What I would've done if I had the idea: Part 1
His cell service dropped about fifteen minutes ago and the radio shifted from country to jumbled words to a collection of frequency bursts. He’d made a turn down a long winding dirt road and was nearing a spiked rock formation that he’d been warned of.
You’ll see two granite spears. Count three driveways past those on the right, then take the next available left.
Someone at a gas station half an hour back was kind enough to sketch the rocks on a wrinkled heat-sensitive receipt. The word ‘ondom’ had a black line in front of it where one of the rocks peaked.
Radio off now, he rolled his window down an inch to let his sitting air breathe in the pines. Cool October air flooded the cab as he veered between washboard and mud ruts. Gin and juniper, or Christmas. Too early for Christmas, he thought. He dug through his centre console for a cigarette and lit it with a long barbecue lighter. Some nameless through-town’s gas station was out of cigarette lighters, and he felt matches were too much hassle while driving. The clicker was easier than a child-proof lighter, but more awkward. He held the orange stick like a gun and sucked until tobacco smoke burned the back of his throat.
Past a second dirt turn off, he slowed down to keep an eye for the third and his turn off on the left. A dusty green sign with shotgun spray near the bottom read “Pineridge-16-Gas-Motel-Food.”
Squinting through a shadowy bush by the road, he made out the underbelly of a trail headed to the forest. The third turnoff, he presumed. He turned his attention to the left side of the highway and pushed the sun guard down to block the big orange ball in his front vision. Ducking now to see the road, he kept a slow pace around corners and watched with wide eyes for a turn off. He dipped into a rut and swerved to recalibrate. His stack of papers and laptop slid from the seat to the crevice between the chair and the door. He cursed. Leaning, he fingered the manuscript and computer back onto the seat but lost control of the car once more. Front right wheel dipping into the grassy ditch, he smashed his brakes and crunched to a wobbling stop. His computer slid out of immediate sight between the front and rear of the car. The papers separated into a sideways mess between the two sides. Next time he was in town, he'd be sure to buy staples. If Pineridge even has staples for sale.
He unbuckled and hopped out into the chilled sun to stretch his legs. Thirty yards up the road was his turn off. A blue yard sign stuck at an obtuse angle read 2241. Miranda made sure he wrote it down before he hung up on her this afternoon. She wanted to see how he was doing on his trip and figure approximately what time he’d arrive. He wasn’t sure then why she’d called so early, but as he tries to text her to let her know he was arriving now, it was apparent. Message failure.
He hobbled into tall grass and let down his fly, getting one last nature’s calling out of the way before the big meeting. He hates having to ask to use someone’s restroom the moment he walks in the door. His piss smacks against something hard in the grass. He peers over and pushes damp ferns out of the way. A rusted ballpeen hammer sits in a puddle of pee.
Zipped up, he opens the passenger side of his car up to reorganize his papers and laptop. Some of the pages are crinkled, one is torn in the middle from the force of the laptop coming down on it. His laptop still turns on, and he’s thankful to see his ugly generic screensaver just as bright and green as ever.
Gravel road transitioned to smooth black pavement as he made the turnoff onto lot 2241. Trees were closer together here than along the road, like they were planted to keep the house hidden. He didn’t realize how much noise the road was making on his thinned tires until he got onto the asphalt. Then it was smooth and quiet, and the only sounds were birds and wind. An elaborate patina gate creaked open as he approached. Above, a white security camera oscillated from west to east, then back again. Someone’s watching. Miranda, he hoped.
His chest tightened as he weaved down the black road towards the house. A sense of nervousness with a garnish of excitement gripped his mind. The closer to the house he was, the more his forehead began to sweat. At a second gate now, he pushed on the brakes and put his hands over the vents to dry off. Another patina gate, only this one taller and thicker. The real house gate. Beyond was the mansion, inside was Leonard and Miranda. One of which might not even know they’re expecting visitors.
A telecom pole chirped like a bird and flashed a little red light atop black paint. He didn’t notice the first chirp. Instead, he ducked further into his seat with fingers in cool wind. Through the pines he could make out the silhouette of the house but not the details. Splashes of white paint bolted through the trees. Stucco, perhaps. Certainly not regular siding.
A second chirp pierced his attention, so he cranked his window down.
“Hello?” He spoke to the thin grate microphone.
A voice crackled through before he could say more. “Hello. I assume you’re the writer?”
“I am. Is this Leonard?”
“No. This is his doctor. Miranda says to pull into the open garage port and meet her around back.”
“Alright.”
The gate lurched open and he idled up the last stretch of the hill towards the house. Around the bend, he pushed the brakes to take in the view. The Paulson Mansion, as Forbes magazine aptly named it, has three stories, a pool, a greenhouse attached to the southern wing, a basement with a bar and a stage for private parties, an elaborate roundabout with a praying angel fountain carved by an Italian designer, and thirty-seven acres of groves to boot. They hired a classically trained German architect to create their fairytale, with high-vaulted ceilings, dark wood beams, white stucco sides, and a fireplace fit for royalty. It is rumoured that they bid on a large section of a sequoia tree stump to be brought in for their rear patio, but nobody has seen it since the rumour began.
The crying angel stared down at him and his dusty red Toyota Camry as he pulled into the garage. Adjacent to his parking space, a Lamborghini in the same tint of red outshined his vehicle. Two cherries, one costing a hundred times the cost of his.
He brushed himself off and checked his teeth in the sun mirror before stepping out onto the garage floor. Even the concrete looked expensive. It shimmered like the stars under cold LEDs.
He snapped his fingers to check the acoustics. The room was soundproofed. If he listened harder, he was sure he might hear his racing heart. Standing between the two cars, he remembered Miranda would be waiting for him. He tucked his laptop and papers under his arm and didn’t waste any time.
Patio stairs creaked underneath his steps. An odd thing for a house of this stature to be in slight disrepair. Then again, he figured, upkeep would strenuous with an injured husband, given the sheer size of the house.
At the top of the patio steps, he smelled a thick smoky aroma wafting along the trees. Not quite a cigarette, but not a fire either. Something stickier, more alluring.
In college, he had been part of a group of hippies that had a moral compass who changed their north pole with the wind. Yesterday’s cause is the next day’s laugh. Most of them didn’t take the fight for the greater good with much levity. Instead, they filled their heads with drugs and wine most evenings, and during classes some days. On a blustering December day after exams, one of the regular activists brought a leather pouch and a long slim silver pipe. As the night fell, he packed it full of a mahogany resin and lit the underside of the metal pipe, passing it around one by one. When it came time for him to have his share, he was overcome with the same smell coming from deeper into the property. Unmistakable, and unthinkable for people like this.
“Hello darling,” Miranda appeared atop a second flight of stairs. Her silhouette was thin and unwavering. In her hands were a matchbox and a small smoking device. She held them out by her side as to show him she had nothing to hide. “Don’t mind us, please come round and let’s have a chat. I take it you had no trouble getting in?”
He stood below the steps with his hand up to his eyes. His nose still wetted at the smell. “Not too much, no. Though I wish I’d known there was no service out this way.”
“I must’ve forgotten to mention it.” She shook her head. Her head eclipsed the sun, giving her a halo that sat crooked. “There’s a landline here if you need one, and we do have wi-fi in the house for you.”
“That’ll be fine.”
“Well come on up then. I’m sure you’ve heard all about our patio.”
He dragged the rubber part of his shoe between two floorboards and glanced at wiry outdoor furniture that garnished the deck he stood on. “This isn’t the patio?”
“That is a patio, not the patio.” She smirked. He knew what was coming, but his coyness slipped past her. To her, him not knowing about their quirks made his presence more appealing.
He skipped up the stairs to meet her. On the top step he was just a few inches taller than her. She wore black heels that added to her height only slightly. Her eyes met his nose at level, and she pulled him in for a greeting hug, planting a kiss on both of his now rosy cheeks. The box of matches in her hand rattled behind his back like a maraca.
She held his wide shoulders a tad too long for his comfort, and his eyes darted around the deck. Below his feet was thousands of years of history, slabbed and stained. Deep auburn and chocolate rings enclosed inwards, bringing with the formation of their furniture. The rumours were true. He eyed the rings to the centre of the slab, only to find it tarnished by a thin tacky table that anyone’s uncle might have. Minus an umbrella.
“Welcome, welcome, welcome.” She sung. “We were just out for a little fresh air.”
“I’m sure it’s not, but is that opium?” He pointed to her pipe.
“Good eye- good nose. It is- would you like some?”
The thought of smoking opium at Leonard Paulson’s house made him proud, but he put the idea out of his head for the time. “Not right now, thank you.”
“How’d you know it was opium?” Miranda pried, putting the paraphernalia on the iced glass table near the center of the ring. Her waist was thin, synching her bust and hips like a bow. It was hard for him not to stare with her back towards him.
“College.” He followed, “I smoked it once in college. If I remember correctly, I passed out and was in a dreamy state for a while.”
“Dreamy. That’s the word for it. Was that with Darby Healey?” She turned; black hair bounced on her shoulders like black springs.
That name hadn’t been on his mind in a while, and hearing it made him have to take a step back. It was like being punched in the face. “No, it wasn’t with Darby.” He exhaled, “Do you know him?”
“You didn’t figure this out on the way here?”
“Figure what out?”
“Have you spoken to him?”
“Not in years- probably since maybe around the crash.” He wracked his mind for an exact date but came up short. “Two-thousand eight, maybe.”
She put her fingertips on the cool glass beside her, then swiped along to check for dust. “Oh. Well. That’s displeasing. He spoke highly of you.”
“Really?”
“Should he not have?” She held her fingers to the light. Grey smudged the tips of her index and middle.
“No- well, yes-“
“I’m teasing. I’m sure you’re just as good as he says you were.”
“I hope so.”
“I checked you out, regardless of what Darby said. Your writing’s just like Leonard’s. Just a bit less wordy is all. That can be adjusted, right?” She wiped her hand on her dress, leaving an ashy stain on black velvet.
“I can try my best. Is he here? You said you were out for fresh air.”
“Just me. He’s inside, I hope.” Her cadence stood flat against the cool air. ‘Have you picked a name?”
“Pardon?”
“Your name. Obviously, we won’t be using his- nor yours.”
“Oh, right.” He hadn’t thought about a pen name once in the two weeks after he was given the task of inventing one. The name Jake rattled around in his mind during that phone call because it was close to his real name but far enough that nobody would suspect it. Now as he thought of one, the name Jake sounded too generic. Every fake guy is named Jake. Pressure to improvise was making his palms sweat. In in a burst of unwillingness to disappoint the wife of Leonard Paulson, he blurted “Chuck Pines.”
She screwed up her face and shook her head. “That sounds like a cartoon beaver. What about something tougher.”
He blushed and wiped his hands slow on his jeans. Something tougher than spiky trees? It was good, but she’s right. It does sound like a funny animal name. Tougher. Tough as nails, he thought over and over. The name Chuck still wanted to be heard, so he kept it. What’s tougher than nails? “How about Chuck Hammer?”
“That’s not bad. That’s tough.” She mulled. Then with a mocking man voice, “Written by Chuck Hammer.” Then she flinched and stiffened in her dress. “That’s fine. Let’s go see Len. Then I’ll give you a proper tour. Have you eaten?”
“No, ma’am, I have not.”
“I’m only two years your senior, Chuck.” She stopped by the door. “You call me Miranda, not ma’am.”
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