When I first stumbled across the Gathering, I instantly became a true believer.  I’d just gotten out of the hospital after having a seizure during the height of the pandemic, and didn’t know what had happened or who I was anymore.  Pain had forced me into such a tight place that I was willing to take any suggestions, and what the other ghosts were telling me made total sense.  I wanted out.  I wanted to be saved. 

I could hardly imagine that there were con-artists out there, who would use the meeting to take advantage of the goodwill of others.  What I found out was that many poltergeists were just looking for a spotlight and a handout.  Their stories were rehearsed.  They knew just what to say.  Sure, they’d messed up.  They would freely admit that.  This time would be different, however.  They were ready to get with a guide and go through the steps.  All they needed was enough for a down-payment on a place, or enough for a phone, then they were ready to get down to serious business.  Did they mention their dear granny was in the hospital?

When I walked up to the Gathering the seventh day of the US Open and saw Fresno Joe there, going around high-fiving and hugging everyone, I hit such a wall of resentment that I had to retreat to the bathrooms to lurk around until the meeting was over.  What I could see from a distance was Joe dominating the meeting, telling his time-worn tales, playing loudly on his heartstrings for everybody to hear.  When he was finally forced to give up the floor, I saw him swipe a bag of cookies and make his way back to the pier.

The day might’ve gone downhill from there, but I ran into Betsy, along with a visiting friend of hers, Anne.  They were interested in checking out the skateboarding, so I walked that way with them.  Hatch came along, walking his bike beside mine.  When we got to the Van’s Village, he didn’t have a lock, so I used mine to lock both our bikes together, needing to stretch it as far as it could go to make that happen.

It almost felt like we were on a double-date.  I’d always gotten along with Betsy, but hadn’t really zoomed in on her until Royal bought us T-shirts a few days earlier and we’d picked out the same one.  It may have signified nothing, but seemed to align our stars.  I kept sneaking glances over and saw her lips curled up in a contented smile.  The girls wanted to check out the merchandise booths.  We registered for free acai bowls and then got shaved ice.

The Vans Off the Wall skateboard finals were about to get underway.  It had taken them a few days to convert the bike course to a skatepark.  The skateboarders were just warming up.  We found seats in the bleachers and I ended up next to Betsy.  The fact that I kept wanting to reach for her hand, which was resting on the bench beside me, was a completely unexpected turn of events.  I’d already begun plotting my next move, trying to decide where I’d head to when the summer was over

When it came time to split back up, Hatch and I went down to retrieve our bikes.  I dialed the combination on the lock, the four lucky 7s in a row, and to my immense chagrin, found it wouldn’t open.  The lock was stuck.  I tried once more, then spun the numbers all around, and tried again, giving it a yank for extra measure.  No.  It was truly stuck.  Our bikes were locked together around the same pole. 

I explained with a nervous laugh what was going on.  It was impossible to even imagine what could be done about it.  I took a deep breath, got down on my knees, and aligned the numbers, with the tense concentration of a man trying to crack a safe.  The lock wouldn’t budge.

There was a bike rental nearby.  Hatch suggested I go over and see if I could borrow a hacksaw.  That seemed insane.  Who was going to loan out a hacksaw to a stranger on one of the biggest days of the summer?  My mind was racing in desperation as I stumbled toward it. 

Then I heard a shout, and turned to see Hatch victoriously dangling the lock in the air in front of him, like a viper that’s head he’d just managed to crush.  Quick-thinking Hatch, an operations expert during the Gulf War, had begun trying every possible variation of the code, and found that one of the 7s had slipped down to a 6 when I’d stretched out the lock to fit it around both bikes.  It was something I never would’ve thought of to do.  The day was salvaged. 

I took the coiled lock he handed over and promptly walked it to a trash can, holding it as far away from my body as possible, as if it might suddenly come back to life and lunge at me with its fangs.