SW ORE Tales by Mike Bozart - HTML preview

North of Wonder

by Mike Bozart

© 2020 Mike Bozart

A single, focused, smartly attired, 28-year-old Cantonese American female right-turns her slate-metallic, shiny-blackwall-tired, 2015 Toyota Corolla LE into the dusty gravel lot on the south side of triple-concrete-arched Caveman Bridge (Oregon Route 99 / SW 6th Street). It is cool, misty, and overcast on this first Friday of fall 2016 (September 23rd) in Grants Pass. The hidden-away-under-semi-mature-bigleaf-maple-trees, eight-hundred-six-summer-suns-faded-sienna-painted-siding,

disconnected-gutter-downspouts-a-

dangling, single-story lounge on the Rogue River is open for late lunch and early afternoon suds. Monica’s slender right hand retrieves the smartphone from the vacant passenger seat. 2:02. Two minutes late. Not too bad considering that traffic jam. What a gruesome wreck that was. Wonder if Carol is already in there. Probably. She has always been punctual. What a hole-in-the-wall of a place. Well, here goes.

Hope I make it out alive.

“Yey, you’re here!” a 29-year-old, flannel-jacketed, short-haired brunette shouts as medium-length, jet-black-haired Monica strays into the weakly lit, sparsely populated tavern.

Caveman Bridge leads to The Cave. Why, of course.

“What an out-of-the-light-of-day place, Carol. Never would have found it without your detailed directions. It doesn’t show up on any of the popular map programs.” No make-up.

Hmmm …

“That’s why I like it, Monica. There’s rarely ever a tourist in here. The regulars are respectfully irregular. And, it’s always so quiet and dark.” Can’t wait for tonight.

“It’s dark alright. Almost tripped over something at the door.”

She’ll be tripping alright later on.

“Monica, I’ve stumbled on that raised threshold plate, too.

Many a near-faceplant. You almost feel like saying ‘Hey, I’m not really drunk, I swear’. But, no one even notices anymore.

No one in here cares.”

“Why doesn’t someone just screw it back down?” Monica asks. Screw? For sure. Really should bring a screwdriver next time and do everyone a favor. Wonder if it’s a flathead or a Phillips. Or a Torx. Torques all night; sleeps all day.

<ding><ding><ding> [an older male voice emanating from an invisible overhead speaker] “Question du jour: What two-digit Celsius temperature, when the numerals are

transposed, is closest to its approximate Fahrenheit equivalent?”

“What in the world was that?!” Monica can’t believe what she has just heard.

“The owner is a crazy old mathematician who got fired from RCC,” [Rogue Community College] Carol informs. Why?

“What did he get fired for?” Monica enquires. Sex with a student?

“Not sure, my dear. But every afternoon at a random time, there’s another bizarre math-trivia question.” What a weird place. Wonder how Carol found out about it. Well, she’s always been a low-flying social butterfly. Wonder what she wants to tell me. Guess I’ll find out soon enough. My dear?

Hmmm …

“Do you win anything if you get the right answer?” Monica queries with sincere interest.

“Don’t know, my lovely longtime friend,” green-eyed Carol responds. My ‘lovely’ longtime friend? Hmmm …

“I’ve yet to come up with a correct answer. Maybe someday.

Though, I was never good at math like you, Monica.”

“Ok, Carol, please cease with the all-Asians-are-great-at-math stereotype; I was just a B student.” Please ditch that trope. / B+

“I wasn’t insinuating that, honey.” Touchy-touchy. / Honey?!

“Hey, I bet that we can solve it together,” Monica optimistically proclaims. Perhaps she can. I’ll be no help, especially if it involves algebra or calculus.

“Maybe,” Carol replies. “Hey, I’ll go get us a couple of low-calorie amber beers while you mull it over. Is that ok, gorgeous?” Gorgeous? Does she want me to be part of a threesome with her and Steve? Is that what this is leading to? Is that why she invited me here? Hmmm …

While Carol is at the bar awaiting the tap-filling of the steins, Monica swipes the screen of her cell phone to the left. The weather forecast from Wednesday, September 14th (2016) appears. That was a nice-though-chilly, pre-work jog through Lithia Park. [Ashland] The low was 48°. [Fahrenheit; 8.89°

Celsius] Well, that certainly isn’t the correct answer: 84°

Celsius is equal to 183.2° Fahrenheit. This summer has almost felt that hot sometimes. Hmmm … The high that day was 82° Fahrenheit … which is equal to … 27.78° Celsius.

So close. If I start with 28° Celsius, the exact Fahrenheit equivalent is 82.4°. Only 4/10 of a Fahrenheit degree off. I bet that’s it! The question said ‘approximate’. Yeah, 28 C and 82

F. That has to be the pair.

Carol soon returns with two, extra-large, 22-oz. (651 mL), clear-beveled, bubble-glass mugs. “Here ya go, precious.”

Precious? Me? It’s now obvious where this is going. I’ll play oblivious. Wonder where Steve is right now. Probably at work.

“Why, thank you, Carol. That will be enough for me today.

My alcohol tolerance is still quite low. Oh, I think that I’ve solved the math riddle; the pairing is 28 and 82, Celsius and Fahrenheit, respectively. To whom do we report this?”

“I’ll go tell the bartender. One minute.” Carol departs again for the dew-yew-planked bar.

Monica wonders what the prize will be. Is it $50? $100? No, the owner couldn’t afford that. Maybe just $5. $10 at most.

Carol returns four minutes later. “Nope, that wasn’t it, dreamy. However, he said that you were close – second best.” Dreamy? Too much. Second best?

Monica sighs. Darn.

“You want to do some hiking later?” Carol asks.

“Sure, I prefer hiking in cool weather,” Monica replies.

“Great. The high today is only expected to be sixty-one degrees, [Fahrenheit] Carol states. Hmmm … 61 F = what in Celsius?

Monica gets the temperature converter going again on her Samsung smartphone. Let’s see … 16° Celsius = 60.8°

Fahrenheit. Wow! So very close. Only a mere 2/10 of a Fahrenheit degree away from dead-on. This must be the couplet! It has to be 16 and 61. Or, is there an exact match?

Hmmm …

“Think I’ve got it now, Carol. I believe that it’s 16/61. Oh, thanks for the hint.” The hint?

Carol returns to the bar for a third time. Monica’s second guess is correct.

After getting off the phone with the owner, the 30-ish, stout, dark-haired Samoan American bartender hands Carol a plastic, earth-brown, driver’s-license-size card. She thanks the mustachioed gentleman and heads back to the booth.

Monica looks at the card that Carol has just handed her and silently reads the text. ‘ The Cave – Genius Club – Every 6th beer free for life.’ Is it per sitting? No, that would be inviting a lawsuit or criminal legal action. They must keep track at the point of sale. Point of sale. Ha! I’m such a nerd. Wonder what qualifies as one beer. Is it 12 fluid ounces? [355 mL] Is this mug worth 1.833 beer credits? “Too bad that it’s not transferable to a brewpub in Ashland, Carol.”

“Oh, I think Grants Pass might quickly grow on you, especially my place north of Wonder.” Wow! ‘My’ place?

“Your place? Where did Steve go?” Monica has a shocked expression. That sure wobbled my girl.

“Oh, you know how the 20-something men are around here, Monica. Just like male dogs. He ran off with some skank that he met in Medford. ‘I’ve found my true soulmate,’ he insisted.

They’re now shacking up down the road in Phoenix. She’s a full-blown heroin addict, and he’s soon to be. Don’t miss him.

At all. Good riddance.” Woah! Guess she just wants me for a trial lesbian experience. What am I in for? Do I want to do this? I love Carol, but like that? Well, maybe just once. But, will it then ruin our friendship? Wait. Is there now someone else on the periphery? Am I just going to be the exotic hors d’oeuvre in some backwoods orgy? No, she’s not like that. I don’t think. Hmmm …

Monica takes a gulp of the light-yellow ale and digests what Carol has just told her. She is speechless.

“Well, that’s my update, angel. Now, tell me yours.” Angel?

She really wants me. Wonder what she has in mind.

Bondage? Please, no. My luck, the key would get lost. Hot wax? Yow! Whips? Ouch! Role play? Hmmm …

“Well, no boyfriend – or girlfriend – for three years and three months.”

“So, what type of vibrator do you prefer?” Wow! How bold!

Monica looks around to see if anyone heard what Carol just uttered. The six singular customers are oblivious; all completely immersed in their own worlds. “That’s kind of personal, Carol.”

“I’m your girl … friend. You can confide in me, darling.” I’m going to surprise her.

Monica licks her upper lip with her narrow-tipped tongue.

Then winks at Carol.

“I think it’s time to leave,” Carol declares.

Once out in the parking lot, Carol eyes Monica’s four-door vehicle. “Nice new car, girl! You must be making the big bucks now.”

They walk closer, side by side, to the all-by-itself Toyota.

“It’s actually a year old,” Monica informs. “I just wanted something reliable. Never want to have a breakdown again if I can avoid it. The last one was kind of scary: at night on

[US] 199 near Cave Junction.” A day of caves.

“Oh, where were you going?” Carol asks.

“To O’Brien. My boyfriend-at-the-time’s friend had a keg party down there by the creek. Just blaring alt-rock music, fireworks, and drunken nonsense. It was where I realized that he wasn’t the long-term one.” Hope I become ‘the one’.

Going to give ‘it’ my all.

“Well, are you ok to drive, dear, or do you need a few more minutes and some water?”

“Oh, I’m fine, Carol; I only drank half of that mug.”

“Ok, sweetie, I’ll lead you to my secret lair.” Lair? Hmmm …

“Ok, just don’t go too fast,” Monica implores. “Can’t afford another speeding ticket. My insurance premium is already through the roof.”

“I won’t, princess.” Princess? Wow!

Monica closely follows Carol’s burgundy 2009 Jeep Wrangler westward on Redwood Highway (US 199 South).

Fifteen gazing-at-the-semi-distant-sylvan-hills minutes later, just before New Gulch Road, Monica sees what looks like a super-tall black bear walking upright on the right side of the

now-two-lane road. What the hell was that?! Was that the fabled Sasquatch? It looked just like Kurt Harris’ depiction on that website.

While Monica’s mind is wrapped around the possibility of having just seen the infamous Pacific Northwest primate, the Jeep slows. A right turn signal soon flashes. Carol exits onto Waters Creek Road, a winding asphalt drive that splits the alders and Douglas firs. Then the rural passageway reduces to one lane. Carol slows and then signals for a left turn. After three minutes on a narrow crushed-stone lane, Carol pulls into a two-bare-tire-tracks-in-the-unmown-grass driveway of a small cherry-red-metal-roofed log cabin. Wonder what my girl is thinking. Hope she’s not afraid.

Monica shifts into Park directly behind the borderline-dirty Wrangler. So, this is it. Sure is remote. Is there cell service out here? Barely. Ok, a little better now.

Carol exits the Jeep and walks up to the driver-side window of the Toyota. Monica lowers the window.

“So, what do you think, hon? Just the two of us alone. No distractions. No annoyances.” She’s really fast-forwarding things. She must be horny. Glad my period is over.

“It’s nice, Carol. Very nice. And very secluded.”

“Could you live here with me, love?” Love? Wow! She’s certainly giving me the hard press. Hard press? Ha! I’m sure that’s coming.

“Well, you certainly found a private spot, Carol.” I’m going to tongue-titillate her private spot like no man has.

Soon they are drinking red wine in the cozy living room.

Carol is sitting cross-legged on an oversized fleece-lined loveseat; Monica sits back-straight on a 1950s-retro-Sputnik-capsule armchair. Nothing is said for several minutes as Monica studies the exposed interior. All their conversations

… now lost in the cracks between the fallen, sliced and stacked trees.

“Cool place. When did you and Steve buy it, Carol?”

“November 2008, when the recession was near its worst. We had some money saved, and got this dirt-cheap from a solitary fellow who was headed for bankruptcy.”

“Where did the seller go?” Monica is quite curious to know.

She always asked the oddest questions in class.

“Someone in town said that he bailed, and took nothing but his cash and clothes to Mexico. He settled somewhere on the Baja peninsula – but it wasn’t Cabo. [San Lucas] La Paz, I think. He’s probably holed-up with some señorita. Wonder how he is right now. Wonder if he is thinking of his former residence at this exact moment. Wonder if he left a memento somewhere. Such silly thoughts.

“Oh. Hey, I really like this wine, Carol. What kind is it?”

“Malbec. I got it on sale the other day.” Time to give her the green light.

“You know, to be totally honest, Carol, I feel a sexual tension like I have never known,” Monica calmly divulges.

“Well, I can relieve that tension, girlfriend. Follow me.”

The bedroom session goes on for 88 minutes. The high-end, pulsating, Ward® strap-on dildo brings Monica to multiple orgasms never known before. A post-clitoral nap then ensues on the queen-size bed with Carol embracing Monica.

The redwood cottage is pin-drop quiet. Until a single-engine plane sputters by. Nonetheless, neither awake.

They arise 44 minutes later as the obscured sun begins to set behind nearly opaque, pewter-gray pillows. Carol begins preparing a vegan dinner in the compact kitchen. Monica lounges on the tan couch in a white bathrobe. That was some experience. The best sex by far. Am I now a lesbian?

Is Carol? Seems so. She has made the permanent switch.

Just like Lucy [a mutual friend] did back in her senior year of college. Could I go back to dating a man? Or, was this just a one-time experiment, like it was for Cindy? [another mutual friend] Sure was nice, though. Do I truly love Carol? Could I eventually marry her? Maybe so. Sure loved her a couple of hours ago. Ha! Where is my life going? How could this work out? I really like my place in Ashland. How far away from there am I? Shit! Where’s my phone? Oh, there it is on the chair. Whew!

After retrieving her smartphone, Monica gets a sufficient signal on a map app. She sees that she is 58 miles (93 km) away from her 3rd-floor-with-a-valley-view apartment in

downtown Ashland. An hour and eleven minutes in average traffic. Not a super-long drive, but it would get old. Fast.

Maybe I could work from here two or three days a week. I have that flexibility – as long as I have a reliable internet connection, which seems kind of spotty here. We could save a lot of money, though, by living in one place – this place.

Does Carol want a child? Do I? Guess I could be the natural mother via a sperm donation. Or, maybe we could adopt.

How will I break this sexual orientation change to my parents? [in Los Angeles] And to Chen? [her younger brother in Newark, California] What will be their reactions?

Hmmm …

Carol enters the living room holding two plates of meatless meatloaf with snow peas and turmeric-sprinkled mashed potatoes. “Dinner is served, sexy. No, don’t get up; you can eat right there on the couch. Oh, how did you like that hike?”

“You hiked it up in me alright,” Monica remarks and giggles.

“Let’s go for a hike. Ha-ha. Such an obvious ruse, Carol. I knew that our liquid lunch at The Cave was leading to this at 2:08 PM. Or, was it 2:09?”

Carol chuckles. “Hope Ward wasn’t too hard on the beaver, my super-sexy girlfriend. I always wanted to say that.” Which one? ‘Ward hard on the beaver’ or ‘super-sexy girlfriend’? Or both? Ward? Is that her nickname for that faux penis – the future inseminator? I suppose that I’m the femme in this relationship. And that’s fine with me. Just hope that Carol doesn’t go too butch. So much to think about. Should just relax. Enjoy the weekend with my new lover extraordinaire.

“No, you were fine, girlfriend,” Monica replies. Yey! She called me ‘girlfriend’. I’ve won her over. I hope.

“Want to watch the local news?” Carol asks.

“Sure,” Monica blurts between chews. “Very tasty. When did you go vegan?”

“About two years ago. What about you, cutie?” Cutie? I’ve never been so flattered in all my life. But, will it last?

“Oh, I guess it has been about five years now,” Monica answers.

An image of a severely mangled silver sedan on the shoulder of an interstate highway is on the small flat-screen

TV. [a female reporter’s voice] “One man, a 27-year-old Phoenix, Oregon resident, died in this crash around 1:30 PM

today on Interstate 5. A motorist who was next to this car stated that the driver appeared to be asleep as his Isuzu Axiom veered off the right travel lane into the guardrail at 55

to 60 miles per hour. [88.5 to 96.6 km/h] The deceased driver’s name has not yet been released. Back to you, Ken.”

“That’s him – my ex!” Carol shouts towards the TV. “That was Steve’s car. The dead driver is Steve! Oh, my God!”

She is stunned. That’s the wreck that I drove past; that’s the collision that caused the traffic jam. Wow!

“Carol, I saw that wrecked car on my way to meet you at The Cave. That’s why I was a few minutes late. Are you really positive that it’s Steve’s car?”

“Certain of it. Steve is – or was – 27 – almost 28. And, he was living in Phoenix, [Oregon] as I mentioned earlier. I bet that he passed-out while high on smack. [heroin] His ‘true soulmate’ essentially killed him. What a way to go out. What a waste. Congratulations, Miss Needles.”

“Gosh, I’m so sorry.” Monica rises and walks over to the loveseat. She sits next to Carol, who is now crying.

“We didn’t work out. He left me. But, I never ever wanted him to die. Never.” She sobs profusely on Monica’s left shoulder.

It would be an evening of much weeping. Monica would do her best to console Carol. They finally fall asleep together on the platform bed at 1:11 AM.

The next morning at 9:19, after a light toast-and-jam breakfast, a still-grieving-yet-stone-faced Carol shows a-just-awoken Monica an aquamarine-colored pill. “You’ve heard of Claritin®, right?”

“Yes,” Monica softly replies. She seems to be doing better.

“Well, this is Klaritohne®. It gives you insights, and some say it helps one to anticipate – and in some cases, see – the future. I took one forty minutes ago. It’s a very mild psychoactive. Some people sees visions; some don’t. Want to try it?” Psychoactive?

“How long do the effects last?” Monica queries. Don’t want to be tripping my ass off all day.

“Just a couple of hours. Easy re-entry. Nothing like LSD.”

“Ok, sure, why not?”

Monica pops the pill and chases it with some leftover wine.

“So, are there any good hiking trails around here?”

“Are you kidding?! The back of the property abuts the massive Rogue River – Siskiyou National Forest. You can get so lost in there that you may not find your self for a week.” May not find your self? Two words?

“Ok, think I’ll just do a short loop.”

“Sure, love. I’m going to do some house cleaning while you’re out. Take some pepper spray. You never know.”

Should I really do this? Carol seems better. Sure. The weather is perfect. Need to break through this uncharted-wilderness wall of fear.

Soon Monica is traipsing through the firs, spruces, and hemlocks. The sun has now cleared the treetops. She feels the serum in her cerebrum. Wow! Those subtle curly Qs in the sky. Amazing. Is that Carol’s and my life – now intertwined? A curious composite face we make together.

Back at the quaint cabin, Carol discovers a condom wrapper under the mattress. Roast in HELL, you bastard!

another pSecret pSociety pshort pstory

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