twenty-something

Four years ago, during my second summer in Burlington, at the age of twenty-one, I would often take long drives on the long, less-traveled Vermont roads to cool down and to clear my head at night.

Four years ago, I was in the midst of my first real relationship, the one with my rarely mentioned ex, Joe. We had started dating that January and fell in love shortly thereafter. That summer, he graduated from college and things became... complicated. I'll save the sordid details for whatever comes after 90s-Something, but needless to say, I was in Burlington while he was home in Massachusetts, and I was caught in a cloud of turmoil and confusion.

I would often find myself on those Vermont roads, driving without a destination, stretching out in to the evening and night, easily three times a week. I explored Spear Street and the like, speeding though Shelburne, Charlotte, Hinesburg, Richmond, Essex... hypnotized by the pavement and all the green, taking in the smells, escaping all that was weighing me down back in Burlington, and Massachusetts, the trappings of my life. Every night I would ask questions but never find answers from the roads or the trees, wondering both "What am I going to do?" and "What the hell am I doing?"

Tonight, the world suddenly cooled from our recent "heat wave," all still covered in rain though the showers had stopped a while before, a fog rolling in with dusk, I hopped in the borrowed car sitting outside my apartment and drove to see where it would take me.

I ended up on Spear Street, of course, and I ended up in a trance. Still too reflective of my quarter-of-a-century milestone yesterday, still contemplating future moves, both literal and figurative, I found myself in a much more stable place than I was some four years ago, but still, maybe, just as confused. The new question was "Where do I go from here?" The answer was as unclear as my direction or destination on that drive as I whizzed down the road, more inside my head than in the car, leaving new mansions and old trees in my wake.

Before long, I found myself at a place I'd been many times before -- a four-way stop in the town of Charlotte, eyeing the sad-looking gas station across the way. As I woke from my driving trance, I remembered that every time I've come to that place, that very stop sign, on all my many drives that have lead me to Charlotte in the past four years, I could never decide which way to go. I think I'd gone each way at least once, but all I could think of were all the times I just turned around in the gas station's parking lot and headed back towards Burlington.

At the crossroads I'd been many times before...

It started to sink in as I realized that Kelly Clarkson's "Breakaway" was actually playing, at that very moment, on the radio.

I just stared ahead and blinked.

Take a chance, Make a change, And break-aaaaaaa-way...

And then I said aloud, "You've got to be kidding me."

So unbelievably cheesy, all of it, and I had to groan. So symbolic that I almost gagged. Yet I still found myself frozen, aware of my path for the first time since leaving my apartment, unable to decide whether to go left, right, or straight.

A car honked behind me and, flustered, I quickly chose left.

Left brought me down a long road I didn't remember and, eventually, I found myself pulling over at the first appropriate spot I could. I had intended just to turn around, but I felt compelled to stop for a second and dig my water bottle out of my bag. In doing so, I realized that everything had turned to night and, in the bushes right outside my open window, were a swarm of fireflies. Now, I don't know that fireflies swarm, but that's what it felt like. There were just dozens of them right there, blinking away at me, so beautiful.

I hadn't seen that many since I was five. For a moment, I considered dumping out my water and collecting them in my empty bottle, bringing them back to my apartment, and waiting for them to magically turn into pennies while I slept.

I didn't take any fireflies with me, but I left after a couple more minutes of watching them. In those minutes, I realized I've got to stop taking myself so seriously. That way leads melodrama and making Kelly Clarkson profound. No, I gotta do more that makes me feel like I'm five years old again. With a smile and a three-point turn, I hit the long road back to my place.

I'm glad I turned left.

You Could Make a Killing | A Story By Patrick Raymond

« Previous (An Introduction)

The day is dead, or at least dying. Daylight Savings comes to claim it early and, as night falls, the cold and grey of it just becomes colder, darker.

Parker finds himself standing outside, chilled, in his corduroy jacket and Red Sox cap. There's a gun pressed against the back of his neck. Yes, a gun. Cold steel. And, though he knows next to nothing about firearms, he knows, somehow, that it's ready to be fired. He's seen this scene in countless movies and crime shows. He knows he should be terrified, but he can't force any canned television emotion on himself. He knows what's to come.

They do their dance in the cemetery, Parker and the gunman. It is Monday, the day before Election Day. A gloomy day. All the same as ever. Parker doesn't really care to take any of this in. All that matters to him?

There's a gun. And there's the grave.

"What do you want?" he hears himself ask, dutifully. His voice flat, unconcerned.

The gunman doesn't speak. The gun does for him. He cocks it and presses it close to the back of Parker's skull. It hurts.

Even I can't see the gunman, and I'm standing right in front of him, behind the grave. I stopped trying to see long ago. Parker's vision is obscured. All he cares to do is stare down.

Calmly: "Whatever you want, take it."

He won't take his eyes of the headstone. It is the one detail that he wants to register.

Wednesday November 5, 2003
No New Details in McGinnis Death
Kendall Moore / Staff Writer

BURLINGTON, Vt. -- The investigation into the death of Parker McGinnis has revealed no new details, police said Tuesday. McGinnis, 29, host of the popular syndicated television show The Other Side, was found dead late Monday in Spring Grove Cemetery. Local police are investigating the death as the world mourns the passing of its most well-known psychic.

"Of course we are saddened to see the passing of such a good man. We are investigating his death fully," Det. Mark Lawson said Tuesday. "At this time, however, there are no new details to release."

Police still have not revealed if they suspect foul play.

McGinnis, a Vermont native, emerged two years ago with his hit syndicated talk show. Dubbed the "Afterlife Oprah," he became internationally-known as a powerful psychic medium, with many who claimed he offered genuine and accurate "after-death communication".

Tandy Miller, McGinnis' publicist, said, "He was, quite simply, the world's greatest. No matter what anyone says, he will always be that. The world is much poorer for his passing."

It is still unknown why McGinnis was in Burlington on Monday. He was set to film an episode of his show that afternoon in New York City. Police feel that this information could help further the investigation.

"We need people to give us any and all information that they have about this case," Lawson said.

McGinnis was set to release his autobiography, The View From The Other Side, later this month. The publisher, Bishop Books, has put the book on hold indefinitely.

He wakes up, trapped in a tangle of sweat-soaked sheets. Parker is freaked, and rightfully so. As he sits up in bed, gathering himself, trembling a bit, blindly registering his surroundings, all but the body beside him, there in the dark, he realizes -- This isn't his coffin, it's his hotel room. He is still alive.

And so, our story begins with a dream, and a cliché overly-dramatic one at that. I apologize. But our story is about Parker McGinnis -- a man who's dreams can come true. You'll have to forgive me.

He sets aside the sheets and stands, naked but no longer shaky, and quietly crosses the room in the pre-dawn stillness. He fumbles towards the bathroom, hits its switch. Blinking, his eyes focus first on the tiny toiletries that litter the counter, then on the sink. He turns the faucet and bends to splash some of icy water on his face, to take a few greedy drinks from his cupped hands.

I watch him, my arms folded, as I lean against the wall, settling into a vantage point between the toilet and shower. He's still gulping water with no clue that I'm even there. It's been that way for a while now. He doesn't see me anymore -- he can't -- but all I can do is see him. I am bound to him, bound to follow him around, to watch. That's my life -- if its even still called that -- these days. It's a little creepy, sure, but for me, it's mostly just sad.

He looks up just then, not at me, but at the mirror, for the first time since entering the bathroom. His bloodshot blue eyes meet with those of his glass counterpart, and the two intently study each other. This is the Parker McGinnis of TV shows and speaking tours. Handsome, confident, well-put-together, even in the small hours of the morning. His hair, though messy and sweat-soaked from sleep, is short, highlighted, and, normally, meticulously kept. His gym build -- mandated by producers -- is obvious in his nakedness and the light covering of hair on his torso is neatly, and unnecessarily, trimmed. My pulse -- what I have left of one -- quickens a bit as I admire the sight, but desire leaves me in the next beat.

Here is my tragic superstar. Here, there are no cameras or make-up, none of his defenses. And somewhere, under all of it, there is still the real Parker McGinnis, the one I knew -- then still Steve Parker, a younger, chubbier version of this man, his hair a bit darker, his heart a bit lighter, a college boy scared of his destiny.

As if to prove my point, just like his old self, he says, aloud: "Just a dream."

His voice -- just a whisper, a whimper, really -- snaps me back from the past. It's one of the moments I've grown to dread, the moments of true intimacy with this man that make me think, maybe, he can still see me, hear me, at least feel me. But as I watch him watch his mirrored doppelganger, I know the whisper isn't for me. It's for him, his practiced nightly affirmation that his nightmares are just that, just dreams, not premonitions. Even though, as he's told himself on many occasions, he doesn't want to die, that he's not ready, both he and I know, on some level, he's accepted it, welcomes it. He's ready, a prophet loaded with a death wish and a vision of his own demise.

We both look into Parker McGinnis's eyes in the mirror. I know those eyes -- their pale, mellow blue -- but just then, and just for an instant, they seem alien to me, barren of all humanity. In that instant, I'm looking into the eyes of a dead man.

I've gotten used to some pretty freaky shit, but this shakes me. And apparently, Parker too. He quickly breaks his little trance with the mirror and bends back down to the sink to splash more water on his face. He grabs a white towel to wipe and shield himself as he walks out of the bathroom. But then he changes his mind, reenters as I follow him out, and comes right at me, right past me, and goes for the shower.

A moment later, the bathroom fills with steam and he hops in behind the plastic curtain. I decide not to peer in, not to watch for once. Instead, I sit on the toilet lid and let him enjoy some peace.

It's 3a.m., but he knows he won't be getting back to sleep that night. After all, it's the Monday before Election Day.

Parker McGinnis is going to die today.