Fog Bastards 1 Intention

by Bill Robinson

  The black volcanic soil is wet and should be cool beneath my feet, but it isn't. I'm barefoot, or rather he's barefoot, but what should be cool, squishy not quite mud in my toes is just wet dirt. I have a huge advantage in life over him.

  To him, the temperature is always cool. Flying across LA on a warm summer night, the temperature is cool. Flying supersonic and heating my clothes (sorry, his clothes) to the point they burn, feels cool (temperature wise). Climb to 35,000 feet, where the instruments on my 757 would say the outside air temp is minus 40 degrees, and the temperature is cool. Only Pele can make him feel anything else. A few inches from fresh lava, and the temperature changes to "warm." We haven't touched the lava to see if it burns, because I'm not that stupid. The light wants me to, but I resist.

  If it were me out tonight, I would enjoy the feel of the dirt, cool and wet and squishy in my feet. I never used to like cold, but now I do. I languish in the hot summer sun on the beach, I enjoy the cooler fall breezes. He has made me more human. Or just more aware of the good parts of being human. Go figure.

  I pad along as quietly as I can over the soft dirt. There are trees and big frondy palmy bushy things in the backyards, and no fences beyond the one on the road. Hawaiians keeping the haoles away, but not fencing their neighbors out.

  There are two shapes laying on the ground on a outcropping of lava rock overlooking the road where I run. I go higher, closer to the houses, their lights off and occupants thankfully asleep. When I get directly above the two, I stay low, keeping a particularly solid bush between me and them, and descend toward the road.

  I can hear them from about 25 feet away, and settle in 15 feet behind them, in a cluster of bushes and a palm tree. It's two kids, look to be high school age, dressed in t shirts and shorts, lying facing the road, a backpack in between them.

  "Bra," one of them says (in Hawaiian, that's your friend, not something a woman wears), can't you get that thing set up? He'll be here any second."

  I get "he." "He" has to be him, er, me, er, you know.

  "We're only going to get one shot, he's too fast for another try. I don't want to have to wait two more Fridays to try again." They know my schedule. This is bad.

  Some light comes from one of them, not inner light mind you, but a human thing generating light. It takes me two seconds to realize they have a video camera, and just popped the LCD screen on. If I had not been properly warned, I'd be on the Internet by morning.

  I decide to play a trick on them that they will never know about. Does that make it not a trick? Anyway, there are lots of molecules in the soft dirt, I play with them for an instant, and gently push off. The two kids are looking for the world's fastest man to run by, while he is flying away a few yards behind them.

  Staying low, just at tree level, I get back to the Kamehameha III road, make a beautiful three point (two feet and my ass) landing on a piece of ground that gives way as I swoop oh so not gracefully onto it.

  Not waiting for the light to change, I cross on the red and head back down the hill. It occurs to me as I do that I might be on their fucking camera now, but at human speed. I should have gone sideways and crossed further down the street, or something. Fuck me. At least it's dark out and they are a fair piece down the road.

  There is a scenic overlook part way down the hill. I stop at it and spend the next hour or so sitting on the rock wall, letting my feet dangle over the side, watching the ocean move in the darkness a mile below, the lights of Kona town reflecting off its surface, wondering why I'm so stupid.

  Not getting any answer, I trot the rest of the way back to the hotel and stand on the balcony of my room until dawn, not thinking about anything.

  I go for a real run this morning, as me, heading up to the KTA in Keauhou to buy an orange juice and then back to the hotel. I pass a flight attendant on the way back, and happily exchange a "hey." It's nice to be recognized.

  The flight back is uneventful, as they mostly are. Captain Amos gives me five hours of crap over my golf game, and I promise to have my dad spend some time with me working on my swing.

  Jen's waiting for me when the shuttle bus arrives back at our parking lot. She hasn't done that in two months. I hop in the passenger side of her car, and give her a kiss with all the feeling I can muster.

  "I'm glad you're here," I say and mean it. Then I say something I never thought I'd say. "Whatever it takes to fix it between us, I am willing to do."

  She says nothing, but heads down to the 105 and then south, exiting toward my place not hers. We get there, get into the elevator, spend 10 floors making out, get naked and get our groove on, and she never says anything other than the "f" word while I've got my head between her legs. I get to drift off to sleep wrapped around her for the first time in two weeks.

  Tonight's fog is neither cat nor mongoose nor any other animal I can identify. Whether it's some new trick or just a treat I'm not sure. It looks and feels like real fog, stationary, cold, wet. There's actually a light out tonight as well, or even a set of them, tracing the path in front of me. It looks like London in a Jack the Ripper movie, though only the grass is evil in this flick. I hear the boots, and then see Fog Dude. The fog doesn't even part for him, it's playing the role of real fog nicely.

  The gentle, grandfatherly voice is gone, tonight he has an edge, three months of patience perhaps evaporating or exasperating into the voice that your dad would use to call you into the house when you were in big trouble. He looks up, knowing that the ball is going to drop, and it isn't New Year's Eve.

  "Dumbass. It's not you learning from the light, it's you AND the light. Trust it." He winces and is gone.

  Dumbass. My father says that. Learned it from his father. Probably learned it from his father. Family tradition. My kids are going to say Frak. It's our new family word. The fog dude got my attention. Trust the frakking light? Wasn't I already doing that? Apparently not.

  Jen is awake and throwing Halloween's ball. Jen, the woman who won't let a dog lick her has grabbed a ball covered with cat spit. I give her my best WTF look. She laughs, kisses me good and hard, sticks her head under the covers, and makes me forget the question.

  I get up to go running. She finally speaks, "I talked to your mom. We're expected for dinner at 4."

  Maybe I've stumbled across a time machine, and it's three months ago. I don't understand it, but I'm also smart enough to not ask any questions. Another kiss is in order, and then I do my three miles. When I get back, she makes me drive my sweaty ass with her over to the gym and do weights. We shower, go shopping, then it's off to my mom's. She drops me off after at dispatch, and I head home alone in Starbuck, still somewhat confused, but not unhappy.

  I'm not giving Fog Dude a chance tonight, I'm going to try to understand why I'm a dumbass. Trust the light. Use the Force. Search your feelings. Run for the border. I sit cross legged on the floor in the dark, naked.

  Breathe. Listen. Find the hand and grab the light. No word right away, I play with the light. I'm five and my parents have given me that green goopy stuff, hard to hold on to, nothing worthwhile to do with once you can. The fun is the trying to hold it. Nothing. The light does what I tell it.

  "Dumbass." Yes, it is a word with intention, my body fills with warmth, love even. I try to harness the experience, but it's there, unbelievably wonderful, and then gone as it always is. I am him. He is not me. The hand is still there, but the light isn't. I rummage around inside of myself, seeing if there is something I can grab on to. Nothing. The light is there, somewhere, but it's hiding. Doesn't want me to squeeze so soon probably.

  I put my underwear things on, and my Hawaiian swim trunks and t shirt, check that no one is in the hall, leave, and run out of the building. I head toward the light house, it's only 10 and lots of people are still around. So it's back to the garage, hop into Starbuck, adjust the seat for my temporarily lankier frame, and head off for my primary hiding place, the open 24 hour grocery store on Santa Monica with no cameras. You can park, walk in the front door,
head for the public restroom which is too disgusting to use, but is down a short hallway that ends in a door without alarms that dumps you into the alley. Perfect.

  Plenty of molecules doing nothing back there, though I have no desire to understand their chemical composition. I have to wash their remnants off my feet when I get back, and I've seen what the paper towels look like.

  A nice strong push, and I'm headed downtown which is, unfortunately for it, my obstacle course. I stay high enough to avoid the few tall buildings on the way, but low enough to stay off the air traffic control radar. The reflection off my shorts and t aren't too bad, but it does not hurt to be careful, especially after Hawaii. If you wonder why I have not bought shoes in my new larger size, it's precisely because I cannot determine the strength of their radar return, and Nike doesn't measure the radar signature of its shoes on its website either (what I need are a pair of Nike Stealth's that actually are).

  The light won't shut up. Not that it actually talks, but it has left wherever it was hiding and is now egging me on to do something. The question is what?

  My feet pull on some of the nearby molecules, and I slow to a nice gentle speed. I try something I have never tried before. I close my eyes and listen to myself breathe. Not a dangerous thing for me, but every building and window in a 100 mile radius has just called it's insurance agent to make sure it's covered against acts of dumbasses.

  I don't reach for the hand, I don't do anything except try to be part of the sky and breathe in, breathe out. The light sneaks out, stands on my forecastle, spreads it's arms and yells it's the king of the world, or something to that effect. Without opening my eyes I push hard against the air molecules, and accelerate to at least a couple hundred knots.

  Hard right turn. Don't know why, but I do know how. Climb. Bank. (And I don't mean I'm about to fly into one). Open my eyes, and I have navigated through downtown without even looking. I do a loop. Hard vertical, over on my back, and accelerate slightly downward and back toward the buildings. The feeling of being watched is upon me. I hope Fog Dude is pleased. Actually, I want to hurt him for not calling me a dumbass sooner.

  But I don't care. In, out and around. I have control. I have velocity. I can grab a quarter off the roof of Bank of California and deposit it at Bank of America tower without slowing down.

  More molecules bite the dust and I am headed at high speed into the desert toward my Twin Towers. I buzz them, near to the speed of sound, follow my track back across the mountains. Zoom by Magic Mountain with a quick raspberry aimed at the Superman ride. North, feeling like I actually could go to Alaska, across the Valley, out into the ocean, and back down to Santa Monica.

  Not wanting to stop, I blast back toward downtown and settle in on top of BofA. The light thinks something fun is coming, and before it can complain or hide, I grab it and squeeze. I am me. Then, instead of putting it away, I start again. "Dumbass" works, so full of intention this time I can feel it. The spreading power is so strong I nearly explode, and I do mean in a sexual way.

  Bare feet sacrifice bare molecules, and I am playing tag across the tops of buildings until it's time to go. I twist toward the coast and push, not really caring exactly where I end up. I'm over Laguna when I reach the water, drop to a few feet over the surface and push hard northward. Doesn't take long and I see the pier and Santa Monica Boulevard. Quick zip inland, and I am standing in filth behind Ralph's (in California that's a grocery store, not some loser's house).

  I can't turn back into me, my clothes are too big, but I pause to use the most disgusting restroom I know for it's intended purpose. I hadn't tried passing water through the salami, but I find it works normally. I was concerned that the stream might be fast enough to shatter the ancient relic that serves as a urinal and that would take some splaining to the manager. "I didn't get super cold breathe, but I did get super strong urine." Wouldn't have surprised me, but no such luck.

  I walk back out to Starbuck, start him up, when I am accosted by a storm of red flashing lights on both sides. My inner light screams at me, "dumbass" I am sure in light language, and I quickly squeeze him down into nothing. When the three cops get to me, guns drawn, I am me, not him. When I see the guns, it occurs to me that maybe I should have stayed him.

  "Out of the car. Keep your hands where we can see them."

  I slowly open the door and step out. Four cops, the staff of Ralph's, three homeless and two customers are watching me. My pants are on the ground around my ankles. I suspect that, as a suspect for God knows what, I do look like a dumbass.

  "Turn around, put your hands on the hood."

  I comply. A large, ugly, hairy Santa Monica PD officer pats me down. He might actually have been none of the above, because I can't see him from behind, but still....

  "Show me some ID."

  I think for a second. "It's at home. I'm Simon. Simon Packer. Insomniac. Out for a late night drive in my pajamas. Had to pee."

  "Turn around."

  Three officers stare at me, one weapon drawn, two other hands on theirs. The fourth is paging through something on the laptop in a patrol car. We jointly agree that silence is the best policy. Finally, the one in the car emerges, looking a little sheepish.

  "He looks just like the picture on his driver's license, he's the right size, hair color, age, and all that. It's him." Why this bothers him is unimportant to me just now, the fact that he is right is all I am interested in.

  The one who patted me down walks around Starbuck, flashing a light into the back seat, looking for something or someone.

  "Whoever came out of the store was taller. His clothes fit. Something doesn't add up." One smart one out of four, and he had to be the one who saw me.

  He gets five inches from my face and looks me in the eye. "Do you know a Marjorie Barret?"

  "Yeah," I relax and reply, "90 year old lady who lives next door to me."

  "She reported this car stolen, described the thief as six four, black hair, exactly your pajamas down to the turtle, and exactly the man who exited Ralph's a minute ago."

  "Possible she was mistaken." I try to be helpful. I picked this spot because there are no cameras, which is not to my advantage if they decide to beat a confession out of me.

  "Can I search the trunk?" He asks, not really asking if you get my drift.

  "Search away."

  The trunk is a mess, but no six four man with black hair would even fit inside it. I'm clean, unless they planted heroin in there on purpose just so they could run me in. I've been to the movies, happens all the time. After a couple fruitless minutes, he walks back, looks me over again, puts his hand on his pistol butt, and starts to ask another question. But he stops.

  The guy would harump if he could harump, tells junior to write me up for not having my license, walks back to his car, rounds his partner up and squeals away in disgust.

  Twenty minutes later I am heading home, 10 miles per below the speed limit, a shiny new $200 ticket on my passenger seat. Fuck me, I am lucky to have it. If they had caught me with his face, I would be headed to jail right now, and short of simply busting the wall and making a break for it, I might be stuck in there for a long time.

  My plans need adjusting. I've almost been caught twice in three days. I actually know how to fly. It's time to stop practicing and do something. The question is, what?

  Chapter 7

  It's a beautiful Monday morning that I spend playing nine holes and then having lunch with three of the other junior first officers. My game is sharp, the weather is perfect, I actually win back the money I lost in Hawai'i. We go to Tommy's and have burgers for lunch, renew our bets about who makes captain first, then go our separate ways.

  Starbuck and I head for the mall in Santa Ana, stopping first at the post office to mail in my $200 to the Santa Monica PD. I hit the big department store to buy clothes. Not for me, for him. I may have neglected to mention that when I was young and stupid two months ago, I took a high speed, high damage trip to Denver where I bought two complete m
otorcycle outfits, sans helmets. Black leather boots, black leather pants, and cool black leather riding jackets with the high exaggerated collars. They are in my closet, in boxes on the floor, pretending to be old pictures and mementos.

  Now I buy some everyday wear. More of the stretchy underwear things including black tops to go with the bottoms, some polo shirts, one nice going out on a date shirt, two pairs of casual slacks, a few pairs of socks, and a pair of black casual shoes. The dressing rooms are uncameraed, so I can become him, try some things on, and go back to being me without alerting anyone. There is the briefest flash of light when I change, but only someone in the next stall would notice, and they are empty. I brought cash with me, so there are no receipts tying me to the clothes.

  My bags and I head back out to Starbuck, and we drive across Main Street to park by the Starbuck's. No cameras in this strip mall, which was my third choice for a place to park and fly, and I park near the street and away from everyone else. I take off my clothes except for my underwear.