Mr. Chalk 14 (Part 2)

Mr. Chalk continued to gaze at the ancient map.

“I’m on a journey of discovery,” replied Mr. Chalk in an almost absent minded fashion.

Not happy with that answer, Ruth pressed on. “So, what do you expect to discover?” she continued.

“The discoveries to be found are yours, my dear,” smiled Mr. Chalk, “I am only here to facilitate your journey.”

Ruth stared at Mr. Chalk. “I gotta tell ya,” replied Ruth, “this smoke and mirrors act you are putting on is really making me nervous. I’m thinking again about calling security and have you removed.”

“That’s not necessary,” said Mr. Chalk pointing at the map. “Are you aware of the Tutonis Tribe located at one time in eastern Florida?”

The question caused Ruth to pause. “Why yes, I have been actively involved in archaeological excavations in that area for the past five years.”

“And how is it going?” queried Mr Chalk.

“Look,” said Ruth, “I have a huge feeling that you already know about my involvement with the Tutonis Tribe. You’re not some kind of weird stalker are you?”

A half smile came across Mr. Chalk’s face. “No, I’m not a weird stalker. I am, however, in possession of information that would immensely further your studies of the Tutonis Tribe.”

Ruth studied Mr. Chalk. She was becoming increasingly impatient with his evasive answers, but yet if he really knew something about the Tutonis Tribe, it could firmly establish her as an academic power at Shreveport State University.

As an academic, Ruth’s professional ambition had always been to be accepted as a full professor at a respected university. This need to be accepted was based on her hatred of growing up as “po-folk” in a dysfunctional family. Her mother and father had died years ago of substance abuse and violence. Her only living relative was her brother Lester and he was just like their father. The last time she had talked to Lester was about six months ago. As usual, he had phoned her to ask for money. He said he needed some up front money to start a new business venture. Ruth knew that Lester was heavily involved in illegal drugs, so the money was probably for another methamphetamine lab. She refused his request and Lester swore at her before hanging up.

As a young girl growing up in this family environment, Ruth had struggled against the label of being poor. Her classmates, teachers, counsellors and family all assumed she would marry early and work at the town factory. The Orion Rubber Company was the largest employer in town and anyone of Ruth’s social status was considered to “have it made” at getting a job there.

The oppressive social atmosphere of the town hung around Ruth like the heavy odour of hot tar emanating from the factory. Every day, Ruth would walk past the factory on her journey to and from school. And every day as she walked past the Orion Rubber Company, she would say to herself “there’s no way I’m spending my life making mud flaps.”

The day after Ruth graduated from high school, she was on a Greyhound bus looking out at the Orion Rubber Company one last time. Ruth had been accepted at a small university in Dayton, Ohio. She had also been accepted at other universities, but this was the only one where she was able to get an immediate part time job at their bookstore with an employee discount of ten percent.

Money was always a concern for Ruth and the part time job at the bookstore was the biggest factor in choosing this University. Ruth always hated that money, or the lack of it, controlled her life but this was her chance and she was going to take it.

For the next four years Ruth became a full time student while working part time jobs to make ends meet. Through hard work and determination, Ruth graduated in the top five percent of her class. With an undergraduate degree in hand, and $40,000 in debt, Ruth applied for graduate studies in Archaeology at the University of West Tennessee. She was accepted and the next five years of graduate studies earned Ruth a doctorate degree and a further $70,000 debt.

At the time of Ruth’s graduation, Shreveport State University was actively involved in fundraising. Donations to the University had been slowly declining over the years to the point of serious concern. There was talk of downsizing and even closing various Academic Schools.

Mr. Chalk 14 (Part 1)

14  Part 1

It was very early the next morning as Ruth made her way to the Doreen Building. The sun had just begun to crest the horizon as she walked down the virtually abandoned sidewalks. To Ruth, this was the best part of the day and so it was her habit to arrive before anyone else to the archival laboratory. New archaeological specimens had just arrived from Ruth’s excavation site and she was eager to examine them.

“This is great,” smiled Ruth as she opened the laboratory door. The large windows of the laboratory faced east, allowing for the full effect of the morning sun to bathe the lab in a golden light. Long tables displayed beautiful artefacts carefully identified from various archaeological findings. Ruth moved down to the area reserved for her project and quickly identified the newest specimens. She carefully picked up a piece of pottery and held it aloft to examine the intricate colors and design in the bright sunlight.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” said Mr. Chalk standing behind Ruth.

“Holy Christ,” exclaimed Ruth as she instinctively flinched at the unexpected sound of Mr. Chalk’s voice. The startling effect almost caused Ruth to drop the ancient piece of pottery.

She carefully replaced the pottery piece on the lab table.  Spinning around she saw Mr. Chalk standing at an adjacent table directly behind her.

“You,” said Ruth pointing at Mr. Chalk, “scared me half to death!”

Mr. Chalk gave a small smile and returned to looking at a map on the table in front of him.

“Didn’t I make it perfectly clear that I was not going to talk to you?” exclaimed Ruth, still slightly shaking from the ordeal.

“Not exactly,” replied Mr. Chalk, “you had stated that we were not to meet again in your office.” Ruth began to get angry again but suddenly realized that it was a losing battle.

“It is quite apparent,” said Ruth through clinched teeth, “that the only way I am going to get rid of you, is to hear what you have to say.”

Mr. Chalk briefly looked up from the map. “Excellent,” he replied and then returned to the map.

Ruth stared at Mr. Chalk.

“This is so frustrating,” thought Ruth. “Look,” said Ruth, “I just agreed to listen to what you have to say and now you’re not talking. So why are you here?”

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/52598

Mr. Chalk 13

13

Later that afternoon Ruth arrived back at her office. “Christ what a day,” thought Ruth as she opened her office door. Stepping inside her office she stopped in mid-stride and stared at her chair behind the desk. Sitting in the chair was Mr. Chalk who was calmly looking at Ruth.

“I don’t believe this,” said Ruth as she stared at Mr. Chalk.

“Hello,” said Mr. Chalk.

“Why are you back in my office?” exclaimed Ruth, “and who keeps letting you in?”

Ruth was growing increasingly angry. “I swear, if I find out who keeps letting you in here, I’m going to tear him a new...”

Mr. Chalk held up his hand to interrupt Ruth. “No one let me in,” said Mr. Chalk, “you had said that we could talk later and so here I am.” 

Ruth’s anger was now turning to frustration. “Look,” said Ruth walking towards her desk, “I’m sorry I got angry, but it’s been a tough day teaching all over the campus and attending to uninvited guests.”

It was then that Ruth noticed the unfamiliar arrangement of papers on her desk. Looking around, she suddenly realized that her office had been cleaned. All the papers that had been strewn on the floor were now separated into neat stacks on her desk. In fact, all her folders and papers in the office, including the piles on the filing cabinet and in the bookshelves, were now neatly stacked.

“Did you touch my stuff?” said Ruth.

“Why yes,” said Mr. Chalk, “it was a bit untidy and so I...”

Ruth held up her hand and interrupted Mr. Chalk in mid-sentence. “Get out,” she ordered, pointing at the office door.

“But you said we could talk later and I haven’t discussed…”

Again Ruth interrupted Mr. Chalk. “Get out,” she ordered, still pointing at the office door. “Very well,” said Mr. Chalk as he stood to exit the office.

“And this time,” said Ruth, “let me be clear. When I said we could talk later it did not mean you could break into my office, again, and move my stuff around.”

Mr. Chalk stood by the office door. “So we can talk later?” inquired Mr. Chalk.

“Get out,” said Ruth. “I do not want to ever see you in my office again, is that clear?”

Mr. Chalk stepped out into the hallway. “Perfectly,” he replied and disappeared from view.

Ruth glared at the now vacant doorway.

“Unbelievable,” thought Ruth as she shook her head and moved towards her chair. Flopping down in the chair, she sighed and began to idly look through the stack of students’ project papers.

“Great,” she thought, “they’ve even been arranged alphabetically.”

Mr. Chalk Chapter 12

12

Professor Ruth, as her students liked to call her, was hurrying back to her office from class. “Why does timetabling,” she thought to herself as she dodged another slow moving student, “always schedule my classes in different buildings?” 

With only fifteen minutes between classes, Ruth had to finish her first class, rush back to her office, grab her notes and supplies for the second class and dash off to a different building.

The lapels on her grey suit jacket flapped slightly as she quickly weaved between the slower moving students on the sidewalk. A white long sleeve silk blouse, pleated skirt and low heels complemented her jacket. The professional looking ensemble was highlighted by Ruth’s slim athletic figure and dark auburn hair that fell loosely to her shoulders. Students would tell her that she looked like Grace from an old sit-com. Ruth hoped that was a complement, having never seen the show or having much time for television.

“I swear,” thought Ruth, “that timetabling crew just sits up they’re in their office laughing at me sprinting between buildings.”

Ruth entered the Doreen Building of the Arts and raced down the hallway to her office. She fumbled for her office keys as she tried to balance her collection of books, binders, student papers and notes on her right arm. She managed to grab the key ring from her pocket and was attempting to thumb through the assortment of keys on the ring with her left hand. “Come on, come on!” thought Ruth as the key ring began to slip from her grasp. Her attempts to balance all the different loads suddenly turned into a juggling act.

The juggling act was short lived, however, as Ruth now stood in front of her office door holding only the key ring. All her previously held books, binders, notes and student papers were now lying on the floor. Ruth calmly looked at the key ring, selected the correct key and swung open her office door. She took one small backward step behind the pile of paper academia lying on the floor. “Dammit!” she yelled, as she swept her right foot forward in a large sweeping motion. Her foot caught the pile of students’ papers and sent them soaring into the office. The papers fell like autumn leaves spreading completely across her desk, the floor and a tidy little man sitting in Ruth’s chair.

“Who the hell are you?” exclaimed Ruth. She was angry but she was also startled at seeing an intruder in her office.

“Hello,” replied Mr. Chalk as he began to stack the papers from his lap onto Ruth’s desk.

“Stop doing that,” Ruth protested, “and tell me what you are doing in my office?”

Mr. Chalk stopped stacking papers on the desk and looked up at Ruth.

“I’m sorry for the interruption,” said Mr. Chalk, “but it was imperative that we meet.”

Ruth glared at Mr. Chalk and slowly moved towards her desk. Standing on the opposite side of the desk to Mr. Chalk, she reached for her phone. “If you don’t tell me who you are,” said Ruth, pointing the phone’s receiver at Mr. Chalk, “I’m calling security.”

Mr. Chalk stood and adjusted his suit jacket. “Why, I’m Mr. Chalk and I’m so pleased we finally have met.”

Ruth waited for Mr. Chalk to continue with his introduction but he simply stood there with a small smile on his face.

“Get out,” said Ruth pointing to the open door with the phone receiver.

“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Chalk.

“Get out,” repeated Ruth. “I’m late for my next class and you are sitting in my office without my permission.”

Mr. Chalk gave a slight bow towards Ruth.

“My apologies for arriving at an inopportune time,” said Mr. Chalk “might we meet later?”

Ruth was now clearly flustered. “Yes…no… well maybe,” Ruth said in exasperation. “Just get out and we’ll talk later.”

“Excellent,” said Mr. Chalk, “until later then,” as he began to walk around from behind the desk. Ruth circled the desk in the opposite direction with the phone receiver still in her hand. 

As Mr. Chalk left the office, he turned, gave another small smile to Ruth and disappeared down the hallway.

Ruth stared at the open door of her office with the phone receiver still in her hand. “What the hell was that?” thought Ruth and then suddenly realized she was late. She slammed down the phone receiver and started frantically searching for her books and notes.

Bundling her papers and books under one arm, Ruth sprinted out of the office, shut the door behind her and began running to her next class. “I don’t need this,” she kept repeating as she headed down the hallway and out the front door.

Once outside, Ruth began to sprint across the campus to the Engineering Sciences buildings. Ruth enjoyed teaching this class because it was a general introduction to the ancient civilizations of the Americas. It was taught as an option to non-archaeological students and allowed Ruth the flexibility to become more of a storyteller and bring history alive. To Ruth, history was more than bits of pottery and dusty remnants of the past. It was about people who lived, loved and died. They were the old ones and their stories were our stories; guiding us through the uncertainties of life.

Ruth hurriedly entered the classroom and glanced at the clock on the wall at the front of the class. As she looked up at the clock, she could hear groans of disapproval from the engineering students at the back of the class. The general accepted rule around campus was that if a professor was more than twenty minutes late for class, the class was cancelled. Ruth was eighteen minutes late.

Ruth gave a weak smile as she turned towards the class and placed her bundle of books and notes on the lectern. “I’m sorry I’m late,” smiled Ruth as she directed her gaze to the front rows of the class. The students smiled back and were generally appreciative that the class was beginning. Ruth then shifted her gaze up and towards the back rows of the lecture theatre. “And I’m sorry I’m not late enough,” smiled Ruth to the group of engineering students who were only two minutes away from bolting from the class. The engineering students caught the inside joke, and glancing at one another, opened their notebooks for the class.

Ruth began to sift through her papers at the lectern but soon began to realize that she had forgotten to bring her notes for the day’s lecture. “I don’t need this,” she said to herself as she began the lecture without backup notes.

She was still in a foul mood by the end of the class but also slightly impressed at how well her lecture was received by the students. “Maybe there is something about not using lecture notes,” thought Ruth, “the lecture had seemed smoother and created more interest with the students.” There was even a polite, yet small, applause at the end of the class. “That’s never happened before,” thought Ruth.

The students began to close their notebooks and pick up their belongings as they milled towards the exit of the classroom. All of the students except for one. He had sat in the back row of the class, with his hands gently resting on the desk, listening intently to Professor Ruth for the entire lecture. He was the same young man with the sky blue eyes that had assisted Mr. Chalk earlier that day. “It’s all starting to come together,” thought Bradley Dubell as he watched Professor Ruth Hawkins leave the classroom.

Mr. Chalk 11

11

That afternoon, a taxi pulled up to the main entrance of the Shreveport State University. Mr. Chalk got out and slowly walked over to a large outdoor campus map. Shreveport State University was a large university with many faculty buildings spread out over sixty acres. As Mr. Chalk carefully studied the map, a young man approached carrying an SSU backpack.

“Do you need some help?” inquired the man as he smiled at Mr. Chalk.

“Why yes,” said Mr. Chalk, “I’m looking for the Department of Antiquities.”

The young man removed his sunglasses to look at the map.

“You’re in luck,” he replied, pointing at the map, “it’s in the Doreen Building of the Arts.” Looking up at Mr. Chalk, he pointed to the right. “Just follow this pathway about two blocks and it’s on your left.”

Mr. Chalk stared down the pathway towards the Doreen Building.  “Thank you very much for your assistance, you have been most kind,” he said.

“Don’t mention it,” replied the young man, “my name is Bradley Dubell,” as he nodded politely towards Mr. Chalk. “Would you like me to escort you to the Doreen Building?” he asked.

“That won’t be necessary, thank you,” replied Mr. Chalk as he began to move away from the Campus map.

The young man fixed his sky blue eyes on Mr. Chalk as he watched him disappear into the milling crowd of students. Suddenly his concentration was broken when a student behind him began yelling at her friend.

“My backpack is gone,” she exclaimed, “you were supposed to watch it for me.” 

Dubell replaced his sunglasses and slowly lowered the backpack he was holding onto the ground. Taking a step away from the backpack, he pretended to intently study the Campus map.

“There it is,” she cried, and ran over to where Dubell was standing. Picking up her backpack, she gave Dubell a quick glare of suspicion and then returned to her friend. Bradley ignored her and continued to pretend to study the Campus map.

10

As the last of the passengers left the plane, the flight crew prepared for the next shift.

“God Kim, what a day,” said Cheryl to another flight attendant, “can you believe how rude that guy was?”

“No kidding,” said Kim as she cleaned up the galley and quickly checked the bathroom, “I’m glad he spent most of the flight in this bathroom.”

“Amen to that,” said Cheryl.

“Funny thing,” said Kim, “I never saw him leave the plane.”

“Me neither,” said Cheryl, “but the bathroom’s empty and his luggage is gone, so good riddance.”

Outside on the tarmac, the ground crews were busy unloading the luggage and refitting the plane.

“What’s up with that honey wagon?” thought Carlos, as he drove towards the plane. Carlos was a maintenance supervisor responsible for the timely preparation and turn around of all incoming planes. Lately the maintenance crew had been getting heat from the airline because of delays in departure times. And now, the honey wagon, responsible for removing the contents of the plane’s septic tank, was still connected to the plane. Carlos screeched to a halt beside the honey wagon.

“What’s going on?” he said, “you guys are holding up the plane.”

Walter and Spence looked over at Carlos.

“Can’t help it man,” said Walter, “we hooked up to the plane, opened the valve and nothing. She’s plugged right up.”

Carlos walked over to the plane and checked the connection to the septic tank. “How could it be plugged?” he said, “it’s an eight inch line.”

“Maybe someone ate your wife’s cooking,” laughed Walter between high fives with his partner Spence. Carlos smiled and flipped off Walter.

“Just for that, you’re on the honey wagon for the rest of the week,” replied Walter as he ran up the ramp into the airplane.

“It’s always something,” thought Carlos as he walked down the aisle to the bathroom. Opening the door he stepped inside and lifted the lid of the toilet. Flushing the toilet he looked down and into the septic tank. Blue water swirled from the toilet and drained into the tank.

“Nothing here,” thought Carlos as he continued to hold down the handle to keep the port hole open to the septic tank.

Carlos watched the open port hole as the blue water in the septic tank carried bits of toilet paper, sanitary products and pieces of excrement past his view point.

“Lovely,” thought Carlos and then a face slowly floated up from the blue soup. The unblinking blue stained eyes looked directly at Carlos who immediately proceeded to add his lunch to the mixture.

Meanwhile in the airport terminal, Mr. Chalk was walking out of the exit doors carrying a small leather satchel.

“Hey Mister,” yelled a security guard pointing at the departing Mr. Chalk, but he was gone. The security guard reached for the send button on his collar attached microphone.

“Main, this is Area Four,” he said.

“Go ahead Four,” came the reply.

“I have unsecured luggage at Carousel Two.”

“Ten-four,” came the reply, “sending backup.” Almost immediately, two security personnel approached Carousel Twelve.

“Hi Bill,” said one of the guards, “watcha got?”

“As I was watching the Carousel, I saw this guy walk up with two bags and place them right here,” he said pointing at the bags at their feet. “He opened one of the bags and took out a small leather satchel. He closed the bag, tucked the satchel under his arm and walked away. He left through that exit leaving the bags behind. I yelled at him to stop, but when I went outside he was gone.”

“He probably just forgot to pick them up,” said one of the guards kneeling down beside the bags. “Look, he’s got his name tags and phone number on both bags,” he said.

“It shouldn’t be hard to track down this…” he read the tag, “Mr. Symens.”

Mr. Chalk 9

9

Mr. Chalk adjusted his seat belt as he glanced down the aisle of the airplane. General boarding had commenced as the plane sat on the tarmac at the Jacksonville International Airport.

“Isn’t this great,” said the young woman sitting beside Mr. Chalk. “I love the leg room you get in the emergency exit seats.”

Mr. Chalk turned towards the young woman and smiled. “Yes, it is very comfortable.”

The young women smiled back and asked, “is this your first time going to Shreveport?”

Mr. Chalk nodded silently in response.

“We were lucky getting these seats,” continued the young woman, “they’re usually snapped up early.”

“Yes we were fortunate,” said Mr. Chalk as he turned to focus his attention back on the aisle and the very large, overweight man struggling with two carry-on bags.

“Why are these planes so small?” complained the man to no one in particular. Finally, after bumping and jostling several seated passengers, the large man arrived at the row of seats in front of Mr. Chalk. He stopped and began to scan the seat numbers printed on the overhead luggage bins. Cursing under his breath, he dropped his carry-on bags in the aisle and began to search for his ticket.

“Where the hell did I put that ticket?” he said as he searched his pockets.

“There it is!” he exclaimed pulling it out of his vest pocket.

The man began to bob his head up and down as he looked at the boarding ticket and the seat numbers above him.

He pointed at the young woman sitting in the emergency exit aisle beside Mr. Chalk.

“They told me I had an emergency exit seat,” he said to the woman. “You’re in my seat,” he said motioning her to move.

“But my ticket says that this is my seat,” replied the young woman. She was obviously unsettled and a little bit frightened by his aggressive manner.

“Excuse me,” said Mr. Chalk looking at the man, “the young woman doesn’t want to move.” Mr. Chalk’s voice momentarily startled the large man. He was not used to someone questioning his authority.

“What did you say?” said the man turning to Mr. Chalk.

“I believe you should sit down in your own seat,” said Mr. Chalk.

The large man started to lean towards Mr. Chalk but stopped. Something about the look in Mr. Chalk’s eyes told him to back away.

“Fine!” he snarled, as he stuffed his two carry-on bags into the overhead bins.

The commotion created by this man was noticed by everyone. A flight attendant had been watching the scene from the back galley and was now standing beside the large man who was blocking the aisle.

“Hello I’m Cheryl, is there a problem here?” said the flight attendant looking at the large man and Mr. Chalk.

“No problem,” replied Mr. Chalk. “There was just a bit of confusion over the seating arrangements.”

Cheryl looked directly at the man who was now red faced and sweating profusely. “May I see your boarding pass sir?”

“Here,” he said, thrusting out the pass towards Cheryl.

Cheryl studied the boarding pass. “Your boarding pass clearly shows that this is your seat, Mr. Symens,” she said pointing to the middle seat in front of the emergency exit aisle.

Mr. Symens grabbed the pass from Cheryl and glared at Mr. Chalk as he proceeded to noisily squeeze himself into the middle seat.

“Excuse me,” said a voice over Symens’ head, “I’m sitting in the window seat beside you.”

Mr. Symens’ face went immediately back to crimson as he looked up to respond.

“Why don’t you go …” he started to say but then stopped.

Mr. Symens was looking up into the chiselled face of a six foot, two hundred pound marine in full battle fatigues.

“Why don’t I go what?” replied the marine.

Symens swallowed hard, “nothing,” he mumbled and struggled to get out of his seat.

The marine sat down at his window seat and Symens struggled back into his middle seat. Another marine, almost the same size as the first marine, came down the aisle, stopped, smiled politely at Symens and promptly sat down in the aisle seat beside him.

The young lady sitting beside Mr. Chalk giggled. She leaned over to Mr. Chalk and pointed at the row in front of them. “It looks like a marine sandwich with lots of ham,” she whispered.

The flight left on schedule with only minimal grumbling from Mr. Symens. As they gained altitude and started to level out at the cruising elevation, Symens began struggling with his seat. Repeated efforts to recline the seat resulted in mild expletives and increased frustration. Finally he pushed the flight attendant’s call button.

Cheryl came down the aisle and turned off the light of the call button. “Yes Mr. Symens?” asked the flight attendant.

“This seat is broken,” exclaimed the obese man, “it won’t recline.”

The flight attendant smiled.

“I’m sorry sir, but the row of seats in front of the emergency exit won’t recline. We have to keep that exit clear.”

Mr. Symens’ face turned back to a crimson red and his eyes began to bulge from the increased blood pressure.

“What type of cheap scam is this airline pulling?” he said. “First you sell me a seat that you claim is in the emergency exit and then you cram me in a seat that won’t even recline?” he yelled.

“Please sir, be calm,” replied the flight attendant, “if you have any complaints or issues with the airline, a representative at our destination in Shreveport will gladly handle your concerns.”

Symens struggled to remove himself from his seat. The marine in the aisle seat beside Mr. Symens quickly stood up and moved to one side. It took noticeably longer for Symens to extract himself from his seat.

“I’ll sue,” he exclaimed, pointing at the attendant, “this is total garbage.”

 The flight attendant held up her hands.

“Please sir,” she said, “you have to sit down.” 

“I can’t sit down,” he replied, “I feel sick thanks to your abuse.” He pushed past the flight attendant. “I have to get to the bathroom,” he complained, “I feel sick.”

Everyone on the plane leaned away from the aisle as the large man staggered down to the bathroom at the back of the plane, wedged himself inside and slammed the door.

“Wow,” said the young woman beside Mr. Chalk, “what a jerk.”

The rest of the flight was quiet and orderly as Symens remained in the bathroom. Every passenger on the plane was grateful that he had chosen not to come out. The rest of the flight was uneventful, and a short time later, the pilot announced to the passengers that they were starting their descent into Shreveport. The plane landed and began to taxi towards the airport gate.

“You don’t suppose he had a heart attack or something, do you?” said the young woman to Mr. Chalk as she pointed back towards the bathroom.

“I’m sure he’s just fine,” replied Mr. Chalk, “he’s exactly where he should be.”

Mr. Chalk 8

8

Mr. Chalk stood beside Artie’s big rig at the truck stop in Jacksonville. Artie was talking to Mr. Chalk as he flipped through the pages of his driver’s log.

“Well, this is it partner,” said Artie. “I’m heading north, so you need to grab a ride into town.”

“Thank you for your hospitality,” replied Mr. Chalk.

“Don’t mention it,” said Artie grinning, “maybe you can help me sometime.”

Mr. Chalk gave a slight grin. “Perhaps,” said Mr. Chalk, as he turned and walked towards the roadside café.

Mr. Chalk had disappeared into the café when Phil, the resident gas jockey and buddy to all the veteran drivers, walked up to Artie.

“Okay Artie, you got me,” said Phil. The drivers and Phil were always playing practical jokes on each other and Artie knew right away that Phil had just been the butt of a practical joke.

“What happened?” asked Artie, waiting for a good story.

“I was trying to figure out why I couldn’t get fuel into your rig,” smiled Phil. “The fuel pump kept kicking out and I kept having to go back and reset it. On the third try I decided to have a look at the rig tank and damned if it weren’t already full.”

“What!” said Artie, “those tanks should be damn near empty.”

Phil gave a broad smile at Artie. “Ya right, good one,” said Phil. “You had me leaping around your rig like a frog on a hot plate.”

Phil hustled off to attend to another rig while Artie’s gaze slowly drifted from his fuel tanks to the café door.

Mr. Chalk was gone.

Mr. Chalk 7

7

Sergeant Forester got on the dispatch and radioed Deputy Groves.

“What’s your 20?” asked the Sergeant.

Groves replied, “I’m about a half an hour north of town.”

Sergeant Forester had sent Deputy Groves to seek out and apprehend another drug mule that was reported speeding along the highway.

“In your travels, I need you to check out a report of debris lying beside the highway at the corner of I-95 and Cedar,” stated the Sergeant.

“Roger,” replied Groves.

“Christ,” thought Groves, “it looks like I missed that drug runner and now I have to go up the highway another twenty miles to check for garbage. There’s no way I’m going to get back to town before my shift is over.”

Groves put on his lights and siren and hit the gas pedal. “If I gotta go check for garbage, I may as well do it as fast as I can,” he smiled.

Ten minutes later, Groves stopped at the corner of I-95 and Cedar. “Boy,” thought Groves smiling to himself, “I’m going to have to rib Hartley. He’s never going to believe that this old cruiser can do twenty miles in ten minutes. He can keep his brand new, shiny, eco-cruiser.” Getting out, he grabbed his flashlight, and walked through the cool night air.

“I’ll never find anything out here in the dark,” thought Groves, and then he saw it.

As he shone his flashlight randomly from side to side, something up ahead by the side of road reflected back to Groves. He could make out a large metallic cube. As he approached, he realized that it was a crushed car probably from one of the nearby car recycle shops.

Groves radioed back to Sergeant Forester at dispatch.

“Yeah,” said Groves, “some recycle hauler got a little careless tying down his load. I found a one-ton lump of car that fell off a truck. Good thing it didn’t hit anybody.”

“Can you get any identifying tags off of it?” enquired Sergeant Forester.

“Yeah right,” replied Groves, “its probably got a return address stamped all over it.”

“Humour me,” deadpanned Sergeant Forester.

Groves sauntered over to the metal cube and began to inspect all visible sides.

“Sarge,” exclaimed Groves, “you’re not going to believe this, but there is a licence plate squished into this mess.”

“Can you get a number?”

“Yeah,” said Groves, “it’s a New York plate and the number is … Hector 43 Tango 9 Mary.”

“Groves,” said the Sergeant, obviously irritated, “the tag on the drug runner is H43 T9M. Now stop screwing around.”

Groves straightened up, reached for his notebook and read the tag number of the car he had been tracking an hour ago.

“What the…?” thought Groves.

“Sarge,” said Groves, “I’m not screwing around. I just double checked and the numbers are identical.”

“And there’s one more thing,” added Groves looking closely at the twisted metal, “this cube is leaking blood.”

Mr. Chalk 6

6

At about the time of Sergeant Forester’s meeting with Dr. Harper, a tandem trailer truck was pulling back onto the highway and accelerating through the gears.  “It’s a good thing I saw you standing by the side of the road,” said the driver to Mr. Chalk, “it was getting dark out there and I just about missed seeing you. I don’t usually pick up hitchhikers but you were dressed up in that suit, so I figured you had car problems.”

Mr. Chalk, who was sitting in the big rig’s passenger seat, nodded slightly and replied, “yes, it is indeed fortunate.”

“My name’s Artie,” said the driver focusing on the darkening road ahead, “short for Artemous, if you can believe that,” he snorted. Artie glanced towards his new passenger expecting a reply.

“My name is Mr. Chalk,” came the response.

Artie and Mr. Chalk sat in silence for the next twenty miles as darkness enveloped the country-side.

Finally Artie asked, “where’re you headed?”

Mr. Chalk responded with a slight smile. “I have recently discovered that I need to go to the Shreveport State University in Shreveport, Louisiana.”

“Jeez, Shreveport is about eighteen hours from here in the other direction,” replied Artie, “but if you don’t mind riding along with an old man, I’m travelling right through to Jacksonville. It’s got bus service and an airport”.

Mr. Chalk looked visibly pleased at this news and leaned back into the soft leather seat. “That would be perfect,” said Mr. Chalk.

Realizing that Mr. Chalk was not a great talker, Artie plugged his MP3 into the truck’s stereo system and began listening to his favourite country western classics. “Nobody sings like Gene Autry and the Sons of the Pioneers,” said Artie to Mr. Chalk. “Am I right or what?”

At that precise moment, a late model sedan came up from behind and attempted to pass the semi. The driver of the car did not seem to care about the oncoming traffic and only Artie’s quick reflexes prevented a catastrophic head-on collision.

“Boy that was close,” exclaimed Artie. “If I hadn’t of looked in my rear view mirror at the right time, we would have all wrecked.”

“Who are they?” enquired Mr. Chalk.

“Drug traffickers,” said Artie. “They try to use this I-95 highway as a conduit to get their drugs up to the northern states. They’re dangerous as hell on this highway. Just a couple of weeks ago they ran head-on into a family of five. Killed the entire family, and of course, the drug traffickers walked away with minor injuries.” Artie slowly shook his head, “it’s just sick.”

Mr. Chalk 5

5

The next day, Sergeant Forester walked through the steel metal doors of the morgue.

“God I hate this place,” was Sergeant Forester’s mantra every time he walked through those doors.

He has seen the aftermath of many shootings, beatings and car accidents but the morgue was the only place that really bothered him. The antiseptic smell of death, the chill in the air and the reduction of a person to a piece of organic material always bothered him.

Dr. Harper, the County’s forensic coroner, stood silently beside the remains of Lester Hawkins on the shiny stainless steel examination table. “Where to begin?” the doctor said quietly to himself.

“What’s that Doc?” replied Sergeant Forester.

Dr. Harper involuntarily flinched.

“Sorry Doc,” apologized Forester, “you were really deep in thought there.” 

“Jeezus,” said Dr. Harper clearly shaken.

After a couple of seconds, Dr. Harper motioned the Sergeant to come closer to the autopsy table. As the Sergeant approached, the doctor reached behind him and grabbed the preliminary autopsy report from the counter.

“Let me read you my findings so far Sergeant,” said Dr. Harper focusing on the report attached to the clipboard. “What we have here is Lester Hawkins,” read the doctor, “male, Caucasian, height 6 feet 2 inches, eye color blue, weight …” and then his voice trailed off. “Who are we kidding here?” said the doctor in obvious frustration. “We have a man on this table who measures 6 feet 2 inches in length, 12.5 inches in width and 4 inches in depth,” exclaimed the doctor. “We also have a man whose shape is now a rectangular solid complete with right angle sides.” The doctor turned and looked directly at Sergeant Forester. “How do you explain that?” asked the doctor.

“Well,” replied Forester, “even though we found the body outside the cell, we did find lots of human pieces, such as skin and bone and teeth and tissue in the cell ...”

“Yes, yes I’m well aware of that Sergeant,” interrupted Dr. Harper. “From the traumatic condition of the body you would expect such evidence.”

“What I was leading up to Doc,” replied Sergeant Forester “was the amount of human detritus found on the transfer slot in the cell door.”

“What’s a transfer slot?” asked Dr. Harper.

“I’m getting to it Doc,” replied Forester, “it’s just a name we use for the slot to transfer food into the cell or to handcuff prisoners without opening the door and,” emphasizing the last word for the full effect, “it measures 12.5 inches in width and 4 inches in height.”

The aftermath of that meeting between Mr. Chalk and Lester Hawkins is still discussed by the Dodd County police force. Lester succumbed to an unnatural demise while Mr. Chalk disappeared. How Lester died and what happened to Mr. Chalk is still an open case.

Mr. Chalk 4

4

The two Deputies and the Sergeant were standing by the front desk.

“I need you two out to Cedar Grove,” said the Sergeant. “We need follow-up info on those break-ins last week.”

“Got it!” replied Deputy Hartley eager to leave the station and Lester Hawkins behind.

“Let’s blow this pop stand,” he said as he gave a reassuring smile to his partner. His good mood was suddenly interrupted by screams coming from the holding cells area.

“What the …,” exclaimed Sergeant Forester as he spun around towards the sound. The screams, or rather the scream, was almost non-human. It was piercing and continuous.

“That goddamn Hawkins is killing the other prisoner,” cried Deputy Wilcox.

“Go!” yelled Sergeant Forester.

“Dammit!” said Hartley, “we should have put Hawkins in a separate cell.”

Wilcox and Hartley raced down the corridor to the holding cells.

Sergeant Forester stood at the front desk staring down the corridor towards the holding cells. It was deathly quiet. Forester was listening so hard he could hear the ticking of the wall clock.

“Hey,” yelled the Sergeant breaking the silence, “answer me!” No sound came from the corridor. The Sergeant reached for his keys and headed towards the gun cabinet behind the front desk. In an almost single motion brought on by experience and a rising fear, the Sergeant had a twelve gauge riot shotgun in his hands and was loading shells into the chamber as he headed towards the holding cells.

Sergeant Forester quickly moved to the cell and surveyed the scene. Deputy Wilcox was standing in front of the cell, motionless and totally transfixed by the body at his feet. Deputy Hartley was beside him, on his hands and knees, re-discovering what he had for breakfast that morning. The cell door was open and Mr. Chalk was gone.

Mr. Chalk 2

2

Earlier that day, Deputy Groves sat in his patrol car idly watching the traffic pass through his town of Florence, Florida. It had been oppressively hot the last few days as Groves parked by the main highway checking for speeders. He sighed and shifted his gaze from the radar monitor, towards the landscape in the distance. He yawned, rubbed his eyes, sighed again and continued to look down the road. A small four door sedan passed Groves, disappearing down the highway. In his heat induced state, Groves almost missed seeing it. He sat up and squinted through the windshield. “That car is missing its licence plate,” he thought.

“Finally,” said Groves to himself as he started the patrol car. He hit the siren and roof lights, slammed the car into drive and stomped the gas pedal. The urgency to accelerate the cruiser was not so much to apprehend the suspect but to create a breeze inside the car. “At last,” thought Deputy Groves, “fresh air.” His attempt at air conditioning was short lived, as he was soon behind the four door sedan.

The driver of the sedan moved to the side of the road, stopped and turned off his engine.

“So far, so good,” thought Groves as he got out of his car and moved cautiously towards the sedan. Glancing into the rear window, Groves saw a single driver and no passengers. Slowly the deputy moved up to the driver’s side window, his right hand on the handle of his service revolver.

“Good day sir,” said Groves to the driver, “do you know why I stopped you?”

The driver turned his head and looked up at Groves. “No,” the driver replied, “is something wrong?”

“You're driving a vehicle without a licence plate,” replied Deputy Groves, “and now I’m going to need to see some identification.”

“Why, I’m Mr. Chalk,” replied the driver, “and I’m so pleased we have met.”

Groves looked down at the smiling driver and slowly shook his head. “I’m gonna need more ID than that,” he replied and stepped back from the car door. “Please get out of the car sir,” he said motioning Mr. Chalk to exit the car.

Mr. Chalk opened the door and was now standing in front of Deputy Groves. His tailored suit and formal cut shirt were perfectly matched to his silk tie, diamond cufflinks and deeply shined shoes. The coordinates of the outfit fit Mr. Chalk’s frame perfectly as he stood patiently in front of Deputy Groves.

Groves studied Mr. Chalk standing in front of him. “It looks like you're on a business trip,” said Groves.

“Indeed,” replied Mr. Chalk, “in fact, I thought I was going to be late for my appointment, but now that you have stopped me, I should be there in ample time.”

Groves stared at Mr. Chalk. “That didn’t make any sense at all,” he thought, “the heat must really be getting to me.”

Ignoring Mr. Chalk’s last statement, Groves motioned for Mr. Chalk to turn around. “I’m placing you under protective custody. You’re not under arrest. This is just for your protection and mine,” said Groves. “Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

“Certainly,” smiled Mr. Chalk as Deputy Groves handcuffed Mr. Chalk and walked him back to the patrol car.

“I need to check your pockets for identification papers,” said Groves as he leaned Mr. Chalk against the patrol car. “Do you have any needles or sharp objects on you?” asked Groves.

“I don’t carry anything in my pockets,” said Mr. Chalk, “my tailor told me it would bag the material.”

Deputy Groves carefully frisked Mr. Chalk and then placed him in the rear seat of the cruiser. “Just sit tight for a couple of minutes,” said Groves, “I need to check your vehicle.”

The interior of Mr. Chalk’s car was spotless. “This is too clean,” thought Deputy Groves, “even the glove compartment looks vacuumed.”

After thoroughly searching the interior, trunk and even the engine compartment, Groves returned to the patrol car and opened the back door.

“Ok,” said Groves to Mr. Chalk, “this is weird.”

Mr. Chalk looked up and smiled as Deputy Groves continued.  “You have absolutely no identification on you. Your car is spotless. Better than spotless. It looks like it just came off the show room floor and yet it has fifty thousand miles on it. I can’t find any personal identification, car registration, insurance or licence plates.”

“Why is that Mr. Chalk?” asked Deputy Groves.

“I like to travel light,” replied Mr. Chalk.

“I see you have a sense of humour,” smiled Deputy Groves. “With that keen sense of ha-ha, your gonna like it in our Dodd County Jail. It’s a regular chuckle hut.”

Mr. Chalk Chapter 1

1

Mr. Chalk’s appearance as a small man was not so much related to his physical size but more to his stature. He was a tidy man. His dark brown suit, caramel shirt, yellow tie and deeply shined shoes were perfectly matched. The proportions of the ensemble fit Mr. Chalk as if tailored for him.

Mr. Chalk patiently stared through the bars of his holding cell in the Dodd County Jail. His only view was the pale green wall across the common hallway that linked the line of cells together. The wall was dirty, the paint chipped and peeling from age and neglect. Occasionally the view was broken by the shuffle of detainees and police as they moved in and out of his vision. The noise, the smells, the sense of desperation that permeated the space was comforting to him. For you see, Mr. Chalk had an appointment.

Chapter 2 tomorrow.

B.

Mr. Chalk

What does a secret diary, a pirate’s log book, a billion dollar treasure and young female archaeology professor have in common? Wrap them around a tale of gruesome murders and unnatural occurrences and the answer is clear. It’s Mr. Chalk of course.