Mack White

THE RIVER, Part Nine

2014-04-01T23:56:00.000-05:00

We rowed on in anxious silence. I could not take my eyes off the light beyond the trees. I hoped the light belonged to the Highway 67 bridge, but it seemed too bright, as if emanating from a terrible blinding supernatural core.

I was sure I was in a Bardo dream. The couple by the river talking about death was just the sort of thing you might dream in that in-between state, unable to believe you were dead … clinging to the illusion of life while your unconscious tried to communicate the truth: that you are dead, no longer a person on planet Earth, and are about to come face to face with Eternity.

It’s not the mushrooms, I thought. This is real. I’m dead. But I'm not ready to be dead. Please God, don't take me now. I’ll do better. I haven’t been myself since the divorce. I've been partying too hard, but I’ll do better and I’ll take better care of myself. I can’t die now. It would hurt too many people and my child needs me. I can do better. I've been stupid. Stupid to do drugs and stupid to go on this canoe trip and get injured and do drugs at the same time. And I can make better use of the talent you gave me, God. I have squandered my talent and my time on trivialities. I can do better. I can make a difference. Please let me live."

“Hear that?” said Jim.

“Hear what?”

“Cars,” he said pointing ahead. I heard them too. My heart leapt. We rounded the bend and there it was, the Highway 67 bridge and cars passing back and forth in the highway lights.

“We’re alive,” said Jim, laughing.

* * *

Seventeen years have passed since that canoe trip. I can still touch my thigh and feel the dead tissue. The injury left a scar but that is all it left, a scar. I am alive.

Jim is no longer alive. We enjoyed another decade of friendship, then he was taken away by cancer. When he died, we had been friends 45 years.

He lived with us during the months he went through chemo. There was not a lot of time for fun. He was awful sick and mostly kept to his room, and I was under a deadline trying to finish a comic book called Texas Tales.

But in the evenings when I had finished the day’s work, I would go back to his room and see how he was doing, and if he was up for it, we would smoke a joint and talk and laugh about old times, including our brush with death on the Brazos and our unexpected baptism by the Arms of God.

We did not talk about the current situation. I did not want to bring it up. It was my function, I thought, to keep it positive and encourage Jim to believe he could do it, he could beat the Big C, and later this would be another story we could laugh about later.

But one day he walked into my studio. He was so frail, no longer the strong athletic man he had been on our canoe adventure—so frail and cold, he shivered all the time and wore gloves (with fingers exposed) he was so cold. He sat down on the other side of my desk and rolled a joint, and we smoked, and he said, “I know this is hard for you watching your best friend die.”

I couldn’t say anything. I just took the joint he held out to me and we smoked silently, looking out the window at the traffic on the highway and listening to the music in the afternoon light.

THE END

THE RIVER, Part Eight

2014-03-15T01:38:00.002-05:00

What am I doing on this stupid river, I thought. Middle of the night, injured, tripping, and any minute might fall in the river and drown.

What am I doing with my life?

Forty-five years old, thinking I can pick up where I left off. Thinking I can go home again.

No one gets to go home again. No one gets to be 19 again, and if you blow it at 19 you live with the consequences and you can't go back.

What’s wrong with me, doing drugs at my age and canoeing. What do I know about canoeing? What do I know about life, for that matter?

If only I hadn’t married so young, maybe now I wouldn’t be trying to make up for lost time.

I have given so much, but now am empty handed. I deserve to have my youth given back to me. I deserve to live life to the fullest.

I could have accomplished so much. I coulda’ been a contender. Is it too late?

We rowed on through the darkness, less dark now. A few stars and the moon had broken through the clouds.

Suppose I had died today? What would I have left behind … a foreshortened life, a few pieces of artwork and some clever writing, a handful of comic books, and many shocked friends and a grieving family. My parents, my daughter now in college, my sister, my nephews, all grieving … my girlfriend waiting in our Austin apartment for me to come home from this fool canoe trip …

Yes, suppose I had died … or suppose I did die.

Yes, suppose I died today and suppose that everything since, including this right now, rowing on and on in the darkness is a Bardo dream and my Life Review.

“Almost there,” said Jim, pointing ahead to a bright glow beyond the black trees at the bend of the river.

“Almost where?”

“The bridge.”

“What bridge?”

“The bridge.”

“No,” I said, “that’s the Great White Light. We died back there …”

“You’re tripping.”

“No, we died back there.”

Jim rowed on, saying nothing. I could tell he was thinking I might be right.

The bend of the river slowly approached. What would we see? The Highway 67 bridge or the Great White Light of All Being? Were we living or dead?

We rowed on in anxious silence …

(To be continued)

THE RIVER, Part Seven

2014-03-06T00:33:00.005-06:00

We rowed on as the night continued to darken and the quiet deepened.

There was only the croak of frogs and the occasional splash of a catfish, and always the river lapping against the canoe and the knowledge we could tumble over any time into the black water and be lost in the Brazos … taken away by the Arms of God.

Taken away before I’m ready, I thought and closed my eyes.

So many taken before. So many, and their cold white arms reaching up from the inky depths. Did you think you would live forever?

I took deep breaths, wishing I had brought my Xanax. But no, I had thrown away the Xanax weeks ago, and had brought only mushrooms and weed. Idiot.

I curled up into a fetal position. Every sound made me start …

On a river night you can hear so impossibly far. Voices miles away seem just around the bend echoing towards you, but not shouting but talking in conversational tones.

We heard two people talking, a man and a woman. As people often do sitting by the river at night, they were talking about Eternity …

The man said, “I don’t know what happens when we die. Maybe nothing, maybe something. Either way death scares me, I don’t mind admitting.”

The woman said, “It scares me too, but I think there’s something beyond the grave. Maybe not life as we know it, but something. Something larger than us, but something we were always a part of. Whatever that thing is, I don’t think it ever dies.”

“Maybe not,” said the man. “I just hope that—someone’s coming.”

They stopped talking and watched our canoe glide into the light of the kerosene lantern that hung outside their tent. They were sitting in folding chairs on the river bank with their drinks and fishing poles.

The man sang out, “Howdy!”

“Howdy!” Jim sang back.

“Good night for canoeing?”

“Fine night,” replied Jim.

We rowed on. The couple watched silently, then resumed their conversation. Evidently they did not know we could hear them. The woman said, “My god, Steve, they’re canoeing in the dark. You think they’ll be okay?”

“Aw yeah,” he said, hesitating. “Your eyes adjust in the dark. They’ll be just fine, I think.”

Then they went back to talking about Eternity, and slowly their voices faded away as we moved farther down the river and deeper into darkness …

(To be continued)

THE RIVER, Part Six

2014-01-31T22:29:00.002-06:00

The river widened and began to darken. Sunlight strobed through the trees on the western bank, flashing Navajo sun patterns.

At a bend in the river, Jim pointed ahead. “Sawtooth,” he said, and I saw what he meant: rows of cedar, sawtooth-shaped, casting shadows up the reddening hillside. The sun was setting.

I peered into the thicket and saw a pair of eyes glinting in the wooded deeps … the eyes of a Comanche in full headdress and war paint, slowly turning his head and watching as we drifted past—a trick of the twilight? or the mushrooms, or both? or an actual time warp, or all of the above?

Night fell. The moon rose … a Comanche Moon, full and fat and orange—and beautiful, but if you gazed into its mysteries too long, it took on a malevolent aspect … I saw one of its gray fissures turn into a menacing leer … now the moon was a disembodied jack-o-lantern laughing at our doom—

The canoe wobbled. My heart leapt. We tumbled headfirst in a burst of water, lost in the vast cold river of darkness, the harbor of many a bloated body and lost soul anchored forever in the unforgiving depths and forgotten …

“How’s the leg?” asked Jim.

“What?”

“How are you feeling? You hollered. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Jim rowed on, the canoe steady and gliding forward in the orange Comanche Moon. I thought of all the death beneath us in the catfish-swarming abyss and all the tales of drowning and horrid loss my father told me, and remembered the death I’d seen with my own eyes on a tributary of this river, Mustang Creek 1968 … three lives lost in the raging night … the little girl’s bloated body lifted from a motorboat in the terrible morning light.

And now I was worried for my own life. I watched Jim row, and also watched the path ahead. It was night, not the best time to be canoeing on the river, but we had the advantage of moonlight … and yet, the light could also play tricks on the eyes, I noticed. An obstacle—a tree branch floating in the flood-swollen river—could be easily spotted, yes, but sometimes the interplay of light and shadow (and mushrooms) made obstacles appear that were not there, causing Jim sometimes to swerve needlessly, which in turn caused the canoe to dangerously tilt. Not just once, but many times …

And what if we capsized in the middle of darkness? It would not be as before in the sunlight, in shallow water, when we had a chance to survive the suck of the whirlpool and death trap of the tree. No, death … Death would take us tonight … forget our things; the backpacks, paddles, canoe and such—there would be no light to see by and salvage anything, let alone ourselves. We would die.

But I am wearing my life jacket now, I thought. I could survive … but what about Jim? … he’s still using his for a seat cushion … what if he goes into the water and never comes up, and it’s just me out here in the water and dark, alone?

“Say, Jim,” I said, “can you see all right in this dark?”

“Oh yeah,” he said. “My eyes have adjusted. I can see just fine. Don’t you worry about a thing …”

I tried not to worry. But the moon disappeared behind the clouds and the night grew darker than ever, and quieter. Bullfrogs croaked in the dark, and they seemed to croak these words, “Stop. Stop. Stop.”

“Maybe we should stop,” I said to Jim, “and camp for the night. Let the mushrooms wear off. Finish in the morning.”

He shook his head. “Nah, this is nothing. We’ll be back in Cleburne by midnight, trust me.”

(To be continued …)

THE RIVER, Part Five

2014-01-25T19:02:00.003-06:00

We rowed on—or rather, Jim rowed.

The instant ice pack gradually lost its effectiveness, and with no real ice to replace it, the burning and throbbing in my leg increased. I was glad Jim was doing the rowing.

It occurred to me some weed might ease the pain. I lit a joint and passed it to Jim. He stopped rowing long enough to take a few hits, then passed the joint back to me and resumed rowing.

I finished the joint. The weed distanced me from the pain, and for the first time since the accident I began to relax, gazing at the oak and mesquite-lined banks and cedar-spotted hills beyond, all mirrored on the river's flowing surface. I was at peace—

Then the canoe wobbled. My heart jumped. I braced myself for another spill ... but it didn’t happen.

I tried to relax again, but couldn't. In the aftermath of the accident, the river no longer seemed so benign; it was no longer simply the life-giver, but also the life-taker. The Arms of God are not always kind, I realized.

And yet, the river was so beautiful, more beautiful somehow knowing this truth—that it can do both, give or take life, as it chooses. And in my slow-motion motion struggle with the canoe, it had done both at once; taken me to the edge of the abyss, then brought me back.

I had come to the river, still reeling from the shock of my divorce some months earlier, a broken man in his late 40s feeling dead inside and hopeless, and now I felt more alive than I had felt in a long time …

“You know what happened back there, don't you,” I said to Jim.

“What do you mean?”

“Back at that whirlpool—what happened.”

“We nearly died.”

“Yeah, nearly died, but didn't. We got our lives back, man. We were reborn.”

“Yeah,” said Jim, “I guess you could look at it that way.”

“It was a baptism,” I went on, “a full-immersion baptism, hard-core Baptist style. Only it wasn't done by a preacher, it was done by God Himself … the Arms of God.”

“Los Brazos de Dios.”

“Yes. We were baptized by the Arms of God.”

Jim chuckled. “I like that. Baptized by the Arms of God ...”

And he started singing the words as he rowed. He always had an ear for a good song, Jim did.

I remembered the mushrooms. We had planned to eat them that night after finding a campsite, but our plans had changed; we wouldn't be camping. It followed, then, that now was the right time, while the memory of my brush with death was fresh and I was close to God.

“Let’s do the mushrooms,” I said.

Jim was agreeable, so I got them out. Jim only wanted a couple. I ate a fistful and waited for them to take effect as we glided down the river through the lengthening tree shadows ...

(To be continued ...)

THE RIVER, Part Four

2014-01-13T17:04:00.000-06:00

The metal edge of the upside-down canoe tightened its grip on my leg, pulling me down deeper into the water.

I tried to free myself, but couldn't. The only way I could free myself, I knew in a slow-motion instant, was to injure myself.

And knew that whatever injury I sustained would be nothing compared to what would occur if I did not act. And act NOW.

I pulled myself free, feeling the canoe tear the tissue along my thigh in one blinding flash of pain.

The canoe shot under the tree and came up the other side, sending up a great wave of water on our side that tossed us over the tree like rag dolls—sharp branches ripping my shirt and scraping my chest—and landed us on the sandy shore of the island.

I was dazed. My thigh was numb and stung at the same time. I sat up and looked at it, and to my horror saw a huge blood-streaked bruise several inches in diameter—the damage so deep that to this day, 15 years later, I can touch that area as I write this and feel a lump of dead tissue.

Meanwhile, Jim had gone back into the water and was struggling with the canoe, trying to pull it free of the whirlpool. I went to help him—wincing as the water touched my bruise—and we wrestled the canoe free and carried it to shore. Then we went back into the water and began working fast, grabbing things on the perimeter of the whirlpool and tossing them onto shore and hurrying back for more.

We worked our way towards the things bobbing around in the center of the whirlpool—but the swirl was so strong we could not keep our footing. We had to grab hold of low hanging branches and climb out over the whirlpool and reach down to grab our things—paddles, backpacks, bottles of water, this and that—out of the vortex.

We managed to save everything except for our lunch meat, ice, soda pops, and other things that fell out of the ice chest, and one of Jim’s shoes, which the whirlpool flung around the island into the open river. We watched it float away, too tired to catch it.

Jim took his remaining shoe and threw it into the water. “Those were my river shoes,” he said. “I always wore them when I came out here. Well, they belong to the river now.”

I sat down and looked at my bruise. It was really starting to hurt. It burned and throbbed. Jim saw it for the first time. “Oh my god!” he exclaimed.

Fortunately, I had thought to bring a first-aid kit. I took out the cold pack, but couldn’t snap it open. Jim opened it, and I placed it on the bruise. It started giving me some relief.

I remembered my wallet, and reaching into the back pocket of my shorts was relieved to find it still there. But the dollar bills inside were soaked. I spread them out on the ground, anchored them with rocks to keep them from blowing away, and let them dry in the sun.

Then I took inventory of the items in my backpack. Some water had leaked in, but not much. I looked through the lens of my camera; it was blurry with water. Only time would tell if it was damaged.

I checked our stash. Everything was dry. I had had the foresight to pack everything—joints, lighter, mushrooms—inside a quadruple layer of plastic bags inside the backpack. I lit a joint.

Jim was surprised when I handed it to him. “You saved the dope!” he exclaimed.

“Yes,” I said, “I know my priorities.” We smoked, staring at the whirlpool, and were quiet a long time. Then Jim said, “That was stupid.”

“Yes it was,” I said, “but we're alive.”

“Barely.”

“Yeah, we shouldn't have rowed into that situation blind.”

“Don't tell George about this.”

“I won't.”

“He'll call us amateurs. 'Rank amateurs,' that's what he'll say.”

“What should we do now? Do you want to camp here? Seems as good a place as any, and I'm in no hurry to get back on the river.”

Jim thought a minute. “No,” he said, “the sleeping bags are wet, we don't have any ice, and you're injured.”

“I'm okay, I think.”

He looked at my bruise. “I don't know. That's the worst bruise I've ever seen. It might get infected. You could get blood poisoning. No, let's push on. I’ve had it with this damn river. I want to sleep in my own bed tonight.”

We loaded the canoe and rowed away from the island. This time I put on my life jacket, but Jim continued using his for a seat cushion.

Jim said, “I’ll row. You rest.”

“I can row.”

Jim shook his head. “No, we’ve got a long way to go. You take it easy. Stay hydrated. I'll row.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I did all the rowing when Eddie Ray had his heat stroke. I can do it now.”

(To be continued …)

THE RIVER, Part Three

2014-01-12T16:17:00.000-06:00

We started around the island. The current quickened and we heard the burbling of water ahead, just beyond the bend. We rowed on.

The current continued to quicken. We were going at a good clip. This made it easier to row, but the energy saved was quickly spent just keeping the canoe stable as we moved into the curve.

The burbling—a pleasant sound at first, and suggestive of a peaceful, secluded brook—grew louder and began to sound like rushing water. Which caused me a flicker of concern. Were there rapids ahead? Surely not. This was not the Guadalupe or Rio Grande where the rapids are fierce; this was the Brazos, a river not known for rapids. And if there were rapids, we could easily navigate them, I thought. Or turn around if they looked unnavigable and take the other side of the island.

We rowed on. The rushing sound grew louder and the current still faster, carrying us—along with increasing amounts of leaves, tree limbs, and other bits of river debris also caught in the current—with increasing speed and turbulence into the bend.

It would have still been possible at that point, I think, to break free of the current and turn around. But neither Jim nor I saw any danger, thus we kept rowing forward, riding the faster-and-faster current straight into the narrowing stream of water that separated the island from the shore.

Only when we had cleared the bend and were actually in the eight foot-wide stream did we see the problem. My heart jumped. Jim gasped, “Oh my god.”

Twenty or so feet away, a great tree had fallen from shore to island, its half-submerged trunk not only creating a natural bridge from shore to island, but also—here was the danger—a wall towards which we were now hurtling at breathtaking speed.

Now we tried turning the canoe around. We dug our paddles into the current and fought it, but it was too strong. We could only manage a half turn, which meant that now our canoe was hurtling sideways into the tree.

Seconds from impact, we thrust out our paddles, both thinking the same thing (there was no time to talk about it): that the paddles might cushion our collision and keep the canoe upright.

But this strategy was quickly proven wrong; the canoe flipped over, dumping everything in one great splash—ice chest, life jackets, shoes, food, backpacks, paddles, ourselves—into waist-deep, cold water and a powerful suction that instantly yanked everything under the tree.

Everything, that is, except for us and the canoe, and the canoe (being between us and the tree) was next. We grabbed it …

And here I must take a minute to describe what Jim and I perceived in a second—that beyond the tree all our things were spinning in a massive whirlpool that would soon fling them around the other side of the island into the open river and be lost.

In other words, we were about to lose the canoe, as well as the deposit I had paid on the canoe, not to mention the deposit on the paddles and life jackets, and also everything else, including my backpack which contained my wallet, etc.

We grabbed the canoe—it was upside down and going under the tree—and struggled to hold on, tried to pull it free, but the suction was stronger.

The canoe went under, its sharp metal edge catching me by the left thigh and pulling me down deeper into the water …

Instantly (yet in slow motion) I understood my situation: I would soon be underwater and trapped beneath the canoe and tree, and if I did not drown first, the suction would pull the canoe clear of the tree, shearing off my leg in the process. Either way I would die.

Which meant I had to pull my leg out NOW—not later, because there was no later, not even a second to spare or think about it if I wanted to save my leg and life …

(To be continued ...)

THE RIVER, Part Two

2013-12-15T17:55:00.000-06:00

It had been an unusually rainy spring with heavy storms all across Texas, therefore the river was running high.

“This is a lot better than last time,” said Jim. “Last time we were in a drought. The river was so shallow in some places we had to carry the canoes. Then Eddie Ray had his heat-stroke and we had to carry him too.”

“Wow," I said, "that must have been some work.”

“Yes,” said Jim. “Plus it was in a hundred-degree heat. It's a wonder we all didn't have heat strokes. But this is much better. This won't hardly be any work at all. Let's take a break.”

He stopped paddling. I did the same. The canoe did not need our help; the current was so strong it did not need our help at all.

Jim made himself more comfortable. He lay down in the canoe with his feet propped up on the ice chest and the back of his head on the seat, using his life jacket as a pillow, relaxed and enjoying the blue morning sky.

The canoe began slowly turning in circles, but kept on course down the middle of the river. It was so pleasant, riding the canoe round and round in those lazy circles, enjoying the landscape and river and sky, and so quiet—just the water lapping against the canoe or a fish splashing or a bird calling from the wooded deeps. I could not remember when I had felt so carefree and dreamy and relaxed. Not one tense muscle, not a worry in my head, perfect contentment ...

“This is the life,” I said.

Jim smiled. “Yeah.”

“You were right. This is just what I needed. I feel like a new man.”

“That's wonderful.”

“Yes, I feel young again, like I've been reborn.”

The canoe was turning faster now—so fast it felt like a playground merry-go-round, which made me feel younger than ever.

“Wheeeee!” I went, and we laughed.

I love this river, I thought, and remembered the good times: camping and fishing with my father, and later as a teenager going to the river with Jim and other friends to get high and party. And then, afterwards, all those years when I only saw the river from highway bridges—the I-35 bridge in Waco mainly, traveling from Austin to North Texas to visit family and old friends—and always when I crossed the bridge looking at the river with longing.

I went away, I thought, but the Brazos River has always been here waiting for me. The good old Brazos, waiting for me to come home. Los Brazos de Dios, the Arms of God, waiting to receive me.

“Rio de los Brazos de Dios,” I said aloud.

“What?” said Jim.

“That's the full name of the Brazos. It means the Arms of God.”

“I didn't know that.”

“You know how it got that name?”

Suddenly the canoe—going faster and faster, uncontrolled—wobbled, threatening to capsize. I grabbed my paddle. Jim jumped up and grabbed his, and we got the canoe under control.

“That was close,” I said.

“Yeah,” said Jim, “this current is really moving fast. We'll have to be more careful.”

We rowed on without further incident, working hard but comfortably seated on our life jackets and enjoying the fine morning.

As it got later, other canoeists began appearing on the river. As we passed them—or they us—we would exchange hellos. Life on the river was lazy and free and friendly.

The sun climbed higher. It grew warmer. We were getting tired and hungry and wanted to smoke a joint. So we started looking for a place to land.

It took a while, for the banks along this stretch of river were too dense with foliage, or steep or both, for a landing. But eventually we saw an island up ahead that looked good.

The island was not in the middle of the river, but close to shore. In fact, it was so close to shore it might have been a peninsula for all we knew; we could not see all the way around it. Not that it mattered whether it was a peninsula or an island; it had a smooth sandy bank that was perfect for a canoe landing and would be a good place to laze away an hour or so before continuing our journey.

The logical place to land was on the side of the island facing the river—that is, it was closer. But, as we neared the island, I said, “Let's take the other side.”

I can't remember exactly why I said this. It was an impulsive decision that sprang from a spirit of discovery, I seem to recall. The side facing the open river was visible and known; the shoreward side was mysterious and might lead to something wonderful: a secret grotto perhaps, or shaded waterfall where I could cool my feet in the rushing water and have a smoke while gazing up dreamily into the rustling oaks …

It was not the logical choice, you see, but the emotional or idealistic one. Anyway, logical or idealistic, did it matter which side? One side of an island is as good as another one, is it not?

This is the best I can reconstruct the reason for my choice of the shoreward side. Suffice to say that when I voiced this idea to Jim, he saw nothing wrong with it. Thus, we started rowing towards to the shoreward side …

(To be continued)

THE RIVER, Part One

2013-12-01T19:27:00.001-06:00

It was an early morning in June and there was a light rain. We were headed west on Highway 67 to the Brazos River. I was driving.

“I hope this rain stops,” I said.

“It will,” said Jim. “The weatherman says it will clear out of here before the morning is over. It’s gonna’ be a perfect day.”

It was not a long drive. We reached the river in less than half-an-hour, and on the east side of the bridge pulled up in front of a canoe rental place and went inside. The rain had let up and now the sun was breaking through the clouds.

“You were right,” I said. “Looks like it’s gonna’ be a perfect day.”

We rented an aluminum canoe. It came with paddles and two life jackets. A big guy named loaded it into the back of a pickup. We transferred our sleeping bags, ice chest, sacks of food, and other items from my car into the pickup. Then we hopped in and Buddy drove us to the drop-off point several miles to the south.

As we bumped along the dirt road, Buddy looked at Jim and said, “You’ve been out here before, haven’t you?”

“Yeah,” said Jim, “a couple of years ago.”

“I thought so,” said Buddy. “That feller that was with you, did he live?”

“You mean Eddie Ray,” said Jim, with a chuckle. “Yeah, he lived. We got him to the hospital.”

“Heat stroke, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“I knew it. Well, I hope you brought along some water this time.”

“We brought water last time, but all Eddie Ray would drink was beer.”

Buddy laughed, shaking his head. “Well, I'm glad he lived. Some of 'em don't.”

At the drop-off point, Buddy helped us unload. Then he said, “Well, you know what to do. When you get back, leave the canoe under the bridge and come and get me.”

Buddy drove away. Jim and I pushed the canoe into the shallow water and started packing it. We did so carefully, but once the canoe tipped, almost spilling everything.

“We should tie this stuff down,” I said. “If it tips out in the middle of the river, we could lose everything. Do you have anything to tie it with?”

“I’ve got some bungee cord, but it’s at home.”

“Well, it won’t do us any good there.”

“Aw, don’t worry about it,” said Jim. “Last time I was out here we had two canoes and neither one tipped. This isn’t the Guadalupe. There’s no rapids on this river. Once we start moving, it’ll be smooth sailing. You just have to be careful—don’t move around a lot, don’t stand up.”

“Yeah, I know that much.”

When we finished packing the canoe, I held it steady while Jim climbed into the bow, crouching low to keep his body weight low. Then I did the same as I climbed into the stern while Jim steadied the canoe with his paddle.

“What about these life jackets?” I asked.

“We don’t need them,” said Jim. “Like I say, there’s no rapids. This’ll be a smooth ride. But—” he picked up his life jacket “—they make good cushions. These seats are hard and we’re going to be sitting a long time.”

This sounded like a good idea, so I followed Jim’s example and placed my life jacket on the metal seat. For added comfort, we kicked off our shoes.

“Ready?” said Jim.

“Ready.”

Comfortably seated on our life jackets, we rowed away from the shady bank out onto the sparkling river.

There was no one else on the river at that hour, so it was perfectly quiet—just the splash of the oars and the cooing of a dove somewhere on shore. And high above the tall oaks and pecan, the clouds continued to break up, revealing a wondrous blue sky. All so reminiscent of so many June mornings I had known in North Texas long ago. I was at peace, more at peace than I had been in years.

I’ve missed this old river, I thought …

(To be continued …)

OH HOLY NIGHT, The Conclusion

2013-12-01T15:53:00.000-06:00

Charlie went around the side of the bridge and started down the incline towards the dry creek bed.

“Slow down, Charlie,” said Margaret in his head, “or you’ll fall.”

Charlie slowed down just in time to keep from slipping on the steep incline.

“And be quiet, Charlie,” said Margaret. “Be quiet as a mouse.”

Charlie moved slow, and was quiet as he crept forward.

Level with the creek bed now, he heard a woman sobbing underneath the bridge, and also heard a man’s voice say, “Shut up.”

Charlie’s heart was pounding. He took a deep breath and moved forward, holding his nine-iron high. Peering into the darkness, he was able to make out a moving figure. He let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Then he made out two people: a woman lying on the ground with a man moving on top of her.

“Now,” said Margaret.

Charlie took another deep breath and stepping forward swung the nine-iron straight into the right side of the man’s head, knocking him sideways off the woman.

The man grunted in pain and rolled out from under the bridge into the light where Charlie could see him clearer. To Charlie's surprise, he saw that the man was a cop and his pants were down.

The cop was not moving. He’s out, thought Charlie, and turning to the woman bent down to help her up.

“Look out!” said a young male voice from the other side of the bridge.

Charlie whirled around and saw the cop aiming his gun. Charlie swung the nine-iron into the cop’s hand, knocking the gun away.

The cop started crawling towards the gun. Charlie swung again, this time striking the cop’s head, and swung it again and again until there was the sound of something hard suddenly going soft and the cop was still.

“Holy fuck!” shouted the young man. “You killed him!”

“Oh my god,” said Charlie, gasping for breath. “I killed a cop.”

“Don’t worry,” said the young man, “I got it all on video.”

The young man was Mystik and he was holding a camera.

“Night vision lens,” he said proudly. “All I need is an Internet connection and this goes viral.”

Charlie was still staring at the body. “Oh my god …”

“Get these handcuffs off me!” shouted the young woman.

Mystik bent down over the cop’s body and found the key to the handcuffs. Then he freed Heather …

* * *

Mystik had been flying down Hammond Street on his skateboard when he came upon the scene: a patrol car by the side of the road, lights flashing, and a citizen’s car in front of it, both empty and no one around, and a woman screaming underneath the bridge.

Mystik hopped off his skateboard into the tall weeds and listened. He heard a man’s voice say “Shut up.”

Then he heard a car door slam on the other side of the bridge. Peering over the weeds, he saw an elderly man with a golf club marching towards the bridge.

Then Mystik heard a voice in his head—it was Roach, saying, “Do it, buddy.”

Mystik opened his backpack, and grabbing his new night-vision lens snapped it onto his camera and sliding down the dirt incline towards the creek bed began recording the cop raping the woman and also recorded the elderly man beating the cop on the head …

* * *

“Oh my god,” Charlie said again.

“Goddamn you were good,” said Mystik. “You killed him!”

Heather fell into Charlie’s arms, sobbing. Charlie put his arms around her, but could not keep his eyes off the lifeless body on the ground.

“We gotta’ get out of here, man,” said Mystik. “I need an Internet connection. Now.”

“I’ve got one,” said Charlie.

The three hurried up to Charlie’s car and Charlie started driving home. On the way, they passed Heather’s apartment complex. Heather saw Jim pacing around on the street; he was anxious, waiting for her to come home.

“Stop!” she shouted. Charlie stopped.

Heather rolled down the window. “Jim!” she cried.

Her face was so bloody and bruised Jim did not recognize her at first. When he did, he ran forward. “What happened?”

“I’m okay,” she said. “These men helped me.”

“Get in!” yelled Mystik.

Jim got in the car and held Heather in his arms.

“I know you two,” said Charlie as he sped away. “You’re the ones who were at the AA meeting …”

* * *

It was the next night, Christmas Eve.

Charlie thought, God this heartburn is killing me.

He took his antacid, but it did not help. In fact, he felt worse. The pain spread to his stomach and he had trouble breathing, causing him to panic.

I’m having an anxiety attack, he thought. I should lie down.

He had some Temazepam but couldn’t find it. Never mind, he thought. It never worked. Just lay down and breathe. It always worked before.

He lay down, and breathed, and in a little while fell asleep.

And woke up some hours later, feeling better … and heard music coming from the living room. Christmas music. It was that old LP Margaret always played this time of year, Pete Fountain playing Christmas music Dixieland style.

And there was a wonderful smell wafting from the kitchen. He recognized it right away: Margaret baking her usual Christmas specialties.

Charlie threw off the covers and got up. He went into the kitchen and walked up behind Margaret and put his arms around her, and she turned around and kissed him and told him to sit down.

He did as she said, then she went on with her baking, and asked him, “Charlie, how did it go? Did you reunite the young couple?”

“Yes, I did,” he said, laughing, “and it was wonderful. They love each other so much. And they miss their boy and want so bad to be sober.”

“Did you give them the money?”

“I did. It was hard, but I did.”

“All of it?”

“I gave them every last bit of it, Margaret.”

“And what about Mystik and his video?”

Charlie laughed out loud. “The video went viral just like he said it would. Which is why I’m so tired. The news stations have been interviewing me all day. It’s worn me out.”

She went on working and Charlie’s heart soared watching her. He said, “That young Mystik is great. He reminds me of me, before I went to ‘Nam.”

Margaret turned. “Charlie, I have something to show you.”

She led him to the back door and onto the patio and pointed into the sky. Charlie looked up and saw a beautiful circle of light. Margaret held him and they kissed and watched the light together as it expanded and encompassed them.

They giggled like teenagers as they were carried into the sky.

* * *

Not far away, Mystik, Jag, and Zoop were sitting on the top of a parking garage, smoking a joint, and they saw the light too.

“Whoa man,” said Jag, pointing.

Zoop said, “That’s fucking awesome.”

Mystik was silent a long time watching the light grow. Then he said, “It’s Heaven, that's what it is, and it's Roach saying goodbye …”

* * *

Heather and Jim were sitting on the patio, holding each other, and they saw the light. And Heather said, “Oh no Jim, it’s coming from Charlie’s house.”

* * *

Preacher Bob, Tuffy, and six other homeless men were drinking beer and singing Christmas carols under the stars, and they saw the light.

When the light suddenly disappeared, Tuffy said, “What the hell was that, Preacher Bob? Some kind of fireworks?”

“I don’t know what it was,” said Preacher Bob, “but it was prettiest blasted thing I ever saw—”

Then he took a swallow of beer and led the men in the rest of the song …

"Truly He taught us to love one another;
His law is love and His gospel is peace.
Chains shall He break for the slave is our brother;
And in His name all oppression shall cease.
Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we,
Let all within us praise His holy name."

THE END

O HOLY NIGHT, Part 19

2013-11-10T23:02:00.002-06:00

Jim, Preacher Bob, and Tuffy stood on a street corner. Jim was saying goodbye.

“You guys saved my life last night,” he said. “I’ll never forget that.”

“It wasn’t us,” said Preacher Bob. “It was God put us there. You may have given up on yourself, but God didn’t give up on you. So don’t thank us. Thank God.”

“Well, thank you all the same,” said Jim, sticking out his hand for a handshake.

Preacher Bob looked at his hand. “Aw, we can do better than that,” he said, and hugged Jim. Then Tuffy hugged Jim, and the three stood there looking at each other.

Jim said, “Well, here I go. So long, guys.”

He started walking home. It took longer than he thought it would. The night before, in his wild state of mind, he had not noticed how far he went. But now, walking back in the daylight, it seemed to take forever. He wanted to take a city bus, but did not have money for the fare, having left his wallet when he ran out the door. There was nothing to do but walk. And walk.

He arrived at the apartment complex after dark. He had also left his keys at home, so couldn’t let himself in. He had to knock. No answer.

She’s not here, he thought. Which did not surprise him. She was probably at work.

It was too late to get a key from the office—it was closed—so all he could do was wait. He took a seat on the steps.

* * *
Just after midnight, Heather left the Pink Pussy Kat and started driving home. She did not notice the police car that pulled out of the parking lot behind her.

Officer Reynolds hoped she would take her usual route home. Usually she turned on Hammond Street—a street that saw little traffic at this hour. That was the best place for what he had in mind.

He also hoped the timing would be right. On a previous night, he had had to call it off when he received a call on his radio to respond to a car accident. Tonight, he hoped, would be the night.

He stayed behind her all the way up Industrial Boulevard, but kept well back so she would not notice him. Then, at a red light—the intersection of Industrial and Carson Road—he pulled up behind her.

She did not see him. She was thinking about Jim—worrying about him. Where did he go? Why did he stay out all night and most of the day? Would he come back? He had left his wallet and keys. Surely he would come back for his wallet at least. But if he came home while she was gone, he wouldn’t be able to let himself in without keys. Unless he got a key from the office. She hoped he did that, and prayed she would open the door and find him there, home again.

The light changed. She turned left onto Carson. As she did, she glanced in the rear view mirror and noticed the cop car turning behind her. She never liked to see a cop car following her. Not that she had reason to think he would pull her over—she had been driving the speed limit—but still, she didn’t like it. Better safe than sorry, she thought. She reached in her purse and felt for the tiny brown vial of meth. Then she hit the button to roll down the passenger window. She hoped she wouldn't have to, but she was ready to toss the vial, just in case.

He kept following her, but at a distance. She wasn't nervous, but she kept an eye on him. Her next turn—Hammond—was coming up. Hammond was a back street that carried little traffic—a short cut she liked to take to her apartment. Most people didn’t turn on Hammond. The cop wouldn’t turn there either, she guessed.

But when she turned on Hammond, the cop car followed. Now she was nervous. Should she toss the vial? No, she thought. No reason to panic.

Then he sped up. His headlights grew larger in the rear view mirror and he turned on the flashing lights. She tossed the vial, then rolled up the passenger window.

In a few seconds he was right on her tail, with his cop lights flashing. She couldn’t believe it. He was pulling her over.

Officer Reynolds’ adrenaline was pumping. She pulled over and he stopped behind her. He did not turn on his dash cam.

Heather rolled down her window. Her heart was pounding. Why had he stopped her? He hoped he hadn't seen her toss the vial out the window.

She heard the police radio as he opened his door, heard his footsteps on the pavement approaching. Then a flashlight shone in her face, blinding her. She could not see his face.

“You got a tail light out,” he said.

“Oh. I didn’t know.”

“Let’s see your drivers license.”

“Sure,” she said, digging into her purse. She tried to keep her hands from shaking, but couldn’t. She handed him her license.

“You got your insurance card?”

“It’s in the glove—”

“Get it.”

He shined the flashlight on her shaking hands while she opened the glove compartment.

“You seem nervous,” he said. “You got something to be nervous about?”

“No.”

He put her license and insurance card in his shirt pocket, then stood there, not saying a word, shining the light in her face. After a minute, he said, “Get out of the car.”

He’s going to search the car, she thought. But he won’t find anything. I’ve got nothing to be nervous about. Still, she was nervous.

She got out. He turned off the flashlight and hooked it to his belt. She turned. In the strobing cop lights, she could make out his face now. She recognized his sneering grin. It was the man who had harassed her at the club. Her heart beat faster.

Suddenly he backhanded her across the face. The blow stunned her. She reeled backwards. He grabbed her and spun her around, forcing her arms behind her back—she thought they would break—and pinned her against the car. She cried out.

“Shut up,” he said, slipping handcuffs on her. He pulled her away from the car and pushed her in the direction of the bridge. “Walk,” he said. She started towards the bridge. He was right behind her. She could feel her heart beat in her neck and head, it was pounding so hard.

At the bridge, he guided her down a narrow dirt trail that dropped steeply to a dry creek bed just visible in the street light that illuminated the bridge.

At the bottom of the incline she slipped and fell. He pulled her up by the hair. She screamed. Then he pushed her under the bridge and spun her around in the darkness. “On your back,” he said.

She lay down on the ground. He got on top of her, straddling her, then struck her in the face. Again, she screamed.

“Shut up!” he barked.

She started sobbing. “I said shut up,” he said, quieter this time. He pressed his lips against hers, kissing her, then suddenly bit her lower lip. She started to let out a cry. He bit her again. “Shut up,” he repeated. Now she was quiet.

* * *
Driving home from the party, Charlie turned right on Hammond, a short cut he often took to his neighborhood. He had driven only a mile when he came upon a cop car pulled over to the side of the road, lights flashing, with a car parked in front of it. It appeared to be a routine traffic stop, except for one thing: Both cars were empty and there was no one anywhere else in the vicinity. Strange, he thought.

He crossed the bridge, and drove on. But he kept thinking about it. It didn’t feel right. He turned around and drove back, stopping a few yards away from the bridge, surveying the scene.

No, he hadn’t been mistaken. Both cars were empty and there was no one around. The scene was entirely still, except for the flashing cop lights.

Something’s wrong, he thought. Maybe the driver ran into the woods and the cop started chasing him.

I should call 911, he thought. There might be a cop in trouble.

He took his cell phone out of his coat pocket, opened it and—dammit—the battery was down. He started rummaging in the glove compartment for the car charger, but stopped ... he thought he heard a scream.

He turned off the engine and rolled down the window. Total silence, just the wind in the winter trees.

A minute passed. He kept listening. Then he heard it again—a woman’s scream, followed by a man shouting “Shut up.” Charlie’s heart jumped.

There was no time to charge the phone. He got out of the car. He had to do something. There was no one else around to do something. But what was he going to do? Jesus Christ, he thought, I’m just a 71-year-old man. And I'm not in the best shape.

He wished he had a gun, or any kind of weapon. His mind raced. What did he have that he could use as a weapon? He remembered the golf clubs.

And all at once understood. This was why Margaret insisted he keep the golf clubs in his trunk, and why she insisted he stay so late at the party. He was meant to make this stop.

He opened the trunk and took out his nine-iron, and walked to the bridge …

(To be continued)

OH HOLY NIGHT, Part 18

2013-10-29T23:11:00.003-05:00

It was the day before Christmas Eve. Charlie woke happy. The winter sun was golden in the window, reminding him of an excellent December morning he had known long ago. He was happy also because he had just awakened from another dream of Margaret.

In the dream, she had encouraged him to go to Benny and Carol’s Christmas party. “No,” he said, “I don’t like parties. I’d have a better time staying home and watching a movie.”

“You need to go this party,” she said. “Promise me you’ll go.”

“Okay, I’ll go. I’ll make an appearance and leave early.”

“No, don’t leave early. Stay till midnight. Do not leave any earlier, or any later. Promise?”

Charlie had learned from experience to do whatever Margaret told him in these dreams.

“All right,” he said. “But midnight is awful late.”

“Do not leave one minute earlier than midnight, or one minute later. Promise?”

“I promise.”

So he went to the party and stayed till midnight. It was awkward, staying so late, because all the other guests were gone by eleven.

Charlie sat uncomfortably in an easy chair while Benny and Carol sat across from him on the sofa, trying to conceal their impatience while making conversation.

“My goodness Charlie,” said Carol, “when did you become such a night owl. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you stay out so late.”

“Yes,” said Benny, stifling a yawn, “you are quite the party animal tonight.”

“Well, it’s great being with you guys,” said Charlie. “I’m alone so much of the time now. It’s good to be around people for a change and such good friends. Yes, it is. It certainly is ...”

“I think I’ll start cleaning up,” said Carol, going into the kitchen.

“I understand, Charlie," said Benny. "I know it’s been hard for you, losing Margaret and having to get used to living alone.”

“Yes, it has. It's been very hard ... so very hard. You're right. It's been hard.”

Benny stifled another yawn. Charlie glanced at the clock.

They went on making pointless conversation a while longer, then at midnight Charlie exclaimed, “I’ve got to go!”

Benny had started to doze off. He jumped up, wide awake. “What! You’re leaving?”

“Yes, goodnight, Benny,” said Charlie, grabbing his coat and heading out the door. “Goodnight, Carol! Great party!”

He got in the car and started driving home. Why on earth Margaret had told him to stay till midnight he could not imagine, but he figured there must be a good reason …

(To be continued)

O HOLY NIGHT, Part 17

2013-10-19T00:22:00.001-05:00

“No, I can’t go back,” said Jim. “I have nothing to go back to. My wife is such a—”

“Did she run off?” asked Preacher Bob.

“No, she didn’t. She threw me out. She—”

“She physically threw you out?”

“No, of course not. But she was being such a bitch I had no choice but to—”

“But to run off and leave her?”

Jim said nothing. Preacher Bob looked at Jim a long time, then said, “So you left her in the middle of the night, and here it is the next day and you still haven’t gone home. Don’t you think she might be worried?”

“Maybe she is, and maybe she isn’t.”

“She must be out of her mind with worry!”

“Good. She should worry. After the way she treated me, she should—”

Preacher Bob said, “Jim, you are not the first man that was ever spoken harshly to by a woman. Yes, maybe you didn’t deserve it. But you also spoke harshly to her, and maybe she didn’t deserve it either. That’s the way it goes between men and women. They fight sometimes and say bitter things. Maybe they shouldn’t, but they do, especially if they’ve been going through a hard time, like you and her have. But just because they fight doesn’t mean they don’t love each other. In fact, sometimes the worse the fight the more they love each other. Which is all the more reason to kiss and make up. You didn’t hit her, did you?”

“No.”

“Well if you didn’t hit her, and if it was only words that passed between the two of you, there’s hope. There was no call for you to run off like that and try to throw yourself under a train. That was stupid. You should have stayed home. If you had, the two of you would have already made up by now and be happy.”

Jim’s eyes began to fill with tears.

Preacher Bob went on: “You need to go back to her, son. Yeah, maybe she was mean to you. We’re all mean once in a while, and that includes you. But you’re lucky. You’ve got someone to go back to. I haven’t had no one to go back to in … oh, more than thirty years. I threw it all away and what an idiot I was. I thought I’d do better on my own. Thought I’d live the high life, fancy free. Thought I was justified. Well, look what being justified has got me—a cold hard ground to sleep on every night instead of a nice warm bed, a diet of beans and beer, and a loneliness like you wouldn’t believe. I wish I could go back and make it all better, but I can’t. You can.”

“I want to go back,” sobbed Jim. “I need Heather—”

“And she needs you,” said Preacher Bob. “In fact, I got a feeling she needs you real bad. I don’t get feelings like this very often, so when I do I pay attention. I got a feeling she needs you real bad and might even be in trouble.”

(To be continued)

OH HOLY NIGHT, Part 16

2013-10-18T23:40:00.000-05:00

It should have been a good day, but was not.

Officer Sam Reynolds wondered why. It had all the necessary ingredients for not only a good day, but a perfect day. Why then did he now feel so dissatisfied and desolate?

At the beginning of his shift, he had stopped a middle-aged woman for going six miles over the speed limit. When he called in her driver’s license number, he discovered she had a criminal record for writing hot checks 20 years earlier. This gave him the opportunity to sternly remind the woman of her record and watch with pleasure as her eyes filled with tears.

He demanded to search her vehicle. She might have refused, and was within her legal rights to do so. But she was afraid of him, because he knew she had a record. So she meekly got out of the car and waited while he performed his search—taking all her shopping bags out of the backseat and throwing the contents alongside the road, and doing the same with the contents of her trunk, while passing motorists turned their heads, wondering what was going on, and the woman bent her head in shame and wept.

He found nothing illegal, and unfortunately had nothing illegal to plant on her. But that was okay; he had made her cry and that was sufficient. He wrote her a ticket and delivered another stern lecture, telling her to “be good,” then drove away, leaving her to gather up her things.

Putting this woman in her place gave Officer Sam a nice warm glow inside and a feeling of power, but the feeling soon faded and he found himself dissatisfied.

He hassled a few other motorists, but didn’t get much play from them. They didn’t have criminal records so he couldn’t intimidate them, and one turned out to be a prominent businessman and a close friend of the mayor, therefore had to be let go and even apologized to—which left Sam feeling low and humbled, as if he had just been forced to eat a big steaming plate of shit.

But a couple of hours later he got a call on the radio about a child wielding a pistol outside a beauty salon. He floor-boarded it and was the first officer to respond.

The pistol was obviously a toy cap gun, but Sam was taking no chances. He aimed his real gun at the little boy and shouted for him to drop the weapon, which the boy did, then he threw the boy onto the sidewalk and handcuffed him, while the mother came running out of the beauty salon in a hysterical fit.

About that time, another cop showed up, saw the woman running towards Sam and Tasered the woman and handcuffed her. More cops showed up, and a couple of TV reporters, and one of the reporters (a young brunette who was obviously hot for cops) interviewed Sam and gave him her business card and he drove away feeling very good indeed and with an erection.

Then later he pulled over a young man for not coming to a full stop at a stop sign and when the young man rolled down his window, he smelled marijuana. Probable cause. He ordered the man out of the car and when the man did not move immediately he opened the door himself and pulled him out by the hair and slammed him to the pavement and kicked him repeatedly in the groin. He did this without the least worry that it might get him in trouble because the dash-cam had not been turned on. Sam never turned on the dash-cam, just in case opportunities such as this should arise.

He called for back-up, then watched with satisfaction as the young man was carried away to the hospital, charged with possession of a gram of marijuana and resisting arrest. It made Officer Sam feel so good inside, and yet …

And yet, at the end of the day, he was dissatisfied. It had been the best kind of day, and at any other time would have given him a feeling of great peace and contentment and power. But today it did not, and he knew why.

It was because there was a certain dancer at the Pink Pussy Kat who had disrespected him and who had not yet paid for it. This injustice grated on him and made him grind his teeth and sapped all the joy out of life.

It’s time for a reckoning, thought Officer Sam. And it will be tonight.

(To be continued)

OH HOLY NIGHT, Part 15

2013-09-28T00:11:00.001-05:00

It was early afternoon, December 23. Heather woke with a start, and found herself alone in bed. Where was Jim? Then, with a sudden pang, she remembered the argument and all the bitter words that were said and Jim rushing out the door.

And remembered having a couple of beers to calm herself down. And being out of her mind with anger and thinking it was good Jim was gone. Good riddance Loser, she thought, and bolted the apartment door so he wouldn’t be able to get in if he came back.

Then, after finishing the beers, she finished off her 750 ml bottle of vodka, and turned on the TV, but could not focus on it. Instead, she kept replaying the argument in her mind—that terrible, stupid argument—and wishing she hadn’t said certain things, and wondering when Jim would come back—if he came back. He would come back, wouldn't he?

And she remembered thinking she should unbolt the door, just in case she was asleep when he came back. She did not want him to be outside all night—there was a cold front coming in.

Yes I will un-bolt the door, she thought, and he will know this is still his home and he is still wanted here.

She remembered thinking this. Then she had a vague memory of stumbling down the hallway and falling into bed.

And now it was the next day. She looked at the clock. It was almost one. Jim had been gone over twelve hours, she realized. It was unlike him to be gone so long.

She jumped out of bed and went into the living room. Sometimes after an argument he slept on the couch.

But the couch was empty. And he was nowhere else in the apartment.

She remembered bolting the door and later thinking she should un-bolt it. But did she un-bolt? She could not remember.

She went to the door. It was bolted.

Oh my god, she thought. What if he came back and couldn’t get in? She sat down on the couch, tears in her eyes.

She began to sob, thinking about the stupid argument and the look on his face when she called him a loser.

He had called her something worse, though—called her a slut. And all because she asked him to hold her. It was so unfair and wrong.

Then she remembered her own cruel words and remembered the terrible look on Jim’s face when she called him a loser, and cried even harder. Why didn’t I just tell him the truth, she thought. Tell him what the cop tried to do, how he scared me.

But she had been afraid to tell him—afraid it would upset him, afraid he would tell her to stop working at the Pink Pussy Kat, when it was the only source of income they had. Afraid they would argue.

And yes, they may have argued, she realized, but at least it would not have an out-of-control argument. They would not have called each other names and hurt each other, and might have held each other and prayed together like they used to do when they were trying to get sober. And he would be with her now.

Where was he? Anything might happen to him, she thought. He might kill himself. Or have an accident. Or get into some kind of trouble and have his parole revoked.

Her heart began to pound and a black hopelessness took hold of her. She knew only one cure for such a terrible feeling.

She laid out a line and snorted it and washed it down with the last beer in the refrigerator.

* * *

At the same hour Heather was having these thoughts, Mystik woke from a dream.

In the dream, he saw Roach painting the side of a great building, all by himself hanging from a window-washer’s scaffold, small and ant-like against the massive mural taking shape beneath the practiced sweep of his spray-painting hand.

The mural he painted was a wintry scene, a desolate landscape of gnarled and lifeless trees, their bare thorny ice-coated branches reaching up in jagged fingers against a brilliant morning sky.

This sky was unlike any Mystik had ever seen or imagined—with a dawning sun that radiated colors unknown to human eyes, and deep within the core of that fiery orb a brightness beyond white; a purity of light that pulled you in and enveloped you with a sense of peace and compassion unlike anything known in this world, yet somehow strangely familiar.

Mystik watched Roach paint this mural until he awoke, and with this vision still in his head, smoked his first joint of the day and hopping on his skateboard raced through the cold, windy streets of the city, his heart soaring and knew no fear …

* * *

Charlie’s heart soared too. The day was so bitter there was not another soul on the golf course. He had it all to himself; it was just him and the expanse of winter grass and the trees tossing in the biting wind. And though the wind blasted him, he did not flinch or hunch his shoulders or shiver, but walked straight and tall, opening himself to the wind and letting it drive straight through him. He was not cold.

Nor was he daunted by the direction of the wind when he poised himself to drive the ball. He knew instinctively the right moment to strike, and laughed watching the ball rise higher into the air, defying the wind and laws of physics. And did it over and over again, until at last he scored a hole-in-one. His first ever. And thought, Margaret, with you by my side I can do anything, and am afraid of nothing …

(To be continued)

OH HOLY NIGHT, Part 14

2013-09-27T23:56:00.000-05:00

“Well if it isn’t Sleeping Beauty,” said Preacher Bob. “I thought you were dead, but here you are waking up from your beauty sleep, you son of a bitch.”

Jim groaned and rubbed his head. “Where am I?”

“Well you’re not in Heaven,” said Preacher Bob. “Or Hell, though you should be. What kind of a God-damned idiot are you exactly?”

“What? I don’t underst—”

“I mean what kind of a worthless damn son-of-a-bitch are you to throw yourself on the railroad tracks and leave it to ME to risk MY life saving your worthless ass?”

“What?”

“Are you deaf, son? Or just crazy? Tell me, which is it. How dare you mess up my dinner, and damn near KILL ME trying to save you, whoever the Hell you are ... Who are you anyway? What is your damn name?”

“Jim. My name is Jim, and ... I’m sorry—” he broke down crying.

Preacher Bob and Tuffy glanced at each other. Tuffy looked reprovingly at Bob, causing Bob to sigh and say to Jim, “Now don’t cry, son. I’m not mad at you. I’m just worked up because I nearly got KILLED hauling you off those railroad tracks. Have a beer, and Tuffy, get him a bowl of beans.”

Jim did not eat the beans, but accepted the beer, and also a second—and would have accepted a third had Preacher Bob not said there was no more beer. Preacher Bob asked, “Jim, what was it made you lay down on those tracks to die?”

And Jim told the whole story … which ended in these words: “I’ve got no life, at least none worth living. I’ve hurt everyone that ever loved me. I’ve made a mess of everything. I’m a failure and a disappointment to my friends and family and to God, and—well, it seemed the only right thing to do, to end my life. My life was a mistake to begin with—”

“Now you stop right there,” said Preacher Bob, standing up and crushing a beer can and tossing it into the bushes, “you’re not a mistake. God made you, and God don’t make mistakes. Before this world was ever made, God got a notion in his head to make YOU. Not someone like you. No, he made YOU. Then, you got it in your head that God made a mistake. Listen, asshole, God don’t make mistakes. You made a mistake when you listened to the Devil instead of God and believed you were a mistake. God don’t make mistakes. People make mistakes, yes. But it’s up to people when they make mistakes to turn to God to make it right. Turning to the Devil won't do it, nor will turning to man. No, you got to turn to God. You got to turn to God, brother, and take that leap of faith, and believe that God will come through.”

Preacher Bob leaned closer into Jim’s face in the campfire light, and continued: “There is no shame in a crisis of faith, Jim. Sometimes even I am not one-hundred percent certain there is a God. No one is certain, if the truth be known—and that includes Mother Teresa and Pope Francis and Joel Osteen and Joel Spurgeon, and all so-called believers, and especially the God-damned Atheists. They, too, are not sure. And God understands this. God understands that in this life we human beans know nothing, therefore must take everything on faith and make a choice, whether we're believers or atheists, it always comes down to faith or the lack of it in the end—that is, a choice.

“The Atheist makes his choice and goes one way. The Godly Man makes his choice and goes another. But whichever choice, it's always based on faith, not knowledge, just faith. So what you did tonight, Jim, was make a choice based on faith. But it was faith in the Devil instead of God, Jim. You chose death when you might have chosen life. You chose no hope when you might have chosen hope. You listened to the Devil instead of the God who made you. You believed the lie, that your life is a mistake, and so you chose death. And yet—miracle of miracles—you are alive right now. And why? Because God saw fit to send some poor stupid son-of-a-bitch, ME, to risk his life and rescue your worthless damn ass.”

(To be continued)

O HOLY NIGHT, Part 13

2013-09-08T19:08:00.000-05:00

Jim was determined to stay on the tracks and die.

I’ve got no life to go back to, he thought. No life, no future. I’m dead now, just going through the motions and going nowhere. Already dead. Walking dead. Going through the motions. Might as well finish the job. Do it tonight. Do it. My life is a mistake. Which I’ll correct—

But with the second blast of the train horn, closer, he suddenly was not so sure. His heart beat wildly. No I can't, he thought. No, do it. Now. Do the only right thing you’ve ever done. Except marry Heather, that was right. No it wasn't, she’s a bitch. Loser am I? Okay, I’m a loser. Fuck it. And fuck the world. But Jason, no. He wasn't a mistake, I'm doing him a favor. If only my old man had bought the big one before he—

A third blast. Take me you son of a bitch. Bring it on. His heart was hammering. God I’m ready to go. Ready now. Ready and letting go. Let go and let G—

Another blast, and the light from the train spreading forward across the tracks and higher into the surrounding trees, pushing the blackness back but the blackness still there, just farther away beyond the light. A wall of blackness getting closer and death. He shook all over and could barely walk. Staggered. The train was almost upon him. This is it. No I can't. Jason. Heather—

He jumped to his left but tripped on the rail and fell, the light now engulfing him. The horn one long continuous blast and I can't move. God forgive me I can’t die now like this, and there was shouting and the horn blasting, and something jerked him upwards and over he went tumbling like a rag doll down the rocky incline into the blackness, tumbling and rolling over the jagged rocks and the train roaring past and cars banging, and something falling on top of him and tumbling some more and rolling into the blackness, then a flash of stars, then nothing …

* * * “So me and Old Wolf took to the road onct’ again. Started heading East, and when we got to Nashville, the damndest thing happened.”

“What was that?”

“We were walking down the street when Old Wolf did something he’d never done before …”

Preacher Bob stopped to pop open another Old Milwaukee and take a long swallow. His face was scraped up and still bleeding after the crazy thing that had happened and his right elbow was hurting. He needed a good, long swallow of beer right now.

“We were downtown, walking along, me and Old Wolf, when out of the blue Old Wolf spotted a woman walking her dog—a cocker spaniel—and went running straight at it. I hollered at him. 'Old Wolf you come back here!' Which always before he’d obeyed, but not this time. I guess that cocker spaniel was in heat and Old Wolf was bound and determined to have at her, that’s all I can figure. Anyway, he shot right across the street and was hit by a truck.”

“Oh no,” said Tuffy.

“A damn beer truck,” said Preacher Bob, crushing the can and tossing it into the bushes. “Old Wolf was hit by a beer truck. And he died ... Old Wolf died.”

“I’m awful sorry, Preacher Bob.”

Preacher Bob popped open another Old Milwaukee. “But that’s not the end of the story,” he said. “Two nights later I was camped outside Murfreesboro, sleeping, and Old Wolf came to me in a dream …”

The man lying nearby moaned. Preacher Bob turned and looked at him.

“Is he waking up?” asked Tuffy.

“I don’t know. He might never wake up. He hit his head right hard on that tree.”

“What’ll we do if he dies?”

“We’ll just have to leave him I guess, and get the hell out of here. Maybe leave town. The police might think it was us hit him on the head. We don’t want to be anywhere around if he dies. They’ll nail us for sure. But if we leave, it’ll just be another bum found dead in the woods … I hate to say that, but it's so.”

“Finish the story, Preacher Bob. You said you had a dream about Old Wolf.”

“Yes, I did. And in the dream Old Wolf was talking, and talking in English. Which in the dream didn’t seem unnatural to me at all, even though he was a dog and shouldn't have been talking. It was only later after I woke up I thought, wait a minute, dogs can’t talk.”

“What did he say?’

“Old Wolf said to me, ‘Bob, whatever you do, don’t go to New York City and take that job.’ I asked why. He said, 'If you do, you’ll die. Promise me you won’t go to New York City, Bob, because if you do, you’ll die.' So I promised him. I didn't go to New York City ... And you know what happened?”

“What?”

“A month later on September 11, 2001, two planes hit the World Trade Center in New York City, killing two thousand people. And you know where I would have been if I hadn’t heeded Old Wolf’s warning? I’d have been in the God-damned World Trade Center that's where I'd have been, because that’s where my brother got me that janitor's job. I swear to God.”

Tuffy gasped in amazement. Meanwhile, lying nearby on the ground, Jim groaned and began to stir, rubbing his head.

“Looks like he's coming around,” said Preacher Bob.

(To be continued)

O HOLY NIGHT, Part 12

2013-09-01T18:41:00.000-05:00

A large can of beans hung by a wire from a tripod made with three sticks over a campfire in the woods. Two men in shabby overcoats sat on cracked white plastic lawn chairs by the fire drinking cans of Old Milwaukee.

“Old Wolf was the best friend I ever had,” said one of the men. He had long tangled gray hair and a beard and was known as Preacher Bob. “We were together five years, me and Old Wolf, and we covered a lot of territory. Portland, Maine, to Portland, Oregon, and all points in between, north, south, east, and west, and right up the backside of Hell …”

He shook his head, chuckling, and stirred the fire with a stick. “Yes sir, me and Old Wolf covered a lot of territory. And had a lot of adventures. Y’know, it was Old Wolf that was with me that time I was arrested for suspicion of murder.”

“Murder!” exclaimed the other man, who was named Tuffy. He also was long-haired and bearded, but his hair was darker. “How did that come about?”

“I never told you that story? Well, it’s quite a story. It happened in Waco, Texas. Me and Old Wolf were walking around one day and ended up behind a shopping center. There was a long line of dumpsters there, and Old Wolf went running straight towards one of them—ignored all the others, went straight up to that particular one and started sniffing it and jumping up and down and going around in circles, acting crazy, and I thought—”

Tuffy laughed. “How come him to act that way?”

“Well, that’s what dogs do.”

“I didn’t know he was a dog. You said he was a friend of yours—”

“Yes, he was my friend AND a dog. That’s why I called him Old Wolf, he was a DOG. What kind of damn name would Old Wolf be for a human being?”

“I thought it was a nickname like Tuffy, or Preacher Bob.”

Preacher Bob sighed and went on with his story. “Anyway, Old Wolf was sniffing at the dumpster and carrying on, so I figured he must’ve smelled something really good in there. Maybe a restaurant had thrown out some food, you never know. So I looked inside, but couldn’t see much at first, just a bunch of trash that didn’t look like it would be of any use. Then I saw a clump of hair. Looked like a wig—a lady’s wig. I figured maybe one of the stores had thrown it out. I didn’t have any need for a wig. My hair is long enough as it is. But you never know what you might be able to sell or barter with. So I grabbed a hold of it and pulled it up, and I swear to God, it was a human head.”

“No!”

“Yes, it was a decapitated human head. I’d never seen anything like that in my life but I knew right away what it was. It was horrible. I let go of it and ran inside one of the stores—it was a Dollar Tree—ran right through the back door hollering call the police, there’s a head in the dumpster. Which they did, only what I didn’t know was they were calling the police on ME. They thought I was crazy. Well, the police showed up and they thought I was crazy too, but I said no, go look in that dumpster and tell me you don’t see a human head. Well they did, they went and looked in the dumpster, and sure enough they found the head, and next thing I know I’m under arrest. They took me straight to jail.”

“How long were you in?”

“Two days. I thought it was all over for me. They said I could have one phone call which I used to call my brother. He had moved all the way up to New York City. He said, ‘Well, Bob, I’ll try to help you, but I’m living up here now and it won’t be easy trying to raise bail for you or find a lawyer for you down in Texas, and I don’t know how I’d pay for it. But I’ll try.”

“So did he get you out?”

“No, it turned out he didn’t have to, because they found the old boy that did it—the one that cut that head off.”

“And who was that?”

“It was a Fort Hood soldier. Yes, it’s true, an Army soldier cut off his wife’s head and drove all the way to Waco to pitch it in that dumpster. And wouldn’t you know I’d be the lucky son-of-a-bitch to find it. Well, anyway, they let me out of jail. I’d been in two whole days so I figured Old Wolf had probably given up on me and gone on up the trail. But durned if I hadn’t been out an hour when I was walking along the river and here come Old Wolf running out of the bushes straight towards me. Best friend I ever had, and the best dog by a damn sight.”

“Sure sounds like it.”

“But it wasn’t long after that, Old Wolf died.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Preacher Bob.”

“Well, that’s an interesting story in itself and here’s how it happened. When I got out of jail I called my brother to tell him not to bother about finding lawyer, I was out, and he said, ‘Bob, you’ve been on the streets too long and you’re not getting any younger. Rooting around in dumpsters is no way to live. One of these days you’re going to get in a mess of trouble you won’t be able to get out of, or you might die. Come on up here to New York City. I can get you a job where I work.’ Well, after two days in jail, that sounded good to me, so me and Old Wolf started—”

Preacher Bob suddenly fell silent. “Someone’s coming,” he said, peering through the woods towards the railroad tracks.

Tuffy turned and saw what Preacher Bob saw: someone walking down the middle of the tracks about a quarter-mile away. There was just enough moonlight to see that it was a man and he was staggering a little.

“It’s not a cop,” said Preacher Bob. “A cop wouldn’t be walking on the tracks like that. Also the way he’s walking looks like he might be drunk. I hope he doesn’t see us and come over here and cause trouble.”

“We don’t have enough beer for him,” said Tuffy, “or beans. I hope he keeps on walking.”

Silently, they watched the man approach. Then, a minute later they heard the blast of a train’s horn farther down the tracks.

Another minute passed. They heard the horn again, closer, and the sound of the engine and cars rumbling on the track. It occurred to Preacher Bob that the man would be stepping off the tracks soon to get out of the way of the train. He hoped the man would step off on the other side, because then the train would be between them and the man, thus he might not see the campfire when he passed. But if he stepped off the tracks on this side he would be closer and more likely to see the fire or smell it.

A minute later, the train’s light appeared behind the man and the horn sounded again. But the man made no move to get off the tracks. He kept staggering along as if there were nothing behind him.

“I hope he has the sense to get off the tracks,” said Preacher Bob.

The horn blasted again, much closer and louder. The man kept walking on the tracks.

Preacher Bob and Tuffy stood up, watching with their mouths wide open.

Tuffy said, “Is he deaf?”

Preacher Bob said, “My God Almighty, that train’s gonna’ run right over him!”

(To be continued)

OH HOLY NIGHT, Part 11

2013-08-29T00:33:00.001-05:00

Jim continued looking for a job, but it was a grueling and disheartening process. Day after day, nothing but rejection and so worn out from walking and walking and riding city buses and filling out applications and walking some more and riding city buses home without a job every day, he at last gave up.

So instead of looking for a job, he would wait till Heather left for work in the afternoon and take the spending money she gave him and go to the liquor store and buy a fifth of bourbon. He would mark the label halfway down as a reminder not to drink any lower, but most evenings would end up ignoring the mark and drink the entire bottle.

He drank because the evenings were so difficult, waiting for his wife to come home after exposing herself all evening at the club, giving strange men lap dances, and he with nothing else to do but sit in front of the TV like a dumbass. Any man would drink under this kind of pressure, he told himself.

At first he hid the bottles so Heather would not see them. But later, noticing the unmistakable signs that she too was drinking and using (her inability to wind down when she came home, her too-relaxed demeanor mixed with flashes of irritability and her tweaking) he stopped bothering to bag the empty bottles and carry them out to the trash can but left them sitting on the coffee table. And she, seeing this, no longer bothered to hide her own drinking and meth use. Thus, without a word they stopped praying together and working the Steps and gave up their commitment to be clean and sober.

One night—it was the night of her encounter with Officer Sam Reynolds at the Pink Kitty Kat—Heather came home earlier than usual and rushing to Jim, grabbed him and asked him to hold her.

He was three-quarters of the way through a bottle and at first held her tight without a word. But then his mind started working. She's acting guilty, he thought. What's she been up to?

“Something’s wrong,” he said. “What happened?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I just need you to hold me.”

She’s been with another guy, he thought, growing angry. She's turning tricks. And now she feels bad about it and wants me to pet her and make it all right. Well it's not all right.

“What have you done,” he said. “Tell me Goddamn it.”

“Oh Jim—” her voice broke, and for a moment he sensed a deep hurt inside her and would have gone on holding her without another word had he been sober.

But he was very drunk and snarled, “What have you done, you sorry little slut—”

She broke away and fell off the couch onto the floor. He stood over her. “Goddamn you,” he raged. “You come home wired and loaded every night. God knows what you’re doing and I’ll bet it doesn’t stop with a simple lap dance. You think I was born yesterday?”

Her face at first was pale and blank with shock, but in a few moments she too was in a rage. She screamed, “You drunk! You loser! Get yourself thrown into prison and leave me NOTHING! It’s not my fault you can’t get a job. Not my fault Jason was taken away from us, loser. Not my fault I have to dance in a bar to buy your booze. LOSER!”

He stood there, swaying drunkenly, eyes bulging, wanting to hit her. But instead, his anger suddenly vanished and he fell to his knees in a terrible anguish saying, “I’m sorry Heather. Let’s pray—”

“LOSER!”

He was out the door in a heartbeat, running through the night. Running down dark streets of houses and front yards with Christmas lights and silly Christmas displays. He wanted to kick over a Wise Man or Baby Jesus or puncture an inflatable Santa or Frosty, but instead kept running, wild with anger and tears streaming down his face.

(To be continued)

OH HOLY NIGHT, Part 10

2013-08-24T19:04:00.002-05:00

“Wow, that’s awesome.”

“Dude was a genius.”

“Yeah, he was,” said Mystik. “A genius and a prophet.”

They were looking up at a huge mural that covered the side of an abandoned soda bottling plant on the east side of town. The mural was a wild riot of color, a giant psychedelic cartoon masterpiece that depicted angels and demons at war. It was titled “Heaven and Hell” and signed Roach.

Mystik had brought Jag and Zoop here because they were new in town and had not seen the mural. It was Roach’s last surviving work, but it would not survive much longer. The building was marked for demolition.

“So you knew him,” said Zoop.

“Yeah, he was my best friend. For four years. We went through a lot together. And I was there when he died. I saw the whole thing.”

“What happened?”

“He was tagging a KFC that had been shut down. Five pigs showed up. I was the lookout. I told him to run, but he took an extra minute to finish one last little detail. That’s how Roach was, a perfectionist. Nothing else mattered to him but getting it right. I was behind a dumpster watching. I kept saying hurry up Roach, hurry up man. But by the time he finally dropped the can, the pigs were almost on him. They chased him. Went all the way up Industrial. I ran after them. They cornered him behind the Wal-Mart and one of the pigs Tased him. Right in the chest. Then another one Tased him. They were all laughing and Tasing him. It was awful. They kept Tasing him. Then when he wasn’t moving anymore they stopped and started high-fiving each other and laughing. And one of them said how funny it looked when Roach’s butt clenched up while they were Tasing him.”

“Fucking pigs,” said Jag.

“What happened to the pigs?” asked Zoop. “They didn’t get away with it, did they?”

“Nothing happened to them. I told the media, man—I told Channel 22, told the newspaper, told everyone about the high-fiving and everything. And nobody believed me.”

“Jesus.”

“But if I’d got it on video it might have been different. Then the world would know the truth.”

“So that’s why you always carry the camera.”

“Yeah.”

“We got to start killing the pigs,” said Jag.

“No,” said Mystik. “Roach didn’t believe in violence. He believed you could change the world with art.”

“Yeah, and look what it got him.”

Mystik shook his head. “Roach still lives. I see him in my dreams. I see him painting. He’s painting in Heaven now, and what he paints up there happens down here.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what he paints comes true. Fukushima, he painted that before it happened. And Sandy Hook and the Boston bombing, and a bunch of other things. Terrible things. Listen dude, I’m afraid to look at the things he shows me, but I have to. They’re warnings. One time he painted a picture of me on my skateboard getting hit by a bus. Next morning I knew I was gonna’ have to be extra careful. And sure enough, I was flying down the street and something about the street looked familiar and I remembered this was the street Roach painted in the dream. So I slowed down and stopped before I came to the corner—at the very moment a city bus ran a red light, man. I would've been killed.”

“Whoa.”

“Yeah, Roach warns me about things. But sometimes he just paints beautiful things. I can’t even describe them, they’re so beautiful. They’re better than anything he ever painted on Earth, better than this mural, no shit. I wish I could paint the things he shows me, but I’m not good enough. That’s why I don’t paint anymore. The camera’s my medium now. Roach said that in a dream one time. He said keep that camera with you always.”

(To be continued)

OH HOLY NIGHT, Part 9

2013-08-23T23:17:00.003-05:00

The nightly visitations from Margaret suddenly stopped. At first, Charlie was not greatly disturbed, but as the days wore on with no more communications from his departed wife he grew depressed. It was like losing her all over again.

He wondered why the dreams stopped, and prayed they would resume. But they did not, and without the daily affirmation these dreams gave him he found himself once again doubting they were genuine visits from Margaret. Perhaps they were only dreams after all.

True, she had told him things in the dreams that later came true. She had told him his nephew’s wife was pregnant, but perhaps that was only a coincidence. She had told him the price of gold would fall, but gold was always rising and falling. And yes, she had told him where to find the recipe, but perhaps in his unconscious mind he had known all along where it was. Perhaps, when she was still alive, he had seen her place it in the book—a momentary action glimpsed then forgotten but retained on a subliminal level, beneath his conscious awareness until it resurfaced later in the dream.

It was not at all far fetched. He had read enough psychology to know that dreams often served as wish fulfillment—a far likelier explanation than the supernatural notion that Margaret was speaking to him from beyond the grave.

And as for the “poltergeist” activity, he now returned to his earlier theory that he may have moved those objects himself while sleep walking—an elaborate self-deception, his own mind tricking him into believing a fantasy. He had no previous history of sleep walking, or delusion for that matter, but there was a first time for everything—and, again, it was the likelier explanation. Psychotic episodes were well documented by science; poltergeists, prophetic dreams, and life-after-death were not.

It was a tremendous let down. He had been so happy believing he was in contact with Margaret. Happy in his delusion. But that’s all it was, a delusion. There was no life-after-death. Margaret was dead and he would die too and there would be no wonderful reunion in the afterlife; he would simply join her in oblivion. And soon.

How long have I got, he thought. A few years, a decade maybe, not much more. There’s very little future left and what’s left is not going to be easy. I’m getting around okay now, but that won’t last. I’m 70 years old for Christ’s sake and already losing my mind apparently. Next to go will be my physical health.

He was lying in bed as he thought these things. The sun was not up yet. He could hear the wind from last night’s cold front blowing against the house. So little future, he thought, and a bleak one at that. Nothing to look forward to. Nothing good, that is. Everything good in life is now in the past. Margaret’s just a memory now. Memories are all I’ve got, and there are so many of them.

It’s funny, he thought. When you’re young you have no idea how it will feel one day to be this age and have so many memories, and how it will feel to look back on it all—all the decades, all the changes. At 18, you can imagine the future, but it never works out like you expect. I thought there would be Jetson rocket cars and vacations on the moon and all sorts of things, but none of that happened. There were changes, yes, and big ones—but not like I expected. And nothing could have prepared me for how it would feel to look back now on all the decades that were once in my future. In 1962, the year 1984 seemed so futuristic. We’ll be riding around in those rocket cars by then, I thought. But when the 80s finally happened they weren’t so futuristic after all and now from this vantage point, in the year 2012, they seem quaint. And 1962 seems ancient.

And the people you take for granted when you’re young—parents, grandparents, all those older people who were such a big part of your life. You knew they wouldn’t last forever, but you couldn’t know how it would feel when they actually died, or how it would feel years later, when they had been gone a long time and were just memories. Memories growing dimmer with time. And not just older people, but friends too, people your own age. I’ve watched them die off one by one. I’ve watched the memorial list at the class reunion grow longer every year, and soon I’ll be on the list too.

No, when you’re young you can’t know what it will feel like to reach this age, and no one can tell you. You may think you know but you really don’t. You can’t know till you live it, till you actually reach this summit and look back where you came from. Yes, look back where you came from … and see the strange route that brought you here … the twists and turns along the way … the twists and turns, and the missteps and mistakes … but also the happy accidents, yes, and the surprises, and the things you find along the way … but also the things you lose … the things you lose … the missteps and mistakes and happy accidents and the strangeness of it all, and the things you lose … the things you lose … the things you lose …

Charlie fell asleep and began to dream. In the dream he was hiking up a mountain. The sun was warm on his back and the sky was high and cloudless, and the mountain very steep. He passed a mountain lion seated on a rock. The cat was enormous and it watched him with golden eyes, turning its head as he passed. Mustn’t show fear, he thought. They can smell fear.

He reached the summit and the view took his breath away: the impossibly deep blue abyss at his feet, swirling with clouds, and the great teeming earth stretching away incalculable distances in the golden light, and beyond the horizon an opening in the sky and a vision of untold immensity: suns and galaxies and universes blazing in the vault of infinity, a vista beyond time, vast beyond measure … and Margaret by his side saying, “Charlie, you haven’t been golfing lately. You’ve slacked off. You should be practicing your swing. It will do you good. Promise me you’ll do it today.”

“Well I don’t know, Margaret, it’s awful windy today and cold.”

“No, it will warm up by afternoon.”

“But the weatherman said—”

He woke up, heart thumping, and later that day the winds died down and it grew warm, just as she said. He went to the golf course.

(To be continued)

OH HOLY NIGHT, Part 8

2013-08-18T01:43:00.001-05:00

The next day, as he patrolled the north side of the city, Officer Sam Reynolds was still seething over the treatment he received from Heather.

I won't forget this, he thought. Treated like garbage by a sorry bitch who shows her titties for a living. No sir, I won't forget this. I’ll remember this a long time and I know where she lives.

It was true. He had waited in the parking lot of the Pink Kitty Kat till he saw her leave in her car, then followed her and memorized her license plate number sitting at a red light, and the next day ran the number through DMV and learned her home address, a shabby apartment complex on Russell Street.

All he needed now was a plan. He had ideas, but no coherent plan, just ideas—actually, images that went round and round in his brain. Images of all the things he would do to her. I will break her, he thought. Break her and make her beg me not to kill her ...

Suddenly, in the midst of these thoughts, Officer Reynolds got a call on the radio. Two young males, one White one Hispanic, had been seen tagging the side of an empty warehouse off Palmer Avenue.

He turned on his siren and floor-boarded it, shooting through red lights, weaving around stalled rush-hour traffic, running cars off the road. This was just what he needed …

Meanwhile, a cell phone buzzed in the back pocket of one of the taggers.

The tagger was known as Jag and he was standing on a ladder spraying red paint onto the wall. He put down the paint can and answered, and heard his lookout Mystik shouting into the phone, “Pigs, man! They’re coming!”

Jag clambered down the ladder, calling to his buddy, “Zoop, it’s the pigs!”

Zoop and Jag left their paint cans and ladders (stolen) and jumping on their skateboards shot down the wide streets of the industrial park. They dodged an oncoming van as they veered sharp left. Then they went down another street, hit a curb and flipping over it with precision jumped off and catching their boards ran into the tall grass to hide and wait for Mystik to join them.

Mystik was on the roof of a parking garage next to the warehouse, where he had been skateboarding when he heard the distant siren. At first he had thought—hoped—it was nothing to do with his buddies. But just to make sure, he zoomed in with his Canon and saw three cop cars racing straight up Parmer towards them. This was when he called Jag.

Now, after he was sure his buddies were safe, he hopped on his skateboard and started shooting down the ramps of the parking garage. There were four ramps in all and it took several minutes. Yes, he might have hidden in the garage, but he had learned from experience it was better not to be anywhere in the vicinity of pigs, especially when they were frustrated and looking for somebody, anybody, to fuck over.

His buddies meanwhile crouched in the grass, breathless and watching the garage exit, hoping he would make it out before the cops arrived. “Come on man,” said Zoop, “stop fucking around.”

Mystik shot out the exit an instant before the cops appeared, then shot around the other side of the garage and out of sight. Jag and Zoop cackled.

Jag texted Mystik, “Dude you made it Thanx.”

Mystik texted back, “Meet me Red Wag.”

"OK."

Jag pocketed his phone. Then he and Zoop watched the cops get out of their cars and stare up at the almost-completed graffiti (a colorful masterpiece depicting Godzilla roasting the president) and look around at the turned-over paint cans and ladders.

One of the cops looked at the other two and said, “Who turned on the siren?”

“I did,” said Officer Reynolds.

“Oh, so it was you. Well, thanks for warning the taggers, dickhead.”

A third cop said, “Shouldn’t we look for them?”

The other cop rolled his eyes, got back in his car, and drove away. The others followed.

Hearing this, Jag and Zoop snickered. Then they smoked a joint, admiring their artwork in the setting December sun. Then they got on their skateboards to rendezvous with Mystik at Red Wagon Burgers.

(To be continued)

OH HOLY NIGHT, Part 7

2013-08-16T21:18:00.001-05:00

Heather was making decent money, but it was not easy. She was not paid a salary, therefore relied entirely on tips—an amount diminished by the stage fee she had to pay the management, as well as the percentage she had to share with the wait staff. This made it necessary to hustle patrons for as many table dances and lap dances as possible, which was especially difficult on a busy night when there was a lot of competition with other dancers.

It took a lot out of her, going from table to table, acting like she loved every man in the room and was his personal sex goddess, and the only way she could do it was with more crank and vodka shots.

On a particularly busy Saturday night, she approached a table where three men sat drinking beer. All three had buzz cuts. Two looked to be in their late twenties, and were tall and muscular and broad shouldered and had buzz cuts. The third man was also muscular, but shorter and more compact and older by a decade. He had a sneering smile and gave off a bad vibe, which ordinarily would have caused her to avoid his table. But she was feeling relaxed and reckless tonight—and tweaking a little—and anyway needed the money.

The short, sneering man bought a table dance from her—ten dollars—then each man tipped her an additional ten. There were more two more table dances and more tips. She warmed to the men.

The short man said he wanted a lap dance. “Sure,” she said, and led him into the nearest unoccupied booth and drew the curtain. He paid her the twenty dollars.

The rules were looser in the booths than on the main floor, but that did not mean there were no rules. Some light touching of the dancer was allowed, maybe even some extra touching of the patron, as long as it stopped short of actual sexual activity. Not that the rules were always strictly observed. Some of the girls crossed the line, and the bouncers never looked behind the curtains (unless they heard trouble). Thus some customers came to expect that all the girls were willing when in fact many, like Heather, were not.

The session went well at first. He lightly stroked one of her breasts. She could have done without it, but it was within the club rules. As long as he tips well, she thought. Then he unzipped himself.

“Sorry big boy,” she said, smiling, “you better put that away.”

“Aw come on.”

“No, you’ll have to find another girl for that.”

“I want you.” He grabbed her by the wrist to pull her hand down. She tried to break free but couldn’t.

“I’ll call a bouncer,” she said. He let go. She got off his lap.

“Who do you think you are, Miss America,” he sneered, zipping up his pants.

“The dance is over.”

He reached into his back pocket and took out his Police ID. She stared at it, heart pounding.

“I could take you to jail,” he said.

“I haven’t done anything.”

“Your word against mine.”

Right away she knew he was full of shit. He’s not vice squad, she thought. She had never heard of the cops running a sting in this club. The owner was too wealthy and connected. This was the last place the cops would mess with. The only vice busts in this town were street walkers and johns, mostly johns.

“Come on,” he said, pulling a few twenties out of his billfold.

She looked at him. So sure of himself. This routine probably worked on other girls, the young dumb ones, but not on her.

“So what’s it going to be? Jail or …”

“Jail,” she said. “I’d love to see you try to explain to your bosses what you were doing here. You’re just a beat cop looking for a hand job. Here’s your money back.”

The sneer vanished. He looked like he wanted to hit her. Heather walked out.

He went back to his table, the back of his neck burning. One of his cop buddies said, “That was quick.”

“Stupid bitch.”

His cop buddies laughed. “What did you do to her, Sam?”

“Nothing,” said Sam. He watched her walking away to the dressing room.

(To be continued)

OH HOLY NIGHT, Part 6

2013-08-13T23:28:00.001-05:00

After seeing the objects rearranged in the craft room, and with the dream still fresh on his mind, Charlie grabbed his flashlight and went outside. He looked at the back right tire of his car and, sure enough, it was low—so low, in fact, it was nearly flat—just as Margaret had said in the dream.

He went back into the house, dumbstruck, unable to believe the evidence of his eyes. Never before had he believed in tales of paranormal activity. That had always been Margaret's preoccupation. She was always reading books or watching TV shows about psychics and ghosts and such—things he found rather silly.

Yes, he believed in the possibility of life-after-death, in a theoretical sort of way. But that was as far as it went. It could not be proven, therefore he did not invest a great deal of hope in it, despite all the "near-death experiences" Margaret described from her book reading and TV watching.

Once she said to him, “Charlie, if I die first I’m going to send you a message to let you know there’s life after death.” And he laughed ...

Well, he was not laughing now. Now, he was sitting on the back porch with a cup of coffee growing cold in his hand, thinking, My god it’s true. There IS life after death.

Unless of course I’m losing my mind, he thought. Maybe subconsciously I knew the tire was low and that’s why Margaret said that in the dream. And maybe I'm just having these dreams because I miss her. And maybe I walked in my sleep and moved those things in her craft room because I'm creating some kind of crazy fantasy in my head, trying to convince myself she’s come back. Maybe grief has pushed me over the edge. People do go crazy from grief, or so I’ve heard. Or maybe this is the first stage of senile dementia, God help me. And yet he did not think so …

It troubled him all day. He went back and forth between the two possibilities: either he was crazy, or he was not. And if he was not, then he had proof positive of life after death. Which of course was crazy …

He went to bed that night wondering would he have another dream about Margaret? And if so, would that be a good thing or bad? Would it prove either way whether he was crazy or not? Or would it just keep him in this tailspin, not knowing for sure?

He took a sleeping pill—he was so agitated—and fell asleep, and some time in the night began dreaming he was walking through a dark wooded area down a dry creek bed. It was such a lonesome place and so quiet. No birds, no wind in the trees, just dead silence, and very little sunlight filtering through the limbs and the shadows so deep. He did not like this place.

Then he heard her call, “Charlie, up here!”

Following her voice, he went up a thicket-covered hill and there in the sunlight saw her, so youthful and radiant. She said, “Oh Charlie, it’s wonderful news! I’m so happy for Paul. He’ll be a wonderful father.”

Charlie woke with a start. He knew who Paul was. Paul was his nephew, married three years now but no children yet ...

Later that day, Charlie received a call from Paul. “Don’t tell me,” said Charlie, “Jenny’s pregnant.”

“How did you know?”

“I just had a feeling.”

There were more such dreams in the days to come. Charlie stopped doubting the evidence of his own eyes, stopped wondering if he was crazy, and came to accept the fact—the astounding, unexplainable fact—that he was in nightly communication with Margaret.

Every night she would come to him in a dream and tell him something he could not possibly have known on his own ...

One night she said, “You’ve been looking for my recipe for apple crumb cake. I can tell you exactly where to find it. I wrote it down and used it to mark my place in a book I never finished. Go to my craft room and you’ll find it on the third shelf.”

Next morning, he did what she said and found the recipe tucked inside a book about ghosts.

Her predictions and instructions were so accurate that Charlie came to trust her implicitly. Whatever she advised him to do, he did without question.

One time she said, “Charlie, you’ve got to sell the gold.”

“What? I can’t sell now. It’s going up.”

“Yes, but day after tomorrow it will drop and keep dropping.”

“Well, that’s no reason to sell. It’ll go back up again.”

“Yes, Charlie, that's true but you need to sell it now. And keep it in cash. Don’t put it in the bank.”

"Sell all of it?"

"All of it."

Charlie did what she said. The next day he sold all the gold—fifty thousand dollars’ worth—and put the cash in the small safe under his bed. And the very next day, gold began to drop and kept dropping. Just as she had said.

She would also advise him on health matters. One time she said, “You’re not getting enough exercise, or fresh air. You need to start golfing again. You used to enjoy it so. It would do you so much good, Charlie. Take your golf clubs and put them in the trunk, and leave them there. Don’t ever bring them in the house again. Leave them in the trunk.”

And he did what she said, without question. It was wonderful having her back giving him advice, reminding him about things, taking care of him, and sometimes telling him what was going to happen in the future. And oh what a joy it was just seeing her and hearing her voice again.

For the first time in a long time, Charlie was happy. He would wake in the morning happy, having just had a dream of Margaret, go through the day happy, and become happier as it got closer to bedtime when he would be able to see Margaret again in the meadows of their youth.

(To be continued)

OH HOLY NIGHT, Part 5

2013-08-11T23:26:00.000-05:00

It broke Jim’s heart watching Heather drive away to her first night at the new job. She had said it wouldn’t be so bad, and maybe it would not. But that doesn’t mean it will be good, he though. It’s a rotten way to make a living. And it’s my fault for putting her in this position.

As the hours passed, he kept thinking about her and picturing what she was doing. He paced around the apartment, angry. It was okay if it was some other girl but not his girl. His wife.

He went out onto the balcony and lit a cigarette, but couldn’t calm down. Finally, he put on his jacket and walked to the Shop-N-Go. He didn’t think about what he was doing, or try to talk himself out of it. He was past that. He had made up his mind.

He bought a six-pack and took it home, and as he drank the first cold one the tension he had been carrying for weeks disappeared. He felt loose and relaxed, and when he had numbed himself sufficiently he began to see things differently.

Everything’s going to be okay, he thought. I’ll get a job. The man at the Burger Royale had said come back in a week. It was just a matter of time. It wouldn’t be a great living, but it’ll be a living. Just enough to keep a roof over our heads, and enough for Heather to quit and go back to her other job. Then, after they’d had a few months’ stability and sobriety they would get their boy back. It was just a matter of time.

He opened another beer. Enjoy it, he told himself, because after tonight, no more. The only reason I’m drinking tonight is because it’s her first night on the job. What guy wouldn’t drink. He grew melancholy …

* * *

It was, however, not Heather’s first night on the job. She had never told Jim, but during those long hard months while she was waiting for him to be paroled, and needing money to support herself and Jason and her habit, she had done it before and at the same place, the Pink Kitty Kat.

And now here she was again at the Pink Kitty Kat. Some of the same girls still worked there. Her friend Jana was glad to see her back, and she was glad to see Jana as well but not so glad to be back. She had never regretted working there; she had done what she had to do and it had been a valuable learning experience. But she had been a different person then.

It had been less than a year, but a lot had changed since then. Then, she still had her son; now she did not have him and was trying to get him back. Then, Jim was still in prison; now he was with her, but instead of things getting better when he got out, they had gotten worse. Then, she was still using; now she was trying to stay clean and sober.

Which all came down to this: she did not if she could do this job clean and sober. She had thought she could, but now that she was here, looking out into the big room of booming music and multi-colored lights flashing in the darkness, lighting up the men’s staring faces—some grinning, others just staring, older men sitting alone and quiet, younger ones in large raucous groups having their bachelor parties—she felt daunted by the whole scene. Once, she had been able to see them all as harmless boys and had been able to abandon herself to the music and have a little fun with it. But not tonight.

Her moment came to go on stage. She tried getting into the loud music. She knew and remembered all the moves, and did them well enough, but was stiff and nervous and self-conscious. It was not like the last time at all, when dollar bills had rained on her. Tonight there were only a few tips (sympathy votes) and even some groans in the audience.

“I can’t do this,” she said to Jana offstage. “I was terrible.”

“You need something?”

“Yeah.”

They went into the bathroom and Jana laid out a couple of lines. Heather snorted one, using one of the dollar bills from her G-string. She felt the harsh chemical grittiness blast through her sinuses. It felt like the return of long-lost friend. Then, as it drained sourly down the back of her throat, she began to feel the rush.

Jana did the other line, then asked, “Is that better?”

“Yeah,” she said, “much better.” It had been a long time since she felt a rush like that. It was like the first time she ever did it. I should quit more often, she thought.

Her heart quickened with the driving beat and vibrating bass of the music booming from the next room. She could get into it now.

They stepped out of the bathroom and into the brighter light of the dressing room, but it was too bright and too noisy—the girls chattering and music booming—and she suddenly felt a wave of panic. She looked into the mirror to touch up her hair and makeup and noticed she was shaking. She felt unsteady in her heels. I’ll fall if I go out there, she thought. I’m too wired. She turned to Jana. “I gotta’ take the edge off.”

There was a strict rule against the dancers drinking, but that did not matter. They went back into the bathroom, Jana pushing another girl out of the way who cried, “Hey!”

“Emergency,” said Jana, shutting the door. Then she pulled a pint out of vodka out of her purse.