Two Blinks

Bradley R. Kent, nicknamed “Brick” went off the grid in 2005.

The fiery crash on Highway 29 outside Grass Valley, California made all the local headlines. The County Coroner called it an accidental death. The Auburn Journal reported on a white male killed in a spectacular crash while intoxicated.

There was no question of identity. The dental record was indisputable, what was left of it.

There was no motive for murder and no contested will. News reports talked about a 30 year-old, software-design engineer who made a fortune when he sold his shares in a company that wasn’t micro and definitely not soft. Seems a small fortune disappeared too. Rumors of a gold mine and investment in IPO’s went unchallenged, and for anyone remotely concerned, the case was officially closed on June 22, 2005.

Brick stared south from his hillside perch and could see the hazy inversion begin to thicken like a Cajun Roux over the distant Sacramento Valley. He sat in a wicker, rocking-chair, given to him by the Child of Light Awareness Compound near Grass Valley, as a gift for I.T. work he did on their networking system.

He thought about dialing Camie, his new girlfriend who lived at the Awareness Compound.

He went into the mine entrance and grabbed the pay-as-you-go-cell-phone. He got it by paying a homeless person to buy it for him at Best Buy. That way, there was no way to track him with a closed circuit security image at the counter, or in the store. Any time he needed to upload more minutes, he went to a local video store that provided the “re-fill” without a security camera.

“Nah, not this morning,” he thought to himself, as he picked up the phone and then tossed it back on the table.

“Too much drama,” he continued, justifying the no-call in his head.

“Yea but a massage and a blow job,” he thought, reaching back for the phone.

“But then I gotta sit through an hour-tirade on the evils of capitalism and a return to communes,” he thought, returning the phone back to the table.

“But she’ll cook,” he reasoned as he picked it back up.

“I need to fast, skip the massage and sex, drink licorice tea and clean out the colon.” he thought, tossing the phone back to the table, and this time, watched the back fly off.

He called Camie five minutes later.

“Hey sunshine, what what’s up with the Hare Krishna’s? I’m lonely and need your fingers and sex and good cooking,” he said, into the phone he’d repaired with duct-tape.

“Need my fingers? Hmmm, Brick’s horny!” she chuckled.  “Okay, Brickey, me too, come to think of it, I’ll make brown-rice pasta with tofu-curry for dinner,” she replied.

“Excellent, see you soon,” he said, hanging up.

He continued staring down the valley at the panoramic view.

It had been three years in the making.

He was invisible, untouchable, and officially off-the-grid.

He had no social security number, no driver’s license, no bank account, no credit cards, and no public utilities.

His land was connected to Highway 42 by a two-mile dirt road, and there was no mailing address, and no mail box; just a legal description at the Nevada County Recorder’s office for a five-acre parcel, owned by an offshore Corporation, registered in the Cayman Islands under the name: FN Grid Incorporated.

Two years earlier, he had liquidated his investment holdings, and purchased twenty million dollars’ worth of half-ounce, gold ingots in Mexico when gold was hovering around $500 an ounce. Today, it was flirting with $1400. He kept the square ingots in four separate safes, hidden in the floor, under rugs. It was his form of diversification.

The only payment he made on “the-grid” was for the annual property taxes. The FN Grid Corporation paid these from a private bond, sinking-fund which was set-up for thirty annual installments made directly from the corporate account to the Nevada County Recorder’s office.

His banker assured him he’d never have to worry about property taxes again.

He was an information junkie, and he used several sophisticated programs to send and receive encrypted e-mails and to delete all of his personal tracking information in a network cloud of data-cover that made him impossible to track.

Living off the grid didn’t mean he lived without commerce. He occasionally rode his bike to the Rainbow Market for household supplies and food products. They kept a tab, and when it started getting too high, he’d bring in an ingot. New-Age hippies knew business, and the gold was valued at the closing, spot-price of the Chicago Commodities Mercantile Exchange, on the day it was brought in.

At 11:00 a.m. Camie puttered up the dirt road on a green Vespa, wearing jeans, a collarless, hemp-cloth blouse and a pink vintage motorcycle helmet. Her long dreads hung well below her shoulders like strands from a dirty, cotton mop. When she stopped at the mine entrance, he walked over and greeted her with a hug and long kiss.

“Wow, you smell good, what is it; Jasmine or Orange Blossoms?” he asked, standing back, and looking at her piercing, blue/green eyes.

“It’s jasmine oil,” she replied.

“Any medicinal benefits?” he asked, knowing she was a virtual encyclopedia of holistic healing?

“Not really; it just smells good, which makes me happy,” she said, pulling out a bottle of dark-green, olive oil, and fresh mozzarella and a several pouting heirloom tomatoes from her backpack.

“This oil has an almost nutty aroma,” she said, opening the bottle for Brick.

“Hmm, I’m thinking it’s gonna be Calzone tonight,” Brick said.

“That sounds good. A big group is going to the South Fork tonight. I thought it might be fun,” she said, removing her helmet and shaking her head to let the dreads fall loosely down her back.

“Sounds good, I’ll bring the Calzones and a jug of fruit wine,” he said, approaching her.

She moved into his arms where he lifted her blouse over her head.

She began unbuttoning his shirt. In seconds, they were in tangled in sloppy-wet sex.

Camie poured a large stream of the Olive Oil on her backside and Brick took her, realizing the benefits of the oil went far beyond a good Marinara sauce.

They took an outdoor, cold-shower on a level, pebble platform near the cave entrance.

They each took turns holding a garden hose above the other.

Soon they found their way to a soft, cotton quilt Brick had laid out in the wild grass. Camie knelt above Brick and gave him a long, digging massage.

He groaned in juxtaposed pain and pleasure, which resulted in a deep, snoring nap.

When he woke, he saw Camie picking patches of green leaves and stems from the herb garden.

“Oh my God, I’m invisible in paradise,” he yelled, after sitting up.

She shot him an impish grin and stayed at her task.

The day seemed to drift by, and by 6:00 p.m. Brick had three large Calzones on the dining room table, oozing cheese and sauce as they cooled on metal, pizza screens.

They packed Camie’s backpack with the Calzones and a gallon-jug of Sangria stuffed with apples, oranges, and lemons.

Brick put on a 50’s football helmet with no faceguard and an old backpack and then sat behind Camie as they scooted off towards the Rainbow Market where they’d meet the shuttle that would take them to the river.

When they arrived, Brick took in the array of colors and sounds and smells. It was like a new-age, Summer of Love.

Two men with white beards and long frazzled hair were standing under large oak, drinking beers.

Four women, probably in their mid-twenties, in ankle-length wraps and with beads and feathers and long, un-washed hair, chatted near several Harleys that were parked up front.

Camie and Brick smelled pot, but couldn’t tell who was smoking.

Ten minutes later a flat-bed truck with attached side-panels spit its way into the parking lot.

The driver was Mac McCaffey, a local “budsman” and middle-aged hippy.

“Need a ride?” he shouted.

The dry heat baking the Sierra foothills was just beginning to mellow as Camie and Brick sat in the back of the flat-bed truck on straw mats as it headed north on a paved road that wound  through dense forests of white pine, and blue-oaks.

After about ten miles, they turned right onto an unmarked dirt road that headed north-east. They were beads in a maraca as they passed over ruts and potholes for several miles, dropping down into hollows and then rising again, crossing late-season springs that had become mere drips on the moss beds as the road got rougher with each turn.

A rusting, iron-trussed, bridge appeared around a slight bend in the road and they veered right, and went a hundred yards to a narrow, dirt parking area.

Five vehicles were already there. A Subaru held together with duct tape, a late seventies Corolla and three, psychedelic, Volkswagen-buses

Birds sang like a first audition, and dragon flies hummed above the trail. Scotch broom still showed yellow patches and a light breeze played a slow rhythm through the trees.

The surrounding steep river-gorge was covered in a green, brown, quilt of old growth timbers which were starting to fade into shadows as the day’s last sunlight shimmered off the broad blue-oak leaves like a thousand reflecting mirrors.

The trail headed north east, well above and parallel to the river and then began descending in lazy switchbacks to a crescent shaped, beach known as Oak-Rock named for a majestic white oak that stood alone on a slab of smooth  granite overlooking the river. At this time of year, the river was in no hurry and flowed quietly, past still pools and eddies of no concern.

“Brick, Camie!” shouted a naked woman, mid-thirties with hair down to her waist, and a necklace of ceramic beads jiggling inside well-tanned breasts.  She emerged from the water and gave Brick and Camie a big hug. Two other women a little older in the same outfit did likewise.

“Rosie, Comet, it’s good to see you too,” Brick said, embracing them both.

“Brothers, Welcome!” said a thin, boney man in a gray beard as he approached them from the water. His eyes were a translucent blue, disguising a man well into his sixties.

“Miner Matt, wasup? How’s the prospecting going?” Brick asked.

“It’s been slow,” he said, with the gruff voice.

“I’ve been working the moss patches all the way up to China Dam. I’ve pulled out about two ounces of flake so far this summer.”

Miner Matt was the unofficial Mayor of the South Fork and caretaker of a ten-by-ten foot shack up-river on a sliver of private land that sliced to the river in an area of mostly Bureau of Land Management owned wilderness.

“Paradise,” Brick said, as he took off his clothes and he and Camie walked into the cool waters of the South Fork of the Yuba River.

“It’s the most cathartic place I know,” Brick said.

At dusk, the drums came out, and sage patches were lit along with a bonfire.

A cigar-sized joint laced with hash was also getting passed around.

Camie was free-form dancing in the center of a drum circle. Very 60’s.

Brick wasn’t moving. It had something to do with what he had inhaled.

The giant rocks were shifting around and the river began speaking to him.

The nagging tinnitus in his ears became a Peruvian flute.

He couldn’t swallow or close his eyes, and he had a hard-on that stared up at him, disappointed and angry.

He woke in the middle of the night on his back with an Indian blanket keeping him warm.

Paradise was about to end.

Dawn arrived, and he heard the familiar river sounds and a thousand birds, but something was wrong. His entire was body was numb, arms, legs, feet, hands, everything. He could breathe and listen, but he couldn’t lift his head to look at his chest.

“Oh my God, Oh my God,” he thought, wanting to scream but not able to force his mouth work. Camie thought he was playing.

“Common Bricky, Bricky, time to wake up,” she said, shaking his shoulder.

Then she saw the panic in his eyes where tears were falling down his cheeks.

He couldn’t speak, yet he was trying.

His tongue was out but he was just drooling.

He began to choke.

Camie propped him up and tried to clear his mouth of the thick strands of phlegm.

“He’s had a stroke,” she screamed, as the others began to rise.

She knelt at his side and propped his head in her lap.

He seemed disoriented and confused.

“Shhhh, baby, don’t try to talk. You’ve had a stroke, we need to get you to a hospital right away,” she said, holding his head and crying.

“Mac, Keith, we’ve got to get him to a hospital now!”

“We can take my van,” one man shouted.

Camie sobbed as she followed the four men who were carrying him up the trail on a stretcher made with a blanket.

“Where do you want to take him?” Mac asked, looking at Camie.

“The Sierra Nevada Hospital in Grass Valley, it’s on highway 49 just past Spring Hill,” she sniffled.

Thirty minutes later, they were rolling into the emergency entrance of the hospital. Bricks head was resting on Camie’s lap.

Two attendants came out to the van.

“He’s had a stroke, I think his entire body is paralyzed,” Camie said.

Minutes later, the attending nurse supervised moving Brick on to a gurney. The nurse’s hand was on Bricks wrist checking his pulse as they wheeled him into the building.

Camie followed behind.

The attending Physician, an Indian Woman named Dr. Bhattam came into the room five minutes later and looked at the chart, shaking her head. She pulled a small mallet out of her pocket and checked for reflexes…Nothing. She placed the stethoscope on various parts of his upper torso, then with a frown, removed the earpieces and let it hang around her neck.

“I’m Dr. Gemile Bhattam and it appears as though your husband has had a stroke. We’ve got to run a cat scan immediately to ascertain the extent of damage. His vitals appear stable, but this is a critical time for stroke patients. We need to get him on a ventilator right away. Why don’t you have a seat in the lobby and I’ll be with you as soon as I know something more,” she said, following the gurney out of the room.

Camie put her head in her hands and sobbed. In the lobby, a woman in a business suit approached her carrying a clipboard and file folder.

“Good morning, I’m Lucille Wheeler. I’m with hospital admissions. Are you related to the man with the stroke that was brought into emergency not too long ago?”

“I’m his girlfriend,” she said, not really sure how to answer.

“I’m gonna need some personal information on him if that’s possible,” she said, smiling.

Camie looked at the ground and closed her eyes, “I don’t know that much about him. His nickname is Brick, but I don’t know his full name. We’ve been, uh seeing each other for about six months. It’s been very casual,” she said, beginning to feel awkward and embarrassed.

The woman continued.

“Does he have any family contacts you’re aware of,” she asked, sitting beside Camie.

“As far as I know, he doesn’t, at least he’s never talked about them,” Camie said.

“Do you have an address or a phone number I can put in the file?” Lucille asked.

“He does have a cell phone, but it’s a pay-as-you-go type and his property is an abandoned gold mine outside of Grass Valley and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t receive any mail,” Camie said.

“Is he homeless? Are you homeless?” the woman asked.

“No, I work at the Child of Light Awareness Compound west of here,” Camie said.

“Brick owns his property, at least I think he does, but he doesn’t live like most people, I really don’t know” she said, looking straight ahead now.

“He’s off the grid, isn’t he?” Lucille asked smiling. “We see a lot of it up here,” she continued.

“Something like that,” Camie respond.

Lucille leaned in closely to Camie and whispered, “Listen, if your boyfriend has any kind of insurance or assets, it would help tremendously, because as an indigent, between you and me, the hospital will stabilize him, but won’t do much more; you know, limited resources and all that crap. Of course, official policy requires that he be given the best care possible, but the hospital always finds a way to faze-out the indigents. It’s critical that stroke patients take care of things as soon as possible. He’s gonna need to see a specialist, probably a brain surgeon, but as an indigent he’s gonna be placed on a low priority. You didn’t here that from me, but it’s true.”

“I’ll just have to see if I can communicate with him somehow, we’ve just never talked about his money, or where he keeps things. I’m sort of off- the-grid myself,” Camie said, between sniffles.

The woman named Lucille gave her a hug. “Let’s wait until we hear from the doctor. For the time being, we’re just gonna list him as Brick. I’ll try a Google-search when I get back to my office,” she said.

Two hours later, Doctor Bhattam approached Camie holding a chart. Her expression didn’t bestow confidence.

“I’m sorry, but your partner has suffered a stroke and is showing complete paralysis from the eyes down. It is unfortunately, most severe. He is stabilized, but there isn’t much more we can do at this facility other keep him comfortable for a few days. Does he have any insurance? I would suggest calling Dr. Stanley Wells in the Neurological Department at the University of San Francisco Medical Center.”

“I tried explaining to the admissions person, I don’t know him very well. We were casual partners. Last night we partied, but no harder than usual, some wine and  maybe a little hash.”

“At his age, I’m guessing late thirties, a stroke like this is a mechanical issue, probably hereditary, a little hash and wine shouldn’t send him into full-paralysis, but we’ll never really know until we run tests, and it becomes a bit moot, because all you can do from this point on is look at years of therapy,” the Doctor said, closing the patient folder.

“Can I see him?” Camie asked.

“Yes, He’s stable and alert. He can see and hear you, but he can’t talk. We usually suggest simple eye signals, yes is one blink, and no is two. He’s in room 404.”

“Thank you,”

“I’m so sorry Mrs. …” the doctor hesitated. “I’m Camie,” she said, looking sadly up at the doctor.

“I’m so sorry Camie, good luck,” she said, and then turned and walked away.

A thousand thoughts raced through her mind, nothing rational, just befuddling, mish- mashed, jumble.

She walked slowly to the elevator and pressed for the fourth floor.

The hallway was clean and vacant. An attending nurse was buried in a People Magazine.

Brick’s room was across from the nurse’s station. She entered.

The light was off. The only sound was from the steady whoosh of a ventilator next to his bed.

She went to his side.

His eyes were open and she could see panic in them.

“It’s her, finally! Oh my God, please touch me. I’m trapped,” he screamed, without making a sound.

She sat beside him and touched his hand and he blinked rapidly to acknowledge her presence.

She looked into his eyes and spoke, “Brick, you’ve had a massive stroke, you’re paralyzed from the eyes down. If you understand what I’m saying I want you to acknowledge by blinking once for yes and twice for no. Do you understand?” One blink.

“Are you in any pain?” Two blinks.

“I know this is crazy but we’ve never talked about anything personal like if you have any money or insurance, things like that. Do you have any health insurance?” Two blinks.

“Do you have any money?” Nothing…she waited…and waited…and then repeated the question. Brick, do you have any money?”

“Two blinks.”