Fog Bastards 1 Intention by Bill Robinson Page A

in big trouble. He looks up, knowing that the ball is going to drop, and it isn't New Year's Eve.
     
     
"Dumbass. It's not you learning from the light, it's you AND the light. Trust it." He winces and is gone.
     
     
Dumbass. My father says that. Learned it from his father. Probably learned it from his father. Family tradition. My kids are going to say Frak. It's our new family word. The fog dude got my attention. Trust the frakking light? Wasn't I already doing that? Apparently not.
     
     
Jen is awake and throwing Halloween's ball. Jen, the woman who won't let a dog lick her has grabbed a ball covered with cat spit. I give her my best WTF look. She laughs, kisses me good and hard, sticks her head under the covers, and makes me forget the question.
     
     
I get up to go running. She finally speaks, "I talked to your mom. We're expected for dinner at 4."
     
     
Maybe I've stumbled across a time machine, and it's three months ago. I don't understand it, but I'm also smart enough to not ask any questions. Another kiss is in order, and then I do my three miles. When I get back, she makes me drive my sweaty ass with her over to the gym and do weights. We shower, go shopping, then it's off to my mom's. She drops me off after at dispatch, and I head home alone in Starbuck, still somewhat confused, but not unhappy.
     
     
I'm not giving Fog Dude a chance tonight, I'm going to try to understand why I'm a dumbass. Trust the light. Use the Force. Search your feelings. Run for the border. I sit cross legged on the floor in the dark, naked.
     
     
Breathe. Listen. Find the hand and grab the light. No word right away, I play with the light. I'm five and my parents have given me that green goopy stuff, hard to hold on to, nothing worthwhile to do with once you can. The fun is the trying to hold it. Nothing. The light does what I tell it.
     
     
"Dumbass." Yes, it is a word with intention, my body fills with warmth, love even. I try to harness the experience, but it's there, unbelievably wonderful, and then gone as it always is. I am him. He is not me. The hand is still there, but the light isn't. I rummage around inside of myself, seeing if there is something I can grab on to. Nothing. The light is there, somewhere, but it's hiding. Doesn't want me to squeeze so soon probably.
     
     
I put my underwear things on, and my Hawaiian swim trunks and t shirt, check that no one is in the hall, leave, and run out of the building. I head toward the light house, it's only 10 and lots of people are still around. So it's back to the garage, hop into Starbuck, adjust the seat for my temporarily lankier frame, and head off for my primary hiding place, the open 24 hour grocery store on Santa Monica with no cameras. You can park, walk in the front door, head for the public restroom which is too disgusting to use, but is down a short hallway that ends in a door without alarms that dumps you into the alley. Perfect.
     
     
Plenty of molecules doing nothing back there, though I have no desire to understand their chemical composition. I have to wash their remnants off my feet when I get back, and I've seen what the paper towels look like.
     
     
A nice strong push, and I'm headed downtown which is, unfortunately for it, my obstacle course. I stay high enough to avoid the few tall buildings on the way, but low enough to stay off the air traffic control radar. The reflection off my shorts and t aren't too bad, but it does not hurt to be careful, especially after Hawaii. If you wonder why I have not bought shoes in my new larger size, it's precisely because I cannot determine the strength of their radar return, and Nike doesn't measure the radar signature of its shoes on its website either (what I need are a pair of Nike Stealth's that actually are).
     
     
The light won't shut up. Not that it actually talks, but it has left wherever it was hiding and is now egging me on to do something. The question is what?
     
     
My feet pull on some of the