It's No Picnic (3 page)

Wanting a look at the forest before sunset, Alex moved down the hall to the door,
opening
it—walking out back to front—then
closing
, turning, catching hard pressing eyes, focused, intense. Who…

C
AP
W
ENT
O
N
S
TARING
, Alex staying where he was, outwardly calm, motionless, not appearing at all frightened or curious, instead looking straight ahead. Then—Cap slowly dissolved into a seemingly friendly image allowing the mood to soften, saying, “That’ll get you in trouble.”

“What?” Alex said coolly.

“Hanging around this dump. Next thing you know, you’ll be
attending
. Anyway, what could possibly bring you up here?”

“Curiosity, I suppose.”

Cap—a curiosity. Only person so far not a towering cyclops. No, Cap was tiny by comparison. Perhaps explaining that contemptuous air, always seeming to make a person feel as if beneath him.

“Don’t let it kill you. The air up here is thin. By the way, someone told me you were with the bureau.”

“Not really. I was a detective.”

“A detective. As you say
detective
.”

As you say?
What does that mean? Perhaps he’s trying to be likable. Maybe mocking to enjoy false superiority. Regardless, who was he? Entitled? A fool lacking any and all? Another in a long line of pathetic creatures walking the Earth, calling themselves human.
Could be
he’s just hiding something.

“Look, if you have something to say…” Alex said with a calm, soft air.

“I thought I did. Educational gaps? Perhaps something prevents you from grasping. Clear, that’s what I am, clear. Maybe the person is well, slow; or cannot follow simple English. But I’m clear.”

Human,
not
. Clearly out of this world. A hybrid of all the
best
. A clear indication of a species on the
right
track.

Alex did not want to reply; knowing if he did it would lead to more of the same. Not that it hurt or somehow made matters worse. No. Such talk was for the dogs, even if humiliating man’s best friend.

“Well, I hate to break up this friendly banter, but I need to go.” Alex said.

“So soon, and just when we were getting to know one another. I hope we can chat again. You’re a good fellow, I can tell.”

“
Yeah
.” Alex said, sharply.

“Okay, well—don’t fall off the path. It can be treacherous in this weather.”

“I’ll watch myself.”

“I would.”

Cap, a man truly facing opposite directions in chorus. Smiling while carving grooves in a person’s back; not complete stabbing—but enough to scar. Fashioning indentation into malignancy. Making human kind a cancer one cell at a time. A true
leader
of the grandiose, populating with word the refuse of the heap. Producing nothing of note; yet insuring the image produced remains undistorted; consigning each to consumption; not caring where it leads—other than, perfection of profit.
On the other hand
, he may simply be up to no good.

A
LEX
P
RESSED
O
N
, rounding the bend of a ‘
U
’ shaped path connecting old church, community and forest; walking on—up the left side of the path—and into the forest.

The forest was thick, the deciduous sort. Yet, spring as it may be, no leaves were present, the forest, nude; leaving open to reading secrets best left hidden. The floor granted an interesting track, moist, critical, evoking an unwelcome feeling. It became difficult to poke about, bogging down more and more as he moved forward. Enough of this. Perhaps some other time.

Alex pushed back, out of the forest. He hadn’t implanted too deeply, so leaving presented little problem. Feeling shallow, he thought again of the encounter with Cap. Was there something to it, or was it the imagination concocting a story from fragments of a reality so told? Weak it may be; but he felt something lay beyond. Yet, getting a handle on it was altogether another matter.

Now, back on the path, he noticed reams of mud on one and the other of the shoe’s soles. He stopped for a moment, picking up a small branch; carefully scraping away the excess from each sole, afterward pushing back down the path towards the community.

When, at nine—thirty he arrived back at the complex, he saw many residents gathered by the path; talking, drinking, delighting, he guessed, at the affairs of the past.

T
HE
T
WINS
W
ERE
S
TANDING
in a yard near the path, arms around each other, passive, huddled as if to keep warm. In fact, they were so still that Alex wondered if they were alive. Then—one saw him. Without hesitation, running; greeting, grabbing, gripping as if a great bear squeezing out the last ounces of a victim’s life, then smacking him right on the lips, asking, “Did you think us models,” with the other saying, “And real…”

“Real?” Alex said, baffled.

“No, silly.
Still Lifes
,” one said, “And
Moving Deaths
…” followed the other.

“Yes, well; you had me fooled,” Alex said ironically.

“Enough to make money,” said one, “And lose…” the other.

“I
suppose
.”

“We know what’s on
thou
mind,” one said, “And
thy
body…” the other.

“Nadie,” one said in a whispered tone, “And Alguien…” the other, loudly.

Alex was really paying no mind to the constant gibber until hearing the name Nadie. Now, with ears perked up, he asked, “What about Nadie?”

“We know everything,” said the one and only, “And nothing…” divided the other.

“So which is it?” Alex said, thrown.

Then—one spoke, saying, “I told you he’d be confused,” followed by, “And construed…”

“Don’t worry. She’s nobody,” one said oriented, “And somebody…” the other, dazed.

Alex then asked, “Nobody?”

“Ignore Nadie,” one decried, “And implore…,” said the other.

The two stood looking at Alex for a minute, a grotesque pause…as Alex—determined to get some facts out of them—tried to settle on a course of action; commanding, “You; come here. And you; quiet.”

After calling one out, Alex asked, “Now tell me straight, do you know something about Nadie?”

“You should ignore Nadie.”

“Quiet,” Alex said to the other, asking, “Why? Why should I ignore Nadie?”

“Because silly, she’s nobody.”

“Nobody, as in—”

“I’ve said too much. We must leave now,” one said, “And later…” the other, slipped.

Then, without even a goodbye, they were gone, leaving Alex standing, empty, staring into a blue sky. He knew not how long he had been standing, moving only when he saw a faint glow ahead. As he neared, the glow became glare; seeing as it was, a man smoking a pipe.

W
HEN
I
N
T
HE
P
RESENCE
O
F
T
HE
M
AN
; Alex saw through the smoke an inscription starting at the pipe’s saddle and following along the stem; reading, ‘
T
HIS
I
S
N
OT
A P
IPE
’. The face of the man was at once familiar; it was the attendant asking, “Who are you?”

“Alex.”

“Can’t say I recognize the name,” the attendant said with a blank look.

“A couple of days ago. We met, talked.” Alex said, calmly.

“Sorry, doesn’t ring a bell. Anyway, I’m the attendant.”

“Alex.”

“Yes, Alex. We’ve met, right?”

“Yes, just now.”

“
Whatever you say
. Alex, is it? You know, I’ve had a perfect time, but this isn’t it.”

“Ever heard the name Nadie?” Alex inserted.

“Nobody I’ve heard of. She has enemies you know. And
extremely
disliked by friends.”

“I don’t get it.” Alex said.

Sure he was hearing double, Alex sneered at the man, who; ignoring, said, “Okay Van Gogh, lend an ear. Nadie is a dream. She’s a ghost created by one kooky teller of tales.”

“I still don’t get it. Why would anyone concoct such a story?”

“Alex is it? Can’t say,” the attendant, said in a matter—of—fact tone.

“Yes. Well, what about Nadie
and
Miss K.?”

“Oh yeah, Nadie. Never heard the name. Miss K. She lives over there, close to the old church.”

Smoke from the pipe began to take over the air, encircling Alex, making breathing obstinate and labored. Coughing, Alex said, “I’m…sorry. I……need…to………go.”

“Fine. Go. Not much of a chat anyway. By the way, anything you need, just ask.”

“Yeah;
sure
.”

Alex turned, and seeing home staring him right in the face, made way like moth to flame. Along the path, he saw flickering lights, appearing here, disappearing there—specters, floating in the mind’s eye.

Now, at the home’s doorstep, darkness began to expand, creating an agonizing redolent radiance, forcing him to rush a door seemingly without entrance. When inside, he fell into bed, hearing a voice from a reflection say, “Alex.”

L
YING
F
LAT
I
N
B
ED
, head only partly touching a pillow; with a face of solid aspect and cool gaze, Alex asked, “Who are you?” knowing fully:
who it was, what they wanted, and why they were here
. The bouts were always special. Of course, he was always present. But the character, the look, even the way he approached Alex were never the same, sometimes nothing but an idea, others an image portraying all manner of person, place, or thing.

An older man wearing a densely woven three—piece prim suit, round black—rimmed eyeglasses, with low hanging eyes, a partially bald scalp, and white goatee, appeared from the shadows. The man was sitting in a plush, comfortable, leather chair, holding a lit cigar between the index and middle fingers, with the butt resting on the thumb, saying, “Once, I was sitting in a café, flipping through the pages of a local newspaper, when I came across the following headline: M
INISTER
M
OST
V
ULNERABLE
P
ERSON
I
N
T
OWN
. Then I immediately thought; how silly of me. Rereading, I realized the mistake. How did I come to make this error? Never mind that. Like you and Longport, it is one of misreading. But these errors are easily corrected.”

“What do you mean?” Alex said in a faint voice.

“Clinically speaking, these people aren’t for real.”

“They do seem strange.”

“Strange. Downright suspicious. And you, you letting them buffet you about like that. A clear case of Völlig—Gescheitert syndrome.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak German.”

“All—Washed—Up.”

“Look, I’m trying.”

“Trying; I think not.”

Alex didn’t see the point; after all, this was not really a
case
. No, more like something to pass the time, a hobby of sorts to keep him from mind—numbing boredom. The Franktown police investigated, finding nothing. Besides, in theory, anyone or all of the residents could be misread, making the entire thing a side—show.

“Well, the story told by Miss K. could simply be an elaborate ruse?” Alex said.

“True, true. Let’s assume not, for there must be an assumption. So, assuming she’s correct and the others are simply stupid, complicit, or clinically speaking, just plain bonkers, then there is a case. And if there is a case, then there is something to investigate. And if there is something to investigate, then you are wasting time, as a killer is in the midst.”

“Let’s not get too far ahead here. Nadie is missing, that’s it. Everything else; speculation. Talk of a killer, well, hasty at best.”

“It’s not a stretch to think one of them a killer.”

“Really? Sure, the people so far seem on the bizarre side. But that doesn’t make them criminals.”

“It doesn’t help, either. Come on Alex, where’s the mover, the maker, the doer, the shaker? The real American
hero
. Where’s the old Alex?”

“Right here.”

The old man looked at Alex as if fact observing faith; thinking like any
good
analyst—therapy.

“Perhaps therapy would help. Look ahead, what do you see?”

A wall entered, vast, extending in all directions. It was smooth, continuous, bringing the fabric of reality into question. Alex, now properly placed on the pillow, lay there, looking at the wall with astonishment, pondering purview, in the end uttering, “A wall.”

“Yes, a wall. What about scope?”

“It appears to separate everything; and in all directions.”

The wall. Self—imposed isolation? Perhaps keeping everything out. Perhaps, in. Maybe a stilted idea placed to
hinder
. The residents; imposing, opposing, making conflict of composition. Perhaps alienating a problem before it can become one.

“And what does it represent?”

“
Impediment
.”

“But you are lying there, in a bed, not in the least,
mired
. So, why do you think this the case?”

“The people, the people are stifling.”

“Where then would the problem lie?”

“In the mind.”

“Precisely. Now we can do something about it.”

Alex became impatient. Yet, he knew most trouble resulted from self—burdening, and unending doubt. Not that he considered the task too tough or unpleasant. No, this doubt was deep—seated and vital. Each time faced head on, and each time showing the way.

The wall began to dissolve, brick by brick, peeling away from top to bottom. The apparition too, began to fade, each part dying as Alex watched. Lights began to take on a correct meaning, steadying rays to reflect the true nature of the surroundings. The shadows shrunk, leaving a luminescence making fiction once again, fact.