Read an Excerpt
Dangerous Journey
By Joseph W. Myer
iUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2012 Joseph W. Myer
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-0146-7
Chapter One
He stared hard and long at what he had written on the yellow paper of the legal pad. Finally, he read the words out loud to himself:
I don't know what I'm going to do. I don't want to live, but I don't want to die either. As painful as my life has become I cannot envision or contemplate the alternative. And the fear of the unknown, of death, keeps my finger paused on the trigger. The truth is I don't want to blow my brains out ... not yet anyway. J.R. Cronyn, (a.k.a. J.R.) July 1, 2002.
J.R. sat at the desk, his pale face close to the whirring fan and thought of the time when he felt sorry for all those poor people who lived in this vile little place called Hell's Kitchen. Now he was one of those people.
He was well into his fifties and he had lost his publicist job at Girls Town almost two years earlier. It didn't take him long to learn that there were no jobs for a man his age, only an occasional part-time job that he usually lost to one of the hundreds of younger, out-of-work, New York actors.
Most of his savings gone, and with little money in his checking account, he was forced to move out of his stylish bachelor pad into the small, four-story walk-up. Two windows in the small, dark living room looked out onto the backyards of more dreary apartment buildings where lines of faded white sheets flapped in the stale air sounding like a hundred flightless birds.
After drinking several glasses of cheap wine, he tried to sleep, but sleep, however, eluded him. He chain smoked, and, in spite of the fact that the night was heavy with humidity, he paced back and forth like a caged animal.
It was dark except for rays of flickering moonlight that played across the old wooden floor. His head ached and the shirt on his back was drenched. He got up and ambled to the kitchen and squinted at the clock. It was close to eleven. He splashed some water on his gray face, reached for a dry shirt that hung over the tub and put it on. After he combed his rumpled hair, he patted his face with after shave lotion, opened the door, looked around, then stepped into the hall closing the door behind him. No one greeted him on the front stoop as he headed for Eighth Avenue in search of something to relieve the tension of unrelenting and joyless days. He needed a woman. He was addicted.
In a few short blocks, stretching from 42nd Street up to 45th along 8th Avenue, friendly bars, great restaurants, and a number of Broadway theatres can be found, including, of course, lovely ladies of the evening.
J.R. found the avenue crowded with late night carousers, including the after-theatre crowd, looking for fun and frolic. The noise was deafening but it didn't bother him; in fact, he took pleasure in it. It made him feel alive, invigorated. He crossed 8th Avenue. As he neared 42nd Street, a shapely lady of about thirty caught his eye, and his fancy. She saw him staring at her and she smiled. He approached her.
He greeted her with a soft hello and she purred something sweet to him, but when he made the proposition, the unexpected happened: she whipped out her cop's badge and shoved it in his face. In seconds, adrenalin took over his body, and, before she could say, 'You're under arrest for solicitation,' he made his escape.
He didn't know what happened next except that, before he knew it, he was dashing across the street dodging screeching cars, and running as fast as he old legs would take him.
Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the undercover copy on a phone, raising her left arm and waving it about. He knew immediately that she was calling backup police.
And, as he ran up 8th Avenue, dodging groups of tourists who quickly side-stepped to let him pass, he spied two immense muscle-bound cops with crew cuts and surly faces crossing the avenue from the opposite side, pushing their way through the crowd and shouting at J.R. Turning west at the corner of 43rd Street, J.R. ran as fast as he could toward 9th Avenue. Looking back, he saw the cops on the opposite side of the street running and waving their arms, yelling at him to "Stop. Stop."
At the same time, J.R. saw what he thought were police cars; they turned sharply down 43rd Street, their brakes screeching, their lights flashing and their sirens blaring. The sound was deafening. Good Lord, he thought. Are they coming after me too?
He picked up his pace, and, looking ahead, he saw a large truck backing out of a warehouse about halfway up the street. It was so large that it blocked the entire street making it impossible for another car or truck—or even a human—to pass.
He thought to himself that if it didn't clear the sidewalk, he'd be trapped. Approaching the warehouse, he heard squealing tires burning rubber into the pavement. The nose of the truck cleared the walk, and just seconds after passing it, he heard a tremendous impact as a car hit the truck causing an almost immediate explosion so loud and powerful that it nearly knocked J.R. off his feet.
At first he thought the truck had been loaded with explosives, but he was wrong; it was carrying Fourth of July fireworks. When J.R. turned he couldn't believe his eyes. The explosion blew the top of the truck off, and an astonishing array of fireworks shot high into the air creating a stunning array of colors and shapes that lit up the night sky turning it into day. The almost deafening POP, POP, POP was an appropriate accompaniment to the incredible pyrotechnic display.
J.R. looked for the cops but he didn't see them. He imagined they had fallen victims to an unplanned, unprecedented Fourth of July fireworks display that rained down on them causing suffering and severe, possibly fatal, burns. He knew he should make a run for it, but he couldn't move. He was held spellbound thinking about the time he was four-years old.
The year was 1944. He had gone to Coney Island with his mom and dad on the Fourth of July to watch the fireworks. Just before they were set off, his father lifted him up onto his shoulders. J.R. felt like he was on top of the world, high above everyone. It was a happy time, not only for J.R. but for his parents as well. His father had a new job and making money and mother was pregnant with his sister. Sadly, the joy didn't last. His dad lost his job a few months later and his mother suffered a miscarriage. Her depression developed into a nervous breakdown, and she never fully recovered. She was lost to J.R. forever.
At 9th Avenue, J.R. knew he'd have to decide whether he was going to try to make it three blocks to his apartment, or half a block to an abandoned apartment house where he could hide out for a while until the heat was off.
When he saw the police car coming fast down 9th Avenue, he made a quick decision. Running across the avenue he heard thunder in the distance. When he reached a broken fence that ran the length of the deserted building on the north side, he ducked down, trying to make himself look as small as he could. Scurrying down the garbage-laden alley, he heard the sound of thunder and echoed blasts of sirens as the police approached.
J.R., out of breath and frightened, realized he had but a few seconds to find a hiding place. Near the back of the building he found a basement window open. As he climbed in, he lost his footing, causing him to fall about six feet to the cement floor below. A sharp pain shot through his left leg, but he stifled a groan, fearing the police might hear him. Not hearing the siren, he assumed they were now on their feet looking for him. They were probably moments away.
As a strong odor of bleach and cleaning fluid filled his nostrils, he thought he heard voices. They're coming. Raising himself up on his right leg, he groped his way until he felt a wall. Side-stepping to the right a few feet he felt a door. He tried pushing it with his right hand, but it wouldn't budge. Then, in front of him, he saw a flash of light. They're here. He felt his heart pounding in his chest.
J.R. threw all of his weight on the door; it creaked and then fell forward, taking him with it. When he landed on the cold cement he saw a light creeping slowly across the floor. He knew that if he didn't move now he would be caught. Taking a deep breath, he rolled over on his left side until he thought he was clear of the doorway and out of sight.
He stopped and listened. Did they see me? He couldn't be sure.
He waited a few agonizing moment, daring not to breath. When the light flicked off, he waited. Silence.
That's strange. I was sure they saw me, but I guess they didn't.
Relieved, he took a deep breath and thought: What to do now? I can stay still for a while and take a chance of making it home in an hour or so. Or I could ... A cold chill interrupted his train of thought; it swept through his body. He shivered. He needed to move away from the open window.
If he were lucky, he thought, maybe he would find a blanket discarded by a homeless person. But when he tried to move, pain gripped him again. He knew his ankle wasn't broken but he also knew it wouldn't be easy moving about. Damning the pain, J.R. pulled himself up, and, feeling his way, limped forward a foot or two at a time, stopping now and then peering into the darkness and listening. For a moment he thought he heard something like a kind of shuffling sound. Then nothing. Again he took another step. Silence. Nothing.
Then, when he tried to take another step, his foot hit something. Whatever it was it felt soft. Maybe it was the blanket he was hoping for. Before he could reach down, the room flooded with light. At first he thought it must be the police, but he couldn't tell because he was blinded. Ever when he shielded his eyes, all he could make out were vague shapes, shadows of creatures that moved slowly, menacingly toward him.
If they weren't the cops, who the hell were they? While his cloudy, muffled mind tried to grope with reason he tried to take a step back. When he did so, he was hit by something so hard that he was knocked off his feet. As he crashed to the floor, excruciating pain wracked his body.
To J.R. it felt like some huge muscular monster had picked him up in one hand and had slammed him against a brick wall. He knew his head must be split open because he could taste his own blood.
Male voices started shouting: "Kill him. Kill him. Kill him." A chorus of female voices accompanied the death call with laughter and gleeful shrieks of approval. When he tried to pull himself up in a feeble effort to escape the onslaught, he was grabbed and thrown to the floor. The monsters continued to kick, pound and pummel his body.
A moment later he caught a glimpse of shimmering silver being raised over his head. The hand holding the knife stabbed him repeatedly in his chest and abdomen. Sharp, stinging pain ravished his body, and he could hear his own screams coming to him as if through an echo chamber. Then, as he lay trembling from the onslaught, he slipped into a state of torpid darkness.
J.R.'s return to life was anything but blissful. The monsters, probably thinking he was dead had discarded his bloody body in the alley like a putrid pile of discarded garbage. He was conscious only of the fact that he was cold and that an insistent drizzle drenched his face. He shivered.
"Dear God," he cried out, "I don't want to die like this. Not in this dark, stinking hell hole." With that, he lost consciousness.
Chapter Two
Manhattan General Hospital Two Weeks Later
When J.R. awoke from his coma he was greeted by young Dr. Morgan who wanted to know who Elizabeth and Bobby were.
He stared at the doctor but was unable to speak.
The doctor pressed forward. "As you were coming out of your coma you spoke their names repeatedly. Are they members of your family?"
Family? J.R. heard the word in his head. At first he was a little confused then he realized what it meant. "Family," he said, the word seeming to burst from his mouth. "They're my family. My children!"
"We've got to notify them, Mr. Cronyn."
"Yes, yes, we must find them," he cried. "I want them near me. They're my family. They're all I've got left. Oh, dear God. You must help me, doctor."
"I'll do all I can, Mr. Cronyn."
"Please," he said, putting a hand on the doctor's arm. "Call me J.R."
"All right, J.R.," he said. "Just tell me where they are."
Turning his head away, J.R. said in a weak voice: "I feel ashamed, doctor, but I don't know where they are. I haven't seen them in thirty years."
"Get some rest, J.R.," the doctor said. "I'll check back with your later."
When Dr. Morgan returned that evening, he and J.R. got into a conversation about the big fire works explosion on Forty-third Street. J.R. explained why he was running from the police and that when he neared Ninth Avenue he turned and saw two police cars driving at high speed toward the truck. When he started to run he heard a crash and a terrible explosion and when he turned he saw a spectacular Fourth of July fire work display. "At that moment I knew I was in big trouble."
Smiling broadly, Dr. Morgan told J.R. that the police were not after him. That they were chasing a fugitive in a stolen car who had killed his girlfriend. When he got to Forty-Third Street he turned right and headed straight for the big truck that by then was blocking the street. That crash you heard was his car hitting the truck. He hit it with such force that he was killed instantly."
J.R. gasped, staring at the doctor. "Oh, my God."
There was a long silence. The young doctor observed J.R. for a moment then asked: "What made you go the abandoned apartment house?"
"I was running from the police."
"Do you think that's all it was? Or is it possible you were running from something else? From yourself perhaps?"
Oh, doctor, good doctor, you are digging for something now, aren't you? Digging at my soul. Digging for answers that I, myself ... Oh, my God. A sudden flash of light, a moment of awareness struck him with such an intensity of feeling. The answer came to him in an instant. "If I had known in the moment of the crash on Forty-Third Street that I was not the one the police were chasing, I would've gone home to my filthy little flat in Hell's Kitchen and forgotten everything that had happened that evening.
"I would've forgotten to be afraid, forgotten to care. I would've gone on with my miserable little life and been caught up in all the meaningless things that muddies a man's soul and makes him numb. Oh, God, doctor, am I glad I fled to that abandoned apartment? Am I glad I sort refuge in that dark and stinking building? You bet I am.
"I'm even glad that I was beaten to the point of unconsciousness and possible-death. Even though I tasted the dust of death, I didn't die. I lived. I'm here now to tell my story. Doctor, I'm alive because I was meant to survive, to live, to thrive ..." J.R. felt that he could cry tears of joy, but, instead, he looked up at the doctor and smiled a renewed declaration: "It's a new beginning, doctor."
"And that means?"
"It means finding my children and becoming a family again. That's all I want. My God, doctor, I could've died in that stinking building without ever having seen them again. You've got to help me!"
Days later, after the headaches had passed and his head had cleared, J.R. began to read and to think about the future and what it might hold for him. With the notebooks the pretty day nurse had given him, he started a journal. The first entry read: As soon as possible I want to start on a new path, a journey of enlightenment, a journey of love, not only for my children, whom I miss more than I can say, but for a woman, one special woman I can love and who will love me. I know she's out there. And I will find her as I will find my children. This is the beginning of a new and wonderful life!
While J.R. pondered his future, young Dr. Morgan entered the room. "Good news, J.R." His manner was cheerful. "You'll be going home soon."
"Not soon enough," he said. "I've been giving it a lot of thought. Actually, all these magazines around here have helped me, inspired me. I have a lot to say about a lot of things, and I'm convinced that magazine writing is what I want to do."
"Ever been published?"
"No."
"Well, then, you'd better get the hell out of here, J.R., because you're not getting any younger." J.R. didn't respond. "What's the matter?"
"I may not have a place to live," he began. He explained that he had a small apartment on Ninth Avenue, but that he hadn't been there in weeks, and, well, he hadn't paid any rent and he was sure the old landlady had gotten rid of his stuff, and ..."
"This might be your lucky day, J.R." the doctor interrupted. "Ever been to Brooklyn?"
"Are you kidding? I grew up in Brooklyn."
"Do you know Bay Ridge?"
"Sure I know it; that's where you get on the Verrazano Bridge to cross over to Staten Island."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Dangerous Journey by Joseph W. Myer Copyright © 2012 by Joseph W. Myer. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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