1/5/14 - "Tales of the Unexplained"
Blogger's Note: **SPOILER ALERT** If you haven't read "Alanaka", do not proceed. Go read it right now! And, then join us for discussion time.
I am torn between pride and disappointment right now. I am very happy that everyone enjoyed the girl that bombarded my mind for over a week, but I'm just a touch disappointed that I may have failed to deliver the message that I was shooting for. I think the problem lies in the fact that I didn't exactly share what inspired our eleven-year-old great-great-great-great granddaughter (I think that's the right number of great's).
The advice I had been given that inspired last week's episode was simply to preserve my writings. I was told that even if I'm never published that someday my children or my children's children might someday find joy and comfort reading some of my "works". It was suggested that I print all my stories and keep them "nice and neat" in a binder, because "you just can't trust computers". So, I did. It was also suggested that I write some things in my own handwriting, because it's nice to see and feel the words that I have actually touched. To see the changes of words by reading through the marked-out phrases opens a window to the creative process.
I followed that advice. I printed everything. I bought a big, red binder, and I stored them all "nice and neat".
And, then, I got to fantasizing. About my grandchildren that might read this. And their children. And maybe even their children. And I followed that line until I discovered Alanaka.
So, you see, the point of the story was simply, in the end, that Alanaka read my words. She validated me. Of course, I tried to deliver this message in a clever, fun, futuristic setting. But, I had no plans for Alanaka once I finished that one-shot. Keep in mind that she read "Parenting with Lightsabers" in its entirety. I was trying to wrap a mystery within a mystery. Anything that was left unresolved in the story will surely be explained eventually.
Now, before you start rioting, let me finish by saying that once I left her sitting in that blue halo of PIB light in a lonely attic during a feisty Tantrum, I knew I hadn't seen the last of her. You see, Alanaka isn't the type of girl to make "regular" appearances. She's the type of girl that pokes her head into an attic hatch when no one is expecting her. She likes to snap her head around when someone calls to her so that her hair flares out and falls across he face dramatically as she looks at you. She's a ball of kinetic energy making every conscious effort to appear calm, because she doesn't let people know that she's nervous. And, when it's time, she won't wait to be invited. She'll tiptoe into our world like a Christmas mouse searching for a scrap of food in the soft glow of pastel light. And, maybe, just maybe, she will find something. But don't worry. She's safe in a future where no one can even be hurt. Right?
Ok, on to business. I created a "fan" page on Facebook today. I was really excited at all the support I got immediately upon launch. If you'd like to join us, you can like it here. I have some plans coming in a week or two for that page, but, first, I want to make sure that everybody that wants to be in there is. So, please "like" it if you haven't already. Also, please feel free to use that page to discuss features/ask questions/offer ideas/offer CONSTRUCTIVE criticism. I usually get my feedback from my co-workers, because that's who I see everday. I'd love to hear from everyone else as well.
And, finally, on to today's episode.
It's another Flashback episode. Only this time, I decided to keep it simple for some reasons I'll share with you. First, I needed a break from some heavy thinking; today's feature is pretty straight-forward. My brain muscles flexed a little too much during "Alanaka", but I promise to give them another good workout next week. Second, I haven't really been enjoying the Flashback episodes. I liked writing "A Series of Unfortunate Events", but I felt pressured a little. I've had two messages from people that felt like I should have included them in some of my stories. I suppose I should be flattered. But I'm not. I write what's on my mind. If that doesn't include you, I'm sorry. I'm not a bad person. I just wasn't thinking about you. Shit like that sure takes the fun out of it for me. Now I'm over-thinking these Flashback episodes and wondering what kind of feedback I might get if I include this person or if I don't include that person. That's just stressful to me, especially considering the Flashback episode I've had brewing in my brain for some time now.
So, I called up a couple of my old school friends. Jeremy told me to just write what I felt like writing, don't worry about offending people. You'll never make everyone happy. He had just about tipped the scales enough for me to proceed, but I still couldn't "throttle down" like I wanted to. So, I called my other old school friend, Damon. He told me about a Snoopy cartoon he had seen once.
Snoopy was going around helping old ladies cross the street, giving food to the homeless, and performing all sorts of good Samaritan deeds. But, when he got home, he was scolded for being "a bad dog" (perhaps for being gone for so long, or for getting dirty, or who-knows-what). The point was that "you'll never please everyone".
I'm ready and willing to touch on some of my high school years in these Flashback episodes. But, to do so, I'm going to have to be real. These were some of the best years of my life, and I have a river of stories that are worth telling. If you are easily offended, please, do us both a favor, and quit reading this blog. It's only going to get worse. In a couple of weeks, I'm gonna open this bitch up. You are being warned right now.
One last thing and then we'll get started. I had planned on making this a Halloween special. But as I started brainstorming the next Flashback episode, I realized that it might be easier if I introduced a couple of characters and places in increments. I'd like you to meet one of my friends today. He'll have some future cameo appearances, so it's better if you just go ahead and get introduced properly.
This episode is three stories spread across my youth of the strangest and most unexplained things that I have seen in my lifetime. Unlike most episodes, I promise that I will not exaggerate or embellish anything in any way whatsoever. I am going to explain these events exactly as I remember them. And I hope you'll believe me, because these are true stories. They are ordered from the least strange to the strangest (although I really had to decide between the second and third one which was the strangest). But, please note that these are not in chronological order. I will try to approximate my age, but I don't remember exactly how old I was in a couple of these...
I landed my first "regular paycheck" job just after I had turned sixteen. I was making $3.35 an hour (minimum wage at the time) working at a Chinese restaurant by the name of Chong's on Jackson Street in Paducah, KY. I don't think I'll ever forget my first real job.
I washed dishes along with a motley crew of punk, long-haired teenagers that would take regular breaks out the back door for a cool cigarette. Franklin, an elderly black man that lived in one of the houses on the other side of the alley, would often see us standing out there. He'd stagger up to us smelling like whiskey and never making eye contact. I would come to know Franklin quite well; and, in the time that we became acquainted, I don't think he ever once made eye contact with me - which was fine, because he was always so drunk that he made me nervous.
He would always begin with a loud whisper, "hey." Usually, at first, we'd be too caught up in conversation to acknowledge him.
"Hey." He'd say it slightly louder and with a tad more emphasis. When he'd at last have our attention, he'd wave us over to him. Most of the dishwashers would just ignore him, but I couldn't be rude, no matter how drunk he might be. I was usually the one that would nervously amble over to him, uncertain if I should act respectful to an elder or posture some fabricated confidence lest he suggest I owe him something.
Franklin would always start off by throwing his arm over my shoulder. He'd sway me as I tried to turn away from the choking smell of heavy whisky and menthol cigarettes.
"You want some beer, boy?" he'd always ask me. "I'll buy you some beer if you want some."
I had just turned sixteen. I think I may have tasted beer, but I had certainly never drank a whole one. I struggled for a way to tell him 'no thank you' without upsetting him. Ironically, in just a few months, I'd be struggling for a way to communicate my "order" so that he'd get it right.
"Give me twenty dollars, and I'll get you some beer," Franklin would propose. Occasionally, some of the dishwashers would take him up on the offer; eventually, I would as well. But not in this story.
I was the youngest employee, so I was usually tasked with the job that no one else wanted to do. That job was usually to restock the washed dishes. I'd jet from one side of the restaurant to the other with a stack of bowls or a rack of glasses or a giant wok. The expeditious nature of this duty got me quite acquainted with all the various people that worked there, from the servers to the cooks.
One particular cook was quite friendly. He was a middle-aged, Asian fella that always smiled and talked to me. One night, he asked me what my name was.
"Duane," I responded.
He turned to the choir of cooks behind him and started laughing. He said something in Chinese that sounded something like, "winx chi un yun ti ji Duane!" And, then everyone of them just started laughing hysterically.
After that, every time he saw me, he'd say "Duane!" and nudge one of his co-workers, and they'd both just burst into laughter.
I'd work three nights a week. I'd go in around four in the afternoon and get off around midnight. And that's when this story unfolds.
You see, as I already stated, I had just turned sixteen. I was still a little new to driving and maybe even a little wet behind the ears. We lived out in the country, and the quickest way home was going down Pell Cemetery Road where, of course, there was a cemetery. Actually, this was the same cemetery where my father was buried, but that's beside the point.
The point is, sometimes, driving by the cemetery at my young age and that late at night was, well, scary. Sometimes, I'd even take the longer route and head down the highway and up Unity School Road just to avoid that creepy, late-night cemetery.
But, on one particular night, I didn't take the long way home.
And, right about the time that I started to pass Pell Cemetery, I looked up in the sky to find the strangest triangle of lights that seemed to be hovering there. So, I did what any scared, sixteen-year-old would do in such a situation. I floored it.
And the lights seemed to follow me. They seemed to stay just above the tree tops, and they seemed to keep pace with me. At last, when I had gotten to the stop sign at Unity School Road, they drifted over Moler's Woods and out of sight.
At home, I ran inside. Panicky and excited, I told my mom what I had seen. I must admit I was a touch surprised that she believed every word. And, now, she wanted me to drive her back to the cemetery to see if we could rediscover these lights. She instructed my thirteen-year-old brother to keep an eye on our four-year-old sister Amanda while we drove out there.
So, she climbed in the passenger seat and away we went.
Sure enough, no sooner than we arrived at the cemetery, the lights returned. "What is that?" Mom asked. To which I replied that I, of course, didn't know. Without asking permission, I turned the car around and quickly drove back home.
And, again, the lights seemed to follow us. And, again, they drifted out of sight just over Moler's Woods.
To this day, I don't know if it was airplane lights that maybe just had a trick of perspective or if it was a helicopter pilot that was just fucking with us or if it was, indeed, a visitor from Planet X...
I think I must have been about eight. At the time, Paducah had two drive-in theaters. One stood on the Southside; I don't remember its name. The other one stood just past K-Mart in Lone Oak and was called the Paducah Drive-In. It was my favorite.
I'm not sure what the large structure that the screen was mounted to was made of. I had always assumed that it was concrete (it may have been, I still don't know). What I do know is that, from the road, it appeared proud and enchanting. At the ticket booth, our open windows invited the sounds of humming neon and engines idling and popping gravel beneath our tires. My favorite part of the whole experience was how the worn road twisted this way and that way until it filed into the rows of cars waiting to watch the feature presentation. I don't know if there were people that could resist the wafting smell of popcorn that would always greet us, but if there were, I don't think I could respect them. I think I'd feel sorry for them.
We went there often in those days. We would pull up beside one of the poles that the speakers were attached to. The audio was always so wonderfully horrible. Mom sat in the driver's seat; I sat in the passenger seat; and, my brother would stand between us in the back seat. We would tilt our heads and quietly listen to the magic that was being transmitted. We didn't have pause or rewind in those days, so listening was a fragile parcel that we'd handle with care.
In the middle of the lot, a small, brick building housed the projector. I always preferred to park between this building and the screen so that I could see the ray of projector light beam its illusions. Sometimes, if I'd lose my interest in the movie's plot, I'd stare at that flickering light. Unlike many people, I liked it when someone would interrupt the light's current and cast the shadow of a bobbing head on to the screen. I felt like it somehow divulged the science to the whole process.
On this particular night, the last breath of daylight had just retreated, giving even more cadence to the neon's buzzing radiance. "What are they doing?" Mom had said. It broke the trance that the movie had on me; I'll admit that I don't remember what it was we had been watching that night. I turned to look at the projector light; it was the only thing that I could think of that might captivate her.
"I think your dad told me what that was once," Mom ruminated. I remember thinking, 'C'mon, Mom, it's the light from the projector. You should know that!'
But, then, I noticed that something was catching the interest of a couple of others around us. In fact, a handful of people were getting out of their cars and looking up in the air. I began to realize that it wasn't the projector light that had caught my mother's attention. I wanted to know what was going on; so, I, too, poked my head out the window and looked straight up into the cloudless, night sky.
Directly overhead, the object of everyone's attention seemed to be the stars. Why was everyone... wait!
Then, I saw it. Three stars were dancing in the sky. I don't mean three lights. I mean stars. They looked exactly like stars. I mean exactly. And they were spinning randomly this way and that way at dizzying speeds. We watched them for quite a while, until we finally just grew bored of watching them and returned our attention to the movie.
To this day, I don't know what those "dancing stars" could have been.
From about ages 12-14, my best friend was Neidermyer.
Maybe we always called him by his last name because it was such an interesting last name. Or maybe because he was such an interesting character that he deserved to be called by his last name.
He lived just on the other side of Unity School from me in the creepiest house that I have ever been in. I spent the night there all the time, and we'd stay up late playing video games or talking about the secrets to the universe or blending together all kinds of random ingredients in the kitchen in the hopes of making something extraordinarily delicious. I have a book of Neidermyer stories that I'll have to share with you sometime.
If I have ever been in a haunted house, then it would have to be his house. He had a room in the basement that you couldn't even get to. With a flashlight and a mirror, you could peek over the existing wall into this empty room that had a couple of crushed beer cans and a flattened cigarette pack in it. I thought it was creepy just to see into that room; I was always afraid when I looked into the mirror that I was going to see something in there that I didn't want to see.
If you climbed the center steps that led upstairs, you could turn left to go to his older brother's room, or you could go right to go to his room. That's where we stayed most of the time. He had a Commodore 64 and all kinds of cool games to go with it. His computer desk sat in a little alcove by the upstairs window. We would both sit in chairs in front of his closet. The closet door was only waist high, and it had a latch on it that would make it impossible to open without turning the knob. You could go through this closet to the garage via a small, crawl space in the back. We actually did this once to see if you, indeed, could. I couldn't tell you how many times that closet door would open by itself and stop on the back of my chair. We'd always freak out and run downstairs. Then, after we'd settle down and muster some courage, we'd return. We'd close the door, making triple sure that it had latched, and resume our night of video games. And, then, an hour or so later, sure enough, that door would, again, open.
Neidermyer would tell me scary stories of hearing a loud crash and the sound of shattered glass from his brother's room while he was home alone. Upon inspection, he would find a picture on the opposite side of the room from where it had been hanging, now broken and shattered. I never witnessed this particular event myself, but Neidermyer wasn't one that I had caught in a lie very often. Maybe never.
He had an older tape deck that could play cassette tapes backwards. I couldn't tell you how many times he'd play a cassette backwards trying to discern a Satanic message from some unfamiliar audio. Neidermyer was an avid church-goer, as was I; but, we had a fascination with proving the existence of the unknown during our preteen years. The thing about playing something backwards is that, no matter what it is, it sounds creepy. You could throw in Big Bird's Funtime Merry Songs; and, the moment you play it backwards, it takes on an unusual and ominous peculiarity. And, once, we did find something rather strange.
It was Prince. I think it was the same album that "Purple Rain" was on, and it was near the end of the track. A creepy-as-hell voice sounded very much like it was saying 'I am Satan' and laughing. He played it over and over; and even his brother was impressed at the freakish sound. I was, simply put, scared shitless. I wanted to go home, but you had to walk across this field in the middle of the night to get to my house from his house. And I sure as hell wasn't going to do that.
We'd also play this game that we'd play all the time. We would try to test our psychic ability. We would get a pencil and some paper, and I would write a number between 1-100 on it. Then, he would try to guess it. Then, it was my turn. He'd write a number down, and I'd try to guess it. Sometimes, when we would go exploring in a field or along a forgotten stretch of railroad track or down a simple, country road, we'd play this game. Even if we didn't have paper. We trusted each other. To tell you the truth, we rarely guessed the number correctly.
Except once.
One night, Neidermyer's parents had gone out. They had gone out with the parents of some other friends of ours, Matthew and Jessica. Also, another neighborhood friend of ours had decided to join us in a household filled with kids of a similar age. His name was Andy. So, to be clear, gathered in Neidermyer's house at roughly 9pm this particular night was myself, Andy, Matthew, his sister Jessica, and, of course, Neidermyer himself.
We sat around most of the night trading stories or jokes, but mostly we were just trying to impress Jessica. She was a couple of years younger than me, very sweet, not unattractive, and the only girl in the room.
Neidermyer decided that it would be fun to test our psychic ability as a group.
At first, Jessica didn't want to. She was a sweet girl that went to church every Sunday. The proposal sounded spooky. But, Andy and Matthew had never played this game before, and they were interested in trying it out. They, at last, convinced her to give it a try.
Neidermyer grabbed enough pencils and scraps of paper for everyone. After passing them out, he explained to the newcomers how the "game" was played. Simply guess a number between 1-100 and write it down on your paper. He would think of a number, and, on the count of three, we would all reveal our numbers at the same time.
After several rounds, nobody even got lucky, and the game was starting to get boring.
"Let's try a number between one and a thousand," I suggested.
"We can't even get a number between one and a hundred, and you want to try a thousand," Andy protested.
"Oh, come on, let's try it just once," I encouraged.
"Yeah, let's try it," Neidermyer agreed.
"Nah, let's just stick with one to a hundred," Jessica politely declined.
"Maybe we could do it once," Matthew proposed.
"We'll go back to the way we'd been doing it," Neidermyer stated.
And, that's where I got confused. I thought he meant that we were about to try to guess a number between one and a thousand, but we would go back to revealing our numbers on the count of three. What he meant, and what everyone besides me understood, was that we were going to go back to guessing numbers between one and a hundred.
"Ok, I've got a number," Neidermyer informed. We all nodded and readied our pencils. "Ok, write it down and on the count of three reveal it."
"One..."
"Two..."
"Three..."
We each turned over our papers. We all looked around at each other's numbers. Neidermyer revealed his number, which was 72. Jessica had 72. Matthew had 72. Andy had 72. I was the only person that had it slightly wrong, because I thought we were trying a number between one and a thousand. I had 742.
The lights in the whole house flickered four distinct times.
We jumped out of our chairs and got outside as quickly as we possibly could, scrambling over one another. We stayed out there for nearly three hours until the parents got home. We didn't tell them what happened., because we didn't want them to think that we were delving into the occult. We told them that we were just outside talking.
But we never played that game again.
-- if you'd like to read another Flashback episode, then check out "The Mad Dog Shack"
Blogger's Note: **SPOILER ALERT** If you haven't read "Alanaka", do not proceed. Go read it right now! And, then join us for discussion time.
I am torn between pride and disappointment right now. I am very happy that everyone enjoyed the girl that bombarded my mind for over a week, but I'm just a touch disappointed that I may have failed to deliver the message that I was shooting for. I think the problem lies in the fact that I didn't exactly share what inspired our eleven-year-old great-great-great-great granddaughter (I think that's the right number of great's).
The advice I had been given that inspired last week's episode was simply to preserve my writings. I was told that even if I'm never published that someday my children or my children's children might someday find joy and comfort reading some of my "works". It was suggested that I print all my stories and keep them "nice and neat" in a binder, because "you just can't trust computers". So, I did. It was also suggested that I write some things in my own handwriting, because it's nice to see and feel the words that I have actually touched. To see the changes of words by reading through the marked-out phrases opens a window to the creative process.
I followed that advice. I printed everything. I bought a big, red binder, and I stored them all "nice and neat".
And, then, I got to fantasizing. About my grandchildren that might read this. And their children. And maybe even their children. And I followed that line until I discovered Alanaka.
So, you see, the point of the story was simply, in the end, that Alanaka read my words. She validated me. Of course, I tried to deliver this message in a clever, fun, futuristic setting. But, I had no plans for Alanaka once I finished that one-shot. Keep in mind that she read "Parenting with Lightsabers" in its entirety. I was trying to wrap a mystery within a mystery. Anything that was left unresolved in the story will surely be explained eventually.
Now, before you start rioting, let me finish by saying that once I left her sitting in that blue halo of PIB light in a lonely attic during a feisty Tantrum, I knew I hadn't seen the last of her. You see, Alanaka isn't the type of girl to make "regular" appearances. She's the type of girl that pokes her head into an attic hatch when no one is expecting her. She likes to snap her head around when someone calls to her so that her hair flares out and falls across he face dramatically as she looks at you. She's a ball of kinetic energy making every conscious effort to appear calm, because she doesn't let people know that she's nervous. And, when it's time, she won't wait to be invited. She'll tiptoe into our world like a Christmas mouse searching for a scrap of food in the soft glow of pastel light. And, maybe, just maybe, she will find something. But don't worry. She's safe in a future where no one can even be hurt. Right?
Ok, on to business. I created a "fan" page on Facebook today. I was really excited at all the support I got immediately upon launch. If you'd like to join us, you can like it here. I have some plans coming in a week or two for that page, but, first, I want to make sure that everybody that wants to be in there is. So, please "like" it if you haven't already. Also, please feel free to use that page to discuss features/ask questions/offer ideas/offer CONSTRUCTIVE criticism. I usually get my feedback from my co-workers, because that's who I see everday. I'd love to hear from everyone else as well.
And, finally, on to today's episode.
It's another Flashback episode. Only this time, I decided to keep it simple for some reasons I'll share with you. First, I needed a break from some heavy thinking; today's feature is pretty straight-forward. My brain muscles flexed a little too much during "Alanaka", but I promise to give them another good workout next week. Second, I haven't really been enjoying the Flashback episodes. I liked writing "A Series of Unfortunate Events", but I felt pressured a little. I've had two messages from people that felt like I should have included them in some of my stories. I suppose I should be flattered. But I'm not. I write what's on my mind. If that doesn't include you, I'm sorry. I'm not a bad person. I just wasn't thinking about you. Shit like that sure takes the fun out of it for me. Now I'm over-thinking these Flashback episodes and wondering what kind of feedback I might get if I include this person or if I don't include that person. That's just stressful to me, especially considering the Flashback episode I've had brewing in my brain for some time now.
So, I called up a couple of my old school friends. Jeremy told me to just write what I felt like writing, don't worry about offending people. You'll never make everyone happy. He had just about tipped the scales enough for me to proceed, but I still couldn't "throttle down" like I wanted to. So, I called my other old school friend, Damon. He told me about a Snoopy cartoon he had seen once.
Snoopy was going around helping old ladies cross the street, giving food to the homeless, and performing all sorts of good Samaritan deeds. But, when he got home, he was scolded for being "a bad dog" (perhaps for being gone for so long, or for getting dirty, or who-knows-what). The point was that "you'll never please everyone".
I'm ready and willing to touch on some of my high school years in these Flashback episodes. But, to do so, I'm going to have to be real. These were some of the best years of my life, and I have a river of stories that are worth telling. If you are easily offended, please, do us both a favor, and quit reading this blog. It's only going to get worse. In a couple of weeks, I'm gonna open this bitch up. You are being warned right now.
One last thing and then we'll get started. I had planned on making this a Halloween special. But as I started brainstorming the next Flashback episode, I realized that it might be easier if I introduced a couple of characters and places in increments. I'd like you to meet one of my friends today. He'll have some future cameo appearances, so it's better if you just go ahead and get introduced properly.
This episode is three stories spread across my youth of the strangest and most unexplained things that I have seen in my lifetime. Unlike most episodes, I promise that I will not exaggerate or embellish anything in any way whatsoever. I am going to explain these events exactly as I remember them. And I hope you'll believe me, because these are true stories. They are ordered from the least strange to the strangest (although I really had to decide between the second and third one which was the strangest). But, please note that these are not in chronological order. I will try to approximate my age, but I don't remember exactly how old I was in a couple of these...
I landed my first "regular paycheck" job just after I had turned sixteen. I was making $3.35 an hour (minimum wage at the time) working at a Chinese restaurant by the name of Chong's on Jackson Street in Paducah, KY. I don't think I'll ever forget my first real job.
I washed dishes along with a motley crew of punk, long-haired teenagers that would take regular breaks out the back door for a cool cigarette. Franklin, an elderly black man that lived in one of the houses on the other side of the alley, would often see us standing out there. He'd stagger up to us smelling like whiskey and never making eye contact. I would come to know Franklin quite well; and, in the time that we became acquainted, I don't think he ever once made eye contact with me - which was fine, because he was always so drunk that he made me nervous.
He would always begin with a loud whisper, "hey." Usually, at first, we'd be too caught up in conversation to acknowledge him.
"Hey." He'd say it slightly louder and with a tad more emphasis. When he'd at last have our attention, he'd wave us over to him. Most of the dishwashers would just ignore him, but I couldn't be rude, no matter how drunk he might be. I was usually the one that would nervously amble over to him, uncertain if I should act respectful to an elder or posture some fabricated confidence lest he suggest I owe him something.
Franklin would always start off by throwing his arm over my shoulder. He'd sway me as I tried to turn away from the choking smell of heavy whisky and menthol cigarettes.
"You want some beer, boy?" he'd always ask me. "I'll buy you some beer if you want some."
I had just turned sixteen. I think I may have tasted beer, but I had certainly never drank a whole one. I struggled for a way to tell him 'no thank you' without upsetting him. Ironically, in just a few months, I'd be struggling for a way to communicate my "order" so that he'd get it right.
"Give me twenty dollars, and I'll get you some beer," Franklin would propose. Occasionally, some of the dishwashers would take him up on the offer; eventually, I would as well. But not in this story.
I was the youngest employee, so I was usually tasked with the job that no one else wanted to do. That job was usually to restock the washed dishes. I'd jet from one side of the restaurant to the other with a stack of bowls or a rack of glasses or a giant wok. The expeditious nature of this duty got me quite acquainted with all the various people that worked there, from the servers to the cooks.
One particular cook was quite friendly. He was a middle-aged, Asian fella that always smiled and talked to me. One night, he asked me what my name was.
"Duane," I responded.
He turned to the choir of cooks behind him and started laughing. He said something in Chinese that sounded something like, "winx chi un yun ti ji Duane!" And, then everyone of them just started laughing hysterically.
After that, every time he saw me, he'd say "Duane!" and nudge one of his co-workers, and they'd both just burst into laughter.
I'd work three nights a week. I'd go in around four in the afternoon and get off around midnight. And that's when this story unfolds.
You see, as I already stated, I had just turned sixteen. I was still a little new to driving and maybe even a little wet behind the ears. We lived out in the country, and the quickest way home was going down Pell Cemetery Road where, of course, there was a cemetery. Actually, this was the same cemetery where my father was buried, but that's beside the point.
The point is, sometimes, driving by the cemetery at my young age and that late at night was, well, scary. Sometimes, I'd even take the longer route and head down the highway and up Unity School Road just to avoid that creepy, late-night cemetery.
But, on one particular night, I didn't take the long way home.
And, right about the time that I started to pass Pell Cemetery, I looked up in the sky to find the strangest triangle of lights that seemed to be hovering there. So, I did what any scared, sixteen-year-old would do in such a situation. I floored it.
And the lights seemed to follow me. They seemed to stay just above the tree tops, and they seemed to keep pace with me. At last, when I had gotten to the stop sign at Unity School Road, they drifted over Moler's Woods and out of sight.
At home, I ran inside. Panicky and excited, I told my mom what I had seen. I must admit I was a touch surprised that she believed every word. And, now, she wanted me to drive her back to the cemetery to see if we could rediscover these lights. She instructed my thirteen-year-old brother to keep an eye on our four-year-old sister Amanda while we drove out there.
So, she climbed in the passenger seat and away we went.
Sure enough, no sooner than we arrived at the cemetery, the lights returned. "What is that?" Mom asked. To which I replied that I, of course, didn't know. Without asking permission, I turned the car around and quickly drove back home.
And, again, the lights seemed to follow us. And, again, they drifted out of sight just over Moler's Woods.
To this day, I don't know if it was airplane lights that maybe just had a trick of perspective or if it was a helicopter pilot that was just fucking with us or if it was, indeed, a visitor from Planet X...
I think I must have been about eight. At the time, Paducah had two drive-in theaters. One stood on the Southside; I don't remember its name. The other one stood just past K-Mart in Lone Oak and was called the Paducah Drive-In. It was my favorite.
I'm not sure what the large structure that the screen was mounted to was made of. I had always assumed that it was concrete (it may have been, I still don't know). What I do know is that, from the road, it appeared proud and enchanting. At the ticket booth, our open windows invited the sounds of humming neon and engines idling and popping gravel beneath our tires. My favorite part of the whole experience was how the worn road twisted this way and that way until it filed into the rows of cars waiting to watch the feature presentation. I don't know if there were people that could resist the wafting smell of popcorn that would always greet us, but if there were, I don't think I could respect them. I think I'd feel sorry for them.
We went there often in those days. We would pull up beside one of the poles that the speakers were attached to. The audio was always so wonderfully horrible. Mom sat in the driver's seat; I sat in the passenger seat; and, my brother would stand between us in the back seat. We would tilt our heads and quietly listen to the magic that was being transmitted. We didn't have pause or rewind in those days, so listening was a fragile parcel that we'd handle with care.
In the middle of the lot, a small, brick building housed the projector. I always preferred to park between this building and the screen so that I could see the ray of projector light beam its illusions. Sometimes, if I'd lose my interest in the movie's plot, I'd stare at that flickering light. Unlike many people, I liked it when someone would interrupt the light's current and cast the shadow of a bobbing head on to the screen. I felt like it somehow divulged the science to the whole process.
On this particular night, the last breath of daylight had just retreated, giving even more cadence to the neon's buzzing radiance. "What are they doing?" Mom had said. It broke the trance that the movie had on me; I'll admit that I don't remember what it was we had been watching that night. I turned to look at the projector light; it was the only thing that I could think of that might captivate her.
"I think your dad told me what that was once," Mom ruminated. I remember thinking, 'C'mon, Mom, it's the light from the projector. You should know that!'
But, then, I noticed that something was catching the interest of a couple of others around us. In fact, a handful of people were getting out of their cars and looking up in the air. I began to realize that it wasn't the projector light that had caught my mother's attention. I wanted to know what was going on; so, I, too, poked my head out the window and looked straight up into the cloudless, night sky.
Directly overhead, the object of everyone's attention seemed to be the stars. Why was everyone... wait!
Then, I saw it. Three stars were dancing in the sky. I don't mean three lights. I mean stars. They looked exactly like stars. I mean exactly. And they were spinning randomly this way and that way at dizzying speeds. We watched them for quite a while, until we finally just grew bored of watching them and returned our attention to the movie.
To this day, I don't know what those "dancing stars" could have been.
From about ages 12-14, my best friend was Neidermyer.
Maybe we always called him by his last name because it was such an interesting last name. Or maybe because he was such an interesting character that he deserved to be called by his last name.
He lived just on the other side of Unity School from me in the creepiest house that I have ever been in. I spent the night there all the time, and we'd stay up late playing video games or talking about the secrets to the universe or blending together all kinds of random ingredients in the kitchen in the hopes of making something extraordinarily delicious. I have a book of Neidermyer stories that I'll have to share with you sometime.
If I have ever been in a haunted house, then it would have to be his house. He had a room in the basement that you couldn't even get to. With a flashlight and a mirror, you could peek over the existing wall into this empty room that had a couple of crushed beer cans and a flattened cigarette pack in it. I thought it was creepy just to see into that room; I was always afraid when I looked into the mirror that I was going to see something in there that I didn't want to see.
If you climbed the center steps that led upstairs, you could turn left to go to his older brother's room, or you could go right to go to his room. That's where we stayed most of the time. He had a Commodore 64 and all kinds of cool games to go with it. His computer desk sat in a little alcove by the upstairs window. We would both sit in chairs in front of his closet. The closet door was only waist high, and it had a latch on it that would make it impossible to open without turning the knob. You could go through this closet to the garage via a small, crawl space in the back. We actually did this once to see if you, indeed, could. I couldn't tell you how many times that closet door would open by itself and stop on the back of my chair. We'd always freak out and run downstairs. Then, after we'd settle down and muster some courage, we'd return. We'd close the door, making triple sure that it had latched, and resume our night of video games. And, then, an hour or so later, sure enough, that door would, again, open.
Neidermyer would tell me scary stories of hearing a loud crash and the sound of shattered glass from his brother's room while he was home alone. Upon inspection, he would find a picture on the opposite side of the room from where it had been hanging, now broken and shattered. I never witnessed this particular event myself, but Neidermyer wasn't one that I had caught in a lie very often. Maybe never.
He had an older tape deck that could play cassette tapes backwards. I couldn't tell you how many times he'd play a cassette backwards trying to discern a Satanic message from some unfamiliar audio. Neidermyer was an avid church-goer, as was I; but, we had a fascination with proving the existence of the unknown during our preteen years. The thing about playing something backwards is that, no matter what it is, it sounds creepy. You could throw in Big Bird's Funtime Merry Songs; and, the moment you play it backwards, it takes on an unusual and ominous peculiarity. And, once, we did find something rather strange.
It was Prince. I think it was the same album that "Purple Rain" was on, and it was near the end of the track. A creepy-as-hell voice sounded very much like it was saying 'I am Satan' and laughing. He played it over and over; and even his brother was impressed at the freakish sound. I was, simply put, scared shitless. I wanted to go home, but you had to walk across this field in the middle of the night to get to my house from his house. And I sure as hell wasn't going to do that.
We'd also play this game that we'd play all the time. We would try to test our psychic ability. We would get a pencil and some paper, and I would write a number between 1-100 on it. Then, he would try to guess it. Then, it was my turn. He'd write a number down, and I'd try to guess it. Sometimes, when we would go exploring in a field or along a forgotten stretch of railroad track or down a simple, country road, we'd play this game. Even if we didn't have paper. We trusted each other. To tell you the truth, we rarely guessed the number correctly.
Except once.
One night, Neidermyer's parents had gone out. They had gone out with the parents of some other friends of ours, Matthew and Jessica. Also, another neighborhood friend of ours had decided to join us in a household filled with kids of a similar age. His name was Andy. So, to be clear, gathered in Neidermyer's house at roughly 9pm this particular night was myself, Andy, Matthew, his sister Jessica, and, of course, Neidermyer himself.
We sat around most of the night trading stories or jokes, but mostly we were just trying to impress Jessica. She was a couple of years younger than me, very sweet, not unattractive, and the only girl in the room.
Neidermyer decided that it would be fun to test our psychic ability as a group.
At first, Jessica didn't want to. She was a sweet girl that went to church every Sunday. The proposal sounded spooky. But, Andy and Matthew had never played this game before, and they were interested in trying it out. They, at last, convinced her to give it a try.
Neidermyer grabbed enough pencils and scraps of paper for everyone. After passing them out, he explained to the newcomers how the "game" was played. Simply guess a number between 1-100 and write it down on your paper. He would think of a number, and, on the count of three, we would all reveal our numbers at the same time.
After several rounds, nobody even got lucky, and the game was starting to get boring.
"Let's try a number between one and a thousand," I suggested.
"We can't even get a number between one and a hundred, and you want to try a thousand," Andy protested.
"Oh, come on, let's try it just once," I encouraged.
"Yeah, let's try it," Neidermyer agreed.
"Nah, let's just stick with one to a hundred," Jessica politely declined.
"Maybe we could do it once," Matthew proposed.
"We'll go back to the way we'd been doing it," Neidermyer stated.
And, that's where I got confused. I thought he meant that we were about to try to guess a number between one and a thousand, but we would go back to revealing our numbers on the count of three. What he meant, and what everyone besides me understood, was that we were going to go back to guessing numbers between one and a hundred.
"Ok, I've got a number," Neidermyer informed. We all nodded and readied our pencils. "Ok, write it down and on the count of three reveal it."
"One..."
"Two..."
"Three..."
We each turned over our papers. We all looked around at each other's numbers. Neidermyer revealed his number, which was 72. Jessica had 72. Matthew had 72. Andy had 72. I was the only person that had it slightly wrong, because I thought we were trying a number between one and a thousand. I had 742.
The lights in the whole house flickered four distinct times.
We jumped out of our chairs and got outside as quickly as we possibly could, scrambling over one another. We stayed out there for nearly three hours until the parents got home. We didn't tell them what happened., because we didn't want them to think that we were delving into the occult. We told them that we were just outside talking.
But we never played that game again.
-- if you'd like to read another Flashback episode, then check out "The Mad Dog Shack"
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