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Jonathan Ferrini is a published author. A partial collection of his short stories may be found within his book  “Hearts Without Sleeves. Twenty-Three Stories.”

Jonathan received his MFA in motion picture and television production from UCLA. He resides in San Diego.


Trigger Warning

Highway 101 serves like a main artery pumping people and commerce as it snakes itself out of Los Angeles up through California’s hills and valleys all the while blowing a kiss to the ocean. It’s the scenic, no rush route towards San Francisco providing a glimpse into a forgotten dream of what California was, not what it has become.

I feel like a pinball bouncing about the Southern California commuting arcade game selling computer software. I’m single and financially responsible, but my standard of living isn’t what I enjoyed growing up. My dad and folks in the neighborhood found happiness in the sixties and seventies assembling cars or aircraft while earning enough money to afford a new home, two cars, and a yearly vacation.

I’m not happy, and the future is bleak.

I set out for the Bay area and hoped the daily catch on Fisherman’s Wharf and a bottle of Sonoma wine will provide me with an opportunity to clear my head.

It was a picture-perfect day for putting around and checking out the eco-social-political puzzle named California.

I was halfway towards San Francisco when I spied the highway sign “Treatment Facility” at the off ramp leading to a notorious high security psychiatric hospital for the criminally insane. I assumed the highway sign was innocuously named not to draw attention to the prison hospital.

Growing up in Southern California, I was aware of its infamous inmates and their egregious crimes. Call it morbid curiosity, but I thought I’d drive over to see the institution from the outside.

I took the off ramp onto a street following signs directing me to the psychiatric hospital. The street became a chewed-up road which hadn’t been tended to in decades leading me through a slice of California forgotten in time, untouched, and inviting me into a mysterious journey of reflection about everything tucked away “for another day” within the inner recesses of one’s mind.

I became distracted by the lyrics written by the band “America” playing on the radio which was on the vintage 8-track cartridge tape I gifted to dad in the seventies,

…Where the days are longer
The nights are stronger
Than moonshine
You’re gonna go I know…

I pulled to the side of the road and wept. I missed dad. I wiped the tears from my eyes, composed myself, and found myself without “bars” preventing me from using the GPS. I followed the road to a top of a bluff meeting a rusted chain link gate with a weather-worn sign attached,


Below me was the magnificent Pacific Ocean assuring me I was looking West.

Just inside the gate there was a guard shack and an old man wearing a uniform with shoulder patches marked “Security Officer” who exited and appeared happy to have a visitor. He approached the gate,

“You lost, buddy?”

“Yeah, I took a wrong turn.”

“You were lookin’ for the psych hospital, I’ll bet.

“Happens all the time.”

“What’s this place?”

“Just call it ‘Restricted’. Closed down before I graduated high school in seventy-six.”

“My dad graduated in seventy-six. You grow up around here?”

“Yep. My town’s over yonder on the other side of that mountain range. I hear its filled with overpriced tract homes. It was a different place back then.”

“I grew up northeast of Los Angeles in the suburbs. As a kid, we could leave home at five on a Friday and be at the beach in only one hour’s drivetime. It takes hours today if you wish to subject yourself to bumper to bumper traffic.”

“I remember those cruise nights fondly, buddy. Driving aimlessly without a destination, fear, and for less than a dollar a gallon. That’s a cool convertible you’re drivin’. 1965?”

“Correct! This vintage beauty was my dad’s.”


“As vintage as it gets. Only fifty thousand miles on the odometer. I take it for a spin on the weekends. Beats the hybrid I drive to work every day.”


“A combo gas and electric car.”

“I’m not following ya’, buddy.”

“Just like my dad, you’re an ‘ol school gas guzzlin’ muscle car devotee.”

“Yeah, you’re right. My name’s Bobby, and I’m the gatekeeper.”

“My name’s Jonny.”

“I’ll write down the directions to the psych hospital for ‘ya, Jonny. There’re some bad-ass dudes inside who can’t survive ‘Gen pop’ prisons cause the inmates will tear them apart. The guards don’t like gawkers. Watch out! At best, you’ll receive a citation, or worst, you’ll be taken inside for interrogation.”

“Tell me about this place, Bobby.”

“I’ll let you see it for yourself. You might appreciate it.”

“How so, Bobby?”

“I believe you’re in search of answers. Possibly a reboot of your consciousness and a reality check. You’ll understand when you return back here after the tour.”

“I hope you don’t get in any trouble by letting me inside, Bobby.”

“Nah, it’s just a skeleton crew lookin’ after the place, and we all get along. I need to see your driver’s license first.”


“Rules require I write down your license information and record your plates on a form. If you don’t consent, I can’t let you in.”

“Here’s my license.”

“Okie dokie. Got your ID and plates down in black and white. It’s funny about paperwork always comin’ out black and white ‘cause life sure as hell isn’t ‘black and white’.”

“What do you do with my paperwork?”

“I’ll place it in a file cabinet I keep. Put this red placard marked ‘VISITOR’ on your dash, and don’t be surprised if you’re met by another caretaker drivin’ a golfcart. I’ll telephone ahead and let ‘em all know you’re on the property.”

“Thank you, Bobby.”

“Just one more thing, Jonny. I need you to leave your flip-phone with me.”

“Huh? I’m holding a smartphone.”

“We’re talkin’ about the same thing.”

“Why do you need it?”

“They don’t want no pictures or videos takin’.”

“Here it is.”

“If these gadgets are supposed to be ‘smart’, why are they getting larger? I’m a landline fella.”

“Don’t let me forget it on my way out, Bobby. I’d be lost without my smartphone.”

“You might be inside a spell and on your way out not feelin’ the same as when you entered. I’ll return the phone, if you still want it.”

The rusted chain-link gate screeched open and Bobby waived me through.

Bobby’s remarks about “not feelin’ the same as when you entered,” “reality check,” and “reboot” were odd coming from an old security guard behind a rusted fence on a deserted dead-end road.

Maybe I would have been better off taking my chances with the guards over at the psych hospital instead of commencing this “RESTRICTED” journey?

I was on a winding road following a yellow stripe. There was nothing for miles in every direction except an unparalleled view of the ocean to the west and dense forest to the east.

It was like seeing pristine California through the eyes of its earliest inhabitants.

After slowly twisting and turning along the seemingly endless road, I noticed a concrete parking garage ahead and crept inside the empty, dank, and unlit structure.

The parking stall striping was faded. The grease stains of decades past and the concrete bumper stops reminded me of tombstones of former lives.

A warm wind resembling a Santa Ana whipped through the vacant garage, kicking up dust like former employees scurrying about inside the once busy parking structure.

I was no longer getting radio reception and felt lost inside the formidable concrete cavern. I heard a horn similar to a toy car and a golfcart quickly came up alongside me.

“Howdy, I’m Sam. Bobby said you’d be toolin’ ‘round here so I thought I’d come out and welcome you. Already feelin’ turned around and lost, Jonny?”

“Yeah, Sam. What is this place?”

“Jump in, and I’ll show you around. Bobby told me you seemed like ‘one of us’ and we could trust you. I’ll take a right turn up ahead onto ‘Yosemite Court’ and show you the trailhead into the woods.”

The peppy golfcart was reminiscent of taking a ride through a theme park of my youth.

I recalled summertime at the cozy A-Frame cabin, smell of the pines, glistening lake and everlasting days of childhood upon arriving at the woods.

“It’s quite a forest including just about every type of flora, fauna, and tree, Jonny. I won’t take you inside because it’s covered with a thick canopy and its dark inside. We’d get lost. A few years back an unattended kid wondered in and was never found.”

“What’s that dome back inside the woods, Sam?”

“The former observatory. It was operated by a hippy astronomer when I was growing up here. Nobody was allowed inside, but some nights he’d pull out his collection of telescopes and put on a planetarium-like show for us. We saw some crazy stuff up in the heavens.”


“Unusual. Let’s leave it at that. The astronomer had some interesting theories. He told us the observatory sat atop a secure vault with wooden crates packed with California antiquities.”

“What kind of ‘California antiquities?”

“A gold nugget from the Gold Rush the size of a compact car, silver bars poured hundreds of years ago, and priceless artwork which was looted from the debris of the San Francisco earthquake of 1907. The oldest stuff are riches stolen from the Native American tribes by the Spanish explorers which was taken by Mexico when they achieved independence from Spain. It ended up in the hands of the American explorer’s takin’ California away from Mexico in 1846.”

“Someone must own the treasure, Sam!”

“We had dignitaries, politicians and tycoons come ‘round here back in the day. They landed on a helicopter pad out in the woods. Not anymore. After star-gazing, we sat around a campfire and the astronomer would talk about a ‘parallel universe’ where each of us had a ‘double’ and we were livin’ on opposite sides of a mirror called the ‘Space-Time Continuum’. You’d never see your ‘double,’ but they could be on the opposite of the mirror and ‘flipping you the bird’ and you’d never know it. He said if you break the ‘Space-Time Continuum’ like shattering a mirror, the passage of time would stop, and you’d fall into a ‘Black Hole’ leading you over to the other side of the mirror light-years away where your ‘double’ might be revealed. Do you ever feel like something is about although you’re alone? A sound, bump, or a thud in the night? It might be your double lurking about. Ever since, I presume somebody is looking back at me when I look into a mirror. The astronomer would back up his theories with some funky formulas resembling those hieroglyphics you see in the pyramids.”

“I don’t get it, Sam, but it’s messin’ with my mind.”

“That’s how we all felt, but out behind the observatory is the ‘Haight-Ashbury Farm’ which was a ‘hydroponic’ pot grow for scientific research and includes a badass mushroom collection. We all believed the astronomer was ‘consuming the grow’ so to speak.”

“Why was this place closed down?”

“We don’t know. One day it was closed ‘tighter than a drum’ except for a few with seniority left behind to care for this place like my old man who was retired military. I stayed on because my dad worked here. The same goes for the other folks workin’ here.”

“Does the government still own this place?”

“Nobody said ‘government,’ Jonny. We’re paid in cash every two weeks out at the front gate and nobody comes around to claim ownership of this place.”

“It’s a hell of a real estate development opportunity, Bobby.”

“This is one ‘hell’ of a complicated facility making a real estate development impossible as you’ll soon find out. Let’s head back, and I’ll take you out to ‘Gusher Road’.”

As Bobby drew closer, I could smell the noxious oil I recall from terrible spills off the coast over the years.

“What’s with all of the stalled-out seesaw oil pumps?”

“They’re called ‘Pumpjacks’ and those oil sucking motha’s have been frozen in time since the seventies although there’s a reservoir of oil below us extending into the ocean the size of most states.”

“Why did they stop pumping?”

“The astronomer said they ran out of underground reservoir space and stopped pumping. The oil company roughnecks workin’ and livin’ up here vanished in the middle of the night. You old enough to remember the gas shortages of the seventies?”

“I waited in lines with dad to fill up on odd or even days according to our license plate number. What happened to all of the oil pumped?”

“It’s stored within underground caverns below our feet. Who owns the oil?”

“The astronomer believed this property belongs to a powerful California family holding an original Spanish land grant. They discovered oil, proceeded to drill, but signed a lease with the government as a tenant which ironically curtailed their ability to sell the oil. Talk of building tank farms or underground plumbing to get the oil off the mountain and into offshore ships or tanker trucks interfered with the government’s research. The hippie stargazer said it was ‘payback’ by the ghosts of indigenous people who had their land stolen, parceled out, and sold by the explorers.”

“It’s a liquid winning lottery ticket somebody lost, Sam.”

“Think of it as a safe deposit box without a key, Jonny.”

“I see homes with TV antennas on the roofs.”

“Those homes are where we live.”

“You still get television reception on those antennas?”

“Yes, but spotty. We pick up a few favorites shows. ‘Wagon Train’ is playin’ tonight.”

“I get the ‘oldie but goody’ cable channels back home, too.”

“What do you mean ‘oldie but goody’ channels? We get broadcast television from the three networks.”

“Maybe you’re getting satellite or cable service?”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ ‘bout, Jonny.”

“I remember watching the ‘Farm Report’ as a kid before the cartoons in the morning.”

“Yeah, me too, Jonny. Before the shopping malls and freeways arrived, the farmers throughout Southern California lit smudge pots to keep the fruit trees from freezing to death. The smoke off those pots filled the valleys with soot combining with auto emissions to create ‘SMOG’.”

“I can’t get radio reception up here, Sam.”

“We’re told it’s due to electronic signal jamming equipment still in place throughout the property’. We don’t miss radio or a lot of things up here. We enjoy free housing with an ocean view and acres of land for the kids to play about. Perks of this isolated job. We can leave our doors unlocked, Jonny.”

“You enjoy going into town?”

“Nobody goes into town. We’re all content livin’ behind the main gate. We give Bobby a list of everything we need. In a day or two, Bobby phones us to come and get our merchandise. I’m turning onto ‘Railroad Lane’.”

Sam and the electric cart were quiet, fueling my memory. I recalled dad’s fascination with locomotives and our visits to the train yard in Los Angeles.

“Look at the metal rails lining both sides of the street, Jonny. It’s leftover tracks from the building of the ‘Transcontinental Railroad’ in 1870.”

“There’s a lot of blood, sweat, and sorrow baked into those rails, Sam.”

“Here comes a neighbor’s boy, Ronnie. Look at him ride that ‘Stingray’ bike with ‘banana’ style seat. He’s got playing cards attached to the spokes with laundry pins mimicking the sound of a motorcycle.”

“I remember doin’ that as a kid. What’s that two-story building off in the distance, Sam?”

“That’s the old medical center. We’d get our medical and dental care inside that place.”

“Can we go inside?”

“No. It’s locked up. When the x-ray equipment was removed, they accidentally released radioactive debris and some nasty pharmaceuticals spilled and leeched into the floors. You don’t want to step on the rusted hypodermic needles strewn about. We have a retired doctor, dentist, and a nurse who live on the property. For anything serious, they send a helicopter at night and take us to a private hospital.”

“I smell a sweet fragrance in the air, Sam.”

“We call it ‘air freshener’. Every so often a low-flying plane completes a decontamination spraying of the property.”

“Why the need for decontamination flyovers?”

“It’s to protect us from the different strains of viruses and bacteria tested back in the day. We’ll get flu symptoms and sore throats from the spraying which goes away quickly.”

“What’s that barracks behind the hospital with the bars on the windows?”

“It housed POWs from the wars and other visitors. Rumor has it, patients committed to the psych hospital were treated like lab rats in exchange for a reduced sentence. At night, we’d hear whaling, screaming, and crying.”

“Who are the ‘visitors’ you referred to?”

“It’s classified, Jonny. I’m gonna take you down ‘Mojave Road’.”

The horror of the barracks was replaced by memories of riding motorcycles with dad to the top of a Mojave Desert dune, turning off the ignition, seeing nothing for miles, and hearing the dry wind whip through the sky.

“Hey, Jonny. We arrived. Look around and you’ll see a sampling of every type of cacti found in the desert. California has about twenty-five-million acres of desert which equals about one-fourth of the state.”

“The Mojave Desert has some of the highest recorded temperatures on earth, Sam.”

“It was the irrigation channels and dams built back in the day capturing the snow runoff from the Sierras and Colorado River water keeping Southern California from turning into desert. I’ll turn onto ‘Big Sur Drive’ so you can savor the magnificent view.”

The pleasant aroma of the ocean and cool breeze alerted me Sam was approaching the coastline.

“You’re lookin’ at a slice of nine hundred miles of California coastline.”

“What’s with the towers dotting the cliffs above the ocean, Sam?”

“Those were manned by lookouts during World War II watchin’ for enemy fighter planes. There was fear California was goin’ to be attacked like Pearl Harbor.”

“This entire facility was a potential target. It’s surrounded by a steep cliff on every side and has only one way in and out at the main gate. We’ll turn up ahead onto ‘Gold Strike Street’ and take you into town. Keep your eyes open because I’m gonna’ point out a couple of landmarks.”

It unsettled me to know there was only “one way” out. I speculated about making a graceful exit from the tour when Sam interrupted me.

“Check out the drive-in restaurant which had carhop service.”

I had forgotten those tedious Saturday’s accompanying mom on her errands, but she always rewarded me with a milk shake and grilled cheese at the drive-in soda fountain.

“Still with me, Jonny? You resemble a bored kid on a shopping trip. That white screen which looks like a billboard is our drive-in movie. We see first-run movies out here every Saturday night. Last Saturday was ‘The Sound of Music,’ and this coming Saturday is ‘Chitty Chitty Bang Bang’.”

“Don’t you mean reruns?”

“I meant what I said, Jonny. I’ll turn up ahead onto ‘Sacramento Street’ and take you into ‘Old Town’.”

I recalled many nights sitting around the television with Jiffy Pop popcorn watching movies with dad and mom. Mom was a stickler to make certain we didn’t miss the beginning. Somehow, we made due without the advent of VCR’s, tapes, and CD’s.

“Welcome to ‘Old Town’, Jonny.”

“This looks like a ‘ghost town’, Sam.”

“The boarded-up storefronts were formerly a barbershop, market, hardware store, and pharmacy. Down the street you can see a church with a pastor performing nondenominational services. Behind the church is the school house. We have a few retired school teachers livin’ here to teach the handful of kids on the property. This was a self-contained town back in the day.”


“Nobody was permitted entry or exit because of sensitive research conducted on the premises.”

“What kind of research?”

“I’ll drive you over and show you.”

“We’re turning onto ‘Fault-line Lane’.”

Dad assembled aircraft for a living. He took me to the plant for “Father & Son” day and let me sit in the pilot’s seat. I was spellbound by the control panel full of gauges and no screens come to think of it.

“See that large metal cover over the road ahead?”


“It’s the entrance to an underground lab stretching for miles underneath this property.”

“Can we check it out?”

“No. The door has been welded shut because it’s dark, contaminated, and flooded inside. A few years ago, a crew dressed in hazmat suits, oxygen tanks, and head lamps went inside.”


“I can’t say except they came out with a lot of stuff you’d find inside a sophisticated laboratory or a ‘Frankenstein’ movie.

“There was a husband-and-wife scientific team who worked down there who threatened to tell the press about the research conducted inside. They were never seen or heard from again. The hippie astronomer vanished as well. Those disappearances drove the point home to everyone up here.”

“I presume it wasn’t feasible to place tank farms and oil pipes above an underground laboratory.”

“That’s the irony according to the astronomer, Jonny. Remember who got the last laugh!”

“What’s with the large elevated tank in the distance?”

“It’s our water supply.”

“Something looks familiar about that the metal girders holding up the tank, Sam.”

“The girders are leftover metal from the construction of the Golden Gate Bridge and the red-orange color paint was used to paint the bridge which became one of the seven wonders of the modern world. That famous bridge is nearly two miles long, completed in four years, and took the lives of eleven workers to finish. About seventeen hundred folks have jumped since it’s completion and about twenty-five survived the fall.”

“I wonder what caused those poor souls to jump?”

“I believe they needed to ‘crossover’ so to speak. ‘California Dreamin’ became a ‘winter’s day’ nightmare for those jumping to quote the rock song from the sixties.”

“I can relate to them, Sam.”

“Many survivors said they regretted the decision to jump immediately upon leaping off, Jonny.”

“You feel isolated from life out here, Sam?”

“That’s the same question we’re asked by the folks in white lab coats who come to visit and ask us detailed questions about our ‘feelings’. The lab coats tell us, ‘You’re lighthouse keepers free from the distractions and ugly realities of life with nearly thirty-nine million people outside the main gate.’ The sun is setting quickly and the compound isn’t well lit, so I better get you back to the main gate or we’ll have to keep you hear forever. You already know too much!”


“Did I frighten you? Let’s drive you back to the parking garage and fetch your car. Here comes Mrs. Gust with her load of kids. Hi Mrs. Gust!”

“Hi Sam. Takin’ the kids home from the schoolhouse. We’ll see you and the wife at the barbecue on Saturday before the movie!”

“I haven’t seen a sixties wood-paneled station wagon with a rooftop luggage rack since I was a kid. That vintage station wagon is pristine.”

“Vintage? We’ll take the ‘Mount Whitney Way’ shortcut over to the garage.”

It was getting chilly, and I pined for the comfort of a station wagon loaded with happy kids from the neighborhood. Everybody in our neighborhood had a “wagon.” It was a status symbol and the precursor to the minivan.

“There’s your car parked just as you left it, Jonny. Around here, you could have left the key inside the ignition. Follow me down to the main gate. Take a right turn onto ‘Lake Tahoe Trail’ which twists and turns so drive slowly.”

I recalled my first summer job in high school was at Lake Tahoe. It was a friend’s family-owned gas station. I learned to collect the money, sell snacks, and make change. I met interesting people. It wasn’t “work.” It was fun.

“Here’s your visitor, Bobby. It was nice spendin’ time with you, Jonny. Are you married?”

“Still single but lookin’, Bobby.”

“You might want to stay. We have a vacant cottage just perfect for a single guy like you. There’s a social the first Friday of every month and a handful of single women who live here. Life can be really simple for you on this side of the main gate just like back in the day. Just remember, there’s no turning back.”

“Maybe another time, Sam.”

“There’s no ‘another time’.

“It’s now or never!”

“You’re screwin’ with me, Sam, aren’t you?”

“A friendly word of advice, Jonny. Remember the scientific team and the astronomer who disappeared. Take care of yourself.”

I felt a sigh of relief to be back at the main gate.

“Welcome back, Jonny. How ‘ya feelin’?”

“Like you said when I met you, Bobby. ‘Not feelin’ the same as when I entered’. It feels like I’m stuck in a time warp, and now I’m stepping out of a protective bubble.”

“Are you referring to a ‘time warp’ and ‘protective bubble’ which exists inside or outside the main gate? Your answer is a matter of perspective.”

“What’s this place all about, Bobby?”

“That’s for you to define in the days, weeks, months, and years to come or, perhaps, never. When presented with a puzzle of disparate and inexplicable pieces, the only solution is to lock it up like a contagion. I wrote down the directions to the psych hospital.”

“Don’t want ‘em, Bobby.”

“Here’s your smartphone. Maybe when they really get ‘smart,’ the gadget can tell you the future or explain the past. Take this thought with you, Jonny. What you refer to as ‘isolation’ is freedom to everyone here. You may want to reconsider your definition of ‘freedom’ as an incarceration similar to the type over at the psych hospital you set out to find when you mistakenly made your way up here. Sam gave up the secret about the husband-and-wife scientific team and astronomer as a warning to you. Don’t come back here. We’ll deny knowing you, and they can commit ya’ to the psych hospital under a ‘John Doe’. Forget this place, and watch out for broken mirrors. Take care of yourself out there, Jonny. It ain’t the world we grew up within.”

Just as I turned onto the road leading me back to Highway 101, a fleet of black vehicles with tinted windows including a tractor-trailer, tanker truck, and SUV passed me making the turn leading up to the main gate.

I spied the name “AREA 13” stenciled on a black tarp covering the load carried by the tractor-trailer.

I decided to skip the trip to the Bay area and head south towards home.

As I entered Highway 101, I felt a sense of relief to rejoin my fellow “inmates” inching their way in traffic through “modern-day” life.

I had many questions about what I witnessed behind the rusted gate but came to the conclusion, “the less I knew, the better.” It wasn’t lost on me that both Bobby and Sam told me, “To take care of myself.”

I had a bad feeling about giving my identification and smartphone to Bobby.

My entire life was inside a silicon chip the size of a grain of rice.

I’m certain everything about me isn’t in a “file cabinet” but inside some nefarious database.

The questions posed by Bobby suggested a knowledge of psychology and philosophy above his “pay grade” as a gatekeeper. Who was he?

With respect to Bobby and my day behind the gate, the better conclusion may be,

“What you don’t know will hurt you.”

The back of my throat is getting scratchy, and I feel flu symptoms overtaking me.

I can’t keep my eyes off the rearview mirror wondering who might be staring back at me from the other side.

Suddenly, the car in the adjacent lane rudely cut in front of me.

I slammed the brakes hitting my head on the rearview mirror cracking it.

The reckless driver in an EV sportscar flipped me off.

Strangely, I feel no hostility towards the driver; only love, kindness and compliance.

I wonder if my “double” is looking back at me from the other side of the cracked mirror while I watch the past disappearing behind me masquerading as fading red taillights. The headlights approaching suggest a future hurtling towards me like a locomotive on a suspension bridge, and I have no alternative except to embrace my fate or succumb to it like those who jumped.

My journey has taught me Bobby’s “puzzle” explanation for AREA 13 could be a metaphor for understanding California; “lock it up” because “The Golden State,” like a “contagion,” waits for nobody. If you blink or turn your head for a second, California will become a memory to you and a new reality for somebody else.

Traffic has come to its familiar inescapable crawl signaling the tedium of my Monday morning sales meeting approaching like a broken headlight.

My flu symptoms have disappeared and have been replaced by a wave of euphoria and contentment.

The person on the other side of the mirror is imploring me to join him.

I’ve decided to “crossover” and feel no regret.

I’ve got to get home quickly. Dad will be home from work soon. It’s dad’s birthday and mom planned a surprise party. I’m gifting him an 8-track tape just released called “Homecoming.”

The car radio screamed back to life with a 1968 Chambers Brothers hit song,

Now the time has come (Time)
There are things to realize (Time)
Time has come today (Time)
Time has come today (Time)


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