I Wonder Where This is Going

It might sound strange, but I write about three thousand words a day, some days a lot more. There are a few days where I don't write, but mostly I do. This introductory story is just over 3400 words and seems the entrance into a book of maybe ninety pages. It is a first draft to a book idea I had woke to a few mornings ago. It came with the eleven chapters and the epilog, but grunting them all out onto the page is going to take some time. The vision also cme with three or four follow up books, so many years of work I might never do. . . 

The Road to Almitra
Fragment by David Smith, All rights Reserved

1.1 I'm writing this incognito.

If I had used the professional name I put on every  article I write, the person finding this little story might bring into it part of an opinion about what they are reading. For a writer this is not entirely a bad thing. I have been writing a daily sports bi-line for more years than I can remember and that's no exaggeration. I really can't remember quite a few of those years and they often sort of blur into one another. If you were to ask me about a specific game, or some trivial firing of a manager that hadn't ought to have been let go, something specific, I could probably tell you the whole story; or at least enough of it to fill two columns of half sheet print. I write a syndicated bi-line that seems to be pretty well received. Just ask my manager “Manny” (not his real name). He's the one that puts the checks in the account and he seems mostly happy it. At least it seems to put money into an account. I've never seen it. But I've never been able to empty out either; and I really tried; more than once.

I have an easy writing gig, even though I cover the weird sports stuff people don't usually watch on television and never hear on the radio. Articles about The One Horse Race (with literally one horse in it), or the big game of actual Native American Lacrosse played in a meadow outside of Detroit. They do this to stop a blood fued , but there's definetly blood in it at times. These sorts of Sports usually don't wind up being about the statistics which Sports Enthusiast love to ponder. Writers like me, that can tell a good story about Gaelic Football, or let you feel the heat of Fijian Rugby culture, put something fun between the meat and potatoes of horse races with more than one horse in them, or sports where statistics matter. Anyway, it seems to pay the bills. Just ask “Bill” (again, not his real name), my accountant. It is a pretty good gig and I seem to do pretty well at it.

For a guy not saying his name you could guess at it right now and be correct. But my name simply isn't why I'm writing and the story isn't about me or the usual stuff I write about.

No. This little story is about the single most interesting man in the world. A guy who is either the biggest and best liar I ever met, or maybe the best there ever was. A man with a story so absolutely weird and unbelievable, but told in a way that it comes out as honest somehow, that I spent eleven weeks letting him tag along with me as I flew from place to place, gig to gig. I mean to say that this old man is something new.

I'm a writer. I have to tell stories and I couldn't stop it if they chopped my arms off and sewed my lips. But this story is one of those deserving to be told. So let's just settle in for a while and get it done. Each story starts at the beginning. The end comes later on.

1.2 The Beginning

Like I wrote a minute ago. I am one of those guys who is lucky to be doing what he does. I go from place to place, usually flying somewhere that at least sounds exotic, about twice a week. Then I get to sit next to with someone who is likely pretty famous where he lives and watch some sort of game that is interesting but doesn't get a lot of notice. This story begins on a Thursday morning at about five A.M.

I was staying in a townhouse my booker, "Booker", had set me up in to cover a strange thing involving mild violence and pretty good cheese. (I'm not kidding.) I don't like hotels so I stay in houses people rent out to tourists and visiting professors. I'm told I own a few of these places by Manny and assume I rent them from myself at times without knowing my name is on the paperwork.

Anyway. I'm leaving early for a plane out of LeGuardia International, but I'm in Boston. The plane out of Boston Logan is iced firmly to the ground and I have to be in Spain the next day so I had Booker get me one of those ride share guys to drive me the hundred, eighty five miles to a plane that might actually fly.

An old guy in a light gray Prius four-door showed up exactly at five in the morning. I had to load my own bag into this odd little hatch-back before settling in for what promised to become at least three house of ungodly morning freeway traffic, uncomfortable seating, and fast food scenery.

Note to self: put a bruise of some significance on Booker next time you see him.

The old man driving wore one of those Greek fisherman's hats. It looked black but that was because of the early hour and general lack of lighting on this residential street. The driver had set the front passenger seat so that it laid back pretty deeply into the space usually reserved for back seat passengers. Then he had put newspapers onto that empty front seat until they would probably slip off onto the floorboards of the stupid little car if he had to stomp the brakes. So there wasn't room on the right side of the car for a person to sit.

I thought about mentioning the lack of seating and then pretending to be sort of pissed off about it. But the man was small so his seat was set far enough forward that I would get a lot of leg room and I wouldn't have to engage in conversation with him about his lovely wife or heinous no-good son. I figured to just let it go. Besides, who the hell reads newspapers anyway. I got in and he put his foot to the floor before I could find a seat belt.

This rapid aceration was strike two on the guy's decreasing tipping card and I said “and the count goes two and oh” out loud, but quietly enough the man didn't seem to notice. Gravity, or what airplane pilots call “g-forces”, and the unexpected power of a Prius meant we were going to make good time getting to New York. At this rate I might make it out of Massachusetts before rush hour.

People once took a commuter train to jobs in Manhattan from Massechussettes. Now they all join the throng of freeway bi-passers with jobs in the outer Burroughs. I never had the sort of steady job people thought of as cool in an outside burrough sort of way, but I guess it might have been interesting at some point. And it might seem much more trendy and hip to work where you might get mugged and actually talk to a cop if it happened.

Neither one of us said anything for what seemed to me, a talker without any off switch, to have been a long time. He drove along the freeway at a speed that would provide a quick and merciful death should something go wrong, while wildly weaving in an out of traffic. I was guessing from the nearly white hair and completely white beard poking out of the bottom of the hat that the man might be sixty something, maybe older considering his smallish stature. With wordiness welling up in me I searched for the hook I needed to make talking less about me somehow, though I think we all know the truth.

Hanging from the rear view mirror was a cross and what appeared to be a rosary. Both of these were much larger than you'd expect so let me help you out with a visual: Picture in your mind a standard Catholic rosary, then make it bigger and then triple its size. The thing was huge when compared to every other rosary I even saw, and I come from an Irish Catholic family with an Italian Catholic mother. We had a few of these rosary things laying around on nearly every surface not covered by pictures of Jesus or Mary. This cross was different somehow. If not in form or function, different none the less.

“That's quite a Rosary,” I said. I pointed to the thing but was pretty sure he couldn't see me do it in the rear view mirror.

“Yep,” the man replied, suddenly weaving into the “fast lane' for two seconds before bailing back out because “fast” was not over there at all.

Okay, I thought, nobody gives me any one word answers. “What's the deal on it.”

“It's a Rosary.” The man said, just loud enough I could hear him in a mostly electric car that was proving to be pretty well made and didn't rattle.

“I can see that,” I said. “What's the deal on it?” I repeated the question, and then wondered why I was trying so hard. I really had not intended on getting into any conversations but somehow found myself opening up a can without a label. No telling what was going to come out of it.

“No deal,” the driver said, “I'm a Catholic right now so there's a rosary hanging off the mirror. If I were Jewish there'd probably be a Star of David. I don't know what Muslims hang off of their mirrors but the Hidus and Buddhists hang a ton of stuff off of theirs.”

“I know it's a rosary,” I said, really trying not ot have any sort of jerkiness in my voice. “”It's pretty impressive.”

“By that you mean big?” He said in this same even and almost too quiet voice. “Yeah,” he said, “It's pretty big all right.”

“So what's that all about?” I ask. I was getting more and more curious about it. Now I think I needed an explanation. “Why is it so big? Where'd it come from?”

“Why do you care?” The man ask his question without anger, but there was at least some anger to it.

“Well I'm a Catholic too and that cross looks big enough to have a story worth hearing.” I was feeling like I should say that I am sorry to have brought it up in the first place and then to remain quiet for the rest of the trip. The he answered before I could shut the hole in my face.

“Okay then,” He said, this time a bit more emphatically. “The cross isn't a regular rosary. It's a belt rosary. The sort of thing monks used to wear to keep their wool robes closed up. The Beads are actually chestnut shells worn smooth and turned black from a long time of use and endlessly repeating counting of the Stations of the Cross. The cross itself is said to be of the same wood as the one Jesus got himself nailed to, but I suspect it isn't since it is Spanish Oak. There's no Jesus on this one because it's old timey Jesuit and those guys didn't want to see their Savior killed all the time.” The man stopped and adjusted his rear view mirror so that I could see his bespectacled eyes, which seemed to be crinkled with humor lines. He stopped talking for a moment, “I hang the thing up there because if it's in your pocket it pokes everything it touches and gets tangled up in my keys.” He smiled, though I couldn't see his mouth. “Anything else you want to know?”

“Where's you get it? Antique store or something?” I wasn't feeling like apologizing anymore. Then again, I wasn't feeling like apologizing any less either. Just looking for a way to get out of this conversation and not finding one.

“Fellow gave it to me a long time ago.” The man said, but I could tell more was coming. “It's a funny story. He was about to be burned at the stake and handed it off to me, a stranger, as he climbed up onto the scaffold.”

Okay, I thought. So things just got a lot more interesting then and now I have a story to tell. “Burned at the stake huh?” I said this like it happens all the time. “Rough way to go out.”

“I've seen worse," the old man said happily, "but you probably don't want to go that way yourself.” The man was obviously smiling when he said this. Like his smile originated at the back of his head. “They don't do that sort of thing much these days,” he continued, 'that's good enough for me.”

“So what did he do to get himself roasted like that?” I was having fun now. Fun is alwasy about agreeing to rediculous stuff like this.

“Back then you really didn't have to do anything. Just hang out with the wrong sort of people, read the wrong book maybe. The Inquisition finds out and the next thing you know someone is poking you with scissors or tearing at your balls with old pliers. Dominicans used to be a lot tougher back then.”

“I didn't expect the Spanish Inquisition.” I said this figuring it was funny reference, but with old people might have been too vague.

“Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.”

We sat happily for a while after that. I had found my way out of the conversation and we go to LaGuardia about an hour before I had budgeted in my schedule. Breakfast time was unexpected, the trip did not end in a firey car crash, and the conversation was lively and entertaining. The guy deserved a good tip. But in the time of this conversation tipping was done by the person booking the trip, in the case Booker, who did this sort of thing for me, had probably added a fifteen percent gratuity onto the bill despite having to pay for the return trip to Boston. I decided to let loose of a one-hundred dollar bill I carried around for “just in case”.


1.3 Okay, this is where things get strange.

When I saystrange, what I mean by that is that things happened that I didn't expect and these things developed into a whole big bunch of weirdness nobody could expect. So let me get though this last bit quickly and we'll start in on the really strange stuff in the next chapter.

As I was pulling the one-hundred dollar bill out of my wallet, a move which was as generous as it was me showing off, I heard a voice in my head say the following “Ask about the Road to Almitra”. This voice between my ears was clear, in my own voice, and absolutely used the word “Almitra”, a word I never heard before or used in a sentence.

I have a real good idea about how my mind seems to work. And I like to think the reason people like me is that I listen to my conscience and do the right thing for the most part. The little voice most people hear in their heads is that conscience voice and I think people probably ought to listen to it more. Most people probably have this sort of little voice and the sick ones probably listen to it, even when it says to burn down the local Elks' Lodge. My little voice never says anything about the Elks and I feel pretty good about listening to it. This time the voice didn't seem to be the same as it always had been, and it wasn't telling me to do something evil, but I decided to ignore it this time. This isn't what happened.

As I held out the hundred dollars, instead of saying; “thanks for the ride', which would have been expected, my mouth said: ”Do you know the Road to Almitra?”. Just as clear as day. Out it came.

The tiny little man, maybe five foot four and built like a coat hanger, opened his door and got out of the car. He came out quick and easy, considering that he looked to be eighty-something years old. If there had been time I might have expected to hear his joints creaking. After all he had just sat through four hour of driving.  As his face finally came into view he looked straight ahead into my chin and then and stood there for half a minute doing nothing.  I wondered if I was about to get punched for saying something wrong. I didn't know what "Almitra" meant. Maybe it was an insult in his native language and I had crossed some line into rude behavior without meaning to.

A for the potential for violence I figured I could take him. I was maybe half a foot taller,  half his age, and of Irish descent. I like to think I can defend myself if needed, but I have really never had to fight with my fists. Not even in Junior High School when this sort of thing happens quite a bit. But it didn't come to that.

The little guy looked down after what seemed a long time and seemed to talk to his shoe laces:”What? You been expecting this for a long time? It had to come someday.” Then he turned back toward me.

I was trying to figure out his accent. My ears liked the sound of it. His voice seemed smooth and foreign. Not scary like Korean or Thai, which are hard on western ears. This one was like a lovely brown sauce that added spice to a hearty dish with potatoes in it.

I was still holding the c-note out to him, so he simply had to reach out to take it out of my hand. But he left my hand hanging out  for a longish time until it seemed he might not want the money, but then he took the paper with a nod of thanks broke the tension.“Let me guess,” he said softly, in a clear voice, “you don't know why you just said that?”

I didn't have time to formulate the lie that I needed to tell to get out of the hole I dug myself and didn't answer right away. 

“I'll take silence for a yes then.” His thick accent didn't get in the way of him speaking, but it did force him to use fewer words at times. “Yes, I do know the Road to Almitra. He then simply re-entered the car and slammed the door harder than it probably needed. “I suppose I should to tell you about it.”

As if it were some sort of magic trick, a business card appeared as he stretched an arm out the open window of his Prius. I reflexively grabbed it to take a look. “You can do any of three things with that,” he said while pulling his seat belt over his narrow shoulder. “The smartest thing would be to call me if you ever need another ride to the airport. But you might simply throw it away as well. Then there's a third possibility. ” There was a hesitation to this next sentence. “You call me and I will come with you and tell you how I came to Almitra.”

For some reason I still don't understand what the guy said didn't seeming like a bad idea . Red flags were waving around in my head but it wasn't like he was asking for something right now. “What is the Road to Almitra?” I ask what seemed a perfectly reasonable question. “Why don't you just tell me now?”

The little man laughed, “Let me answer the last question first. It will take time because it is a long answer and your mind must be prepared to hear it. The Second Question is less simple. I cannot possibly tell you now because we are parked in the White Zone. They hang people for less at LaGuardia.  Nor can I prepare your mind to accept the answer in less time than it might take that cop walking our way to tow away my car.”

Undeterred I quickly answered: “I travel every week, so you'd have to go along with me.”

“We will have fun I think.”

“I'm not sure you can always go where I go.”

“I can and I will.” He said this as a matter of fact and was pretty believable.

“So let me ask you this. What good will this do me?”

“No good I think. At least nothing you can use.”

“Can I write it down?”

“You can roll it up and smoke it for all I care.”

“I'll think on it and give you a call.”

“It seems we have at least some agreement." His heavy foot hit the accelerator pedal and he was gone.

1.4 So let's wrap this up.

This guy says he'll go with me to tell me about something I know nothing about which will do me no good. It will take some undetermined number of weeks and he'll tag along with me everywhere I go. I'm figuring I'll have to pay for all of it. But tonight I'm eating Paella in Barcelona and a loaded bagel in New York for breakfast. The most interesting day of my year so far.

 So I'm in.