Not just another fish tale

I’m crammed into the back of my van in North Petaluma, dozing to the buzz of scanner chatter, when the evening’s first call comes in. I snap awake.

“North Bay Cryptid Watch. What’s your emergency?”

“Vixen, man, that you? It’s Bob, down in Black Point. Somethin’ huge just swam by my boat and went up the river at a clip. Wasn’t no fish; I seen tent-a-kleez and a big, red eye …”

Ugh, it’s Fish Man Bob, with his nightly tale of fantastic weird-ass-ery. “Pop a lude, dude, and quit taking up my bandwidth,” I snap, ending the call. Every evening’s the same with that freak. I don’t want fantasy. I want hard cryptid data.

Fifteen minutes later, a pulsating blip lights up the incident screen and a voice crackles on the radio.

“Vick, this is Petaluma PD dispatch. Henry One’s on assignment and we need your eyes. Incident at the Washington Street bridge.”

I hit some buttons and hear a whiz as my drone levitates off the van’s roof overhead. “Copy that, Petaluma PD. David 6 is inbound.”

I get calls from local police, SWAT, even National Guard, all the time. NBCW is an important local operation. Professionalism is the name of the game. I rub them; they rub me. We rub each other all over and things get done.

Scanner chatter starts up in earnest. Two cars went over the side of the Washington Street bridge and are floating in the river … a crowd is gathered along the promenade … someone is yelling about enormous tentacles waving in the air.

The monitor clicks on; David 6 is on scene. I watch the live feed. Yep, it’s just like they said. Holy crap. What the hell? I dial dispatch. “David 6 is live.”

“Confirming visual,” comes the response. “Two cars floating in the river, a crowd of people screaming from the riverbank. And … uh … seaweed? The cars are covered in seaweed. Maybe a wave washed them into the drink.”

“Uh, yeah,” I say. “Must have been a freak wave. And that King Tide last week could have pushed seaweed up from the Bay.”

“Roger that. We have frogmen and an ambulance en route. Petaluma PD over and out.”

I look at the monitor and notice the tentacle things—I mean seaweed—are gone now. A few more button clicks and the video feed turns off as David 6 heads back home.

Another strange but oddly logical local mishap. One of … hundreds. A few minutes later there’s a whir overhead as David 6 lands on the roof. I nod off. The second call of the night comes in.

“North Bay Cryptid Watch. What’s your emergency?”

“Vicky, man, that you? It’s Bob, in Black Point… that thing came back down the river; it hooked my boat with a tent-a-klee. Oh shit, two more! HELP! I’m takin’ on water. It’s got me! BOAT GOIN’ DOWN!”

“Keep your aquatic fantasies to yourself, freak!” I snap. “Only thing drowning tonight is my patience in your bullshit!” CLICK. Dude must be ultra-starved for attention. Never pulled that level of … desperation … before.

I sigh and double check the door lock. I keep a crossbow and a baseball bat in the van; you never know. Bob’s not the only freak in the North Bay. I hear from others all the time.

Half an hour later, the scanner crackles. Something about boat wreckage and a floater in Black Point. I shake my head. How come Bob didn’t phone in something of actual importance, like that? Then I smile. Hey, if I’m lucky, maybe he hit a rock and it’s him! Then I won’t have to listen to his bullshit ever again.

I lean back in my chair and close my eyes. Six hours till sunup. All these years and I’ve never confirmed an actual Bigfoot yet. Fuck me. But who knows? Maybe tonight’s the night.

Special treatment

The CEO of a prominent local winery sat cross-legged before her, just a few inches off the floor on a hand-sewn satin cushion stuffed with rice and dried aromatic herbs. The dim candlelight did what it could to flatter his face, but she could still make out ruddy splotches and dry areas around his cheeks and forehead. He didn’t mind the rashes, he said, because he was sure that the facemasks were making him more virile at work and home.

Her lip curled in a satisfied smile, invisible to the CEO because her entire face was hidden behind a different sort of mask—a papier mache deer’s head from which jewel-encrusted antlers branched off in all directions, forming a corona.

Last week, she had given him a tiny pouch—the type that a piece of costume jewelry comes in to make it feel like something valuable. Inside the tiny pouch was a tinier note and an unnamed powder. The powder was just some old chipotle and cinnamon from her spice drawer. She had suggested to the CEO that he should open the pouch at exactly 12:34am or pm and heed its instruction. The note advised whomever possessed the pouch to bring himself pleasure, save his emission and mix a pinch of the powder into it, then spread it on his clean face and allow it to dry before washing it carefully with warm water.

The facemasks weren’t making him more virile. They were just irritating his skin.

This was by design. In truth, she loathed the CEO as she loathed every other client she saw at Iconoclast Isle, but she loved her job as the club’s resident astromancer. Disdain lived inside her like a little pilot light in her chest. Making power-hungry men do senseless, stupid things was her fire’s accelerant.

She chose her first name using an online wizard-name generator. She chose the last name “Quixon,” a portmanteau of the surnames Quigley and Dixon, a reference to the astrologers who guided the Reagans and the Nixons. She wondered if Jeane Dixon or Joan Quigley ever purposely sowed minor chaos into the lives of their clients.

The candle’s flame danced across the CEO’s broad face. She peered at him through the eyeholes of her mask, which were covered with little one-way mirrors. She peered at him and he peered at himself. They saw different things, which was okay with her. She didn’t need him or anyone to know about her little ruse. She slept well at night.

The bovinity of evil

Sarah lay awake in bed, flipping through a collection of short stories on her tablet.

She had come north with her family for a weekend in a white, rural rental house west of Petaluma. The AirBnb blurb had enticed her. Once used solely as a dairy farm, the family had branched out, renting the main house for family getaways and weddings. The property even starred in a Netflix Christmas movie.

The vacation was just what Sarah needed, a sample of the life she may have had if she’d chosen to leave the city at the start of the pandemic. Her office could have been a cabin in Tahoe or maybe a country home in southern Sonoma County. Instead, they had stayed in the city, witnessing the ever-evolving case study of staggering inequality.

The drive north had been lovely. Rejuvenated by weeks of rain, the rolling hills were a lush shade of green, spotted as always with cows grazing peacefully. That is, with one exception. As the family drove their Tesla to the rental house, a cow, brown and docile-looking, lunged at the vehicle. The car beeped a warning, but the animal soon faded into their rearview mirror.

What stuck with Sarah was the animal’s expression. Hours later, she was convinced that she had caught a look of pure hatred in its large eyes as they drove away. Luckily, the children in the backseat were distracted, gurgling about some sheep they had seen.

Suddenly, a scream wrested Sarah from her thoughts. Rushing to the children’s room down the hall, she found Charlie and Betty standing with their backs to the wall, staring at the window. A pair of black and white holsteins had forced their front legs into the room. They stood silently as the shattered glass and blood on their heads glistened in the moonlight.

“Run!” Sarah exclaimed, pulling the children into the hallway. She slammed the door shut and ran back to her bedroom. Her husband, Greg, groggily coming awake, gave her a confused look as she hurriedly told him about the cows.

She didn’t need to explain for long, however. From the window by the bed, there came a gentle, yet insistent series of bumping sounds. In the low light, the family registered a half dozen cows silently jostling with each other as they attempted to break through the glass pane.

Out of instinct, Sarah grabbed her cellphone, switching on the camera to film the half-ton beasts, while Greg tried to calm their screaming children. As she adjusted her camera, Sarah noticed dozens of Twitter notifications.

#TheCows was trending. Transported out of the bedroom, Sarah scrolled in horror through hundreds of images of cows, marching down city streets, crushing cars with their considerable mass and trampling humans.

“It’s not only here; it’s everywhere,” she whispered to no one in particular.

History in the faking

I’ve always had a deep and abiding passion for history. That’s why I took to Civil War reenactment and why, in the gray fog of this coastal summer mid-morning, I can be found sipping a cup of joe in my encampment, where I’ve been settling into my role for the past month.

It’s begun to feel a lot like home out here. See, I’m a method actor and, when it comes to walking in the footsteps of my great-great-grandfather (Confederate Petaluma Gen. Gerard Fitz I), I spare no detail for historical accuracy. Hell, I haven’t even used toilet paper since I got out here. Speaking of, that coffee sure is hittin’ the spot—time for a historically accurate shit in the woods.

I break down camp, piss on the fire to kill the last of the embers and set out for battle reenactment. But first, I need a cold one at the Washoe House. After all, this could very well be my last chance for a pre-battle beer. Not because I could die; no, we only shoot blanks. But because my wife, Martha, said she’ll leave and take the kids if I don’t stop playing soldier. Such is the woeful life of one enlisted by the confederacy reenactment club.

I shake my head at the folly of womenfolk and sit at the bar of the Washoe House.

“I’ll take a pint,” I say to the bartender, who is sadly not dressed for the occasion. The Rolling Stones shirt and khaki pants combo—very anachronistic. “Did you know that this bar was built in 1859?”

“Yeah, it’s pretty cool—lot’s of history here,” he replies. “A pint of what? We have some great craft brews and some local IPAs.”

“Just a pint of whatever you got that’s strong,” I say, disappointed.

And so, I have a beer at the Washoe House. And another. And, for good measure, I have a few more. As I drink, I regale my fellow bar patrons with tales of the Washoe of old.

“—-hic,” I say. “And they got too drunk—never made it to—hic—the battle.”

Next thing I know, I’m waking up, surrounded by the rest of the Civil War reenactment club. It’s dark outside and they’re congratulating me on my win. What win, I think. I never even made it to the fight!

“Exactly,” says the club president, proudly wiping a tear from his eye. “You won the most historically accurate soldier of the year award. You did good, son.”

I smile and order myself and the rest of my battalion another round.

Seized by the moment

I swear to God, if I get out of this, I’m marrying that man.

Maybe it’s that I thought he was boring. I don’t know. I’m the socialite; he’s the wallflower. My weekends are busy enjoying life, and he likes his tame and uneventful. Even our engagement was mild, popping the question on a hike out at Muir Woods. It was sweet, but it was also very…quiet. So I don’t blame myself for sometimes wanting more excitement in my life than him and his bird-watching hobby.

Of course, that gets to all be terribly ironic now. I can’t move, and looking up, I just get to watch the crows circle overhead.

“Hit-and-run” isn’t as much fun as it might sound, at least from my end of it. One minute I’m on an evening run on Petaluma Hill to clear my head while I mull over things with Thomas, and suddenly in the next I’m motionless on the roadside, forced to do nothing but stare up at the darkening sky and think.

The birds don’t even need to beat their wings, but once in every while. They go smoothly around in their same circle, twitching them occasionally against the breeze, so they almost start to resemble some slow-moving, macabre clockwork.

It’s spellbinding, really, like I’m being hypnotized first before they descend.

Though still, there remains a silver lining in any situation. And it is funny, the things you remember when you’re forced into a little quiet. I don’t remember exactly who said it, my Aunt Linda maybe. Whoever it was said being happy isn’t the burst of excitement you feel in a moment; it’s about those small, consistent drips of joy over time.

I feel several sensations touch my mind, sort of like droplets of different inks into a water glass, each one webbing and staining the liquid with its own color for a moment before blending together.

The first is the security of a strong hand lacing its fingers between my own and holding firmly. The next is the smell of a ripe tomato being cut to garnish the same old omelet that gets lovingly made every Saturday. One after that is the sound of an earnest, honest laugh at one of our dumb jokes.

“There is no music in war, only the movies. And love is the same.”

There’s an earnestness to love that’s quiet.

You know, I’ve heard of “terminal lucidity” before, and I hope that’s not what this is. Just as the sun’s setting, too. But the light, rainbow sherbert-colored clouds sure are pretty.

And I hope the flashing blue and red lights aren’t just my imagination.

It’s about the journey

Rebecca and I hiked Taylor Mountain again today. Summer feels like it’s racing towards us like a lion bearing down on the wounded gazelle that is my anxiety. Once we get through graduation, it feels like we’re getting set adrift in the ocean of Adult Life and being told to swim. We were lying on a grassy hillside near the top together when I told Rebecca that, and she laughed.

“I don’t know,” she chuckled. “Maybe not an ocean, but kind of like climbing a mountain.”

I made a show of shrugging my shoulders. “Oh, well, we’re already doing that,” I said, “so then no biggy.”

“Exactly.” She let a sigh escape through a brittle smile, then held my hand a little tighter.

I just watched the clouds drift lazily overhead.

“Mt. Adulthood, Expedition Log, Day 17,” I said, like I was speaking into a voice recorder. “It feels like years since leaving base camp, um, Childhood Charlie. The time goes by fast. The crew seems excited to reach the Early-Twenties Foothills, but looks like a lot of steep climbing from there.”

I could feel her looking at me, but she didn’t add anything right away.

“Day 28. Thirties Ridge is a lot closer now,” she said. “Some of the team are scared. It’s those damn economy nightmares again. They keep saying we’re going to be poor forever. It started a fight, with others saying we should have taken TikTok Trail earlier, made it to Influencer Station by now.”

I laughed. “Day 33. We got snowed in by another storm of marriage pressures the other night. We lost Jeff. Between that and losing John and Cheryl, our numbers are starting to dwindle. They left for Parenthood Pass yesterday. Radio-silent, beacons dark on radar. Hope they’re okay, but I hear those are some sleepless slopes.”

Becky turned to me. “You really think John and Cheryl stay together after graduation?” she asked.

I chewed my cheek for a second. “I guess not,” I said. “She wants to move to Arizona, right?” She shrugged her shoulders at that.

“Yeah,” she said finally, “but she also talks about studying abroad in France. She says a lot of things.”

“Oh, that’s a good point.” I clear my throat dramatically. “Day 45. A lot of us are scattered now. I asked our guide, Joel, if he thinks we’ll ever reach American Retirement Summit. He laughed and told me to focus on getting across the Mid-Life Narrows and then we’ll see.”

The wind blew up the hillside and whistled through the grass, neither of us saying anything.

“Or,” Rebecca whispered, “we could just burn the whole system down.”

We high-fived over that.

Yoga with an agenda

“We’re here! This is the place!” Becky enthused, blue sky eyes twinkling with the assuredness of being in the right place among the right people.

“OK, you’ve talked me into it, but I still just don’t know how yoga is going to do anything for me. I just can’t stand the smell of incense; it’s so weird,” said Debbi.

“I told you, it’s not yoga! You’re not getting any younger, girlfriend. Just try it. If nothing else, everyone leaves with really good posture,” Becky replied.

“Well, as long as it isn’t all weird…” said Debbi, nose wrinkling at the imagined sandalwood smoke and sweaty brown bodies.

But no, it wasn’t like that at all. The closed venetian blinds swung and rattled slightly when they opened the glass door; the women and few men inside were all red-blooded Americans.

Soon, Debbi and Becky were settled on the mats, warming up, waiting for the class to begin.

“Oh, I’m so stiff,” said Debbi. “Right here in my back.”

“You slouch too much,” said Becky. “These classes are all about feeling proud of who you are. It’s your right to stand tall for Chrissake.”

“Well, I am sick of feeling bad about everything all the time. I just want things to be normal, you know?” Debbi looked around the room again as she reached weakly for the toes of one foot, then another.

Just when she was starting to wonder when the class would begin, a teacher came out with a headset mic and an outfit she was truly envious of—rock hard body sheathed in a MAGA-red headband.

“I’m Kaitlyn, y’all,” hollered the instructor into the PA. “I hope you’re here to get out of your own way, cause we’re about to kick your Debbie Downer in her flabby butt!”

Becky winked at Debbi.

The exercises started simple, then instruction got more specific. Kaitlyn’s corrections became more harsh, as the group became more in sync. Soon no deviation from the group in form or movement was spared a recrimination from the ruthless teacher.

“Whether you are ready or not, we’re going to get you there! You’re about to be who you really are! And-a one, and-a two,” said Kaitlyn.

Bodies moved in unison, backs, legs, arms, heads held just so, one bold, brave, uniform mass of unity visible in the mirror.

Debbi watched her reflection as she followed the shouted instructions. Each person stood tall and proud for Kaitlyn’s every word.

“Legs now! March in place!” she commanded. Debbi matched the others as they swung up their legs straight forward, then back down, left, right, left, right.

“Now, add your arms!” Kaitlyn shouted, “Like your life depends on it, and … Right! … Right! … Right!”

In the mirror there Debbi was, standing tall, launching forward her right arm, saluting her growth, her freedom, her right to be herself—one goose step at a time.