Clash of the Figments - Chapter 22

If there was a fan running somewhere in the world, I’m confident that over the next few days the owner was no doubt utterly confounded by the amount of shit hitting it. 

We stayed up into the wee hours following the newscasts, which had pre-empted all other programming, including Nightline.  Early the next morning, the coverage continued, as it did in fact for days to come as more and more information and details were made available to the public.  We followed it all from my living room.  

We watched the first daytime footage, in which we were able to see just how much damage the moose had taken.  In addition to the thousands of bullet holes, huge tears and gashes in its hide were evident from flying shrapnel, and the left hindquarter had been blown completely off by an anti-personnel mine. 

We watched as the country formally known as the USSR issued an apology to the world while the artist formally known as Prince sang When Moose Cry to frenzied thousands in Central Park. 

We watched as the talking news heads debated what was done, what wasn’t done, what should have been done, and whose fault it all was, now that they had the advantage of perfect 20/20 hindsight. 

We watched as it was discovered that the spy moose was not in fact a real animal at all, but a machine.  A highly specialized robot built specifically for diabolical means. 

At this point we ran out of that good cheese dip with the jalapenos in it, and since we were running a little low on beer as well, we decided to make a quick run down to the store, which wound up taking a little longer than we meant it to since Jimmy saw a putt-putt course on the way and threw a fit until we agreed to play a round.  We were having a great time and might have just said to hell with the whole story and not come back at all but of course Simon had to get in an argument with Jimmy over whether or not having your ball hit the windmill did or did not count as a one stroke penalty which escalated into a great clashing of putters and the eventual ejection of all three of us from the course. 

So, with nothing better to do, we went back to the house. 

We watched as soldiers loaded the mechanized carcass of the moose onto a flatbed truck and drove it to a large airplane hangar in Cartagena where it was lost forever from public sight. 

We watched as beer prices dropped to all-time lows now that the threat to crops was over, and how a group of five housewives in Indiana had become millionaires when they’d invested all of their retirement savings into depressed General Mills stock which had now skyrocketed to astronomical heights. 

We watched it all.  But I didn’t believe a word of it.  Because I knew something that the rest of the world didn’t know.  I knew something that just wasn’t explained by everything we had seen on the news.  Something that told me that the world had been deceived.  Something that was on the front of my car. 

Antler fuzz. 

That, and the fact that all of the commercials I had seen for the Magic Kingdom in the past few days were wrong. 

 

Next Week:  Chapter 23

 

Clash of the Figments - Chapter 23

“I don’t understand,”  said Jimmy.  “You mean, we’re back on the case?”

“Yes we are,”  I answered. 

“But, I thought they got him.  We saw it on TV, the moose is dead.” 

“That’s not the real spy moose,”  I replied. 

We were sitting around my kitchen table, plates from our just finished dinner pushed to the side, discussing our next moves.  Simon leaned forward (which was obviously his next move, though we didn’t discuss it ahead of time). 

“Dick,”  he said, “fill us in.  You apparently know some things you haven’t been telling us.” 

“Indeed I do.  But first, I need to know if you’re still with me.  I need to know if you’re going to see this thing through to the end.” 

“You know we are, Dick,”  Simon answered, “but how can we?  We got fired, remember?” 

I did remember.  I also remembered that it had been a long, long time since I had lit a cigarette without even thinking about it. 

“Did we?”  I asked. 

“Well, yeah dude,”  Jimmy said.  “You were right there with us.” 

“Oh, I remember alright,”  I said, suddenly noticing the lit cigarette in my hand and not having the faintest idea of when I had lit it.  “But think about it for a moment.  Who fired us?” 

“Well, Sandy did,”  Simon replied. 

“That’s right.  But what is Sandy after all?” 

This question seemed to stump them for a moment.  Jimmy’s guess was “a man”, which technically was true, but not the answer I was looking for.  Simon eventually got it. 

“He’s a consultant?” 

“Right again,”  I said.  “And what did I tell you about consultants?” 

This was a much harder question and took a few minutes.  I was surprised when it was Jimmy who came forth with the answer. 

“Oooo!  Oooo!  I know!  I know!”  he said, wide eyed and jumping up and down.  “They’re sneaky bastards and you can’t trust a thing they say!” 

“Good man,”  I said smiling.  “You’re right.  You’re absolutely right.  And if you can’t believe anything they say, then .  .  .” 

The lightbulb went off in Simon’s head first this time. 

“Then we can’t believe them when they say that we’re fired!” 

“Correct-a-mundo,”  I said, enjoying their moment of discovery. 

It was a good time to have a beer, so we all opened another one and toasted our good fortune of being employed again.  The celebration was short lived, however, as we soon returned to the business at hand. 

“Okay,”  Simon said, “we’re back on the case.  But are we any further ahead than we were before?” 

“Absolutely.  A lot has happened since we got fired,”  I said.  “And pieces of the puzzle are finally starting to fall into place.” 

“Like what?”  Jimmy asked. 

“Like moose hats and cod stands and trips to Amsterdam.  Like a mechanical moose that destroys crops and walks on the ceilings of airplanes and leaves antler fuzz on my car.  Like commercials that don’t make any sense and a bar that disappears and a chapter of this book that is missing.” 

“We know all that,”  Simon said, obviously frustrated, “but what does it all mean?” 

“I’m not completely sure yet,”  I said, “but I think we’re actually dealing with two mysteries, not one.” 

“Holy shit, dude,”  Jimmy said, “you’re gonna fry my brain!  This is getting hard.” 

“It is complicated,”  I offered, “and there are a few pieces of the puzzle – or should I say puzzles – that are missing.  But here’s what I think is going on .  .  .  ”

After explaining for the next half hour, I sat back and watched Simon stroke his chin in what I can only assume was a thoughtful, introspective manner.  Jimmy looked totally confused, so I was pretty sure I had covered everything in full detail. 

“Interesting,”  Simon said.  “Outlandish, unbelievable, and totally ridiculous, but interesting.” 

“Can you go over the second part again dude?”  Jimmy asked. 

“Sorry Jimmy, we don’t have time for that.  Things are starting to come to a head and we need to get moving if we’re going to get to the bottom of all this in time.” 

“Yeah, I hear ya dude.  A big 10-4 roger wilco on that,”  he said. 

“So what now?”  Simon asked. 

“Now, I have to make a few phone calls.  One to the local public library, and one to the great city of Montgomery, Alabama.” 

“And then?” 

“Then, we’re going out to get a drink.” 

 

Next Week:  Chapter 23

Clash of the Figments - Chapter 21

I popped the top on a cold Bud and watched the foam drip down on the bricks between my feet. 

“We’re fired?”  Jimmy asked.  “Can they do that?” 

“Apparently they can,”  Simon replied. 

“Fucking consultants,”  I said, shaking my head in disbelief.  “I should have known better.  You can’t believe a thing they say, the sneaky bastards.” 

We were all sitting on the front steps of the house, elbows on knees, in dejected shock.  The highs and lows of life offer no warning.  At least we still had a shitload of beer. 

“I’ve never been fired before,”  Jimmy said. 

Simon snorted.  “Jimmy,”  he said, “you’ve been fired from every job you ever had.” 

“I have?” 

“Yeah.”’

“Oh.  Wow,”  Jimmy said.  “That would explain a lot.” 

Following the wise investment of our time in watching good looking guys & gals in spandex do and eat almost anything for the chance at making a couple bucks, Sandy had gutted us like fish with his recommendations.  The whole crux of the problem, he had told us, was that we were involved.  By taking us out of the equation, there was a much better chance of Zodar actually being caught, even though no one would be looking for him anymore. 

To add insult to injury, he charged us $30,000 for his services (which was a little higher than I thought fair) and walked out with our last bag of Cheetos. 

“So what now, Dick?”  Simon asked. 

I didn’t have an answer for him.  I just stared into the distance and shook my head.  I couldn’t believe it was over.  All the work, all of the time, and for what?  Nothing, that’s what.  Well, okay, I did have a new house.  And a nicer car.  And pretty close to $200,000 in cash.  But other than that, nothing. 

The worst part of it was that this moose had gotten into my head.  There was something going on, something other than the obvious, and I couldn’t figure out what it was.  I didn’t like that.  I felt like the moose was playing me.  I didn’t like that either.  My investigative senses were tingling like crazy, and there wasn’t anything I could do about it.  All I could do now was walk away. 

Or sit here and drink beer.  Which we had been doing for a couple of hours now.  Lesser of two evils and all that. 

“Well, I’m going to go in and catch the news,”  Simon said.  “Tomorrow morning maybe you can give me a lift back up to Wilmington?” 

I nodded. 

“Yeah dude,”  Jimmy said, “and if you’re heading up that way, I guess I could catch a ride back to my place too?  I heard the surf’s breaking 3 -4 feet, which is pretty good for around here.” 

“Sure Jimmy,”  I said.  “I’ll bring you home too.” 

“Cool,”  he said, and followed Simon inside, leaving me to my thoughts. 

I stared out across the yard, looking at all of the things around me and not really caring about any of them as I once had.  The big oak tree by the road that we’d played on as kids, swinging from a rope long since rotted away and diving into the street since there wasn’t a pond nearby.  Old man Potter’s yard, so green and well-manicured that we couldn’t help driving our cars over it as teenagers, spewing rooster tails of sod and flowers all over his house until he’d come out, fist raised, so angry that several times he had cardiac arrest and had to be rushed to the hospital.  And the sinkhole near the corner that all the kids had pretended was a bomb crater when playing soldiers, all of us jumping bravely into it for cover time and time again until the day Billy Sturgis, wounded by German sniper fire, jumped in and disappeared forever. 

Such memories, such good times.  Yet I was numb to it all.  We were off the case.  And knowing that it was my fault just made it worse.  Poor Jimmy and Simon; even though Jimmy still didn’t really know what was going on and Simon was only involved because he was afraid of me, their disappointment must rival my own, so obsessed were they in their zeal to see the rogue moose brought to justice. 

I took another slug of beer and felt my senses dull a little further as I continued drifting into oblivion.  As my eyes roamed mindlessly from one thing to another, they eventually settled on the Porsche, which was parked facing me on top of some hibiscus bushes.  I stared at it absently, taking in the yellow hood emblem with the stallion, the front grill, the headlights.  An altogether fine looking vehicle.  But after a few minutes, something about it seemed not quite right. 

I sharpened my gaze to figure out what it was that seemed wrong.  There was a dent on the front bumper, but that would have been from the airport when I hit the mechanical arm at the ticket booth.  No, as much as the dent detracted from the symmetry of the vehicle, that wasn’t it.  There was something else, something about the dent, but not the dent itself. 

I stood and opened the front door of the house.  Stuck my arm through and turned on the porch light.  There, now I could see it.  The color was different on the dented area, like a smudge of paint.  But it couldn’t be from the barrier arm at the ticket booth; that had been bright orange.  This was a darker color, a dark brown. 

I walked over to the car and bent down to get a closer look.  Ran my fingernail across the discolored area and examined what came off.  It was a smudge alright, but it wasn’t paint.  It was antler fuzz. 

At that moment Simon stuck his head out of the front door. 

“Dick,”  he said, “come in here, now.  There’s something that you need to see.” 

I followed Simon into the house, wondering what could be so important that he would actually have the guts to combine telling me to do something with the word “now”.  When I entered the living room, both Jimmy and Simon were staring at the TV with wide eyes, the box of Apple Jacks long forgotten on the floor.  Before I could say anything, Simon pointed at the TV and said, “Look.” 

If my mind had already been alarmed at the newly found antler fuzz on the car, it now positively reeled by what I saw. 

The camera showed a scene of desolation, brightly lit by powerful floodlights; farmland in South America that now looked like a battleground.  Crops flattened and burning, deep furrows dug into the earth, wrecked farm equipment toppled and strewn over the landscape. 

My mind only caught snippets of the excited reporter’s voice, but it was enough to piece together that this was the work of the spy moose, and that it had occurred just moments before.  It was a scene all too familiar; the world had been seeing this type of devastation for months now. 

But this time there was more. 

The camera and lights bounced excitedly across the field, following the beckoning reporter at a frantic pace.  Confusion reigned at the scene, people scampered back and forth across the camera’s eye, and shouts & orders crisscrossed through the darkened countryside. 

Suddenly, the camera stopped.  The reporter stood in front, trying to dominate the scene while pointing and talking in a never ceasing stream.  But the camera didn’t focus on the correspondent, it ignored him and moved instead to show an area marked off by yellow police tape and guarded by soldiers with very serious looking automatic weapons. 

It was clear the guards were not even going to consider allowing anyone to go into the cordoned area, but the camera itself did not know those boundaries, and slowly the picture zoomed past the yellow tape. 

A huge animal lay inert on the ground, filthy with dirt and shreds of organic matter, and riddled with bullet holes. 

A huge animal with antlers. 

Zodar was dead. 

 

Next Week:  Chapter 22

Clash of the Figments - Chapter 20

The next day dawned bright and clear.  I hate that.  One of these days – I swear – I’m gonna move to New Jersey so I can enjoy some good old fashioned gloomy weather.  Probably move right next to the Newark airport; just to make sure I get the full “doom”  effect. 

Simon walked in the kitchen in his boxers and got a cup of coffee.  Didn’t say a word.  I had that going for me anyway.  I peeked in the living room and saw Jimmy sleeping on the couch in his favorite ducky underwear.  I had plenty of bedroom space (my new house had four in fact), but Jimmy didn’t feel comfortable unless sleeping on a couch, floor, or the backseat of a car.  I heard him murmur something about “caught in a river riptide”  and “washing up on the rocks”  and let him be.  Went to get a cup of coffee myself.  Made sure I turned the damn coffee maker off this time. 

I joined Simon on the back porch. 

“Well,”  he said, “what do we do now?” 

It was a good question, even if Simon was the one asking.  I had been pondering the same thing myself.  So many clues.  I couldn’t make heads or tails of it.  Not that you can “make heads or tails”  of anything; I mean, if you think about it, it’s really a stupid thing to say.  Which is why I only think it but never speak it aloud. 

“Well, I was watching Nightline last night after you and Jimmy passed out and I got an idea,”  I said. 

“What was it about?”  he replied. 

“What, the show?” 

“Yeah.  What happened that gave you the idea.” 

“Nothing they said.  It just happened to be on when the idea came to me.” 

“You’re sure?” 

“Of course I’m sure.” 

“Because,”  he continued, “Ted Koppel’s a pretty smart guy.  He generally says some pretty insightful things.  I just thought that he might have said something that gave you an idea.” 

“Well, he didn’t.  I’m my own man.” 

“Okay, okay, I was just asking.” 

“No, you don’t think I can come up with an idea myself, is that it?” 

“I didn’t say that.” 

“Yeah, but you were thinking it.” 

“No, I wasn’t.  Look, Dick, you’re the smartest person I know besides all of my friends and everyone else I’ve ever met.  I mean that.  I was just trying to get a faint understanding of how you do what you do.” 

“Um-hmm.  Sucking up now, aren’t you?” 

“If you say so,”  he said.  “So, anyway, what was the idea?” 

“Well, I think we might just be stuck in the mire of the details a little too deep to see the big picture anymore.  I thought it might be a good idea to get another perspective.” 

“You mean like a 3rd party?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Like a consultant?’

“Yeah, something like that.” 

“Where are we going to find a consultant who would be able to help us with this?”  Simon asked.  “I don’t suppose you happen to know one?” 

“Oh, I might.  I just might indeed.” 

Saul “The Sandman” Goldblatt arrived promptly at 3 o’clock, just as he promised he would.  I call him Sandy.  We go way back.  Well, technically that isn’t true; he has a suite in my building that he shares with his partners Don Johnson (like the actor, but no relation) and Don’s sister Stacy Johnson (like the girl I was hot for in high school, but no relation). 

One morning about six months ago I came back from Starbucks and accidentally walked into their office by mistake.  I saw the three of them and was so startled I dumped my coffee all over their carpet.  Since I thought I was being robbed, and being one who subscribes to the philosophy “shoot first, ask questions later”, I also promptly chased them around the room and blew about a dozen holes in their nice paneling (I was carrying a .40 automatic then). 

Once things settled down and I realized my mistake, I quickly apologized, and even though I kind of felt they owed me for the coffee, I didn’t push it, what with making a mess of their office and almost killing them and all.  Long story short; we got to talking shop, learned a little about each other’s business, and have become good friends and allies, though I haven’t seen any of them since that day.  So you can see why when I got to thinking about hiring a consultant, “Johnson, Johnson, & Goldblatt”  immediately came to mind. 

I took Sandy into the den and we sat down with Simon and Jimmy who were eating Apple Jacks right out of the box.  Sandy seemed very calm and confident, not like the last time I had seen him when he had been jumping around like a squirrel crossing a 4-lane highway as he had dodged my bullets.  I respected the fact that he had obviously taken time to work on his bearing and presentation skills.  Professionals do that kind of thing.  I gave him a knowing nod. 

“Hello Mr.  Lassiter,”  he said. 

“Please, call me Dick,”  I replied. 

“Yes, well, Dick then,”  he said, “what can I do for you today.” 

“We’re looking for some advice – my partners and me – regarding a case we’re working on.  I thought an outside perspective might shed some light on a few things that we haven’t been able to figure out.” 

“Such as?”  he asked. 

I laid it all out for him.  That dude that came into my office to hire me, the spy moose and his worldwide rampage, Rok Hard and the Barking Spider, the really weird trip to that country where the Dutch people live, the break-in at the shampoo factory and all of the mops that were missing, – no, wait, sorry, that’s something completely different – and all of the clues picked up along the way. 

“I see,”  Sandy said when I was finished.  I noticed that while he had been holding a notepad and pen the entire time, he hadn’t taken a single note during my story.  He obviously realized the sensitive nature of the case and opted not to compromise national security by writing any of it down.  He probably had a photographic memory and had memorized it all.  That would be bitchin’. 

“And what areas of the case would you like my firm to provide consulting services for?” 

“Well, everything,”  I said. 

“Everything.” 

“Yup.  Everything.  The whole shooting match.  The whole kit and kaboodle.  The whole nine yards.  The whole enchilada.  The whole – ” 

“I think I get the picture,”  he said

“Oh, okay.  Yeah, to be completely honest with you Sandy,”  I continued, ”we don’t have a clue what’s going on with this case.  Not a fucking clue.” 

Jimmy and Simon nodded vigorously. 

Saul was silent for a moment, his brow creased in a puzzled expression. 

“Mr.  Lassiter, – ” 

“Dick.” 

“Yes, Dick,”  he said, “I’m a little confused here.” 

“Boy, do we know that feeling,”  Jimmy chimed in.  Simon nodded in agreement, unable to add anything as he had just stuffed another handful of cereal into his mouth. 

“Are you asking Johnson, Johnson & Goldblatt to consult with you regarding your investigation,”  Sandy continued, “or are you asking us to completely take over the whole investigation for you?” 

“Um,”  I said, “it would be the second thing you said.” 

More nods from the nodding fools. 

“That seems rather unorthodox, don’t you think?” 

“Well, yes, in a way, but it’s been done before.” 

“It has,”  he asked, though in more of a ‘repeating the statement in a dubious ‘I-don’t-believe-it’’ sort of way than in the more conventional ‘asking because I really don’t know’ sort of way. 

“Yes.  In fact, I’ve done it before myself.  Twice, if I remember correctly.” 

“You have.”  Again, more of a statement thing. 

“Um-hmm,”  I said, nodding.  Jimmy and Simon nodded too.  A picture of well-oiled teamwork. 

“Could I ask, Mr.  Lass – I mean, Dick – how many cases have you worked on in your career as an investigator?” 

“Oh, boy, let me see here,”  I said, looking up into the heavens.  “Tough one there.  Um, wow, kind of hard to put a handle on it, but if I had to guess – and I’m really stretching here – I’d have to say .  .  .  um.  .  .  two.” 

“Two.” 

“Plus or minus one,”  I concurred. 

“Yes, well.  You realize this is a little beyond the normal scope of my firm’s services, and as such, I’ll need to confer with my partners – ” 

“Dick,”  Simon rudely interrupted, “it’s 7 o’clock.” 

“Gotcha,”  I said.  “Hey listen Sandy, okay, that sounds fine, you go right ahead.  In fact, if you could just do that in the other room – your conferring and proposaling and all – that would be just great, because they’re doing a rerun of Fear Factor on TNT that we haven’t seen – ” 

“The one where they have to eat bull testicles,”  Jimmy offered. 

“  – right now and we’ve been looking forward to watching it all day, so while we’re doing that, you can do, you know, whatever it is that you do and we’ll meet back up in a hour or so, okay?  Great.” 

I got up and ushered a confused looking Sandy to the next room while Jimmy and Simon pulled all of the cushions off of the couch searching for the remote control.  There was a slight panic when several minutes went by without finding it, but it eventually turned up in the guest bathroom medicine chest. 

We settled down in front of the tube and got ready for the first round. 

An hour later we had finished cheering the winner and were relaxing in the afterglow of another fine episode when Sandy walked back into the room. 

“Alright gentlemen,”  he said, “I have my recommendations ready.” 

Now we were getting someplace. 

 

Next Week:  Chapter 21

Clash of the Figments - Chapter 19

Wherever the Impala was, it wasn’t here.  I figured that it was either A) still parked in front of the Barking Spider, or B) at whatever airport we had flown out of, or C) someplace else.  Shouldn’t be too hard to track down unless it was at “B”  or “C”.  But that didn’t help me now.  We needed some wheels. 

Simon could actually help in this respect, which is one reason why I bring him along on these things.  He doesn’t know anything important about cars – like which ones are cool, which ones are chick bait, etc. – but he does know some of the useful boring things; like how ignition systems work.  That knowledge comes in pretty handy when you need to do things like hot-wiring. 

He also knew how to open locked doors, but hell, I can do that.  Only difference is that he picks the lock while I just throw a brick through the window.  Sure, my way gets glass all over the seats, but it’s a lot faster.  Since he was along though, I figured I’d let him do it his way.  It’d give him a sense of worth and none of us would ruin our pants. 

“How about that one?”  I said, pointing to an older (but cherry) Corvette.  “I’ve always wanted a ’68.  Chrome bumpers, Candy Apple Red, and just look at that rear end.  Bet we can score some real skank with that.” 

Simon sucked his teeth in an exasperated way, which meant that he was getting ready to correct me on something.  This usually pisses me off and I’ve been known to pop him one in the jaw when he did it, but with my hands full with Jimmy and my bag, he probably figured he was safe. 

“It’s not a ’68, Dick, it’s a 1970,”  he said. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.  The differences are ridiculously easy to spot.” 

“Really.” 

“Yes, really.  I could maybe understand someone not noticing the squared exhaust ports or front parking lights, but you’d have to be blind not to see the egg-crate side vents or wheel flares behind all four tires.  None of which were available in either ’68 or ‘69.” 

“Do tell.” 

“And GM has never offered Candy Apple Red as a stock color option for Corvettes – certainly not for the C3’s anyway.  This would be Monza Red, unless it’s been repainted.  And judging from the big block hood, this particular car has the optional 390 horse 454 with a 4-speed transmission and 10.25:1 compression ratio.” 

“Well.  Alright,”  I said.  “Is that good?” 

“Depends on your definition of ‘good’.  If it’s to go really, really fast and burn a shitload of hi-octane gasoline, then yes, it’s good.” 

“Coolness,”  I said nodding.  “Let’s go then.” 

“Uh, Dick,”  Simon said, “There are three of us, and one of us happens to be taped to a surfboard.  How do you expect us to all fit in this car?” 

Just like Simon to ruin everything with realism. 

I debated for a moment about just how much I really needed Jimmy along, but in the end, decided I couldn’t leave him.  He’d never figure out how to get out of the parking garage. 

“Alright, well, let’s find something else then,”  I said, none too happy at having to pass up the ‘vette. 

In the end, we narrowed it down to two potential vehicles; a Plymouth Voyager (Simon’s choice) or one of those new turbo Porsche SUV’s (my choice).  Simon droned on endlessly about all of the logical merits of the minivan; plenty of room for all of us and our stuff, built-in cup holders and child safety seat, blah, blah, blah.  I countered with the logical merits of the 450 HP Porsche, like having plenty of room for all of us and our stuff, scoring chicks, and having the ability to go 160 mph up a steep mountain path, should that ever be necessary. 

In the end, I got tired of arguing with him and just settled it by throwing a brick through the window of the Porsche. 

Simon wasn’t happy about it, but he set about sweeping the shattered glass off of the seat and getting the thing started anyway. 

I shoehorned Jimmy into the back and placated Simon by telling him that we were doing the right thing.  Whoever owned the minivan probably had a lot of kids and a single income; taking their van would be devastating.  Not having any children or a single income himself, this seemed to really strike home with Simon. 

As for the owner of the Porsche, well, come on, it’s a Porsche. 

The handling of our newly acquired off road vehicle was a little squirrelly and took me a while to get used to.  On the way down the spiral exit ramp, the rear end got away from me and I left some paint on the wall.  Then, after paying our parking fee, I shot off the line too fast and grazed the barrier arm at the ticket booth before it got all the way up.  Good thing it wasn’t my car or I would have been pissed. 

After misreading the traffic signs and circling the airport three times, I decided to take matters into my own hands and just drive over the medians and embankments in the general direction I wanted to go.  I’ll say this: although I sincerely doubt that any other Porsche SUV will ever have its tires actually touch dirt, they can rip up some sod if you need them too. 

We headed up to Winter Land.  Where I live.  At least I think that’s where I live.  Hard to tell sometimes.  Everything down here is called Winter Something.  Winter Springs, Winter Haven, Winter Park, Winter Etc.  Drove me crazy.  On more than one occasion I wound up sleeping in someone else’s house simply out of confusion.  Never caused a problem though.  People were pretty used to that kind of thing.  It happened a lot. 

I figured we’d crash at my house for a few hours and sort things out.  Jimmy woke up on the way and had to pee, so we stopped off at a Mobil station, stripped the duct tape off him (there was some screaming involved here), and pointed him to the bathroom.  We picked up some chips and beer while we were there too. 

The frenetic pace of the past few days was starting to catch up with me and I was dragging hard when we finally turned onto my street.  I’m a man of action as you are well aware, but even us worldly types get fazed sometimes, and I’ll admit that I was really looking forward to just being home for a while. 

As I pulled up to my driveway, two things happened simultaneously; I suddenly remembered that I had indeed forgotten to turn off the coffee pot before I left, and I noticed a big smoking hole in the ground where my house used to be. 

“Duuuuuude, bummer,”  Jimmy said. 

I sighed and felt my head loll forward as a feeling of utter dismay robbed my body of energy.  I rarely do that – head lolling that is – but there are times when it is certainly understandable if not totally appropriate and I figured this was one of those times.  Or the other. 

Simon made an admirable attempt at legitimate consolation.  “I’m truly sorry,”  he said.  “What a rotten time to have your house burn down.” 

Idiot.  Like there’s ever a good time to have your house burn down.  But that wasn’t really what was wearing on me at the moment.  Up until about 60 seconds ago, I wasn’t even aware that I had a house, so I didn’t feel a lot of loss.  That’s what was wearing on me. 

See, that’s the part about being a figment of someone’s imagination that’s the hardest to deal with.  I find out about things the same time you do.  I mean, let me ask you a question: what do you really know about me?  Only what I’ve told you, right?  You just automatically assume that what I’ve told you is only a small portion of my life.  That there’s a whole lifetime of experiences that you don’t know about. 

Problem is, there’s not.  What I’ve told you about me is also all I know about me.  My entire existence, all the things I do, all the people I know -my entire world – is all subject to the whims of someone else.  They want to burn down my house – poof – it’s toast.  They want me to punch someone – smack – I deck ‘em, even if I didn’t really want to.  And I have no past at all.  At least, not until someone makes it up for me. 

Don’t believe me?  Okay, watch this.  My house for instance, the same one that had apparently just changed itself back into isolated components of the periodic table, had been really cool.  From the outside, it was nothing special; just a single story ranch.  But inside it had a definite masculine feel; lots of wood, an open kitchen with a bar, and a sunken den with a 42”  plasma TV and surround sound.  Comfortable furniture.  Nice covered porch off the back with a built in grill, pool and hot tub. 

Now, all that?  Everything I just told you?  It’s bullshit.  I don’t mean that it’s not true – it is, now, and from the sound of it I’m really gonna miss the old place – but until just now, it didn’t exist.  I didn’t know about any of those things until just this very moment.  That’s my life.  That’s how it works.  I become aware of my world as it happens.  And if someone hadn’t thought me up and taken the time to write this, I wouldn’t be here at all. 

For a tough guy, that’s kind of a fragile existence. 

I opened the glove compartment and after rummaging around for a few seconds uncovered a bottle of Xanax.  Didn’t think the owner would mind my borrowing a few (at least not any more than he would at borrowing his car) so I popped a couple. 

I sat back, evaluated the situation, and listened to Jimmy and Simon arguing over whether or not you’d die if you ate the stuff that was inside a Stretch Armstrong – Jimmy insisted you would – and started feeling better as the drugs kicked in. 

By the way, I’m sorry for laying all that on you.  Everybody’s got their own problems and last I checked you weren’t Dr.  Phil.  Hey, you either learn to overcome your obstacles or you learn to live with them, right?  Besides, it could be worse.  I mean, I may only be a figment of someone’s imagination, but at least someone did think of me. 

“It won’t kill you,”  I told Jimmy.  “Do you really think anyone would be stupid enough to fill the inside of a children’s toy – one with a fairly delicate rubber covering I might add – with a toxic substance?” 

“I told you!  I told you!”  Simon yelled, smug and triumphant. 

“Oh, knock it off Simon,”  I said.  “We’ve got things to do.” 

“Like what?”  he replied. 

“Like finding a place to crash for the night.” 

“Well, we could get a hotel,”  Simon offered. 

“Hey, I know what,”  said Jimmy.  “Hold on.” 

He opened the door, scrambled over to my mailbox, and after heaving and pulling for a few minutes was able to get it out of the ground.  He ran with it down the street to the house next door, the one that belonged to the Mitchell’s, who were visiting relatives in Virginia.  He struggled with their mailbox for a few minutes, and after finally yanking it up, stuck mine in the ground in its place, then put the Mitchell’s mailbox back where mine used to be.  The switch complete, he jumped back into the car, grinning like a kid. 

“Check it out man,”  he said. 

“Oh, that’s just stupid,”  Simon said.  “I mean, what?  We’re already driving a stolen car, now were just going to move in next door, pretend that this is Dick’s house and that it was actually his neighbor’s house that burned down?” 

“Hold on there, Simon,”  I said.  “This might work out just fine.  I mean, I’ve always liked Bob & Janey’s house, and let’s face it, I’ve owned hammers that were smarter than they are.  They might not notice.” 

Simon didn’t like it, but hey, big surprise there.  We parked the car and got our stuff out.  I checked out my new digs, noticed that my yard looked a little shaggy, and made a mental note to fire my lawn service.  It only takes one bad neighbor to ruin a good neighborhood. 

I have to admit, it felt right, my new house.  And when my old key unlocked the door, I knew that it was meant to be.  Either that or I’ve been having an affair with Janey that was serious enough to warrant her giving me my own key.  I didn’t think I was that much of a dirtbag to do something like that to my friend Bob, so the fact that my key fit the door must have simply just meant that this was supposed to be my house. 

Don’t overanalyze things, that’s my motto.  No wait, that’s not my motto at all; my motto is “deny everything.”  Or is it .  .  .  oh, nevermind. 

We made ourselves at home (why wouldn’t we?), took showers and grilled some steaks.  I discovered that not only did I have cable, but 12 premium channels too, and soon all three of us were relaxing in front of the tube watching Rocky IV and downing some cold beers.  I felt better than I had in weeks.  Clean shaven, well fed, relaxed.  Life wasn’t so very bad at the moment. 

I sure was going to miss that 42”  plasma TV though. 

 

Next Week:  Chapter 20