Coattail Karma

by Verlin Darrow

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Praise for COATTAIL KARMA

  Coattail Karma

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Epilogue

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing

  Also available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc. and other major retailers

  “I’ve been expecting whoever it is that thinks he’s Buddha’s clone.”

  I stared at him. “How do you know about that?”

  “I’ll tell you about it later,” he said as he continued rowing. “But first put on my hat.”

  “Why?”

  “So the men in the boat won’t see you. It’s easier than your diving back into the bay.”

  “It’s bright red. They’re much more likely to see me in your cap.”

  “They won’t see you if you wear the hat,” Marco said.

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Fuck sense,” he said.

  I just lay there. This guy is crazy.

  “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “As a gesture of good faith, I’ll give you some idea of who I am, so you’ll put on the hat.”

  “Okay.”

  “Think about something that’s completely immaterial—something I couldn’t possibly know.”

  “Okay.” None of this seemed as ridiculous as it would’ve the week before. I took a moment and recalled an incident at the San Francisco zoo in which a gorilla had signed to me from his enclosure.

  “Interspecies contact can be powerful, can’t it?” Marco said amiably. “And it’s always available on some level. Animals are much more aware than we give them credit for.”

  He took off his hat and held it out to me. I immediately sat up and jammed it on my head.

  Praise for COATTAIL KARMA

  “COATTAIL KARMA isn’t just a book. True, it’s an exciting, fine piece of writing with plot twists galore, peopled with characters that behave like villains and metaphysical superheroes. And it’s certainly fun to read. But it’s so much more than that.

  “In other words, Verlin Darrow’s outrageous fantasy masquerades as something that readers can easily grasp and be wildly entertained by, but along the way he also shares wisdom and his own quirky take on the meaning of life in mind-blowing fashion.

  “Well, if it isn’t a book in the ordinary sense of the word, what is it? An experience? Yes, that’s closer.

  “Who can write such stuff and get away with it? Verlin Darrow can…and did. I can’t recommend this book more highly. I love it.”

  ~Richard House, MD,

  author of Between Now and When

  Coattail Karma

  by

  Verlin Darrow

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Coattail Karma

  COPYRIGHT © 2019 by Verlin Darrow

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Kim Mendoza

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Mainstream Fantasy Rose Edition, 2019

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-2374-9

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2375-6

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to everyone who’s

  learning to thrive in free fall,

  or beleaguered by thoughts like science fiction stories

  written by drunk monkeys,

  or trying to stuff awareness back into

  the benign Pandora’s box it arrived in,

  or trying to arm wrestle life into submission,

  or struggling to give yourself permission

  to be where you’re at,

  or trying to waltz with a badger,

  or unfolding yourself and trying to return

  to the simple, blank sheet of paper that you once were

  before you became the complex, completed origami

  that is reading this dedication.

  In other words,

  I dedicate this book to all of us walking around

  in these outlandish human disguises.

  Chapter One

  I wasn’t sure who was who in my shared waiting room since our receptionist had quit the week before. On the phone, Paul Arthur’s baritone voice had sounded adult, poised, and not at all crazy. I ruled out the older woman in a rainbow tie-dyed dress and the teenaged boy texting at breakneck speed. This left three likely candidates.

  My task would have been easier if anyone had glanced up from their reading material or cell phone. If I were a new client waiting for my first counseling appointment, I’d look up. I probably should’ve just called out Paul’s first name, but what sort of psychotherapist can’t solve a match-the-telephone-voice-to-the-person puzzle? As usual, my pride got in the way of taking care of business.

  A giant, muscular Samoan man shifted in his might-not-be-strong-enough chair at that point, so I examined him first. Despite the chilly early April weather, he wore khaki shorts and a voluminous black polo shirt. He probably didn’t realize the Monterey Bay kept Santa Cruz from warming up for a few more weeks. The guy could’ve been a pro football player or a sumo wrestler on a diet. He scowled as he read an Oprah magazine.

  Candidate number two was a rat-faced guy in his fifties who looked as though he’d stepped out of a 1940s film noir. He’d have been the super in some seedy New York—no, make that Chicago—apartment building who told the cops the guy they were looking for had lit out and owed him a couple of sawbucks. Rat-Face was reading a fat Saab car-repair manual, of all things. I moved on to possible Paul number three without further ado.

  Although he still hadn’t glanced up, I sensed that Number Three was aware of me. After seven years at my job, I trusted whatever intuition popped up about clients. Sometimes this didn’t work out, but I hadn’t mustered anything more reliable yet.

  Perhaps Number Three was demonstrating his
presenting issue—ignoring people he should’ve glanced up at. What diagnosis could I invent for that? Glancephobia? Ignoritis?

  In the Danish film this guy would star in, he’d be torn between his love for a sickly cellist and a lusty barmaid who was really a philosophy graduate student. He’d be so chock full of sensitive Danish love, it just wouldn’t make sense to squander it all on one woman. But others wouldn’t understand.

  He was about forty—a few years older than I—his graying hair buzzed down low. An indigo fatigue sweater spilled down over ironed black jeans.

  All in all, I was rooting for the big guy. I’d never worked with a Pacific Islander before—if he even was one, of course. Just then, Danish Guy turned over the shiny white tablet on his lap and peered up at me. “I had to finish reading an email,” he said as he placed his iPad in a black nylon backpack. His alert blue eyes clashed with his sweater. They were his best feature, I decided.

  “No problem,” I said. “I presume you’re Paul. I’m Sid Menk.”

  “Yes, I’m me,” he said, standing and holding his hand out.

  As I touched him to shake, a huge spark flew—I could actually see it.

  “Whoa,” Paul said. “It must be the carpet.” He grinned as though he liked surprises.

  I was taken aback and had no words for a moment. I’d never experienced any static electricity on that scale before. Heat spread up my arm, dissipating at shoulder level. What the hell, I thought.

  “Why don’t we go back into my office?” I suggested once I’d regained my poise.

  I gave Paul his choice of chairs, and he made a beeline for my favorite, a dark green wingback. Then he took the time to thoroughly survey my office and told me that he liked it. I did too. It was spacious and well lit, with a second-story bay window overlooking a tree-lined street. I’d displayed my own photographs on the pale-yellow walls—mostly landscapes, with a few dogs mixed in. And every piece of furniture was just as comfortable as it looked. People fell asleep on my loveseat; clients ran from the office to go buy chairs like mine.

  “Thank you,” I said. “So what concerns bring you in?” This was my standard opening gambit. I’d been taught to sit there like an idiot and wait for clients to speak first, but that just annoyed people. And it was no fun feeling like an idiot once an hour, either.

  “I’d rather not say, actually.” Paul spoke so affably that at first it didn’t register that he’d declined to answer.

  “Oh? Would you rather start some other way?” I asked. A certain percentage of clients needed to assure themselves that I was qualified to help them before they decided to trust me with anything personal. This was more prevalent among men, I’d noticed, but it had never led to anything out of the ordinary before.

  “Yes. Thank you,” Paul said. “I’d like to ask you a series of questions. Some of them may seem strange. Are you willing to answer them?” He cocked his head and stared, which felt like a challenge. Was he testing me?

  “Probably. Let’s see what they are,” I said, meeting his gaze and smiling. On the inside, my impatience gathered itself, and I hoped it wouldn’t direct me to say something unprofessional. Clients playing these types of games irritated me, and I seemed to get more than my share of them.

  “Fair enough.” Paul retrieved his iPad from the bag at his feet and tapped it several times. “Question number one. Why do you do what you do?” He didn’t look up, and his smooth delivery hinted at rehearsal.

  “You mean why do I work as a therapist?” My confusion nudged me into stall mode.

  “Whatever the question means to you. None of this is valid if I specify more,” he told me, looking up briefly.

  “Valid for what? To whom?” These words shot out of me without thought.

  He smiled half a smile, moving just the very corners of his mouth ever so slightly upward. “I know this isn’t how it usually goes in here. Can you bear with me? It really wouldn’t be a good idea to go into that right now.”

  A sigh leaked out of me. A very unprofessional sigh. Then I told myself that maybe he wouldn’t be a major pain in the ass. Give the guy a break. I was aware for the millionth time that I needed to work on my judgmentalism. If I hadn’t just weathered a six-month stint of therapy with a manipulative policewoman client, I’d have felt more kindly disposed at this point.

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll try to explain why I’m a therapist. I guess the short answer is that it’s the only thing that’s real enough now.” I paused. “Let me try again.” A new thought formed, and after a moment I tried to organize it aloud. “I think that my life experience—my curriculum, if you will—forced me to abandon unreal things like ideals and fantasies and thinking I’m in charge of much of anything. After that, being in service is what was left. It’s like it’s my default setting. We’re really all in this together, aren’t we?”

  Paul studied me carefully as he assessed my alarmingly candid response. Then he began taking notes on his tablet. What was I thinking? Why would I let myself muse that way in a session? This was my deepest, most closely held life philosophy, developed after brief participation in a shamanic cult, a decade of meditation, and copious reading. Suppose he had come to therapy to work on his ideals or his fantasies. I would’ve just accused him of being full of crap.

  “Next question,” Paul said, giving no indication of any reaction to my answer. “What is your ethnic heritage?”

  I pondered the inappropriateness of this line of inquiry before deciding to answer. For some people, it was relevant. I am Asian. Perhaps a given client’s father had been killed in Vietnam or his mother had muttered Chinese epithets while she beat him. Who could work with the enemy?

  “I honestly don’t know,” I told him, crossing my legs and fidgeting with my hands. “I was adopted under odd circumstances. Obviously, I’m Asian. Probably not East Asian—Chinese, Korean, or Japanese. Beyond that…beats me. An Indian minority? Tibetan? Hmong?”

  I knew I could get a DNA test to find out, but so far I’d preferred not to. I don’t know why. I did know that just thinking about it made me nervous. What if it was something really unpalatable? Would that make me a racist?

  Paul nodded and read off the next question. “Were you raised in a wealthy enclave?” he asked.

  “Well, yes,” I muttered. This was not something he could have known. My brows drew together, joining my frown.

  “Next,” Paul said, averting his eyes. “Are you an only child?”

  In fact, I am. Or at least I’m the only one my Caucasian parents adopted. “May I ask again why you feel the need to know these types of things?” I tried. “How could the fact that I’m an only child be relevant to our work?”

  My stomach clenched, and I told myself that I was overreacting. It didn’t help. I’d made a serious effort to keep a low online profile. What was Paul up to? Was he corroborating information that a private investigator had uncovered? Why? My mind sped up, seeking an answer on its own.

  It was one thing to eyeball me and wonder about my nationality. I understood that. And perhaps a client could read me well enough to guess that I’d grown up quite wealthy, despite all my efforts to distance myself from that world. Likewise, the only child deal. But Paul wasn’t asking me things based on any in-the-moment experience. When he’d momentarily tilted his tablet down, I’d seen a list on there—it looked like some sort of form.

  “If this is going anywhere, you’ll have an opportunity to have all your questions answered. Not by me—I only know part of it.” He blushed, which made him look like a schoolgirl caught passing a note about a boy.

  I decided to take a more direct approach. “Paul, each time you answer a question—or evade answering, I should say—I feel even more confused. Are you saying you’re not a client? That you’re here for some other reason?” I locked eyes with him and tried a smile—a patently insincere smile, as it turned out. For a moment, I wondered how a better therapist would’ve handled the situation.

  “That’s right,” he said
, nodding with relief. Apparently, he wasn’t happy about the deception, either. “I’m paying for your time as a counseling client would, but the help I need is getting answers to these wildly inappropriate questions, and I’m not supposed to say why.” He leaned back in his chair and smiled his half smile, and I realized I kind of liked this guy. This had snuck up on me while I’d been busy feeling annoyed.

  He continued. “In fact, I’ve already disclosed more to you than to any of the others.”

  That was interesting. There were others. “Other therapists?” I asked, leaning forward, closing the gap between us.

  “No, no. That’s why the protocol is awkward here. It’s one thing to interview a baker or an architect. It’s something else entirely with a therapist. You’re all so secretive,” he said, shaking his head.

  Secretive, huh? I nodded warily. “So you’re paying to interview me after misrepresenting yourself as someone in need of psychological help? Is that what you’re saying?” All things considered, I couldn’t help but give him a dose of grief.

  “Essentially. If I’d been forthcoming on the phone,” he said, “I don’t think we’d be here. And I do need help—it’s just a different kind of help than I led you to believe.”

  I started to respond, but he lifted his hand to stop me. His stubby, inelegant fingers caught my eye. “Here’s the bottom line,” Paul said. “Are you willing to continue under these circumstances?”

  “I need a little more to go on,” I told him, sinking back into my chair. I’d been leaning so far forward that I’d almost toppled. “If you don’t feel you can reveal whatever this is about, at least tell me why not. What’s the general nature of this that makes it ‘not a good idea’ to tell me what’s going on?” I needed to hear a benign explanation for his uncanny questions.

  It was his turn to ponder. I studied him again. Paul’s hands weren’t his only physical flaw. His substantial unibrow perched above his clear blue eyes, although it was light brown and not nearly as caterpillar-like as some.

  “All right,” he said. “If that’s what it takes. There’s an organization—I only know their initials—that’s looking for a man with some sort of special birthright or legacy. I don’t know the details. They hired me to help find him.”