#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. 

*     *     *     *     *

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. 

#25 - Prometheus (Tree)

For two weeks following the housewarming, the tree remained on the windowsill above the kitchen sink waiting to be planted. It was a gift from Kim’s parents. They had purchased it at a roadside souvenir shop somewhere in Colorado or New Mexico or Nevada; Kim couldn’t remember. It was tiny; Jeff said it looked more like a twig than a tree.  The seedling was potted in a faux-rustic clay pot and a small booklet with growing instructions hung from a string tied to its base. 

One evening, as Jeff grilled turkey burgers on the back patio, Kim walked out of the house carrying the tree and a small gardening shovel.

“Where do you think we should put this?” She said, scanning the yard.

Jeff looked up from the grill. He glanced around the yard and then shrugged.

“Come on.” Kim said. “Pretend to care.”

“How big will it get?” He asked, lowering the lid on the grill.

Kim tossed the shovel into the grass and began leafing through the tree’s instruction booklet.

“It’s called a ‘Bristlecone Pine’. Looks like it gets to about twenty feet tall. This says it’s very slow growing.”

Jeff gave an exaggerated nod, as if fascinated by this information.

“Cool.” Kim said, ignoring Jeff and continuing to read from the booklet. “It says this tree can live up to five thousand years.” 

“Noooo.” Jeff said, stretching the word in disbelief.

“That’s what it says.” Kim said, still staring at the booklet.

“That little guy will be lucky to see five more days.” Jeff said.

Kim began walking around the perimeter of their yard, her eyes fixed on the ground, searching for the perfect spot. She stopped about five feet out from the rear privacy fence. 

“Here?” She asked, looking at Jeff.

He shrugged. “Sure. Are you going to mark it with something? A flag maybe? I don’t want to mow over it.”

“Good idea.” Kim dropped to her knees in the grass and began digging. When she was finished planting the tree, she remained on her knees, looking at it, sizing it up the same way she did with a cake she had decorated or furniture she had rearranged.

“Jeff, could you bring me a glass of water?” She said from her spot in the grass.

“I’m kind of–“ He started to say, but then changed his mind. “In a minute.”

After watering the seedling, Kim found a piece of red ribbon to tie around the very top of its single limb.

“It looks like we cut a branch from somebody’s Christmas tree and decided to bury it.” She said, stepping back.

After dinner they sat together on the sofa with their laptops open and the TV playing. Jeff was writing an email. Kim was reading a gardening blog.

“I need to pick up some mulch tomorrow.” She said.

“For the tree?” Jeff asked.

Kim nodded, not looking away from her computer screen.

“Cool.” He said.

“You know what?” She suddenly said. “Our tree can live up to five thousand years. The oldest tree ever discovered was a bristlecone pine. They don’t even know how old it was, but it was more than five thousand years. I’m reading about it now.”

Jeff closed his laptop and sunk deeper into the sofa, stretching his arms above his head and yawning. “I had no idea trees could live that long.” He said, his voice trailing off as another yawn struck. He laid back and closed his eyes.

“Five thousand years.” Jeff said. “What will this world be like in five thousand years? That tree you just planted might outlive the entire human race.”

“Humans will still be here.” Kim said, confidently. “But most likely, we’ll be subjugated by alien invaders or something.

“You’re such an optimist.” Jeff said. His eyes were still closed and he was speaking in the low way he did just before falling asleep. “Our descendants will be slaves, huh?”

Kim placed her laptop on the coffee table and moved closer to him. She rested her head on his shoulder and said, “Maybe one of our descendants will help lead an uprising against the aliens. Or maybe the aliens won’t be so bad, and they’ll share their technology with us. Who knows?”

 “All our meals will be in pill form.” Jeff said.

“Do you think we’ll all wear silver flight suits everywhere? Or will that have gone out of style a few thousand years earlier?” Kim said, staring up at the ceiling. She reached over and picked up the TV remote and hit the power button. The large screen went black.

“The silver flight suits stopped being cool around the year twenty-three fifty-four; by twenty-five twelve, plaid will make a comeback. Just my prediction.”Jeff said.

“Our cars will fly.” She said.

“We won’t need cars. Teleportation, remember? But if you want a flying car, you can still have one.”

“Our bodies will be mostly robots. Like Darth Vader.” Kim said.

“One world government.” He said.

“One world language.” She said.

“We’ll all eat Dippin Dots.” He said.

Kim shifted her head. “Dippin Dots?”

Jeff opened his eyes and looked at her. “Those little balls of ice cream they sell at amusement parks and baseball games. I’m sure you’ve seen it. They look like ice cream-BBs.”

“Maybe.” Kim said, sitting up. “But why would we eat that?”

“They call it the ‘ice cream of the future’. That’s their slogan.”

“Can I just keep my regular ice cream?” Kim asked. She was standing up, ready to go to bed. Jeff reached out to her and she helped him up off the sofa.

“There’ll still be real ice cream around.” He said.

In the bathroom, Kim stood at the sink brushing her teeth. She could hear Jeff in their bedroom, changing out of his clothes. He was singing something, mumbling over the lyrics he wasn’t sure of. Kim recognized it as the theme song of a sitcom they had watched together earlier that evening. She stepped away from the sink and looked out the window into the darkness of their backyard. Though she couldn’t see it, she was aware of the tree out there, standing only a few inches taller than the grass. It was hard to imagine that anything could live five thousand years, but she hoped it would. The rest would pass away. 

*     *     *     *     *

To learn more about the tree named Prometheus, read the original Wikipedia article HERE. 

#26 - Zone of Alienation (Chernobyl Exclusion Zone)

In June the hills were full green, the Dogwoods and Redbuds having turned long before. He arrived at the property in the morning after driving overnight from what used to be their place. The sky gray and low with clouds, rain coming unevenly, and then stopping. He carried his things in, dropped them in the front room, a hastily gathered assortment; trash bags filled with clothes, shoes, a pot for cooking, a pillow, bed sheets. When he stepped outside to smoke, the clouds were separating and sunlight was catching in the wet grass and leaves, sparkling. He believed what his mother had said, that when you were here, you were truly alone. Not a neighbor for miles, maybe. The turnoff at 112 was twenty minutes away by vehicle.

At Cassville he’d stopped and bought food and water from B & P. The well on the property wasn’t for drinking. It wasn’t poison but was tainted with sulfur. He washed in it, but wouldn’t put it to his lips for the stench. He left the canned food in brown paper grocery bags next to the door and would pull from them when he was hungry.

The forest was not long off from reclaiming the whole place. The grass in the yard had gone wild and was to his waist. At the edges, young White Oaks had encroached into the clearing; they’d come on like weeds but if not cut would grow a hundred feet into the sky.

For days, he was not productive. He slept and ate and smoked and wandered down the gravel road he’d driven in on and looked long down it, waiting for someone, but for who he wasn’t sure. There would be no one on that road except by accident; a person lost.

On the fourth day he woke at noon. A dream was still in his head, remaining like the scent of something gone. He remembered some of it, some faces, words, and for a few moments he sat behind the wheel of the truck and contemplated going somewhere just to be with people. He wanted to hear another voice. But then the urgency passed and he went inside and opened a can of tamales and ate them, sitting on the front steps.

After that, he busied himself. For lack of tools, he pulled out the tall grass until his hands were sliced and bleeding. He kicked over the young trees, snapping them off a foot above the ground and piling them near the road. He reinstated the boundaries of the property, pushing back against the encircling foliage.

At the one-week mark, he drove into Cassville and bought an axe, a hammer, a machete, and other tools. He picked up food at the B & P. The teenage girl at the register smiled at him and later, before he fell asleep, he thought of her and wished she was with him.

With the axe, he was able to clear the yard. Mornings were hot but tolerable. In the afternoons he collapsed on the floor of the trailer and slept for hours. In the evening, when the sun dropped to a point just above the treetops and the shadows stretched long, he would go back outside and work a few hours more. Or he would walk into the forest with the machete and thrash a desultory trail through the growth.

He was out amongst the trees, in the fading light, when he first heard his name called. The voice came from the direction of the property and he ran back along the newly formed path, gripping the machete feverishly at his side. He paused at the edge of the forest and surveyed the yard, looking for the source. There was no one to be seen in the clearing. He was slow to approach the trailer. The door was closed, as he’d left it. He shouted out, but there was no response. Upon entering, he found it empty.

On an afternoon in the first days of July he walked into the forest looking for a place he remembered from his childhood. It was a place he’d gone to with his mother and younger brother. There was a high wall of rock, an outcropping brindled with moss, and at the bottom, thorny bushes with dark fruit. He remembered his mother calling them black hats. He walked an established path used by whitetails and feral hogs; followed it up the western face of a ridge, the trail weaving through the trees like a sloppily stitched thread.

At the top, he found the black hats at a spot discordant with his memory. The bushes grew in a row, a peculiar uniformity. There, the earth was flat; a plateau of young trees had risen up from thick undergrowth. He picked the berries and tasted one and spit it out. The strongly bitter juice streaked his chin with a line like fresh ink.

Four strides to the south he discovered a remnant of stones that had once formed the foundation for a small shack. Only the rectangle of stacked flat-rock was left. The roots of trees had turned up the foundation from beneath and close observation was required to see the layout of the stones. He circled the area, scanning the ground for artifacts. In the dirt he saw a sliver of something emerald, and upon kicking it with the toe of his boot, found the visible portion to be much smaller than the portion submerged beneath soil. He knelt and scraped at the surrounding ground with his fingernails until the form of the thing was evident. It was a medicine bottle, made from opaque blown-glass. The lid was sealed with rust like barnacles upon a ship’s hull. There was some liquid still in it. He turned it over in his hand, brushing clumped dirt away from the bottom.

From somewhere down in the forested ravine that separated the plateau from the property came the sound of a newborn’s wail. He stood swiftly and peered through the trees in the direction of the cry and there saw an upright figure step across an expanse between two trees. It was a woman, her hair long and black. Startled, the bottle he held slipped from his hand. He looked to where it landed, and when he raised his eyes again to the place the woman had been, she was gone.

He crouched low balancing with one hand on the cornerstone of the foundation. The sounds of the forest settled on him. Birds above. A slight rustling of branch and leaf. The inhale and exhale of his breathing the loudest of all. He was still for a long time. There was no movement down on the hillside, and when he was sure that there had been no woman, he went to where he’d thought he’d seen her and examined the ground and it looked undisturbed.

One hour on the trail and he was back at his property. He drove the truck out to 112 and took it to Cassville. The summer evening light was dimming. The antique medicine bottle was beside him on the bench seat. In the parking lot of the B & P he slipped it into the front pocket of his jeans and went inside. He had ten minutes; the door said closing time was nine. He walked an aisle and pretended to consider the products, reaching out and touching bottles and cans. At the front, a woman worked the register. He’d not seen her before. The young girl he’d come to see wasn’t on duty. He put his hand in his pocket and felt the medicine bottle and left the store without buying anything. The next time, he’d show her what he’d found beyond the property.  

*     *     *     *     * 

To learn more about the Zone of Alienation, read the original Wikipedia article HERE. 

#27 - Fan Death

“Going to Chiang Mai?” The kid asked.

 Phil heard him, despite the shuffling-drone of the train and the music playing through his earphones. It was tempting to pretend as if he hadn’t; to not respond, to continue staring out his widow at the densely green mountains, the sapphire sky, the scrap-wood shacks, the ethereal vines of smoke rising from jungle. But instead, Phil turned toward the kid and said, “Yep. And you?”

“Yeah. Last stop before heading up to Laos.” He said.

Phil didn’t offer that he and Amy were also going to Laos. He didn’t feel like making conversation. Ever since the kid had plopped down on the wooden bench across the aisle, Phil had tried hard not to acknowledge him in any way. Since arriving in Thailand, he and Amy had developed a cynicism toward other white tourists they encountered. Running into other tourists at a restaurant, market, or on a train, felt like a corruption of their experience.

“Cool.” Phil said, nodding. “Have a great time.” He reinserted his earphones and turned back toward the window, feeling slightly shameful for ending the conversation so sharply.

“Where’re you guys from?” The kid shouted over the noise of the train, seemingly unaware of Phil’s snub. He was tall, and looked awkward and uncomfortable on the straight-backed wooden bench. The car wasn’t particularly full, so he had placed his giant olive drab backpack in the seat beside him and was leaning against it. He looked like a college dropout, Phil thought. Like someone on a journey of self-discovery.

“America.” Phil said loudly, this time not removing his earphones.

“I guessed that.” The kid said, smiling. “What state?”

“Colorado.” Phil responded. He hit the pause button on his iPod.

“Cool.” The kid said. He bobbed his head a few times. “I love Colorado.”

“Yeah. We do too.” Phil said. Despite his resistance, he was being sucked into a conversation. He knew the only polite thing to do was ask the kid where he was from. He looked at Amy. She was sleeping, her head against the train’s windowsill.

“How about you? Where’re you from?” He said, removing his earphones.

“Kind of all over the place.” The kid said. “But for the past couple years I’ve been teaching English in South Korea.”

This wasn’t what Phil had expected to hear. “Really?” He said. “How’s that?”

The kid leaned forward, into the aisle, his elbows on his knees. “It’s great. I’m having a good time, you know? The money’s just so-so, but, whatever, it’s temporary.”

“You’re young.” Phil said. He tried to think of something witty to follow-up with, but nothing came to him.

“So, we’re on break now.” The kid said. “Chinese new year. We get a month vacation, which is cool. Sort of a perk of the job. I was ready to get out of there for a while. It’s freezing in Seoul right now.”

Phil nodded, as if he was already aware of the weather in Korea.

“What’re you guys doing in Chiang Mai?” The kid asked.

Phil hesitated to respond. “My wife wants to take a cooking class.” He finally said. “Other than that, I don't know. Just figure it out as we go, I suppose.”

“Where you staying?” The kid said.

“I’m not sure.” Phil lied. “She’s in charge of all that.” He gestured toward Amy, still sleeping.

Actually, though Amy had been the one to find the hotel in Chiang Mai, Phil had been the one to call and make the reservation. It was called Centara something-or-other; it was downtown. Phil wasn’t exactly suspicious of the kid; he lied because he didn’t want to feel obligated. Once they were off this train, Phil hoped not to run into him again.  

“I’m staying at the Y.” The kid said. “I got a fan room for ten bucks a night.”

A woman passed between them in the aisle. She was selling small meals wrapped in cellophane; sticky rice, vegetables, sliced pink sausage. The meals were stacked inside a five-gallon bucket that she dragged behind her. As she passed, she paused briefly and said, “Teh-wanty baht. You want?” The kid waived her off with a smile. “No thanks.” He said. She continued down the aisle.

“What’s a fan room?” Phil asked, watching the woman accept a few coins from one of the Thai passengers a few seats away.

“No A.C.” The kid said. “I’m picturing a tiny, windowless room with one of those old rotating fans.” He laughed.

“Oh, that doesn’t sound fun.” Phil said.

The train was slowing, the rhythmic clang on the tracks dropping in tempo. They were approaching a station. Outside, the train had entered something like a valley, though the foliage was still dense. Phil looked out his window and could see a few cinderblock buildings rising from the green growth, as well as a gold-trimmed Buddhist temple in a clearing ahead of them. Wherever they were, it felt incredibly remote and exotic. Phil hated that Amy was missing it, but she needed the rest after having battled food poisoning back in Bangkok.  

The kid laughed to himself, and then said, “There’re no fan rooms in Korea, that’s for sure.”

Phil continued staring out the window, but said, “Yeah?”

“There’s this thing in Korea where, for some reason, everyone thinks that if you sleep with a fan on, it’ll kill you.” The kid said.  “It’s something to do with losing body heat. One of my students said his uncle tried to kill himself with a fan once.”

The kid leaned forward, craning his neck to see out Phil’s side of the train. As they came to a stop, Amy opened her eyes and stared out the window, her expression blank and sleepy. She shifted her body, tucking her feet up beneath her on the bench. She closed her eyes again and said, “Do you know where we are?”

“Nope.” Phil said. “But it’s beautiful.”

There was a shuffling of passengers. A few people getting off, a few more coming on, wandering the aisle, looking for open seats.

“Killed himself with a fan?” Phil asked, suddenly processing what the kid had said a minute earlier.

“He tried.” The kid said. “But it didn’t work, so he bought another fan. His theory, I guess, was that if one fan wouldn’t kill him, maybe a bunch would. He, like, filled up a whole room with all these oscillating fans.” The kid chuckled, thinking about it.

“Did your student say why his uncle wanted to kill himself?” Phil said.

“Um, I think it was because he had a bunch of debt or something. Maybe his wife cheated on him?” The kid said. He stood up and stretched, grabbing the luggage rack above Phil’s head and using it to steady himself as the train lurched forward. They were leaving the station.

“I’m gonna go check out the toilet on this thing. You mind watching my seat?” The kid asked.

“No problem.” Phil said.

The kid wandered off down the aisle, toward the end of the car, where two Thai teenage boys with spiked hair were standing and smoking. As the kid passed between them, he nodded at the two boys in a casual, friendly way.

“He likes to talk, huh?” Amy said, her eyes still closed, her head against the train’s window.

“Yeah.” Phil said. “He seems okay though, right?”

“I guess.” Amy said. She shifted in her seat again, allowing her feet to slide back down into the floor.

“It must be strange traveling alone like that. I bet he’s relieved to have someone to talk with.” Phil said.

“You’re nicer than me.” Amy said.

No one took the kid’s seat while he was away. When he returned he saw it was empty and said, “Thanks, man.”

“Sure. My name’s Phil, by the way.”

The kid extended his hand. “I’m Luke.” He said. The two of them shook hands.

As the train picked up speed, Phil turned toward the window. “What a beautiful place.” He said.

“Yeah, totally.” Luke said. 

*     *     *     *     * 

To learn more about Fan Death, read the original Wikipedia article HERE. Or, for a another opinion, read the article HERE. 

#28 - Outlawries Bill

Gracie discovered the object on her walk home from school, abandoned at the edge of the sidewalk, where the grass and dandelions had grown tall. Though she knew no name for the object, nor where it came from, nor what its purpose or use might be, she felt strongly that it was broken.  Or perhaps that it had once belonged to, or had been attached to, something larger and more complex. The impression of brokenness was not due to any jagged edges or evidence of trauma, but rather because, looking at the thing, she couldn’t imagine how it could possibly be useful on its own. It looks sort of worthless, she thought. This was no doubt the reason it had been abandoned. However, kneeling down on the asphalt, she picked it up and placed it into her book bag.

When she arrived home, Gracie emptied the contents of her bag onto her bed; a lunch box, a chapter book titled The Yellow House Mystery, her pencil case, a nearly empty water bottle, and the object. She carried the object to the bathroom, washed it in the sink, and dried it with a towel her mother said was for guests only. Once finished, she returned to her bedroom and placed the object in a prominent position – at eye level – on the wooden bookshelf next to the door.

In the kitchen, she found her mother peeling carrots. For a moment, she stood at the counter and watched the paper-thin slips of carrot curl up from the peeler’s edge and drop to the cutting board.

“Mom,” Gracie said, “Do you want to see the thingy I found?”

Her mother looked at her. “What is it?” She asked, before continuing with her work.

“I don’t know what it’s called. It’s just a thing.” Gracie said. “It’s in my bedroom.”

“After I finish I’ll come look.” Her mother said.

Gracie waited on her bed. When she heard her mother’s footsteps, she went to stand near the bookshelf.

“What’d you find?” Her mother said from the doorway.

Gracie gestured toward the object on the bookshelf, like a tour guide at a museum. Her mother stepped into the room to see.

“This thing, here?” Her mother said, picking up the object.

Gracie nodded. “What’s it called?”

Her mother looked at the object from every angle, turning it in her hands. “I think,” She said, “It’s a tool of some sort. But I’m not sure what for – or what to call it.”

“Do you think it’s broken?” Gracie asked.

“I’m not sure.” Her mother said. “But look at this.” She pointed to one end of the object’s narrow metal body, where it tapered off and became thinner. “It looks like it might slide into something. Maybe it’s supposed to connect right here to another thing.”

Gracie reached up and took the object from her mother and began studying the tapered end. “Do you think Dad will know?” She asked her mother.

“He might.” Her mother said. “He probably will.”

Her mother returned to the kitchen, and Gracie sat on her bed with the object on her lap. She stared at it for a long time until she noticed something new. On the side of the object, stamped into the metal, was a small symbol. It wasn’t a letter of the alphabet, she was certain of that. She took it to the kitchen to show her mother, but it meant nothing to her, either. “Wait for Dad to get home.” She said.

Gracie went to her room and read The Yellow House Mystery on her bed until her dad came home from work. She met him in the living room with the object in her hand.

“Do you know what this is?” She said, holding it high for him to see.

He was talking on his cell phone with someone. He glanced down at her and then raised his finger to his lips, hushing her.

“That’s just Brian.” He said into the phone. “I guess I’m used to him by now. I’d take it with a grain of salt, really.”

Her father thoughtlessly reached down and took the object from her. His eyes were focused on it, but she could tell he wasn't really looking at it.

“Sure, sure.” He said. “Yeah, you too.”

Finally, he hung up the phone and looked at Gracie and then at the object he was holding. “What’s this?” He asked.

“It’s the thing I found today. Mom doesn’t know what it is.” She said.

“Let me see…” He said, looking at it closely. “You know what I think it is?”

“What?”

“This is a conversation starter.” He said, handing it back to her. “It’s something people keep around their house so that when friends visit they’ll ask, ‘oh, what’s this?’ and then a conversation is started.”

“What does it do, though?” She said, standing squarely in his path, blocking him from going to the kitchen to see her mother.

“It doesn’t really do anything. It used to, maybe.” He put his hands on top of her shoulders and gently moved her out of his way.

She caught up with him in the kitchen. Her mother was setting the table. Her father gave her mother a kiss and said, “Did you get my message?”

Gracie dropped the object on the kitchen counter, next to the sink. “So, if this doesn’t do anything, it’s sort of trash, right?” She said, sighing.

“Not necessarily.” Her mother said.

Suddenly, Gracie remembered the symbol imbedded on the side of the object. She snatched it from the counter and said, “Dad, look at this!”

He took it and examined the symbol. “That might be Chinese.” He said.

“Really?” Gracie said, pulling his arm down so she could look with him.

“This might be some sort of old relic – some ancient Chinese weapon or something.” His eyes were wide.

“Really?” Gracie said again.

“You never know.” He said. “If I were you, I’d keep it around.”

The object rested beside Gracie’s plate during dinner. She kept touching it, turning it over. She couldn’t stop looking at it. “Do you think it’s worth a lot of money?” She asked. Her father only said, “You never know.”

After they finished, she returned the object to its place on the bookshelf. Over time, it became a part of the landscape of her room, collecting dust, and becoming visibly-invisible. Weeks and months later, the only time Gracie thought of it was when a friend came to visit, and noticing it, asked, “What’s this?” 

*     *     *     *     *

To learn more about the Outlawries Bill (though it's a bit dry if you ask me), read the original Wikipedia article HERE.

#29 - Raymond Robinson (Green Man)

It was Saturday morning. Judy left the house early with the classifieds section of the newspaper tucked beneath her arm. She had poured over the listings the night before and had vigorously circled the most promising garage sales, simultaneously plotting a driving route in her head. She also brought along a yellow thermos filled with weak coffee, and a pocketbook containing nearly fifty dollars in small denominations. Her plan was to target the garage sales early, while the best deals could be found, and to finish at the flea market later in the day, when the sellers were primed to unload their unsold goods, too exhausted to haggle.

This was Judy’s weekend routine, at least during the warmer months. She sometimes returned home empty handed. When she found something she liked, she would decide on a fair price (regardless of the amount set by the seller) and stubbornly refuse to pay even a few cents more. If a seller was unwilling to come down, she would walk away.

In years past, her children, Chris and Effie, had usually joined her. Now, as teens, they only wanted to sleep-in on weekends. Occasionally, she still popped her head into their rooms before leaving the house. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?” She would ask, speaking to a bedclothes-covered mound. If either of them acknowledged her at all, it was only with a mumbled, negative reply. She missed having them along, but had found that she enjoyed the time alone, as well.

At a one story brick home on Walnut Street, Judy purchased an antique-looking flower vase. The seller, a plump woman smoking a cigarette and drinking a can of Diet Coke, didn’t know how old it was. In the sunlight, Judy could see that the glaze covering the off-white paint was veined with age. The vase’s pink handle had been broken and reattached with glue.

“Do you remember when this handle broke off?” Judy said. She didn’t care, really, but wanted the woman to know that she had noticed the flaw.

The woman took a long drag on her cigarette, squinting thoughtfully at the vase. She blew the smoke out the corner of her mouth and said, “I’m not real sure, honey. A-while back.”

“It’s marked at a dollar fifty.” Judy said, turning the vase in her hands, pretending to be undecided about it. “Would you take a dollar?”

The woman’s chuckled. “How’s a dollar twenty-five?”

Judy clucked her disapproval and returned the vase to the table.

“You drive a hard bargain.” The woman said. “A dollar’s fine.”

At a very large home on Torchwood Road, Judy purchased a set of stoneware casserole dishes and cake pans. When she picked one of the pans up for a closer look, a teenage girl wearing cut-off shorts and a bikini top said, “My mom told me to say those are really good and we’re selling them for really cheap.”

“Oh yeah?” Judy said.

The girl looked to be about the same age as Effie. “I guess they’re a special kind. I don’t know.” She said.

Judy turned the pan over and saw that they were Pampered Chef. She returned it to the pile.

“If you have questions or whatever, my mom’s coming back out in a minute. She’s in the bathroom.” The girl said.

Picking up the whole stack, Judy said. “Three dollars each?”

“Yep.” 

“Sounds fair to me.” She said, balancing the dishes in one arm and reaching for her pocketbook.

By eleven o’clock, Judy still hadn’t spent even half of her money. She picked up a set of four White Castle coffee mugs for a quarter. She paid fifty cents for a plastic contraption that was supposed to perfectly boil eggs in the microwave. At one sale, she pulled a musty copy of The Red Pony out of a box of free books.

Judy arrived at the flea market earlier than she’d anticipated. The place was still bustling with sellers and customers. Years earlier – too far back for Judy to recall offhand – the large lot had belonged to a farm supply and feed store. When it closed its doors, no one purchased the property. Eventually, the owners sold to the city, and the city began collecting revenue by selling vendor licenses and lot fees. The idea grew into the flea market, which, on Saturdays during the summer, became the center of life in town.

After parking at the west end of the lot, Judy stopped and bought a bag of kettle corn from a vendor in a red tent. She opened it up and ate slowly as she strolled along the main walkway leading through a maze of temporary booths and tents. She synched her pace with the flow of foot traffic, giving herself time to look at what interested her; collectible knickknacks, kitchenware, handicrafts, antique tools, books, a towering stack of used flower pots, and at one booth, an assortment of old postcards with handwritten messages, many bearing postmark dates from long before Judy was even born.

“Those are fascinating, aren’t they?” The Seller said. He was an elderly man, stooped, with shoulders that looked like they might collapse into his torso. His hair was the color of a raincloud. Though he was clean shaven, curly threads sprouted wildly from his nose and ears.

“They are.” Judy said, smiling. “You’ve collected all these?”

The man picked up one of the postcards. The scene on the front was tropical; palm trees and hula dancers. 

“No, no.” He said. “I picked these up at an estate auction a few years back.” He flipped the postcard over and studied the back. He looked at Judy. “Bought ‘em in Ellwood City, Pennsylvania.” He said, as if Judy might have some connection with the place.

Judy shuffled through a stack of the postcards, flipping them over to read the messages they had carried across oceans and continents decades earlier. Some of the writing was difficult to read due to fading or poor penmanship. Those she was able to read clearly were fairly uniform in content. We’re doing well here - enjoying our time - hope everything is fine back home - we miss you - wish you were here – say ‘hello’ to so-and-so.

“I’m asking a quarter each.” The Seller said.

“They’re very interesting.” Judy said. She wasn’t considering buying any of them, but she continued looking.

The man turned and shuffled away. When he returned, he was carrying an old shoebox held together at the corners with silver duct tape. “If you like those, you might wanna look at these, too.” He placed the shoebox on the table, next to the postcards, and lifted the lid. It was filled with old black and white photographs.

“These came from the same auction. The guy was a collector, I suppose.” The man said. “Take a look.” He slid the box toward Judy.

She scooped up a handful of the photos and began leafing through them. There were a few portraits, but most were family photos; non-professional, poorly framed, intimate. Fathers with crew-cuts, mothers wearing housedresses, and children - so many beautiful children. It was strange, Judy thought, that they were old now; older than she was, even.

“Lots of memories in that shoebox.” The Seller said.

“That’s right.” Judy said, nodding her head. “Sort of lost memories, I guess.”

She returned the photos to the box and stared into it for a moment. “How much are you asking for these?” She asked. The question was out before she even realized she wanted the photos.

“Hm.” The man said, thinking.

“Five bucks?” Judy said. The offer felt inadequate once she had said it aloud.

The Seller reached into the box and moved the photos around a bit, examining them. “Well…” He said. “These might be hard to sell. You really want ‘em?”

“I think they’re interesting.” Judy said, flatly.

“If you want ‘em, they’re yours.” The man said.

After paying the man, she carried the shoebox to her car and placed it on the passenger seat. She lowered the car’s windows and sat in the driver’s seat, looking through the photos. At first, each photo seemed to have a story to tell. She studied the subjects’ faces, their posture, the clothing they were wearing. But as she dug deeper into the box, the images began to blur together, to lose their individual distinctiveness. The photos as a collection were far less interesting than any one particular photograph considered on its own.

She was nearing the end of the box. Picking up one last handful of photos, Judy paused when she saw the image at the top of the stack, held in place beneath her thumb. It was different than most of the others. It was taken outdoors, at night. There were three men in the photo, standing side by side. Not much could be seen in the background, only darkness, and just behind them, a few blades of tall grass, as if they were standing at the edge of an open field. The two men standing at each side of the photo were young and smiling. But the face of the man standing between them was obscured, as if he were wearing some blank mask. Initially, Judy thought that the photo had been damaged; perhaps a watermark had blotted out the face of the third man. Or, she thought, the man’s face may have been rubbed away, erased by an ex-lover or a betrayed friend.

The longer she looked at the image, however, the less likely either of these possibilities seemed. She touched the surface, just over the spot where the man’s face should be. It was smooth; no different than the rest of the photo. Could it have been a smudge on the camera lens? She wondered.

It was unsettling, whatever the case may be. Even if it was simply some fault of the camera, some trick of light; she didn’t like the photograph. She folded it in half, stepped out of her car, and walked to the red tent, where she had bought the kettle corn earlier. There, she tossed the folded photo into a large barrel serving as a garbage can, and returned to her car. As she pulled out of the flea market, she caught sight of the old man who had sold her the shoebox. He was walking toward the portable toilets at the edge of the parking lot. He looked in her direction at just the right moment, and Judy was able to wave to him as she drove away. 

*     *     *     *     * 

To learn more about Raymond Robinson (Green Man), read the original Wikipedia article HERE.