The evacuation of the city had begun. The storm was deemed too dangerous for human contact and all non-necessary personal were ordered to leave immediately. The military had taken positions lining the fastest routes out of the city and were facilitating the safe retreat of the citizens.
Roger was standing in the middle of an intersection, his jacket flailing in the chilled breeze. The buildings around him glared with evil intention, and he felt oppressed, controlled, powerless. His cell phone rang with no emotion in his hand as he dialed and redialed his wife, but there was no answer. Service was down. His attempts were useless- Sarah had become lost in the mass hysteria of the first condensed-lightning strike.
The top three emotions crossing Roger's mind were panic, fear, and worry. Panic oscillated between the shock of the storm and the unknown location of his wife. Worry had a death-grip on his heart, as his brain checked scenario after scenario in his head wondering what could've happened to Sarah. Fear was an immobilizing bomb that continued to erupt inside his limbs. These three emotions combined caused Roger's onset of desperation.
A nearby soldier was the victim. Roger grabbed the small man with both hands, and then tossed him into the side of a building. His voice was loud as he screamed with crazed intensity. He was breaking down.
"Where is my wife? Where is she?" Again, he smashed the soldier into the wall. "She was just here! Have you seen her? I can't lose her. I can't lose her!" As he became more aggressive, a second soldier (obviously of a higher rank) pulled Roger's arms behind his back, restraining him. "Greg, I'll handle this. Get back to your post."
The smaller soldier gave a quick salute, and then ran back toward the road. "I'm Lieutenant Briggs. If I let you go, will you relax?" Roger murmured a nod then shook his arm as Briggs released him. The two men stood there, silent. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
"I understand you're looking for your wife. What does she mean to you?" Roger's breathing was heavy. The adrenaline was slowly seeping away, his body removing stress.
"She means the world to me."
Briggs seemed less tense. "That's all I need to hear. Now calm down, listen to me. You're going to walk down a block, then make a right between the buildings. You'll see a jeep and two soldiers. Tell them Briggs sent you." Roger stammered out a "thank you" and began to run off in the direction the Lieutenant pointed.
"Wait. What was your name? I'll radio ahead so they know you're coming."
"Roger. My name's Roger."
As he sprinted off in the distance, the darkness engulfed him.
******************
"There. There he is. Look- see on top of that building? Save that image. Yes. Now analyze the memory. See if we can get a detail on his face. I'm going to revive him."
Roger felt the psychic's hand slide out of his forehead, sending exhaustion throughout his body. He gasped, sucking for a lung-full of air. The room swirled around him, and he felt the chill of the air conditioning on his sweaty skin. The psychic mentioned something about water, food, and rest being necessary before they could move on. Roger had been up for the past sixty hours, and if they probed his memory any longer his body would completely shut down. Great, he thought.
The assistant, Anne, walked over and was lifting Roger up by putting his arm around her shoulder. Roger felt weak, in a wild, almost drug-induced daze. But he could make out his surroundings. There was a row of computer monitors on one side of the room, a large, glass observation deck behind his leather chair. The psychic had left- it was just Roger, Anne, and the white walls that clawed at his eyes and teased his brain.
Anne led Roger over to a room the size of a small closet, letting him down on a short bed. He eagerly let his head fall into the soft cushion of the pillow, watching Anne place a plate of food on the end-side table. "When you start to feel your appetite come back, eat this. You're going to need it for tomorrow morning." She leaned in towards Roger, pulling the sheets over and tucking him in, and whispered in his ear, "Underneath your pillow is a note. There are cameras- read it after I leave."
Neurons busted and fired in Roger's mind and he barely noticed the door close shut. He struggled to force down as much food as he could, drowning it with a smooth glass of water. He felt the note underneath his pillow- the rough texture of the paper calling him. Pulling the sheets over his head, he pulled the letter out and began to read.
END OF PART 2
What I'm Doing: Listening to Franco's CD
212:
I moved to Philadelphia in August of 2009, and I hadn't been to the East Coast beforehand. Everything was fresh, and frankly, the opposite of little 'ole Gilbert. Recently I had the chance to travel to New York. I loved it- the city was huge, clean, stunning. But before I have to fly back to Phoenix for good, I really wanted to see the capital of the United States of America. In fact, I believed it was mandatory. So I booked a Megabus ticket for May 16th (a Sunday) and followed through. I went to D.C. Below is the account of my journey into the heartland of the world of politics and government.
At 8:45 AM, I met my teammate Law (a.k.a. The Prince) at 30th and Market. The sun seemed to be still rising, and we were both exhausted from the previous day, Serve-a-thon (which was a great success). I wouldn't have wanted anyone other than The Prince to accompany me on my escapade into Washington D.C, for The Prince is the definition of the travel companion- prepped with two fists of knowledge and a third fist of pure creativity. However, Law and I didn't really want to use our normal names for this trip. That was too normal. We wanted to add a new dimension to the adventure- so we went undercover.
I took on the code-name Beau Washington, and The Prince became Andre Hardcastle. Together, we were a pair of recently graduated college students attempting to start a freelance journal entitled Seamus ("Shame-Us") Esquire Magazine. Of course we were journalists. Journalists with a unique eye for the common man- and we asked the whole of D.C questions that detailed love, life, and their wonderful city.
After a short 2.5 hour bus ride, we arrived in a large parking lot near Chinatown. Andre Hardcastle (a.k.a. The Prince a.k.a. Law, my teammate) and I stepped down from the second deck of the Megabus and eagerly stretched our immobile limbs. We shouldered our backpacks, looked left, looked right, then headed off into the city. It wasn't long until we happened to run into the White House.
I would like to say that Beau Washington and Andre Hardcastle (journalists and co-creators of Seamus ("Shame-Us") Esquire Magazine) had a thought-provoking interview with President Barack Obama as he trimmed the hedges of the White House lawn. But that didn't happen. Once we had our share of the tourists and the building itself, Law and I walked into a nearby park. Directly opposite of us, we saw a man who (on first appearance) looked like an African voodoo master. He wasn't wearing anything besides a pair of frayed jean shorts, and his hair was grown out, long, dreaded- and was the color of bleach white. Beside the bench was a tall, wooden staff- and to top it all off, flies seemed to be attracted to his bare chest.
Yep. Andre Hardcastle and Beau Washington moved in for the first interview ever for Seamus ("Shame-Us") Esquire Magazine. I'll admit, we hesitated a little bit.
We quickly learned that our first assumption of the man was incorrect. He wasn't an African voodoo master- nor was he crazy. The man was a gem and a genius. His name was Elijah A. Alexander Jr. (a.k.a. "Nature-Boy"). After properly introducing ourselves, we asked Elijah what his definition of power was. He replied:
EA: "Understanding the duality of the planes of existence and the use of true opposites. This is the definition of power. What's the opposite of black? White. What's the opposite of red? Green. What's the opposite of good? Evil. Once we comprehend those opposites, we can handle and wield power. This also includes such abstracts as miracles."
The Prince and I nodded, soaking in his information and writing it down on notepads. We followed up with a couple more questions, and eventually asked about his appearance. The Prince asked him about his hairstyle, and Elijah responded:
EA: "I haven't combed, nor cut my hair since December 31st, 1977."
To conclude the conversation, we each shoot his hand and wished him a good day. As we turned to leave, he interjected:
EA: "I can't have a good day, because in order to have a good day I would have to have a bad one to compare it to. Instead, I just enjoy my day."
What a wise man. Since Elijah said this, I have restrained myself from telling someone to have a "good day," but to rather enjoy it. As Law and I left the park, we knew that we were definitely going to have a blast. This adventure was going to go down in the history books as one of the better Sundays of 2010. At the very least it was going to be very hard to beat.
Check out Nature Boy: Homepage , Video
From the park outside the White House, we walked straight down to the Washington Monument. I stood next to it, touching the cold stone of its exterior, and looked straight up. It felt like it was a wall stretching forever and ever. It is always nice to be humbled by such large, man-made objects.
Leaving the giant, tourist infested pillar, Law and I trekked toward the Lincoln Memorial. But on our way, we had to stop off for another interview.
Andre Hardcastle took the lead, jumping off a ledge and back onto the sidewalk. He strutted over to a woman manning an ice-cream kiosk, and began giving her our spheal. The, "we're journalists asking questions for Seamus (Shame-Us) Esquire Magazine" spheal. For some reason, she wasn't responding to us. Maybe she was ignoring us. But from behind us, another woman said, "She doesn't speak English. She's from Nepal."
Oh.
Beau Washington and Andre Hardcastle are the toughest of all journalists. We never give up. We couldn't walked away, knocked off our rockers a bit. But instead, we turned on our heels to the other lady. Her name was Jury, and she also worked at the ice-cream kiosk.
We asked Jury why the area around the Washington Monument was called the National Mall. As far as we knew, there wasn't anywhere to shop for clothes. No PacSun, Macy's, Hollister- just lots and lots of monuments and memorials. She wasn't sure, and together we contemplated the ways that the area could be called a mall, yet sell no clothes or other items a mall usually sells.
A man eventually rode up in a four-wheel John Deer tractor that looked like a convertible golf cart. He was middle-aged, and wielded the fierce name of Leon. He joined in our discussion, and eventually we came to a conclusion.
The term "National Mall" uses the root term "mall" as a form of a giant museum. A mall doesn't necessarily mean a place to buy clothes or items, but rather an area where one can go place to place (like store to store, or museum to museum).
Satisfied, The Prince and I moved on with empty stomachs to visit Old Abe. It was approaching 2:00 PM, and after we saw the 16th President. His statue stood up to his reputation, and if there were less people about, it would have seemed oddly peaceful.
We trekked back the way we came- past the drained reflection pool, WWII memorial, and Washington Monument. Once we reached the Smithsonian we could hop on the D.C. Metro, which would take us back into the city- where we could get some mad tasty grub.
At the Metro, The Prince and I weren't too sure how to proceed. We laughed a bit at the Metro's "I'm better than all other public transportation system" signs, then decided to ask an employee about what we should do and where we should go. After providing our usual introduction, we each shook hands with a worker named Berly. He was a genuine, honest dude.
Berly hooked us up, giving us a tour of the Smithsonian Metro station. He may have thought we were celebrities, but I think he was just a very nice, devoted guy. As we progressed through our short tour, I realized how incredible D.C. subways are. They're amazing, and a true sight to behold. For lack of a better description to compare D.C subways to Philly subways, I have to say that "SEPTA be drawlin'."
Safely on the subway heading toward the D.C Zoo through a payment of the exact fare, The Prince and I were awestruck by the smooth, incredibly fast ride. We arrived in what seemed like seconds, standing in the station that Berly suggested for some pretty decent food.
The stop for the Zoo is fascinating because of one thing: its escalators. Law and I physically stopped moving when we caught sight of the Mount Everest of moving staircases, and both our mouths hung on the clean, pristine floor of the station as normal, everyday citizens strolled by as if it was another piece of the blue sky.
The light at the end of the tunnel finally appeared, and the sound of South American instrumental music blasted into the subway. My ears perked a bit, and I found out the source. It was a man playing a flute hooked up to a microphone and two loudspeakers. He was good- and reminded me of the South Park Peruvian flute bands. I wasn't sure if he was from Peru, but I told I promised myself that if he was still there after we had lunch, I would buy his CD.
Law and I quickly found a place to eat. The restaurant was called Petits Plats, and was an Italian/French hybrid. Our waitress, Ohka, seemed to be in a rush (or possibly very shy), so we spared her an interview. The Prince ordered a bangin' seafood salad and cranberry juice, while I ordered a sly peperoni pizza. We figured we might as well feast a bit, since it isn't every day that we explore D.C.
South American music still flooded the area around the entrance to the subway, so I approached him and entered a discussion. His name was Franco, and he was from Bolivia. He had been living in America for the past sixteen years and loved the place. However, there was nothing that he loved more than playing music. I fulfilled my promise and snagged one of his CDs, then Law and I were off. It was time to bounce this sweet city and head back to home base.
Secured in a couple of seats on the second level of the Megabus, we recounted our day. It started off great, and ended with a bang. And, we were actually going to make it back to Philly at a reasonable time. It was a "pat yourself on the back" moment.
The adventure to and from Washington D.C. was awesome. I enjoyed the city and admired every unique aspect it had. It far exceeded my expectations and what I've seen through books and the internet, and I'm glad I made the time to visit. Thanks to my teammate Law, for providing the back-up. Everyone should wish the man luck- he's moving from Philly to L.A next year, after all.
I'll leave this one with a fitting quote.
"A slender acquaintance with the world must convince every man that actions, not words, are the true criterion of the attachment of friends." ~ George Washington
Look out for a comics section to replace the creative works.
-TWO-12
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