SW ORE Tales by Mike Bozart - HTML preview

The Kite

by Mike Bozart

© 2020 Mike Bozart

The grinning-from-winning, late-40-ish, Caucasian, Toronto-Blue-Jays-capped Canadian gentleman arrives at the vacant checkout counter with a bag of faux onion-ring snacks and a bottle of Diet Coke. “A Dollar General right on the corner of Easy Street. [at US 101 / Oregon Coast Highway] Life is grand in Brookings, eh?” Who is this guy? Probably a tourist.

“There are worse places to be, I suppose,” the mid-20-something, rusty-brown-haired male clerk states sans emotion at 5:37 PM PDT on Saturday, July 21st, 2018. “So, will that be all today, sir?” Bet he’s from the St. Lawrence Lowlands.

“Yepper, this will presently suffice. Oh, your [Southern Oregon] Kite Festival was absolutely wonderful. Splendid sunny-yet-mild weather. [66° Fahrenheit; 19° Celsius] So glad that I decided to partake this year. Well worth the ground-to-air-to-ground journey.” Ground to air to ground?

“It’s going on tomorrow, too,” the clerk stoically informs.

“Yeah, I know. But, I’ve already accomplished my goal.

Thus, I’ll be heading back to Ontario early tomorrow morning. And, yes, it was a soaring success.” But, there are no competitions. Weird guy.

“Oh, did you participate?” the clerk enquires.

“I did. I brought down one of my puffy-thought-cloud kites.”

Puffy thought cloud?

The clerk completes the scanning and points to the card reader. “And, what kind of kite is that, sir?”

“You know, those thought clouds, or bubbles, that are in comic strips/books and cartoons. Well, my kite consisted of one large, blank, white, crescently [ sic] crenulated oval with three smaller ones in descending-size order acting as the tail. When it rose to about 200 feet [61 meters] – which didn’t take long as there was a brisk breeze out of the northwest –

I gave the line a snap. The release latch opened just as designed, and she sailed away. I imagine the landing spot was somewhere in southern Harbor. Hopefully the finder will follow the directions.” Directions? He’s just dropping litter out of the sky into someone’s backyard. Or, onto someone’s roof. Or, into the ocean. Or, possibly onto the windshield of a car or truck. What a kook!

The clerk bags the two items. “Have a nice rest of your day in Brookings,” the clerk nonchalantly states.

“Likewise. Hey, which way to the Brookings Institution?”

The one-quarter-Tolowa clerk is not sure what the Canadian fellow is talking about. He now has a puzzled look. Is that part of the Oregon university system? No. Is it a private research college? No. Hmmm …

“You know, that American dead-center-to-left-of-right-left-centerfield think tank, depending on which way you think while tanked,” the Mississauga resident clarifies. What?! Oh, wait …

“Isn’t that in Washington, DC?” the clerk replies after making the mental connection. A leaking think tank leaving memories to rust. What an inane thought.

“Just checking,” the white-haired Canadian says as he begins to exit the variety chain store. “Might be a good day to buy a lottery ticket.” Wonder why he said that. Did he win big on Lotto Max?

The next day the store clerk, Abe, attends the second day of the local kite festival with a couple of his friends, Bill and Yvonne (who are a live-in couple). The afternoon weather is similar to the day before, just a wee cooler. At precisely 3:33

PM PDT, it appears in a plethora of kite types and a smorgasbord of colors: the white thought-cloud kite.

“That’s the one that he was talking about,” Abe emphatically states while standing and pointing skyward. “See it – the one that looks like a big blank thought cloud with some smaller ones below.”

“Yeah, I see it,” twenty-six-year-old, stringy-blonde-haired Bill responds while seated on a portable lawn chair on a grassy field adjacent to the dark-teal-colored Chetco River.

“Odd kite there.”

“Who?” twenty-five-year-old Amerasian Yvonne interjects while seated on a matching chair next to Bill.

“This strange older Canadian dude who came in the store yesterday,” Abe announces. “He described a kite exactly like that one to me. He said that he was flying it, but then

‘released’ it on purpose, so that it could be found by

someone. He said that there were ‘directions’ on the kite.”

The guy must have been wacked.

“Directions?” Yvonne is incredulous. “Directions for what?”

“Maybe the directions say to re-fly and re-release the kite,”

Abe posits. “The guy over there who is flying that kite is not him; he is shorter and much younger – our age – maybe even younger than us. Want to go talk with him?”

“Sure!” Yvonne shouts. “I’m dying to know what was written on, or attached to, that kite.” Curiosity killed the cat. Wish she would just stay here with me and chill out. ‘Just let Abe talk to him one on one – alone.’ That guy might start eyeing her. Up and down. Checking out her ass. Why did she have to wear those super-short shorts on such a brisk day? Don’t want to deal with that kind of drama right now. Though, he’ll probably think that she is Abe’s girlfriend. When is Abe going to get a girlfriend? Bet he would like to put his worm in Yvonne’s slot. Need to just chill out. Don’t worry about anything. Let’s just quash all of the paranoia here and now.

“Tell you what, my buzz has just started to kick in,” Bill divulges. “Think I’ll just stay here and watch our stuff.” Didn’t know that he took anything. How sly of him. Wonder what he ingested. Probably something from Dave. [a chemist-acquaintance]

“Ok, we’ll be back with a full report in ten minutes, darling,”

Yvonne states with verve aplenty. “And, you had better have something to share with us, you sneaky little thing.” She giggles and gives him a wry expression.

A summer tanager whizzes by on an errant course.

Bill just smiles, nods, adjusts his sunglasses, and tips his African safari hat down. He’s already baked Alaska.

The short-fishing-rod-equipped, thought-cloud pilot is about 100 feet (30 meters) away. Abe and Yvonne begin weaving their way through the throngs of upwardly-tilted-heads-with-eyes-looking-south-southeastward kite gazers. When they emerge from a dense clustering of folks, they look up in unison. They are shocked: their aerial item of concern is nowhere to be seen. Oh, man! Did he already release it?

Guess so. Darn it! / Oh, no … It’s gone. Where in the world did that kite go?

They rush up to the dark-haired lad who is reeling in the now-kite-less monofilament line. The one that got away.

“Did your line break?” Abe asks the younger Caucasian man. I’ll just feel him out. Let him assume that we think it was an accident.

“Sure did,” he replies. “Must be pretty gusty aloft. I should have used 60-lb. [27.2 kg] test line instead of this old spool of 50.” [pound; 22.7 kg]

“Where did you get that kite?” Yvonne asks. How direct.

She’d be a good TV news reporter.

“Uh, I forget the place.” He looks frazzled. “Sorry, folks, got to run along,” he blurts as the end of the clear line passes through the rod eyelets. “Must retrieve it before someone else does. It’s very valuable. Really liked that lucky kite. A hard-to-find one-off. Looked like it went down around Marks Lane.” He then fast-walks, with his fishing rod looking like a lance, to the Boat Basin Road parking lot.

“I think he’s lying, Yvonne,” brown-eyed Abe states once the yellow-jacketed man is out of earshot. Wonder why he broke up with his last girlfriend. Was she cheating on him?

“About what, Abe? Everything?” Yvonne has a pensive expression. Bill sure got lucky. She’s one cool chick. Too bad her twin sister is nothing like her.

“No, not everything,” Abe responds. “Some things.”

“Like the part about the line breaking?”

“That actually may be the truth, Yvonne, as I didn’t notice any hardware on the end of the line.” Wonder what his hardware is like. ‘Yvonne, you naughty girl.’

“Great observation, Watson,” Yvonne jokingly states.

Wonder if they are still in the humping-each-other-like-mice phase. Bet they talk raunchy to each other during sex. Need to stop thinking about such.

They then make their way back over to Bill, who is just a-chillin’ like a villain in his forest-green folding chair.

“We’re back!” Yvonne boldly blasts towards his left ear.

Bill slowly looks over at Yvonne and Abe. “So, what’s the deal? What did he say?”

“He was kind of evasive,” Yvonne answers. “Not 100%

truthful.”

“Yeah, Bill, I, too, got the feeling that he’s hiding something.”

“Hiding what? The key to the universe?” Bill guffaws gutturally.

“Very funny, wise-ass,” Yvonne retorts.

“In all seriousness, you didn’t happen to see that particular kite go down, did you?” Abe queries Bill.

“Actually, I most seriously did,” Bill replies. “The suddenly untethered thought-cloud express went down over there.”

[points south-southeastward] That would be where he said it went down – the Marks Lane area.

“Well, Yvonne, he wasn’t lying about that part,” Abe certifies.

“I just wonder where he got that kite,” Yvonne discloses. Me, too.

No replies, except for some cawing seagulls.

The trio would stay and watch the kites for an hour or so. Not much is said, just some oohs and ahs are uttered as a couple of guys do some rapid dives and near misses with their stunt kites.

Not amused in the least by her boyfriend’s state of waste, Yvonne would then drive an incapacitated and now mumblingly incoherent Bill back to their apartment on the east side of Brookings.

Abe would remain seated on the verdant lawn for several more minutes and wonder about the thought-cloud kite.

Should I go look for it? But, it went down over 70 minutes ago. That guy – or a homeowner, tenant, or passerby – must have found it by now. Well, nothing to do – nothing scheduled. Might as well take a cruise along Oceanview Drive. Maybe stop in at Tim’s [an old friend] later. See what he’s up to in his [McVay Creek] abode. Abide, abided, abode. Bodes well. Bides time. Swells. Breakers. Repeat.

Over and over. And under. Way down under. Bones from 623 AD. Why did I think of that year. Is 623 a prime number?

[No, 89 x 7 = 623] Must remember to research that later.

Eight anticipatory minutes later, Abe right-turns his midnight-blue, 2010 Kia Rio onto all-residential Marks Lane. However, there is no sign of any kite on the short people-less street.

When he turns around at the end, he can hear and smell the Pacific Ocean. He muses. Sure would be nice to live right beside the sea. Need to think up a lucrative business model.

Something internet-based. Maybe join forces with Tim. Take his online game to another level. Make it unique. Add another dimension. But, what? Hmmm …

Abe exits the small neighborhood via Sea Cliff Drive and Bathiany Lane. Still, no sign of the kite. He turns right onto Oceanview Drive to continue heading south. A mid-‘70s Pontiac Firebird begins to tailgate him. Always some in-a-rush-to-go-nowhere asshole to ruin a leisurely Sunday drive.

Is he the tie-breaking vote at an important shareholders’

meeting? Sincerely doubt it.

Wanting to avoid a needless road-rage incident, Abe flicks the turn signal and makes a quick right onto Sea Court Lane.

The putrid-lemon-yellow Formula 400 with holey tailpipes roars by. Abe almost immediately hits his brakes. There is a barrier spanning the road. Whew! Thank God it’s daytime. If it was night, I would have crashed right into that closed metal gate. Would not have been good.

Behind the gate is a very small oceanside neighborhood in an incipient phase. The land has been cleared, graded, divided into lots, and prepped for home construction, but the ground is still just foundation-less grass. He steps out of his car and looks through the wrought-iron spindles. There is a flat, fabric-thin, white object in the middle of the newly paved road. He excitedly walks around the gate, and then jogs towards the thingamajig. But, it is only an empty, folded-over, plastic trash bag. Wishful thinking. Just like when I purchase those damn scratch-offs. Really need to stop.

Digging a financial grave.

“Interested in buying a lot?” a baritone male voice asks from the direction of the gate. Huh?

Abe looks back and sees a burly man in a blue uniform approaching. Where did he come from? Is he private security? Or town police? Good, he’s just a security guard.

Guarding vacant lots? Maybe there’s a 5:30 appointment.

“Well, if the price is right,” Abe offers.

The pot-bellied, 50-ish, Caucasian security guard is now ten feet (three meters) from him. “So, are you one of those millennial millionaires?” Huh?

“Um, not hardly.”

“Didn’t think so.” Not with an eight-year-old Kia.

“To be honest with you, I’m looking for a kite that appeared to crash-land very near here,” Abe candidly reveals.

“Ah, so you were up at the kite fest. How was it?” This security guard seems glad to have someone to talk to.

Maybe his wife has stopped communicating with him. Or died?

“Yeah, me and some friends went today. There was this one kite that was quite different from the others. Just white thought clouds. It looked like –”

“Yeah, it landed in here yesterday afternoon, right over in lot 3. [points northwestward] I gave it to my 22-year-old son.

He’s a bigtime kite enthusiast.”

“Oh, by chance did it have a message – or directions –

printed on it? Or attached to it, perhaps on the back?”

“It did. There were neatly printed instructions that said to go to some website and enter what you thought the moment that you saw the kite, and to fly and release it within a fortnight for good luck.” Wow! Wonder what that URL is.

“Did you enter anything on that website?” Abe enquires.

“One never really knows.”

another pSecret pSociety pshort pstory

North of Wonder by Mike Bozart (Agent 33) | NOV 2020