《And The Fog Rolled In》


 As Good a Place to Start

    Kenneth Oswald turned on the radio. The man couldn''t start his day unless some good old Rock blasted throughout the kitchen. It stirred something in his aching body that he was sure disappeared a long time ago. He spent his mornings alone, so he did not need to be quiet for anyone. Without waiting to see what song was on, he turned the knob as far as it would go, ready for the music to beat his eardrums to death. As soon as Bon''s voice blared from the speaker, Ken stomped his foot to the rhythm, slamming his right hand against an invisible guitar. A weak smile crept on his face, hand dropping back to his side. Even his imaginary performance could not compete with Angus.


    Giving up, he retrieved a glass of juice, waiting for his bread to toast. He didn''t need to eat much in the morning. His appetite was not the same these days. Opening his fridge, he took a quick look inside. Eggs, milk, fresh fruit, and all the veggies he could want. "Gross," he muttered, feeling his stomach churn just by looking at it. He would go hungry before eating any of that so early. Turning to the cabinets, he found some tortilla chips. Not the most nutritious thing, but it was one of the few things he could stomach for some reason. In the mornings, his stomach was an odd, delicate machine, and it made him miserable if he forced it to do anything other than what it wanted.


    Sitting at the table, he mixed a little laxative in his juice. This kickstart to his system would make everything in his fridge seem appetizing by lunch. "If you want blood," Bon yelled through the radio, "you got it." Ken joined him in repeating the sentiment, thinking that if he wanted blood, all he had to do was skip the laxative.


    Munching on a chip, he picked up the newspaper, though he knew there was no use in looking at it. Nothing changed. Maybe the names were different, but the events were the same. Someone was born to a loving family. A politician lied, failing to uphold his promises. One man died in his sleep; another was murdered in cold blood. Someone was behind bars for a heinous crime. A brewing scandal had bubbled over. Something happened in Washington that would affect everyone. A situation was developing in another country that had horrible ramifications.


    If the story was considered big enough, the names didn''t even change because the journalists loved to update their readers by telling them there were no new developments. "Anything to fill up a page," Kenneth mused, but no one called him that. Kenny or Ken were his usual designations. As he turned on yet another page of meaningless news, Angus''s last note rang out. Not missing a beat, Dylan took over, singing about being stuck in some hole called Mobile while having Memphis blues. Still, no matter how bad the papers were, it had to be better than watching one of those all-day news channels nonstop. At least he could peruse what happened, not care, and skip on to something else. All he wanted to know was what happened here. Everything else was a distraction.


    Glancing out the corner of his eye, he peered through his kitchen window. From his seat, he had a clear view of his well-lit front porch, the dim driveway, and halfway down the dark road. Ronald would be pulling up in the next ten minutes. He could be laidback, but tardiness, among other things, pushed his buttons in the worst ways possible. Kenny watched him make a grown man cry when he took too long finding his wallet. On this leisurely morning, the last thing he wanted was to see Ronald''s neck vein pop.


    In the driveway, a large blue tarp floated in the air, giving the faintest outline of a car. Ken''s tan Buick sat beneath it. The old car got him from point A to point B for years, but now its engine was beyond repair; only a new one could get that machine moving again. Ken was at one of the crossroads in a driver''s life. Did he repair the old car or get a new one? He hated choices like that. Not once in his differing job-filled career did he have a more dreaded decision. Still, whatever his choice, it would be written in stone at the end of the day.


    Out of habit, he felt his hand slide down the front of his shirt. A familiar sleek texture slipped between his fingers. His hand climbed back out to reveal a chatoyant gem. The stone''s color varied on the surface, going from a reddish brown to a muted gold. Passed down in his family for generations. "The Tiger''s Eye," his grandmother explained on the day she gave it to him. "An heirloom of times long forgotten. When your child is old enough, give it to him and tell him the story that I tell you now. Listen close, Kenneth. You will never hear it again."


    Over the years, parts of the story slipped from his mind. It''s not as if he heard it a million times as is the case with many family stories. His grandmother was true to her word and never breathed a word about it after its one and only telling. Still, it was hard to forget the high points. Never in his life had he heard such a strange tale. The old story of how the Tiger''s Eye came to poor pig farmers in Tennessee was like something ripped right out of a fairy tale.


    Sitting at his table, the familiar phrases came back to him. The Knight of the Lake, Tiger of the Sky, the Iron Queen, Dragon of the Sea, The King of Nothing, Witch of the Sands, Wizard of the Ashes, and the Eternal Night that consumed them all. A strange woman imparted this story, along with the Tiger''s Eye to Kenny''s ancestors. All she asked in return was a meal, three dimes, and a pig. She stayed with them two days, in which time her pig disappeared. On the morning of third day, she asked if she could borrow their horse. She needed a ride into town. They let her. She never returned, along with their horse.


    "Pointless drivel," he murmured, ruminating back on his childhood. A week after his grandmother''s tale, he was running around with a stick, swinging at overhanging branches, pretending to be the Knight of the Lake. If he remembered right, he told Emily all about it and his little sister chased behind him as the Iron Queen. The old bat liked to knock us silly, he thought, remembering when she caught them. In literature, it was common for grandparents to serve as gentle mentors, teaching the younger generation to believe in magic and strive to be heroes. Reality is a bit different. As a boy, he didn''t understand why his grandmother told him such a fantastical story if she didn''t want him to play at being a knight. In his adulthood, he understood all too well¡­


    He must have dozed off because bright headlights flashed through the window making him jolt. "Ron''s late," he yawned, looking at the clock. He laid his paper back on the table, not finished with the local news. When he got back, he''d finish it. "Wife must''ve had an early bird shift." If there was one thing that made him tardy, it was that wife of his. However, if Ken had a woman as pretty as that, he wouldn''t get anywhere on time. Drinking the last drop of his juice, he left the useless paper behind, turned off the radio, threw his coat on, and cut the lights as he went out the door.


    His driver was already parked and waiting on the porch when Ken stepped outside. Tapping his foot, Ronald said, "What''s the big rush? We got all morning, right?" The hint of sarcasm in his voice was noted. He was not the friendliest fellow before dawn, regardless of his wife.


    "Nice seeing you too, Ron," he replied, stretching with a yawn. There was only one way to deal with Ronald''s attitude. Kindness. A lesson he learned long ago. He was quick to rage, but just as fast to cool down. No point in picking a fight over the pettier things of life. "Sorry to make you do this."


    Ron shot him an accusing eye. "As if I had any other choice, if the others found out I left the old man out to dry, they''d never give me a break." With a choked snort, he added, "Took me long enough to get any respect in this town. Can''t let it all go to waste now."If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    "Don''t worry," Ken assured him. "When I see them next week, I''ll give you a raving review. That''ll keep them all in line."


    Ron scratched his goatee, considering how much he could get done in that pitiful newspaper with all the underlings snapping to. Before he dazed off for too long, he came back to himself, saying, "Ready?" Ken nodded and they hopped in the car.


    "Care if I turn on the radio?" he asked, as they pulled out.


    Ron shrugged. Ken flicked over to his favorite station. They caught Tom Petty singing about his last dance with Mary Jane. In the pale moonlight, Ken could spot the shoreline, a short outcrop of rock and sand, ten yards away from the road. Thick grass and trees were on the other side. Out here, it was as if no one else existed. Ken loved it out here for that reason. They rode in silence. No matter how long they knew one another, they were not much for talking, expect for a topic they both found interesting. Both were part of different generations with little to connect one another. However, there was one bond that held the pair closer than they knew.


    "Finished that King book you gave me," Ron murmured as they rounded a bend. The windy road ran along the rocky shoreline. Few travelled it during the day and less at night. That was how Ken liked it. Why else would he get a home on the more dangerous side of the island, where no tourists came for a swim?


    "Which one was it again?" With age, it was hard to remember book titles. Besides, Stephen King had so many stories under his name, one would find it difficult to name them all. "The Mist," he asked, trying to recall the last novel he let the younger man borrow.


    "The Eyes of the Dragon," Ron corrected. "Gonna get around to Mist in a few weeks. Have a few I want to finish first."


    "Eyes of the Dragon," Ken muttered. A fairy tale of two brothers and a wicked sorcerer who drove a wedge between them. Filled with deceit, death, and triumph. It was an interesting title among the horror novelist''s work. He enjoyed the narrative style of the all-knowing narrator. The tragedy of the two brothers was well-crafted. He loved the villain and it was a great tie-in to his massive Dark Tower series. Ron hated the ending of that juggernaut of a series, though Ken believed there was no better way to end it.


    "Take your time," the older man continued. "It''s not like those books are going anywhere." It pained him to think of how many novels were in his study, gathering dust. No point in reopening tales he knew backwards and forwards. If only he had someone to pass them on to, but no chance of that anymore.


    "Kid still not taking to you?" Ron ventured.


    It was pain that made Ken whirl his head around and shoot his companion a heated glare. His gentle, calm demeanor made him regain his composure, reining in his tongue. "Yeah," he breathed, struggling to keep the rage out of his tone. He could still see that mop of black hair walking out of his life forever.


    An awkward silence filled the car as the guitar solo kicked in. They went about two miles as Petty sang. "Got to go to one of his concerts once," Ken said, slicing through the quiet with a shaky hand. "Wasn''t my favorite, but wouldn''t trade going there for anything." He paused, mulling it over. "Well, maybe to see Led Zeppelin again, but who wouldn''t do that?"


    Ron shrugged as he did when he didn''t care about a conversation. Rock wasn''t his thing; Blues and Jazz were. Another silence fell on them. Ken struggled to think of something to talk about, anything to get his mind off that hair which faded into the depths of his memory. "Did you ask your woman yet?" As soon as he said this, he knew that this was the worst limb he could climb out on.


    At this, Ron shot him a look. The car swerved, which he righted at once. "You know good and well that I didn''t ask her anything," he snapped, hacking the branch off. "Do you think it''s that easy? Ask her to leave her island home and go to the mainland. Leave where she grew up, the place she wants to raise our kids, the scrap of land she wants to die on. No, I didn''t ask her."


    "Sorry, didn''t mean to strike a nerve," Ken answered, trying to calm him down, but it was too late. When Ron got started, there was nothing that could be done. He had to get it all out of his system. His ranting continued as Tom Petty''s outro ended and a soft intro to a Styx song began. Its soft guitar intro contrasted with the heat in Ron''s voice.


    "What''s so great about this stupid place? Everyone acts like their lives are carefree, not even considering a single reason why anyone''d want to leave, and my wife is the worst of the bunch." His fingers gripped the wheel until his dark knuckles began to turn white. With every word, he picked up the speed. It was not long before they were too fast for the little country roads. Hitting another curve, he jerked the wheel to keep from racing off the road.


    "Ron, slow down," Ken suggested. He knew the road as if it were tattooed on his hand. There was another turn up ahead. It was sharp. At this speed, they wouldn''t make it.


    "She doesn''t get it. I came here to get work. Gain experience. Transfer as soon as possible."


    "Slow down," he ordered, raising his voice. They were getting too close for his comfort.


    "Didn''t plan on meeting her, getting married, starting a life together, and all that garbage."


    "Ron, stop!" he yelled, hitting his hands against the dashboard in growing panic.


    At once, his younger companion slammed the brakes. The high-pitched squealing of tires filled their ears. They slid down the road. The turn appeared in their headlights. Ron spun the wheel. Ken watched the railing, dented by reckless drivers, fast approaching. How ironic. His trip to get a new car would end up in a life-shattering wreck.


    When his eyes opened, steam swirled around the hood. Styx kept on playing, unaware of the ordeal they endured. Tommy Shaw sang, "I wonder what tomorrow has in mind for me. Or am I even in its mind at all?" With a snap, Ken started patting around his body, searching for any immediate injuries. He found none. Worst he had was a little whiplash. He had worse on the job. "Ron," he said, turning to his companion.


    Ron hunched over the steering wheel with his fingers gripping for dear life. His breath came in rough pants. There was no sign of harm on his body. A thick sweat dripped off his forehead. "What am I doing?" he hissed, teeth clenched. When his eyes met Ken''s, large tears welled up in the corners. "I''m so sorry. I don''t know what came over me."


    Ken knew all too well. Ron suffered from what his grandfather called a Geyser Temper. It laid dormant most of the time, not troubling anyone, but from time to time, it exploded. It happened fast as a snap and was over just as fast. In the end, there would be few signs that it happened at all. "Plenty suffer from it, good and bad alike, but mild-mannered, kind folks have it the worst," his grandfather said. "Rage is not normal for them. They might take things too far."


    As they sat in the car, Ron had almost gone too far. Turning away from Ken, he pushed his face against the wheel. "I''m sorry," he repeated. "Don''t know what came over me."


    Ken said nothing, feeling for the Tiger''s Eye. "Dodged another bullet," he murmured, fingering the gem. Since a fateful day in the forest by his childhood home, he never took the stone off from around his neck. Despite its pitiful origin, there was this odd sense that somehow it brought him a form of good luck. He could not prove it, but whenever he wore it, he never got hurt. So, though it made his grandmother roll in her grave, he believed in magic, if only this little bit.


    The smoke kept rolling from the hood. Strange, he thought. The airbags didn''t go off. There was no jolt. Leaning forward, he couldn''t spot any signs of crushed and twisted metal. They had not wrecked. It was close, but they were okay. Yet thick smoke floated around the hood all the same. Opening his door, he bumped into the metal railing, making that the only damage the car received during Ron''s reckless fit. Slipping into Ken''s lap, a steady stream of smoke crawled into the car. His eyes darted toward the sea. An opaque wave of mist made its way toward them at a turtle''s pace. At once, he knew what was happening.


    Slapping Ron on the shoulder, he snapped, "The car''s fine. Let''s go."


    "What?" Ron exclaimed, half out of relief. The other half worried what made Ken''s voice take on this sudden sharpness.


    "Fog," he said, just as Styx cried out, "Crystal Ball. There''s so many things I gotta know." Ron''s eyes narrowed. Without hesitation, he whipped out of his mood, regaining his focus. Tomorrow did not matter when today was right in front of them. He threw the car into drive, racing away from their near demise, back on their course. Though he didn''t know it, Kenneth''s day wouldn''t end with a new car. He wouldn''t read the rest of his paper. By the end of the day, returning home was a luxury worth one''s own soul. Before the day was done, Ken would give anything for a crystal ball.


    And the fog rolled in.