“Inside is a world full of . . .”

“Full of what, exactly?”

It’s not the first time he said that. Nor would it be the last. Something about his comment. It makes me think of Willy Wonka. Roald Dahl’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Quoted almost word-for-word, sticking like tar in my brain, promising to loop on for hours.

“Imagination.”

Damn. He actually did finish it.

Disheveled as he is, his entire demeanor intrigues me. Trenchcoat. Tan in color. Or at least it once was. He’s wrapped it around his waist, the same way we’d wrap our hoodies when we weren’t wearing them. Wasn’t that a GenX thing? I think it was. So he’s at least as old as me. Maybe older. Grey streaks his black hair, and salted-grey peppers his black beard, scraggly like it hasn’t been cut in months, maybe longer. A scent of wet wool, newspapers, maybe, and something else. Metal? Rust? Mildew. That’s what it is. My throat tightens. Nobody carries that smell around. Not anymore. Not since the Literacy Laws.

“Yes. Charlie. Dahl was a genius.”

My fingers twitch around the mace canister. Ridges of metal bite into my palm. Cold, but at least it’s making me feel a little safer. Not everyone who sings movie quotes is crazy. Some actually are intelligent. Many were friends of mine. “And the Chocolate Factory! You DO know it! Fantastic.” His voice echoes off the bricks and two abandoned MAX trains sitting behind us. It’s much too loud in the empty square. “I haven’t spoken to a single person who remembered what it was, much less read it.” Fiddling with the belt holding the trenchcoat in place, he’s focused intently on remembering. 

A light rain mists our faces. Typical Pacific Northwest drizzle, the kind that turns everything around you a dismal gray. Pioneer Square used to pulse with life. Shops. Fountains. Starbucks, for crying out loud. And tons of people. All gone. And now? Two MAX trains sit dead on their tracks, doors forced open years ago, rust bleeding down their sides like tears that will never be wiped clean. The electricity? It came back three years after the revolution. But those MAX trains never moved. Ever again.

How in the hell does he know that I read it? A book banned fifteen years ago. That’s when they decided imagination and creativity bred dissent. Reading’s not technically illegal. After all, someone has to read the new regulations. Owning books, however. That’s different. And highly illegal.

“How do you know Dahl? That’s a better question.”

“Me?” A wild look flashes in his eyes. He stares at me for five heartbeats. I count each one, feeling them hammer against my ribs, one at a time. My thumb finds the mace’s safety cap. No sudden movements. Crazy people react faster than I do. Just let him think my hands are just cold. I shift the weight on my feet. “I read a lot. Well, at least I used to. And when I was younger.”

His expression softens. “Yes. The older days. Days of the past. Days of our lives. Happier Days?” He winks. 

Is this guy Max Headroom, spouting TV shows and book titles like some kind of cultural ghost? The rain increases, droplets catching and sticking in his beard. Water pools in the cracks of the empty square. Mobile food carts once served lunch to tech workers who thought their world would last forever. Some of the best burritos were served in this square. Crafted and cooked by normal-looking people. Normal for Portland. Sold by followers of Hare Krishna.

“Well, since you know so much about so much.” He runs his fingers through his wet hair, and I notice ink stains deep in his fingertips. Ex-con, with fresh fingerprints? A writer? Teacher? Before the laws were enacted? “Let me ask you one more question.”

He leans close enough so I can see myself reflected in his pupils. My shoulders bunch, ready to spring backward. The weight of the mace shifts in my pocket.

“Can I trust you?” His gaze drops to my hidden hands. “You know, you could have that facing the wrong direction, Mr. Class. It would be a shame to get all that CS in your own eyes, now wouldn’t it?” He took two steps back, putting his hands behind his back, like he was teaching a class. “Especially without refrigeration and milk.” 

I shivered, my blood turning to ice water. This is crazy. He knows my name? Nobody knows my name. Not here. I haven’t visited Portland in better than forty years.

The mace suddenly feels useless. Whoever this is, he’s not one of the usual crazies who haunt the dead park blocks. He knows about banned books. He knows about Charlie. More importantly, he knows about me.

“Floyd Patterson,” I say, testing, holding out my hand. Once upon a time, you shook hands to show you were friendly and unarmed. It would mean letting go of the mace. I was okay with it for a minute. “You mentioned imagination. Patterson. He wrote about that. Didn’t he?”

His eyes narrow. “Patterson. He was a boxer.” He smiled. “Also a farmer. A farmer of some small plot of land in Iowa, wasn’t it, Mr. Class?”

Crap. A test. And I failed. Or did I pass? In our world? Knowing too much is as dangerous as knowing too little. This man knew a lot about me. But Patterson wasn’t published. So he’d read my work online. That had to be it.

Harder the rain came down, beating on the MAX trains, a lonely rhythm making me think of typewriter keys. Oh, how I missed that sound. But not the high school typing class where the electric hum of typewriters, the smell of that ink, permeated the room. I could smell the ink in the air. Somehow, I knew. Somewhere in this city, someone might still have one. Hoarded. Hidden. Waiting.

“Inside,” he says again, tapping his temple, then his chest, “is a world full of imagination. And some of us,” he winked, “remember how to use it, Mr. Class. Do you?”

He turns and walks back toward the darkest shadows, stuck between the dead trains. At the last second, he calls back: “Tuesday. Midnight. Powell’s loading dock.” I couldn’t hear him walking through the puddles. “If you remember where Powell’s is, Mr. Class. It’s been a while since you’ve been back.”

I stand alone in Pioneer Square, rain soaking through my jacket. The mace is warm. And useless. Of course, I remember Powell’s.

City of Books. In the city of Portland, Oregon.

Before they burned it.