There are reasons for everything, as you long-suffering readers must know by now. The particular form that these disjointed narratives take was spawned in a sort of roman a clef format, through the simple necessity that once upon a time (code for “sea story”) there was an implacable Agency that determined it had the authority to review all writings of its employees.
As a practical matter, that was impossible to countenance. It would take too much time, and once, in an attempt to comply, had a reviewer opine that some of my contentions were incompatible with those of a serving officer, and that was about the time I determined that I was done with them, and done with censorship as a condition of service.
So, as many of you know, that is when I legally went down to the Courthouse in Fairfax and changed my name. I likewise vowed not to disclose sources and methods in The Daily.
The deceased are fair game, of course, and public figures, and with a little practice you can generally track who’s who in the zoo without specific attribution. The key is plausible deniability by Socotra House Publications, but that is slightly problematic for others.
For example, here is the conversation in the car as my sister Annook laid out the situation on the Petoskey Project, of which our literary collaboration is based. Imagine yourself for a moment, hurtling down I-72 or something like it, trying to figure things out:
“You can’t call it Petoskey.”
“What?”
“You can’t call it Petoskey. Project Petoskey.”
“Why, not?”
“Everything has to have a code name.”
“Why?”
“Don’t know – but there are rules.”
“Well, that’s just wrong.”
“Read the contract, you want to be a Socotra, do the Socotra network, be one with the Socotra – ya gotta be in code.”
“You really think this is necessary?”
“I do, Bunny.”
“Oh, great.”
“What?”
“First off, I am not a Socotra – I married a Socotra who also is not a Socotra – only a Socotra by code name…”
“Yes?”
“But now you’re calling me Bunny?”
“Bunny Socotra, Mr. Annook (not to be confused with Anook) Socotra of Project Little Town by the Bluff.”
“I will not be Bunny.”
“Whatever. Oh, look here comes Salmon.”
“You’re calling your daughter Salmon?”
“What?”
“Your Mother is calling you Salmon in the stories about Project Little Town by the Bluff.”
“Petoskey.”
“Ah, ah, ah…..”
“Bluff.”
“I am no Salmon. Jesus, Mom.”
“Annook.”
“I thought it was Anook.”
“Not when I became Annook, Annook of the North.”
“What the hell is a Socotra anyway?”
“Vic Socotra? I don’t know – Michigan Mafia.”
“Hey, now – Bad Guys Group of the 5 Great Lakes.”
“What?”
“Your Uncle. He thinks Grandma is a Magpie.”
“The camp robber?”
“Uncle Vic thinks Grandma is a camp robber?”
“Apparently.”
“Well, she was an irritant yesterday in the long car drive to Bellaire, her home town.”
“Graveyard on the hill.”
“What?”
“Graveyard on the Hill – Code for…
“Bellaire – got it.”
“It must be tough to grow up in the little town of Graveyard on the Hill to end up your final days in the Little town by the Bluff.”
“Salmon!”
“I am not Salmon.”
“Let it be, Bunny.”
“You’re calling him Bunny? I’m Bunny. You’re no Bunny ‘til some Bunny loves you.”
“She’s Bunny?”
“Now, now family, there can be all kinds of bunnies in the world.”
“Well, I never.”
“We were talking about Big Mama.”
“Magpie.”
“Terrible name. Horrible bird.”
“Exactly. Once she saw a sign for Massillon and once we refused to take the exit she was one angry Grandma.”
“Turn aound. She kept yelling at –
“Bear? You want to call me Bear?”
“No, I don’t think so – don’t worry – we’ll find you a name.”
“Grandma kept yelling at the male family member driving the car – turn around. Turn around. There are secrets and you said you were taking me home. You promised you were taking me home.”
“And we were taking her home. To Bellaire.”
“Graveyard on the Hill.”
“It was just two more hours southeast.”
“She was OK when she saw her town.”
“Remembered the bridge, the football field, the way to the massive graveyard at the top of the hill.”
“Salmon…”
“Mother!”
“Bunny!”
“Thank you”
“Found the Foley graves.”
“Potato famine immigrant-related relative-final-resting places.”
“That’s code for Foley?”
“Located at the Graveyard on the Hill.”
“Enough. Get your bags – let’s get to Canada.”
“You mean – “
“You tell your brother I am having no more of this code shit.”
“Certainly, Camp Squirrel.”
“Camp Squirrel? You think I am gonna put up with Camp Squirrel? Where’s my phone, where’s your brother’s number… Socotra my ass.”
“Come on Big Mama, Bunny – let’s get to the car.”
Copyright 2011 Annook and Vic
www.vicsocotra.com