21 March 2009

The Case of The Black Shedding

Having been in the military, Watson, you must certainly be acquainted with the deeply unsettled and jarring feeling of waking only to find oneself in a strange bed. Imagine if you can, good fellow, the shock to one’s body and mind ’twould be to awaken from a sleep lasting nigh 100 years. For this, Doctor, though I have not yet an explanation that would satisfy your or me, is exactly what I experienced not so very long ago!

I awoke to the sensation of my body sitting up quickly and the sound of myself gasping for and drawing in the longest breath of my entire existence. Next, I found myself flying as though hurled towards the nearest open door—thankfully enough, the toilet—emptying the surprisingly copious contents of my stomach by force into the commode.

After spending no small amount of time there easing the occasional heave of bile and mucous, I wet my face in the odd wash basin and lay back down on the bed on which I had awoken in order to regain my strength and vigor. I rested with eyes closed on that mattress with no thought in mind, save the faint awareness of my own drawn in and expelled breath, and for how very long I cannot say, thought I believe the sun had faded considerably. ‘twas noticing the sun’s change that, finally and, after perhaps several hours, engaged my mind to take in my surroundings.

Apart from the sun’s shift, the first thing I noticed was a large bowl of fruit beside my bed to which I lunched with a speed beyond my control and I, seeing a domesticated bird partaking apparently healthily of the food, I judged it to be safe, ate furiously until I could feel the warmth of nutrition spread over me.

Once sated, sleep overcame me once more and, when I awoke, the intense sun casting rightward shadows through large windows visible in part outside the open bedroom door told m e it was morning once more in my Southerly-facing rooms.

I feasted again on the fruit to the right of my bed and noticed it had been replenished with new fruit and beside the bowl were also toasted bread with butter, tea—strong, thankfully—and a newspaper, all indicating someone had entered the flat in my sleep to provide me these rations and the news of the day.

A quick skim of this newspaper, if it was to be believed, indicated the date was 16 November 2007, 153 years and one day from the date of my birth. I rejected this at once as fancy for reason o f the date, the paper and print used, and the notion that a black Irish-American named O’Bama might attempt to enter the office of the Presidency of the United States of America. No, for neither could an American slave—American as clearly told by the grammar and spelling of the paper—own land or gain suffrage, let alone hold political office. Yet, after the strange fixtures on the wash basin I encountered the day prior, this paper and its outlandish date was the second clue left to indicate that I was in quite another time and place from my own.

Over the next several days, consumed with the question of how and I why I found myself in my present circumstance, I examined each of the rooms closely, seeking some trace of the person or persons responsible. I found the rooms to be quite like those we shared at Baker Street, Watson, but with a kitchen in place of one dormitory and a large black glass over the mantle.

Pressing a button on this glass brought to life the most startling sight—recorded pictures, Watson! Pictures recorded and played at great speed giving the impression of the subjects’ motion, complete with voice. A visual and auditory phonograph had been invented, further suggesting my place in a future time. I found myself quite taken by these audio/visual recordings and, before realizing it, all of my days for at least a week were spent in front of it soaking up news of the day and recordings of various types, all feeding my more and more information of the world I found myself in. Of particular interest to me were certain dramatic programmes of depicting the detection of solution of crime upon crime both heinous and vile.

And the manner of person and colorful expression I found, Watson!

In any case, each day I awoke to a delicious breakfast, cleaned rooms, and freshened clothes. Whoever my opponent in this mystery was, also served as my very magnanimous benefactor, caring for my every need while staying beyond my grasp. Yes, this person had even provided for my mental need to solve this problem of the empty rooms, knowing, I now believe, that it’s in my nature to exhaust myself in resolving the problems that would otherwise go unexplained.

Do you recall, Watson, of the occasion whereupon our caretaker, Mrs. Hudson, demanded whoever of us was at blame for clogging the bath take action to avoid the problem’s recurrence? While you protested and swore yourself not to be the culprit, an examination of certain evidence proved it to be you who caused the slow drain of our bath.

Well, aside from those spent staring at the glass, my days of searching yielded me nothing; not one clue. I was so near giving up hope that I know it to be true that you would not believe me. However, while upon my hands and knees in the toilet, I found—A-ha!—the clue I’d been seeking: a single, black, curly hair, doubtless from the pubic region of my curious benefactor or benefactress! Applying the same reasoning I’d shown you—that the length, color, stress and curl pattern of the found hairs would match exactly those remaining on the groin from whence it was shed—I now had the evidence I’d need to identify my keeper.

Additionally, dear friend, for my invasive methods used in that case, I continue to offer my most heartfelt apologies.

In any case, and to borrow a phrase from the staring glass, I know find myself in possession of my opponent by the shorthairs, and am cocked and loaded to identify them.

07 March 2009

The Adventure of the Missing Wallet and the Tall, Cheap Man

Watson, I must explain to you that, while, for the sake of order and to avoid your confusion, I’ve been thus far presenting my notes to you in chronological order, I, as I’m quite wont to do, have grown quite bored with documenting them thusly and would, instead, like to fast forward, as they say, to a slightly more recent adventure. I shall henceforth do the same; flit forward and back in time in order to inform you and, I hope, entertain the both of us in doing so. This tale begins as follows:

On a blue-grey day in October I disembarked the bus headed towards the pier in Santa Monica, hoping there to observe the drug and weapons trade that occurs below it. I stepped off the last step and, as I heard the pneumatic pump and rubber against rubber of the closing doors, I looked down and saw something unusual, something I daresay has not been seen in this area for perhaps as much as 15 years.

At my feet, on the cold cement, lay a Quicksilver velcro-close wallet of electric Blue and turquoise – or at least those had been its colours new as it had since faded considerably—of the type not made nor sold since the early 1990s. Velcro, I should explain, is an ingenious hook-and-loop fabric closure system. It operates as two fabrics, one of hooks, the other of loops, but with both in such density and number that the closure is effortless; as soon as the two sides meet, the seal is made and will not be broken without some effort and, one should note, noise.

It was clear that the wallet belonged to a left-handed man of above-average height as could be determined by the shape and location of the wear on the velcro flap as the upward curve was situated on the right-hand side of the wallet and its peak to the left, indicating the use of a long and large left thumb to open it.

A quick scan of the area showed no slightly billowed left hip pockets where the wallet, not now or ever stretched to a great thickness, was doubtlessly carried up to its dislocation.

I knew before picking it up that the billfold had not been there more than 25 minutes and that the money inside would be intact, for, had the wallet lay there for longer, a passenger of the prior bus would surely have discovered and plundered it. One of the disadvantages of living in such a huge metropolis as this Los Angeles is that the anonymity it affords one makes it easy to steal without remorse or even afterthought. As for the second point, that of its undisturbed contents, had anyone stolen the cash inside, it surely would have been left opened and probably not in such a conspicuous spot.

Upon inspection, the construction of the wallet showed little sign of compromise and clearly belonged to someone of meticulous habits. This gave me hope that its owner would not be hard to find, especially in this bay area where shabby and worn clothing was the norm.

I opened the wallet and was unsurprised to find five hundred-dollar bills with the likeness of a man you’ll have heard of and seen, Watson, one Benjamin Franklin, American statesman.

Given the route of the bus I just departed and those the others that run nearby, the owner of the wallet would have to be found within an area of sixteen city blocks and could likely be found within the day. However, having other things requiring my attention, I decided to employ other methods.

I didn’t feel it to be a safe assumption that the wallet’s owner was a routine visitor of these parts—surely something out of the ordinary occurred to cause a man of such meticulous habits to drop a belonging usually stowed so safely away upon his person, else I would have simply been waiting at the bus stop for him on the morrow. While pursuing this course might yield the desired result of reuniting man and wallet, I hadn’t the time to waste chasing what could be a dead end. No, I resolved to make a posting on the Internet. When first I found myself in this place and time, Watson, I found myself decrying the lack of ads in the newspapers that we employed to such great ends in our day. For while the newspaper has such sections now, they are read by very few, meaning the money spent is typically money wasted. A short while later, however, I was ecstatic to find a web site frequented by people from all walks of life and social status: Craig’s List. I’ve since employed its Lost & Found section to successful result on numerous occasions. It also has the singular advantage of being free, though there is quite a bit of blowback due to and fun made of my archaic diction... This not to mention that my name is usually met with incredulity and mockery.

In any case, I posted having found a wallet containing $500 that I would return to its 6’7” owner if they could tell me where it was lost. After reading 67 e-mail messages (which I shall explain to you at a later date, Watson), I came upon the sole message from a man who admitted that he did not know where he lost the wallet, but in our subsequent exchange of missives was able to describe it in detail. His language was succinct and felt likely to correspond to the careful regimen observed behind the good care of the wallet. We arranged to meet the following morning at Starbucks staffed by the lovely maiden Hillary Goode, allowing me the chance to bid her hello, having arrived there to do so on numerous occasions only to find her not working at those times.

20 minutes before the pre-arranged time found me seating myself in the corner darkest and furthest from the door to observe the tall man. I knew there was a likelihood that the man of such exact habits could be one to arrive either very early or at least prepared to do business at the exact time agreed upon.

17 minutes transpired and the tall man arrived, early enough to purchase his coffee and meet right on the hour of 10 o’ clock. While appearing nonchalant, I watched carefully to make sure that he handled his money and drink with his left hand. On seeing that was the case, I approached him, introduced myself, gave him his wallet and bade him good day.

He insisted upon paying me a reward, and, while I initially scoffed, he begged and pleaded and bought me a Starbucks gift card as well as a plain bagel with cream cheese. The bagel, I’m happy to tell you was fresh and filling. The gift card, however, was for a mere and paltry $5. Apparently a man doesn’t come to carry such funds as $500 on his person without being a bit of a miser.