“Who are you?” the man asked of the woman standing in front of the office building, looking up as if it were a dragon to be slain.

Julia is not ‘stunningly’ beautiful as most heroines tend to be. Neither is she ‘striking’, unless of course she happens to be striking you. No, Julia is none of that. She’s ‘odd’, not falling into any category or stereotype. With her round white face, pink-purple lipstick, and dead black hair, you might start with ‘punk’. However, the pink button-down shirt that might almost pass for traditional—but not really—screws that perception up pretty well, although the strangely patterned and oddly colored over-sized scarf flung over it might make you pause again. No. ‘Punk’ doesn’t fit yet.

The ragged, torn, and apparently dirty jeans doesn’t bring you back to ‘punk’. Now it’s more like ‘unkempt’. But, not really. The cowboy boots? Well, aside from the fact that they match her hair, your brain might start to frazzle in its attempt to make any sense out of this. Her ‘just a little plump’ body does stretch the denim a little, but ‘it works’, she likes to say. Looking at the 26-year-old woman, you might disagree with that assessment, but on closer examination of the interplay of textures and colors and patterns, you might nod your head and think that maybe it does work.

Julia sees her body as a different kind of rack, something that just holds her art, her clothes. Okay, you think, maybe she’s a designer, or maybe she got lucky that day.

Many people give up trying to understand and classify her right about now—usually about ten seconds into the first encounter—and that’s just fine with Julia. Who she is, is known to, and understood by, her and her alone. Again, that’s fine: people may not like what they find if they start to probe too far; there are things that people simply should not know. They will find out eventually, but not at this point.

If people get beyond the initial failure to classify her, the next thing they notice is the eyes: deep, dark, crazy green, set in her face like outlined emeralds painted on a china plate. But, on closer examination, there is something else, something like a beam that emanates from them: a tractor beam, hard to pull away from. If you stay too long, you’ll see an intensity that is frightening, unless it isn’t frightening, unless you want to be pulled in; unless you need what her eyes promise; unless you are short on what she seems long on. The more you need, the closer you get. Very few people get that far: fear starts right about halfway—or desire, and that’s the critical difference. The ones that venture farther expect reward for their courage. Some may get what they expect. Most won’t.

If people looked even farther inside those eyes, they would see a fire, a burning intelligence and… is it anger? Drive? Ambition? Then they ask: ‘where did this strange young woman come from’?

The answer could be: ‘around the enemies, over the bad guys, through the obstacles’. Or just: ‘from nothing to something’. Or maybe a better question is: ‘Where is she going?’

Julia started with nothing but the belief that creating fashions for Barbie dolls would lead to a life of creating fashions for models. In high school, when other kids said mean things, Julia instead heard praise from a man on stage in a spotlight. When other kids pointed and laughed at her mismatched clothes, Julia saw an elegant woman pointing and shouting ‘this is the future of fashion!’ When kids made fun of her tossed-together outfits with no labels, Julia saw a model gracefully sliding down the runway to applause; the neon sign above the runway carried her name on it.

She looked at the rear-view mirror of her life and never saw the poor girl, or the struggling seamstress, or the tired young woman showing her designs to yet another buyer. But Julia could clearly see the man who crushed her father and tried to crush her spirit. And she could plainly see the executive who said she was a genius; the one that believed in her as much as she did in herself. All of these conflicting/harmonious threads were woven into the fabric that made up who she was, a fabric whose patterns and colors and cuts were as unique as the woman herself.

She turned and looked at, no, into, the man who asked the question: ‘Who are you?’

Who, indeed?

“I am Julia, sir.”

(Julia is the main character in a new novel by Timothy Freriks, due out in fall, 2017)

A short story by Timothy Freriks

3,000 words

Thinking back, I’m not sure I ever saw his face clearly. It was like no matter which way he moved, half of it was in deep shadow. Even after the sun went down. The question as to how that could be possible only hit me much later. But, looking back, it was only one of the mysteries that unfolded that day. I don’t know if ‘mysteries’ is the right word, really. That implies that unanswered questions pile up then get resolved. I’m not sure anything was truly resolved. If anything, the questions I had been fighting with had become clearer, and progress had been made. Maybe that’s some sort of resolution. I don’t know.

I’m a spoiled rich kid… or used to be. Big houses and fancy cars defined me. I thought it made me credible. It didn’t. It wasn’t my money; I sure didn’t earn it. I have a tendency to want to appear to be more successful and ‘with it’ than I really am. It was a struggle after the bankruptcy and the trust fund went away—and good old Dad’s conviction for embezzlement, of course. The Fabergé egg I lived in suddenly opened up, and it was empty. Worse than that: it wasn’t even Grade A Jumbo. I didn’t really understand how vacant my life was before I met the man with no eyes, but I do now. Trying to cover it up from myself and others before now is why I bought the stupid car.

A Ferrari will yell SUCCESS to the people I want to impress. I need clients, I would repeat to friends. Writers want to sign up with successful agents.

My friends, if I still had any, would have yelled: “hell, yes”. Bobby wouldn’t, though. Bobby said: That’s stupid. It’s freaking 15 years old. It will break.

Looking back, I know he was right about that. But it’s a classic. And it looks great, I had replied.

Remember your first wife, Jakey? Same thing. A shell. No substance.

That did put things in perspective. He was right. He was also right when he said ‘A broken fancy car won’t scream success. Only success screams success’.

I should have listened. I should have stayed home, but then if I had, I wouldn’t have met the stranger. The cowboy, I guess.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself.

***

My degree in 18th century French literature and philosophy didn’t prepare me for much in the way of self-reliance. I can’t write, so I decided to represent people who could. That seemed like an easy way to make a living. It isn’t; it’s been a hard nine years. Capping a recent string of disappointments recently was getting fired by a writer who a day later announced a deal with HBO to produce a TV version of a book he never showed me. He didn’t trust me. It was the last straw in a series of last straws. I had to get away.

“Bobby, I’m taking a trip to Vegas tomorrow. Want to come?” I asked after I calmed down.

“Why?”

“Why go to Vegas or why ask you?”

“Why go to Vegas.”

“There’s a little shit writer’s convention. Maybe I’ll meet some stupid dick who wants to be the next Rowling.”

“Great attitude, Jakey.”

“I’ll pump him up like a balloon, and he’ll sign. ‘Your stuff is terrific’ I’ll say. ‘I can sell you’, I’ll say. I’ll get him liquored up and ask him for fees up front.”

“Dude. Nobody asks for fees up front.”

“Bobby, listen. Newbies won’t know that. By the time I’m done with him, he’ll think I’m the coolest agent in the biz.”

“Successful, right? The Ferrari of agents.”

“Exactly. He’ll beg me to represent him.”

Bobby was quiet for a minute, hoping, I suppose, that I’d get the point on my own. I didn’t. “You’re like that Ferrari, Jakey. All show.”

Thankfully, I know that Bobby is really a dick at heart and I just keep him around because his sister works at Sony. Hopefully, I’ll place something with them some day.

“So,” Bobby continued. “Vegas. Are you driving? Put the top down and let the broads jump in? And a few writers, too?”

Did I mention that Bobby is a little sarcastic? He is, but I didn’t hear it at the time. However, that gave me the idea that leads to what this story is all about. It wasn’t a bad alternative to flying, which, truth be told, I couldn’t afford. So drive it is.

I know the story sounds a little light-hearted to this point, but the fact is—and I couldn’t have known this at the time—there’s nothing light-hearted about what happened next. Light-hearted was what I had gotten used to.

As I headed out from my house in West Covina—a downsize from a hillside diddy in ‘The Bev’—I started to think through what the hell I was going to do. This, I figured out right about the time I turned off of Interstate 10 onto Interstate 15 North, might be one of those ‘moments’ that I read about in every ‘personal growth’ novel I ever reviewed.

On the other side of Barstow, it gets pretty damn desolate, but then again Barstow is pretty damn desolate. Sorry. Elitism strikes again. Anyway, I’m analyzing almost everything I ever did and said since I graduated from Columbia. Work had recently shown up as an option since I started to realize that money doesn’t just magically appear in your account, you actually have to do something to put it there. A strange concept, indeed. And new to me.

Anyone who has ever driven Interstate 15 to Vegas wonders what the hell is in Zzyxx, California. As I was entering into the completely unexplored area of self-examination anyway, and finding some serious questions, I decided to find out. Maybe there were answers out there.

Well, Zzyxx, California, like me, is empty. There are only a few buildings associated with the University of California that does ‘desert research’. You may think it odd for an expert in 18th-century French literature to say that ‘desert research’ sounds boring. But, I’m sorry. There’s only so much you can learn about sun-baked dirt and sand. "Wow, there's another scorpion!"

Needless to say, I didn’t find answers. And, I didn’t find my way back onto Interstate 15, either. Somehow, my Ferrari took a wrong turn and I, while daydreaming, let it just keep going. The next sign I saw was one that said ‘Las Vegas 158 miles’. Of course, that was right next to a sign that read ‘See the World’s Tallest Thermometer’. That should have been a clue. But, I filled up, ate a late lunch and decided to follow the Death Valley Road.

I was 30 minutes into the drive when I decided a few things. First, it was time for me to accept reality and figure out what I should do with my life. The mechanics of achieving that lofty goal was in the process of being sorted out when the mechanics of a tired Ferrari with 120,000 miles on it decided it was in the process of giving out.

There’s no worse feeling than hearing your engine go bang and having the power go down to the lowest possible level. With smoke starting to pour out through the cracks in the hood, and confidence pouring out through the cracks in my emotional stability, I had to slow down to about 20 miles an hour. It wasn’t a traffic hazard: I hadn’t seen a car in 25 minutes. Up ahead, however, I saw hope, a sign. Hollow Hills Settlement. There was an arrow pointing east toward a lump of low stone hills. I, of course, envisioned a community of happy mechanics relaxing by a shimmering pool with margaritas and tacos. I do love a good party.

I pulled off, lugging and chunking at now about 15 miles per hour toward the opening between two hills. Once I passed through that split, and then curving hard to the right, my Ferrari decided that it had had enough.

I’ve used the word ‘barren’ many times in my life—usually in describing the relationship with my ex-wife—but there is no word to describe the scene before me. Death Valley is the epitome of barren. There is nothing out there. Seriously. No grass. No convenience store. No gas station. No mechanics. And, as it turns out, no cell service.

I had figured it would be a 5-hour trip, so I left at noon. It was almost 5 o’clock already, and the sun was heading off to bed. If I recalled my research correctly, in early March, it would go from really hot to really cold. Soon, I would have a bigger problem than I had now.

So, I did what any pampered rich kid would do when faced with a desperate situation, I sat on the ground and cried.

I don’t know if I dozed off or what, but I seemed to come out of, or enter into, a different atmosphere when I first heard the voice. It was strong—I remember that. Not deep, but confident. It said only one word, though. “Problem?”

As I started to slip out of my dream-state, I scooted back against the bumper of the Ferrari and looked up. Still groggy, my first impression was that the voice belonged to a porcupine, but then I realized that was his hair I was looking at. No real porcupine would sit on top of long legs and be covered by a beat-up straw hat. I finally flowed far enough back into reality to decide that it was, in fact, a man. He had a dirty blue cotton shirt which was open over a dirty gray round-neck T-shirt. A cowboy? I looked around, thinking it was unlikely there were any cows to tend to. And he was walking toward me. He stopped as I stiffened, maybe sensing my fear.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Does it matter?”

“Well… no, not really.”

He said nothing more.

“I’m a literary agent,” I added, not sure how that would add to the solution-finding stage of the early evening' activities.

He stood about ten feet away now. “That’s a problem?” he asked again.

I tried to smile. “Yeah. It’s a tough business.” I didn’t realize he had been pointing at the car. “Oh, that. Yes. Even damn fine cars break.”

“Doant look like no damn fine car to me right now.”

I had to admit: he had a point.

I was starting to notice for the first time that I couldn’t see his eyes. I felt them, somehow, but I couldn’t see them for the shadows cast by his hat. I could see his long red beard clearly, though. It came to a point, almost… maybe a square point… just below the bottom of his neck. Tall and thin, I had noticed an almost regal bearing as he had walked to me a few minutes before. Much of that was gone now that he was folding himself into a squat, but still, there was an odd nobility about him.

“You’re not a mechanic, by any chance, are you?”

“Nope.”

“Do you know anywhere nearby where I could find a mechanic?”

“Nope.”

He stared deep into my head with the eyes I couldn’t see. It started to unnerve me.

“Okay. Then where are we?”

The man looked around then back at me. “Right here. We’re always where we are.”

I didn’t know if he was pumping me or what, but I was getting a little uncomfortable. “Look. I need a little help, obviously. Is there somebody with a tow truck around here?”

“Imagine so.”

The following silence was killing me. “Do you know where?”

“Nope.”

I, of course, had expected more, but I’m accustomed to reading stories to which someone tacked on an ending. This was Chapter One. There weren’t any more. The storyline was a bit cloudy at this point.

I studied the man. He wasn’t gruff or wasted or even a ‘lost soul’, whatever that means. His denim-covered knees were bent upward, and his butt almost touched the ground. It was an odd, but effortless, balancing act. It crossed my mind that he never really struggled with very much of anything. I had no idea why I thought that.

“So,” I asked, “what do you know about cars?”

“A little. Like people, they ain’t much good if they’re empty.”

Okay. A little weird, but… “I just filled up.”

“Not gas.”

“Then?”

“Substance. Jake. Substance.”

I have to admit, that threw me. “What the hell are you talking about?” Then it hit me. I hadn’t told him my name. “How do you know my name?”

“I’ve been expecting you.”

I’m sure my mouth dropped to my chest. “What?”

“You’re a broken vessel, Jake. Empty shell. Right?”

So many questions scrambled feverously through my head. Who is this crazy man? Did my car crash and I’m dead? Is this one of the million or so fantasy books I’ve reviewed come alive? Was this a real damn hallucination? The final question popped out of my mouth. “Did Bobby send you?”

“Nope.”

Of course not. Nobody could have known I was going to get lost.

Then he stood, slowly, gracefully, like a Spector rising from the ashes until he reached full height. He seemed taller than before.

“You understand why the Ferrari broke?” he asked in a voice that seemed to penetrate me.

“Yes,” I started, cautiously. “No substance?”

“Listen to me, Jake.” He bent down slightly toward me. “Empty ain’t good. Empty shells doan do nobody no good.”

There was a question I had to ask. “And how do I fill up?”

“Be honest.”

I must have scrunched up my face into some sort of tortured expression because he said: “New concept for you?”

It had been until today. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately, to be… honest.”

“Good start.”

There was a long minute while I assimilated everything he had said, and mostly what he hadn’t said.

“So, Jake. What do you want?”

The emotional struggles of three hours on the road and ten minutes with this… vision, I suppose… came together like a climax. In front of the personality shifts I was contemplating, there forced a practical issue. “To fix the car and get to Vegas?”

“Then?”

So many things were still swirling in my head but naked honesty—that new word—forced one out. “I want to be successful.”

“By being…?”

“Truthful? Sincere?” I was testing what I thought he wanted to hear. But, strangely, it sounded right.

He said nothing but walked to the hood of the car and popped the latch. I turned, stood next to him and looked in. It was obvious that the radiator hose had come loose.

“If you make an effort to really look at what’s wrong inside, you can fix anything.”

The strange man reached in and reconnected the hose, snapping the clamp back into place.

“It’s fixed, but she still needs something to be successful as a car.”

This was some very heady shit, but I had to make sure I knew where he was coming from. “Substance?”

He closed the hood and walked around to the trunk, popping it open in a single smooth move. Inside was a case of water bottles I didn’t remember putting there. “Water,” he said.

After the radiator was full enough—it only took eight bottles—he replaced the cap and turned to me. “Start it up.”

The full-throated roar seemed to split the dusk-drenched landscape of gray and shades of brown-gray.

“Thank God,” I said as the pent-up tension and fear released.

“That’s all you want?” the strange man asked.

That was probably the best question I had ever heard. The day before I would have said ‘yes’. But now? “No.”

“Do you think it’s too late to change?” he asked.

“’A lost battle is a battle one thinks he has lost,’” I said.

I finally saw his mouth turn upward slightly. “Jean-Paul Sartre,” he said.

I could have collapsed to the ground and sank into it. “What?” How could this cowboy, or whatever he was, know a French philosopher?

His mouth fell back to flat and grim. “You don’t think you’ve lost?”

“’I’ve only begun to fight’.” I’m full of quotes.

“And you’re willing to find substance?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what you want?”

I seemed to fill up with the answer. “Yes.”

“Be careful, Jake. ‘You cain’t always get what you want’.” He paused then pushed the corners of his lips up again. “Famous English philosopher.”

I watched him get smaller in the rear view mirror, lit dully by the fading light. I glanced forward to make sure I was still on the road then back at the mirror. He was gone.

The rest of the drive to Las Vegas was quiet, which gave me a chance to think about everything that I went through that day. Whatever happened that evening, whoever that man really was, what he said had truly changed me. I was determined to try to, well, grow up.

***

I signed two promising writers that weekend. How? I told them I would be the hardest working agent they would ever talk to, that I had something to prove to myself, and they would benefit from that. I was totally honest, and they bought into my sincerity. Sincerity, as it turns out, is in short supply at these conferences. They weren’t the most promising writers I could hope for, but it was a start. It’s what I needed.

When I was cleaning out my Ferrari, getting it ready to trade in on a more sensible car, I remembered the water in the trunk. I looked. It was still there, but then I noticed a receipt.

Glazier’s Food Marketplace.

Glazier’s is only in Las Vegas, not in LA.

On the back of the receipt was a hand-written note.

But if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need. L.

I’ll probably wonder about the meaning of the letter ‘L’ forever.

Ahhh. Well. Writer's block, eh? Not a problem. Never had that kind of problem. Ummm. I could...

The flag flew high over the rusted fortress. It... rusted? That's crap.

The beautiful woman with the alabaster skin leapt from... alabaster? Nobody has alabaster skin, for crying out loud. Alabaster is hard! A story about Botox addiction? Nope.

A gunshot cried out in the night. The man... how does a gunshot cry? Really?

Let me get back to you on this.

CHAPTER ONE

September 1800, somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean

The sun was dying again, extinguished by the horizon of water in the distance. The wispy clouds turned slowly from white to orange to dark gray. Soon, they would be absorbed into the night. The ocean was a polished table, flat and still. It was a cause for concern, of course, among the captain and crew of the merchant vessel, but Roland didn’t understand that. His twelve-year-old eyes only saw the beauty of the sunset and the purity of nature entering another cycle of wonder. He had come to love the ever-engaging, ever-changing canvas of the water and the movement of the schooner, rocking softly in shallow waves.

Worn and tired and sodden by years of having boards and seas under his feet, sails over his head, and an endless line of worn and tired and sodden men to command, Captain Charles Bigelow watched the boy standing by the rail. Roland’s elbows rested on the wood, his woolen sailor’s cap pulled tight over his ears, his cheeks cradled in his hands as he stared out to the west. The captain tried to remember what it felt like to be absorbed in wonder, but couldn’t—it was just too long ago. Given his present predicament, he doubted the feeling would come through anyway.

He had not killed those men to be sure, but he had been responsible for the events that caused their deaths. His body tensed as he saw the blood again and heard the dizzying whirlwind of movement and screams of men dying on the docks next to his vessel. The captain tried to close his mind’s ears to the gunshots and plunging knives. The sounds that the four murdered men had made as they passed from this world would haunt him forever, he knew—as would the last earthly words of his dear friend which pulsed in his consciousness: Take care of Roland.

For the last two weeks, the schooner had floated without a puff of wind. Nothing had guided it. Nothing had pulled it out of the inevitable force of the slow and merciless current pushing it closer and closer to unknown waters. It was like so many other recent events Bigelow could do nothing about.

He choked back tears as he looked out at the last gasp of the day and thought about his only son, James, who was now lost to him, taken by his ex-wife, along with almost everything else. The only property Bigelow had retained was the warehouse on Cahir Street in the Isle of Dogs, the center of London’s marine commerce. However, as the violent events of three weeks before again flashed through his mind, he wondered if that had been wise.

Bigelow wondered what awaited him when—if—he reached his destination. He put his thick fingers to his jaw, still square and strong after all the years that managed to soften other parts of his face, and rubbed his sandpaper beard, considering the decisions he had made.

Was it worth the risk? Was it worth the cost?

Bigelow examined his heart. More than the marriage had died; he was done with it all. His life in England had come to an end; America is where he belonged. Whereas England had become dirty and cruel and oppressive, America shone fresh and clean and free. If his acts came to benefit his new allegiance, then so be it.

Roland was the same age as the boy Bigelow had left so often to sail the ocean and make love to his lover, his mistress, the sea. Bigelow hoped James would grow up to be like Roland, who had strength, depth, confidence, and wisdom that didn’t belong to many men even three times his age. Roland had lived only twelve years, but they were full. He had a fine man for a father; Bigelow knew it was a strong foundation. Roland would have a good future.

Bigelow’s mind switched to a projection of his own future: Uncertainty generated a different kind of hollowness. Had his treachery been found out? News carriers from London had certainly arrived in Baltimore by now.

Trying to erase the sounds and sights of the wharf, Captain Bigelow removed his old black tricorn and ran his fingers through his thinning hair. He focused on the sleek 75-foot shape of his Baltimore Clipper stretching out before him. The schooner’s two bare, raked masts eagerly waited to push against the bones of the hull below with a trailing wind that hadn’t come yet. The Passage was a fine vessel. Built ten years before, it presented a beautiful vision when all sails were full and drawing. But no sails were full now except the square-rigged fore topsail, which luffed helplessly. No need. No air, and little prospects for air by the look of the deepening blue-black sky above. Following Roland’s gaze, Bigelow could see his son’s eyes faintly in the few remaining clouds that chased the sun down into the depths.

“Captain?”

Bigelow replaced his hat and pulled his thoughts back to the moment. “Yes?”

“I believe I see dark water in the southeast.” First Mate John Robinson pointed aft.

The captain rotated his head and his body followed, his eyes squinting. He couldn’t find any trace of wind on the water. “I don’t see it. Maybe it was a school of fish.”

“I’m sure I did,” Robinson said as he peered into the darkness.

Bigelow turned back and smiled. “I’m sure we will find some soon. Get the sextant and try to determine our position. I’m retiring.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sure you’re right.”

As was his custom, Bigelow rose early the next morning and took the helm to watch the day come alive although with no wind it hardly seemed to matter: The rudder gave him no traction. The southwestern sail from London to the Azores had passed quickly; Bigelow had dared to hope that the weather would hold. But two days after leaving port and turning directly west to catch the equatorial current north of the doldrums, the wind had died. Bigelow had never experienced ten days of a dead calm and even though he knew the boat was being pushed at two or three knots, it was as if they had dropped anchor. The trip should be taking 45 days; now, 60 would be a gift.

He looked for Roland and found him curled up like a dog against the railing amidships, the dirty gray woolen cap under his head, dreaming about what, the captain had no idea… something beautiful, certainly. The guilt hit Bigelow again: he couldn’t help thinking that he was being punished; how he wished it could be different; how he wished it was James curled up on the deck.

Bigelow caught himself daydreaming when the first kiss of wind touched him, gently luffing his bloused sleeves. He removed his tricorn again and raised his gaze to the main mast telltale, which fluttered at a 10-degree angle in the faint early light of dawn. The wind began to arouse itself from close starboard as the morning considered opening its eyes.

“First mate!” he called loudly, his voice cutting like a blade through the stillness of the ocean landscape, reaching through the hatch into the officer’s cabin just under the captain’s feet.

Moments later John Robinson appeared, wiping sleep from his eyes, fumbling with the brass buttons on his deep blue open-faced waistcoat while straightening his fashionable white cravat. He stumbled the rest of the way up the companionway. “Yes, sir?”

“I believe we are getting some wind,” Bigelow said, pointing ahead, northwest across amidships. “Awaken the riggers and prepare to unfurl the fore topsail and the staysail for a close beam reach. We’ll test the direction then raise the foresail if it holds.”

There was no reply.

“Mr. Robinson? Did you hear me?”

But the first mate stood frozen, his black tricorn paused halfway to his head, staring at a point far behind the vessel on the aft port quarter. “It won’t be a beam reach, sir.”

The captain turned, following Robinson’s gaze, and gasped. “Dear God.”