Chapter One: Saving the Day

Do do do do doo do. Do do do do doo do. His eyes were wide open. Everything was dark, but Iben Powned knew his eyes were in fact open, wide open, so how come he could still hear the music? OK, not music. More like a musical metaphor: The ice cream truck circling the block as you’re writing the suicide note. Do do do do doo do. Do do do doo do. Do do do do doo do. Do do do do doo do.

The melody had dragged Iben out of his restless sleep, forced him up off the couch where he’d spent the past four nights getting far less than the eight hours he was used to. Fully awake he deduced the music must be coming up from the street, rising up with the soot and smog from some infernal pushcart peddling Italian ices, roasted chestnuts or dubious herbal potions promising love, happiness or revenge. “Ay, yes,” Iben chortled, “A meal best served cold. More for me, please.”

Oh how quickly a man can turn. In the unlikely event anyone had asked, only a week ago Iben would have described himself as a painstaking man, slow to rile, quick to rationalize. Ask somebody else, not necessarily a good friend, those were hard to find, but someone who knew Iben for any length of time, say, an afternoon, they might have used other terms such as “set in his ways,” “nerd,” “geek,” a Brit might offer that “he’s a bit of a twerp.” Iben would not have corrected them, but he would have disagreed all the same for the very reason that he knew himself to be a man of fierce passions who simply did not find it necessary to exhibit them to random people in the nameless, faceless crowd. He chose to reserve his instinctual, primal machismo for the right moment--Do do do do doo do-- and it had just now arrived.

Do do do do doo do. Do do do do doo do. In fact, Iben Powned was about to throw a tantrum, and if that didn’t stop the satanic melody, he’d throw a brick, or better still, both boxed sets of Lost DVDs that he now reckoned comprised the deadest weight on the face of the earth.

Do do do do doo do. Do do do do doo do. He lumbered haphazardly across 15 feet of darkness--the maddening tune growing louder, more insistent--threw back the drapes and was struck dumb. Where before there had been air outside the window 16 floors above the Manhattan pavement now he saw nothing but a clear blue eye.

Ok then, still sleeping. Iben had just about decided to simply log off on this dreamscape rather than contemplate the nature of the reality on the other side of the glass when the eye in question pitched a bit and rolled aft exposing a leering lipstick greased grin.

This was, of course, no apparition. This was Ronald McDonald in humungous balloon form being readied for the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Happy fricking holiday to you, too, McRonnie. Do do do do doo do. Do do do do doo do. Iben listened more closely now, still uncertain of the source, but he thought he recognized that tune. Wasn’t that the first few notes of the “Cheers” theme song? Do do do do doo do. You want to go where everybody knows your name.”
Ha! Luckily Iben could still laugh at himself, or was it with himself? Anyway, now he got it, he wasn’t playing host to a haunted calliope, it was just his subconscious playing tricks. The tune had nothing to do about losing his mind and everything to do with losing his name.

****

Just short of a fortnight ago, Iben had been offered the big break he’d been waiting for when his agent, Hamish McIntyre, had called to tell him he’d landed him a gig writing a novelization for the hit ABC show Lost.

Iben had been toiling in the netherworld of cable TV novelizations, and before you ask, no, not the classy cult ones like Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Firefly. So far Iben hadn’t gotten much beyond writing the tie-ins to Sci-Fi Channel original movies, but luckily there were lots and lots of them so it had been more than two years since he’d been reduced to picking the low-hanging fruit over at Lifetime, where he’d been required to assume a female pseudonym and write about luck in love a subject he new considerably less about than, say, string theory or the time-travel paradox. He liked to stick to what he knew.

He knew that in the literary circles Hamish traveled in, his write-what-you-know preference made him a plodder, maybe even a hack, but Iben never gave up his dream that one day his well-honed novelizationing skills would hook him up with a hit TV show, an assignment he would so ace that he’d be offered a shot at a script writing gig on a hit show, and consequently be set for life.

And last week, Lost had called Hamish and what did Hamish do? Did he look over his client roster and select one of those “creative” types who loaded up their novelizations with sly irony and post-modern in jokes. No he did not. Hamish called Iben--old reliable Iben, plodding Iben, Iben who always got the job done on time and on target. That’s what the network boys wanted, results on a deadline. Could Iben provide them with a novelization of “The Valenzetti Equation: Numbers of Necromancy” in 11 weeks? Iben most certainly could.

It wasn’t until he received the contracts that maybe a couple of doubts about that timetable began to surface.

“So, listen, Hamish. I got the contract but that’s it,” Iben said after he’d finally gotten through to his agent two days ago.

“They said they were sending DVDs,” Hamish replied distractedly. Iben was used to this.
Hamish had explained the only way he could keep on a low-tier client like Iben was to make sure the rent-paying A-Team writers were always his first priority. For instance, they got taken to lunch. Iben had never even seen the inside of Hamish’s office, but if he played this Lost card right, that situation was about to change.

“They sent the DVDs,” Iben said.

“Pretty nice deal, huh? How many DVD’s of Mansquito did Sci-Fi send over? Didn’t you have to buy it yourself?”

“Yeah, I was out of pocket on that one,” and, Iben recalled, he didn’t even get the job. “But the Lost people sent nothing about the book.”

“Yeah, well, here’s a funny thing about this show. The novelizations are handled by the marketing department not C.C. and Lindy.

“Ohmmmyea,” Iben mumbled vaguely.

“The show’s producers? Carlton Cuse and Damon Lindelof? Know who they are? Anyway, they are very worried about leaks. They don’t want to give away much. Make that anything. They don’t want amateurs messing with the mythology, taking off in crazy Atlantean riffs, diluting the truth of the overarching storyline.”

“I see,” Iben said. He did not, but if he had learned one thing during this ersatz writing career it was that no one needs to know what you don’t know. Let them work for it.

“So the deal they made with the marketing department is that if novelizations must exist, the writers can develop stories from the existing canon. The title should help. Think of it as a very loose outline.”

“No problem,” Iben lied. “One other thing, Hamish, the contract names me as author. You know I always use a pseudonym on these things.” Iben was saving his real name to grace the title page of his first script and he didn’t want its reputation sullied by the cheap tricks he’d turned to get him to that long-hoped-for debut.

“Ah, too bad you didn’t say something about that earlier,” Hamish replied.

“Earlier. I haven’t even signed the contracts yet.”

“Well you could probably change it, but it’s too late to keep your true identity to yourself, brother. Everybody already knows your name.”

*****

Do do do do doo do. Do do do do doo do. Iben slammed the drapes shut, blinding the cyclopean clown. Where was that music coming from? Most certainly not from a friendly neighborhood bar. What did Hamish mean that everybody knew his name? Who was everybody? Why would they want to know the name of a for-hire hack shilling for the ABC marketing department? Iben continued to rant, pacing the length of his apartment from bedroom to living room and back, seeking the source of his distress, until he tripped over the dog.

“What do you want?” Iben asked, but he really meant was “why are you still here?” He’d hoped the blond Labrador Retriever would leave using the same mysterious methods under which he’d appeared five days before. Now, the mutt seemed to be trying to tell him something as it trotted over to the door, cocked its head as if to listen, woofing once or twice, then looking back at Iben. Iben cocked his head, too. Then he heard it, a soft, rhythmic knocking.

“Is that Morse code?” Iben had once novelized the Discovery Channel story of Marconi: Written in the Wind.

He opened the door to find, of all things, a beautiful girl. She wore a baseball-cap atop her chin-length brown hair, eyes hidden behind formidable Jackie O. sunglasses, and pointed a pistol at his midsection. Before Iben could register any of the many things he felt, the dog pulled a Lassie, grabbed the weapon out of the girl’s hand and loped away to the bedroom.

“That is a good trick!” Iben told her. “You’ve certainly demonstrated to me that he’s your dog, all right. I don’t think I've ever seen a canine do that outside the movies. He must be very special for you to have braved that crazy parade crowd out there,” Iben had made one of those primal decisions just then, ignoring the whole gun thing in favor the girl, a species with whom he had fewer lunches than he’d had with his agent. Now here was one on his doorstep, poised to enter his inner sanctum. Maybe the dog was not such a bad thing after all. And lots of girls carry guns, don’t they?

Iben ushered her into his bachelor pad.

“That’s quite a pooch you’ve got there,” he opined, looking around for the mongrel that was nowhere in sight. She went to the window, opened the curtain a crack and peered out. What she saw didn’t alarm her so Iben guessed the clown had drifted on.

“You know if you’re not in a hurry to get home, you can watch the parade from here,” Iben offered, but the girl switched her attention to the TV still playing the Lost DVD.

“I don’t usually watch primetime, but I’ve landed the darnedest assignment. It’s really ironic because the day I got it was the best day of my life, but it’s turned into the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. Funny isn’t it how the best thing and the worst thing can happen simultaneously. I’m sure it has something do to with quantum physics; you know everything in a state of suspension, on and off at the same time. Ha! Shut up, Iben! That’s my name, by the way, Iben Powned.”

“I know who you are,” the girl said, her attention riveted on the scene in "Every Man For Himself" where Benjamin Linus shakes the bunny with an eight painted on its back until the animal keels over.

“Yes, well I guess that’s how you found me. So, do you follow this show?” Iben asked. “Cause, listen, if you could tell me what’s going on it would be a tremendous help.”

“I do not watch this show. It’s just a fiction bought and paid for by people who do not have your best interests at heart. People who have dark powers and darker intentions.”

“Don’t I know it,” Iben concurred with a chuckle. “TV execs are dark indeed. So here’s my dilemma. They’ve hired me to write a book that’s supposed to fit with other storylines in this silly show, but it doesn’t seem to.”

An accusatory stare beamed out from behind her eye shades. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“See that’s just it, I have no idea what any of it means. All they’ve given me to work with is a title: “The Valenzetti Equation: Numbers of Necromancy.” I’ve watched every single episode. I don’t think anything called the Valenzetti Equation was mentioned. I’m sure it must have something to do with those ridiculous numbers, but when Locke stopped punching in the numbers and the hatch exploded, everybody got out alive. The sky turned purple but the world didn’t end. It just seems like if the Valenzetti Equation has to do with the numbers that storyline has played itself out already. ”

“It’s not a story.”

“Well, I realize Lost has revolutionized TV storytelling.”

“No, you moron, it’s not a story. That song you keep hearing. The big clown looking in your window. The goddamn dog. Do those things seem like elements in a work of fiction or do they seem like things that are happening in your real life?”

“I’m not sure…” Iben sensed this might be a trick question.

“Geez, for once in your life just make up your mind,” the girl snapped.

“Yes, they are really happening,” Iben obeyed.

“Given that, do you think the numbers might also be real?”

“Yes,” Iben lied seamlessly this time, falling back on his old strategy of going along to get along.

“Then you will help us? You’ll write the truth even though the truth may cost you your life?”

“Yes.” Okay, mystery solved, he was still asleep after all. Maybe he could use some of this dream dialogue his book.

“Good. Then listen closely because what I’ve come to tell you may save you, me, everyone in the world. The island is not…”

Suddenly the dog became frantic, whining and lunging toward the window. He grabbed the drape and pulled it open. Outside a new balloon bobbled.


The girl recoiled in fear and turned to run just as the window explode behind him, a bullet struck the door as the girl slammed it behind her. Then shooting pain. Then nothing.

****

Do do do do doo do. Do do do doo do. His brain throbbed. Worse, when he pried his eyes open he was eyeball to eyeball with a dog. The dog. The dog with the gun still clutched in its jaws. Iben didn’t know how long he’d been unconscious, but the room was dark and he was shivering. Then he remembered the blasted window…and the rest….he checked for blood, shattered bones…at least he hadn’t been shot. Taking stock he realized the girl was gone, the dog had stayed. She’d left her backpack, too, although Iben didn’t remember her having one. He propped himself up and fiddled with the pack’s zipper but resisted the temptation to open it.

Do do do do doo do. Do do do doo do. Iben snuck a reluctant peek behind the couch and there amid the shattered glass he finally found the source of the sound. It was a music box of sorts. A rather ingenious item, really: a tin wind-up toy featuring a polar bear riding a unicycle back and forth across a circus tight wire. In one paw he held a parasol painted to look like a canopy of stars. In the other paw he held a snow globe in which a mermaid and merman turned somersaults around a single pearl.

Iben , led by the dog, crept across the broken glass. He put his ear close to the toy. Do do do do doo do. It wasn’t playing notes, he realized. It was something else. He held the object close to his ear. Words. His name! Iben Powned is clueless. No. Iben Powned must do this. Not quite. Iben Powned is….