Blindspot

By Edward W. Pluemer

Over the years, incidents have been reported in newspapers and on television news that are simply illogical. Situations such as a vehicle pulling directly into the path of an approaching train, a person stepping in front of a speeding vehicle, and the operator of a vehicle crashing into a stationary objectall seemingly avoidable.

How was it possible that the victims did not see, hear, or feel that they were in imminent danger?

In Blindspot, I present a hypothesisthese accidents were not accidental but were, in fact, carefully perpetrated, from a distance, by entities tasked with righting a celestial wrong.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 14, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524589547

Edward W. Pluemer

Edward W. Pluemer, a 67-year-old retired businessman, currently resides with his wife of 31 years, in San Pedro, CA. Blindspot is Pluemer’s third, self-published book, following two works released in 2015. The first, Shout Out, follows the true-to-life travails of five hometown rockers, during their meteoric rise from local bar band to national recording and touring headliners. Follow along as the band, Shout Out, resurrects its career by combining hard work with a unique strategy, then is jumpstarted by a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity from beyond. His second work, What Best Friends Do, also published in 2015, is a rollicking, romantic comedy about the continually intersecting lives of two people, so totally different, yet almost forced to be together. What Best Friends Do, illustrates how life can be much more than meets the eye. And, unknown to us, a plan for our future may already be in place - like it or not.

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Copyright © 2017 by Edward W. Pluemer.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2017903401

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-5245-8956-1

                Softcover        978-1-5245-8955-4

                eBook             978-1-5245-8954-7

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 03/14/2017

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter One Pedal to the Metal

Chapter Two Under My Thumbs

Chapter Three Only the Lonely

Chapter Four Ridgeline Road

Chapter Five Born to Be Wild

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

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A big thanks to some very good friends, my Las Vegas posse, from left to right, John Uminowicz, my son Olin, the author, and Rainer Paasch. I am eternally grateful for their exemplary display of tolerance and understanding—real or imagined. Our consecutive annual reunions, in varying combinations, span the last twenty-five years—a notable feat.

As always, my greatest supporter has been my loving wife, Linda. Her encouragement and contributions as my editor in chief have made the writing of this book both possible and enjoyable.

Last, my continued heartfelt thanks to my parents for sharing their guidance and values and then providing a safe and loving environment where I could absorb and engrain those qualities.

PROLOGUE

Years ago, I read an article in the local newspaper about an automobile that had pulled directly into the path of an approaching train the previous afternoon. The speeding commuter train, unable to stop, plowed headlong into the vehicle. The horrific collision resulted in the destruction of the automobile and the death of the car’s lone occupant, the driver.

My inquisitive nature required answers. How could this driver not notice an oncoming train in broad daylight? Not hear the blast of the train’s horn? Not feel the vibrations of the massive engine? I needed an explanation. People don’t just drive into the path of an oncoming train for no reason.

As I suppose was the case with many of the other readers that morning, my initial conclusion was this had to have been a suicide. How sad. But then a follow-up article a few days later reported that no evidence had been uncovered in the subsequent police investigation to support that conclusion. There was nothing in the driver’s past that indicated he might have been predisposed to commit suicide: no history of depression, no terminal prognosis, and no unrequited love or lost companion. My first theory was dead on arrival. I moved on.

Perhaps the driver suffered a stroke, heart attack, or some other debilitating medical emergency. But then the official autopsy report was released a week later. You guessed it. There was no evidence that any type of health issue had caused or contributed to the accident. Theory number two was derailed. At this point, the smarter readers probably dropped the matter and moved on with their lives.

Not me. Now I was hooked. I needed closure. The story couldn’t end like this. I needed an explanation, even if I had to create my own. Pandora’s box opened wide, and out jumped the question, What if? What if I needed to look at the incident from an entirely different perspective? What if the different perspective provided a sound and logical explanation for this accident and other similarly inexplicable ones from past years? Then, certainly, I would be performing a public service by presenting that explanation. I had my mandate and immediately got down to work.

My word processor strained to record the numerous scenarios I explored. I knew I was on the right track, but the more imaginative perspective had opened countless avenues of possibility, each avenue requiring thorough exploration. In time, and after great deliberation, I found it possible to explain the seemingly unexplainable in a logical albeit cosmic manner. I now understand these incidents to be phenomena. There was never anything accidental about them. In the pages that follow, I will endeavor to remove randomness from the equation and demonstrate the careful planning, execution, and absolute necessity of these phenomena.

This book presents five variations on the theme what if? What if these types of accidents were truly phenomena? What if a higher authority was orchestrating the incidents from afar? What if their actions were required for the well-being and continuity of the universe?

Please feel free to alter your perspective and join me on an imaginative journey—to a place where the unexplainable serves a valuable cosmic purpose. Perhaps you, too, will find comfort in the vision of a universe guided by celestial oversight, leaving nothing to unexplained, random action.

CHAPTER ONE

Pedal to the Metal

You couldn’t call it a room. It was more of a vaporous place somewhere in another dimension. It had the atmosphere of a small, celestial business meeting without all the earthly accommodations such as walls, furniture, or even bodies. Instead, the meeting was headed by someone or something we will call a higher being for want of a better description. The supervising higher being was a free-form entity, visible only as a bright, cloud-like object, with a firm authoritative voice received as a telepathic communication by the second similar but far less brilliant entity in attendance.

The second entity was known as a facilitator, a deceased spirit chosen by the higher beings as a chaperone, if you will. Facilitators were necessary in cases where an earth being missed their assigned time of death and had to be escorted back to the spirit world. This task was not as simple as you might guess. First, there were strict guidelines that had to be observed in the process—even the spiritual world has its red tape. Second, any interaction between the earthly and spiritual planes had to be handled carefully. Even actions with the best intentions could generate ripples in the space-time continuum, creating unforeseeable consequences for future generations. For these reasons, the selection of facilitators was taken very seriously by the higher beings. The scrutiny of the millions of available spirits and the vetting required to narrow the prospects down into a manageable pool of workers were quite time consuming. But, fortunately, time was a commodity in vast abundance in the spirit world.

While the interaction between the two spirit beings was referred to as a meeting, this was really a one-way communication. The higher being telepathically informed the newly selected facilitator that his assignment would be to escort a twenty-year-old Asian American male to the spirit world. The target, as they were referred to by the higher beings, was an avid fan and active participant in the dangerous earth hobby of street racing. This activity provided an excellent means for his extraction from the target’s earth life but so far had resulted only in some close calls, and the date of death (DOD) had been missed. To prepare the facilitator for his assignment, he was infused with the target’s knowledge of street racing and accumulated experience with repairing cars and car engines. Once the higher being was convinced that the facilitator possessed a sufficient understanding of the subject matter, he was morphed into the body form of a twenty-something male, sporting clothing, facial hair, and hairstyle similar to that of the target, even embellished with some tattoos and scars on his arms. Using familiar appearances and shared interests always made the connection with the target easier and, more importantly, faster, as time was important in these instances. This is where the space-time continuum again came into play. The continued presence of an earth being beyond their designated time disrupted the continuum as much as the insertion of another unplanned entity into the mix. The longer the earth being overstayed their allotted time, the more ripples would be created. Therefore, it was imperative to minimize the delay in their escorted departure to less than one earth year, more preferably to less than six earth months.

These interactions between earth beings and visitors from the spirit world also incorporated some degree of risk that complications could arise if the relationship between the target and the facilitator dragged on too long. With each passing day, the work of the higher beings became more complicated and risky. When more time was required, it meant that there would be a need to morph the facilitator into different clothes daily and to arrange additional coincidental run-ins with the target; there was the increased likelihood that the target would become curious and inquire about the life of the facilitator, his family and friends, etc. All contingencies could be handled, but the more questions asked, the greater the chance that the facilitator, under the direction of the higher beings, would run out of answers—leading to even more questions. Nobody liked extra work or headaches, including higher beings, so it was neater and cleaner if the job was completed expeditiously and without complications.

Convinced that the facilitator was fully prepared for his mission, the higher being would watch for an opportune time to connect the target with the facilitator. Correct timing was essential. The higher being focused on the activities of the target, one Tommy Yoshida, carefully observing his daily routine before deciding that the optimal time for a connection would be during the early earth evening, when Yoshida was in the garage at his apartment complex, fully absorbed with a tune-up of his 1991 Mitsubishi 3000GT VR4. The more Yoshida was preoccupied with his work, the less likely he would notice the sudden appearance of a stranger. The task of the facilitator, now assigned the name of Stanley Okada, would be to strike up a conversation with Yoshida and build a rapport through their common interest in racing and car engines.

It was early evening, earth time, and Yoshida made his nightly visitation to the garage to spend a few more hours with his beloved car. The higher being noticed and addressed his facilitator. Stanley Okada, your time has come. I’m sending you to the street just around the corner from Yoshida’s garage. Make his acquaintance and begin your assignment. I’ll need you to work quickly. We want Mr. Yoshida delivered to us in as few earth days as possible. You have been fully briefed and should have no difficulty completing your assignment timely.

With that brief salutation, Okada disappeared in a flash of light and was transformed to the location selected by the higher being. There was a middle-aged man walking his dog just a few yards up the sidewalk from Okada’s point of entry. But since facilitators are invisible to all but their assigned targets, Okada’s arrival went unnoticed with the exception of the dog, which caught the brief flash of light from Okada’s transformation and barked loudly before being scolded by his owner and firmly coaxed down the sidewalk.

Okada had to quickly adjust to his earthly surroundings. As with every one of his visitations, common things like the warmth and the brilliance of the sunlight and the bulky feel of his new body and pull of gravity were all foreign to the spirit world and required some adjustment. As he walked around the corner of the apartment building toward the back garage, he shook his new limbs sharply one at a time to get a sense of feeling and familiarity. It wasn’t much, but it always helped. The shaking would have looked unusual to a passerby, but only Yoshida would have been able to see the movements, and he was still around the far corner of the building.

Walking into the parking lot of the apartment building, Okada could see the row of open garages along the ground floor. He continued walking until the back of a Mitsubishi 3000 with a customized candy apple red paint job came into view. He still couldn’t see Yoshida, who was in front of the car, hidden by an open hood sporting a large chrome air scoop.

Okada’s loud declaration of This baby is sweet! caught Yoshida’s attention. The proud owner never tired of receiving compliments about his pride and joy and never shied away from an informed automobile conversation.

You familiar with the old Mitsubishis? he answered back.

You bet I am, Okada responded, smiling broadly. The opportunity presented, Okada began his effort to convince Yoshida of his familiarity and love of cars, this one in particular, quickly to keep the discussion moving forward toward a full introduction. Looks like a 1991 3000GT VR4. But that’s not a factory paint job, so you must have had her customized. The candy apple red sure makes her jump out. What do you have under the hood? Is she stock, or did you make some upgrades?

Yoshida rose to the occasion. She’s stock with a twin turbocharged 320-horsepower engine, dual overhead cams, and a 3.0-liter engine. I can get her all the way up to 750 horses if I add the kits. I’m planning on doing that in the future, when I have the cash.

Okada knew he’d need to throw out some intelligent questions to keep building his credibility with the car buff. She must be a manual tranny. Is she a five- or six-speed?

She’s a six-speed, so I can get the quick acceleration. I need it for street racing. You’ve got to have all the edge you can get on those short runs. Have you done any racing?

I did some runs with my old 1991 Honda Civic, but the poor girl wore down, and I blew the engine. I’m in the process of replacing her now. Not sure what I’ll get just yet. So what are you working on tonight?

Yoshida willingly opened up to his new companion. Just checking the timing and tightening the belts. Don’t want any surprises this weekend. I’ve been turning some heads lately and don’t want to backslide. There are some bigger races up in the valley, but they’re invitation only. You have to work your way up the list by winning consistently in your local races. But you probably know that already.

It was a clever test. Okada knew that he’d be tested eventually, but this one came along earlier than usual. The races I follow are up in Chatsworth, and for those, you have to get on a waiting list and show your stuff when you’re called up. No shortcuts. No invitations.

Yoshida seemed satisfied with the response and convinced that Okada was a true player and knew his stuff. Yeah, that’s correct. I was testing you a bit. Nothing personal. I just get guys rolling by that want to chat and pump me for information and waste my time. There are only so many hours in the day, and I’ve got to get the Red Devil prepped and ready for Saturday night’s races. But I can see that you know your stuff, and maybe you can actually be useful and help me get some of the trickier stuff done tonight. I’ve got a bit of a time crunch to get ready for Saturday. Do you have some free time?

And just like that, Okada was accepted. The bonding had begun. Today was already Thursday, and he also had a lot to do to prepare for the Saturday night races.

Three hours seemed to have flown by when Yoshida announced he’d have to close up shop. I’ve got to call it a night. Thanks for your help. Got the day job to deal with, and I need to get some sleep. How about you? Where do you work?

Okada was prepared for the question. I’m actually in between jobs right now. The old boss was a jerk, and I finally ran out of excuses for him. That’s why I had to put my car replacement plans on hold. It feels nice to get grease on my hands again. I enjoyed tonight.

Well, if you haven’t had enough yet, I could use a hand tomorrow night. I usually get down here by seven o’clock. If you’re in the neighborhood, stop by and lend me a hand. I’ll ice down a few beers for us.

Since I don’t have anything but job hunting on my agenda, my evenings are completely free and clear. I’ll see you tomorrow night. Okada dropped the hint that his Saturday night would also be open.

Yoshida wasn’t ready to look beyond Friday night and just closed out the conversation with Then I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks again. Say, we never introduced ourselves. You already know my car’s name, but you don’t know mine. It’s Yoshida. Tommy Yoshida.

And I’m Stanley Okada. Looks like we have the same family roots. That’s a good sign.

Yes, it is. Looks like we’ve got even more in common than just a love of cars. And we work together as a team pretty well. OK, have to go. See you tomorrow, Stanley.

They shook hands and parted ways. Yoshida headed up to his apartment. Okada walked back around the corner of the building and disappeared into thin air—returning to the spirit world air to continue his training. Sleep was for mere mortals.

***

The facilitator appeared at the garage at precisely seven o’clock on Friday evening. To be late might raise a question in Yoshida’s mind about the seriousness of his new companion’s commitment and could jeopardize his plan to drive with Yoshida at the Saturday races. Lacking an outright invitation from Yoshida, the facilitator might have to resort to pushing or pleading, which would make Yoshida’s response too unpredictable. He had to get a voluntary and unreserved invite from the target to keep his plan on track.

Yoshida had just unlocked his car when Okada rounded the corner of the building. Very punctual. I like that, Yoshida quipped.

Sounded like we’ve got a lot to do. Didn’t want to miss anything, Okada replied. What’s first on the agenda tonight, boss?

Going to swap out the plugs, check the timing, and replace the oil and filter. Yeah, we’ve got a full plate. Let’s do the plugs while we’ve still got enough light.

The two enthusiasts got down to work, exchanging war stories and chatting about their old cars and plans. The night flew by, and before Okada could say, Gentlemen, start your engines, Yoshida was closing the hood and locking his Mitsubishi up for the night. Say, you going to be around Saturday night? Thought you might like to see this baby perform up close.

I don’t have any plans, and I’d love to see you burn up the competition. What time are you looking at?

Yoshida looked around for eavesdroppers and responded, The races will start at midnight. I’ll have to leave here around eleven o’clock. Get here a few minutes early, and we’ll drive over there together. The races will be in an industrial park on the other side of town this time. They have to keep moving around to different locations, but there are plenty of places to choose from. It will be about a twenty-minute drive over there, and that will leave us with enough time to find out which race I’ve drawn and run down my checklist one last time. Good preparation breeds confidence. You know the drill.

Okada was pleased and replied with a smile. Sounds like a plan. I’ll see you tomorrow night. Thanks for the invite. I was hoping you’d ask.

No problem. Yoshida seemed pleased to have a fan and someone knowledgeable enough to help with any last-minute surprises.

They shook hands. Okada gave a quick wave and headed out into the darkness and around to the front of the apartment building. He wondered why Yoshida never asked how he was getting home or where home was. That made matters easier. The fewer questions, the simpler the task of masking his identity and intentions. He turned the corner, checked both ways for potential witnesses, and, seeing none, dematerialized and vanished into the night.

As soon as Yoshida entered his family’s apartment, he heard the familiar voice of his mother, Noreen. Tommy, is that you finally?

Yes, Mom, it’s me. You didn’t have to wait up, you know.

It’s the only way I get to spend any time with my son, who is so obsessed with his car that he has no time for his family.

It was a familiar refrain—and not entirely untrue. Tommy did spend a lot of time working on his car, just like his father used to do. Whatever gene triggered this auto fixation had passed directly from father to son. And Tommy learned everything he knew from his father. Their paths were similar in that both loved cars, and were burdened with jobs that had nothing to do with the automotive world. In both cases, they tolerated their work as a means to support their family. But just under the surface was an overpowering desire to work on cars. And for Tommy, that drive extended further into the dangerous world of street racing. Dad would never have approved of this extrapolation of their mutual dream, but cancer had mercilessly removed dad from the equation two years ago, and while his memory would live forever in Tommy, his influence had ended at the funeral. If anything, his father’s death served to drive Tommy even harder to pursue his goals sooner, before life had a chance to interfere.

Sorry, Mom. Had a few things that needed to be done tonight, and it took a little longer than expected. Now I’m bushed, and I need to get some sleep before I go to work tomorrow.

Tommy, who was that man you were talking to in the garage tonight? I don’t think I’ve seen him before.

He’s a guy that lives in the neighborhood, I guess. We ran into each other last night, and it turns out he’s a car junky like me.

Mom was a bit concerned with the terminology. Tommy, I wish you wouldn’t refer to yourself as a ‘car junky.’ It sounds wrong, and I doubt your father would have approved.

Tommy realized that he needed to be more careful describing his hobby and friends with Mom. She was already predisposed to disliking cars, since it had robbed her of so much time with her husband. Had she known that he would succumb to cancer at such an early age, she would have required that he devote all of his time and attention to her and the family. In her mind, this whole obsession with automobile engines had robbed her of irreplaceable time with her husband—time she would never get back. While Tommy had been able to share much of that lost time with his father, Noreen and their daughter, Karen, had forfeited every minute that her husband and Karen’s father had devoted to that damn car of his. The anger just oozed from every pore whenever Noreen thought about how she always had to take a backseat to that car.

But Noreen didn’t want to lose contact with the son who was so much like