18 November 2008 @ 07:20 pm
Seven million pounds of thrust. Or, how I found religion.  

“All religions, arts and sciences are branches of the same tree. All these aspirations are directed toward ennobling man's life, lifting it from the sphere of mere physical existence and leading the individual towards freedom.” - Albert Einstein

 

There was darkness. The water by which we sat rocked softly in the night, stirred by a cool but constant breeze. A full moon stood out upon the horizon, bathing the world in its silver glow. We were not alone – to either side stretched hopeful faces, young and old, all fixated on the glowing tower of light stabbing up from the island across the bay. The four of us knew that the calm, unblinking light was merely a facade, a mask of serenity hiding a roiling hive of precise chaos. We knew the secrets it held. And so we waited.

 

Then there was light.

 

At 7:55 pm, on November 14, 2008, Space Shuttle Endeavour let its fury loose upon the world and seven souls strapped onto nearly seven million pounds of thrust began their ascent into the heavens. We watched in awe, staring with wonder, forgetting even to breath. At first all we could hear were the cheers and the screams stretching out for miles to either side of us. Then it came. It started as a muffled roar, growing ever stronger until we could feel its vibrations in our blood. The craft accelerated, tilting over toward the horizon as it followed a carefully calculated trajectory to place it into a final orbit almost a hundred and ninety miles above the Earth. We watched as the engines were throttled down to reduce the strain as the craft passed through its most stressful part of the atmosphere. We toasted each other and drank to its health as the pressure in the rockets’ nozzles overcame that of the ambient. We cheered as the orange sky began to fade. The Shuttle was moving away from us to the south east, rising higher, growing smaller. It became a star, arcing up and over the moon. We were silent as it slipped beyond the horizon.

 

That moment, that memory, is the greatest in my life. Never have I seen something that beautiful, that powerful, that amazing. In some ways, I imagine this must be what it is like to find God. To most people, the Shuttle and its rocket companions are tools or entertainment, but to engineers, especially those focused on aerospace, a Shuttle launch takes on so much more meaning. It is our Mecca, our holy place. We were not tourists. We were pilgrims. 

 

Perhaps to some it will sound melodramatic, but I don’t expect everyone to understand. The past five years of my life were validated that night. More than that even – every day of my life since I first decided to pursue this degree in aeronautical and astronautical engineering. That night was my religious experience. For the first time, with absolute certainty, I can say I am on the right path. There is no longer any question, any doubt. I finally understand.

 

There is a certain amount of arrogance that comes with an engineering degree. I recognize this, though I try not to let it show around non-engineers. I don’t entirely know how to describe it, but it stems from a feeling of enlightenment.  We harness the forces of the natural world and bend them to our will. Among the engineers I have met, my aerospace kin are perhaps the worst victims of this arrogance. We are the ones that have taken humanity to the stars. Seven million pounds of thrust. Watching that, I knew it was true. You can calculate and test and analyze forever, but until you see something like that, equations are really just lines on a page. They are scriptures handed down. Watching those equations turn night into day – that is enlightenment. That is our religion.

 

I made the pilgrimage to Florida. I went down not truly knowing what to expect, but I can honestly say I came back changed. Four days of bad engineering jokes, debates on isentropic properties, and one night night of rapture showed me something I had never realized I was missing. It feels good.

 

It feels right.


 
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30 July 2008 @ 07:27 pm
JK Conference: Cedric  
Cedric Dalton was dying. He had come to this conclusion on his own, but he was quite certain that his current plight would outweigh any more official medical opinion. Not that he would be able to get such an opinion, mind you, since he was, in fact, dying. He closed his eyes as the latest round of shuddering began. The fever had been playing with his mind, telling him he was cold, telling him he was hot. It appeared quite unsure of itself, constantly changing its opinion. And so, poor Cedric was left sweating profusely and shivering so fiercely the bed shook beneath him.
 
He wasn’t sure when the shaking had stopped. The clock on his nightstand, the cute little digital alarm clock in the shape of a piece of cheese his mum had sent after her last vacation, told him it was now a quarter past two in the morning. He tried not to look at the cheese clock. The thought of cheese made him want to stumble back to the bathroom. He’d lost the last his stomach seemed to be able to give a few hours back. He was not eager to repeat those wretched hours. Not that he would, since he was dying and all.
 
The night was quiet. Then train yard a block over was blessedly silent. Even the old cat, Melinda, he shared his small apartment with seemed content to let him die in peace. In a corner of his mind that was both fuzzed with fever and yet still grasping hold of reason, he wondered if the cat would try to eat him, when he was dead. He’d seen something like that in the newspaper once. Little Mel, as he called her, seemed quite fond of him, but she also seemed more fond of eating. Maybe someone would come before then.
 
Thirst had been gnawing at him for awhile now. He winced, groaned, rolled over to stare longingly at the empty glass by the cheese clock. It had been full once. His last foray into the kitchen to fill it had ended with a desperate dash back towards the toilet, but it had still been a victory. He didn’t remember drinking any of it though. He vaguely remembered having a conversation with his mum about church mice and watching her drink it.  That didn’t seem right at all. She should have been back in England still. He would have to scold her later though, if she phoned him before he died. It wasn’t nice to drink his water like that, not when he was dying.
 
“Melinda!” he called. His voice sounded raspy, like his tongue was sandpaper, the air made of gravel. “Little Mel, bring me more water!”
 
Cedric closed his eyes, kicked off the soiled sheets as his body decided it was too warm again. Surely the feline would be about shortly with his water. It was only fair. He always gave her water. Why couldn’t she hurry up just this once with his? He opened one eye to peer at the water glass. Still empty.
 
Click. There was a light on, down the hall. He couldn’t remember leaving it on, and he was pretty sure it hadn’t been on a few minutes before. Maybe Melinda was getting his water. But why hadn’t she come to collect the glass? Stupid cat.
 
He nearly screamed when he sat up. All the blood that had been happily wandering about elsewhere in his body seemed to stampede its way into his brain. He could feel his heartbeat in its pulses. His nails were digging into his leg. The flashes of pain grew softer. His eyes slowly opened again, and he looked around. The room was a mess – clothes were scattered about wherever he had thrown them over the past day and a half. Sheets and blankets and pillows were scattered around, the soft remains of a battle his mind couldn’t remember, but his sore muscles couldn’t forget.
 
Why was he sitting up? He blinked, trying to clear away the fog in his brain. He tried to swallow, but found he couldn’t. Right! The water! Part of him cheered as he reached for the glass. Most of the rest groaned in protest.
 
One step at a time Ced, he told himself. One step. Two steps. Step over the shoes. Don’t fall over the dresser. The water glass he clutched tight against his chest, not daring to lose it. His shuffling path made it to the door. He peered out, down the short hallway. There was indeed a light on, in the tiny living room if his guess was correct. Which it might not be. For some reason he couldn’t remember ever having a living room. But then, he couldn’t remember having a hallway either, so it must be alright.
 
Maybe this is that whole light at the end of the tunnel they’re always talking about, he thought. He’d always assumed it would be more heavenly and less, well, domestic. He shuffled slowly towards the light, one hand holding the wall up was he went. Poor Little Mel. She would miss him when he was gone. Such a good little cat. His thoughts felt like they were floating on clouds.
 
The hallway ended. If he were to turn left, he what he called the living room. I guess it’s the dying room now, a voice in his mind said, a bit too cheerfully. If he were to go right, instead, he would make it into the tiny little kitchen, with its peeling wallpaper and stained linoleum. Surely Heaven could wait for him to have one last drink before he died. He tried not to look at the light. Part of him was afraid he’d be lifted away. Mostly it was just too bright to look at. He turned right.
 
He was at the sink, though he wasn’t sure how he’d gotten there. He was starting to feel cold again, like the shivers were coming. At least his stomach wasn’t threatening to march. Water would be good.
 
Glass chimed, the tinkle of crystal on crystal filled his ears. Cedric blinked, stared down. His water glass was in his hand. He could hear liquid pouring now. It didn’t make sense. Maybe though, since he was dying, he could hear the future. His Aunt Martha had said she could see the future when she was dying. She had told him the next year’s football scores. Then she died. He didn’t think he was hearing football sounds, but perhaps he could hear himself about to get his drink of water. That must be it. The sounds had stopped, but he could hear Melinda somewhere purring. Odd.
 
He filled his glass with water. He even tapped it against the sink a couple times to make it sound like the future sounds he’d heard. They weren’t quite the same, but he supposed they’d have to do. He took a drink. The water was warm, but it tasted like wine as it flowed over his parched tongue. Maybe that was part of the dying too, the whole wine taste. He would have preferred a nice brown ale, but who was he to judge the dying process? 
 
With a sigh, he turned away from the piles of dirty dishes, the emptied milk jug, the half eaten loaf of bread. They were supposed to be all tidy and put away, but he hadn’t gotten the chance, being sick and all. It was a bit of a shame, really, leaving the kitchen a mess when he died. The light was still peeking around the corner from the living room. He sighed again, decided to take the water with him. He didn’t know how long the trip would be, and he was thirsty. He briefly wondered if there were any drinking fountains in Heaven. Or tea. He hoped there would be tea.
 
Muscles aching, Cedric began a slow shuffle towards the light.
 
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23 July 2008 @ 04:23 am
This weeks writing will be delayed...  

Due to an epic 'bout of food poisoning (I keep swearing I'll never go back, but the buffet is so tasty...), the author is feverish, slightly delusional, and mostly incapacitated.  On the up side, he's got a nifty story idea now.

Damn you chinese buffet, damn you and your tasty crab rangoons!

fin.

 
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18 July 2008 @ 03:31 pm
Little delayed, but here it is! Next conference piece...  
 
Beep.
 
Across the room, a screen flickered to life, cycled through its power sequence, turned blue. It waited, patiently, a corporate logo slowly rotating at its center.
 
Beep.
 
Louder this time, more insistent. The jumbled mass of bedding shifted. The lights clicked on, revealing a small cabin with doors at either end. Along one side was a narrow bed, designed to be pulled down from the wall when needed, then folded back up. Opposite the bed sat a small desk and an assortment of drawers and cabinets, each built into the wall and designed to be locked up tight. Most, however, were half closed, papers and clothes hanging haphazardly and trying their best to join their cousins strewn across the floor.
 
Beep.
 
Throwing off the covers, Morgan Grey groaned and checked the clock on the wall. It hadn’t been four hours yet, since she set the ship on autopilot and went to bed, looking for a good night’s rest. She was not happy.
 
Beep.
 
“I’m up already, jeesh,” she said, rubbing her eyes. The screen on the wall waited patiently as she climbed out of bed, shuffled across the short cabin, tapped the spinning logo. The interface changed with a friendly chime, revealing a short diagnostics list of the ship and a few of the pertinent navigation details. According to the ship’s scanners, the Aurora-class freighter was the only man-made object for a dozen light years or so. The communications system was blinking though – somebody wanted to talk.
 
“This had better be good.” Morgan stabbed at the screen. Twenty-two days into a four week trip, and nobody had bothered her and her navigator, Kayla, except to check that they were on course and on time. For a message to be relayed directly to her, either she was in trouble, or something bad had happened. Neither possibility improved her mood.
 
“Priority message from Lotus Control,” the metallic voice of the ship’s computer told her. “Level three access required. Please confirm.”
 
The screen changed again, one half displaying the outline of a hand, the other a numeric keypad. Trying not to yawn, Morgan put pressed her left hand against the screen, felt it tingle slightly as the electronic scanners brushed over her fingertips. With her other hand she punched out her security code. The screen flashed green.
 
“Captain Morgan Grey, level three flight officer, confirm.”
 
“Accessing,” the computer replied, checking her voice patterns against its records.
 
Not like there’s anyone but me and Kayla for a billion miles, thought Morgan.
 
The screen beeped when it had decided she was still who she said she was. The image of a man came on the screen. Cold blue eyes stared at her.
 
“Captain Grey. From your navigation check requests, I assume you are still on route to Caelim.” Morgan rolled her eyes. Marcus Reins was the company’s security officer – from the ship’s transponders, he would know exactly where they were at any given time. 
 
“Your last shipment was picked up at the naval base on Warren 3,” Marcus glanced down at something off screen. “Mechanical supplies, mostly, with a small shipment of ordinance and some assorted food stores.
 
A few hours ago we were notified of an error that occurred at the base, concerning several pallets mistakenly marked as jump drive parts. When you arrive at Caelim, a Navy officer will be waiting to relieve you of these. We have made arrangements for the missing cargo to be shipped out on the next freighter, so you need not worry about them.”
 
A mix-up on the loading dock. Marcus had sent an encrypted message and woke her up in the middle of the bloody night to tell her that some jarheads couldn’t read shipping orders? Morgan shook her head. It made no sense.
 
The screen showed the man looking off the screen again. He looked concerned, but then, in a job such as his, she assumed that would be normal. Of the handful of times she’d seen him, he’d always looked like that.
 
“There is one more thing, Captain. The Navy has requested that you do not access your cargo bay until you arrive at your destination. The material that was delivered to you by mistake is of a,” he paused. “Classified nature. Neither you nor your Lieutenant Marrel le are to enter the cargo bay area, for your own safety. Further instructions will be given to you upon your arrival. Good day, Captain. Fly safe.”
 
The screen beeped, returned to the diagnostics display. Morgan frowned. Kayla wouldn’t care – she hated going down into the cargo bay during a flight. Whatever it was down there they were carrying, someone didn’t want them to know about it. It could be anything, really – misplaced weapons, chemicals, some admiral’s missing shipment of whiskey. She decided it was better that they hadn’t told her what.
 
She sighed, tapped the screen to turn it off, started to get undressed. At this point, a shower and some coffee would have to do instead of the warmth of the covers and her pilow. She had to talk to Kayla about this. Something didn’t feel right.
 
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25 June 2008 @ 10:12 pm
Summer Conference Piece Number 3  
Twenty-seven lamps. One hundred, seventy-two ceiling tiles. Forty-three coffee cups, thirty-nine saucers. David could feel Mr. Wells watching him. The older man sat across from him, plain cotton shirt standing stark white against a crimson tie. He wasn’t looking at David. He was staring out the window, idly watching the traffic on the highway. For that matter, David wasn’t looking at Mr. Wells either. David was staring into a half finished sandwich – pastrami on rye, Swiss cheese, mustard. It didn’t particularly matter though, not with them. David could feel it.
 
“If there are no fingers involved, why must they refer to them as fingers? Chicken has nothing to do with fingers.” That was Regina, directly to his left, droning on again in her seventeen year-old voice of righteous omnipotence. Mrs. Wells had told him once, when he had complained, that it was merely Regina’s method of concentrating.
 
“What if chickens dream of fingers?” a small voice from across the table asked, to no one in particular. Megan was the youngest of them, barely eleven. She wasn’t watching much either, focusing instead on ordering half a plate of French fries based on size – smallest to largest, left to right. She didn’t sound like most eleven year old girls. Not to David anyway.
 
There was a young couple in the far corner of the restaurant. Her hair was red, his was blonde. Twenty-two, a year younger than himself, he guessed. Both of them, her for certain. He was harder to read. David let his eyes glance up from the sandwich. She was laughing. He couldn’t hear them from this distance. The joke had been about a cow. But that didn’t matter. Maybe it would, on the ride home. Mr. Wells would quiz them, one by one, on details from dinner. That was these dinners were for. Observationals, they were called. Maybe the joke would matter later. But it didn’t right now. She was happy. David didn’t have to see her to know that. He sighed.
 
“How much for the tip, David?” Mr. Wells’ voice snapped him back into focus. His mind had been drifting. That was dangerous.
 
“Six dollars, forty-five cents. Seventeen percent of the bill.”
 
Mr. Wells was watching him now, blue eyes fixed at him. He was silent. Waiting.
 
“The waitress came to our table five times during the meal,” David explained. “On each of her other tables, she averaged eight. One percent off cultural standard per neglected visit.”
 
He cocked his head to the side, his eyes losing focus. Mr. Wells said nothing.
 
“You intimidate her.” David said after a moment. His eyes focused, stared back, gained an edge that hadn’t been there before. “And she doesn’t like your tie.”
 
“I think it looks handsome,” Regina said.
 
David didn’t look away, but shifted his plate to the side, clearing a place at the edge of the table. The waitress appeared from behind him, dropped the check, mumbled something about paying at the register, hurried off. She was wearing earrings. Ladybugs. The left one was forty degrees off vertical. The right was scratched.
 
“I will meet you three at the car. Mrs. Wells is waiting for you.” David looked down. They were dismissed. He shuffled out of the booth, waiting for the girls to lead the way out. Megan smiled up at him as she passed.
 
The door squeaked as David opened it, held it open for an elderly couple to enter. His gaze found the girl in the corner again. He let it linger for a moment. She really was happy. He wondered what her name was. Then the moment was gone, and he was following Regina’s mess of black curls out into the soft summer air. Crickets chirped. Trucks rumbled their way across the overpass. Seven of them, by the time they’d reached the pale blue SUV. 
 
Mrs. Wells was watching him as he climbed inside. He didn’t bother looking at her, just closed his eyes, leaned back into the soft leather seat. She didn’t say anything. Neither did he. Even Regina was quiet. The questioning would come. They would pass the test, or fail. David wasn’t really sure it mattered anymore.
 
Megan was sitting beside him. She leaned against him, rested her head against his arm. She whispered softly as Mr. Wells climbed into the passenger seat. David wasn’t sure anyone else could hear her, but he did.
 
“The ladybugs were pretty.”
 
The light blue SUV left the parking lot.  Fourteen cars - six foreign, eight domestic. David sighed and wondered what the girl’s name was.
 
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22 June 2008 @ 10:40 pm
Someday...  

http://photojournal.jpl.nasa.gov/jpeg/PIA07997.jpg

That is the sunset.  On Mars.  Someday, I will see that in person.

Someday...

 
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18 June 2008 @ 07:41 pm
Conference Piece  
“Lap dance? Only ten dollars.” Twin mountains of flesh stared at the man named Parker, their secrets poorly hidden beneath ribbons of black silk. The man named Parker stared back. She was pretty, kind of, if the light was dark enough.
 
“I’ll be needing a double scotch first, think you could handle that darlin’?” The man named Parker fished out a twenty dollar bill and watched with half interest, half disgust as the woman grabbed it with her teeth. She winked at him and minced her way off towards the bar. He sighed, glanced at his watch. Almost a quarter past seven. Frank was late. Again.
 
The place was second rate, at best. The patrons were worse. The dancers weren’t much better. The scent of cheap booze mingled with the heavy smell of perfume and the stench of hormones. Parker flipped open a small black phone. No missed calls. He could feel the tidings of a headache.
 
Something touched his back and he tensed, hand falling to his side. A short glass of amber liquid and ice appeared, held by a hand that could only be called dainty. Her skin was pale and smooth, her nails a deep red.
 
“Good girl.” Parker reached up to take the glass. “Now how about that dance?”
 
“Sorry, but you can’t afford my rates,” a familiar voice said in his ear. The scotch glass darted away from him as the woman claimed the chair opposite him. The ice chimed in the glass as she drank, draining it all. Parker glared.
 
“What, no hello?” The woman pouted. Francine “Frank” Martel wore more clothes than the dancers, but just barely. Her red silk blouse hid what the dancers flaunted, but it was deeply cut, leaving little to the imagination. A short black skirt topped tanned legs and a pair of heels nearly high enough to qualify for the shady little establishment.
 
“You owe me a drink.”
 
“I always knew you cared, Parker. Sorry I’m late. Traffic was just terrible you know.”
 
“I reckon it was, now can we get on with this, or would you be wanting to take a go on one of them poles over there first?” He nodded towards the stage where a brunette was draping herself about a brass pole and wearing something the size of a postage stamp.
 
“You wish, little man.”
 
“I wish you’d hurry up. I have things to be doing, and since you won’t be one of ‘em, I’d like to be getting on with the rest of them.”
 
The woman smirked at him, blue eyes watching him carefully. The music changed to something less sultry and more pop. Neither of them really noticed.
 
“Where’s my money?”
 
“739 West Union, locker number 44A.” Parker fished a key out from the inner pocket of his jacket, tossed toward the woman. She caught it. “Seven grand. Same as we agreed on.”
 
“And how do I know you’re not lying to me?”
 
“My word’s good.”
 
“That’s not what she said.”
 
“She wouldn’t.” Parker stared back into those blue eyes. Frank blinked first.
 
“He’s in Maryland, just north of Baltimore. Works the second shift in a warehouse owned by a company called Grant’s Imports.” She paused. “What are you going to do?”
 
Parker stood up, picked up a faded felt hat from the table next to him, put it on.
 
“That’s none of your concern.”
 
“Fair enough. And just where’s this locker of mine?” She was twirling the key and staring at him, pencil-thin eyebrow raised.
 
Parker smirked.
 
“Arthur’s Gym. Men’s locker room. Goodbye, Frank.” He turned, started towards the doorway and the fresh air. He didn’t see Frank roll her eyes. He didn’t see the man in the corner make a phone call either. But that was the way it worked for Parker – some you see, some you don’t. He had things to be doing.
 
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12 February 2008 @ 03:00 am
End of Chapter 6  

*****

The bus station was small.  It may have attempted to look quaint on the outside, but the interior hadn’t kept up with reality since the seventies.  Rough brick walls, institutional gray.  Lines of molded plastic chairs in scuffed and faded green.  Pale fluorescent lighting.  Yellowed maps on the wall with a smiling cartoon bus pointing out routes to Chicago, New York, Dallas.

There were people scattered around, most alone, few talking.  Jack ignored them.  Lynn was standing in line at the ticket counter, waiting patiently behind an old man with a slurred southern accent who was demanding to know why, exactly, he couldn’t take an earlier bus.  Jack stopped, barely inside the entrance.  He stared at her back.  There was still time to change his mind.

One of the mysteries of the universe is the unnatural ability for a person to know when they’re being watched.  Lynn turned around.

You’re an idiot, Jack.  The voice was choked off before it could continue.

She smiled at him, a half smile filled with an uncertain mix of elation and embarrassment.  It was a look that said she’d been hoping he would show up.  And terrified that he may actually come.  He stared at her.  She stared back.  It was, all told, a rather uncomfortable moment.

Jack took a step forward.  Then a couple more.  She was biting her lower lip, though she didn’t seem to notice.  She blinked a lot too.  It made her look helpless, a child lost in a toy store.  It was everywhere and nowhere she wanted to be, and he was the last person she desperately wanted to see.

“Hi.”  He finally said.

“Hi.”

The man behind her was shaking his fist in the air now and explaining the finer points of good customer service to a woman that was counting backwards from ten in her head.

“Are you crazy?”

Lynn blinked.

“What?”

“Are you crazy?  Like psycho, serial killer in hiding, just escaped from the psych ward, going to knock me off in my sleep and steal my wallet kind of crazy?”

Her mouth dropped open slightly, her brow furrowed as she attempted to find an answer.

“I figured I should at least ask.”

“I…” she tried to start, but Jack cut her off.

“Just listen a minute.”  He took a deep breath.  “I’m going to ask you a question, and I want an honest answer.  If I don’t get one, I’m walking out that door, forgetting you ever existed, and you can find some other poor schmuck to play your little game with.  Understand?”

Lynn nodded, seemingly stuck half way between offended and being about to cry.  He wasn’t sure which side of that line he’d rather she landed on.

“Why did you lie?”

“What are you talking about?  I never lied to you.”

“Not to me, to your family.  To your mother.”

“Oh.”  She looked down, shifted from one foot to the other.  It took a moment for her to continue. 

“When I was a little girl, my mother used to sit me on her bed and brush my hair.  She would tell me all these wonderful little stories, about how I’d meet some Prince Charming, fall in love.  Then would come this beautiful wedding with flowers and horses and my dress would be amazing.”  She looked up at Jack.  Her eyes, those blue-gray eyes, held a shimmer of teardrops trying not to fall.  “And then it never happened.  So then I told a little white lie.  I said he was handsome, that he was sweet.  My mother, she was so happy, you know?  So I told a couple more little lies.”

“They can really stack up, can’t they?”

Lynn gave a bitter laugh, rubbed at her eye, stopped before she messed up her makeup.

“Yeah, they can.  So they have a dream, a dream they think is real because I lied to them.  And it’s a dream they’re going to get, one way or another.  If I marry someone I meet, it’s all well and good.  If I don’t, they go hold a little circle of their little church friends, find some good-mannered bachelor, and expect me submit.  But I can’t do that.  So that’s your answer, I guess.  I lied because I was scared.  Because I was ashamed.  And I couldn’t stop.”

Jack let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding, turned, sat down hard on a plastic seat attached to five more empty ones just like it.  He looked at her, his expression blank, his eyes studying.  She shifted uncomfortably under his gaze and sat down across from him.  Down the row, an old woman with horn-rimmed glasses scowled at them.

She was telling the truth.  At least, he thought she was.  Some pain was hard to hide, especially when you’d seen it from the other side as well.  His mind wandered.  She had said something like that, once before.  Perhaps She’d seen through him from the beginning, had never believed him at all.  Why had She stayed then, for so long?  Why now, of all times?

It didn’t matter.  Not now.  Jack shook his head, focused on the woman in front of him.  Her scarf was green.

“You realize how crazy this all sounds?”

Lynn nodded.  She was sitting on her hands.

“Where is this wedding of yours located?”

She brightened up at that, daring to hope.  She was almost smiling.

“Kentucky.  About an hour south of Louisville.”

“And it’s your sister, right?”

“Right.”

“How big of an event are we talking here?”

“Not very.  Just a few family and friends on either side.”

He paused.  She blinked.

“Do you really think you can pull this off?  That we can pull this off?”

“I hope so.  I never told them much about the guy, so they don’t have too many expectations.”  She grinned.  “And you do kind of look like I said he would.”

“Tell me you used the word ‘rugged’.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.  Look, what if they start asking questions?  About us?”  That word was awkward.  “I had never laid eyes on you before last night – won’t it be hard to keep a straight story going?”

“Well, I just kind of figured we could work that out on the way.  The bus won’t get there until late tomorrow night.”

“Okay, just one last thing.”  He wasn’t sure why this was making him nervous, but it was.

“What?”

“I don’t have to have some funny name like ‘Hank’ or something, do I?”

Lynn laughed.

“Well, actually your name is John.”

Jack stood up, relieved.

“I can work with that.  Do you have your ticket?”

She fished around in her purse for a moment, then produced a small packet of papers.

“Let me see it,” he said, standing up and reaching for it.  She relinquished it, looking slightly puzzled.

“I was about to get one for you, but it the bus might be full.  That man in front of me was arguing since before I got here, trying to get on it.  We may have to wait for the next one.”

Jack grinned and winked at her, bringing even more confusion to her face.

“Wait here,” was all he said.  The southern gentleman was still at the ticket counter, fuming away.  Jack tapped him on the shoulder, making him jump slightly.

“What the devil do you want, son?”  His breath smelled like old cigars.

“You’re looking for a seat on an earlier bus, correct?  On the,” he glanced down at Lynn’s ticket, “405 line to Kentucky?”

“Yes sir.  Now if you’ll leave off, I’ll finish my arrangements, thank you.”

Jack tossed the ticket papers onto the counter.

“I believe a seat just opened up.  Mam.”  Jack nodded to the startled ticket agent.   “Enjoy your trip, sir.”  Leaving the old man slack jawed and confused, he grabbed Lynn’s suitcase and headed for the door.  She had to hurry to catch up with him.

“What’re you doing?”

“Changing the plan.”

The cold blasted them both as they left the station, choking off any further questioning for the moment.  The bums breathed deep as the warm air flooded out into the night.  Several proceeded to cough.  Others looked longingly at the door as it swung shut.

Fishing the car keys from his pocket, Jack tapped the unlock button on the attached keychain.  The sleek silver sedan beeped cheerfully and flashed its lights as they approached.

“Oh my god,” Lynn said, casting a sideways glace in his direction.  “You didn’t...”  She lowered her voice.  “You didn’t steal it, did you?”

Jack laughed as he swung the trunk open, settled her suitcase in next to his collection.

“Let’s just say it’s on loan for awhile.”  He grinned and slammed the trunk shut.  “You planning on standing out there and freezing, or are we going to get this show on the road?”

The bus was pulling into the parking lot, ambling its way up the line of cars.  Lynn stared at it as it passed, looked back at him, looked down at the Mercedes.

“Trust me.”  Jack winked at her across to top of the car, then climbed in.  She got in.

“Is there something you’re not telling me?”  She looked nervous, but excited none the less.  The leather seats were working their magic.

“Isn’t there always?”

The engine roared to life.

 
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24 January 2008 @ 11:19 pm
Jack: The Start of Chapter 6  
What the hell do you think you’re doing, Jack? The voice of Doubt was pacing circles in his mind.
 
I’m sitting in a car. It was a circular argument so far, the one in his head. Neither side was winning.
 
No, you’re waiting for Psycho Liar Woman when you should be doing a reasonable 75 miles per hour in the other direction. Arizona is nice this time of year.
 
Shut up. 
 
Glowing blue digits on the dashboard told him it was 5:32 PM. Fifteen minutes ago he had left Lisa in front of the same coffee shop they’d talked in. In the trunk now sat no less than four suits, five pressed shirts, three sweaters, half a dozen pairs of socks, two silk ties, and a t-shirt emblazoned with the name of some soft drink Jack had never heard of before. All of that was carefully folded and packed away into a set of fashionably matched, navy blue, soft top luggage. His bag was in there too, folded up and empty, its precious cargo unloaded and rearranged in such a fashion that he was certain he would never find most of it again. Jack had been mortified with the results. Lisa couldn’t stop smiling.
 
“You had it coming, you know.” Lisa had positively beamed as she paid for his new possessions. “You kind of looked like crap.”
 
“The term is ‘rugged’. And I like the way I look thank you.”
 
“Rugged like crap. Now be a good boy and carry this?” She had batted her eyes in a lost puppy-dog sort of way. Little sister had definitely learned some new tricks.
 
“Of course, Rachel.” That one earned him a rather satisfying glare.
 
“Can it, or we’re going back for the pajamas.” He’d relented.
 
5:33 PM. Time was in no hurry.
 
That’s because it’s trying to save your stupid ass too.
 
Shut up.
 
It was harder than he’d expected to leave Lisa behind again. She’d grown up so much – their sporadic letters and the occasional phone call could only tell so much of the story. She’d been right, of course, when she’d said that he’d never come back home for good. But maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, just to visit again for a time.
 
Like last time?
 
Last time was different. Mother was sick, dying.
 
Would it be so different now?
 
The voice was probably right. Where he and Lisa had a great relationship, his other sisters had never understood – and never forgiven – his leaving. His mother’s last few days had been a bitter, malignant experience. Some things in life change. Some don’t.
 
5:34 PM.
 
Lisa had smiled at him as she’d said goodbye. It was a rueful look, trusting yet sad. He’d hugged her, messed up her hair like he had done when they were kids. Then he got in Rachel’s shiny new car and drove away. He hadn’t looked back. Lisa had known he wouldn’t.
 
A pair of headlights blinded him as a car turned into the parking lot. A ridiculously small yellow car pulled up next to the bus terminal. After a moment, Lynn got out, wrangled a suitcase out of the back seat, waved to the driver. The miniature car drove away. He watched the woman look around. He knew who she was looking for. She wouldn’t be looking in random expensive cars for him though.
 
Having not found his figure in the small cluster of Japanese tourists or the line of half conscious homeless people, the first group being gathered as far away from the second as they could, she disappeared into the terminal.
 
Turn on the lights. Put the car in drive. Leave.
 
Jack didn’t respond. He was staring at nothing. His knuckles were white, his hands latched onto the steering wheel, holding on for dear life.
 
Come on, go! He could feel Doubt standing there, tensed up, pleading.
 
Yeah, go on, run away. The Cynic this time. Again.
 
It wouldn’t be running away. I never said I’d go in the first place. I told her I’d think on it.
 
Of course.
 
She is crazy, you know.
 
And you’re any different?
 
I wouldn’t go ask a stranger to pretend to marry me so I wouldn’t have to tell my mother the truth.
 
No, you just run away from responsibility and lie to the one you fall in love with. Way different.
 
The was a pause. The car clicked and hummed as the heater cycled on again.
 
She needs you. Another voice. Responsibility. He could recognized that one fairly well – he’d ignored it a lot over the years.
 
She doesn’t need me.
 
Bullshit. She didn’t have to say a word to you this morning. You saw it in her eyes. She. Needs. You.
 
Come on, go. Doubt again. Go, go, go!
 
Yeah, hurry up already. The Cynic was sneering at him.
 
Something snapped inside.
 
Shut up. All of you, shut the hell up.
 
Jack turned the key. The car shuddered as it turned off. He opened the door, stepped out into the frigid parking lot. The cold still burned. He began to walk. A bum looked up at him as he passed by, the old man’s eyes a mix of stupor and hope. Jack didn’t notice. He had some questions that needed answers. Answers that couldn’t wait.
 
 
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20 January 2008 @ 01:34 pm
Jack: Chapter 5  

Like every good, old fashioned, All American Small Towne, New London had grown out of a central point in a semi-organized, mostly confusing fashion.  This point, in proper Small Towne fashion, was a tidy little square of quaint little antique stores, law offices, and afternoon cafes.  In the middle was a tidy little park with a tidy little fountain and a statue of some long dead, yet remarkably tidy little person that had no doubt done any number of Great Things.  Once there had been a courthouse standing in the middle, but that had burned down in 1907, as a cheerful bronze plaque pointed out to Jack as he entered.  Next to the plaque was a sign announcing the local curfew of ten o’clock.  Jack ignored them both.

Church bells rang out.  Once.  Twice.  Twelve long, solitary sounds followed Jack to a frigid park bench.  A police car slowed down as it passed, stared pointedly at him as he settled in next to his bag.  Jack nodded.  The car moved on.

He’d gotten a ride into town from an electrician named Oswald.  He hadn’t been trying to hitch a ride.  There was too much running through his head, too many questions, no enough answers.  Oswald had spotted him walking down the road and had pulled over.  The truck was warm.  Tammy Wynette had been singing about a gold mine in Alaska from a battered cassette.  Jack didn’t say much, but Oswald didn’t seem to mind..  Jack thanked him when he got out, a block from the square.

Of his siblings, Jack was the oldest, and the only son.  Two years younger was Rachel.  One year down from her came Mary.  Two years after Mary, Lisa had come along.  Rachel and Mary had grown up to be prim and proper, true East Coast old money debutante beauties.  Lisa was different.  When her sisters were playing dress-up, Lisa was climbing trees and adopting baby birds, most of which were kidnapped from those same trees.  She’d been the favorite.  Rachel in particular despised that fact in much the same way she hated Jack’s seniority.  Maybe that was why Lisa was so fond of him.

Before he had disappeared the first time, Jack had told Lisa he was going.  He could still remember her giggling after he told her.  She had said it sounded like fun.    The two had left the rest of the family in the dark through the years, passing letters back and forth.  Lisa had sent him money from time to time, keeping his bank account well stocked, much to his chagrin.  He’d long since given up trying to send it back. She was the one that had told him about their mother’s condition.  After she had passed on, Lisa had returned to school in New Hampshire.  It had been two years since he’d last seen her.

The cold was getting to him.  He shivered, sat on his hands, watched his breath mist out in clouds.  The woman – Lynn, he corrected himself – Lynn and her bizarre offer troubled him.  Did she still have the ring?  And Her...  He wasn’t ready to think about that.  Not yet.  His mind was still avoiding the topic, locking it away beyond comprehension.  Maybe that was why he’d pulled Lynn back, listened to her request.

“You know, normal people go inside when it’s cold.”

Jack looked up.  She was dressed well, better than he’d expected.  Fitted leather jacket, pressed slacks, shiny boots with a low heel.  Her red hair had been cut short – it framed a pale face and dark brown eyes.  Her makeup was flawless.  His tomboy little sister had grown up.

“Well, let me know when it gets cold, and I’ll be happy to tell the normal people where they can go.”  Jack smiled, stood up.  “It’s good to see you, Lisa.”

“You too, Jack.”  She hugged him.  “Now can we go get your little girly and go?”

Jack winced.

“We need to talk.”

Her expression was puzzled, but patient.  Things with Jack were never simple.

“Fine, we talk, but first, heat.  Snowmen freeze to death in this weather.  Want some coffee?”  She turned and started walking without waiting for his reply, aimed for a small coffee shop on the corner of the square.  Jack grimaced, his lungs somehow managing to groan in protest at the thought of more coffee.  He grabbed his bag and followed.

*****

The warmth did indeed feel good.  They were seated at a tall table in the back of the shop, surrounded by the smell of dark hazelnut and vanilla mocha.  Lisa was sipping a tall concoction of more ingredients than Jack could name, the least of which being coffee.  He had passed on anything for himself.

The place was busy, but most of the seats were vacant, the clientele mostly ordering to go.  Jack watched them come and go, happily wandering off with their steaming foam cups plastered with warning labels and disclaimers.  Lisa was watching him.

“New car?” he asked, stalling for time.  He nodded to the shining Mercedes parked outside.

“It’s Rachel’s actually.  I took the train home this time.  She’s off in Aspen for the week with her latest knight in shining armor, so I borrowed it.”  She grinned mischievously.  “She hasn’t actually gotten to drive it yet.  Just arrived from the dealer the day before last.”

Jack laughed.  Rachel would be livid when she found out that Lisa had gotten to play with her new toy first.

“So...”  She was looking at him over her cup.  “Start talking.”

He didn’t know where to start, exactly.  So he reached into his coat instead, pulled out the rumpled newspaper clipping, carefully flattened it out, pushed it towards her.  He watched her eyes flow over the words, watched her expression change.

“Oh Jack, I’m so sorry.”  She stopped when he held up his hand.

“Don’t.  I don’t want to talk about that right now.”

“What’re you going to do then?”

He stared at the newspaper.  The picture, Her picture, was staring at him, upside down.  He put the clipping back into his coat pocket.

There wasn’t a good way to begin, so he started at the bus stop.  The words flowed out of their own accord, skipping carefully past most of his time in the motel.  He found himself telling her about Dolores, about breakfast, about seeing the woman again.  Minutes slipped by.  He recounted Lynn’s nervous chatter, then her proposal.  When he’d gone through it all, he looked up.  He wasn’t nervous exactly, but he wasn’t sure what to make of it all.  He was, however, certain of how crazy it must sound to someone else.  Even to Lisa.

She sipped her drink, looked at him, one eyebrow cocked.

“So are you coming back to the house first?  It’s a bit tight, but we could make it.”

“What?”

“You said her bus leaves at what, six?  You’re going to need a suit if you’re going to a wedding.  We kept all your stuff in your old room, you know.  If we dodge traffic, we should be able to get back in time.”  She finished off the last of her drink.  “Think that stuff still fits?  Maybe we should go shopping.”

Jack blinked.

“Hello?”  Lisa waved her hand in front of his thoroughly confused looking face.

“You want to take me shopping?  No, ‘The woman is a nutcase, Jack, let’s go home now’?”  He shook his head.  “I would have thought you’d at least call me crazy and offer a little bit of an argument.”

“Both of us have known you’re crazy for a long time, Jack.”

“Funny.”

“I’m serious.  You and I both know you were never coming home for good.  And now this?  There’s a better chance of Rachel becoming a nun than you coming home now.”

“You think I should do it?”

“Why not?  You’re a big boy.  You can take care of yourself.  And now with this and,” she paused, “Her, you’ve got nothing to hold you down.”

“But it’s crazy.”

“How is it different from the last eleven years?”

“But...”  He stopped.  He didn’t really have an answer.  All he’d really wanted was for her to tell him no, to tell him it was ridiculous.  Instead, she wanted to take him shopping for new clothes.  The foundations of his world were crumbling, one by one, sending him spinning out into nothing.

“So are you coming back to the house or not?”

“You’re serious?”

She gestured with her empty cup.

“What do you think?”

Jack didn’t reply, stared at nothing instead.  His mind was floundering in a sea of confusion.  He barely noticed as Lisa got up for a second round of mint and mocha libation.  What did he have to lose?  Other than Lisa, his family had given him up as a lost cause.  He no longer had Her waiting for him.  He had no real friends to speak of, only distant fading acquaintances that weren’t good for much more than a drink at the pub.  She was his world, and now that was gone.

“Jack?”  Brown eyes were staring at him.  It was almost like staring at his own in the mirror.  If he ignored the mascara and eyeliner anyway.  He saw concern in those eyes.  He saw hope and faith there too, things he was low on at the moment.  Her drink was sending little wisps of steam between them.

“Okay, I’ll do it.”  He’d said it.  The spinning of reality slowed a little, resolve began to harden somewhere deep down.  The words restarted gears that had slipped and failed the night before.  “Do you have your phone on you?”

“Of course, why?”

“You’re going to need to call a cab later.”  Jack grinned.  “After we go shopping.”

“I can drop you off, I don’t mind.”

“It’s not for me.”

“What?”

“I’m going to need to borrow the car.”

Lisa closed her eyes, let out a groan.

“Rachel is going to kill me.”

 
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06 January 2008 @ 05:11 am
The End of Chapter 4  

“Jack?”  The voice.  Her voice.  Whatever her name was.  He had hoped she’d left.  He even had a deliberate sigh of relief planned.  That’s what was supposed to happen.  Bell on the door jingles.  Jack looks at the door.  The woman isn’t there.  Jack breathes a sigh of relief.  It was a simple, solid plan.  Instead, she was behind him, saying his name and waiting for him to turn around.  Instead of sighing, Jack choked on his coffee.

“Oh my God, I’m sorry!”  The woman was beside him now, pounding on his back in a manner that was both absolutely useless and rather annoying.  “Just breathe.”

“That was…” Jack sputtered between a pair of particularly violent coughs.  “Plan A.”

His lungs felt like they had been drop kicked, then run over by a friendly eighteen wheeler who, upon seeing their delicate condition, carefully reversed back over them and repeated the process.  He could breathe again though.  The woman was staring at him with a worried expression.  Half the diner was looking in their direction, some wondering if he was alright, most taking notice of the pretty woman sitting next to the dying man.

“I’m fine,”  he said to no one in particular.  He rubbed at his face, wiping away the handful of tears that had leaked out during the ordeal.  “I’m good.”

“You sure?  Want me to get you some water or something?”  She had a sort of six year old innocence to her, eyes wide, brow furrowed.

He shook his head.  Couldn’t kill me with the coffee, thought Jack.  Now she’s trying to take me down with water.

“I’m real sorry about that.”

“I suppose you are.”

“And about last night.”

“Forget about it.”  He stared straight ahead, hands fixed tight on the coffee cup.  From the corner of his eye, he could see Dolores approaching, a coffee pot held ominously in front of her.

“More coffee?”  That’s what Jack and the woman heard.  What Dolores, who was now staring down the woman in the most customer friendly fashion possible, really said was:  “Want me to get rid of this shameless hussy?”

“Please.”  Jack held out his cup.  Dolores filled it.  If she’d been wearing glasses, she’d be looking down over them.  “Thank you.”

“Sure thing.”  She left.

For a moment, neither of them said anything.  Jack sipped carefully from his cup.  He could feel her watching him.  He wasn’t afraid to look at her, of course.  It’s just that pile of assorted salt shakers sitting across from him was quite fascinating.

“So...”  She sounded about as uncomfortable as he felt.  “Are you from around here?”

“Nope.”

“How long are you in town?”

Jack glanced up at the clock hanging by the register.  “About another hour.”

“Where’re you headed?”

“Dunno.”

“You don’t know?”

“Nope.”

“How can you not know?”

“Hadn’t thought about it.”

She grew quiet.  The diner filled in the silence for them.  Somewhere behind him, someone was explaining the best truck stops in the state to find cheap intimate company and the specialties each one offered.  Jack felt his cheeks growing warm.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t remember your name.”  He still couldn’t look at her.

“That’s okay, I didn’t get a chance to tell you.  I’m Lynn.”

Lynn.  He rolled the name around in his head.

“I’d like to say it’s nice to meet you, Lynn, but I’m afraid this isn’t a great time in my life at the moment.”  It came out harsher than he’d meant it to.  He glanced at her.  She was staring at her lap.  His voice softened.  “For what it’s worth though, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.  Jack?  I...”  She stopped.  Her hands were fidgeting with the ketchup bottle.  Her fingernails were painted purple.

“What?”

“I have a favor to ask of you.  I mean, you said you didn’t know where you were going and all and I wouldn’t ask, but I don’t have many options here.”  The words fell out in a rush.  “And I could try and pay you a little.”

Jack blinked, surprised.  The ketchup bottle tapped out a little pattern on the counter.  He looked at her.

“Listen, I don’t know who that woman was that gave you the envelope or what she told you about me, but I only did that sort of thing once, and a significant portion of alcohol was involved.  Ok?”

Lynn’s eyes grew wide.  It was her turn to blush.

“Oh no, nothing like that.  I think.  What did you think I meant?”

Jack coughed and stared intently at his hand.

“Nevermind.  What’s the favor?”

“I...”  She was biting her lip.  “Look, forget about it.  I had no right to ask you anyway, and I’m sorry I made you choke.  I’ll leave you alone now.”  She got up to leave, but Jack grabbed her arm, gently pulling her back down.

He looked at her.  Not in the simple pointing his eyes in her direction sort of look, but really looked at her for the first time.  Her hair was a bit of a mess, like she’d been running her hands through it a lot.  She was wearing makeup, but it couldn’t hide the remains of a sleepless night.  Those blue gray eyes were watching him, unsure.  They were so much like Her eyes.  He wanted to turn away, to let her go, but he didn’t.  She was worried, scared, hurt.

“What favor?”

Her eyes closed, and she took a deep breath.  “I need you to be my fiancé.”  She opened her eyes again.

Jack hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until it all burst out.  He was laughing.  It had been a long time since he’d laughed -  it took a moment for his brain to get used to it.  His wounded lungs were protesting, but he couldn’t help himself. 

“I’m serious.”  Lynn had lost all signs of being nervous.  “What’s so damned funny?”

Jack couldn’t look at her without another burst of laughter bubbling up from inside.  Tears began to stream down his face.

“Fine!  Forget it.”  She tried to get up, but he pulled her back down again.

“Wait.”  He breathed deep, willing himself back to calm.  “Exactly why do you need this?”

Jack could tell she was ticked now.  He could see the little wheels turning in her head, deciding whether to bother with continuing or not.  It wasn’t his fault he’d laughed.  Sometimes his life was just too damn funny not to.

“Look, I’m sorry.  It’s not every day I get a marriage proposition with breakfast you know.”  He grinned.  “Usually they hold out until at least until lunch.”

Lynn rolled her eyes, but at least she looked less likely to stab him with his fork.

“Want a cup of coffee or something?”  Jack asked, trying his best to be friendly.

“No thanks, I won’t touch the stuff.  It’s nasty.”

“Cheers to that.”  He took a drink of his.  “So you were about to explain why you wanted me to marry you.”

“I don’t want to marry you.  I just want you to be my fiancé for a few days.”  She looked down.  “It’s hard to explain, but my family thinks I’m something I’m not, and I’m not ready for them to know the truth.  It’s complicated.”

Well ain’t that bloody familiar, thought Jack.  He waited for her to go on.

“My sister is getting married in a few days.  I made her a promise I’d be there.  I kind of made a promise I’d have my fiancé along too.”

“So where is he?”

“He doesn’t exist.”

“Right.”

“I mean, he kind of exists.  Or rather, I told my family that he did.”

“So tell them he had a family emergency.  Problem solved.”

“Well, the kind of have to meet him.”

“Have to?”  He’d managed dozens of strange family situations in the past, but he had no idea where this was going.

“Have to.  I’ve spent three years avoiding it, and they’re starting to question if he exists.  I’m running out of time.”

“Time for what?”

“Until I’m supposed to get married.”

“To the imaginary fiancé?”

“Not exactly.  If I’m not married soon, my family is going to try and make me marry someone else.  I’m pretty sure they have him picked out.”

“Make you marry someone else?  How can they do that?  Tell them no.”

“I can’t do that.  It’s hard to explain – it’s half religion, half tradition, and half trying not to be shunned by the entire family.  My parents would be so ashamed of me.  It would kill them.”  Lynn looked up, her eyes begging for understanding.  “Like I said, it’s complicated.”

“That’s not complicated. Crossword puzzles are complicated.  The engine of a ’69 Pontiac GTO is complicated.  That is screwed up.”

“Look, I’m not asking you to understand it all, I’m just asking you to play along for a couple days.  I’ll pay you if you want.”  He could tell she was worried about this part.  “I can give you a hundred now and more after the wedding’s done.”

A hundred dollars.  He could barely keep the excitement away.  Apparently he was doing a good job at it though – all she could see was doubt.

“I know it’s not a lot, but it’s what I’ve got, okay?  I’ll get you a bus ticket and you’ll get free food and stuff like that.  You’re about my brother’s size, so you can borrow a suit off him.”  She stopped and looked at him.  Jack shifted uncomfortably.  He could tell she was on the verge of tears.  “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

“Absolutely.”  Jack smiled and reached over, patting her arm.  “And from the sound of it, it’s a family legacy.”

“That’s not funny.”  She tried to sound stern, but he could see a smile trying to hide.  His own faded.

“I don’t understand all of this, and I’m not sure I want to.”  He held her gaze.  “I don’t know, Lynn.  I need to think about it.”

He might as well have slapped her.  Her shoulders slumped, her eyes fell. 

“I understand.”  Her voice was quiet.  It trembled.  If hope were a person, it had just been taken out in a drive by shooting.

Way to be an ass, a voice in the back of his head said.

Shut up, he told the voice.

“Hey now, I didn’t say no.”  She looked up at him dejectedly.  He would have bet his last dollar she’d heard that before – some scars were hard to hide.  “When do you have to leave?”

“My bus leaves at six.”

Jack glanced up at the clock.  He was supposed to meet Lisa a little after noon.  He had some time.

A car blasted its horn from the parking lot, two short bursts invading the diner’s peaceful little world.  Dolores was scowling at the car from behind the counter.  If it kept up, Jack was fairly certain she would be showing the driver what else a coffee pot could be used for.

Lynn looked out the window.  Her eyes widened as she checked her watch.

“That’s my friend Melissa.  I’m supposed to go spend the day with her.”  She looked back to Jack, on the border of hope and despair.  “Please?”

“Six o’clock.”  He couldn’t really believe he was considering this. “I need some time.  If I decide to come, I’ll meet you there.  I can’t promise you anything though.”

The car horn blasted again.  Lynn scrambled to grab her purse.  She stood and looked at him once more.

“Goodbye, Jack.”

“Bye.”

She turned and hurried out the door.  Jack and Dolores both watched her climb into a small yellow car, the two door kind that was meant to be sporty, but ended up looking like it had met the wrong side of a trash compactor.  Jack sighed.  Dolores scowled. 

Why me?  the voice asked.

Indeed.

Jack looked down at his plate.  There was food left, but he wasn’t hungry any more.  A knot was forming in his stomach that had nothing to do with steak and eggs.  He looked out the window again.  The car was gone.

The day was moving on.  Lisa would be waiting for him soon.  He drained the last of his coffee, stood up, grabbed the check and his bag.  Dolores smiled at him when he made it to the register.

“That girl a friend of yours?” she asked as he dug out his wallet.

Jack shook his head.

“I have no idea.”  He handed her a crumpled hundred dollar bill, which she took with surprise.

“We don’t usually make change for something this big, hun.”

“Please?”

“Don’t tell anyone.”  She smiled and winked at him, then turned around to punch numbers into the register.  The drawer chimed happily as it popped open.

The old waitress didn’t even notice the bell on the door ring as Jack left.  She was still counting out his change.

 

-------------------
On a side note, this story has now grown longer than Crystal Daydreams was.  And I kind of know where it's going next (scary, I know).
 
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13 December 2007 @ 10:12 pm
In which Jack gets breakfast.  
The interior matched the reputation promised by the pig. Garishly country decorations lined the walls – pictures of tractors, little tin signs, fake flowers. The place was smaller than it had looked from the street. A worn counter stretched from one end of the joint to the other, lined with little duct-taped stools, silent watchmen of the breakfast army. Jack had a good view of the kitchen beyond the counter. The cook was singing to himself, food was sizzling on a griddle. Dishes clattered somewhere he couldn’t see.

A scattered collection of tables were tucked under the windows across from the counter, faded like the counter. One was broken. People were scattered about as well, mostly men, a few women. A good number looked to be truckers, but a few looked too clean for that line of work. They all ignored him as he came in. He ignored them right back.

“Sit wherever you like, hun,” an older woman called to him. Armed with a coffee pot in one hand and a tray of food in the other, she danced her way past him. “Smoking on the left, not smoking on the right.” It was like a scene out of a movie, small town stereotypes all around. Jack smiled. It smelled good.

He took a seat at the far left end of the counter, propped his bag against the stool next to him. He hadn’t smoked in years, but he still liked the smell. It was soothing. Soothing was good.

“Coffee?” Jack hadn’t noticed the woman come up behind him. He nodded, flipped over a stoneware mug sitting on a saucer in front of him. The liquid she poured was black as coal, and it was steaming.

“Thanks.” He wrapped his hands around the mug, letting the warmth seep into him.

“My name’s Dolores. What can I get ya?”

“Steak and eggs. Over easy. Grits if you’ve got ‘em, hash browns if you don’t.” His stomach rumbled at the thought. There wasn’t a truck stop diner on the planet that didn’t serve all that, in one form or another. He grinned. “And if you’ll give me a couple minutes, another cup of coffee.”

The waitress laughed.

“Sure thing.” She patted his shoulder and wandered off towards the kitchen.

The coffee burned his mouth, but he sipped at it anyway. It was a harsh, bitter taste. He felt it drain down his throat, followed it down as it leaked into his stomach and pooled, a knot of heat twisting in his abdomen. Some things would never change. Cheap coffee was one of those.

His eyelids drooped. Steam rising up from the mug tickled his chin. His hand stung where the hot mug touched the torn skin from last night, but he ignored the pain. The smell of cheap cigarettes and frying bacon swirled around him, lulling him into a state of dulled awareness. He let his mind empty, let the dull hum of half a dozen conversations wash over him. If he didn’t think, he wouldn’t remember. If he didn’t remember, it wouldn’t hurt.

The plate being set down in front of him pulled him back to reality. He glanced down into his coffee up. It was empty.

“Lemme get that for ya, dear.” She held out the coffee pot. He raised his mug. She poured.

The waitress said something to him, but he didn’t hear her. He didn’t notice when she walked away. Across the diner sat a woman, alone at a table by the window. Her hair was blonde. She was staring at him.

Jack’s head snapped down, staring at the plate, trying to pretend the woman wasn’t there. It was too late though. A dozen different emotions flooded his body. Fragments of the past evening slammed their way into his thoughts. He fought them, tried to push them out, but they refused to stop, relentless.

He was holding a fork now. He stabbed an egg. The yolk spilled out of its confinement, trickled down, pooled in the valley between his steak and the little dish filled with grits. Eat Jack, his mind told him. Ignore her. Eat. She doesn’t matter.

The steak was overcooked, but it tasted good anyway. Slowly, methodically, Jack began to clear the plate. Cut the steak. Take a drink of coffee. Douse the eggs with ketchup. Step by step, letting routine take over, his mind began to clear like the water in a pond after the rain. More ketchup. His coffee cup was empty again.

He risked a glance down the counter, trying to find Dolores but keep the woman out of his sight. Luck was with him – the waitress was by the cash register, talking over her shoulder to the cook. She smiled at a fat, balding man in a stained denim jacket, handed him his change, rolled her eyes at his back as he left. She glanced towards Jack. He raised his mug. She nodded.

“You alright, dear?” The waitress was filling his cup again.

“Couldn’t be better,” he lied, forcing a smile.

“Mmmhmm.” She looked at him with one of those strange grandmotherly looks that come with a few wrinkles and gray hair and patted his shoulder. “I’ll leave the check with you. No hurry. Let me know if there’s anything else I can get you.”

It was good to hear a bit of friendly concern in the old woman’s voice, though he wished he’d been able to hide his emotions better. The woman in the corner had unsettled him. Unwanted, she floated into his thoughts. Standing out in the cold, breath misting, eyes sad as she’d stared at him. Before he could stop himself, he looked at where she was sitting. She wasn’t staring at him anymore. Instead she was gathering up her coat and purse. Jack looked back at what remained of his food, took a long swig of coffee, focused on its bitterness. He was relieved that she was leaving. With any luck, he’d never have to see her again.
 
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07 December 2007 @ 05:13 am
The Start of Chapter 4  
Jack surveyed the room, looking for anything he’d missed. He’d decided to leave the mess, but that left dozens of little hiding places where things could disappear. Most everything he truly owned at the moment was stuffed into the faded green duffle bag he was holding. It was never good to forget something. It usually ended up being something important.

A small scrap of paper caught his eye, crumpled up by the trash can nearest the door. He bent down, picked it up, stared at her picture staring back at him. The lines in the paper made her look as though she’d had wrinkles.

Someone banged on the door. “Housekeeping!”

“Shit,” Jack muttered. After folding the newspaper scrap and shoving it into the inner pocket of his jacket, he opened the door a crack. The morning sun made him blink. Dark brown eyes peered back at him through puffs of mist as the woman breathed.

“Checkout at ten. You must go now.” She was easier to understand that the one on the phone earlier. The woman seemed annoyed though, finding him still there. Her name tag read Emily.

“I’ve decided to stay another day. I don’t need the sheets changed.” His words were crisp. “Thank you.”

Jack shut the door, made a point of locking it as loud as he could. Then he stared through the peephole. The woman glared at the door, then grudgingly shuffled away, pushing her cart of supplies towards the next stop. He could hear her assault the next hapless door, calling out her less than friendly battle cry. This stop proved to be more appealing. The door squealed as she opened it. Jack counted to five, then quietly unlocked the door and went out, closing it softly behind him.

The motel had been the closest one to the bus stop last night. It wasn’t much to look at really, just a long building with a few dozen doors hiding underneath a patchwork roof. His room had been in the back corner. It made dodging one cheerful looking Emily on his way to the office much easier. At least something was going his way.

The sun was staring him down from a crystal blue sky. Not a cloud in sight. The cold was seeping through his coat, caressing him in places it had no right to be. Jack suppressed a shiver as he pushed open the door to the motel office.

An old woman squinted at him from behind a reinforced glass window. Her hair was gray. Jack put on his best smile.

“Good morning! I’m here to check out. Room 31.”

“You late. Ten dolla fee.” She didn’t look thrilled. Her voice was muffled by the glass, but she didn’t sound too thrilled either. Maybe it was something in the coffee that made the whole clan cheerful in the morning. The smell of it filled the room. He couldn’t blame them. “You have key?”

“Right here!” He pushed the key and its obnoxiously large key ring toward the little dip in the counter the slipped under the window, still smiling. “And I’ll have you know I was right on time leaving my room, but I happened across your lovely employee... Emily was it?” He stopped to look pensive. “Yes, Emily! I’m not from around here, and she was quite helpful in giving me some directions.”

The woman squinted harder at him. Jack smiled.

“Stupid girl,” she muttered, then counted out his security deposit return - twenty dollars in rumpled ones and fives. She pushed the money back under the window. “Next time, no be late.”

“And a lovely morning to you, my good woman.” He bowed slightly and attempted to make a flourish with his jacket. She somehow managed to squint harder at him, not amused. Her left eyelid made a funny little twitching motion. Jack decided it was time to face the cold again. He left. The door squealed in protest as he shut it.

A four lane road ran in front of the motel. Cars and trucks, frosted and defrosted, were pulsing back and forth along it, following the whim of the traffic lights and puffing their little clouds of exhaust. East took them out to the highway, west put them deeper into town. New London it was called, though the rural little town gave little justice to its English namesake. Jack had chosen to have her meet him there because it was a small, gentle place. From here he would have taken into his world. That one was not small, and rarely gentle.

An old friend had dropped him off last night at the bus stop. They’d played football together in high school. Jack had bought him a couple rounds at the pub last night, made up a story about why he had to get here. It worked. His youngest sister Lisa was supposed to be coming at two to pick him up. She was supposed to pick both of them up.

It was a simple plan. Meet her when she came off the bus. Take her into his arms again, after so long. Kiss her. They would stay in a nice little hotel. Make love, like before. In the morning, he would explain everything. Everything he hadn’t told her before, in his letters. It would give her time to take it in before he brought her home. But then the plan had gone wrong. It had frozen solid in the cold and shattered into a thousand pieces that crackled as the bus ran over them on its way out of town again.

Jack crossed the road, headed east. He picked his way along a broken sidewalk past an empty lot. Frost still covered the trash scattered about, making it sparkle in the sunlight. His ears went numb.

By the time he made it to the truck stop, his cheeks were red and his nose was running. He could hear the dull thunder of a dozen diesel engines idling in the gravel lot behind the fueling station. The smell of fuel and exhaust filled the air. To the side of the fueling station sat a small diner, painted a country blue. A statue of a pig sat next to the store, smiling at Jack as he approached. It was waving at him too, holding a fork. A sign hung over the entrance. Maud’s Diner.

“Sounds British,” Jack thought. He went inside.
 
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18 November 2007 @ 12:00 pm
JK Conference #4: In which Jack takes a shower.  
The room was a mess. At the moment, so was Jack. He stared at the bed, longing to lie down and rest some more. It would be there waiting for him though, beyond the veil of sleep, the dream that had haunted him all night. He’d lost count. How many times had he seen her, watched her leave, fallen into the hunger of the nothing? How many times had he been ripped from sleep to find himself trembling or screaming? The pillow was stained from tears he refused to admit were his.

He shuffled into the bathroom. The shower groaned as he pulled on the tap, the old showerhead holding its breath while the pressure built up in pipes that had seen their glory days several decades ago. A shower of murky water burst forth, cascaded down the wall, swirled back to the depths from which it had come. Jack watched it, taking comfort in the old familiar sound.

The water turned clear. Jack climbed in. The water burned, but he didn’t bother adjusting the temperature. Instead, he let the steam and the pain wash over him, chasing away the alcoholic haze left over from the whiskey. He smirked. One pain chasing another that had chased another. It was going to be a wonderful day.

The dream had been all wrong. He closed his eyes, breathed the hot, steamy air. His mind drifted backwards of its own accord, as though trying to set the record straight.

…

She was wearing a black skirt and a blue sweater. It was a silvery blue, and it matched her eyes. It was soft, like her skin. She’d teased him all night about feeling up the sweater more than her. Each time he’d laughed and made a point of doing both at the same time. When he’d done that on the ride home, waiting for a stoplight to change, an old man in a dark sedan had pulled up next to them. The man had glanced over, smirked, and given them a wink before pulling away. She hit him for that one, turning a lovely shade of red, but she was laughing through it all.

Her laugh was beautiful.

She stopped laughing later that night. The apartment she lived in was cold when they’d gotten back, the November air creeping in. A cheerful fire in the old brick hearth and a couple glasses of wine later, the cold was gone. So were their clothes.

Jack rolled over, propping himself up on an elbow and watching her. She was radiant, from the fire, from within. The dark brown carpet only made her seem that much more stunning, a light in the dark. She smiled up at him, content. He smiled back.

He ran his hand along the outline of her face, traced the curve of her lips with a finger. His smile faded.

“What is it baby?” Her voice was worried. She was studying him, watching his face with those beautiful blue gray eyes.

He was a coward. He’d known for almost a week, but couldn’t find the words to tell her. So he’d done everything else instead. Brought her flowers, taken her dancing, made love to her. He’d come down to the office where she worked twice that week, taken her out to lunch, the perfect gentleman. She’d been surprised at first, but she always loved to be doted on. He was proud of himself, for that. He’d always treated her right. She deserved it all. And more.

She deserved the truth.

“There’s something you need to know.” His mind told him to stop, to play it off with a joke. His heart pushed him forward. He couldn’t hide it anymore. “I’m from New York.”

She looked at him, one eyebrow raised.

“I already knew that, love. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I…” he started. So many thoughts were running through his head. “I have to go back.”

“What? Why?”

“It’s my mother. She’s dying.” He could see in her eyes the confusion. Could see the little droplet of worry, of questioning. The one that would soon turn into hurt. It would be his fault, all his fault.

“But you said you didn’t know where your mother was. How do you know?”

“I haven’t told you everything, and some of what I’ve told you isn’t exactly…” He paused. “True.” There it was, the turning point. Her eyes spoke to him, asking questions he was afraid to hear. She was waiting for him to go on.

“I was never adopted. I never grew up on a farm. I have two sisters, both younger.” The words were falling out. They’d been locked up for seven years, sworn to silence when he’d crossed the Appalachians and come west. “I ran away.”

“Why?” It was a simple question she asked. The answer wasn’t easy.

“I was young. My family wanted me to be something I’m not. I had to get out.”

“I don’t understand.” Her eyes were watering. The tears would come soon. She had always been like that, quick to soar in joy, quick to fall and hurt. He hadn’t really lied to her, not much. He just hadn’t told her the truth.

“My family, well, we’re rich. Generations back, my grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather or some such like that got involved with shipping spices from Europe over to the early colonies. He got rich off of it, and it’s grown ever since.”

“Why would you run away from that?”

“You don’t understand – I’m the only son my father had, and the firstborn as well. I was supposed to take over the estate when he died. Ever since I was a kid, that was they told me, what the taught me. I was being made into the perfect imitation of my father. It never mattered what I wanted.” He couldn’t stand watching her tears, so he looked at the fire instead. It was burning low now.

“My father died on my eighteenth birthday. Heart attack. I was supposed to go off to Yale in the fall. I almost did, too. They had me convinced that it was for the best. For the family, they said. Everything was all about the family.”

He’d been gripping at the carpet, had pulled up tufts of it without thinking. He let go and stared at his hand. It was his left hand. There was so much more, so many things to tell her, so much he was afraid she wouldn’t understand.

“I have to go back,” he said. The words weren’t any easier the second time. She was sitting now, her back against the couch, her hands in her lap. Her cheeks were still wet, but she wasn’t crying anymore, just listening.

“When will you be back?” Her question surprised him. No emotional outburst, words of hate, accusations of deceit. Just trust. He could hear it in her voice.

“I don’t know.”

“Can I come?”

“No.” The word was heavy. She winced at it, but didn’t look away. Didn’t ask why. “Do you hate me?”

“No.” It was her turn to say it. She smiled, a sad smile with tears slowly forming again. She was so beautiful, sitting there. His heart swelled. “I love you Jack O’Brian. I don’t understand this. I don’t know why you didn’t tell me. I should be made at you, but I’m not. Everything inside wants to run and hide, but I can’t. Just promise me you’re mine.”

She was crying. Her tears sparkled in the firelight. He didn’t respond, just looked at her. The fire turned her naked body a beautiful rose color, but it was her eyes that made his heart stop. Blue gray eyes filled with confusion and trust, hurt and love.

There was a small black box in the pocket of his coat. The coat lay nearby, tossed to the ground ages ago. He leaned over, pulled it out.

“I swear it.”

…

The water had turned cold. He hadn’t noticed. He was shaking, tears hiding in the falling water.

She’d cried when he’d given her the ring. He had told her he’d call for her when things got settled. He’d make her dreams come true then. She promised to wait, promised to come. He was hers, she was his. She was supposed to be there.

Jack turned the water off.

-----
Damn you Jack, damn you!
 
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15 November 2007 @ 04:27 pm
JK Conference #3  
The alarm clock woke up first. It was on the ground again. That didn’t stop it from blasting its digital, less-than-cheerful song over and over, begging for attention. The right hand of Jack made its way out from under the twisted bed sheets, blindly searching the nightstand for the off button on the clock that wasn’t there. He settled for yanking on the power cord instead. The clock shut up.

A single beam of dawn-flavored sunlight poked its way through the curtains, spotlighting the pillow beneath which Jack’s head was hiding. He groaned. Sleep had been scattered and troubled. His left hand throbbed, somehow still wrapped in the towel. The hangover wasn’t helping either.

He could just stay there, forget about today, roll over and wait for tomorrow. The committee of internal affairs that somehow represented several body parts seemed to be in favor of this option. None of them wanted to move. Most of them hurt.

The phone rang.

“Fuck off.” His words were muffled by the pillow. The phone ignored his profanity and rang again. And again. One minute and several curses later, Jack threw the pillow in the general direction of the phone. It missed, knocked over the trash can instead. The phone kept ringing.

The disconcerted voices of the committee grumbled as Jack sat up, threw off the covers, lurched towards offending noise. The phone happily sat on a desk on the other side of the room. The desk was the cheap, not quite wood, but not quite plastic kind that was bolted to the floor. Jack wasn’t quite sure how he made it across the room, but his hand was grabbing the phone, lifting it to his ear.

“Good morning, Mr. O’Brian.” The voice was older, female, and slightly Asian. “This your wake up call. Checkout at ten. No be late.”

There was a click, and the line went dead. He put down the receiver. He wasn’t sure why he’d set the alarm the night before. Habit perhaps. There was nothing he wanted to do today, nobody he needed to see. She wasn’t here, so it didn’t really matter anymore.

He looked around the room. The broken glass sparkled in the sunlight, made strange reflections on the wall. The king sized bed was a mess, sheets tangled up, thrown into a corner. His hand had bled some during the night. Dull red stains wandered across the sheets, dripped onto the pillow. There was even a streak or two on the wall. Good thing he paid in cash.

Jack stared at his hand. The towel was stained red, but seemed dry. He removed it slowly, wincing as it pulled at the skin beneath. The cut was smaller than he’d remembered, and had begun to scab over in the night. The flesh around it was swollen and tender. At least it wasn’t bleeding anymore.

-------
Shorter, and the scene isn't quite done, but I've got an idea of where he's going for a little while.
 
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11 November 2007 @ 11:03 pm
JK Conference #2  
She was smiling. The sun was shining – it made her radiant. It always made her so beautiful. Her blue gray eyes were watching him. Jack smiled back.

“Where are you going Jack?” She wasn’t smiling anymore. Her eyes were sad now.

“Couldn’t tell ya.” The words were familiar, but they tasted strange. He didn’t know why.

“When will you be back?” Concern. Worry. Her eyes said things her lips refused to.

“I wish I knew, baby.”

Her hand reached out, took his, pulled him closer. He felt his arms wrap themselves around her.

“I don’t want you to go.” Her words were muffled by his shirt. He could feel her warm breath, the flutter of her heart. He didn’t respond, just held her against him.

Seconds passed. Minutes. The scent of her was intoxicating. He wanted to cry.

“I have to go.” Her words, not his this time.

“What?” He was confused. Then she was pulling away from him. She was moving to the door. Somehow they weren’t outside anymore. It didn’t make sense.

“I’ll be there, when you come back. Where ever, whenever. I’ll be there. I promise.”

She was at the door now. Blue gray eyes watched him, sad. She was smiling again.

“I love you.”

“Don’t go.” He tried to run for the door, tried to reach for her. His legs felt like stone. He took a step. She turned, left, closed the door. He took another step.

“Come back!” He was screaming. Calling her name. Crying. Sobbing.

Jack looked around, squinting through the tears. The walls, the walls covered with green, hideous wallpaper that was forty years old, began to fade. It was his apartment, the one he lived in when he’d first met her. It was like the sun was setting. Things were growing black. He had to catch up to her. Another step.

The walls were gone. Darkness pressed around him, circling him. It waited. Watched. He could still see the door. Her words echoed in his mind.

Step.

The door was close. He reached for the doorknob, strained his arm, fought to take that last step closer. He was almost there. She would be there. He just had to get to the door.

Step.

His fingers touched cold metal. The darkness was coming closer. Inching forward. Teasing him. The cold seemed to burn, stabbing through his hand, filling his mind with streaks of pain. He could feel it, felt the urge to scream. Instead he turned the knob, shoved. He watched the door shatter. Felt a thousand shards of metal and wood stab him. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t there. There was nothing. The darkness smiled. Jack fell.

…

Maybe it was his own scream that woke him. Maybe not. He couldn’t think straight. He heard the scream, his mind told it to shut up. So it did.

He fumbled in the darkness, blindly grasping at where he thought the lamp should be. His hand felt wet. So did his eyes.

The light came on when he found it, pulled the chain. Jack stared at his left hand. A shard of glass was stuck into the middle of his palm. It was bleeding. He didn’t know why.

A bottle of whiskey lay on its side on the nightstand. It was mostly empty. Next to it was scattered the remains of a scotch glass, some of the pieces stained with blood. His blood. His hand throbbed. It throbbed even more as he pulled out the piece of glass. Blood dripped onto the sheets, the twisted, tangled mass already soaked with sweat.

“Fuck.” His head hurt, throbbing to match the hand. The clock that had been on the nightstand was on the floor now. Glowing red letters cheerfully told him it was eight minutes past fucking early in the morning. It was still dark outside.

The heater squealed to life in the corner, groaning in its little hole under the window. The hotel room had been cheap. At least the damn thing worked.

Jack shivered as he made his way to the sink, swore as the water rushed over his hand. The pink water swirled away. Blue gray eyes stared at him from the mirror when he looked up. He blinked, and they were brown again. The light was hurting his eyes.

With his hand wrapped in the hotel’s best worthless towel, Jack sat down on the bed, careful not to step in the broken glass that had fallen to the floor. He picked up the clock, set it back on the nightstand, stared at the bottle next to it. The last swig of whiskey burned as he gulped it down. He coughed, sputtering. Dropped the bottle onto the floor. Turned off the light.

The sheets were cold. And damp. So was the pillow. Dawn was still a long, long way away.
 
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08 November 2007 @ 03:50 pm
JK Conference #1  
The cold burned. Shivering, Jack shoved his hands as deep as they would go into the pockets of his jeans. The wind sighed softly, deftly dancing around two trash cans and half a brick wall to brush up against his face. He was, for the most part, alone in the bus station parking lot. Two old men huddled next to each other at one end of the lot, nestled into a pile of packing crates and newspaper. The now empty bottle sitting next to them kept the cold at bay and their minds even farther away. On the other side a single car sat puffing smoke and purring softly into the darkness. And then there was Jack, pacing back and forth on the sidewalk. Waiting. Hoping. Scared.

The shifting shadows and the half hearted Christmas decorations made it seem almost surreal, standing out there in the freezing night. Four years had come and gone since last he’d seen her. Four years of sporadic letters of tense words of longing and regret. He glanced at the clock. 12:42. Three minutes.

Somewhere in the night a dog barked. Three minutes came. Then another three. And another. Church bells in the distance began to toll out their sad song as the hour peaked. Jack shivered. The butterflies in his stomach had come together and frozen, becoming a leaden knot that refused to leave.

Lights. He stopped pacing, rooted to the spot as he watched the bus lumber its way up the street. Breathing the cold air hurt, so he stopped. The bus slowed, turned into the parking lot, rolled to a stop. Jack felt his body move, watched the door open. His actions were automatic. Social autopilot engaged, he nodded slightly to the bus driver. The driver cursed as a compartment door refused to open, but Jack was no longer listening.

Time stopped. Standing alone in the pool of light coming from the open door, he searched each face as it descended out of the light. A tall black man in a trench coat. A sad looking Asian woman. Two small children and their mother, who looked as if she hadn’t slept in days. An elderly man with snow white hair and a briefcase who went directly to the waiting car where another, equally white haired man was now waiting. None of them mattered. None of them was a short, brown haired girl with blue gray eyes and a mouth that was never far from a smile.

She said she would come. Her letter promised it. A young man patiently helped an old woman down the stairs and into a wheelchair the bus driver had pulled from the belly of the behemoth. The shadowy line of figures painted on the windows of the bus was growing small. He could almost smell her perfume. She was in there, he knew it.

She’d laughed when he’d left, smiling with tears in her eyes as she made her promise to come meet him when he came back. He hadn’t known where he’d be going or how long he’d be gone, but she’d promised.

Two men in suits with matching ties came down, ignoring the cold and making plans to find a drink nearby. A young kid was next, looking all of sixteen years with a heavy backpack and a nervous grin. Jack still couldn’t see her, but in his mind, he already felt her touch.

She’d been wearing a sundress, that day he’d left. She’d gotten all dolled up, just the way he liked. Said she wanted his last look at her to be perfect. That way he’d have to come back. He’d never forgotten the sad look in her eyes as the bus had rolled away. The sunlight had made her so beautiful that day.

A young woman was getting off now. Her blonde hair stuck out at odd angles from beneath a woolen cap nearly pulled down past her eyes. She looked at him from the last step. Blue gray eyes like hers, but still, she wasn’t the one.

The woman stepped off the bus, still watching him.

“Are you Jack?”

“What?” he asked, not really realizing that she was addressing him in particular.

“Is your name Jack?”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

Those blue gray eyes softened. She was uncomfortable, he could tell. Something was wrong.

“What?”

The girl put down the bag she was carrying. Opened a zippered pocket. Took out an envelope. Held it out to him, her eyes apologetic.

Jack took it. There were no more people on the bus. She had promised. The envelope felt like lead in his hands. He couldn’t feel the cold any more.

“A woman gave that to me, asked me to give it to you when I got here. She said you’d be here waiting.”

He stared at the blue gray eyes, hearing the words, but not processing them. The eyes knew what was in the envelope. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

Paper ripped. The envelope opened. He wasn’t moving, but he could feel himself pulling a piece of paper out. The edges were torn, a short column torn from a newspaper. Her name was on it. So was her picture. She was smiling.

The envelope fell from his hands. He and the woman watched it fall. Watched it hit the ground. Heard the tiny metallic clatter as something fell out.

The bus drove away.

The woman with the gray blue eyes bent over and picked up the envelop and its fallen contents.

“I’m sorry.”

Jack nodded. Words didn’t seem right. She had promised. He looked at the picture. She really was beautiful.

The woman held out the envelope and a small silver ring. He stared at them.

“Keep it.” That was all he said. Her eyes were sad.

He turned away. Then, Jack went home.
 
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08 April 2007 @ 06:16 am
Crystal Daydreams, Chapter 4  
I promise I haven't forgotten it, and as such, the Crystal Daydreams project has a new chapter! Feel free to visit the address below to start from the beginning, or just catch up with the new chapter.

Quick Link: http://www.terosv.net/crystal

-----------
Crystal Daydreams: Chapter Four

"And one and two and step," a woman's voice intoned, pulling me back into consciousness. I blinked, staring at the ceiling painted orange by the rising sun, trying to decipher the cryptic message. Where was I stepping and why was I counting? The edges of a dream slowly retreated as I awoke, half-memories of strange, empty rooms fading fast.

"Now breathe!" It was too much enthusiasm for me to deal with at this time of the morning. I fumbled around blindly for the remote to kill the prancing woman in spandex. Click. I listened to the random chirping of the birds outside. Even they seemed to be off to a slow start this morning.

I rolled into a sitting position, massaging muscles as they cried out in protest. Sleep had been fitful at best, and tossing around on a couch for eight hours had done little for my comfort. As I made my way to the kitchen, I thought back, trying to catch hold of the last wisps of my dreams before they were gone forever.

Something had been watching me, I knew that. What or whom it was I had no idea. There was something with rooms too, empty ones. It left me with a nagging feeling that I should remember something else. Times like these called for only one thing. Coffee.

"Son of a..." I choked back the rest of the statement as I stared into the empty coffee can. I couldn't hear any movement upstairs, so I tried to be quiet as I searched the cupboards for even a hint of my freeze-dried, vacuum-packed, caffeinated powder of morning goodness.

Nothing.

The clock in the living room chimed softly – seven o'clock. Tara and Vanessa wouldn't be up for several hours yet. Neither of them tended to emerge from under the covers until lunchtime on Saturdays.

Still muttering and massaging, I raided the laundry room for clean clothes and grabbed an old sweatshirt out of my office. There was a little coffee shop near campus that I could get my fix at. I might even spring for a pastry. The thought made my stomach growl. Definitely a pastry.

...

The campus parking lot was nearly empty as I climbed out of my car, juggling a steaming Styrofoam cup, a newspaper, and not just one but two of my favorite cream cheese heart attacks waiting to happen. I often came to campus on Saturday mornings, reveling in to quiet solitude before the world woke up. The students would be holed up nursing hangovers until noon and most of the faculty avoided campus like the plague on the weekend. I loved it.

Hawthorne College was built in the last years of the nineteenth century, the child of an aging English philanthropist who had retired in the area. Most of the buildings were the stereotypical red brick with ivy climbing up the side that people think of when they think of an old, distinguished college. I had spent my college years at a large school in the middle of a city of half a million people. Coming here to teach had been a radical change, but from the very first interview I had loved this campus. In my fourteen years here, it had become home.

I sat down at the top of the worn stone steps leading to Sanderson Hall, in which I had lived my professional life in for almost ten years. I could have gone inside, but the chance to enjoy the fresh air and the morning sun was irresistible. Coffee just doesn't taste the same indoors.

I had just finished reading the day's comics and was flipping towards the sports section when the door behind me crashed open. I turned, startled, in time to catch a glimpse of a pair of smooth, tanned legs trying their best to avoid me.

"Shit!" That was all the warning I had before the white Styrofoam cup began its descent from the heavens, aimed directly at my head. Barely thinking, I threw the newspaper up to save me. My reflexes saved my hair, but the sudden shower of hot, fragrant brown liquid still managed to soak most of my arm. Apparently I wasn't the only one who'd wanted coffee this morning.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" A very familiar voice nearly shrieked. Lowering my dripping shield, I looked up to see a somewhat frazzled woman attempting to keep an impressive stack of books. She was dressed in a pair of athletic shorts that were nearly too short to be decent and a sweatshirt not unlike my own.

"Good morning Ms. Black," I said calmly, laying aside the now rather caffeinated newspaper.

"James?" She was no doubt surprised to find someone else on campus this early. "What are you doing here? And why the hell are you sitting in front of the door like that?"

"Well, I was out getting coffee this morning and I thought to myself, ‘Well old boy, where would be the most likely place to get tripped over today?' Which lead me here. Good, aren't I?" I tried not to smirk. Jessica Black was an associate professor in my department, hoping to gain tenure in the next year or two and eventually steal my office.

Glaring through strands of honey-blonde hair, she was clearly not amused. "Well, I'm sorry about your shirt."

"It can be washed. What brings you out so early?"

"Dr. Brown is letting me take Charles Delaney's old office, now that he's gone. I'm trying to get all my stuff moved over before the ball tomorrow night." Office space in our department had been at a premium for quite some time now, and her current office was a renovated cleaning closet next to the elevator. The fact that Nathan was letting her move into an empty spot in his building held interesting possibilities. Not that I could blame him – she was a lot better looking than Charles ever was.

"Well, congratulations," I said. I was trying hard to keep the contempt I had for that man out of my voice.

"You'll have to come see it after the ball. You are coming, right?" She was looking at me with that expression women seem to have when they think you'll try to weasel your way out of something.

"Of course. Tara wouldn't dream of letting me miss it." The Founders Ball was a tradition at Hawthorne in which the faculty got all dressed up, listened to an absolutely dull speech by the president of the college about the past and the future, and proceeded to become as inebriated as possible whilst dancing about the Grand Ballroom. I was less than thrilled, but Tara loved it.

"I'm glad. See you there then." Settling her load for the trip down the stairs, she gave me a small smile and walked away. I tried not to watch her as she left. A woman in her position really shouldn't wear shorts like that. Well, not too often anyway.

I pulled the stained sweatshirt up over my head and folded it so that it wouldn't drip on anything on the way home. I had planned on getting a bit of reading done before heading back, but I really didn't feel like having any more run-ins with Jessica this morning. I liked the woman alright from a professional standpoint, but there was something about her that just never set right with me.

Grimacing and doing my best to avoid looking at the excellent pair of legs walking away, I threw both my own empty cup and the offending assailant into a nearby trashcan. The newspaper was nearly a total loss, but at least I could still see the scores from last night's baseball game. We'd lost, four to seven.

As I went to throw the paper atop the rest of the garbage, the horoscope, one of the few portions to escape the wrath of the dark roast, caught my eye. I scanned down to my sign.

Aries. Be prepared for something unexpected to fall into your lap today. Tonight: fun at home.

"Fun at home?" I wondered aloud. "Lovely." I dropped the paper in the trash and headed back home.
 
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02 April 2007 @ 12:37 am
The ties that bind()  
A good friend of mine asked me tonight if I would be a part of his wedding. This got me thinking on several levels. My initial reaction was one of ‘oh my god, I have to wear a tux?’ and involved ponderings on the fact that I have never even been to a wedding. Granted, I almost had to plan one a year or so back, but it is still utterly foreign territory. Moving beyond my apparent ignorance of matrimonial tradition, I began to consider the link I had with my friend.

To protect the innocent, I shall name him Friend A. I have worked with this man for two years as a resident assistant, a job that I have found to forge unique relationships between coworkers. I often wonder if it is not dissimilar to the comradery to be found amongst soldiers and police officers and the like. As an RA, one is in a position of enforcement over a large number of people that are more often than not several years younger. This seems to have the natural tendency to bring a staff together. While there will be slight clique-like tendencies amongst the staff, there exists a strong bond between every member of the team. Even when not in a residence hall, if I find someone to be or have been an RA, there is generally an instant level of respect and intimacy shared with that person. Friend A and I had this for two years. In addition, coming back as a returning member of the staff the second year strengthened that bond. Tie in similar interests, personalities, and academics, and naturally a friendship developed, which in turn led to the offer he proposed.

Let me move beyond Friend A to Friend B. Friend B is also an RA, but has only been working with me for a year. Thus there exists a similar bond at a lower level than Friend A, but it is still there. Between the three of us exists an experience that also forges a unique sort of bond – marriage. In particular, the male perspective on the event. None of us has actually been married yet, so we are at a similar level in that regard. All of us have been engaged. I was the first, before I ever met these two people. Friend A came to me on advice for performing the mystical Ritual of Askance and the purchasing of the sacred Ring of Shiny. Friend B also inquired as to my experience in that area, though at less of a level, perhaps because of the lesser strength of what I will call the familiarity bond. By this interaction of the job and the engagement, the three of us have points added to our familiarity bond. Friend A and I have more points towards each other because of time and friendship level. Friend B and I, however, have points due to the fact that both he and I are no longer engaged and have discussed our respective ends to the situation.

Why am I rambling on about all this? Trust. Or perhaps I should define it more as a level of comfort with a person. Assume that for each interaction one has with another person, a numeric point is assigned, either positive or negative. A good interaction is positive, a bad interaction is negative. Trust then would seem to be the collective sum of these interaction points. I am friends with both A and B, but due to the sum of my interactions with both, I tend to be more comfortable with A than B. The childhood issue of ‘who do you like better?’ presents itself with that statement. I do not necessarily ‘like’ A more than B. Liking someone would seem to occur at a certain level of trust.

My mind naturally takes everything I just said and presents it as such:

integer intTrustLevel = 0;
integer intInteractionPoint = 0;
integer i;
boolean bolTrust = false;

for (i = 0 to intMaxInteractions)
{
intInteractionPoint = getInteractionReaction;
intTrustLevel = intTrustLevel + intInteractionPoint;
}

if (intTrustLevel >= n)
{
bolTrust = true;
}

where n is a factor specific to the person, in this case, me. If I am a relatively trusting person, n is low. If I am paranoid, n is high.

Is it really true that my liking of a person can come down to a simple mathematical formula? Say I meet someone for the first time, but in a brief five-minute conversation I identify seven things positive about him or her. Perhaps they smoke, which might be a negative if they smell like cigarettes. That person would be at a level 6, and if n is 6 or more, I like the person. Take it a step further and define m as the level needed for friendship.

boolean bolFriend = false;

if (intTrustLevel >= m)
{
boolFriend = true;
}

Repeat this for as many levels of needed. Perhaps a person needs to hit level 40 to become a friend, level 63 to become a good friend, and level 86.2331 for someone I would drive across the country to help them in a moments notice. Maybe 106 will find me a person to date. Maybe at –38221 I would hire a hitman. Level 113 is required for sharing a drink. I’m strange like that.
 
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28 November 2006 @ 03:54 am
Chapter 3 is done!  
The last half of Chapter 3 is done and up. That one had a lot of feeling I hope. Comments people, comments! Let me know if I'm doing well, what I can improve, etc. :)

Cheers.

http://www.terosv.net/crystal/
 
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