“There is a conspiracy of her prophets in the midst thereof, like a roaring lion ravening the prey; they have devoured souls; they have taken the treasure and precious things; they have made her many widows in the midst thereof.” (Ezekiel 22:25 KJV)

Ten years at the newspaper offered very little in terms of climbing the corporate ladder. It was a dead-end job, I knew it, my coworkers knew it, but at least it was a job and I figured I’d hold on long enough until my ship finally came in. The ship, of course, was my science fiction novel that I had recently polished up to perfection. My query letter, on the contrary, was proving to be an impossible task. After the death of my uncle I decided to step away from the novel for a while and reevaluate my publishing aspirations. After all, I was a born-again Christian, wasn’t I? Isn’t that what happened at the funeral? I made a promise to God that I would crack open my Bible and make a real attempt to read and understand His Word. My word, I figured, could stay on the backburner for a little while longer. Something was happening to me. I felt different. I felt, I don’t know, renewed and at peace. I thought maybe I should quit smoking weed and perhaps drink a little less. I needed a relationship with Him. I needed to know that He was there, that He cared. Unfortunately, I became a tad bit sidetracked with my continued research into River’s death. My blog became number one priority.  

I arrived at work the morning after Labor Day to find the red voicemail light blinking on my phone, a rare occurrence. I pressed play and heard the sound of white noise followed by a man’s voice who quickly muttered a two-syllable word, something like thinner or bitter before hanging up. Finding it somewhat odd, I sent it to my coworker for a listen. We both laughed it off as a prank call. Later that day (or perhaps it was the next…they all run together) two men approached me while I was outside on break. They conversed with a man dressed in black further down the street before heading my way. One short and one tall, they both bummed a cigarette and then just stood there staring at me. The taller of the two wore a shirt decorated with a Christian cross, and on his head, a ball cap displayed a marijuana leaf. When I pointed out his attire, they looked at each other nervously and then just stood there silently. “Well, no judgement here,” I finally said before kindly bidding them farewell. They jumped on command and shuffled off, but just before I was out of earshot, one of them commented, “She reminds me of my ex-wife.”  

I couldn’t get the strange voicemail out of my head and wondered if perhaps it was related to my blog. Maybe somebody was trying to tell me something, point me in the right direction, a subtle clue from someone in the industry. I listened to the message at least a couple of hundred times analyzing it, slowing it down, and picking it apart piece by piece. White noise, the southern-sounding male voice saying thinner or bitter, two loud bangs, and then more white noise before the message ended. The first thing that popped into my mind was that movie based on Stephen King’s novel, Thinner, where a man is cursed by a traveling band of gypsies. Oh Lord, I thought, if it’s a curse, the last thing I need is to get thinner. I’m trying to gain weight not lose. Before the mysterious call, my last blog post had been an analysis of some artwork (featuring cats and dogs) by one of River’s industry friends. I connected even more dots when I listened to one of his songs that begins with the sound of white noise. Get it? I shared this revelation with my roommate and her mother – they didn’t get it. I shared it with my coworker, a really nice guy who kind of went along with it probably more fearful of hurting my feelings if nothing else. I didn’t care. I was onto something. Two days later on September 11, I published the following post:

Blog Post (09/11/15)

I caught a nasty virus the other day. Every time I clicked on something I’d get redirected to a porn site where the same girl masturbated on a continuous loop. Everything seems to be okay now but I still suffer anxiety attacks at each click of the mouse. Since I’ve started this blog I’ve been hit with an unusual amount of malware, worms and Trojan horses. The last of the three is especially dangerous being that I’m highly allergic to horses. It’s not funny, you try being a fifth generation Texan who doesn’t eat meat and can’t ride horses.

It took me about a week to rid my computer of that malware. My blog traffic had also picked up over the past week and my drive home from work had turned into a health hazard. On more than one occasion I had to swerve over to the shoulder to avoid being hit head-on by a wayward driver. “Prepare yourself,” a voice inside my head warned. Over and over again, “Prepare yourself,” louder and clearer than my own jumbled thoughts. I went to bed with the idea of prepping myself, beautifying myself a bit more than I usually did for another mundane Thursday. 

Like clockwork, another visitor approached me the next day while I was on break at work. It was a young African-American guy wearing a brand-new pair of green Nike sneakers. Sweating profusely, he asked me for money right after pointing out his new shoes and fretting over scuffing them up. I told him I didn’t carry cash. Looking around nervously, he asked if I drove here (I tell him yes, I work here) and he tells me that he walks everywhere he goes. More blog symbolism, I thought. The concept of walking and driving fit perfectly with the mind control technique known as psychic driving which I had recently discussed on my blog. Developed by the CIA in the 1940s and 1950s under the program known as MK Ultra, psychic driving was a psychiatric procedure that involved electro-convulsive therapy and repetitive noises played on a loop to condition the patient and alter their behavior.  

The young man left abruptly only to return a few hours later during my last break of the day. At least, I think it was the same guy. Dressed in similar clothing, the young black man ran across the railroad tracks to meet me and then plopped down beside me on the wooden bench. The newspaper is located about a block away from a homeless shelter, so entertaining vagabonds, derelicts, and drifters was a common occurrence, but this guy was different. He wasn’t drunk, dingy, or needing help, but he was full of questions. Was I married? Did I have kids? Did I have a boyfriend? Why not? He seemed shy and somewhat awkward yet friendly and non-threatening at the same time. “You’re so skinny,” he said at one point. I told him it runs in the family. I kept eyeing him thinking something was off but couldn’t quite put my finger on it. He seemed, I don’t know, familiar. His arms appeared somewhat cakey and grayish, and as I stared down at them, he said something like, “just follow the tracks.” I nodded and attempted to make eye contact. “There aren’t a lot of black people where you live, huh?” he asked while I briefly analyzed his face.

“Not really,” I shrugged. “Lot of Mexicans though.”

A tooth-filled grin brightened his nervous face. “You’re beautiful,” he said. “There’s someone out there for you.”

I smiled and nodded uncomfortably. “I should get back to work before they realize I’m gone,” I finally replied. I stood in the street watching him trot away until he stopped, turned around and yelled out, “You could change someone’s life!” Smiling, I waved and yelled back, “be careful!” before heading inside. I got back to my desk and replayed the incident over and over again in my head. He just seemed so familiar and the more I thought about it the more convinced I became that he was an entirely different person from the first guy I met. Had to be a different guy. Different facial structure. Different voice. Different smile. Different demeanor. The more I thought about it the more convinced I became that I’d just met one of River Phoenix’s best friends from the music industry.

He was one of the main components of my theory. After River’s death, this best friend appeared to make it his lifelong mission to right a wrong that was done to his deceased friend. Through his music lyrics, album art and interviews this friend appeared to be conveying hidden messages about what really happened the night River died. My blog contained numerous pages analyzing his work, and I even posted a link to my site on his Facebook page with a message that read, “The genie is out of the bottle.” For me, it wasn’t a huge leap to think that he would pay me a visit, perhaps even disguised as a young black man. After all, we both wanted the same thing. We both wanted the truth to be known and I was the perfect candidate for the job – an outsider, a nobody, an informed fan totally off the radar of the powers that be.

That night, my blog exploded with comments. It was the twenty-year anniversary of my own best friend’s death, and after my meeting with the young black man, I assumed that the comments were from River’s own best friend. Buried in dark sentences and riddles with singsong rhymes, this person claimed to have found a key.