Between Night and Day

A Story by Bruce Gatten

This is a story about the author's childhood experience while developing an interest in writing while attending a summer session class for gifted children.

Waiting for the Avatar

Chapter One

Between Night and Day

Twilight. Time of the magic witching hour. When witches and demons spring forth from darkened fissures and hidden crevices. Blurred images that dance and slip between lengthening shadows. The wind with a tremulous moan. Bending the tops of tall trees. Then swirling down as legions of malicious dust devils to press against doorways and shuttered windows. The dark, biting ill wind that none dare let it.

The priests taught us to shun superstition. Not to trust in lucky colors or numbers. Or fear black cats and the like. To always seek rational explanations to explain the world around us. The priests themselves having long since given up on the possibility of miracles or things of the supernatural. Logic and reason were to be our steadfast allies. But over time came a growing realization how the rational mind can only explain so much. Never reaching into the domain of the supernatural. The parallel realm that exists beyond the laws of physics.

Twilight seems also to sum up much of my life. Most of my days spent wandering in the nether grey areas between light and darkness. Good and evil. Love and hate. Hope and desperation.

As a child I knew a free flow of spontaneous intuition. Able to cipher the inner kernel of things without much effort. With a continuous stream of dreams that brought a peaceful, inner comfort. Their message an assurance of higher realms. Bringing hints and premonitions of things that oft came to pass.

In my innocence I assumed everyone knew such experiences. With some early attempts to describe my feelings going awry. My heartfelt revelations only serving to confuse and unnerve most that I approached. My remarks thoroughly bewildering my grandmother. A simple woman who was completely unprepared for anything out of the ordinary.

The priests were more dismissive. Offering that my whimsical nature should be reined in. Counseling that my impetuous nature be muted by engaging me in odd jobs and other chores to keep my wandering mind occupied. I realized my mistake quickly. The entire experience of my childhood candor providing a valuable lesson to carefully guard my heart and keep my own counsel on such things.

As I grew into my teenage years I struggled with the banal limitations placed on me. My mind, intuition, senses and intelligence craving something more. And realizing, too, the concomitant limitations of a body that progressively deteriorated, became diseased and would eventually die. Then in a eureka moment realizing the monumental blunder of accepting such an inferior existence. Prompting a desperate search for a way out of my frustrating dilemma. Ardently seeking the means to become freed from it all.

I hold no illusion about who I am. Never being regarded as a great man. Standing here today I am simply a convict. With an indelible number stenciled on my shirt and pants. Still, as far as my realization goes, I know what is what. And what I know is that for as long as I could remember I’d been waiting for Him. Anxiously biding my time while the world situation deteriorated and spiraled further out of control. Hoping for some clue or sign that He was coming. Though not even sure if I’d recognize the omen. How would I know? What should I look for? What kind of sign might it be? I wasn’t sure about any of it. Only that the world really needed something. As did I. Something that would forever change our lives. My life. Unsure of what to expect but convinced that only a great savior could set things aright. Someone truly great. Maybe someone like Jesus.

That was the extent of my understanding. Having since my birth been told that Jesus was the world’s savior. Only later to learn that there were countless others like him. Selfless, empowered beings who came for the benefit of others. And not just for humans. For all living beings. With the most recent Avatar having already come and gone. And then discovering how I’d missed the entire point of it all.

It started in India. Quietly at first. Remaining hidden from the world. Even though the time of His coming was previously foretold. Appearing in the region of Bengal, India. In His later pastimes standing over seven feet tall with graceful arms that extended below his knees and possessing a beautiful, glowing complexion the color of molten gold. And taking the name Caitanya. With eyes like lotus flowers, a nose like a sesame flower and a face as beautiful as the moon. Whosoever saw Him was immediately captivated by His uncommon beauty. His bodily features indicative of nyagrodha-parimandala, a great personality. His appearance roughly coinciding with the time of Columbus’ arrival in the new world. Affectionately known to His followers as Sri Gaurasundara, The Golden Avatar.

At the time of the Sri Caitanya’s appearance much of India was within the grip of Muslim rule. Indeed, government watchmen were everywhere. Fearful caste conscious Hindus were reluctant to openly practice their religion. But by Sri Caitanya’s personal influence all darkness and negativity were pushed back. With Hindus and Muslims alike reveling in His presence. It was as though heaven had come to earth with the sound of the holy names echoing throughout the land.

Remaining on the planet for less than 50 years He manifested an extraordinary life that was documented by some handfuls of His closest associates within many volumes of books that delineated His precepts and pastimes. As He traveled throughout all of India He broadcast His message of pure love

by personally inaugurating the great sankirtan movement, i.e., the congregational chanting of the Lord’s holy names. His powerful presence and message for all of humanity resonating with unmistakable clarity.

It’s described how great throngs of people would gather around Him, day and night. Appearing before them He would raise up His arms and beckon the crowds to chant. Chant the names of Hari! With everyone losing themselves in the intoxicating vibration of the holy name.

The essence of the Golden Avatar’s mission is found encapsulated within eight stanzas known as the Siksastaka. Forming the basis of His direct instructions and revealing the highest realizations of pure love. Contained within the verses are powerful spiritual bijas, transcendental seeds, that when fructified expand unlimitedly. Unfolding to reveal the essential inner kernel of all spiritual knowledge, emotion and flavor. Their essence gradually realized under the expert guidance of a fully realized, liberated soul. And thereafter, springing from these eight verses, hundreds if not thousands of books are written. All with an aim to further delineate and unlimitedly expand their essential meaning. Chief among them, the elaborately detailed, erudite texts of Sri Caitanya-caritamrta and Sri Caitanya-bhagavata.

Like fiery embers lying dormant beneath a shroud of ash and smoke, the Avatar’s message appeared hidden for a time from much of the world. Only awaiting the time of a proper breeze to again explode into blazing flame…

Spring arrived late this year. I look out from the narrow window slit of my cell to view the sun as it dips down on the horizon. The sky an incredible kaleidoscope of spectacular reds, purples and brilliant orange. The evening colors holding the portent of what the morrow will bring.

Standing just beyond tall chain linked fences and multiple rows of intimidating razor wire clusters of evergreens and leafless hardwoods shake and bend in a relentless 20 mph wind. Their wooden bodies silhouetted against the evening sky. While far above the Earth the planets in their orbits move across the sky. Their every movement perfectly choreographed and in sync with the universal order of all things. Without a hint of randomness or happenstance. With a record kept of everything we do. A memory of the details of our every action, thought, word and deed. Our failings and aspirations.

Further off distant hills and mountains spill away toward the horizon like waves on the ocean. Though a closer look reveals something other than an idyllic woodland scene. For we are in the heart of coal country. Where great swaths of mountain forests are routinely destroyed and entire mountain tops crudely removed by explosive blasts that rattle windows for 10 miles in every direction and with enormous digging machines ripping up the earth that are bigger even than a house. The cataclysmic event disrupting and polluting the drinking water of entire communities. The aggregate of it all surely a crime against nature. Where the noble tops of beautiful, vibrant mountains are deemed useless and scraped bare. Mountains that are home to families of simple people, deer, bear and countless other living beings. Their lives in harmony with nature suddenly deemed irrelevant by uncaring, impersonal corporations that place profits before all else. Where everything resting above the seam of coal is

considered a waste product of the mining process. Blithely designating the once beautiful forest refuge as overburden. A commodity to be rudely discarded into the streams and valleys below. Mountain top removal. The terrible act of rendering the land into a surreal moonscape denuded of all trees and other life. The awesome transformation from life into something less than dead.

Believe me when I tell you that I know what you’re feeling. What it’s like to be trapped in a small box. With every movement controlled. Perpetually under the thumb of stern officials dedicated to the enforcement of harsh rules. Surely not a life of my own choosing but a life I have nonetheless earned. Exiled away from society deep within the mountains of West Virginia. A Bible belt state where anything other than Christianity is viewed as an aberration. An affront to the prevailing religion. The Hare Krsnas proving to be too much for them to bear. Unable to get beyond the perceived strangeness of men with shaved heads and a God who is blue like a beautiful dark rain cloud. Even while embracing a Christian hillbilly cult that dances and plays with venomous rattle snakes as a part of their normal church service. Their bizarre ritual of religious fervor considered a suitable test of ones sincerity of faith. And where not infrequently such worshippers are seriously bitten and sometimes die. It is here that I shall remain. In a drab prison cell smaller even than the tiniest hotel room. Living out the uncompromising reality of a life sentence for almost thirty years. Where each day I ask…What have I done with my life. This life. What will be the final tally of my deeds?

It isn’t my place to judge or condemn you. To tell you what a mess you’ve made of things. Or try to bluff you with a program of hollow promises that guarantees an end to your problems. Nor try to scare you with fire and brimstone ultimatums. What would be the point? If you’re in prison your life is already at bottom. Your life reminds you of it every day.

The warehoused prisoner and the doomed forest. Together among the legions of the forgotten. The vanished. Where life slowly disappears and finally ceases to exist. Where all that remains are some few fragments of past memories. A past from before time when life changed so abruptly. To know the misery of being stripped from the life that once nurtured and sustained. Slowly suffocating. In a place where day by day the hopeful heart slowly dies.

I can remember reaching a crossroads in my life where I prayed for knowledge. Hopeful that with knowing a greater understanding would follow. Though not prepared for the awesome responsibility that accompanied such knowledge.

It was many years and crossroads later after being tempered by my many failings. Enduring the scars from being beaten down by unstoppable time and the overwhelming consequence of my deeds. Finally to humbly pray on bended knee asking for wisdom. Wisdom that I might use my gifts in a true, just and proper way.

There are no random acts. Nothing happens by accident in the universe. The universe being a perfectly functioning, self adjusting machine. But not a machine of happenstance. For within this, as

all well functioning machines, rests an intelligent operator. A being completely knowledgeable in maintaining the machine’s proper operation and always with a proper balance and order. Without mistakes or random acts. For the operator is also its designer and creator.

Therefore, in the midst of such perfection what need is there of a martyr to bring forth hope and redemption or to set things aright? What purpose demands a martyr’s blood to redeem us and reset our lives on the path of happiness and prosperity? The truth is much simpler. Each of us is responsible for our own actions. Minute by minute our karma and desires determine our future.

And so it is that I have resolved not to hide from what needs to be said. To not only speak the truth but to confront the lies, hypocrisy and misdirection that surrounds us. And even in knowing how my words may seem shocking I cannot desist. Therefore I plainly state that Jesus did not die for your sins.

I was around ten years old when I first started writing. Realizing at that tender age how it provided a welcome respite from my cramped, everyday life. My earliest attempts some awkward scraps of prose in the form of essays. All the while searching for my own special voice. A voice to articulate my pent-up emotions. A voice to express my feelings about my strange and varied dreams.

The majority of my peers had little taste for writing. Perceiving the pen as drudgery and thoroughly loathing the call to write. With any enthusiasm for literary adventure and free expression crushed by the dull topics laid on us by our stodgy teachers. Their reticence directly attributable to such stifling themes as: Why is the dress code important? Describe the war of 1812. What are the Great Lakes? Explain the impact of the Erie Barge Canal. And so on. In 500 words or less.

The most predicable and unimaginative essays were crafted from the student’s own lives. Collections of boring rambles on “My Summer Vacation.” Or “My Pet Dog.” Hardly the stuff to excite an adolescent artist’s dormant flare to blossom.

It wasn’t long until some of the other students saw my knack for it. Therein launching a budding adolescent career as a freelance ghost writer. Freelance but not for free. One of my regular customers was my older brother, James. Naturally, I gave him the special family rate. Demanding he pay at least twice what I charged everyone else.

Later on came the free style essays on anything. Followed by purely abstract essays on nothing. Which I then considered to be the highest form of writing. Concluding that writing in its purest form demanded lightness and fluidity. And to be about nothing at all. My new literary style earning me a D in English composition from my uptight teacher.

But then there was a sudden, welcome breath of fresh air. Ms. Wilson arriving in the early Spring as a substitute/replacement teacher for Sister Mary Rose who had taken a bad fall in the convent and wasn’t expected back any time soon. Sister Mary Rose. The killer of young boy’s dreams.

In a recurring, indulgent daydream I pictured the bent and wrinkled dame falling down and down along a steep flight of stairs. Tumbling head over heels in a cascading blur of black and white. With rosary beads, crucifix, white bib collar, glasses, dentures and sturdy combat boots spinning, floating and crashing down onto the unforgiving oak planks that she’d trudged up and down for the past 50 years. With chastity. Repentance. Poverty. And multiple fractures. The imprint of her great wooden rosary crucifix tattooed in relief on her forehead. Poor Jesus stretched out on the cross. The symbol of everything they believed to be true.

The nuns and priests did their best to indoctrinate us with Christian ideology. With hours of boring Catechism and the sting of wooden rulers on the tender knuckles of inattentive boys. Learning that as Jesus traveled from town to town his popularity among the masses grew day by day. Quickly becoming a phenomena. More even than a rock star. Mercifully accepting all comers on the condition that they ceased their sinful ways. Relieving them of their past karma as he accepted the reactions to their previous sins. Such was Jesus’ great mercy upon them. In his turn asking only that they not resume their sinful ways. Because the second time around his forgiveness wouldn’t come so easily. That was his contract with them.

It wasn’t until many years later that I could better appreciate the awesome magnitude of Jesus’ selfless magnanimity. And not only Jesus, but all the great spiritual masters who are empowered to free their disciples from their past karmic burdens. Understanding also that such forgiveness is not ordinarily achieved. Because without the merciful intercession of an evolved spiritual being one’s karma must be fully played out. Universal law mandating that for every action there is an appropriate corresponding reaction. A reaction, either good or bad, for every thought, word and deed. How tragic then that the very people Lord Jesus came to help would so viciously attack him.

Above all, I was determined to be a rebel. Refusing to be defined by the limitations of dull writing assignments. Writing provided me with the means to finally express myself. If we were told to write about apples, I might instead describe oranges. If something was blue, I made it yellow. Or made something up entirely out of pure fiction. One of my first official stories titled, “With My Friend From Mars.” A story about an alien who searched for a lost canister holding the elixir or life. A thinly veiled story about my alcoholic father. It was my first attempt of writing as an art form. I received an A for originality and content. The words flowing from my pen in an avalanche of emotional adjectives. Intent on impressing and garnering the praise of our new, beautiful young teacher.

At the local library I skipped past the children’s and young adult sections. I craved the unconventional and searched for books with an edge that had real impact. I devoured Kerouac and Jack London. Later on, Vonnegut. On several occasions the spinster librarian refused to let me check out the books I’d selected. D.H. Lawrence’s classic, Lady Chatterley’s Lover, among them. Telling me that such books were inappropriate for a boy of my age. Which only whetted my illicit appetite further.

On one dreary autumn day I happened upon “Let No Man Write My Epitaph.” I took it from its place on the shelf and stashed it in the poetry section. Waiting for the weekend when another librarian 6

was on duty. With absolutely no idea what was in store for me.

I crept home with the book hidden under my jacket and secreted it into the room I shared with my brother. Carefully mixing it in with some school books. The first chapter hit me like a sledge hammer. I was astonished by its rawness. Words like n****r, pimp and w***e spilled out of the pages. Confident that the priests would condemn it as sinful. I couldn’t stop reading. I carefully hid it from my brother. Not that he could have read it anyway. It came like a revelation. Giving me a glimpse into another world that was hidden just beneath the surface. My eyes opening to the jaded American subculture. And learning how the world was in a real mess.

While my friends listened to Elvis and anything that was Rock ‘n Roll, I was more attuned to jazz. Listening to the likes of Miles Davis, Dave Brubeck and Jimmy Smith. The local R&B station, WUFO, offering their jazz segment in the evenings. I wanted to be hip, wear a beret and dig everything about the beat generation.

On the last day of class Ms. Wilson took me aside and asked if I’d like to attend a special writing workshop being held for 5 weeks during recess at the Delevan Avenue school. The workshop offered to students showing promise in their writing skills. The yellow brick and sandstone elementary school also serving as the area site for summer school classes. Where sick, chronically truant and slow students on the verge of flunking were sent to make up the required material needed to allow them to graduate up to the next grade level. With the dreadful implication of forfeiting their precious summer vacations.

Ms. Wilson’s offer suddenly presented me with an impossible conundrum as competing emotions pulled me in opposite directions. All winter long I dreamed of the coming summer vacation. Week by week my anticipation grew. I was bursting with thoughts of baseball, swimming, fishing and exploring. More than anything I yearned to be free. And now this. With no desire to be tied down to any responsibility. And least of all more school work.

But Ms. Wilson was like a mystic who could read my mind. Looking me in the eye she asked if I was ready to take charge and mold my own life. Y-y-yes, I stammered. I think so. But I wasn’t fooling anyone. No one had ever spoken to me like that before. Or on such terms. Abruptly pushing me out of my comfort zone. It was a monumental challenge. My intuition telling me here was an opportunity to advance and gain respect. Her eyes capturing mine as she softly spoke. You’ll like it, Tommy. It’ll be good for you. It’s just what you need to develop your raw talent. Don’t worry. You’ll be with other students like yourself. All the while assuring me it wouldn’t be anything like regular summer school. This would be fun, with an open format. Besides, it’s only 5 weeks long. Only two hours a day in the morning. In the fall when classes resume you’ll be way ahead of the other students.

More than anything I longed to be grown up and mature. And I didn’t want to let Ms. Wilson down. Still…There were so many things I wanted to do. I wavered between alpha and omega. When she gently placed her hand on my head and ruffled my hair my thoughts became a blur. I’ll be there to help you, she reassured me. Conducting the workshop herself. The barest whisper of lilac scent lingering on

her skin. Her hair emanating pure rose water.

I can’t say what came over me. But I know my eyes surely sparkled whenever I looked at her. She, the living embodiment of the mother that all young boys long for. I was more than vulnerable. I was desperate to fill the empty chasm within my heart that reached into the core of my soul. Ever searching and yearning for the mother who left me years before and whose shadow was hidden away in the state asylum for the insane.

I rode my bike along the wide sidewalk of Baily Avenue. Past the rows of shining new cars on the street side lot of Mernan Chevrolet. Then several blocks more to the public elementary school at the corner of Delevan Avenue. The entranceway on the first day of summer school crowded with other kids as they arrived. I saw two sickly boys from my neighborhood who’d contracted rheumatic fever and missed half the school year. A kid from two streets over whose father had died and who we all thought had disappeared. And a boy I knew from Little League baseball. On the first week of summer vacation with a sullen, crestfallen look on his face. Tasting the bitter result of having squandered his regular school days in childish play and classroom antics. Still not fully grasping the consequence of his stupidity. Absorbed in self pity at the prospect of missing out on all the fun stuff of summer vacation. Summer school. Not the short two hour course I was enrolled in. His was do or die. Given an ultimatum to either bring up his failing grades in history, mathematics and science or repeat the seventh grade in the fall. When I said hey, he barely looked up.

I locked my bike into a metal back on the side of the building and ascended the stairs at the front entrance. Room 202 was on the second floor. Walking down the hall I peered into one classroom and then another. Looking in on the anxious faces of children sitting at their desks. Their expressions like prisoners trapped in a concentration camp. Their first day of summer school. Outside in the trees cicadas loudly buzzed. Inside the halls smelled of freshly waxed floors. Where special summer school teachers sternly admonished the students on how there’d be no latitude for misbehavior. This was summer school. No more fooling around. The great anvil of failure dangling precipitously over their heads. Either pay attention and complete all the required work or repeat your grade in the fall. It was do or die time. Last chance.

That was the ultimatum. Last chance. Like the last chance warning on the roadside billboard. The weathered picture of a gas station beneath the ominous heading: LAST CHANCE FOR GAS. No Gas Stations For The Next 200 Miles. Hey, you! Driving that car…This is your last chance. A smaller sign beside it read Pueblo Trading Post. Indian Turquoise. Fireworks. Kachinas. Next Right. The Caddy’s fuel gauge resting on half full. I did some quick math in my head. Maybe I’d better top it off.

I drove to the bottom of the exit road. Taking time to collect my thoughts. An electric buzzing in my ears trying to tell me something. A feeling that forces of a sinister or strange nature were afoot. The wind blowing clusters of tumbleweeds alongside a shallow drainage ditch and onto a rusty cattle fence. Bits of fast food wrappers and container trash helplessly impaled on strands of barbed wire fluttered in

the breeze. Nearby a discarded truck tire and a torn piece of green canvas lay partially buried in the hard, red dirt. The desiccated remains of coyote or dog laying ominously next to the fence. Another reminder not to dally in this hostile environment . And without a gas station in sight. Instead, another sign with an arrow pointing to the right. Jack’s Quik Serve Gas. 5 Miles. Guiding gas hungry motorists down a funky, narrow, two lane asphalt road. Five miles? What could possibly be five miles further away into the middle of nowhere? Maybe I could make it with what I had. Turn around and take my chances along the main road. I’m pretty sure it’s what a more cautious and careful person would have done.

But something was pushing me. Urging me on. Hey look, you’ve already come this far. There’s no point in turning back now. So I kept on. Driving along at a modest 45 mph. A mile or so later steering around a big snake that was slowly crossing the crumbling blacktop road. The road winding back in the same direction from where I’d just come. Then another sign for the Pueblo Trading Post. Indian Turquoise, Fireworks and Kachinas. Three more miles to go.

The Pueblo Indian Trading Post was set back some fifty feet from the road in a slight depression. A small parking lot was gouged out from the rocks and red dirt. From the looks of it the place hadn’t seen any trading in a long time. All that remained were some weathered, boarded up shacks fringed with red dirt and tumbleweeds. Nothing left to sell or trade. The Kachinas and fireworks long gone. Even in its heyday it couldn’t have been much. I scanned the horizon in all directions. Looking out at nothing. Less than nothing. Who would think to put something way out here?

And still no sign of a gas station. Jack’s Quik Serve Gas. Last chance for 200 miles. My insides telling me to go back to the main road. Even if there was a gas station out here it would probably be like the Pueblo Trading Post. Indian Turquoise, Fireworks and Kachinas. Only more disappointment and tumbleweeds. A small dust devil licked the edge of the road, kicking up an explosion of dust and red dirt. The little voice wouldn’t let go of me. I couldn’t let go of it. I had to know. I aimed the Caddy down the road. One mile, then two. Then on the right past a sharp bend it suddenly sprang into view. Jack’s Quik Serve Gas. Last chance for 200 miles.

On the first day of the writing workshop there were 13 students in the classroom. I was the only boy. I didn’t like it. The odds were all wrong. What had I been tricked into? Maybe it was a mistake to sign up for the class. All of my friends were either sleeping late or playing baseball in morning pick-up games. Or sitting in the cool morning shade under the big canopy of elms that covered the streets of our neighborhood. The dew still moist on the lawns and the cicadas buzzing overhead. The first wafts of onions frying on outdoor grills drifting across back yards. With me impossibly stuck in a hot classroom. Imprisoned with a dozen idiotic girls that were at least two years older than me and wouldn’t stop whispering and looking over at me and giggling to themselves. Maybe it wasn’t summer school. All the same I felt like I was in hell.

Ms. Wilson wasn’t anything like the stuffy teachers I’d been accustomed to. On our first day she made her appearance wearing shorts, a sleeveless blouse and open toed sandals that revealed brightly

painted toes that sparkled like enchanting rubies encased in soft velvet. Her skin slightly tanned. Her hair pulled back into a single tightly woven ponytail. Sitting in a most casual way at her desk at the front of the room. Looking over some papers while absently toying with the ends of her blond, sun kissed braid. She the epitome of cheerfulness and radiant beauty. Small wonder that everyone immediately fell in love with her.

Our first assignment was to read Jack London’s To Build a Fire. Then write an essay on what the story meant to us. She said there was no right or wrong way to interpret it. We should all just write down what we felt.

I poured over the story. Reading it once, twice and a third time. Trying to capture every nuance and emotion that London revealed. I wrote not about the drama of building the fire but about the intersection of time and growing emotion that the story conveyed. I wrote and then rewrote it a dozen times. Looking up words in the dictionary to be sure and pushing myself hard toward perfection because I was completely taken by Ms. Wilson and I wanted so much to impress her and have her like me.

Ms. Wilson collected all of our essays and took them home with her to read. The following day she handed them back to us and in turn asked each of us to stand at the front of the class to read them aloud for everyone to hear. I hadn’t counted on this. One by one each of the girls stood and read their stories. Mostly they sounded like robots. Without any emotion or flare. Finally at the very end it was my turn. Ms. Wilson called my name. Tommy, would you like to come up and read your essay?

In three days the girls had formed several distinct caste cliques. The wealthy snobs. The middle class and the poorer section. And me. A smattering of giggles as I approached the podium at the front of the classroom. Each step a march through Death Valley. My heart pounding and my tongue becoming as dry as stale bread. My brain seeming to flex with nervous energy. Just as I neared the front Ms. Wilson leaned forward from her place next to the small podium and softly whispered don’t be nervous, Tommy.

I stood in the front of the class and cleared my throat. This was my chance. Time to silence these silly geese and put aside all the nonsense embedded in the student social order. Release my inhibitions and really describe what Jack London was feeling when he wrote his masterpiece of a short story.

A tall man with a weather beaten face from the Texas Department of Public Safety was the first to come by. With a folksy voice like LBJ. Right off calling me by my first name. The way you’d talk to someone you’d been friends with for years. Telling me he just had a few questions. Curious to know about some things I’d written in my book. No one’s accusing much less charging you with anything. This is just an informal conversation. He wasn’t going to advise me of my rights so anything I said couldn’t be used against me later on. I could relax and speak freely with him. We aren’t trying to pin anything on anybody. Just hoping we could tie up some loose ends and gain some clarity. I nodded. Clarity.

That’s just what we needed. And waiting for him to squeeze in the word “closure.”

He kept on in his plain folks, aw shucks, style. Subtly moving from hypothetical theories to more pointed questions. He opened my book to a chapter he’d previously marked and read aloud a few paragraphs. And asked if I could remember any specific dates and times. Saying he only wanted to have a more complete picture. I gave him a quizzical look and shrugged my shoulders. I still hadn’t uttered a word in his presence. Merely nodding in response to his questions. We’d like to know what you know…about some of the specific details. Details about the things you’ve written in your book.

Then one by one he pointed to passages that he’s highlighted in bright yellow. What concerns us is how you could know so much about these events. Because the way they’re written, well…The only way someone could have known so much about them…it’s like the person writing these stories was actually there. Do you see what I mean? His eyes hardening into an intense, piercing stare. It was the kind of tactic he’d used successfully throughout his career as a cop. A guy who underneath the slow talk and Southern drawl knew just how to push people and draw their words up to the top. From people who when they started out had no intention of ever talking to anyone but suddenly felt…almost compelled. Momentarily overwhelmed. Tricked into speaking about things they never intended to talk about. Not with anyone. Ever. Especially with a guy who was trying to slip a hangman’s noose around their necks.

I asked him if he’d ever read The Old Man and the Sea. He gave me a quizzical look and said he didn’t think so. It was written by Ernest Hemingway. A great writer and a truly remarkable book. Written in a very simple style. With short sentences and easy to understand words. Maybe that’s why it’s been read by so many people. It’s safe and uncomplicated. The thing is, when you read this book you begin to feel the same emotions as the old man who’s put out to sea in his little skiff boat. You can taste the salt brine and feel the aching muscles of the old man as he tries so desperately to hold onto his great fish. But in the end he loses it to the sharks and there is nothing that anyone can do.

I wasn’t registering any emotion from the cop. So I told him plainly as I could that if I were one tiny bit as good as Hemingway when he wrote his book about the old man out on the ocean…If I could even hope to one day stand in his shadow then I would have accomplished something that is very rare and precious.

By the middle of the third week our writing class had dwindled down to eight. The others dropping out for the usual reasons. Family commitments, boredom, etc. Ms. Wilson gave us several more reading assignments. The Scarlet Letter. The Call of the Wild. When I read them I thought…I could have written this. The writing seemed so free, simple and natural. But there was no point in trying to fool myself. I knew I didn’t have anything close to the skills of Hawthorne or London. Still…I was intrigued. One of the girls stood up and asked why we were doing so much reading when we wanted to improve our writing. That’s when Ms. Wilson said something very profound. That the best writers are the best readers.

On the last week our final assignment was to write a short story of at least a thousand words on anything we wanted. The basic rules were simple. The first paragraph or two should give the reader a sense of the story line. The body should contain the main theme, a development and description of the characters and have a flow. The ending should wrap up the story in a way that made sense and gave the reader a message. She said there were other styles and ways to write but for now we should follow these guidelines and keep things simple. Later on we could write in more complicated styles. But content was always more important than trying to develop a fancy style.

I wrote about a mysterious dark blue bottle that was hidden in the floor joists of our basement. A square cut bottle with a dark blue tint. So dark that you could barely see what was inside of it. A bottle we had to pretend we didn’t see or know about. Because we were children and weren’t supposed to know about such things.

When I’d return home in the late afternoon for dinner I’d sneak past the kitchen and carefully, quietly step down into the basement. If I was discovered I knew to say I was looking for something and quickly move on. But I never was. Not even once. I’d close the door behind me and tiptoe down the stairs. The steady coolness of the basement providing immediate relief from the heat in the summer months. Midway across the space I’d find the string that turned on the overhead light bulb. Then pull out the wooden box that contained cleaning supplies and stand on it on my tip toes and slowly slide my hand across the wooden beam until my fingers touched the glass decanter. I’d carefully grasp its narrow neck and bring it down for inspection. Sometimes shake the bottle and hold it up to see how much was left inside. And think back to how it looked the day before and know everything. It was the way I knew to survive living with my adoptive father, Robert. If the line of stuff inside the bottle was a few inches lower, I could relax and not have to worry about being suddenly slapped in the face or cuffed on the back of my head at the dinner table. And if it was more than a few inches lower I didn’t have to worry at all. He’d be so buzzed that he wouldn’t bother with anyone around him. But if the line hadn’t moved or if he’d unexpectedly run out…It could be dangerous being around him.

What I didn’t know at the time was that there was always more than one bottle. Over the years Robert began stashing them all around the house. At one point he had so many stashes he couldn’t keep track of them all. In the confusion I started helping myself to them. With no one ever the wiser.

When our papers were handed back to us Ms. Wilson thanked everyone for making the sacrifice to attend the writing workshop. She said we all did wonderfully and each of us showed promise as writers. And then she revealed she was taking a permanent teaching position at a suburban high school in Williamsville and how this would probably be our last time together. She said she’d always remember us and gave everyone a hug and wished us well.

As the students began filing out Ms. Wilson asked me to stay behind for a few minutes. She was smiling in a very tender way and with a serious voice asked me why I’d picked such an unusual topic to write about. I didn’t know what to say only that I was writing what I felt. She said she’d never read a story like that before. With so much emotion from a boy my age. And that she was concerned…

You know, if you ever need someone to talk to…

From the rise in the road I looked down at Jack’s Quik Serve Gas. Last chance for 200 miles. The Caddy’s door windows and wing vents open, bringing in the arresting, pungent desert air. The wind swirling. Kicking up dust and grit and pushing clusters of tumbleweeds across the road. A large wooden sign with the word GAS and a faded red arrow pointed to the filling station.

I wondered about the people who might have lived in a place like this. Who were they? What were they like? Why would anyone choose to live out here? Like shadow people suspended in time. Abandoned by the world. Stuck in the middle of nowhere. Eking out a substandard existence selling dusty junk to itinerant motorists and the occasional trucker from their ramshackle booths and shacks.

In all my travels it was always the same thing. No matter how miserable someone’s life seemed, in whatever part of the world they were from. Wherever they lived it was home sweet home. Imagining their crummy hometown to be a sweet slice of heaven. Neither knowing nor caring that they were stuck in an illusion of their own making. Lost in a chasm so deep they’d never find their way out.

The windows of the filling station were covered up with sheets of plywood. Just like at the Pueblo Trading Post. Indian Turquoise, Fireworks and Kachinas. I had expected as much. I did the math again in my head. Wondering if I could still make it with the gas I had. I’d have to drive conservatively. Keep my speed under 50. What other choice did I have?

The electric buzzing in my ears wouldn’t go away. Maybe I needed a rest. Take a short nap to rejuvenate and clear my head. Try to figure things out. Rest my eyes for a few minutes before moving on. I coasted down and pulled the Caddy around to the side of the filing station and parked beside a stunted tree. The sparse branches offering a slight bit of shade. Along the side of the building some empty bottles. A few warped boards and a rusted sign for Jack’s Quik Serve Gas.

I couldn’t have dozed off for more than a few minutes. Startled awake by a sudden rush of wind and a sharp cracking sound. Like the sound of ice exploding apart on a river. Only inches away from me the coolest little bird was perched on the steering wheel of the Caddy. So delicate and small he could easily have fit in the palm of my hand. With tiny red eyes and an iridescent bluish-green head and wings. Sitting calmly. Completely at ease. Watching me intently. In the way that a messenger might gaze upon someone in the moments before delivering his communique.

I was completely taken by him and spontaneously began singing. Softly, in the way a nurse serenades a baby in her charge. Hari bol, little bird. Hare Krsna. Jaya Radha Madhava. Hare Krsna. Don’t be afraid. I’m your friend, you see. As I sang in the barest of whispers he leaned his little head forward. As if studying me. Causing me to wonder…Who or what is this little creature sitting before me? The entire scene feeling…magical. Mystical.

Author's Note

This story was written by a man serving consecutive life terms in prison. He writes of a childhood experience where he encountered a sympahetic teacher who guided him on the path of writing. Also considered are his Viet Nam war experiences where he was a highly decorated US Army soldier.