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justinsdaysinthedark · 5 years

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Post # 6 - It is what it is

I'd be lying if I said I haven't spent the past half an hour with tears flowing from my eyes staring at a blank screen wondering how I'm going to get everything I've got floating in my head out. I suppose listening to Coldplay live in Argentina probably wasn't the best choice of music to set the mood. I'll work on that one in the future...

Where do I start? It's been a question I'm often asking myself at the start of these blog posts and it's certainly not the easiest one. What do you guys know? There's been so much happen since my last post on Thursday night.

Friday July 26th: I saw my doctors around lunchtime who came in quite concerned. Whilst they were confident my lymphoma was one called DLBCL (Diffuse Large B- Cell Lymphoma), some tests had come back with suspect results that it could be a more aggressive and harsh type of lymphoma called Burkitt's lymphoma and if confirmed, chemo was starting that night with no time to waste. There was also one marked in the middle (a cross of the two) called Burkitt's Like Lymphoma which is treated similarly to DLBCL. Whatever it was, I couldn't change it. I just wanted answers and if treatment needed to start, let's get it underway!

Adam, my incredible haematology doctor sent off another test of my gall bladder to finally get the confirmation I was after. It was urgent. He had to know. It was reassuring of Adam to state "Justin, we need to know what this is. Preliminary results are due back later this afternoon and that will hopefully rule out Burkitt's. if it is Burkitt's, we'll start chemo tonight and I'll be with you every step of the way - even if I have to stay back a few hours."

I know doctors earn a fair coin on a lazy day, but how many give you that much confidence that you and your health is important to them? I'm going to have it a guess and say not many but alas, I am so incredibly lucky with the team of doctors I have.

4:00pm and Adam strolls in the door heading straight for my room. My heart drops, similarly to what it had when Michael dropped the news I had lymphoma. "Good news. Preliminary results are back and we're confident it's not Burkitt's. You can't rule out anything in life, so there still is a small chance it could be. We're happy to wait for the final results on Monday, figure out a treatment plan from there and start Chemotherapy next week. Spend Saturday and Sunday on day leave and I'll see you next week."

This was news to my ears. In a time of what has been negative or no news, I could spend the weekend with family relatively freely and forget everything was happening for a few hours each day. My Uncle Bob and Aunty Denise were down from Tasmania to see me, as was my Aunty AJ and cousins from Bairnsdale so it all felt like it fit into place.

Friday night saw me considerably more relaxed with this news...that was until Collingwood started and it was the demolition it was. Slightly humorous side note, the nurse came in around 9pm for my nightly observations. Naturally, my heart rate was up a bit more than normal watching the football (118BPM - normally between 70-85BPM). This caused the nurse to call in the team of doctors who wanted to put me on an ECG machine for the night and monitor my heart. I assured them it was because Collingwood were on and if they gave me an hour, I'd be okay. It took some convincing, but it finally worked. Back they came an hour later and it had gone down - crisis averted.

Saturday afternoon and evening was wonderful. I went down to dads for dinner and was fortunate enough to spend some much needed time with family over a beautiful dinner and good laugh.

Sunday was much the same. I went home, mum did a fair chunk of washing for me as I spent it being me. Seeing Courtney, napping in my own bed and even headed over to Fountain Gate and got some much needed new clothes and other miscellaneous items - something that seems so simple but is such a luxury when you've spent the past 15 days in hospital.

Monday July 29th: They say the more you think positively, the more positive news you shall receive....or it goes something like that right? I woke up this morning the most upbeat and best I'd felt in weeks. I felt fine. I felt no pain, almost like I'd woken up from a shitty hotel! In all honesty, I felt like I'm abusing the system however I keep being quickly reminded how much I need to be here. Did I wake up so positive because I lived my old life for 16 hours over the weekend? Is it because I was hoping to hear a reasonably positive outcome with this lymphoma test? Probably a mix of both if I'm honest. But whatever it was, I was hopeful.

Adam came around at roughly 10:00am. Didn't really have much for me in terms of news but more of an outline of the day. If they hear the results of the test they were waiting on, they'd write me up a treatment plan ASAP and get chemo started this afternoon. At worst, I'd be starting it tomorrow (Tuesday). They just needed that definitive answer of what type of lymphoma I have - an answer I'd love more than anybody.

Either way, we agreed i'd need a PICC (Peripherally Inserted Central Catheter) line in which basically is a long-term cannula. It runs from the inside of my arm right up and around and stops basically just outside my heart. This is for easy access for the chemotherapy and even an easy exit for blood tests - something that's proven incredibly difficult to take from me over the past few days. Additionally, these lines can last up to six months verses the three days you get from a cannula. There were too many positives to say no to!

This wasn't scheduled for any time in particular, so 1:00pm came around and I was about to be taken to get the PICC line in.

Just as I was about to leave, Adam came in with a few words I'm all too familiar with. "Well, the pathology tests we were waiting on have come back inconclusive..."

Woah. Wait. What? How do tests of my gall bladder that was removed six days ago come back inconclusive? How does one of the main sources not have enough 'data' to tell them what sort of lymphoma I have? I was just stunned.

Adam continued "As a result, we can see some signs of Burkitt's lymphoma and that's what we're going to treat you for. You're young. You should be able to handle it and it's better to over treat you than under treat and be stuck where we are at the moment. It's an intense 16-day chemo treatment that will totally wipe out your red and white blood cells as well as your platelets. We foresee you being in here for another 3-5 weeks, depending on how well your body goes getting these levels back up to normal post this first treatment..."

I honestly say this but that's all I remember from this conversation. I was hoping I'd be heading home this week but looks like that definitely won't be happening. Today marks day 40 of the past 55 days in hospital (day 15 of this stint) and if I go off the longest suggested time expected, I have another 35 days to go. That honestly crushed me.

I got taken down to get my PICC line in - quite an easy process. Very similar to putting in a larger cannula, just a whole lot longer and uses local anaesthetic as well as being guided by an ultrasound and X-ray. I'm lucky enough to have two ports, which will hopefully speed up some of my medication and how much they can pump in. Does it feel weird? The only weird part was feeling it slide down past and near my heart - but that's okay now!

By the time I return, dad made his was in to try and help process the news. We get Adam in to once again explain the process. In layman's terms, I'll be starting an intense and high-dose 16-day chemotherapy program kicking off tomorrow (Tuesday) morning. Most of the time across the next 16 days, I'll be hooked up via IV drip getting whatever medication is required. I think I saw I have rest days on days 7 & 8 which I suppose will give me two days to look forward to. At the end of the day, it's something I'm not certain on and will be a day by day process and constant learning about what's going into my body to help fight with me.

I do have one request for you all. With my body not producing red or white blood cells or platelets over the next few weeks, I do request if you are planning to visit however are sick to stay away those extra few days. With my immune system going to be at the lowest it's been, I don't particularly want to pick up something I don't need. Additionally, as much as I'd love flowers, they're also banned due to the infection risk of the spores mixing with the chemotherapy and causing some dangerous damage from the inside.

At the end of the day, if you're not sure please message me and check as I'm not entirely sure myself about everything. I'm constantly learning as I'm going.

How am I feeling? I'm nervous. I'm nervous at the unknown. How will this affect me? How bad am I going to feel? Will I lose my hair? What will my energy levels be like? In advance, I do apologise if over the next few weeks I'm not myself. Truth be told, that's because I probably won't be.

In a way, i'm finally excited to start my treatment first thing tomorrow morning (after yet ANOTHER lumbar puncture). I was so envious of both people next to me getting their first rounds of chemo today. I know mine will be intense but I just can't wait.

I've learnt so much about cancer and chemotherapy over the past four days and I know there's so much more to learn. Today I learnt I'll be incredibly highly cytotoxic, which basically means all needles and anything used on me need to go in a separate bin just for me. Additionally, I'll have to get used to the good old double flush after the toilet to ensure all waste is disposed of. Mouth ulcers are a big issue with most chemo patients as well. I'll have to start brushing my teeth after every meal and taking a special mouthwash 3x daily to assist with keeping these under control. There's plenty of other little things, but they're two I least expected.

Everything really hit me last night....not like it did tonight though. I just had twenty minutes to reflect and it just became a sudden realisation. What I'm going through is real. It's not a 'joke' anymore. It's not something they're looking at as a potential cause. It is the cause. I have a legitimate medical issue and it's finally time to fight lymphoma. All well and good to be talking the talk like I have been - it's now time to walk the walk. This sits well with me. If I give somebody my word, I do whatever I can to get it achieved. Unfortunately for the lymphoma throughout my body I've given it my word and it's time to fight it. Round one begins tomorrow morning.

I leave tonight feeling a whole lot better than I did when I started tonight's post. I didn't learn from my words earlier as Coldplay live from Argentina is still playing however I'm in a much more comfortable mind space.

My best friend of a lazy 20 years, Dylan visited tonight with his partner, Jacqui. One phrase popped up more than most and they made me aware it was a common phrase coming out of my mouth.

"It is what it is."

I can't control what's happened to me as "it is what it is." What I can control from here though is how I fight lymphoma. Thanks for the visit tonight guys, I appreciated the two hours spent here in what's been an incredibly tough afternoon.

Much love.

Juzz xx

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crimsonblackrose · 5 years

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oh boy camp is going to be an experience. I usually love camp but yikes.

At my old school camp was 2 weeks. I picked a theme and then picked fun educational things to do that would tie into that theme and expand upon what they had learned throughout the semester. I did all this on my own. The only thing I didn’t do was buy the actual supplies or send the kids info on the camps. But all the teaching, all the prep everything was just me. I did a full 2 week cooking camp, space camp, detective camp, pirate camp, and harry potter camp.

At my new school it’s 5 days. My coteacher had a list of things she wanted to include: a dance, crafts, a movie, and some sort of cooking. She didn’t want a them, but hey cool that’s 4 days right there. So I started lesson planning based off of these plans. Because we taught this extra class during lunch she’d pretty much wiped me out of silly dances that I knew from when I was a kid: hokey pokey, cha cha slide, macarena. All I had left was the chicken dance and had to keep swatting her hand from trying to take it to use during that lunch class. But let’s be real the chicken dance isn’t particularly a hour and a half long lesson so I decided to pair it with some of her crafts and this idea of future tense. I want to be/ I don’t want to be. Her idea was we’d do an eco bag and the kids would decorate it and I was like cool. They can decorate it with their dreams. Perfect. And that’ll be day one, toss in the rules and maybe we can squeeze a class out of it.

Day two would be when is your birthday and I’d teach them star signs and we’d learn about personality traits and essentially expand upon their ability to answer when their birthday is as well as do a card game and some crafts (star viewer). She hemed and hawed over how difficult it’d be to learn their different star signs but I repeated again and again they just have to learn their own. She also wanted them to have a water gun fight so I added that to the end in a red light green light type of game where they’d use the months of the year to move forward. ( she recently told me the water gun fight has been scrapped)

Day 3 was animals. I found some fun animal straw crafts online and put it together with a cup game and that we’d learn the catagories that animals fall into: mammal, reptile, amphebian, ect. (DId I tell you half these kids are already fluent?)

Day 4:Cooking- per my coteacher’s request peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and lemonade. Super easy, no heat required version of cooking but also very non-Korean so something fun and new to try for the kids. And this day we’d start watching the movie she picked “Toy Story 3″

Day 5- Finish Toy Story 3 (yup that’s it, that’s the whole day per her request)

So yeah that was camp. But then she said she changed up the schedule and it would be movie first and cooking first because she felt bad about these kids who had reading camp at the same time and didn’t want them to feel left out. Uhhh okay. Fine. I’ll just adjust the powerpoints and move the rules from chicken dance day to Toy story solo day because we’re starting with that. But then today I got a message from the school about the whole schedule and A. Time is different by a good 20 minutes (which she never told me even though we share a room) and B. the Reading camp is 2 days and it’s the two days she moved the movie camp and cooking too which means it wasn’t her being this aww I feel bad for the kids move it was (I’m deducing) because she does not like the librarian and they seem to have a mini feud happening, so she’s being petty and moved the things she considered fun to the beginning to “punish” the kids who signed up for the other camp. Even though these two camps were originally never suppose to overlap. But she changed the schedules and asked for the schedule to be changes so I’m just like WTH?

So I go through all this work of slowly changing my power points to get them to realign with her plans and then boom today, last day of the semester, day before we actually have camp the Toy Story 3 movie finally arrives. And she gives it to me. Less then 40 minutes before it’s time for me to go home. And so I mess with it and try to figure out how to get it to work because you always check media and tech before you use it. And guess what? The thing doesn’t work. The computer doesn’t actually have any DVD player set up to it. So I have to scramble around trying to find some sort of software I can download to get it to work. I download one of the suggestions from Microsoft’s store. Doesn’t work. I download VLC, doesn’t work. I download Gom player and boom we have a picture. But! it’s moving ridiculously slow and there’s no sound. And this is when she shows up and is like well that’s because it’s not hooked up to the TV. And I’m like no, my headphones are int here should be sound. But she turns on the Tv and still no sound and still snail pace and of course the entire media player is in Korean so I can’t figure out what should work and what shouldn’t and she just walks off. And I’m like it’s in Korean! You’re first language! Surely you can get it set up! But no, she’s super not good with tech and when I try and tell her how I got from the DVD to where I had been she can’t figure out how to right click and get Gom to even pop up. And I’m just like great. Everyone else went home early so it’s just us two and we apparently can’t figure this out before I have to leave. So she tells me “Let’s do the chicken dance tomorrow and the orientation” (orientation? What the heck? You mean go over the rules?) “and let’s do the animal craft.” (Hold up those are two different days ma’am. No can do. I tried explaining how they were different days and the chicken dance day goes with the eco bags...which it turns out aren’t eco bags and the kids aren’t decorating them. They’re giant hard plastic bags that she bought baby shark stickers for them to use to decorate and like really? That’s not fun. That doesn’t fit into the theme we agreed on. Why couldn’t you buy a canvas bag like you said you were and let them decorate that with markers? Why’d you have to buy something that’s probably more expensive and is not fun? Also the older kids don’t get a bag, they get a tumbler with the same baby shark stickers. Really?) So I tried to be like “Uh those are two different power points. And she just stared at me. And I was just like seriously? You don’t talk to me like all week and then in the final hour right before camp starts you’re like this? You changed the schedule on me multiple times and have yet to tell me that the actual time of the classes have been pushed back by 20 minutes? And you changes the lesson plan so surely you know that they all go together, but now we’re acting all willy nilly and going back to the starting point because oh boy the DVD I ordered last minute came in last minute and surely in like 40 minutes you can troubleshoot that before going home.

Like I literally spent the last two days doing nothing. She made this big deal about “oh there’s something to tell you about camp but I’ll tell you later’ (she always does this) “I’ll tell you Tuesday because we don’t have classes” and then she wasn’t there at all yesterday. So I did NOTHING. (okay lie, I finished the book I was reading) And then today I was so bored I finished the NEW BOOK I WAS READING and started listening to an Audio book. ) I had ample time to play with the DVD and figure out how it worked and ask for help from other teachers who aren’t as....technological inept as my coteacher. But noooo.

Oh and the other stupid thing is apparently we have prizes. Prizes for the two kids who do the best every day during camp. No. You either give something to everyone or give nothing. You don’t make kids feel bad during camp. Camp is suppose to be fun. It’s suppose to be a time for them all to find something enjoyable about English in the hopes that that fun and joy keeps them motivated to learn throughout the year. And my coteacher made a big deal about how we don’t have enough of a budget to buy them all snacks, even though she wants to so the principal said we could give them little things to motivate them. And I have to be the one to tell them at the start of everyday. Yeah the best two of ya’all gets a prize. BUT for some ridiculous reason we were able to afford a DVD version of Toy Story 3, enough hard plastic bags for the entirety of the 3rd and 4th graders coming, tumblers for all the 5th and 6th graders and stickers for everyone, map puzzles they can color (that’s been added to the chicken dance day because I had to tell her AGAIN that I don’t have any more dances up my sleeve that that’s the last one I know). Like really? REALLY? Buying a box of capris sun and some chocopies will cost less then like one of those tumblers. But no instead we bought...I assume fancy AF pencil cases for the 2 best kids per day.

Ugh. Anyway camp starts tomorrow. I’m not looking forward to this mess.

#mumblings

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d3ndroica · 7 years

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Big Apple 8

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7

Friday morning, Madge headed to work with an extra spring in her step. Maybe because it was Friday and there was an afternoon holiday party at work. Or maybe because she had weekend plans with Gale. There was a constant fluttering in the pit of her stomach, half anticipation and half anxiety. In the morning she threw herself into the minutiae of lab work. She had a quick meeting over lunch confirming the expected schedule for the holidays - Madge had a few days off including Christmas. The lab’s holiday party was a casual thing starting at 2pm. Madge had finished most of her lab work in the morning, and as she checked email her mind wandered. Saturday dinner with Gale loomed in her mind. A Date! Okay, maybe a date. They hadn’t really specified, but Madge was feeling optimistic.

To help distract herself from the inevitable overthinking, Madge texted with Thom. He had been super grumpy since his show ended and she figured she could kill two birds with one stone, cheering him up and distracting herself. She convinced him she would come to his place for dinner and a movie or something. He only agreed because it was “totally gross” out and he had practically no disposable income, but at least he agreed.

The holiday party was, well, a bit awkward. Even though she’d done a few happy hours, having the bosses and other people she didn’t know put a damper on the party spirit. But there was wine and free food and a group gift exchange in which Madge scored a new travel mug and coffee shop gift card, so it wasn’t all bad.

She showed up at Thom’s after work with frozen pizza and ice cream. As usual, Thom proved to be an excellent distraction from whatever was on her mind. They watched a stupid comedy and made snarky comments through the whole thing. When the movie was over Thom switched over to Real Housewives and before Madge realized how late it was, she was half asleep on the couch, so she just stayed the night. Saturday was cold but clear. Madge was bundled up on the subway, reading a book on her way home when she got Gale’s message. She had to fish for the phone from her coat pocket and take off her gloves to unlock it. Gale 10:51am can’t make it tonight something came up sorry :(

Madge 10:54am OK. Everything OK?

Gale 10:55am Yeah OK. rain check?

Madge 10:57am Yeah np

Except, of course, it was a problem. Why, she wondered. He hadn’t explained, and she hadn’t asked, but it felt like rejection. Something came up, which could mean anything at all, or nothing. The idea of a rain check was little consolation.

Madge tried to make new plans. Well, she texted Rue about doing something, but Rue had a performance. She’d be free on Monday, so Madge agreed to meet up then. Madge also emailed Delly a sad diatribe about men being stupid, but mostly she felt like the stupid one. Ugh. So she wound up spending Saturday night doing laundry, watching Sex and the City streaming online, and getting drunk on cheap wine. She glared at her phone but did not text him. She’d decided that since he had canceled the plans she’d initiated, it was up to him to re-engage. Sunday she finished her holiday shopping. Delly called to commiserate about their lack of dating lives. That evening, Madge called her dad, catching him up on work and the city - everything except Gale. She didn’t talk about her dating life with family if she could avoid it. Her dad spent about 20 minutes describing the latest episode of Midsomer Murders he’d seen, practically scene by scene, except he kept mixing up which characters were which, so Madge was left with a bizarre muddle of people who may have been blackmailing and/or sleeping with each other.

Monday rolled around all too quickly. Madge felt forlorn, a cold dreary Monday and still nothing from Gale. She had a busy day scheduled in the lab, prepping her new cell cultures. She was determined to be sure everything was pristine this time around. As she was breaking for lunch, she ran into another lab tech, Vinayak, whom she’d chatted with at the holiday party. He was watching some viral video a student had made for their biology class about cell reproduction processes - Madge had to appreciate it, it mentioned apoptosis! She got sucked into a short conversation with him and some other coworkers about it and other biomed social media. When she finally got back to her desk she checked her phone and found a series of messages waiting. Rue had messaged with a suggestion for a dive bar to meet at before the movie. And Gale had texted. Finally. Gale 11:23am hey

Gale 11:29am you free tonight?

Madge 12:41pm Sorry :( have plans Been stuck in the lab Maybe tomorrow?

Madge sighed. The more she thought about it, she realized she was angry at him. Did he think Monday night plans were just as good as Saturday? And why was it always the same day, couldn’t he make plans a few days out, give her some warning? She hadn’t really thought about it before but now it occurred to her that he had only ever made plans on the same day with her - never in advance. She wasn’t sure if that was supposed to tell her something about him - or about her. And he was mostly MIA on weekends which seemed, if anything, not promising. The whole things left her feeling grumpy. She was happy that she had enough of a life to not be at his beck and call (not a fair accounting but whatever, she still considered herself new to the city and for once she had plans so she could at least feel good about that). She was also annoyed that she wouldn’t see him.

Still, she was determined to have fun tonight, meeting up with Rue to see the latest Wonder Woman movie. Returning to the lab after lunch, Madge struggled to get through all the steps of the day’s protocol. After a hectic afternoon, Madge managed to be only a little late meeting Rue at a dive bar, just in time to take advantage of the cheap (and weak) happy hour specials before the movie. Madge barely even had time to look at her phone. They talked about the holidays - Rue’s shows were scheduled throughout so she would be in town working through all the holidays. She asked about Madge’s work. Madge started explaining her day, but gave up when she saw Rue’s blank look. They moved onto other topics before walking to the theater. The movie was entertaining, and they made vague promises of getting together again soon before each heading home.

Gale 1:03pm tomorrow should be ok I have a meeting til 5 then free

Madge 6:20pm Sounds good. I should be able to get off early tomorrow

Gale 6:41pm U up for morningside? Could eat nearby?

Madge 10:34pm ok Any ideas? Or just meet at subway stn?

Gale 10:39pm sure just meet 116th st subway @ 6?

Madge 10:50pm Soudns good ….so I just did the thing where I turned on the computer and started scanning the exact same feeds I’ve been looking at on my phone 😩😫

Gale 10:52pm 😆 home now?

Madge 10:54pm 👣🍿🎵

Gale 10:59pm long day?

Madge 11:04pm soo long It was hard But good, you know?

Gale 11:06pm you know i said day not date right? you didn’t send a going home with someone emoji

Madge smirked at her phone.

Madge 11:07pm You think if I were with long hard & good I would be on my phone?

Gale 11:08pm well good isn’t mindblowing so it depends if you want 🍆 or 💏

Madge 11:09pm It can’t be both? (Unless you’re accusing me of ethnic cleansing bc those people are weirdly yellow)

Gale 11:09pm ok you’re alone so want to explain what was long, hard, and good for you today? inquiring minds want to know 😉

Madge 11:10pm Just another busy day curing cancer ;-)

Gale 11:11pm I heard it’s more complicated than that

Madge 11:12pm Well that’s what makes it so hard

Gale 11:14pm lol, guess i have to give you that one sounds stimulating 😎

Madge 11:16pm So - how was your day?

Gale 11:17pm well not as long or hard as yours 😉

Madge 11:18pm Well It’s not about the length of your day but what you do with it ;-)

Gale 11:20pm 🙊 I’ll try to remember that looking forward to 2moro

Madge 11:21pm Me 2 :)

Gale 11:22pm 👍

Madge hesitated, typed, it’s a date, and told herself to press send. She wavered. She wanted him to say it was a date. Why couldn’t he say that? She knew he could see that she’d been typing. She deleted the words she’d written.

Madge 11:25pm my long day is catching up with me See you tomorrow

Gale 11:26pm goodnight Madge set down her phone and thought about what she would wear the next day. She took a shower, washed and dried her hair. She pulled on comfy flannel pajamas and laid down for bed. And laid there. Awake.

Madge 12:13am Hi

Thom 12:15am Yo

Madge 12:16am Seeing GH tomorrow

Thom 12:17am 👍🔥 r u 2 DTF

Madge 12:18am NO We’re not even dating

Thom 12:19am nedn fuck him then u’ll know

Madge 12:21am Can you be serious for one minute? We’re supposed to go to morningside park Is that a terrible idea?

Thom 12:22am u rly worried?

Madge 12:23am I barely know him and we’re going for a nighttime stroll in a strange park. If this were a horror movie I’d be saying how dumb I was

Thom 12:24am STOP UR NOT IN A MOVIE anw he’s mr consent 100% ggg

Madge laughed out loud at that - mostly at herself. She didn’t even know where that had come from but Thom as usual managed to calm her while bordering on TMI.

Madge 12:25am lol Sorry

Thom 12:26am npgf now go 2 bed b ;)

Tuesday morning she opted for a shorter workout than usual, allowing some extra time to prepare for that night. She could not even pretend she thought this was going to be casual. She was still a little annoyed at him, but having a little advance warning was better than none. She could at least pick out her outfit knowing she’d see him.

She wondered what would happen. She knew she could be in for a big disappointment, but she couldn’t help hope. As distracted as she was, work was helpful for keeping her occupied. She was still determined to get the labwork right. She managed to push most of the thoughts of Gale to the side as she peered into her microscope to observe her lab cultures.

They sent a few texts midday, not much more than confirming the night’s plans. Before she knew where the time had gone, it was 6pm and she was packed with a thousand other strangers on the train, protecting her small allotment of breathing room from the other jostling passengers, speeding towards … something. She came through the turnstiles and he was there. Leaning on the wall, head bent down toward his phone, his eyes were skimming the turnstiles. For her. Her heart beat a little faster. How long had it been? He looked good. He was clean shaven; he wore a beanie with a Knicks logo pulled down low over his head.

Was this happening? She ran her fingers through her hair and walked over. Gale smiled when he saw her and tucked his phone into a pocket. His “hi” was warm. Madge’s mind chased the question whether it was a friendly warm or something more. If she had been hoping for time to stop, it didn’t - their eyes met for a moment and then suddenly he was adjusting his scarf and leading her toward the subway exit far too quickly.

She had done a cursory web search to see what food was nearby. Maybe Gale had too, or maybe he just knew the neighborhood. As they left the station he said, “Well, there’s seafood, a beer garden, or middle eastern right on the corner. There’s other stuff nearby. What are you in the mood for?”

“How about middle eastern?” she suggested. “I haven’t had a good falafel in ages.” Madge had already checked out their website.

“Falafel?” From his dubious tone, she guessed it wasn’t what he’d expected her to choose.

“Is that okay?” She quirked up an eyebrow and looked at him. She had assumed he would be okay with his own list.

“Sure,” he agreed, seeming amused.

They quickly spotted the middle eastern cafe across the street, with a cute storefront. Gale took that extra stride as they approached the door and held it open for her. As he stepped through after her, Madge rubbed her hands in the warmth of the cafe.

They were led to a small table along the wall, and quickly shed their coats and scarves. They sat, Madge facing the inner restaurant and Gale facing the window, coats draped over chairs. Sitting across from each other, Gale asked Madge about her day. Whether real or imagined, the gleam in his eye led her thoughts directly to the long and hard convo … Shit, was he trying to be dirty or was it just her? It was going to be harder to keep her head clear with him right here in front of her. Madge saw the waiter coming to fill their water glasses and opened her menu as if to remind herself where they were. She was sure her cheeks flushed as she rambled something about her workday. When she asked about his day, Gale talked briefly about work, about working through bugs in their code, and a customer who kept changing their priorities.

The menu choices looked pretty standard by Madge’s experience. They decided to share the appetizer sampler which included hummus, baba ghanoush, grape leaves and the like. Madge added falafel; Gale picked chicken shawarma. It wasn’t long before they’d put in their order with the young waiter.

Soon after the drinks arrived Gale asked, “So when are you going home for Christmas?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah,” she said. “Not til next week, my flight is Tuesday. I hope the weather doesn’t mess up my flights or anything. I’m just going for a few days - visit my dad and see a few friends. You?”

Gale shook his head. “Still need to get tickets. I’m going, I just don’t know the details yet.”

“Really? Isn’t it kind of late for that?”

“Well, I’m just catching a train. I’ll figure it out this week.”

Madge shook her head, amazed at how cavalier he was about leaving Christmas travel details to the last minute. “What about work?” she asked. As odd as it seemed, he had to know what he was doing; unlike her, he had done this before. He had lived here a lot longer than her.

“I took some time off,” he shrugged. “And i can work remotely if i need to.”

“Must be nice,” she answered.

Talking about Christmas plans led to talking about family. Gale talked about his more than she expected - two college aged brothers she had trouble keeping straight, and a twelve year old sister. He seemed extremely protective and fond of them. The waiter came and went, bringing appetizers and main courses. Gale asked about her family and hometown, things she usually didn’t talk much about.

She told him about her dad’s obsession with British crime dramas. ”We always watch a few when I’m home, except half the time he falls asleep in the middle, so I don’t know what the point is,” she laughed.

One side of Gale’s mouth twisted up in a half smile and their gazes held. “What do you do if he falls asleep?” He popped the last stuffed grape leaf into his mouth.

Madge shrugged. “I still watch it. I mean, by then I’m usually hooked anyway.”

“Are you sure he’s the one who’s obsessed?” he asked with a smirk.

They dawdled over the last crumbs on their plates until Madge asked the passing waiter for the bill. Turning back to Gale she asked, “So how far is Morningside from here?”

“A couple blocks. But we don’t have to go tonight,” Gale hedged.

“No I want to,” Madge countered. “I mean, that was the plan right? And a walk would be nice.”

“Okay, then,” Gale agreed, but he didn’t seem as enthusiastic as Madge had expected. A little doubt worried her thoughts.

After Madge paid the bill, they pulled their coats on and headed for the street. “Thanks for dinner,” Gale said.

“Well I did owe you,” she answered. “But you’re welcome.”

Outside the sky was that strange shade of purple caused by orange city lights reflecting off the dark clouds overhead. The streetlights lit their way down 116th street to the park. Madge shivered against the cold and pulled her gloves on as they walked.

“We could do the park another time,” Gale offered. “If it’s too cold.”

“Shut up,” Madge said, eyeing the darkness ahead of them. “I’ll be fine once we’re walking.”

Other than her toes, because her boots that could both look good and can handle walking were not well insulated, and her nose, she did warm quickly. She kept her hands in her pockets,mostly because Gale’s hands were in his pockets. Now that they were on their way, Gale seemed relaxed.

As they approached the park, Madge’s uncertainty grew. She felt her awareness of the dark shadows ramping up and her heartbeat picking up the pace.

“Do you do this a lot?” she asked.

“No,” he admitted with a grin. A jogger with a dog passed by.

“I’m all for trying new things but are you sure this is safe? Because it seems kinda crazy. And I would really like to not wake up dead in a ditch somewhere tomorrow.”

“Trust me, we’ll be fine,” he shrugged off her concern. “Give it a chance and if you want to leave, just say so and we’ll leave. Buddy system, remember?” On her own, Madge thought the buddy system sounded awfully platonic, but somehow he made it sound flirtatious.

“Right,” she said.

There weren’t many people around, just a few figures here and there who all appeared to be on their way somewhere. Gale headed to the left when they entered the park. There were street lamps here and there providing pools of light enough to follow the path easily. You could see the buildings on either side of the park, the ones to the west towering over them from the top of a steep and tree-covered hillside. They walked together past the dog run where a few stragglers were still chasing each other. Their owners stood off to one side, chatting to pass the time while watching the dogs. Gale raised an arm in a friendly gesture; one of the dog walkers reciprocated. When they reached a fork in the path, they turned further into the park and north again.

Other than being dark off the path, the park seemed fairly innocuous. Madge’s nerves began to calm down. “So is this your favorite park?” she asked.

Gale shook his head. “Nah. It’s too small. But I like it. It feels homey.”

“Homey?” Madge was dubious.

“Well, yeah. You’ve got playgrounds and b-ball hoops, baseball fields, the dog walk. You’ll have to see it in the daylight sometime,” Gale said.

Madge pursed her lips, annoyed.

Gale must have realized it. “Sorry I bailed on Saturday,” he said quietly.

“Uh-huh,” Madge replied, noncommittal. The silence stretched between them as she debated whether to ask more. Her mouth was dry. “So … what happened?”

With a rueful sigh Gale answered, “um, well. It’s not a good story. My roommate Jimmy had stomach flu last week. As in, literally immediately after we talked about getting together, he starts puking his guts out. And doesn’t stop. I was kind of hoping it was just food poisoning or something. But then it hit Carlo on Saturday morning. I figured I was next.”

“Oh,” Madge said, wrinkling her nose and, to be honest, trying not to laugh.

“It wasn’t pretty,” he added. “I basically spent the weekend watching sports in my room and cleaning everything in the apartment. I figured if we came Saturday I’d ruin it by getting sick. Or something. It didn’t matter - I never got sick, but still - guess I got lucky. They’re both fine now, anyway.”

“Oh, that’s good,” she agreed. “So ... um. Why didn’t you say so?”

“Sorry,” he sighed. “It’s not exactly, you know, a pleasant image. I was going to email you … but I don’t have your email. So that plan kinda fell apart.”

“Oh,” she said. “Well I’m glad you’re okay. And at least we’re here now.” She was mostly relieved that it was a decent reason. Still, if she had only known, the last few days would have been easier, at least. But, complaining now seemed silly -she felt immature, and didn’t want him to know she’d felt so insecure and jealous over it. She had no right to feel those things.

“Yeah, we are,” Gale agreed, his mouth curving into a smile as he looked back at her - she hadn’t even realized she’d slowed down. He reached out a hand to her. “C’mon, then.” She took it, feeling his heat through the fingers of her gloves.

Up ahead there was water on their left, between the hillside - no, the cliff - and the path. Madge eyed the water as they walked. She joked, “My roommate knows where I am and who I’m with. So, you know, you can forget about any plans you had to slash my throat and toss my body in the water.” The cliff face across the water looked imposing in the dark, a hulking shadow.

“What?” Gale shook his head. “Wow that would make me the worst buddy ever.”

“I’m just saying, logically, it’s a bad idea,” she argued, trying to sound matter of fact.

“Oh, thanks,” Gale answered. “Is that supposed to make me feel better? I think you’ve been watching too many crime dramas with your dad. And come on, Slash your throat? Seems unnecessarily messy.”

She laughed.

“Besides this is no place to dump a body. It’s not THAT remote,” he scoffed.

“Oh, thanks, that’s comforting,” she answered, still laughing.

“Well when you said you were afraid to go in city parks alone in the dark I had no idea you would accuse me of being a knife-wielding maniac.”

“I never said maniac,” she protested.

“It was implied. If you can’t trust your buddy who can you trust?”

“I trust you,” She grumbled. “But -”

“But what?”

“You want to talk about implications, how about this? What are the implications of me being alone with you in a strange park at night. I want to see the park and I’m sure it’s great but it’s really not why I’m here. If you want to be buddies that’s fine, but -”

He cut her off, saying, “I thought it would be romantic.”

“What?”

“The park. I thought it would be romantic. A walk through the park, moonlight, holding hands.“

Madge stepped in close. She tilted her face to his and kissed him. Her lips moved against his, soft and slow. He responded, and she felt his arms wrap around her.

She smiled against his lips.

“Romantic, huh?”

#gadge #nyc-verse #my-fanfic #my fanfic #gadge fanfic

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daddyconfessions · 5 years

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daddy’s journal: 3/23/16

daddy’s journal 3/16/16

Monday Mar 7th Even though Firecracker and I had ended things, I woke up feeling pretty good. I’d thought I’d be miserable all day. All week even. But nope.

About mid morning, Pops (my boss) walks into my office. “Is your report ready?” I told him it wasn’t ready yet. “Come on. I need you to get it done. I want to read over it before we submit it.” The Board of Directors were meeting Wednesday and I had to submit my departments report. I don’t’ have to present to the board. They just take my report and read over at some point, if at all. But, if they have questions one needed to be ready to answer. I barely even worked on mine since I I thought I was getting fired all last week. Pops chewed me out about it. Then said, “Get ‘er done. By the end of the day.”

Lowkey I had kind of been looking forward to the layoff. I’d much rather be in the San Francisco eating some Italian food with Antonia. Or, smoking some good weed down in L.A. Fucking around on Venice Beach. Definitely wanted to turn up in in Hollywood. Oh well. Its all for the best I suppose.

Tigress texted me in the afternoon wanting me to meet her. “We can just meet for drinks,” she said. “Something informal. I know you’ll like me once we meet.” Old chicks can be thirsty when they like you. Its a big difference from dealing with a young 20 something. I told her I’d get back to her but never did. It was all good though. It kept my mind off FC. I still had questions about why she was acting weird the past 4 weeks and then ended things. Lots of things just didn’t make sense. In a rare moment of bitch-assness, I felt I needed closure. Time to consult the Oracle.

Tuesday Mar 8th Firecracker texted me that morning to tell me to have a nice day. It was going to be raining really bad and I needed to be careful. WTF? Is this chick playing games or what? Definitely got to consult the Oracle later tonight.

Pops came by my office again. “Is your report ready?” he asked. I told him I was putting the finishing touches on it. “Good,” he said. “We’re deciding bonuses tomorrow too.”

My mouth dropped. “I thought we wouldn’t be getting bonuses this year?” I asked. He chuckled and asked, “ Why not?” I told him with the downturn and all the layoffs I figured we wouldn’t have one. He smiled: “All the layoffs increased revenue. We all think the Board will be happy with the actions we’ve taken. We have our core staff now and the sentiment is we need to send a message to everyone. We should have some good bonuses this year.”

We talked a bit more and then he left. I set back like

I went from getting laid off to getting a bonus? I was kicking myself from being paranoid. Then I thought about all the people that had lost their job and how I was benefiting from it. It was bittersweet. Corporate America...cold af. I decided to spend a little extra time on my report tho :)

That night I called the Oracle and told her everything about FC. “You know you’re not going to believe this,” she said. “But sounds like your girl is or was pregnant. I told you about my abortion before. I did all the same shit. I cried my heart out. Quit talking to every man in my life but my daddy.” I laughed out loud.

“Now it all makes sense,” she continued. “ The last time you were together she was crying. There’s only a few things that would make a strong chick cry to a man. Especially given your situation. And the way she was crying it had to be something pretty serious. I thought it was another guy but nah. This chick was pregnant. I’m telling you, I did the same shit. I got pregnant and I was mad at every dude I was talking to, even the ones I wasn’t talking to anymore. Nah she didn’t have a STD. Her ass was pregnant.”

I told her that was pretty far fetched. I mean, the Oracle usually gives good advice and 95% of the time she’s right. I think this was one was falling into the 5% range. The Oracle was like, “Think about dude. Put everything in perspective. She kept missing your dates. Then when you met, she cried like a baby. Needed you to give her a big hug. Then the next week she suddenly needs money. The amount she asked for sounds about like the cost of an abortion. Then she comes up with this discharge stuff and how she’s going to the doc and she’ll have to see you later.

“Then the next day she orchestrates the breakup. I’m telling you, she just needed an excuse to put you off. She was really playing you to let her symptoms clear up. Sounds like she went to the doc and realized she couldn’t have sex for several days after the abortion. And wtf happened to the money she needed? Mom or Dad probably gave her the money for the abortion. Or the dude she was pregnant by. And you better be glad you been wearing a condom. If it was your baby trust me she would be keeping it. Dude...give her about 2 weeks. She’ll be back. I put that on everything.” The Oracle went on with her read telling me how FC probably feeling pretty miserable and how after the abortion and things cleared up she’d feel like she got her mojo back. “My advice is to just pass on FC when she comes back around. Just concentrate on Bubbles.”

I had to admit it was the only thing that fit into the strange behavior, if nothing else explains the big crying spell she went through. Still it was pretty fantastic. I told the Oracle if FC came back I’d give her $100. She laughed. “Dude. Go ahead and give me my money now. This chick is coming back. I’m telling you.”

Then I admitted FC had already texted me today saying to say have a nice day. She was like, “Yea that $100 I’m getting may nails and toenails done...maybe I’ll put that on some shoes.....” We ended the call and I felt a sigh of relief.

Jynx texted me right before I went to bed. “Don’t forget about me daddy,” she said. Truth was I had forgot about her with all the FC excitement. But with FC gone I suddenly had more time on my hands. I texted Jynx back and told her I’d see her next week.

Wednesday March 9th Board of Director’s meeting. I put on a suit and got to work early. Not my one of my tailored ones. Some of the rack stuff. Had to down play my image a bit. If I got called into the BoD meeting I’d be ready tho.

However, the hours ticked by and nothing but closed doors and muffled voices from the Executives. Meanwhile, Tigress had been texting me. Still pushing to meet. She was a persistent little monster. And confident. I liked that shit even though I was really interested. But, with Firecracker out of the picture, I had a little free time. I text her back and told her we could meet briefly that afternoon at Starbucks. By then the board should be done. She agreed.

A little bit before the meet, she texted “Can we meet at Alvin’s for drinks?” I told her I preferred to meet at Starbucks. “Well I’d prefer to meet for drinks,” she said. WTF? Now she’s been difficult. So I replied, “Do you want to meet or not?” We kept it at Starbucks.

Tigress was a pretty good looking woman. Definitely old enough to be some 20 year olds mother. She still could hold her own tho. Old cougar -- fucking with a young guy like me. “I didn’t mean anything by wanting to change and meet for drinks,” she said. “I just had a little more time this afternoon and figured we could have drinks.”

“We can do something more formal next time,” I said. “I just wanted to get this meet out of the way.”

She smiled. “I’m used to getting what I want. So when you asked me if I want to meet or not, that kind of turned me on. I’m not used to a man being like that with me. “ I smiled back. “There’s not a lot of men like me.”

We talked for a good 30 minutes. Tigress was older than me but never said how much. She has her own house. Her kids are teenagers and decided to go live with their father so she’s in the big house all by herself. I told Tigress I was sorry for being so hard to schedule with. She told me she had a feeling about me. “I don’t know,” she said. “Its just something about you.” I was like, “How’s that? You hadn’t met me. We’ve only texted.” She was like “Yea, but you can tell how a person says things. Their word usage. Nah. I knew I had to meet you.”

We ended things with promises to meet again soon.

Thursday March 10th The board meeting went good. I didn’t get called into answer questions or anything. Overall the board was happy with the way things were going. Things were looking good at work.

I was leaving work for the day when the Payroll manager called me to her office. We’ve been cool since I started working there. Tight like frog’s ass. She let me know I was getting a bonus and how much it would be. I was like

I was in a pretty good mood when I pulled up to the restaurant to meet Bubbles. Firecracker picked the wrong time to break up with her sugardaddy. Bubbles was inside waiting when I got there, wearing some cute little denim one piece, hair up in a bun and what not. “Oh I love your outfit,” the hostess told her as she grabbed a couple of menus. She gave Bubbles the once over. I swore it was some lowkey lesbian shit. Appropriate since Bubbles is bi-sexual. The waitress wasn’t bad looking herself. For a moment I imagined what it would be like if we all got a room together.

“I’m sorry for cancelling so much,” B told me. “I’m feel so bad for doing that to you.” I told her not to worry about it. She grabbed my hand and squeezed it. “I really like you,” she said. “And that mouth of yours. Oh my god.” We both laughed. We talked for almost an hour about everything. I brought up the subject of an allowance again. “I’m still open to giving you an allowance baby. Something more structured than per meet. If you want to keep doing per meet that’s fine. But I’d like to really help you out. Maybe I can help with your rent and stuff.” I almost said pay her car note, but then I remembered that old bucket was paid for.

“That’s perfect babe,” she said. “I quit my job. Well I didn’t really quit. I just didn’t go in one day and I haven’t been back since.” I asked what happened. “With you, my friends and my son, I just couldn’t keep up with it.” She grabbed my hand again. “I defnitely want to spend more time with you. I want to do more. See you more than once a week.” I smiled. It all sounded good to me. But curiously she never said she accepted the offer. I let it ride for now. “Let’s get out of here babe,” she winked her eye. “Let’s go have some fun.”

I got the check, paid the waiter and we were on our way. “Bye,” Bubbles told the hostess as we left. The hostess was like, “I love your hair like that. Its cute.” I better get Bubbles out of there before these two chicks start tribbing.

Bubbles had parked near the door. We talked about her following me to the hotel but I gave her the address instead. Her trying to follow me in her car was torture. It was slow as hell and she’d always get stuck at a light when following me. As I looked at the car again, I figured it probably wasn’t a good idea to be looking at Celine bags for Bubbles. Shit I’m thinking the bag probably cost more than her car. Later for that one.

I was in the room waiting by the time she showed up. We were both kind of tipsy so the clothes just seemingly fell off us. I spun her around and made her crawl onto the bed. I crawled on behind her and starting licking that kitty from the back.

She came quick and literally collapsed on the bed in front of me, her body and a steamy pulp. While she was out of it, I flipped her over and went back to work, sharing my knowledge with that clit. I sucked it while I licked it. “Fuck!” she yelled. “Eat my pussy!” And ate it I did.

She grabbed my head and as she came she squeezed it tight. Her orgasm were always violent IMHO. Her back arched up off the bed and her body contorted like she was in the Exorcist or some shit. She let out this long moan and then went limp. I stopped for a bit to let her gather her faculties. I started licking again. “Baby you eat my pussy so good,” she said. I put my hands under her little ass and lifted her up so that the kitty was level with my face. She started gyrating, rubbing that wet muff all in my face. Before long she was coming again. She let a long “Ooooooooo god“ and started convulsing again. I let her down on the bed while she grabbed her breast and squeezed the nippples. “Shit.” she growled.

I let her rest for a few minutes before I went all Moses on her again and parted the pink sea. The kitty was tight as usual. I went in slow at first and surprisingly I was able to get most of Bart in. “Fuck me,” she yelled. “Please.” I went to work, half scared to give her the full onslaught. We got a pretty good motion before she stopped me. I think she’s sort of paranoid that I might actually hurt her somehow. After a baby though? That kitty is ready. “Let me get on top,” she said suddenly. “Are you sure?” I asked but she was already pushing me off her. “Seems like that might be more painful.”

I let her get on top she and she actually got Bart in pretty far. But she doesn’t know how to ride dick. It was kind of funny watching her bounce up and down but not actually putting the dick inside her. It was the weirdest shit ever. She was just making a bunch of movements. I almost burst out laughing from the shit. Sometimes I love the sugar bowl. I grabbed her hips and guided her down on the dick to help out. “Oh fuck,” she said. “That feels good.” That did the trick. Not too far down, just enough to make an impression. She came again. “Shit,” she said. “I didn’t expect that.” What the hell was she expecting? She tired to get up but I wouldn’t let her. “Get you another one,” I instructed her.

“Huh?” she asked. “Get you another nut baby,” I repeated. She frowned and said, “I can’t baby. I’m done.”

I took her by the waist again and made her go up and down on Bart. She took over, and started riding him, yelling all kinds of expletives. “Fuck. Shit. Jesus. Damn.” Then she came. This time she jumped up off the dick and just laid on me. I kissed her neck and upper body while she grappled with the pleasure in her body.

“Babe you always make me cum,” she said after a moment. We kissed and then she stopped and got wide eyed again. “Fuck I’m cumming again.” She raised up on her knees and started rubbing her pussy violently. “Oh God!” she screamed. I thought she was about to squirt the way she was rubbing that clit. NO sooner had she started then did she stop. Her head and neck was twitching and her eyes were going back in her head. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it. I got some good dick but I can’t really take credit for this stuff.

I let her rest for a bit then tried to get her back on me for my final climax but she wanted me to finish in her mouth. I’m starting to think she like this shit. I relaxed and let her finish me off with some of that cranium.

We both laid there and fell asleep for a second before one of our phones went off. We both jumped up realizing the time. I needed to get home to the wife and kids and she needed to get home to her son. We freshened up, got dressed, and said our goodbyes.

#sugar tales #daddy's journal

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longforgottenunofficial · 7 years

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When Did the Haunted Mansion Officially Open? Another Anomaly

[Updated December 20, 2015 and May 24, 2017] As we noted in our last post, oddities and anomalies with regard to the Mansion augment its imaginative impact, whereas with other attractions the flukes are dull dull dull. A wall that lacks a door that is supposed to be there raises one or two extra goosebumps. It's a triviality that rises to the level of "a curiosity." There are other such items with regard to the Mansion. One has to do with its opening day. Yes, it is possible to give a definite answer to the question, "When did it officially open?," but only by choosing between two absurdities. There is no sane third option. Curious? See, I told you. Wait, everyone knows it opened on Saturday, August 9, 1969, right? That's what every official Disney organ says, that's what Jason Surrell's book says, and that's what all the Disney fan sites say. The problem is that there is overwhelming evidence that the official opening day was actually Tuesday the 12th. It's in all the papers, Thelma. *insert crinkling sound effects here* “Ghosts, ghouls, witches and bats—all swaying and screaming to the eerie tune of 'Grim Grinning Ghosts'—moved into Disneyland’s new Haunted Mansion at midnight.” —Los Angeles Herald Examiner, Aug 12, 1969, p. A-6 “Disneyland gets a bit spooky starting today—the new Haunted Mansion is opening at the edge of New Orleans Square.” Picture caption: “A ghost resident of Disneyland’s Haunted Mansion, which opens to public today, plays a haunting melody.” —Los Angeles Times, Tues, Aug 12, 1969, p. A-1

“Disneyland visitors can expect a perfectly frightful time at the park from now on. For the most perfect of fun-scares, the long-awaited “Haunted Mansion” is now open to the public....” “I joined a dis-spirited party of newsmen who opened the $7 million Southern Antebellum mansion near New Orleans Square at the stroke of midnight Monday.” —Sandi Mosley, The Orange County Register, Tues, Aug 12, 1969, p. C2 “So the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland, which opened with appropriately spectral rites at midnight Monday, is a horrifying delight....” Picture caption: “The $7 million scare treat opens its creaky doors for the first time Tuesday.” —Malcolm Epley, The Long Beach Independent, Wed, Aug 13, 1969, p. B-1 “After more than 10 years of planning and development, Disneyland opened its Haunted Mansion Tuesday.” —Keith Murray, Pasadena Star News, Wed, Aug 13, 1969, p. 6 The Disney Annual Report for 1969 lists the opening day of the Haunted Mansion as August 12.

A newsletter for Cast Members published in September is equally explicit: “Employees were given a creep preview August 7 and 8, between the bewitching hours of 7 p. m. and Midnight, before the attraction opened to the public. Official opening of Disneyland’s 53rd major attraction was Tuesday, August 12.” —Disneyland Inside, vol. 4, no. 9 (September 1969) As you can gather from some of those clippings, there was a "sneak preview" for the press at midnight, Monday the 11th/Tuesday the 12th, marking the official opening of the Mansion. A large number of press reports over the next few days refer to it. This is a pretty crushing set of documentary evidence. There is also some anecdotal evidence, like this note to Jeff Baham at Doombuggies.com:

No one would have been freaked out about the Manson murders in time for an August 9 grand opening. The Sharon Tate murders took place that very morning. So where did the August 9 date come from? From Marc Davis, apparently. The can of worms spreads out like this. There was indeed a Cast Member preview on the 7th and 8th, a so-called "soft opening." There was also the Monday night/Tuesday morning press preview, marking the official grand opening at midnight. These were planned and announced in advance. But according to "Todd Hackett," who worked for Marc Davis many years and was around for the Mansion's debut, Marc took out ads in the LA Times announcing that the Mansion was "now open." This full-page ad ran on August 9:

Todd Hackett saved a copy of that ad, plus an ad that ran in the Calendar section of the LA Times Sunday, the 10th, and this one is our smoking gun, since the "August 10" date is printed on the ad itself.

According to Hackett, Davis felt the public had waited long enough and decided to pull in one more weekend for the Mansion before the summer was over by opening a few days early. His impatience with the long delay is manifest in the full-page ad, which he drew himself:

However, there is other testimony claiming that Davis did this reluctantly,acting in response to pressure on him from Disneyland staff:

Update Dec 20, 2015. I've been corresponding with a former WDI Imagineer (known as "gerG"; his friends will recognize the name), and he has some further information to shed on this period:

"I've always heard odd stories about how the Mansion opened. It was an odd, transitional and difficult time for the company in 1969 for management and designers. The company was incredibly profitable, but without Walt, focus was blurred. I know that Marc stepped up and took control of the Mansion, both at WED for design and manufacture, and D'land, for construction, installation and operation. He was at the park a lot to supervise, which was slightly odd, but needed.

Remember also that the construction schedule for the Mansion was strange. It wasn't planned to open in the beginning of summer, when operations would want. Perhaps it was planned to open in October, which would make sense. Either way, installation went well, and they were testing the ride system (without passengers) in late July."

"gerG" also has information from a friend who knows Alice Davis:

"I spoke to him about the date of the opening. He's rather close to Alice Davis, and he spoke to her last week [i.e. early Dec 2015] about Marc's decision to open it. Alice said that yes, it was Marc who decided to open the mansion, but he was being pressured heavily by d'land operations. He was in the middle of testing and adjusting, and Alice said that he really wanted more time to change things (like the Hatbox Ghost, which didn't work), but he bent to the pressure and agreed to the opening. And remember that there was no press opening...no previews...and almost no advertising. Even those radio spots seem rushed. It was a strange time."

People who saw the ad or who simply happened to be at Disneyland that Saturday found the Mansion open for business. As gerG says, there was no fanfare, no announcement—nothing. Davis had it opened despite the press "sneak preview" scheduled for Monday night, and despite the fact that there were apparently still some nagging problems with the ride. We know that Cast Members spotted problems with the Hat Box Ghost during their soft opening, and mere hours before the Saturday opening he was pulled out (the Hat Box Ghost, not Marc Davis). During the press event on Monday night there were sound problems, and Disneyland Ambassador Shari Bescos had to stall the reporters until the problem was fixed as they made their way over to the Mansion from Club 33 in New Orleans Square, where the event began. There is circumstantial evidence suggesting that the hitchhiking-ghost-in-mirror gag was only jury-rigged for the press event and the backup effect was put back in place sometime during the 12th, which remained on the books as the official grand opening day.

Problems and all, the early opening worked. Word spread quickly. This is what Disneyland looked like the following Saturday, the 16th. Park attendance (82,516) set a one-day record that stood for years and years.

As for the question in our title, that chamber has no windows and no doors. Either the Mansion had two official grand openings (which is nuts), or it had one official opening and one unofficial "soft opening" to the public, except that the soft opening was announced in the newspapers, which makes it, um, official, doesn't it? An advertised soft opening—yeah, that's also nuts. Aieeee, I've got me some cognitive dissonance going on here. I too feel the disturbance in the Force, but I cannot help you. You'll just have to decide which absurdity is the less intolerable, pick up the shattered pieces of your life, and move on. In truth, the fact that the Haunted Mansion had a debut that defiantly and definitely defies all definition only makes it more fun.

Originally Posted: Thursday, July 1, 2010 Original Link: [x]

#long forgotten #haunted mansion #hm opening day

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teciimedia · 5 years

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Week 2-5 Recap: School/Work Balance

This is suppose to be a DeLorean and much like the DMC-12. My project was a failure. This was week 4′s project. The last week where in my modeling block we focused on Hard Surface Modeling. I haven’t recieved my grade on this project but my week 2 and 3 projects were both C+’s. I knew most of my failures going into them due to me having a checklist and attempting to get everything in at a certain time. Going with my ratio of, if I spend twice as long out of school as in working on a project I am more likely to succeed. I know a lot of factors go into that, the first being the actual available time after school to work on said project. Let’s take my week 3 project for example. Which was a popcorn machine on a cart. I had 18.5 (3 days in class and only taking 30 min lunches instead of the full hour) we got info on the project Wednesday before leaving with only a few reference pictures and making a layout and notes.The project would be due at the beginning of class Tuesday morning at 7:30am. My work schedule that next week, Wednesday, Friday, Sunday, Monday night. That means Wed, Fri, and Monday I would be out of the house from 6:30 in the morning until 11:15 at night. So Thursday night, all of saturday day, sunday morning would be the best times to work. And (just like for the Week 2 project) I would stay up as late as possible Monday into Tuesday finishing my project after work. Breaking it down to simple chunks of 8 hour work segments, Thursday night, Saturday day and Sat Night and sunday Morning. Gave me the potential of 24 work hours to put in. Including an insane all nighter Monday night would lead to an additional 6.5 hours of work. 30.5 hours of out of school work. 18.5*2= 39. I feel if I put 18.5 x 3 hours (55.5 hours) into my work that would result in an A. Instead my maximum potential was 49 which 49/55.5 is an 88.2%. The highest score I could get would be a B+ most. Without the all nighter I’m looking at a total of 75.5%. Now I ended up with a 78. Where did I lose those potential hours? Easy, I’m Human. Thursday I worked on my project after school until about 11-12 at night. Friday I would end up coming home after work and packing my car with food and dirty laundry to do at my Grandma’s house. I hadn’t done my laundry in nearly 3 weeks. It would also give me a different spot to get work done. I go to her house around monday, loaded laundry and slept in an actual bed instead of an Ikea futon for the first time in a month. nice. I slept till about 7:30 am, started making breakfast and watched about an hour of NXT Takeover before getting to work. I tried having it on in the background with the Xbox I brought but I didn’t have the wifi password on hand some the computer it was, also, attempting to have my cake and eat it too wasn’t happening. Out of this time, I lost about 5 hours from traveling and watching a dumb show. On the other hand, I had no other distractions available. The all nighter I would end up pulling would affect me through the rest of the week. I had an extremely hard time focusing and staying awake in class While working on the DeLorean. I talked to my bosses and decided to drop down to 3 days a week at work. I will make enough money to cover rent and insurance each month and the rest of my expenses will drain from my bank account, over the last 2 months my bank account has remained relatively the same. I hit a point at work of becoming extremely demoralized, especially after receiving a safety write up for not filling out temperatures for soup. That write-up means for the next 6 months I can get a raise, promotion or other benefits it also means if I fuck up again I could be fired. I felt so powerless, especially with no support. Hopefully reducing my time there will reduce my stress both at work and not at work. When it comes to school work I LOVE IT. It’s relaxing, it doesn’t feel like work. I fucking love modeling. I’m not professional grade ready but I’m getting better and faster and catching my mistakes sooner. I have the muscle memory for the tools and am starting to regain my artist’s eye and really catch what needs to be seen. In these moments of stress and being up at 3am finishing a project due in 4 hours I am asking myself if I have IT, that X factor, am I going to make it. Yes I do. I’m already on that journey, do I have experience in this field prior to DAVE, no, so I am behind other students and even with given time I may not receive A’s which is fine. There needs to be breathing room though, there need to be that time to relax, stretch and breath. I can’t do that working 30-40 hours a week. I shouldn’t feel bad for wanting to go to the gym for a 30 min run, or do yoga for an hour to stretch from work and poor desk posture. I should be able to watch an hour of wrestling a week or play 30 minutes of a video game just to deload. Breaks are essential, muscles need rest to grow. I need to take a step away from my computer screen and come back to a new perspective, see where I went wrong. With a new tank of gas, not running of fumes.The last few weeks have been fumes and me filling up my gas tank with 0 calorie energy drinks I’m starting to break down. If I don’t build in the experience of being happy and fulfilled while going to school that negativity will pollute my job search and future. This week we revived a lighter project since were jumping from hard surface modeling to organic modeling. So after school, I ordered Chinese food and went to the nearest park to my house and read my 3D modeling book. It was that rest I’d been looking for. I came home and put in work on this project and will continue to do the same over the weekend. That extra day off will lead to not only more time to focus on school but being able to levee other time off towards rest and recovery, leading to being way more efficient. I hope!

#faliure #motivation #school #game design #3d model

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schwarzwaelder-kirschtorte · 8 years

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Bark at the Moon

A Supernatural story for @writingthingsisdifficult‘s 1000 Follower Celebration! Woot!

Details: First-person Reader-insert, Reader x Dean

Monster: Garm, the four-eyed, blood-stained [wolf]hound of Hel whose howl drives people insane.

Word Count: 8163 (Yeah, you read that right. I just...couldn’t...stop.)

Warnings: Mentions of suicide (and violence pertaining to the methods)

*****

I finish my shift at nine at night, instead of three in the afternoon, bike home in the dark—which I hate doing—and nuke some of last night’s lasagna while I change out of my work-smock and into something more comfortable. Burning my mouth on the leftovers at the bar of my micro-apartment’s kitchenette, I glower at the calendar pinned to the fridge by a daisy magnet.

I covered Ross’ shift on Sunday too, and here I was, trading with him again two days later because he had an inescapable engagement. There’s always the possibility that he’s a superhero, but it’s much more likely that he’s just a douche. And he is just the type of guy who would prefer to be anywhere else than working. I mean, so would I, but at least I keep it to myself. The rest of our coworkers know better than to get involved with him, but he knows that he can always depend on me—not because I like him or anything, but because I’m a pushover at work. The others take advantage of this too—if I’m already at the store, they take it as a given that I’m ready and willing to just keep on working—but theirs are real emergencies. Or at least I think they are.

The lasagna iss supposed to be my dinner tonight anyway—and the next night...and the next—but eating it this late just makes me angry. I put its Tupperware container back into the fridge—waste not, want not—and pull the plastic cake server across the counter. I serve myself a thick slice of carrot cake and lick every crumb and dab of frosting from my plate as I watch an old sitcom on Netflix.

In the shower afterward, I think about my day off tomorrow. I have laundry to do, library books to return, and serving lunch at the soup kitchen downtown, which is the highlight of my week, to be honest. I’m always making too much food—thank goodness for Tupperware—but this isn’t a problem when feeding 150 hungry people. Some have a roof over their heads but can’t afford to feed themselves. Some come just to break bread with other human beings. Some are passing through, looking for work. And some have been living on the street since before I was born. A lot of them are veterans. A lot have mental health issues. All of them are victims of a broken system.

I make sure they get enough to eat and that they will be warm that night, and then I come home and eat my leftovers and fall asleep to Netflix or a good book. I always think I can be doing more. I’ve tried to get hired in to some administrative position, but with no formal schooling and being deathly afraid of telephone conversations, I’m only qualified for volunteer work in the cafeteria. But as much as I think a free meal is small-fries compared to what I could be doing for the homeless and impoverished community around town, I know that what the soup kitchen provides is important, a staple, a foundation.

And with my unsatisfied altruism at least sated for the time being, I curl up on my daybed with a hot cup of cinnamon spice tea and the last book in the stack I’m taking back tomorrow evening. My eyelids droop as I savor the last few pages again a short time later, and as I turn off the lamp and burrow into my nest of blankets, I think I hear howling in the distance. I take it for a coyote and slip smoothly into slumber.

*****

I’m passing out extra-large rolls when one of my friends pauses in front of me at the end of the cafeteria counter.

“Hi, Ben,” I sign, pulling a B down my cheekbone to represent his facial hair. “Roll?” I spell out.

“Yes,” he replies. “Thank you,” after I hand him his full tray.

“Where’s Don?” I ask, tapping a D on my shoulder to represent the captain epaulettes on his service uniform. The two men are socks, gloves, turtle doves—they came in a pair. They even bunked next to each other in a secluded copse of trees by the old bridge out of town.

“I don’t know. He went to bed last night, but he was gone this morning.”

This has me a little worried, as Don hasn’t wandered off since July 4th, when some assholes were tossing M-80s into the river and triggered a flashback. Fortunately, he had found his way to the war memorial in front of the library—hopefully he’s there again.

“I’ll help you look for him after you eat,” I tell Ben, to reassure him and to move him along gently, since a line was building up behind him.

“Thank you,” he signs again, taking a seat at his usual table in the corner.

When I finish cleaning my station and say good-bye to the rest of the staff and a few other people, I walk my bicycle with a case of water in its basket while Ben tells me where he has already been to look earlier. He watches my face and reads my lips when I have questions, like if anything disrupted his own sleep or if he remembered anyone unusual hanging around that might have wanted to pick on a harmless veteran.

“Nothing,” he signs. “Nobody.”

We drop the water off at his camp, and I peek inside Don’s tent. The blankets are mussed, but things are still in their own kind of order. And Don would have put up a fight if someone came into his home.

“We’ll find him,” I tell Ben, pushing my bike beside him as we walked to the library—we don’t know how likely it is that Don went there, but we have to start somewhere.

He’s not outside, staring at the memorial like he had been doing six months ago, nor is he inside wandering among the stacks. The librarians haven’t seen him either—they know him, let him get a library card even without a permanent address.

I drop off my books because we’re there, and then we keep searching.

But by the time the sun starts to go down, we haven’t seen a sign of him, and those who know him haven’t seen him either.

“Sorry,” I tell Ben as I walk him back to their camp.

“We tried.”

“I’ll come back tomorrow and help you look more. And if he’s still missing tomorrow afternoon, we’ll go to the police.”

“Thanks.”

“Stay safe, Ben.”

“And you, Y/N,” he says, using the first letter of my name in his non-dominant hand as he signs the word aide.

*****

The library is on my route home, and I look at the structure as I ride past. I think about what could have happened to Don, whether something triggered another flashback or if malicious circumstances are at play. But who would want to hurt Don?

Something moves in the corner of my eye, and I turn just as a figure in what looks like a green jacket disappears around a corner of the building.

“Don?” I say out loud quietly to myself. “Don!” I call out without thinking.

A patron coming out of the library pauses and stares at me for a short moment and then continues on his way.

I turn my bike and pedal across the lawn after the figure I saw. But when I reach the other side of the building, whoever it was is gone. A small rear parking lot separates the library and a densely wooded area of the park. I wouldn’t go in there alone even in broad daylight, let alone dusk.

I pedal to my apartment quickly in the dark chill, questioning if I saw anything at all. I’ll have to ask the librarians again if Don showed up after Ben and I left. It’s not until I get inside and take off my coat that I realize how hungry I am, and no wonder—I only had cinnamon toast for breakfast.

I heat up some lasagna and watch Netflix on my laptop at the counter. I didn’t check out any new books today, so I have nothing to read, but the search for Don has left me exhausted—I can only imagine how Ben must feel.

After a quick, hot shower, I’m ready for bed. As I snuggle into my blankets, I hear a coyote howl again. But I’m more awake tonight than I was before, and it doesn’t actually sound like a coyote. A coyote’s call undulates much more than what I’ve heard. Rather than a coyote’s yips, this long, steady howling sounds like a wolf. A chill runs down my spine when I hear it again, and I pull a pillow over my ears, wondering what a wolf was doing so close to civilization.

*****

A buzzing wakes me the next morning, and I realize from the way the light falls through the windows that I overslept. But Ross is covering my shift because I covered for him on Sunday, so I forgive myself for forgetting to set my alarm.

The buzzing stops, and I recognize it as my phone. I stretch and reach for it on the coffee table and am confused when my caller ID shows my manager Toby’s name and number.

The phone starts buzzing again with a call from Toby, and a niggling pressure settles between my eyes.

“Hello?” I answer.

“Y/N, are you okay? Where are you? Why didn’t you come in? Or call in? You’re a half-hour late! If you don’t have a good reason for this, I’m gonna have to write you up!”

“I didn’t come in because I traded with Ross,” I explain, sitting up and swinging my legs over the side of my daybed. “I worked his shift Sunday. And I worked it Tuesday, so I’m off Friday too.”

“No one told me!” Toby huffs. “And Ross isn’t here! It’s his day off. And you’re on the schedule! Y/N, you have to come in.”

“Call Ross,” I tell him. “I have an emergency to deal with today.”

“Come in and cover your shift until I can get in touch with Ross and figure out what’s going on,” he says.

“I just told you what’s going on. Toby, my friend is missing!” I practically shout. “I have to look for him.”

“I’m sorry about that, Y/N,” he soothes, “but I need you to come in. An hour tops.”

I hold a pillow against my face and groan into it. “Fine,” I snap. “An hour. Call Ross as soon as I hang up.”

“See you soon. Hurry.”

*****

The niggling pressure becomes a full-blown headache by the time I get to work across town. Toby meets me in the breakroom as I wheel in my bike, and I know from the look on his face that I’m screwed.

“Ross isn’t answering,” he says, and I seriously contemplate murder for the first time in my life. “I’ll let it go that you’re late because of the misunderstanding, but I need you to work your regular shift today. And maybe tomorrow.”

“It’s not a misunderstanding,” I try to say as calmly as I can. “I worked doubles Sunday and Tuesday. My time card proves it. If I work today and tomorrow—even if I just work today—I’ll go over 40 hours.”

“And I’ll look over your time card and consider approving the overtime.”

“What do you mean consider?” I ask. “If I’m working overtime, I’m getting paid for that overtime.”

“Then just work four hours today to bring your hours up to 40,” he tells me. “I’ll keep calling Ross. If he doesn’t pick up, I’ll ask someone else to cover your shift this afternoon and tomorrow.”

“Fine,” I say. I would rather eat glass than thank him for his shitty compromise.

“Okay. See you out there.”

When he’s back in his office, I call the assistant director of the soup kitchen and let her know that I won’t be in to help with lunch today after all. She’s much more sympathetic about the fiasco at work than Toby was about Don’s disappearance.

“If you see Ben, can you tell him I’ll be there as soon as I can?”

“No problem. I take it Don still hasn’t shown up?”

“No, not a sign of him.” I don’t mention the figure that may or may not have been him at the library, if there was even a figure there at all.

“Do you need more bodies? I can spare a few of the cleaning staff.”

“That’d be great. Thank you, Deena.”

“All right, I’ll see you later.”

“Yep. Bye.”

*****

Toby finds me as I’m clocking out. Ross finally picked up his phone. He completely forgot about today. Toby wrote him up, and he’s coming in to finish my shift and covering for me tomorrow.

“Fine,” I say again. The two men have just wasted four hours of my day, time I could have used to keep looking for Don. I’m not thanking Toby for giving me less than what I had coming to me.

I pop a couple of aspirin and bike back across town to the soup kitchen. Ben has already eaten and is ready to go. I have a short meeting with Deena and a handful volunteers for a search party. I tell them where Ben and I have already looked, but the places are worth trying again if he’s still on the move—if he isn’t hurt, or trapped somewhere, or somehow immobilized.

Ben and I look out for him on our way to the police station. Nothing.

I don’t know the exact model of the black classic car parked in one of the spots reserved for official business, but I allow myself the distraction of admitting what a beauty she is.

Over the desk sergeant’s counter, I have a clear view of the officers’ bullpen and two tall men in dark suits among the beige uniforms. They’re deep in conversation with what might be the sheriff himself.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” the desk sergeant asks.

“Yes, we’d like to report a missing person,” I reply, glancing over at Ben.

“I’ll get someone to help you with the paperwork,” she says, waving for an officer’s attention.

We’re taken through to a desk some feet away from the two strangers and the sheriff, and the officer starts asking for Don’s information. When he asks how long he’s been missing and I tell him since yesterday morning, he stops writing and sighs.

“Ma’am, we have to wait at least 48 hours before starting a missing-person investigation,” he explains.

I interpret for Ben, then wipe my hand down my face in near exasperation.

“You don’t understand,” I tell him. “Don is a very predictable man. He and Ben are practically joined at the hip. Something’s happened to him.”

“My hands are tied until it’s been 48 hours,” the officer—Preston—repeats.

“Listen, he’s a homeless veteran,” I say slowly. “He has mental-health issues. He has a routine, and he would not break it. He went to bed last night, just feet away from his friend, and he was gone yesterday morning. Something…is…wrong.”

“Excuse me.”

I look up and to my left and into the brightest hazel eyes I’ve ever seen.

“I’m Agent Osbourne from the CDC,” one of the suits says gruffly, but it’s because of the deep pitch of his voice and not the tone of it. He offers his hand, and I shake it as he nods to the even taller suit with dark shaggy hair. “This is my partner Agent Leonard.”

“Y/N,” I introduce. “This is my friend Ben Mayhew.”

“Nice to meet you both,” Osbourne says. “Excuse me for eavesdropping, but I understand a friend of yours has disappeared?”

“He’s more Ben’s friend,” I reply, continuing to interpret. “This officer is saying there’s nothing the police can do until it’s been 48 hours.”

“Under normal circumstances, no,” Agent Osbourne says, looking back and forth equally between me and Ben. Then he turns back to the sheriff. “Sheriff Bernard, may we move this interview into your office?”

“Uh, yeah. Of course.”

We congregate in the private room, Ben and I in the guests’ chairs, Bernard behind his desk, and Osbourne and Leonard in front of the window beside him.

“You said your friend went missing two nights ago?” Osbourne clarifies.

“We said good-night,” Ben signs as I interpret. “He likes to read before sleep. He has a lantern. I saw the light. I fell asleep. When I woke up, his tent was open and he was gone. I waited, cleaned up. He never came back.”

“And he has mental-health issues, you said?” Leonard recalls. “Schizophrenia?”

Ben shakes his head. “PTSD, anxiety. He’s a Vietnam veteran.”

“Has he ever done anything like this before?” Bernard asks me.

“Not often,” Ben answers. “He had a flashback July 4th. Some guys had loud fireworks near our camp. We found him in a few hours of knowing he was gone.”

Bernard regards me. “So, did you check the place where you found him last time?”

“Of course,” Ben signs. “That’s the first place we looked yesterday.”

“And is he known for being a danger to himself or others?” Bernard asks me.

“Sheriff Bernard, I’m just the interpreter,” I inform him. “Please direct your questioning toward Mr. Mayhew.”

“Oh.” He glances at Ben. “Sorry.” Then he leans forward and says loudly and slowly, “Is he dangerous?”

“Why is he talking like that?” Ben signs to me.

“Because he’s an asshole,” I only sign, forming an F with my hand, turning the circle of my thumb and finger up on top, and pushing it out from my chest toward Bernard with more than a little force.

Osbourne huffs out a soft laugh, Leonard elbows him in the ribs, and he covers with a pronounced cough. I blush when I realize that at least Osbourne understands some ASL.

“What did he say?” a clueless Bernard questions.

“He said he’s not dangerous,” I tell him tightly. “Don’s defensive and probably confused if he’s been triggered again. And if he’s not hurt already, he needs to see a familiar face before he does get hurt.”

“The way he was acting the past several days,” Leonard brings up to Ben. “Was it strange or unusual at all?”

“No, I don’t think so. Whatever happened to him, it happened quickly, while I was sleeping.”

“Miss Y/N, I don’t mean to pry,” Osbourne says to me, “but do you live anywhere near the two gentlemen’s camp?”

“About a mile away,” I answer.

“And did you happen to notice anything, hear anything, out of the ordinary two nights ago, or last night perhaps?”

“No, not really. I mean, I heard a wolf howling,” I recall. “I thought it was a coyote the first time. I remember thinking it sounded awfully close.”

The two agents exchange a look, and it dawns on me that they’re from the CDC, with diseases, and plagues, and outbreaks.

“Do you think there’s a wolf out there preying on people?” I ask them, looking briefly at Ben as I interpret for him.

“Wolf?” he repeats, and I nod.

“Like, is it rabid or something?” I go on. “Is that why you’re here? Is someone else missing?”

Their eyes meet again for just a second.

“They’re not missing anymore,” Leonard carefully phrases, and I catch enough from his grim tone to understand what he means by that.

“They died? Did the wolf maul them? Did it just bite them and pass on some kind of infection? There was no blood in Don’s tent, no struggle.”

“He could’ve gone off in the middle of the night to relieve himself,” Osbourne conjectures.

“Did it maul the other person, or people, or not? How many are there?” I demand.

“Three,” Leonard says.

“Your friend makes four,” Osbourne says. “Another homeless man in a city to the north, a hiker, and a bartender walking to her car after work. It didn’t maul them, but it infected them with something, some sickness, and they completely lost touch with reality.”

“What happened to them?” I want to know.

“There were a couple of days of odd behavior and mostly-incoherent rants,” Leonard tells us. “Then they committed suicide.”

“How?” Ben asks.

They exchange another look.

“How?” I repeat for myself.

“The bartender walked in front of a bus,” Leonard relates. “The hiker jumped from a window in his fifth-story walk-up. The homeless man was picked up for vagrancy and disturbing the peace and committed for a 72-hour hold in a county hospital.”

“He ran into a wall head first until he broke his neck,” Osbourne shares.

“Clearly not premeditated in any of the cases,” I remark.

“No,” Osbourne agrees. “That’s why we need to find your friend as soon as possible. He’s already susceptible to intrusive and irrational thoughts. We need to make sure he doesn’t hurt himself.”

“And you need to find that wolf,” I tell them. “Why isn’t the DNR helping you track the animal?”

The agents’ eyes meet again in that furtive way for the fourth time, and in that moment, if I didn’t know any better, I would swear that they’re related.

“Oh, they’re helping,” Leonard insists. “They’re…checking out where the wolf might’ve come from…and Agent Osbourne and I are checking out whether whatever the wolf is passing on isn’t contagious between humans.”

“Well, if there is a wolf, Don almost certainly came into contact with it himself,” I figure. “His and Ben’s camp is pretty secluded, and Don doesn’t take too well to strangers on a good day. And we’re wasting time when we could be looking for him.”

I stand, Ben gets to his feet, and the two agents straighten to attention while the sheriff pushes himself up stiffly behind his desk.

“We’ll walk you out,” Osbourne offers, a small smile on his lips.

“Thanks.”

“Thank you for your cooperation, Sheriff,” Leonard says. “We’ll be in touch.”

Bernard tips his head. “Gentlemen. Ma’am.” He stares at Ben. “Sir.”

Ben and I both give him a cursory wave—I’m certainly not going to thank him—and follow the agents out into the chill of the late afternoon. Osbourne hands me a card with a handwritten number on it.

“This is where you can reach us, if you think of anything else,” he tells me. “Maybe we should get your information too, if we have any more questions.”

“Pen?” I request. “Paper?”

He produces a blank card with a flick of his wrist, a pen with another, and I write down my cell number for him. He flashes a smile when I give everything back to him, and I almost forget why he and his partner are here in the first place. Almost.

“Well, we have to get back out there,” I tell him.

“I don’t think that’s wise,” he shares. “But somehow I think nothing short of tying you to the bed will stop you.”

“I…” I feel my cheeks warm. “Well, you’re not wrong. Bye, Agent Osbourne. Agent Leonard.”

Ben waves to them both with more amiability than he had for the sheriff.

Across the parking lot, I stop Ben and ask him, “Can you read their lips from here?”

He turns to check. They’re standing beside the black car I noticed on the way in. “Just one of them. Osbourne.”

“What’s he saying?”

Ben raises an eyebrow but watches them beside their car. “She’s smart. She put a lot of things together, and quick. I told you one of us should have been from the DNR.” He looks at me, confused. “Y/N, what’s going on?”

“Keep going,” I instruct him gently.

He turns his eyes back to Osbourne. “If he was still in town, his friends would’ve found him by now. There’s 30 acres of woods on the edge of the park that opens up to the county nature preserve. We’ll start there. If we get to him before he’s completely disconnected from reality, we may be able to get him help and reverse the effects.” He drops his hands and spins on his heels away from them.

I peek at the two men and see them watching us. “Shit. Let’s go.”

“Y/N, what’s happening?” Ben repeats as we wander back to his camp.

I shake my head. “I don’t know. I don’t think you should sleep by yourself for a while. I’m going to call Deena and try to get you a bed at the shelter—just for a few days.”

“I can’t leave. I have to be home if Don comes back.”

“It’s not safe!”

“I don’t care!”

I sigh at him, exasperated, and know that he’s just as stubborn as I am. “We have to keep looking for him. The agents—or whoever they are—mentioned the woods. I saw—or thought I saw—Don go into the woods behind the library on my way home last night.” I notice the gloom of the dying day and stop Ben. “It’ll be dark soon. I would never force you into a dangerous situation.”

He doesn’t even have to think about it. “I have flashlights and a can of bear spray in my tent. Bear spray will work on a wolf, won’t it?”

I nod with a small smile. “Let’s go.”

*****

As we reach the hidden path down the embankment to their shelter of trees, I see a flash of movement halfway across the bridge. I look closer and pick out a form between the steel webs and the railing.

“I think it’s Don,” I share with Ben. “Walk with me. Steady. Don’t startle him.”

“He’s going to jump,” Ben says. “He’s going to kill himself, like the others.”

“Not if we can help it,” I tell him. “Come on.”

We cross the bridge slowly, staying in the middle so he can’t see our approach. When we get even to him, with only the webs between us, I squint my eyes against the sun lying just above the horizon and realize that Don is standing on the outside of the railing. His service jacket is splotched with dark mud, and one of the shoulder seams is ripped.

“Careful,” I tell Ben.

He nods.

I step closer. “Don?”

The familiar figure has been looking at the water 150 feet down, but his head shoots up at my voice.

“Don. Don Fletcher,” I say softly. “Do you know who I am? It’s Y/N.”

He keeps his hold on the railing tight as he cranes his head enough to the side to see me. His face is dirty, and his eyes are wide and unfocused.

“Don’t…don’t,” he rasps. “Don’t…”

“It’s okay, Don,” I tell him gently. “I’m your friend, remember? Y/N.”

“It’s coming,” he whispers. “It’s…it’s coming. It’s gonna….end… End it all.”

“It can’t hurt you, Don. You’re safe now.”

“It’s coming,” he repeats.

“What’s coming, Don? Talk to me. Come back over here and tell me about it.”

He looks down at the water again. I feel a hand on my arm and turn to Ben.

“Don,” I try again. “Ben’s here.”

His head comes up, but he keeps it forward toward the sunset.

“You remember Ben. He’s your best friend.”

“Ben,” Don says, so soft I barely hear it.

I think we’re getting through to him. I actually feel Ben’s and my hope.

“It’ll come for you too,” Don says clearly. Then he lets go of the railing.

I lunge forward as he falls and get my hands around his arm, but the weight of him and the drop nearly pull me over with him. Then Ben grabs my waist and the rail to hold me back. Don grips my wrist with one hand and scrabbles at my arms with the sharp fingers of his other. I see a fear in his big eyes—not that I won’t let him go, but that I will.

“No,” he gasps. “No!”

“I’ve got you,” I say, but I don’t know for how long. I don’t think I can pull him up even with Ben’s help, and I can’t hold onto him forever. “I’ve got you.”

“Don’t…don’t…”

I’m thinking of how I can get an arm free to grab his other wrist, or how I can make him understand that he has to swing his legs up somehow. Then another weight is behind me, wrapping its arms around me, and I turn to find Agent Osbourne, out of the suit and in a leather jacket and jeans. He meets my eye and the desperation he must see on my face is mirrored by the determination I see on his.

He works his way around me and Ben, hooks a leg in the middle railing, and leans over the top bar to grasp Don’s left arm.

“When I grab the waist of his pants,” he tells me, “pull.”

“Okay.”

He reaches down with his right arm and gets a fistful of fabric. “Now.”

With my adrenaline, his brute strength, and Ben as two more arms and legs, we manage to pull Don over onto the pedestrian walkway efficiently enough. Osbourne holds him down, though Don doesn’t appear to put up much of a struggle.

“It’s coming,” he sobs quietly. “It’s coming.”

“Call Sheriff Bernard,” Osbourne instructs me, catching his breath. “Tell him to send a cruiser, no sirens or lights.”

“Right.”

*****

We get Don to the psychiatric wing of the county hospital calmly enough, and a sedative upon admission is administered to keep him that way. Ben said he wouldn’t leave his side without a fight, and then they’d have to admit him anyway, so Osbourne and I have been watching them through the door of their room for the past fifteen minutes.

Don had clawed at my arms with such force that he ripped through my sleeve, shirt, and even my skin in some places, and a nurse cleaned and bandaged it while they were admitting him. But it was worth it—it had not been the actions of a man who wanted to die. With therapy and medication, Don has a chance. I updated Deena, told her about the rogue wolf, and asked her to find room for more beds for people at the shelter until it was captured.

“Who are you?” I finally ask the man I know isn’t any kind of federal agent, without looking away from Ben and Don. “Really.”

“Your friend did read our lips, didn’t he?” he evaded. “I knew it.”

“Who are you, and what the hell is going on around here?” I demand again.

He regards me from the corner of his eye and then sighs. “How much do you know about Norse mythology?”

“What?”

“Norse mythology. How much do you know?”

“I’m guessing you mean beyond the Marvel movies and comic books,” I reply mildly.

He huffs out a dry laugh. “There’s a legend about a wolf named Garm. Huge thing. Four eyes, blood-matted chest. A howl that drives people insane.”

“Are you serious?” I question.

He doesn’t say anything, but his expression is serious enough.

“It’s real?”

He tilts his head.

“Oh, my God.”

“He prefers Chuck.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Another time. Anyway, the research my brother and I have been able to compile—”

“Your brother? Who’s your—?” I cut myself off. “Agent Leonard. I knew it.”

“Sam, actually,” he shares.

“And you would be?”

“Dean.”

“Dean,” I repeat. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” he grins.

“About this Garm,” I reintroduce.

“Right. Some of the tales confuse it with Fenrir, the wolf who will devour Odin during Ragnarök.”

“The death of the gods and the end of the universe,” I recall. Something clicks in my brain. “It’s coming, Don said. It’s going to end it all. Garm’s howling—even if he’s a separate entity from Fenrir, if it showed Don and the others Ragnarök and they saw the destruction of the entire universe, that could be enough to drive someone insane.”

“Some sources do suggest that Garm is a herald of Ragnarök. And some say it guards the entrance to Hel itself.”

“If I saw Hel, I’d probably lose my mind too,” I admit. “In any case, we have to stop it.”

“You’re taking to this really well.” He almost sounds impressed.

“Well, one of my closest friends almost died,” I remind him. “It’s shock. It’ll wear off, and I’m probably going to scream and swear a lot.”

“No, I don’t think so. You were very perceptive, inquisitive, earlier. Do you do it professionally?”

“Professionally, I stock shelves in a dollar store,” I relate, turning back to the older men. “How do we get rid of it?”

“As I was saying, English translations of this stuff are pretty scarce, and my Old Norse is a little rusty.”

“You’re hilarious,” I deadpan.

“I try,” he smirks. “From what my brother and I have learned, we have to feed it something.”

“Any kind of something, or a specific something?”

“Specific something, but we’re still trying to figure out what.”

“Well, before we can feed it, we have to find it.”

“We, huh?”

“It almost killed my friend,” I tell him. “If that thing is a Hel-guardian, I’m going to help you send it back where it came from.”

He stares at me, considering, contemplating something. I stare right back.

“Let’s go to my motel room,” he says at last.

“What?” I choke out.

“Our books are there, our equipment.” He raises an eyebrow. “What did you think I meant?”

I bite my tongue to stop from embarrassing myself.

Dean grins at me—he can guess. “Believe me, sweetheart, you need to save your energy for hunting.”

“I didn’t—I wasn’t…” I release a long breath with my hands on my hips. “You don’t know—”

“Yes, I do,” he says simply, turning away toward the elevators. “Because I was thinking it too.”

*****

We walk in the night to the motel. Dean and Sam had set out on foot to track Garm and at least figure out if and where it’s bedding down to sleep, so that it will be easier to find it again when they know what they need to feed it. They had separated, but with a gun full of special bullets and mp3 players full of classic rock, they each felt safe from the thing’s howl and teeth.

“Are you hungry?” Dean asks as he lets us into his room.

My stomach growls in reply.

“Burgers okay?” he all but chuckles.

“Burgers are fine.”

“Coffeepot’s somewhere on the desk under all that paper,” he gestures. “There’s more books in Sam’s room—connecting door’s right there. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Okay.”

When I’m left alone, I look around at the clutter—old notebooks on half of the bed, leather-bound tomes piled five or six high on the round table in front of the window. Dean’s suit is hanging in a garment bag in the closet, but the rest of his clothes are spilling out of a duffel bag on a chair in the corner. Faded tee shirts, flannel shirts, jeans. I see the waistband of a pair of underwear and concentrate on making a pot of coffee.

I’m in the middle of a cup of sweetened black and an encyclopedia of Norse mythology when Dean returns with cheeseburgers and fries from a diner I’ve eaten at a few times.

“Anything?” he wonders, laying out the food.

“I’m cross-referencing Garm with Odin, Tyr, Thor, Loki. So far, nothing.” I bite into a cluster of fries. “Check in with your brother?”

“Yeah, his GPS says he’s somewhere on the edge of the park,” he says, tucking into a burger and another book. “He thinks he found some tracks, but it’s hard to tell if it’s Garm’s or just a plain old wolf’s.”

“Are they fresh?”

“He thinks so. He’ll text us when he knows for sure.”

“Us? You told him I’m helping you?”

“Yes…” he draws out. “Credit where credit’s due, right?”

“Right, yeah.” I turn back to my book.

“What is it, Y/N?” he asks.

“Nothing. I just want to send this thing back to Hel as soon as possible.” A light bulb goes on in my mind, and I gasp, nearly choking on a piece of greasy beef.

“Woah, hey, careful.” Dean leans around to smack my back. “Y’all right?”

I swallow the bite and wash it down with some coffee. “Yeah, yeah. Hel!”

“What’s wrong?”

“No, Hel—Loki’s daughter,” I explain. “Garm is a hound of Hel.” I flip through the pages of the encyclopedia until I get to Hel’s section. “She’s the half-dead ruler of the realm of the same name. And the entrance is guarded by a monstrous hound—Garm.” I skim the passages. “Here. For a living soul to enter Gnipa cave and Hel beyond, Garm may only be appeased by one who has served life to the Folk. Offer a Hel-cake to the hound and pass into the realm of the dead.” I look up at Dean. “What’s a Hel-cake?”

“And how specifically does a person have to serve life to the folk to fit that description?” he adds.

I shrug. “You do yours, and I’ll do mine.”

He shrugs too and goes back to reading.

Sometime later, our cartons of food and cups of coffee are empty, Dean has his laptop out, and I’m on Sam’s digging through recipe blogs.

“If I never see another Pinterest board after this,” I mutter, “it’ll be too soon.”

A small laugh leaves Dean in a soft huff. “Find anything?”

“Wait, I think…” I minimize several browser windows so that the thoughts in my head can follow a reasonable chain. “Okay, hear me out.”

“I’m all ears.”

“The only recipe I found for Hel-cake is from an Irish chef. Her Irish-ness has nothing to do with this, but apparently, hell is how you pronounce the Hebrew word for cardamom. I mean, the Norse word for cardamom is kardemomme, but if we transliterate the Hebrew word into the Roman alphabet, we get H-E-L. Transliteration is subjective up the wazoo, and I’m making some assumptions here that could be dangerous if I’m wrong—”

“It’s all we’ve got, Y/N. It’s worth a try,” Dean says kindly. “What’s the recipe?”

“It’s a cardamom sour-cream cake. We can bake it at my apartment.”

He closes his laptop lid. “All right, write down the ingredients and let’s go shopping.”

*****

As the cake bakes, Dean tells me that he didn’t get far with what Folk could mean beyond the genre of music or people in general.

“That probably means you,” I suggest from beside the oven, leaving him to sit alone on the other side of the counter. I had embarrassed myself earlier with an angry outburst when he had exclaimed Oh, Baby as he started the engine of his car—a ’67 Chevy Impala, I learned—but he hadn’t been talking to me when he said it. “You told me you and your brother are…hunters? That this isn’t the first monster to wreak havoc in small-town America. You serve the people by protecting them from all sorts of supernatural beasts and agendas. You preemptively save their lives.”

“Maybe. It’s worth a shot.”

With the cake out of the oven, I serve Dean the last slice of my carrot cake so that I can put the Hel-cake on the plastic server and into the freezer to cool faster.

“This is so good,” he praises with his mouth full. “Do you have any milk?”

I chuckle at him and pour a glass for each of us before making the icing.

As I drizzle the sour-cream icing over the top and sides of the single-layer cake, Dean rinses the dishes and sets them in the strainer and then comes up behind me and puts his hands on my waist. It startles me, but it’s a comfortable sensation.

“I can’t let you come with me, Y/N,” he breathes into my hair.

“No way,” I refuse, turning around in his arms. “I’ve helped you this far. I baked the freaking cake.”

“It’s too dangerous,” he insists. “If I can’t protect you—”

“I’ll protect myself, thank you very much,” I tell him.

“Have you ever shot a gun?” he asks.

“I went hunting with my dad when I still lived at home,” I share.

“Deer and turkeys are not hounds of Hel, or wendigos, or vampires,” he resists.

“That’s not what you asked,” I retort, pushing him away so I can get another one of my coats. “Like you said, short of tying me to the bed, nothing’s going to stop me.”

He secures the lid of the cake server with a sigh and pulls on his own jacket. “Do you have an mp3 player, earbuds?”

“In my coat pocket.”

He sighs again. “I’ll give you a gun when we get to the park.”

“Well, you can hand over the cake now,” I tell him. “Since you’re driving.”

*****

We meet Sam at the edge of the wooded area. He tracked Garm’s paw prints to a small cave just beyond the park and into the nature preserve and pinned the location on his phone’s GPS.

I trade Dean the cake for a pistol loaded with silver bullets. He gives me two extra clips just in case.

“Be careful,” he says over the blaring of music in our ears.

“Likewise,” I all but have to shout.

Sam leads us into the trees, I follow in the middle with the pistol’s safety off but my finger away from the trigger, and Dean brings up the rear.

The flashlights attached to our guns bob along the ground in front of us for what feels like forever in the cold darkness, but then Sam pauses and I stop short. I peer around him, and there is the cave.

A large wolf stands in front of its entrance, head down, hackles up, teeth bared. Its shoulders stand as tall as my waist—his head would probably be as tall as my chest, if not higher. Its black eyes glow menacingly at us—how black eyes can even glow is beyond me. Another set of eyes, smaller and glowing a milky gray, lie on its head between the first pair and its ears. Blood drips from its muzzle, and the fur on its chest is matted with the stuff.

Dean steps forward past me and Sam, already having removed the lid of the cake server. Garm’s attention moves to him as he slowly approaches the beast. As he crouches forward to set the platter on the ground as an offering, Garm snaps at him. Its powerful jaws are at least two feet short of its target, but the warning works. Dean backs up to us, and we keep an eye on it, guns at the ready, while we try to come up with a new plan.

“Obviously, I’ve never served the Folk,” Dean says loudly. “Sammy, something tells me you don’t fit either. Y/N.” He leans close. “Get behind us and start backing up nice and slow. Maybe the silver can immobilize it for now, while we find someone who can stop it, or maybe it can kill it outright. Reach into my right pocket,” he tells me.

I do, and pull out a set of keys.

“When the shooting starts,” he says, “run to the car.”

I shake my head. “No!”

“Now, Y/N,” he directs sternly.

“Stop telling me what to do!” I yell back. “I know I’m just some small-town stock-clerk, who volunteers at a soup kitchen so I don’t die from loneliness, but—” The angry words dissolve in my throat as the last puzzle piece locks into place. “Give me the cake.”

“Are you out of your mind!?”

“Thanks to Queen blasting in my ears, no. But it’s me. I’m the servant,” I realize. “The Folk aren’t just people—they’re ordinary people. Common people. And in the feudal system a thousand years ago, ordinary common people were the poor. And bread is a staple. The Bible even calls it the staff of life. I’m in charge of rolls at the kitchen. Don’t you see? I have to make the offering.”

From the look on Dean’s face, I think he would have preferred a gunfight to me figuring that out.

“Give me the cake, Dean.”

“Give it to her, Dean,” Sam tells his brother. “We got her covered.”

He hesitates but reluctantly passes me the platter. “The same goes—if the shooting starts, run.”

“Okay.”

Taking a step toward Garm, I see teeth, shiny in the lights from the firearms Dean and Sam have pointed at it, but it hasn’t moved closer. As I slowly approach, the cake server low so that the it can see the gift, it stops snarling and licks its chops. From the rippling of its jowls, though, it’s still growling, and the short fur on its back is still raised in warning.

I take one more small step and put the server on the forest floor, backing up until Dean grabs the back of my coat and pulls me to his side. Watching us, Garm creeps up to the cake, sniffs it, and devours it in a few massive mouthfuls.

“What if that wasn’t enough?” Sam asks.

“It said a Hel-cake,” I tell him.

“And technically, that was a Hel-cake,” Dean adds.

Garm licks its chops again and lies down, its great forepaws covering the cake server. It drops further, onto its side, panting. I almost can’t believe when its fur starts smoking—but until a few hours ago, I didn’t believe that all the monsters from my childhood bedtime stories actually exist.

The thick, gray cloud covers its body and seeps low over the ground toward us. I smell something like the most rotten of eggs and start to cough.

“Sulphur,” Dean says. “Cover your mouth. Watch out.”

We stand ready with our weapons, in case it has the strength to get up and attack us. But when the smoke dissipates a moment later, Garm is nothing but a pile of ashes.

I turn to Dean to ask him whether it’s over, and he’s already removing his earbuds, Black Sabbath resounding out until he cuts the music. Sam and I turn off our music and pocket our players too, and Sam steps forward with a vial in his hand.

“Stay back,” Dean tells me, keeping his arm around me. “He’s cleansing the remains.”

“Oh.”

“You didn’t want to keep the cake server, did you?” he manages to joke.

“Definitely not.”

*****

Dean walks me to the front stoop after they drive me home.

“Interesting line of work you guys are in,” I remark as the eastern horizon begins to lighten.

“Who knows how much longer this case would’ve gone on without your help,” he tells me. “You were incredible.”

“It all feels like a dream,” I admit. “That could be the sleep deprivation talking.” I shake my head. “I don’t want to wake up.”

He holds my head in his hands and sets his forehead to mine. “Neither do I.”

“You don’t suppose…”

“What?”

“I’m one hell of a researcher,” I don’t mind mentioning. “I’m good with people. I bet I would’ve been good with that gun too, if I had to use it. And if I’m not, I can learn.”

His eyes light up with wary hope, but his smile is sad. “Y/N, you don’t know how much I would love…” He stops himself. “It may feel like a dream now, but sometimes…sometimes it’s a nightmare. And you can’t wake up. And there’s sleep deprivation, and exhaustion, and things that will make you question your entire existence…”

“You’re 0 for 3 trying to scare me off, Dean,” I point out.

“It’s not an easy life, Y/N.”

“This one hasn’t exactly been a peach,” I mutter. “And I’m not looking for easy. But I think I’ve been looking for you.”

He sighs and finally lets himself admit, “I think I’ve been looking for you too.”

He tilts his head to the side and presses his lips to mine, and I wrap my fingers around his wrists. When he draws away, his smile isn’t sad anymore.

“How long will it take you to pack?” he asks.

My breath leaves me in a giggly rush. “A day. It’s just my bed and a few tables, some dinnerware and linens. Almost everything but my clothes can go into storage.”

“Sam and I will come back and help after we crash for a few hours at the motel.”

“I have to make sure Ben and Don are going to be all right. And the most important thing of all.”

“What’s that?” Dean wonders.

“I have to call my manager and tell him I quit.”

*****

A/N: Like Dean mentions, information on Garm in English is hard to find. I did the best I could, and I made a lot of educated guesses. If I got something wrong, feel free to kindly let me know. This was so interesting to research and write. Congratulations, buddy! 😘

#SynsMonsterChallenge #supernatural #fanfic

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3one3 · 7 years

Text

The Sequel - 875

Sid Lowe

André Schürrle, Juan Mata, other Chelsea/BVB players, and random awesome OC’s (okay they’re less random now but they’re still pretty awesome)

original epic tale

all chapters of The Sequel

Why did they send me here with Marcus and a bunch of noobs? Daniel and Christian and Markus and Meredith and Marco are probably all available. He and I can’t win a team competition on our own, obviously. Fourth is so unsatisfying. I could have stayed home. I didn’t need to be here. Why did we just surrender a fourth title in like 5 years? Is €1.25 million split 5 ways really so disappointing to the others that they couldn’t bother to come? It’s not like they’re somewhere else competing for more cash this weekend. Bah humbug. I should have skipped it too. But then I wouldn’t be with him, Christina realized, in reference to the Spaniard sleeping beside her in Spain. Juan caught a ride on Cesc’s charter to Barcelona following an exhausting and demoralizing defeat to Manchester City at Stamford bridge, and just caught Christina’s exhausting and demoralizing clean ride in the second round of the Nations Cup Final, which was only good enough to keep Germany in fourth place. She stayed awake to ruminate on her Nations Cup experience while he slept peacefully snuggled up to her, with arm around her waist and two pillows to keep his face above her hair. Neither of them had any clothes on, and the rider kind of wished they did because she thought all the skin to skin contact was making her extra hot and thus making it harder to fall asleep. The footballer barely stayed awake long enough to enjoy the oral sex services offered to him out of sympathy, boredom, and the quest for distraction.

He was there to watch and support her, and to hang out in the Catalonian capital with her for two extra days. Once again the Spain manager couldn’t find a place for him in the squad for the coming qualifying matches, so once again he had the international break to himself. André wasn’t fit enough for Löw either, but he wanted to stay in Germany and work with the coaches at Brackel. Christina actually hoped she could get him to go away with her and Lukas for a few days- perhaps to a European city neither of them had been to yet, or maybe just back to London to do things they used to enjoy there. He wanted to train. She didn’t argue. Despite many visits for many Nations Cups, she’d still never experienced Barcelona as a tourist. Juan had big plans to rectify that. First, she had one more class to jump on Sunday, with Socks. There were two on the time schedule, actually, but she intended to use her second horse for the feature- a 1.55m grand prix- and spare her main mount, Nick, the extra jumps. Nearly everyone else would jump their second in the smaller class in the morning and use their Nations Cup horse for the grand prix. Christina didn’t see the point.

Her Nations Cup week was beginning to feel like something she didn’t see the point in, and one of the reasons she was lying awake in her friend’s arm was that she couldn’t help but wonder if that was going to be a theme in everything for a while. She didn’t know if the event just felt like a waste of time because Heiner and Holger selected three B team riders to accompany her and Marcus, or if she just didn’t care that much about the outcome. Nick did his part. He jumped clear in both rounds and collected a share of the €100,000 bonus. Christina was pleased with him, and with herself, and especially with the fact that she walked both courses with her mentor and her coach and thought, “it’s big, but not that hard”. A Nations Cup Final is no small thing. The course designer works on it for months, and it’s meant to challenge the world’s top riders and horses. It asked as many difficult questions as some of the Olympic courses. But it was still just two rounds, with a day off in between. The primary challenge at the Olympics is being consistent and surviving the war of attrition through day after day of elite level competition. The football wife thought of it as squeezing your biggest derby, an away clash with the team at the top of the table, and both legs of a Champions League semi-final into one week, and being prohibited from making changes to the team. The Nations Cup was a home match against Everton by comparison, after a week without a Tuesday or Wednesday fixture. Still, Christina didn’t know if she was bored with it all or if the less than ideal result just left her convincing herself she didn’t care about it anyway. She knew part of the problem was the social element. It was just her and Tom in Spain, and just Marcus and the H’s. Team dinners weren’t as fun as with the usual gang. There was less banter around the barn. The others needed more of Heiner’s attention.

Her trip to Rome the week before was slightly less devoid of fulfillment. Global Champions Tour events were always full of parties and better shopping. The hotels were better. The food was usually really good. Christina had her son, his grandparents, his cousin, and her brother and sister-in-law around to do things with when she wasn’t riding. Daniel was there. Nick and Rio were rusty, so they required her to actually pay attention and try in the saddle. Stefanie was competing in the big classes and needed a lot of handholding. There was exceptional pasta. She got to wear pretty dresses a couple of times. One of her old friends from New York was there grooming for a young American rider. Lukas did his first TV interview and told everyone his brother, Kimi, was his favorite horse. When the Tour interviewer questioned the brother-brother relationship, Lukas side-eyed him so hard that his mom burst into laughter and told the guy he should apologize for offending him. Once she got her horses sorted- which only took one class a piece- the actual riding wasn’t that interesting though, and she truly couldn’t have cared less if she won or not. Her prime purpose there was to knock off the dust and get two of her best three mounts back into competition shape so they’d be ready for the Nations Cup and Global Champions Tour Finals and maybe even retain that fitness through their next horse show drought between them and the World Cup qualifier in London in December or whatever she chose after that. So it was hard to draw any conclusions about motivation in the days between her events, and she really just wished she could stop feeling like she was supposed to be doing that- that she was supposed to be gathering evidence to help her figure out what to do next with her life. Riding was what she did, and it was hard to imagine that some boring horse shows would make her choose something else. André said they might just mean she needed to do something different with riding, like different shows, or different venues, or even different horses. He kept telling her to stop pushing it too, and to just let things come as they may.

It’s not like being at home was that much more satisfying, the Olympian reflected. Her eyes were closed and she really was trying to get to sleep, not least because she could barely move anyway. At least there’s a Ferrari at home though. I love my Ferrari. I need to find a way to do a photoshoot with my Ferrari and my Dirk and have it not be ridiculous. I’m gonna take him to London, I think. He’ll be good in that tiny ring, and he’s gonna be so bored by then if I don’t. I might try Calvin in the Puissance. He’s big and clunky but he really is the most powerful jumper in the barn, literally speaking. Them hocks, though. I hate that show, actually, but I love that it’s in London because everyone gets to come. Juanin can probably come like 4 out of the 5 nights. Can’t wait to go out with him tomorrow night. I’m sure wherever we’re going is awesome, and I missed sitting next to him at a dinner table. And we’re going to the Boqueria on Monday! I’m gonna eat all day long, Christina resolved. She eventually fell asleep thinking about all the wonderful things in Barcelona’s famous market- particularly the sweet confections. And she slept well, because jumping late into the night took a lot out of her, even if the riding wasn’t so difficult. Her days all necessarily started early up to that point. Sunday was different, since she wasn’t doing the morning class. Her internal clock woke her at 8 anyway. Juan wasn’t interested in getting out of bed at 8.

“Playing against Guardiola’s team when you don’t have anyone to hold the ball up is like running the London Marathon,” he complained when she leaned on her right elbow and attempted to talk him into getting up- not through persuasiveness, but by annoying him with her constant chatter. The Chelsea man arrived to her with a completely flat battery. Fellow Spaniard and critical cog in Conte’s plan, Alvaro Morata, had to be substituted in the first half due to injury, and it left the Blues with no out ball to evade the constant onslaught of City’s press. Christina watched the match during dinner at the horse show. She kept counting the players on the field to make sure they actually put someone on in Morata’s place, because it looked like they played a man down from then on. “You said you don’t have to be next door until noon.”

“I don’t, but I need to go to the gym, and I want breakfast, and you know, company.” She tried to appear charming and cute and undeniable, and Juan was having none of it. He just rolled his eyes and yawned. “Don’t you need to go to the gym too? Shouldn’t you do some kind of recovery for your precious marathon legs?”

“Yes, but first I should sleep two more hours.”

“I think you’re incapable of waking up at a decent hour in Spain. Seriously. Like as soon as you hit Spanish airspace, you need to sleep all day and want to eat at midnight, and your face glows like a pregnant lady.”

“You look tired. Go back to sleep. Sleep with me, cariña,” he yawned, paying no attention to her complaints. He rolled onto his side and leaned over to pull her closer- close enough that her face ended up almost in the side of his pillow pile, from which he bent down to smooch her cheek. His legs mingled with hers too, and he rubbed her back to try to make her sleepy, or at least in the mood to snuggle and probably fall asleep. “Close your eyes and think about the competition later. Visualize the ride.”

“How about I just visualize you being awake and talking to me?” she laughed.

“Whatever. Just shut up and let me sleep.”

Christina did go back to sleep. She didn’t bother with the visualization. Instead, she traced every contour of Juan’s torso- every muscle and skin fold- over and over until her eyes shut on their own again. He didn’t even notice. His sort-of-girlfriend often wondered if all men sleep like the dead or if it was a trait unique to footballers, who all seemed prone to passing out whenever left unattended in a sitting or lying down position for more than 90 seconds. The particular footballer sharing her bed actually had to work hard to rouse her from slumber two hours later. They did hit the gym together, and then the brunch buffet in the riders’ restaurant, and then the barn. The rider wanted to hang out there, safe from the public and the press, and relax with her friends until it was time to start preparing for the City of Barcelona Cup. Holger had other ideas.

“Please just do the interview,” he groaned at her after a tepid back and forth about an interview request from a local journalist. The assistant trainer’s interest in helping to secure the sit-down wasn’t clear, and Christina didn’t really care what it was. She just didn’t want to do it. “He only wants a few minutes. He only has a few minutes. He’s going to the football stadium to cover the match.”

“It’s a football journalist?” Juan questioned with renewed curiosity. He was involved because the request was to interview him and Christina together, about their friendship and how they supported one another in their respective sports.

“Yes,” Holger nodded, his expression turning hopeful. Juan’s curiosity was more promising than the rider’s snorted and snide “no”.

“Which one?” she asked, with no curiosity whatsoever. It’s definitely some hack who wants to do a story about me cheating on Schü. Without a doubt.

“Sid Lowe.”

No. Wha-

“He could have just called me,” the Chelsea man smiled, glancing at the phone in his hand. They were sitting in canvas chairs in the stable aisle near Nick and Socks’ stalls. “I know him well.”

“How’d he even know you’re here?” Christina questioned.

“Social media, probably. I posted the video of you falling down last night while we were having breakfast,” the Spaniard sniggered. He was lucky enough to capture her totally missing the landing on her signature back flip dismount off Nick’s big butt, primarily because she slipped off said butt before she could even launch herself in the air. The entire Germany contingency was watching, and laughed uproariously both at her and then at Nick when he turned his head all the way around to look at her on the ground as if to ask what on Earth she was doing.

“Is that why you keep telling me to try to go a whole day without looking at Instagram? You jerk.”

“Can we focus on the interview, please? His profile is tremendous compared to yours. It would be nice for us to borrow some from him...”

“I’ll talk to Sid,” Juan told Holger, against Christina’s obvious objections. “What?” he asked her when she made that “how could you betray me?” face at him and put her boot on the front of his chair between his legs. “He’s a good guy. You love him! You asked me to introduce you!”

“I hate you.” Schü is gonna hate this, she sighed inside as he tapped on his phone to message the London-born, Madrid-based Guardian writer, radio commentator, podcaster, and- by a country mile- Christina’s favorite football author. His second book had pride of placement on her shelf of treasured reads, next to I Am Zlatan, Bergdorf Blondes, and a first edition copy of National Velvet. I’m sure Sid has zero interest in asking us shady questions about our relationship, but he’s still going to be mad. There will be this wonderful article in the Guardian tomorrow about how Juanin and I help each other stay motivated, pick each other up, inspire one another, yadda yadda yadda, and Schü is going to read it while I’m frolicking around Barcelona without him.

“Can someone go to the security checkpoint and let him in?” the player asked. “He doesn’t have press credentials.” Holger eagerly volunteered and walked off purposely toward the front of the aisle to go fetch the writer, leaving his rider to return to wondering why he even cared about the interview or wanted her to do it. “I’m doing this because he did that nice feature for me on the launch of Common Goal, and because I trust him.”

“You trust someone who just turns up on a whim and tries to back-door an interview?”

“He messaged on my business phone a few hours ago. I just didn’t see. I try not to be on it when I’m with you.”

Oh, sure, make me feel bad by reminding me that you try to give me your undivided attention. Suuuuuure. Suuuuure. I hate- Does Tom Tom have French fries? Because much of Christina’s incredulity was an act, it was easy for her groom to distract her when he walked up to their chairs with a cardboard tray of food.

“Has Dr. Todd come back yet?” he inquired, taking a seat on the tack trunk in front of Socks’ stall. The vet was keeping an eye on Nick’s puffy left front leg. He had some swelling around the tendon down the back, just above the fetlock, when Tom took his wraps off in the morning. He jogged sound on it, and it went down some after a 30-minute walk around the show venue. Dr. Todd was supposed to re-check it, though there was nothing they could really do for it besides poultice and re-wrap, and nobody was particularly worried about it. Puffy legs would be conspicuous by their absence in most jumping horses his age.

“No. Did you get fries?” Tom’s charge sat up tall in her director’s chair to try to see in his tray.

“Yeah, and you can’t have them.”

“He’s making me do an interview I don’t want to do. I think that deserves at least one fry.”

“What interview?” He narrowed his eyes at the pair of friends mirroring one another’s crossed arms posture. Holger and the person Christina listened to for about 40 minutes each week on two different podcasts strolled into the barn before either of them could explain. Juan got up to greet his acquaintance, and introduce him to his admirer.

“She’s a big fan,” he chuckled after the formal pleasantries and handshakes. Sid Lowe was slightly taller than she expected, rounder in the middle than he appeared on TV, and every bit as friendly as she imagined. He made it very difficult for her to keep acting so put out about the interview. She was actually quite happy to meet him. He was her favorite kind of nerd, and the person she’d want to hang with at a crowded party.

“Of my puff pieces about you?” Sid questioned. He’d been pumping out Juan-admiring content for years, in great deal because he too was a big Real Oviedo shareholder and really appreciated the way the player helped to save the club.

“Of your crap Spanish jokes, your Real Oviedo fanboying, and extreme ADD,” the rider smiled. “I never miss a pod- but the free ones! I refuse to become a patron for your extra content. I’m not here to subsidize a new Podmobile,” she joked, fitting in as many references to regular parts of The Spanish Football Podcast as possible. Sid was the expert and main contributor, and his friend Phil, a Real Madrid TV employee, was the host who guided him through the week’s Spanish football themes and tried desperately to keep him on track. Christina liked it best when he got off track and shared anecdotes about people. Their podcast was one of the only football things she could still enjoy, because it was all about Spanish football and not about anything to do with her husband or most of her player friends and their families. They didn’t have reason to discuss Juan much. His exclusion from national team call ups wasn’t newsworthy anymore. “Oh! And your appreciation for Fernando Torres. I love Fernando Torres.”

“I must admit this is a bit strange. I’ve never interviewed a fan of...me.”

“We have a condition for the interview,” Juan interjected, very stern and serious.

“We do?” the rider questioned.

“You have to start answering her tweets. She tweets you regularly and you only ever replied to her once, a long time ago.”

“What do you tweet me about?”

“David Villa. And Marcos Alonso, mostly. When is he going to get a Spain call up?”

“Ah. Well. I answer that question all the time on the patron-only pods,” Sid teased, deadpan.

“Figures.”

“Chris, are you watching the time?” Tom asked. His rider apologized and introduced him too, and his question served as a nice segue to the actual interview. Holger fetched another chair for Sid, and Sid explained his interest in talking with them. He said no one writes about athlete friendships like theirs, in which the two people compete in different sports, go to events to support each other, and publically lift each other up in all their endeavors, not just sport- particularly male/female friendships. They brought up Bastian Schweinsteiger and his tennis player wife, as an example of what Juan and Christina were not. Sid wanted to talk Olympics, the Premier League, World Cups, charity projects, music videos, and what it’s like to go through professional and personal ups and downs alongside another athlete doing the same. He was really easy to talk to, and every bit as sharp and intelligent as Christina thought he’d be. Both she and Juan had to be very careful about not just what they said, but how they interacted during the fairly lengthy chat. Sid wasn’t going to miss anything. They didn’t want to accidentally give him an interview about how much they loved one another. He prefaced the whole thing by telling them that he didn’t have a specific angle for piece in mind, that it could be something for his regular Guardian column or a feature for magazine FourFourTwo, and that he might not end up writing anything at all. It would have been easy to accidentally invite him to write about obvious love suppressed between two best friends, though they were both sure that story wouldn’t interest him in the slightest. He was a real journalist, with a PhD, and he wrote a book called Catholicism, War and the Foundation of Francoism: The Juventud de Accion Popular in Spain. No one who wrote anything with a title like that could possibly relish the chance to pen a love story.

“I think it’s really important to be around people who you can admire and learn from but aren’t the same as you,” Juan said during his turn to speak at length about the importance of Christina’s friendship. There wasn’t a lot of straight question and answer going on. It was more like a casual conversation in which one participant just happened to be recording and taking notes. “You have more experienced players in the dressing room to learn from, and young guys who remind you what it’s like to play without pressure, things like this, but you’re all football players. You’re all a similar breed. I like to read books by athletes in different sports, music artists, politicians, writers. You learn different things from them. Christina is in a really different position. She competes for herself sometimes, and sometimes for a team. The psychology of that is tough. In some ways, players have to think that way, because you play for the team and you want the team to win, but you also want to play. You want to be ahead of the other guy in your position. She helps me with that. I don’t know who else could.”

“And he helps me with love/hate relationships with national team coaches,” the gold medalist chirped pointedly just to mess with Holger, who was sitting in Tom’s place on the tack trunk to listen in. “André loves Joachim Löw, and Löw loves André. He’s useless.”

“When I had the admittedly spur of the moment idea to come here to talk to you, I reached out to the horse beat guy at the radio station to get a primer on you so that I wouldn’t turn up and sound like an utter pillock,” Sid remarked, turning his focus on Christina. “She said the only thing to know about you, in terms relatable for me, is that you’re Leo Messi. I want to ask,” he went on, pivoting back to the Chelsea man. “Is that true, and is it as maddening as I suspect to be in a relationship so...so involving of comparisons, and problem sharing? Does her success grate on you, I guess is the simplistic way to put it.”

“I am not Messi.”

“She’s better than Messi. She wins big titles for her country,” the Spaniard commented without a hint of sarcasm. “And I don’t begrudge her success because I see how hard she works for it. It doesn’t make it hard for us to relate. As I said, I don’t know anyone who works like her. The unyielding commitment to doing things the correct way is much more maddening. I think of her whenever I’m tempted by a shortcut.”

“That’s his polite way of saying I have to get my own way and I’m overly dependent on routines.”

“You’ve both highlighted all the ways you’re different, and how you counter-balance one another on a lot of things. Was there a commonality that brought you together in the first place?” Sid switched which leg he crossed over which knee to support his tablet, and Christina tried to gauge how many questions were left on the screen. We’ve talked about all the interesting things, including how we came to be friends. I hope we don’t get into a thing where we’re just talking glowingly about all the things we love about one another, she thought. That wouldn’t be a very Sid Lowe-like piece.

“Just our interests, I think,” Juan shrugged. “Nothing to do with our careers. We like to talk about the same things. We both like nice cars, and art, and learning new things. She loves to cook; I love to eat. She knows all the best old movies. I love old movies.”

“We’re similar as athletes,” the rider piped up, sort of rejecting his rejection of commonality. “He’s not good at what he does on a football pitch because he trains skills all day, and I’m not good at what I do in the saddle because I have lessons every day. We train for fitness and condition and sharpness, and rely on natural talent and instinct for our skills. I think the best part of his game is between his ears, and the best thing I do is in my hands and my butt. You can’t learn those things. You can’t learn vision, or reading the game. Yeah, he needs skills to execute when he sees an opportunity- like you could practice making really quick, perfectly targeted crosses, I guess, but you can’t practice knowing when to make them. That’s what he’s so good at. He’s almost singularly good at it. I can’t name another player exactly like him. I wish for him when I watch other teams. I think all the best people at the top of the different sports are like that, you know? It was something different for me to meet another person in the same boat as me, actually. I had this weird riding upbringing where I was given the chance to ride a lot but didn’t actually get that much instruction. I used to think I just learned by observation, because I learn other things that way. Only when I came over here did I realize that my trainers have only worked to condition me, and professionalize me, and get experience, because my feel is natural, and the best asset I have. Now I know a lot of football players like that, but Juan is the only one I talk training and preparation with. André is kind of different. His natural talent is finishing, and his speed. He doesn’t practice that. He has to practice everything else. I wish he could practice the speed part because it’s gone missing on him for a long time and he could really use it back. It doesn’t work that way. Anyway, the point is, Juan is my only friend who I relate to that way. And my Olympic horse. He’s exactly the same.”

“That’s interesting. Would you characterize your competitors the same way? Are there a lot of people like...for example, like Frank Lampard. The popular trope that follows him is that he wasn’t very talented but worked harder than everyone to be good. Without throwing your fellow riders under any buses, is that how you see it?” the English writer posed as a thoughtful follow up. Juan was listening pretty keenly too. Christina liked having his ear on something like that.

“Some. There are a lot of different types of riders who can be successful at this. I know some people who win big classes and get great horses just by having the ability to stay on a psychotic but super-talented horse and not crash into the jumps. Someone like that wouldn’t get much out of most of my horses. Others rely on really polished mechanics. Others are more like me. But it’s funny. We don’t talk about feel. You can’t share a feeling, or coach someone into it. If we’re trying to help one another, we talk mechanics- try more leg here, or shift the balance sooner- stuff like that. A lot of having the feel is being open to it. It’s hard to explain. You need to open your body and have your head clear enough to tune into the horse. You need a certain amount of happiness, and content with your life. If you have too much going on inside, you’re too distracted to feel what the horse wants to tell you, or what he doesn’t want to tell you. Juan is one of the only people I talk to about that. He helps me figure out how to stay receptive. Actually, he helps me balance my neurotic need for hard work and routine with taking breaks and doing other things so that I do have that clarity of mind, and openness. We do things like stay a few extra days after a horse show to enjoy the city and leave horses and football to the side. I try to do that with André too, but it’s hard to leave family issues to the side with the horses and the football. We naturally end up talking about our son all the time, and stuff like that.”

“Chris, can you get out of the aisle? We’re going to start getting horses ready in a few minutes,” Tom said after begging pardon to interrupt. Indeed, there were more grooms around, and other riders. He took Socks’ halter off its hook and was about to drop the stall guard to bring him out. The interview was clogging up their path to the grooming area.

“I have enough, I’d say,” Sid declared with the tapping on his phone screen to end his recording. “How much time happens between getting horses ready and the cup competition?”

“For Chris, about 45 minutes,” Holger supplied. He sprang up from his seat. “Would you like to stay as our guest and watch in the hospitality tent? Or you can watch with Juan at the ring.”

“What time is kickoff at Camp Nou?” Juan inquired. His writer friend checked his cheap watch.

“4:15. I can stay for 45 minutes. How long is the whole thing?”

“About the same as a match,” the player chuckled. “Watch Chris and then go. That’s what I do at home.”

“I think I will. I want to see Leo Messi ride a horse,” Sid smiled. Holger’s eyes grew with excitement. They all picked up their canvas chairs and folded them to get them out of the way of the people working. Juan showed Sid to the drinks cooler for a Coke. Christina excused herself to change, and to reflect on the interview. It didn’t feel that revelatory in real time, but the minute it was over and everyone was standing up to move on to the next thing, a big thing hit her.

There are so many reasons he’s good for me that have absolutely nothing to do with sex and romance. I’ve been low key to high key pissed at boyfriend for so long for accepting my relationship with Juanin, and for exalting his approval, and for saying he understands that I need him and he helps make my life better. He’s just right though. The friendship is so important to everything I do. And he and I can’t seem to have the friendship without the intimacy too, to one degree or another, so it’s...it’s actually a really unselfish thing. It’s not that he doesn’t love me enough to be possessive, or isn’t strong enough to say no, or he’s hiding how much it hurts him because he doesn’t want to look wrong about all the promises. Perhaps he really doesn’t feel hurt because nothing that good for me could ever hurt him. I’ve never been able to think about my relationship with Juanin the way I had to do just now. It’s different when someone sits down and essentially says, “Okay, tell me why you have this special friendship”- when you can’t include any of the sex or love stuff, and you have to focus on the actual friendship, and the ways you support and help each other just as people and not as people in love. I haven’t been able to talk about us that way since before I knew he cared about me that way- back when I used to have to defend “we’re just friends” to Schü all the time, because he didn’t like us hanging out. I should apologize to him for using his unselfishness against him all the time, maybe.

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