The Center for Cretaceous Studies

You have to be from here. That’s all there is to it. I grew up with ‘it’ because I’ve lived in Chicago all 24 years of my life. Everyone here knows about ‘it’. Like alligators in New York sewers, Bigfoot in Kansas, the moon landings of the 1990’s, ‘it’ is just there. Common knowledge, y’know?

Over time ‘it’ rumors mutated into some evil madman named “Dr. Beckmann”. He was the one responsible. He started it. Of course, no one knew a thing about this psychopath. No one had ever met the lunatic, yet everyone knew ‘it’ was of his doing and whatever he kept in that secret dungeon no one had ever seen. Come on, everyone knows there’s going to be a secret dungeon involved with these kinds of mental cases.

‘Adult’ myth information came as you matured beyond “boogey monster”, but most likely because your bff Em overheard adults talking about it at length in the next room.

Em would be Emma Knight Shymalan, my bud. We are, were, and forever will be, inseparable. “Right, Em?”

“Yeah, whatever. You got a lighter?”

Sigh. I truly believe Em had a cigarette in her hand when she popped out at the hospital. She also swears too much, something I’ve tried to clean up in this presentation as much as possible.

Meanwhile, back to ‘it’: Every once in a while something just didn’t add up. Like, a guy knew a guy who knew a gal who knew a guy who knew someone that had suddenly vanished. Just like The Jerk.

That would be my ex.

I think ‘it’ ate my ex, The Jerk. Well, at least I hope it did. We’d been married for three wonderful, “Don’t worry, honey, I’ll get a job” months when he took off one morning never to return. Like I said, he was The Jerk. Not just a jerk; The Jerk. He left me with bills, a beat-up Dodge on its last legs, and no source of viable income.

You went about your life. I, for example, was in the middle of my sixth year of junior college, studying journalism in hopes of becoming an investigative reporter like Jerry Springer or Maury. I put up with the cross-town commute to school from my old upstairs bedroom at my parents’ house because it was cheaper than getting a place of my own. I didn’t care much for moving back home, but thanks to The Jerk I didn’t have much choice. Besides, my transportation was dependable, thank you, though she would never be the apple of any carjacker’s eye. That was fine with me.

Emma, the Dodge on its last legs, was named after my life-long friend. She’s a decade older but smokes only half as much as her namesake. Em often said Emma would be the death of me. She also said The Jerk didn’t deserve me. When she said things like that, I always remember that’s why I put up with her cursing like a sailor and smoking like a chimney.

It was winter, the week before holiday break, when ‘it’ and I crossed paths. My Journalism 6515 teacher, Mr. Kent Ritewell, had informed the class we’d be submitting a term paper by the end of the semester on an event, place, or time, requiring investigative work. He recommended we use the holiday time off to determine that subject.

Naturally the two Emmas and I went out partying. We spent the entire evening hopping from one college party to another. We were headed for one final appearance before calling it a night. I clearly recall ‘It’ crossing our path at sunrise, or as the police report said: 10:17 a.m. The conversation leading up to it kinda went like this:

“Ode! Did you see her come on to him?

“Yeah, that was distur… oh geez. Look at this traffic.”

“Oh man, we’re never gonna make Mark’s place if… hey, it’s clear on my side.”

“Em, your side is the sidewalk!”

“And I’m telling you it’s clear. C’mon! You only need to make it down to the intersection – not even that far. Maybe 50 feet.”

And so, with one formerly fully functional parking meter lodged into the driver’s side rear wheel well and another dragging beneath, we rolled merrily on down the sidewalk.

Now, the guy who threw himself onto the hood and into Emma’s windshield, listed in the police report as ‘Pedestrian D’ (Pedestrians A-C? Don’t ask), didn’t even look up. That seemed like negligence on his part if you ask me.

As is her style to understate the obvious, a wide-eyed Em, frozen in her seat with arms outstretched, still braced for impact, screamed, “DID YOU SEE THAT?” at what I guessed was in reference to Pedestrian D splatted across Emma’s caved-in windshield. An unlit cigarette resembling elbow macaroni hung from her lower lip.

“ODE! QUICK! USE THE WIPERS!”

“NO! AND… WHY?”

“WHY NOT!?!”

“I DON’T HAVE WIPERS!”

One arm of Windshield Man looked bad, like a wild animal had ripped off a leg of lamb and flung it onto Emma’s hood. It was bleeding worse than the time I used Dad’s razor to shave my legs. Em got out/fell out of her side. Wobbling toward the hood, I believe she was about to demonstrate how an inebriated CSI person would handle the situation, though I doubt any CSI person would throw up on the sidewalk.

“God, Ode! I think he’s dead!”

“No he’s not! No he’s not! No he snot!” I machine-gunned, hyperventilating.

“How the hell do you know?”

“Because… if he was dead… he wouldn’t… be twitching like that. Right?”

“Good point,” admitted the boozed-up, 4th year junior college nursing student, catching her breath.

Slowly Em evaluated the situation. Or maybe she was waiting for the remaining beer to stop sloshing around in her stomach. I watched transfixed from the driver’s seat as she stumbled back, then reached over the hood for Windshield Man’s coat.

“Holy crap,” Em whispered to herself. “Dr. S Beckmann.”