The Elderly Couple

Everything is a clue, and everyone is a suspect. Including this elderly couple in the distance feeding ducks. Yes, they are feeding ducks, and so am I.  They are all the way on the other side of the pond. I don't think they have noticed me yet. They are far too absorbed in their activity of feeding the ducks. I get off my bench to question them. Before I can get any where remotely close to them I step on a branch. It snaps, and like a deer who was caught by a hunter, the woman points her boney fingers in my direction. "Harold, there's someone coming this way." She shouts anxiously. I raise my hands over my head. "I mean no harm."  "Why should we believe you?" Harold asks. Still attempting to run off.  "I want to ask you about Barbara Rosalyn." The couple stops dead in their tracks. "Did you say Barbara Rosalyn?" The elderly woman asks.  "Yes." I reply. The couple turns around. "We haven't heard that name in ages." Says Harold.  "What do you know about her?"  I ask them. The elderly woman laughs to herself. "Enough to fill a warehouse, dear."  Harold chimes in.  "We all went to the same high school."  I look at them straight in the eyes. "This may sound strange, but do you know anything about the Angelic Order of Brotherly Love.?" "That's one of those churches you have to pay to get in, right?" The elderly woman asks. Harold shakes his head no. "Annie, I think you're thinking of Mormonism." "No, Harold I think I'm right." I interrupt them. "Do you know anything about this group? Yes or No?" The both grow silent. "Can't say that I do." Says Harold. "But I wouldn't put it past her to join something like that." "Yes, she was always into the occult come to think of it." "Always?" I ask. "As far back as I can remember at least." Annie states. "What does her family think about this?" Harold takes a deep breath. "They don't much." With sadness in her eyes, Annie continues. "Most of her family wants nothing to do with her." "There is one family member who still loves her." Harold adds. "And who might that be?" "Her grandson, Jeff." She says without any hesitation. "But the problem with Jeff is that he never fully understands, and he's trying to reprogram her." "This is very important. She disappeared. I need to find her." Harold laughs. "What?" I ask. "She can't be found unless she wants to be found."  "But I need to find her."  Harold shrugs. "I don't know what to tell you." "I need to find her so I at least have some piece of mind." "sorry." He tells me. I hang my head. Harold hands me an empty pop can he was drinking out of. I look up at him confused. "When you were a child, you couldn't even crush that can. But you wanted to." "This is hardly the same thing." I tell him. "Don't belittle this. That was something you wanted, but you felt you weren't strong enough." "I thought I was weak." "Were you?" "No, guess I just didn't try." Harold smiles. "You're not weak. Go out there and try. You've got this." I crush the can in the palm of my hand, and like a motivational coach he adds: "You can do anything you put your mind to."

The Hero Emerges

Where am I today? Who am I today? My energy feels absolutely drained, and I can not seem to think. At least not much. All I want to do at the moment is stare out into space. Not move for any one or anything. The seasons are changing, or so I've been told. I don't feel too much in the mood for anything right now. I'm not depressed, just tired and confused. I guess that's ok though. Pretty much every great super hero has some sort of fundamental flaw. Yes, I know. I am aware of what I just said. I remember specifically not wanting to be called a hero. Maybe it was the idea  of knowing that I could be something  greater than what I am that freaked me out. I was happy being a punk with a red cape. But that's not enough anymore. I want more. Like I said, every great superhero has some sort of fundamental flaw. Superman has kryptonite, Daredevil is blind, The Incredible Hulk goes into uncontrollable fits of rage, and Iron Man is an alcoholic. Meanwhile, I am somewhat neurotic and doubt myself more than I'd care to admit. That being said, I think I'm finally ready to emerge as the hero. Flaws and all.

The Young Artist

There are twenty cigarettes in a full pack. Twenty five if it is Marlboro. This pack contains nineteen. This could be a clue. It could mean 1920 or 1925. I have to ask myself what happened in those five years that would be of significance to me? Perhaps I am looking too much into this discarded pack of cigarettes. Just then I feel a feel a pebble hit my right shoulder. Someone is watching me. I look directly over head and I see a boy glaring at me from his fire escape balcony. " Get your hands off my smokes." He shouts to me. "What are you, ten?" "I'm fifteen, and what do you care?"  I shake my head. "Number one, you're only fifteen and are putting disgusting toxins into your body. And number two, this may be a clue."  "A clue? What the fuck are you talking about?" I try to tell him my theory about the nineteen remaining cigarettes. How it could be symbolic of the years 1920 or 1925. He laughs at me and says. "You're crazy. You need sleep." "You could be right." The kid rolls his eyes. "Are you gonna give me my cigarettes?" He asks. "No, they mean something." "It means I didn't want my mom to find my smokes, so I hid them in the alley." "What? That's even more disgusting. " "Why?"  "Because besides from the initial toxins that you are putting into your body, you are also leaving it out in the open air for all sorts of germs and God only knows what." "Are you gonna give me a health lecture?" "I don't want to." I reply. At this point he is livid. "Are you gonna give me my smokes or what?" "No." The kid smirks.  "You want me to come down there and kick your ass?"  "I seriously doubt you could."  "Maybe not, but either way it's not gonna look good for you.  I mean I win, then you got beat up by a kid. But if you win, then it just means you beat up a kid." Unfortunately, I realize how right he is. I attempt to toss the pack up to him, but it hits the balcony bars and ricochets off.  "Really?" he says to me, with a look of disdain on his face. "I never played sports." I try and tell him. "I never played sports either, but I can throw a pack of cigarettes a few feet into the air." I pick the cigarettes off the ground and begin to throw again. He stops me. "No, its ok. I'll come down and get them." The kid lowers the fire escape ladder and climbs down. I notice that there is a huge gap between where the ladder ends and the pavement. I offer my assistance, saying that he can jump into my arms. Instead he leaps off the ladder, and like a gymnast he hits the pavement and does a somersault.  My mouth is open wide. I am in absolute awe. He casually walks over to me and snags the cigarettes out of my hand. "It was nothing." He insists.
I watch him light a cigarette and puff away. "Did you do that sketch?" I ask, pointing to the silhouette of a cowboy smoking. "You a cop?" He asks defensively. "Do I look like a cop?" He doesn't even have to examine me. He knows the answer. "Yeah, I did that." "What made you choose that image?" "I don't know, I thought it looked cool." "No other reason?  You don't see yourself as this cowboy character?" The kid scratches his head.  "What the fuck is this? Where am I right now?" "Look, you did that image chances are you did other images too-"  "So what if I did?" "All I'm saying is that all these images might have hidden meanings that you might now even know the meaning of."  The kid takes a long drag. "What are you? Freud or some shit?"  "No. But I know that you probably hear a lot and see a lot. And you can't quite express it all in words so it comes out in these little images." The kid exhales a huge cloud of smoke. "Wow, that's some deep shit." I shake my head. There is a long silence. "Have you ever heard of the Angelic Order of Brotherly Love?" I ask him. He shrugs. "I might have heard of it somewhere." The kid peeks at his wristwatch. "I gotta go my mom is gonna be home any minute."  I wave goodbye. "My names's Trevor by the way."  "Trevor, do you have more work up elsewhere?" "All over the place, but I'll leave my calling card so you know it's me." Trevor smiles and holds up one of his cigarettes. I nod my head and we take off on our separate ways.

What's Written on the Walls

As I walk down the cold, dark, damp, lonely alley I can hear the voices of the downtrodden, the angst, the scared, the angry and the hopeless. All spray painted on the walls. Some of the messages crass. Some are oddly profound. But they all speak the same language. That language being...Something isn't right. Something is off indeed. Ms. Rosalyn is gone and there is a certain heaviness to the surrounding atmosphere. Almost as if she brought a certain balance to the universe, and now everything is off kilter. I read the paint soaked walls.  There is one image that particularly sticks out for me. It is a silhouette of man wearing a cowboy hat and smoking cigarettes. He reminds me of the Marlboro Man. Though the sketch was probably just a doodle and nothing more, I can not help but wonder maybe this character is symbolic. He stands around all this chaos of graffiti as he casually smokes. There are no other drawings just him. Maybe he is a boss of some sort. Maybe all the surrounding graffiti is his minions. Or maybe he is me surrounded by chaos at every step, yet trying to keep my cool. Trying to keep my head. I look to the pavement by the sketch. A pack of cigarettes. A calling card maybe? I pick it up. It's practically a full pack. It may be a calling card after all. No avid smoker would leave behind a near full pack.

The Tape

Convenience stores can no longer be called convenience stores when you have to go to another town just to find what you are looking for. Granted a tape player is not exactly something that everyone has these days. It still is irksome though.But it is time to put all that aside and see what this tape has to tell me. I sit on the curb outside the convenience store and plop the cassette into the tape player. I throw on my huge pilot headphones and I listen. Nothing. For a minute all can hear is the tape slowly winding and then a voice. "Could you tell us your name."  "My name?" "Yes, please." "My name is Barbara Rosalyn."  "And why did you want to undergo this procedure?"  There is is a slight pause. "Well there are things. Things that I wish to know about myself."  "What are these things?" "Time has not been good to me. I want to remember more. Even if they are bad memories I want to remember them." "You are fairly sharp, Barbara."  "That is very kind of you to say, but I can feel my memory slipping even as we speak. I just want a more satisfactory life. I want to feel more."  "I understand. That will be all, Barbara." "Thank you."  With that the tape ended.  It's hard to believe , all this poor woman wanted was happiness. Maybe the idea of Ms Rosalyn being depressed was too much for Jeff to handle, so he had stop the mission. It doesn't explain how he got a hold of the tape or where she went, but I won't stop looking. I won't give up.

Coffee with a Friend?

 I sit and drink my coffee. It's bitter. Not much flavor, even with the cream added. I don't mind though. As long as it does it's job, that's all that matters. Despite the chaos of noise surrounding me (people entering and exiting, the hissing from the steaming milk, the cash register dinging, and the awful music blasting.) I feel more relaxed with each passing sip. I can't help but wonder, are Jeff and I friends? Or did he bring me in to a false sense of security? He does not let me contemplate that matter. "You need to leave me alone." He insists. " I"m afraid I can't do that." Jeff leans in. "You have to stop." "Why would I do that?"  I am completely  flabbergasted  and without words. "I know." He interrupts me. "You want to know what I did with my grandmother, right?" "Yes, what did you do with her?" " I never said I took her, but that's what you think." "Well, you don't exactly seem like an innocent man." Jeff smiles. "I'm sure I don't."  "Why didn't you just go to the police in the first place?" "They weren't right for this job." "Job?" I say in an accusatory fashion. "Fine, case whatever you wan to call it. The point is they weren't right for it?" "And why was I?" "I don't have time for this back and forth nonsense"  Jeff reaches into his jacket pocket and throws a cassette on to the table. "What's that?" I ask. "I've been doing a bit of research of my own. Listen to it." I stare at it for a moment. "This isn't 1995. I don't have a cassette player." "Then go to the store and buy one. They still make them." Jeff gets out of his seat and straightens his coat. "If you still want to keep going, then listen to the tape." Jeff pushes his seat in and turns his back. "Where are you going?" "Back to work."

Being the Janitor

Call me Doug. For all extensive purposes my name is Doug today. Why you ask. Because I am wearing Doug's jump suit. While walking past the janitor's closet, I happened to notice that the door was ajar. Not wanting to be caught again, I took advantage of this golden opportunity.I have no idea what this Doug looks like, but I figure as long as I push this big, grey trashcan, and walk with confidence as if I am him, then no one will be the wiser. Plus, I have a feeling that no one here has the slightest idea of what this man looks like. They are most likely too engrossed in their own work to pay any attention to this lowly janitor. As I exit the elevator and enter micro city of third floor office cubicles, I notice that my theory is correct. No one looks up from their monitors as I pier into their cubicle and take their crash. I don't think they even heard the ding when the elevator doors opened.
This office is extensive. I have only been here a few minutes, but it feels like hours. It is exhausting, and I am about ready to give up when what do I see.... a patch of red hair on a tall man peeking out of a center cubicle. I sneak over to his cubicle with my trash can. "Garbage?" I ask casually as I roll in. "No." He replies coldly. "How about a grandmother?" Jeff turns around, and looks up at me annoyed. "Where is she?" I ask him.  "I don't know." "Bullshit, where is she?" Jeff laughs to himself. "You know there are cameras everywhere." "I don't care, where is she?" I say again sounding like a broken record. "You're a psycho." "That could be true. But where is she?" Jeff shakes his head. " If I talked to you, would you leave me alone?" "It depends on what you had to say." Jeff rolls his eyes. He types a few numbers into the computer and hits enter. "Come on." He says. "Let's get a coffee."