JFK Ride (One)

Sometimes it feels as if we’re all carnival glass, fragments of an earlier time simply accumulating in an empty space. The pieces gather and collide reacting in weightlessness as one would expect, reeling off into the distance to collide with the other pieces here shattering and fragmenting into oblivion. Each piece and particle interacts with another all sent spiraling off into the void to meet and influence other ornate glass bobbles. This is the way things seem to work.

There is no real control to the interaction, it simply exists. To claim something as grandiose as fate is forcing these to meet and interact in their unique ways is nearly incomprehensible. In his mind there can be no greater force crafting and manipulating these movements. It simply can’t be an option.

He was told to go to a small town about fifty minutes outside of the city. He usually operated within the limits of the city but occasionally they have an issue that seems to escape this boundary. It’s not often that this happens; a subject making it this far, but when it does someone still has to collect them. Normally they don’t even make it away from the compound.

Most of the others wouldn’t want to go out this far to collect, something about leaving their comfort zone, but he didn’t mind. He enjoyed the driving, the fluctuation in the music, and the sparse scenery as he cleared the city limits and hit the rolling prairie. The few small towns with their decrepit houses, one main thoroughfare and two intersections, each one seemingly stuck in late 1950’s or early 60’s American paradise and left to rot. These small blossoms along the highway had all been left to fade to the same shade of brown as the grass surrounding them, slowly trying to disappear. Somehow he enjoyed this and tried to imagine each one full of life.

He could almost see the shadows of the old inhabitants from the prosperous times bustling to and from the closed shops and lingering on the dusty sidewalks. But life had moved on and he was only seeing shadows. There was nothing left in these places save the lingering memories and leaning structures. He couldn’t imagine why someone would run past this. If he was going to pick someplace to hide why not someplace there there’s no one to give you away?

What could offer some kind of sanctuary past these abandoned burgs? What memory would draw someone to move past this decay? He couldn’t imagine anything surviving where these failed, but this didn’t really matter. He was told to go and collect, and something had lived, and bloomed apparently, past here.

The tires crunched on some loose gravel scattered on the pavement of the rest stop as he rolled past the pumps and pulled to a stop in front of the dusty pane glass windows. This was the only building that looked alive on the main street for the small town of Niagara, and even it looked worn and weary. Decaying cigarette advertisements were hung on the inside of the dusty glass, alongside sun bleached pictures of the cheap food inside. Everything looked as if it was at least a decade old, save the green glowing ATM sign.

As the keys slid from the ignition he popped the door open on the black sports coup and stepped out while straightening his suit. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the pane glass, just on top of a faded poster of a woman in a black evening gown seductively enjoying a cigarette, as the door clunked closed behind him. He was the perfect example of the company’s reconnaissance and recovery department. Clean shaven, with a black suit, matching tie, polished dress shoes, and his .40 caliber Smith & Wesson discreetly hidden in his shoulder holster; his hand gently brushed against the butt of the gun as he reached into his suit coat for the red and white soft pack of cigarettes.

It had been a long ride and he hated smoking in his car so this was a good excuse to get out and relieve his addiction. He looked down at the car for a moment as he placed a cigarette between his teeth and let out a small sigh. It was a pristine 1962 Lincoln Continental, looked like the one Kennedy was shot in only a hardtop, and he loved the thing like a child. This was really the reason why he had no reason to complain about having to go this far. It was a shame to keep a car like this in the confines of a city. There’s no way to exercise the engine, run it up to a good speed and keep it there. The stop and go traffic was no good for his baby so this was just the opportunity he needed to take it out and truly drive.

The smoke rolled past his reflective sunglasses as he puffed away studied the earth colored scenery. Everything around him was being baked back into the ground by the oppressive sun on this cloudless day, and there was no breeze to offer relief. The only sounds in this place were the passing of the traffic on the highway in the distance and the weary sound of the swamp cooler corroding into oblivion on top of the building. Whatever this place was built to support, or exploit, was lost a long time ago making the only source of income the few people who wandered off the highway.

After one last drag the cigarette filter fell to the concrete and was smashed beneath the toe of his shoe. This was just a weigh point, there was nothing in the profile that said the subject would stop here, but he was sure that Mr. Allen had. Intuition was one of the things he had developed over the years, although some of it may have come from the companies’ unusual training, and it was rarely wrong.

Lucian Allen was the man he was after. He was described as an asset to the company that had left with classified property. There was no description of the property or what kind of an employee he was. His company had a firm belief in the need to know policy so he didn’t even get the facility this man had left. All he was given was Mr. Allen’s’ known history, which consisted of residing in this one small town, and a poor photograph that was taken from his online profile.

Mr. Allen was an odd man, he thought to himself as he wandered toward the glass door set beside the windows. Most people have a very detailed online profile of themselves somewhere, something that breaks down every movement they make and their personal thoughts, but he didn’t have one. What they had for him was old, it looked like he was high school in the photo with some black haired girl under his arm, and the profile only had comments from years ago. There was nothing else that the man had left online for them to harvest, and the only other photo was the one taken at the station as he boarded the bus leaving the city. The route lead all the way to Niagara, and past, but something had delayed the reporting. As if they didn’t quite believe the photograph was accurate.

   For some reason his branch hadn’t been immediately alerted that Mr. Allen was in need of recovery, otherwise they would have intercepted him far earlier. But all the information that was especially curious was, of course, on a need to know basis. He knew that Mr. Allen was slated for recovery, alive, and that they wanted him back, but only after an update about his condition and his habits. There was no specific time limit as to his collection, but they did request that he avoid the police at all costs. In the end he didn’t care to know anymore, he was just happy to be out of the city.

Reviews

[tremainiator]

I believe this would could not help but benefit from a thorough rewrite, if you want readers to take it seriously. There are many points at which the plot is unclear because it has not been edited. For example, the open paragraphs about carnival glass need work in order to bring these observations into line with what the story that follows. As it stands now, they could be deleted with no loss.
I also think it would serve the reader well if you gave the protagonist a name or identified him in some other way, as you prefer, so you can use it instead of 'he' which becomes confusing.

[K.C. Zbryk]

This was a piece i was struggling with for a while and was unsure exactly where i was heading with it. Probably shouldn't have posted it but didn't really have any solid plans as to where it was heading exactly. Ever had a piece that was alive but moving too much for you to put it on paper? This was that piece for me. Every time i sat down to try and write it the focus seemed to shift. So i thought a little feedback might help me pin down where i was heading with it. Thank you for the suggestions and i think i will try using the characters name earlier. And it definitely needs a rewrite. This is terribly apparent.

[tremainiator]

Perhaps, as you rewrite, and now that you have been 'away' from it for a while, you will be able to find where it is going. If not I doubt any of us can tell you.