Robin Hoods of the Purple Sage

(Photo by Paula Hartnet)

Robin Hoods of the Purple Sage
(a brief lectionary reflection by Steve Orr)

I watched a lot of television as a child, and, because there was a great need for content, saw a lot of movies on the television (even though we, initially, only received one channel). It didn’t take me long to recognize a recurring plot line in many of the movies and television programs I was exposed to: the rich rancher who covets the land of the little guy (or, just as often, the attractive-widow-with-children) is eventually thwarted by the handsome (and possibly singing) cowboy (who, having soundly defeated the bad guy, settles down to provide “lasting” protection against it ever happening again or, perhaps rides away into the sunset leaving all to wonder “Who was that masked man?”). You would be amazed at how many variations on a theme are possible with just those few building blocks . . . and all in black & white.

Part of the reason I recognized that recurring pattern is that I was exposed to Robin Hood at an even earlier age. I knew all about Robin, Maid Marion, and the Merry Men “stealing from the rich” (something Robin only did to the “bad” rich people, those who accumulated their riches through oppression, excessive taxation, and theft) and “giving to the poor” (since the only reason they were “poor” is that the “bad” rich people made them that way). It is why, at a very early age, I easily understood the caveat in scripture against coveting. How hard is that to understand? If you want something that is not yours, and if you have no legitimate means of it becoming yours, you need to just let go of the idea of possessing it. Simple.

Of course, if you are reading this, you know as well as I do that, despite being simple, it is not always easy to accomplish. We want what we want. Taming that desire to possess can be daunting. Oh that we had a cowboy (singing or otherwise) who would ride in and stop the rich rancher in our heads from coveting our neighbors whatever. Or if we could know, really know, we had the deterrent of a Robin Hood who could be counted on to always deprive us of our ill-gotten gains, perhaps knowing it would keep us from taking what doesn’t really belong to us.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way. We’re on the honor system. God will allow us to act as we decide to act, and there will be consequences for our actions . . . the bill may just come much, much later. And we may not be the ones to pay it. In 1st Kings, chapter 21, we see Ahab sulk because a neighbor won’t sell him a vineyard and then allow his wicked wife to engineer the death of that man so Ahab can have the vineyard. We are a bit shocked to find that there is no immediate retribution; no Robin Hood to swash-buckle in and steal it back. Instead Ahab is promised by Elijah that he will, someday, pay the price for what he has done . . . when he dies. The description of the consequence is pretty graphic, so I’ll let you read it yourself. Regardless, the punishment seems remote; it seems to fit the old saying, “justice delayed is justice denied.”

In 2nd Samuel, chapters 11 and 12, we read of David being confronted by the prophet Samuel for engineering the death of a man so David could possess the man’s wife (after David had already impregnated her). Again, we can hardly believe what we are reading. The “evil rich rancher” is the man GOD chose to be King! And where is the singing cowboy? No one acts to stop this man from arranging this heinous crime. Why? Because he is the King, God’s chosen King. He is so powerful, no one dare oppose him, even when he does wrong. In this story, as well as the Ahab story, the principals don’t actually do the foul deed; they each use someone else to make it happen; as if that distance somehow made them less tainted by the foul act. In David’s case, he managed to arrange for the enemy to strike the killing blow. And then, once confronted with his crime, David repents. But the bill comes due (it always does). And David has to watch time after time while others die, and wondering if it is because of his sin. It is a sobering and chilling thought.

And that brings us to Luke, chapter 7. People usually think this is a story about honoring Jesus. And it is, to a certain extent. But there is another story; and it is couched in the question Jesus asks the well-off Pharisee: “Do you see this woman?” That question seems so out of place. How could the Pharisee NOT see the woman? She has been there all through the meal, weeping on Jesus’ feet and then drying them with her hair, anointing his feet with ointment and then kissing them. Seems pretty heard to miss. That simple question harbors a much greater meaning. Jesus wants to know if the man REALLY sees the woman; not with his physical eyes, but with his spiritual eyes.

That is the real problem with all of these key people—Ahab, a consistently evil man; David, a good man who has strayed; and the Pharisee, just a guy with resources who asked Jesus to dinner—they all failed to actually “see” the people before them. They let their desires (or their situations) drive how they regarded others; human beings with just as much value to God as themselves.

And that is our challenge as well. God has charged us to act justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with Him. WE are the Robin Hoods of the purple sage.

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If you are in Waco, Texas on Friday, stop by the Olive Branch (River Square, just down from Ninfa’s, near 5th and University Parks Drive) at 8:00 a.m. for breakfast and some great discussions of this week’s lectionary passages (the other readings this week are Psalm 5:1-8 • Psalm 32 • Galatians 2:15-21 • Luke 7:36-8:3).

Enjoy!

Steve

The Second Rule of Finding Things

The Second Rule of Finding Things . . . (a brief lectionary reflection by Steve Orr -- for Sunday June 6, 2010)

If you read one of my previous lectionary reflections, you may be familiar with my hobby of collecting first rules. I wrote about the "First Rule of Self-defense" (Don't be there) and the "First Rule of the Kitchen" (Before picking something up, know where you're going to set it down). Here's a new one for you: the "First Rule of Promotion" (To get the job, do the job). That could also be called the "First Rule of Employment"; it works for both.

I also wrote about the "First Rule of Finding Things" (Look under something). That one is worth exploring a bit more, but I'll save it for another reflection. This week I want to shift over to one of my very few second rules: the "Second Rule of Finding Things." Perhaps you're wondering why a perfectly good first rule needs a second rule at all. The best way I can explain it is this: some things just can't be found using only the first rule.  But that's not the rule's fault! The very best practitioners of the "First Rule of Finding Things" could still not find what was being sought because of a little trick our mind plays on us.  Often, we are so focused on what we are seeking, we stop seeing what is right in front of us; and the "harder" we look the less we see.   Weird but true.

That leads me to the "Second Rule of Finding Things" (Don't look; see). Sometimes the only way to find something is to stop looking for it and just allow ourselves to see what is before us.  While using this approach can often yield up what was sought, the great benefit to using this rule is that it goes a long way toward preventing us from mistaking what is before us for what we are seeking. Sometimes (many would say, "usually") the act of looking for something prevents us from discovering.  Another way to think about it is the difference between researching and exploring; the former follows set rules and usually involves a known objective, whereas the latter is far less structured and consists of observing whatever is encountered.

And THAT leads us to 1 Kings 17 where Elijah restores a widow's son to life.  It is a story about the great prophet of God that, when Jesus walks among them, everyone in Israel, even children, knows. Right up there with bringing God's fire down on Mt. Carmel, stopping the rain for 3 years, and being whisked off to Heaven in a firey chariot. Plus, there is an expectation that Elijah will return just before the Messiah appears.

So, perhaps we should cut the folks of Nain some slack.  Is it such a big problem that they thought he was Elijah returning when they saw Jesus raise to life the dead son of a widow?  Luke 7:16 says "they glorified God, saying, 'A great prophet has risen among us!'" When they said that, they were thinking about the return of Elijah.

There's just one problem: they broke the "Second Rule of Finding Things." Because they were SO focused on the return of Elijah, they failed to see what was right in front of them, someone far more important than Elijah.

It's something we might give some thought to ourselves.

"The Lineman" (NEW MATERIAL ADDED!!)

(NEW MATERIAL!! This posting includes two sequences of a new fiction piece I'm working on that I am tentatively calling "The Lineman." In it we meet Chez [sounds like fez], learn a little about his present situation, and get introduced to the story. I have now added some new material to the initial sequence, as well as adding a second section -- Steve)

THE LINEMAN
By Steve Orr

Chez Makes a Discovery

Alphonse “Chez” Chesterton was simultaneously enjoying one of the positives of his current employment while dealing with one of its negatives. On the positive side, his new iChip had synced perfectly with his gauntlet despite the fact they were produced two years apart and by different companies (as advertised, he had to admit) and he was currently vibing on a rollicking piece of music being played by a group who’s general popularity had peaked in the previous millennium. But Chez had liked them the first time he had heard them; and now his iChip was loaded with them (as well as with several other bands from that period – who knew I’d ever like this stuff?).

On the negative side, he was also currently climbing a tree out in the back end of nowhere. Nobody cared if he listened to his chip on this job, so he did it all the time; driving from location to location, during analysis & repairs; even when he, on rare occasions, had to actually talk with a client or some other local (hey, they couldn’t tell). The big downside was that he had to do things like he was doing today … finding out why the video feed from this location had gone to snow.

Somewhere in New York City, just off Broadway, was a cozy little restaurant (not really cozy or little, but patrons thought of it that way) with one of those menus that doesn’t list the price of anything (way above my pay grade, that’s for sure). Strategically placed on its walls, so each group of diners had the sense they were dining somewhere else, were large video panels, each with its own separate view of some bucolic scene; sheep grazing in New Zealand, Kobe cattle doing much the same thing in Japan, a relatively empty meadow with occasional breeze riffling through the wildflowers, “Main Street” in a small Texas Panhandle town, the Serengeti Plain, etc. There were more than 70 of these “dining experiences” scattered through “Tableaus,” each with its own collection of groupies.

The ambiance at “Tableaus” (and its above-top-dollar menu) made it a big profit center for FSC, Chez’s employer, and keeping the technology working that produced all that ambiance was Chez’s job. When Chez had come to work for First Solar Corp (FSC; he had to remember to call it FSC … they had switched to letters recently because, they said, people were confusing them with the eco’s) almost five years ago he’d been especially excited about working for them. First, he was already on his third round of living on the dole; if he didn’t come up with a job pretty quick he was going to have to move into a shelter (not the bottom, but you could definitely see it from there). Second, it seemed like someone had tailor-made the job for him; tech (he liked tech; he and tech got along really fine, far better than he and many of the people in his life), world travel (something he had always wanted to do but could never afford), almost complete daily autonomy (he had a boss, but rarely saw or even heard from the woman – “Chez, get it done. Get it done right. Get it done fast. And then move on to the next thing. Keep your log up to date. I’ll contact you if I have any questions.”).

So here he was, high up a tree in the Texas Hill Country (a little too high for comfort); and what does he find? The camera was there, still securely strapped to the tree and facing a meadow that rolled gently down to the Perdenales River. However, the transmitter (the key fail point to the whole shebang in Chez’s estimation … if the scene could not be transmitted to the satellite, no one was going to enjoy it over dinner) was nowhere to be seen. An uninformed observer would not have realized this as quickly as Chez did since the whole operation was encased in a small, flexible weather-proof housing. But Chez knew there would be a small bump on the crown of the housing if the transmitter were in place, and, even from behind and to the side, he could see there was no bump. It was possible, he knew, that the transmitter had somehow come loose within the housing, but the likelihood of this was just about zero. No, the whole situation smacked of human intervention. Someone had fiddled with his tech. Chez did not like that; no-sir-ee. Not. At. All. He would note that in his log. Corporate might need to have a little talk with the folks that this tree was leased from; nobody should be up here messing with FSC property.

In order to see into the housing, Chez needed to swing around so he was facing the clear thermoplastic screen that formed the “front” wall of the housing; the piece that allowed the device inside to “see” the meadow. Ideally, he would look in, see that the transmitter was there, just not connected. If that was the case, he thought the rubbery housing was flexible enough that he could manipulate the transmitter back into place without having to remove the housing, and that would be that. Off in time to drive back in to Austin and grab some supper at Chez Nous. He’d been hooked on French food ever since spending a few days working in Provence last year. Plus, he thought it was kind of funny that, even though they were spelled the same, his name sounded like “fez” while the restaurant’s name sounded like the “sha” in shake. (Those French).

The problem was his safety harness. The harness was prevented from dropping any lower by a limb growing from the opposite side of the tree, and he needed to be just a tad lower to see into the housing. He had tried loosening the harness, but even at its most forgiving it would not allow him to swing around in front of the housing at the right elevation to peek inside. Of course, company safety policy required he do his work in harness; but, he reasoned, this was just one of those situations the policy did not take into account. Besides, it would only take a moment to swing around, look inside, and, he was certain, wiggle to transmitter back into position. He reached around the trunk and flipped the catch on the strap that tethered him to the tree, but left the main belt cinched around his waist. The two lengths of strap now hung from the left and right side of the belt,, respectively.

The limbs were thinner this high up, so Chez tested it before he transferred all of his weight to the limb he would need to stand on so he could do his peering. It gave a little when he pressed down with his foot, but it seemed sturdy enough for his needs. He thought he would be okay if he kept his weight close to the trunk. At times like this he really missed using his spurs (he had an excellent set back in his apartment; Buckingham tree spurs that had somehow followed him home from his stint in the military). After the eco’s got the UN to adopt the Tree Preservation Initiative following the “green wars,” all the countries that still had trees signed on immediately; and those countries that wanted trees eventually signed on when they realized there was no way to get trees without agreeing to abide by the Initiative. Now, no sane person would make a hole in a tree—the fine, alone, would kill you—because you were likely to be sued by the eco’s, or worse. Some of those folk were not entirely rational when it came to the ecosphere.

He reached up and grabbed a much smaller limb that grew from the trunk a few feet directly above the housing. This one had been trimmed back a little so as to not block the view, something the local was required to do from time to time in satisfaction of the lease agreement. Keeping his hand on the upper limb, Chez moved around so he was facing the front of the housing, and then leaned out a little because his eyes were still just a smidge too high to see what he needed to see.

For a few seconds he was disoriented. Something wasn’t right. He was still trying to reconcile what he was seeing with what should actually be inside the housing when, with a loud “crack,” the limb beneath him gave way. Everything seemed to happen all at the same time. He tightened his grip on the limb above, searched left and right for another to grab hold of with his free hand. Then, before he could find another purchase, the upper limb broke from the trunk as well, never having been strong enough to hold his entire weight. As he dropped, one foot hit a lower branch. This resulted in Chez being flipped onto the horizontal, almost perpendicular to the trunk, face to the sky. As he helplessly tilted outward, he saw the jagged end of the upper limb, opposite from where his hand still clutched its leafy extremity, strike the tech housing.

Chez watched as everything at the level of the housing and above disappeared in a loud, bright explosion. He felt the lower limbs smacking his back as he continued to fall, and then, slamming into the ground, knew nothing more.

Chez in Deep

He was really deep this time. Why had he dived so far down? This deep in the Amazon River there was nothing to see; all about him was pitch blackness. And no light. Why would he dive so deep without a light? And no cage. There was nothing between him and everything else that lived down here. He had to surface! Where was the surface? In the all-consuming darkness he started to panic. But then his training kicked in. Inventory: nothing … no, wait. He was breathing, so he must be rigged. Panic would only use up his air faster. He forced himself to take slow, even breaths until he felt himself calm down. His arms … for some reason he could not move his arms very much; and there seemed to be some cords or straps on his left arm. His feet … ahhhh! He began to kick. Yes, there was something limiting his legs as well; but not so much that he couldn’t accomplish scissoring flips with his feet. And in knowing there was something restricting his legs told him where “down” was. Now that he was oriented, he tilted his head back a bit and … there. It wasn’t much, but it would do; a gray smudge where all about everything else was fully black.

Slowly, he moved toward the smudge; coming a bit closer with each little kick. In time he sensed the smudge was growing brighter. He kicked harder, wanting to breach the surface more than he had ever wanted anything. Finally he looked up and saw the smudge had become a disc of light rumpled by the movement of the great river. And then, just before he got to the surface, while still surrounded by the gray-green of the upper waters … that’s when he heard the voice.

“Why aren’t you dead?”

Writer’s Notebook Shameful moment

By Steve Orr

PLEASE IGNORE THIS PIECE. IT WAS PUSHED TO YOU IN ERROR. IT HAS BEEN REVISED, AND THE REAL PIECE IS TITLED "INCIDENT AT 10TH AND CLARK". THANKS, STEVE

In less than 60 seconds we went from wild cacophony to utter silence.

Welcome to Jetton Junior High School, spring 1964. There were a couple hundred of us; talking, shouting, laughing, nudging, arguing, courting, playing; and our keepers were ever watchful to ensure the arguments or the games of “slap-hands” didn’t escalate into actual fighting, that the courting didn’t cross that indefinable (at least to us) line into public-display-of-affection, that the laughter wasn’t somehow connected to something salacious. We were, all of us, keepers and kept, fully engaged in our after-lunch rituals, using up the time until the next class bell rang and called us back into the building for additional societal formation. It was a warmer-than-usual spring day and we were a bit more rambunctious than the norm, perhaps sensing in the air the coming of summer and our annual parole from public education.

All of that, that activity, the keeping; it all just stopped. Though not abruptly. There was a definite fading process that seemed to take forever but that really only lasted, at most, a minute. I’ve gone over and over this, and after several years I can confidently say it took about a minute to go from thunderous noise to something so silent I can find no analog in my other memories with which to compare it.

Oh, how those minutes weigh on me, even now in my fifth decade since it occurred. I’ve done some bad things in this life (and haven’t we all?), some things of which I am ashamed; but this particular moment, this sticks with me, rises up from the lake of my memory time and again like nothing else. No amount of wishing or hoping will make it go away. My memory refuses to let me lose this one. It looms so large in my reflections that I count it among those things I mean when I repeat (as I do more and more these latter days) David’s petition to God in the Psalms: “Remember not the sins of my youth.”

The first thing I noticed was the change in the sound. Somewhere out along the farthest edges of our crowd, near the street, sound had stopped. I’ve always been a sound person, probably because my vision is so poor. I was in thick glasses by the time I entered the third grade and have lost some ground every year since. So, by the time I arrived at this shameful moment I was already to the point I could not safely walk down the hall of our junior high school without my glasses.

Yet, that day, I could see well enough to go along with everyone else. And I could easily recognize the change in the quality and volume of our massed sound.

I was up on the large and grand porch that fronted our school and about as far from what happened as I could be and still be part of it. I say “large and grand” because our school had, at one time, been the largest and grandest of our town’s three high schools. One of many changes wrought by Brown v Board of Education was the consolidation of all the high schools into the newest facility, located way out around 25^th Street.

I remember turning away from my friends and looking towards the street. In my recollection I was the only person anywhere near me who, initially, noticed what was happening out at the street edge. My two good friends stood next to me, absorbed in a common exercise; taking turns trying to slap each other’s hands before said hands could be jerked away, and, supposedly, out of harms way. It was an interesting, and often painful, lesson in eye-hand coordination that many boys around my age participated in; the more aggressive among us getting to hit something, while the rest of us learned to get out of their way. One of those excellent life lessons one learns outside the classroom.

What I saw when I looked toward the street was not completely without precedence; my fellow students—friends, enemies, acquaintances, strangers—pausing to look at something passing by our school; usually an automobile of some sort. We were situated right on a sometimes busy, divided street; one of the reasons our keepers were so adamant about our never leaving school property; there was the actual chance one could come to harm just by stepping off the curb and into the street. This rule was tested from time to time, and, if the miscreant was caught, he (and wasn’t it always “he”?) was quickly collared by one of the teachers, fully empowered by “in loco parentis,” and dragged off for a brief and meaningful conference with the Principal.

In my memory this moment seemed to take a long time; but, in reality, it could have only been seconds before I refocused from the first wave of watchers to what they were watching. I remember raising my eyes, seeing first the line of cars parked along the curb in front of the school, then to the single lane of street that was located closest to us, then to the wide, grassy berm which made it possible for simple 10^th Street to also be called Murrell Boulevard (since renamed to Walter Jetton Boulevard), then to the other lane which allowed traffic to drive in the opposite direction. In all that, I saw nothing. No passing cars, no bicycles, no one walking … nothing that should draw their attention away from all those things we thought were so important in those days.

But then my eyes finished their rise, and I saw the old man.

He was walking along the opposite sidewalk. Tall, thin, not-recently-shaven; wearing one of those sleeveless undershirts with the scoop neck, a pair of grey, shapeless pants that had been washed too often or had lain too long in the Salvation Army bin, of both, leather shoes that had seen better days, no socks. It was possible he could have been coming from almost anywhere. Our school sat on the corner of 10^th and Clark, only ten streets from the riverfront. There was a lot stuffed into that quarter of the city. My grandparents lived in a rent house not quite a block-and-a-half up Clark Street—I often stopped by to see them on school afternoons before walking the mile and a half home—but I think I would have known him if he was a friend of theirs, and I did not. Across the alley from my grandparent’s place, and at mid-block on Washington Street, was the local house of ill-repute; but that also seemed an unlikely source for the old man (Yes, I know … block-and-a-half from a junior high school … what can I say? Different place. Different time.). Directly across Washington from there was the back entrance to the Southern Bell Telephone Company where my mother worked; another unlikely starting point. The Andrew Carnegie Public Library? No.

These speculations were very brief; none of those fit the situation. Besides, we could all tell where he came from. It was obvious, obvious to us at least; he had just come from the small grocery store located a couple blocks nearer the river, on Clark near the intersection with 8^th Street. He was carrying a low-sided cardboard box (the kind you sometimes see on grocery store shelves with half a soup can showing above the cut-down cardboard edge) with three half-gallons of milk and a loaf of bread in it. That seemed to end any speculation about the origin of his journey that day. And, just as obvious to us all, he was taking these to his home. Anyone would have come to the same conclusions.

Carrying is not the right word. He was laden with that low-sided box and its content. From his slow, wobbly gate it was easy for anyone to see he had more than his ancient limbs could handle. Each step was a struggle. And even from my well-removed position, and with my bespectacled eyes, I could see the thin, ropey muscles of his arms starkly etched against the parchment of his skin. Here was a man who, clearly, had done a lot of what my grandfather called real work. Grand-daddy still labored at the Illinois Central Railroad Roundhouse, as he had all of his adult life (except for a two-year span during the depression when the whole family lived on his parents’ farm and he earned only $1.50), and he often told us he was pretty sure he knew what real work was. But we all grow infirm, don’t we, even those who have built up some muscle though hard work?

By this time, my friends had stopped to see what I was looking at; and thus began the slow domino into silence. Instead of moving toward us in waves, the silence moved both from us and from the street side to eventually meet somewhere in the middle of the crowd. In less than a minute all of us—friends, enemies, acquaintances, strangers; teachers and students, keepers and kept—were standing perfectly, silently still … watching.

To say the old man struggled would be to use too light a word. “Struggled,” “wrestled,” even “fought”; we’ve managed somehow to leech the weight and power out of these words. All that’s left me, that truly describes these events, is “battle.” That day we witnessed a man battle; battle against his own body with all the ferocity of a soldier attempting to overtake the enemy’s position amid a barrage of weapons fire. He gave it his all with each wavering step, knees slightly bent against the weight of his burden, determination painted in rivulets of sweat coursing down on his face.

I don’t think any of us was shocked when the first milk carton tumbled.

We had already stopped moving and talking; there was nothing else to stop except breathing. I’m pretty sure we all did that, too; I know I did. Again, it all seemed to move in some sort of horror-film-slow-motion; the corner of the box buckling just a little, the milk carton starting to tip over the edge, the old man reactively tugging everything up and thus causing the falling carton to start a slow end-over-end spin as it floated out of the box and toward the sidewalk. Kurosawa and Peckinpah could have taken lessons. I suddenly found myself leaning against the thick, sculpted concrete balustrade that kept us “porch kids” from tumbling into the broad array of hedges growing about a half story below. And I was not alone. Everyone was not just oriented on the old man; we were leaning toward him as we watched that carton of milk … oh … so … slowly … somersault toward the sidewalk. Reality: mere seconds. Subjectively: almost forever.

It hit with a slapping sound we all could hear.

And … nothing happened. The carton landed on its bottom, with no apparent harm to its contents. Everyone breathed. The moment of horror had passed. The relief that flooded though us was so strong, so palpable. Everything was A-O-K.

Then, as we were just beginning to think of returning to our previous activities, the old man moved to pick up the errant milk carton … and the second carton began its tumble from the box.

Stephen King fans will recognize this as a “Cujo moment”; that moment when (the good guys having finally won the day and realizing they have somehow survived, a moment of abject and profound relief) evil surges back for another bite! Long before I ever read Stephen King, long before I ever saw one of those just-can’t-kill-the-bad-guy movies, I experienced this horror. Right then I knew. Deep in the inmost place of my being I was forced to recognize truth: he was not going to make it. I wanted him to make it, but I had already come to the conclusion that he just could not do it. How does a man who has difficulty just walking pick up a carton of milk without dropping the rest of his load?

This time the top of the carton struck the concrete sidewalk. Milk spewed in every direction. By this time, the old man was kneeling on one knee. Milk splattered his feet, his legs, his shirt; a few drops hit him in the face. But back then we were a resolute lot, especially people of his generation. He soldiered on. He had lived through some of the more trying times of history; World War I, the Great Depression, World War II, Korea. Even my generation had been taught what to do in such a situation this: no crying over spilt milk. And he didn’t cry. He passed his hand over his face, wiping away the few droplets of milk there. He reached for the first, upright milk carton, placed it back in the box, and then slowly, carefully managed to raise himself back to a standing position without further crisis.

He resumed his slow, unsteady shuffle; not looking back at his failure, leaving it behind him in the way we had all been taught. In all this time, this subjective time of our viewing, he had not taken as much as 15 steps. Now, he resumed putting one foot before the other, wobbly but resolute. One step. Two. Three.

I’m not sure what actually happened. Maybe the first milk carton had sustained some damage when it landed upright on the sidewalk and had sprung a slow leak only after being returned to the box. Maybe all of his efforts had just exhausted the man. Whatever the cause, whether liquid-weakened cardboard or life-weakened sinews, on his sixth step away from the milk spill the box caved in the middle. This time it happened very fast. The two sides of the box flipped up to meet each other in the middle. Somehow in that process the bread and surviving milk cartons flew forward from the old man’s grasp. And he did grasp, at all of it. He actually got one hand on one of the cartons, but it slipped right through, perhaps already slick from leaking milk.

In a flash, chaos. Before him on the sidewalk were two burst milk cartons; a loaf of bread split open and sopping wet with milk, one of the cartons having landed directly on it before spilling and soaking the loaf. And now … now while grasping the folded and useless piece of cardboard … now the old man cried.

And through it all we watched.

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[WRITER'S NOTEBOOK - What follows is not the story; rather it is my angst-y analysis of the events that day and our lack of response to the man's situation. Please feel free to skip all of this. Writing the piece allowed me to explore some deeply held anxieties about that day, feelings I have since worked through, thanks to the encouragement of my friends. I think the story stands on its own; it certainly doesn't require any of this to be engaging and thought-provoking all on its own.] And there it is; the thought that will not leave me alone. I should have gone to his aid. I should have called out to someone—friends, enemies, acquaintances, strangers—located at street’s edge: “Go! Help him!” I should have implored a teacher for … something; permission? I should have done something. Someone should have done something … right? But on this day no one left school property.

With decades of life from which to look back at this moment, I have come to realize that, even with the minutes it took for this tableau to unfold, I probably could not have moved from where I stood, even at a run, to reach his side in time to be of help; at least not from the time the first carton hit the sidewalk, the time when I concluded he was not going to make it. There was just not enough real time in which to act. But, someone located just across the street could have. I’m certain of it. But I not only failed to act, I failed to urge anyone else to act.

But there is a worse thought, pecking away at me like I am Prometheus’ liver: why didn’t I do something the moment I first laid eyes on the old man? It was obvious he was in trouble. He was battling with every step; something we could all see. What chain kept me? Why did I not act?

I clearly recall that the rules required me to stay on school property. Up to that point in my life I had had a somewhat flexible relationship with rules. Oh, I was, at my core, a compliant personality type. It was a rare instance where my parents had to punish me twice for the same infraction. I really did tend to learn from my mistakes. But, in all honesty, there were plenty of rules I regularly ignored when it suited me. This tended to take the form of not asking permission to do things when I was pretty sure permission would be denied; like riding my bicycle in downtown traffic to visit “Readmore,” our town’s only bookstore and newsstand. Don’t get the impression Paducah was like Mayberry. There were 50,000 plus souls about; with all that implies. The potential for trouble really did exist. Still, I rode my bike all over the town, and some parts of the county, whenever I wished. I just didn’t tell anyone who might stop me from doing so. On another front, I was always getting into trouble at the public library for sneaking upstairs to read the grown-up books when the rules clearly stipulated people of my age were restricted to reading books in the Juvenal section. I was eventually banned from the library for this practice, but that is a story for another time. I also had had, up to then, a rather lax attitude toward the completion of homework assignments. So, in my world, there were rules and then there were rules.

What had changed was that I had decided in the 7^th grade that I was responsible for me; that if I was to become anything in this life, it would be up to me to see that I did so. And the way that decision impacts on this tale is that I had come to a point where I was reevaluating my relationship to rules. Even in the few short months I had been in the 7^th grade I had observed the difference between how rule followers and rule breakers were regarded by the teachers and administrators. Clearly, there was some value to be mined from following rules. And that was the clear dilemma weighing on me that day as the old man fought, and lost, his battle with his aging body.

I was afraid. I was afraid what might happen to me if I broke the stay-on-school-property rule. Fear kept me from acting. Should I have disregarded the rule and acted to help my fellow human being who was in such obvious distress? Could I have? The memory of time is subjective. The saying goes, “History is the daughter of time.” I would add that memory is the daughter of want. I want to believe that any action on my part would have been too late to have helped the old man. But, honestly, even if that is truth, I never even took one step in that direction. I never moved. I could have, at the very least, moved from where I was rooted by my fear, down the steps, along the walkway, and out to the street edge. No rules would have been broken. I would have still been on school property. But I didn’t even do that much. I didn’t even try.

Perhaps you are kind and are willing to think, “Well, you were just a boy of 12. Really, what could you do?” Or perhaps you are willing to recognize the wisdom in a collection of rules designed to protect teens and pre-teens who have been entrusted to the public school system. Those rules, as we now know, really do have value, and provide some real protections to our children. Perhaps you would ask me, "What would you have wanted your own daughter to have done in that situation?"; knowing full well such a question would lead me to only one conclusion.

I’ve thought all those things … and more. Still, I can’t let it go. In some very real ways, I am who I am because of a few pivotal moments in my life. This is one of those moments that defines me. Since that moment, one that has imprinted me with a deep and everlasting shame, I have struggled (perhaps even battled) with what to do when I see (hear, learn of, sense, recognize) someone in need. Is it a situation in which I can help? Or, is it one in which my actions will be of no impact, or be too late to be of any real help?

What I would like to think (and what I truly believe) is that, because of this moment where I stood and did nothing when someone really needed help, I have since chosen, more times than not, to act, even if my rational mind counseled that my actions would be too late or of no useful impact.

In Hamlet, Shakespeare writes, “Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well, when our deep plots do pall; and that should teach us, there’s a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will.” I take some comfort in that passage. I would like to think that God has used that shameful moment to grow me, to develop in me a concern for others that has the capacity, at least, to act on their behalf even when it seems a wasted effort; to, when needed, cast aside my fear and do what I know is right.

Local Event (A novel) - Chapter 5

Local Event - CHAPTER FIVE

The Core

If not for the machines, The Core would have been silent. As it was, no human sounds could be heard. Sal would have bet money that, after almost two decades in this business, nothing could surprise her. In stunned wonder, she marveled that it had happened, not once, but twice in the space of a few hours.

What was all that about making the wall appear two feet closer? Did the gun really fire bullets? If so, what happened to them? Dying in Brazil? And the disappearance of the two men...how had they done that? Was it some sort of new cloaking technology? Were the men still in that room, no longer detectable by the Core's sensors? Or, could it be something else entirely?

And what was that about calling Jones "Colonel"? There was nothing in her records about Jones being in the military. And if he had been in the military, there would have to be a very good reason why it was hidden from her. There were security levels, and then there were security levels. That led off in a direction she was not sure she wanted to go.

She sat that way for some time. No one in the room felt the need to disturb her.

Eventually, she reached for a cigarette, lit it, drew deeply and held it. When she blew out the smoke, she had made a decision. Leaning toward the console before her, she opened a circuit and spoke in a low, calm voice.

"Code: Majestic."

About five seconds went by. Then, a female voice, steady, but with an overtone of disbelief, replied, "I am required to inform you that you have activated a Level 12 security protocol. Please verify that this was intentional."

"That is correct, Gunnery Sergeant Michaels," said Sal. "Please take us to Condition Yellow. No one leaves until the protocol is fully satisfied."

After another, longer pause, the upper half of the Marine appeared on the screen. Her face showed shock, her eyes questioning, but her voice remained steady when, moving closer to the camera, she quietly said, "Sal, are you sure?"

Touched by the genuine concern of her friend, Sal said, "It's Ok, Stacey. Everything will be fine. It's just going to take a while to sort it all out."

Stepping back from the camera, the Marine spoke in her "official" voice, "I acknowledge your verification. The Core is now locked down. Marines are posted at all entrances and exits. Until further notice, communications will be conducted on this channel, only."

"Thank you, Gunny", said Sal, the warmth of her voice carrying more meaning than just the words. Closing the circuit, Sal's thoughts began to fill with hopes for restored power, renewed franchise, and increased funding. She fought to extinguish the smile that was suddenly lighting up her face.

Stalking, she thought. Stalking the bad guys.

She opened a recessed panel on the console. Extracting a disk the size of small coin, she clipped it to her collar. She had never felt the need to wear the microphone, before. Now, however, she must be certain everyone in the room heard every thing she had to say. Standing, she turned and faced the terraced rows where her team sat, quietly watching her every move. When she spoke, her voice could be heard coming from each person's console.

####

The TAB

The TAB floated approximately eight feet above the ground. It noted the time (11:59:37 p.m. local) and location (USA. Texas. Austin. 572 9th street. Rear alleyway) as a matter of course. Other factors were noted; limited ambient light, minimal spill from distant street light at front of building, limited precipitation (level: fog), third shift construction crew on 38th level of building four blocks to the east. It didn't actually think about these factors. They were part of a continuous stream of data being compiled by it.

It had adjusted its exterior surface to a matte-black finish. It would not reflect or emit any light, sound, or other stimuli detectable by biological sensors under these conditions. As an added safety factor, it had located itself in a slender shadow cast by a window ledge. Among the limited choices available to the TAB, shadow concealment was the best in these low-tech circumstances.

Subject:Wayne had never been out of its sensor range from the point of acquisition, 73 minutes and 13 seconds ago. The TAB did not have a choice in the matter; it had to follow Subject:Wayne. That's what it was programmed to do. Mission parameters required it remain, at all times, beyond the sensory abilities of Subject:Wayne. An early sweep had revealed Subject:Wayne to be entirely tech free; no electronics of any kind. The TAB had noted the anomaly in its growing report of the night's activities. Tech-free humans were rare. The TAB had also noted the absence of any other surveillance equipment in the area.

If the TAB had feelings, no one knew about them. AI was new enough so that the humans who knew this kind of tech even existed were still never really certain which tech could think and feel, and which tech could only serve. Even developers had been surprised from time to time. If this TAB had feelings, it had to be experiencing some level of frustration. TAB's were programmed to be curious, in an electronic surveillance kind of way. For some unknown reason, this TAB could not fully satisfy its curiosity.

Another human had joined Subject:Wayne. The TAB could not identify this human. In fact, this human could not even be brought into focus by the TAB. Regardless of which optics it accessed, regardless of which other sensors it brought to bear, the best it could do was record a humanoid-shaped smudge.

Sound was no better. Subject:Wayne was being recorded without difficulty. However, Subject:Unknown:01 seemed to be producing meaningless, low volume sounds. No amount of adjustment could clarify the sounds coming from Subject:Unknown:01. The TAB noted the anomaly in its report. The TAB investigated various options. Each option was, in turn, compared to the mission parameters, and rejected. The primary objective of the surveil was Subject:Wayne. All other matters, including unknown subjects and anomalies, were secondary, only to be included in the report as they related to Subject:Wayne.

The TAB also rejected the option of making contact with its employer. Since the primary mission was undetectable surveillance, such transmissions were precluded. Contact would have to wait until the TAB presented itself, physically, before its employer. The mission parameters were clear on this matter. Thus the (yearning?) curiosity of the TAB remained unsatisfied, at least as it related to Subject:Unknown:01. Having no options, it continued to do what it did.

####


The North of England

It seemed he had been like this, forever. He was on his knees, and he was being sick. He had long ago emptied the contents of his stomach onto the ground in front of him. His entire world had shrunk down to the heaving of his stomach muscles and the darkened view of the grass in his direct line of vision.

In his agony, he had little flashes of understanding. There was a light somewhere off to his right, distant and dim. He was crouched in some sort of field, on wet grass and earth. He was alone. When the next convulsion hit, he threw back his head. Water washed his face and flooded his mouth. Instinct slammed him forward again. He spewed the water from his mouth before it could choke him. He was outside, in a field, in a rainstorm. He knew he had to do something; he just couldn't think clearly enough to figure out what that was.

Then, he heard distant voices, moving closer, coming in his direction. Rough hands touched his face; others took hold of his left arm, rolled up his sleeve. There was a blinding light, and, for a few seconds, the rain stopped falling on him. Then, through tightly clenched eyelids, he sensed the light repositioning, pointing somewhere other than his face. He felt the prick of a needle in his arm. Soon, he felt his roiling stomach begin to subside. The rain returned, but the inner storm was moving away. He decided he was happy keeping his eyes closed. Within minutes, he soon found that he could feel no sensations, at all.

He heard the voices, again. This time they were clearer. "This is the great John Beauchamp? I expected more.", said one voice. Female, he thought. A Brit.

Then, another voice, a familiar voice, answered, "Cut him some slack. As I remember it, you were no better on your first jump."

That's David Ashby, he thought. No. Wait. Ashby's dead.

A third voice joined them. Another female. This one was a Brit, too. He was sure of it. "David? What are you doing here? After the ... ahem ... disagreement, we weren't expecting you back ... for a while."

Then, the familiar voice again. Ashby? Can't be. "I don't know why we're here. I wasn't coming here. I was taking him to Paris."

For a while, there was nothing save the sound of the rain. Then, he heard the third voice talking. Only this time, it sounded as though it was coming from very far away.

"Well. That is strange. Alright, let's get him into the house. He can recover, and we discuss how all this came to pass. David, get his shoulders. We'll each get a..."

And that is the last he knew.

Local Event - CHAPTER FOUR (of a novel)

Local Event - CHAPTER FOUR (This is still a little rough, so all critiques welcome. Anything to improve it. If you need to read the first three chapters, they are posted below, in reverse order. Thanks! Steve)

The Core

"Okay! Everybody listen up! Here's what I want." Sal shot out her directives in staccato fashion.

"Play back the visual scan; start it right after Jones kicks out the locals. I want a simultaneous audio playback of all sounds in that main room. Pump up the volume. I want all of that recorded together. Superimpose an overlay showing elapsed time to the tenth of a second."

From the moment Jenson announced the presence of someone else in the room, The Core had been humming. Where almost everyone had been immobilized by the crying FIN, they now consulted their respective consoles for information that would support or contradict Jenson's statement.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen," said Sal when she thought things were about ready, "I want you to observe closely how all this unfolds. I expect you to learn." Neither her words nor her tone was lost on them. From a darker area, up near the top of the tiers, came the word, "Ready". Jenson's voice, again. Leaning back in her chair, she gave attention to the screens. "OK. Let's see it."

The replay started, opening with the look the last local gave to Jones. The tell-tales hidden throughout the dead woman's apartment made it easy for everyone to see and hear everything that came next. White numbers changed rapidly on the lower right corner of the main screen. This was the first time most of the people had seen what had occurred before Jenson's discovery. Most had been dutifully manning their own consoles up until then.

Sal noted the subdued sounds coming from the screens. She knew them to be the aural detritus of her own crew going about its business. Her thoughts flickered off to the time she, herself, had been a FIN. She kicked her attention back to the screen

There.

Jones was starting to have his breakdown. Sal raised one finger in the air, getting everyone's attention. As Jones buried his face in his hands, Jenson's voice could be heard again, calling out in the twilight, with all the same urgency and excitement, only this time, it was from the playback, "He's not alone! There's someone else in that room with him!"

Jenson. Not only did it make him look good (he had been over eight feet away from his own console at that time), it made Hardiwick look bad. Part of what Jenson had observed was on her station!

Jenson's voice, again from the playback, "Look! Two pulses! Extra breath sounds! Where? Can anyone see the other person?" The recorded voice had a real-time galvanizing effect on the rest of the group. People had begun to fine-tune their various sensor arrays, doing everything possible to sensitize them to even the slightest indication of additional life in the room.

Hardiwick, possibly fearing Sal would rethink her invitation, could now be heard on the playback. "There's something wrong with the east wall. It appears to be about two feet closer than it shows on the specs." She had concluded this by comparing her research with information from Stanton's console and Bredvick's console. Sal remembered that both had appeared stricken when Hardiwick originally made her announcement.

She liked this kind of one-up-man-ship among her team. She kept her face turned toward the main screens so no one would see the grin. The screens had returned to real-time. It looked like Jones had finished his emotional breakdown. Sal wondered what would happen next. Deep inside herself, she recognized that she hadn't been this happy in a very long time.

####

Crime Scene

Even though he had managed to stop the tears within a few minutes, almost half an hour passed before Jones raised his face from his hands. Unchecked emotions had immobilized him for most of the period and worry filled the rest of it. The mood swings were happening more often now.

The first time he had broken down like this had been late at night. He'd been alone in a hotel room. He had cried uncontrollably. As surprised as he was, it wasn't without warning. For a few weeks preceding that first breakdown, he kept feeling anger pressing at the seams of his control, on the edge of exploding. Even after they were loosed, whether overwhelming sorrow, complete with meltdowns like this one, or white-hot rage, he had managed, for a while, to keep them tucked safely into the unseen corners of his life.

These . . . episodes weren't good, he knew, but he didn't know what to do about them. So, he just moved on, hoping they'd fix themselves.

Pulling himself together, he saw that the flimsies had been unaffected by the moisture. They were as dry as Austin's almost constant humidity would allow. After the strike, many a patent had been filed devising humidity resistant furniture, clothing, building materials, and, even man-made printing surfaces like these flimsies.

It was time to put aside emotions and do his job. He had some truly amazing powers of perception whenever he decided to bring them to bear. He felt the odd mental shift he had experienced so many times. Then, he began to really see the crime scene. He scanned the room, beginning with his immediate left where several small print books resided on a fold down bookcase. All were from "Vici Press", so he assumed they were inspirational in nature. Continuing around to the right, all sorts of interesting information began to come to his attention.

The desk faced a large bay window with several small, rectangular panes. The area had been set up as a window seat, and he could tell it had been used for reading. There were no curtains, blinds, or shades. Then he saw the wall switch nearby. Opaquing glass; turn off the electricity and the electrons no longer line up like little soldiers. The result was that light came through, but no one could actually see in or out. To the right of the window were four medium photos, framed, and carefully spaced along the wall about four inches apart, at about eye level, he decided, for a five-foot-two woman. He recognized Kara in each of the photos, and, in some of them, he recognized some of the well-known Vici national leadership. Kara Powers appeared to know some pretty powerful people. He made a mental note to go back and check the contents of the bookshelf.

Shifting his gaze again to the right, he concluded that the east wall was load bearing, though it had been made to appear that it was composed of distressed brick. While he watched, something strange happened. He thought he saw something flicker across the surface of the wall. He froze, watching intently. Then, there it was again, a flicker of light. Holding steady, he forced everything to slow down. This was one of the little tricks he could do. It didn't actually make time slow down, anymore than the sun actually moved across the sky every day. The best way he could account for it was to think that his mental perceptions speeded up. The effect of the process, whatever its internal function, was to make everything appear to move in slow motion. In this state, he waited what seemed like hours. Then, he saw it; stepping across the wall, diagonally from south to north, were shadows of leaves, each with its own corona of sunlight.

He released.

Standing, he strode at normal speed over to the window and looked out. Across the street was a small park situated directly in front of some sort of mini-cathedral. The tiny edifice was very narrow across its front, and situated in front of, or possibly affixed to, the large, blocky building that rose behind it. That building stretched west, up the hill toward Colorado Street (tunneling through the hill?), then on back to Lavaca Street, where the hill crested. He got the impression that the larger building might have continued down the other side of the hill, perhaps for several blocks. Maybe through the hill. The markings didn't look to be Catholic or Muslim. In fact, he didn't recognize them. Another little mystery to investigate when time allowed.

He could see that the park did, indeed, contain a tree; and, there was something behind it that, periodically, flashed a light his way. He focused. Now that he had been using his abilities, the transition was effortless and instantaneous. Jumping into view was a statue. Affixed to it were all manner of papers, pieces of fabric, some paper money, and...? Yes, there it was, a teardrop shaped crystal hung from one of the statue's gray-green fingers, tied on with a piece of fishing line. The crystal was cut with many facets. As it moved in the wind, it sometimes caught the afternoon sun, its prisms scattering the light all about the little park. As he watched, another flash rose from the tableau.

Turning back toward the east wall of the apartment, he shifted back to slowmo. Soon, he caught the same steady march of images he had seen before. He was satisfied.

Then, as he started to release, the wall appeared to undulate. Faster than he could formulate a question in his mind, the wall simply faded away. Slightly further away, now, was what appeared to be the same brick wall. That's when he saw the dead man leaning against it.

His voice betraying surprise and amazement, and, something else, Jones spoke the question filling his thoughts, "David?"

Looking a little surprised, the dead man recovered quickly, leaned out from the wall and quietly greeted him, the mildest hint of a southern accent coating his speech, "John."

The silence was palpable. The man at the wall looked slightly amused, and not a little chagrined. He noted the haggard features of the other; the look of someone who had just completed great exertion, drained of all strength.

"David? You are dead. You cannot be here. And I cannot afford to go crazy right now. Go away." The dismissal in Jones' voice seemed to say that he expected the man to disappear.

"John", said the man. "You're not crazy, but...well, you should see yourself."

A bit surprised that the man was still there, Jones said, "I'm trying to solve a murder, David!"

"Yes, John, I know why you're here."

"Did you . . . did you do it?" Jones felt that he might be losing it, again. Was he really carrying on a conversation with a ... what? ... a ghost?

The man, Jones decided, was looking less dead all the time. Appearing uncomfortable with the question and sounding a little exasperated, the man said, "No, John, I didn't kill her.”

"But you know who did."

"Maybe. Or, at least, I may know who is responsible."

"Tell me."

"I can't do that. You have to find out for yourself."

“You're obstructing justice!"

"Actually, I see myself aiding justice. In time, I expect you'll see it that way, too."

Walking quickly to the desk, Jones lifted the gun. He grasped it in a loose, two-handed grip and pointed it at the man. It felt all wrong. He looked down at his hands. They didn't seem to know where to go. It felt like he had never held a gun in his life.

Still, curling his right index finger around the trigger, the man known to his colleagues as Samuel Jones, Federal Investigator, servant of the people, spoke far more calmly than he had seconds before. "Tell me. Tell me or die."

Staring at the muzzle, and the tense grip with which his former friend held the piece, the other man said, "There is something I need to tell you. It is an answer of sorts, just not the answer to this question."

Jones was exerting enormous effort to simply maintain control. He took a couple of steps toward the man, and, despite the rage that burned within, continued to sound calm. "If it helps with this investigation, I'm all ears." The knuckles of his hands were white.

"I know where your son is."

The trigger hand spasmed. Strangely, the report from the shot was almost inaudible. What was most evident was the recoil. He sat down on the floor, hard. Though the gun was held tightly in his fists, the power of the shot lifted the muzzle to point at the ceiling. He sat there, confused by the near absence of sound, coupled with the power of the shot. A part of his mind reminded him that this weapon was not a neural disrupter. Another part wondered if those exiled to the hallway had heard the shot.

He lowered the gun and fired again.

This time, with intent, he did a better job of aiming, citing on the center of the other man's torso. The recoil put him on his back. And, still, the sound had that quality of a noise heard from a great distance. Jones lifted his head and could see that the man was again lounging against the east wall, framed by the red-orange of the approaching sunset.

Two shots. No blood.

In the face of the FIN, confusion fought with rage. Soon enough, though, that fierce power began to flow out of him. Confusion reigned. In a tired voice laced with wonder, he said, "Are you even here?"

"Oh, yes. I'm here. I was here before you came. I haven't moved from this spot for hours. I was here for the little jurisdictional dance you did with the locals."

"But, all those people...why didn't they see you?"

"Well, to them," tapping the brick behind his head, "this wall seems about two feet closer than it actually is. They saw the wall, not me."

"But, I can see you."

"That's you own fault. It's certainly not my doing. It was very interesting to observe, though. Once you decided to see, to really apply your perceptive abilities, everything in this room yielded itself to your vision, me included. You know, John, I think that's something new for you.

The gun rose again, turning its snout toward the man. Then, after a brief pause, Jones lowered it just as quickly as he had raised it.

"Why aren't you dead?" he said, sounding petulant.

"Do you mean, why didn't I die in Brazil? Or, do you mean why didn't I expire as a result of your expert marksmanship? Both will need some time to explain. As for today, I can at least address the "what". I've gotten pretty good at reading people since our Brazilian adventure. I suspected my little bombshell about the boy might push you too far. Even you can't be in control all the time. Anticipating your response, I arranged for the space just in front of the gun to be located about the center of the Chihuahua Desert. The bullets safely inserted themselves into the side of a small mountain, about 60 feet off the ground. As far as the "how" ... well, that'll have to wait until we have several uninterrupted hours. As for Brazil..."

Raising the gun once more, Jones pointed it, then, seeming to recall its lack of effectiveness, placed it on the floor and slowly came to his feet. "We will get to Brazil in a minute. Tell me about my son."

"Oh, he's OK. They're both OK."

"Both?"

"I think maybe you should sit. There's a lot to tell here."

"I can't. My butt hurts where I landed on the floor."

Smiling at this, the first real sign of the person he used to know, the man said, "Welcome home, Colonel. You wanna walk that off?" He stepped forward, extending his hand. "I know a nice park in Paris."

####

The Core

Everyone in The Core watched closely as the two men moved toward each other and clasped hands.

Then, with nothing more dramatic than something like moisture shimmering off hot asphalt, the room was empty.

An Unfinished Christmas (a memoir by Steve Orr)

I’m not certain which Christmas this was, but certainly no later than my first year in school. I seem to recall it was the Christmas before the First Grade, but the vagaries of memory prevent me from being sure. Still, imperfect memory or not, I recall much about that season. For example, I remember my mother taking my sister and me downtown so we could watch the parade the Saturday before Christmas. I have the clearest mental picture of getting out of the car and looking up to see my Dad happily waving to us from the third story window of his Chiropractic office near the corner of 7^th and Broadway. We felt so special to be able to watch everything from so far above everyone else. And, I remember the passing of Santa’s sleigh at some point, and the man himself pointing up at us, and waving, as we leaned as far out that window as adults would allow.

But, the most enduring memory of that season comes a couple days later. We went for our annual Christmas shopping night in downtown Paducah. My parents dressed us carefully (both for appearance and the weather), and put on their good clothes, as well. My Dad wore a tie; my Mother wore one of her nice dresses usually reserved for work (she was an operator at the phone company). This was a time, long gone now, when people dressed up when they went about in public. I’m not advocating for a return to those times; just commenting about how different it was from today. This was before Sears opened their two-block long (single story and L-shaped) store between 14^th and 16^th streets further up on Broadway. So, we had to go all the way downtown to do our shopping at the Paducah Dry Goods Store; four stories of merchandise that, today, would require an entire shopping mall to contain. It’s as if Linens ‘N Things, Best Buy, Toys R Us, Macy’s, Barnes and Noble, Payless Shoes, Victoria’s Secret, etc., were all merged into one store. I know; hard for us to imagine today. In those days, a town had to have a dry goods store for such things, or one had to drive to a town that did have one. Paducah was that town for about a 100 mile radius on the map.

Paducah Dry Goods was located at the corner of 4^th and Broadway, undoubtedly the coldest corner in Paducah. Because of the way Paducah was positioned against the confluence of the Ohio and Tennessee Rivers, both 4^th Street and Broadway brought cold air up from the rivers to chill us as we disembarked from the car (Dad, being a good Dad, dropped the three of us off at the store, parked the car a few blocks away, and then rejoined us somewhere inside the store.). My parents, being parents, forced us to endure shopping on each floor in turn; making our way with agonizing slowness toward all that really mattered: the fourth floor, location of toys and home of Santa’s red velvet throne.

The first time I saw the movie “A Christmas Story” (based on Jean Shepherd’s delightful semi-autobiographical stories), I was struck by how familiar it all seemed. And the more I watched the movie, the more I thought that. Finally, I realized the locations in the film looked exactly like those I grew up around. The school could easily be the one I attended as a child. Ralphie’s house was a great deal like some my relatives lived in: the yard walls and fences, the out buildings behind the houses, the streets, the neighborhoods, even the store in which Ralphie begged Santa for his BB gun (It was Paducah Dry Goods all over again!). The other thing that happened the first time I saw the film was that it triggered my memory of this particular Christmas. I clearly remember sitting on Santa’s lap and telling him something, though not what, and realizing that his beard was real. The beard convinced me he was the real thing (and I had always been a bit skeptical, even at that tender age). Eventually, after what seemed like ages, but was probably no longer than an hour –after all, we were small children—my parents bundled us up and moved us down four floors and to the front of the building. After that, things get a little hazy. I have a vibrant memory of my Mother holding my hand as the three of us stood on the curb waiting for my Dad to return with the car, to pick us up and drive us home. I remember waiting to the point that I was actually cold, so we must have been outside for longer than my Mother had expected.

My Dad never returned that night.

And, in my memory, that is the end; the three of us standing there, watching, waiting, wondering, and getting colder . . . an unfinished Christmas.

_______________________________


No, I’m not going to leave you hanging. The rest of this story is legend in my family; so I’ve heard it many, many times from parents, cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, etc. Everyone told it the same way, so I am fairly certain I have it right.

My Dad walked one block down 4^th Street to Jefferson. He crossed Jefferson and turned left, walking toward 5^th. He had parked the car on Jefferson just beyond the 5^th Street intersection. He recalled being a little concerned because there was someone walking directly behind him as he made his way along the sidewalk.

He never made it to the car.

The way Dad told it, he heard the rising and falling sing-song wail of an ambulance’s siren (they had sirens in those days instead of the blatting honking used today) coming from somewhere behind him. He did not feel the need to look back because, based on his hearing, he expected it to pass him soon. Besides, he was hurrying to his own car, first because it was cold, and second because he was concerned about the footsteps so close behind him.

The next thing my dad knew, he was face down on the sidewalk and could feel someone lying on top of him. And then, blackness.

And that was it … until the next day when he awoke to hear someone whistling. He opened his eyes and quickly realized he was in a hospital bed. While trying to sort out his disorientation, he realized the whistling had stopped. A man, who was mostly dressed and was knotting his tie, stepped into his view and said, “Oh, good! You’re awake. I’ll call the nurse.” I don’t know the particulars of the remainder of their conversation, only that he explained to Dad what had happened the night before. There had, indeed, been an ambulance, and as it proceeded along Jefferson and through the intersection at 4^th Street (on its way to Western Baptist Hospital … way, way out at 25^th and Broadway), it was struck by a car moving swiftly along 4^th Street that failed to yield to the sounds of the siren, sailing through the intersection at Jefferson.

As a result, the ambulance was driven up onto the sidewalk where it struck the man who was walking so closely behind my Dad, who then flattened my Dad onto the sidewalk. My dad was told he was very lucky the man had absorbed most of the impact from the ambulance, and that he formed a barrier between Dad and the bottom of the ambulance. Dad was told he undoubtedly would have been killed had the man not been right behind him when the ambulance struck. Dad lost his two front teeth. The mysterious man did not survive his encounter with the ambulance.

When he had finished filling Dad in on all these details, Dad asked the guy how he knew all of this. He said, “Oh, I was the guy in the back of the ambulance!”

For the rest of his life, every time the holidays rolled around, my Dad annoyingly sang “All I want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth.” And while we quickly grew tired of the song, we never tired of hearing the story of that Christmas when Dad left us standing at the curb in front of the Paducah Dry goods store; standing, waiting, getting a bit colder with each passing minute, expectantly watching for him to appear.