Not yet published
(c) 2007 In Flight Productions & Gregory Kayne
Chapter 1
Screams, howls and giddy growls pierce the chilled night air in small town Chicago suburbia. Every ghost, goblin and witch-like miniature crawl the streets in their mother-made best. Best, at this time, usually means bed sheets; garbage can liners or anything a cardboard box could create.
October 31st, 1971 ushers in, wanted or not, the most fiendish fools to this quiet middle-class neighborhood-city of Arbury Park, IL. Still, most children roam the streets freely with no need for the parental guidance of ages to come.
Fiendish indeed, one spots two skeleton type lads racing down a hill at top speed yelling childish obscenities as they ride. The one boy, who looks to be thirteen and mean, dips his bony hand down into the stolen sack of treats only “all hallows eve” could provide. As he pulls out of the bag a small oblong object, Mr. Bones sees a group of “treaters” walking up to a house. Hurriedly, the two peddle faster.
One of the younger group reaches up to ring the bell while preparing herself to say those perfectly practiced words. The bell rings as the brigade approaches and just as the door swings open…splat! A father of two wearing a toga and fig leaves receives uncooked breakfast right between the eyes. Dazed and confused, (and in some pain) the dad takes a step backward right onto the tail of his longhaired cat. Now, between the screams of the cat and the screams of the man, the poor “treaters” could do nothing more than, well, scream- and run. The bones brigade speeds away with pride, now on the hunt to claim their next victim in the night.
“Honey!” a voice from the back of the house beckons. “Honey, I still need the ice broken up for the drinks.” Shaken, and very yoke soaked, this otherwise good looking man looks down at the ice pick he was still holding and wonders what he must have looked like to the group of terrified kids outside his door.
“I’m coming!” The man yells back with a defeated sigh, “I’m coming,” he repeats to himself and closes the door.
A few hours later the thirty-something, pale-faced, already balding man lay face up on his bed and now wears sweatpants and a white T-shirt. Invigorated from a cool shower, he yells towards the bathroom to his wife, still preparing for bed. “Ann, aren’t you finished yet?” Then says sheepishly, “You know it was a great party.”
“Was it really?” She snorts, “Bob and Betty didn’t even comment on the carrot casserole…I’m not even sure it was worth it.” Out of the bathroom walks his beautiful brunette who stands only five foot and two inches and has the most piercing blue eyes. “Honestly, I cook and I clean all day and all I get from our guests is ‘thanks for the chip dip,’ you call that worth it?”
“I call you worth it” he responds, with a twinkle in his big brown eyes.
With a knowing glance and half sarcasm in her voice she coos, “The girls are asleep and it’s been a long night…Ken, can you turn off your light?” Ann and Ken call it a night.
July 31, 1972. Exactly nine months after “the party,” or so I was told, I was birthed. And so began a life, conceived on a night of evil delivered under the lion’s sign and named after a man who was killed by the Mob.
“Um, Ren?” She asks quietly as she makes an adjustment to the climate control and then to my truck’s radio.
Satisfied with my honed story telling prowess, I answer.
“Yeah?”
“It was a good story and you tell it with such enthusiasm, but don’t you think it’s kinda weird that you have that particular story down so well? I mean- it is a story about your conception.”
“Um, well” I stuttered.
She has a point.
“And the Mob thing? I don’t get it. Did I miss something?”
You see- I like telling stories. But, sometimes I don’t really care how trivial or inappropriate they may be.
Although the volume is very low, the radio plays a Billy Joel tune.
Morning air fills our lungs as I turn my truck’s vent system back from re-circulation to fresh. The new air blows through the cab now and lightly moves her long highlighted hair. She is turned slightly in her seat, looking at me as she starts her own story.
As she speaks I notice the most beautiful ledges of exposed bedrock begin to rise up from either side of the interstate. The rock races by our windows and reveals a blur of dark colors that are normally covered with tons of earth. For the time it feels as if we are enveloped and held tightly by the powerful and natural elements around us.
Even traveling at seventy-five miles per hour, the cylindrical grooves left by the digging tools that had so violently separated the rock from itself can still be seen. Where once stood a natural and ominous hill was now a passage cut away making it easier for vehicles to travel through the southernmost foothills of the Appalachian Mountains between Georgia and South Carolina.
We had left my sister’s apartment in Atlanta early that morning, eager to make Charleston by late mid-day. My Halloween story had only lasted a few minutes but I know I just gained creative points with her. She is an artist.
Up and down we quickly glide over each stair-stepping hill that is gradually bringing us to a higher altitude. No more exposed rock now. The trees from this height look like plush grass just waiting to be laid upon. I have the cruise control locked at seventy-six miles per hour even though the posted limit clearly displays sixty.
I glance quickly in my rear-view mirror to check on my new motorcycle and the rest of our cargo. The straps are tight; the bike looks fine, although, all the added weight is causing the truck to handle a little funny.
An entire life lies in the back of my truck. My skateboard and snowboard are safely secured to the sidewalls, my green sea-bag sits snuggly under the dirt bike’s front wheel, my juggling supplies patiently wait their next adventure and several boxes are still finding suitable resting places. And at the moment, their resting places were up against even more boxes that belonged to her. I suppose my boxes and her boxes could be considered our boxes- now.
One box belongs to neither of us- it is old, torn and bound with twine. The box was supposed to have been dropped off at my grandmother’s house while we visited her in Michigan. I remembered that we forgot about it when we were already over a hundred miles down the road.
Thinking about the box for a moment, I try to recall all of its contents and all of the stories attached. Each item represents years of history in my family. My mother had trusted me to get it back to my grandma but I suppose I would have to send it after we get to Charleston. She probably didn’t even know it was gone. If that box could talk!
Maybe that will be the next story I tell her. It is a good story but it will have to wait. My life in boxes – now there’s a conversation piece.
The freedom found in the open road, a girl at my side and a fresh start is simply exhilarating. Especially after the past few years I’ve had. Yes, I would love to share my experiences with those who would listen, and maybe someday I will. But for now, I’m quite busy and content with the matters and sights at hand. I will just say that right now I am filled with passion and at least some kind of purpose- quite possibly for the first time in my life. But I must say- I am quite nervous as to what will come next.
I begin formulating the opening to my story as I listen to hers.
Before long, the road stretches out ahead leading us down through a deep valley. Because of rain earlier in the morning, the road seems to disappear into a dismal cauldron of steamy soup only to reappear a mile or so later on the other side of the valley. It is a stunning and strange sight as the sun emerges over the hills. The huge burning ball starts to send beams of light through the fog.
We start our descent toward the seething cauldron. She continues to speak and her story is getting good. I’m enjoying every word. Maybe not because of the topic but because who was telling the story. As she talks about things that are somewhat dark and mystical, I can see a light that shines through her, a light that easily affects me.
For a moment I wonder how she could be with me. How could I be lucky enough to have her? I mean- I’m twenty years old, one hundred and thirty pounds with semi-clear skin, blue eyes and hair like a ground hog. Ok, so my eyes are pretty captivating, I must say. But it’s not my eyes that captured this girl’s attention. Simply put, I’m pretty sure it was my backside.
I’m just not sure what I have to offer her is good enough. I’m not completely sure my goals and dreams even make sense to me. Until just recently all I put effort towards was skateboarding, snowboarding, skiing and just about every other extreme-type sport imaginable. My mother has always said that speed would be the death of me. Writing and creating music, however, had now taken on an interesting importance- because of her. But I have just been handed such an awesome responsibility. The thought of two lives moving forward hinging upon my own abilities is frightening- to say the least.
I turned the radio off.
“So you’re telling me you dated a warlock?” I ask.
“What I’m saying is that he had the power to create light in the palm of his hand.” She says opening her hand as an example.
Her words are honest and direct. She speaks in a way that proves knowledge of the subject that was possibly greater than my own. She holds her hand open for a moment longer, just for dramatic effect.
For some reason this topic has seemed to follow me throughout my young life. It has followed my friends and family as well. I even remember knowing a woman who wrote a book on the subject.
I believe she eventually got it published. It was called The Quandary of Truth.
At twenty, I’m not sure I completely understand “Truth,” but I know it’s clearer to me today than ever before. Truth has always been clouded by so many things- so many variables. In my past truth has eluded me. But I always seem to find it again. So many people wish they could go back in time to do things differently. I’m not sure that’s me. However, that kind of trip could clear up some things quite a bit.
Getting closer to the low fog, I turn my headlights back on. I remember, momentarily, that it was my father that taught me not to use my high beams in the fog. My father. I try not to think too much about him.
This person that sits to my immediate right is all that I need now; all that I ever wanted in another. Being so, she absolutely captivates me. She easily holds my attention.
I momentarily forget about the story of my grandmother’s box.
Although this rather bizarre topic of conversation about warlocks and paranormal powers is not exactly uplifting, my curiosity of her knowledge gets the better of me, and the questioning continues.
“You said that your ex-boyfriend could take away a person’s breath just by looking at them, right?”
“Yes. I don’t think he ever really conquered the lure of that kind of power.”
As she completes her story, I feel a flutter of excitement as I approach my introduction. She should love the “Twine box tale” as I like to call it. Except that she doesn’t give me the chance to begin. She poses a question that takes me completely off guard. It surprises me simply because she had already asked the question once before, not too long ago. It was a question that had simply changed my life. Why on earth was she asking it again?
“So Ren, what do you want to do with your life?”
I really can’t believe she just asked me that particular question. Wasn’t this topic already covered? I mean- I know that I may not have every element of that concept worked out but I thought I had given her an answer that was good enough for the time. Wasn’t it? What happened to the dark mystical topic? Can’t we go back to that?
You see- I was already given a revelation as to what I was to do with my life. The answer was sought after and then ordered up. And in time it was delivered to me like a fresh piping hot pizza. Sure, my revelation was a little too hot to eat, but it was there on time, nonetheless. It was my tasty revelation. And I had shared my revelation unselfishly. It was a really a big deal for both of us. And now she sits here asking me the very same question, again!
Wait a minute. Maybe she is trying to say something here; because I know her memory can’t be that bad! There is more to this inquisition – there has got to be. But what is she really asking?
We didn’t have a very long courtship – it’s true. She has every reason to be inquisitive about her future. Maybe she doesn’t know me as well as she thought. Maybe she is digging deeper just for the fun of it!
She is waiting for an answer.
Maybe she really wants to probe deeper into my core person. Who am I really? Do I even know? I know I have talents and I want to use them. I know she has had a lot to do with pulling those talents out. Was she really just focused on my collective earning potential? Ya know, my life’s occupation? Or, was there more to this? Maybe it’s a more spiritual kind of thing. Ah! Confusion.
What do I want to do with my life? Who am I? In what direction are we headed? I need some clarification. She needs to give me some answers first. Ok, here I go.
Dismal. Caldron. Soup.
In my best game show voice I ask, “Since we’re in the bonus round, I’ll need you to rephrase the question for clarification.”
She looks at me lovingly.
I look back at her for a moment longer than necessary.
She suddenly has a look of panic on her face.
“Ren!” she screams, “Oh my God!”
The sound of screeching tires is deafening. As one moment turns into several, the sounds grow even louder.
Spinning. Screeching. Screaming. Dismal cauldron.
We careen toward the guardrail on the opposite side of the highway at an unbelievable speed. The plush grass a hundred feet below no longer looks inviting.
Flashes. Moments. Memories.
For a split second, I hear a sound unlike anything I have ever heard before. In this most terrifying moment, I can see her head hitting the windshield. For some reason, I most distinctly and acutely feel her pain.
Memories. Moments. Flashes.
Dismal soup.
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