Speaking With Distant Cousins

Sometimes I'm way too patient.

Mr. Roth?

I look up to see the smiling and slightly embarrassed face of the receptionist. She stoops slightly towards me as I sit in the uncomfortable waiting room chair. Shifting in my seat, I smile politely.

Yes? I try to keep impatience out of my voice, but I’m pretty sure I've blown it.

Oh, hello Mr. Roth, sorry for the delay. She pauses, waiting for me to say that it's quite all right, perhaps? I don't; it's been two hours. I've never had to wait so long to see Dr. Johnson, the practice's chief physician, but my doctor seems to be the only one working today. Doctor will see you now. Her voice is low and suggests a wringing of hands. She nods encouragingly. Room 5.

Thank you. I sigh, and she scuttles away as I stand slowly. My knees complain at their sudden use. I'm reminded of a line from John Masefield's The Box Of Delights, and mutter it as I shuffle up the well-lit corridor towards my doctor's office.

Only I do date from pagan times, and age makes joints to creak. Or doesn't it?

I should think it does. I knock at the door of room 5 and wait. The usual welcoming bellow does not come.

The door slowly opens on its own.

The figure behind the paper-strewn desk is dressed from the pages of medical cliché: a tweed suit, patched at the elbows with leather; a white collared shirt that has seen better days; adorned at the neck with a stained red bowtie; the half-moon schoolmaster glasses.

But this is not my doctor.

It’s a rhino.

An old and crusty rhino, at that. As he scribbles away at some notes as only doctors can, I take in the dusty face and the matted hairs caked in dried mud on his neck. A fly circles him, but it doesn't appear that its heart is in it; it's as if it's expected. This guy is vain, too; a flat ginger wig with a centre parting rests just above his spectacles.

Ah, Mr. Roth, I've been expecting you. Wow, I've not heard that one since I last saw the evil genius Doctor Wang *. The ageing rhino leans back and eyes me with something resembling indifference. I'm Dr. Luther. Do come in.

[ * This is definitely worth a click. ]

Stepping into the office, I leave the door open and take a seat.

Hello. Sorry, but I was expecting Doctor ...

So, he says smoothly, what can I help you with? Yet there's ice in the voice; it hurries my thoughts along. Accept, adapt, advance.

Well, I wanted to talk to you about...

Yes, yes, he waves a dismissive and badly-manicured hoofed foot, let's speak plainly. I'm a busy man. You've come to see me about a bad back, or a sore knee or chest pain, or some other trivial ailment.

He pauses meaningfully.

Well...

And so I feel compelled to remind you, an educated man, that the body has amazing recuperative qualities. He gestures broadly. Whatever it is that you believe your suffering from, and I use the term suffering very loosely... The rhino looks down his long nose at me across the top of his half-moon glasses; the effect is authoritarian, even if the wig does slip a little. Well, this thing will sort itself out in a few days. Do you follow?

Well...

I see we understand each other. He smiles in a way that would make a crocodile blush. Take two aspirin, get some sleep, drink plenty of fluids, and come back and see me next month. Or never. He waves a nagging digit. You can crack this problem on your own. Medicine will not help you. And neither will I.

Wow. I'm lost for words. My jaw works up and down a bit.

The toupéed ungulate turns and taps away at a keyboard with a pencil and peers at his computer screen. There's a deep, chesty grunt of disapproval. The fly keeps its distance and hovers suspiciously; I want to do the same thing.

However, I see from your medical records that you've not had any recent medical screenings for male health issues. His emphasis is sinister.

Male health issues? Oh. My heart sinks. Those ones.

Yes, and this is not a good thing. Let's bring your file up to date, shall we? The rhino opens a drawer and pulls a bottle of jumbo sized rubber gloves.

What? No. He can't be serious. I'm not dropping my trousers for a rhinoceros.

Well, I think I'd prefer to do this with my regular doctor...

He freezes in the middle of tugging a rubber glove from the box.

Dr. Johnson? You didn't hear?

I'm aware my jaw is working again. Excuse me? I'm almost whispering. Heard what?

I'm afraid Dr. Johnson was involved in a terrible accident. The rhino meets my eye and speaks with a distant cousin of solemn sadness. He was found terribly injured at his home yesterday.

Good grief, not nice old Doctor J? I have fond memories of the man; he brought me into this world. Mind you, when he delivered me he claimed excess postage.

Indeed. He'll recover, but may never speak or practice medicine again. The old sawbones eases back into his seat and raises an eyebrow. He'd been trampled and gored quite badly.

Trampled and gored?! I find myself shuffling back in my chair. Do the police have anyone in custody?

The old doctor smoothes the hair on his horn absently.

No, he smiles, but his injuries were probably self-inflicted.

Seconds pass.

I'm the new chief doctor for the practice.

He stands and snaps on a rubber glove.

So, let's get these tests done, shall we?

Behind me, the door closes.

I never want to cough again.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010/2013

Ask Me Again Tomorrow

Travel broadens the mind and tightens the finances.

I can dispute neither of these things, having just returned from a short trip to attend The Eurovision Song Contest in Malmö, Sweden*; it was a beautiful, exciting, enlightening and oh-so-expensive trip.

[ * Those of you from outside Europe will be none the wiser when I mention this event, but most folk from inside Europe will have a strong opinion about it one way of the other; a spectacular, high-camp evening of Europop and questionably partisan voting by 26 countries, you either love it or hate it. ]

Someone asked me recently what my favourite part of travel is.

Is it the planes? The boats? The trains? Well, no. Unlike most adventures in life, when it comes to international travel I prefer the destination to the journey; the part moving inside vehicles at high speed and hanging around in terminals is actually pretty dull.

Is it the food? The people? The people? The languages? The culture? Well, I love all of these things, it’s true. I like to try the local food delicacies, especially; reindeer in Norway a few years ago was a highlight, tho I didn’t have the heart to tell the young badgers that I ate Rudolf.

But none of these are my favourites right now.

I can confirm after an amazing trip full of wonder to Sweden via Denmark that my favourite part was the candy.

Of course, this may change when I run out.

So, ask me again tomorrow.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2013

Most Definitely Not Canon

Sorry, you can’t come in.

The figure barring my way is tall and broad. His all-white tuxedo is impressive. As I stand there dumbly, he glances down at me.

Did you hear me, sunshine? I said you can’t come in.

I never imagined coming here, but now I am here, this comes as a surprise. Actually, I'm annoyed.

What do you mean, I can’t come in?

It’s perfectly simple. He glances at me meaningfully. Which bit didn’t you understand?

This isn’t quite what I expected at the Gates of Heaven. Mind you, I’m surprised that I’m even here at all. I’ve had my doubts.

Are you certain? I ask, I’m pretty sure I have an appointment with your boss.

St. Peter checks his clipboard as he stands behind the white rope.

Nope. You’re not on The List.

He squares his shoulders and stands with his hands together in front of him. His eyes stare into the distance. He is officially Ignoring Me.

Look, I didn’t ask to come here, I object waving expansively, I didn’t choose. Yet here I am.

He sighs without looking my way.

Not my problem, pal. Not on The List, No Entry. Simple.

I tilt the top of his clipboard down.

Oi! Pack that in! he growls at me, snatching it back. But it’s too late; I’ve seen the page.

But the paper is empty! There’s nobody on The List!

The saint does a thing with his neck that makes it crack noisily.

Right. Nobody. He pokes me in the chest, Which includes you, see?

I step back. So nobody’s going into Heaven today?

Right. Important day, everyone’s busy.

What’s going on? My curiosity still seems to be working.

He resumes his thousand yard stare and says nothing.

Oh, for god’s sake, what’s going on?

I regret the words as they spill out. His glance whips my way, his voice low but somehow a roar.

Mind your mouth, boy. You won’t blaspheme your way in.

Excuse me, sorry. I gather my nerve, and appeal quietly, Please. Tell me what’s going on.

It’s the End of Time.

What?!

End. Of. Time.

I consider this for a moment, not entirely selflessly. Wow, I guess I did live forever.

He addresses me coolly, disapprovingly.

You’re an author. Of course you did. But today is The End. He puffs his chest out proudly. The Boys are Riding Out.

I consider this for a moment before the penny drops.

The Horsemen Of The Apocalypse? They’re going to Ride Out through the Gate?

Yep. A few minutes time. He pauses. Well, walk out, he adds shiftily. He seems uncomfortable with this topic suddenly. Insurance problem. Health and Safety. He shrugs. You know how it is.

I nod sadly. I look around behind me and then back to St. Peter.

So, is that why nobody’s coming in?

He grunts his assent. Smart lad.

Wow. The words seem inadequate. War, Famine, Pestilence and Death will be here any minute. I absently wish I’d brought my camera.

St. Peter's stance shifts uncomfortably.

Well, no. Times change. The world has imagined greater perils since the old days. These guys are something new. Not tried before. He leans in conspiratorially, and says is a hushed voice, Between you and me, they give me the willies. Nothing will stand before them.

Well, who are they?!

Behind St. Peter, the Gates of Heaven open to the sound of an awesome Heavenly choir. I suppose I should have seen that coming.

See for yourself. He unclips the white rope to allow four figures through, and snaps off a salute. They don’t even grace him with a glance. Embarrassed at himself, he jostles me back. Come on, stand back! Give the gentlemen some room!

As they stroll past, St. Peter points to the young logo'd dude humming away to himself.

Conformity is the end of Imagination. The end of Creativity. The death of Human Endeavour.

A scruffy figure passes us.

Apathy is the end of Pride. The end of Ambition. The end of Questions. The death of Resistance.

A leather-clad youth swaggers past. He gives us the bird.

Impunity is the end of Fear. The end of Respect. The death of Order.

I whisper to my companion, So which one used to be called Death?

He points to the final figure, a short consultant in an expensive suit.

Process. He was Bureaucracy for a while, but I guess the pay was better. Process is the end of Common Sense. The end of Freewill. The death of Justice. He’ll get the job done. Very thorough.

The four stride out into the aether as the choir reaches its climax. There’s a moment of speed and a quartet of lightforms jet off to the four corners of existence.

Then. Silence.

The doorman wipes a happy tear away.

All sinners are Toast.

I glance past St. Peter towards the open Gate. It’ll be better in there than out here. I nudge the bouncer and point to it amiably.

So, can I go in now? He looks at me, puzzled. It’s as if he’s forgotten where he is for a moment. I add helpfully, Time has ended. The Horsemen have Ridden Out. All bets are off now, right?

St. Peter considers this. His features soften, his bouncer's bluster passes into memory.

Have you led a good life?

I’ve tried. Didn’t always manage it. I reflect for a moment and add, But I regret the things I screwed up.

He nods. I’m told I have an honest face. I’ve always believed that’s the point.

I hesitate for a moment, uncertain.

Does the boss know about that time...? my voice tails off.

I think you’ll find He knows Everything.

I don’t think I regretted that one. In my heart.

He looks into me, his gaze intense and constant. His eyes refect the secrets of the universe. When he speaks, his voice calls from the distant reaches of time.

You did a good thing, lad. Let it go.

I glance at the Gate again. So may I go in?

He sweeps his arms wide in welcome. Yes.

I step towards him and we shake hands.

‘Til next time. I say, raising an eyebrow.

He nods and smiles.

Yes, of course. ‘Til next time.

And with that, I walk through the Gates and into Light.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2009-2013

And A Red Mist Descends

I am about to unblock my bathroom sink.

This is the fourth time I've said this in three days.

I was philosophical on Sunday when it drained sloooowly after I shaved. I only shave once a week, whether I need to or not, so I'm not to blame. It's never been the same since a former tenant at the house threw up in it a couple of years ago. Why he failed to turn 90 degrees and use the toilet is beyond me.

I took it in my stride when a bucketful of bleach and scalding water didn't clear it. It drained all the way through in a few minutes, but there was no real improvement. Mind you, it's only a home-grown solution, one that works on kitchen sinks after you repeatedly and lazily drain your frying pan of its tiny bit of fat after a meal. I've no idea what's blocking this one, but it isn't fat; why would it work?

I gritted my teeth when some chemical gloop I bought from the corner shop on Sunday afternoon failed to shift it. In fact, it just sat there as standing liquid, and didn't clear til after breakfast on Monday. But still, it was an overpriced and under-engineered solution from the local Eight-til-Armageddon; what did I expect? Some proper stuff from the hardware store would shift it.

I was infuriated when an expensive two-liquid solution from the aforementioned hardware store failed to get the job done. Apparently the mixture creates heat and bubbles, and there's tiny bits of sharp metal in it that are supposed to thrash about and deal with the blockage whatever it is.

There were bubbles. There was a nasty chemical smell. But no dice.

The final straw was the gurgling noise it made as the final bit of the solution went down the pipe.

It sounded like laughter. Hollow, mocking, Pennywise-style laughter.

So now, I'm feeling mean.

I've got the tools and I'm ready to finish the job.

Excuse me. I may be some time.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2009/2013

Wanted To Do This So There

Dedicated to Lewis Carroll with profound apologies...

‘Twas snippid, and the badger-neers
   Did twark and twistle in the shed:
All flummid were the Roth’s bright tears
   For ne’er a pizza he’d been fed.

“Beware the JobberWork, my son!
   The joy alost, the time backsnatched!
Beware the brownbag meeting! Shun
   The overtime not paid but catched!”

With veppid calm he took a nap
   Long time his greltide foe avoided --
But when it came with tax and crap
   He shook awake and felt annoyded.

It towered tall, it roared and slank
   The JobberWork, with eyes aflame
Perused the contents of his bank,
   And foolish tried to find his shame!

Spurred not by spectacle, Roth sighed
   His sleepied heart went slacker-slack!
The JobberWork it cried and died
   And ne’er galumphed nor ached his back.

“What?! Hast thou slain the JobberWork?
   This won’t end well, you lazy lout!”
But, confident and sparely irked
   Roth, trumbling now, did order out.

‘Twas snippid, and the badger-neers
   Did twark and twistle in the shed:
All vanished were the Roth’s old tears
   For now a pizza he’d been fed.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2013

Comfortable And Undemanding

Sometimes things don't go to plan.

It's Sunday. Instead of doing Sunday things like most folk, I head to the office to finish off some work that needs putting to bed. I work a thirteen hour day, punctuated by sandwiches, tea, and cake, and after leaving a note to say I'll be in late, I head home around ten thirty.

My dreams are getting way too literal.

The drilling saves me from reliving the cold drive home.

In fact, the drilling is shaking the bed.

Back in the now, I crack my eyes - they're really not ready to open - and take a few moments to introduce the curtained room into Monday's reality. My room. My bed. My juddering teeth as the drilling restarts.

A glance at the clock tells me it's a respectable hour, but earlier than I would have liked; eight-thirty in the morning. There's a quiet knocking at the door. I open my mouth to respond, but manage little more than a cough. Still, it's enough.

Yavin enters the room, bearing a laden tray. The badger is in his usual engineering dungarees and flat cap, his pipe and tobacco tin poking from opposing breast pockets. He approaches the bed and nods a good morning.

Hey Yavin, good morning. I exercise my slow jaw from side to side, and am rewarded with a reluctant crack. I cough again absently. What on earth is that drilling?

Ignoring my question for the time being, the badger proffers the tray, and my slow early-morning senses are assailed by the delicious smell of fried food. Good grief, is that breakfast?

No reply is forthcoming; clearly I'm being rhetorical. The tray is seriously loaded; a plate of bacon, scrambled eggs, sausages, mushrooms and beans. A rack of granary toast. Butter, jam, marmalade. And a pot of tea. Ooh, and a tiny ramekin of ketchup.

My tummy rumbles. Yavin's coarse facial fur rearranges into a smile.

Wow, this looks amazing. Thank you. But why? The diminutive engineer is remarkably expressive most of the time, but not when both of his paws are busy. It this a karmic thing? Was I kind to badgers in a previous life?

This comment receives no reply as outside, the drilling restarts. Yavin glares sideways at the mostly-closed curtains and the street beyond. With a deft flick of stray digits, legs extend from the sides of the tray, and he deposits it carefully onto my lap; he has to stand on tip-toes to do this. That done, he turns his attention to the juddering without.

Thank you. Strolling over to the curtains, the badger casts them wide with a flourish and surveys the street scene below. Workmen?

Yavin wrinkles his nose with distaste and nods. He has a keen distinction between skilled engineers and labourers.

Three of them? One drilling, one doing nothing, and one with a clipboard who looks important but who's also doing nothing? This is just a guess, based on years of observing road crews, it but receives another nod and a heaved sigh.

I tuck into the breakfast, menacing a sausage first and moving onto the bacon and a generous shovel of beans. Toast is dipped in bean juice, and tea is slurped. It really is amazing; just the right temperature, bursting with flavour and - best of all - made by someone else. Though I still have no idea why.

So, how come I get breakfast today?

I realise that Yavin is no longer in the room. I've just reached the halfway point of my plateful, and the drilling has faded into the background of my attention. I cast my eyes about, and bizarrely wonder if the badger is under the bed, before recommencing my feast; the mushrooms are particularly good.

A moment later, as I'm pouring myself a cup of tea, Yavin wanders back in with a newspaper under his arm. Quietly padding round the bed to the empty side, he hops up, makes himself at home in the mound of pillows and settles down to read. This familiarity is comfortable and undemanding; the company of friends always is.

The pneumatic excavation thunders into fresh life.

I'm just about to enquire about breakfast again, when both the drilling and my chewing are halted by a high-pitched chittering roar from outside. A shiver passes down my spine; I know the sound all too well. Stunned silence follows, abruptly ended by a second outburst, the clatter of dropped tools and some unmanly screaming.

Yavin changes page behind his paper, apparently unmoved.

Hey Yavin, was that a... squiddrel? I move to get up, but a friendly paw pats my hand and gently stays my exit from the bed. Yavin, I should go and see; I thought we'd caught it. I can't believe it.

Several months ago, I spent a terrifying and enlightening day with iDifficult tracking his giant hybrid squid/squirrel down, across park and town. Though, to be honest, most of the time it was close on our heels making that terrifying noise; it didn't care for our inept attempts at capture. It was a character building experience, though we required some serious laundering afterwards.

A minute of internal turmoil passes. The breakfast cools slowly.

I'm brought back to my senses by heavy animal footsteps making their way quickly upstairs. And then I hear the roar again from the landing; it's deafening. Stirred into action, I lift the tray and move it aside, placing it in front of the stoic badger.

Just as I'm about to put a foot into a slipper, the bedroom door crashes aside, and I'm faced by the terrifying visage of the mighty red squiddrel. I stifle a cry* and retreat back onto the bed. The faceful of wet, suckered tentacles extends in my direction and the creature's beak opens to scream its rage on cue.

[* a manly cry, a shout of surprise. Obviously.]

Actually, framed in the doorway, the beast is smaller than I remember. It's barely five feet tall, in fact. And I'm puzzled to see that it's carrying a clipboard and a length of pneumatic hose.

Time goes glacial for an endless, surreal second.

Then, with a giggle, the top falls off the red-furred beast. Black and white legs wiggle comically from the up-ended torso, and a young badger face peeps out from inside the legs.

In my peripheral vision, I spy that Yavin's newspaper is shaking up and down with some voiceless mirth.

HOTH! SOLLUST! I laugh - relieved - at Yavin's twin nephews, You guys scared me to death!

Young Sollust grins impishly over the bottom half of this pantomime costume, and offers up a black-and-white salute; he's the image of a sub-mariner poking out from a conning tower. He also looks tired, but I guess he's been running around with his brother on his shoulders for the past few minutes.

Hoth waves from inside the head with a pink tentacle; he seems in no hurry to leave his costume. And to make the point, he roars in his own badger voice and starts to chase Sollust round the bedroom. They collide at the foot of the bed and collapse into a tussling, growling heap.

I settle back to continue my breakfast. As I replace the tray on my lap, I notice that my teacup is empty. And there's the sound of toast being munched upon behind the newspaper.

Yavin?

The paper drops and wise old eyes gaze back at me.

I've been working really hard of late. Starting early and coming back late. I'm finished now. He nods his understanding. This breakfast was just what I needed, and very kind. Thank you. But why?...

He smiles indulgently, and I realise that I've answered my own question.

Guys? Two curious snouts rise about the footboard. Thanks for sorting the drilling crew out. They wave the captured clipboard and hose, and roar at each other between their giggles. The uncostumed twins then hoist themself onto the bed and set about the remains of my breakfast. I sip at a cup of tea and smile.

Sometimes things don't go to plan.

Sometimes other people's plans trample on the best laid plans.

But sometimes, other people's plans are perfect.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2013

Scratching The Darkness

Do you like my fireflies?

I snap out of my reverie, the lit cigar in my hand, and look about. I thought I was out here alone in the chilly evening, but my thoughts were miles away; a quiet army could have walked up behind me most likely.

The cohiba’s light, sweet smoke drifts from me in a circle as I turn, the gravel of the driveway crunching under my weight. A smile begins to form to welcome my company, presumably another guest escaping the stifling heat and the boom-boom of the wedding reception indoors.

I’m surprised to discover that there’s nobody there. And there’s certainly no fireflies; this is rural England, not the American outback. There might be a few badgers out there rustling through the first throws of Autumn, but there’s no cicadas, and definitely no fireflies.

My mind must have been wandering further than I thought.

I chuckle to myself and tap a little ash from my stogie, careful to keep it clear of my best suit and tie. I like weddings, but I’m not that skilled at making small talk with acquaintances, let alone strangers; inevitably, a little overwhelmed, I’ll step outside from some cool air and five minutes to myself. I’m not a smoker, but on these rare occasions, I enjoy a cigar, usually a good one. A good excuse.

I regard this evening’s particular cigar curiously for a moment – fireflies? - and draw on it again.

The night changes around me, and for the second time this evening I’m in August 2008.

Behind me, the exclusive Princeton Golf Course Clubhouse is rocking into the night, competing with New Jersey's cicada chorus by offering up a boom-boom celebration of our circle's latest wedding. I’ve stepped outside from the heat and huff of the wedding reception and its fine display of truly outdated dance moves. Relatives, you have to love ‘em.

Above me, a moonless sky dances with a million points of light; we’re a long way from town here, and well shielded by trees; it’s rare to see this many stars. I smile, enjoying the spectacle as I drag on today’s treat of a cigar.

A brief flash of green light catches my eye, from what I can just make out as a copse of trees in the gloom. My curiosity piqued, I watch the area for a moment, and I’m rewarded with another ephemeral emerald streak. I start to amble in that direction, stepping away from the building; paving slabs tap beneath my feet in an easy rhythm, but quickly yield to the grass of the back lawn. The fearless chirruping insects continue their serenade as a third momentary flash of green scratches the darkness. If it were higher, I’d assumed it was a shooting star, but this was below the level of the trees, and its afterimage looks curved.

A dozen intended steps quickly becomes a fifty-pace exploration. I leave the half-lit back lawn of the clubhouse, stepping through an ivied archway into deeper wooded darkness. Again, fleeting emerald fires lead the way, and I’m vaguely aware that they’re drawing me away from the building towards – what?

The trees are denser now, but I’m still on some kind of path and keep a slow and even pace. I'm aware on some level that the cicadas have faded away behind me. Ahead of me, beyond the line of trees, a virid glow draws me the final few yards and out into the open.

My view is eerie and beautiful. Above a kidney-shaped, immaculate green surrounded by sand traps, dozens of fireflies circle the 18th hole’s flag. Their movement is lazy and random. My jaw drops open.

The silence swirls around me.

Do you like my fireflies?

To the right of the green, a tall, slender figure rakes the sand of a bunker. I can’t make him out in the starlight, but I’m not startled or alarmed; his voice is quiet and friendly, and the glowing insects have me captivated.

Yes, they’re beautiful, I say honestly, still gaping a little. This is amazing; do they normally do this? Swarm around the pin?

No, Sir, says the man, not pausing in his work, though they're usually where I am, I'm pleased to say. He chuckles. I can see that would make night work a little easier, though I don't vocalise that thought; it really doesn't make this scene seem any less surreal.

On the green, the cloud of fireflies widens slightly, and the scene brightens a little. The figure now appears to be wearing well-loved dungarees and an equally battered cap. His feet are bare. I'm still unsure of his ethnicity, though it seems irrelevant. I stroll down the gentle slope towards the flag, pausing on the edge.

Do you do a lot of maintenance at night? The question is obvious, but it sounds sarcastic, which was not intended. It's said that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit. I disagree; punning is the lowest form of wit, while sarcasm is just rude. I scramble to prop up my question. That's very dedicated of you.

The man leans on his rake, perhaps reflectively; it's hard to tell in the half-light.

Oh, you know how it is, Sir; a work of love is never a chore. I like his upbeat outlook, but don't mistake his good manners for deference. There is a quiet confidence about the man; he truly belongs here. Circling the edge of the green, I close the gap between us, and he steps up from the bunker to meet me.

My name's Roth. Indigo Roth. We shake hands briefly; his touch is dry, warm, elusive. My eyes are adjusting to the night, and I'm surprised when I meet his gaze; he has a hint of the Middle East about him. This is unusual in this neck of the woods.

I have a lot of names, Indigo, he smiles quietly as I detect a hint of an exotic spice in the air, but round here they just call me The Groundskeeper.

The moment feels significant, though I have no idea why.

What brings you out here onto the golf course? My company gestures down the faint approach of the fairway. I don't see many folk at this time of day.

Oh, I followed the fireflies out here. And I grunt, stifling a laugh; it sounds stupid now I say it. But my new friend raises a hand and shakes his head minutely, as if I'd confessed my reservations out loud.

I understand. And your curiosity does your credit, my friend. Besides, he raises an eyebrow, maybe they wanted you to see this?

I don't know how to respond to that.

They're tiny creatures, says the Groundskeeper as one firefly detaches itself from the cloud to circle his capped head slowly; he raises a kind hand towards its light and smiles as his eyes follow the insect. But who knows what they think?

Again, I have no idea how to respond. This sounds like Theology.

Are you a man of Faith, Mr. Roth? Well, that's definitely Theology; this would normally make me wary, but I find myself thinking about it.

No, not really. The Groundskeeper nods, not looking my way; the firefly still has his attention. I was raised as a Devout Atheist. I grin to myself; my mother would be proud. These days, even though I have no Religion, I find it hard to dismiss everyone else's.

Good grief, have I become Agnostic while I wasn't paying attention? A few more fireflies have drifted our way; it must be the warmth.

It's good to be open-minded, my companion concedes. How does it go? "Only the madman is absolutely certain".

That's good, I'll have to remember it. I meet zealots of both persuasions occasionally. I'm just as uncomfortable with unshakeable Scientists as I am immovable Evangelists; both are Fundamentalists in my book.

The rest of the fireflies have moved to surround us. They seem to like you, Indigo. There is a sense that we are deep underwater. Or among the stars.

This is awesome.

The Groundskeeper waves an arm, perhaps in farewell, as the insects retreat to the flag; I'm uncertain of the causal relationship of this. Deprived of their light, my eyes struggle to adjust; the silhouette opposite me chuckles kindly.

But they're fickle, and easily scared, like all simple creatures.

The moment has passed. My instincts tell me it's time to get back indoors.

The Groundskeeper steps back into the sand trap and retrieves his rake. I hope you'll excuse me, but I must get back to my work.

Of course. Nice to meet you! I retreat across the green with a cheery wave, but stop to fish about in my pocket. Retrieving a quarter that shines with darting points of light, I creep beneath the fireflies and drop it into the cup at the base of the flag with a clink. I feel this deserves an explanation; my actions often do.

Life is full of surprises, but it's nice to add to them. There's no reply. I shrug, and raise my voice a little, Whoever putts out first tomorrow will find a small-but-shiny surprise.

The laugh drifts across from the bunker, I knew the fireflies liked you for a reason!

I stroll towards the woods, and offer up a cheery, Maybe they did!

That's the spirit!

As I retreat to the clubhouse, the moment feels as elusive as the Groundskeeper's handshake. By the time I find the back lawn again, I have a gossamer memory of my walk in the cold night air. As I reach the back door, I notice that my cigar has gone out. How did that happen? And my feet are cold; how long have I been out here?

I rejoin the boom boom of the wedding, pleased to be back in the warm.

Back in the now, I smile at the indistinct memory, a fragment of my life. I blink, and it's gone again. Looking around, I'm still alone out here.

As I walk back to the wedding reception, I take a final drag on the cohiba.

Do you like my fireflies?


Indigo

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