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shotgun shells, outdoor magazines, Guns &
Ammo, and other literature and plastic toys cluttered the back seat and bay.
    “You a vet?” I asked, harboring doubts.
    “Three years in Nam,” he said. “What about you?”
    “I took a few pictures in Ho Chi Minh, Cambodia, Laos
and a few other places.”
    He shook his head intently.  “I miss it. Wish I were
there now. We never finished that job. We should have stayed until we
finished.”
    I wanted to say ‘wars are unending’ but I held my
tongue. He slid behind the wheel carefully to avoid a second encounter with the
machete. I crammed my road-weary bones into the front seat and settled back. The
leather seats conveyed a message of affluence. A gismo panel near the steering
wheel indicated the car was loaded with every imaginable option.
    “What do you do for a living, Mr. Case?”
    “Call me Charlie,” I said. “I’m a photographer and
living off my prints and assets.”
    “Can you make a living taking pictures?” He asked.
    “Depends on the number and quality of shots you have
in circulation,” I replied. “I do a lot of work on speculation.”
    “Doesn’t that get expensive, traveling around for long
periods of time?”
    “I don’t do that kind of work,” I said. I knew what he
was after and it wasn’t my resume. “I’m also a D.C. landlord. I own a
townhouse, thanks to a benevolent relative, and I collect atrocious rents on
eight tiny apartments. In fact, if I’m not careful, I’m going to lose it all. ”
    “Marriage on the
rocks?” He asked restraining a grin.
    “Nothing that a little domestic violence wouldn’t
resolve,” I replied, clenching my teeth.
    He pulled on the street; drove passed my RV and reviewed
the DC tags.
    “Is that your RV?”
    I nodded proudly, the doting parent. It was the only
material possession, besides my cameras, that I’ve ever owned, loved
and believed could love me in return.
    “All the luxuries of home with none of the headaches,”
I said. “I can take it with me when I go, leave it, love it, hate it, or sell
it. It’s the closest thing to a faithful companion I’ve ever known.”
    There was something sad in that statement, though I’d
never thought much about it. It made Virgil squirm.
    “Is the cat yours, too?” He asked.
    “Cat?” I said. “What cat?”
    “The big old grisly cat sitting in the van.”
    “You saw a cat in my van?”
    “Sitting in the front window,” Virgil replied.
    I gave some thought to the remote possibility that
Myra’s cat may have entered the van, but I kept it sealed almost hermetically
to prevent that possibility from happening.
    “What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?” He asked,
smiling.
    “My wife’s cat,” I explained. “It took a shine to me
after she moved in.”
    “Is it pretty expensive to care for?” He asked.
    “The cat?” I asked.
    Virgil stared without speaking.
    “You mean the van!” I shouted, nodding like a ‘Goofy’ bobbling
head car toy. “We’re not just talking dollars here, Virgil. May I call you Virgil?”
He nodded. “We’re talking life-style. Besides, the guy who sold it to me said
I’d get eighty miles to the gallon and never have to change the oil.”
    “You believe that?”
    I didn’t believe it anymore than I could believe
Myra’s cat had gained entry to my van. Although I’d shared his fantasies of
mysterious deaths and ghosts in the Ryder house, I was disappointed that he
chose to cast dispersions on my fantasy.
    “Why not?” I replied.
    Virgil’s impatience was tottering on the cutting edge.
    “He just wanted to sell you the damn thing; he didn’t
care what he said. I’ll bet it gets less than eight miles to the gallon and
burns more oil than a diesel locomotive.”
    I lost faith in my
fellow man the day my autocratic father
told me I was a reject, a throwaway baby found in a dumpster and adopted at an
early age. To this day, I believe there is more truth to the claim than he
intended to