowden went missing, I was glad to just write his case off as a heroin relapse, figured that his body would turn up in some gutter. And that made it easier get back to feeling sorry for myself, which is where I might have stayed until one of my deputies got my attention by killing himself."
"Frank Liesser," I said.
"That's right."
Finally, something I wanted to know. I had heard parts of this story from a group of people hanging outside a local diner called Skip's. Apparently Liesser had shot himself while on duty one night, but left a suicide note that caused the town to write him off as insane. None of the diner patrons had read it though, and could only seem to agree that the subject matter of the note had to do with "gloves or something".
I shivered a bit, despite my jacket. The sun had officially set, wherever it was. The lights from the patio still bathed much of the yard, including the canyon wall. "Sho' Nuff" had ended, though the sheriff didn't notice. His eyes glazed over a bit as he reminisced.
"Frank was coming up on ten years with the service, but he was never much of a friendly guy. Just a good deputy that seemed to enjoy busting speed demons and running teenagers out of the park at night. He'd been married a few years, though his wife ran off when he wouldn't give her a baby."
Sheriff Brand nodded at the thought, as though remembering a conversation he probably wouldn't repeat to me or anybody else.
"So, anyway. One day he gets back from patrol and says that Rockton's got a glove problem. That's what he said. I said, 'Frank, you need some time off', but he told me that he had to keep the gloves out. The next night, I got the call to come out and identify his body, as though they needed my help."
The sheriff took a long sip of bourbon and I did the same.
"And the day after that, we found out that Sherry Tenenrose was missing."
Sherry Tenenrose was a thirty-year-old waitress that never showed up to a morning shift at Skip's. She had likely disappeared the same night that Frank had shot himself.
"Sherry had a fiancee that everybody called Folsom, because of that Johnny Cash song. Well, you can imagine the kind of guy that gets a nickname from a song about prison. We figured he'd beat her to death and hid the body someplace. I'll tell you, working on that case was probably the most work that I've ever done as sheriff, certainly in the past five or six years. I just knew he'd done it, but we couldn't get anything to stick and he just kept crying and crying through it all. Made me sick at the time. Of course, then he went and accused Frank of having something to do with it, which just pissed off everybody. Things got out of hand after that and, well, we had to cut him loose. But I still think that if one of these cases would have been a copycat, it would have been Folsom killing Sherry."
"Where did Folsom go after you released him?"
"I heard he went up to Boulder to stay with some old piece of shit he used to date before Sherry, but who the hell knows? It was maybe a few weeks later that we had another one and I had to admit I was still on square one for information."
"Stephanie Merle."
"Huh? Oh yeah, Miss Merle. She was younger than the others. Just out of high school. Sad, you know? I still see her folks out there keeping hope alive that she'll turn up. And I hope she does." He trailed off.
I had met Stephanie's parents. Somebody had mentioned that they were only in their fifties, though they could have passed for a decade or two older after the incident. Stephanie had been house sitting for a friend of the family's and was never seen again.
"That's the first time that I noticed the markings," he said. "They were on the street in front of the house she was staying at. I wish that I put these things together faster, but I had to see them again at the Price family cabin and Darren Louden's campsite before I recognized it for the pattern it is."
The Leanna Price story was pretty well covered in the news and on the internet. The Price family owned a summer cabin in Shoulder Canyon, on the other side of Rockton from the sheriff's house. Leanna was between movie projects and met up with her sisters and mother for a week-long vacation. I'd spoken to one of their private detectives about the case, but he said there wasn't much to it. One evening, Leanna walked out with a glass of wine to enjoy the night air and never came back. Like Stephanie Merle's family, the Prices would never let the matter go. Though if my editor was to be believed, the rest of the world was moving on fast.
Darren Louden was camping by himself next to Lake McDonald and never emerged from the surrounding woods. This had happened on the exact day that I came to town and there was something so personal about that fact that I found myself struggling to investigate his case. I was almost thankful that Darren was from out of town, so there wasn't much information available about him in town. This news of the canyon drawings at his campsite was the first noteworthy item I had on him and I didn't know if I trusted the source.
The Rockton Nightlife, Pt. 2
The sheriff hummed a tune and I feared he was about to play another song on the stereo. I suddenly felt tired, though not the sleepy kind. I took a sip of bourbon, more to warm myself up than anything.
"There was one more thing that Frank used to tell me about the gloves," Brand said. "He told me that they could only get hold of one person at a time." He rubbed his eyes. "I guess I'm stupid for not realizing sooner that Frank was the one helping Greg Snowden stay off drugs, and that there might be something more there between them two. It was all in the note though. Frank said he saw whatever is stealing people in Rockton, saw it take Greg. I believe him. And if he says it was gloves, I guess that's what it was."
For a second, I imagined going back to my editor with this story. Maybe the world had already forgotten Leanna Price, and maybe they'd never care about the other four people that went missing in Rockton. But I had a feeling the world might want to know about the drunken sheriff that believed glove monsters were terrorizing his town. Oh, the world might love that story.
"Are we in danger sheriff?" I was choosing my words carefully. "Because of those drawings on the canyon walls?"
"No," he said. "I don't think that you're in danger. I might be though." He stared at me with a sad intensity that would be the first thing I thought of the next morning, when news got out that Sheriff Lowell Brand was the latest missing person case.
"I think I'm starting to believe that there are gloves out there," he continued, shifting his gaze into the last of the bourbon in his glass. "Maybe not physical ones, but something that's grabbing folks and tearing them away without traces." He drank.
The sheriff looked up with watery eyes, above the canyon wall. The stars were out.
"I guess I'm hoping Frank was right and whatever it is can't grab two people at the same time."
I waited for a punchline, for some sense that he was having me on. But then the sheriff rubbed his eyes and looked into his empty glass.
"Maybe I should come back in the morning," I said after a moment. "After you've had some sleep. Maybe we can meet for breakfast?"
"Shit, I'm too sober, if anything. It's still early," he said, forcing a smile as he opened the fridge again. He snapped his fingers. "Oh, that's right. Beers are inside. Can I get you something?"
"No, I'm good," I said. My mind was made up. We'd do the interview another time, sometime during the day and away from alcohol, if he'd ever allow that. I couldn't stay another minute that night listening to the sheriff's bullshit. I certainly didn't want to wade through another round of drinks and listen to another golden oldie. However, I was beginning to be afraid of how the sheriff would react if I tried to go, since my staying the night seemed so important to him. I decided I'd grab my stuff while he was inside and make a break for the rental car.
He left the patio door open as he walked inside. If I was lucky, he'd use the opportunity to take a bathroom break and buy me an extra minute or two of getaway time.
I was lucky.
Monday, June 8, 2015
Very Special
In television history there are many "very special
episodes" that strove to help to their audiences cope with timely and often controversial issues. There was the time when Growing Pains' Mike Seaver
(played by Kirk Cameron) was tempted by peers to try cocaine at the world's most sophisticated high school party, and who can forget
when the Keaton family navigated the perils of alcoholism and vanilla extract abuse with Uncle Ned (Tom
Hanks) on Family Ties? Infamously, Too Close for Comfort explored
sexual assault by having Monroe (Jim J. Bullock) abducted and molested by two
women in a van overnight, audibly confusing their studio audience in the
process.
For many years after they aired, these episodes became tantamount to folklore, viewed once and then buried beneath the static noise of broadcast whim. However, these days we can witness many of these televised morality plays firsthand thanks to home video releases and websites like YouTube.com. Any enterprising pop culturalist can now unearth the episode of Night Court where Bull (Richard Moll) becomes a nude fetish model to pay for his crystal methamphetamine habit. There's the ninth season finale of The Benny Hill Show where Benny Hill (played by Benny Hill) euthanizes a half-dressed syphilitic french maid while the Ladybirds hum a mournful version of "Yakety Sax". Even The New Scooby-Doo Movies has a "very special episode" where a scantily-clad Sandy Duncan learns racial sensitivity from the ghost of a Samurai warrior (Season 2, Episode 14).
And yet for all of these recovered gems, the one "very special episode" that seems to be lost forever is the third season premiere of Saved By the Bell where A.C. Slater (Mario Lopez) falls in love with an older woman that turns out to be Screech (Dustin Diamond) in disguise, causing Slater to take his own life. According to online copies of the shooting script, the hour-long special was to conclude with a lengthy speech by Mr. Belding (Dennis Haskins) on the dangers of costumed hijinks. The network decided to never air the episode, thus sparing the character of A.C. Slater for further adventures at Bayside High. However, the writers ultimately reused the Screech-in-drag storyline an additional 35 times during the series' run.
For many years after they aired, these episodes became tantamount to folklore, viewed once and then buried beneath the static noise of broadcast whim. However, these days we can witness many of these televised morality plays firsthand thanks to home video releases and websites like YouTube.com. Any enterprising pop culturalist can now unearth the episode of Night Court where Bull (Richard Moll) becomes a nude fetish model to pay for his crystal methamphetamine habit. There's the ninth season finale of The Benny Hill Show where Benny Hill (played by Benny Hill) euthanizes a half-dressed syphilitic french maid while the Ladybirds hum a mournful version of "Yakety Sax". Even The New Scooby-Doo Movies has a "very special episode" where a scantily-clad Sandy Duncan learns racial sensitivity from the ghost of a Samurai warrior (Season 2, Episode 14).
And yet for all of these recovered gems, the one "very special episode" that seems to be lost forever is the third season premiere of Saved By the Bell where A.C. Slater (Mario Lopez) falls in love with an older woman that turns out to be Screech (Dustin Diamond) in disguise, causing Slater to take his own life. According to online copies of the shooting script, the hour-long special was to conclude with a lengthy speech by Mr. Belding (Dennis Haskins) on the dangers of costumed hijinks. The network decided to never air the episode, thus sparing the character of A.C. Slater for further adventures at Bayside High. However, the writers ultimately reused the Screech-in-drag storyline an additional 35 times during the series' run.
For additional information on "very special episodes", please reread this article, but slower.
Wednesday, June 3, 2015
Ché Boulevard
Trevor had no interest in getting to know, spending time with, or having a meal in the vicinity of Lillian Schnell, not even after she told him secrets about Solitinuum and praised his girlfriend in some truly flattering ways.
Trevor had only agreed to Lillian's company in the first place at Elena's insistence. He'd been seeing Elena for a little over a month and liked her quite a bit, but enduring any level of scrutiny from her circle of friends felt beyond tedious. Furthermore, this Lillian woman suggested they meet at the overpriced Ché Boulevard for dinner. He would have preferred midday coffee or a quick pretzel outside his office or, best option, a permanent rain check.
When he arrived at the restaurant, Lillian was sitting at a table in the center of the dining section and facing the entrance. She was a tall and still woman a few years older than Elena, attractive in a stern high school principal kind of way. She looked up from her smartphone as Trevor approached her.
"Thanks for meeting me. I hope you're not the type of man that minds sitting with his back to the entrance."
He was that type, but he shook his head no.
"This is fine," he lied. "Good to see you again, Lillian," he lied again.
They had briefly met after a concert for a rock band that Elena's company represented. Trevor had been busy the night of the show, but picked up Elena afterward to spend the night at his place. Lillian had been her date in his absence, though she hardly seemed to fit into the band's demographic. Trevor would be the first to admit that he didn't either, though he might have made an effort to blend in.
"Do we have a waiter?" he asked.
"I ordered two Manhattans. I'll drink both if you'd prefer something else."
"No need. It's the best thing on the menu."
She smiled and glanced down at her smartphone again. The pre-ordering his drink thing annoyed Trevor, but bad phone manners would cause him to become outwardly irate. He began to say as much, but Lillian cut him off.
"I don't mean to be rude," she said. "It looks like the military have a Solitinuum sect cornered in San Diego. In the Gaslamp District, if you can believe that."
"I would have thought they'd be more at home in the zoo," Trevor said, though Lillian didn't acknowledge the attempted joke.
"Why don't you tell me a little about yourself?" she asked.
Trevor gave her a brief rundown covering the basics: his education and job, favorite animal, a desire to travel more often. He was relieved that Lillian didn't stop him at the mention of his marriage and divorce to his ex-wife, Corina, thinking that would be the likely trap. However, he did realize during his discourse that it might be impolite if he didn't return the volley of interest, though he had none for Lillian Schnell.
And then she did it again. Trevor was in the middle of a story about a fire at a Japanese fish market he'd been in last fall and Lillian's eyes drifted down to her phone.
"Listen, Lillian," he said. "I don't want to be here."
She looked up to him and he continued.
"I only agreed to meet you because Elena was close to tears about how important you and her other friends are to her. But, you know, I already have friends and I'm not really looking to make more. No offense."
Lillian looked at Trevor with a sad seriousness as the server arrived with their cocktails.
"Sorry for the wait," he said, placing the drinks in front of them. "Are you ready to order?"
"Give us a minute," Lillian said.
The waiter nodded and left. Lillian lifted her glass.
"To old friends and to not making new ones," she said.
Trevor rolled his eyes and half-heartedly lifted his glass. They drank, the bitter sweetness a mild relief to Trevor. He looked around and was doubly relieved to see that he didn't know anybody sitting near them.
"Not bad," Lillian said, referring to the drink.
"Best thing on the menu," he replied stoically.
"Elena wanted to be here tonight," Lillian said. "I told her it would be a short evening, and it will be. I have no interest in dining here."
"That's a good move," Trevor said. "The food here sucks and they charge you out the ass for the privilege."
The sentence came out both louder and crasser than Trevor had intended, though he felt Ché Boulevard deserved every insult it got.
"Nevertheless," Lillian continued, "I needed this time with you. Elena speaks highly of you, but you don't seem like a team player."
"Mm, not looking to join a team."
He noticed that his right foot was tapping. He hadn't noticed music playing when he sat down, but it was suddenly very prominent. Lillian was still talking, but Trevor had to concentrate to place the band. Was it the same band whose concert he had missed that night? Didn't seem like the right atmosphere for it, but he would look it up later if he could remember any of the lyrics.
"Stay with me, Trevor," Lillian said.
"Huh?" Trevor realized that his vision had blurred a bit. "What's this song called?"
"We want the world to see us for what we truly are, Trevor. Solitinuum isn't what you and your worthless friends have heard about in the news. We are so much more than a sometimes dangerous public nuisance with tax exempt status. We are the future of this country's religion, health, and government."
The light in Trevor's peripheral vision began to dim. It took him a moment to realize the cause of the sensation, that the other people in the restaurant were gathering around his table. He reached for his drink, but someone had taken it.
"San Diego was a mistake. We've chosen this city to regroup because of Elena. She is special beyond any measure that you and your worthless friends will ever know. She will be our new haven's representative and its queen. And we can't have you standing next to her, no matter how much she wants that. You aren't for us."
Trevor steadied his hands, which were shaking now. He knew that something was wrong. People were chanting around him and he couldn't feel his legs. Somebody stood him up, or maybe it was two people. He wanted another drink, but the server was gone. Lillian Schnell was gone too, replaced by someone in a scary mask who was much too tall. Trevor's new dinner companion held a strange-looking steak knife in their hand, but nobody had ordered a steak.
In that moment, Trevor decided that he was going to break things off with Elena the next time he saw her. Her friends were too weird. The song began playing again and he tearfully admitted to himself that it wasn't any band or style of music he'd ever heard before. He glanced around the dining room through half-closed eyes at the grey twisted faces around him and decided something else.
He decided he was never coming back to Ché fucking Boulevard again.
Trevor had only agreed to Lillian's company in the first place at Elena's insistence. He'd been seeing Elena for a little over a month and liked her quite a bit, but enduring any level of scrutiny from her circle of friends felt beyond tedious. Furthermore, this Lillian woman suggested they meet at the overpriced Ché Boulevard for dinner. He would have preferred midday coffee or a quick pretzel outside his office or, best option, a permanent rain check.
When he arrived at the restaurant, Lillian was sitting at a table in the center of the dining section and facing the entrance. She was a tall and still woman a few years older than Elena, attractive in a stern high school principal kind of way. She looked up from her smartphone as Trevor approached her.
"Thanks for meeting me. I hope you're not the type of man that minds sitting with his back to the entrance."
He was that type, but he shook his head no.
"This is fine," he lied. "Good to see you again, Lillian," he lied again.
They had briefly met after a concert for a rock band that Elena's company represented. Trevor had been busy the night of the show, but picked up Elena afterward to spend the night at his place. Lillian had been her date in his absence, though she hardly seemed to fit into the band's demographic. Trevor would be the first to admit that he didn't either, though he might have made an effort to blend in.
"Do we have a waiter?" he asked.
"I ordered two Manhattans. I'll drink both if you'd prefer something else."
"No need. It's the best thing on the menu."
She smiled and glanced down at her smartphone again. The pre-ordering his drink thing annoyed Trevor, but bad phone manners would cause him to become outwardly irate. He began to say as much, but Lillian cut him off.
"I don't mean to be rude," she said. "It looks like the military have a Solitinuum sect cornered in San Diego. In the Gaslamp District, if you can believe that."
"I would have thought they'd be more at home in the zoo," Trevor said, though Lillian didn't acknowledge the attempted joke.
"Why don't you tell me a little about yourself?" she asked.
Trevor gave her a brief rundown covering the basics: his education and job, favorite animal, a desire to travel more often. He was relieved that Lillian didn't stop him at the mention of his marriage and divorce to his ex-wife, Corina, thinking that would be the likely trap. However, he did realize during his discourse that it might be impolite if he didn't return the volley of interest, though he had none for Lillian Schnell.
And then she did it again. Trevor was in the middle of a story about a fire at a Japanese fish market he'd been in last fall and Lillian's eyes drifted down to her phone.
"Listen, Lillian," he said. "I don't want to be here."
She looked up to him and he continued.
"I only agreed to meet you because Elena was close to tears about how important you and her other friends are to her. But, you know, I already have friends and I'm not really looking to make more. No offense."
Lillian looked at Trevor with a sad seriousness as the server arrived with their cocktails.
"Sorry for the wait," he said, placing the drinks in front of them. "Are you ready to order?"
"Give us a minute," Lillian said.
The waiter nodded and left. Lillian lifted her glass.
"To old friends and to not making new ones," she said.
Trevor rolled his eyes and half-heartedly lifted his glass. They drank, the bitter sweetness a mild relief to Trevor. He looked around and was doubly relieved to see that he didn't know anybody sitting near them.
"Not bad," Lillian said, referring to the drink.
"Best thing on the menu," he replied stoically.
"Elena wanted to be here tonight," Lillian said. "I told her it would be a short evening, and it will be. I have no interest in dining here."
"That's a good move," Trevor said. "The food here sucks and they charge you out the ass for the privilege."
The sentence came out both louder and crasser than Trevor had intended, though he felt Ché Boulevard deserved every insult it got.
"Nevertheless," Lillian continued, "I needed this time with you. Elena speaks highly of you, but you don't seem like a team player."
"Mm, not looking to join a team."
He noticed that his right foot was tapping. He hadn't noticed music playing when he sat down, but it was suddenly very prominent. Lillian was still talking, but Trevor had to concentrate to place the band. Was it the same band whose concert he had missed that night? Didn't seem like the right atmosphere for it, but he would look it up later if he could remember any of the lyrics.
"Stay with me, Trevor," Lillian said.
"Huh?" Trevor realized that his vision had blurred a bit. "What's this song called?"
"We want the world to see us for what we truly are, Trevor. Solitinuum isn't what you and your worthless friends have heard about in the news. We are so much more than a sometimes dangerous public nuisance with tax exempt status. We are the future of this country's religion, health, and government."
The light in Trevor's peripheral vision began to dim. It took him a moment to realize the cause of the sensation, that the other people in the restaurant were gathering around his table. He reached for his drink, but someone had taken it.
"San Diego was a mistake. We've chosen this city to regroup because of Elena. She is special beyond any measure that you and your worthless friends will ever know. She will be our new haven's representative and its queen. And we can't have you standing next to her, no matter how much she wants that. You aren't for us."
Trevor steadied his hands, which were shaking now. He knew that something was wrong. People were chanting around him and he couldn't feel his legs. Somebody stood him up, or maybe it was two people. He wanted another drink, but the server was gone. Lillian Schnell was gone too, replaced by someone in a scary mask who was much too tall. Trevor's new dinner companion held a strange-looking steak knife in their hand, but nobody had ordered a steak.
In that moment, Trevor decided that he was going to break things off with Elena the next time he saw her. Her friends were too weird. The song began playing again and he tearfully admitted to himself that it wasn't any band or style of music he'd ever heard before. He glanced around the dining room through half-closed eyes at the grey twisted faces around him and decided something else.
He decided he was never coming back to Ché fucking Boulevard again.
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