The Lure of the Garage

 

Chapter Three - Stepping On The Gas.

   He was driving his old car; a car the guys at the bar had always laughed at.  One of them, a friend, had taken him aside and said, "Max, you've got to get yourself a real vehicle."  The big cowboy looked dismissively at the almost pre-industrial Volvo.  "You know, a truck." 

   In Wyoming, there were three kinds of vehicles - pickups with brooms and beer cans in the bed, big cars with lots of power that were really oversized boats on spongy wheels, or tractors.  Max didn't care; the car had never stopped running and its mute loyalty appealed to him.

   He had been driving for eleven hours and because the radio had never worked he had a lot of time to think.  He was crossing the wide plains of Nebraska, late at night. 

   "You know," a calm seeming voice said. "This is probably unnecessary."

   He looked around.  He then heard himself say, "Couldn't you be an inventor in Wyoming?"

   He started laughing. 

   He kept thinking and, after a few minutes, though he didn't come right out and admit it, he realized that he had been a little homesick ever since he had left.  Escaped, he always called it.  He missed the green and the water.  His mom was there and he knew he missed her clear warmth and concern.  Her love.  Her cooking.  Her name was Rosemary and, like her name, she was a kind of spice that was in him and sprinkled all over and around him.

   He also missed his father.  Thinking about him made him grouchy and he growled at the dust on the dashboard.  It was a mixed thing.  He had loved him without a doubt, but C.J. had always been working.  He loved to work and Max felt that he had received less than his fair share of his father's time.  And, when he had seen him, it was like visiting with the encyclopedia.  Max never knew what he was talking about.  Maybe because of this, Max had hung around the garage incessantly watching and listening.  When he was younger he believed that if he simply took in the words and whatever action was going on, it wouldn't matter whether he understood or not, somehow his brain would digest it all and one day he would find that everything made sense and he and his father would be able to communicate.  He still believed in this general principle.  It was an optimism, though unproven, that he depended on.

   His mother had always been there when his father was "in the moment", as she put it.  "In the moment.” to Max, had meant his father and his assistant running around the garage in their white lab coats, waving their arms in the air and shouting.  As he thought of it now, his father had always seemed to be either "in the moment" or quite reserved.

   In his reserved moments he had a distant look on his face and a pencil in his hand with which he made constant notations and drawings.  A steaming mug of coffee never left his side.  To Max's requests for attention, his father had invariably replied, "That's wonderful.  Let me explain this to you," and then he would be off describing the workings of the microscope in front of them or, putting Max's small hand to the mug, he would explain the physics involved in heat transference.  Max was appreciative of the information but always went away a little frustrated.  He had "escaped" because of this frustration and, since his father's death, he had stayed away because he was afraid that it might still be there, floating in the thick air of the garage where he thought he had left it.

   Despite its age, Max's old car was maintaining a steady 70 miles per hour down the straight and seemingly endless freeway that ran east through Nebraska.  The headlights bore a bright tunnel through the night and the heater was working overtime to keep Max wrapped up and comfortable in the dark February cold.  He could have been anywhere.  At night, the road was just a road.  Scenery and variety, always a high point of freeway travel, slept like everything else, and all Max could see were the white lines racing toward him and the glow from the lights on the dash.  His thoughts were inescapable.

   "Well, big guy," he said out loud.  "I guess we're really doing this."

   There was no answer, but none was needed.  Max looked at himself in the mirror.  It was too dark to see but he knew the image that was reflected or would have been, given enough light.  Now, there was a physics problem and a philosophical one as well.  Does the mirror reflect without light?

   Max reached for the candy bar on the seat next to him and thought, I've still got a lot of hair, I'm not bad looking, and my teeth are straight.  It's true I could lose a few pounds and that I'm restless, hungry, and irritable, but is that any reason to go home?  What am I doing?  What do I think I'm going to find there?  Am I just going in circles?  What's the meaning of life?  Is God dead?  Do ants sleep?  Why do those 8 foot tall rabbits gather at each overpass?  The questions escalated. 

   It was time to pull over.  Max eased onto the ramp and rolled into an Amoco station which sat at the side of an empty road, next to an abandoned Stuckey's.  It was lit up in a desperate way, as if without the light, the pumps, the attendant, and all the tires, batteries, and cases of oil would slip into a deep sleep.

   He left the car in front of the pumps and went inside for coffee.  The place was empty.  As Max filled a large paper cup with fuel, he listened to the hum of the lights above him.  He sat down on a chair that complained but he was not sympathetic, only tired.  He closed his eyes and immediately opened them in shock.  He had seen the white lines still rushing toward him and was afraid he would fall asleep and end up in the ditch.  He took a deep shaky breath.  He was having trouble slowing down and began to wonder if he could sleep in the cold car. 

   Just then, he heard a rough voice say, "I'll show you," and then heard a terrible crash.  Max jumped to his feet and rushed past the counter full of candy and antacids and through the door into the garage area of the station.   There was no relief from the lights, as this area was lit up like the rest of the place.   Max looked around and in the corner he saw a tall man, dressed in one of those one-piece mechanic's outfits which are blue, tinged with the gray of the grease.  He had long stringy hair and he was sitting on the floor.  He was surrounded by junk and his head was in his hands.  He was muttering something.

   "Are you OK?"

   The man jumped, setting off more noise, and angrily said, "Don't sneak up on me like that."

   Max, still somewhat numb from the drive, was unmoved.  He repeated his question.

   The man, who Max saw was wearing sunglasses, got to his feet upsetting tools and parts and unidentifiable debris.  He brushed himself off and said, "Sorry.  You're the first person I've seen in four hours.  I get so spaced out here at night.  And these lights.  They drive me crazy."

   Max nodded.

   "What can I get you?"

   "Oh, I'll get some gas in a minute.  I had to pull off.  I was getting a little spaced out myself.  What are you working on?"

   The man, whose name was Jones, told him the whole story and, as he did, they examined parts, flexed hoses, and wiggled wires.  Over coffee, they discussed the problem and broke it down into separate principles and possibilities.  After about an hour of this, they were both looking at a part with wires hanging from it like a bad hairdo.  This was the crux of the matter.  Jones started shaking the part and swearing.  He gave Max a look, which the fluorescent lights might have exaggerated, and said, "I'll fix this."  He reached for a hammer.

   Max stared at the part and, at the last moment, stopped Jones from adjusting it out of existence by saying in his quiet voice, "Wait a minute.  Let me try something."

   Max placed the part on the workbench and bent over it with the concentration of a surgeon.  "Pliers."  Jones slapped the tool into Max's hand.  Max winced and shot him a reproving look.  "Staple gun."  Jones gently handed it over.  "Paper clip."  Max was working intensely now, his elbows flailing above his ears.  "Crazy glue."  The hand-off was precise.  Finally, Max straightened up, released the tension of the moment in a long exhale of breath, and looked at his assistant.

   "I think that's it."

   Max, with delicate care, returned the part to its proper place.  He tightened a couple of screws while Jones got behind the wheel.  Max gave him the nod.  Jones turned the key in the ignition and the engine roared back to life.  Jones switched it off and came over to Max.  He was beaming and thumped him on the back.

   "Too much.  You just pulled it right out of the hat."

   They celebrated by splitting a Kit Kat and each had another cup of coffee.  Eventually, Max filled his tank and prepared to leave.  Before he pulled away into what was left of the night, Jones leaned over and said through the window, "Thanks for your help.  It was beautiful.  If you ever need a job, just come on back.  Drive safe now, you hear?"  He slapped the roof of the old car and walked back into the light.

   Max fastened his seatbelt, found his way onto the freeway, and stepped on the gas.

The Lure of the Garage

 

Chapter Two - There's No Place Like Home.

   Home was Minnesota, the land of ice and snow.  Or, as the state tourism board optimistically put it, the place "where many are called, but few are frozen.”  And though it was only early November when Max arrived, the snow had already begun to pile up.

   Max had not been home in six years, not since he returned for his father's funeral.  At that sad time, he took a night flight in from Wyoming; his boots still caked with dirt.  The funeral had been uncomfortable for him, not only because he knew he would miss his father and had felt the loss go straight to his heart, but because everyone - before, during, and after - had looked at him with eyes full of expectation.  That's how he saw it.  The only son, the (now) head of the family, the next inventor.  Even his mother seemed to look at him in a new way.  It was as if not only his father had died, but also a part of himself.

   This had confused Max.  He was having enough trouble accepting the fact that his father was dead, without having to assume a new kind of identity that he hadn't prepared himself for.  He had always felt himself capable of understanding only one thing at a time, and in the proper order, even though this was totally untrue.  It was one of the reasons he was in Wyoming.

   After all the talking was through and everyone had left, his mother had said quietly, "Your father was a good man and had a big heart.  He was always proud of you and loved you and he hoped that you, too, would become an inventor."

   Max nodded and sighed and began to look toward the door.

   "There's always a place for you here.  The garage has everything you need." 

   She hesitated. 

   "I'd even make bread pudding for you, from time to time."

   Max smiled, but said nothing.  He looked at his mother with love, both for her and her bread pudding.

   His mother looked away for a moment and, then, straightened up. 

   "Well, you're a big boy now and you'll know what it is you need to do.  The door is always open." 

   She reached into her pocket and removed an envelope.  She touched his arm gently as she handed it to him. 

   "Your father left this letter for you.  See you at dinner."

   He went to his room and removed the single sheet of paper from the plain envelope which bore his name, written in his father's round hand.  Max thought of the cryptic postcards his father used to send him, all written in that crude  handwriting and containing some obscure message.  It had never been - "Having a wonderful time.  Wish you were here."  It had been more likely –

Or –

 

   But now his father was gone.  Max took a deep breath.

  The letter read:

                                                                                 Late Monday night

         My Dear Max,

         I am expecting many more fruitful years, but I am thinking of this now and      

so, while the iron is hot... 

        I have had my time and, except for getting involved with the Navy, I think I have been able to use it well.  You are my only son and, though a father likes to wish what he thinks best on the one he cares most about, a wise father knows that his son has a mind of his own.  A life of his own.

        A wise father would say, "If wrestling muddy animals in Wyoming is what makes you happy, then I am glad for you.  Go wrestle them to the best of your ability."

        Unwisely, I say to you that I have observed a gift in you for invention and that for you to do anything else would be an entire waste of your time and talents.  Your grandfather would be amazed at your potential and would immediately claim responsibility.  I, too, am amazed, but am not so presumptuous.

        When you read this I will be dead, but my love will be with you always.  The garage is now yours to do with as you think best.  Do what you want, but a life in which one creates for the benefit of others is not a bad one.  Do not destroy any of my papers.  You may someday find them useful.  Take care of your mother and stay away from sweets.

                                                               Your loving father,

                                         

                                                                            

   Max was moved by his father's words.  The house was quiet and, as he sat there, he seemed to be able to feel his father's spirit hovering in the hallway outside his door.  He felt, also, the somewhat heavier spirit of his grandfather making his way downstairs for dinner.  These feelings disturbed him and, absently, he searched in his pocket for a mint.

   At dinner, he made no mention of the letter.  He could tell that his mother was trying her best not to, but all the same, was giving him that look of expectation he dreaded.  As he pushed his beets around on the plate, he told her of his decision to return to Wyoming.  She had smiled thinly and nodded, and then rose to get the dessert from the oven.  He knew what that dessert was, but still he didn't, he couldn't, change his mind.

   That was six years ago and during those six years he had written faithfully and in detail to his mother.  He had tried hard to forget his father's words.  He had eaten a lot of sweets and many things had happened.  He had often thought, with a hint of regret, despite the weather, that his life in Minnesota was firmly in the past.  But now, he realized that something very much like destiny was following him and he changed his mind.  Returning home would either put the demons of invention to rest or encourage them in a way he didn't really want to contemplate.  He was on his way home.  He didn't know what to expect, but at least he knew how to get there.

Happy Birthday, Mr. Tesla!

 

Speaking of Garages, he did his part.

The Lure of the Garage

Chapter Two - There's No Place Like Home

   Home was Minnesota, the land of ice and snow.  Or, as the state tourism board optimistically put it, the place "where many are called, but few are frozen.”  And though it was only early November when Max arrived, the snow had already begun to pile up.

   Max had not been home in six years, not since he returned for his father's funeral.  At that sad time, he took a night flight in from Wyoming; his boots still caked with dirt.  The funeral had been uncomfortable for him, not only because he knew he would miss his father and had felt the loss go straight to his heart, but because everyone - before, during, and after - had looked at him with eyes full of expectation.  That's how he saw it.  The only son, the (now) head of the family, the next inventor.  Even his mother seemed to look at him in a new way.  It was as if not only his father had died, but also a part of himself.

   This had confused Max.  He was having enough trouble accepting the fact that his father was dead, without having to assume a new kind of identity that he hadn't prepared himself for.  He had always felt himself capable of understanding only one thing at a time, and in the proper order, even though this was totally untrue.  It was one of the reasons he was in Wyoming.

   After all the talking was through and everyone had left, his mother had said quietly, "Your father was a good man and had a big heart.  He was always proud of you and loved you and he hoped that you, too, would become an inventor."

   Max nodded and sighed and began to look toward the door.

   "There's always a place for you here.  The garage has everything you need." 

   She hesitated. 

   "I'd even make bread pudding for you, from time to time."

   Max smiled, but said nothing.  He looked at his mother with love, both for her and her bread pudding.

   His mother looked away for a moment and, then, straightened up. 

   "Well, you're a big boy now and you'll know what it is you need to do.  The door is always open." 

   She reached into her pocket and removed an envelope.  She touched his arm gently as she handed it to him. 

   "Your father left this letter for you.  See you at dinner."

   He went to his room and removed the single sheet of paper from the plain envelope which bore his name, written in his father's round hand.  Max thought of the cryptic postcards his father used to send him, all written in that crude  handwriting and containing some obscure message.  It had never been - "Having a wonderful time.  Wish you were here."  It had been more likely -

    Or –

   But now his father was gone.  Max took a deep breath.

  The letter read:

                                                                                 Late Monday night

         My Dear Max,

         I am expecting many more fruitful years, but I am thinking of this now and      

so, while the iron is hot... 

        I have had my time and, except for getting involved with the Navy, I think I have been able to use it well.  You are my only son and, though a father likes to wish what he thinks best on the one he cares most about, a wise father knows that his son has a mind of his own.  A life of his own.

        A wise father would say, "If wrestling muddy animals in Wyoming is what makes you happy, then I am glad for you.  Go wrestle them to the best of your ability."

        Unwisely, I say to you that I have observed a gift in you for invention and that for you to do anything else would be an entire waste of your time and talents.  Your grandfather would be amazed at your potential and would immediately claim responsibility.  I, too, am amazed, but am not so presumptuous.

        When you read this I will be dead, but my love will be with you always.  The garage is now yours to do with as you think best.  Do what you want, but a life in which one creates for the benefit of others is not a bad one.  Do not destroy any of my papers.  You may someday find them useful.  Take care of your mother and stay away from sweets.

       Your loving father,                 

                                                                                                                                        

   Max was moved by his father's words.  The house was quiet and, as he sat there, he seemed to be able to feel his father's spirit hovering in the hallway outside his door.  He felt, also, the somewhat heavier spirit of his grandfather making his way downstairs for dinner.  These feelings disturbed him and, absently, he searched in his pocket for a mint.

   At dinner, he made no mention of the letter.  He could tell that his mother was trying her best not to, but all the same, was giving him that look of expectation he dreaded.  As he pushed his beets around on the plate, he told her of his decision to return to Wyoming.  She had smiled thinly and nodded, and then rose to get the dessert from the oven.  He knew what that dessert was, but still he didn't, he couldn't, change his mind.

   That was six years ago and during those six years he had written faithfully and in detail to his mother.  He had tried hard to forget his father's words.  He had eaten a lot of sweets and many things had happened.  He had often thought, with a hint of regret, despite the weather, that his life in Minnesota was firmly in the past.  But now, he realized that something very much like destiny was following him and he changed his mind.  Returning home would either put the demons of invention to rest or encourage them in a way he didn't really want to contemplate.  He was on his way home.  He didn't know what to expect, but at least he knew how to get there.

 

Happy Birthday, Mr. Tesla!

Speaking of garages, he did his part.

The Lure of the Garage

The Lure of the Garage

by

Ted Ringer

Chapter One - The Call of the Wild

   He stood at the end of a long line of inventors.  This line consisted of himself, his father, and his father before him, or as we say in modern usage, his grandfather.  This may not seem like a long line, but it involved over 100 years of trying to make something from nothing and, at the same time, keep food on the table.  His father and grandfather had done just that and had done it with both style and success.  Until he came along, the line had been quite straight but not necessarily narrow.

   His grandfather, Charles Maxwell Colvin, or Charles, the First, as he liked to be called, had been a loud, overweight man with large whiskers.  He had invented, among other things, a kind of tube that vastly improved radio reception.  He always referred to this invention as "The Miracle."  This one invention had made it possible for his family to live in luxury.  It also allowed his grandson, the present inventor, to spend his childhood nights tuning in the important games from Chicago or rock and roll from Oklahoma City or news from Des Moines.  His grandfather, had he lived, would probably have shuddered at the content of these programs, but it had been the device and its mechanics and not its ultimate uses that had sparked his interest.

   The son of Charles, the First, Charles Maxwell Colvin, Jr., had been called C.J.  He hated being referred to as Junior.  He was a more quiet man, perhaps subdued by his father's volume, and had, among his many creations, developed a sonar-based improvement during the war that the Navy snapped up and ordered into the classified mists.  He was not enamored of the military, especially after this experience, and he spent the rest of his life working on items he thought might truly benefit mankind at large.  Items such as comfortable hair curlers or a fountain pen that would write at any angle or, his favorite, a special nail polish for classical guitarists.

   Both forebears had died while working.  His grandfather, from a blow to the head, caused by a low beam of considerable thickness.  He had encountered this as he responded to a bell, an invention of which he was quite proud, that signaled dinner.  They found him on the floor of his workroom amidst half-finished projects.  For once, he didn't look hungry.  The father of our present day inventor had died of an apparent heart attack, possibly occasioned by a discovery no one could understand.  His last words had been "I think I've got it!"  These deaths, in the line of duty, had a profound impact on Charles Maxwell Colvin III, known as, Max.  They scared him.

   Max, the invention of his creative father and patient mother, had, without actually deciding such a course, steered himself away from inventing.  As a student, he was receptive, though unfocused, and possessed enough curiosity to be considered dangerous by his teachers, but, once out of school, he tried hard to place himself beyond the range of what his father had called, "the Lure of the Garage" - that being the place where all this inventing supposedly took place.

   As a result, he had done ranch work in Wyoming.  He had driven large trucks in Colorado.  He had worked as a printer in Wisconsin.  These had been wonderful experiences for him, but ultimately they proved to be disasters.  In Wyoming, in response to what was referred to there as ‘ornery critters’, he created a system of metal fencing that caught on big time.  In Colorado, at a desperate moment, he made a kind of tire chain out of plastic soda pop holders that, with a few modifications, went on to become standard equipment on mountain passes.  And, in Wisconsin, after he found himself threatening a printing press with a hammer, he came to his senses and devised a paper feeder that made the hammer unnecessary.

   No matter what he did or where he went, it seemed he couldn't escape his heritage of inventing.  It asserted itself at moments of crisis.  It whispered to him as he showered in the morning.  It suggested improvements as he crossed at the streetlight.  It shouted at him as he balanced his checkbook. 

 

   He never intended to come up with these things.  He had never worked in the methodical way of inventors to improve things; it never occurred to him.  They simply popped out in response to a need and, as they did, Max feared that he was hearing that call of the garage he had been trying all his life to leave behind.

   It worried him.  He kept moving from place to place, but it did no good.  He was afraid to lie down at night because his dreams were filled with discoveries he would rather forget.  A doorknocker that tap danced.  A non-clogging drain.  Unbreakable shoelaces.  This kind of thing, this obsession with making, had killed his father and had indirectly brought about his grandfather's death and he wanted no part of it.

 

   He tried hypnosis, he sought out non-materialistic religions, he considered the Foreign Legion but, in the end, he found that all driveways led to that innocent-looking hotbed of activity.  The lure of the garage had proven itself too strong for him.  His genes had spoken.  His past had shaken hands with his present.  He was going home.

Fit To love - Part 4

I was in the best shape of my life and I had already had coffee with a beautiful girl. Not bad for three weeks of hard work. And, yet…  I ached with love.

Does that sound desperate? Okay. But I had waited this long and, if it took a little longer, so what? 

I worked hard for the next few days. The sweat flew! I strained with the incredible weight of the world, and of my dreams. 

I began to think I was taking this a little too seriously, if not a bit too dramatically. Was I wrong? No. Just delirious.

My iPod was full of inspirational messages and affirmations. I’m da one! Here I’m is. You can’t always get what you want. But if you… 

I kept my eyeballs peeled for an opportunity. The right time. The right girl. The right song. Do you love me? Now, that I can … 

Watch me now. Uhh! There’s a lot to be said for exercise. No matter what. Right now, my endorphins were swimming with the whales.

It began to seem like I had been at this gym forever. And, yet, it had only been a month. $25! Okay, $26.75. Now, that’s a deal. 

Silent TVs hung from the ceiling. Lots of them. I got the news. I learned how to sauté. I was getting caught up on the 80s! The 90s! 

Politics became just a bunch of guys moving their mouths, saying nothing. It seemed like everyone else was a cop or dissecting a body.

On one screen, to keep us in line, I suppose, were two very hot babes and a hunky guy, exercising near a beach in Mexico. Or, Hawaii. Or…

Love was burning a hole in my pocket. Wait, that doesn’t sound right. But it was overpowering. It was as if…

As if, Little Richard had just appeared on top of the piano. As if, Caesar had just split Gaul into four pieces.  As if, General Sherman had just set fire to the Dairy Queen on the other side of town. As if, 6 were 9. As if, grits were groceries. 

This love was a love with no object. A love with no subject. A burning hunk of love. A groovy kind of love. No present and no past.

There was a love inside of me, desperate to get out. Desperate to get out and have some fun. Desperate, but not in a weird way. 

I’m an optimist. I took stock. Young, handsome, and hopeful. It would take more than this to discourage me. Loyal, brave, clean, kind… 

Cheerful, courteous, friendly, helpful, obedient, reverent, and trustworthy. Does that sound too good to be true? Okay, forget obedient.

You might think that in a context like this, love was happening to everyone, all the time. You’d be wrong. That only happens in fiction. 

For the rest of us, love is usually going down one street, while we’re going up the other. It’s going home, when we just got here. 

Hope abounds, but reality is like dirt. Easy to come by, but hard to wash off. With that in mind, I headed for the showers.

Fit To Love - Part 3

 

This posting is a continuation of a novel, Fit To Love, that I am writing on Twitter.  It’s here, in case you are not a Twitterer.  Many are not.  On Twitter, each entry can be only 140 characters in length, including spaces.  This is a structure that requires a different kind of writing than any other.  Hmmm… 

As our last installment ended, our hero had been working out, developing himself into a man whose muscles called out to the softer parts of a woman and drew her to him like a magnet.  Or, so he thought.   So far, he has struck out at each encounter, but he is hopeful and determined.

The first three entries are in the Twitter format to give you a feel for this unique medium.

Heck, I didn’t want to be like that. I saw myself as debonair, suave, sophisticated, and a prince among men. Oh, who was I kidding? 7:36 AM Aug 15th, 2009 via twhirl

I WAS debonair, suave, sophisticated, and some kind of royalty. And, yet, just a guy. A guy who longed for a girl. I mean, woman. 7:59 AM Aug 16th, 2009 via twhirl

Exercise, for whatever purpose, is a noble thing. No matter your intentions, your heart will always benefit. Mine was pounding. 8:08 AM Aug 17th, 2009 via twhirl

It seemed everywhere I looked, each possibility was working out. At the treadmill. At the rowing machine. With the dumbbells.  

This was encouraging. Grandpa, a dumbbell himself, had always said, keeping everlastingly at it brought success.  He might not have had this in mind.

He would have thought I was crazy – he always did – but so what? This was wisdom in action.

I refined my search for love. I developed a set of principles. I decided I would not stand for failure. Love would conquer all. 

The next few times, at the club, I worked on myself, so to speak. In particular, my abs, which were more keg, than six-pack. 

Sure, I saw there were gorgeous women everywhere. But I was doing everything I could to prevent the kind of rejection I had gotten so far. 

I tried to keep my head down and my mind focused. One, two, three. One, two, three. That’s how elementary, it’s gonna be.

Simplicity was the key. Keep breathing. Don’t stop. Till you get enough. Ok, I wasn’t swearing, but these tunes were making me crazy. 

As I gazed at the mirror, I could see the progress I was making. I could also see a blond, with long legs, on the bike behind me.  

She was pedaling, but getting nowhere. Perhaps the time was right. I felt good. I would go over there and end her loneliness.

I walked nearer and gave a small wave. She looked at me and pedaled faster. Was I scary or something? What could I do? I smiled.

She skidded to a stop, leaned forward, and asked, ‘Was I going too fast?‘ Who was the flirt here? “No, but don’t let it happen again.” 

She tried not to smile. Wow, I was good! “Maybe we could ride together sometime? Or, get a cup of coffee?” Smooth devil. 

Our plan was to meet at Vic’s the next morning, before our workouts. I couldn’t sleep the night before. I had been practicing coffee.

I splashed on, “Eau de Love”, and pulled up my collar. I brushed my teeth and turned my eyebrows on extra cool. I headed out. 

The sun! Morning! I felt like a million bucks. Coffee was now as important to me as it was to normal people. Wow! Let the love begin. 

She was beautiful. She was a treat for sore eyes. No, a feast. Her complexion was creamy. Her hair was like frosting. I was hungry. 

Hungry for love. She smelled like coffee. No, that must have been what we ordered. That, and a couple of muffins.

The first thing she said was, Hi. It was like music. She kept talking and I was floating, like Pepe Le Pew, upon the sound of her voice.

I tried to tell her of my feelings. Of my endless, so far, search for love. She talked on, as if I wasn’t even there. She took a breath. 

I jumped in, but she blinked her eyes and asked for another muffin. I got it. She smiled and began again. I gazed at her, silent and sad.

I guess that, back at the gym, she had been exercising too hard to talk and now had returned to her regular M.O. OMG! Was she 4 real? 

After about 45 minutes, she looked at me, a little startled. Like I was someone she hadn’t yet been introduced to. Well, we did just meet.

 

House MD - Vampire Killer

 

 

“What’s House going to think of this?”

“His process is always going to be a mystery to me.  And, I really don’t care.”

Foreman went back to his reading.  It looked suspiciously like a comic book.

People had been dropping like flies all week, not that that was unusual.  To quote House, “There’re always more where they came from.”   

He was expected back any minute.  Dr. House had been on a forced vacation.  Orders from Cuddy.  No one knew where he was or how to get in touch with him, they only knew he wasn’t at the beach.  It was February and House hated the water.  “It’s wet,” he once famously explained.

“Did someone die in here?  I don’t recognize any signs of life.”  House stood in the door, leaning on his cane.  He had three additional days of beard and a scowl on his face. 

Foreman actually sat up – not a sign of respect, he was just reaching for a soda - and said facetiously, “Welcome back.”  He started to fill House in on the latest run of disease. 

“Just give me the good ones.”

Foreman looked over at Chase and began to relate how there had been four patients with unusual symptoms.  “Heavy loss of blood, puncture marks, and enlarged lymph nodes.”

House didn’t move.  “How enlarged?”

“Out of the ordinary.  Two of them died.”

“From node fat?  You guys are getting careless.”

Foreman took a deep breath, trying to control his temper.  He was already exasperated and House had just gotten back. 

Just then, Cuddy came up behind House, said “My office.” She turned and walked away.  House rolled his eyes and swung around, leaving the two doctors shaking their heads.

House closed the door to her office and said, ”I missed you, Sweetie.”

Cuddy ignored this and slapped a file down onto the desk for House to inspect.   He winked at her and leaned toward the file.  After a second, he sat down hard, in the chair.  He absently rubbed his bad leg.  He reached into his pocket, took out a small plastic pill bottle and emptied it into his mouth.

“Stop that!”

“Cuddy, this is serious.”

“Dead usually is.”

House shrugged.  “Maybe.” 

He turned and went to his office to think.

He closed the door and pulled the curtains.  He stared into the darkness.  He had hoped to never see a case like this.   But the file had said it all.  His mind traveled back to the scene of his accident.  The accident that was the cause of everything – his limp, his addiction, his attitude.  Well, maybe not his attitude, he had always been bent out of shape.

He had always said it was a motorcycle accident that had injured his leg, but there, in the darkness, he relived that moment the way it had really happened.  He was hiking in the Poconos, alone, the way he liked it.  It was getting dark and he was on his way back to his motorcycle (that part was true), when he heard a noise just off the trail.  He stopped and called out.  After a moment, he began walking again, and then two shadows appeared a few yards in front of him. 

One was man, he knew enough anatomy for that identification, and the other was a small dog.  The man was in black and the dog was a small mutt of some kind, also black.  He came closer and saw to his horror that both man and dog had eyes that were red and almost glowing and that they were breathing heavily.  On closer inspection, he saw that their mouths were stained with blood.

For a second, House considered the symptoms, but before he could reach any conclusion, the dog leapt for him and sunk his long incisors into House’s right leg.  Everything sped up then and all of them were screaming.

With a kick, House sent the dog flying and ran past the man toward his bike.  Luckily, it was pointed in the right direction and the engine started immediately.  House raced away, the blood gushing from his leg and covering the motorcycle. 

He rushed to the hospital, was treated, but never told anyone the real story.  He never had.  He tried to forget it and had almost convinced himself that he had actually been in an accident. 

Years passed, but now, faced with medical evidence that only he was crazy enough to recognize, he realized he had to do something to put an end to it.  He knew the truth and knew he couldn’t deny it any longer.  He had to stop this, before it grew into a deadly pandemic.  He was no longer just House MD, he must now become, House – Vampire Killer.

John Wayne - Demon Hunter

 

“I’ll tell you this, but don’t make too much of it.”

He cocked his head my way and, for a moment, squinted imposingly at me.  He turned then and looked away from the campfire, out into the darkness.  I had admired this man my entire life.  He was an icon.  A cowboy.  A soldier.  A hard-bitten, hard drinking, survivor of many battles and betrayals.  He always got his man and he always got even.

We had finished the interview that afternoon and I was going back to New York the next morning. 

 I assumed it was just a story.

“Well, kid, it sounds like one, but … “ He began coughing.  This went on for a while and I thought about the distance to the nearest town. 

He stopped at last and took a slug from the bottle we were passing back and forth.

He nodded his thanks. 

“We were in Europe filming The Longest Day.   It was wet as hell and wasn’t getting any better.  We couldn’t shoot and were just hanging around waiting.  At this point, we had been drunk for a couple of days.  This scrawny little kid came up and started pulling on my sleeve.  His English was terrible, but we got the idea that he needed our help. 

“He took me and Bob Mitchum to a little house.  A shack, really, and a woman, good looking, too, who spoke a little better than he did, told us a wild tale about some guy who lived in their village, a big shot.  Had a big house and all.

“The kid said his dad had gone to see this guy and never returned.  Bob and I rolled our eyes and told him he’d probably be back soon.  The kid and the woman were really worked up and convinced us to go see this guy.  What the hell, we thought.  We weren’t doing anything anyway.  Maybe we could help?

“By the time we got to the big house, it was dark and the weather had gotten worse, if that was possible.  We knocked at this huge door that looked as if it had been there forever.”

He started coughing again and I wondered if he was really sick or doing this for effect.  He took another swig.  He was quiet, immobile, as if he were looking into the past.

“And… “ I prompted.

“Well, we were kept waiting there, while the butler, or whatever he was, went to get the guy.  He finally appeared and looked like Halloween, only scarier.   Cape, black hair, the whole thing.  Bob started laughing and said, ‘Count, we’re very glad to meet you.’  He was a tall guy and bowed toward us and smiled.  His teeth looked huge and sharp.   His gums were blood red.  The boy and his mother hid behind us.

“Well, as I said, I was pretty looped, but this guy scared me plenty and I wanted to get the hell out of there.   I blurted out, ‘What about his dad?’

“The count, or whatever he was, drew himself up and his smile turned nasty.  He raised his arms and was holding the cape out at his sides, like he was going to take off or something.

“Bob, in that smooth manner and deep voice he had, slowly buttered him up and we made our apologies and left.  I felt like a little girl, but we almost ran back to the village.   That’s the way the whole thing started.”

“Jesus!”

“Jesus is right.  Scared the hell out of me.  We talked about it all night and went back the next day, but the whole placed was closed up.  It was as if no one had ever been there. 

“Before we went back to the States, I promised both of them I’d try to find out what had happened.  That was the beginning of something that has been as important to me as my career and has been a part of my life ever since.  I’m not going to tell you anymore than that.  So, don’t even bother asking.”

“Are you kidding?  What a story!”

He looked at me, nailing me with his good eye. 

“Kid, it isn’t a story.  And, if anyone asks me about it, I’ll deny it.”

That’s the way we left it.  I thought about it all the way back to New York.   It was unbelievable and, maybe he was just putting me on, but it’s something I’ve never forgotten.  It’s haunted me ever since.