Bea Cannon - A Small Gray Dot

I only learned other unpleasant facts about Blue Heaven when I went there to make a delivery. Afterwards, I could attest to the fact that whatever else, it was an exceptionally bewildering pile of sh— okay, I’ve used that word enough for now. I’ll just say that it was a complicated dump. In spite of that, surprisingly, much of the usual crime in the city never happened there, so you’d think it wouldn’t be such a bad place to live. But, as I found out during my initial visit, you’d be wrong because there was a reason for its low crime statistics and that reason made it a rather disagreeable place to live.

Making that delivery was a simple job, one that wouldn’t take long. I would’ve done it for free if I hadn’t been in need of a little cash at the time, because I was doing it for that writer-turned-agent-turned-courier friend, Adam Jones. I’d helped him out before, and he would hand me fifty or sixty bucks for my trouble when he thought I needed it but that time he said he’d give me a hundred and fifty. I didn’t ask him why he was paying me so much more simply to deliver an envelope. I needed the money and I figured he knew it and was doing it to help me out. I’d done the same for folk I knew during my more prosperous times.

Blue Heaven was not a particularly large area – there were much larger subdivisions around – but, as I learned, finding your way through the neighborhood could be difficult and confusing, even in daylight. If you weren’t familiar with the locale, or if you were inattentive or careless, you could get lost. I’m well familiar with that because that’s what happened to me on my first trip there. It was one of the unpleasant facts about the place and one that made it not such a great place to live.

From the beginning, I didn’t like the feel of it. A bridge that spanned the gully around the neighborhood was a part of the road leading in, and the minute I started over it, the sky dimmed and my eyes began to sting. I might’ve turned around but I needed the money, and besides, turning back would’ve put Adam in a bind. His job of being a courier was doubly important after the mail system broke down, and it paid well. He’d found himself with too many deliveries at the same time and missing one would’ve meant a loss of revenue, so I was making the run for him.

I kept going, but I wondered why he hadn’t mentioned the eye-stinging substance in the air. There wasn’t anything like that during the Event but maybe the haze hanging high over the place was different.

Main Street was the road in and it passed through a gateway that sported a small stone guardhouse where two armed guards in tan uniforms wearing nametags that didn’t identify their employer, stopped me. They wanted to know my reason for being there and then they asked me to show some kind of ID.

Adam told me about that beforehand, explaining it was a gated community, a term that meant a lot more than it used to. No problem. Due to our diminished and understaffed police department, a number of neighborhoods operated in that fashion.

“I’ve made deliveries there but never to that particular address,” he said. “So I can’t give you directions but don’t worry, one of the guards will help you with that. They’re kinda of, um, standoffish, but they’ll tell you how to get there. Just don’t ask them anything else.” He also gave me the first indication of how shitty the place was. “You’re gonna want to walk to the address from the guardhouse.”

I frowned. “What? Why?” Not that I minded walking but I’d supposed I would be driving once I found out where it was.

“Streets are bad. Unless you want to take a chance on losing your undercarriage, you’re better off walking. Remember the time I told you about when I busted my oil pan? That’s where it happened, and I was lucky I didn’t also pop a tire or lose a muffler. The neighborhood’s not big so it won’t take that long to get anywhere in there on foot. Besides, they kinda advise you to walk. If I’d listened to ‘em the first time I went, I wouldn’t’ve damaged my oil pan. There’s a place to leave your car across from the guardhouse. It’s not paved but you can park there without popping your tires – or getting stuck.”

I spotted the small lot right inside the gate. If he hadn’t mentioned it, I would’ve driven by. The only reason I could tell it was for parking was the sign that announced in red letters on a white background, “Guest Parking”.

I pulled into the unlined hard-packed dirt lot and got out of my Honda that was ten years old when I bought it right out of college. The last seven – going on eight – years had been rough on it, and wire, duct tape, and prayer was what was mainly holding it together. It rattled but most of the time it ran. I only used my jeep when the Honda wouldn’t go or when I went tracking. I planned on using the Honda as long as it held together but I wished I’d known about the bad roads before I got to Adam’s office; I could’ve taken the jeep. Still, I figured a short walk wouldn’t kill me.

The two oversized private cops in front of the guardhouse were watching me. One was taller than my six-foot-two, and the other was maybe a couple of inches shorter, but both looked as if they ate well.

Blinking my burning eyes, I walked over and greeted them pleasantly while handing over my driver’s license. Their nametags proclaimed them to be “Earl” and “Jim”. Neither smiled or offered me a greeting.

Earl, who took my ID, squinted at it, and then grunted and asked my business there. I explained I was filling in for the regular courier and that the big brown envelope I was carrying was for somebody that lived at 1209 Carter Street. I held the envelope up so he could see the address. It didn’t have a name, just the initials “SL”. He glanced at it with a slight frown then shot his eyes at his companion without saying anything.

My eyes were tearing up and I wanted to get on with it and get out so I broke the silence. “I’ve never been in this neighborhood before. Could you tell me how to get to that address, please?” And, since my eyes were burning and I noticed their eyes looked irritated, too, I casually asked, “Hey, what’s in the air? Is it there all the time?”

To my surprise, the guy tensed and his eyes narrowed. He snapped, “Come with me!” He snatched the envelope from my hand.

I thought his reaction was odd. I was real polite. I said “please” and hadn’t raised my voice. I opened my mouth to ask why, but he growled, “No questions!”

I stared at him but then I slid my eyes to Jim, the other hulk of a guard, and his face was as hard and unsmiling as Earl’s. Both of the big, no-neck goons had guns. They hadn’t pulled them out but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t. Folk sometimes used them for little or no reason so I didn’t demand to know how the hell I was supposed to find my way without directions or who gave them the authorization to detain people. Things had changed and it wasn’t the old days. I sensed raising a stink would make matters worse. I kept quiet and allowed them to escort me into the guardhouse.

Earl said, “Wait here. I gotta make a call.” He handed my license and the envelope to Jim and stepped back outside.

He pulled out what at first I thought was a cellphone but quickly saw was one of the walkie-talkies some company designed a few years back to resemble a cellphone. That made more sense since cellphones no longer worked at all. In fact, there were no longer any cellular companies.

Jim motioned me away from the door towards the back wall. The only seating in the place were a couple of backless wooden stools and he didn’t invite me to sit. He stared at me in silence, his face non-committal. I stared back and remained quiet. He finally turned away and stood looking out the one small window.