Hindsight

By Steven Paul Wilson

It's the summer of '76 and a nice Cuban family living in exile in Austin, Texas is thrilled when their teenage daughter is befriended by another teenage Cuban girl. It's a happy time for all until their once-lovely daughter turns moody, distant, disturbed, and finally disappears. Their one-and-only clue is an im

• Language: English
• Publisher: Double D Ranch Publishing
• Release date: Jan 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9780985943431

Steven Paul Wilson

I'm currently an inmate in the Texas Department of Criminal Justice and have been now for going on a dozen years, albeit I continue to fight for my freedom with hopes of release in the near future. My thoughts often take me back in time, and this is where I would like to invite my readers to join me. Go back with me to the year 1976, to the big city of Austin, Texas and its wealthy neighborhood, Tarrytown. A time when everything was possible, when my friends and I teemed with optimism, and mortality was not on our radar. I invite you to have some excitement with us, safely, vicariously, and tag along with my friends and I in the Steven Paul series where adventure and peril lurk around every corner.

Book preview

Hindsight

A Novel

Steven Paul Wilson

D

R

D

D

R

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Double-D Ranch Books

The Steven Paul Series

Hindsight Vertigo

Wayward

Poached

Cash-and-Carry

Vegas Peach

The Eddie Winston Series

The Girl in the Attic

Foster Cares

Double-D Publishing

Austin, TX 

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Hindsight Copyright © 2013/2020 by Steven Paul Wilson

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or part in any form.

Cover Art/Graphic Design provided by Elissa Goldman and Cari Stanhope

Photo of Farrah Fawcett used by permission: Pixaby.com

A product of the United States of America

ISBN: 978-0-9859434-3-1 

Acknowledgments

I’d like to thank the newest members of our small team: Editor and Graphic designer, Cari Stanhope; IT and Web Administrator, Jim F. Zwiener; and General Assistant, Heather Greeson. I’d also like to thank and acknowledge past contributors Brad Kelly, Maria Kennedy, Peter Hughes and Jini Smith. And, finally, I’d like to thank my family for their encouragement and continued support, making all things possible.

Chapter 1

Aloft in my aerie, I stare at the dingy-white ceiling above me. A doomed, lone spider traverses the void. Its fate is sealed for there is no prey or moisture in its future.

From my left, the slightest draft emanates from the fortified slit that serves as a window. The buzz of a mower can be heard nearby. The scent of fumes and fresh-cut grass assails.

I feel empathy for the spider on its journey to nowhere. Unlike the spider’s unknown fate, the realism of my predicament is known and is my constant companion, for this is not the comfortable nest from where I muse, but the unyielding mat of a top bunk in an 8′ x 12′ cell of Texas’s historical Huntsville Wynne Unit.

The first greeting here is Welcome to Hell, for this is truly hell.

But, hey, it has not always been this way.

My name was almost Constantine, as was contemplated by my German-born mother and the world’s greatest cook. But thanks to my Southern-raised father and perhaps the only disagreement upon which he ever prevailed—it was mercifully decided that I be dubbed Steven Paul. 

For me, it was a long, periled road to hell fraught with bad choices but I have come to believe the roots to the beginning of the end can be traced to the summer of ‘76.

Was the summer of ’76 the catalyst to my long downward spiral and ultimate demise? Maybe, maybe not. Stick around and decide for yourself, for this is how I remember it…

Chapter 2

I feel her eyes upon me and know I need only open my own to take in her beauty. Her beauty’s surreal—her nipples too pert.

Ah, to be days shy of 17 and in love. To date, she’s yet to disappoint me. 

My eyes are slow to open—weighted by a mite too much imbibing the night before. Despite the weight, I will them open and, lo and behold, there she is. I chuckle. Morning, Farrah. I see you’ve been thinking about me again.

An upstairs voice intrudes upon my reverie. 

Steven, you’re going to sleep your life away, my mother yells down. You know, ever since you got that Farrah Fawcett swimsuit poster you’ve been spending way too much time in your bedroom.

I check my favorite hand and chuckle once again. No overt evidence to support her allegation. I decide to ignore her— perhaps she’ll go away. 

Suit yourself, she yells down. I’m heading out. See you at dinner and don’t be late… Oh and try to stay out of trouble today. Like, keep your motorcycle off the school grounds.

Try, I mumble as I kick off my covers. Try, that’s subjective. Like, today might be the day I outgrow my penchant for getting into trouble? I guess it’s not too much to ask that I try."

I’ll try, I yell back to appease, but in doing so my words ring hollow. Well, I doubt either of us believes it anyway. I mean, we’ve known each other far too long to buy into my words now. 

I wait for my mother to get in the last word, for I’m sure it’s coming.

And straighten your room. The maid comes in at noon and you know how she is concerning your room.

I allow her last words to go unchallenged. I’ve learned there’s room for give-and-take in most relationships and I shan’t want to upset the balance one day before Sunday’s allowance disbursement. Another shan’t I decide upon: I shan’t clean my room today. Thus, our once-weekly maid gets to forgo cleaning my room yet again and that suits me fine. I love my lair just as it is with its Lone Star Beer posters, mini-fridge and the 25-inch RCA color console that I probably should not have tweaked after smoking a fat one. 

My lair, to reiterate: I love it just as it is. Everything perfectly disarranged. My own corner piece of heaven in our exclusive West Austin, Tarrytown neighborhood and for now my current base of operation. 

I twiddle my thumbs, figuratively, and decide upon a safe course of action that should keep me out of trouble today. I shall call upon my ragtag group of friends and suggest we spend a leisurely day at the local park with a cooler full of beer, some cheap Mexican weed and a large Conan’s pizza. Now what, if anything, adverse can flow from such an innocent outing, I ask? If I was in a betting mood, I’d be willing to bet the farm on nothing—and, man, would I soon learn I’d have bet wrong. Deadly wrong. 

I call up Andy. The mention of pizza, beer and weed, in that order, and he’s in. He eagerly volunteers to call Jim and James, the remainder of our diverse group and I can imagine him pacing the floor as he makes his call—his high metabolism and the thought of endless pizza getting him wired. We agree to meet up in an hour-and-a-half or so. 

I yawn and stretch and think—life sure is good. You see, for me, the glass is always half full and the proof is on the back patio. To wit: my new Yamaha YZ 250 mono-shock. She’s fast as all getout. That’s how we say it in the south. Yep, I’m a motocross rider, an adrenaline junkie, in need of speed since the age of 12. None of the others in my group share the same passion, so I’m the lone motocross rider among us. 

Oh, and modestly, I’m the pretty boy in our group. I mean in a masculine way, of course, with my blond hair and blue eyes and all-American good looks. Not to brag—well, maybe a little—but I’m also the ladies’ man in our quartet, if for no other reason than by default, for I’m the only one with any girlfriends. Not to belittle my cohorts, but as far as I’m aware, none of the others have kissed a girl much less copped a good feel, whereas my own harem, through good luck and charismatic charm, has swelled to the count of three. 

Okay, maybe not as good as it sounds, for only my petite South Austin girl lets me dip the wick, so to speak. But not to be daunted, it’s only a matter of time before the others succumb to the inevitable. 

The day is poised to be a beauty, for KLBJ’s 93.7 Rock tells me so. Unseasonably cool with winds out of the north at five to ten mph and a high of 90. I don’t know what time it is, but Bob Seger’s Night Moves on the stereo inspires me to call the girls, which is easy enough considering my room is equipped with three, black rotary dial Bells that I managed to splice together all by myself. Stick with me, you’ll come to learn my talents are many. 

I call my little Jewish girl, Debra, first. She’s a short thing, black-haired and brown-eyed, a real top-heavy cutie with a permanent Middle East tan. I have to confess, I’m actually crazy about the girl. She lives way across town on the South Side, where my family and I migrated from back when I was entering the sixth grade.

That being the case, I don’t get to spend much time with her. Debra’s shy and demure, so it makes for a short call, but when we get together, the nonverbal communication we share keeps me coming back for more. Before hanging up and calling the next, I promise my unflagging fidelity. 

I call Loraine next. She’s a long-legged blonde and quite easy on the eyes. She comes from hippie stock, but to my dismay, the notion of free love wasn’t passed down. Some periodic tongue action keeps me eternally hopeful, though. 

Loraine answers after ten rings or so with Do you know what time it is? before she can ascertain who’s calling. Since I don’t know what time it is and wishing to spare her feelings, I promptly hang up, deciding I’ll get back with her later. 

I call Angie next, a 21-year-old Mexican gal I met the year before.

She’s a tall, sexy tomboy who shares my passion for motocross. She rides a 175 Kawasaki Enduro herself. I don’t know where she lives but it must be near because it only takes her minutes to arrive when I invite her over. I’m still eternally hopeful with her as well. Having a kid must have broken her from spreading her legs for now, but during our passionate make-out sessions, she grinds her pelvis into me, leaving me aching. I can attest to the fact blue balls are not a myth. After filling her in, yes, on today’s beautiful weather forecast and some pleasantries, we tentatively plan on getting together tomorrow and hang up. 

One more call to Loraine and it will be time to squeeze in a quick workout and hit the road. This time she answers with a drowsy Hello, to which I cheerfully respond: Hi, baby girl. Whatcha’ doing?

She accusingly queries: You didn’t happen to call a few minutes ago, did you?

She’s so sweet I cannot tell a lie, so quite naturally I have a query of my own: What are you talking about? I graciously pass on the good news on the northerly winds and today’s high and bid her adieu. 

Some sit-ups, some benches, some pull-ups and I declare myself fit. I add ten minutes on the heavy bag which includes kicks, knees and elbows and work up a good sweat in the process. I feel better for it. 

A shower to cool down and it’s back to the lair for last-minute preparations. I take a second to crank up Steve Miller’s Fly Like an Eagle on the stereo and pick up today’s apparel from various spots on the floor. Feeling somewhat revived and being in a loyal UT mood, I supplement jeans, red Izod and Nocona cowhides with a Longhorn cap. Nothing else to do, I break out my remaining stash from its oh-so-originally-thought-out concealment spot:

under the mattress.  Only a couple of papers remain in my pack of Zig-Zag 1.25s, but that’s just the right number for the precariously low amount of weed I have remaining. 

I roll out the last few seeds, toss out the remaining stems and then, for no other reason than I like living on the edge, I replace a couple of the seeds in each of the fatties and proceed to twist up. Popping seeds—a source of peril and often amusement. 

Based upon whatever weed the other imps have left over in their stashes, it’s probably a good time to re-up. No longer a problem, thanks to Congress, the Supreme Court and the mandate to desegregate, I have now been introduced to elephantine sources of ten-dollar, four-finger lids as a result. Got to love progress. 

Joints in hand, it’s time to roll. I call in a large Supreme to Conan’s, named after Conan the Barbarian, no less. Conan’s prides itself on being Austin’s best, keeping hundreds of ingredients on hand and cooking your pizza to order. Their pizzas are so thick that, for a normal person, one slice makes a meal. For a mere ten bucks, you can buy an 18-inch, one-inch-thick, eight-slice pizza. Conan’s is located several blocks north of 29th and Guadalupe, plus it’s right past the if you have a car, we’ll sell to anyone Beer Barn. A frequently traveled route, for it’s also within a few blocks of Hansel & Gretel’s, the German restaurant where Andy and I are currently employed. We’re both lowly busboys, knowledge I’m reluctant to share with most, but the job became necessary after Jim and I lost our jobs at the local Rylander’s Grocery when their monthly beer inventory came up a mite shy. Oh, well, as mother likes to say: It is what it is and, as demeaning as the new job may be, I cannot deny its perks. One being the free-flowing beer and the other, the owner’s Peruvian wife who dotes on me and routinely insists on grilling up one of my favorites: roast beef, Swiss cheese, lettuce and Ranch dressing on a sourdough bun. She further insists on blending me a pitcher of piña coladas. Not my drug of choice, but I surely don’t want to hurt her feelings. Would you?

Down the steep drive on Maria Anna awaits my baby. A ‘71

Pontiac Formula 400 with full T/A trim. She’s alright, despite the three-speed manual GM foolishly put in her. She’s mostly reliable, but just in case, I lovingly pat the dash and coo to her: Be a good girl—talk to Daddy. You probably know how it is: all sweetness until she doesn’t crank and then she’s rechristened you fucking bitch as you attempt to beat the center out of the steering wheel. Ever been there? 

A turn of the key: all’s good, she fires right up for me. I roll down the windows to enjoy the unseasonably cool weather, turn up the stereo, lick the tape and insert the well-used Cheap Trick 8-track and fine-tune with the wedge of a matchbook. With the underdash amp supplying extra wattage, I direct most of the clamor to the 6x9 Jensens in the rear. 

I depress the clutch and coast to the bottom of the hill and turn left to head up the aptly named Hillview Road. I wind her tight in first, add some unnecessary clutch to bark second and wind her tight again for the audible pleasure the Thrush glass-packs provide the convent on my right. Conan’s and the Beer Barn are mostly a straight shot due east. I cross over Exposition and soon under MoPac, the now mostly completed north-south corridor. A left at the tee and I continue through the heavily oaked, immaculately manicured residential neighborhoods until the street veers north and intersects with 24th Street. It’s five more blocks to 29th, where I again head east. A couple more miles in the mild afternoon traffic and I arrive at my first destination, the Beer Barn, where the long-haired attendant gladly accepts my four, one-dollar bills and promptly fetches me a case of Buckhorn in bottles, change no doubt, and a complimentary bag of ice. Yes, nothing but the best for the friends and me. I kind of overlooked and failed to mention exactly what brand of beer was to complement our afternoon festivities. I might not have ended up with any company if I had. It’s called thinking ahead and I’m big

on thinking ahead. The 22-cent change joins the treasure of roaches in the ashtray. A moment to ice down the beer and I’m off again. 

A few blocks up is Guadalupe and a few blocks up from there and to the south is Conan’s. Naturally, it being summer and somewhere near lunch time, the limited parking spaces are all taken, but I persevere and eventually find a spot almost back at the Beer Barn. No problem, the cool summer day makes for a pleasant stroll. 

I enter the pizzeria and am overcome with what seems like hundreds of tantalizing aromas. Posters cover the walls, variously depicting Conan and his sword. I inquire on the status of my order and the emaciated, goateed cashier informs me: It will be a few. Farrah cuts, halter tops and glowing tans are in high fashion, so I take the opportunity to admire the throngs of long-legged, flat-bellied University of Texas beauties that congest the sidewalk outside. 

A tap on my shoulder brings me back to earth. I turn and a heart stopping brunette stands before me holding my pizza. It’s all I can do to stammer up a thank you and in return she produces an all-knowing, dazzling smile. I’d give my left nut for a girl like this, crosses my mind. Her name-tag reads Brandy and I know her name and the sight of her will be embedded in my mind for some time to come. With a wink, an audible sigh and pizza in hand, I’m once again on my way, Reed Park bound. 

Chapter 3

Reed Park is a small, quaint city park several blocks west of home, abutting the last bastion of undeveloped acreage in West Austin and Tarrytown. Covering perhaps two acres of the remaining 300, which is believed to belong to Lady Bird Johnson herself, the park features a clear, shallow-running creek, a lush fescue lawn and hundred-year-old oaks. The amenities further include a public pool, jungle gym set and swings. Year-round, the park features the young Tarrytown mothers and their tots—real beauties living at least one form of the American dream: marrying money. Rule of thumb: money seems to attract mostly the un-ugly. 

Having preceded my arrival, the boys’ vehicles flank both sides of the road almost to the entrance. I fall in behind Jim’s brute of a ‘64 Riviera. It suits Jim fine, for if you didn’t know Jim, you might think him a brute as well. Across from me is parked James’s timid

‘64½ Ford Mustang, which suits him fine as well. Behind the Mustang is Andy’s ‘76 Ford Pinto and I’m sure if it could suit anybody, it would be him. The only thing worse than a Pinto is perhaps a Chevy Vega, or no ride at all. 

I kill the engine. Resigned to the entrance, or not, it’s not going to rain on our parade. Jim has set up four collapsibles in the shade of a giant oak, so all’s well. I wrestle the Big Blue, my Igloo cooler, from the passenger seat, set the pizza on top and hop the narrow creek to join our group. I announce my presence with my customary greeting: Daddy’s home. Did you miss me?

The return greeting is a garbled trio of Yeah, Sure, Whatever. Well, at least no fuck yous. They have yet to indulge me as I desire, by calling me the endearing term of Daddy, so I mostly answer to Steve, Steven, Steve-O and Steven Paul. Most call me Steven Paul when they suspect I’ve been up to no good. Perhaps someday, they’ll all see it my way and Daddy will suffice for all. 

I set the cooler at Andy’s feet and remove the pizza. 

Andy, dig us out some beer, I direct.

Sure, Andy says digging into the ice. Confusion clouds his face as he comes up with a Buckhorn. Fucking Buckhorn.

Fucking Buckhorn, Jim echoes. Just how much did you save us, Steve-O?

James braves a snicker. 

Glad you should ask, boys, I say with a smile. Gas, beer, pizza and Brandy’s tip, oh five dollars each should cover it.

Jim eyes me. Right, Steve-O. So, who the fuck is Brandy and why are we tipping her?

She personally handles our orders for me and I suspect we shall be dating soon.

Jim smiles. You think that of all women, Steve-O.

I return the smile. And sometimes I’m correct—your point?

I don’t want to help sponsor any of their demises.

I shrug. I guess that’s a legitimate point of view. Well, Jimbo, as Jane Austen so eloquently put it so many years ago, ‘One half of the world cannot understand the pleasures of the other.’ Right, Steve-O. Where do you come up with this shit? I’ve never even seen you crack a book. And your point is?

I bought Buckhorn not only for its great price but the riddles under the beer caps as well, knowing how keen, like Jethro, you guys are at ciphering things.

Good to know you’re always looking out for our best interest. Andy, take the pizza and stick it under Steve-O’s hood. Let’s reheat it. Andy takes the pizza without comment. Jim shakes his head at the departing Andy. Give him something to do besides killing the grass. Did you bring any weed, Steve-O?

I pull the two joints from the rim of my cap and toss them to James. Fire one of these bad boys up, James. And, since I’m feeling so generous today, these are on the house.

Jim shakes his head at me now. Always eager to give. Let me guess—it’s better to give than receive. 

Nope, I smugly say. But close. ‘It’s better to give than lend and it costs about the same.’ Sir Philip Gibbs said that. He must have been able to see into the future and picture you guys.

How long should we let the pizza warm? Andy asks as he returns.

James chokes on the first hit and eagerly passes the joint to Jim. Let’s smoke these first, Jim says between tokes. 

I dig a beer from the cooler, twist the cap and flick the cap between thumb and finger bouncing it off Jim’s chest. I take a sip of Buckhorn and stifle a cringe. No question, Buckhorn’s the kind of beer for which one will never acquire a taste. I take a long pull to encourage the others. Misery loves company. And no, I don’t know who said that. 

We openly pass the joint without fear of repercussion. Austin is liberal in many ways and smoking pot in the open is one of them. There is also the topless sunbathing and swimming at Barton Springs. Spring fed and a football field and a half in size, it makes for an Austin landmark and a treasured city pool. 

The joint makes it back to Andy and, like clockwork, a seed pops and hits him right in the left eye. 

Son of a bitch! Andy says glaring at me through his good eye.

Don’t you clean the seeds out of the shit before you roll it?

Stoned, it seems funny to the rest of us and the incident sends us into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. To get my laughter under control, I go and retrieve the pizza from under the hood of my car. 

Andy, I suggest returning. Maybe you should consider wearing safety goggles if you insist on smoking pot.

Yeah and maybe you should consider de-seeding this shit before you roll it.

Well, not really a witty retort, but not bad for a stoned Andy. Like many things, the eating of pizza, burgers, or any other food for that matter, bestows upon us a source of amusement at poor Andy’s expense. Where and when the tradition started, I cannot say, but for some time now, Jim, James and myself have come to a tacit agreement that every time Andy goes to take a bite we break into a chorus of snickers. Playing into Andy’s weed-induced paranoia brings us much joy, but kills poor Andy’s ravenous hunger and probably his buzz as well. Andy’s just a fun guy and we love him in our own special way. 

After a few rounds of What the fuck are y’all laughing at? we relent long enough for Andy to finish feasting, but we know in doing so, additional grounds for laughter are coming in a short time. 

As sure as a bear shits in the woods, it is in fact a short wait. Andy downs his beer in one long pull and drops his bottle to the grass. 

You know, as soon as Reagan is president, them camel-jockeying OPEC sand niggers are going to get what they deserve, he says with conviction, being the die-hard Reagan fan that he is. 

I smile, unable to resist.

Andy, I say. I read just this morning in the Sun, right next to the two-headed-man-speaks-in-stereo article, that Reagan is a closet commie. What do you have to say about that?

Get this too, Andy, Jim chimes in. According to NPR Radio, Reagan’s a suspected peter puffer too and only a peter puffer would defend him. What do you have to say about that?

Andy turns red, unable to answer either question. Remaining mute, in Andy’s eyes, is better than being labeled a peter-puffing defender. 

The usual quiet James stokes the fire further. You’re not a peter puffer are you, Andy?

Andy finally manages a weak Fuck you all and grabs another Buckhorn from the cooler as the rest of us crack up. 

I wipe the tears from my eyes and take another long pull from my beer. Sorry, Reagan, I think to myself, for to me Reagan’s a fine Republican and a damn good actor. Secretly, I also hope he’ll be president one day. One never knows, right? 

By the way, the pizza was five stars and, in conjunction with the beer and the weed, I’m quite sated and feeling no pain.

In a moment of tranquility, I look around to admire my surroundings. It really is a picture-perfect day. The cool breeze brings the hint of cedar and the pristine creek’s flow is barely audible. I’m surprised to see a couple of small brim spawning in the sandy shallows. They seem too small to spawn. Stoned, I think maybe they’re practicing for the future. I watch a couple of squirrels chase each other around the base of the oak that provides our shade, ultimately to land on a lower limb where they can keep an eye on us. The squirrels’ fluffy tails are atwitter with excitement and caution. I watch as a blue jay and its mate fake spar in the air and on the ground. Nature—you’ve got to love it. 

Intruding upon the tranquility, James speaks up. Hey, guys, check out the little dog over there.

We all track James’s finger as he points to a spot between Jim’s car and mine. Sure enough, a sickly-looking thing stares back at us. He appears to be a bull terrier of sorts and clearly seems frightened with his tail tucked between his legs. He’s also wearing a collar and tag, I note. Likely lost, I decide and, judging by his emaciated appearance, likely hungry as well. 

Armed with a piece of crust, I take a long step across a narrow portion of the creek and cautiously approach him in a crouched position with an outstretched hand. I’ve read somewhere that the more diminutive in appearance one becomes, the less frightening one will be. 

As I near, I talk to him softly, telling him what a good boy he is, but when I’m within five feet, the frightened critter squats and lets loose a small stream of pee. 

I look over my shoulder at my ever-inquisitive group. Hey, boys, it’s a she, not a he. I turn back to the terrier. Come on, girl, it’s okay.

I narrow the gap—two feet shy, she breaks and runs, darting through the partially open gate of the cedar privacy fence, the privacy fence that encloses the side and back yard of the residence sitting on the right-hand corner of the park’s entrance. 

I approach the gate, open it somewhat farther and stick my head in only to catch the terrier’s continued retreat into the narrowly open sliding glass door leading into the side entrance of the home. For the first time, I notice how unkempt everything looks. The grass in the back yard is almost mid-calf in length, as is the grass, I now notice, skirting the outer fence. Strange, because unkempt yards do not exist in this part of town. 

I flag the boys over. James, go around front, knock on the door and see what you can find out.

Moments later, James returns. No one answered and there must be about ten newspapers scattered around the front door.

That’s strange, wouldn’t you say, Jim comments. Everyone I know puts their papers on hold if they are going to be gone more than a day or two.

Maybe they went on vacation? Andy says. 

We all turn to eye Andy. I express our sentiment. Andy, did you just hear what Jimbo said? Also, when was the last time you went on vacation and left your dogs unattended? I reach over and give Andy’s shoulder a reassuring, all-is-forgiven squeeze. The sliding glass door is open, why don’t you go inside and take a look around, Andy?

Andy shrugs off my grip and paces in place. I don’t think so.

Jimbo?

Probably not a good idea.

James?

Hey, I knocked on the door, didn’t I?

And nobody even held your hand, I say with as much sarcasm as I can muster. Okay, you fucking wimps, I’ll check it out. Y’all, just keep a lookout.

Despite my projected bravado, I’m internally debating my decision as I approach the sliding glass door. Peering into an apparent bedroom, my pulse quickens as I look upon a room in total disarray. Inanely, in an attempt to allay my misgivings, I rap on the glass to announce my presence.

Hello, anybody home?

With no response, I take a deep breath and step across the threshold. Mirror broken, lamps smashed, drawers dumped, the room has been turned into a sty. On the carpeted floor, among a pile of frilly negligees, lays a large white dildo. I briefly wonder what Andy’s reaction would be if he woke up some morning to find it under his pillow? That evokes a momentary smile. 

As I look upon the destruction around me, I begin to wonder about the owner, or owners, and where they might be. The house itself is a squat ‘50s-era brick. Over the years of coming to the park, I now realize, I’ve never seen anyone about, except for a one-time, rear-end glimpse of a tan and fit, bikini-clad woman of indeterminate age. I noticed her as she entered the yard, the same place I just had. I remember thinking, if the rest of her lived up to the quality of her rear, she’d be a perfect ten, as in Bo Derek 10. What would a woman of that caliber need with a dildo? I would think there would be an endless stream of suitors:

single, married, or otherwise. Also, over the past year, on occasion, I have noticed a white Cadillac Eldorado convertible in the drive, a ‘74 or ‘75. 

Aside from the chaos in the room, it doesn’t appear to have been a robbery or burglary. The electronics remain in place—a stereo and a TV with a cracked screen—but, I conclude, whoever ransacked the room was apparently upset about something. My attention is drawn to a closed, black-leather briefcase centered on the bed—its latch sprung. Curiosity aside, I venture further into the house. 

A soft whimper leads me to the kitchen where I find the quivering pooch. The kitchen, like the rest of the house thus far, is in total disarray. Pots, pans, silverware, broken china and flour cover the floor. Among the debris that once was the cupboard, I spot a lone can of Alpo. Doubting I’d get in further trouble than I’m currently in should I be caught inside the house, I snatch up the can and one of the dog’s bowls. A further search through the rest of the house reveals nothing of import. A sigh of relief accompanies the discovery of no dead bodies.

I decide it’s high time to get the hell out. The last thing I want to do this Saturday is to explain what I’m doing in a ransacked house. Retracing my route to the outer bedroom, the closed briefcase once again draws my attention, piquing my curiosity to the point where I cannot leave without discovering what, if anything, is inside. I hear my dad’s voice, Curiosity killed the cat, Son. Right, Dad, I think. What can a peek hurt? Little did I know this uncontrollable urge to know what’s inside would set into motion a series of events with dire consequences and thrust me into a world of which I never conceived.

Mindful not to leave fingerprints, I intend on using my knuckles to open the case. I mean, I’ve seen enough Hawaii Five-O to know about fingerprints, haven’t you? As when entering the house, I hold my breath and slowly lift the lid of the case. To my amazement, the briefcase contains a professional set of red, white and blue poker chips along