What Happened to Bill Beck

What Happened to Bill Beck

The parking lot was dark, almost pitch black, and sparsely populated with vehicles I didn’t care to pay attention to. I knew what I was looking for, or at least had a general idea. I circled the lot once before I found it. I parked my little Buick a good distance away and opened the door to the warm summer breeze.

The van was of a piece of shit as they say; there was certainly no doubt about that. It was difficult to decide what color the road beaten Volkswagen had once been, but there was just enough paint left between the rust spots to hazard a guess of green, or something close to it anyway. Rick had said to meet him in a green Volkswagen hadn’t he?

I approached the van with caution, taking care to announce myself clearly. These old hippies tended to be a little paranoid.

“Rick, you in there? It’s me, Bill.” No one answered, so I drug my reluctant feet a few steps closer. “You know?” I asked, the shaky unease in my voice a little clearer. “From on the phone, Bill Beck?” Again there was no reply but I was now close enough to make out the Bumper sticker on the VWs rear fender. Faded green and red swirled in tye-dye sat beneath the words “The Magic School Bus”.

I laughed, a little more relaxed; this guy really was a hippy! I called for Rick again but to no avail. Being one who consistently lacks good judgment, I decided to take a closer look.

Carefully, like a mother checking on a sleeping infant, and silently, like a thief in the night, I peered through the cracked rear window of the Volkswagen. It was far too dark to see what I was looking for, so I backed away. I waited for Rick a few more minutes before deciding that a better look inside wouldn’t hurt, and if I should find my package, the one postmarked Columbia, then what the hell? I was going to pay for it anyway right?

I gently pulled the handle, half expecting it to be locked. To my surprise the door, grinding and screeching, roughly slide open. With one last peek over my shoulder, I crawled into the Magic School Bus and began my fumbling search in the hopelessly dark and cluttered VW.

I pulled out my old flashlight. At least I could see well enough to make out the cluttered contents of the van and toss them aside as I searched. I bypassed boxes from Afghanistan, Amsterdam, Mexico, and even Vietnam, but no Columbia. I slid into the front seat, satisfied that my package was not in the back. The glove box fell open with a rattling clank. I directed my beam inside. Underneath a moldy pair of gloves and nearly hidden by crumples of paper and trash, the steely handle of a .22 caliber handgun was clearly visible. I was taken back at first; what was a hippy doing with a gun? However, I didn’t dwell on the thought for long. This was a dangerous business after all. If it were me, I would carry a cannon and drive a tank.

I slammed the glove box with a snap, navigated my way back through the clutter, and exited the van empty handed; I would just have to wait. The door ground shut behind me and I cringed at the loudness of the noise. I decided there was nothing I could do besides take a seat somewhere and wait. With a sigh of aspiration, I turned to look for a place.

Except I never got that far. No sooner had I turned than I was met by a man in worn bellbottoms and a sort of rainbow-child-meets-Mother-Earth type of garb. His hair was long, graying, and held out of his face by an old Jimi Hendrix style headband. Clutched tightly under his left arm was a box, a box I betted bared the postmark “Columbia”. In his right hand, held out straight and aimed directly at me, gleamed the shinny barrel of a black handgun.

I immediately through my hands in the air and dropped my flashlight with a thud beside me.

“It’s me, Bill, form the phone,” I quickly explained myself.

“I don’t know no Bill man,” Rick screamed, his hands shaking dangerously. “What were you doing inside my van? What did you see?”

“I just want my-“

“You’re lying!” he cut me off. “Don’t lie to me man. I don’t know no Bill!” his voice dropped, almost to a whisper as he asked me again. “Who are you? What did you see?”

I started to answer but stopped; it was no use. I could tell from the glaze in his eyes, half closed and far away, there was nothing I could say. The paranoid edge to his voice left no room for reasoning. The irrational way he pointed the gun left no time to think. There is no answer in this world good enough for such a man.