Category: Fiction Factor

Lefty Marshall quickly realized if he wanted to take full advantage of the Smithsonian Institution, he needed to block off an entire day. Between exhibits, artifacts and special programs, there was more than enough to see and do in the expansive exhibition halls.

But he was on a specific mission, so instead of taking time to marvel at American history, he quickly read the descriptions of displays such as the Greensboro Lunch Counter, Civil War Draft Wheel and the chip off of Plymouth Rock … and just kept moving along.

As he made his way up and down the museum’s three floors, he kept an eye on his watch; he was on a tight schedule and could only stay a limited time. After an hour of stopping, staring and starting, however, Lefty finally found what he was looking for – a small display called “Baseball Behind Barbed Wire.”

The centerpiece was a jersey worn by a man named Tetsuo Furukawa, and there was also a vintage photograph with several signatures occupying a waist-high, round table.

It was a shot of the Gila River All-Stars – donning caps, bats and gloves, and looking very much like a typical baseball team.

But this crew was anything but typical.

This contingent from Arizona was made up of men from internment camps – Japanese-Americans who had been rounded up, given 48 hours to sell their businesses and houses, and made detainees of the United States government during World War II.

The irony, of course, is that these American citizens used the National Pastime to try to gain a sense of normalcy after being herded up like cattle for no other reason than they “looked like” the enemy.

Lefty didn’t hear this version of the story back in what he now called “the old days.” In fact, it was never talked about much at all in his circles, other than the abstract explanation of, “Well, we’re at war, so ….” Yet he had learned the truth, and the truth was what sent him to this particular time and this particular place.

Lefty was reading each name in the photo when he heard a voice that broke him out of his trance and startled him ever so slightly.

“Excuse me … would you mind taking a picture of me standing next to this photo?”

He turned to see a somewhat familiar looking, thirtysomething Japanese-American man sporting short, jet-black hair with a jagged green streak that appeared to be splashed across his bangs. With a denim jacket, faded jeans, black converse sneakers, a Ramones tee shirt and backpack, he seemed out of place at a baseball display.

“The phone is already set up,” he said. “All you have to do is press the button.”

“Sure,” Lefty said. “I’ll be glad to.”

He lined up to the left of the photo, leaned in and smiled and Lefty took two quick shots before handing the phone back to him.

“This is a really sad part of history,” said Lefty. “I wish more people had learned the real story sooner. I’m a history buff, but like a lot of people, I can look back and see I buffed over a lot of history … believe me.”

Although the events had taken place in the 1940s, the man knew quite a bit about the photo, the jersey – and the story behind it all.

“I’m mostly familiar with the Heart Mountain team, the one that lost to Gila River,” he said. “I guess you could say it was like the World Series of the internment camps. When I learned there was an actual display here, I had to see it for myself. I’ve heard lots of stories about one of the Heart Mountain players, Hidenori Hatakeda.

“Oh, by the way, they call me Happy.”

Lefty swallowed hard, because he was quite familiar with the name Hidenori Hatakeda.

“Nice to meet you Happy. My name’s Lefty Marshall,” he said. “Are you a baseball fan?”

“Not as much as I used to be,” Happy said. “But I’m meeting someone here, so I thought I’d give the display a closer look.”

Turns out Hatakeda went on to play independent league ball after the war ended and he was finally released from the camp, but that was mostly for fun. A baker by trade, he restarted the business that was taken from him and ended up overseeing a chain (Sunshine Bakery) that thrived in the 1950s and 1960s on the West Coast.

“He was a baker – claimed to make the best Apple Feuillettes in the United States – his brother was a baker, and one member of the family owned a music store in El Segundo before he retired,” Happy said. “Hidenori and his family did all right for themselves.”

Comparatively speaking, Lefty lived a life of privilege; it pained him to imagine the hardships Hatakeda faced through no fault of his own.

“He was a great man and a great success,” Lefty said. “I would’ve been so bitter.”

Happy said he wasn’t.

“Hidenori … he was one of those people who always looked ahead and never looked back,” Happy said. “There’s this old wooden plaque that he had in his office, and on it is written a Japanese proverb that translates to, ‘Fall down seven times, stand up eight.’ I think in his case he was pushed down, but he got up. And he stood pretty tall.”

Lefty managed a weak smile.

“This is a subject that really interests me,” he said. “I’d love to sit down and talk about this more.”

Happy raised his eyebrows.

“What do you want to know?” he asked.

Lefty sighed.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” he asked.

Happy nodded.

“I do … yes,” he said.

“There’s a reason why I want to bend your ear,” Lefty said. “I worked for the War Relocation Authority, and I’m the supervisor who made Hidenori Hatakeda and his family leave their home. Sometimes, the folks who run the afterlife send you back down here after you die … not really to set things right because you can’t, but to – I don’t know – try to make up for it somehow. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do … I just wish I could tell Mr. Hatakeda I’m sorry.

“I know you said you were meeting someone, but maybe you could make time for me after.”

Happy reached into his pocket and pulled out an old newspaper clipping – one with Hatakeda’s obituary. “As it turns out, you’re the person I was supposed to meet,” Happy said, showing him the yellowed piece of newspaper. “I know a good bakery about a mile from here … we can talk there and have an Apple Feuillette. I hear they make them almost as good as I did.”

The old house certainly looked haunted – something of a Munsters/Addams Family hybrid, complete with withered trees in the front yard and overgrown bushes that were perfect spotsfor jump-scares.

It was the latest abode targeted by the You’ve Been Spooked! crew, who had become internet sensations thanks to their coast-to-coast ghost hunting escapades.

This Halloween, however, the YBS gang was trying something different; inviting a fan to a haunted house sleepover with a $10,000 prize if they could “survive the night.”

The winner of the contest was 44-year-old Jasper Nelson, who lived in Santa Cruz, California, where the online series originated.

“I work in a morgue,” he wrote on his entry form. “I spend most of my nights around dead people, and they can’t hurt you.”

Nelson traveled to the site in the You’ve Been Spooked! van along with co-hosts Marley Ridgway and Zack Corona.

“Welcome ghouls and boys to our special Halloween episode!” Ridgway screamed into the microphone as the stream went live at 10:55 p.m. on All Hallows Eve. “You’ve seen Zack and I come face to face with evil things that go bump in the night, and this time we’re giving one of our biggest fans the chance to do the same. Jasper … come over here.”

Nelson moved into the stationary camera’s line of sight and grinned.

“Are you excited, Jasper?” Ridgway asked.

“I am,” he said. “I’m real excited. It’s not even about the money … I just want to show people there’s no reason to be scared of dead people.”

Ridgway laughed.

“Well, we’ll see. Now Zack, tell our viewers how things are gonna play out this evening.”

Corona – a good six inches taller than Nelson – stood behind the contestant and put his hands on his shoulders. His slender build, accentuated by a well-worn tuxedo jacket and top hat, helped him give off a goofy (and slightly creepy) vibe.

“OK, you heathens, I’ve patted down my man Jasper here, and he has no phone and no communication devices of any kind,” Corona explained. “We’ve got cameras situated throughout the house to make sure Jasper plays by the rules, and of course we have our EMF meters and temperature gauges to detect spirits. Once Jasper goes in, he has to stay in until dawn. If he steps outside the house for any reason – any reason at all – then the contest is over.”

Corona leaned in and gave Nelson a serious look.

“You got all that, Jasper?”

Nelson nodded.

“Got it,” he said. “Take me inside, and I’ll see you when I see you.”

Once Nelson was ensconced and the door securely closed behind him, Ridgway let the audience in on a little secret.

“We’ve been telling you ever since we started this contest that tonight would be a special night, and you’re not gonna be disappointed,” he gushed. “We’ve got the house wired so that Jasper is gonna be hearing some unsettling noises throughout the evening. Better yet, though, we’ve hired five great performers from the Santa Cruz Mansion of Mayhem on Main Street. As the night progresses each one will “haunt” Jasper, and we’ve got a feeling it won’t be long until he comes running through the door.

“I know, I know … we’re cheating a bit. But Jasper still won’t go home empty-handed because we’ll give him $1,000 just for being a good sport. Now, let’s take a look at our cameras and see what Jasper is up to.”

Black-and-white feeds were coming from the dining room, kitchen, two bedrooms and what appeared to be an attic.

Jasper was standing in the middle of the floor in the dining room, holding a candle and looking around.

“Looks like ol’ Jasper is a crafty son of a gun,” Corona said. “It didn’t take him long to find matches and make some light for himself.”

Suddenly, the candle went out and the feed from the dining room was lost.

Moments later, the camera showing the kitchen went dark. Bedroom one, bedroom two, bedroom three … all were out of order in short order.

“Damn, folks,” Ridgway said. “It looks like we’re having some technical difficulties here. Not sure what’s going on …”

Ridgway was interrupted by a bloodcurdling scream – one that was so loud it could be easily heard outside.

Corona laughed.

“We’ might have’ve lost video but it wouldn’t surprise me if we see Jasper come bolting through that door any minute now,” he said. “Something sure scared him.”

Seconds later there was another scream – although different from the first.

“Hmmm,” Ridgway said. “Sounds like we have multiple screamers. I guess one of our Mansion of Mayhem actors must be really getting into their part. Sucks we can’t see what’s going on, though.”

Every two or three minutes there was a new shriek, and with each one Ridgway and Corona grew less jovial and more irritated. With the cameras out, the viewers who had logged on to this “very special episode” were seeing nothing but empty screens and hearing muffled screams.

“Folks,” Corona said. “We apologize for this. Our guys in the truck say the cameras have been disconnected from inside the house, so apparently somebody has sabotaged us. We’re gonna get to the bottom of this ASAP.”

As the hosts turned to each other – wondering what to say next to keep the few remaining viewers from abandoning the show – the door to the house swung open, and a figure slowly emerged.

It was Nelson, holding a bloody baluster and covered in blood himself … his glassy eyes staring straight ahead. Ridgway and Corona looked on in horror as Nelson approached, and Ridgway dropped the microphone as he and his partner stumbled toward the safety of the van.

Nelson looked down, picked up the mic, and then smiled for the camera.

“Like I tried to tell you,” Nelson said, “dead people can’t hurt you. It’s the live ones you need to worry about.”

The old dude was absolutely shredding it.

Sitting on a stool, legs crossed and staring straight down, his fingers flew across the Fender Stratocaster, playing so effortlessly it was as though man and instrument were one.

Billed simply as “Music,” he looked like B.B. King in a cowboy hat and played like Jimi Hendrix in a frenzy, with a heavy emphasis on guitar solos.

The sparse crowd at the Reverie Lounge enjoyed it all the same, especially Baxter Layton. He had wandered in a bit after 10 p.m., almost by accident.

Baxter had just finished up having far, far too many drinks with friends at Mike’s Bar & Grill and was in the process of calling an Uber when the hot pink flashing sign at the Reverie caught his eye.

He had never been there before. Hell – he’d never even noticed it before. But it was the hypnotic, psychedelic sounds of Steve Vai’s “For The Love of God” that brought him inside, and he was mesmerized by the old man’s note-for-note replication of the tune.

Enthusiastic applause followed each song, and the performer would take a big swig from his bottle of water before nodding and smiling at the crowd. Depending on the number, he’d reach over and grab another guitar he had laying on the floor next to him. Moments after Baxter entered the club, however, Music eyed him and waved.

The newest patron looked around to see if someone was behind him before sheepishly waving back at the guitarist.

“Hey everybody,” Music said. “Ya’ll welcome the new guy. I’m gonna play his song … or at least the best part of his song.”

Music then proceeded to jump straight to the guitar solo from My Sharona.

Baxter was taken aback.

He wasn’t a huge fan of the 1979 song in its entirety, but he loved the guitar solo – so much so that often during his morning run he’d pop in his earbuds and play it on a continuous loop. There was something about the sound that made him forget about everything and feel a real sense of joy.

And now he was hearing it live, but why?

How did this old man know him? Perhaps the bigger question, though, was how did he know what to play?

Baxter listened intently until Music finished the song with a flourish – standing up at the end, taking a bow, and then slowly walking off the small stage and toward the table where Baxter was sitting.

“Baxter Layton,” he said, smiling broadly. “It’s about time you showed up.”

Now, he was freaking out. Music knows his song, and his name.

“I’m sorry,” Baxter said. “Have we met?”

Music reached over and gave him a gentle pat on the cheek, then plopped into a chair.

“We have now,” he said. “And I’ve known you for a long, long time. Kept an eye on you, too. You’re what … 60? You gotta good life and a good wife, but you’re still too afraid to live the solo.”

Baxter raised his eyebrows.

“Live the solo?” he asked. “What does that mean?”

Music leaned back and placed his hands behind his head.

“OK, that song, My Sharona, … it’s kinda repetitive, ain’t it?” Music said. “You got that hook and those tom-tom drum sounds. It’s fine, but it doesn’t really move you. But then – then that solo starts and you get happy … you get movin’ … you get inspired. You start to live a little! Nothing can stop you while that solo plays, just bouncing around in your head. But then it ends, and things start to repeat, and you just feel like that’s the way things are.

“Son, your life is a song, and everybody has a different one. But the livin’ part – the livin’ part has to be the part of the song you love. You got to live your life like it’s the guitar solo from My Sharona. You’ve got to find your beat … find your jam.”

Baxter looked at Music and could tell the man was speaking with complete sincerity. And truthfully, those words were wise. He had spent much of life sweating the details, and his moments of joy seemed to be growing further and further apart. He had worried about, well, everything, for so long that it had become his default mode.

“Thanks for the advice, Music,” Baxter said. “Live like the guitar solo from My Sharona, huh? I’m not sure I know how to do that.”

Music clasped Baxter’s hand and gave it a firm shake.

“You’ll figure it out … your daddy figured it out when he listened to me play All Along The Watchtower and your grandaddy decided the best part of Johnny B. Goode was the best way to live. Shoot, you’re great-grandpappy couldn’t get enough of my version of Big Joe Turner’s song, Wee Baby Blues, and he got along just fine in the big, bad world.”

Baxter gave Music a side-eye.

“Come on, Music,” he said. “You couldn’t have known my great-grandfather. You’re, uh, chronologically challenged, but you can’t be that ancient.”

The old man cackled.

“Son, I’m Music,” he said. “Music lives forever, and like my old friend Beethoven said, ‘Music can change the world.’ I just try to help people find their beat.”

Baxter watched Music head back to the stage, grab his guitars, and move toward the club’s rear exit. Surely this was all some sort of dream; when he woke up the next morning, he’d have a vague memory of an old man giving him a life lesson, along with a raging hangover.

It all seemed real, though, right up until the lights on the hot pink flashing sign went dim and the Reverie Lounge suddenly resembled nothing more than a brick wall.

“Too much to drink,” Baxter muttered to himself as he glanced at the empty street. “And too much to think.”

The Uber pulled up to the corner in short order, and Baxter climbed in the back of the Honda Accord.

He had to laugh, because the timing was perfect; the song on the radio was My Sharona, and it was 2:41 in … just in time for the guitar solo.

“Hey,” Baxter said to the driver, “would you mind cranking that up? That’s my jam.”