by Wm. Barnard
CHAPTER 11
Even though I flew first class and stayed in luxurious hotel suite, it only took about six weeks for me to grow weary of being on the road non-stop. The same routine of talk show formats only helped increase my distaste for the vagabond lifestyle. I never thought I would tire of reliving the greatest experience of my life, but after about the fortieth television appearance I almost dreaded answering the same redundant questions. While I truly enjoyed meeting people receptive to my account, it was still maddening when I encountered those who scoffed at my claims.
Out of all my critics, I gave Metro Magazine the award for publishing the “Most Ridiculous Conspiracy Theory” in regards to my story. Senior writer Stewart McKenna had the audacity to allege that I was in cahoots with film producers who staged the event simply to make a buck.
I had to laugh as my years of a healthy mistrust of anything Hollywood made the Metro article completely ironic. With the slightest bit of research, McKenna could have uncovered that during my talk show circuit I had already rebuffed some serious offers to do a feature film.
Even though I desired a bigger platform, believing that anyone in Tinsel town could maintain the integrity of my story proved difficult and I became leery about even pursuing it. Owning an inherent responsibility to make sure the spirit of the story didn’t get watered down by their commercial interests, I knew I needed a format where I essentially had complete control. Tired of trying to convince those who didn’t believe, I also desired an arrangement where I could focus my energy on sharing with those who were receptive to the message.
As I tossed around different ideas in my head from a hotel bed one evening, I finally had an answer to my current dilemma: I would start my own web magazine. This decision seemed like the best way to communicate in an unfiltered forum where I could control the information and elaborate on my experiences. I also wanted a way for others to share their own personal encounters, and a webzine seemed like a perfect fit. Concluding that this whole idea had been inspired from my last contact with my Ancestor, I found myself saying out loud, “Hallelujah, thank you, Ancestor.”
Eager to get off the road for a while, the web concept put a new fire in my belly and I got extremely excited in anticipation of putting it together. Later that night, I talked with Johnny and he agreed to work on a web design for me. While advising me that I should go on a few more talk shows to get free publicity for the web site, Johnny also came up with the name: TheAncestors.com
ARRIVING HOME TO THE TEMPERATE climate of San Diego is always a welcome respite, especially after being soaked by the hot summer humidity back east. As I pulled into the driveway of my split-level home that evening, I looked forward to finally sleeping in my own bed. I definitely needed a good night’s sleep because the next day would be devoted to trying to straighten out a letter I had received a few weeks ago from my friends at the IRS.
Sitting at my coffee table cluttered with documents the next afternoon, I gave in and decided to call my former accountant. After dialing his number, I heard a familiar voice on the other end.
“Hey, stop dialing,” she yelled.
“Vanessa? Were you just calling me?”
“Yes,” she said laughing. “I heard you punching the numbers. Are you still on the road?”
“No. I’m finally home for a while. I’m gonna take a break from the talk show circuit.”
“I’ve had so many people asking me if I saw this show and that, but I only saw the tail end of the 20/20 one because it was on late at night. So what’s it like to be famous?”
“It’s pretty weird to have people recognize you on the streets. Most of the time people stop and stare because they’re not sure if it’s me. But those that approach me are pretty respectable. I’d love to stop and talk to everyone, but I’d never get anything done if I did.”
“I’m sure.”
“So, how’s everything with you, Vanessa?”
“Insanely busy. This latest case we’ve been working on is really wearing me out.”
“What is it?” I said, not sure I really wanted to know.
“An eight-year-old girl was kidnapped and we suspect her mom’s exboyfriend. It’s totally heart wrenching because the girl has been missing for over two weeks. At least we’ve had some good leads in the past few days.”
“I honestly don’t know how you do your job.”
“Cases like this are pretty brutal. The toughest part for me is when I start to wonder if I’m even making a difference at all.”
“That’s rough.”
“Anyway, how have you been? I haven’t talked with you in a couple of months.”
“I’ve been a little busy myself. I just got back into my house last night, so I’m trying to get things back in order around here. I have all this money now, but I don’t even have time to spend it. At least I’m gonna pick up a new Toyota Tacoma tomorrow morning.”
“Good for you.”
“Yeah, I got burned out doing the talk show circuit pretty quick, but my agent said the publicity generated even more interest for a feature film. I’m also starting up a new webzine.”
“Well, I hope being so busy is the real reason you haven’t called me in a while. I’ve wondered if my faith has made things weird between us.”
Settling back against the couch, I rubbed my neck because she had pinpointed exactly why I had not wanted to talk.
“Yeah, well…” I paused. “Our views obviously clash. I mean, you’ll always be my sister, but you can’t try to sway me from what I’ve seen and experienced for myself.”
“Zach, I’m really sorry. Well, sort of. I want you to know that I will always have your back and nothing will ever change that. I just don’t want our difference in beliefs to drive a wedge between us. So I promise that from now on, I’ll only bring up my faith when you ask me about it.”
“Thanks.”
“So, you wanna get together next Sunday for lunch?”
“Yeah, sounds good,” I said.
“I’ll be out of church by noon. Why don’t I meet you at Ripley’s downtown at twelve-thirty?”
“Twelve-thirty it is.”
I was glad Vanessa had made the effort to call because she forced me to be straightforward about why I had been avoiding her. Now that we had cleared the air, I hoped she would keep the pledge not to bring up her outdated creed because I really did miss hanging out with her.
CHAPTER 12
Early Saturday morning, I went out to retrieve my mail and found the neighborhood dead quiet. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a white cargo van I had never seen before parked about half a block down the street. Shoving the advertisements back in the mailbox, I glared at the vehicle and instinctively knew that this was a surveillance vehicle.
With no real plan of action, I slammed the metal door shut and marched down to where the van sat, hoping to discover who was watching me and ultimately expose them. Approaching the driver’s side, I immediately noticed the black curtains separating the cab from the back of the van. I went around to the back, but the heavily tinted windows only allowed me to see my own reflection. I impulsively tried to jerk open the back door. When it didn’t budge, I yanked several more times, somehow expecting it to open with the next tug. I pounded on the door before slapping my palms onto the side of the van.
“Come out here!”
“Zach! What are you doing?” My neighbor barked as he charged toward me, wearing a bathrobe and slippers.
“I’m letting these guys know that I’m on to them,” I yelled before banging even more furiously.
“Zach, stop beating on my son’s van,” he said, now standing face to face with teeth clenched.
I froze before turning slowly to face him. “Then, uh, why are these curtains drawn?”
“He has expensive camera equipment he sometimes keeps in there. Why don’t you ask before you just come over here, waking us all up,” he whispered angrily.
“Sorry, Matt,” I said turning my eyes to the ground a
nd I began lumbering back up to my house.
I almost turned around to tell him how someone recently had been in my house going through my things, but when several other neighbors came out to gawk at me, I just picked up my pace to get back inside. Right then I decided to call a realtor friend and put my house on the market.
THE OUTSIDE PARKING LOT LIGHTS fluttered before finally coming on as I left the nearly vacant office supply store at dusk. While fumbling with my car keys, I heard the gentle click of a car door shutting, followed by footsteps shuffling right behind me. Battling the urge to glance over my shoulder, I didn’t want to fall prey to having another paranoia attack like the other day when I “spazzed” out in front of my neighbors. As I drew near my truck, the pace of the footsteps quickened, and I spun around. Stopping only about six feet behind me, a young, petite, Latina woman stood wide-eyed and holding her breath. One glance and I instantly knew she wasn’t a threat so I turned back toward my truck.
“Excuse me, are you Zach Miller?”
I slowly turned back toward the bashful voice.
“Do I know you?”
“No. I’m sorry. I just thought I recognized you from the news. You are Zach Miller, aren’t you?” she said revealing a beautiful smile.
“Yes, I am.”
“I enjoyed watching you talk about the aliens,” she said putting both hands casually in the back pockets of her denim jeans.
“So, you believe what you hear?”
“Oh, definitely. It makes total sense to me. Do you plan to write any more articles soon?”
“Well, I’m working on developing some projects right now. You can Google my website in about a week.”
“I can’t wait to check it out.”
“Well… I need to load this stuff up and get going. Nice to meet you…”
“Gina Martinez,” she said offering her hand. Looking directly at me with her soft, brown eyes made it difficult to look away.
“Zach Miller,” I stammered and then laughed. “Well, you already guessed that.”
“Hey, um, well, this is kind of awkward for me, but I was thinking, if you’re not too busy sometime, maybe we could have a cup of coffee.”
“Well… uh,” I muttered.
“I’m sorry. I know your schedule is probably so hectic, and everything.”
“Don’t be sorry. I’m pretty busy, but we can still try to get together sometime.”
“Where do you live?” she asked.
“Near Mission Valley.”
“I live near San Diego State.”
“You go to school there?”
“I do. I’m actually planning on starting my master’s thesis this month.”
“Oh, really? That’s great.” Gorgeous and intelligent. Win, win. I thought to myself.
“Here, let me give you my number,” she said, pulling an envelope from her purse and tearing it in half.
“I’ll try to give you a call,” I said, putting the number in my back pocket and trying not to act overly interested. While she seemed to be cautiously flirting with me, I hoped I wasn’t getting the wrong message.
As I drove home, I could not get Gina’s endearing smile and beautiful eyes out of my head. It had been at least a year since I had been on a date, but I didn’t remember being this excited about a woman since my college days. Feeling somewhat foolish about my schoolboy crush, I pondered if a relationship with a woman ten years my junior was really plausible. I also had to wonder whether I had simply imagined the attraction and if she merely wanted to hang out with a celebrity journalist.
It took all but three days before I called Gina and we agreed to meet for dinner at a Mexican cafe on the south side of town.
After greeting her in the parking lot, we walked together into the old, white brick building with a red clay tile roof. Since the cafe was located off the beaten path, I hoped I would go unrecognized, staving off any unwanted interruptions and allowing me the chance to get to know Gina more. Looking to get away from the blaring horns of the mariachi band that played on the patio, we headed toward the back until we found a quiet booth in the corner.
Gina talked to our waitress in perfect Spanish, which made sense when I learned that her parents were originally from Mexico City before relocating to Phoenix. Moving here four years ago to escape the Arizona heat, Gina had recently graduated with a double major in linguistics and behavioral studies. She laughed as she thought how possessing those two degrees could only lead to a job teaching the same subjects.
As our waitress brought us each a beer and a basket of freshly made tortilla chips with salsa, Gina asked, “So, how’s a good-looking, successful writer like you not married?”
“Ha. Well, I’ve been married to the job for a long time. But I think even workaholics hope that one day Miss Right will come along.”
She grabbed her beer and said, “Let’s toast: Here’s to finding Miss Right.”
“Cheers,” I said and tapped her beer bottle.
After telling me a little bit about her four brothers, Gina asked, “What about your family? Do they live around here?”
“My sister does. She only lives about a ten minute drive from here.”
“What about your parents?’
“They both passed away.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“That’s okay. I feel fortunate to at least have very fond memories of both of them. My mom is the one who encouraged me to become a writer. She always enjoyed my storytelling and told me I had been given a real talent. We lost her to cancer my senior year in college.”
“When did your dad die?”
“I was thirteen. He got killed in a high speed chase by a drunk driver.”
“Was he a police officer?”
“Yeah, he was. I always wanted to become a cop until that day. It’s kinda ironic that my sister ended up following his footsteps.”
“Your sister’s a cop?”
“Actually made detective about a year ago. My dad would have been proud of her.”
“I’m sure your dad would have been proud of you, too, Zach. Hey, I need to run to the rest room. Don’t eat my food if it gets here before me.”
As I stared at my half-empty beer, photos of my dad’s wrecked patrol vehicle flashed through my head. My finger nails dug underneath the label of the bottle, scraping it off piece by piece as those thoughts led to images of my recent car accident. For the last couple of months I had tried to rationalize and even minimize my crash by claiming it was a result of being too tired. A surge of remorse came over me, forcing me to concede that I was indeed guilty of the same crime that took my dad’s life. Ashamed of my actions, I swore right then that I would never drive again after drinking.
When Gina came back to the table, I faked a smile, but she saw right through it.
“Hey, are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said, rubbing my now clammy hands across my jeans beneath the table.
Wanting to divert my thoughts, I quickly asked, “Hey, do you like sports?”
“Well, I know this is blasphemous since I am Mexican, but I absolutely hate soccer and boxing.”
“Seriously?” I said, chuckling.
“Yeah, I know. I don’t really like watching sports. I’d rather be outside riding my bike or hiking.”
“I know what you mean, but I’ve been so busy lately. I need to make more time to get outside and enjoy this place.”
Our waitress brought out two steamy plates and set them in front of us.
“You know this restaurant claims to have coined the phrase ‘Holy Mole’,” I said.
“Come on,” she scoffed.
“Okay, I know that sounds corny, but try it.”
Sampling her enchilada, Gina nodded before wiping her mouth with a napkin. “I stand corrected. This is the by far the best mole sauce I’ve had since I left home.”
The huge servings proved more than enough so skipping desert was an easy choice. After I paid the bill, Gina asked me to follow he
r to Sunset Cliffs.
Arriving at the edge of a trail that led down to the bluffs overlooking the ocean, we strolled down to a couple boulders where we sat down to soak up the last ten minutes of the sunlight. With neither of us saying a word, we watched intently as minute by minute the edge of the world melted into a different color.
Almost completely dark now, the sandy trail contrasted enough from the brush, guiding us back to the lot. As we neared my truck, she turned around to give me a hug and thanked me for a great evening. While I didn’t tell her, Gina’s suggestion to come over to the beach had helped me forget the things that had been troubling me earlier at dinner.
As she put on her seat belt, Gina looked up at me and said, “I hope we can get together again soon.”
“Sure. I’ll definitely give you a call.”
Watching her car’s taillights fade over the hill, I started to think of something unique for our next date.
CHAPTER 13
Rocking rhythmically back and forth in my office chair, I slowly read over an email I had recently received from movie producer Barry Howard. Not only pitching me the most interesting concept on how to chronicle my encounter at the ranch, Barry was keen on the idea of having me directly involved with the creative side of the project. I had just started to email him my feedback when Johnny’s phone call interrupted me.
Talking extremely fast, he blurted out, “Hey, flip it on CNN right now. “They’re reporting on what the Vatican said about your story.”
“This should be interesting,” I said, turning on my small television in the study.
“We now go live to Chuck Saunders, our correspondent in Italy for a report on the Pope’s comment about the topic of alien sightings, and what Catholics should believe about them.”
“Thank you, Ted. As you can see, I’m standing right outside the gates of Vatican City, where a council of church elders is gathered to discuss this alien phenomenon that is apparently permeating every country and culture around the world. Many devout Catholics have been asking their local priests questions about the sightings and what it means to their faith, so as you could guess, this gathering of church officials to bring some conclusion on the matter has been greatly anticipated around the world.” Looking down at his notes, the reporter read, “In brief, the official word from the Pope, and I quote, ‘God has sent help in many different forms over the centuries. The scriptures implore us to always welcome strangers, for by doing this some people have entertained angels without knowing it. It is clear that the aliens are fellow creations of God and that we should in no way demonize these beings’.”
