Fantastic Fiction & Further Fake News

By Daniel Lionberger

This book is a collection of fictional works by the author, from very short to novelette length.  Genres vary from mild sci-fi to the historically and hysterically bent, with a ghost or two thrown in to add chills to the thrills of heroes versus heels and societal ills.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Daniel Lionberger
• Release date: Mar 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386376408

Daniel Lionberger

Through business and science education, in college, the seeds of literature may have fell in the most fertile portion of my brain, perhaps, the right side.  Writing became my passion until I longed to throw myself from the pinnacle of technology into the river of literature that has flowed through human history since Beowulf, and before.  Alas, due to family obligations I waited until retirement to take the splash, though, I managed to write along the way as time and muse provided.

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Deep Down in Stumptown

Deep Down in Stumptown, Part I

by Ward Smith

I was as unaware when I started the following column that it would take me on the light-rail to Hell as I am now aware I can never publish this piece or even share it with anyone.  I hope this series allows closure, to the past.

WHICH WAY RAILWAY REVISITED

(Eastside-Westside Rail Controversy)

by Ward Smith

Today, Sept. 12, 1998, marks the opening of the westside TRAXX, light rail transit at 11:00 AM.  That it comes years after the completion of the eastside TRAXX highlights the tendency of history to repeat itself...

When I wrote that article I had no idea how it would come back to haunt... and help...

––––––––

September 2, 1998:

SMITH!  Vice Editor Bob ‘Lard Ass’ Bulinski blasted in his tuba-like voice.  Braving the resultant turbulence, I flew ahead in pursuit of a conclusion to my project du jour, the proliferation of prostitution in Portland.  I researched the piece, like no other, really put myself into it, got to know some of the girls, quite well, but couldn’t find the right way to end it.

SMITH!  ‘Lard Ass’ oompahed again. I typed ...is the world’s oldest profession a victimless crime or does prohibiting it make the law an accomplice to the criminal gain of pimps and the subjugation of young women?  I thumped the last keys with gusto and then ALT F and P to send the article to the printer.

SMITH!  You socially lacking lumpskull, Bulinski bullhorned.

The printer was almost on the way to his office. I picked up the hardcopy first.

You call?  I smiled at him.  He stared up at me, his baldness glistening, glaring.  His jowls and ears, growing redder, were even more pronounced in contrast with his white, doughy, complexion.  His eyes strained like the buttons on his coffee-stained shirt.  

You (expletive).  I know you heard me all four times.    Three, I said. 

You just bought yourself ‘The History of Portland Transit’ assignment, deadline midnight, September 11th, to commemorate the opening of the Westside TRAXX line.  Give me that trash, I better not find out we financed your sex life.  I’m going bury this deep.

Well, I had to buy them dinner and drinks to get them to talk.  I was a little ticked about the boring new assignment but wasn’t going to let Bullinski know.  He was jealous that I had enjoyed the last assignment.

It was hard enough for even a fairly good-looking divorced guy, like me, to meet ladies, refined or otherwise, while fighting for correspondent cred, beating deadlines, busting tail to keep working for a macro-manager who piled it on, way too high.  That human mushroom probably couldn’t even buy any.  Besides, I enjoyed the attention the girls gave me.  I have, almost, rock star billing with them.  Especially Delight.

I knew it was useless to complain with the dictator vice editor. 

Yeah, fine, I’ve been planning to research Portland’s history for a book I’ve been thinking about writing.  Notice my talent for fiction. 

Yeah, sure, uh-huh, not buying it.  Bulinski made no effort to conceal the pleasure on his distorted face.

I hated the man for being so small, if only in two places.  I grabbed a notebook from my desk, checked if I had a pen in my pocket but snagged another for insurance.  I took my jacket, as an afterthought, never knowing what September will bring, in Oregon.

I’m going to the library, I shouted to whoever cared, text me if anyone needs me.

Deep Down in Stumptown, Part II

by Ward Smith

September 2, 1998 (cont.):

I went where I could get most in touch with the history of Portland, the oldest bar in ‘Stumptown’, as the city is still referred to, affectionately, by those who know her best.  Over the bar was the original sign, Hobbes’ Bar and Dining Room, est. 1880

George, a third generation bartender, looks almost as old as the drinking establishment, but his eyes and wit are as keen as mine, probably sharper.  His memory, is as resolute as state-of-the–art digital photography.

Most of what I knew, at that time, about Portland, Oregon’s past, came from his mouth, probably echoes of his father’s and grandfather’s voices.  Both men were, also, servers of refreshment, wit, and wisdom, to seekers and incidentals.  According to George, supported by old pictures and original license hanging behind the bar, his Grandfather, George 1, was the original owner and proprietor of the place.  His father, George 2, heavily invested in stocks, lost everything in the great depression.  Selling almost half of the original business, taking a minor partner.  George, as his father before, worked as the paid barkeeper, in effect getting a half salary, from the partner.  The business was in his blood.

Ward Smith, I haven’t seen you in over a week, George spoke while pouring two shots of Black Velvet on ice and adding a splash of water.  Well, to tell you the truth, I had to enjoy liquor elsewhere while I was working on my latest column. You are a wise man to come back to the best, he said, swirling the drink with a plastic stick with his right while holding the short glass in his left, both steady as a surgeon’s.  I know they are steadier than mine. 

He slid the drink down the highly polished bar, my waiting hand eased it to a gentle stop.  I can only agree with you, George.  I toasted him, lifting my drink to the gods of libation, then drank in a portion of his wisdom.  The taste and texture left no doubt, only a satisfying glow. The white-haired gentleman lifted a hand in response and turned towards the other customer, low turnout, even this early in the afternoon, and repeated his magic.

Slowly savoring the smooth whiskey, I looked at the original beams of maple that still supported the roof and braced the walls.  The bases of the wall beams were larger on the three exposed sides, but it suddenly struck me that the grain of the base ran perpendicular to the beams.  I always supposed they were one piece.  With the usual crowd, there were more people standing, sitting, or, milling around, precluding that observation, I guess.

George returned and wiped the bar, my drink had left a ring.  George... I started but paused, unsure how to put it. Need to put some more grease on the skids, my dad used to say, George offered, he said my grand-dad used to say that to him.  When the pioneers logged the west hills they slid them down a skid-road, it’s now Burnside, to the river.  They had to grease the skids every morning, with bacon grease, because the bears would lick off the grease at night.

Now—that’s what I wanted to talk about, I pounded the maple bar for an exclamation point, my new assignment concerns Portland’s history.  I need your help.  I reasoned that I had a couple of hours to milk a pail of history from George before the after work crowd started to build.

Well, that’s a lot of memory to search, he said, can you give me any specifics? 

I nodded, transportation, railroad, trolleys, streetcars, anything that ties in to the opening of the new westside light-rail transit line.

Oh, you mean TRAXX? George followed.

Yeah, that’s right, I need to provide a history of Portland’s transit systems.

I know the straight facts from the depression until now, but before that it’s hand-me-down from Granddad to Dad to me, probably mostly accurate, but, short on details.

Let’s call this an interview and I will quote you in the article.

Glad to be of service, George beamed.  When I was a boy, about until the big war, W-W-2, we always rode the electric trolleys.  They gave way to gasoline buses in the 1950’s.  By 1960 the trolleys were all gone and Rose City Transit buses the only public transportation.  You need another one?  He pointed to my glass. 

Deep Down in Stumptown, Part III

by Ward Smith

September 2, 1998 (cont.):

I needed George to take me further back in time. 

Taking a long pull on the new glass George delivered, I was starting to get a feel for the story. How about your dad’s or granddad’s times, I tried to go farther back, do you remember anything that they told you about the rail lines, or any other transportation?

George collected the tab from his other customer.  Good. I thought, I will have George’s resources all to myself.

I never knew my Granddad, he was killed in 1903 by gold thieves.  Dad was dishwasher and busboy, here, until 7PM, every day, then went home to do schoolwork until bedtime.  A fire uptown had cleared the bar.  Dad heard it all from the kitchen.  They kept hitting Granddad and asking ‘Where’s the gold—where’s the gold?’  Granddad just kept saying ‘I don’t have any gold’ until they shot him.  Dad never really got over it.  He was often melancholy after that.  He never finished school, but, took over running this place like he was born to it.  He had watched Granddad for many an hour.

I remember, though, Dad told me Granddad had, many times, spoken about a big confrontation between powerful men of this city and a group led by Ben Holland, a stage coach magnate who came here in 1868 to get in on a railroad start here.  He brought over a million dollars after selling his stage and freight business to Wells Fargo. George talked while wiping the counter.

That would be worth at least a hundred times that, today, I whistled.

Holland’s group was trying to build an Oregon line to join a California line.  From Portland he wanted it to run on the eastside of the Willamette, Portland’s elite wanted it on the west.  Holland’s group built the first twenty miles to win a grant from the state to complete the line but he went broke in the process.  He apparently died a pauper here in Portland.

No kidding, that was some gamble.  His name rings a bell.

He is buried in the cemetery that the light-rail tunnel runs under.

I was instantly reminded of another death.

One of the tunnel builders was killed when they started boring under the graveyard.  A hydraulic arm started somehow and pinned him to the wall of the tunnel.  They couldn’t get me to work below a cemetery. I was aware, from reporting on it, of the recent history of the parallel tunnels for the westside line.  A lot of politics and legal battles were fought over blasting near residential areas, condemning ground eighty feet below Finley’s Cemetery, never tried before, and claiming it was a desecration of eternal resting places.  It was an unholy stink. 

The fact that battles had been waged over a westside rail line in the past and that the most powerful participant was buried just seventy-four feet above a contemporary one, frankly, made my hair rise, a little.

George restocked the toothpicks and sugar packets on the bar.  He said, I don’t know if you have heard, but I am contemplating selling Hobbe’s to some Asian investors.  They will probably turn this into a chinese restaurant.

I thought, just what we need, another Chinese restaurant.  Don’t get me wrong, I love Chinese food.  Just one on every corner, practically.

Oh, No.  You serious about this?

George nodded his head, Yes, Sir.  I am about ready to retire and this is pretty much the only investment I have.  I need to ensure my comfort in the autumn of my years.  

I understood George’s need but wished there was another way to satisfy it.  Man, I wish you could find some buyers who appreciate the historical value of Hobbe’s.  This place should have one of those historical landmark plaques mounted somewhere.

That would be the ideal way to finish up here, with some kind of historical dedication, George patted the old bar, but nobody besides us cares anymore.

I thought, there’s something I can do about it, utilizing the power of the press.  A new project was born. 

Deep Down in Stumptown, Part IV

by Ward Smith

September 3, 1998:

I did spend some time at the library.  George helped by giving me names to focus on.  His info was sketchy with specifics before his own time, except the story about Ben Holland and the other railroad entrepreneurs that his Dad had told, repeatedly.

Mr. Holland had really offended the city elite by keeping a staff of prostitutes in his house and plying politicians with liquor and sex for political favors.  It seemed to work, certain votes went his way in the legislature.  Perhaps more upsetting to the staid, Victorian, Portland social set, he married one of their daughters, Esther Crocker, thirty years younger than he.  I checked out five books on Portland, and headed home. 

*               *               *

Reading about Ben Holland’s final resting place made me curious, so I made the ten minute drive up the hill to see it.  Ben and Esther were buried in Finley’s Cemetery.  Portland’s wealthiest were usually buried at Riverview, above Macadam Ave., but some are buried at Mt. Calvary Cemetery.  Widow Esther should have done better than the small, flat, marker which had inscriptions green with moss.

The marker, or the air above it, got all wavy, like heat waves off of the road on a hot summer day.  Watching it almost made me nauseous so I turned away.  When I had recovered a little, I took another peak and started to doubt my sanity.  The Holland marker was no longer there, but, another plaque lay at my feet.  Dizziness overcame me when I read it, ‘Ward Smith  d. 1890  R.I.P.’.  I sat down and put my head in my hands.  When I could look up again, it had Ben Holland’s information, again.

I wasted no time in driving to Hobbes’ for a stiff drink.  I didn’t tell George what I had seen, I was sure he would cut me off.  Thus, the research was ended, for that day.

Deep Down in Stumptown, Part V

by Ward Smith

September 4, 1998:

SMITH! Bulinski’s voice exploded in my head, my brain throbbed with pain.  When my head’s reverberations diminished, to a faint hum, I went to V. E. Bob’s office and informed him,   I have a cell phone, you know. 

What’s your point? Bulinski inquired. 

Whadda ya want? I pointedly asked.

To see you suffer, the vice editor poignantly replied, as if he knew the state of my head.  I noticed that his bald head featured new landscaping.  He had spiked the hedge around the patio to make it look like he had more hair.  

That’s no challenge, I bent to the boss because I didn’t feel like fighting.

Actually, I have good news for you.

I remembered that I hate people who start a sentence with ‘actually’.

Oh, what’s the news?

I have finagled a preview ride for you, alone, the first passenger on the Westside TRAXX, from downtown Portland, through the tunnel, all the way to the west end at the Hillsboro Transit Center.

Alone?  I was sure this was something I didn’t want to do, especially as the solitary rider.

Well, the driver or drivers will be on board, also. Inside, I knew it was something I had to do, if only because my journalistic instinct was larger than my paranoia.

When will this excursion through eternal rest take place?

Don’t tell me you are afraid of a little tunnel under a cemetery?

It’s something like sixteen-hundred feet, some of my reading was useful, seventy-four feet below thousands of dead.

I’m impressed with your research.  So, this is just a chance to touch a little on the present, let your readers know what to expect on the new transit system.  The Westside TRAXX pass is good on any of the test runs they are making every ten minutes until opening day.  Just show it to the driver.

Thanks, big guy, I thought of other adjectives, too. 

"Say, I like that new