Gold, a summer story [11th edition] by Mike Bozart - HTML preview
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[[||]] … from the virtual inside flap …
Mark and Susan’s marriage is on the rocks. Their east Charlotte home is entering foreclosure. The kitchen walls are being wallpapered with unpaid bills.
When Mark unexpectedly finds some record-setting gold nuggets, an erotically charged, suspense-laced, thought-filled gambit begins, twisting through the Carolina Beach tourist season.
Success slips through Mark’s hands like grains of sand. Gold fever takes its toll in the sultry, scorching, Atlantic Coast heat. Who – or what – was chasing him? … and why?
Susan, a Cherokee Native American, has had it; she can’t continue in this sordid sexual saga, bereft of true love.
Subsequent chances for discovery are blown until David arrives from Raleigh to pick up a replacement part in Wilmington. A second odyssey soon begins in which no one can be trusted. Suspicion reigns. The scheming and deception soon reach a fatal nadir.
A young Haitian lady, an aspiring novelist, takes notes and gives up her heart, mind and body along the sensual way.
An easy future awaits. All is going swimmingly; the surf is calm. Then a tragic rogue wave strikes yet again. Why?
The Filipina TV reporter knows more. Will she go to the cops? Will she cut a deal? Will she turn a blind eye? Will she look for the primal source? Will she throw the hungry dog a bodacious bone? But most importantly, will she survive the golden curse in this erotic steam-pot of madness?
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GOLD
a summer story
a novel by Mike Bozart
Initial release: July 2013
Edition: 11.11 (Nov. 2024)
© 2024 Mike Bozart, all rights reserved
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And now for some somber legalese …
First and foremost, this is a work of fiction. GOLD is not a factual account of any slice of the space-time continuum on Earth or anywhere else. Names, characters, places, events, incidents, and situations are either the product of the author’s warped imagination or are used in a purely and wholly fictitious fashion.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or their otherworldly spirits, or any locales or known objects, is entirely, and without exception, coincidental.
cover art by m. van tryke
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lovely wife,
SHARON,
who has a
heart of gold.
~{~
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Chapter 1: Home is where the strife is
Chapter 2: Death and good fortune
Chapter 6: Bouncing box-springs
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Chapter 7: Another round, please
Chapter 8: Long walk on a short pier
Chapter 10: The seductive cashier
Chapter 13: Beneath the bridge
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Chapter 29: Another phone call
Chapter 32: Chantelle’s masquerade
Chapter 33: Answering questions
Chapter 36: Cindy throws David a bone
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Let me tell you a secret - I’ve known author/raconteur/all-around strange guy Mike Bozart for many years and the man never fails to perplex me. The colorful splotches he calls his art perplex me, his attitude and what he calls “jokes” perplex me – hell, what this man generously calls his life perplexes the hell out of me.
So, when he came to me with his finished novel, Gold, I was, of course, perplexed yet again. How this man could take the skittering, scattershot ideas and constantly flickering images that ricochet off the walls of his ever-expanding brain and turn it in to a cohesive work such as a novel, totally made me want to read it immediately. And so I have.
And for once, I am not perplexed. Not only is Gold filled with the kind of action-packed excitement and sexual innuendo the poor souls in Hollywood usually need at least three sequels to convey, but the characters have the kind of fully-fleshed out feel only a master writer can offer. I was totally gripped by the story and felt that the characters became part of my life. A tremendous first novel and hopefully one of many to emerge from the mind of this literary madman.
– Scott Homewood, August 2013
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It was another infernally hot and humid July afternoon in Charlotte, but I had this particular Friday off. Having procured a cheap metal detector, some prospector’s pans and a spade, I was ready to find gold. Even though I knew that it was the longest of longshots – I knew that no one had found any decent-size gold nuggets in North Carolina in decades (I majored in Geology) – I was so sure that I was going to search the right hundred-square-foot area and strike it rich using the power of sunbaked-brain naïveté.
I was driving east on NC 24/27 (Albemarle Road), heading towards the old Reed Gold Mine while listening to Charms by The Philosopher Kings on the radio. (Yeah, I can still recall that day like it was yesterday.) It was the summer of
’95. I pulled off the road and parked after crossing the bridge over Rocky River. At that time you didn’t get hassled for doing such by the cops. I can’t recommend it now.
Well, to make a long story much shorter, I just got muddy, bit by at least a dozen mosquitoes and horseflies, and even nicked my foot on some broken glass in the stream.
Needless to say, I didn’t find any gold.
However, while driving back to Charlotte at sunset, I got the initial idea for this novel. It languished in my brain for some 18 years. GOLD, a summer story is the product of this neural fermentation.
Hope you enjoy it. The language is a bit coarse at times and the sexual interludes are somewhat graphic, but I was only staying true to the characters and offering a vivid account.
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Acknowledgments
The author would like to duly recognize and sincerely thank Karen-Bodie Bodenheimer (agent 53), Michelle Steiner Spangler (agent 441), Teddi Kierstead (agent 303), Martha Hall Linkous (agent 481), Janet Bensler (agent 205), Charlene Grant (agent 901), H. Loren Brunson III (agent 14), and Steve Davis (agent 546) for their adroit advice, interesting ideas, earnest encouragement, and assorted assistance with this debut novel.
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for gold. It is for the means
of freedom and benefit.”
– Ralph Waldo Emerson
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A hot, moist Thursday evening found things not so cool on the 30-something home front. Mark and Susan’s modest two-bedroom east Charlotte home was entering foreclosure.
One of their two cars, a four-year-old Nissan Sentra, had just been repossessed last week. Their remaining motor vehicle, a paid-off, eleven-year-old Dodge Neon with 187,781 miles on it, urgently needed a new transmission; sometimes it could barely make it up the driveway.
Another five-figure medical bill had arrived in the mail. There was already a stack of them on the far end of the kitchen counter; the pile was almost four inches high. Somewhere in the stack was a dead, flattened roach that Mark had crushed last Leap Day. Moreover, there was enough financial stress in their home to break the suspended back of the Golden Gate Bridge.
The trouble all started when Susan, who had been healthy her whole thirty-four-year life, got bit by an insect or spider –
the doctors never were exactly sure what it was – on a camping trip two summers ago with her female friends in the Green River Cove area of the Pisgah National Forest. As a result, she almost lost her left leg. A combination of antibiotics spared her from an amputation, but her left knee was shot.
Susan hobbled around now. Standing for more than five minutes was hellish torture. As a result, she started taking prescription painkillers. Hydrocodone worked to her satisfaction for the first few months. But then she needed something stronger. It wasn’t long before she was popping 13
oxycodone like Mentos candy. Then she got a script for the time-released version, OxyContin. When she found out that she could crush the pills for a more zonking stupor, it was game over.
Mark tried to intervene, but she was hooked. He would tell her that she needed to get off the pills and find a sit-down office job. She would just give him a lazy smile and retort,
“I’m through with pain, baby – done with it.”
They were barely making it when they had both incomes.
Without Susan working, things got very tight. Mark started riding his refurbished ten-speed bike to work in downtown Charlotte to save money. It was only 4.8 miles one way and it kept him in shape. He actually grew to like it.
But then there was that frosty March morning when he made the right turn onto the Briar Creek Greenway Bridge a wee too fast. His front tire slid like a hockey puck on the frozen wooden planks. Mark went airborne over the handlebars as the bike crashed into the bridge’s industrial-style metal railing. He had broken his right arm in three places, as well as torn his rotator cuff. When he tried to stand up, he realized that he had broken his right ankle as well. His thoughts were very dour. When it rains, it pours; when there’s frost, there’s a cost. Why did I take that turn so fost?
[sic] I knew it would be covered in frost. There’s always condensation on that bridge in the early morning. What was I thinking? Why was I riding so fast in the first place? I’m thirty-eight years old for crying out loud. I’m too old to act like the Lance Armstrong of east Charlotte. He re-entertained these thoughts numerous times over the next sixteen months.
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As a result of the crash, Mark gave up the bike commute to work. He had to. It was just too much pain for his right ankle, which seemed to be taking forever to heal. He couldn’t afford any more doctor visits or medical treatment.
The gasoline savings were gone. And so was the free parking. Mark now had to pay to park downtown, which was a considerable expense; his data-storage company stopped giving him a voucher. “We are in a recession and can’t afford this perk anymore, Mark,” his boss told him. Something about the bottom line and a recommendation from the accounting department.
They were in the money vise, feeling the maximum squeeze.
Mark mused while staring at the dirty floor. There must be some sideline business that I can do for extra income. This thought was in repeat mode as of late in his squirming, nearing-panic-mode brain.
Mark started to actively search the dubious Business Opportunities listings in print and online. He saw a lot of overt pyramid schemes that would even make Ponzi blush.
He passed on them. He remembered one day, while on the toilet in a public bathroom, noticing that all the screw heads were strangely aligned, what an old college friend had told him a decade ago: “MLM = Most Lose Money.”
That was true for most people. But, he most certainly was not most people – not even close, he thought. He felt certain that he could and would come up with a duplicatable, universal system that even someone with a middle-school education could do successfully. Or, so he told himself day after day.
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The company that got the hook in his thin wallet was called InstaBagel. He signed up online to receive a free sample, which came in the mail three days later. The package was very neatly wrapped, and very professional-looking. He thought: Ah, they must be a first-rate company.
In the box, they were like hard pretzels. The instructions said to add the special flavor packet to a bowl of tap water, and then to dunk them in the powdered water. The last step: Microwave for forty-five seconds and enjoy! Seems easy enough. And, it was.
When he bit into the first one, he was amazed at the taste and texture. They were just like those gourmet-shop bagels
– but at less than half the price. Who wouldn’t want this? I am going to be rich!
He immediately joined at the decision maker level by buying $500 worth of dehydrated bread. He could see himself rising to the platinum level in just ninety days. He thought to himself: There’s dough in this dough, bro. Big money train, here we go! My revenue-generating ship has arrived. Finally.
However, a year later he only had two active partners in his downline, and had racked up $38,000 in credit card debt from paying for lunches for prospects and hotel ballroom rentals for bagel-sample fests. His sure-fire plan was a complete bust – a resounding flop.
Now they couldn’t even make the interest payments on their credit cards. Soon a new stack of bills began to pile up next to the medical bill stack. And now their phones were being lit 16
up by the bill collectors all hours of the day and night. Some calls originated from Moldova of all places.
Susan seemed resigned to imminent destitution. But as long as she had a steady supply of oxies – her slang for OxyContin pills, she really didn’t care. If the house burned down, they’d find her charred corpse on the couch.
Her mood grew sullener and more distant. She and Mark stopped having sex. Mark didn’t physically cheat on her; he went back to porn.
Susan started eating more – more of the wrong foods: the fatty ones. She gained ten, fifteen, twenty pounds. To compound the problem, she wouldn’t exercise. She thought that bicycles were just for kids; she thought that running and jogging looked ridiculously stupid; she thought that walking just made you vulnerable to attacks by men and dogs; she thought gym memberships were a waste of money.
The mutual disdain for each other grew by the hour. “Why did you join that stupid bagel scam?” she would often scream. “You worthless MLM junkie!” Mark could hear her tonsils sloshing around. It was primal and beastly. It was pure detestation.
Then while watching the local 6:00 news, Mark started paying attention to a story about the history of gold in the Charlotte region. The reporter was out at the historic Reed Gold Mine, twenty-two miles east of their house in the Merry Oaks residential area of east Charlotte. The Amerasian female was talking about the German boy who found a seventeen-pound gold nugget in a small stream near 17
Midland in 1799. She was standing on some rocks in the middle of Little Meadow Creek when she said, “Could you imagine finding a gold nugget in a North Carolina creek?”
Boy, could I, he almost thought aloud. Did Susan hear me?
“Can you turn the damn news off?’’ Susan demanded.
“Please change the fucking channel. I’m sick of news, news, news.” Susan closed her invective by yelling, “Screw the news!” While sprawled out on their green leatherette couch, she thought: Why does he have to watch the same news loop fourteen times? What’s the point? Life is a horror movie.
It sucks. It always has, and always will. You need to numb yourself to it. ‘Get it, Mark? You still can’t understand that?’
What the hell is wrong with him?
“Ok, what do you want to watch, dear?” Mark asked in an angry tone. “Don’t tell me that you want to watch the E
channel. Watching those worthless, smug, stuck-up, it’s-all-about-my-pretty-face celebrities will do nothing to improve our situation. Only a braindead idiot thinks that celebrities care about them.” Mark was barking back. Spittle was flying from his mouth. He was becoming enraged. He continued with his tirade. “These conceited, self-important flakes don’t give a damn about us! Let me repeat: They don’t give a damn about us! Got it now?!” E has got to be the worst damn time-wasting, unproductive, non-inspiring channel of all time.
And of course, it’s her favorite. Just my rotten luck. / Why did I ever choose to get mixed-up with him? What a freaking mistake! Worthless loser.
“At least I get to imagine escaping from this horrible reality that you’ve created.” Why doesn’t he go rob a bank and make himself useful? Heck, he’d probably get caught before 18
leaving the parking lot. / Her debilitating addiction is my fault? Un-fucking-believable! Her brain is now opioid mush.
“That I’ve created? What? You have got to be kidding me!”
Why does she always blame me for her own self-induced misery? She’s the one sitting on her ass all day popping pills.
“I’m not kidding. And, I’m sick of your stupid-ass, money-losing ideas that go nowhere. I want a divorce!” Wow, I finally said the ‘D’ word to him. Finally. / Glad she said it first.
“Hey, that is certainly fine by me, my dear ex-wife-to-be. I won’t contest it, either, sweetheart. I’d love to be divorced from you and your sour attitude towards everything.” The oxycodone has cooked her brain. She’s headed for painkiller casualty-ville, and her ticket is one way. She’s not going to get better. I want off this train that has already wrecked and gone off the tracks, and is now sinking in a cesspool.
“Screw you, you damn loser,” Susan screamed as Mark slammed the door. What a freakin’ drug-addled monster.
God, I can’t wait to be free of her. Could she just hurry up and die. C’mon, baby, overdose tonight. You can do it. Make things easy for poor Mark. / Gosh, I hope he gets hit by a dump truck!
It was another veritable van Buren evening, always striving for perfect strife. And more often than not as of late, succeeding in spades – spades that could be utilized later.
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After his Ecuadorian wife, Lani, died in a car accident in dense fog, Fred, originally from Maine, became a bit of a hermit. For the past seven years, he had lived alone in a small, white, lapboard-sided, tin-roofed house that was just off of NC 24/27 on Reed Mine Road between Midland and Locust.
Fred’s back property line was Little Meadow Creek, the famous gold-nugget-bearing, small, shallow stream that the Amerasian reporter was talking about on the news. It was where America’s first gold rush began. It was said that Little Meadow Creek had not a single unturned stone, as thousands of people over the following two centuries had picked through its well-rounded cobbles, hoping to see that lustrous yellowish reflection in the languid water.
Mark would often suggest to Fred that he should buy a metal detector. Fred would just laugh it off and tell him that all of the pieces of loose gold of any appreciable size surely must have been found by now, as the ground had certainly been turned over a hundred times by shovels, picks, plows and bulldozers.
But then one fine day, Fred saw a cheap metal detector at the local discount store. The price was super-cheap, so he went ahead and bought it. He didn’t find any gold, but he did find an 1851 three-cent silver in his backyard one Saturday afternoon that yielded twenty bucks at the coin store in Locust.
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At 7:02 PM on Thursday, June 21st, the first full day of northern-hemisphere summer in 2012, Mark pulled into Fred’s driveway, which curled all the way behind the house to a workshed. The sun was still fairly bright in the hazy southwestern sky. Mark momentarily stopped about fifteen feet from the wooden outbuilding and looked around.
Where’s he hiding? What is Fred up to now? Bet he’s making something somewhere.
Fred’s red Ford pickup truck was parked next to the large wooden shed. Mark thought this was a little odd, as he had never seen Fred park it there before. Why’d he park way down here? Unloading materials?
Mark parked the Dodge Neon in front of the large shed and walked up to the doors. Fred often worked and hung out back there. The doors were padlocked shut. Well, he’s not in there. Not unless he’s the newest Houdini.
Mark then wandered over to Fred’s old Ford F-100 pickup truck. Gnats, flies, mosquitoes and bees were whizzing around his head. He was thrashing his hands at them, nearly smashing the driver’s side mirror of the truck. He thoroughly hated hot weather. Ah, the joys of scummer [sic] are indeed here now: biting, stinging, and flying-into-an-eye insects.
When is the first freeze? One hundred and twenty days?
October can’t get here soon enough. Fast-forward, please.
He peeked through Fred’s darker-than-legally-allowed tinted pickup truck windows. Fred wasn’t passed-out in there. The truck’s doors were locked. That’s odd … Fred never locks his pickup truck when he parks it behind the house.
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Mark decided to go knock on the house’s rear sliding glass door. There was no answer. The gold-colored curtain was only halfway drawn. He peered inside. No sign of life in there. Hmmm, where could Fred be?
Mark then reached into his left-front pants pocket and got his old slider-type cell phone out. He called a longtime common friend named Travis. After three long rings, he answered.
“Hello, is this Mark?”
“Yes, it is, Travis. How are things with you guys?”
“Oh, we’re doing ok. We could stand to win the lottery, though. [chuckling] So, what’s up?”
“Well, I’m out at Fred’s right now. His truck is here, but he isn’t. I tried his cell phone, but no answer – not even an outgoing voicemail message. Do you know where he is, or what the hell is going on?”
“You’re out at Fred’s place right now?”
“Yes, has something happened?”
“You had better sit down.”
“Ok, I’m sitting in his back-deck lounge chair.”
“Mark, Fred is dead. I thought one of the old gang had told you. I’m so sorry to be the bearer of the bad news. Fred died of an apparent heart attack yesterday morning while working in his shed.” Damn. That totally freakin’ sucks ostrich eggs.
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Mark was devastated and speechless. Fred had been his best bud, the one he ran with the most, and he had been the best man at Fred’s wedding. They had partaken in numerous adventures and misadventures on the Albemarle Road corridor of east Charlotte over the past two decades. How could this have happened? Fred seemed to be in great shape for thirty-eight. Not an ounce overweight. Fit as a fiddle. Very active. Even hyperactive.
“Mark, are you still there? Hello? Mark?”
“Yeah, I’m still here, Travis. Just stunned beyond belief. It seems so unreal. Still trying to digest and process what you just said.” There will never be a next adventure with Fred.
“I know, brother. It doesn’t get any heavier than this. I had a dream about him last night. He wanted me to help him get out of some dark room. It felt so real. I won’t be forgetting him anytime soon … probably never.”
“Yeah, man, it doesn’t get any more real than death. I know that I’ll miss him every day, Travis. So many wild and wacky times with him. It feels like a chunk of my psyche has been ripped out and rinsed away.” Mark was staring at Fred’s pickup truck. There was mud in the fender wells. Looks like he had been off-roading recently. Maybe with Mike?
“I know, man. All those places. All those crazy situations that he somehow got us into and then got us out of, almost magically. Hey, listen, you had better get out of there. The neighbors and the police are probably still watching the house.”
“Yeah, ok.”
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“I mean, really, who wants to be detained and interrogated for something they are oblivious to?”
“I got ya. I’m getting out of here now. Take care, Travis.
Send my regards to the misses.”
“Will do. Hey, the memorial service is at Mimosa Funeral Home in Locust on Sunday at 1:00 PM. Fred will be cremated. I guess I’ll see ya there.”
“Ok. Later.” Mark slid his phone shut and just stared out at the swollen creek. Normally you couldn’t see the water from the deck, but it had rained almost two inches the night before. There was a lot of flooding in the low-lying areas, and even some mudslides on the bare slopes.
Mark felt for his sunglasses, which he thought he had hooked through the top buttonhole of his Hawaiian shirt.
They weren’t there. That’s weird; I don’t remember taking my shades off.
He began to retrace his steps. He walked to the rear shed first. They weren’t there. He walked over to Fred’s pickup truck and began to walk around it. When he was directly behind it, he saw his shades in the tall sweet-flag grass.
They must’ve fallen off when I bent down.
He put his sunglasses back on and looked towards the roiling creek, just twenty feet away. The motion of the turgid stream mesmerized him as he walked up to the edge of the bank, still thinking about his deceased dear friend. The memories of Fred were freely flowing.
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His standing reverie was startled by a sparrow that was trying to scare a crow away from her nest. When he looked back down in that direction, he noticed an undercut section of the grassy bank about fifteen feet upstream. There were a couple of flat stones under an overhang of red-clay earth that had a luminous glow about them in the evening light. He walked down the creek bank until he was directly across from the yellowish semicircular objects. Wow, that looks like gold!
Mark began to take his shoes and socks off. The creek was only about twenty inches deep in the middle. The biggest hazard would be broken glass from the Reed Gold Mine Site, a mile upstream. (The visitors’ glass beverage bottles often got shattered on the rocks after they realized they were going home empty-handed.) He would take his chances, even if he didn’t have his waterproof boots.
The fast-flowing creek was the color of heavily creamed coffee. As the water rushed over the rounded rocks, numerous small eddies formed. They spun for a while then dissipated. My life is spinning away, spiraling down in an endless whirlpool. I so need a lucky break, so desperately.
Share with me some golden serendipity, cosmic all-knower.
Mark was wearing his old, frayed, Bermuda-length denim shorts. I bet that I can cross this creek without getting my shorts wet. He quickly waded across the stream and reached for the smaller kidney-shaped, gold-colored rock.
Wow, this is heavy as hell! This has got to be at least fifteen pounds. [It was actually sixteen pounds, seven ounces.] He remembered the Periodic Table as best he could. That’s 25
right – gold is heavy – almost as heavy as lead. This is a good sign. An aurispiciously [sic] good sign!
He recalled the Mohs mineral hardness scale from an introductory geology course that he took his freshman year at Appalachian State University. Pure copper is 3.0 on the scale and pure gold is 2.5. The lower the number, the softer the material. If his copper-plated 2010 penny could not scratch the yellowish rocks, then they weren’t gold. To his anticipatory amazement, the shiny penny left a groove in each slender rock. Excellent. Gold is slightly softer than copper. We passed the first big test.
Then he struck them with a hunk of white quartz that was adjacent to it. They didn’t break or chip. It just left a depression. Excellent! It’s not pyrite. We’re two for two, my boy. We’re off to a good start.
He looked closer and noticed that the quartz strike left a soft indentation, like a skinny bike tire that had passed through some thick mud. Ah, another great sign: It’s malleable. We’re batting three for three. Yey! Just one more test. One more at-bat. Don’t strike out in the bottom of the ninth with bases loaded.
He then picked at the thin golden boomerangs, trying to get their surfaces to flake; they wouldn’t. Wow, this isn’t mica, either. Wow, we went four for four! I think I’ve found a stockpile of real gold! My lucky day has arrived at long last!
Thank you, Fred, for guiding me here. May your spirit rest in eternal peace, bro. How I wish you were here right now, though.
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He would cross the creek twice, bringing one half-circle nugget across each time. The larger crescent moon nugget weighed twenty-one pounds, nine ounces. It was heavier and longer than the famous Reed nugget of 1799. How in the world did these pair of gold nuggets go undiscovered for over two centuries? How did everyone miss them? How did the thousands of rain/flood events over the past two hundred years not expose them?
The total weight of the two curved nuggets was an astonishing thirty-eight pounds. This stunning pair of golden boomerangs would fetch at least $1.3 million on the collectors market, as raw nuggets commanded a much higher price – often 20 to 40% higher than the going ounce rate. Since these were going to be famous nuggets – famous enough to be named – Mark knew that he was going to be at the very high end, probably even 50% over the ounce rate.
‘ Ladies and gentlemen, feast your eyes on the Carolina Count and the Carolina Countess.’ He could already hear it.
Elation was playing on every radio station in Mark’s mind. He was nervously ecstatic. He just hoped that no one had been spying on him as he transported the gold across the stream.
Mark laid the two thin gold nuggets down in the tall grass behind Fred’s pickup. Then he walked up to his blue Dodge Neon and backed it up next to his golden stack. He loaded the pair of curved nuggets in the back of the trunk, laying them on the three-person tent that Susan had left in there from the ill-omened camping trip.
He then rolled the two curved gold nuggets up in the tent and pushed it deep into the trunk, all the way against the 27
back of the rear seat. He looked at it to make sure there was no gold showing or any peculiar bulges. It all looked very ordinary – just a rolled-up camping tent.
Mark closed the trunk softly, started the engine, and slowly exited the driveway. He didn’t see anyone. Though not much of a religious man, he prayed like a priest in a sex-toy shop that no one saw him. Lord, if you are there, please let me leave unobserved. Grant me safe and unreported passage.
No one had seen him. He was in the clear. He had been granted his lucky break.
<><><>
The drive back to Charlotte was largely uneventful, yet every mile without a mishap felt like a small victory. Traffic in the inbound direction was fairly light. Mark drove a few miles per hour below the posted speed limits. Please, no auto wreck tonight. Everyone stay away from my car; I’ll stay far away from yours. Faraway. Please don’t break down on me tonight, little car. Keep on going, nefarious Neon. Don’t fail me now. Don’t crap out in the clutch!
The purple-based, orange-red sunset was surreally awesome, and he was driving right into a slew of curious cumulus faces. There must’ve been a lot of dust kicked up today. The gods are cheering for me. I’ve just won the Giro d’ Oro. He could hear Ennio Morricone’s Ad Ogni Costo playing in the cloud-story. This parade was for him. He had just hit the grand slam. The gold trophy was his. He had won the golden jackpot.
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Staring straight ahead with eyes squinting, he was almost in a trance. Wow, I’m driving into a new life. I feel different. I can’t believe that I found that gold! I won’t be mega-rich, but if I play this right, I’ll never have a house or car payment ever again. Just don’t blow it, Mark. You must stay smart. You still have Susan to deal with. God knows what she’s capable of doing.
The twilight was, in a single word, golden. All of the shadows seemed to have a golden hue. He could not believe his luck.
However, his happiness was tinged with sorrow, as he remembered what Travis told him on the phone. ‘Our Fred is dead.’ It kept repeating in his mind. A vicious loop. How he wished Fred were alive. I can’t believe Fred is dead. I surely didn’t see that coming. Not a hint of a bad ticker.
These pristine, uniquely shaped gold nuggets could carry him for the rest of his life if he lived cheaply. And, he was already good at that. He savored the thought of not having any balances owed to any bank.
Both he and Fred were fairly frugal men. He would’ve loved to have shared it with him. He actually wished they would’ve discovered it together. The fun and interesting times we could have had. That trip to Amsterdam will never happen now. Ah, life is so fickle. So tenuous. So uncertain. So incomplete. So broken. So suddenly severed.
<><><>
When he pulled into the driveway off Arnold Drive, the long shadows were merging together in the advanced twilight. It was almost dark. And so was the house. Not a single light 29
on. Just a muted blue glow from the TV cast on the dusty, off-white, vinyl mini blinds. Ah, she’s probably passed-out again on the couch.
Mark unlocked the front door and entered the living room.
Sure enough, Susan was lights-out on their thrift-store sofa.
She was snoring in three-part disharmony. I’ll be glad when I don’t have to come home to these sights and sounds anymore. And that day will soon be here – very soon.
Mark tiptoed past her slumbering body and found the TV’s remote control on the floor. He turned the TV off and went into the kitchen. He flipped the light switch on and grabbed a Guinness Extra Stout out of the fridge. He wasn’t really much of a beer drinker; a six-pack could often last a week or more.
Then he exited the kitchen and retired to their bedroom. He was content to let Susan sleep on the couch until eight or so in the morning. It had become the usual routine.
He began to ponder his golden situation. When can I get that gold out of the trunk? When will it be safe to make the transfer? Should I just do it now? I could hide it in the shed?
No, Susan might wake up, or a neighbor might see me. It’s too risky right now.
He sat on the bed, mindlessly staring out the window through a crack in the secondhand red velvet curtains that Susan had scored from some odd-lots store on Central Avenue. It was now dark outside. Yet, he was able to notice a small sparrow that was silently resting on a dogwood tree limb. Mark continued his gold planning. Anyway, I’m too tired 30
to move the gold out of the car right now. And, heck, where would I put it? I don’t want it anywhere in this house or in the yard. Second thought, the shed is out, too. Nowhere on this property. Susan can’t find it. I’ll just let it stay right where it is for tonight. It should be safe. I’ll go out tomorrow and stash it somewhere. Maybe I’ll bury it somewhere in east Charlotte.
Yeah, somewhere near the house. The woods behind Evergreen Cemetery would be a good place. Yeah, that’s it; I’ll take it back there and bury it tomorrow evening. I just need to remember to bring a small shovel.
After his sixth gulp of beer, he fell asleep on the bed with his clothes on. He forgot to turn off the overhead light. He was dead-beat exhausted. Sleep came down like a ton of tiny Canadian geese feathers.
He dreamed that Fred saw him find those slender, curved gold nuggets. Fred walked down to him. His face was gaunt and gray. He spoke to Fred, but Fred never replied. Fred just vanished into the stream. He wondered if it was a harbinger as he walked away with the gold boomerangs, one in each hand. A policeman suddenly appeared asking him where he got the two gold nuggets. Suddenly, he was mute in the dream; he couldn’t answer. More police arrive. Then he is completely surrounded. He is going to be arrested. He sees the nearest police officer taking the handcuffs from his shiny black belt. The policeman looks at him. He is all business –
very serious. But then Fred re-emerges from the stream.
He’s got a plan. The policeman is suddenly frozen in time; he can’t move. Fred points towards the red horizon. They are now being sucked towards the glowing horizon line.
Faster. And faster. Mark turns to look back. Earth is 31
disappearing. He looks forward again. Where did Fred go?
Mark is falling now. Falling back to Earth. He is falling at a great speed. The impact with the ground will surely kill him.
But, he never makes contact with anything. The dream ends in darkness with the sounds of coal being shoveled.
<><><>
At 5:22 AM Susan got up to use the bathroom. She noticed the light on in the bedroom and saw Mark sound asleep on the bed. He was snoring some heavy timber. She turned the light off and closed the door. I’m going to rattle his world. He thinks that he’s the only one who can just drive off. Why, I’ll show him!
In the kitchen, Susan found a piece of get-rich-quick junk mail and began to write a message to Mark on the back of the yellow envelope with a black crayon. The entire note read:
Need some time alone. Going to the beach.
And that was it. Just two simple sentences that didn’t even identify the beach she was going to, or when she would return. She thought it was sufficient, though. This will teach that bastard! Look who is driving off now, Mark. Me – I’m outta here! Have a nice walking weekend, dearest hubby.
Ha-ha.
She gathered a duffel bag of clothes and her handbag, and was out the door at 5:33 AM. The neighborhood was quiet. A black cat slinked across the old asphalt street. When her car key touched the door lock, there was a small spark. Wow!
Static electricity. So unusual for this time of year.
32
<><><>
Back inside the house, Mark never even stirred as Susan quietly closed the door and drove away. He was still deeply immersed in a jaw-dropping golden dream. He would never know how close he came to swallowing a wolf spider.
33
Susan was making good time on the road. She felt unusually clear-headed and alert. Her car windows were down and the 66° Fahrenheit, piedmont morning air was whistling through her jet-black Native American locks.
She cleared Monroe before the Friday morning traffic started getting bad. She was going around Laurinburg on the US 74
Bypass when she heard a text alert on her cell phone. She clicked on the new message icon. It was from Mark; it read: Which beach are you headed to?
When exactly will you be back?
I need the car this weekend.
Susan sighed and shook her head. She kept driving for another eleven miles. Then she pulled off the highway at the next exit to take a pee and get an energy bar.
In the convenience store parking lot, she composed a reply for Mark; it read:
I will be at Carolina Beach – alone.
You’ll be fine without the car this one
weekend. Go get stoned with your
friends at a hipster bar in Wigwood.
She pressed the Send key and rolled out of the parking lot back onto Highway NC 710. She quickly turned her phone off and threw it into her handbag. She knew Mark would call and/or text back. She was done with him for the next three days. God, he fucking annoys me.
34
Soon she was back on US 74 East, cruising through the Lumber River swamplands. Wow, it’s so green down here, but the river and creek water is black. I’d hate to have this car break down here. Looks like it’s full of gators and snakes.
Then she saw the green mileage sign. Ah, seventy miles to Wilmington and another fifteen more to Carolina Beach. I should be there in an hour and a half.
The blue Dodge Neon began climbing the western side of the Cape Fear Memorial Bridge about an hour later. The car’s transmission wasn’t slipping too badly. C’mon, baby, you can make it!
It was a tall vertical-lift-type bridge with personnel offices high above the roadway. I wonder if the guy who works up there watches porn like Mark. Looks like a lonely-ass gig.
Maybe he doesn’t work alone. Maybe he’s balling some bimbo right now up there. What the hell am I thinking?
She was so lost in her thoughts that she had started to lane-drift. BEEP! She had almost sideswiped another sedan in the left lane. The well-dressed business lady in the Audi flipped her the bird and mouthed the words: “Fuck you, bitch!”
She got back in her travel lane – completely – and recomposed. Whew! Damn, that was close. Need to stay focused on the road. Gosh, it would totally suck to wreck this car. Mark would be livid. We’d have no wheels.
35
She then glanced over at downtown Wilmington to her left.
She remembered a time when she and Mark had spent a romantic weekend in that quaint river city. The morning brunch at the hip little coffeehouse on Front Street. The nice dinner at the seafood restaurant overlooking the Cape Fear River on Water Street. The evening strolls. What happened to them? Where did it all go wrong? Why did it all go wrong?
She still loved him at some base level; she couldn’t lie to herself. Though, she often did. She just had to get away from him for a while. Absence would make her weary heart grow fonder – or further – she thought. It would be a test – a crucible. She would know by Sunday which way to go.
At the stoplight on the other side of the bridge, Susan made the right turn onto US 421 South for Carolina Beach. She was on the home stretch now. Yes, we’re going to make it.
As she passed Greenfield Park on the left, she remembered the place where Mark proposed to her. She could see that very cypress tree. It was still there. So many memories in this area. Maybe I should have gone to a different beach.
Susan rolled over the concrete humpback bridge that spanned Snow’s Cut at exactly 10:01 AM. The Atlantic Intracoastal Waterway glistened below. A section of the water’s surface looked like a wise old sage. What secrets lay in those depths, kind sir? Please do tell.
36
She was hungry; she had skipped breakfast. She pulled into the Carolina Beach McRonald’s. It was already crowded with tourists. School had ended two weeks ago, and kids were running everywhere. It was a madhouse.
Susan only ordered a plain biscuit and a small orange juice.
She was also going to lose some weight on this beach trip.
She was determined to consume fewer calories. Will power.
You can do this, girl. No fried food on this trip. No more French fries. No more fatty foods. No milk shakes! And, nothing with trans fat. Be strong.
37
It was 7:18 AM when Mark read Susan’s note on the kitchen table, and 7:29 when he received Susan’s curt text reply.
Mark decided the best course of action was to trail her down to Carolina Beach. He caught the inbound route 9 CATS bus on Central Avenue a few minutes after 8:00 AM. He had a change of clothes in his black-yellow backpack.
At 8:15 AM he was leaving the Charlotte bus station and walking towards Exceptional Rent-A-Car on East Trade Street. He rented a nondescript 2011 white Ford Focus with unlimited mileage for two days. He signed the papers and was on his way, headed east-southeast. ‘Whatever you do, Susan, don’t open that damn trunk. Promise me that, my infuriating wife.’
Soon he was driving on US 74 East, passing under the Briar Creek Bridge at 8:40 AM as a cyclist with an orange shirt crossed over from left to right. Damn, that cyclist dude sure has a bright orange jersey. Probably for safety. Or, might he be from the Netherlands? A Tennessee alum?
He was running about two and a half hours behind Susan.
Mark drove a little on the fast side, but never more than six miles an hour over the posted speed limit. He couldn’t afford another speeding ticket. He couldn’t afford the lost time, either.
After passing the sweeping curve on US 74 in Wadesboro known as the holy roller, he stopped for an energy drink.
38
Mark gulped down a Monster Blue Zero and was on his way again. Ah, now I feel more alive. Susan, my not-so-sweetie, I’m coming for your trunk. No, not for your fat ass – for the gold that you don’t even know is in there. I’m closing in, darling. Closing the gap.
After bypassing Maxton, he couldn’t hold it any longer; he had to urinate. He was down to less than sixty seconds.
God, I’ve got to go like a racehorse! Please let there be a convenience store at this exit. Please. That or I’m going to flood the floorboard.
By some strange bladder-full twist of fate, his chosen piss stop was the same convenience store on NC 710 that Susan had stopped at, about one hundred and forty-five minutes earlier.
Mark parked the white sedan on the side of the little building and immediately headed for the men’s room. He relieved himself and grabbed some pretzels and a Zero candy bar.
He used his only viable credit card to pay for the two items.
“Is there a minimum amount for a credit card purchase?”
Mark asked the older, white-haired man behind the counter.
“No, no minimum, mate. Your plastic’s good here,” the clerk-owner stated in a military-like manner.
“Ah, excellent. Thanks.” I should’ve taken out some cash before leaving. Oh, well.
39
“Ah, a van Buren, huh?” the store’s proprietor casually asked as he handed Mark’s card back to him. “You don’t see that last name ‘round here much. Well, not unless you’re in the library reading a US History book.”
“Yeah, it’s Dutch. Pretty rare around here, I guess.”
“Oh, but something that is statistically very odd occurred this morning.”
“Oh?” Mark was genuinely curious.
“You’re the second person that has come into my little store within the past three hours with that last name.”
“Oh, wow. A female? White with black hair?”
“Yep. Your wife, by chance?” The owner’s eyes rose above his bifocals, lending an almost furtive glance.
“Yeah, you got it. She got an early start on our annual beach trip. I had to attend to some business and secure the house.
She was eager to get rolling after she downed three cups of coffee.”
“Ah, I hear ya. I know the drill. What beach?”
“Carolina Beach.”
“The wild and raucous party beach.”
40
“Well, we’ll be the tame ones, I’m sure.”
“Well, have a nice time. Don’t do what I used to do down there in the early ‘70s. Ha-ha …”
“Ok, thanks. And likewise.” What did he do down there in the early ‘70s? Did he cruise the beach in a speedo? Was he pumping old wives in the exterior showers? Was he selling/doing dope on the drive-on beach area known as Freeman Park?
Once back on the highway, Mark became anxious. Please, please, don’t let her open that trunk. Gosh, I hope I can find our car down there in a trunk-unopened condition. I’ll search all of Pleasure Island if I have to.
The dashed white lane lines taunted him. He switched the radio to a beach music station. It seemed to have a temporary tranquilizing yet positive effect on his mind. He was confident again that all was going to be fine. Relax, sport, you will soon be the golden boy.
41
After driving north on Canal Drive and south on Carolina Beach Avenue, looking for a budget hotel with a decent water view, Susan found herself in the Dauphin Reign Motel parking lot. The sign flashed: VACANCY. I’m here.
The motel was nothing fancy by any means, but it looked sufficient. Though, it wasn’t an interior corridor hotel, which she often chose for safety reasons when lodging alone. But, the beachside location and low price clinched the deal, ending the debate in her head. Oh, heck, let’s try it. I’m tired of driving.
She went into the modest office and spoke to a middle-aged, white lady. Susan was able to get the last upper-level, oceanfront room for a special two-night rate. It was an end unit, too. Room 120. Yes, excellent! More privacy.
The Dauphin Reign Motel only garnered one star on most travel websites, but its Atlantic Ocean view was five stars all the way to Portugal. Was that dark speck just above the indigo-blue horizon the Rock of Gibraltar? Her rational mind knew it wasn’t, but the vastness of the oceanic view was awe-inspiring and took her breath away.
Maybe it was because the haze was less than normal for this time of year, but her rage towards Mark had subsided. Her mind was clear; her thinking was almost emotionlessly analytical. I’ve got a motel room with an amazing ocean and beach view. I’m going to have some fun. Maybe he’ll have 42
fun, too, in Charlotte. That’s fine by me. Go for it, Mark. You can screw all the skanks in NoDa. Just stay in Charlotte.
There was a faint cigarette odor in the room, but she wasn’t complaining; she could deal with it. After all, she smoked cigarettes occasionally, especially the green ones. And, yes, she had remembered to stuff the oxies in her large, leather-tasseled handbag. She was all set for mind-and-body sail.
Let the weekend begin! I’m Mark-free and ready to have some fun!
After placing her change-of-clothes in the old cedar dresser, she went out on the balcony to survey the beach scene.
There were some real hunks out there. There were also a lot of bikini-clad, young things, too. Gosh, their boobs are so damn perky! Oh, to be nineteen again.
Even being twenty-two pounds above her ideal weight, Susan didn’t look half-bad in her one-piece, Mars-black swimsuit. She looked at herself in the mirror and popped an OxyContin pill. Let’s do this! Then she grabbed the beach towel, her handbag and the old-style hotel key and headed for the sand and surf. Who knows what fun awaits? Let’s put our token on the board.
Susan found a spot in front of her room near the high-tide line. It was almost dead-low tide at the moment. She laid her 5’-5” body down on the towel, propping up her upper torso with her arms bent behind her back. Her head was hardly moving, yet she was scanning the whole scene behind her dark, poker-grade sunglasses as only a woman can. She 43
began to apply some sunscreen to her legs, arms and face. I don’t want to look like a lobster on day one. A bad case of sunburn would definitely ruin the whole weekend.
There was a game of touch (American) football going on to her left. The players were dashing, athletic, white guys in their early 20s. Shirts against skins. Four against four. Lots of testosterone specimens darting around. Would love for them to ‘train’ me.
After the shirtless team of four scored a touchdown, this bronze-tanned, thin yet muscular, tall lad kicked off to the shirted team of four. He caught a glimpse of Susan as he punted the football with maximum force. He hit it flush. Pow!
Susan heard the impact of his foot striking the football. Wow!
The pointed-oval, pigskin ball went sailing with the long-shore sea breeze, coming to rest on Susan’s towel, right next to her left leg. Gosh, that was close. That damn ball almost hit me. He should be more careful. Ah, he’s probably wasted. No adult-life worries yet.
The errant kicker walked over to Susan to retrieve the football. “I’m sooooo veeery sorry, ma’am.”
“It’s ok. No harm done.” Jeez, he’s drunk or wasted on pills. I wonder if he could get it up if I seduced him.
“Miss, you suuuure are pretty.” He almost fell over as he gesticulated with his hands. “What’s your naaaame?”
44
“Why, thanks so much for the compliment. You look quite studly yourself. My name is Susan. What’s yours?” It’s working. This will be easy. I just need to lure him away from his friends.
“Studly? How cool. Oh, wow, I think I looove you. My name is Rick. Slick Rick with the big dick.” What the hell did he just say?! He was mildly laughing. “Huh-huh.” Sheez, this guy is proudly toasted. What a loon!
“Ah, you’re just saying that.” Susan flirtatiously grinned at him … and then looked at his crotch. What a nice package.
“No, I reaaaly mean it. I’d like to spend some primo time with you, Suuusan.” He’s definitely not bashful.
“Rick, are you high on something?” Susan hoped that she didn’t sound like his mother.
“Just the Spice o’ Life, Miss Suuusan.”
“And, what spice might that be, Rick?” Please don’t answer
‘variety’ – not that.
“Oh, SyntheSpice, synthetic marijuana. I drink less when I use it and it won’t show up in my piss tests.”
“Be careful with that stuff, Rick. Some people have had seizures and died on it.” Gosh, I probably sound like his older sister or brother, but that stuff is dangerous.
45
“Now, dearest Suuusan, do I look like some people? Heh-heh.” Gosh, that sounds like something Mark would say.
“No, I guess you look like the person,” Susan said almost cryptically.
“I’m the man with the big one-eyed snake.” Gosh, that’s so junior high. But with his expression, it works. He’s way too goony to really be consciously arrogant.
“Well, how big is it, Rick?” She was enjoying their saucy banter. She glanced at his feet. Large and long.
“Oh, man, it’s like waaaay big, Suuusan.” He was so intoxicated, but she didn’t smell much of an alcohol odor.
Can he really perform in such an inebriated state? But then Susan saw his member bulging to life and her doubts were quelled.
“Hey, let’s go to my room, and I’ll measure your wonder worm.” Susan winked at him. Gosh, this is too easy. What am I doing? This is crazy. I love it!
“Hell yeah! Let’s go. I’m ready to rock out with my cock out.”
Rick gave her a big smile. He was so charming, yet so goofy acting. This guy is unbelievable! I’ve never met a guy like him. Is it just because I’m nearly twice his age? Is it my
‘maturity’?
46
Rick then turned to face the other seven footballers who were waiting patiently for him to return with the football and continue playing. He almost fell into Susan as he announced to them: “Half-time, my bros. I’ll be back in twenty. Grab a cold one and chill. It’s all good.”
Susan gathered up her beach towel and handbag, and they headed back up the trail between the sand dunes to her motel room. Rick even grabbed her hand in his like they were in a relationship. How romantic of him. This guy is too much.
Susan could feel the OxyContin kicking in as she shuffled her feet through the hot sand. Her left leg rubbed against Rick’s right leg. Pure muscle. I bet he can pump like a wild beast.
47
Mark only had to drive around Carolina Beach for a dozen minutes before he spotted their electric-blue Dodge Neon at Dolphin Lane and Carolina Beach Avenue. Susan had parked it at the sidewalk side of the motel parking lot. It was in plain view of the street. Thanks for making this easy, my no-longer-so-dear wife. Thank you so very much, my tart tart.
Then it hit him like a ton of molten lead being forced through a catheter into his spine: I don’t have the car keys! Either I forgot them, or Susan took my set. This is just fucking great!
This would only happen to me! Goddamit! Why are the gods always against me getting ahead? … always against me getting anywhere in this forsaken life?
Then Mark took a deep breath and started to calm down. His heart rate slowed. He thought about whether or not Susan had his car keys, and concluded that she must have taken them either by mistake or just to be even more spiteful.
Either way, he was 99.99% sure that she had them on her person or in her motel room. Ok, my brain is working again.
C’mon, Mark, figure this out. Think, think, think!
Mark started to assess the situation. She must have checked into that motel. Either that or she would risk having the car towed. She’s not that stupid. Susan parks cautiously. She must have a room in that motel. She must. But, which one?
Do I just sit out here for hours on end waiting for her door to open? Jeez, there has to be a better way to get those car keys.
48
Mark was parked on Dolphin Lane, staring at their blue Dodge Neon when he had that light-bulb-flashing moment he so desperately needed. If she has a room in that motel, she probably has a motel parking pass on the dashboard or visor of the Neon. It may have her room number on it. They have to have some way to identify their motel guests from the non-guests, as parking spaces are at such a premium this time of year on the beach. The parking sharks are always hunting for free spaces. They must have some way to control their un-gated parking lot.
With that thought dangling by a neuron, Mark stepped out of the rental car and casually walked over to the blue Dodge Neon. He saw the nick in the driver’s side armrest. He also saw Susan’s hair brush on the console. Well, that’s definitely our Neon. No doubt about it.
He then looked at the dashboard. There it was on the passenger side: a small white placard that clearly stated in bold block letters:
Dauphin Reign Motel
Guest Parking Pass
Room 120, vehicle 1
Parfait! Thank you, Buddha! Praise to you, Krishna.
Mark then looked up at the second-level exterior doors. He saw number 120 on the far-right end. So, that’s where she is 49
with the trunk key. On the far end in room 120. I won’t be forgetting that number.
Mark walked back across the street to the Ford Focus and sat in the driver’s seat, contemplating his next move. Alright, what do I do now? I seem to have hit another impasse. I know for sure that I’ve found the right Neon. And, I know her room number. But, so what? I can’t just kick her motel door in. And, I damn sure won’t be knocking on it.
He watched as the Latina cleaning lady made her way past the upper-level rooms. She had just started to clean room 119; room 120 would be next. What if I could somehow sneak into room 120 after the cleaning lady opens the door?
Ah, but our Dodge Neon is here. Susan’s probably in the room passed-out from those damn pills. Well, it’s a longshot, but that’s the only shot I have at the moment. Other than just confronting her. And even if I confronted her and asked for my keys, she would most certainly refuse to give them to me. If I got them by force, she would call the police and have me arrested. I know she would. I’ve got to get the car keys from her in a clandestine manner; she can’t know that I took them. She can’t see me.
Mark had noticed that the cleaning lady had a set routine.
She would first knock on the door and announce herself. If no one answered, she would unlock the door. Yes, I can find out if Susan is in that room.
She would first go into the bathroom in the back of the room.
She would gather and replace the towels. Next, she would 50
clean the sink, toilet and tub. Then she would put new soap bars and shampoo bottles out. Next, she would wipe down the refrigerator and microwave. Later, she would do some dusting of the furniture. Then she would round up all the trash and replace the liners. Lastly, she would change the bed linens. Wow, there are opportunities to get into that room if she is not in there right now. It’s worth a try. What else am I going to do?
Mark walked back over to the motel and looked around. He didn’t see anyone. He scurried up the steps to the upper level, avoiding a sight line to the office. I hope no one saw me.
The cleaning lady was almost done with room 119. He stopped at the vertex of the second-level L-shaped exterior corridor. The moment of truth was quickly approaching. I must act quickly and decisively. Hesitation equals failure.
The cleaning lady emerged from room 119 and closed the door. She began to knock on room 120. Are you in there, Susan? Oh, once-sweet-but-now-quite-sour Susan, are you oxied out of your gourd?
The cleaning lady knocked three times and waited. Nothing.
“Hello, this is housekeeping. Anyone in there?” She waited three long seconds for a reply. Nothing. She repeated her announcement. Still nothing.
She then reached for her keys in her blue smock’s front pocket. She began to open the door to room 120. Ok, she’s 51
not in there. I wonder where she went. Oh well, it really doesn’t matter right now.
She entered room 120 and walked back to the bathroom.
Mark immediately launched himself forward like a track sprinter, and quickly strided the thirty-three feet to the threshold of the door. He peeked in. No Susan. No maid.
The cleaning lady was still in the bathroom. He heard her flush the toilet. Well, this is my chance. It’s now or never.
Time to slide and hide.
Mark quickly slid under the queen-size bed like a spry, sly salamander. He quietly positioned himself under the middle of the box-springs. The comforter hung only two inches off the floor. Don’t look under here today, ma’am. Please don’t.
Not today. Any other day for safety reasons, just not this time.
After eleven minutes of cleaning and restocking, the cleaning lady made her last entrance into the room and exited. She never looked under the bed; she never knew Mark had entered the room. May you have a great life, dearest cleaning lady. May your wildest dreams come true. May you win the lottery. May you find gold somewhere, too.
However, the front door was still open. He could see the sunlight on the brown carpet. What’s the delay? Just close the damn door. Please close the freakin’ door! Now!
52
Mark then heard multiple footsteps on the concrete exterior corridor. Next, he overheard a conversation just outside the doorway. The cleaning woman was addressing some motel guests. Ok, just close the door.
“I cleaned your room for you,” the Latina housekeeper said demurely with a slight Mexican accent.
“Oh, thanks so much,” Susan said. “I really appreciate that. It looks great.” Oh, my long-lost Zeus, it’s Susan! She is right there, and she’s coming in! Oh, my dozen demigods of despair! What terrible freakin’ timing. I’m stuck here under this bed. Susan entered the motel room.
“No problema, señorita,” the cleaning lady said as she pushed her cart away. She had noticed that Susan’s fingers were ring-less.
Next, Mark heard a young man’s voice. “Have a nice day, ma’am.” Who the hell is that?
Then the door closed. Susan and Rick were now in the room. They were giggling like mischievous school kids who were up to no good. And up was good.
Susan sat on the bed. The box-springs bent down and slightly touched Mark’s nose. He slowly turned his head sideways. He saw Rick’s sand-encrusted, size-thirteen feet on the carpet at the left side of the bed.
53
“So, Rick, I think you have something that you want me to measure,” Susan suggested impishly.
“Why, I most certainly do, Susan,” Rick gloated.
Then Mark saw Rick’s neon-green swimming suit trunks drop to the floor around his ankles. What in the world!
“Wow, you have an amazing cock, Rick. Your dick must be at least nine inches long!” Oh, my lord! Help me, sweet Jesus.
“Thanks, babe. They call me ‘the nine-inch nailer’ on campus.” Oh, brother.
Susan smiled. I’m sure they do.
Susan was now feeling Rick’s manhood in her right hand.
She began to cautiously caress the shaft. It was now fully extended and as hard as a lead pipe. She fondled his balls.
“You suntan in the nude, don’t you, Rick?” This is unbelievable! What a worthless whore she’s turned out to be!
“Yeah, I do,” Rick somewhat sheepishly admitted.
“Well, you got one pretty prick there, young man,” Susan ceremoniously announced. “Three-fourths of a bronzed foot.
I’d be proud of that tumid tuber, too.”
54
“Would you like to taste it?” Rick caught Susan’s eyes, then lowered his. No, you’re kidding me. Mark almost coughed.
“Would I? You bet!” And with that Susan began to oralize Rick’s swollen member.
Mark could hear Susan’s mouth slurping on Rick’s love rod.
What a total tramp!
After about five minutes of felatio, the cunning cunnilingus commenced. Rick began to eat Susan out on the bed. She was starting to moan. Sublime sensations were flowing. She was really enjoying it.
Mark was still under the bed, barely breathing. This could only happen to me. But, I’m glad this is happening. It puts the final nail – the nine-inch nail – in the coffin of our marriage. I’ll make sure that she never gets a single cent of that gold. Zilch for you, you fuckin’ strumpet!
Then there was a weight shift on the mattress. Apparently Susan was kneeling on the bed. Rick’s feet were back on the carpet where they were ten minutes ago. He began to pump Susan doggie-style. Mark was actually getting aroused and almost began to masturbate. I’ll have to put this episode in my book someday when I’m far from her, living on some island, comfortable but stark-raving mad.
“Are you ready for the full frenzy, Susan?” Fuck her to death, Rick! Give her a fatal hemorrhage!
55
Mark’s fingers, toes, and teeth were all clinched. Un-fucking-believable!
“Sure, Rick, let me have it! Don’t hold back. I can take it. I won’t break.” You’re something else, sweetheart – a worthless whore.
Mark’s head was crumpled under the box-springs in a sideways position. Hell is real, and it’s right here.
Rick cleared his throat and then began to furiously pound Susan’s vagina like a dildosaurus on crack. The pace was fabulously frenetic. Susan was screaming in ecstasy. Loudly.
Rick just hoped that the mattress and box-springs would not slide off the bed frame.
Mark inaudibly groaned. What a freakin’ day!
“Fuck me harder, Rick. Faster. Harder. Deeper. Ram it all in.
Do it now!” What a complete slut!
Mark watched the heels of Rick’s feet move so slightly up and down. Un-fucking-believable!
Rick did not disappoint. He approached 130 PPM (pumps per minute). Wow, what a power pumper! Susan was quite impressed with his piston action.
Then Rick climaxed, unloading on Susan’s partially tanned back. Thank God he pulled out; I think I’m fertile. That was risky. But, wow, it sure felt great.
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Susan, still tingling, yet totally exhausted, collapsed on the bed. Rick bent over and kissed her on the forehead. Susan sighed. Fucking trollop!
Mark was fit to be tied, or compacted.
“I’d love to stay with you, Susan, but I’ve got to catch up with the guys on the beach or I’ll miss my ride back to Charlotte,”
Rick said as he put his swim suit back on. “Unfortunately, our week at the beach ends in less than an hour. My time is up, dear lady.” Spare me, dude.
“Oh, you live in Charlotte. Whereabouts?”
“Up near UNCC. I graduate in early December. Civil Engineering. Pipes and tunnels.” Oh, what a cute analogy.
Might we be minoring in English poetry, too?
Yes, Mark was seething.
“Wow, I live in Charlotte, too. Over on the east side. Me and my husband are estranged. Obviously. Ha-ha.” Yeah, it’s so funny. Gimme a break, Susan. “Say, could I avail your erotic services at a future date, sexy maestro of maidens?” Sure, you can both screw each other’s brains out. Go for it, Susan.
I could care less. I’ll never touch your vile body again. Hell, screw the whole island! Get AIDS and die!
“Sure, Susan. What’s your phone number?”
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Susan then told Rick her ten-digit number.
Rick clumsily entered the digits into his smartphone and clicked Save. “Grazie!”
He kissed her one last time on the lips and was gone.
Susan just lay on the bed thinking that her marriage was indeed over. How will Mark take it when I file for divorce?
Would he contest it? Will he go ballistic? No, he wants out, too. I know he does. The loathing is mutual.
Then Susan’s mind shifted to her health. He didn’t wear a condom! What if he has some STD? Oh, my God! What if he has AIDS? He’s probably fucked all of the diseased skanks on campus. If I get some disease, I’ll probably die … and deserve it.
Susan fell asleep. Mark could hear her snoring. Oh, fuckin’
great! She’s fallen asleep. Jeez-us, how long do I have to stay jammed under this goddam bed?
Susan woke up twenty-three minutes later feeling rejuvenated and refreshed. She loved post-coital naps the best. She proceeded to the shower. Mark heard the water hitting the vinyl shower curtain. Ah, finally!
Mark slithered out from under the bed. He saw Susan’s handbag on the dresser. He lurched up, grabbed it, and returned to his crouched position beneath the height of the 58
mattress. Just take a long hot shower, honey. Try to wash all that filth off.
He looked in her handbag and saw his car keys. He started to grab them, but then thought to look for Susan’s car keys.
She’s probably using my set of car keys. She’ll know something’s up if they’re not here. I bet she forgot that her car keys are in this hidden pocket.
Sure enough, Susan’s car keys were in the small pouch. He removed them and zipped the little pouch back shut. He put her car keys in his right-front pants pocket, stood up, dashed to the door, and looked back. Susan was still in the shower.
Mark cautiously turned the silver doorknob and exited the room. He shut the door so quietly that Susan never heard a sound. Perfect. Susan has no idea that I was under that bed during her sausage session.
<><><>
Mark walked briskly over to his rented car. He was nine minutes over on the meter. VIOLATION was flashing. Whew!
No parking ticket.
He jumped inside and drove away. Mark headed for the main drag, Lake Park Boulevard/US 421. An orange-shirted cyclist passed by. That looks like the same guy that I saw in Charlotte? No way. No fucking way.
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At the stoplight, his mind went into high gear. I need to get a cheap motel somewhere close by, but not too close. When he saw the Mt. Bourbon Inn on Harper Avenue, he knew that this place would do the trick. He checked in and got a room on the first level.
He looked around before entering his room. This is perfect; it’s off the congested North End, yet less than a mile away from our car – my gold. Susan doesn’t know what kind of car I’m driving anyway. So, no big deal if the rental car is in plain sight. Hell, she doesn’t even know if I’m down here or not.
Upon entering the room he flopped down on the double bed, and was out like a sinking sandbag for two hours. He had a vivid dream of some vicious sci-fi creature chasing him through an old multi-shafted gold mine. It appeared that it was only the creature and him in this abandoned subterranean underworld.
In the dream, the ferocious green creature did everything it could to prevent him from escaping with the large gold nugget that he had clasped between his hands. It was always trying to barricade him in a dead end. Suddenly the creature was right behind him in an old horizontal shaft. He ran as fast as he could, even faster than humanly possible at times. He was leaping over thirty-foot gaps with ease. But, the creature was still closing the gap.
When the creature finally had him cornered and was about to fatally attack him, he hurled the large gold nugget at its head. It was a direct hit. The gold mine troll was history.
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Unfortunately, so was the massive gold nugget. Both the troll and the gold nugget fell hundreds of feet down a vertical shaft. He never heard either hit the bottom.
Mark would only remember nuggets of this dream.
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At 6:45 PM Susan was feeling hungry. She walked over to The Sea Twitch Restaurant, which was just down the street from her motel room. She got a table in the corner where she wouldn’t feel like she was that lady eating alone. She ordered a shrimp dinner – broiled – as she would try to stick with her reduced-fat, low-calorie, weight-loss plan. For a beverage, it was just bottled water. She already knew that coastal tap water was a special kind of nasty.
Fifteen minutes later the food came. It was good and filling.
As she began to eat, she noticed a guy who looked like Mark eating with a friend. Susan’s mind drifted back to Boone (North Carolina).
She recalled that night they went sledding at Hardin Park Elementary School. There was a nice, gentle one-hundred-yard-long run beside the school. They doubled on Mark’s fast plastic-bottomed sled. She remembered him holding her tight. She felt so safe. How did it all go wrong?
The exceedingly debonair, young waiter returned and asked if she wanted dessert. She declined. She was now ready for an alcoholic drink.
Susan closed out her bill and headed to the tiki bar in the back. A local rock band was tuning up. Wow, the bass player looks pretty hot. I wonder how big his penis is.
She ordered a Zombie mixed drink. She wasn’t sure what kinds of alcohol were in it, but it was hitting the spot. Soon 62
the sound check was over and the six-piece band was playing a mixture of classic rock and alternative covers. They sprinkled in a few power ballads.
The room was beginning to fill up with a mix of locals and tourists. The band was finding their groove. In Susan’s mind, the guys were hitting all the right notes, especially the diminutive bass player with the dirty blonde mullet. I want him. My mini-Sting.
She clapped earnestly after every song. She had another Zombie. Half-way through her drink, she winked at the bass player like a boy-crazy teenage girl. He winked back at her and wiggled his tongue between his left index and middle finger. She knew what that meant. He wanted to feast on her vulva. Wow, who knows how this night will end up? What a vacation! Do I really have to leave? Maybe I can extend it.
The tunes and the hours flew by. She began to pulse and gyrate with the beat. She finished her fourth Zombie. She was completely sauced. I wonder if I can walk. Thank God, I didn’t drive. I’d never make it out of the parking lot.
Then the lead singer of the band made an announcement:
“Well, folks, this is our last song. We thank you for coming out to The Sea Twitch tonight. Enjoy your weekend here at Carolina Beach. Don’t forget to tip your bartender, waiters and waitresses.” Tip? I’d like to feel his penile tip.
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When the song ended, the bass player made his way over to Susan’s two-seater cocktail table. He was going in for the kill. He smelled an easy good time.
“Do you always drink alone, miss?” he asked in a most nonchalant manner. Nice tits.
“Only when I’m waiting for my man,” Susan countered with a drunken lisp. Huh?
“And, where is your man?”
“I think I’m looking at him right now.” Susan peered into his dark blue eyes and smiled, almost menacingly. Oh, yes! This is going to be easier than imagined.
He smiled back. “My name is Grug – Grug Wussel. [ sic]
What’s yours, fair maiden?”
“Suuuuusaaan.” She was drunk. This chick is totally wasted.
Easy prey.
“Do you live around heeeere?” He was a bit drunk, too.
“Next door … well, for one more night.” Susan was trying to hold her head up, but her left elbow slid off the table. She just smiled. Woah.
“Oh, so you’re staying alone in a motel down heeere?” Grug enquired with ever-heightening sexual interest.
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“Yep, The Dauphin Reign Mooo-tel. Room one-twenty.
Could you walk me home, big boy?” So easy!
“I’d be glad to, Miss Susaaan.” Grug was licking his chops. If he could only get his limp rod up, it was going to be an easy score.
Grug paid her bar tab and walked – and at times almost carried – Susan the two blocks back to her motel room. They almost fell over the hood of a parked car on the way. They finally were able to stagger up the motel stairs, successfully arriving at the landing, giggling like school kids on their first drunk.
Susan’s right hand fumbled about in her handbag, finally finding the motel room key. When she got the door open, it was 12:49 AM. After much fondling and licking, Grug’s 5.55”
penis was semi-erect at 1:13 AM.
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Mark didn’t want to risk being seen in a restaurant by Susan.
So, he just drove over to the Sea Merchants grocery store on Cape Fear Boulevard and picked up some frozen food to heat in the microwave back at his motel room. The store was only a few blocks away, and it was on the same side of US
421 – not on the North End side where Susan’s motel was.
As Mark passed along the cold-beer aisle, he paused. Oh, why not? Might as well celebrate a little after that horrendous and humiliating ordeal. He grabbed a six-pack of Guinness and proceeded to the cash register.
The white, mid-30s, female cashier had that quintessential Carolinas’ beach look: dyed blonde hair, even though her hair was naturally blonde; overdone tan, bordering on mutant; ridiculous boob job, appearing to be softball implants; white short-shorts, two sizes too small. And for some odd reason, she was curious to know more about him.
“Down for the weekend?” she asked like a small-town detective trying to crack a missing-dog case.
“Yeah, just doing the annual beach visit. How’d you know I was a tourist?”
“Oh, we locals can spot you guys a mile away.”
Mark chuckled. “Is that so? Well, have a nice evening.”
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“You, too, mysterious stranger.” What did she just call me?
Is there something weird about me? … or, is this place just totally whacked?
Mark drove back to his hotel room. He cooked his frozen pasta dish in the microwave, wolfed it down, and popped open a Guinness. How will this night go?
He looked through the slits in the old, wide-style, metal blinds. The TV was on CNBC. The price of gold was going up. And, the sun was going down. It was 8:08 PM.
Mark heard the old refrigerator’s compressor kicking back on. He became lost in thought as he sipped his Guinness Extra Stout beer. Well, boy, tonight’s your night. You can’t screw this up. This is prime time. This night will determine the rest of your life. Well, possibly. There’s no margin for error. You have to extricate those two boomerang-shaped gold nuggets from the Dodge Neon trunk, and place them in the trunk of the Ford Focus without Susan – or the police –
or anyone, for that matter – noticing. Zero tolerance for being seen.
He looked at the kitchen clock. When would be the best time? hmmmmm … Midnight? No, she might be out drinking in a local bar and return about then. 3:30? Yeah, that should be a safe time. Still plenty dark, and just about the whole island will be asleep. The bars close at 2:00. Gosh, I hope I can stay awake that long. I’ll make some coffee. Yeah. I’ll put the beer drinking on hold. If I’m the least bit drunk, I 67
know I will fuck up this operation. I can’t blow it. Not this one.
Not this time.
The room came with complimentary coffee packs and a cheap coffee maker. He plugged it in, loaded it up, and got it brewing. He was sipping his first cup o’ java as darkness fell on the barrier island.
He began to think back to when he first met Susan at Western Carolina University in Cullowhee. She was just an 18-year-old freshman; he was a 21-year-old senior, almost 22, at Appalachian State University in Boone. It almost seems like a different life.
Mark and some college buddies were doing some hiking in the Nantahala National Forest. One of the guys wanted to see his sister, who was attending WCU. The friend of the sister was Susan. Sparks and rockets flew when they first made eye contact. Those were some fun times. Gosh, she looked so hot in those spandex hiking shorts that day.
Where is that day? Does it still exist in some alternate universe?
Mark reminisced about the first time he visited Susan’s parents on the Cherokee Indian Reservation in Qualla (just north of the intersection of US 74 and US 441). It was such a perfect fall day. That simple log cabin. They were so proud of Susan. The 3.98 high school GPA. The academic scholarship to WCU. The first one in her clan’s lineage to attend college. A model commuter student. Never goofing 68
around with any boys. A bookworm, really. And now we’re at this space and time …
Susan wasn’t totally shy, but she kept to herself. She had never dated anyone before Mark.
Mark recalled how Susan’s mother was so keen; she could always see the real problem. Her dad was such a hard worker, driving a logging truck on those dangerous mountain roads, even during icy conditions in the dark, cold winter. He had to put the chains on the tires himself, despite having an essentially nonfunctional left arm, the result of a breech birth.
Mark remembered having a drink of moonshine with him one spring evening many years ago. He loved that stuff to the chagrin of his wife. He would say the damnedest things.
“Mark, where do you think we go after we die?” her dad had asked him out of the blue.
Mark just blurted, “No idea, sir.” He was just being honest.
Her dad then talked about transitions, phases, and continuation. He closed with, “Don’t be afraid of death. It’s just the start of another journey in another realm.”
He remembered how he would sit back and grin and repeat,
“Yeah, remember that?” This was usually around midnight. It didn’t matter if your statement was about something in the past, present or future – the reply was going to be, “Yeah, 69
remember that?” That’s when Susan’s mom would tell him to get back in the house. She was never amused.
Mark’s mind had drifted almost three hundred miles west of where he was. But then his cell phone chirped. It was the text-received audio notification. And just like that, his thoughts were right back at Carolina Beach in an instant.
The brief text read:
Message 456
Your payment of $89.05 has
been credited to your account.
Thank you for your business!
Whew! I thought that was Susan. Mark sighed with relief, and walked over to the coffee maker. He poured cup number two and sat down by the side window. He saw headlights drifting by. Some loud tourists were walking on the sidewalk.
He then glanced at the TV. He flipped through the channels, stopping on The Weather Channel. No rain forecast for tonight or tomorrow. Excellent! I’d hate to have to do this trunk transfer in the rain. That would suck goose eggs, regally!
Then he twisted in the chair and let his chin rest on his right hand. Do I really need to move the gold from the Neon to the Focus tonight? If Susan hasn’t opened the trunk yet – which it certainly appeared that she hadn’t by the way she acted with her male hookup – then why would she open the trunk before returning to Charlotte? Couldn’t I just go back to Charlotte and wait for her to return with the gold in the 70
Neon’s trunk? Then I could remove those gold fillets on our own property at a time of my choosing. Am I making this more urgent, more difficult, and riskier than it need be?
Think, Mark, think.
However, this line of thinking was almost immediately T-boned in its tracks by another train of thought as a horn beeped. No, don’t be stupid, Mark; don’t let this chance to be bill-free slip away. Imagine, no more debt! None. Nada. Nil.
Zilch. Paying cash for a modest house. No mortgage ever again. Paying cash for a new vehicle – that cool electric one
– with no monthly payment. The gold is right there – its current location is known. If you go back to Charlotte all kinds of things could happen. One, the car could break down at any mile on the return trip. It’s a wonder that it made the two-hundred-ten-mile journey down here without crapping out. If it should break down, at some point, invariably, the trunk will be popped open by Susan or a mechanic. Two, what if Susan buys a large item and/or wants to hide something from potential thieves? Guess where she will likely put it? In the trunk! Three, what if she runs over some broken glass and gets a flat tire? Pop goes the trunk! There are broken beer bottles all over the curbs down here. Four, what if all she does is open the trunk for a second just to see if the tent is still in there? Another losing situation. She’ll wonder why the tent is all wadded-up and pushed to the back of the rear seat. Next, she will pull it out. Heck, what if she wants to go camping at the state park? Voila! Susan will be the golden girl; I’ll be the dim-witted dunce once again.
And, I’ll never be able to go back in time and replay the 71
scenario. She’ll haul off with the gold and never return to Charlotte. She’ll taunt me with postcards from Paris.
Mark heard a siren passing. It sounded like it was a few blocks west, somewhere in the neighborhood. Probably a drunken domestic dispute, he supposed. He was nervous.
He reached for his mug of coffee. It was a quarter full and lukewarm.
He headed to the kitchenette area, ditched the stale, old java and poured another cup. It was 9:59:59 when he flipped the TV to the local 10 o’clock news. He watched the tall, blonde-haired, Caucasian, female news anchor as she recited the lead story:
“A Greensboro man was caught onboard the Fort Fisher-Southport Ferry tonight with twelve pounds of highly processed cocaine on his person. This is the largest coke bust in New Hanover County in the past three years.” Well, possessing gold is not illegal anymore. At least I have that going in my favor. If I did get pulled over and searched, what could they do? ‘Yeah, it’s gold, officer, and it’s in my rented car’s trunk – so what?’ ‘Well, sir, where did you get it?’ ‘I found it.’ ‘Where did you find it?’ ‘Why do you have to know where I found it?’ ‘If you found it on private or government property, then it’s not legally yours; we’ll have to take it from you.’ Mark soured on this train of thought and actually frowned.
Mark looked at an ultra-thin, vertical crack in the wall. Has there been seismic activity down here? I thought that the 72
only earthquake area in the coastal Carolinas was in the Charleston vicinity.
He then got up and examined the crack more closely. It was actually a long strand of black human hair. That’s either a first-rate optical illusion, or I’m losing my mind. Mark feared the latter might be the correct answer.
He flipped the channel to ESPN. An international soccer game was on. They called it a friendly, but cleats grinding into ankles didn’t look so amicable. It was Germany vs.
Russia. The second half had just started. The score was 1-1.
It looked like the game was being played in the Rose Bowl in Pasadena, California. He noticed the characteristic wide shallow bowl shape of the single-tier stadium and saw some palm trees blowing in the breeze. It was a signature SoCal scene. He turned up the volume and focused on the match.
“Schweinsteiger. Müller. To Özil. Over to Gómez. Back across to Schweinsteiger. He dribbles to his right and turns.
Schweinsteiger from distance with power. He scores! Oh my, what a blast! Schweinsteiger goes top-left shelf from twenty-six yards out in the eighty-ninth minute. Shades of Giovanni van Bronckhorst there, Jim. That was a laser-guided long-range missile that found its Deutsche Mark.” Schweinsteiger.
That’s about as German as it gets.
Mark remembered their trip to Los Angeles. That was when a new Susan emerged – one that he didn’t like. She was never happy on that trip, no matter where they went, or what they did. What did she want? Why couldn’t she be happy?
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We had a nice middle-class life in America. Ninety-plus percent of the globe would kill for our lifestyle. How did such a dirt-poor Native American girl come to feel that she was entitled to a gilded jet-set lifestyle? Where did it come from?
Most certainly not from her parents; they were happy with virtually nothing.
Well, these were Mark’s thoughts. You can be sure that Susan’s thoughts on the matter were a bit different. Very much different.
The ebb and flow of the soccer players going back and forth in waves on the TV screen lulled his mind into a more relaxed, less panicked state. He took another sip of his black-jolt liquid. He could feel the caffeine. He had drunk enough; he needed to stop. He wasn’t going to fall asleep anytime soon, maybe not for twenty-four hours. His pores were wide open. So were his eyes when he glanced at the dresser mirror. Man, I look wigged-out as hell. He felt restless.
Mark got up and walked around the bed. I should drive by the Neon to make sure it’s still there. Or, wait, how about just walk to the Neon and then drive it over here? Would it be better to make the gold transfer in this motel lot or somewhere nearby? No, too risky. It would just be my luck for Susan to look out, or go out, and notice that the car is gone. She’d then call the cops and report it stolen. Game over, Mark. You lose. A recon run, though, in the Focus is a good idea. It’ll pass some time. I’ve got to do something. I’m going nuts just waiting here.
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Mark got into the white Ford Focus and tootled over to Carolina Beach Avenue. The LED clock on the dashboard read 11:16. Interesting, the numerals 4, 5 and 6 are the only ones which have the same number of LED segments as their face value. I wonder if anyone else has ever noticed that. Why do I notice such trivial, non-revenue-generating things? Well, it can soon be my already-paid-for hobby.
He noticed an equal assortment of adults and teenagers out on the sandy sidewalks. Hordes of buzzed 20-somethings were staggering in the street. As he headed north, the throngs thinned out.
He pulled up alongside their blue sedan. It was still in the exact same spot next to the sidewalk. It looked like Susan hadn’t driven it since he last saw it. He thought about opening the trunk and taking a peek, but his saner track of thinking won out.
Mark looked up and noticed that all of the lights were off in room 120. It looked like a vacant room. Was Susan already asleep? Or, was she out partying somewhere on the island?
Should I switch cars? No, don’t be foolish. Stick to the plan.
He quietly drove away.
When he reached the North Pier, he found a vacant spot in the sand lot. He parked the Focus and cut the engine off. He sat in the car for a few minutes, just thinking if it was safe to walk out on the pier. Well, Susan’s car is back at the motel.
This pier is a mile and a half from her motel room. Susan 75
would never walk this far alone at night. Yeah, it’s ok to venture out.
Mark got out of his white sedan and walked up to the pier’s entrance, which was actually a switchbacking series of ramps that led up to a basic American-fare greasy spoon. He passed through the eatery with his head down. Most of the dozen-or-so people were teenagers playing video games. So far, so good. He walked out the door and was on the pier.
It was a totally different scene outside. The ocean wind was blowing salty air across the pier from left to right, north to south. There was a lot of chatter amongst the older folks.
Every time someone landed a fish, heads turned. These amateur fishermen were getting their money’s worth. As he walked out the 700-foot-long, wood-planked pier, he saw what they had been catching: spot, shark, eel, mackerel, flounder, croaker, shad, crabs, some jellyfish and even a fairly large squid. Gosh, the sea has so many strange creatures in it. I’m glad that I don’t swim in it anymore.
He continued to the very end of the pier and walked back about twenty feet, and parked himself in a vacant wooden bench made of 2 x 8s. He looked far down the beach and saw a multitude of street lights and blue-lit windows.
Somewhere down there, Susan, my ex-wife-to-be, is sleeping in her motel room. Actually at that moment, Susan was about ready to leave The Sea Twitch Restaurant with the bass player.
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Mark started to focus on the sea swells as they passed by the pilings. The lights under the pier’s planking created an optical illusion: When one looked down in certain areas, it looked like you were seeing the ocean’s sandy bottom. Was it really only four feet deep this far out? No, it has to be deeper than that. It was.
A ship’s light several miles out to sea caught Mark’s eye. He remembered that many shipwrecks had occurred off the North Carolina coast over the years. The Graveyard of the Atlantic, they called it. Wonder how much gold went down with those sailing ships. I bet most of it is still down there in assorted octopus gardens. Well, my gold is on dry land. In a dry trunk.
He looked at his watch; it read: 1:11. A pair of seagulls were circling and screeching overhead. They eventually alighted on the pier and began to have bird sex. Sex is going on everywhere. Damn, I’ve got over two hours to kill. Maybe I should just do it now. Being out in a motel parking lot at 3:30
AM will just look suspicious … very suspicious to a passing cop.
A sudden gust of wind almost lifted him off his seat. Maybe that’s a sign. Maybe I should just go and get it over with now.
Get those sexy gold crescents in the right trunk – in my trunk
– in my possession!
He got up and began to walk back down the pier towards the beach. He passed through the restaurant and on to his rental car. He unlocked it and sat down in the driver’s seat. What a 77
situation. Must stay mentally sharp. Don’t assume anything, Mark. Mind, don’t go dense on me tonight. Not tonight.
He looked back at the car’s rear seat. It was totally free of all objects. Nothing but a clean bench seat. I need a special piece of luggage for the gold. A hard-shell suitcase, or maybe a matching set. I’ve got it: I’ll drive to the 24-hour Super Wally World at Monkey Junction. Yeah, that’s it! That will pass some time, too. And calm the nerves.
As he passed by the Dauphin Reign Motel, he noticed a light on in Room 120. She’s probably screwing some guy from one of these bars. Mark would never know that his thinking was right on the money – as good as gold.
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Back in the Charlotte area at the exact same time, in the town of Mint Hill, Travis’s big bonfire party in Fred’s memory was nearing its conclusion. Loud rock music by Frank Zappa was still playing and everyone was now polluted drunk, as three kegs of beer had been drained by over eighty revelers in a cornfield off Brief Road. The scent of burning weed popped up here and there.
Despite Travis’s pleading for everyone to just sleep on the five-acre property on this mild and clear night, some partiers decided that they needed to go elsewhere. Some wanted more beer and wanted to beat the 2:00 AM cut-off. Most just wanted to sleep in their own beds. However, most cars did not have anything close to a sober designated driver.
Their vehicles – even the four-wheel-drive ones – were getting stuck in the deep muck as they tried to drive away.
Travis had set up the parking so that you entered one way –
at the high side of the parcel of land – and exited at another side of the field – the low side. The exit side was a swamp from the recent heavy rains. It was a drunk driver trap, and it was proving to be very effective.
Drunken merrymakers were pushing on the backs of mud-stuck vehicles and falling down. One after another. It was becoming quite a comedy on the slippery red clay.
Then this one pissed-off throttle-head floored it and charged the bonfire. Several people were struck by his souped-up maroon-red Chevy Chevelle. Legs were run over and 79
broken. The screaming could be heard over the hundred-decibel recorded music.
The 1968 Chevelle came to rest on the red-hot fire pit. The gas tank was right atop the hot coals. As soon as a few not-totally-obliterated partiers figured out what might be getting ready to happen – it did happen: BOOM!
The Chevelle’s fuel tank exploded. Flames shot thirty-five feet into the night sky. Pieces of the car were sent airborne, some landing up to three hundred feet away.
Six people died from the initial explosion, including the crazed driver. Travis and his wife Nancy escaped harm, as they were manning the stereo system at the time. Fourteen more were hospitalized. It was all over the Charlotte news the next morning. The online news aggregators picked it up, too.
<><><>
At a split-level home adjacent to the cornfield, a ten-year-old boy was in his room doing some research on the former Vikings kicker, Fred Cox. His dad had told him that the famous Minnesota purple people eaters’ placekicker had missed back-to-back extra points on his birthday in a game in the mid-70s. He told him that he was sure of it, as he remembered watching that game on TV. The ten-year-old thought his dad was going daft.
The young lad scanned NFL game-summary boxes from the 1974 through 1976 seasons on his tablet computer. He noticed that Fred Cox missed back-to-back extra points in Miami on his thirty-eighth birthday: December 11, 1976.
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That’s when the Chevelle’s gas tank explosion caused his green Nerf football to roll off the overhead hutch shelf and bonk him on the head.
There was no harm or injury. However, he couldn’t believe his dad’s memory was still that accurate.
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Mark arrived at the Super Wally World at the junction of US
421 and NC 132 at 1:42 AM. This intersection was known as Monkey Junction by the locals, as there was a small private zoo with monkeys just down the highway. Maybe all of the monkeys are asleep dreaming of gold, or dreaming of golden monkeys.
Once inside the brightly lit store, Mark meandered over to the luggage section. He decided to go with two pieces of luggage: a burgundy-red matching set. If I have two pieces of luggage, I can use the larger one for my clothes and the smaller one for the two gold crescents. It should be an easy transfer into this suitcase. Time is of the essence. And presence is to be minimized.
He checked the handles of the smaller suitcase to see if it could handle the weight. They seemed sturdy enough. He proceeded to the checkout line.
At the cash register, the young, black, female cashier told Mark that he had a cool exotic look. Mark was surprised by the comment at first, almost taken aback. He hadn’t really cared about how he appeared to females since he found that gold on the west bank of Little Meadow Creek.
“My dad’s side is Dutch; my mom is half Vietnamese and half Malaysian,” Mark dryly announced.
“Looks like they got the proportions right.” She was overtly flirting with him. There was no one else in his line.
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“Thanks for the compliment. You look very well-proportioned, too. Well, listen, I have to run. I’m on a secret mission.” Mark then chuckled.
“What’s your alias, secret agent?” Alias?
“Oh, I’m Mark. No need for an alias yet. Nice to meet you.
And, what might your alias be?” Can he not see my name tag? Is he afraid to look at my left breast?
“My code name is Chantelle,” she said while nodding down and eyeing her name tag. Wow, she is sexy as hell. She’s looks like fun. But, I can’t get distracted by a pretty woman right now. / I seem to have his attention now.
“Well, I’d love to continue this chat, Chantelle – I really would
– but upcoming events have my name on them.” Mark couldn’t believe what he had just said. Get a grip, and get out of this store. Stop talking! Good grief, what’s wrong with you?
“Goodnight, my secret agent.” She winked to him as he exited the store. Do people know that I’m soon to be gold-laden? Do I have that minutes-away-from-wealth swagger?
His thoughts made him chuckle. Don’t get cocky, sport.
Remember, you don’t have anything yet. / I wonder what he’s up to.
As he walked back to his rental car, he thought about what he told Chantelle at the register. Why did I have to say that I 83
was on a secret mission? That was dumb. Even if I was only joking, not a smart move. No more idle conversation with anyone. No more allusive remarks. Just keep your mouth shut.
When Mark arrived at his rental car with his shopping cart, he was puzzled. He thought about the upcoming trunk transfer. He looked up and noticed that the nearest parking lot light’s plastic cover was missing. Where should I put this luggage? On the rear seat? In the trunk? Which place will have quicker access? Which place will look less suspicious?
After mulling it over for eight seconds, he decided on the rear seat. Once inside the car with the luggage, he cut the price tags off with a jagged house key. That Chantelle sure is hot. Should I go back in the store and buy a cold drink just so I can get her phone number? No, just get going – get the hell out of here. Stick to the plan.
He started the Ford Focus and got back on US 421 South.
The white sand on the shoulder of the highway almost looked magical. He looked deeper into the pine forest. It looked like a scene from another planet. Is it all just a play within a play? And, can I just make some hay?
At 2:22, he was crossing back over the Snow’s Cut Bridge. A thin crescent moon was out, disappearing and re-emerging from behind the high cirrus clouds. Good, I won’t be doing this under a full moon. The less light, the better.
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He waited at the red traffic light at Carl Winner Drive. A Carolina Beach Police cruiser was beside him, on his left. He just tried to look preoccupied, fumbling with the radio knobs.
He was afraid to look over at the police officer. Why do I always get so damn paranoid around cops? I’ve done nothing wrong. I don’t have any dope or contraband on me.
I’m not inebriated. This rental car’s lights work and it has a valid tag. And, there’s no gold in this car … well, not yet.
After what seemed to be half an eternity, the traffic light changed to green and the police car sped away. Whew! If a person could get arrested for just being paranoid, I’d already be looking through iron bars. I’ve got to relax a little. Just calm down, Mark. Chill the fuck out.
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Grug and Susan were sloshed. They sloshed around on the bed, fumbling for each other’s joy spots. Grug sloshed out his limp sausage. Unlike the inebriated lunch treat known as Rick, Grug’s salami never got totally hard; it was forged in a rubber. Which he didn’t bother to wear.
His poor cocksmanship was more like something to endure than enjoy. He took forever to get aroused, and to be truthful, Susan never did. Grug finally had an orgasm, signaled by a loud burp, rapturous fart, and spooging on Susan’s left thigh.
The drunken sex was more of a banal blur than an erogenously exciting erotic escapade for Susan. There were no spine-tingling rushes. No anticipatory suspense. No passion. Nothing. She was glad when it was over. She wished that the Hawaiian ukulele player would have balled her, instead.
The ancient wall-inset air conditioner rattled away. Soon Grug was snoring like a two-man saw. The crickets opted for another window sill. Susan passed-out six minutes later at 1:44. The bathroom sink faucet dripped at a rate of two drops per minute as the muted TV flickered out various colors on the walls all night.
Neither had a dream they could remember in the morning.
Their hangovers were real stingers. Moreover, it was a very-short-chapter one-nighter that Susan would soon forget.
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Mark rolled up next to their Dodge Neon at 2:28 AM. The streets in that area were now deserted. Only a dim, flashing glow could be seen on the window blinds of room 120.
Susan is probably passed-out again with the TV on. Well, this is late enough. It’s showtime! Let’s do this – do it right.
Without further pondering, Mark leapt out of the Ford Focus and quickly walked to the other side, opening the passenger-side rear door. Then he opened the trunk of their Dodge Neon. He looked inside, way up inside the trunk. Thank God!
Yes, it’s still here. Whew!
He grabbed the tent and pulled it down. It slid towards the rear of the car. That’s right, come to papa. Then as he lifted the tent, the gold fillets fell out on the trunk’s black carpet.
Ah, yes! There’s my golden couple. Wow, what sexy curved objects they are. Oh, how I’ve missed you, my lovely objects of supreme desire.
Mark then walked back to the rental car and grabbed the smaller suitcase. He placed it in the Neon’s trunk, off to the left side. He then filled the smaller suitcase with the two slender, C-shaped pieces of gold. He looked around, trying not to look any more suspicious. Well, no problems so far.
The larger semicircular gold nugget barely fit. He placed the gold-filled suitcase in the back seat of the Ford Focus, next to the empty larger suitcase and closed the door. Finally, it’s in my car. At last, Allah, it’s in my possession. I’ve got it back! Yey!
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He then quietly closed the trunk of the blue Dodge Neon and walked over to his white rental car. I’ll transfer these suitcases to the trunk somewhere else. Maybe do it at the Mount Bourbon Inn tomorrow morning in broad daylight, after I put my clothes in the larger one. Yeah, that’s it; that’s the plan.
Mark cautiously closed the rear door and trotted around the car. He jumped in, started the engine, and eased down Carolina Beach Avenue. He never looked back. Nirvana is my next stop, sweetheart! One way. Express.
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He was only going 28 MPH in the 25 MPH zone on Canal Drive when the traffic signal at Harper Avenue suddenly turned yellow. And then, it suddenly turned red. What an ungodly short yellow light! This must be a rigged ticket stop.
He jammed on the brakes and nearly skidded into the intersection. He knew at this time of night the cops were out in force, looking for drunks. I absolutely cannot be pulled over. No way. No how. It can’t happen. Period. I can’t run a red light!
As the car came to a complete stop, he heard a ripping sound and then a thump. The smaller gold nugget in the smaller suitcase had suddenly lurched forward as he braked and tore through the fabric area at the top; it was protruding through the suitcase. You’re kidding me! This is not happening! C’mon, gimme a freakin’ break!
Mark continued to his motel room with no more problems.
He parked the car and pushed the gold nugget back into the 88
smaller suitcase. Now the gold was no longer visible.
However, the ripped hole was obvious to anyone who studied the suitcase.
He locked the car, re-checked that he had locked all the doors, and re-checked one more time. He glanced at the car one last time and walked towards his room. The crescent moon was now unobscured. They say that it’s damn cold on that moon. Oxygen-starved. Cratered to hell. Probably gold-less, too.
Once inside he went to the fridge and grabbed a cold Guinness. Ah, the taste of victory. All things considered, you’ve done well, my boy. Mission very well accomplished.
He was almost giddy. The wall clock said 2:43. What a night!
What a successful night. I won! Ha-ha! I won, suckers!
Markie-boy has scored a golden sack trick!
He switched the old tube-style TV back on, and hypnotically flipped through the channels, riding waves of endorphin-released euphoria. Adrenaline was still being secreted. He was still victoriously jacked-up.
His surfing stopped at TCM, Turner Classic Movies. No movie-interrupting commercials on this channel. Perfect.
An old black-and-white movie was running. It looked like a film noir. He leaned back in the chair as he sipped the thick, dark, Irish stout. Maybe they’re having a film noir marathon. I love this genre. I feel like I’m in one of these movies right now.
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The movie was Detour, and it was the last twenty-three minutes of the 1945 Edgar G. Ulmer classic. Man, wish I would have caught this from the beginning. But then, maybe I would have ended up like that poor schlep Al. So ironic that this movie is on right now, on this particular night, saturated with suspense and tension.
The movie’s setting was now Los Angeles. Vera, the femme fatale, was now blackmailing Al, the piano player. They get into a heated argument. Somehow Vera dies. The phone cord was wrapped around her neck. Al didn’t realize it. What bad luck this guy has. He’s now hitchhiking again. And here come the cops. The End.
It was now 3:08. Mark heard a gust of wind topple an empty beer can outside in the parking lot. Well, thankfully, no one is blackmailing me. My ‘Vera’ is totally clueless. And, I haven’t killed anyone, intentionally or by accident. I’ve really done nothing wrong. I can rest easy. I removed found gold – gold that no one even knew about – from my/our own car and put it into another legally rented car. No offense there. I didn’t steal it; it doesn’t belong to anyone. Well, I guess that landowner owns the gold, but he never even knew he had it.
So, he’s certainly not missing it now. There’s certainly no warrant out for my arrest. Or, is there? Of course not! Let’s cease with this irrational paranoia right now.
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