#15 - Person from Porlock

“Do you have any stories to tell me?” Ally said.

Isaac squinted, thinking. He kept his eyes on the road. “Why don’t you tell one?” He said.

“There was one I thought of before we stopped last time, but now I can’t remember what it was.” She said. 

“If you tell one first, maybe I’ll remember mine.”

Earlier they had tried listening to the radio, but after landing on three country music stations in a row, Ally had given up and switched it off.

“Let’s see.” Isaac said. He started tapping unconsciously on the steering wheel, humming quietly to himself. He laughed. “I know a story about forgetting a story.”

“A story about forgetting a story…” Ally repeated. “Okay.”

“I heard this from my friend Eric. You might have…let’s see… did you ever meet him? Probably not.”

Ally shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

Isaac said, “So, Eric’s family is from Louisiana, where they owned a tire shop. His grandpa was a mechanic. One day, a traveler comes through and needs a tire repaired, so he stops in. While the tire is being fixed by one of the shop employees, Eric’s grandpa and the traveler start talking, shooting-the-shit, telling jokes or whatever. Well, I guess this traveler was a really good story-teller, and one of the stories he told was just fantastic. Super interesting. As soon as Eric’s grandpa heard it, he thought, ‘I’ve got to tell my wife’, which he planned to do when he got home that day.”

Ally was sitting Indian-style in the passenger seat, her feet tucked beneath her. “What was it?” 

“The story?” Isaac said. “Nobody knows. The traveler went on his way after the tire was fixed. When Eric’s grandpa got home that night, he was planning on telling his wife, but he got distracted because there was a salesman at the house. Some guy selling vacuum cleaners.”

“Was it the same guy?” Ally asked.

“No, no. This isn’t like one of those stories. There aren’t any odd coincidences or anything. It’s just that Eric’s grandpa forgot to tell the story when he got home, and he didn’t think about it again until later that night. They went to sleep like usual, but sometime – like two or three in the morning – he woke up and remembered that he had wanted to tell his wife the traveler’s story. But the crazy thing was, he couldn’t remember it.” Isaac said.

“What happened?” Ally said.

“Nothing, really. He figured he’d remember the next morning, but he never did. Eric said that his grandpa never remembered what the traveler’s story was, but he always remembered that he’d forgotten the traveler’s story. Instead of telling the traveler’s story, he told people the story of how he forgot the traveler’s story. If that makes sense?”

Ally rubbed her nose and then crossed her arms. “Wait. So, he didn’t remember the original story the traveler told, but after that, he told people the story of how he’d forgotten the original story?”

“Yeah. That’s what I just said.”

“Just clarifying.”

“So, that’s my story.” Isaac said. “Your turn.”

“Your story’s lame.” Ally said.

“Oh, you wanted to hear a good story?” He joked.

“I expected something better than that.” She said.

“Let’s hear what you’ve got. Do you remember what you were going to tell me before we stopped for gas?” Isaac asked.

Ally sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. After a silent pause, she said, “Nope.”

“What? You still don’t remember?”

“No – it must not have been very interesting. I guess I’m no better than your friend’s grandpa. The ol’ memory’s failin’ me.” She said in an exaggerated southern accent. Isaac laughed.

For a few minutes neither of them said anything. Isaac was about to try the radio again when Ally said, “What about us? What do you think our best story is?”

“You mean like, what’s the best thing that’s happened to us together?”

“Right. If you were going to tell a story about you and me, which one would you tell?” Ally said, twisting in her seat to look at Isaac’s profile.

“You and me. You and me. That’s a hard one.” Isaac said, glancing into the rearview mirror. He looked back at the road. “Maybe I’d tell the story of the time we walked around Coleridge Lake together and I was about to kiss you, but then that guy popped out of nowhere and scared the crap out of us. Remember that? We were sitting on the bench?”

Ally was laughing. “Yep, that was horrifying. Where’d he come from? I was nervous enough as it was.”

“Why were you nervous?” Isaac said.

“Just… I had this feeling you were going to try to kiss me.” She said, rolling her eyes.

Isaac said, “And I would have if that weirdo hadn’t stumbled out of the forest. He delayed our first kiss by – what, about a week?”

“Something like that.”

“What about you?” Isaac asked, making eye contact with her. “What story would you tell about us?”

She scrunched-up her face, as if thinking very hard. “I like this one.” She said.

“Which one?”

“Right now. This would make a good story, right?” Ally said.

“Driving along like this? Just us talking?”

“Yeah.” She said. “Of course, I might have to spice it up a bit. Maybe I could say we got a flat tire and had to stop and have it repaired. I could tell our story to the mechanic and maybe he’d remember it long enough to tell his wife. And maybe she’d tell it to a friend who’d tell it to another friend, and pretty soon some guy would be on a road trip with his girlfriend and he’d tell it to her.”

“I don’t know…” Isaac said, smiling. “Sounds kinda lame.”

“Shut up.” Ally said, holding up a fist as if she might hit him. She laughed. “I didn’t say it was a good story. It’s just our story.” 

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To learn more about the Person from Porlock, read the original Wikipedia article HERE. 

#16 - Eternal Flame

Presently, if you wish to visit the subterranean ruins of the very first Deep Earth Settlement, you need only purchase an advance ticket and travel to the tourist center located twenty kilometers west of Branson, Missouri. There you will register, join a group of ten to fifteen fellow visitors, and be assigned a professional tour guide who will lead you on your exploration through the entertaining, informative, and fully climate-controlled Deep Earth Settlement museum.

Shortly after reemergence, Deep Earth, Inc. (including all fifteen of its North American Settlements) was purchased by the XinHai Corporation and, for decades, remained closed to the public. However, when the settlement property in Missouri was reclaimed by the local government in June of 2119, our leaders quickly began refurbishing it with hopes of one day reopening and welcoming a new generation of Deep Earth inhabitants. Though this dream is still in process, the museum offers visitors a trustworthy look at the first Deep Earth Settlement’s past, as well as a glimpse into the future of fun, affordable, and safe subsurface living.

Upon entering the museum, your first stop will be registration. Here you will experience an authentic recreation of the registration process undergone by Deep Earth’s first settlers. Though history tells us that the original settlers were held to very high standards of health, hygiene, and intelligence, there are no such standards for visitors to the museum. All are welcome!

After registration, all visitors are guided to Truth Hall, where an accurate account of the circumstances necessitating the first Deep Earth Settlement is presented through a series of engaging and interactive exhibits, including Weather Wasteland, Money Market, and a visitor favorite, The War Room. Each exhibit offers a hands-on learning experience. An average visitor might find himself watching historically-standardized hurricane footage, bartering for commodities in a market game, or sitting behind an incredibly life-like nuclear launch control panel.

Truth Hall was designed to educate the present generation on the myriad factors that sent our ancestors below ground into subsurface communities like the Deep Earth Settlement in Missouri. Over the years, misinformation has corrupted society’s understanding of the past. But in Truth Hall, history comes undeniably alive. Visitors leave with a new sense of the tragedies and triumphs experienced by Deep Earth’s forefathers. The goal of the Deep Earth Settlement Museum’s staff is that every visitor will leave the tour with their questions answered and a new appreciation for the human determination and ingenuity required to settle Deep Earth and allow for the continuation of our great nation.

Upon leaving Truth Hall, visitors will be guided to the Deep Earth Construction exhibit, where they will become acquainted with multiple aspects of the design and construction of the Deep Earth Settlement. Years before the first inhabitants arrived at Deep Earth, an army of engineers and laborers worked tirelessly to create what would later be called an “underground city”. Many of these laborers lost their lives during the construction phase of Deep Earth, and the Deep Earth Construction exhibit is dedicated to their memory and continued legacy.

Next on the tour is an exhibit titled The Gathering, a remembrance of the families and individuals who stepped forward to participate in the “great experiment” that was the Deep Earth Settlement program. Culled from the highest achievers in a variety of fields, the Deep Earth settlers were scientists, teachers, doctors, engineers, athletes, executives, and high ranking military leaders. With willing hearts, they descended into Deep Earth, hoping to preserve the greatness of our culture and society. They left behind family and friends on the surface, but never doubted their own purpose in sustaining humanity in the face of enormous challenges. The Gathering exhibit was established to honor these heroes, and to help future generations recognize that survival was the least of their vast achievements.

The Transition Room encourages visitors to imagine the difficulties settlers endured once they arrived at Deep Earth. Life below the surface was much different than life above, and there were many hurdles to overcome. Visitors are invited to watch a short film in which actors recreate poignant scenes from this transitional phase at the Deep Earth Settlement. Artificial light acclamation, dietary supplementation, and Economic Equality Enforcement policies (EEE), were necessary and positive adjustments experienced by the first settlers. These adjustments are entertainingly highlighted in the Transition Room.

For visitors wanting a real taste of the past, the Deep Earth Settlement Museum offers a sampling of dietary supplements and drinks similar to those consumed by the Deep Earth settlers. Samples are available for purchase at the Deep Earth Eatery located in the Transition Room.

After partaking in a “Settler Snack”, visitors make their way through an exhibit hall titled Life in Deep Earth. This portion of the museum tour is the most interactive, with several hands-on learning activities offered. Two favorites are the Temple of Light, where visitors are encouraged to spend a moment of quiet reflection, and Private Pleasures, an exhibit open to all visitors ages eighteen and older.

If a visitor is curious about the Tyndale Terrorist Attack (sometimes mistakenly referred to as the Tyndale Failed Revolution in illegal publications), pamphlets are available upon exiting the Life in Deep Earth exhibit hall.

The last two major exhibits guests will visit are the Reemergence Room and the Future Room. The Reemergence Room offers the most reliable and up-to-date information regarding humanity’s return to surface living. This exhibit is consistently being updated to reflect the most accurate findings and opinions of modern historians regarding the events leading to the Deep Earth Settlement’s success.

Finally, the Future Room presents guests with an opportunity to peek into the visionary minds of our contemporary leaders. Though subsurface living is no longer a necessity, there are still big things in store for Deep Earth. In the Future Room, visitors will learn how technologies first developed for use in the Deep Earth Settlement have benefitted humanity post-reemergence, and how new technological breakthroughs may impact life on earth in the decades to come. 

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If you would like to learn more about Eternal Flames, read the original Wikipedia article HERE. 

#17 - United States color-coded war plans

Saturdays were usually the day Christy slept-in while Daryl fed Jimmy and Jake cereal and watched cartoons. But this morning he had a hand on her shoulder, whispering, “Christy, I need to go to that seminar-thing I was telling you about. The kids are watching TV. I should be back in a couple hours.” 

Christy moaned, stretched, and then mumbled, “OK.”

“I gave them breakfast.” He said.

“OK.”

“So, I’ll see you guys in a bit.”

“OK.” Christy lifted her head from her pillow, her hair a puffed-static-frizz. “Wait, where are you going?” She said. Her eyes were still closed.

“That seminar I told you about. Preparing for disasters and stuff.” He said. He stepped toward the bedroom doorway.

“Wait, you’re going to that?” She asked. She was awake now, rubbing her eyes.

“I told you about it.” He said.

“I didn’t think you’d really go.”

“I was kind of planning on it. That’s why I told you about it.” He said. He tapped rhythmically on the doorframe.  

“Whatever. Go ahead.” She said, pushing the bedclothes off.

“You don’t have to get up.” He said. “The kids are just watching TV.”

“I’m up.” She said. “Just go. It’s OK.”

Daryl had seen a poster advertising the free Disaster Preparedness Seminar a week earlier when he had stopped in at the Commerce Street Army Surplus to see if they sold tent stakes for a used tent that Christy had picked up at a garage sale. They did, and as Daryl stood in line to pay at the register, he noticed the poster hanging on the wall behind the clerk. In bold letters it asked the question: ARE YOU READY? This was followed by an alphabetical list of horrors. Apocalypse. Economic Collapse. Famine. Natural Disasters. Terror Attacks. War. The seminar promised to provide attendees with the know-how to survive and protect their families from the worst conditions imaginable. At the bottom of the poster was a statement that had lingered with Daryl in the week since: NOT IF, BUT WHEN.

Daryl arrived at the Army Surplus five minutes before the seminar was scheduled to begin. The parking lot was filled with pickups and SUVs; his was the only minivan. He waited in the van until two minutes after nine o’clock, hoping to sneak in relatively unnoticed. As he entered, a woman at the register asked, “Are you here for the seminar, sir?”

“Yes.” He said, smiling.

She pointed to the rear of the store. He headed that way, down an aisle containing massive backpacks in a variety of camouflage patterns. The seminar was being held in a small room usually used for employee breaks. Rows of chairs had been arranged facing the front of the room, where a tall man wearing a tan shirt and a tie designed to look like a rainbow trout stood behind a folding table. He noticed Daryl in the doorway.

“Come on in. There’re a couple seats still open.” He said, pointing to an empty spot on the back row.

A man wearing a St. Louis Cardinals hat shifted seats to the right, leaving the nearest chair open for Daryl. Sitting down, Daryl whispered, “Thanks.” The Leader walked the short distance to the back row and handed a few sheets of paper to Daryl.

“Just a worksheet and some other useful info we’ll be covering this morning. I’m Mike, by the way.” He said.

Daryl nodded and quickly scanned the papers. A general supplies list, a food list, a bug-out packing list, some fill in the blanks, a bibliography of useful books and websites.

“As I said, this class is an introduction, really. We don’t have enough time to cover everything, but what I hope to do is give you a starting place. When you leave today you’ll have a pretty good idea of how to start your own emergency plan, what sort of gear you need, some strategic information, and of course, a bunch of resources to continue learning about this important topic.” Mike said from the front of the room. “Does that sound OK to you-all?”

From around the room came nods and affirmative mumbling.

“Let me ask you-all a question. Why’d you come here today? What’s your motivation?” Mike asked.

A man on the front row said, “Just wanna be ready. I got a wife, a daughter. If - God-forbid - something bad happens, I wanna know what to do. Know what I’m saying?”

Mike nodded.

From the left of the room, a bearded man said, “That stuff on the poster - war, terrorism, and whatnot? That’s scary shit. But it’s real, so we need to be ready.”

The Leader smiled. “It is, very real. I think that’s why we’re all here. Listen, these are not hypothetical situations. This is stuff that has happened before and will happen again. It’s fine to hope for peace and, you know, sunny skies, and all that. Nobody wants a natural disaster or another September-the-eleventh. But like the Boy Scout motto says, always be prepared, right? That’s what we’re here for today.”

For close to ninety minutes, Mike presented a range of worst-case scenarios; flash flooding, nation-wide power outages, collapse of the digital banking system, a global pandemic, World War III, terrorism, governmental oppression.

“You can call it the ‘Apocalypse’ or whatever you want to call it, but for many, many people, if one of these events hits, it’s the end for them. They aren’t going to make it. They won’t be ready.” He said.

Daryl listened closely, taking notes on the worksheet provided. After each new crisis was presented, Mike would give what he called “Preparedness Steps” and then give a few moments for the attendees to ask questions. Daryl remained quiet, his arms crossed, nodding in affirmation as men took turns telling anecdotal stories, giving their opinions, or sharing advice. He was astounded at how much thought most of them had 

put into preparedness. Before seeing the poster advertising the seminar, he’d barely even considered it.

The man in the St. Louis Cardinals hat had made a few comments during the seminar, usually reiterating a point Mike had already made, but with his own personal story to support it. As Mike turned the class’ attention to the Bug Out bag packing list, the Cardinals fan began to fidget, as if he wanted to say something. Finally he raised his hand.

“I’m just wondering if any of you here have ever asked yourself why all this stuff is happening? I sure don’t believe it’s just a coincidence that we’re getting all these hurricanes, big tornadoes, the drought we had this past summer, and all the rest of it. I don’t know. I’ve just been thinking about this global warming thing.” The Cardinals fan said.

Someone in the room groaned loudly in disbelief. The bearded man chuckled and said. “No offense buddy, but that global warming bullshit is nonsense. Hell, it was hotter when I was a little kid than it is now. I remember goin’ swimming in early May before school let-out. I’m sorry, but in my opinion, it’s all baloney.”

The Cardinals fan said, “I’m not saying it’s scientific fact or anything, I’m just saying it’s one possibility to explain all this weird weather we’ve had over the past few years.”

“It definitely ain’t fact.” The bearded man said.

Daryl felt a bit embarrassed for the Cardinals fan, but he remained quiet. From the front of the room, Mike said, “Now, personally I can’t say I put much stock in the global warming conspiracy. But I do think you have a good question, sir.” He make eye contact with the Cardinals fan and smiled. “It’s a good transition into something I’d like to speak to you all about here briefly before we dismiss.”

Mike paused and looked down at some notes on the table in front of him. He put his hand to his chin and then looked up at the class.

“We’ve been talking a lot about preparedness today. We’ve looked at all sorts of very real, very dangerous threats to our lives and the lives of our families. But there’s one type of preparedness that we haven’t discussed, and it is – in my opinion – the most important. I don’t mean to offend anyone here today, but I hope you’ll lend me your ear for a moment as I talk with you about spiritual preparedness.”

Daryl shifted in his seat. The room became especially quiet.

“How many of you would call yourself a Christian?” Mike asked.

Four of the men raised their hands immediately. A few more joined in slowly. Daryl felt sweat forming at the hairline across his forehead. He reached up and wiped it away and then kept his hand raised briefly before dropping it again to his lap.

“That’s good.” Mike said. “Some of you-all are going to know what I’m about to say. See, the Bible teaches us that what’s most important isn’t what happens in this life, but what happens in the next life. Like I’ve said again and again today, it’s vital that we get prepared for natural disasters and so on, but the Bible teaches us there’s only one way to get prepared for what’s coming.”

Daryl coughed into his hand and wiped his palm across his pant leg. He focused on Mike’s tie, watching the giant rainbow trout dangle upside down from the man’s neck.

“It’s obvious that things are getting worse and worse. Would you agree?” Mike asked.

A few of the attendees agreed audibly. Some nodded silently.

“Well, there’s a reason for that.” Mike continued. “The Bible tells us that all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. Sins a real thing – I don’t probably need to convince you on that point. This world is full of liars, thieves, cheats, adulterers, and worse. Just pick up a newspaper. Just take a look around and you’ll see that the Bible is proven to be true when it comes to the sinfulness of the human heart.”

The bearded man said, “That’s right.”

“It wouldn’t be right for sin to go un-judged. Somebody’s gotta pay for it, and the Bible tells us that judgment will come. It will. It’s only a matter of time.” Mike said. He glanced around the room, above the heads of the attendees.

Daryl was staring thoughtlessly at the eye of the rainbow trout. He suddenly realized he’d been tapping his foot on the finished cement floor. The tapping was the only sound in the room besides the hum of a snack vending machine in the corner.

Mike said, “I don’t know what judgment will look like. But I think we can gather from what the Bible says that it’s not going to be pleasant. Not something anyone here would want to endure.” He looked to the clock hanging just above the exit.

“I’ve kept you over two hours, but I just have to say one more thing. If you want to be prepared for the worst – truly prepared – you need to look into Jesus. Read the Bible. It’s full of answers. If you have questions about how to become a Christian, you can always ask. Come here to the store and ask me if you want. I’ll be happy to talk to you.”

Mike smiled. “Thank you all for coming. Before you go, please take a look at the variety of preparedness starter packs we have for sale. Thanks for your patience and for listening to my little sermon. Just for today, we have a special deal - if you buy a starter pack in the store before you leave, we’ll throw in a Bible for free. We have some here with camouflage covers. Not sure what the use of that is, but it looks neat.”

Daryl left the Army Surplus without browsing the preparedness starter packs. At home, Christy was busy doing laundry. The kids were still sitting in front of the TV, bowls of soggy, half-eaten cereal in their laps.

“How was it?” She asked, turning the timer knob on the dryer.

“It was OK.” He said, shrugging.

“Do you think we’ll manage to survive the end of the world?” She asked.

“I hope so.” Daryl said. He walked into the TV room and plopped down on the couch. The kids were watching a cartoon set in a zoo. There were two pandas teaching a giraffe how to fly a kite.

“Are you two going to watch TV all day?” He asked. Neither of them responded. They stared unblinking at the screen. 

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To learn more about the United States' color-coded war plans, read the original Wikipedia article HERE. 

#18 - Wedge (border)

“The girl who works here, when’s the next time she’ll be in?” He said. His eyes looked elsewhere, away from the woman’s face.

“What girl?”

“She has brown hair. About this tall.” He held his hand out flat, palm down, level with his shoulder. “She was here last week.” He said.

“Lots of girls work here, sir.” The woman said. She opened up the register. Her hands moved busily. “Is there something I can help with? We’re ‘bout to close.”

“No. Thank you.” He said.

In the B & P parking lot he sat in his truck, unready to leave town. He watched cars cruise Old Missouri 37. After half an hour he drove to Dairy Freeze and bought an ice cream cone and ate it on the way back to the property. He drove with the windows down and the radio off. After the turn at 112, he slowed the truck and took his time on the narrow lane leading up to the trailer. In the trees, the headlights caught on the eyes of deer and other creatures, effulgent in the darkness.

He parked the truck at the end of the trailer and raised the windows and turned off the engine. The woods were loud at night in a way never heard during sunlight hours; layers of sound that started up high in the leaves and moved in close through the tall grass of the yard. Cicadas, crickets, katydids, all contributing to a resonant thrum encircling him. He stopped and listened. In the noise, there was also a baby’s laughter, just behind him. He turned sharply as a twig snapped in the darkness where the clearing gave way to forest. He went ridged. He strained to make sense of the aphotic space at the edge of his vision.

There’s nothing there, he thought. And then, if there is something, don’t confront it. Don’t speak. Don’t even breathe and be heard over the insects.

He went to the door of the trailer and entered quietly, locking it behind him. He turned on the lights, and left them on till morning.

For days, he stayed close to the property, not going into the forest.  He started a project to reinforce the wooden steps and platform leading to the door of the trailer, working steadily in the morning and napping during the peak heat of the afternoon. In the evenings, after the sun had set, he stayed inside. He thought of the B & P girl sometimes, always with shame. He decided he wouldn’t try to see her again. The gift he’d thought of giving to her – the old medicine bottle he’d found – seemed foolish now. What use would she have with it?

After a week without leaving the property, he’d had enough. He decided to hike the trail he’d taken before, back to the abandoned settlement site where he’d discovered the crumbled stone foundation. The trail was familiar. Along the way he noted landmarks. Downed trees, undergrowth, deer paths, ditches. He walked for an hour and found the place without trouble. He dropped down on a pile of stones to rest on what had been the northeast corner of the structure. The foliage above provided shade and he sat and looked around. He wondered if there were more trinkets to be found like the medicine bottle. Without rising he used the toe of his boot to kick at the dead leaves and dirt, watching the overturned earth for a glint from glass or metal.

“We must be neighbors.”

He looked up in the direction of the voice. Twenty yards off, further down the trail, a man stood looking back at him. The man wore a rimmed raffia hat pulled low; an A-bolt rifle resting over his shoulder. The man nodded.

“We’re not unfriendly, but I need to let you know that you’re on private property. Where you’re sitting’s a historical spot, so we don’t let folks come back here.” The man said.

Still seated on the foundation, he said, “My dad and mom own a lot of this land. Or mom does. Dad’s dead. You sure this spot belongs to you?”

The man with the gun said, “Yes, we’re certain of that.”

He stood up and said, “Okay. I’ll go.”

The man with the gun watched him walk down the hill, away from the site. At the bottom, he looked back up at him. The man called, “It’d be best if you don’t come over here again.”

He didn’t respond. He turned and followed the trail he’d come in on. Walked for ten minutes before stopping to look back for the man. The trail was empty.

Back at the property, he sat on the trailer’s new wooden steps and smoked. He thought about calling to ask about the official acreage and survey information, but began to consider the complications of making a phone call and decided against it. It would be easier to stay away. It didn’t matter. His mother had said the property was a lonely place. It wasn’t as lonely as she’d thought. If you walked long enough, you would meet someone, friendly or not.

He sat for a long time, and then went inside and retrieved the medicine bottle. He got into the pickup and started it up and left the property. Late in the afternoon he was at B & P.

Against his best judgment, he wanted to see the girl again. He didn’t think he could talk to her, let alone give her the medicine bottle. But seeing her would be good. It was wrong for her to go unnoticed; that’s the way he felt. If he kept his distance, there was no harm. He wouldn’t cross the line. 

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To learn more about the real Wedge (border), read the original Wikipedia article HERE. 

#19 - Mojave Phone Booth

We got a deal where we can add our daughter on our plan for ten bucks a month or something and she’d get her own phone with all that text messaging and facebook stuff. We did it for her birthday, surprised her with it. I picked her up after school that day and we drove over to the shop and she spent an hour looking at all the different phones they got there. Course, she wanted the Apple phone – with the camera and games and whatnot. She begged and begged. I tried to play tough, but you know how it is, and in the end I caved. It was lots more than my wife and I agreed on, but it was her sixteenth birthday. That only happens once. Plus, I figured we’d never make it out of that place unless I gave in.

After that, she was glued to it. That thing was always in her hand, her two eyes staring at the screen. She’d be texting her friends, playing some game, never looking up. We made a rule about no phones at the dinner table. That lasted about two minutes.

Couple months after we gave it to her, she came home one night about an hour late. We’d been calling her, sending messages, but hadn’t heard a peep back. Anyway, she comes in and says her friend just broke up with her boyfriend and she’d been talkin’ her through it. That’s all fine and good, but you know, we’d been sick worrying and all she had to do was send a text saying what she was up to. We sorta laid into her. I don’t like to lecture, but she had that sixteen-year-old attitude, like we don’t know nothin’. So, I took the phone away. I planned on keeping it for one week. She acted like the world was ending, crumpled into a ball on the couch like somebody’d died.

I thought it’d be good enough to keep the phone on the dresser in my room that week, but turns out she snuck into our room and took the phone to school the next morning. I caught her sneaking ‘round trying to put it back that afternoon. She lied and said she’d just needed to check a homework assignment on the phone, or something like that, but it was clear she was lying to us. So, the next day, I took the phone with me and kept it in the glove box of my truck.

At lunch I was sitting there listening to the radio, eating something, and I decided to take the phone out and play with it a bit. I hadn’t really had a chance to look at it much since we bought it ‘cause she wouldn’t put the thing down normally. I’m looking at it, messing with a game on there, when a text pops up and says something like, ‘what you doing?’ It came from someone named ‘Mojave guy’. I didn’t know what that meant, but you know, a father’s curiosity got the best of me. I wanted to find out. I figured out how to write back a message and I wrote, ‘Having lunch. How about you?’

Well, this guy starts asking me questions. Course, he’s thinking it’s my daughter he’s talking with. I just respond with real simple answers – only a couple words, but he’s flirtin’ and telling me how he wants to see me again. I have no idea who this guy is, and I’m just getting more curious. That’s when I have this idea. I tell the guy that I want to see him again too, and how it’s been too long and whatever. I was trying to sound like a girl, I guess you could say. Felt a little strange. Anyway, I ask him where we should meet and he says ‘at the phone booth’.

Honest, I didn’t even know there was any phone booths around these days. I didn’t know what to tell him. For a minute I just sat there in my truck thinking about what I should do next. I considered telling this guy the truth - that I wasn’t Brit and that I’d been messin’ with him. But then I sent him a message and asked him to meet me at Hellman Park near the tennis court. See, Hellman Park is close to where I work, so it was real convenient for me to drive over there and see if I could see this guy. He said he could meet me there in twenty minutes.

As I was driving over there, I started putting some things together. First, if this guy wants to meet up with my daughter at some phone booth, that means he’s probably not from her school. Could mean he’s at a different school, but more likely, he’s older or a dropout. Second, I started wondering why she’d never mentioned him. She talked about guys at school sometimes, but she hadn’t been talkin’ about nobody lately. In other words, I wasn’t havin’ good thoughts about what sort of person this ‘Mojave guy’ was.

I parked in the street on the west side of the park at a place I could see the tennis court from. Really, all I was hoping for was a look at this guy. There wasn’t no reason to suspect Brit was up to something fishy, but I just had this sick feeling. Maybe it was just that father’s instinct to protect his daughter. Whatever the case, I just wanted a look at him. Sort of a peek into Brit’s world.

I sat there for a long time, trying to look like I wasn’t lookin’. I watched the clock a bit, too. My lunch break had passed and I knew I’d be getting’ back late, which meant I needed a story for why. Time was runnin’ real slow, the way it does, and whoever this guy was, he never showed up. At least not while I was sitting there. He said twenty minutes, but I waited thirty-five and never saw him.

That night, I’d decided to give the phone back to Brit and try and get her to say something about the Mojave guy. At first she was real happy to have the phone back, but then I mentioned the message from Mr. Mojave, and she got real dodgy all the sudden. Finally, I had to fess up about my adventure at the park, and Brit looked on the phone to see all the messages I’d sent back and forth with the guy earlier that day. She rolled her eyes at me, which I’m used to, and she said I was a weirdo stalker. That’s what you get for caring ‘bout your kids, I suppose. 

*     *     *     *      * 

To learn more about the real Mojave Phone Booth, read the Wikipedia article HERE. 

#20 - Stanislav Petrov

Whenever Mr. Burger had the occasion to tell the story of The Two Islands at War, he always began by explaining how he had first overheard the tale, whispered, presumably as a bedtime story, by an unseen female passenger from behind the drawn curtain of a bunk in the sleeper cabin on an overnight train from Bangkok to one of Thailand’s unpronounceable northern mountain villages, just south of the Burmese border. The unseen whisperer had spoken in the measured tone used to lull children to sleep, and Mr. Burger had imagined a child, eyelids heavy, head resting on a small pillow provided by the cabin’s steward, listening intently as the train swayed and chugged. He, too, had listened; straining to hear from behind the curtain of his own bunk.

“Why were you in Thailand?” People sometimes asked, interrupting Mr. Burger just before he launched into his retelling of The Two Islands at War.

“It was an unplanned trip; spur-of-the-moment sort of thing.” Mr. Burger would answer.

“And the person telling the story, they were speaking English?” Someone else might ask.

“Yes, of course. Thailand is crawling with western tourists, you know.” Mr. Burger would respond. Then he would pause briefly before asking, “Are you certain you aren’t familiar with the story?”

Never once had anyone answered yes, and so, Mr. Burger would begin his telling.

“Once upon a time, there were two islands at war. These were two very small islands, and though they were aware of one another - each could be seen from the shore of the other - neither had knowledge of the outside world. For the story’s sake, we’ll refer to them as the East Island and the West Island.”

“The islands didn’t have names?” A listener would ask.

“Of course they did, but the names have been lost to history, along with the language in which the names were spoken. Besides, what does it matter?” Mr. Burger would say.

“The inhabitants of the islands only knew war. Though, no one living could remember the last time they had engaged in battle. History, as it always does, had mingled with myth, and their myths were fabricated from scraps of forgotten history. Stories of great battles were passed down from generation to generation; elders having heard the tales from their elders, and so on. But none of the inhabitants on either island had ever experienced violent conflict. Their war was cold; downright frigid. The standoff had lasted generations, centuries, possibly millennia. And during that time they had gone without any direct contact with their enemy.”

At this point, a listener would often ask, “There was no trade between the islands? No intermarrying? No shared festivals or religion?”

“No contact of any kind.” Mr. Burger would say. “They lived in absolute fear of one another. Even their fishing boats observed strict lines of demarcation in order to avoid encountering boats from the opposing island.”

“So, the conflict wasn’t rooted in a struggle over resources. They each had their own fishing waters.” A listener would observe.

“Correct. The East Islanders fished the waters to the east, and the West Islanders fished the waters to the west. As far as the inhabitants were concerned, each island owned half of all creation. Why would they need all of creation? They were sensible in that regard, at least.”

Mr. Burger would often smile politely at some point in the telling and remind the listeners that many of the questions they might have regarding The Two Islands at War could not be answered. Upon first overhearing the story, he also had questions, but had missed his opportunity. When he woke on the train the following morning, the bunk opposite his was empty. Somewhere in the night, the whisperer had disembarked. “You see,” He would say, “The only knowledge I hold regarding the two islands is what was communicated in the story. That knowledge, you will soon possess yourself.”  

“As you might imagine, having an enemy so close, even one that hadn’t attacked for a very long time, kept both islands on high alert. As a measure of defense, they kept watch around the clock, each posting sentries along the entire perimeter of their respective islands.

“One night, a young man from the East Island was keeping watch. It was a cloudless night, and the moon and stars were bright in both the sky and upon the surface of the water. This young man found a comfortable place to recline along the shore, and for a short time, watched the waves roll in. Before long, he fell asleep at his post. A few hours passed, and when he finally woke, he was horrified to find an unfamiliar boat approaching the shore near where he had slept.

“The young East Islander was frozen in fear. He knew at once that the approaching vessel was from the West Island. Never before had he been so close to the enemy. For a moment, all he could do was stare in wondrous terror. In the relatively bright moonlight, he was able to see the boat quite well, and gradually, he came to realize that the boat was unmanned. It appeared empty, and there were no oars in the water. It was indeed heading ashore, but in a meandering, unguided manner.”

“Perhaps it was a sort of Trojan Horse?” A listener might interject at this point in the story. Mr. Burger would smile politely and resume.

“When the boat finally drifted ashore, the East Islander approached very cautiously, his spear held high, ready to attack or defend. At his hip, he wore a large conch, tethered to his waist with a rope fashioned from wild grass. He knew he should have blown the conch the moment he saw the boat, alerting the other sentries nearby. For some reason, he chose not to. He investigated the boat alone.”

Mr. Burger would pause, as if the story had ended. He would wait for the listener(s) to fidget uncomfortably before he continued.

“And what do you think he found? An empty boat? No. In the bottom of the boat slept a young man not older than himself. A West Islander, snoring softly in the moonlight on a pile of fishing nets. The West Islander had also fallen asleep on that peaceful evening, and unbeknownst to him, his boat had drifted into East Island waters, and had come to rest on East Island shores.

“As the East Islander watched the West Islander sleep, he wrestled with what to do next. He could kill the young man while he slept, of course. That would be easy enough. Or, he could take the man captive, holding him at spear-point until help arrived. One blow on the conch would bring a swarm of sentries, as well as civilians from the row of huts lining the beachfront. For a long time, he watched the West Islander sleep, and then finally decided on a third option.

“It’s true the East Islander was very frightened by this close encounter with his West Island enemy. But a more powerful impulse controlled his actions in that moment. He was curious. He had never met anyone so foreign, so exotic. Every person he knew had been born and raised on East Island. Though his heart was pounding, and he could barely grip the spear in his hand, he chose not to kill the West Islander, but instead to wake him; to speak to him. He poked the sleeping man with the dull end of his spear.”

“What did he say?” A listener might ask.

“First, he said, ‘Wake up!’ And then he asked ‘Why did you come to our island?’ Of course, the West Islander was speechless for a moment. His mind was still clouded by sleep. Once he realized where he was, he was filled with dread, believing he would be killed. Shaking with fright, he told the truth. ‘I was out fishing. I fell asleep. My boat must have drifted here to your island.’”

“They spoke the same language?”

“I was not there to witness the conversation. I assume so.”

“And did the East Islander believe the young man’s story?”

“Would you have believed his story?” Mr. Burger would ask his audience. “If you suddenly encountered an enemy you had been taught to fear? Would you have believed that he was simply a sleeping fisherman, rather than a spy? Or a scout? Or the first member of an invading army?

“That’s the incredible turn in this story. The East Islander, though he had every reason to distrust the West Islander, chose to believe. Despite his training, his instincts, the myths he had heard, and the fear that he felt, he accepted the man’s word, and allowed him to return to his home on the West Island.

“For days, weeks, years following, the East Islander kept the encounter a secret. He knew that if the leaders of East Island knew he had allowed the West Islander to go free, he would be severely punished, possibly even put to death.”

Here, a listener would ask, “So, no one ever found out?”

“Of course they did. If not, how could I tell you the story today? Eventually, the young man shared his experience; but not until he had become a very old man, and the most respected leader on East Island. At that time, only a few years before his own death, he was able to lead the two islands in forming a treaty. The treaty led to peace and cooperation between the two islands. Eventually, the long war was remembered only in a new set of myths, shared between the inhabitants of both islands.”

When Mr. Burger had finished telling The Two Islands at War, he would laugh happily, and say, “Interesting, isn’t it?”

And then one listener would venture to ask, “But do you really think it’s true? Do you think all that really happened?”

To which Mr. Burger loved to reply, “I believe it’s true, and that it happens every day.” 

*     *     *     *     * 

To learn about the real Stanislav Petrov, read the original Wikipedia article HERE. 

#21 - Valery Sablin

Naboth had walked the river path since he was a child. His feet could navigate the terrain even on a black-sky night. Usually, he walked it with a load on his back, strapped to his flesh by leather chords; kindling, an egg basket, feed, a slaughtered hog or one designated to be. But today the sun was high and hot, and though he carried with him the leather, there was no load upon him. He was walking free and fast, following the river to where he knew he’d find Cecil.

Cecil had a regular habit of napping beside the river in a patch of tall grass beneath a white oak. He always carried a book with him, intending to read, but mostly he slept. The river noise lulled him. Naboth had observed him that way many times, always in secret. It was fascinating to watch Cecil sleep. Sleeping made even a powerful man like Cecil look infantile and helpless. It leveled men.

At the fork, Naboth followed the path east, closer to the river. The ground was rocky, but he knew how to step. He was slowing, quieting himself. There was plenty of cover between his spot and Cecil’s, but it could be that Cecil wasn’t fully asleep, so Naboth moved lightly, taking careful steps like a bobcat. He felt more like a creature than a man, closing in on Cecil that way. His breathing was shallow and quick.

Leaving the path, he found the cottonwood from which he’d viewed Cecil on days past. The base was wide enough for Naboth to stand behind fully concealed. It was fifteen yards to the river’s edge. The high grass surrounded Cecil, but Naboth could see his long form resting there in the shade of the white oak. Cecil was not asleep. He had his book raised a few inches from his face and was reading aloud, his voice muffled by the trickling water sounds of the river. Naboth crouched behind his tree and waited. He listened to the murmur of Cecil’s voice. In intervals, he peered around the tree down to the riverbed and watched Cecil slowly turn pages. After some time the voice dropped away and all that remained was the river, and Naboth knew that Cecil had fallen asleep.

Before approaching, Naboth tied a slip knot at one end of the leather strap he’d brought. Kneeling behind the cottonwood, he used his hands to pull at the leather until he’d formed a large loop. He wrapped the free end of the strap around his left wrist and held the loop end in his right hand. He gripped it tightly.  

On his way down to Cecil, Naboth felt the creature-feeling again, like he was becoming something wild. Creeping forward, he lost sense of being a man. He knew himself as a beast; something that belonged out in the trees, in the tall grass, near the water’s edge. In that short span, as he stepped silently forward, he was convincing himself. He was telling himself that what he was going to do was a natural, creaturely thing; the sort that beasts do with no concern for goodness or sin. He was barefoot like a beast. His whole life he’d been treated like one, carrying on his body the physical burdens that belonged to Cecil and his folks. They had placed so many burdens on him.

He dropped the loop end of the leather chord down over Cecil’s head and the man’s eyes popped open as Naboth tightened it with a sharp tug. Their gazes met a second before Naboth had Cecil turned on his stomach. He used the remaining length of leather to tie him up like a steer, hands and feet drawn tight and immobile. It was done with such speed that Cecil had no opportunity struggle. 

With his face in the dirt, Cecil said, “What the hell, you gone mad or something?”

Naboth’s only response was to tighten the chord, causing the leather to dig into Cecil’s wrists.

“Boy, you cut this rope or you’ll suffer. I swear.” Cecil said. There was no fear in his voice, only indignation. Naboth understood this to mean that Cecil was unaware of the spot he was in. He was still playing by the old rules, but Naboth knew that, at least for a few minutes, the rules had been erased. Taking a strong grip on the leather, he tugged hard, dragging Cecil a few inches closer to the river’s edge. Cecil was big and not easily moved across the uneven ground.

“What's this about? I don’t understand it.” Cecil said. The tone in his voice had shifted a bit, and Naboth liked the sound of it. It was something new.

“Boy, you’re a good one. Always have been in my eyes. Why you doin’ this? Have I done some particular harm to you?” Cecil said. He was trying to twist his body, fighting against Naboth’s strength. When they got to the river and he felt the water on his legs, he fought harder, but with no success.

Cecil shouted, “You’re gonna suffer and die for this, you devil!”

Naboth remained silent. It took all his strength to get Cecil’s full body into the water. The river wasn’t deep at the edge, but he placed his knee into Cecil’s back, forcing the big man’s head beneath the surface. Cecil fought a while, but then went still. Naboth stayed on top of him for a long time after he stopped moving. When he knew Cecil was absolutely dead, he sat down on him and untied the knots in the leather chord. Once they were loose, Naboth used his foot to push the body deeper into the flow of the river.

Coming up out of the water, Naboth went and sat at the place where Cecil had been sleeping a minute earlier. He picked up the book from the ground and opened it and stared at the markings that covered the pages. He wondered how anyone could pass time looking at such a worthless thing. He tossed the book to the ground. He had no use for it. 

*     *     *     *     * 

To learn more about Valery Sablin, read the original Wikipedia article HERE. 

#22 - The Man on the Clapham Omnibus

They were waiting for him when he stepped out his front door. The woman, in heavy makeup and a coal colored pant suit, approached him aggressively. Her two male companions scurried to her side, one pointing a video camera at Jim, while the other gripped a boom microphone suspended on a long pole over the woman’s head.

“Mr. Smith, good morning! I’m glad we caught you before you left for work.” The woman said. “We’re with the channel six news team. Do you mind answering a few questions?”

Jim thought the woman looked familiar. He usually watched channel three, but maybe he’d caught sight of her while flipping through stations one night. He smiled politely, “I guess I have a few minutes.”

“That’s great!” The woman exclaimed. She stepped beside him, until they were shoulder to shoulder. The cameraman had repositioned himself, with Jim and the woman in the frame of his lens.

“Just relax and be natural. That’s what people want to see.” The woman said to Jim. She pulled a small mirror from her pocket and checked her makeup. She looked into the camera and said, “Everything look good?”

The cameraman nodded. He counted down silently, signaling with his fingers, and finally pointed at her. A red light appeared on the camera.

“I’m here at the home of Jim Smith, the man who, in recent days, has become well-known around the country since being appointed by President Morris as the U.S.’s very first Czar of Reason and Normality. Mr. Smith, tell our viewers what these last few days have been like for you? How are you settling into this new role?” The woman turned her body slightly toward him and cocked her head, waiting for his response.

“Uh.” Jim said. “I’m just doing my normal stuff, you know? The President told me I shouldn’t really change anything. They sort of chose me because I’m just a normal guy. I’m still going to work, driving the same car; everything’s like it was before. No big changes.”

The woman smiled. “That’s good to hear. But with the whole country depending on you, do you feel any pressure? I would imagine you do.”

Jim glanced over the woman’s shoulder. Another news van had pulled up. It was channel three, and his favorite news anchor, Jenny Trujillo, was jogging toward him across the lawn.

“I suppose I feel a little pressure. But, I …” Jim said. Seeing Jenny Trujillo caused him to lose his train of thought, and for a moment he stared into the camera with a blank expression. After an awkward pause, the woman beside him said, “But I’m sure you’re handling it just fine.”

Jim nodded. He could feel his face flushing with embarrassment.

“I’d like to get to a few questions that I’m sure our viewers are curious about.” The woman said. “First of all, what did you choose to have for breakfast this morning, Mr. Smith?”

“I had a banana, some toast, and yogurt.” Jim said. “Blueberry yogurt. And a cup of coffee.”

“That sounds very…reasonable.” The woman said, winking into the camera. “And do you plan to change your diet at all now that your eating habits will be front page news?”

Jim frowned. “Front page news? Really? I’m sure there are more important things for you to report on.”

“Mr. Smith, with the President’s new emphasis on normalcy and reasonableness – and his selection of you as his Czar – many average folks will be looking to you to provide direction on how to be as normal and reasonable as possible. That includes diet, routine, financial decisions; the American people are, I’m sure, even interested in your fashion choices.” She said, gesturing toward his clothing. “Can you tell us briefly what you’re wearing today?”

Jim looked down his nose and examined his own clothing. “I’m wearing, uh, a shirt. It’s white. My pants are gray. And this tie was from my mother.” He said, lifting it toward the camera.

“That’s lovely.” The woman said. “Are those lilies in the pattern of the fabric?”

“I don’t know.” Jim said. He glanced toward Jenny Trujillo. She was waiting only a few feet away with her own cameraman beside her.

“Hmm. Perhaps Mr. Smith’s lack of concern regarding appearance is something we could all learn from.” The woman said solemnly into the camera.

“I’m sorry.” Jim said, “But I really need to get going. Shouldn’t be late for work, right?” He stepped away from the camera, and as he walked toward his car, heard the woman signing off. He was nearly across the lawn when he heard a familiar voice say, “Mr. Smith, could we have a quick moment with you?”

Jim had been watching Jenny Trujillo on the evening news for more than five years, ever since he’d moved to Springfield. She was one of the last faces he saw and voices he heard before falling asleep each night. Now she was on his front lawn and he wasn’t sure he could face her.

“I’m really in a hurry to get to work. Sorry.” He said, opening the car door. He didn’t turn to look at her.

“Only a moment, sir. Please. I just want to ask about – “ She said. But he didn’t hear what came after that. He had closed his car door and was behind the steering wheel. He exhaled a heavy breath, started the car, and slowly pulled out of his driveway. He could feel the cameras pointed at him. He tried not to look directly at them.

As he reached the end of the block, he began to worry. Perhaps, he thought, leaving so abruptly was a poor decision. He should have taken a moment to at least say hello to Jenny Trujillo. His quick departure, his unwillingness to even make eye contact, might be construed as unreasonable, abnormal. And this, on his very first day as Czar.

*     *     *     *     *

To read more about The Man on the Clapham Omnibus, read the original Wikipedia article HERE. 

#23 - Special Atomic Demolition Munition

The day Tommy-T died, he had his bomb with him, strapped to his back as usual. It was a Tuesday, early June, but hot like August. That noon, he dragged himself to Maggie’s down on the square and sat in a corner booth and ordered a glass of ice-water and the special, which that day was a pork loin sandwich and potato salad. They knew him there and when he came in no one stared at him or made a fuss like they might have other places. The waitress, a girl named Lisa Shultz who’d been working there since high school, was nice to him, though she did share a knowing smile with the Cook when she pinned the order up and said this one’s for Tommy-T.

When Tommy-T first began carrying his bomb around, folks were fearful of him. That was years earlier, when he was young and his psychosis warranted more attention. The story’s that the cops brought him in and questioned him and examined the bomb and asked him about his plans for it. He said he had no plans; that his job was only to carry the thing. He said that was all he knew.

You wanna blow something up? They asked him.

For now, I just wanna go on my way and not be disturbed, he told them.

Tommy-T wasn’t friendly, but when asked, he’d give folks an explanation for the bomb. Most people knew the details. The bomb had been delivered to him by a man-who-gave-no-name from a secretive government organization that Tommy-T said wasn’t the CIA but was like the CIA. This man-who-gave-no-name told him to carry it with him wherever he went, no matter the time of day or occasion. There were no other instructions given.

People told this story, but they also told what they had seen when they’d been close enough to Tommy-T to take a look at his bomb. It was mostly an old Hoover vacuum with the tube removed, just the cylindrical body left. Who ever put the thing together had also painted it black and strapped a double-slot toaster to the top of it. The knob on the toaster was painted red, and beside it, Tommy-T had used a thick marker to write DO NOT TOUCH.

Tommy-T, is that bomb for real? He’d been asked time and again.

I trust so, he’d say.

But the cops who’d looked at it said it wasn’t. They said it was just parts taped and glued and screwed together. Nothing dangerous; nothing that could cause any harm. So, they allowed him to carry it around town, rigged to a metal-frame with shoulder straps that also looked homemade. He had it on him always.

Once, they say a boy went for it and tried to press on that red-painted toaster knob and that Tommy-T grabbed the boy and pushed him into a brick wall outside of Ray’s Donuts. When the boy told folks, he said Tommy-T had shouted that he’d almost 

blown up the world. He said the boy’d almost killed everybody.

That was something folks were surprised to hear. No one had ever asked Tommy-T what would happen if his bomb exploded. People assumed the bomb was a type of protection for Tommy-T. He didn’t like being close to people, so the bomb was a way to keep his distance. But then the boy tells folks that Tommy-T thinks that bomb will blow up the whole planet. He thought he had the end of the world strapped to his back.

In the community, this knowledge made him even more of a tragic figure. To some he was only a joke, but from a great number of people there was sympathy for the burden Tommy-T must have felt carrying that thing around. Folks wondered how he slept at night with that bomb beside him and no one to stand watch over it. There was something cruel in his delusion, an heavy weight placed literally on his shoulders. But of course, the cruelty was self-inflicted. The man-who-gave-no-name was Tommy-T himself, and nobody knew how to persuade him of that truth.

People talked about helping him; about putting him in a facility or giving him medication. A man named Donald Copeland even went to Tommy-T’s small home on Division Street one afternoon and asked Tommy-T if he would like someone to carry the bomb around for a few days, just to give him a break. But Tommy-T said no, and told Copeland to stay off his property from then on. He said he knew what Copeland was up to and that he couldn’t be tricked.

So, though no one could deny Tommy-T’s oddness, neither could anyone justify taking him from his home and putting him in a facility when in most ways he seemed capable of taking care of himself. Some folks said, apart from that bomb, he was a pretty normal guy. Cranky and shy, but no danger to himself or anyone else as far as people knew.

That Tuesday, when he walked into Maggie’s and took the booth in the corner, he had the bomb with him. The waitress said he was acting normal; quiet like usual. He removed the bomb and placed it on the booth seat beside him and ordered his food and made no eye contact with the waitress or anyone else in the café. His sandwich arrived and he took a few bites and set it aside and, according to a few patrons nearby, 

he stared at the surface of the table for a very long time, like he was in a trance.

The coroner, Jim Holcomb, later said it was a massive stroke that killed Tommy-T. After sitting statue-like for a time, he started flailing about and knocked over his ice-water and all the folks eating there took notice and gathered around him. Someone called for an ambulance.  They tried to help, but it happened quick. Coroner said it was bleeding in the brain, the worst kind of stroke that can happen.

When the witnesses started telling their stories around town, one detail got people’s attention. The folks who were there in Tommy-T’s last minute say that as he was going down, he took hold of that bomb and pulled down on the red knob. When nothing happened, he pulled again, and then a third time, before he lost control of his body and tumbled over. One lady said maybe he was just reaching for something to hold onto. But most of them said they thought he looked determined. They say he knew he was dying and wanted to set that bomb off before he lost the chance.

No one knows, and Tommy-T is dead. 

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To learn more about Special Atomic Demolition Munitions, read the original Wikipedia article HERE. 

#24 - Piracy in the Strait of Malacca

“Dude, whatcha eatin’?” The man asked, plopping down onto the empty plastic stool across the table.

Kurt looked up from his bowl of soup. The man was of a particular category of white tourist he had spotted all over Southeast Asia; closing in on fifty, spindly-legged, deeply tanned, sun-bleached, thin, ragged, desperate-looking. His shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a hairless, leathery chest. His cut-off shorts hung low on his hips.

“It’s called laksa. Local specialty, I guess. Pretty good stuff.” Kurt said, dipping his chin to slurp from the bowl. Better than pretty good; it was the reason he had ventured to the island of Penang alone, leaving his travel companions behind in Kuala Lumpur. Unlike him, they hadn’t been convinced by their guidebook that the cuisine on the island was worth the trip.

“I’m screwin’ with you. I eat that shit five times a week. Love it. My name’s Larry.” The man said. He thrust his hand across the table. Kurt reached up and shook it.

“You just get here?” Larry asked, reaching into his shirt pocket and retrieving a pack of Dunhill cigarettes.

Kurt laughed and rested his chopsticks across the top of his bowl. “Lucky guess. I got here this afternoon. I was with friends in K-L but they wanted to hang out there a while, and I wanted to come here. So we split up for a few days.”

“Welcome to the beautiful island of Penang.” Larry said, lighting a cigarette. He took a long drag and then blew two pillars of smoke from his nostrils, like a dragon.

“This place is like the street food capital of Asia or something, right?” Kurt said. “I figured I had to check it out.”

“There’s a ton of tasty shit around here.” Larry said, nodding. “But there’s a hell of a lot more to do than eat, that’s for sure.”

Kurt picked up his chopsticks. “Yeah? Do you live here?” He asked.

“Not here. But I come through often, you could say.”

Their conversation paused long enough for Kurt to finish his dinner. The two of them sat at a small table on the edge of a large outdoor food court. The sun was setting and the place was filling up with locals. Larry and Kurt were the only two white faces in sight. As Kurt ate, Larry stared off into the crowd, smoking.

“Didn’t I say there was a lot to do here?” Larry said with a chuckle. He motioned toward a table nearby where two girls were eating. They looked like teenagers.

“Ah, yeah, the girls.” Kurt said. He had noticed them earlier. They were beautiful, but he changed the subject. “Where’re you from in the States?” He asked.

“Ohio, California, Michigan, everywhere. Moved around a lot my whole life. Came over here about fifteen years ago and decided this was the place for me.” Larry said. He leaned forward and looked into the bowl Kurt had been eating from. There was still a bit of broth left at the bottom.

“You finished?” Larry asked.

“Yep.” Kurt said.

Larry smashed the remaining stub of cigarette into the broth. There was a quick sizzle and then the white butt floated on the surface of the liquid.

“I got sick of it all.” Larry said. He stared off again into the bustling crowd around them. Kurt waited for him to finish his thought. There was a long silence, and then Larry continued. “You can work your ass off over there and not have anything to show for it. You know? I found the American Dream to be a pretty shitty endeavor. I had nothin’ there and I’ve got nothin’ here. But at least here I don’t have to bust my ass for it.”

Kurt nodded. He was thinking of leaving – heading back to his room at the guesthouse.

Larry laughed to himself and said, “There’re lots of ways to get by here. You just gotta be creative.”  

Kurt stood up from the table and extended his hand. “I think I’m going to call it a day. It was nice meeting you.” He said.

“What?” Larry said. “This is your first day – you gotta see the place. Get your feet wet!” He stood up and motioned for Kurt to follow him. “I’ll show you a around, alright? You’re over twenty-one?”

“Twenty-three.” Kurt said. “But I’m feeling pretty exhausted. I haven’t really slept for a couple days.”

Larry was unconvinced. “I’ll tell you what, you come with me, check this place out, and if you don’t like it, you can leave. But you might as well have a look, right?”

The two of them left the food court and walked along a busy road in the opposite direction of Kurt’s guesthouse. They passed a row of large, gutted homes built in gothic style, like old plantations in the American South. The homes had been abandoned for a very long time. The island was reclaiming the properties; the walls bleached by sunlight and salty humidity. Vines covered the homes. Their yards were overgrown with tall grass.

“Feels like we’re going nowhere, doesn’t it?” Larry asked, glancing over his shoulder at Kurt.

“Kind of.” Kurt said.

“No worries, though. It’s not far.” Larry assured him.

They walked in near darkness for a short time, and then Kurt could see lights ahead, and he realized that they had only taken a shortcut to the main road that followed the coastline around the island. They were quickly in the thick of food vendors and shops. He followed closely behind Larry, through the swarm of pedestrians. The air was heavy, humid; the scent of the ocean joined with smoke from the grills of the sidewalk eateries they passed.

Kurt was suddenly aware of a low, thumping rhythm, and as they turned a corner, the sound expanded into music that drowned out all other noise on the street. Larry spoke to him, his voice overwhelmed by the bass thrum of the music, and pointed toward a neon-lit club ahead of them. A bright sign flashed the word GLOW in pink. At the entrance, two girls in tight yellow tube dresses were calling out to passersby, beckoning them to step into the club. Kurt leaned toward Larry to hear what he was saying.

“Beautiful, eh?” Larry shouted into his ear. “Lots more inside.”

“Oh.” Kurt said. He smiled politely. “I’m not sure, man. I think I might head back. I’m tired.”

“At least get a closer look!” Larry said, laughing.

“It’s just – I’m not really into this sort of thing.” Kurt said. “Sorry.”

“Come on,” Larry said. “You don’t have to stay, but at least go in and see. They’re convincing as hell.”

Kurt looked again at the two girls at the club’s entrance.

“What…? Convincing?” He said.

Larry smiled. “Those, my friend, are not girls in the conventional sense. But they could sure fool me, right?”

“Ladyboys?” Kurt asked.

“I was gonna see how long it took you to figure it out.” Larry said, patting him on the shoulder.

“Man, I’m leaving.” Kurt said. “This is just…”

“Just trying to give you a laugh. Thought you might want to look at the freaks.” Larry said.

Kurt turned to leave. “No.”

“Now, wait a minute. I’ll show you the real girls.” Larry said.

Kurt didn’t respond. He was walking quickly in the direction they had come from. He had no clue how to get back to his guesthouse, but wanted distance between Larry and himself. He had only made it twenty steps when he heard someone coming up behind him rapidly. A hand gripped his shoulder. Kurt twisted sharply and knocked the hand away.

“What the hell? I’m trying to be nice!” Larry said.

“Don’t touch me, asshole.” Kurt said.

Larry jumped forward and swung a fist at Kurt’s head. The blow landed awkwardly, smashing into his ear and jaw. Kurt staggered, but regained his balance and lunged at Larry, wrapping his arms around the thin man’s torso. For a moment, they were frozen in a tangled embrace and then Larry wedged his knee between Kurt’s legs and shifted his weight and forced them both to the ground. When they landed, Kurt heard a crunch, felt a shock of pain starting at his left elbow, and immediately the strength drained out of that arm. He tried to twist away, but Larry managed to straddle him, pinning his good arm to the sidewalk. From above, Larry swung downward, landing a blow to the left side of Kurt’s face, and then another. Kurt ceased to struggle. Larry remained on top of him, but had stopped delivering punches. Placing a hand on Kurt’s throat, he leaned in and said, “I was trying to be nice.”

“Sorry.” Kurt gasped. There was a hot throbbing in his cheek. He closed his eyes, unable to look Larry in the face.

“Who’s the asshole?” Larry said, standing up.

Kurt remained motionless on the ground. He opened his eyes slowly and turned his head toward the club. The two ladyboys in yellow were staring back at him. They had seen the fight.

“I’m gonna tell you what.” Larry said. “I think I deserve a bit of compensation for my time and hospitality.”

He bent down and began digging through the pockets of Kurt’s cargo shorts. He found Kurt’s wallet in the side pocket, took all the ringgit and dollars, and tossed the empty wallet on the ground.

“Have a nice trip.” He said, stepping over Kurt and walking toward the club.  

With effort, Kurt was able to sit up. His left arm was limp; the pain unbearable. He sat on the curb watching people and taxis pass by. He waited a long time, and then finally managed to stand and begin his journey back to the guesthouse. 

*     *     *     *     *

To read more about Piracy in the Strait of Malacca, read the original Wikipedia article HERE.