Yesterday's Gone: Season One Part 57

Jim was surprised to find himself missing television. Not that he'd regularly watched much TV to begin with. Though the blue light beamed from thin black boxes in nearly every room in his old house, he'd never held much of an interest, even as a kid.

Sure, he loved the best the idiot box had to offer: LOST and 24, plus cool cable shows like Dexter, The Walking Dead, and Breaking Bad, but most TV was c.r.a.p and he knew it, made by producers who pulled the levers at the c.r.a.p Factory. Reality shows were cheaper than decent drama, and money meant more than legacy, so c.r.a.p kept piling on top of c.r.a.p until 1,000 channels were broadcasting little but stink.

Jim would rather read, or watch a good movie. He loved stories, adventure, the never knowing what would happen next. TV was too predictable. Sure, movies were mostly formula too, and so were books for that matter, but the thing good books and movies had that bad TV didn't were the quality of the questions they asked.

Even the cheesiest sci-fi books, done well, left you with questions of who we are and where we came from, or even better, where we're going and how we might get there.

But Jim wasn't craving questions now; he wanted pure, unadulterated junk TV like sugary cereal on a Sat.u.r.day morning spent watching cartoons - back when there were decent cartoons on TV, that was.

He made a face at the blank screen in his hotel room where he'd gone to try and take a nap even though it wasn't even 1 p.m. "Oh, TV, why has thou abandoned me in my hour of need?"

n.o.body was around to appreciate his humor, so he laughed at his own joke, then headed to the bar, to pour himself a drink. Then he thought better of alcohol, and headed toward the stairwell instead. Jim didn't care for drinking, not much anyway. Weed was much better. Alcohol usually made him sad, or sleepy. Herb expanded his mind, got him to ponder the size of the universe and his place in it. And other times, it made him laugh his a.s.s off. But never did he have a bad weed experience or wake up wishing he'd not smoked so much.

Some comedian once said if weed were a legal drug marketed on TV, it would be called "f.u.c.k it All" or something, which seemed appropriate - it helped him to ignore the s.h.i.t that everyone else stressed out about, and think about bigger picture sorts of stuff. Important stuff.

Jim decided to head to the second-story window, which had the best view of the parking lot. Might as well watch the sea of bleakers while enjoying a bowl or two. As he climbed the stairs, he pulled the baggie from his pocket and sighed.

s.h.i.t, not much left.

Jim had enjoyed a steady diet of daily doses since he first turned 15 and Walter Hawking gave him a dime bag to celebrate. He had never even considered a future without weed. He would need to find more. And after that, he'd need to learn how to grow the s.h.i.t.

Farmer Jim in da' house.

Jim opened the door to the second floor and was surprised to find the window view occupied by Buzz Kill John Boy, himself. f.u.c.k me.

Jim had hoped to run into Will again, with whom he had shared some weed earlier and had a great conversation. The likelihood of John providing an interesting conversation was about the same as Jim running into a frightened supermodel in need of some companionship tomorrow.

John turned back to Jim and then back to the scene outside, without saying a word. Though it was lunch time, the world outside was darker than midnight. Heavy, swirling black clouds churned low in the sky.

"That is f.u.c.king awesome," Jim said.

"It is, isn't it?" John said, with the hint of a smile on his lips. "So why aren't you eating lunch with the others?"

"Wanted to smoke myself into oblivion and take a nap if we're not leaving this place."

"Is that how that works?" John asked.

Jim laughed. "No, not really. But this latest stuff does seem to make me sleepy. It's called Jade, from my buddy Walter. He gets it from California because his older brother lives out there. He's trying to be an actor, or was trying anyway. He uses his medicinal marijuana card to make ends meet, including weekly shipments back home to Walter. Big business, at least for a high schooler. They split the money, 50/50. Walter wanted to buy a car, but figured even if his parents were stupid, they weren't too stupid to believe he could afford a new X-Terra just from mowing lawns, so he's been stashing cash for two years. For all the good it did him."

John continued to stare, silent.

Jim sprinkled a few dried leaves into the basin of his pipe. "Even though he always gave me a deal and a half, I was still one of Wally's best customers. Of course, looks like I'm gonna need a new hookup now! Oh s.h.i.t, I should've thought to raid Wally's house! I would've had enough s.h.i.t to last me at least a couple months. h.e.l.l, maybe enough for all of us, knowing what Wally had stashed away!"

Jim laughed and looked at John, trying to draw him into friendly conversation, but he may as well have been alone. John just stared out the window, casting an occasional glance at Jim, more curious than irritated, though laced with something else Jim couldn't place.

He'd seen the look before, mostly exaggerated on the expressions of bad guys in cheesy B-movies. Same look on John's face, but it didn't fit, like a turtle sh.e.l.l on a cat. The guy may have been a.n.a.l with a capital A, and a bit of a douche the past few days, but he didn't have a mean bone in his body.

"You know," Jim said, "I'm not even really sure this is Jade. Wally always gets these cool names from his brother: Mace Windu, Blue Dream, Hippie Crippler, but h.e.l.l, how would we know? I think his brother probably buys c.r.a.p weed and changes the names. You really should give this a try," he offered the pipe to John. "I bet it makes you feel a lot better than you're expecting in less time than you imagine it could. And without the hangover." Jim smiled. "Temporary, but nice while it lasts."

Jim flicked his lighter. The quiet crackle of curling leaves sent a thin plume of bitter smoke swirling through the air. He drew the smoke into his lungs with a double barrel inhale, then held his breath for an impossibly long time, partly showing off, then blew the smoke in a frothy jet that settled against the gla.s.s like frost.

"Good... s.h.i.t." Jim said, pounding his chest. "Come on, man, lighten up. Give it a try. You've got no idea what you're missing. And seriously, this is the last of my stash. I should get a blue ribbon or medal for even offering."

John narrowed his eyes and held his gaze, long enough to make Jim think he was about to get a lecture. Finally, John held out his hand, palm open.

"What do I do?"

Jim grinned ear to ear. He should have handed John the pipe and pot right there, but that wasn't his style under the best of circ.u.mstances, and certainly wouldn't do when delivering the details of such an important process to a weed virgin.

"Believe it or not," Jim said, "there's a science to smoking. You want to get as high as you can with the smallest amount possible. Forget what you've been told by The Man; marijuana is a f.u.c.king miracle plant. You can grow it, chop it; make paper, wood, fabric or whatever. Plus, of course, you can smoke it, cook it, even simmer it in oil or alcohol to prime it for ingestion." Jim looked at John with professorial authority. "Now, it's not water soluble, so if you eat it raw, you'll only end up scrubbing your insides with a loofa you have to pay for by the ounce. Believe me, bro; a bran m.u.f.fin is way cheaper. You ever smoke a regular cigarette?"

John took a second to think, then shook his head no.

"Too bad, because it's pretty much the same thing, except when you're done smoking ganja, you feel happy and creative, instead of swearing you'll quit tomorrow. I don't have rolling papers so I'm using this." Jim held the pipe between two fingers, then refilled the bowl with a few more dried leaves.

"Light it, then inhale. Like this." Jim drew on the pipe's stem, pulling the smoke into his lungs with another bottomless breath, then blew it out, turning his head and sending the plume into the hallway behind them. "Hold it in as long as you like, then let it out. When your mind starts swimming, it's time to stop smoking. Keep going, and it's just a waste of weed, especially when it comes to the hydroponics s.h.i.t. Of course, there are a million theories about the ideal length of time to hold your smoke, how big a hit you should take, whether you should stand or sit, and just about any variable you can think of. But I like to keep it simple - breathe in, breathe out, and be merry."

If that wasn't a b.u.mper sticker already, Jim thought it should be. Breathe in, breathe out, be merry.

Jim sprinkled a few more fresh leaves into the basin, then handed John the pipe and lighter. John put it to his lips, flicked the lighter and lit the leaves as Jim had done.

"Since you're not used to smoking, you're probably gonna hack a bit, no big," Jim said. "Just hold it in as long as you can."

Jim was enjoying the look on John's face, somewhere in the middle of ignorance and intrigue, when the bones beneath his face suddenly shifted.

What the f.u.c.k? Jim was startled, and jumped back, unable to hide his reaction.

This is weed, not 'shrooms. I have to be imagining things.

John blew a stream of smoke into the air, then placed the stem to his lips and lit the basin again, ignoring Jim's reaction. John was holding his breath for a few seconds when the bones in his face started to move in a wave beneath the surface of his skin a second time.

"Dude, what the f.u.c.k? Your face just..."

Jim took a step back, staring at John.

"What... the?" he stammered.

John's eyes widened, but his lips were sealed in a rising smile.

Jim fell back toward the hotel room door behind him, then turned and put his hand on the handle. He turned the k.n.o.b, then heard a voice from behind him.

"Dude, what the f.u.c.k? Your face just...What... the?"

It was Jim's voice, as if the thing that wasn't John was trying it on for size.

Jim tried to scream, but the attempt died inside him as the thing grabbed him by the back of his neck so hard, he thought it would rip his spine right out of his body like in Mortal Combat or something.

Jim whimpered as the John monster spun him around and pushed him into the hotel room, threw him to the ground, and fell atop him, hand crushing Jim's throat as Jim squirmed and struggled to break free.

"No escape," the thing that wasn't John said as it put a hand over Jim's head and sent a sharp pain through his whole body.

Jim wanted to scream, beg for his life, say something! But he was paralyzed, unable to move, breathe, or even swallow. Panic coursed through him like fire, lighting his entire body with a million messages to run, flee, escape, fight, breathe, but his body ignored them all.

His open eyes began to dry out as the thing that wasn't John bent down, picked him up, and threw him over his shoulders like a sack of laundry. Jim's face bounced off of John's back as he carried him into another room, then slung him into a tub. Jim's head slammed into the bottom of the tub with a loud echo. He couldn't feel the pain, but imagined there had to be a lot of blood.

He was fading.

As the world dimmed at the edges, the last thing he saw was the thing that was not John look down at him and close the shower curtain.

EDWARD KEENAN.

Ed's headache worsened while he sat and waited for the "answer guy."

His head pounded and his memories continued to grow fuzzy. Mostly small things, like the street he lived on, the car he drove, his favorite brand of toothpaste. He could see them in his mind, but had to focus to draw them forth. However, the harder he focused, the more intense his headache grew. And the more his vision blurred.

He was beginning to wonder if he'd suffered some sort of head trauma in the plane crash. Unlike movies, where people were hit on the head and knocked out on a routine basis, with little to no lingering side effects, actual head trauma was different. A blow to the head could be initially dismissed while internal bleeding caused swelling in the skull which could kill you.

I don't wanna die like this.

I want to see Jade. And Teagan.

Ed decided that no matter who came into the room to see him next, he would demand to see Jade. He had to know she was okay. And if Teagan wasn't nearby, he would demand to know where she was, too. And he wanted proof.

Of course, he was hardly in a position to make demands. But he'd make them anyway. He could tell by how they handled his interrogation, that he was better trained than these people were. Given time, he could win them over through persuasion. The only question was whether his touch would be gentle or firm.

a.s.suming, of course, that the killer headache went away. And that he had enough time to work his magic.

Alone time with the mirror had forced Ed to ponder some of the s.h.i.t he'd done over the past few years. How he'd neglected his family. How he'd been ruthless in executing orders. How he'd let so much of his life pa.s.s him by with barely a memory set aside for posterity. And the worst part was, if anyone were to have asked Ed what things meant the most to him in life, he would never have said The Agency. Not if he were answering honestly.

The list would have comprised of his daughter, his wife, and living a normal family life. Not this s.h.i.t.

He had no real past with Jade. He wasn't about to miss his opportunity to build a future.

If they could get out of this place.

The door opened, and Sullivan entered.

"Are you ready, Mr. Keenan?"

"Yes," Ed said.

Footsteps outside the door grew louder.

A man entered the room.

Ed's heart nearly stopped beating.

He stared in confusion, unable to look away.

In front of Ed was a man who could have been his identical twin, looking exactly the same, except for much nicer fabric that hung from his frame.

Sullivan spoke, "Edward Keenan, meet Dr. Edward Keenan."

TO BE CONTINUED...

JANUARY 2012.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE.

The first book I remember reading was The Hobbit. Not that Grover's, There's a Monster at the End of This Book isn't a real book, but The Hobbit lasted longer than a sneeze, I could feel its weight in my hand, and it left plenty of cool to ponder in the reader's afterglow.

I was six. My mom had gone on and on about Tolkien's masterpiece for as long as I could remember. She used words like magic, trolls, dragon, and elves, then insisted I'd love it when I "got older." She may as well have said: "Hey Seanie, you should really read The Hobbit right now if you want to understand all those snake in the gra.s.s jokes your older sisters are always laughing about."

I found The Hobbit in our garage. My parents were in the house, my mom experimenting with new ways to flavor grease, my dad warming his hands in his pants in front of a ball game. I'd gone treasure hunting in the garage many times before, but this time was special.