“He’ll hunt you down, you know,” Sloan warns Wally, as she reluctantly hands him a black leather Brookstone duffel bag. He anxiously takes the bag, dumps everything on the table. “It’s all there! Geez, you don’t trust me?” she says.
He doesn’t answer, picks up the six bundles of cash from the table, gives them a quick look and stuffs them back into the duffle bag. Then he examines the passport that was in the bag. It has his picture, but a different name. He gives her a look of consternation then says, “Barry? I’m Barry now? You couldn’t pick something better? Like Chad? Or Alex?”
She chuckles, “Beggars can’t be choosers.” She purposely chose that name for a reason. Barry was the name of a neighbor kid from their childhood. Because he was developmentally delayed, everyone made fun of him, especially Sloan. Secretly, Wally always felt sorry for him, but Sloan was relentless. She picked Barry as Wally’s new name to be funny. And it works only because Wally understands his lunatic sister’s dark sense of humor. He chuckles too and the gloomy mood between them lightens up a bit. Inside the passport is a driver’s license for Barry issued from the DMV in Stockton, California. He secures the documents in the side zipper pocket of the duffel bag. Then he stands and does something he has not done in a very long time, he gives Sloan a big hug, “Thanks, Slo.”
“Agh! You know I hate that nickname!” she complains.
“Um, Barry?” is all he has to say.
Small talk can only last so long. The awkward silence that small talk was invented to avoid is inescapable and only delayed. Now, as always, it persists; their smiles quickly fade, drowned out by the human maladroitness of knowing what should be said, admitted, recorded… but never is.
Sloan breaks the silence, repeats her stark warning, “He’s going to find you, Wally. I mean, Barry.”
“Knock it off…” Wally replies, then adds, “…he couldn’t find Rog.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
Wally stares her hard in the eyes, he never knows when she is playing him “You know where Rog is?”
“I don’t. But you can bet Lee knows. Lee knows everything, Wally. Haven’t you figured that out by now?”
“I’ll take my chances.” Wally turns to leave.
“I’ll miss you, Wally.”
The buzz of anxiety in the room goes dead quiet for a moment. He turns to face her. Their eyes meet again, but softly this time. And then and there, for just a moment, Wally sees Sloan the way she used to be when they were little. She was a brat back then, no doubt about that, but he misses that Sloan.
“I’ll miss you too, Slo… Sloan. Very much.”
In like, Sloan sees Wally as her big brother once more. She’s unsure how they got to this point but right now she sees him in a way she hasn’t in a long time – with familiar admiration. She has always admired Wally’s tenacity and patience. He’s the most even-keeled vessel she’s ever known and he’s always there when she needs him.
“What if I need you?” Sloan pleads.
“You have money now. That’s all you’ve ever needed.”
She ignores the subtle insult, “How will I know you’re okay?”
Wally thinks a moment, “What’s the name of that Big Sur place?”
“Nepenthe?”
“You still own it?”
“Lee owns it, but it’s still mine. So?”
“I’ll send letters to you there.” Wally turns to leave, “Well…” he can’t say good-bye, so he doesn’t.
The elevator door to her flat opens and Wally steps inside. The door closes and he is gone, just like that. Sloan can’t handle it; she goes into her rage mode, the one she is most known for. For the next 33 minutes, she trashes everything around her, including the expensive artwork on the walls.
***
When Wally left Silicon Valley, he was extremely paranoid because he had forty thousand dollars in cash at the bottom of his Brookstone duffel bag plus another twenty grand in three money belts wrapped around his waist. Being so skinny, Wally thinks the money belts can clearly be seen. And they can, if you know what they are.
With nothing but the duffel bag and the clothes on his back, Wally took a Greyhound Bus from San Francisco to Los Angeles. He regretted taking the "Dog" but for some reason it seemed like the thing to do when you run away. Once in Los Angeles, he rented a cheap motel room. Something else he regretted. He has enough cash on hand, so why sleep in such a nasty bed? Again, just like with the Greyhound Bus, staying in a cheap motel room seemed like part of the disappearing process. He makes a mental note to upgrade his accommodations. But being Wally, he rented the room by the week because it was cheaper that way, so he's going to stay there the whole week. He went to a "Beds, Bath, and Beyond" store to buy some clean sheets and bath towels. He also went to a couple of mountaineering retail stores and outfitted himself in better gear for traveling the country on foot.
From Los Angeles, he took his time and hitchhiked north along the West Coast thinking he’d go all the way to Canada. Catching rides was a lot easier than he anticipated. Mostly, Gray Nomads picked him up -- those are the older retired couples who live in their RVs and travel around aimlessly with no real destination. After thousands of miles of talking only to each other, they risk picking up hitchhikers just to break the monotony. And if they pick up an axe-murderer who kills them, then that'll show their grandkids that they should have been nicer to Ma and Pa.
At one point in his travels, while he was listening to an old woman named Margery complain about the state of the union, he was half a day’s walk from Louie and Brenda’s place without knowing it.
He arrived in Seattle much sooner than he anticipated. It was summertime; the weather was very nice, he decided to stay a while and rest up in nice accommodations, like a vacation. The first one he'd ever taken as an adult.
He checked into the more upscale Edgewater Hotel for a few days of luxury – laundry service, daily maid, hot tub in the bathroom, excellent room service. And of course, he regretted that decision too. The nightly rate was high enough that he’d burn through his stash too soon if he kept spending it like that. But he booked for a week so a week it was going to be.
On his second night at the Edgewater, as he sat in the bar sipping a Tanqueray martini before going up to bed, a very lovely prostitute blatantly propositioned him. She was clean, seemingly safe, and a little bit pricey for a full fuck. But the quick and dirty cost/benefit analysis he did in his head was in her favor, so he took her up on the offer. The sex was good enough to be considered cost-effective. But what Wally liked most was that it was anonymous. He didn’t even know the woman’s name. This was the first time he paid for gratuitous sex. And he did not regret it. Life was getting better.
Wally checked out of the Edgewater after seven days of luxury. When he walked out into the streets of Seattle, he wasn't sure where to go or what to do next. He took a walk down to the marina and to look out all the sailboats. He’d done quite a bit of sailing with Rog and Lee in the Bay Area. Looking at the sailboats gave him an idea. Maybe he should buy a small one-man sailboat and just sail away?
That’s when he saw her, a captain on a charter sailboat. Of all the boats and all the people all around him, he noticed her. And in a big inexplainable way. She noticed him too. The moment felt surreal, like he was playing a part in a syrupy romance where the two lovers find each other against all odds. Then he saw the name of her vessel “Mark 5:8”. Who names their boat after bible scripture? She waved at him as her sailboat joined the rest heading into the Puget Sound. He saw a bookstore down the street. He headed directly for it. He had to find a bible.
***
For the first month after Wally left, Sloan eagerly called Nepenthe every week. She’d pretend to be interested in the business and eventually ask if any mail came for her but there was never anything from Wally. She started calling every other week, but nothing. Now she calls only once a month or so.
Then today, after six months, she calls as usual and to her surprise there is an envelope for her, but it didn’t come in the mail, someone hand delivered it.
“Who?! Who delivered it” she demands to know. The girl, Jodi, on the other end of the phone tells her it was just some guy. He came in, ordered lunch, then left the envelope on the table with a really big tip.
“Read it” Sloan demands.
“You want me to open it?” Jodi asks.
“Yes, idiot!” Sloan tries to maintain her composure, “Open the letter and read it to me. Can you read?”
“Yes, ma’am, I can read.”
“Word for word. Don’t skip any of it.”
After opening the letter for what seemed like ten times longer than it should have taken, Jodi reads the letter slowly and nervously, “I’m fine. I found some good people. I’ll be in touch. Please stay safe.”
“That’s it?” Sloan asks, feeling disappointed that there isn’t more.
“No ma’am. There’s a PS.”
“Then read it!”
“Okay… here goes…,” Sloan can’t imagine why Jodi is hesitating. Jodi continues, “Okay. It says, PS Can’t wait to tell you about my ex… my exercise?”
“Exercise?” Sloan is bewildered.
Jodi reads it again, “Can’t wait to tell you about my exercise.”
“That doesn’t make sense.” Sloan says.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Are you sure it says exercise? Spell it for me."
Jodi spells it for Sloan, “E X O R C I S M”.
TO BE CONTINUED