“Um … Well, thanks for the offer, Mr. Cervenka, but I’m not sure where I’ll be …”
“You call me Drako. What’s wrong with you? Why you here with these people?”
Annoyed at his these people comment, I was more than ready to get away from the guy.
“Look, Drako, I was recently in a car accident—just left the hospital yesterday and I’m having some difficulty with my memory. Truth is, I’m not really sure who the hell I am … I’m living at the homeless shelter till things …” I realized this was more information than I wanted to provide, especially to this abrupt stranger. “I have to go … perhaps I’ll bump into you again here sometime.” I headed back toward the mission; my head was pounding. Drako was fast on my heels—I could hear him running to catch up with me.
“I help you,” he said eagerly. “Yes?”
I stopped and looked at him, ready to tell him to just back off. Peering into his mind, I found something unexpected. Was it kindness? Yes, but something else too: concern.
It seemed as though I had made another new friend. I walked with Drako out of the park, briefly explaining my predicament and the events of the last few days. He turned to look at me.
“An interesting puzzle, huh? You tell me what you do remember and maybe I help put pieces together, yes?”
Drako’s convertible was parked beneath a large oak tree at the side of the road. “It’s my baby. A 1957 Porsche 356. One of my favorite automobiles. What do you think?”
“Nice.” I noticed there was a laptop computer laying on the passenger seat and a wad of cash on the center console. Drako saw where I was looking.
“I am a wealthy man, Rob. But people here know I am not one to steal from. I will think about your problem, find out who you are, Rob. Then we play chess again.”
As Drako got in his car and drove off, I headed across the street.
Chapter 9
People had started to file into the mission. Marco was there and we joined the line. An elderly husband and wife team were greeting people at the door. The wife, Malinda, was all smiles and welcoming warmth, while the husband, Ken, wearing a Vietnam veteran’s cap, took a much closer look as we came through the door. First at Marco ahead of me, and then at me, as he explained the simple rules of the house: “No weapons; no drugs; no smoking in the hall; dinner at six; lights out at nine; breakfast at seven; and everyone gone by eight-thirty—no exceptions.” Ken shook my hand and held it. “Where you from, friend?” he asked, his piercing blue eyes unwavering from my own.
I shrugged. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” I said, matching his stare.
“Well, my name’s Ken—let me know if you need anything.”
“Name’s Rob, and thanks …”
He nodded, smiled, and released my hand. I followed after Marco into the main hall of the mission. There were close to one hundred cots set up, and by their precision, barracks-like in straight rows and blankets symmetrically-placed, I was betting it was the meticulous work of the Vietnam vet, Ken. There was some part of me that was comfortable with this level of organization and order. There were twenty or so other men, who mostly appeared to be migrant workers, spread throughout the room. I moved to the back of the mission and selected a cot close to a wall.
Privacy was not an option in a homeless shelter, but my cot location was about as close as I could get. I didn’t have anything to lay dibs with on this particular cot, so I unfolded the blanket and laid it out. Then I pulled off my belt and laid that across the pillow. Marco had chosen a cot several rows over, and I wondered if he always chose the same one or liked to mix things up a little every night. The cafeteria was open and a line was forming. Then I spotted three familiar faces—Russell and his two idiot friends, whom I’d met earlier at Denny’s. They were making a beeline towards the cafeteria. No one stopped them when they cut to the front of the line, grabbed two trays each, and proceeded to intimidate the young volunteer server into piling mountains of mashed potatoes, gravy, extra slices of turkey and multiple pudding cups onto their trays. Ken made his way across the cafeteria and headed toward them as they commandeered an open table.
“Hello, boys, I see you’ve got yourselves quite a spread there. We make it a policy to provide a well-rounded meal to those in need—but I feel you’re taking advantage of our offerings.” Russell was seated now and had tucked his paper napkin into the top of his shirt. Without acknowledging Ken in the slightest, Russell took his plates and pudding cups from his two trays and set them on the table. Then, with casual disregard, tossed the trays onto the floor at Ken’s feet. The loud clatter brought startled stares from the other tables. Ken stepped around the trays and stepped up closer to Russell.
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave … all three of you. Get up and get out—don’t come back here.” For the first time Russell looked up at Ken. Although he was trying to stand tall, Ken must have been pushing seventy, maybe seventy-five. Age spots covered his hands and he walked with a slight limp, perhaps a souvenir from the Vietnam conflict years earlier. Heads down and quietly eating, those around the three men were minding their own business. Ken was on his own. With eyebrows raised, Russell smiled at his two friends and looked down at the food on the table.
“As you can see, we’ve just sat down for this beautiful feast. Me and my two associates, Wriggly and Jordan, would like a little peace and quiet while we enjoy our supper. If you would be so kind as to fuck off, I’d be most appreciative.” Wriggly and Jordan, mouths full of mashed potatoes and gravy, chuckled and looked up to see how Ken would respond. Moving fast for an older guy, Ken reached for Russell’s arm, obviously intending to forcibly drag him out if necessary. Russell stood up to meet Ken’s advance and slapped him, open-handed, across his face. The loud crack reverberated throughout the now silent room.
This was the second time these three had acted inappropriately in my presence. The first time, I’d pretty much let it go. But not now. Even before Ken grabbed for Russell, I was well on my way to their table. I stepped in between Ken and Russell and turned my back on the larger biker. I faced Ken and smiled. “Let me talk to them. I might be able to convince them to leave.” Few things are as humiliating as being slapped in the face, especially by another man. Ken didn’t say anything, but took a tentative step backward. Russell was ready for me when I turned to face him. Knife in hand, he would not have been happier to see his own mother’s face.
“If it isn’t my friend from Denny’s. You know, I’ve been looking for you. Seems like destiny, don’t ya think?” His mistake was taking his eyes off me, even for the quick second it took him to look over at his two friends. I’d moved just slightly to his right. When his head jerked back, catching my movement, I was in a better position to grab his wrist with my left hand and then, using both hands now, I twisted his knife in and towards his own body. Even after he’d been forced to release his knife, there was an audible crack as his carpal bones snapped like dry kindling. Russell yelped in pain, bending over to protect his ruined wrist. Wriggly and Jordan had lost their smiles and were up out of their seats. Wriggly, the taller, fatter of the two, moved to my left, while Jordan, the more muscular and seemingly more intelligent of the pair, was attempting to flank me around the right. I waited for them, expending no more energy than necessary. Almost simultaneously, both pulled knives from their boots. I had the distinct feeling they had rehearsed this maneuver before. Even with my memory a total wash, I instinctively knew that how an opponent holds their edged weapon speaks volumes. While untrained combatants hold a knife skyward, as if waving a flag, pros typically hold a knife downward, in line with their wrists, keeping it moving. Both Jordan and Wriggly had opted for the flag-waving technique.
I had just enough time to pluck Wriggly’s tray off the table. Plates with half-eaten mashed potatoes, turkey and gravy scattered to the floor. With eyes on Wriggly, I spun 180 degrees around backwards and caught Jordan by surprise with the edge of the tray, hitting him in the temple. He went down
like a bag of rocks. Then I turned to face Wriggly. “Your two friends are on the floor, do you want to join them?” Apparently, Wriggly did not. He took several steps backward, looked down at his two friends and rushed for the door. Ken was still standing where I’d left him. Malinda, at the far end of the cafeteria, was on her cell phone—it wouldn’t be long before the police were dispatched.
“Thank you for …” Ken paused and looked around the room. “Listen, we’re not unaccustomed to trouble. It comes with the territory. It follows people like them—and it follows people like you. I saw the way you moved; you’re military or ex-military. What you’re doing here, I don’t know—or particularly want to know. But I don’t want any more trouble. You got that?”
I knelt down to clean up the mess we’d made. Marco was at my side and stacking plates onto a tray. Ken slowly walked out of the cafeteria without saying another word. As I thought about what had just happened, what I had reflexively done, it occurred to me that my past was quickly catching up to my present.
By nine o’clock, everyone was hunkered down on their cots for the night. The other men had given me a wide berth, with the exception of Marco, who brought out a deck of cards and schooled me on the intricacies of Conquian, a Mexican card game he’d played since he was a child. It seemed to be more a game of chance than of skill, such as poker or even black jack. We ended up about even when Malinda made her rounds, letting us know it was lights out in five minutes.
The large room was dark; someone was snoring several rows over. I stared up at the ceiling above me, in thought. I made two mental columns for positives and negatives. On the negative side, I still had virtually no memory of my life prior to the accident. I also discovered someone, or even some organization, might be trying to kill me. I was hampered by continual headaches and quickly moving toward a strange addiction to getting tapped-in to high-voltage power lines. On the positive side, I had a new ability that was nothing short of incredible, if not unbelievable. An ability to look into people’s minds and influence their decision-making processes.
As I lay there, I thought about future implications. How others could manipulate circumstances with this same ability, my ability. I needed to be careful. And what about me? I obviously had ties to a military background, perhaps a special forces unit—martial arts seemed second nature to me. Also, I was educated, apparently, and had a good range of diverse knowledge at my disposal. Speaking one, perhaps several foreign languages, electrical engineering know-how, and analytically-inclined enough to break down the factors that had contributed to a major traffic accident. But none of it brought me any closer to my identity. I rubbed my eyes. My head throbbed—it had been too long since I last tapped in. So I got up, found my shoes and headed off towards the bathroom. I’d done a quick check earlier and discovered there was a sliding window high up on a wall in the ladies’ bathroom. Since this seemed to be a men-only shelter, with the exception of Malinda and a few younger volunteers, I felt fairly confident I’d be able to get in and out without being noticed.
Now, looking up at the window, I wondered if I could even squeeze through it. It would be a tight fit. I took several running steps, jumped up and caught the edge of the window sill. Precariously perched there, I reached over and slid open the window—then, with a bit of squirming, I was able to crawl through and jump down to the parking lot behind the mission. I could see several cars, probably Ken’s and Malinda’s, or perhaps those of the volunteers. My first impulse was to simply climb up one of the utility poles I’d spotted earlier, but, upon closer scrutiny, rungs for hand-climbing the pole, if they were there at all, rarely went above the lower hanging cables provided for basic telephone company maintenance.
Reaching the top of a pole for the more dangerous high-voltage cables typically required a special cherry picker-type utility truck. But an idea was forming in my head. I headed east, crossed over Sycamore Avenue, and thirty yards later was in the back parking lot of a Motel 6. The good thing about motels is that they’re always open. The other good thing is they need ample electricity to power hundreds of TV sets, coffee makers, industrial-sized water heaters, and high-capacity kitchen equipment. No light industrial or residential connection for this building. No, they’d need a full 30,000-volt utility hook up.
I barely made it to the motel’s back entrance. Halfway across the parking lot, more intense withdrawal symptoms descended on me—headache, nausea, and a case of the shakes so bad walking became problematic. I needed to tap in, and quickly. What was it now, 28 hours? Other than being unconscious in the hospital, I hadn’t gone this long without tapping in since the accident. Even my vision was beginning to fail. Somewhat relieved, I made it to the back door. It was locked. Crap! Walking away, I heard it open behind me.
A short Hispanic woman, wearing a gray and black uniform, peered out at me. “You lock yourself out?”
“Yeah, came out here for a quick smoke; didn't realize the door would lock behind me,” I replied, with as sincere a smile as I could muster. She opened the door wide and I scrambled by her and a cart filled with large bath towels, toilet paper rolls, shampoo bottles and bed linens. I had no idea where the electric utility room would be, so I set out to do some exploring.
The motel had two floors with two separate wings. It made sense the room would be on the bottom floor somewhere. I found it in the other wing, around the corner of the front lobby. As expected, it was locked. I didn't think I’d have the same good fortune of finding the key in a nearby broom closet as I had at the hospital. I backtracked to a room I’d noticed holding several vending machines and a big ice-maker. I hadn’t really thought what I’d do next … First of all, I needed some change. I checked under both vending machines and found a dime and two quarters towards the back of the second machine. I had to lie down on my stomach and reach with my fingertips.
“Can I help you?” It was the same maid standing behind me, and by her furrowed brow she was tiring of me—obviously, I was one of those troublesome guests who made life miserable for everyone. "You drop monies on floor?"
“Yeah, I wanted to buy a Coke.” The creases in her brow deepened. She pulled her pocket open at the front of her skirt, inspected the contents, and pulled out three quarters. Before I had a chance to remove my arm from beneath the vending machine, she had placed the coins next to me on the floor—with a huff she was gone. “Thank you!” I yelled after her. I wasn’t completely confident that the next aspect of my plan would even work. I did a quick check of both directions down the hall—all clear. I popped the tab on the Coke, cupped one hand beneath an open wall outlet and carefully poured in half the liquid. Nothing. Half the Coke remained. I tried again … Bingo. With an audible clunk, the little room went dark, the fan on the ice-machine went quiet, and the vending machines clicked off. I’d tripped the breaker.
Using my hand, I did my best to wipe away the messy coke remnants from the wall and floor. I told myself it wasn’t all that noticeable. A quick trip back down the hall and around the corner, and I was in front of the reception counter. An ample-bellied man, wearing a white button-down shirt, a gray and black vest, and a large bundle of keys hanging from the right side of his belt, greeted me with a smile. “Good evening, sir, my name is Benny. How can I be of help?”
“Evening, Benny,” I said, not looking all that happy. “I know this is probably the last thing you want to hear this time of night, but the vending machines down the hall are not working. Matter of fact, the lights are out in there as well.”
“Let’s take a look,” he said with good humor. Perhaps it was the most exciting thing to happen all day. I followed Benny back to the little room where he scrutinized the vending machines and the ice-maker. He flicked the switch on and off several times. The overhead lights didn’t flicker on. “Well, you’re right. Electricity is out in this room. Why don’t you go back to your room and we’ll get this fixed by morning.” Benny must have seen the disappointment on my face.
“Hankering for a Coke, huh? Well
, maybe it’s a simple fix—let’s see if I can just flip the breaker.”
Back down the hall, Benny used one of his many keys to open the utility door. I was close on his heels, but fortunately he didn’t seem to mind. Inside the utility room, Benny went right to the center cabinet. I stayed back and felt for the door handle behind me, releasing the button so the door wouldn’t auto-lock again. At the same time, Benny, with a “Yep, that’s the problem …” flipped the appropriate breaker. I held the door open and then followed him back down the hall where we did a quick check of the vending machines. “Here you go, sir. Everything is up and running. Enjoy your cold refreshment.”
I thanked him and turned my attention to the variety of soft drinks behind the glass—not wanting him to see my quickly worsening physical condition. In fact, I was ready to black out. A minute later, I made it back to the unlocked utility room. Dizzy, I nearly lost my balance. Bent over with my hands on my knees, I took several deep breaths. I had to get better at this tapping in process … and not wait so damn long next time.
The high-voltage cables were encased in large, four-inch pipes coming up from the concrete floor. I instinctively knew which pipe to go to. I sat down on the floor, Indian-yoga style, leaned forward and unceremoniously placed my throbbing head against the cool metal pipe. I tapped in almost immediately. The warmth and familiar music filled my consciousness. My body shuddered with relief as waves of blue energy pulsed and flowed through my skull and into my mind. As grateful as I felt for the pain relief, the inflowing energy too seemed to welcome me to stay, to merge with its infinite intelligence—to become one with it. I was lost in the moment—oblivious to anything but the energy coursing through my mind and body. Oblivious that Benny was back and standing behind me.
Mad Powers (Tapped In) Page 5
