Keith Abbott was still sitting in the backseat of the Outback Oracle. Tirzah dropped Gator off at the Longmont Holiday Inn Express and Suites. She didn’t bother to get out of the car. Gator smiled dryly at his friend and headed into the lobby. He had plans. He had thought up a lot of fresh ideas for The Direct Road to the Nearest Neighborhood, How to Reach Your Inner Artistic Spirit during his stay in the hospital. And now, he believed he had just spoken to Moses who happened to be sitting in the backseat of Tirzah’s car. Why, after a good breakfast in the breakfast room, Gator was sure that the next day was going to be filled with inspired writing.
Keith decided to stay with the option of the Outback Oracle. He wanted to visit Naropa. He hadn’t been there in a long time. What did the campus look like now? Had it changed? Tirzah fiddled with her phone. She wanted to relax on the way back to Boulder. Being with Gator was tiresome when he fell into a pedantic phase. For instance, the subject of female subjection, his go to offering whenever he pandered his wares to women. Maybe she shouldn’t have worn the blond wig to pick him up from the hospital. Anyway, the clock was running and they had yet to develop and perfect their collaboration. Gator’s agent was determined to negotiate a different title. Tirzah wasn’t sure what she thought of the rebranding: Phantom Creator, A Workbook for People Challenged by Procrastination.
In the backseat Keith found himself listening to Tirzah Pyrestone. She was reviewing her audiobook demo. “Tirzah is steeped in Jewish Trauma, like a teabag of various herbs percolating supreme rebirth for all of humanity to land under the canopy of open armed Judaism via this rigid drink of grievous loss. The rabbi’s gift is the transmission of seeds for degenerative flowers, paths to discontinuance and her American truth.” The announcer finished introducing Tirzah.
Over the car speakers Keith heard Tirzah say, “God is real.”
“She’s a cult,” Keith thought as they braked for the stop lights on the Diagonal.
Keith glanced across the intersection. He saw the ghost of his 1953 truck in the opposite lane, heading north towards Longmont. Standing in the bed of the Chevy truck, Ernest Hemingway was strapped to the back of the cab. Ernest was wearing his big box and in possession of a fishing spear. As usual, Smitty was driving. Someone was lighting a cigarette next to Smitty. It was Michael Sowl, riding shotgun. At last, the Rhino Ritz Detective Agency had heard Keith’s plea.
Zelda never dreamed of having a prairie dog as a pet. And she knew there was no way of getting around Teary. Nate had loaded up the cage in the back of their car. They were driving back to their own home after the Mast’s early Christmas dinner.
“Did you know you have to put them under anesthesia for any visit to the vet?” Flora messaged her sister. Zelda read the message aloud to her husband.
“She’s nuts,” Nate said, thinking of his mother-in-law. Nate had never dreamed of having a prairie dog as a pet.
“Nate!” Zelda exclaimed.
“Your mother, not your sister,” Nate corrected himself.
“We’ll just let them go free after we pass Buck Rogers’ ranch.” Zelda said.
Nate nodded, his eyes on the road.
When Keith Abbott finally made it back to Naropa, it was well past ten-thirty pm. The campus was dark. He walked through the wall and into the main building. It was stripped of furniture. The building was empty. What had happened? Keith turned away and exited his old school where he had taught writing, poetry and brush work for fifteen years.
“Hey, stranger.”
There it was, John Veglia’s black Plymouth Fury parked on the road. “Marzipan!” Keith said. “My old friend.”
John stepped forward from the shadows. “It seems as if we met yesterday.” John looked the same but somehow not the same. He had on his Nestor Marzipan fedora hat, and not the grey beanie he wore when he was slowly dying of cancer.
Keith smiled. He felt immediately better now that he had reconnected with his friend. “But we didn’t meet yesterday,” he said softly.
“Abbott,” John said, “we’ve got to talk. Everyone’s talking. So why not us, too?”
Keith liked that. Nestor Marzipan’s undeniable logic. “Can I drive?” Keith asked.
Nestor Marzipan tossed Keith the keys. “Kumasen, we might be entering a Russian novel.”
Keith drove the Plymouth Fury to the Dark Horse. John’s car drove like a racehorse on amphetamines.
“Park it anywhere,” John instructed, looking at the parking lot. The parking lot was enclosed.
“I didn’t know I was considering getting creative,” Keith said mildly.
“Okay, then. Why not pull in next to that saucy little Toyota Camry?” John suggested.
“That’s really roundabout anywhere,” Keith replied.
The two men sat down at the bar.
“What will you have, Santa?” the bartender asked Keith. It was disconcerting how just about the entire population of Boulder was clairvoyant. A ghost had no chance to duck undercover.
“I’ll have a Hemingway Special,” John said. “And Abbott here needs a haircut.”
“Devil’s Haircut it is. Coming right up,” the bartender said.
“Devil aside, do you know where can I get a haircut at this time of night?” Keith asked Nestor.
“Don’t worry. I know of a place.” John smiled.
Tags: #longmont #1046grantstreet #mccarthy'spub #colorado #keithabbott #mast #mordecaiofmonterey #keithkumasenabbott #gertrudestein #boulder #rhinoritz #naropa #holidayinnandsuites #outbackoracle #tirzah #pyrestone #gator #matcha #chevytruck #johnveglia #nestormarzipan #plymouthfury #prairiedog #buckrogers
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