FICTION

By Chris Daly

1. Pre­lim­i­nary Report, with notes and “eyes-only” mate­r­i­al, including 
recov­ered com­mu­ni­ca­tions, from the days prior to the inci­dent which has 
come to the atten­tion of so many, sub­mit­ted by Sr. Vol­un­teer Patrol Officer 
Childe Gordon, BS Crim­i­nal Justice Theory, BA English Lit, Bonito Beach 
PD.

Journal entry, pre­vi­ous month: the precise posi­tion / loca­tion of
poten­tial person of inter­est is seated on the curb between parked
vehi­cles, east end of Old Elec­tric Avenue, north side, by the row of new
“skin­nies,” or on curb next block west in front of the some­what older
“town­house” build­ing, com­prised of rental skin­nies, stacked in a pile at
angles.

Profile of the PPOI: female in her twen­ties, brown hair, brown eyes,
good muscle tone, good face across which flick­ers a variety of subtle
mil­len­ni­al col­le­giate-level expres­sions when emo­tion­al­ly engaged in
com­mu­ni­ca­tion activity.

Indi­vid­ual typ­i­cal­ly arrives later in the day­light hour time­frame in a
modest, clean compact with state school sticker in the window, exits
vehicle ready or partly ready to exer­cise, assumes posi­tion on curb,
lights a cig­a­rette and indulges in a period of texting, after which she/
they adjourns to the winding strip of median grass on Old Electric
Avenue for an admit­ted­ly unob­tru­sive­ly posi­tioned workout consisting
pri­mar­i­ly of “on the-ground” “iso­la­tion” ele­ments. This activ­i­ty may or
may not be fol­lowed by another cig­a­rette on the curb before heading
off at a mod­er­ate, deter­mined trot to the naval station fence where the
small tree has the sign reading Skeeter Johnson, loving husband, father,
and friend, 1960 – 1991, “Good times then,” (pos­si­ble dead POI), and
dis­ap­pear­ing to the right onto the walkway, east end of the strand. Has
some­times been observed return­ing more or less at dusk and hitting the
curb again before enter­ing vehicle and exiting city limits, proceeding
incon­spic­u­ous­ly in the direc­tion of inner Orange County.

2. Fol­low­ing record­ed infor­ma­tion obtained by use of “Sub-rosa”
(under a certain rose bush) tech­nol­o­gy, and con­cerns poten­tial intellectuals 
of inter­est, one of whom resides in the front upper unit of the somewhat 
con­fus­ing town­house; weed-smokers. – C Gordon, BS, BA, SBPD

“In skinny real estate, all func­tion­al areas are pushed to one side
of the rec­tan­gle, mim­ic­k­ing the old rail­road flats; my kitchen is like a
pas­sage­way in a sleeper car, my bath­room is divided into consecutive
sec­tions, and the inte­ri­or stairs are wor­shiped like a god. From the
outside there is a certain grandeur, the three bal­conies, the partly
angled roof with ver­ti­cal sky­light panels, you can’t even figure out the
shape of this build­ing; so why is it so annoy­ing to live here?”

“It’s the Le Cor­busier prin­ci­ple. He’s the French archi­tect who
under­took to rethink living space. The first thing he did was lower the
ceiling to seven feet, and after that it was a foot here, a foot there.
From the outside his medium-size build­ing was a modern classic with
a touch of some­thing else. The night­mares and mental breakdowns
began almost imme­di­ate­ly. After a year, the remain­ing res­i­dents were
trans­ferred direct­ly to the insane asylum.”

“Up and down the stairs all day drives me nuts. For a kid this would
be a cool club­house. There’s the curb-squat­ter. I’m sorry but I don’t
like it. I want to come to my immor­tal balcony, to escape the room
over­heat­ed by the styl­ized sky­light, without having a public encounter.
Why doesn’t she park and walk a few steps over to the green strip?”

“Because Bonito Beach is smokey-freaky. In Arbuck­le Cove we have
our smokers hanging on every other corner, even outside the dispensary.
Here you have to hide under your exhaust pipe to light up. Her legs
aren’t bad.”

“She’s not bad looking but such a flat expres­sion, don’t girls like fun
anymore? A dancer?”

“I’m guess­ing no. She’s just taking exer­cise in a park in a better
neigh­bor­hood. It’s all per­fect­ly innocent.”

“Like the doctor and the maids over on Bonito Way. I’m enough
of a hippie to have no sym­pa­thy for the real estate dog, who is central
to the way the pig has taken over so much of the nation­al life, and I
don’t really feel like calling atten­tion to myself by con­tact­ing the local
PD, and what would I say? She’s scout­ing for some­body? Texting while 
smoking while brown?

“You’re used to Arbuck­le types. If we just stand up here and project
author­i­ty she will get the message. Wooden ships on the water and I
want her the fuck out of here.”

3. Initial PPOI, first recov­ered message – C Gordon, BS, BA, BBPD
about2get2itbtwfuckoldcreepsonbalconies

4. Vol­un­tary full dis­clo­sures and further notes on context and an Arbuckle 
POI

My thought process involves think­ing, dis­sem­bling, putting back
togeth­er. All sit­u­a­tions are police sit­u­a­tions when appre­hend­ed as
dis­cre­tionary units. In other words, follow the why. Is there a reason,
one may wonder, where­fore a par­tic­u­lar indi­vid­ual was drawn to the
life of the Senior Vol­un­teer Patrol? It was like this: A dear acquaintance
of mine, a local senior, was com­plet­ing some errands on a timely basis
early one after­noon on Main Street when a some­what unkempt white
female approached him and inquired where she might find someone
who might want a “blow job.” He guessed that this pre­sumed citizen
came in on the bus from Arbuck­le Cove, and he, the senior, advised her
to return from whence. He fol­lowed her but soon a medical condition,
which he had been bat­tling with notable courage, forced him to return
home.

This senior was a friend of mine. He relayed the inci­dent to me over
the phone. Imagine the shock a few days later when I stopped by his
house, which he as a widower had taken care of beau­ti­ful­ly before and
after he inher­it­ed it from the widow of Shep Shane, who had built the
basic clap­board res­i­dence (and the iden­ti­cal one next to it) with army
money from his (Shep’s) time down in the Zone in the 1950s, and I was
a day late to visit the living man, my friend the Senior, who may have
been done in by the mystery obscen­i­ty artist, pre­sum­ably from Arbuckle
Cove.

It was a crazy scene. Rel­a­tives of Shep’s widow had moved in on the
prop­er­ty, taking pos­ses­sion of all papers and serving a 60-day notice
to the two intel­lec­tu­als (who lived in the match­ing house) and the
dental lab thief/art film activist (of no par­tic­u­lar inter­est) who lived in
back. I knew there was one way to keep the case warm. The criminal
per­son­al­i­ty will often grant unto his/her/their self the right of return.
My inner nar­ra­tor may be loopy but Childe Gordon is a cool observer.
I know that the brown female adult PPOI who instinc­tive­ly conceals
herself down and out of sight on the curb between two vehicles—
brought to the department’s atten­tion by the same evicted eggheads
from the basic beach bun­ga­low next to that of the gen­tle­man, that
prince, whom I refer to as The Senior, (the same talkers now in the
rental w/balconies on Old Electric)—is not my gal. However, if it is true
that all random strays who find their way to Bonito Beach are of an ilk,
one might proceed by being alert to nuance, and to what Proust called
“invol­un­tary memory.” If I can “become” the prime suspect, then I may
draw the orig­i­nal again to Main Street and create an oppor­tu­ni­ty to
ini­ti­ate direct-tar­get­ed investigation.

5. Sub Rosa town­house intel­lec­tu­al mate­r­i­al, second exhibit.

“The only person I got along with on the old Shep street was the
cigar boat guy, who’d a thunk it? With that big pickup and the macho
water­craft, he took up half that side of the street. Oth­er­wise, he was
com­fort­able staying to himself, working through the sadness of life,
hiding his mid­west­ern secrets.”

“He was the only one on the block who didn’t give me hostile
looks.”

“He had both kinds of luck. He inher­it­ed a piece of a well on the flat
just in from what used to be Tin Can Beach, was able to retire early, and
by fifty he had what­ev­er the medical con­di­tion was that killed him. His
wife, Gail the school­teacher, is good looking, in a keep oneself neat and
pre­sentable way. They fit togeth­er. They coor­di­nat­ed activ­i­ties. After he
was gone, she redid the front of the house and then redid herself, dated
guys who looked, but were not oth­er­wise like, her dead husband.”

“I’ve had the odd sur­prise encounter with the new Gail in the Wild
Oats market. Unlike the ter­mi­nal cigar boat guy, can’t say that I like her.
Prob­a­bly not a Marxist.”

“After the house fell in her lap, she con­nect­ed with a certain niche
prop­er­ty group, only orig­i­nal-size lots or the very best skin­nies need
apply. What did Marx say?”

“Said, as later echoed from an earlier source by Billy Bragg, to buy
and sell the earth for private gain is fucked.”

“I tell you what’s fucked. When cigar boat guy was hanging on at
the end, I missed that oppor­tu­ni­ty for a deathbed visit; he never liked
me, but out of spite for the sud­den­ly appear­ing Shep rel­a­tives onceremoved, might have thrown me the lot, prob­a­bly worth a million.”

“I cried one day while driving on Old Elec­tric with one of those
senior patrol offi­cers on my tail, think­ing about the same thing. Of such
pissers des­per­ate eter­ni­ties are made. Hey, the visitor’s in the hood. You
can’t see her. You can see the car, and there’s the smoke.”

“I should have visited cigar boat guy on his deathbed. Prepare to
visu­al­ly engage, with prejudice.”

6. PPOI, second recov­ered message – C Gordon, BS, BA, SBPD
off2sandhighwaybeingwatchedunothefeeling

7. Random observations/notes.

Tenuous con­nec­tion, pos­si­bly of uncer­tain mutual benefit, has been
estab­lished with pro­fes­sion­al bounty res­i­dent who is patent­ly not
Bonito Beach mate­r­i­al, and in fact had gone head-to-head with a
charter member emer­i­tus of the Skinny Asso­ci­a­tion regard­ing untoward
remarks to a dog walker. Bounty person of uncer­tain inter­est has feelers
out regard­ing option on a res­i­den­tial oppor­tu­ni­ty in Lake Lucrezia.
Remarked that the area was a more likely eccen­tric, ultra-patrioticlifestyle com­mu­ni­ty choice for other full-skill-set bird dogs of his/their
ilk, as well as for the hideout types he/they were often paid to find. I do
not mis­trust this half-brother exactly but was sur­prised when the subject
of the brown adult female (orig­i­nal PPOI), pos­si­ble serial vio­la­tor of the
city smoker foot­print ordi­nance, came up and he pro­nounced her OK.
It was, the way he said it, as if he had an open file on her. Accomplices
of oppor­tu­ni­ty, instinc­tive, rec­i­p­ro­cal cover artists, who knew on this
beat? I do know that The Senior had spent years setting up a retirement
spot on a some­what more rural lake up north and was finally ready to
take actual pos­ses­sion of a simple and beau­ti­ful dream. I owe the man
a duty. If our seniors are being taken from us, even if they would have
expired anyway within the hour, I can only say: Not in the arc of my
watch, sir.

8. Sub-rosa, Town house intel­lec­tu­al mate­r­i­al of inter­est, third exhibit

“I started smoking when I was twelve. I was a smoker first, an
intel­lec­tu­al second. I remem­ber smoking in college class­rooms, putting
the butt out on the floor. The drop-in curb person is a real smoker, that’s
her truth. I hate when actors pretend to smoke.”

“The cigar is my truth, I’m not a smoke puritan. Just not every day
right in front of my rental angle-shack in the sky. Why not go right over
to the green ser­pen­tine, or to the Isle de Lopez, or onto the naval base
with the coyotes, or out sand highway to the jetty? I don’t like it, and I
also have a funny feeling about it. What do you call this in literature?”

“A Ten­nessee Williams omen, a future member of the Skinny
Association.”

“A spook of sorts, one sup­pos­es. It’s always some­thing. The only
good sit­u­a­tion I’ve had in latter day, post–Emmy Lou Harris Bonito Bay,
was the tran­si­tion­al year over on the strand. Upstairs was rented to the
old doctor and perfect neigh­bor who came once a week on Tuesday
after­noon to meet with the two “maids” upstairs for a couple of hours.
I think he was too old to do any­thing but watch, but some­thing got
him up those stairs. I was gone one week and missed the fun on the
after­noon they all went up there on sched­ule, and he came down feet
first. Can you please go away, death person, can you please?”

9. PPOI, third message, partly encrypt­ed? – C Gordon, BS, BA, SBPD
Navyonleavegobybyexcept4warnotready

10. Pro­vi­sion­al Conclusion

The Bonito Beach inci­dent in which the beauty salon was shot up
by the embit­tered ex, that went world­wide, deserves this account in
abstract from depart­ment vol­un­teer, regular status, Childe Gordon,
present the day of the inci­dent. By instinct, which is the residue of a
life of obser­va­tion, I heard the squawk and took up posi­tion at the far
end of Old Elec­tric Avenue, adja­cent to the Isle de Lopez. The suspect
pro­ceed­ed approx­i­mate­ly three-fourths of the way along OE Ave toward
the point of imme­di­ate egress from this slow-growth beach municipality,
where the reg­u­lars pulled him over, took him into custody without
further adieu. From a glance at his face I didn’t get crusty Arbuck­le, I
got well-fed (pos­si­bly on stipend from gov­ern­ment or civil settlement),
dan­ger­ous in a non-sophis­ti­cat­ed way; the passing caravan received at
least one smart salute, whether noticed or acknowl­edged in the heat of
the moment, matters not.

I pro­ceed­ed to the scene and pro­vid­ed back-up logis­ti­cal support,
and citizen education/direction. I was not born yes­ter­day, nor will I
cry tomor­row. Without delay, I began to think the whole thing was a
dis­trac­tion. Not on my pil­grim­age. When the regular status officer had
the recent PTSD inci­dent result­ing in the suicide/homicide of self and
girl­friend in the newer stream­line rental they shared, that’s an open and
shut matter, clin­i­cal­ly related to the stress of a nec­es­sary voca­tion. Unlike the case
which I hereby pledge will not grow cold of the retired doctor and the so called
“maids,” unlike, most assured­ly, the matter of The Senior, who was guilty only of
trying to con­tin­ue a well-earned wid­ow­hood in a clap­board orig­i­nal on a street
with a number on the quiet side of old town Bonito Beach. We deserve better.
Hail to thee, blithe prince, may you be forever afford­ed respect, and a possible
ded­i­cat­ed bench on the ser­pen­tine, and may par­tic­u­lar PPOIs rest there and
else­where not nec­es­sar­i­ly in peace.

11. PPOI, fourth message – C Gordon, BS, BA, SBPD
hardcurbmake4hardassoldcopsherecrybeautifulsmokedisciplinecalls

This story orig­i­nal­ly appeared in Stonecoast Review Issue 18.

Photo by Scott Rodgerson.