Truman Chipotle

At three in the morning, Concourse B was an echoing cavern of blue LED glare and deserted carpet, populated only by Marcus behind the gate podium, an elderly passenger, and the distant, wet drone of an industrial floor buffer. The passenger sat in the front row facing the desk, a trench coat cinched tight over his slight frame, tufts of clean white hair poking from a tweed newsboy cap. His hands stayed clasped in his lap.

Marcus’s head bobbed back and forth with the rhythm of the music from the earbuds connected to the phone in his pocket. He half took in the new hazardous waste training module on the terminal monitor: “Don’t drink the green goo. Got it,” Marcus mumbled to himself.

“I’m sorry?” Arthur spoke up.

Marcus jiggled the mouse in time with the rhythm of the music in his ears. Arthur sighed, set his bag in the seat next to him and stood, “Did you say something about the flight?”

Marcus caught movement out of the corner of his eye and looked up from the terminal through his thick tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses to see Arthur shuffling toward him and quickly yanked out his earbuds. 

“Good,” Marcus looked at his watch, “morning, sir. How may I assist you today?”

“Did you say something about my flight? Is it delayed?” Arthur asked, completing his trip to the gate desk, resting his hands on the edge of the formica surface.

“The 5:40am flight to Phoenix? No, sir. That flight won’t begin boarding for another two hours. Everything is pointing to an on-time departure.”

“Oh, good. Oh, good. I don’t want to miss it. I wasn’t sure since the screen isn’t on.”

“Let me go ahead and turn that on for you,” Marcus said, moving his fingers in an intricate dance across his keyboard. The dual high def LED screens lit up behind his desk. One screen showed Phoenix weather info, time of departure, and when boarding would begin. The other screen showed a list of flights set to fly out of the current concourse: Dallas, Philadelphia, Atlanta, Miami, all on-time as indicated by the green boxes up and down the column.

“Anything else I can help you with, sir?” Marcus smiled as Arthur perused the two screens.

The terminal’s automated chime rang out, politely requesting that a Margaret Kilmeade proceed down the jet bridge for immediate departure.

“Funny. I knew a Margaret Kilmeade once. Great lady. Could dance like nobody’s business,” Arthur said, his voice raspy with sudden memory.

“That’s lovely, sir. I hope this Margaret makes her flight…though I’m not sure which gate she’s supposed to be heading to,” Marcus said, squinting as he turned his head back and forth taking in the vast length of the concourse.

“We could have been something, but it just didn’t happen.”

“Visiting family, sir?” Marcus asked, reaching over to grab the flight’s manifest to get the morning paperwork in order.

“No. No. It’s just me. The flight is on time right? I didn’t miss it did I?”

“Sir, I assure you everything is running smoothly. You’ll be the first to know should anything change,” Marcus said, picking up a stack of papers, standing them and tapping them on the desk to neaten the pile.

“Well, the board says delayed,” Arthur said, lifting a crooked finger toward the overhead monitor. “The Porch on Sycamore St. - July 18, 1953 - Delayed.”

“Sir, I can assure—” Marcus turned, but the text fluttered and snapped back into a neat green column of Dallas and Philadelphia. “Everything’s on time, see?”

“I used to live on Sycamore St. Used to sit out on the porch. I was sick as a kid. A little runt.”

Marcus smiled.

The automated chime cut through again announcing that a Theodore Nash needs to return to the ticketing agent.

Arthur’s eyes opened wide, “Theo! That no good summa’ bitch. Theo! Haven’t thought about him in years. Cheated his way through med school.”

“Really strange. I didn’t call for a Theodore Nash. I didn’t call for anybody,” Marcus said. He leafed through the top couple of sheets looking for the 5:40am Phoenix flight manifest. “I don’t even have a Theodore Nash on the list.” Marcus gripped the arm of his glasses keeping them firmly in place. “What did you say your name was, sir?”

“Arthur. Arthur Grimes.”

Marcus flipped through several sheets.

“Look. Another delay. The Maryville High School Gymnasium - March 6, 1966. Old Georgie. That’s the day Georgie Ferguson got hit in the head with the basketball and knocked him out cold. Scary until he came to. Then it was the funniest thing. We laughed and laughed about it.”

“I really don’t think—” Marcus turned his head but this time he saw what Arthur was talking about: Maryville High School Gymnasium - March 6, 1966. Delayed.

“Listen,” Arthur said, “I’m gettin’ pretty hungry. Is there anything open around here?”

Marcus removed his glasses, set them aside, and rubbed the inside corners of his eyes. “Unfortunately, this time of night, the only thing open is a little sandwich shop all the way down at the end of the concourse. I can page assistance dispatch to have a shuttle drive you down there.”

“That’s ok. I’ll walk. But could you do me a favor and page me before it’s time to board. I don’t want to miss this flight.”

“Of course, Mr. Grimes.”

Arthur turned and plodded through the rows of empty chairs before making it out to the walkway and down the concourse. Marcus scrolled the manifest again. No Grimes. He typed the name into his terminal but found no records. He set the plastic “Be Back Shortly” sign on the counter and broke into a run down the cavernous hallway, his dress shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor. He slowed beside the custodian behind the heavy floor buffer. “Did an older guy just come through? White hair, one of those newsboy cap thingies?” The custodian only stared and shook his head.

Marcus reached the end of the concourse. The sandwich shop sat dark behind a padlocked security grille, its refrigerated case humming over empty shelves.

Behind him, echoing through the empty terminal, the automated chime rang out, paging Arthur Grimes for immediate departure.

“He looks so peaceful. Like he’s taking a long nap,” Florence dabbed the corner of her eye with a black silk handkerchief.

“There’s something off about him,” Stewart squinted and took off his tortoiseshell glasses and gave them a frantic scrub with the wide end of his necktie. “I just don’t remember him being so… so… swole.”

“Oh, come on, Stew. He looks dignified.”

“Dignified?! His buttons are about to burst, that shirt’s so tight.”

“Shut it, Stewart. Sarah and Greg just got here. Let’s give our condolences.”

Stewart followed Florence, her red pea coat drawn tight about her in the frigid funeral parlor as they made their way over past the crowd to their old college friends. Greg leaned in to give Florence a quick peck on the cheek and grip Stewart's hand in a firm shake. Sarah smiled at Florence politely for a moment before letting the corner of her lips drop back down.

“I just can’t believe he’s gone,” Greg muttered, “though I’m glad his dolphin search and rescue is in good hands, Flo.”

Florence sniffled, “Finding a Porpoise must and shall continue. The dolphin community—”

Stewart stared back toward the coffin, “Was he always so buff though? I mean look at those lapels. People that have been bodybuilding their whole lives don’t have a chest like that.”

The other three went dead still until Greg asked, “What?”

“Like he’s got these huge arms now. I had drinks with him six weeks ago and he had, like, soft accountant arms. No offense, Greg. And now they’re like freaking cannons.”

Sarah grabbed Greg’s suit sleeve, “Greg, we should go pay our respects.”

“Yes. Definitely. And, uh, we’ll check out the deceased’s physique, I guess?” The couple made their way to the small crowd at the casket.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Stewart?” Florence hissed once they were alone. “This is a wake. We are here to remember Roger.”

“I am remembering Roger, remembering that he didn’t have those huge guns.” Stewart nearly backhanded an arrangement of white lilies off a pedestal, lunging forward to catch the brass urn just before it tipped.

“Look. Greg and Sarah aren’t even coming back over here.”

Stewart snatched his phone from his blazer pocket and frantically scrolled through photos. “Look at this photo from Labor Day. Biceps like hot dogs.” But Florence wasn’t looking at the phone. She was glaring at Stewart.

Florence turned on her heel and walked toward the guest register.

“Fine,” Stewart grunted. “I’m getting proof.”

He slipped between two whispering aunts, offered a curt, grieved nod to a second cousin, and stationed himself at the foot of the mahogany casket. Up close, the tailoring was catastrophic. The navy blazer was strained to the stitch limits across two cartoonishly bulging shoulders. 

Stewart glanced left. Glanced right. He palmed the phone, brought it to waist height, angled the lens across the silk-lined edge, and tapped the glass.

A metallic artificial shutter blast echoed off the high ceiling. The low hum of the mourners vanished instantly.

Stewart lowered the phone. Forty horrified faces stared back at him, some craning their heads to see past displays of flowers.

He took a deep breath. “He was never this swole, people!”

Florence buried her face in her hands and bolted through the foyer doors.

Seventy-two hours earlier, in the chilly, drain-tiled basement of Smiddick’s Mortuary, the night attendant slid open a heavy vinyl zipper under the buzzing ballast of two overhead fluorescents.

Pinned to the dead-center of the cold chest were two crisp fifty-dollar bills, held down by a neon-yellow Post-it note written in a jagged Sharpie hand:

To whom it may concern,

Please honor this final request of a dead man. Bury me in one of those fake muscle suits. Trust me. It’s going to drive Stewart crazy, and that is something we should all want.

Thanks in death,
Roger

The red neon VACANCIES sign stuttered outside his room, throwing almost rhythmic bursts of magenta across the cigarette-burned carpet. Carl jerked the single polyester drape, but it jammed halfway across the aluminum track. “Whatever,” he grunted and threw a robe over his dirty tank and boxers, snatched a crushed pack of Marlboros from the nightstand, and pushed out into the cold Mojave night air. 

He reached over the wrought-iron fence to unlatch the creaky motor lodge pool gate and wandered inside, pulling up an aqua white plastic tri-fold lounger to the edge of the pool. He sank onto the slats, tapped a lone bent cigarette from the foil, and struck his lighter. The flame flared yellow against his stubble, competing with the cold single underwater pool light. 

The smoke hit hot and dry, loosening the knotted tension in the back of his neck. 

“Hi,” a small voice came from a few yards away.

“Oh, geez. Sorry. You startled me. Thought I’d be the only one out here at 2am.”

Henry sat in one of the poolside chairs, both feet planted on the concrete, hands folded in his lap. He smiled, causing his pencil-thin mustache to curl upward at either side, his bright blue eyes fixed on Carl. His oversized turquoise bowling shirt hung from his narrow shoulders.

“What brings you here?” Henry asked, his voice lilty and breathy.

“Couldn’t sleep. Came out for a smoke.”

“I mean what brings you to Morongo Valley?”

“Oh, yeah. I’m a roadie for this crappy punk band. Not one to write home about, but a gig’s a gig.”

“Oh, what band?”

Carl picked at the gaffer tape residue on his knuckles and blew a forced breath of air through tight lips, “Chemical Bowel Infection.”

“Oh, I love CBI. I have all their records.”

“Wow. You don’t say?”

“Maybe I’ll run home and grab them. Get some signatures from the band in the morning.”

“Oh? You live close by? Why are you staying here?”

Henry crossed his leg, the crease of his khaki pants pulling tight against his bony legs, his fingers interlocking about his knee. “Oh, I work here. I’m the night manager.”

“Oh, yeah. You got me the extra towels earlier. Sorry. My mind’s just been elsewhere.”

Henry shrugged, “A gig’s a gig.”

Carl took a few more drags of his cigarette as they sat in silence. Henry continued to sit unmoving except for the subtle rise and fall of his chest.

“It is lovely out here by the pool, don’t you think?” Henry asked.

“Definitely. Nice and peaceful,” Carl nodded. He leaned over his knees, staring down past the wavering chlorine smell. Three feet beneath the surface, the painted concrete floor dissolved into a boundless summer sky. A warm wind tilted endless stalks of golden prairie grass across the depths, washing sunlight over a lone bur oak. Hanging from the lowest bough, a black rubber tire swing swayed in the breeze.

“Hey, wait. I think I recognize...”

“I’m sorry?”

“In the pool, just now. I saw…well, I think I saw…”

Carl blinked hard and looked back down. The prairie was gone—only turquoise pool paint, a wavering round drain grate, and a dead moth floating near the skimmer. Beside him, Henry hadn’t shifted an inch. “It is lovely out here by the pool, don’t you think?”

The back of Carl’s neck prickled. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

“Well, I better get back to it. Remember, we have a free continental breakfast in the lobby. Packaged blueberry muffins and what not, but it’s something. Toodle-oo.”

Rain drummed against the six-foot plate glass of the transit annex, blurring the floodlights across the depot yard where sixty forty-foot diesel coaches sat parked in dark rows. Inside the bullpen, the smell of scorched drip coffee mingled with the dry heat of the radiator. Elena worked the blunt tip of her pencil into yesterday’s newsprint crossword, her glasses perched on the bridge of her nose as the green phosphor route monitor bathed her desk in a steady, low-frequency hum.

“Five letters. Captain of the Titanic: Smith.” She filled in the squares, blowing a fleck of graphite from the newsprint. Over the console, a piezo chirp cut through the quiet as red text flashed across the secondary CRT: Coach 72 Delay 5 Minutes.

Elena keyed the console microphone with her thumb, “Coach 72, everything alright?”

The squelch of the two way radio roared before a static-laced voice came in from the other side, “Yeah, Elena. Just stopped off at Jumbo’s All Night for a dog. Waited for a fresh one.”

“I figured it was something like that, Jed. Thought I’d check. Gotta justify my paycheck.”

“I hear ya. Getting back on route now. Don’t have too much fun over there.”

“Always a party.”

Her chair casters squeaked across the scuffed blue-and-white linoleum as she rolled back from the desk. Chilled by the draft leaking past the window casing, Elena gathered her cardigan tight around her shoulders, lifted the glass carafe from the hot plate, and tilted fresh coffee into her mug. Mid-pour, the console speaker tripped a harsh double chime.

“What’d he do, order another one?” She set the pot down and stepped back to the console. Across the crude vector grid of the CRT screen, a solitary red phosphor blip pulsed between two river contours: Coach 88. “What the hell?” She slapped two red Bakelite talkback toggles, flooding the room with open, hissing carrier static.

“Jed, is that you? Something on the fritz over here.”

The static grew in intensity before ebbing back just a tad, a rhythmic metallic clinking of coins being dropped into the mechanical farebox taking over. 

“Jed?”

Between the bursts of white noise and the metallic rattle of tokens, broken syllables surfaced through the grille: ‘...torrential... rising... President Reagan...’

Elena leaned close to the mesh, her thumb hovering over the toggle. “Reagan?”

“Hello? Hello? Dispatch?” a voice came through the speaker.

“Yes. This is Elena. Jed is that you?”

“I’m having to find alternate routes. Roads are becoming impassable—”

“I didn’t realize it was coming down that hard out there. Get this—your transponder is flagging as Coach 88.”

“—going to have to turn around. Maybe wait this out—”

Feedback took over the speaker, then loud static, then nothing but the buzz of the dim overhead fluorescent lights and the constant pelting of rain against the plate glass windows.

She jammed the talkback lever down until the spring popped, “Coach 88? Coach 88? Are you there?!”

The voice snapped back through the grille: “Sorry. Moment of panic there, but the rain just... it just... stopped Resuming my route.”

On the monitor, the red blip snapped green, gliding steadily along the bypassed alignment of Spur 408. Elena dropped into her swivel chair, elbows planted on the formica desk, hands framing her jaw. The green pixel pulsed once, twice, drifted fifty yards into the digital floodplain, and winked out.

“Elena? Elena? You there?”

Elena responded, “Jed?”

“Uh, yeah. I’m about to head back in. Did you want me to grab you a hot dog?”

“No, that’s ok. Hey, you remember Coach 88?”

“Yeah. Sure. Nobody’s punched that ticket since the old river cut washed out.”

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

“It’s not raining that hard right now if that’s what you’re worried about. Clearing up now actually.”

“No, I know. I just… you know what, I will take a hot dog.”

“You got it.”

Elias drove the iron tongs into the flank of the three-hundred-pound block, his breath venting in thick gray clouds against the pine timbering. Everett pushed from behind while Elias guided the ice block across the tallow-greased pine runners to the lowering gig, sending the ice on its way to meet the burlap-lined Kennebec milk wagons. Elias rotated his shoulder back and forth before running his thick rag-wool mittens along his heavy beard, knocking ice crystals to the floor to mingle with the damp sawdust and tossing his forged iron tongs aside. 

“Let’s keep moving,” Elias said.

Everett grabbed the wood-handled drawknife hanging from the loop of his grease-stained apron and cleared the opaque sap ice from the eight-hundred-pound block. He drew the blade back, peeling away a curling ribbon of slush. He leaned close. Beneath the frosted crust, a small amber flame flickered, turning three feet of frozen lake water to liquid gold and catching the steel edge of the drawknife.

“Elias.”

“Ready?” 

“No. Look at this. It’s a lantern.”

“Ah. Someone probably dropped it fishing.”

“No. It’s lit.”

“What?”

Elias approached, forcing Everett aside. He blew on the ice surface, fogging it up before clearing it away with his wool glove. Inside the crystalline block sat an antique brass lantern, its wick burning with a steady yellow flame that cast amber ripples across the frost of the men’s wool collars.

“How’d you do that?”

“You think I’d be here if I could do tricks like that? That’s how it was when I cleared the block.”

“Well, I’ll be. Old ship lantern it looks like. Didn’t come off no skiff.”

“How can it be lit?”

“I don’t know. Let’s leave it be for now. Don’t strike it. Don’t split it. We’ll work around it. Got to get this order out.”

The two men grunted in turn as they drove iron splitting forks into the frozen joints of an adjacent block, the saw teeth biting into the seam while the yellow flame held steady behind the ice. They set their five-foot crosscut saw into the seams of the ice, pulling in rhythmic, breath-clouded strokes. Under the warm yellow glow of the frozen lantern, Elias grasped another three-hundred-pound block with the iron tongs and guided it along the pine runners, his leather logger boots greased with oil to repel slush.

Having loaded the burlap and straw-lined beds of the milk cart, Elias and Everett stepped back inside the cellar vault. The sealed lantern threw amber ripples across the frozen floorboards. Elias picked up two hardwood scoops and handed one to Everett.

“Alright. Let’s get these blocks covered, seal the room, and we’ll figure out what to do once the wagons are down the road.”

Under the copper moon, fifty thousand bees clustered along the quartz seam, their wings tuned to a drone like an open cello string. Frank sat cross-legged on the caliche bedrock, his canvas bee veil crumpled beside him on an outcropping, the dry smell of sagebrush and cedar smoke clinging to Frank’s flannel shirt.  Across the limestone wash, headlights cut through the dark, gravel popping under bald radial tires before the rusted latch of an F-150 door clicked shut. Henry crossed the flat on bowed legs, carrying a white enamel bucket by its wire bail.

“Hey, Frank.”

“Henry,” Frank smiled before turning his attention back to the orchestral bee symphony.

“The missus could use some fresh honey. Thinking three frames worth or so.”

“Of course.”

“Does wonders for her allergies. Anyway, same as last time? Some baling wire for it?”

“Of course. Always running through my supply.”

Henry set the pail on the stone and lifted out a spool of dark, oiled baling wire. “Also brought along a honeydew.” He reached back into the bucket, both hands cupping a pale green melon netted in silver veins. From his denim pocket, he flicked open a two-blade folding knife with scratched bone handles.

“I was hoping,” Frank said, “but didn’t want to beg.”

The carbon steel blade sank through the rind with a crisp snap. Sticky melon juice washed over Henry’s knuckles, dripping into the caliche dust as he sawed off a thick crescent and passed it across the quartz. Frank nodded and took a bite. “I’ll never understand how you get yours so ripe and juicy. Everyone else around here gave up growing melons a long time ago.”

“Well, I just reckon I’m favored by the good Lord and the rest of you all is goin’ to Hell.”

Frank chortled before covering his mouth. The bees’ indifference showed as they continued their harmonious drone, the distant echo acting as low pitched harmony. The drone echoed off the limestone bluffs, rolling deep down and careening off the canyon walls.

“Well, you’re probably right about that, Henry.”

“Probably right about you all going to Hell. Probably wrong about me not.” Henry’s smile revealed a large gap in his teeth as he settled back against the bedrock. Honeydew juice ran down his chin as he tossed the rind aside.

“I don’t have anything to wrap and box up the honeycomb with me, but I’ll gladly bring it over around, well say, what time does Carla fry up the bacon?” Frank asked, giving Henry a quick wink.

“Come on over and we’ll cook it up nice.”

The two men leaned back against the cool rock in the copper moonlight, the rind tossed into the scrub. Along the quartz seam, the cello drone swelled, vibrating through the bedrock and into the soles of Frank’s work boots, settling into the slow, steady rhythm of his own ribs.

Forty rows of empty oak pews shuddered in unison, though the organ produced no audible note.

Julian kept the heavy lead weight pinned against the bottom C pedal, leaving the 32-foot wooden rank wide open on its chest. A column of displaced air surged from the pipes—frigid and sharp with the scent of wet river silt. The pitch lived below the threshold of hearing, a 16 Hz tremor rolling beneath the limestone flagstones.

“Truly breathtaking,” said the aging sacristan from his metal folding chair down in the nave, cradling a communion chalice against his flannel apron. He worked a dab of chalky paste into the tarnished stem, his rag moving in slow, practiced circles.

Julian lifted the lead weight, seated his boot back against the low C, and depressed two manual keys in the Great division. No chord sounded, but the displaced draft bent the votive flames flat against their brass cups. In the choir stalls, the dark oak paneling groaned in sympathy, and twenty feet away, the heavy vellum pages of the baptismal register fluttered shut.

“Going to miss the old girl. She’s served this parish well for over a century,” the old man said, setting down the chalice, “I remember sitting on my father’s lap while he played. It always brings such comfort. Going to miss the old girl.”

Julian stood and walked to the ledge at the edge of the chancel where his toolbox sat atop an old frayed towel, trading his brass tuning hammer for a rawhide mallet. “Any idea where this one’s going? We got the order to prep it for final service on Sunday but nothing about moving it afterward.”

The old man smiled, picked up and began polishing the next communion chalice.

“Ok then,” Julian said quietly. He slid back onto the worn walnut bench and fingered out 'Heart and Soul.' Rich, honeyed tones filled the vaulted nave until his boot drove into the pedal. Instantly, the music collapsed—the sound sucked clean out of the room as an infrasonic roar rattled the rafters, dusting the chalices in white lime. The sacristan tapped his foot unperturbed as century-old plaster drifted through the shafts of dust.

With a dull groan of iron latchwork, the cathedral’s double oak portal drifted inward against the draft. A broad apron of low autumn sun cut across the worn flagstones, illuminating decades of limestone grit. The threshold stood empty.

Julian stood from the bench, brushing lime dust from his trousers. “Listen. Sorry I couldn’t get it completely tuned. The low C just refuses—”

“It sounds great. Thank you so much. It will be a truly glorious day. Going to miss the old girl.”

The organ tuner methodically wrapped his mallets in white cloth, gently placing them back inside his toolbox according to size. He shut the toolbox and turned to give the organ another lookover, slowly scanning the old machine from pedal to pipe and back again before turning and bidding the old man good day.

Under the yellow halogen deck flood, the surface of the Green River looked thicker than cold motor oil. The sound of the boat engine died away as Silas let the ferry float in place, letting the debris float by, an old highway sign for the Ferryman’s Road exit.

Ezra sat on the hood of his Ford pick-up, pulling his sherpa-lined trucker’s jacket a little tighter. Across the dark water, bullfrogs croaked from the riverbank shallows, their low calls competing with the dry rattle of cicadas in the willows.

“I usually don’t stop the ferry for those but that one looked pretty good size.” Silas grabbed a rock from a bowl by the steering wheel and tossed it at the sign, just missing. He threw a second. Metal rang sharp down the river canyon as Silas chuckled.

“That’s fine. I’m gonna be early as it is. Was trying to think of some ways to kill some time when I get down river.”

“Pretty funny it’s called Ferryman’s Road.”

“How’s that?”

“You don’t need a ferryman if you’re on a road.”

Ezra smiled. “No, I guess not.” He hopped down from the hood of his truck and walked over to the railing. Black water churned silent against the steel hull.

“So with the bridge, you get Ferryman Road. Without the bridge, you get me, a Ferryman.”

“How long has the bridge been out?”

“Since seventy-four,” Silas said. He turned the ignition key. The single-cylinder diesel coughed to life, drowning out the river frogs in a haze of exhaust. Raising his voice over the sporadic iron rattle and constant low hum, he said, 'Some nights you can still see the headlights of cars driving over like they was before, right where the road deck used to hang. I’m guessin’ it’s just reflections or something. Fog’ll play tricks on ya.”

Ezra nodded.

“None of my business but where you headed to?”

“Mason. My dad passed. Supposedly his land is now my land.”

“Oh my. Mason’s a booming town.”

“Yep. Already getting offers.”

The two men stood in silence for a moment.

Squinting, Ezra noted, “Maybe those headlights people see are stars. I think I see a few through the fog.”

“Maybe. Maybe. Maybe they’s ghosts.” Silas drew and held Ezra’s gaze for a few beats before he burst out laughing. “Nah, I’m just messing with you. Almost to port if you want to hop in your truck.”

Black-and-white footage cycled through simple maps and footage from the featured area, kids playing, nuclear explosion, kids playing, plane crash, kids playing, tidal wave. Lewellyn grabbed the folded up map from his dashboard and stepped into the night, the sound of his idling engine filling the empty soundscape. Lewellyn turned his attention to the beam of light following it to the projection booth. An old man sat inside, light reflecting off his glasses hiding his eyes, rubbing pieces of foil together in front of a microphone. A faded sign below the booth read “For audio turn your dial to 1620 AM”.

Across the empty gravel parking lot from the projection booth, gnats swarmed the warm halogen bulbs that lit the concession stand. He unfolded his map as he made his way over to stand next to the window. The smell of burnt popcorn hung in the air. Inside, a young man’s face was lit by the glow of a small tv. Lewellyn tapped on the window. Harlan turned down the volume and turned to Lewellyn. “Sorry, the popcorn machine’s down. But if you want, I got a couple of bags and a microwave.”

“No, that’s quite alright. I’m just driving through and trying to find, well, it’s an old settlement. Got submerged when they electrified the region and built a dam. Would have been decades ago.”

“Ah, yep. One second, I’ll come down.”

Harlan hopped down from his stool behind the concession stand counter and made his way through a side door exit. Short in stature, Harlan hiked up his pants and walked over. “Let’s see whatcha got.”

Lewellyn lowered the map and pointed to a large body of water. “Admittedly, sleep deprivation may be getting the better of me. I believe it’s around here, but I’m not exactly sure where I’m at presently.”

“Ah, yep. You’re just on the northern edge of town here. You’re gonna want ta go south on the road you turned in here on and back down to FM320. It’s just past the travel plaza. Head east.”

“Thank you kindly. Reckon I’ll just hang out in my car until sunrise. Rest my eyes a bit. Say, I didn’t see anywhere to buy a ticket.”

“Oh it’s free. But like I say, our popcorn machine’s down. But if you want, I got a couple of bags and a microwave.”

“That’d be fine. I’ll take a bag please,” Lewellyn said, taking out a couple of ones from his wallet.

Back in the sedan, warm popcorn bag resting in his lap, Lewellyn dialed 1620 AM. Through the dash speaker, crushed foil crackled. On the faded screen, black-and-white reels cycled in silence: a lion tamer and his cats, a nuclear detonation, clowns on tricycles, a nuclear detonation, trapeze artists, a nuclear detonation.

Arthur dialed 555-0142 on the jukebox wheel, waited for the internal relay to click, and set his coffee mug on the counter as a rotary dial tone filled the room.

"That's a good one. Haven't heard it in a while," Hollis said, wiping a bit of coffee from his bushy mustache.

...Craig, it's Sal. The FBI is requesting the school board turn over the boll weevil mascot costume for evidence...

Arthur chuckled as Hollis smiled. Beyond the laminate countertop, a recorded thundercrack rattled the ceiling speakers, followed by a burst of taped applause. Down on lane 7, the mechanical sweep dropped into the dark, resetting pins that hadn’t been touched since the last patron stumbled home.

Arthur poured himself another cup of coffee, half from the orange carafe and half from the regular one. He raised his eyebrow at Hollis.

Hollis eyed his keys resting on the counter. "Ah, no. I'm good."

…Well, they don’t care if there's a championship game, Craig. There was blood all over the mask…

Another thundercrack followed by a round of applause laden with cheers.

“Five years ago, this time of night, it was standing room only. Praying everyone you were squished up against wore deodorant,” Hollis stared distantly into the blackness of his coffee.

“I reckon it’s time to close up for good. Thinking about selling the building and moving me and Sandy off to the Breas.”

“Don’t blame ya. Kudos for being the last one standing on Route 61.”

Arthur raised his mug. “I’ll drink to that!”

…Craig, there’s something else. When I got assigned this case, Laragua Falls was the last place I wanted to be, but then I met you, Craig…

The sound of air horns rattled the overhead speakers.

…Mrs. Powers! I didn’t know you were on the line. No, I know. I’m sorry. Craig is a married man. I understand that. We just got close working—I know, Mrs. Powers. Yes. The kids.—I’m sorry…

“I’ll miss this place. Some good times were had here,” Hollis said. He reached into his back pocket to pull out his wallet.

“Don’t worry about it, Hollis. This round was on the house.”

Hollis nodded and pushed through the glass double doors as Arthur reached behind the counter to flip the master switch, the recording cutting off mid cheer into silence.

“Why don’t we just do a burn like the ones yesterday?” Miller asked as Greg parked the truck outside the derelict switching relay station.

“I wish. This is an older relay. Surprised it’s still up and running at all honestly. But the old boards here don’t have any thermal resistance like the newer models. So we gotta do it the old fashioned way.”

Setting his toolbox down outside the station door, Greg tried the knob but felt some resistance as he was only able to push the door open an inch or two. He shook his head and rammed his shoulder into the barrier, the resistance giving way to a mostly dark room of blinking lights and low hums. Dust particles floated aimlessly through the air catching rays of light from the CRT monitors. Under a crust of soot and spongy green lichen, the monitors were rapidly cycling through topographical maps, none of them recognizable.

Miller coughed before putting on an N95 mask. “Geez,” he muttered through the filter. “Why is this place even in operation anymore?”

Greg, kneeling beside his open toolbox, raised his eyebrow, “Well, there’s still a population out here in Blackwood Cut. The last remnant of the Holdouts. Admin won’t upgrade ‘cause they’re still hoping these people ‘see the light’ and sell.”

Scraping the brittle bryophyta from the screens was time consuming but satisfying, the soft crunch as the moss released its grip from the plastics and the glass of the monitors almost always put Greg in a zenlike state. His moment interrupted as Miller scraped off the speakers, the hum growing almost deafeningly loud.

“I usually save those for last,” Greg said.

“Sorry. I’ll remember that next time.”

“It’s alright. Just cut the vines back from that row of switches over there and we’ll call it a day.”

With each slice through the xylem, the speakers whined a half step higher then lower, milky sap bubbling where the severed stems bridged the live copper leads. “Weird. Whoa, hey. Check this out.” Miller started slashing at the vines in a rhythm that Greg quickly identified as Beethoven’s Fur Elise.

With a self-satisfied grin, Miller turned back to a stone faced Greg.

“You done?”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry.”

“It’s alright. Think we got this place back to GE grade.”

“GE grade?”

“Good Enough.”

The attendant pushed his broom through a wake of green sawdust, stopping occasionally to tap coin returns with the brass head of a flashlight. Catching his reflection in the dryer window of drum 19, he took a moment to straighten his bowtie and rake a small mustache comb through his pure white mustache knocking a few crumbs loose.

Samara fumbled with the corners of her fitted sheet, glancing up at the clock precisely at the moment it flipped from 2:14 AM to 2:15 AM. She’d been at it for 3 hours. “This sure would be easier with a second person,” she said aloud to no one in particular.

“Ope.” The attendant turned around as fast as his old bones would allow. “Coming! Coming!”

Samara watched the minutes tick by as the attendant shuffled over.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize we had any patrons, or I would have been over much more quickly.”

“No worries at all,” she told him. “I’m just having fitted sheet issues.”

The attendant squinted in the general direction of Samara’s sheet. He pulled a pair of thick rimmed glasses from his shirt pocket that magnified his eyes tenfold. His face scrunched in perplexity behind the thick lenses. He pointed his flashlight at the sheet, not adding much light to the already extremely bright overhead fluorescent lighting.

“I’m afraid I won’t be much help. We’re not allowed to help with the patrons’ laundry. Union rules. Now if you’re having any issues with any of the machines themselves, I’d be more than happy to help or at least point you to someone who could help you. Are you having any problems with any of the machines?”

“No problem with the machines—”

A loud banjo tune abruptly emanated from drum 14 causing Samara and the attendant to raise their voices. Still smiling. Still maintaining a matched politeness.

“THE NEW MACHINES ARE NICE. THE OLD MACHINES KEPT GIVING ME OTHER PEOPLE’S LAUNDRY.”

The attendant smiled. “THE NEWS ARTICLES ABOUT PEOPLE’S CLOTHES DISAPPEARING FROM THEIR HOMES AND WINDING UP HERE REALLY WAS A BOON FOR BUSINESS!”

The banjo tune dissolved into a chorus of wet bullfrogs and cicadas. Deep inside the drum, two-man crosscut saws tore through old cedar, men shouting “Timber!” over the hiss of exhaust as the strings struck up again.

“YOU KNOW, I THINK I’LL JUST TAKE THE FITTED SHEET HOME AND FOLD IT THERE.”

“I DON’T BLAME YOU ONE BIT!” the attendant called out, extending his hand.

Samara wadded up the fitted sheet and threw it in her laundry basket before reaching deep in her pocket and pulling out a handful of quarters. She placed them in the attendant’s hand.

Looking back as she exited into the humid night, she could see the attendant shuffling toward drum 14, quarters clinking in his palm, excited to purchase another twenty minutes of pine forest.

Raymond logged line 408 under 'ambient weather,' stamped the sheet in purple ink, and slid the headphones off one ear. He sighed before taking a quick sip of his lukewarm and stale coffee knowing it would be quite some time before he sat at his desk again. The buttons on the reel to reel made satisfying clicks as he pressed and depressed them. He clicked the release, drew the spool off its spindle, and taped the leader flap against the rim before dropping it into a tin canister. Hobbling over to the box marked “FOR DIGITIZATION” he debated whether this would be the last reel or if he could fit a few more. He sealed the cardboard flaps with brown tape, slapped a shipping tag across the seam, and scrawled ‘Northeast Station’ in purple ink. 

Back at his desk, Raymond slid his headphones on, glad to be shielded from the arrhythmic hum of the fluorescent light bulbs. Looking over the lines of green text on the old CRT monitor, he landed on line 236 ‘lighthouse repair hotline’. For as much as he grumbles, he had to admit seniority has its perks. A new reel in place, he depressed the buttons bringing the reel up to speed and hit record. Through the headset beyond the 400 Hz  tone he heard seagulls squawking and waves lapping, two voices drifting in and out of the static talking about leaving the phone off the cradle to buy an hour’s peace.

Raymond closed his eyes and was almost relaxed when the smell of raw sewage seeped in from the nearby facilities. Another trek up to maintenance to let them know. The Archive of Unclaimed Dial Tones kept no active phones on site. Admin claimed trainees would confuse internal versus external dial tones or that there might be cross contamination in the recordings, but Raymond knew they were just being cheap.

Five flights of stairs later, the sign on the maintenance door read ‘Sorry! Be back later.’