Following my Songline, a short weekend adventure

(Going over the new Charleston Bridge.)

Had to rush down to Georgetown Saturday morning, my Uncle Maxie was admitted to the hospital earlier in that week and I wanted to spend some time with him. It’s pretty bad but they do expect him to be out by Tuesday or Wednesday. After that, it’s a long recuperation, which will require some very basic changes in lifestyle and habits.

Wiggles didn’t go with me and I was frankly amazed at how fast I was able to travel. Almost too fast, somewhere between Columbia and Charleston a buck with at least a six point rack on its head jumped out on the interstate forcing me to slam on the brakes. I fishtailed coming to a stop leaving a lot of rubber from my tires on the road before the deer decided to leap out of the way. I figure Michelle with her recent and far worse encounter can easily relate. The interstate was empty that moment and if I had been carrying that deer would have had a major reason to really run into the deep dark woods with me scared and pissed to the point I almost stained my underwear. However, even with South Carolina’s disposition toward hunting having a dead buck strapped to the hood of my Corolla in the Georgetown Hospital parking lot would not have flown very well.

Spent the day with my uncle and really felt for him since he could not go ten minutes without someone prodding him taking blood pressure, temperature, checking the flow on his IV, or any number of odd tests. That particular hospital has a special “cat nap” time in the afternoon were they want the patients left alone as much as possible so my cousin Allen, who had joined me, and I left to go see his little girl Anna staying at his grandmother’s house.

(A small garden located on South Battery.)

I admit, I was sort of bummed out after leaving Georgetown a little later and couldn’t fight the urge to see where my songline, as Buffett calls it, wanted to take me. I hit Charleston and decided to ride down to the Battery and stroll a little bit before I drove the rest of the way home. Parked near the corner of East and South Battery and started walking. Went up East Battery past the point it turns into East Bay Street feeling like some ghost weaving through the tourists that were out in force. Seeing Tradd Street and having recently finished Pat Conroy’s “South of Broad” I walked down it to see where the fictional Leo King lives.

It was getting late and I cut my walk down Tradd short by turning south down Meeting Street to make it back to where my car was parked. Still couldn’t make myself leave with the nice breeze blowing off the harbor carrying both the salty smell of the ocean and earthy smell of nearby marshes.

While I was relaxing staring out at the various boats on the water rushing home a couple from New York asked me to take a picture them together. The lady flipped at hearing my Southern accent, something that I am uncomfortable with in the best of times and which gets worse if I am angry.

(Sailboats on Charleston Harbor going home.)

“I’m sure happy to finally meet someone from the South,” she said with her own New York accent, “seems like everyone we’ve meet is from somewhere else. I have always felt myself Southern and a Charlestonian at heart.”

It might seem petty but it felt like the nice lady from New York was taking a hacksaw down the middle of my head with the last part of her statement. I’m proud of many aspects of my Southern Heritage, the food, many parts of the easy-going culture, and the area of South Carolina called the Low Country but the darker side of things is never far away.

(Looking up East Battery Saturday evening right before I meet the couple from New York.)

Even funnier was her including the term “Charlestonian." As much as I love the Holy City I am at best a temporary and envious intruder to its streets being forced to return to the glorified train stop in the Midlands that I feel Sherman should have burned twice. I guess one of the things that bugged me about what the lady said was that I have said the same thing down in Florida many times and it was only then hearing her that I realized how asinine it sounds.

However, I joined them for a couple of drinks after they asked and we spent a couple of hours talking about Charleston. It was a small adventure but if I have learned one thing from Jimmy is that you have to go where the songline takes you. And yes, while I never got drunk my wife was mad when I finally got home. I did have the foresight to buy twenty pecan pralines as a sort of peace offering for both her and my daughter but somehow only five survived the trip back home.

Sunday Morning Going Down

(Author's note: Once again trying the Flash Fiction stuff, this time working out of the "Icarus' Flight to Perfection" blog. Worked the starter sentence in at the beginning and stayed five words under the 1300 limit. I'm also a week early from the stated deadline. Now if this could translate to the big project I'm on working I would be in heaven.)

It was Sunday, and there shouldn't have been a letter in the mailbox, but there was. It was a simple business sized envelope laying on the bottom of my open mailbox without any name or address written on it. In normal circumstances such a thing would be of no concern, neighbors or even businesses often use such message drops to relay information or solicit their products or services. The problem is being a retired spy, what is common among normal people needs to be greeted with a healthy dose of paranoia by anyone with a past similar to mine.

While it is said that you can't quit the mafia you can leave the spy business behind if you agree to a few simple rules. First, for those for whom being among the general population would place them in danger if a retired spy wants to stay breathing they can chose any number of excellent resort-like facilities on isolated islands or in the middle of empty deserts. If, like me, the headshrinkers deems you safe you can live out your days integrated into civilian society trying to reclaim something of the life you abandoned when you entered the shadows.

So, for five years I had lived in Columbia, South Carolina as a community college instructor situated in the middle of a pleasant neighborhood of old houses filled with young urban professionals. Giving the headshrinkers and paper pushers at Langley credit, it was as an innocuous a cover story and reintroduction to civilian life as they come.

Still though, the people on my street had largely welcomed this real widower and semi-fake teacher going as far as to fix me up on numerous blind dates and include me in their holiday celebrations. Over those years, I relaxed believing my past was behind me until the Sunday morning I walked out into the street to stretch before I began my usual run.

I opened the sealed envelope. Inside was a piece of typing paper with the words “I’m alive” printed on it. Those two words brought the paranoia and all my old instincts roaring back.

Common sense offers you two choices. The first being that it was a setup and that I had the crosshairs of a rifle fixed on me right then. If that was the case, I was sure to die in the next few seconds. The second possibility was that it was someone announcing their return from the dead. Given that the letter was unsigned and anyone wanting to kill me would want me to know who it was, I let out a short breath assuming I was safe for the moment. However, this meant I was the unwilling rodent in a sudden game of cat and mouse.

With this surprise, I walked back into my house but not before turning around and scoping out my street. Someone was certainly watching me but the street was empty and the houses along it seemed quiet. Most of my friends were either in church or out doing other family activities. What worried me was the possibility that someone was still home and being held prisoner with his or her captors watching my reaction.

Normal professional behavior would prohibit any action that might draw close attention or harm civilians in a closed off area like my neighborhood but I didn't want to take that chance. So I quickly changed, retrieved my favorite Sig P226 pistol, grabbed my cell phone, and drove away to await the next move in some very public place.

My idea was to find a seat at an open-air diner located beside the university frequented by obnoxious professors and pretentious student types and just wait for the cat to make the next move. It didn’t take long, the waitress had just given me my coffee when my cell phone rang.

"Scott, find the Reeves warehouse off Bluff Road, be there in fifteen minutes,” was all the synthesized sounding voice said. While the voice was bad theatrics, what got me was the hearing the crying in the background of a little girl that I took to be the daughter of one of my neighbors. Another concern was the caller using my real name, not my assigned cover.

After arriving I found the entranced unlocked and entered the dark building without drawing my pistol. It was certainly a trap but I didn’t want to endanger Rebecca any more than she was already. My eyes had just begun to adjust when I felt the muzzle of a pistol pressed into my back and my own weapon being taken.

Minutes later my hands are bound behind me with plastic handcuffs looped through a wood chair. Rebecca was sitting next me also tied to her chair and terrified, but otherwise unharmed. Here is where clear thinking comes into play, the warehouse we were being held had all sorts of welding goodies located on a nearby table. I had only seen two of our captors but I heard enough to guess at least two more were hiding further back in the shadows loading items onto a moving van.

Training demanded I play the role of captive to figure out what was going on but getting Rebecca out was my first priority. Twisting the cuffs hard against the slats on the back of the chair I was rewarded with the sound of cracking wood. Once free, a little effort with a steel welding file from the table popped the plastic cuffs.

A fire retardant divider separated my area from the assailants who were still busy loading the van but just as I was about to cut Rebecca loose I heard the leader tell someone to go check on us. Weapons were in short supply but the welding table did offer up a rattail file. The file being long and thin when the husky guy came around the divider I was able to position myself to jump him from behind and plunge it up his nose after jerking his head back. The guy died without a whimper but it forced me to take his submachine gun and assault the others.

Surprise and luck being the best allies the three others went down without a long fight. Mopping up I found my pistol, cell phone, and the van loaded up with boxes containing biohazard material, a lot of it. Just as I was about to call in the cavalry my phone buzzed.

Twenty more of my people will arrive soon, you have to blow the building quickly or thousands will die if they retake that van,” the synthesized voice said before hanging up.

Without actual C-4, improvising an explosion on short notice would be impossible except for where we were. The welding area had rows of oxygen bottles lined up; all I needed then was a detonator. The break area supplied a microwave and after ripping out the surge suppressor and throwing in a bunch of metal, I had one. Opening up the valves on the oxygen bottles, I set the microwave for five minutes and got Rebecca and me out of there.

We were three buildings over when the explosion knocked us both to the ground. The sound of police and fire on the way followed seconds later. Picking Rebecca up I saw a car coming toward us, I pulled my pistol out as it stopped and saw the smiling face of my dead wife.

You’re getting rusty Scott, I damn near wrapped everything up in a neat package and you barely got out. Quick get in, Rebecca and her parents will be safe now but we aren’t, you have much to learn. Looking at Isabella more curious than scared, I did just that, I didn’t like retirement away.

Three New Babies and a Busted Dad

Call me a sentimental fool but I couldn’t help but smile when I heard the crying of a very new born baby in the delivery room next door to the empty one I was working in. Since I had entered the empty delivery room about an hour before to make a few adjustments on the surgical table I had listened to the organized chaos next door seeing the dance of doctors and nurses around the expectant mother in my mind’s eye. The actual conversations were extremely muffled to the point they were unintelligible but the screams of the mother and, finally, the cries of the baby were not.

I figured I would soon see the staff taking the most actively involved people next door to the recovery room but instead I heard the professional demeanor of the doctors’ return with mama again slowly ramping up the volume on whatever she was saying. When she started screaming again I was able to figure out what the deal was with the cries of a second baby. A small cheer erupted, I guess from the hospital staff, but it was immediately muted with mama beginning a new round of huffing and puffing which morphed into the sounds of exhausted moaning. While I still couldn’t understand the words leaking through the wall I did detect some concern in the subdued voices and that went on for several minutes.

Finally a new round of cries began with me figuring that the third and, hopefully, final baby had entered the world. The cheers that emerged through the wall then pretty much confirmed my assumption and from my time waiting for other surgical rooms in the past I could hear tale tell sounds of everything winding down. Now if I wasn’t such a nosy fool I would have ignored the following events but sometimes you can’t really go against your basic nature but at least I got a belly laugh out of it.

Just as I was packing my tools up I saw staff starting to pass my door. Since I had become somewhat emotionally involved with the proceedings I stepped out into the hallway to do an impromptu inspection of the sterilizer situated in a small alcove. I was quickly rewarded with the sight of three babies being wheeled out of the room in small hospital basinets by smiling nurses.

The leading baby was wearing a pink skullcap and while I understand the deal about the vision of new born babies being fuzzy she had her eyes open checking out the world. I’m big on first impressions and if they one that hit me was true that little one is going to be the next Albert Einstein. I could feel an intense intelligence emanating from the kid and said a small prayer hoping she can use it to straighten out a messed up world.

The next baby was wearing a blue cap and was sound asleep. It’s easy to figure being born is exhausting for the babies as well as the mom and hell, little dude had surely earned a nap. The thought that passed through my mind about that one was that the baby thing bored him and he wouldn't want to be bothered with much until preschool started.

The third and finally little one had his eyes open like his sister but where I saw a powerful intelligence in her this little dude seemed to shouting “Shaka Brah” to the world. Feeling pretty good myself I did the signal with the thumb and pinkie extended on my right hand with the other fingers closed and flipped my wrist a couple of time while saying “Life is good brah”. Of course that earned me a disapproving scowl from the nurse in charge of the baby but I don’t like her to begin with. I could clearly see that little dude catching some knarly waves on the North Shore years in the future.

The new mom followed soon after and while I have no idea whether her delivery was natural or C-section she was conscious with the head of her bed slightly raised. Even after what was certainly a grueling experience to say the very least, I’ll be damned but the new mom looked radiant. Her blond hair was dripping in sweat and hung in clumps around her head but she had this glow that shined through even though it was easy to tell she was utterly exhausted. She passed by me talking with the nurse pushing her bed and to my surprise she actually seemed giddy.

“I’m glad I’ll never have to go through that again.” I thought I heard her say but the nurse started laughing and I may have misunderstood.

Now the new dad was a total basket case the minute I saw him emerge from the delivery room. Both he and his wife could not have been much beyond their early thirties but where his wife was beaming after everything he looked distraught. The doctors involved in the delivery had escaped in the opposite direction leaving the new dad to follow his kids and wife alone. He slowly shuffled passed me and paused momentarily with this forlorn look.

“I have triplets,” he said to me smiling but looking lost, “and I will never have sex again.

“You got that one right bucko!” I heard his wife yell back. I had just enough time to pat the guy sympathetically on back then jump back in and close the door to the delivery room I had been working in before I broke down and started laughing my butt off.

A Brief Hiatus from my Hiatus

Excessive curiosity has always been a problem for me and it manifested itself again Tuesday morning as I was driving home from work shamelessly listening to NPR. As I puttered the dilapidated and crowded highways toward my house the early morning radio reports of long lines at polling places got me wondering what the situation was at the Presbyterian Church that serves as my altar to American Democracy. Sure enough, as I drove by I could see the line stretching out of the Christian certified community center attached to the church and weaved its way down the long sidewalk toward the main road.

Feeling like a shark I turned into the parking lot slowly cruising by and seeing at least a hundred good citizens chatted in the cool morning air waiting patiently in line for their chance to take their country back if the assorted bumper stickers attached to all the fancy minivans, SUV’s, and manly man trucks were to be believed. It was a fairly jovial and perky bunch except for one sullen fellow looking rather out of place much like a lone surviving human who had found some way to blend in with the pod-people in an “Invasion of the Body Snatchers” remake. My liberal radar, or “libdar”, was picking him up as the lone Democrat of the bunch. Not feeling as brave as my political compatriot I went on home deciding to return once the best of Southern suburbia had filtered back to their respective hives and Borg collectives.

I returned early in the afternoon wearing just an old Hawaiian shirt and jeans as opposed to my Che Guevara t-shirt and New Black Panthers baseball cap which I’m sure the poll workers would have thought was a great gag as some deputy sheriff tazed my goofy ass.

Once I was escorted to the new fangled electronic voting machine I reviewed the list of candidates that this election cycle had to offer. I didn’t vote a straight Democratic ticket, despite my high admiration for Alvin Greene and his accomplishments, I just couldn’t vote for the guy in his bid to unseat Jim DeMint. I did vote for the Green Party candidate in that race and actually wondered for a few seconds who had the slight advantage between the two, measured in picometers, since neither had a snowball’s chance in Hell in defeating the Godfather of the Tea Party.

I did have an unique dilemma in a couple of races because several Republican candidates did not have any opponent. I solved that issue by writing in Scrooge McDuck for State Treasurer and General George Armstrong Custer for the Office of Adjutant General of the South Carolina National Guard. I almost wrote in Robocop for Attorney General but a lot of people here have issues with Obama's skin color, voting for a cyborg will have to wait a couple of more decades.

Satisfied with my acts of sedition against the body politic of the state I went home and recommenced my increasingly futile attempt at composing my “musical” exposing the seedy and hopefully humorous underbelly of South Carolina and its people. I’ve passed the 10,000 word mark on Sunday but given my history of typos you can realistically cut that in half.

Election Day for me did offer a few surprises, later that evening after deleting three whole pages of my zygote of a tome that made no sense whatsoever my wife came and slapped me aside my head while I was typing and began to tell me that both the Democratic candidates for governor and Joe Wilson’s House seat were several points ahead at that moment. Figuring that both my nightly beer intake and writing frustrations had pushed me over the edge into some delusional state I figured I heard my wife wrong but it turned out true, both Democratic candidates did have a nice lead over the Conservative anchor baby hussy and the slime mold that wears two-thousand dollar suites.

I was perplexed, could the voters of South Carolina have actually delved a little deeper into troubling issues surrounding those two Republican candidates and decided it was best to seek a new approach? In other areas of the country such a query would be minor and easy to answer. But here in South Carolina such a question would open a nasty can of worms forcing me to reconsider many of my long held assumptions about my state. So I plopped on the couch and watched as more voting returns were tabulated, thankfully my assumptions and ultimate fate of my hypothetical novel are safe. Further election results soon arrived sending Nikki to the governor’s mansion, Joe back to Congress, and saving me from having to yet again rewrite significant portions of the mishmash that has come close to sending me screaming insanely off into the night.

Hiatus

Going to try and get a very different kind of project started, probably will not get anywhere with it in the end but it promises to be fun. Should be back in two or three weeks.

Barely Balanced, and I'm not just talking about myself

Shamefully ducking yard work responsibilities again last weekend the family loaded up and went to the Carolina Renaissance Festival up in Charlotte, North Carolina to enjoy a plenitude of nerdy activities. Saw lots of dudes, taking this stuff far too seriously, jousting on horse back putting to shame any testy arguments I have seen equally nerdy Trekkies conduct. The knights were carrying real swords so I give them the "edge" since the only weapons the Trekkies have ever carried are plastic phasers.

Gangs of Mafia-like monks with massive attitudes walked around selling indulgences to us poor peasants. Yes, they made the proverbial offers no one could refuse, the threat of eternal hell fire and a muscle bound monk can be very persuasive. I coughed up five bucks and had my soul blessed and got a nice t-shirt that the monks assure me that when St. Peter sees me wearing it in line at the Pearly Gates he will usher me right in. Call me a Doubting Thomas but I am skeptical but the muscle bound monk was quite the salesman.

Several pirates prowled the crowd apparently confused since they were so far away from the coast. But I had a good time with a busty pirate lady who said something about keel hauling me in a suggestive manner.

Now some might wonder why I didn't post more pictures especially with a multitude of ladies walking around wearing tight Renaissance costumes with their ample ta-ta's about explode outward. Well I did take a lot of pictures but frankly they sucked, except for the few pictures of said ladies I just mentioned. My one issue with them was that the fine ladies were carrying far more edged weapons this year and I quickly got the "point" of their displeasure at being treated as objects of sexual desire.

One small update, I'm hating the big dude on the left side of the picture featuring the fairy Twig and Miss Wiggles.


The best parts were the shows put on by various artists. Namely the group called "Barely Balanced" who put on a great show. If you have any Renaissance festivals in your area try and go see these great performers. Now the big drawback about escaping yard work last weekend is all the extra stuff I am looking at tomorrow.

Missed Connections

Late September 1991:

Scott rubbed his cold hands and plunged them into his jacket pockets as he strolled down the deserted boardwalk praying the place he sought still existed in some fashion. The day was overcast with an unusually cold wind and a fine mist keeping what few tourists that remained in their hotel rooms leaving him alone to his thoughts and insane hopes. The city of Myrtle Beach renovated the area extensively after Hurricane Hugo and Scott was sure that many of the places he remembered from his teenage years only lived on in his memories. He only cared about one place, a stupid bar whose history extended long before his birth and he hoped the urban planners had not changed it into some cheap t-shirt shop or chain restaurant.

Somehow, he still found a way to almost overlook and pass the place by. The lamppost and the bench mounted to the edge of the boardwalk next the railing were what caught him. It was the place where they had their last conversation ten years before under the light of that lamp. Scott turned around and recognized the bar even though it had not remained unchanged, gone was the screened-in porch and the fake Tiki hut-like thatched roof. In their place were huge ornate glass windows and some sort of dignified name benefiting tourists seeking a safe and familiar refuge.

He still had two hours before the hoped for noon rendezvous but he was already nervous with a brooding realization he might have come all this way for nothing. Try as he might to find her it was as if she had fallen off the face of the earth. The only hope he had was a vague promise they made to each other to be at the place where so much had passed between them. Still he thought if nothing was ventured then nothing could be gained and with that thought, he pulled open the door and went inside.

While the exterior of the bar was greatly changed, the interior had suffered even more. Gone were the surfboards hanging from the ceiling, the angry tiki gods sitting on small shelves, the group pictures of past customers, and the tattered remains of psychedelic posters proclaiming peace and love stapled to the walls.

The actual bar was mounted next the wall on the right side of the room and ran its entire length, behind it were shelves displaying a huge collection of beer bottles from across the world. At the bar itself sets of levers for draft beer dispensers were placed at even spaces along its length offering the same brand time and time again, a stark contrast to the extensive collection on the shelves. On the customer side oak bar stools with comfortable cushions, advertising a national brand of beer stood empty. The rest of the bar held matching oak tables and chairs with the walls adorned with the mindless clutter of American Pop Culture.

Scott looked around while taking a seat at the bar noticing only a couple of college age students at one of the tables studying and a bald bartender dressed in a white shirt under a maroon vest behind the bar robotically polishing bottles .

“What can I get for you sir?” The bartender asked walking up to Scott.

“Bud Light,” Scott said noticing the asinine nametag the bartender wore proclaiming, “Hi I’m Fred” just above the handkerchief pocket on his vest.

Fred quickly delivered an icy bottle and a bowl of peanuts and drifted back over to his place which Scott noticed concealed a small television hidden by the bar overhang.

In silence, he began his waiting but not before pulling out his senior year high school yearbook and started leafing through the pages. As the minutes slip by with the only sounds in the bar were the soft murmur coming from the small television, the subdued voices from the students, and the sound of pages being turned. Regularly, Scott exchanged his empty bottles for full ones and occasionally stepped back outside to pace in front of the building while checking his watch only to come back inside and take his seat again.

A few people filtered into the bar as noon approached seeking refuge from the usually cold weather and each time Scott jumped as the opening door bumped the bell mounted above it signaling their entrance. The newcomers broke up the solemn atmosphere and heavy silence with the sounds of conversation and laughter but all quickly left again leaving only the bartender and one student now sitting alone at his table wrapped up in a book.

Noon came with Scott visibly disturbed and slightly drunk but still he waited in silence incessantly looking through the yearbook.

“Fred,” Scott said slightly slurred, “I’m just going to walk outside for a few minutes and get some air.”

Fred waved back barely acknowledging the man and returned to his television. Scott made the few steps outside while zipping his jacket back up and took a seat on the bench. He sat there watching the ocean and if someone looked closely enough they might have saw tears rolling down his face but that could have been the mist.

Another hour passed and Scott came back inside, paid his bar tab, and after collecting his yearbook walked back out disappearing into the thickening mist.

The bar remained essentially empty for a while until the arrival of a woman dressed in jeans, sweatshirt, and carrying a small overnight bag. As the door closed behind her, she quickly scanned the bar, obviously for someone but only seeing the bartender and the student.

“Yes ma’am,” Fred said rushing up to the lady, “what can I get for you?”

“There wasn’t a man waiting here was there?” She asked in an urgent voice.

“Why yes there was,” Fred said then giving a belief description, “he left about twenty minutes ago and was walking back toward the Pavilion.”

The lady wasted no time and rushed back out and began running in the direction of the huge shuttered building. Fred the bartender and the student exchanged a look of puzzlement with Fred stepping back over to the television and the student throwing his book into his backpack and heading out to meet someone himself.

Author’s note: This really happened on a cold Myrtle Beach September day, I was the college student studying with a buddy when “Scott” came in with his Myrtle Beach High School yearbook clearly waiting for someone and was the lone student reading a book when “Jennifer” arrived. I have always wondered about the situation between those two people. The following is just my mind filling in the blanks.

About a month before:

The intense sun of an Atlanta morning streamed through the window of the small apartment, waking the man sprawled on the couch. He swung his feet to the floor to sit up knocking over the mostly empty beer cans littering the floor soaking small sections of the moldy carpet with lukewarm remains of last night’s liquid entertainment. For reasons he could not figure out Scott Fisher tried to remember the night before but it was a sickening familiar blur after returning home from work. The rest of his weekend was easy to figure out, a near continuous repeat of Friday night to the last possible minute allowing him just enough time to recover so he could return to work without looking like the drunk he felt himself becoming.

Still he could at least be a clean drunk and with that thought, he stood up and walked from the living room consisting of only his couch and a television that rested on a small coffee table then into his bedroom, which stood empty except for a collection of cardboard boxes. He thought of the dozen or so containers as the parting gifts of his botched marriage, much like something they give a failed game show contestant.

Stepping out of the bathroom minutes, later Scott walked over to his closet and after combing through the few items he actually hung up and the suitcases at the bottom, which still held much of his clothing, he found a pair of shorts and t-shirt that would serve him for the day. Feeling more clear-headed and slightly motivated he began throwing his clothes into one pile for clean and the other for dirty, the former being remarkably small and the latter large and smelly.

“Well, I’ve gone and done it,” he said to himself just to hear the words, “I guess this means a trip to the laundromat.” Scott reached down to pick up his dirty clothes and set them on the top of the cardboard boxes stacked next the wall. Looking at the mound, he realized he was going to need something to carry them all and stepped back to the closet to empty out one of the suitcases to use for transport. It was then that one of the bottom cardboard boxes gave way sending the three others on top to the floor spilling out the contents.

“Dammit, this is asking too much of me today.” Scott again said to himself and began picking up the items littering the floor. Laying half out of one of the boxes was a high school yearbook and Scott felt drawn to it for some reason he could not explain. Being a man of little concern or care he forgot about everything this time and with a tenderness bordering on excessive he sat on the floor and began looking through the book. It was not long before he saw the picture of Jennifer and him, the one taken of them holding each other and sitting on the bench at Myrtle Beach in front of the seedy bar. In the background, surfers and other locals smiled and joked, their youth and emotions forever frozen in the year of 1971. Also frozen was the look of love between Jennifer and him, sweethearts all though high school but soon to be off to different colleges and to eventually grow apart with Jennifer sending him a breakup letter in the middle of their freshmen year.

Even with the recollection of their breakup the softer memories of their time together was a welcome release from the far more recent traumas he had suffered. It was at the bottom of the page that he spied the newer message written in her handwriting. It said, “Don’t forget if things are still bad for the both of us ten years from now let’s meet at our special place and run off together.” Jennifer had written out and circled the date September 30, 1991 and below that twelve noon as the time for them to meet if their lives had not improved.

It was crazy but it was as if someone handed Scott a life preserver, he had a little over a month to find her and understand her current marital situation. Even if he couldn’t figure out a way to contact her he would be at that place waiting.

About two weeks after Scott found his yearbook:

The last of the boxes from the attic now rested in the hallway waiting for Jennifer Stewart to make the final call as to which would go to the condominium, be given to charity, or be sent to the landfill. She had already separated much of her ex-husband’s, Luke, stuff and marked it to spend eternity buried along with the other trash produced by the people of Seattle. He would not need it after running off with her former best friend, Sally, to the country of Panama of all places. At least Jennifer had the last, bitter, laugh. The happy couple had barely settled in their seaside cottage to begin a lifetime of soaking up tropical sun when Sally had become infatuated with a Panamanian businessman leaving Luke in the lurch.

It was for the best; Jennifer realized that their marriage had limped along for years for the sake of the kids. Now with them safely in college she could begin her life anew. Moreover, her new life would be far simpler with the selling of the huge house that she had always hated and moving into a condominium allowing her to skip the tedious and expensive work of maintaining the place. First, she had to go through the dusty boxes in the hallway to see what she might keep with her.

Several hours later, she opened the last of the boxes and starting pouring through the contents. Inside were a bunch of LP’s, books, and other odd items that she figured at one time meant something. Cleaning out the bottom of the box were her high school yearbooks and feeling a need to reconnect she began looking through the pages. It was at the end of the yearbook for her senior year that that she saw the picture of her first love Scott and her sitting on the bench. The flood of emotion almost brought her to tears but what pushed her over the edge was the note she saw written at the bottom of the page. It was in Scott’s handwriting and it mentioned a promise they both made at their ten-year reunion.

Luke’s career had moved them all over the country through the years leaving her greatly surprised when she received the notice about her ten-year high school reunion. The organizers had gotten a great deal at a new Myrtle Beach resort and Sally jumped at the chance to fly back home and see old friends. Luke, who at that time hated to travel, stayed home letting Jennifer go alone. It was during one of the dances that old friends pushed Scott and her back together. Even though it was uncomfortable at first, they fell back into an easy familiar rhythm and since he had traveled alone as well, it was not long before old feelings started to reappear.

After slipping away from the resort, they strolled on the boardwalk and before long happened upon the old bench, lamppost, and bar where their last picture together was taken. Taking a seat on that bench the conversation about old times and the failure of their lives after went long and they were soon holding each other again. Sitting there, they knew the long forgotten emotions they were feeling were real. But the realization that they were still married to other people and for separate reasons could not break away from their marriages trumped everything. After a long kiss, they each made the promise that if things were not better in ten years they would meet again at the same place and try again.

Jennifer remembered that night and the promise, at first she tried to move on but something inside her refused to let it go. The next morning she began trying to find Scott’s address and number but as the days rolled by she was left with nothing but the promise and the feelings she knew still existed. When it came time, she could do nothing other than to make flight reservations, be waiting for him, and hope he would be there.