Under Abnormal Conditions

183 Pages·2003·0.73 MB·English

by  Burgess Erick

UNDER ABNORMAL CONDTIONS

By

SMASHWORDS EDITION

*

PUBLISHED BY:
Erick D. Burgess on Smashwords

Under Abnormal Conditions Copyright © 2012 by Erick D. Burgess

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Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead,
or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions
of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

*****
*****
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Many thanks to all of my friends and family who offered their skills and
support in helping to make my writing dreams come true.

Also, thank you to all of my friends in the Louisiana Department of
Corrections. You are overworked, underpaid, but greatly appreciated.

I hope you enjoy the story as much as I enjoyed writing it. There is a thrilling
time ahead of you.
Chapter 1

You can’t save everyone.
Those words rang in my mind as I stared out the window. The rain beat a
gentle pattern against the large window in Dr. Franklin’s office. Even though I
was very tired from a weekend of little to no sleep, my mind raced as I answered
the doctor’s questions.
“How have you been feeling lately, Michael? He asked in his most soothing
and therapeutic voice.
“I haven’t been getting much sleep.” I answered as I returned to my chair.
“I’ve been getting crank calls all weekend and when I do doze off . . . I dream
about her.”
“How do these dreams make you feel?” he asked.
“Like I never want to sleep again.” I answered. This was only my third
session with Dr. Franklin and I was still terribly nervous. It was difficult not to
be intimidated by the many degrees and awards that hung on the good doctor’s
wall.
“Can we talk about what happened that night?” he asked as the scratching of
his pencil against his legal pad sounded like the only sound in the world.
I closed my eyes to help focus and answered, “It was a Saturday night and
Michelle and I were riding around the campus in my car. We had dinner to
celebrate the end of my certification and then went back to my house. I tried to
talk her into staying, but she had a test to study for so she left. That’s it. That
was the last time I ever saw her.”
“No one knows what happened to her?”
“They found her car a couple of days later. It was late and it was raining. I
didn’t want her to go, but she wasn’t worried about it. I don’t know what
happened. She probably stopped to try and help somebody. That was the kind of
person she was.”
“She sounded like a very special person.”
“She was. After my accident, she made me feel alive again. If it weren’t for
her I never would have even tried to be a cop. She really was special. She
believed in me.” I paused as I felt tears begin to build in my eyes. “That’s how
the dreams are. I would try to keep her from leaving but I never could.”
“How does that make you feel?” he asked.
“Helpless. They needed me and I couldn’t help them.”
“They?” he asked. Before I could clarify my slip, he continued, “Interesting.
Well, we only have a few minutes left for this session, so maybe we can tackle
that issue next week. How is your return to school going?
“Well, it took a while to get back into the swing of things, but everything is
going well. If fact, I’ll be graduating soon.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“Finally. It’s been a long time since I’ve had something like this to look
forward to. For my final project in my psychology class, my assignment was to
do an in-depth character analysis of someone close to me but not related.”
He laughed quietly and said, “I can remember that. Who is your professor?”
“Dr. Alan Pierre.”
“Hmmm, I don’t believe I know him. Is the class going well for you?” he
asked.
“It’s going okay. I decided to use Sherry Allen for my project.”
“Do you think that was a good decision? Isn’t she-”
“I know what you are thinking, but I had to do it. She just came back to work
and I think that is why I started having the dreams again.”
“So what do you hope to accomplish by using her?”
“Maybe it’s to help me understand the situation more. I really don’t know.
We both have to work through it so she was as good a person as any. You know,
when my life finally calms down, I may even sit down and write a book.”
“Autobiographical?” he asked.
“No, the story I write will have a happy ending.”
Chapter 2

As I drove from the doctor’s office, I wondered whether or not I should have
told him about the phone calls. I figured maybe it would make me look paranoid,
even though it was a big part of why I wasn’t sleeping. In a way I was thankful.
Nothing could have been worse than the dreams.
Nothing.
For the past two years my life had been a nightmare. Everything started with
the accident. I was on my way to an All-American season at Southern State
University when it happened. I was driving back home to visit my grandfather
whose body was being destroyed by cancer.
We had just beaten North Arkansas State for homecoming. I had my best
game of the year and the team had planned on going out to celebrate. I hadn’t
even finished drying myself off when Coach Jackson told me I had an
emergency phone call. I was dripping wet and standing in a puddle in the
coach’s office waiting for the call to be transferred. A million different things
ran through my mind as I waited.
Was Ester okay?
Was it the baby?
When I heard the distress in Ester’s voice, I knew exactly what it was. The
doctors only gave my grandfather a few hours to live. I dressed quickly and
headed straight home.
I didn’t get on the road until after ten o’clock. Normally the drive would only
take about thirty minutes but I had to take Highway 190 because of work being
done on Interstate 12. The air was cool and the night was bright. I remember
praying he would make it through Christmas. That is all I remembered of my
drive that night.
From what the police said, a drunk driver crossed the middle lane and hit my
car. I was thrown from the wreck and slammed against a tree. My leg snapped
like a weak sapling, but the driver of the other car ended up with barely a
scratch.
While I was in the hospital recovering, my grandfather passed away. As close
as we were I couldn’t be there for him when he needed me most. That was
something I would have to live with for the rest of my life, and yet another
reason I couldn’t sleep.
Another reason I didn’t want to sleep.
Chapter 3

Dunham Heights was a small quiet town right outside of Baton Rouge.
Because of good schools and the Capital City’s fifty-year old desegregation case,
the population was growing at a record pace. Like most southern towns, strict
racial lines divided it. Of course, my house was located on the infamous Rodeo
Drive. It was the proverbial track the people of my color were commonly known
to live across.
I drove back home and dressed for work. Luckily for me, my work attire
consisted of a black suit and white t-shirt. Along with the music, that was one of
the many perks of managing a jazz club. Along with his house, my grandfather
left me an extensive jazz collection and a great appreciation for America’s only
true art form.
I started working at the Club Cool Breeze as a security guard about a year
ago. In six months time I was managing the place.
I turned into the parking lot of the club at five-thirty that afternoon. Even
though it was December, the weather outside was hardly winter like. The typical
south Louisiana Christmas was rarely spent in front of a fireplace. We were
lucky if the weather dipped below sixty degrees. It was so warm and muggy my
glasses fogged over as soon as I stepped out of my car.
The club had gone through numerous name changes, but Cool Breeze was the
one that finally stuck about five years ago. In the year I was born, 19F7, my
father said the building was occupied by a drug store.
Some of our patrons would call the building rustic. Some even say it is an
antiquated testament to the French influence on Louisiana. I, on the other hand,
would just call it old, much older than myself.
The two-story building was brownish yellow stucco with a balcony that faced
the heavily trafficked Summer Street. Though the surrounding area was crime
ridden, The Cool Breeze was a place where people of all races, creeds, colors
and religions could meet and mingle, but all with the understanding their
respective vehicles could be missing by the end of the evening.
As usual, I entered through the front door instead of the service entrance, to
get a feel for what was in store for the evening. It didn’t surprise me to see a few
regulars had already taken their usual places at the bar while the local jazz
station played softly in the background.
The inside of the club was just as out of date as the outside. Patches of mold
dotted the ceiling, but the low lighting and the slow turning ceiling fans mostly
shielded that. The tables in front of the stage were small and close together. The
large dark cherry wood bar dominated the room and the walls were covered with
posters and photos of jazz legends like “Cannonball” Adderley, Miles Davis and
Charlie Parker. In the early 80’s, Cool Breeze was known as the place to play.
The location between Baton Rouge and New Orleans was fertile ground for
young musicians eager for the chance to be the next Wynton Marlais or Harry
Connick Jr. The place was never much to look at, but it was never about the
appearance. It was always about the music.
The front bar was usually the hub of activity at that time of day. Mona, an
overly sweet single mother who didn’t really have the temperament to deal with
unruly customers, was manning the bar as usual.
She was tall with dark feathered hair and sparkling eyes. As I was about to
pass, those eyes pleaded with me to stop. I could barely hear her say, “That’s our
manager there.”
A smallish man who resembled a black Barney Fife turned and stumbled over
to me. He wore a gray t-shirt, faded blue jeans, and an old welders cap. With the
way he smelled, I would have offered him money to find a shower.
“I gave her a twenty dollar bill and all she gave me was change for a ten. I
knows how much money I got and I knows how much I gave her. I want my
change,” he slurred.
I looked at Mona. She shrugged her shoulders and showed me the dirty,
wrinkled ten-dollar bill.
“Sir, I think maybe you made a mistake.”
“Are you calling me a liar? I ain’t never had no problems like this here. The
customer always right. Don’t you know nothing? I been coming here since
before you was a thought in your daddy’s eye. I want satisfaction.”
With a smile on my face I said, “Sir, if you’d like, I can come back there and
pour you another drink and you can tell me about the good old days.”
He gritted his teeth and continued to wait for me to cave. When I didn’t, he
agreed. He mumbled something as he sat back down at the bar.
I walked around the bar and poured him a drink and asked, “So did you ever
hear Miles play here?”
“What? Did I?” he paused and sipped his drink. “You too young to know
nothing about Miles. I’ll tell you one thing. He was the coolest dude to ever walk
the planet. The only thing he ever got in a hurry for was a female, you know.
Always sharp and always cool. Cool Breeze, you know what I’m sayin’.”
He downed the rest of his drink and headed outside. The club had only been
open for an hour or so. He must have been waiting on the steps to get inside as
soon as the key was turned.
Mona smiled and said, “You have a gift. Do you know that?”
“Me? Not really. The only thing people really want in this world is attention,
especially older people. They have so much knowledge, but most of us are too
stupid to just sit and listen. Taking five minutes out of my day meant the world
to him.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
“No, I’m serious. That man probably doesn’t have a thing to live for. He
probably found that money somewhere and was just trying to make it stretch.
Basically he is just waiting for God and in the meantime he wants some good
conversation.
“Well, I’ll know how to handle him next time. By the way, someone dropped
off a package for you earlier.”
“For me? Candy? Flowers, maybe? Mona, I didn’t know you cared.”
She swatted me away and said, “It’s in your office. Oh, and Dex wanted to
talk to you.
“I guess that means he is going to be at work tonight?” I asked, but she didn’t
answer. Dex was Dexter Jackson and he was her part-time lover, but my fulltime
nemesis. He was a small time hustler with Hollywood looks and a ghetto
mentality which brought a cloud of negative energy everywhere with him.
Parallel to the bar was a set of stairs that lead to the club owner’s office,
which was strictly for closed-door business. Phil would occasionally leave
names at the bar of people to be allowed upstairs.
I walked from behind the bar and headed to the back of the club, where my
office was located. I hung up my coat and picked up the odd shaped package that
sat on my desk, but just before I began to open it, I heard one of the incoming
musicians passing by the door mention Phil. I had hoped maybe he wouldn’t be
in, but as usual, my luck was like a certain hunter’s when trying to catch that
elusive little gray rabbit.
It was for the best because I wanted to talk to him about taking some time off
soon. I left the office and began my usual routine of checking deposits and
receipts. Just as I was finishing, I heard him approaching. I knew it was him
because he always whistled the old Bobby Darrin song, Beyond the Sea, and
after he left a room he left a trail of ashes behind him. He had a terrible habit of
flicking his ashes on the floor instead of using an ashtray.
His name was Phil Reighton. He was about fifty-two years old, and about six-
feet tall. His thinning brown hair was cut in a flattop. He had a neatly groomed
mustache with a goatee and striking blue eyes to complete his package. Even