[Criminal?]

I snuck out of bed this morning much like a criminal, pausing to whisper “I love you” to my mate before gathering my clothes, a good book, and my wallet. My hope was to log some time on my reading after a shower, this wasn’t to be though as the universe had other plans. My much anticipated date with my book, coffee and stale dated doughnut was interrupted by the shrill scream of my telephone “Hello?” “Hey man”

his tone was more sympathetic than any other inflection which I found odd since he spoke in words of unbridled optimism, a trait I was certain to find less than appealing on this particular day “How’s it going?” I said weakly trying to mirror his optimism and disregard his sympathetic tone. “Good. So you ready to go?”

“Damn it Clinton! I thought I asked for warning? Can’t a guy retire in peace?” Retire was an affectionate term, overstated though as neither of us had breached our fortieth birthday, personally I was still months short of dropping a three in front of my age, the bottom line was I didn’t want to travel constantly to be a sidekick to one of the country’s most talented computer programmers.

“But I need a good guy, someone I can work with” his words were pleading “fine, but Tamara’s not gonna like this”

“Oh come on now family man! I’ll be there in forty five minutes sharp. Better pack for a couple of days” with that he was gone and the line fell dead.

I swallowed another mouthful of coffee, chewed an impossibly large piece of donut, laid my book down with contempt and made my way down the narrow hall toward the bedroom were Tamara still lay sleeping, and sat upon the edge of the bed considering the super-sized wrench I was about to throw into her day “Good morning, baby” I whispered stroking her arm lightly as if my affections would somehow curb the news I had to offer, she cooed and turned over slightly before unveiling her diamond eyes in a series of lash bats. She hummed almost melodically before speaking in her morning voice “Jayson, what time is it?” I consulted my watch realizing that I didn’t even know myself “Nine” I responded, the time was an insult to the three hours’ sleep we had managed to steal since laying our wine soaked minds to rest. “What’s going on?” she asked, prompted I’m sure by the look painted haphazardly across my face, “I got a call from Clinton this morning” I ended the sentence prematurely, knowing that no more needed to be said “Jayson! I thought we agreed, no more! he doesn’t pay our bills!” she was now awake and her morning voice had escalated to something of a parental scorn, she was right after all, I received little to no pay from my technological journeys with Clinton but we were old friends and my career as a struggling musician wasn’t demanding my attention again until Tuesday evening anyways, and my outings with Clinton hardly ever lasted in excess of two days. “I know honey, but my next show isn’t for four days” “Fine!” she retorted, falling back into her pillow.

As I moved about the room gathering my clothes and placing them in the Buxton shoulder bag, that had been my travelling companion so many times before, I couldn’t help but note how familiar these actions had become over the years.

Before I knew it I was completely packed and back in the chair where my coffee and doughnut had been abruptly aborted about half an hour earlier, I debated rekindling the rendezvous with my book but chose against lining myself up for interruption which was wise for as I watched the spine of the novel disappear into my bag I watched Tamara emerge from the bedroom in her terry-cloth robe and aim directly for me, she perched herself on top of me with a leg on either side of mine and her hands cradling my face, our lips engaged one another like Olympic wrestlers in a gold medal match, I was rather captured in the emotion of the moment when a honk of Clinton’s horn bored its way into my subconscious.

with my bag in hand, dress shoes and Italian sport coat acting as a sheath to my flesh, I bid my farewells to Tamara before moving towards the 2005 Mazda Miata that sat at the base of our laneway. “Mornin” chirped Clinton from the driver’s seat of the tiny convertible “Morning. This better be good” I said closing the door and hiding my eyes behind overpriced Oakley’s, without another word gravel flew from the rear of the car and we were turning on to 1st Street without further small talk, before long we were heading north and battling heavy traffic on the 101.

A half an hour closer to Pasadena we were pulling into a drive-thru for much needed coffee “What do you want?” he asked assuming I did, I paused contemplating the monetary contents of my pocket “I’m buying” he added as if prompted by my silence “I’ll have a double hazelnut latte with cinnamon and a touch of chocolate” as if the latter would sweeten my view on this trip any. “Damn it Jayson, it’s a drive thru” he said making light of my seven dollar order and turning to address the mechanical voice with his order which contained my latte and a house blend black for himself, accompanied by a bagel with extra tomato basil cream cheese. He tossed the overly happy clerk at the next window a five and several dollar bills before acquiring our order and rushing back to the 110.

Time began to travel much faster now that I was fueled with caffeine and before I knew it signs were welcoming us into Pasadena. We eventually stopped in front of an old brick building that appeared to be begging for mercy, a sign out front bragged about antiques of various sorts and I couldn’t help but wonder if this was what I had been drug an hour away from Tamara for, as I absorbed the exterior of the shop I realized that Clinton was already digging his equipment out of the Miata’s tiny trunk, with more zest than I previously thought I was containing, I leapt from the car and met Clinton and his silver briefcase of computer gear as he approached the small nineteen twenties store front.

Inside was a crowded, confounded mess of lamps, signs proclaiming Pepsi-Cola for a nickel, and cash registers I was quite certain hadn’t seen daylight since the First World War was a coming attraction. Clinton navigated his way through the dimly lit aisles before turning towards a wall lined with various wardrobes and dressing tables, finally stopping at the one that served a purpose. Topped with a bronze register and today’s copy of the L.A. Times, the cherry tabletop was manned by an Asian lady who herself appeared to be an antiquity, “Bon journée” uttered Clinton in a surprisingly authentic French accent “Bonjour” responded the clerk in a mix of an Asian and heavily rehearsed French voicing, they continued their correspondence in this manner before his motion toward the back of the shop caused her to spring from behind the table and lead the two of us through a small door at the rear of the building which held an emergency exit and a treacherously narrow and steep set of stairs to the right which we were guided to the top of.

The stairs ascended to a store room packed beyond capacity with more antiques, wedged between two cumbersome floor lamps lay another crevice sized doorway leading to a room just big enough to house two more waist high cherry wood tables, one of which containing the offensive party; a case and monitor no newer than two thousand and likely home to no better than a Pentium II. Clinton exchanged some final words with the elderly lady, then addressing her as Ms. Kim, bid her farewell and she descended the stairs to re-assume her post behind the ancient register. As I had beared witness to many other times, he twisted and turned the machine before finally acquiring a working USB port and withdrew his laptop from his case linking the two machines and setting the laptop aside before gesturing me toward it “Take remote access and attempt to access the last backed up image of the hard drive” “This thing has a hard drive?” I said smirking and patting the top of the case condescendingly “It does” he said pushing past me and punching buttons on the laptop “It also has fifty eight Terabytes of RAM, why? I have no idea but I’ve never seen anything quite like it” I couldn’t believe the numbers he was reading me, they were unheard of “but why put it in a ten year old case and attach it to a monitor that would stagger playing Casablanca?” he kept typing and without skipping a beat continued on “Ever hear the story of the Trojan horse? It’s the element of surprise” I smiled and he returned the gesture “what are we here to do anyways? Other than marvel at the Jesus Christ of CPU’s” “That’s where things get odd, apparently she’s lost some ultra-important accounting file” he paused to consult the paper file he’d created for the case “invcon10.acc” an odd name for a file in my opinion but I wasn’t the expert.

7 hours later and a lot of cursing from Clinton left me frustrated and him packing his equipment away, we exited the shop with an abrupt goodbye and a promise to return the following day. “I need food” said Clinton when we had repacked the trunk and settled in the car “Got room in your wallet for a trusty assistant?” “of course man, let’s go” we drove for a bit in exhaustion sponsored silence before coming to a stop in front of a ‘mom-and-pop’ burger joint, we ambled in looking like two people eagerly awaiting death, pulling at our ties as if they were boa’s squeezing the life from us, once they were free from our necks and we were seated by the window awaiting our server, Clinton raised his head and met my eyes “I suppose we should start calling motels, she’s usually in by six, we can get a nice early start and I can have you home by four” just then a waitress with more facial scars than teeth interrupted “What can I getcha, honey?” Clinton began, “Are you licenced?” “We sure are, darlin’”

“Good I’ll have a double scotch...Glenlevit if you have any, and the house burger” she turned towards me flashing gums in place of a smile “and yourself?”

“I’ll have the Swiss Mushroom and the same as my friend here to drink”

“Comin’ up” she croaked, in a far too southern accent and headed for the kitchen, she returned moments later with two short glasses containing the single malt “and if it’s not too much trouble” added Clinton after a swift sip of his drink “could we see the local phone book while we wait?”

“I suppose for a couple fine gentlemen like yourselves” she replied “What a doll” said Clinton letting the last word trail to a mumble to show his discontent, she returned about five minutes later smelling like an ashtray and dropped the directory on the table between our drinks, he opened it to the motels and I took a deep, warming sip of the scotch before wondering what damnation I would be receiving if Tamara could see me now the thought was shattered by Clinton’s voice “Yes, that’s right two, really?, okay that’ll have to do, thanks, you too” he punched the end button on his HTC and returned it to the breast pocket of his dress shirt before swallowing the remainder of his scotch and briefing me “They don’t have a double so we’ve got separate rooms for the night, hope you’re not afraid of the dark”

We arrived at the motel several glasses of scotch, and three hours later. We were greeted by the desk clerk who provided us with key cards and informed us that our accommodations could be found on the fifth floor and reading our welcome brochure taught me that I would be in room 505 and Clinton in room 507 and that all rooms were non-smoking. we rode the elevator through five light-up squares that named the floors we were passing, when we reached the fifth we moved as quickly as we could toward the off-green carpet that signaled our arrival at the necessary altitude, my room was first and as I slid my card into the provided slot Clinton turned and broke the stale ring of alcohol circling my state of consciousness “Hey, in the morning you can catch a couple extra hours of sleep I’ll be leaving about five thirty but you can meet me there, I’ll get started alone.” while I didn’t like the idea of paying for a taxi, I realized that a several good morning codeine pills and a shower might be worth the cash.

“Thanks, I won’t be too late”

“Have a good sleep, Jay”

“You too, man” with that our respective doors closed and neither of us were awake half an hour later.