Wyatt, Richard

by Fathers of Myth

§

  TWO

  Lost in deep thought after my father’s call, I hear Kelly’s melodious voice come from behind me.

  “Matt, if your story turns out to be half as good as these photos, we both are going to be up for a substantial raise,” Tooting her horn a little.

  “Now you know as well as I do, Lloyd already objects to us getting paid at all,” I remind her.

  Kelly is right; her photographs tell the whole story. Trying to write words to describe them could quite possibly take away from their meaningful impact.

  “I am going to write just enough to stay out of the way. These pictures are the real heart of an important story,” I commend her. She grins from ear to ear, with pride.

  “Thanks Matt, I’m glad you are pleased with them.”

  I pause and think to myself for a moment, and suddenly I am inspired.

  “Why don’t we try to interweave some background info on the history of safety in aviation with this? Maybe we can dig up some ancient pictures to go with yours. You know, like the Wright brothers at Kitty Hawk, or the Hindenburg disaster, or something,” I suggest.

  “That sounds good Matt. Speaking of disasters, I think I will turn into one if I don’t get something to eat. Why don’t we talk about it while you are buying me lunch?”

  We would meet at my favorite restaurant, a quaint little Italian place called Papa’s, on the East Side of Portland. Of course as usual, Kelly is fashionably late. When she does arrive, she makes a dazzling entrance and instantly becomes the best dish in the restaurant. I think though, if she was a dish, she most likely would be a dessert, and if she were a dessert, she definitely would be à la mode.

  We order our food and something to drink. She orders her usual red Zinfandel, and I decide I deserve a double Jack and Coke. Without being obvious, and not forgetting myself, I casually admire the luster of her obsidian black hair.

  “Tell me; why don’t I ever see you with a boyfriend, a beautiful girl like you?” She looks at me solemnly through her half-closed suspicious eyes, and softly speaks.

  “I don’t have time for a boyfriend. I am already committed to my career, if it is any of your business.”

  “I thought you and Gregory in classifieds had a thing going?” I dig just a little further.

  “I didn’t have a thing going with anybody. I went with him one time to the movies. Now I can’t get rid of him,”

  “By the way,” she continues, “it’s not possible to have a relationship with a creature that is made up of only hands.” I smile and take a drink.

  “Kelly, now I told you we are a team. That means I’m always here to help you. If you ever need me to run interference for you in such situations, let me know.” I try to come across as sincere, but can’t stop smiling. She rolls her eyes and looking out the window.

  After eating some of Papa’s Italian sensations, we reluctantly realize the obligation to go back to work.

  “You’re going back to the office after lunch?” Kelly wonders. “You know Lloyd said he wanted this story in by the deadline today,” she adds anxiously.

  “Don’t worry your pretty head about Lloyd. I’m sure he will complain a little, but will be glad we spent the extra time to come up with a good complete story, instead of just a fast one.

  I think I will go to the public library and do some serious research on air travel. Why don’t you research the film archives in the paper and see if you can come up with any good old photos that will complement our story? I’ll meet you back at the office bright and early tomorrow morning. How does that sound?”

  “That sounds like a plan. I’ll even bring the donuts,”

  Kelly rises from her chair, and with a twinkle in her eye, she picks up her purse and is off back to work. I watch her for a moment as she walks out the door, and then I pick up the check.

  Out of pity, the sweet little old lady in the apartment next to me gives me a dozen chocolate chip cookies; as I fumble for my keys on my porch to unlock my door. I open my door, turn on some lights, and then click on the TV for company. Some politician is being interviewed for the fiftieth time on Larry King Live, as I turn down the volume of the television and sit down to work.

  I’ve brought copies of several old newspapers and magazines home from the library, so I can search for historic articles on aviation and air travel.

  As I look around my humble home, I notice that it looks like Irene, my cleaning lady, has been here. I am a slob, but she always makes my place look like my mother has been living with me. As part of the bargain, she throws in feeding Cashew for me.

  The mothers of the world, it seems, are always the ones that take care of the pets of the house. I wish I could afford to have her do the shopping and cooking too.

  Eating cookies, I thumb through the articles, and wash down my dinner with nearly soured 2% milk. I guess I never realized just how much has been written on the subject of aviation. It seems as though everything that stayed in the air for more than a few seconds has had at least a few words written about it.

  As I shuffle through the pile of articles I’ve borrowed from the library, I come upon the famous headlines concerning the disaster of the Hindenburg.

  ‘May 6th, 1937. The Airship Hindenburg, which contained sixty-one crew and thirty-six passengers, was about to dock at the Lakehurst station, when with no forewarning, it suddenly burst into flames, crashing violently to the ground.’

  For a moment, my thoughts turn to the tragedy I witnessed earlier this morning. The people, in both the Hindenburg and the jet airliner this morning, share something in common. One moment they were all floating above the world like angels, a minute later they were in the bowels of hell. I can find no words to explain or deal with such a thing.

  In deep thought, I sit looking at the yellowed newspaper clipping of the Hindenburg with a grim staring gaze. Suddenly, I notice a man in the old photograph that seems to be running face first right into the camera, away from the airship, as this almost seventy-year-old photo was taken.

  I can see the man’s face very clearly. Strange, I think to myself, instead of having the look of terror on his face as would be expected, his face displays a kind of Cheshire cat smile.

  As I study the expression upon his face for a moment, my eyes widen and my mouth drops open. The man in the old and yellowed photo looks exactly like the guy I knocked to the ground earlier this morning at the crash site at the Portland airport.

  From my observation in life, the only real thing that separates all of us from one another is our eyes. The man at the crash site and the man in this old newspaper photo have the same distinct eyes, those same deliberately penetrating, cerebral eyes.

  As I sit pondering the curiosity and odds of this discovery, my phone rings.

  “Matt here.”

  “Lloyd Hatch, Matt. How are you doing?

  “Fine, Lloyd, what can I do for you?”

  “Well, when you didn’t show up for the five o’clock deadline this afternoon, I wanted to just check to see if you were still working for The Herald. I had a good interview with a young journalist this afternoon. He is just out of school and wants your job so bad he can taste it,” he arrogantly taunts. Trying to ignore Lloyd’s sarcasm, I continue.

  “I decided to do more of a complete story, involving more than just the plane crash today, Lloyd. I guess I should have let you know, but I got caught up in the research.”

  “Yes, Matt. Since I am the editor, and you are the one who is assigned by the editor to write stories that are approved by the editor, a call would have been nice.”

  “Sorry about that Lloyd. I’ll make the wait worth your while. Kelly shot some great pictures, and I am following up with a full story about the history of aviation safety. I’ll have it for you first thing tomorrow for sure… And Lloyd, even though it is past nine at night; don’t feel bad about calling me late at my home. I’ll see you tomorrow,” I try a little sarcasm of my own.

  “I never gave it a thought, Matt. Tomorrow then.
Good evening.”

  I have never felt like putting my hands around a man’s neck before until I met Lloyd Hatch. But since he is such a tiny weasel of a man, I could never plead self-defense, though perhaps insanity might work.

  It seems like whenever I talk to the man, it makes my insides feel just like when salt is sprinkled on a slug. His personality makes me cringe.

  It looks like it will turn out to be another semi-sleepless night if I am going to own up to my promise of delivery of the story by tomorrow.

  At 9:30, I drink the last of a warm beer, which helps kill the taste of the sour milk and cookies. I make a pot of coffee, and begin my one-finger peck on the computer.

  The top is down and the wind is rushing through my hair as I once again drive my black 1969 Austin Healy to work. Nature has done an impressive job on creating a gorgeous morning, and for some elusive reason, with only three hours of sleep, I am able to greet the morning with more than the usual enthusiasm.

  Kelly said she would buy the donuts this morning, but as hungry as I am, I don’t want to take any chances. I turn into the drive up window of Dick’s Donuts, which is located just a few blocks from The Herald. I really think this place needs to hire a creative consultant and come up with a different name, but the donuts are out of this world. I think only my mother could have possibly made donuts this magnificent.

  A beautiful morning, warm donuts, and I am about to give Lloyd Hatch my best story ever. Even Lloyd Hatch should be impressed with this story. I feel so good about it that I would like to just go to the City Park, sit there, and take time to relish the moment. The thought passes, and I decide to travel back to reality. I drive three blocks up the street and pull in to The Portland Herald parking lot.

  The elevator stops at the third floor, fifty desks spread out before me. Twenty or so people are already hard at work, striving to put out the next issue of The Portland Herald. Betty is at her reception desk, busy putting on another layer of her favorite bright red lipstick.

  I notice Kelly across the room. Gregory has her cornered, displaying a big “you lucky girl” smile on his face. From what I can see, it seems as though Gregory is the only one talking. Kelly looks over at me with the same expression of somebody receiving a parking ticket from a cold-hearted cop only thirty seconds after the meter has run out.

  Across the floor, I can see Lloyd in his glass-walled office, reading a copy of The Herald. I feel so confident this morning that I really don’t even need to have a couple of donuts and coffee before I face the boss. With my story in hand, I walk straight over towards his holy throne.

  “Lloyd, how are you this beautiful morning? I trust you have everything under control?” My lighthearted whimsical approach doesn’t seem to remove any of the gray fog hanging in Lloyd’s office.

  He continues to look at the paper for a few more seconds. Without a word, he puts down his paper and reaches out his hand for my story. Even if it wasn’t his intention, his silent arrogance chips away at some of my confidence.

  Lloyd slowly reads my story and looks at Kelly’s photos as I wait there before him in silence.

  It reminds me of when I was a boy and I had shot a bird with my brand new BB gun. I had begged my father to buy it for me the day before, but I had to promise that I wouldn’t shoot any birds. Now I sat before my father, for hours it seemed, waiting for him to say something. The waiting was murder.

  The three minutes it takes him to read quickly over the story seem like three hours. He tosses my story back into its folder and begins to speak.

  “Well, it looks like you are ready for another story. I happen to have another story that is right up your alley.”

  “Hold it, Lloyd, how did you like the story?” I blurt. I can feel ultimate exasperation rising up inside me.

  “Well Matt, I really would have liked to have had it yesterday by the 5.00 pm deadline, but because you put some extra background into the story, I think it will be okay. I think I will still be able to use it,” he finishes patronizingly.

  “Lloyd, I just gave you the best story your paper has ever had, and the only thing that you can say is, you think you will be able to use it?” I try to be bold.

  “You want me to congratulate you for doing the job I am paying you to do, and a day late to boot! I think you need to appreciate that I have another assignment for you. Now get someone with a camera. I need you to go out to Hood River and check out a Bigfoot sighting for me. There has been a big uproar over it. Even a policeman has reported seeing the thing,” he tells me very lordly.

  I am so totally unprepared for Lloyd’s death-like reaction to my story; I can only stare at him with my mouth agape. I try to make an effort to talk, but I feel incapable of speech, much like a man that just has been hung by a very thick rope. Taking possession of myself again, I make an effort to speak.

  “I don’t expect applause from you, Lloyd, but I do expect a small measure of commendation for work well done. Sending me on a story assignment about Bigfoot does not even come close to a small commendation! Please forgive me if I do not get excited about going on some kind of a tabloid wild goose chase for you,” I spurt out at him.

  As I continue to stand there in front of him, hoping for some display of sympathetic humanity, he calmly hands the new assignment information to me without looking up or getting up from his seat.

  “Oh yes, I almost forgot.” He finally looks up.

  “Since Hood River is a couple hundred miles away, you may need to stay overnight. Go by purchasing and arrange for a car and motel for you and a photographer. You seem to prefer Kelly as your photographer; have her go with you,” he mentions casually.

  I snappishly grab the assignment paper out of his hand as if I am swatting a fly with a little follow through. I stare into his face for a count of two, then turn around and quickly walk out of his office, shaking my head as I depart.

  §

  THREE

  Kelly and I travel east from Portland, on Highway 80 for almost four hours. Kelly seems to be very talkative during our trip together. Since I am still steaming from my conversation with Lloyd, a one-way conversation works well.

  We pull off the freeway and drive directly to the Super 8 Motel to drop off luggage and check in, before starting our hunt for the infamous Bigfoot. We pull up to the motel, walk in and set our luggage down next to the front desk.

  “How is it going?” I begin a conversation with the lady standing behind the front desk. “We need two rooms for tonight, please.”

  “I am sorry sir, but we only have one room left, one with two double beds,”

  “You’re full? I guess I didn’t think a motel in a small town like Hood River would need reservations.” My tone reveals being a little annoyed.

  “I am so sorry sir. We are in the middle of the Hood River Apple Festival. We only have four motels in town, and they usually fill up fast during this time of the year.”

  I ponder over the situation for a moment and then, reluctantly agree to the single room with two beds for the night. Kelly’s eyes show her deep disappointment, and she does something funny with her mouth as I sign the register.

  “If you want to wait in the car, I’ll take our stuff to the room and come right back.” I suggest to her.

  I deliver our luggage to the room and then put some water and some snacks in my backpack to take back to the car. As I approach the car, I see Kelly sitting there in the front seat with her chin resting on her open hand, thoroughly displeased. As I start the car, I look over at her and try to say something consoling.

  “I’m sorry the way the motel room worked out. I promise I will be nothing less than a total gentleman. We’ll put up a sheet or something, and it will work out great.”

  She looks up at me with those huge brown eyes and begins to smile.

  “You’re not my worry, Matt. I know how to handle guys like you in such situations,” she is very smirk

  “What my father would say if he found out is my big worry. He is kind of old-fa
shioned, you know. He would have a heart attack if he knew I spent the night in the same motel room with someone I was not married to, even if there were a brick wall between us.”

  “I don’t know what you are so worried about. It’s not like your father will be able to read about it in the gossip section of The Herald. He won’t have a heart attack unless he finds out. And you know I won’t say anything. You have my word,” I smile.

  “I guess you’re right, but just remember, I’m counting on you being a gentleman and keeping your word.” She tries very hard to be serious, but allows a few rays of humor to shine through. “Let’s go see if we can find Bigfoot.”

  It is good to be out of Portland’s city traffic for a change. The lady at the motel was kind enough to tell us where she thought the latest Bigfoot sightings were to be found. Per her instructions, we are to go to the top of Eagle Crest Mountain, which is a ski resort in the wintertime. Even though this time of year there is no snow, the hotel lady assured us that at least one of the ski lift gondolas will still be operating.

  As we both approach the gondola station to hitch a ride up to the lodge area, Kelly signals to me to come over to her. First she looks around, back and forth, to see if anyone else is listening, then whispers loudly what was on her mind.

  “Matt, I am kind of afraid of…”

  “What’s wrong Kelly? Let’s get in line.”

  “Matt, I am trying to tell you something.” Seeing that she is serious, I finally get the point and listen to her.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t like the idea of hanging up in the air, on just a little wire.”

  Trying not to smile, I make an effort to respond to her consolably.

  “Don’t worry, you hold onto my hand and close your eyes ‘til we get up on top, and everything will just be fine.”

  “Oh, I don’t know!”

  “I’ll hold your hand; it’ll be fine.”

  Kelly holds on for dear life to both my right arm and hand.

  The gondola pulls around and moves toward us. As it passes in front of us, we both jump aboard in unison, Kelly never letting go of my arm.