The Relevance of Nowhere

And rushing to get there

Jason’s eyes popped open suddenly as he shifted his body in the plastic seat. Looking around, it stunned him to find himself seated aboard a sea-faring tour boat. Realizing he was sprawled across the three-person bench on the indoor deck, Jason bolted upright and tried his best to look like he belonged.

No one noticed him because all the other passengers were outside, clamouring for positions along the rail to view the water. The distinct salty aroma permeated the air as the tiny ship manoeuvred out of a harbour through the narrows.

“Where the hell am I?”, Jason was thinking as he looked out the window.

He had no idea. Somehow, he’d just woken to find himself a passenger on some tourist cruise. Jason decided on the side of caution and tried to fit in. Standing up turned out to be more arduous than he expected. He’d never felt troubled on the water before, but this slogging headache was making it harder to find his sea legs.

Jason walked slowly out the stern side portal and found a spot to stand against the starboard bulkhead of the sixty-foot tour boat. His vision slowly cleared as he fixed his eyes on the passing lighthouse on the rocky shore. He still had no idea where he was.

A ship’s mate was passing by instructing folks about the history of the harbour and its role in many wars. As he passed a glance in Jason’s direction, the confused and unwitting passenger asked with a shiver, “What’s with this weather?”

“Aye, she’s a bit warm for this time of year, by.”, replied the sailor.

Jason was now even more flummoxed. “It must be forty degrees out here.”

The mate guffawed and remarked, “Ten or twelve actually, by. Good for June though.” The crewman continued with his lecture as he circumvented the boat.

“Why was this guy talking so funny? What’s with the; ‘by’ all the time?” It took Jason a few minutes to realize the man was talking about the weather in degrees-Celsius, the first clue he was far from home in California. His second inclination came when the other passengers began to gawk at a group of seals that appeared on the fading shoreline.

The crewmate spoke up in reaction to their gazes. “The shores of Newfoundland and Labrador are favourite resting spot many Atlantic dwellers, including that family of seals you there.”

Jason went back inside the boat to warm up. A light jacket and blue jeans were hardly enough to brave the cold sea air with. They sailed on for another forty-minutes, receding further from the narrows entrance, but hugging the shore of the Island of Newfoundland. “How on earth did I wind up here?”, is all Jason kept thinking. He had no memory of arriving on this rock.

Oohs and ahhs stirred Jason out of his thoughts as the ship approached a large object in the middle of the ocean. Closer and closer, the tour boat puttered toward a massive block of ice. The tour director went on, referring to the Titanic and the iceberg. Jason has stopped listening.

Within a few minutes, the tiny ship was dwarfed by the enormous iceberg off the port bow. Throngs of gawkers quickly moved forward, cameras at the ready. It was an impressive sight for most of the onlookers. Rising about one hundred feet out of the water’s surface, the dome-shaped frozen structure swept down on two sides, about two hundred feet wide.

Below the ocean’s surface, the remaining ninety per cent of the hulking mass was barely visible to about ten feet. The tour boat circled the huge ice structure several times, allowing every patron a chance to get a quality photograph for their trip log.

Jason was sitting quietly at the cash bar, enjoying a cold beer. An odd choice, he thought, considering his frigid state and the view outside, but he didn’t much care for sightseeing. He downed his last sip and deciding he was feeling a little more sturdy; he ventured back out onto the stern deck. He leaned forward on the deck railing, and as the ship circled the blue monolith one last time, Jason saw the gaping hole that revealed a hollow black void, a grotto of ice and seawater cut into the centre by the sun’s early summer heat.

The ship’s captain gave the throttle a boost, and the engines roared back to life. Jason kept his eyes on the slowly receding iceberg while the rest of the tour retreated into the bar cabin.

Many of the tourists were excited about the prospect of becoming, what the shipmate called, being ‘Screeched In’. Jason listened with mild curiosity as the crew member described the ritual of kissing a cod, of all things, and then gulping down a shot of a cheap rum-based liquor the locals called Newfie Screech. The ship’s host promised that all who joined in the ritual will from then on be recognized as honourary Newfoundlanders.

Jason stood up with his back to the commotion, softly shaking his head in disbelief. He marvelled at the gullibility and chuckled to himself at what people bought into as an authentic local experience. He was far too sophisticated for this sort of holiday, which made him wonder more how he got on this ship in the first place.

Suddenly, he felt a rumbling beneath his feet, followed by a pounding drumming noise coming from beneath the water’s surface. The ship began swaying back and forth, and then it started to pitch at the bow against the rising waves.

Screams of laughter ensued inside as guests took turns performing the Screech In ceremony. Most were oblivious to the increased activity on in the water. The rocking ship and a quickly downed shot of whisky only enhanced the experience of sea life.

Without warning, the boat’s stern suddenly kicked upward violently, causing Jason to lose his grip on the rail. As he tried desperately to steady himself, two more eruptions from below sent Jason flying off the deck and into the air.

His surroundings seemed to disappear as Jason watched himself being hurled at the gigantic ice block. His body flew straight into the grotto’s opening and the next he knew, Jason was plunging rapidly down the dark and frigid hole. The falling sensation went on for about ten more seconds until Jason mercifully passed out.

When he opened his eyes again slowly, Jason was lying flat on his back on hard sand and gravel. He felt the cold of the earth floor beneath him and turned to look in the direction of a heat source to his left. A small flame licked the air from a lean-to of logs arranged inside a circle of large stones. The light of the fire revealed that Jason was lying on the floor of a large cavern, its ceiling more than thirty feet above his head.

He rolled onto his side to face the firepit. That’s when he noticed the elderly man sitting cross-legged on the opposite side of the fire. Completely bald and rakishly thin, Jason could see the outline of every one of the man’s ribs, and the skin-stretched sinew of what remained for muscle. He was naked except for the loincloth wrapped around his waist.

Jason nearly chuckled out loud as he noted the man’s black, horn-rimmed glasses. The way this old fellow looked, a pair of frameless, round spectacles would have fit better with his Gandhi-esque persona.

“What is this place?”, Jason asked, rubbing his chin. “Who are you?”

The hermit fixed his gaze on a point in the distance behind Jason. “Who I am is of no concern”, he replied in a sightless trance. “This place? Is nowhere.”

A sudden chill ran up Jason’s neck. He tried shaking his head to loosen the cobwebs in his mind. This has to be a dream, he thought. “Okay then”, he said to the old man, “if this is nowhere and you’re not important, why am I here?”

“You are not here”, was all the stranger said.

Jason started to feel the anger build inside him. “Some joke!”, he shouted. There was no reaction from across the fire. No recoil, no flinch, nothing. The naked man was not moved at all.

Jason sat up and leaned forward toward the fire. “Look, Mister, Gandhi, or whoever you are. I really don’t have time for your games.” He could not keep his fury in check. “What the fuck is going on!?”

With that, the bald man with the horn-rimmed glasses picked up a handful of gravel from the cavern floor, and he threw it on the fire.

The flame doused instantly with the flying sand, and everything went dark in Jason’s head.

Jason’s eyes opened as his right hand cupped a stack of casino chips. Pushing them forward in one motion, he heard himself saying, “All in.”

Looking up from the green felt of the table, Jason suddenly noticed the players surrounding him. Three former world champions, an ‘A’-list movie actor, and the poker tour’s most decorated female player, all stared in unison at the bold newcomer. How in the world did he end up here?

Jason tried his best to hide his emotions as sweat beads formed on his brow. Everyone at the table kept looking straight at Jason. A queasiness slowly gurgled in the pit of his stomach, realizing just now that he had no idea what two cards he was holding. He dared not move his eyes to look at the flop; the five community cards that were turned up in the centre of the felt.

Jason concentrated on his breathing, staring at the first knuckle of the index finger on his right hand. He felt the burning heat of the others’ stares. He still had no idea how he got here, but he also knew he must not avert his gaze. All his efforts now went to maintaining his composure.

The first to act in the game was the oldest champion. Now in his eighties, his mind was still as sharp as a razor’s edge. “Well, I’m in the wrong position to make that call”, he said, tossing his folded cards toward the dealer. For this man, knowing when to act and when to bow out, was like riding a bike.

Next came the actor, and true to his profession, he made something of a show, looking around at the other players and feigning a move. Finally, after playing out his epic death scene for all to see, he folded his cards.

The second champ was a talkative sort, who loved to try getting a rise out of his opponent to extract some clues. He joked and laughed, talking out plausible scenarios loud enough for the entire audience to hear.

Jason could hear his own heartbeat, drumming madly as if trying to push out of his chest. He wondered silently if anyone else could hear it. Say nothing; do nothing, he kept telling himself.

Eventually, the talker’s hand also went into the muck. That left only the lady and the greatest player of all time, a three-time world champion. These were two of the fiercest competitors ever known at a poker felt. The women’s hard stare was legendary among the professional elite. If she couldn’t make an opponent melt under pressure, no one could.

The reigning champ was probably the most obnoxious individual on the face of the earth. He thought nothing of bludgeoning other players verbally to get them to submit. Somehow, Jason found himself in a position to match wits with poker’s very best. His fear was palpable, but it revealed no clues for his professional foes.

The female player said finally, “Well, that is either the ballsiest bluff in the history of the game or you’re playing two of the dumbest cards imaginable to get to the nuts.”

‘The nuts’, as it was called, was the best possible hand that could be made with the other five community cards on the table. Jason was too afraid to look, but if he had, he would have seen a three, five, and seven of diamonds, as well as two Kings in the flop. For him to be holding the nuts, Jason would have to have played the four and six of diamonds to make a straight-flush.

The woman’s pair of black sevens gave her a tidy, full-house, with three sevens and two kings. What she had already suspected was that the champ sitting to her left was holding the other two Kings for four of a kind. Regardless of what the rookie was holding, she knew she was beaten.

Jason’s world started spinning as the tension mounted in the room. Each passing second seemed like an hour, and the perspiration started to soak Jason’s cotton shirt. Carefully, he managed to spy the five cards placed out on the table. It suddenly occurred to him, no matter what the other two players did, he was going to look a fool, or very suspect.

Before he could learn the result, the table lights went dim, and yet again, Jason was in darkness.

Flickering embers gave Jason his sight back again, and within seconds, the cave came alive again in the glow of firelight. The half-naked hermit was still seated across the pit, staring blankly into the distance again without a reaction.

“What the fuck is going on here?”, screamed Jason. “What do you want from me, old man? Why am I here again?”

“You were never here,” the old man said quietly. “That would require far too much of your time.” His sarcasm was hit Jason like a blow to the chest.

“What does that mean? Is this some kind of dream; a… hallucination?”

The old man sighed deeply as his head fell to his chest. Jason sensed the elder’s disappointment.

“Please! Tell me what this is about. Am I losing my mind?”, Jason pleaded.

The old hermit looked into Jason’s eyes for the first time, and he said, “Your mind, my son, is the very thing you’ve been ignoring the most.” He paused for a moment to allow the younger man to take in his words. “Impetuous, impatient. Everything must gratify instantly.” The hermit remove his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. Then, he stood for the first time and stepped to the edge of the firepit.

His voice was suddenly booming now, echoing off the cavern walls. “Always rushing to the next moment. Your lot never sees the delights that abound all around them.”

“Give me a chance”, Jason cried out, frightened by the old man’s manner. “I can change. I see that now.”

“Do you?”, the hermit bellowed. “Give me, you say. What is given?”, the old man took one step directly into the firepit. “I have no power to grant you any wish.”

Jason’s mouth opened in shock as the old man stood in the fire. “Learn to see with more than just your eyes.” It was the last thing the emaciated figure said as he stamped out the flame with his boney bare feet.

The stadium lights flashed on with an intense glow. Jason’s left foot toed the rubber strip on the sandy pitcher’s mound. He bent forward at the waist to look in on the sign from his catcher.

This, was exactly where he was supposed to be, where he expected to be. A throng of thousands, his home town supporters cheered on raucously as he straightened his body. He savoured the moment.

With the outcome in the balance, and his team clutching onto a one-run lead, Jason’s job was to close out the game. The future rested firmly in the palm of his left hand. This was the single moment every baseball player dreamed of as a little boy.

Strange, then. Jason felt like he’d already lived this moment before.

Jason raised his hands to his face, his gloved right hand hiding the grip he held on the tightly wound leather baseball. He pumped his right leg into the air and reared back. In one violent motion, Jason unleashed his body like a coiled spring, with his left hand whipping over his shoulder, releasing the ball before coming to rest again at the bottom of the pitcher’s mound.

It takes a pitched baseball about two-fifths of one second to travel the sixty feet, six inches to home plate. When a batter connects solidly with that flying orb on the meat of his bat, it takes even less time for the sphere to return from where it came.

In that split second, Jason had no time to react as the baseball struck his left temple at over one hundred miles per hour. The crowd of adoring fans gasped and then fell into collective stunned silence as Jason lay prone on the freshly cut grass in front of the pitcher’s mound. Once again, the world went blank.

Jason’s eyes popped open suddenly as he shifted his body in the plastic seat. Looking around, he was stunned to find himself seated aboard a sea-faring tour boat. Realizing he was sprawled across the three-person bench on the indoor deck, Jason bolted upright and tried his best to look like he belonged.

He looked outside at the passing coastline as the sixty-foot tour boat left the harbour through the rocky narrows. He watched the lighthouse fade in the distance as the tiny ship made way for open seas. An enormous block of blue ice appeared in the distance.

Jason leaned his face into the glass window, keeping his eyes fixed on the magnificent structure as the ship drew closer. A single thought entered his mind. “This looks like it’s going to be a great day.”

Jason stood up and walked outside for a better look.

As always thanks for taking the time. My continued admiration for my fellow fiction writers: Liam Ireland Tree Langdon Britni Pepper Terry Trueman Phil Truman Vee Goldman Randy Rather Deena Thomson