The 2nd Coming of Orlando Rock

CHAPTER 1 — THEY FLY SOUTH TO FALL IN LOVE

I was at the counter buying dark roast coffee for both of us when the cops arrested her. I met Madison at the Save-the-Geese rally and by chance we met again at Love’s, a bohemian coffee shop, after police broke up the protest. From across the crowded room, I watched a broad-shouldered woman wearing a white shirt with a silver badge pinned to the pocket step behind her. Two officers approached on either side. Madison turned, and an argument pursued. The roar of protesters chattering and baristas shouting orders made it impossible to hear their conversation. The big woman jerked her off the stool, cuffed her, and efficiently led Madison curbside. She glanced over at me—eyes forlorn. Customers in the packed shop booed. I pushed my way onto the street, but by the time I got there, they had shoved her into the back seat. With hands fastened behind her, she gave me a desperate smile as I looked through the window, then mouthed the words, ‘the note.’ I tapped my pocket. It was still there. The bulky female officer warned me to stay back or be arrested. She slid into the driver’s seat. The other two got in back, one on each side of their captive. The crowd was restless, and considering everything that had happened at the protest, the police turned on their flashers, most likely as a warning, and sped away. I stood on the sidewalk, shocked and breathless.

Madison had literally run into me at the rally that Sunday morning in Uptown, Minneapolis. Sounds of guitars mixed with drumming and an occasional ‘leave them alone’ chant floated over the crowd. It was a merry affair. I laid on my thin blanket, sun shining, eyelids drooping, cotton ball clouds drifting in the cerulean sky, when a foot connected with my leg. Wham! A woman toppled on me, her body landing square on my chest. My eyes jolted open. She pushed herself up on her hands, clothing hanging like a rag from her shoulders. A rosy scent wafted about her and long, wavy auburn hair swished over my face. I bent my neck up and found myself staring down her threadbare sweatshirt, a naked view between her breasts all the way to her mid-section. When I looked up, intense turquoise eyes gazed into mine.

“It’s not the Grand Canyon.” she said.

“Never been there,” I retorted, “but I’m reconsidering.” She smiled and rolled off, sitting cross-legged on my blanket.

“Do you know why geese fly south?”

“Hey. Didn’t you just trip over me?”

She collected the bottle of wine that had fallen from her grip. After a swig, she offered the bottle and said, “Friends?”

I took the bottle. “If that’s an apology, I accept. Friends.”

Her spicy cinnamon lip balm greased the rim, the wine dark and sweet. The magic and curiosity of her eyes danced over me, her smile endearing. She wore paint-splattered baggy pants and ragged sneakers. Not urban hippie, not vagabond, definitely artist. Red lettering on her shirt read, ‘You can’t save yourself… by yourself.’

“So, why do geese fly south?” I wiped off my burning lips.

“It’s not what you think.”

“I’m thinking genetic.” I laughed.

“Do you really want to know?” Her smile tilted in a mischievous line; eyebrows raised in a dare.

“By all means, enlighten me.” I took another swig and handed the bottle back to her.

She leaned over and whispered in my ear—something I would remember for the rest of my life. “They fly south… to fall in love.” Then she bit my ear. My heart caught fire.

“Ouch!”

“You said, by all means.”

As I turned, our noses almost touched. Her wine laced breath fruity, eyes clear, lips wet and seductive. My stomach floated as gravity seemed to let go its binding force. At the same time, drums beat in unison, cops’ whistles blew, an agitated crowd jumped up, dumping their snacks, leaving half-eaten sandwiches on the ground.

No one expected the line of troopers that marched over the hill. They came full force, helmets and face shields, batons raised, shoulder to shoulder, tromping over blankets and forcing everyone to move back. Park rangers followed with their nets in hand. We sprang to our feet. Geese ran wild, honking with the force of air horns. The assembly moved like a slippery mud slide and I reached out to take her hand, but the surging crowd drew her downstream in a different direction from me.

“What’s your name?” I stood on tiptoes, shouting above the chanting crowd.

She waved, “Wanna go with me?”

“Where?” I cried out.

“Follow the geese.” She yelled back; her voice barely audible over chaos.

The river of bodies swallowed her up and dragged her away. I fought my way through the mass, then circled around, but didn’t find her. I let out an exasperated ‘argh!’ How could the world turn so suddenly from the outside in, to a place I’d kept in waiting, a place I had been ignoring? At that point, I didn’t know her name. Yes, I’ll fly south with you… and the geese.

Rangers netted birds while troopers arrested scores of protestors. A block away, I stopped, out of breath and ready to give up the search. My ear stung. When I touched it, a drop of blood colored my fingertip. Not sure what direction to head, a leafleteer wearing a duck hat thrust a flyer into my hand. Love’s, a nearby coffee shop, offered a special cinnamon drink.

A riotous atmosphere saturated the place as protesters poured in. Raised garage doors opened up the front, tables spread inside and out onto the sidewalk. People crammed five and six together, talking excitedly about the police intrusion while cups clanked and the hiss of espresso machines charged the air. A long line at the counter overwhelmed baristas. The throng was as loud as the honking geese, and I was about to leave when a hand shot in the air. “Over here,” a voice yelled. It was her.

She sat at a table against the wall just inside the garage door. From her paint-splattered outfit and long legs to the holes in her sneakers, everything about her fascinated me. My heart thumped as she pulled her bag off an empty stool.

“I almost had to kill someone saving that seat,” she said. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come.” She flipped dangling wavy hair over her shoulder and slid a cup in my direction. “I bought you a coffee.”

I swung onto the stool. “Thanks. Dark roast, black. Good guess.”

“You’re a potter, aren’t you?”

I raised my eyebrows. “How did you know? Have we met before… at a show or somewhere else?”

“Art shows? Never. The dry mud hanging from your forearm isn’t paint, and the white stuff under your fingernails isn’t dirt. It’s clay. What’s your name?”

“Willi,” I answered.

“William, Wilhelm, or Wilhelmina? Birth name, nickname, or made-up name?”

“William August Moses Steuben if you want the full name.”

“And yours?”

“Madison.” She extended her pinky, and we shook. “Your name is a mouthful.”

“Yeah,” I touched my ear, “Speaking of mouthful, I was thinking about a rabies shot.”

She laughed. “Should I even it out and do the other one too?” When I mockingly turned my head, she placed her hand on my knee, leaned forward, and kissed my cheek, a kiss that lingered long enough for her coffee breath to filter into my nose and her tongue to wet my unshaven face. Then she bit the other ear.

My hand jerked upwards. “Hmm… no blood.”

That side-armed smile appeared on her face. “Should I give it another try?”

“Your cup is almost empty. How about another coffee and a scone instead?”

“I’d like that… but scones are sold out.”

“There was a fresh tray in the display cabinet when I came in. I’ll get one.”

She suppressed a smile, reached into her bag, extracted a sketch pad, and flipped it open. She’d drawn a detail of our table, including the pattern made by wood grain, a crack in the brick wall, and the painting hanging behind us of a farmhand picking coffee beans on a mountain slope. The drawing included a plate with a croissant and my pullover hat next to it. There was no way she could’ve drawn this in such a short time or known I’d wear that hat.

“That’s amazing!” What I wanted to say was impossible.

“It’s an almond croissant. Scones sold out.”

“When did you draw this?”

“My secret... for now. Better go before croissants sell out too.”

I slid off the stool.

“Willi, wait a minute.” She took out a pencil and wrote furiously on a notepad, then ripped the page out and stuffed it into my shirt pocket. “Don’t read it till tonight.”

With a short laugh, I headed for the counter and ordered a coffee and a scone, then stepped aside to wait. That’s when the police had moved in and arrested her. What I saw was more like a kidnapping.

As I watched the squad car race away, a short stocky man approached me.

“You look like you just had your wallet heisted.” He wore baggy pants and a suit coat that looked as though it once belonged to a skid row junkie.

“Name’s Jimmy.” He put out his hand. “I saw everything that happened. I’m a lawyer and those cops made mistakes. Big mistakes. No Miranda, cuffs cutting her wrists, arresting officer’s badge was from out of town, no jurisdiction. I think I can help.”

“Yeah, sure.” I didn’t know what to say. “Any help would be appreciated.”

He gave me his card. “Tell your girlfriend to call me.”

The man didn’t look like he could dress himself, much less be a lawyer. He walked away, and I stuffed the card into my pocket.

Back at the table, Madison’s sketchbook still lay open. The barista had delivered a croissant, placing it next to my hat, exactly like the picture she’d drawn. Astounding! I flipped the page. What I saw was mind-bendingly impossible. The portrait was of a customer I met at an outdoor art fair in Oklahoma the week before. The man had taken refuge in my booth, totally drenched from a wicked storm that ruined the show. It was photo perfect, something that would’ve taken weeks to finish, but there was no indication when or why she drew it. His name was Orlando Rock, a cowboy who came out of nowhere, pointed at the most expensive piece in my booth and said, I’ll take it, without looking at the nine-hundred-dollar price. That one sale miraculously covered trip expenses. The drawing included water dripping from his wide rim hat. That Madison would know him was improbable, that she would know it was raining, impossible.

I stared at the drawing and gasped. What the hell? No way she could have seen or met him at a show six hundred miles away. My stomach floated for a moment, as though time had twisted like a ride on a looped roller coaster. Both drawings were astonishing!

I grabbed the pad, my hat, and the croissant and headed out. As I passed the checkout counter, the barista waved. “Hey, sorry, we were out of scones.” I gave her a brief smile, then walked back to the park.

Rangers had already penned hundreds of birds in wire enclosures. A maintenance crew gathered trampled blankets filling large plastic trash bags. I sat on a bench, mind spinning, and nibbled on the almond-flavored pastry while sparrows feasted on the crumbs. She was truly remarkable, and just thinking about her tickled my insides. When a mosquito bit my ear, I smiled—thrice bitten. I loved the lightness of her being, the playfulness in her eyes, and even my stinging earlobe remained as impressions, like a thumbprint in clay. I took the note out of my pocket. On top of the wrinkled paper, a remarkably good sketch of a goose flew above the words, ‘North side, Lake of the Isles, 4 pm. Thursday. Bring wine. Do you remember why geese fly south?’

That was the day I fell in love.

CHAPTER 2 — THE ART EXPERIMENT

Sunday to Thursday was four days of torture. I had no address, no phone, no last name. Madison had told me she was a painter and part-time instructor at the Art Institute. I thought about calling the school but decided against. I buried myself in studio work, preparing for an upcoming art fair in Chicago. While living in Japan, I had come under the spell of a curmudgeonly old teacher who passed his passion for clay to me. Perhaps I was lucky. At an early age, I fell into what would become my life and my vocation. So, I worked and tried not to think too far ahead. When Thursday rolled around, I bought a bottle of sweet Redblend and headed back to the park. It was a warm, lazy afternoon, strangely silent, with all the geese gone. Madison was there, waiting on an oak shaded bench. A simple tie held waves of auburn hair back, a blue sweatshirt with Picasso in small print over her right breast. She looked different.

I had thought about her all week and was nervous, but glad she was there.

“Hey. Been here long?”

“Long enough to see two good luck white squirrels.” She took a deep breath. “I suppose you want an explanation.”

I sat next to her and stretched out my legs. “You mean your black and white taxi service from the coffee shop? Only when you’re ready to talk about it. A lawyer gave me his card, said he could help.” I gave her Jimmy’s card.

“I could use a lawyer.” She glanced at the card and put it in her bag. “I think I’ll hire him.”

“By the way, you left this.” I handed her the sketchbook. “The drawing of the cowboy… amazing.”

“Oh, thanks for picking that up. It’s important.”

“He was my best customer at a show in Oklahoma.” I didn’t want to sound like an interrogator, but I was more than curious about the drawing.

“Hmm. That explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“Why I drew him.”

“You’ve met him?”

“Never saw him before, but he’s supposed to be part of this.”

“Part of what?” My forehead furled.

“Part of what’s coming.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Toward you or me?”

“Both.”

“Ha! So, you can foretell the future?”

“The future’s a big place, Willi. Some of us can see the pieces.”

“Ok. How did you draw a picture of a man I met and you’ve never seen?”

“He’s a big piece of what’s coming.”

“Oh, and how do you know this?”

She held back a smile, eyes dazzling, and kissed me on the cheek. “My secret.”

“So… am I a part of this future?”

“Most Certainly. A big part, I hope.” She touched my ear. “All healed. What did you bring?”

I showed her the wine.

“I love Redblend.” her face glowed. She pulled out little triangles of individually wrapped Brie and a loaf of freshly baked French bread. “Let’s walk a little and then eat.”

A three-mile tarred path followed the shoreline of a man-made lake with two small islands in the middle. On a park bench under giant Oaks, we passed time and the bottle of wine, snacking on cheese, pulling chunks of bread from the hard-crusted loaf. We shared our histories and work as artists, but she said nothing about her arrest or how she knew the cowboy. Couples on paddle boards glided by, leaving velvet ripples across the lake’s surface. A few bikers speed-pedaled on the bike path. She wanted to know more about my apprenticeship in Japan. I wanted to know more about her time in Paris. When she laughed, she’d bump against me, and I took her hand. Her fingers willingly interlaced with mine. Our common thread was art and laughter. She was easy to be with, like a good throwing clay. It felt like we had known each other for a long time. By the end of our walk, we were into advanced chemistry, the kind that creates deep friendships… and love affairs.

As the sun set and tree shadows stretched into elongated alien figures, we returned to the same bench we met at. The evening was just beginning and neither of us wanted it to end.

She turned to me and said, “How about an art experiment?”

“Sounds interesting. What kind of art experiment?”

“It’s something I’ve been working on.”

“Here?”

“Let’s go to my studio and find out what art is.”

“Ha! And what is art?”

“It’s never what you think. But I promise, it will be memorable and maybe… we’ll discover something about each other.”

Sparks jumped between our eyes. “Can you give me a hint what this experiment is about?”

“It’s about stepping into unknown territory, Willi. For both of us.” Her hand fell into mine, fingers intertwined and pressed together, a touch that radiated with affection. We finished the wine and walked to her car. My heart pounded and my palms sweat. I didn’t know what I was getting into.