It's No Picnic

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Published by Kenneth E. Myers

Cover Art and Design by Kenneth E. Myers

The poet, the artist, the sleuth—whoever sharpens our perception tends to be antisocial; rarely “well adjusted”
he
cannot go with the currents and trends.

Marshall McLuhan

THE LONGPORT GAZETTE

A
LEXANDER
L
AX
A
RRIVES
T
ODAY
!

A
LEX ARRIVED EARLY evening at the town’s edge. Hidden was the hill beyond, obscured in a dark, dense, fog not even a glint of light to show it. On the bridge off the main road, the daughter stopped the car while he sat, gazing into the misty emptiness above, captured by the sign that read Longport: Pop. 999.

The sign seemingly moved the daughter who was keen on getting to Longport before nightfall. She left quickly, driving on, maneuvering the car down the road as if native to the area, winding round this bend and that corner, until…

Nearing the outskirts Alex made out what looked like a main office trying to pose as a town hall. A new and yet odd place, bearing an illusory air. A forged copy of reality clearly coveting praise like any façade should. Another mask desiring so much to be.

Alex fell back in the car seat, looking as if forced fed
Casu Marzu
in the company of politicians, despising what he saw and making no amends about it. But like it or not, it was here in Longport he was to live out any remaining days. Fact or fiction, this was home now.

Alex peeked out the car door window, seeing an ideally dressed figure standing at the door of the office, tall, wearing a navy blue garment, black dress shoes and gray ankle socks pulled up to the base of the knees, ending this grown—up wear with a long—sleeved top, dark shades, and a navy blue cap.

“He looks
familiar
.” Alex said coolly.

As the man neared the car, Alex slowly reached for the lock, freeing it with the care of a watchmaker, gradually opening the door saying,

“Hello, do I know you?”

“No,” the attendant said flatly, “I’m the
attendant
.”

“A brief lapse I suppose. Anyway,” then a pause… “Alex. Nice to meet you.”

“We’ve been expecting you Mr. Lax. How was the trip?”

“Fine.”

“We have the place ready.”

“Good.”

“If you would come with me please. Some papers need signing.”

The three; that is, Alex, the daughter, and the attendant climbed the office steps. Like everything, the steps clarified the air, as if owning a forced face rivaling the vainest of souls. A fresh fictile form hiding a hollow truth, likely masking decay, yet not creaking, screeching or groaning in the least. The door played a like note. Amusing it was the horseshoe atop the roman type arch, looking as if plastic, formative yet false. Touching it seemed out of line, to all show ceding a candor it sought to hide.

As each passed through the door, a clear change took place, the inside severing reality, scruffy, plain, and humble, a complete about—face of the
exterior
. Objects seemingly seeking out favored spots easing as it were the overall life of the place. “Don’t mind the mess,” the attendant said, “I’m just that way. Now I know those papers are here; somewhere?”

“No hurry.” Alex said.

“Really.” the daughter quipped.

“Ah, here we are. The key and a couple of papers. If you would, sign here, and here.”

Alex examined the papers with the eye of a lawyer considering a business contract. Of course, no great mystery followed. Of the two, one showed that the tenant now held the key and the other willed that should the tenant wish to take part in the yearly picnic please note ‘yes’ and sign. Alex took some time, for all one knows stalling, or maybe as a reminder of who was in charge. “There; done.” Alex said.

Alex won the key, then—waiting…heard a cheer, “Yay. Welcome to Longport,” from a now elated attendant.

“Thanks.” Alex said.

“Yes,
thanks
؟” the daughter added.

Alex and the daughter left, going back to the car to get a few things from the trunk. Only the item of these remained as homes in Longport came fully equipped with all the dress, furniture, kitchen appliances, utensils, washer and dryer, to name a few.

N
O
L
OVING
S
PEECHES
or drawn out goodbyes. After all, it was only the daughter. Why was there a need, and in any case, what would be said? He was seldom there, and when he was, he acted as if a friend. Children don’t need a paternal friend; they need a father, and Alex was the farthest thing from father one could imagine. She gave Alex a hug, the hug you would give an Ambassador. Then—they looked at each other for a time…at last saying goodbye.

Free, Alex made way for home, taking the path set out by the attendant. It was dead, nobody about—playing a flat, muted hymn as if melodically lost. In fact, it was so quiet, the perverse once again could hear.

Ahead, the outline of a home was now evident. Like the rest of the place, the mark it depicted was moot, a mirage masking matter. As he, Alex that is, neared; he saw a muted form of the horseshoe present at the office. Good luck must follow the residents of Longport.

Reaching into a pants’ pocket, Alex pulled out the key, a unique shape, on the face of it like an old passkey. It was large, maybe to keep the residents of Longport from losing it, or maybe for ease of use. Perhaps both?

Carefully, coolly, Alex unlocked the door. As he opened it, the house seemed moved; afterward, breathing a sigh, as if relieved it finally had a lodger. Then—Alex passed, sensing at once an air of dark activity like that found in a cellar or a basement.

Motionlessly, he took steps into a next life.

O
NCE
T
AILORED
, Alex saw through the air. The home was plain, trite. A two bedroom plan—small living room, close kitchen with bar, and a single bathroom with toilet, sit—down shower, and tub. He also noted the tub came with whirlpool jets—to be sure, comfort he was seeking.

Alex stayed on this self—tour for the next hour or so, checking the floor for flaws, the walls for fault and any other woe that might make for a less than pleasant stay.

Then—out the window, a picture as may be of things to come. Alex could see about one—quarter mile away what looked like the shell of an old church. The tone it illustrated was a refreshing change to that seen thus far. The graying of the wood, clearly from lack of care. White paint peeling off an aging face. All telling a story.

The high style windows were true
air
apparent, bringing out the soul of what it once was; a place of praise. An old graying roof with single cross gracing the steeple was now the crowning glory it painted. Of firm regard was the lack; setting atop a small hill, cut off, as if giving up hope. A once lively place that has since lost meaning, standing now as a mark of the past.

“Nobody attends,” the voice said, “Forgive me, the door was open.”

“Come in,” Alex said calmly.

“I’m Don.”

“Alex.”

“I read you were here. How is it so far?”

“
Time will tell
.”

“Yes; well, time is a wealth of which we all have a great deal here.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

In a wink, without wind, word, or whisper, Don left, closing the door behind him.

Not one to dwell, Alex turned back to the window, blending with the comely rift, yet trying to understand how, “Nobody attends.”

Time pressed on while weighing the scene. Reflecting, Alex trembled, pushing on to sleep. By no means one to ignore life’s whims, he sat down—
relaxed
—falling asleep, resigning to a future.

A
LEX
W
OKE
to two women perching over him. It was not yet eight o’clock as the alarm had not sounded. He hated getting out of bed before eight—waiting…wondering why they were here, at this time. Then—one of the women left the room, later returning with a tray full of sundry breakfast items, eggs, bacon, biscuits, donuts, milk, toast, juice. It was all she could do to hold back enthusiasm, seemingly hoping he would try the items. He hated breakfast. Coffee, sure. But food,
please
. Yet, duty stood staring him in the face. If he did not abide, what kind of person would they think him? So, Alex selected the least sour item from the tray, a donut.

They were old, that much was true, and tall like everyone so far. The one woman with the tray seemed under the spell of a sole graying, much like a lone cloud on a bright, blue day. Also, she could not stop moving, seeming unable to stand in one spot for more than a second; at will, showing up here, coming out there. Then—at once, “It’s the W
ELCOME
breakfast, number
one—thousand
,” one of the women said, “And the goodbye…” said the other.

“Well, thank you ladies for breakfast.”

“It’s a pleasure,” one said, “And a sorrow…” followed the other.

On they went, standing, staring. Perhaps hoping to get a glimpse into a soul. It would amuse the facts if they were to leave right about now. “Okay, ladies. I need to get up
now
. Please find the door.”

“Okay, sorry,” said one, “And glad…” the other noted.

Now the two women, one outwardly a tad scuffed, the other following, took the tray of food and hurried out the front door. After it, the door that is, closed, Alex drew a smirk—mumbling, “Thank god.” He and morning were as a rule, best enemies, and people and mornings, well—oil and water.

The coffee maker calling out with sweet siren song; now that’s different.
Alex
, it said,
I’m waiting
. This was morning fuel. For years serving to bring back full, waking consciousness.

Coolly, he tossed in a filter, adding some coffee grinds, and pressing
brew
. As he waited, eying from the window chair, he saw an alluring woman opposite him, naked, flat—clearly not minding in the least. Then—he got up, disrobed, and went to shower.

After a shower, Alex, still wet, put on a sweat suit and returned to the kitchen where a fully brewed pot of coffee now waited. With that, he poured a regular sized cup and went out on the porch to enjoy the morning.

T
HE
M
ORNING
A
IR
S
EEMED
B
RIEF,
low hanging clouds drifting by, creating a light mist; adding to an already damp air. A knock at the door stirred Alex from thought. Please don’t let it be the
twins
. He opened the door to find Don standing, fidgeting—acting as if keen to go somewhere,
now
.

“Alex……hello.”

“Hello.” Alex said in a cool, dramatic tone.

“I’ve come to take you to the welcoming party.”

“Party?”

“Yes, party. Today is the day.”

“What day?”

“Not
what
day,
the
day, number one—thousand.”

“I
see
.”

“Well, don’t just stand there. Get dressed and let’s go.”

Warily, Alex went to the bedroom and took out a shirt, jacket, and pair of slacks from the closet. Perhaps this was a matter of customary presentation. Maybe manner. Anyway, shirt, jacket and slacks it was.

Meanwhile, Don waited in the living room, tapping a finger excitedly on a chessboard while Alex finished dressing. Afterward, Alex—now smiling as if pistol held to head—
eagerly
followed Don to the party.

From a distance, Alex could see a crowd gathering in the old churchyard. The multitudes. It must be all Longport’s residents.

“Everyone’s attending.” Don added.

“All because I’m one—thousand?” Alex said.

“Yes. Besides, what else is there to do?”

“Uhhh……take in some peace and quiet.”

“Come on
Alex
, add to it. After all, a number is an event.”