The Omnicosmic Odyssey of Sonicus Maximus

Part One, Chapter One, Act One

SCENE FOUR - You Have No Idea

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Out of the corner of my eye, I had noticed a gentleman near the bar who had been routinely looking over at us. I tried to ignore him, but it became increasingly obvious over time that he was directly observing us. He had even been tapping other people on the back as if he wanted them to pay attention to us also.

But the man was now blatantly walking toward us. Perhaps the ambulation was more appropriately defined as stumbling, given the inconsistency of his vertical orientation.

He was obviously inebriated. Most establishments like this display signage which explicitly state that if you are visibly intoxicated, they will stop serving you alcohol. I supposed that "visibly" and "intoxicated" might have been subjective definitions for this place.

"Well...what have we here," the strange man asked. At least those were the words I deciphered...from drunken utterings so distorted they might as well have originated in an invented language for ghosts in a horror film.

I more readily recognized his next words when he asked, "You that guy that spilled Happy Hour's beer?"

That caught me off guard. Emotionally, I was flattered. As I had just mentioned to Amanda, a huge part of the reason I came back to wrestling was to work as a "heel" (the antagonist) which was not something I was ever able to get promoters to buy into back in the nineties. The match against Jamie I had described to Amanda was one of the few times I actually won over a hostile crowd.

Getting "heel heat" outside the arena was a vindication of CC Sonic's supervillain reincarnation, even if the man in this bar was unlikely to remember any of this 24 hours from now.

Still struggling to properly stand, but with improved enunciation, he followed up, "Did you hear me, She She MORONIC?"

"She She" was an obvious jab at my masculinity, and at least "Moronic" somewhat rhymed with "Sonic."

I could work with that. I might have carried this guy through some witty banter on social media if had we met there. What might have been, I thought for a moment.

I turned to check on Amanda again. She had not spoken since...whatever triggered this...trance or whatever it was. I was not sure if she was staring at me specifically, or simply in my general direction.

My new friend disengaged from me in order to address Amanda. He seemed to be attempting to flirt with her.

I cringed upon hearing the things he was saying, but I was interested to see if it would change Amanda's countenance at all.

"She's with me," I told him. I knew he might interpret that as us being on a date, but I no longer cared what he thought...about anything. I wanted her back to normal and I wanted him gone.

"It doesn't look like she's with you, Sucknic," he observed, in a voice that irritated me like sandpaper on a sunburn, "or with anybody. Lights are on, but nobody's home."

I responded, "Would you mind just leaving us alone? She and I were talking about something important."

"Probably trying to lose your virginity," he laughed, "and look how she took that proposal!"

"Speaking of taking," he continued confidently, "I gotta take a leak. Hey, little lady, I'll be back to rescue from this guy after I drain the lizard!"

Any positive feeling I had about him recognizing me from the show was long gone now. I just wanted him to be gone for good also. I hoped he might pass out in the bathroom.

As I stared again into Amanda's eyes, I was pleasantly surprised to see that she was now reacting to some stimuli she had perceived. Whether it was something she saw or heard was unclear to me. Amanda began to act as if she was waking up from deep sleep.

She had put her hands to her forehead, but then she began to twitch. She shook her head mildly, then she shook it more intensely. My own neck hurt from just watching that.

"C...C..." Amanda began to speak slowly.

"Hey, hey," I began to reassure her, "It's me. I'm right here. Welcome back..."

But I could tell she was not back, at least not completely.

"Amanda, it's me," I appealed to her, unsure of what to say next.

The twitching of her head made me think of times when I drove a specific stretch of road, Interstate 79. Some portions of I-79 were comprised of long stretches of road and trees, followed by more road and trees. Between family responsibilities, work, and pastimes like video games, I did not get as much sleep as I should have. Especially in the late afternoon and at night, that seemingly endless highway surrounded by trees on either side simply made my brain want to shut off. Caffeine could only do so much before it became useless. Fighting sleep, I would shake my head violently when necessary. Amanda's headshakes reminded me of that desperate attempt to retain awareness and regain focus.

"I'm...sorry," Amanda continued, still impaired.

"No worries," I assured her, "You scared me a little when you zoned out, but you scared me much more when you started shaking."

"I did? Please...keep talking," she pleaded, rubbing her eyes as if waking up, occasionally shaking her head, less violently than before.

"You started shaking your head really hard, and it reminded me of driving on I-79. From the time I met the woman I would eventually marry, and even to this day, I drive on that highway, from Pittsburgh to southern West Virgina," I told her, "There are lots of stretches where it's just road and trees that go on and on..."

She seemed to be slowly recovering, and she looked at me as if she was hanging on every word. I just hoped she would soon regain her full lucidity.

"Every one of those green highway signs on I-79 was like an oasis in the desert when I was fighting sleep," I continued, "giving my brain something to feed on...like a morsel to a starving animal...I knew most of the signs, roughly by their order, and would anticipate them...."

She did not say anything else, but I could tell she was listening intently. It seemed as though my words were giving her the stimulus required to stay awake, just as the green interstate signs with the white text had done for me when I became sleepy.

"The Pittsburgh exit became the one I looked for the most," I said, beginning to list the stops on the route from Western Pennsylvania to Southern West Virginia, "it marked the most obvious entry point to the interstate from the airport area, and when I was coming back from West Virginia, it was a beacon to signal the way home."

She seemed interested, so I continued.

"Morgantown, Star City, Pierpont," I followed, "were names I looked for to guide me out of Pennsylvania into West Virginia."

"Fairmont, Clarksburg, Bridgeport," I added, pausing and smiling as I recalled their significance to my family, having been places where my wife and I lived and worked, and where the children were born.

She reacted, almost with a smirk. I did not know what she was communicating by it, but I was just happy that Amanda was attempting to communicate.

"Wallback," I said, snickering, "There is a sign with Wallback on top, and Clay on bottom. I used to joke with Wifey that Wallback could be our first child's name..."

"Sutton," I continued from memory, "Gassaway, Frametown, and Flatwoods, which were near the Braxton County area. Depending on whether I started from Allegheny County in Pennsylvania or Harrison County in West Virginia, Braxton County was more or less the midpoint of the trip."

She broke into a huge smile. Could it be that she was finally snapping out of this?

"Charleston," I continue, "where Wifey and I first met in person. I often passed by it during the evening, getting a glance of the sunset over the 'capital city' and..."

Amanda broke into a laugh that she could no longer suppress. For a moment, I feared she might say she was just pranking me again just as she had regarding the wheelchair. But she did not. She just smiled and turned her eyes back to mine. They were wide now, large green orbs bigger and brighter than I had previously observed them to be. Her face was full of life now. Amanda appeared to be completely restored!

Amanda was looking around, from left to right, as if she were searching for something. She laughed out loud, melting away all the previously stored tension. Something was funny, but I did not get it. I did not need to. I was just happy.

Whether I said something she enjoyed hearing or she was simply entertained by the emotion that found its way into my recollection of the stops along the interstate, Amanda had come back to me, and I was pleased.

"Beyond Charleston, there was Logan," I finished, "which was the last stop before reaching Williamson. Obviously, I saw all the signs in reverse when I would drive back to our home, to Clarksburg, Bridgeport, or eventually, Pittsburgh."

It seemed selfish to think about our discussion about her flying me to the Amazon to help me raise awareness of my video games while Amanda was in her previous condition. Now that she was out of it, I hoped we could resume making progress on that conversation, as it was my entire reason for being here. I also realized that I had been so preoccupied with her well-being that I had not heard the voices in my head since the Penn Stater showed up. Everything seemed to be going in the right direction.

"Thank you," Amanda said, looking me directly in the eyes with full engagement.

"I have no idea what YOU are thanking ME for," I responded with surprise.

"I have some PTSD," she revealed.

That hit me like a cannonball to the stomach. From everything I understood, she had spent most of her career flying exotic aircraft in testing conditions. I had foolishly not realized she had seen combat.

For a split second, I wondered if this could be another prank. But the look in her eyes assured me it was not.

"I'm sorry," I offered, not knowing how to proceed. I was trying to digest this revelation. It necessarily meant that something happened tonight that triggered this episode. But the noise level in the bar had roughly been the same. There had not been any sights or sounds I perceived which might logically be responsible. Which again made me question...was it something I said or did?

"This is something I have to deal with," she continued, ignoring my attempt at condolences, "As long as I stay on guard against...the triggers...I am fine. It's just when...When I let my guard down..."

I was fumbling around for a response, but she spared me by continuing her explanation.

"And tonight...this...here, with you," she explained, "I enjoyed myself. I've spent a lot of time in the air, away from people. In my...current assignments...I don't often get a chance to do...this. At least not with someone I have...this much in common with. The guys on my team are great, but we all come from very different worlds, and it's hard for them to understand mine, especially when I struggle with it myself."

I was blown away. I was already intimidated by her credentials and her presence, but this revelation took it to another level entirely. I was humbled and honored to learn she had enjoyed being around me.

"Thank you, Amanda," I gushed, "for that, but most importantly, for your service."

"YOU have no idea what you are thanking ME for," she responded, shifting to a solemn, cautionary tone.

She was correct. I had not personally experienced the horrors of the KNOWN warfare paradigm. And understanding that Amanda had "early access" to some vehicles and weaponry she was probably forbidden from even describing to me, there was no telling what active combat might resemble for her. And I could not help but ponder what would happen if she were ever shot down, being a paraplegic. Could that have happened?

We had stumbled into an awkward moment of silence.

It was subsequently shattered by a caustic cacophony. "She She Moronic," an unwelcome returning voice shouted.

The man from before approached us once again. He confidently maneuvered himself to Amanda's proximity, looking at her and smiling with unmitigated lechery.

"Looks like you brought my little lady back to me, Sucknic," he said, "I don't know what you did, but by tomorrow morning, I have a feeling we'll both be thanking you for that."

"YOU have no idea what you are thanking ME for," I told him, glancing at Amanda and smiling as she grinned and shook her head, sighing.

"Did I meet this...gentlemen...earlier," Amanda asked, "when I was...you know?" She was looking at me instead of him, which irritated him.

"You did, babe," he answered, trying to get her to look at him, "but I think you might have been a little tipsy."

"I see," she responded.

"Yep. You were drinking IC," he confirmed, "and it got you drunk as hell."

I held in a laugh as Amanda alternated glances between him and me, before finally asking me "Is he being serious?"

"She brews her own beer," I told the man, "and though I haven't tried it yet, it sounds intense. If anyone here is getting drunk on IC Light, it's going to be you...not her."

"Thank you," she whispered to me.

"YOU have no idea," I whispered back, keeping that joke going, "what you are..."

Words can hardly describe the look she gave me. My face hurt from smiling.

"What's with all this lion imagery on your person," Amanda asked the man, "some kind of furry fetish?"

I did not know whether she was bluffing, or really did not know, but she was referring to the "Nittany Lion" mascot, one of several Penn State University indicia emblazoned on his apparel.

I used to work with a Penn State graduate. I described his white and blue vehicle covered in Penn State stickers as the 'NittanyMobile.'"

"It represents the 'Nittany Lions' of Penn State University," I explained to Amanda.

"Please tell me," she pleaded with a look of intense scrutiny, "that you go to this school, or you did go to it, to justify this...dedication."

"Yes," he said proudly, "I am a graduate of Penn State!"

Amanda stared at him with possibly the most underwhelmed look I have ever seen on a human face. This could not be more hilarious, I thought...until I heard what he asked her next.

"Do you go to school," he asked her, "is that outfit a mascot thing, or is it some kind of cosplay?"

"This outfit," she responded with indignant contempt, "is a flight suit. I've probably worn some variation of it since you hit puberty...assuming you have, I mean..."

While he processed the insult, I started counting.

I thought Amanda was between 24 and 29. It was possible that she was 27, the age I was when I got married. I looked younger than I was in wedding photos. So I certainly allotted for Amanda to be older than she appeared.

"I'm 35," she declared, ending the mystery.

I could hardly process her being that old. It made her just over a decade younger than me. Her face...just made it seem impossible. If she had been any everyday coworker, this would have set up an amusing comparison of the technology and culture of our teenage years, or some such. But her sophisticated military experience would likely prevent me comparing technology with her, since she might have known more at 20 than I did now in my late 40's.

The Penn Stater was trying to process that he had been hitting on a woman probably a decade older than him. This would be fun.

"Oh," he said, almost trying to act more mature and dignified, "do you...have kids? An ex? Do they know about Sucknic?"

"No, stud," she answered, "I've never been married, and I believe the childbearing ship has sailed for me, biologically. I doubt I can give any little Nitty Lions..."

She was now sarcastically "counter-flirting" with him. If I fail this interview and return empty-handed, the memories of this amusement would at least be a consolation, I reasoned.

Seeing me smiling and watching must have been too much for the man. He looked at me and all but screamed, "What the hell is wrong with you?"

I immediately responded, "Why do people always ask me that?"

"Did you go to college, She She," he asked, beginning to fume, "or did you go straight to getting your face rubbed into the mat?"

"I graduated from college," I answered, "and my school became a university after I graduated. Having a diploma opened up a door that I walked through, which led to another door to walk through. Several doors later, no one cared about whether I had a degree or not. I built my career on experience."

Amanda interjected, "I did not go to college. I went straight into the Air Force," she told him, "so is that going to be the thing that makes you walk away from me?"

"Oh, no..." he answered, obviously intending to follow up with something.

She cut him off by asking, "Then what will?"

He was about to respond but she overruled him by continuing, "In my...downtime...I get to read a lot. And I love reading. I just never made it around to the Chronicles of Nittania."

I feared his head might spontaneously combust. But I could not leave that to chance. I believed I could make it happen.

"Amanda," I asked loudly, "How do you get a Penn State graduate off your lawn?"

"How," she asked with delicious curiosity.

I answered, "You pay him for the pizza."

Amanda smiled, trying not to laugh as she kept her eyes on him.

"Oh, you're a real funny guy, She She," the man responded, unable to mask his seething anger.

"Moronic, you see those guys over there at the bar," he continued, "That's Bradley, he's six-four, 275 pounds. That's Henry beside him, six-six, 300 pounds. And Nelson beside him is six-seven, 325 pounds. They all play ball, and they are all headed to the pros. Would you like for me to bring them over, so you can tell THEM your witty joke?"

"Of course not," I answered without hesitation, "I don't want to have to explain it three times."

Amanda burst out laughing.

The man looked over at the bar, as if he was hoping some of the men sitting there would join him. They seemed to be watching sports on the television and enjoying their own conversation. I saw no evidence that they might come over to reinforce him.

Amanda drove the nail in the coffin by telling him, "I'm proud of you for graduating from Penn State," before concluding, "now try to stay out of the state pen."

He moved closer to Amanda, as if to physically intimidate her, though he was looking at me. "I'm going back to my buddies. You look like you got your hands full with this crippled whore."

I stood up and moved toward him. This was inexcusable. I have an immense respect for those who served in the armed forces. "Watch your mouth," I said, "Amanda is a First Lieutenant in the United States Air Force. She has made sacrifices for us that neither of us can imagine..."

Amanda turned away from us. She appeared to be taking something out of a bag attached to her wheelchair.

"You are so stupid," the man said, "how do you think she's in active service if she's disabled?"

I had no interest in discussing that with him. I had rationalized her condition with her current role as I understood it. Although there were outstanding questions, he was the last person I would converse with regarding them.

"A slight variation in the trajectory of a bullet on a beach in World War II would have made the difference between a man coming home with a Purple Heart, or in a body bag or a coffin," I told the Penn Stater, "Another man actually volunteered to serve in Vietnam, but was denied because of the physical."

"Had either of those gone differently," I told him, "my wife and daughters would not be who they are, if they existed at all."

"Did you ever think of how different your own life might be," I asked, "if real-life heroes did not put duty above self-interest?"

He did not respond to me. He appeared to be in extreme pain.

I could not see precisely what occurred while I was asking my questions. The same table which had originally obstructed my view of Amanda's wheelchair now inhibited my view of whatever had just taken place behind that table.

"Bitch," the man screamed, "you tased me," as he fled, holding his crotch.

"Don't piss yourself," Amanda shouted after him, "if you can help it."

Amanda turned to me, smiling as if nothing had happened.

"Did you...use some kind of taser," I asked cautiously, "on his..."

"I think he said 'you teased me' because he thought I was leading him on before finally rejecting him," she replied, "but his slurred speech made it unintelligible, and you thought he was saying I 'tased' him."

I smiled to confirm that I understood what the official story would be.

"I appreciate you literally standing up for me," she continued, assuming a commanding posture, "but as you can see, I absolutely did not need it, and frankly, getting that kind of an assist from a civilian is just plain weird. Don't ever do that again."

"If we run into that guy again before we leave tonight, ignore him," Amanda warned, continuing her serious tone.

"Speaking of leaving, we will do that as soon as I get back from the bathroom," Amanda declared.

"I need to use it myself," I noted, and began to stand.

"Well, you don't need to tell me about going to the bathroom," she quipped.

I smiled as she snickered deviously.

She gave me a credit card and told me, "Take this over to the bar and cash out for us. Your drinks were on me. Actually, they are on Uncle Sam...who gets money from your taxes. Thank you for buying us drinks in the most convoluted way possible!"

"You have no idea what you are thanking me for," I said, as we both erupted into laughter.

"Nature's call might take me longer than it will you," she said as she quickly looked down at her wheelchair then again looked at me, "I have to sit. I'm a lady."

I walked to the men's restroom, amused at Amanda's infectious charm. As I relieved myself then washed my hands, I pondered all that had happened tonight.

After coming back from the restroom, I took the card over to the bar to pay. The bartender took it, and turned around to swipe it.

I was preoccupied with the fact that Amanda was talking about leaving without having confirmed if she would take to the Amazon. This was just like a job interview. I had somehow expected a final decision from her tonight, even though she never made any such guarantee. She had said to expect the unexpected. I was certainly doing that now. Perhaps she would surprise me with a decision when we left.

The bartender approached me and practically threw the credit card down on the counter in front of me. He was not carrying a receipt. I braced for him to say the card was declined and prepared to pull out my wallet to pay the tab myself.

He gave me a serious look as he told me, "You two were never here. I never saw either of you. Don't ever come back here."

"Whatever," I said, taking the card back to regroup with Amanda. I had no clever comebacks left. The amount of discretionary brainpower I had for this much cryptic nonsense in a single evening had long been exhausted.