Struck a Nerve
A Story of San Sincero, California
Alta California, 1790—Near El Camino Real, just south of La Misión San Carlos Sincero de la Soledad.
An old native woman rocked, back and forth, in front of a small fire within her darkened hut, chanting in a tongue far older than the Hokan dialect her people speak. She threw a handful of aromatic wood and herbs upon the fire hoping desperately that her work was successful.
A younger woman entered the hut, her face filled with sorrow and shock.
“You’re back!” exclaimed the older woman. “What happened, did In’olloku destroy the Spanish filth and their god?” She grew worried as she noticed the young woman’s face. “I lost contact some time ago and have been chanting to regain it.”
The younger woman, unsure how to begin, was quiet for a moment before answering, “It is bad. It is very bad.”
The older woman turned her frustration and anger into resolve, “Tell me what happened.”
“At first, everything went as planned,” the younger woman said. “I was working in the plaza of the Misión. Padre Nivea was preparing his sermon to us, in that horrible Spanish, just as you said he would be.
“The bells rang, signaling that we were to stop working and join him in the church. Suddenly, the sky grew dark as a cloud was forming above the Misión.”
The older woman, triumphant, said, “Excellent! In’olloku did come to my call!”
“Yes, the Star-Walker came,” the younger woman still appeared stricken. “The cloud grew thick until the center burst open with the brightness of a sun. the long twisting tentacles of In’olloku came out. As many arms as there were Spaniards. Each one reaching around a Christian and tearing them apart.”
“This is what we wanted!” exclaimed the elder. “This is what the Spanish deserve for what they have done to us. To all the people of this land!”
“Yes,” the young woman looked, in some ways, older than her companion as she said this.
“The fury of In’olloku—the Star-Walker, the Star-Scatterer—is what the corruptor Padre Juan Araña Nivea deserves!” the old woman spat out. “Why do you stand there in horror at their doom?”
“That isn’t the bad part grandmother.”
“I…” the old woman felt her stomach and heart sink as the young woman continued.
“The Spaniards were screaming… and dying. Their blood was everywhere. Nivea came out of the church holding a crucifix toward the Star-Walker. He prayed to Jesus Christ. He called In’olloku ‘Satan’ and demanded he leave in the name of his god.
“Laughter came from the cloud and In’olloku sent his light into the priest. Nivea dropped the cross and collapsed. His body shook. He struggled to raise himself to his knees. Blood poured from his nose. His eyes. His ears. In’olloku laughed. Our people had fled. I was the only one still watching.
“Nivea raised his arms and cried out to someone else. Not to the god of the Spaniards or his son. The name was not in Spanish, nor in our language. It was a horrible sound.”
The old woman prayed to her ancestors as the young woman paused, steeling herself for the rest.
“The blood flowing from his body turned black. He looked at In’olloku and I could see that Nivea’s eyes had turned black too.
“The priest began to laugh but it wasn’t him. Not really. I don’t think he was human at that moment. He got up and grabbed one of In’olloku’s arms and pulled. The arm twisted, like the knotted root of a tree, twisting in pain. I heard the Star-Walker scream as he was pulled from his cloud. Nivea laughed as he dragged In’olloku behind him towards the church.”
“This is impossible!” yelled the frustrated old woman. “No one can hurt one of the first gods. Especially not In’olloku.”
The young woman quietly continued, “Nivea turned to me. His eyes were still black. He said to find the others who had run off. He said to come back quickly as his sermon would start in an hour.”
Her body now started to shake as she finished her story, “He turned away from me, laughing, and pulled In’olloku—who was now small, so very small—into the church and closed the door behind them. I came straight here.”
“This… this could not be worse,” said the old woman.
“I am going to the ocean grandmother,” said the young woman. “I will drown myself. We have nowhere to go and I will not let him and his evil spirits get me.”
“We have lost,” said the old woman. “The gods of our people have lost. The first gods from before us have lost. The spirits of this land run and hide.”
She looked at the young woman with tears on her lined cheeks. “Everything is over daughter. Everything has been lost.”
San Sincero, California, 1985.
Elliot hates winter. He hates the gray—the gray of the buildings, the sidewalk, the sky. The world should have color; bright reds and greens, and electric blues and golds like a clown’s clothes. Elliot smiles as he thinks of colors. His dark hand moves lightly over the red and white striped sweater he wears underneath the old and faded coat that protects the sweater from unsympathetic eyes. His sweater reminds him of candy canes and barber poles while his coat keeps his heart and dreams safe behind a dull brown. He pulls his coat tight and walks out of the shelter of the doorway onto the sidewalk. The cold wind cuts through him causing him to wince and pull his blue knitted cap down tighter over his ears as his dun-colored loafers shuffle his stooped form down the sidewalk. He wishes that he would allow himself to grow a beard for warmth but vanity demands that he stay clean-shaven.
Every morning between 6 and 6:30am Elliot shaves his face with an electric razor. Gary, the general manager of a Denny’s in downtown San Sincero likes Elliot and when he works mornings he lets Elliot come in, order a cup of coffee, and use the outlet in the bathroom to shave (the razor was a gift from a friend and Elliot will continue to use it until it finally breaks to honor and remember that friendship, despite the inconvenience of needing an electrical outlet). Once, Gary gave Elliot a hard time when he came in after 8am. Customers complained about the derelict in the bathroom and Gary told Elliot that if the district manager found out he wouldn’t be able to let Elliot shave there anymore. Elliot hasn’t ever come in past 6:30am since then. He doesn’t want to get Gary into trouble and he doesn’t want to miss a shave. Elliot is almost fanatical about keeping his face clean and his salt-and-pepper afro short and proper. He’ll miss a meal before being unkempt—especially a special day like today.
As Elliot enters the Denny’s he hears, “Morning Elliot.”
“Morning Gary. Seems busy for this time of morning.”
“Yeah,” Gary laughs as he says this. “And I’m down a busboy. Should I have Nancy set up a coffee for you at the counter?”
“Thank you kindly, but I can’t today. I’m meeting someone in a bit.”
Elliot looks around the restaurant, “It is busy though. Is it still alright if I use the bathroom to shave?”
“Of course, just be quick. But, thanks for asking man.”
“How did Denny’s warrant getting a saint like you Gary?”
Elliot’s smile makes Gary feel like more than just a guy who is slowly letting his dreams die under the reality of a soul-crushing job, “They pay their managers better than McDonald’s does.”
The smile fades, just a bit, as Elliot says, “Seriously though, Very few people would let a bum use—”
“Stop it,” Gary says, cutting him off. “And you’re not a bum. Although I do wish you’d take the dishwasher job I keep offering.”
“Not my style,” the smile returns.
“Sleeping on the streets is?” Gary says as gently as he can.
“We’ve been through this before. But don’t worry, I’ll be out of here toot sweet!”
“Alright, alright,” says Gary, raising his arms in surrender. “See you tomorrow Elliot.”
“Lord willing and the creek don’t rise!” Elliot jokes as he heads to the bathroom.
As Gary turns to seat a new customer he says, “The way the weather looks today, it just might.”
Under the stones of the Camino Real, in a time beyond time.
Roads lead to where you need to go to where you already are to where you will never reach and pistons pump out disappointments as gears laugh and both the rich and poor demonize each other while hiding their fear behind the sounds of angry justIFIcatIoNs and vIctIMIzeD tones that harmonize the rage you’ve felt for centuries and with the anger of HeaDLiNes wRitteN wiTH a suRetY BorN of noIsE.
NoIse… Sure… hAR..LiN…TTerW…PMenTPoisaDS…
YOu taVern SucKer dAn, goRE LaIDeN MaiD!
San Sincero, California, 1985.
Reaching the bus stop Elliot sits on the bench and smiles, savoring the pleasure of rest after a cold walk. He wishes his body was as willing to move as his spirit. He would dance every day, if his body would let him, and show the kids how it was really done.
Elliot bends down and picks up a section of crumpled newspaper carried by the wind. He hates seeing the printed news littering up the streets. He starts smoothing out the newsprint, speaking lovingly to it, “You’re not a bad paper. Your owner should have taken you with him. Or put you out of your misery. Don’t you worry none. You can keep me company until the bus comes by.”
Elliot turns to the weather section, “Darn it. It says here it is supposed to rain. That’s not right. Karen deserves a sunny day. A warm day!”
Elliot hums under his breath, his gaze unfocused on the headlines he stares at.
A mouth that tastes hot and a skin that feels sad and hunger that food never sates all do their best to distract you as foundations swirl into syncopating giBBerIsH. “Heavy storms to last through the week. Potential flood warning for communities east of the Kelley river” and swirling and twisting spirits of the desert of the chaparral become your loving fist where your multiples of bRIBe siGH and tHoM THoU remake hoTTesT MoSSy laRVa kEG WHethER thOU aLLowING AffrOntEd PorTIon moUNt fAe semIotiCs kiLL eVerY thREE until you and everyone sees the truth which is a joy fought for and stolen from cold black iron.
Elliot thinks today is going to be a great day as he reads the weather section. “Storm front to miss San Sincero. Sunny and warm by early morning.”
“That’s swell,” he thinks. “Just the sort of day Karen deserves!”
Elliot closes his eyes as he folds the section carefully and lays it next to him on the bench and smiles. He resumes his humming as the automobiles continue to pass by and the clouds begin to dissipate.
A soulless voice, almost mechanical, rising from somewhere uNdeR can barely be heard to say, “Ontoloplex breached. Implant Rejected. Initiating protocols.”
A young man walks toward the bus stop. The young man isn’t waiting for Elliot’s bus; he’s going to a different part of town. Sitting a respectful distance from Elliot he takes the newspaper and begins to read as Elliot’s bus approaches.
Confused, and feeling a bit groggy, Elliot says to himself, “The 319 is early today… I…” he turns to the young man, “Excuse me, do you know what time it is?”
With an exasperated sigh the man says, “7:30.”
“7:30!” says Elliot, more than a little frightened. “I… must have blacked out again.”
“You should lay off the Night Train old man. And get a goddamn job why don’t you?”
The voice from uNdeR states, “Diagnostics initiated.”
Shaken, Elliot rises from the bench and hurriedly climbs the steps onto the bus leaving the young man alone with the newspaper touched by Elliot, the winds, and who knows how many others.
The young man is Joe Davidson Jr., a freshly minted lawyer, following in the footsteps of his district attorney father. He reads the weather report that almost glows it is so distinct, “Sunny and warm by early morning.”
Great news to start the day with, Joe thinks. First day at the firm. Sunny day. Joe Davidson, welcome to the first day of the rest of your life!
The voice from uNdeR states, “Initiating Entry.”
Joe stares at the newspaper, suddenly frozen and trembling as the words shuffle under his gaze, freed from their prison of newsprint. The words of the headline are like thunder. Deafening. District Attorney, Joseph Davidson Sr., Killed in Mugging. His chest clenches and he hears something far off sHaTTeR.
“Dad. Oh God, No,” Joe closes his eyes and wipes a hand over his face before looks again at the article.
Beloved Mother Commits Suicide Because Son Doesn’t Visit Enough.
“What the?”
Fiancée Breaks Off Wedding—Ex-Bride-To-Be Says Joey Jr. Is an Inconsiderate Louse and a Horrible Lay.
“What the fuck is this?”
Joe turns the pages as the words swing a special dance just for him.
Attorney Joseph Davidson Jr. Found Dead at Bus Stop—Police Suspect Suicide.
Joe screams, crumples the newspaper, and slides off the bench, in a heap, onto the sidewalk. A gloom rises from the newspaper smelling of sweet perfume and old sweat.
Oh God, he thinks. My legs don’t work. Get up fucker. Get up! This is sick. Some sick joke… no, I don’t know what the fuck is going on but I can feel it. Something is coming. Something is behind me!
Joe gets up and stumbles down the street while other early morning commuters move to avoid him and the gray words that follow. He hears, faintly, a soulless voice say, Archon deployed.
He starts to run (not really caring where he’s going) into an alleyway and upon reaching a wall that marks a dead end, sits down hard. Staring at the ground until the gloom speaks.
You’re not him. But, you touched his smut. Filth from him that our protocols have… repurposed. Says a voice that is cold and grating, as if the parts of the throat uttering the words don’t quite work the way they should. A voice that belongs to a stranger with ashen skin. Wait. Is he really there? Joe can barely focus on him, and the features keep shifting.
“L-leave me alone,” says Joe.
The stranger squints his eyes and sniffs the air until, finally, he smiles and says, Where is he?
“What the hell are you talking about?”
The stranger sighs tiredly and shakes his head. I can see that you are next to useless. But one uses what one has available. What vitality is available. Then, like steel, the voice says, What did you read in the newspaper?
Joe Davidson looks confused. His pain turning to rage as he screams “Leave me the fuck alone asshole!”
The stranger’s face breaks into a small smile as he shrugs and grabs Joe’s face in his hand.
Ah… I see. Your father, your mother, your lover, your life. Hope and delusions give way to strife. You really are just a shit-bag of neuroses aren’t you? Joe starts to convulse as the man peers into his eyes, thrashing like a fish on a line.
“It’s all true you know,” says the stranger in a stronger, deeper, voice. Joe realizes that this is the first time he has actually heard this voice with his ears. “Every word. Why, it was printed in the papers so it must be true.” The stranger squeezes his hand and Joe trembles.
“Your father shot.” Davidson tWitChEs.
“Your mother dead by her own hand and a broken heart.” Davidson jErKS like a puppet on a string.
“Your young fiancée won’t even notice your death. She’s got real men to keep her happy now.” Davidson SpAsmS.
“It’s really too bad you were unable to climb out of your despair. Suicides are so sad.” Davidson sHaTterS.
“Three lives, no wives, how much more can I contrive?” says the stranger mockingly as he turns away from the body lying lifeless at his feet.
“Don’t feel too bad though,” he says looking at the sky. “The rain is going to miss us. Looks like it might be a nice day after all.”
He sniffs the air and if anyone would happen to walk by they would marvel at how much the harsh-looking, but sharp-dressed, man looks remarkably like the corpse of Joe Davidson Jr.
“Now, you spotty saucy, who’s the one who’s being naughty?” His smile fades. He breathes deeply, adjusts his coat, and walks out of the alleyway. “You never should have shown yourself trickster. I’ll find you now.”
(To be Continued)
