Homely Bo
My name is Bodhi Wardcliff, and I'm a private detective and a sandwich aficionado in the small town of Cactus, Arizona. Not long ago, in my humble abode of a town with a prickly name, I experienced unearthly events that I believed could only exist in the realm of a Dean Koontz novel. It was a day of profound revelations that would catalyze an epoch neobirth in my life. It was also the day I died.
But before I delve too deep into the nature of my demise, it would be meaningful to provide you with a brief explanation of how I came to be, and the chronicled tragedies of my past.
From the beginning of my creation, my mother believed I was meant to experience an enlightened awakening in my life that would transform the very nature of my destined existence. So I was christened the unique appellation “Bodhi” as it implies the wise and understanding nature of the Buddha.
However, my grandfather humorously claimed she named me after her favorite bad-boy character in her favorite movie from the 1990s. Either way, the point being is that even though names can sometimes be interesting, and at times even entertaining, I don't generally put much stock in the cultural significance or self-perception that a name can sometimes imply.
If I indeed followed down the path of name delusion, my Buddhist moniker would have me on a pursuit of enlightenment that involves a thousand-day diet of tree-eating, followed by the pleasantries of self-mummification.
Since I have no interest in the taste of timber, nor am I an overly cheerful, big-bellied monk interested in preserving myself in a petrified pose of dehydrated nirvana, most people just call me Homely Bo.
Now, if you're wondering why I'm referred to in such an unfavorable way. I assure you, it's not because I'm hideous or unsightly. A little spartan, maybe, but I've never angered any babies or caused women and children to flee from empathy. And in my twenty-eight years, I've never once had to reassure my fellow forms that I am, in fact, not an animal while running down the road with a horde of torches chasing after me.
I suppose it's also worth mentioning that I have, on occasion, been described as handsome in my humble pulse of an existence. However, the entirely subjective selection of handsome in my context could possibly be a pity-induced euphemism, as I've never been accused of being a Brad Pitt lookalike or a Tom Cruise clone. I've also never been invited to join a boy band, nor have I been confused with a swoon-worthy poster boy on an idol-infused teenager's tapestry of self-expression. And as far as I know, I have not once in my young life been immortalized in statue as 'Homely The Handsome.'
Homely is, in fact, a family name in which my mother refused to name her child. It was from maleficent tragedy that I was bestowed the 'Homely' fluffernym by my grandfather, Homely Joseph Wardcliff, whom most people just called Homely Joe. My father left before I was born, so my grandfather was who I admired and aspired to be, and he was the profound and amazing influence in my life.
He was a wizard of a private eye who could find anyone or anything in the town of Cactus and beyond. From time to time, he would take me with him when he was working an easy case down in the City of Phoenix. We would sit outside of our motel room and listen to the late-night sounds of the city while having the most amazing conversations about everything that was and all that would be. He taught me everything I know about being a kind, honest, and humble man during those kindred times, and also how to make amazing sandwiches.
My grandfather was indeed an artisan sandwich maker. Who, as a young man living in a small town, decided to combine his love of both the private eye profession and his hand-held deli creations. He owned and operated “Homely Joe's Detection Diner” on Main Street in Cactus.
He worked out of a fifties-style diner. Outside, the lit-up double-sided sign above the door said “Homely Joe's” on top and had a sandwich on one side and a purple eyeball on the other. The sign was somewhat of a Main Street staple in town.
When I was just thirteen years old, my grandfather had gone down to Phoenix to work on a mysterious case he wouldn't talk about. The following morning he was found brutally stabbed to death in room 3A at the Shady Motel. The only things missing from his room were his wallet and his beloved purple fedora hat. The police claimed it was a robbery gone bad, and his killer was never found.
After my grandfather's unsettled demise, on the day of his funeral, I adopted and embraced the name Homely. At that moment, I whispered a heartfelt promise to him as he lay in his coffin. I told him I would never stop looking for the assassin who took him from this life, and I vowed to make his killer pay for what he had done. Danny Durant, who is my best friend in life, stood by my side and vowed to help me keep that promise.
Danny is the ultimate evangelist of non-self-deprecating humor, and someone you might call a “character” in life. We've known each other since we were born, and to be honest, he's more than my best friend; he's my brother.
We grew up together in the town of Cactus, which is located smack dab in the middle of Arizona. It's a small and humble haven that harbors two thousand and seventeen souls. It has both the Cactus Creek and the Cactus River running through it. If you're feeling nostalgic, you can visit the Montezuma Castle Monument, or if you're feeling lucky, you can visit the Montezuma Castle Casino. Main Street is the only main street in Cactus, and we're proud to still be without a single stoplight.
Our family's roots run deep in Cactus. As I mentioned, my grandfather was the Cactus private eye and the sandwich guy. Our mothers were teachers at Cactus Elementary School, and Danny's father was a deputy for the Cactus police department.
Ten years ago, on the fifth anniversary of my grandfather's murder, Danny, his parents, and my mother and I were all headed out of town for a post-graduation camping trip.
As we turned to get on the highway, a local cranked-out truck driver T-boned our RV with such intensity that the death-rig ripped right through the center of our Winnebago, leaving both it and our lives in pieces.
My mother and both of Danny's parents were killed instantly in that catastrophic collision. Danny was paralyzed from the waist down on that horrific day and is now confined to a wheelchair. I suffered a head injury that put me in a coma for several weeks.
When I returned to the conscious world, I had no visible signs of long-term injury other than my complete loss of the ability to see some people in color. It may sound strange, but from time to time, I see certain people in black and white. It's quite surreal seeing everyone and everything around me in vivid colors, but one remains in gray. The doctors couldn't explain this ashen affliction and associated it with a myriad of disorders, ailments, and syndromes, none of which I have.
I also gained a sixth sense of sorts. My psychological state is in something called “hyperawareness.” I have heightened intuition and an acute, perceptional ability to notice odd details in my surroundings that most people would overlook, which can be great for both private detection and sandwich-making. Unfortunately, it also comes with a side of insomnia and lucid dreams, which can be either an extremely pleasant or an extremely horrific experience.
Since he went from strider to glider, Danny's life has been a bit more exciting than mine. He had always been interested in the computer world, and over the last ten years, in the inexorable style of Danny, he has become what I refer to as a “super hacker.” But only I and those closest to us know it.
Over the last several years, he has been quietly running a digital commando hacker group that extends its services to those in need around the country. I often go mobile as his personal P.I. and help him solve his problems when he can't do it digitally.
He's also created a unique Dark Web Artificial Intelligence he dubs S.W.E.E.T.I., which stands for Symbiotic Wizcog Entity Enhanced for Tactical Intelligence. It's a highly enhanced A.I., designed and built solely for how Danny thinks, and works in tandem with him during his quantum escapades. I think they are secretly dating, but he won't admit to it.
When I'm not helping Danny with the analog side of his dirty work, I own and operate “Homely Bo's Detection Diner” on Main Street in Cactus. The diner's open for lunch and dinner. The hours are 10am – 10pm. The inside design has a fifties diner look with a checkerboard floor and a retro revival touch of the eighties. The sign outside says “Homely Bo's Detection Diner” in electric blue and pink neon, above a glowing purple neon eyeball. The sign has become a bit of a Main Street staple in town.
So that's why people call me Homely, and why I'm a private detective; it's also why I make pretty good sandwiches.
As for my recent demise, I've been encouraged to document my dealings with the darkness I encountered on that fateful day. The day that shares the anniversary of both my mother's death and my grandfather's murder. It was the day I met the shadowed man.
