The Mohave Desert. Southern California. Early November, 1984. Fifteen minutes before midnight.
"What's that light ahead?" Tommy Travis asked the Hispanic truckdriver.
The driver looked ahead as he spoke. "That's the Braden Lodge. It never closes. It's a gas station, tiny grocery store, motel and cafe."
"It sure looks lonely."
"Yeah--it is. There's no building within thirty miles of there."
"You turn off in a few miles?"
"Yeah--I'm going to Barstow."
"Would you let me off there?"
The driver nodded. When he reached the Braden Lodge he pulled the old flatbed Chev truck onto the unpaved parking lot in front of the cafe.
"The next time we meet the favor is on me," Tommy said.
"Gracias."
There was an old battered light pole in the parking lot. Tommy zippered his blue wool sweater and walked up the eight wobbly, wooden steps leading to the little all-night cafe.
There were three truck drivers and an elderly man in a blue business suit seated at the six-stool counter. No patrons at the tables.
The tiny, red-haired waitress handed him the little one-page, plastic-covered menu. Tommy reached for the menu and at the same time glanced at the sandwich she had just placed in front of the old gentleman.
"That looks good," Tommy said. "I'll have the same and coffee."
The old man had gobs of white hair on the sides of his head but not a hair on the pate. He took a bite of the ham sandwich on rye and turned to Tommy.
"It is good," he said. He had a flash smile. A split second and the smile was history.
Tommy Travis was 26. Dark-haired and good-looking. Average size.
"You just get off that truck?" the old man said.
"Yes."
"You hitchhiking?"
Tommy sipped his coffee. "Yes. I left my hometown--Philly--three weeks ago."
"Headed for Los Angeles?"
"Yes."
"What's there for you?" the old gentleman asked.
"A job--I hope. And a new start."
The old man had a fast laugh. Like his smile, it took just a split second. "Not too easy," he said, "to get a ride out here--at this time of night."
Tommy had a bite of sandwich in his mouth. He swallowed some and looked at the old man. "No--it might take me a couple of hours--this time of night and no traffic."
"I'm going to Banning," the old man said.
"Banning?"
"That's over a hundred miles from here--and a hundred from Los Angeles."
"You mean."
"Yes--you're welcome."
"Thank you. I'm Tommy Travis."
"Doctor Klosky."
"Medical doctor."
"Yes. Psychiatrist."
"Oh--psychoanalyst?"
"Yes."
Tommy put down his coffee cup. "Freud once gave a lecture at my college."
"Oh--where?"
"Clark University."
"Worcester."
"Yes."
"That's quite a school. They stress talent above raw intelligence."
Tommy laughed softly. "Yes. They seem to think the world was built by nuts."
Dr. Klosky gave one of his fast smiles and fast laughs. "I wonder what the so-called normal people do?"
"I guess they just hang around to keep score."
"You graduate?"
"Yes."
When Tommy finished his sandwich he handed the check and a five dollar bill to the waitress. The waitress shook her head. "He paid it," she said.
Tommy looked over at Dr. Klosky and slowly put his bill back in his wallet. "Thank you, Doctor."
Dr. Klosky was a small man. Almost tiny. He had the six-way seat in his big Oldsmobile sedan up as high as it would go. He slowly pulled the car onto the old one-lane blacktop highway and stepped his speed up to 55 miles an hour.
Dr. Klosky kept his speed steady. They spoke little for the first 30 miles. Just courtesy talk.
"I wanted--at first--to become a psychiatrist," Tommy said.
Dr. Klosky gave Tommy one of his flash smiles. He said nothing.
"I wasted four long years," Tommy said.
"On what?"
"An experiment."
"Tell me about it, Tommy."
"I don't know--it might shock you."
"Psychiatrists are shock proof," Dr. Klosky said.
"Remember early in Freud's career when he cured the pianist with the crippled fingers?"
"Yes--he crippled himself because he didn't want to play."
"Correct. Freud found his hiding place. The unconscious mind."
Tommy looked out at the barren desert as he spoke. "In most of the advanced countries of the world today the educated people find it difficult to hide the reasons behind psychosomatic illness."
"Yes--Freud found the hiding place for that type of illness."
"That created my experiment," Tommy said. "When people of the world lose their hiding place they look for another."
Dr. Klosky gave another of his flash smiles. "Did you find another one?"
"No."
"What did you find?"
"I don't know the meaning of what I found."
"Tell me about it."
"What I found is now my problem. That's why I'm going to Los Angeles."
Dr. Klosky nodded.
"When a scientist does basic research he never knows what he'll find," Tommy said. "He rarely finds what he's looking for."
"I guess that's what I found."
They approached the desert town of Twenty Nine Palms. Dr. Klosky slowed down until they cleared the town. Tommy said nothing until they were once again on open highway.
"It seemed to me that the only place left to conceal a secret would be in the orgasm--during sex. Coitus."
Dr. Klosky looked over at Tommy. "But there is no thought during coitus. The sensation is physical. There's a mental blackout."
"Correct. That's the way men and women have been having orgasms for--well--since our species began."
"How else could they have them?"
"I wondered what would happen if I kept my eyes open during the ejaculation."
"You mean think through it--rather than surrender?"
"Yes."
"But the biological reason for coitus--other than procreation--is total release of tension--if one doesn't surrender to it--well--that would be quite dangerous--I would think."
"It is. I did it for four miserable years."
"Your health was severely affected?"
"I went from one hundred and sixty-four pounds to one hundred and forty-one."
Dr. Klosky slowed down as he eased the big Oldsmobile through the little desert village of Joshua Tree. They continued talking after again hitting the open road.
"I was going on a theory," Tommy continued, "that it had never been done before."
"It probably hasn't--I've never heard it mentioned by Freudians--or any other school of psychiatry."
"I know--I've read everything Freud wrote--even selected letters of his."
Dr. Klosky turned off the soft playing stereo.
"Yes--I went through five girl friends and four jobs."
"And what did you find?"
"The first year I didn't understand anything I saw--just images that had no meaningful shapes. So I took up drawing at night school. And I began to draw the images--or pictures--that I saw."
"You couldn't relate them to dream interpretation?"
"No--the symbols are different."
"You had to break the hieroglyphics?"
"Exactly. Freud said that in the ancient Egyptian language many words had opposite meanings--such as the word `cold'--it also meant `hot'--the word `down' also meant 'up'
Klosky nodded. "Yes. If they wanted to use the Egyptian word for `cold' to mean `hot' they put something indicating heat above the word--such as a hot kettle."
"Yes. And in speech they did something similar--if they wanted to use the Egyptian word for `down' but meant `up' they merely pointed up."
Dr. Klosky again gave Tommy one of his flash smiles. "They still do it today--among most ethnic groups. Some use their hands as much as their mouths."
"That was what gave me the strength to carry on. I began to draw pictures. Hundreds of them. Thousands of them. And comparing them. They had to mean something."
Dr. Klosky slowed down to get through the desert town of Yucca Valley. They quit talking. As they again hit the open road Tommy turned to the doctor.
"I found that there is no such thing as mental junk. Everything has a meaning. I found that long lines meant one thing. Circles meant something else. It was something like the Rorschach test."
"You could read them?"
"No--not exactly. When I put my findings together they didn't--well--it didn't become a whole."
"The meanings weren't related."
"No."
"Go on."
"It took me another year to solve that. I found that the relation is not in the same orgasm. It's in previous orgasms and future ones."
"Then it became cohesive?"
"It did--yes--but only once. I could never do it again."
"And what did the hieroglyphs tell you?"
They eased through the little town of Merengo Valley. And then once again out on the open road.
"When I finally got a completed sentence I gave up the experiment. I was physically and mentally exhausted."
Dr. Klosky said nothing.
"I put the words together so that they would form a sentence," Tommy said. "Three words came up--and then more. I kept transposing them until they made sense."
"The words."
"Giggle Creek, Little Pauline's, murder, seven-forty at night."
"Where is Giggle Creek?"
"It's a little town a few hundred miles north of Los Angeles--at the foot of the High Sierras. Little Pauline's is a restaurant. It took a lot of research--to find what the words represented."
"That's why you're going to Los Angeles."
"Yes--to get a job for a couple of months before going up to Giggle Creek."
"And the murder--man--woman?"
It didn't say. Just gave the time."
"And date?"
"January thirty-first--Thursday."
"Do you have any idea--at all--of what you might have done?" Dr. Klosky asked.
"Done?"
"I mean it does seem difficult to relate to reality."
"That's the problem, Doctor--it does. I think I intercepted what we call `fate'." There is probably an equation for fate. There's a reason for everything. `Fate' is certainly a planned event."
They passed within a couple of miles of the town of Desert Hot Springs. Neither spoke until they reached the San Bernadino Freeway.
"How far is Banning?" Tommy asked.
"Fifteen miles."
Dr. Klosky pulled the big car onto the freeway. He drove in the slow lane even at 55 miles and hour.
Tommy looked over at him. "Doctor."
"Yes."
"What do you think?"
"I don't know."
"Do you believe me?"
"You--yes."
"But you don't know about my interpretation?"
"Exactly."
"I feel the same way. I do wonder."
They talked little more until they reached Banning. Dr. Klosky Pulled the Oldsmobile off the freeway and drove about a mile through town. He stopped at the curb to let Tommy off near an on-ramp.
"Here's my card, Tommy. I don't practice much anymore--just an occasional emergency at the hospital."
Tommy glanced at the card as he opened the door. He put it in his wallet. "Thanks for the ride--and the breakfast, Doctor."
"Tommy."
"Yes?"
"Call me if your plans change?"
"Change?"
"Yes--I'll be up there with you on the thirty-first--at Giggle Creek."
"You really do believe me--don't you?"
"Yes."
"Doctor, have you thought of something else?"
"Else."
"The person that gets killed--if there is a killing--might be me."
"Or me. But if we stayed away and there was no killing--then what?"
"We would never know for sure--would we?" Tommy said.
"Yes," Doctor Klosky said. "To test your experiment we'll both have to go."
Giggle Creek in January is a gorgeous little town. Calendar pretty. Cozy. Little Pauline's was the only posh supper club in town. The patrons were, for the most part, skiers and sportsmen.
Dr. Klosky and Tommy sat in a small booth from which they could see the entire dining room. They couldn't see the cocktail lounge nor the vestibule. They had driven up in separate cars.
It was seven-thirty. Time for murder was seven-forty.
They were both sipping on a before-dinner drink of scotch and water. There were about 30 persons in the dining room. Almost all of them appeared to be skiers, sportsmen and tourists.
Doctor Klosky looked at his watch--seven thirty-nine. He looked at Tommy. Tommy nodded. "Any second now--or not at all."
A middle-aged, jockey-sized man wearing a cowboy outfit walked into the dining room. He looked the patrons over quickly and walked to a small table where a blond, fortyish woman sat alone.
"This is it," Tommy said.
The man pulled a hand-gun and fired three bullets into the woman. There was no conversation. He walked out--slowly and calmly.
Dr. Klosky did what he could while waiting for the medics to arrive. The woman died while being placed on a stretcher. It was almost 20 minutes before Dr. Klosky was able to get back to the table after helping the medics and the police. Tommy never left the booth.
Dr. Klosky sat down slowly. Neither spoke for almost a minute. The waiter brought their soup but neither touched it.
"What do we do now, Tommy?" the doctor asked.
"Do?"
"Yes. I'm worried about you."
"My problem is over. The experiment is over. I'll never look back. I'm going to lead a normal life."
"You might have found a continent."
"Don't name it after me, Doctor."
"Do you mind if I report your findings in the psychoanalytic journal?"
"Not at all. As long as you keep me out of it."
But no one can read the hieroglyphs but you. It took you four years to figure it out."
"Other men will just have to do it the way I did it--alone."
Dr. Klosky nodded.
"Doctor."
"Yes."
"I suspect something."
"Yes?"
"After the article is published it will lead to a cult."
"It could."
"Doctor."
"Yes?"
"Poor bastards--I'll cry for them."
Patrick Quinn has been writing for longer than six years--only short stories. He has had eighteen accepted for publication. According to Patrick, "The first three years, however, of my writing career were quite lean. Now I seem to be able to sell everything I write--although not the first time out...or the second."
For more stories by Patrick Quinn, click here.
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