32. The Bulge (October 2014)
While on a Wednesday-in-mid-October lunchbreak, a from-the-old-daze, 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. [my art name] Old, and getting older by the hour, ancient Agent 33 [my psecret psociety number]. And, what nefariousness would you be up to now, improbable scenester?” [sic] Improbable scenester?
“Oh, boy. And, oh the joy! 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 as cooked as ever.
“It certainly has. It sore-really has, my friend. You still look like … well … you. And not a day over 75.” [real age at the time: 50] 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. [sic]
“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 Tryke 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, Michael?” Oh, no, not the ‘Michael’ bit. He knows that I hate being called that.
“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 computer 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; you can see it by clicking here.)
> [return mark] Thanks for coming back. Your tea was getting cold.
“Yeah, right. Fock [sic] you, Al.”
We both chuckled and nearly got engulfed in an unbridled 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 that you just viewed, minus the black arrow and the text The Bulge).
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, Michael; 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 a whole 1.67 minutes, Michael?” Just lovely. He’s already stuck on the ‘Michael’ bit.
“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, Michael.” Oh, jeez.
“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 my bike 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; now, 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 lunchbreak 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 (marijuana) 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.” Just effing [sic] great. His annoying ‘Michael’ routine hasn’t yet ended.
“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?” I wonder if Trykle [sic] is recording me. I bet the sneaky bastard is. / I wonder how many of my short stories he’s read.
“I must tell you, Michael. That’s the longest I’ve ever held my breath.” No letup. He’s flying high on more than just a bowl of Arcata [California] weed.
“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 focking [sic] 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. We must keep pumping topic, Michael.” Pumping topic?
“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 that I’m recording this conversation.” Oh, yes, I knew it.
“Oh, are you really, 33?”
“Affirmative. 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.” What hot seat? What in the world is he talking about?
“Well, please do some redacting before typing this convo [sic] up, Mister Agent 33.” Mister Agent?
“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?” Well, he’s not completely stoned out of his gourd after all.
“You got it, Al! You must have smoked your Smart Weedies [sic] this morning. I’d stay with that brand.”
“It’s par for the curse, [sic] brother.” Yep, he’s read some of my short stories. I wonder where. Which website?
“The proposed streetcar route then curves into the end of Clement Avenue, which then loops back to Central Avenue. An ingenious solution, don’t ya think, Al?”
“I do, Michael. I think a lot, even more than most women.”
“Now, there’s a keeper, amazing one.” Must include that line in the write-up.
“So, you buying dinner later, Michael?” What the fock! [sic] Mr. Moneybags wants me to buy him dinner?! / That should get Trykle’s goat. Let’s see how he reacts.
“Yeah, right, Al. Get the hell out of here.”
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