An Oakhurst Tale

We’re pleased to bring you a literary adventure, a short story about Oakhurst that was written to coincide with our neighborhood arts and music festival on October 9, 2004. The story has many authors. They joined together to mark the launch of a new feature at the festival, a Literary Arts Tent promoting the work of area writers and theater groups.
The story is set in Oakhurst on the day of the festival. It was written in round-robin fashion; each person wrote a short section and then passed it on to the next writer, who then assumed complete control of what happened next. As you’ll see, there are some dizzying plot twists. Also as you’ll see, each writer tried to leave his or her section with a cliff-hanger, presenting a real challenge to the next writer. Participating in this venture were: Jack Krost, Stephanie Bond, Dianna Love Snell, George Buckley, Gary Garrett, Melissa Krost, Michael Gaertner, Phyllis Gilbert, Rhett Rhame and Kimberly Zwaagstra
So read on, and enjoy.

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It was a dark and stormy night.

Hey, just kidding.

Actually, it was a bright and sunny morning, seemingly a perfect day for the Oakhurst International Arts and Music Festival. It was the seventh year the neighborhood in southwest Decatur, Georgia, just outside Atlanta, was to stage the event. Except there was one problem.

Patrick Putman paced nervously in front of the One Step at a Time store. It was getting close to 8 am, and the 5 kilometer race that kicks off the festival was due to begin. But there were no runners in sight. What's more, there was also no sign of Charles Cope, who had helped plan the race and who was supposed to bring the trophies for the winning runners.

Where was everybody? Previously, the village would be crowded with runners around this time, as they got their numbers for the race and stretched and jogged to warm up. Putman looked at his watch. 7:45 am. This was very strange.

Suddenly, he heard a commotion. It sounded like the pounding of many feet! And then, around the corner from Fayetteville Road came dozens of runners, all going very fast. They appeared to be chasing someone. It was a man in uniform. But it wasn't just any uniform. It appeared to be some kind of old-fashioned uniform, like a navy uniform from another time.

Hmmm. That uniform actually looked familiar. No, could it be? Was it a trick? Had there been some kind of time warp? It seemed that there, running just one step ahead of everyone else, was none other than the naval hero our city is named after, Commodore Stephen Decatur!!!?

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Considering the fact that the man was holding an ornate, old-fashioned pistol, Patrick thought it extremely odd that the crowd would be chasing the uniformed man and not the other way around. Yet despite the man's regal bearing (and his firepower advantage), he seemed lost, disoriented. Assuming the man was either dressed in costume for the festival or had escaped from the nearby mental health facility, Patrick took pity on him. Inserting two fingers in his mouth, he released an ear-splitting whistle that caught the attention of the poor fellow.

"Commodore," Patrick shouted, waving. "Over here!"

The uniformed man saw Patrick and heeded his request, turning on booted heel and barreling toward Patrick. For a split second, Patrick was afraid the escaped patient would turn the pistol on him, then he deduced from the age of the weapon that it probably wouldn't fire even if it was loaded, which seemed unlikely. Indeed, the man darted past Patrick into One Step at a Time. Patrick slammed and locked the door against the crowd, who jostled the doorknob and pressed their faces against the windows.

"Thank you, my good man."

Patrick turned to find the man breathing heavily ... small wonder considering the costume probably weighed fifteen pounds and would be suffocating in the early morning humidity. "No problem," Patrick said. "What's your story?"

"I ... I seem to have lost my way," the man said, his voice heavily accented with the rhythm of Old World English.

Patrick kept one eye on the pistol and asked, "Where were you going?"

The man looked around the store, turning a full circle in place, his expression perplexed. He removed his hat and scratched his head. "My last recollection is walking off paces in a duel with Captain James Barron."

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Patrick decided to play along. "So what happened to Captain Barron?"

The Commodore scowled. "That old crony can't see his hand in front of his face so I paced only eight steps to make it fair. I spun around. Got dizzy, my vision blurred. That fool shot at me. Missed of course. But when I blinked my eyes clear, he was gone and all those savages were coming at me."

"You mean the runners."

"Every one of those heathens was runnin' me down like a pack of dogs. I only have one shot."

Glass rattled from the press of bodies clamoring outside. Commodore Decatur wheeled around, his gaze frantically searching for something. "Where's the back door to this place? We've got to get out of here before they burn us to the ground."

"I don't think they--" Patrick started, having enjoyed enough of the act.

"Okay, we'll do it your way. I've never run from a fight in my life." Decatur moved behind a display case and leveled his pistol at the window.

"Whoa, Commodore." Patrick rushed to pull the blinds down on the windows. This was taking a re-enactment a little too far. "We'll play it your way and leave. Follow me."

Decatur lowered his pistol and marched along, muttering, "Barron knows he can't win the duel. He must have put a hex on me. I've had about enough of that old coot."

"Maybe it's just as well since things didn't turn out so good for you," Patrick chided as he led them through several turns that ended at an oak door.

"What are you talkin' about, boy? I'll tell you what's going to happen. I plan to shoot that son of a gun in the leg and hope he's had enough."

Patrick grasped the brass knob and glanced back at him, wondering if this guy really was an actor. The man's speech was as authentic as any he'd ever heard. The face and body were a perfect match for the famous Commodore. Looked real enough to be a descendant of Decatur. "You don't know how it ends between you and Captain Barron?" Patrick opened the door.

Decatur's glare threatened to singe the wallpapered walls. "Are you completely off your rocker?" The door swung open with a creak.

"So this is where you're hiding, you yellow belly dog!" Patrick snapped his head around to face the wrong end of another antique pistol held by a man who was the spitting image of Captain James Barron.

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This was simply too much! Two pistols pointed at his face, and it wasn't even eight o'clock in the morning. Patrick felt faint. His eyes softened, and over he went like two bushels of potatoes in a burlap bag, chin-first into the storage racks and onto the shoe-covered floor. The sound of collapsing shelves and the sudden impact startled him back into fuzzy, semi-consciousness. Struggling to focus his newly bruised and bleeding left eye, Patrick couldn't help but notice a scattered stack of brightly colored flyers on the ground around his head. Rolling over to one side, and somehow managing to grab the middle of the three flyers that floated mockingly in his blurred triple vision, he sat ... hesitatingly ... and cautiously ... upright, in order to read the page. "What is this, some sort of gimmick?"

"Find Commodore Decatur Along Race Route for Special Prize"

The headline screamed at him in explanation. Of course. Charles had hinted that he had a special surprise in store for this year's run. That must be it! He'd hired these two actors to pose as Stephen Decatur and James Barron. Such great costumes. Such perfectly tuned accents. Altogether a great re-creation, authentic in every detail. Patrick worked out a plausible scenario in his mind. The flyers must have inadvertently gotten into the hands of the early arriving runners, long before the race organizers appeared. These actors had arrived early as well, but must not have gotten their instructions from Charles. Consummate professionals, they simply strapped on their roles when they realized the "show" was beginning. When the first runner spotted him, the "Commodore" must have leaped into action as a sea-booted sprinter.

As the fog lifted from his noggin, as neurons began to re-connect, Patrick thought to himself, "It's all beginning to make sense." And it did make sense for a few seconds, until angry voices distracted him from his internal dialogue.

"Scalawag!" burst forth from behind clenched teeth.

"Scoundrel!'' came the shouted, spittle drenched reply.

Patrick leapt, as best he could on still wobbly knees, to his feet, just as the two "actors" began to lunge at one another. Interceding, he cried out, "Whoa there, fellas. Hold on. Don't you think you're taking this theater vérité stuff a bit too far?"

He continued, wrestling an irate naval officer with each outstretched arm, "You guys are terrific, but your audience is outside. Look. Over there against the window, that's where the crowd is. That's who you're performing for."

And that is when Patrick's chin hit the floor for a second time. For standing outside, thin-mustachioed nose pressed desperately up against the storefront glass, and wearing an obviously homemade, ill-fitting Commodore Decatur outfit, was none other than Charles Cope, frantically gesturing to get Patrick's attention and silently mouthing what was becoming the question of the day, "Who are those guys?"

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Proprietor Cope, after a moment to consider his own image reflecting off the store glass and to gather himself a bit, turned back to the crowd to see if he could calm them but for a moment. In a fit of daring & cunning, as would befit the Proprietor, he extended his hand to the crowd. "All right, every one of you runners who don't have your picture on my wall in here, step right this way!"

"The rest of you, take a lap, look for clues and meet back here at Oh Nine Hundred hours - and be ready for the race of your life, where you'll get to hear the rest of the story about the Commodore and how you can claim the prize!"

With that bit of exhortation, five hundred eighty seven runners lit out, feet pounding, lungs expanding, eyes looking this way and that as they scattered as quickly as they had come.

Incredibly, a handful of but seven poor souls remained at the store front, seven who had somehow missed the chance to pose, shoes in hand, for that 'Wall Hall of Fame' the Proprietor keeps for all time. So there they were: the two combatants, Patrick, Charles and the seven of the un-initiated gathering to begin to unravel this tale.

"Look, you guys," Patrick says, extending his hands to the Great Commodore and his arch-rival of the seas. "Didn't you see the mural on the outside of the store here??? We're not about putting on arms here in Oakhurst. We're about putting down roots together-- you know, we all live here, peacefully, engaging each other in ..."

At that, the Commodore, ignoring the pontificating Putman, wild abandon in his eyes and peaked to the max with agitation, picked up his weapon and turned to face his rival.

"Let's do it right here! Line up behind me, you scalawag! We'll settle this once and for all". And with that, James Barron drew his pistol and ...

In another part of the city, just as Proprietor Cope was wrestling with the fanatics who wanted to take over his store, members of the Working Title Playwrights were gathering to go over the dramatic performance they were to give later that day in Oakhurst at the Arts Festival.

"I just don't know about this character," exclaimed the actor who had been chosen to portray Zeus in the two act play, An Ode to Zeus. "Why would he choose to come to the Atlanta Olympics with his brother Hades?"

"You don't remember your history very well, do you?" queried the impatient director of the show. "Don't you recall that Zeus lets Hades out of hell every four years to attend the Olympic games? In our version of the play, Zeus ends up on Ponce Avenue where he is befriended by the street people of Atlanta. It's quite a story of brotherly love - and intrigue."

"If that's the part I must play, I am dedicated to do it with gusto," the slightly built Grecian God exclaimed. "I'll do it. I'll do it. People will flock to see us at the Literary Tent during the Festival! And then, maybe I'll be recognized as a Star in my fair city!"

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Commodore Decatur's head was spinning. He tried to remember what had happened that day, which might have brought him to this state of affairs. It had started out as a crisp sunny day in March of 1820 when they prepared for the duel. The fateful moment was the culmination of years of bitterness between the two, stemming from when Decatur sat on Barron's court martial, and expelled him from the navy after a humiliating defeat by the British that could have been avoided.

Barron's shame was in sharp contrast to the acclaim Decatur had won from victories in the War of 1812 and battles against the Barbary pirates. Dueling was illegal in Washington, D.C., so they had decided to meet in Bladensburg, Maryland. But the route to Bladensburg was a long, winding dirt road, and by the time they got there, dusk was approaching. When they finally reached the dueling ground, dark storm clouds gathered overhead. He and Barron had vowed to proceed, regardless of the weather. They could hear thunder rumbling as they paced off, and the dark clouds swirled above.

Yes, it was a dark and stormy night. But as he pulled out his pistol and fired at Barron, there had been a brilliant flash of light. He had felt an intense shock surging through his body. They had been struck by lightening, just as they fired their pistols. Now, here Decatur was in the early morning, in a very strange place. Half-naked people had sprinted after him, as he ran to get away from the lightening, not realizing at first that he was in wholly new surroundings. But he was determined to carry on with the duel.

"Outside, you unworthy, worm-infested weasel," he demanded of Barron.

"Gladly, you scurvy-ridden scumbag of the high seas," Barron replied.

As they gathered in the parking lot, Decatur did not realize he was standing in front of a mural that read, "Decatur: My Neighborhood."

He raised his pistol, the dark instrument of destruction standing in stark contrast to the colorful flowers and smiling children on the mural.

Decatur squeezed the trigger.

Just at that moment, Michael Gaertner leaped. The neighborhood association's public safety chairman pushed Decatur's arm upward.

The bullet slammed into the sign for Billy Goats Cantina, and its strangely missing punctuation mark. It landed between the "t" and the "s" in "goats." The bullet hit at an angle, so the hole looked like an apostrophe. The sign now read, "Billy Goat's Cantina."

Barron fired. Juanchella Grooms lunged. The police-community relations officer swept Barron's arm to the side. The shot flew past the Creative Spirit Gallery and One Step at a Time and sliced the top off the spindly, forlorn-looking evergreen that serves at Oakhurst's Christmas tree every December. Would the top be missed? With so few branches on the tree already, probably not.

The guns, each of which had carried only a single round, were now empty. Decatur, dazed, looked about him. He finally noticed the mural that bore his name.

The question could no longer be avoided.

"Where am I?" he asked . . .

Meanwhile, the runners jogged down East Lake Drive, past the Literary Arts Tent at the Sinclair Station, where Gary Garrett sat at a typewriter, still writing his section of the Oakhurst short story. He looked up, mystified that the runners were passing by once again. But across the street, Jack Krost and Julie Rhame failed to notice, as they nursed yet another round of beers at the U-Joint, where they'd been waiting since August for "urban cowboy" Ron Parker to ride up on his horse for an interview for the Leaflet.

George Buckley was in front of the pack of runners. As he rounded the corner on Fayetteville Road, he slammed into a bystander who seemed to appear from nowhere. They tumbled into the street. More runners piled into them, forming a mass of writhing humanity.

Buckley, near the bottom of the pile, managed to catch a glimpse of the bystander. He was wearing a toga.

Buckley felt a sharp pain on his hand. It was bleeding. He apparently had struck the bystander's head as they fell.

He looked again. Unbelievable! First these guys in old naval uniforms, now this! Did his eyes deceive him? What did he see on the bystander's head?

Horns?

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Out on the side streets, neighborhood residents calmly went about their lives, unaware of the doom that was about to befall their community.

A young couple took their daughter for a stroll. One of the women pushed the toddler in a three-wheeled baby jogger, as the other woman walked their three dogs. They waved as their friends drove by in a Volvo, with a bumper sticker that read, "War is Not the Answer."

Walking in the historic MAK District, they passed several original craftsman bungalows. Each was unique, with its own odd-looking, boxy, second-floor addition on top of the historic original section. In one house, another couple watched from their porch, peering between the hanging plants and piles of New Yorker and New Republic magazines. The wife rested her feet, in white socks and Birkenstocks, on the porch railing. Her husband pulled at his long ponytail, winced after taking a sip of his Jupiter latte, and lounged on the swing, contemplating his sister's comment that he would be a good candidate to appear on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy ...

Back on Fayetteville Road, the pack of runners slowly untangled themselves from each other. Hades got up and dusted himself off.

"Has anyone seen my brother, Zeus?" he asked.

"Huh?" said George Buckley.

"Oh, never mind," said Hades. "Hmmm," he thought to himself. "This must be the Olympics, with all the runners around. But where is Zeus? He must have gotten lost. Well, well. Without him around to keep me in line, it's time for some mischief."

Hades snapped his fingers.

Suddenly unable to control themselves, the runners began running backwards, retracing their route.

Gary Garrett's eyes popped out in amazement as the runners passed him by yet again.

At that moment in the village square, Patrick Putman had the floor, as usual.

"You see Commodore, the state legislature named this city in your honor. It established Decatur as the county seat back in 1823, and . . .

But for the first time in his life, the velvet-voiced orator fell speechless, as shrieks erupted from dozens of artist tents surrounding the square. Paint on all the paintings was melting!

Hades smirked. "I haven't had this much fun since that naughty little episode with Persephone," he thought to himself. "And I'm just getting started."

As pandemonium erupted, Commodore Decatur, reacting instinctively to the commotion, reached for his scabbard.

"At least I still have my sword," he thought.

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"It never ceases to amaze me how green this town is," Mark Sanders thought to himself as he gently eased the nose of his cramped Cessna single-engine airplane ... 552 Golf Tango ... to the east. At this altitude, most roads and roofs were hard to see by the occasional passenger because of the canopy of oaks and pines. But with enough practice, one can learn to discern the ground from the trees, if not individuals sometimes.

And getting enough practice is the reason Mark was flying towards Decatur today. By virtue of his position of vice-president of the Oakhurst Neighborhood Association, Mark should have been at the 5K run this morning. But he was just a few hours shy of testing for his license, which would allow him to carry passengers into the wild blue yonder, and this Saturday was the first weekend in months he was able to get one of the four Georgia Tech Flying Club airplanes. Patrick was reluctant to excuse Mark from the 5K, but after being reminded that every neighborhood association meeting Mark chaired in his absence ran 30 minutes shorter than normal, Patrick acquiesced, "Ok, enjoy your flight. Maybe you could buzz the race while you're up there?"

Oakhurst is not easily accessible from the air. Although Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport lies over 15 miles to the southwest, its cone of controlled airspace touches Oakhurst at just above 2,500 feet, into which private airplanes are not allowed to fly without much hassle. They can't fly much lower than that because of the minimum altitude requirement imposed by the many towers and other obstacles inside the perimeter. So buzzing the Oakhurst village would be similar to threading the eye of a needle. But that type of practice suited Mark just fine.

He had determined the easiest way to locate the center of the village would be to look for the traditional Oakhurst Christmas tree. It's abnormal height and distinctive branch arrangement makes it an easy find at just about any altitude. The growl of the 152 horsepower engine turned the propeller, which in turn pulled the little plane and its sole passenger along an invisible road in the sky. This lasted longer than it should have, and Mark became concerned he might be lost. His instinct told him he was in the right area, but the Christmas tree was nowhere to be found.

As his heart pounded, he struggled to keep the plane at the magic altitude which would keep him from clipping a radio tower or having his cockpit turned into an open fuselage by the landing gear of a 767. All the while he was trying to see through the trees and identify a building or intersection that might reveal where he is. Suddenly, he was blinded by the reflection of the sun in something resembling a long, slender mirror or perhaps a highly polished piece of steel.

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Although the race had not officially started yet, a mob of runners was approaching the finish line. Whatever Hades had done to make them run backwards had also made them run fast ... faster than some of them had ever run before. Now, finishing the race before it started, they were exhausted, confused, worn out from craning their necks around to watch where they were going, and growing more skittish by the minute. When the front-runners caught sight of Commodore Decatur's sword flashing in the sunlight, they panicked and ran back the way they had come, moving faster than ever.

Pleased with the effects of his pranks so far, Hades looked around for more ideas. He spotted two strangely dressed humans in front of the shoe store, gobbling some type of food from a large, flat box with red and green designs on it. They took turns swilling from a large container of steaming hot liquid, quarreling all the while.

"Unhand that jug, you scurvy dog!" cried one, as flakes of sugar danced in his whiskers. "These strange cakes are giving me an intolerable thirst." Commodore Decatur reached for the coffee. "If you had not contrived to lose your saber, I would have run you through by now. But it will never be said that Stephen Decatur took advantage of an unarmed man, however deserving a cur he might be!"

"Pass me that box, you pox-ridden jackal," replied the other, relinquishing the container of coffee. "These victuals are peculiar, but we both know better than to pass up a chance for nourishment in these uncertain times." Captain Barron scooped up the last two Krispy Kreme doughnuts from the box, choosing to ignore Decatur's implication that he had mislaid his sword on purpose. Hades, watching from around the corner, chuckled gleefully, "Cur? Jackal? I'll show you dogs!" and snapped his fingers.

Just then Mickey Goodson appeared, bringing the official starter's pistol for the race. A strong believer in being prepared, he had also brought a spare pistol ... just in case. Something wasn't right, though ... there didn't seem to be any runners or any volunteers, and most puzzling of all, there were no doughnuts ... just an empty Krispy Kreme box and about a hundred unused Styrofoam cups. Mystified, Mickey stepped out into East Lake Drive and looked both ways, searching for a clue. He did not notice the two fellows in period costume stalking him from behind the concrete bollards lining the parking area. Turning back toward the park, he was suddenly overtaken by a whirlwind ... a barking, yelping whirlwind. It was dogs! Every dog in Oakhurst had magically been released from captivity. Zooming ecstatically toward whatever dogs go for when they get loose, they bowled Mickey over. As he tumbled head over heels, both starter pistols flew into the air, and Barron and Decatur leapt forward to grab them. The crafty duelers then made themselves scarce. They didn't want any further interference from those well meaning but annoying fellows they had encountered earlier.

Feeling curiously refreshed ... more alert and more powerful, in fact, than either could recall feeling in his life ... Decatur and Barron slipped around behind the art store/shoe store building, and squared off in a corner of the Big H parking lot. The dogs had added another dimension to the general mayhem, and they felt sure no one was paying the slightest attention to them. They shook hands, turned around, and paced off. Just as they turned to fire, a gigantic shadow fell across the asphalt and a bearded figure loomed over the Creative Spirit. Captain Barron thought the apparition looked vaguely familiar, but he hadn't time to ponder it.

"Not you idiots again!" a voice boomed. "I thought I put a stop to this already!" Zeus's eyes flashed, and he hurled a small-medium thunderbolt at the duelers. Fortunately for them, the Commodore and the Captain were so hopped up on Krispy Kremes and coffee that they actually managed to dodge the thunderbolt, and it struck the Big H building instead. Ka-boom! The hapless naval officers gaped at each other. Zeus roared in outrage.

Hades, who was lurking in the park planning his next prank, recognized the sound of his brother's wrath, assumed it was aimed at him, and took off in the opposite direction. Several dedicated volunteers were putting the finishing touches on the Community Pavilion displays. In his haste, Hades knocked down the whole row, including a table full of Oakhurst Leaflets. He lost his footing on the slippery papers and went down in a heap. Although it was the beginning of festival day, it was late in what had been a long year of hard work on the community service front. For some of the volunteers, this was the last straw. As Hades tried to regain his footing, Glenda Whitworth and Louise Jackson started whacking him with their canes. Ann Ladenberger and Beth Thompson pelted him with Solarium patio bricks. Attracted by the commotion, half a dozen dogs peeled off from the pack and joined the romp, licking Hades's face and trying to run away with his horns.

Caught off guard, Hades could not decide how to defend himself. Fortunately, the fury of the volunteers was short-lived and they soon became more interested in rearranging their tents and tables than persecuting the intruder. When the dogs were momentarily distracted by the arrival of the hot dog delivery truck, Hades loped up West Hill Street, aiming to put as much distance as possible between himself and the park. He had lost track of Zeus, which was a little worrisome, so he decided to lie low for a while.

He spotted an empty two-story building up the street and headed for it, thinking a nap was just the thing. Relaxing a little, he started across the lawn in front of the Solarium, only to have Zeus appear nonchalantly from behind a tree, stepping directly into his path. Zeus's face was friendly but his eyes were murderous, as usual when he was winding up to teach his little brother what's what.

Hades knew that Zeus would ultimately prevail in any head-to-head contest, but every now and then, he liked to make the big dork work for it. The two gods circled each other, pawing the lawn to dust, hurling sparks and clouds of stinking smoke at each other. The leaves on the lower branches of the trees began to wither, and tiles started popping off the rooftops of the old hospital, flying through the air like giant shrapnel. Worst of all, the noxious odors thickened and hung over the block in a sickening pall.

Suddenly, the front doors of the Solarium slammed open, and out flew a creature the likes of which neither god had encountered before. She was as beautiful as anything they had ever seen, with glowing skin, pearl-like teeth, and a mane of shining hair flowing behind her. But her eyes were like lasers ... cruel, cutting lasers ... and when she opened her mouth, they trembled in fear.

"What do you think you're doing?" the creature roared. "Who gave you permission to be here? I am getting married here today, and I won't have you ruining my wedding. I paid a lot of money for this space and it belongs to me. This is my day, I've dreamed of it my whole life, all my friends and family are coming here today to see me get married. I don't know what kind of neighborhood you're running here, and I don't care. I won't stand for you ruining MY WEDDING! Now put every single blade of grass back where it was! Fix those trees! Put the roof back on. Get rid of this horrible stink! And when you've finished, go put out those parking cones (I don't know who these people think they are, but they're not parking on that street during my wedding), then get your worthless butts around back and help the caterer unload. NOW MOVE IT!"

Hades and Zeus looked at each other, completely flummoxed. Across the street, the firemen nodded knowingly, "Bride-zilla. Gets 'em every time." And they eased quietly back inside the fire station, careful not to catch her attention.

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Just as he thought he'd bought the farm for sure, Mark Sanders steered his plane sharply to the left, and although slightly shaken, he remained firmly in control. He wiped his sweating brow with an ONA kerchief as he considered the thought that he might actually have to contact tower control and ... oh heavens ... ask for directions.

Then he remembered. How could this day get any more out of control? Brian Zwaagstra, trapped at the Cincinnati airport for two days due to flight delays, had called to ask if he would fly up and bring him home in time for the 5k Race that morning. "It would be a great way to get in some flight time and keep me out of trouble with Patrick. Besides, my wife is meeting with her trashy novel book club members, and I'm sure they are well into the wine by now. She'll be in no shape to come pick me up. Would you mind?"

Always the gentleman and eager to get ever closer to his license, Mark jumped at the opportunity to help out ... and keep Kimberly off the street. But in the morning's chaos, he had forgotten to head for Cincinnati. Resigned to forget the festival flyover, Mark hummed to himself "Great green gobs of greasy grimy gopher guts, little birdie's dirty feet, mutilated monkey meat ..." and headed north to Cincinnati.

At the sound of the Cessna crossing overhead, Raymond and Ra knowingly pointed their noses heavenward. "Daddy will be home tonight." But for now, the two dogs had a more important mission. At the overnight neighborhood dog meeting, intelligence from afar had alerted them of a potential invasion of their territory ... something ominous, hairy and smelly. "Better than used socks," bayed Ra. "Better than a UPS truck," barked Raymond. They glanced up Jefferson Place and nodded, "let's roll."

The co-presidents of the CONA (Canine Oakhurst Neighborhood Association) sauntered toward Harmony Park, confident they would soon cease the chaos they already knew was occurring. At the meeting the night before, the dogs had voted to allow it to go on for a few hours simply for the entertainment of watching the humans react. As expected, the humans had begun to run in circles, chasing their tails, screaming with hysteria. While it would be enticing to roam around Oakhurst marking vertical surfaces, the dogs ... being dogs ... were committed to their humans and wouldn't let them suffer any longer.

Ra, with a long, woeful bay toward the sky, summoned the 4,083 other neighborhood dogs in a matter of moments. The line of obedient creatures swiftly made their way toward The Seen patio and quietly surrounded the metal sculpture-like structure as if it were sacred. Each dog averted his eyes with respect. Ra neared the structure carefully and led the salute.

The canine exhortation seemed to calm the crowd and drew them near with disbelieving eyes. Even Bride-zilla veered off her bridal path to see what was the matter. Raymond soon arrived with Commodore Decatur and Captain Barron in tow. It had taken him a few moments to sniff them out since they had taken refuge behind a stack of 14 year old cans of green beans in the old Big H store when the ruckus had begun between Zeus and Hades. But he had them under his canine spell. Only the other dogs knew the true power behind puppy dog eyes.

In a trance, the two men from another time, were presented in front of the reflective structure that had for so long been undercover as a work of art. The price tag ensured no one would actually seek to purchase it. Jill Alikonis had been bribed into price fixing by the dogs. In a secret meeting held at Decatur Eye Care (where Jill could usually be found eating the free cookies), the CONA had agreed to keep her well-stocked with Skyline Chili for the rest of her days.

Nervous and bewildered, the two men stood helplessly as Ra expelled an earth shaking howl and the surface of The Timeless Gateway illuminated and shimmered. A distant voice called, "Step through the gate, my fellow men, and be free."

Ra, the Sun God, knew his work was only half completed for the day. He would handle Zeus and Hades himself when they had finished their chores for Bride-zilla.

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Back at the Solarium, the two actors who took their roles as the "gods" Hades and Zeus a little too seriously in hopes of furthering their careers beyond performances at literary tents at local arts and music festivals, were feeling a little foolish after the berating by the irate bride who was not too happy about their performance on the Solarium grounds. They were having second thoughts about their acceptance at the Literary Tent performance scheduled for later in the afternoon by the committee.

The actor Zeus had had breakfast at the Village Eatery, and he was still reeling from the uncontrollable flatulence brought on by the Breakfast Bean Burrito. He was becoming offended by his own noxious odors and 'stinking smoke' that seemed to be lingering wherever he went. He decided it might be in his best interest to lay low and work on his lines until the performance and hope that his condition would pass so that the audience would not be overcome by any more of his 'thunderbolts' like the one that leveled the Big H building (even though this was considered a vast improvement by the community of this long abandoned space!)

The actor Hades was seriously reconsidering his whole acting career. Today, he had inadvertently knocked down festival displays, busted his behind slipping on Oakhurst Leaflets and had suffered a caning at the hands of Glenda and Louise, not to mention the brick pelting by Beth and Ann. While at first it had been fun running around Oakhurst with nothing on but a toga, he regretted his decision to treat it like a kilt and not wear underwear. He had chafing like nobody's business and the dogs' consummate licking was getting intrusive. He was really contemplating going back to school to get a degree in bartending.

Meanwhile, a long-time resident heard the uproar of the nameless 'Bride-zilla' and the mention of fixing the trees got her attention. Even though she was a religious Hometown Hero, she was on the war path because someone had made the grave error of harming her tree. Mary Whitehead took great pride in and had nurtured the Oakhurst Christmas evergreen tree from day one. Needless to say, she was not too happy that someone had shot the top off of her tree!

Mary marched up to the Solarium with Elizabeth Wilson in tow and addressed the self-righteous, self-proclaimed autocrat. "Excuse me, young lady, what is all this yelling about fixing trees? What do you know about broken trees in this neighborhood?"

The bride-to-be stopped long enough to assess this confrontation to realize that she needed to proceed with caution. While this little lady confronting her was not big in stature, there was an element about her that did command the respect. 'Zilla ... while she was hormonally challenged as of late ... was not totally out of touch with her common sense. She recognized that this lady was not a force to be reckoned with.

"I do apologize, ma'am, if I was being too loud. I am just trying to get married here today."

Mary quickly recognized the passing of the look of being possessed by a spirit that seemed out of place for such a peaceful place and a relatively pleasant young girl. She wanted clues and answers about what happened to her tree, but was concerned about the suppressed anger that seemed to well up here at this place within people attending events here in recent years. Elizabeth recognized this as well and quickly jumped in, "We are concerned about the goings on here today as well and want to be sure everything is all right. We welcome everyone here in Oakhurst and want everyone to get along."

At the mention of 'Oakhurst', there was a brief flash of anger that showed on 'Zilla's face that vanished as quickly as it came. Both Elizabeth and Mary caught the look and decided this was time to exorcise this evil spirit from this place once and for all.

Mary then proceeded to mention the excitement surrounding the festival, and Elizabeth went on to encourage 'Zilla to buy a commemorative brick for the Solarium and so own a part of history. After much hesitation and light resistance, 'Zilla finally caved in to the offer when the ladies shrewdly threw in a 7th annual Oakhurst International Arts and Music Festival t-shirt. The buying of the brick by 'Zilla was crucial to ridding the Solarium of the negative power that was so deeply rooted here ... no pun intended. (See related story on unoffical history of Oakhurst.)

This is one of the major reasons the brick campaign at the Solarium at the Scottish Rite property is so important to the community ... whether people realize it or not. The more bricks that are put down, the less likely the spirits of the past will return and taint the neighborhood. One might think that this may be where the phrase, "Let's hit the bricks," originated from ... or not.

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Nearby, Commodore Decatur heard the voice, urging him to go through the sculpture in front of The Seen gallery.

"It's been a strange enough day. I might as well try it," he thought to himself.

As the crowd looked on, he tried to squeeze through the sculpture's lower loop. But instead of anything miraculous happening, he simply got stuck. His coattail caught on the base of the sculpture. A dog started barking as he struggled. Decatur took his sword and cut his coat free.

Red faced, he looked around. There, lurking behind a shrub, was that damned guy with the horns again, with a basset hound pulling at his toga. He had been the one calling out the admonition about setting himself free. Another of his stupid tricks!

"I've had enough of you," Decatur said.

"Oh yeah?" Hades put his thumb and forefinger together.

"Not this time, you don't!" Decatur shouted.

Before Hades could snap his fingers, Decatur, being the man of action that he was, leaped into action. His sword flashed, and he pricked Hades' thumb.

Hades, being an omniscient Greek god, knew that two actors had been cavorting about town, thinking they were the ones causing all the havoc at the festival. Little did the actor portraying Hades know that the real Hades had been in the background the whole while, directing the upheaval.

"It's always the most fun when I make other people think they have my powers," he thought. "But this guy in the uniform is dangerous. I think I'll just slip away and let that actor take the blame for all that's happened. And it's best to get away before Zeus finds out what I've been up to."

Poof! As Decatur looked on, Hades vanished in a puff of smoke.

"Commodore! You've saved us!" said Patrick Putman, who had been watching the scene from a distance.

"It's just too bad your festival turned out to be such a disaster. I know it was supposed to be a big day for you, as you explained," said Decatur.

"Well, let's at least have our parade. It's about time for it," said Pat Jackson, of the Samuel Jones L. Boys and Girls Club. "These two gentlemen in their uniforms would make splendid grand marshals."

With that, Jackson pushed Decatur into one of the vintage cars parked in front of The Seen. She and other members of the Parade Committee rounded up Barron, put him in another car, rounded up the dazed members of the marching bands and drill teams, got the cowering firefighters to drive their fire engine out of the station, got the roller bladers and skaters and kids on bicycles lined up -- and Oakhurst had a magnificent parade, despite all that had happened. The runners joined in, despite being exhausted. The painters participated, despite having lost everything. Ra and the other 4,083 dogs followed, wagging their tails in unison to the beat of the marching bands. And yes, even Bride-zilla tagged along.

As the parade wound up in Harmony Park, there were cheers for Decatur, the man who had saved Decatur.

"Speech! Speech!" cried the crowd.

"People of Decatur, it indeed has been an honor visiting the town named after me," he said. "But I must admit, this is not my time. I'm out of place here."

Decatur absent-mindedly tapped his heels together, as he tried to think of what to say next. The crowd waited. He wanted to say something profound and gracious, but he was disoriented and weary from all that had happened in this very unfamiliar place. "Well, uh. Ahem." He tapped them again. And then again.

"Look at that. Up in the sky!" someone shouted.

Decatur looked up.

There, in the clouds far above, was a spherical object. It looked like something he had seen pictures of but never witnessed -- a balloon. It had a basket with a man inui it.

Slowly, the balloon appeared larger, as it descended. Down, down it came. It seemed to be coming straight for the village square.

"Halloo," the man in the balloon shouted, as it got closer. "I'll be dog-goned, I seem to have done it. I made it!"

Finally, it landed in the middle of Harmony Park.

The man was elegantly dressed in a long-tailed coat and broad-brimmed hat. An older gentlemen, he had long white hair and a white moustache.

"Who are you?" Decatur stammered.

"I am the great Oz, or at least I was, at one time," the man said.

"Oz? That's a strange name," Decatur said.

"Well, I come from a very strange place," the man said, "a place where everything is emerald green. But I'll get into that later. What I want to do now is help you get out of here."

"How do you mean, my good sir?" Decatur asked.

"Well, I tried to help a young girl once. Her name was Dorothy. It didn't work too well, but I think she eventually managed to sort things out on her own."

"But since then, I've mastered how to work this balloon. And ever since, I've been helping people who find themselves in strange places and strange times. So if you hop aboard, I'll take you back to where you belong."

"Can we really trust that thing?" Decatur asked, glancing nervously at the balloon.

At that point, Patrick Putman jumped in.

"Commodore, it's been fantastic having you in our town, but I think that's your only option. You should take him up on it."

"My God," Decatur said, "I think my prayers have been answered."

He got into the basket.

"What about me?" said Barron.

"Oh okay, hop in. We might as well go back to our own time and finish what we started," Decatur said. He turned to face the crowd.

"People of Oakhurst. Indeed, it has been quite an experience. I shall never forget your hospitality," he said.

The man named Oz pulled a lever, and flames roared into the balloon's opening. The balloon wobbled but stayed firmly where it was. Another blast. Still nothing. Yet another blast. Finally, it lifted off the ground ... ever so slowly.

"Is there anything else you want to tell us?" Putman shouted as the balloon continued to rise. It now was reaching the tree tops.

Decatur answered, "My country! in her intercourse with foreign nations may she always be right, but my country right or wrong."

"We knew you'd say that. We heard it before. What else?" Putman asked.

"There's no place like home," the commodore shouted back.

He took off his bi-cornered hat and waved it in salute.

And with that, the balloon rose far into the sky, until it was a tiny speck, sailing into the horizon.