Notes from the Future: Dreams of the Sleeping Porpoise, Part IX

Incredibly dizzy. Jesus. Where am I? Light's too bright, can't open my eyes right away.

Dreaming? I don't think so.

Okay ... I'm on the floor, it's wooden, I'm still in my hospital gown and there's ... hay poking me in the ass. That's great. Smells ... dusty, a little like animals. Livestock. More like a place they've been than a place they are.

I cover my eyes with both hands, opening both eyes and slowly letting a little light in between my fingers. Then a little more ... and a little more ... and finally I can take my hands away from my eyes and ...

Veronica is sleeping on a little cot not four feet away. Holy shit! Where are we?! When are we?

No digital clock. No light switch to test my reality. I have to assume for now that this is real and not a dream.

I try to stand and go to her, but my leg in this cast, Christ, it hurts so much. Moving is not good. Dizzy. Pukey. 

Wait ... wait ... think: what is she doing here? There's a window high up there, barred, it's night. Reaching to my left, I gently try the door. It's locked. So she's being kept prisoner. And there, near her, on the bed ... papers.

Turning my back to her, I scoot slowly along the floor, lifting my butt as best I can in order to avoid ass splinters.  I'm next to the bed, leaning against it, breathing heavily from the effort, but as quietly as I can. She's snoring softly. Should I wake her? Should I tell her what's going on?

Yes. Maybe we can escape together. Or ... no? No is right: that door is locked, it would not be good to be caught here ... so fucking dizzy ... hard to think.

Okay: the papers. I quietly reach over and take them, begin reading. I have to close my eyes once or twice in order to keep from yakking. I read it in its entirety:

There is a small lantern under your bed, and matches. Light it carefully, do not drop it: you would burn alive if this building caught. There are things you need to know, now, before sunrise. For now, be warned: the "Prophet" believes you, your dog and Edward are all emissaries of local government come to shut down "his" compound. If he finds any proof of this, he will eat and rape you -- in that order. Probably myself and the Rachels who are helping us, as well. The Ezekiels he will probably just murder.

Therefore, as soon as you finish reading this, burn it in the stainless steel bucket, away from cloth or hay.

This Monastery has been here since before the Spanish. How this came to be has its roots in the story of Father Robert, and the fate of the Abbess of the lost Abbey so high in the Pyrenees. You must simply trust that we have been here for a very, very long time, living in peace with the local tribes and then presenting the illusion of a ranch when the area began to be settled by Europeans. Land can be made to seem to change hands, but we have held this land for so long, we know it as family. It was always a holy spot, it drew us here from so far away and we intend to hold it. We will need your help.

We have many beliefs, and among those beliefs is a Prophecy that a man shall come from the outside in the time of fire and that he will bring peace, wisdom and an end to tyranny. Pretty vague, I know, but I'm trying to keep this brief. There is much more to the Prophecy, and several months ago a man came wandering up our hillside, lost and dehydrated and near mad with hunger. We nursed him to health, as we do, and he seemed to be full of kindness and wisdom. We invited him to stay here among us and all was well.

Then one night he started having dreams, terrifying apocalyptic visions of devastation and death and fire. His dreams were paired with uncanny predictions of how national and local elections would go, and many among us began to believe he was the man of whom the Prophecy spoke. I was never entirely certain that he was to be trusted; his first dream came on the night I believe he overheard me discussing with one of the nurses that I felt he had overstayed his welcome. Not that he knew or knows my status here as Abbess -- I have kept that secret closely-guarded since his arrival -- and he believes that we are just a very earth-friendly commune. But many were frightened by his visions, and in order to placate them, I agreed in secret with my people that we should prepare for any eventualities. If this meant building up our defenses, buying more food, so be it.

He was also recruiting people from the local neighborhoods, going to community meetings and churches and slowly our numbers grew. You can tell the difference between our people and the newcomers simply: our men and women are nurses, doctors and healers of every persuasion, and the men have full beards.

I feel no shame in admitting we are all staunch Muirists, and that we stand with our Bretheren in Oregon who maintain that John Muir did not assassinate President Theodore Roosevelt in Yosemite Valley, and we will forever speak to the innocence and wrongful execution of Ansel Adams for his so-called "seditious" photography and acts of "landbank espionage." If you disagree, that is your choice. But I can't have you help us if you don't know who you're helping. We are good people, please remember that: we help the sick and broken, we heal the wounded. Not just their bodies, but that is something for later, if later ever comes. Back to the subject at hand:

Some of the newcomers may be healers of excellence and skill, but they believe the "Prophet" and cannot be trusted: the men are clean-shaven and the women are fearful, vapid things who cannot start a fire, chop wood or defend themselves. All of these people believed that the "Prophet" is the man who founded this place, and those of us who have given our lives to this Monastery -- many of us have been here since birth -- have been forced to hide in our own home.

Slowly, he has been eliminating us. At first, there were accidents. An Ezekiel named Dr. John Frazier was crushed while changing a tire on our SUV, alone on a backroad here. A Rachel named Louise, one of the senior nurses, fell down some stairs. You saw what has been done to Becky, the girl he began to devour before your blessed Max did what humans are too scared to do; all Becky is guilty of is fidelity to her fiance, who is due to return from Iran next month.

When the earthquake came, the "Prophet" threw himself down upon the ground and shook and pooped and peed on himself off and on for eight hours. He calls it his Holy Travail. He has been shouting so-called Prophecy ever since: if the wind changes, he will say, "Lo, the wind did change, and the Prophet did say it was so!" He uses this to control his followers more than ever before. He directed them to get uniforms and set up roadblocks, and at every roadblock he has been offering people the chance to pay the toll and pass, or to not pass. The toll is a bite of their flesh, and as you may have noticed today, it is the only thing that sexually excites him. So once he takes a bite, he takes another bite. And another, and once he is aroused, he may as well satisfy both appetites at once. 

God help me, I was glad when he began to go down to the roadblocks to feed, as my Rachels were spared any further torment. But then he got hungrier. He sent people out with green glowsticks around their necks to wait in areas where the lights have gone out. You may have seen them, they break the glowsticks and surround the car and stop it, if they can. Their job is to herd people to the roadblocks, but many of them, desiring to be like their "Prophet," have begun to attack and eat people as well.

Yours was the last car to get across Bollinger, only the center of the center island remains, at last report. Anyone coming across must do so on foot. The Prophet was down there, eating a pregnant woman, when you drove across. It enraged him because he hadn't predicted it. Which is why his followers combed the area so thoroughly to find you. I have no idea what happened to the people still waiting after you crossed. I hope they went away, and that they are safe.

There are hundreds of his followers, now: possibly a thousand. Every time one person pays the toll, the "Prophet" has the rest of the occupants of the car brought here. And what do they see? Food, light, a place to sleep. As long as they do what he says, they live. 

Mt. Diablo's eruption has given him too much power. The night you arrived, he instructed a new Ezekiel to bite off his own penis and thus be cleansed of mortal want. When the young man could not succeed at this task, he threw himself from the balcony of the main house and died. Severed spinal cord. I think he was a lifeguard before he tried to leave the area with his parents and sisters. Now they are here and they are not permitted to grieve, lest they appear to un-believe the "Prophet."

Here is what you need to know: tomorrow morning, he will eat your Max, if they catch him. If not, he will try to eat you. Key to his power is the mystery of his origins; only I know his name, his history and his weakness. Learn it, memorize it, and use it! Speak the Prophecy if he tries to eat you, shout louder, shake harder -- it's all illusion. You have some theatrical experience, this I know. Improvise.

His name is Torvald Mayberry. He is 56 years old, never married. Former Pastor of Three Square Christian Church and Missionary Bible School, in Castro Valley. Left under a cloud of suspected sexual misconduct and embezzlement, surprise surprise. Here's the kicker: he is utterly, completely terrified of rabbits.

I hope that's enough for you to go on; from what I heard about Edward's performance in the car on the night you arrived, I trust that you have similar improvisational skills. Living with such a talented man, how could you not?

I believe in you, Veronica. I believe you are our salvation. I no longer look to prophecy, I look to the human race. If you can out-preach him, you will save us all.

Burn this now, please.

Yours sincerely,

Mother Henrietta

Whoever you are, Mother Henrietta, you have chosen the wrong person to improvise and out-preach the Prophet. Veronica has a hard time speaking to small groups of people, there is no way she can step up and outdo this Prophet fuckmook. Damn this broken leg, if I could just move around freely, I could help her.

But maybe ... maybe there's something I can do ...

First things first: make sure she remembers. Read the part about the Prophet to her. Leaning gently to my right, I turn so I can see her face and lean against the little table. I whisper:

"Veronica, stay sleeping. I'm speaking to you in your dreams. Dream of me, and stay asleep. I need to tell you about this guy, this Prophet. Remember his name: Torvald Mayberry, former Pastor of Three Square Christian Church and Missionary Bible School in Castro Valley. Remember this: Torvald Mayberry, former Pastor of Three Square Christian Church and Missionary Bible School in Castro Valley. Torvald Mayberry, former Pastor of Three Square Christian Church and Missionary Bible School in Castro Valley. Say it with me now: Torvald Mayberry, former Pastor of Three Square Christian Church and Missionary Bible School in Castro Valley."

Her lips seem to move, but no sound comes out. I have to trust that she said it with me. Moving on:

"I'm going to help you prepare to improvise against the Prophet, Veronica --"

She makes a small sound of alarm, barely a breath. But I know that sound, it's a scream in her dreams, so I lean forward and allow myself a touch more volume:

"He has no power over you; if you see him, he is trapped. He is in a glass case, bulletproof glass two feet thick. He is silent, you are loud. He can hear you, but he is silent. He is just a man. Oh ..."

Leg. Pain. Ignore, please, please, just breathe ... dizzy ... have to keep pain to myself, if she senses it she may wake up ... I see her head turn from side to side, I pause, watching, not sure if I can escape in time if she wakes. After a few moments, she subsides. I take a breath and try to speak through the pain.

"Now repeat everything I say: first and foremost, while the key to comedy is incongruity; in this case, you only want to use incongruity if you must, because you're not trying to make them laugh, you're trying to make them believe ... whoo, youch ... okay ... oh, and remember, he is afraid of rabbits. He's afraid of rabbits. We have a rabbit. He's afraid of rabbits. Remember that. Okay. So, improvisation: remember it's a case of 'yes, and ...', meaning that you take their energy and top it. Take whatever they give, affirm it, and if you can you should twist it before throwing it back at them ..."

Her forehead is creased in the Veronica frown. I think I'm rushing this, but I have to get it all out ... hard to concentrate ...

"Know what you want, and how you are going to get it. Make a choice and stick to it. In this case, you want to top him. Say that, 'Know what you want and how you're going to get it ...'" I watch as her lips sort of move. Maybe that's enough. Going on: "Now, because you are preaching you want to keep your words rooted in the real world, in things that you can see, touch, feel, hear and taste. Stick to the palpable because he's probably going to obsess on things that can't be proven or disproven, like God, the Devil, shit like that. So the way to remember this is, No whales on dry land. Say that now. Say it three times, it may be the most important thing I tell you tonight: no whales on dry land, no whales on dry land, no whales on dry land. So when you preach, keep it focused on ... wait, did I already say that? I can't remember ... um, in case I didn't say this, remember: the successful actor knows what she wants and how she is going to get it; with nothing else, you can succeed where all others fail."

... breathe ... deeply ... through the nose ... exhale, imagining all pain and nausea dissipating like smoke ... inhale ... exhale ...

"Okay. The final thing I need to tell you: he's afraid of rabbits as you know, so quote Watership Down if you can. I think the first lines are, 'Long ago, Great Frith made the world.' You won't need more than that. And once you start talking about Frith, you may as well start speaking in tongues. Just ... say whatever comes into your head. See some trees? Say, 'trees-and-leaves-and-leaves-and-trees-branches-branch-ranch-ranch-ranka-danka-doo, hamana hamana hamana, ding-ding, I love a party ...' whatever comes to mind. See? Speaking in tongues is just gibberish, it has nothing to do with foreign languages. Okay. Wow. I may throw up. Sorry if I do. Um ... let's see ..."

I lean my head back and can't move for a while ... tired ... need to tell her something ... 

"Once you've got their attention, believe everything you say. Give 'em the old razzle-dazzle, honey ... if they think you believe it, people will believe anything you say ..."

... head hurts exhausted ... so dizzy ... can't stop thinking about the time I ended up in Veronica's wooden cell in an old barn and I found that letter from a lady I'd never met. What did I do then? I had to find a way to help her. What was it? What did I ... room is spinning ...

Pop.

Cold, hard gravel. Raining. Jesus, where am I now?! And then Jesus says, Hey, fucker, you're whenever I say you are. I'm, like, the Lord. Heh, heh -- not funny really, not funny at all. Why am I laughing ... this leg hurts more than ever. Paging Nurse Veronica ... find me in that clump of bushes ... I'll be ... sleeping ...

Still raining under bushes. Not as bad, but not great. Have I slept? I feel a little clearer. There's something over there, something yellow. I'm pulling myself toward it, crawling with my left leg, trying to gently drag my right leg, crying out every time it jars against a rock. Which is every second I'm moving. Ella Fitzgerald, Rodgers and Hart Songbook, why are you in my head? I'd feel so rich in / A hut for two ...

It's a tent. A yellow tent. Go in or stay in cold rain, in a hospital gown? Clear choice.

I start to unzip the tent, but a voice speaks from inside:

"Hold it, buddy. We can't touch. Just give me a second."

I see a light glow in the tent, and the music turns down. Oh, it's music. I wasn't imagining it. Okay. Whoever this guy is, he's taking his sweet fucking time.

"Whoever I am, I'm taking my sweet fucking time," he says.

The door zips open.

Sitting there in front of me in old REI pants and my green REI jacket is ...

Me.

I'm staring in shock and I -- he -- laugh. Laughs.

"Tad, this is not a dream. Come in carefully, stick to that side of the tent. If we touch, we seize. I need to tell you some things, and then I'm gone. This will be your tent, your place, for quite a while. Now get the fuck in here, I remember how cold it was out there."

I pull myself into the tent. Two sleeping bags, a nice thick vintage Thermarest, some pillows. He throws a towel at me. 

"Dry your head first, you're going to have a cold for a little while, but why make it any worse?" 

I start drying my head and we study each other. He is much thinner than I am, there is a lot more silver in his hair, and his beard is longer than mine has ever been, longer even than when I finished backpacking the Roosevelt/Solomons trail in 2009. He looks a little like a wizard.

"I look a little like a wizard?" he asks, and we both laugh.

"Do you have anything to eat?" I ask, and he's throwing Cliff bars at me. He throws a bottle of water, too. It's got something in it.

"Cytomax," he says. Ah, yes. Good shit. "Eat, get dry, put on this clean hospital gown. You'll be leaving, soon, and I need to anchor you to this spot."

"Shit. Where am I going?"

"To help Veronica. You're going to need to put some pillows under us where we sleep in the hospital house first, then find Chauncey. You can take him with you, you can even take people with you. But I have to caution you against that: it will not work well. If you take someone out of time with you, it is up to you to reassemble their timeline. And we're already fucked up enough as it is. So. Chauncey is in a stand of Oak trees about three hundred yards down the slope behind the barn you just came from. Don't hesitate, just grab him. Here's your anchor." He holds up a gold amulet, exactly like the one I left for Veronica. He cuts his thumb, rubs his blood on it, hands it to me with the knife. I cut my thumb, rub my blood on it.

"Is this all it needs?" I ask him.

"Yes. It's gold. Gold and blood are beacons. You will snap back here harder than anything you've yet experienced. All I can say is, don't thrash when you land and take the time to rest every time you arrive. Oh, also: if you have a bunny with you, try not to land on him. Now: try to sleep. I've got soothing music." He dials through selections on an iPod I've never seen before: it looks like it's made of flexible clear plastic.  I get into the sleeping bag, stretching out awkwardly with the heavy plaster cast. He taps it. "That's never going to heal properly, sorry to say. Yoga will help, though."

"What should I do once I get Chauncey?" I ask.

"When you snap back here, lie still and get him to relax on your ... belly. He needs to get used to that. Wow, I forgot how pudgy we were," he's grinning at me with the same grin I use to asshole my way through bad jokes in public. It works, probably because we're me. "Once you're both relaxed, focus on V. She's got the amulet you left her, brilliant impulse, follow those -- unless they involve taking someone else through time! Got that? Even if you think you're saving her ... their ... life. Tad. It's my one regret, do you understand me?"

"More than anything in Boston?" I ask.

"Eternally more," he says. Wow. We're very serious. "V. has the amulet, you'll be drawn to her, but there's something you need to understand: right now there are three of us in time. There's you, there in that sleeping bag, now. There's me, here, older, now. And there's you, in 2012, unconscious in that room. That you and this you are the same you, which is why you are so dizzy. So when you snap back there, focus on clicking back into you. It's kind of like the amygdala thing, learning to tickle it with an imaginary feather. You've got to get all the way in. You will know when it happens, you'll feel and hear a kind of snapping like a rubber band. Once you're there, you'll have a lot more control. You'll need to pop back here for Chauncey, he'll hop onto your belly if you relax enough before you leave, get it?"

"Yes," I say. And I do. It's almost like we're speaking in mental shorthand: I see pictures of everything he says.

"That's good, so do I. But it only lasts until you're clicked back in, in the hospital room; if ever you feel it again, know that you may be about to meet with yourself in another time and place. But it will be more of a trickle than a wave. So: pop back here when the Prophet slams your bed through the French Doors --"

"What the fuck -- ?"

"You'll be fine if you pop back here. Generally. You'll need some advice from the ladies. Ask it, be charming. Veronica misses us so badly, Tad. She needs us to be gallant and brave every time we appear. Be as nonchalant and devil-may-care as possible. You are her hero, now. Be that," he says, shaking his head a little. "Before you ask your next question, listen: get Chauncey onto your belly. Hold him there. Pop into the bed as the Prophet comes off the little grassy rise or you and the rabbit may fall out. Then keep your eyes shut and lie still with your hands on Chauncey until he puts the sheet over you. After that, do whatever comes to mind. Now, ask your question."

"You said Veronica misses us so badly. Have you gotten back to her yet? Ever? Once?"

"No," he says. Barely a whisper. This hits like a sandbag.

"How long have you been here?" I'm yelling a little, but I don't care and I know he won't.

"Ten years," he says, nodding slightly, looking directly into my eyes. "Go on, ask."

"What year is it?" I almost don't want to know.

"2005," he says. My next question almost asks itself:

"Where the hell are we?"

"We're in the yellow tent, among the thick coyote bushes in the ravine, down by the train tracks at the end of your street. It's early February. I watched you two pull into the parking lot to interview with the landlords earlier today. She loves you so much, Tad. You should have married her already. You should have kids by now. We have been so foolish."

His face crinkles up and he's crying quietly but still looking at me, reaching out as close as he can without touching my arm.

"Go back. Tell yourself, warn us: marry her in 2002, when you have the money. Marry her right away, all this can be avoided if you convince yourself. Time and events are malleable as clay, Tad. Fix it. You'll bounce around a lot in time, pinballing. Whisper to us in our sleep. If we had kids, if we only had kids ..."

He takes a ragged breath, convulsed with grief.

And he's gone.

Debacle, Part I

The actor has graduated from a prestigious conservatory on the East Coast. Owing to a family emergency, he finds himself back home in California for a time, and must find temporary employment in order to fund his return to New York. Casting about for theatrical work that pays, he finds a teaching opportunity in a small town not twenty minutes from his family's home.
He is interviewed by a man several years younger than himself, who seems to doubt the actor's training and qualifications. The actor leaves the interview somewhat shocked that the interviewer only asked if he could teach specific classes and never asked what he could teach. He takes a job with an outfit called, "TheaterSmartiez Theater For Kidz!!!"
Smartiez is run by a somewhat desperate woman in her late forties. Her name is LouAnne. She likes to be called Ann. She specifies, "Ann, A-n-n. Don't pronounce the E."
"Isn't it silent, anyway?"
Long silence.
"I can see you've got a lot of training," she smiles. Genuinely pleased, for some reason. He's uncomfortable, having borrowed his sister's car to drive to this very hot little alleyway in San Jose to pick up the supplies for this theatre class he's supposed to teach. There's no air conditioning in this building, but she is not sweating. On his father's advice, he has worn a suit. It does not fit well. He can feel his sweat soaking through his undershirt, shirt, tie and jacket. But he is afraid to take any of it off in case he has to beat a hasty retreat.
"You've read my resume? That's a relief, the last two people I interviewed with didn't even glance at it," and here he pauses, having looked at the envelope he sent with a fancy resume printed on fancy paper, sealed in a fancy presentation folder with a wax seal. An unbroken wax seal. She hasn't, in fact, seen his resume. The only thing she's read is his cover letter; it's there, on her desk, his phone number circled in red. There's a coffee stain on the resume. She glances at it and she blushes, but it looks more like a spiderwebbing of varicose veins and gin blossoms pulsing across her face under her skin. She laughs and her gums look like she is cultivating plankton under her lips. He is deeply alarmed.
"I didn't need to read your resume, I know you by reputation, Mr. ..." a glance at his last name, "Mr. X."
He is genuinely surprised and a little pleased. "Who did you talk to?"
"The guy at that theatre over there in ... what's the name of that town ... ?"
"Livermore?"
"Yes! Nice man."
"Yes, he is. Want to see my impersonation of him?"
"Sure, another time. Anyway, he said to hire you, so here you are. Now: the box of supplies requires a forty-five dollar deposit on your part and if you don't return them, I keep that forty-five dollars. You'll arrive at the Cherrywood Preparatory Academy in Newark at 3:10 pm, you'll check in at the office and proceed to the cafeteria where you will run a theater program. This is Monday through Friday 3:10 pm to 5:10 pm. If you miss a day, you're fired; if you're late, you're fired; if you swear or blaspheme or touch a kid, you're fired. Miss Smith will be there with you every day as your assistant, and she will watch you like a hawk. Miss Smith reports directly to me. Miss Smith hates homosexuals, so watch yourself."
He's a little shocked, and sits silent for a minute. Then he says, "If Ken had such good things to say about me, why would you think I'd touch a kid?"
She grins. "Standard fare. I have to say that to all of our instructors. Nothing personal."
"Don't you require fingerprinting?"
"Not for after-school programs," she's all business now, putting forms in a folder and putting the folder in a plastic bin full of crafts supplies.
"Why not?"
"The instructors are on campus, the school is there to watch out for the kids, if something goes wrong, it's their responsibility."
She shoves the tub at him.
"Fill out the forms and send them in when the class is complete, you'll get your check 90 days after that."
"Should I sign a contract?"
"Oh! Right, of course," she looks around, a little perplexed. "Where did I put them?" She starts rummaging, mumbling about the newly reorganized office. It does not look reorganized to him. The only newly-anything about it is the newly-settled layer of dust on the piles of paper on the table and file cabinets behind her. She searches for so long, knocks over so many things looking, that he decides to cut it short:
"You know what? Send me the contract. I'll sign it and send it back to you. Here's my money-order for the supplies."
She ceases her search immediately and grabs the money-order, perusing it thoroughly, her beady eyes screwed up like Buddy Hackett. In fact, she looks and acts so much like the old comedian that he chokes back an involuntary laugh. She bends down to put the check in a drawer and farts.
The laughter dies in his soul. The fart has a thick and meaty sound to it, as though it's been squeezed through two very wet slabs of salted beef. It ends with a high, liquid squirt that leaves little to the imagination. The room is filled with the smell of old, old cabbage and musty pumpkins and something deeper, something darker, something like what one would expect to find in a recently-raided crypt.
He can't breathe, he's afraid he'll vomit. He is smiling as hard as he can, pretending he didn't notice as she flaps some papers around in the drawer. He wants to leave, and he can feel the vomit rising as he begins to feel faint from the heat. He is certain he will die if she tries to revive him. Her ineptitude is only surpassed by the odor of her undead flatus.
"Thanks so much, bye!" he gasps out, then turns and runs smack into the door, falling over and hitting his head on the desk, biting his tongue hard as he hits the floor. The last thing he hears before losing consciousness is, "Smith! Get in here!"
He isn't out for long. Or perhaps he dreams it. But Miss Smith, svelte and twenty-something, comes in from another place and there must be air conditioning because the room is cool and it smells nice and she is wearing a white ankle-length skirt and when she steps over him to get water from the cooler he sees that she is wearing no panties and she is a real redhead, au naturel. He is instantly aroused but cannot do anything about it. He's unable to move. Or breathe. Sudden panic hits: he's knocked the wind out of himself! Struggling to breathe, afraid of smelling that fart again, he despairs of ever escaping this small, hot, dusty place. He closes his eyes again, every bad fall from childhood clear in his mind as he fights the panic and makes gasping noises like a dying frog in Death Valley.
The pain eases. He can breathe. He opens his eyes. Miss Smith is indeed a redhead, quite lovely and very hot-for-teacher with her green cat's eye glasses. She is mopping his brow. He smells oranges. He takes an exploratory breath, his lungs aching.
"Where's --"
"LouAnne went to the bank. Thank God. Are you here to pick up your paycheck?"
"No," he tries to move his hands to cover his embarrassment, but there's no way without being obvious or grazing her inner thigh with his knuckle.
"Are you sure? Because I can write you the check right now, I'm authorized," she says, still mopping his brow.
He sits up slightly, she hands him a cup of cool water.
"I haven't started teaching yet. I start Monday," he sips the water and looks at her face, her freckles, her green eyes, her full lips. He wants to ask her to marry him. Instead, he tries to adjust his pants, only enhancing the appearance of his excitement. Her eyes follow his hand, her head tilts and her eyes widen. There is the briefest of deeply pregnant silences. She takes a breath.
"I'll get you your check," and she is gone. He hears typing in the other room as he adjusts himself, tucking it under the band of his boxer-briefs.
Five minutes pass. He sips the water. He feels better. Miss Smith returns and offers him a hand up. She's smiling.
"Here's your check. Take it to the bank today," she hands him an envelope with the check inside, the flap folded inward. She grasps his hand, looks him in the eyes. His pulse leaps. "Today," she says.
He picks up the plastic tub and says, "Thank you, Miss Smith."
She walks him to the door, opens it for him. He is trying to think of something to say. He cannot. He turns once he's outside. She's got the door half-closed, he can only see the right side of her face.
"You're welcome," she says, unblinking eye contact lasting a full ten seconds. Then the door is closed and she locks it. He stands there in the dusk of San Jose, wondering idly how hours had passed. The sun has just set. The OPEN light switches off, the blinds are already closed. The small, brown cinderblock building looks as though it has been abandoned for years.
He walks to his sister's car, hoping to see Miss Smith in the lot. His is the sole vehicle in the freshly-painted lot. He puts the tub in, gets into the car, rolls down all the windows and cranks the air conditioning.
As he is driving North on 880, he begins to feel better. Miss Smith will be at every class, "watching him". He will see her again. He will make a point of never mentioning his angry ex-girlfriend or the broken hearts, mostly his, of his years in Arkham, MA. He drives North with all the windows down, air conditioning off, enjoying the dry heat of a California summer evening.
Consequently, he does not notice that the check flies out the window somewhere around the Tennyson exit.

© 2010, Edward Hightower. All Rights Reserved.