Fog hovered over the cracked asphalt just outside the window of the Grounded Cafe. Ash’s attention was drawn to two shadowy figures walking down the sidewalk on the opposite side of the road. He couldn’t tell through the mist, but they appeared to be looking straight at him, faces hidden beneath misty charcoal hoods. He leaned in to get a better look and the figures ducked behind a blue minivan.
Ice shot down Ash’s spine, a ghostly whisper of danger, the ever familiar shadow of death.
His right arm shot to the Glock 10mm at his side, cold steal against his palm.
Sucking in a breath to steady himself, he took a second look— They were gone. Black mist poured out from under the minivan and evaporated into the early morning air. He shook his head, closed his eyes, counting to ten, silently as he released his breath slowly over his tight lips.
Ash released the grip on his sidearm, which he now realized was a tape measure and not a Glock. Ash hadn’t carried a weapon regularly since he left the service (for this very reason, for safety, to ensure the danger was real before he engaged).
Really, Ash, come on, what danger could there possibly be in Moon-Wolf Hollow, Idaho? He thought. A random teenager shoplifting is the worst case of crime we’ve had in a whole year.
These days, he kept his weapons close, but locked in a case, with the ammunition stored separately, until he was at the firing range or doing a demonstrations, as he occasionally did for local organizations. In some other state, he probably wouldn’t own any, but he lived in one of the last remaining hold-outs of freedom in the USA.
Ash noted that his arm was still holding the tape measure stiffly, he let his arm fall to his side, and wiped the sweat from his hands on his pant leg. Reality settled back onto his shoulders. A glimpse of himself in the glass window revealed a strong gray overtaking the sideburns. Other than a few wrinkles, he hadn’t aged that badly. Some might even say he was still young.
Ash turned to his vendor table, against the window in the cafe. He checked to see if anyone noticed his momentary lapse of lucidity.
Jenny was selling her soaps and candles at the table next to him, she was busy wrapped up in conversation with a customer, a little old lady who loved her scents.
Craig trimmed his pot-plants at the table on the other side, now that Idaho finally caught up with the 21st century and realized it was supposed to be the state of Freedom and not a state where personal morals were shoved down people’s throats. A lot of money on policing and jails was saved by foregoing the persecution of victim-less crimes, and that money was poured into increasing the availability of mental health facilities throughout the state. It was a move Ash had reservations about, but he could see the logic. And it didn’t hurt in his case, as a new facility had opened in town just a few years ago, not that it was staffed at the moment. But, that was a normal small town problem. Craig had given Ash a few pointers on growing himself.
There weren’t many customer’s this time of day, but it was one of the last opportunities of the season, before the town buttoned up the hatches for the long winter ahead.
A few people lingered, a tourist family staying at the motel next door was eying some crochet stuffies made to look similar to famous movie and cartoon characters.
A young man with a hoodie typing furiously at a keyboard.
A woman talking on the phone, failing to pacify the toddler in the stroller to her side.
Two men speaking in hushed tones at a table across the way.
A purple and white haze turned Ash’s attention to the sidewalk outside, a woman in a purple hoodie walked by just outside the window, head buried in her smartphone. She bumped into Hank, the town’s crazy old homeless man who was headed the other direction. She didn’t even notice. He gave her a dirty look and kept walking the other way, mumbling to himself as usual.
The woman sat down at a table just outside the farthest window of the Cafe, he couldn’t make out her face, possibly one of the towns last tourists before the few stores left went into hibernation.
An orange Maple leaf lazily floated down to the table in front her. She brushed it aside, falling inside a pumpkin whose top had been kicked off. The leaf caught on fire from the candle inside, and slowly embered away. She didn’t take notice.
A purple and white vapor swaddled her like a blanket. Old Hank stared at her from the corner of the building. A small green frog sat on his shoulder. The bottom half of the frog was a mist that disappeared into Hank’s spine. The frog’s red eyes stared at her, then at Ash, and it cocked its head to one side. Then it was gone, in a whisp of grey-green fog that continued to waft around Hank as he walked away out of sight.
Ash didn’t see these creatures on every person, every time. On most occasions he would see only the mists around each person, the town psychic called it an “aura”, when he explained it to her in a rather desperate confidence one day. She was a bit of a quack but he tried everything to at least understand it if he couldn’t get rid of it. He’d been to pastors, priests, the town psychic, a passing faith-healer, quite a few doctors, and even the local Rabbi. Each had their opinions and suggestions. While non of them offered any real relief, the Rabbi was the most gentle and inquisitive of the bunch, asking more honest and curious questions, offering few if any answers. But at least Ash felt heard with the Rabbi, who had nothing to sell but time, and a good chat over coffee.
Generally, the mists and creatures came from within each person and would go back into them, like human genie bottles. The Creatures weren’t all exactly alike, either. There were repeats, but each seemed unique to the person.
“It’s called PTSD, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder”, his latest doctor had said, before he left the clinic without a town shrink six months ago.
The VA docs tried giving him a mountain of drugs to help him sleep and keep the delusions at a minimum. Nothing really helped, most made it worse. When the Federal government forced legalized medicinal THC on all the states as a human right, and Idaho finally gave up on the failed war on drugs and allowed doctors and people to choose their own path in life, his Idaho VA doctor said to try it, as it was clinically shown to have better results for some people that anti-psychotics. He didn’t bother telling him that he’d already been growing it on his property for several years now. Maybe he’d start a small boutique now that it was legal in Idaho.
The magical medical folks at Big Pharma managed to create a pill form with less hallucinogenic properties but twice the pain killing properties, but it cost too much and his VA insurance didn’t cover it yet, although the decision was before the Senate hearing committee for a decision, thanks to PTSD Health advocates. If the Fed would eliminate for-profit medicine, he could try that someday.
For now, Ash started growing it himself a few years ago, his sleep was more regular but the delusions came and went. He could still hear the diagnosis in his mind.
“As long as you are not a harm to yourself or others, you should be just fine. Think of it as an amusing distraction,” the doctor advised. — Ash hear his name.
“Ash-”, Derek the Barist’ called his attention to the present, standing in front of his table with a frosty blending drink, and green whip cream. “Here you go, man. Extra large Java-Chip, almond milk, three shots, with peppermint and crème de menthe. I even through a few extra candied coffee beans on there for you.”
“Thanks, Derek”, Ash said as he took the drink gratefully.
“Always my friend,” Derek said. “How’s business been today?”
“I haven’t sold much, but it’s nice to get out of the house a few more times before the snow makes it hard to leave the property. I mean…” Ash took a sip, “… this is really good.” He set it down. “I mean… I can get the tractor and snow blower out and punch my way down the road when I have to. But 110 acres is a lot to manage, and my house isn’t exactly off the main road.”
“I get. I don’t know how you guys live that far out of town, my hats off to you for the effort. But I do appreciate how nice it is. Should we have another meeting up there before the roads become impassable?”
“I think we can do that — “ Ash stopped when he noticed Sam walk in, he waved him over.
“Sam,” Derek gave him a bear hug, “We should have the next VA Support meeting at Ash’s house, before the road become impassable. I can help him get it ready for guests.”
Sam smiled, but he gave Ash a sideways glance. “How are you feeling about this idea? Is it too much? Are you okay, you looked a little tense earlier.”
Ash felt his gut tighten, Sam had noticed. If anyone would notice, it was Sam.
“I’m alright, I think it would be good for me.”
“Okay,” Sam shrugged. “You bring food, and I’ll bring drinks?”
Derek squinted at Sam, “As long as you don’t bring that piss water you brought last time!”
Sam grinned, “I’ll behave and bring something a distinguished gentleman like you would approve of.”
“Then I accept,” Derek shook Sam’s hand, then Ash’s, and then headed back to his coffee machines.
“Hey,” Sam turned his full attention to Ash. “Did you hear the news?”
Ash picked up one of his popular Sasquatch figurines, “They finally found Big Foot?” Ash noted it felt good to smile, he didn’t do that enough lately.
Sam laughed at his joke, like when they were kids. “No, still looking I’m afraid. No - They found a new doctor for the clinic. He just came into town last night, he’s staying at the hotel until his rental cabin is set up. His moving truck comes in tomorrow and he’s bringing some new equipment to town. He said he’ll be ready to start seeing clients by next week.”
“That’s good, especially with Old Hank hanging around again.” Ash nodded to Old Hank still outside the window, peeping around the corner at all the people in the shop.
“Yeah, but,” Sam replied. “I think this guy might be able to help you.”
“What’s this guy got that the last fifty hasn’t?” Ash asked.
“This guy is a bid deal or something. I’m not sure where they picked him up, He says he’s here to enjoy a semi-retirement or something. He’s a PhD out of Harvard or Yale or one of those big stuffy places with smart people.”
“Hmm —“ Ash started to form a reply, but lost it. The fog outside was creeping into his head. “I guess we’ll see. I’ll check in with him after the Oktoberfest.”
Shalom: Live Long and Prosper!
Darrell Wolfe (DG Wolfe)
Storyteller | Writer | Thinker | Consultant @ DarrellWolfe.com
Clifton StrengthsFinder: Intellection, Learner, Ideation, Achiever, Input
16Personalities (Myers-Briggs Type): INFJ
Clifton StrengthsFinder: Intellection, Learner, Ideation, Achiever, Input
16Personalities (Myers-Briggs Type): INFJ
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