“The project will use a diverse group of artists and photographers. He thought many of your portrayals of imaginary creatures appear almost as if you had designed some of the masks themselves.”
“Well, I don’t trust the guy. I’m just starting to draw from nature. It’s really been good for my head. Y’know, I saw a bear while I was working on that one illustration.”
“You were out of your mind on drugs last year. You never told me why there is animosity between you two, but he is making up for any misunderstanding. He’ll pay you seven hundred and fifty dollars for each of the twelve original drawings. That’s nine thousand, Deets. What’s there to consider? He’s offering about three times what you made last year. Why, you can make it working for a month in a tropical land and then a few months putting it all together. Don’t be foolish. Take it. What an adventure it would be. Afterwards you can draw all the bears and landscapes you want to for three years without worrying about money.”
I mumbled, “Three.” Santa Pigeon’s poem leaped into focus.
When you are offered three years of freedom
But you see evil, sense invisible schemes,
Take the deal
It’s not what it seems
Pigeon and Steel were maneuvering, using me, steering me to whatever ends they hoped to achieve. Was it a war? A game? What were the consequences? Instructions through paper poems, offers to travel overseas. These were direct acknowledgements that I was being drawn deeper into their mystery.
I took a sip of Pepsi. “Let me think about it for a while.”
“Of course I understand you want to do your own thing and not be a commercial artist, but I believe you are being approached because Doctor Steel likes your originality. I think the guidelines will be very loose, if any.”
“Daisy, I gotta split. Let me know if Steel takes an interest in any of Teresa’s pieces.”
“Is that what this feud is all about? Teresa?”
“I have no idea what it’s all about. No idea.”
I meandered through the Village, obsessed with thoughts of Teresa, her painting, and my drawing, while I slowly made my way towards Good Stuff. By the time the store’s sign was visible, my head was reeling.
If I ever see you again… I’ll turn around... walk in the other direction... If I ever see you...
Then I was standing in front of the store, not able to step inside, not able to allow Teresa’s promise to turn away from me to come true. A blast of cold wind struck me, penetrating the wound in my shoulder and jaw but directed deeper. The chilled air raced through me, piercing me like a stabbing to my heart. I clutched at my chest, leaned heavily on the store’s front window. A pattern of ice crystals materialized in a flash across the glass. I was sure in that moment that Teresa’s fury had just cursed me.
But before I turned back, before I gave up and went back to my woods, I had one last message to share. Letting myself into the building’s entranceway to the front stairwell, I moved to the side door of the store. On the bottom of my drawing of the bull man and leopard woman, I scribbled Drew this in December. Slipping quickly and quietly into the display room, I laid my drawing on a nearby shelf and eased away, each breath an ache and a hope.
How the gods wove the world’s paths, sang our fate to walk them, and used their spells to help or hinder, I didn’t pretend to understand, but when they decided to concentrate their magic to fulfill a favored goal, then chosen individuals, whether blessed or damned, are given keys to enter secret worlds. As I made my way down the street, I cherished the pain Teresa had cast on me. It was all that was left of our relationship. I didn’t know the gods broke into souls and planted dreams to steer their chosen to where they needed them.
It had been awhile since I had witnessed the doings in Monster Alley. Despite the terror of my last visit inside the mansion, I couldn’t leave the city without counting monkeys and fish on the window box and investigating further the formula scratched into the wall.
I made my way eastwards, stopping at a small anti-war rally in Washington Square. Abbie Hoffman, my early tutor about Vietnam, was the main speaker. When he finished and an a cappella group began performing, I approached him to say hello.
“Hey, yeah, man, how you doing?”
We talked a few minutes, then he slapped me on the back and said he had to get running—there was a war to stop. And not forty feet away—same fake beard, same coveralls—watching every move Hoffmann made, was Agent Orville. But as Abbie said his farewells, the FBI undercover man brazenly challenged me with a non-forgiving stare that promised he would break me someday. I headed in the opposite direction that Abbie had gone, looking over my shoulder until I arrived at the alley, never spotting anyone I suspected of following me. I didn’t need disruptions like Orville now. My concerns were of enigmas far more disconcerting than his dislike of me.
After smoking a few cigarettes as I calmed down and built up my resolve, I approached the daunting passageway, crouching immediately when I sensed a presence stirring in the shadows. At the far end, past the dumpster and the tent of cardboard, there was movement—bits of dust and snow rising and swirling as two red lights hovered, sweeping back and forth deep in the gloom. Suddenly, the sharp roar of a powerful engine startled me, a whoosh by something solid and massive swept through the alley, then all appeared still.
The smell of gasoline wafted past me.
I waited, still hunched, gathering my nerves and reviewing my will to enter the cold, dark corridor.
Pedestrians ignored me, traffic crawled by. I was wondering if anybody else had witnessed what I just had, or was it meant only for me, when I felt eyes spearing my back. I turned to face the street. Cruising slowly by was stogie man, chomping on soggy tobacco leaves, smoke filling his taxi, eyeing me with a foul glare. He rolled his window down.
“Hey kid, what are you squatting in that alley for? Don’t you have places to go, things to do?”
Who the hell is stogie man?
It took me an hour to reach the cardboard tent. Cautiously, I peeled it back and studied the window box. None of the other changes I had ever noticed before seemed so obvious as its newest depiction—one of the monkeys no longer rode on a fish but swooped downwards on its own, towards the painted hills, its arms spread out like wings.
I fidgeted nervously the rest of the day, feeling the pronounced portrayal of the flying monkey meant a surprise was stirring for me.
I’ve got to stay alert.
When the following day, on my walk through the woods, I spotted a green Chevy Impala parked under some trees on the river road, I tucked myself between some bushes and watched the car. There were two men in the front seat. It wasn't hard to reason why they sat for hours at the entrance to the dead end road that wound uphill to my parents’ house. I had no doubt the two were Orville and his partner. I was in their radar again.
Three nights later, on that same road where it passed behind my studio, I saw a car come to a stop and douse it’s lights at about one in the morning. Somebody exited the passenger side, so I crouched at my window for about twenty minutes trying to make out any movement in the dark. When I finally did, the perpetrator was closer than I expected. Grabbing my flashlight, I slid open the window and aimed the light, flipping the switch on.
“You’d better have a warrant, Orville.”
I’d caught him again on another illegal trespass. Or at least whoever turned and ran had blue coveralls on. I chased after the intruder on a path I knew well, but as he crashed through the nearby undergrowth, I never could place my beam of light on his face. A car door slammed. I split off on a shortcut and slid down an embankment near where the vehicle would have to pass, bouncing onto the road just as a green Chevy Impala flew past me.
What did I just do? Chase an FBI agent? This is crazy. What is Orville up to?
In that moment, I was slammed by a bout of breath-stealing a
nxiety. I doubled over. Gobs of sweat flooded across my skin. The night I had destroyed evidence against Phuong became forefront in my thoughts. I couldn’t shut it off. I worried the FBI had found Phuong, made her talk, and were preparing to arrest me for treason.
Enough. I’ve had enough.
Santa Pigeon’s poem, Steel’s offer, and the monkey with arms spread like airplane wings popped into my mind. An escape had already been planned for me.
Monster Alley, troubles with Teresa, Orville, the war. I need a change.
I tossed and turned in bed until dawn, wrestling with the decision I had to make. If I took Steel’s offer, not only was I accepting money from a creepy, evil being but from an oil company, symbol of the greed and corruption in corporate America.
I should be on my way to California looking for Sam or working on my own art, not contracting with the establishment on some bogus cultural project set up by Doctor Steel.
If it’s a trap, I wonder why Santa Pigeon’s poem tells me to accept the offer?
Three years of freedom. Man, to be unburdened by money worries... But it’s obviously not the real motive for the trip overseas. Maybe I’m supposed to deliver another panda to someone in need or gift a white feather to a wounded soul.
That window box monkey’s opinion was so obvious he might as well have sold me the airplane tickets too.
I’ll do it.
I’ll trust Pigeon, fly to South America, maybe somehow learn more about the mysteries enveloping me, do the drawings, get the money, and give it to Sam to raise the baby. Hopefully, the FBI will lose track of me.
The day after I told Daisy I would take the overseas illustration job, I found an envelope in my parents’ mailbox with just my name printed on it. It contained a wad of colorful Venezuelan money, directions on how to get a passport, visa, and necessary vaccinations. An airline ticket, the name of my guide, art specifications, and a short description of project expectations were included. A check for $9000 would be delivered to me on completion of the work.
Doctor Steel was efficient. I had made a deal with the devil.
The story continues in Book Two, Magic.
The Remarkable Adventures of Deets Parker
Book Two, Magic
In a remote Caribbean village, a curing ceremony reveals links to the mysterious Monster Alley back in New York City.
The artist Deets Parker has fled his stateside troubles, only to find himself in a life-threatening odyssey in the wilds of Venezuela.
Struggling through an Andean jungle, Deets’ survival depends on the mercy of a band of communist guerrillas, the whims of two dancing half-humans, outmaneuvering a persistent jaguar, and trusting a murderous hermit.
A slave to his appetites, whether in a high mountain valley or a rural ranch, Deets continues to enmesh himself in problematic and risky romantic relationships.
The Remarkable Adventures of Deets Parker uncovers a miraculous connection to ancient powers. What does this discovery of secret knowledge mean to a mortal like him?
Book Two of a three-book continuous story.
About the author
J. Davis Henry has made a living as an illustrator, graphic designer, and sign maker. His personal drawings are usually whimsical/cartoon animals. He lives near Philadelphia with his wife, Carol, and two cats.
Email: [email protected]
Acknowledgments
Thanks to Kent and Mary Donley for their friendship and encouragement, Mark Richards for his feedback, Tim Warner for his critical science, Jonathan Claudy (RIP, friend) for his commentary, and my wife, Carol, who put many long hours into reading, editing, and discussing The Remarkable Adventures of Deets Parker.
Dear Reader,
I imagine if you’re reading this, you’ve enjoyed the story so far.
Could you please leave a review? It should only take a few minutes and would be invaluable in convincing others that Book One, Mayhem is a worthwhile read.
Continue the adventures with Book Two, Magic and Book Three, Miracles.
Thanks!
Mayhem (The Remarkable Adventures of Deets Parker Book 1) Page 33
