Failure To Communicate: Part III

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This post is part of a story, to go to the beginning, click here



After standing up and dusting myself off, I took stock of the situation. There were two ways out of the basement that did not involve the use of a key, but one was blocked by enormous rats, and the other was only accessible by a route that led me right through the boiler room. I had never been within 20 feet of this room, since I had seen it from a distance, and knew that there was a bottomless pit beneath the boiler. Any five year old boy knows that skeletons live in bottomless pits, and they only long to drag you toward unknown horror if you give them the chance. In this case, however, the skeletons were less of a threat than the rats, because the rats already knew I was there, and I could probably sneak past the skeletons if I was careful.

I crept to the end of the hall trying to see down into the pit below the boiler. There was a glimmer of bone white behind one of the supports that I could see. I would be spotted as soon as I entered the room. Skeletons are slower than rats though, so I decided to make a break for it. I tore across the room and slammed into the metal bar which opened the latch for the outer door. I pushed on it, hard, and the tight hydraulic pump on the top fought against me for a moment - giving the skeletons enough time to crawl out from under the boiler and rise behind me. I slid out into the alley and pushed the door closed again - they did not have time to reach the door before it latched closed. Hopefully they would not be able to figure out the latch on their own, but I made a point of not delaying in the alley for long, just in case. I wouldn't be able to open this door again anyways, as it had no handle on the outside. I quickly swallowed the regret in the back of my mind. By not looking over my shoulder, I may have passed up a rare chance to see live skeletons in their natural habitat.

Looking around I could see a pretty simple choice ahead. I could wade through trash and step in gooey yuck to get to the back wall, risking dark shadow that might contain more skeletons or rats, with no guarantee of an exit in that direction, or I could quickly slip over the barbed wire fence and walk around the building to the front door. 45 seconds later, I was hopelessly entangled in a coil of razor wire, with minor lacerations all over my body and still no one in sight. It was after midnight, and Morningside Park emanated a thin criminal stink from across the street. This was where the upper west side went for illegal powders of all kinds. As a five year old, I knew only that I was not to talk to anyone who came out of that park, or to ever play there. In addition to having been told not to play there, I was also prevented from playing there by the large stainless steel blades perforating my pajamas.




continued

Failure to Communicate, part II

This is part of a story. To go to the first chapter, click here.


It was summertime, so I didn't really notice the temperature of the floor, or maybe I would have paused for some shoes on the way down to the basement. I had to leave the door unlocked, because I could only operate the massive, French made, 20 pin-tumbler, 4 cylinder-blocker, New-York-City-crime-resistant lock from the inside of the door, as I did not have a copy of the strange, weapon-like key. I was five years old, and could not be trusted with objects that were not designed to be destroyed by five year olds.

I walked down the hall to the elevator and pressed the button next to the "B". This would take me to the basement, where my parents would be doing laundry incessantly, together, for hours at a time, almost every night. There really wasn't anything else for them to do when I was asleep. When the door opened I noticed that it was dark in the basement, especially in the room with the rats in it… The one with a wide opening into the hall between the elevator and the laundry room… This was not a problem, my parents were waiting just beyond it, so there was no need to fear the 2 foot long objects darting across the single square of dim light in the dark chamber…

The basement floor was cold enough to remind me of the usefulness of shoes, a discomfort which seemed negligible until I rounded the corner into the laundry room to discover a total lack of parents. They didn't even have a load running. It was time to get out of this creepy basement. I ran back to the elevator and went to push the button, but was cruelly reminded of my key-free existence again, as the elevator could not be called without leveling the pins of a circular lock from this level.

I decided the best course of action at this point was to get my cold feet of the basement floor, which could best be done by lying down on my stomach, a position which also allowed me to whimper while pounding the cement with my fists. This technique was known as the solution to almost any problem - but it failed here, due to principles which are too complex to be explained in this short blog. Suffice to say that I declared it a wash and stood up again, knowing it was time to start coming up with a plan. There were skeletons in the boiler room, and they would be hungry at this time of night, so I had better think fast.

Go to part 3

Failure to communicate

It was about 10:00 pm in New York City. I was five years old, and tucked into the bed on the bottom bunk, in my bedroom in a sixth floor apartment on Morningside Drive. There was a plaster patch on the wall from where I had tried to tunnel through the earth’s core and a machine I was building from scraps of trash I found on the sidewalk haunting this room. Having just finished my evening snack of raw garlic, it was time to disturb my sleeping parents in order to procure water. I untangled myself from my bed sheets and wandered into their bedroom without knocking. There is no need to knock before entering your parents’ bedroom at night.

“Mommy?”

“…”

“MOM?”

“…”

“DAD?”

I went to shake one of them awake, but there was no one in the bed. No wonder they had not responded. Using deductive reasoning I determined that they had gone to the basement in the middle of the night to do laundry, and promptly left the apartment to seek after them. I would have my water if I had to go to the ends of the earth to get it.

Continued

उह ओह

Nanobots under my skin are being used to transmit my thoughts to a CIA database which is federated to an alien battle cruiser assigned to monitor our solar system and slowly leak technology into our society until we have reached an acceptable understanding to cooperate with their regime.


I am gouging them out with a spoon though, don't worry about me!

The Game Update.

I finally got those pictures from frank, so those of you who didn't believe it really happened may eat your hearts out.

http://picasaweb.google.com/maxmaclaren/MaxBDay

Email me if you would like a copy of the print they passed out at the starbucks and the last drop.

Also email me if you have an idea for a rebuttal! Those involved deserve fabulous birthdays!

Robots

I like robots. Once I programmed a robot to navigate a maze. Brendon helped. Our stategy was to use a "bashing" algorithm, which would reorganize the maze into simpler tasks by using the robot's accelerational force to knock the walls down by repeatedly smashing against them. Top scientists in the field are now employing our research.



Actually, that robot is terrifyingly well designed. I wonder who will get the contract to mount a machine gun on top of it. I bet the peaceful applications for such a device are innumerable. We can use it to traverse all of the environments that mankind has made uninhabitable, for instance. And that thing would be wicked good at wandering around on the moon or mars or whatever. I think I need one to serve drinks on my sail barge at desert parties. It would be a whole lot better than that translator droid I bought off that crooked bounty hunter.

Broccoli ammendment.

      It was pointed out to me last night, by Kristy, that peeling the stalks of broccoli is not always the way to go. while she claims to enjoy the peel and leaves of the stalk, I feel that these parts of the plant are much to fibrous for pleasurable consumption. For those who do want this rich source of vitamins and dietary fiber to be part of their meal, my solution is to julienne the stalks, or slice them absurdly thinly, prior to cooking, so that you don't choke on fiber.

      I really like the idea of including cut up stalks in a risotto or curry. Julienned stalks can be boiled in with pasta for a refreshing twist on any primavera.

      Also, if I ever catch any of you throwing out the stalks, you are gonna owe me 20 push ups and 10 suicides (and I mean the ones across the whole gym, jerk).

My Opinion on Broccoli

by Max Maclaren

Purchasing:
Buy Broccoli at the grocery store. Dumpster Broccoli tends to be rotten and stealing it from a farm is wrong. I suggest going to your local purveyor of expensive organic goods, since broccoli will not cost much more there, but will kept in a misted environment and more varieties will be available. Do not pay attention to which type is organic or local or hydroponic or whatever. Just buy the kind with the darkest, most consistent floret.

Broccoli has two edible parts (the floret and the stalk), which should be treated as separate entities. I feel that stalks are fairly consistent and take on a background task in foods, so broccoli should be selected for the floret. You should note that there are other types of broccoli out there, and if you run across such as romanesco broccoli  you should take advantage of the superior texture and mathematically pleasing florets. Sicilian Purple broccoli bears more resemblance to cauliflower than other broccolis, and like broccolini, is not the subject of today’s rant.

Cooking:
The florets are the most flavorful part, and there is only one thing to be done. Blanch them. Cut them all off the stalk (I like a birds beak paring knife for this task) and put the stalks aside for later (they will keep for a week or two in your crisper drawer if bagged and dry). Boil some water with a few tablespoons of kosher salt, and dunk the florets in until they darken in color. A minute or two should be plenty, do not overcook them at all. Take them out and strain them, you can serve them alone, or in a salad (broccoli florets pair nicely with fresh mozzarella). Due to their high surface area, they will not retain heat well, so if you wish to serve them hot, add them as the final ingredient to a sauce, so that liquid or emulsion can keep their heat even with other items on the plate. Alfredo comes to mind, but stir fry with teriyaki or the inside of a twice baked potato is a good place to keep them warm.

The stalks can be treated like a root vegetable or asparagus. Peel them with a potato peeler and cut the bottom ends off, and they will make a nice addition to any dish you would put asparagus into. Even just fry them in oil with garlic and salt like potato fries to make “broccoli fries”.

Overall Opinion:

I like broccoli. It is a good vegetable.

The Game, Part 4

This is part of a series. If you haven't already, you should start from the beginning.






      The soda is warm. It has been on the counter all day. I put it in the fridge, replacing the last can of normal cherry seven up. Then I stop. She might fall for it, but she deserves this victory. I will drink it in front of her later on. I stuff it into the back of the fridge and get the empty 7up plus can from it’s hiding place behind the radiator to carry with me per the instructions.

      Frank and I turn toward the clue. It is pretty simple, and accompanied by a pack of photographs.

“These lead you somewhere.”

They sure do. It is pictures, taken every 50 yards or so, of various points between oak square and Frank’s house in Watertown. The last one is of a gutter. I tell frank we are going to his gutter, but he is pretty sure that it is not his gutter. We jump in the car anyways, talking about stopping at the skating rink in one of the photos. We are halfway to the rink when his phone rings. I focus on driving my rocket car instead of the side of the conversation I can hear. Frank hangs up the phone, “Dude, just go straight to my house, it is my gutter.” We are late. I am used to that. A batman symbol spins across your whole field of vision, and you hear a rapid scale up and down and up two octaves. Now Frank is pulling a Ziploc bag out of his gutter.

“Call:

(617) 268-1379

145 Ipswich St
Boston, MA 02215”

      There is a 20 in the envelope. I call the number on franks phone, and he runs upstairs to wash up. It rings 10 times before I get to the door, and 5 more times before I get up the stairs, and I count 19 total before I get a response. “something cab company” “I am sorry, too many rings, I am calling a better cab company.” Frank has already determined that the address is that of Jillian’s, and calls Watertown cab, where they know him by first name. We convince Jenni to come along, even though it appears she has her heart set on killing a virtual hobgoblin. “Fair is gonna be there” “OKAY” That was easy.

      I move my car until it is unticketable and the cab arrives in the time it takes me to do this. We arrive at Jillian’s a little after 8 pm. It has taken us just over 7 hours to complete the puzzle. The cab driver knows Jenni and Frank both, and we whip through secret back roads that I didn’t know existed. He even bends the fabric of the universe in order to leap through space-time so we don’t need to get back on Beacon Street when we get off of Storrow Drive. I get out and don my crown. I warn Frank that there could be demons, but he has already ditched his bag, so we have no defenses if we are attacked. The bouncers do not notice my crown, and see no issue with me carrying an empty can of seven up plus into their establishment. One of these same gentlemen will later accost Alex or Jesse or maybe it was James for wearing a baseball cap indoors. I am truly excellent.

      Nobody visible on the second floor. We bump into Rodrigo on the way to the third. He is in a good mood “Heh, Sorry I ruined your surprise, Max- I mean your- I mean … not … your … not … surprise … “ I give him one of those half hug/half pat on the back things you give to your brother in law and let him go on his way as I finish my victory lap.

      Olga and Fair have assembled a whole bunch of completely awesome people on the third floor. They are taking up an entire section of the seating, a full block and then some. Olga comes up to me, everyone is smiling. “Here you go, Peach, I got you something.” I hand her the empty can and put the bunny ears on her head. “Holy shit, guys, this was the best birthday present I ever got in my life” I have gotten some good ones, too. I tell bits of the story, starting with the bit where Voice made me shave my leg (which I proudly display). Olga and Gino brighten – “oh did you like that guess what he is here!” I turn around and there is Voice, “nice to meet you, happy birthday, I hear you like Scotch!” holding a scotch and a cup of ice. He is not an asshole after all! In fact, he is an old friend of Gino’s visiting from Ohio or Wisconsin or some other state. This whole thing has been in the works for weeks. We trade stories and my friends buy me drinks and we all talk and then bowl and then the batman symbol spins halfway across your field of vision, then drops to the floor in front of where I was walking and I trip over it. Fair has made me drunk. That wasn’t even the batman song! Sounded more like the chicken dance if you ask me. I hurl a bowling ball into someone else’s lane and stagger downstairs without any comprehension of how I got out of my shoes. There are hugs to be had everywhere and dancing and I am pretty sure someone is holding me up but I can’t tell due to this blindness that has just come over me. Better punch them to make sure they are sturdy. This is no cab! Rodrigo is trying not to sit on the scraper. More cake! Bed.


      So, if anyone out there has any ideas on how I can repay my excellent and twisted friends/sisters for the practical joke of the century, please email them to me.

The Game, Part 3

This is part of a series. If you haven't already, you should start from the beginning.






      We enter the Starbucks and look around. I feel as if I have just marched into a saloon in the old west. “Howdy”, I say, in a low voice. The dusty cowpokes at the bar turn, the piano music stops, the card players at the multitude of tables set down their sweaty bicycles and bourbon stained poker chips and aim suspicious glares in my direction. I pause for a moment, hands still on the door, not a single motion toward the long six in my holster, so they all know I am not after any bounties. After a moment, the music starts up again right where it left off (because that cheat is using a player piano, I can see his right foot working the pedal). I am free to walk up to the bar and order a-

      “DOUBLE MOCACHINO LATTE WITH NONFAT WHIPPED AND LOWFAT FOAM AND AN EXTRA TALL ICE-A-MUNDO” The barista interrupts my (better) reality by calling out the poorly named beverages he has just prepared, and Frank pushes me the rest of the way into the small, packed Starbucks. We are really not sure what to do, so I get in line. I stand nonchalantly behind another customer, and the cashier looks up with a tremendous grin and points at my ears. I smile, because soon I will be drinking more espresso, and also because I now know we are in the right place.

      When he finishes with the other customer, he looks up “wow I didn’t think you were going to show up!” The next plant is the cashier. CRS corporation has sleeper agents everywhere. Olga and Fair must have spent a small fortune on my birthday gift. “I just want to say, I think it is totally awesome that you are doing this” This guy was enthralled with us. He hands us the envelope and we buy a quadruple espresso and one of those bottled coffee things. We chat with him for a while, and tell him the story of our day’s exploits, he gives me a coffee on the house and I tip as well as I can without being absurd. As we wait for the coffee, the Cashier fills me in on some details. Apparently a mysterious woman named ‘Spicy’ has been in to the Starbucks on a couple occasions to negotiate timing and drop off the clues. It was unclear whether she was Fair or Olga, they are both pretty spicy, maybe a CRS employee had done most of the setup. One of the envelopes contains my car key. The other contains a crossword. The clues have been written using close personal data that must have been collected on me. Fair must have filled out a long questionnaire at CRS, because the clues are all inside jokes that only I can get. Then there is a scramble, with some of the letters from the answers, which spells “the card stop”. Once we realize that Frank’s ‘C’ is actually meant to be an ‘L’, it spells “the last drop”. We thank the Starbucks Crew and run out to the parking lot.

      We wander into the parking lot, that twelfth shot of espresso is coursing through my veins and the end is in sight, but it will be good to see my stolen car again. We see a glimmer of white, the sleek chassis displaces most of the air that had occupied the parking spot in the back of the lot. The rest of the air is still in place. Except for the air that is being displaced by the junk inside my car. Oh, yeah, I forgot to mention the air that is being displaced by the soaped up windows and at least 20 helium balloons that are completely filling my stolen car. After we get in, we actually have to move several balloons to the trunk in order to even be able to see out the back window. Hearts and “Birthday boy” are all over my windows. It should be noted that having one’s car stolen and defaced in such a manner feels immensely good, and I was elated. The entire way to the last drop I felt great, if still a little worried that I might not get it back.

      I park my stolen car in the YMCA parking lot, and say a silent goodbye to it as we walk into the bar across the street. It is about 6:30, so the usual friendly bunch of local regulars is sitting around the bar and the place is mostly empty. The bar tender looks up at me, “What can I get for you?” I wonder if I did the scramble wrong but I had better order a drink just to be sure, “Can I have a Bass Ale?” he pulls on the tap and turns toward Frank, “um… a Blue Moon?”, and as the bartender passes me my beer I decide to bring it up, “Did they tell you a dude with pink bunny ears would be coming in today?” I gesture toward my head to point out the fact that I am, in fact, wearing pink bunny ears, in case they were missed in his initial inspection. “Oh yeah, they did say something about that”, He looks over to his right, where one of the regulars nods. He walks over there and pours a couple shots of Johnny Walker Red, “they said for you to drink scotch with the bartender.” I politely oblige. Frank and I drink our beers and tell the story of our adventure to the people at the bar. They are entertained by my proud display of my partially shaven leg, and recommend that I not take the ears off. Sound advice. Bartender reaches into the papers by the register and withdraws another silver envelope. It has my house key inside. There is a clue in there, too. Nice and simple, this must be the last one. It is handwritten, unlike the others. CRS probably let Fair or Olga word it themselves.

“grab a snack @ tip top street”

      Olga’s handwriting, and our beers vanish. Well, that’s it. That is why we were not allowed to stop at home. There is going to be a bunch of people there, I know it. Frank knows it, too, “I bet Olga has a bunch of people ready to jump out at you when we walk in, dude.” I leave an absurd tip and we walk out to the car. It finally dawns on me that my car is here to stay. I turn the key in the ignition of my very own car, which is mine and not stolen, and exhale. We spin around oak square and up to my villa. The guard at the gate is sleeping, and ten minutes of garden lined driveway later, we pull up to the main chateau. The lights are all off, except for the kitchen. They must have had the bartender call to warn them. We climb the stairs to my second floor apartment in the umm… villa, and I have dibs on the bathroom. I need to urinate before everyone jumps out at me. After washing up a bit, I check the rest of the apartment. It is a little quiet in here, and the reality of all my friends hiding anywhere for any extended period of time is debauchery and giggling. I hear none of this, and one by one, the dark rooms in my apartment turn up empty.
When I return, Frank is already hungrily devouring the cake that was on the kitchen table. I join him, it is delicious. Something resists the knife when we cut into it, however. Another clue. A delicious, chocolaty clue. And there is something else. A can. With a note. The can.

      For those of you who have never experienced “berry” 7up Plus, it is horrible. Infused with vitamins, in order to make it “healthy”, these 12 cans of 7up plus have infested our fridge since last summer. I had convinced Olga that I would drink them if they tasted bad when we were in the store, and after we both tried a foul can of calcium water with carbonation and ear infection medicine flavoring, the next 6 months were spent tricking our various houseguests and each other into drinking 9 of the remaining cans. I am sure I consumed 3 or 4 of the cursed things on dares and tricks, but this is the slickest move Olga has pulled since that time she tried to win “the quiet game” by stabbing me with the kitchen knives until I spoke. The can has a note on it.

“drink this, and bring the empty can with you as proof”

TO BE CONCLUDED SOON!

The Game Part 2

This is part of a series. If you haven't already, you should start from the beginning.



      I shift from one foot to the other. Frank is taking too long. If we are going to call the cops, we need to do it now, before this guy gets too far. Olga must have assured him that it is okay, but hearing it second hand from Frank isn’t enough. I am pretty sure that I have just given my car to an entrepreneurial chop shop representative with the brilliant front of running a professional scavenger hunt mystery thing. I listen to the ipod. Hah. Song 2. Blur. Well, that’s the song, isn’t it? Historically, when I have heard that song on my way out, wildest times have ensued. Not much of a clue though. I hand the ipod to frank, and he listens to it. I listen again. We look at the rest of the clue. The envelope is number 4, we only have 2 so far. Voice must have given us the wrong clue! “That guy was kind of an asshole, huh?” “Yeah” The envelope also has some numbers and letters on it.

Find:
PS 3562.426
B6851256
1991x

      I puzzled on the possibility of it being a cipher of some sort, but the numbers didn’t make sense in a 26 letter alphabet. Maybe PS stood for public school? Frank and I handed it back and forth, some lady in the alley was staring at us. She must have liked my scarf.. We started by walking to the school north of Washington Square. After walking around it, we determined that it was not a public school. Frank thinks the first numbers might be a street number, Voice had mentioned that the alley we pulled into wasn’t the original place he meant to go. “Hey the parking meters have numbers on them!” “Hey maybe we need to go to 1991 beacon street!” Three blocks up beacon… “No way it would be like ten more blocks and doesn’t sound right, let’s go back.” He dials Voice’s number. Voice tells him to fuck himself. We no longer have any doubts, Voice is an asshole, maybe I should double check on my car. “Give me your phone dude, I am pretty sure that guy stole my car. Thanks, hey how do I dial this thing?” Olga answers “what.” “Olga are you absolutely certain that-“ “Don’t call me unless it is an emergency” “But-“ “Is it an emergency?” “no but” “Don’t call unless it is an emergency!” “But he took my ca-“ *click* Frank to the rescue, “Hey lets go to Starbucks and get some coffee while we figure out this clue” I quickly agree. I have been walking through slush and my feet feel like frozen cube steaks.

      Five minutes later, sitting in a crowded coffee shop with a quad espresso, sharing a table with two unrelated college students, frank and I pass the ipod back and forth again. This time, Frank reports a voice at the end. I listen. There is a phone number. “Can I use your phone again?” Frank has to dial, because I have chosen to remain ignorant in the ways of blackberry usage.

“Boston Double Lick Pie Eatery”
“hi, this is Max”
“What?”
“Max Maclaren, I am supposed to arrange a meeting with you?”
“I think you have the wrong number”
“Oh I don’t think so, you see my car was stolen and I am quite certain this number is correct”
“This is not the police; this is the Boston Public Library”
“Oh the library. OH. Okay. Thank you!”

      I hang up. The number on the back must be one of those Dewey Decimals I keep hearing about. After discussing it with Frank, we agree to go to the Boston public library in Copley Square. The college kid at our table confirms that it is a call number. I thank him sincerely. We head for the green line. This conclusion has taken us just over an hour. We really nailed that first task though, so we guess that we are only a few minutes behind.

      On the subway Frank figures out that the phone number only plays in one ear of the headphones, we had both been listening on the right ear. As if to prevent us from having time for slapping our foreheads, I receive my first compliment on my unique headwear. An older woman on the T looks at me, “Nice bunny ears!” I model them for her graciously. “Do you have the tail to match?” I start wishing I had a tail, “I wish I did!” We jump off at Copley Square, and walk into the library. I’m rushing in, and frank is a few paces behind, taking care of the “thinking about what we are doing” task. We interrogate the woman at the front desk, who does an excellent job keeping an almost straight face while talking to me, about the call number. She sends us to nonfiction, a few buildings back. This place is huge, and we have to stop at another information desk before we find the book described. It is in the Croatian section.

      There is a man with grocery bags here, I can’t help but think he must be the next plant. He doesn’t make eye contact, or say anything, so I move into his field of vision. He continues to ignore me, so I turn toward the bookshelf. Frank has already located the book, “The Bourne Ultimatum” in Croatian. Frank takes the clue out of the book and I give him a hard time for losing the place it was marking. I check to see if the guy with the grocery bags is doing anything yet. I am on to you, CRS corporation! Frank lets me bust the clue open.

“Become alert at the next stop.

Luckily, the Seattle corporation

has taken over the world, go to a

close ivy league street.”

      The envelope contains a ripped corner of a photograph. A TJMaxx sign with the ‘T’ and ‘J’ cut off. MAX! (that’s me). “There is a TJMaxx in Copley!” “There are ivy league streets everywhere in Boston, there is probably one around Copley, let’s go! No need to double check that answer!” This dialogue may differ slightly from what we originally said to each other, but after a bunny eared walk through Copley Square, and a quick comparison of TJMaxx signs, and a brief reading of street signs, Frank and I determine that use of Google maps is a viable strategy for confirmation of directions in any case in which you are less than 95% certain of the way. The exact formula is E = 2(P * T), where T is time to arrive at expected destination in minutes, P is Certainty of directions and if E is more than 2, then maybe spending 2 minutes to Google the directions is not a waste of time!

      After Googling the TJMaxx back up on Harvard ave off Commonwealth, we haul our asses back to the green line and take the B up Comm ave. People stare in awe as I march my bunny ears up Harvard Avenue.

TO BE CONTINUED!

The Game Part 1

      Saturday morning. Two days after my birthday. Olga has told me that she has something planned, and to be up and ready to move by 11:00. I am up at the crack of 11:30 and in full gear by noon, which is when she stops by with Gino, wearing mystery, a cashmere sweater, and a devilish grin. She hands me what appears to be a jewel case wrapped in tin foil, with explicit instructions to open it at 1pm. She informs me that Frank should be by around 12:45, so I hop in the shower and get ready to go.

      Frank calls around 12:30 for a ride, since his battery is dead. I grab the tin foil surprise and clear off my car. I am there by 12:50 which leaves just enough time to help Jenni jump his car before opening the tinfoil mystery. I have been thinking about what might be inside all this time, wondering if it was a burned CD or DVD or if the data on it would be audio or video or text. What was going to happen today? It was going to be wild, I could tell that much.

      I rip into it and find the best of James Bond sound track CD inside, with a small envelope tucked into the back cover. Inside is a small silver envelope containing a type written message glued to a silver cardboard back.

“Your first destination is a

place of creation.

Painting and baking, but

absolutely no sculpting “

      Frank asks “maybe that place you guys go to paint pottery?”, and so we make a beeline for Brookline. I drive like a maniac, as you all know, so we are running across the snow covered train tracks at Coolidge Corner in no time, and picking the slush out of our socks in the clay room a moment later. As I look up, the guy working there gives me a weird look, and then I see Fair sitting across the room, beaming like she does when something big is up. She is holding a pair of pink, fuzzy bunny ears, and I feel terror in the pit of my stomach, because this can mean only one thing.

      She gives me a big hug and hands me another small, silver envelope. This one instructs me to hand her my cell phone, kick frank in the testicles, and then dig in the snow at home plate.
“Initial instructions:
give your cell phone to fair,

frank’s is alright
wear what fair gives you, it

will be used to identify you
do not stop by your apartment

unless directed to do so

Max, we know you kick ass.

Now, kick some balls.

Be sure to screw what’s under

home plate.

      Frank evades my foot and Fair takes my phone. Frank and I run back across the C line and high tail it for the Oak square YMCA kickball field. In the snow, buried at home plate, is a silver arrow containing a small note instructing me to arrange a meeting with [phone number that I did not recognize, 440 area code]. Well Frank hands me his blackberry and I dial the number, and a male voice that I do not recognize answers. The awkward conversation that follows goes something like this:

Voice: “Hello?”
Me: “Hi um... This is Max… “
Voice: “Who?”
Me: “This is Max Maclaren, I am supposed to arrange a meeting with you”
Voice: “Oh yeah, um, where are you?”
Me: “I am in Oak Square, standing on home plate”
Voice: “Okay. Yeah hang on a sec, okay? [to someone in background] SCREW YOU HEY FUCK YOU GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE [back to me] Okay here is what we are going to do. I need you to get 20 photographs of yourself with 20 different women. I am going to need proof.
Me: “Twenty pictures of Twenty women?”
Voice: “Yeah I am going to need proof. Call me when you are ready”
Me: “Okay thank you sir”
Voice: [unintelligible jabber]*click*

      I explain the situation to frank. He grins because he hates talking to strangers but loves doing things he hates to do. His idea is to go to the Arsenault mall, which I quickly agree to. We snap photos with the two pretty ladies who are walking their dogs in the park with frank’s camera, and head up to Watertown in white thunder, my rocket car, with Tom Jones moaning the theme song from an early James Bond movie in the background.

      Arsenault mall, 1:45 pm: we park out front, and I put my bunny ears back on (they don’t fit when I am inside of a vehicle). The march into the front doors is enough time for the shame to wear off, and now I am gripped by nervousness. What if ladies don’t want their picture taken with a hot dude in bunny ears? What if I FAIL the task? Olga and Fair have obviously hired Consumer Recreation Services to set up this complicated mystery for me, and I am going to screw it all up now! What if there were 20 plants standing around the kickball field in oak square? No, they would have Frank’s psychological profile and – wait Arsenault Mall was Frank’s idea, maybe he is in on it? “Frank, lets try the target across the street instead” He responds positively “okay that might be an easier place to do it”. Okay there are no plants, might as well just do it here. We go inside.

      “Frank how did you know to bring a camera?” He looks at me honestly, so I ignore whatever he is saying about batteries and being totally in the dark about the whole thing and focus on convincing every lady I see to pose for a photo. After I am turned down by a few freaked out ladies, Frank instructs me on how to explain first that we are doing a scavenger hunt or something, so that my request for a photograph seems less creepy. I grudgingly accept his advice, “but I don’t have a middle name, ‘creepy’ could have been it!”

      Safe back in the parking lot, 20 snapshots and one narrowly averted fight with a disgruntled and overprotective boyfriend later, we call mystery-voice back up. He is assuredly not ready for us. We did complete the entire exchange in about 15 minutes, since Frank reports 2:00 as the correct time to my tech-free pink-eared road rage.

Voice: you have 20 pictures?
Me: yup, where do we meet?
Voice: of 20 women?
Me: 20 individual photographs of 20 individual women, all on frank’s camera.
Voice: good, okay why don’t you pull over, I will call you back.
Me: huh?

      I dig for the metal arrow from the home plate. It must have a tracking device in it. Otherwise how could they find us? I want to play a practical joke on this dude. I scoop up the arrow and then frank convinces me not to hide it on the median strip until Mystery-Voice calls back. Turns out there is no RFID chip in the arrow.

Voice: okay, why don’t you head over to Washington square?
Me: huh? That’s where market and Washington meet right?
Voice: yeah just meet me at Washington square.
[more cussing in background]
hey someone’s calling me I gotta go.
Me: b-*click*

      So I drive us to Brighton Center, and we get coffee at a local café while we wait. I wear the bunny ears in, and chat up the lady behind the counter, who is not expecting me at all. Standing outside, waiting for a while, we eventually realize we are not in Washington Square at all. We head down to Washington square now, and pull up outside a small liquor store on the instructions of the voice, who calls back one more time.

      I get out of the car and walk into the liquor store, but turn around to see a man loping across Beacon street, sopping wet with slush leaking off his sweatshirt, yelling out at me “you are the man! You got the 20 pictures?” I nod as he starts prying at my car door. “this your car?” I nod again “not what I expected, but… how do I get in?” I pull my seat forward and make sure he has enough room in the back. “so you the birthday boy?” Frank answers, “no he is” voice tells me to “take a left up here, we aren’t going far”, and while I drive “so you guys straight?” he’s a wise guy. I answer “yeah” because I don’t really have the energy for a joke just now, and I don’t know what to make of this guy “so you guys have any pot or anything?” now I know a little. He directs us into a small alley and we all get out.

      “So first of all I need to see the proof” Frank is digging in his bag already, but I am pretty pumped about handing off the 20 pictures and moving on to the next clue. Frank and I both have the race bug, and we are pretty proud of ourselves at this point. Voice and Frank click through the pictures feverishly, and count them. All there. Voice looks up at me and I can tell he is trying to keep a straight face. He digs through his pockets and pulls out an ipod. He hands this to me, “you will need this” and then a plastic bag, filled with chocolate eggs, “and these are to ward off the demons” I wonder about the demons for a moment, as I stuff the eggs into my pocket, he is pulling out another plastic bag. He doesn’t say anything, just gestures toward my leg. I look at the package. “you are not serious. No. no way. What. No.” Voice is serious, he pulls out a small can, which I know is shaving cream to go with the razors he has just handed me. “Just up to your knee, I need a picture” So I unwrap the package and start on my left leg. Screw the cream, it will just make a mess. Frank and Voice are obviously impressed by this act, so I try to do a decent job, so it looks good at least from one angle. Photo snapped, we done. Voice hands me an envelope, and spills his change on the ground, which is covered in slush. I pause to watch him scoop up the slush and change into his cup, which I am sure is going to be a horrible gross part of my next task. He doesn’t offer me the change, instead instructs me to read the clue. I open it.

“Instructions: give this man your

car keys.

Listen to what he gives you.”

      Okay. I guess. I just shaved my leg for this complete stranger whose name I don’t know. I guess I will just give him my keys now. Check his license? Nah, if he has bad intentions, that will just tip him off, he has to have a contingency. I give him my keys. He jumps in the driver seat and peels out of the alley doing about 90 kph. “Frank, call Olga. Now.” He looks at me, “I didn’t like that guy” I look back at him “call Olga dude, I need to know if I was supposed to give him my keys”. Frank calls Olga. I hear, in the audible receiver of his blackberry, “YOU DID WHAT???”.

TO BE CONTINUED.