Less Of Me
Edward Goble
Copyright 2008 by Edward Goble
Smashwords Edition
ISBN 978-1-4659-2003-4
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Cover design by Bluegrass Creative | www.bluegrasscreative.com
Chapter 1
Andy’s Weblog, November 1
Invisible
The worst part of being overweight and single is being invisible. As a kid the idea of being invisible sounds neat, sneaking into the girls locker room, eavesdropping on parents, real spy stuff. But now that there are a few years separating me from puberty I’ve discovered that getting what you pray for can be a real drag. How can people love someone they can’t see? I’m a paradox. I take up twice the physical space as most men, impossible to miss, yet somehow, completely invisible.
In the checkout line at the market my eyes never meet those of the checker. I am never given more than a glance, usually partnered with an edge of disdain as her eyes steer back to the belt full of food that, in her mind, is the last thing I need. Fat people shouldn’t eat. It’s worse at a restaurant. If I ever make the mistake of visiting a buffet-style eatery, any appetite I brought into the place is quickly squelched by the disapproving looks of both employees and patrons. They don’t see me, they see my waistline, they don’t see a man, they see an eating machine.
I know I’m not alone in this depressing dynamic. It’s the same for homely people, old people and even skinny people, the ones who get knocked around in a crowd and pushed off the sidewalk and whos clothes hang from spindly limbs. Actually, I wish I had some clothes that draped, mine cling to every bulge like plastic wrap. Skinny girls do okay if they have big eyes and high cheeks, boney legs up to there and a “screw you” facial expression. Look at any magazine cover. They might suck prunes all day, but at least they aren’t invisible. I guess my face says, “Look away now or I’ll eat you!”
I wouldn’t, though.
Andy
Andy tilted his head and imagined a band of ravenous fat people foraging through the mall like the zombies from Dawn of the Dead. The beep of his phone ruined the visual.
“Andy,” he answered, as usual.
“My man! How’s it going out there?”
“Oh, you know, doin’ what I do.”
“That’s what I like to hear, got a deadline to meet you know.”
“Yeah. I don’t know, Will... I might need a little more time.”
“Time is something we don’t have, my prolific pal. The publisher wants a manuscript by Thanksgiving. That’s November 24th, you realize - deadline for the catalog? We don’t deliver and they push us back another quarter - that’s bad karma, Big’n.”
“I’m not gonna send up a piece of crap just to make a deadline.”
“Of course you won’t. It’ll be brilliant. Just get it done on time, that’s all.”
“You know, your little pep talks don’t really inspire my creative side.”
“You want a cheerleader call your mother.”
“I need a new agent.”
“And I need a bestseller from my number one author.”
“Whatever.”
“Now, Andy, I’m being serious about this. You’re at the top of your game. We have to keep up the momentum right now, there will be plenty of time to slow down and write your opus. We’ve got to feed the appetite for Rance Broadback that you created—people want to know what happens next, people need it, they have to have it.
“You make it sound so serious. It’s not a polio vaccine for cripes-sake, it’s a friggin’ spy novel.”
“It’s an important work of contemporary adult fiction. How’s it coming, by the way?”
“I’ve got the pages all numbered, now I just have to fill in the rest,” he said, which was actually pretty close to the truth. The fact was that Andy had wasted six months and was now staring at a nearly impossible deadline. But his agent probably wouldn’t find any humor in that.
“Leave the comedy to Carlin, would ya?”
“It’ll be done when it’s done, all right?”
“Okay. I trust you... Did you hear that, Big Guy? I trust you.”
“Yeah, okay, talk to you later.” Andy clicked the phone shut and thought, “That guy really knows how to wind my clock.” “Big Guy,” he mocked, “Grrhh.” Sometimes he had to remind himself that William Heard was the only agent in New York that would even look at his first book. The others all had some reason why The President’s Reception wouldn’t work for them. Will took a chance, and it changed Andy Boyd’s life.
Pushing back from his computer desk, he stepped through the short hallway of his smallish, two story row house, just north of Fisherman’s Wharf in North Beach. The neighborhood had been hit pretty hard by the quake in 1989, but the restoration effort had been miraculous. He bought this place with the royalties from the second Broadback novel, A Ring and a Prayer, which was the first time his name appeared on the bestseller list.
Built in 1942 and updated in 1993 by the previous owners, the only thing he didn’t like about the place was humping groceries up the stairs. At least he had a garage, a luxury in San Francisco. He was one of the oddballs that actually owned a car, a 2001 Buick that provided a custom fit for his generous hindquarters. Most people used BART, bikes and feet for transportation around the city, which Andy envied, but could not imagine. Anything that put him in competition for space, like finding a seat on a crowded train or bus, made him nauseous. He once bought a ticket on Southwest Airlines to attend a book signing in Southern California. When he got to the gate and found out the plane was open seating, he cancelled the appearance. He couldn’t bring himself to board the airplane.
He entered the neatly kept kitchen space and pulled a clean glass from the strainer by the sink, filling it with crushed ice from the door of the refrigerator, he poured in a can of Chocolate Royale Slim-fast drink. He looked in the refrigerator, as he always did, as if it might contain something new since the last time he peaked, shut it and walked to the living room bay window, which overlooked Chestnut Street. He loved the city. It wasn’t really built for people of girth, but he loved it anyway. There was so much energy, so many unusual people, most of them focused and busy like they had been plugged in all night and had a full charge when they hit the streets the next morning. He could stand at his window for hours on end, nursing his diet shake and sometimes a donut or three. The street held his imagination like a child watching the presents under a glistening tree on Christmas Eve.
Andy sucked a coating of thick chocolate off an ice cube and splurt it back into his glass as he studied the street below him. The lunch crowd was beginning the daily walk-race to the local eateries, which was always fun to watch from above the fray, but Andy’s eye locked on to a bike messenger wheeling to a stop outside a little deli on the corner, just down and across from his place. The young man seemed extra cautious as he locked his Trek and retrieved a small package and clipboard from his backpack. He scanned the street in each direction before entering the shop. The messenger exited moments later, stowed the clipboard and pedaled away as the owner of the deli, Mr. Martin—pronounced Marteen, followed him to the threshold of the open door holding the small brown paper wrapped box. Looking back and forth down Chestnut himself, Mr. Martin finally moved the doorstop, a gallon can of Romano’s Tomato paste, allowing the door to swing shut as he backed into the shop out of sight.
Andy watched for a few more minutes while his imagination tried to convince him that the same dark Lincoln had passed conspicuously in front of the business twice, the glass on the sides and back of the car tinted darker than the charcoal paint job. “If I stand here long enough the next book will write itself,” he announced to the empty house as the ring of the phone once again interrupted his train of thought. It was his mother.
“I don’t know, Mom, I’m doing fine. I’m just busy.”
“Busy. I know. I think you’re too busy, if you want to know. I think you work too much.”
“Well, I don’t. Really. Compared to most of the people in the city, I’m an absolute sloth,” Andy said to his biggest fan.
“Creative work is different, Andy. Don’t feel lazy just because you are more introspective. You’re like a fine wine, if you want the good stuff, you have to be patient.” Janice Boyd was part mother, part Zen philosopher.
“Do you write your own material, Mother? Because that was just silly.”
“I just know you. You are brilliant, you are creative, you are thoughtful and caring. You’re one in a million, Andy. The world is a better place with you around.”
“Now you’re making me ill.”
“I read your blog this morning.”
“Mother. Why?”
“If you want your thoughts to be private then you shouldn’t post them...”
“But...”
“And - you shouldn’t have shown your mother how to subscribe. So it’s your fault. I read it with my coffee.”
“That’s it, I’m going into hiding.”
“Don’t say that. I love it. I can’t wait to read it each morning, but...”
“But?”
“Well, I’m concerned, that’s all...”
“Mom, I...”
“Andy, I just wish you wouldn’t dwell so much on your weight, you are a handsome, wonderful young man.”
“I’m a hundred pounds overweight.”
“You are not.”
“Mom, I don’t have time for this conversation. Really, I’ve got a deadline.”
“Okay. I’m sorry... Are you eating?”
“Mother? Geez. Can we talk about something else?”
“Well, Marg is taking me to San Jose to a religious crusade tomorrow night - that should be interesting.”
“That Jimmy Wheat thing? I got something in the mail about that.”
“Mmm, I think it’s his son.”
“Wait. His son? There are two of them?
“I don’t know. I suppose.”
“Is Marg driving?”
“Mhmm, I get lost down there. Why?”
“I was just going to tell you to leave your wallet at home, that’s all. They can’t take what you don’t have.”
“Andrew Peter!”
“I’m sorry! I’ve just heard about those big religious things. All the emotional hype, the pleas for money - and I guess they really rake it in.”
“Marg says these folks are doing a lot of good things down in Mississippi, Louisiana, building houses and all. They’re even in North Korea, invited in to build hospitals.”
“Somebody’s got to pay for all that.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m sorry. I love you, just don’t get crazy on me, okay?”
“It wouldn’t hurt you to read your Bible once in a while, would it?”
“I did. I remember the story about the fat King who was sitting on the commode and a left-handed assassin snuck in and killed him with a knife. Stabbed him right on the pot.”
“You’re making that up, that’s not in the Bible.”
“Look it up... Ask Marg. Ask Jimmy...”
“Well... I want to go, I really do. I don’t know about you, but I’d like to know if there is more out there, you know, after this life.”
“And I’m sure you’ll tell me if you find out.”
“Only if you want me to.”
“Mom, I’m just being a smart ass, of course I want you to.”
“Okay then... Listen, about your weight and all. Really...”
“I know. I love you. I’ll talk to you later.”
“I love you, too.”
Andy hung up the phone and looked at the time-stamp in the toolbar of his iBook, 11:48 am. He put both elbows on the desk and rubbed his eyes and forehead. He stared at the blue desktop of the computer, as if it might hold the answers to his weight problem and the more pressing issue of his manuscript deadline. It didn’t. After a quick shower he pulled on some sweat pants and his Alcatraz Triathlon t-shirt (Dig/Swim/Run), grabbed his wallet, keys and a windbreaker, and headed to Martin’s for a sandwich. The diet shake had made him hungry.
Chapter 2
The door was still closed at Martin’s Deli as he approached, he pulled it open, holding it for two young women who looked right past him as they exited with their purchase. “I blend,” he thought. “No need to thank me, I do this for a living,” he wished he had said. A string of bells tied to the inside handle chattered and bounced against the door as he pulled it closed, entering the nearly empty little eatery. There were six round tables, two against the front window and four running up the sidewall toward the restrooms. Each was fitted with small wooden chairs and red and white-checkered plastic tablecloths, “Plastic cloths, that’s an oxymoron,” he quipped to himself. The walls were covered with posters, he supposed, of Italy, Germany, or at least Europe somewhere - only the Leaning Tower of Pizza and the Coliseum were notable among the landscapes and shorelines. Along with the posters were old advertising slicks for bread, cheese and wine, and a few headshots signed by stars that, presumably, had eaten at Martin’s at some point. The deli case itself was at least five feet tall, and the top was stacked with biscotti and baskets of dry salami so high that the slightly built Martin’s disappeared behind it. To communicate with customers, the Martin’s would crouch and shout and point through the cold glass of the case, “You vaun the gorgonzola? Von pound?”
The only sound in the place at the moment was coming from two ancient ceiling fans that spun so slowly you wondered if they moved any air at all. Their low hum, mixed with the buzz of the fluorescent lights and the ever-present opera that emanated from an old boom box that sat underneath a disheveled stack of paperwork behind the cash register. Behind the deli case were shelves of fresh bread, meat and cheese cutters, a long counter and stove with various pots of soups and sauces brewing away. Beyond the counter was a door that led to the small office, a supply room and a staircase that went up to the Martin’s apartment. Andy had never been up there, but imagined what it might be like. Quaint, nicely kept, furniture and art from the sixties, a stack of newspapers by an old Barka-Lounger that Mr. Martin would crank open each evening after dinner, raising tired legs, to watch the Yankees on a console Zenith.
Mr. Martin and his wife Maria had lived in the city since the late 50’s when they came to the States from Italy. Maria was Sicilian to the core, while Mr. Martin was a German who fled the motherland just before the craziness of the Third Reich and got a job on a fishing boat in Palermo where the two met and married. Albert Martin never forgot his German roots and each October, the only month when beer was served at Martin’s Deli, savory imported brew flowed like water from a fountain. Andy spent more than a few evenings sipping German beer and listening to stories recounted in broken English over the Brauts the Bread and the Beer. Oktoberfest at Martin’s Deli defined living in the city for Andy Boyd.
Today, however, November 1st, Martin’s was quiet as a hangover. In the wake of a month-long party it would stand to reason that the place would power-up a little slower on the day after. Mr. Martin was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Mrs. Martin was sitting on a bar stool behind the counter, trying to return to the crossword puzzle she’d been working on before her previous customers. She had just adjusted her reading glasses and focused on the next clue when Andy stepped to the counter, accidentally startling her.
“Oh la Mia!” she cried, putting a hand to her chest, “Signori Andy! You give me a heart attack!” She took a deep breath and opened her eyes wide, regaining her composure.
Andy didn’t mean to smile at the old woman’s distress, but he couldn’t help it, she was too cute, “I’m sorry. I came by to see Mr. Martin. Is he taking the day off?
“No, no. He’s-a go up to the house for a phone call. Too much problems,” she said, waving her hands to help make the point.
“Is everything okay?”
“Si, it’s okay,” she shrugged, brushing off her problems like a good Sicilian. “What you eat today, Andy? Especial, huh?”
“Okay, sure...” Mrs. Martin smiled and turned to start the sandwich. Her Italian Special, a recipe she brought from the Old Country, was food for the gods. Andy had watched her make it a dozen times, but could never replicate it at home. She combined provolone cheese, salami, black olives, red onion, mortadella, cooked pancetta, turkey, dried tomatoes and pepperoncini, pesto and pizza sauce onto a homemade sourdough roll that became a work of art when she shoveled it into the pizza oven for about two minutes. Andy was drooling by the time Mrs. Martin extracted the sandwich with an oven mitt and halved its crunchy, gooey goodness with a clean knife. She brought her creation to the counter with a satisfied grin.
“It’s a good one, yes?”
Andy nodded in hearty agreement and paid what he considered a bargain. He sat by the window and ate quietly, allowing Mrs. Martin to reacquaint with her puzzle. His inquisitive mind wanted to know what Mr. Martin was doing and what was in the brown-paper wrapped package that had been delivered earlier. It was none of his business, of course, but that never stopped a mind from wondering. The sandwich, which, on the other hand, was his business, was amazing. In weaker moments Andy had ordered two of these mammoths—one to eat here in the deli, and one, ostensibly, for dinner. Of course, by dinnertime, the sandwich, which he tore into like a ravenous caveman the second he caught his breath at the top of the twelfth step back at his place, was long gone. That was his problem, he thought, he never really felt full. He could just eat himself sick, sometimes did.
As he gobbled down the last bite of the second half, sad that the giant sandwich was already gone, Mr. Martin entered the deli through the kitchen door speaking something in German to his wife in a matter-of-fact tone. He pushed through the little saloon door on the far side of the deli case, and, walking crisply through the deli, spoke again in his native tongue and exited the front door, never acknowledging Andy’s presence. His bushy eyebrows were pushed together causing deep furrows in his generous forehead; his chubby chin was set firm. The string of bell’s clattered and bounced against the door, as it slammed shut of its own accord. Mrs. Martin’s eyes followed her husband to the door, her face without expression, she didn’t have a chance to respond to what he had said, or, maybe response wasn’t an option, Andy didn’t know. Her gaze remained fixed on the door for several moments, as if waiting for the old man to storm back in, then returned to the next clue in the puzzle. Andy rose to leave just as a group of suits from a nearby office stepped loudly into the deli for lunch.
Alone on the sidewalk, the red sauce from the big sandwich gurgled into a deep burn. He decided to walk around the block instead of going straight home. Maybe being upright for another five minutes would help his digestion and, more importantly, help him focus on the job that loomed on his professional horizon, finishing his next novel by the publisher’s deadline. With a hand pressed against his chest just below his ribcage in an effort to suppress the heat, he started walking toward the Embarcadero. Andy lived a few blocks outside the main tourist areas, so he didn’t have to dodge too many explorers, but there always seemed to be plenty of people on the street, enough, anyway, to confirm his theory of invisibility. He would smile and nod but rarely make eye contact. “I’m the invisible man,” he muttered. Then a song flashed into his head. He was a 70’s music buff, which was a real drag in moments like this because the songs back then could be pretty lame. When you get a song like Amos Moses or Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves stuck in your head it can ruin your whole day. Nothing short of a concussion can remove those gems from your cerebral cortex. Today would prove to be no exception to the grueling song-that-wouldn’t-end, as David Cassidy started serenading Andy as he headed down Jones St.
“Oh, doesn’t somebody want to be wanted like me? - Where are you? - Doesn’t somebody want to be wanted like me - Just like me.”
“Not the Partridge Family, he thought, “anything but this.” But it was too late.
“I go downtown and roam all around - But every street I walk I find another dead end - I’m on my own but I’m so all alone - Oh, Doesn’t somebody want to be wanted like me? - Where are you? - Doesn’t somebody want to be wanted like me, just like me.”
A wave of loneliness struck him like a train. Depression began to flood his mind as his eyes welled with moisture. “Doesn’t somebody want to be wanted like me...” “Uggh.” He decided to head for home.
Chapter 3
Tears had dried on his cheeks as he circled back to Chestnut Street. The indigestion was gone but the song wasn’t, and he would gladly trade back, “Heartburn for depression, any day,” he thought. He slumped down on the overstuffed couch opposite the big bay window in the living room and sat rubbing his tired eyes. In a few minutes he was asleep.
Dreams came easy, which was one thing of the few things Andy loved about his life. In dreamland he was always laughing, he would solve mysteries, and run, and save children. In his dreams he was fit and trim a man’s man. In his dreams he was a lot like Rance Broadback. The truth was, several of the Broadback plots were conceived in the fertile world of Andy’s mind during a dream. He would wake up, wipe the drool from his face, and write down the scene. Andy figured that these things happened to everybody, and he secretly hoped nobody would catch on to just how easy it was - “Jig’s up, Boyd. You’re a phony.”
Today the dreams came fast and disjointed. First he was Keith Partridge, singing that stupid song to a crowd of adoring girls. Then he rescued a long legged Rockette who was tied to a train track. Then he was a bicycle messenger; next a vice detective that fell in love with an informant; a young, aspiring actress; then a dozen snippets he couldn’t quite remember. When he awoke, he wished he wouldn’t have remembered the Keith Partridge bit.
The clock on the microwave glowed 3:00 p.m., the house was quiet and dark and the workday, for most people, was winding down. Andy longed for someone to talk to.
His parents divorced when he was five, his mother retained full custody and never remarried. His father moved to the east coast and was never a part of their lives. To Andy’s knowledge, his father had never remarried. He died when Andy was thirteen, just as Andy was finishing the 8th grade at public middle school in South San Francisco. The 7th and 8th grades were the low point in his short life. Andy would come home every day to an empty house where he would cry himself to sleep or graze on snacks till his mother got home from work. During those two dark years he was roughed up, laughed at, belittled, kicked and ridiculed by every bully in the school. With no father or brothers at home to stick up for him and a mother that was working too hard to burden, he just absorbed the pain, and sunk further into himself.
He didn’t really remember his father, so the news of his death didn’t bother Andy too much. But his mother took it hard. He was the only man she’d ever loved, and, while they ultimately couldn’t live together, she always held a place in her heart for the guy. Andy believed his father must have been a real idiot to leave a woman like Janice Boyd. One thing decent the old man did, though, was he carried a pretty nice life insurance policy on himself with Janice as the sole beneficiary and the first thing she did after receiving the proceeds was find the best private school in the Bay Area for Andy. Though they rarely talked about it, she was well aware of the hell he went through in middle school and, now that she could do something about it, she did.
Private school had been great in the sense that he didn’t get beat up anymore. The problem was, since the school was located in the East Bay, Andy might as well have been a foreign exchange student. He didn’t have one phone number from anyone in his high school class. The only person he had even spoken to since graduation was his English teacher, Mrs. Kyritsis, who inspired him to become a writer. She was a stumpy little Greek woman about the age of Andy’s mother who saw Andy’s creative ability and spent four years encouraging it.
“You write these stories down, Andrew Boyd. You write them down. And here’s what I want you to do; you bring me a signed copy of your first book! Okay?” And he did. If fact, The President’s Reception is dedicated to Mrs. Kyritsis. But it had been years since he’d spoken to her. He didn’t even know if she was still at the school. She’d be, what, sixty by now? He sang out loud:
“Oh, doesn’t somebody want to be wanted like me? - Where are you? - Doesn’t somebody want to be wanted like me - Just like me - Dmmm, Dmm-Dmm-Dmm Dmmmmm!” Arrgghh!” He stood from the couch, shaking his head to try and fling the song out onto the wood floor where he could crush it. “Anything but Keith Partridge. Please!” he shouted to the ceiling. He walked the familiar path to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, a habit embedded even deeper than the song-of-the-day. As he scanned the selection, probably just for comfort since he wasn’t the least bit hungry, he thought about starting another diet.
He grabbed a can of Diet Coke and mulled the thought of a diet as he walked back toward his office. He used to call it a guest bedroom, but since he had never had a guest, it just became the office. He decided to work his thoughts, and hopefully that god-awful song, out of his mind by writing another blog entry.
Andy’s Weblog, November 1
A Weighty Problem
As much as I hate to admit this to the world at large, I have a weight problem. There, I said it. Of course, this isn’t news to those who know me, or to the people who read my books—that’s me on the back cover, not the Pillsbury Dough Boy. Believe it or not, being overweight is something I realize and dislike. I think some people look at guys like me and think, “I wonder if he knows how big he is?” I know, trust me. While some big people are comfortable and happy with their size, I am not. Those folks are either blinded by addiction or have such a strong self-image that they realize that the scale doesn’t determine worth and value in society. I’m not that blind, or that secure. I wish I were, because then I might invite others to dine with me at writing conferences instead of ordering room service so no one can see that I actually eat. My weight is on my mind, like a song that won’t go away.
So, since it is established that I am fat, weak and insecure, what can I do about it? That’s the question, right? The drill sergeant would say something like, “Well, good. Glad you finally noticed. Now get off that lard butt of yours and do something about it.” Of course, he would be right, but it’s not that easy, as many people like me have discovered.
I’ve tried all the diets. I’ve done the Grapefruit Diet, South Beach, Atkins, No-Carb, Low-Carb, No Fat, High Fat and Low Fat. I’ve done Jenny Craig, Nutri-system, Opti-fast, Medi-fast, and Weight Watchers. If it’s out there, I’ve probably been there and got the t-shirt. I’ve tried everything but surgery (another phobia.) If I lose ten I gain back twelve. I know what the problem is. The core issue is that I have a food addiction that can only be broken by a lifestyle change; everybody knows that even though Dr. Phil and the other pros announce it like it’s some kind of revelation. They make it sound so easy. I’ve got to change the way I look at life in general, no sweat, right? But, if you knew me, you would know what a steep hill that is, because I’m a pretty screwed up guy. Not screwed up in the sense of abused or anything like that, on the contrary, I’ve had it pretty good, really good, actually. It’s just that, after thirty-five years, a person has become someone specific. You are a collection of experiences and events that are uniquely you. It’s not like any of us can start over, we just have to start from where we are, and where I am is a mess that was made over the course of half-a-lifetime. You can’t change your perspective of that over night or with a bottle of metabolism boosting herbal miracle pills.
I’ve got to start from here and make some good choices if I ever hope to find the kind of life I think I want.
I’d like to think I could start right now - Andy
He looked up at the screen and read what he had just posted for the world to see. “What does all that even mean?” he asked himself out loud, burying his face in his hands with a sigh. It was 5:30 pm and the evening sun had nearly fallen into the ocean somewhere behind Andy’s place, and while the view from his office window contained little more than the brick facade of a three story warehouse on the next street over, he could still see enough sky to watch the blue give way to a beautiful purple as the shorter days of fall descended on the city.
He sat back and swung mindlessly from side to side in his big leather desk chair, a housewarming present, along with the simple black desk, from his mother. “Start right now,” he said with closed eyes. “I’m starting now...” He pondered the implications of the declaration. He pictured the start of the Men’s 100 meter dash at the Olympics, all the runners stretched out in the blocks; the Bay to Breakers road race with thousands of runners poised at the start line, straining to see, waiting for the starters gun to pop; the Indy 500, the green flag and the sound of a thousand thunderstorms as the drivers accelerate into the racing marathon, hundreds of laps, pacing themselves, relying on their team mates, watching the equipment. Thoughts of the starting line gave way to the realization that all those athletes don’t really start there. The race starts there, but the racers start months and years earlier. Any runner that steps to the start of a marathon had better be well prepared before he even gets near the line or he’s in for disaster. Preparation is everything. Training. “I haven’t done crap. Why do I think I can start a race for which I am completely unprepared?” He thought about that one. His mind was spinning, but not sending forward any data that was particularly germane to the issue at hand. But, every racer and runner and boxer has to start somewhere, right?
He got a mental image of Rocky Balboa in his grungy grey sweat suit in the dimly lit one-room apartment, prying his eyes open before daylight, breaking those raw eggs into a glass and chugging the whole mess. He could see Rocky exit the door of his little Philadelphia apartment and start running in the pre-dawn light - for the first time. He had to start training well before the start of the big fight against Apollo Creed. If he didn’t, he’d be a punching bag. So he started. “Yo Adrian,” Andy whispered.
“So what is my equivalent to a glass of raw eggs and running though the streets of Philadelphia? How do I start?” he said, still swinging from side to side in the chair, rotating back and forth on the balls of his Nike-clad feet. “Choices,” he said, his head resting against the high back of the chair, his eyes closed. “Choices... Rocky chose to get up that first morning, and the next and the next, and prepare himself for battle. That little kid in Kenya chooses to run up the side of a mountain years before he ever gets a shot at Olympic gold. They make the choice, daily, to push themselves past their limit for the sake of achieving a higher goal.” Andy was talking freely to the empty room and was becoming kind of excited by the way he was working through this puzzle. At the same time he was beginning to realize that the implications of this line of thinking was probably going to be uncomfortable. Something he usually avoided like a plague.
He clicked open a ballpoint pen and opened the little notepad he kept handy for Broadback notes. He found an empty page and tore it out, in the middle of it he wrote “Choices.” He clicked the pen open and shut several times and then wrote under the word; “Begin by making a good choice. And then make another.” The paper was mounted by pushpin to the wall just to the left of the desk. As he looked at it for inspiration he thought, “A good choice right now would be to finish the friggin’ book.”
Chapter 4
He looked at the iBook and took a deep breath. He never really scripted out the Rance Broadback adventures. He would just take an idea he’d seen in the headlines, some glimpse from a dream, or a situation he observed out on the street, and start typing. This time his mind was clouded by the whole “making good choices” dilemma he’d been thinking about for the past few hours. And now, the good choice was to crawl into that space in his brain where Rance Broadback lived and find out what our favorite Super Spy was doing this fine fall day. He opened his word processor and spun around in his chair, staring at the ceiling for a minute. He thought of the mystery package that had been delivered by messenger to Mr. Martin, the concern on the old mans face that was visible from Andy’s second floor window. And then there was the shear intensity that was evident when he left the shop. “What was in that box?” Andy asked out loud.
His mind jumped from there to a NewsWorld story he read while waiting for some Chinese take-out the previous week about marijuana eradication in the United States. Specifically, how the out-of-the-way state of Kentucky was second only to California in the sheer volume of Mary Jane that was confiscated each year. The article postulated that, as an income crop, the illegal marijuana industry in the Appalachian mountain region of Kentucky was a mega-million dollar business and the eradication efforts, while significant, hardly made a dent in the alleged profit from distribution. “Hmmm.” An idea began to percolate in Andy’s mind as he spun around and studied the ceiling.
He tapped out a Google search on his keyboard and opened the top article referencing marijuana in Kentucky. The author gave a thorough history of the rise and fall of the largest illegal marijuana cultivation and distribution network in the country, the Cornbread Mafia, a loosely knit group of farmers and business people in Central Kentucky who, in the timeless beauty of the Appalachian mountains, quietly commanded a billion dollar enterprise until they were broken up and arrested in a multi-state sting operation. Andy sat and read while his mind concocted a mission scenario for his super-spy alter ego, Rance Broadback.
He opened a new document in his word processor and looked for a moment at his ten fingers that had risen from the keyboard and straightened to attention. “Are we up for this, boys?” Andy asked his hands. He rubbed his fingertips together and felt the smooth surface of his nails. “Once we start there’s no turning back, you realize.” The fingers seemed ready. It was his state of mind that held the wild card in the venture. He wasn’t sure his own brain could work through the daily battle of a fifty thousand-word adventure. He grabbed a handful of peanuts and popped them in his mouth, sucking the salt from their surface and holing them up in his cheek like a squirrel. “What the hay, it’s what I do, right?” he mumbled, wiped his hands on his pants and cracked his knuckles.
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Appalachian Malady - 1
“Nine - three, service.” Rance glanced back then spanked a low, hard serve from left to right that was picked up at the last second by his lunging opponent who was just able to get his racquet on the little blue ball before its second bounce. Sending it softly back to the front of the court with a grunt, the ball gently struck the front wall and bounced into the lap of the waiting Broadback, who had already positioned himself for the kill shot.
“You gave me that one!” he smiled after placing the shot a fraction of an inch from the floor, causing the ball to roll back to the helpless defender.
“It’s that damn serve to the corner. You lefties are a bane on society, you realize that?”
“It comes right to your forehand. Made to order! You’re just getting old!”
“Just serve the damn ball, tough guy, I’ve got your number.” Jim Tate laughed and returned to position as Rance moved to the opposite side of the servers box.
“Here, I’ll serve to your backhand.”
“Oh, that should help,” Tate said with a slight edge.
Rance stood two feet away from the right hand wall and bounced the racquetball twice before catching it and glancing back at his best friend, “Ten serving three.” He banged an ace to Tate’s backhand that the diving player missed by two feet.
“Okay funny guy,” Tate said, waving his racquet right to left, “Scoot over - back to the other side.”
“What?” Broadback said, chuckling.
“At least I have a chance if you serve to my forehand, c’mon.”
Broadback won both sets but his competitive friend made it interesting after the break, leading the first game till Rance’s last serve, and making a strong comeback in the second game, nearly forcing a third set.
“Okay, so, 15-8, 15-4 first set. And 15-11, 15-13 second set?” Jim said as the men surrendered the court to a mixed foursome.
“Another set and you would have had me.”
“Another set and I would have needed a saline drip.”
The men grabbed their towels and water bottles from the bench outside the court and hit the showers. The cop checked his cell phone for messages before showering. The PI held no such allegiance. Tate was still on the phone when Broadback returned from the showers, mopping his head, wearing gym shorts and flip-flops. He started getting dressed as Jim finished the call.
“All right Ron, Yeah. I’ll see you in twenty-five... Thanks.” Tate clicked the Razor shut and looked up at Broadback, “So much for the quiet morning,” he said, and grabbed a towel, running to the shower without another word.
Broadback had a couple of to-go coffee’s from the lobby Juice Bar ready when Jim emerged from the locker room four minutes later, his dark brown hair combed wet, his tie draped around his open collar. “Thanks, Bud,” he said, taking a coffee and a cautious sip, nodding towards the door. Rance walked him to his unmarked, but obvious, Ford 500 as his friend filled in a few blanks.
“It’s Senator Hagin. DOA. I guess he was a no-show for staff briefing so an assistant went to his apartment. Found him on the living room floor, .38 to the head. Weapon in his hand.”
“Suicide?”
“No sign of forced entry, no sign of a struggle. DIC Kramer thought he’d bring me over just to look at the place before CSI starts picking fuzz.”
“Kramer’s good people.”
“Yeah. Not afraid of fresh eyes.”
“What’s he thinking?”
“Doesn’t know. Hagin’s a pretty hot item right now on the Hill. Punching his own ticket doesn’t make sense. Kramer is trying to get his head around it.”
“So he calls the drug cop?”
“Hagin’s that marijuana legalization guy, you know? It’s his soapbox. Maybe there’s a drug angle.”
“Detective Jim Tate to the rescue.”
“Yeah, whatever. You gonna be at the condo?”
“Unless I can find another victim,” Broadback said, spinning his racquet and raising it with a smile.
“I may stop by later. This one doesn’t feel right somehow.” Tate pulled out of the lot, window down, crisp fall air nipping at his wet head, holding the cup up near his lips for constant sips, driving with his left hand. He raised the cup slightly in Rance’s direction as he accelerated past his friend who had reached his vehicle, a Buell XB12 Ulysses, that he road until the last colorful leaf had fallen from the majestic trees that lined the Georgetown campus.
“Dead Senator. You can have that one, Detective Tate. No thanks.” Rance thought to himself as he stowed his racquet and slung on his backpack. He tossed the empty cup into a garbage can and pulled on his black, full-faced helmet. Straddling the bike, he brought the motor to life as he zipped up his windbreaker and pulled down the smoked face shield. “No thanks,” he said out loud, pulling away from the University Club on the controlled fury of the Buell.
The place Rance Broadback called home was an old warehouse in the Adams Morgan district of Washington D.C., a few blocks from the main campus of Georgetown University. He hadn’t planned on living inside the Beltway, but since work kept bringing him back to the area it didn’t make sense to live anywhere else. He was something of a loner, had a few good friends, most of them work associates like Jim Tate. 100% of his business came through trusted friends, mostly well placed government types of the highest order. Men like Rance Broadback remained valuable to the extent that they remained anonymous; at least that was the perspective of those among his equally anonymous employers. Rance parked the XB12 in the garage of the modern, 8-unit townhouse that he built across the road from the dilapidated warehouse where he actually lived. The town homes served as both an investment and an extra layer of cover for his insulated life.
After a few very lucrative jobs in the 90’s, Rance bought the warehouse and the property on all four sides. Three remained undeveloped and bordered by old chain link fence, but the fourth, across 8th Avenue on the east side of the warehouse, was developed into the town home project by an architect that Rance knew, curiously, from his first D.C. investigation, the inaugural reception for the former president, just after his election for a second term. Rance noted the rough hands of John Sanchez when they were introduced and, after finding out he was an architect that had done some remodeling work for the Clinton’s both in Arkansas and again here in D.C., knew that Sanchez was a hands-on builder. Broadback liked that, and the two hit it off. Both suspect of government, both freelancers, Rance brought John out to the lot one afternoon to hear about the plan, at least part of it.
Sanchez proved a trusted friend and so when Rance introduced Phase Two, John just smiled and nodded. He designed and built the project almost completely by himself. Rance’s own unit was built directly over the top of an abandoned tunnel that had been erected in the 1940’s as a pathway of evacuation for congress in the event of emergency. The tunnels closer to the capital building itself had been filled in and re-purposed years ago, but this far out there were still a few short sections that remained, mostly in undeveloped or discarded areas like this one. There was almost no one still alive that remembered the tunnels and the top-secret paper trail was equally sparse. Rance wandered into the information quite innocently while researching another case, actually thought of working the tunnel system into one of his mission plans, but then discovered that there were only a few small segments left in tact.
His idea was pretty simple. Connect the warehouse and the townhouse via the tunnel segment by cutting discreet vertical shafts at each end. In a project that would take six months, the tunnel extensions on either side of the project were sealed off, the shafts were dug, stairs and lights were installed along with a state of the art security system that would automatically lock down if breached.
Ultimately, the town homes went on sale, Rance bought the first one and the others sold out within the week, mostly to Georgetown staff and faculty who liked the idea of a short commute. In fact, the only non-collegiate in the building, besides Broadback, was John Sanchez who received a heavily upgraded unit as his compensation for the project. Sanchez wasn’t completely sure what his reclusive friend did for a living, but he knew it was dangerous and playing a small role helped his life make sense. Sanchez was tough, smart and construction hardened and Rance pulled him in to help whenever a mission needed an extra set of quality hands.
Broadback pulled the XB into the garage and parked next to his rarely used F-150. He shut the overhead door and walked up the inside steps to the living area. He briefly walked through, changed the timer on a few lights, the television and stereo, roughed up the bed linens a bit and then locked up and headed back down to the garage where he opened the false wall under the stairs, closed it after himself, disarmed the security system, and descended into the shaft via the circular, iron staircase that was fabricated in place by Sanchez. In three minutes he ascended an identical staircase, which led to a locked hatch that made it feel like he was disembarking a submarine. Opening the hatch, Rance climbed in to an empty closet, and, sliding aside a 12’x12’ bookcase unit filled with half empty paint cans, he entered the cavernous, first floor of the warehouse. Sliding the false wall shut, he walked across to the stairwell, which led to his living quarters and office loft.
His address was the townhouse. Friends and appointments came to the townhouse. Top-secret callers who needed his unique services came to the townhouse. No one knew about the warehouse quarters except Sanchez and Tate who held the secret close to the breast. Both Sanchez and Tate had had his life saved, on more than one occasion, by their highly trained friend and had learned, independent of one another, that it was much safer to be on the same side as Rance Broadback.
At the top of the open staircase, Rance enjoyed a modest living area that was set up in one large room with an adjoining restroom. The living space was nicely equipped with a kitchen, bedroom suite, open sitting area overlooking the reflective glass of the security windows, and a small office area with an internet signal that randomly sourced from different wireless signals in the D.C. area, as did his cell phone. The place wasn’t completely Invisible, but it was about as close as you could get and still find a good cup of coffee. He called it ‘hiding in plain sight.’ He fired up his iBook and retrieved email. There was one message.
Thursday, 0800:
Ran. Need you. Let’s meet tonight. Spin.
He took a moment to enjoy the visual, “How come she gets a code name?” he smiled to himself.
Chapter 5
Andy stretched his fingers and balled his hands into fists, in and out, working the blood and muscles around. The sun was down and he felt pretty good about the opening volley in the new book. A spy drama set, eventually, in the hills of Appalachia. Nice.
Without a television, Andy Boyd tended to spend quiet evenings surfing the Internet and eating, though not necessarily in that order. The refrigerator and freezer held the promise of another calorie-filled night alone as he peered inside, the glow of the 15-watt bulb the only light currently burning in the little kitchen. He shut the door. This was too hard. Not five hours ago he made a conscious decision to begin a disciplined lifestyle of good choices, and already, he felt compelled to reward himself for such a blazing start to the new Rance Broadback adventure with a pint of Cherry Garcia and a box of Oreos. “That would not be a good choice, my portly friend,” he murmured to himself.
He took a seat on his sofa looking out at the lights of the city; grey clouds had rolled in to shroud the buildings in a foggy mist. His chubby fingers tapped the back of the couch. His generally fertile mind stalled, refusing to budge until he gave in and followed the normal evening pattern. “Two can play this game,” he said out loud, stubbornly holding his ground against the strength of desire. Five minutes gave way to ten as the silent battle raged in his mind. Slowly, voices of compromise began to mediate, offering alternatives to the food / no-food skirmish.
“I guess if I just have a bite, not the whole pint, it would be okay... One bite of ice cream, and maybe one cookie.” He considered the compromise. It sounded reasonable. After all, he had to eat something, and if he could moderate the amount, then, he could eat almost anything. One bite, two at the most.
The epiphany caused him to nearly leap from the couch, as if leaping were possible for his gravity-stricken legs. He hiked up runaway sweatpants and made a beeline for the utensil drawer. He needed a spoon, a big one. The first bite of ice cream tasted like what he imagined sex would be like. Sensual. Lighting up his lustful taste buds and soothing a conflicted mind, “Ice cream is our friend,” he whispered, smiling, his eyes closed as he licked the stainless steel of the tablespoon. The dilemma of returning the little tub of ice cream to it’s spot by the others in the freezer became a rather moot point, as the second heaping bite was followed so quickly by others that Andy stood holding an empty container in a matter of moments. Without ice cream, he was forced to wash down the dry Oreos with a quart of low-fat milk. Then, a bag of unsuspecting Doritos was needed to offset the unwelcome, lingering sweetness in his throat.
He sang and danced around the living room singing the Keith Partridge song at the top of his lungs while courting the chips. He caught himself as he drank the last of the Nacho Cheese crumbs from the empty, cavernous bag. He let out a sigh that was an even mix of defeat and satisfaction. The house was quiet again, leaving just Andy, a belly full of junk and a head filled with the song that wouldn’t end.
He clicked on Z-103 “Yesterday’s Hit’s from the 70’s 80’s and today,” a tag line that he made up, and loved. Don Maclean and Janis Joplin evicted Keith Partridge from his mind. “Something that should have been done hours ago,” Andy thought.
Andy sat down heavily in his favorite chair. It matched the expensive sofa, with generous, over stuffed arms at just the right height, and a soft headrest that allowed Andy to slouch into the perfect position. On a full stomach, breathing came easier when sitting, as opposed to lying down, and his chair provided the perfect angle. He sat with arms sticking out like wings, resting on the sides of the chair, with his fingers draped over the front edge like a NASA test pilot, strapped in and ready for countdown. He stared through the big window and let his head fall gently back against the soft cushion of the seat back. He closed his eyes and began to cry. It was a silent cry, but the tears were as real as rain, pooling up above his quivering cheeks like little mountain lakes. He splashed the water out of both of them with the heel of a hand and looked again outside. “I can’t do this,” he said to the empty room. “I can’t become something I’m not. I can’t just decide to change, and then - bingo. I’m a loser. A reclusive, lonely, lard-ass, loser with no friends and no life.”
As he sometimes did, Andy began to recount the things in his life that kept him from jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge. The Why Not List always began the same way;
“Number one, I probably couldn’t get my fat butt over the guard rail.” A fact that always gave him a paradoxical smile. “Too fat to kill myself.” The older he got, the shorter the list became. A few years ago, after a brief relationship with the girl that did his mothers hair, the list was longer than it was now.
Her name was Thui. She was a slightly built woman, several years younger than Andy. She had emigrated from South Vietnam with her mother when she was five years old. They were hustled aboard a plane by her father, an officer in the army who saw the writing on the wall for his hometown of Saigon and wanted a better life for his family. He promised to join them in America, but never made it. It was no easy life for an immigrant from South East Asia, especially in the 70’s. Thui compensated by being compliant and sweet. She grew up in the salon where her mother worked, and, after graduating beauty school, started cutting and styling hair in the booth previously occupied by her own mom. It was the only job she’d ever had. Mrs. Boyd loved Thui. Andy’s mom always rooted for the underdog and when she heard the story of Thui’s family, while having her hair done one day by her regular stylist, her heart went out. Like a dog lover who can’t pass up a stray, Mrs. Boyd couldn’t pass up the chance to love a survivor. She told her stylist that she was going to start seeing Thui, “Just to help her get started. You know me.” And with that, Mrs. Boyd started taking her appointments across the room with little Thui Guyen, pronounced, Twee Gween, which, to Andy, sounded like Tweety bird and Sylvester—“I t’ought I t’aw a puddy tat!”
Andy was early for lunch one Thursday and arranged by cell phone to meet his mother at the salon from which they could walk to their favorite little Thai cafe, (Pad Thai, three star, double portion. Oh baby!) which was probably why her son was early. Mrs. Boyd had told her son Thui’s story, giving Andy’s fertile mind a picture of a raggedy little girl in a refugee camp. She was anything but that. She was five feet tall, maybe 100 pounds, long black hair and eyes that were as close to black as brown can be. She had an easy smile that seemed playful and shy, a little flat nose and beautiful creamy brown skin, “Like JIF peanut butter,” he thought, hating himself for comparing everything to food. Andy was pretty sure there were no Geisha girls in Viet Nam, but knew that this is what they must look like. She was an angel. Andy’s mom made his first appointment for a cut; she said he needed to clean up his act a little. Her son’s eyes had betrayed his thoughts. He didn’t mind that she noticed.
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