Out Of Place

Out Of Place

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Out of Place – A Novel Philip Shepherd Chapter 1 When does one’s life really begin?

Is it thrust upon us at the very moment the winner of the sperm marathon leaves his brothers and sisters behind and victoriously breaches the walls of the egg? Or, does one’s life not really dawn until that exploding mass of fertilized cells grows complex and individual enough to utter a cry outside mom’s all embracing womb?

And beyond that basic question, what exactly is contained within that wriggling mass of cells that makes each of us, us? Is it just our DNA; or is there a Soul lurking back their patiently biding its time until the body dies and sets it free? And if it is there… well, where the heck did it come from? Was it somehow created along with, or as a part of the body? Is its very existence firmly rooted in our flesh until the last gasp when it finally rises or sinks according to its own nature or some sort of Divine reward? And why is it held accountable for all the crazy things we did along the way; unless it was running the whole show all along? Or maybe we are just Soul living out countless lives until we figure out how to come into harmony with something greater than ourselves.

Then again, isn’t it perfectly plausible to believe that we are just what physical scientists theorize we are: A highly organized, electrical bio-atomic structure whose main aim in life is to spread its own DNA? And enthralled to that aim, we live through this short span

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of pain and pleasure; copulating and raising children until some organ clogs up, gets cancerous or simply ceases to function. The sum total of our bewildering existence contained within the ravaged glory of this one lifetime, our final destination being: oblivion. Our only hope of existence beyond the shores of this life being the sentimental story that someone we left behind still remembers us as our DNA travels on.

Or maybe we are just some long-term experiment by aliens. Superior beings who will someday return; most probably just before we are about to blow ourselves up with our doomsday weapons, or shift the global climate so dramatically that we destroy ourselves and most of our planetary companions?

Maybe Eve was really a space alien on vacation that fell in love with the hunky, brilliant Earth ape, Adam, tempting him with a technological power that was far beyond his emotional capacity to handle; thus setting in motion this whole crazy spiral of unbalanced, brutal human existence.

Eric pushed himself away from his computer. Pulling off his reading glasses he began rubbing his scratchy eyes. Why couldn’t he stop thinking about all of this now? He had a marketing budget to cut. He looked at his watch. It was nearly six. He needed to get this done and have it turned in to his boss’s Administrative Assistant before he left. He stretched and rolled his head trying to relieve the ache in his back.

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What he really wanted to be doing right now was driving home across the Golden Gate Bridge toward the green hills of Marin County with nothing on his mind but a glass of wine, a great dinner and maybe even some hot sex. But lately, he found himself wandering away from his real life. Not physically, but in daydreams, remembrances, and speculation. Journeys that despite where they began most often meandered back to the: “What is the meaning of life”, question?

Until recently, he had thought the struggle to answer the ultimate questions of life was far behind him, lost back in the smoky bull sessions of college. Or maybe it was ahead of him when he was much older, sitting in a nursing home watching in horror and dread as his roommates dropped like flies. But he shouldn’t be doing this now, not at fifty. One thought of other things: like saving for retirement, or shaving a couple of strokes of your golf game at fifty. Besides why bother? He hadn’t needed to understand the spiritual underpinnings of existence in order to plan out and live a successful and fulfilling life.

When he left college he had simply gotten on with living. He partied for a while and then built a career, bought property and fallen in love several times. Along the way he had done what most people of his age and class do with the haunting existential questions and uneasiness. He forgot about them. Allowing them to pop-up only in the quiet times when he was alone on a mountaintop stunned by the harmony and majesty of nature; or when he needed to rationalize and sooth the sharp pain of losing a loved one. But more and more lately he found himself, for no apparent reason, wandering through his heart and his mind just daydreaming about what it all might really mean.

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He would sit for hours on his deck looking out across San Francisco Bay reanimating vivid memories of those rare times when he had been lifted above the chaotic stew of emotional longings, panics, pleasures, thoughts, fears, desires, achievements and simple busyness into states of such profound joy and knowingness that his rational mind could neither quantify nor explain what had happened. Experiences so ecstatic that, in ancient times, he would have been swept up in the belief that they were divine visitation from an Olympian god, or a golden-eyed tiger spirit, or an esteemed ancestor. Such powerful epiphanies that, if he had lived in a society that valued such life-altering visions he might have built a totem, or constructed a temple, or set out on a trek through the desert to find God.

But in these modern times the fences around acceptable human experiences are set much closer in. He had been trained to discount the personally miraculous as unreliable. Years of schooling had drilled into him that illusive, subjective experiences, as alluring and as beautiful as they might be, belonged to the world of childish pleasures, like fairy stories and imaginary friends. Spirituality was only allowed through an approved institution.

The phone rang, shocking him back. He still needed to find a 10% cut in his quarterly budget. After all, this was the real world and it required real answers. Well, maybe a semi-real world where one could fudge the answers if one worked at it. Budgeting was, after all, the art of creating undetectable fat, so that when they force you to cut back, you have something unimportant to give up.

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He glanced at the name of the caller. It was nobody important. He let the machine pick it up.

‘How dishonest we all become just to survive and get the job done,’ he thought as he sliced fifty grand from his European marketing budget.

Still, why was he now, at this odd moment in his basically all American life of quiet desperation, trying to answer the pure questions of existence? Why wasn’t he buying a Porsche, gobbling Prozac or getting hair plugs or something else more normal to mask his growing sadness and lack of fervor for the rat race?

But he knew why buying a Porsche, even if he could justify the expense, wouldn’t solve his problems. All this musing had come about because he had for some inexplicable reason decided one day that he was tired of masking what was really going on in his head and his heart. That for once, he would not pleasure, chemically alter, or buy himself out of his discomfort. It had become his unexpected mission to finally figure out why he was feeling sad. Was this feeling of emptiness just a middle-age funk with all its attendant disillusionments? A time in life when past accomplishments seem meager, the present has degenerated into tedium, and the future looks flat at best; or was this hungry discomfort born of deeper?

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He had been a sophomore in college and already a recovering philosophy major when he finally had gotten it through his thick skull that no one really knew what the heck was going on. Everyone was just stumbling around in the dark hoping to find a dogma or ideology that offered him or her a sense of safety, or power, or wisdom, or maybe even freedom; or, at the very least something plausible enough to hold the world together in a reliable enough way that one could make sense out of the flood of experiences.

The unwritten law is that at 50 you are expected to know who you are. Your career and family life have long since been decided and now that you are reaching your statistical economic peak; your 401k should be full and your future should be assured. But then of course, Eric knew that his future wasn’t assured, not by a long shot.

Jobs were precarious perches now, especially the older you got. One blast of a cold recessionary wind or a spasmodic corporate restructuring and you could easily get knocked off your perch with little more than a week’s notice. And there was no safety net for those outside the elite anymore; just a long, lonely drop into oblivion.

He had started to wonder how much longer he would live. Not out of fear of death, but out of fear of losing his place in life and out of boredom. Retirement was something he didn’t clearly understand and was pretty sure he would never be able to afford.

He shook his head and tried to focus on the task at hand. He needed to cut yet another twenty thousand from his budget… maybe Asia?

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>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> The tree rose up ever so tall, much higher than Eric’s three-year-old eyes could follow. His mother had just finished reading him Jack and the Bean Stalk and his mind was still glowing bright with images of giants at the top of tall plants. He wasn’t frightened; he wanted very much to see giants. He imagined they were like big dogs and he had stared down a big dog last week.

He lowered his eyes to the earth and began to step gingerly through the maze of brown scabby roots folding the barren ground beneath the massive tree. He was careful not to step on or scuff any of them. He sensed the tree’s presence and he didn’t want to make it angry. When he reached the sturdy trunk, he pressed his small hand against it. He could feel the power of its life force buzzing through his fingers.

He stood on his tiptoes trying to grasp the lowest branch. When he finally got a grip, he pulled and pulled until he was able to swing up and arch his body over it. He hung there, folded at his waist, watching the ground swing below him. The branch hurt his stomach so he swung his right knee up on to the branch and then, grasping a higher branch, pulled himself up into a standing position. His older sister and brother were both watching him now. When Eric waved to them, his brother turned away, feigning indifference. But his sister remained staring up at him; her eyes growing wider with alarm. Her emotions and thoughts were always open to him. He knew she was scared for him. But he could also

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tell she trusted his prowess. She was actually more frightened of what their mother would say. She hated being held responsible for his actions.

He loved showing off for her. He grabbed the next branch and pulled himself up. He was way up there now. He felt brave. He was a big boy. Stopping for a moment he looked up through the tangle of branches. The brilliant sun was winking down at him through the pine needles. He wondered if giants lived next to the sun. The thought of being so close to the sun excited him and he moved on, more swiftly now; working his way through the chaotic maze of limbs. Globs of sap clung to his shirt, twigs scratched his arms, but he didn’t notice, because the fresh scent of pine filled his head and the sun glittered in his eyes.

Finally, he grew short of breath and stopped to look down. He could see his sister’s pale face and red hair as she stood looking up from the bottom of the tree. In the distance, down the suburban street, two houses away his brother was also watching. Although his brother’s mind was shut to him, he could tell by his crossed legged stance and the nervous way he was rolling his shirttail that he was worried; probably only about getting into trouble for not minding his little brother.

Eric pushed on; taking each step, looking to the next, testing the branches, and avoiding the sharply pointed tiny twigs that grew out just far enough to hinder his way. His face was flush, his muscles moved smoothly. Exhilarated, he reveled in the new found grace and power of his young body.

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When he stopped and looked out again he was surprised to find that he was far above the red tile roof of his house. He thought it funny that the neighbor’s cat was curled up in a tight ball, sleeping in the shade of their chimney. He turned his eyes upward. From here on the trunk of the tree grew thinner and thinner until there was nothing left but the cloudless sky. He strained to see if there was an opening to another world, there at its very tippy top; maybe a low cloud he could jump on to, or a secret tunnel to the world of giants. But no, there was just the thin treetop and the open blue sky. The sun was still very far away, appearing no closer than it did from the ground. Sadly he admitted there were not giants. But still he felt proud he had climbed the tree.

He began to roar like a gorilla. Hanging on with only one hand, he made a fist with the other pounding it against his chest. OOOOga OOOOOOga OOOOga he called out to the world from his treetop, jumping up and down, and sending a spray of pine needles earthward. He looked down and saw his brother turn and run away down the street. Getting away from the scene of the crime, he would say. His sister was still looking up, but now she had that stern motherly look on her face. “Come down Eric!” her eyes flashed and suddenly he felt he could fall.

He grasped the tree trunk and held tightly with both hands. Cautiously, he looked down. The ground looked as far below as the sun did above. A cold shiver ran through him as he lifted his left foot from the safety of the branch and moved it down through the open space feeling for the solid footing of a lower branch.

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He wondered why going down wasn’t as much fun as going up. >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Eric eased his car into the middle lane as he approached the bridge. It was late; well past seven and the colorful sunset was now growing dull, diluted by the somber encroachment of night. Bored, he glanced over at the expensive car next to him. Within its plush, black leather interior was a broad man with trim, dyed hair. He was speaking tersely into a slender cell phone. Eric unconsciously ran his hand over the grey bristles on the top of his own head while thinking how phony the other guy’s hair looked.

Then, suddenly, the man whipped his car over in front of Eric; a second later he was in the next lane. Eric was fuming. Look at that smug asshole… yapping on his cell phone… thinks he owns the road… like he is going to get home any sooner than the rest of us.

But as he glared, wishing the worst for the man, the big car pulled four, five, six car lengths ahead of him. Eric’s grip on his steering wheel grew tighter and tighter. That bastard, he thought, glancing at his mirrors to see if he could swing into a faster lane and maybe catch the jerk. But the opening had closed and his way was blocked. Spanking the steering wheel in frustration, he slumped down in his seat.

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It struck him that he was acting like an idiot. Did it really matter? A slight feeling of nausea rose in his stomach as his gaze drifted away from the road and out across the silvery bay.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> Eric thrust his hand out of the back window of his parent’s station wagon. The thick air slid through his fingers like liquid light; so wet and pure. He loved the feel of its weight and slickness. He hadn’t known, before this moment, that air could gleam with sunlight. He suddenly wanted to taste it. When he was sure his mother and father weren’t looking, he did what they always told him never to do: He darted his head out of the lumbering station wagon to gulp down a lungful of it. It tasted of the cold, wild sea and made him slightly dizzy. He gazed up at the sun for just a moment before ducking back in. It shimmered white here; so different from the hazy, brown-gold of Los where they lived.

As Eric sat back in his seat, the family car left the breathtaking roller coaster ride of the hilly city streets and sped out along a low causeway that hugged the cobalt bay. His mother suddenly gasped and pointed. He stuck his head out the window again. A blur of golden red shimmered up ahead.

He blinked his eyes clear and there it was; the famous bridge, framed by green rounded hills, red cliffs and a milky sky. Its two blocky, elegant towers rising majestically upward on trunks planted deep beneath the white-capped sea. Below the slim, arched roadway, a

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skirt of dank fog hung just above the dark, heaving water, ruffled by capricious winds. Eric thought of ancient castles and alien spaceships.

Then the bridge was gone, hidden behind a small eucalyptus covered hill as the road curved northward and then bang, the southern tower was looming squarely above them; its engineered face, majestic and aloof. Eric stared up at both awed and surprisingly a little disappointed. The Golden Gate Bridge was not the glittery yellow gold he had imagined. It was an orangey red.

His father stopped to pay the toll and then they motored forward, out of the tollgates and onto the span, where the world of water and sky opened up. Through Eric’s open wind a cold blast of air blew in, causing him to shiver. Off, across the bay, near the prison island of Alcatraz a small flotilla of sailboats leaned into the wind, soaring in unison like a flock of white birds. His father was speaking. Eric turned toward him pulled in by the rare passion in his deep voice. He was telling how the bridge had been built during the Great Depression. How men, glad to finally have work, had climbed to the very top of the towers wrestling with the thick steel cables in the raging wind and freezing fog. His voice grew softer, trailing off to silence as he told how sixteen of them had fallen to their deaths. When he picked up his narrative again his voice arched upward in pride as he spoke of how the completion of this magnificent bridge reflected the brotherhood among the men who dreamt and built it and the trust of the people of San Francisco in their government and the surety of a better future. Passing under the soaring north tower Eric

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finally understood the fiery reddish color. It was a bridge built by the raw passion of working men; not the easy gilt of the wealthy. Now he loved the color. >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> Tonight though, as he swept under the northern tower of the bridge, his thoughts were not on the glories of workingmen, but on how unbelievably thick the traffic was. When he reached the northern end the bridge, where the narrow three lanes broaden out on the left into a fourth, he swerved and gunned his way up past the slower traffic and into the Rainbow Tunnels.

Emerging on the Marin County side into the early evening sunlight he felt more relaxed. Turning up his CD player his eyes drift upward toward the spreading, dark green silhouette of Mt. Tamalpais. There was something so wonderfully reassuring and primitive about this solitary mountain and the way it easily dominated the horizon. Off to the right, the small town of Sausalito lay huddled; its boat piers spiking out into the bay.

But his calm didn’t last for long. Soon unwanted images of the day started rolling in like commercials on a too loud TV. Each problem, every slight, all the awkward moments crowded in on him; each one squawking its own importance, wanting resolution, demanding satisfaction. He was soon locked into his workday struggles, but now he was defeating his foes like the star of a Hong Kong ninja movie. Sarcastic insults flowed back to all those who had questioned his artistic interpretations, or his choice of copy for their new campaign.

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A sudden flashing of brake lights yanked him back and he screeched to a halt, just inches from the Mercedes in front of him. “Stupid bastard!” he thought. Hating himself a moment later for not paying attention and being so uptight.

As he sat waiting for traffic to move again, his mind drifted back into its familiar workday groove. Soon he was stewing over how he was going to convince a newly hired marketing manager that changing her product’s marketing materials from its current yellow and green palette to cobalt blue and pink wasn’t going to happen. She didn’t seem to get how important a consistent product identity was. It was as if some one at Coke suddenly deciding its famous logo should now be yellow instead of red. But then of course he was only the Creative Director so what did he know about color and messaging.

He had grown so weary of these silly little battles that there was a side of him that he was almost tempted let her change whatever friggin thing she wanted and then sit back and watch, unmoved, as her sales crumbled and her retailers complained. But ultimately he knew he couldn’t. If she couldn’t or wouldn’t get it then the next step was going to her boss and then of course, she would hate him. He sighed as the acid rose in his stomach. He fumbled for a pill to counteract it while wondering how much her “looks good on a resume” MBA had cost her (didn’t she learn anything there) and how long it would take her to pay back her student loans? It was obvious from her attitude that she had attended and most certainly gotten an ‘A’ in infantile smugness. All the newbies seemed to have

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mastered that course. Up ahead, a flurry of emergency red lights emerged. Damn, a friggin accident… this is going to go on forever.

Fifteen minutes later, as he eased passed the Highway Patrol, he spotted the two cars involved tangled up against the steel median, their guts exposed. A radiator was still belching little puffs of steam. One car seemed familiar although its slick black exterior was now ripped and scarred. He eased passed very slowly, shamelessly rubbernecking, searching for its occupant. Finally he spotted him standing on the median just a few yards in front of the wreck. He was still talking on his phone. But now he was running his hands nervously through his dyed hair. Eric felt relieved that he was ok but then he laughed. See how soon you get home now asshole.

A police officer waved for him to stop so a stretcher could be wheeled into the back of an ambulance. The middle-aged woman strapped into it was awake and didn’t look terribly hurt but seeing her like that, made him suddenly feel horrible for what he had been thinking. What a nightmare day for both them. How could he feel anything but pity? He turned his eyes back to the road just wanting to get away. When the cop waved him on, he continued home wondering why and when he had become such asshole.

Because of the bottleneck the accident had caused, the roadways on the other side were clear and he arrived home not too much later than usual. As he waited for the garage door to open, he looked across their large deck to the bright lights of the kitchen. Inside

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he could see Paul was just pulling something out of the oven. A smile crept across his face. He was grateful to be home safe and sound.

The warm and savory smells of ham and cloves filled his nose the minute he opened the front door. There, sitting on the hall table, next to a softly glowing yellow candle, was a glass of red wine. Eric put his computer bag down and lifted up the goblet. He took a whiff. It was the Merlot he loved. The one they had discovered during their last day trip up to Napa. They had liked it so much they had totally splurged and bought a whole case. He took another sip and stepped into the bright, warm kitchen.

Paul was just putting the ham on a serving platter. He turned and slipping off his oven mitts, came over to Eric flashing his sexy, white-toothed smile. His light brown face was glowing from the heat of the oven, a thick strand of straight black hair drooped over his forehead. Eric reached up and brushed it back up. They looked into each others eyes and then Paul kissed him. It felt wet and sweet. Eric hugged him close wondering once again what good deed he had done to deserve a partner like Paul.

“You’re late,” remarked Paul, with mock severity. “You best get changed. Dinner is in five minutes.”

“Yes Sir,” grinned Eric setting down his wine and heading out for the stairs.

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Stepping into their bedroom, Eric stepped out of his loafers, stripped off his khaki pants and green knit golf shirt. He was careful to drop his clothes into the laundry basket that Paul had placed next to the closet door to insure that Eric had no excuses. Stepping into the bathroom he paused to check out his goatee in the mirror. Hints of grey sparkled here and there in the light brown color, but he liked it that way. It looked less artificial. He washed his hands and wiped them on the plush green towels hanging on the chrome rack next to his sink.

Heading back into the bedroom, he opened the big walnut dresser and pulled out a pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt. Slipping them on, he stepped over to the large French doors that led out to a small second floor deck. The lights of the town below glistened through the trees. Leaning over the railing, he gazed down upon the small suburban town that filled the narrow valley leading inland from the bay. The simple downtown grid was marked out in golden streetlights. Moving slowly through the light pools, thin streams of traffic stopped and then started again at the quickly changing traffic lights. Lots of strollers were out moving along the well-lit sidewalks; occasionally one or two would slip into a warmly lit restaurant or stopping to look at shop windows. In the center of it all, the colorful neon movie marquee rose. Under it a small line of ticket buyers hurried from the box office to the entrance.

The chilly evening breeze picked up, rustling the trees. Shivering, Eric and stepped back inside and shut the door. He sat down on their king-sized bed and put on a pair of slippers. He loved their master suite. Actually he loved their whole house. It was a well-

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crafted reflection of who Paul and he were as a couple. They had done it together, Paul taking the lead in decorating and Eric taking the lead in paying for it.

From the very first time Paul had invited him back to his apartment Eric, had been awed by Paul’s ability to manifest the kind of organized, masculine environs that lay only innate and unfulfilled in Eric’s cluttered mind and heart. Walking around the small, one bedroom apartment, with its dark leather couch, geometric bedspread and series of black and white photos of rural Mexico hanging over the fireplace, he had felt like he belonged there. It was yet another major, positive confirmation that they could share a great life together. Eric was relieved and impressed that despite Paul’s job as a display designer at an upscale department store, that there wasn’t even a whisper of the icy hipness of some pompous, urban queen. Paul was all warm leather, natural fabrics and spicy colors. Gay Ralph Lauren with an edge, he jokingly described his style, when Eric had gushed on about how much he liked it. It was the style of a man that fit Eric to a T.

Paul called up from the bottom of stairs for him to hurry. Dinner was on the table and he had rented a video for the night. Eric remembered to wipe down his sink and then bounded downstairs.

The small intimate dining room lay off the hall just beyond the kitchen. Eric pushed through its dark wood, swinging doors to find Paul leaning over the shiny cherry wood table to light a pair of stick candles. Dinner was already laid out filling the room with the smell of sweet meat. Eric slipped into his chair still amazed over how often Paul took the

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time and energy to make their weekday dinners seem like a special occasion. His wine glass had been refilled and was in front of him. Paul sliced him a slab of ham and handed him rolls and salad. They had no potatoes or rice. Paul insisted one starch was enough.

They sat in the candlelight and ate slowly, the food as succulent as it looked. The background music that drifted in from the living room was an effortless blend of classical guitar pieces and torch songs. They casually talked about their days. Paul’s face spread into a smile when he heard Eric had finally finished the budgeting process. He had grown very tired of hearing him complain about it. His own day had been little more than errands. There had been neither buyers to show houses too nor perspective house sellers to interview. Eric shrugged, telling Paul he had only been trying to build his Real Estate business for a few months and things would slowly pick-up. Paul nodded and asked if Eric wanted more ham.

Paul finished first and took his plate and wine glass to the kitchen and then headed for the living room. Eric would have been happy to continue sitting at the table sipping more wine and letting the warm satisfaction of the meal warm his being, but it was his job to shunt the dishes into the dishwasher; and he had come home late. He downed the last of his wine and piled together the dishes.

When he had finally filled and turned on the dishwasher, he joined Paul in front of the TV. The video Paul had rented was like most Hollywood films, a bit silly and fairly predictable. But they had fun cuddling together in front of the fire, munching popcorn

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and dishing the actors. They were in bed by10:30; spooned together naked under their goose down comforter. Eric gave Paul’s cock a lazy squeeze before resting his hand on his firm butt. They quickly drifted off to sleep.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> The blue-eyed man was floating above Eric. All around and through him was a deep humming sound that both excited and calmed him. Eric wasn’t sure if it came from the man, or if it was the sound of this vast empty space. The man drew closer, nearly filling his field of vision; the edges of his body were brightly blurred, like staring at a light bulb. Then Eric recognized him. The Skyman began to smile. The smile was a window of joy; a joy that Eric had forgotten he once longed for. Everything he had ever really wanted to know or be was contained within that smile. He floated toward it feeling his own smile broadening. >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Eric startled awake; like someone had flung him down. He sat up quickly. Paul was still snoring softly beside him. His eyes scanned the room trying to determine if something had forced him awake; but all seemed in order. He was struck by how gray and drab the room seemed in the predawn light.

He lied back down and shut his eyes. Then the memory of his dream washed back over him. He wanted back in to it. He shut his eyes. He sensed it lingering in the shadows; haunting him like the warm kiss of a long ago lover. He shivered. It had been the

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Skyman, of that he was sure. It had been such a long time since he had seen him. So long in fact, he thought he was lost to him forever.

Suddenly the alarm went off and Paul stirred next him. “Make me some coffee,” he whispered, kissing Eric’s shoulder. Eric sighed, kissed the top of Paul’s head and got up.

When Eric ran out of the house an hour and ten minutes later, grey sheets of fog were rolling across the crest of the hill behind their house like Arctic waves, smearing the landscape and slicking the roads. The dampness of the morning was already leeching the joy from his mood. His body felt sore and unresponsive as he climbed into his SUV and struggled to fasten his seat belt. He wished he could lose some weight. He wished he could remember more of his dream with the Skyman. But it was gone for now and he was late for work.

He started his car and backed out of the drive. He glanced up at the house. The light in their bedroom was on. Paul was probably getting dressed. He looked ahead into the gloom and the slash of red taillights below on the freeway. ‘Just another day in paradise,’ he thought as shifted into drive.

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