366. Epilogue.

366.

Epilogue.

The idea, neither artistically unique nor dramatically divergent, was to write somewhere North of 500 words per day, every day. Unlike my daily blog postings of a few years back; The Ten Thousand Things, ramblings, itself a digital variation of the Julia Cameron inspired 'Morning Pages' discipline, this one was going to be, I boldly envisioned, one continuous story. Each day of the year representing one page. On January 1, 2020 I typed the opening sentence, "Something was different." Yesterday, despite frustrating interruptions like a pandemic, my loss of employment, subsequent work with the USPS in response, a major move and the painful first-person witnessing of my astonishing loss of muscle mass, I wrote the final sentence of the saga using the phrase that had become thematic on both the screen and in my life: 'Continue Your Practice.' The words between them, like a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich, created the narrative, sometimes bland and sometimes beautiful. I did try to avoid adverbs as much as possible and stay in the first person using the active voice. Other than that, it was a free for all.

The ground rules were straightforward: Just write. No editing, no rewriting, no revisions and nothing other than spell check, which I even managed to foil on several embarrassing occasions. In what is now called Flash Fiction, the effort was tremendously rewarding, as I am sure the Stream of Consciousness pioneers, Kerouac, Joyce, Dostoevesky and Virginia Woolf must have likewise experienced. My goal wasn't to attain the celebrity or artistic magnificence they earned, but more to strive for simply ONE GOOD SENTENCE with every page. Just one. One would think that humble premise to be a walk in the park. Try it. See for yourself. Send me the link.

The key I stumbled upon to doing this as a discipline rather than a chore, subtle difference I know, is in allowing the mysterious creative powers of the universe to play a part. There were days that frankly I didn't feel much like writing, "You should be looking for a job deadbeat," I would self admonish, but other days I would be absolutely amazed at what took place when I sat down, logged in and grammered up (oops there I go again making up words). Seriously, I would often consider when a deliciously devious idea popped up - where did THAT come from? That voice? From where doest thou sing?

I will confess, being the Stephen King fan I am, his tome 'On Writing' was of considerable utility in the process. His advice of tossing plot outlines and instead 'creating situations' for his characters to experience, was both empowering and inspiring. I would literally put my characters; Bogart, Julie, Davis, TOM, Drysdale, The Queen, Mustang and all the bad dudes in a room, toss in a prop and report what developed. From day one I had no idea of what was to come. How that effort yielded a somewhat cohesive 'tale' remains a mystery to me of great magnitude and considerable joy.

By way of apology, the reason it took me a year and a half to write a years worth of copy, owed its length to the aforementioned global virus. Literally I woke one day last March with zero cash flow. Lost were my jobs as an indoor cycling instructor, my business, as owner of a indoor cycling studio, my passion, creating indoor cycling videos and my side gigs, house and dog sitting. All gone, dried up like the raisins in your hand-painted porcelain cereal bowl. I did manage to land a job with the USPS and that turned into a 70 hour work weeks ordeal (not to mention a severe bout of carpal tunnel). I reveal this in self defense. It was simply impossible (for me) to work a 16 hour day and then write. Something had to give and as I needed the cabbage, this was that. Right before I quit Postal, or perhaps because of it, I concocted the idea that the passage of  'down time' could be juxtaposed into the story as Bogart's six-month induced coma. And just like that we were back at it. And thank you for asking, I am now working two jobs, one delivering the Seattle and NY Times from Midnight to Six and working in our Island's boutique movie theater, build in 1936 and seating 226 cinema lovers, a few nights a week as well. Like having two lovers, I need to pick one and give the selected one my singular best. But I will admit that the challenge of getting by sometimes on two hours sleep creates a situation that even Mr. King might appreciate.

Therefore, as Porky Pig used to squeal, "That's All Folks." It has been my special pleasure to participate in this grand adventure and I thank you sincerely (I should know you by name) for your participation on the read end. Hope you had some fun too.

I am taking a few weeks off to tend to other matters. I have some ideas for Book Two. I might even break the rules and go back and clean up my grammatical errors, punctuation gaffes and maybe even rewrite those pesky dangling participles out of existence - you know -edit. Or maybe not. Getting started on a new adventure - spoiler alert - I am toying with the idea of Bogart retiring and working his screenplay - fills my imagination with the winds of possibility.

That effort, should it come to fruition, will be moved to another location. And you, dear reader, will be the first to know where. Until then, please continue your practice as I continue mine.

Peace and Love.

KML, out.

The Familiar Voice

365.

Gentle hands on my shoulders awaken me from a deep and troubled sleep. How long I had been dozing at her bedside, unknown. I shake the fog of transition and return to the present tense. My body hurts. There is a new type of pain, not simply the soreness accrued from physical exertion, but a stinging sensation more like what pain an inflamed nerve might create if left untended, spanning the length of my right leg. I stand to relieve the pressure and stretch, looking down at Mustang as I rise. I reach for her hand and repeat the 'I know you can hear me' protocol.

"Put yourself at ease my dear friend. Rest and heal in the loving light of positive energy. Recall that we rehearsed the restorative power of high-intensity, high quality energy flow. I have got to go get cleaned up," I nod towards the nurse in anticipation of her request, "but I'll be back shortly, and that's a promise."

Downstairs I am disappointed to find a parking ticket on the Escalade, shaking my head and tucking it into glove box for later reconciliation. I quickly play back the tapes in my head as I navigate my way back towards the hotel. On the internal big-screen are a hundred full-color images, the requisite crime scene black and white photos, a handful of key sound bytes, all edited seamlessly between several highlight quality video clips. No wonder my brain hurts as much as my bag of bones!

The highlight reel concluded I segue into coming attractions. What have we learned? What loose ends are left to tie up? What priorities dictate immediate action? Are there current threats pending or open protocols needing attention? What is status in Madison, Austin and DC? What is the threat level?

And perhaps most importantly, what might my continued role in all of this be? I am haunted by the image of Mustang laying motionless on the Capitol lawn. She was following my orders, and although it was a field decision under duress, one that I tried to hedge by drawing fire away from her by going first, the guilt and responsibility I feel is as heavy as any I have previously encountered.

Lost in an ethical tug of war, the morality of which transcends all political correctness, I consider my place. I consider myself. I consider my proper spiritual path, my values and my commitment to the service of others.

The freeway is eerily bereft of volume. Once a metaphor for my process, I am on cruise control - freeing up precious bandwidth to allow symbolic input from the cosmos.

As a peaceful rain begins to fall I hear the familiar voice of my muse:

'Continue your practice.' 

I'll Be Here

364.

My image in the sliding glass door is unsettling. I look like a guy who has been through a war and survived, shot at and missed….as the saying goes. In retrospect I should have at least gone to the hotel, showered and changed clothes, but in my haste to visit Mustang in ICU, my focus was elsewhere. The supposition that in emergency hospitals the staff are accustomed to such personal oversight, is almost calming, but not completely. I briskly walk towards the information desk, identify myself and ask for directions. Still running on leftover adrenaline fumes, I decide to take the stairs up the six floors to the ER, noting with each step the response from my hips, quads, hamstrings and knees. I remain in a perplexed state of bewilderment as they all seems to be taking the difficult chore of post-traumatic adaptation with fierce determination. My hubris at the circumstance is terminated as I enter the emergency ward where a chaotic choreography of frantic animation is underway. My hope is that none of it is part of Mustang's care.

I am asked by a nurse receptionist to kindly take a seat and advised that she will relay the information of my presence to the post-op team responsible for my injured partner. I want to pull rank and overrule her request under the guise of national security or some other immediate necessity, but choose to politely thank her and find what looks like the most comfortable chair in the adjacent waiting room.

As I walk in a young couple looks at me through weary, bloodshot eyes. Without asking I know that there is a child being tended to in the same proximity as my partner. I sit in the corner trying to find some comfort in the industrial design of a chair whose maker evidently held little regard for human ergonomics. There is no sound in the small room except the hum of the compressor feeding a few tropical fish with life supporting air, a metaphor I find ironic.

I rub my eyes. Without the sensation of sight I consider which of the two patients, my partner, riddled with gun shot wounds and fighting for her life, or what I imagine to be a young child, perhaps just learning to walk, undergoing some exotic and dangerous operation to salvage her opportunity to go on living - to continue HER practice. Who has the priority? I cringe with the answer to my own question; that the decision is often settled by the party having the best insurance coverage. I open my eyes sensing the presence of someone standing in from of me. It is a nurse wearing what looks to me like full combat gear.

"We are out of surgery, if you would like to see the patient, we need to clean you up a little," she says once we make eye contact, "but be advised that she is heavily sedated and unable to talk."

I stand ready to roll, passing the young couple as we exit the room. I glance at them and offer as much empathy and hope as I am able with only a knowing smile. I want to say something in the likes of 'hang in there' or 'it'll be OK" but nothing comes besides the powerful, spiritual understanding of the basic human premise that life is suffering and this, sadly, is that.

The nurse takes me to a giant stainless steel sink where we do a field cleanse of my hands, arms, face and neck. She then outfits me with a blue gown, mask, cap and gloves. Knowing the drill I offer no resistance but with the addition of each additional personal protective garment my sense of dread increases. Properly adorned, we walk into a large circular room with medical activity in every other triangular shaped room. We pass one where I notice what appears to be a child receiving attention from a team of surgeons. For the second time today I say a silent prayer.

The nurse pulls back the curtains to a room and offers me entrance. I am immediately aware of the wall of electronic equipment all in full digital display of vital signs. In front of them, almost unrecognizable behind layers of white gauze lies my partner.

I swallow and take the five steps to her bedside. My eyes immediately mist in response to the drama of the scene before me.

I reach for her hand. I look at her closed eyes desperately wishing them to open; bright, clear and compassionate as I have known them. I remember back to our introduction when I first opened my eyes after a six month induced coma. She was there. She stayed there. She was singularly responsible for my recovery. She volunteered to join our group. She displayed enormous amounts of courage and wisdom at every stop. She tutored, monitored and participated in my physical rehab. We became close friends and a formidable law-enforcement team. She had, and has, my absolute respect.

And I put her in harms way. I asked her to risk everything for the sake of the mission. I should have had her stay back and provide cover as I stormed the van. A thousand similar thoughts rush through my consciousness as I caress her hand and watch for any sign of movement around her eyes. Just the sound of the beeps from the EKG machine and activity from the other stations. My world is reduced to one thing. One emotion. One energy.

"I'll be here," I finally say.

Been a Long Day

363.

I ask for the update in my best 'give it to me straight' monotone. The ER nurse gets the message and begins with a solemn, "There were complications."

"Is she alive?"

"Yes, sorry, but still in surgery, the gunshot wounds caused more damage than we initially estimated, and, please, can you tell me the approximate time between the incident and the arrival of the paramedics?"

"I would say about twenty to thirty minutes, no more than that. Why?"

"Well, the ER surgeon is still amazed that she, how do I put this?…."

"Lasted as long as she did without bleeding out?" I answer.

"Yes."

"Because she is the toughest cookie in the jar and knew that our work wasn't over. She hung on because we needed to finish the job, simple as that."

The silence leads me to believe that the nurse relies more on scientific fact and medical cause and effect rather than faith in the unlimited human spirit and commitment to an alternative power source. Either way, the conversation ends as my back-up phone begins to ring, buzz, hiss and shout. "Please do your best, I am on my way and be there in fifteen minutes, thank you sincerely for all your effort. Try talking to her."

Julie tells me that the news has traveled faster than the speed of sound. The Directors of both Homeland Security and the DOJ  called to voice their concerns about my flagrant disregard for their exacting release protocols.

"I asked them for patience and understanding, citing that under the circumstances the insurrectionists are in better, safer and more secure hands than being jammed into a dark cell beneath the still smoldering Capitol building." She reports.

"Insurrectionists? Is that what they are calling them? They are Domestic Terrorists in every sense of the word. That they are all uneducated white males doesn't change the reality of their crimes. I realize the slimy politics of wanting them to be black Islamists, brown Cartel thugs or Asian ninja assassins but that is simply not the reality."

"I know. But…"

"But what Julie? But what?"

"You know as well as I that there is a public relations balance we need to dance with…

I pause to breathe. She is right - not so much in the fact that our PR concerns or our need to put tact and diplomacy on the same scale with the violence and grit of fighting terrorism, but that if we are to continue our noble efforts to do so, we cannot bite the hand that feeds. It is a slice of humble pie that right now I haven't the stomach for.

"I also have the goods on an inside conspiracy, including the Capitol Police, FBI and local agencies. I am going to sit on it until this blows over. Mostly to see how they respond. You think I am in hot water with the DHS and DOJ? Tepid compared to this pot of boiling bovine urine."

"We'll talk about that soon. How is Mustang?"

"Pulling into the parking lot now, I'll report back as soon as I have an update."

"Hey," She says in that soft voice I remember so well.

"Yes?"

"You OK?"

"I'm good. Been a long day. Thanks."

The Golden Goose Gets Cooked

362.

I don't even need to ask. Had Sergeant Carothers been wired to a polygraph machine the needle would be pegged at max. For about two seconds I feel sorry for the old guy but my absolute disdain for dirty cops returns my equilibrium by the third. The ringleader and his accomplices have three choices: They can silence me, they can confess, or they can plea bargain. They know as well as I that any form of bargaining is also the admission of guilt.

I reach to pick up my phone and place it in my shirt pocket, a deviation from its usual storage site in my front pants pocket. AK immediately launches into a boilerplate third-party dissertation on the need for professional assistance in the never ending fight for second amendment rights and 'selective management of specific subversive demographics'. As much as I want to stop him right there with his immoral, illegal and racist oration, I feed him all the rope he unintentionally requests.

It feels like a trial in discovery phase as the three all add to the damming testimony, at one point I am disappointed in their performance; so weak and shallow, more bias and bigotry than legitimate alibis. It strikes my that they know that their golden goose is about to be cooked, with the guilt of spilled blood and treasonous conspiracy about to be offered as desert.

Perhaps for the best, Sergeant Carothers' land line rings interrupting the self incrimination. He has a short conversation with what I can only guess is his boss, and begrudgingly hangs up the phone.

"You can have the prisoners," he says in an exasperated tone. And then adding an obviously ad-libbed caveat of, "as long as you leave your phone with us."

The silence in the room is louder than an unsilenced 45 caliber hogleg. I stall for some quick thinking time, examining the eyes of every man in the room as I do so. We are after all, brothers in arms. We have all taken the same oath to protect and to serve.

A mime might have done it better, but my one request in response contains sufficient volume for all to plainly hear. "Please give me a evidence bag and I will surrender the phone, identifying it as my property, and hence property of the DOJ."

The resulting scramble for a suitable sized envelope is comical. When successful I take the phone from my pants pocket and drop it with thumb and index finger into the bag like a radioactive fish.

"Can we prepare the perps for transport?" I ask.

There are no guarantees, no handshakes and no 'understandings' issued or implied as the men begin the task, paperwork included.

In less than thirty minutes we are ready to transport, not an off-topic word spoken between or among us.

I head back upstairs to find the Escalade and tail the bus. Along the way I take the phone from my breast pocket and stop the recording.

And then call the hospital to get an update on Mustang.

Dirty Dots

361.

We agonize past tense introductions and situational updates. After a brief cat and mouse exchange I ask, perhaps a little too bluntly, what the present meeting is designed to accomplish. Sergeant Carothers informs me that they are overbooked and need to "assign, book, transport or release' at least ten of the insurrectionists. The goal of the meeting is to determine who wins the 'get out of jail free' cards and who gets all-expenses paid trips to the big house.

Why this is a controversy I cannot understand - a situation I find grossly appalling. That such discussion are necessary, in my opinion, is criminal in itself, as every one of the temporarily incarcerated far-right insurrectionists are guilty of several felonies, a handful of gross misdemeanors and high crimes against the state. Of this there should be no debate.

"Frankly, we don't have the facility or the manpower to accommodate this volume, so as of right now, we are sending paperwork upstairs requesting the release of these prisoners." He pushes a handwritten list of the lucky ten in my direction, across his cluttered desk, past the pad of neon green sticky flags I note, and just to the left of an old school yellowed Scotch tape dispenser.

Without speaking I take the roster and give it a ceremonial once-over. The eyes of the four are upon me as I read. Satisfied that sufficient drama has been introduced to an already tense scene, I gently place the list back on his desk and announce, "I have a solution to your dilemma in the form of an option."

Seemingly relieved by the temporary change of subject, or that their responsibility as leaders has been assumed by an outsider, they all raise inquiring chins to my counter-offer.

"Authorize and assign them all into my custody, give me an hour to arrange for bus transportation and a suitable destination and all your logistic problems are solved."

Fully expecting an unanimous and grateful response I am somewhat surprised by the silence that masquerades as an answer. But I wait for the first verbal objection to see what level of cover is attempted, the debate equivalent of asking your foe what weapons he intends to bring to the street fight.

"Will you charge them?" Carothers asks shamelessly.

"To the fullest extent of the law, as they say."

Agent Kirkpatrick asks for permission to speak, "If I may present something of a alternative offer, we feel, most of us, that there is enough gray area here to save tons of paperwork and evade the court process, meaning tax payer dollars, by releasing those who are going to plead down to misdemeanor trespassing anyway," he begins, the first sentence of what sounds like a long-winded defense of the indefensible.

I listen as if I am considering the idea - keeping eye contact with him for its entirely. When he finishes I provide a flat and emotionless. "No."

It is at this point that it becomes apparent that the rules of the game have changed to accommodate my request for, what? Justice? Truth? Pay back? Honesty? Protocol? Law and Order? Respect for the badge? Right and fucking wrong?

Answering my own question with the proper answer of 'all of the above', I take my cell phone from my pocket and call Julie making sure that everyone in the room clearly hears my order for a police bus and temporary local facilities to transport, hold and begin interrogation for ten of the domestic terrorists arrested after the attempted coup on the California State Capitol. I emphasize the domestic terrorists label.

The room instantly returns to its former muted state. Sergeant Carothers' face is red as a birthday balloon and he looks like a cardiac incident about to happen. Terminating the call with Julie, I open my photo folder to the pic I snapped during my forensic inspection of the totaled ProMaster. I place the phone on his desk showing the neon green sticky flag and its cryptic note alongside the source pad of the same description, mothership to pod explorer.

It takes the Sarge less than two heartbeats to connect the dirty dots.

Green Neon

360.

I flip a few more pages with the knife blade. Page 38 is begging attention as it seems to be  bookmarked with a neon green sticky flag. In pencil is written, 'call me as soon as you're established at this number'. I take a picture of the note and number and wrap up my forensic inventory. I ask the Fire Captain where the remains of the vehicle will be transported and thank him for his emergency response; they have had a busy day.

Processing the collective data from the insurrection while heading back towards the Capitol building I remember that I have been walking with the use of both legs, and using my once paralyzed right arm as any normal person might. That my attention was so completely focused on the task at hand leaving little bandwidth to experience the 'miracle' is both phenomenal and bewildering to me. In a 'doubting Thomas' moment of monumental curiosity, I run a few tests to ensure I am not waking from a deep dream. Without considering a scientific protocol I spring into a sequence of stretches, martial arts moves and yoga poses, all demanding range of motion, flexibility, strength and balance. A passing government employee eyes me suspiciously as I complete the test but so overjoyed with the results, I merely smile in return of their glare.

The cleanup is in full operation at the Capitol. If there is one thing that stands above all other characteristics defining our American experiment in Democracy, it is that we are resilient. We WILL get up, dust off, clean the mess and get back to work. I chuckle with the thought that if this isn't an amendment, it should be.

Security, however, remains on high alert. I call AK to get a more detailed report and to exchange notes. His cell phone goes to voice mail. Inside the building local Paramedics have established a triage area and are busy tending a line of customers, some still bleeding, others suffering from conditions ranging from shock to dehydration. There is a foul odor hinting of fear permeating the interior atmosphere. It is my experience that with prolonged exposure one adapts to this olfactory insult much too quickly. I look for Agent Kirkpatrick in the usual places coming up empty with each search. I ask an officer assigned to temporary security duty if there are any CSI agents on this floor and she tells me that as far as she knows, they are all downstairs.

It is information I find of interest and decide to pay a visit to the holding cell, manned by Sergeant Carothers. The elevator is disabled so I take the emergency stairs as far as I can until I meet face to face with another officer who informs me that his orders are to allow passage to no one, regardless of rank. I show him my ID and he apologizes by saying that he will make a call. Once his conversation is complete he tells me an escort will be here monetarily to act as guide. Now I am VERY interested.

Several long minutes pass until a knock on the steel door indicates that my escort has arrived. The heavy door opens and a Capitol Security officer greets me and asks that I please follow.

Again the smell; Fear, blood, urine, hatred, smoke.

The officer leads me past the cell that formerly held Shoemaker and Sheener and is now filled to capacity with what I can only speculate are the surviving members of the River Kats. There is an identical cell beside it housing another triage operation, all told there might be close to twenty captives - all needing varying levels of attention.

In the tiny office of Sergeant Carothers, there is an executive meeting taking place among four officers, including Agent Kirkpatrick. As I enter the room, all dialogue ceases and heads look downward.

The first thing I see is a pad of neon green sticky flags on the desk belonging to Sergeant Carothers.