I remember only writing this semi-sci-fi tale about a year ago, but cannot remember if I ever posted it to the newsgroup(s). After its first edit since it was written, and uncertain of its destiny, I decided to post it, perhaps for the second time. Over time, it might become a series like Tales of the City or Tales from Springdale, but for the time being, it is an orphan tale, waiting for future developments. A Tale of Pearl Street by Dave Laird Copyright 1999-2001 by Dave Laird There is a Pearl Street in every city, town and borough in the United States. Like most of its peers, Pearl Street has neither fashionable shops, trendy restaurants nor even after-hours bars that glow warmth into the night. Rather it is a drab gray color and cold, even on the sunniest days. It is a place where pitiful transients wander down rutted back alleys filled with big mud puddles, babbling to themselves, and those few storefronts and businesses that have survived the test of time leave claw marks in the cracked concrete from struggling to survive another day. I've watched Pearl Street on good days and bad, hard times and good times. I'm Jake the janitor to most of the people who pass by this way each day. I mind my business, I don't create trouble where there isn't any and I keep a clean building, inside and out. A man with a craggy face dressed in a military tan trench coat, a natty felt hat with a feather on side, much like my pa used to wear, perched jauntily to one side of his head came strolling purposefully down the sidewalk of Pearl Street last Monday morning. I was sweeping the front walks of The Eagleton Soap and Powder Company where I have worked for over twenty years. At first I paid him little notice, as people who peer too closely at strangers on Pearl Street sometimes get more than they bargain for, and I'm getting too old for tough guys, anyway. Out of the corner of my eye, I did notice his black dress shoes were spit-polished to where you could see your face staring back at you, and it registered in the corner of my mind how he strode forward, looking to neither side. I just knew this man wasn't another salesman coming to hawk the latest soap powder. He looked like a city cop I once befriended in a tough port city a long time ago. The only difference was that my buddy Roe never dressed half so good on a cop's pay in those days, but who's to say how cops dress these days? After all, this is Pearl Street. "Is Jack Hersig inside?" he asked me, his steel gray eyes carefully scanning my face, attentive, but cautious. 'Any business of my boss's is no business of mine', my inner voice said, and I stayed real still, never moving my hands and acting really dumb. Sometimes if you act like you don't know anything, people will reveal themselves to you without knowing it. "Mr. Hersig is up on the top floor takin' inventory, most likely," I said, taking a little time to examine this stranger pretty well, myself. "I can either give you directions on how to get to his office or take you there, myself. It's your call, sir." He smiled at the instant deference I showed him, perhaps, or just to make me feel more at ease, then nodding, said, "I'd appreciate it if you'd show me the way, as it would keep me from getting lost." Stowing my broom safely inside the front door, I led the stranger to the back freight elevator, which was the only way to the upper floors of the old warehouse, unless you wanted to climb up those three long flights of squeaky wooden stairs. He didn't say a word during the trip upstairs on the noisy old elevator. He didn't flinch a muscle when the elevator stumbled, as it always does, upon reaching the top floor, and he wordlessly followed me out of the elevator toward the back of the warehouse. As I led the way down through the tier upon tier of powdered soaps stacked twenty feet into the air on either side of us, though, I could feel his eyes on my back, still studying me intently. I was glad when we finally reached Mr. Hersig's office, because I was already thinking of ways I could fade away into the warehouse somewhere. Although Mr. Hersig had always treated me right, given my age and all, I was pretty certain I didn't want any part of whatever this man brought with him. The best place for me to be was back downstairs sweeping the sidewalk some more. Carolina, my boss's receptionist, greeted us before I could even knock on the door, and raising her hand slightly, said, "You are Detective Ritzville?" "Yes, ma'am. And you must be Carolina Withingham." I had already started my fading into the woodwork act when Carolina turned and facing me, stating quietly, "Jake, please don't go wandering off anywhere." That shocked me a bit, because it was the first time in years she ever spoke my first name. Carolina was the boss's daughter, and although I'd never given either her nor Mr. Hersig cause to question me over the years, there was still that invisible barrier that had existed between us. I was just the hired help, no more, no less. Turning back to the detective she surprised me again. "Detective, the reason I called you here this morning is because it's my father. He's been sitting down at the end of the hall in a small closet for over two days now, and until yesterday refused to talk to me about what was the matter. This morning he asked for you and Jake by name, but refused to say more. I don't know what's going on or what this is about." I knew he was a cop the minute I saw him walking down the street. But Mr. Hersig asking for me by name? That's like the Pope asking for the guy who cleans the toilets to pay him a visit. I've never stolen even so much as a box of soap, although I know a few who have, so my conscience is clear. I just nodded, and didn't say a word. Carolina took us down the back stairs, almost appearing as if she didn't want any of the other employees to see or hear us. At the back of the second floor packaging room, there is an alcove off the main floor which in better days was used to measure the soap powders, back when we still did our own packaging. She hesitated outside the door, and Detective Ritzville gently motioned her aside. "Perhaps it would be better if you waited down the hall until we see what's going on in here," he said gently touching her on the elbow. Once Carolina disappeared down the hall, then giving me that careful steely look again, Ritzville cautiously opened the door, gesturing silently for me to follow him inside. A long time ago, I was a foot soldier during the war in Vietnam, an ugly part of American history if there ever once one. Thus I have not always been a stranger to living in harm's way, but as I followed the detective through the door, I sensed trouble. The very walls were shrieking of dangers that lay ahead. There was a sulphurous smell hanging invisibly in the air, along with that of soap powder. The faint light from the dim yellowed light bulbs hanging far overhead in the rafters twenty feet above us did little to dispel the mood. I clenched my jaws, gritting my teeth in preparation for whatever lay ahead down the narrow, dusty hallway, following in the footsteps of the detective. We had reached the end of the hallway and we around to turn the sharp corner at its end when suddenly Detective Ritzville grunted, then said, "Hello, what have we here?" Just around the corner from where we stood, I could see a man stretched partially out, his back leaned back at at sharp angle against the wall, his motionless head inclined downward. It appeared that he had some form of green, glowing ball held firmly in both hands, his eyes wide open, staring deeply into its depths. It wasn't until I came completely around the corner that I could see it was my boss, Jack Hersig, at least in form and size. I say that because the man I saw was in serious need of a shave and, from the pungent body odor, I'd say he needed a bath as well. That wasn't my boss, at least the man I once knew to him to be. This was a stranger who looked a little like my boss. Ritzville procured a tiny flashlight from somewhere inside of his coat and shined it briefly in Mr. Hersig's eyes, then downward over his soiled clothing, to the glowing round glass he had cupped in both hands. He shined his light in his eyes once more, and then quickly away. It was if Mr. Hersig were unconscious, yet both his eyes were wide open, fixed on the green glass ball. The detective squatted beside Jack, carefully reaching over, gently but firmly lifting the glass ball from Mr. Hersig's hands, and tucking it into his coat pocket without looking at it further. At first, it was as if nothing had changed, for my boss continued staring bleakly into his now-empty hands. Yet, like a man slowly awakening after a particularly hard night of drinking rum, he began slowing coming to his senses while I peered wide-eyed around the corner at he and the detective. "What the hell was THAT?" I asked, still maintaining my guard from around the corner of the dusty hallway. "I don't know. But's it's exactly what Carolina described to me over the telephone when she called my office. I'm sure we'll have time later to discover what the glass is or does, but for the moment, let's see if we can move Jack outside to a somewhat cleaner and better-lit environment, shall we?" While he reached beneath Jack's left arm, I came around the corner and grasped him beneath his right. We had him on his feet in a matter of a few seconds, and began navigating down the narrow dimly-lit hallway. We had only traveled a dozen yards with only a few more feet to go when Jack began mumbling to himself. To his good credit, the detective ignored the violence obscenities and unintelligible snippets of conversation that Jack continued to mutter as we worked him through the narrow doorway, and out into main warehouse where we carefully set Mr. Hersig down in a chair beside the coat racks. Carolina, who had waited there for us the entire time, stood with her eyes wide with fright, both her hands cupped across her mouth. "Is this the way you found him, Carolina?" "Y-y-yes," she stammered, her hands shaking. "And to your knowledge, Mr.Hersig, here, has never dabbled in drugs or anything of the like?" "N-n-no. He wasn't that sort of person at all. Do you think it was drugs, then?" By this time Mr. Hersig was showing signs of life, rubbing his eyes with his hands and slowly beginning to move. Ritzville gently cupped Jack's face and, turning it up to where he was looking directly into his eyes, asked, "Can you tell me about what was happening in there? Your daughter called me early this morning after she discovered you sitting in the hallway. She states you may have been there for as much as a day or two. Do you remember anything about why or how you got there?" Jack Hersig gazed back at Detective Ritzville for a few seconds, his eyes widely dilated and never wavering. "Could I have a cup of coffee please? I'll tell you what I know, or at least what I think I know, but I really could use a cup of coffee right now. That, and perhaps a tall glass of water. I feel like I haven't had a drink in weeks." Carolina bustled down the hallway, returning a few minutes with a tray that contained a pitcher of water, a tall glass, a ceramic cup and a carafe of hot coffee, setting it down beside her father on the bench. Mr. Hersig drank two full glasses of water in a matter of a minute, without stopping to catch his breath. Then, pouring himself a cup of steaming coffee, and cupping it in both hands, he smiled wanly at both of us. "You must really be thinking I'm crazy or something, but do you have the green ball, by chance?" Detective Ritzville patted the pocket of his trenchcoat. "Yes, I have it right here." "I don't know if either of you will understand this," Jack began. " but I was opening up a carton of detergent and it was there, wrapped up inside a faded old oil cloth. I remember I set it aside without unwrapping it while I finished checking the carton. We've been having trouble with several of our shipping cartons being half-full, and I wanted to make certain all the cartons were okay. When I picked it up, I still didn't pay it that much attention, as I had to check one more carton. I only remember when I went into the hall to get the invoices, I was unwrapping the orb as I was walking, and I looked directly at it." "What happened?" Carolina asked, her eyes wide with wonder. "I had a dream like that once. I saw my life as it never was before. I could hear the crickets outside my grandmother's house on a summer's evening, I fell in love with Mindy Crawford at age ten again, just as it was back then. I even went walking across the railroad trestle down by the creek, this time without my dad dusting my backside with a belt. I did everything I have ever done that was wonderful and rich with life at the time, but then I couldn't stop. As fast as I would try to put the orb down, another memory would come and I simply couldn't let go." "You mean you didn't want to let go?" Detective Ritzville asked, his voice still calm, but with a notable edge to it. "No," Jack stated with emphasis, "I couldn't let go. It... whatever that is in that orb wouldn't let me go. It kept coming at me in wave after wave, and all it was was my own memories, but so full and wonderful. I've never had dreams like that before in my life. Do you think it might be some kind of a drug or something?" Detective Ritzville reached into his coat pocket and withdrew the glowing green ball, cupping in carefully in one hand, and glanced at it one time, then with Jack, Carolina and I as witnesses, the unexplainable happened. "No, I..." Suddenly the hard-bitten face of Detective Ritzville went lax. The hard lines around his eyes I had noticed when I first saw him softened, as if something had taken all the tension and steely qualities out of the man. His eyes widened for just a moment, as if seeing something wonderful and surprising beyond words. Then he sat down in the middle of the hallway as if someone had cut his legs out from beneath him on a football field. I shook him, gently, and squatting down beside him on the floor, I saw right away, he was in the same condition we had found Jack, my boss, only minutes earlier. There are places where great individuals of tremendous logic and thought perhaps would have spent years analyzing whatever form of miracle my boss, Jack Hersig and now Detective Ritzville had just unfurled. No doubt they would have sensible explanations for everything, of how a simple glass ball could so dazzle the minds of ordinary men. However, in that moment, I knew there were no answers, only more questions. I only knew there was insidious danger to whoever looked within, and the unexplainable. Being careful not to look at it directly, I snatched the glass orb from Detective Ritzville's possession, watching him closely. "I...I was there, back when I first graduated from boot camp in the Marines. My parents and my girlfriend were all there and it was...splendid. I was so proud..." I pivoted on my heel, and wordlessly turned facing the brick wall of the old warehouse. I cannot what my emotions were, excepting that I felt the need, before this all got completely out of control, to do something, even if it were wrong. I drew my arm back, and with every sinew in my body, I hurled the green orb at the brick wall, where it shattered into a million pieces of green glowing light and disappeared completely. The shards of the broken glass ball simply disappeared, leaving not a trace of broken glass anywhere. Later on, I looked, and other than a brief mark on the wall where the glass ball hit, there was not a trace of broken glass anywhere. Weeks passed, but the glass ball was never mentioned by any of the four of us again. I went back to being Jake the janitor, and my boss, Jack Hersig averted his eyes from me anytime we chanced to meet one another in the warehouse. It was as if he were afraid of what I knew, at a fundamentally deep inner level, although I didn't know anything. His daughter, Carolina submitted her resignation about two months later, and shortly thereafter, she and her entire family moved out of town. With Carolina gone, six months later Jack closed the soap powder plant and finally acceding to the wishes of his family, took his retirement. On our last day of business, he wordlessly handed me a manila envelope containing a check made out in my name, enough money to keep me in pipe tobacco and single-malt whiskey for the rest of my life. I was sitting last evening in the darkness on my front porch, smoking my pipe and enjoying a good cup of tea, when Detective Ritzville suddenly materialized out of the evening dusk and walked up to where I sat overlooking Pearl Street. I couldn't see him clearly, but that doesn't matter. I remembered him well, and I could sense the crinkled lines at the corners of his eyes in the darkness, as he smiled at me. "Jake, I have another job that just came up. It perhaps might require someone of your particular skills, which I feel you might find...ah, interesting?" It was a question and a statement of fact all rolled into one; it had no answer; it asked only a decision. I set aside my cup of tea. There would always be time for tea later, and I followed him into the gathering darkness.