Interstitial

ONE A torrid rain pelted the windshield with heavy drops that dispatched remnants of bird droppings beneath the thin rubber of a metal wiper that furiously struggled to shove the liquid waste to the side. The wiper produced silvery streaks of the substance upon the windshield. The cadence of the mechanical wiper hypnotized a man who stared with vacant eyes through the messy substance on the windshield into the distance. The man crouched at the steering wheel, squinting through the minute vacancies produced by the substances on the streaking window. Almost mechanically, he fumbled with objects beneath the driver seat until his ardent fingers reached an object lying just beyond the seat adjustment bracket. Without taking his eyes from surveilling the scene, his hand pressed with intimate familiarity against the object, beginning at the bulbous bottom and slowly ascending to a narrow neck, as if he were tenderly caressing a lover. He delicately touched the object slowly, gently wrapping his fingers around the nape of the bottle. He lifted the bottle to his lips. Without removing his vision from the streaked window, he took a long drink. He moaned somewhere between acute satisfaction and intense expectation. Suddenly, a pair of blue-tinted headlights appeared in the distance. The man delicately twisted the tin cap to close the bottle before returning it to the resting place it had occupied mere moments earlier. The man grabbed a pair of binoculars from the passenger seat. He examined the form that rapidly approached. Peering through the streaked window pane, the man studied the license plate of a silver BMW as its driver turned off the main road onto a driveway paved with grey Belgian block. The driver paused at an electronic apparatus. Aided by the binoculars, the man watched the fingers of the driver enter digits onto a keypad attached to a metal plate. A heavy gate groaned open with a metallic surge that hummed in the air. The silver BMW slowly entered the paved driveway. The man leapt from a rain soaked Ford. He clutched a thick envelope in his hand. As he raced toward the gate from his sequestered perch behind thick and manicured shrubbery across the street, he sheltered the thick envelope inside a damp trench coat. He rushed toward the gate with urgency, hoping to win a race with the hum of electric current that drove the gate toward its origination point. He crossed into the other side just as the gate closed. As the hum subsided, he suddenly fell hard directly into a puddle on the brickwork. He gasped at the suddenness of the jarring blow. He looked into the starlit canopy devoid of clouds. He rubbed his eyes with wet hands. The pasty mud dripped into his eye. His wet hand followed the contour of his face to touch the top of his numbed head, but an impediment prevented his arm from pulling forward to examine the wound. Instinctively, he lifted his free hand to massage his head as he studied the obstruction. He observed a section of the trench coat he wore caught inside the locking mechanism of the gate. The man grabbed the arm of his wet trench coat and pulled with all his might, but the coat would not dislodge from the lock. Surrendering to drenched fatigue, the man clutched the thick envelope, and shimmied out from the coat. He arose from the brick roadway, and began to trudge toward the bright lights that illuminated the house. Ignoring the rain pummeling his torso, he traveled wearily in the downpour until he reached the steps of the house. The dim yellow light of the doorbell awaited his touch. For some unknown reason, the man wiped the muddy finger on his shirt before touching the doorbell. He noticed that the moisture from the shirt emitted more of the mixture of mud and rainwater onto his finger than had existed before. He pushed the doorbell twice, and inhaled a deep breath to center himself for the uncertainty that approached from within. Footsteps arrived at the threshold of the heavy wooden door. The man felt his heart accelerate from the unknown of what might occur at the moment of contact. With a suddenness not surprising to the man, a door flung open. “Yes,” asserted a man dressed impeccably in an expensive jacket and trousers. His eyes darted furtively to the wet man standing in a puddle on the doorstep. “Simon Troutwine?” “Who wants to know?” answered the man behind the door. “I am Oliver Paige. I am serving you legal process.” He tossed a thick envelope inside the residence. “You tell that w***e I used to be married to and her bastard attorney who sent you here that I hope you all burn in Hell!” screamed the man. Oliver stood quietly at the doorstep, grinning at the enraged man. “There is no Hell, Mr. Troutwine. There is only the here and now.” He turned toward the cold rain. The heavy downpour obstructed the sound of the door slamming shut behind him. Water collected in the nape of his neck, and liquid streaks dripped cold reminders of the torrent as he slowly walked toward the metal gate, wondering how he would manage to reach his car. He heard the sound of an electrical current surging through the large apparatus, and he watched as the heavy object began to open. His trench coat fell from the locking mechanism into a puddle of water at the base of the entranceway. Oliver approached the puddle with shoes that rapidly filled with water due to the disappearing sole underfoot. He stood beside the puddle. A puzzled expression painted his face. With mechanical certainty, Oliver pulled the drenched trench coat from the small reservoir. He slowly put it on. It will do, he said to himself. Oliver lumbered to his car, certain that Simon Troutwine was on the telephone at this very moment to inform the attorney who represented him that the retainer would soon be en route. Oliver staggered to an old Ford. He quickly opened the door, and plopped into the driver seat. He felt the wetness from the rain on his body soaking into the seat. He reached underneath the driver seat. His long fingers curled around the neck of a bottle on the floor. He glanced at the lights inside the Troutwine estate for a moment before bringing the bottle to parched lips which accepted the penetration of the cold glass. “Another day, another fifty dollars,” he said as he turned the key in the ignition switch. The car lurched forward. Oliver travelled down the narrow road that led from the West Hills. The lights of Portland shimmered below. Tall skyscrapers beamed light from the distance. Twinkling red lights signaled the tops of several bridges that crossed the Willamette River. The lights of the city disappeared when he reached a particularly curved route that entered a deep forest. The road twisted through a roadway decorated with stylish lanterns. He lost track of time, as the car whizzed along the pleasant roadway. He surmounted a hill, and continued through a long curve until something caught his eye. He glanced at the object that was bathed in bright illumination. He pulled into the parking lot to admire the object. It was a wooden totem pole at the side of a restaurant that in earlier days was the place to watch a million lights glisten in the city below. The illumination from the headlights of the groaning Ford captured the shadows in the wood. The totem reminded him of more pleasant days. He reached beneath the seat. His chapped hand wrapped delicately around the neck of the familiar friend. As he gulped the liquid refreshment, he stared into the restaurant where Portland’s privileged classes thought nothing of dropping two hundred dollars for a dinner of Pacific Salmon, Callahan steak, and a Willamette Valley Riesling. Moments passed as he watched the diners, hoping to avoid encountering a familiar face. Suddenly, a tap on the passenger side window interrupted his research. “Oliver?” called an impeccably dressed man who stooped to peer into the window. Standing next to him was a woman whose face showed a beguiling smile. “Just looking at the totem,” said Oliver as he awkwardly shoved the bottle underneath the seat. “I thought that was you, Oliver.” “You were right.” Oliver turned the ignition to start the car. “Simon wasted no time in voicing his displeasure of you,” countered the man. Oliver grinned. “He didn’t approve of the way I tossed the service documents inside the house?” The man laughed. “His exact words were, ‘your bastard service person tracked mud all over my porch, and stained the marble of my entranceway when he threw the soggy and muddy envelope into the house.’ ” Oliver joined the man in laughter. He felt the moisture of his shirt press against his skin, which reminded him of his muddy predicament. “Thanks for the opportunity to assist you again, Richard.” He turned the ignition to start the Ford. “Why don’t you join us, Oliver?” asked a slender woman who accompanied Richard. She looked inside the window to smile at the driver. “Richard and I are meeting William and Pamela tonight. Camille will be here, too.” Oliver nervously demurred. “I’m sorry, Candace, but I do have other plans.” “Nonsense, Oliver,” parried the woman. She approached the window. “You know how fond Camille is of you.” “Like I said, Candace, I have other plans,” slurred Oliver. He nervously gunned the engine. A slender woman with auburn hair approached the group standing near the dented Ford. “Oliver?” She walked enthusiastically toward the vehicle. A broad smile illuminated her face. Her eyes the color of Irish hills focused intently upon him. “Hello, Camille,” Oliver managed. He pulled the seatbelt into the clip. “We would all love to see you,” said Camille. “I…I…can’t,” stammered Oliver. He placed the Ford in gear. “I have to go, Richard.” He smiled toward Camille. “It really was wonderful to see you.” Oliver nervously turned to Richard. “Please give William and Pamela my regards.” Richard leaned into the open window. He quickly recoiled as the odor of alcohol penetrated his flared nostrils. “You used to love this place,” said Richard. Oliver engaged the gear. “That was a long time ago,” said Oliver. He placed his foot on the accelerator, and roared out of the driveway. He looked at the images distancing in the rear view mirror as the Ford reached Terwilliger Boulevard. He was grateful that Richard, his wife, and Camille stood in the mist. The group stood in a huddle in the middle of the parking lot as they watched the taillights of Oliver’s car disappear into the distance. Candace stroked Richard’s jacketed arm. “You’ve tried all these years to help him.” She kissed his cheek. “I’m proud of you.’ Richard wordlessly accepted the compliment. He touched his wife in the small of her back. “Almost everybody walked away from him a long time ago.” Richard nodded. “It’s a shame.” “The Holidays are always so terribly difficult for him,” expressed Camille. The group fixed their collective eyes upon the roadway, hoping that Oliver would return. After a few moments, the group recognized the futility of waiting for him to bring the old sputtering Ford back into the lot. Camille sighed with resignation. “William and Penelope will be here soon.” She led the group slowly into the restaurant. Oliver careened down the forested roadway at a speed not reasonable for the circumstances. He reached a familiar curve next to a pullout. The vehicle swerved into the oncoming lane due to the velocity in which Oliver piloted the car. Oliver slammed on the brakes to prevent a catastrophic collision with a BMW sedan. The wheels of the old Ford squealed on the pavement. Thick smoke accompanied the maneuver. The vehicle came to a rest in a pile of dust and gravel at the side of the roadway, mere inches from a decorative roadside lantern. Oliver took a deep breath to restore an aura of calm. As Oliver collected his spent emotions from the collision that he had skillfully avoided, he looked through the trees at a spectacular house in the Tudor fashion across the street. He recalled every detail from memory : the four gables, the marble entranceway, the rows of special windows that brought love and light into each of the rooms in the house, the kitchen, where nourishment of body and soul dispensed with a loving hand. He remembered the sounds of children playing, and lamented that he frequently had the gall to complain. He searched the windows to find the master suite, where he shared his love with a beautiful woman. While the rain pounded the windshield, he longed to hear those pleasant sounds of love and life and everything that mattered. Tears overwhelmed him. The images of his former life gripped him in a rigid vise of torment. Aching to overcome the intense pain of the memories flooding his mind, he reached beneath the seat to the familiar object in his hands. He shoved the neck of the bottle deep into his mouth. The cold liquid numbed the memories that flooded his mind. He rapidly drained the contents of the bottle, which provided him with the liquid courage to wipe away the tears that signaled a previous life. He wished he had another drink as he started the engine.