The Bulge by Mike Bozart - HTML preview

While on a Wednesday-in-mid-October lunchbreak, an old yet still quite inventive 40-something, dark-haired, Caucasian, actor-friend that we code-named Al Niño (Agent A~O) - who now lives the posh life in Manhattan - dropped by my spartan Charlotte office without a whiff of a warning. Though, he did reek of the green leaf.

“Mike, Mike, Mike. Mr. Mike van Tryke. Old Agent 33. And what nefariousness would you be up to now?”

“Oh, boy. Well, look who is here. If it isn’t the amazing one himself. It’s great to see you, Al. It has been a wily while.” A wily while? He’s still cooked.

“It has. It sore-really has, my friend. You still look like … well … you. And not a day over 55.” Once a joker …

“You’re still quite a funny guy, Al. You shouldn’t have given up on that comedy angle.”

“I have a cute, acute angle of attack now, my friend.” Prepare for PUNishment.

“Piling on the punnage [sic] already?”

“Ah, you caught it, 33.”

“Why, of course I caught it. I always have my flutterfly [sic] net open for way astrays.” What the hell did he just say?

“Way astrays … straying wayward, by chance?”

“Sure, why not, Al?”

“Ah-hem. Hey, why don’t you ever make good on your autumnal threats to visit me, 33?”

“Ebola, man. I’m not getting on a plane until it settles down.”

“You’ve been freaked-out by the mass media, mate. The threat is way overblown for people in the US.”

“Maybe so, Al. Maybe slow.”

“See, this is why I don’t watch American news anymore. It’s all shock and sensationalism for ratings.” Here comes his anti-American-media tirade again.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah; whatever, Al. I’ve heard that rant before. Please spare me the harangue.”

Al then looked at the back of my monitor. He raised his eyebrows and gave a snarky smirk. “So, what do you have up on your screen today, 33? Some kinky Asian porn?” (It was just a diagram of a streetcar track alignment.)

“Yeah, right. Fock you, Al.”

We both chuckled and nearly got engulfed in a guffaw as he walked around my desk, stopping behind my creaking swivel chair to see what was on my computer screen (which was the image on the title page, minus the black arrow and the text).

Al then cleared his throat. “Is that the light rail extension that I keep hearing about? Making the single line longer and straighter?” He chortled.

“No, no, no. Wrong again, amazer. It’s actually the middle section of the streetcar route, the new Gold Line.”

“I don’t know, Mike; I’m not finding this image to be very arousing. Maybe I’m missing something. What’s the attraction? Are you on pills? Got any extras? Sniffing rubber cement again. Ok, where did you hide it? Is it in this drawer? Why is this locked?” What the hell is he on? Gosh, he’s all hyped-up today.

“Alright, alright, alright. Please stop. If you can be still and quiet for 100 seconds, I’ll explain.”

“For 1.67 minutes?”

“Good math, Al.”

“As you were saying, 33 …”

“Ok, just don’t interrupt me. This is slightly complicated. Just slightly. Can you just hear me out without interjecting nonsense and ransacking my office?”

“Ok, I promise to keep my tongue tied in a wet slipknot and my limbs in invisible shackles.”

“Excellent. Let’s hop on subject and stay aboard. Here we go.”

“My ears are wide open.”

“Well, as I think I’ve told you in the not-too-distant past, I ride my bike to work, weather permitting.”

Al just nodded and rubbed his black beard stubble with his right hand. I noticed a silver ring on his middle finger. Did he secretly get married?

I continued. “Well, this morning while riding over the freight train tracks that cross Central Avenue next to the Thirsty Beaver Saloon, I wondered how they would run the streetcar tracks in this area. I knew that CSX would never allow an at-grade crossing, as it would be way too dangerous and probably a logistical nightmare, and most likely not even allowed by the overseeing governmental agencies.”

Al gave me an affirming tilt of his noggin, which seemed to say, ‘ok, I follow you; please continue.’

“So, if an at-grade, street-level crossing is out of the question, how will they do it? Will they tunnel under the freight line? No way; it’s too expensive and it would flood. Will they build a bridge, or a pair of bridges, over the freight line? That seems awfully expensive, too. Well, needless-to-say, streetcar track-alignment curiosity got the better portion of my mind. As soon as my lunch break arrived, I was going to research this. Well, lo, hi and behold, I found an official streetcar alignment map on the CATS website. Now, take a closer look at the map, Al.”

He scrunched closer. His mug was now hovering just above my right shoulder. I could smell herb on his breath. He probably got baked on the ride over here. I won’t bring it up. Well, maybe later.

“Al, notice how the green line bulges up to the Hawthorne at Barnhardt station? Uh, you can speak now. Your mute button is now off.”

“Why, thank you, Michael.” Oh no, not the ‘Michael’ routine again.

“Only my mom calls me that, Al. And it’s usually when it’s not good. Can we go back to Mike or Agent 33?”

“That’s the longest I’ve ever held my breath, Michael.” Oh boy, here we go.

“You do look bluer than normal, Al. Completely hypoxic, I’d say – and did. Maybe I should call for a paramedic.”

He snapped out of his ‘Michael’ nonsense for just a moment. “Ok, I see the green bulge, 33. I hope you have more than that chub for Agent 32 [Monique, my wife] tonight.”

“Very funny. Very fawking funny. You never stop, do you, Al? Never miss a chance to lob in a zinger.”

“Hey, you usually start it.” Do I? Don’t think so.

“Ok, let’s get back on topic.”

“Absolutely, Michael.” Oh jeez, he’s back on the Michael bit.

“Well, amazing one, what do you think the solution is to this crossing-railroad-tracks dilemma?”

“The bulge, right?”

“Well, yes, but what does the bulge do, Al?”

“The bulge seeks a bulgette.” Al chuckled.

“Sheez, I’m glad I’m recording this conversation.”

“You are?”

“Oh, yes. We safety guys don’t trust unrecorded verbal statements. People have a way of conveniently forgetting what they’ve said when in the hot seat.”

“Well, please do some redacting before typing this convo [sic] up, 33.”

“Yeah, sure. Now, back to the question. Notice the green line crossing the faint brown line?”

“Yes, Michael.” Oh, jeez.

“Remember Hawthorne Lane in this area?”

“Yes, that old bridge – it’s a railroad overpass.”

“Right! Which means that the at-grade streetcar line can safely …”

“… go under the freight train overpass.”

“You got it, Al! You must’ve smoked your Smart Weedies this morning. The line then curves into the end of Clement Avenue, which then loops back to Central Avenue. An ingenious solution, don’t ya think?”

“I do, Michael. I think a lot, even more than most women.” There’s a keeper.