CHAPTER I: Hands Down
“Last name Blaire. This chapter is about my first day of freedom.”
See, I’d spent about two years studying performing arts at OSU before being kidnapped by the government for currently undisclosed reasons. Bombshell, I know. During those two years I worked the Oregon Shakespeare Festival under the direction of a guy named Carlton Burkehart. CB for short. We hit it off pretty well. Enough to grab drinks outside of the theatre now and again. I figured after my incarceration he would be the only person willing to hire me. The only thing I wasn’t looking forward to was re-entering the scene in Ashland specifically. Fortunately fate had other plans. My friend Kelly informed me that CB moved down south to work at The Pasadena Playhouse, but that seemed a little too conveniently timed to be true. Then I remembered he had a son at Cal Tech and the whole thing fit. An excuse to get on the bus was all I needed.
—You sure you don’t want me to drive you?
Kelly looked at me in the mirror as I pulled my pack out of the back seat.
—Yeah, I’m fine man, it goes to the same place.
—Takes way longer though.
—Do I look like a guy in a hurry?
Cue the sarcastic smiles;
—Alright brotha, you know where to find me.
I tapped the windowsill, and ushered him off with a kick to the tires. You know, I tip my hat to Kelly. He understands me. Nevertheless, as soon as he was around the corner I took a page out of Silvester Stalone’s book and flipped that hat backwards. Next thing I did was check the bus schedule on the side of the module. Suddenly a cartoon face popped up out of nowhere.
—Anything I can help you with?
—Holy shit. No, leave me alone.
—Sorry, just doin’ my job.
—Well do it somewhere else.
—You’re kind of rude.
—They’re programming personal opinions into this crap now? Don’t answer that.
—Have a good day.
The face disappeared. I shook off the interaction and went back to the timetable. Seven minutes until the next bus to Sacramento. From there it would be a straight shot to Union Station in Los Angeles, and I'd finish it off with a metro to Pasadena. I sat down, put my pack off to the side and attempted to breath easy. That is until about twelve or thirteen drones came flying overhead at breakneck speed. They were up about fifty feet I would say, and the sound was unfamiliar to me. The last drone I’d seen was a giant bee buzzing around. These weren’t using any propulsion system I recognized, and they were chirping. You know how robot voices sound human enough, but there’s still something completely off about them? Well, it was like that but the bird version. Not cool.
I was transfixed for a moment or two. There was suddenly a girl sitting next to me, but I hadn’t seen her walk up. She seemed to be having roughly the same type of morning; hair sticking out several different directions, different colors, and she had a black hoodie on over a white sundress. Her eyes were glued to a magazine called U. F. Oughta Know.
We all know conspiracies are dumb, but...
—What’re you reading?
I leaned forward a bit. She was pretending I didn’t exist. There were four triangles inked over her knuckles, and something on her thumb. I was curious about that too, but I decided it was a better idea to keep my mouth shut. Nervously I tapped out a rhythm on the bench and leaned back to my original pose.
She turned to me abruptly and flipped her hair behind her ear.
—Did you say something?
Instead of making eye contact she was watching my lips for a reply. I understood.
—Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize you were um...
I didn’t feel comfortable saying deaf.
—It’s okay. Did you want to read this? I’m all through.
I doubted that.
—Are you sure?
I took it anyway.
She went back to her own little world and I set about examining the magazine. Most of the articles inside were clearly meant to be ironic, but most of the things I Ought-to-Know in order to understand that irony were nowhere to be found in my brain. I was about to give it up when I saw a photo that made me laugh. It was of a crazed shirtless man in suspenders riding on top of a coal train with a molotov cocktail in his hand. Below him was a witchy woman dragging her feet on the ground in what appeared to be an attempt to slow the train down. The caption read: Oskaar B. Wylder and his assistant in all things magical bring Quantum Rainbow Chamber to Dodger Stadium. It was dated November 5th, 2025. Apparently this was an older issue. Then again, I didn’t know who either of them were was so I couldn’t say anything. The article didn’t offer much at the start. It was mostly about the many scandals this Oskaar person brought upon himself. Supposedly he was some kind of physicist, or psychically savvy hypnotist, it was hard to tell. Once I got past the fluff I learned that Oskaar worked for a company called BEC, which stood for Business, Electronics, & Computers.
—These people can’t be serious?
I forgot the girl couldn’t hear me. My disbelief was being suspended by a burning thread. I used my phone to consult the internet in regards to the producers of the magazine. The only thing that leant any credence to it was a cryptic tweet from an ex-President. But that particular one? I don't know. The article also talked about a personal offshoot of BEC that Oskaar ran called The Technological Institute of Technology. It claimed they were responsible for an entirely new global positioning system which lead to the perfection of any and all automated vehicles. Also inventing teleportation and legit hovercrafts. I thought of the drones. Perhaps those stupid things were Oskaar’s doing. The last sentence I read was, “thanks to this super dope piece of machinery known as the QRC, we now know what happens when two human beings and a computer share the same consciousness.”
—Boof!
I set the magazine down on the bench. That was more than enough for me. The girl turned to look once more.
—Not your cup of tea?
—Turns out I didn’t want to know any of that stuff.
I said it very clearly just in case.
—You don’t have to exaggerate. I’ve been reading lips my whole life.
—I’m sorry.
—You apologize too much.
—You’re probably right.
—Of course I am. My name is Luna, but you can call me Mars.
—Very planetary.
I pointed to the magazine.
—You are what you read.
—I sure hope not. It’s nice to meet you, I’m Jimmy the Apologizer.
—You need a better nickname than that.
I didn’t have a snappy comeback, but I was saved by the bell. A.k.a. The Bus. Down the road it came tumbling, and much to my surprise, it had a driver. I grabbed my pack and awkwardly let Mars enter first. The inside smelt like burnt rubber shoes, and every seat was equipped with a barely functioning television. There weren’t many others on board. Some guy in the back who looked too rich to be on public transport, and a couple of kids with VR glasses on. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to sit with Mars, but I got the feeling she liked her space. I ended up choosing a seat with a few rows of insulation between me and anyone else. As soon as we were seated the door closed and the bus set off. T-minus eleven hours, I thought. The seat didn’t adjust in any fashion what-so-ever, which was disappointing. The TV glitched at me. I smacked it but nothing happened. At last I decided to just put on some headphones, roll up a sweatshirt, and try to pass out against the window to the keyboard playing of Ray Manzerek. It was a massive success.
* * *
All aboard! All aboard!
They don’t say that anymore. Though of course why would they? We don’t want to listen. Show it to me on a screen. I’d like to hear this podcast not the steam and stoke of an engine more powerful than I can imagine. But what am I saying? Trains don’t work that way anymore. They used to be big clanking fire machines on vibrating rails of hissing metal set down by immigrants striving for the west through monstrous mountains on wooden planks. Walk the plank! Ahoy! Thats going even farther back. Not that much different though, many of them died for the privilege that they would never cash in on. There was even that one man who was fracking through a mountain and had a steel rod shoot through his head. He lived through it, crazy man. I heard he wasn’t the same man after that. Its amazing how a few centimeters of our brain can change our entire personality. I bet there are even some people who wish that would happen to them. Instead they numb themselves with poison and try to forget everything they live for. It will always be a dream. Even this is a dream. I’m not on a train. I’m on a bus.
—WAKE UP Jimmy WAKE UP.
I snapped out of my nap thinking someone was talking to me. My eyes were blurry and I couldn’t tell if there was a person there or not. I looked out the smudged window and saw the open matchbox that is central California. Rest stops packed with caravans and broken vending machines floated past, followed by fast food complexes eerily close to their supply of cows. I couldn’t be sure, but we had to have been on the road for at least six hours. How’s that for a nap? I reached for my bag, but it wasn’t there. Then I realized the seats were a different color. Then…
—Oh fuck.
Panic struck hard and fast. I didn’t see Mars, the rich guy, or the kids. Some other chick was behind me. She’d fallen asleep reading a book. I jumped up immediately and ran to the front.
—Please go back to your seat sir.
—Hey man! You don’t understand, how did I get here? What’s going on?
—You walked in and sat down, just like everybody else. Now if you please…
—What about the stop in Sacramento?
—This the the bus from Sacramento.
—Sure, but listen to me, I do not remember getting on this bus.
—I don’t…Yes, well, you did. Sit down.
I obliged by planting myself in the front row.
—Okay…okay, but where is this bus going?
—Castiac Junction.
—Castiac? Where the hell is that?
—Santa Clarita.
—I’m supposed to be on the route to Pasadena.
—Then you take the bus from there, makes no difference.
—Yes it does!
I’d had it by then.
—Leave me alone I’m driving.
Clearly he was not. The bus was steering itself and he was playing some bird game on his phone, but I wasn’t about to open up that can of worms. I decided to hell with it and went back to look for my bag.
Much to my relief, it was indeed still there. I just hadn’t seen it the first time. It was in the overhead compartment somehow. I did a scan to make sure nothing had been stolen. The most annoying thing was knowing I wasn’t going to get an explanation for the old switching of the bus. I was staring down the barrel of four hours with absolutely no answers my questions. So don’t expect any for yourself either. I can say that I’ll never close my eyes on another bus as long as I live.
Thankfully I managed to get my anxiety under control in a reasonable amount of time. If the driver was right about the bus from Santa Clarita then at least I was still going in the right direction. But I was too groggy to play the What If game for long. Instead I forced my mind to numb itself down to a dull roar by staring at the fences that stretched on for miles and miles. I started to wonder who was responsible for such a seemingly ridiculous feat. I imagined a huge truck bed packed to the brim with posts; sweat and exhaustion; biceps sore; splinters; country music. Did they do it all by hand? Did they have one of those giant air compressors that did all the pounding for them? I don’t know.
I can’t even begin to describe how happy I was when we started climbing the Grapevine. I didn’t know much about where we were, but I knew that meant we were close. My head felt heavy. Remember how I said I’d never close my eyes on a bus again? Well, I did.
CRACK!
A gunshot from within the void.
Blood.
The shovel breaks ground.
About face, trust the dark earth.
Fall, and remain.
I am not a killer.
Zoom! I woke up yet again. The little PTS-Dream freaked me the hell out, and I had missed the entirety of the pass. Thankfully I was on the same bus this time so I composed myself. I knew that something must’ve been put into my system. There’s no way I'd let myself drift that deep twice in a row. Thankfully I hadn't slept through the Castiac stop. Even still, I was a full on zombie when I transferred from there onto a bus headed for Altadena. That was the only available option unless I was going to wait until the next day. But my head hurt and I was ready to be done. Besides, I was informed that the two cities were neighbors.
After twenty minutes or so on the new route, Los Angeles became visible. The sun had everything bathing in a deeply surreal orange. The buildings were like spears ready to be brought to a polluted war. A war for the brightest light. The highway split and we sank down into a series of vine laced overpasses. The exit signs were lit up, but you could’ve read them regardless. We got off the 210 at Arroyo and took a hard left onto Windsor. A few minutes later we cruised past the emerald city—excuse me, JPL—and found ourselves rolling down an ill-maintained road lined with old homes.
Now I’m no expert, but it looked like they’d had their heyday seven or eight decades past. I thought of all the people that must’ve lived in them. Countless actors, singers, directors, engineers, golfers, mobsters, writers, and crazy relatives of all of them. I’m sure they’d come over for dinner on Sunday evenings and get their fill of wine and daily baked bread. They’d rant and rave over cigarettes at long mahogany tables; lounge in rooms behind diamond windows set in plaster. The fellas would practice their swing on well groomed lawns with pleated pants, shiny shoes, and high-waisted collared shirts; talking about the new set of clubs they saw Dean Martin using at the Callaway course. But who knows. I wasn’t there.
We stopped at Lake Avenue, which was apparently the closest the bus was going to get for my needs. I disembarked with a bit of a chip on my shoulder. Across the way was a gas station that looked like a TV-commercial waiting to happen. The store was still open so I popped over in hopes of a Coke and some cigarettes. After the day I’d had that literally sounded like the best combination in the world. Although, I nearly walked out when I saw that a pack of American Spirits was fourteen bucks. Still went for it though. I returned to the sidewalk slightly disenchanted and lit one up.
—Got another one-a those bad boys Danny-O?
I turned to find an older gentlemen planted on a bench next to the door. Didn’t look like he was going anywhere. Legs crossed; arms up; and a collared shirt that could’ve used a few more buttons at the top.
—You alright with Spirits?
He went back and forth for a moment.
—Kools are for me, but what the hell. Not s’posed to be smokin’ anyway.
—Wife’s orders?
—Worse, doctors.
—Ah what do they know…
—Damn right! All they know is you’re gonna die. But we all know that. Quittin’ was a mistake.
I held out the cigarette. I knew where this conversation was going. He took a lighter out of his shirt pocket and sparked it a few times. Finally, success.
—Yep, that’s the… Wooo, these are a little rough.
—That’s what everybody says.
—You got numbers?
He held out a lotto ticket.
—No, not for me.
—Eh, you ain’t playin’ you ain’t winnin’.
—You ever win?
—Oh sure. Not the big bird but I get a few bucks here an’ there.
—Touche.
I wasn’t sure what to say next.
—Hey, do you know how I can get to The Pasadena Playhouse from here?
The guy looked at me funny.
—Two types of people get off that bus. People who know where they are, and people who forgot where they live. Guess you’re evidence of a third type.
—What does that mean?
—Means you were on the wrong bus to begin with dumbass.
—Tell me about it.
—So you’ve had a day huh? Playhouse is down that way bout two miles, then half-a one to the right. You better get movin’. Unless there’s a show they’re bound to be closed up.
—Right.
—I’ve got an idea that might help.
He took a penny and flipped it up in the air. To my surprise he put absolutely no effort into catching it.
—What’s that about?
—Did it land heads up?
I took a gander.
—Nope. Lincoln Memorial all the way.
—Ah! Head’s up good luck.
I reached to grab it.
—Don’t pick it up now!
—Hm.
I’d be remembering that trick.
—Alright kid, look both ways before you sign the cross.
I figured that was his version of a send off. I saluted him, and went in what was supposedly the right direction. Thank goodness it was down hill.
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