THE PUZZLE BOX (condensed version)

Joe Mackey (“Mack” to close friends and associates), head city councilman and former city district attorney, was first into the spa, followed shortly thereafter by fellow councilman Allen Bernard. The two had just finished up a grueling tennis match, which Mackey won in two sets, and now it was time to recoup a bit before heading back to the city building for a pair of afternoon meetings.

“I still don’t quite understand your reasoning in closing down Ash Street Park,” Allen said, as he settled down into the soothing water. He had wanted to say “your bigotry” instead of “your reasoning,” but had bitten his tongue.

Mackey flashed Allen a wintry smile. “How many times have we been over this, Allen? Ash Street Park has become a nuisance, a zit on the face of the community, if you will. It’s been completely kidnapped by the queers. Might as well call it 'Fag Street Park.' It’s become a cesspool for sinners. A rat’s nest that encourages the proliferation of infectious diseases, like HIV. And an eyesore, did I not mention that? You want your kids walking by that park and seeing a bunch of ferries running around holding hands and making out? And there have been several reports of lewd acts, might I add.”

Allen listened quietly. Although he thought Mackey was being a bit too harsh, the man did have a point there. Last summer an unsuspecting mother and her three kids had visited the park to ride the swings, instead getting a glimpse of one young man giving another oral service under the monkey bars.

“I’m cracking down on the queer park the same way I did all the homeless hideouts and havens. If there’s something this city has too much of, it’s hobos and homos. The bums never pick up after themselves, leaving behind a trail of litter wherever they go. And they harass our merchants and citizenry, loitering and panhandling in front of stores and other merchants. Since I led the charge to shut down most of the homeless’ resources and dwelling spots, a large percentage of the bums have been driven from town. Now I’m going to do the same thing with the homosexuals, who have taken over one of this cities oldest and dearest parks.

Allen sighed. He didn’t want to tell Mackey that closing down Ash Street Park would only be putting a band-aid on the situation. In the long term, it would do no good. The gay crowd would simply take over another park. But he was tired and didn’t have the energy to get in a heated debate with the man. And besides, he couldn’t win an argument for trying against the Mack. Mackey had had an unparalleled conviction rate as District Attorney, though he’d been accused multiple times of sexism, racism, and various other prejudices. A hard-shelled Southern Baptist, Mackey kept the bible close to him at all times. He had a long history of bigotry and elitism, which eventually had come back to bite him. In a story that generated a lot of heat, Mackey ended up resigning his D.A. position after some comments he made somehow got leaked to the local newspaper. When asked about the two men he had convicted of first degree murder, both of whom were later found to be innocent (post mortem, unfortunately for the now deceased duo, as they both died from lethal injection), Mackey was quoted as saying something to the effect that the two men, simply by making the suspect list, were almost certainly bad folks to begin with, and therefore not entirely innocent. It took a good 10 years for the comments to fade from the public’s memory, and thereby enabling him to run for public office again.

Mackey continued his tirade all the way back to the city building. The two councilmen had made it a regular thing to carpool to the racket club together during long gaps between meetings, to save time and money. It had been Mackey’s idea, despite the fact that he was one of the wealthiest people in town. He had inherited millions from his father, who had come from a long line of oil pioneers in the big oil industry down in Texas. He had made millions more on his own through investments. He had volunteered his time in serving on the city council as “a concerned citizen of his beloved city.”

As they neared the city building, it soon became apparent that some sort of demonstration was taking place out front. A small handful of folks were standing around out on the front lawn, displaying their signs and banners to passing traffic. A couple more were brandishing signs up in the courtyard, flashing them at the traffic going in and out of the building.

Mackey turned to Allen, a proprietorial blend of suspicion and disgust on his face, as if Allen had been hiding prior knowledge of the event, or had somehow played a role in its orchestration. Allen shrugged his shoulders, a rather well-orchestrated and emphatic look of surprised confusion on his face. Not that an event such as this was anything unusual. The city building, being the government epi-center of the downtown area, saw it’s fair share of picketers, protests, and demonstrations. But there wasn’t anything of importance currently laid out on the council’s legislative table. Nothing controversial – for that matter – either, Mackey thought. Nothing, except for….

Ash Street Park, he noted, glancing at one of the signs. SAVE ASH STREET PARK, it read in big, bold letters. Another read RIP ASH STREET PARK, KILLED BY BIGGOTS AND HATERS MASQUERADING AS CITY IMPROVERS AND RENNOVATERS. Mackey could feel his temperature rising as he and Allen veered off onto another sidewalk leading up to the city building. It was going to be a struggle trying to slip by the protestors unnoticed, he figured, or to hold back his tongue. But before he reached the courtyard he came to a halt beside a bench where a homeless man had apparently passed out, curled up in drunken oblivion with a half-empty bottle of whiskey in his arms. The man’s companion, who had just arrived on the scene, was attempting to rouse him without success.

Allen examined the homeless duo with a look of concern on his face. “Is everything ok?”

“We’re fine,” the conscious half of the duo said. “Walt just had him a few too many again.”

Allen nodded. “Are you sure you don’t need –”

“Well isn’t this just lovely,” Mackey interrupted. “Look at these filthy bums. Just what everyone wants to see, and right in front of City Hall. Now can you see what I’m talking about, Allen?”

“Why don’t you go fuck yourself,” a now semi-cognizant Walt said.

“Touche!” Mackey screeched, before continuing his march up the city building front lawn with Allen trailing obediently behind, like a pack dog following its leader.

They were stopped just before the entrance by a young man wielding a SAVE ASH STREET PARK sign. The man had on a pastel blue t-shirt with a bright rainbow emblazoned in the center. “Excuse me, sir,” he said. “Will you please join us in signing a petition to prevent the closing of one of our city’s most dearest and cherished landmarks, Ash Street Park?”

Allen looked on in grim anticipation, as if he were watching a hapless child attempting to feed a hungry lion at the zoo. And for a moment Mackey looked as if he fully intended to bite the young man’s head off. “FYI,” he said, with lengthy pauses in between each letter. “I happen to be the guy heading up the legislation to shut down that park, and may I inform you, there is nothing you can do to stop it. That park is going down like the Titanic. Sunk like the Edmund Fitzgerald. History! So why don’t all you ferries fold up your tents, pick up all your shit, and take this sissy-circus on down the road!”

For a moment the young man looked like he was about to go to tears, lowering the sign down at his side like a popped balloon.

“Come on, Allen,” Mackey said. “We got a meeting in 15 minutes.”

As the two councilmen headed towards the door the young man, who had regained his composure, called after them: “hey Mackey!”

Mackey stopped just before the entrance and turned around.

“You are Joseph Mackey, aren’t you? The man who got two men convicted of murder and put to death, knowing all along that they were innocent.”

Mackey looked around, anxiously. A few onlookers had turned his direction and were now watching the exchange curiously.

“Roy Miller and Eddie McCallister. You remember them, don’t ya Mack? Well let me ask you something. Do you believe in Karma? Cause I sure do. Just what, Mack, are you going to do when karma catches up to you?”

They took the elevator to the fourth floor. Mackey told Allen he had to run back to his office and grab some paperwork he needed for the meeting and to let everyone know he might be a couple minutes late. When he reached his office he went straight to the filing cabinet, failing to notice the package on his desk. Opening the third drawer down and flipping through the files, he proceeded to fish out the necessary paperwork before heading over to his desk, freezing abruptly when he noticed the unopened package.

The package was about the size of a small shoebox and was wrapped in brown paper. “Joe Mackey” was scrawled across the top. There was no return address. Was it hand delivered? Peeling back the packing tape, he stopped suddenly. It’s a bomb, he thought. God knew he had haters, boy did he.

Slowly, cautiously, he picked up the package. Then he laughed. It was far too light to be a bomb. So he continued unwrapping it, fishing through the packing peanuts with child-like anticipation. When at last he pulled his hands out, they were holding a small puzzle box.

Odd, he thought, turning it round in his hands. It was about five inches in diameter, made of some rare type of wood. Four of the six sides were divided into nine smaller squares. Each square had a hand carved symbol engraved in it. Foreign symbols. African, most likely, he thought. The two opposing sides contained a crude carving of a stick person. Examining further, he realized the device was divided into rotatable sections, much like the Rubix cubes he enjoyed as a child.

“Mack, you coming?”

He jerked around to see Allen standing in the doorway. “Jesus, Allen, you scared the hell out of me.”

“Sorry boss, we’re ready to start.”

“A couple more minutes,” Mackey pleaded, shewing Allen away.

Allen gone, Mackey turned his attention back to the mysterious box. Gripping the top section of the box, he rotated it counterclockwise until it snapped into place. Slowly, the room began to fade away.

* * *

He woke up disoriented, lying on a piece of cardboard. A thin blanket, stained with dirt and riddled with holes, was draped around his mid-section. Overhead, he could hear the whooshing sounds of passing traffic.

Slowly he sat up, rubbing his eyes in confusion as he took a look around. He was beneath a bridge, he could see that, though he had no clue where. There was another man lying a few feet from him, snoring softly. Empty food containers and liquor bottles lay scattered here and there. A cardboard sign, made from the back of a pizza box, read “PLEASE HELP, GOD BLESS!”

Confused, he got up and began heading towards the sunlight, accidently stumbling over the other man in the process. “What the hell?” the man said, his bald head shooting out of his camouflage sleeping bag like an angry snapping turtle. “Drunk already, Mack? Tell me you didn’t kill all the damn whiskey again, I need me a wake-up.”