Lafcadio - Part 6

Part 6: Underface

(Continued from Part 5: Masks)

Some might say Operation Lafcadio was like a ballet, each part danced with finesse. But we’re Marines; we don’t dance any fucking ballets. Personally, I prefer to think of Lafcadio as a suspense thriller, but then, I’m a writer, so of course I would. Actually, it’s more like a symphony, with each section of the orchestra—that's the four of us—playing its own part of the score. As the writer in the group, my job was as composer. I’d rather have a scriptwriter credit, but that would be mixing my metaphor.  

My challenge was to move us toward our finale along unexpected, and hopefully unconnected, routes. The ultimate measure of our success would not be taking down Knight and his bastion of jackbooted mercenaries, though that’s the objective, but to do so without landing ourselves in prison. Thus, my score is a series of interlocking movements. If I‘m successful for once in my writing career, they will all come together in a crashing crescendo.

Ed Patterson, as I’ve mentioned, is our conductor, making sure we are on point and in tune with the others. In keeping with maintaining our seemingly unconnected roles in this operation, we have had no direct contact with each other. Not since we said goodbye at Logan nine years ago, other than a few meetings in out-of-the-way places. Individually, we’ve each visited Kathleen Flanagan from time to time (who is doing fine these days, I’m happy to report, and is planning to marry in a few months), but never together after the first time following Jimmy’s death.  

All our communication goes through Patterson, who is, after all, a telecom expert.  Shortly after he left the Marines, he joined Galaxy Communications, part of the giant family tree descended from Ma Bell.

Early on, “invitations” to meetings came in bizarre costume. The first was a letter offering me a free weekend at a resort in the Virgin Islands if I would attend a sales presentation for a time share in St. Croix. Since I knew the Lafcadio calls to meet would come in disguise, I accepted the offer and went to the resort. Along with a change of clothes, bathing suit, dopp kit, and camera, my carry-on held a small laptop and three thumb drives of tourist information about the Virgin Islands. I’d also loaded my encrypted action plan to date onto the drives. As I boarded the plane, I hoped I wasn’t spending my hard-earned (though hardly-earned would be more accurate) cash to sit through a boring sales pitch.

Two meetings followed during the next few years, one at a Habitat for Humanity house build in East Overshoe, Mississippi, and one at an electronics trade show in Chicago. Each time, I brought the next movement in the Lafcadio piece to the others. The last was close to home for me and Patterson, here in New York. There were just a few loose ends to tie up. The plan was coming together.

Patterson continued to avail himself of some of the advantages of working at Galaxy. Let’s just say, the NSA had nothing on him when it came to access to inside information.  Adam Knight couldn’t sneeze without Ed Patterson saying “Gesundheit.” It became obvious that Alcázar’s involvement in criminal activity didn’t end with Afghanistan. That would help us immensely.

While Patterson kept his ear on things telephonically, so to speak, Carlos Morales was putting his not insignificant computer skills to work picking the lock on the back door into Alcázar’s network. Sitting at his desk in a quiet, all-but-hidden corner of the main branch of the New York Public Library, he was wandering the digital hallways of Knight’s fortress, poking his head into any room he chose. The first thing he did once inside was build himself what he called a secret trapdoor so he’d never have to use their back door again. He’s visited again and again, mapping the comings and goings of the company’s bits and bytes.

Paulie Newton’s access to Alcázar’s hallways is grounded in physical reality rather than the virtual reality that is host to Morales’ visits. About eight years ago, Alcázar turned some of its nefariously earned wealth into real estate. When the former Helmsley Palace came on the market, they snatched it up. Fitting, if you ask me. The hotel may have had the appearance of a palace, but the queen who once lived inside was reportedly a witch. Alcázar left the façade, but tricked out the interior with gilt and ivory, turning it into a true alcázar to house the company headquarters. In both cases, the pretty face hid the face of evil lurking beneath. Our Paulie is the building manager. How great is that?

And me? Well you know what I do. I write.

~

My new-found companion and I leave Penn Station, her arm linked through mine, and head up 7^th Avenue. As we walk, I find myself feeling totally comfortable, as though we’ve walked through the city arm-in-arm before. I feel like I know her, really odd since I’d just met her for the first time 15 minutes earlier.

“By the way, my name is Margaret, Maggie for short, Murphy. And I know your name.” She says. “But, have you figured out who I am yet?"

I turn to face her, astonished. “No! How could I know who you are?”

As I speak, my feelings of familiarity are telling me that I should know who she is. But I’m certain I’ve never even heard her name before. It just isn’t coming to me.

“Think about it.” We continue walking as I do. Think about it, I mean.

After we cover a half block, she adopts a different voice and, not looking at me, recites:

“Underneath my outside face
There's a face that none can see.
A little less smiley,
A little less sure,
But a whole lot more like me.”

I stop dead in my tracks.

Swinging around to look at her again, more closely this time, I see it. Jimmy Flanagan.

“But… Jimmy was an only child!”

“Yes. We were cousins, but we may as well have been siblings. We were inseparable as kids. We lived just down the block from each other. Aunt Kathleen is my mom’s twin sister and our families did everything together--holidays, vacations, you name it. Jimmy and I were joined at the hip during the summers.  Well, we were until my dad got transferred to Seattle. And then Uncle Mickey got killed in a car accident. I didn't see much of Jimmy after that.”

I see tears forming in her eyes, and ask if she’d like to sit down. “Could we? It’s still early, and I could really use a coffee.” She nods toward the Starbucks on the corner.

The place is jammed, but as we walk in, a couple gets up and leaves. While Maggie snags the table, I go up to the counter and buy us two coffees and a couple of blueberry scones.

“OK” I say after I’ve settled into my chair, “tell me. What are you doing here?” Given the pack of people all around us, I keep my voice low.

“Well, like I said, Ed sent me.”  She takes a bite of the scone, followed by a sip of coffee, and moans a little. “Sorry, but I didn’t have breakfast. This tastes so good.”

I can’t take my eyes off her. Now that I know who she was, I see Jimmy in her face. Except she’s much prettier. No wonder I’ve been feeling so comfortable with her.

“Go on”

“Ed contacted me a while back. He told me how you guys hung out with Jimmy in Afghanistan, that you were with him when he died. When he asked if we could get together, I jumped at the chance.”

As she speaks, I quickly look around, but it seems no one is taking notice of us. The hum of conversation in the coffee shop masks our low voices.

She pauses to take another sip of her coffee, and regain her composure. When she looks up at me again, her face has softened and her smile is even warmer, if that’s possible.

Just as she speaks, everyone seems to pause at the same time to take a drink or chew their muffin. In the ensuing silence, her words fill the void, and several of the strangers around us smile. Except me. If I thought she couldn’t shock me again, I was wrong.

“He was my first great love, you know. He gave me my first kiss.”

She gives that a moment to sink in, then, eyes twinkling, she continues, “Of course, we were only five.”

Continued in Part 7: The Dark Web.


(Credit, and thanks, to author Shel Silverstein.) 

~

Posted for River of Mnemosyne Challenge No. 8, Muse 6: “Telling a Roomful of Strangers about My Love Life.”

Lafcadio - Part 5

Part 5: Masks

(Continued from Part 4: Barooom!)

Author: Shel Silverstein

We all landed back in the States at pretty much the same time. When we got leave, our first order of business was to pay Jimmy’s mom a visit. Jimmy had asked us to look after her, and we had every intention of doing that.

Kathleen Flanagan lived outside of Boston in Natick, the town where Jimmy grew up. The four of us met up at Logan Airport and rented a car. As I drove us out the Mass Pike, Carlos asked, “Do you think she knows about Jimmy’s secret life over there in the desert?”

“No,” Ed said, “and we’re not going to tell her. Jimmy ‘was killed by the Taliban,’ and that’s how it will stay. Let’s not make it worse on her.

The visit was a painful one. Jimmy’s mom was so glad to see us, and eager to talk about Jimmy. We sat around her gingham-covered kitchen table, on which she’d spread tea and shortbread cookies, and shared stories about our friend. Jimmy being the clown he was, it was easy to keep the stories light. It wasn’t so easy to look past the pain in his mother’s eyes.

Paulie was in the middle of doing a lousy imitation of Jimmy reciting one of his favorite kids’ poems, when Kathleen Flanagan suddenly exclaimed, ”Oh! I almost forgot!”  

She jumped up and rushed from the room, leaving us looking at each other and wondering what was up. She was back in a minute, carrying a cardboard box.

“There are three more of these. Come on, boys, make yourselves useful.”

We followed her into what was obviously Jimmy’s room, still looking as if he’d just left it yesterday. I suspected it would look like that for a long time. Ed, Paulie, and I each picked up a box from the bed and carried it out to the kitchen.

“These are for you. Jimmy tells me…" She stopped and swallowed hard. "Jimmy told me how much you enjoy his stories. I can tell he was right. I know he would want you to have these.”

I pried open the flap on one of the boxes and, inside, found a collection of children’s books.

“Oh, no, we couldn’t…” Ed began, but she held up her hands to stop him.

“I’ll have none of that. I insist. You boys were his best friends. And you’re young; someday you’ll have kids of your own. Passing these on to you is the best tribute to Jimmy I can imagine.”

She paused to blink back the tears that filled her eyes.

“Besides, I’ll never have any grandchildren to read them, and it’s too hard for me to have them around. So, take them. You’ll be doing me, and Jimmy, a favor.”

How could we say no? Promising to stay in touch, we loaded the boxes into the car, kissed her goodbye, and headed back to the airport.

On the drive, we talked about the plan we’d come up with in Afghanistan. Operation Lafcadio.  We’d each taken on an assignment. Well, let me rephrase that. Ed had given us each an assignment--old habits die hard--which we enthusiastically accepted.

He went over it again. “This stuff is just field prep, guys. If we are going to get to Knight, we need to have our ducks in a row. Once we get all the intelligence we need, then we can refine the plan. The primary target is Knight. But if we do this right, we’ll bring Alcázar down with him.”

That sounded good to the rest of us. We agreed to meet in a year or so to compare notes.

“I’ll be in touch,” Ed said, “and give you the where and when."

~

The redhead sits down in the empty chair, puts her travel bag at her feet, and carefully folds her coat over her lap. Then she turns to me. A 100-watt smile lights up her face. There’s… she seems familiar somehow.

A jolt of something like recognition warms me. I know I’ve never seen her before. No way would I have forgotten this woman. The red hair that frames her face is pulled back into a loose knot at the nape of her neck. Tendrils that have managed to escape curl softly against skin that brings all manner of clichés to mind. I settle on peaches and cream.  The blue of her dress brings out the color of her eyes, which seem to dance with mischief as she leans over and kisses me.

Smiling at me, she says, “Hi, Matt. Sorry I'm late.”

I nearly fall off my chair.

“Wha…”

Still smiling, she whispers, “Sssh, relax. We want to look normal, right?”

And then she winks.

Whoa. There is nothing fucking normal about this. I try to smile back at her in some kind of natural way, but I have a feeling I look like I’m grimacing around the pickle in my mouth.

“Who…?”

I’m still reeling from the first blow when she winds up and delivers the second one.

“Ed sent me.”

“Ed…Ed Patterson?”

The lighthearted look she's worn on her face slips, revealing something serious beneath as she nods.

Ed fucking Patterson. Of course he did. If I’ve learned nothing through all this, it’s that Patterson is always one-and-a-half steps ahead of everybody.

My shock is so complete, I struggle to keep my mask of nonchalance in place.

I take a deep breath. “OK, I’m thinking there's something going on here that I don’t know about. We should talk, yeah?” I gesture to the crowd of commuters circling the station like fish in an aquarium.  “But not here. Can you leave your companions…?”

A glance down the row to the now empty seats brings me to a halt. Eyebrows raised, I shoot a questioning look at her.

“Stage props, Matt,” she replies. “Ed thought it would be a good idea.”

Yes, I’m sure he did.

“Let’s make our way to the library,” she says, surprising me again “I’ll explain everything on the way.”


Continued in Part 6: Underface.


(Credit, and thanks, to author Shel Silverstein.) 


~

Posted for River of Mnemosyne Challenge No. 8, Muse 5: “Alcázar Down”

Lafcadio - Part 4

Part 4: Barooom!

(Continued from Part 3: Something Silly, Something Gone)

Credit Shel Silverstein

We finally got down to it about three weeks after Jimmy was killed. It was a clear moonless night, with the kind of sky you rarely see anywhere but the desert. It looked like black velvet with a bucketful of diamonds strewn across it.  Below, the blackness was even more complete. As we sat in our usual spot under the outcropping, we could just make out the shapes of the guys sitting right next to us. It seemed like a good time to talk about the note.

In a voice barely above a whisper, Paulie began the conversation. “Anybody got any idea what Jimbo was up to? I mean, if there were anyone I would less suspect of being involved in any kind of black ops, it would be Jimmy Flanagan. I’m surprised he even knew what it was.”

He was met with a silence as deep as the darkness. None of us had a clue. Jimmy was like a big happy puppy. Saying his name and Alcázar in the same sentence was unimaginable.

“Well, whatever it was, it sounds like he stumbled onto something he shouldn’t have. Must have been pretty damning to make them kill him,” Carlos said.

Ed raised a hand. “Hold on,” he said in a voice dripping with sarcasm. “They’re blaming the Taliban for it. They said the bullet was a .303, shot from a Lee Enfield. If they’re right, that’s Taliban all the way.”

“Uh-huh,” I replied. “And if your aunt had wheels, she’d be a trolley car.”

Had Jimmy not had the foresight to leave us the note now in my boot, we might--in fact, probably would--have bought that story.  But we sure as hell didn’t now.

So, what to do about it?

Over the next several weeks, we hatched a rough plan. We were all in agreement. We didn’t want justice. No. We wanted revenge. Revenge for Jimmy was justice in our book. No point in trying to convince anyone of what Jimmy had told us. To begin with, we damn well didn’t want to paint targets on our backs. Besides, we had no evidence of anything. Not that Alcázar had anything to do with Jimmy’s death, or even that they were somehow profiting from the opium trade.

But we knew, and that was enough.

The plan was pretty sketchy, but we were in no hurry. As they say, revenge is a dish best served cold. We had plenty of time to work things out.

Our target was Adam Knight.

Knight was, and still is, the guy who reigns over Alcázar Sentinel Security. And we were going to hunt him down and take him out, the way he’d taken Jimmy Flanagan out. This lion was going to shoot back. 

Operation Lafcadio was officially launched.

~

Time to get moving again. It’s after eight, and it’s only a fifteen-minute walk or so to the library, but my ass is going to sleep. I’ve been in Penn Station long enough. I’ve been getting up, wandering around, and sitting somewhere else. I’ve read the newspaper three times, done the crossword puzzle, and drunk entirely too much coffee. For the past half hour, I’ve put on a very credible show of impatience, if I do say so myself, as if waiting for a date who didn’t show. My version of method acting. It’s something I have some experience with. But I think I should move on. I know there are plainclothes cops schooling around Penn Station.  I decide to wander the streets a bit as I mosey up toward 42nd Street.

As I’m about to get up, three thirty-something women walk into my row of seats. They are dressed in identical blue suits, and carrying coats and small travel bags. I take them to be flight attendants. Two of them sit across the aisle and down the row a bit. The only other seat available is next to me, and the third, an attractive redhead, makes a beeline for it.

“Excuse me, is this seat taken?”

OK, maybe I don’t need to leave just yet.

I look at my watch again, this time to see how much time I can spare to spend in the company of this woman. Probably more than she has to spend with me.  I’ve had too many women--some of them probably keepers—take off on me, so I’ve gotten used to it. When the girls are gone, I just move on.

Doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it while it lasts.

“Nope, it’s all yours.” I gesture to the spot beside me, smiling. "Have a seat."

Continued in Part 5: Masks. 


(Credit, and thanks, to author Shel Silverstein.) 

~

Posted for River of Mnemosyne Challenge No. 8, Muse 4: “Whatcha Gonna Do When All the Girls Are Gone”

Lafcadio - Part 3

Part 3: Something Silly, Something Gone

(Continued from Part 2: A Light in the Attic.)

I feel a tear forming. Even after all these years, the memory still hurts. I pull out the faded bandana I keep in my back pocket to use as a handkerchief. Making a show of blowing my nose, I surreptitiously wipe my eyes at the same time. It wouldn't do to cry in the waiting room at Penn Station.

A glance at my watch tells me it's almost 6:30, and the concourse is starting to come to life. I leave my seat and pace around a bit, reading the Arrivals board and checking out the offerings at the newsstand.

Then I head back to the waiting area and sit on the other side of the room. I allow my thoughts to take me back to Afghanistan again.

~

I should tell you a bit about our group. 

Ed Patterson, the oldest, was a master sergeant with 15 years in. The guy was a natural-born leader, so naturally he led us. He was a sat-com specialist back then. I think he'd intended to be career, but he ended getting his 20, and getting out. When he left the Corps, he went to work for one of the big telecommunications companies.

Carlos Morales, a sergeant, was an interpreter. His native language is English, but the Miami-born son of Cuban immigrants grew up speaking Spanish too. It turned out he had a gift for languages, and the Corps put him through a Pashto course at the language school in California. Not much call for that in back here in the world, I guess, so Carlos is in real estate now.

Paulie Newton, also a sergeant, was in explosive ordnance disposal. When he got out, he ended up working at the New York Public Library running their computer system. He says he'd had enough of noisy work environments, and besides, his hearing was pretty much jacked.

The kid, Jimmy Flanagan, a corporal, was a mechanic.  Who knows what he would have been when he grew up. A teacher, maybe. Or an actor.

And then there's me. I'm Matt Cameron. I was an MP. There was no way I was going to stay in, either in the military or in police work. So I wrote.

~

After Jimmy died, something was gone out of it for the four of us left. With all his silliness, he was the light that kept us keeping on. Ed, Paulie, Carlos, and I continued to sit under the outcropping overlooking the poppy fields, but there was no more yukking. There were no more stories and silly poems. There was only silence.  That, and the note that Jimmy Flanagan left behind for us, tucked securely under the innersole of my left boot. 

The next day, we went through Jimmy’s stuff, getting it ready to send back to his mom. We’d met Kathleen Flanagan while we were home, and we all loved her. She was a warm and funny woman with the map of Ireland drawn in freckles on her face. It was easy to see where Jimmy had gotten his personality. She welcomed us into her home as if we were family. And, lord, how she loved her boy. She was a single mom. Jimmy's dad had died in a car crash when Jimmy was only ten, and Jimmy was all she had. We knew she was going to be destroyed when she got the news.

“Hey, look at this,” Paulie, said as we were putting Jimmy’s books into the box. “This is the book about that lion.”

“Read it,” I said, and he did. Blinking away the tears that threatened to spill from our eyes, we listened to Paulie read the story of the lion Grrmmff who came to be known as Lafcadio the Great.

When he got to the end, Paulie turned the final page and a small pink envelop fell out. I bent down and picked it up. Turning it over, I was surprised to see our names on the front.

I held it up, eyebrows raised. “Well, open it, fer crissake, Cameron!” Carlos said.

I lifted the flap and pulled out a piece of folded note paper. It was also pink, decorated with delicate little silver cruets of flowers and teacups with tiny spoons. I wasn’t sure, but I thought it might be giving off a sweet gardenia scent.

“And? What’s it say?” Ed demanded.

It wasn’t long. I quickly skimmed, horrified. This was our wet-behind-the-ears buddy Jimmy? No fucking way.

Taking a shaky breath, I read:

“Yeah, yeah, I know, guys” it began. “But it’s all I had. It’s my mom’s paper. She packed a bunch of it with my stuff so I’d be sure to write to her. I’m not writing you a love note or anything. Ha-ha. But in case anything happens to me, there’s something you gotta know.”

The note went on to tell us why he was worried that something might happen to him. Sure, we were all afraid we might get wounded or even killed in Afghanistan. But it turned out that Jimmy’s fears were far more alarming. Seems our Jimmy was secretly liaised to a quasi-military black ops organization called Alcázar Sentinel Security.

“These are bad people,” Jimmy had written. “They’re supposed to be helping protect the NATO forces in Afghanistan, but I found out they’re really in it for the opium. I’m not sure, but I think they know I know. And I’m pretty sure they’ve killed others to protect their interests. There’s a shitload of money at stake.

“There’s no one over here I can tell. If anything happens to me, you guys gotta do something when you get home. And if you can, take care of my mom.”

I folded the pink paper again, thinking how the frivolous silver cruets and tiny spoons on the cover were so incongruous with the dark message inside.

We read Jimmy's words again many times, but by tacit agreement, we didn't discuss it right away. We were still too raw. But we knew we would. We had to; it wasn't something we could ignore. We had to do something.

The question was, what?

 To be continued in Part 4: Barooom!


(Credit, and thanks, to author Shel Silverstein.) 

~

Posted for River of Mnemosyne Challenge No. 8, Muse 3: "Silver Cruets and Tiny Spoons"

Lafcadio - Part 2

Part 2: A Light in the Attic

(Continued from Part 1: The Call)

Properly chastised by the text displayed against a green background on my phone--"What part of 'go' don't you understand, Cameron? Go NOW!"-- I delay no longer. I'm outta here. At least I won't have to concoct some kind of bullshit story to explain my absence to the lady-of-the-moment. She took care of that quite effectively yesterday.

I hustle down the stairs from my fifth-floor walkup, shrugging my jacket on as I go, and sling the backpack over my shoulders. But when I step out onto the cold street, I realize it's still dark. Shit, I'd forgotten the call came in the middle of the fucking night. This presents a bit of a problem.

My destination, the library at 42nd and Fifth, is closed. I take a quick look at my watch. 4:45. What do I do with the next six or seven hours? The library opens at ten, I think, but I don't want to be the first one through the door. The idea is to remain as inconspicuous as possible, easier said than done at the crack of early on a wintery morning, even in New York.

Near Washington Square, a few blocks away, there's a 24-hour diner. I head that way. I've never been there at this ungodly hour, but figure there must be a night owl or two, and maybe some city workers getting breakfast before they hit the streets.  Hopefully I can pass a hour or so there.

No such luck. Through the steamy glass, I see a lone guy at the counter, a tired-looking beat cop hunched over a plate of eggs. So I get myself a coffee to go, grab a newspaper from the machine at the door, and head for Penn Station.

Reassured by the number of people waiting for an early morning commuter train, I slump down on one of the hard plastic seats in the cavernous concourse. I know I shouldn’t be worried. I mean, only yesterday, I was just a guy trying to make a living as a writer, failing rather spectacularly, I might add. But given what we are about to do, I can’t help myself. I feel like I am wearing a neon sign announcing my intentions.

I close my eyes, and against the backdrop of the headache-induced kaleidoscope of whirling colors and flashes projected inside my eyelids, I let my mind drift back to that day in the desert nearly ten years ago. The day Lafcadio was conceived.

~

Jimmy Flanagan was too young to drink. Well, legally, anyway. In fact, Jimbo was almost too young to vote.  He definitely was too young to die. But the bullet that took him out couldn’t give a shit.

We were in the Helmand province in southern Afghanistan, sitting under a rocky outcropping overlooking the poppy fields below.  It was just past dusk, and we were taking a break and yukking it up. It had been pretty quiet all day. Even the guys patrolling the fields didn’t seem to be on edge, a rare occurrence. Nothing got the Taliban forces riled up quite like a bunch of jarheads wandering around in their opium supply.

We had all been there before, and in fact, it was there that the five of us became good friends. When we finally went home after our tour, we thanked our lucky stars to be alive, and relaxed. We should have known better. A NATO mission was organized to train and advise local forces (ha, where had we heard that one before?), and our experience in-country sucked us right back into it. We hadn’t expected to find ourselves back in that god-forsaken land, but there we were. Not that we found ourselves doing much training.

Jimmy often entertained us with stories and silly poetry, his freckled Irish face alight with enthusiasm. He was a real fan of children’s books, that kid. You might think it sounds weird, a bunch of Marines listening raptly to kiddie stories, but it really helped break the tension out there in that harsh and dangerous desert. That particular night, he was in the middle of a story about a lion named Grmmff. It had actually been published in Playboy, he was quick to tell us, and it was his favorite. As he often did when he was really getting into it, Jimmy used a goofy voice, this one his interpretation of a marshmallow-loving lion. I'm paraphrasing here, but it went something like this.

“…goes to the barbershop, gets his paws shined, his claws manicured and a free haircut. He has dinner, and eats lots of marshmallow dishes, then finally eats his napkin for dessert. He wears a marshmallow suit, but it gets ironed and it melts all over him. He goes back to the hotel and stays up very late singing the "marshmallow song:

“Marshmallows Marshmallows
Marching Marshing Mellow
Malling Mallows Marshing Fellows
Marshy-Murshy-…”

The laughter was torn from our throats as Jimmy’s face exploded mid-song.

A lot of guys would tell you that seeing a buddy die in combat, or maybe anywhere else, made them find religion. Not us. That was the night we lost our souls.



To be continued in Part 3: Something Silly, Something Gone.

(Credit, and thanks, to author Shel Silverstein.) 

~

Posted for River of Mnemosyne Challenge No. 8, Muse 2: "A Little Death is Good for the Soul"

Lafcadio - Part 1

Part 1: The Call

The first call comes at 4:07am.  That’s the way of things, isn’t it? It couldn’t come at a civilized hour. No, of course not. And it couldn’t come when I was still expecting it. Nope.

At the start of things, I was ready. I was so ready. I jumped every time the phone rang, heart pounding with this weird mix of terror and anticipation. But I decided somewhere along the way that my heart couldn’t take the extreme adrenalin rush every time a robo call came in.  As the years passed, my reactions slowed from almost shitting myself to damn near ho-hum. 

The incessant buzzing takes a while to get through to me.  I'd spent the better part of the previous night at MacKenzie’s Pub, drowning my sorrows after being dumped by the latest in a succession of women fed up with my apparent inability to commit. By last call, I was soused. Since MacKenzie’s is just down the street and Mac is my buddy, I was frequently over-served. If I was unable to navigate the half block to my place, Mac figured someone could prop me up on a keg dolly and wheel me home.

I'm deep into a dream about drinking tequila on a Cancun beach with a muy linda señorita, when suddenly the dream turns nasty. Finally realizing that I’m not being attacked by a swarm of angry Mexican bees, I drag myself into semi-consciousness. I manage to extricate myself from the serape, uh, blanket, knocking my cell phone to the floor in the process. When I bend to retrieve the phone, I notice that, with every buzz, the screen flashes green. What the fuck?

"Who the hell is this? It’s oh-dark-fucking-hundred!”

I hear a voice I don’t recognize.

 “GO!”

~

Shit.

The day has come. Bad timing on all counts. I’m walking a perilous tightrope between drunk and hungover. Shaking off the cobwebs filling my head, I try to formulate a plan. Early on, I’d had my actions after the call all mapped out. By this point, though, I’ve doubted the call would come at all. I've gotten complacent. Bad move, because here it is.

When I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit up, I fall off the tightrope and land with a thud on the side of hungover. My head is pounding as I make my way to the kitchen.

Coffee, I need coffee, strong and black. As I wait for the Keurig to do its thing, it’s normally subtle bubbling noise sounding like a percussion band, I remember that I’m not alone. I know my call is part of a larger broadcast to others like me, the intention being to set the operation dubbed "Lafcadio" into motion. Hopefully, they are in better shape than I am. My intention is to find a way to put one foot safely in front of the other. I throw a couple of aspirins in my mouth and gulp down half the coffee too quickly, burning my mouth. Then I head back to the bedroom to dress.

How does one dress for insurrection? I pull on my jeans and REM t-shirt, topped by my favorite and slightly worse-for-wear flannel shirt. Boots tied, I finish the coffee. I drop the cup in the sink and reach for the sponge.

Words from the past float through my head. “Remember to leave everything as you would normally.” No dishes washed, no bed-making. Not that I would anyway. That’s the point, right?

OK, ready to go. Well, ready, except for my go-bag. I haven’t looked at that bag in ages, but I know it’s waiting at the back of my closet.

I rummage past the clutter of years, and there’s the bag, stuffed in the corner behind a box of old kids’ books, right where I put it nine years ago. I grab the battered leather backpack and hook it over my shoulder. Snagging my jacket off the rack by the front door, I’m about to step out of my apartment when my cell buzzes again, with a text this time.

“What part of ‘go’ don’t you understand, Cameron? Go NOW!”

To be continued in Part 2: A Light in the Attic.


(Credit, and thanks, to author Shel Silverstein.) 

~

Posted for River of Mnemosyne Challenge No. 8, Muse 1: "Covering the Ground with Big Intentions"

Wreaking Havoc

like Trump, he surges,

 a wide wake of destruction

everywhere he goes

Written for Haiku Friday (a bit late), hosted by LouCeeL.