joegoda | Nano Day 4 - No title as of yet...

For Capi
I pondered this last statement for a bit, and then cleared my throat. The girl was still eating heartily as if she hadn't eaten all day. She looked up at me from over the top of her mound of fries and smiled. She had taken mine and added it to hers and the result was fairly impressive. Once she added catsup to it, that pretty much answered if I was going to be eating from the same pile. I don't like catsup much. To much variety in the sameness, I think. I dunno, it's just another in a long line of quirks.

"Look," I said, "I don't pick up hitchikers as a rule..."

"You already said that," she interrupted.

"BUT, I can help you out, I think. I believe that it's the duty of everyone to take care of people when they call out for help."

She dabbed her lips with a crumpled paper napkin, placed both hands on the table and belched loudly. "That was good," she said. It was a bit disconcerting to see someone that delicate, that feminine burp like that, and I tried to not let my surprise show. She looked me straight in the eyes, dead serious. "I'm not looking for help," she continued. "I never asked for help. I was just standing on the road, holding my sign. You came over to me, remember?"

"But..." I began, then stopped. She had me there. Standing on the side of the road, she hadn't glanced in my direction, hadn't called out to me or given any indication that she knew I was alive. "Okay, fair enough," I said, defeated. I held out my hand and said, "My name is Chester. I know you didn't ask for my help, but I offer it anyway."

She looked at my hand, looked at my face, smiled that wickedly angelic smile of hers and took my hand. "Chester," she said, "It means 'safe place' in old Latin. A cache, a hiding place."

She turned my palm over and looked at the lines on it. I had done amature palmreading myself, so I just sat there and let her look. There's a lot of things I have done as an amature, some of them mystic, some of them not. You'd be amazed at the number of Christians out there that would willingly let someone turn their hand over to you in the hopes of finding a bit of devination. As of yet, not a single one of them has threatened to hang me as a witch or burn me at the stake.

Palmreading is a rather fascinating thing. The palm of your hand is sort of like the roadmap of your life. I don't entirely believe in it, but there are times when it's been rather accurate. See, the hand, from the moment you're born carries the truth of everything you do. You are born with your hand grasping, grasping, reaching out. Heck, it happens before you are born, even, still in the womb. In a sense your hands carry over from where you were before you were born. In a very extended, quantum sort of way, it just makes sense that they might carry where you'll be in the future. What you do defines where you go, and since time is just an illusion and is really just one big point on a cosmic scale, why the heck not? If you don't believe me, just ask Einstein. Of course, you'll have to use a Ouija board.

"Your hand," she said after a few moments, "is wonderfully uncomplicated. Everything is all spelled out there, but in very simple terms."

"Well," I muttered, "There's not very much to me."

She let go of my hand, laced her fingers on the table, and smiled at me. "Oh, you don't fool me, mister Chester. You hand, though uncomplicated, tells the story of someone who has done quite a lot. It tells the story of a person always searching, trying to fill the lines in that don't exist. It tells the story of someone that keeps to themselves, has very few real friends, and even those don't get too close. You have many loves, and all of them, every one of them, is lifelong. And yet, you do not let anyone see your true heart. I wonder why that is?"

"Just haven't met the right one, I guess."

"No, no..." her eyebrows pulled together slightly, putting a crease at the bridge of her nose. "I think that, in your case, you may never find the right one. You, mister Chester, are a mystic." She took my hand again and traced the major lines. "The very large M in your palm shows that clearly. You may never find anyone that truly understands you."

"That may be." Uncomfortable with her examination of my life, I tried to change the subject. I reached to my belt clip and pulled out my cellphone. "Here, try your friends. It's just after nine here, so maybe you can get them."

"Ah, a tactful change of subject." She reached over and took my phone, dialed a few numbers and put the phone to her ear, looking at me with her big brown eyes. "Angelina," she said. "Angel to a very few, and Angie to most."

"What?"

"That's my name. It would be rude for me not to..." Her face dropped down as someone picked up on the other end of the phone. "Hello?" A pause. "Hello? Daniel?" She listened briefly, then said, "I'm in Raton." Another pause. "Yes, I'm all right. It has been an interesting trip." Pause. "No, nothing has happened. Oh, there were a few times when it was touch and go, but nothing difficult. I'm all right."

I listened, though I tried not to. One of my problems is that I can't tune out anything from the outside of my head. I have enough trouble tuning out things inside my head, but sounds, images, and voices tend to attract my attention. If I need to ignore something, the only way I can is to just walk away from it, put it out of sight and out of mind.

Whoever she was talking to wasn't speaking to her in English. I could hear that much. It didn't sound like Spanish, or like my friend Martin would say, Mexican. So Angelina was speaking English for my benefit. Somewhere that shifted into the mental file that contained the heading 'Angelina', and sat there. Curiouser and Curiouser. And I do love a good puzzle.

"Presently, I'm sitting with a nice gentleman named Chester, who bought me dinner. No, he doesn't want sex, or at least I don't think so." She looked up at me, "You don't want sex, do you?"

"Good lord, no!" I exclaimed, blushing furiously and throwing my hands up. "I don't want anything."

"I doubt that, mister Chester," she said, smiling again. "No, he doesn't want sex, but he also doesn't want to drive to Las Vegas. He is heading in the opposite direction and does not pick up hitchikers." She listened to the phone, the looked at me again. "Where are you going?"

"Oregon," I blurted before thinking about it. If I told her I was heading to Oregon, which is where she's going, then I would have to explain why I don't pick up hitchikers and I would feel incredibly guilty telling her no. I tend to avoid guilt. Guilt clogs up the heart and is the brother to fear. Once you start playing the guilt game, there's no turning back until your whole life is ruled by it.

The smile almost dissappeared from her face, but an odd twinkle came into his eyes. She paused for a long second before speaking into the phone again. "He says he's going to Oregon, but he really did not want to tell me that. Now, he's going to feel guilty because he believes that he's going to hurt my feelings by telling me he still won't take me." A brief pause before she went on. "I'll ask him, but I won't force him if he doesn't want to, Daniel. There are other options, you know that."

There was another pause and a change came over her. Something she was hearing was not right. I turned my hearing up a bit and there was a tremendous sound coming from the phone. It wasn't exactly describable. Cellphones are not known for their ability to be crystal clear, regardless of what the commercials tell you. Still, what ever it was, it didn't sound good.

"Daniel!" Angelina cried, "Daniel, are you all right?" She listened briefly, nodded and said, "All right, be safe, be blessed." She hung up, and handed the phone back to me, ashen faced.

"Uh, that didn't sound good to me," I said.

"It wasn't." she said through pursed lips. "Something has happened, and I don't think my friends will be able to help me. I think they will be busy helping themselves for a while."

"Is there anything I can do?" I asked.

She looked over at me, and I could see worry lines at the outside of her lips, at the corners of her eyes. "Mister Chester, I don't know if there is anything anyone can do for them, they will have to do for themselves. I will not bother you with the details of it, so please, do not worry yourself." Her eyes had started to get that shine to them that happens right before the tears start.

I'm a sucker for damsels in distress. I always have been. Sam, my brother, tells me it's called the White Knight Syndrome, but I think he just made that up. Still, it pretty much fits me. Maybe that's why I'm as cynical about life and love and women. Everytime I try to help, I end up getting my heart stepped on. Maybe it wouldn't if I didn't put my heart out there so readily. I dunno. I think, though, that if I did that, then it would change the core part of me that makes me. If a bruised heart is the price to pay to be a decent person, then I'll pay it. I'm really the only one that has to live with me, anyway.

I reached across the table to take back my phone. When she passed it to me, I took her hand and held it. It was soft and warm, and I could feel the blood in it surging. She was in trouble. "Tell me," I said.

She looked at me with eyes brimming, her nose had turned a bit red and her lips, thin to begin with had thinned even more and turned down at the corners. She looked in my eyes, her own eyes flicking here and there, as if examining my soul through my face. She pulled her hand back, picked up a napkin and blew her nose.

"Mister Chester, I appreciate it, but I cannot involve you in this. This is too big, this is too big for anyone else."

"Angelina," I said in my most casual voice. I had to make it casual because I knew that if I didn't, the tightness behind it would show through. I had already made my decision about this situation. All that remained was to convince her, and then to convince me.

"Angelina," I said, "I can tell you're in trouble. You may be right, it may be bigger than I can handle. I don't know what happened with your friend Daniel. I don't know if it is just a trick for my benefit or what."

She started to protest, but I held up my hand, stopping her. She took the napkin that was still in her hand and crumpled it further, holding it tighly. Her eyes were wide and wet, and her face had the look of someone that had just seen their dog get run over. She was scared and worried, probably for her friends. "Look, I've lived this long pretty much by being paranoid and scared of everything, but not letting that stop me from doing what I knew was right, Okay? Just let me finish and then you can say whatever you want." She nodded.

"I don't trust people," I began. "No, let me rephrase that. I do trust people to be what they are. Most people are good at their core, I believe that, I truly do. But life and living can change the exterior of a good person and cause them to be something other than they would be at their best moments. Most people, given the chance will do the right thing, every single time. And, most people would also stab you in the back if they felt that they had something to be gained from it. I know. It's happened to me time and time again."

I breathed in, held it for the count of two, and let it out slowly.

"You are in a situation where I don't know what's going on. I don't know that I have to. What I do know is that in this brief time, you have smiled, you have joked, you have teased and you have eaten with me. You are not, in my opinion, someone that will stab me in the back." I looked hard at her face, in her eyes, to show her how serious I was. "Yet. I fully expect you to be just like all the other people in the world. If you see an opening you'll take it, if you see an advantage, you'll take it. It's okay, and there's no reason to pretend to be outraged or shocked by this. It's just human nature."

"But right now," I tapped the table with my index finger, "right now, you need my help. I could be anyone, but I'm not. I'm me. And you could be anyone, but you're not. You are you. And if not me, then who, and if not now, then when? So, I'm going to help you get to Oregon. Against my better judgement, I believe you to be a good and decent young woman, who is in trouble, and who needs my help. It's just that simple, just that plain. Besides, who else are you going to ask?"

Angelina was quiet for a very long time, still holding my hand. Then, gently she took her hand back. She sat back against her chair and raised one hand to her brow, turning her face to stare out the windows at the passing traffic and the night. She sniffed largely, blew her nose again, wiped her eyes where they had been leaking. Her forehead wrinkled once, twice, and her lips pursed and unpursed. I imagine I wasn't the onlyone that was doing some fast thinking. She said something to the windows I didn't quite catch.

"Sorry?" I asked.

She turned to me. There was no smile, no light shining in her eyes. Her face had aged twenty years in the time it took for her to look away from me and turn back. Fifteen? Twenty Five? She was ageless, shifting through ages of maturity like swiming through water.

Her voice was very low, very quiet but very precise. "I said that it would be dangerous. To you. I cannot ask you to do this, mister Chester."

I leaned forward so that my volume could match hers. "You didn't ask me, remember? I'm not even offering anymore. I'm telling you how it is. You need help, I'm giving it to you." I paused. "You say it's dangerous. How dangerous?"

"It could be very dangerous, mister Chester." There was no joke in her eyes.

I answered her with no joke in my eyes either. "Like people chasing us dangerous?" She nodded. "Like things might get rough dangerous?" Another nod. "Like I might end up dead dangerous?" A long, long moment passed. Her eyes shinned up again. She looked away for part of that long moment, looking at the ceiling, looking out the window, looking at anything but me. Eventually, that long moment broke and she nodded, still not looking at me.

I thought about it. Giving a ride to a kid that needed it is one thing. Giving a ride to a kid where I might be killed was an entirely different thing altogether. What was she, some sort of daughter of an insideous mob boss, whose competition was after her to use as leverage? Naw, that was too complex. I mean, most answers are the simplest. Of course, in situations where the pieces are building up to a high complexity can cause even the most absurd answer to be correct. This might be one of those situations where the odd answer is the most probable.

I had only one question. "Are the people chasing you good guys or bad guys? And look at me when you answer, so I can see the truth."

Angelina turned to face me. Her eyes were bloodshot. Her nose was running and her olive complexion had turned to the color of beechbark. She looked to be about sixty-five, very frail, and defeated. She started to reach across the table to me, thought against it, and pulled her hand back, clutching the crumpled napkin. Both her hands dissappeared into her lap, and she leaned forward, earnest in her reply.

"Mister Chester, you cannot do this. This is something that is beyond you, something that is..." I held up my hand to stop her protest.

"Are they good guys or bad guys, Angelina?" It's a simple question, or so I thought. "And call me Chester, not mister Chester. Calling me mister Chester makes me feel like I'm in a fifties japanese movie, and you're my maid."

She stopped again, thinking. It could have been she was thinking up one hell of a whopper to tell me. I knew her answer would be it was the bad guys chasing her. It would have to be. Bad guys will always think that they are being chased by other bad guys, regardless of whether it's bad guys or good guys chasing them. I just wanted to see her face when she answered.

"Chester," she began, "they are not the bad guys." Well, that surprised me. "Nor are they the good guys. They are just people that believe they are correct in what they are doing."

I'm sure my surprise showed on my face. It's not often that I get caught off guard. I've seen things and done things that would make most folks go "Eh?" and not believe a single word of the story. Some of my closest friends, all two of them, know some of the stories, but nobody but me knows the rest of them. Well, there are some, but they won't be talking about it. We've all got our little secrets, don't we?

"Fair enough," I said in my casual voice. "Then the question becomes what is it that they are doing?"

Angelina whispered, "They are trying to stop me from going home. The whys are very complex, and I don't want to tell you anyway. It is a story that is... would be very hard to believe. If they stop me from going home, then terrible things will happen."

Terrible things. All sorts of things are terrible. War, famine, plague, having my car break down, the day I left my wife. Stubbing your toe on the edge of a step. All sorts of things are terrible. Most terrible things can be lived through, however.

"These terrible things," she continued, "are so large that for them to happen would cause a ripple effect that would send the entire world into a panic. Thousands, millions of people would die, and those that didn't die would wish they had."

I sat back in my chair, searching her face for any signs of insanity. She certainly seemed earnest enough, but still... "End of the world stuff, huh?" Questions upon questions.

She nodded. "Just so. End of the world stuff, yes."

I thought about it again, some more even. End of the world stuff. What the hell? Daughter of some mad scientist who had invented a virus and darling daughter here held the cure? Leader of some foreign country and if she didn't get back home, then a bazillion nukes would be launched at each other? Sheesh. Why is it when I go anywhere I seem to attract crazy people? Nice people, generally, but crazy, crazy, crazy.

But what if she was telling the truth? What if she didn't make it back and everything did go kablooie? 2012 is the date that every nutcase has been saying is the end of the world, but I always took that as a metaphore or just simple baloney. The human race is exactly that, and they are always looking for the end. What if this simple girl or woman or elf or whatever the hell she was was telling me the truth?

"So I might die, huh?" I asked her.

She nodded. "Yes, Chester. You might die. It is that dangerous."

"And if you don't make it back, it's likely that I'll die anyway?"

Another nod. "That is likely, yes."

"So does it matter if I die getting you back, if I'm gonna die anyway?"

"But I..." She stopped. She had no answer. She just looked at me with her ageless sad face.

I stood up, gathered the little baskets the food had come in and took the to the counter. I told the old guy behind the counter thanks, bought some more cigarettes and went back to the table. I figured that if it was going to be as rough as Angelina indicated, I might just need the extra smokes.

"Let's go," I said to her, giving her my hand to help her up. "I figure we can make it to Oregon in two or three days. Any faster and we'll attract undue attention, from cops or these folks after you."

She hesitated. "But, the danger..."

"Hell, lady," I said, trying my best to sound braver than I felt, "I've been dead before. Let's go, time's a-waisting."

I watched as Angelina's face went from very old to very young again. It wasn't so much magic as I thought. It was just the smoothing of lines, the relaxing of muscles. Soon she looked to be about twenty-five again.

She took my hand and stood up. "Chester, have you ever been called a hero?"

"Yeah," I told her, "but please don't. If I hear it enough I'll start to believe it, and then I'll get myself killed doing something really stupid." As if running to Oregon with a crazy woman who might get me killed anyway was the most intelligent thing I'd ever done.

The bravado I was showing was exactly that, it was for show. There is a part of my brain that is very self protective and I had a feeling that, over the next few days, I knew I would be hearing a lot from it.

I'm not a hero. I'm just not. I'm an over fifty short guy with a potbelly and I'd rather sit at work and answer questions all day than put myself in some sort of stupid position where I could be hurt, mangled or killed. Granted, I have died twice, and both times were because I did something stupider than I normally would have. Those times are just times I'd rather not talk about, but because you're curious once was electrocution and the other was a stupid car wreck that I could have avoided if I hadn't tried to pass another car on an icy hill. Both times I came back unaided, just like a cat.

Now, if I was actually dead or not is open for debate. It could be said that I wasn't actually dead, it's just that the circumstances were such that I should have been dead. Somehow though, I will always say that yep, I was dead, regardless of the logic of the debate against it. In the end, it really doesn't matter, though. Being dead, regardless of being able to be brought back is just simply not a desirable thing. It's not like a video game, where hey presto, you get brought back with no scratches or even a headache. Coming back to life HURTS. I'll avoid being dead for as I can.

And I'm not a hero. A hero is someone that runs into a burning building and saves the old woman, the baby, the basket of kittens. A hero is someone that saves his entire platoon from being wiped out. A hero is some poor schmuck that is put into a situation where he does what he must to make the best result possible. And before anyone says, "Hey, that sounds like you!" forget it. As far as I'm concerned, I'm just a sucker for a sad tale.

And stupid. Really stupid. Really, really stupid. Did I mention that I was going to be hearing from that self preservation side a whole bunch? Not that I would have done anything different, because it had to be done, but man, was I stupid. Next time the world needs to be saved, let someone else do it.

"I'm heading to Trinidad to spend the night." I told her as I held the door for her. She stashed her things in the back of the van while I closed the door. I got in the driver's side, put the key in the ignition and started the engine. And sat there. And sat there some more. I had entered brain lock, which is the state you go into just after you say to yourself, "What the fuck are you doing?", which is what you say to yourself right after you make a decision that, if anyone else had told you they were going to do the thing you had just decided to do, would cause you to suggest they seek professional help.

"Is there anything wrong?" Angelina asked.

Her question hit me as being the most absurd thing I had ever heard. I started to laugh. And laugh some more. My belly started to hurt from laughing, and tears were running down my cheeks. I could see that she had a look of alarm on her face, as she should. "No," I choked out, "nothing is wrong." And continued laughing just because of the look on her face.

Eventually the laughing subsided, the tears stopped, and I put the van in reverse, backed out of the drive and hit the road, heading towards Trinidad.