Chapter 2
It was not remarkable that Dean was skating down a mild slope, just barely an incline to perpetuate the forward motion of the board. compared to modern standards, he was an unremarkable skater. What made this act stand out, as he rode, at a sensible pace, wearing a black trench-coat, was that it was around midnight and about zero degrees Fahrenheit . . . Dean liked watching skateboarding as often as he could catch it, and enjoyed the many skilled riders making beautiful runs . . . skateboardists that make the near impossible seem easy . . . but Dean thought he had more in common with those skaters and their Z-Boys tricks . . . the thing that true skaters all have are balls.
Dean was by far one of the least flamboyant board riders there was around, but he had fallen in love with the philosophy of sick grooves and gnarly waves . . . "You have to find yourself, lose yourself, find yourself again" So even if it was just down a slight hill or maybe his big 180 degree move at the top of a driveway, Dean was fine to the depths of his soul. To skate, to bail, to get back on the board again was an elemental aspect of life itself.
Dean finally got around to asking Valentine some questions, things he could have asked her ten years ago, certainly procrastination was involved, somehow. He asked her life was like before they met in their senior year. He asked her about what she did in Spain before she somehow wound up in Southwest Iowa. It almost seemed like she was born in Iowa, since she spoke with barely a hint of an accent, her English was just too perfect; also she avoided speaking in Spanish, even when she was angry or excited, as if it was part of some weird refusal to commit what she thought was a sin, at least in her eyes. Despite the fact that bilingual speech, especially Spanish-English, has been acceptable for many years. In her clear, concise and measured voice she said, "I grew up in Carballo, I surfed, what else?" Like Dean would have had the ability to know what else.
She went on describing her beach combing childhood in Galicia, taking to the Playa De Razo waves at the age of twelve. I was lost in this information about places I could not even imagine. "The only thing I truly hate about Iowa is that there are no good places to surf, I did get to surf in the jaws of Pe'ahi on Maui, I took a vacation from reality a few years back, but I have the bad habit of spending too much so I'll probably never see those beaches again." I found myself again when Kiki walked into the room wearing only a sheet like it was a toga, she let one of her large, beautiful and very real breasts fall out from under her sheet, Dean knew she was just teasing but he pondered every possibility. Val imposed on his reverie, saying, completely out of the blue, "I thought about surfing on the Missouri River, though."
Valentine, Kiki, and Dean moved into a post-Victorian mansion in our small town of Glenwood, so decrepit that the rent was almost nonexistent. That was still surprising, even considering that the landlords in their town were the rural equivalent to Slum Lords. The first room we walked into was huge, with a three-tiered staircase lining the north wall, the paint and wallpaper was lacking a decorative je' ne sais quoi, which was unimportant, as the immensity of the beastly house was a perfect staging ground for massive parties. It was 1988 and they were listening to 1999. So we planned to party just like that.
After a few kegger brawls and brouhahas, they realized that the weird creature with the long black hair was not just some random Goth girl (since the Goths in a town that size would number in the ones and twos) but something upsetting, a little sinister, and supernatural. She was a ghost, specifically an onryo. The onryo was already living there, the cheap rent made sense now. Living apparitions of the dead really hurt real estate values. Just think of what happens when developers build over ancient Aboriginal American graveyards. After meeting the ghost things changed a little in our routine. During one of our cemetery sessions that took place on a rough morning-after, and weed was the only nutrition our bodies could accept. Kiki got mad at the dead. "Damn lazy dead in this boneyard! C'mon, rise! I want to go home to our ghost."
Later as Dean was waking up the same morning, he half-dreamed of an Asian maiden with long dark hair, she wore white, like the onyro's typical MO, but in the half-sleep vision she was carrying a katana.
A few days later, while taking a break from a constant drunken state, Dean was out skating, searching for a new cement wave, he saw an obviously Asian girl, with long black hair, she was carrying a board, with a cartoonish shark on it . . . suddenly he remembered a dream . . .
He was following a former coworker, very former as the man had died of pneumonia several years ago, they were climbing down a long wrought iron ladder, metallic grey painted . . . like the walking trestle over the tracks . . . pockmarked with rust . . . that old structure in reality given completely to rust . . . climbing downward . . . Out onto a large, flat yard . . . part of the massive yard around the house he grew up in . . . the day pleasantly warm and green . . . that section of the yard was big and flat enough to play volleyball on or mow with a rider in high gear . . . the grass was not growing from the ground, the grass was water . . . Dean swam in the warm, crystal clear waters for a while, somehow, after talking to people at the house he became a woman . . . or maybe the character, dreamt into being was female . . . she swam into a secret room under the water . . . a hidden level in a "Mario" game more or less . . . a trapdoor locked into place behind her . . . she would drown. Then Dean thought, at the time of his vision of a mysterious black- haired woman, that it was a recollection of his newest friend, the seemingly friendly party ghost, and the last name Tan was introduced . He thought the spirit's last name was Tan, but found out he was dead wrong.
"Rune," the real time woman said.
"What?" I asked.
"Rune, my name is Rune . . ." I had not realized that I was not only standing right in front of her, but that I had asked her name. I shook my head quickly to break away from my thoughts, and put out my hand "Dean Huisenga."
She certainly had a firm grip, matching the solidity of her beautiful face, "Rune Yung Tan."
I looked her up and down, she was the one that came to me in a dream, after all, and she was wearing light beige clothes, which was close to white. It was Jedi beige without the darker robe and no evidence of a katana, let alone a light saber.
There was no way to fake solidarity, Rune and I hit it off flawlessly and immediately. She never let on in any way that she knew about my dream, which was more of a vision as she appeared to me; but our philosophy as skateboardists synchronized nicely, so we started a new religion. It was loosely based on Buddhism, called "The Way of the Cement Wave", and instead of following the tenets of Siddhartha, our whole faith was based on the doctrine of "Find Yourself. Lose yourself. Find yourself. Again." A Pure Land awaited us if we found the perfect smoothness, speed, and empty mind all at the same time. Surf music strains echoed in the distance . . . strummed by dead hands on the ghost guitar . . . it was love at first bite . . . I mean bail . . . he extended her hand, helping me up after a heinous bail when I bit some serious dirt . . . literally.
We traveled ahead in time, to 2018, and loaded our outdated MP3 players with tracks from the Surf band La Luz, and rode the waves of space/ time on our boards back to 1988, and listened the Hell out of those tracks. Such clarity when the best portable music technology available was a disc player with headphones. Clear, yes, but skipping with every movement? Not so good. We could have copped some smart phones but for the possibility for screwing with the continuity of The Time Line. Since prototype MP3s already existed in the late 80s. We were as one organism, what with concern for time line consistency and all. I fell in love, it was not sexual, even though that would not have been weird considering the connection we had made. It would not have been weird for me to have that kind of relationship with a character, I really want one with Kiki, but she's just not that into me. I could not see myself beyond a friendship with Rune, even before I knew she was a Ghost Killer.
Empty time spaces . . . the middle of the night . . . names, images, reflections . . . nothing but long black hair covering a grey- blue face . . . "My name is not Party- Ghost, it's Shizuko . . . and stop calling me Goth-Girl . . . oh sorry, wrong dream . . . meant to say that to Kiki . . ."
Now that Party- Ghost . . . Shizuko . . . was invading Dean's dreams he considered panicking. He avoided Shizuko, who seemed to enjoy appearing to drunks, he had to skip drinking for several days, at first trying to smoke some weed to keep calm, but it just made him freak out more . . . suffering from pot panic . . . he decided to go out and skate the fear away. Grinding out freakishly wicked tricks and blazing the pavement, at least in his mind. The adventures he had as a skateboardist the next couple of days helped clear his mind of spooks.
Two days later Dean connected with his partner in crime, Rune, and we sat and talked in the sweltering humid heat, it was currently mid August, so it was excruciatingly hot. I said, haphazardly, "I could use a beer to cool me off." Rune made clear that she was a enjoyed a drink or two, especially on a hot Summer night, so Dean found it fairly easy give Rune an invite to their house. He was holding no ulterior motives, of the sexual type, to that extension of friendship. The only rationale Dean had was that he wanted to have a deeply emotional and painstakingly honest conversation with Rune that only alcohol can permit.
Later that evening, after close to a case of brew between the two, it happened. first, Dean found it amazing for such a small girl to drink that much, and still be going. Secondly Dean was immensely pleased that this moment with Rune had come. He really loved her in many ways except one. Night and inebriation swept in unnoticed . . . conversation ran hot and cold . . . dark and bright . . . freedom of speech unhinged jaws . . . word dust spilled out, all over the floor . . . a cold one in hand caused bonding . . . like the welding of steel . . .
Then Shizuko arrived.
Then, something weird but spectacular happened.
Rune walked right over to the wraith and started talking softly in the dark, enigmatic language of the dead. Then Shizuko faded most of the way into the living room corner, Like she would usually do after her nightly appearance. Dean could tell if she was there when he saw her at the right angles, but that was not curious behavior for heir friendly ghost, her haunting skill set was obviously high, because she wanted us to know she was there, but was fairly subtle about it. She, unlike other ghosts who slam doors, move chairs and other objects, or posses antique china dolls with the spooky-ass eyes that rolled open or shut. None of that trash, Shizuko was a pro.
What made Dean curious, was the way Rune approached Shizuko, talked to her in what amounted to a foreign language, at ease as if it was another guest and not a supernatural being.
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