Don't Kill The Messenger
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Authors: Joel Pierson
Don’t Kill the Messenger
a novel
by Joel Pierson
Booktango
Bloomington
DON’T KILL THE MESSENGER
A Novel
Copyright © 2011, Joel Pierson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Booktango
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ISBN: 978-1-4689-0001-9 (ebook)
Booktango rev. date: 12/16/2011
Contents
Profuse thanks to my writing group, Jamie, Melissa, Holly, and Christy, for taking the journey with me, chapter by chapter. Your eagerness to see more and your willingness to rein me in when things went astray made a huge difference.
And thanks, of course, to Dana, who encouraged me to take this one all the way. If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t even know what a key deer is.
Joel Pierson is the author of numerous award-winning plays for audio and stage, including
French Quarter, The Children’s Zoo, The Vigil, Cow Tipping,
and
Mourning Lori.
He also co-authored the novelization of
French Quarter.
How he has time to write is anyone’s guess, as he spends his days as editorial manager at the world’s largest print-on-demand publishing company. Additionally, he is artistic director of Mind’s Ear Audio Productions, the producers of several popular audio theatre titles and the official audio guided tour of Arlington National Cemetery. If that weren’t enough, he also writes for the newspaper and a local lifestyles magazine in his hometown of Bloomington, Indiana. He stays grounded and relatively sane with the help of his wife (and frequent co-author) Dana, and his three ridiculously loving dogs.
It began, as it always begins, with pain. Two days ago, in the privacy and comfort of my home, I suffered a searing firestorm of pain that started in my right leg and worked its way up through my abdomen and into my chest, radiating out through both arms. When it struck, I dropped to my hands and knees and struggled to stay focused. Because I knew that with the agony came vital information. It was how I learned about Rebecca.
My life has not been my own for almost two years; I go where I am sent. I don’t know who is sending me or even why I’ve been chosen. All I have are the circumstances of the moment as each new day begins. This day’s circumstances find me in a car, a gold-colored Chrysler Sebring convertible. It’s not mine, but it’s not stolen—a rental car I picked up in Maryland. I’m the good guy, if there is such a thing; I know they’re a little hard to find these days. But I like to think that my intentions are good, even if plenty of people think I’m crazy or I’m scamming them. In America circa the new millennium, cynicism has become a cash crop.
I’m driving south on a little strip of road called U.S. 1, down to Key West, Florida. I’ve never been, but courtesy of the information I received, I know the way, turn by turn. It’s a piece of knowledge that saves some money and some hassle. The rental companies want twelve bucks a day to rent a GPS for the car. I remember when they used to give you a free map to where you were going.
Most of the time, no matter how far I have to go, I drive. I make a conscious decision not to fly. It’s not because of fear, but rather a question of control. Flights can be delayed or canceled, airplanes can be re-routed to unexpected airports, but the road is always open. And if I’m late for an appointment, somebody could die.
It’s early September and it’s dark out; just past 9:00 at night, I am still about thirty miles from Key West. U.S. 1 is a straight shot, an asphalt line, snaking its way to the southernmost point in the continental United States. Side streets jut out to the left and right, taking travelers to the Atlantic Ocean or the Gulf of Mexico, depending on which way they turn.
There’s a decent amount of humidity in the air tonight; an indecent amount might be a better description of it. Even without the heat of the sun, the moisture makes the air feel very close, even with the top down on the Chrysler and the wind moving through my hair. I’m outdoors and I still feel like I want to open a window. But I paid an extra $30 a day for the convertible, and unless it’s raining or the damn thing is parked, that top is staying down.
Then there’s the crackling. When I first heard it, about ten miles back, I didn’t know what it was or where it was coming from. At first, I thought something was short circuiting on the car. Then I slowed down and looked up at the high-tension wires paralleling the road, and there it was—the crackling. Like something out of an old science fiction movie, where the killer robot is staggering toward its defeat. The dampness is reacting with the power lines, resulting in a disturbing constant buzz, and that buzz is traveling across those wires, making it sound like they are leaking electricity, which might drop on my head at any second. It almost makes me want to put the top up.
Almost.
Instead I make an effort to ignore the crackling.
A mile or two down the road, the speed limit drops to thirty-five. Apparently the road crosses through a wildlife refuge for something called key deer, an endangered species of animal little and cute enough to warrant not just protecting it but showing it off to the public. I drive through at the reduced speed, irritating drivers behind me who clearly could give two craps for any species—endangered or not—and impatiently ride my ass until such time as they can pass me at about fifty. Halfway through the sanctuary, I’m free of ass-riders and alone with the night air. I see the deer ahead at the side of the road, about fifty yards, maybe a hundred yards up—hell, I don’t know. Spatial relations were never my thing. But there he is, as little and cute as I expected, and wandering squarely into the middle of my lane.
Fortunately, this isn’t the story of a car crash. I’m going slowly enough that I can bring the Chrysler to a full stop a good five feet from the deer, who—in a moment too cliché to appreciate—stands staring into my headlights. Since he doesn’t seem too intent on moving, I turn on my hazard lights and sit looking at him. I honk the horn; he’s unimpressed.
After a full minute of this standoff—and for reasons I don’t really even understand—I say, “Hi there.”
The furry little beast looks at me for a moment, then opens his mouth a bit, and I hear the word “Hey.”
Less jarred by this than I should be, I continue the conversation. “You hungry or something? I have Funyuns.”
“Didn’t you read the sign?” the deer asks. “You’re not supposed to feed us. It’s the number-one cause of road kills among my species—drivers hit us when we stand by the road, getting fed.”
“Not to be pedantic,” I chime in, “but I suspect the number-two cause of road kills among your species would be standing in the middle of the street.”
“Touché,” he says calmly. “Don’t worry. I’ll move in a minute.”
I ask the next obvious question, only dreading the answer a little. “Is there a particular reason you’re talking to me?”
“I’m not, really,” he answers in that same calm tone. “You’re projecting. You’re tired, a little lonely, and thinking about what you have to do tonight. You needed someone to give you a message, and I was the only one around.”
What’s most notable to me is how reasonable it all sounds. “So what’s the message?” I ask. If my diminutive conversation partner is right and I’m really just projecting, then I already know the answer. This will be the acid test.
“Don’t fall in love,” the little fuzzball retorts.
Bingo, we have a winner.
Still, I can’t help baiting him. “Ever, or just tonight?”
“Tonight,” he answers. “With her.”
“Wasn’t planning on it,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant, but feeling overwhelmingly chalant.
“That’s good,” he says, trotting to the side of the road. “Drive carefully.”
I turn off the hazards and resume my previous pace southward.
Don’t fall in love.
Didn’t the Tubes tell me the same thing back in 1983? Yeah, she’s a beauty, all right. Or so I imagine, since I haven’t even met her yet.
Forty-five minutes later, I pull into the city limits of Key West, Florida. I’ve long since missed the sunset, the nightly excuse for festivity and debauchery that brings the locals and the tourists together at Mallory Square in the middle of town. Not that the debauchery ends at dark; it goes well into the night most nights. And I’m headed for one of its favorite haunts.
The place is called Gulf Breezes, and it has an unassuming storefront on Caroline Street, tucked away with the restaurants, bars, and shops. Out front, two girls in exotic costumes are handing out cards to passersby. “All Nude Dancers,” the cards say. “First Mixed Drink $1.00 Off With This Card.”
One of the pair smiles at me as she hands me a card. “Come on in, hon?” she offers. “See the nicest girls in the Florida Keys?”
“Why not,” I reply, letting her think she’s talked me into it. Who knows, maybe they work on commission.
Inside, the place is loud. Music pours from speakers that seem to be on every wall. Black lights cast an unnatural glow on every surface, turning everything that’s white a shade of green—even people’s teeth. I’ve never been in a strip club before. Honest. “Titty bars,” my friend John calls them, but from the looks of the dancer on stage, the show doesn’t stop at the waistline. The stage is in the middle of the room, raised about three feet off the ground, and sporting two metal poles, one at each end. On it, a single girl, maybe twenty-one years old, moves in time to the music. I must have walked in toward the end of her routine, because she is stark naked save for a lace garter, displaying what God gave her, for the crowd to see.
The place isn’t seedy, as far as I can tell, though I have no basis of comparison. It doesn’t reek of alcohol, or anything else for that matter. The clientele seem well-behaved, and the floor isn’t dirty or sticky. It’s a good start.
There are tables set up away from the stage, and most of these are occupied, primarily by men, though a few have female companionship. It takes a special woman to say, “Sure, hon, let’s go knock back a few at the strip club tonight.” The bar is also well-populated, though the crowd there seems much more interested in booze than boobs. Then there’s the front-row seating, a row of chairs surrounding the stage itself. Only a few men are seated around it, all of them staring up at the dancer as she swings herself around the pole in a move that should be considered an Olympic sport. The ratings would certainly go up in a big damn hurry, I’ll tell you that much.
I make my way to one of the front-row seats. The “tip rail” I soon learn it’s called. All the men there have stacks of one-dollar bills in front of them. Periodically, one of them tents a dollar—its white areas greener than its green areas, courtesy of the black light—and puts it on the edge of the stage. I watch in fascination as the dancer responds. She slinks her way over to the patron on her hands and knees, then runs her fingers through his hair. I can’t get a bead on what he’s thinking. Outside, he’s completely calm, but inside … Is he on fire or just too numb to feel it?
