The Lost Country, Episode Three

by | Wayne Kyle Spitzer-7

WHO KNOWS HOW LONG we remained there—just hanging with our bad, crucified selves. It was long enough to realize what kind of trouble we were (still) in, I know that. For while there was an overwhelming sense of relief—even euphoria—at having survived the ordeal (indeed, and at the vortices having quenched the fire), the fact remained that we were now just going to die a little slower of thirst, starvation, or exposure. That is, if we weren’t eaten alive by a predator first—that allosaur, say, which couldn’t have gone far.

So you can imagine how intrigued we were when the ape man showed up and started picking through the c*****e—especially when I called to him and he responded; squatting on the edge of the fountain like Chaka from Land of the Lost, c*****g his head as though understanding (not the words, obviously, but the intent; that we were in trouble and needed his help).

At least that’s what I’d hoped—that is, until he scampered off the way he’d come and we were alone once again; just three former neighbors who wished they’d never left San Francisco (nor experienced whatever it was they had since). Just three average blokes from the Bay Area—who hadn’t had what it took.

But then he came back. And this time, he wasn’t alone.

“Because the square root of a squared number is the number itself,” hollered Fred, waving. “So when you put root beer in a square glass—which is to say, square root beer or take the square root of beer—you get beer! What is so hard to understand about that?”

We all groaned from our crosses.

“Look, Fred, just get us down, would you?” I looked at the ape man, who was looking at Fred. Reverently, I thought. “And what’s with the damn monkey?”

He stopped and dug in his Bermuda shorts. “Monkey? Did you hear that, Kong? Man says you’re a monkey. But then that’s what happens when you’ve got motor oil for blood.” He took out what appeared to be nuts and handed them to the creature. “Ran into this fellow in the food mart and he clocked me with a chunk of obsidian. By the time I came to, Penny was gone, you were gone, even the car was gone. But then this guy came back and I fed him some cashews; and we’ve been buddies every since. Isn’t that right, Kong?”

The thing bounced and grunted excitedly and sucked at the air between them. It sure acted like a monkey to me. “Seriously, though. Can you get us down?”

“Right, of course. Let’s see ...” He examined the base of my cross: a rugged, hinged affair which had been designed—I presumed—to raise and to lower it. “Okay—think I got it. Yep. Just hold on ...” Then he paused.

“What?” I said. “What is it?”

He scratched at his thinning hair. “It’s just that—I would have thought you’d be happier to see me.” He looked up at me morosely—forlornly, even. “Kind of hurts, to tell you the truth. I mean, are my jokes that bad?”

I started to respond but hesitated, wondering about the thing they’d hung on the cross and how they’d come into possession of it; remembering its rotting, reptilian body and its ancient, ancient face, and what I’d thought upon looking at it, which was that it was an evolved dinosaur, of sorts, a kind of manosaur—like whatever was in the spacecraft—something I now realized might have responded to T. rex piss spread on clothing—T. rex piss smeared on skin. Responded to and, thinking we were its own kind, spared us.

And if that were the case—it having been Fred’s idea in the first place—well, if that were the case ...

“Fred,” I said—and smiled down at him, “believe me when I say. I’ve never been happier to see anyone in my life.”

“Really?” he said, beaming. “In spite of the root beer joke?”

“Really,” I said. “More than you’ll ever know.” I added, “And that’s no joke.”

After which, looking uncertain, he went about letting us down.

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* * * *

end.

The Flashback will continue in the next installment of The Lost Country ...

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