Through Caverns Measureless to Man

by D G Rose

  Through Caverns Measureless to Man

  By David Schenck

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1 - Do Not Open On Pain of Death!

  CHAPTER 2 - Sharing a birthday sucks.

  CHAPTER 3 - I want my candy apple now.

  CHAPTER 4 - Old Testament, mostly.

  CHAPTER 5 - The pleasure of being miserable.

  CHAPTER 6 - Is your name Miranda?

  CHAPTER 7 - I thought we’d take the scenic route.

  CHAPTER 8 - Have you ever thought that maybe God is unhappy?

  CHAPTER 9 - Some gods are darker than others.

  CHAPTER 10 - Ghosts or angels or ghosts of angels.

  CHAPTER 11 - This ain’t my first rodeo.

  CHAPTER 12 - Not some pretty sexless boy.

  CHAPTER 13 - Spoken like a man who’s never had the choice!

  CHAPTER 14 - Now the violent death of a supernova.

  CHAPTER 15 - We seemed to have lost the knack for being alone.

  CHAPTER 16 - A quark will never break your heart.

  CHAPTER 17 - But death had no use for me.

  CHAPTER 18 - Not enough to make up a full father, let alone multiple fathers.

  CHAPTER 19 - The worst fucking conspiracy in the history of doomed conspiracies.

  CHAPTER 20 - Ah ha! Winston Churchill!

  CHAPTER 21 - Who DOESN’T want a cricket!?

  CHAPTER 22 - Where the hell did that rooster come from?!

  CHAPTER 23 - He snores. We chirp. All is fair.

  CHAPTER 24 - It’s a little D&D isn’t it?

  CHAPTER 25 - Dean Martin? Are you fucking kidding me?

  CHAPTER 26 - How I finally defeated the Green Knight.

  CHAPTER 27 - Let’s not spoil our last moments alive with conversation.

  CHAPTER 28 – Well, all measurements are approximate.

  CHAPTER 29 – I know what a dead man is.

  CHAPTER 30 – Like the thing I was looking for and never expected to find.

  CHAPTER 31 – A dagger to stab at a god?

  CHAPTER 32 – It’s a bit much, isn’t it?

  CHAPTER 33 – Can I tell you a joke?

  About the Author

  Contact

  NOTES

  CHAPTER 1 - Do Not Open On Pain of Death!

  The alarm on my phone went off at 7:30, although I had no place to go, no reason to get up. Of course, it wasn’t really 7:30, it was more like 7:29 or even 7:28. When I was a kid, you never knew what time it was. If you asked four people the time, you would get three different answers and one would point to his barren left wrist in the universal, ‘I don’t have a watch’ pantomime. Now, everybody knows the time, with split second precision. The whole world linked together in lockstep slavery to some nuclear overmaster, probably in a secret bunker in Colorado or Iowa or someplace like that. And nobody wears watches anymore except people trying to pretend that walking is exercise. But not me. My phone is too old to sync to the signal, so I set it manually, and it drifts relentlessly forward, until I reset it again.

  But the alarm sounded, so, I got up and had a beer. I’m not an alcoholic or anything. I’m just a guy that likes to start his day with a beer. I had no place to go because it was my birthday. I have a birthday ritual. You got a birthday ritual? Not a lot of forty-three-year-olds do, but I do.

  Here’s my ritual: I don’t do nothing. Don’t go to work, don’t have a party, don’t leave the house. I found out a long-time-ago that doing stuff on my birthday was a mistake. And, say what you will about me, I try to learn from my mistakes.

  After my beer, I spend a few minutes meditating. I read some study, a couple of years back, that said that meditating is the quickest path to happiness. So far, it ain’t worked.

  After meditating, I have another beer. I don’t know why nobody is studying beer as a path to happiness. So far, it ain’t worked either, although I feel like it does more for me than the meditation. But I’m a belt and suspenders kind of guy, so I’m sticking with both for now.

  With my second beer, I like a few cookies. As much as anything, the cookies make me happy. You know what an Oreo is? Of course you know what an Oreo is. Well, these cookies are kind of like Oreos, only they are full chocolate, chocolate cookie, chocolate cream. But that’s not why I like them. They’re made in Mexico and I have to stop at the little Mexican market to buy them. But that’s not why I like them either. Here is what I like about them: They are awesome in the randomness of their manufacture. Although they are clearly made in a factory, they’re poorly made. Nothing big, just little things, like a cookie reversed so that the patterned side, which should be on the outside of the cookie will be on the inside, next to the cream. Or, they usually come in little packets of 4 cookie sandwiches – but occasionally the packet will have just three cookie sandwiches and a lone cookie. Or some sandwiches will have tons of cream and others hardly any. I try to imagine what this factory must be like. It must be nothing at all like the smooth operations that turn out cell phones or televisions or that bread where every slice is exactly the same thickness. This factory must be some weird collection of jittering assembly lines with cookies bouncing and jouncing and warm chocolate cream spilling onto the floor. If I could go anywhere in the world, I think I’d like to visit that cookie factory.

  On a normal day, this is when I would take a shower and head to work. I work in one of those quick oil change places. All day in the pit, under a car, covered in grease. It’s crap work for crap pay, what are you going to do? But, like I said, on my birthday I don’t do nothing, so instead of taking a shower, I head back to bed.

  I pull out my phone and check Facebook. Happy birthday wishes from eight people. I stupid hate Facebook. The only good thing is that something like six of the birthday greetings are from people I don’t think I know.

  I lie in bed for a couple of hours, just staring at the ceiling and chewing my nails. You can never get all the grease and oil completely out from under the nails, so they have a slightly bitter petroleum taste. It actually goes surprisingly well with the beer and cookies.

  I put on the Mountain Goats’ Tallahassee, ready to wallow in its bittersweet (well, more like bitterbitter) melodies, but there’s a dog barking out front.

  You got a dog? I ain’t got a dog. I had a dog. Once. But she was just too happy. I’d go out for like fifteen minutes then come back and the dog would be out of her mind with joy. A dog is happier six times a day than you’ll ever be in your whole life. Anyway, it just didn’t work out.

  I got a cat. More or less. I never wanted a cat, I’m not really a cat kind of guy. But my house is what you would call a shotgun camelback. That means that the bottom floor is all in a line. The point is, days when it’s hot, but not hot enough to put on the A/C, you can open the front and back doors to get a little breeze going. So, one day I’m closing up for the night and there’s this little kitten, just a tiny thing, no bigger than my hand, standing in the back doorway, neither in nor out, his little paws planted firmly on the threshold, daring me to chase him away, but not brave enough to invite himself in. I invited him in.

  So, I got a cat. More or less. It’s not a relationship of dependence. If he comes in one day and finds me dead, he’d probably eat me. He’d probably start with the eyes, and then when I was all gone or all gone bad, he’d move on; he’d be ok.

  So, this dog is barking and he won’t shut up. He’s kind of harshing my buzz. I think about going out front and yelling at him or something. But then I think, he’s sure to stop any moment now. Of course, he doesn’t stop. I keep almost getting up, but then not. Surely he’ll stop soon. I’m nothing if not an optimist.

  I once read
somewhere that a dog can bark for seventeen hours straight without stopping. I think this dog is going for the record.

  Fine! I get out of bed. I look around for my slippers. I can’t find them. The place is a mess, but that’s ok since it’s also a dump.

  I come down the stairs in my slipper-less feet. I open the door to shout, but the dog goes silent before I can open my mouth. Why the hell did I get out of bed? I step out onto the porch. I need to be careful since there’s a loose board right in front of the door. I walk to the edge of the porch and I look up and down the street. I can’t see the dog anywhere.

  I turn to go back in and I see the package. It’s leaning up against the house, right next to the door.

  It’s a weird package. It’s wrapped in heavy brown paper. Although, something about it feels different. Not like regular paper. Too thick, too, I don’t know, rich. And it’s covered in customs stamps from all over the world. Just like you see in old movies and never in real life. And the stamps are from ALL over. There are even stamps from both Constantinople and Istanbul. It’s like a prank, except I don’t know anybody well enough that they would expend all the energy needed to send me a prank package. But neither the paper nor the customs stamps are the strangest part of the package. The package has written on it in big red letters. ‘Do Not Open On Pain of Death!’ And that’s STILL not the strangest thing. I know, I know, normally the death threat is the strangest thing about a package, but not in this case. The strangest thing about this package is that it’s not addressed to me. It’s addressed to my sister, Miranda.

  So, I guess I was wrong when I said that my story begins on my forty-third birthday. Nobody gets a package like that at the beginning of a story. It always has to be somewhere in the middle.

  CHAPTER 2 - Sharing a birthday sucks.

  I guess my story really begins on a different birthday. A birthday of a different person, who also happened to have been me.

  I’m forty-three now. So, it must have been thirty-one years ago. When I was twelve. And if I was twelve, Miranda, well Miranda would have been eight. Miranda was my sister. I think I was pretty much a regular kid back then. I mean, I think when I was twelve, probably, the weirdest thing about me was that I used to get dizzy looking at the stars, overwhelmed by the idea that they were suns and galaxies impossibly big and impossibly far away. When I asked my friends, they assured me that they did not share this experience.

  And here was another kind of odd thing about me when I was a kid: Miranda and I, we shared a birthday. Only, four years apart. It sounds kind of strange. I mean what are the chances of two kids in the same family sharing the same birthday? Well, it’s not that strange. Something like a half a percent of families with kids have two that share the same birthday. I know. I looked it up.

  Let me just say this: Sharing a birthday sucks. I mean, I guess as an adult it would be alright. As an adult, it might even be kind of cool. But as a kid it sucks. Maybe it’s different for twins. They have that special twin link thing going on and they’re used to the whole ‘share everything’ lifestyle. But as a regular non-twin kid it just sucked.

  Think about your birthday. It’s the one day. The one day when you, and just you, are somebody special. There’s cake, just for you. Songs, just for you. Presents, just for you. You don’t get that any other day. Not on the Fourth of July and not on Thanksgiving, only on your birthday. Unless you’re one of the kids who shares a birthday with a sibling. In that case, you never get that. Not even on your f’n birthday.

  So, there I was about to turn twelve-years-old and what I wanted more than anything in the world was to spend my birthday at the State Fair. We always went to the State Fair for our birthday and I always loved it. The games, the rides, the smells, the junk food that I ate until I was ready to burst! Only this year, we weren’t going. Even though this year our birthday fell on a Saturday and you might think, would have to think, that would make it even better. But, Dad was going to be out of town for work and Mom had to visit our aunt who was in the hospital with, well, I don’t know with what. I was a kid and, like all kids, I had a limited attention span for things that didn’t directly affect me.

  So, there I was staring down the barrel of what was going to be the worst birthday ever. Not only would I have to share it, like always, not only would Dad not be there, but we wouldn’t even go to the State Fair! Sure, we were planning on going the next week, after Dad got back from his trip, but it wouldn’t be the same.

  I mean, as a kid, the idea that you could just move your birthday was a special kind of sacrilege. I guess Miranda must have been upset too. I don’t know. If she was I don’t remember her saying anything.

  But, I had a plan. A plan to make my birthday as good as always, maybe even better. Here was my plan, glorious in its simplicity: I would just go to the State Fair alone. I mean, I would be twelve for heaven’s sakes. Surely, I could go to the Fair alone. It would be even better than going with the family. Just me wandering the midway, a handful of quarters jangling in my pocket, just like an adult.

  Now, when I say alone, what I really mean is with friends. I had friends back then. When I was twelve. I wasn’t what you would call a cool kid, but I wasn’t a complete dork either. I was squarely in the middle. Cool enough to say ‘hi’ to the cool kids and be relatively sure of getting a ‘hi’ back, but not cool enough to sit with them at lunch.

  At that time, I was sure I was just one cool friend away from breaking into the ranks of the cool kids. If I could just get to know one of them. Or, more importantly, if one of them could just get to know me. Then he would say to himself, ‘You know, that Nick, he’s really alright.’ And that would be that. I’d be in. Part of the cool group, part of the group that Jessica used to hang around with. Jessica with the long red hair.

  But my friends weren’t part of the cool group. They were kids like me. Cool enough, but not all the way cool. I guess, in retrospect, they all probably felt themselves just one cool friend away also.

  Anyway, that was my plan. I would just go alone. The fairgrounds weren’t far from our house. It was like a fifteen-minute walk. I’d walked past it lots of times. Heck, it was closer than the school.

  So, when the phone rang the Friday night before our birthday, I jumped on it like a grenade. “I’ve got it!”

  Of course, it was my Dad. This was the way to get things done in my family. If I could get Dad on my side, he’d carry the ball for me with Mom. And I knew just the approach to take with Dad. “Hi, Dad! How’s the trip.”

  “Hey, Nicky! It’s good. At least as good a Cleveland can get.” He laughed at his own joke, but I didn’t see the humor.

  “Yeah. Ha ha! Hey, Dad, um, about my birthday…” I started.

  “Look, kiddo,” He interrupted me, “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just that this trip is really important. You know I wouldn’t miss your birthday for anything less.”

  “Yeah, I know Dad. I know. I just miss you. That’s all.”

  “Say, Nick, here’s an idea, how about if you just go to the State Fair alone.”

  I was in shock. Did he just say that? Without me even prodding him? I was all ready to go into the guilt trip. The whole ‘the State Fair on my birthday is a family tradition, it won’t even seem like a birthday without it’ shtick. And now it wasn’t necessary. This was, almost, too good to be true!

  “Yeah.” He continued. “I figure, you’re going to be twelve now. Almost a man for Pete’s sake. Where do the days go? But, yeah, you’re more than old enough now to take care of your sister.”

  And there it was, stupid English, with it’s stupid ‘you’ which can be either singular as in ‘you, Nick’ or plural as in ‘you, Nick and Miranda’, ruining all my plans! Well, it wasn’t too late.

  I shrugged, as if he could see me, and pitched my voice as casual as I could. “You know, Dad, I was thinking, you know, maybe just me. Maybe it would be, you know, better.”

  “Now, Nick,” I could hear the disappointm
ent in his voice. “You’re better than that. How would you like to be left alone on your birthday?”

  And he was right. Not that I was better than that, I wasn’t, but I wouldn’t want to be left alone on my birthday and neither, I guess, would Miranda.

  “Let me talk to your mom. I’ll get it set up. You’ll have a blast! And Nicky,” He said in a conspiratorial tone. “On my dresser, there’s a jar full of change. You take whatever you need. Just go and have a great time. Eat some cotton candy for me! Ok, put your mom on. Love you, kiddo.”

  “Thanks, Dad. Love you too.” I put down the receiver. “Mom!”

  “I’m right here Nick.”

  And there it was. Going with Miranda was almost as bad as not going at all. But maybe not exactly as bad as not going at all. And at least I would have Dad’s change and I could buy whatever I wanted. And, heck, taking care of Miranda at the State Fair, that was Mom and Dad’s job, which is to say a job for an adult. Dad was right, I was practically a man now.

  Miranda, when she found out, ran around the room in big circles, I’m pretty sure just to annoy the heck out of me. “Cut it out, Miranda!” I yelled.

  “I can’t!” She yelled back. “The Fair with you! I need to get all the excite out!” Finally, she collapsed on the floor too dizzy to even lie still.

  CHAPTER 3 - I want my candy apple now.

  I remember it being a beautiful early November morning. The skies were clear and the sun was almost too bright to bear. It was going to be a perfect day! Not too hot and not too cold. Now, I just had to make it to noon. Even though we could walk to the fairgrounds, that wasn’t the plan. The plan was we were going to wait until noon and then Mom was going to drive us to the Fair on her way to visit her sister. Then we were going to walk back and I was going to have to babysit Miranda until Mom got back. Whenever that would be.

  Mom made us birthday pancakes, just like always, in the shapes of animals.

  “What kind of animals do you want, Nicky?”