Chapter 19 -- On the Coast Road With 235X12

nothing but interior, car window views of ocean, ocean, ocean to the right; hillocks and scrub growth to the left. And too many winding curves along the way to take anything in, for all the
leaning side-to-side to stay upright.

"Slow down", commanded Doctor Y. to his robot driver. But, again, there was no reply.
235X12 was in definite need of an overhaul.


Doctor Y. sat up straighter in the limo's rear passenger seat. There were at least a few yards
of road ahead that did not curve so, and would offer him some few seconds of 'melodramatic
gloating'...

He ruminated briefly about the small, flat box now in the specially lined, lapel pocket of his
grey suit jacket. Its last minute retrieval had been a 'coup', yesss...

But, there was the fact of having forgotten it in the first place.


As his body began to lean again from side-to-side with further abrupt coastal turns, 'Y.'
lost the thread of his 'scheming'. His mind jumped to the yellow paperback he had seen
so briefly. Trying to recall just what he had actually read in the silly book.

No matter. Either malicious or stupid, the local writers. They never get it right.


As if to censure his smugness, the speeding limo suddenly hit a rock, moving on, but causing
him to stamp his grey-polished shoe into the floorboard to avoid sliding off the seat & piling in a heap. Gnashing his teeth and righting himself, he cursed the empty grill head of '235' and the
day he'd ever overseen the takeover of menial tasks by his inventions.


But his own memory was no better. He still wanted to recall the book passage, damn the thing.

And this little road trip never afforded him one chance to analyze his errors. Appalling. To walk out without the box...

For an 'evil genius', he was having quite the memory lapse.


Perhaps, he had on 'the wrong attire'. Didn't the Philosopher(s) say something about selecting
the wrong outfit spoiling the whole of the day's actions?

They were always saying some god damn thing.


Was the robot speeding up?? He hated this road, its ugly views. And unpredictable turns
guaranteed to interrupt all thought and render one an insipid, flaming wreck. Figuratively,
if not literally.

'Doctor Y.' would be glad to get back 'up to something' in his sanctum. Up to speed on his
lab work...THEY WERE DEFINITELY GOING TOO FAST.


Verbal commands were useless. Crampton 'rared back' to use both of his long, grey legs.

To kick the back of the driver's seat with both feet, again & again. And joggle some sense into his
mechanical chauffeur before they went careening off into the sea like some sorry
cinematic cliffhanger...

Chapter 18 -- The Bridge To Nowhere

the 'tourist hit by luggage' sweated and huffed up the last of the Avenue, alone but for
birds he could not locate and the pfuffling in the stronger wind of the red paper lanterns .

the 'tourist hit by luggage' walks onto the Bridge itself now, nearly exhausted by its steep
curve (and all of the earlier, excessive efforts of the day).

at last, cresting its arch, discovering that it stops dead. cut off halfway in midair.


metal tube bars block further progress of the reckless. Relatively discreet warning signs,
placed so as not to destroy the view, balefully glare their advice in three languages.

staggered, he stares uncomprehendingly at the shoreline beyond, the scarcity of roadwork
on that side, and the lime green stone far on the north horizon.

he continues to stay back, well away from the end. turns to take in the eastward side...


standing on the pedestrian's side path, not even daring to lean on the five foot, heavy cement
wall, he immediately takes in the broad bluenesses of the sky and ocean...

the coast road, (the only road really connecting the two ends of the island), bordering and
enclosing a last lap of low water and soft sand way below.


He still could not decide where exactly he was--what island.

There was the declining business 'district' to the southeast, from where he'd just come, (and
spent so much of his time here already, in dubious pursuits). But, no spire visible.
No cathedral of St. Millicent's.

He recalled only fragments of the lost tour guide. Had some sort of block on the island's name.

He ignored the obvious metaphor of the half-bridge for his faulty memory.


Perhaps, the Bridge had been broken off by a massive wave. A tsunami. Or a 'too-sommy',
as the loud old man on the caravan had called it.

The tourist smiled. (Despite everything).


He felt it more likely it was another unfinished boondoggle. And had a vague memory of the
local papers somewhere calling the useless bridge a "promenade".

He wondered if there were any bars sticking out of the end , but would not walk there to see.


Odd that there was still a connecting road, (tho' it was on a rise), at the end of an inlet or
tidal basin. How the water from the ocean to the west (behind him) could just taper off and
end. Not covering the rise, and effectively creating two islands instead of the one.

He realized he was watching a limousine, running on the very road, (already on the north side
of the inlet). Curving 'near' and away again, at what seemed a slow pace, from this distance.

Taking in more of the land, he watched. Might be quite a clip, after all.

Maybe they left something undone.


There was no fencing up, as on continental bridges. A 'good' place for a melodramatic drop...

Chapter 17 -- Plesch

He put the yellow paperback face down, open to his place, on the restaurant table.
He could barely see well enough to read, anyhow, through the head wrappings.

His teeth still hurt. Perhaps he'd been wrong to order the club sandwich, but it was his first
since getting off of the liquid diet.
The restaurant had not changed...since 'The Accident'. Thankfully.

That is, it had not improved nor gained any clamorous clientele. He preferred the quiet,
dining alone, (especially now it was more difficult), even writing here. Or at least
ruminating about his latest novel.

He still knew all the staff. The dust-ridden artificial fronds reminded him of the Crimble
woman, still missing. But, that could be a good thing. Criminal ambiance.
A union of neglect in not removing the 'plant', and opportunism (he had encouraged)
in trying to keep the local story alive.


'Speaking' of local stories, the paperback...he did not like to criticize his competition,
but he was certain now that Ima had skipped a step. She should have had her killer
wander through the town, in a different chapter, and then reach the Bridge.

Instead, there was an unfortunate abruptness in his fleeing the courtyard, then
so shortly appearing, gazing down at the river. 'Would he jump...?', the triteness almost
shouted.

Feeling he already knew the answer, Plesch smiled under the wrappings, hurting his
cheeks a bit.

He would have to paper this over with her, cover his technical disapproval with a barrage
of compliments--so well deserved in other areas.

That is if he ever saw her again. Boris Tate had not heard from her in weeks.


Plesch was well aware of police activity in the neighboring buildings. Doubtlessly, he would
run into his friend "The Inspector"; old Winny and his wife had been so very good about
sending him lots of flowers everyday while he was in the hospital.

And they weren't always easy to come by on the island. Nor inexpensive.


He again studied his butter knife, which he would not be needing.

He did not want to move it too soon. His hands felt hot...he wanted to be sparing in how
often he scuffed them about, trying to use utensils with wrapped up hands.

Chapter 16 -- "Welcome to Tonnalo"

staring up at the dark green, over sized (four or five times the average human) figure...
not feeling welcomed at all.

he found himself looking at the sculpted and cast monument too critically...nonplussedly...
not knowing for sure how he even came to this spot. A weed grown area in the ruined
courtyard, still green but plainly little-visited.

Hadn't he intended to go in a different direction?


The statue had its hands forward in what was supposed to be a greeting to all the island's
visitors. But, they were both upturned almost like shrugging, drying his nail polish, yearning
to catch some falling heavenly martyr, or, worse yet, waiting for yet another handout from
continents West or East.

It inspired no confidence. Nor, really any feeling at all, save diffidence.

The tourist began to reel with sudden, alternate views of the thing, as though floating
above and behind it's head.

Nauseated, he tried to focus instead on the dark olive, hard-to-read plaque closer to
his actual, standing level. The back of his head was throbbing fiercely.


the name on the plaque was BOTIN...as in "bot 'n' paid for" went the local joke.

BO-teen'---the guidebook made strains to emphasize.

He suddenly felt like vomiting. An apolitical vomit that doubtlessly would not be taken
that way were he observed by the wrong fanatic policeman or working class loyaliste.


he only wanted to feel better...and not become known, citywide, as in the caravan tour's final
station, as 'the tourist hit by luggage'.

But could not, in fact, recall his own name...what he, himself, was called.

Somewhere in the ruins a dog barked.

[ A Second Interruption ]

It should be clear to anyone actually reading this story, that it has by now quite its own life
and doesn't need much help from found words and the like as laid out initially.

This is hardly the first time that one of these projects turned out other than i'd originally
expected. It's always in the back of my mind that it may 'get out of hand', becoming too
long and seemingly unmanageable.


In fact, I'm learning a lot from doing this one, it's the first time I've been able to work with
one as it forms from my mind almost directly into type.

I kept further ideas for this story riding tucked in my head for a good spell, but ultimately
enough material has accumulated that I have had to make some notes on paper. Chiefly
to keep some of the contradictory elements in view. The variations and options.

This 'book', (which i truly hope it will be one day), has already generated, for me, the bulk of its forthcoming content. There really isn't much room for more. The details of actual execution remain another thing to see.

(If it seems at times that my 'characters' are straying too far into the trite, threatening to
tell another cliche' tale, rest reassured that deteriorations are in store).


It should also be said here, to anyone not 'getting it', that I am well aware of not making ordinary sense in all of these chapters. Ultimately, if done well enough, it's to all make a sort of collective
unsense, (rather than nonsense)---a display of images strewn throo with some of their human possibilities.

And if anyone thinks that such verbal trompling about is off putting and therefore somehow
untrue, how many times today have you encountered an overabundance of choices? And to
the point of near neurosis??

There's certainly plenty of the other ordinary reading about if that's your preference. I have
my own favorites, too.
I just don't wanna write like that! And would rather do a merely passable job trying something i love, than waste my time laboring over the usual.
________________________________________________


I am again taking this Section break as my only opportunity to add a few other nagging points.
Points nascent in the first break and waiting for me to catch up:


I did manage the start up of the 2nd blog mentioned. It is going well, too, (to my mind) and has
become my midweek relief from this "Frog blog"'s more elaborate weekend mentations.
I kicked it off with the dictionary words listed here about two months ago---I found they just
weren't going to be needed to 'spice up Frog', and would become unduly digressive if dropped
into all of its other contrived material.

My second blog, "The Twelfth Toe", is remaining somewhat closer to my pronounced goal
of writing and displaying a so-dubbed 'series form'. Tho it too has strayed some from simple
recitation of objects. Maybe I'll have to make a blog one day out of some older projects just
to show, once, what i mean.

Had intended to call it "The Eleventh Toe", but on point of doing found that not only is there
already a novel out by that name, it is also, apparently, a fairly common physical condition.
A twelfth toe much less so!?!


Lastly, want to acknowledge that i have more or less abandoned using the labels for referring
to some backstage machination of writing this. There really isn't much to describe about
process, after a certain fictive potential is reached---in this sort of work, once its generating its
own material for its own world, that's pretty much it. That was the goal, to have something
to write!

And, besides, the labels make a much better index-in-the-making.

Chapter 15 -- A Man In Overalls

had stayed away long enough...?? held back from turning the corner too soon...
yes, the black van was still there...

hold back at just the right angle so the blind horse and its carriage would block him from view
he did not want to be seen too soon and yes they were coming out with the body, arguing
as usual...

he did not want to be seen at all as they loaded the body, their proximity to him at the rear end
of the van possibly too near to seem casual they would soon be through...

the horse with carriage, clomping along slowly onto Broadbridge, still betwixt and at a 'natural'
angle...to their preoccupied eyes there would be no doubt that he was merely tending to the horse in the typical and expected manner...

the overalls felt natural enough, too, and why shouldn't they?


everything was as it should be...where it should be...

was he speaking out loud? the two men were already climbing into the doorless van had they
even glanced at him?? he did not know...

he began to panic as they started the engine, half sensing another vehicle pulling up behind
the carriage, on the cross street but blocked from his peripheral view, he dared not turn...

he felt penned in, did not want to be seen except as 'normal', as anyone would...


as the van pulled away, two more shocks: he spotted the man in the red shirt--still here,
there, across the street,what could possibly keep him here, had he overlooked something
himself?? But he was turning away...heading toward the fence...the vacant lot...


then, back in the street, where the van had pulled away, a yellow book glaring in the sunlight...
could scarcely take it in before the second shock of the black dog sitting on the curb...

but, yes, only 'Flagg', the island's mascot...

apparently finished with his cigar of the day...

and as man stood stock-still, unwilling to stride forth and claim the book for himself,
most aware of the limo (he could feel with the back of his neck) looming behind,

the dog, its mouth open to new games, plumped quickly into the street, nipped the paper
book and ran off with it in the general direction of the courthouse ruins.

Chapter 14 -- Removals

Inspector Winsteeple finally moved aside and let the two men in

the hallway come in to move Jampers' dead body.
Apparently, they had been arguing about the wooden board the
shorter of the two had brought upstairs from somewhere.

"What is that?" , and surprising them, before one could answer,
adding, "A piano top?"

"It was all 'we' could find." replied the taller, as they lumbered it
along the east wall of the office on the way to the oversized desk.

"It'll make the body heavier." stated their superior.


Indeed, they would require some help even to move the overweight
body from its seated position in the heavy wooden chair.

As the two men carefully aligned the board onto the floor, Winsteeple
said, "Wait." And moved in for one last closer look at the tweezers in
the dead man's hand.
They had seemingly clenched tighter only since he had last examined
them here, the gap between their tips narrower by a few micrometers.
(He would have to ask the coroner if this were possible).
And, sure enough, there was a tiny perforation of paper from the edge
of a stamp, doubtlessly the one last held by the collector.
A stamp nowhere visible now. Removed by the killer?

After moving around the desk for another last check of the carpeting
around the various legs and the positioning of the body, the Inspector
stood back, and getting the men started by pulling the heavy chair out
said gently, "Be careful not to disturb anything or I'll hang you both
from the courtyard flagpole."

But, as they struggled to move the body out of the chair, and onto the
piano top on the floor, he did whatever he could to physically help.
As officer Glidden kept an eye on the critical objects and breakables.

Arguing again, somewhat more, in the narrow canehead turn of the hall
about which end of the body should go out first, they settled on the feet,
and except for too-frequent scraped fingers and corners and nearly
dropping the waterlogged corpse down the stairs the two managed to
get the man to the street door without any further assists.


Inspector Winsteeple remained in the office to consider something.