by Bird, Peggy
“Blake, watch those two over there,” Alex said. “That’s the strangest game of chess I’ve ever seen.”
He looked behind him and agreed. The gleaming crystal board and game pieces consisted of several levels. There were three conventional chess boards stacked step-like atop one another. There were also four smaller boards, each with only four squares. Each player had another pair of boards that somehow hung on still another level.
The chess players moved their pieces in a variety of strange ways. “Fascinating,” Spock said as the other scooted a pawn over a spot. Spock then deftly maneuvered one of his pieces without much thought.
A third person, also clad in the same uniform, approached the table. He sipped his coffee as he rolled on the balls of his feet, watching the game with interest.
“Any suggestions, Dr. McCoy, as to how I may get myself out of this?” He smiled up at his friend.
“Damn it Jim, I’m a doctor, not a chess player.”
Dr. McCoy stomped off, muttering to himself with what appeared to be smug satisfaction. “I always wanted to use that line.”
Mindful she still had an essay to write for JJ’s class and some questions to answer for her psychology class, Alex dug into her schoolwork. She began with history first.
“Look, love,” Blake pointed to the television hanging on the opposite wall. He sat on his side of the booth, legs kicked up and crossed on the seat, his back resting comfortably on the wall, his elbow resting on the table. “Those things on the screen do bear a faint resemblance to the werewolves who were sitting here before us. And look, they almost look like that one too.” Blake pointed at another hybrid werewolf-Bigfoot who just walked passed munching on the Onion String Theory appetizer.
“Those creatures are called Klingons,” he told her.
Alvin walked over with the lattes. “Look at all these characters,” he said.
“So everyone at the café is really a character from the television show?” Alex asked as she took several pens out of her backpack.
“Yeah, they are.” A Spock character walked up to Alvin, separated his fingers with two on either side and greeted him, “Live long and prosper.” Alvin returned the sign and the greeting.
“Gotta go,” he said. “You want your usual Fission Chips, Blake?” He readily assented.
“Could I have a cup of your Primordial Soup and half a Chicken Time Warp Wrap?” Alex asked.
Alvin walked off, leaving Blake with a curious look on his face.
“So all these people in here today are misplaced characters from the TV series?” Blake asked. “Love, we’ve found our kindred spirits.”
Alex’s thinking perfectly aligned itself with Blake’s. “All of these characters are trying to get home, just like us.”
She jumped up and rushed over to the table where Kirk and Spock were playing chess. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” she asked. “Are you trying to get back to your world, too?” The three layers of the glass chessboards shimmered. Kirk had just made a move. “Fascinating,” Spock commented. “But not good enough, Jim.” Spock then moved another chess piece; Alex noticed it was a horse.
“Excuse me,” she tried again. “I understand you’re misplaced television characters who are trying to find a way back to your series. Is that true?”
The character dressed as Kirk dropped the bishop he was about to move from the centerboard. “Did I hear you right?
“Listen, lady.” Kirk said. “This was the only costume left in my size on short notice at the party shop. I don’t really know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, you can tell me,” Alex said. “I’m from a romance novel and I’m trying to get back to the pages of my book.”
“Fascinating,” Spock said. “But highly illogical.”
Alex returned to the booth. Blake noticed she was looking a little dejected. “Nobody’s talking.”
“Can’t blame them, love. After all, it is a pretty personal situation. We certainly haven’t told anyone.”
Blake stared at the television again, absentmindedly sipping his coffee and eating his Fission Chips. He watched as Captain Kirk, standing on a barren planet, pushed his communicator open and said, “Scotty, beam me up!” Kirk slowly disappeared from where he had been standing. The next scene showed him reappearing — particle-by-particle — onboard the spacecraft, The Enterprise, where Lieutenant Commander Scott greeted him.
“That’s it! That’s the answer, love,” he said. He shook Alex’s arm to get her attention. “It’s sure to work.”
“Come on, we’ve got a de-particlizer to operate!” He grabbed her by the arm and headed for the kitchen. Peeking his head in, he saw all of the employees were at the stainless steel table filling orders. As luck would have it, the de-particlizer wasn’t in use.
He brought his head back into the hallway and explained exactly what he planned to do. “Then very quietly, when I have the de-particlizer right above our heads, we say, ‘Beam me home, Scotty!’ It’s got to work. It never fails Captain Kirk. I’m sure it’s our ticket home.”
Alex’s cheeks turned bright red. She bounced up and down, holding Blake’s hand. “Let’s do it! I can’t wait to get home.”
Blake placed his finger to his lips, and they scooted themselves up to the door and into the kitchen. Blake kept a careful watch at the activities on the prep table. He just wanted one chance to use the de-particlizer; he was sure that it would get them home.
He lifted the gun, held it up above the two of them and in a barely audible voice said, “Beam us home, Scotty!” Blake then pulled the trigger. Not only did they not get home, they couldn’t even feel it working.
Hair waving frantically, Blake again indicated for Alex to be very quiet. “Let’s try it again. Maybe the trigger just jammed,” he said.
Again he held the gun above them. “On the count of three,” he directed. “One … two … three … Beam us home, Scotty!” Again nothing happened — at least in the way of getting de-particlized. But Alvin caught them in mid-de-particlization and bolted from the prep table.
“What do you think you’re doing? This is a very sensitive scientific piece of equipment. You can’t just play with it.” He grabbed the gun from Blake. “What in the world were you trying to do!”
“Just trying to get home.” Alex kicked the leg of the table and ran out. Pushing her way through the throng of Star Trek characters, she got back to their booth. Impetuously she shoved her belongings into the backpack.
By the time Blake returned to the booth, Alex was fleeing out the door, backpack still open, books threatening to fall out. He raced to catch up with her, bouncing off nearly a dozen Captain Kirks and twice that many Klingons.
Once outside, he sidled up next to her. Taking the sack from her, he closed it the rest of the way and swung it over his shoulder. “Darling, I’m so sorry that didn’t work. I thought it was a sure deal, love.”
Alex stopped and looked into his deep chocolate-brown eyes. They were sincerely sad. Tears streamed down her face. “It’s not your fault, honey. I’m just so frustrated. All I want is to get back to the pages of our story already. Is that really too much to ask for? And that really did sound like a guaranteed way.”
He wrapped his arm around her small waist. She took a deep breath, whimpered, moved in a little closer to him, and placed her head on his shoulder. “Thank you for trying. Let’s just go to JJ’s now. I could use some time away from all those creatures and mutants. I want to lock myself in the bedroom and have a good cry!”
Chapter 37
“Earthquake!” Blake bolted from the booth at the café, and stood in the aisle alerting everyone. “That shaking — it’s an earthquake!” Then he dove headfirst under the booth, pulling Alex with him.
The rumbling, at first, was distant, yet distinct, then built quickly to a crescendo, then became so loud it was difficult to talk over it. An electric buzz of subdued conversation filled the café as everyone debated the cause.
Then abruptly the noi
sy vibration ended. Alex felt the hair on the back of her neck raise. She waited for the tornado to hit. But it didn’t.
“Look at that!” A customer beckoned. Every muscle in Alex’s body tightened.
“I’ve never seen so many motorcycles in my life!”
Within seconds every customer pressed close to the ceiling-to-floor windows to get a look at the scene on the street.
Blake was still huddled under the booth. Now on his hands and knees, he slowly poked his head out, carefully scrutinizing the coffee shop for tornado damage. Alex offered him a hand to help him up. He accepted and carefully crawled from under the booth.
Seeing that nearly every person in the café was gawking out of the windows, he dusted himself off and darted to join them. Alex followed, albeit at a slower pace. He leaned against the far wall, adjacent to the window. She tucked herself in snugly in front of him. He protectively wrapped his arms around her waist; she responded by clasping her hands on his wrists.
Indeed, every parking spot held at least one motorcycle. Many of the cycles shared a spot with another.
“Those aren’t just motorcycles,” said another customer, “those beauties are all Harleys. Sweet!”
Then as if on some invisible cue, the bikers dismounted. By this time, even Alvin had abandoned his post at the register to observe the commotion.
A sea of black leather flooded the sidewalk. Tight-fitting chaps, leather vests, black Harley-Davidson Tshirts. Then, in what appeared to be a well-rehearsed synchronized motion, the group pulled off their helmets.
“Ooh!”
“Wow!”
“Oh my goodness.”
Disbelief and shock bubbled through the customers as everyone caught their first glimpse of the faces of the motorcycle gang. White hair. White beards. White mustaches. The black contrasted sharply with the white. A few women were in the group, but most of them were gray-haired as well.
“They’re senior citizens,” ventured a student. “Do you think there’s one of them who’s younger than sixty-five?”
“They’re too old to be riding those things,” said a coed in a cheerleader outfit.
“What a waste of a good machine,” said another person.
The sea of black leather and white hair began to swirl, like eddies on an ocean, forming small groups, greeting each other, mingling, exchanging handshakes and high fives.
After several minutes, the eddies coalesced into a tide and headed straight for the café’s door.
“Oh my! Oh my! They’re coming in here!” Immediately the gaping customers ran back to their seats. The shop bristled with the sound of papers rustling, books closing, and backpacks zipping. Most of them wanted out — as quickly as possible. Alex and Blake sat down, watching in fascination as the overage “gang” strode into the shop. Alvin hastily returned to the counter, barely beating the first of the group to the register.
“Fascinating phenomenon.” Blake couldn’t take his eyes off the new visitors as some lined up to place orders, while a few chose their seats.
Slowly, as orders were filled, the cascade of bikers filtered throughout the café, joining others at tables already claimed or looking for available, booths, tables, or counter spaces.
Finally with every space filled, one couple seemed to have lost the game of musical chairs. They wandered past Blake and Alex’s booth carrying drinks and the order-number placard.
“Excuse me, sir,” Blake said as they passed. “You’re more than welcome to join us if you’d like.” Alex passed her boyfriend a questioning glance. He nodded confidently in return.
The gentleman had a shock of white hair, giving the impression he was at least in his sixties. But his eyes shone a brilliant steel blue and his face, nearly wrinkle-free except for a few laugh lines around his eyes, made it nearly impossible to judge his age. He nodded in reply and then deferred to his female companion.
His companion, who was much younger, was dressed in clunky Harley-Davidson black boots, snug black leather pants, a tight V-neck Harley “Ride Free or Die” shirt, and a leather jacket. Alex thought she looked like a biker chick. Of course, she wasn’t quite sure she knew what one looked like, having never encountered one before. She did wonder, though, if this female had been poured into that biker-chick outfit, sighing as she admitted she looked molten-lava hot. The fictional heroine darted her eye in Blake’s direction to assess his reaction. Wide-eyed, he stared open-mouthed. Was he actually drooling? The amply endowed female had her hands shoved in the pockets of the jacket. Waving the jacket open and closed, she said, “I’d love to.”
The man slid in next to Blake, placing his order number on the table and set the woman’s drink near her. The woman took Alex’s side of the booth.
“Garrett,” the biker announced. “Garrett Shepherd. This is Rain.” Garrett shook hands with Blake while Alex and Rain did the same.
“What an interesting name, Rain,” Alex said.
“It’s actually an acronym for all my names.” She shrugged off her leather jacket and let it fall between her and the booth. “It stands for Renee April Indigo Nevada.”
“Oh, uhm … different,” Blake commented. Alex gently kicked his leg.
“I love it,” she said, sipping on her quark–flavored proton smoothie, a blend of kiwi and strawberry.
“Yeah, my parents were fascinated with the hippie side of life, even though they were a little young and missed that whole scene by quite a few years. You might describe them as free spirits. So they gave me a unique-sounding group of names. I turned it into Rain.”
“Sounds like you might enjoy that free spirit attitude yourself,” Blake said.
“Rain and I are headed for Sturgis for the Harley Rally,” Garret said.
“Wow! Bike Week in Sturgis, South Dakota! I hear that event is amazing,” Blake said.
Alex wondered what it would be like to get on a motorcycle with the love of her life and just take off to … well anyplace. The wind in their hair. The breeze slapping their cheeks. The bugs splattering their faces. She’d have to think about that road trip more.
“Oh, no! Not South Dakota. We’re a group of professional businessmen — CEOs, CFOs, bank presidents, upper–level management. We can’t take the time off from work to ride all the way out to South Dakota.” He paused and took a sip of his Milky Way Galaxy Cappuccino. “Heck, at our ages, I don’t think we’d even survive the trip.”
“But you said you were going to Sturgis.” Alex’s curiosity piqued.
“Sturgis, Indiana,” Rain jumped in. “It’s a lot closer and they do a great job of holding a mini-rally for bikers. It’s really lots of fun — without that excruciatingly long trip!”
“Five B. Five B, please.”
“That’s our food. I’ll be right back.” Garrett headed toward the counter.
“You two make such a cute couple,” Alex told Rain, cupping her hands around her drink.
Rain placed her hand on Alex’s forearm. “Oh, no! We’re not a couple in that sense.” She released her hand and angled her body so it was more favorable to a one-on-one conversation. “I’m traveling with Garrett and the group as part of a sociology study I’m conducting. I’ve been fascinated by this group for the longest time. Then I finally received a chance to study them. I’m documenting this event as part of the research for my dissertation.”
“Something like Jane Goodall and the chimpanzees,” Blake said. Alex kicked his legs again, this time not so lightly. “Blake!”
“Ouch!” He reached down and rubbed his leg.
“That’s okay,” Rain said, her eyes dancing as she looked at Alex. “You’d be amazed how often I’m told that!”
“Darn! I’m not original.”
Garrett returned with their food. He gave Rain the Chernobyl Chicken Meltdown with a side of Onion String Theory, and he placed the Schrödinger’s Steak in front of his seat. “I’ve seen steak served in all types of ways, but never under a box like this before. Are they trying to hide something?”
<
br /> “This box represents the physics thought experiment of Schrodinger’s in which a cat was enclosed in a box. How did you order you steak?” he asked, placing his palm on the box.
“Medium well.”
“The cat was in there with a radioactive substance. According to quantum theory, the cat is both alive and dead. But what state the cat is ultimately in depends on the consciousness of the observer.”
“Okay? But how does that relate to my steak?”
“Whether the cook prepared it medium well or not depends on your consciousness. When you open it, the probability is that it could be done any number of ways.”
Garrett gave him a blank stare. “You mean my steak might not be medium well?”
“In all probability — no pun intended — it is. But, if by some chance, it isn’t done as you wanted, it’s the café’s disclaimer.” Blake paused and took a sip from his cup as Garrett stared at his plate. “Not to worry, they’ll make you another steak if your consciousness sees anything but how you ordered it.”
“Go, ahead, Garrett,” Rain said, placing her hand on the box. “We’ll send an intention out into the Universe so your steak is medium well.”
Garrett laughed, took a deep breath and then lifted the box, placing it to the side. He cut into it, examining the state. “Ah! Just the right hint of pink. Medium well.”
But the biker stared at his plate. “What’s up with these mashed potatoes? They’re shaped a little strange.”
Alex giggled. “Those are called Devil’s Tower potatoes. From the movie Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Richard Dreyfuss sculpted his mashed potatoes to look like that.” Garrett just shook his head, as he picked up his fork.
“So what’s your story?” Rain asked Alex, before taking a bite of her Meltdown.
“Love’s Surprise.” Alex said spontaneously, providing her with the title of the book they had bounded out of.
“I beg your pardon.”
“What she means is you’d be surprised by it,” Blake said hastily. “We’re originally from Kansas, but staying with a cousin of Alex’s while we … work on our degrees. We’ve only recently enrolled at UNO. After we graduate, we’ll probably go back home to Kansas.”
