Episode Fifteen

…previously, from the Hobbomock Chronicles

When the Great Spirit decided to create the world, he invited the lesser gods to help decide what should be in it.

Each, for their own reasons, agreed that Coyote should not be included. Without exception, they all had at least one experience validating his reputation for being the god of mischief.

Nothing was overlooked, or so they thought. During this Creation Day, beasts that made the leaves shiver on the trees at their passing and creatures as tiny as could be, all arose from the earth. The weather, with its wind and rain, snow and ice, were part of the gods’ handiwork. Yet, after returning to the heavens to observe their efforts, that now covered the earth, it became clear there was something wrong. The animals and plants, the forests and oceans, all were in motion, as intended. Even the men and women, they all moved through the days and nights, perfect and contented. And, as was their newly-created natures, they grew and multiplied without limit. The earth quickly became crowded and chaotic, life without bounds spread and grew.

Finally, the Great Spirit called out to Coyote, “You are the cleverest of us all. What can we do? Our new world is growing itself into self-destruction.”

Coyote smiling in a manner that gave chills to some and provided others an excuse to laugh, replied,

“If you want your creations to live together in harmony, you must fashion a rule that applies to all. It must provide a true meaning to their existence.”

At this the gods smiled and nodded their heads. They all had their favorites in the new world. If Coyote could devise a way that allowed their creations to thrive, they would be indebted to him. Seeing their desire, the trickster god continued,

“I call it Time. It will not only rule every living thing, it will rule the world itself. The living and the not-living; even the stars and Sister Moon in the night-sky will have their existence limited by the rule of Time.”

The other gods were astonished. A rule that would not be broken, a law that could not be ignored. It required that the night follow the day. Always.

The gods were so happy with the outcome, they neglected to ask Coyote if he was telling them everything.

He was not. He provided an exemption from the rule of Time for two of his own creations: emotions and memory.

None of the gods noticed.

At first.

 

Hobbomock
(1965)

His invited guests weren’t due until the next day. The real estate broker heard the growing whisper of boredom flowing from the thirteen empty rooms of the summer house. His overnight bag was the sole occupant of the worn, chenille-covered bed in the master bedroom. The house-keeper had readied all the other bedrooms, and the gardener strung the volley ball net over a freshly mown lawn. Uncertain whether the life he was currently living included smoking, he was pleased to find a carton of Chesterfields in a kitchen drawer.

Sitting on the covered porch looking out on the ocean, he questioned the wisdom of coming down from the city a day early. His final semester at Brown would be devoted to polishing his dissertation. With the focus that made him his millions on Wall St, he would hit the academic ground running the day after the holiday weekend.

His guest list included faculty and fellow grad students. His neighbors would stop in during his Labor Day celebration on a random basis. They surely had plans of their own. He thought about calling Allyson, but recalled that her yellow VW wasn’t at her family’s house when he drove past.

The entertainment console in the living room hid an over-sized Magnavox behind sliding doors. The potential cultural whiplash that might ensue as a result of turning it on made the decision for him. It remained silent and dark.

Standing in front of the shelves bracketing the river stone hearth in the living room, he scanned the collection of hardcover books. The titles read like a Wikipedia entry: ‘Old Movies based on Older Books.’ The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, The Green Berets, You Only Live Twice. The stuff of movie night on the AMC channel.

The real estate broker decided that he needed to take a quick trip into town.

During the past weeks, he’d gotten surprisingly comfortable with his unusual situation. The fear of being found out, either by one of Michael Stone’s friends or, worse, by Michael himself, dissipated. As long as he watched what he said and trusted that he’d know what he needed to know to ‘be’ Michael Stone, no one appeared to notice anything out of the ordinary.

As he drove out of the enclave of Weekapaug, heading towards the commercial part of Hobbomock, he thought, ‘Maybe you should look for some Heinlein in the bookstore, at least with that you can identify.‘

The broker laughed out loud.

Passing beneath the state highway that served as an unofficial boundary between, ‘Down the Beach’ and Hobbomock proper, a frown clawed its way out onto his face. That everything would be different than it was the last time he was in town, a few weeks before, when he drove to Weekapaug to hold an Open House. However, the reality surrounding the green convertible was enough of a shock to cause him to stop, six car lengths before the traffic light in the center of town.

What threatened to make him want to hide somewhere dark and silent wasn’t that the north end of town, with its shopping centers, gas stations and a Kentucky Fried Chicken was a meadow and a farmer’s junkyard. This discontinuity did not jar him, probably because they came about relatively recently, in the history of the town. He, in fact, had a hand in the development of the north end of town.

The real shock came as he drove into the older part of town. This was the Hobbomock that predated everything. No one alive, in either his time or Michael Stone’s time, was around when the stone foundations were laid or the roofs shingled. The buildings that surrounded the town commons have always been there.

The town commons was the heart of Hobbomock. Civic, religious and commercial development grew outward from the rectangle of green lawns and stone walkways. With time, monuments, fountains and benches made the space useable to townspeople.

Storefronts lined Old Main Street as it defined the east side of the park. Mostly three-story buildings with Mansard roofs and copper gutters. Above the ground floor commercial space the upper stories were predominately residential. In contrast to the granite and brownstone walls, plate glass bay windows offered a view of whatever a shop-owner might have to offer.

Michael’s convertible drew appreciative stares, as he drove slowly down Old Main Street and back up Circuit Avenue. Hoping for a parking space nearer his destination, he had to settle for the west side of the rectangle of green.

Leaving his car parked in front of the Presbyterian church, two doors down from the Town Hall, Michael Stone walked with the same relaxed confidence that a client, tennis partner or first date would witness. Briskly, without rushing, all the while having an acute sense of his appearance. He did not so much walk like a model down a runway, as he did were he the owner of the fashion house that was putting on the show.

Impeccably dressed, he tucked his Ray-Bans in the open collar of his shirt, adjusted the knot created by the arms of the sweater draped over his shoulders. The sunglasses were dark, the sweater was yellow and there was a growing hint of purple as the evening approached. Following the crisscrossing concrete pathways, he passed the physical and civic center of the park. The marker, and starting points for the walkways was a large fountain. It was donated by the Thornton family after they secured victory in World War I. One of their two mills produced fabric for military uniforms, the other, the canvas used for stretchers.

From the fountain, the walkways branched outwards, responding to some esoteric cardinal ordering. Michael jumped over a triangle of grass and continued towards the easterly side. A smile grew as he reflected on the grace and economy of his cutting of a corner. A future generation might say, ‘All concrete, no grass’.

As he approached the far side of the park, his pace slowed and his hands sought shelter in the pockets of his khaki pants. He turned and looked back towards his car. It was still parked, almost in front of the Town Hall. There was nothing, at least nothing he could see, that could be blamed for his disquiet.

As he continued, the feeling grew stronger. Ahead, an empty wrought-iron bench commanded his attention. Focused only on the bench, Michael felt a growing lassitude. Not a good tired, like after a round of tennis or handball, more the way it felt getting out of bed after a night with a fever.

He reached the bench and sat. More disturbing than his ennui was the sudden feeling of relief. The collar of his shirt pressed on the back of his neck as his shoulders slumped down and forward.

The commons were still fairly crowded. Passing young people made obvious efforts to not be caught staring at the man on the bench, who was staring at the storefronts along Old Main Street. Very young children, with parents in tow, stopped and pointed, the everything-is-new nature of their world expressed in their unrestrained curiosity. The adults instructed them in the danger of being too near strangers. The lesson would reverberate through their lives.

The sun, casting a town hall shaped shadow over the commons, announced its intention to turn the day over to the night. Summer was the only season this was not a threat. It was a gift for those with more life to explore than hours left in the daytime.

The real estate broker sat on the wrought-iron bench. A visitor from space might decide that park benches were specifically designed for old men. An ungiving surface of wood slats, the better to make it possible to believe that the act of sitting was entirely under control and a backrest perfect for bowed spines.

The man sat and stared at the buildings across the street. His expression that of a person watching a favorite movie the fifth time.

He didn’t expect to see his real estate office as he scanned the row of shoppes and salons and other specialty stores. He thought, I may be living in the body of a thirty-three-year-old man, nearly fifty-five years in the past, but I’m not crazy.

The bookstore was, he suspected, his subconscious mind’s bait to get him away from a place he had no history with, to this part of his hometown. He stared at the part of his life that made it all worthwhile.

It was the storefront, three doors to the left of the book store, that commanded his attention. It insinuated itself into his mind and sent emotional tendrils down to his heart.

Thoughts, as potent as any magician’s invocation took form. Very much in the same family of nonsense words like, Abracadabra or even, Alakazam! he mused, The place looks like it always has…

 

“Well, if you won’t call your business, ‘Really Realty’ then I insist you carry me across the threshold.”

HIs wife, Lisa, stood in front of the plate glass display window, close enough to see his reflection in her eyes. Her scent made the strongest aphrodisiac more innocuous than twice-distilled water. Love potions, if they existed, stimulated the appropriate parts of the body and cranked up the thermostat. The scent of a woman loved, had no need to stimulate the physical body. It wielded a power transcending time and space. It was, as the sun to the planets, nearly unlimited in its capacity to control her lover’s mind.

The man laughed and looked up and down the street. It was an early morning in August, 1984. All of his time and money for the past five years was made concrete in the lettering in the glass and the sign over the door, ‘Hobbomock Sales and Rentals’.

The foundation upon which all his work and effort was done stood within a closed-eyes breath of him. He remembered a quote attributed to Archimedes, Give me a firm spot on which to stand, and I shall move the earth. He smiled and decided not to give voice to his insight.

Not that she wouldn’t appreciate it. His wife, the former Lisa Delvecchio, was, however, about the present, not the past. She believed in him, when he did not. Especially when he did not. He found a reality in his life he could not have imagined. He would have settled for a simple principle, such as: ‘Work Hard and You Will be Rewarded’. Instead, with his good fortune in meeting Lisa, he knew, ‘Work Hard and We will Have Something that will Add to What We are Together’.

“I take that for a final no?” She stood, her hand on the polished brass door handle of the open door. With a single raised eyebrow, she made him fall in love all over again.

He picked her up and stepped into their brand-new real estate office.

 

“Michael? “Are you alright?”

The real estate broker, dragged like a drowning man from his memories, looked up at Allyson Ross.

Quickly putting on his Ray Bans, Michael Stone stood up too quickly and felt a hand steady him, even as he insisted, “Allyson! Great to see you! Just stopped by to see if the bookstore was open.”