Chapter 7

7

     The junkyard was calm as the night creatures roamed. Bats echoed in the distance, unable to see the shabby campfire where the two discussed life's meaningful minutia. Otto persisted in asking to hear more about Joe's clouded history, and after some talk, the tinker caved. "I was raised on a reservation in the Midwest. Family always moved about, but we stayed within the sovereignty of my people's land. Nothing ever changed, except the name of the political official who'd lie to us, or the sheriff working for the white man who harassed us. I went into the army when I was 16 years old. Guess they couldn't tell a teenager from a tomahawk, or else they were running out of men for their stupid war. I saw a lot of heavy crap over there. Things I'd rather forget."

     Otto couldn't relate in the slightest capacity. His eyebrows resumed their usual elevated position, requesting whatever Homeless Joe would provide. "They kept giving us all these pills, experimenting with our sleeping patterns. Seems like I never ate the same colored capsule twice. I took a bullet in my backside somewhere in the jungle, and got left for dead by the opposition. I lay face up for hours, coming down from the last pill I ever took, watching the sun traipse across the sky."

     "I thought I was sure to die, that I'd go off to be with the Great Grandfather. They found me that night and rushed me back home. But the last thing I remember before I faded was this huge bird circling overhead, humming and glimmering in the sun. Next thing I know I have to spend months in a veteran's hospital. Had a lot of time to sit and think. Nobody came to visit me, as the public sentiment was a tidal wave of animosity and loathing. I saw it on the news every day, while I slowly learned to walk again. That was maybe the hardest deed I've ever done. Especially since I didn't take none of their pain pills. No way. I was done with the military medicine, and one day I just walked right out the door."

     Homeless Joe got restless and went inside the truck canopy. Otto could hear him rummaging around while he spoke. "First thing I did was go to the liquor store and pick up some Indian medicine. Heh, heh, then I discovered a tattoo parlor and had my scar decorated. Check it out." He appeared at the door with his back towards Von Clumpson. As Homeless Joe lifted his Mr. Yuk shirt aside, Otto saw a gnarled war wound, still ruddy and seared, with large multicolored arrows aimed at it. Across his back in distinct black letters were the words, 'I EARNED MY PEACE!' "Wow!" Otto exclaimed, "I've never known anyone trying to draw attention to a scar. What happened next?"

     The shabby tinker continued to look for something in his den, "I was pretty juiced during the tattoo, and as I staggered away from the parlor people kept glaring at me like I was some freak. It got really bad. I walked to the edge of town, intending never to go back to the hospital or even talk to them. This is the strange part. All of a sudden, I heard that same hum that I heard out in the jungle, the most comforting tone in the world. I looked around for the huge shiny bird, but there was nothing. Then I saw a pigeon circling above me, and it came and landed right in front of me. Its gray feathers answered precisely how I was feeling. It simply stared at me, and I didn't really enjoy it. So I walked the other way. That silly bird hopped after me like I was its mother. Every time I looked back, it'd be there. I decided to keep on walking. Walking until something stops me from walking, but I still see that jovialoof pigeon once in awhile. I have been all over this land, back and forth, and I haven't seen anything new for a long time."

     Otto stoked the fire, loading more trash upon it. When staring at a flame, he always grew meditative, almost hypnotized. He now saw in the shabby man he'd followed a noble soul, full of worth and mirth. 'A pity,' he thought, 'that it took so long to uncover the merit.' Homeless Joe's adam's apple gyrated with anticipated utterance. "I've been looking for this old relic I found last week. Beautiful piece. Its funny how I got it. I was, ahem, appraising this dumpster behind this craggy estate, when a housemaid comes out and says I'm sleeping in there, and that I had better split. At that moment I saw it, shuffled it under my coat, and told her, 'Just the artifacts, ma'am'. I left her with a quizzical countenance, and I quickly returned here to stash it away. Rich people are really possessive about their garbage, you see. They don't want it, but they don't want anyone else to have it either." Joe beckoned Otto inside the canopy with his arm, "Come on inside, there's room. You really have to look at this. I believe you'll find it very interesting."

Chapter 6

6

     Otto Von Clumpson knew exactly who the shabby toaster beater was. He'd avoided mentioning his liaison with the man to Musket, due to the scraggly, questionable character of the tramp. Once the truth had been neglected, it was more difficult to come clean each time he saw Clover. Why, only this very morning the man had appeared at Otto's door seemingly out of nowhere, trying to sell him a gold plated science fiction chess set, likely rummaged out of someone's dumpster across town. The guy was a modern day tinker, running with the hobos and scavenging artifacts from trash like archaeological digs. The chess set was missing the Spock bishop and the Robby Robot rook, however, and held no interest to Von Clumpson without them. So after a few terse words the tramp eluded Otto for rosier pastures.

     Why the odd attraction to this man, even Otto knew not. He only found himself clinging to the disheveled appliance and racing after the paranoid man. Otto was a fairly decent runner, but the shabby man was tricky when hounded, finding numerous crawlspaces and crags. Block after block they ran, as the afternoon sun slowly melted into the soft hum of evening. Otto was breathless, stopping in an alley resembling the twenty other alleys he'd toured today. He noticed unfamiliarity encroaching, highly unusual for this intrepid scout who knew the city like a banker or baker knows dough. The tinker apparently knew it better than Otto, for the older man was nowhere, and confusion was a cloud about him. Where was this place? And where was this man leading him to? Von Clumpson's hopes were plummeting.

     Rustic and rusty buildings crumbled and grumbled for attention, as stripped down autos lined the alley. It seemed to Otto that the only thing holding the structures in place were the many clotheslines stretched to and fro between them. He struck a lazy course toward the setting sun, and with nonchalance gauged every direction. Teens fighting, no, playing basketball off to his left. On the street to his right, an assortment of freaks at a bus stop, each one staring at a different spot on the pavement. Otto walked the other way. A heap of trash a block ahead, roiling with spontaneous generation. A head periscoped out of the top, noticed Otto, and the trash heap erupted as the shabby man darted off. "He doesn't recognize me," Otto felt spurned, "Oh well, on with the chase!"

     As twilight tweaked his temples, Otto Von Clumpson was experiencing the stubborn process that all humans undergo now and again. He had come this far, even to the brink of being lost in his own city. Surely there was no ceasing now. Up ahead, a pheasant sprang for freedom, spooked by the shabby man spryly vaulting over a hedge. The tramp clambered up a chain linked fence, disappearing down the other side. As Otto scaled the wall of metal mesh, the last rays of dusk reflected on the iridescent feathers of a pink and black pigeon at the top. Straddled at the top, it heckled him with its mean and mocking dovelike laughter as Otto lost his balance and collapsed in a heap on the other side. Darkness now cloaked the pink and black pigeon, and only its cackles guided a stone, thrown vengefully by Otto. He heard a thump and a squawk, then the flapping of wings gradually fading in the direction he had come. Under normal circumstances, Von Clumpson was a defender of all small and wild creatures, but in his weak and vulnerable state, a thrill of justice hung in the air.

     "Where am I?" implored Otto to no one, as the buzzing sulfur street lamps in the junkyard switched on in succession. With the fence behind him, all other directions revealed circles of lamplit luster, islands of illumination in the dark mechanical cemetery. The place had a paludal odor to it, like the sweaty perspiration of a thousand marshy motors. He saw twisted towers of sun dried shrapnel, piled upon mounds of unfathomable oddments. Entangled in the rubiginous heaps of industrial rubbish were disgorged dwellings, so temporary that entropy loitered and lingered like an unwelcome guest.

Scrubby trashfires crackled up around the junkyard, and each convoluted scrap of clutter cast a shrouded shadow. The writhing prehistoric phantasms with gaping jaws vied to engulf Otto as the shady specters danced on the edge of the smoky gloom. Von Clumpson felt the atmosphere about him charged with impenetrable hostility. The type that screams, "GO AWAY!!" with silent signals, like a bad smell or a sudden icy wind. Cold, hard outlines of hunched silhouettes bunched up to the campfires. Either no one noticed Otto, or nobody wanted to be noticed. He stood for many painstaking minutes looking in the direction he had last heard his quarry, but the shabby tinker was not to be found.

     Otto heard the scuffle of old shoes behind him, spent souls waiting for retirement. He turned abruptly toward the sound, and found the face of the man in the park defensively scrutinizing him. "Why did you follow me all this way?" the man asked. Otto was now quite sure of the man's identity, although rather unsure of the reception he would get. He held up the mangled toaster like a lame excuse, "I-I-brought your toaster, Joe."

He meekly set the appliance at Joe's feet as if giving alms to a deity. The man saw Otto's face as he did this, and recognition visited him with a smile, "It's you. I'll be damned! You gave me quite a scare in the park. Thought I shook you three times, at least." This was Homeless Joe, connoisseur of unique rummaged relics and pontificator of wise words that obviously didn't apply to his own life. A sturdy chuckle began to gurgle inside of the shabby man, evolving into staccato sentences, "I had this, crazy idea! Ho! Try to get myself, a belt! Ha, I wanted that cord, haw, haw! I never knew they made those things so damn sturdy." Otto waited a few moments, expecting something to happen. Only then did he remember that Homeless Joe's lack of hospitable circumstances, "Hey, I can go if you want."

Joe almost appeared offended in the juice colored light, "I hardly think so. You have to come see the trinkets I dug up today. Besides, I wouldn't pass up the chance for company. Follow me, but watch your step. Some of those dark spots on the ground are actually holes. Big, deep holes, and boy, I don't want to know what's inside." Otto studied Joe's feet and mimicked his steps. Once he got the gist of it he relaxed a bit. They were heading toward the middle of the yard, past dozens of tramps avoiding his gaze like lepers in a colony. A minute later Homeless Joe's growly voice barked, "Home, sweet home."

The tinker sat down in front of a lean to apparently consisting of a truck canopy and some freeway guardrails. Homeless Joe produced a small key, opening the squeaky canopy. He crawled inside, reappearing with an armful of brush, some Sunday comics, and a bottle of lighter fluid. "Yeah, this is it. It's not much, but I've been lucky." He artfully arranged the twigs and shrubs on top of the comics, "The folks that run the yard, they must know about us. But they never bother us, like sending dogs on us, or the police." Otto watched as Joe doused the pile with the flammable fluid.

"The thing is, when they need something, some machine, some car or culvert, they just come and get it. A lot of times, that's someone's shelter, and they have to start from scratch." As Joe muttered 'scratch' he lit a match and dropped it over the pile. Flames erupted instantly, the colossal combustion blowing Otto's tousled hair up, while emphasizing Joe's point.

"Did I mention I've been lucky? Or maybe it's my fence." He smiled and pointed at the freeway guardrails encircling his camp. Otto came close to the blaze, "How long have you been here?" Homeless Joe began to peel off layer after layer, taking off a coat, next a jacket, then a sweater, and finally a vest, leaving only an old Mr. Yuk t-shirt. Otto thought it odd, as the spring afternoon had been delicious. Joe ambled up to the fire, "About maybe five years. I don't know. I measure my days by the stuff I find." To Otto Von Clumpson it grew apparent that there was more to this eccentric tinker than met his nose.

Chapter 5

5

     "Wow, Musket! How did you coax all that out of her?" Otto asked at a brisk walk from the cafe. Clover Muscatel was feeling aloof, "What? Oh, that. I just looked in her eyes." Otto enviously blurted, "Okay, Svengali..." The two remained thoughtful as they silently assented to a stroll in the park, not only because it was noon and a brilliantly sunny sky greeted them, or even the birds that roamed the air, peppering the grass as children fed crumbs by the handful. Even the gray pigeon meandering under the bellies of geese and swans was alone not enough to lure their focus. Clover's house was several blocks from the opposite end of this place, and while Musket and Otto had been known to recreate here with a frisbee ever and anon, their intended goal for the day was to schedule future tours of temples, meetings at monasteries, and lectures from lamas and laymen alike. These arrangements were the crux of their inquiry to the universe, while the chance encounters proved to be the deluxe bonus.

     Otto noticed Musket drop out of formation and plant his bottom on a bench. "I'll be okay," he regretted, "I just need to chew all that experience into edible food for thought. I'll catch up with you in a few, eh, Otto?" Von Clumpson took the cue. He noticed a favorite cypress tree a hundred yards away with a trunk over fifteen feet in diameter. Soon the squirrels had a new playmate and benefactor beneath the luminous evergreen, for Otto always carried seed for little critters and creatures among his assortment of pocket oddities.

     Clover Muscatel was bewildered. What had he done, other than ask a question, and then listen with an intensity unusual even for him? It wasn't so much what she said, though he definitely still needed to mull that over. The context of the familiar, sweet old waitress at the Wincing Moon was gone. She was another person today. Or the same, yet deeply revealed, for good or naught. It seemed to have done her some benefit, only time would tell.

     Musket vaguely recalled other instances when his eyes drew much more out of individuals than ever he desired. The sudden rushes of intimate reality between himself and others would temporarily elevate his perceptions. He had never needed to connect these experiences together. Was this strange phenomenon springing from him, or was it outside of himself? Musket wasn't sure, or he was denying the obvious. Ironic that as Musket's realization of the power inside himself grew to fruition, this was the time he felt most powerless of all. He decided the safest bet would be to deal with future surprises as they occurred, and at the least try to bandage the hearts of the hurting.

     Clover looked across the grounds, watching Otto performing cartwheels in a counterclockwise manner. Hapless and generous as Von Clumpson was, a semicircle of squirrels around him were engaged in his antics. Only one was bold enough to go after the seeds nearest Otto, and in a few seconds Musket's friend was on his hands and knees. This was too good to miss, and Clover's curiosity found him stealthily approaching the cypress, halting just before his shadow fell on the animal. Unaware of Musket, Otto was now prostrate and conversing with the squirrel rather onesidedly, for the mammal's mouth was quite full.

     "What's on your mind, little squirrel? What frail thoughts are expedited through your tiny cranium? Your eyes are as big as marbles, and so black, like hematite. Wow! I can see my reflection in them. I know you see me, squirrelly, perceiving me as I perceive you. From worlds entirely alien and foreign, except my alien world spread birdseed around to coax you down from your humongous home. Hey, I'm cool! You graze, I'll gaze, as long as I can find out what's on your mind. Did you know you have seeds wedged in your nostrils? Each time you bend over and stuff those pudgy cheeks, hee hee, another seed gets stuck. Got quite a collection, buddy! I guess that's the way nature works." Otto shifted to a sitting position, causing the startled squirrel to retreat. Both were still ignorant of Musket, who had slipped around the far side of the tree.

     Clover continued to hear his pal pontificate, "Hey, come on back squirrelly! I won't hurt you. That's it, ease on up. I guess you're nervous, huh? Your feather wispy tail is twitching. Do you always eat when you're nervous? Or do you just always eat? Maybe you're always nervous, though I will admit it is I who impacted your reality with the bird seed. Guess it's to your benefit today, critter. I sure hope people never destroy your reality, chopping this gorgeous tree down." Otto gazed high into the branches, "So what is on that twitching, paranoid mind, little squirrel? Are you imagining our next encounter? When you, nature's representative, meets again her prodigal, wayward man? Or are you reminding yourself to keep those nostrils shut? Or does any thought need to fleet across that energized skull of yours? Perhaps nature doesn't worry at all, maybe it's us humans who are the maniacally crazed beings bent upon survival. In any case, squirrelly, your thoughts are safe with me. Yessir!"

     The squirrel sat up and squeaked, "What the hell are you talking about?" Otto blanched and dropped the remainder of his seeds, much to the animal's pleasure. He heard a stifled laughter, and deduced the rest. Clover Muscatel knew ventriloquism, and had sent his wavering soprano sentence around the tree, only to blow it with his flatulent giggles. The wisdom in the line 'All the world's a stage...' found its mark for Otto like never before. Embarrassment passed swiftly for Von Clumpson, however, and the two were soon back on their lighthearted way.

     "I sure hope the Buddhist monastery called back today." Musket mused as they left the park, "Takes them forever just to return a call." Otto wasn't listening. He had the ability to so completely focus on one aspect of his senses, the rest became a distraction. He had turned around to wish to park farewell for the day, to watch the trees wave their boughs at him, when something at the swing set caught his eye. "Oh my gosh, Musket! There's some guy smashing a toaster over there! I just gotta find out what this freak is all about. Do you mind if I catch up with you tomorrow?" Musket seconded the motion. He appreciated that Otto didn't expect him to want to go with him, "I'll arrange the mosques and meetings. I could use the evening to catch up on my reading. Adios!" He headed home to a calm night of tea and a good classic, wishing every night could be so relaxing.

     Otto chuckled too himself, "Thought I'd seen everything!" A clamorous commotion was brewing, as an older gentleman in shabby clothing violently swung the appliance. He'd got the toaster by the tail, you might say, for the plug was in his hand. The toaster groaned horrendously each time it smashed into the swing set. The children had by now found other places to play, so the immediate danger was stalled. Neurotically smothering mothers turned their heads, disbelieving the disturbance. Otto was shocked at the absurdity of it all, how the mighty centrifugal force kept the cord taut and tensile. The shabby man repeated the impacts over and again, and soon the appliance was beaten to a toaster shaped pulp. Otto's curiosity came on like a flashflood, and he found himself jogging toward the scene of the applianticide.

     The appliance's accomplice noticed Otto, and suddenly the stranger's amok time dissipated. He turned and fled the park in a panic, dropping the toaster. Otto retrieved the malleable metal box, now unrecognizable as a kitchen item. "This is too weird. I just gotta know." He pursued the man in the shabby rags, attracted like a magnet of eccentricity. To him, this was a perfect way to spend the afternoon.

Chapter 4

4

     Musket was a man who knew absolutely that he hardly knew anything at all. With intense beady eyes, his gaze could hold the average person enraptured. They wanted to speak out simply for something to be said. He was of average height with a strong build, due largely from his willingness to work and not an obsession to work out. He kept his hair short, and his ears had a rather vulcan look to them. Clover would explain, "Oh, well. It's just my head. I don't have to look at it."

Most would have considered him attractive, if for nothing other than the quirky, wry spontaneity that had drawn many thus far. Musket affirmed that since a lilac smelled nicer than a tic tac, the flower must be better for him. He kept his clothes clean, but not necessarily new. He washed, yet felt no need to adorn himself with added fragrances or applications. He simply didn't care about the norms, wielding only an uncommonly found common sense. Clover Muscatel's greatest asset was his ability to listen.

     At this moment he sat in an exotic booth, listening to jazz from the 1960's. This was The Wincing Moon cafe, temporary rejuvenating zone for the constant tide of moody artists and downright outsiders ebbing and flowing. Musket believed the cafe to be quite a quixotic place. Having seen its day of odd popularity, it had waxed twenty years before Musket was born. The Wincing Moon was waning still, almost a new phase in the lunar cycle of this dive.

The cafe was quaint, old, musky, and cheap, but beyond anything else, Clover admired its character. There was jazz blaring, the good jazz before they smoothed it out, and every weekend the place was crowded with young hipsters who didn't know why they were there. It was a place that, throughout all of the crowded chaos, one could be flauntingly creative, or introspectively intense. Musket usually found, if he waited patiently, an out of the way, cushioned booth, to recline his shoes and incline his muse.

     Commotion ensued at the cafe's entrance, leading Musket to deduce that his rummy chum Otto had strolled in. Hearing joyous, nasal banter with the staff confirmed the fact, and as Clover sat up gazing out of the booth, he saw his friend dancing, hands in a praying posture above his head, neck wriggling back and forth like an Egyptian. The man entertaining the cooks was Otto Von Clumpson, or at least that's what he said. The aging waitress smiled broadly as he tipped his cap to her, bowed Shogun style, and spotted Musket chuckling from the booth.

Otto was a large man whose 150 quotient of intelligence was six times greater than his age. With a wit as sharp as a paring knife, he often lacked the discernment to avoid embarrassment. Von Clumpson's mental spigot ran relentlessly, creatively charismatic and free of blocks. Musket suspected Otto contained manic depressive tendencies, but in the few years' friendship he'd only ever seen the mania. Tousled hair sprung out from under his cap as Otto approached the booth. His socks didn't match, and his bushy eyebrows hinted at weariness from being elevated in inquiry all night long.

     He grinned at Musket warmly and filled the opposite cushion with his amplified volume. Food was the first order of business, and as the waitress knew their usual victuals, it was already on its way. "I was just thinking," Otto spoke with captivating ferocity, "Was that old King Solomon really the first person to say, 'There's nothing new under the sun.'?  Chew on it Musket." Otto Von Clumpson had a reputation of asking profound questions in the most idiotic ways. He went on, "By his own admittance, he must have been recycling or regurgitating some wise proverb. Or else he'd be saying the first new thing under the sun! I smell a contradiction here."

     "I think you're missing the point, my friend." Musket volunteered, as their breakfast arrived and the waitress clung to the periphery to insure the food was satisfactory. She clasped her hands in front, playing with  overworn apron strings, hungry for the discourse between these two very interesting young men who always seemed to come back. She liked them, and hoped they would eventually find whatever it was they were looking for. Words dribbled out of Otto's mouth between bits of egg and toast, "I'm probably not seeing it the proper shopper way, but when you get to thinking about it, it's a mind bender! You know I see the abstract better than the literal. I'd rather peer through the fish eye lens in the door than open it, sometimes."

     "Hey, Otto," Musket wondered, "who was at your door earlier? It's not like you to hang up on people." Von Clumpson's pale hue shifted to a primrosy pink, "I'm sorry, man. It was no one special. Hey! I've been thinking over what you said about Universal Truth." At this point the waitress removed Otto's swiftly emptied plate and glided off to the kitchen. Otto grabbed his fork and began waving it in the air and pointing it like a professor in a lecture hall.

"It's like, all these elements are out there, Musket. These religions, the paradigms and pop culture dogmas, they can't all be all true. If they were they would conflict and contradict, and in extreme cases kill each other. Problem is, they can't be all lies either, or folks would call them a bunch of crap and the creeds and teachings would cease to affect anybody. I mean..." The ice cubes in his glass clinked as he paused to sip. "It all seems to be a big web. Each strand is a piece of truth. But I don't know whether I'm the spider or the fly."

     Musket's eyes grew wide as he grasped the table, remembering last night's dream for the first time since he had sat down. "What did you say?!" Otto's train of thought derailed and crashed. "Uh..." He was silent. "Otto, you said something about a web. It floors me how we're on the same frequency all the time! I had this dream last night." Otto interrupted, "You have a dream every night, almost. But I want to hear all about it, as long as you weren't doing naked handstands on national television." Musket pushed his plate aside, "Ah, you build my character with your inane vocal patterns, Otto." He told the tale of his slumbering vision to his companion, each detail building on the next. By the time the final climactic impotency was relayed, Otto was thoroughly engrossed and tremendously thoughtful.

     "Wow, man. That was heavy." Von Clumpson sounded as if he was waiting for his intellectual processor to catch up with his mouth, "Your dream really could've been us! For awhile at least. I mean, that's what I was saying about the web. Well, sort of. Like how we are always finding new strands, the truth pieces, and weaving them into a path towards the light! Wow!" Otto sighed and unfolded a crispy bill from a dehydrated wad that had been inside of his pocket during laundering, "But that part about getting tangled, I don't know... Maybe we should just focus on the climb and keep our chins free of stubble."

     Musket signaled for the waitress, a quick, respectful wave of his hand, though she'd been in the business long enough that she was already on her way over. As he cleared his throat, even the waitress hardly anticipated his next inquiry, "Hey, I was curious what you think of this big question of life. We're at a crossroads, ma'am. Would you mind sharing any wisdom or such that you've learned during your venerable years on this orb of a planet?" The seasoned server seemed flattered as she addressed them, appearing beautiful even through her weary worn uniform, "Let me tell you, Sugar, my husband died five years ago, and I keep thinking there's somethin' I gotta do before I go. Somethin' I gotta give, somethin' I gotta get. We're always striving for something, like a big hole inside of us that ain't never gonna be full. Seems to me people are all just a bit defective the moment they are born. Oh, the baby's cute when it pops out, but just you wait, Sugar. The same selfish envy and need to exploit one another is primal. Always had it, always will. It's deeper in our nature than wearin' clothes, and that's deep unless you's in some village in the bush somewhere. Heh, heh, heh..."

     Musket felt the conversation slipping away, and made an attempt to excavate further, "But what about how people see you, or how you see yourself?" His eyes reached out and arrested her attention, the electricity polarizing the three intensely. "Sugar, don't be conned by this mask I wear, my surface persona. You got one, he's got one, we all do. To you I look secure, cool, and confident. Don't believe it for a second, cuz' it ain't really me, Sugar. Underneath lies the real me, confused, alone, abandoned, afraid. Me, myself, and I. That's the only jail could ever contain my soul. So I hide inside, cowering to protect me from that painful glance, acceptance or rejection, even Love, which is sometimes pretty scary, Sugar. But if I gave it a chance, let it in, it could free me. That's a whole lotta work, Sonny. Do people wanna be vulnerable like that? Hell no! It's easier to look the other way, or make idle chatter instead of telling you I need help, that my ship is sinking. Not just me, everyone. We all wanna think we're genuine, Sugar, but we're not willing to help each other. Just Me, Me, Me, in my little prison. And when you do reach out, I get scared and bite your hand. Not literally, Otto. I don't mean to, Sugar. I wish it could be different but at least I can buck up enough to tell you all that much. I gotta go clean up them tables. Be seein' ya'. Thanks a lot for the tip." She looked down with a sheepish sigh of relief and retreated to the opposite corner.  For the aging widow, the Wincing Moon cafe was the safest place in the world.

Chapter 3

3

     Clover Muscatel opened his eyes to the cynical laughter of pigeons and a warm sunbeam peeking in his open window. He could smell the spring dewdrops on the beechnut tree outside, a woody fragrance. Musket's attention was routed to his window for the pigeon's diatribe, and he imitated the bird's booing almost exactly. The pink and black pigeon ceased with its head cocked askew and wings folding down to its side. Musket grinned at the crumbled jumble of muffin mess on his nightstand, and got up feeling thankful for the gift of another day. His dream lingered in the cobwebs of his deeper self, but at this moment routine kicked in and the ephemeral was replaced by the practical.

     The wisest thoughts are forgotten in the morning, when we realize we have lives to live and sweat to give. Just as the most creative thoughts of all enter our heads at instances when we could not possibly record them. Engaging in his hygienic ritual, Musket held profound appreciation for simple things. Almost before he had finished his rites of passage something grabbed him. This mystical presence held his attention like no other thing could, with all of the hope and expectancy one could imagine.

     Musket floundered into the kitchen and considered the antique telephone as it rang once more with an actual bell. "Too early for a telemarketer..." He picked it up and already could hear the nasally analog voice of Otto Von Clumpson rapidly firing into the phone. Musket's best friend Otto seemed to be in one lifelong brainstorm. He had not yet suffered, so was generally a congenial fellow. "Musket, are you there? I had this idea last night, man. It's really got me in a spin. I mean, what is it we're doing here? Not just in this town, this state, this country. Why are we who we are? I see myself in the mirror and it's clear I'm not an accident. So was I put, or was I put away? I mean, you and I have been looking for Truth for awhile now, eh Musket? But that's easy to say, easy to play. When are we gonna find the answer to all these questions?" Otto was notorious for his one sided conversations.

     "Otto, I just got up. I can meet you in a little while at the Wincing Moon for breakfast. What do you say?" ... "Sounds good, man. I just wanted to say that you're a real good soul, always willing to go on a tangent of a tangent on a tangent." Otto was also good at accidentally insulting people while attempting to complement them, "I been up most of the night thinking about this stuff, but the more I think, Musket, the hazier it gets. Like my brain is just in vain." All at once last night's vivid dream returned to the forefront of Clover Muscatel's psyche, "I think I can relate to that. I had a fairly fantastic dream last night. I was climbing," ... "Hey, Musket, I gotta go, man. Someone's at my door." CLICK...

     Strange, but refreshing. Otto Von Clumpson was one of the more difficult people to disengage the telephone with. When solicitors called too often, they found themselves the victim of his ranting creativity. Now Musket could organize his thoughts a bit before breakfast. The raging whistle of the kettle reminded Clover that he had begun making tea while listening to Otto. He sipped smugly, churning the events of his dream over and over again. He felt much more comfortable chewing on life before he swallowed, as opposed to Von Clumpson, who just tore into it. But surely these methods kept them both very occupied.

Chapter 2

2

     He was in a cavern, for epic dreams were simply his style. A damp, blue smell permeated the hair around him. But it wasn't hair. More like a messy cobweb collection, as this vast network of tendrils reflected the light from his eyes, shimmering while he breathed. The webbing stretched upwards infinitely, he thought, for he glimpsed no ceiling. Only a tiny hint of illumination that didn't quite find its way down. It was just enough light to make him very aware of his dimness. An urge overtook him to go to that light, to know it and share in its brilliance. He knew not why he felt he was being called, yet his resolution to ascend and discover grew stronger each moment. This indescribable yearning, which pulled his heart upwards like a magnet of truth and wisdom and love, compelled him to climb the webs.

     The first strand sagged heavily under his weight, as if desiring to support him beyond the nature of its capabilities. A few feet of progress caused a subtle smile to emerge from between his lips. He was on his way, fulfilling what he was certain to be his destiny. Encouragement ebbed abruptly, however, as the strand underfoot snapped with a zipping sound as it whipped away to the floor. To his dismay he tumbled back to the dank bottom of the cavern, flat on his back and staring stubbornly at the light. Before the pain subsided he rose and alighted on a different chord, hoping for a better outcome. This time he was ten feet high when the weak webs gave way, and gravity had its way with him once more.

     The echoes of his own heavy grunting and groaning resounded for what stretched into years. Each endeavor sapped a bit more strength, and every plummet vainly produced frustration. Fueled by dire determination and a love for the light above, the number of sorties grew countless. He could not recall a time that he had not been climbing and falling, climbing and falling.

     One day, bruised, tarnished and tattered, he sat down. This was unlike his character, to neglect hope and hold his head in his hands. How could he get to the light? There were plenty more webs connecting from here to far above, but one can only be hurt so many times before they finally realize the truth. Hope waned in his core as he wondered over and over again why he needed to climb at all. Getting to the light was his life, though years slipped away as he pondered his problem.

     The tired man wistfully wondered if he would ever know the light, or bathe in its radiance, basking in pure, warm, glory. He would finally feel at home. At the moment this thought prowled through his brain, his fingers found the profound missing element to his quest. Absently they had played with the disconnected strands for time on end. The sentimental parody of progress they held gave just enough security to want to fondle the webs. Without meaning to or even knowing of it, his hands had crafted a bit of sturdy braid out of scraps. As unaware of his fingers as he'd been, so now hope and courage blindsided him with a swift and sudden clarity. His wide smile seemed to fill the entire cavern, and bellowing laughter erupted from the old man's chest.

     He selected several promising web strings that appeared to rise onward to infinity. Intertwining his threefold chord into the existing network, he busily braided. The old man began to climb to a rhythm and rhyme, weaving the various pieces of the enigma that had not supported him until now. Picking and choosing the finest strings, his ascent was slow and tedious. He perused the tether, eyes gleaming excitedly as his fingers fortified the braid. He was going up! The old man was overjoyed at the prospect of reaching the goal that had held his focus for so long.

     Time droned on as the man climbed up and up. The dizzying height affected him hardly at all, as below only held a view of endless tendrils and murky depths. Above him, the light appeared ever nearer, and the fire in his breast refined the mettle of his spirit. He tirelessly spun the fibers and inched vertically to his apex, not caring whether he had any energy left when done. Miles now separated the old man from his familiar cavern floor, and his white hair flowed many feet below him, dangling as he worked.

     The light had a curious beckoning quality to it that allures all who even imagine it. Warm and friendly, as if the source of all things, it shone in his heart with a vigor and zeal. He quickened his pace, feeling the end of this pilgrimage near. The old sage clutched at his tether, weaving methodically anything to be found within arm's reach. The light was his breath, his blood. It was his past, present, and probably his future. Any day he would come to the place where his lifeline was not needed. The old man longed for the idea of letting go.

     At the point where the light was so near it burned his eyes, his joy flowed as if from a geyser. All this toil, this life of seeking, would be rewarded with true oneness and fullness. As he reached to inch upwards in his routine climb, a subtle tug at his chin halted him. He pulled with more effort and the old man felt the pain of follicles flaring. He gazed perplexed at the rope below, half expecting to see some antagonistic gatekeeper hanging from his beard and hair, laughing at his predicament. What met his eyes was the worst possible horror imaginable, for there was no beard or hair, only his finely crafted tether. He had woven himself into the twine along with the strands he'd found so useful!

      Not all at once or he'd have noticed it and been able to undo the tragedy. But little by little, so that many yards of the now hopeless rope found him fixed securely, beyond any possibility of unworking the quirk. He reached upwards again, struggling laboriously in a final climactic battle. Gravity vied against the old man, increasing the weight of the infinitely long chord. He had become feeble in his lifelong climb, and could not rend himself free.  All the waning hope and stamina evaporated, as he could no longer ascend. The old man could not even now go back the way he had come, to spend his last remaining days in the cavern's dark hardness. From another corner of his mind a mocking laughter echoed. He was stuck, and the full breathtaking knowledge of this paralyzed him. The squabbling laughter's cooing pelted him with mocking reverberations. He imagined there were pigeons in the cavern, making light of his position. The man named Musket hung there for eternity, which he debated the existence of in his waking world.

Chapter 1

1

Midville was a city on the edge of eccentricity, yet tame enough to be discreet. All roads seemed to lead away from the place, and still it attracted odd sorts of people. This was where business courted culture, and dressed the community with its rich social fabric. Brilliant colors decorated many streets, and endless aromas wafted in the air. Here was a town that was alive and yet somehow past its prime, yawning from its excess of experience. Each new day in Midville was different from the rest, thereby making them all somewhat the same.

Every downtown skyscraper was an empire unto itself, sheltering all manner of lifestyles. Man was only one of the many creatures that dwelt in the city. Each hidden crag or cranny had a microcosm of its own, and Midville itself was the largest microcosm of all. It breathed by way of its vast ventilation and heating systems. The city's lifeblood was its transit network, consisting of freeway mazes, elevators, and roads as smooth as slug trails. Both at night and in the daytime, these veins constantly pumped passengers along. Such was Midville, an organism of efficient chaos and beauty.

A gray pigeon cooed from its lofty nest, looking over the skyline. It was perched in an armpit of the courthouse sculpture, a forty foot tall tribute to the working man. The courthouse architecture was strewn with such monuments, this particular statue was the largest, and happened to be called, 'Blue Collar Bert'. At times, the top of Bert's head had been a popular perch for the gray scavenger. But the city now defended itself with little spikes placed on the skull of the sculpture, which gave the giant figure more of a punk rock appearance. But overall the pigeon only cared what the city tossed away.

     The most prominent sound at dawn was the birdlike jets circling and soaring far overhead, flashing proudly in the clouds. The planes gave a detached security to the gray pigeon, shining like deities as the earth rotated onward through the morning. With a ruffle of feathers and a wooing coo, the dirty gray bird began its descent down to the block below. Spirals traced its path as it surveyed for scraps and trash while gliding effortlessly. It landed on the patchwork pavement and hobbled its meandering way.

The gray pigeon had to look up to everything around it. Except possibly a cigarette butt, or a cricket like a bard on the concrete curb. Only one thing is safe to suppose, that want of breakfast was the primary motivation that brought the bird to the park. It strutted in small circles, drinking in the view of green turf. The scavenger avoided the blades of grass so as not to tickle its belly, and found the walking path easier for passage. It discovered some bread crumbs, too petty for the glamorous geese. The pigeon ate these as it hobbled along, in a Hansel and Gretel fashion.

When the gray pigeon noticed a frisbee soar overhead, it felt a twinge of kinship with the flying entity. The disc landed on the path in close proximity to it, remaining still. The scavenger approached it with admiration and camaraderie. But the frisbee had a ferocious dog for a bodyguard that bounded out of nowhere, barking and baying. In a panic, the scruffy bird's wings began to flap furiously and it flew away. It had narrowly avoided being a morning meal for the doberman. The gray pigeon's wings flapped involuntarily for awhile, propelling the traumatized bird several blocks. It alighted on a windowsill several streets away from the park, its search for breakfast forgotten. No threat seemed to present itself, so for the time being it sat motionless, trying to gather its wits.

The house it had landed on was a small dwelling built a century before, when men cared about the quality of their shelter. Composed of brick and hardwood, the contours sloped at odd angles, causing the appearance to be more like a castle than an ordinary box. It had long attracted eccentrics or inventors and other strange ilk. Shoots of bamboo contended for sunlight with great beech trees in the yard, and a possum smiled down from the uppermost branches. There was a calm steadiness around this home, exuding from its open windows.

     This was as good a place as any for the pigeon to pass the morning. It observed the nearby window, open and inviting. Looking in, still cooing, it saw what every bird must see as it gazes on humans dreaming. A square nest of billowy pillowy material, with a peaceful head poking out of one end. More importantly, it spied a muffin on a nightstand, and hunger returned like an old friend. The gray pigeon paced back and forth, until it abandoned its timidity of encounters with people. Cautious cooing trickled out as it hopped next to the muffin. When confronted with a meal its own size, a pigeon is overwhelmed, yet determined to consume the entire treat morsel by morsel, as if faced with its last meal.

     So involved in pecking it was, it failed to notice another pigeon alight on the open sill. Its feathers were a tinge of iridescent pink over jet black. It let loose an emphatic squawking and dovelike laughter which caromed around the room. The dark bird was either jealous over the muffin, or simply attempting to stir up trouble. The meanest, strongest, or loudest pigeon usually gets its way, similar to the men by whom they try not to get stepped on. The startled gray pigeon forgot its food and returned to the window, walking around the obnoxious pink and black bird. At that moment the human's eyes opened with a yawn and a smile. The pink and black scavenger continued its raucous display of booing, wings flapping feverishly. The gray pigeon lingered silently, unimpressed. As it flew away, its beak would have formed a patient smile, if that were possible.

Midville...