If the Chicago fog slips in on little cat feet, the Hawaii fog would use a mongoose. Right now I feel like a cobra. The fog is thicker, heavier, deeper. No dancing spots of light tonight, no hint that a gap might appear. It's warmer too, making me feel the swirls as much as see them. The mongoose is going for my neck.
The same path is laid out before me, the same evil grass keeping me from sprinting off. The boots start again, I know who's coming, and I wonder if he's pissed that I got away. He doesn't seem that fast, maybe I can elude him, at least until morning.
The fog briefly parts once more, and there he is, six feet in front of me. I'm fucked. He could whack me with that staff without stretching, and my feet can't move, even though tonight they remember how. No face is visible, even at this close range. The one hand looks human, but who knows what's really there. He brought his wind with him again, but not the little balls of fog.
He starts once more with that so human voice, tonight it seems to me that I recognize it, some lost memory from long ago I can't quite place. Maybe if I wasn't terrified, it would come to me. A small sound leaves my lips, not identifiable, even to me.
"
You
," he emphasized the word, "have a choice to make.
We
," more emphasis, "have already chosen you. Our path leads to your death. Choose the other and you will only wish for death."
Now I'm even more terrified. The choices are death or wish for it? What the fuck? How about guess the right price before the yodeling dude gets to the top of the mountain and falls off? Chose dead or worse than dead? Jesus.
"Our offer is simple. We will make you the most powerful person on earth. The most powerful human to ever walk the planet. You can change the course of history. End wars. Free the oppressed. Feed the hungry. Do that which you wish and go where you will."
"Used wisely, your power will save thousands, perhaps millions of lives, and improve the lot of millions more. You can make the planet a better place for countless future generations. But there is a price. No human can hold this power. In no more than three years it will consume you. You will give your life for the millions you save."
Fuck me.
"I will not accept an answer tonight. You will see me again, and I will answer whatever questions I can. Then you will chose. Good night, Simon Packer."
The fog swirls around him, and he is gone. The swirls continue, forming a whirlpool of fog, speeding past at eye threatening speed. I am in the eye of the hurricane, which grows as I watch, revealing the path in front of me. It looks like any fantasy movie path, red clay colored, surrounded by the evil grass, curving over and around a hilly countryside. Then it gets even more cliche: the fog is gone, and I see the path ends in a solitary white light. I can feel the power of the light, even at this distance. I expect a very short woman to appear, begging me to go into it. She doesn't, but I still want to. Instead, I wake up.
I'm dripping in sweat and the sheets are a mess. I feel as though my head touched the pillow five minutes ago, but it's 9 a.m. according to the room clock. I have to be at the airport in two hours. I fall out of bed, stumble into the bathroom, and get into the hottest shower I can stand. I spend forever in it, trying desperately to scrub off last night and failing. Interestingly, my knee and hands are completely healed. No sign of yesterday's carnage.
It's 10 by the time I'm dressed and headed down to get some breakfast. I go for orange juice, a scrambled egg, and a couple slices of wheat toast. Back upstairs, brush my teeth, grab my bag, and get back down in time to catch the shuttle out to Keahole.
No dispatcher here, we only put three aircraft on the ground every day, so the flight plan is sent by courier from Oahu. Matt is already there, going through it, I try my damnedest to get my head screwed on straight as we talk it over. It's a good thing Matt is doing the flying on the way home because I'm fuckin useless. How can I be so sure that a dream is real? With a wild story like that? But I am.
We roll down the runway and into the sky, no giant dudes in cloaks this time. Uneventful doesn't even begin to describe the flight, nothing to distract me from meaningless random panic. Matt spends as much time as he can talking to his snorkeling partner and leaves me alone. I wonder if she knows he has Ms. Mankat's phone number in his wallet.
We land and taxi to gate 75 this time, since our aircraft is going on to Denver, not back to paradise. The new crew is waiting at the top of the jetway, so I tell Matt he can leave with his friend and I will take care of the transition. He seems happy with that, but I bet the flight report he files will not be complementary.
I don't care. The new captain is sitting next to me, his first officer behind, while I go over the checklist for crew changes with them. Everything is as it should be. Everything but me, that is. I'm dead, or worse.
I walk into one old lady and run some businessman over with my bag trying to leave the gate area. I am out of apologies before I can get to the men's room. I stop, gather myself, and grab a couple tacos at the little stand across from our gate, trying to settle my nerves. It doesn't work. And it's 10 p.m., nearly time for a visit from the fog.
The bus gets me back to employee parking, and Starbuck starts first try as always. I take the surface streets home, praying for red lights, desperately thinking of anything else I can do to delay the inevitable. I come up empty. I park, take the elevator upstairs, sit down on the couch and am quickly asleep before I even pull out the mattress.
Tonight's fog is half cat, half mongoose, swirly with dancing lights, but hot as hell. The dude is waiting for me, sitting on a boulder next to the path. The evil grass leaves him alone, I think about throwing myself into it and see if I can be mowed to death. There's a smaller boulder with a flat top sitting in the middle of the path, facing the cloaked man. I take the hint and use my rock. My ass thinks it's OK, the rest of me thinks it's a trap, and we're going to get sucked into it if we give the wrong answer.
He just looks at me, apparently expecting that I have a million questions. I can't even think of one. I shift my ass to the left. I shift it back to the right.
He decides to break the silence. "You believe me." Statement, not question.
"Yes." He still sounds totally human. Comforting even.
"You've made your choice." Again not a question.
"Not a fuckin chance. My brain looks like this fog."
"The light thinks you have." He looks that way, I follow. Without question the light is heading toward me. The frakkin' thing could have the decency to wait until I'm ready, or at least done screaming like a little girl.
"I'm not a hero."
"You will be."
"And you know this because?"
"I'm an excellent judge of character. And you are one."
I stand up, the light 20 feet away and closing. One foot is ready to run, the other has given in. I don't know if I can hop fast enough on my one smart foot to get away. And, if I remember correctly, toward the light is death, run away is worse. Now I do have a question and it's too late to ask. What is worse than death?
The fog turns icy. It drips down my face, which is suddenly covered with a wet sphere. I open my eyes. There's a spit covered ball on my cheek and a cat staring into my eyes from four inches away. There's a quiet mew from her mouth. I hug Halloween so hard it probably hurts her. Apologizing, I thank her and promise catnip.
It's six in the morning, and I have nothing to do today except not fall asleep under any circumstances. I need to call the girlfriend and party, maybe a quick trip to Vegas. I don't think they ever have fog there.
I throw on clean running clothes and get to the beach, today is going to be a double loop, maybe my first ever triple. The first go round is painful, I can't think straight, or crooked, for that matter. Second run down the beach, I start to clear things out. I need that clarity of vision that comes from thinking while not thinking. I decide to run as fast as I can down the stretch to the sidewalk, force myself faster, push harder, make the sweat drip.
I don't remember running through the shopping village and into the park, I finally feel right as I round the big curve around the light house and see the river push out into the ocean. It's hard to describe. The river seems so powerful, so strong, and then it's just gone. The ocean, calm and flat, extends out forever. Allegory? The river is dead, but the ocean lives on because of it. Do I believe I can fix the world? I don't even know what "more powerful" than anyone ever actually means. I want a third choice: reset time and go back to the way things were.
As I leave the park and head back home, my thoughts go quiet. I'm in the shower before I have another conscious one.
Then I'm dry and naked, standing in my kitchen. Really I'm also in my living room and my dining room, but for action purposes, I'm in the kitchen. My apartment in a whopping 550 square feet. The kitchen, living room, dining room, and bedroom are pretty much all in the same place, a 20 foot by 20 foot square. The bathroom and closet account for the other 150 feet. But it's got an ocean view, a balcony, and it's only $2,300 a month.
While Halloween eats and watches SportsCenter, I text Jen, who is at her job by now. The woman works at the Federal Reserve branch, though I'm not exactly sure what she does there. We've only been together six months, so I'm not worried about details yet. They don't let her take personal calls, I'll have to wait til she's on break for a response. I suggest calling in sick tomorrow and heading to the Wynn tonight.
My parents, and everyone else she knows, think Jen is the perfect lady. She's smart, helpful, polite, great sense of humor, kind to old ladies and kids, never swears or says one bad word about anyone, dresses well, keeps her apartment neat and perfectly outfitted. My mom and dad are both in love with her, and I get why, they think she'll produce perfect grandchildren and be the perfect mom.
Mostly, she bores the crap out of me. The woman works, works out, shops, eats, dances, and watches movies. That's it. She hates sports, won't even go to a game or race to appease me. I can take her to Hawaii for free anytime she wants to go, but she's so afraid to fly she's never been. Won't go in the ocean. Won't go near a campsite. Doesn't care about anything except what movie star is breaking up with what other star, what new outfit she needs, or what new club is opening. Barely knows that we have a president, much less who he is, or what he and Congress are fighting over.
She does look spectacular in a bikini, especially the legs and butt with the hours she devotes to them in the gym and on the dance floor. And she is absolutely the wildest woman I have ever taken to bed. The mouth that won't say "damn" in public says a whole lot more interesting things in private. I never even have to suggest, she initiates. It's not dinner, movie, then sex with her, she considers the whole thing one big session of foreplay, hands and feet sneaking around for hours before the clothes come off. Her mouth on any part of your body is almost more than a man can stand. Her whispers in your ear are as good as sex with some women.
Which means that everyone else expects us to end up another happily domestic couple, and I want to hang on a while longer, and then find the real thing. It's going to be hard to explain to my friends and family some day. Or maybe not. I might be dead soon.
I raise the blinds, open the sliding door onto the patio and head outside with my ebook reader to check out the
LA Times
, the
London Independent
, and
West Hawaii Today
. Halloween climbs up on her cat climber in front of the non-sliding part of the sliding glass to watch me from the safety of the apartment. I read for an hour or so until my phone buzzes, and Jen lets me know it's going to be dinner and a movie. I wonder if Mr. Fog Dude will make a trip over to her place?
She has me pick her up downtown at 6, which means I get to endure the miserable traffic on her behalf. It probably also means getting up really early tomorrow to drop her off before my return to paradise, since we're not getting her car out of the garage. It's OK, though, since dead people don't have to run.
Starbuck and I get there a couple minutes early, and Jen is waiting for us on the sidewalk. I manage to get honked at only twice for stopping in the traffic on Olympic. It's an easy ride down to the 10, and we scoot across to Santa Monica and our favorite little Italian place, complete with old man waiters wearing suits, staff-free. I must have been bad company, because she's pissed at me by the time we arrive.
Sal, our regular waiter, brings our drinks almost before we sit down, and lets us know our order is already in. Does that mean we eat there too often? Or that we eat the same thing every time? Yes, but dead men are entitled to whatever they want for their last meal.
The wine takes the edge off for both of us, and soon Jen's happily describing her day, and I am happily pretending to listen and care. She finishes, I ask a couple obligatory questions about which I care nothing, but I know make her happy. It is now my turn, and I think about commenting on the situation in Italy, but I suspect from a prior conversation that her primary concern will be the possible interruption of shoe deliveries if the country goes bankrupt, and this from a woman much smarter than me, who works at the most prominent bank in the world.
