Mysterious news

Sebastian here. Last night as I was practicing the organ upstairs I heard Horace come in the front door. He seemed really distraught: pacing back and forth, then stopping suddenly and exhaling sharply. It made it hard for me to concentrate, the boots on the wood floor of our apartment. Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, pause, sigh. So I got up and went down to ask what was the matter.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

Horace turned to face me. I think he was looking at me. But it's always hard to tell (sunglasses).

"I received a most disturbing email," he said.

I waited.

"Here," he said. He reached into the back pocket of his blue coveralls and handed me a folded piece of paper. I took it and unfolded it. I was a printout of an email. This is what it said:

Dear The Gardens,

My name is Curtis. I'm nineteen years old. I live in Hawk Center, Nebraska. [Hawk Center is not a real town. I changed the name --Sebastian.]

We are having a real bad time here. Every year in the spring a biker gang called the Hell's Bells comes into town and smashes your store windows if you have a store or spraypaints your garage door if you don't have a store. If you don't have a store or a garage they leave you alone. The only way to get them to not smash your windows or spray paint your garage is if you put some money in a plastic bag and throw it into their bike trailers as they ride by.

This is really getting to all of us.

We tried to call the sheriff's office but there are too many bikers so he won't come out with his deputies (only has two). Last year we wrote the governor and the governor sent the Nebraska National Guard. They waited all spring with their armored personnel carriers and machine guns and body armor and then at the end of May they got tired of it all and left. And then the Hell's Bells came anyway but in June that year instead of March or April or May.

Please The Gardens come and help us. I wrote to all my other favorite bands and none of them ever wrote back except the Moody Blues and they sent a form letter.

Please come help us here.

Yours truly,

Curtis.

"I wish Leo were here," Horace said. "He has a very practical mind."

(Leo just left town two days ago to go on a speaking tour. He filled a laptop case with clean shirts and cheese sandwiches in plastic bags and started walking toward Iowa.)

"There's nothing we can do about that," I said.

"They need us there in Hawk Center," Horace said.

I said, "Yes, you're right."

Horace said, "I'll go put gas in the car."

I said, "Ok." Then Horace walked outside. I looked at the printed email. Sometimes I feel like white paper dries my hands out when I hold it too long, and I started feeling like that, so I put it down. Then I sat down on the floor and waited for Horace. Afte a while I fell asleep. I had a dream about a big storm and everything in heaven getting lowered down to earth with ropes and big squeaky pulleys.

I woke up in the back seat of Horace's Buick. It was dark outside and the car had just stopped.

"What?" I said. It wasn't the most appropriate question. But I had just woken up.

"I parked in a ditch so we can sleep for a few hours," Horace said.

"What time is it?" I said.

"Four-thirty," said Horace.

"In the morning," I said. "How did I get in the car?"

"I carried you," Horace said. "I'm pretty strong."

"How far are we from Hawk Center?" I said.

"Two hours."

"Great."

Then we both fell asleep.

We woke up a few hours later. It was a little light out. I took the keys from Horace and he went to the back seat and went back to sleep. I got us to downtown Hawk Center. Hawk Center is an old railroad town. Big yards there. I drove through the streets a few times then found a cafe. I bought some chocolate milk and a donut and I ate breakfast and now I'm sitting here at Winfield's Coffee typing this. Lots of places have wireless these days. Horace is still asleep in the car. Probably good for him. When he wakes up we'll go try to find Curtis.