“Open.”
Newly minted fresh detective Mr. Gerdulon left the Boole Agency’s New Jersey parking lot, heading toward I-80 west, beginning the long drive to mid-Iowa, where he would start in on his first real field assignment. Mastapa paquoeny, he lightly exclaimed, when he was told welcome aboard, nearly a week ago—and when given this assignment, he seemed quite happy, with the topper being he’d been provided with a fairly luxurious corporate car. But, since he knew, that in a race, the quickest runner can never overtake the slowest, since the pursuer must first reach the point whence the pursued started, so that the slower must always hold a lead—which, by way of this logic, and others crusting all over and about him, Mister Gerdulon happily accepted this first minor, but paying, small trial assignment, and, so, now—income, outcome; ‘cross the i-state asphalt he hauls. Needing to find this runaway kid, this thin kid, needing to find this that these those up ‘o that there thin kid, illustrated hundreds of facedown times over, in the tight plain boxful of flyers in his trunk, that he’d been issued.
Gok.
Income, outcome, the i-state asphalt he hauls et, yet further over still over still. Far and further toward something.
Gok.
Now detective Mr. Gerdulon’s all-tooling out I-80 west, nearing his entry to Pennsylvania, wondering, why’s this Delaware Water Gap named that way? For what reason? Ever since he was babied-down almost, or nearly so, that is, he’d had wondered, when ‘cationing with the family out from Jersey, then coming back over across here, that if he looked down off the route 80 crossing bridge-over-the-Gap, there ought not have been water below. This’ because there’s a gap in the water. For a while, he joked with his people, that there must be a mile or so up from the bridge, a stop to the Delaware river, and then, down a mile or so from the bridge a restart to the Delaware river, and, ‘tween the up stop and the down start, no water. Just the rocky jagged and raw river bed; unlike the river beds under the water ‘fore the up stop, and down past the down start, which would be silky smooth from enduring millennia past millennia of tight heavy scraping down flow. Hence, the name Gap for this middle part. Huzzah. This is the only possible reason being for these thats those, them, or whomever, to term this stretch a gap. Ess.
But where now and when on Earth’s the water get from up the gap to the bottom again—a question that popped roughly half down his teens—but it all mattered less then. Some reason. Some so.
Mr. Gerdulon faded back into the feel of the steering wheel as his speed enlarged the sign to one hot square saying, Delaware Water Gap, and then swung it by, past, and gone back behind. Once gone out from the sign’s under, once more came the fresh minted flyer of roughly the same shape, flat on the desk of his hiring manager, back yes’day, or maybe earlier, who pointed down in it and told Mr. Gerdulon, See this face here? This is the boy your first assignment’s to seek—and Mr. Gerdulon bent slightly forward over the Xeroxed flyer upon which lay a flattened boy’s head, face-up. Over the boy, the hiring manager went on singing a song of hisself ‘bout how the very Mr. Gerdulon, the actual Mr. Gerdulon, existing within himself within range of the hiring manager, must now go and allow himself to look down the barrel of the interstate for this boy; and that this will happen; and Mr. Gerdulon’s job is to make this come true.
Sigh.
For his first assignment alone—ess being special, ‘cause no none further ‘ssignment ‘r ‘ssigments can boil honestly under that tag. Claus. Hippo! Hence. The next; Bring me that boy here, will demand much of this Gerdulon, and adding, Do it in a way that fully befits the eco-nononemy, will demand even more—but, here, now, today, since it’s not tomorrow, this is positively a fully-true yellow smaller sign of a statement, there; but now’s a lesser more pinkish roadside sign flying his way.
Appalachian Trail.
Huh! Yes, Mr. Gerdulon ‘membered reading there’s a thing called the Appalachian Trail.
Gela.
Mr. Gerdulon did not know that at this Water Gap here both I-80 west and the Appalachian Trail came together in a bundle of two, reason being, as most reasons are, that one bridge is cheaper than two. Help. Bound in a bunch. More than one’s of any prongs’ greater than ‘ne, ‘s easier bound in jes’ a single bunch. The followed rule here, being, make all easier, nothing harder, not to bog all down. A bundle may sometimes be fatter to grip, but no; it’s untrue that two bridges are better than one, ‘cause ‘cause. If you’ve hands large enough it’s the way to do all the get out of any whatever in one, quick, trip. Ho! Expensive’s not better than cheap.
‘member this, son.
Gas. Zipping by all of this so very smoothly, Mr. Gerdulon let himself find that he had never once dreamed all his life that he’d be crowned a ‘tective. Puzzle adventures. Plus, the hiring manager had said, the boy’s named Fedrico Frayman, but he goes they say as Kevin. Or so they claim. Go fast, Detective Gerdulon.
I will go fast.
True, tip.
Good. Now here’s your car keys.
Claim of the day, out that day; oh. But, now and today, this new Detective Gerdulon, as he crossed the Water Gap bundled all ‘gether with some Appalachian Trail he’d never walked, and never would, gripped the wheel of his Ford more firmly. All these, this, and thatses, are much too complicated, yes—too much, of a sudden—boo, but, bo—got to get to paying attention, now. Perhaps there’s a troll after this here big gap. Better slow. Better feel down me for my money. The grind of the road down under says, Drop that other shit Gerdulon. Getting the toll money’s what’s important right now, Gerdulon. Getting’ ready for the toll troll herself—here ‘he comes. Some things ‘r much bigger than roses.
“To decorate the room in which the kirn-supper was held at Spottiswoode as well as the granary, where the dancing took place, two women made kirn-dollies or Queens every year…”
His driving ‘minded Mr. Gerdulon of when a boy he’d been out to visit Englishtown six. Hemicar Caster-Blast. Shook the ground, shook it. It being so new and all, to a boy. The ground shook, but. That was just a phenomenon. Just an illusion from his overloaded ears, in all their fragility, when faced with sounds God never intended, but. God knew there would be nitro-blasters, so; but but but but—why oh why? Mr, Gerdulon did not sign on with Boole and Co. for metaphysically-musing into being soft questions re on re on the God or Gods, depending. As they shot down the track in manners quite stunningly shown to all small-boy first-timers, they all fell back behind-scenes to dance about it, the same way the heathen people did even earlier, back when attending the nightly dedication of the Idols. Therefore this caused perfect patterns to be brought forward—metamorphosizing smoothly into these two nitro-burners themselves, offering this run up to all new-time boys in the stands, as the things they’d been brought to the track there to witness, in their present days, which, though fleeting, they always brought forward into their new ones, themselves. Know what we mean, Mr. Gerdulon? Do you? And yes, also know that, on the laminated ID card being prepared in our back rooms for you to sport on your pocket, your name will be named as William Budd. We do not expect our field men to risk exposure, or blackmail, or cause risk to their families, by causing attention to those bearing their actual names by those being sought-down, when those being sought-down may be dangerous, and armed, and who should never be approached by the innocent and or the weak and or they are pulling up to the staging line, eck—or anyone less heavily armed than theirselves—their firegases shoot up out their headers I bet yo’ did not expect such snap pop or crackle, eh boy—Mr. Gerdulon’s hackles rose secretly—a feat no bull terrier could accomplish, but humankind is quite well equipped to lie, cheat, and kiss ass, even when totally pissed off—these cars or so they’re called don’t sound like daddy’s Ford at all, do they, big Sunny? Hey blip they go blap they go so, Mr. Gerdulon, do you have any questions? Questions ‘round any might extend-down your stay? ‘kay here the lights flash down, the tree blip blap bloop, feel the ground bi, bip. ‘kay here ah ho know always also, Mr. Gerdulon—even though your success will be partly because of force of arms—or should I call you Mr. Gerdulino-Budd, the same or same the the different but blip, the don’t think you’re different or not the same guy no more ‘cause we the card we will issue hired Mr. Budd when blip blap the other bloop too, eck, you look at remember you are Mr. Gerdulon and we hired you ‘cause you be quite capable cap’n. They shoot the white smoke whipping all about you—so here’s Mr. Gerdulon tooling down the Z.H. Confair Memorial Highway, all through Pressyl-vania, passing fields over fields, whose corn was not cut until waypast the race’s starvation. The race they soon acquired great wealth and slaves. Tooling down ‘long Mr. Gerdulon slipped into a groove, whereof this was a perfect pattern. Or whereof rather this is the thing itself and; for all the boy got sat down to witness, all the way down the track-roar ‘cross the finish—which then sucked him tight in his seat by the overwhelming hot summer silence, but now allowed to come back home, though, still quite stenchy—they did not even equip the boy with the ability to remember who won which race. They did not even equip Mr. Gerdulon with the ability. For the boy to remember. Who won? Which race? Your car is outside, Mr. Gerdulon; Mr. Budd. Your car is outside, but—where the hell were you? You will end up or rather missing or forgetting the thing, y’ your whole race, itself. Mr. Gerdulon, oh—we mean, Mr. Budd. Englishtown six. Keep goin’.
“We got our poles and went down to Kinelski’s. He lived alone in a half burned down house and nobody ever saw him. He had acres of land covered with junk cars…”
Home of Punxsutawney Phil – Next Exit.
Mr. Gerdulon tooled ‘long, passing the sign by, pondering unknowingly t’ the rollerings ‘f his wheels; and, as soon as the tribe—can you tell me the date—ceases to be swayed by today—the date today? He, the timid, and the divided, is to himself very important. Probably off a day or two. Are the counsels of the elders very important? For, I fear, me too, I have known the lost track date of today feeling also, you know, I because, oh I fear, oh I fear, I have really, I have, yes, I have, really lost track, really, really lost track. Oh, yes—there on the dash. And. Off the top, do you know that? Do you know that there came a laminated identification card along with this spanking new job? Do you know? Hell, yes, and yes, there was always, in Swabia on the first of May, a tall fir-tree dragged all the way to the village. See the clock, there? Can’t tell time yet, child, oh? The location of that famous groundhog about three o’clock on the big face there, says, January thirteenth. Punxsutawney. Yah. That good? Oh, yes. Thank God, there’s still a whole half year to July. I do not have to know you any longer that I already have known you, in order to reach July on time.
Hup! Mr. Gerdulon shook loose the fat of his face, knowing that dozing at eighty miles an hour was not to be desired. Taking his right hand off the wheel, he idly fingered the laminated identification card hung ‘round his neck, that would tell her, like it would. Who invented these flimsy chains, that would, one day, scarcely had their inventor envisioned, hang things ‘round necks, and dangle from ceiling fans—slip grips and spring up, into the fan’s superfast whip-ripping areas of Spanish-style cloakwised rotations—Punxsutawney Phil predicts the weather as if he was also a private detective—so then go gone flyin’, provoking rains of curses, and do little but important lots of other little but important things? Yes, they were both really real private detectives; but, this could not possibly be known by any front-facing idling-‘long pedestrian—all and any of which, are banned on most interstates anyway—seeing the bullnose of his sedan roaring up. Thinking. I am the car of a private detective. I am the steering wheel of the car of a private detective. I am the steering wheel of the car of a private detective being gripped in the left hand of a. I am the steering wheel of the car of a private detective being gripped in the left hand of a private detective whose other hand’s fingering a laminated identification card—hung ‘round his neck by a ceiling fan’s pull chain—that would tell her like it would make her believe he. Ut, ut. He is indeed a private detective.
God.
The sign stating the home of Punxsutawney Phil is that a ‘way, flew back-hind Mr. Gerdulon’s fleeting car, some miles back actually already, but it was only back then, Mr. Gerdulon noticed it, so, thinking about matters of the now rather than those of the then, Mr. Gerdulon let loose of the card and, yielding to the direction of a single, strong, and resolute mind, touched the flat face of the radio power knob. Felt like about a four-inch knob.
But.
No, no, that can’t possibly be; that would make the radio face at least six feet wide and three feet high if everything was naturally normal, all properly scaled, and Mr. Gerdulon would have also certainly noticed, if he had mounted a car eighty feet high, half a mile long, and with a front seat wide as thirty-three football fields, ut, oh—soccer, or NFL, NFL, or soccer or maybe even squash, like the court below which the first nuclear pile got fired up underwhich, way back whenever—et. Perhaps the knob’s more like three and seven eighths of an inch in diameter. No, that would require the issuance to Mr. Gerdulon of a laminated identification card that would tell her, like it would make her believe, he was a private detective that would have to be six feet square, or many more rectangulars manufactured in a plant specializing in the manufacture of rectangulars, eh, hee, eh, haw, what the hell is an eh eh what the hell is a rectangular eh eh eh what the hell is a rectangular, anyway. There’s nothing on earth called a rectangular. Hey, Brad hand me that Pitt of a rectangular, anyway—I’ve lost track.
Those big balloons out there, up there!
Wow!
The big face there says January thirteenth. That good?
Yah, thank God, there’s still a whole half year to July. July—on—where it’ll be decked with ribbons and set up. July—Groundhog Day—where it’ll be decked with ribbons, and set up commemorating a great big steal. July—he was a—where it’ll be decked with ribbons, and set up commemorating a great big steal, making it truly formidable to its neighbors. Commemorating a great big steal—private—making it truly formidable to its neighbors, about which the people dance merrily to music—private detective. Making merry to the music of a private detective. Of a private detective. Making merry to the music of a—private detective.
Mr. Gerdulon let go the laminated card, and returned his right hand to the curve of the wheel. Unknowingly he applied himself to counting the white lines pushing by under back off to his left.
“Your language, which the medicine-men understand perfectly, will be heard no more at the bottom of the lake.”
Mr. Gerdulon tooled ‘long further on, mounting toward the highest elevation of I-80 west, east of the Mississippi River. Two thousand two thousand two two hundred and hundred fifty feet, and, it mounted fifty more past that even; it mounted still higher yet ‘til, its mounting down calculates out to six hundred to six hundred and ninety and ninety meters which was sequenced by the documentarians. This was ‘cause in the United States the U.S. and Imperial measurement system is largely adhered to, so that made sense, sequence for inhabitants of made sense that country, for inhabitants of that country, whereas; and his car radio went faster now, cheaply drilling more and faster facts home—if the documentarians—be they the same or different people make a hill of thought—though it ought not make a hill of difference—had been working in a country where the metric is largely adhered system is largely to adhered to, then the opposite the opposite sequence would have been the sensible way. Lay out this to lay out documentation this documentation the fact the of fact the of matter the matter is that this—if you were a man of intellect above the common—is where they were and is also probably where you are if reading or listening to or being read to by some teacher-nun; in the essence of which truth must wise have you must wise have been have must wise been raised have been raised all Catholic, as well as have found out many interesting radio shows, then—Mr. Gerdulon, being thoroughly bored by this dust-dry radio exposition flowing over him out his dash—you would readily avail yourself of this opportunity—no! Flick the channel over to another unknown bright live carrier of a heavily transmitted station saying to him, Investigators made a disquieting discovery, that being—that Carr had offered a small reward on they planted a behalf of her small tree or client, in hopes that this, eh yah, just ‘cause a branch of a tree over ‘cause tree ack oof hup cone, all co-o-o-ne, and finally, in these unseemly bickerings, the heathen took what to a superficial observer might seem strong ground.
Grinning lightly, Mr. Gerdulon backed off the backed off the pedal a bit pedal a bit to alter to alter the vibrations the vibrations up up in his butt in hopes that this in his butt as well as the finding of an interesting radio show up his butt would waken him somewise and purge him of this unsafe at any speed hypnogogic episode, and he wanted to kick this bug fat radio-bound fake Miss Willy out o’ his present, causing only one half or more of his self to target the safe driving of his Ford while she ‘ranged his ears with her bitchmoans off the time he had made the decision yes the bolt broken pane binding broken pane binding broken glass together. She had wanted as they sat cooling down their too-hotly served mutually ordered dinner-soups to tell him yet one more time—and with this the tells on this thing rang up to five—how she thought their next summer vacation should be spent in attending the revel of her dreams, the Beglika Festival. Of which she claimed again over Gerdulon, that—
As he gripped the wheel that time tight and steady, she again told him that, if he were a man of intellect above the common, he would readily avail himself of this opportunity.
But so not the no, eh—seeking to drown her, he spun slightly the tuning knob.
—if he were a man of energy if he were a man above the common, he would readily avail himself of energy above the common of the he would readily avail himself opportunity of the opportunity—but but the upjerk of his head at seventy miles per hour said hey, Gerdulon, sink her away to another, lower frequency—one where even the whims and caprices of a tyrant sank her away to another, lower frequency may be of service in breaking the chain of custom sank her away to another, lower frequency which lies so heavy on the savage sank her away to another, lower frequency where some Otto will put a sign on a door not before not after but there right-ass there—so, ack, there always comes a time to give up. So, Mr. Gerdulon cut the radio power. He pushed his butt out the slouch it’d slid to then, realized—shit shin shinola shineleen—his posture had been the key and as the panorama rightlefting his windshield showed him what his sleepy head had striven the last half hour to snatch off him forever—he felt safer driving now, but. Hey, these interstates ‘re all monotony and monotony watch it Mr. Budd—hey, heck. What kinda crap-laugh of a name is Mr. Budd?
“…and junk machinery, car parts, engines, frames, and rust-rotted bodies scattered all around; ancient chain driven flatbed trucks and steam shovels, old motorcycles and motorcycle frames, and little shacks here and there.”
Root out and butcher.
One of the most things the agency briefed Mr. Gerdulon on, was that he should lightly mention to anyone providing him with a clue, or anything else which may serve in that direction, was that there may might could probably possibly be, but don’t quote me on it; as a matter of fact, I will deny ever having said this, but. Reward. But. Reward. But, but. Reward. Possibly, but, but, and more probably maybe—but, make it be that when any he may have briefed-down, they will tell a friend or two of it, and that friend or two may tell a third, and they. May pass. They may pass along with wonder. As a matter of fact, they may pass forward, back, and to each side, evenly or unevenly, so what, just that it happens, and spread-spiders out that someone’s looking for this—this b’—yes this ‘oy go on—you may actually say that word, yes—the boy—the boy—the b-b-b-b-b-b-oy! Hup, pop, bup, and—did he really out back, when you talked to him—did he say the boy’s name, did he—that is if you are not just fibbing me—did he say out here—what do you mean he might have said the name, or might not have, but in either case, you have totally forgot—did he say here, there may be a—possibly big fat reward? A finally one, a finally—and his name again, please? Eh, whoop—why did you not get his card? Eh, whoop—perhaps his quest has to do with that case——what do you mean he might have said the name, or might not have—that criminal rock throwing incident, slightwise back easy, and morewas some time of an ago—yah, the I-80 rock throwing incident. The crime, not the incident; but they call it an incident and, you know what, chief? We call stabbings crimes, not stabbing incidents. We call shootings crimes, not shooting incidents. We call acts of terrorism crimes, not terrorist incidents—what do you mean, he might have said the name—and murders, and rapes, and et et, et—the rock throwing incident should be called, yes be called, a crime. What do you mean? Oh, now, do not claim not to know what we’re talking about. Asking about. Oh, now. Do not do not not claim that no that do not do not claim lie ‘bout that, no, that is extremely hard to believe, specially es’ly, that she—in the back seat there back ‘hind you—says they got those boys. And, thank God, that’s thank God, that is so, so, that is so, you know? Do you know, really? Like I know? They don’t know. Goin’ down—talkin’, ‘bout my, baby. I don’t know, oh yea—Gerdulon pushed bang-dead his Ford’s tinny CD player, that had begun to sleepy him down—the retrograded silly-strapdown off what he sought when powering the thing up—that gave rise to a shitstorm of thinking, that maybehaps gnarly-hoo, he may not be cut down for the low dirty ‘vestiga’ trap. His salary—it, says the Boole firm’s last year’s red-hot flaming bold-capped flyersheet, the one that ge-got his unemployed kinda’ tensioning t’ go, had been teased out by the whole investor community, who watched over it most carefully. And also, after all, said the humane services managing brief-ingette, the description of this firm you are joining hardly’s intended to afford you vivid glimpses of merry England in the olden times. No. This is a working job. With long hours. Much hard driving. And hard times gone from yr’ sweet-sweet home—or yr’ jelly’s so good. And please, please, no Billy-goat drumrolls. Those pasts are over. You are to be entering new ones after new. Ones. Hack in n’ gag down that Kreutz. Proceed without it and if can’t, leave right now, ‘cause—on this course, you may. Just you may—just may—gag on that particularly over-specialized brand-line of pap.
Transportangle now, back down, into the Iowa Lent center.
Whoo.
Fillmore eromllif?
Why whoop?
Every rebellious over-complicator.
Jim Meirose’s work has been widely published. His novels include “Sunday Dinner with Father Dwyer”(Optional Books), “Understanding Franklin Thompson”(JEF), “Le Overgivers au Club de la Résurrection”(Mannequin Haus), “No and Maybe – Maybe and No”(Pski’s Porch), “Audio Bookies” (LJMcD Communications), and “Et Tu” (C22 press). Info: http://www.jimmeirose.com @jwmeirose
Alien Buddha Press 