Travis Thrasher's Blog, page 3

November 26

            Surely I’ve lost you and surely you’re no longer with me. 

            Surely you’ve moved on to something a bit normal. 

            John Grisham or David Baldachi or Nicholas Sparks and James Patterson with whoever he’s “writing” with. 

            You’ve probably not gotten here but if you have then damn you’re good. 

            You’re demented. 

            You’re surely looking for some payoff and I’ll be honest I’ve been looking for one too. For a very long time. 

            Maybe if I can keep going, then you can as well. All I can do is keep going. Day and night, night and day. 

**

            Sometimes it seems as if there’s a radio playing in my head with a DJ who never shuts up. I sleep and hear him speaking in my dreams and nightmares. I wake up and wish I could drown him fully out, but the volume never fully gets to zero. The mumbling and blabbering goes on and lasts all day. 

            A phone call gets me out of bed earlier than I would like. I would be sleeping at least another hour on this Saturday morning, but when I see Betty’s name on my iPhone, I know I have to take it. 

            “Hi, Betty,” I say with a hoarse voice. “How’s it going?”

            “Jack was found dead in his house last night. Overdosed on something. They’re calling it a suicide.”

            I want to ask Betty if she’s joking with me over the phone, but I can tell in her tone that she’s not. Normally she would at least greet me in some sort of way. She’s serious. Dead serious, pun intended. 

            “How’d you hear?”

            “His girlfriend found him,” Betty says. “I’m not sure which girlfriend since he always seemed to have a new one every week.”

            It’s strange that I’m not surprised to hear Jack killed himself. I also wouldn’t be surprised if someone murdered Jack.       

            “Do they know for certain if it was a suicide?” I ask.         

            “That’s all I know,” Betty says.  “I wanted to let you know. Especially since we had just been talking about him.”

            I’m not going to tell her about my encounter with Jack nor about everything he’d told me. The last thing I want to do is get involved in some kind of mystery involving someone’s death. 

            Too late. 

            “How are you doing?” I ask her. 

            “We’re all pretty shaken. I’m not sure what to think anymore.”

            I talk with her a few more minutes before thanking her and asking her to keep me in the loop. When I click off the call, I just stand and look out the window in my family room. It’s strange because sometimes everything about this room seems nondescript. Blank walls and boring furniture and empty sounds and stale smells. 

            I decide to get ready and leave early for my Saturday morning hang out with Dermot. I’m curious how much progress he’s made on his novel. 

**

            “I’m just below 30,000 words,” Dermot says to me as he approaches my table. “29,911.”

            I shake his hand. “You couldn’t just come up with 89 more words to make it a nice round 30K?” 

            “I had to scrap a scene since I last texted you. But I think this is really good.” 

            And we’re off. 

            Dermot starts talking about the manuscript. It resembles a bit of what Jack was talking about with the secretive cult meeting and the possible human sacrifices and the evil and all of that. I want to ask him if he has met Jack in any way, but of course, I remain silent. Actually, I can barely get in one word except to say “hmm” and “cool” and “interesting”.

            “There’s an awesome agent I’m going to send this to after I’m done,” Dermot says. “Colin Scott. Works in Chicago.”

            I nod. “How’d you hear about him.” 

            “He represents some major authors. Vivian Brown is one of them.”

            I nod and know I’ve heard the name, but at the same time she doesn’t strike me as a big name. 

            I own a bookstore and can’t really recall this author. 

            “He used to work in publishing and hated everything about it,” Dermot tells me. “Now he wants to find new voices and new talents.”

            “Gotta finish the manuscript first, right?” I say. 

            “Absolutely.”

            “So—are you going to take your coat off? Maybe order coffee and get some breakfast?” 

            Dermot has been so enraptured telling me about his work-in-progress that he forgot to even get situated. 

            Passion. Gotta love it. 

**

            A slow day at the store. Black Friday sales were strong, so what sort of color can I call today? Sepia Saturday? No, how about Sky Blue Saturday. That just seems to fit. 

            The UPS driver delivers a series of packages. A few books I’ve ordered, some for myself and a couple for customers. A rectangular package is among the pieces, and when I pick it up I know it’s a manuscript. 

            Maybe Dermot’s sending me his book.

            But no. He would have given it to me this morning. I think about the three times something like this has happened before when I received a manuscript from a writer who acted as if I was a publisher. Three times. All three times I had to send the manuscript back telling them I sold books and didn’t publish them. This time I open up the package, I realize I’m not sending these pages back. 

            The sender happens to be dead. 

            A note paperclipped to the 300-something pages has writing that I’ve seen before. My name is much like the other names on the list he gave me. 

            Nolan: 

            If you’re reading this, it means something happened to me. I have given instructions for this to be overnighted in case they don’t hear from me otherwise. 

            You need to read this. You need to read it and then maybe you’ll understand. 

            I’m not sending this to you so that you can alert the authorities about me. I’m sending you this because you have a chance to make it out of here. I guess I didn’t make it. Sometimes that’s what happens in this world. 

            Just one thing: as you read this, realize that you’re not going insane. That’s what I thought initially until I discovered the truth. I tried to stop things. I’ve been attempt to argue my way out of this, but I couldn’t. 

            You play a different role here. You shouldn’t run away. You need to stay around. “Seek and ye shall find” as the saying goes. 

            Read the book in bits and pieces. Take breaks to keep your sanity. 

            Alcohol helps. 

            As far as the end of this book, whatever end it might be, take the input of the great Frank Herbert: “There is no real ending. It’s just the place where you stop the story.” 

            It looks like my story has stopped. Don’t let yours do the same. 

            Jack

            I take off the note and see the cover page for the book. The title is really no title at all and the author is someone I’ve never heard of before. I quickly start to read the text. 

            When I get to my name, I stop reading. I look up and see if anybody is around watching. Maybe this is a prank. Some very elaborate prank that Dermot or Cameron or Casey is playing. Nobody is around. 

            Nolan Stewart. 

            Yeah, that’s me. 

            I read on and see that it’s talking about me, how I manage a bookstore. They even know what HH stands for.  

            “Hemingway’s Hideout.” 

            This is when I stop reading and slip the manuscript back in its package. My heart is racing and I’m completely bewildered. I look back and see the note Jack wrote me, and I reread it. 

            Read the book in bits and pieces. Take breaks to keep your sanity. 

            Now I know why he said this. 

            I recall what Mark had said about the manuscript, how the editor had said the first few chapters were the scariest he’d ever read. 

            I don’t think I’ve ever been more terrified after reading just a handful of pages. It’s not because of the content itself. 

            It’s because you wrote them. 

            But I didn’t and I know I didn’t. 

            Alcohol helps. 

            I nod at Jack’s words. “Yeah. It will help. At least temporarily.”

            Time to close the shop so I can do exactly what Jack told me not to do: 

            Run away. 

**

            This sadness stays with me. 

            Somewhere between sunset and sunrise, I hear the DJ in my head again. 

            Inside the harmonies of the chords and the hues on the canvas lies the hurt and the conflict. 

            I haven’t picked up the manuscript again. I’ve been waiting for something else—a phone call, a text, an email. Or worse, a knock on my door. But silence is the only thing that shows up. 

            Silence can be worse than angry words. The voices that start to speak inside of you can be worse than those from your worst enemies. 

            I know what I need to do, but I can’t bring myself to even try. The manuscript remains in the package on the counter in my kitchen. I’m avoiding it like some kind of ticking explosive. 

            If the words are really and truly from me, what will they say? What if I wrote them when I didn’t even know it? 

            Write a novel in a blackout state. A new workshop coming from Nolan Stewart. 

            No. I didn’t write this during any drunken episodes. That’s a ludicrous thought. 

            Life is waiting and you’re still stuck down here wondering and holding off and resisting the urge. Go ahead, Nolan. Just do it. 

            I stumble to the kitchen and get the manuscript and begin to read. I wonder how much I’ll remember in the morning. 

November 25

            Thoughts wake me up. Or do I wake up with thoughts? I start making a mental list. Or should I say my mind starts to make a list? 

            Jack lost his mind. 

            Do I italicize a list I’m thinking about? 

            Why haven’t you spoken any more to Mark? You remember him, right? Jack’s editor? 

            I shift in my king-sized bed which is far too king-sized. 

            Who is leaving you all those writing quotes and why? And where is Lexi? What happened to her? 

            It’s been since November 18 that I saw her. That’s odd how specific I’m being. 

            Solve the mystery. Figure it out. Don’t give up. Your very life depends on it.

            Yeah. So the mystery? Besides my memory loss and Lexi? It’s gotta be everything happening with Jack and his list and the secret group meeting. 

            So what exactly is happening in the warehouse? And why do some people want to keep it so secret? 

            I sigh.

            And oh yeah . . .  Did the Cubs actually win the World Series? Did Trump actually win the presidency? 

            What a weird and wacky month. 

            What happened with the missing suburban teen girl named Sofia Thomas? 

            Why so many questions, Nolan? 

            How is Cameron doing on NanoShmamo or whatever it’s called? Wait, that’s Dermot who is writing. Cameron is detectiving. 

            I know “detectiving” is not a real word, but I don’t keep editors in my head. Or maybe the editor has this morning off. 

            Why do you keep remembering parts of yourself that don’t seem real? Like pictures of a picture? 

            Vague figures seen through foggy windows. 

            What’s up with the Rutger Hauer-looking guy calling himself John Ryder? He’s gotta be the one leaving me all these weird notes. 

            I wonder when he’s going to be showing up again.           

            Why’d you sell The Sun Also Rises? 

            Life. That’s what I tell myself. You carry these warm dreams through the dark and then you wake up to see the cold morning light of reality wash over you. 

            Who texted Come back?

            This mental list is getting long. I can’t go back to the first point. 

            What really happened with you and Lexi? Was it rated G, PG, R or X? Do they even rate movies X anymore? 

            I sit up and feel my head spinning around the room. So many thoughts and so little action. 

             Michigan. What happened in Michigan. I have proof I went up there but why? For what? For who? 

            I think back to yesterday. Thanksgiving. Oh, yeah. I think the interior bullet points have caught up with the exterior blocks on the calendar. 

            The same morning shuffle to the same places. Bathroom, kitchen, Keurig, island, couch, TV. On my coffee table is 

            another damn note

             The first draft of everything is shit.–Ernest Hemingway

            “Oh shut up, Bumby.”

**

            I text Lexi but get no reply. Before heading to the bookstore, I get a text from Casey that says she’s out sick. She has almost never called in sick so I know it’s real. At least as real as anything that passes as real in my world these days. I remember it’s Black Friday, but I don’t expect the masses lining up outside HH in order to fight over the latest Nicholas Sparks’ novel. 

            On my drive to work, I send myself an email reminder to call a shrink so I can get my head examined. Since I’m driving and typing, the message comes back to me slightly warped. 

            Muck sore yo carp duckter. 

            That’s Nolan code there. Nonsensical but known. 

            After being at HH for a while getting ready to open at 10 a.m., I text Cameron to see what’s up. He calls back. 

            “I finally got my car back,” he says. “This morning. When my girlfriend brought me by last night, there were still cars parked in the warehouse lot. Can you believe it?” 

            “I’d stay away from that warehouse if I were you,” I say. 

            “Yeah, no joke. Look—there’s something definitely weird going on.”

            “I know.”

            “I know this cop named Mike Harden,” Cameron says. “You want me to contact him?”

            “No.” 

            I think of Jack. I don’t want all of this coming back around to him. 

            “Did you hear about that missing girl? Sofia Thomas?” 

            My stomach tightens as I know what’s coming. 

            “Oh hell–what?”

            “They found her. She’s fine. Just took off without telling her parents. Just teen angst and parent issues.”

            I let out a breath of relief. 

            “Nolan, I got a question for you. A serious one. Do you believe in the devil?” 

            “Yeah. He owns Chase Bank and calls me often to remind me about the money I owe him.”

            “Funny,” Cameron says sounding absolutely not funny. “I’m being serious.”

            A talk about God? Acceptable I guess. But the devil? A serious discussion about him? Can’t happen, not in a world with four-letter words. 

            “I don’t give it much thought,” I say. 

            “Me neither. But I’ve been doing some homework on the occult and Satanists and all that stuff. There are some pretty sick people out there.”

            “You don’t have to believe in the devil to know that.”

            “I have this long article I found on some random blog. The guy writing about a town in North Carolina where they discovered all this shit going on. These occult groups that literally were sacrificing people. I hate using that word.”

            “’Shit’?” I ask. 

            “No. ‘Literally.’ People use it all the time incorrectly.”

            “Good to know, grammar police,” I joke.     

            “Whether or not Satan is real, there really are people out there who worship him and do things to show this. I have to send you that article. The town is called Solitary.”

            “Sounds like a great place to visit.”

            “Sounds a lot like Appleton,” Cameron says. “All warm and shiny on the outside, but once you step inside and look around, things get a lot more cold and messy.”

            My first customer of the day stands outside the locked door. I realize it’s ten minutes after 10. 

            “I have to go,” I tell Cameron. “I have a shop to run. Tell me if you spot the devil today.”

            He doesn’t laugh and neither do I. 

November 24

            Life is a complex puzzle with so many people compressing the pieces. Thankful for all of them today even if all of them aren’t around for me to pick up. I know the big picture even if the pieces aren’t all in place. 

            The same idea. 

            Over and over again. 

            Maybe I should be more thankful but I’m heading and going and about to arrive and starting to go in and am ready for the onslaught and ready for it all. 

            To be burned and to be gone. 

**

            “How’s the book business?” 

            Let’s see. There’s turkey, gravy, sweet potatoes, stuffing. And there’s Dad at the head of the table. 

            A simple question. So far, so good. We can take this in so many directions. 

            He could just start woofing down his food as if he doesn’t really care about the answer. 

            He could wait there with a patient smile wondering how business is going. 

            He could continue on with a combative “’cause the last I heard nobody ever goes into actual bookstores anymore” as if he is trying to get into another argument. 

            How should your father act? The gentle giant? The absent alpha? The angry ass? 

            I’d really prefer some gentleness for a change. 

            “It’s been slow as usual,” I say. 

            He detects the stress in the words and doesn’t say anything. He changes the subject to the Redskins.           

            I guess we have a gentle giant indeed. 

            He talks about retirement

            from where

            his old manufacturing company. He’s enjoying having more time to read biographies of presidents and nonfiction works on U.S. wars. Mom enjoys having him at home. 

            The lines around their eyes and mouths not only tell their age but also reveal how much they like to smile and laugh. Thanksgiving dinner is full of laughter and storytelling. 

            Is anybody else there? 

            It’s just the three of us. My brother is out in Colorado and my sister is out in California. One might think there’s some kind of pandemic or something because it’s just me and my parents. Like we’re deliberately staying away from everybody else. 

            Where’d that thought come from? It’s 2016. Not the future. 

            I enjoy the sweet white wine but don’t enjoy too much. I enjoyed too much last night. 

            My mother shares a story about when I was young and accidentally fell off the deck at our house and landed headfirst on the concrete sidewalk below. It wasn’t a huge fall but huge enough for the hard surface. My father likes to joke that this is when it all started to happen, when I started to act crazy. 

            Wait, maybe he doesn’t say that. Maybe that’s someone else. The gentle giant wouldn’t be that mean, would he? 

            I don’t know. It’s not that important anyway. 

            What’s important is—

            My phone buzzes. I slip it out of my jeans and glance down at it. 

            Hey man we gotta talk. 

            It’s Cameron. 

            Now we’re getting somewhere. 

**

            “Sorry I’m interrupting your Thanksgiving,” Cameron says. 

            He sounds out of breath. 

            “What’s wrong?”

            “I’m being followed.”

            “By who?” 

            For a moment I just hear shuffling, like the phone is being stuffed into a shopping bag. 

            “Look, you need to come get me,” he says. 

            “Where are you? And why?”

            “I decided to snoop around a little. That warehouse you told me about.”

            Did I tell him about that? Guess it doesn’t matter. 

            “So someone caught you?” 

            “Yeah,” he says. “I parked right by the warehouse but I had to run the other way. I’m supposed to be at my girlfriend’s house. Like now. I know those guys will be outside the warehouse for a while.”

            I think about telling him I can’t come get him, but then realize I’m the one that got him into this mess. Plus, this is an excuse for me to get out of here. I love my parents, but . . . well, this is far more interesting. 

            “Okay. I’ll leave now. Give me twenty minutes.”

            “Text me when you get to Appleton. I’ll let you know where I am.”

**

            Twenty minutes in your Mazda to meditate on your life. 

            You feel bad having to say goodbye to your parents, but you realize you’re the only child that’s stayed around them. 

            Why didn’t I ever move away? 

            More questions come as suburbia passes you by.  

            Why don’t I have a family? A wife? Hell, a girlfriend? 

            Something gnaws at you, the same nibbling feeling that’s been with you all November. The same emotion that resembles the gray, cold afternoon. 

            I can’t just be alone and fine with that. Something doesn’t make sense here. 

            Twenty minutes isn’t long enough for you to figure out this question. Maybe it’s the stress that’s been making you a little cloudy.             

            I feel like I have amnesia. Or dementia.

            You text Cameron that you’re almost downtown Appleton and he sends you his location. 

**

            “I counted at least a dozen, maybe more,” he says after he climbs into my vehicle. 

            His normally unimpressed expression has been replaced by alarm. 

            “What are you doing?” 

            Cameron is glancing behind us and from side to side. “Like you said, I love detective stuff. I knew something was strange when I started getting weird vibes from these people on the list. Just keep driving and I’ll tell you when to turn.”

            “So a dozen people were at the warehouse?” 

            “Yeah,” he says as he starts texting someone. “My girlfriend is livid.”

            “So you thought to do this right before your Thanksgiving dinner?” 

            I can’t help but laugh. 

            “It was on the way. I was curious. Then I noticed a bunch of cars in the parking lot and decided to see what was happening inside.”

            “So? Did you?”

            He nods and looks all around again and rubs his chin. 

            “Some kind of service. Church service. Except with candles and robes.”

            I laugh. “Come on.”

            “I’m seriously, Nolan.”

            “Robes? Really?”

            “Yeah, I know. Ridiculous. But I f***ing saw it. And another thing. There was one of those Mercedes-Benz Sprinters right outside the entrance to the warehouse. You know—one of those cargo vans. No windows in the back. Sketchy as hell.”

            The gray, not-so-good feeling I’ve had all month suddenly turns black and downright bad. 

            “Should we call the cops or something?” I ask. 

            “No,” Cameron says. 

            “Why not?”

            He inhales and then lets out a long sigh. 

            “Because a cop was there,” he says. “His police car was parked in the lot.”

            “So then we have nothing to worry about, right?” 

            Cameron looks plenty worried, and he looks like he’s going to stay that way for a while. 

            “Turn at the next stoplight,” he says. “Then take that street until it dead ends.”

**

            Later that night—a little later, a lot later, I don’t know—I’m drunk. Don’t judge me. 

            I get a text from Dermot.

            28,221 words! And I’m in the zone again. 

            Good for you, I text back. 

            I’ve gotten my inspiration from Ray Bradbury. 

            Why? 

            Writing quotes from him, Dermot texts. 

            I see him continuing to write. 

            “First, find out what your hero wants, then just follow him.” 

            That’s good, I tell him. 

            That’s been my problem. My hero doesn’t really know what he wants. 

            Does anybody really know? 

            Are you drunk? he asks. 

            Yep. 

            Haha. Here’s the other quote: “You fail only if you stop writing.” 

            You haven’t failed yet, I text. 

            No yet’s to come. I’m not going to fail. Six more days to figure this all out. 

            I laugh and go to take a sip of my gin and tonic and then realize it’s only ice. 

            Tell me when you figure everything out. Maybe you can figure things out for me, too. 

            He never texts me back. Not with a smiling emoji or an LOL or anything. No words at all. 

November 23

            Weird. Where’ve I gone? I feel like I’ve been busy out of state and out of mind. Destination unknown but why am I awake the night before Thanksgiving?

            Has anybody ever written that? Twas the night before Thanksgiving. 

            My plans. I’m seeing family. 

            What family? 

            I have family I’m seeing. Local in the area. Parents in Wheaton. 

            Really? 

            I think about today and then yesterday and I swear I thought Thanksgiving was a couple of days away. 

            But what did you do today, Nolan? 

            I . . . I don’t know. 

            So, let’s see. 

            I’m in my place. Apartment? And I’m drinking. No surprise. I’m drowsy. From what? What have I been doing? And tomorrow’s Thanksgiving? 

            November 24.

            So what happened on the 21st? And how about the 22nd and the 23rd. 

            I shake my head as if I’ve been underwater and can’t hear a single thing even though I’m completely dry. 

            Strange. 

            These days so strange. 

            “I get this sudden sinking feeling.”

            The song says how I’m feeling. I’m listening to music and it inspires bits and pieces of memories. I feel the twitch of the tapping and the nervous energy seeping down and sideways and inside and out and feeling like it needs to go somewhere anywhere even though I know I’ll never make it. 

            What do you want, Nolan? 

            I don’t know. Honestly. 

            What’s been going on, Nolan? 

            Shit. I have no idea. 

            “But I stay down with my demons.” 

            I’m seriously needing to start writing things on notes and my skin like the guy from Memento. 

            Director name silly cliché so don’t go there. 

            But it’s true and we’ve been living through a month already where truth is really stranger than fiction.       

            I look around and see fragments of something. A receipt for gas at some station in Michigan. A card from a home builder in . . . Michigan. Another receipt. A steak house expense for $51.          

            Guessing I wasn’t that hungry. 

            Michigan. Where . . . Western Michigan. Jenison. Hudsonville. Grandville. 

            What the hell is happening here? Did I really go there? 

            I check my cell phone and don’t find anything and look elsewhere and there’s nothing and I try to figure out what’s happened with about the last 48 or 72 hours but can’t find anything not a thing at all.

            Nothing equals nothing equals boring equals bye bye, baby. 

            It’s late and probably November 24 and do I need to keep track of all that? 

            Should you change the page big cat Nolan top of the food chain? 

            I don’t know. 

            I think of Bob Costas talking to me and telling me about Gun Lake. 

            I wonder if he’s going to show up and speak  during the Redskins-Cowboys game. 

            You were someone somewhere someplace else. 

            But who and where and why? 

            I need to go to bed. But it feels like I just woke up.  

            If someone was watching this they’d already turn the channel. My life on the page would sound so pretentious and would be so paltry. 

            “Begin again,” the song says. 

            Funny because I don’t believe it. It’s talking about dreams and life and living and breathing and running and believing. 

            I can’t go I can’t stay I can’t move. 

            I think back and remember another time when there was so much left on the table to scrounge up and say. But I can’t sum up a single equation for a late-night stance. 

            Running to stand still. 

            A song title, buddy. 

            Oh, yeah. How about born to run and band on the run and a thousand others? 

            Songs I have but stories I’m struggling a bit with. 

            I find time clenched around my palms like the bloody cloth covering a boxer’s hands. 

            I put on a song not through headphones but on the speakers blasting through the apartment and I hear The National and they remind me and they remind you. 

            Sometimes life can alter between first person and second, but sometimes you wish you could step out and pick a third. 

            I hear and think about someone I don’t know and never thought I knew. Beautiful in the dark and smiling in the white. Still in the afternoon and gliding in the shadows. 

            The music makes me mellow much like the wine but I swear I’ve woken up for some reason. Right? Right? 

            “This is the last time.”

            That’s what I say. That’s what they sing. 

            That’s the song of my soul the song of my last thousand years the song that should seal itself over my ever-exploding soul. 

            They don’t make music like this.     

            And they don’t create heartaches like this. 

            “I have Tylenol and beer.”    

            Cry about it. 

            Cry about it like it’s the last time. 

            Like it’s the last time when I’m wishing I’m asleep and I’m hoping my team won’t lose and my soul won’t lose and I didn’t lose her stepping toward that fire in the middle of somewhere nobody knows. 

            “You feel like a hundred tons yourself.”

            But yeah your love is a swamp and life feels like some damn hunt and I’m no longer swallowed and sucked in no longer no more. 

            It’s a bad thing when the wine mixes with The National. The perfect midnight storm. 

            I go and I wander and I find the still deep inside my home. Wandering wondering wishing and weighing all the options. 

            And maybe permit me some more emotions for everything. 

            Still surprised you want to dance with me now. Dancing in the dark. Dancing in my heart. Your smile I remember with yellow jumps in the dark. Your laugh like the best beat on that 80’s drum machine you never forgot. 

            The needle in the dark. 

            I hear you I see you. 

            And you said you’d never leave so where’d you go? 

            The needle in the dark. 

            Shit. 

            Trouble will find me. 

            Trouble always does. 

            The National and their last album and when’s the new one coming? Will I be able to take it? 

            I don’t know. 

            I can’t know. 

November 21

            “I don’t know if we can do it.”

            The voice sounds like a whisper from far away.    

            “We need to.”

            A couple talking. 

            “There’s a lot to think about.”

            Serious and somber. 

            “We have no choice.”

            Distance. 

            “Maybe. We should talk to somebody.”

            Doubt. 

            “I’m sick of talking to people.”

            Disdain. 

            “But what about–”

            And then the conversation goes silent. Like my wire tap has been discovered and turned off. 

            This has something to do with Bob Costas and Michigan but I don’t know what. I feel like I’m having a dream.       

            No. It’s more like I feel like I’m bound and gagged in the back trunk of a car. I feel the soft tremble of the tires on the highway. 

            Am I going to Grand Rapids or coming back to Appleton? 

            I have no idea what’s supposed to happen and what I’m supposed to do next. 

            What would Costas do? 

            My neck stiff and unmoving, my eyes open and see nothing but white–endless white wide open white for a brief second–until something shuts back down into the black. 

November 20

            I’m getting ready to watch the Redskins and the Packers, knowing what kind of game this might be. We’re playing Aaron Rodgers. 

            At least we’re playing at home. 

            It’s halftime with the Redskins up by a field goal. I’ve scooped up a nice mound of salsa onto my chip when the screen flickers and then stops. I wonder if something’s wrong with my DirecTV. This doesn’t stop me from taking a bite. But then Bob Costas looks directly at me as if he’s looking at me. 

            “What are you doing?” he asks. 

            I’m waiting to see who he’s talking to and if they’re having some kind of miscommunication or something.

            “I’m talking to you, Nolan,” Bob tells me. 

            I just stare and drop my mouth even though I haven’t finished my bite. 

            “Stop gaping. You look like a monkey.”

            Bob Costas is talking to me. Through the television. 

            What the f—. 

            I swallow and blink and hope I’m going to go back to normality. 

            “Listen, you don’t have much time, Nolan,” he says. 

            “Can you see me?” I ask.       

            I swear I haven’t had that much beer. 

            “Of course I can. I’m surprised you’re still a Redskins fan. We both know what’s probably going to happen tonight.           

            “That’s not very optimistic,” I say.

            If I’m going to have an imaginary conversation, I might as well be able to talk some smack too. 

            “Forget the game. You need to think about something else. Something more important.”

            Bob looks at me as if he really, truly sees me. 

            “Something like what?” I ask. 

            “Your life. Your very existence.”

            “Okay. . . “

            I have no idea what’s happening. 

            “You need to drop everything you’re doing tomorrow and go to Grand Rapids,” Bob tells me. 

            “Why’s that?’ 

            “Because—because your life is on the line, don’t you get that, Nolan? You need to head out there.”

            “And go where?”

            “The Lowing Woods Community in Jenison, Michigan. Be there at one p.m. eastern time.” 

            “Why am I supposed to go there?” I ask. 

            “To find someone who doesn’t belong. To find someone who’s searching, just like you.”

            “That’s Grand Rapids. That’s crazy.”

            Bob just stares at me. 

            “You’re not really talking to me,” I say. “That’s impossible.”

            Bob nods. “You’re right. Impossible. You’re having a conversation with your television.”

            This reminds me of some quote I’ve heard. 

            “Isn’t that a line from The Game?” I ask. 

            “You want to know a clue, Nolan? You keep getting them. Over and over again.”

            “I’d like to know what the hell is going on.”

            “Gun Lake.”

            I nod. “Gun Lake.”

            “Yes,” Bob Costas tells me. “Gun Lake. With italics.”

            “Italics?” 

            “Yes. The italics are very important.”

            “Why’s that? Does that mean someone’s thinking it?” I ask.  

            Bob just stares again. The screen flickers. 

            “Bob?” I ask. 

            I never thought I’d ever utter Bob’s name while talking to him on my own television. 

            “Just think of what I’ve said,” Bob says. “And—since this isn’t live, I’ll let you know the outcome of tonight’s game.”

            “How do you know?” 

            “You’re right. Impossible. You’re having a conversation with your television.”

            “You repeated that line,” I say. 

            “Here’s the Associated Press headline tomorrow: ‘Cousins, Redskins light up Packers in high-flying 42-24 rout.’ So when you see it happen, then you’ll know if this is ‘real’ or not.”

            In a blink the television screen fills with the Redskins and Packers once more. The third quarter has started. 

**

            I can’t believe it. 

            No, I’m not talking about Bob Costas speaking to me through my TV. 

            I can’t believe the Redskins actually do rout the Packers. 

            Kirk Cousins throws for 375 yards and three touchdowns. It’s the Redskins’ sixth victory in eight games. They are now 6-3-1. 

            How’d they do that? 

            The next game is on Thanksgiving against—yessirree—the Dallas Cowboys. But that’s down the road. 

            I think back to what Costas told me. About the fact that I have to go to Grand Rapids tomorrow. 

            But why? 

            I think of the place he tells me I need to go to. 

            The Lowing Woods Community in Jenison, Michigan. 

            To find someone who doesn’t belong there. 

            My very life depends on it. 

            Uh huh. 

November 19

             Ugh.  

            Concrete encases my head. I can’t move. At least for a second or a minute or for a while I can’t tell. I’m floating on a river and I’m standing headup under a waterfall. The everything all around is suddenly flooding and pouring in. 

            I have to take a second to suddenly figure out everything. 

            Where am I? 

            That’s the first question. 

            What happened? 

            The second. 

            Where is she? 

            The third, which might be the most important. 

            My friend is nowhere to be found. But I swear I smell like her in every single way and on every single inch of me. 

            I look for proof. For a sign. For a goodbye. And sure enough, I see a note waiting for me with words written in pen. 

             “Life is one big road with lots of signs. So when you riding through the ruts, don’t complicate your mind. Flee from hate, mischief and jealousy. Don’t bury your thoughts, put your vision to reality. Wake Up and Live!”–Bob Marley

            So I’m left with Bob Marley quote. Very nice. 

            I’ve woken up. So how am I supposed to live? 

            But really I still feel drunk. Still feel drifting. Still feel like the slow guitar is playing my slow demise. 

            “Hello?” I ask.             

            But nope. 

            She’s not here. 

            I find my phone—in the kitchen—dead of course. I charge it and can’t find any other sign of any other sign. 

            I try to remember any warning signs or any X-rated moments or anything of anything but can’t. All I have is this Bob Marley quote. 

            Then. . . 

            I spot the picture on my phone. The two of us, her kissing my cheek, very cute.

            “Where’s this?” I ask nobody. 

            Nobody and nothing. It’s the 19th and I know there’s a whole lot I need to do but I can’t even begin to think about it because I can’t stop thinking about Lexi. 

            The brain is interesting, closing eyes and shop and forcing you to go back to a land where you had everything. But another part wakes you back up and then forces you to get up and at ‘em. 

            Just a little more just a few more.

            A few more? What are you talking about?  

            Before I can answer myself, I get a text from Dermot. 

            We still meeting this morning? 

             Wait . . . It’s Saturday again? 

            I don’t know what my problem is.

            Absolutely. Running late. 

**

            “24,335,” Dermot tells me as I sit down with my coffee. 

            He looks like he’s been in solitary confinement for the last week. I give him a questioning look as I take a sip. I need caffeine before engaging with my novelist friend. 

            “24,335,” he repeats with excitement. “That’s how many words I have. I’ve cranked this week.”

            “Wow. Didn’t you only have 2,000 or something last week?”

            “I’ve been in the zone,” he says. 

            I don’t ask what the book is about because I know he’ll spend the next hour telling me about it. I love to see passion but sometimes he gets carried away with it and forgets that he’s talking to another human being who has some thoughts of his own. Well, sometimes I do. 

            “You look worse than me,” Dermot says.

            “That bad?” 

            “Oh yeah. Where were you last night?”

            I think about telling him but hold off. I’m too tired to recount the story.

            “Just hanging out with a friend.”

            “Guy or girl?” 

            “Girl.”

            He nods and grins like some 13-year-old boy. I don’t say anything, which is a bad decision because he gets back on the subject about his manuscript in progress. 

            “I decided to write a horror novel. Set it in Batavia. But really it’s Appleton. It’s about the urban legends surrounding the quarry.” 

            “Urban legends?” I ask. 

            “Yeah. You’ve heard about them, right? People seeing and hearing strange things at night. Supposedly someone once found a dead body there. The hermit who lives there–Otis Sykes–is definitely sketchy.”

            That name . . . 

            The name from Jack’s list, the guy Cameron looked up. 

            “Sketchy? How?”

            “Oh you know how people talk, especially kids. I’ve heard everything from he’s some pedophile to he’s a ringleader of some secretive cult”

            That word . . . 

            The word I’ve been hearing several times now. Cult. Occult. 

            “That’s weird,” I say. 

            “What?”

            “Someone was just talking about that. With Otis and what’s he’s involved with.”

            Dermot is intrigued. “How’d that come up?” 

            A publisher I know. Hey, maybe you two will fit in together. 

            “I don’t know,” I say. “Just a weird coincidence.” 

            “There’s this awesome quote from a Stephen King novel. ‘Coincidences happen, but I’ve come to believe they are actually quite rare. Something is at work, okay? Somewhere in the universe (or behind it), a great machine is ticking and turning its fabulous gears.’”

            “That’s a great quote,” I say. “You have a good memory.”

            “Usually I don’t,” Dermot says. “Maybe that great machine just helped me out this time.” 

November 18

            Make something fast. And make it interesting. 

            John Ryder’s words in my head before I wake up. Once I do, I try to think of the most interesting thing that’s happened so far this month. 

            Cubs? Yeah. 

            Trump? Oh yeah. 

            Devil worship in Appleton? Hell, yeah. 

            Lexi sexy model texting me? Ding ding ding we have a winner in the yeah deparment. 

            Things have been so strange I haven’t even thought about her for a while. 

            But why? How does that just happen? 

            It’s like some forgotten plot point. 

            I text her just to see. Just to check and see if she’s real. 

            Just to make things interesting. 

            Is there another parade I can possibly meet you at? 

            The reply comes while I’m in the shower. I get out soaked with towel wrapped around me and pick up my phone. 

            No parade. But I’m visiting family on the south side. You can be my boyfriend for the night. To shield me from f’d up family. 

            This is definitely interesting. 

            You don’t have a boyfriend? I text. 

            Don’t be so sixth grade. 

            I laugh nervously. I feel like a sixth grader. OK. 

            I’ll pay you back by going out with you after the family visit. Deal? 

            Going out where? I write. 

            Wherever you want. We don’t have to go out. You just lead the way. 

            This makes me nervous. I’m not used to this. Plus, I have no idea if this really is that woman I was photographed with. What if this is one of those “catfish” things where someone else is luring me into their fictitious web? 

            Where can I meet you? I ask. 

            She gives me the address of a bar. Joey Odoul’s in Alsip, IL. 

            Five p.m. buddy she writes. 

            I have a hundred questions I want to ask but I don’t. I’m playing it cool. Keeping it interesting. Making things happen. And fast. 

            See you then I write. 

**

            So I have to figure out how to make some money fast. 

            I paid off all my debts but now have to figure out how to survive for the rest of the year. 

            BLACK FRIDAY. 

            Oh, yeah. It’s coming. 

            Time to come up with some sales. 

            Time to figure out what kind of deals I can get and what might actually bring people in . . . 

            Yeah, not interesting. 

            Mysterious sexy lady=interesting. 

            Black Friday deals for an indie bookstore=not so interesting. 

            Let’s focus back on mysterious sexy lady. 

**

            You find yourself at a bar looking and watching and checking your phone and typing and thinking in second person and you drink because God knows that’s what you do you drink and you do it well and just when you think she’s never coming she shows in some kind of hot designer tiny top and designer tight jeans and designer heels and they’re hot too and she nestles right up beside you and stares with a giant “hi stranger” and you finally remember her because of the voice. 

            “So you aren’t a dream,” you say. 

            Second person is so sexy. 

            “Who said I was?” she asks.

            The sweetest perfection to call my own. God she’s hot. Not a line out of place from head to toe. 

            “So am I still supposed to be a boyfriend?” 

            She nods after ordering some kind of vodka drink.

            “Will they believe me?” you ask. 

            She laughs after taking her drink and sucking it down. 

            “Is that a yes?” you ask. 

            “They believe anything I bring in with me, and half of it they hope to God they’ll forget,” Lexi says. 

            “Are you real?” you ask. 

            “Are you?” she asks back. 

            So you order another round and decide to get the sweetest injection of any kind. 

            One round. 

            Then another. 

            And confessions. And jokes. And confusion. 

            And you’re no better than when you started, no better knowing if she’s real, no better knowing why you’re standing next to her, no better trying to figure out why you’re here in the first place other than the obvious. 

            “Time to go and make an appearance,” she tells you. “At the most we’ll be there an hour.”

            “An hour?” you ask. “That’s all.”

            “That’s all I need you for,” she says. 

            You scan the glide of her neck and the skin on her chest and the rounding lines and the long figures. 

            “However long you need me is your call,” she tells you. 

            That deserves another drink which you call for right away. 

**

            The family visit doesn’t seem strange enough or long enough to ever recount once again even if you’re suddenly living a present tense point of view. There’s a mother and a father and brothers and sisters and in-laws and a whole lot more and they ask me questions but by then I’m pretty much feeling happy enough to make up anything they might want. I’ve become the world’s most interesting man because God knows I’m standing next to the world’s most interesting woman. I make them laugh and they pour me drinks and I tell them I’m someone else and they pour me more and Lexi watches and I can tell she’s impressed or maybe just amused or simply satisfied. I’m the boyfriend they thought she’d never bring home and I’m the guy who has absolutely no clue other than to make them laugh and keep filling my glass. 

            The world wears a different expression on nights like these, like some proud teacher encouraging you on though the only “on” you’re going to have involves drinking and sex. But sure, the mind is a fascinating place, and it’s imagining different things for you.       

            When Lexi and I leave, I’m not just walking with my arm around her, but I’m leaning against her and on her and she’s guiding me with her arm. I find it enticing but she probably finds it annoying. 

            “I’ll drive,” Lexi says about my car, climbing behind the wheel. 

            I slide into the passenger seat and then slide over further and start kissing her and find her not stopping and not hesitant and not shy. 

            “Want to tell me where you want to take me?” Lexi asks. 

            She’s not asking me where she can drive and drop me off. She’s not asking where I live. She wants to know what I want. 

            “Head downtown,” I tell her for some strange reason. “By the lake.”

            “Where by the lake?” she asks. 

            “Somewhere, anywhere, we can park,” I say. 

            By now subtlety is nonexistent. 

            We start driving down the suburban street and I see a liquor store. 

            “Hold on,” I say. “Let’s stop and get more to drink.”

            Mistake. 

            Big mistake. 

            But Lexi obliges my request. 

**

            I don’t drink liquor. I’m a beer and wine sort of guy. So naturally it makes complete sense that when we walk into the store and I hear Jane’s Addiction playing I walk right up to the gin and grab a fifth of Bombay Sapphire. Minus the tonic and minus the lime. 

            I guess I’m feeling bold tonight. 

            Back in the car, I turn up the stereo in my car and open the bottle and laugh. Lexi takes a sip and I laugh even more. Some Depeche Mode song plays and I laugh even harder. I laugh and sip and laugh and sip again. A recipe for disaster, one I’ve tried before, one I’ve tried again, one I swear I’d never sample again, but I swear the night is so warm and I’ve suddenly fallen in love and I’m being told I can do whatever I want to do so this really might be the most incredible night of my 

November 17

            I have two startling dreams this night. 

            In the first, I’m traveling with the most interesting man in the world, Jack, on the highway going up a cliff. For some reason, he’s driving Sonny Crockett’s black Ferrari Daytona Spyder from Miami Vice and he stops and we get out. Then Jack starts waving down sports cars driving on the highway toward us. One of them stops and it’s the second car Sonny was driving on the show—a Ferrari Testarossa. Jack forces the driver out of the car and steals it, but then all of the sudden his other Ferrari starts to move until it plummets off the side of the mountain into the sea. 

            Maybe this is some kind of metaphor for me and my life. Or a foreboding or warning. Who knows? 

            The second dream consists of me sitting in a church sanctuary, one that’s not very big but has a high ceiling and a towering cross over me and long, colorful stained-glass windows. I’m sitting there surrounded by people and listening to haunting strings. Out-of-tune and grinding, the kind that sounds like it could be coming from a elementary school recital. But when I look up on the stage, I see the guys from Radiohead playing a violin and viola and other stringed instruments. 

            But little blips pop up like something stuck in the frame of the motion picture. 

            A smile. 

            The most glorious smile I’ve ever seen. 

            I can’t breathe for a moment because I’ve forgotten how to. I want to reach out and capture the tiny snapshot. 

            But it’s gone. And when I look trying to find it all I see is Thom Yorke on the piano singing the saddest song I’ve ever heard. 

November 16

            Solve the mystery. Figure it out. Don’t give up. Your very life depends on it.

            I don’t have time to figure out the crossword puzzle of my life today. I have to pay bills. 

            Paying rent for the last three months. 

            Paying five different publishers for the books they’ve sent. 

            And my apartment rent and my shitty business Comcast bill and my f****** personal Comcast bill and maybe let’s give Comcast a piece of my soul since it feels like they suck it out of me day after day after day . . .  

            Wow that’s strong there, Nolan. But why spell out “shitty” and censor “f******” with asterisks? 

            I pay so many bills that my little windfall yesterday seems like a slight dent. Skipping a rock over the surface of the water and watching it with glee five or six or seven times until it sinks and the ripples spread out and then disappear. And you look around for another rock to throw and you can’t find any. 

            So the day is disappearing when Cameron comes in. It’s the afternoon turning into evening so this is a bit unusual for him. 

            “I’ve did some sleuthing around and found out some curious things,” Cameron says. 

            Cool. This is interesting, right? This is a little bit compelling, right? Solving mystery time commenced. 

            “What’d you find?” I ask. 

            “Who gave you this shit?”

            I stand and look at him and he’s suddenly looking very, very serious. 

            “What?”

            “These names? Where’d you get them?”

            I try to remember and all I can think of was I found them written down. In bad handwriting. Not my handwriting.

            “They were written out by someone,” I say. 

            “Yeah, but who?”

            Why can’t I remember? Where are my notes? 

            “Why?”            

            “Because I seriously almost got killed last night.”

            Cameron’s not the kind to come in and start cursing out loud but he unleashes with a new f-bomb. 

            “What do you mean?”

            “Okay,” he says, pulling out the list and then wiping his forehead. 

            God he looks like he’s having a panic attack. 

            “The first here—Bryson. He spotted me checking him out about two minutes after I saw him. He came up to me in my car and knocked on the window and was like ‘what the f*** are you doing’ and then saying he’d kick my ass if I didn’t take off.”   

            “What’d he look like?” I ask. 

            I’m imagining a big, scary-looking dude. 

            “He looks like the star of a Nickelodeon show.”

            I laugh but have no idea how to picture that. “You know—I don’t have kids, so–”

            “The guy is as skinny as a ruler and resembles some preppy wimpy idiot and he’s threatening me like he’s The Rock.”

            “So your manhood felt insulted?” I ask, trying to joke. 

            “Yeah, funny,” Cameron says. “Then I looked up Otis. And I realized that the ghosts of Christmas past, present and future didn’t change Scrooge, ‘cause he’s alive and well in Appleton.” 

            “Older, crankier guy?” 

            “Oh, yeah. Like, seriously. This time, I was trying to find an address I’d seen online. Trying was the right word because I had no idea what I’d find and I’m out—I was by the quarry looking around—and this guy shows up. This old weird guy and he basically tells me if I don’t leave he’s going to be kicking me up for dinner that night.”

            I laugh. I guess I shouldn’t since Cameron actually took me at my word and went to work but still. What’s he talking about? 

            “So—seriously. What’d he say?”

            “Nolan—he said something about me being a kid and then said and I’ll quote: ‘Leave now or you’re going to end up being the leftover parts in my stew tonight.’ And I swear I’m almost quoting him word for word.”

            “Maybe he’s just watched To Make a Murderer too many times,” I joke, but even I know the joke’s not going to get a good response.             

            “Yeah, well, Mr. Making A Murderer wasn’t the weirdest. Then I tracked down this guy named Lee Fleisher. And that’s when . . .”

            Cameron stops, stares back at the front door and windows, then scans the rest of the store. 

            “What are you doing?” I ask. 

            “I drive up to the address of his place in Geneva and I see this guy walking out of his garage wearing these coveralls from head to toe—the kind they wore in Breaking Bad when they’re making the meth—he’s decked out in this outfit with the hood around his head and he’s carrying goggles and he looks out of breath and then he sees me stopping on the street looking and he stops and then suddenly bolts back into the garage shutting it.”

            I wait for a moment to hear more. But more doesn’t come. 

            “Does he come out the front door wielding a chainsaw?” I ask, trying to joke, not sure what else to say. 

            “Who the hell are these people? I mean—come on. Every single one of them seemed beyond shady.”

            “Maybe they’re all scientists or something?” 

            “I felt something back there with the Lee guy,” Cameron says. “I’m serious, Nolan. I felt something. Something—something bad. Something that made my skin crawl. I saw him in that weird get-up and it looked almost wet and I suddenly got the feeling I was in a David Fincher film.”

            I’m about ready to make another stupid quip but I don’t. 

            “Give me the list back,” I tell him.

            “Why?”

            “Why? What—after all that you want to keep it?” 

            Cameron shakes his head. “No, but I don’t want you going and checking any of these morons out. Something’s shady. Like bad shady. Like True Detective shady.”

            “Did you find antlers attached to anybody?” 

            Cameron curses again and flings the sheet of paper I gave him. 

            “Nolan—this is serious. Something’s wrong here. Something’s very wrong.” 

            I see a vein curved up on his forehead and it’s the first time I’ve ever seen that. This is the first time I’ve seen the guy so rattled. The prim and proper glasses and cool and calm guy is seriously resembling Jack Torrance. 

            “Hey—Cameron—look, I’m sorry. I’m sorry to joke. I just—I didn’t think this was anything other than some kind of interesting—something.”

            “F***,” he says loud enough for the next block to hear. “’Some kind of interesting something’? What’s that even mean?” 

            “It doesn’t mean anything. I didn’t expect you go to out and actually hunt down these people.”

            “Somebody’s gotta do something here, Nolan. Don’t you get that?”                     And with that he leaves me in the dust, in the silence and the still and the sudden awareness that I really, truly have no idea what’s going on.  

**

            Come back. 

            The text is from unknown. My iPhone says unknown and I stare not knowing that was an option. 

            I look at the two words and wonder what they mean. 

            I take a while before responding. But I guess you can’t reply to a text from “unknown.” 

            I spend a while trying to see if there’s a way 

            but there’s not

            and then see if I can actually respond 

            but I can’t 

            and then tinker and toy around with my phone trying to see if I can learn anything new 

            but there’s nothing new. 

            “Come back,” I say. 

            Where? To who? To what? 

            Another oddity. 

            Yet another. Lost in time and long forgotten and on the line. 

            Sounds like some kind of song I’m listening to. 

            Maybe someone’s listening to it for me. 

**

            Why am I alone? 

            I wonder. 

            I don’t think I’m somebody that’s aloneable. 

            I don’t feel unliveablewith. 

            I don’t feel unworthy to love. 

            So why?

            This empty place door floor kitchen counter lights on still bedroom sort of apartment. 

            Why?

            Do you ever feel like you’re 

            Don’t go there Nolan don’t even think about it. 

            But sometimes the lonely echoes await and greet you like every afternoon. They talk as much as the sunsetting, revealing as much as the star that’s slowly slipping away. 

            You’re not slowly slipping away. You’re doing it a little more day by day by day. 

            I go looking for something. For anything. Some photos. Some old yearbooks. Some love letters on paper. Some fragments of a childhood. 

            God where’ve I been? 

            But there’s nothing. Not in the desk drawers or the closets or the fire-proof safe or nohing. 

            Have I forgotten to say goodbye to a someone I never knew? 

            Have I neglected introducing myself to a self ten tomorrows from now? 

            Maybe I need sleep. But maybe sleep has no use for me. 

            Maybe the sun yawns and the moon shakes its head and the stars give a collective laugh in the grand midst of it all. 

            And maybe. Maybe I won’t return. Maybe I won’t ever set foot again. Maybe. And maybe every single solitary glance will be set foot on this side of things again. 

            Nolan what the f*** does that even mean? 

            Come on, now. 

            Come on. 

            No need for the four-letter words. No need to use asterisks. 

            But a subconscious insists. 

            And a heart simply unbuttons itself, letting in every little everything. 

            And you sit on the highway staring at the billboards longing for direction and longing for meaning. But the cars pass by and the wind sweeps over you and you smell the sighs of a thousand souls and all you can do is stand and wait and watch and let go.      

            Letting go. 

            Letting the sun fade and letting the super moon bask in its glory and letting the morning wake you with absolute wonder and letting this life try to drag you down.          

            But there’s something more there’s gotta be something more there’s absolutely more.               

            The mystery. The adventure. The journey. 

            So don’t go don’t go Nolan don’t go down you’re almost there almost to the halfway point almost to this little interesting center point.             

            I breathe. 

            It’s all I can do. For now.