CHAPTER 24
The answer – SBLASH!
The question – What is that full-range sound one hears when a glass bottle filled with organic beer is forcefully dashed against the brick wall inside a convenience store?
Eddie Cochran couldn’t take anymore. Mad, bad and dangerous to know, even the burly manager of Cumby’s couldn’t slow his angry tirade down to a whimper. Down went his gorgeous Gretsch guitar behind the counter. Down went the glass cabinet that held the morning breakfast sandwiches. Down went the cappuccino machine, garbage cans, microwave oven transceiver and magazine racks. Down went the shelves once containing bubble gums, broccoli chips, candy bars, throat lozenges, athlete’s foot lotions, shaving creams, tomato juices, hair pomades, and the like. By the time the exasperated manager was able to get help, young Eddie had already zipped out the back door, a six pack of IPA in his bloody, drunken, trembling hands.
Staggering towards the Woodstock golf course, the young clerk noticed a few golfers out on the green. One item in particular piqued his interest – a burgundy colored electric golf cart with a white top, just craving to be jacked, about 75 yards out. Unable to resist the urge, he gulped down the last bottle of IPA, threw the empty in a ditch and started sneaking out towards the cart. Luckily for him, all the caddies and players were occupied preparing for the Heaven’s Masters, or something like it. Jumping into the lonely 48V cart was a piece of cake for the inebriated songwriter. Almost immediately, he located the green button in the center of the console which said START.
DJOOM!
The snug, cottage-like cart sparked to life both quietly and quickly. By the time its owner started yelling, “Hey!”, the Gretsch-strumming boy wonder was already halfway across the green near the 9th hole. It didn’t take long before other golfers leaped into their electric carts to try and commandeer the reckless guitarist. Eddie, fueled by indiscretion, flew through a sand trap, wobbled across a shallow pool, zigzagged around the oaks at the edges of the course, knocked over quite a few golf flags on the fairway, and in an attempt to avoid dipping in a bunker, turned the cart too sharply to the right, causing it to fly head-on between an azalea and a pine where it got caught like a fly ball in a shortstop’s glove. Try as he might, there was no egress. Both of the cart’s exits were blocked by the shade trees. All he could do was sit calmly, take a few deep breaths, wipe the blood off his nose and wait for the lecture that was sure to come from…somewhere.
About five hours later, the Dale Earnhardt wannabe finally awakened on a cool green cot in the ER of Woodstock’s small and cozy Medical Center. Situated right across from the police station and City Hall, the Center could easily be missed if someone was jogging by and not paying attention. The front of it was nondescript – a simple, illuminated red & white sign out front that stated Woodstock Medical Center. Beneath that was an arrow pointing to the ER.
It took Eddie a few seconds to realize where he was. The unmistakable odors of rubbing alcohol and Iodine, combined with the sight of medical equipment and nursing supplies could only mean one thing – he messed up. Throwing aside the thick sheet covering him, he started getting up, but the pain in his head threw him back to being supine. Touching his face, he could feel the bandage strip covering his glabella – the skin between the eyebrows and above the nose – descending down below both eyes, right over each infraorbital furrow and finally around the back of his head. Finally getting out of bed – albeit with some difficulty – he strolled over to the polished metallic mirror over the small porcelain sink in his room. Gazing at the bandage, he started laughing. There was still some blood above the bridge of his nose, but that wasn’t the impetus for the humor. That came from the fact that he now resembled an old-world tribesman, perhaps from some indigenous peoples of Kenya or the Ecuadorian Amazon basin.
“Took you long enough,” a familiar voice uttered from behind him. Turning around, the opaque green curtain between his little room and the next was pulled back by his reclining pal, the recently awakened Tony Lopez.
“Hey, Tony,” Eddie raced over, giving him a kiss. “What are you doing here?”
The young PI, similarly attired like Eddie C in just a simple hospital gown, was lying with a ½ filled, one-liter IV bottle of yellow multivitamin fluid infusing into his right forearm.
“You’d never believe it,” Tony exclaimed. “I was playing with some legends last night, or maybe I should say, practicing. These guys are good. Stupid me tried to match them drink for drink. Well, you see where it got me. Somebody found me in a ditch on the west end. I don’t even know how I got here. But what happened to you, though?”
“Eh, nothing really,” the clerk exaggerated. “Thrashed the store. No biggie.”
The young PI pointed to his friend’s glabella. “How’d you get that cut?”
“I think I ended up on the golf course,” Eddie said. “I don’t remember.”
“That bad, huh?” Eddie smiled.
Eddie squeezed his friend’s hand tightly. “I gotta get out of here, man. This place is driving me nuts.”
“Easy, easy,” Tony said, wincing in pain from his arm where the IV was inserted.
“What’s the matter?” his blond friend asked.
“This IV stings a little because of the tube,” the recovering detective revealed. “Since there’s no plastic, they have to use silicone rubber. It’s thicker even at the point of insertion.”
Eddie gazed at the bottle. “At least half of it is already gone.”
“Hopefully I won’t need another one,” Tony moaned. “I’d have to pass.”
“40 torturous years,” the Cumby’s clerk lamented. “40 torturous years.”
“Of what?” his buddy asked.
“Of being in R&R, man.”
“I’m down to try something new if you want,” Tony promised.
Eddie’s eyes lit up like a candle. “You are?”
“Sure,” his pal conceded. “If you want.”
“Yeah,” Eddie C nodded. “I want.”
With Tony recuperating in the hospital, his partner Gregory, still unaware of his location, decided to continue with his investigation of the death of chanteuse Lady Winehouse or, as George Michael once called her, “the best female vocalist he has heard in his entire career.” Hitching a ride on the back of an electric scooter to Exotic Roots, the 400-acre farm on the southwest portion of Woodstock, the PI ambled through the main gate, down a short, unpaved road framed by a marsh on either side of it, and arrived at The Market, the sole grocery outlet on the sprawling estate. Entering the barn-sized structure, he was greeted by several earthy smells; some familiar, some unknown. Primarily a vegetable market, the majority of products were laid out on easily accessible, water-sprayed stands with every item not only titled but also with a brief description of what they taste like, the best ways to prepare them, which wine they best pair with, country of origin, and other tidbits.
Approaching the eggplant section, he looked at the offerings on sale – long, thin, deep purple Japanese eggplants; lighter colored Chinese eggplants like Oriental Charm and Ping Tung Long; round, purplish graffiti eggplants that, if one wasn’t paying close attention, would think were large bulbs of purple garlic; the extremely rare, egg-shaped, tango eggplant which came in colors of white and yellow; golf ball-sized Thai eggplant – definitely an acquired taste because they’re pretty bitter; and the Chinese round mauve, an eggplant almost identical in size, shape and color of a violet heirloom tomato.
Every red-aproned clerk, he noticed, was busy helping customers, so he continued perusing an exotic root aisle which contained baskets of vegetables he’d never seen till now. One basket contained salsify – a long, dark brown root one could almost nickname Giant’s Fingers; New Zealand yams which, truth be told, looked like giant maggots with red, blood-colored lines around them; Spanish tiger nuts – imagine a basket full of adult human thumbs. For the avid mathematicians, there’s the Romanesco – a cauliflower cousin whose spirals on the head followed a Fibonacci pattern; and c
eleriac – a potato substitute that resembled the pale, unshaven nutsack of a war-torn Viking, the smiling PI thought, then sniffed it as if half-expecting the pungent, salty odor of Medieval battlefield sweat. Looking up, he finally saw a clerk that was free and approached her.
“Excuse me,” he began. “You have a pretty unique collection here. I want to try some of this stuff when I leave, but first I have to speak to Janis, Janis Joplin.”
“And you are…?” the clerk asked.
“Greg Angelicus,” he answered. “I’m the PI doing the investigation on Ms. Winehouse.”
The young woman, first wearing a countenance as warm as the morning sun in Egypt, now looked like she could freeze mercury with just one glance.
“I don’t know if she’s here,” the clerk said dryly then started to leave.
“Wait!” the PI called her back. “I’m not an angel. I’m with you, on your side. I’m just looking for answers. Everyone is.”
The clerk inhaled, then exhaled, and finally returned to Gregory.
“She’s out back,” the worker reluctantly admitted.
“Where out back?” the PI inquired. “This is a 400-acre farm.”
“Then I guess you’d better start looking,” she suggested and exited.
You’re lucky I’m in a good mood today, he said as she disappeared.
Strolling out to the farm, Gregory stood near the rear door and surveyed the vista spread out before his eyes. No doubt, the farm was huge, probably the size of Universal Studios Hollywood as he’d remembered. Rolling, well-manicured hills of variable green hues lined the landscape to the left while one long row of greenhouses sat on the right. Between the two scenes were acres and acres of planted vegetables, some fully exposed to the sun, and those with fragile leaves protected by wide canopies. Water sprinklers could be seen throughout the entirety of the well-designed farm. All the workers, perhaps 40 in number, were busy planting seeds and stakes, harvesting root vegetables, pruning beds or repairing broken water conduits.
Arriving at the first greenhouse, the PI stepped in and was instantly amazed by the intoxicating smell of the well-arranged selection of non-native herbs; it was like crash-landing on Earth II and waking up in a never-before seen rain forest. Several workers and customers were milling about, either fertilizing plants or sampling their leaves. Gregory ambled over to a young, brown-haired worker in her mid-30’s who was transplanting herbs from smaller pots to larger beds with a hand shovel.
“Hello,” he greeted the clerk. “I was curious. Some of the plants here have really strong scents. What kinds of plants are they?”
“Just herbs from all over the globe,” she answered. “Jamaican thyme, Vietnamese Crab Craw herb, headache plant…”
“Headache plant?” the ex-cop asked, stupefied.
“It’s a medicinal plant,” she replied. “The Vietnamese chew the leaves for their headaches. They also stir-fry frog’s legs in them, but obviously, not up here in Heaven.”
“Pretty cool,” Gregory said. “I just passed a plant with a really nice smell, kind of unique, like jasmine.”
“That’s probably the Nepalese pandan,” she stated. “They use it to flavor rice, you know, like basmati.”
“Sweet,” the PI nodded. “Where do the seeds come from since no one can go back to Earth?”
“Culinary Heaven, Farmer’s Heaven, different places,” she revealed. “You’re new here, huh?”
“My first week,” he answered. “My name’s Gregory Angelicus. I’m…I’m glad to make your acquaintance.”
“I’m Amy,” the clerk introduced herself as they shook hands. “Amy Sweeney.”
“Tell me something, Amy,” the PI said. “How come there are so many farms in R&R? Seems like they might be out of place.”
“Hardly,” she retorted. “These farms are small compared to the ones in the Garden of Eden; that’s what we call Farmer’s Heaven. Now that place is huge. Almost endless, really. A lot of mouths to feed, you know. No, these local farms were set up to keep the musicians busy. Slothfulness is kinda looked down up, I guess.”
“I take it you’re a musician, too?” the PI asked.
“Not yet,” she answered. “I was a flight attendant. I petitioned to come here a couple of years ago because I’ve always wanted to learn how to play drums. Can you imagine my teachers – Keith Moon, John Bonham, Karen Carpenter, Jim Capaldi, The Rev, Cozy Powell, Nick Menza, a lot of people. Tré cool.”
“Flight attendant, huh?” Gregory wondered. “One of the big carriers, like Pan Am?”
“American Airlines Flight 11,” she answered.
The PI, looking puzzled, snapped his fingers a few times. “Fight 11… that sounds familiar. Where’d I hear about that?”
“September 11, 2001,” she answered somberly. “I was part of the crew when we got hijacked out of Logan International. All of our lives ended when we crashed into the North Tower of the World Trade Center.” The horrible memory caused Sweeney to start crying.
Gregory put his arms around her. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he cooed. “You’re here now. You did good. It’s not your fault.”
“You know,” she said, sobering up, “I’d initially wanted to be a singer but, you know, good pipes are a gift. I envy people like Ella Fitzgerald, Grace Slick, Janis Joplin…”
“Back on Earth,” the PI stated, “I was one of the biggest fans of Janis Joplin.”
Amy perked up. “Oh, yeah?”
“Sure,” Gregory answered. “Saw that movie twice. You know, the one with Bette Midler?”
“The Rose,” she said.
“Yeah,” the PI smiled. “Great film. I heard Janis works here in Exotic Roots.”
“Oh, sure,” the clerk said. “Just go back out the front, take the long central path down to the fifth or sixth greenhouse. She works between those two.”
“Thanks, Amy,” he said, shaking her hands. “I appreciate that.”
“Sure,” she smiled “No problem.”
Wow, the PI thought as he strolled towards the fifth greenhouse, she was in the midst of 9/11, looking out the window of a plane just before it went slamming into the World Trade Center. Unbelievable. I would’ve been a basket case by now. Amy, more power to you, sister. You are one strong woman.