Thirty One

2019

When I left the Newton Public library with Becca, thoughts were darting this way and that.  She had made points I’d not considered. I was nearly certain who had committed the murder, but she argued credibly that there could be others. 

Besides that, the buzz came back. The embers of a relationship that had gone south as many times as it had been energized, were now reigniting.  After our years in Buffalo—off and on throughout—we’d reconnected in Boston in the late 70s.  I’d heard she moved to Boston, I was visiting a friend, and gave a call.  Two more years of roller coastering before one Thanksgiving we said, nearly at the same time, we’d had it. Now decades later, we spend an afternoon trying to identify a murderer and what surfaces is this other mystery.  How in the world are we attracted to one another?

“It was good to see you.” She said when she got to her car in the parking lot.  I said the same or words to that effect. Once in the car, she rolled the window down. “Let me know when you want to proceed.”  I thought there might be something suggestive about that comment, but she rolled up her window right away and drove out of the lot.

I needed to sort things out.  I shook my head as if to dismiss any surging notions of Becca and me. I drove to a strip mall not far from where Becca and I first met in McDonalds. At one time the mall housed a supermarket and some gas tanks. Both are gone now. The gas tanks replaced with more parking spots in the lot. The supermarket replaced by a Starbucks, go figure, a Staples and an IPARTY store.  An indication of how few people are like me is the number of IParty stores in the greater Boston area. And the size of the outfits.  If everyone partied as I do you couldn’t support one IPARTY store the size of a squash court.  The party places now are as big as a large barn.  I parked in the lot, walked past the Starbucks and IPARTY store toward, and then into, the Staples. I wanted to get a lined pad on which I’d summarize what Becca and I had discussed.  

Staples has those tvs when you enter and exit that capture your image as you come and go. They are used for security, and I am occasionally taken aback—despite their omnipresence—when I see my walking self as I exit and enter.  I bought two lined pads and was leaving Staples with my merchandise.  I checked my unflattering image on the tv screen and was nearly outside at the curb when it registered that there had been someone else in the picture who looked vaguely familiar.  I’d noticed the person in the distance scanning a shelf apparently trying to locate something.  Maybe I would not have noticed him had it not been for what was on my mind, but there had been a connection.

There are two sets of sliding doors when you exit Staples. The first set leads you to a vestibule. It is the same vestibule you’d come into when you enter the store from the curb.  The second set takes the shopper to the curb.  When entering from the curb you’d find yourself in the vestibule, turn right and go through another set of sliders that gets you into the store. 

I was already outside at the curb when I realized who this person was or could be.  Quickly I re-entered the store, arrived in the vestibule, went through the sliding doors to my right, raced around to see if I could find him near the shelves where he had been.  Not there. Then I saw him paying up on a check-out line.  He was walking toward the exit when I squirmed through another lane past confused shoppers and a surprised cashier. I shouted once, and then again. The second time was loud enough for it to sound urgent.  LoMack was already in the vestibule. He stopped and turned back looking through the now closed glass at this barking stranger.  

I’ve been told that I have a very good memory. And I do.  I know this because in comparison to others who forget what I clearly remember, I can see—sometimes glaringly--how good my memory is or how bad is another’s.  We’ll be at a reunion and someone will ask who was the star in the high school play, and I know clearly. Then others marvel at what to me is an easy recollection.  I am called on by friends who can’t remember the name of a dorm director, or the dog who pestered everyone in the campus center.  More than once I have left someone startled when I call out their name and tell them something about an encounter we had years back.

This is essentially what happened when the electronic doors opened and I was in the same space with LoMack for the first time in 40 plus years.  He was all gray, now, some wrinkles, but it was definitely him.  He was looking at me as if to say—“who are you calling me LoMack, and where do I know you from."

“LoMack, right?” I say.

“Yes” he said slowly. “LoMack. Right.”

“Went to Indiana University? Right?”

Again, with some hesitation and anxiety LoMack nodded.

“You don’t remember me.” I said.

“No. No, I don’t think I know you.  And only a handful of people on the planet know about LoMack. Who are you?”

Then I did what I can do. I reeled off information about the guy that he had told me before.  His father was a doctor. He had a sister a couple of years his junior.  His cousin went to the University of Michigan.  He originally was from Marblehead.

This all had a cumulative effect, but he was still not convinced.  “You once had sex with a woman who called you The Killer.”  This did it. Eyeballs wide open.

“Who are you man? You are scaring me.”

“KoZak” remember. “Needles California.”

I’d spent a day and a night with this guy hitchhiking. We had hours of time to talk waiting for a ride. I remember him clearly.

“Kozack.” I said. “We were hitch hiking together and finally got a ride from the guy who backed up down the interstate to pick us up”

“Kozak” He said, slowly- as if gaining a purchase. “Kozack” said LoMack, “Kozak? Zook? Your name is Zook?"

“Zeke”

“Zeke. Ok. Zeke. Right. Zeke would be Kozack.” He smiled.

“Kozack.” I said again.

 He nodded his head slowly, a number of times. “I remember now. That fucking guy was crazy."