A Forever Story

By Cathleen Lynn Boyle

Fifteen years ago on Easter Sunday, I learned from a stranger's voice at a hospital emergency room on the west coast where my daughter was attending college, she was dead-on-arrival from GHB poisoning. The men, a local hip-hop rapper, and his band, who brought my daughter to the hospital, admitted in sworn statements to the police she had been a

• Language: English
• Publisher: BenSky Publishing LLC
• Release date: Jul 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9781735310206

Cathleen Lynn Boyle

Cathleen's began writing fiction in 1991, and has several unpublished fiction manuscripts as well as published poetry. Her background includes two masters' degrees, law school studies and thirty-plus year career in law and public relations. Cathleen also enjoys painting abstract and landscape art. She lives in Colorado with her son, and is often found blogging on date rape drugs and women's awareness at https://daterapeawareness.wordpress.com/about.

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2

My name is Sofia O’Brien, and I was born in Austin, Texas, but I don’t think I’ll die there since San Francisco stole my heart.

In the predawn hours of an SF morning, I awoke to the echoes of soft-soled running shoes smacking the damp pavement beneath my second-floor bay window. A bold aroma of coffee breezed through an open window and lured my senses as I hopped from the bed and into a pair of corduroy drawstring pants and a T emblazoned with the image of a young man spinning vinyl. I reached for the wall calendar with laminated black and white cats and flipped the page to October. So far, 1998 had been a good year, but the new year held stellular promise.

Twilight illuminated a reddish hue below the horizon on this cool morning as I flashed past a mirror and let down my hair for the final glance.

Dmitri, kitty, kitty…Stealthily he swanked with arched back and tail swishing as he circled my ankles, purring. I bent down, pulling his royal fluffiness close and kissing his grumpy, smashed face. Bye-bye, sweet kitty. And with my camera slung over a shoulder and my handmade blue velveteen purse draped across my chest, I ran down the hall steps and bolted outside. Beneath dense alabaster clouds, I strapped on my blades.

My mom’s words popped into my mind as I cruised down the street: "You don’t want to be another clothes hanger, do ya?" Hence dressing like the pack from department stores racks had never appealed. When I’d left for the West Coast, I’d emerged from a cocoon, abandoning adolescence and the clothes from the era. Now I closeted vintage bounties from the treasure trove of Haight-Ashbury shops. Retro was my passion.

During one vintage shop excursion in the Haight, I’d met my current roommate, Odessa, who’d set up a sidewalk shop reading palms. Her nut-brown eyes flickered like she was startled by something as I approached. It was an odd reaction and didn’t go unnoticed. She stood behind a cardboard counter displaying a sign: Palm Readings. She was short and frail. I stuck my hand in her doe-eyed face, palm up, wondering if she’d perceive something beyond the obvious. She peered into it like she had fallen into a well, then she blinked, bewildered.

What? I asked, impatient yet allured.

You got lots insurance?

Is that like a parachute?

You had readings before?

Well, yeah, I admitted, distracted by a red-tailed hawk gliding overhead.

What did they tell you?

I don’t know, something about a short lifeline. It doesn’t matter; it’s amusing. I don’t buy it. We’re all going to die. It’s a fact. Life and death are just different ends of the same stick. Hey, check it out. I pointed to the hawk circling. But Odessa, spellbound by my palm, missed a favorable omen. Well, yeah. You’ve a short lifeline. Look, she said, pointing to the faint crease. It’s less than an inch into your palm.

Ah, yeah, but it’s random, I laughed, withdrawing my hand. How on earth can one’s fate be blueprinted on one’s palm? It’s in the hands of the universe. It’s a mystery, don’t you know? That’s what I love about life. Like our meeting right now on this sidewalk, and having this conversation. It’s so serendipitous. I adore it!

What’s your name? she asked in a thick German accent with sharp inflection at the end.

Sofia. Yours?

Odessa, she answered without removing a lit cigarette pressed to the corner of her mouth. We’d talked for over an hour when I noticed a sign on her counter about a room for rent.

Is it near here?

Just down the street. She motioned.

You own it?

No, why do that? she said, wiping the cardboard counter between us. Then I got mortgage to pay. It’s my house while I live there. I’m happy to pay rent.

Later in the week I rented the room. At the time, Odessa rented rooms to multiple roommates, who she didn’t screen well; luckily, no one stayed long. In fact, we liked it when they moved out, for many situations proved awkward. One night while we slept, we were robbed. The police said, They’re roof bandits. They slid down the roof and gained entry through an open window. They stole our bikes, and Odessa’s heirloom jewelry.

Super-creeped, Odessa changed the locks but complained it was a waste of money. They’ll probably strike again, she said, pessimistic. For several weeks, I executed a nightly lockdown, but we never discovered if the thieves were former roommates.

* * *

Rain dripped from a low ceiling of dense clouds. In the distance, the sonorous belch of a foghorn pierced the sunrise rumble of the city. As I hurried to the bus, I skated slick foggy streets when my blades slipped out from under me, and I tumbled through air. My left wrist broke the fall. I sat there assessing the injury, already red and swelling when my bus breezed by. I’d have to wait twenty minutes for another bus. I fumed.

Sort of dazed, I slowly collected myself and readjusted my backpack. I only had a short distance to skate to the bus stop, where I changed into shoes. I was studying Macromedia Director, and a scripting language called Lingo, when another pair of headlights appeared in the fog. A bus rolled to a stop as the door flapped open with a hiss.

Hello, I said to the graying driver wearing a Nigerian-looking red hat.

He winked and said, "Bonjour," warming the chilled morning. SF harbored a multiplicity of ethnic cultures, languages, religions, beliefs, and opinions, and people tended to be as unique as stars in the sky. I liked eavesdropping and listening to the different dialects, perspectives and stories about living.

I nodded at two nuns in black habits seated on the first bench. They stared into the unseen spaces around me while they fingered blue crystal rosary beads. On the next vinyl-covered seat, a young African woman in a red suit chatted in soft tones with a child. I dropped into the seat behind them.

Warm cocoa eyes peeped over the top of the seat. A frizzy-haired child smiled a toothless grin. She must’ve been five; that’s when Finn lost his front teeth, I remembered.

Hi, I said, but bashful, she dipped down below the seat. Her mother scolded her to turn around and face forward. She bribed the child with a Hi-C juice box and a granola bar. The bus engaged, lunging forward along streets littered with paper, plastic, and people. Bodies extended unsheltered appendages from cardboard tents dotting the street. As we approached a red light, a group of young boys in long duster coats huddled in a circle, smoking cigarettes.

Then a loud crack exploded near my head. Red and purple streaks splashed across the bus windows. Shrieks of nervous laughter splintered silence as the bus lunged through the intersection. I reached for the camera, but flexing my wrist delivered a sharp pain. I leaned back, appeasing my injury, entertained by paint fractals forming on the window.

3

The bus cruised over the Golden Gate Bridge on its way to my final destination in Marin County. Paint splatters obstructed the spliced view of the Bay through the taut suspension cables. As we passed under the first orange monolithic pillar, it triggered the same iconic awe I’d felt since my arrival. San Francisco is a city of dreams, and dreamers.

The bridge served as a portal, delivering me from one world—the city and its lights, glass, concrete, and steel—and into another—the luscious emerald-green beauty of the Marin County woods. Once we crossed the Golden Gate, a tall, thin stranger got on the bus and slid onto the bus bench where I sat.

The heat outlining our bodies merged in the narrow space. Serious dreadlocks descended down his back and over an arm. Brown sinewy fingers curled like a fallen leaf around a pen poised over a clean page in a small black notebook. His blackish eyes, shining, met mine.

Writing your life story? I joked. He hesitated, turning to gaze at me, then laughed.

No, it’s a song, he said in a soft, Michael Jackson–like voice.

My curiosity expanded. Are you a musician?

Well, yeah, a singer-songwriter. Rhythm inflected his speech like a snake charmer.

You might be interested in my film work.

You make films? he said, sounding punky, but his curious eyes shined like wet stones.

Yes, I’d be happy to film your band some night. I’ve actually been shooting people all over town for a film clip I’m making…

Cool, cool, he said, and his whole body vibrated rhythmic-like. I get it, he said, and I imagined his singing voice. We connected. I talk to people every day, and when I say, You know what I mean, they reply, Huh? Like, no connection.

What’s your name? he said, and destiny seamlessly meshed two strangers into the fold of time.

Sofia.

Sofia, he repeated, imbuing my name with new meaning as it formed over his lips.

What’s yours?

Aamon, he said and leaned in to hear over the bus’s horn. His warm breath stroked my face.

Do you play in the city?

Yeah, all over. And he reached into his camo overcoat pocket and pulled out a CD. I want you to have this. The heat of his caramel-brown skin brushed across the pale coolness of my wrist as I accepted the gift.

Thank you.

If you like it, you can catch my band next Friday night. We’re the opening act at the Fillmore. I’ll put your name on the guest list.

What’s your band name?

Immortal Tribal Tones.

Sounds familiar. I’m the architect of the online sf hip-hop venue calendar, and I’m sure I posted dates for your concerts.

Well, aren’t you the resourceful girl? He smiled, eyes twinkling. That’s my band, and I’d like you to be my guest. He held my gaze while extending the invitation a second time. A part of me rushed forward, while the rest pulled away. My morning drifted, and for the first time, I dreaded my routine stop as the bus rolled to a halt at The College of Marin.

This is my stop.

Maybe see you next Friday, he said, moving aside for me to exit.

I hesitated and pivoted to wave to him as I descended the first step, but seats obscured my view. With a clap, the door closed, and the bus sped away. On my back hung the camera with my film presentation, and in my hand was Aamon’s CD. A smile flushed from the inside out. My feet rustled rivers of fallen leaves as my attention returned to my true passion—film.

The sun rose higher, scattering the band of now-thinning clouds. Glad I’d signed up for the film class during the fall, with its natural sunlight during the day and the shadowy hues of purplish blues in evenings. I contained my exuberance to present the film to the class, and to Professor George, who’d have us all believing we might be the next Spike Lee or Quentin Tarantino.

4

Sometime after midnight, I strapped on rollerblades and skated toward Union Square to catch the bart to Oakland. Along the route, techno music blasted from lofts and basements, reminding me of my first trip to San Francisco. It sealed my fate.

Tonight, I was recording an interview with DJ Pauley, turntable champion, who I met at a warehouse rave party. He rocked dance floors across the Bay. I got to know him, and his partner, when they asked me to design a website for their recording studio, showcasing links to my hip-hop site. When finished, Pauley also agreed to an interview at his studio.

I flagged a cab from the bart in Oakland and rolled to a stop before a dark, decrepit warehouse around 1:40 a.m. An orange neon sign pointed up a rickety metal fire escape to the club entrance. Following it to the second floor, I entered a narrow box office and announced my name to a door girl. She glanced at a list and reached under the counter, releasing the door.

Nice tat, she said as I passed her.

Thanks. The white dragon gets a lot of attention, I said, glancing over my shoulder, then pushed through the door and into the warehouse space. DJ Pauley’s sounds swelled from wall to wall as ravers filled the dance floor. Plastic candy-colored jewelry dangled from sweaty necks as they sucked on pacifiers, lollipops, or whistles clamped between teeth. A webbed ceiling of laser strobes, bike reflectors, and glow sticks illuminated bodies in a mostly-under-twenty-one utopia.

* * *

Shortly before 2:00 a.m., the crowd surged toward Pauley’s raised dais as I made my way over to an opening in the floor. I traversed a gap in the stairs made from pallets filled with woodchips from the second- to the first-floor artist space, then traipsed along a path between panels of hanging drapes, tapestries and canvases until I arrived at an exit.

Stepping outside and onto a metal grate, I breathed cool Bay air. Then, descending a narrow unlit passage, I brushed my booty against the sooty wall, soiling my white tube dress. I dropped my backpack onto a makeshift desk and removed the recorder and crinkled notes while still rooting for a wipe to clean my dress. Pizza fumes from next door seeped through a vent, teasing my appetite.

While listening for Pauley, I snacked on a banana to dispel chronic hunger. It would be cool when the interviews and the hip-hop site started to pay and generate income. I wouldn’t have to keep juggling waitressing and part-time gigs. I glanced at my watch—2:20 a.m.—and, yawning, fanned through a bundle of promo stickers for the Alcatraz Halloween Costume Party, which the promoter had said to distribute by three p.m. today if I wanted to get paid tomorrow.

Feet shuffled down the outside steps. Hey, Sofia, what’s up? pulsed Pauley with a cheeky British accent as he removed the doorstop. Catch my tracks?

You know it. Awesome! Hey, thanks for the interview. I’ll post it on my site in the next day or two.

Aww, cool earrings. Does it mean something?

I fingered the smooth warm surface of a silver ankh. It’s an Egyptian cross. It symbolizes eternal life.

Ah. Cool, cool.

You ready?

Ha, born ready, he boasted, in high spirits.

Let’s talk about your role in the Bay’s edm scene… since the ’90s…

I’m all about it.

Awesome, I said and raised my hand for his cue. Sofia here. Hello, hello from Oakland. Tuning in tonight with DJ Pauley—so, Pauley, tell us about your immersion in the San Francisco edm scene since the early ’90s.

Yeah, well, um, it all started, with, uh, free weekly outdoor full moon parties, he said, rapping his fingers on the desk, tapping out beats. Uh…the spring of ’91, yes, uh, I think eighty people musta showed, uh, you know, just from word of mouth, he said with a thoughtful expression before I shoved in front of him a collection I’d put together of old articles and black-and-white photos from the era.

Wow, he said, impressed with my collection. Yeah, um, my crew put that system together. He pointed to a photo of a sound system assembled on the beach. We called it the Atrocious Sound System. He jumped up and threw on the studio’s sound system. "We set the stage for the whole outdoor rave scene, he added, dancing around. We attracted all kinds of people—I mean like straights, gays, punks, techies, artist, politicians…everybody."

Nice. What are we listening to now?

It evolved to the current system, he said as we sorted through the old photographs.

What do you think was up with San Francisco in the early ’90s that made it for you?

Uh, coming from London, the climate here in the Bay was the best. He lowered the sound. Besides, you know, playing records for a living, throwing incredible outdoor parties, and hanging out with inspiring blokes wasn’t such a bad life. He shrugged, gyrating at a high frequency.

Any over-the-top moments you’d like to share, Pauley?

For sure, the Full Moon, and the Bulletproof Boat parties on the Bay, he said, smacking a hand on the table.

Oh wow, I just listened to a Bulletproof track this morning.

Pauley jumped up and switched the music to Bulletproof, which played behind our interview.

Uh, just a couple more questions, Pauley. Like when did you realize the significance of what was going down with the scene you were creating?

He shuffled through some of the articles I’d clipped, then he glanced up. The third Full Moon anniversary really opened my eyes. Yeah, he said, nodding, we had over three thousand people at Bonny Doon Beach in Santa Cruz, and—wow, how cool is this? he said, holding up a newspaper clipping. "You’ve got a copy of a Rolling Stone article reporting on it."

Whoa… We paused as he read highlights from the article. "Why do you think the early ’90s were right for the scene to blow up in sf?"

Well, the city had it all—psychedelics, beaches, sunshine—but it hadn’t profiled the music—

Pauley, sorry to cut you short, but do you smell smoke?

Jumping up, Pauley jerked open the door and hustled up the stairs, then traversed back down. Come on, he yelled with alarmed eyes.

I threw the recorder in my bag and scrambled up the stairwell, which was filled with smoke. I heard crackling and sirens when massive flames overcame the loft. On the landing, Pauley and I glanced up at people screaming as firefighters rushed past us with ladders and hoses. Glass burst in a shower. Fear struck like a mallet.

Where’s your car? Pauley yelled.

I’m on the bart.

Okay, you can ride with me. I’m headed to sf.

Thanks, you can drop me at Union Square. I left my skates there, in a locker.

No problem. Hey, wait a minute, he said. There’s blood on your cheek.

Huh, I said as he reached and removed a speck of red debris. Relieved, we gawked up. What about those people?

See over there? Pauley said as I turned, absorbed by the scene unfolding. Those firemen are getting the net ready for them to jump. We need to get out of the way. Come on, give me your hand. And we ran down the street toward his pickup.

5

I bolted awake, sucking air from the foggy ledge of lucid dreaming. My mind scrambled to the edge of memory, and I peered into darkness, panting. It was 11:30 p.m. on a chilly November night in San Francisco, 1998, and I was alive!

It’s only a dream. I exhaled, relieved. Dmitri’s purr and a faint scent of lavender clinging to the linen displaced the images of the dream. I drew Dmitri closer and caressed his warm furry feline body. Inhaling deep, I rejoiced in the vitality surging through my limbs.

Yet death preoccupied my thoughts and dreams like a shadow. Eyes wide open, I searched the cool black spaces, but the dream held me hostage. I squeezed my eyes to dispel it. Embedded in memory, the dream merged with the present. That was when I realized, The past is always present. It lives in memory, resistant to time. Shuddering a sigh of relief, I chanted, It’s a silly dream, not real.

As disjointed images whirled through my brain, anxious emotion ignited like flames. I puzzled about the boy in the dream who had held me. Who was he? I grabbed a pen and a flashlight and, scrawling the dream into my journal, I imagined myself dead, and others reading my indelible words. I don’t want to die. Not now. Not ever.

Terror held my heart hostage. I might not get to live my dreams and make my mark on the world. The horror of losing everything—my identity, my family, my kitty, my career, my history—preyed upon my psyche, which was why I wrote everything down. I don’t want to be forgotten, for only the forgotten are truly dead. I want a forever story—one that lives in memory, especially in the memory of those I love. For the only thing we ever really own is our story.

I clutched the pillow and grabbed the phone, speed-dialing Mom. Hello, she said, then paused. Sofia? she asked as I closed my eyes, listening. What’s wrong?

Mom, I shouted, still stunned by the dream’s lingering memory.

Honey, are you alright? What’s the matter? You’re scaring me.

No, it’s nothing. I’m okay, Mom. Just needed to hear your voice. A bad dream, but I’m all right.

That same nightmare?

Uh-huh, but—I paused, considering—I don’t want to talk about it, I said, counting on her to listen and not to pry. Yet lately, her appeals to move home had birthed a new dynamic in our relationship—tension. My late-night cries from more than a thousand miles away lulled her pleas, and her voice, like a charm, grounded me in the safe and familiar.

Have you heard they’re going to impeach Bill Clinton? she said, changing the subject. They charged him with perjury and obstruction of justice.

Figures, that pervert. He’s a predator.

Possibly on to something. Did your ticket arrive? Mailed it days ago.

Yes. Wish I’d left today.

Just a few more weeks, honey.

Does Finn like his new school?

Yes, he’s made new friends but is more obsessed with hockey.

You’ll have to send pictures. I really miss my little pookie boy.

Every night, he turns on the strobe light you gave him and asks when you’re coming home. Oh, almost forgot, I mailed your blanket Nana crocheted. I could feel myself nodding when she said, Love you, honey. Are you okay, truly?

Yes, I mumbled while chugging water to silence hunger. I was wondering if maybe you could help me out this month.

I wish you’d think about moving home, she went on. I could help you more if you were here in the Springs with us. I know you don’t like it here, but maybe you’d like Boulder.

Oh, Mom, I interrupted, rejecting the bait, please don’t go there. You know I love it here. Respect my choice.

Okay, she wavered, but her okay meant okay, for now. In a way, I got her frustration with letting go. We were super-close. But new emotions crowded our relationship: fear and resentment. I resented her persistent fear-based demands. I wanted her to trust my judgment to live on my own, as well as in general. I had embarked on a new life here in San Francisco.

She only registered danger where I perceived adventure. Her paranoia about me living on my own was delusional. I’d always confided in her, but now I filtered out the stuff I knew would make her freak, like traveling the city streets at night, often alone and on foot, when meeting friends, or musicians, or djs for after-hours interviews.

Mom, it’s getting late. I’ve got to get ready for school soon.

Sofia, I think I can send five hundred. Will that help?

Absolutely helps, Mom. I glanced at the clock and sat up.

Be careful, honey. I love you.

Love you too, Mom. Hug Finn for me. Bye.

6

Voices pierced my sleep. From where I hibernated, burrowed under piles of blankets, muffled voices rose and fell near the bed. For all I knew, complete strangers had cruised into my room, oblivious to the body hidden under a mound of blankets.

As I extricated myself from my lair, the unmistakable huskiness of a man’s voice pierced the silence like a blast from an alarm clock. From the sidewalk below, the undulating tonalities of two voices, a man’s and a woman’s, filtered into the room. Through a crack in the window, the sheers billowed and collapsed.

At six in the morning, I guessed the source to be runners out for a morning jog. I’d trained my brain to filter out the familiar monotonous echo of runners’ feet. But this morning, I surrendered to the sweetness of the moment and eavesdropped from the vantage point of a bird’s nest. I imagined the man and the woman knew each other from the past and had met by chance after several years.

Tell me what you’ve been doing, he asked with an exaggerated interest infecting his tone. Are you still with…what’s his name?

Bill? she hinted. No, we broke up about a year ago.

How about a coffee? he asked when awkward silence followed, and my mind wandered, recreating an image of Aamon on the bus. I wanted to sprint for my camera and fly down the stairs with it rolling, yelling, Lights! Camera! Action! But an intrusion might rob them of their special moment, and I didn’t want the karma. However, visualizing the entire scene in my head drove me fitful. A belly of suppressed giggles exploded.

The people beneath my window scattered like skittish squirrels. Dmitri purred as he moseyed across the blanket. Reaching for him, I dragged his furry mass into mine and, petting him, I planned the day. Curious, my roommate, Odessa, peered around the door frame.

What’s funny at this time of the morning? she asked, her eyes heavy-lidded as she flopped into the room in oversized leopard slippers and a chenille robe, carrying her hot black brew in a Starbucks mug. She plopped onto the mattress edge.

I’m spying on a man and woman on the sidewalk below. Life’s so like a Shakespeare play, or is it the other way around?

Wow, Odessa said between sips of coffee. How did your presentation go?

Fabulous. My professor submitted it for the spring Art Festival in April. It’s soooo cool. Like, they’re setting up several large screens along the campus corridors to project my film all day during the festival. They’ll also give me credit in the festival brochure. I’m ecstatic.

Awesome, girl, you’re on fire.

Yeah, I’m so fired up. I’m going to start working on a music documentary to enter into the sf International Film Festival next spring. And my interest in film all stems from the years of acting in plays. Shakespeare’s a favorite. I still recite lines from his plays, I giggled. ‘Death lies on her, like an untimely frost upon the sweetest flower of all the field.’ Sound familiar?

No, she said, leaning back.

I’ll give you a hint. It’s from one of the great romances of all time.

Odessa shrugged.

"Romeo and Juliet!" I said, buffing my nails.

"Oh mein Gott, aber Kunst ist lang und unser Leben flüchtig," she said with a smug expression.

Touché, I laughed. What’d you say?

"‘Oh my, but art is long, and our life fleeting.’ Goethe’s Faust."

Cool, cool, I said in a dramatic rustle of blanket and sheets and slinked into the bathroom, feeling the bite of the brisk morning through my thin satiny vintage slip. Hey, I met a guy. He’s got my interest, I boasted from the bathroom.

Where did you meet him?

On the bus on my way to Marin. He invited me as a guest to his performance at the Fillmore.

"Go, girl. What’s his