Origin Story for the TOTLA iPad

It is a perfect Seattle evening, one only a Northwest native would even recognize, and appreciate.

The sky is a cloudless azure upon which stars are beginning to emerge and the ambient temperature is warm enough to sit on the dock with only a light pile jacket (mostly due to the coolness of Lake Union). Still waters reflect lights from houseboats across the lake and occasionally sparkle as fish breach the surface in pursuit of an evening snack. The Seattle skyline and iconic Space Needle stretch up towards the sky, overshadowed only by a mammoth pastel Mt. Rainier some sixty miles to the south.

Ron Canyon sits at the edge of a dock with a half-finished glass of 12-year old scotch. Growing up in a southern sunshine state, there were endless nights with warmth and stillness to match, accented with the hypnotic sounds of cicada buzz. Though Texas still ruled his heart, the Emerald City offered physical beauty, seasonal variety and a smattering of Puget Sound magic he had not experienced anywhere else. And living in a houseboat afforded him a front row seat for evenings such as this.

In sharp contrast, Ron’s rough and tumble, seemingly chaotic life was the antithesis of this perfect moment. He had not pursued any semblance of a linear path to this floating home on Lake Union. He’d simply followed his nose. One life change led to another and propelled him into unexpected directions. Perhaps it was the change he loved, or the staleness he abhorred. No matter, he navigated comfortably within the ebb and flow of life's offerings.

The owner of the dock is rarely around in the evenings so Ron has this night, this perfection of circumstances, all to himself. He sips his whiskey and stares out into the stars. He is not one for deep contemplation and so is content enough to just ‘be’ in this moment. [Oh, the Buddhists will have fun with this, won’t they?]

Out of the stillness emerges footsteps, a seriously unsettling sound this time of night. The commercial dock’s location does not encourage the ‘uninvited.’ Ever. It is owned by a fisherman, and piled high with crab pots, cables and tackle in every corner. For anyone to show up as darkness descends upon downtown and the lake, it’s just unnatural.

He turns to see an elderly gentleman approaching with a cane; his effortless stride suggests the walking stick may be merely for show. Smiling as if asking to join him, Ron nods, and the gentleman sits on the bench just like he was right on time. The head of the cane, a black raven, seems to be staring at Ron. As the gentleman spins the cane back and forth, the raven’s eyes remain unwaveringly on Ron.

Snapping out of his trance, Ron offers up, “Uh, hello there.” He smirks.

“I saw you sitting here and thought to join you.”

Not knowing quite where to go with this, but not wanting to appear rude with someone many years his senior, Ron asks, “Can I offer you something to drink?”

“No, thank you, I shouldn’t be long.”

Okay, now it’s officially getting weird. “Something I can do for you then, sir?”

He smiles, knowing it is the other way around, “No, like I said, saw you sitting here and thought we might have a little talk.”

Given his own life experience, Ron is no stranger to lively and stimulating dialogue. He is equally interested in people’s lives and their stories. But this odd circumstance is straining his abilities, so he casts out a line to see what it brings.

“It’s certainly a night for being on the water and taking a break from life, right?”

“Does life need a break?” the gentleman queried with a slight tone of consternation.

Bait taken. Whole. Complete. Nothing left out. “Well, you know, I guess that’s what we say. Nights like this don’t come along often enough and so I stop what I’m doing when they do. Seattle weather is like fine wine, I think, complex and underappreciated. I simply slow down and listen now and then. That’s all.”

“It’s a good thing to stop and listen, young man. Life has a way of losing itself in routine and expectation. Your appreciation of this moment is testament to your search for meaning. You have listened well.”

Ron looked intently at the gentleman. He was an odd one from every angle, but his demeanor wasn’t threatening or ill intended. Ron took a breath and looked up to the heavens which was now filling with stars and distant planets. A single comet sizzled across the sky, disappearing in the direction of the now silhouetted Olympic mountain range.

Returning his attention to his guest, he smiled and replied. “I don’t know if my search for meaning is as conscious as you might think.”

“Well, we are here, are we not? On this bench, under this spectacular night sky. Talking. Do you think it accidental I found this dock, and you?”

This is starting to feel a little Bagger Vance, Donald Shimoda-ish. And though reading about these characters seemed perfectly normal in the context of a fictional setting, sitting next to a stranger speaking about your life, as if he actually knows you, well, that’s a whole ‘nuther deal.

The gentleman continued. “You recognize this perfect moment in a Seattle evening, but it could easily be an inflection point, another change in direction. Who is to say?” he said with a wink. “Every challenge you’ve accepted over the years, every change you thought was driven by some weird, crazy circumstance, have all brought you to this exact moment. Yes?”

“Certainly, that’s true. I won’t deny you that. But I have friends who wanted to be lawyers, doctors and accountants since high school, and they went out and did those things. No detours at all.”

The elderly man twisted his cane thoughtfully. “You’ve been married?”

“Uh huh.”

“You met your wife where?”

“My ex-wife. I met her at a park in West Seattle, hiking the beach.”

“So, you’re from Texas, but you met your wife in Seattle. Wouldn’t you say that you met her because of the many decisions you made that brought you here? Had you stayed in Texas, you would have met another woman and married, perhaps, but you didn’t.”

Pretty sure I didn’t mention I was from Texas. Perhaps the 5-point metal star on my houseboat?

Ron couldn’t take issue with the logic. Those friends who’d become lawyers and such, were still in Texas. They’d married Texas gals and settled into lives around the Lone Star state. Even though he was a Texan at heart, the draw to experience different places was impossibly strong and he could not have lived his life any way differently than he had. It was his nature. In fact, it had ultimately pulled him and his ex-wife apart. She needed stability and coherency and a plan, which he was loath to provide. He loved her deeply, but they couldn’t be a forever couple in the end. Nevertheless, he still lives with the daily pain of his failure to make her happy. He has learned along the way that there are unintended consequences to his untethered lifestyle which can leave collateral damage in its wake.

“Yeah, I gotcha,” he replied finally. “So, you and I are here on this dock for some specific reason, is that what you’re saying?”

“Bingo,” he said with a loud thump of his cane on the wooden dock. “You have a mission in this life, a purpose that cannot be denied.”

Before Ron could respond, the gentleman jumped deftly to his feet with a suddenness that left him wide-eyed and a little surprised. 

“Ron, you have work to do,” he exclaimed. He reached out and shook his hand firmly. “I’m glad I found you. I am expecting big things. Be well, my friend.”

He turned abruptly and walked away with his cane swinging dramatically to and fro implying a sense of accomplishment.

As the shock of the crazy encounter subsided, Ron discovers a book left behind on the bench. He doesn’t recall the gentleman showing up with anything more than the cane. When he turns to yell out to the old man, all his benighted eyes reveal is a bank of thick fog into which the gentleman has disappeared. And just as suddenly, the fog vanishes in a slight whoosh of a breeze and then there is no movement at all across the entire boat dock. Same still night, half-empty glass of scotch, just as before the stranger's arrival.

The book appeared to be leather bound, a little worn around the edges. Picking up the book Ron is  surprised by the heft of it, given its slenderness. On closer inspection, he sees a faded word etched  into the cover, TOTLA,with a smaller, unreadable line below, probably due to the poor lighting on the dock. When he opens the well- worn cover, he discovers it is not a book at all; the glass screen of an iPad lights up with an etched mountain graphic and the words, Traders of the Lost Art. Opposite, on the inside cover of the leather binding is a sticky note.

Release the Klaxon!
-Siruckus

Siruckus? What the hell kind of name is that? What is a klaxon? In less time than it takes to actually think these questions, the logo disappears and is replaced with an index of links like The Sahalie Ltd and Lodestar Vigilante, to name a few. Ron touches the link for Siruckus on the screen, hoping to learn more about this gentleman and maybe how he might return this left-behind device.

The book opens to a titled page, Lodestar Vigilante, instead. Scanning the first few paragraphs reveals no mention of Siruckus. Reading further, it appears to be a story about the future and how technology has altered the DNA of society in Sync City. Ron continues, hoping to find something, but just as much because he is immediately captivated by the story. Then, in an instant of total shock and disbelief, his mouth drops open and  the device falls to his lap. The main character of the story is revealed … Ron Canyon. 

A violent chill sprints down his neck and back. What had been a warm Seattle dusk has slipped into something decidedly more ‘twilight zone-ish,’ sinister even. He absentmindedly drains the glass of scotch and gazes across the lake. The surface is like glass now and the reflection from the far side of Lake Union mirrors the city’s skyscrapers, Mt. Rainier and a salmony pink sky just past the mountains, momentarily disorienting him. Growing dizzy, tumbling down a slippery slope, he is losing grasp of his simple, uncomplicated life. 

What is this book? Who is this Siruckus fellow? What the hell is happening?

His gaze falls to the sticky note on the inside cover. Release the Klaxon! He takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Reaching up with his right hand enclosing the now empty tumbler, he thumps his head three times, finally holding the glass firmly to his forehead, focusing on the solid coolness of it. Then, he looks back over his shoulder in search of something tangible he can lean on to explain the gentleman and this electronic journal in his hands. There is nothing but stillness and the carnivorous shadows of a dark, confusing night. The longest day of the year is slipping away. Shorter days lay ahead.

He closes the book and blinks, hoping his world will return to some small bit of normal, or that he might wake up from this bizarre dream, safely and warmly ensconced beneath his thick down comforter. 

This wish, however, would not be granted.