Guest Fiction: Myra's Story, Part 2

All readers welcome

Continues Part One. Contains characters from April’s previous stories here: Casa de Muerte and A Snowy Night In Beverly Hills.

Part 2: Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft

Bill drove up in the black Eldorado she had sold him almost a decade ago. She had tried to convince him to trade it in a few times. He would come to the dealership for a long test drive, and they would get lunch at one of their favorite watering holes on the PCH, pretending to be a couple. Last time, it had been an Allante. That silver roadster was still at the dealership, unsold.

Bill had come with supplies ‒ things he could raid from his garage and laundry room: a shovel, an old tarp, rubber gloves and an almost full bottle of bleach. All these items were carefully laid in the back seat of the Seville and covered with a yellow beach towel matching the leather upholstery. Their preparations and a second cup of coffee meant they could leave safely after rush hour.

In the Seville, Bill told her a story about a news report he heard a few years ago. Stuck on the 405 in an all-too-common traffic jam, he had been idly working his way through the dial when he’d caught a throwaway human-interest story. A filling station on the corner of Hollywood Boulevard and Van Ness was being redeveloped when workmen jackhammering the foundation discovered the skeleton of a woman buried in the concrete. He told her the story was notable, as it failed to say if police were checking dental records or blowing the dust off their cold case files. An oversight on the part of the news desk, or did no one really care? He expected it was the latter. The station had been built in the late forties. The case would likely remain a mystery. “Some bodies just weren’t worth the paperwork, I guess.”

The story haunted him, especially as he had a good idea who it might have been; he didn’t share that last part with Myra. “Get comfortable ‒ we have a long haul ahead of us.” Myra asked where they were going, but Bill told her the less she knew the better. “Anyway, it’s somewhere Johnny Law don’t care to visit”.

Once they were past Ventura, Bill set the steering wheel-mounted cruise control at a law-abiding 55 mph and aimed the little Cadillac north. The digital dash showed a green LED double nickel, only deviating when the 4.1 had to tackle a hill or overtake a loaded semi. They didn’t speak and the radio remained silent. Myra stared out the passenger side window with dull eyes. Bill had more than enough time to contemplate his lemony surroundings. The Seville’s interior gave the impression of a much larger car. He felt reassured by the little Cadillac details - wreath&crest, chrome buttons and, unlike his Eldorado, real wood trim, which somehow still looked fake.

Their destination: the thickly wooded hills of Northern California, a world away from the suburban infill of greater Los Angeles. It may as well have been another state or better still, another planet. There were small communities where one could take refuge from the outside world. And if you ventured up the unpaved mountain roads, you discovered a wildness in which you could go off the grid or simply disappear forever.

The area had been a hippie paradise. In the sixties and early seventies, communes had sprung up like toadstools ‒ an escape from straight society and the laws that came with it. With a back-to-the-land enthusiasm, they built their own homes, schools and co-ops. Of course, they grew their own pot.

The drugs eventually took over; marijuana was too valuable a cash crop. The families moved away, and the gangs took over.

Bill was heading to a dead commune high in the Klamath Mountains. In the summer of ’89, he had brought back ‒ rescued isn’t exactly the right word ‒ the headstrong daughter of Hollywood’s leading casting director. She had run off with her dropout stoner boyfriend to live amongst the ghosts of yesteryear’s counterculture and make a fortune growing some killer dope.

Bill, who had experienced the cultural upheaval of the sixties firsthand, had an instinctual dislike for long-haired beatniks. It wasn’t that he begrudged the hippies their freedom; it’s just that he didn’t trust anyone who didn’t appreciate the smell of a new car.

The boyfriend in that case hadn’t been that great a horticulturalist, and to make matters worse, had run afoul of a rival operation. The two were living a miserable existence in a leaky geodesic dome. A stained-glass skylight depicting the sun god Ra, was the only unbroken panel. The boyfriend’s Tang-colored VW Vanagon had died and fuel for the generator had run out three weeks ago.

She came back with Bill almost willingly, especially after he promised to stop at the first Casa Del Taco on their return to civilization. They left the boyfriend crying in front of the former couple’s Buckminster Fuller homestead. Bill watched him recede in the rearview mirror of his Cadillac, the boy waving slowly.

The drive to Siskiyou County on the Oregon border was almost twelve hours, taking them around San Francisco. Overnighting at a roadside motel was out of the question given their cargo. So Myra drove for a few hours, giving Bill some much-needed shuteye.

It was full dark when they stopped for gas the second time that day. Bill had pulled off Highway 101 into an all-night Chevron in Ukiah. Bitter coffee and fast-food burgers roiled his stomach. They still had almost four hours’ drive ahead of them, heading inland on blue roads. Myra went to use the ladies’ room while he pumped the gas. Nearly a buck twenty a gallon ‒ ridiculous.

Bill went into the station to pay, in cash. Best to not to leave an American Express trail. He also needed to grab some caffeine and sugar to keep him going for a few more hours behind the wheel. Bill settled on a six-pack of Diet Coke and a box of those powdered donuts that taste so good at first bite but leave you with a chemical aftertaste. You swear you never buy them again but find you don’t mind the taste even though it has the flavor of something developed by Dow.

As the old ad used to say, better living through chemistry.

Bill exited the shop. Even before the little bell announcing his departure stopped tinkling, he had frozen in place.

A young black woman, who also happened to be a sheriff’s deputy, stood admiring the Seville. The yellow paint had a sickly green, underwater hue in the station’s arc lights.

With growing alarm, he realized he had left the Cadillac’s doors unlocked.

“Pardon me, officer”, he said, setting the Cokes carefully on the glass of the sunroof, then opened the driver’s door and wedged the box of donuts between the front seats.

Bill’s early days on the force taught him that all cops regarded civilians as liars with something to hide, whether they were drunk drivers ‒ (Honestly, officer, I only had one or two beers) or murderers.

“Cute Caddy,” said the officer, her hand resting idly on the holstered 1911 affixed to her Sam Browne belt. “My Aunt Eunice has one the same color, I just had to check it out. Thought it might have been her. Of course, we’re a long way from her home in Tuscaloosa ‒ also the doctors told her to stop driving last year.”

Just then Myra emerged from the side of the building after exiting the rest rooms. She didn’t miss a beat. She walked straight up to Bill, planted a peck on his cheek, and said,

“Honestly, dear, can’t I leave you alone long enough to use the powder room without you buying junk food and getting in trouble with the law.”

“I was just admiring your Cadillac,” said the officer. “Got her paid off yet?”

Myra realized she was being tested. She thought about mentioning the dealer plates, but that might antagonize the policewoman.

“Belongs to the dealer,” Myra went into her spiel. “It’s my demo. Lovely, isn’t it? Such a cheerful shade of yellow, and gets excellent fuel economy ‒ nearly thirty on the highway, and on regular gas, too. I’m a saleswoman with Penske,” no point hiding it as the trunk sported a Penske Cadillac license frame, remembered Myra. “Salesperson of month four months running.

“Did I hear your aunt has a similar car? I could get you a great deal on this Seville ‒ ten percent discount for qualified buyers.”

“No thanks,” smiled the officer with a row of blinding white teeth that looked like a wolf’s rictus to Myra. “I got my own wheels.” Ms. Wolf gestured to the idling prowl car sitting in a pool of darkness beyond the station’s lights. “Cherry ‘91 LTD ‒ last year for the 351 four-barrel, dual exhaust, 55A police package. Rest of the fleet is five-liter cars. Civilians can’t buy ‘em; you gotta show the IRS it’s for law enforcement use. I got a friend in the motor pool; he won’t let anyone but me drive her.”

Sparing a momentary, motherly glance back at her black-and-white Ford, she returned attention to Myra and Bill.

“So where did you say you two were headed again? Got anything in the…” She trailed off as a loud metallic squawk came from her vehicle radio.”

“Off to see my son at the University of Oregon. He is studying business ‒ they have a great program. Less expensive than Berkeley,” explained Myra, before the officer could return to her original train of thought.

“Well, you and your husband have a safe trip.” It was one last test Myra realized ‒ neither she nor Bill was wearing a ring.

“Oh, we are not married yet. Both happily divorced ‒ though you never know what can happen, right honey?” Myra winked at Bill.

“Excuse me now folks, duty calls.” And with that, Ms. Wolf went back to her baby, her hand still resting on the butt of her autopistol. With purposefully unhurried steps, Bill prepared to move out. He glanced back at the policewoman, who was engrossed in, a more pressing conversation through her handset. She impatiently waved him off.

He kept to the speed limit and watched the rear-view mirror in silence for fifteen minutes before he spoke. “Nice work, babe. You’d make a good operative.”

“Don’t you know, everyone in Hollywood really wants to be an actress or actor at heart,” said Myra, “or maybe direct.”

Dawn brought them less than forty miles from the base of the mountain ‒ a good thing, too, as Bill wouldn’t have trusted his navigation by memory in the dark. He was taking a gamble that the commune was still abandoned, but he liked his odds. The remote location was unlikely to be redeveloped any time soon. The commune had its share of births and deaths. He remembered seeing some Buddhist grave markers on his last visit; one more body should go unnoticed.

The drive up on the dirt roads took longer than he planned; the Seville had to go slowly over the ruts and washboards to avoid taking out the oil pan. Bill was starting to think maybe he should have just told Myra to call a good lawyer.

He almost missed the entrance, as it was so overgrown. A few hundred yards down the rutted path, they passed a nearly illegible carved sign welcoming you to Bree-land Commune.

The grass and weeds were up to the Seville’s windowsills. Bill put his hand out and let the tips tickle his palm. The place was in far worse shape than he remembered. Nature was aggressively taking back what the hippies had haphazardly built. The surrounding forest was steadily encroaching on the commune and threatened to swallow it whole.

The geodesic dome was still visible through the weeds, but many of the wooden structures had collapsed. The large meeting hall had burned to the ground, a victim of lightning or vandalism. Bill cautiously parked the Seville beside a primitive structure that might have once been a stable or tractor shed.

“Stay in the car. I want to have a look around first. Still got that Jap pea shooter?” Myra nodded in the affirmative. “Stay alert,” he added as he climbed out of the driver’s seat, his legs stiff from the hours of driving.

Myra stared out the passenger window, lost in thought. The air was cooler up here ‒ they were almost in southern Oregon. A light mist clung to the tall grass and wound through the mix of pine, cedar and hemlock. She looked around at the sad ghosts of the sixties. The elements worked faster here. It seemed man could not make a lasting impression on this land.

It was so quiet, she realized that she could not hear the highway. Everywhere in LA you could hear the incessant roar of tires on pavement. A loud screech startled her. Was it the local wildlife ‒ a door being forced open! Was Bill OK? Too worried to sit still, she ignored his advice and went to check they were the only visitors to Bree-land this morning.

---

The Vanagon hadn’t moved since Bills’s last visit but was now a stripped shell, its air-cooled engine long gone, the rear hatch missing like an open wound. It took some effort to push open the dome’s damp, swollen door. Inside he waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. The clear plastic panels had grown a skin of thick moss, blocking out most of the morning sunshine. Bill moved on.

A skylight provided the only illumination to a living space decorated in apocalyptic frat house chic. Books and kitchen utensils littered the floor. Bill picked up a moldering copy of Philip K. Dick’s A Scanner Darkly, then tossed it aside. The shelves still had some boxes and cans among the rat droppings. There was no way he was going to open the old Frigidaire.

He spied the bed in a darkened alcove ‒ a mess of blankets and clothes, vaguely human-shaped. Bill jerked the covers back with unnecessary force, expecting to find a body, but the tangle of rags on the bed was just what it seemed. He wondered how long the boyfriend had tried to make a go of it before he hiked back down the mountain ‒ or maybe he hadn’t been so lucky?

He guessed that no one had been here in a long time, but he didn’t trust his luck to hold. “Best get to work,” he said to himself. It was with undisguised relief that he stepped back out into the sun.

Bill returned to the Seville and found no sign of Myra. Before he could curse under his breath, he heard a quiet “psst”. She was across the overgrown street, hiding behind the charred remains of the meeting hall.

“I felt trapped in the car. I wanted to see where you had gone, keep you covered, you know?”

He stifled his rebuke. “Let’s hurry up and find an inconspicuous place where we can plant the stiff.”

Together they explored the ruins, each structure a unique testament to the builder, using found and repurposed materials: wooden yurts, a glass tower made of mismatched window frames and frontier-style sod huts. One or two looked almost habitable, but most of the cabins were no more than a deadfall of rotting timber. There was no sign of recent human habitation.

Anxious to leave, Bill thought about just dumping the body under one of the piles of debris. Don’t be a lazy fuck, that’s sloppy thinking, he said to himself. Got to get this one planted right or he’ll come around again. Don’t want any coyotes scattering his bones all over the place.

At the end of the commune’s main street ‒ if you could call it that ‒ they came into a small clearing: an almost perfect semi-circle of meadow. A riot of wildflowers was illuminated by the sunlight streaming through the tall pines. A sepulchral quiet permeated the surrounding woodland.

“Let’s bury him here,’’ Myra’s voice held a note of pleading. “It’s beautiful. Maybe he will be at peace.”

Bill didn’t argue. His internal clock was ticking. The place made his skin crawl. He went back to the Seville. It took two trips: the first to bring the tools and supplies, the second, much slower, to collect the body.

“Six feet of dirt make all men equal,” muttered Bill, and with that benediction he began to dig. It might be a bit under six feet as the body was curled into the same shape as the Seville’s trunk. The kid lay partially wrapped in the tarp Bill had used to drag the body from the car to the clearing.

---

He blamed himself for not hearing the old man. Stripped to the waist, with sweat running in his eyes, Bill’s ears buzzed from the effort of digging. He looked up from his exertions at a stooped figure: long white beard, thin, he had been tall but now his back was bent. Eyes obscured by large orange plastic frames with thick scratched lenses like cataracts. He wore denim shiny with wear and dirt.

He had approached silently on homemade moccasins, moving with practiced steps through the forest. The old man had been collecting blackberries in a child’s plastic jack-o’lantern the same shade as his glasses.

He looked as surprised as Bill upon entering the clearing to see what was unmistakably a crime scene in progress. Bill backed away from the grave and towards his .45 Ruger Blackhawk. The gun was a few feet out of reach, still in its shoulder holster, placed on top of his sports coat, which was neatly folded on the grass.

Myra appeared, brandishing her father’s souvenir of his time on Peleliu. “What’s your business mister? What are you doing here?”

“I could well ask you the same question,” the man replied. “I am clearly collecting blackberries. I live here, on the edge of Breeland ‒ never part of the commune ‒ on my own property, in a house I built myself,” he finished proudly.

“What’s your name?” demanded Myra.

“The kids used to call me Moses ‒ we were all kids back then.”

Bill interrupted, “I didn’t see you before. I was here in 1989. Place was uninhabited except for two wannabe pot barons.”

Moses’ face clouded over. “Fuckin’ drug dealers. Ruined everything. This use to be a thriving community. But I am used to living alone now. Got a couple of goats, some solar panels, my own greenhouse for vegetables and hemp. I get by, reckon I’m good at it, been on the same plot since 1972. Don’t usually venture this far, but I hadn’t harvested anything from this spot all summer.”

The old man gestured to the contorted body on the tarp. “Did you kill him?” he asked of Bill. “Did he have a negative aura?”

“No, but he tried to kill a friend of mine …twice. Not sure what color is aura was,” added Bill.

“Kids these days ‒ heads full of MTV and bodies full of processed foods. No wonder they go bad. Why’re buryin’ him up here?”

“Well Moses, it seemed as good a place as any, quiet and peaceful, out of the way and unlikely to be disturbed any time soon. Didn’t feel like burying him in my own back yard.”

“So, you bury him in mine instead?”

“Myra, shoot him if he moves from that spot.” Bill didn’t mean it and hoped the psychic connection they seemed to share at the gas station was still working.

Bill got back to work burying the kid. When had he started calling him that? Before they wrapped him in the tarp, he took out his wallet, checked for ID, but didn’t want to know the kid’s name. The wallet would go into the Pacific, along with Myra’s gun, on the journey home.

He had a moment of inspiration. “Myra, did you happen to get a business card from the pawnbroker? She checked her handbag and after a moment’s searching triumphantly held up the card and exclaimed, ‘Bingo!”

Careful to smear any of Myra’s fingerprints, Bill tucked the card inside a pocket of the kid’s leather jacket.

Myra, Bill and Moses stared down at the flattened earth. Bill had been careful to replace the top layer of grass.

“Do you mind if I say a prayer for the departed soul on his astral ascension? I am an ordained minister in the Disciples of Christ and the Peoples Temple. It is a prayer in Sanskrit.”

“I would like that,” answered Myra, while Bill’s look was more if you must.

Moses gravely intoned: “O God, full of compassion, who dwells on high, grant true rest upon the wings of the Shechinah, in the exalted spheres of the holy and pure, who shine as the resplendence of the firmament, to the soul of who has gone to his world, for charity has been donated in remembrance of his soul; may his place of rest be in Gan Eden.

“Therefore, may the All-Merciful One shelter him with the cover of His wings forever, and bind his soul in the bond of life. The Lord is his heritage; may he rest in his resting-place in peace; and let us say: Amen.”

“That is Hebrew,” said Bill.

Moses laughed, “It always fooled the hippie kids.”

Bill let it go. He turned to Myra. “Go get the truck. I will meet you at the entrance to the road. Be quick.” Worry shot across Moses’ features like lightning. Bill faced him. “What are you going to say if the cops come nosing around asking questions, old man?”

Moses, talking faster now, a note of pleading in his voice, said, “Nothing. Cops don’t come up here ‒ only the Feds and their helicopters, looking for marijuana plantations. More likely to get a building inspector looking for code violations. As the Buddha says, ‘Do not speak - unless it improves on silence.’”

The answer satisfied Bill. “Sorry, Pops, I’ve got to blindfold you and tie you up, not so tight that you won’t be able to get out in an hour or so.”

He tucked two sawbucks in the breast pocket of the old hippy’s jean jacket. He willed himself to calm down, made a quick inspection of the ground in case he had left anything behind, then headed for the road at a quick jog.

On the way home, Bill reviewed the situation. Were they in the clear? Had he left a few too many loose ends? Had he made the right decision, letting the old hippy live?

Bill tried to convince himself that the old man would keep quiet. Moses grew weed, didn’t he? He wouldn’t want cops or building officials buzzin’ around. Even if the body was found and traced back to the Shylock, there was no connection to Myra. So long as she was right about the cameras, Bill theorized. Sure, the lady cop might remember the couple in the little yellow Cadillac, but again: no connection.

Bill shook the worries from his mind but made a mental note to toss all the trunk carpeting. As his German grandmother used to say, ‘Vorsicht ist besser als nachsicht’.

As each mile put them further away from the commune, they became more animated.

Conversation returned.

Bill turned on the radio and opened the sunroof. The Carpenters began to sing about interstellar policemen. He reached for the dial.

“Wait!” she said. “Leave it on.” In a clear voice, Myra sang along with Karen Carpenter.

“Calling occupants of interplanetary, quite extraordinary craft…”

Bill joined in on the ahhh ahhh ahhs.

By the time they cleared the outskirts of San Francisco, they were even laughing, making plans to celebrate Thanksgiving with Myra’s son when he returned from the MBA program in Chicago. Bill promised to do his famous barbecued turkey legs. She would bring the jello salad.

Bill drove her back to Malibu. He would collect his car from the visitor lot, once they said their goodbyes.

At the front door of her condo, he asked if she would be ok. They stared at each other. The possibilities danced between them. Then the moment passed. He kissed her chastely. “Call me if the new models come in early this year.”

A week later, Bill met Helen. They would be married by the end of the year and honeymoon in Paris.

Myra went back to work the next day. That morning, she sold a new STS with chromed factory rims. The dealer had them done locally. The markup was huge when you added in the Vogues and tint. She turned around and sold the Lexus ES 250 that they took on trade ‒ all before her shift ended.

Better yet, Penske would be getting one of the first shipments of the all-new ‘92s. The Eldorado and Seville were lower, longer and wider. The futuristic wedge-shaped stealth bomber was going to sell like hot cakes. She looked forward to hitting the phones.

Bill would see Myra a few more times over the years. She was invited to the wedding but couldn’t make it. She sent the newly minted pair a beautiful toaster.

The Seville ended up at the back of the lot, then disappeared into the auction circuit.

They never spoke of the kid again.

But Myra would often think of the little clearing ‒ the dappled sunlight through the canopy of trees, and spray of delicate yellow flowers. Sometimes, when she couldn’t sleep, she would imagine the peaceful grove where even the birds were struck dumb, then drift into merciful, dreamless sleep.