Chapter 21b

Jake put the wasabi and the seaweed in his ice chest, the rest of the groceries on the floorboard, and climbed back in his truck. He worked his way south until he was just out of the city proper. Here, he entered State Highway 1 via an onramp and continued south into the heart of the Canterbury Plains — a vast stretch of cattle grazing and farm land.

A fifteen minute drive brought him to a small farmer's market where the local landowners hawked fresh produce, freshly butchered meat, farm-fresh eggs, and locally produced honey. There was a farmer's daughter who regularly staffed a booth at this market that Jake had made very personal acquaintance with. She was not here today. Jake was not terribly disappointed by her absence. His social calendar was pretty much as full as he wished it to be for the next two weeks. He chatted with a few people he knew (and a few he didn't know), bought some tomatoes, lettuce, celery, mushrooms, corn, and cauliflower, and then climbed back in his truck and headed north again. It was time to go home and start the next phase of his daily routine.

He put his groceries away and then made a large sandwich out of wheat bread he'd made himself and some leftover chicken breast from two nights before. Since it was now well into the afternoon hours, he popped his first Steinlager of the day and drank it while eating his sandwich in front of the kitchen television set. It was now just after 6:00 AM in Khafji, and the battle for the town was continuing. CNN reported that the US marines and the Saudis were now getting the upper hand and the Iraqis were starting to pull back across the border. American planes and Cobra attack helicopters were pounding them as they retreated. There were also reports that eleven marines had been killed when the Iraqis destroyed their armored vehicles with anti-tank fire. These reports were so-far unconfirmed, but, if true, would be the first significant US casualties of the conflict.

Jake watched the coverage for almost two hours, until he became bored with the repetition of the same old information. While watching, he drank three bottles of Steinlager and smoked six cigarettes, despite his vow to start cutting down on both vices. He also did not go utilize any of the gym equipment he had purchased and installed in the back room of his house. He had a treadmill, a stationary bike, a stair-climber, a complete Nautilus machine, and a complete set of free weights. The equipment was all brand new and had acquired exactly zero hours of use so far, despite the fact that it was one of Jake's first purchases upon moving in.

Maybe tomorrow, he thought as he turned off the television set and grabbed a fresh can of Steinlager out of the refrigerator. Once I get that first workout done, the routine will be established and I'll keep up with it.

He carried his beer with him into his office, where he pulled a notebook and a pen from his desk and his Fender six-string from a rack on the wall. After stopping to get his cigarettes and his lighter, he went out his front door and onto his wraparound porch. A porch swing was installed here. He sat in it, putting the guitar in his lap, the notebook, beer, and smokes down on a wooden table within easy reach. He stared out at the view, smoking and sipping for the better part of fifteen minutes. Finally, he took a pick out of the inlay and began to strum the guitar gently.

Since exiling himself here at the far-reaches of the planet, Jake had written three songs. Two were break-up songs inspired by his parting with Helen. One was a poignantly worded piece about his relationship with Mindy Snow — in particular, his resolve to never have anything to do with her again. He played this song out, strumming and singing quietly. It was called Nothing's Different Now.

"Hmm," Jake said, after reaching this point. He ran through the first verse and the chorus one more time, making it just a bit more up-tempo. Is it too self-deprecating? Is it too whiny? He wasn't sure. He liked the way the lyrics came off his lips, liked the melody he'd composed to accompany it, but was this the sort of material he was after?

He took a few drinks of his beer and then ran through it again, this time continuing onto the second verse, which included another set of unkind words about Mindy Snow, and then the bridge, which contained a declaration of his intent to never have anything to do with her again.

"I don't know," he finally said when he finished it up. This was how he always felt about this song at this point in his daily routine. He just didn't know. Sometimes it seemed like he should scrap it and recycle the melody for something else. Sometimes it seemed like the song that just might get him that elusive Grammy once recorded. Sometimes it seemed like even the melody — a mellow blues progression — sucked ass too.

Jake finished his beer and went back inside for another. He smoked another cigarette. He then went through his two Helen break-up songs. The first one he really liked. It was called Hit The Highway, and was basically an up-tempo liberation song, not quite up-tempo enough to fall into the Intemperance genre, but definitely something that would feature a distorted electric guitar as the main instrument. The lyrics acknowledged that the woman in question had been the one to end the relationship and that the ending of the relationship was not exactly something that the singer wanted, but they also conveyed an easy acceptance of the break-up and a lack of concern for what came next.

The final chorus summed up the general tone of the song:

The other break-up song, however, Jake was not so sure about. It was titled, Nothing In Common?, which was the main reason Helen had cited for breaking up with him. The lyrics were a reflection that, yes, they really did have nothing in common except for the interest that had brought them together in the first place: flying. The song was long and complex, with four separate verses, two bridges, and each chorus worded differently to support the idea that had been advanced in the verse before it. Jake was still strumming it out entirely on his acoustic (he, in fact, had no other musical instruments at his house to play around with — not a piano, not an electric guitar, not even a harmonica), but he envisioned a complex piece full of multiple tempo changes, several instrumental breaks, and a grinding, almost heavy-metal ending. He worried that the whole thing was simply too complex, that he wouldn't be able to pull it off. He also worried that it was too campy of a subject to match the musical sophistication he was aiming for. His biggest worry, however, was the anticipated length of the tune. It would be damn near eight minutes long the way he was picturing it — much too long for standard radio airplay or single release and about two and a half minutes longer than the average American's attention span for a tune.

Jake played around with Nothing In Common? for a bit — long enough to drink another beer and smoke another cigarette. He didn't accomplish much besides clarifying a few of the tempo changes and dialing in one of the bridges. He had long since passed the point in this tune where it was usually put aside until it could be introduced to the full band. Now, there was no full band to introduce it to. Whenever he started dwelling on that, his enthusiasm for composition faded away.

Jake put his guitar aside and stared out at the harbor for a few minutes. It was after three o'clock now and a few of the fishing boats were making their return. He watched one of them dock and saw the tiny figures of the crew scurrying around on the deck. He was too far away to make out what they were unloading from their cargo hold. Whatever it was though, some of it would make its way to Elizabeth and Kate's shop.

When his beer was empty, he went back inside, carrying his guitar with him. He had a decent buzz going on now, his morning hangover nothing but a memory. He was also a little fatigued. After putting the guitar back on its rack in his office, he went to the couch in his living room and took a two-hour nap while CNN played constant Persian Gulf War coverage in the background.

When he awoke, it was time to start getting ready for this evening's dinner guest. He shaved, brushed his teeth, and took a shower before dressing in a fashionable pair of slacks and a Pierre Cardin shirt.

At precisely 6:30 there was a knock on the front door. He opened it and there stood Samantha Spangle, a thirty-two year old teller from the Sydenham branch of The Bank of New Zealand where Jake kept his local accounts. She was wearing a business dress, dark nylons, and a sultry smile.

"Hi, Jake," she said, stepping inside without being asked.

"Nice to see you again, Sam," he told her. "You look beautiful."

"Thank you," she said.

They ate fresh sushi and sashimi dipped in wasabi and soy sauce. They drank a bottle of sake and then switched to wine. Samantha was not as enthusiastic a drinker as Kate and Elizabeth. As a result, Jake kept his own drinking somewhat restrained. In the course of the evening he only drank half a bottle of sake, nine glasses of white wine, and three mixed drinks. This was enough to make him pleasantly drunk but not enough to trigger a blackout. For this reason he was able to retain the pleasant memory of Samantha's lush body and the things she knew how to do with it.

And such was a typical day in the life of Jake Kingsley in the immediate post-Intemperance phase.

Christchurch International Airport

March 18, 1991

Pauline almost didn't recognize her brother when she and Jill Yamashito emerged from the baggage claim area for the Air New Zealand terminal. He was sitting right where she expected to find him (assuming that he even showed up, something that had never been confirmed) — at the bar, sipping on a tall glass of beer. His hair was still down to his shoulders and he still favored blue jeans and button-up, short-sleeved shirts, but...

Jesus, Pauline thought as she realized the person she was looking at really was Jake. He's gotten fat!

Fat was perhaps not the best word to describe him. He was not obese or in danger of breaking any furniture just yet. He was, however, noticeably larger than when she'd seen him last. His stomach was sporting a decent-sized spare tire. His face, arms, and legs had gotten flabbier as well. He didn't look like he was at death's door by any means, but he didn't look exactly healthy either.

"Jake," she called, waving her hand to catch his attention.

He spotted her and slowly, almost reluctantly, his mouth formed a smile. He drained the last of his beer, stood, and made his way over to their position. They hugged. Though he was clean-shaven and freshly showered, Jake smelled of cigarettes and alcohol.

"It's good to see you, sis," he said. "Welcome to Christchurch."

"Thanks, Jake," she said. "It's good to see you too."

He turned to Jill, who had stood silently by during the reunion. "Hi, Jill," he told her. "Welcome back to Christchurch. Couldn't stay away, huh?"

"Nope," Jill said, perhaps a might sourly. "You know how much I love traveling to this far corner of the Earth."

Jake let the sourness roll off his back. He gave her a hug as well. She returned it with genuine affection.

"We were kind of afraid you weren't going to be here," Pauline said as Jake took their suitcases and led them toward the terminal exit door. This was, in fact, the first direct communication she'd had with her brother since the day before he'd left the United States. He had no telephone in his house and employed no answering service. He had answered none of the many letters sent to him. In order to let him know that she and Jill were arriving today, Jill had to contact Zachary Fields, the man who was leasing Jake's plane at some bum-fuck Egypt airport in the backwoods of Canterbury, in order to pass on the message.

"Of course I had to be here," Jake said. "Jill knows where I live. You would've just found me anyway."

Pauline wasn't sure if he was joking or not. She decided to assume that he was. "Well, thankfully that pilot friend of yours got the message to you."

"Yes," Jake said. "He stopped by my house day before yesterday... I think." He shrugged. "I told him to leave you a message that I'd be here. I guess he never got around to it. Zach's that way sometimes, you know."

"It would've been much easier to communicate with you," Pauline said, "if you had a damn telephone in your house. Perhaps you've heard of the phone? It's this nifty new device they came out with a few years back."

"Ahh, but you fail to see the methodology of my thinking," Jake told her. "If you have a phone, people can call you. When your goal is to remain incommunicado, putting in a phone tends to be counterproductive to that goal. You two should try living without a phone sometime. It's very liberating."

Neither of the women knew what to say to that. The idea of living without a basic phone — let alone a cellular phone and a pager — was starkly terrifying to contemplate.

They left the terminal and went outside. It was a beautiful spring day here in Christchurch, Pauline couldn't help but notice. About sixty-five degrees or so, a few wispy clouds drifting overhead, a slight breeze stirring the sycamore trees in the decorative planters that lined the terminal road.

No, she remembered, it's a beautiful autumn day here. This place is heading into winter, not summer. It was yet another reminder of just how far from home her brother had fled.

They went into a parking lot that was mostly empty. Near the back of it, they came to a red Toyota pick-up truck sitting by itself. The truck appeared pretty new although the wheel wells were coated with road grime and the body had a fairly thick layer of dirt and dust on it.

"Let me just throw your luggage in the back," Jake said. He then did just that, having to strain a little to get Pauline's bag up and over. "Go ahead and climb in. Someone is going to have to sit in the middle though. They didn't have any extended cabs at the Christchurch Toyota dealer and I didn't want to go all the way to Wellington to get one."

They squeezed in. Pauline took the middle position, figuring she would be less uncomfortable with Jake having to reach between her knees to shift gears. Jake started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot. They passed no kiosk on the way out.

"Don't you have to pay for parking?" Pauline asked.

"Nope," Jake said. "They don't do that sort of thing here."

"They don't?" Pauline said, appalled at the thought of not gouging people for parking fees when you had a clear monopoly on the privilege. "What is this place? A communist country?"

Jake chuckled and started heading for home. They left the airport grounds and started down the main thoroughfare that led back to the city. Pauline looked at the sights as they went, taking everything in. She watched the people, the cars, the houses and businesses, comparing and contrasting what she saw to what she was familiar with. Occasionally she would catch glimpses of the Southern Alps in the distance. She found that this really was a clean and beautiful place. She could understand why Jake liked it here. But it was so far away from everything! Including the layover in Auckland, they just spent nearly eighteen hours traveling just to get here. Eighteen hours by modern jet aircraft! This really was the far corner of the Earth, as Jill like to call it.

"So how is everyone back home?" Jake asked once they entered Christchurch proper. He seemed to ask this more out of a sense of obligation than anything else.

"Haven't you been reading our letters?" Pauline asked. "I know you haven't answered any of them, but you have been reading them, right?"

Jake smiled guiltily. "I haven't gotten around to it yet," he said.

She gave him a stern look. "You haven't read any of them? Not even Mom and Dad's?"

He shrugged. "What can I say?"

"Jesus, Jake," Pauline said. "What are you trying to do here?"

"Nothing," Jake told her. "I'm trying to do nothing and I've accomplished that goal very nicely."

"That's kind of why we're here, Jake," Jill said. "There are some financial matters that we need to discuss. Some things that you just can't ignore."

"How about we do that later?" Jake said. "I'll get you two home, show you around my place, we'll have a few drinks, and then we'll talk about whatever you want. In the meantime, why don't we start with something easier?"

"Like what?" Pauline asked.

"Mom and Dad," Jake said. "How are they doing? I noticed the last couple of letters had the Cypress return address on them. I take it they moved into the new place?"

Pauline shook her head in consternation. How could he have not read a single letter sent to him? How could he not know what his own parents were doing at a major crossroads in their lives? "They've been living in their Cypress Hills house for the past three months," she said. "Stan and Cindy are living in their new house on the property too. The houses turned out quite nice. You should see Mom and Dad's — especially since you paid for half of it."

"So they're happy?" he asked.

"They're content," Pauline said. "They love their new house and Dad is finding retirement to be everything he wanted. He hasn't looked at a legal brief since he put in his papers. He's gotten into fly fishing, if you can believe that."

"Fly fishing? Dad? You're putting me on."

"Nope," she said. "Him and Stan both. Of course they're strictly catch and release. They wouldn't dream of depriving a rainbow trout of its right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness."

"Now that sounds like Dad," Jake said with a laugh.

"Mom, on the other hand, is not finding retirement so sweet. She couldn't stay away from the musical life."

"She went back to the philharmonic?"

"No, she didn't go that far. She got a gig with Cypress High School running the student orchestra. She's conducting classical music productions for them. They had their first concert just a few weeks ago — something I'm sure she told you about in one of her letters. It was quite the occasion."

"Does she enjoy doing that?" Jake asked.

"She loves it," Pauline said. "The only problem is that she doesn't hold a teaching credential, so they can't consider her an actual teacher. She doesn't get the same pay as a teacher and she isn't part of the union."

"Is she going to pick up her teaching credential?" Jake asked. "It shouldn't be too hard, should it? She already has a master's in classical music."