SW ORE Tales by Mike Bozart - HTML preview

Remote

by Mike Bozart

© 2021 Mike Bozart

“Hello Jim, how are you doing out there in rural Oregon?”

sixty-one-year-old John Hammeremmah asks from his bare-save-a-white-plastic-chair, 4th-floor, uptown-skyline-facing, faux-wrought-iron-railed apartment balcony in midtown Charlotte on an overcast-after-a-spell-of-morning-rain, cool-but-no-longer-chilly Monday afternoon, the 19th of February 2018. Wonder if the solitary life has him quacking with the ducks. Or chirping with the chipmunks? Do chipmunks chirp? Or cluck? Mother clucker!

“Doing fairly well, longtime comrade,” the white-hair-gone-very-thin-now, sixty-two-year-old, recliner-ensconced, cabin-enclosed Caucasian gent replies into his thicker-than-most smartphone as a sleety rain plays ting-tong on the westside windowpanes. Sleet is sublime for writing; it encourages one to tap farther. Who said that? Was it Doug? [another SFSU

classmate] Where’s he now? Florida? Which coast? Has he become a ‘Florida man’? [internal chuckle]

“Hey, I’m going to be in Salem for a conference next week.

I’ll have a free day: Tuesday. Was thinking of driving down and checking in with ya, if you’re not too busy.” Wonder how long he’ll want to stay. Will be nice to see John, but really need to … already forgot. Damn! Dementia is already creeping in. Just after my retirement started. A rigged system.

“No, not too busy at all. I’m just finishing up a novel that no human will probably ever read,” Jim calmly yet matter-of-factly states. No human? Why’s he so defeatist? Has something happened? Thought he was over her death.

Wasn’t that four years ago?

“A novel, huh? Wow! So, what’s it about, Jim?”

“Mars – the first colony on Mars.”

“Ah, topical science fiction. That’s right up my alley, old pal.

So, what happens? Does an unstoppable Martian virus wreak havoc within?” John chuckles.

“Not exactly, John, but that’s a good guess.”

“Ok, don’t tell me, and don’t e-mail it to me, either; I’d rather read it when I get there.” E-mail it? Would never send the rough draft to anyone. Too much grief in the retort. Maybe e-publish it later under a pseudonym on one of those free ebook websites on my last day. A parting ‘gift’. [internal

chuckle] But when I realize that it’s my last day, it may be too late. Should I let John read the real last chapter? Or should I present a rosy version to him? Maybe start typing again after this phone call. Yeah.

“Sounds like a plan, John. See you on February 27th. I’m writing it in that blank weekday rectangle on my desk calendar right now. I still don’t trust the electronic ones.”

“The pen-and-paper method retains its merits. See you then.”

“Safe travels, John.”

“Who was that?” a mature female voice suddenly asks.

“Jim. I’m going to meet him eight days from now on an off-day from the conference. He says that he’s been writing a novel.”

“Oh, crazy Jim,” Belmira, John’s 55-year-old, chestnut-brown-haired Portuguese American wife affirms. “Is he still living by himself? Did he not remarry?”

“Yes and no,” John answers.

“Why is there a gap in your conference schedule?” Oh great, another grand inquisition has officially started.

“Tuesday is a day of optional workshops, dear,” John nonchalantly informs. What’s she worried about?

“And you passed on them all?” hazel-eyed Belmira is a bit perturbed. “Seems like a waste of your company’s money.”

He’s up to something. Bet they both plan on ingesting psychedelic mushrooms again. Last time John ended up with hypothermia. Crazy American men. Yeah, I bet that’s their plan. Or, is he going poon hunting? A secret rendezvous with some slut? No, he’s not like that. Well, not anymore. Not since the stroke. He’s as asexual as a eunuch now. Can’t even remember the last time we ...

“I wanted to have at least one day to kick around in the Pacific Northwest. It’s such nice country. And, it’s a long, long way away. Don’t want to just look at hotel room walls the whole trip.”

“In February? It’s dank and soggy country.” Belmira gives John an eyeroll and walks back inside. Why does she suspect something amiss? A wife’s mentality.

John’s late afternoon flight from CLT to PDX the following Sunday goes off without a glitch. Already feeling drowsy, he sleeps through most it, only awaking when a forty-something male passenger behind him barks: “An ineluctable fate.”

Wonder what precipitated that remark.

Once off the Being 737 and through the terminal, he drives a run-of-the-mill midsize rental car from Portland to Salem. At an already-dark 6:36 PM, he flops down on the 3-star-rated, national-chain-hotel, semi-firm, queen-size mattress. So exhausted. Long-distance travel really takes it out of me now. Not much stamina anymore. Should I go out for food?

Maybe walk over to that Mexican restaurant across the street. Stretch the legs. Though, so tired. Think I’ll just …

John would take a two-hour nap. The pocketed uneaten airline snacks and bottled water would become his late dinner, before promptly returning to slumberland.

The opening session of the stochastic hazards mitigation conference the next day in the pre-divided-via-accordion-style-folding-wall-panels ballroom is oddly routine. The fifty-ish Ethiopian American male presenter’s prefatory puns are somewhat canned, but John considers his end-of-session closer a newfound gem: “Another day encased in papier cliché; stay glued to tomorrow.”

At a foggy 7:07 the next morning, John is entering southbound I-5. Traffic is light. A zipping-along-between-the-white-lines, ho-hum hour later at a Denny’s just off the interstate, he has a brief breakfast. The only weirdly noteworthy event: an order of just-plucked-off-the-pickup-line food is accidentally dropped by a young, in-a-rush, blonde-haired waitress. However, it all lands right-side up, broken into three large pieces that neatly divide the sunny-side-up eggs, hash browns, and toast. There is a brief moment of shared thought between the middle-aged, overalled, red-ball-capped male Caucasian customer and the shaken, dispirited waitress: The food actually never contacted the floor … It is all chucked in the trash bin ten seconds later.

Sixty-seven overcast-enshrouded minutes later, John exits the interstate south of Roseburg for Oregon Route 42. He

soon sees some hills and low mountains to the west.

Wonder what Jim is doing right now. The AM bong hit? Or the AM bowel movement? Maybe both together. [internal chuckle] Need to be polite and text him with an ETA.

Just got on 42. About a half hour away.

John presses Send as a dump truck closely rumbles past his left-side mirror. Whew! Was that guy riding the double-yellow line? Or was it me? Both of us? Texting while driving: such a no-no. Almost as bad as driving drunk. Really shouldn’t have done that. Way too risky. Especially at my age. Can’t concentrate on two things at once anymore. Yep, got away with one. That could have been the end of this trip – and me

– right there. My insignificant-as-the-next-guy’s life could have ended in a flash-smash. An inglorious fatal blunder.

The scenery is predominately grasslands initially, but the Douglas fir forests soon take over the passing tableau. The terrain gets hillier. The olive-green Coquille River is now paralleling the highway in a mostly hidden cleft. The hills have quickly become starter mountains. Wow, now, and how. Jim is really out in the middle of nowhere. Remote, a perfect name for this area. Wonder where he buys his groceries. Looks like they have a lot of landslides. What are the chances of the road becoming impassible after the next storm? Way beyond my calculating power. Send that one off to a quantum super-computer. Qubit by qubit.

A little ways past an RV campground on the river, John slows to make a left turn. Yep, that’s it: Remote Lane. Oh, look, they even have a post office. Amazing.

The nouveau-blue Hyundai Sonata veers off the two-lane asphalt road onto a winding gravel track. Six curvy minutes later, John arrives at ‘a compact A-frame in the sylvan expanse’ as Jim described his abode.

John parks behind Jim’s Jeep Wrangler and walks up to the front porch. He knocks twice. The pumpkin-orange, a-long-way-from-new, wooden door opens five seconds later.

“Ah, you made it,” Jim says with a hearty, upper-denture smile. “Good to see you again, partner.”

“Good to see you again, too, Mr. Remote,” John replies.

Jim emits a brief ha-ha. “Well, come on in, John. Want something to drink?”

“Hot tea is fine. Got any Earl Grey?”

“Sure do,” Jim answers. “Coming right up.”

“So, how long have you been living here?” Was it 2016 or 2015 that he moved here?

“Next Monday will be the three-year mark, John.” Ah, 2015.

“You don’t get lonely by yourself in the middle of nowhere?”

“No, not really. Not anymore.”

“How is your son doing?” John ventures.

“Peter is living in northern Virginia now, the DC metro, near Dulles, [airport] right on the Silver Line extension. He just turned 30 and has a plum federal IT gig. He’s doing fine. Still single-dingle at last check. But in all honesty, we really don’t talk that much. I think he blames me for my [first marriage]

divorce from his mother, even though I’ve explained to him numerous times who the cheater was. I think he wanted me to overlook that and remain married to her for his sake. So, how was your flight?” Quick change of topic there. Must be a real sore spot. Hope he doesn’t ask me about my son Jarvis.

[who died from an opiate overdose 28 months prior]

“Oh, unremarkable. Five and a half hours in your standard Boeing 737. Window seat. No one next to me. Thankfully.

No screaming babies or arguing adults. A quiet, quickly forgotten flight. Really nothing of note. Well, except for a note inside the airline magazine in the pouch below the seat tray. It was a list.”

“Oh, a discarded to-do list,” Jim declares. “And, what was the first item? Wait, let me guess: Get on plane.” Jim guffaws.

“No, more of a remember-to-mention list. There were only three items.”

“All honorably mentioned?” Huh? Why’d he say that? He’s probably already feeling the effects of one of his funny pills.

“Conceivably. Anyway, the heading read: The call to Dave in Denver at 9 AM. It also had a notation in parentheses:

(Remember that Denver is two hours behind EST). Item 1: Ask him about the new woman’s management style.”

“Well, you know what they say about the new lady.”

“What?” John is somewhat stunned by Jim’s serious-tone remark.

“She’s a real ball-breaker with zero tolerance for sagging sales,” Jim states in an over-the-top boardroom manner.

“So, is this now the Comedy Channel?”

“Just some levity, John. Please continue.”

“Item 2: Mention what Steve said.”

There is a whistling sound. The water kettle is boiling on the stove. Jim quickly departs for the kitchen.

“Well, what do ya think Steve said?” Jim shouts towards the adjacent archway-connected living room.

“Who in the hell knows? And I’m sure that he has no idea that two old goats are talking about him in Remote, Oregon.”

Jim returns with two mugs on a black plate. John grasps the emerald-green one with his left hand.

“Thanks. Smells good.”

“Whole leaf. Medium oxidation. Real oil of bergamot. Yeah, I’ve become a bit of a tea snob in my old age.” Jim chuckles again.

“Is it free-range and gluten-free, too?”

“Kindly go screw yourself, smart-ass.”

“Well, the wife sure aint.” John has a mighty guffaw this time.

Jim soon joins in.

“Ok, where were we?” John then asks.

“I think that we were up to item 3,” Jim reminds his collegiate-era cohort.

“Yes, item 3: Ask him where the new office will be.”

“Sounds like the note writer wants a new job, a promotion,”

Jim suggests.

“Yeah, maybe so, but get this: Item 3, the last item, was lined-out in pencil. The note was in blue ink.”

“You know, John, with just those few clues I would be willing to bet the pot farm down the road that your note-writer is a woman, probably in her mid-thirties.”

“Oh, really, Mr. Sleuth? Well, I must admit that the handwriting style was, shall we say, gender-uncertain. I have no inclination of the note-writer’s sex. Completely ambiguous penmanship, or penpersonship, I guess I should say.”

“Yes, siree, that airborne list-maker was a lady. Blue-ink pens are mostly used by females. Women in business are very concerned about other women higher up the company ladder. And the fact that item 3 was struck through, but only in pencil, shows a change of heart that could be reversed yet again; women think so much that they often change their minds several times.”

“What the hell have you been reading?” John bluntly asks.

“Hey, if you are going to write a novel with women in the plot

– a plot with many idle hours for all of the male and female characters to ruminate on their extra-terrestrial circumstance

– it helps to know how the other 51% think.” Jeez! He was married for a total of thirty-seven years. Did he not pick up on Erika’s [first wife] or Wanda’s [second wife] reasoning?

Their modes and nodes of thought? Bet he’s been reading

‘understanding the female mind’ books and articles by men, which are shots in the dark, and largely feckless.

“Ok, your soon-to-break-new-ground sci-fi novel … got a copy of the latest draft handy?” John asks while eyeing a framed photo of Jim’s deceased half-Wishram second wife.

Wonder if he is totally over her death. Such a gruesome freak accident. He’s pretty stoic, but I bet Jim thinks about her at least three times a day. Maybe four. Teen.

“Would you like a quick summary of the first dozen chapters, John?” Funny, Jim always favored those yellow-and-black-striped CliffsNotes® pamphlets over reading the whole book.

“Sure, I’m all ears as I once read somewhere.” Such an idiotic idiom. Though, I just might have a use for it.

“The scientists from the U.S. get to Mars. At first there’s only ten of them, five men and five women, all single.” Wonder if any are gay or bisexual? Or asexual? Or fantasexual?

“But, a love triangle forms?” John posits. “Did I guess it?”

“Somewhat. Partially, you might say. It gets peacefully resolved. They all have, shall we say, hyper-orgasmic toys.

Thus, plenty of oxytocin gets released on demand.

Moreover, the group remains unstressed.”

“But then they run out of oxygen,” John bombastically announces, as if he has already read the story.

“Another good guess. There’s an oxygen-depletion scare early on, but it gets worked out before anyone is gasping.”

Like a fish out of water?

“I see. Ok, please continue, auteur.” Does John know French? Where did he learn it? When?

“More come. Scientists start arriving from Canada, Europe, and Asia. Then from Latin American and African countries.

And then from …”

“The blood-stained Middle East! And then the Jewish and Muslim scientists start the first skirmish on Mars.”

“A commendable conjecture, but the scientists from Israel and the Islamic Middle East are all atheists. They actually get along better than the other ethnic groups.”

“Ok, what cracks the fragile Martian utopia?”

“It’s in chapter 13 – the last chapter.”

“Unlucky chapter 13, eh?”

Jim then hands John a black, plastic, slide-sleeved thumb drive. “Finished that final, long-ass chapter late last night. All 317 pages are on there. Please don’t share it with anyone.

Yet. Read 41-page chapter 13 on your flight back to Charlotte. But, keep it to yourself for the time being.” Writers are so wack.

“Sure, you got my word, Jim. I promise.” Really has piqued my interest now. Must be a dark ending. A methane explosion? Hmmm …

“Thanks. Say, have you heard anything about Gerald?” Shy, quiet, brainy Gerald. He sure fancied that Chinese girl. Bet he hit the big time in Silicon Valley.

“No, sure haven’t. No idea where he is. Or if he’s still alive.”

Might be dead soon myself. Heart just fluttered again.

“I tell ya, John, we sure are a long way from those delightfully unpredictable Font Boulevard days. And nights.

Remember that female art student who wore a cloth diaper to class for a whole semester. Now, there’s a person whose current status I would love to know.” Wonder why.

“Ah, zany Sylvia Klattersbuergh. She’s probably on a commune somewhere in northern Nevada. I bet that she popped out eight kids via nine fathers.” Sense some hostility.

Did he date her?

“Uh, I think you got the numbers reversed.”

“Maybe so. Maybe woe.” What?

“Hey, you want a tour of the humble grounds?” Jim suggests. “I tilled a small patch around back for an herb garden this spring.” Hmmm …

“Herb? Are you going to grow weed?”

“Maybe a few marijuana plants sprinkled in. I don’t smoke it anymore, but I really do like that oil.”

“I don’t recreationally do any mind-and/or-mood shifters anymore, Jim. Not being in pain is a high in itself.”

“Back acting up again?” Jim surmises.

“The back, the stomach, the throat, the knees, the …”

“Ok, you can stop there, John. You’re awakening ancient aches.”

They both have a chuckle. That blends. And slips into reverie. Never thought I would wind up here in ’78. / Jim seems content with the solitude, but no way could I do it.

Would go nuts within a week.

After several hours of reminiscing about other college-era friends, John rises to depart. Jim offers him the couch to crash on overnight, but John wants to wake up in Salem, as he has an early morning seminar.

John stays true to his word and doesn’t start reading chapter 13 until he is at cruising altitude Friday afternoon. As the half-full jetliner passes directly over Albion (Nebraska), John sighs. And groans. And replays the final chapter in his head.

So, pettiness, envy/jealousy, and crazed revenge caused the Martian colony to collapse. An American poisoning another American over credit for an animalcule discovery. And it was caught on camera. But there’s no jail. No police. Not even a lone security guard. Each person who confronts the killer mysteriously dies. And when a dozen decide to go make a scientists’ arrest, he is gone. Hiding somewhere. And then, an act of catastrophic sabotage.

Once taxiing on the tarmac at twilight-rapidly-yielding-to-darkness CLT, John texts Jim.

So, Earth isn’t the problem; we under-evolved hominids are the problem.

Was that the point you were trying to make?

There is no reply to John’s text, nor to his voicemail (left nine minutes later). Maybe he didn’t care for my conclusion. Is he now mad at me? Is he being passive-aggressive? Again?

The real cause of Jim’s non-response: An aortic rupture Thursday afternoon in his backyard. His body would be discovered and devoured by an assortment of mammals.

An article describing such was snared by John’s online eyes two months later.

another pSecret pSociety pshort pstory

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Port Orford for a Day by Mike Bozart (Agent 33) | April 2021

© 2021 Mike Bozart

The eighteen-year-old, jet-black-haired, chocolate-brown-eyed, female Cambodian American stares out the single-pane-with-beveled-corners window at the lush-and-jade-green-once-again mountains on the other side of currently-moo-less Cow Creek. It is 10:48 AM on Tuesday, May 29, 2018, and the 4th-period advanced algebra class is almost over at Riddle (Oregon) High School. Her ever-curious, occasional-multiple-suffix-appending mind meanders with the

illimitable-shades-of-gray,

steadily-southeastward-

advancing, seemingly-ready-to-unload-at-a-moment’s-notice, 1950s-horror-movie-ominous cumulonimbus clouds. Is it going to rain? Soon? Or, does it hold off? Until tomorrow?

Morning? Or afternoon? Thought today was supposed to be sunny. Need to recheck the forecast. Darn. My old umbrella is shot. Ripped shredded wheat. Beyond repair. How did it happen? When did the degradationalization [sic] start? A first severed thread? An incrementally imperceptible unraveling.

Anyway, need to buy a new one. Wonder how the weekend will turn out. Should I accept Suzanne’s [a semi-close friend]

offer? Accompany her to the coast? 2¼ hours one-way. Port Orford for a day. Really for only half the day. Long way for a short stay. Why’d she pick Port Orford? Bandon is closer; it would shave off a good half-hour. Bet she’s planning on meeting a boy there. A first date. Probably met the guy on the internet on some swipe-and-chat app. Will I be a 3rd wheel to their bicycle? The shy Asian girl who tagged along just to make sure that the Caucasian girl isn’t raped and killed by some online psycho? Hmmm … Really need to ask her some more questions about this daytrip.

“Ok, class, your final exam will be on Friday,” the fifty-something, dyed-blonde, gaunt-flaunting, long-denim-skirted math teacher discloses. “Do the practice problems until the concepts bounce backward and forward inside your craniums.” Think I’m in good shape. The exam is only worth 20% of the final grade. Sitting on a 94% average. 94 x 4 =

376. 450 ÷ 5 = 90, the minimum for an A. Thus, I only need to get a 74.

When Amanda exits from the back of the school a few hours later, the sun is shining brightly; the morning clouds are gone. She begins her usual .71-mile (1.14 km) walk home on a greenway path that initially trends straight for Cow Creek, and then makes a 90° turn to the left (northeast), passes through a copse behind a runner-less athletic track and player-less baseball field. At the point where the trail bends

to the left, away from the tranquil section of the split-pea-colored stream, she pauses and stares at the ridge to the east. Wonder if Edgar [a Caucasian classmate] likes me.

Caught him ogling me again. Wonder if he fantasizes about having sexual intercourse with me. Cindy [a friend] said that all boys are like that. Urge-driven. Lust-consumed. Do I really want to have sex with him? Or anyone? Yet? So curious to know the feeling, though. Hormones raging.

Wonder how big his erectionalized [sic] penis is. Whale boner. Will it hurt the first time? Bet there’ll be some blood.

Hymen rupture. Or, might it have already broken? So unfair for the girl. Sally [an acquaintance] loves sex. An addiction.

How many ding-dongs has her vagina experienced? Hmmm

… Sure would hate to get pregnant; that would fuck up everything. For sure. So glad that I’ve already been accepted at UO. [University of Oregon] Sure wish that Suzanne wanted to go hang out in Eugene on Saturday instead of Port Orford. Considerably closer, too, only 90

minutes on I-5. Though, it might actually be cool to go to the coast. I guess. Possibly the only time I’ll ever go there. Once I start college in the fall, won’t see Suzanne much anymore.

We’ll be going our separate ways. Just enjoy this last summer of doing things together. Yeah, our lives are about to fork. She’s still not sure what she wants to do. And Edgar is apparently too shy to ask me out. Should I initiate …

With a sudden gust of wind on her back, Amanda veers northward and continues her trek while pulling her hair back from her thin beige face. Soon she is flanking the western perimeter of a strangely-vacant-except-for-a-male-senior-citizen-birdwatcher-on-the-farside, multipurpose, unlined, grassy field. Once past the adjacent, open-to-the-public, branch library, and safely across two-lane, sparsely trafficked, only-a-solitary-lost-ghost-on-the-barren-sidewalk 1st Avenue / Yokum Road, she saunters down Harbor Drive to her family’s modest, three-bedroom, ranch-style house.

She glances at her fitness watch on her slender left wrist upon alighting on the ante-front-door slab. 17:13. Pretty good considering my stops to wonder. Wonder-stops.

Wonder never stops. Wonder if I wonder too much. [internal chuckle] Suzanne says that I do. Just can’t help it. Better to wonder too much than too little. Methinks. Hope so. ‘If one never wonders about anything, they’re just a rudimentary robot or a base animal.’ Wonder how dad met mom.

Once inside her compact, 129-square-foot (12-sqaure-meter), cramped-with-stacks-of-out-of-the-dryer-three-days-ago-clothes bedroom, she quickly locks the door so that her four-and-a-half-years-younger brother, Bertrand, can’t bother her. As soon as Amanda sits on the edge of her twin-size bed, her nearly-new Samsung smartphone chirps. It’s a message from Suzanne.

Well, are you going or not, bestie?

Amanda sighs. And then decides to call her.

“Helloooooo, it’s decision time, dear; the clock is clicking down: three, two, one,” Suzanne announces playfully. And then emits a basketball-game buzzer sound. What the hell?!

She’s so excited to meet ‘the latest one’ – Mr. Golden Dong.

“Hey, I called a timeout with one second left,” Amanda contends. No, you didn’t.

“Sorry, the referee didn’t hear you. Time’s up. Themz are da breaks.” What terrible English for a native-born American.

Where did she hear that? In some wappa-dappa [sic] video?

“Ok, tell me the truth, are you going to meet a new guy?”

Amanda stoically enquires.

“Maybe.” Maybe? Wrong! Just know that she already has a plan – a clever scheme.

“Maybe my ass! Come clean with me, girlfriend, and maybe I’ll agree to go.” What is she so worried about?

“Ok, his name is Freddy.”

“By chance is his last name Krueger?” Amanda retorts.

“Will you stop?! He’s a nice guy. His parents own a sandwich shop in town. We met online.” Ah, knew it!

“What’s my role?” Amanda queries.

“Your role? Oh, puh-lease, Amanda. Just enjoy a day by the sea. I’ll do all the driving. And all the talking.” I’m so sure that you will. Wouldn’t want to get off course, or off schedule, and be late for the big seaside rendezvous.

“How well do you know this Freddy chap?” Bet she believes every line this Freddy guy has fed her. Maybe being too judgmental. Perhaps he really is a swell guy. Maybe he’s her

future husband. Ha! Doubt that. And maybe she winds up in Port Orford, managing the sub shop. And maybe one or two years later, she gives birth to twins, a boy and a girl. Who later become problematicalizistical [sic] teenagers. Should start keeping a diary again. Think the old one from 10th grade is in a shoebox in the closet. Hope mom hasn’t found it. Or Bertrand. No!

There is a four-second pause. “We’ve been texting for a week now.” Sexting.

“How old is Sir Knight-in-shining-armor?” Amanda probes.

What?! She’s jealous.

“He’s 21; thus, he can buy alcohol … legally.” Suzanne giggles. Oh, dear.

“Is this going to become a private drunkfest by the sea? Let me guess … I will be the return-trip, totally sober, bored-out-of-my-gourd-for-two-plus-hours-while-you-slur-yourself-to-sleep designated driver.” Woah! She really has got some negative vibes about this trip. Why so much pessimism? And anxiety, it seems. I’m the one meeting the stranger – not her.

She doesn’t have to do – or say – anything. She doesn’t have to talk to him, and fret about fumbling words. She’s probably recalling weirdo Zachary from Yoncalla. [Oregon]

That was kind of awkward for her. Those wax figurines.

Yeah, that’s the trip she is recalling. Can sense it.

“No, nothing of the sort, Amanda. Was just thinking down the road a little – sometime in the near future – you know, if we hit it off.” I’m sure she wants him to hit ‘it’ alright. All day long.

“So, it will just be the two of us in your car?” Amanda asks for clarification.

“Yep. Well, you could invite someone. Hey, why not invite Edgar?!”

“A girl inviting a boy on a road trip?!”

“Hello! It’s the 21st century in America, Amanda. Where have you been? We can ask guys out. We can be assertive. In fact, I chose the meeting place, not Freddy.”

“And where is the meeting place?” Please don’t say Motel 6.

“The Heads,” Suzanne answers. And tails we lose.

“The heads of what?”

“The Heads of Port Orford. It’s a state park right on the ocean, just to the southwest of town. Great panoramic views.

The cliffs are steep, but it has well-maintained trails that are safe. I researched it.” Cliffs? Yikes! Could she not pick level terrain in a populated area?

“I’ll bring two life preservers.” Whatever!

“Ok, see you Saturday morning at nine on the dot. Thanks for agreeing to go with me, Amanda. You’re my rock, smart gurrrrrl.” Did I ever officially consent to this? Oh, well.

Onboard now, I suppose. Will definitely be packing some pepper spray. One never knows in this day and age. Sure hope that I don’t have to use it. Hope he’s normal. At least somewhat. And nonviolent.

After multitudes of wonderings on probable scenarios by Amanda’s restless mind, Saturday morning, June 2nd quietly arrives in Riddle. The weather forecast for Port Orford pops up on Amanda’s phone as she finishes a bowl of jasmine rice with chunks of previously grilled tilapia in the living room.

Looks perfect for a seaside hike: sunny and 62°. [Fahrenheit; 17° Celsius] A light jacket should be enough. This [Oregon]

Ducks sweatshirt will be fine by itself once I warm up.

At 9:01 AM there is a single horn-beep from the driveway.

Suzanne’s maize-yellow 2012 Ford Fiesta is seen through the center window. She actually is on time. For once.

It’s a cool but clear 50° (Fahrenheit; 10° Celsius) when Amanda waves goodbye to her mom from the front walkway.

As she walks over to the right side of the car, she notices a person – a dark-brown-haired boy – sitting on the left side of the rear seat: Edgar. What the fuck?! She must have secretly invited him. Why didn’t she tell me? So sneaky of her. What did she tell him? Well, guess I’ll sit in the front seat. Or, is that being rude? This is so awkward. Damn you, Suzanne! Kind of glad he’s going. Better for our personal safety. Though, he’s not a fighter type. But, he is a male – a somewhat dorky, though kinda cute Caucasian male.

Amanda opts for the front seat. After exchanging nervous greetings, she hands her backpack to Edgar who places it in the vacant seat-spot directly behind her.

No one is talking as the nondescript sedan enters northbound Interstate 5. The only interior audio: synth-pulse-trance music at medium-low volume from a satellite radio station. Wonder what Edgar is thinking right now? Of me? /

What should I say to Amanda to break the ice? / Gosh, they sure are quiet.

Just south of the small township of Round Prairie, Suzanne exits for two-lane Oregon Route 99 North, which weaves through the foothills. Wonder how many people have died on this section of highway. What a grim thought. Hope it’s not prescient. Edgar is so silent. Maybe he’s too shy to speak.

First. Should I ask him a question? What, though?

Soon the trio notice the languid, grayish green South Umpqua River on the right. Then they spot a lone kayaker.

Wonder if that guy prefers to kayak alone. Or, did his pal cancel at the last minute? / Is his wife not interested in kayaking? Anymore? / Wonder what Amanda is thinking.

“Have you ever kayaked?” Edgar suddenly asks. Is he asking me? Or Suzanne? Probably me.

“Yes, I have, Edgar,” Amanda answers rearward.

“I’ve done it twice,” Suzanne promptly adds. Only twice?

“Same here,” Edgar replies. “Both times were streams like that one. Pretty tame. Flatwater to marginal class 1.

Someday I want to do a whitewater run with large standing waves, serious rapids, and drop-offs.” Yikes! Count me out!

The conversation riffle-fizzles. A few minutes later, after crossing the still-contently-lazy-to-be-lazy river, they glide up to the intersection with Oregon Route 42 in the town of Winston. On the reappearing-at-long-last green arrow, Suzanne cranks a hard left to go west. Semi-wooded low mountains and fallow fields are soon whizzing by.

“Hey, would it be ok if I scan the channels?” Amanda boldly asks. Hope she’s not dead-set on that one. Didn’t seem like it. / Does she not like this kind of music now? When did her tastes change?

“Sure, go ahead,” straw-blonde-haired Suzanne responds sans emotion.

Six silent seconds later, Amanda selects a virtual station named Exo-Geo Hyper-Mentality Lounge. Ambient, spacy,

sparse-on-the-notes, downbeat quasi-jazz begins filling the cabin.

“Great choice, Amanda,” Edgar assents. “I love this kind of music; it tantalizingly titillates and stretches one’s mind.” ‘It tantalizingly titillates and stretches one’s mind’? Oh, brother!

/ Glad he likes it. Not sure if Suzanne does. / Maybe shouldn’t have said ‘titillate’? Freudian slip. Removed. Bare naked. Desire.

“Do you approve, Suzanne?” Amanda asks.

“Sure, it’s fine, Amanda.” For insomnia.

The second mini-conversation ceases as the canary-colored subcompact motors through the unincorporated hamlet of Remote. Amanda’s eyes catch the white-on-dark-green Remote Ln sign on the left. Wonder if anything remotely noteworthy has ever happened here. Certainly well-named it seems.

In the tiny community known as Bridge, the Fiesta begins crossing over the Coquille River after passing Bridge Country Store on the left. Bridge. Just keep it simple. I guess. Is this the only bridge over the river? For how far?

Amanda begins to feel drowsy. She enters a twilight sleep.

The ethereal music leads her thoughts.

Edgar drowsily watches the amassing mountains passing by.

And by Myrtle Point he has nodded off as well, as he was up until 2:34 AM the previous night playing a maddeningly ambiguous online game, What Am I Doing Here? , where one has to guess what the objective is. He begins to snore.

Oh great! They’re both asleep! What the hell! This music is like an auditory sleeping pill. Enough of this!

As Suzanne passes through an incredibly miniaturized Norway, she changes the satellite link to an EDM (electronic dance music) feed. That’s better. Can’t afford to fall asleep, too. Wonder what my Freddy boy is doing right now? Is he thinking about me? Is he playing with his wiener? Is he taking a shower? Splashing on the body wash? Applying cologne? What scent?

In the small town of Coquille, Suzanne turns left onto 42S

and crosses the now-much-wider-and-two-shades-bluer, eponymous river. Trout?

Twenty-three swervy-curvy minutes later, the Ford four-door arrives in Bandon. Suzanne pulls into a gasoline station to refuel. So far, so good.

As Suzanne disembarks to pump gas, Amanda and Edgar awake. How long was I asleep? Where are we? / This must be Bandon. Yep, sure is. Now to drop down the coast.

“Edgar, do you know where we are?” Amanda meekly asks.

“Bandon. We’re only thirty-one minutes away.” 31?

“Oh, almost there. That’s good.”

“Would you care for a green cookie?” Edgar offers. Huh?

“What kind is that? Spearmint?” She hasn’t a clue.

“It’s a THC-infused sugar cookie,” Edgar clarifies. Wow!

Heard about those from Joan. [a friend] Said she really got zonked and could barely speak coherently, but loved the thoughts while under its influence. Hmmm … Might be interesting. Nothing to do this weekend. Wide open. Maybe just nibble at one. Don’t want to be a prig. Might be fun. And a much safer bet than getting intoxicated on liquor. Or beer.

Hope Suzanne doesn’t drink too much. Again.

“Ok, sure. A very small one is enough.”

Edgar then passes a thin, two-inch-diameter (5-cm-wide), daffodil-colored cookie to Amanda. Edgar’s left index finger brushes against Amanda’s open right palm. Such soft velvet Asian skin. Does she want me? As her boyfriend? Suzanne said that she likes me. Would be so awesome to have sex with her. Think she’s a virgin, too. / Wonder what he’s thinking. What lies ahead? Lies? Hopefully more truth than lies. Please.

Amanda starts to eat the first morsel. Tastes … not too bad.

“Edgar, how long until the effects start?”

“Probably nothing of note for at least forty-five minutes, maybe even an hour, and then it will slowly ramp up over the ninety minutes after that. Start to finish is six to seven hours.

An easy re-entry, nothing like A. [acid; LSD] It’s a moderate strain; you won’t think that you can fly, or anything like that.”

WTF! ‘think that you can fly’? Why would he say that? Did someone he knows launch his/her body off a cliff? Gosh, I’m so paranoid of those cliffs. Those photos [online] looked

scary. So high up. One slip could be fatal. Must be careful.

Must NOT leave the trail. Must stay away from the edge.

“Well, that’s good to know,” Amanda remarks. And then allows a self-conscious laugh. I’m going for it. I’m all in on Port Orford for a day. Hope I don’t regret this. Forever.

As Amanda crunches, chews, and consumes her cookie, Edgar finishes his second one. Hope I don’t make a fool out of myself. / Hope we connect on a similar wavelength in 100

minutes. If not, no harm. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

“Ah, the sleepyheads have awoken,” Suzanne bombastically broadcasts as she re-enters the sedan.

A pair of groggy stares are received in return.

Soon the Ford Fiesta is heading south for Port Orford. The sun is now piercing through the by-no-means-uncommon, maritime-meringue fog.

As they cross 10th Street, Amanda spies a Chinese restaurant on the right. “Hey, could we stop and get takeout for lunch? I’m famished.”

“Sure,” Suzanne replies as she quickly wheels the short-and-very-easy-to-maneuver car into the vacant-except-for-two-automobiles asphalt parking lot. “10:58. They officially open in two minutes.”

“Excellent,” Edgar states. “I love Asian.” Food and/or …?

Hmmm … / Whoops! Another Freudian slip there. Wonder if Amanda caught it. Fondled it. Caressed it. Tossed it. Lost it.

Edgar and Amanda eat in transit as Suzanne attempts to stay on schedule. However, upon crossing pastoral Willow Creek, she realizes that they won’t be able to make The Heads parking lot by 11:30. She promptly pulls onto a wide, thick-with-new-gravel, driveway flare on the left-side shoulder in Copenhagen-less Denmark, and then texts Freddy.

Running a little late. Should be there at 11:40.

Thirty-seven seconds later she gets a reply.

No problem. See you soon, babe.

When they arrive at the parking lot at the Port Orford Highway needle-eye-end-loop-teardrop turnaround, there is only one vehicle: a maroon-red pickup.

“Yey!” Suzanne excitedly shouts. “He’s here. That’s his truck.” She slows and inches closer. “Should I park right next to him?” No! / Not advisable.

“Park a few spaces away, and we’ll all walk up to him together,” Edgar states. Like that idea. So glad he’s with us.

They do just that and find yellowish-blonde-haired, ice-blue-eyed Freddy driver-seat-sitting contentedly and obliviously, headbanging to alt-metal music at fairly high volume.

Suzanne then lightly taps on the driver-side window with her right knuckles. Freddy is startled. He snaps his head around.

And smiles. Soon the window is lowering.

“So glad you made it,” Freddy proclaims. “How was the drive, sweetie?” Sweetie? He’s already calling her that? /

Bold lingo, dude. Or, maybe not complete strangers.

Probably hours of chaturbation. Should patent that coinage.

“Not too bad. Nice to meet you in person, hot rod.” Suzanne tacks on a flirtatious wink. Good lord! They may need to get a room. / Hope they can control their libidos.

“So, you guys picked up some lunch in Bandon. Need some more time to eat it?”

“Well, I do, Freddy,” Suzanne answers with a big grin. “Since I was driving, I couldn’t eat. I think my two friends are done.”

“Yep, Amanda and I are all set to hike,” Edgar states. Kinda feels like we’re already a couple the way he said that. No complaints, though. None at all. Did I just receive my first neuropulsationalizationaloptimizationalism? [sic] Hmmm …

“I see. Hey, Suzanne, would you like to jump in my truck and eat your chow in here? I’ve still got half a footlong to finish off. Footlong? That would be awesome. No, it would be painful.

“Sure,” Suzanne gleefully replies. “I’ll be right back, captain.”

Captain? / Sheez.

Suzanne then retrieves her to-go box from the Ford Fiesta console and hands her key chain to Amanda. “You guys can

hang out in my car while I eat in Freddy’s truck.” Thanks for creating another cringeworthy situation, Suzanne!

“Oh, ok,” Amanda mutters after receiving the fob. She is soon sitting in the driver’s seat.

Edgar walks over to the other side of the car and assumes shotgun position. What should we talk about? This is awkward. Think I’m getting high. / Wonder if Amanda is feeling anything upstairs yet? This is going to be a strange day. Can already sense it.

“I heard that you got accepted at the oval O,” [University of Oregon] Edgar says after a weirdly uneasy silence. “Major congrats on securing a slot.” A slot?

“Thanks,” Amanda replies while quickly glancing at Edgar’s clean-shaven,

scraped-away-lone-pimple-pustule-next-to-

left-nostril face. “Where will you be going?” Wonder if he’s going to Stanford [University] on a scholarship. He just may be smart enough.

“Corvalis. I’ll be down the road from you. I’m going to study math at OSU.” [Oregon State University]

“So, you’re going to be the evil archrival – a beaver.”

Amanda giggles. “Well, any interesting numerical tricks that you care to share?” Why did I ask such a silly question?

Yeah, that marijuana-laced cookie is taking effect now.

Discombobulationalization. [sic] Phase. Two. Feeling fazed.

And dazed. Three. Ore. Four. More. Ahead. Going offshore.

“The one that is currently going through my mind involves the number 9, Amanda. Two times nine equals 18, and the sum of those two digits, one and eight, equals nine. Three times nine equals 27, and two plus seven equals nine. Four times nine equals 36, and three plus six equals nine. Do you see where this is going?” Whoops! “The pattern, I mean.”

Going, going, gone. Kerplunk!

“I do,” Amanda affirms. “All good up to 90. And then it goes off the rails at 99.” Miles per hour?

“Though, eighteen is a multiple of nine.” Partial continuance?

“True that, Edgar, and I guess even at the beginning, if you were to put a left-place-holding zero in front of the 9 for one times nine equals …” Left-place-holding? Huh? Wow! /

Gosh, I am muttering gibberish. No doubt about it: I’m

inebriated. Need to be careful. Don’t want to sprain an ankle out here. Why did I think of such an injury? Because it happened to Jenny [a friend] last month up in Millwood.

[Oregon]

“Exactly. I like how you think, Amanda.” How does he know how I think? He doesn’t. He’s as high as a helium-filled kite.

Though, sans malice. Wonder how Suzanne is doing with Freddy? Has he put the moves on her? Yet? Hmmm …

“Just curious, Edgar … what did Suzanne say to you?”

“Oh, I’m afraid that’s classified material, my dear.” Edgar guffaws mightily at his wisecrack. What a ridiculous remark!

‘My dear’? He’s higher than the cirrus cloud above that kite.

And I’m not exactly on the ground anymore myself. How long have we been alone in this car? Time is getting distortionalizated. [sic]

Shockingly, there is a rap-a-tap-tap on the driver-side window. Amanda turns her head to see … no one. WTH!

What’s going on? Auditory hallucinations? Though, it sounded so real.

All of a sudden, crouched-down Suzanne and Freddy pop up in unison, all a-grin. “Surprise!” They sure seem to be hitting it off. Perhaps he’s ok. Her type. Still, so glad Edgar is here.

Soon the jovial foursome are strolling towards the Port Orford Lifesaving Station’s Crew Quarters residence. Once aboard the front porch, they stop to let a late-40s/early-50s Asian/Caucasian couple exit the two-story, shake-sided, converted-to-a-museum, neocolonial edifice. Could that be us in twenty-five years? Wonder how they met? / Could that be Amanda and I in 2045? She’s smart, sexy, and way chill.

But, does she really like me? Don’t think she cared for my joke in the car. Was I rude? Need to rein it in. I suppose.

Going to be tough, though. Feeling those naughty-neuro-nautical wavicle-partaves. [sic] Really zooming now. Almost in another orbit. Leaving the mundane, clod-plod, simple-simian entelechy way behind. Way below. That sea.

Paralyzingly cold.

“Hello there, anyone home?” Amanda playfully asks as they begin walking down the Nellie’s Cove Trail. She then giggles. What’s he thinking about? Quantum entanglement?

String theory? Frayed. Mantality [sic] sports? Ha!

“You got me, Amanda,” Edgar confesses with a grin. “I got enmeshed in spiraling thoughts.” Again.

“What were you thinking of?” Suzanne demands with a slight slur. Amanda’s breasts I bet. / Has she been drinking?

“Well, to be perfectly honest, I was thinking on, or about, our brains,” Edgar divulges. Oh. My. God. He’s nerding out.

Bigtime. / Not surprised. Wondering about my own brain. My self. Wondering about itself / ‘Perfectly honest’? Did I really say that? Humanly impossible.

Freddy, unimpressed and restless, licks his gums.

“What about our brains?” Amanda queries.

“Well, the mature human brain has the volume of ten tennis balls. Yet, the ‘you’ part of your brain – your unique personality and set of proclivities; what makes you who you are, or who you think you are – could all fit within one tennis ball.” WTF is he talking about?! Is he on something? / We need to separate from them. Need to get some more hooch in Suzanne. Then I’ll ball her inside the pump house. Leo

[one of Freddy’s shady friends who works part-time at the state park] said that he left it unlocked. Can check it on the way back to the truck. / Consciousness derived from matter.

Is that what he’s getting at? Would really like to kiss him.

Feel his lips on mine. Briefly. Would he slip me the tongue?

Woah! Well, maybe at the end of the day. And not with Suzanne around. Or Freddy. No way. Only in private. Maybe surprise him. If a favorable moment arises. Feels like an alternate version of me. One strong cookie. A wheel Woothie-wokker. [sic]

“Uh, listen, I forgot something,” Freddy broadcasts. “Got to go back to the truck. Want to come with me, Suzanne?” Cum with me? Sure! / Bet there’s booze under the seat. /

Freudian slip there. Wonder if Suzanne snagged it.

“Sure, captain.” Oh, jeez. / Those two sure seem to be on the same primal wavelength. Hope Amanda and I can connect on a higher frequency. / Wow! Suzanne’s already hooked on his rod and reel.

“You guys go ahead,” Freddy instructs Amanda and Edgar.

“The trails create a loop that’s only about five eighths of a mile long. No steep climbs. An easy hike.”

“Oh, a mere iota over a kilometer,” Edgar imparts. Huh?

“Yeah, sure,” Freddy quips. “Anyway, it has plenty of views of the inlet where they used to run the lifeboats out of. Most of the breakwater is still intact. Take your time. Take lots of pics.” And give us some time to get busy. / Almost like they want to shed us, and do something – illicit? – alone. /

Suzanne better be careful. He seems to be a bit of a hollow-heel hustler. Bet he’s already scheming on how to get her panties off. Yeah, he’s a wily one alright.

Freddy and Suzanne begin retreating towards the parking area, while Amanda and Edgar commence the wood-chip-topped walking path, which is lined with evergreen shrubbery. In 202 sun-breaking-through-the-low-cloudbank seconds, they arrive at a vista point for photo-taking. They both oblige. And then sit on a cedar log.

“Imagine being here one hundred years ago, Amanda,”

Edgar leads off with. What is he getting at? A reference to the end of World War I? He’s an odd one. Is he too odd?

Even for me.

“I really can’t, Edgar. A single Asian female working here? I don’t think so. Not happening.” She’s probably right.

“Oh, I just meant being right here on this spot – not working for the station,” Edgar clarifies. Weird. What is his point?

“Well, we would both probably be arrested for trespassing.”

And put in an earthen pit and fed raw peanuts?

“Ok, how about one hundred years from now, Amanda? A century into the future. 2118. The same weather.” The same Ah-May-zing Amanda-ameliorated day. But, it’s not May anymore. Is it the 1st or 2nd of June? The 2nd. She really is one top-shelf chick. Looks, body, and brains. Will be lucky to land her. Is she growing bored with my commentary? What should I do? So HIGH. Breathing is almost a chore.

“We’d both be dead,” Amanda emotionlessly answers. “Do you expect to live to 118, Edgar?” No thanks! Think that would be torture.

Edgar slowly shakes his head. “No, I most certainly don’t.

Hey, what if we were right here, right now, having this conversation in some meta-reality?” Edgar chortles. Oh, my

word! He is completely baked. He’s going to become a liability at this rate.

“You have lost your mind, Edgar!” Amanda declares. “You ate more than one cookie, didn’t you? Don’t lie.” Busted.

Might as well come clean with her.

“I wolfed two down. I was hungry, Amanda.” Oh, brother.

Going to have some fun with his patently stoned cerebrum.

“Ok, pop-quiz time, Edgar. How many of my left-hand fingers are pointed up?” Huh? Did she really ask such a question?

“But, your left hand is hidden behind your back, Amanda.”

Edgar has a puzzled expression. What kind of game is this?

“Of course, it is, Edgar! Would there be any mystery if I held it out in front?” Guess not.

“Well, when you present it like that …”

“If you are really Supremo-Nemo high, surging like a Poseidon groundswell, you will be able to guess correctly.

Just concentrate for a few more seconds, Edgar. What number are you now beginning to see?” ‘Poseidon groundswell’? Who is Supremo Nemo? Is that some underground Asian cartoon? Ah, now I see an Arabic numeral. There it is.

“Deux as they say all day in Calais. [France] I see the number 2 in sterling silver. It’s a sparkling-in-the-spotlight trophy-esque 2 for the two of us.” Wow! He got it right. How?

What are the odds? One in five? 20%? Fuzzy with math at the moment. / Ruling out her thumb, I had a 25% of getting it right. Though, she could have been sly and balled up a fist.

Did she really have two fingers pointed upward?

“You’ve won a prize, psychic-genius.” Amanda cranes her neck and gives Edgar a smooch on the lips. Woah! Wasn’t expecting that. Now the prong’s really getting hard. What to do? Would love for her to stroke me off beside a lawless cypress. One for the annals of Jerkwater Chasm. / Need to stop before this goes too far. No protection. Way too risky.

And we are in a very public setting. ‘What were you thinking, girl?!’ Gosh, am so high now. Floating. Soaring. Whew!

“So, that’s where the lifeboats were launched from,” Edgar informs while looking down the steep, craggy, 200-foot-high (61 meters) slope after an 11.11-second pause. Nice change

of topic, dude. Glad his hands didn’t get too frisky. Just a brief left-boob fondle. Sex can wait ‘til later. Maybe at a hotel room. Somewhere. In Eugene! With candles. And a bottle of Malbec wine. We take a shower together. And then …

Edgar notices that unresponsive Amanda is fully immersed in a full-on neural maelstrom. That verdant-veined cookie has ensnared my princess’ bean.

“A copper penny for your gilded thoughts, dearest one,”

Edgar entreats after staring at her blank expression for seven seconds. Gilded? Gills coated with thin layers of gold flakes. The fish would not like that. For very long. Gosh, I am so freaking HIGH! Where is Suzanne?!

Amanda giggles. “The cookie has zapped my cortex. Did you want to continue walking the trail?”

“Sure. Good idea. I think that Suzanne and Freddy may be entertaining themselves. In private.” He’s probably right.

Hope she’s ok. Am not in a state of mind that is capable of dealing with a horrid hominid scene. ‘Horrid hominid scene’

… Whence that phrase cometh? Has the cookie serum saturated my brain? What madness I now thinketh.

They rise together and meander hand-in-hand down the inviting trail. It is sunny in all directions now. Seagulls are cawing caustically. The air temperature is rising out of the chilly zone. And the sure-is-azure-from-Mount-Humbug’s-calving-shore-of-forty-yore-to-maybe-even-forty-odd-more Pacific Ocean looks pinup-poster-perfect as they round a bend to the west. Such a small, soft, supple hand. Mega-marvelous day. / Such a large, reassuring, white-boy hand.

Such a majestic moment. So glad I decided to go on this daytrip. And so glad that Edgar was invited. If he weren’t here, what would I be doing right now? Hiking alone? Yep.

I’d be in their way. Just someone who they wish would disappear for sex [sic] hours.

At the junction with the Tower Trail, there is another vista point. They both take more photos. This time, however, Edgar’s outstretched left arm snaps pics of them both making a farrago of facial expressions, from stone-cold serious to over-the-top ludicrous. Want Edgar to be my first boyfriend. Will there ever be a second? Could I marry him someday? Wish my mind would slow down. How’s

Suzanne? / Amanda sure is doing a lot of thinking. So pensive. Is she worried about Suzanne? Bet so.

“Maybe we should head back to the car,” Edgar suggests.

“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea,” Amanda concurs. Still can’t believe that she kissed me out of the blue. Need to play this smartly.

They turn to their right and slowly walk northward. In a mere four minutes, they are back at Suzanne’s unoccupied car.

They then walk over to Freddy’s truck, which is also vacant.

Suddenly they hear people walking towards them from the Nellie’s Cove Trailhead.

“Hey guys!” a disheveled-hair Suzanne blasts.

“Why, hello there, stranger,” Amanda replies with a smirk.

“So, you guys did the whole loop,” Freddy affirms. “I got caught up in a long-ass phone call. An incident at the sandwich shop. It’s all ok now. But, I still need to check in.”

I’m sure it is. / What a liar. Bet his Kielbasa sausage rapidly docked reciprocatingly [sic] at Suzanne’s port of call.

The quartet then have non-alcoholic drinks and chips at Freddy’s parents-owned hoagie hut on US 101 on the southern side of town. The scant conversation is evasively superficial.

Later they stroll the sidewalks. The veritable vernal day begins to lose its zing as their buzzes fade. Moreover, the threesome are mutedly back in Riddle at sundown.

Suzanne and Freddy would get married the following year.

Their wedding, which Amanda and Edgar attend, is a small affair at Buffington Memorial Park in Port Orford. They would eventually have two kids, both healthy girls, two years apart.

Only-child Freddy would take complete ownership of the sandwich shop after his mother’s passing in 2026 (his father would die in 2024 from a heart attack).

Amanda and Edgar would condomly consummate their relationship two weeks later at an Airbnb condo overlooking the Willamette River in Springfield. They would get along incredibly well as an intercollegiate couple, shuffling between Eugene and Corvalis on weekends. However, Edgar would die unexpectedly from a brain aneurysm during the fall semester of his senior year.

On a Saturday morning in mid-October of 2028, still-single, now-a-middle-school-science-teacher-in-Salem-Oregon Amanda returns to Port Orford to visit Suzanne, after not seeing her for four years.

She pulls into the renovated-two-years-prior restaurant’s fresh-paved parking lot. Resting atop a brand-new, cherry-red pickup truck’s trailer hitch, a tennis ball.

Amanda then glances at the digital dashboard clock: 9:27.

another psecret psociety pshort pstory

by Agent 33, transcribed in May 2021