Chapter 47
The next week was a little better for David. The loss of Chantelle still reverberated through his brain and ached his inner core, mostly in low-frequency groundswells, but he had a new realization: He really felt that she was content in whatever meta-space her spirit-energy now inhabited. He knew he would see or experience her and all of his dead relatives and deceased friends at some point in time. It would all work out; he was no longer gasping for air at night. He was no longer cursing the gods, calling out the God, or conceding his life to a joyless somber fate. He stopped biting the top knuckle of his right ring finger.
He departed for Wilmington at 8:35 AM on Saturday morning, the 28th of July. When he saw the date on his desk calendar, he remembered what his meteorologist friend had told him: July 22nd through July 28th is statistically the hottest week of the year for most east-of-the-Mississippi US cities. And, today was no anomaly in the Triangle: It was expected to be 103°F at RDU and 99°F in Wilmington. With the humidity figured in, the Port City’s heat index was expected to be 109°F. Summer swelter was in full force, cranked up to the max. But, David was more concerned about another kind of heat, and Cindy most certainly had plenty of it.
David wanted to drive around Wilmington and maybe check out a beach before meeting Cindy for dinner. He drove by Dale Smite’s house at 10:55 AM. He put a spy-music compilation CD in the stereo’s horizontal slot. You Only Live Twice started playing as he cruised around feeling like a wealthy secret agent – like a spy on a mid-Atlantic coastal assignment. My mission, which I wholeheartedly choose to accept: Investigate all golden facets of the local, hot-as-the-steamy-air, Asian, female TV news reporter. Get her tongue loose with some good booze. You certainly now have the money for it. Schmooze her and ooze her. Drive the point home like the last nail in the devil’s coffin. Jeez, what the hell am I thinking?
He drove by Shipyard Boulevard Auto Salvage at 11:01 AM as Escape by The Man from RavCon began to audibly fill his sedan’s air space. He looked over his left shoulder. There were no cars parked there. It appeared to be all locked up. ‘Gerald, mi amigo, [‘my friend’ in Spanish] sales aint so good these days, are they, mate?’
He looked for – but didn’t see – the trunk-door-less white 2011 Ford Focus. Wow, it looks completely closed. Totally shutdown. Well, that’s where I contracted gold fever. God only knows where Mark contracted it. Hope it’s not fatal for me, too – at least not for fifty or so years.
Soon he was on Oleander Drive headed east. David was on Lumina Avenue at Wrightsville Beach at 11:14 AM. He was hungry. He pulled into the Queen Venus parking lot. A multicolored poster taped to the back wall caught his eye: Tom Montefusco plays red-hot blues at The Palm Room, Saturday Night, August 4th. That looks pretty cool. Darn, I’ll miss that one this time.
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The restaurant was by no means crowded at this early lunch hour. He asked for and got a booth with a tall back. It was very private. He could leisurely write some talking points down for his dinner with Cindy without looking like a food critic or miscellaneous nut-job.
He started to write on the back of a business card while waiting for the waitress to come back with the menu.
Things to remember to ask Cindy:
The waitress, a short Latina with a voluptuously curvy body, arrived before he could come up with number five on his list. She glanced down at his note card. Damn, she’s nosy.
“Are you ready to order?” she brusquely asked.
“Yes,” he calmly replied.
“Will Cindy be joining you?” What the heck? Such a snooper, she is.
“No, not now. We rendezvous later. She has almost cracked the case. All of our field work is paying off. We’re closing in on the Wrightsville Beach jewelry thief.” That should send her brain into a tizzy.
“Oh, ok.” The look on her face signaled that her mind was caught somewhere between genuine puzzlement and knowing that she was being pranked. She just wasn’t sure which one it was. “Would you like to hear about our lunch specials?”
“Sure.” Whatever.
The waitress, Juanita, recited the lunch specials while David feigned interest. When she was finished he looked up, smiled, and said, “I think I’ll just have the seafood chowder and some sweet iced tea.” Bastardo barato. [‘cheap bastard’ in Spanish]
The soup was good and so was the tea. It satiated his caloric demand and stabilized his blood-sugar level. He left a 17.17% tip with a Psecret Psociety card under the bill. This should get her goat. Let’s see if she joins.
He then exited the restaurant while Juanita was still in the kitchen flirting with the new surfer-dude cook.
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David got back in his car and continued heading north on Lumina Avenue. He still had quite a bit of time to kill; it was only 11:54 AM. He went all the way to the end of the street and turned around in the circle. He stopped for a minute and began to ponder what he could do to pass the time as he watched the sea oats on the sand dunes blowing in the hot breeze. Maybe I could go jogging at Hugh MacRae Park. No way – too damn hot. I’d be a sweaty mess and smell like a wildebeest. Maybe go check out some art downtown. Yeah, that’s it: an indoor, air-conditioned activity. That’s the no-sweat winner.
He proceeded back towards Wilmington. The Bradley Creek – Atlantic Intracoastal Waterway – drawbridge’s leaves were up. He slowed down and waited in line on Harbor Island as a tall-masted sailboat putted through. Then his cell phone rang. It was Cindy.
“Hello,” David said, somewhat surprised.
“Just thought I’d let you know that I’ll be getting off work earlier than expected. If you want to come down sooner and hang out, that’s fine.”
“I’m already in the area.” Why did he come down here so early? Is he screwing one of Chantelle’s friends already?
“Oh, where?” She sure seems very curious.
“Wrightsville Beach. I just had a light lunch at the Queen Venus. Wish you could’ve joined me. It’s kind of boring eating alone.” Was he really alone?
“I see. Well, I should be done in an hour. Where do you want to meet?”
“I was thinking of taking in some art in downtown Wilmington. Maybe meet somewhere near Front and Market?”
“That sounds great. I can be at the MetaGallery at one-fifteen. It’s just off that corner. You’ll see it. I believe that it opens at one on Saturdays.”
“Ok, that sounds great. See you then, Cindy.”
“Drive safely.” Why did she say that? Does she think that I’ve been drinking?
David continued driving west on Wrightsville Avenue, arriving in front of MetaGallery at 12:17 PM. He parked and walked up to the door. Cindy was right; the art gallery didn’t open until 1:00. Well, I’ve got almost ¾ of an hour to kill. Maybe just stroll around and check out some shops.
After sampling various boutique businesses, from handmade soaps to aromatherapy candles, he wandered down Quince Alley and came across a funky, little, cool-looking coffee shop called Java Lava. He walked down the concrete entrance steps and took a seat at a small, round table.
The only other person in there was the barista. She was an incredibly tanned brunette. He imagined that she was a student at UNCW who regularly sunbathed in the nude.
He ordered a medium cappuccino and looked for something short to read. There was a folded-up, light-blue piece of literature on the next table. He reached over and seized it. The bold heading at the top of the half-page read:
another pSecret pSociety pshort pstory
There was an aerial photo of Wrightsville Beach Island below the heading. And, under it was the title:
Wrightsville Beached
He studied it before opening the pamphlet up. Wow. I wonder which agent wrote this one. Ah, 33.
It was a fifteen-hundred-word short story that seemed real then surreal then quite real again. He wasn’t sure what parts were pure fiction and what parts were real-life occurrences. It was the perfect time-filler.
Then the barista came over to his table. She noticed him looking at the cover of the small-format short story on the table after he had finished reading it.
“A bizarre story, huh?” she opined, feeling confident that he would agree.
“Yeah, it certainly is. Did you help write it?” What?
David’s question surprised her. “No, I had no hand in it. Some red-haired guy left that in here last week.” Ah, a Mike van Tryke strike.
“So, have you joined the Psecret Psociety yet?” David asked, looking at her with an out-of-a-spy-movie expression.
“No, I haven’t. What is it all about?” How to succinctly answer her question?
“Oh, it’s just a loose confederation of surreal intrigue and meta-real mania.” Huh?
“Surreal? Meta-real? I’d be up for that? Who runs it?”
“Ernie the Earwig.”
“Gross! That’s his real name?”
“Yep.” Wow, she seems to believe it. / This guy is full of it – full of shit!
“Does it pay?” She had to ask.
“All I ever hear is ‘Check’s in the mail’. I wouldn’t waste time watching your mailbox.”
“Well, what do you guys actually do?” I bet they shoot sex films and call it erotic video art. Probably just an assortment of reprobates.
“We post cryptic pics, leave surreal clues, and pretend to be a coterie of esoteric, global-to-local, next-game changers.” Yeah, right, dude. Whatever. Lay off the nitrous oxide. Next.
“A band of modern-day Don Quixotes, it sounds like.”
“Cervantes just spun in his grave.”
“Like a broken-string gold yo-yo?” A broken-string ‘gold’ yo-yo? What does she know?
“You’ve already snagged it,” David proclaimed as he prepared to leave the tiny café. “You’re a preternatural.” A what?
She watched him leave as she shook her head. Another absurd fool. Where do they come from? Where do they go? When will they stop coming in here?!