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You know your age is past the crest of a wavelength when the walking closest and living space smells of moth balls and baby powder. I feel young, I look aged, I mutter as I sip bourbon, the age where bourbon tastes better than whole milk, an acquired taste you see. My gentlemen down under still work with the younger bingo players at the veteran’s hall, I feel sixty I repeat, bah, sixty. I live alone, eat alone, family is all dead, no kids or wife, I have my health and Looney tunes videos. That is all an old man needs, Bourbon, Videos and Porn.
Everyday I visit my local coffee shop at 1:30PM sharp, just after the lunch rush for my daily soup. This entire week has been rough on me with this place as everyday has been potato soup. I have strong memories and flash backs attached to cheap potato soup I tell you. On this particular day I poured my bourbon into the soup for a quick warm cloud. In the military we spiced our generic potatoes with good old fashion Kentucky Shine. The daily habit of opening the mail and found a strange odd shaped envelope was in the mail this week, no return address and typed lettering addressed to my full name Eugene Frances Slokovlosky, my mother called me Eugene over 40 years ago. They call me Gene in these necks. My mother died 38 years ago in a fishing accident off of the Kawkawlin River; the authorities had reported. I questioned and demanded answers in how this happens when you fish. A hook perhaps clipped her throat during a cast? Or was she skinning a perch and slipped with the knife? The authorities ignored and hurried my naive mind from finding true answers.
I suspiciously open the envelope; a white lined note card and a set of keys are found. The card reads “Good News, your Mother’s estate in KawKawlin, Michigan has been released by the United States Military. On the table in the kitchen is the deed signed over to your interest. Margaret Dorothy Slokovlosky was an honored and loyal American.” I reread the note; I can only grow angry, why now? Why? My thoughts are fluttered with questions and anger. Little information was given; I cannot simply walk into a Military base and demand answers, I shout out loud. The fact that the letter was written in childish meaner is disturbing.
In finishing a bottle of whiskey and my soup I realize suddenly I must go to Michigan to investigate and fill the shrapnel of what could have possibly happened. I’m almost frail but I still have enough youth to lead this operation I spit and yell. Tomorrow I leave; I must I Yell, I Must. If this is a joke! A hoax, bah, Pack the shotgun I yell to my only companion, a fat stray cat I named Yuri. Yuri is my best friend and he listens well, better than this blackberry generation of tools. We packed and prepped the Buick Road Master for the adventure. Yuri is calm and ready; He is always relaxing when he is near.
I awoke; 2:00 in the morning, my dreams and worries have plagued my night, Yuri. I cannot stop pondering this envelope and this note. My twisted thoughts inside have turned my stomach, my hands are trembling. Yuri calms me with his wisdom. I am assured everything is in order and I have no control of what happened and what will happen. I am at ease and drift back asleep to awake the morning. The smell of coffee brewing alerts my senses and I crawl out from beneath the covers. I sigh as I use my mother’s quilt for warmth. Yuri has already eaten and is patiently awaiting our journey by sitting near the screen door. I know Yuri, I am anxious as well. The day is mild in the 40’s and weather is fair, a good day for driving north I tell Yuri.
I never drive much these days, I fear the roads but more important I fear the fellow drivers and women texting with no regard to the road, they speed, and race, light to stop sign, in between conversation about who sexually assaulted what celebrity this week. A world of important people on the road these days, the only true drivers who own these roads that I respect is our nationwide truck drivers. They still have rules and codes of conduct to follow, even a code of communication. I steady and keep my old girl at sixty an hour, Yuri enjoys lying on the dash board and I respect him by driving at my best. We approach a rest stop along the highway about fours into our trip along interstate seventy five. I needed to stretch and Yuri had to walk off to use the forest. While I was waiting I reread the note hoping to find a possible clue to what happened? I remember my mother always being political when I was young, but she worked as a florist her entire life. Everything surrounding this note is not adding up, my father divorced her a few years before she died. There may be a link that I am missing with my father. He was never around and was lost to the bottle during my childhood; my only last memory was that he had died behind a brothel on a stormy afternoon from hypothermia. Yuri your back, I hope the chipmunks greeted you well and with open claws. We fueled up and hopefully we should make good time as the weather is still decent.
Crossing the border into Michigan, I sigh as my stomach bottoms in fear of what I may find. The roads are highlighted with aggression; the citizens of outer Detroit are depressed due to the auto industry crashing. Yuri curls up next to me as to comfort my feelings from this negativity; He must be feeling this energy as well. Only about an hour left to KawKawlin city limits. Why would the military want a house in rural bay county I speak out loud, there is nothing there but farms and trees. There is one gas station and fresh produce stands on every corner. We exit the highway onto M-13, Left on bay and…. What looks to be an abandoned farm house? It is my mother’s home with an overgrown yard that has vines twisting around the doors and shutters. The garage door has caved in and is leaning alongside my mother’s old Plymouth Roadrunner. Where is the military influence, nothing has happened on this property for decades. Yuri is restless and is moving all around the car in a panic. I let him out and he immediately runs to the house. Yuri is scratching the screen door intensely waiting for the door to open. The steps are squeaky and pale like a creepy old sci-fi movie from the 80’s. We opened the door in a sigh of an exhale. The place was empty, not even a piece of furniture. The smell of dust, old books and moth balls haunted the room.
I searched every room for clues or some sort of symbol of what happened. Finally the kitchen, the deed was on the table holding true to the letter along with a small key for the cellar. If there will be any clues we should start with the cellar. My mother always kept her canned food and canned mushrooms that she collected every Sunday along the river. In opening the rusted lock, Yuri was reacting badly and was agitated. I stepped into the cellar and immediately noticed there were new pipes. New Pipes I ask? Why would there be new pipes in what looks to be an abandoned house? They were black and modern. They led to the ground and intercepted with the old galvanized piping. I noticed a tag that was ripped lying on under the step. Nucleus-45 type F and the rest were ripped and could not make out what it said. A chemical? Or a new weapon the military was testing I thought. I looked to my right and Yuri was licking some orange brown liquid that was running down the wall. Yuri Stop you crazy cat. I walked up the stairs into the yard for better light; maybe the garage has more evidence. Yuri was moving slow and was looking at the ground as he climbed the stairs into the yard. He has gotten himself worse off I told myself. The garage was filled with my mother’s fishing gear. Nothing seemed unusual except a box under the tool box with leather restraints of some sort. On the bottom was a water damaged note card, on the back read “the water found underground is tainted and use the restraints if drank or if one was found who drank from this land” My mother’s hand writing. She was always a believer of bottle spring water and never used the tap water as I can remember.
Yuri! Yuri: He flew at me as if he was not of earthly species. I fell backwards and knocked over the tool box. Gardening scissors flew at Yuri’s feet; He was hissing and clawing his face in a fury. He somehow snagged the scissors and shot them directly into my throat; I was coughing blood and fell over on my side. Yuri’s eyes were bright yellow and I watched my blood run slowly to the drain and Yuri launching himself on top of the flipped up band saw. We were both bleeding to death. My heart stopped and I felt my body turn numb and eyes go black.
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Great Effort Chris