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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