Suffocation

All the lawns on Niagara Avenue are mowed on Wednesdays. You’d think

everyone had a computer chip in their brains, everything done precisely on time, every time. Seriously, the cars turn into driveways at the end of the day at 6pm and duck into attached garages. Then within 15 minutes, it’s as if someone at NASCAR calls out “Start your engines” – all the electric mowers hum to life and the men or women emerge onto their front lawns. One guy is a nonconformist, though. He goes straight to his mower after leaving his car, and bedecked in suit and tie, he starts cutting away. I’d hate to see his drying cleaning bill.

            What the hell am I doing here? It’s been two weeks and I don’t know what rules govern this placid, boring subdivision in which everyone marches to the same drumbeat. Is it the homeowner’s association? Do they require the grass to be no more than 1½ inches in height come hell or high water? Even the underground yard sprinklers come on every other day, times staggered like the “wave” in the stands at football games. There is no traffic, nary a school bus, nothing, nobody.

            “Don’t talk to anyone,” I was told. “Don’t sit on your porch.” There was a cutesy porch out front with 2 white chairs and a circular table, just like everyone else had on their cutesy porches in front of their subdued gray front doors. “Stay inside, don’t call anyone, don’t go to Wal-Mart, don’t go for a walk, don’t go to church, don’t go anywhere that anyone can see you.”

Suffocate, I thought.

So this was witness protection. One day I came home from the office where I am chief accountant and two guys were in my house. They flashed badges, ID cards, threw some papers at me and said to quickly pack what I needed, I had to be moved somewhere safe. Safe? I feel like I have been buried alive.

What did I witness? Damned if I know. I work – worked, I mean to say, that job is likely gone with the wind – in the Secretary of State’s office. It was the morning after the national election and my group was auditing electronic returns from various counties. A buzzer went off. Fire alarm. There was a shuffle, chairs being moved, people heading to the doors like good little employees. Everyone but me. I’m the chief auditor in the department, I have to make sure all the machines are safe before I leave my post. So I backed up my data – I always do it three ways, you never know, right? – and sat staring at the screen. All of a sudden there were zigzags and the screen melted into pixel squares, and a hesitation of perhaps ten seconds. Then it was all back.

Or was it? Names and numbers were all in their proper lines before me, but the numbers had all changed. I know because I have a thing for numbers. I love numbers, I love figuring out how things work mathematically. I love running, for instance, paces per 100 yards, heartbeats, speed. It’s my thing and that computer glitch upset my thing. So good little employee that I am, I called the phone number I was given to report anything untoward in my job. I swore an oath to be scrupulously honest in this job and I take oaths seriously, so I called.

And that’s when my life caved in. The next day I was accompanied out of the office and taken to visit the lumbering ox of a state attorney general who thanked me profusely for reporting what I saw, and sent me to make a deposition with two lower level ants.

“Name?”

“Do you have another name?”

“Address?”

“Education?”

“How long have you worked for this state?”

“How did you get the lead job in that department?”

“Which state office holder recommended you for your job?”
         “What is the nature of your job?”

  “What are you qualifications?”

  “What time did this incident occur?”

  “Why didn’t you respond to the fire alarm?”

  “Have you spoken to anyone about what you witnessed?”

  “Why did you back up your data?”

  “Where did you back up the data?”

  On and on and on. I had to answer their questions, but they didn’t answer mine:

  “Who are you? Why do you want to know this stuff? What’s going to happen? I’ve got to get back to work.”

  Then that night, the two guys were in my living room, on my nice brown suede sofa. Maxie, my dog, was nowhere to be seen, that should’ve been my first clue all was not well. Go pack, they said. For how long? No answer. I grabbed my travelling carry-on and make-up bag and purse, stuffed my life into them and we were gone in a half hour. Before we left they went over every inch of my clothing in the carry-on, checked the pockets in what I was wearing, I’m surprised they didn’t do a strip search. They took my phone, kindle, and emptied my wallet.

They drove for hours. I think we were headed west, it was so long I fell asleep and when I woke up, I was here, wherever here was. I don’t even know the name of the town, only that the grass is mowed on Wednesdays. They handed me a new driver license, new social security card, health card.

“Lynette Brown? Who the hell is that?” I asked. “My name is Sabrine McAvoy.” And I liked my name, Lynette sounded like a dead fish. I had a website, Facebook presence, tons of contacts on my hotmail account. I was a runner, I had acquired awards and medals and trophies, I belonged to a fitness club, a running club,...

“No more. New identity.”

“What happens when this is over, after I testify?” There were protecting me, right? And then I could go back to my real life, right?

“No more. New identity.”

I left one day, took a stroll. Got a call on the cellphone they gave me – they gave me a phone, a credit card, and there’s a Chevy Impala in the garage, all courtesy of the government or somebody – and asked where I’d gone, who I’d talked to and told me not to do it again. I said I had to call my parents, they are up in age and we talked every day. It was a no. I said I had to go to Wal-Mart, I needed stuff. It was a no. Call for home delivery, don’t use Uber, don’t take the bus, just stay inside.

And hide.

Like hell.

As I looked out the back door, I could see the yard was fenced and yes, someone had mowed. I hadn’t heard or seen anything, when did that happen? Or was it turf? Was that a slight opening back there? And who knew I had gone for a walk? Someone spying? A camera? Why?

I figured it would rain eventually. I’d get out then, through the back, and hope for the best. If I didn’t see real people soon, I would go mad.

Thunder. Lightning. Jeans, sweatshirt, and rain jacket and I was out. The phone was left on the arm of the love seat, like any love was ever going to happen, I wondered if they told Geoff what was going on or let him think I’d run out on him.

I walked, stayed on Niagara. After awhile, I saw a school bus go by. Papillion School District. Nebraska? They drove me from Pennsylvania to Nebraska? To a town named by the Frenchy explorers for butterflies? But I kept walking, the rain eased up and there were more city-like buildings, more clutter. And a library. It was open and as I glanced around inside while shaking off the wet like some un-housebroken doggie, I saw computers. Public computers.

I was in the midst of logging into my account when I thought that wasn’t smart, they’d likely find me. So I surfed the ’Net back in my home state, my suburban locale, for news about the fraud, the election, anything familiar. The only thing of note was a short online blurb from the newspaper about a fire at my old address, a body of a dog and a woman found inside. My God, my parents must be beside themselves, Geoff….

And then it hit me, I wasn’t in witness protection, I’d been kidnapped and deleted. Why? What did I see that the government in my state didn’t want known?

The walk back was less wet, but more urgent. They, whoever they were, must have ways to track me, not just online and not just with the car, which I was sure must have some tracking device, but maybe they were even able to detect my presence – infrared for body heat? Oh crap. But it was time well spent, plan and counterplan. I was Sabrine, and I was up for anything.

It was three months later when the guy showed up. Terrance Torrance, in the uniform of every government flunkie in the movies: black suit, white shirt, black tie, black wingtips. Black is for intimidation so I faked it.

“Mr. Torrance, when will I be able to testify and get back to my normal life?” That’s it, sound like a whiny woman.

“Lynette, are you comfortable here? Has everything been going all right?”

“This place is okay, it’s boring. But I need to check on my parents, they must be so worried since I disappeared in the middle of the night. Have they been searching for me? My poor Mom and Dad. And my job. I have to get back to work, I never filled out the leave of absence paperwork, they’ll dismiss me. And….

“No, Lynette, things are going to stay the way they are, do you understand? You might get a new job, eventually. You just have to wait.”

“Why? I need to get back to living my life!”

Fat chance of that happening. He left, reminding me to stay in, use home delivery, and everything would be all right.

Oh, it would be all right, pal. Three months was plenty of time for planning. That library computer should have burned up with all the action I gave it. First, to get out of here, to find a place where the sun still shines and I can be free. That Terrance Torrance gave me the idea. Torrance, Wyoming. A sign from God? Wyoming. Torrance was a little small for my needs, but, you’ve got to love a state that has the old electric chair in front of the prison museum in Rawlings. Cheyenne was big, a person could hide there and not have to mow the lawn on Wednesdays. They maybe didn’t have lawns out there in the dusty west. And I found there are lots of things you can accomplish without a social security number. You can get a cheap car from one of those owner-to-owner places and pay cash, you just have to make sure the tabs aren’t expired. You can park the car a few blocks away so no one will connect the dots. You can even rent a house in a far-off community, and send a money order for the first and last month’s rent and damage deposit. Nobody in the gas station cares who you are as long as they get a fistful of dollars from the deal. Neither do realtors. Cash, cash, cash. Wonderful stuff.  

Where did it come from? My drawer, of course. I used to work in a bank and saw so many errors, I decided my underwear drawer at home was safer. Thousands, tucked away where the sun doesn’t shine, in my plastic-wrapped package of sanitary napkins. Each and every green plastic-wrapped napkin had been replaced with ten nice hundred dollar bills and those hotshot guards who went through my suitcase before we left didn’t even squeeze the package. What guy would?

One last look. I’d come to know them all and their quirks. Diagonally, Stay-at-home Robert. Once I got a Tracfone and got my time and minutes, under yet another assumed name, I’d cruised the internet, spying on my neighbors. Robert claimed to be studying at the local community college, four years into a two-year program. Yeah, right. His wife left for work every day. His car never moved, he never left, no one visited. Sound familiar? The public records showed that house was bought for $375k. And he had no job? Or were they in an alleged witness program too? Next door, Gretchen and Kyle. They had a child. Never saw them, they never came outdoors. He had a truck from the local internet provider, but it never left the driveway. Strange, strange neighborhood without any neighbors at all.

It was midnight when I took off, the old Hyundai Santa Fe was in good working order. Head west, young lady, head west. I connected to Interstate 80 and was gone. The phone was on the loveseat, the car keys next to it, the identification cards, credit card all in a row back on Niagara Avene. Good riddance. Early tomorrow morning I would meet the realtor in Ranchette, outside of Cheyenne. She’d give me the keys and I would be free. Laramie was home to the University of Wyoming, I planned to get a job there, we’d cross the identification card business when we came to it. Just drive!

The hum of a motor awakened me that Friday morning. Couldn’t identify it at all, but it was annoying so I got up. It had been two days of bliss, houses of different shapes and colors, cars moving around, even a school bus each morning. People! They were standing next to each other, talking, laughing. No one was hiding. I cried.

When I got to the bay window in front of my new home that Friday morning, I pushed aside the sheer curtains.

All the lawn on Mirage Avenue were being mowed on Friday morning.

-30-

 ,

Scotty

             The sun glinted off the wings of the small two-seater plane in harsh white spheres. On the shadowy side of the craft, the Navy insignia was imprinted in dark color.

            “Hiya, Scotty,” called a hoarse voice from behind the glare and shadows of the silver plane. Art poked his  bald-domed head out from under a graceful wing. “You going to jump today?”
            Scotty, striding quickly up the plane, grinned. “Yep. Beautiful weather.”

            The clear blue Forida sky emanated the warmth of a huge orange sun overhead. Visibility was maximum. It was a great day for jumping.

            “You’re crazy,” Art muttered, wiping his face with his sleeve and then put on a tattered red baseball cap. The only sign of his being Navy was the patch on his white nylon windbreaker.  “On two counts. One to come out here in such beautiful weather when you could be out with some gal; and two you and your skydiving. You couldn’t get me to jump out of an airplane two miles up for nothing, let alone fall until you feel like pulling that damned ripcord.”

            Scotty laughed. “No one’s asking you to.”

            Art sighed. “Well, if we’re goin’, we’re goin’. Where to?” He turned and began to scramble up the wing toward the cockpit.

            “Area B,” Scotty returned. He ran a hand through his thick mop of sandy hair. “I want to get this over with before it gets too hot.” He followed Art into the plane.

            In a few minutes, the small silver craft was hurtling down the concrete runway, heading for the bank of trees at the end. There was a sudden lifting, like an elevator on take off, and they were climbing heavenward.

            “Boy, you guys sure pick lousy ways to get kicks,” Art commented.

            Kicks. Is that why I’m doing it? I guess so, Scotty thought. “It’s something to do,” he replied. Something to keep me going. He stared out over the titanic cover of blue-white sky. It seemed to stretch out before him forever. It’s like me, he thought, my life. Everything is standing in front of me, waiting for me to take it. Now it’s skydiving. Tomorrow maybe it’ll be car racing or boat racing. Maybe sailing. That seems interesting enough. But there has to be something to keep me going, something exciting to do.

            Today, it’s like Art said, jumping out of an airplane and waiting until I feel like pulling that cord. Before this it was, and still is, Navy communications. Before that, SCUBA diving. That was sort of tame. Before that my boat and….

            “How high do you want it?” Art’s clogged voice broke in.

            “Ten,” Scotty answered, rather absently. He wished he could smoke, but not in mid-air. Between his thin shoulder blades, a tiny river of sweat was forming, chilling him. It was always this way before a jump: a moment of fear. After all, anything could happen. But then, he was trained and ready.

            Trained all right, for a lot of stuff.  Mainly electronics, though. Back in Minneapolis, he remembered his job as a technician at Honeywell. It had been a regular, normal eight-to-five job. Nothing spectacular. That’s why he quit. Electronics had interested him, though, ever since high school. He and his pal, Don, had been ham radio operators and enjoyed fooling around on the air quite a lot.

            Don. The two of them had done a lot together. The ham sets; the Civil Air Patrol – they had both planned to join the Air Force together; dating. Scotty had dated Don’s wife, and then her cousin after Don got serious with her. That was as close as he’d ever come to marriage with any girl. The other chicks, well, he’d lost track. Time had sure travelled.

            “There it is.”

            Below them lay jump area B. It looked like a tiny pinhead of gold in a green sea of trees. Actually it was about 900 feet square and designed to help jumpers and paratroopers improve their accuracy. Either you jumped clean or you busted a leg on the trees.

            Scotty looked at his silver jump helmet and his name lettered across the top in bold black letters. In a few more months he knew he’d give up the sport in favor of something else, probably more dangerous. It was an endless vicious circle.

            “Take it around once more,” Scotty ordered as he fastened on his helmet and checked over has parachute harness.

            The plane banked sharply and zoomed around.

            “See ya back on Mother Earth,” Art grinned. Scotty nodded. He moved out of his seat and toward the door in the side. Leaning forward, he opened it and the frozen blast of air tore at him and nearly threw him backwards. He propped the door and braced himself. Then,…

            “Go!”

            Scotty shoved the door wide and jumped.

            It was a frightening feeling at first, to jump out of a plane thousands of feet in the air. But then he settled back to enjoy it.

            The view, as always, was spectacular. Practically the whole tip of Florida in a hundred-mile radius lay beneath him. Toy cities and swamps of ugly black mire combined with the green of orchards and the low, squat milk-carton-like Navy base on the coast.

            Cold air rushed against him, trying to toss him out of his spread-eagle position. But training won out in the struggle and Scotty stared at the earth below him. It was coming up fast, as always, but no worry.

            To the left was the ocean looking like wet splotchy aluminum foil reflecting the sun. A few sails dotted the surface.  I’ll have to take up sailing, he told himself. Sky-diving isn’t as much fun anymore

            Time was running out, so his hand gripped the ripcord and pulled. Preoccupied, his mind dwelt on sailing. He could get a boat cheap and….

            The earth was still galloping toward hm. Something had gone wrong. Glancing over his shoulder, he could see his chute overhead, unopened. The white silk looked like a dead ghost falling through space.

            For a minute, panic. Then the voice of training took over. Pull the emergency cord. Now. Getting a trifle too close to earth.

            His hand jerked and the white fell from the stomach-centered pouch.

            And after sailing, I might take a spin to Daytona for a bit. There has to be something.

            The trees were giant green monsters now, and he realized the emergency chute hadn’t opened either.

            I’m going to die, he thought. So there won’t have to be anything else.

—-

 In memory of Kenny Johnson, 1965.