Too Many Cooks

Len - Chapter 5

Previously …

Somehow the word treasure seemed more believable being spoken in this cavernous hideaway. Old milk crates of discarded power cords curled up under the workbench serpent-like and the curved metal roof of the structure caused our whispers to echo slightly.

“Nessie, you can trust me.” 

After all I was an impartial observer here. My aim was to collect data. To collect stories, not personal effects. Although from the look of things on the property, I couldn’t imagine what type of treasure she was talking about but human curiosity won out. 

“What do you mean, you don’t want Len to know about the treasure?”

“There’s treasure here on the property. Surely you don’t think I’d stay here in this heaven forsaken place for no reason. I’m dying, not crazy.”

“So you could leave if you wanted to?” I pressed. I may not be an advocate but this case was causing my brain to hurt and to battle with itself.

“Of course, dear. I’m not a prisoner. You see how easy I snuck out,” she snickered, still feeling the effects of the long drags of pot she’d soaked up, no doubt. “Oh my, but I do seem to have soiled myself. Could you help me get cleaned up?”

Her clarity of communication was in such stark contrast to her physical appearance that it took me a moment to reconcile the two. Clearly we needed to get her back to the house. She got herself out here but now, slightly wobbly from the self-medicating and because she was trying to walk holding her gown so the moisture that ran down her leg wouldn’t cause the fabric to cling to her, she needed an arm to steady her return course.

We moved slowly but deliberately back through the high grass amidst the grabbing twigs of plants long since neglected that reached out in the hopes that someone would come to their aid. I indicated for Nessie to stop for a moment when I heard a rustling in the grass. Sometimes I really hated these rural interviews. Too much nature wasn’t my speed. Then I saw a field mouse scamper away and let my breath back out.

Even with her slight frame and wobbly motion we returned to the house in a matter of a few minutes, opting for the side door instead of her windowed exit route. We had to go single file through various spots past the kitchen counter and through the hallway back to Nessie’s room with a view. I sat her on the commode and while I didn’t have any nursing training, I figured I could at least help her get changed and back into bed. I had noticed she had started to wheeze ever so slightly shortly before we got back to the house.

I found a new gown for her in the dresser and ventured into the bathroom hoping that I would be the sole inhabitant on two or more legs. As expected it was as “unkempt” as the rest of the residence but I found a relatively clean, albeit tattered, washcloth and a small plastic basin. Filling it was a little warm water and grabbing a bar of soap from the dish next to the sink I headed back to the bedroom.

By the time I returned Nessie had disrobed and sat on the commode with her gown held up as a privacy shield in front of her, tucked underneath her arms to keep her hands free. She and Lulu were in a staring competition with the bedraggled mutt stationed on the corner of the bed with her head slightly tilted to one side, the doggy version of the a girl standing with one hip jutted out.

Nessie took the washcloth from the basin and slowly dragged it over her sagging skin. There was a frailty to her skin that was still too big for her shrinking body despite its compressed, crumpled-paper complexion. Still, there was a certain elegance about her and I found myself wondering what she looked like when she was younger. I took the cloth and helped her with the spots she couldn’t easily reach and then got her dried off and redressed.

I could see that her outing had taken its toll as she struggled to get from the seated position. I gave her a hand and got her back to bed, tucking her in in an odd role reversal from the days when I had visited my grandmother as a child and had been tucked in. My gran would always kiss me on the top of the head and I had to restrain myself from transferring that memory from my head to the physical world. It had been a long time since I’d smoked pot and clearly I wasn’t as clear-headed as I thought.

“Dear, could you get me my comb? No sense putting on a fresh gown and having my hair undone.” She smiled as if to say thank you, not only for your kindness but for your silence. We hadn’t spoken at all since we left the shed.

She’d indicated that it was in the top drawer of the dresser. Inside the drawer I also found a box of graham crackers that were likely contraband snuck in by one of the nurses. Len may have “forgotten” to feed her at times, but clearly someone was conspiring to keep Nessie in snacks. I pulled the box out and motioned to see if Nessie would bite.

“Not just yet, but I could use some water.”

I headed back to the kitchen and hoped that I would find a clean glass there. I made a lucky guess as to which cabinet might house the glassware and took out a small tumbler. Opening the fridge to see if there might be some bottled water I wasn’t entirely surprised to find it sparsely populated. Surprisingly there was a gallon jug of water, so I filled the glass that looked to be one of those collectible edition jelly jars.

Returning to the bedroom Nessie looked like she’d dozed off but her eyelids fluttered open when I approached. She took the water and sipped gingerly at it after sniffing it. Before I could return to our earlier conversation I heard the tell-tale sound of gravel being crushed under an approaching vehicle. While I had gone looking for the escapee, Len had made his own escape.

The truck door squeaked before it slammed shut. It was an old rusty pick-up and from the sound of that door, it may have met abruptly with another unfortunate vehicle at some point. Then a second slam as the screen door slammed from the tug of the spring that automatically closed the door behind him. He seemed startled by the fact that I was still there as I met him in the kitchen.

The brown grocery bag on the table provided a barrier between us. A couple of familiar bottlenecks shown out the top. Jack Daniels was his constant companion, the only one welcomed here.

“I found her.” I said, simply as a factual remark, without emotion.

I was met, as I expected with an unimpressed, “That so. Well then I expect you must be done here.” There was a touch of belligerence growing in his tone. I pegged that it was fueled by liquid courage and decided that I didn’t want to spark anything.

“Yeah, I think I’ve gotten what I need … for now.”

I went to retrieve my bag and take another peek in Nessie’s door. This time she was asleep as I could tell from the slight muffled snore she emitted. Heading out the side door to my car I had to shoo Lulu away from the door. That little mutt certainly could get under foot but was likely just looking for someone with opposable thumbs who could make some food appear in a bowl.

On my way to the car I heard the screen door slam again. It had started to take on Len’s cantankerous personality and seemed to slam louder than necessary. Len stood framed by the doorway, and this time his imposing figure was made more menacing by the shotgun that was now resting along the length of his leg.

“I think our interview has concluded,” Len barked at me as I got into my car.

Heart-racing I clutched the steering wheel with one hand tried to turn the ignition key with the other, all the while keeping my eyes firmly affixed to the straggly-haired creature that guarded the house like a odoriferous gargoyle. I was just an observer here, not an advocate. Keep my distance. That was clearly what all parties wanted me to do. I tried to shove thoughts of Nessie and questions about treasure out of my head as the car rumbled to life. I’d just started to pull away when I heard one final sound.

“Yelp!”

Len - chapter 4

Previously…

I tried to rouse Len from his seat, hoping there really was a small measure of love guttering in his dark heart, but he remained fixed and staring.

I figured Nessie couldn’t have gotten far, so I went out the front door and circled around the side by her window. There was no sign of her, but the grass was short and trampled; it looked like this wasn’t the first time Nessie had gone AWOL. I tried to follow her path through the yard, but lost it a few yards from the house. I looked around and noticed the rampant neglect and decay I’d missed from the road.

Unruly blackberry brambles were encroaching from all sides and johnsongrass was spreading like a cancer over the ruins of a once fine bluegrass lawn. Rosebushes had been left untended to choke themselves out. Tiny, sickly buds were all the thorny masses could produce.

I zigzagged back and forth over the yard, looking for any sign of Nessie. I scanned in the distance, searching for her frail and crumpled form in the gently rolling lawn. I checked the ground nearby for footprints like some mountain tracker. I noticed a soft lump of green, a sudden and unexpected wave cresting up from the flat plane. I found myself drifting toward it.

As I got closer, its form sharpened up. It looked like an old garage or carriage house had succumbed in a sea of kudzu. The big doors were invisible beneath the twisting vines, but as I walked up a small door on the side swam into view. A few stray vines swung limply over it, but the rest had been cleanly pruned away. I tried the knob and pushed the door open into the gloom.

Motor oil and sawdust tinged the cool air, with a faint undercurrent of juniper or a musty Christmas tree lot. The dark building was oddly inviting and I still needed to find Nessie, so I ventured inside.

My eyes adjusted to the dim, greenish light. I felt like an explorer in an underwater grotto or a deserted temple buried in a tropical rainforest. To my left was a workbench and pegboard with artfully arranged tools. A hammer hung here, two wrenches placed just so, a set of screwdrivers with matching yellow handles lined up from tallest to shortest like a kindergarten class on its way to lunch. Screws and nails and nuts and rivets were organized by size and type in jars on a shelf. An old coffee can promising its contents were “Good to the last drop” overflowed with the bits and bobs that didn’t fit anywhere else. The workshop was organized and neat, in its way, and I couldn’t imagine someone like Len spending one minute inside it.

I caught some movement out of the corner of my eye and turned toward it. A small blob of gray-green, darker than the surrounding gray-green, shifted in the corner. A bright orange glow, like a lightning bug or a beacon, blossomed near the top of the shadow. I’d found Nessie and she was medicating herself.

“You want a toke?” she asked as I picked my way across the room. I figured the day couldn’t get much stranger. What the hell. I inhaled.

It was the first smoke I’d had since my ex went west, and I felt the lightness hit the back of my head before I’d even started blowing the first lungful of sweet smoke out. I’d almost forgotten how nice it could feel to get high because I wanted to and not because my boyfriend was getting stoned yet again. Looking back, I realized I was glad he got a fellowship in California. We’d both checked out of that relationship long before he left.

I passed the joint back to Nessie and sat on the floor next to her. “So tell me about Len. Why isn’t he giving you your meds?”

Nessie closed her eyes, took a long drag - longer than I’d have expected from her tired old lungs - and held it for a good fifteen seconds. I took hold of her wrist after ten just to make sure her heart was still beating, but it was going strong. The old girl might have been on her last lap, but she could hold her pot.

“He wants me to die quick so he can sell the farm. He doesn’t know I’ve already changed my will. He ain’t getting nothing. I’m leaving it all to Lulu. And…”

She trailed off and pinched the tip of the joint, dropping the remnants into another coffee can sitting by her side. “And what, Nessie?”

She put her hand over mine and looked me right in the eye, wit and clarity still sparkling in hers. “I don’t know why, but I think I can trust you. He mustn’t know about the treasure.”

Len - Chapter 3

Previously

“Huh?” Len’s stare came into focus, as if he had actually heard me. “What kind of question is that?”

“It’s the kind of question I need to ask,” I replied. “Why don’t we go back into the other room and let your mother sleep while we chat.” I moved toward him, as that was the only direction available to me in the midst of the clutter. Len put Lulu down and she disappeared from sight. He backed out of the doorway and returned to his well worn place on the couch. I saw what appeared to be a sturdy wooden chair holding two tubs of assorted blankets and clothing. It was obvious Len wasn’t in the mood to be a helpful sort of a guy, so I lugged the tubs to other stacks nearby and took a seat.

All of the windows were open, and the sweet air pouring in provided a stark contrast to the musty odors in the house. Len watched me as I made a place for myself, scratching absentmindedly at his scruffy beard the way a dog might scratch his neck.

I tried again. “Len, do you love your mother?”

He dug around on the coffee table, shaking packs of cigarettes until he finally shook one free. He repeated this process while looking for a match, then he lit the cigarette and leaned back. I sat silently, waiting for his response. It came after three long pulls on the cigarette.

“Do I love my mother? Hell, I’m here taking care of her. That counts for something, don’t it?” He seemed agitated, and I could see him dart a longing look at what was left of his bottle of Jack.

“Let’s talk about that. What exactly do you do to take care of Nessie?” I knew I should write down his responses, but after all of this time, I could predict what he would say. He was like so many others.

“Well, I feed her. I give her medication when she needs it. I help her get to the bathroom. I take her to see the doctor. You know. That kind of stuff.” He tapped the ash from his cigarette in the general direction of the ash tray. Most of it fell to the floor.

“When did she last see her doctor?” I wondered if Len would tell the truth or if he would try to pull a fast one on me. I knew from Gerald that Len had cancelled the last two appointments and not rescheduled.

Len looked up at the ceiling, as if in thought. “I think maybe one of the home care nurses took her to her last appointment because I was out of town for a day or two.” He didn’t look at me because he knew how weak his answer sounded.

“That’s odd, because Dr. Leach said you cancelled Nessie’s last two appointments and never rescheduled. What’s going on here, Len?” I tried not to sound harsh, because that usually made family members close up on me. This situation was tricky; at this point, I felt that Nessie needed medical treatment instead of an end-of-life interview. I needed Len to see me as his ally; otherwise, he’d never agree to take Nessie to see Dr. Leach and he might even forbid me from visiting in the future.

“I can’t do this no more.” He ran a hand through his tangle of hair. “You think she’s dying? What about me? I’m stuck in this dump, we’re living off of her Social Security, and nobody really gives a rat’s ass as to whether or not either of us live or die. There’s times I think the best thing to do would be to put us both out of our misery.” He looked down at a gun on the coffee table and I knew he meant what he said. The problem was more serious than I expected and I wasn’t certain of how to proceed. I had yet to spend time with Nessie and was operating solely on my gut feeling that she wasn’t ready to meet her Maker. Len, on the other hand, seemed more than ready to meet his and take Nessie along with him. The situation worried me.

“Maybe I can help.” I stood up and moved toward the bedroom. “I need to spend some time with your mother first and then you and I will talk again. Why don’t you stay out here and watch some television while I visit with Nessie?”

Len grabbed the bottle of Jack and slumped back on the sofa. He turned on the television and I could hear the squeals of excited audience members as game show contestants bid on fabulous prizes. Len seemed oblivious to my presence. His eyes glazed over as he tipped the bottle against his lips and let the amber liquid work its magic.

I entered Nessie’s room and walked over to the bed. The lump under the covers didn’t move. I called, “Nessie? Nessie?” I nudged the lump. Something didn’t feel right.

Pulling back the sheet, I found two pillows, but no Nessie. I looked around the room, thinking she had perhaps gotten up to use her commode and fallen in the process. There was no sign of her anywhere.

“Len?” I called out, but knew he would not answer. I picked my way through the debris on the floor and went back into the room where Len was still slouched on the sofa. “Len! Len!”

The volume of my voice finally roused him. He looked over at me and for a moment, didn’t know who I was. Once my identity registered, he responded. “What? What do you want now?”

“Nessie is gone,” I said.

“What are you talking about? She’s in her bed, right where I left her. Did you look there?” He was irritated with what he perceived to be my inability to see his mother right in front of my eyes.

“Of course I looked in her bed. Her pillows are there, but she isn’t. Come and see for yourself.” I made my way back into the bedroom and waited several minutes for Len to appear. He walked over and stood next to me, staring at the pillows. Then he looked up at the huge double window above the hospital bed. One of the windows was open.

“Aw, shit,” he said. “She’s gone out the window. I guess I forgot to lock it last night.” Len turned and walked back into the living room, leaving me alone with the empty hospital bed.

Len — Chapter 2

Chapter 1

At first you pretend not to notice. Or maybe it’s more that you learn not to see what you’re looking at. You walk into someone’s living room enough times where there’s an eight-foot-tall mounted black bear in the corner standing claws-out next to a treadmill being used as a dish rack and eventually you learn to not even turn your head. You just smile and move on to wherever they point you. I think in most cases the manner one organizes his belongings doesn’t necessarily say anything more about his character than how he prefers to organize his belongings. This is almost certainly true in the situations I tend to meet people in, which makes it relatively easy to ignore peculiarities. A couple months ago there was a man who’d rearranged all the furniture in his house so that it was facing southeast. Every chair, bookcase, end table, even the ottoman he’d pulled up beside his wife’s hospital bed in the dining room. He said it made him feel warmer. I knew enough not to ask.

When Gerald called me about this place, he’d warned me the rooms were a little unkempt. That’s the word he used: unkempt. “Hello, Ms. Horovitz. This is Gerald Johnson calling from Dr. Leach’s office.” He said it every time, as though caller ID doesn’t exist. Or even if it didn’t, like I wouldn’t just know his voice. We’ve been talking once, twice a week for five years. I’ve interviewed him, I’ve been to their office Christmas party and witnessed his karaoke version of “Santa Baby” (he makes a convincing Eartha Kitt after a few drinks), and I’ve even politely turned down a fumbled request for dinner.

“You know you can call me Althea, Gerald.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Althea, Gerald. Now how are you?”

“I’m well, Ms. Horovitz. Thank you for asking. I’ve called because we have another candidate if you’re interested.”

I moved the cat from my lap and found a notebook. “I’m always interested, Gerald.”

“Her name is Agnes. She lives with her son. We’ve spoken to him about your work and have his initial consent. Shall I continue?”

He continued. I got the information. Gerald mentioned the boxes, in his way. Later that afternoon I spoke briefly with Len on the telephone. I explained I research end-of-life care and that I was hoping to ask him and his mother some questions. I left out that I’d been working on my dissertation for six years and while my advisor was continually impressed with the amount of data I’d collected at the bedsides of the soon-departed, all I felt I’d accomplished was a lingering minor depression, an immunity to certain smells, and the ability to turn a live-in boyfriend into an ex-boyfriend who lives in Berkeley. (“People die in California, too,” he said before he left. “I don’t know why you have to stay here. People die everywhere.”) Len gave me the address and now here I was.

I look down at the bed, where this sad woman furtively burrowed herself away. “Agnes,” I say. “Agnes, did I hear you right?”

“Nessie.”

I look over at the doorway and there he is. He has the dog tucked under one arm like a newspaper. There’s a bit of pus in the corner of its eye that Len wipes off without looking away from my face. “Nessie?” I ask.

“Her name,” he says. “Nobody calls her Agnes. Not even my grandma called her Agnes. It’s Nessie. But she won’t answer you anyway.” He looks at the hillock of blanket and crumpled tissue suggesting his mother. Nothing registers on his face, no new emotion tightening the skin around his eyes, no whirring of thought visible in the way his lips open, nothing. But he holds his gaze there, like it might mean something. “Nope,” he finally says, “she won’t hardly ever wake up at all anymore.”

Family do weird things at the end. Who can blame them? More often than not they’ve been working hard for too long in order to ensure there’s never a time when a woman like me or the Hospice nurses comes to tell them it’s the end. When that time does arrive, they’re left with a strange mix of relief and sadness. Nine times out ten that little bit of relief mixed in there makes them either temporarily lose their minds or hate themselves. Neither’s a good option when fueled with grief. Last year I watched a mother go out and buy her teenage daughter a prom dress less than a day before she died. She got the dress on her, too, so the girl was just lying there in bed wrapped in satin and the cords from a heart monitor. When I asked the woman why, she told me she just wanted her daughter to feel pretty, to feel like a normal girl one last time. Then she locked herself in the bathroom and I showed myself out.

I’ve seen all sorts of weird things from family members. And I’ve forgiven them all. It isn’t my position to judge. But this situation is different. I just want to get my interviews done, get some good songs on the radio to sing along with on the way home, and enjoy a nice breeze through the open windows as I drive. I don’t want this. I’ll hold Nessie’s hand as I record her experiences that led to being in that bed. I’ll push a Kleenex box toward Len when he starts to cry while talking about his childhood. But I don’t want to be an advocate. I’m not supposed to be an advocate. The Hospice nurses are advocates. Gerald and Dr. Leach are advocates. I’m meant to be impartial, an observer, witness.

And now I’m not even sure this woman is actually dying.

I can feel Len staring at me. Here I am, standing in his mother’s bedroom, a stranger loitering among the debris of their lives, and I don’t even show the courtesy of responding when he speaks to me. I put my bag down on top of some boxes beside me and pull out a notebook. I flip through the notes I’d made in preparation, my standard questions, then put the papers back. I turn so I’m facing the door, but remain where I’m standing.

“Len,” I say, “do you love your mother?”

Len - Chapter 1

The property was beautiful. High above the river, the hill out front covered with trees. The gravel drive wound up the hill, rutted in spots thanks to runoff. As I turned the bend at the top, the house and outbuildings came into view. It was like driving from urban sprawl into rural southern Kentucky in 500 feet of time.

I threw the bag over my shoulder and slowly walked to the back door. Bees were everywhere, buzzing around the arched trellis covered in wild roses. Prairie smoke exploded out of pots sitting in a rusty wheelbarrow. I knocked, but no one answered the door. They were expecting me.

I knocked several times, sighed in irritation, and turned to leave. It was a beautiful day for a drive, but this was still a time waster. Behind me the screen door squeaked open, and he looked out. “Hey!” I turned toward the shout. “Hi. I thought maybe you guys weren’t here.” “Nope, c’mon in.”

The guy, Len, was not what I expected. Tall, lanky, balding but with a ring of greasy, stringy, shoulder-length hair and a flat affect, he was a bit like someone I would walk away from rather than toward in different circumstances. His undershirt was covered with grease stains. He clearly hadn’t showered or even changed his clothes in days.

Len led me through an aisle in the kitchen. There were crumbs and grease stains everywhere, and piles of belongings. An obese person would never make it into the house. We passed a slightly cracked open bathroom door, and I shuddered at the thought of what it might look like in there.

We came into the living room, also stacked but with a secondary aisle enabling Len to sit on a filthy couch and see an old TV across the room. There were guns everywhere. They hung on the walls, lay on tabletops; there were too many to count. They were every size and shape. Some were obviously collectibles from long ago, others looked ready to shoot any minute. A mostly empty bottle of Jack Daniels sat on the coffee table next to a gun and an overflowing ashtray.

Len sat down on the couch and pointed to my right. “She’s in there.” I could see there was a large doorway, but I couldn’t see into the room yet because stacks of boxes still obscured my vision. As I turned and stepped into the doorway, I stopped for a moment to compose myself. This was not a good situation for a dying woman to be in.

She was such a tiny form in the hospital bed under a huge double window. Her view was beautiful, all hill, trees, birds, and river. But the room. The ceiling bowed with water damage and moldy tiles. Everything smelled of mold, mildew, and urine. Boxes and bags lined the walls and pushed in. It was a large room, but all the piles narrowed the open space including the bed to about 6 x 8 feet. In this area was a commode, a tiny old rabbit-eared TV on a TV table, the bed, a second TV table with hospice supplies, and a folding chair for the nurses to sit on while they met with Len’s mother.

I said hello but got no response. Again and again, I tried to rouse her. Finally Len, who could hear everything but was disinclined to help in any way, yelled, “C’mon Ma. Wake up for Christ’s sake. Wake up!” His yelling caused her to stir, and the tiny woman sat up in bed with her white hair standing straight up as if in terror. I greeted her and introduced myself, but stopped mid word when I saw something move.

A horrible tiny dog, mostly bald with spotty tufts of white hair sticking out at all angles crawled out of the bed covers. It had runny eyes and scabby, spotted skin. It looked like it had crawled out of the Pet Cemetery. Ma yelled to Len to take the Lulu out so she wouldn’t pee in the bed again. Len grumbled about how much he hated that nasty little rat, and roughly carried her out the kitchen door between his thumb and forefinger.

Ma looked around furtively. She was suddenly sharp as a tack. “He’s not giving me my meds.” she whispered. “He forgets to feed me.” The screen door creaked, and Ma got sleepy again.

Lost Cities of Argentina - Chapter 5

Previously

Chapter 5

“Poultry and Rabbit Inspector?! This is how you plan on getting me access to the main government building? What did you call it – The Garden?” Fernando waved the forged papers towards the large building in the distance which could just be seen through the apartment window.

“Yes,” she replied patiently. “That position is held in the highest regard and will grant you unrestricted access. Once you are inside a colleague of mine will escort you to the room you need.” She was convinced he was The Chosen One and that once he got to the room with The Device he would know what to do.

If he had understood her correctly, this device somehow allowed one to see everywhere and everywhen simultaneously. It was rumoured that it also enabled travel to wherever or whenever. Fernando had no choice but to go along with her seemingly crazy plan. He wanted to get home and he had no other options.

Until he was inside The Garden - a towering, grey, lifeless edifice which housed the city’s Technocrats, bureaucrats and suchlike - he was convinced that he would end up in prison. Or worse.

He approached the main gate nervously while doing his best to appear calm and confident. The guards eyed him with suspicion but as soon as he showed them his papers they immediately began to treat him with deference. They escorted him to The Garden’s foyer where he was met by a small, nondescript man who indicated that Fernando should follow him.

He was lead through a maze of hallways, stairs and elevators until they reached a long corridor with a single door at the end. Nondescript nodded in the direction of the door and left. Fernando made his way down the corridor until he stood facing the door. It was a plain wooden door upon which a large white number “1” had been fixed. As he reached for the brass handle a familiar voice came from behind him.

“Hello Fernando. You took your time getting here.”

***

This web of time - the strands of which approach one another, bifurcate, intersect or ignore each other through the centuries - embrace every possibility. ~ Jorge Luis Borges

***

Younger Quizzical still couldn’t quite believe that his trip had been approved and was grateful for the advice that Taller Wider had given him. He whistled happily to himself, enjoying the warmth of the mid-morning sun as he made his way to The Ministry for Temporal Relocation. He was completely lost in thought, which is why he didn’t notice the lamppost.

As he rubbed his forehead it occurred to him that there were no lampposts on this street. At least there weren’t a few moments ago. He looked around and found himself in a much narrower street, lined with old-fashioned buildings. It had suddenly become dark and foggy.

Other than the street lamps the only light he could see came from a building a little further down the road. He made his way towards it, passing a beautifully preserved, vintage Cadillac. On the wall by the Cadillac someone had spray-painted an ornate alphabet. The last four letters were obscured by a poster of a winged insect. Any words on the poster had long since faded.

Voices drew his attention away from the poster towards two men who sounded as though they were arguing. Younger Quizzical approached them, noticing that they were both bald. They appeared to be fighting over a comb.

Hearing his footsteps, one of the men glanced at him. The other used this distraction to claim the comb and ran off laughing. The glance turned in to a glare and for a brief moment Younger Quizzical thought the man’s blue eyes flashed amber before he set off after the other bald man, muttering incomprehensibly.

“Well, I guess we’re not in Kansas any more,” said Younger Quizzical to the cold, night air.

As he neared the building spilling its soft light into the street he saw a sign above the door: The Labyrinth. He entered the smoke-filled room and made his way to a small table, having to step round an old man on the floor who was hanging on to the bar. A few moments later a waitress placed a glass of caña in front of him. “Compliments of the lady over there,” she said, indicating a redhead on the far side of the room.

Younger Quizzical lifted the glass in her direction. She tilted her head and smiled. He lost sight of her as a man rose from a nearby table and stumbled past him to the front door. The companion of the stumbling man caught his eye. He drew deeply on his cigarette before stubbing it out in an overflowing ashtray.

“Won’t you join me?” he asked Younger Quizzical. “I’ve been expecting you,” he said as he tugged on his goatee.

***

Another school declares that all time has already transpired and that our life is only the crepuscular and no doubt falsified and mutilated memory or reflection of an irrecoverable process. ~ Jorge Luis Borges

Lost Cities of Argentina - Chapter 4

Previously…

Younger Quizzical set the saucer of milk on the open windowsill as he always did after work. He stripped down to his shorts and opened the icebox, but lost interest thanks to fatigue and instead sat at the table and lit a cigarette.

He was certain his partner’s advice was good. Taller Wider had experience and while he had no particular career aspirations, he knew the unspoken rules and politics of the job better than anyone. Wider’s uncanny ability to size up a situation with little concrete information could be unnerving. Quizzical often felt his partner had some kind of invisible antennae. He worked harder at keeping his thoughts impenetrable than he did at spotting infractions committed by locals. He would rather Wider think he wanted to meet a girl than have him know the truth.

He heard soft lapping and turned to see his skinny feline friend on the sill. “Hello, Puss.” Quizzical often spoke to the cat, who seemed to listen to him even while refusing to come in or be touched. This was their daily routine. He smoked and spoke softly while the cat drank free milk and listened to him. It was the most satisfying relationship he had ever experienced.

***

To fall in love is to create a religion that has a fallible god.

Jorge Luis Borges

***

Taller Wider smirked knowingly. “I hear your leave was approved. Good for you.”

“Yes. Your advice was sound as always. I have to fill out a few short reports on the locals, but it is a small price to pay for some time away.” Quizzical stared off into the distance for a moment before he caught himself. He had no doubt that if pressed for information Wider would use any momentary lapse to save himself. That was the reality of the times.

Wider and Quizzical sauntered down the street, continuously scanning doorways and alleys for curfew violators. It was rare for them to find anyone out at this hour. The consequences were severe, and the locals knew it. The job had become more of a quiet, leisurely saunter than the old type of enforcement work. Neither of them minded. They were the type of men who spent more time in their own thoughts than out, and the hours of walking gave them ample time for their mental diversions. Patience was the most important quality in an officer these days.

“Odd case with that man the other night, wasn’t it?” Quizzical turned toward Wider. “Everything seemed in order, yet…”

“Yes.” Wider searched his face. “It was strange, but not the first time I’ve seen something like that. If I have not seen them before, I take them at their word. I’d rather let someone with documents go than deal with the alternative.”

Quizzical shuddered. “Indeed.” he said. “Better than the alternative for them and for us.” He looked ahead again but saw a flash out of the corner of his eye. He looked at the storefront only to see the reflection of finned, chrome detailed Cadillac go by. He eyes widened when he said the beautiful red hair of the woman behind the wheel. As he spun to look at the street, he found it empty.

His partner was eyeing him closely. “Did you see something?” he asked. “No, nothing. I thought I saw a reflection, but I guess I am just a little overtired.” Wider met his gaze. He was not convinced.

Lost Cities of Argentina - Chapter 3

Previously

The worn springs gave out a pained groan as Fernando rolled over and reached out to touch Sofia’s hair as he did each morning. Bright late morning sunlight streamed in through a window next to the bed causing him to blink repeatedly as he continued to grasp for his familiar morning ritual. But there was no cascade of raven locks to untangle with his fingers, only an unused pillow wrapped, as he was, in crisp white cotton bedding.

Being with you and not being with you is the only way I have to measure time.
—Jorge Luis Borges, “The Threatened One”

So it wasn’t a drunken haze as he hoped. He wasn’t home with his beloved. He was with … he struggled to recall if she had said her name while rescuing him from the officers last night. Fernando’s cranium seemed to have a magnet inside refusing to let his head leave the bed and causing his internal compass to spin. Or perhaps that was just the rolling waves of nausea as his body tried to reorient itself after a night of literal and chemically-induced fog.

The smell of strong coffee reached the doorway before his rescuer. “Good morning. I thought this might help,” she said, approaching him without making full eye contact. Despite the struggle to navigate his labyrinthine thoughts, he could register clearly that she was a lovely young woman, the type Raiquen would have … Raiquen? What had become of him? Fernando gratefully drew down the cafe con leche, making note of the sweetness and how the warmth felt going down his throat. He let the steam dance over his face, leaving moist droplets as proof of its and his physical existence.

Unlike people who read novels, he never saw himself as a character in a work of art.
—Jorge Luis Borges, “The Waiting”

“So what did you mean when you said you knew I was coming because I am The Chosen One?” Fernando finally managed. “And who is Carlos?”

“You are The Chose One,” she smiled nervously. She still could not fully believe he was here. In the city. But, more specifically, in her house. She had never had a man sleep in her house before. “Your arrival is the subject of many stories. It is all written in the pages of Borges.”

***

Reality is not always probable, or likely.
—Jorge Luis Borges

***

It was that time of day when the buildings go from letting the outside light illuminate the interiors to artificial interior lighting releasing its glow to the streets. Taller Wider and his partner Younger Quizzical made final preparations for another shift on border patrol. Perfectly pressed uniforms cinched with leather belts and harnesses bearing the usual accouterments completed a carefully constructed image intended to be easily recognizable by all, and feared by some. Other than an occasional disturbance, the border had remained quiet since The Division. It was more a paperwork issue than an event when locals from one side or the other claimed that a building had disappeared. More paperwork if someone had ended up on the wrong side and needed to get back. The calculations for dimensional realignment had been greatly improved and normally transitions went relatively unnoticed. 

Younger Quizzical sometimes wondered if the technocrats intentionally let the miscalculations happen to provide just enough activity to keep the patrols on their toes. It was more likely, he conceeded, that the universe just isn’t perfectly predictable. The Division had maintained a seemingly perfect peace for more than two generations but he had an uneasy feeling that that might soon change. The frequency of border dust ups and level of anxiety among the locals had been on the rise in recent times—since rumors of The Chosen One started.

I foresee that man will resign himself each day to new abominations, and soon that only bandits and soldiers will be left.
—Jorge Luis Borges

“So, are they still going to let you take your time off?” Taller Wider inquired. 

“I’m not sure yet. Even if they do, I don’t expect I’ll get the Visitor’s Pass I requested,” the other responded dejectedly.

Taller Wider had been in uniform for nearly a decade when he was teamed up with this partner and the youngster sometimes made him smile and sometimes made him want to shake some experience into him. He knew better than to try to talk his young friend out of it and opted for a suggestion that would likely get approval from both his partner and headquarters. “How about you amend the request you put in? If you tell them you want the pass so you can scope out the locals and report back, HQ will likely let you go.” While Taller Wider did not share his partner’s aspirations for career advancement, preferring his established routine, he wouldn’t stand in the kid’s way. Besides, the real reason Younger Quizzical was so hellbent on getting that pass probably involved a girl. Or at least Taller Wider hoped.

Any life is made up of a single moment, the moment in which a man finds out, once and for all, who he is.
—Jorge Luis Borges

Lost Cities of Argentina - Chapter 2

Previously…

Sofia.

Fernando breathed deeply of the cold, foggy air, hoping to clear his mind. His first urge was to panic and run the streets, calling for Sofia. She was his anchor. She would make sense of this crazy night.

He flipped open his cell phone, but there was no reception. That was not unusual, as service here was often affected by the weather. No need for hysterical responses…yet.

Fernando peered out into the darkness. Yes, the cars were most definitely strange, and the street could no longer be called a street. The bar was still missing.

“Perhaps I’ve had a walking blackout. Too much smoke, too much gin, too many wild ideas.” Fernando began to walk toward home. At least he thought that’s where he was headed. He would find someone and ask for directions.

He walked with purpose, even though he didn’t recognize anything in his surroundings. Suddenly, he heard voices in heated conversation, so he picked up his pace, anxious to speak to someone, anyone, who might be able to help him.

The men were closer than he thought, and he was upon them before he realized it. Their conversation stopped immediately, and both looked at him as if he were a rare, two-headed creature.

“I’m so glad to have found you,” Fernando said. “I hope you can help me.”

“It is more likely that you will help us,” answered the taller, wider of the two men. Fernando noticed that they wore uniforms, but they were unlike any he had seen in town before.

“We need to see your papers.” Again, Mr. Taller Wider spoke.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. We need to see your papers. You are violating curfew, and if you don’t have your papers, we will have to take you in.”

Fernando cleared his throat, a nervous habit of his that usually gave him a few seconds to think. This time, it didn’t help at all. If anything, it seemed to make his companions suspicious. They changed their positions ever so slightly, as if to prepare for a chase, should he break and run.

“Your papers, sir?” Mr. Taller Wider was becoming agitated.

“I’m on my way home and seem to have lost my direction. If you could just set me back on the right street, I will be happy to leave this area.” Fernando backed a few steps away, but the two men stayed right with him.

“I will ask you one more time and then we will have no choice but to take you into custody.”

Suddenly, the three men heard the sound of someone running toward them through the fog. A young woman, wearing a bulky sweater, overalls, and heavy boots joined them.

“Carlos! I’ve been looking all over for you!” She grabbed Fernando by the arm and shook it. She was grinning at him, but her eyes were filled with fright.

“Officers, this is my cousin, Carlos. He arrived this afternoon and in my joy at seeing him after so many years apart, I forgot to tell him about the curfew. I also forgot to make sure he had his papers with him when he went out for dinner. When he didn’t return, I knew he had to be lost, and I’ve been searching for him for hours!” Her words tumbled over each other.

Officer Taller Wider cocked his head to one side, held out a hand and merely said, “Papers, please.”

Fumbling in her pockets, the young woman pulled forth two sets of papers. Fernando couldn’t read what was on them, but he did see the words “Visitor’s Pass” on the outside of one.

The officers passed the papers back and forth. After several minutes, they returned them to Fernando’s rescuer, who still had his arm in her firm grip. Officer Taller Wider admonished the young woman to keep an eye on “Carlos,” as he had almost been arrested. “And you know what that means,” he said to her.

“Yes, Officer. Thank you so very much! I will make sure this doesn’t happen again.” With no further word, she turned Fernando around and they set off at a swift pace.

Fernando started to speak, but the young woman shook her head, so they walked in silence. At last, they came to a darkened apartment building and the young woman pulled a key from her pocket, unlocked the door, and ushered Fernando inside.

“You don’t realize how dangerous your situation is,” she said to him. “Your arrival has been anticipated for months now, so security is heightened. You are lucky I found you before they arrested you.”

“I don’t know who you think I am, but I’m not Carlos,” Fernando replied. “In fact, I have a lot of questions and hope you can answer them.”

“I am here to help you in any way I can. It is an honor to be able to assist The Chosen One.”

“Whatever are you talking about? What Chosen One?” The long evening had taken a toll, and Fernando’s brain wanted to shut down and rest.

“You! You are the One who will save us!”

Fernando’s brain said, “Okay, that’s it for tonight. Overload,” and Fernando passed out.

We are the time. We are the famous
metaphor from Heraclitus the Obscure.

We are the water, not the hard diamond,
the one that is lost, not the one that stands still.

We are the river and we are that greek
that looks himself into the river. His reflection
changes into the waters of the changing mirror,
into the crystal that changes like the fire.

We are the vain predetermined river,
in his travel to the sea.

The shadows have surrounded him.
Everything said goodbye to us, everything goes away.
Memory does not stamp his own coin.

However, there is something that stays
however, there is something that bemoans.

—Jorge Luis Borges “We are the time. We are the famous”