NEWS MAN

Stanley Scott was responsible. He was loyal. He had a strong work ethic to a fault. He was never late. He was never sick. He just didn’t do things like what he was about to do.

He was a man of 45, and had his course in life set. He was 6’1”, and weighed about 200 lbs. He’d slowed down a little in his 40’s and had some knee troubles, but nothing significant. He had dark hair and green eyes that could see through the hype and get to the “story under the story” as he called it. He looked like a 45 year old newspaper man. No worse, no better. But he often commented that he felt better than he had since 25. He had his health. He had his dream job. He had lots of friends. He was in an age of optimism.

In his 20 years at The Times, Stanley had never let his boss, or his readers, down. At first he didn’t even have readers--He was in the mail room. Then through years of great service that led to a series of promotions, he ended up getting his dream job—to write for The Times. First, it was the obituaries. Not really what you’d call uplifting work, but he did it well and made you feel like you knew the deceased and would miss them. Then on to travel, which was a great job that led him on many road trips where he’d met many of his friends. Then, on to local news, which was something to behold in the city that never sleeps. He finally made it to his dream job, national politics.

 
He just didn’t do things like what he was about to do.

He’d had a dream the night before that was nothing more or nothing less than a blinding, bright light coming from the southwest. He woke up at 5:37 confused by the dream. But he knew as soon as his head cleared that he had to go. He somehow knew that he needed to go to a place that he’d covered years earlier while he was writing for the travel section—a ruins site in a mysterious place called Chaco Canyon.

Now, here he was, sitting on the edge of his bed, in the same position he was sitting in when he realized what the dream meant, and it was 10:00 a.m. He was already two hours late to work, and would not be staying for long when he went to the office.

He finally was over the shock enough to start the process. He got coffee, put a little whiskey in it (Stanley used whiskey strictly for medicinal purposes but this was an exception), and fired up his laptop.

He tried dozens of words, the words that never failed him, but they just wouldn’t come out right for what he was about to do. He finally summarized like this:

“BOSS, I GOTTA GO. I’M OUT OF HERE.”

It was scandalous. Stanley, who never let anyone down, and especially not his editor or his readers, was not only quitting his job but he was quitting it like this, and with no notice. Unbelievable is not the word for it.

But Stanley hadn’t seen anything yet.

He packed his bag, and called for a taxi. He told the taxi he needed to go by The Times building and then to the airport. At The Times, he handed his boss the note, said, “I’m sorry” and left, leaving his boss, for once, speechless. At the airport, he bought a same day ticket and never complained about the high price. He had a strange feeling that he would not need money where he was going. They tagged his suitcase with a bright orange tag that said “ABQ” took it away.

It was an uneventful flight, as it always was for Stanley, but when he arrived in Albuquerque his bags were missing. He didn’t make a single argument. He was now more confident than ever and knew that he didn’t need bags where he was going. He simply waited until the last bags were taken and then left to get his rental car.

Chaco Canyon was about 2 hours north and west of Albuquerque. As he drove that last 2 hours, still in shock about the events of the day, things seemed different. Each little town between Albuquerque and Chaco was smaller than the previous one and the road seemed to be deteriorating as he went.

He was startled a couple of times seeing what looked like a town dissolving in his rear view mirror as soon as he was through it. Stanley had reasons for everything—he figured that the couple of dissolving towns where because of the heat off of the highway.

When he was about 15 miles away from Chaco, the car simply quit. No mechanical problems or anything that seemed like it was failing and then finally went all the way. It was fine, and then just turned off almost like he had turned the ignition off. Stanley coasted the car onto the shoulder to find that not only was there no shoulder, but there was no road. A four lane highway had simply vanished.

Stanley started walking. He knew that Chaco was his destination. He noted that the familiar field fencing was gone. There were none of the eight sided Navajo homes that he knew should be along this trail. Everyone was at Chaco. It was between 1200 and 1300 A.D.

Upon arriving at Chaco there was no notice of Stanley other than speaking to him in a language that he somehow now understood but still could not speak, and asking him to help to defend from the impending invasion. Stanley Scott was responsible. He was loyal. He had a strong work ethic to a fault. He was never late. He was never sick. Stanley began to prepare for a new life among the people.