Chapter One

I see the room and hear the voice. It is the same every time. The room is white, white cushioned chaise lounge before wall-to-wall glass, and behind the glass…a deep blue horizon-less expanse of water. The voice booms out. The voice? Well, I wake to the voice, like an alarm, and it too is the same, same words in the same order, Sing to me, oh muse. The image of the white room, the white chaise lounge and the deep blue water behind the wall-to-wall glass…vanishes. It’s a code, this voice, a complex equation, something other than words but words all the same. I have stopped trying to make sense of this, stopped trying to be surprised or afraid or panicked or even intellectually inquisitive.

Every day I can remember, since the first time I ever woke up, Pow! The vision of the white room and the blue water followed by the voice, it’s once again morning. I am once again shoved back into the world of men, time and things. That’s not original. It’s a phrase I discovered sprayed across a crumbling brick wall in the middle of Cogstin.

I was pulling copper in the evening with my uncle Hal, working as a scrapper, ripping out pipes and tearing up old wooden planks in the abandoned parts of the city when I stumbled on it. It was multi-colored and beautiful. At the end of the last letter of the last word like a wondrous punctuation mark: a butterfly. The image triggered something deep, but of course that feeling was soon Reduced Down, that sense of astonishment, of wonder, was disassembled, deconstructed into its component parts: physical, molecular, binary levels, distilled into meaninglessness 1-0-1-0-1-1-0, etc…a habit formed, molded from an early age, like breathing or walking. I can still see the symbol of the butterfly, the magenta outlined wings. I say nothing to Hal, just open the imaginary chest of things I don’t understand and place it inside.

I work for my uncle Hal, my legal custodian, at times my shadow, keeping watch, keeping me under control, a barrier between me and Agent Smiley of the NRM Bureau of Corrections who waits for me to break parole, the wrong place at the wrong time, sitting sober with the drunken Hal and Max or perhaps leaving a piece of metal art carelessly lying about. Agent Smiley is not his real name. I have no idea what that is. His smile is so large, and he’s about as creepy as a human can be…so Hal and I make fun of Agent Smiley. Hal says, “Listen, Stretch, you know how it is. They’re look’n for a reason is all. Bloom where you’re planted. What choice do you have? Show me a man’s choices, and I’ll show you a man’s future.” Hal’s an alcoholic with a good heart. “You’re a fine scrapper, boy. Embrace your life, don’t run from it.”

I have known Hal since I can remember. I actually thought he was my dad at one time, but he explained I was orphaned, abandoned on his door step. The mythology of this event, much like most of Hal’s stories have an underpinning of fable, of telling the tale too many times so it becomes something altogether different than probably what actually happened. He’s not my father, but the only father I know. Hal is all I have, and he is enough.

I asked him about the voices one time. His large brow crinkled, puffy eyes squinting as if he was trying to see through into my head. He trundled his lips with his sausage-like fingers and said, “What voices?”

I stared up at him, a man mountain, hands on his hips, overall bib pulled taut across his enormous stomach like a canvas tarp pulling back the moon, work gloves dangling from his back pocket, fingers splayed out like a rooster’s cockscomb. “Can I have some more eggs?” I said. He seemed relieved with the deflection, still his face soured like when he missed some good copper or being awakened after falling asleep on the job site after an all night bender. He never asked about it again.

My job is temporary, working for Hal at U-Salvage, and that’s not just wishful thinking on my part. I know that letter is coming. I know my life will finally begin, time served, literally. The NRM can’t keep me under observation forever. It’s just how it is. Every male child is monitored until the powers that be verify you are not some sort of miscreant. I’ve been waiting longer than others.

“Just bad luck,” Hal says. “Sometimes the big guy has to show the little guy who is boss.”

I grew up with the inspections. I grew up with the salvage yard. This, like Hal, is all I know. “The NRM checks everyone,” Hal says. “It’s just the way of things. But there will come a time,” Hal says and smiles. He pats me on the shoulder. “The letter will come, and when it does… You’ll pack your bags and say adios to me, to Max, and to this Universal Salvage Company forever.”

He grabs me by both shoulders and puts his nose nearly touching mine. “The past is the past, Stretch. The future means new beginnings. Change is good.”

Well, change may be good, but Cogstin will never change, it’s beyond changing, more like a ghost city, a dead city, a city of ashes. Yes, I discovered that phrase too, sprayed across a cement archway under an overpass: City Of Ash, Awake!

Today and the rest of the foreseeable future is about inventory. Hal is under a lot of pressure to make sure all his ducks are in order, and all his ducks are actually ducks. He and Max have been selling scrap on the side. That has raised some eyebrows somewhere above. Hal is beside me, as we walk around the large metal-sided out-building which holds the dump truck, the backhoe, the metal cutting torches and skid steer, all the tools to scrap in Cogstin. The sun is just coming up over the horizon, a red hue above the walls to the yard. I hear yapping and yelping in the distance.

Hal grumbles, “Time for another hunting trip with Max.”

He stops, grabs the straps to his overalls, forearms resting on his enormous gut. He is three hundred pounds of sheer pride, legs apart, a slight smile on his face as he surveys the vast racks of stacked corrugated sheeting, coiled wire, layers of reclaimed bricks, lumber, everything that can be taken, everything pulled and popped and sheered from the abandoned city of Cogstin. I must say the cool breeze, the red hue and the vast expanse of metal walls, does have an effect.

“Inventory, boy. Today is all about inventory. Keep those nosey Neds out of our business. You know the drill.”

I nod my head. “What’s there is there, and what’s not there that should be…is still there.”

“Good lad,” Hal says and slaps my back. “Max and I will work on the dump truck in a bit.” I watch him wobble to the storage building, and understand full well that “work on the dump truck with Max” means drink vodka and talk about old times until both are napping.

I use the lift to move slowly up and down the rows, the hydraulic whine as the metal platform raises high into the air, then slowly down in fits and halts. I count the scraps we have, check the numbers they have, make sure they match, and make a note of what we need to scrap next time in Cogstin. I do this until lunch. After lunch, I do it again. It is monotonous and lacking in any mental acuity whatsoever. I find myself distracted by the red plains beyond the scrap yard walls.

These are the Great Sand Flats that sweep as far as the eye can see. I lift myself just above the wall, stop for a moment to listen for Hal and Max, the radio, all is calm. I turn to view north, the dead city of Cogstin rising up into the hazy cloudy horizon. I turn to the south and rest my arms on the four-by-four beam framing the metal wall. They are red, the flats, red sand blowing and drifting, gathering in great clouds, settling upon everything exposed. Far beyond them are the mineral mines, of which I have only heard about. I think how dry, vapid and lonely is such a place, so similar to the ruined world of Cogstin, and immediately I think of the white room and the white chaise lounge with the great blue water beyond the glass. My head aches and my stomach aches with the resonance, and I feel an inexpressible sadness. My talkie buzzes. It chirps again. It’s Hal. “Stop lolly gagging out there, boy. Time for some steaks.”

When I make it to the house, Max has already made drinks and Hal is standing over the sizzling meat with a set of tongs.

“So, we even out today, Stretch?”

I take my drink and sit next to Max who has to lift his large nose in the air to sip from the martini glass. He wipes his thin caterpillar mustache in satisfaction. We talk about the inventory. About Max’s garage and what cars he is currently working on. We eat and drink and laugh. All the while I see the great sand flats juxtaposed to the white room and the blue water. After dinner, the sun nearly completely down, a cool and comfortable breeze ruffling the large umbrella, Hal leaning back with contentment. Right then, I suddenly ask, “Have I ever been in a white room with ceiling to wall glass?”

Hal is motionless like he’s asleep, but I know he is not. Max chortles, “I don’t know, have you?”

“I was just curious,” I say.

“Not unless you have one hidden in the salvage yard,” says Max.

He toasts the air and laughs. Hal is sitting up now and staring at me like he’s going to draw me. “That’s an odd question, Stretch.”

“It’s just, well…have I?”

“Anyone for another one?” Max says and stands up.

Hal blinks several times, like something is in his eyes.

“You want to come with me to make the drinks, Hal?” says Max nudging him.

“No, I’m fine. Go ahead. A round for all of us,” but his voice is a whisper, like he’s somewhere else.

Max walks into the house. “A white room,” Hal says, mumbling. “A white room.”

“Have I been there?” I say. I am leaning forward now, intense. “Have you seen it?”

Max comes hurrying over with new glasses filled to spilling. “Sorry for the wait, gents. Here we go.”

He looks at me, then Hal. He puts the glasses down and kicks Hal’s boot. Hal comes back from where he went, smiles broadly at the liquor and toasts Max and me.

I sit back in my chair frustrated. I watch them laugh and talk about the same things they have laughed and talked about since I can remember. Max brings up the drudgery of inventory. Hal pauses, toasts the air and tells the story of how he and Max switched the rack numbers on the NRM U SALVAGE Director just as he was about to scan the barcodes…and… “You should have seen his face, boy.” rumbles Hal, slapping his thigh. I think in my head simultaneously as he says, “Ducks to Dimes, did we get a talking to after that, eh Max?” Max toasts the air and gulps his drink. I’m not sure why this bothers me so badly on this particular night, but I walk out of the kitchen and head to the little shack behind the metal out-building in the scrap yard.