Clavius Deep

As you sit there and imagine the many possible outcomes for the people of Earth in the future, you may want to stop and think whether civilization will survive across the centuries. The greatest minds have figured out that sooner or later someone will do something that sends the whole giant burrito smashing to the floor in a gleaming puddle of salsa rojo.

Well, come on. Our home planet is not akin to any giant burrito I’ve seen. It was a weak metaphor at best, don’t you think? While you think of a replacement metaphor, let me set the scene for you here and get on with my assignment to serve as your humble narrator.

Imagine you are invited to witness a great adventure deep beneath a huge crater on the moon. Don't worry, the thick regolith covering the entire lunar surface serves as a protective shield safeguarding the lives of humans from deadly cosmic radiation. 

It is the year 2251. What starts as a routine day for top-secret moon men under Crater Clavius spirals quickly out of control.

Five rhythmical chimes sketching out a musical signature in a distinctively minor key play from the arched ceiling of a large warehouse-sized room to alert everyone that another agent has returned from Earth. Four young men identically attired in all-black military-style uniforms and large black boots look up to the ceiling in response to the chiming.

An unpleasant whooshing sound reverberates through the room which draws the attention of all eyes. A large circular device shaped like an immense hockey puck turned on its edge is made of eerie blue glass as it stands in front of numerous flexible pipes connecting to several rows of high-tech racks of flashing equipment.

Two of the men tap the outside of the blue glass device matching the cadence of the chimes. They watch inside the blue chamber as a naked young man with long, dark hair flowing down his back materializes. He is seated on a glass bench as thick white liquid splashes all around and on him.

The chiming abruptly stops the moment that the large blue hockey puck splits open and releases a rush of the foul-smelling white liquid onto the shiny metalic floor. The naked young man coughs vigorously as he breathes in the room air. His large hands wipe his face to clear his eyes of the obviously sticky white liquid clinging to his entire body.

What do you suppose is the purpose of a sublunar warehouse-sized room? The simple answer is this is a time travel facility that you are not supposed to know about. You are being given special access but just don’t tell anybody what you learned.

“Code word for today, sir,” one of the uniformed men shouts out to the guy who is stepping out awkwardly from the giant blue hockey puck. As he accepts a large blue robe to put on, the response from the time travel agent in a deep, prominently resonant voice is “yah dih-lth hyi-lth.” The entire group of uniformed men respond in unison, “Permission granted to enter Clavius Moonbase, Vincent Wauneka.”

Chaz Yang earned the military rank of general. All fear him. His 55 years are disguised by his Chinese ancestry and unwrinkled face. The general’s muscular frame is emphasized by the identical all-black uniform and black boots he wears as he walks up to greet Vincent Wauneka standing outside giant blue hockey puck number fourteen. “Oh, wow, look out now, boys. The boss is here,” says General Yang in an exaggeratedly gruff voice.

The general slams his beefy right hand down upon the small conference room table deliberately as a scare tactic to startle Vincent Wauneka who is also seated there still wearing his large blue robe. The windowless off-white walls of the conference room vibrate in response. His loud and angry voice booms, “You look a little cold there wearing only that blue robe, Mr. Wauneka. After you enjoyed all that warm white goo drenching your body while you got a ride in my time machine. Who authorized you to use some goddamn code word for the day which nobody else can pronounce?"

The young man nods as he shivers because his body has not yet adjusted to the room temperature. He is an indigenous man from the Navajo Nation who looks like he is around age thirty. He frowns and averts eye contact with the general as he nervously scratches his left arm through the long sleeve of the large blue robe.

“That blue robe. Makes you think of down time. Now that you are back here at this base. But you are always ‘on the clock’ with me, mister. Are you clear about that? No down time.”

Vincent Wauneka nods as he answers somewhat mockingly yet also with a touch of respectfulness, “Sir, yes, sir, general.”

General Yang does not smile in response as he says, “Kiss, kiss. That’s what I like from you, Mr. Wauneka.”

At that point Vincent Wauneka dares to make eye contact with General Yang at last but remains respectfully silent.

“No ‘down time,’” the general repeats in a conversational tone. “And ‘on the clock’ is also such a great phrase especially considering what we do down here. All of you time travel agents are never off the clock. You report to me. Twenty-four seven. You must meet my expectations. You get what I’m saying, Mr. Wauneka?”

“Yes, general,” Vincent Wauneka answers quickly. His facial expressions convey that he fears for the worst. “I report to you, general. I do what you say."

“Kiss, kiss. What I like. From you, Mr. Wauneka. Seriously, you are a big guy, powerfully built. You obviously can handle yourself in any adverse situation. I sure wouldn’t wanna face you in a bar fight. That’s why I especially like seeing you groveling before me here this afternoon in your intense masculinity. I am your boss, so what choice do you really have but to kiss up? I am the director of this agency. And I feel real good when I see you there. You think you are in trouble as you sit there sweating in anticipation. Thinking about what went wrong.”

“Yes, general. That accurately describes my situation here today. Me with you. I am here because you are displeased with me or my work.”

“No, you are absolutely incorrect,” the general roars. The general drops his voice to a lower, more civilized tone and provides a faked smile as he quickly adds, “My intent here is to meet with you face-to-face to talk about your Arizona missions to the year 1991. Arizona happens to be one of my favorite locations on Earth. I don’t get to visit there very often, but I especially love the Sonoran Desert. I tried valiantly to raise a cactus plant in my office down here. Yeah, indigenous to Arizona. Growing a cactus plant here on the moon. Big mistake. Turns out no matter what artificial light we throw at it, or whatever liquid additives we toss into the mix, no terrestrial flora survives. N.T.F. No terrestrial flora. Do you miss the direct sunlight?”

“Yes, general.”

“Do you? I could have you thrown out the nearest airlock at the zero level. Without wearing any life support. Some limited direct sunlight for you up there on the crater floor above us. Ready to experience that?”

Vincent Wauneka shakes his head to indicate “no.”

“It would be a waste of quality meat to expel you up there. You just got back here to base. Wearing that sexy blue robe like you do. Making me aroused. You know that, don’t you? I chose to come to the Time Travel Hall when you returned to base today. I wanted to see you walking naked out of those blue devices up there. The records show you completed seventy-five missions to the year 1991. All to recruit a single time travel agent in Arizona. Fucking seventy-five missions. Back in time. Over and over. You have stamina. I give you that. You did not bring a carry-on for your return to base? Chose not to bring any items with you from 1991 here to base?”

Vincent Wauneka remains silent.

“No carry-on? No items brought back with you from 1991,” the general asks as he stares intently at Vincent Wauneka. “Okay, fine. You prefer to travel light, Mr. Wauneka. Fine with me. I just need to know about those missions. Not each and every one of the seventy-five. Not like that at all. Just select the few you feel are significant for reasons you must certainly have.”

“Yes, general, you are catching me off guard here. I guess I understand what you are asking,” Vincent Wauneka replies. He knew he had no choice but to describe for the general in stark, precise language what he had experienced on his missions to the past.

Vincent Wauneka, the Navajo time traveler from the moon stood by the side of Arizona highway 160 wearing dusty brown boots, tight-fitting blue jeans and a white long-sleeved Western-style shirt. On his head was a white cowboy hat. “Poised,” Vincent Wauneka says to the general sitting across from him at that small conference room table.

“Ready for my mission. Authentic, credible costuming. Dare I say, I am such a sight to see. That location mattered. Indigenous plants here and there. Oh the scent from the flora at sunrise! Nothing like that anywhere else I have been, sir. I was seeking male drivers passing through the Reservation. Early on a weekend morning. Before sunrise. I was born not far from that spot. Meeting the particular type of guy who would drive there solo on the lonely highway mattered to me. So few travel there. Way off the beaten path. Women never do that.”

Vincent Wauneka explains that a young Black man in a blue t-shirt, dark trousers and running shoes wore a white cardboard badge on small strings draped from his neck identifying him as number “25.”

“Wait, stop. You are saying that they all wore badges tied around their necks with numerals to identify themselves?” General Yang asks.

“No, sir, not really,” Vincent Wauneka replies. “Just a device I use. I added that aspect. How I organize my memories of that mission.”

“You put numbers on their chest on badges that they wear draped around their necks? Like some fucking television talent show? Then what did you do? Make each man sing a song by the side of the road?”

Six individual candidates for recruitment each attempt by the side of the road to deliver a solo acapella rendition of A Hazy Shade of Winter, an ancient 1966 song by Paul Simon. None of the attempts by these candidates are at all successful as each demonstrates very limited skill in remaining on key as he sings. Vincent Waunkea reacts nonverbally to each off-key performance with exaggerated anger and frustration aimed squarely at the unskilled vocalists. After the sixth and final candidate has walked away, Vincent Wauneka says, “A fucking disaster.”

Number 25 spoke with a heavy urban regionalism identifying him from deep in a Southern State. “He picked me up as I was hitchhiking there,” Vincent Wauneka explains. “He looked me over real good. Was afraid of me. That much was obvious to me. I climbed into the passenger seat of his small car. Smelled like cannabis. Both him and his car interior.”

The general does not respond but waves his right hand dismissively for Vincent Wauneka to continue talking.

“Okay, number 41 was a Mexican guy. Around forty. Driving an older pick-up truck. I could barely understand him. His English was weak. I did not tell him I am fluent in Spanish. Would have saved a lot of time. He could have spoken in Arabic. No problem for me, either. I am fluent in eight languages. He had teeth that needed a lot of attention. Could make some dentist very wealthy. Scary looking dude at best.”

“Next,” General Yang says impatiently.

“Number 52 was a California surfer guy. Vintage Volkswagen van and all. Not kidding, sir. He gave off the vibe that he was sexually attracted to me. Not much upstairs except a lot of bushy blond hair there and spaced-out blue eyes.”

The general says, “Being attractive to men. That’s part of what makes you successful on missions, Mr. Wauneka. Isn’t that correct?”

“Of course, sir. You are absolutely right. And then we have Number 58. What a piece of work. Quoted French poetry from the fifteenth century. Amorous intentions, obviously.”

“Obviously. And let me guess, you are, of course, fluent in French as well, Mr. Wauneka,” General Yang observes.

“Oui, général. Je peux aussi citer de la poésie,” Vincent Wauneka replies with a sly smile.

“Yeah, okay, well you’re just gonna have to save it, will you? I do not happen to understand French, Mr. Wauneka.”

“Moving on to Number 66 then. Totally wacked out. Giggled a lot. Like he was on nitrous oxide. Feared for my very life. I wanted to jump out of his car. Did not like how fast he was driving on that two-lane highway. Then, number 70. Ripped off his numbered badge. Then he took off his shirt. Right there in his car. Screamed in a high-pitched female voice like the worst possible drag performer in Las Vegas.”

“Wait. I thought you said those numbered badges were merely a mnemonic device, Mr. Wauneka.”

“Of course, General Yang. You are absolutely correct, sir. Just kidding. Just my metaphor running away with me, sir. He did not scream with a female voice, either. Embellishments only. And then number 73. That one started crying as though I reminded him of a dead lover. Almost lost control of his car. Real fucked up emotionally.”

General Yang sighs with impatience. “Oh, shit, Mr. Wauneka. This lovely walk down memory lane will surely grind me down to gristle.” He starts tapping his fingers on the conference room table.

“Yes, sir. And then, number 76. Ding, ding, ding.”

“I want to know everything about him, Mr. Wauneka. Everything.”

“Number 76 stood out, sir.”

“’Never pick up hitchhikers!’ number 76 said aloud to me. Or maybe it was just his internal dialogue that I was picking up. ‘No matter how you may think you’re doing a hitchhiker a favor. By stopping and picking them up by the side of the road. Never know what might happen. Your dismembered remains will never be found buried out here. You will simply cease to exist.’”

That day is best remembered as a severe manipulation. It was never intended to be a chance encounter between two people on an isolated and lonely highway off the beaten path. The hitchhiker explains to driver number 76 ever so patiently: He gives the driver his name as Vincent Wauneka. “Jeep ran out of gas,” he explains and then adds that he is from a small town named Tuba City located on the main highway within the Navajo Reservation.

Vincent Wauneka sits there in the passenger seat, noticing the way the driver of the late model 4×4 is staring at him. That could explain why the Navajo declares, “You white guys are so hung up on sex!”

The driver cannot hide his embarrassment. He couldn’t just leave this man there at the side of the road since the nearest gas station is hours away across the huge expanses of Navajo land. But the driver is becoming freaked out. He suspects that Vincent Wauneka can read his mind.

The driver tries to convince himself that he wasn’t deliberately staring at Vincent Wauneka’s crotch held tightly inside faded blue jeans. “I meant nothing by it,” the driver admits.

“No problem. A common reaction,” Vincent Wauneka says calmly. “Truth is, I am a sex worker. I am supposed to attract longing gazes. Not a problem. Not a problem.”

“OK,” the driver replies, choosing to believe that the hitchhiker is bullshitting him.

“Got that look in your eyes. Like you are lost. What do I call you?”

“Other than lost, I am known as Ted Avila.”

“Out here alone this morning by mistake?”

“No. By choice. I stayed last night at a small hotel on this highway. In Kayenta, I think it was. Got on the road early today. Heading to California. Left my wife. My ex-wife. Back in New England. Just driving alone in the West. Nothing was open this morning so I had no coffee to start off with.”

Vincent Wauneka echoes the pronunciation of the driver’s surname as AH-vee-lah. Then he explains he borrowed his cousin’s Jeep without permission. Never checked whether the tank was full. “I guess I am an outcast,” he says. “My relatives want me to become a holy man, a ‘singer,’ as the Navajo people say. One who chants or sings healing requests to nature. I moved away. To be around the casino resorts in Nevada. I choose only to work with male clients. No females.”

“OK, ‘work with,’ yeah,” Ted Avila says, accepting that the hitchhiker is bullshitting him.

Vincent Wauneka explains further in the Navajo culture, a “singer” has religious leader significance by guiding people using the wisdom that comes from the spirit world. He performs ceremonies. He says he was on his way to one of these ceremonies when he ran out of gas.

All along the horizon are small fires visible from the highway. Vincent Wauneka says that the fires are for the ceremonies. “For magic?” Ted Avila asks.

“The white man looks at ghosts and spirits and sees magic. Something that scares him. Something out of the ordinary. The People, the Navajo, are different. There is evil, yes. Ghosts can hurt. But not all of them do. The ceremonies of my people serve many purposes. They focus on what you might call ‘energy.’ Toward something specific. Not what you call ‘magic.’”

He sounds very convincing, yet the sum of Ted Avila’s experience tells him that Vincent Wauneka is a psycho and a liar, probably hallucinating from native-grown hallucinogens most people have never even heard of and couldn’t pronounce correctly anyway. Vincent Wauneka smiles and looks at the driver, apparently assessing Ted Avila’s disbelief using homegrown psychic powers.

Vincent Wauneka explains, “My hands once had such severe pain nobody could understand. The white doctors in New Mexico could not find anything physically wrong with my hands. They gave me shots and pills. Always the same deal when you go to your appointment. But, the severe pain in my hands would not go away. First cousin is a singer. I came back here to the Reservation to see what he could do.”

Ted Avila merely nods, believing that if he remains silent it will make it more difficult for Vincent Wauneka to use his powers as a mind reader.

“Had the Navajo way of driving the ghosts out. Now my hands no longer feel the pain. So I can go back to work again.”

“You mean work with male clients. No females,” Ted Avila says. Vincent Wauneka laughs freely as though he really enjoys the almost word-for-word replay of what he told Ted Avila.

You can see State Highway 160 winding down the hills into Tuba City, a Navajo community, which tempts motorists with a couple of gas stations and numerous Navajo jewelry vendors. At this hour of the morning, the town is quiet and looks very lonely.

Vincent Wauneka watches Ted Avila’s eyes. “Tourists drive through the Reservation,” he says, “They will stop and tell us how isolated and barren it looks here. They use the phrase ‘run down.’ Most of them do not mean to be intentionally disrespectful. They buy lots of jewelry anyway. Kind of makes up for their disdain. But not entirely. They stare at us like we all are strange people compared to them. Look down on us and our land. We are a nation. Sovereign. Yet our nation is within state lines. We belong here. Yet we are told we do not belong. I say better respect us or we will open up a casino down on Interstate 40 and take a lot of the white man’s money. Here,” he points out the window. “You can turn right at the next street. My cousin’s place is just ahead up here over on the left side of the street.”

Ted Avila follows Vincent Wauneka’s directions and heads off the street onto another dirt road toward a cluster of brown stucco houses. Each dwelling looked livable but, as Vincent Wauneka has said, the phrase “run down” is one that most people would select to describe what they see here—such poverty left unchecked within the vastness and abundance of a civilized country. What he sees immediately makes Ted Avila feel anger.

Vincent Wauneka explains that he is staying temporarily in what he refers to as his “cousin’s house.” Once they are both inside, Ted Avila discovers that this is a very small house with only one bedroom.

The kitchen is Spartan and the cabinets are unpainted. There is a small round wooden table with only two chairs. The kitchen is clean, but very dark since the small window does not allow much sunlight in. The only illumination is a small circular fluorescent ceiling fixture over the sink. The blue-white light hits Vincent Wauneka’s profile, giving him a jagged, threatening appearance. He motions for Ted Avila to sit next to him at the small round table.

“I feel you can read my mind anyway. Not sure how. But hey, let me admit something. I feel uneasy about being here in this house with you.”

“Because I rent my body to men for sex?”

“No, not that. Uneasy about picking you up hitchhiking. Literally nobody in the world knows I am here right now. Never told anyone about driving to California. Could be a cliché opening of a low-budget horror movie, right? I am fading fast. No coffee yet.”

Vincent Wauneka smiles and nods. “I can fix that. We have a diner here in Tuba City within walking distance. The only place for tourists to stop on their drive through the Reservation.”

“So, let me offer to buy you coffee. Will that persuade you not to kill me and chop my body up for easier burial in the desert?”

Vincent Wauneka smiles again. “Well, the truth is, if I kill you, how will I get to have sex with you?”

Ted Avila laughs with relief. “Oh, well, yeah. Good to know you don’t have a bucket list that includes sex with dead guys.”

The small roadside diner in Tuba City has a short counter with fewer than seven seats and only three booths. The interior is mostly white except for the bright red color of the fake leather which seems to bounce the morning sunlight wildly into the air.

Vincent Wauneka and Ted Avila are the only customers at the diner so they have their choice of an open booth. The older Navajo woman who runs the diner pours coffee into the two grey ceramic mugs in front of Vincent Wauneka and Ted Avila before she walks away to let them have privacy.

“You have a lot on your mind that you choose not to talk about,” Vincent Wauneka says.

“Yes. You pick up on that? You can read my thoughts? You know, that’s not fair at all. But I am messed up. I admit that. No point in trying to deny that. The simple explanation is that I’ve run away from home.”

“Where was ‘home’ for you?”

“On the shore of the Atlantic Ocean. Back east. I was married to a woman who was not compatible with me. Filed divorce papers. Packed up my stuff. Then I drove off immediately in my 4×4. You saw those cardboard boxes of my belongings in my truck. Going to California.”

“You plan to settle there?”

“Unfortunately, I don’t have a specific plan for that. Been driving quite a few hours every day since I left New England. Several days in a row. Lost count actually. I’m dazed. Pretty messed up. I already said that, right?”

“Yes, you did. You are in the Navajo Nation. Off the beaten path. I believe that is the phrase you white guys like to use.”

“That’s fair, Vincent. You have the advantage. I never met a Navajo before. I must come across to you like a cultural stereotype.”

“Well, mister cultural stereotype, now I owe you. Thank you for the ride you gave me here today. I appreciate that you chose to pick me up by the side of that road.”

“It’s too bad, really, that I don’t know anyone around here. Off the beaten path and all. If only I had someone from here who could take me to one of your Navajo ceremonies to help me heal my troubled mind.”

Vincent Wauneka smiles at Ted Avila with awareness.

A reasonable or consistently logical person might stop right here and quietly consider: What will happen next to these two men? Did their lives simply happen to intersect on some lonely two-lane highway in the Navajo Nation? Or is there something deliberate going on between them?

The two men are no longer sitting in the Tuba City diner in the glaring sunlight common to any ordinary morning you may choose. The sky is owned completely by serious dark clouds pushed around effortlessly by powerful stratospheric winds.

Vincent Wauneka is naked. He nods as he smiles at Ted Avila who happens to be naked as well. The two men stand not far from the heat and fury of the roaring bonfire whose flames shoot up majestically into the air.

There is loud popping and crackling sounds reverberating outward from the huge bonfire. Dark black smoke rises into the air. Where once there had stood Vincent Wauneka and Ted Avila in complete nakedness, now there are three sets of these two men. There is a trio of naked Ted Avilas together with identical triplets of the naked Vincent Wauneka.

The six nude men quickly reposition themselves to form a semicircular perimeter at the edge of the crackling wood feeding the spectacular fire with immensely tall flames. The half dozen men are beginning to show signs of arousal. They move closer to one another. They touch each other intimately.

Their fates are not private. They probably are completely unaware that intense observations are underway, watching, studying their every move.

The three Vincent Waunekas speak indistinctly to their counterpart Ted Avilas. Perhaps the Vincent Waunekas are providing detailed instructions and guidance in this secret healing ritual.

The rustling winds of heated currents of air created by the bonfire jostle the long, flowing hair of the three Vincent Waunkeas spectacularly as their faces reveal how pleased with themselves they are at this moment.

At a safe distance from the bonfire are four young men wearing loincloths that vaguely suggest overtly stereotypical Native American costuming. These men are muscular and visually appealing. One is the band’s drummer seated at his ample drum kit. The second man is the bass player. A third man plays lead guitar. A fourth man is at the keys of an electronic synthesizer instrument.

Together the band members start up a musical performance as the Vincent Waunekas and the Ted Avilas are busy enjoying sexual activities near the bonfire. The musicians skillfully perform intricate vocal harmonies as they render an up-tempo cover version of the song A Hazy Shade of Winter.