Heellooooo! It’s almost the end of June and I have failed another promise to finish goo. Instead the scope of the project has grown. I have readjusted my vision, choosing to split it into a more digestible multi-book format. There will be five or so final chapters for book #1. I’ll then begin compiling book #2. When book #2 finds it’s way to Substack, book #1 will transition to a paid offering. For the rest of the month you’ll be able to access previous chapters for free at the link below. As always, enjoy.
click here to find the other chapters
Allen awoke to an unanticipated brightness. It was an unusually tranquil night, as if the world had taken a breath and he was sleeping in the pause before the exhale. The morning was just that, a flurry of increased traffic accompanied the new weather. He was as rested as was possible for tent living. The other urban campers must have taken a break from their typicals. If there was synergy on the streets, last night was the shining example. The brightness that woke him wasn't police lights or gunfire, it was a clear sunrise, one that he usually missed as he slept well into the heat and hubbub of late morning.
The next street over, a shop owner scuffled with a stray dog, attempting to loose his satchel from the frothing emaciated beast. Rabies or not, this wasn't the morning to be assaulting Rajiv. He, unlike Allen, had a restless night after being forced out of his bed onto the couch. His snoring had reached award winning levels. He didn't ask for, or enjoy his prize, and would have fought his rotund wife for another chance in the cozy bed if she hadn't taken him off guard, dragged him in a daze, and locked the door. Mrs. Arjun was spun up, unrelenting. If Rajiv had been able to see her eyes, he wouldn't have chanced the argument. The dog he now fought was far less frightening than the bloodshot daggers that he often received from his missus.
Despite their challenges, Mrs. Arjun had prepared Rajiv a potent meal, one that would take hold of even a tame canine's nostrils.
Allen was quick to his chores. On the top of his mind was resupplying water, and attempting a low-risk free meal. His winnings from the day before were meager, he sorted through coins and bills without method or reason, feeling for what he might afford that day. A chuckle surprised him, finding a handful of chocolate coins in the stash. He hastily picked the foil from the treat, lodging chunks under his stained fingernails.
in all the bitterness, sweetness remains
As he savored his breakfast, a memory flashed of the morning before. Pigtails bounced inside of a half lowered back window, the SUV too high for Allen to place who rode inside. He motioned beggardly to the driver, an attractive woman of less than 40, well plastered with makeup and a recent hair appointment. She was distracted, talking to herself, or on the phone, happily or angrily chatting away. Her expressions were either of distress or joy. Allen decided she was enjoying her distress. From the back two nostrils poked above the window, followed by soft fingers drooping over the glass. Then, a full head poked up with a half-toothless grin. "Hey, missa, ya lookin far treashya."
Allen's only response was confusing blinks. The head dashed left and right, bright blue eyes guiding the reconnaissance. "Here, take som deez, they be hints to the stashhh." The head disappeared. In it's place two cupped hands reached over the window. Allen matched the expression. Ahead, the light blinked green and the SUV lurched, jerking the tiny hands open and letting rain their contents.
Before Allen had a chance to croak a thank you, the little hands were waving a spasmodic goodbye.
Allen did not have much in the way of skills for this world, but his mind refused to forget people in all their silly detail.
His normal water transport cart had wandered off in the night. With surprising clarity he remembered a similar device upturned nearby. It was on his typical route home.
Allen didn't consider himself homeless, or useless, or an sort of less. He had, in many ways, chosen this life. There was a freedom to it, once one had survived the anguish of physical insecurity. Enjoying his version of freedom, Allen meandered in the way of his new cart, with little expectation of finding it in the same place he last saw it.
Turning a corner he found Rajiv, tomato-headed and sweating profusely, still wrestling with the dog. Both unwilling to concede the meal. Allen barked, bringing both of their attention his way. He charged awkwardly, legs gangly wide. Rajiv froze, still clutching his lunch. The dog snarled, showing even more fangs than before. When Allen arrived at the battle, he grabbed hold of the satchel near Rajiv. The tug-of-war continued.
Around that same corner, a coffee and donut cruiser milled lazily down the empty street. "See, Stevens, that's why you're never gonna make Sargeant."
"Why, because I won't suck up to that Witch? See, the problem is, this whole department got fuckin soft and did some affirmative action shit, and now we have to pander to this girl-boss attitude. It's fuckin toxic."
"It's shit like that, when you talk like that people notice. Getting noticed won't get you promoted. Not in this new world order."
"Everybody knows how to play the politics, I just refuse to sell my dignity for rank."
"Rank is power, why else would you have joined the force?"
"Passionate altruism?" Stevens giggled. His partner flashed him a stony glare, not fully comprehending the response. Stevens continued, "cause I care." A hearty buffaw made his partner's belly dance. In one hand, his open fist reeled the cruiser around the corner. The other hand, bouncing with his belly, clutched black volcanic liquid.
"WOAAHH!" Stevens shouted, his cracked window alerting the scene of his attention. Rajiv, Allen, and the ravenous dog had drifted into the street. The cruiser's pilot, now wide eyed and serious, slammed stop the vehicle in a movie-style screech. Everyone froze in anticipation.
Jack had been awake for hours, painfully bloodshot and blurry in a still-dark morning. He welcomed the hubbub outside his door, an indication that life could start. It didn't feel like morning, rather it felt like an extension of the previous day, as if time skipped and night never happened, a new familiar day repeating. Hushed voices and shuffles inspired an increased nervous excitement that he could escape the buzzing of his roommates snore and drift tired through another day of limbo.
"Dude... how..." Stevens looked at his partner, amazed at the gimbaled balance demonstrated during the maneuver. No coffee had been spilt. Dead center, feet from the bumper, Rajiv and Allen held to life via the satchel. The dog, now sufficiently spooked, had disappeared.
Relieved, but still on duty, the pudgy driver flicked his sirens on and hurled himself out of the car. Before either Rajiv or Allen could acknowledge the other, a gun had been drawn and they were being ordered to the floor.
Allen was transport ready before Stevens had left the vehicle. Rajiv stood, jumping jack position, satchel swinging from his left hand.
"Stevens, secure the assailant." The gun with arms ordered. Stevens packaged Allen efficiently and pinned him to the cruiser.
"What's in the satchel?"
"Uhh, cuuhh... uhhh, it was, my wife..." Rajiv tripped over his words.
"You put that bag on the ground. You put it down slow." Rajiv looked to his left, surprised he was holding anything. Slowly, as if he forgot how to use his limbs, Rajiv lowered the satchel. As it touched the ground, the officer half lowered his pistol. "Now, four steps back, common now." Rajiv shuddered back. Once the officer was holding the satchel, he holstered his gun. "Ok, what happened here." An unnatural calm infected his accusatory presence.
"The... the dog, it wanted my food."
"What dog?"
Rajiv's head zipped about robotically, as if controlled by a randomizer program. He didn't respond.
"Look, sir, if this man assaulted you, there is no shame in pressing charges."
"Assault, what... no... the dog, it was."
"Stevens, book the suspect, this man is having a trauma response."
"No... I... it was..." Rajiv numbly gestured to the dog's origins. The officer rustled quickly through the bag and ushered him into the shop.
"Is this your store, sir."
"Yes, yes... it's..."
"Look, I witnessed the whole thing, I don't need you to file a report, but if your memory returns and you'd like to pursue this case further, this is my card."
"Oh. No... he was, he was helping."
"I suggest you take the morning to recover, have a seat."
Before Rajiv could gather the courage to vindicate Allen, the police had pulled away, a calm scruffy passenger occupying their backseat cage.
"He kept calling him a dog." The driver brushed off the detail with a smirk
"A dog?" Stevens' mental cogs creaked to life. Something about the scene didn't match his partner's story.
"I mean, the guy looks like a stray. But man... it's strange what the mind does when stressed."
"Ya... I guess..." Stevens racked his memory for signs of canine involvement. "Did you check the bag?"
"Ya, all clear, just some scrambled lunch items and the usual."
"No, I mean, for bite marks."
"Bite marks? No... what?" The officer shook his head dismissively. "No there was no dog."
From the back Allen quietly added. "The greatest trick the devil ever pulled..."
Stevens turned inquisitively, but kept his energy on remembering the scene. "Let's turn back real quick, maybe we can get some more information from the store owner. You barely questioned him."
"He's spooked, there's no need. This guy was definitely in the wrong. Did he have ID?"
"He's homeless, of course he has no documents."
"I bet he has priors, lets get him printed and processed, we can figure the rest out later."
he's gonna lock him up on history, not on fact...
Stevens knew when to keep his mouth shut, he was too junior on the force. If he had learned anything during his time there, it was that experience was more valid than evidence. Flashbacks of his Army days tickled the back of his consciousness. He spent his youth in training, then in Iraq, listening to wire taps, sorting unimportant paperwork, and keeping his smart mouth shut. He didn't belong in an office, especially not a desert sweatshop office.
"At least the breakfast is good." A pudgy, rosy, disfigured man in his—50s? no. older. older?—poked an empty conversation at Jack as they collected the assortment of mostly pre-prepared continental rations.
Jack returned the invite with a blank pivot, mouth agape, the words floating past his attention. He half returned to awareness, grasping a banana with a smiling nod. He found his way away from friendliness, lazering to an empty table with his tray. He had forgotten to collect more than the banana, but wasn't hungry. His breath labored, whole body pulsing. He left the fruit unpeeled, drifting, a half-waking delirium. Unusually, no imaginations planted for him to ruminate. He watched the mute walls match his breathing, intruding on the sluggish room of coffee guzzlers.
He had maintained an unintentional silence through breakfast, but was scheduled with counseling for review. It had been three weeks since Jack arrived at T.R.O.P.E. He was still nursing a nearly depleted supply of oxy that he was using to self taper. Jack was a functional abuser, rationalized in his coherent escapades.
quick hit for the good doc
Jack snuck a nose rubbing snort, blinking excessively. He tapped a single knock beside a elegant badge with too many abbreviations at the end of a name he ignored.
Frollace was scheduled on the 1038, Saturday morning, with plans to hang long in D.C. before continuing on to her final destination. D.C. had more density, was her favorite city, and would serve as a primer for the following week. Though she wasn't looking forward to her work duties, her personal obligations were more troubling, and would be nagging on her conscience the entire time, on top of the nagging she was sure to receive when she told Mama that it would be another week before her visit.
Frollace originated from the little sliver of Maryland, the land of basically West Virginia, the lands of proud Maryland moonshiners. Her mother, a single, loose toothed wolf of a woman had wrestled a bootlegging operation from one of her suitors and raised the six siblings on hard lessons and fluid morality. Frollace was the only to escape from the cyclical murmurings of a small town that kept her family well insulated from open minds.
Frollace suffocated in that insulation.
Far from that life, Washington had become a beacon of freedom to her, and the representation of letting her mind roam free.
She watched from the lightly populated station, a familiar logo appear on the side of a bus. It morphed into a desktop figurine.
"Frollace..."
Frollace snapped up, looking into the eyes of her professor.
"Like I was saying, if we don't get a hold of this, I won't be seeing you next year." Genuine concern lingered between them. Behind the desk hung awards and diplomas, and a large infographic with molecular chains, unlabeled. "Uhhmmm, it's not my place, but maybe someone at home could—"
"No!" Frollace stood aggressively, hugging a textbook with both hands. "I'm fine. I'll—"
Frollace was standing at the bus stop, holding a heavy novel. She boarded the bus, ignoring any stray looks from those around her.
"Jack, I'm hopeful." The platinum blonde, Scandinavian tall, piercing blue squinted smile made Jack wince. He looked about for an exit.
"How are you feeling? I sense a distance."
"Fine." Jack knew how to keep that distance.
"I'd like to talk about home. Your father. Can we start there?"
Jack's left eyebrow twitched. He steadied into a practiced calm inviting tone, "sure."
"Tell me about him, I've seen your last name somewhere. Let me guess, he's a busy guy."
"Sounds like you know him already."
Dr. Fakeness—facelift?—forced a laugh. "So... he's not around much? How do you feel about that?"
Jack broadcasted that he was deep in consideration, "well... it's hard, you know. I don't get to see my Mom anymore. And I never much got to spend time with him, so all I have is my art." Jack's art was crafting stories.
"Art! Wow! That's wonderful! I'd love to see it sometime, maybe you can show me after the next crafting session?"
"Ohhh, it's not very good, I don't like to share it."
"Mmmhmmm, I see. Well maybe I can show you some of mine first. I love to paint." the doc was scribbling frantically, failing to pay attention. Jack made sure to keep the conversation within approved buzzwords to not draw attention, biting a sarcastic tongue. He blabbered endlessly, diverting and re-formulating details, keeping his interviewer busy on her pad as he surveyed the room. He hid his desperation, fantasizing that he would find a contraband bottle of perks, vikes—hell, even xanax would do.
Frollace's phone buzzed inside her bag. She was still 30 minutes from the city.
i dunno... people who talk on the phone, on the bus...
She let it go to voicemail.
The trees didn't seem like trees when you pass them so quickly, Frollace journaled. It's not like when you sit with them or in them, on the branches, under the canopies. When you pass them, it's so easy to think they are insignificant, like little decorations, little lego pieces in the distance. That you could pass and not think about, forget that they even existed.
Frollace spent her childhood with the trees. They didn't torment her like her brothers, or nag like her sisters. People are so outwardly insecure when there is an anomaly in the pack. Her family was more akin to wild animals than anything, worse than that, they were copies of their ancestors, almost precise copies, as if evolution didn't know what to do with them so it just skipped the whole bloodline, hoping they wouldn't survive. And as quickly as she fondly remembered the trees, they were tainted by memories of her youth.
She fumbled with a rats nest of earbuds, leaving some knots and twists. Her phone blinked with two notifications: Missed call and Voicemail. The contact Read: Sharif Boss Lady, Lady Boss. She hadn't changed the contact in a while. She hadn't heard from Sharif in a while.
"Hi! Frollace. You know you're my favorite. Uhh, nevermind that, I'm not buttering you up for a favor. I need a favor." A pause followed. “Do you still work for Roth? I know it's weird that I'm calling you instead of him. Anyways, this message wasn't a total disaster. Miss you. Talk soon."
Frollace chuckled. She missed Sharif too.
"You're such a loveable mess." Carl spoke as if he was talking to a child.
"You need to work on your compliments," Sharif jabbed.
"Did she get canned too?"
"Doubt it, she's like, the everything for that company. The one you go to for answers."
"I thought that was you."
"No, no, I was on the ground. I didn't play with the software."
"She's a tech?"
"Not really, just really smart."
Carl shook his head. "I don't get startup culture."
"She's like a grand master puzzle solver. She just knows about everything, where to find stuff."
Carl inserted a sharp breath, "okay, I'm dumb, help me. What is so important about the software update?"
"That's when the guy showed up. It was right after a new release. I didn't make the connection before." Sharif shuffled through more printed emails.
"You weren't drunk enough to see the truth!"
"I was last night" Sharif winked.
"Hence the knitting." Carl plucked a yarn line.
The previous day had been a slog for the two, Sharif expanding and imploding through a grief cycle, Carl committing to stay for a long weekend.