Chương 8: The Confabulation Loop (09/22/1979)

DATE: Saturday, September 22, 1979 LOCATION: Fallbrook, California LOCAL TIME: 02: 00 PM The TV was on, but I wasn't watching it. My brain held fond memories of 1980s shows like The A-Team and The Fall Guy. But sitting here in 1979, the current programming felt slow and hollow. I don't know what happened, but the entertainment of this era wasn't as good as I remembered it. The television glowed in the corner, a centerpiece of static and color.

My brother Chase sat cross-legged on the shag carpet, mesmerized by The New Scooby-Doo Movies. On the screen, a poorly animated Batman and Robin ran alongside the Mystery Machine. They weren't the Dark Knights of my future. They were jokes. Adam West's voice cracked a pun, and a canned laugh track erupted. Pow. Zap. Zoinks. I turned away, disgusted. That version of the Bat was why the world was soft. I had my Black Crayon Ledger open, drawing tall, ugly buildings with rooftops close enough to jump between.

I kept thinking about 1993. Mogadishu. In the history books, it was a tactical failure. In reality, it was a psychological defeat. The sight of American bodies dragged through the streets of the Bakara Market broke the national resolve. To save the future, I needed to break the chain at Mogadishu. I needed to ensure that no Rangers were left behind. But the streets of Mogadishu were a death trap. If I went in on the ground, I would be pinned down just like they were.

I picked up the blue crayon and drew a heavy line above the street. Verticality. The Rangers were trapped because they were on the deck. A Roof Runner—someone who could move from building to building without ever touching the dirt—could control the high ground. But right now I was three. I couldn't stop it with politics. So I had to train. And to train, I needed a city. I needed rooftops I could run across. I needed gaps to jump. I needed to build muscle memory in a place that felt like Mogadishu.

I needed to be like Robin the Boy Wonder. Outside, the heavy rumble of a V8 engine cut through the conversation. Car doors slammed.

"Doug! Sue! You home?" It was the Moore brothers. My dad's cousins. The front door swung open, and the energy in the room shifted instantly. Larry Moore (24) and Hank Moore (20) burst in, bringing the smell of diesel, sawdust, and unfiltered adrenaline into our living room. The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

"Are you guys okay?" my mom asked, greeting them near the kitchen.

"Better than okay, Sue," Larry said, his eyes wild. He slapped a clipboard onto the dining table.

"We cracked it. The mix. Uncle Harold got the lab report back." Doug stood up, folding his newspaper.

"The concrete?"

"Al-Tobermorite," Larry announced, practically vibrating.

"That's what the geologists are calling it. Roman Concrete. We figured out the ratio, Doug. The ash, the lime, the seawater. It heals itself."

"We filed the patents this morning," Hank interrupted, grinning ear to ear.

"'Rubidoux Materials.' We're gonna supply every coastal job in the state."

"We're gonna be rich, Doug," Larry whispered, leaning on the table.

"Your Dad said we stop bidding on jobs. We just sell the mix. We're the suppliers now." Doug looked at the report on the clipboard. He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. His cousins—the guys who usually borrowed money for gas—were suddenly tycoons. He was the "smart one," the teacher, the writer. And in a matter of hours, he was falling behind.

"That's incredible, guys," Doug said, his voice hollow.

"Roman Concrete. Who would have thought?" When my dad's cousins finally left, the house fell silent. I kept my head down, still shading in my dark skyline while they celebrated outside. Doug sat down on the couch, looking drained. He glanced over at my ledger.

"Whatcha drawing, buddy?"

"Batman needs a scary city," I said softly. Doug stared at the brutal rooftops I'd drawn. He didn't say anything for a long time, but something in his eyes shifted. Later that night, after everyone was asleep, the typewriter started clacking in the dining room. It eventually went quiet. I crept out. My father was passed out at the table, his cheek resting on the keys, an empty glass beside him. I carefully pulled his paper out and rolled in a fresh sheet.

Lacking the finger strength to type normally, I had to throw my shoulder weight into the heavy, stiff keys, punching them one by one. I hammered out a single paragraph: New York... six weeks ago. A truck loaded with stripped gun parts got jacked outside of Queens. The driver didn't see anybody, but somebody fucked up. He heard a voice. Sometimes, that's all you need. When I finished, I slid the new page back into the carriage exactly how I found it and slipped back to bed.

The next morning, the typewriter started up—then abruptly stopped. I peeked around the doorframe. Doug was hunched over the table, reading the page with wide, electrified eyes. He rubbed his temples, tracing the deep, violent ink strikes punching through the paper. He didn't remember writing it, but the physical proof was right there. His drunken muse had paid him a visit. But now he was stuck. He raised his fingers to the keys. Hovered. Dropped them. He had no idea what happened next.

He pushed back from the table, grabbed a stale cup of coffee, and started pacing. He wandered into the living room, stopped at the coffee table, and picked up my Black Crayon Ledger. He stared at the jagged rooftops I'd drawn the day before, his eyes darting across the page, desperate for a spark. I padded into the room, gently tugged the ledger from his hands, and sat cross-legged on the rug. I didn't look up at him. I just pulled out a black crayon. I dragged five harsh, vertical lines down a fresh page.

I drew five distinct stick figures standing shoulder-to-shoulder against the lines. I grabbed a yellow crayon and slashed a heavy circle over their heads—a single, glaring light. I left the open ledger on the carpet and walked away. I didn't make it to the kitchen before I heard Doug set his mug down hard.

"A lineup," he muttered to the empty room.

"They meet in a police lineup." The chair legs shrieked against the linoleum. A second later, the dining room erupted into a frantic, rhythmic hammering. He was connecting the hijacked truck to my stick figures, translating my childish scribbles into hard-boiled dialogue, absolutely convinced his own dark genius had just been unlocked. I sat on the kitchen floor, listening to the keys fire, happy with how excited my father embraced a purpose other than selling bonds at Coastal Equities.