As the sun set over jagged ridges in the West Coast mountains by my 3-dimensional apartment, I sat quietly in meditation, centered on my Tibetan rug. The existential veil had thinned in this late October, which made for rich ethereal adventures inward. My brain dipped into deep delta waves, and my consciousness transcended those current three dimensions. I leapt up into the 5th, only for a second to then spring from that platform into the 7th dimension.
I opened my eyes. I was still sitting in the lotus position, but my heightened form consisted of an energy more pure—maintaining the human shape, mind you—and sat in a peaceful zen garden, in the back yard of my home in Gardanne. As I stood, anamnesis occurred flooding memories from my life up here back into my frontal lobe. The most recent memory of my 3D life down on Earth_42 left my waking 7th-dimensional mind like a dream.
Not a minute after I settled into the backyard landing pad, I whisked into the kitchen where Kitty was making dinner. I had seen her through the back window over the kitchen sink, as she washed off some vegetables. The sight of her lightly freckled face quickened my pace inside.
Before she could turn around to greet me from my long voyage, I hugged her.
“How was your meditation?” she said.
“Good,” I said. “I was just visiting my plant body down on Earth_42. Now, I’m shaking off that 3-dimensional heaviness to get ready for the party tonight.”
“You should have just enough time to shower and put on your costume,” she said. “I’m nearly done preparing the dish we’ll bring. Then, I’ll get dressed and we can go.”
On Gardanne time, Kitty had clocked my backyard meditation at only a half hour or so. But, to me, the stint had lasted 43 years down on Earth_42, as I let those hefty 3D memories roll off my back with the hot water from my steamy, refreshing shower. The soothing flow from the pressured water further facilitated my much needed anamnesis reacquainting my mind with this 7th-dimensional existence. We were about to attend a Halloween party down the street. I was going as The Crow, from the cult classic Brandon Lee movie, complete with the black and white face paint that made my mug resemble a crow’s face. Kitty was going as a Kitty Kat, as she called it. We were quite the macabre couple.
We donned our respective costumes and loaded into the ’66 Mustang parked snugly in our garage. Kitty cradled her prepared veggie dish in her lap, as we rolled down the street in style. We saw a few straggling trick-or-treaters walking the streets. A few were even dressed as the monster who had escaped the soul sanctuary a few weeks back. Topical, I thought.
We pulled up to our neighbor’s abode to see several cars already parked. The hosts’ house was a quaint bungalow, but part of a larger community that shared a common courtyard as their collective backyards. That was the real appeal of the place. The back paddock outside was lit up with string lights and fireflies that illuminated a bouquet of greenery and gardens all around the premises. Each participating bungalow also enjoyed ignited firepits in their private residential park. But we first entered through the hosts’—the Goodfellows—front door to say hello to party guests and drop off our potluck dish.
The door opened, upon a rap of the heavy brass knocker on their circular Hobbit door.
“Bill! Kitty!” Mr. Goodfellow said, receiving us into his home. “What are you supposed to be, Bill? A dead guy?”
“Sort of,” I said. “I’m the Crow.”
“Oh, and Kitty, you’re a Kitty Cat.”
“That’s right,” Kitty said.
We pushed further inside to see the other guests already in attendance. I clocked Mr. Cumulus by the appetizers table. He was dressed as a wizard, standing with his wife Esmeralda wearing the long, flowing garments of a sorceress.
“What’s up, Cumulus?” I said. “I hope you’re not spiking any of the hors d’oeuvres with psychedelics!”
“Only time will tell, my young friend,” he said, with a mischievous smile.
The Goodfellows’ living room was already alive with company, as a dozen or so conversations babbled on. Kitty and I decided to split up to cover more social circles simultaneously. I kept my momentum moving through the inside of the hosts’ home until I arrived in their back courtyard, where several of their guests were smoking stogies. Kitty remained inside speaking with several of the stogie smokers’ wives. We kept our telepathic connection live, in case either had to save the other from a dull encounter with another guest or a clique too quirky for comfort.
As I sipped my hot cider, I imbibed the warm, spicy libation along with the crisp fall air, layered with thick cigar smoke.
These ladies’ costumes are a lot more elaborate than my Kitty Kat motif, Kitty said into our direct mind link.
You look beautiful, I said, right before a question from one of my backyard colleagues thrust me out of my own head.
“How goes the news biz, Bill?” Tony Spatula said. He owned the local brick oven pizzeria in our Gardanne Heights neighborhood.
“Never boring,” I said.
“Dat ‘Oi!’ section—obits and intros—is quite an active part of the paper,” he said.
“Yes, very much. A lot of turnover as of late. I appreciate the balance between comings and goings. I don’t think the town can hold more than a couple thousand citizens at most. And luckily, knock on wood, almost all of the obits are for souls departing to higher echelons of our little corner of the 7th dimension. It’s also great for the newly enlightened souls finding Gardanne for the first time, from one of the Earths below.”
“Fuggeddaboutitt,” he said, as he took a hefty haul from his cigar. “What are you supposed to be? Some kinda fuckin’ jabroni or somethin’?”
“I’m the Crow,” I said.
I really thought more people would get my costume, I said to Kitty, still inside.
Not enought noir fans up here, I guess, she said.
“Who are you?” I spat back to Tony.
“I’m the fuckin’ Dice Man,” he said, jangling the metal studs in his jacket’s leather sleeves and gesturing to his greased back hair and thick, black sunglasses.
“Oh!” I said. “I think I saw Little Bo-Peep inside somewhere.”
“Who, Lilll Bo Peep??” he said. “I fucked her.”
“I should hope so; she’s your wife.”
Just then, Mr. Cumulus floated over, having left his station at the appetizer table inside.
“Gentlemen,” Cumulus said. “Happy Halloweeeen. What’s in those stogies? Tobackey or Wackey Tobackey.”
“Run of the mill, tobackey, ya mook,” Spatula said. The local artisan of fine Italian cuisine poured all of his creativity into his pizza pies, leaving little room for consciousness expansion elsewhere.
“It’s OK, Cumulus,” I reassured our newest member to the outside social circle. “We can puff a little later on more mind-expanding substances.”
“Excellent,” Cumulus said, and then drifted toward the nearest firepit, where other costumed guests were stood conversing. I think he was following his nose to wherever he smelt a joint.
I continued to drink in the shared backyard of our neighbors. It was like a little community within the grander Gardanne. A clique, if you will, but not exclusatory to the likes of Kitty and me, for example. I admired their ability to collaboratively live here, sharing their space. But the collective also helped me appreciate Kitty and my Craftsmen up the hill. It was all ours. And we were free to visit this clique’s courtyard whenever we wanted, especially on festive occasions such as Halloween. Settling into this space, I also gained a resonant sense of the collective’s unifying frequency. Not only could I channel individuals; but the hive mind of this courtyard community. And I wondered what other spheres of influence were emerging around Gardanne.
How long do you want to stay here? Kitty said to me. I think she had made it to the kitchen.
I’m good to go whenever, I said. We’ve shown our faces, had a few drinks and laughs by now.
I’ll begin my goodbyes now, and that’ll still take like a half hour to 45 minutes, she said.
Perfect.
That was just enough time to fulfill my promise to Cumulus to puff on something a little more inspiring than tobacco.
“Cumulus!” I said, beckoning the wizard from the far corner of the courtyard to meet me under their looming Willow tree.
Upon our rendezvous under the hanging branches, away from all the people and firepits, Cumulus was eager to lift above the banality of party chitchat.
“I really appreciate this,” he said, as I pulled out some loose weed and rolled it into a joint. “I’m a bit herb poor at the moment. All of my crops are either too premature to harvest or wrapped up in inventory. A good apothecary doesn’t smoke his own product, save his private stash.”
“I got ya,” I said, sealing the joint with my tongue.
“Although, I didn’t come empty-handed,” he said. “Sprinkle a few drops of this on it,” and he pulled out a little eyedropper from his wizard’s sleeve.
“What’s that?”
“It’ll give the herb a little oomph,” he said, smiling.
“OK,” I said. “If it hits me too hard, Kitty can drive I guess.”
“That’s the spirit.”
We lit up the laced spliff and toked under the Willow tree, like Gandolf and Bilboa Baggins, blowing shapes into the exhaled weed smoke. The active ingredients of our shared cigarette certainly expanded our already enlightened minds. I think I even received glimpses into the 9th dimension. But that high was cut short when Kitty telepathically chimed in.
Why do I feel high? she said. Are you smoking weed out there?
Yes, I said. But I can stop before we drift too far off into the ether.
I’m almost done with my goodbyes. Why don’t you go warm up the car.
“Cumulus,” I said, “as usual, it’s been a pleasure. My better half beckons.”
Mr. Cumulus exhaled a deep, billowy plume of sweet marijuana smoke dappled with god-knows-what and said, “Adieu, Bill. May the spirits and gods be with you this fine Halloween season.”
“And to you,” I said, slinking out the back gate of the courtyard. Kitty was the social butterfly of our duo, leaving me to enjoy a much desired Irish exit.
We managed to return to our Craftsman up the road before midnight. Neither of us would be turning to pumpkins this Halloween. Among the many advantages to being one half of a telepathic couple meant we didn’t have to exchange party notes upon our return home. After we crawled out of our costumes, into more comfortable attire, we both went right to bed. I kissed Kitty, turned over and sunk into a deep sleep in anticipation for the big day ahead tomorrow.
I awoke the next day with a surprisingly clear head. Not the usual case after a holiday party. Kitty was still sleeping. I slipped quietly out of bed and headed straight outside, to the zen garden.
Morning meditation was always how I began my day. As I sat quietly, I heard the faint sounds of nature waking up. Thoughts from the night before walked through my mind effortlessly. I processed the conversations and the sights and any of the chemicals imbibed until they all faded away the way clouds drift from a full moon. I knew I had a full day ahead, but didn’t let that itinerary interrupt this calming, peaceful flow state I was now enjoying in the present moment. The present was all that existed in this space, here and now. Gardanne and I were one.
The transcendental meditation would have lasted longer likely, but suddenly my stomach growled. I listened to my gut.
Feeling rejuvenated, hungry, and ready for the day to go into full swing, I whisked into the kitchen, which overlooked our backyard. I fried some eggs, bacon and home fries in a skillet and brewed a pot of coffee. I knew the rich breakfast smells would stir Kitty awake. Sure enough, she made her way downstairs moments later, still rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
“Did you already meditate?” she mumbled.
“Yeah, I feel great,” I said. “Thought you might like some breakfast.”
“I do, thank you. I don’t think I ate enough last night. I’m famished.”
Once the food and coffee were ready, we sat out on the back deck overlooking Gardanne as we ate.
“You have fun at the party last night?” she said.
“Mhm,” as I sipped my French Roast before it went lukewarm. “It was good to catch up with Cumulus. I’m glad we didn’t stay too late. Big day ahead.”
“Me too,” she said. “We’ve recently experienced an influx of souls to the sanctuary. We’re hoping a few of them, at least, can make it up to Gardanne, instead of falling back down into reincarnation on Earths. What have you got going on?”
“I’m excited for the potential new citizens. I’ll have my ‘Oi’ editor write introductions for them, should they reach the right vibration,” and then I paused for a moment of contemplation, referencing a mental calendar. “I don’t have to head into the news office until this afternoon. I may smoke a stoge on the front porch after we eat. Then, I have to run a few errands around the neighborhood. Will likely get lunch at the local pub. Then I’ll bounce around downtown after my pitch meeting with the other editors. Want to get brick oven pizza for dinner tonight, once I’m back in the neighborhood? I talked to Spatula last night at the party.”
“Pizza sounds amazing,” she said. “I’m not even hungry anymore after this wonderful breakfast you cooked, but my mouth watered when you said pizza. Did Mr. Spatula brag about having sex with his wife again?”
“Tony’s gotta Tony,” I said. “He means well. What a character. Idiosyncrasies aside, man, can that guy make a pie.”
“It’s a date,” she said.
We wrapped up breakfast, cleared the table. Kitty hung back in the kitchen to wash dishes, while I made my way through the house to the front porch. I sat in the rocking chair out there and lit up a nice stogie to help digest my breakfast. As the thick billows of aromatic tobacco smoke wafted from my mouth and nostrils, I surveyed the street. Cars and bikes rolled by. Neighbors sauntered along walking their dogs. I said hi to all who noticed me enjoying my sit and smoke.
As the nicotine kicked in, now I turned my mind’s gaze to the day ahead, unlike my meditation, which had been more reflective. I thought about what errands I had to run. I pictured the market and florist down the street. I pictured the pub where I’d go for lunch. I sailed over the Gardanne River into downtown, in the city, where the Register‘s offices stood. I soared over the music practice spaces down the street and then up the hill to the bar Old Faithful. Maybe I’d catch happy hour there, before heading home to Kitty, I thought. Gently rocking on the porch, listening to the wooden floor slats creak, I was both sitting in front of my home and around town at large. The billowy smoke buttressed my omnipresence helming both the residential life with an urban one. It’s as if the cigar cloud hanging above my head, now rippling as mist under the ceiling of my covered porch, represented my own consciousness stretching throughout the whole of Gardanne.
I snuffed out the cigar, now burnt down to a nub, in the glass ashtray on the end table right next to my rocking chair. I slipped back inside and upstairs to shower. I got dressed, gave Kitty a goodbye kiss and was out the door. I stepped into the Shelby Mustang parked in our garage and turned the ignition, which the V8 engine responded with a commanding rumble as it idled until I shifted her into gear.
I cruised the gridwork of residential streets, in the ’66 Shelby Mustang, under a canopy of elms, oaks and maples. I’d periodically glance up to the treetops to see one of Leviathan’s Crows—our city’s own benevolent security. To the laymen, their communication sounded like caws, but I knew they were exchanging intel on their respective surveyed sections. Together, their interconnected murder (of Crows) flung a cloak over the community’s zeitgeist—as a protective net.
The Shelby rolled into the market’s parking lot. The one-story building sprawled out like a ranch. The shopping center consisted of a food market on one side and an apothecary’s florist on the other. Mr. Cumulus sold his medicinal herbs in the apothecary, alongside beautiful flowers and plants. The two stores were connected by a Brigham’s diner. I picked up a few non-perishables from the market—some things Kitty had requested for the house. And then I passed by the diner, into the florist to buy an autumn-inspired bouquet. That was also for Kitty, but would be my surprise. The best flowers are purchased for no occasion at all.
I bumped into a few people at the market who had been in attendance at the Halloween party the previous night.
“Hey, Bill!” the holistic healer manning an apothecary cash register said. “I almost didn’t recognize you without your Crow makeup. I don’t think I saw you leave last night.”
“I pulled the Irish exit,” I said. “I’d still be in bed otherwise.”
“Cumulus should have followed right after you,” they said. “He was supposed to be here a half hour ago. I think he’s still sleeping.”
The clerk packaged up my flowers and I was on my way, en route to the pub up the street.
The Pub was secretly one of my favorite haunts in all of Gardanne. I’d get lunch there three or four times a week. The bartender knew my order—a turkey club and steak fries—and had already placed it with the cook before I had a chance to pull up my regular stool, on the far end of the long, straight bar that took up two thirds of the traditional establishment.
“What’s up, Jack?” I said to the bartender.
“Same old, same old,” he said. “You going through the back door today? If anybody calls for you, I can tell them you’ll be back in a minute.”
Jack was referring to a particularly integral alibi that I exploited at the pub. In the back, behind the phone booth, shrouded by a curtain, was a magical back door. If anyone but me attempted to enter this threshold, they’d be met by a solid wall. But, for this Thunderbird, the secret back door instantly transported me from the little pub in Gardanne Heights directly to a penthouse bar atop the city’s tallest building, downtown, miles away from our little residential neighborhood. My Mustang parked in front of the pub made it look like I was there, while I held court in the swanky, city bar.
Via the pub’s magical door, I’d enter the penthouse city bar into a private booth, also in the back. I’d exit the portal, now miles away, donning my Thunderbird helmet, Bueller, and decked out in the rest of my dimension-leaping garb (usually a t-shirt under a bomber jacket, jeans, vans). My formerly human skin even shifted to the tightly-wrapped carbon fiber in shiny, metallic vanta black. Several Crows were stationed in the penthouse to stand guard by my private booth. Only they (and Jack the bartender) knew of my secret door.
After I finished my perfectly grilled club in the pub, I took Jack’s offer to cover while I instantly leapt across town, now as Big Cat. A couple Crows were there to greet me on the receiving end, on top of the city.
“Welcome, sir,” the Crow Heckle said. “You have a few people waiting to speak with you.”
“Thanks, Heckle,” I said, and then slipped into my reserved seat. Whenever I wasn’t present in the booth, an exact replica of my left arm was set in place to provide the illusion that I had been there all along. Ninety-nine percent of Gardanners only ever saw this prosthetic arm, if they strove to steal a glance at the Big Cat manning his perch in the penthouse. Only those who specifically requested my counsel got the real McCoy.
“This is Dr. Planck,” said Jeckle, another Crow, gesturing to a smaller, unassuming scientist who wore John Lennon glasses and appeared to be nervous. “He needs to request a special leap next time we run field trips.”
“Thanks, Jeckle,” I said, and then turned to the meek scientist. “Step into the booth.”
“I appreciate you meeting with me today,” the scientist said, as he slipped into the leather seat opposite me.
“What can I do for you today?” I said.
“Well, we’re getting close to fabricating existential vehicles that qualified Gardanners could potentially pilot through the 8th dimension. We need to conduct some additional reconnaissance work on several of the Earths below to fine-tune our formulations.”
“Done,” I said. “We’ll add your requested Earth varietals to next week’s field trip itinerary. Just send the list to Prof. O’Halleran, who’s now coordinating all scheduled leaps from the pyramid’s apex.”
“Thank you, sir,” he said.
As Dr. Planck exited the booth, Heckle and Jeckle inquired if I wanted to meet with anymore people today.
“No, guys,” I said. “I have to get back.”
I swung the fake arm back into my booth’s place and discreetly passed through my magic door once again. In an instant, I found myself once again in my favorite neighborhood pub, as Bill Thunderbird.
“Any calls, Jack?” I said.
“Nope, which was a relief. I never know what to say when people, who call, ask for you and can’t understand why you’re not here, even though they saw your car parked outside.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” I said.
I thanked Jack for his expert tendering and before long was rolling in the Mustang once again. Now, I was headed into the city the old-fashioned way—driving over the bridge. I hit a little lunchtime traffic. I turned on the car stereo and tuned to the local baseball day game about to begin.
“It’s a beautiful day for a 1 o’clock game,” the announcer said. “Our own Gardanne Gnomes host the Shambhala Yetis. Stay tuned for the first pitch in a few minutes.”
| R | H | E | |
| Gardanne Gnomes | 0 | 0 | 0 |
| Shambhala Yetis | 0 | 0 | 0 |
I made it to the newspaper offices before the first inning let out, but the Gnomes were already ahead two runs.
| R | H | E | |
| Gardanne Gnomes | 2 | 3 | 0 |
| Shambhala Yetis | 0 | 0 | 0 |
I called an impromptu pitch meeting upon landing on the news floor. The nine respective editors of each newspaper section were invited into the conference room.
“OK, guys,” I said, opening the meeting as staff filed into the long space walled off by giant glass windows, “what do you have for me?”
“We’re planning on doing a follow-up from the monster piece,” Walter, the news desk editor said.
“Good,” I said. “Make sure to include info on the Crows’ fire drill, as well. Our goal should be to keep citizens’ minds on the possibility for threats, without keeping them in a constant fight-or-flight state. I think our continued reporting will help to quell concerns.”
“I sent one of my stringers to cover the baseball game currently underway,” the sports editor Howard said.
“I caught the first pitch on the way in,” I said. “If the Gnomes pull off this game-7 win, that will be a hell of a comeback after going three games down to start the series.”
“We’ve put together a collage chronicling all of Banksy’s Gardanne street art,” Elaine, the arts & entertainment editor said.
“I stumbled upon his newest mural of Earth_42 the other night, while the paint was still drying,” I said, and then turned to the gossip columnist. “Let’s keep Banksy out of Page 6 and only focus readers on his art. He won’t return if Gardanne uncovers his true identity.”
The gossip girl Gail nodded.
I didn’t wait for the Oi! or Discovery editors to chime in. I addressed them directly.
“‘Oi!’ reporters, Kitty told me this morning that we just received an influx of souls down under. You should visit the sanctuary soon, today or tomorrow, to see if we have to draft a few new intros to Gardanne. Any obits?”
“A few departures, yeah,” Max the Oi! editor said. “Good news is no descents to reincarnation. Just a few lateral moves to other Dew places along the same wavelength. I think one now former Gardanne resident has decided to move to Valhalla. The staged Crows attack inspired him, he said.
“Great. Discovery? What do you have for me?” I said.
“We caught wind that a few student channelers are building a ham radio at the University north of the city,” said Colin Hadron, the Research and Discovery of Magic (R&DM) editor. “Their hope is that the device—if it works—will be able to communicate with new frequency variants of other 7th-dimensional destinations, like Gardanne.”
“Excellent,” I said. “A little birdy told me that Dr. Planck will also be sponsoring some field trips to Earths for research on 8th-dimensional vehicles. Make sure you send a stringer to cover their reconnaissance, when that goes underway next week.”
“We have a good problem with new restaurant openings,” Chef Jeff, the food editor said. “There’s a waiting list a mile long of restaurants waiting for reviews to print. I think the last influx of Gardanne citizens brought a glut of gourmet chefs to our shores.”
“My stomach rumbles at the thought,” I said. “Make sure to keep Spatula’s brick oven pizza out of the review queue for now. That’s my own neighborhood gem, and don’t want too many Gardanners crowding the spot. Trust me, Tony doesn’t need the attention. His pies speak for themselves.”
“Yes, chef,” Jeff said.
Then I turned to Terry who helmed local news in Gardanne Heights.
“Terry, keep reporting on whatever you’re working on for the local weekly,” I said. “I don’t need anything this week. I’m currently in the midst of a nice ‘on the road’ piece, rolling the Shelby around town today. I think my column might satisfy the local curiosity, while also hitting some urban haunts.”
Terry nodded in what appeared to be relief. Sometimes the news from the suburban neighborhoods took longer to take shape than the wire on the city desk, dynamic as it was, always brimming with new developments.
“Good work,” I said. “Meeting: adjourned.”
“At the close of the 3rd inning, the Yetis have finally broke ice,” said the radio announcer over my Shelby stereo.
| R | H | E | |
| Gardanne Gnomes | 6 | 4 | 0 |
| Shambhala Yetis | 1 | 1 | 0 |
After another successfuly Gardanne Register pitch meeting, I found myself back on the road. It was now mid-afternoon, which was the perfect time to check in on some of the musical practice spaces in town. I knew several of the band members. They were a cast of characters, on or off stage.
The practice spaces mainly lied on the outskirts of town. I parked the Shelby in the alley by their entrance. Once inside, I was staring down a long hallway, with doors (mostly closed) lining the corridor that accessed each respective space. The heavy beats of bass drums vibrated the hall’s walls. I passed by a few doors shielding the hallway from loud, electronic sounds of bands mid-session. I found my way to Cymatic’s space. They were just chilling, and must have been on a break. I slowly turned the knob and entered, so as not to startle the practicing artists.
“Kal,” I said, swinging the door open carefully. “Thought I’d say hi.” I turned to his other two bandmates, who I hadn’t formally met yet. “What’s up, guys?”
“Guys, this is Bill,” Kal said. “He’s the editor for the Register.”
“Right on,” Cymatic’s drummer Tommy said.
“Nice to meet you,” said their base player Chris.
All three band members were sitting in swivel stools smoking cigarettes.
“Looks like I caught you during a break,” I said.
“Yeah, we just practiced a few new songs that we haven’t performed yet,” Kal said.
“Still getting the base line down,” Chris said. “But I’m hoping we can debut at least one of them tonight.”
“We’ll be ready,” added Tommy, who looked like he was born ready. Or maybe that’s because he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Those guys always seem down for anything.
“Bill’s the mastermind behind getting us love on Larry King Forever,” Kal said. “We’ve actually had to turn away a few gigs since that appearance.”
“The pleasure was all mine,” I said. “I’ll bring my guitar next time. If you guys don’t mind, I’d love to jam with you. In addition to musicality, I’ve discovered command of the electronic sound vastly enhances our dimension leaping capabilities.”
“For sure,” Kal said.
“By the way, if you’re having to turn away gigs, that usually indicates Cymatic is tabernacle-bound,” I said.
“Here’s hoping,” Kal said.
“All right, I’ll leave you to it,” I said. “Don’t want to interrupt artists at work.”
“Right on,” Tommy said.
As I was leaving their practice space, I heard the drummer click his sticks three times to ignite another rehearsal of their new stuff. Even through the closed door, out in the hallway, I could tell their new shit would be a hit.
Entering the top of the 8th…
| R | H | E | |
| Gardanne Gnomes | 9 | 9 | 0 |
| Shambhala Yetis | 3 | 4 | 1 |
It wasn’t quite dinner time when I left the musical practice space. I decided to catch the conclusion of the ball game at our city’s crown jewel bar, Old Faithful.
“Bill!” I heard the bartenders and a few of the regulars exclaim upon my entrance, walking down the stairs into the garden-level saloon.
“Fellas!” I said, finding a stool adjacent to bar regular Norm. They treated me like a regular too, but little did they know my heart resided at my own neighborhood Pub. “Thought I’d catch the end of the game here.”
“What’ll ya have?” said Sammy the bartender.
“Just a beer,” I said. “Better keep it to one too. I’m driving.”
“If the Gnomes pull this off,” Norm said, “they’ll set the record for greatest comeback in Gardanne history.”
“It’s looking good,” I said, as Sammy slid a draught down the bar into my waiting palm.
From where Norm and I sat, out Old Faithful’s window, we enjoyed a pristine view of the tabernacle at Gardanne’s center.
“Anything going on later tonight?” Sammy said to me.
“I might head to the tabernacle after dinner,” I said.
“Stop by for a nightcap, once the show lets out,” Sammy said.
“You know I’ll be here,” Norm said.
I timed my singular beer perfectly. As the mug bottom went up to dispense the last bit of suds down my gob, I heard the TV announcer punctuate the final score.
“And that’s the ball game, folks!” the announcer said. “Gardanne, 10. Shambhala, 3. The Gnomes had to win four in a row to complete this unprecedented comeback! The Yetis leave two on base.”
FINAL — 10-3, Gnomes
| R | H | E | |
| Gardanne Gnomes | 10 | 13 | 0 |
| Shambhala Yetis | 3 | 5 | 1 |
The bar errupted in cheers at this favored outcome. Amidst the bedlam, I decided to slink out, lightly nodding to Sam and Norm to let them know I was leaving.
I was back on the road once again and anticipating a little bridge traffic during the impending rush hour.
I should be home by 6, traffic permitting, I telepathically said to Kitty.
I should be home from the sanctuary by then, she replied.
Ferris Bueller couldn’t have planned a better rendezvous at our shared Craftsman home. Kitty and I both pulled into the driveway simultaneously.
“You must have had a good day!” she said. “I didn’t hear from you until after work.”
“It was eventful,” I said, “and still going. Let’s get to Tony’s brick oven place before it gets busy.”
“Sure, I just need to wash up and change out of these work clothes.”
Not 20 minutes later, we piled into the Mustang and cruised to Tony Spatula’s brick oven pizzeria. My empty stomach may have coaxed my foot to lean on the pedal a little too heavily.
“Easy,” Kitty said, chuckling. “There will still be pizza when we get there.”
“Sorry, I skipped lunch.”
Dinner was a hit, per usual. I endured Tony’s ribbing to enjoy the delicious, perfectly flame-kissed pizza.
“Eh, Bill!” Tony said, receiving me into his establishment. “Nice to see you washed off the eyeliner from last night!”
“Hi, Anthony,” Kitty said plainly.
“Kitty! You look stunning as always. I must have missed you at last night’s party,” he said. “Bill, if my wife wasn’t so hot, you’d have to look out! I might steal your girl from right under ya!”
“Yes, and we’re all thankful for that,” I said, pandering to his insults so that he would expedite inspiring, piping-hot pizza pie into our gullets.
“Me too,” Kitty said under her breath.
After dinner, the Shelby Mustang whisked us to the tabernacle in the heart of Gardanne. We took in an evening live variety show, complete with the best musical acts and a few sketches from the town’s local players. Nightly tabernacle host Johnny kept the show moving with what appeared to be no effort, but that was the genius of this late-night raconteur. The acts were the finest Gardanne had to offer on this particular night.
We took a shortcut through the tunnel under the Gardanne River to avoid the evening’s bridge traffic. We were back in our Heights neighborhood, pulling the Mustang chariot into the garage by no later than 11 p.m. Kitty and I sat by the living room fireplace chatting for a bit, sharing stories from the day. We caught up on several of the Gardanne TV shows we like to watch together in the back den. Concluding the day, curled up on the plush couch with Kitty, watching our favorite programmes, was always a comforting bookend to close the day. I certainly felt complete, holding Kitty close in my arms, exchanging body warmth as we watched Bravo’s Below Deck.
The next morning, I sat as I always did, for my morning meditation in the backyard zen garden. Reflecting on the last day and a half, I let those events drift from short- to long-term memory. And I slipped deep, deep, deeply into theta and then delta waves. I wondered where my consciousness would go… and for how long, until I once again returned to Gardanne to begin another beautiful day. I knew, for however far I drifted between worlds falling like water droplets through the multiverse, that the towne sitting high up in the 7th dimension, between the dozen Earths, would always be there waiting for me, whispering, ‘Come home.’
Gardanne exists in the same multiverse as Big Cat, a novel. If you liked this 7th-dimensional tale, you might like the book too.
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