Carry on My Wayward Son

Friday night.

Good morning, Devil Dogs. Mission accomplished.

I’ve found him.

It took three weeks of recon, five tanks of gas, two bottles of Wild Turkey,  a drive from Santa Cruz, California to Sacramento, to Eureka, to Redding, then to the Bureau of Indian Affairs and finally to the tribal police on the Hoopa Indian reservation, but I located our brother marine,  Cpl. Gene Ryan.

We were squad leaders together in boot camp, (3rd BN. Kilo Company, Platoon 3029). We ran into each other a year later in Okinawa, Japan. From Okinawa we deployed to Somalia together as a security detachment in 93’ then spent a hairy-assed year in the shit, until “the incident” that sent me home occurred. We have neither seen nor heard from each other since.

The debriefing in Virginia had been a bit rattling for me. The confidentiality agreement we signed forbade us to speak about anything, much less have contact with the marines who were present when the rounds started going down range, at least for a period of five years. Once the five years were up, I was already in Mexico and in the middle of another world of shit. So I have never had the opportunity to find out what became of Cpl. Gene Ryan.

I guess I’ve been looking for closure lately. Being back in the U.S. and on this new crusade of conscience and curiosity, I had to know. I needed answers. I was afraid of the answers, either way it could turn out, but I just needed to know.

Did Gene readjust, adapt, and become Joe civilian when he came home? Was I just some mal-adapted freak of nurture? Had Gene able to do what so many of us have been incapable of pulling off? My mind wandered back to a time that I’ve tried to put as many miles and years in between as possible.

Until now.

The snow on top of Mt. Shasta reminded me of Mt. Fuji, of Camp Fuji, of Japan in general. I got out of the car and stared out over the lake for a while. Gene used to talk about fishing here when we were in Mogadishu. I climbed back into the car. It was a hot bitch. I guess spring would be over early this year.

“All that goddamned Aqua Net…” I said. I drove off.

I pulled up to the Win River Casino Bingo at sunset.

I’d already found Gene’s Grandfather earlier that morning around ten. He’s a full-blooded Pit River / Hoopa Indian Marine from the Korean War. We got to drinking and talking so much that I passed the whole day on the porch in front of his trailer with him. I laughed so hard I cried. God knows I needed it.

“Discipline creates strength, and perfection comes from absolute focus.” he had told me sometime that morning.

I repeated it to myself. Gene’s grandfather was an amazing human being. I found it hard to leave for some reason.

He gave me Gene’s work address. Gene was now a security guard at the Indian Casino Bingo Palace, on the Pit River reservation. Gene is only a quarter American Indian, the rest of him is Irish, so he makes one hell of a drinking buddy. He nearly got us butchered by a group of Yakuza in a bar in Okinawa once. He wouldn’t eat some egg dish then he started patting the boss guy on the top of his head like in a three stooges movie…. I’ll tell you later. You get the gist though.

The Win River Casino was in the middle of nowhere. The parking lot rumbled with activity. Groups of guys gathered around pickups with gun racks in their rear windows, drinking beer.

I didn’t even make it half way across the parking lot.

“You looking for someone?” said someone.

I avoided them. Walking, I counted them. They followed. The someone guy repeated his question. The group blocked my path, and there we were, in some sort of half-assed Sergio Leone cliche -

a Casino Bingo standoff.

I regretted not wearing my USMC baseball cap. It usually serves as a deterrent for undisciplined civilian types.

“Very well,” I said.

“Very what?” said Mr. someone.

“Well.” I said.

“Well, what?” said someone.

I grabbed his trachea with one hand and his Mr. someone in the other then pulled him towards me, using him as a human shield. I backed away from his friends.

Gene hit me in the back of the head with a Maglight.

I was still glad to see him, once I could see him, and when I saw him I told him he was a shitty security guard. I said he would probably get sued someday with that ready-fire-aim mentality of his.

Gene smiled. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He had already pepper sprayed me, himself, and all of the casino bingo parking lot mafia before the situation was explained and contained enough to finally talk with each other. We had a lot of catching up to do.

We’re heading back to San Francisco now.

I didn’t feel welcome on the “res” anymore. I don’t think the res was feeling me either. Plus, I want to introduce Gene to my wife and family. I want take him out on the town then get some answers, some peroxide, alcohol wipes, and some bandages for my head too.

“Why did you tell those guys you had swine flu?” said Gene.

“Gotta’ improvise, hard-charger.” I said. “Psychological warfare.”

Gene is driving my car for me.

I’m on the keyboard.

The lights of the city are just now coming into view.

It’s 12:06am.

Talk to you soon, my brothers, wherever you are.

Stay green, disinfect and keep it clean…

Semper Fi.

Dos(e) part 1

Saturday, September 9^th, 22:43hrs

Hunter fought them. 

Six men in shirtsleeves struggled to hold him down on the floor of a freight trailer. One of the men carried a clipboard and a flashlight. He shouted orders to the others. Hunter fought them when they stripped him. Keys jingled. Sweat poured. Men grunted. They lifted and dragged him to a plastic tank of water the size of a coffin. It was bolted down. It had a lid with a lock.

The man with the clipboard mentioned bruises and time of death. Hunter kicked and twisted. The men forced him into the water coffin on his back, submerging him. Hunter stretched his neck out. His lips broke the surface of the water. Hunter took the deepest breath of his life. A hand shoved his face back underwater. The other men slammed the lid closed and locked it.

Hunter watched them roll their sleeves back down, staring down at him, watching and waiting for him to die. If only he were Harry Houdini and this were a magic trick. If there were a hidden key or some secret means to escape but Hunter was no Houdini. Why had he even bothered to hold his breath at all, he thought for a moment. 

Hunter gave in. He let go. He let his heart slow and allowed himself to drift.

“Time of death is 11:46 pm,” said the man with the clipboard. He wrote something down. “Let’s get started, gentlemen.”

****

Thursday, September 7^th, 05:30hrs. Santa Cruz, California…

Hunter held his breath. 

He swam the length of the rooftop swimming pool underwater. He smiled. Hunter reached out for the wall and surfaced on the other side. He climbed out of the pool. A woman in a nurse’s uniform waited for him with a towel. Dawn broke over the Santa Cruz Mountains behind her. The air smelled of salt.  

“Hunter, I don’t think I should go in today,” said Mariposa, “I’m worried.”

“Everything’s fine,” said Hunter. He smiled. “We still have time.” They stopped in front of an elevator. Mariposa shook her head. Hunter nodded. They took the stairs down to Hunter’s flat on the eighth floor of the Palomar Building. Outside his living room window, stone conquistadores stared over downtown and the Pacific Ocean. Mariposa looked down. The black Chevy Tahoe was still there, parked across the street. She looked at her watch. Hunter walked to the dressing room and opened a closet. Eight sets of the same model shirts and pants hung in perfect order at two inch intervals.

“Why we are together, Hunter?” said Mariposa. Hunter dressed in front of a mirror. He watched Mariposa’s reflection. He put on a white short-sleeved shirt, a thin black tie, black trousers, and psychedelic socks. 

“I feel like a facilitator,” said Mariposa, “a lonely, used-up facilitator.” 

“No,” said Hunter.

“Don’t tell me how to feel, you asshole.”

“I’m not.” Hunter washed his hands in the sink then checked under his nails for dirt. There wasn’t any. “I just want to get through this and get the hell out of here. That’s all.”

“I?” said Mariposa.

“We,” said Hunter, “I want us to get through this so we can get out of here.”

“So you squeeze me like an orange and then you want to throw me away,” said Mariposa, “You can admit it now, Hunter, it’s okay…”

Hunter walked to the kitchen.

“I said you can admit it now!” said Mariposa. She followed him. She glanced at the knife sitting on the granite counter-top. Hunter stopped. He grabbed Mariposa by the arms and looked into her eyes.

“I’m with you because I love you,” said Hunter. He tried to kiss her.

“Not because I can get you closer to what you want?” said Mariposa. Hunter let her go.

He put on a black jacket and sunglasses. He took 12 boxes of Altoid’s Mints from the kitchen counter and put them inside a leather briefcase.

“I want to go to the Big Island with you,” said Hunter. He draped a laboratory coat over his forearm.

“That’s not an answer,” said Mariposa.

“Forty-eight hours from now it will be.”

“And what if I don’t go?”

“I don’t want to leave without you, Mariposa.”

“And what if I don’t go to the hospital today?” said Mariposa.

Hunter glanced at the knife on the granite counter-top.

Mariposa smiled.

****

Thursday, September 7^th, 05:33hrs. Santa Cruz, California…

The Big Dipper rollercoaster and the log ride sat silent on the beach from the view at the Fireside Inn. A diamond shaped neon sign out front said ocean views. Darryl smoked cigarettes in the corner room, above a decaying pool and parking lot. He was unshaven. A pencil rested behind his ear. Darryl stared at the wall in front of him. Index cards, threads, and pushpins covered most of the surface area.

U.S. Government

Pharmaceutical Mind Control

Project MK-Ultra

CIA

Stanford Research Clinic, Menlo Park.

Creative writing fellow

Perry Lane

Ken Kesey

Jack Underwood

Agnews Mental Hospital, 

said some of the index cards. They were written in various colors of Sharpie ink.

Darryl pressed the red button on a voice recorder.

“Jack Underwood was a creative writing fellow at Stanford University in 1965,” said Darryl. He lit another cigarette. “He lived on Perry Lane with his wife, Vera. Ken Kesey lived there at the same time. He was working on One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”

Motorcycle engines roared outside.

Darryl ran to the windows. A dozen men on motorcycles drove into the parking lot. 

“Oh no,” said Darryl. He snatched index cards from the wall. He grabbed a double armful of papers, file folders, and binders from the table and the bed. Men were on the staircase now, outside his door. He reached out to lock it. The door opened. Leather-clad men forced their way into the room. The last one to enter wore a shaved head and a goatee. The words Dirty White Boy were tattooed on the inside of his forearms. He shut the door behind himself.

“Cock-a-doodle-doo,” said the man.

“Ghost,” said Darryl, “aren’t you guys are up at the crack of-”

“-ass?” said Ghost, “Oh yeah, Darryl, me and the boys are always up at the crack of ass.”

Papers spilled from Darryl’s arms. Smoke rose from an ashtray on the bed. 

“Two more days till the Burning Man, sweetheart,” said Ghost, “you must have an address for me by now.”

Darryl swallowed. “That’s what I’ve been working on, Ghost, I’ve been up all night…” 

Ghost placed an arm around Darryl’s shoulder. He steered him towards the bathroom. The men followed. Leather crackled.

“Darryl, let me ask you something and be honest with me,” said Ghost.

“Sure,” said Darryl.

“Have you ever been to prison?” said Ghost.

“No,” said Darryl. His hands trembled. Ghost took a cigarette from the ashtray on the bed. 

 “See, if you had, Darryl, you’d have a certain look about you,” said Ghost. He puffed the cigarette back to life. The cherry glowed.

“A look I don’t have,” said Darryl.

Ghost stood an inch away from him. “A look on your face that says, I could watch another man get fucked today and give two shits less,” said Ghost. His breath smelled of chewing gum and cigarettes.  

The men formed a semicircle. They were corn-fed, tattooed, and looked ready for anything on the menu.

“Look, Ghost,” said Darryl, “I’ll have an opportunity to see the lab today, I’m sure of it.”

“I want a location. I want an address,” said Ghost. He caressed Darryl’s face.

“I’ll get it,” said Darryl, “I will, I just need some breathing room, man.”

Ghost smiled. “How about we open things up a bit for you then?”

“Whoa, easy, guys. Come on,” said Darryl.

“Turn around and put your hands on the wall,” said Ghost. He opened a buck knife.

“Ghost, come on man, I swear to god!”

Dos(e) Part II

Thursday, September 7th, 05:30hrs. Santa Cruz Mountains, California...

     A man sat in front of an iMac at a granite kitchen counter with a view over the mountains and the sea. He held a cup of coffee and stared into the lens at the top of his screen.

     “The journey of our psychopharmacologist then is ultimately a journey of the mind, a voyage inward,” said Dr. Lovbaum. A webcam showing a classroom full of students in Boston was open in his Skype window. “The trick is to somehow make it back with the flame intact, like Prometheus stealing fire from the gods, then use it for the betterment of mankind.”

     INCOMING CALL
     (831)777-9311

     It flashed beneath the webcam of the classroom.

     “Excuse me, please,” said Dr. Lovbaum. He clicked the mute button with his mouse and answered the call.

     “Charles, I’m in trouble,” said a man’s voice over the speakers. “I need to see you.” “Yes, of course. Where are you?”said Dr. Lovbaum, smiling.

     “I’ll call you in an hour.”

     CALL ENDED flashed beneath the window.

     Dr. Lovbaum stared right through the monitor in front of him.

     “Where was I?” he said.
     “Prometheus and fire,” said a promising young girl in the Boston webcam window.
     “Professor?” said someone else.
     “Yes,” said Dr. Lovbaum, “...and try not to get burned, I suppose. Ok then, the term pharmicon, pharmaceutical mind control, does it really exist?”
     “Does it, professor?” said someone.
     “Absolutely not,” said Dr. Lovbaum.

****

Thursday, September 7th, 05:30hrs. Santa Cruz, California...

     In an old house on Beach Hill, in the upstairs bathroom, James opened the medicine cabinet. He took a jar of Vanilla Sky bath crystals in one hand and removed a mirror hanging from the bathroom door with his other. He sat on the toilet and placed the mirror across his knees. James poured a mound of bath salts onto the mirror and crushed them with his California ID. He made three lines then rolled up a one dollar bill. His heart raced.

     James snorted one of the lines.

     His face contorted and spasmed. His teeth chattered. Tears streamed down his cheeks mingling with the blood now flowing from his nostril.

     “Arrrrrgh!!! Sweet holy fuck!” said James. He stomped a bare foot on the bathroom floor.

     Downstairs, the old house on Beach Hill was in quite a state. Columns of boxes and storage bins stretched from the floors to the ceiling. Mountains of hoarded personal items filled the 200 year old home.

     Vera Underwood slept upstairs on a four post bed amid the stacks of stuff. She was a good looking woman in her early sixties. Her face glowed with nighttime moisturizing serum. Her cheek rested on an anti-wrinkle memory-foam pillow. She smiled. Her silk wrap hung open exposing an attractive body.
James exited the bathroom. He entered Vera from behind.

     “Good morning there, sunshine,” said James. He sniffled and wiped the tears from his eyes. James was 28.
     “You’re lucky I was having a pleasant dream,” said Vera. She stretched out on her stomach. James didn’t break stroke. Sweat already covered his entire body.
     “You’re the lucky one,” said James.
     “What?” said Vera, “Oh, if only you didn’t fuck me so very very well, James, I’d be done with you.”
     “Where’s your son at?” said James.
     “Which one?”
     “The crazy one,” said James.
     “You’re hurting me,” said Vera.

****

Thursday, September 7th, 05:30hrs. Pacific Coast, north of Santa Cruz, California... 

     Poppy firedanced.

     The sun rose behind her. Music played from a boom box sitting on the sand. Bonfires crackled, dying in the predawn. The wind was picking up again. People clustered together in groups up and down the coastline, talking, smoking, and shivering in the cold. Some were nude and regretted it. Some were too high to even feel it, and others were too stubborn to admit that the party was now long over.
Sasha put his headphones down.

     He stripped out of his clothes in front of a tent. P.A. speakers and a Honda generator sat on the sand beside it. Sasha lit a cigarette. He stared into the rising sun. His pupils were severely dilated. Sea grass blew in the breeze. Poppy’s firedance was distracting him. Even in the morning light it was making Sasha see trails.

     He walked to her.

     “I need to sober up,” said Sasha.

     Poppy smiled. She touched Sasha’s face. 

     “You’re naked,” she said. “It’s freezing, Sasha.”
     “I have to snap out of this before I see my brother,” said Sasha. 
     “Wait,” said Poppy.

     Sasha picked up a twin fin surfboard from the sand. He ran to the rolling Pacific, hooting and shouting into the offshore wind. He dove into the whitewater.
Poppy noticed half of a sea lion carcass, washing onto the beach up ahead. “Sasha!” said Poppy.
Sasha paddled into a set wave, naked and high. The drop was endless. His fins bit. He bottom turned. The massive lip of water collapsed. A morass of foam and whitewash wiped Sasha and his board from view.

     Sasha held his breath.