Children of the Program (3 page)

              As for love?

              I had a mysterious and romantic interest in intelligent introverts.

              Though the punks seemed to be fighting a war against an unknown threat, I appreciated their thirst for cred and their willingness to bring normalcy to fisticuffs.  They lived to draw distinctions, foster principles and write anthems of revolution.  Their code, was an oath tattooed on ideals; only they knew the rules.  Amendments were made by the leader of a criminal hierarchy and intended to strengthen a cultish cause.  Acceptance meant security and was an ironic mark of individuality.

My increasingly zealous trips to the basement recording studio tested my father's otherwise patient demeanor.  He was nearing wits' end and suffering an understandable exhaustion with my obsession.  We were two peas in a pod, raised on opposite sides of Eden.  The inevitable shift in our dynamic was sparked by my new Crue, an expanding generational gap, and the heightened awareness of unresolved and inconsolable maternal issues.  Time stored precise records and forced actualization to draw strain.  The less he understood, the less he could tolerate my musical vision and color-coded
shoelaces!

Throughout these years, my bizarre night terrors persisted.

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              It was a crisp winter evening.  In the shadows, I gazed through my bedroom window toward the western lights of a magnificent orange and purple skyline.  My affected black light flickered like a séance candle.  Plumes of rebellious patchouli smoke asphyxiated the second floor of my vacant Christian home.  Chair cocked, my hypnotized feet rested upon a wood framed television set.  An audience of cheap beer and bluesy cigarettes witnessed. 

              Counting sheep...

              Chasing REM, I walked naked through a crystal landscape of snow mounds.  Icy sharp daggers poked through the thin layers of powdery white snow, cutting a path; presumably, to a superhero's home.  A gray bird circled and pecked my stubborn skull, hungering for my vision.  Like a motherless child, it never wavered in its quest for notice.  Insistent to follow, a trail of drawn blood drained from my trembling limbs and marked the journey.  With each begrudging step, the gray bird's will tested my determination.

              Echoing, I could hear the cries of a small child whistling through the tundra.  The roar of lions and tantrums of thunder swiftly followed.  Blanketing the ashy sky, purple and gray cumulonimbus clouds descended.  The antagonizing sun only peaked to reveal the horror of an apocalyptic storm.  I was surrounded by darkness.  There was no turning back.

              Suddenly, the vision froze.  I stared in glazed twilight, as a female hand repainted the entire scene on my quivering lips. 

              I awoke to the sound of a playful voice.

              “Wake up!  Wake up!”

chapter 4

paint the desert with my heart

A 35 hour trek across the United States left an exasperated Neco wandering aimlessly through the patterning Painted Desert.  Stumbling toward a flat, barren expanse, roughly five miles off of the forgotten road, he stopped to siphon a moment of clarity and digest his tranquil surroundings.  Nestled beneath his throbbing feet rested the volcanic ash of immeasurable years and an encapsulating white ring.  The curiously marked shape was 30 feet in diameter.    Iron embedded in the shale and mudstone compounds produced a reddish hue upon the universe's rocky stage props.  The fixtures stood like gods, casting grandiose shadows.  They were the omniscient voyeurs of a billion lifetimes.

              “How long have you been here, Cowboy?” asked an inquisitive and flirtatious voice. 

              Emerging from behind an eclipsing rock formation was an elegantly dressed female.  She was ravishing.  Her pouting lips were a glossy Merlot.  The powdery pale hue of a perfectly symmetrical skull sat like a heavenly backdrop, complimenting her mysterious long black locks, Saint Laurent styled dinner dress and large insect inspired rhinestone frames; all hints that she may have misjudged the Arizona climate, came from afar or simply didn't care.

              “I could use a little distraction from these rattlesnakes, y’ know?” she continued in an affected English accent.  Her face couldn't hold back the blushing of an eager smile, nor departmentalize her attraction.

              “What are we doing here?” Neco asked in a surprisingly deep and dehydrated voice.

              “I'm not entirely sure.  I'd imagine it's paramount, considering the hellish nightmares I've been having over the past 18 years!”

              She reached out her finely adorned and manicured hand toward Neco. 

              “My name is Ash,” she smirked.

              “My dreams have been extremely vivid for some time, too!  I never really knew what to make of them, but there were times when the lucidity made it impossible to wake.  Have I seen you before?” questioned Neco.  He stepped closer to shake her pretentious paw.

              She paused and answered without a word.

              Juxtaposed, Neco was dressed in a rather cliché rock n' roll ensemble.  His tight jeans were the work of a bad seamstress and his feet, rarely seen antiquities, were comfortably lost in an unevenly worn pair of cowboy boots, due to an undiagnosed case of Rothbart's Foot.  His posture was otherwise stout and only offset by an understandable exhaustion.  A standard black V-neck t-shirt and crucifix accentuated his moderately-developed chest and was front-tucked into an obnoxiously noticeable belt buckle, inferring a general sense of style and sexuality.

              Ash liked her find.

              The two mechanically paced the circle in the sand.  They kicked dirt and rocks in hopes the other might use mindless banter to break the increasingly awkward silence.  Vultures swarmed in a circular and mocking trajectory.  The southwestern sun glared, as if to warn them of the dangers of overstaying their welcome.

              “So, where are you from?” asked Neco.

              “Well, let's just say, I couldn't exactly drive here,” offered Ash.

              “I'm from across the pond,” she quickly added.  She didn't want to try Neco's patience.

              In the distance, Neco spotted a watery silhouette and coughed for Ash's willing attention.  The mirage appeared clothed in a grayish militant grade suit.  A complimentary cream-colored dress shirt rested beneath, while his broad chest begged for a cool breeze.  Fastened buttons were the dismay of his pulsating neck.  Tightly trimmed side and back hair bristled like the cactus needles and his plume, slicked to the right.  Pressed pants and a starched jacket tightly wrapped his soldiering heart.

              He slowly removed his perfectly resting gray fedora, adjusted his onyx-framed formal spectacles and approached.  His posture suggested he'd soon address the state, on behalf of a warring Republic.  Adjusting the dangling noose beneath his collar and clearing his strangled throat, he articulated his calling.

              “The answer to this riddle eludes me.  I've traveled a great length and traversed a sea of horrors to find myself standing on the most inhospitable of American soils.  I should be preparing for university and yet, I'm called.  Does anyone know the meaning of this?  You needn't speculate,” he delivered.

              Neco and Ash hesitated, turned to lock eyes and smirked.  A proper introduction had failed to grace his rhetoric and his biting tone was as welcoming as the vultures overhead.  They silently debated who would attempt to climb the social wall he'd built with his cold introduction.  Neco stepped toward the man, motioning the lead.

              “What's your name?” Neco asked.

              “My name is of no consequence to you.  You'd have already guessed it, had you been the one to lead me to this wasteland of the States.  Should I find that you are the one who disturbed my slumber, and haunted my visions, I'll see it fit to have your eyes.  I can only deduce you are as vacant as I,” he barked, analyzing Neco's merits on appearance alone. 

              “If he is not your compass than you both remain lost.  But, he may prove to be more valuable than your demeanor would suggest,” offered Ash.  She mirrored his tone, giving him a logical reason to let down his guard.

              “And who, might I ask, are you?” questioned the man.  His surly tone shifted to the depths of a new condescending low.

              Neco and Ash huffed a pause.  It was clear, pleasantries were a fleeting discourse.  Silence discredited his hard-sought dominance.  His inquiry became a cast shadow, longing to flee his presence.  Infuriated, he lumbered, devoid of control.

              “His name is Rand Backer,” said a welcome voice.

              Tickling his peripherals, Neco refocused his attention on the slender conductor demanding center stage.   He manifested from the thinnest of desert air, like a surprised white rabbit being yanked from a top hat.  He wore a plaid Polo shirt, tucked into fitting khaki slacks.  His interpretive American garb was lassoed together with a formal black belt and finished with dusty footwear.   Weathered, his complexion was dark and his hair was oily, short, blackish and parted down the center.  He clearly didn't grasp western style, but was quite proficient in juggling the hippie-inspired devil sticks that the youth adored. 

              “How do you know that, sir?” asked Rand with begrudging respect.

              “We met at a gas station, about 5 hours ago.  You fumbled through your wallet to find a credit card and your passport fell onto the floor.  I picked it up and set it on the counter, and happened to catch your name, country and date of birth.  You never know when you might find yourself in the middle of the desert, trying to solve a mystery, right?” asked the flippant voice.

              “I don't recall this?  Am I to suppose you're the one who brought me here?”

              “Quite the contrary, your dreams brought you here.  My name is Simon Peter.  From my earliest days, magic has been my escape, but don't expect me to reveal everything, yet.  We've only just met,” he paused.  “Suffice it to say, I've been plagued with the same nocturnal intrusions as the others.  How are we not to assume you brought us here?  After all, you did try to conceal your identity from complete strangers who wanted nothing more than to understand this rather precarious situation.  I can only surmise you're hiding something or you're a dummkopf,” Simon said.

              “That's ridiculous,” Rand fired back.

              “Good, then I suggest we all play nice and try to make the absolute best of this strange day.”

              Mocking a compass, the group subconsciously positioned themselves on the 4 cardinal points of the white circle and began sharing their revelations.  Like constellations, underlying themes connected the dots to their enigmatic calling and produced plausible scenarios.  Their lives intersected like the branches of a river, still no one was able to distill enough sustenance to solve their spiritual puzzle.  The air became thick, as their need for water began to outweigh their thirst for understanding. 

              “You don't think they'll just leave us out here to die, do you?” asked Neco.

+++

              Neco was aware to a fault.  A self-knitted shroud of mystery and a devil's modesty gave him a boyish charm, though his intellect was never questioned.  He'd developed from negatives and was quick to leave pessimism in the world fading from his rear-view.  Poised with quips, he'd flick a distraction, to avoid drifting from the familiar coasts of comfort.  A bleached fauxhawk stood like an antenna; a symbol of his punk rock allegiance.  It was the glaring beacon of his remaining innocence.  It didn't arouse suspicion, but it did cast a shadow of doubt onto the likes of Rand and Simon. 

              Though mesmerized by Simon's rhetoric, Rand remained grizzly toward the group's dynamic and perplexed by the complexities of their plot.  Solitude became his ally, while stewing in afterthoughts.  Neco, Simon and Ash were content to feast on conversation, gluttons for each other's story.  They imbibed, patiently awaiting a moment of pause to purge an ocean of life experiences.  Being the only girl gave Ash the much needed attention she'd grown accustomed; it was served up and stomached, welcome or not.

              To pass the time and to impress her, Simon cast out poetry, confident she'd catch his offering.

              “Let me not the marriage of true minds

              Admit impediments.  Love is not love

              Which alters when it alteration finds,

              Or bends with the remover to remove:

              O no!  It is an ever-fixed mark

              That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

              It is the star to every wandering bark...”

              “Shakespeare,” she interrupted.

              “Yes,” he responded.  “The Israeli people love studying English literature,” Simon said.

              “Simon, says. So, you chose to memorize Sonnet 116, word for word?” she suspiciously asked and punned.

              “Is it any more odd that I can recite it than you can recall it?”

              She clammed to thwart his flirtation, aware of Neco's perception.

              The patience of Rand became noticeably tested.

              “I feel it's best for us to focus and disclose any and all relevant information to the immediate events,” insisted Rand.

              “I'm from Baltimore, Maryland,” offered Neco.

              “I'm from Scotland,” said Ash.

              “He's from Kassel, Germany,” said Simon, while motioning to Rand.

              “Thank you, Simon,” Rand snarked.

              The heat was consuming everyone's patience. They were fading.

+++

              Ash spent the majority of her restless time fantasizing about running her fingers through Neco's tabby-like hair and christening their romance on the reddish rocks.  This was the perfect scenario for a one night stand, give or take the German-Israeli audience of two.  Odds were, they'd never see each other again. 

              Justified! 

              In various versions of her sex fantasy, Simon and Rand stood guard, watched or were instantly struck dead by rattlesnakes.  In another dream, the missionary tragically caught fire on the molten rocks!  She had to reset her impetus, but was determined to get her fantasy right.

              Unknown to the others, her heartbeat often became irregular and her mind agitated, while trying to departmentalize the inane background dialog and feuds of her new acquaintances.  She wished she could find life's mute button, and pause god's cosmically-arranged talk show.  The universe was interfering with her daydreams.  It was then, she remembered, her nocturnal episodes were what got her lost in the desert.

              When she snapped to, she stiffened like lumber and stood to make an unscripted announcement.

              “I'm an artist.  I've spent my entire life painting and awaiting the world's notice and adoration.  It's what I adore.  It's who I am!  If we're to tempt fate, I pray I'm left with enough strength of mind, body and spirit to paint this godforsaken desert with my bleeding heart.”