No Trespassing

by KD Robichaux

  “Nice to meet you, Nox.” That voice. Goddamn that freaking voice. I’d recognize it anywhere. It was the voice that narrated my every dream at night, after I’d fall asleep watching reruns of No Trespassing. As much as I despised the man himself, I couldn’t help but enjoy the show. After all, Dean was living my dream. My TV rarely left The Adventure Channel, and since I always slept with the television on, turned down low as not to disturb Erin down the hall, it was no surprise that my nightly dreams were filled with my exploration fantasies, sullied only by the fact they were reported by the infuriating man standing not a yard away from me.

  My heart continued to pound as I watched the sliver I could make out of him. I had never actually been this close to him before. Some strange feeling started in my chest and made its way down to my stomach as I caught a glimpse of his purposely too-long hair, which was shaved on the sides, flop over on one side of his forehead after he ran his fingers through it. The ever-present perfect scruff along his jaw framed his flawless lips, which I knew hid a set of jaw-droppingly straight, white teeth. If I didn’t hate him so much, I’d be able to admit his smile made my heart thump every bit as much as the adventures he went on every week.

  “You’re early, Mr. Savageman,” Nox grumbled in his deep bass voice, and I heard Dean’s cocky chuckle.

  “Well, on time is late in my book, good man, so… Shall we get started?” he prompted, and I made out the sound of the other man moving toward the front door.

  “I’ve given Dean my set of keys, Nox, so after showing him down to the main chamber, you can still head home at your normal time,” the man, who I assumed was his boss, said, causing Nox to obviously react doubtfully in a way I didn’t see from my position behind the door, because the man added, “No worries, big guy. Dean assures me he’ll keep everything locked up after you leave.” I could tell Nox didn’t like this new development, as his grip suddenly turned white-knuckled on the edge of the door. “Have a good night.” And with that, the man I never got a look at went out the front door.

  You could almost cut the tension in the room with a knife. Amid the testosterone battle going on between the two men in the doorway, and the predicament Nox and I were in, keeping me hidden from sight, I seriously wanted to just say to hell with it and run screaming from the room, giving Dean a nut-check on the way out. A swiftly delivered thwap to his balls might do the trick to bring him down a few pegs from his high horse. Better yet, just as a fuck you, I could’ve run through the doorway leading down to the catacombs just so I could childishly singsong to Dean, ‘Ha-ha! I got here first!’ But alas, Nox had triple-locked that bitch up tight.

  I was startled out of the fantasy putting a devious smirk on my face when that voice filled the air once again. “I’m going to be down there for a few hours. I’ll be gone by midnight at the latest. It’s really okay just to leave. I won’t disturb anything. I just need to scout the best locations to stand while delivering my lines. We got all the information you and Christopher emailed us about the history, and then we also dug up more, no pun intended.” I could practically hear the self-satisfaction in his cheesy joke, and I rolled my eyes, even though no one could see it. Nox clearly wasn’t amused either, because Dean added, “Just a little archaeology humor. So… I guess just lead the way and I’ll be out of your hair.”

  I could feel a cold sweat break out on my forehead. What the hell were we going to do? But Nox was on top of it. The towering wall of his back became visible as he opened the door wider and gestured for Dean to enter the room. With my eyes fully alert on his every move, I caught it when the hand holding the door open sent me a signal, his pointer finger silently tapping in the direction of the opening, and just as Dean passed into the room, I slipped under Nox’s massive arm, between his hulking body and the door, behind Dean’s back.

  As the door was closing behind me, I turned back to take one last look at the one I nearly made it through not five minutes before. The one that separated me from a piece of forgotten history I had been so close to rediscovering. But instead, my eyes made contact with the obscenely beautiful blue ones filled with confusion and laughter, which belonged to a man I wanted to throttle, just as the door closed.

  I grabbed my purse and jacket from the side of the desk, surprised Nox’s boss hadn’t asked who they belonged to, chalking it up to him practically fangirling over the TV star who was currently wandering the depths of my catacombs, and stormed out of the building, not stopping until I made it to the pub. I had called Erin as I took my first shot of tequila, and she’d shown up only a few minutes later.

  It isn’t until I suddenly shiver that I snap out of my fuming and realize I’m in a tub full of now-cold water. Toeing the faucet, I put scalding water in to reheat my bath, nudging it off when it’s warmed back up.

  How had he pulled it off? How did he manage to show up at the exact moment I was about to step through that doorway? I had gotten a single whiff of that sweetly earthy scent wafting up what had to be stairs leading down into the depths of the catacombs. But now I’d never know for myself what lay beyond that wall of darkness, not until I got my camera back from Nox, and then furthermore when Dean’s episode of No Trespassing aired.

  I wonder what he’d do if someone did that to him, dangled something he wanted more than anything right in his face and then snatched it away. But no—no one would dare step on the toes of the rock star of history docs. He wouldn’t allow them to.

  So what would Dean do? He wouldn’t give a rat’s ass if it were illegal. He wouldn’t be afraid of getting caught. He’d do what he needed to do to make the discovery, to explore whatever site he felt the need to uncover. He wouldn’t let anyone or anything get in his way.

  What would Dean do?

  He’d sneak in fearlessly and brave those depths without anyone’s permission or say so.

  I sit up with a slosh, and before I have the chance to talk myself out of it, I’m up and out of the tub, drying off and throwing my clothes back on. Even though it’s hotter than Hades outside, I wrap my jacket back around my purse strap, a habit from growing up in the south, where they blast the air conditioning, even when you dress for the smoldering heat. I grab a pair of socks out of my dresser drawer and stumble around as I pull them on, having the mind to actually sit on the edge of my bed while I tug on my Converse. With remnants of the tequila fueling my courage, I grab my sequined Pink brand backpack and my tumbler full of water and try to make my way quietly down the stairs.

  Moving into the kitchen, I rummage quickly through the cabinets, grabbing handfuls of snacks. I know any minute the drunk munchies are going to start, and I don’t want anything distracting me from my adventure. With my backpack stuffed with the world’s supply of chips and Little Debbies, I reach into the fridge to grab two white Gatorades and slide them into the side pockets. I am bound and determined to sober up so I can truly take in and remember my first breaking and entering.

  I look at the time on the microwave, 11:47 p.m., and head out the door. Dean said he’d be out of there no later than midnight. By the time I get there, he’ll definitely be gone, and then I can find a way to get in. I mean, how hard could it be? They make it look so easy in the movies. A little wiggle of one of my bobby pins and I’ll be set! But as I walk, my steps hurried in my adrenaline-fueled scramble to get there, my brain starts to see through the tequila, and I wonder if I really will be able to get in.

  Maybe this is all for nothing. Say I am able to open the door. Am I really going to break into a secure building, find a way to get past that other door Nox had sealed up like Ft. Knox—I tipsily giggle to myself at that thought—and then sneak around the underground tomb by myself? Will my conscience even let me? My heart gives a thump. At least I know one thing: if I really do get down there, I will be fearless. Unaccompanied in these locations is my happy place. I don’t feel alone; I don’t feel scared or freaked out like I imagine a lot of people would. I feel free. Free to do my life’s work, to soak in every morsel of history left o
n the walls and in the air, to explore and be uninhibited, to learn the real story of the place then daydream about what could’ve happened there behind the written retelling.

  Before I realize it, lost in my thoughts, I’m suddenly in front of Pandora’s Box, the hot pink door bringing awareness of where I am. I glance around, seeing the street is abandoned this late at night. A few streets over, the never-ending party that is Bourbon Street still blares with its jazz music, breaking glass bottles, and people singing and shouting drunkenly. I take out my phone and glance at the time, seeing it’s now 12:05 a.m. Perfect. Dean will have already left by now, and with a new rush of adrenaline, I plaster myself to the front of the building, and scoot toward the unmarked door I’d exited several hours ago.

  Thirty minutes earlier…

  I GLANCE DOWN at my giant black wristwatch, seeing the glow-in-the-dark hands read 11:35 p.m. I need more time. The catacombs are much larger than expected. So many nooks and crannies to discover. With so little written history on the underground tomb, it’s no surprise the ancient hand-drawn map I was emailed is off. But this happens pretty frequently with the forgotten places I choose to take my show. I just need more time than what I had allotted myself with the glaring behemoth who didn’t leave me be for another hour after he was supposed to leave.

  I can’t concentrate and let the sites speak to me when someone is watching. That’s why I always come a day or two earlier than when we’re scheduled to shoot. It sounds corny as fuck, but I wander… wander and let the walls talk. I read the facts given to me, and then I walk through the abandoned location, letting it tell me its side of the story.

  In a weird way, I feel like they know I’m just like them. Abandoned, forgotten, left to try and survive on their own with no one to take care of them. So they feel like they can open up to me, because we share that same history.

  I lie back on the hard-packed dirt floor, link my hands together behind my head as a makeshift pillow, knees and eyes to the craggy ceiling. I guess I really shouldn’t complain. Here I am, doing what I love and making money at it. My bit of fame an added bonus. If I hadn’t been left at the orphanage within running-away distance of the abandoned coal mines I used to escape to, then who knows how my life would’ve turned out. I’ve heard so many horror stories of older kids being taken into the system, so I know I should count my lucky stars there too.

  The first and only time I ran away, I spent several hours in that mine, drifting through the tunnels and feeling at home for the first time since my mom dropped me off and hightailed it away in her beater car. It was one of the groundskeepers of the orphanage who finally found me, deep in the dark with only the little keychain flashlight I’d stolen that I found in a toy box, thinking I was gonna run away for good. I had found an opening in the ceiling of the mine, a small metal pipe allowing a pinpoint of sunlight to beam down into the cavern, and I’d laid next to it, fascinated at the tiny dust particles dancing in and out of the ray.

  Mr. Watson could’ve been a complete jerk. Here was this little brat who ran away, and he was sent to find me, keeping him from all the jobs he already had to do around the orphanage. He could’ve yanked me out of there and dragged me back, kicking and screaming. But no. He didn’t say a word. He came and sat down on the ground next to me then mimicked my position, the same pose I lie in right now, and we lay there silently, staring up at the ceiling of the mine, through that little pipe, for I don’t even know how long. When it grew dark outside, he pulled a lighter out of his pocket and lit the lantern he’d brought with him, and turned off the Maglite flashlight he’d found me with. I hadn’t bothered running. Why waste the energy scampering through mines I knew nothing about, when I knew he’d just catch me eventually?

  Finally, he’d spoken. He hadn’t scolded me for escaping. He hadn’t tried to talk me into going back with him. No, nothing like that. He started telling me the history of this abandoned coal mine, in great detail, from it’s discovery, right up until the day it closed, when he’d had to say goodbye to the job he loved, but luckily and happily found another not too far away, taking care of the massive mansion that had been turned into the boys’ home. I hung on his every word, listening to the tales he spun, the pranks he and his coworkers had pulled on each other while mining, so easy to picture as we lay there in the setting itself.

  No great tragedy had struck. Nothing newsworthy, except for the fact the mine had finally run empty and a hundred miners had lost their jobs, forcing them to move on to the next. And so the mine had been deserted… just like me. And for the first time in the four months I had been there, I cried. The man, probably around fifty years old or so, wrapped his strong arm around my eleven-year-old shoulders, lending me his infallible strength as I cried myself weak. When I ran out of tears, he stood and held out a work-roughened hand, waiting to see if I’d willingly go with him. What he said next changed my life, putting me on a course that would lead me to an unexpected but dream-discovering journey into adulthood.

  “Son, come on now. No more running away. This here wasn’t the first mine I ever worked. It ain’t the only place with history I been, neither. If ya come with me now, I got all sorts of stories I can tell ya.”

  I had looked from his calloused hand up into his kind and honest eyes, and then after wiping my face full of tears off with my T-shirt, I sniffed one last time before placing my much smaller hand in his. He’d pulled me to my feet effortlessly, slung his pack onto his back, then threw his bulky arm around my shoulders as we made our way out into the night. On our trek through the woods back to the orphanage, at my request, he told me more of the pranks he’d pulled on the other miners, and I laughed for the first time in what seemed like forever.

  That was nearly twenty years ago now, and I still remember verbatim the stories Mr. Watson told me throughout the years I spent at the boys’ home, until I turned eighteen, used the scholarship I earned to go to UPenn and get my degrees in history and archaeology, all while earning money on the side as a tour guide at their archaeology museum. It was in my last year there that I unknowingly gave a guided tour to a TV producer, who ended up offering me a job to host a documentary on the Ivy League College for The Adventure Channel. The rest, as they say, is history.

  I lie here for a few more minutes, taking in the ceiling, how in places it’s smooth and nearly perfect, but then textured and almost potholed in others. I let my mind wonder how it was shaped and molded, imagining the first men down here working, digging, if not slaving, given the century it was built and the state we’re in. Finally, I check my watch once again and see it’s five minutes ‘til midnight.

  I heave myself off the floor and decide to go above ground to get some phone reception to call Mr. Hosea. I’ll let him know I’m staying in the catacombs for a while longer, so not to freak out if he sees the security system hasn’t been activated yet. He told me he’d check at midnight from his phone app to make sure I did it right.

  I climb the stone spiral staircase twenty-five feet, until I reach the long, more modern cinderblock hallway, and then exit through the triple-locked door Nox allowed me through several hours ago. Through the empty room, then through the entry room with its lone desk… and it reminds me.

  Had I not seen her bag sitting behind the desk, the bag she’d carried every time I ran into her, the big bright red one that looks like a typewriter, I would’ve questioned if I really caught that split-second glimpse of her earlier, as the door shut on her startling green eyes. For a while, I thought she was a figment of my imagination, always showing up at nearly every obscure site I went to. Was she an apparition, a ghost I’d picked up along the way, who followed me everywhere I went? But no. It wasn’t until the show took me to Cowboys Stadium, when I got close enough to her that time to hear her grumbled, “Site-stealing dickhead,” as I made my way into the brand new football arena to shoot. I nearly stumbled, and turned back to speak to her, but she was being escorted off the premises, her long, dark ponytail swishing behind her, above her pe
rfect, also swishing ass.

  Being on a tight production schedule, and now knowing the other times I’d seen her weren’t visions of an ethereal beauty, I didn’t go after her, figuring I’d see her again. At which point, I planned to ask her who the hell she was, and why she was following me. If it weren’t for the colorful name she’d called me the last time I saw her, I would’ve been worried she was one of the crazy fangirls on my social media accounts. One wouldn’t believe what women send me in my private messages. Maybe a vag-pic did it for some men, but not me. And did they really expect me to send them a dick-pic in return as requested?

  Which made my beautiful apparition even more intriguing. I’d never experienced a woman not practically drooling at my feet at my every appearance. And not only did she not offer herself up to me on a silver platter or even try to play it cool… oh no, she’d been moderately hostile. Her unreceptiveness made my dick twitch. Then, the half a glimpse I got of her today, the near-hatred in her eyes immediately filled my cock painfully behind the zipper of my jeans. There was no faking that emotion. She wasn’t playing hard to get; she genuinely seemed to want to kick my teeth in.

  I shake myself, not wanting to think about the psychology behind me getting a raging hard-on from a girl hating me, and hurry out the front door. I pull my cell out of my jeans pocket, and unlock the screen, watching for it to switch from saying No Service in the upper left corner. It always takes it a while to sync back up after coming out from underground. I stroll along the sidewalk, listening to the distant sound of jazz music, glancing up when a street-washing truck drives by, filling the street with sudsy water that immediately runs to the sides of the concrete, then flows into the nearest storm drain. Keeps the roads clean, but does nothing for the smell that is New Orleans.