Does talking about the past serve any purpose? At the Taos Convention Center, the keynote speaker compared futurists to crystal ball forecasters. The $14 billion New Age movement industry promised her enlightenment. Hooked like a junkie, she now considers herself an expert futurist. Staying vague is crucial. On her flight back to a Southern college town, the sky was deep blue. She read a sophomore’s text sitting next to her.
“I’m a blond and pink-haired nonbinary who enjoys experimental music. Oh my gawd, you have an Erewhon shoulder bag! Let’s chill. Swing by on your hot scooter tonight.” A new meaning now emerges from the old-time lyrics “People try to put us d-d-down, just because we g-g-get around.” Simply put, talking about my generation will always challenge one’s preconceived notions.
Here we find a single child of wealthy deceased parents with impeccable taste. There’s nothing wrong with having money. The high standards of a private, upscale boarding school ingrained a sense of entitlement. Charlatan socialites are adept at making their own wishes come true. They don’t spill secrets. She enjoyed lunchtime sex with her professors in college. After a lifetime of severe psychosocial problems, she often boasted “I don’t care. I shift perspective, internalize what I want and don’t engage.” On the contrary, living in a bubble caused her painful, alcoholic self-doubt to fester. Her answer: dream those problems away. Her thoughts vanished in the jet’s tailwinds. “Ladies and gentlemen, as we start our descent, please make sure your seat backs and tray tables are in their full upright position.” It was late afternoon.
Time to experience the sour taste of a bitter town. Bars all around. They drink hard here. Creepy residents snoop around cars in the parking lot checking out license plates. Some of the scummiest people you’ll ever meet fake kindness while offering help.
The entrance to the Beaver Dam Inn proudly displayed a health department grade-D in the window. She liked to drink in anonymous bars. Inside, a cock-eyed Schlitz beer clock ticked away. Hanging on another wall, a souvenir dogs playing poker blanket gathered filthy layers of dust. An exposed butt-crack plumber worked over a big pile of instant scratch-offs. In a corner booth, three NA members discussed ways to chop Oxy. You could erase this place off the map. No one would care.
It was chilly leaving Taos. Everyone stared upon her arrival. She routinely flashed a toy-doll, hot-blooded smile at patrons, craving all the attention she could get. Flirting with the husky bartender, she quickly downed a scotch and soda.
“Nice sweater, kind of warm for summer.” the bartender remarked. “It’s Gucci, and very cold on the plane, I had to squeeze myself into this without a bra.” she replied.
“On the house.” he said.
“Thanks for the drink. Hey, listen, I’m a certified futurist and I think artificial intelligence is no match for natural stupidity. If I had to live here all the time, I’d surely go crazy.” she sighed.
The ardent spirits took effect. Doors opened to closeted secrets and faded memories. Moving forward, she pressed herself against the bar. The warm internal liquor glow tingled her toes and raced up through her chest. The rush made its way to her nose and fingertips. She put her knees and heels together and lifted her butt. The effort was to get really close. Listening to the bartender, she shifted to one side. Her index finger swirled three melting ice cubes. Petite sparkling seltzer bubbles rose to the drink’s rim and popped. She wiped her mouth with a cocktail napkin, then ordered another round. After freshening bright red lipstick, her sense of comfort was short-lived.
In the men’s bathroom, a pervert taking a leak watched his significant urine stream. The froth multiplied in the toilet like crazed football fans flooding a playing field after a win. He flushed and appeared content as he shook off a big daddy-sized unit. Inspired by his own personal vileness, he’d already mapped-out a few depraved moves. The predator was ready to violate. He scanned the bar and focused on the apple cheek bones and painted lips of the female who wanted to remain incognito.
The perv wedged himself in at the bar. Now sidelined by the effect of too many drinks, her guard was down. Adjusting a Hermes scarf, a single tear ran down a cheek and splattered on her black Doc Martens. “I don’t think it’s working. Don’t you understand? Didn’t you get the email I sent?” The discussion ended with “I hate you.” She stuffed the fuchsia iPhone back in her Balenciaga handbag. Her unstable demeanor was being monitored.
Caught in a swirling riptide of lady-killer, thrill seekers; the slits of wanton devil eyes shot burning daggers. Members of the hungry monster community included Moe Lester, Revolting Ray and Dr. Eatum Up. These indiscriminate sickos had twisted noses, short necks and broad shoulders. They displayed insatiable sexual desires. “Go to hell” they’ll mumble, while dragging you outside by the hair. Nearby bodies of water are full of victims tied to cinder blocks impaled on rebar, often visible while carp finish eating.
After exchanging long looks, her strange magnetism to chance encounters was misinterpreted as a new flame. A deep voice spoke softly in her ear, “What’s your secret?”
“What do you mean? I have lots of secrets.” she quipped.
“I’d like to hear a few. Mind if I sit?” he replied.
“I guess that means yes,” she said.
Bad things happen when there’s a blackout. Mr. Bathroom made a request. “Come a little closer.” Something warm rested on her knee. Panic broke out. Her heart pounded. “Get off me!” she yelled. A car door slammed. She fled into the night.
Did prescription drugs make her situation worse? They’re supposed to help. She’d maintained a medicated existence for years: Klonopin, Paxil and Xanax—rock, paper, scissors—pounding heartbeats, watery eyes, pinging ears. Drugs like that can drive a person insane.
Around midnight, the light rays of a speeding car peeked above a curve in the road. The vehicle flew into the air and plunged into Spring Lake. Disturbed honeysuckle vines sweetened the air. Up and down the street, porch lights lit up. Gawking neighbors ran outside in their bathrobes to see the disturbance. First responder teams arrived. Detectives walked the shoreline grid confirming standard operational procedures. A grim-lipped cop observing the crash said, “Hey Chief, I’m getting the willies on this one.”
Rainbow ribbons of gasoline and blood glistened on the water’s surface. Divers searched the murky green. The submerged car was surrounded by billions of bubbles. Hungry carp lips kissed the car’s windows. Reminiscent of a home aquarium display, treasure chest skeletons stared upwards from the gravel bed. A sinking iPhone displayed the last dialed number. The cause of the accident was unclear. Speculation pointed to poisoning, brake tampering or intoxication. Now an online crime community of amateur investigators and podcasters will try their hand. Despite our daily confusion and misery—everyone has nightmares—the dreams of one precious lost soul never came true.