A Small Gray Dot

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.

The blockhead with the walkie-talkie must’ve called for his boss because after about fifteen minutes some self-important, obviously higher level asshole in a black business suit carrying a briefcase, came walking up and began holding a quiet conversation with him. The goon who’d been watching me stepped outside and joined them.

They talked for a couple of minutes then the suit shook his head, pulled out something from the briefcase that resembled a credit-card reader, stuck my driver’s license in and pulled it back out. I guessed it was some type of copier but I wasn’t worried. It was valid, so no problem. He ambled in with my driver’s license and the envelope.

He didn’t introduce himself or ask my name, though I suppose he’d seen it on my license. After staring at the address side of the envelope for a second, he handed it and my driver’s license to me. He seemed nervous.

Giving me a cheesy condescending smile, he said in an odd accent, “There’s been a weather inversion and that’s what’s causing your eyes to sting. It’ll go away after a while. You’re free to go, ah, Mr. Marrie.” Then he told me how to get to Carter Street.

To avoid possible further detention, I composed my face into as pleasant an expression as it would go. I nodded and said, “Thank you” and didn’t correct him on the pronunciation of my name. He didn’t say what it was in the air that the weather was inverting but I didn’t ask him any questions including why the fuck the guard couldn’t simply have told me that.

“Oh, by the way,” he said to my back as I was going out the door. “It’s best to walk there from here. Don’t worry about, ah, about your car; it’ll be fine where it is.”

He gave a short chuckle that bordered on being a giggle. Couldn’t figure that out unless he was laughing because he thought my car was a joke and nobody would want the thing.

I didn’t turn to look at him. If I had, he might’ve gotten the impression that I was irritated. I nodded again and kept going.

At least they didn’t search me. If they’d found my gun or my knife, they probably would’ve taken them. The city didn’t ban concealed weapons but in spite of its decrepit state, Blue Heaven was a gated community and such places made their own rules.

But, lesson learned. If you wanted into Blue Heaven without impediment, you stated your business, forked over your credentials, didn’t ask questions, and moved on. I wondered why the hell they’d gotten so uptight about it. When I got back, I planned on asking Adam if he knew.

Annoyed, I hiked down to Carter Street. I noted the roadways had a curious oily sheen to them, and, except for Main, which was smooth and paved with blacktop, were as bad as Adam described. At some point, someone had put down a layer of ankle-turning gravel that didn’t really fill in all the potholes and ruts. I saw why Adam felt lucky not to have popped a tire. The sharp gravel would be murder on balding ones like his – and mine. I wondered why such a crummy place needed armed guards.

I found the address, which was on the corner in what appeared to be a double or triple lot. It was a large, rambling two-story, of an architecture that didn’t quite match the surrounding houses. Faced with stone in varying shades of brown and tan instead of the pastel vinyl of the rest, it was just as grimed but in much better condition than most of the other homes I’d passed. There was a large mailbox near the sidewalk made of stones that matched the ones of the house, but Adam said the envelope had to be hand delivered to the resident, so I rang the doorbell and handed it off to the old man with longish white hair who came to the door.