Through the Keyhole to One L of a Mess: Idiomerica Book 1

By J. M. Fagan

A vague, shadowy trouble lurks beneath the customary tenor of Idiomerica, its citizens unaware of the peril they will soon face. A complex knot of abomination is beginning to cinch down to a stranglehold. Who with but a snowball’s chance in hell would have the audacity to think of challenging the layers of an all-but-invisible yet powerful

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nitrous Oxide Press
• Release date: Feb 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9780999247358

J. M. Fagan

Sometimes called Dr. Death (no connection to Kevorkian), having survived over a dozen near-death experiences, J. M. Fagan has found a safer way to face danger vicariously through fiction writing. The fly fisher, woodworker, flamenco and classical guitarist, and forty-year Oregon educator graduated from Northern Arizona University and Lewis & Clark College and completed further studies at universities in Eastern Oregon, Madrid, and Tokyo.

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cover.jpgIdiomerica: The Quintessential Account of Mason and the Jargonauts in the Quests for the Gordian Keys, by J. M. Fagan

The IDIOMERICA Series

Book 1: Through the Keyhole to One L of a Mess

Book 2: Keyed Up in Seconds

Book 3: Key Figures Get the Third Degree

Book 4: Passkey to the Formulary

Book 5: Keystone of the Fifth Column

Book I: Through the Keyhole to One L of a Mess

Through the Keyhole to One L of a Mess

Nitrous Oxide Press, LLC, Tigard, OR 97223

©2017 by J. M. Fagan

All rights reserved. Published by Nitrous Oxide Press, LLC. No part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

No characters in the story depict real people, living or deceased, and any resemblance would be pure coincidence. Nor are the names of any products or businesses that were created for the story meant to represent or characterize any that may be real. However, the plants and substances, and many of the locations and businesses, are real. My apologies for any errors in their depictions. The story is meant to be a fun read, and no offense is intended toward any person, group of persons, company, entity, race, gender, religion, or creed.

Editing and design by Indigo: Editing, Design, and More

ISBN: 978-0-9992473-5-8

For teachers everywhere, especially mine, who have served the better part of their lives as role models for morality and fairness, often under challenging conditions, to selflessly share their knowledge and guidance, and who by example and support have helped me navigate life’s many twists and turns. And for students everywhere, especially mine, who have had the courage and determination to complete their studies and to use their skills to become productive citizens, and from whom I have learned a great many life lessons.

Contents

Title Page

Book Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Introduction

1. A Call to Action

2. Out of Sync

3. The Road to Recovery

4. From the Frying Pan to the Fire

5. Gone Fishing

6. OMG

7. Command Performance

8. Asking for It

9. Words of Wisdom

10. The French Connection

11. Necessity Is the Mother of Invention

12. A Revolting Development

13. A Master Stroke

14. Stumbling Blocks

15. Red Sky at Mahnin’

16. Saved by the Belle

17. An Insight Job

18. Into the Eye of the Storm

19. Dead Reckoning

20. As Luck Would Have It

21. A Mortal Blow

22. Indian Summer Powwow

23. Digging Up the Past

24. On the Warpath

25. The End of the Line

A Note from the Author

Introduction

Idiomerica is a story for those of you who don’t like to be told by others with lesser vision that you can’t do something because it’s unconventional or impossible when you know deep inside there must be a way to make it happen.

I was signing up for a full load of freshman courses when my college adviser learned that I was also working a forty-eight-hour-a-week graveyard shift at a bakery. He said, You’ll never make it. Determined to prove him wrong, I in fact did make it. It’s that same determination that enables me to take on difficult challenges and that compelled me to lay the foundations for Idiomerica.

Years ago, while contemplating the decree endorsed by English teachers, writers, and publishers that understandably restricts the use of slang, clichés, idioms, etcetera, I got to thinking: While everyone is busy avoiding them, what if a story could be written that used all of our idiomatic expressions? After all, they’re common threads that tie us all together and are practically as much a part of us as eating and breathing. You can find lists of them online and in books, but the lists are never all-inclusive, and reading through them can become tiring. So my premise became to create a compelling, contextual narrative, a showcase or a primer of sorts, that would include all of our time-honored chestnuts—the idiomatic expressions that are an essential component of all that shapes, defines, and reflects our culture.

I collected a list of our most widely used idioms via diligent listening and reading endless examples of oral and written communications. After three years of compiling the list, I was ready to embark on the novelization project.

Before long, I realized some interesting things. There are more idioms than I ever imagined, and trying to smoothly integrate them into the story proved much harder than writing without using them. I also learned that even by using most of the idioms only once in the text, it’s possible to include the majority of them but not all. Many idioms are regional, some are newer without a track record of sustained use, some lie in the gray area between being actual idioms or not, etcetera.

As the work progressed, the idioms gave life to a story far more fascinating than I had expected, with unique characters, themes, locations, and directions that would otherwise have been unimaginable. Since the characters live in Idiomerica, the idioms are second nature to them and hopefully are more of a seamless complement to the story rather than the focus or a distraction, unless a reader chooses to purposely look for them on a pleasant trip down memory lane.

I reviewed hundreds of sources in the making of the story, none more than my dictionary, thesaurus, and road-atlas maps. Some of the many noteworthy ones include Tales from the Medicine Trail by Chris Kilham, the Oregon College of Oriental Medicine medicinary, the Maricopa Agricultural Center, and the story of Jason and the Argonauts from Edith Hamilton’s Mythology, as well as many helpful online sites, such as the Crucian Dictionary, the National Cancer Institute, the US Department of Justice, the Free Dictionary, TOXNET, stcroixlandmarks.com, waynesword.palomar.edu, bio.brandeis.edu, manataka.org, medlineplus.gov, and roadsideamerica.com.

The story takes place in all of our states and several territories, often in small and out-of-the-way places. There can be great pleasure in taking the road less traveled and finding the wonders and beauty that lie off the beaten path.

1

A Call to Action

I’ve…been shot! Rosie’s last, faintly gasped words on the voicemail message were chilling. The rest had been garbled, but that first part came through loud and clear. Panic-stricken, I floored it all the way from my hotel room in Baltimore to her house a few miles away. If the police took chase, they could help—if it wasn’t too late. When I arrived, my heart sank. Paramedics were carrying her out on a gurney. An officer tried to stop me as I raced toward her, but he let me go when she weakly raised a hand and motioned for me to speak with her.

Rosie, what happened? I wailed.

They got me, she whispered hoarsely. You must find it before they do…It is a Pandora’s box of enormous consequence. It’s…in the letter. You will need help…Be careful whom you trust. Watch…your back, she struggled to continue. Grab the bull by the horns. Life is short. It will seem…like crossing a minefield at times, but you are the person I trust most to succeed…You will change the course of history…and the truth really shall set you free. Her distraught eyes searched mine for understanding as she summoned the strength to continue. Be brave…Don’t worry about me…I will be at peace in the Elysian Fields…I’ve always loved…you, dear…friend…

Those final words from Dr. Rosie Outlook, who had a proclivity for seeing the glass half full, were undoubtedly meant to bolster my courage. Instead, they left me dazed and confused, and would later bring on a cold sweat. I held her hand and watched helplessly as the precious life drained from her blood-soaked body. The distant siren of another responder punctuated my despair. Too little, too late. I grappled with the paramedic to allow me to go with her, but he firmly pulled me aside and explained that she was gone. He said I needed to stay and speak with the investigator.

The scene was surreal. In utter disbelief I watched through watery eyes as she was whisked away. Her ashen, disheveled appearance burned a haunting image in my memory. Officers asked me some questions I don’t remember, and I made my way back to the hotel in a state of shock.

I spent the next week in a drunken stupor, hiding out, wishing I were dead, wishing to be put out of my misery and six feet under. I would have traded places with Rosie in a heartbeat. Nothing mattered. Everything seemed pointless, the sum total of the endeavors in my pathetic existence an exercise in futility. My life had hit rock bottom.

I somehow managed to muster up the wherewithal to attend the funeral. It was a heartrending blur. Closure is overrated. Maybe cold comfort is best for some, but I felt worse than ever.

As the days passed, I began reminiscing about Rosie. She hadn’t exactly been my shrink. We’d known each other since high school, from which she graduated as valedictorian. In addition to her capacity for common sense and insight, I had been attracted to her chestnut hair, hazel eyes, smooth fair skin, and ready smile. We became best friends in college, attending a few of the same classes and sharing similar interests in the pursuit of unlocking the secrets of the universe. Those were heady times. The world was our oyster, and we were intoxicated by the limitless possibilities. We had destiny by the tail in our seeming invincibility. We spent increasingly more hours together in the library, in the park, in cafés, wherever and whenever we could. Our animated discussions ran the gamut of deep thoughts, from philosophy to scientific ethics to the meaning of life. Not that we ever really solved any of these illusory issues, but I always admired her ability to boil down a complex problem to its essence. She made sense of nonsense, all the while finding the best in people and situations. She was smart, beautiful, passionate, and the closest thing to perfection in a human being that I have ever known. She always lifted my spirits and made me believe I could accomplish anything.

Rosie graduated with a dual degree in psychology and cellular biology, and she knew her calling would be psychiatry. She transferred to Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine, completed her clinical residency specializing in substance use and neuropsychiatry, and established a private practice in Maryland to maintain close ties with colleagues and the research labs. She soon had a full caseload of grateful patients.

My degree was in mathematics, and I landed a position teaching math at Lexicon High in Portland, Oregon. Our careers separated us by time and a continent. We had never really talked about marriage. I often wondered if I was worthy of or smart enough for her, and I wasn’t sure if I was ready to settle down and start a family. Rosie was drawn to the field of psychology because of its ability to transmute mental turmoil from madness to sanity, to soothe the savage beast. She helped others in need. She made the world a better place. I think she would eventually have settled down, with her schooling out of the way and her practice thriving. She would have been a wonderful wife and mother.

I minored in English, as I have a great love of literature and language, but I was drawn to the more tangible field of mathematics because of the logic, the precision, the power, and the beauty it possessed. To solve a proof in geometry, for example, you start with what you’re given. You then apply the postulates, theorems, and definitions in a logical sequence to arrive at the answer, which, if there are no errors in your logic, will also be true. A similar process works for nearly anyone faced with a challenge involving unknown quantities, from detectives to doctors. Apply the known rules to what you’re given and you can arrive at the truth.

But what good was it now? I couldn’t calculate Rosie back to life. Nothing seemed logical or beautiful. How could such a kind and generous pillar of the community, a wonderful friend and confidant, be taken out in the prime of her life? And if she meant her last words, if she had really always loved me, then I’d been a blind, stupid fool all along. I’d let her get away twice.

Her absence left a huge void in my existence. The thought of pursuing her dying request without her seemed hopeless. To make matters worse, not only did I feel partly responsible for her death, I knew I could be next on the list.

2

Out of Sync

Call me Hangar. Cliff Hangar, that is. Really. No kidding. Go ahead and laugh. You might wonder what idiot parents would choose a moniker that would brand their son for life, but although I’ve taken a raft of crap about it over the years, it could be worse. They could have named me Paper, Clothes, or Airplane. Besides, it’s not inappropriate. It allows me to fit right in and be unique at the same time.

It’s actually been a kind of self-fulfilling prophecy. I’ve had my share of close calls and near-death experiences. In fact, I’m a trouble magnet, a lightning rod for snafus, tight spots, and perturbation. I’m not a daredevil; I don’t go looking for calamity. It just seems to find me. Even when I try to mind my own business and avoid danger, I can end up in hot water. Sometimes I just can’t help myself. I have the inadvertent habit of stirring up hornets’ nests, ruffling feathers, upsetting apple carts, stepping on toes, wreaking havoc, even making enemies.

If it’s true that to err is human and that you learn from your mistakes, by all rights I should be the smartest human on the planet. For example, I once sent out cards to arts patrons inviting them to my place for an evening donner party. Another time, I forgot to turn off my gas stove. No one was killed, but the apartment building had to be rebuilt.

Rationalizing helps. Sometimes I like to blame it on my dad. He was a practical joker. I imagine him up there in heaven or wherever, causing mayhem in my life just for laughs. He must have been the one who chose my name. In reality, with a fifty-fifty chance, more often than not I choose the wrong option between look before you leap and he who hesitates is lost.

From time to time I used to stand back and try to look at the big picture of life. What if our learning everything results in the universe reverting to a big crunch, a big bang, and déjà vu all over again? Maybe we aren’t supposed to know everything. After all, no one likes a know-it-all.

When did everything go haywire? I have a vivid childhood memory of sitting with my mother at the drive-in eating hamburgers and apple pie in our Chevy with a little American flag flying from the antenna in Kansas City, the Heart of America. It’s true; I’m about as red-blooded American as you can get. For me, those were the best of times, the good old days, when all was right with the world. You’d think such a happy childhood would give rise to happily ever after.

Not that it’s all bad now, but the boat gets rocked, shit happens, things head south, people suffer, friends die, and, as in the Roman Empire, things fall. On the other hand, since ignorance is bliss, maybe as a kid I was shielded from the evils of the world by protective, caring parents, and things have always been crazy. I can’t honestly blame my parents, though. They were people who did the best they could to navigate life within the parameters of their circumstances. None of us asks to be put in this world.

Whatever the case, whether attributed to my mistakes, errors in judgment, God’s will, or more of my dad’s shenanigans, Rosie was murdered, and her dying request was for me to find a Pandora’s box of enormous importance. Giving up was not an option, even though I knew I had bitten off more than I could chew. I was in over my head. My worst nightmare and Murphy’s Law collided.

The trouble started, as perhaps it does for many teachers—and maybe everyone—when I gradually became restless and uncertain of what I was really accomplishing in life. Maybe it was the seven-year itch or a midlife crisis. Whatever it was, a growing sense of doubt, fear, and cynicism had slowly infected and taken control of my life, leaving me adrift in a sea of uncertainty. I had started teaching with great idealism. I wanted kids to find a love of mathematics and go on to become engineers, scientists, and whatever they could imagine. Many of them have. In fact, one actually became a rocket scientist, so I knew that hopefully I was doing some good in the world. Even those who chose non-math-related careers were able to benefit indirectly from the transfer of logic skills and the use of math in their personal lives and activities. Grades and future behavior can be assessed, more or less, but you never know how much influence you have on others’ lives.

Not all of my students were so successful. Some, no matter how hard