PRIVATE IDAHO-Splintered (a short story)

I was recently listening to the WATCHMEN soundtrack when Janis Joplin's "Me and Bobby McGee" flashed me back to one of my favorite moments in a short story I wrote in 2010.  It was three years before I started blogging and six years before I lost a chunk of my vision.  

The short story is based on the first season, with elements from later seasons, of an audio soap opera parody I wrote and recorded between 1993-1999 that I called PRIVATE IDAHO.  Yes, I borrowed the title from The B-52's.  My little series lasted 8 seasons/79 episodes, and I gave creator credits to my alter ego Michael Yarrington.  A fact he holds over my head every chance he gets. P.I. was predominately loved or hated by my close friends & family.

Ever since writing the following short story, I have thought about and even attempted to write a novelization of my audio epic.  My words have never clicked better than the original recordings and this short story. 

NOTE: Sharp-eyed readers may spot a couple of familiar characters who would later make cameo appearances in DARK EXCURSIONS.

__________________________

PRIVATE IDAHO

      Splintered  

by John L. Harmon, with all due respect to Michael Yarrington

            

    The answering machine had exploded.

    Five motionless bodies were spread throughout the rubble of the living room.

    Motionless of body but not of mind.

    They were not dead...

    Yet.

    Buffy Richardson, an individualistic valley girl of the first order, landed in the middle of the living room, her multi-colored turban slightly unraveled.  It was her demented, deranged, full-on psychotic twin sister who had caused this destruction, because Misty was hateful, because Misty was vindictive, simply because Misty could.

    In the darkness, between life and death, Buffy grasped at her strongest, most vivid memory.  It seemed like a lifetime ago...

    Buffy was in high school, dressed in her cheerleading best, eating lunch with her best friend Sally.  As captain and co-captain of the cheer squad, Buffy and Sally shared everything.  Clothes, make-up, gossip, even a boyfriend or two, but especially food.

    They each brought a sack lunch to school, for better-controlled portions and actual flavor.  On that fateful day Buffy had brought lemonade and Sally had brought pineapple juice.  As usual, they decided to trade.

    "Like, Sally, what is wrong?" Buffy asked after her friend had taken several sips of lemonade.

    Sally had started to cough, slight at first, like an annoying tickle in the back of the throat, but then it worsened.  Coughing quickly turned to dry heaving.

    "Like, stop it, Sally, you're totally embarrassing me!"  Buffy cried, not knowing how serious the situation was until the dry heaving became wet with bloodied lemonade.

    Someone shouted to call an ambulance.  Teachers hurried over.  Students crowded around in morbid interest.  All the while Buffy stood helpless and watched her best friend die on the cafeteria floor.

    This memory of Buffy’s faded into darkness, leaving her aching body weaker than before.  Suddenly, a sunlit memory exploded before her...

    Buffy stood on the front porch, between her loving parents.  Her father's sturdy hand rested on her right shoulder as her mother's hand repeated the comforting action on her left shoulder.  It truly was a comforting action, but it failed in providing any.

    She watched, with severely mixed feelings, as two men in white coats dragged her twin sister down the driveway.  The burly men each had one of Misty's arms secured under one of their own and they lurched her backwards, struggling against the rage.

    "Like, damn you, Buffy!" Misty bellowed, her face distorted with insanity.  "You were supposed to have totally drank that lemonade!  You were supposed to, like, totally die from the rat poison I laced it with!"

    For a brief moment a sedate demeanor washed over Misty's face as the men in white coats dragged her nearer to the long white vehicle parked nearby.  Buffy took the opportunity to express some of her nicer feelings.  After all, Misty was still her sister, murderous or not.

    "Like, please get better, Misty, and come home."

    Misty responded to this emotional outpouring with a wickedly evil smile and a sinisterly calm voice, "Like, when I come home, Dearest Sister, it will be to totally see you dead, fer sure."

    Darkness returned to Buffy Richardson’s world, among the smoke and rubble.  Death had crept closer to her but somehow this last memory triggered something deep inside.  She knew she had to survive because Misty was still out there somewhere and the psycho had to be stopped.

    Sara Mitchell, a seemingly prim and proper Southern Belle, was nearest the answering machine when it exploded.  She was hurled onto the couch, her wide-brimmed red hat blown away.

    Beyond physically weak, Sara's mind plucked at her heartstrings with a not-so-long ago memory.  One that included most of her friends.

    They were gathered at the airport.  Sara stood in front of the semi-circle of friendly smiles, giving each a final moment before boarding.  A muzak version of "Leaving On a Jet Plane" played poetically from distant speakers.

    She turned to the individualistic valley girl and briefly hugged her.  "Take care, Buffy."

    "Like, you, too, Sara!" the valley girl exclaimed.  "And, like, totally don't forget to wear a turban at your auditions.  You'll, like, never have a bad hair day and be a total shoe-in."

    A pleasant, but strained, smile filled Sara's face, "I shall consider your advice."  Buffy was hardly Sara's best friend.  In fact, there were times when the turban-wearing valley girl grated on Sara's nerves, but Buffy was part of her semi-circle and she accepted it.

    "Break a leg in New York, Sara," David Foster diplomatically interrupted the chilled silence that had fallen between the two women.

    Sara faced him with a relieved smile and accepted his offered hug.  "Oh, thank you, David."  His secure embrace showcased the stability he offered his friends.  Truth be told, Sara and the others considered David Foster their emotional rock.

    Last, but certainly not least on Sara's list, stood Larry Wright, waiting patiently for his turn.  He brushed the light-brown hair out of his puppy dog eyes as Sara turned to him.

    "Good-bye, Sara," Larry moaned.

    Sara wrapped her arms around the shorter man, "It is not good-bye, Larry.  It is simply so long, for now."  She would miss Larry's warm embrace and nasal voice most of all, but would not realize the full extent of her feelings until she returned.

    "I will be back y'all and we will watch my first acting role together."  Sara picked up her carry-on and proceeded to depart as the memory dissolved.

    Watching Sara's first made-for-television movie is what they had been doing before Misty and the answering machine violently intruded.  But it wasn't truly her first acting role and the others hadn’t the faintest idea.  Except for one...

    Fading in on that New York dive diner Sara had hung out at between auditions, her unconscious self smelled its varied aromas.  Cheap coffee and greasy food, a desperate actress' heaven and the place Sara met the man who would change her life.

    She had just swallowed a sip of her coffee when the diner door opened.  There, silhouetted in the glaring New York sun, stood an angel, or a devil.  The mysterious stranger paused for a moment, surveying the diner, and then slowly walked to the counter, allowing the door to swing shut behind him.

    Sara tried not to stare, but it was difficult to take her eyes away.  It wasn't that she was overly attracted to the approaching man, her heart-soul had started its journey to another, but this stranger was simply the kind of man who commanded attention.

    The tall, dark, and handsome stranger was attired in a crisp white shirt, black slacks, and polished shoes.  Topping off his sleek, muscular frame was a long black trenchcoat and impenetrable shades.

    He took a stool at the counter, one away from Sara, and ordered a coffee as black as his slicked back hair.  After a taste of caffeine he half-swiveled to Sara and spoke in a smooth, deep voice.

    "You are just the woman I've been looking for."

    "Pardon me?" Sara chuckled nervously at the audacity of this stranger.

    "I'm sorry, allow me to introduce myself..." the man's tone truly seemed sincere as he withdrew a business card from the folds of his trenchcoat, "...Zack Carmichael, agent to the actors."

    Sara accepted the card with suspicious determination.  "How do you know I'm an aspiring actress?"

    "You have star quality."  Zack swiveled to drink his coffee.  "Plus, this diner draws the acting crowd like flies to honey."

    She studied his card and then his profile.  From the side she could see the edge of his left eye behind the dark shades.  Moisture was built up in the corner, momentarily giving him a sad quality.

    Before a tear could fall, Zack faced her and smiled disarmingly, "So, do you need an agent?"

    Sara stared at her dark reflection in his shades.  There was something about Zack Carmichael she did not initially trust but she needed an agent, and a friend.  She could tell that deep down he needed someone, too.

    "My name is Sara Mitchell, and you, Mr. Carmichael, are now my agent."

    Two hands shook in agreement as the memory dissolved into shameful secrets of regret.  It would have been easy to blame Zack for her time in New York, but she made her decision, as an actress and a woman.  Now, in the darkness, she couldn't let the past swallow her whole.  Sara Mitchell knew there was a man waiting for her, and if she wanted to see him again all she had to do was survive.

    Larry Wright had been near Sara when the world seemed to end.  He came to rest on the other side of the couch, nearly touching his fiancée.  Unbeknownst to their friends, Sara had proposed to Larry earlier in the evening.

    Sara is whom he should have been thinking about, but there was another who filled his thoughts.  The darkness sent his mind to Christmas Eve when he was 13-years-old.  His parents were attending a party, leaving him and his brother alone for the evening.  After a non-holiday movie, and too much popcorn, they hung out in Will's room, listening to music.

    Janis Joplin sang about freedom, feelin' good, and Bobby McGee as Larry, sitting on the floor, carefully studied his older brother's records.  Will chose the current selection, always a traveling or escape theme with him, so Larry would pick the next.

    He glanced at Will, relaxed on the bed, tossing a baseball into the air with one hand and catching it with the other.  To Larry, his brother was someone to respect and admire.  Will was physically strong, caring, and calm like a warm summer night.

    "Larry," Will said, his voice a protracted caress: deep, yet soft.

    "I know the record is over.  I'm trying to decide."  Larry glanced between The Ramones in one hand and The Carpenters in the next...Will's taste was nothing if not eclectic.

    "I want to talk to you, Larry."

    The serious tone of his brother caused Larry to put down the records and stand up, facing him.  Will was sitting tensely, legs over the edge, feet planted firmly on the floor.  He held the baseball with both hands, turning it slowly.

    "Talk to me about what, Will?" Larry inquired, walking over to his brother and sitting next to him.

    "There is something you need to know."  Several seconds of silence passed before Will looked at him and smiled openly, "Larry, I am—"

    The doorbell sharply interrupted Will.  The brothers glanced at the clock—11 p.m.—and then at each other.  Their parents never forgot their keys, so who would ring at such an hour?

    "Stay here, Larry," Will suggested, unruffled by the interruption.

    He left the bedroom and Larry sat there for a time, listening.  The front door opened with a creak.  "Will Wright?" the stranger's voice asked.

    "I am Will Wright.  What is this about?"

    Curiosity overwhelmed Larry as he stood up and crept out of the bedroom into the hallway.  The long stretch of space between him and the front door seemed to grow as devastating words slashed the air.

    "There has been an accident."

    "What happened?"

    "Your parents hit some black ice on a curve."

    "Are they...?"

    "I'm sorry, there were no survivors."

    Unconsciousness enveloped Larry that night, plunging him into darkness.  Similar to the darkness that swirled around him now, dissolving the horrible memory while conjuring another.

    It was five years after that tragic night.  The brothers stood in the bright yellow kitchen of their childhood home, children no longer.  Will had his brown leather jacket on and a duffel bag slung over a shoulder.

    "Come on now, Larry, everything will be fine."  Will placed both hands on his brother's hunched shoulders, his voice more serene than usual.

    "I just don't want you to leave, Will."  Larry's nasal voice became whinier by his feelings of dejection.

    "Larry, you are an adult now, so my job here is done.  It is time for me to find my place in this world."

    "I understand, Will.  It's just that I'm going to miss you."

    "I shall miss you, too, Larry, and do not worry.  No matter where I am, no matter how far I travel, I will always be there for you."

    "Promise?"

    "Promise."

    The brothers embraced and then Will left.  Left Larry alone in the bright yellow kitchen.  Left Larry alone with a lie.

    It had been several months since he last heard from his brother.  Will could be dead for all Larry knew, and this possibility caused much torment.

    Larry Wright could allow unconsciousness to become permanent but he was no longer alone.  His dear friends, David and Buffy, have filled his life.  His new friend, Zack, could prove to be interesting.  And, of course, Sara.  He doesn't want to leave Sara alone, so he will fight to survive this darkness for her, for them.

    Zack Carmichael was slammed against the front door, tearing his black trenchcoat and shattering his shades.  His intimidating stature left crumpled on the floor, bruised, bleeding.

    The onslaught of darkness annihilated the physical pain, leaving only the emotional sort.  This interminable torture was what he kept locked behind his now broken shades.

    Zack was patiently waiting for an answer.  He knocked on his sister's door again and waited.  Still no answer.  After a third round of knocking, concern settled over him.

    "Katherine?" he called out through the door.

    Silence.

    He withdrew a special set of tools from his black trenchcoat, silently damning Katherine for not giving him a key.  Damning himself for how he had treated her the last time he visited.  Fragments of that conversation surfaced as he picked the lock.

    Did you walk into another door, Katherine, or are you finally going to admit Daniel Ray beats you?

    Don't feed me that crap!  Daniel Ray is psychotic scum!  He needs to be locked away or...

    He does deserve to die and you know it, Katherine!

    It makes me sick the way you defend that slime.  I can't even look at you right now.

    The lock clicked and Zack, teeming with regret, opened his sister's apartment door.  Immediately he realized something terrible had occurred.

    The living room was in shambles, table lamps shattered upon the floor, books and knick-knacks thrown across the room.  The kitchen was alarming, two chairs toppled over and one large knife missing.  That left two more rooms to search.

    The bathroom was spared from shambles, except for the oddity of an absent shower curtain.  Nothing quite prepared Zack for Katherine's bedroom.  He stood motionless, in shock.

    Blood.

    Everywhere.

    Soaked into the bed.  Splattered on the walls.  Smeared over the floor.

    No body, but with that much blood how could there be any other explanation?  Daniel Ray must have murdered Katherine.

    The grisly memory mercifully vanished, quickly replaced by twilight in Central Park.  Zack, shaded and sheathed as usual, stood on an empty brick pedestrian bridge overlooking a mildly busy sidewalk.  Somewhere in the distance a lone saxophonist blew a mellow tune, which made him think of wet pavement reflecting the melancholy light of a sole streetlamp.

    "Evening, Zack," the deep voice drifted slowly through the air like a soft feather.

    There was no need to face the fair-haired man stepping up beside him.  They had worked together for quite some time.

    "Hey, Will."

    Silence passed between the men for a few minutes, until, "Are you constipated, Zack, or simply brooding?"

    "What?" The humorous and odd question was enough to drag Zack away from the passing faces.  The passing faces that were never Katherine's.

    "Your expression indicates either...or both."

    "Brooding..." Zack returned to the people below.  He didn't feel like discussing his sister again, so he grasped at another distressing topic, "...over my newest assignment."

    "What is it this time?" Will inquired, exhaustion in his tone.

    "Frank owes a favor to some sleaze director.  He wants me to locate an actress for this creep’s ‘art’ film."

    Another round of silence as the men observed the passing people, so many lonely individuals.  Will abruptly suggested the impossible, "Have you considered telling Frank no?"

    "Every freakin’ day, Will, but you know Frank."  There was not an immediate reply, which caused apprehension to seep through Zack's stoic body.  "You're not planning something, are you?"

    Will took a moment before he answered.  "I am simply tired of all the dubious assignments.  Besides, there is nothing I can do.  How could I possibly stand up to the all-powerful Frank?"

    The rhetorical question included an edge extremely unlike Will.  "Well...just don't give Frank a reason..."

    "Do not worry about me, Zack."  Will smiled serenely and clapped him on the back, holding his hand firmly in place for more than a moment, "I will see you when I see you, Zack…take care."

    "Later, Will."

    Zack turned and watched Will Wright stroll away into the murky twilight of Central Park.  There were so many things he wanted to say to that man, but couldn't.  Maybe another time, he had always thought, but another time never arrived.

    That night proved to be the last time he saw Will.  Zack had hoped his fair-haired friend had escaped their mob-group lifestyle, perhaps making it home to see the brother he often talked about.

    Now, in the darkness, Zack Carmichael understood.  Will never made it home and was as lost to him as Katherine.  What was there to live for, he pondered, when all one had left was regret?  

    David Foster, the ostensibly average boy-next-door…grown into the outwardly emotional rock, had fallen not too far from Buffy.  It was in his house that this explosion occurred and its foundation was not the only thing disturbed.

    Unconsciousness struck David deeply, releasing jumbled memories.  Confused images of younger days, familiar, foreign...

    He was 15-years-old, naked, staring into the bathroom mirror.  "Are you a good boy, David?" he asked his reflection.  A reflection somehow different from his current one.

    Then he was in his room, same age, fully clothed.  Writing something in a notebook, intense, focused.

    "David..." she called, her dream-like voice breaking his concentration.  "David...I need my medicine..."

    Once again in the bathroom, the unfamiliar reflection calm as he repeated, "Are you a good boy, David?"

    Her bedroom, silk sheets turned down.  She was propped up with frilly pink pillows, her diaphanous nightgown difficult to ignore.  He handed her two pills and a glass of water.  She swallowed and placed the glass on the nightstand.

    She then reached out a hand and he gently took hold.  Her full red lips smiled as she spoke in that hazy, feminine way, "You are such a good boy, David, for knowing precisely what Mommy needs."

    His hand was squeezed firmly and tenderly released, an indication to begin.  He nodded in understanding and then slowly unbuttoned his shirt as his mind fell away.

    "Are you a good boy, David?"  He gazed at his naked reflection, expecting a reply.

    The reply came with a violent leap towards the bathroom mirror.  Cracked in every which way, a few pieces shattered in the sink, he studied the fractured reflection.

    Crimson gushed from his forehead, flowing down either side of his nose, moistening his lips.  He grinned happily through the blood and pain.

    "You are a good boy...Daniel."

    The long-buried memories slipped back into the darkness invading his mind, just out of reach, but no longer completely hidden.  David Foster, damaged in more ways than one, sensed life would never be the same, if he survived.

    In the distance an ambulance siren wailed. 

    Five friends, with connections both known and unknown, unconsciously waited.

    As the days turned into months four would mourn one.  

    Yet this was not the end of their troubles...

    Only the beginning.

     ______12/20/10________

Thank you for reading or listening to this short story from my past.

Freak Out, 

JLH 

P.S. A visit with Michael Yarrington…

https://freakboyzone.blogspot.com/2014/12/thursday-with-michael.html