Trans-Dimensional Employment

The phone on my desk rang, and I looked around the room to see if anyone else would answer it. Many people were at their desks in the large room, but no one moved, possibly because they were all practicing the ancient corporate art of selective deafness. I answered it myself.

The caller introduced herself as Chala and then asked to speak to Ansch. I told her I'd get the message to Ansch, though I had no earthly idea who Ansch might be, having never encountered anyone by that name in my brief tenure here at Meyer's Excellence Manufacturing and Design. 

If you happen to know this mysterious Ansch or if you happen to find her hiding in the copier room or in the supply closet (the possibilities are endless in a large corporation), please pass along the message to call Chala. Presumably, they have important business to discuss, involving excellence, manufacturing, or design. Or all three, if they're feeling ambitious.

The phone call to Meyer's took place in another dimension when I first woke this morning. The dimension was obviously in the same space but in a different time, like a cosmic layover between sleep and consciousness. The trans-dimensional message wasn't the first, of course—you've read about some of them here on The Circular Journey, where interdimensional employment opportunities are apparently my specialty.

I don't know why these ethereal career updates occur at the precise instant I wake, but I've come to believe they're important. They probably strengthen the character, much like cold showers, overpriced coffee, and having to explain to your partner why you're discussing imaginary coworkers at breakfast. 

Many things do strengthen character, I'm told, and I have no reason to doubt it. After all, if surviving morning conversations about alternate reality job assignments doesn't build resilience, what does?

Apparently, I'm a designer in the leisure fashion department of this alternate dimension, which sounds considerably more glamorous than my regular-dimension responsibilities, which amount to little more than writing this blog. 

Meyer's is one of those environmentally friendly companies that focuses on reusing, upcycling, and recycling to reduce waste in landfills—a mission so noble that even my subconscious has developed an ecological conscience. I fully support their mission, so I am quite content in my role as a designer, even if it only exists between REM cycles.

My current project involves reconfiguring a pair of vintage sunglasses, because apparently, even in alternate dimensions, I can't escape the gravitational pull of questionable fashion choices. I'm adding a couple of horizontal bars made from an unidentified piece of mangled plastic—the kind of material that probably started life as something humble, like a yogurt container or a for-sale sign, before destiny called it to higher purposes.

I plan to position these bars just below the bottom edge of the lenses, creating what can only be described as architectural eyewear. I will then attach a row of tiny plastic figures to the bars—miniature citizens embarking on microscopic adventures. 

The finished piece will serve as a sort of virtual reality device, allowing the wearer to see tiny people walking tiny dogs along the horizon, which strikes me as the perfect antidote to a world that takes itself far too seriously.

I remember feeling immensely satisfied as I worked on this pair of interdimensional shades because the lenses provided 100% UV protection as well as being polarized. It was a lot to hope for, but if you're going to hallucinate designer eyewear, you might as well dream big. Anything less would have been simply too disappointing, but as I've already mentioned, these trials are meant to make us stronger, like spiritual CrossFit for the chronically bewildered.

Princess Amy is happy that I've adopted a Rumi attitude toward the whole affair. She says it shows significant progress in emotional maturity, which is generous considering my track record with maturity is generally below the 35th percentile. Amy says my ESP is purring like a twelve-cylinder cat, which sounds impressive but also slightly disturbing and mechanically implausible.

At any rate, I'm happy to hear her compliments, even if I have no clue what any of it means. Her reviews of me generally include something about not having two gray cells to rub together—apparently, I've been operating on a single-cell intellectual economy for some time. But progress is progress, even if it arrives via mystical feline metaphors and dream-state employment opportunities.

I can't take all the credit for this newfound trans-dimensional career success. Ms. Wonder has recently encouraged me to listen to several episodes of The Real Divas—she intended for me to send a link to one specific episode, but sent two others by mistake, because in our household, precision is more of a theoretical concept than an actual practice. Listening to them has made all the difference, I'm sure, though whether the difference is positive or simply different remains to be seen.

It was meant to happen that way, of course. There are no coincidences, apparently—only a universe with an unusually elaborate sense of humor and a fondness for designer sunglasses with tiny pedestrians attached.

Now, if anyone knows where I can reach Ansch in this dimension, please let me know. I have an important message for her.

Stardate 2025.156 - Captain's Log

Into the Melancholy Nebula

Princess Amy sat in the captain's chair of the GS Ship Wynd Horse, gazing out through the massive viewports at the familiar mindscape of Highway 17 toward Ocean Isle Beach. My limbic system's command center hummed with its usual efficiency, while Joy, stationed at the communications console, broadcasted her typical morning optimism across all neural networks.

"Beautiful day ahead, Princess!" Joy chirped, her fingers dancing across the controls. "I'm picking up positive signals from Surf & Java Cafe in the Weekend Plans Sector."

At the engineering station, Anxiety was running his standard diagnostics. "Aye, but we're showing some minor fluctuations in the confidence generators," he muttered, wiping his hands on his uniform. "Nothing major, but I'll keep an eye on it."

Reason, standing rigid at the science station with Spock-like precision, was analyzing data streams with obsessive attention to detail. "Princess, I'm detecting an anomaly approaching our position. A nebula of unknown composition, approximately—"

"Fascinating," Princess Amy interrupted, borrowing Spock's favorite word. "On screen."

The viewports filled with an approaching gray mass—not the vibrant colors of typical space phenomena, but something muted and heavy, like storm clouds made of emotional static.

"It's probably nothing," Joy said quickly, adjusting her controls. "I can route around it and keep us on our happy trajectory."

But even as she spoke, the nebula began to envelope the ship.

Darkest Anticipation

"Princess, the happiness generators are losing power!" Anxiety called out, his Scottish accent thickening with worry. "The whole joy grid is fluctuating!"

Through the viewports, Princess Amy saw their destination starting to fade. Traffic had slowed to a crawl ahead of her, and an ominous cloud of gray smoke billowed from something up front. The flashing lights of an emergency vehicle were barely visible through the smoke, which was now taking on a sickly yellow hue. 

"Joy, compensate!" Princess Amy ordered. "Increase positive output across all channels!"

Joy's fingers flew over her console, but her usual bright demeanor was straining. "I'm trying, Princess, but the nebula is interfering with everything! Even my happy memories of Ocean Isle are coming through distorted!"

At the life-support monitors, Anxiety was practically vibrating with nervous energy. "Princess, my calculations indicate a 73.6% probability of total system shutdown if we remain in this nebula. Wait, that's 74.2%. No, 75.8%—the numbers keep getting worse!"

"Give me more power to the optimism engines!" commanded Amy.

"I'm givin' her all she's got, Princess!" Anxiety replied, sweat beading on his forehead. "But the dilithium crystals in the confidence core are crackin' under the pressure!"

That's when they all heard a low, mournful sound coming from the medical bay. Dr. Sadness, whom Princess Amy had confined at the first sign of the nebula, was trying to communicate.

"Ignore that," Princess Amy said firmly. "Sadness is malfunctioning. We don't need that kind of negativity on the bridge right now."

But the sound grew louder, more insistent.

The Revelation

As the ship drifted deeper into the gray nebula, something unprecedented happened. Through the viewports, Princess Amy watched in horror as the traffic came to a complete stop.

"Princess!" Anxiety's voice cracked with panic. "I'm picking up more emergency sirens coming from behind us. We're in danger of being trapped in this traffic jam!"

Joy, her usual sparkle dimmed to barely a glimmer, turned from her station. "Princess, I... I can't maintain communications. Everything I'm sending out is just... empty. Like I'm broadcasting to no one."

Just then, the sickbay doors whooshed open, and Sadness stepped onto the bridge. Princess Amy’s first instinct was to order her back to sickbay, but something held her back. Perhaps it was the way Sadness moved—not with defeat, but with the quiet confidence of someone who knew exactly what needed doing.  

"Princess," Sadness said softly, "I know this nebula. I've charted its emotional frequencies before."

"Doctor, return to sickbay immediately," Princess Amy snapped. "We're handling this situation."

"No," Sadness replied, with more firmness than anyone expected. "You're not handling it. You're making it worse. There's a turning lane directly ahead. If we slowly inch into the left lane, we can drive the shoulder of the road to the turning lane and head back the way we came."

Reason's eyebrows shot up. "That turning lane explains the inverse correlation in my readings..."

"The nebula isn't our enemy," Sadness continued, moving toward Joy's communication station. "It's a natural phenomenon. But we can only navigate it if we acknowledge what it actually is, not what we want it to be."

Princess Amy felt her command training warring with her instincts. "But if we let you take control of communications, that will make everything worse."

"Trust me," Sadness said simply. "Sometimes the only way out is through."

The New Frequency

Princess Amy made the hardest command decision of her career. "Sadness," she said, "take the communications console."

Joy stepped aside, her expression uncertain but not resentful. "What should I do?"

"Stand by," Sadness said gently. "I'll need you soon. But first, let me send out the right kind of signal."

Sadness's hands moved over the controls with surprising skill. Instead of Joy's bright, cheerful broadcasts, she sent out something different—honest, raw, real. Slowly gliding Wynd Horse to the shoulder of the road, she began to signal: "We need help getting into the left lane."

Something miraculous happened. The truck beside us backed up a few feet, and the driver waved us into his lane. Other cars began to respond, and Joy's wall of forced positivity slowly gave way to calm.

"Princess," Anxiety called out, his voice filled with wonder instead of worry, "the traffic pattern behind us is stabilizing! The honest communication is actually strengthening our core systems!"

"Fascinating," Reason added, his calculations finally making sense. "When we acknowledge the nebula instead of fighting it, it loses its power to drain our systems."

Sadness looked toward Joy with a gentle smile. "Now I need you to help me broadcast hope. Not false happiness, but real hope. The kind that acknowledges the darkness but trusts in the light."

Joy and Sadness worked together at the communications console, their different frequencies creating something beautiful—a harmony that was neither purely happy nor purely sad, but authentically human.

Clear Skies Ahead

As Wynd Horse emerged from the nebula, Princess Amy looked out through the viewports to see two vacant lanes leading them back the way they came. Her confidence wasn't simply restored; it was somehow stronger. Highway 17 was navigable again, but this time with better driving conditions.

"Captain's log, supplemental," Princess Amy spoke into her recorder. "We have successfully navigated the Melancholy Nebula, but not in the way I expected. The mission taught us that our crew member Dr. Sadness isn't a malfunction to be contained—she's our early warning system, our emotional radar, and sometimes, our guide through territories that Joy cannot navigate alone."

She paused, looking around the bridge where all her crew members now worked in harmony.

"I've learned that a good captain doesn't suppress her crew—she learns how to deploy their unique strengths when they're needed most. Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is admit when you're lost and ask for help finding your way home."

Joy looked up from her station with a smile that was somehow both bright and wise. "Princess, I'm picking up clear signals ahead. But if we encounter another nebula..."

"We'll face it together," Princess Amy said firmly. "All of us. That's what makes us a crew."

In the distance, space stretched out in all its vast possibilities, and the GSS Wynd Horse sailed on—not toward false happiness, but toward something better: authentic hope, that in a few minutes, the ship would cross the Cape Fear Memorial Bridge and enter the Castle Street Arts District where Cafe Luna would be waiting with plenty of espresso to reward the crew for bravery in the face of life's emotional weather.

Author's Supplemental:

The GSS Wynd Horse continues its five-year mission to explore strange new moods, seek out new emotional territories, and boldly go where this mind has never gone before—into healthy, integrated emotional awareness. 

The Genome Project

It occurred to me recently, while standing in the cereal aisle contemplating the existential implications of choosing between Fiber One and Cheerios, that I am not unlike the human genome itself. How did that happen? Better to accept it and move on I think, don't you?

I'm not saying that I contain the biological blueprint for human existence—that would be rather presumptuous, even for me. Think of it this way: The human genome contains genes that determine everything from eye color to the unfortunate tendency to worry about hurricane season in May. In much the same way, I've been informed by various celebrity 'Genes' whose combined influence resulted in the peculiar specimen that stands before you today.

Gene Autry (The Dominant Gene)

The "Singing Cowboy" represents my most influential genetic component, responsible for what Ms. Wonder diplomatically refers to as my "moral compass that points True North even when it isn't." 

From Gene Autry comes my unwavering belief that one should never shoot first, always tell the truth, and help people in distress—even if that distress is bringing home a caffeinated latte when Ms. Wonder clearly asked for half-caf.

The Autry Gene accounts for my tendency to view the world in terms of good guys and bad guys, with very little gray area in between. It's the Gene Autry influence that genuinely surprises me when people don't follow the Cowboy Code, and it's probably why I still believe that most problems can be solved with a firm handshake and a willingness to do the right thing.

The singing aspect of this gene remained mercifully dormant, but that hasn't kept me from turning the volume up to eleven and belting like Bette.

Gene Roddenberry (The Optimistic Futurist Gene)

The creator of Star Trek contributed the part of my genetic makeup that makes me think every disagreement can be resolved through thoughtful dialogue, that diversity makes us stronger, and that the future will be significantly better than the present. This gene also accounts for my tendency to see profound meaning in everyday encounters and my belief that we're all part of a larger, more meaningful narrative.

The downside is that I occasionally sound like I'm delivering a captain's log entry when discussing relatively simple matters, such as whether to add caramel truffle flavoring to my oatmilk latte.

Gene Wilder (The Anxious Creativity Gene)

The brilliant comedian and actor contributed the genetic component responsible for my vivid imagination, my ability to see humor in stressful situations, and my tendency to worry creatively about potential disasters. 

The Gene Wilder influence manifests in my ability to find comedy in chaos, my appreciation for the absurd, and my talent for turning personal neuroses into entertainment. It's this gene that leads me to write The Circular Journey.

Gene Tierney (The Elegance Gene)

The classic Hollywood actress contributed the component responsible for my appreciation of sophistication, beauty, and the finer things in life. This gene is responsible for my preference for well-crafted sentences and accounts for my belief that presentation matters almost as much as substance.

Her influence manifests in my tendency to see ordinary moments as potentially cinematic, and my belief that grace and dignity are always in fashion. It's this gene that makes me think that what you say is less important than how you say it.

Gene Kelly (The Grace Gene)

Now, before you begin laughing, hear me out. The Gene Kelly influence doesn't manifest in the ability to dance. No, my behavior on the dance floor has a striking resemblance to a startled giraffe. Rather, Mr. Kelly is responsible for my appreciation of elegance and my belief that life should have a certain choreographed quality to it.

It's the Gene Kelly in me that insists on making a Broadway production out of mundane activities—like grocery shopping or checking the weather.

Unfortunately, this gene also contributes to my unrealistic expectations, which leads to considerable frustration when reality refuses to follow my internal choreography.

Gene Pitney (The Melodramatic Gene)

The singer known for emotionally intense ballads like "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance" contributed the genetic component responsible for my tendency to find profound emotional significance in relatively minor events. It's the reason I turn a simple trip to the hardware store into an epic journey of self-discovery.

It's the Gene Pitney influence that makes me feel deeply about things that others might dismiss as trivial, that turns everyday disappointments into tragic ballads. 

This genetic component makes me genuinely empathetic and emotionally engaged with the world, but it also makes me sound like I'm narrating a soap opera when describing my day at the beach.

Gene Rayburn (The Conversational Gene)

The beloved game show host contributed the genetic component responsible for my love of wordplay, my ability to keep conversations flowing even when they're going nowhere in particular, and my genuine enjoyment of other people's company. 

This genetic component also accounts for my tendency to treat casual conversations as if they were game shows, complete with dramatic pauses and the expectation that someone will eventually provide a clever punchline.

The Synthesized Genome

Like the human genome, these various genetic influences sometimes work in harmony and sometimes create interesting tensions. But somehow, they combine to create the particular specimen known as the Genome—a being who approaches life with cowboy ethics, choreographed expectations, starship optimism, cinematic appreciation, ballad-worthy emotion, comedic anxiety, and game show enthusiasm.

I should mention that none of these celebrity Genes actually contributed to my biological makeup. That would be both impossible and quite disturbing. But in terms of cultural DNA, well, that's a different sort of genetics entirely.

And considerably more entertaining than the cereal aisle, I might add.

Shady Grove Chronicles

It has come to my attention, with a jolt like that of a rogue tennis ball striking me squarely between the eyes, that I've committed a rather significant oversight. My sincere thanks go to Ms. Wonder for gently (more or less) reminding me that I'd all but forgotten the second reason for embarking on this "circular journey."

If you're a regular here, you're undoubtedly familiar with the disarray of my brain's internal wiring, which often leads to neurotransmitter imbalances and, eventually, to this blog. Finding humor in the absurdities of my daily existence is, of course, the bedrock of The Circular Journey.

What you might not realize, however, is that when I first put fingers to keyboard, I hoped to unravel the winding path from my origins in Shady Grove—a world now shrouded in the mists of time—into the wider, often wonderful, world I inhabit today.

A Glimpse of Shady Grove

Shady Grove was (and probably still is) a sliver of rural paradise, nestled comfortably between the gentle curves of a freshwater lake and the majestic Tennessee River. One might be tempted to call it idyllic, if one were loose with the facts, a habit I strive to avoid.

This tiny community boasted one long, flat country road with a stop sign at one end that should have included one of those warnings you see on old maps, "Beware of Dragons." The road was bookended by churches with such strict tenets that even the local squirrels observed an unnatural civility on Sundays.

It was here, amid the dappled sunlight filtering through ancient oaks, that young Genome first encountered the rich tapestry of human eccentricity that would forever shape his worldview.

While the events described will be drawn from the actual experiences of my youth, I will employ what I like to think of as "creative non-fiction," and what my Great Aunt Cynthia would term "stretching the truth until its ribs squeak." I'll be recounting true events, but I'll highlight certain aspects to capture the inherent humor and absurdity that my younger self, bless his heart, was too busy living through to fully appreciate.

Unless you're new here, you know that I draw inspiration from that master chronicler of English country life, P.G. Wodehouse, whose Blandings Castle stories remain the pinnacle of literary comedy. I make no claims to approaching his genius, but will do my utmost to capture something of his spirit in describing the inhabitants of the Grove.

And what inhabitants they were! Allow me to provide a brief introduction for two of the main characters you'll encounter in the coming days:

Great Aunt Cynthia, who operated as a sort of alternate mother, dispensing wisdom and peach cobblers with equal generosity. Her kitchen was a realm of culinary magic, where recipes existed not in written form but in the mystical measurement system of "pinches," "dashes," and "just enough."

You may remember Aunt Cynthia and Uncle Paul from an earlier post. It was Aunt Cynthia, who was awakened by an early morning car crash outside her bedroom window, and shouted, "Wake up, Paul, and get your pants on, Jesus has come back." Uncle Paul, always the practical one in the family, woke and replied, "If Jesus is here, I don't think he'll mind that I'm in my pajamas."

Aunt Cynthia loved to sit on the front porch on Sunday afternoons and regale the neighborhood with songs made famous by George Beverly Shea, the primary soloist for the Billy Graham crusades. The song for which he is most famously known, "How Great Thou Art," was a favorite of Aunt Cynthia.

She had one of those Ethel Merman* voices, and the lyrics echoed down the holler, across the lake, and beyond. I'm certain that once we develop instruments sensitive enough to pick up ancient sound waves, I'll hear her voice once again, singing "O Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder..."

Aunt Cynthia loved to ride the lawn mower--it was the only motorized vehicle she could drive. She even used it to visit neighbors in the Grove. It was she who kept the lawn neat, and her husband, Uncle Paul, once told my father that he couldn't bear watching her mowing the grass in the midday heat of summer, so he moved his hammock from the front yard to the back where he wouldn't have to see her.

Our other next-door neighbor was Great Aunt Maggie, the family's unofficial guidance counselor. She approached problems with the analytical precision of a chess grandmaster and the vocabulary of a sailor on shore leave. Her advice, while invariably sound, was delivered with such bracing directness that one often needed to lie down afterward.

Aunt Maggie was known around Shady Grove as the resident "witch." Anywhere else, she'd simply have been called the herbalist, possessing all that wonderfully arcane knowledge about wild plants and their surprising ability to soothe the human condition. I always fancied myself her favorite, though it dawns on me now that I was probably just conveniently located next door.

She taught me how to identify the plants she needed for her elixirs and salves and sent me into the surrounding forests to collect what she needed. She cured all the usual suspects--headaches, colds, sore throats, tummy trouble, bruises, cuts. She even put together a poultice* that pulled a tiny piece of glass out of my heel.

The backdrop to these characters and their exploits was a community bound together by tradition, hard work, and weekend gatherings where bluegrass jam sessions would materialize on front porches as naturally as morning dew. The residents—descendants of Welsh, Irish, and Scottish settlers—carried in their blood a certain stubborn self-reliance mingled with an appreciation for music, storytelling, and occasional bouts of good-natured feuding.

It was a place where time moved according to its own particular rhythm—marked not by the ticking of clocks but by the changing of seasons, the ripening of crops, and the rotation of Sunday sermon topics. The outside world, with its politics and progress, seemed to maintain a respectful distance, as though recognizing that Shady Grove operated according to its own immutable laws.

In the coming installments of what I shall grandly term "The Shady Grove Chronicles," I hope to transport you to this singular place and time. You will witness young Genome's navigation of the complexities of rural life, his encounters with the profound wisdom and magnificent peculiarities of his elders, and his gradual realization that the seemingly simple community of his youth contained universes of complexity.

So, I invite you to join me on this circular journey back to where it all began. Just be sure to pack a willingness to laugh, a fondness for the absurd, and perhaps a pinch (or a dash, or just the right amount) of forgiveness for the follies of youth. I'll do my very best to make the trip worth your while.

Bell Detective Agency

Agent Walter Bell and I met every morning at SoDu Cafe in South Durham to discuss the criminal landscape of the North Carolina Triangle—a region where crime, as we liked to dramatically declare, was "always rampant." 

Truth be told, we didn't concern ourselves with ordinary crime—the garden-variety misdemeanors that kept the Triangle's finest police officers occupied. No, we specialized in the fringe elements that often slipped through the cracks of conventional law enforcement, the cases that raised eyebrows and occasionally defied explanation.

Walter was a joyful and genuinely friendly man, and the world's number one supporter of his beloved alma mater, Clemson University. A retired FBI agent with a treasure trove of stories—each one more hilarious than the last, not just because of their bizarre subject matter but because of Walter's unmatched gift for storytelling—he had me in stitches daily. 

After wiping away tears of laughter one morning, I suggested we formalize our coffee meetups into something more official. Thus was born the Bell Detective Agency, with Walter as our senior investigator and me serving as the computer forensic specialist (which meant I knew how to Google answers that Walter couldn't get from Siri).

We decided to focus exclusively on crimes that slipped through society's proper, polite cracks—offenses as unique and diverse as the Triangle's eclectic population. The cases that came our way would have made streaming television writers throw their scripts in the trash for being "too unrealistic."

Take, for instance, the Duke Healthcare System's renowned weight-loss program. The program is so effective it's barely advertised, surviving purely on whispered recommendations that keep it perpetually at the fire marshal's occupancy limits. 

With such a large group sharing the same lifestyle came an inevitable subculture, and where culture blooms, crime inevitably follows. In this case, it primarily involved black market protein shakes and scalping tickets to movies in the city's extra-wide seat theaters. 

Then there's Durham's reputation as an extraordinarily gay-friendly city. LGBTQ+ individuals flock here from around the country, drawn by the radical notion of being treated like everyone else. This openness created another vibrant subculture, accompanied by its own brand of criminal activity, mostly involving glitter theft and the occasional drag competition scandal.

The third subculture stretching across the Triangle, from Chapel Hill to Raleigh, involved divergent religious practices. The rebellious spirits of students from Duke, UNC, and NC State attracted a dazzling array of spiritual practices. You could encounter faiths in the Triangle that existed nowhere else: Reformed Santeria, college-dorm Voodoo, and what Walter called "Convenience Store Wicca" (practiced primarily near the beer and chips aisles).

In short, as Walter would deadpan with perfect comedic timing, the Triangle was essentially a hotspot for "fat, gay, zombie criminal activity." A phrase he delivered with such earnest professionalism that it took me three weeks to realize he was joking.

Our routine was sacred: meet at SoDu Cafe each morning to assess criminal activity and prioritize our day's investigations. We came ostensibly for their unbeatable flat whites—truly the best in the Triangle—but we were equally there for underground intelligence gathering (and the occasional cheese danish).

Our primary informant was a barista named Amy Normal, the self-anointed "Emergency Backup Mistress of the Greater SoDu Night." To clarify, she filled in when the official Mistress was detained elsewhere. It was a stressful position, as Walter would say with exaggerated gravity. Her real name was Awet, though we suspected even that was an alias (Walter had a complex theory involving witness protection and social media avatars).

Awet and the mysterious primary Mistress reportedly used their "mystical wiles" to keep otherworldly criminals in check. During our tenure, the biggest problem appeared to be vampire cats—yes, you read that correctly. A cat named Chet had apparently been the emotional support animal to a bipolar vampire with severe anxiety. While I understand anxiety struggles all too well, I doubt my midnight panic attacks compare to those of a centuries-old bloodsucker with vitamin D deficiency.

Walter and I would diligently collect intelligence from Awet and formulate our daily plans with MI6 precision. Our operations involved surprisingly little action—neither of us particularly enjoyed being out after dark (Walter needed his eight hours, and I preferred to avoid both mosquitoes and the undead). Nevertheless, we reasoned the feral vampire colony knew we were tracking them, which theoretically dampened their nefarious activities.

The Bell Detective Agency operated for about two years until Walter relocated to Charlotte to live with his son. I missed him terribly—still do. Walter resides with the angels now, where I'm certain he keeps heaven in stitches with his outlandish stories of fighting crime from the Kansas City FBI office. 

I haven't heard his voice in some time, but I can still hear his distinctive laughter in my mind. And I know with absolute certainty that on college football game days, he can be heard throughout the celestial realm, shouting with characteristic enthusiasm, "Go Tigers!"

The world is quieter and even a little boring without Walter Bell in it, but somewhere out there in the afterlife, a group of angels is wiping away tears of laughter as Walter regales them with tales of our vampire cat investigations. And that thought makes me smile every time I think of it.