II:I

“Rashinda!” It was my sister calling me from the other end of the house. I could never tell if she was angry by the sound of her voice. I put my cigarette out in the ashtray and looked hard at the patio before going inside. My lungs were heavy and I felt light headed. I slid open the glass door and lazily made my way to the kitchen table at which Trecia was sitting. She was reading the paper and smoking. When I sat down she did not acknowledge me immediately. Without looking up at me she flipped through the pages of the paper and said. “Do you remember that crisis in Jamaica a few years ago?” I did, but I said nothing. “Moraganot was the man in charge of that.” I knew the name because that particular Revolutionary had been responsible for the cures to many diseases. Well that, plus my sister was dating him when she was in Africa. “I will tell you something about him that nobody knew: He loved the United States.”

I was not surprised. I had met the man maybe twice when I was younger and I remember him going on and on about how much he enjoys this or what an impact that has had on him. He was a kinder gentleman. I opened my mouth finally, “So? Baseball and apple pie, what’s not to like?”

“No, no, no, he liked the system of America. He liked Democracy and Capitalism working like a well-oiled machine. He liked the ideals; the deep loathe and fear for Communism. You see? He could go on forever about the faults of communism and how much he hated it.” She smiled and had finally looked up from the paper to make sure I was still following her. I was. “When Moraganot trekked Europe to find eager young men to follow him to Africa, he was skeptical and afraid. Not knowing what fruits or toils his ventures may behold. Also, he had no real plan. He made his way into Egypt through the Suez Canal. His numbers had strengthened after passing through various countries in the Middle East. In the Mid East there is a lot to want to escape, such as persecution for religion, orientation, debt, general anarchy, but I digress. When he got into Egypt Moraganot met many people. He learned many languages and he witnessed many hardships. Now, there are a lot of stories as to what happened when he went through Eritrea, and Djibouti, and Ethiopia. Most of them revolve around some of his friends getting captured and he has to run into a prison facility armed to the teeth and shoot his way out. None of that is true. All along his trek through Africa members of his operation were captured, sometimes they were shot at just because they were a large convoy of native Africans. Some were saved, others suffered torture or death, and most people in the convoy had come o terms with that.” She paused and looked down.

I said quietly, “Did you?”

Trecia frowned, “Yes. I did.” She paused for a shorter amount of time then continued, “Anyway I can’t remember the exact number but the operation had grown strong. I had been talking to Moraganot the entire trip and I remember looking into his eyes for the first time in a while when we finally reached South Africa. I could tell that something had changed in him, and that he now knew what he wanted. So, when he told me was to set his sights on Jamaica, I knew he didn’t mean vacation. That is where we parted. He and his operation set sail and I went on about life in Africa.” There was obviously more to this part of the story than she was telling me; sweet goodbyes, tears, a ship disappearing into the sunset, what have you. I could tell by her face and she way she paused the story.

“What did you do in South Africa?”

“I will get to that another time but let me finish this.” Trecia smiled at me, “Many of the people in Moraganot’s convoy had become dear friends of mine. We stayed in touch and kept up to speed about the progress with Jamaica. There was a long period of time when I wasn’t getting letters or phone calls. That was when the scuffle was declared a war and Cuba, Haiti, and the U.S. all got on the Defense. Remember all of that?” I nodded; she continued, “It only took Moraganot three months to quiet the storm before something really awful happened. Then I get a letter from him and he is telling me all of the wonderful changes since his ‘regime’ took control; he is going on and on about the changes in the community and life was great out there. When I saw him next he told me of expansion plans; talking about how the East Indies were only the beginning.”

“Oh, yeah, I remember him mentioning something about that when he came and visited. Wait… wasn’t he killed?”

Trecia took a deep breath, “No he wasn’t killed he shot himself in the head.”

“What!? I thought you said he had it great down there.” I was speaking sort of loudly.

“It was. He had a fantastic life down in Jamaica, and all of his people loved him.”

“So what was the problem? Why did he do it? Was it a conspiracy?”

“A lot of people believe it was, but at the funeral, I ran into a dear friend of mine, Vesuvius.”

“Like the volcano?” I asked.

“Yes, but that joke was old to him.” She laughed, “Anyway, he told me that when he found Moraganot laying in a puddle of blood on his own desk, he had to pry a newspaper from his hand; The Times. Later on I ran out and purchased that exact issue—as so many others had done—and read it front to back. Towards the end of the paper there was a small article about the economic recovery of the East Indies. The article was talking about Leader Moraganot’s impeccable leadership skills. The article said…” Trecia stared blankly at the table now, “‘Jamaica under Maraganot’s rule was the first ever successful attempt at full blown Communism.’”

I:X

           “Long beset unto his journey was the conqueror, prompted for success.” Erick leaned on the outside of the car and spoke through the window to me, “A cascading cry echoing through the wind ignited former cinders.”

            “Shut up and get some sleep.” I told him with a laugh. He began to walk away from the car toward his porch. When he was about half way I started the car and left. I wasn’t particularly fond of driving alone for a couple of reasons. Reason number one: I can never decide what to listen to. I’m so indecisive as to what mood I am in that I cannot think of a single song that I want to hear so usually I leave the radio off. Well, except for in the morning when there is always some talk show on. But if there is someone else in the car I always have something that they want to listen to, or they’ll bring something to listen to; it may no be something I want to hear but at least then I can groan and complain about not wanting to listen to it. Reason number two: because there is no noise in my car save for the sound of the road, I’m stuck listening to my head. Now, it’s not that I don’t like thinking, its just I don’t like some of the thoughts that I have. Some of them are tragic, some are from the past, some are farfetched theories but no matter what they are they wind up lasting for far too long. As a result I end up with the mother of all my thoughts: over-thinking. In my opinion nothing could be worse. Well… perhaps under-thinking.

            So here I am, in my car, alone at maybe two in the morning with nothing but the sound of wind zipping through the pecan orchards on either side of the road and trying to make its way through the vents of my air conditioner.  The road I was on was long, flat, and straight. Without realizing it, my foot became a little heavier. The engine shifted and began a small roar as it picked up passed sixty. Although I was not tired, the road that I was traveling became somehow less significant than the mental process I was undergoing. The needle on the speedometer crept passed seventy and, completely uncaringly, I flew through a four-way intersection. I began to contemplate Rashinda. I’ve been around her for a long time now, but I feel like every time we hang out, it’s the first. Does that seem like something I should tell her? The needle hovered passed eighty and the roar of the engine was much louder. No. Boys tell her nice, and sweet, and meaningful things all the time. As a matter of fact, boys ask her out all the time. Bummer. But she turns them down. Why is that? She is very particular. Maybe I—I looked at the speed dial and focused on the road for a moment. The car was almost at ninety and the trees and road signs were zipping passed me. I let off the gas. I turned on the high beams and as I did, a small dark figure made its way out of the shadows to the very edge of the headlights. I pulled to the other side of the road to avoid hitting him because of my speed, and for some reason, beyond me, I stepped on the brakes.

            I slowed passed him and came to a stop. As he walked up from the rear of the car I rolled down the passenger side window. He leaned on the door the way Erick had; arms folded on the base of the window. He was a young man, maybe mid to late twenties. His dark face was clean-shaven which accentuated his eyebrows. His long thick dread locks hung into the window. He looked at me and smiled a wide grin. “I like your dreads budda.” His accent was very heavy. “You be pickin’ up hitchas dis time uh de night?”

            “I guess not. I didn’t see your thumb out.”

            He laughed a bit then said, “I like you cuz.” His voice was high but raspy; two octaves. “I’m new to da ara. Would you be willin’ to help out a fellow Rasta, cuz?” The lack of inflection in his sentences was mesmerizing; I don’t know why.

            “What do you need? A ride?”

            “Dat, yes, and anoder ting.” I cut him off before he could make the next request.

            “A place to bed down for the night.” He seemed surprised that I knew. He laughed. “Get in.”

I:IX

I may never know what fueled my actions as they came in the great heaving bursts that they did. I took my focus off of Erick and threw the car into reverse. While I spun around to see where I was going I stepped on the gas. The tires spun and the car fishtailed around. I shifted the car into drive and I could see Erick buckling his seat belt from the corner of my eye. I didn’t worry about any cars being on the Boulevard at this time of night so the car also fishtailed out of the driveway to the bus station. When the car straightened out I could see the taillights of the black truck at a red light. I was gunning it to keep up with the mysterious driver. I held the steering wheel with my thighs as I buckled my seat belt, but just as I did, the black truck made an abrupt right turn. I saw another set of headlights opposite us on the Boulevard; I just kept saying to myself, “Please don’t be a cop, please don’t be a cop, PLEASE…”

We fishtailed down Henry Avenue, a narrow street with lots of cars parked on either side. We kept a straight course but the truck driver was swinging his truck back and forth and stepping on the brakes on and off. He was playing with us. I looked over at Erick who was focused on the road, he saw me looking at him and tightened his body as he very sharply pointed forward to redirect my attention. The bright red taillights of the Chevy –I could identify the make by the large logo on the tailgate that I was now ever so close to- almost rested atop my hood, and they would have had I not stepped on the brakes. We could hear loud bass coming from the truck. As we came to nearly a complete stop the truck’s tires screeched fiercely, spitting dirt and smoke only visible by the yellow street lamps, as it spun into an almost ninety degree angle turn into an alley. We followed it down the narrow, unmaintained, hardly paved path. For the most part, the truck driver did a very good job about avoiding trash cans, using very well timed slaloming. I just tried to do my best as far as staying directly behind him. Needless to say, some trashcans and piles of junk were either smashed or knocked over.

At the end of the alley was Jupiter Avenue, a road somewhat wider that Henry but pack with middle class housing. The driver stepped on the gas once he saw that the road was wide enough for him to drift from the alley. The smoke from the tires enhanced the beams from the taillights. The truck took off down the curvy avenue, at this point I knew I would not be able to keep up but I would try. The wide curves of the avenue forced me to keep my eyes on the road rather than on the truck. The more curves we rounded the less visible the truck became until eventually I didn’t know whether it had turned or if it was still on the same road. I eased off of the gas and slowed to average driving speed. I felt frustrated, but as I pulled up to a stop sign I noticed that something was slightly off. Suddenly the brilliant red tail lights that I had been chasing for some twenty minutes now appeared from the darkness. I stepped on the brakes just in time to not slam into the rear of the truck.

The adrenaline came back just as it had faded. Erick and I sat in silence behind the truck as it… just sat there at the intersection. We could hear the loud heavy motor of the lifted truck over my own. An arm reached from the driver’s window. The arm was a black man’s arm, and it wasn’t scrawny either. A piece of paper fell to the ground as the hand of the arm opened up. The truck took off with staggering acceleration without spinning the wheels but a little bit.

I got out and walked to the front of my car where the paper had landed. As I crouched down to pick it up I saw Erick from my peripherals. I stood up and unfolded a sheet of paper. Erick stepped over to me to read over my shoulder.

I:VIII

My room had two guitars. One was an acoustic that I played often. The other was electric, really showy, and very expensive. I will not disclose the brand of the guitar, or the model, or shape because I don’t want to mislead you, the reader. However I will tell you this about the electric guitar: I had done a lot to it. I had put locks on it, I ordered it with a custom paint job, I installed specific pickups, and the inlays were custom. I ordered this guitar around my soul. As I walked into my room and saw it sitting in the stand next to the window I asked myself for the first time, “What the hell was I planning to do with this thing?” I had purchased it and completed customizing it around eight months ago and I’ve never played the thing. “As a matter a fact,” I thought to myself, “Why the fuck didn’t I buy an amp?” It wasn’t that I was out of money, I just never bought one. I didn’t put it off, it’s not like the one I wanted was out of stock; I just never bought an amp. I didn’t even think about an amp when I was finally holding the guitar and not looking at pictures of it on the internet. “I’m certainly not selling that guitar.” I convinced myself, but I didn’t know what the deal was with the guitar. In fact, I didn’t know why I started thinking about it at that moment.

That aside, Erick sat on my bed and looked though the CDs on the nightstand. I sat at my desk, opened the drawer, and pulled out a rather large bag of marijuana. Erick put a CD in the stereo. I began twisting joints. Erick turned the stereo up. After about twelve minutes of The Black Dahlia Murder’s Miasma- an album I didn’t particularly care for- I had rolled eight joints. I stood up walked over to the door and signaled Erick to turn the music off. He did, then I waved him over to where I was standing. I put the joints in a baggie and put them in my pants pocket. All of the joints were fat so I was very aware of them in my pocket, well, that and the ridiculous odor. As we stepped into the hallway, my brother was coming down the opposite end.

I said, “Hey, Peter, Peter pumpkin eater.”

“Hey, guy. What’s up Erick?” He walked to us. Erick nodded his head and shook Peter’s hand. “What are you guys doing?”

“We were just headed up to the roof. Gonna blaze; you wanna come?” I leaned forward and grinned like I was trying to sell him a car.

He laughed, “Maybe some other time.” He didn’t smoke pot. “Look I’ve got to work tonight so I’m gonna go hit the sack. Are you guys going out tonight?”

I looked at Erick then said, “Yeah, most likely.”

“You want some scratch in case you fools get hungry?” He began to pull out his wallet. “Or gas, or something?”

“Nah, we’re set. Right Erick?” Erick took a big whiff of the air and gave Peter a thumbs up.

We laughed. Peter put his wallet away and said, “Alright. Don’t fall off the roof.” He turned to his right and closed the door to his office.

Erick and I continued down the hall until we were almost in the kitchen. To the left was the staircase, up we went, down the hall of the upper story, I pulled the string to the attic access, a built in ladder came down, up we went, across the wood floor of the attic to a glass door, and out to the small balcony. I drew the curtain to the glass door and shut the door. I lit one of the joints.

The view from the third floor of my house was not what most people would consider amazing, but to Erick and I it was perfect. Rows forever of almond orchard that eventually came to a halt of dirt, and lead beyond the eye ultimately to the high rolling dead-brown of the foothills. When the sun was in the right place during the evening, you could catch blinding twinkles from the windmill blades. The almond sea changed moods over the year. In the spring and summer the leaves were huge and bright green, in the fall the trees blossomed and one could mistake the land for the North Pole. In the fall the petals from the flowers took to the breeze with no flight plan. It was always an amazing sight but, alas, the shortest of the orchard phases. After the leaves and petals fell, one could smell the death rising from the earth. It smelled like a massive fire, only the flames were still, and once, they were alive. Now the trees looked old, naked, angry. The orchard looked like a place for things to die.

We stood out on the balcony for a while. I was pretty stoned. “Beautiful, huh?” I said after a while.

Erick replied, “A violent torrent of malignant turmoil.” Then there was silence.

Sometime later, the sun was setting and the time had come to set out. The house was still and dark. We exited the front door and staring forward through the rows of trees didn’t count for much. It looked as if the shadows were coming to engulf my house. We got in the car and Erick put on a CD. The tangled roads in these orchards could probably cause someone unfamiliar with them to be lost for weeks. At least that’s how it seemed to me. Sometimes I wondered how I even remembered where to turn.

The main street in our town was four lanes across. Over time it just became known as the Boulevard. It was Mortem’s aorta. On it was the better of what little commercial district there was. It was the place to cruise, there was a theatre, gas, and a couple of franchise burger barns. Also there was a bus station; the only way in and out if you didn’t have a car. We pulled in and parked with the back of the car to the Boulevard. A few spaces away was the driveway leading to a two lane road; to the one way out of here, as street called “Memorial Road”. The sky was brilliant yellows, reds, and oranges and everything was in shadow.

The music was off and now we just sat in the car. This was a mission? Erick adjusted his seat to get comfortable. I did the same as I pulled a bag out of my pocket.

We were very stoned a few hours later. Buses had come and gone. No one got on and no one got off. I was still unclear on what Erick and I were doing here. Not much had been said since our first joint. By this time we had probably burned four or five. “Erick,” I said, “Let’s hear a story.” He nodded and took a moment to collect his thoughts.

“It was an infernal contraption with malice intent to retrieve the burden of still water. In final product, the distilled incessant virtues of camaraderie, between the three parties, were invaluable; the third being the Heron. ‘O’ heron’ it would pulsate a magnificent screeching, ‘Enlighten the entities of my bureaucracy without proverbial force.’ But only a binary response rang through the seas…” He carried on; I listened intently.

The last bus until tomorrow was pulling into the station. The “mission” was absolutely fruitless. I started the engine. As I reached to put it in to reverse Erick hit me to grab my attention. I looked at him and he was staring forward. I looked to the bus and saw three people getting off the bus, all wearing dark black clothing. I was about to say something when out of nowhere, a black cat darted across my hood. It moved unbelievably fast but it caught both Erick’s and my attention. As we followed it with our heads to Memorial, a large black pickup truck sped past the station and fishtailed into the intersection on the Boulevard. The truck barreled behind us down the Boulevard. I looked at Erick. He was shocked.

I:VII

My house was far. Well, it was far in relation to school, my friends, and it was just the complete opposite- in terms of direction and distance- of Castlevek… close to Erick though. My house was far out in the orchards, off in a labyrinth of two lane roads that were primarily used for machinery. Night time outside my house was blindness. It was so dark outside my house. I mean dark. I’m not sure you understand how dark it was; it was like closing your eyes, duct taping your eyelids down, wrapping your face in black construction paper, burying your head in the dirt, and parking a car over it. Flashlights, which we needed to find the steps and our cars, cut the blackness with limited range. Getting back on topic, it was daytime now, probably getting close to noon anyway, and Erick and me were getting close to my house. Erick didn’t have to check in with his folks for a few reasons. One: they liked me. His parents only know me as a collected respectful responsible young man. Two: Erick didn’t have many friends to their knowledge. To his parents this meant that he was not to be easily swayed by the masses to take part in any illegal activities or anything that may cause harm to Erick. Three: I’ve had my car for two years… let’s just call it a routine. They probably figure that Erick has to come home to take a shower eventually.

Erick’s home life was stable. It had been that way since his mom left with his little brother and sister. She had given Erick the option of leaving to parts unknown, chasing men, and check to check income with the three of them, or he could stay with his grandparents who make a fair and honest living and love Erick as if they had given birth to him. I’m really glad he stayed. No gains and no losses. The only question I had about his home life: the whole family speaks Spanish when talking to one another, did Erick speak the same way in Spanish that he did in English? I may never know the answer to that question. My classes only covered basic Spanish. So if I ever need a glass of water when I’m at Erick’s house, I can handle my own.

My home life was not so easy to sum up. It had been four years since anything. Since our last family outing, family picture, since my sister moved out, since my older brother dropped out of college, since my father died, since my little brother died, since my mother had spoken a word to me or anyone.

I have never been mad at my mother for one moment in my life. Once when I was young something happened, a death of someone close to my mother. I wanted to cheer her up and stop her form crying but my dad stopped me. He picked me up and took me outside and sat me on the porch. He explained to me that my mother’s life was hell. When she was a young girl, she and her brother watched her father strike their mother in the back of the head with the claw end of a hammer, killing her, for trying to leave an abusive relationship. He took them and gave them to a very bad person, a friend of their father’s, before he died in a violent gun battle with the police. The bad man they were left with did horrible things to them and eventually turned them out as drug dealers in a big city, I can’t remember which. She and her brother stuck together for as long as they could. When they were escaping her brother told her that she was worth his life and that would be the cost for her to get away. She was seventeen when she watched her brother kill a dozen men before being shot in the head. The man who had shot him found her hiding on the massacre site. He knew her situation, all of it. For a reason unknown to any but himself, he looked at my mother for a long time and took his own life. She escaped to California where she met my father. The two married and moved to Mortem. This is where is becomes my story.

My mother gave birth to my brother Peter, my sister Louise, Me, and my little brother Carmichael all by the same father. Four years ago Peter was a sophomore off at Arizona State and Louise was still home with me and Carmichael. My mother was, for the first time in her life, safe, secure, and happy. Every day for my mother was the first of a new life with her four children and her very special husband. One day at the bank in Lancaster, My mother was waiting in line, for a long time, with my father and Carmichael. Louise and I had stayed home. They had been waiting for so long that my father had to go outside and put more money in the parking meter. He stepped outside and not two minutes later did a drunken man with an automatic weapon step in to make a withdrawal. Some hero jumped on the man’s back. As the man with the gun flailed around wildly spraying bullets in every direction, he killed seven people, and as my mother clung to Carmichael to keep him safe a bullet went straight through my mother’s bicep into my little brother’s chest, killing him. My father, across the street, the commotion and came running to the bank, but just before he could step on the curb in front to the bank the drunken man’s getaway mobile struck him and pinned him between the “getaway” and an innocently parked car.

At the hospital, my mother lost all faith. She lost all religion, patriotism, hope, and became a shell. To me it was all so fictitiously bizarre, but the evidence was irrefutable.

At the funeral my brother and father were buried side by side. My brother pulled me aside and tough tears told me was leaving school to move back with us. The next day my sister made the opposite decision she packed her things and left home. She said she would be back. No one stopped her. Now it was just my mother, my brother, and me in this big empty house.

Yeah, that’s the sob story. I figure that will better explain my mother and brother to you, the reader. Erick and I pulled up the house. I parked next to my mother’s ’08 Gran Cherokee. My brother had bought it for her birthday, his 0-something Tacoma was gone. He worked a lot. Erick and I climbed the steps. I pushed open the front door and felt the outward rush of air. As if the oxygen inside was anxious to leave the vacuum sealed packaging of my house. As usual, the air in the front room as stale. All of the lights were off. No one had been in the living room for a long time. Erick and I crept past the living room to the kitchen. My mother sat at the table smoking a cigarette; reading the paper. She was motionless.

Her face was finely sculpted. She was an aging woman, with lines now cutting into her smooth dark skin at the corners of her mouth, ends of her nose and under her tired brown eyes. She was in her waitressing outfit. She was of average height, but maybe a little thin for a woman her age.

“Hey mom,” I said shattering the silence, “Erick is here.” Erick smiled and waved to her despite the fact that she didn’t move to look up at us. “I was out with him all night.” Nothing. We began to leave. Erick went down the hall to my room. Before I was completely out of the room, I stopped and turned to my mother, peaking my head in just enough to see the back of my mother as she continued reading. I said, “Hey mom?” she said nothing, “You’re beautiful.” She chuckled lightly; a sweet sound I hadn’t heard in years. I also noticed her mouth move in the corner. I left to my room.