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supremacy against summer. All life began that process of curling up and dying. Still, comfort and
inspiration came to me at this time.
Amidst this urban forest of bare trees, there was this one young maple that somehow managed to keep
its leaves. I first noticed it one night while feeling particularly maudlin, and continued to see it for two
weeks. Perhaps it sounds silly, but I often thought of that tree, even one night while sitting at the
Concourse stand, reading theWall Street Journal , trying to decide upon a good mutual fund in which to
invest my first full year s patronage dividend check. At the same time, I reflected upon a call that had
come up earlier at the U-Square PO. Immediately following my arrival at this point of origin, three men
and a woman had approached the cab.
Damn, I said under my breath. This ironic déjà vu was certainly not lost upon me. They opened the
doors and climbed inside.
I am sorry, I said, but U-Rides are allowed only for parties of three or less. Some of you may ride.
Those who remain are welcome to call U-Ride for another cab, but I cannot take all four of you at
once.
There was a moment of silence. Finally, the men climbed out of the cab.
Hey, that s okay, one said. Take her home. We ll just walk.
You sure that s okay? the woman said.
No problem, another man said. You take the ride. We can walk.
The men began walking away from the cab. One broke from the group and approached me.
You make sure she gets home safe, he said through the open window.
That is what we do, I replied with a smile. The man smiled back. A cool breeze gusted through the
cab. The wind felt gentle, yet it would herald the harsh winter that would come all too soon, bringing a
bounty to us all. All seemed right with the world, for this bizarre experience of déjà vu brought me
comfort, proving that reality can actually be as it should, as opposed to bringing to fruition one s greatest
nightmare. Putting down my newspaper, I thought of that brave little tree and smiled, knowing that I was
able to bend in the wind too, adjusting and adapting to this ever-changing world. With this American
holiday of Thanksgiving approaching, I gave my own thanks, grateful that the bountiful Cab Gods were
there to watch over me.
Later that night, the soft breezes turned angry, seeking vengeance wherever available. Yet, despite the
severity of these gales, I fully believed that my brave little maple would survive. Feeling rather confident
of this, even feeling a bit giddy, I drove to visit my leafy friend only to find a pathetic little stump, its
branches and leaves blown into oblivion.
Suddenly, the images rushed before my sight, and the vanity of my philosophical rationalizations came
crashing down upon me. Before my eyes: three naked, blood spattered corpses, one with the neck
horribly twisted, one with the neck partially torn out and the third with the head completely ripped from
its shoulders; two corpses, one an adult male with his neck grotesquely twisted, the other a mere child,
naked, smooth skin ripped and torn, chocolate brown flesh turned gray; and one corpse, merely a
collection of charred bones.
I had done this!
A wave of nausea passed through me. One can hide in distractions, but the consequences of one s deeds
will always be. A great vista of carnage opened before me, and I suddenly realized that were Francois
here, he would have been quite ashamed and very angry.
Seventy, Dexter s voice crackled, interrupting my contemplation. There s a telegram waiting for you at
your office. Just arrived.
A telegram? I answered, wondering who might send me a telegram. Do you know from whom this
telegram is?
Yeah, Dexter replied. Some guy named Bob Johnson.
That could mean only one thing. In his last letter, my former aide-de-camp had said he had actually found
some promising leads regarding the whereabouts of a certain Jenkins fellow. The previous image
immediately faded, replaced by images of restored fortunes and sweet, sweet revenge.
Chapter 18
Full Circle
Jenkins found. See the Bruja,Catemaco,Mexico .
The terse message quickly obscured all other concerns, etching its way into my memory, the telegram
read and read again until the paper, through excessive handling, grew to resemble parchment.
Suddenly, the sparseness of my drab abode became all too apparent. No longer could the shortcomings
be obscured through a conscious lapse of attention to these details.
But no longer!
My bed would be the most exquisite of carved mahogany, the mattress like clouds, the sheets the finest
Chinese silk money can buy. The splendor of my new abode would be such to even dazzle the most
jaded of aristocrats.
After departing work, I returned to this temporary home, listened to a scratchy recording of Rossini and
studied the atlas, closing my eyes, imagining where next I would call home.
Iwould have my revenge. After retrieving my fortune, Jenkins would watch in horror as slowly his skin
was peeled off his quivering skeleton, the chest ever so slowly torn open, his heart ripped from his chest,
his life blood squeezed into my mouth from a heart beating its last.
Catemaco was found in my atlas as the Italian maestro reached a stunning crescendo. Yes, this tiny
pueblo on the Gulf of Mexico, just south of Vera Cruz, seemed perhaps a good place to lose oneself;
Jenkins would never suspect the visitor he was about to entertain.
It seemed an easy task, thanks to the typically excellent and thorough job by my former aide-de-camp,
Bob Johnson. Simply travel to this quaint little pueblo and seek out the local witch doctor who would
direct me to my quarry. Travel expenses would eat up much of my savings, but this seemed quite the
clever investment. Quite clever indeed.
****
I have been too long away from the tropics, too long exiled in the deadly silent, lifeless wasteland
calledWisconsin . Strolling through the jungle surrounding Catemaco, jolts of electricity coursed through
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