Lifestones: We All Have Them, If Only We Could See Them

By Carl Francis Cusato

Since his wife and child were killed in a car accident, the life of Paul Solomon, a Nano-physicist has all but collapsed. Once a golden boy, hes now sidelined with unimportant research in a section of the lab nicknamed The Side Show. There is an accident that almost destroys the lab during one of his experiments. As a result, his discovery creates an adventure that is astonishing, will make you laugh, and probably dream a little.

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Lifestones is written in a format which the author refers to as a movel meaning that it is heavy in dialogue, written in the present tense, and easy to read. It is, in effect, a screenplay/novel hybrid for todays time sensitive generation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 29, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475960648

Carl Francis Cusato

Carl Francis Cusato currently lives in Malibu, California, with his wife, Robin and his Chow-Chow, Foxylady. Cusato is the president of Cusato and Company, Inc., a technology integration company. Mr. Cusato is also the author of “Bucky told me to put a stick in the door…and other lies to live by”.

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Copyright © 2012 by Carl Francis Cusato.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4759-6063-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-6064-8 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012921854

iUniverse rev. date: 11/26/2012

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter One

The Break-In

Chapter Two

Paul

Chapter Three

The Sideshow

Chapter Four

The Girl

Chapter Five

The Date

Chapter Six

The Cafeteria

Chapter Seven

Bowling

Chapter Eight

The Discovery

Chapter Nine

The Hospital

Chapter Ten

A Walk On Campus

Chapter Eleven

The Cocktail Party

Chapter Twelve

Is It Love?

Chapter Thirteen

Vegas

Chapter Fourteen

Tiffany And Other Bad Decisions

Chapter Fifteen

Going Home

Chapter Sixteen

Do You Want To Know A Secret?

Chapter Seventeen

With Friends Like These . . .

Chapter Eighteen

The Chase

Chapter Nineteen

Over The River And Through The Woods

Chapter Twenty

Reflections

Chapter Twenty-One

Chaos Begins

Chapter Twenty-Two

Guess Who?

Chapter Twenty-Three

Mission Revealed

Chapter Twenty-Four

Epilogue

A special thanks to Michael Saad, an outstanding actor and writer, whose creative input contributed to the development of this story.

To Alden Marin for his beautiful art that graces each of the chapter title pages. His collection can be seen in color at: www.aldenmarin.com.

To Ben Treas and Terrie Barna for their editorial eyes.

To Fred Zolan of Running Images for his help with the graphic integration.

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CHAPTER ONE

The Break-In

A light dances from under the door as an apparent intruder fiddles with the lock. The knob slowly turns, and the door opens. The light lifts from the floor and reflects on a room filled with racks of computer equipment. Blue and green flashing lights create momentary geometric shadows. The silhouette of a man, carrying a flashlight, stealthily walks over to one of the racks, unplugs an Ethernet cable, and plugs it into his laptop. His latex-gloved hand reaches into his pocket, pulls out a folded piece of paper, and rests it on the shelf.

He turns on the laptop and waits for the screen to load.

The screen asks for a user ID and the figure types: psolomon.

The screen then asks for a password.

He opens the folded paper and types: ***************

The computer pauses, and a prompt appears on screen. He types several lines of commands. The computer requests an administrator’s password.

He types again from the paper: ******************

More detail begins to scroll on the screen.

He types a few more entries. A list of coded files appear. He highlights his selections. A window asking to save or download appears.

He selects download, and the data transfer begins!

A light appears outside the door. The figure moves quickly from the rack to the inside wall adjacent to the door. The lock is tested by turning the knob. Surprisingly, it opens. The face of the night guard appears. He steps inside the door, and searches the room with his flashlight. The figure hiding behind the door hits the guard. The guard falls unconscious. The figure curses under his breath, and quickly moves back to the rack. He interrupts the download by unplugging the Ethernet cable, and quickly leaves.

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CHAPTER TWO

Paul

The morning light streams through the windows of an unkempt West Los Angeles apartment as a TV is heard under intermittent beeps of an alarm clock. Inside is the world of a man who, it appears, is a little behind in his life—worn furniture, unpaid bills, a water company shut-off notice, and a sink full of dirty dishes. In one corner, a dying Christmas tree sits under a ladder which rests against the wall.

The voice on the TV of a reporter is heard:

Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Spinosa of Rancho Cucamonga, California received their first check for $2 million from the California State Lottery. Their $155 million prize is one of the largest paid out since the lottery began. Spinoza, a laid-off grocery worker, said that he was going to buy a new Buick, and pay off some bills. In addition, he is going to stop looking for a new job and pay more attention to his tomato plants.

Around a messy work area, there are diplomas, certificates of excellence, and a picture of a man impeccably dressed with his wife, a little boy, and a dog.

The channel changes:

"Tragedy struck an El Monte family last night when fire swept through their home. Luckily, the three children, eight, ten and thirteen, escaped with minor injuries."

In the kitchen, a coffee maker with a timer turns on and begins to percolate . . . only the carafe is missing.

The TV report continues:

James Blair, a mortgage loan officer, and his wife Beth were forced to take night jobs to make ends meet. He, as a security guard, and she, a waitress, were not home during the fire. To add to the problem, their homeowner’s insurance had lapsed. Neighbors and relatives have begun collecting money to help them out.

The TV channel changes:

Bender Technologies, the darling software company of the ’90s, announced today that it was filing for bankruptcy. Richard Blake, Chairman and CEO, cited a weak market and production difficulties as the reason. Blake has resigned to pursue personal interests. The company has agreed to buy out his contract. Sources close to the company speculate that his golden parachute was estimated at $24.3 million.

In the bedroom, the bed is unmade and the sheets are hanging to the floor. Also, on the floor, a bottle of vodka lies empty. Next to the bed is a lounge chair, where a man in his mid-thirties is stretched out with his foot resting on the TV remote. While sleeping, the movement of his foot changes the channel.

Paul Solomon is several days unshaven, shoeless, and wearing the clothes from the day before. He rolls and the TV changes the channel again. This time it is Spanish TV. Waking to the sound of a foreign language startles him as he looks around, searching for something familiar. He quickly finds the remote, and turns the station back to a morning news show. He gets up slowly, half asleep, and stumbles to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee. Then, with a grimace, he realizes that he is standing in a pool of hot coffee.

Yeeeeow!

He hops into the bathroom and opens the shower curtain to turn on the water. Nothing comes out. Finally, he puts his feet, one at a time, into the toilet to cool. He stares into the bathroom mirror—of course, it’s cracked.

Although unkempt and mentally beaten, his six-foot, still lean, athletic frame betrays signs of a once successful, attractive man. He looks down and grabs the extra fat on his midsection, and makes that face of . . . I got to get back in shape.

As he steps out to dry his feet and walk back into the living room, a story on the TV gets his attention.

"UCLA announced today that John Claudius, former aerospace wonder boy and member of the American Society of Physicists, has been named Chairman of the Nano-Physics Research Department."

Paul’s stare locks on the screen for a moment as he whispers, Hello, old buddy . . . you arrogant prick.

He glances at a clock. Damn it! he yells. He grabs a polo shirt and pulls on a wrinkled pair of khakis. He quickly puts on some running shoes with no socks, and quickly combs his hair. He takes a gulp of a half empty can of soda, grabs his keys, and exits the front door past a poster of Monte Carlo. Paul dashes down the stairs onto the front porch where he encounters Ms. Delphi, the landlady.

She sits at a card table. A weird old broad in her late sixties, she has a mystical look in her eyes. Her tie-dyed scarf, frizzy hair, and long, flowing muumuu dress make her appear almost as if she was frozen in the seventies on the Venice Beach Strand waiting for someone to offer a hit on a joint. Major, her myna bird, is perched on the chair next to her. Tarot cards, small crystals, horoscope books, and burning incense are scattered on the table.

Do you know what the cards say about you today, Mr. Solomon? she says, speaking without looking up.

Paul stops dead in his tracks, turns, and forces a smile. Aaah, Ms. Delphi, how are things on Venus . . . and don’t you look smashing today.

Wind chimes begin to tinkle as she deals the Tarot cards on her New Age card table. Change is in the air, she says, closing her eyes and tilting her head to the sky. Perception and reality become one. Friends are close, but enemies closer.

. . . And what would I do without your mystical guidance? Paul smiles.

And what would you do without a roof over your head? The rent, Mr. Solomon, the rent!

Excellent transition! Mystical capitalism! Where have all the flowers gone?

No, Mr. Solomon, I want the non-mystical rent. Flowers are expensive these days. She eyeballs him like a Mother Superior about to discipline a truant student in a parochial school. She then hands him a notice to pay or quit.

Reality bites, Major, the myna bird, chirps in.

You have ’til Monday when Mercury goes retrograde, and then the doo-doo hits the flower-covered fan, she says with a forced smile.

Hit the road! Major interrupts again.

Monday? I get paid Friday so Monday would be just perfect, Paul responds, melting with sincerity.

Bullshit! Major again.

Be nice, Major. Turning back to Paul, I just don’t know where he gets his language, the lil’shit.

She picks up the Tarot cards and turns over the hanged man. Oooh, you should talk to your psychic . . . soon!

Boy, would I like to shoot that fucking bird, he says under his breath.

What was that you said, Mr. Solomon?

I said I heard every word . . . Monday looks good.

Paul turns and walks down the porch steps. He stops for a moment, grabs a flower from one of the rose bushes surrounding the porch, and heads to a late model compact car parked on the street. He opens the door, puts in the key in the ignition only to find it won’t start.

Shit, I forgot to get gas. He gets out of the car, slams the door, thinks for a moment, and walks to the side of the house where his 10-speed is chained to a pole. He unhooks the bike, puts the rose on the rack, hops on, and heads down the street.

He pulls into a 7-Eleven. He leans the bike near the door and goes in. He grabs a large coffee and waits in line behind an elderly woman. She pours a sea of coins onto the counter from a baggie.

Let’s see now, eleven, twelve, twenty-two, forty-seven, forty-eight . . . She struggles with the count.

Come on, Lady, Paul says, quickly losing his patience.

She turns to look, and loses track of her count. Now where was I . . . one, twelve . . . ?

Paul dumps