Decline and Fall of Alternative Civilization

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  Statistics-on bass percentages:

  Her first job ever was at the Friendly Confines of Wrigley. Dear Uncle Kevin pulled the strings that enabled her to serve Cubs fans their hot dogs and cokes, then shlep their garbage. One day the ungainly lass snuck onto the outfield to lie in the bright smell of the grass and dream of wearing her own team uniform. An airline uniform brought back the same feeling but it was the thrill of the air. June the flight attendant was the great icebreaker and plenty of passengers needed her services; they were scared, and the woman's smile gave them their daily dose of ease. Every time she strapped herself in, cleared for takeoff, there was the anticipation of that first climb on the roller coaster. Or maybe the long, exquisite dive of the fly ball that sailed down to the bleachers, the day she jumped and almost fell over the railing trying to catch it. Rearing back at full thrust, gravity pulling against the strings of lift, everyone's stomach scooped into the next pressurized dimension, she wanted to yell like a bronco rider. Like the final scene in Dr. Strangelove-only she was going up, not down.

  The first Southwest uniform fit well, and she looked even more first-rate in her Continental blues. She could be the tower of strength, the lightning rod for the fear in passengers' eyes, but a uniform could only channel strength; it was not the giver of it. Could she reveal this truth to men and women whose lives needed assurance and shelter from turbulence? The irony that little girls would wiggle with admiration for the big sister who smiled back at them. The shame if she let down little boys who stared and blushed at the big girl they would fall in love with.

  Just prior to his death, her dear uncle received a letter from Tom McClunaghan. A confused, rambling epistle, it was an unconscious cry of help to the Princess of Bogs. The elder patriarch, still in his wits, managed to construct a rational interpretation. Cryptic phrases were clues to the King of Mud's whereabouts and, knowing he was in the final hours, the patriarch commanded a friend to take dictation, and then was typed an explanation to include with the letter for June's benefit. 'Twould be the last story weaved before Kevin McClunaghan closed his eyes and crossed over the river, sure that his life had not been mere vanity.

  When the wake concluded, and not a moment before, Uncle Kevin's dear friend delivered the envelope to his dear niece. The text intimated that Tom had been sexually abused by his mother and probably by another adult as well. Never a judgemental man, he believed the boy had snapped from the unholy trauma of it and had sought to withdraw from reality, doomed to spend the rest of his life unable to reconcile anything. "There are many roads," the patriarch's letter stated, "upon which a young man can embark when seeking salvation or self-punishment."

  It was all conjecture but Uncle Kevin was a wise, wise man.

  With difficulty, she learned that Tom was holed up somewhere in Seattle. He had been working at Boeing and was laid off for unexplained reasons. His file contained no contact information nor did it list any next of kin, and he was painted as being "mentally unstable." Most disturbing were the things not said about his condition, the trail of discovery leading to darker and darker paths. Attempts to contact him directly had failed, as had attempts to reach him through those who would speak to her. The theories and speculations concluded that AIDS was not the affliction. True to his personality, that would be too easy to explain.

  Countless dead ends summoned up a phone call. The unidentified voice tersely revealed the name of the hospital in which Tom was wasting away.

  No, the staff would not let any of her phone calls through.

  And no, he did not respond to any of the letters she sent him there.

  She would need to sneak in to see him.

  In the next heartbeat, she was without a husband and out of a job.

  Roses?