The New Residencia

Editor – Ice

Dep Editor – Pup

Story Consultant – Whit

Vice Pres – Daze

Exec Vice Pres – Six

Ace Reporter – Scratchomo

Scoop Reporter – Jonnie

Chief Engineer – Lucy

“The Lost Twelve,” Leo says, looking up at Roger, who he’d interrupted in mid-sentence. Where a painted look of puzzlement resided on his face, similar to the one on Keala’s, her drink, frozen a few inches from her lips.

A familiar but strange feeling has entered my consciousness, and in my peripheral vision, I see a surprised Collin, rising from his chair as if to say something.

Leo releases the paper in his hands, and I watch them free fall to the table, sliding slowly off the edge to the floor, as he turns, and walks to the far side of the patio.

Roger found his voice first, “what in hell is the lost twelve?” And before anyone can answer he says, in a voice beginning to rise a little, “there’s nothing in the letter about a lost twelve.”

“Nor in the history books either,” Collin says, and sits back down at the table, suddenly interested in his drink.

Looking at me, Roger raised his eyebrows a little and cocked his head to the right, “Ok Dan, your turn.”

“The lost twelve,” I begin, taking a drink from my beer, and watching Leo, who’s standing at the corner of the patio, staring at the sun, slowly dipping below the horizon.

“The Lost Twelve were 13 people, 9 men and 4 women, who supposedly were trying to catch up to the Donner Party, but somehow got lost and never showed back up.”

“Remember the Donner Party, Roger?” I ask, as he looks at me in an uncomprehending way.

“The wagon train that turned on its own and resorted to cannibalism,” Keala recites in a matter of fact voice, as she stands up, drink in hand, and walks over to the bar.

Roger follows Keala to the bar and as he’s pouring himself another shot of whiskey, he says, “so, why the twist on the numbers?”

“Thirteen is considered an unlucky number today I tell him, but a hundred and sixty years ago it was thought to be the sign of the devil by many, so they were referred to as twelve instead of thirteen.”

“1846,” Roger says under his breath.  What time of year did this take place?”

“Oddly enough Collin says, on July 13, 1846, they

 were still with a large group of emigrants headed for California.  Five days away from crossing the Continental Divide, in what the mountain men of the era called Oregon Country.”

As we digested what Collin was saying, he continued, “two days after crossing the Divide, the wagon train would reach the Little Sandy River, where the Donner Party would turn left, while the rest turned right onto the traditional route.”

“They took the - short cut,” Keala says, walking back to her seat at the table.

“And,” I said, finishing up for Collin and Keala, “the so called lost twelve, who at first, had decided to go with the main party, changed their minds, and doubled back to catch up with the Donner Party, and …were never heard of again.”

Getting up from my chair I walked over to where Leo was standing.

“How’d you know he was talking about the twelve,” I asked as I leaned on the rail with him; Roger, who had followed me, stood silently to my left.

“Basic Woodman stuff,” Leo said, scratching the back of his head.

“Woodman?” Roger says, looking at me.

“Woodman,” Leo continued, “is a small, fairly unknown cult that for the most part is made up of people from California and Nevada, who believe the lost twelve or thirteen, take your pick, are still wandering around somewhere out here, in spirit if not physically.”

Roger laughed, and the “District Attorney” in him, came to the surface, as he

spun on his heels and went over to the table, and picking up the letter from the floor, came back to where we were.

Waving it over his head, he said, “I don’t know about any lost twelve or Woodman cult, but what I do know is that this letter talks about people from outer space, and spaceships, and has personal information of mine laced all the way through it.”

“Roger,” I said –

“No, you fucking listen to me Dan, this is serious shit and I want some answers and I want them now.”

And without pausing for breath he said, “I want to know why this old fool is sitting down in the county lockup telling anyone that’ll listen, that he found all my personal information on Blogstream, and that I’m some kind of space alien!”

Leo chuckles out loud, causing Roger to turn on him with, “don’t you dare laugh at me!”

Leo smiles, and turns away from Roger and me, with a “fuck you Mr. D.A.” tossed over his shoulder, as he fishes in his pockets for smokes.

Turning back to me, Roger says, “We took a look at your Blogstream; did you know that roughly 1 per cent of the people on there can’t be traced?”

“What do you mean, can’t be traced?” I said.

“Just that, my old friend, 256 of the bloggers on your Blogstream are untraceable back to a source, any source.”

“How’s that possible?” I said, more to myself than Roger.

“That’s our question too,” Roger says, as he seems to calm down a little.

“Blogstream itself doesn’t have a clue, he says, as he pulls a package of gum from his shirt pocket, hurriedly unwrapping a couple of sticks and putting them in his mouth.

“They’ve been monitoring it for the last 6 months, but, they’re at a loss to explain it, either to themselves or us.”

“That’s just some electronic glitch,” Roger, I begin to tell him, but before I can start my customary rant about the “unreliability” of computers, he holds up his hand and says, “Dan…. Dan, save it.”

But now, my own anger is rising, and in a controlled, but steely voice I say, “the hell with you Roger, you’ve got a nut on your hands, who happened across some information somehow, someway, and you letting it screw with you, and in doing so, you’re trying to fuck with Blogstream.”

“If you want my opinion, I continued, “you’re wasting a lot of California’s money chasing stories told to you by some old fool.”

“Really, the District Attorney of L.A. County said, as he pulled himself up to his full height, “then suppose you tell me how my old fool knew enough to tell me that there were exactly 256 bloggers on Blogstream that couldn’t be traced?”

When I didn’t say anything, he smiled at me and said, “he called it exactly, want to see the list?”

Just then, the ring of a cell phone punctuated the air; it was Roger’s, and pulling it from his pocket, he answered it, as he walked away from us.
 

The western sky catches my eye, as the remnants of a dark orange on the horizon, silently slips away, whispering an unknown message from the sunset. 

The air is perfectly still, and the quietness of the black nightsky seems to invade my every pore, and as I  take in the stars and their beginning song, Leo is saying something.

….. “tiny creatures that we are, cast adrift in this galaxy full of stars by the billions, a vast array - stretching from horizon to horizon - and behold the human who tries to embrace it.”

Thinking it a quote, I say, “Who said that?”

“I did,” he says with a short laugh. 

As we stand at the rail, I recall similar words that I’d heard somewhere before, “about how the same human mind that can state the cosmos too vast to navigate, can at the same moment traverse its greatest distances with but a single thought.”

And…. I think about an old man in the L.A. County Jail.

Special Edition of The New Residencia.

Editor – Ice

Asst Editor – Pup

Story Consultant – Whit

Vice Pres. – Daze

Exec VP – Six

Ace Reporter – Scratchomo

Scoop Reporter – Jonnie

Chief Custodian - Lucy

Editor’s note:  The following is a continuation of a conversation that was held several weeks ago.  Among those in attendance were:

Ice/Dan – Editor of “The New Residencia”.

Keala – a young lady from L.A. California.

Collin – a friend of Ice’s, also a resident of California.

Leo – a longtime companion of Ice’s, who is not unknown to readers of this paper.

A continuation.....

Leo doesn’t respond to Keala’s comment, therefore instituting another period of silence, which he always handles so well.  If only more people were like him I think to myself, as I reach for my cigarette pack, resisting an urge to say something myself. 

Lighting my cigarette, while holding the flame on it a little longer than necessary, I glance at Keala, who’s looking at me; we are bonded somewhat because of an interesting fact, which neither Leo, or Collin are aware of. 

Our little shared secret?

“I didn’t arrange this meeting.”

Which is a “first” for me, having been responsible for all the previous meetings held here. 

I’m also cognizant of another fact, and that is; I have no idea who this young lady is, although I suspect she has something to do with Law Enforcement.

The reason for my suspicion is because she was asked to be here by the man who - is responsible - for our gathering; Roger Davies, the newly elected District Attorney of L.A. County, and former classmate of mine.

It all began about a month before, when after being coerced and unmercifully pandered to for a solid month, I’d finally agreed to attend my 40^th High School Class Reunion in my hometown of Mission Falls Missouri.

“Class Reunions” are nice in their own way, but I’d managed to miss the previous two without suffering much, the tenth because I was in the Army, and stationed in Germany, and the twentieth because I was in the middle of a divorce from my wife Glenna, who had also been a classmate of mine, therefore causing me (and her for that matter) to generally not be predisposed to revisit a site of an earlier mistake.

One of the highlights of the reunion had been that its star graduate, my friend Roger, was returning to Mission Falls for the first time since being elected District Attorney of Los Angeles County.

And now, as I hear music begin to play from inside the house, and realize that Roger has arrived, I’m wishing I would of bypassed the reunion, for in my mind, it has led to today’s event, another encounter with a man I’m becoming more and more uneasy with.

As I hear him coming through the patio doors, I keep my eyes on Keala, watching her reaction.  Her eyes widen just a notch in recognition, but the “tell” is not noticeable, unless, you’d been watching for it, as I was.

I stand, as does Collin, but Roger holds out his hand, palm down, and we lower ourselves back into our chairs.  Leo and I exchange a look, as Roger strides past the table, opening a door of the liquor cabinet.  Removing a decanter of whiskey, he fills a small shot glass that seems to appear out of nowhere.

But instead of drinking it, he sets it on the table between Leo and me, and pulls up a chair, sitting down with a sigh as he looks at me.

During his grand entrance, I’ve had time to appraise him, and once again, it’s impressed on me that he’s shorter in person than on the TV, probably only five foot seven is my guess, and slender, hardly any meat on his smallish frame.

He has the luck of blond men; hardly any gray to go along with a full head of hair, though I know he’s pushing sixty, as I am.

I notice his hands; they’re soft, almost pink in color, fingers long like a woman’s, a clear polish of some kind on manicured fingernails; not any hard days in the salt mines for Roger.

“Well Dan,” Roger says, addressing me by my given name, instead of Ice, as he’d been doing in recent phone conversations since the reunion, “I appreciate you getting everybody together on short notice like this.”

“Guys, the District Attorney of L.A. County,” Roger Davies, I announce to them, and after a little pause, I add, “my old high school chum from back in the day.”

Collin reaches over the table to shake Roger’s hand, while Leo just grunts, ever the unimpressed one, and Keala manages a smile, probably half expecting the District Attorney of Los Angeles County to get up from the table to shake her hand, which he doesn’t, probably also to her relief, as he merely waves a hand at her, which encompasses Leo too.

Roger starts without preamble; “Leo… I’ve heard a lot about you from Dan, and I want you to know that I’m really glad you’re here.”  He says this while turning a little in his seat to face Leo head on.

“Not a problem,” Leo says, eyes straight in line with the D.A.’s.

Turning his attention to Keala, Roger acts as if he’s just remembered something important, as he rubs his chin with a soft hand; “Ms. Stansfield, correct?”

“Call me Keala she says, and Lt. Gamble sends her best.”

“Oh yes, Gamble, she’s a good one,” he says, referring to her boss, we are left to assume.

My own guess that she’s in Law Enforcement, seemingly, proving to be true.

Turning his attention to Collin, he says, “Collin Drake, right?”

Collin, who had told him his name when he shook his hand, merely nods at the D.A., but, then as an apparent afterthought, he says, “can I call you Roger?”

“Sure, Roger says, why don’t we all use our given names, I’m not much into titles or aliases, right Ice?

I smile and say, “Dan will do for me Roger.”

“Ok,” Roger said, clapping his hands together and interlocking them with the fingers, resting his chin on them, as his eyes dart around the group.

While his eyes toured the occupants of the table, I tried to determine where exactly the tension was coming from.  I knew that other than myself, nobody here with the possible exception of Keala had ever met him before.

“A couple of weeks ago,” Roger is saying, while looking at Keala for silent confirmation, “Keala here arrested an old man at a small park in L.A., exact location unimportant; seems he was drunk on his ass, making a scene, cussing at bystanders, and eventually, he even pulled a gun, which we confirmed later wouldn’t of, couldn’t of - fired a bullet, even if it had been loaded, … no firing pin.”

“Routine crap that I, under normal circumstances would of never heard about, but, and as he paused, he lowered his voice, except for two seemingly unconnected things.”

“Number 1,” he says, and predictably, he extended the forefinger on his right hand, then, continuing, he said, “the old geezer gave Keala a sealed envelope with my name on it; told her to make sure I got it.”

“Of course she opened the envelope, and read the letter that was enclosed, what was it Keala, two pages, writing on both sides, right?”

Keala nods in agreement, while saying, “I remember the handwriting especially, and how perfect the penmanship was.

Roger continues, “After reading the letter, Keala rightfully so, showed it to Lt. Gamble and from there, it made it’s way to one of my Asst D.A.’s, who gave it to me.”

“The god-damn thing had the phone numbers and addresses of almost all my family, many of my friends, including yours Dan, he said, looking at me, although I already knew this part.”

“Even the unlisted number of my daughter who lives in Dallas,” he added, with a grimace on his face.

As he finishes, he leans back in his chair, and drains his glass of the whiskey.

Getting up, he refills the glass as we just look at him, as he continues. 

“He talked about Blogstream, almost half the letter about it. Ice this, Ice that, even Uncle Leo,” Roger said, looking at Leo.

“You spoke of two things, Leo said, what was the second?”

Roger frowns, and glances at me before continuing, “the second was visiting with Dan at our class reunion, and having to listen to him tell me about Blogstream, which I’d never heard of before that night, nor since, until…"

Leo got up and walked to the edge of the patio before saying, “Do you have the letter?”

“Not the original, but we made copies of it, and reaching in his shirt pocket, he pulled out what looked liked several sheets of crumpled paper, and tossed them on the table where they laid untouched for about half a minute. 

Finally, in the silence, Leo walked over to the table, and picked them up, slowly walking back to where he’d been standing, head down, reading as he walked.

The lab has the originals; but so far they’ve come up with nothing, except for the fingerprints of Keala, and Lt. Gamble,” Roger says, as he runs a hand through blond hair. 

“What does it say, Roger,” I asked?

“I mean besides all the phone numbers and stuff,” I added, as he looks at me.

“An unbelievable tale about –“

“The Lost Twelve,” Leo says, as he looks up from reading the letter.

The New Residencia

Est: 1902

Editor – Ice

Asst. Editor – Pup

Vice Pres – Daze

Exec VP – Six

Ace Reporter – Scratch

Scoop Reporter – Jonnie

Chief Custodian – Lucy

Storyline – Whit

The following conversation took place on a Sunday afternoon, exact date and location unknown.

The setting is the home of a friend of the editor of The New Residencia, somewhere on the west coast of the U.S. The scene centers on an open-air patio that is connected to the back of a large, modern one-story dwelling of the kind often seen high above the beaches of western California.

There are four people sitting at a table on the patio that juts some 20 feet or so over an ocean several hundred feet below, affording a panoramic view of the immense but eerily calm ocean, and of a dark blue sky beginning to fade, as the once fiery sun begins its daily and thus inevitable fall from grace.

The table is oval in shape, with a clear glass top, each occupant has a drink in front of them; two have cigarette packs and lighters.  A lone ashtray sits between the two smokers otherwise the table is barren.

“Quite a view.”  The speaker, his hooded blue eyes gazing toward the western sky looks to be around 60, possessing a craggy face laced with permanent creases, that beg of life experiences only imagined by most.

His name is Leo, and he appears to be a little over 6 foot, big boned, and wide shoulders, with very little fat on a hard worked body, his most noticeable feature besides a dark brown complexion, and a full head of black hair worn long and on his collar, is large leathery hands, fingernails perfectly manicured. 

None of us respond to Leo’s observation, at least initially, though all are looking at the source of his words, which the continuing silence becomes a distinct element of.

My name is Collin and I’m sitting across the table from Leo, having just met him less than an hour ago.

He’s everything Ice, my good friend for over forty years said he was, and more. Having lived in the great outdoors most of my life, I too, possess a brown, ruddy exterior, though not as dark as Leo’s.

Although a little younger than him at 49, I must admit to being envious of his excellent physical shape, my own 6 foot frame somewhat diluted by a little excess weight that comes with the soft life I’ve lived for the past five years, and of course the hair; how does one maintain all that hair, so naturally black?

I, of course, wonder if he dyes it?

To my right sits Ice, to my left is Keala, who I’ve also met today for the first time; her name I suspect is new, though I have no reason to think that.

My name is Ice, and of course most of you know me as the Editor of The New Residencia, which is nothing other than the name of my blog, which resides on the same stream as your own.

Collin is impressed with Leo, I can tell, and for him to be impressed with anyone is unusual, for he has lived a remarkable life, most of it in the Colorado Mountains, riding the ranges, a lost cowboy born in the wrong century.

Those who read my rag know me to be 58 years old, just recently having a birthday.

From the pictures you’ve seen on my blog, you know me to be a shade less than 6 feet, and somewhat bulky, which is the nice way to describe the extra 25 pounds I carry around now, that wasn’t here back in the day.

I suppose the first question that most of you will have is, why the mystery about the time and place of this conversation, which is going to be, sometime in the future, one of the easiest yet most complex ones to answer.

Across the glass expanse from me, sits Keala, a beautiful raven-haired woman appearing to be in her early thirties, perhaps late twenties.

As you know, Collin suspects that her name is an alias, though as he admits to himself, he has no reason to think this.

Finally, Keala breaks the silence and answers Leo. “Some would pay dearly to have it at their fingertips.” 

As the lone female of the group, she is not reluctant to speak first, or to speak her mind, for although considerably younger than her companions, she has lived a life equally varied and interesting. 

At about 5'6", on a well built frame that men usually waste no time admiring, she is blessed with components to it that most women would give anything to possess, not the least of all, dark black hair, and fiery green eyes that some have said, speak a language of their own.

Leo is not surprised that Keala is the first to break the silence he instilled, quite by accident, when commenting on the view, for it is her first visit to the retreat, her first time at the table, and, she is the only female.

He is impressed with the group Ice has assembled, and his curiosity about the reason for the meeting is high, even now as his gaze remains fixed on the sinking sun.

the new residencia

est: March 3, 1984

Editor – ice

Asst. Editor – pup

VP – daisey

Exec VP – six

Story Advisor – whit

Scoop Reporter –scratchomo

Ace Reporter – jonnie

Chief Custodian – lucy

As I watched the curtain fall, I said, “like our lives.”

When she doesn’t say anything, I slice the silence by looking at her and saying, “so what is it - that the seeker seeks?”

“Whatever you have, will do Leo.”

We both stand at the same time and the closeness of our bodies electrifies my senses, as her aroma, natural but unique, glides over me; made even more distinct by a trace of perfume I don’t recognize.

Putting her arm around my neck she makes our lips touch, and we watch our eyes, watching each other.

Pulling her close is a melding, and as I put my hand in hers and we began to walk from the living room to the bedroom, I feel the tremble in our bodies.

As life often does, the next minutes come with quick looks and freeze frames, and are gone long before either of us wants.

In the kitchen I open the freezer compartment of the refrigerator, removing the ice-cold bottle of Crown.

My eyes play over ice cubes all in a row, in a blue tray, as my mind re-plays her words; “Whatever you have, will do Leo.”

Getting two glasses from the cabinet I make my way back to the bedroom; inside the semi-dark room I locate her by her burning cigarette, and handing her a glass I pour brown liquid in mine.

“I wonder how they make it,” she says lightly.

“Who?" I say, as I fill her glass.

“My parents; they’re in their eighties, and I wonder how they make it.”

“Or is it why they make it, that makes you wonder,” I say, raising my glass to my mouth, a toast missed.

“It's the same thing,” she says, leaning back against the headboard of the bed.

“You have regrets,” I ask? 

“Yes, but they are necessary regrets, ones that were due me.”

“Because if given a thousand chances you would always do the same thing,” I said, and as she turns to face me I  hear Sam and his “Chain Gang” playing lightly on the stereo.

“Of course; which only makes it easier some of the time.”

“Life,” she says slowly, dragging from her cigarette, it’s so confusing to me. When I think it’s under control is when I find out that nothing is.”

“Life, I say, smiling at her, is a time within a time, different only in length, but the same because neither is a conclusion.”

“So this life, this world is not a conclusion,” she says,” hope building.

“A sequel stands beyond,” I say, quoting the second line of Emily’s poem.

 “It’s a beautiful poem Leo, and I love it as much as you, but, it’s as full of questions as I am.”

“But she is you, though she’s been dead over a hundred years – she is you, and me. Her questions are yours, just as yours will be the questions of others, and on and on till you answer them.”

“How do you know?” She asks, as I reach for her hand and grasping it, I get up from the bed, bringing her with me.

I lead her back into the living room, to the window, and as we lower ourselves to the floor, I part the curtains, the darkness outside lit only by stars, the moon unavailable this night.

“When I came home tonight, this window looked strange to me; not because it was raised, it always is you know, but something about it wasn’t right, wasn’t normal.”

“Yes,” she says slowly, examining the curtains with her hands, while looking out into the night with her eyes.

“Look into the sky, I tell her, really look, don’t look at me, do you see the stars; notice the blackness that surrounds them, and how everything is framed by this window frame.”

“Now, I say, my voice lower, just above a whisper, remove the frame.”

His voice recedes into my consciousness, and my mind follows along behind it, as I stare out the window at the stars, wrapped in the dark night.

“Now, he says, his voice barely a whisper, remove the frame.

And as I do, the black sky, full of stars pour through the window, or rather where the window was, and I’m adrift in the night sky, as the stars and blackness engulf me, and I’m in the center of everything I’ve always known, and the unknown unknowns are now known.