But meanwhile, it's time to check in with the ongoing troubles Dr. Kerr is facing after he's found himself, somehow, inserted into the Basilikon Lab on the edge of Orient, IA, a place he had not expected to be concerned with, given the nature of his investigation and his doubts about whatever happened to the guy calling himself Trazmo (you remember Trazmo?). So, will he be able to get himself out as inexplicably as he'd gotten himself in?
= = = = = = =
CHAPTER #22
Everything had happened so suddenly, it made my head spin more than usual, as if Time Travel wouldn't be disconcerting enough. But this didn't seem to be “Time” as far as I could tell. It was, certainly, “Space” – if not quite interstellar, then from one location to another and one not all that far away. When I get back – assuming I get back – I must ask Cameron if one can choose one's destination, time or space? Or, for that matter, if there are specific limits, like only short jaunts? But if he'd never tried this “levitation” meditation of his before, whatever he called it, would he know what to expect? Even following directions, doing this completely without supervision, would it work as planned? His hope on this trial run was just to hop across the threshold from one motel room over to the next.
I wasn't aware of flying – I never am, when time-traveling – much less levitating. How could I have gotten from my bed in the motel room to here (wherever “here” is) – by way of there? I'm pretty sure where “there” was, just not sure where I've ended up now, at least not yet – someplace completely different... The fog, presumably in my brain, hadn't cleared yet, but I never could remember what happened before, regardless how it began. Those memories, quickly fading, left behind nothing more realistic than a vivid dream.
“But Cameron was the one meditating; shouldn't he have been the one levitating?” Presumably, this fell under the category, “Why Me?” I remember my phone rang – Bond was calling (I wonder what she wanted?). And then, whatever happened, I'd run into this guard dressed like a lizard who placed me in, like, this holding cell. When the door opened a few minutes later, there was this guy who was the epitome of an evil Arab villain and this huge, bare-chested black man, probably his enforcer, and I suddenly disappeared!
Had they seen me? Or enough of me to distribute an APB description? It felt like another short-circuit flash, and I ended up back in that hallway (will another Lizard Man catch me again?). And if what Piltdown said was true about the Mobots, I have got to get in touch with Bond immediately – “Now!”
That's when there'd been another short-circuit – it was the only way I could describe it, like I was being consumed by some flash but without feeling the shock – and suddenly I was somewhere else. The room, first of all, appeared to be empty as I tried getting my bearings. Was I back at the motel? A possibility – same dingy décor, same basic set-up except there was only a single bed, but this one covered with an open suitcase and a duffel bag like some new arrival hadn't unpacked yet.
So, perhaps the motel (at least, a motel), maybe even the Express Motel, but not my room and there was no Cameron in the chair hoping to gain access to Room #12 next door. I had no idea how this was working – other experiences with Time Travel had been occasionally quite accurate – or how well.
The room was lit by a weak bulb in a small lamp on what passed for a little desk (a sense of relief, recognizing the same style of lamp and desk from our room). There was an old-fashioned wall calendar by the door, difficult to see at the edge of the light. “Hmmm... March, 1983?” Housekeeping's a little behind unless the manager had the same kind of nostalgia Tom had with his calendars at the cabin. By that logic today's date is a Thursday, but here it's a Tuesday.
Pounding footsteps – no, stamping feet – outside the door! I barely had time to hide in the bathroom (not the best place to hide: what if the occupant, who already sounded impatient, had to pee?). As the door flew open, I could see it was night and there was a fierce blizzard roaring outside, snow everywhere. The man wasn't dressed for this weather but wore impressive boots; an equally noticeable belt buckle glistened in the available light. That's unsettling: I'd seen something almost exactly like that just recently – but where?
He seemed young, frustrated, certainly angry, and slamming on the light switch only to have the overhead light flicker didn't help. He dragged the chair over from the desk, pushed the ceiling tile back and, cursing fluently, reached up, tightening the bulb. I almost gasped when I got a good look at his face.
Trazmo!
Okay, so it worked. Cameron's attempt at levitating into Trazmo's old room didn't quite happen as planned, but here I am. Let's deal with the mechanics of this later, but right now, it wouldn't take even an honorary member of the Sherlockian Society to know this was Phillips Hawthorne, Composer, presumably the night he disappeared!
There's the belt buckle and, yes, those were definitely the same boots I'd seen but on the wrong person. Okay, so maybe the right person but how'd the wrong person get hold of them?
I was so excited, I couldn't wait to tell Cameron.
“Whoa, hold on.” I stepped back behind the bathroom door. “Where is Cameron? Presumably back in the Present, unless he ended up somewhere else... How am I going to tell him, considering where I am – and when? How do I get back to the Present?” It's not like the Kapellmeister would show up and guide me, since he'd been the one controlling the shots, last time. There's no hand-held time device, I didn't walk through any shimmering Alice-Down-the-Rabbit-Hole portal...
More importantly, assuming I'd make it back, how was I going to tell this to Sheriff Diddon and more specifically Tom. I could hear myself saying, “well, he seemed pretty pissed off that night...” Looking over my shoulder, I saw myself, gray beard and all, in the bathroom mirror and realized I had to pee.
Trazmo plunked the chair down and looked at himself in the table's small mirror, his hands planted firmly against its corners. “God, you're lookin' old, kiddo. What's happened to you these past few years?”
(Ah, excellent, an interior monologue and he's going to deliver it out loud!)
“It's like you're growing old and nobody cares.”
He sat down and I half-expected him to start removing make-up before bedtime, hardly old enough to worry about middle-aged woes. Maybe he was having a conversation with some imaginary friend or inner demon?
“But what if my real talent is in convincing myself I have talent – and despite what everybody's told me, I don't?”
It's the typical argument every artist faces, especially making that transition between being a gifted youngster and becoming an adult professional. Not every artist is aware of it at the time, feeling all alone.
“There's always someone saying 'oh, you're so brilliant, you're a genius – another Mozart!' but they're full of crap, especially my father.” He laughed. “What's he know about art? Only how much money it's worth.” All his life, he'd been surrounded by stupid people praising him and everything he said, whether it was crap or not.
He took something from his shirt pocket, a pen – a green pen that sparkled in the light – which made him smile. “Except one. He knew. He called my bluff...” (Probably his teacher, Grayson Trautman.)
Then Trazmo pulled something else out from a pants pocket (I couldn't see), held it wrapped in his hand (something small). When he put it down on the table by the green pen (which I assume was the Pelikan Graphos his teacher had given him), I realized this new thing was a small, odd-shaped stone.
A piece of turquoise! Polished smooth, it also glinted in the dim light. Did Trazmo have an obsession with shiny objects, things that glimmered in light, that could distract him from moments of frustration?
The pen had been given to him (according to the story from Trautman's interview that Tom mentioned) but Tom's bit of turquoise had been stolen – and given the time-frame, here, just the other day.
“Then along comes someone like him with no idea how well he writes. And I couldn't even be friendly toward him...”
Wait... was this the same Trazmo Tom had been telling me about, the one others recalled as the arrogant, self-confident bastard who felt he's so much better than everybody else? Who's he talking about? Is it possible he's referring to Tom? I mean, if that's the turquoise nugget missing from Tom's desk – a stolen memento?
My immediate reaction was “Wait till I tell Tom!”
But I have a cell phone, right? Couldn't I just call him?
Except, could I make a call from 1983? Probably not, without a signal...
“Holy crap, if this is that night back in 1983, couldn't I just go next door and tell him and...” Yeah, right – he'd think he's Scrooge being visited by the Ghost of Christmas Future.
Despite all these mind-reeling epiphanies, it occurred to me such misplaced enthusiasm, whether it counted as schadenfreude or not, was inappropriate.
Here's an Ex-Prodigy, a brilliant composer, having an intense moment of doubt, perhaps on the scale of an Existential Crisis, and I'm some gossipy crone who can't wait to tell someone what I've overheard. I almost felt sorry for him – well, Hawthorne; maybe not for Trazmo, Tom's nemesis, if that was his evil, public persona.
“Have some heart.” For every famous artist, there must be hundreds of would-be artists, prodigies themselves, who did not survive, giving up the dream only to disappear from sight.
“Wait – did I say 'disappear'?”
Somehow, I was about to be witness to whatever happened to Phillips Hawthorne in those moments before he disappeared, or at least between the times he had last been seen and then “found missing.” What happens next could be the clue that would put my friend Tom Purdue's own decades of mental anguish to rest. Is Hawthorne having an Existential Crisis leading to a nervous breakdown or merely the emotional build-up to an immense Pity Party? Like many prodigies, has he reached adulthood and found himself already burned out?
We're in the middle of a blizzard in a town in the middle of nowhere, so how will anybody come barging through that door to kill him – much less who, not to mention why? Or will it be someone who'll “kidnap” him so he can go live a life of quiet anonymity shrouded in mystery?
As the wind outside continued to howl, Trazmo started to take his clothes off, carefully laying them aside on the bed – the boots, the jeans, the shirt, even the socks and a torn t-shirt. I was surprised (though I could barely see without giving myself away) he was wearing a lacy pair of women's panties. Cameron told me many gay men, even many married straight men, often wore women's panties because they found them more comfortable. I'm no expert, guessing if Trazmo's gay; besides, who are we to judge?
But he wasn't undressing for bed: he pulled all these clothes out of the duffel bag and made a few selections. I couldn't tell what they were at first, everything hidden by the suitcase. Was he going out somewhere? Again, we're in the middle of a blizzard; wouldn't most people stay hunkered down at home? And aside from the diner next to the motel which sounded like it would be a very unfriendly environment for him, what kind of nightlife would there be in a place like Orient, Iowa?
Before he turned his back to me, out of view of the mirror, I saw his chest was thin, typically unmuscular for a boy who'd grown up spending too much time with his music. Then he strapped something around his chest, slipping a shirt over his head, dark blue with... floral patterns and rather frilly.
A surprising fashion choice, given where we were.
Next, holding up a large rectangular piece of dark blue fabric from the pile to give it careful consideration, he decided to wrap it around his waist. With a few adjustments, he tied something across the front and stood back to admire himself in front the mirror. A smaller bag contained a long curly blonde wig which he quickly fit into place (he's obviously had lots of practice). All that was missing to complete the transformation was a bit of make-up.
Trazmo began to sway back and forth, arms folded across his chest, slowly turning, the skirt swaying gently to inaudible music, his eyes closed and what expression I could see one of utter contentment. Gradually, his inner music accelerating, he began to twirl and extend his arms, his head thrown back with an ecstatic smile.
“Well,” I thought, “that's not exactly what I'd expected.”
And then it happened.
With a bang, the door exploded inward with a great gust of howling wind and blowing snow, as the silhouette of a man stood threateningly in the light from a nearly obliterated street lamp.
Trazmo screamed, his arms braced across his chest.
The man stumbled into the room, unable to steady himself against the door – an older man, not much taller than Trazmo, not much heavier, either, his shoulders snow-covered, his stringy hair caked with ice.
“Sorry, miss, sorry,” the man said, an old man with the look of a vagrant about him, lost in the storm. “I thought you was that young feller I saw'n the diner. Name's Gene.”
“Who the fuck are you,” Trazmo spat out before he remembered to modulate his voice to sound more like a woman.
“They mostly call me Ol' Gene, 'round these parts. Eugene Dyson, ma'am, at your service – I'm kind o' yer local Diogenes.” He stood there, dusting himself off, and left a puddle of melting snow. “Don't mean no harm, don't worry. I'm just lookin' fer some handouts if'n you got stuff to spare – food, old clothes? Bitch of a storm this one is, if you don't mind my French.”
“What the hell, barging into a lady's hotel room? Oh,” he paused, once Gene's words caught up with him, “a beggar...”
“Sorry,” Gene explained, pointing at the door. “I'd been knockin' but I guess what with the wind, if'n y'get my drift” (and here, he chuckled at his own pun), “you pro'lly didn't hear me.”
Trazmo became a bit more relaxed but not exactly welcoming. “Hardly gives you the right to break into my room, though.”
“Didn't break in, ma'am – door must'a blowed open. Sorry t'interrup',” he added, winking, “if'n yer young man's naked under the bed.”
It was a moment's inspiration. “Oh, no, he's passed out in the bathroom.”
(“Aww, jeez,” I thought, stepping back into the shadows in case Ol' Gene could see me. “What if he...? Would she...?”)
“Tell you what,” Trazmo's feminine persona now crooned, sounding sultry and a bit sexy (he's obviously had practice at this, too). She wanted to play a joke on him; seems they've just broken up. “Here, why don't I give you all his clothes – these jeans are warmer and dryer than those old corduroys you're wearing. And these boots – I always hated his wearing these boots! Would they fit?”
I realized how I could ruin everything, here, simply by flushing the toilet which would freak Trazmo out, thinking he's alone. But it's the First Law of Time Travelers, so everyone keeps telling me: always leave the events of the past untouched, no matter how tempted you are to bring about change in the future.
“He'll have no need for them any more,” Trazmo's new persona was telling the old man. I could tell by the momentary silence, Gene must've thought she'd killed him, the boyfriend, or will, soon. The voice continued, a little more pitifully (he's getting good at this), “by the time he comes to, I'm long gone. Why, when that bus pulls out of town, I'll be on it and that rat bastard – nobody's going to miss him! – he'll be naked and too cold to come running around, lookin' for me.”
So much for this fascinating scenario, but what's he up to, with this? How does this wronged and broken-hearted young lady know when the bus will leave town, considering the state of the roads?
“Yes, that's it, you put those jeans on, Gene” – laughter, at her pun – “while I pack up the rest of this.”
Peering out from the bathroom, I could see Ol' Gene's scrawny legs in the mirror as he pulled on Trazmo's jeans. Trazmo himself – or rather, herself – had emptied the suitcase and busily stuffed things into the duffel to get rid of any evidence – evidence the Old Trazmo would no longer be a burden to her.
I leaned against the wall. So, that's how Trazmo's clothes ended up on that body, the one found four days ago. Nobody'd suspect who it was because who'd notice some old bum had disappeared?
“Here,” I heard Trazmo say, the voice a little too emotional, “here's some money – as soon as the storm clears, you should move on to the next town. That's what I'm going to do.” The door opened and whatever else they said was lost in the wind, as Hawthorne watched Gene disappear into the snow. Maybe she's thinking he didn't want to be around when the police started to look for him and can't find him – but here's this tramp with his clothes. He'll become a suspect, for sure.
“I never thought my knight-in-shining-armor would be some mangy vagrant in well-worn corduroys! There goes Trazmo, the great composer, former prodigy. As if there's anyone around who'll miss him,” reverting to his natural voice. “I guess Dad will – 'that boy'll be worth lots of money some day!' Not that the boy'll ever miss you, Dad...”
Is that why Dad – Phillips L. Hawthorne, Sr., recently and finally deceased – has pressed these murder conspiracy theories all this time, to recoup financial losses a successful Wunderkind would've brought to the family fortune? What about everything he'd spent buying orchestras so they'd play his kid's music and create the aura of a budding genius? Had he ever thought his son just ran away from home, now that he's old enough to be on his own; that he'd want to get out from under his old man's controlling influence?
Was this rancor the postscript to all the publicity the father generated beforehand to let the world know his boy's a prodigy with a great future; and now it's become a flood of constant publicity, merely to keep the pain alive and tell the world someone must pay because that future's been stolen from him.
After all these years, had the old man died a bitter, twisted soul because he had yet to prove someone's responsible for killing his son so he could sue him for, what... – wrongful death? What's the point of suing a composer like Tom who's hardly flush with fame or fortune? Where's the benefit in that?
Had this – what I'd witnessed tonight – been part of a well-thought plan of a young composer wanting to find his independence? Or something spontaneous, a chance to find redemption through the miracle of re-invention?
Another voice, a man's voice. Had someone else entered and I hadn't heard? I peered out, the doorknob in the way. The front door hadn't opened, no renewed attack from wind and biting cold. The voice was too practiced, too clipped and impersonal to be conversational, more of a TV news reporter, sounding like Trazmo.
“The room is empty, no sign of Trazmo's whereabouts. 'Gone missing,' the note says, 'to live my life – as a woman!' And that's all from here. I'm Lance Bleeblebuss.” (Another one of Trazmo's personalities?)
He stood there – she stood there (what do I call him now? Is he a woman because he's dressed like one? He's still, anatomically, a male but one with a preference for ladies' apparel) – anyway, whatever pronouns apply (I'd never thought of it quite this way, before), whoever stood there wondered what to do next.
She was thinking out loud – so I'm guessing this was all spontaneous, part of a dream but without planning the details. “If I leave the suitcases,” she muttered, “maybe they'll think I've been kidnapped.” But they'd be empty. Plus she needed to take the woman's clothing, since any of that left behind would be confusing.
At least, I figured, in fairness I shouldn't call him “Trazmo” any more: that's the real identity she's trying to shed. He was still (legally) Phillips Hawthorne. But Trazmo? No, Trazmo was dead, now.
Lost in thought – I couldn't imagine what was going through his head at this moment, aware of the powerful decision he'd just made, no turning back (should I even be calling him 'him' now?) – she stood at the window, her arms wrapped around her, and stared out across the empty fields covered with drifting snow. I could see her, turning back to the dressing table, pick up Trazmo's old wallet – she'd already taken out the money – then looked at the ceiling light which flickered again, just for a second.
She slipped some stuff into a small box, climbed up onto the chair, hampered by her skirt this time (something he'll have to get used to), then slid the box above the ceiling tiles. “It'll be years before they'll find it, judging from this place. With any luck, by then they'll think I've been murdered.”
When I pushed the door open another smidge (as my grandmother would've said), it squeaked just enough that, when I looked up at Hawthorne on the chair, he was staring down right at me.
“What the God-Almighty fucking hell...!?” Nothing feminine in this voice. He nearly tripped getting down from the chair (the skirt, again).
I flew out into the room rather than be cornered at the toilet by an insane whoever-he-was-now, already “full gonzo,” and slammed my knee into the corner of the bed, screaming out in pain.
It was enough to knock the chair over into her way, as the high heels (which I hadn't noticed before) gave out from under her (definitely going to have to get used to those). Between the two of us, our individual pains brought out fresh streams of profanities (hers, I admit, more colorful than mine).
If it's considered the best room in the place, #12 wasn't big enough to do more than swing a cat in, and certainly not big enough for an old man with a banged-up knee to be chased around the bed by a raving maniac in a skirt screaming about how I'd gotten in and when. Not that I could imagine myself in Trazmo's place, with or without the skirt, given the highly personal and extremely intimate moment he'd just experienced only to find some stranger was spying on him.
She threw one of her shoes at me, barely missing my head as this stiletto heel zoomed close by my ear. It'd only take another minute before I'd collapse from a heart attack and die from a stiletto wound to the forehead. The logical choice... – not really, but I opened the door and ran outside.
It didn't take long before I couldn't see the light from Trazmo's room or the looming silhouette of the Express Motel. Which way to downtown Orient? Or was I out in the empty fields?
Surrounded by snow I could describe no other way than “blinding,” I was painfully aware I'd not dressed for this weather. And, if this actually ended up with me dying here, I realized as far as the future was concerned, I wouldn't be around to show up in 2016 to find myself and gain closure.
Trazmo's curses soon became one with the bellowing wind and I quickly realized this wasn't going as well as I'd hoped. At this rate, what would it matter what I could tell Cameron, or even Tom, much less someone like Sheriff Diddon or those guys involved with GACC (though I'd love to see their faces). What about the face on Diddon's predecessor in the spring of 1983 when he discovers the body of an old man who, despite his 2014 driver's license, should only be about 33 years old?
Not only did I not know how I'd even gotten here or if there was any way I could get out of here (hadn't I been in the Mobot Factory just a while ago?), what could I do with the knowledge I've just learned to solve what's rapidly become an even stranger, even colder case?
The best I could hope for was to run smack into the motel's diner, unless I'm stumbling in the wrong direction.
Whatever time I had left, this wasn't the way to spend it, worrying about the imponderable, like “okay, here's another fine mess I've gotten myself into” or “how're you going to explain this one?”
Not to mention how I'm going to get myself out of it, finding the escape route from some kid's snow globe.
Escape room! That's it! “Cameron, if you're listening – anybody? The word is... 'now'?”
= = = = = = =
©2022 by Dick Strawser for Thoughts on a Train
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