A person who has constantly accumulated irreputable damage throughout their entire life. Damage which cannot be easily repaired if at all. Ever feel like that? I do. Here's the thing though, and it really can't be ignored, it's all up to us.
No one is going to save us from a series of unfortunate events except us. A man once asked me, "how do I know when I've reached bottom" while in his drink. I told him the truth, "when you stop digging you'll know you've reached bottom." And so it is.
But what about God you might be thinking. Oh He's there and the good book points the way. But even God won't save you from difficult circumstances friend, He'll just walk through them with you.
So reset your expectations, accept what you can't change, look up and start changing what you can. If you've stopped digging, you've got no where else to go but up.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
The Sand Pit
The engine of his custom Harley Davidson roared as he sped eastward. He didn’t give two cents for the people around him. His every instinct served himself. A handsome powerful man with steel blue eyes and jet-black shoulder length hair, he drifted like a ghost through the poverty-ridden high desert towns of California. Known by a myriad of aliases, his true name was a secret. If some men’s sins go before them, then his definitely followed after.
Three hours later, he exited the highway and started up a dirt road. Eventually he parked at a vacant lot in the middle of nowhere. Killing the engine, his boots flattened out the gravel as he walked to the edge of a huge sand pit. For a brief second, he almost smiled. This would be his last visit here. After almost ten years he had accumulated enough money to last him the rest of his life.
The high desert is a dangerous place of poverty, clandestine drug labs, relocated sexual offenders, and crooked law enforcement. His friend and protector, the desert gave him what he needed to be successful: anonymity.
There had been a few close calls of course. Every now and then the Sheriff’s department swept down catching users, street level dealers and felony criminals in their occasional stings. A couple of times a suspect had tried to purchase their freedom by providing information. But no one had ever really come close to catching him. He was a hard, intelligent man. Amoral, he held no close beliefs save one: Everything was just base matter to him and it was temporary. The desert understood this and he loved it for that. Rubbing an old bullet wound on his left arm he remembered…
Need drove Jimmy down the dirt road past the matchbox houses, cheap apartments, and used motorhomes. It was late and he knew Roy would be waiting for him in the back office of the broken down fitness club. Jimmy checked his green army jacket for his “works.” His diabetic mentally ill mother had talked a naïve passerby into taking her through the drive thru pharmacy in town earlier that day to get the hypodermic needles. She had then placed some where Jimmy could “steal” them. She preferred he use clean needles than those off the street.
Jimmy arrived and rapped on the glass front window. It was dark and quiet this late at night. Shortly a muscular man in his early forties unlocked the door and led Jimmy into a back office. Jimmy and a couple other poor fatherless young men in this isolated town traded themselves to Roy for drugs, spending money, and some sick twisted form of fatherly affection. At one time or another, Roy had been a foster parent or “big brother” to each of them.
Tonight was different though. Jimmy had recently been arrested attempting to sell an ounce of methamphetamine behind a local arcade to an undercover Sheriff deputy. Roy felt there was no way that Jimmy was going to do time in the state penitentiary if he didn’t have to. And Jimmy had been offered a deal.
Roy motioned Jimmy to sit next to him and put his arm around the eighteen year old. “How you doing Jimmy?” he asked. Jimmy mumbled. “That’s good to hear,” Roy replied. He squeezed back tears as he laid out a gram of methamphetamine on a mirror and watched Jimmy go to work preparing it for injection.
Jimmy went through the ritual. He had been up for a few days and was starting to “tweak” pretty hard. Every now and then he would stop to pick at his skin or scratch some itch of his that twitched muscles erratically.
Roy talked reassuringly until Jimmy inserted the needle into his arm and then became silent. Within about 10 minutes Jimmy started to feel chills and spasms throughout his body. A few minutes later his vision blurred and he had trouble breathing. He sensed something was terribly wrong. He cried out and fell off the stool. His back arched and he flailed aggressively as the hallucinations began.
Roy panicked. “Jack! Can you give me a hand man?” he yelled. Jack stepped out of the shadows of a corner of the room and pulled a Colt pistol. He stepped over Jimmy’s body and pistol-whipped the head a few times. Jimmy’s body continued twitching of its own accord as he slipped into a coma. Roy’s face revealed his fear and anguish. But that wasn’t Jack’s problem. Jack laid out the body bag, rolled Jimmy into it, zipped it up, and lifted it, still quivering, to his shoulders. “I’ll be expecting the rest of the money within 24 hours,” he said to Roy who nodded as he stared vacantly after him. Jack stepped out the back entrance, tossed the bag into the back of a pickup truck and left.
The woman didn’t know him as Jack. She knew him as Dan and was one of his regular customers. Buying his drugs with the money her tribe distributed each month, she cut and resold them to her neighbors. You only had to be 15% Indian to receive benefits from her tribe which is one reason why she didn’t look much like an Indian at all. Dan could hear the television going in the living room of the mobile home as he stepped through the front door into the kitchen. She was on a plastic cordless phone and motioned for him to have a seat. He was sitting in a brown recliner watching TV when he heard the front door fly open and a man shouting. He got to his feet.
The woman slammed down the phone and began arguing with the stranger. She was promiscuous and this was obviously a lover’s quarrel. Dan started to sit back down when he heard two loud “pops” one right after the other. Gunfire! That brought him back to his feet fast. He didn’t carry a pistol unless he thought he was actually going to need it and today wasn’t supposed to be one of those days.
He crept up to the kitchen entrance and stole a quick glance. The woman was lying on her side on the floor. Blood ran from two gunshot wounds out the side of her head. The stranger spotted Dan and started to raise the Browning .25 pistol. Dan didn’t have time to think and charged arms outstretched. The first round entered his arm about half way up and came out near his shoulder. The second round went wide. Dan body slammed him hard against the cupboards before he could fire again. The stranger writhed in pain as the pistol fell to the floor. Dan kicked hard at the man’s face as he used a handkerchief from his back pocket to retrieve it. He pumped two rounds into the side of the guy’s head and then put it back in the dead man’s hand and left quickly. It was reported as a murder suicide in the High Desert Star.
In Victorville, he went by the alias Logan. Some cowboy had moved in from Arizona and begun stealing away his customers by undercutting him. Such actions were not tolerated. Logan followed the shadows quietly to the front door of the house taking care to avoid the light from the living room window. He listened for a minute until he could make out voices. He pulled two Glock .45 semiautomatic pistols from his waistband and clicked off the safeties. Kicking the door so hard the lock spun off one hinge as it broke, he charged in empting both clips. The man and woman jerked animatedly as the bullets found their marks. Logan left as quietly as he had come. No more competition.
Chris knew him as Merlin. He had left the usual message for Merlin and knew he would be receiving his delivery any day now. He had only seen Merlin a handful of times but their arrangement worked perfectly. Chris called in his order to a voicemail under what he presumed to be a fictitious name. He then placed the money in a secured drop and within a few days picked up the order in the same drop. The system had never failed. This time he ordered as much product as he dared.
Being the 28-year-old son of a once wealthy golf pro had been great until his father abandoned him for the south of France. And with his narcissistic mother in the middle of her third divorce while looking to remarry again Chris had been forced to find work. Now he managed the pro golf shop at one of the more prestigious Palm Desert resorts.
Things peaked during the winter months when rich and sometimes famous “snowbirds” flew into the Palm Springs airport, arriving by limousines to the resort. Chris worked hard during those months. The off-season, however, was different. He hardly worked at all. And even though the pay was adequate given the low cost of living in the area surrounding the resort, it was boring and lean. Which was something that this son of a once wealthy golf pro was not willing to accept. So he sold drugs for money. Lately, however, he had been spending more and more of his customer’s money on expensive luxury items forcing him to cut the purity of his product again and again. He had become greedy and his own habit and narcissistic personality had increased to the point where he was blind to his behavior. Lately it had gotten so bad that he had devised a plot to rip off Merlin. His friend Mike had negotiated a solid offer from a Nevada dealer.
Mike was a thirty something biker who frequented the resort’s bars. He was the muscle for Chris’s operation and they hung out frequently. When Chris complained one too many times about Merlin’s prices, Mike saw the chance to make a bundle. Together they schemed a way to rip off Merlin and then place future orders with the Nevada dealer at a discounted price. Tonight was the night. Once a reformed customer had told Chris, who hadn’t been listening, that drugs and alcohol could make a fool out of anyone.
Chris closed the golf pro shop at 10pm and headed up to a room the resort let him use. He hung near the phone waiting for some word that their plan had succeeded. At 11pm the phone rang and Mike told him it was done. The plan had gone down perfectly. Chris was excited and chalked up the jittery tone in Mike’s voice to nervous tension. He turned on the television and waited for his friend to show with the suitcase of drugs and money.
At 1am in the morning he heard the knock. The pattern was three swift knocks followed by two slow ones. That was their code. Chris opened the door. Merlin grabbed him powerfully by the throat with a gloved hand and bent him backwards while closing the door behind him in one fluid motion. He forced Chris to the floor, hogtied him using nylon rope, and then gagged him. He picked him up and placed him stomach down on the bed. Only then did he pull off the knapsack and release the buckles. Mike’s head rolled out onto the bed about 6 inches from Chris. It landed sideways with the eyes staring lifelessly into Chris’s whose ensuing screams were muffled.
So many memories... The man stepped out and walked onto the sand pit not sure if he even remembered all of the bodies buried beneath him. “No matter”, he thought to himself as he turned to leave. He had just retired. Just then the sand moved slightly in front of him. He bent down to inspect it brushing gently looking for some explanation. Suddenly a hand burst forth from the sand and grabbed his. He freaked. Cursing he struggled to free himself from the dead one’s grasp. The sand pit came alive as the limbs of past victims began breaking its surface. He pulled his pistol free and emptied it in a panic, seeking freedom. But freedom was not to be found. Soon bodies in various stages of decay climbed out of the sand pit each calling him by the names they had known him in life.
Copyright 2005 © West Coast Rockets. All Rights Reserved.
Three hours later, he exited the highway and started up a dirt road. Eventually he parked at a vacant lot in the middle of nowhere. Killing the engine, his boots flattened out the gravel as he walked to the edge of a huge sand pit. For a brief second, he almost smiled. This would be his last visit here. After almost ten years he had accumulated enough money to last him the rest of his life.
The high desert is a dangerous place of poverty, clandestine drug labs, relocated sexual offenders, and crooked law enforcement. His friend and protector, the desert gave him what he needed to be successful: anonymity.
There had been a few close calls of course. Every now and then the Sheriff’s department swept down catching users, street level dealers and felony criminals in their occasional stings. A couple of times a suspect had tried to purchase their freedom by providing information. But no one had ever really come close to catching him. He was a hard, intelligent man. Amoral, he held no close beliefs save one: Everything was just base matter to him and it was temporary. The desert understood this and he loved it for that. Rubbing an old bullet wound on his left arm he remembered…
Need drove Jimmy down the dirt road past the matchbox houses, cheap apartments, and used motorhomes. It was late and he knew Roy would be waiting for him in the back office of the broken down fitness club. Jimmy checked his green army jacket for his “works.” His diabetic mentally ill mother had talked a naïve passerby into taking her through the drive thru pharmacy in town earlier that day to get the hypodermic needles. She had then placed some where Jimmy could “steal” them. She preferred he use clean needles than those off the street.
Jimmy arrived and rapped on the glass front window. It was dark and quiet this late at night. Shortly a muscular man in his early forties unlocked the door and led Jimmy into a back office. Jimmy and a couple other poor fatherless young men in this isolated town traded themselves to Roy for drugs, spending money, and some sick twisted form of fatherly affection. At one time or another, Roy had been a foster parent or “big brother” to each of them.
Tonight was different though. Jimmy had recently been arrested attempting to sell an ounce of methamphetamine behind a local arcade to an undercover Sheriff deputy. Roy felt there was no way that Jimmy was going to do time in the state penitentiary if he didn’t have to. And Jimmy had been offered a deal.
Roy motioned Jimmy to sit next to him and put his arm around the eighteen year old. “How you doing Jimmy?” he asked. Jimmy mumbled. “That’s good to hear,” Roy replied. He squeezed back tears as he laid out a gram of methamphetamine on a mirror and watched Jimmy go to work preparing it for injection.
Jimmy went through the ritual. He had been up for a few days and was starting to “tweak” pretty hard. Every now and then he would stop to pick at his skin or scratch some itch of his that twitched muscles erratically.
Roy talked reassuringly until Jimmy inserted the needle into his arm and then became silent. Within about 10 minutes Jimmy started to feel chills and spasms throughout his body. A few minutes later his vision blurred and he had trouble breathing. He sensed something was terribly wrong. He cried out and fell off the stool. His back arched and he flailed aggressively as the hallucinations began.
Roy panicked. “Jack! Can you give me a hand man?” he yelled. Jack stepped out of the shadows of a corner of the room and pulled a Colt pistol. He stepped over Jimmy’s body and pistol-whipped the head a few times. Jimmy’s body continued twitching of its own accord as he slipped into a coma. Roy’s face revealed his fear and anguish. But that wasn’t Jack’s problem. Jack laid out the body bag, rolled Jimmy into it, zipped it up, and lifted it, still quivering, to his shoulders. “I’ll be expecting the rest of the money within 24 hours,” he said to Roy who nodded as he stared vacantly after him. Jack stepped out the back entrance, tossed the bag into the back of a pickup truck and left.
The woman didn’t know him as Jack. She knew him as Dan and was one of his regular customers. Buying his drugs with the money her tribe distributed each month, she cut and resold them to her neighbors. You only had to be 15% Indian to receive benefits from her tribe which is one reason why she didn’t look much like an Indian at all. Dan could hear the television going in the living room of the mobile home as he stepped through the front door into the kitchen. She was on a plastic cordless phone and motioned for him to have a seat. He was sitting in a brown recliner watching TV when he heard the front door fly open and a man shouting. He got to his feet.
The woman slammed down the phone and began arguing with the stranger. She was promiscuous and this was obviously a lover’s quarrel. Dan started to sit back down when he heard two loud “pops” one right after the other. Gunfire! That brought him back to his feet fast. He didn’t carry a pistol unless he thought he was actually going to need it and today wasn’t supposed to be one of those days.
He crept up to the kitchen entrance and stole a quick glance. The woman was lying on her side on the floor. Blood ran from two gunshot wounds out the side of her head. The stranger spotted Dan and started to raise the Browning .25 pistol. Dan didn’t have time to think and charged arms outstretched. The first round entered his arm about half way up and came out near his shoulder. The second round went wide. Dan body slammed him hard against the cupboards before he could fire again. The stranger writhed in pain as the pistol fell to the floor. Dan kicked hard at the man’s face as he used a handkerchief from his back pocket to retrieve it. He pumped two rounds into the side of the guy’s head and then put it back in the dead man’s hand and left quickly. It was reported as a murder suicide in the High Desert Star.
In Victorville, he went by the alias Logan. Some cowboy had moved in from Arizona and begun stealing away his customers by undercutting him. Such actions were not tolerated. Logan followed the shadows quietly to the front door of the house taking care to avoid the light from the living room window. He listened for a minute until he could make out voices. He pulled two Glock .45 semiautomatic pistols from his waistband and clicked off the safeties. Kicking the door so hard the lock spun off one hinge as it broke, he charged in empting both clips. The man and woman jerked animatedly as the bullets found their marks. Logan left as quietly as he had come. No more competition.
Chris knew him as Merlin. He had left the usual message for Merlin and knew he would be receiving his delivery any day now. He had only seen Merlin a handful of times but their arrangement worked perfectly. Chris called in his order to a voicemail under what he presumed to be a fictitious name. He then placed the money in a secured drop and within a few days picked up the order in the same drop. The system had never failed. This time he ordered as much product as he dared.
Being the 28-year-old son of a once wealthy golf pro had been great until his father abandoned him for the south of France. And with his narcissistic mother in the middle of her third divorce while looking to remarry again Chris had been forced to find work. Now he managed the pro golf shop at one of the more prestigious Palm Desert resorts.
Things peaked during the winter months when rich and sometimes famous “snowbirds” flew into the Palm Springs airport, arriving by limousines to the resort. Chris worked hard during those months. The off-season, however, was different. He hardly worked at all. And even though the pay was adequate given the low cost of living in the area surrounding the resort, it was boring and lean. Which was something that this son of a once wealthy golf pro was not willing to accept. So he sold drugs for money. Lately, however, he had been spending more and more of his customer’s money on expensive luxury items forcing him to cut the purity of his product again and again. He had become greedy and his own habit and narcissistic personality had increased to the point where he was blind to his behavior. Lately it had gotten so bad that he had devised a plot to rip off Merlin. His friend Mike had negotiated a solid offer from a Nevada dealer.
Mike was a thirty something biker who frequented the resort’s bars. He was the muscle for Chris’s operation and they hung out frequently. When Chris complained one too many times about Merlin’s prices, Mike saw the chance to make a bundle. Together they schemed a way to rip off Merlin and then place future orders with the Nevada dealer at a discounted price. Tonight was the night. Once a reformed customer had told Chris, who hadn’t been listening, that drugs and alcohol could make a fool out of anyone.
Chris closed the golf pro shop at 10pm and headed up to a room the resort let him use. He hung near the phone waiting for some word that their plan had succeeded. At 11pm the phone rang and Mike told him it was done. The plan had gone down perfectly. Chris was excited and chalked up the jittery tone in Mike’s voice to nervous tension. He turned on the television and waited for his friend to show with the suitcase of drugs and money.
At 1am in the morning he heard the knock. The pattern was three swift knocks followed by two slow ones. That was their code. Chris opened the door. Merlin grabbed him powerfully by the throat with a gloved hand and bent him backwards while closing the door behind him in one fluid motion. He forced Chris to the floor, hogtied him using nylon rope, and then gagged him. He picked him up and placed him stomach down on the bed. Only then did he pull off the knapsack and release the buckles. Mike’s head rolled out onto the bed about 6 inches from Chris. It landed sideways with the eyes staring lifelessly into Chris’s whose ensuing screams were muffled.
So many memories... The man stepped out and walked onto the sand pit not sure if he even remembered all of the bodies buried beneath him. “No matter”, he thought to himself as he turned to leave. He had just retired. Just then the sand moved slightly in front of him. He bent down to inspect it brushing gently looking for some explanation. Suddenly a hand burst forth from the sand and grabbed his. He freaked. Cursing he struggled to free himself from the dead one’s grasp. The sand pit came alive as the limbs of past victims began breaking its surface. He pulled his pistol free and emptied it in a panic, seeking freedom. But freedom was not to be found. Soon bodies in various stages of decay climbed out of the sand pit each calling him by the names they had known him in life.
Copyright 2005 © West Coast Rockets. All Rights Reserved.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Gone Hunting
"Tracy! Front and center!” the sergeant yelled. Late, Tracy dropped his gear and came to attention before the sergeant. The rest of the platoon stood in formation next to their bunker. “This isn’t a game Tracy, it’s a war. How many times do I have to tell you men that?” The sergeant looked at his men in feigned exasperation. They weren’t expected to respond.
“Damn it now that’s enough, fall in!” the sergeant concluded. Tracy retrieved his gear and joined his company next to the bunker as the sergeant turned to face them. “As you already know, tomorrow is the Vietnamese lunar holiday Tet. That means a cease-fire’s in effect. That does not mean, however, that you are permitted to become slackers. I want you ready to go on a moment’s notice. Any questions?” The sergeant looked at his men. They stared back vacantly. There were no questions. “Dismissed.” He turned and strode away toward the HQ building. The platoon headed back to their barracks where they spent most of their free time talking, playing cards, and writing letters.
Tracy never actually played cards with the men but was always present when they were being played. He would calmly sit with a far away look rarely talking unless asked a direct question. Despite his idiosyncrasies he was well liked for his strength, high degree of intelligence, and abilities as a survivalist and sniper. Yet there was something about him.
The only direct questions Tracy never answered, it seemed, were those about his past. After more than a few beers one day, several of the men asked the sergeant about this. He refused to answer at first but they pressed him and pressed him until he finally revealed what he knew. Tracy was from Texas. His parents had driven him and his two brothers into the desert when he was thirteen, kicked them out of the car with a week’s worth of supplies, and driven away never to be seen again. After the supplies ran out, the kids started walking. Almost a week later, Tracy stumbled onto a ranch house. He alone survived. The state of Texas declared him an orphan and made him a ward of the court until such time as a suitable home could be found. None ever was and Tracy lived in an orphanage until he turned eighteen. He then chose from one of the only four career opportunities available to him: Army, Air force, Navy, or Marines. Tracy chose the Army.
He completed Ranger school at the top of his class but convinced the Army to transfer him to a regular company instead. No one ever knew the exact reason for it and he never offered any explanation beyond that which was required. “And that,” the sergeant concluded, “is how Tracy came to be in our platoon.”
The platoon’s routine and Tracy’s future would have remained largely unchanged except for two things that occurred. The first was that, unbeknown to the American military forces, the North Vietnamese were about to break the Tet cease-fire and the second was that Tracy had been complaining of nightmares and acting a bit manic of late. So, the sergeant sent him to see a doctor who referred him to a psychiatrist. The psychiatrist was concerned because up until that year, 1968, the neuropsychiatric disease rate in Vietnam remained roughly stable and parallel with that of the rest of the Army. But this year, the Army-wide rates had increased and the rates in Vietnam were skyrocketing. The psychiatrist decided to enroll Tracy in an experimental program designed to test the effects of a certain new drug. That was six weeks ago.
Now, the men were noticing even more changes in Tracy’s behavior. He was finally talking and seemed happier on the one hand, but on the other, seemed to be losing his sense of conscience. And Tracy just laughed when confronted about it. Additionally, he was spending most of his free time writing morbid poems about a dream world he claimed existed and studying a lot of Zen philosophy. He would just zone out and talk about fate in a way that scared the men. The sergeant made a decision to transfer Tracy to the rear where he could get the help he needed. Before he could act on his decision, however, all hell broke loose.
Explosions rocked the platoon awake. The breathless sergeant returned from HQ and informed the company that the Tet cease-fire had just been broken. The North Vietnamese had hit every major military target in Vietnam and the United States Embassy in Saigon had actually been overrun. The platoon fell in and left the camp heading north along a main road. Their orders were to support a company of Green Beret paratroopers currently defending an old French plantation several miles away.
A couple of miles later they heard the sound of a truck approaching and got in position. When it passed, they opened fire. The truck was hit and exploded. N.V.A. troops jumped from the burning vehicle and were cut down where they landed. The sergeant yelled, “Cease fire! Cease fire!” after awhile and the attack ended. There were no survivors among the enemy. The platoon pushed northward. Helicopter gun ships flew over their heads on the way to action somewhere in front of them. There was no real battle line yet. Fighting was breaking out everywhere. The platoon was scared but resolute. Except for Tracy, that is, who appeared to be having the time of his life.
The road wound Eastward about 20 degrees until it bordered a small canal choked with sampans carrying refugees fleeing south. The explosions were much closer now. The platoon left the road and carefully made their way through a strip of jungle to the plantation.
Overhead, planes and helicopter gun ships released barrages into the jungle on the far side of the plantation opposite the platoon. Furious automatic fire exchanges were traded between North Vietnamese regulars and the Green Berets. One of the platoon members later remembered that Tracy was laughing as the platoon moved forward.
They made their way to a stone field wall and followed it to the plantation manor. The officer in charge ordered the platoon to assist a group of Green Beret soldiers in defending against attacks on the northwest wall. The platoon arrived just in time. The North Vietnamese were throwing everything they had at that section of the wall trying to break through and casualties were high. Within a short time the platoon fell to 70% strength. Tracy shot and dodged madly along the wall expertly taking out enemy soldiers.
The combined force fought commendably against the wave of NVA regulars. But finally the order came to retreat. The men fell back. Except for Tracy that is. He had acquired a shovel and was madly digging a hole behind a row of foliage next to the plantation manor. There was a hollow bamboo reed between his teeth and in the confusion he was left behind.
Several days later, two battalions of soldiers from division headquarters retook what was left of the plantation with the help of air support. Nothing of Tracy, save a freshly dug hole, a shovel, and a dirty hollow bamboo reed was ever found.
The Tet offensive officially ended and life returned to a routine of sorts. That is until the bodies of NVA and Viet Cong began appearing in the jungles north of the plantation. Not just a few either. There were a lot of dead bodies appearing.
At first Army intelligence thought they were simply enemy KIA from the initial battle. But as time went on and the discovery of fresh corpses continued, they abandoned that explanation. The other branches of the military disavowed any covert action in the area and that left the Army with only one option. They began sending in patrols to find an answer. But they found nothing except more bodies and angry NVA looking for revenge. Fierce fighting broke out whenever the opposing forces met.
Eventually the Army stopped sending out the patrols.
The NVA did too, but for very different reasons. They were mysteriously losing the patrols they sent out and many of the North Vietnamese soldiers now believed the twenty-mile section of jungle north of the plantation to be haunted and fearfully avoided it. The locals spoke respectfully of a tr¡ng danh tØ (a white ghost) that stalked the jungle at night animatedly killing his enemies. They said he laughed like a death angel. Only the sergeant and men from Tracy’s platoon knew the truth but it was so incredible that no one ever believed them.
Copyright 2005 © West Coast Rockets. All Rights Reserved.
“Damn it now that’s enough, fall in!” the sergeant concluded. Tracy retrieved his gear and joined his company next to the bunker as the sergeant turned to face them. “As you already know, tomorrow is the Vietnamese lunar holiday Tet. That means a cease-fire’s in effect. That does not mean, however, that you are permitted to become slackers. I want you ready to go on a moment’s notice. Any questions?” The sergeant looked at his men. They stared back vacantly. There were no questions. “Dismissed.” He turned and strode away toward the HQ building. The platoon headed back to their barracks where they spent most of their free time talking, playing cards, and writing letters.
Tracy never actually played cards with the men but was always present when they were being played. He would calmly sit with a far away look rarely talking unless asked a direct question. Despite his idiosyncrasies he was well liked for his strength, high degree of intelligence, and abilities as a survivalist and sniper. Yet there was something about him.
The only direct questions Tracy never answered, it seemed, were those about his past. After more than a few beers one day, several of the men asked the sergeant about this. He refused to answer at first but they pressed him and pressed him until he finally revealed what he knew. Tracy was from Texas. His parents had driven him and his two brothers into the desert when he was thirteen, kicked them out of the car with a week’s worth of supplies, and driven away never to be seen again. After the supplies ran out, the kids started walking. Almost a week later, Tracy stumbled onto a ranch house. He alone survived. The state of Texas declared him an orphan and made him a ward of the court until such time as a suitable home could be found. None ever was and Tracy lived in an orphanage until he turned eighteen. He then chose from one of the only four career opportunities available to him: Army, Air force, Navy, or Marines. Tracy chose the Army.
He completed Ranger school at the top of his class but convinced the Army to transfer him to a regular company instead. No one ever knew the exact reason for it and he never offered any explanation beyond that which was required. “And that,” the sergeant concluded, “is how Tracy came to be in our platoon.”
The platoon’s routine and Tracy’s future would have remained largely unchanged except for two things that occurred. The first was that, unbeknown to the American military forces, the North Vietnamese were about to break the Tet cease-fire and the second was that Tracy had been complaining of nightmares and acting a bit manic of late. So, the sergeant sent him to see a doctor who referred him to a psychiatrist. The psychiatrist was concerned because up until that year, 1968, the neuropsychiatric disease rate in Vietnam remained roughly stable and parallel with that of the rest of the Army. But this year, the Army-wide rates had increased and the rates in Vietnam were skyrocketing. The psychiatrist decided to enroll Tracy in an experimental program designed to test the effects of a certain new drug. That was six weeks ago.
Now, the men were noticing even more changes in Tracy’s behavior. He was finally talking and seemed happier on the one hand, but on the other, seemed to be losing his sense of conscience. And Tracy just laughed when confronted about it. Additionally, he was spending most of his free time writing morbid poems about a dream world he claimed existed and studying a lot of Zen philosophy. He would just zone out and talk about fate in a way that scared the men. The sergeant made a decision to transfer Tracy to the rear where he could get the help he needed. Before he could act on his decision, however, all hell broke loose.
Explosions rocked the platoon awake. The breathless sergeant returned from HQ and informed the company that the Tet cease-fire had just been broken. The North Vietnamese had hit every major military target in Vietnam and the United States Embassy in Saigon had actually been overrun. The platoon fell in and left the camp heading north along a main road. Their orders were to support a company of Green Beret paratroopers currently defending an old French plantation several miles away.
A couple of miles later they heard the sound of a truck approaching and got in position. When it passed, they opened fire. The truck was hit and exploded. N.V.A. troops jumped from the burning vehicle and were cut down where they landed. The sergeant yelled, “Cease fire! Cease fire!” after awhile and the attack ended. There were no survivors among the enemy. The platoon pushed northward. Helicopter gun ships flew over their heads on the way to action somewhere in front of them. There was no real battle line yet. Fighting was breaking out everywhere. The platoon was scared but resolute. Except for Tracy, that is, who appeared to be having the time of his life.
The road wound Eastward about 20 degrees until it bordered a small canal choked with sampans carrying refugees fleeing south. The explosions were much closer now. The platoon left the road and carefully made their way through a strip of jungle to the plantation.
Overhead, planes and helicopter gun ships released barrages into the jungle on the far side of the plantation opposite the platoon. Furious automatic fire exchanges were traded between North Vietnamese regulars and the Green Berets. One of the platoon members later remembered that Tracy was laughing as the platoon moved forward.
They made their way to a stone field wall and followed it to the plantation manor. The officer in charge ordered the platoon to assist a group of Green Beret soldiers in defending against attacks on the northwest wall. The platoon arrived just in time. The North Vietnamese were throwing everything they had at that section of the wall trying to break through and casualties were high. Within a short time the platoon fell to 70% strength. Tracy shot and dodged madly along the wall expertly taking out enemy soldiers.
The combined force fought commendably against the wave of NVA regulars. But finally the order came to retreat. The men fell back. Except for Tracy that is. He had acquired a shovel and was madly digging a hole behind a row of foliage next to the plantation manor. There was a hollow bamboo reed between his teeth and in the confusion he was left behind.
Several days later, two battalions of soldiers from division headquarters retook what was left of the plantation with the help of air support. Nothing of Tracy, save a freshly dug hole, a shovel, and a dirty hollow bamboo reed was ever found.
The Tet offensive officially ended and life returned to a routine of sorts. That is until the bodies of NVA and Viet Cong began appearing in the jungles north of the plantation. Not just a few either. There were a lot of dead bodies appearing.
At first Army intelligence thought they were simply enemy KIA from the initial battle. But as time went on and the discovery of fresh corpses continued, they abandoned that explanation. The other branches of the military disavowed any covert action in the area and that left the Army with only one option. They began sending in patrols to find an answer. But they found nothing except more bodies and angry NVA looking for revenge. Fierce fighting broke out whenever the opposing forces met.
Eventually the Army stopped sending out the patrols.
The NVA did too, but for very different reasons. They were mysteriously losing the patrols they sent out and many of the North Vietnamese soldiers now believed the twenty-mile section of jungle north of the plantation to be haunted and fearfully avoided it. The locals spoke respectfully of a tr¡ng danh tØ (a white ghost) that stalked the jungle at night animatedly killing his enemies. They said he laughed like a death angel. Only the sergeant and men from Tracy’s platoon knew the truth but it was so incredible that no one ever believed them.
Copyright 2005 © West Coast Rockets. All Rights Reserved.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Sold Down The River
The newly formed social club was irregular in Kentucky. It solicited members not only from the county’s genteel class but also from the area’s merchants, writers, military officers, and politicians. Sometimes guests from far away places like Europe, New England and the West accompanied their hosts to the club. A unique institution developed with a reputation that invited open discussions. The house rule was that a gentleman who lost his temper in the company of friends was no gentleman indeed.
The club itself was an affair. The main room contained a lavish bar with card tables and only the best furnishings. A piano player took requests most nights playing quietly while pretty hostesses sold expensive liquor and cigars.
And tonight was special. One of the club’s charter members had returned from an eight-year voyage and a party was being held in his honor. The man was wealthy, educated, and from a well-respected family. Mr. Stith was his name and he was, at the moment, engaging a fierce slave owner named Mr. Stone about the various implications and consequences that selling elderly and infirm slaves down the Mississippi river could have on one’s soul.
It was Mr. Stone’s fault really. He had gloated, in a matter of fact way, that he would be recouping a sum of money the next morning by selling a grouping of elderly and infirm slaves down the river, as was his custom each year. Mr. Stone had always made his position clear on such matters.
Not every member of the club agreed, however, and several looked away as he recounted sums of money made from such transactions. Yet it was understood that this was the South and their way of life inviolate. Occasional changes could be tolerated, such as the Yankee talk that Northerners brought with them, but it was inconceivable that any change could be allowed that altered the very present fact of the relation of superior white to inferior Negro. Everyone in the room clearly understood this, as had their fathers before them and this belief was the very cornerstone of the South at that time. So it was quite out of the ordinary when Mr. Stith suddenly turned and asked Mr. Stone in a friendly yet serious tone what defined him.
“Our southern selves define us Mr. Stith,” he replied, “We are respectable people with respectable institutions. The slave is our property and as such bound to serve us. When their usefulness is complete, we are entitled to profit by selling them wherever it is legal to do so.” Mr. Stone took a puff on his expensive cigar daring Mr. Stith to counter.
“I see. Well Mr. Stone as a gentleman I don’t refute our respectable institutions whatsoever, however, what I was asking is much more intimate. What defines you as a person? What makes you so different than the slave, who is also human, that you have no responsibility for the extreme pain you directly and indirectly inflict on his body and soul? Is it simply money and the good fortune of being born into your present circumstances that justifies your actions, decisions, and behavior?” Mr. Stone looked lost so Mr. Stith politely paused for a moment before continuing.
“Is it inconceivable to imagine, for just a moment, that both the educated and yes even the uneducated slave is a human being with a soul as precious in the eyes of our Maker as we ourselves! That skin color aside, it is the slave’s unfortunate circumstance that makes them different. Furthermore, isn’t it obvious that their institutions, while different in outward appearance, are very similar in the manner in which they bind the social and communal fabric of the people together?”
“Inconceivable!” muttered the men around the table. “You are mad Mr. Stith. Your travels have unbalanced you,” Mr. Stone said. “Perhaps,” Mr. Stith replied, “but I really don’t believe so.” Mr. Stone stopped puffing on his cigar and tossed down a brandy. “You forget yourself Mr. Stith. You are a slave owner too. The same as us,” he noted. The others nodded in agreement.
“True. Very true,” Mr. Stith said evenly. “And as you know, my family places an emphasis on seeing their workers and slaves well fed and decently treated. Not just for their ability to produce and reproduce but also because they are human beings.” And the members knew it was true. The Stith plantation was a model one; the family wealthy and respected. Stiths held positions of importance in the state and several had a reputation as duelists not to be trifled with. All of which left those present at a loss how to respond. “Many of us do the same,” one finally offered
“Yes. However, many of you also sell these human beings down the river when they become injured or elderly, as does our friend Mr. Stone. Gentlemen, my conscience does not permit me to engage in the practice. Have you ever seen the camps you send them to? The truth should be respected.” The mood grew solemn.
The members were aware of the suffering and circumstances of those camps. Whips and clubs drove slaves with a reckless regard for life. If one of them stumbled and fell into a pit with his load the next would dump dirt on him and leave him there until he was eventually covered and forgotten. The bosses declared that a slave could kill another slave so long as he worked better than him, but for God’s sakes, he better not kill anybody who could work better than him. And there were worse things that happened in those camps: much worse. The members squirmed uncomfortably.
Mr. Stone broke the silence. “Nothing is the same to every person Mr. Stith, and I perceive that you do not really understand this,” he said. Unconsciously Mr. Stith played with his yet unlit cigar. “Understand what?” he replied, “That reality changes form to suit a man’s wishes. Not possible. Rather reality is truth and it is our perception of it that may or may not be skewed. I declare that the manner of discovery and accuracy of reality obtained, while imperfect, is more perfect in those who actually obtain it than in those who completely miss the mark.”
“Word games!” hollered Mr. Stone punctuating each word by hammering the table with his fist. He poured another brandy and began reciting all the arguments for Negro inferiority ending with “...and the good book says that they shall be hewers of wood and drawers of water forever!” Mr. Stith laughed.
“My Episcopalian education taught me to examine things to see if they are true Mr. Stone. I could never support such a misinterpretation of scripture for the sake of convenience. Perhaps a lesson contrasting Lazarus and the rich man might be more fitting for the purposes of our discussion. In any event, religious implications aside, have you considered the consequences of tampering with the natural order of things.”
The question roused Mr. Stone to his feet. He looked down at the still seated Mr. Stith. “The question, Mr. Stith, should be directed to you. Have you considered the consequences of tampering with the natural order of things?” The members sat spellbound.
Mr. Stith remained seated. “I cannot believe that kidnapping human beings, killing some and forcing the rest into a life of slavery, all the while reinventing and misinterpreting truth to justify such actions because they are economically profitable constitutes, in reality, the natural order of things. It’s more like an unnatural order of things which we have institutionalized because it is profitable and pleasing for us to do so.” Mr. Stone’s face turned red.
“In any event, I was alluding to a purely scientific argument. I was speculating that interfering with the cycle of life and the natural order of things to the extent that we have done here in the South might have consequences. It’s possible that we are pressing against the structure of reality so much that a correction of some sort will take place. Perhaps a war or political restructuring will change the South gentlemen. How and when this correction might take place I do not know. But I do believe we will be able to perceive it if it does. Furthermore, I can imagine that if stretched even beyond that condition by certain objects, a normalization process could take place resulting in an adjustment designed to negate the effect of those specific objects. We may or may not be able to perceive this and I can only imagine what form such an adjustment might take.”
Mr. Stone had heard enough. “Bah!” he replied, “this conversation has reached its conclusion. Fanciful conjecture on your part Mr. Stith.” He finished the last of the brandy, snuffed out his cigar and grabbed his coat. Pulling the slave contract from an inside pocket, he signed and dated it with great flourish in the presence of everyone in the room and then carefully replaced it and said goodnight. Mr. Stith and the others politely rose to their feet as he left. Climbing angrily into his coach he yelled at his attending slaves to take him home. When he arrived, he carefully set his coat aside and went to bed.
He was awakened the next morning by rays of sunlight that pierced through slits cut into the side of the Mississippi slave barge. He woke groggily and it took him a minute to realize that he was in leg irons amongst a row of slaves. He stared at his hands. They were black. In a panic he ripped off his tattered shirt. He was black. A black slave sold down the river. Dread overtook Mr. Stone as he struck his head against the side of the barge in a desperate attempt to wake up. But this was no dream. His involuntary scream brought an immediate and harsh beating from one of the pockmarked river bosses.
Copyright 2005 © West Coast Rockets. All Rights Reserved.
The club itself was an affair. The main room contained a lavish bar with card tables and only the best furnishings. A piano player took requests most nights playing quietly while pretty hostesses sold expensive liquor and cigars.
And tonight was special. One of the club’s charter members had returned from an eight-year voyage and a party was being held in his honor. The man was wealthy, educated, and from a well-respected family. Mr. Stith was his name and he was, at the moment, engaging a fierce slave owner named Mr. Stone about the various implications and consequences that selling elderly and infirm slaves down the Mississippi river could have on one’s soul.
It was Mr. Stone’s fault really. He had gloated, in a matter of fact way, that he would be recouping a sum of money the next morning by selling a grouping of elderly and infirm slaves down the river, as was his custom each year. Mr. Stone had always made his position clear on such matters.
Not every member of the club agreed, however, and several looked away as he recounted sums of money made from such transactions. Yet it was understood that this was the South and their way of life inviolate. Occasional changes could be tolerated, such as the Yankee talk that Northerners brought with them, but it was inconceivable that any change could be allowed that altered the very present fact of the relation of superior white to inferior Negro. Everyone in the room clearly understood this, as had their fathers before them and this belief was the very cornerstone of the South at that time. So it was quite out of the ordinary when Mr. Stith suddenly turned and asked Mr. Stone in a friendly yet serious tone what defined him.
“Our southern selves define us Mr. Stith,” he replied, “We are respectable people with respectable institutions. The slave is our property and as such bound to serve us. When their usefulness is complete, we are entitled to profit by selling them wherever it is legal to do so.” Mr. Stone took a puff on his expensive cigar daring Mr. Stith to counter.
“I see. Well Mr. Stone as a gentleman I don’t refute our respectable institutions whatsoever, however, what I was asking is much more intimate. What defines you as a person? What makes you so different than the slave, who is also human, that you have no responsibility for the extreme pain you directly and indirectly inflict on his body and soul? Is it simply money and the good fortune of being born into your present circumstances that justifies your actions, decisions, and behavior?” Mr. Stone looked lost so Mr. Stith politely paused for a moment before continuing.
“Is it inconceivable to imagine, for just a moment, that both the educated and yes even the uneducated slave is a human being with a soul as precious in the eyes of our Maker as we ourselves! That skin color aside, it is the slave’s unfortunate circumstance that makes them different. Furthermore, isn’t it obvious that their institutions, while different in outward appearance, are very similar in the manner in which they bind the social and communal fabric of the people together?”
“Inconceivable!” muttered the men around the table. “You are mad Mr. Stith. Your travels have unbalanced you,” Mr. Stone said. “Perhaps,” Mr. Stith replied, “but I really don’t believe so.” Mr. Stone stopped puffing on his cigar and tossed down a brandy. “You forget yourself Mr. Stith. You are a slave owner too. The same as us,” he noted. The others nodded in agreement.
“True. Very true,” Mr. Stith said evenly. “And as you know, my family places an emphasis on seeing their workers and slaves well fed and decently treated. Not just for their ability to produce and reproduce but also because they are human beings.” And the members knew it was true. The Stith plantation was a model one; the family wealthy and respected. Stiths held positions of importance in the state and several had a reputation as duelists not to be trifled with. All of which left those present at a loss how to respond. “Many of us do the same,” one finally offered
“Yes. However, many of you also sell these human beings down the river when they become injured or elderly, as does our friend Mr. Stone. Gentlemen, my conscience does not permit me to engage in the practice. Have you ever seen the camps you send them to? The truth should be respected.” The mood grew solemn.
The members were aware of the suffering and circumstances of those camps. Whips and clubs drove slaves with a reckless regard for life. If one of them stumbled and fell into a pit with his load the next would dump dirt on him and leave him there until he was eventually covered and forgotten. The bosses declared that a slave could kill another slave so long as he worked better than him, but for God’s sakes, he better not kill anybody who could work better than him. And there were worse things that happened in those camps: much worse. The members squirmed uncomfortably.
Mr. Stone broke the silence. “Nothing is the same to every person Mr. Stith, and I perceive that you do not really understand this,” he said. Unconsciously Mr. Stith played with his yet unlit cigar. “Understand what?” he replied, “That reality changes form to suit a man’s wishes. Not possible. Rather reality is truth and it is our perception of it that may or may not be skewed. I declare that the manner of discovery and accuracy of reality obtained, while imperfect, is more perfect in those who actually obtain it than in those who completely miss the mark.”
“Word games!” hollered Mr. Stone punctuating each word by hammering the table with his fist. He poured another brandy and began reciting all the arguments for Negro inferiority ending with “...and the good book says that they shall be hewers of wood and drawers of water forever!” Mr. Stith laughed.
“My Episcopalian education taught me to examine things to see if they are true Mr. Stone. I could never support such a misinterpretation of scripture for the sake of convenience. Perhaps a lesson contrasting Lazarus and the rich man might be more fitting for the purposes of our discussion. In any event, religious implications aside, have you considered the consequences of tampering with the natural order of things.”
The question roused Mr. Stone to his feet. He looked down at the still seated Mr. Stith. “The question, Mr. Stith, should be directed to you. Have you considered the consequences of tampering with the natural order of things?” The members sat spellbound.
Mr. Stith remained seated. “I cannot believe that kidnapping human beings, killing some and forcing the rest into a life of slavery, all the while reinventing and misinterpreting truth to justify such actions because they are economically profitable constitutes, in reality, the natural order of things. It’s more like an unnatural order of things which we have institutionalized because it is profitable and pleasing for us to do so.” Mr. Stone’s face turned red.
“In any event, I was alluding to a purely scientific argument. I was speculating that interfering with the cycle of life and the natural order of things to the extent that we have done here in the South might have consequences. It’s possible that we are pressing against the structure of reality so much that a correction of some sort will take place. Perhaps a war or political restructuring will change the South gentlemen. How and when this correction might take place I do not know. But I do believe we will be able to perceive it if it does. Furthermore, I can imagine that if stretched even beyond that condition by certain objects, a normalization process could take place resulting in an adjustment designed to negate the effect of those specific objects. We may or may not be able to perceive this and I can only imagine what form such an adjustment might take.”
Mr. Stone had heard enough. “Bah!” he replied, “this conversation has reached its conclusion. Fanciful conjecture on your part Mr. Stith.” He finished the last of the brandy, snuffed out his cigar and grabbed his coat. Pulling the slave contract from an inside pocket, he signed and dated it with great flourish in the presence of everyone in the room and then carefully replaced it and said goodnight. Mr. Stith and the others politely rose to their feet as he left. Climbing angrily into his coach he yelled at his attending slaves to take him home. When he arrived, he carefully set his coat aside and went to bed.
He was awakened the next morning by rays of sunlight that pierced through slits cut into the side of the Mississippi slave barge. He woke groggily and it took him a minute to realize that he was in leg irons amongst a row of slaves. He stared at his hands. They were black. In a panic he ripped off his tattered shirt. He was black. A black slave sold down the river. Dread overtook Mr. Stone as he struck his head against the side of the barge in a desperate attempt to wake up. But this was no dream. His involuntary scream brought an immediate and harsh beating from one of the pockmarked river bosses.
Copyright 2005 © West Coast Rockets. All Rights Reserved.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Wrecked Millionaire Models
Mary stirred her cup of tea carefully. Gently she laid the spoon back on the sterling silver tray and smiled at her guests. Perhaps she was a little stupid but at least she had never engaged in the jealous slander and gossip other people assume. She situated herself, a young lady whose reputation and integrity were intact. Her guests were currently engaged in a discussion on the virtues (or lack of them) concerning boarding schools.
“Mary dear,” Annette asked, “Would you have attended one?” Annette was the mother of Mary’s best friend Darla. She had married old money and spent much of her time redecorating homes and traveling. Mary replied that she did not prefer them. “Well they do serve a purpose,” Annette continued, “I mean after all when a family from a good neighborhood prospers and leaves to live elsewhere, those left behind question the motives behind the decision. Boarding schools allow the prosperous family to prepare the new generation for a better life while remaining true to their roots.” Mary nodded. Annette had a force of personality that discouraged people from disagreeing with her. Darla laughed winsomely, “Oh mother, you are always passionate.” That made Mary laugh and soon all five ladies were having a genial laugh at Annette’s expense.
Sue, a comely woman, pulled her chair closer to the small circle of friends. “Mary, your beauty is astounding. You are one of those few women whom the passage of time will leave unscathed.” The others purred in agreement. “You’ll be surrounded by suitors Mary,” Darla added. Mary felt flush. There was time enough for that.
Anastasia had been quietly knitting the entire time and held up her work for the others to examine. “So how am I doing?” she said. Annette carefully took the half finished vest. “It’s beautiful dear. I should think Mark will love this when you present it to him for his birthday next month.” The others laughed. Anastasia blushed.
“Oh to be young again,” Annette mused, “But like the preacher says in Ecclesiastics, there is a season for everything. A time to be born and a time to die, vanity of vanities, all is vanity.”
Sue politely cleared her throat. “I believe the writer was saying that when the situation appears hopeless hope can still be found.” Annette giggled. “Oh mother, you can be so melodramatic,” Darla said. Everyone laughed again.
Suddenly there was a knock. “Oh the door. Could someone be a dear and answer it?” Mary asked. “Certainly,” Sue said and rose to answer the door. She returned a moment later and sat back down. “Why nobody’s there.” A minute later the ladies fell into conversation again.
The psychiatrist stopped tapping on the glass. “Hard to believe that forty years ago she was a truly beautiful woman. A fashion model no less,” he said. The female nurse nodded as she peered at the aged ruined face of the female patient. “A stalker did that. It breaks your heart to see such things,” she replied, “and nobody’s visited her in years.” The doctor and nurse shook their heads, the pity evident as they continued with their rounds.
Copyright 2005 © West Coast Rockets. All Rights Reserved.
“Mary dear,” Annette asked, “Would you have attended one?” Annette was the mother of Mary’s best friend Darla. She had married old money and spent much of her time redecorating homes and traveling. Mary replied that she did not prefer them. “Well they do serve a purpose,” Annette continued, “I mean after all when a family from a good neighborhood prospers and leaves to live elsewhere, those left behind question the motives behind the decision. Boarding schools allow the prosperous family to prepare the new generation for a better life while remaining true to their roots.” Mary nodded. Annette had a force of personality that discouraged people from disagreeing with her. Darla laughed winsomely, “Oh mother, you are always passionate.” That made Mary laugh and soon all five ladies were having a genial laugh at Annette’s expense.
Sue, a comely woman, pulled her chair closer to the small circle of friends. “Mary, your beauty is astounding. You are one of those few women whom the passage of time will leave unscathed.” The others purred in agreement. “You’ll be surrounded by suitors Mary,” Darla added. Mary felt flush. There was time enough for that.
Anastasia had been quietly knitting the entire time and held up her work for the others to examine. “So how am I doing?” she said. Annette carefully took the half finished vest. “It’s beautiful dear. I should think Mark will love this when you present it to him for his birthday next month.” The others laughed. Anastasia blushed.
“Oh to be young again,” Annette mused, “But like the preacher says in Ecclesiastics, there is a season for everything. A time to be born and a time to die, vanity of vanities, all is vanity.”
Sue politely cleared her throat. “I believe the writer was saying that when the situation appears hopeless hope can still be found.” Annette giggled. “Oh mother, you can be so melodramatic,” Darla said. Everyone laughed again.
Suddenly there was a knock. “Oh the door. Could someone be a dear and answer it?” Mary asked. “Certainly,” Sue said and rose to answer the door. She returned a moment later and sat back down. “Why nobody’s there.” A minute later the ladies fell into conversation again.
The psychiatrist stopped tapping on the glass. “Hard to believe that forty years ago she was a truly beautiful woman. A fashion model no less,” he said. The female nurse nodded as she peered at the aged ruined face of the female patient. “A stalker did that. It breaks your heart to see such things,” she replied, “and nobody’s visited her in years.” The doctor and nurse shook their heads, the pity evident as they continued with their rounds.
Copyright 2005 © West Coast Rockets. All Rights Reserved.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
The Last Magic Show
‘Macabre’ the reviewers had written! The wizened old man shuffled across his antique dressing room in New York City, newspaper in hand. Why in his youth he had been the toast of the town and his magic celebrated. As a young man, he had studied with the great Harry Blackstone, Sr.. And though Houdini had passed away a year before his birth, he had also been a great influence nonetheless. This was before television, the Internet, and next generation technologies. In those days, he had been greatly celebrated and his arrival eagerly anticipated.
Now, after more than 30 years in retirement he had returned for three final performances and been laughed off the stage. Nothing was sacred anymore. Magicians with a fraction of his ability and experience had revealed the trades’ secrets decades ago. The audience didn’t understand or appreciate his classic magic show any longer. They wanted 21st century special effects. The old man looked down at his aged hands. His day had long passed. But to call his refined and well rehearsed performance macabre was irreverent.
He reached into an old travel case and rooted amongst his magic paraphernalia until he found what he was looking for. Holding the bottle to the light, he tried to peer through the black glass but saw nothing. The seal still appeared as fresh as the day he had received it. Across the front, in the Scottish Gaelic highland language, read simply ‘a temptation for your time of utmost need.’
His mind wandered back to that night. Exiting the stage with a thunderous applause so great it shook the hall, he had pushed his way past celebrities and reviewers seeking escape from their enthusiasm in the confines of his dressing room. It had been his greatest performance and as he began removing his makeup, he noticed an older gentleman sitting in the corner of his dressing room calmly staring at him.
“May I help you Sir?” he had asked somewhat shocked. The man smiled and informed him that he was Aleister Crowley. “You mean the great beast himself,” he had responded, involuntarily blushing as he said it.
Mr. Crowley had simply smiled again and responded, “the very one.” They had talked for a while until finally Aleister had carefully placed in his hands the bottle and told him it was good for one and one use only and to use choose the occasion carefully because the consequences could be simply “dreadful” as he put it. He then excused himself and left. The old man had suspected a practical joke of some kind but kept the bottle as a memento of their meeting. And now, almost forgotten after all these years, he held it again. He slipped the bottle into a pocket of his aged trench coat and headed for the stage.
When he arrived, the hall was filled to capacity. The derisive reviews of his first two performances were the talk of the town and had drawn a crowd. But the audience was not here to cheer him. They were here to mock him.
The hecklers began first. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he went through the sleight of hand portion of his performance. Though it was customary at this point to ask for a member of the audience to participate, he decided not to take the risk as the heckling turned to jeers. He performed a stage trick instead.
The taunting increased until one balding drunk in the front row finally stood and yelled “Hey you old relic! For your next trick why don’t you make yourself disappear!” The crowd rolled with laughter. It was too much for the old man.
Tears welled up in his eyes and he slipped out the bottle. He broke the seal and pulled out the glass stopper. Instantly the atmosphere around him changed as some unseen evil manifested. The air grew very cold and seemed electrified in some strange way. A malevolent presence encompassed the hall quieting the audience.
Slowly at first a plume of smoke rose from the bottle. The color was of the blackest night the old man had ever seen. For a moment he was tempted to stop it with his hand but a sixth sense restrained him from such a foolish act. The plume of smoke formed into a large black cloud and floated over the audience. A woman screamed and tried to escape through an emergency exit. The unseen force held all avenues of escape shut. She sobbed and sank to the ground. Dread gripped the audience and they remained in their seats. The old man looked at the cloud. There was really no rational explanation for it.
Without warning a bolt of energy burst from the cloud and struck him. The audience groaned. He stumbled around the stage for a moment then regained his composure. He walked to the center of the stage and surveyed the crowd. As he looked into their faces he became aware that he now knew everything about them. Everything. His feelings of failure and despair vanished.
The crowd recoiled in fear as the old man chuckled and strode to the edge of the stage. Yes the worm had certainly turned. He spoke loud enough so that everyone could hear him. “And now ladies and gentlemen, for my next act I will read your minds.”
Walking from one end of the stage to the other, he began pointing out people and revealing their most shocking secrets. The lies, infidelities, and twisted acts were exposed for all to see. This took awhile. Once while revealing a peculiar secret of the balding drunken man who had jeered him earlier, he was almost assaulted. The man’s face had turned bright red. He jumped up, yelled, and attempted to climb onto the stage. Instantly a bolt of energy shot forth from the black cloud and punched a neat cylindrical hole right in the middle of the man’s chest. He collapsed backwards lifelessly his head making a sick sound as it struck the floor.
The old man paused but then continued on until every dirty secret had been revealed. When finished he said simply, “That concludes tonight’s performance ladies and gentlemen,” bowed, slipped the empty bottle back into his pocket, and left via a back exit. He never returned for his equipment and was never seen again. The black cloud floated around the room crackling with energy and scaring everyone for about an hour before finally dissipating. Only then did the crowd rush the exits. One thing was certain, no one present for the old man’s last magic show was ever the same.
Copyright 2005 © West Coast Rockets. All Rights Reserved.
Now, after more than 30 years in retirement he had returned for three final performances and been laughed off the stage. Nothing was sacred anymore. Magicians with a fraction of his ability and experience had revealed the trades’ secrets decades ago. The audience didn’t understand or appreciate his classic magic show any longer. They wanted 21st century special effects. The old man looked down at his aged hands. His day had long passed. But to call his refined and well rehearsed performance macabre was irreverent.
He reached into an old travel case and rooted amongst his magic paraphernalia until he found what he was looking for. Holding the bottle to the light, he tried to peer through the black glass but saw nothing. The seal still appeared as fresh as the day he had received it. Across the front, in the Scottish Gaelic highland language, read simply ‘a temptation for your time of utmost need.’
His mind wandered back to that night. Exiting the stage with a thunderous applause so great it shook the hall, he had pushed his way past celebrities and reviewers seeking escape from their enthusiasm in the confines of his dressing room. It had been his greatest performance and as he began removing his makeup, he noticed an older gentleman sitting in the corner of his dressing room calmly staring at him.
“May I help you Sir?” he had asked somewhat shocked. The man smiled and informed him that he was Aleister Crowley. “You mean the great beast himself,” he had responded, involuntarily blushing as he said it.
Mr. Crowley had simply smiled again and responded, “the very one.” They had talked for a while until finally Aleister had carefully placed in his hands the bottle and told him it was good for one and one use only and to use choose the occasion carefully because the consequences could be simply “dreadful” as he put it. He then excused himself and left. The old man had suspected a practical joke of some kind but kept the bottle as a memento of their meeting. And now, almost forgotten after all these years, he held it again. He slipped the bottle into a pocket of his aged trench coat and headed for the stage.
When he arrived, the hall was filled to capacity. The derisive reviews of his first two performances were the talk of the town and had drawn a crowd. But the audience was not here to cheer him. They were here to mock him.
The hecklers began first. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he went through the sleight of hand portion of his performance. Though it was customary at this point to ask for a member of the audience to participate, he decided not to take the risk as the heckling turned to jeers. He performed a stage trick instead.
The taunting increased until one balding drunk in the front row finally stood and yelled “Hey you old relic! For your next trick why don’t you make yourself disappear!” The crowd rolled with laughter. It was too much for the old man.
Tears welled up in his eyes and he slipped out the bottle. He broke the seal and pulled out the glass stopper. Instantly the atmosphere around him changed as some unseen evil manifested. The air grew very cold and seemed electrified in some strange way. A malevolent presence encompassed the hall quieting the audience.
Slowly at first a plume of smoke rose from the bottle. The color was of the blackest night the old man had ever seen. For a moment he was tempted to stop it with his hand but a sixth sense restrained him from such a foolish act. The plume of smoke formed into a large black cloud and floated over the audience. A woman screamed and tried to escape through an emergency exit. The unseen force held all avenues of escape shut. She sobbed and sank to the ground. Dread gripped the audience and they remained in their seats. The old man looked at the cloud. There was really no rational explanation for it.
Without warning a bolt of energy burst from the cloud and struck him. The audience groaned. He stumbled around the stage for a moment then regained his composure. He walked to the center of the stage and surveyed the crowd. As he looked into their faces he became aware that he now knew everything about them. Everything. His feelings of failure and despair vanished.
The crowd recoiled in fear as the old man chuckled and strode to the edge of the stage. Yes the worm had certainly turned. He spoke loud enough so that everyone could hear him. “And now ladies and gentlemen, for my next act I will read your minds.”
Walking from one end of the stage to the other, he began pointing out people and revealing their most shocking secrets. The lies, infidelities, and twisted acts were exposed for all to see. This took awhile. Once while revealing a peculiar secret of the balding drunken man who had jeered him earlier, he was almost assaulted. The man’s face had turned bright red. He jumped up, yelled, and attempted to climb onto the stage. Instantly a bolt of energy shot forth from the black cloud and punched a neat cylindrical hole right in the middle of the man’s chest. He collapsed backwards lifelessly his head making a sick sound as it struck the floor.
The old man paused but then continued on until every dirty secret had been revealed. When finished he said simply, “That concludes tonight’s performance ladies and gentlemen,” bowed, slipped the empty bottle back into his pocket, and left via a back exit. He never returned for his equipment and was never seen again. The black cloud floated around the room crackling with energy and scaring everyone for about an hour before finally dissipating. Only then did the crowd rush the exits. One thing was certain, no one present for the old man’s last magic show was ever the same.
Copyright 2005 © West Coast Rockets. All Rights Reserved.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
Party People
Brad woke suddenly. The recurring nightmares had haunted his childhood. After all these years, they troubled him again. He reached for one of the towels next to his bed and wiped away the perspiration. For some reason his thoughts turned to his late great-grandfather. He had been a professional magician, a real one, very different from the Vegas-style entertainers of today. Self-assured, the old man’s presence had always comforted him. Unfortunately he hadn’t been heard from in years and most thought him dead. Brad lie back on the sheets and remembered the strange twinkle his great-grandfather’s eyes held.
The doctors in the next room went through a lengthy series of safety procedures. First they put on surgical scrubs followed by several pairs of latex gloves closed and taped securely at the wrists. Over this went a self-contained suit fitted with a facemask. Plugged into the side of the suit was a tightly coiled air pipe attached to a backpack unit. Only then did they open the outer door to the isolation room and cautiously enter.
Brad turned on the hospital bed as they approached. It was hard to move in his weakened condition. “Good morning Brad,” the doctor nearest him spoke, “Dr. Anderson and I are going to take some readings this morning if that’s ok with you.” Brad waved them closer. He was used to the daily routine. The doctors went to work. Had it only been three weeks since the party? Three weeks… unbelievable, he thought. That fateful day…
It had all started well enough. An early riser, Brad enjoyed a light breakfast on his sun deck. Spring was perfect this year and he determined to make the most of it. So afterwards, he went for a walk. His neighborhood was typical of the newer upper middle class homes around the country. Stately homes with well kept lawns lined by short fences amply surrounded by shrubs and flowers. But for some reason, sidewalks were hard to find. Brad did not know if the lack of sidewalks was deliberately planned to discourage people who couldn’t afford to live in these neighborhoods from entering them, but suspected it was so. In any event, he walked across the lawns of his neighbors where necessary.
Whistling while he went, Brad soon found himself tromping across the lawn of the Thompkins estate. Mrs. Thompkins was a fifty-something busy body known for her active involvement in various local social organizations. Upon sighting Brad, her Terrier tore across the lawn barking wildly.
Looking down at the little Terrier, Brad leaned on the four-foot picket fence and laughed. He never understood why old ladies like these little lap dogs. Their high-pitched barks aside, they certainly weren’t a deterrent. He turned to resume his walk when, all of a sudden, the Terrier leapt high in the air, bit him decisively on the arm and hung on for dear life. Brad cursed with pain as his arm spasmed. He grabbed the dog by its throat and forced it to release. Involuntarily, almost blindly, he flung the animal into the fence so hard that he accidentally killed it.
Then Brad took off his cashmere sweater and used it to apply pressure to his arm. He stood there dumbly examining the dog’s lifeless body. It was dead all right. That’s when he heard the scream. Mrs. Thompkins apparently had seen some portion of the struggle through her kitchen window and was shrieking hysterically while calling the police. Brad sat down on the curb and waited for them to arrive. It was going to be a long day.
Strangely, that evening had started well too. It was Fiona’s 28th birthday and they were having a party for her. Fiona was the wife of Gerald Sherrel a wealthy attorney, author, speaker, and their neighbor. The couple was wildly popular among the community’s social elite. These parties were social in nature and thrown for personal reasons, but they had serious business facets. People used these occasions and the guest lists were carefully prepared.
Which was why Brad now wondered if everything that had happened in the past three weeks was some divine judgment against them. After all, almost the entire social elite of their community had been in attendance. But no, he decided that couldn’t be. Collectively they were good people with most involved in some charity or other. And exclusion was necessary to create safe environments where people could feel comfortable. Still, Brad knew that most of them were emotionally removed from those outside their social circles. And there had been disturbing incidents like the fire three years ago at the Myers estate. Mrs. Meyers had immediately rushed to rescue an expensive painting before sounding the alarm. Her decision to rescue the painting first resulted in the unfortunate death of their maid. Brad felt a cold shiver creep up his back as he remembered Mrs. Meyer’s justifications. Yet, the party had been quite a gala and the handpicked guests mulling about talking, socializing, eating catered delicacies and drinking imported Champaign.
Only in hindsight, was it odd that nobody noticed the stranger. Brad first spotted him by the caterer with a huge plate of food. He was heavy and wore polyester clothes that could have come from a thrift store. His hair was combed to the side in a feeble attempt to cover a large balding spot. Brad wondered what the man was doing there but said nothing. The stranger, however, caught him looking and immediately walked over. He precariously balanced the huge plate of food with one hand and brought the other up for a handshake. Brad glimpsed a strange rash on the man’s arm but his social conditioning was so ingrained to avoid a direct offense that he automatically shook hands. The man grinned displaying a case of gingivitis. Brad excused himself and walked away.
Later in the evening, Brad started thinking about the man and the strange rash. Panicky, he spent considerable time in the bathroom washing and rewashing his hands with antibacterial soap until he was sure there was no way he could be affected by whatever condition the stranger had. Brad then mingled the rest of the evening talking about business and current events as usual.
Frequently he would spot the obnoxious individual approach people with the constantly refilled plate of food and shake hands with them. It was like a compulsion with him. The look of revulsion on their faces was always evident yet they always shook the stranger’s hand. More than once he felt compelled to warn the guests but fear restrained him. Not fear of the stranger, but fear of embarrassing himself. The stranger could be one of the well-heeled guest’s uncles or perhaps he was the black sheep so to speak. Brad was no different than anyone else at the party that evening. Not one of them was going to risk losing face with so many important people in attendance. Their world was carefully built and Brad, like the others, continued to merely observe the stranger.
Finally, around 10pm the stranger simply left. Brad breathed a sigh of relief. It turned out that no one had known him. One thing was sure; the stranger wouldn’t be able to stay the next time. Brad was confident now the stranger would be asked to leave if he ever appeared again. That was how it worked.
The night ended on a seemingly good note and everyone left at the appropriate hour. Brad went home and slept soundly. The next morning he enjoyed a normal day at the office and then another good night’s sleep. That, however, was the last good night sleep he would ever have. The recurring childhood nightmares began the next evening.
And the day after that, he was horrified to discover that the body of the strange uninvited guest had been found behind a gas station near the Sherrel estate. The local newspaper reported that the stranger, a pet storeowner vacationing in the area succumbed to some deadly variation of a virus. The authorities moved in destroying everything and isolating everyone associated with the body.
Apparently, the virus was not contagious until its later stages and the only people affected were those at the party. The authorities found small bite marks on him and believed an animal host was responsible for transferring the virus. Since there was no cure, they were isolated. Within three weeks, all were dead. All, that is, except Brad who was very close to dead. He looked at the rash, which now covered 50% of his body. Sobbing, he wondered what had become of his great-grandfather.
Copyright 2005 © West Coast Rockets. All Rights Reserved.
The doctors in the next room went through a lengthy series of safety procedures. First they put on surgical scrubs followed by several pairs of latex gloves closed and taped securely at the wrists. Over this went a self-contained suit fitted with a facemask. Plugged into the side of the suit was a tightly coiled air pipe attached to a backpack unit. Only then did they open the outer door to the isolation room and cautiously enter.
Brad turned on the hospital bed as they approached. It was hard to move in his weakened condition. “Good morning Brad,” the doctor nearest him spoke, “Dr. Anderson and I are going to take some readings this morning if that’s ok with you.” Brad waved them closer. He was used to the daily routine. The doctors went to work. Had it only been three weeks since the party? Three weeks… unbelievable, he thought. That fateful day…
It had all started well enough. An early riser, Brad enjoyed a light breakfast on his sun deck. Spring was perfect this year and he determined to make the most of it. So afterwards, he went for a walk. His neighborhood was typical of the newer upper middle class homes around the country. Stately homes with well kept lawns lined by short fences amply surrounded by shrubs and flowers. But for some reason, sidewalks were hard to find. Brad did not know if the lack of sidewalks was deliberately planned to discourage people who couldn’t afford to live in these neighborhoods from entering them, but suspected it was so. In any event, he walked across the lawns of his neighbors where necessary.
Whistling while he went, Brad soon found himself tromping across the lawn of the Thompkins estate. Mrs. Thompkins was a fifty-something busy body known for her active involvement in various local social organizations. Upon sighting Brad, her Terrier tore across the lawn barking wildly.
Looking down at the little Terrier, Brad leaned on the four-foot picket fence and laughed. He never understood why old ladies like these little lap dogs. Their high-pitched barks aside, they certainly weren’t a deterrent. He turned to resume his walk when, all of a sudden, the Terrier leapt high in the air, bit him decisively on the arm and hung on for dear life. Brad cursed with pain as his arm spasmed. He grabbed the dog by its throat and forced it to release. Involuntarily, almost blindly, he flung the animal into the fence so hard that he accidentally killed it.
Then Brad took off his cashmere sweater and used it to apply pressure to his arm. He stood there dumbly examining the dog’s lifeless body. It was dead all right. That’s when he heard the scream. Mrs. Thompkins apparently had seen some portion of the struggle through her kitchen window and was shrieking hysterically while calling the police. Brad sat down on the curb and waited for them to arrive. It was going to be a long day.
Strangely, that evening had started well too. It was Fiona’s 28th birthday and they were having a party for her. Fiona was the wife of Gerald Sherrel a wealthy attorney, author, speaker, and their neighbor. The couple was wildly popular among the community’s social elite. These parties were social in nature and thrown for personal reasons, but they had serious business facets. People used these occasions and the guest lists were carefully prepared.
Which was why Brad now wondered if everything that had happened in the past three weeks was some divine judgment against them. After all, almost the entire social elite of their community had been in attendance. But no, he decided that couldn’t be. Collectively they were good people with most involved in some charity or other. And exclusion was necessary to create safe environments where people could feel comfortable. Still, Brad knew that most of them were emotionally removed from those outside their social circles. And there had been disturbing incidents like the fire three years ago at the Myers estate. Mrs. Meyers had immediately rushed to rescue an expensive painting before sounding the alarm. Her decision to rescue the painting first resulted in the unfortunate death of their maid. Brad felt a cold shiver creep up his back as he remembered Mrs. Meyer’s justifications. Yet, the party had been quite a gala and the handpicked guests mulling about talking, socializing, eating catered delicacies and drinking imported Champaign.
Only in hindsight, was it odd that nobody noticed the stranger. Brad first spotted him by the caterer with a huge plate of food. He was heavy and wore polyester clothes that could have come from a thrift store. His hair was combed to the side in a feeble attempt to cover a large balding spot. Brad wondered what the man was doing there but said nothing. The stranger, however, caught him looking and immediately walked over. He precariously balanced the huge plate of food with one hand and brought the other up for a handshake. Brad glimpsed a strange rash on the man’s arm but his social conditioning was so ingrained to avoid a direct offense that he automatically shook hands. The man grinned displaying a case of gingivitis. Brad excused himself and walked away.
Later in the evening, Brad started thinking about the man and the strange rash. Panicky, he spent considerable time in the bathroom washing and rewashing his hands with antibacterial soap until he was sure there was no way he could be affected by whatever condition the stranger had. Brad then mingled the rest of the evening talking about business and current events as usual.
Frequently he would spot the obnoxious individual approach people with the constantly refilled plate of food and shake hands with them. It was like a compulsion with him. The look of revulsion on their faces was always evident yet they always shook the stranger’s hand. More than once he felt compelled to warn the guests but fear restrained him. Not fear of the stranger, but fear of embarrassing himself. The stranger could be one of the well-heeled guest’s uncles or perhaps he was the black sheep so to speak. Brad was no different than anyone else at the party that evening. Not one of them was going to risk losing face with so many important people in attendance. Their world was carefully built and Brad, like the others, continued to merely observe the stranger.
Finally, around 10pm the stranger simply left. Brad breathed a sigh of relief. It turned out that no one had known him. One thing was sure; the stranger wouldn’t be able to stay the next time. Brad was confident now the stranger would be asked to leave if he ever appeared again. That was how it worked.
The night ended on a seemingly good note and everyone left at the appropriate hour. Brad went home and slept soundly. The next morning he enjoyed a normal day at the office and then another good night’s sleep. That, however, was the last good night sleep he would ever have. The recurring childhood nightmares began the next evening.
And the day after that, he was horrified to discover that the body of the strange uninvited guest had been found behind a gas station near the Sherrel estate. The local newspaper reported that the stranger, a pet storeowner vacationing in the area succumbed to some deadly variation of a virus. The authorities moved in destroying everything and isolating everyone associated with the body.
Apparently, the virus was not contagious until its later stages and the only people affected were those at the party. The authorities found small bite marks on him and believed an animal host was responsible for transferring the virus. Since there was no cure, they were isolated. Within three weeks, all were dead. All, that is, except Brad who was very close to dead. He looked at the rash, which now covered 50% of his body. Sobbing, he wondered what had become of his great-grandfather.
Copyright 2005 © West Coast Rockets. All Rights Reserved.
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