SW ORE Tales by Mike Bozart - HTML preview

Capescape

by Mike Bozart

© 2021 Mike Bozart

Sunday, the ides of May (2016), has laid diurnal claim to Coos Bay, Oregon. It is mostly cloudy and 59° Fahrenheit (15° Celsius) at 1:23 PM. On the small balcony of an A-frame-kit home on the north slope of unincorporated Glasgow, two middle-aged, scant-Scottish gents are having a piquant-devolving-to-acrid discussion.

“And remember that ultra-Applehead [ sic] … oh, what the hell was his name? He was always going on and on about his latest Apple acquisition: the newest Mac, the just-released iPhone-x, the going-to-change-the-world-and-propel-humanity-twenty-light-years-forward gizmo. Bet he got a tattoo of the Apple logo on the head of his dinkle.

Wasn’t his nickname Krewd? [ sic] Heard that he removed the BMW emblems from his E31 and replaced them with custom-made, exactly-the-same-diameter, raised, sterling silver Apple medallions. When did he do that, Dennis?”

Before or after Tim Cook?

“Stan, I don’t know if that story is entirely true,” slim, salt-and-pepper-haired, tan-faced Dennis replies to his longtime cohort. How is it partially incorrect? Only one?

Nearly bald, a-wee-chubby-now, newsboy-capped Stan raises his eyebrows. And then takes another slug from his ceramic mug of extra-stout dark beer. Stan’s so cynical now.

Like it happened overnight.

“Say, why are you so anti-Apple, Stan? Did Steve Jobs irk you off in some way? You’ve got to admit that their products are smartly superior and sleekly stylish.” Oh, brother.

“And in an overpriced, closed-off, predatory ecosystem. No company fleeces its loyal customers like the sacred circle of Cupertino.” [California] What?! ‘ Sacred circle of Cupertino’?

He must have bought a Macintosh TV. That was a costly dud. That was probably it.

“And Microsoft and Google are saints?” Dennis retorts.

“Didn’t say that they were.” But implied it.

Dennis exhales and takes an eighth sip of low-calorie pilsner from a slender, clear-glass stein and peers across the U-curved northern section of the cerulean-blue bay along the classic-early-20th-century-design, strangely-spearmint-green, steel-frame, cantilever Conde McCullough Memorial Bridge to the town of North Bend. He watches a jetliner approach

OTH (Southwest Oregon Regional Airport) from the southeast. Such a gem of a bridge. Hope they continue to maintain it. And never tear it down. Stan seems to take this killer view for granted. Wonder what Apple product/

controversy soured him. Wonder how the view of the bridge is from the right-side window seats of that plane right now.

Wonder if anyone on that plane is thinking about a long-ago lost love. Who slipped away. And lived happily ever after three states away. Or maybe five.

“Listen, I’m not anti-Apple,” Stan declares. “I’ve used, and even owned, many of their devices over the years. I’m not averse to them. It’s just that cultlike mentality of the Apple-sauced douchebags.” ‘Apple-sauced douchebags’?! Too much. Where did he see or hear that?

“That’s way too limited, my embittered friend; you, Mr.

Sneer-and-jeer, are now actually anti anything that’s remotely elitist. You’ve become an anti-brander. It goes way beyond Apple afficionados. C’mon, just admit it.” Hmmm …

“Ok, maybe you’re right, Dennis. On my 45th birthday, which was five years ago, five days ago, five hours ago – say that five times fast – I officially disavowed all interest in anything that screams ‘Status!’ – anything that proclaims ‘Hey, look at me, I’m one cool dude; I’ve got the trendy thing.’ Done with it. Could care fucking less. Have zero interest in impressing anyone. Ever. Again.” Woah! Someone is drinking vinegar in the morning.

“I hope for your wife’s sake that you’re still taking daily showers.” Dennis chortles at his wisecrack. Where is she?

Oh yeah, he said that Elaine was visiting a friend in Bay Park. [just south of the town of Coos Bay]

“You’re a real funny guy late in the game, Dennis. Though, maybe not too late to try out at The Improv or a Comedy Zone.” Wow! Such caustic bitterness. So rancid. Why?

“You know what really happened, partner? You got old the wrong way, and are now quite bitter.” Dennis chuckles. What did he say?! ‘Got old the wrong way’? Is there a correct-and-sweet way? An umami way? Savory flavory. [sic]

“I did, eh? Is that so?” Stan pffts loudly.

“Look, I’m fifty-one, but I feel thirty-one. I don’t let stuff like that bother me. It’s all what you choose to focus on, man.

Cut down the hours of lame-TV-show viewing. Ignore commercials. Ease up on the social media. Don’t get hung up on annoyances. Understand that we humans are all flawed. Don’t expect immaculate reciprocity from friendships.

Realize that most slights are unintentional. Let it all pass through. Be a sieve, not a stopper.” WTF!

“Is your mind just a sieve now, Dennis?!” Mostly open space.

Mostly void.

Dennis groans and shakes his head. And then looks down at his cell phone, an iPhone 6S Plus, and begins reading a text message. Six silent seconds later, he looks directly into Stan’s green eyes. “Hey, let’s drive out to Cape Arago in my car. There’s something that I want to show and tell you.”

‘Show and tell … just a game I play … in the middle of the night’ … a cape escape … could combine those two words: capescape … an ‘s’ in the middle … a sneaky, sinister snake between moth-ravaged, fallen-of-the-tilted-hanger capes in a moldy, dark, dank-as-last-decade’s-skank dressing room.

Somewhere. Slithering. In a grotesquely puke-green slime.

Why am I thinking such dross? What has happened to my mind? Ugggh …

“Are you ok to drive?” Stan inquires after a short pause.

What’s he going to tell me? That he is now gay? Ha-ha.

Nope, doubt that. He was shacking up with that artsy chick from Elkton [Oregon] until late March, and he still eyes the young skirt. But, what happened to them? Why did it end?

Where is she now? He’s been very mum about that. Why? Is he going to show me where Pauline declined his proposal while on one knee? And said goodbye. Is that it? Does he really want to show me the exact square yard [approximate square meter] where she rejected him? Is he really a sap like that? He’s never been before. Did he toss her off the cliff?

Dennis? No way. Or?

“I’ve only had two metric pints.” [16.9 fluid oz.; 500 mL] Did Dennis really say ‘metric pints’? Is that some neo-hip lingo?

Wonder if he still hangs out at hipster bars in Eugene with the millennials. Would not be surprised. At all.

“Ok, sure,” Stan replies. What happened at Cape Arago?

“I’ll slug some water and pop some mints.” Have at.

Six serpentining Subaru minutes later, Dennis is making a right turn onto low-traffic East Bay Road. As they begin to

pass the two-story, wood-panel-sided Glasgow Market on the left, Stan points to the last (leftmost) upper window.

Woah, woah!

“Hey, watch the nose, please,” Dennis warns playfully.

“Sorry, about that, amigo. [clears throat] Well, he crashed up there with her after burning through a whole quarter-ounce [7

grams] of grape stem [low-grade, twig-ridden marijuana]

back in ’89. Heard that he sedated her with codeine and forced himself on her.” Yuck! Fetid skid-marked tighty tawnies.

“Who did whom up there in ’89?” Dennis demands.

“The lead moaner of that flannel-o-delic [ sic] schlock band and that permanently spaced-out, lost-soul lass from Milner Crest. [a district of Coos Bay] Shelly! That was her name.

Oh, but what was the name of that dickhead?” Stan’s memory eludes him. Dickhead? They once seemed to be fairly close friends. What in the world happened?

“Ditch Pooper of Liquid Sin Dorkagon?” [ sic; note the first letters: LSD] Ditch Pooper. Ha-ha. Dennis remembers our secret nickname for that worthless prick.

“Good memory, pal. Another band who I toted countless heavy-ass amplifiers for back in the day, only to find out that clicking to share a digital file, or commenting positively on one of my articles, was like repositioning the Rock of Gibraltar. What a complete waste of time, money, mind, and energy. If I knew then what I know now, I never would have done it for a single second, Dennis. Dead serious. Would never have aided and abetted any of those sonic crimes.”

Bitter diatribe, round 2. Sheez, he won’t let up. ‘Aided and abetted any of those sonic crimes’? Jesus H. Christ! How does Elaine deal with him? By leaving to hang out with her friend in Bay Park for the whole day. That’s how. / ‘Let the hypnotic groove guide your next auspicious move.’

Pollyanna poppycock. The whole lot of them. Wonder if Dennis ever crosses paths with that backstabbing turd.

The traffic light turns green. Dennis casually turns the 2011

Forester left onto US 101 South. Soon they are on the two-lane, through-truss bridge that Dennis was musing upon earlier. Always love going across this timeless beauty. Never gets old. Stan sure is in bad way. Full of regret about the past it seems. Ah, but maybe that changes in 30 minutes. /

Who was the last one to jump off this bridge? And drown?

When was it? The exact date. What was the weather like?

What was the time of day? Or night? Probably after dusk.

Who was the last one to be done with all this earthly vexation? And what was his – or her – final thought? ‘Free of telemarketers at last!’ [internal chuckle]

“Oh, c’mon, Stan. You enjoyed the shows. It was fun. I liked doing the flyers for those Cascadia garage-grungeroos. [ sic]

In fact, I still have most of them.” For paper airplanes.

Glum-faced Stan doesn’t immediately respond; moreover, the conversation wanes. Dennis eventually nudges in the halfway-out CD. Pink Floyd’s Shine On You Crazy Diamond begins. They pass westward through North End to the accompaniment of the long instrumental intro. Just as Roger Waters begins vocalizing the opening lyrics, they enter the Empire District of the town of Coos Bay on Newmark Avenue. Earl [a heroin-overdose casualty] lived right over there. Just 2½ blocks up [South] Cammann. [Street] May he be resting in peace. Or, maybe there is no Earl essence left.

Atoms rearranged. Dead people only living in the minds of the living. And when we die … / Wonder if Dennis is thinking about Earl, too. Earnest Earl. Originally from Englewood. [a sector of Coos Bay just southwest of downtown] Earl petitioning to get district status for Englewood. He sure loved a longshot cause. Blindfolded. Found the needle in the haystack. And got tricked by the straw men. What a tragedy.

Smart guy. And had the suave Richard Gere looks. A chick magnet. Cooked his receptors. Such a waste. Could have had it all. Blew it.

After rounding a semi-tight curve to the left to go south on Cape Arago Highway, Dennis changes CDs. Soon Tangerine Dream’s 1981 album Exit begins playing. Ah, keen choice. Did he buy this CD? Or, is it mine? Did we trade? When? What CD did I get? Memory fades. / Can hear Pauline singing this tune [Kiew Mission] on our 2nd date.

‘Asia, Africa, Europe, Australia, America.’ Where is she?

Right now. Somewhere close by?

Neither gentleman speaks as they occasionally glance at the oh-so-slightly-glistening, tranquility-recently-restored bay on the right, which appears intermittently in the gaps between the older houses and mature trees. Soon they are passing through the conifer-laced, residential community of Barview.

Stan notices the sign. A view of a rowdy-from-rotgut-swill, stooge-packed, butt-fugly, [sic] meatball-mentality tavern. No thanks. What the heck am I thinking?! It’s most likely referring to a sand bar in the bay. Dennis is right: I’m as sour as a three-years-out-of-date dill pickle. Wish I could completely forget the dolts. Permanently. Deleted.

“Did you ever hear what happened to Jane?” Dennis asks between tracks.

“Think she wound up in Portland,” [Oregon] Stan answers.

“She always seemed too smart for the scene back then.

Always wondered why she chose to hang around those losers.” Bitterdom [sic] continues unabated. Commence round 3. Ding.

“Yeah, kind of wondered that myself,” Dennis concurs.

“Never knew her to date anyone. Very singular. Always unattached, it seemed. You think that she was, or is, a lesbian?”

“No idea,” Stan remarks. “Not a single clue in a jar of glue.

She was a bit of an enigma to me.” ‘Not a single clue in a jar of glue’? Where in the world did he hear that?

“Same here. Oh, I bet that she’s twenty-years-married now with three kids, who are all overachievers. I tend to think that she did ok. Probably married a decent, no-nonsense guy.”

Or, is she still single? Typing another chapter in her abstruse, bleak-and-barren-as-the-Alvord-Desert novel at this precise second. In a dimly lit room.

“Likewise. I’d slap 5:2 odds on that. A safe bet.”

“Or maybe even 2:5,” Dennis adds. Bet five, only win two.

No way. A tad narrow. Would take a pass.

Stan just sighs as they begin to cross the low-slung drawbridge to the town of Charleston.

Eight dialogue-less minutes later, after passing through the multitudes-of-verdant-maritime-flora-interspersed-with-rocky-islets-dotting-low-tide-baylet-views Sunset Bay State Park and Shore Acres State Park, Dennis is diagonal-parking in the vacant-save-for-two-distant-vehicles bulbous loop at the end of the two-lane highway in Cape Arago State Park.

They disembark and walk to the nearby stone-walled vista point. A panoramic view of the pacified-for-the-present-moment Pacific Ocean greets them.

“Well, this is where it occurred,” Dennis divulges.

“Where what occurred?” Stan snaps.

“Relax, I’m getting to it.”

“Ex-cuuuuuuse me,” Stan slurs sarcastically.

Dennis walks downhill a few paces. “We were right here –

this very spot – just before the sharp break in slope.” He points it out.

“Who is we?”

“Pauline and I,” Dennis answers. “It was a mild-for-April evening. We had just had a nice dinner in town, talked over our issues, agreed to resolve them, and were going to get back together. I was very happy, Stan. I truly thought that I had lost her after cursing and slamming doors back on March 26th. I had had a mega-miserable, called-in-to-work Saturday [fixing damaged ATMs] and brought it home. It was all my fault.”

“Ok, continue.”

“We had some wine in our veins, and in our brains.” I’m sure.

“Malbec, right?” Stan feels certain that he has guessed correctly.

“No, we were drinking Shiraz actually. Why’d you think that we were drinking Malbec?”

“Not sure, but proceed,” Stan implores.

“Well, things became very amorous. Hot and heavy in a hurry. It was like we were back on our third date. Suddenly it got uber-oral. Pauline pulled down my jeans and began to service the wang.” ‘The wang’? Oh, please. Such needless macho slang.

“Ahem. Alright, continue.”

“Well, to be perfectly frank, Stan, it was one of the most pleasurable moments of my life. Pure ecstasy. Euphoria overload. It was getting dark, but I could still see the sea –

that sublime sea. As she did her thing to my sausage, I felt

like I was going to fly away from this planet in a meta-Homo-sapiens incarnation. And then …” Capescape?

“And then you expelled the most malodorous fart of all time when you saw a snake closing in on your left ankle, and she then promptly bit your wang off, and now you use a catheter for urination, which is hidden under a bathrobe that is more like a cape. Did I win the $5,000 grand prize?” Round 4.

“Close, but my cigar remained attached to my pelvis.”

“Ok, ok, so what happened?” Stan is becoming irritated.

“These staunchly religious, make that faux-religious, rednecks suddenly start yelling at us: ‘You’re going to hell, you godless perverts!’ And then: ‘Let’s stone the lecherous heretics to death!’ At that point I hike up my pants and snap my head around to see …”

“A congress of Wood Village [Oregon] rubes.”

“Well, yes, but I also catch a faint glimpse of a softball-size orb coming right at me through the advanced twilight. I rapidly duck down, while Pauline stands up. The round rock strikes her flush in the center forehead, killing her instantly.

Her body is knocked backwards and over the ledge.

Pauline’s rubber-like corpse then bounces down the bluff to the boulder-strewn surf.” Oh. My. God!

“Holy shit! What happened next?”

“I flew back up the cliffside and scared the cretins away,” a female voice states from behind Stan.

Stan slowly turns his head around. “Pauline! You’re alive!”

“Did you enjoy the prank, Stan?” Dennis asks. “Did you buy into the story?”

“I did. Though, I was getting ready to bail, right before Pauline spoke.”

“Why?” blonde-haired, svelte, 36-year-old Pauline asks.

“The less-than-75-degree angle. Not sure if a human body would tumble all the way to the sea.”

“That’s what you were calculating?” Pauline is stunned.

“The probability was becoming more unlikely with each passing millisecond,” Stan responds. Wow! What a numbers nerd.

“Ready to go back?” Dennis asks Stan.

“Sure,” Stan replies as his Moto X Pure text-alert chirps.

You left the door unlocked.

another psecret psociety pshort pstory

by Agent 33, transcribed in June 2021