grant parachor
Tuesday, August 10, 2021
Tuesday, September 17, 2019
Paul Dvorak: King
“Now that you are King we have
something wonderful to show you.”
Oh no...now what... “Oh?”
His graphic coalesces in the air between
us. It sharpens into the image of an architectural monstrosity mash
up of over stylistic gaudy features. I'm reminded of any tera desert
casino complex.
“We going to Vegas?”
“Ha ha you are so funny! No this
place is yours. It's being built for you.”
“For me?!” My own ghastly casino!
Would I be 'house' then? Naturally the odds are always rigged. Do I
get to keep the punters money?
“Who would you like to join you
there your majesty? Your are the King now so anybody you ask for
would have to go with you.”
“Oh! It's a party eh?” How many
can I invite? What's the capacity of that place?
“Hundreds or thousands if you want.
They will all be glad to go for the king.”
I love a huge party. “When is the
party then? Has a date been set?”
“As soon as you are dead, my king.”
“Dead. This is the model of your
tomb. Much room of course for the thousands who will die with you.”
“What! You're already building my
tomb!?”
“Oh yes. No telling how long you'll
last. We have to get started right away. In fact now even...could you
please choose a color pallet for the entrance lobby and atrium? The
artists have made a range of suggestions that won't clash with the
sacrificial crypts of your family the ministers and close advisers.”
“Would that include you?” I gave
him my special look of violent disapproval which after much mirror
practice might kinda look more like I have abdominal pain. I just got
be King only minutes ago and here they are planning my funeral!
“Oh yes! Here's the plan for my condo
mausoleum with all my favorite stuff waiting for the afterlife.”
“What if I live another hundred
years? All your furniture would be out of style, your domestic
gadgets obsolete.”
This made him chuckle like he knew
that wasn't going to happen. “Should you...” pause for eye
contact, “survive long it would all be modernized. I would never
enjoy an eternity of death without the latest appliance features and
trendiest furnishings. Everyone buys new cloths when the King dies
just in case they are asked to join you.”
How would it screw up their society to
demand all the salesmen proceed me into death. These traditions have
probably kept this economy going for centuries.New King gets to screw
a few virgins, has a good meal, tombs done, everybody buys new stuff
and on to the next king.
Thursday, July 11, 2019
from the ANSWER
Funny. I don't see me here in the
Rocket lounge. Real launch tanks of marstini don't lie.
What do you say when you get a call
from yourself? The holo guy looked just like me. The ID said: 'Paul
Dvorak unknown loc'. From the future? If this is me from the future
why holocall? What are the charges like on a call I haven't made to
myself yet? Since suit is paying I accept my crisper self image into
the contact cone.
“Paul.”
“Paul.” Do I call myself 'Paul'
like this thinking?
”You're me”
“I'm you?”
“From the future?”
“No.” “The past then?” “No.”
“So...I've been cloned again?” Darn DNA scattered all over the
place!
“Just shut up and listen to what I've
got to say...”
“Who the hell are you? If you are me
how come I don't know what I'm about to tell me?” Suit says the
call comes from my sleeve holo company lami. How can I holo call
myself? Does this cost me double? Looped up somehow? I would think me
from the future would remember how drunk I am right now.
“Listen! There is no time! No time
right now! “
“What time is it there? Here?” Suit
says 14:25. Is this a call to someone else that's time lagged? Have I
got a lagged line now? Pings me fat bandwidth...
“No! It's now everywhere! You are me
now. I'm you and you're me. Now listen!”
“Why should I listen to me? I'm not a
good judge of my character. I wouldn't believe anything I'd tell
myself. I'm often right about being wrong. Like now cause I'm usually
always right. If I'm me and so are you then you would know that I
would never take any advice that I would give to anybody much less
myself.”
“It's too late? Listen! Shut up and
listen! It's too late now!”
“That's what I'm trying to tell me?
That it's too late? Too late for what? Why didn't I tell me earlier?”
But I couldn't tell me anything more. I
was gone with a sparkling 'blip'. Alone again in a bar full of drunks
who weren't paying any attention.
“Paul.” Suit got something to say.
“Yes Carla?”
“What was that about?”
...so the smartest, richest pants in
the whole solsys is asking me now for answers...
Monday, May 20, 2019
introducing an excerpt from the first of a new Grant Parachor series:
THE DIAMOND
ASTEROID
a Savage and Jones
mystery
Becky Savage senior
partner of the investigative firm Savage and Jones could smell
trouble. She's always had a good nose for trouble. The tubular wall
architecture here helped.
“Gosh that's a
horrible smell!” The air flow was in her face. Smelly trouble
directly ahead. “That Chevrolet!” She thought. The image of her
co-partner Chevrolet Jones relaxing at Steel Beach on the other side
of the moon stuck a manicured finger in her eye. “I get all the
dirty work and she has all the fun!”
A tap of a tab.
“Chevrolet. Chevrolet. What are you doing?”
Chevrolet Jones's
accepted the call video only.
“Hi Becky.
Pedicure. Then a wax and buff.” She was wrapped in towls.
“Check this
atmospheric.”
“Yikes! Becky
that must smell terrible!”
“Can you holo
call me back and go in first?”
“Um
what?...you're breaking up...sunspots...gama raysss...Becc”
“I got great
pings here.” Becky knew Chevrolet could hear her. The diagnostics
showed good coms both ways.
She could still
have a decoy by projecting a recorded holo and send it ahead to get
shot first. In skins available was one that matched Chevrolet. She
gave it Chevrolets face. Looped a six meter sashay walk with a
progressive stop/start sequence. Would the image pause be too close?
Depends on the trouble.
Hood up, visor
closed, air filters testing and scrubing Becky followed the
projection warily into the gloomy tube.The curved walls were raw rock
with a thin crust of dirty ice. The floor flatened to the limit of
the curve for some vehicle.
The holo strode
ahead with some fashion model attitude. At ten meters did a shoulder
throw turn with the hip thrust of a styling program that knows it
looks good. A millisecond flicker then it turned back toward the
trouble to resume its loop.
Becky hugged as
close to the wall as she could. She crouched like a gunfighter to
present a smaller target. It here occurred to her that perhaps she
should draw her weapon since she prolly looked like she was about to
shoot somebody. A sleek flat black acu-zap appeared in her right hand.
The sleeve drop neuro holsters held much more; devices small and
expensive she secured anywhere not necessary to her stylish cutaway
blast suit. They moved forward another sequence. The acu-zap target
aquire scanning saw nothing ahead but round empty.
“ooo” She
murmured. The sniffer lami at her collar spiked a reading that was
still flashing numbers. Smelly trouble was coming right at her for
sure. It seemed like the thick air had gotten under her suit. “Suit
air on.” But if she had to run for long she knew it would overload
the re-breather membranes and the suit would let the smell back.
The holographic
Chevrolet Jones cat-walked the papparazi gauntlet to the pause turn
reset.
“Becky.”
What now? thought
Becky touching the tab that let the call thru.
“What Chevrolet?
Are your coms okay now?”
“Becky wait!”
“Look I'm trying
to sneak here. You're not making things easier.” She had to move to
catch up with simulated Chevrolet whose last pause turn had to be
getting close to the projectors limits.
“Abort! Abort!
Get out of that tube tunnel now!”
Becky couldn't help
but think: “She's always doing this...interrupting me with dire
warnings. Here we go again...” She spoke on coms: “I took this
job and you were too busy to help and now here I am sneaking up on
trouble and you gotta call and butt in again!”
“It's no trick.
I'm not sure you know what you're up against.”
Huh... she used the
word 'trick'? Becky wondered ...are we in the 'trick' code mode? Time
to move another ten meter chunk. That code word means coms are
compromised. No doubt she has been zeroed by some targeting program.
Her suit starts the emag spoofing routine to shift her biosignals
closer to the holo.
“I know it really
stinks. Hey. You could help by calling back on a holo line and go up
with the other you to draw more fire.” The acu-zap made her trigger
finger tickle, which means a target in range. Too far to tell what?
Animal or deadly kill-bot in a very straight tunnel moving at four
KPH. Dark Shadows camo starts its magic. Becky becomes a section of
curved rock.The fashion model Chevrolet is put on pause standing with
one beautifuly shoed foot raised to step back into the sequence
looking saucily toward the unknown.
Another holographic
Chevrolet twinkled into conversational mode in front of Becky. She
appeared armed with several weapons systems.
“Turn around and
step to the side please. They shoot at you I'll get hit.” Real
Chevrolet, as usual safely hundreds of kilometers away. ”Can you
see ahead of me?”
“You got to get a
better cam lami. It's like looking through soup.”
“That's the air.”
Monday, May 13, 2019
Funny. I don't see me here in the
Rocket lounge. Real launch tanks of marstini don't lie.
What do you say when you get a call
from yourself? The holo guy looked just like me. The ID said Paul
Dvorak unknown loc. From the future? If this is me from the future
why holocall? What are the charges like on a call I haven't made to
myself yet? Since suit is paying I accept my crisper self image into
the contact cone.
“Paul.”
“Paul.” Do I call myself 'Paul'
like this thinking?
”You're me”
“I'm you?”
“From the future?”
“No.” “The past then?” “No.”
“So...I've been cloned again?” Darn DNA scattered all over the
place!
“Just shut up and listen to what I've
got to say...”
“Who the hell are you? If you are me
how come I don't know what I'm about to tell me?” Suit says the
call comes from my sleeve holo company lami. How can I holo call
myself? Does this cost me double? Looped up somehow? I would think me
from the future would remember how drunk I am right now.
“Listen! There is no time! No time
right now! “
“What time is it there? Here?” Suit
says 14:25. Is this a call to someone else that's time lagged? Have I
got a lagged line now? Pings me fat bandwidth...
“No! It's now everywhere! You are me
now. I'm you and you're me. Now listen!”
“Why should I listen to me? I'm not a
good judge of my character. I wouldn't believe anything I'd tell
myself. I'm often right about being wrong. Like now cause I'm usually
always right. If I'm me and so are you then you would know that I
would never take any advice that I would give to anybody much less
myself.”
“It's too late? Listen! Shut up and
listen! It's too late now!”
“That's what I'm trying to tell me?
That it's too late? Too late for what? Why didn't I tell me earlier?”
But I couldn't tell me anything more. I
was gone with a sparkling 'blip'. Alone again in a bar full of drunks
who weren't paying any attention.
“Paul.” Suit got something to say.
“Yes Carla?”
“What was that about?”
...so the smartest, richest pants in
the whole solsys is asking me now for answers...
excerpts from
The ANSWER
Radical border nationalism, along with
borders as barriers, fell to history with the advent of the cheap
flying car. What do you do ? Shoot them all down? As impractical as
it is evil. No. The idea sunk in that shooting down the thousands of
flying cars now darting everywhere was no way to make money. Charge
them for crossing, for parking when they get where they go, for
anything anybody could think of. Dead laser blast crash victims don't
accrue much up-billing.
Border guards became obsolete, merely
ceremonial. To the delight of the local wildlife, fences came down,
traffic analysis towers went up. Regionalism became more of an aspect
of the citizen divided by the unique regional quirks that make a
place attract tourists with money. Certainly everybody gets their
credit allotments from the Government calculated by the local regional
tax and resource revenues that can be converted anytime into monets
or local currency. The wealthier the citizens homeland the larger
their cut of the credit. And the more skimmed from all the paids to
fly from some here's to most there's, the more attractive the region.
The more folks fly over or to and the bigger the border charges,
tax's, fee's, ect; and when divided up into the credit the more for
everybody.
Soon there were no more actual poor
people. Tourists coming to see the poor people made them rich. Rich
people continued to get richer. No more fears of poor people from
elsewhere sneaking in and stealing jobs. Everybody from somewhere
else at your particular here means more money for you to be richer.
Almost everybody is proud of where they live and acept their share.
Of course you don't have to be selling trinkets to be part of the
benefit of all these people spending money to hang out with you in
your hood. You still benefit in the local split, even if you hate
them for coming around. They all leave eventually anyway. Who doesn't
want to go someplace else sometime. I wish I
was there now. They have to go back to keep their own local split. Or
they could stay if they want. With money you can have what you want,
even citizenship of someplace else.
It was all part of
the themeparkization of every myriad local culture, which sometimes
ment tour vehicles full of strange people in ridiculous clothes
crowding the shops. This is what civilization is anyway, from the
beginning: market day. And the local market is everyone, everything,
everywhere. And that's how cheap flying cars ended violent nationalism
Cheap flying car tech was suppressed
for decades by the rubber tire industry till they sold the flying car
builders on rubber flying car bottoms.
Monday, September 24, 2018
preview of FINDERS
FINDERS
The principle premise is that
there are certain individuals who throughout their lives always find
what they need in the least or the most. It is a serendipitous
existence. A finder does not search or hunt or even actively look for
what is provided by the finding. “One man gathers what another man
spills” says the song. If a person knows to see then they can see
that what they need and more is right before them. A finder is an
optimistic opportunist. Not a thief. No crime necessary. While a
ground score in a public place is fair game to a finder a good finder
knows enough of karma to leave alone someone else’s property. If a
find is attributable to an identifiable owner then it must go to the
owner. That finder golden rule provides rewards for the future; the
more you give up the more you pass by the more you find. The finder
thus becomes neutral by desire in motivation. The benefit is in the
finding not the gain. A finders desires cannot be in the ends of
treasures but in the power of the synchronicity of the finding. At
the point of synchronicity real change takes place in the recognition
of reality. To see what’s going on is the finders goal. To see
what’s left behind or overlooked or forgotten is the finders
mission. The profit of being a finder is in seeing the nature of
materiality (two words are here joined: matter-reality). Knowing this
frees the finder to see what’s there to find.
A
finder must chase at reality revealed in sync. Sometimes chasing one
“thing” the finder can reveal that the chaser is the chased.
Without the chasing the chaser would never know to find. So a finder
must first know how to chase reality and first know how to hide from
greed and first know how to run (not run on feet). These are the four
firsts of finding. Only three firsts are ever listed as the fourth
first must first be found.
Second
you must see (not necessarily
with eyes). This is the only second thing to do because it is always
better to see for a second, to take a second look and try in that
second second look to see what can be found. First impressions are
very deceiving and colored by expectation and symbolism. So a finder
takes a second and takes a second look and maybe a third (a second
second); though that is not the third thing, which is: “nothing”.
There is no third thing. A void third rules: “there is no third law
of finding” except the “threefold law of nothing” namely
“nothing is really yours”, “nothing is really free”, a finder
keeps “nothing” that is somebody else’s.
Some
finders leave things for others to find, to see who finds “it”,
this finder see’s: “did the finder of ‘it’ follow a finders
chase? Is this a true finder find?”
Some
finders find “things” and leave “it” to see who finds “it”
next. To find requires a finder. To see with the rules of finding
creates a finder.
This
does not imply that to have a finder find means that there must be a
loser. Even a loser can be a finder, usually you soon find that
you’ve lost something. To lose is to find. Lots of people find that
they can lose. And every time they lose they create another potential
finder.
A
finder thus must be aware. A finder must look and see. A finder must
see every moment as a chance to find.
A
searcher is not always a finder. Indeed many who search are not by
nature finders. Searchers and finders are organized by circumstance.
The world is covered with unrequited searchers and seekers that
either can’t or don’t see reality clearly enough to find. Others
are finders and just don’t know it and when they need fulfillment
comes their way by nature. They have the ability to make the most of
what to others may seem nothing; which is directly related to the
threefold law of nothing: “nothing can often be all that a finder
can see” and of course nothing is still something, sort of. To see
something where others see nothing is an aspect of true finding often
exhibited by artists and inventers, though they might not be by
nature true finders.
The nature of our materialistic
reality makes want and desire the engines of finding, not the want of
the finder or the desire of the loser. A finder should not be out to
make losers, that is not a finder that is a winner and winners by
nature often become mean and venal in their desire to win; they
desire to manipulate synchronicity to their triumph and ultimate
inevitable downfall frequently in ways unrelated to the competition.
The true finder must be aware of desire, of the finders own desires
wants and needs, and have a distinct appreciation of the losers
loses. Desire must be acknowledged but on purpose often denied.
Denial of desire can free a finder to see. The suffering brought on
by the denial of desire is the source of the energy to find.
Much
of the world is fraught with suffering caused by the involuntary
denial of desire, of want unmet. Suffering is the nature of
existence. Any happiness created by the satisfaction of desires is
transitory, it is immediately followed by more suffering. Those who
are wealthy, who have all their immediate needs met still find ways
to suffer. Desire of food and physical comfort met with wealth frees
up the mind to suffer in many ways, mostly emotional. A true finder
knows this and chooses how to suffer in order to free up the energy
to see and find.
Me
The
Great Roscoe
Jersey
Sue
Fade
Away Pete
Repete
Sheila
True
Boiler
Bill
Ten
John
Amazing
Mandrake
The
Great Phil
Boxcar
Little
Louie
THE GREAT ROSCOE
I
met the Great Roscoe just after I walked away from the sack at the
side of the trail. Well, in Central Park the trail is more like a
roadway, wide and paved, marked by lanes with arrows painted onto the
surface. The sack had lain just alongside the paved way near a
footpath worn into the grass by people cutting the corner around a
series of large bushes. The base of the Bushes had been trimmed high
to keep the drunks and druggies from using them for privacy. There on
the margin of the grass made by the shade of the bushes was the sack.
It was an Hebrew National hotdog sack, probably from the stand near
the bridge. I’d kicked it lightly as I passed it taking the
shortcut. My habit in the city is to look where I walk especially in
the park and I had kicked it with intent. The sack had a peculiarly
solid feel to my foot. It felt not like I had expected so I reached
down to this garbage this refuse and picked it up and looked into it.
Inside
was a note with a bundle folded in a Hebrew National hot dog wrapper
stained with a residue of mustard. “Finder you know what you need
take what it takes leave what you can so someone else may find.”
This
unusual note left me uncomfortable and very self conscious. I looked
around furtively. I thought of how I must look picking through the
litter, through old hot dog sacks, to the joggers who passed, the
Spanish teenagers gathered near a garbage can laughing, the tourists
walking hand in hand. I poked at the rectangular bundle. It was
stacked with many hundred dollar bills. All new.
Wow!
I thought: Wow! I’d found a lot of money left in plain sight in a
public place, camouflaged as trash. I looked around again. What is
this? Some kind of test? Am I being watched? What if I kept it all?
What should I do?
It
was a large amount. Maybe a couple a thousand dollars or more.
Probably more. A dangerous amount. People in Central Park get killed
for much less.
Who
was this meant for, the drunks that pick at the trash for food, the
sweepers?
I
clutched the bag tightly and scanned the park. No one seemed to pay
me any attention. A man walking towards me on the paved path looked
up at me. We made eye contact, briefly, and then he looked away, our
subtle nonverbal signal of city persons check for threat, and
proceeded along.
The
grass nearby was dry and freshly mowed where the ground sloped gently
upward away from the junction of the trails. I went there, about
twenty feet away and sat down and placed the bag between my legs. I
opened the edge of the wrapped bills, still keeping them in the sack,
then started counting them by their edges. They were hundred dollar
bills all of them. When I got to thirty I got kinda scared. I never
carry that much money! Was it all mine? Should I obey the note? I
read it again. I scanned the park. No one looked my way.
I
thought about how this a most interesting unintended dilemma. The
language of the note struck me as very unusual. It invites me to take
what is needed. Fair enough. Should I take it all? I certainly could
use it all; but that’s not need. How much do I need? Should I
honor the notes intentions? Is there some curse involved? My
thoughts were racing. My heart was pounding. I was sweating. I wanted
to get away. Some one was watching me, I was sure of it. This whole
weird situation made me very nervous. A few minutes ago I had no real
fear of robbery now I had something to lose, a sack of money. A lot
of money.
The
note and it’s request made me think about who I am. Who am I? What
kind of person? A person who could keep all the money?
It
says “leave what you can…” Can I do that? Could I leave money
in the sack? Is that the point, to make me think about myself? Do I
really need this? This sort of test? That’s what this is I
thought. An uninvited test!? A morality test? A test of my
conscience?
Well,
I thought, hmm.. I do need some money. Who doesn’t? I had ten
dollars in my pocket. I had debts, sure, but they’ll get paid
anyway. I had a pretty good job, income, prospects. How much of this
windfall should I keep? Just a hundred? Leave the rest? Share? Donate
to charity? If I left it would it just get thrown into the trash?
Found by drunks? Some one must be watching? Otherwise what’s the
point of setting the dilemma? Should I keep the whole sack and donate
it to some charity? Thousands! Are a lot to leave as trash in a park!
Should I honor the wish’s of the note?
More
people passed. Old people. Needy looking. Young people, energetic,
dangerous. Joggers and skaters and bicyclists and a couple of cops
walking slowly. Should I tell the cops? They would take the sack of
money and the note and treat them cursorily, I’m sure. I would
probably not get to keep any of it; of course the trash on the
ground in the park is the property of the city, I’d be told. What
if the cops had found it? They would keep it, no doubt, split it, and
no one would know. A cop would never leave any money in the sack, or
redeposit it on the grass for someone else to find. No way a cop
would leave money for some drunk or druggie to find.
What
a rare person it took to do this, to leave so much for fate or
chance, to write the note and start the cycle of moralistic
implications. Am I the first to find this treasure trash? I think so
since it was so well wrapped, the note so fresh.
This
is when I decided. I pulled at the stack of bills and four came free.
I folded them and crumpled them in my hand to disguise them as I
stuffed them into my front pants pocket. They were crisp and new. I
could smell it; that strange fresh inky cloth scent. Four!? I
thought: Only four out of so many! Is four enough? Is that sufficient
reward for returning so much to the ground? Thousands. And I would…
I decided. Leave it. It was time to end this distraction. I wrapped
the bundle of money back into its mottled paper cover and replaced
the note above it in the sack and stood. I would drop the sack where
I found it and make my day four hundred dollars happier, and respect
the wishes of the note, and leave and not look back or care where the
rest of the money went. If someone else could do this I could also.
This would probably be my only chance to ever do something like this.
It was on it’s own path of fate guided by the note and chance and
the morals and choices of the next finder.
I
watched the people passing so at a point when all receded, no one
looking, for littering is a crime, I dropped the sack with a plop at
the place I had found it.
The
most direct route left the park by the museum. There stood a hot dog
cart it’s umbrella cocked, no line, Hebrew National. I bought one
with my lone ten dollar bill and garnished it with relish and onions
and mustard and ketchup. I couldn’t help but smile to myself. The
hot dog tasted great. I sat on a bike rack and looked at the city and
felt very good about what I’d done. No regrets is my motto. What a
weird city! Weird people! Who would do such a thing as leave money in
a park like that?
“Hey
man…”
“What?
Huh?”
“Hey
man.” A tall dark guy dressed in a bright blue track suit clutching
a hot dog stand sack stood there in front of me.
“Hey.”
“Good
dog?”
“Yeah.”
“I
saw what you did. You left the sack.”
“Oh.
Yeah. Well. It wasn’t littering. Exactly. Did you look into it?”
“I
know what’s in the sack.” He said slowly his eyes holding mine.
They were clear and sharp and deep brown set in a square handsome
intelligent looking face. “You left it. You didn’t take it.”
“Do
you want it back?” I didn’t feel threatened by him at all. He
could have it back without a fight. “I took some.”
“I
saw.”
“I
didn’t see you there.” He was somewhat older then me though I
couldn’t tell how much. He looked healthy, in good shape, seemed to
glow with a secret satisfaction.
“I
saw. I see you are a very special person.”
I
couldn’t finish the hot dog. My hands trembled. I felt like I’d
been caught in a crime. I felt like a guilty child. “You left the
money there? Why?” I asked to get onto the other side of my
emotions. He sat on bike rack near me, the bag of money casually held
in his hand as if garbage.
“I
did so I could find you.”
“What
do you mean? Do you want it back?”
“How
much did you take?”
“Four.
Ah…four hundred.”
“That’s
all?! Four!” He was astonished.
There
was a bit of a pause here as people passed nearby.
“How
much is in there? Why did you leave it?”
“I
did it for you or someone to find. Eight thousand.”
I
could only grunt. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I wasn’t
sure what would happen next.
He
stuck out his hand. “My names Roscoe. They call me the Great
Roscoe.” He introduced himself theatrically. He stood and got
bigger as he said this. We shook hands. He was strong and sure and I
met his grip firmly.
“I’m
John.”
“John,
four letters?”
“Yeah.
Ah…” What was he about? I hadn’t seen him there. He’d
retrieved the money then followed me here! Why?
“John
you’re a very special person. You can tell them you were found by
the Great Roscoe. The Great Roscoe found John with only four bills.”
He laughed deeply but not loud. “Yes John you’re a special
person. A finder. A true finder I think. And I found you. You left
the found money to continue and didn’t look back. It’s yours to
keep as the note says. You are a wonderful work of art that I’m the
first to see. And I know that I’ll find you or you’ll find me
again sometime.”
And
with that he turned and walked away towards the crosswalk and having
timed it perfectly made the light and was soon lost among the crowd.
I
tell the story of my finding the money and my encounter with the
Great Roscoe to my girlfriend Anne and my friends. They shake their
heads, they wondered with me what it meant. An odd event. How
cryptic, how strange.
“Well,
you got four hundred bucks outta it!”
“Nothing
like that ever happens to me.”
“I’d
a kept it all.”
“You’re
charmed. Lucky. Always been.”
The
episode was soon forgotten by all though I still looked in faces
everywhere for the Great Roscoe. I didn’t understand what he’d
meant by “a finder”. Why so much money? Why the trap? A trap,
that’s what I decided it was, a trap. A trap and test. Now I worked
to find him first, see him first, trap him back with my recognition.
“They
call me the Great Roscoe.” He’d said. Who called him that? Who
was “they”? Why was he “Great”? Because he left money in
parks? And so when ever I passed a park I looked for him, for sacks
of money. Then after awhile I forgot exactly what he looked like.
That’s when I started to see him everywhere and was never sure and
never asked anyone if they were him. Once in a bar I heard someone
call out: “Roscoe!” Loud. It made me jump, made my heart race and
I turned and it was not could not have been the Great Roscoe of the
Central Park money.
Months
passed. Life fogs accurate memory. Events become stories become less
told less thought of. I lived life as it happened and made my way as
best I could. In this later I found myself on a rainy afternoon in an
unfamiliar part of the city. I’d gone to meet a friend to hear some
news of other friends long not seen. At the apartment of my friend I
buzzed the security intercom. No one was home. There was no note. I
waited in an apartment building vestibule between two glass doors as
it darkened outside and the rain began to fall. Thinking of my friend
I remembered that this situation made perfect sense, He was the type
to make appointments and then forget them. I never forget anything,
this is sometimes my bane. I remember what people say and expect the
same of them often only to be, like this, disappointed to suffer
later their denials. So I stuffed a quick note into the appropriate
mailbox slot and left.
It
was a short walk to the subway. I took a way different then the way
I’d come by, a more direct route then when I’d searched for the
address. I headed that way and soon saw the lights of a coffee house
across the street. I needed a hot cup of coffee I hoped might cheer
me up after missing my friend. The flashing neon light in the corner
of the window announced it as “The Last Cup Café” or “…Lost
Cup…” I couldn’t tell, it flickered weakly in the rainy night
and I went quickly through the door. It was dim inside, warm, no one
turned to me as the strip of bells on the door jingled brightly. A
typical city coffee house, a counter with cash register next to a
glass cabinet full of pastries, a bar with stools, a few tables, a
place not large very cozy. As I ordered my drink to go I noticed the
rain outside pick up into a torrent, so I sat at the bar, then looked
over the room. Other the myself, the barista girl and a small group
of people at two tables pushed together the small café seemed empty.
“Now
that we’re all here we should begin.” A little laughter. A short
woman in a heavy overcoat stood at the double table to a tapping of a
spoon on her cup. They quieted there soft conversation. “Tonight’s
best find presented by the Great Roscoe…” They applauded softly.
It
was like I’d been hit with an electric shock. The Great Roscoe
here!
“Thank
you.” I recognized his deep voice even after so long ago so brief
an encounter. I turned on my barstool more toward them. He stood with
his back to me. “I’m very pleased to be here my friends to
introduce to you a true finder, who I am proud to say I discovered
myself, and who I am very glad to see has found us tonight.” He
turned and with a sweep of his arm faced me. “John! A true finder!”
They all looked my way and again applauded softly. I almost dropped
my latte.
A
chair was slid over from another table and I was invited to sit with
them. Introductions went all around. They were “Jersey Sue” a
middle aged woman with a butch haircut died blue, “Fade Away Pete”
an old guy out west gambler type, and RePete his son a guy with thick
glasses wearing an old dark grey suit, “Sheila True” an aging
Long Island princess, “Boiler Bill” a small stocky man with a
bulldog face in a huge unzipped parka, “Ten John” who answered
with ‘Hella’ in thick Jersey accent through a smile with more
then a few bad teeth and had a handshake that was like gripping a
small lumpy baseball mitt, “The Amazing Mandrake” who with his
goatee I took to be a magician, and last another “Great” the
“Great Phil” wide smile wide man.
It
got quiet as everyone sipped their drinks. They seemed to revel in
the introductions. They were all looking intently at me.
“So
John…” Ten John broke the silence, “Tell us how you found us
tonight.”
“Well…um…”
this was weird I thought, I felt uncomfortable with all this
attention. I rotated my paper cup and stared down at it and gathered
my thoughts, “I was just walking by outside…” I glanced at the
door, “To the subway…and since it was rainy I thought a coffee
would be good…so I just came in…I didn’t think that…” My
thoughts fled my mind as I searched for something to say.
My
audience all appeared delighted.
“Pure
chance!”
“You’re
not setting us up… Roscoe?”
“No
man. Would I do that?” There was laughs and from someone a long
drawn out “yeah!”
“Just
picked the last cup outta the blue did he?” Heads shook in moderate
disbelief.
“I
knew I’d see him again.”
“The
Great Roscoe can always spot a true finder!” He got a hearty pat on
the back from Fade Away Pete.
“Yer
da best Roscoe!”
“Ah
… em…What’s going on here? I mean …what do you mean… I mean
about me…ah?”
“Oh.”
“Ah.” “He’s a novice of course.” Jersey Sue’s voice is so
high pitched and sweet it made me smile. The group sensed my
discomfort and broke into several little side conversations around
me.
Ten
John who was next to me at the table spoke to me directly taking my
attention just to him. “We’re just a bunch of friends that get
together to shoot the breeze ya know once in awhile see. We all got a
little something in common.” I drank coffee glad to be out of the
spotlight.
The conversations around me were general and personal,
“How’s your sister?” “So, what’s up?” kind of stuff, much
like before my big introduction.
“See
kid we’re all naturals. Like you. Not all found by Roscoe a course.
It’s a big world, there’s lotsa finders.”
“What
do you mean finders?”
“Well
that’s a complicated question.” He said with a chuckle.
Sheila
True, seated on my other side, laid her hand gently on my forearm.
“You
see kid you got a talent. You might not know it. Roscoe’s never
been wrong about finding finders. It shows up now and then but until
you’re found by another finder you can’t really tell.”
“He
needs educate’n."
“Sheila’l
teach ya more den ya want to know!” She hit RePete on the shoulder
hard with the back of her hand.
“Look
we’re not religious or nothing, we’re just regular people that
realized special things happen sometimes.” She said in low tones in
her high pitched voice. Her eyes were watching the others, who didn’t
seem to be listening particularly to us as there was at least six
conversations going on at once all around.
Two
more people walked in and came over. Seats changed as Roscoe and Bill
and Mandrake split off the group to get coffee or go to the restroom.
“Finders,
John,” Ten John sought my attention, “have a talent for finding,
for sometimes being in the right place at the right time. And we get
together like this once in awhile to make each other jealous about
what we found lately.”
“Roscoe’s
the topper tonight by having you walk right in!” Sheila and Ten
John nod to each other.
Sitting
down across the table from me, the new faces are introduced to me as
“Boxcar and Little Louie”. Little Louie is anything but little
looking to be at least 350 pounds, 6 foot 4 at least; and Boxcar is a
small guy in an oversize tailored London Fog style rain coat with a
lawyers three piece suit beneath.
“So
where do you live John.” Sheila squeezed my arm like she was trying
to be my new girlfriend. Not my type by many decades.
“Oh
down the lower east side.”
“Cool!”
She cooed. “Oh yeah? Where? What building?”
“I’m
in an apartment on Delany, Delany Court.”
“No!?
You don’t say? That’s where I live! What floor?” The Great
Roscoe was right behind me now grinning.
“Twelve.”
“I’m
on the ninth. Three floors.”
“How
long?”
“’Bout
a year.” I said. It had been two years since I’d found the money.
“I’ve
lived there over five now.”
“Kid
you and Roscoe are in sync!”
“Same
building too! Jeez! You are setting us up aren’t you Roscoe!?’
“Man
I’ve only seen John here twice in my life. Right? Tonight makes it
two. Eh?”
I
could only nod. Probably six hundred people live on those forty
floors. We might’ve missed each other on the elevator often. Roscoe
had all there attention again so he told the story of how we met at
Central Park. I heard the version of his point of view in a slang
jargon that I couldn’t always decipher. He said he “floated the
stream”, he’d been listening to the music of the sync hoping to
“spot the harmony”, he’d “fed” some to the nothing”, and
met me for only “four outta eighty.” Sheila squeezed my arm more
and said marveling “You only took four hundred out of so much. You
didn’t take it all! You let the rest float! You are a natural!”
They
all had stories to tell. Stories got told over other stories.
Sometimes everyone got all quiet and listened to one story unfold.
Sheila had found fifty dollars and a sack of fresh tomatoes on the
subway just yesterday. Fade Away Pete had found an old girlfriend
working in a restaurant and she promised him free eats. Ten John had
found his reading glasses and his spare set of bridgework dentures.
Repete found a poem on a piece of paper blowing down the street that
deeply moved him so much when he read it that he is going to publish
it in the zine he puts out bimonthly.
The
Great Phil launched into a long story how he found a car for fifty
bucks at the towed car auction. He was the lone bidder. Fifty more
for a key to be made. It was a rare 70s era Cadillac that ran
perfect. He sold it a week later for ten thousand. To top that off
he’d found a three carrot diamond ring down a seat cushion. He
passed it around to show it off.
I
forgot myself in all the stories, the fresh ones of things that just
happened and the old stories that started “Oh yeah once…”.
That’s what they were about it seemed, trading stories of the
things they found. All good luck and laughs. Until Boiler Bill
mentioned how he had found his brother dead in the Lazy Boy chair of
a heart attack. The atmosphere got heavy then. We all saddened.
Sheila announced that “Lisa Lips is dead too…” and the stories
turned to remembrances of Lisa and her great and small finds.
People
started to leave. It was getting late. I thought I’d better go too.
Sheila gave me a sitting hug and a kiss on the cheek. Roscoe said:
“See you around neighbor.” I left with a general “Nice to meet
you all. Bye now.” to everyone.
Outside
the rain had stopped. The streets were wet. I continued my journey to
the subway entrance with a glance back at the Last Cup. I could help
thinking “How weird… how very weird…”
You
see people all the time in the city. People are everywhere of course.
Sometimes they blur together. Still I have this tendency to pick out
of the masses familiar faces. Out of the thousands of faces I see I
will occasionally, once in awhile, spot a face I’ve seen before.
Beyond seeing a friend somewhere unexpectedly, which happens often
enough, there are instances when I will think “I’ve seen that guy
before,” or “She’s the girl I saw at the store the other day”.
Soon I can tell the locals in my neighborhood from the commuters and
definitely from the tourists. Tourists are easy to recognize. They
stand apart in their newness. The tourist subtle giveaway signs are
numerous, it’s their clothes, or hairstyle, or the way they look
around at the city with too open eyes, the way they stereotype the
neighborhood in their expectations and see the place through overly
open eyes that only to their tourist perspective. The locals look
like they belong here. They dress for the place. They look down at
the sidewalk as they walk. They eat at the cheap places. The locals
learn the best values of the neighborhood are often in places that
tourists won’t visit. Not to avoid tourists at all, no, it’s that
a tourist would look at a place a local might like and the tourist
would think “What a dive! I’m not going in that dump!” A
tourist usually, most tourists anyway, seek comfort and safety and
casual luxury. A local knows where to go at two in the morning to buy
something necessary, knows where to get a good cheap breakfast. The
local knows where to avoid.
Commuters,
people that work in the city and who live elsewhere, are soon gone.
The places that serve them close early and never open up on weekends.
A commuter is easy to spot because they want to be elsewhere, and
probably wouldn’t even come to this neighborhood except to work and
leave promptly at the end of the work day. The city encourages this
by having fewer public transportation choices available as the night
wears on. The commuter must leave for home early in the main
migratory herd or be stranded in this strange neighborhood of
unfamiliar locals. The commuters are easy to spot because they travel
towards public transportation in uneven groups at specific times. The
groups usually consists of hurrying people who do not acknowledge
each other. Few talk or are together with someone else. When your
home is a city district full of commuting workers it is easy to spot
those whose home is elsewhere, they are the ones all coming out of
the subway or descending buses together in the morning and later
leaving on reverse routes in the afternoon or early evening.
I
figure it takes at least a year or so to really learn your way around
a new place; three years to make good friends and learn the locals
and catch onto most of the dangerous places. You gotta invest at
least three years into your neighborhood to make it work. After five
years you can begin to feel like you really live there, like you are
part of the place. After five years you can really say you live there
when people ask. That gives you the right to notice with comfortable
disdain any newcomers or tourists or commuters. I’ve lived here
only five years of my life. My work has given me the freedom to stay.
I’m lucky I guess. I’ve got a good apartment in a great building
in a neighborhood that’s not too dangerous close to all the things
I could need and I’m in love with a beautiful woman.
Things
have gotten better for me since I met Anne. I had left my briefcase
with my computer on the train. I realized it right away; there wasn’t
much time to get back on the train. So I quickly, before the doors
could close, entered a car further back certain that the computer was
gone, already picked up by someone, lost to the city. The train took
off with a lurch. Going through the connecting door I saw that a
woman sat where I had been.
“Excuse
me… I… ah… left…” She looked gorgeous. The type of woman
that made me reluctant to approach from just the supermodel beauty,
of the thought that I would be rejected. She looked up at me with a
mischievous grin.
“Looking
for something?” And she indicated the case that rested next to her.
I was stunned. I got lucky in many ways that day.
We’ve
been together ever since. I used to live in a crappy place in a
terrible section. Things got better right away. She helped me find my
home and we moved in together. A great job that allowed me to work
from anywhere came soon. It was a turning point in my life that
affected every aspect of my world.
All
went well beyond belief until the day she disappeared.
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