Landing in Gyropolous

Flight 789 from Atlanta to Athens landed at 11:15am Athens time. He had spent the flight trying to sleep in the hope of waking up in the Athens morning none the wiser that he was hours off from his typical routine. Instead, he had spent 10 hours tossing and turning in a feverish fight for some lucidity and peace. The video unit on the 747 had been announced as frozen and unresponsive adding to the sense of isolation from the world. Luckily, Jim had brought his video iPod to watch, but staring at movie images on a tiny screen only made him more nauseous.

The only thing he could focus on was the frigid air coming from the windows in the cabin of the plane and the little plane image mapped out on its course to Greece. On more than one occasion, Jim began to hallucinate that the plane was turning in big circles instead of moving towards its destination and delaying them for hours on end without sleep in sight. When the plan did make it across the Atlantic ocean and Europe was visible on the map, Greece often appears in the form of an gyro firing tzatziki at the plane until, blinded by tiny chunks of cucumber, the plane overshot Greece and crashed into Turkey which looked like a giant falafel.

The mediocre US dinner time/ Greek breakfast time meal of ricotta stuffed manicotti coated in what was labelled as a tomato sauce but could have been a generic red toothpaste for the flavor it had. Luckily for Jim, the bland salad dressing cancelled out the main course. As a change from his previous unsettled condition, Jim was now graced with a heartburn that made him wish for the frigid breeze despite his concern on where this much air could be coming from on an airplane.

Movement from next to him cleared the map image from his mind. His wife had put in her ear plugs and a sleeping mask nearly 3 hours into the flight and had drifted off to blissful sleep instantly. She only awoke every few hours to stretch her legs to avoid any circulatory problems from the long plane ride. Sarah was comfortable in any position and had been found asleep in her closet one morning when she was supposed to be at an 8am class in college. Her had was wedged against a shoe box and her legs hung out of the closet as the door continued to bounce open and closed against her feet. Her roommate feared Sarah had narcolepsy and anticipated a long year of high maintenance demands to break into the bathroom or make sure the stove top was turned off due to her sleeping roommate.


The truth of it was Sarah loved a good nap. This added to her requests for trips to Europe and the appreciation of the planned siestas there. She had wandered the streets of Paris enjoying shops and pounding coffee drinks. At the stroke of 3pm, she was asleep regardless of the liters of caffeine coursing through her body. Jim had been in Paris on a business trip and had found Sarah passed out with a cappuccino in her right hand and her purse laying open on the table in front of her. He quickly chased away a young boy intrigued by the easy pick pocketing mark and Jim sat for an hour until Sarah came back to life. They spent every day of her trip together after that and were married a year later.

The trip was meant to be a break from tough time back home where Jim had just lost his job, but received a severance large enough for a nice trip. They had discussed saving the money up for having a child together, but Sarah suggested they might enjoy a large amount of olive oil and lamb dishes more in the short term. Future be damned, they loved lamb. However, Jim reached the point at an hour left before landing in which he would have believed they were landing on the moon. As the wheels touched down and Jim finished choking down his bagel breakfast, he knew what a nervous breakdown must feel like.

By the time they reached customs, Jim had plenty to declare. There are many professions that take their jobs lightly enough to have a sense of humor. Customs officers at the Athens airport are not those people.

Objects in the mirror may...

Thomas was staring into the mirror when time reset itself. His final unsuccessful attempt at fashioning a bow tie for his cousin's wedding led to his surrender. It was the light slow behind his sambas outlining his suit pants that made Thomas raise his head. The door to his room was glow white with an edge of red. The wooden panels behind the coat hook on the back began to bulge in and out with a life all its own.

Frozen in terror, he continued to stare as the light pierced through in bubbles in the wallpaper within seconds. Reaching for his iPhone, he began to dial Shannon to see if she noticed anything downstairs, but the phone flashed no signal before reflecting the light shining through the ceiling and engulfing the brown faux wood panels of the ceiling fan. The light bulbs began to pop with electricity as charges from the light reach through the glass around the metal filaments.

In his head, Thomas began to hear John Lithgow's voice whisper, "Time sneaks up on you like a windshield on a bug." He could not figure out why this line hit him at that moment when the light took over everything behind him in the mirror and his vision whited out the day.

When his vision cleared and objects took shape again around him. His room was gone. His feet were planted in a patch of dirt with footprints in every shape and size but his. Nowhere could he see the ribbed arch of his shoe print or the round outlines at the ball of each foot. The horizon filled with building outlines of the neighborhood he had grown up in since he was five. The house next door was merely a frame of itself and the builders were staring at him as if he were a car wreck they had just witnessed a moment before.

There was no ringing in his ears like bending metal, so he knew he was no car wreck, but also he did not know where he was either. It was in the height of his brain freeze that he heard his name called out from across the street. "Thomas?"

From the dug out future basement of the Hanson's house across the street, Eddie Hanson was crawling from the hole in the ground between the cement mixers and the stacks of bricks. He pulled himself to his feet next to the stack of bricks before Thomas watched his eyes grow large and Eddie ducked behind the stack of bricks.

Following Eddie's previous gaze, Thomas felt his jaw go slack. Next to the architect's station in front of the future Sanders house, Thomas recognized Jan and Steve Sanders staring at him. He had known them for years as they had been his parents' closest friends in the neighborhood, but never had kids. It had leaked out over years growing up that Steve had been mugged and shot causing severe trauma to his thigh limiting blood flow for so long that he was declared sterile. He had never looked at Steve the same after that, but now he was seeing him anew as Steve and Jan stood staring from their future home at age 23. Their house had been built 3 years before Thomas was born. What in the hell was that glow?

I need a hero

December 8, 2007

Dear MacGuyver,

I have 35 cents, a watch and an empty Mountain Dew bottle sitting next to me on the hotel desk. I have the remote control perched on the edge of the desk ready to leap if I turn too fast away from my laptop. My cell phone is grey. My ipod is silver. The phone is a dirty taupe. There is a thermonuclear device across the room by the bed surrounded by a laser grid that will detonate the bomb if crossed and I need to find a way to get to bed. Please help.

Sleepless and terrified in Charlotte


December 10, 2007

Dear Sleepless,

The character MacGuyver is a trademarked name from the Paramount company. My name is Richard Dean Anderson. I am no longer portraying this character even at conventions. I've moved onto my appearances as Colonel Jack O'Neill from the Stargate series. I am an actor. I do not have the expertise to dictate thermonuclear mechanics nor could I even fathom how to disarm a bomb with 35 cents, a wristwatch, an empty bottle, a cell phone, an ipod and a crappy hotel phone. Please refrain from sending these emails my way in an attempt at a response. I appreciate your continued appreciation of a role I played decades ago, but it is time for all of us to move on. I have and so should you.

Sincerely,

Richard Dean Anderson

P.S. Tune into Stargate SG-1 on the Sci-Fi channel now playing every week night at 10pm eastern and twice on Saturday at 2 and 3 pm eastern.





December 10, 2007

Dear MacGuyver,

I do not require your expertise in the area of thermonuclear mechanics. I have no issue with the presence of the bomb. I just need to get to bed without setting off the laser sensors. I have now been sitting awake in the desk chair for 78 hours and truly need your help soon lest I fall asleep, slip from my chair and set it off. Please help at your earliest convenience.

Still sleepless and terrified in Charlotte (now with a numb ass)

P.S. If it helps, the 35 cents is broken up into a quarter, a dime and a nickel and my wrist watch has indiglo.



December 12, 2007

To whom it may concern,

We at the firm of Lawson, Turner and Bloomstein are contacting you in regards to the potentially threatening emails being sent to our client, Richard Dean Anderson. Please refrain from further communications including the word 'bomb' and any references to our client, RDA, as 'MacGuyver' or a suit will be filed and an injunction obtained.

Cordially,

Brian Lawson, Attorney at Law

P.S. I believe you can use the backlighting displays of your ipod, cell phone and watch combined with the change in the bottom of your dew bottle to aim the lights at the sensors until you reach your bed.

P.P.S. Our client is under contract to remind you to tune into Stargate SG-1 on the Sci-Fi channel now playing every week night at 10pm eastern and twice on Saturday at 2 and 3 pm eastern.

Hit Me

"Hit me." Bill McGwire said to the dealer as he looked at is two of hearts and three of spades lying on the table before him. He glanced up at the dealer and across at the dealer's eight of diamonds knowing he was already beat no matter what the hidden card showed. His eyes lifted to the name tag indicating Duncan was the dealer's name at this table.
"Hold up there, Duncan. He's staying." A voice from across the table rose above the sunglasses the man nearest the dealer. He didn't appear to be looking at his cards much less Bill's, but seemed to think he was in charge of the table. The sound of his voice resounded at the table and surprised everyone. His tone contained enough authority that no one at the table looked at him. Everyone instead watched Bill and Duncan.

A chuckle rose from Bill's throat at the nerve of this guy telling him what to do with his cards. That chuckled was quickly choked off with annoyance as Bill realized the dealer had not given him another card. "Are you have trouble discerning sounds and pinpointing the origin? I said hit me. He obviously was the one that said to hold. He's not a ventriloquist. Now listen again. Hit me."

Duncan's eyes shot to his left at the man at the end of the table. The man stared off into the distance and slowly shook his head "no". Bill stared as the dealer turned back to him and waited to see if Bill would surrender to the advice to stay on 5. He was not giving in and Duncan now had a bead of sweat running down his forehead.

"You need to listen up and listen closely to my words and my tone. I am a diamond card holder with this casino. I spend three months every year hear and I live on the east coast. This isn't a casual jaunt to the casino for me. I came out to gamble and to make my own calls and I feel I run enough money through this place to entitle me to be listened to. Lay another card down on this miserable hand." Bill was leaning in close to stare in Duncan's eyes and keep him focused. Proximity and intensity was the way to deal with people. That's what Bill had always learned in business. He was about to learn a new technique.

"That's a $100 bet you have right now. You don't have black jack, so that best you could do winning and doubling down on that miserable 5 is $400." The man reach into his coat pocket and tosses a chip onto the table. It bounces over the hands of the current players and lands on Bill's cards. The red $500 chip wobbles for a second and settles to a stop. "Take that chip and you've taken $100 over your best option and tell the dealer you would like to stay. I feel this is a fair offer."

The other two players at the table began to smirk at the gall of the man at the end of the table. The next two players held 19s and 20s respectively and were unlikely to make a move and didn't mind watching the scene play out.

"I give no power to you at the end of the table. However, I am a business man and a $400 gain is acceptable. Let's see how you play the rest of the table's hands." Bill placed the $500 chip in his pocket as if to keep it separate for story telling later.

Each of the two players in the middle passed on card with a wave of their hands as Duncan turned to the man at the end of the table. He held a 10 of diamonds and a jack of diamonds. Duncan glanced quickly at his hand and turned his eyes expectantly to his hand when he heard the voice. "Double down."

Bill could not believe this guy. With 20 and the dealer, at best, holding 19, he should be staying. Especially with $5000 in front of him. Was he trying to lose everything? This was $10,000 with only two Aces unaccounted for with the middle two players holding the aces of clubs and hearts.

"What?" Bill and the dealer's voice combined into one as the both questioned the move. Only Duncan received a cold stare from the stranger at having his decision questioned. In response, the stranger reached into his pocket and put down another $5000 in chips and waited.

A waitress stepped to the table next to Bill her tray inches from Bill's shoulder. "Drink from the bar? Anyone?" The three players turned to her and quickly ordered whiskeys, scotches and bourbons. When she had finished jotting down orders, the waitress looked to the stranger expectantly. He, in turn, continued to stare at Duncan while answering.

"Nothing from the bar, but could you please ask Mr. Taffin to stop by this table. Tell him Mr. Montgomery is having a problem with one of his dealers and requests a change over."

Duncan quickly stiffened in his seat at the mention of the casino owners name and dispensed the top card from the deck. He turned it quickly in the air as everyone watched the ace of spades tumble to his stack and set him to 21.

The waitress walked away unaware of what had been transpiring at the table and without intention of finding anyone named Taffin as she was hired through a local vendor and had no direct ties to the casino. All eyes lay on the ace at the end of the table as 'Mr. Montgomery' leaned back in his chair. "Stay."

It took a few seconds for Duncan to return to his senses and reach for his face down card. He turned the card face up to reveal a two of clubs. The table turned to stare at the stranger again as everyone realized he had saved them from a loss to the dealer turning up an ace and coming up 21 over all of their hands. Bill was the first to come to his senses and shake off the amazement.

"Wake up, people. I could have had that ace and been at 16 and the dealer would not have gotten the 21 either." Bill leaned back arms folded in defiance as the two middle players still sat somewhat stunned awaiting the next card.

"Interesting theory." The voice returned at the end of the table. "Would you have stayed on a soft 16 with the dealer already showing an eight?"

Bill looked back at the dealer's hand and looked to the stranger a bit baffled. "No. I would have asked for at least one more card." At this, all eyes returned to Duncan. On cue, the dealer takes the top card from the deck and reveals a five of hearts. Bill lets out a grunt. "Fantastic intuition there. I would have had 21."

"Continue, Duncan." The man was unfazed by Bill's tone and turned to stare out across the casino floor again. Duncan's hand moved to the pile again and turned up the fourth ace. Bill's jaw dropped. He could have cost the table their money. Sure, he would have pushed, but that seems a selfish man's game.

Duncan's hand now stood at 16 with one more card coming. With a reach to the stack, he turned up the king of spades. A few moments passed as the table stared at the dealer's busted hand. "Pay out, my friend." For the first time, the man at the end of the table smiled. With an additional $10,000 in his pocket, he packed up his things and walked away.

Coming Around Again

William sat in the back of the ambulance as the paramedics worked to patch the hole in his father's chest. He would not have imagined that morning that he would be fighting to keep his father alive when the day concluded, but here he was. He had called the ambulance and told them a mad man had come and shot his father. He hid the gun in the freezer before the ambulance arrived and rode the entire trip without saying a word. He only stared at his father's labored breathing and remembered those words on the phone.

We've found your son? Was he really looking for me? William stared at the array of plastic containers stocked on the opposite side of the ambulance and pondered his experience. Had he been wrong all of these years? Was his father always looking for him to make amends, but had a terrible service working for him until the one today? If that was the case, what are the odds of the call coming in just as he stood over his father's body?

A gurgle from his father on the stretcher drew William's attention from the drawers. He turned to find his father attempting to lean up and his eyes met William's eyes. There was a pleading in Andrew's eyes much like someone being held at gun point. Only there was a less life concerned edge to this look. It was the pleading eyes of someone still looking for forgiveness. Even after William shot him, Andrew still wanted William's forgiveness instead of the other way around. This was not the trip William had expected to be making today.


Andrew Porter had done nothing good in his life and made no indication he ever would, but that morning in that kitchen, William had not shot that Andrew Porter.

Upon arriving at the hospital, William clarified that he was Andrew's long lost son and asked if there was anything he could do to help his father. When the nurse told him he could donate blood for his father to lessen the impact on their low blood reserves, he emphatically agreed and spent the next half hour giving blood specifically marked for his father post-surgery.

During the hour and a half while his father lie in the operating room, William wondered the halls of the hospital. He went past his brother's room to find him passed out likely recovery from his recent encounter when his stitches came open. William had caused this pain too. His foster mother would not have been surprised. She had always sensed William had something scarred about him ever since she admitted he was adopted shortly after birth. Some people just take being abandoned immediately in their life and decide the world never wanted them either.
A nurse tapped William on the shoulder to let him know his father was in recovery and he could sit with him if he liked. He would like that.
After surgery, he sat with his father as the doctors attached the IV and waited. He began to hope his father would recover from the gun shot so soon after his liver surgery. He also hoped that he might get to know this man he had just met; the one that did not fit the personality he had heard was his father.

The nurse came in with a new bag of blood with "For Andrew Porter" written in pen on the side. William knew this was his blood and gained a little pleasure watching to nurse attach it to his father's arm. He began to feel some redemption was coming for both he and his father today.

The nurse left the room as the blood began to course through Andrew's veins and William felt he could see his father's cheeks flush a bit. The color was returning as his father opened his eyes ten minutes later. He looked confused as he realized he was in the hospital again. His eyes fixed on his son's as he reached out his left arm and called him.

William was taken back by the gesture and moved closer to his father to hear what he had to say. In a low whisper that only William could hear, Andrew said, "William, my boy?"

Tear welled in his eyes as William responded. "Yes...father?"

"When I get back on my feet, son...I'm going to make you suffer for ever drop of blood I've lost today. If you survive the first wave of punishment I plan to send your way, you'll only wish you'd died."

Astounded, William stood staring down at his father. This was the Andrew Porter he had wanted to shoot, but where had he been and why was he returning now?

Repercussions

William stood holding the revolver as his father struggled to his feet leaning heavily against the wall to lessen the weight on his body and slow the blood loss. The look in his father's eyes was exactly what he had hoped for when he dreamt of this moment. Terror and confusion. It would lead perfectly into the speech he had planned as his last salvo in ridding himself of the father who dumped him after birth.


"Who ever you are I won't call the police. Just take whatever you want. I don't have much that I didn't spend on booze and even that's gone now."


"From what I hear, that's no surprise. So did you fix yourself a drink fresh off your liver donation? Looking to waste anything tied to a son. That sounds like you." William took a couple of steps into the room and stepped to the sink. He found a pile of empty bottles turned upside down and no glass anywhere in the room to indicate the booze had gone to any good use that day. "What is this pile in the sink? Is this some kind of joke from your neighbors? Get rid of his booze while he's in the hospital in hopes of forcing you to stop killing yourself. I do have a similar goal to stop you from killing yourself and save that for me."
From the floor, Andrew struggled to one knee and faced his attacker. He instantly saw his same nose without the broken capillaries from years of drinking. He also recognized his wife's eyes. "William? Is it really you?"
William nodded a dramatic affirmation bowing at the same time. He hadn't planned out how long the identification game would play out, but the faster his father knew who he was, the less time the police would have to get there and stop him from his plan. "Very good. I'd thought you might have forgotten me after so many years. I know I had not forgotten you once I learned I was adopted and who you were as a human being, if you can call it that."
"I understand why you felt the need to do this. I deserve this and I'm truly sorry." Andrew stopped to cough as his breathing became labored. "If you do let me die here, please at least tell Jackson that I did intend to make good of his gift and that I owe you both the world for what I've done."

The last words spoken, Andrew Porter passed out on his kitchen floor. William could see he had done the damage he intended though he hadn't killed his father yet. His chest struggled to rise and fall, but it was still there. His estranged father lie on the floor at his feet near death and the only thing he wonder was why am I crying?

As he stood over his father, the phone rang. William picked it up with a hello and was greeted by a cheerful male voice.

"Andrew Porter? This is Aaron's Searchers with some quick and good news."

William placed the phone in the crook of his neck and went to the sink to wipe down his gun with a wet wash cloth. "How do you mean? What is this about?"

"You called us about 15 minutes ago, sir. About your son...uhhh...William. We spoke to St. Mary's and they gave us the information freely. They seemed excited to hear that a biological parent would change his mind and want to meet the child he abandoned. Anyways, we found him already and can give you all of the information including some additional background information on how he's doing and where he is today in our meeting Wednesday. I just wanted to tell you the good news and congratulate you personally."

William slammed the phone down as he stared at his father's collapsed body. What is happening to this family?

A Noticeable Change

Andrew Porter didn't wake up Friday morning. At least not the Andrew Porter he had been Thursday night in the hospital. He had begun to sense a kind of change of perspective come over him, but he would not have expected it to last as it had. He found himself feeling a similar regret from every day past over the loss of his wife and indiscretions of leaving his two sons to be raised by others. However, this Friday morning he had the sensation of a man that wanted to try and do something about his past.


Andrew had spent nearly two decades hating himself and successfully driving his health and life into the ground summarily. He knew he had made some peace towards his son, Jackson, but needed to do more. Jackson was easy to find. His big challenge would be his other son, William. He had made no effort to keep tabs on the adoption process and the whereabouts of his youngest son. His past efforts to contact him was limited to the raising of bottle to glass and glass to lips until the feeling passed. Today, however, he would not let that stop him.


Andrew reached for the phone book and called the first private investigator he found listed. With the phone wedged against his ear by his shoulder, he reached to his familiar stash of bottle as the phone rang. He unscrewed the cap to the gin, took one final sniff at the scent of herb and alcohol and proceeded to dump the bottle's contents down the sink as a voice on the other end of the line picked up.


"Aaron's Searchers. This is Aaron. How can I help you?"


"Hello, I'm a terrible father looking to right my life and I need help trying to find my son who I gave up to adoption roughly 18 years ago. What can I do to find him?" He reached upwards and found the 100 proof bottle of Southern Comfort and brought it to the counter. The sink was already disgusting with mildew before he dumped the gin. He would have to begin cleaning to help make the metaphorical clean up of his life. Plus it was gross.

"Alright. Would you like to schedule a time to stop in and give some information about your son? We have an opening this Wednesday in the morning."
"Is there any way to start this process now? I'm unnaturally focused right now and I really do not want to lose that. My son's name is William. It should have been William Porter, but I gave him up at birth when my wife died. He went to St. Mary's home for displaced youths. I never tried to find him so I don't know how soon they placed him. He should be 18 now." Andrew twists the cap off of the bottle of 12 year old scotch and poured it down the sink without a second thought.
"I'll tell you what I can do, sir. I've got the next hour free and will start looking into it, but we should still have a meeting setup for next week to discuss what I might find in the mean time and help bridge any gaps so we can avoid any false positives. How does that sound, Mr. Porter?"
"That sounds good to me. My number is 859-213-5591. Give me a call as soon as you find something." Andrew shook the last of the scotch from the bottom of the bottle and tossed it in the sink with the other bottles. He smiled at the site knowing he had seen similar in the past, but those had put him in the hospital and this time might keep him out for good.
He hung the phone back on the wall and walked to the cookie jar next to the microwave on the counter. He reached in and pulled out the gallon bag of airline flight sized bottles of booze and pitched the entire bag into the trash. He had saved these for occasions when he was forced to socialize and didn't want to go sober. He hoped he would not have those feelings anymore.
Andrew had spent over a decade in his small home and had only met his neighbors when he first bought the house. His first meeting was enough belligerence and Johnny Walker to prevent many further discussions. The only other occasions where when he drove his car up on some other neighbor's lawn coming home from the bar. A few times, he made a killing selling liquor at double the price to the minors in the neighborhood.
As if a thought returned to him on the neighborhood minors, Andrew began digging back into the trash to dump each of the small bottles out before pitching them. He did not want to enable anyone else anymore. With his left hand deep in the trash can, Andrew heard the screen door swing open and closed. A voice behind him called him by name asking him to confirm he was Andrew Porter.
Andrew confirmed his name still digging for the bag in the trash. As he pulled the bag from the can, a searing pain struck in his right shoulder. The gunshot sent him ached back and staggering backwards into the hutch with a fresh hole in his shoulder just high enough to hurt like hell but not low enough to have struck anything major.