The Nude Delicious People Of Quarryville

Content warning: drug references, descriptions of nudity.

Until this last February, I'd lived for a couple years in a small, mountain town called Lake Wakonoma, Oregon. Population 2,356. Smaller than my high school in Los Angeles. I was working on a game created by two visionary founders who believed they could more quickly achieve their goals by avoiding the myriad of distractions pervasive in chaotic San Francisco. According to the investor pitches, the project was "groundbreaking", revolutionary", and "artificial intelligence challenging the divide between game and reality." Why they'd believed there'd be no impediments associated with hauling a flock of international genius oddballs someplace where we felt and looked like bright green aliens, could be chalked up to youthful naivete, and the normal terrors and escape fantasies of entrepreneurs. But the other reasons for us going there, instead of any other cozy forest hamlet dotting the Pacific Northwest, weren't as readily apparent. I will tell you honestly, as much as I can.

Let me first explain what I know about Scott. Although Scott was a minor figure within the company, he's certainly the main character in all that went down there. And things got so out of hand because he was in the blind spots of both the founders and the Mayor of Lake Wakonoma. It sounds silly, but it was because Scott was an ordinary Northern California guy. He wasn't the kind of brilliance they recognized.

Let me explain. The company, Chicxulub (yes, the asteroid that destroyed the dinosaurs), was fairly small, well-financed, and had attracted a number of leading artificial intelligence and graphics developers from around the world. Before the move, all the "small" jobs like setting up the network, buying hardware, stocking the break room with snacks, were performed by someone with at least one advanced degree and a wall of accolades. After we missed our first major milestone, Vitus, our 20-something wild-haired founder, became aware that this was a problem.

Scott got to know Vitus from the CEO's regular visits to the very nearby Best Buy Electronics where Scott worked and was constantly demonstrating his golden retriever-like energy and loyalty. He'd volunteered to install the office's new entertainment system, create the breakroom items list, brew us a batch of his West Coast IPA. Vitus jokingly referred to him as our best employee. The day before we all left for Oregon, Vitus, feeling overwhelmed, hired Scott on the Best Buy floor, explaining we needed an office manager. Scott immediately dropped everything right then and followed us.

Scott was so helpful and visible those first few days, hauling all the heavy stuff with his football physique, cleaning, stocking, and getting everyone whatever they needed, politely and with a tireless smile. And yet he was promptly out of the office at 6:30 or 7:00 pm every night, well before the rest of us worked until we were sleepy. Vitus slept in the office some nights. He had a comfortable sofa and the office had a shower. That had been an important consideration when choosing office space.

So while we were all focused on building our revolution, and going home late to brush our teeth, sleep, shower and do it all over again, Scott was doing something very different. He was quickly adapting to his new environment, talking to the locals at the nearby businesses, buying clothes from the grocery/hardware store, Darman's, and exploring. He found a local source for his evening smoke, a venue to play guitar and harmonica and a group to do shows with. He'd also quickly discovered his Chicxulub money would get him a lot of attention with the ladies down the road at the truck stop in the nearby town of Pink Salmon. These were things I learned in break room chat or at lunch.

***

Quarryville is not a real town. It's just the name for a legendary, clothing-optional rock quarry that had filled with water in the nearby mountains. Unlike the larger Lake Wakonoma, which was lined with restaurants and shops, had docks, a few noisy boats, people fishing, kids at play - the quarry was quiet and remote. It was gated only by a strenuous two-mile hike up steep switchbacks, and a short vertical chute or "chimney" best scaled with an assistant. On a dusty Summer day, a 20-foot leap into the cold quarry water felt refreshing of not just the body, but of the soul. Or so I was told, by Scott. There was only one photo available on the Google entry for Quarryville and it was a view from the top of the chute looking down at a steep, rocky potential fall.

An evenly bronzed Scott told me about Quarryville sometime early third week after we'd all moved to Oregon. The two of us were at lunch, and he delivered this story about spending Saturday making extra money installing a new security system for Loughy, and Sunday nude sunbathing with the beautiful staff at the Black Sheep beer bar, like it was something everyone did on their day off. No one else in the company could or would climb that chute. Even if a few would be comfortable sunbathing nude, no one else had the time. It was as if he was speaking another language. We had a lot of quirky people in the office. I mean we only had quirky people in the office. But for me, Scott somehow inhabited the least comprehensible space.

I was familiar with the world of the software genius. Our Dutch lead AI programmer, Matthias, was a competition violinist and spoke 11 languages, including Aramaic, which he used to edit his own version of the Gospels in Christ's native tongue. Vitus seriously believed his power came from his orange hair and never cut it. He was a multimillionaire by age 16, having released a hit decryption tool at age 14 that he developed into a successful franchise of security products. The other co-founder, Loughy, held several patents related to light-based data storage, projected image fidelity, and lens manufacture, and was into bondage, anime, and the furry subculture. Gadi, who worked on something so top secret that I stopped inquiring, was formerly an internationally ranked chess player, repaired mechanical watches for fun and held PhDs in Philosophy, Mathematics, Biology and Statistics from three elite American universities. As a young man, he was part of a group responsible for the first reliably successful AI stock trading agent. All this seemed quite normal to me. Passionate, competitive, obsessive people frantically operating within various games of achievement and dominance. In some ways, Scott understood the opposite -- the game-making forces that create environments in which the rest of us play.

***

We were all paid well, I assumed, even though I didn't have any knowledge of anyone else's salary but mine. Salary negotiation was as simple as throwing out a large number and Vitus promptly agreeing. I knew I deserved it. There were nice cars out in the lot, even Scott's. His was nothing flashy. A garden variety Tesla bought 100 miles away in Eugene. But I didn't notice anything telling until we'd been there over a year. And it sort of started popping up around the same time. Gadi noticed Scott's watch -- a Vacheron Constantin Harmony in rose gold. Scott claimed it was nothing special, so Gadi rattled off a litany of highlights.

"And that is a woman's watch, my friend," Gadi added with a soft, authoritative tap of the table. "And worth north of $20,000."

It was true -- at least the lady's part. The timepiece and wristband looked tiny at the end of Scott's oversized forearm.

"It was a gift from my grandmother." Scott lied like a child, knowing neither of us believed him.

I never saw him wear the watch again.

Some weeks later, I saw him in the city of Bend in a luxurious white Mercedes-Maybach. I was spending a weekend away painfully failing at snowboarding, staying at a spa recommended by Loughy. In the upstairs lounge, having my morning long black at the window, I observed the ski resort town's bustling street scene -- and there he was, across the street. Like a valet, keys in hand, he was sprinting from the Hotel Bravada and jumping into the passenger's seat of the posh landaulette. An older woman, who I didn't recognize, was driving. It was so odd. I recognized his hair, stride, build. Then he got out of the car, removed a number of small gift boxes from the back seat and placed them in the trunk. Those trademark clear sunglasses. It was Scott. And then he put himself in the back seat, behind the driver. This was certainly none of my business.

Before you ask, I never inquired about it because I wasn't going to get the honest truth. And I didn't want an explanation anyway because it was none of my business.

A few weeks later, I showed him a Central Oregon real estate magazine, with him in a suit, big arms expanded wide, those clear shades, in a low flying drone shot of a sprawling, white picket fenced ranch. Maybe I'd mistakenly thought he might be just a tad embarrassed by it? He confessed he was really hungover after a sleepless night, and they'd cleaned him up for the shoot.

"A friend really needed my help," he explained. He really did look like a handsome, loyal dog sometimes. Adding later with a smile, "I feel like a hero serving damsels in distress."

***

When we would go out, Scott would carry a rolled up wad of bills, mostly 20s, and almost never paid with a card or touch pay. He seemed to enjoy stripping off bills in a regular cadence, always in front of whomever we were paying. When I asked if he didn't think payment with a card was more secure he said, "Do you think anyone in this town would mess with these?" He alternately flexed his pecs under his shirt.

But then one night, he emailed me with the subject line "URGENT friend" about 12:30 am. It was sent from a Gmail account. I was still at Black Sheep winding down from work. He was at the hotel in Pink Salmon, and needed me to pick him up. He explained that he didn't have his phone. I needed to reply by email. He was communicating from the hotel lobby computer. He'd see me when I arrived.

When I got to the hotel he rushed out cheerfully, maybe victoriously. When I mentioned his swelling blackened eye, I could hear what was coming...

"YOU SHOULD HAVE SEEN THE OTHER GUY!"

He thanked me profusely, offered to pay me money, and mentioned an important early appointment with a real estate agent.

"So someone finally messed with those pecs. Do you have your roll of cash?"

"I have my dignity, my friend. Some cash and an old mobile phone are of little consequence." He had a streak of blood over his smile.

"Scott, you are actually still bleeding. Are you sure you're okay? What happened?" I directed him to the first aid kit in the glove box.

Scott threw out a wild story about a woman he was dating, with a salacious account of her private parts, a door being suddenly and completely demolished, and a naked defenestrated retreat from a jealous 300-pound husband. It seemed almost believable. But he was wearing his own clothes. Whatever high he was on, he'd be coming down from soon. We both needed to get home and sleep. I was glad to be of assistance to a friend who'd done so much for me. It was his nature to serve. To be able to help someone like him, felt karmically adjusting.

***

The Mayor of Lake Wakonoma was a small, accountant-looking gentleman, and completely oversized for the town. He owned a timber company known throughout the United States. I won't mention the name of the company for the record to avoid any legal troubles. Let's call him "Mr Brown". Brown had large mansions throughout Oregon and Washington but chose to live most of the year up the mountain from Lake Wakonoma, where he'd grown up. Mrs Brown was also from town, a childhood sweetheart, although she wasn't around much at all. She preferred living a more active, pampered, social life in the cities. "Most often Seattle" was used to describe her preference in a Pacific Northwest magazine dedicated to the fine arts and its patrons.

Our first dinner in Lake Wakonoma was with the Browns and one of their grown children, on the terrace of what used to be a public restaurant at their estate. The founders and the Browns seemed to get along well. Mr Brown told me personally that he was happy we'd come to town and were part of his revitalization efforts. It was the reason, he said, that we had gigabit internet speeds before any other remote hamlet in the state. The views of the stars above and lake below, and the forest aromas, were all spectacular. Let's be honest, I live most my life indoors, reading scientific research papers and writing code, but it feels liberating to simply step outside into such a beautiful and relaxed setting. Far more trees than people.

Loughy and Vitus had each purchased enormous multi-level modern homes built into the mountain on the other side of the river. I had no idea the developer was associated with Mr Brown. We noticed that over the course of our first year, a number of new businesses had sprung up along East Main. Our paychecks were helping rebuild the town, and we hadn't been the only new company in what was dubbed locally as the "Silicon Forest". There was a music studio downriver built right on the water, that was owned by Beyonce Knowles. And a barn on Mountain Pass Rd was turned into a movie studio for the production of a new forest-setting Netflix series, called The Sasquatches. Business on Main was still occasionally quiet. People came here to get away. But property values were soaring, and most of us were glad we chose to buy new homes instead of rent. All the rentals we'd been shown were old dumps.

***

A painter, signing paintings "Jonassen", had opened a studio just across the alley from the Victorian Hotel, replacing the front walls of the old real estate office with huge panes of thick glass. Her large scale paintings in the windows were marked by expansive settings, elegant fauvish figures, and shimmering metallic light. A printed card near the entrance listed available works and prices from $8000.

I remember the day things really started to come together - and fall apart. I'd introduced myself to Clara Jonassen on a quiet, early Saturday morning as I passed the shop. I complimented her on her extraordinary work. The way her carefully crafted colors brought out subtle emotion and vitality - a visible inner life force. I'd mentioned the Matisse-like elements in her painting of a Lake Wakonoma scene. She was grateful for the attention. She wanted to show me one of her rarer small format paintings that she thought I might really love. I walked with her toward the rear of the studio and as I stood waiting outside her office, I got a wide-eyed glimpse... of Scott!

It was Scott. Undeniably Scott. At the quarry. He was nude. Head cocked, winking in the brightness, a taut musculature reflecting the sun, and with exaggerated swollen sun-baked red genitals. A reference photo was attached to the easel showing Scott with his arm around a lanky sandy-haired girl, clearly adoring him, absent from the painting.

Clara returned with the smaller painting but I was still ensconced in this brazen confession.

"It's not for sale. A commissioned painting for a client," Clara explained.

"Yes, Mrs Brown." I guessed, with false certainty.

"Yes, is it so obvious?" Clara tried to get my attention by waving the small blue and green-hued canvas in front of me.

I took a step forward and past it though, and leaned down to see the title that I read aloud, "The Nude Delicious People Of Quarryville."

"The title is Mrs Brown's."

Of course. I knew this was the tip of the iceberg, and without my saying a word, things would be changing soon thereafter. I sold my house and moved to Portland because my work on the project was done, I missed the city, and I'd found work at a more established company.

***

I insist that's the extent of what I know.

The company's attorney received a similar statement. I know nothing of Scott's alleged drug pipeline, any blackmail, him being "shared with friends", any more about his real estate, other "services"... Scott shared nothing of that with me. I was also completely unaware that the Browns had been investors in Chicxulub. Nor of Loughy's nearby cannabis farms. I knew Scott as a polite, well-liked, dutiful servant to the company.

***

When Scott's bloated, footless body floated to the surface at the quarry, weeks after he'd gone missing, the investigation concerned itself with what seemed like trivial details. Types of pollen found in the floor mats of his car, small clothing details, a number of items recovered from Scott's three local residences including fishing equipment, hunting knives, and two drugs - cocaine and MDMA - found in a small ribboned gift box. An autopsy was never performed. The cause of death was listed as "accidental drowning". His confused, distraught sister told me that his estate was valued at more than $3.6 million. A weeping Mrs Brown attended the funeral with a small entourage.