Perceptional Threshold: The Questioning

Novels by Casper Parks

Perceptional Threshold

Ages Past

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Prologue

The jet engines of a Boeing 747 had soothed most passengers to sleep. Fully awake, Tabaka was amazed at how easily people dozed when in flight. His earlier flight over the Atlantic mirrored the one that now approached the western edge of the United States. Throughout both flights, sleep had eluded him. Without thinking he fluffed his shoulder length silver white hair behind his ears.

Naturally, defined muscles framed his seamless hunter-green shirt and black pants, and black eyebrows accented his grey eyes. He pressed his hand flat on a midnight blue trench coat folded neatly across his lap and smoothed a few wrinkles from it. He glanced at the other passengers, searching for tell-tale signs of trouble. There was none. He suspected Fallen Ones were on the flight as well. If so, they had kept to themselves.

Tabaka’s thoughts came to a rest on a woman seated across and to the right of him, Rea. Invisible to world around them, they existed at a ghostlike-state, their bodies able to pass through solid objects. Air flight presented a dangerous mode of travel. Living at a ghost-state of existence severe air turbulence could easily send them bouncing through the plane hull and expelling them to their deaths.

During the first leg of their long journey, a calm air current over the Atlantic Ocean has graced them. Within minutes after arriving at New York's JFK International Airport, they found a flight traveling nonstop to Los Angeles. Other than minor air turbulence, their flight from New York to Los Angeles was safe. As the aircraft sloped downward on a gradual decline toward the LAX airport in Los Angeles, trace clouds slipped past the windows.

Tabaka had enjoyed Rea’s company during their long flights, both over the Atlantic Ocean and now across the United States. After they parted ways at LAX, he would miss her company. They had talked of battles won and of battles lost. Laughed about good-times and grieved over bad. She had dodged Tabaka’s question as to the purpose of her journey to the City of Angels. Still, he wondered if her timing for the trip was a mere coincidence.

Three days prior, their paths had unexpectedly crossed at a peace conference between the Palestinians and Israelis. Existing in ghost-state had its advantages. Unseen, Tabaka and Rea had eavesdropped at a secret conference, as observers to history, one of a few advantages to their ghostlike prison state of existence.

Tabaka believed there was no common ground to base a lasting peace accord. Roadblocks to peace were Jerusalem, the West Bank, Gaza Strip and the Golan Heights, which Israel had taken decades ago during the 1967 Six-Day War.

Also at issue was an ancient tunnel Israel recently reopened that ran under parts of Jerusalem. Uncompleted resolutions between each faction resulted in another stalemate. Tabaka sighed. A war predetermined by a history of religious conflicts was inevitable.

Three days of intense talks ended as so often before, a blur of accusations between parties led to a collapse of negotiations. Chairs had skidded across the floor as government representatives stood and stormed from the peace table.

Afterwards, Tabaka had rushed to the airport, and again encountered Rea. They located a plane bound for New York City, then later from New York to Los Angeles. His face tightened as he studied Rea’s features.

An inch wide crescent moon shaped scar curved inward from the corner of her right eye, ran along her cheek and narrowed at her chin. The scar added to her rugged beauty. A frayed brown scarf hung loosely around her slender neck. Her tattered clothing stitched in numerous places contributed to an appearance of a pauper.

He reflected too the night he had first met her in 780 BC, inside of a city, seventy-five miles southwest of Babylon. She was wearing a plain tan colored dress, with two inch woven design cloth that encircled the bottom of her dress. A river of black hair had flowed past her shoulders.

A daughter of a goat shepherd, she was days away from an arranged marriage. Her fiancée had not survived that lethal night. She had managed to escape with the one injury that scarred her face. It was the first of many injuries to come, all due to the unseen conflict. Rea was no longer the same innocent woman he had met on that night in 780 BC.

He eyed a knife sheathed on a leather belt that encircled her waist. Days after the village’s imprisonment, he gave her the knife for protection. Long ago, she had refashioned dress into a pullover shirt that barely covered her brown-skinned belly and loose fitting pants. Well-rounded breasts accented her firm stomach. A multicolored strap of cloth from the bottom of her former dress now served as a headband around her shortcut black hair.

The conflict had stripped away Rea’s simplicity. During those first few months of displacement from the physical world, she underwent a number of changes, both emotion and physical. Long hair was easily grabbed in a fight and was cut short, then refashioning of her dress into a shirt and pants followed, making it easier to fight and or to run. Like all rebels, she frequently ran for her life to escape Fallen Ones.

Tabaka had not approved of what took place in the desert on that fateful night in 780 BC. Because their city leaders had bargained with unseen spirits, an entire village and its population banished to a ghostlike state of existence. Citizens of that former city now rebels, trapped in the middle of a long and old war. Day by day, they struggled through the Ages to stay alive.

Rebels, Tabaka sighed silently at the reflection of what those villagers had become. It was an odd twist of fate for Rea and her people. Perhaps destiny had set them on that path. Normally, Rea was intent and focused, never joking or laughing. Today, he witnessed a rare sight. Several times, Rea had laughed and appeared cheerful.

As sensing his thoughts, Rea commented, It's not your fault that my people live in this ghostlike state, in all this time have any of my people held Barok or you in contempt for what was done to us? She smirked. No, we have not. My brother blames himself and leaves no room for others to share it.

Tabaka commented, Tis a burdensome milestone that he carries around his neck. He is not at fault for the banishment of your people to this state of existence. Regardless of his actions, what was done would have come to pass. Before the Earth was set into orbit it was predestined.

Rea yielded her hands, not wanting to hear about predestination. Stop speaking in quantum physics, I’ve study unseen over the shoulders of the best in the field. Smirking, she answered his concern for her brother, Those who follow Jable's leadership do not hold him to blame. However, he refuses to hear their words on the matter. Regardless of where the blame lays, he has used that guilt to focus his efforts. Guilt that drove him to bring our people together, it was his rallying cry which kept most of us from becoming as they are.

And what are they? inquired Tabaka.

Rea remained aloof and smirked. Unwanted? Enemies of course - And what would you call them? She chuckled. Oh, that’s right, I’ve asked that before. Time-and-again, an answer is never forthcoming. Instead you speak in cryptic circles, never offering an explanation.

Tabaka grinned at her mention of Fallen Ones referred to as the Unwanted. And what do ye consider me to be?

Rea cocked an eyebrow. "For three millennia that has remained an unsolved riddle among my people. The Unwanted claim you are not as they are, and have repeatedly warned us to Beware of Barok and his Aide. You are not enemies of the Unwanted, yet they despise you both."

Whatever Message you speak secretly to them, they hate you for it. I have heard that many crave to kill Barok and yourself. Still, they fear to act upon those desires. What Message is it you speak to them, using a language my people cannot understand? A language none will teach us.

Tabaka assured, Tis a Message not meant for your people. Then he raised an index finger. Your people and the Fallen Ones are not so unlike as ye may think. Rest assured, come the Fullness of Time their destiny and yours shan't be the same. I suspect your people knew too much too soon and were temporarily silenced.

Rea fingered-off a count, emphasizing each point. One, the general population of the village knew nothing. Only our former city leaders had such knowledge. Two, you don’t know for certain it is temporary, do you?

Mocking, she pushed her hand through the armrest of her seat and challenged, For three millennia our fate and that of the Unwanted are one in the same. It is a long time to be considered as temporary. Her voice tightened, matching her face. What is the Message you speak to the Unwanted? I believe we've a legitimate reason to hear it.

Tabaka passed his hand through an armrest to make his point as well. The Fallen Ones have existed at this ghostlike form for six thousand years, much longer than your people. Again, ye have failed to answer my question. Are we friends or enemies?

Uneasy, Rea shuffled her posture, crossing one leg over the other. Friends for this journey, perhaps enemies tomorrow, it is hard to tell the future.

Tabaka replied, A confusing life to live, one day friends and enemies the next. Decisive, he changed subjects, Is your brother in the city below?

As expected, Rea avoided a straight answer. You are not as the Unwanted have become. Overfeeding has clouded their minds. You have not taken unfair advantage of those at the normal plane of existence, and are not considered an enemy.

Tabaka exhaled a sigh. As Barok and I have stated countless times, ye are not so unlike one another as ye think. He allowed a few seconds of silence, hoping she would answer his question concerning her brother. She said nothing. Casual, he leaned forward, clasped his hands between his knees and redirected his question. Ye've not told me what brings you to the City of Angels. Where ye go, your brother is usually present, or soon will be.

Rea joked, Don't you mean the City of Fallen Angels?

Tabaka leaned back and moaned. So far, their flight to Los Angeles was quiet. He wanted to avoid an argument at the last leg of their journey. Unlike other seats onboard, the first four faced each other. When Tabaka had boarded the plane, he took an empty front seat that faced backward, allowing him to view other passengers, and Rea had sat directly across from him facing forward. His eyes wandered to a man and woman sitting one aisle over and three seats away. Accompanied by a loud beep, signs flickered on at the front and back of the cabin 'Please Fasten Seat belts’.

An overhead speaker announced an approach for a landing at LAX International Airport, and advised passengers to fasten their seat belts. The pilot’s voice crackled over the speaker system. The Santa Winds are rolling in strong. We may experience minor turbulence on approach for a landing.

Earlier, as they departed New York, Tabaka suspected a pair of Fallen Ones had boarded the plane as well. One possessed a man, while another possessed a woman. He scrutinized the couple for signs of Fallen Ones’ presence. When the man reached to buckle his seat belt, a dark-green blister covered hand and arm inside of him remained on the armrest.

At an instant Tabaka realized, their peaceful trip was at an end. His eyes met Rea's eyes. While both Fallen Ones noticed him, they had failed to notice Rea. With a slight hand motion, Tabaka requested her to remain quiet and seated.

A Fallen One bent forward from inside of the male passenger. As he leaned into the aisle, his blistered head and torso protruded from the man's body at the waist. An onslaught of pinned-up agitation erupted, Since we boarded this plane, ye've done nothing but gawk at us! Ye are but an endless recording, driven to repeat those same three words! Say what ye shall and be done with it! Defiant, he clenched a fist upward and detonated, So that we can tell thee; Nay, never!

Rea recognized the unknown language, shot to her feet and drew her knife. Rage and hatred consumed her earlier cheerful demeanor. Prepared for combat, she took a concrete stance. Calm, she engaged a button located on the handle of her knife. A glow of white energy pulsated around the blade, giving it the appearance of a dagger of light. She bobbed an abbreviated glared at Tabaka as if to say, 'You knew they were here and said nothing?'

Excited, two Fallen Ones stepped into the aisle, one from inside of the man and the other from his female companion. In unison, they shouted, Rea! With a price on her head, this opportunity was too great to ignore. However, her decapitated head was not as valuable as her brother’s. Unsure, they weighed a confrontation with Tabaka. Doubt descended on them as they stared at Tabaka. Was the reward for Rea’s head worth the risk of Eternal Death?

Rea's eyes locked on the Fallen Ones. She flirted too simply to antagonize them, Hello, boys, wanna party with a real woman?

One of the Fallen Ones pleaded with Tabaka, We've no argument with thee. On top of our torment, these rebels heap mountains of distress upon us. Step aside and allow us to behead this Jezebel!

Tabaka grinned. In my presence, she remains under my protection. Do ye dare to confront me? There are only two of ye. Tis hardly a fair battle, a battle that ye’d surely lose. Then he scoffed, Concealing yourselves inside of the man and woman, ye are like frightened rabbits hiding in the brush. Your stench rose above all else, how could I not have noticed?

Itching for a fight, Rea rolled the knife-handle in her palm. She ignored Tabaka's motion to hold her position. She ridiculed them, Tabaka need not defend me. Recently, I killed five of your brethren in Jerusalem. They were slow and stupid, and killing them was effortless. Then again, unlike them I suppose you're afraid to confront me in battle.

The nearest Fallen One lunged forward, his hands stretched outward to grasp her neck. Rea crouched beneath his leap, then jabbed her glowing dagger into his stomach and fell onto her back. She planted her knees against his chest and used his momentum to toss him aside. The Fallen One tumbled to the side and landed partly inside of a seat. He convulsed violently, burning without flame until only a charcoal humanoid body remained.

Rea jerked her dagger from his scorched stomach and sprang back to her feet. She glared at the second Fallen One and invited, It's your turn to dance. Coolly, she spindled the dagger back and forth between her hands and clarified, Slow or fast dance? Silence answered. A smirk parted her lips. I'll be a humble lady and allow you lead.

Lacking no hesitation, Tabaka stepped between them. A fight inside of an airplane was dangerous. Even when not intending to do it, their bodies easily passed through solid objects. He placed his hand against Rea's shoulder and requested, Hold. Steadfast, he extended a halting hand toward the Fallen One and ordered, End this confrontation, now.

Panic-stricken, the Fallen One did the unexpected. He stepped back inside of the man and fully possessed him. In complete control of the man's actions, he plucked an infant from the arms of a woman seated in the next row. The man clamped his hand around the child's neck, backed away and spoke using the man’s voice, Keep away from me or this innocent dies!

Terrified, the mother sent an eardrum-puncturing howl throughout the aircraft. Between shrieks of confusion, fear and rage, she charged the man to free her infant. Quickly, a nearby passenger tackled her and restrained her. She squirmed to break free with a grunting cry. My daughter - let me go!

The passenger held her tightly and advised, No, he might harm her. None on the passengers knew why this man had exploded without warning, grabbed an infant and threatened to kill it. Blind to the ghostlike prison, they were incapable of seeing Tabaka and Rea just waiting for an opportunity to save the child.

As if in a world of his own, the possessed man shouted at unseen people onboard the aircraft, confirming to other passengers that he was psychotic. Red faced and neck muscles strained, he stammered, Tabaka, I warn thee! I shall dispatch this newborn unto the First Death!

Tabaka stood firm, his feet spread and fists tight at his side. An energy weapon within easy grasp remained inside his coat pocket on the seat. Firing his weapon at the Fallen One meant the possessed person would burst into flames as well. Unseen and unheard by the passengers, Tabaka spoke with the authority of judge and executioner, Ye've involved those on the normal plane of existence! Involving them in our personal conflicts is in this manner is forbidden. If ye do not end it now, I shall dispatch thee unto the Second Death!

Bah! bellowed the possessed passenger, his eyes glossed bloodshot and nostrils flared. The Second Death awaits us all! He nodded at an unseen Rea. That Jezebel and yourself included! Tis senseless not too use these mindless cattle to do our bidding in battles! Abrupt, he swung to one side and pulled the infant in tighter. Step away, bitch!

Rea froze in place, leaving her legs phased partly inside of a frightened passenger who had remained seated. Coldness swept through the passenger, causing him to shutter. Rea wanted to remove her legs from inside of the passenger's lap, however for the sake of the child she dared not budge. From the corner of her eye, she spotted an airline steward sneaking behind the possessed man.

Unexpectedly, a brave passenger seated alongside of the possessed man jumped in from the side and tackled him. An airline steward needed no prompting, and snatched the infant from the man's grasp. Arms opened wide, the mother scampered from the aisle floor and sped toward her child. Her voice raised above all others. My baby, thank God, my baby!

The Fallen One abandoned the man, passed through the steward and leaped into the infant's mother. Unexpected by fellow passengers, the mother pivoted around, dashed toward the cockpit door and screamed, I die the Second Death and everyone here meets the First Death! To the other passengers it appeared the insanity was contagious. Everyone scrambled from the mother’s way, clearing a path directly to the cockpit.

Tabaka raced after her, reached his hands into the woman's shoulders and yanked the Fallen One from inside of her. Unable to halt her forward momentum, she tripped and slammed headfirst into the metal cockpit door. Bone cracking against metal resonated throughout the aircraft. She bounced backward and dropped to the deck. As her limbs shook with the might of a grand mal seizure, her eyes rolled inward.

Tabaka and the Fallen One locked hand in hand, their fingers intertwined. A battle of pressure, one against the other lasted seconds. Tabaka jolted their interlocked hands upward, then abruptly down, arched the Fallen One's wrists back and raised him onto his tiptoes.

As if nothing out of the ordinary were transpiring, the plane altered course and encountered warm winds that flowed off the Pacific Ocean. Sudden air turbulence jarred the plane. The jolt combined with the weight of his opponent caused Tabaka's feet to slip inside of the deck. The Fallen One seized advantage of the situation and butted-head into Tabaka's face.

Dazed, Tabaka stumbled backward and tried to grab onto a solid object. There was not enough time to refocus. He fell completely through the deck and disappeared into the luggage compartments below. His lower legs passed through the outer-hull of the plane.

Air that swept past the plane dragged him further outside and closer to a fatal fall. It took extreme concentration to grab a hold of something in the physical plane of existence. His hands latched onto an interior metal rib of the aircraft. He focused on the metal rib and held himself in place.

Outside of the plane, air rushing through his ghostlike legs and making concentration difficult. As rushing air sucked him from inside of the aircraft, finger by finger his grasp was slipping. Above deck, he heard airline stewards assisting the injured mother. Voices of passengers holding down the formerly possessed man echoed into the underbelly of the aircraft.

In addition, he heard what those on the normal plane of existence could not. A brutal fight was taking place between Rea and the Fallen One, in-which only one would survive. By the sound of it, Rea was losing that confrontation. He concentrated harder and began the task of pulling himself back inside of the aircraft.

Above in the cabin of the aircraft, the Fallen One blasted his palm flat against Rea's chest and knocked the wind from her lungs. She tumbled and landed partly inside two of the passengers who were restraining the formerly possessed man. Stunned by the blow and panting to catch her breath, she crawled backward.

The Fallen One straddled a strangle hold around her neck. Rea’s face flushed shades of pink, red and violet. She reached for her knife laying a few inches from her grasp. Using his knees, he pinned her arms, tightened his grip around her neck and jeered. That dagger is to be mine and used to sever your head from your body, Jezebel!

Rhythmic, he bashed her inside of and out of the deck with a simple one-word song, Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch...

Rea's head phased in and out of the deck, as if being dunked in and out of thick water. She refused to yield and violently kicked her legs, but to no avail. Attempts to twist from underneath him failed as well. Her face shifted from violet to pale blue, her lips to deep purple.

Under his grip, veins in her neck pulsated to the surface as if ready to rupture. Her sight hazed, blackness edged her peripheral line of sight creating a tunnel vision effect. Unconsciousness overtook a notion of living to fight another day.

Free of the underbelly of the plane, Tabaka phased chest first through the passenger deck and vaulted into action. He snatched the Fallen One from behind and dragged him from on top of Rea. Their skirmish ended, when Tabaka forced the Fallen One's legs through the exterior side hull of the aircraft.

Tabaka placed his right arm around the Fallen One's throat. He clutched tight to preventing rushing air from pulling the Fallen One all the way outside. Then he commenced a condemning speech, Had ye ended the confrontation as requested, once we landed I have willing let ye pass from my sight, unharmed. Instead, ye involved those whom fail to comprehend of our existence.

As air currents swept through the Fallen One’s legs, he gripped Tabaka's forearm. His pleas jittered like that of a frightened child, spitting and spewing each syllable. I ceased the man and took the innocent from her mother only to escape your wrath. Had I known, I had have not done so! I beseech thee, spare me, be merciful, six thousand millenniums living at this state of existence hath clouded my judgment! I beg thee, spare me!

An airline steward stepped through their bodies in route to the cockpit, unaware of what was taking place at her feet. As she opened the cockpit door, it passed though Tabaka and the Fallen One. Objects passing through their ghostlike bodies were part of their daily lives. Neither paid attention to the steward or the door, their conversation continued without losing a beat.

Tabaka shoved him further outside of the plane and said, I was merciful and did not use my weapon, sending thee unto the Second Death. Tis only because ye have involved those who understand not, that I damn thee to another fate. He released his hold and slid from the Fallen One's reach.

Outside the hull of the plane, air whipped through the Fallen One's legs, dragging what was left of him inside the across the deck. He tried grabbed a hold of a seat but lacked a mental discipline to accomplish such an achievement under pressure.

After his hands slipped through the seat, his body slurped through the plane hull and his cry of Naaayyy! vanished with him.

The plane altered course on a final approach to land at LAX, and jetted away from the Fallen One. As if suspended in midair, the Fallen One somersaulted head over heels. The ground below was a quilted patchwork of houses, factories and roads. Gravity reached up and enforced her law. What goes up must come down.

Air molecules that perforated his body stung as if thousands of bees were attacking. Blisters that covered his mutated body popped and oozed slimy green fluid. For six thousand years, he longed to see a blue sky again.

Visible only in the ghostlike state of existence, random bolts of energy flickered across a light olive colored sky. Not that it mattered. He pivoted onto his stomach, and spread his arms and legs. A worthless maneuver that failed to slow his fall, he was doomed.

Ground-fall would occur on a near empty freeway. Living in a ghostlike state, the fall itself could not kill him. Yet, death was inescapable. The momentum would submerge him deep into the Earth's crust. Six millenniums of incessant partying were at an end.

He rolled unto his back and cursed Tabaka's name, his words muted by wind that swept through him. Just before hitting the ground, his body passed through the rear cap of a small pickup truck on a freeway.

The front tires of the truck lifted off the ground as he passed through it. A second later, he plunged into the earth and his world rendered black. He continued plummeting downward, deeper and deeper.

At seven hundred feet down, he passed through a water table, then through dirt, followed by more rocks and gravel. As he slowed, his ghostlike body melded with dirt, gravel and stone, imprisoning him underground.

PART ONE

Dawn pierced by blinding light

Dusk falls to sightless night

Nowhere to flee, nowhere to hide

Groping in darkness, wandering to and fro

Weeping and wailing they call for death

Chapter 1

As the front tires of the black Nissan truck bounced up and down, Raised in farm country of the Midwest, Professor Andrew Heuser had learned to drive in snow and ice. His reactions to a sudden loose of control operated on pure instinct. He clutched the steering wheel and held steady.

Fortunately, it was early morning and traffic almost nonexistent. He eased to onto the side of the road and took several deep breaths. Cautious, he eased out of the truck and stared along the freeway. It was safe to checkout his truck, only a few passing cars were in the far lanes.

Other than retread from a semi-truck tire two miles prior, he had seen no obstacles on the road. It felt as if something had fallen from the sky and landed on the cap of his truck-bed. He scrutinized the cap roof, followed by careful inspection of the truck undercarriage. With no damage found, he climbed back into his truck, rolled down the window and merged back onto the freeway.

Santa Anna Winds across the Los Angeles River Basin gave the city an unusual smog free morning. Professor Andrew guided the truck across two lanes of the I-10 and toward downtown. At the prime of life, in his early thirties he stood five feet, eleven inches tall. Light brown eyes complemented his California tanned skin. His sandy brown hair was in the early stages of thinning.

Unlike most professors, Andrew rarely wore a coat and tie. He preferred a dark colored tee shirt, with denim jacket and pants. When lost in thought, which seemed to be most of the time, there was always a disturbed look on his face. In contrast to his casual teaching manner, he took his research seriously. However, he permitted a select few students to get away with calling him Pro, instead of professor.

He keyed a preset button on the radio to a twenty four-hour news station. He prided himself in being up to date on world events, most of which irritated him. Nevertheless, he was a confessed news junkie. It gave him something to complain about other than a hectic teaching schedule and lack of time for research.

As the Nissan crested a bridge, he reflected eastward along the Los Angeles Riverbed. Decades ago, the riverbed was cemented too ease flooding and gave it an appearance of giant concrete ditch. Homeless camps constructed of pallets, metal and plastic barrels, ragged blue plastic tarps and cardboard boxes lined both edges of the riverbed.

People waded into a small stream of water flowing inside of a trough at the center of the riverbed. Watching several people rinse clothing in the water, he shuddered at the thought of such filthy conditions.

At the hub of freeways that encircled an industrial section of downtown Los Angeles, he merged onto the I-5 interchange traveling north toward Hollywood. Several miles later, he exited a down ramp and increased the radio volume. Morning news reported did not mention an earthquake, which would have explained why his truck had bounced earlier. The reporter covered numerous shootings in Long Beach, South Central and East Los Angeles. It seemed Los Angeles was striving to regain the title: Murder Capital of the world.

World News offered nothing upbeat. Additional fighting in the Gaza Strip had led to another night of gunfire. Israel was constantly on guard. Although the confrontation happened only hours ago, he had heard the similar reports before. It seemed never ending. Andrew believed nothing short of a miracle could end the violence.

Andrew finger-punched the FM setting, then pushed the scan button on the radio. A second later, the radio came to rest at a classic oldies rock station. Tesla was on Heaven’s Trail and finding No Way Out. As a child, he had loved the band. Slipping to memories of the past was unthinkable. He allowed the music meld with the present, pushing him forward. His scientific quest toward the future had driven him into the past in search of answers.

After Tesla completed their musical odyssey, Andrew touched a preset button that tuned in an unexpected Christian rock station. The station raised a smile. His younger brother, Peter had preset the frequency. Ordinarily, he never listened to the station unless Peter was with him. This particular song had a methodical rhythm and easy on the mind. A pleasant change of pace from an oldies or pop station, he with the music and decided to leave the frequency tuned-in.

At the end of the off ramp, he rolled down the window and inhaled. A Santa Anna breeze pushed warmly against his face. It was early Friday morning. Normally, a thick gray haze of smog filled the Los Angeles Basin. On bad days, smog clung to buildings, cars, trees, clothing, hair and skin.

A question he regularly asked himself came to mind. Why didn't I take a teaching position in Northern California or Oregon? He decided to take a few additional deep breaths of fresh Santa Anna air.

A car horn from behind fractured his morning solitude, most residents of Los Angeles rushed through life, and the driver behind him was no exception. A small white car sprinted around the truck at a high rate of speed, its driver tossing him a dirty glare. Andrew was not one, who cursed or flipped his middle finger at other motorists. Muttering a soft wise crack brought him satisfaction. Hell's only half full, buddy.

Andrew made a right turn then stopped at the next intersection for a traffic light. An announcer at the radio station exited the song, And that was; The Seventy Sevens, 'God Sends Quails'. After these messages, we'll be back with another 30 minute music sweep. Then a commercial blared into the truck.

He had enough radio, and his right index finger jabbed the off button. It was likely that Peter had several CD's by the band. For future reference, he jotted the band’s name onto an old gas receipt and stuffed it into the glove box.

Ushered by the strong breeze, a large cardboard box tumbled across the intersection in front of him. Although the wind had cleared the air, it had done nothing about litter. Trash relocated by the wind had blown tight against buildings and fences.

Again, he thought about researching full-time in a jungle, desert or mountainous region. It was a quest that did not pay the bills. He patted the dashboard and grinned, Almost paid for. His black Nissan four wheel-drive was a source of pride. Two years ago, he had acquired the used truck from a retired schoolteacher beyond the Orange Curtin.