Fertile Heights

Rob Crandall

“Well, perhaps if Reginald would have put a little more effort into his portion of the project then we wouldn’t be facing this problem right now.”

Mr. Yemen said the comment off the cuff, but Reginald knew that he meant it to sting.  And it did.

Reginald stared into the screen of his laptop, avoiding that piercing glare that screamed with disappointment and disapproval.  He could feel his cheeks burning with shame, and his neck began to itch maddeningly.

“Sorry, Sir.  I just…….”

“The past is done, Reginald.”  Yemen said, rolling his eyes.  “Maybe you’ve learned your lesson.”

Learned his lesson?!  What was this, kindergarten?  ‘Reggie, maybe you’ve learned your lesson.  Maybe next time if you color inside the lines you’ll get a cookie at snack time.’ 

He felt like screaming.  He felt like ripping off his tie, tearing the top button free from his collar, itching his neck--no, clawing his neck, and then throwing his laptop out the office window.  Or, better yet, throwing it at Mr. Yemen.  Maybe just right, so the corner would hit him on the face, and cause a nose bleed.  Yes, that would be nice.  So nice.  And after that he would…….

But instead, he said, “Yes, Sir.  I will try to get my act together.”

Mr. Yemen gave him a small snort, and a quick shake of his head that suggested that guys like Reginald would never get their act together.  They would just keep failing.  Not only at work, but in life in general.  Guys like Reginald were born that way.  Born losers. 

                                                      ********

Reginald followed the second hand one more time around its never ending circle.  It was finally 3:00pm, and quitting time for the day.  Time to close up shop, as they say.

It had been a bad day.  But, lately, they had all been bad hadn’t they?  Not only did he say nary a word to his co-workers these days, but, the simple truth of it was that he was grossly over-qualified for the job. The stuff was child’s play to him.  It was like giving Einstein an abacus, and telling him, “Albert, please slide the red and green beads to the other side until you get to ten.”---and then telling him to do it for eight hours straight, day in and day out!  It was true.  Reginald put in his time entering endless streams of data onto disks: Contact information for masses of people.  Names, addresses, phone numbers, and email accounts, and it drove him mad.  He saw numbers in his sleep, and his fingers often twitched far into the night, as if their part of the shift hadn’t ended yet.  So it was really no wonder why Reginald had been slacking lately.  Taking a few breaks to play computer solitaire or to surf the web was simply essential in keeping his sanity intact. 

And so Reginald had neglected a fair share of his work, and, as a result, he had gotten behind.  And now the stack of disks on his desk was tall enough to be teetering, and he was well aware of the looks that Mr. Yemen gave him as he passed by, on his way to refill his coffee mug.  But, hell, he hardly cared anymore.  And he found that he didn’t care at all at this time of day.

Reginald slid open the bottom drawer of his desk, and grabbed his motorcycle helmet, and flannel shirt.  Before putting on the flannel, he plucked his badge from his breast pocket and tossed it into the drawer.  Another day done.  Another unproductive eight hours. 

“G’bye, Linda,” he said shyly, to the woman across the desk from him.  She favored him with a glance and nothing more.  Then she went back to her typing.  Reginald wondered how he looked through her eyes--like a field mouse?  A maggot?  Probably the maggot.

Reginald closed his laptop with a click, and stuck it under his arm.  Please, don’t everybody say goodbye at once. , he thought wryly.  And that was almost funny, but not really.

He snaked his way through the “floor” portion of the factory, avoiding the familiar, goggled faces, taking caution not to run into any of the machines.  And then, he was out in the parking lot, and that was a little bit like tunneling through ten feet of prison brick wall with a spork, and finally seeing daylight.

Reginald took in a deep breath of the clean air.  Now that felt good.  And it would feel even better to have the wind blow over him like a jet stream as he rode his cycle over the fifteen miles of country road that led to his apartment….--well, to his and Jane’s apartment.  But it would be good not to think about Jane until he had to.  After all, this was the favorite part of his day.  Knowing he had those fifteen miles to be free.  He wished that it was thirty miles.  Or three hundred.

He popped his helmet on and bungeed his laptop to the small wire basket behind the banana seat.  Then he disengaged the kickstand, and started ‘er up.  The motorcycle roared to life with a crunchy, raw, packet of noise that kind of sounded like a never ending fart.  He twisted the right handle grip toward him, and then he was off, speeding out of the parking lot, leaving that awful factory in the dust.  Leaving it, and all of the awful people in it.

                                                      ********

Reginald’s mind went blank.  No, it wasn’t quite blank.  It was more like it was full.  Like your stomach felt full after a Thanksgiving dinner.  Like how it felt when you sipped on coffee afterwards, and watched the football game with your relatives.  It was like being pregnant with a lack of thought.  And it was positively wonderful.

He smiled unconsciously as his bike zipped over the pea-graveled roads.  A mass of verdant, lush trees sandwiched him.  It was just him, and his blessed column of road.

He let the warm breeze sift through the visor of his helmet and caress his cheeks.  He could also feel it rustling his sleeves and pant legs.  They snapped back and forth like thick canvas sails.  His boots rested comfortably on the steel pegs.

He rode like that for twenty minutes or so--and it always went so fast, that twenty minutes--and then the rusty orange brick of his apartment slowly rose into view over the final hill. 

As he saw the building looming in the foreground--looming in his future--his stomach began to sink, and he could already start to feel the beginnings of a headache.  And that was because of Jane, of course.  He knew that.  And he also knew that she would be in a sour mood, because Jane was always in a sour mood.  He could already picture her sitting—no,-- beached, on the couch with her gallon of Rocky Road, and that old wooden spoon.  He could see her tongue snaking out to snatch a bit of chocolate off of the tip of it.  And he could hear her harpy’s voice, half-choked with ice cream, yapping on and on about something pointless and annoying.  Had she been like that when he married her?  More and more, he thought, “yes.”  It was just that he had on love’s version of “beer goggles” during that first few months.

Reginald pulled the motorbike into the carriage stall and cut the engine.  He knew that the steady purr of that engine would soon be replaced with Jane’s nagging, screeching voice.  He took off his helmet, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose.  Only a few more moments of freedom---only a few more steps--and then…….

                                                      ********

“Why are you always on that machine?  I clean and clean all day, and then you come home, and all I ever hear is you typing on that machine.  Clickety clack, clickety clack!”

That voice of hers, it was like…..like dragging a bottle cap across the surface of a mirror.

Reginald balled his hands into silent fists.  “Jane, I need to get some work done.”  he yelled through the half closed door.  “It’s something that can’t wait.”

Of course, that wasn’t true at all.  What Reginald was actually doing on his computer was playing “Sim-City.”  He could spend hours constructing his own little cities.  Laying out the roads, and buildings.  Making up his own rules.

Currently, he was working on something he called, “Fertile Heights.”  This creation was not a city at all, but a mix of curvy, hilly, country roads that were flanked by luxuriant pines and poplars.  For most of the roads he chose gravel, and he did away with signs and traffic lights altogether.  In this particular cyber-world, nature was king.  There were no Mr. Yemens and no Janes.  Only cool, brisk breezes, and blue, sunny skies.  And maybe a herd of deer here and there, just to keep things interesting.

“Well, I thought that’s what going to work was for--to do work.”  Jane squealed.

“Ah…Buzz off, will ya?”  Reginald said under his breath.  What would she know about work anyway?  She didn’t have a job.  She got up at 10:00AM, and lounged around in her Garfield pajamas until the Soaps and Oprah came on.  Then she made herself lunch--if she didn’t swing through McDonald’s that was, and then cleaned.

(If you could call ten minutes of washing dishes cleaning.)  And then she played the waiting game, until he got home at 3:30pm.  And that was when she really started in on him.  And that lasted until bedtime, where they would each occupy their own twin bed, him reading for awhile with a flashlight, and her complaining about it.

“Well, you could at least take me to the drive-in.  You said you’d take me to the drive-in to see that special showing of The English Patient.  Reginald, you said…..”

“All right, all right!”  His voice came from his office.  “I’ll take you to the damn drive-in.  Just gimme a second.”

Reginald reluctantly saved his “game” of “Sim City.”  He would have to get back to “Fertile Heights” later, after….oh, most boring of all movies….The English Patient. They had already sat through that one once before.  Why did she have to see it again?  Just to torture him?  A small part of his mind thought just that.  And with Jane, it was certainly possible.

“Well, you don’t have to get snippy!”  Jane spouted.  “If you don’t want to take me like you said you were going to……”

“We’re going Jane.  Will ya let me get my coat, for Pete‘s sake?”

Reginald grabbed his windbreaker out of the hall closet, and headed for the door.  Jane waddled after him.

“That coat looks ridiculous with those pants,” she said.

                                                      ********

“Go get me some popcorn.”  Jane said.  “And tell them extra salty.  Last time you didn’t tell them extra salty and it tasted like cardboard.”

“Right, my fault,” Reginald said sarcastically, even though he knew she would take his comment seriously.

He got out of the driver’s seat, and meandered over to the concession stand, which was about thirty feet from the car.  He took his time, relishing that he could no longer hear the movie’s monotonous dialogue.  He could still see the man wrapped in bandages, on that huge screen (Attack of the Giant Mummy!, he thought.), but at least he didn’t have to listen to that sappy actress drone on and on.  He got enough of that at home, God knew.

“One large popcorn.  Extra salt, please,” he said, hands in pockets, to the pimply faced teenager behind the counter. 

The kid pointed, as if to say ‘I’m already on it, Mr.!”  He scooped up the popcorn with a large metal gizmo, and then sprinkled a generous amount of salt all over the stuff.  If that didn’t satisfy Jane then Reginald would eat his hat.

“Thanks.”  Reginald said, and made the walk back to car, dipping his tongue into the popcorn tub now and then to snag a few pieces.  And, by God, it was salty!  Salty enough to dehydrate a humpback whale, in fact.

“Took ya long enough...”  Jane said as he opened the car door.  “What’d ya do, shuck the corn?”

Reginald let the comment slide.  It was something he did often.  He handed her the tub, which she immediately made a dent in.

“Guess I forgot to tell you extra salty.”  She said in a tone that said, I didn’t forget---you forgot, and we both know it.  Reginald wondered if his hat would taste good with a side of coleslaw.

They sat through the movie, which, by Reginald’s calculations, lasted just under six hours, and then the credits finally began to roll.  He sighed with pleasure, and put the car in reverse.

“Wait!  I want to see the credits!”  Jane whined.

“C’mon, Jane.  I’m sick of looking at that damn screen.”

“You don’t get sick of looking at that damn computer screen of yours!”  She spit back at him.  “Now, put the car in Park.  I want to see who was in this.”

Reginald put the car in Park, and that’s when it hit him….that damn computer screen of yours…He looked up at the giant movie screen.  Yeah…

That night, Reginald could not get to sleep.  His mind was busy, busy, busy.

                                                      ********

The small transistor radio spat out more static than song, but Reginald hardly noticed.  He was fully engrossed in his project. 

He was out in the garage, crouching next to his motorcycle.  To his left, was his laptop, and a thick tangle of wires and cables.  To his right, was his socket wrench set, and a small pile of additional tools.

Reginald absently wiped the sweat off of his forehead with an oily rag.  It left a thin black streak across his face.  He didn’t know or care--now, he was getting feverish with ideas.  Focused to the point of madness.

“Now, if I connect the battery to the….” he muttered.  “And then if I……”

For the next two hours, Reginald connected this and that, tightened this, and loosened that, and by the time he was done, his motorcycle looked like something out of Back to the Future.

The laptop was bungeed to the wire basket as usual.  Only now it had roughly ten cables snaking their way to various ports that had been connected to the bike’s battery and to several parts of the engine.  One of the smaller wires, led to the right bike handle, where the laptop’s mouse was fastened with metal buckles.  And duct taped, just above the motorcycle’s single headlight, was a small movie projector that had been passed down to Reginald by his father after he had died.

Reginald made a few cursory adjustments, and then stepped back to look at his creation, hands on hips.  After a moment’s consideration he nodded twice, quickly.

“It’ll do,” he said, almost whispering it.  “It’ll do.”

On the small transistor radio, Alabama sang, “Rocky Mountain Highway” around the static.

                                                      ********

Reginald waited until the second Sunday of the month, the one and only day of the month that Jane got out of the house for more than ten minutes. (She went to get her hair permed by Guy, her gay hairdresser.--he’s more man then you’ll ever be--she was fond of telling Reginald).

After she left, he donned his helmet and flannel shirt and went out into the garage.  His contraption was there, sitting pretty.  He let out a little laugh of sheer joy, and rubbed his hands together.  Oh yes, this was going to beat the hell out of going to dinner with Jane and her father, which was what was on the docket tonight.

Reginald hopped on the bike, careful not to get twisted in all the wires, and then he started up the great machine.  It rumbled with vivacity.  For a moment, a few small tendrils of steam rose from a few of the wires, but, after a few seconds, they settled.

He backed the cycle out of the garage, and soon he was cruising down the road--on the way to the drive-in movie theatre.

A small while later, he pulled into the gravel lot of the drive-in.  There were two vehicles in the parking lot, a blue minivan, and an old yellow pick-up.  Both were empty.

He pulled the bike up to the center of the lot, so that he faced the massive movie screen.  He was about twenty feet from its base, as that had been his calculation.  And it looked just about right.

Now came the good part!  He wrung his hands nervously, and muttered, “Here we go.”

He reached back behind the banana seat and one trembling hand turned on the laptop.  It sprang to life with its usual Ding!, and then the “MS Windows” screen popped up.  He double-clicked on the “Sim City” icon, and loaded up “Fertile Heights,” his creation of curvy, twisted gravel roads, and lush green trees.  After a moment it popped on the screen.

“Good….good…” he whispered.

Now he reached forward over the handlebars and flicked on the old movie projector.  A beam of light sprang forth from the circular lens, and an image of the opening scene of “Fertile Heights” projected itself onto the drive-in movie screen.  It was bigger than life, and twice as beautiful!

“That’s it, you son of a bitch…that’s it!!”  He was getting truly excited now.  He reached for the right handle, and twisted it toward him.  The motorbike roared.  He lifted his feet, and let the sucker rip.

The bike headed toward the screen, gaining speed at an alarming rate.  He flipped his helmet visor down, and bent his neck so that his head speared forward.  Dust and dirt rose from the gravel behind him.  Stones flew.

The motorcycle was about five feet away from the base of the screen when the accelerator dial hit 65 mph.  He closed his eyes, and wrenched the throttle toward him even more for good measure.  At the last second, he placed his thumb on the mouse and double-clicked.

There was a small flash, but Reginald didn’t see it--his eyes were still closed.

But when he opened them, he was no longer in the drive-in parking lot.  He was still on gravel, but it was a gravel road.  Bordering him on each side were thousands of lush green pines and poplars.  Straight ahead was nothing but distance coming to a point on the horizon.  A big bloated sun hung in the west.

“It worked!!  Ha, Ha!  It worked!”  he yelled, pumping one fist in the air.  The motorcycle spat out its exhaust with brilliant plumes of smoke.  It was running like a dream.

He looked back over his shoulder then, and wasn’t much surprised to see the large square of the drive-in movie screen shrinking in the distance.  It looked odd, all by itself in all of this wilderness.  On the side of the road was a small grouping of deer.

He laughed again, and turned back around to focus on the road ahead.  The long road ahead.   

A MOST ENLIGHTENING LESSON

Rob Crandall

            Luke usually golfed alone.  It wasn’t really because he liked the solitude or because he liked the increased concentration.  It was because nobody could stand being around him when he lost his temper—and that was often, especially out on the links.

            It was not uncommon for Luke to throw his driver into the air after a worm-burner drive, or to clang his putter against the flagpole after a close putt.  And, when he knew no one was looking, he often made giant dents in the green from swinging his putter like a sledgehammer into the soft, close cropped grass.  Sometimes, he would leave the green covered in his anger-induced pockmarks.  And he didn’t give a damn about that because he had paid his fee, and what the hell were groundskeepers for anyway?  Give them something to do besides roll around in their little green carts, copping a tan.

            “Ah, hell!!”

             Luke shoved his pitching wedge into his bag, making it bang loudly.  He looked at the sizable divot that he had made, and ignored it.  Groundskeepers. 

            Great.  Now he had to trudge into the hedges and search for that damnable ball—the bane of his very existence.  Just what he needed, to get all scratched up with prickers.  Go home looking like he had a run in with a waffle iron.

            He threw his bag down, hard enough to be rewarded with a satisfying clunk, and ran his hand through his hair.  Cripes, untrimmed hedges.  They looked like crap.  Copping a tan, that’s all those groundskeepers did.  That and whiz around in their glorified go-carts. 

            Luke bent down and brushed some branches aside with his forearm.  A stray twig jabbed his cheek.  He growled and broke it off, hoping that plants could feel pain. 

            Was that it, over there?  It looked like a white splotch, but it could be just a mushroom.  They had tricked him before.  Freaking mushrooms.  He bent in a little closer.  No, it looked like his Top-Flight all right.  And it had to be right by the trunk of the bush didn’t it?  Right where he would have to crouch and contort himself . . . He moved forward a few steps and squatted down, knees cracking like firecrackers, and reached.

            And that’s when the ground caved in underneath him with a Whoosh.  He fell a good eight feet before landing face first into the hard packed earth below.  Spears of pain accosted him from several locations… the worst being his right arm, which the weight of his whole body had fallen on.  Then, as if to taunt him, his golf ball fell into the hole and bopped him squarely on the head.

            “What the hell . . .”  Luke muttered, too fazed to really get any anger up.

            A few wisps of dirt sifted in around him with a sibilant hiss, and then all was quiet.  Luke stared up into the sunlit sky that was now boxed in with the borders of the hole.  His right arm was all pins and needles.  He grabbed the golf ball with his left hand, and absently pocketed it.

            “The first step always hurts,”  a voice said from somewhere behind him. “When you’re not expecting it.”

            Luke jolted in surprise.  His eyes went wide, and, for a moment, he forgot about his pain.  He wrenched his head, left and right, searching for the owner of the voice.

            “Course, we’ll have to cover that opening.  No good if the sun’s shining in here.  It fouls up the journey.  Besides, I’ve—We’ve—got the fire for light.”

            Luke heard a rustling behind him, and then he saw a man looming above him, reaching up and arranging some loose branches where the hole was.  Then the man took something like a piece of plywood, and covered it completely. 

            For a moment, everything was dark, and then Luke’s pupils adjusted, and he saw the soft golden light dancing among the dirt walls and makeshift roof.  The fire.

            “That’s better,” the voice said.  “Now I can think.”

            Luke started to sit up fast, felt a searing pain in his back, and slowed things down a bit.  After a moment, he was up, leaning against the wall, holding his right arm to his stomach.  For the first time, he saw the man.  Even in the shadows, he could see that the man was an Indian, shirtless, with strings and strings of beaded necklaces.  Something sharp, that looked like a tooth, swung gently at belly-button level.  Luke stared at it, almost hypnotized, and then looked up into the face.

            “Who in God’s green earth are you?” he spouted, a little too frightened to sound angry.

            “Yes, God’s earth is a sacred thing.  Not meant to be littered with buildings and roads, and suffocated with toxic fumes.  It was meant to breathe, like a vibrant beast—not to choke on man’s foul inventions.”

            Luke blinked stupidly.  He shook his head as if to shake off the cobwebs.  His familiar air of disgust for the world and its inhabitants was slowly returning.

            “Look, Chief.  You better tell me what the hell’s going on.  And I don’t want to hear any of your Injun mumbo jumbo.  Got it, ‘Whitefang’?”

            “ ‘Wolfsblood,’ actually.  I was named by my great grandfather, who lived among…”

            “I didn’t ask for a history lesson.  Just tell me why you’re in this hole, half-naked, sitting around a campfire like a Boy Scout.  You just decide you wanted to roast some marshmallows underneath the local golf course?”

            The Indian’s expression remained neutral, calm.  He put his palms on his knees.

            “I have no sustenance.  No need.  Food only upsets the journey.”

            “Look….”  Luke tried to point with his right hand, and winced.  He pointed with his left instead.  “I’ll tell you one more time.  Tell me why you are down here, or I’m going to make you swallow some teeth.  Got it?”

            The Indian sighed deeply, and closed his eyes in a lengthy blink.  When he opened them again, he looked into the fire.

            “The old ones called it a ‘journey box.’  My generation, we call it a ‘sweat lodge.’  But the purpose remains the same: To rid the mind of world-clutter, and to go on the journey.  The soul journey . . .”

            “Keep talkin’, Kemosabe.”

            The Indian looked up from the fire and deep into Luke’s eyes.  “Down here, we cleanse the soul and mind of ‘the Red Spirit’ --the spirit of anger.  We purge the evil meddlings of the dirty heart, and replace it with the Great White Light: truth and beauty.  And, in doing this, we solve some small portion of human misery, and, ultimately,—if done properly—this gives us access to ‘the desert of shimmering sands’—the afterlife where only purity resides.”

             Luke mentally rolled his eyes, and decided to humor the Indian “And what happens if it’s done improperly?” 

            “If ‘the red spirit’ is held close to the vest of man—if it is not washed away—the unfortunate soul will forever roam ‘the dark forest,’ to be eternally hunted by the unspeakable creatures that lurk in its depths.  It is a very sad place.”  The Indian looked back into the fire.

            Luke began to stand up, ignoring the bolts of pain that were shooting through him. 

            “Well, that’s great!  Now, I’m getting the hell out of your ‘fairy box’ and I’m going to go to that great golf course in the sky to finish my last hole, if you don’t mind.  You have fun down here, and don’t breathe in too much of that smoke . . . bad for the lungs, don’tcha know.”

            “Without the strength of the Great White Truth, your efforts to depart will fail.  It is farther to the top than you think.  Your soul will drag you down into the mire.”

            Luke balled his good hand into a tight fist, and stared daggers at the Indian.

            “Buddy.  I’ll stand on your shoulders if I have to, but I’m not spending another minute down here with you.  If you ask me, you been spending a little too much time sucking on the peace pipe.  You need to go to rehab . . . or at least a counselor.  It’s the twenty-first century, you know.  Get help.”

            Luke reached his good hand up to the top of the hole, in an effort to push the piece of plywood to the side, but his hand felt only air.  Now, what the hell?  He had seen the Indian touch the plywood, and, by the looks of it, the guy was five-seven at best.  But, yet, the ceiling seemed miles away.  He jumped, but could still not reach.

            “Further than you think,” Wolfsblood said solemnly.

            Luke frowned.  A small pang of panic started spreading through the primal parts of his brain, spreading tendrils of doubt that sprouted like roots in time-lapse photography.  He began to kick the dirt walls, trying to make a foothold, but the dirt was as hard as rock, and it only hurt his toes.

            He turned around, and thought of kicking the Indian instead, but then thought better of it and sat down, glowering.

            “Are you ready to begin?”  the Indian said softly.

            “And, then you’ll let me out of here?”  Luke said.  His voice sounded weak, and he hated the Indian for it.

            “Then, you will let yourself out.”

            Luke stared into the fire.  “What is this, like the eternal flame at Arlington?”

            “I know not of this village.”

            “It’s a cemetery . . . never mind.  What do we do now?”

            Wolfsblood nodded slightly.  “We begin the purging.  It starts with the howl of the mad.”

            “The what?”

            “Scream from your depths and don’t stop until you have released the demons.  This will begin the freeing.”

            Luke huffed out a nervous laugh.  “You’re crazy.”

            The Indian merely waited, and after what seemed like a very long time, a sound began escaping from Luke.  At first it was no more than a hum, and then it rose into a bloodcurdling roar that lasted ten seconds or more.  Then his voice began to crack with hoarseness, and after a few last sputters, it was over.

            He looked at the Indian, embarrassed, but yet, it had felt good.  He had to admit it.  He hadn’t let it all out like that . . . well, ever.  Tears rose in his eyes, and he blinked them back.  The Indian smiled, for the first time, and Luke, somewhat reluctantly smiled back.  His lips trembled with nerves, and he let them.  It didn’t seem to bother the Indian, so it didn’t bother Luke.

            “Good.Very Good. The process has begun.  Now I want you to dance.  Let the fire be your music.”

            The apprehension returned.  Luke’s smile faltered.  “I don’t dance.  Got two left feet.”  He smiled again, hardly believing that he had actually made a joke.

            “Your feet are adequate.  Use your arms and your body as well.  Shake it all out.  Do it violently.  Don’t let the fear hold you back.  Fear is an ostrich with his head in the sand.  Fear is the greatest coward there is.  Consume it.”

            The Indian stared patiently into the fire.  A long time passed.

            And then Luke began to move a little, jogging in place more or less.  And then he began to high step like he was in a marching band.  Soon, the rest of his body followed suit, and he began to shake.  To shake rattle and roll, baby!  His head lolled on his neck and he flung his arms about madly.  His injured arm ached but he barely noticed.  He kicked his feet and the words, “Irish Jig” flashed through his mind, and he laughed.  It was a belly laugh, and it felt like heaven.  He went on like a crazy person for a long time, staring into the fire—it seemed to dance with him—and then he collapsed into a heap on the ground, and looked up at the Indian.  Luke’s breathing was heavy, and he laughed again.  This time the Indian laughed with him, and they went on like that until they were both crying with it.

            “You are finished with the purging,” Wolfsblood said at last.  “Now you will puncture the wall of hate, and break free into the white light.  You do this by forgiving.  Forgive every being that has ever done you wrong.  Do it aloud.  Doing this in the presence of another human will break the bonds of animosity.  When you are finished, you will forgive yourself.  And then, my friend—and you are my friend—you will be free.”

            Luke began slowly at first, like he had with the first two processes.  And then it all began to pour out.  He began to remember past offenders that he thought were deeply buried in his subconscious.  He remembered those that had done him wrong—those that had dampened his spirit.  And he confessed their sins aloud unto Wolfsblood.  He gushed on and on, until, eventually he was sobbing with sorrow for what they had done to him and for gratitude for the Indian.  He cried like that until snot ran freely from his nose and until his head ached.  And then the tears finally dried to a crust on his cheeks, and he felt as if he had just awoken from a deep, restorative sleep.

            The Indian smiled gently at Luke.  “Now forgive yourself,” he said.  “You do this silently if you wish.”

            Luke shut his eyes and bowed his head.  His shoulders shook slightly from some residual tears, and then they stilled.  He looked up.

            “You are free to go.  When you pass on, you will enter the desert of shimmering sands, and I will be there to greet you, as will those you have forgiven, and you will experience the Great White Beauty.  I look forward to walking the desert with you.”

            Wolfsblood raised one palm and looked toward the ceiling.

            Luke followed his gaze, and saw, with not much surprise, that the ceiling was now only a foot or two above their heads.  The reflection of the fire lit up the underside of the piece of plywood.  Luke stood halfway up in a crouch, and pushed up on the board, which slid aside easily.  The sun now beat down again onto him and into the hole, illuminating the Indian. 

            Luke raised a hand, and then hoisted himself out of the hole.  When he was back on solid ground he replaced the plywood, and covered it with some nearby sticks and loose leaves until it looked like any other piece of ground, and then he crawled out from under the low bows of the hedge.

            Off to one side lay Luke’s golf bag.  He walked over to it and took out his pitching wedge.  With his good hand, he took his Top-Flight out of his pocket and dropped it onto the grass.  It bounced once, lightly.

            He took an easy swing, and the ball made that sound that it only makes when it hits the sweet spot, and it sailed into the air.  It arched beautifully, took a few bounces, and plopped into the hole.  Luke smiled then, and the smile came easily.  Then he picked up his divot and replaced it into the small dirt indentation, patting it down firmly with one cleated shoe.     

The Nautical Eyesore

Rob Crandall

The Nautical Eyesore left port on June 29, 1902, and she sank that same day in one of the worst storms the sea had seen in a decade.

          The name, “Nautical Eyesore,” was a sort of joke—sailor’s humor—because the ship was a beauty.  She was a pleasure cruiser, but the 101 passengers received anything but on that day.  When the rains came and the winds rose, they longed for a captain like the disciples had in their time of trouble.  One who could calm the storm with a word.  But all they had was a slightly paunchy, middle-aged wine connoisseur who had snuck himself a wee nip, and, with his cap tipped just enough to cast a shadow over his eyes, had fallen asleep without a care, not waking up until it was too late to do anything about it.

          But, this account is not of the captain—though he would have gladly regaled you with this tale behind veiny cheeks and through bloodshot eyes, had the fish not supped on them long ago.

          This story is about me, Blesedale, and a girl named Victoria.  Both twelve years old we were.  Twelve years probably doesn’t seem like much to you, but when it’s all  you’ve got, it seems to stretch out in your mind after it’s over.  Does to me, anyway.  Time is funny that way.  Has no beginning and no end.  But you’ll find that out.

          You also might think that twelve years old is too old for a boy to be playing with a spinning top, but not when your granddad had just carved you one . . . and hand painted it, too.  It had the face of a joker on it.  Spooky in a way of sorts, but craftily done.  My granddad was an artist, see.  A master with a brush.  And with a pencil too.  He used to draw me pictures of horses, because I loved horses.  They looked so real, as to gallop off the page.

          I was making a game out of it.  I was seeing how long I could keep the top going without it bumping into anyone’s feet.  I would time it with my pocket watch, and then try to beat the time.  I was tireless, as young boys are about those things.

          The adults on the deck didn’t really seem to notice, and if they did, they didn’t seem to mind.  Annoying things like that didn’t bother people when they were on vacation.  Things like screaming children were a delight, and things like spinning tops bumping into your shoes were pleasant aversions.  I often thought that it would be nice if the real world was like that.

          I was up to twenty-two seconds, when the toe of her boot sent my top sailing, inches above the ground, over to the edge of the boat, where it tottered a moment, and then lay still.  The joker leered.

          It hadn’t gone overboard, but with one look in that girl’s eyes, I knew that’s where it was going next.  And that’s exactly what happened.  She picked up my top . . . my brand new top, mind you . . . held it up by her face to taunt me, and then with the admirable throwing fashion of any boy, launched it upward and outward, and into the water, where it made a soundless entry.  I saw it float among the whitecaps briefly, and then it was lost.

          I looked at her, wide-eyed, and she squinted at me, and rubbed her hands together.  Good riddance to bad rubbish.

          I thought about all the time that my granddad had spent making that toy perfect for me, even if the face did scare me.  I thought about him painting it with a fine brush.  Spending good money on the oil paints.  Just so I could have something for the trip.

          I wiped the dust off of my knees and marched right on over to that girl, who was now smiling in a know-it-all kind of way.  I crossed my arms, and pointed out to the water with a finger.

          “You know my granddad made that for me,” I said.

          She smiled victoriously then, and I was a bit befuddled to find that I found something stirring in me when I saw her smile.

          “Your granddad is a lousy carpenter, and a hack with a paintbrush,” she said.

          “He could give Da Vinci a run for his money.  You don’t know nothing!”

          “I know he’s an old fool.  Just like you’ll be.”

          The wind blew her hair back a touch then—I didn’t realize it then, but the storm had already started hatching.

          I uncrossed my arms.  “Well, I want you to know that I think you’re the meanest person on this boat.”  I looked around and saw an older woman reprimanding her daughter.  I pointed.  “You’re meaner than her!”

          She looked around desperately for a comeback, and I saw her face get resolute when she found one.  She pointed to an unfortunate-looking man, who was eating out of a can of tuna with a small gold fork.

          “Well, you’re uglier than him.” 

          The man glanced up, but pretended not to hear.  He shifted his feet and dug into his tuna with more intention.

          “I bet you don’t have any friends, do you?”  I said then, flatly.  And I saw a flicker in her eyes then, and for a second I felt bad for her.  Really bad for her.  And I wished I hadn’t said it, because somehow, that statement was worse than all the rest.

          But she only lost a beat for a moment.  “In my school, all the girls want to be me,”  she said stubbornly, but the far-off look in her eyes told just the opposite.

          I relaxed my shoulders.  “Well, nice to make your acquaintance,” I said with a slight roll of my eyes.

          She looked alarmed then.  Alarmed because I was leaving her.  Like I supposed everyone else had.

          I waved a hand limply and walked away.  “You sure do give up easy,” she said after me.  I didn’t look back.  “Quitter!” I heard her yell.

          It was about ten minutes later that the first fat droplets of rain started to pelt my forehead.  They were cold.  I remember that distinctly.  Like ice.

          All of the folks on the deck began to clamor down below deck then, in a semi-hurried rush.  It was a clatter of high heels and Buster Brown dress shoes.  But everyone still seemed in an amiable mood then.  No one knew the extent of what was to come.

          I followed the crowd, just wanting to get away from that girl and that cold, cold rain.  To find my parents, and maybe have some lunch.

          It didn’t take long to find my mom and dad.  My dad was always easy to find because he was generally five inches taller than all the other men, and never wore a hat like the other dads did.  He just let his bald pate shine up there like a welcoming beacon.  And my mom was always right there on his arm.  They rarely parted, especially in public.

          When I spotted my dad, head and shoulders above the rest, he was ordering a few hotdogs and sodas, presumably for my mom and me.  That made me happy because I was starting to get that hollow stomach feeling, and a hotdog with onions and relish would really hit the spot.

          I walked up to them, and was greeted with their customary warm smiles.  My dad put an arm around me.

          “Hiya, kiddo.  Have fun up there?”

          “Yeah, sorta.”

          He ruffled my hair. “Atta boy.”

          The hotdog was heavenly.  If I’d have known that it was to be my last meal, I couldn’t have picked a better one.  Truly.

          The Nautical Eyesore began to rock then, and that was the first moment that I remember being scared.  I looked at my dad, but his eyes were calm and reaffirming, like always.  They looked the same when the boat was going down.  I love him for that.

          I’d say it was only another ten minutes or so when we all began to know that something was really wrong.  That was about when the lightning started, and I could hear the people’s voices getting nervous, and louder.  The man that was eating the tuna with the gold fork was tapping his foot and raking his palm over his chin over and over.  An ancient-looking woman in the corner was counting out rosary beads with her eyes closed.  And my mom was studying her fingernails with a little too much intensity.

          And that’s when I looked across the room, and saw the girl, with what must’ve been her father.  The man looked cold and detached.  He was in a stark gray suit with nary a wrinkle.  His hair was oiled heavily and parted precisely down the middle in a perfect pink scalped line.  He had tiny round spectacles that were polished to a gleaming shine.  He was looking straight ahead, thin-lipped.

          The girl looked miserable, no longer showing her rough exterior, but now her true self.  One foot was crossed over the other and every five seconds or so she would wipe a tear away.

          So, I motioned with my hand and my dad nodded his head.  I walked over to the girl, having no idea what I was going to say, but knowing that it would come all the same.  She saw me coming and she made no effort to hide her tears.  In fact, I saw relief in those eyes.

          I rubbed my elbow.  “My name’s Blesedale,” I said.

          “That’s a stupid name,” she said, but she was smiling.  She sniffed hard. “Victoria.”

          If her father noticed that we were talking, he didn’t show it.

          “It’s probably just a squall,” I said, pointing out the window.

          She wiped her nose.  “What’s a squall?”

          “Just means that we’ll be all right is what I mean to say.”

          Her smile lit up her face.  “Oh, OK.”  But there was a sad knowing in her eyes because we both knew better.

          Just then a man in a white sailor-type suit came down the stairs and said in a loud voice, “OK, folks. We got a bit of a nor’easter blowing in.”  He wiped his brow.  “Things are going to get a little bit choppy . . .”

          “Gonna get?”  A man yelled out.

          “Just bear with us.  We’ve been through this sort of thing before.  Under no circumstances is anyone to go above deck.  Is that clear?”  He nodded.  “All right then.”  And then he disappeared back up the stairs.

          I turned back to Victoria.  “Some way to spend summer vacation, huh?” And she started to cry harder then, shoulders bunching up and down. 

          “I don’t want to die, Blesedale,” she said simply.  Her father gave her a curt glance as if he were embarrassed by the word.

          “Nobody does,” I said.

          “I’m sorry I threw your top overboard.”

          “It was nothing.”

          “Your granddad will never know.”

          “It’s best that way.”

          The boat really reeled then, and a huge wave of water rushed in and down the stairs.  A few of the ladies screamed, and then came an impossibly loud crack of thunder that made my heart stop just for a moment.  Then the water hit my shoes, and it was cold.  So cold.

          At that moment I didn’t know which would be worse:  Being encased in that freezing water or finally giving up and taking it into my lungs.  But in the end it was nothing like that.

After that, the crashing waves came in more frequently and with greater force.  I looked over at my parents, and saw my mom coming to get me, and then saw my dad hold her back.  Another thing I love him for.

          And when it finally began to happen, it happened fast.  The water began to rise, and of course, everyone rushed to the upper deck although we were strictly told not to.  I grabbed onto Victoria’s hand so she wouldn’t get lost in the shuffle, and we went up.  And the rain beat on us with relentless force.  It was like it was raining nickels. The wind tore through our hair and whipped at our clothes.  And lightning lit up the skies in a wondrous splendor.  Her hand clasped mine so tightly, I thought she would break my fingers.

          And now my parents were standing near us, and my dad put his hand on my shoulder.  We never spoke again, on that side of heaven.

The wave came then.  The biggest one I’ve ever seen.  I remember thinking that it looked like a wall and sounded like a train.  I looked at it in awestruck wonder, and had no last thoughts other than, “She won’t survive this one.”  There were lots of screams, I remember that, but Victoria never screamed.

          And then it happened.  The Nautical Eyesore was struck with a violent crash that shook it to the core and filled the deck with sea water.  With that and the help of a final gust of wind, she capsized and went under.  And Victoria and I went down with it, holding onto each other with desperate death grips.  There was no way I was letting go of her even if it meant dislocating my shoulder or worse.  Call it a dying boy’s last promise.

          But like I said the end wasn’t bad.  See, before the wave—before we went under, I told Victoria how it was going to be.  And once under the water, I could see her clear as day.  The lights from the boat lit up the sea like an aquarium.

          Her hair floated above her in a beautiful twist, and she blinked at me.  The eyes were scared but sure.  We had both hands clasped, but then we broke our hands free . . . my left and her right.  That’s what I told her: “Remember the right hand.”

          And then we did just like we said we would.  We counted down on our fingers from 5 down to 1, and then we re-clasped our hands.  And then we took in our last breath, which was not air, but water.  And there was peace when we did.  And it hurt, but we didn’t let go of each other.  And then slowly, our lights went out.

          And that’s when the wonder really began, but I wouldn’t dare ruin that for you.  That’s for every man to experience on his own.  But I will say this:  It is a blessing not to die alone. 

Everyone gets a gift from God.  That was Victoria’s and mine.