Legend

Legend

by Daniel Kauffman

When it happened I had been making my living as a blogger/podcaster/Uber driver.

At that time, because interviews with big/important/famous people about everyday issues were on all the syndicated talk shows, maybe, interviews with average people about big/important/famous issues would also catch on.

One interview went viral. It's the cat chases pig video. You may have seen or heard about it. There was a brief bump in viewers and a couple of new subscribers. Nobody remembers the interview was about the effects of a ransomware scheme on the gasoline supply chain and the non-effect of halting construction on a future pipeline.

People remember the cat.

When the express envelope arrived last week I had to double-check to ensure it was for me. Trevor Smith is not an uncommon name. It was addressed to Trevor Smith, host of 'As I See It,' so it had to be me. There was a key and a brief note.

This key will open a P.O. Box at the main post office in Vancouver (not B.C.). The contents may be more amusing than a pig and cat.

There was also a four-digit number. The return address was illegible, but it was postmarked Olympia, WA.

It could be a joke, but it seemed potentially harmless. I headed up to Vancouver. The trip from Portland to Vancouver via 1-5 can take more than six hours unless you remember to stop at the first Vancouver. Since the note said "not B.C.", I felt sure it was the one just across the Columbia River.

The was a voter's pamphlet, assorted ads, and a small package in the box. I tossed the pamphlet and junk mail and opened the package. I found another key, cell phone, and a note:

Hit redial; identify yourself as Trevor Smith, afterwards check the voicemail. The PIN is 1945.

I felt like Ben Affleck in Paycheck or that old grey-haired guy in the original Mission Impossible. It was a good thing I had paid my rent two days ago.

I hit redial on the phone.

"Second Hand Rose, we've got your clothes."

"I'm Trevor Smith."

"OMG! I thought it was a prank. I have a briefcase for you. It's 50s vintage and needs a key I don't have. The guy who bought it in put an expanding folder in it, one of those brown expanding types, locked it and gave me $50 to give to Trevor Smith. That is, if you called. If you hadn't called in a week he told me I could re-sell it as a mystery case—you know, like those abandoned storage units they sell at auction."

She paused.

"You probably want to know where to find me. I'm at 1945 Main, next to a tattoo artist. Do you need directions? Or you can Google it?"

"I can find it," I said and hung up before she could start in again. I went to the voicemail.

"This is not Mission Impossible. However, there is a reward at the end: an exclusive interview with John Martinez. You might think this is an elaborate joke by your friends. If it is, why spoil their fun by being a poopybutt? The offer is real. I assure you it will be worth your time. All expenses are paid. This phone will self-destruct in...Just kidding. Hope to see you soon Trevor."

The message ended. If this was a practical joke, it was already more expensive than my friends would be willing to spend. It was also more elaborate than they could imagine. I got in my car and headed west to Main and Second Hand Rose.

"You must be Trevor Smith. I imagined a guy in a trench coat, like Bogart or Columbo, but then I decided to U-Tube T Smith and Cat. There you were and here you are. And here you go." She handed me the briefcase.

I thanked her, took the case and started to leave.

"No way buddy. You can't leave here without opening it. I'm thinking maybe Publisher's Clearing House got tired of the Prize Patrols and wanted to surprise people with a little cloak and dagger or maybe you have a long-lost aunt who wants to leave you her villa in Spain but doesn't want the rest of her blood-sucking relatives to know."

When she paused for air, and to shut her up, I said, "I'll open it here,"

I put the case on the counter. It was just as well I opened it in the shop as the note on top of the file folder instructed me to return to the Second Hand Rose and open the folder in front of Valerie. I assumed, correctly as it turned out, that the verbal geyser was Valerie. I am, by nature, a bit cautious, so I asked, "Are you Valerie?"

"Yes, but some people call me Val. Why?"

"Just checking."

In the folder was an MP3 player, a car key fob for what I thought must be a Jeep, a topographic map and a note.

'Share an earbud and listen.'

I put one in, handed the other to Valerie and hit play.

"Valerie..."

"Ooh. That's Aunt Chole. I haven't heard her voice in nearly twenty years. She still sends cards at Christmas and my birthday. She was an agent in Hollywood and I'd visit every summer until I went to col..."

"That's enough Valerie. Please stay quiet until I finish. You can tell Trevor all about me later."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Mr. Smith, meet Valerie. As she likely told you during my first pause, I am a Hollywood agent, although for the last twenty years, I have had only one client: John Martinez. I have protected his privacy all this time and do not intend to have it breached now. That is one of the reasons for the cloak and dagger. The path to John is convoluted so no one person who found a breadcrumb could connect it to any other. The second was to make sure you had the will and ability to tell the story that awaits.

As you can see, you have a squiggly arrow and a map. That map is missing a few important bits. You should start in the Gorge that remembers 1945. Your carriage awaits in a grocery store parking lot north of where you are standing." There was a long pause. "What are you waiting for?"

"Aunt Chloe was right. This map is gibberish."

"What do you mean," I asked as I leaned over the counter to look at the map Valerie had laid out.

"It's a topographical map. Each line represents an elevation change. The closer the lines the faster the land goes up or down, depending on your direction. However, there is no legend to indicate how much change each line represents. Is it five feet? Ten feet? 100 feet? One mile? That brings up the issue of scale. Is one inch equal to one mile? Ten miles? Ten feet? Is this a map of a small urban park or the western half of Yosemite? And even after we find the starting point, without a direction the end point is somewhere along a circle with an unknown radius. I can't even tell which side is north."

I was stunned. "That was a clear and focused description."

"That's because there was a specific answer. My therapist says I have a fear of not saying the right thing. Consequentially I say as much as possible in social conversations to cover all the bases and, he says it might help if I got a cat or dog and practiced talking to them as I would not worry about what I say to real people because of my fear they would ..."

"Got it," I interrupted. "Where to next?"

"Safeway. Didn't you hear? Oh, and I'll need to lock up and leave a note for Sara."

We drove the three blocks to Safeway and exchanged my beater for a Jeep Wrangler, complete with a winch. As we got in, Valerie asked, "Where to now? The Safeway was clear, but I don't know anyplace in the Gorge that fits with 1945."

"She meant Maryhill."

"Of course,' she said. Under her breath, she muttered, 'Idiot.'

#

The drive up the gorge was as beautiful as ever. When we parked I had Valerie lock the map and arrow in the glove box. The replica Stonehenge is always impressive even more so at sunrise and sunset when the shadows add drama. It was close to noon, so it was less impressive. It was easier to see and read everything on the stones. If there was a clue here, I didn't see it. We could wait for sunset or sunrise, but I didn't think that would reveal anything. I had guessed wrong. The likely starting place was possibly Anacortes, but I needed time to think. I drove over to I-84 via the Bridge of the Gods. I could have crossed sooner, but I liked the view and the fee was nominal. While I was driving, Valerie found a large envelope in the glove compartment and was looking through the contents.

"If I push it, we can get a room north of Seattle."

Val said, "Wrong and right. Or right and wrong. That is to say, we have a room reserved in Fife. Not to mention this:"

Valerie held up a piece of clear plastic about the size of a credit card with some markings. Not taking my eyes the road I asked, "What's that?"

"A legend and compass. All we have to figure out is where to put them on the map. Oh, and coupons for two combo meals at the Carl's Jr. drive-through in Longview. And instructions to order the number 2 and number 7. There are two twenties attached. I guess we have dinner reservations at one of Longview's finest dining establishments."

For the next half-hour, Valerie tried to align the legend with the map, but there wasn't room to unfold it enough to make it work. The fumbling was somewhat amusing, but by the time we hit the 205 bypass, I was starting to feel a bit hungry. I realized breakfast was a long time ago and had not been substantial. Longview was still over an hour away. Valerie was now spending some quality time with her phone. When we hit Ridgefield, she pulled a car charger out of her purse and plugged it in.

When we picked up dinner, Valerie suggested, in not so many words, that we should park, eat, and use the facilities. She used many more words to say it, but I got her drift. I could use the break and agreed. Besides, I wanted to find our next clue. There was nothing on the wrappers or the cups. Disappointed. After powdering our noses we were back on the road. I asked her to check the glove box. There wasn't another envelope.

The motel wasn't much to look at, but Valerie's assessment was accurate. When we got to the room in Fife, there were two beds. That detail eliminated the need for an awkward conversation. The room was large enough to have a table to unfold the map. Valerie picked up the Bible from the table and started to toss it in the general direction of a bed when I stopped her.

"Why is Gideon's Bible on a table and not in the nightstand drawer?"

She glanced down and noticed the bookmark. A verse reference was hand-written on the bookmark.

“Ezekiel 25:17.”

Valerie started to look through the Bible.

"Don't bother. It doesn't exist. It's a reference to an old Tarantino movie. The numbers probably refer to grid lines on the map. Let me see the legend."

She handed over the plastic card. There was a small cross on the card. It was not a surprise when I superimposed the cross with 25:17 on the map. There was only one way to align them that put the entire card on the map. We had north and scale. All we needed was a starting point.

I turned the bookmark over.

If you have problems sleeping tonight, try watching “The Parallax View.”

We spent the night plotting our path and Googling as much as Google could provide. By morning we had a plan. We put the back end of the twisted arrow on Seattle and followed the twists and turns. There were many unpaved roads, logging roads, and rutted tracks. I understood the need for the Jeep.

It was a long trip for what would have been a short flight for a crow. That plan worked, for a bit. At the end of that drive, I understood why we had a winch. We had driven to the edge of a cliff. We had to find a way down and. I got out of the Jeep and saw it: a bollard to secure the line. I hoped there was enough cable to get us all the way down.

There wasn't. The line played out with the front wheels still two feet off the ground.

“Guess we hike from here.”

#

There was an obvious trail through dense forest in the direction we wanted to go. It was less than a mile. We came to a clearing with a modest stone building. It looked familiar. It was not large enough to be a mansion nor small enough to be called a cottage. If it had been a timber-built house in the Portland metro it might be called a McMansion. It would fit in on the west hills. As we approached it dawned on me. The house was a replica of Professor Stigletz's headquarters from Legend II.

The man who opened the door appeared to be in his mid-thirties.

"Good evening Mr. Smith and Ms. Congrieve. You may call me Stenbeck. I trust the trip from Fife wasn't too grueling? Please follow me."

Stenbeck led us from the entryway into a spacious hall. There were a couple of doors on both sides and a staircase leading to an upper landing and a set of double doors at the end. He pointed to the far door on the right.

"There is a washroom in there so you can freshen up. Just let Alexa know when you are ready and wait over there." He pointed to the bottom of the staircase. With that, he headed for the far door on the left.

"After you," I said as I surveyed the room, taking notes. There was a couch between the doors on the left and a matching chaise lounge between the stairs and the door on the right. A table three-quarters down the room with a large flower arrangement partially hid Alexa.

Stenbeck appeared with a food trolley shortly after I announced we were ready.

"Ms Congrieve," he said as he wheeled the trolley toward the door opposite the washroom, "there is a lovely view from the sitting room if you wish." He left the trolley by the table. "Mr. Smith, follow me. Mr. Martinez won't force you to stifle your curiosity during lunch."

"What about Val? Won't she be coming?"

"I'm afraid not sir. The interview is to be exclusive."

"But...,"

Stenbeck cut me off. "Thirty years as a recluse did not happen without strict attention to details and protocols."

Val chipped in, "It's okay, Trevor."

"Lead on, McDuff," I conceded.

Stenbeck led me up the stairs and through a door that opened on a long wide hall. He headed toward the far end. After three steps I stopped and stared. Stenbeck continued on a few steps and stopped. Without turning around he said, "I'm a duck." It was a statement, not a question. Stenbeck had indeed turned into a duck. Not a cartoon mascot, like Donald or the Oregon Duck from Eugene. He was a duck-sized mallard who happened to speak perfect English.

"I hate it when they do that."

When we reached the double doors at the end of the hall, the duck became Stenbeck again. He opened the doors.

#

"Come in Mr. Smith," a voice called from across the room. I saw the familiar form and face of the Legend striding toward me with an outstretched hand. "I know you have a million questions, but let's have a bit of lunch. We can talk while we eat.”

His presence was magnetic. He was the person that stood out in a room when they entered. It was hard to believe he was almost eighty years old. I hesitated. Wouldn't you? This was my childhood hero in the flesh.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," I paused.

"Call me John. It was good enough for my mama and papa, so I don't have a problem if other people use it."

He had been moving as he spoke and had come to a small table set part-way into a large bay window with an impressive view. There was a French press and an enticing charcuterie on the table.

"Fix yourself a plate and a cup. I'll answer your easy and largely irrelevant questions first. We know the big one is why Trevor Smith?"

I had to admit that that was the first question on my mind, but, since I was here, it was also the least relevant.

John sat back and said, "I have been waiting for some time to do this interview. What I was waiting for was you. I needed someone with integrity to tell the story. Secondly, I seriously doubt you will ask me about U.S./China relations, the global climate crises, issues in the so-called "Holy Land", or the rise of modern fascism. I have opinions on all those topics, but I am hardly qualified as an expert in any of them. Celebrities may be right or wrong. They might have informed opinions, but in the end, it is as the Dude said, "That's, like, just your opinion man."

"So why now," I asked?

"Ah, the first relevant question. The answer to that is the conclusion. Consequently, I cannot give the answer now. That would be like reading the last chapter of a Sue Grafton novel first. You must hook the fish before you reel it in. But I digress. I chose you because you didn't run from the pig and cat video. You owned it. "

My first thought was an expletive related to a common bodily function. What I said was, "Ok. You showed up out of nowhere and turned a B-budget indie film into a billion-dollar franchise. A new face with a blockbuster first movie is not unheard of, but it is rare. So my first question is: How did you get started in acting?"

"Same as many actors I would imagine. You grow up watching actors and you get the bug. You think to yourself, 'I can do that' and you start trying to imitate them. I was born the year Iron Man came out and am a child of the Marvel Universe. My parents grew up pre-Jaws/Star Wars/Indiana Jones, but just. Then there was Johnson, Jackman, Peele, and Gerwig. What they taught me is you could be anybody or anything. I wanted that. But desire is only a part of it, a necessary part obviously. Desire without ability is a recipe for failure and frustration. A kid can grow up wanting to be the next Lebron James, but if he tops out 5'4", he has no chance to make it in the NBA."

"Second question: Why the #2 and #7 combo meals?"

“Seven-duece is the worst starting hand in Texas Hold-em. I knew you would need a break about that time and making it specific would make you curious. If I hadn't given you a reason to stop you would have driven straight through. Fatigue can be fatal."

"Fair enough. Next question. You have the ability. An overnight success with "Empire of the Dragon" and more than eighty films in thirty years. Was the accident the reason "Legend: The Dragon Awakes" was the last of the Legend films?"

"Not at all. I wanted to, as the old phrase goes, 'leave them wanting more'. I didn't want to risk a bomb. I didn't want to end up in a rut. As I said, if you can act, you can be anybody."

"I must apologize," I said. "I buried the lead with that question."

The question hung there—unspoken for several moments like Poe's Pendulum.

"You never appeared in public after that."

It was a statement, not a question.

"You did nearly fifty feature films, scores of animated voices, but not one public appearance. If you hadn't started work on Fast and Furious XXXIII eight months after the accident..."

"I know. The rumors were rampant and, you must admit, plausible. I was dead. I was disfigured beyond repair. I was a paraplegic, quadriplegic, brain-dead, even abducted by aliens."

He paused and stared at the French press.

"I thought about quitting at that point. I had enough money to retire."

"Not like this."

He continued as if he hadn't heard me.

"That French press is an antique. I picked it up in a thrift store fifty-some-odd years ago. It was old then." Another pause." I drove myself to do that first movie. It was also a favor for Vin and Dwayne. They were still involved with production back then. They had been asking me to be in their movies for some time as the bad guy who dies at the end at least once. No long-term commitment. Had they been doing Bond movies, I would have done that."

"So you wanted to go against type?"

"Yes. They had the three elements of a good film: writing, directing, and acting. You can have a decent production with just two of those. With one of them, your best hope is cult status. If you have all three you can end up with a movie and maybe a little gold man or two. The plots of those movies were less important than the characters. However, the writing was good and directors were given a lot of leeway as long as they stayed within the confines of that universe."

"Still, you could have just phoned it in. Why didn't you?"

"That's not my way. Brando did a parody of Vito in The Freshman. The plot and Broderick carried the film. I wasn't going to do that. I couldn't do that. I could say I did it to pay the bills, but that would be a lie. All my life I have pushed myself to see just how far I could go. I had my agent pester every sitcom and producer for a comedic part."

"Was that why you played yourself as a drunk gay man opposite Betty Heine and Lea Grimes?."

"Those were about as far from John Legend as you could get. After that, people began to write for me. I couldn't handle all the offers. I could, and did, pick and choose. As you know, I started my own production company. If I could not get top-shelf talent for a project, I assumed there was a reason and dropped it. Pet projects are just that: a pet not fit for show. I did produce one of those pet projects under an assumed name and shell production company. It performed as expected. If you can guess or find out what it was, I won't deny it."

The sun was setting and the only question left. So I asked. "Why the J.D. Salinger act and why come out now?"

"Ah, Mr. Smith, those are the remainders. The why questions are the most difficult. The answers to your whys are intertwined. I am not a recluse by choice. It was, and is, the very circumstance of my existence. That existence will soon have its final curtain. I felt it was better to explain than leave it for posterity."

"Morpheus, in 'Dreams of Angels,' the trivia nut in me blurted out.

He smiled. "Writers can turn a better phrase than me; I just deliver them better. Come with me, it's time to draw back the curtain."

The small hairs on my arm sprang to attention. We walked to a door next to a sideboard. He punched in a passcode. John entered and I followed into a room the size of an elevator with a door opposite. The first door closed. A blast of chemically laced air swept through. It was then I noticed the floor and ceiling of this room were grills. The second door opened.

"It's not quite a clean room, but I like to keep dust to a minimum. Electronics can be sensitive."

John said, "The computers need to be cool and clean. To save on energy, the coding is focused, not generalized. The AI handles the complex bits with some less-than-legal data sources.

I had no idea what he was talking about but nodded as if I did. We proceeded down a corridor created by five rows of black cases that ran from ceiling to floor. They were peppered lightly with lights at regular intervals. Most were solidly lit. A few were flashing, some off and on.

In the middle of each bank was what I can only describe as a futuristic Tesla coil.

"Those are quantum processors."

We stopped facing a burgundy theater curtain. John clapped his hands and waved.

"The Prestige."

It was odd and a bit disappointing. There was a holographic gyroscope with a headless DaVinci's man superimposed, yet attached to the gyro. In the center was suspended a pink blob.

"I could be dramatic and say, "Ecce Homo. It's time to get real, Mr. Smith. That is John. We have become 'The Legend'."

I turned back to my host and gasped at a woman in a stunning black evening gown, with a face like Harvey Dent—after, not before.

"Trevor Smith, meet Antonia Martinez," the man on the gyroscope spoke.

That name rang a bell. An old fucking bell.

"Not 'the' Antonia Garcia' who won best-supporting actor in her first role as Queenie in the "The Strange Death and Life of Major Francis Fitzpatrick" and was never seen again." I realized I was whispering.

"The one and only."

The expletives that exploded in my head came out as "But?... How?"

"As Heinlein pointed out over a century ago, she swept her arm around the room, "Any sufficiently developed technology is indistinguishable magic. And now, to paraphrase that moron, Paul Harvey, here's the rest of the story.”

#

Antonia clapped her hands and the floor opened up to one side of the gyroscope thingy and a table with chairs rose up and clicked into place.

"This may take a while. Would you like more coffee?"

"Coffee."

"Stenbeck, you heard that. I think the Starbucks would be fine. John, please turn around for Mr. Smith."

As the DaVinci Man, I still couldn't think of it as John Legend, spun on his gyro I caught a glimpse of a small disc that glowed with the same liquid multicolored glow as the Tesla coils. I wondered what and why but knew better than to ask. When his back was toward me I saw it.

"I have one of those as well," Antonia said. "They are how we can do what we do."

"And, what exactly, is it that you do?", I asked.

"We are Legend."

"We?" I blurted out. My mind was spinning.

"John couldn't be a convincing shepherd in a church nativity play. He is, however, a genius quantum mechanic."

"That's engineer."

"Yes. I know. But mechanic sounds sexier."

Just then a six-foot rabbit arrived with a service trolley. It had a French press and two cups which he placed on the table.

"Thanks, Harvey."

'Harvey' held up his paws, sighed and went out the way he came.

"He hates it when I do that."

"I know, he told me."

"As you have just observed, we can project a convincing image. There are flaws, but people see what they want to see. There is some tech involved, but as you no doubt noticed, the image has no substance."

I hadn't, but was obvious to me now. The implications were obvious and more than a little scary as 'Invasion of the Body Snatchers' scary.

"That still does not get me any closer to understanding your story," I said, turning to John.

"One more," John said.

"Parlor trick," Antonia continued.

"Before"

"We"

"Continue." They said that last in unison.

#

"After that person who shall not be named threw acid on my face I knew my career was over before it started. I had ten operations to make my face and mouth functional. But I was never going to act again. There was no way I could regain one key component of the three essential tools of an actor. I had my voice and body. I did not have a face. Mark Hamill did well with his voice after his image was forever linked to Luke Skywalker. I did not like that option."

"But that wasn't right for my Antonia. She deserved more. I was working on bio-mechanics..."

"I thought you were an 'engineer'," she said, her posture playfully combative.

"Let me finish."

She gave a Mona Lisa smile.

I was getting more confused.

"I initially tried to develop a way to project a convincing avatar for her face, but there was a major problem I couldn't solve. To make a face that didn't fall into the uncanny valley I had to base it on her actual face. I tried to mirror one side on the other. The results were interesting in a cubist way, but that also fell in the uncanny valley.”

I was working on neural-controlled prostheses at that time and got a different idea. It was a crazy, irresponsible, and ethically questionable idea. But I would do anything for my Antonia. I figured if we could wire a person's brain and nervous system to a prosthesis so a person could hold a cup and bring it to their mouth and drink, why couldn't I wire Antonia's skills to my nervous system? So I did it. There were unforeseen consequences."

Antonia took over. "It took a while for both of us to get used to me controlling John's body and voice while he was, in a way, an observer. Over time we became, literally, two bodies with one mind."

"Eight years," I said. "That was the time between 'The Strange Death' and the first Dragon movie."

"Exactly" It was John speaking.

Just then, my mind clicked. ""You broke your neck in the last Dragon movie." The second shoe dropped. "Your avatar technology was good enough to bridge the uncanny valley for a robotic face".

"Now you know why I went all 'J.D. Salinger'. Chole, as my agent, was good before the fact. Afterward, she became indispensable. We never acted in the flesh after my accident. I took a small part in the F&F franchise. My agent told Dwayne it was a rehab thing for me. There were a lot of 'rehab' stipulations in that first contract. Long story, short: the Legend was back."

Just then my mind clicked again. "You are dying."

"Yes," They said.

I started to ask another question, but Antonia cut me off.

“You and Valerie will spend the night. It's been a long day. When you leave tomorrow, please take Stenbeck with you. We no longer need her services. She has been given a large retirement fund. She has a home in the West Hills and a family nearby."

I had not noticed Stenbeck's return. An older woman in jeans and a cambric shirt is less conspicuous than a six-foot rabbit. As we entered the hall where I'd left Valerie we found her seated on the couch, watching a large screen TV. It was showing the last Legend movie.

"Valerie?," Chole/Stenbeck's voice was soft, elderly and female.

Valerie jerked around.

"Aunt Chole?"

#

The trip back to Portland was uneventful. I dropped Val and her Aunt off at Second Hand Rose. I returned the Jeep to the Safeway parking lot and retrieved my car. Life was normal: I Ubered. I worked on my podcasts and spent the early hours before I fell asleep trying to forget what I thought I had seen.

It was two months later that I received another express envelope.

Dear Mr. Smith,

By the time you read this, our house will have been burned to the ground and the remains covered in landslide caused by the cliff you went down and up. The thumb drive contains some video you can use for your podcast. We have set up an offshore account for you. Those details are also on the thumb drive. Do what you will with that money. You can continue to Uber if that is your choice.

We destroyed our tech. You understand why. We needed to confess and chose you as our confessor. We needed someone who could understand the why. Your podcast after the cat video convinced us you were the one we needed.

I understood.

#

"You had an interview with The Legend? He hasn't given an interview in, like, never."

Mike's exclamation was true. I knew why, but I wasn't going to fill him in.

"How'd you score it? Couldn't have been your good looks, charming personality, or journalistic abilities. I'm guessing Voodoo."

"I did have that one article go viral."

"Only because a cat photo-bombed it by chasing a pig around the field in the background. Who was that guy anyway?"

"A small business owner I was interviewing about the lingering effects of the fractured supply chains."

"Oh, right. That's why it's in the cat video rabbit hole. So when are you going to post your big John Legend expose?"

"I'm not doing it."

"What!?"

"Legend wanted it done old school. Really old school. No electronic devices of any kind. No video, no sound. All I had was pen and paper. No video means it never happened."

"You're shitting me. You sneaked something in, right?"

"Nope. You don't have the technical expertise to remain a virtual recluse with his high-profile career for thirty years...," I paused. " My chances of getting in a micro anything in was less than zero. If he had found something, my chances of getting the interview would have been zero and my odds of living a bit below that."

"So where was it and when? Curious minds want to know."

"Last week. And as to where: I don't know for sure other than the Olympic Peninsula."

With that, I grabbed my coat and walked out into a light sprinkle of Portland sunshine.

The 'Whatever happened to John Legend ' tribute I posted using their video was heartwarming, showed enough flaws, and was a complete fabrication.

That was when I saw the cat.