Rendezvous Vol. I (Connections)

Author: Elliot Lee Fenton

Disclaimer: the following is a work of fiction, any characters that may appear to resemble actual people (whether alive or deceased) or scenarios that seem to depict real world events – are wholly coincidental and not the intent of the author.

Rendezvous — a Novella

 (Volume I)

Connections

1. Matt’s Drive Along the Boardwalk

Every time somebody entered my cab it was a new story. 

A new set of problems. 

Of course that’s why I chose the job. Because it allowed me to focus on something other than my personal troubles. The traffic light overhead abruptly changed from red to green and in response my foot hit the gas pedal. My thoughts rolled along with the cab. The boardwalk was empty save for a few souls. I let my mind wander.

…an older model, cheaper.

(But it was mine, and that’s all that mattered.)

The sprawling cityscape glittered in the sun’s radiant beams, each window and reflective surface shone; little diamonds causing me to squint during my drive down the shore line. I loved this route, it kept me out of the sprawling uphill streets over on Parker Ave., Wellington Heights, and really – anything off the main stretch. I’d already done my time covering those neighbourhoods with their one-ways and infuriatingly dense zoning; it was now my turn to get the more accessible downtown routes, not to mention, better parking and better tips. Those were the real perks. A man needed to make his way in this world; something my father reminded me of every single day when he was still with us. Fuck up this one detail – and your whole life can and most likely will, turn to shit. Rain started to fall in heavy drops, so I switched on the windshield wipers. The car tires hit a patch of pavement. It was new and sort of slick. I adjusted accordingly and lowered my speed. Up ahead, a couple were crossing at the intersection so I geared down. On my left a chartreuse sedan slowly rolled up to the intersection in the HOV lane. I remember feeling annoyed because it was clear that the vehicle (a Mitsubishi) was only occupied by a driver. We were both stopped at the dotted-line and waiting for pedestrians to cross when the window on the other car’s passenger-side door – only a few feet from me – began to roll down.

“Matthew, do you know the place where the sun meets the moon?” The voice was a woman’s.

(Soft but with a gilded edge to it)

“Excuse me…” I responded, refusing to look over just in case the lights changed. 

“…I don’t know what you mean.” I replied.

 (Safety was always my top priority, it was my one-and-only concern; as it should be for anyone.)

“You’ll certainly know what I mean; when you see it Matthew.” She said this with a hint of exasperation; as if I was the one behind on the uptake. 

The words had a tinge of an accent but it was hard to place. I took my eyes off the road for a moment, to look over and add a face to the voice; but as I did, the light changed and the other car lurched forward, the resulting angle left me with only a brief glimpse of bright auburn hair.

(How strange that she knew my name…)

Thankfully, I didn’t have time to think about it – the traffic lights switched – and I was already late to take my right-hand turn, the one delayed by the couple of love-birds who’d crossed earlier and so it was time to put all else out of my mind. I used my left foot to push the clutch in and my right hand to work the stick, the car began to move and shifted into first gear, then I hit the accelerator.

 My drive along the boardwalk continued unabated. 

Along the shoreline my metallic chariot raced from destination to destination. I pushed the RPMs and really tore through downtown, overly confident due to the relatively low traffic. A few minutes later the dispatcher’s voice crackled out of the dashboard speaker.

“Who’s available — on or nearby Samson St.?”

“Yeah, I got you…. What’s the pickup address?”

“6454 Samson, look for a red truck with a bumper sticker that reads ‘bumper stickers are a waste’, that’s the house…truck is broken…  owner needs a ride.”

“Clever man should’ve taken his own advice. Bet it’s a timing belt. Cheap fix.”

“Sure, sure. You’re expected in fifteen mins by the way so hustle on over there, Matt.”

The radio cut out with minimal hiss. I grabbed a pack of nicotine gum out of my console but it was empty. I gave up and kept my eyes glued on the road. 

(There’s no small luck in this world….)

 The rows of houses cloistered the single lane as my vehicle climbed a hillside near the shore. Rolling along a residential neighbourhood near downtown where each building was squeezed in tight, structures packed like sardine cans, the rain made it feel… more than a little oppressive. I can’t wait for this weather to change. I pulled up in front of the house and parked behind the red truck (and that bumper sticker) and tried to find a piece of damn gum – before giving up on it. As I stepped out from the vehicle, a round shape way off in the distance caught my attention, making me stop dead in my tracks. 

Juxtaposed against the backdrop of a setting sun – a billboard that sat prominently on the shore, I don’t know how I’d missed it earlier. It was a tad difficult to make out in the twilight; but a few seconds later the sun beams shifted and illuminated everything by the waterfront. In actuality, the billboard was covered with the picture of a round full-moon complemented by a quaint looking motel.

The moon was gigantic: emphasizing the tranquility.

The caption at the top read: 

The Moonlit Motel, cheap rates and wifi 

– Located just off of route 29 –     

The exact way in which the setting-sun lined up next to the moon was peculiar…to say the least…. I began to repeat the words to myself (almost) inaudible. The words that I heard issue forth from the vehicle earlier – in the form of a mystifying message – from an even more mystifying woman. 

Where the sun meets the moon.

I repeated the words in my head;

…where the sun meets the moon…

(That’s what she said, right?)

*****

I was waiting to book a room at the front desk of ‘The Moonlit Motel’ forty-five minutes later.

The hotel owner stared out from behind his counter: the surface piled with an odd collection of managerial objects and quirky desk ornaments. He wore large glasses with thick lenses attached… accentuating his already odd appearance. His clothes seemed baggy in all the wrong places and his mustache was styled with wax, curled at the tips, very akin to someone living in the late 1800s. I felt like I’d stepped into an episode of The Twilight Zone complete with off-putting decor and weird characters.

“The key. It’s on the counter.”

The odd little fellow gestured to the key laying before me on the pine countertop. When he spoke; his voice was slow and hypnotic like a primordial hum. I hesitated, thinking to myself: this is strange. Why did I come here? The man waited, impatient, looking past me. Then I remembered…it was her. 

The mystery woman. The moon.

Her calling to me was what I heard now, it was that hum that permeated all other things, – and he heard it too. A bead of sweat rolled down his face – he wiped at it with a handkerchief.

“Take the key, she’s waiting.” He requested, creakily.

The strange man motioned. I took it.

I stumbled down the walkway with motel doors on one side, the moon shining radiantly overhead, my arms and legs heavy like lead. Sleep, I needed sleep. It was a very bizarre sensation – almost like ambrosia and anticipation fused together in some sort of indecipherable mental fever. As I ambled up to suite No. 16 – I realized somebody was waiting for me in the doorway or rather a silhouette of someone outlined in sun beams awash in evening rays of magenta and orange. Auburn hair lined a uniquely pleasant complexion, genial eyes; soft amber with hints of hazel. 

 (She’s so… is she even human?)

“As a matter of fact Matthew, I’m not.”

2. Nora’s Ride

I slung my foot over the saddle, hooking it in the stirrup in one swift motion.

 It felt good. 

I hadn’t been out for a ride in eons. All around me were fir trees, a few maples, plenty of pines, and an abundance of verdant grass. The fork in the trail ahead looked like an intrepid choice so I kicked both heels into the sides of the horse (Biscuit was her name) and felt my heels catch in tandem, then the rush of air as she sprang forward. And what a great feeling it was. Before long we were clearing the treed area and exiting out and on to a swath of land where it switched to more sparse coverage of shrubbery, some fallen trees, and thick tall reeds. Really, this was my favourite spot of the family property to ride on – and I tried to come out here as often as I could. 

(It wasn’t easy either…what with the job in the city. Sadly, I only managed it a few times a year now—)

“Woh!! Woh! I said – hold it!” I yelled this furiously; my horse had nearly tossed me off her back.

Not a full-on buck, so much as a hard shrug but still powerful enough that I was un-steadied in the saddle and more than a little startled.

My initial thought: that a small animal had bolted across the path – but unless my eyes deceived me there was none to be had. I rubbed my mare’s neck to soothe her, and to calm myself maybe, since I was now turning around in my saddle wildly – searching for some sort of large animal that was out and about. A brown bear or cougar would be bad but a grizz would be worse, much, much worse. I urged my loyal friend forward once again, now at a more cautious pace. Even in this large clearing there were myriad trees that surrounded my position; any of these pockets of tall flora here and there could be hiding a wild predator ready to charge at me in an attempt to prove natural selection correct – that was just simple logic. It was my preference not to take any chances, if at all possible. Biscuit was easily frightened: after all she was classified as “sturdy on a trail but ready to flail” (a running joke, something my father was overly fond of saying), and my working theory was that she might not have had the necessary amount of warhorses in her family tree, or maybe in a past life my horse was a timid little mouse… the latter required belief in karmic reincarnation. I wasn’t sold.

“Maybe we just go home…what do you say, huh? Biscuit?” I asked my equine companion, patting her side. Her response was a soft snort, a clear sign of agreement if not whole hearted acquiescence. However, there was a faint hint of exasperation that I detected. She hadn’t gotten her full ride.

An hour later I descended the last little hillock behind the family house, avoiding the oddly placed rocks (with some ease, based mostly on memory), the ground here was so fraught with obstacles and gopher holes that a horse was extremely likely to step wrong and so – leading by hand for the last stretch – a good habit to have. I held Biscuit’s reins in my left hand while traversing the final twenty metres to the barn. 

My family’s property consisted of a smallish farmstead: a paddock for the horses, a large A-frame barn, mostly used for stabling (and auxiliary storage), chickens in a coop, a little fishing pond, and some hand built goat pens. The scenery was resplendent. It reminded me of days past, time spent enjoying nature in its entirety when the house was brand new –  when the first horses had been purchased and my parents were freshly married. These thoughts always lead to full-blown trips down memory lane. Nostalgia sort of reigned supreme here…when time was spent at the family farm memories arrived in my head invited by the familiar scents and fragrances like a portal into days gone by. Lilac, cedar sawdust, and pine scent, stood out among them. As well as the earthen pungent aromas that belonged to most – if not all – farmsteads. I absolutely loved reconnecting with my roots but it was always some heavy emotional baggage to carry back to the city. I’d spend odd nights laying awake for weeks after fretfully wondering if I had made the right choice by moving from my childhood home in the country to a big urban center. I tried to live life with no regrets but it wasn’t always easy. 

I went over to the barn to put Biscuit away, rewarding her with some hand-fed hay afterwards – as a treat. I patted the pinto’s pale dappled side for a while then departed towards the house at a brisk pace. The wind was blowing to the east with quite some force as I exited the barn, so I gripped my sunhat with my right hand, worried that it might leave my head with a particularly strong gust.

Looking back at the house, it was brightly lit. Dusk was fast approaching when I ventured out earlier so I’d left the indoor lights on, just in case my ride went late…the ordeal had me kind of antsy and a brightly lit house was a benefit in my eyes.

I hurried, but now that the barn was no longer in my field of view and the path I had been on earlier was visible, I noticed a far off glint. 

(Or did it notice me?) 

The thing was subtle yet not easily missed; twinkling away in the distance. The sun had set just enough for whatever was shining over there – to really stand out – like catching an eyeful of Venus on a midsummer’s night.

*****

Upon closer inspection:

 It was a silver-looking rock, nearly overgrown with lichen and polished enough to have a semi-reflective quality to its surface. In all my years on the property, I had never seen anything like it.

The mystery object was about three-and-a-half feet by five feet and irregularly shaped. As I started to pull the moss and natural debris away, my hands felt a warm pulse emanating from the chunk of geological esoterica. Something about this object was calling out to me, beckoning me to unearth it further.  

I stood up and looked over my shoulder expecting that someone had come around (my sister-in-law wasn’t due until tomorrow) – but there was no one and therefore no one to advise me against doing what I so badly wanted to do, but probably shouldn’t. So I guess it was time to figure out what the hell this thing was.

I used my hands to uncover the unknown relic; soon that warm feeling started once more (What is this sensation?)

spreading first from the palms of my hands then out and down and into the pit of my stomach and even further….

 It felt like a surge of energy – almost electric or magnetic…somehow…kind of pleasant. 

A moment later I was sinking into the  deepest depths of a vast ocean of nothingness, lost in oblivion, and descending into unconscious thought…

Something tells me it wasn’t an animal on the path… that I saw earlier…and I also have a sneaking suspicion this silver thing’s connected in some way… 

But no more thoughts came after that – just a big fade to black for me.

Unconsciousness took me.

3. Carmen’s Night Free-running

The skyline brimmed with twinkling lights and moving cars, creating a sort of stage-production out of the urban metropolis upon which the mountains were the backdrop: accentuating their majestic qualities. The azure had faded hours ago but left a pleasingly soft navy-blue in its wake. As I climbed the next rung of the ladder I took in the sights with wild abandon thinking to myself: this is what life’s all about.

This was how most of my nights went. They were spent climbing and finding spots to attempt tricks and leaps that would astound the average person. I’d climb to the highest, most inaccessible locales to practise the art of rooftop acrobatics. Some called it “Extreme Parkour”, others “Freerunning”, but I didn’t care what you referred to it as; just as long as you gave this artform the respect it deserved. I’m a professional – someone who’s been traversing the untraversable for longer than my memory extended.

“Parkour” was what I loved doing – plain and simple.

I reached the top of the roof, slinging my pack up onto it before hauling myself off of the ladder and onto the gravel aggregate. A medium sized mid rise, pretty expansive rooftop; lots of space. A narrow two-by-twelve board (about 8 ft in length) was set up spanning the gap between an industrial sized air-conditioning unit and another much older mid rise. The decrepit building and my building were (luckily) constructed close together which had allowed for my makeshift bridge. I stepped across the wooden-slat carefully (this was not the time for me to be a clutz) knowing that further on – my reflexes would serve me – but – now it was precision and balance that was needed. I looked down for a moment to remind myself of the fourteen-story drop waiting for me below if I screwed this up. I put foot in front of foot and felt my adrenaline spike a bit…

*****

Once on the other rooftop I spent most of my night with my Go-Pro camera on: wall-climbing, running, gracefully leaping, completing dexterous skids off of sharply angled abutments, tackling death-defying runs along narrow sections and ledges, and all while breathing some truly fresh air – it was exhilarating. I was buffeted further by an intoxicating spring-mist that circulated above the West side of the city, floating down from the suburban areas above. This was one of the bonuses of climbing this high: it allowed for some of the greatest sights in the city, and also enabled you to literally rise above the industrial slum located on Westside Drive.

Westside Dr. was a street that had, at one time in the 1960s, been a bustling hub of shops and businesses. But it was now virtually defunct – nothing but rundown apartment complexes and boarded up storefronts – those who did live there had the very ill luck of being in the shadow of a nearby industrial plant. This unfortunate zoning overlap was the cause of most commercial real estate owners opting to sell and relocate elsewhere…the ones that didn’t, they went out of business anyway… you can’t fight progress, right?

 So, now it’s just the apartment building I rent in and a few others that’re left serving practical purposes; you know, “subsidized housing” or as I like to call the ones on Westside Drive, le châteaus…(come for the cheap rent, stay because there’s no way out). These apartment complexes were the only remaining bastions in a once thriving neighbourhood, every other business not to mention all the residents had vacated long ago.

It was then, as I settled down to have a smoke, that I realized someone had eyes on me. I could make out a figure off on another rooftop, shadows obscuring their form but they were still fairly visible at a distance. This definitely piqued my curiosity…was it a cop…a do-gooder… or some rival parkour-artists angling for my turf? No matter, whoever it was, it’d be smart to find out and afterwards I should probably boot-scoot-and-boogie for the night, hit the road jack – and all that. So I scampered over to a nearby ventilation duct on the right, left my backpack behind, forgetting the fact that my wallet was in it – and began to climb to a better position. 

Quickly reaching a more optimal height I pulled a pair of mini-binoculars off a clip on my belt and proceeded to turn the tables on my spy; now the watcher has become the one being watched. Yeah.

The person across the street was walking away, apparently done with their surveillance for the night. They wore a long trench coat, a black baseball cap tucked low, dark sunglasses. Total cloak and dagger stuff. The hairs on the back of my neck pricked up, this was some serious reconnaissance being done. But why? It was the first time I’d ever seen anything like this before….

Shit, shit, shit.

*****

End of volume I