Pete wandered aro…

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After a few dances, Cheri left…

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“These are usually for corsages. And they’re the school colors. Mostly they go with everything.”

Pete was mildly put off with the woman’s bored tone. He looked into the cooler, ignoring her. “No. Those are not the right color.”

She a…

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Let’s pick up where we left off: You just listened to the short story set in Oakland, California where Keith recounted a few of the adventures he experienced during the era when he heavily socialized while on cocaine. This was before he became a zen monk and did whatever zen monks do. (Persephone has heard the rumor that they play cards using chi and get tanked up on brandy. Keith never confirmed this. Maybe he talks about this in one of his missing notebooks.)

Plus, in the last chapter, you finally met Lolly, the no-show Mennonite. Now let’s head out of the 1980’s back to Christmas 2024, we’ve got more Mennonites, a secret Jew, prairie dogs, a possible Moses sighting, Mormons, aliens, a confused therapist/guru, the ghost of Gertrude Stein, one of Keith’s own early published poems, and, of course, bowls of oatmeal. Let’s stop this list now before Persephone throws the kitchen sink at this chapter. That is, if she hasn’t already done so.

Music by Victoria Theodore.

Copyright text and podcast recording: Persephone Abbott

https://routineapparitions.blogspot.com/

Persephone Abbott is holder of Keith Kumasen Abbott’s copyright.

Let’s pick up where we left off: Keith has called up the Rhino Ritz Detective Agency to find his missing manuscripts and they broke into Dick’s Sporting Goods Store instead because Ernest Hemingway took a shine to a new model of fishing spear. El-Don is desperately trying to imagine a world without his Mennonite wife who has been secretly plotting to convert to Judaism, and his daughters are not pleased with their Christmas presents, pairs of live prairie dogs. Tirzah and Gator are continuing to drum up business with their psycho babble, and Candace, the ex-Mormon, is claiming to be a protector of the spirit world. So folks, it feels like it’s time for a break. Let’s detour in a short while and listen to a background story to this novel.

Music by Victoria Theodore.

Copyright text and podcast recording: Persephone Abbott

https://routineapparitions.blogspot.com/

Persephone Abbott is holder of Keith Kumasen Abbott’s copyright.

You know, folks, if a poison pen letter writer lived next door to you, would you know it? Unlike authors aiming to be recognized for their work and creativity, these toxic underground writers direct the blame on others.

Music by Victoria Theodore.

Copyright text and podcast recording: Persephone Abbott

https://routineapparitions.blogspot.com/

A returning theme in Routine Apparitions is Old Friends, the good kind.

Music by Victoria Theodore.

Copyright text and podcast recording: Persephone Abbott

https://routineapparitions.blogspot.com/

Finny Dimmler’s dream was to get in tight with the guys, or Rob’s jock crowd. Finny hung around Rob O’Rouke’s house whenever he could. The guys called Finny their pet basket case, or sent him out for burgers, or ditched him.

In his junior year Finny got so desperate to buddy with the guys that he tried out for the football team. Finny was shifty and fast, so he made the first-string halfback. But that only earned him a little respect because Finny hated getting tackled and he could never hide how scared he was. Whenever Finny carried the ball, he let off a long high squeal: Eeeeeeeeeee.

This exasperated the guys. They’d go: Dimmler, why doncha act like a football player? Our first game’s coming up. We know you’re scared, but can’t you stop that squealing? Like, other teams are gonna think we’re all weenies.

But, during games Finny eeeeeeeeeed even louder and ran even faster, he was so terrified. The thing was, the other teams never tackled Finny, they only cornered him, and then he’d hit the deck or run out of bounds or just collapse in a squealing pile. So, after Finny ripped off some long twisty runs and a couple of touchdowns, the guys stopped complaining. Still no offers came to ride with the guys, Rob’s gang, until Ivoine Cadou, a French exchange student, showed up that spring of their junior year.

In the Lutheran ghetto of Parkland, Washington, Ivoine’s acceptance of romance did more than simply impress the guys. Most of them put their steady girlfriends on mental hold and plunged into a frenzy of strutting and playing the fool for her. Ivoine considered their attention normal and she didn’t mind showing that she was interested, too. But, after Ivoine checked out the guys for a week, they were stunned when she picked Finny as her steady boyfriend.

During the first month, there were signs that they were getting something on. For three days after their dates, Finny was so calm he forgot about coming up behind the guys and nabbing their earlobe and going mingee-mingee-mingee. This alone was enough to give Ivoine the reputation for being loose.

She didn’t give a damn what the other girls thought. “Bye Juin I am returned to Frawnce anywayz.”

And her remark about Lutheran soshes made it clear what she thought of their local brand of Puritanism. “Ah,” she’d turn up her palms as if their situation was hopeless, “zhey are zho zhad.”

The only thing that saved Ivoine from total condemnation from the sosh girls was that she hadn’t picked one of the better Lutheran guys. That was sure something any of those straight arrows would have loved. But Ivoine dated only Finny.

Rob O’Rouke and guys dug that she was excited about the United States and things “veree Amereecaan.” They adopted Ivoine because she was always ready to check out anything from rodeos to demolition derbies.

“Ah, I enjoyz zho much zee Amereecaan ways of life,” she told them, “zhat I forgeet compleetelee Frawnce.”

Because Finny loved to hang around Rob’s gang, he never complained about Ivoine’s travels with the guys. Now and then he’d get into some jealous fidgets, but Ivoine would set him straight.

“Pheeleep, thees ez your problem,” pointing to his forehead. “Een your mind, non?” As she ruffled his hair, she’d say, “No ones of zhem ez you, Pheeleep,” and tap his nose with her finger.

And that’s when Finny would get real quiet. The nose tap. The way that nose tap calmed him down drove any guys watching into instant jealousy fits.

Ivoine thought nothing of riding around with a carload of guys. She didn’t act as if she were in any danger, when everyone in Protestant Lutheran Parkland knew that a single girl cruising in a car with boys was considered to be asking for trouble. And her trust turned Rob’s gang protective.

Even though she was living with Millie LacDonald and Millie’s parents were the local liberal Democrats, the guys were still careful. To make it appear as if Ivoine were on a date, the gang always sent Finny over alone to pick her up so Mrs. Macdonald wouldn’t get worried. Plus they got such a big kick out of showing her around they didn’t want Ivoine to get in any trouble.

Of course, they took some risks showing off for her. One day Rob drove her and the guys out to the military reservation and demonstrated for her some cross country racing tricks with his father’s jeep. Rob strapped Ivoine in the passenger seat with a motorcycle helmet on her. Then, with Hubie Cooper and Flipper Gordon wahooing in the back seat for special effects, he squirreled around the prairie. O’Rouke didn’t drive too crazy, but hung fast enough turns to het a few screams out of Ivoine.

“Ez doughnut?” Her eyes were big from Rob’s driving, but she still gamely worked on her American slang.

“Naw. That was a brody. A doughnut is when the car goes like this,” and Rob made quick circles in the air with his finger.

“Ah, I see.” Ivoine waved her hand in a fish motion. “So brodee ez when zee tail go swish-swish?”

“No, no, no, I told ya – that’s a fishtail. A fishtail is no big deal. Anyone can do a fishtail.”

“No beeg deal,” Ivoine repeated dutifully. “Ez not important, non?”

“Right. A brody’s when you almost cut a doughnut, but then you don’t go all the way around.” Rob cackled, downshifting into second gear. “Now watch this!”

To show Ivoine what a great guy he was, Rob constantly thought up new stuff for her to try. When he ran out of real events for them to go to, Rob lied about what was next to get her to his house on weekends. Rob was also a shameless showoff and the best mimic in the school. Rob did perfect imitations of everyone, including Ivoine herself.

“Pheeleep,” Rob would say, patting his heart. “No ones of zhem are you, Pheeleep,” and she’d laugh.

Then he’d follow that with his version of Finny as a Jerry Lewis spazbo, but nothing Rob did shook Ivoine loose from Finny. On Friday nights, she would only date her Philip.

Rob endlessly speculated about why Ivoine was stuck on Finny. “Dimmler’s such a weenie! What’s she see in him?”

The go-kart fad was first introduced when a former tractor warehouse on South Tacoma Way was converted into the Puget go-kart racetrack. Because the indoor track was out of the normal Washington drizzle, the Puget became the most popular. After the craze cooled, the Puget closed for a few months and then it sold. The new owners redesigned the track and bought fresh go-karts for rentals.

On Wednesday after the Puget’s re-opening, the two worst bad-asses in the school, Tony Ripolla and Race Evart, vowed that they were going to blitz the place. All of Rob’s gang had been banned from the Puget before it was sold, but Race and Ripolla figured maybe the new owners didn’t know them or about their blitzing.

Race went in Ripolla’s 1953 Studebaker and Ray Steen, Shone Dunnigan and Flipper Gordon followed in Dean Hagenbarth’s car. Pete and Hubie rode to the Puget in Rob’s new 1961 blue Pontiac, stopping to pick up Ivoine at Finny’s house.

Inside the Puget’s cavernous green cement building, the new orange go-karts and the redesigned banked track impressed the guys. Hay bales were stacked two high to form the retaining walls for the straightaways. At the top of each curve, three rows of old car tires provided extra protection. At the sought end of the track was the pit stop with the rental cars. Behind the tires on the north end was a repair shop by a wide corrugated aluminum door leading to the outside parking lot. The concrete shell quickly filled with exhaust, so that the door was rolled halfway up for ventilation.

Ivoine hadn’t met Evart or Ripolla. Finny and Pete and Hubie pointed Race and Rip out to her and topped each other with stories about how rowdy and crazy they were. Ripolla was six foot three inches tall and weighed two hundred pounds. He had such a heavy beard, he boasted of being a regular beer drinker at the Midland Tavern. Race was an orphan, a wild kid who had been tossed out of a lot of foster homes. His main kick was stealing. But usually he was ready for anything outrageous.

Race and Ripolla acted like movie stars and waved to their buddies as they surrendered tickets for their first and last go-kart ride of the night.

“Oh boy, this is gonna be a GREAT Blitz!” Rob crowed. “There’s only two track attendants! And that crazy bastard Race has got needlenose pliers!”

Finny explained to Ivoine that the go-karts were fixed to run only so fast. But since the accelerator cable was under the seat, with a pair of pliers a guy could jerk on the cable and make the go-karts go faster.

“And theez ez a blitz?”

“No. When the ten laps are over, you don’t come in, but just keep going around. That’s a blitz.”

Ivoine looked even more confused.

Pete took over the explanations. “You pay for ten laps, okay Ivoine? Race and Rip paid to drive ten times around the track.” Race spun one finger around to indicate a lap. “But they’re going to go as many laps as they can. See those two guys in the blue overalls? Watch them. They go nuts trying to flag people down.”

When the attendants opened up the go-kart pit, Race and Ripolla pushed through the younger kids and claimed two of the newest orange go-karts. Out on the track, Race fished the pliers out of his pocket and wedged the pliers between the pipe frame and accelerator cable. Every time he needed a burst of speed he jammed the makeshift lever down, pulling the carburetor wide open. Ripolla wasn’t sp fussy. He grabbed the cable, jerked it free of its rail frame and sent the go-kart screaming full-throttle into the first curve.

After ten laps, the attendant showed the checkered flag and waved the go-karts into the pit, but Ripolla and Race kept going. When the attendant stepped out in the middle of the track to flag them down, Ripolla swerved, trying to see how close he could come to the attendant’s legs. While he was pinned there, Race cruised by and snatched the checkered flag out of his hand.

Rob, Hubie, Finny and Pete stood up cheering. “What a blitz! What a blitz!” they screamed. “He’s got the checkered flag!” Stamping their feet, they chanted, “Tro-phee! Tro-phee! Tro-phee!”

The second attendant ran out in the back turn and waved a greasy red flag for Ripolla to stop. Rip sent his gocard into a slide, and sent the attendant scrambling over the tires. As Ripolla came out of the slide his go-kart fishtailed and stalled. Race shot past Ripolla on the inside and took the lead, holding the checkered flag high.

Back in the pit stop the other attendant crouched behind a bale, holding a tire under his arm.

“Here come the spares!” Pete holllared. “Ivoine watch Race! That attendant’s gonna try to hit him with a spare tire!”

When Race barreled into the turn, the attendant slung a tire in front of Race’s go-kart. The tire skidded across the track. But Race swerved, barely missing it.

“Olé!” the guys screamed.

“How many extra laps is that? Four?” Rob shouted. “I bet Race gets six laps! You wanna make a bet? Anyone want to make a bet?”

When Ripolla swerved back into the turn, the attendant spilled a stack of tires across the track. Ripolla tried to power between two of them, but his right wheel caught one and he lost control. He sideswiped the hay bales, but straightened the go-kart out.

Two more piles of tires were kicked out, blocking the back stretch. When Race roared into the curve, he didn’t hesitate. He drove straight past the attendant and into the repair shop. Waving the checkered flag, Race spun a doughnut, straightened out, and sent his go-kart flying under the half-opened door into the parking lot outside.

In the bleachers the guys were lunatic. “Looka that crazy bastard Race! Ya see what he did? Didya?”

Ripolla tried to sneak through the repair shop, too. But the attendant shoved some hay bales across the hole and Ripolla smacked into the edge of one. His go-kart spun around behind the attendant and the engine died. Jumping up, Ripolla tossed his crash helmet at the attendant and ran outside. In the dark parking lot, Race’s go-kart was snorting and roaring around.

One attendant picked a crowbar off the bench and waited for the second attendant to join him before they marched out the door after Race and Ripolla.

Up in the bleachers Rob and the guys went nuts. They stamped their feet in unison, chanting: “Tro-phee! Tro-phee!”

Race and Ripolla ditched the go-kart and made a clean getaway. While the attendants returned the stolen go-kart from the parking lot, in the bleachers Rob and Pete plotted the next move. Pete was sure the attendants wouldn’t let any more high school students on the track, but Rob had a plan.

“Naw, look, here’s the setup. Finny’ll take Ivoine down and I’ll pretend I’m Ivoine’s legal guardian. Those guys are not going to be scared of a girl – or Finny, for Christ’s sake.”

Finny and Ivoine went down with Rob to select their go-karts. He steered them toward the new orange karts Race and Ripolla had already hot-rodded. His masterplan was when the guys tried their next blitz, they would switch with Finny and Ivoine and get the go-karts with stretched gas cables.

One attendant tapped Rob on the shoulder with a monkey wrench. “No way, buddy. You’re not racing today.”

“Well, I’m not riding,” Rob protested. “This is my relative from France and her cousin. They’re riding.”

The attendant looked hard at Finny, but before he could say yes or no, Ivoine sat down in the go-kart and put on the crash helmet.

“Howe theeze works?”

“Wait,” the attendant pointed to Ivoine. “This ah – she – ah — she knows how to drive, don’t she?”

“Oh, yeah. She’s got her driver’s license. But she’s never driven one of these.” Rob knelt beside the go-kart and put his right hand on Ivoine’s shoulder, smiled at her and pointed at her right foot.

“Now, Ivoine, just like a car, that’s the gas pedal.”

Rob let his left hand drop and he squeezed the top of her thigh. “And this is the brake.” Rob leaned closer and whispered, “You ever drive before?”

“Ez no beeg deal!” Ivoine squirmed down in the seat and giggled. “Theez ez fon, non?”

Rob left the pit and moved closer to where Pete was watching. “Goddamn, Dwyer, she’s never driven before. This is gonna be one wild ride.”

During the first few laps, Ivoine maintained a steady pace, hogging the middle of the track. The other drivers drove around her. Each time she passed Pete and Rob, she let go of the wheel, threw one finger forward and yelled, “Allez ‘tit pépé, t’avaaaance!”

“What the hell is she yelling?”

“I dunno,” Pete said. “But it looks like she’s saying Honk on!”

Ivoine continued circling at the minimum speed. But as she was yelling “Allez ‘tit pépé, t’avaaaance!” she let go of the wheel, her go-kart drifted and another driver decided to pass her. He swerved out of control and broadsided her kart. His front tire jammed under her frame, taking the loose accelerator cable with it, sending the engine into permanent high rev. With that burst of power, Ivoine’s go-kart lurched off the other go-kart’s wheel, turned a brody and faced the oncoming traffic. When her tires caught hold, her go-kart shot up the racetrack, going the wrong way. She headed straight towards two stragglers on their last lap. Ivoine let go of the steering wheel, grabbed the two sides of her helmet and screamed. The two other karts split and her go-kart flashed between them. Heading into the curve, Ivoine panicked and jerked the wheel, swinging into a high speed slide. Her go-kart whipped out of the curve into a straightaway, its engine giving out a valve rattling chatter. Ivoine let go of the wheel again, grabbed her crash helmet with both hands and howled.

Rob and Pete jumped over the fence and ran on the track. One attendant was pulling out a spare tire when Pete grabbed him.

“She’s out of control,” he screamed at the guy. “Goddamn it, don’t throw a tire at a girl!”

Ivoine barreled down the straightaway. Rob stood in the middle of the track, pointing at his left leg. “The brakes! Hit the brakes, Ivoine!”

Her kart barely missed hitting him.

“She’s got her eyes closed!” Rob sprinted to the start of the straightaway. Squatting on a hay bale, he waited for Ivoine. When she fishtailed out of the curve, Rob jumped onto the track. Her go-kart tires were still spinning for traction as Rob slapped the cutoff switch down onto the spark plug. This shut off the juice, but Rob also got a jolt of electricity when his fingers touched the plug.

“Owwwwweeeeeee!” Rob reeled backwards and dropped down on the track, clutching his right hand.

Ivoine’s go-kart shot forward from its momentum and Pete jumped out on the track, grabbed the roll bar and dug in his feet. Slowly it rolled to a stop.

Finny rushed out. Ivoine was yelling. She was hysterical. Finny wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her out of the seat. Ivoine began kicking the go-kart. Both attendants tried to stop her. Ivoine broke free of Finny and aimed a few more kicks at the kart. She clawed at her helmet and slammed it into the crotch of one attendant. He doubled over. Finny dragged Ivoine away while she kicked and cursed, spitting foul sounding words in French. Pete stepped between them and the enraged attendant. He put his hands up to calm him down. Rob circled around behind Pete and gave Finny the keys to his car, telling him to hide Ivoine away before they all got busted.

Once she was gone, Pete showed the attendants where the accelerator cable was jammed into a wide open position by the collision with the other go-kart. That calmed the attendants down. But they declared that Finny, Ivoine, Pete and Rob were banished forever from the Puget. They guys left, but not before protesting that it wasn’t them that fooled with the equipment, it was those other hoodlums. And nobody knew who they were, besides.

In the parking lot, Hubie, Shone, Ray and Dean reeled around, banging into each other and congratulating themselves on the most successful blitz of all time. They decided to drive over to the Dairy Diner drive-in and celebrate with victory burgers and shakes.

“Wait a minute,” Rob peered at the corner of the parking lot. “Where’s my car?”

“Finny took it. Didn’t you give him your keys?” Hubie laughed. “No lie, Finny was so hopped up, he was shaking like a leaf.” Hubie poked Rob. “And Ivoine, wow! She was still smoking. She was reeeeed hot!”

Dean cruised the Dairy Diner and the other local drive-ins, looking for Rob’s Pontiac. Then he drove the guys back to Rob’s house. Merla, Rob’s mother, was out of town at a horse show. His dad, Big Rob, was boozing somewhere, so the guys had the run of the house. They waited for Finny until one-thirty, killing time playing pool in the O’Rouke’s rec room. Rob kept walking out into the garage and checking for his car. Not waiting to call Millie MacDonald’s house, for fear of getting Ivoine into trouble, he phoned Dimmler’s mom instead. She told him Philip was staying overnight at O’Rouke’s. Then Rob got pissed off.

“This really fries me. Here I set up the blitz, I play the hero, save Ivoine, shook the shit out of myself, and then Finny steals my car to go off and park with her. It was my idea to take her along. I feel like one of those goddamn teasers they use at my mom’s stable to get the mare all hot and bothered. Then they let the stud go at it, not that Finny’s a stud.”

“Rob, if you had the chance,” Pete told him, “you would have done the exact same thing.”

“Well, sure. But still….Finny? You don’t think they’re really getting anything on, do you?”

“We don’t know, but she was really steaming.”

“I mean,” Rob complained. “Finny’s such a weeeeeeenie!”

Soon everyone got tired of Rob’s complaints. So Dean drove them back home. Rob paced around the rec room, playing a game of eightball by himself and muttering about what a little weasel Finny was. About two in the morning, Rob walked into the living room and happened to look out the big picture window. Through the lilac bushes in the corner of the yard, he saw that his blue Pontiac was parked at his grandmother’s house next door. Rob went out and checked his car, but the engine was cool and the doors were locked. Mystified, Rob walked back in the house, thinking that it would be like Finny to lock the car and then take off with the keys.

In his bedroom, Rob flipped on the light. There was a groan, and the blankets on the top bunk bed stirred. Rob went up on his tiptoes and saw that Finny was sleeping there.

“I’ll be goddamned!” Rob laughed. Finny probably turned off the engine and coasted to a stop at grandma’s house. He probably snuck in the front while we were yakking and playing pool.

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Let’s recap the situation, shall we? The ghost of Keith Kumasen Abbott has called upon his own invention to help him find his missing manuscripts. Will the Rhino Ritz Detective Agency show up and get the job done? Meanwhile it has not escaped Persephone’s attention that a whole host of religious groups may have some clues as to what happened to her father’s missing materials.

Music by Victoria Theodore.

Copyright text and podcast recording: Persephone Abbott

https://routineapparitions.blogspot.com/

Let’s pick up where we left off: The Rhino Ritz Detective Agency is willing to help Keith Kumasen Abbott find his missing notebooks. This is totally logical since Keith himself invented the Rhino Ritz Detective Agency.

Music by Victoria Theodore.

Copyright text and podcast recording: Persephone Abbott

https://routineapparitions.blogspot.com/

If you haven’t felt the influence of religious identities yet, you will surely not miss it in this chapter. And don’t despair, the supernatural vibe continues.

Music by Victoria Theodore.

Copyright text and podcast recording: Persephone Abbott

https://routineapparitions.blogspot.com/

Let’s pick up where we left off: In the last chapter we all admired an actual published poem by Keith Kumasen Abbott:

Alpine lake, snowy mountains

Trout tails slapping at the bait

“Son, don’t fight over women–

Let women fight over you….”

You have to admit, it would make a great Country and Western song.

Music by Victoria Theodore.

Copyright text and podcast recording: Persephone Abbott

https://routineapparitions.blogspot.com/

Let’s pick up where we left off: If you’ve been wanting to attend a Mennonite Fellowship meeting, here’s your chance.

Music by Victoria Theodore.

Copyright text and podcast recording: Persephone Abbott

https://routineapparitions.blogspot.com/

Let’s pick up where we left off: If you’ve been waiting for F. Scott Fitzgerald to show up, you’re in luck.

Music by Victoria Theodore.

Copyright text and podcast recording: Persephone Abbott

https://routineapparitions.blogspot.com/

Let’s pick up where we left off: Did El-Don’s wife discover that he had eaten a Grape Ape donut?

Music by Victoria Theodore.

Copyright text and podcast recording: Persephone Abbott

https://routineapparitions.blogspot.com/

So let’s get started with what happened after Keith died in Longmont, Colorado.

Music by Victoria Theodore.

Copyright text and podcast recording: Persephone Abbott

www.keithkumasenabbott.com

www.persephoneabbott.com

https://routineapparitions.blogspot.com/

“I may need to haul trash for a living until my sunset years. You remember those years. I was living on 5th Street in Pacific Grove, looking out over the bay every morning. Big bank of windows. Then sunset. Almost a year went by. Seemed like years. So I got my retirement out of the way early.

And thanks for the animal parts clip. Maybe I can work that into volume two of the Monterey saga, Buck and Mordecai Go to Pebble Beach.”

In fact, in May of 1990, a scene of the sequel appeared in The New Censorship magazine. The story takes up the tale of Whatever Happened to Eric The Artist?

Buck and Mordecai Go to Pebble Beach

Inside the lobby of a self-storage company, Eric waited for a rent-a-cop to locate the right keys. Eric wore a ripped leathr shirt, rust suede pants, and green eelskin boots. Hanging off his matching green eelskin belt was a squirrel tail. Eric’s skin was grey and his face looked haggard enough to represent a cowboy singer on the way to his last gig on a tour.

Outside the building Mordecai waited with Eric’s assistant, Tobin Ares. Tobin was looking over San Francisco’s South of Market ambience of electro-plating shops and car repair garages.

“When I first met Eric in 1973,” Mordecai said, “he used to look exactly like Andy Devine, you know him, the fat actor who played Jingles on the Wild Bill Hickok Show on tv in the fifties. Hey Wild Bill, wait for me. Remember that?”

“Before my time.”

“Back when he was all plump and jolly.”

“Really?” Tobin yawned and looked through the plate glass doors as Eric received a ring of keys from the guard. “Well, after the Betty Ford Clinic, Eric really gained weight.”

Mordecai noticed that Eric was so thin he hardly cast a shadow under the banks of bright fluorecent lights.

“Eric wore janitor clothes, khaki pants and shirts then, too.”

“He still does. Eric just got dressed up for our trip to see the Texas moneybags.”

Eric came out and they followed him around the building into the parking lot. At the side entrance to an attached warehouse, he unlocked the metal-plated door and walked into a large, bare, white room with high ceilings. There was nothing inside except a windowless office in the corner, painted the same shade, a white box inside a white box.

A single overhead light illuminted the office door. Three different brass locks punctuated the space above the doorknob. While Eric inspected the keyring for the three keys, he talked to Tobin.

“Let me tell you about my good buddy here. See, Mordecai’s the secret reason for my first big score with the Abrezzi Gallery in New York. Sold a dozen paintings first time out, just a week after I met him. Mordecai’s got a rare mental disease. It’s called melanoia. It’s the opposite of paranoia. Mordecai had a melanoia attack at my old house out at the beach. Melanoia starts with him hearing this ping sound. It’s a mental alarm clock alerting him to wake up to a streak of good luck. Then he starts following people, or he thinks he’s following someone. He also thinks that someone is about to give him something or that something good’s going to happen.”

Tobin remained quiet for a moment. Finally he cleared his throat and glanced once at Mordecai.

“That’s very West Coast.”

“I knew Tobin wouldn’t believe in melanoia.” Eric grinned at Mordecai. “He hasn’t read about it yet in Interview.”

Tobin’s face flushed but he caught himself and tried to sound laconic.

“You don’t have to be cruel, Eric. Have you had it long?”

“I gave it away years ago. My girlfriend up in Seattle took it for a while. She was addicted to paranoia. But recently I think she gave it back to me because I’ve had a few attacks. So I decided to hop on a plane and take my melanoia for a stroll in California.”

Eric examined his key chain for a second time. Mordecai noticed that his hands were shaking.

“So when you have this....” Tobin’s lack of interest so fatigued him, he seemed to have trouble remembering Eric’s exact words, “attack, what do you do?”

“Melanoia doesn’t exactly work like an attack. Actually melanoia works more like a magnet, everyone notices more of what’s going on around them and they find things to do. So melanoia’s sort of like a magnet and rearranged things, so they stand out in patterns and then people see different things than they’re used to seeing. The truth is I don’t do anything at all.”

Tobin was trying to gauge when to step in on Eric’s struggle with the keys. After many tries, Eric managed to match the right key with the top lock and Tobin turned his attention back to Mordecai.

“How did you get hooked up with Eric?” Mordecai asked.

“Oh, I was doing my graduate work at Yale and he was teaching there after his comeback, you know...and his agent said he needed an assistant so...”

“I read about his comeback in People Magazine on my flight down from Seattle.” Mordecai remembered how upbeat and cheery the piece was. He’d been shocked at how wretched Eric looked in the photos.

Tobin shrugged. “At least, they tried to be kind. Others never made the effort.”

Eric finally located the right keys for the next two locks. He paused for a moment as if remembering the correct sequence, and then unlocked the middle lock first, the top lock second and then the bottom oone, using a different key for each.

“Is that some key code?” Mordecai asked.

“Yeah,” Eric said, stepping inside. “Big industrial secrets like mine are protected by coded locks.”

Mordecai and Tobin followed him into the room after he flipped a wall switch on. A low hum started as a bank of five console television sets lit up. The tvs were set on different channels, but the sound was off. Behind the tvs and flanking the sides of the tvs were banks of French doors, bolted to the floor and spray painted white. The windows had been painted, too. But most of the glass was broken and missing. Handwriting circled each jagged pane. The walls behind the french doors were painted white, too. But pockmarked with bullet holes.

Right by the left hand corner of the french doors was the largest pile of Rainier Ale cans Mordecai had ever seen. The aluminum cans were a gleaming landslide of green and gold empties glued together in an upward triangle that covered most of the floor space, almost touching the corner of the french doors.

Mordecai checked the five tvs again. The three largest tvs were on the bottom with two smaller tvs on top. Two had no pictures at all, just blank screens. The other sets appeared to be programmed to be changed to different channels at set intervals. One moved from a rerun of a sitcom to some woman in a kitchen giving a cooking lesson. The two others changed channels constantly. Mordecai watched for a while. For those two tvs the changes seemed random.

The tops of the television sets displayed various burns. Some were long and narrow and looked as if cigarettes had been laid on them and allowed to smolder. Others were round, as if singed with a single blast of flame. A small butane blowtorch was lying on its side next to a round scorchmark, along with a small glass waterpipe. As Mordecai moved closer he saw that both the blowtorch and the waterpipe were glued down to the surface. The inside of the waterpipe’s glass appeared to be veined with tiny writing.

Eric opened a small refrigerator in the back corner of the room. Inside the two top shelves were packed with 16 oz Rainier Ale cans. An automatic pistol was the only item on the bottom shelf. Eric toook out two cans, opened them, and walked over to Mordecai and Tobin.

“Have a Green Death and add to the art work pile.”

Eric walked past the tv sets and stared down at the Rainier Ale cans.

“Eric must really trust you to let you see this before the show,” Tobin whispered to Mordecai. “Nobody except the shooters have seen it, and they were pledged to silence. Even the stars haven’t breathed a word. I’ve been so proud of them.”

“Tobin lines up the celebrity shooters.” Eric paced around the room, looking at the installation from different angles. “Tobin knows everybody.” From the far corner he regarded the Rainier Ale landslide.

“A computer programs two tvs to change channels on the drum beats of a Navajo dance.” Tobin pointed at the five televisions, blinking from channel to channel. “It’s just stunnng, isn’t it?”

Mordecai took a drink of his Rainier Ale. “Why Navajo, if you can’t hear the music?”

Tobin didn’t answer.

Mordecai turned to Eric. “So, what’s it called?”

“Freed Base.”

Tobin regarded Mordecai with new-found admiration that Eric had so casually revealed this confidential fact to Mordecai. “Even the celebrity shooters haven’t been told the title. The name’s a secret until the opening in Dallas.”

Walking over to one of the french doors, Eric pointed at the writing scribbled over the remains of one shattered window.

“Bianca Jagger shot the glass out of this one and signed it. And that’s the one Tab Hunter shot.”

Keith’s comic novel is available in print or as an ebook at Mordecai of Monterey.

Persephone Abbott is holder of Keith Kumasen Abbott’s intellectual property.