by Ken Dickson
Just then, the roar of a sports car caught his attention. He couldn’t make out the car through the glare of headlights, but recognized the unmistakable sound of the 1994 Porsche 911 Carrera. “Shit,” he muttered. He should have gotten the hell out of there, but he was more inclined to bullshit his way out of a jam than run. Besides, he knew the driver of the Carrera all too well: Bull Lemm.
The Carrera screeched to a halt feet away. Bull leapt from it and rushed toward him. Although far from innocent, he grinned sheepishly and prepared to deliver his most inventive excuse yet. He was about to begin when Bull clocked him.
“How many times do I have to fucking tell you to stay away from my cook?”
“What are you talking about?” Frank demanded, pretending not to know that he made a living cutting out the middleman and delivering crystal straight to dealers, bypassing Bull in the process. In return, he received a decent stipend from the cook himself. Only slightly dazed by Bull’s unexpected punch, he ducked just in time to miss another. There would be no talking his way out tonight. If he didn’t do something quickly, he would end up unconscious or worse. He dropped the pebbles, jumped away from Bull and assumed a fighting stance.
“You pathetic little bastard,” Bull spat and then leapt toward him. At the perfect instant, Frank swung with everything he had, intent on rendering Bull unconscious with a single, powerful blow to his jaw. His plan probably would have worked if Bull’s own fist hadn’t met his belly at precisely the wrong time. That punch hurt far worse than any Frank had ever taken, and he buckled in pain a fraction of a second before his own fist connected with Bull, landing not on his jaw, but on his neck.
Bull backed away, gagging and sputtering, his hands clawing desperately at his neck, which had transformed into something the likes of which Frank had only seen in horror movies. His eyes bulged and his head tilted this way and that as he tried in vain to breathe. As Frank watched in disbelief, he stumbled, dropped to his knees and fell straight forward onto the pavement. His body trembled and then went limp. Frank had never seen anyone die right in front of him, but he had no doubt that if Bull wasn’t already dead, he soon would be. Nothing he or anyone else could do would save him. Unintentionally, he’d crushed his Adam’s apple and windpipe.
It was only then that he looked down to where Bull had punched him. It still hurt like hell, and he now saw why: Bull’s switchblade protruded from the left side of his abdomen. Knowing that such wounds rarely resulted in death, he kept a clear head. However, leaving the knife and a trail of blood certainly would be the end of him. Bull’s boys would search nearby hospitals for a stabbing victim in no time. He kicked the cup of pebbles away, checked carefully for any other evidence and then calmly left the scene, holding his shirt tightly around the knife, still protruding from his body, to ensure that that no blood made it to the ground.
Blocks away, he sat on a curb beneath a flickering street lamp, grimacing in pain. He took a deep breath and pulled the blade straight out in one swift motion. Then, he applied pressure to the wound with his left hand to control the bleeding as he wiped the knife blade clean on his dark socks with his right. Bloodstains would be nearly impossible to see on them, but just in case, he would ditch them if he got the chance. Next, he folded the blade closed, stood, walked toward a nearby storm drain and threw it in. After that, he continued on a few more blocks before calling 9-1-1 to report being attacked and stabbed.
It seemed to take a lifetime for the ambulance to arrive. For the first time ever, he wondered if this was it, if this was what his life would amount to: a nothing, a nobody, wandering the streets taking handouts from scumbags. His tough facade melted away, and feeling like the lost little boy he truly was, he burst into tears. He’d give anything to feel the comfort of his mom’s arms holding him or hear his dad’s booming words of encouragement: “Hang in there, son. You can do it!”
When the ambulance finally arrived and a paramedic approached him, he swore that it was his father. “Dad?” he asked. A field of corn, ripe for harvest, materialized behind him: the old family farm near Clay Center, Nebraska that they lost when his father left them, forcing them to move near his mom’s family in Phoenix. Grinning broadly, his father waved to him. If only it were true. The hot-tempered father that he remembered was nothing like that. He’d sooner beat him than smile and wave at him. The cornfield faded, and his father quickly followed. Frank’s eyes rolled back, and he collapsed onto the sidewalk in a pool of his own blood.
Chapter 18
LANDOWNER
I’ve always imagined owning land: lush green fields rippling gently in a summer breeze, with swollen clouds overhead hinting of an afternoon shower, or perhaps acres of spruce on a mountainside with a pristine view of a valley below. The closest I ever came was the tenth-of-an-acre lot on which my home stands. I’d never owned land and knew nothing about finding or purchasing it, but that didn’t stop me from being the first to raise my hand for the job when it came time to find land for Primera.
For weeks, I worked alongside representatives from Engineering and Finance to find the perfect gem, but each candidate fell short: poor access, no services, improper zoning. We’d nearly reached our wits’ end when a new listing graced the “land for sale” ads on Jan 14, 2013: a thirty-five acre parcel just beyond the westernmost sub-division of Ahwatukee Foothills. It was not the land that I imagined, but the location couldn’t be beat, and city services were a stone’s throw away. We downloaded an aerial map and because I live right down the street, I would drive there to evaluate it first thing the next morning while Finance contacted the seller.
***
As I passed through the last development of the foothills, a “NO OUTLET” sign foretold the end of the road. Where pavement yielded to dirt, a stout wooden barrier with painted black and white stripes and four diamond-shaped metal placards filled with red reflectors prevented further motorized travel. I parked the car, climbed over the barrier and continued on foot. As I walked anxiously down the rutted dirt road, a sense of familiarity filled me so completely that I paused. I inhaled deeply and noticed for the first time the wonderful aroma of the desert drying from an early morning rain. I gazed eastward at the morning sun breaking through dissipating clouds and turned in all directions in search for an answer. None came. I shook it off and continued down the damp road.
Though a truck or jeep would make quick work of the distance, it was quite a trek by foot. I brought a backpack with snacks and two water bottles to be on the safe side. About halfway up a rugged, boulder-strewn road that zigzagged across the face of a hill, I took a break and retrieved one of the water bottles from my pack. Between gulps of lukewarm water, I took in the expansive view.
To the southwest, the craggy Estrella Mountains rose abruptly from the desert, the morning sun casting deep shadows behind ridges that creased their weathered face. Patches of fog lingered on the valley floor, and puffy clouds peppered the range with their shadows. To the south, untouched Gila River Indian Reservation land rolled out as far as I could see. The view was spectacular in its rugged vastness. I capped the water bottle, and as I returned it to the pack, a loud, ka-KAA-a sound startled me. Just then, a male Gambel’s quail ambled out of the roadside brush, took one look at me and skittered quickly to the other side.
As I trudged up the steep grade, I noticed a rotund chuckwalla doing pushups in the sun, a jackrabbit foraging on the hillside and a blooming brittlebush alive with small butterflies. While I watched them flit between the tiny yellow flowers, a fearsome black and red tarantula hawk wasp paid a visit, its arrival punctuated by a deep buzz nearly as loud as that of a hummingbird. I gave him a wide berth as he darted nervously about on the bush and then took flight once more.
When I crested the hill, I couldn’t help but notice a mini-van-sized rock with a dark brown patina rising from the earth on the right side of the road. Standing like a resolute guardian, its granite surface bore cracks and scars from millennia of exposure. I retrieved t
he aerial map from my pocket and consulted it. The rock marked the southeastern property line of the land. I approached it and using a foothold a few feet off the ground and a handhold near a patch of pale-green lichen, pulled myself onto it. I stood to look at the land. Oh, my God. It’s breathtaking.
The parcel fell away below me, the lowest of it a good two hundred feet beneath my vantage point. Saguaro, barrel and cholla cactus, along with creosote, palo verde, brittlebush and clumps of dry grass stretched for hundreds of yards to the foothills of the Gila Range directly ahead and for miles to the southwest and northeast where distant high voltage power lines were the only sign of man. An elongated shadow fifty feet below made me smile. I waved, and it waved back. With the shadow mimicking every move, I sat on the rock and dangled my feet over its edge.
As I appraised the land, a movement caught my eye: two dark forms moving impossibly fast across the desert terrain—shadows. I turned and, shielding my eyes from the sun nestled between billowy clouds, gazed into the sky. Two red-tailed hawks cored a broad thermal above me. Red-tailed hawks are symbolic not just of good luck, but fantastic luck. If superstition serves us well, something amazing is in store for us here.
While I savored the view, the strange feeling I’d had earlier returned—a kind of déjà vu. This time, I let it wash over me as I tried to unravel its hidden mystery. It didn’t take very long. The dirt road on which I’d first experienced that feeling was indeed familiar. In fact, I’d seen it many times. It’s the road from my dream with the sun coming through the clouds after a rain! The rutty road, the smell of the wet desert, the sun breaking through the clouds: it was the very same road at the end of my recurring dreams. Overcome by joy upon realizing this, tears filled my eyes. There was no doubt in my mind. This was Primera.
I signed the papers late that afternoon. Afterward, I called Merry, shared my unexpected synchronicity and for good measure, threw in the story of the two red-tailed hawks. As if to further drive the point home, I never had that recurring dream of the road again, nor did any of the other “dreamers” whom Merry had found.
Chapter 19
COMFORT
That evening was so cool and damp that I had to defrost the rear window before I left home. Lane markers ticked by at a rate of roughly two per second as I drove. Silhouettes of palms and saguaros planted in the median passed me silently, backlit by oncoming headlights. The turn indicator clicked mechanically in time with a blinking left turn signal as I changed lanes preparing to enter a Dairy Queen parking lot. After a few cars passed, I turned and made my way to the brightly lit drive-up display.
“Welcome to Dairy Queen. How may I help you?”
“I’ll have a small vanilla cone, please,” I replied toward the speaker.
“Anything else?”
“No, that should do it.”
“That’ll be $2.27 at the window.”
I drove to the pickup window and handed three dollars to a young woman wearing a headset. She made change, handed it to me and then turned to take the cone from another employee.
“You have a nice evening,” she said, handing me the cone and a napkin.
Originally intending to continue driving, I circled around the building and parked instead. I shut off the engine, exited the car and leaned up against it, facing the nearby street. It was deathly still. Not one leaf rustled in nearby trees. The sky was perfectly clear, but I could only discern a handful of stars. The glow of the city obscured the rest. A three-quarters moon shone fiercely above. I wondered if it was waxing or waning, not remembering how to tell the difference. Cars whooshed by with a seeming life of their own, their drivers invisible behind tinted windows: a Prius, a PT Cruiser, an Audi TT, a ’90s vintage Firebird.
As I savored the cone, I retrieved my cell phone to check for messages. There were none, not even from Beth. After the argument we’d had earlier in the evening, I wasn’t surprised.
“I found the most amazing land for Primera today.”
“That’s all you talk about anymore. Primera this, Primera that…”
“It’s a dream come true for me.”
“I know. It’s Utopia. I’m sick of it. It was bad enough having to listen to your raving when you were mentally ill, but now I’m living the real thing. The only difference is the name.”
“What I’m doing is important. Not just for me, for everyone.”
“I don’t care. I didn’t like it before, and I don’t like it now. It seems like you never recovered. Why couldn’t you just stay an engineer? You threw away a secure job with a bright future. What kind of security will Primera provide for our future?”
“This is my job now, and I have a better salary and exceptional benefits. It’s not a pipe dream, and I’m not a crazy person confined against my will in a psych ward anymore.”
“Can we stop? I don’t want to talk about it any longer.”
Frustrated, I left and had been driving aimlessly since. Though the cone was delicious, it sensitized me to the chilly air, causing me to shiver. I quickly finished it, got into the car, started the engine and turned on the heater. Then on a whim, I opened my contacts list and dialed a number. “Hi, Jessie. It’s Ken. Could I come over?” I felt relieved when she replied, “Yes.”
***
I didn’t need directions. Despite having only been there once before, the route was burned into my brain. When I arrived, I found her sitting at the bottom of her stairs waiting, a thin jacket pulled tightly around her to ward off the chill. Unlike the times I’d seen her previously, she wore makeup, which made her look particularly sultry.
“Are you all right? You seemed a little out of sorts on the phone.”
“Yeah, just tired. It’s been a busy day.”
“You’re lucky you caught me. I was out with friends, but had a strange feeling that I should come home. I guess now I know the reason. Aren’t you cold without a jacket?”
“A bit. I forgot that it actually gets chilly here once in a while. You look stunning, by the way.”
“Thank you,” she replied, flashing the same authentic smile that I first saw at YC’s. “Come on in and get warmed up.”
Shivering, I followed her up the stairs. When she opened the door, I was pleased to find a fire blazing. “Ah, just what the doctor ordered.”
“It’s gas. I switched it on right after you called.”
Firelight danced on the mostly barren walls of the otherwise darkened condo in seemingly perfect synchrony to soft music emanating from a small stereo in the corner next to the fireplace.
“I’ve got just the thing for you. Come over here and take a seat on the floor in front of the sofa.” She sat on the sofa and directed me to sit in front of her. “And tell me about your day.”
I obliged her, thrilled to have someone to share in my excitement. As I spoke, she massaged my neck, shoulders and back.
“It’s spectacular, and when I stood on top of that old rock and looked down, I could almost see the neighborhood.”
“It sounds wonderful. Could you take me there sometime?”
I hadn’t thought that far ahead, but answered confidently, “Sure.”
“When will you begin construction?”
“There’s a lot of planning and design yet to do, and we’ll need permits from Phoenix. It’ll be a while yet. Oh. That’s a good spot. Keep doing that.”
As I spoke, the scent of hand lotion, perfume or perhaps hair conditioner sometimes distracted me. At those times, I grew quiet and imagined her long hair swaying gently in rhythm with her kneading fingers, or her bare legs inches from my body. At those times, her hands seemed to sense my thoughts and changed their therapy to a more sensual nature.
I’d always been a little squeamish about massages, however, her intuitive touch was a whole different matter. As she continued, I became more and more aroused. I hung my head and pretended to be relaxed when I was anything but.
“You’re going to put me to sleep,” I lied.<
br />
“We can’t have that. Stand up.” I did as she instructed and turned, half-hoping she would hug me and send me on my way. Instead, gazing seductively into my eyes, she began unbuttoning my shirt. “I’ve never thanked you properly for changing my life.”
In my former world, I would have said or done something to stop her; but in this world, the part of me that wanted to know trumped the part that wanted to run, and I remained transfixed. As she released the last button and pulled open my shirt, she gazed downward. “That’s an impressive scar.”
The ten-inch scar she noticed began a few inches above my belly button, curved around it and continued down below the elastic of my briefs. Smaller scars on either side marked the former location of thirty-six staples that at one time bound me together. Once a constant reminder of my brush with death, numerous hospital stays, and my confinement in four different psychiatric facilities, I thought of that scar differently nowadays.
“It’s the reason we’re here. Without it, there would be no Primera, no Amistad and no changed people. I wouldn’t have met you, and we’d both have led completely different lives.”
“In that case…” She dropped to her knees and kissed the scar lovingly from top to bottom, my heart racing as she did. Then she stood and kissed me passionately. I’d never felt more accepted by another human being than I did at that moment. Any resistance I might have rendered melted away, and I submitted completely to her. That evening, she filled a void within me and answered all of my questions about relationships with changed people without saying a word.
Chapter 20
