The summons to appear found its way to my mailbox and was hastily perused, then promptly tucked away to be reconsidered another time. I greatly dreaded the thought of going and to me the summons represented little more than - pardon the cliché - a giant thorn in my side. In the past, one could easily be excused for the most basic of reasons: “I have itchy feet syndrome,” which would have been a valid and that would be it. These days, however, it’s next to impossible to get out of service: I have a split personality named “Ralph” who surfaces at random and recites Haiku poems in Russian,” which now seems to only get: "sorry, see you on your appointed date."
Later on as I stared down the summons, it seemed that my choices were few: Option 1: be a model citizen and go; Option 2: postpone it as long as possible; Option 3: throw the summons away and feign non-receipt. Unfortunately the karma-conscious being in me was repulsed by the throw-it-away option and postponement would just prolong the agony, so I was left with no choice but to be a model citizen and go. I was fortunate in that my work paid for five-days which helped take some of the pain out of going; I actually even started to believe that it might be an interesting experience after all.
So I packed myself up and drove downtown on the requested date and after a couple of re-reads of my summons, found the jury parking area located at The Disney Music Hall. This architectural masterpiece had me in awe, but was unfortunately situated at what seemed like a several mile hike away from the court. Thankfully, I had good walking shoes on and made it to the jury assembly room where myself and the other prospective jurors sat with varying degrees of pained looks, while we received our introduction on the process of being a model juror, as well heard the requisite “it's your duty speech” from a judge who just happened to be passing by. At that point we were all left to wander through whatever stage of ennui we saw fit, while we waited together in utter silence - a certain overall sign of the collective misery that held us all in its grip. (Note: bringing Saul Bellow's "Henderson The Rain King" along was instrumental in preventing me from jumping out of the closest window I could find).
Before long, I was part a selected group that was ushered to a court room to potentially be put on an attempted murder case. The judge informed us that the trial would take anywhere from 10 – 15 days and if we had a problem with it, to let her know later that day during the extreme-hardship portion of the jury selection process. She further explained that extreme hardship does not necessarily include financial hardship, but everything would be considered. I kept thinking, isn't any hardship already a superlative; are there really that many discernible levels to a personal hardship that can be determined by another? Isn't the fact that one is going through any hardship enough? But out of fairness, I supposed the judge does have to impose limits or everyone would have been out of there pronto.
In any case, with only five paid days that meant I would potentially have to eat ten days without pay...ouch! Considering that I live paycheck to paycheck and recently had to take five mandatory furlough days off, as well was given a five-percent pay cut awhile back, collectively that would have greatly impacted my already broken budget; with that, I considered mine a clear example of extreme-most hardship. But would that be enough for the lady in black? Would the judge also want me to display a limb nearly consumed with flesh eating bacteria to get off the case?
So at the appointed time, myself and the other woebegone (potential) jurors were brought back to see the judge and one by one had to express why we couldn't give the courts our free time (well almost free, they pay $15 a day). Some people actually wept as they spoke (perhaps good acting?). When the microphone got to me, I was literally sweating bullets after watching the judge be a tad difficult with the other jurors. I honestly felt as if I were on trial as I expressed the financial trouble I would be in if I went for several days without pay. The Judge was ultimately moved by my pleas and even expressed empathy after hearing that I had recently taken the furlough days off (the Supreme Court had just taken its first furlough day off in its history the prior day). After a parting blow from the judge to the fact that my artist wife should get a real paying job, I was ordered to return to the jury assembly room to await my fate.
It was now 2:30 pm and I thought I was in the clear, however, my name was quickly called for yet another group and I was brought to an assault case that was projected to run about five days. Well, there goes my financial burden argument (at that point I had lost all desire to partake out of curiosity in the legal system and had experienced enough). As I sat there pondering my plight, something else came to mind that greatly disturbed me.
Out of all of the potential jurors who seemed to represent an equal mix of Caucasians, Asians, and Hispanics, there was only one who appeared to be of an African American decent (actually they looked Mulatto). The trouble I had with that was the case before me, as well as the one I got out of earlier, both involved African American defendants. I kept thinking, where are all the African American respondents to jury duty; am I the only one noticing this? Is there a fair balance here?
While I don't personally have issues with race, I have lived in Los Angeles long enough to know that people are not as evolved as they should be in what I consider the most fundamental aspect of being human, and that this defendant could potentially not get a fair ruling if the decision was on the fence and could go either way; in my opinion it just seemed that people would more than likely gravitate to their core beliefs rather than sticking with the facts - which is what the judge thoroughly makes an attempt to press you to do. Do they really believe people can simply shake off their street clothes and done the robes of justice just like that?
Unfortunately time ran out for the day, so it was requested that us jurors return the next day so the selection process could be continued. During the course of the following day, the judge would ask a series of questions, which the jurors could respond to and explain their position on. If something was private in nature, it was permitted that a side bar be held with the judge, prosecutor, and the defendant's lawyer so the matter could be discussed discreetly.
I requested a side bar due to the fact I felt uncomfortable expressing my trouble with there not being a greater show of African American jurors to a room full of ears, as well as to the burly defendant who kept staring down the jurors with a most disturbing look on his face – would he misunderstand that I was actually on his side through my nervous ramblings?
During the side bar, I was met by a volley of questions that could make one look almost criminal if they were not answered correctly: “So could you follow the law and make a decision going by the facts only?” I could only answer that I thought so, but would feel compelled to side with the defendant due to an imbalanced cross-section of the races in the potential jurors if the decision was close and could go either way. I was sent away feeling like I was trying to reason with aliens, but was eventually released by the prosecutor and instructed to return the jury assembly room to finalize my service and get signed out.
A few thoughts entered my mind as I made the trek back to my car, chiefly: why were there literally no Africans Americans in the large number of jurors who showed up on the days I was there, and did this showing characterize a fair mix of “the people” who represented Los Angeles? I also reflected on the flaws of the system. Every potential juror I spoke to did not want to be there. Many were not paid for jury service and were worried about the financial impact that it would have on them. I wondered if selected under that kind of pressure, would the jurors be focused enough to hear the case and judge it fairly while worrying about the bills they would not be able to pay, or would they be more interested in wrapping up the case as quickly as possibly, just to high-tail it out of there?
I also wondered what's up with this walk. As a juror, I am potentially going to have to convict someone in full view of angry family members and friends who are present at the trial, and then am going to have to walk a gauntlet back to my car! Perhaps I'm just being paranoid here.
Honestly, after the OJ Simpson case my faith in the legal system has plummeted. In spite of this, I’m of an optimistic character and would like to believe that we have the best legal system in the world. However, that doesn't mean it's not without flaws. I wondered as I trekked on (it’s uphill on the way back) if there is actually a common people anymore suitable to fairly decide on cases. In Los Angeles at least - with its mixed bag of cultural and educational backgrounds - jury service seems analogous to randomly calling upon something of a jagged round-peg of mixed culture and education and asking it to conform to the “leave human-nature aside, just the facts only” square peg of the legal system.
Here's a thought - perhaps unrealistic though - make jury service a paid job that would ensure that people are suitably educated to understand the facts of the case, as well as would mentally want to be there. As well, make it required that upon passing the bar new lawyers be required to do a paid stint (like a medical internship) as a juror for a year. It would be ideal training for them. Never mind, I just remembered the state’s budget crisis.
I don't know that there is any viable solution, but do know that the whole situation left me scratching my head as well as soaking my aching feet.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
As my wife and I exited the airport in Jakarta, I was instantly greeted by super-heated air whose stale thickness could keep a person standing in place, if one was prompted to give into the immediate need to suffocate from it.
Traveling to Indonesia served a dual purpose - for my wife it was an overdue return to her homeland; for myself it was an opportunity to meet countless in-laws who I had only heard about during the previous years of our marriage. Actually there was a third common reason, that involved having a traditional Indonesian (make-up) wedding so my wife's family could experience our marriage first hand, and so I could be immersed head first into some real Indonesian culture.
A day and another plane trip later we arrived to my wife's tiny island, Belitung, where the airport carries the name of her late uncle - purportedly a notable public figure - along with his statue that is prominently displayed out front with its permanently elated expression; I could only imagine from his apparent fondness of airports. Wow I thought, this family is well connected.
The thirty minute bounce by jeep to my in-law's home revealed a collection of sights, sounds, and smells that came straight out of the most exotic travelogues. It was noting short of island paradise, and it literally took me just moments to get caught up in the feel and loose all pending cares, including the fixation with the relentless heat that seemed to pervade everything including my thinking. I kept saying to myself: it doesn't matter if I look like a sweaty swamp-thing, as well that twenty pairs of eyes are fixed on me at every moment and no one knows what I'm trying to say with the exception of random interpretations through my wife, this is just too unbelievable; just smile and enjoy. And enjoy it I did, immensely.
The remainder of the two weeks spent there was noting short of amazing and in the lengthiest of run-on sentences (aside from those of a much greater literary might proffered by Proust - actually he makes me look as an babbling infant on every level), I will try to encapsulate my experience: The beaches were amazing; the sometimes gullet scorching food was superb; the people were incredible and even though there is an abundance of poverty, the folks were the most genuine, kindest, and family centered I have ever encountered; the wedding was surreal and involved a three day celebration that included dressing up in a sizes-too-small traditional costume that made me look like a giant red smurf, while l laughably danced to traditional music and partook in a cultural event that was beyond surreal that left me with too many indelible impressions to count - while there I continually felt very out of place and was seemingly the only tourist visiting the non-touristy island at the time, to the extent that kids would point and look at me like I was a side-show freak and call me "bulih," which apparently means "lost white dude" or something like that...oh, and did I mention that the beaches were amazing.
I feel very blessed to have been able to glimpse into a culture and experience it from a non-touristy perspective. Traveling is so much more than just seeing - in its most memorable sense it involves mixing it up in the streets and diving into the culture.
And boy did I dive!
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Veering off the Learning Curve
Once almost too long to remember ago, my sister and I were enjoying an afternoon of being left home alone - which was alright to do back then as well as pistol whipping your children since there wasn't all this proper parenting BS to contend with - and aside from trying to figure out what would be the most fun to do while causing the least repercussions, our only appointed task for the day was to remove the dried-up and nearly petrified Christmas tree that was long past being a fire hazard; I think it was sometime in June.
So we took to the task with a vengeance and what seemed like an easy job, soon turned into a prickly nightmare as we attempted to remove the lights and ornaments that were now fused to the tree, while getting as few pine needles on the floor as possible. This done, we then pulled the tree into the back yard where it was to be cut up and put into the trash. At the time, it was unfashionable to just dump the last remains of one's Christmas out onto the street for someone else to deal with, which we would have readily done; I even have a faint recollection that dumping it over our neighbors wall entered our diabolical little minds.
But our higher selves got the best of us and out came the pruning shears and whatever other implements could be found for a quick and painless disposal, which idea soon got ditched as we found the wood to be much harder then the tender soft-spots on our hands that could endure. What to do, what to do. And in a crystallized moment invented out of necessity, we knew what to do; burn the bloody thing. Since burning it outside would pose a problem and the smoke would attract obvious attention, we decided to do the next best thing and burn it inside our house in the fireplace. Now this was no small tree and it was all we could do to cram it in the fireplace, but cram we did and in it went.
As we lit the match and proceeded to commit the last vestige of our holidays to an unceremonious departure, a twist of fate would soon turn that tree into a veritable yuletide terror since unbeknownst to us, the trap on the chimney closed while we were stuffing it into the fireplace. And not unlike Dante and his Inferno, as our match touched the wood, the tree's own three sins were instantly revealed which quickly erupted in a violent, malicious, and self-indulgent uprising that created a personal hell for us as the dried thing won the moment and menacingly sparked into the greatest of conflagrations. My sister and I watched in horror as billowing smoke regurgitated out of the closed chimney and instantly filled the room, along with great flames that tore rents in the escaping black as it danced its way up to the ceiling, while illuminating the sheer terror on our gaping eyes. In utter fright, my sister froze in one spot and let out screams that could raise the dead - which did little more then give a voice to the fire and thoroughly rattle my nerves - while I scrambled to retrieve a garden hose.
The run to the hose was the longest I ever made in my life, and mere seconds seemed to turn into light years as I attempted to turn on the water and run back to extinguish the fire. Sheer panic collided with images of my family in a relief center without a place to sleep for the night, sound-tracked by the horrified screams of my sister that steadily emanated from the house. I started running and as soon as I hit the patio - which was naturally wet since I was thoroughly spraying it as I made may way towards it - I slipped and hit the ground hard as I turned to enter the house. Without even a moment to spare to wince from the pain, I was back on my feet and spraying down the fire that had already turned the wall and part of the ceiling a nice shade of soot-black.
As soon as the fire was out, my sister regained herself which was not a moment too soon since she was close to passing out from hyperventilating and fear, and we quickly assessed the damage. It thankfully wasn't serious, but would need some serious time to clean up. So we opened every window, fanned, mopped, sponged, painted, sprayed air freshener, worried, sponged some more, re-painted again and more or less spent the rest of the afternoon undoing the mess we had made. No sooner had we finished, our parents arrived home and were met by two kids who were themselves freshly painted in guilt and probably looked as if they had just killed the Pope. The smell of smoke soon gave us away and the story was out, but in the end and much to our surprise, we were praised by the way it was handled and the pistol whipping was spared for another day.
So we took to the task with a vengeance and what seemed like an easy job, soon turned into a prickly nightmare as we attempted to remove the lights and ornaments that were now fused to the tree, while getting as few pine needles on the floor as possible. This done, we then pulled the tree into the back yard where it was to be cut up and put into the trash. At the time, it was unfashionable to just dump the last remains of one's Christmas out onto the street for someone else to deal with, which we would have readily done; I even have a faint recollection that dumping it over our neighbors wall entered our diabolical little minds.
But our higher selves got the best of us and out came the pruning shears and whatever other implements could be found for a quick and painless disposal, which idea soon got ditched as we found the wood to be much harder then the tender soft-spots on our hands that could endure. What to do, what to do. And in a crystallized moment invented out of necessity, we knew what to do; burn the bloody thing. Since burning it outside would pose a problem and the smoke would attract obvious attention, we decided to do the next best thing and burn it inside our house in the fireplace. Now this was no small tree and it was all we could do to cram it in the fireplace, but cram we did and in it went.
As we lit the match and proceeded to commit the last vestige of our holidays to an unceremonious departure, a twist of fate would soon turn that tree into a veritable yuletide terror since unbeknownst to us, the trap on the chimney closed while we were stuffing it into the fireplace. And not unlike Dante and his Inferno, as our match touched the wood, the tree's own three sins were instantly revealed which quickly erupted in a violent, malicious, and self-indulgent uprising that created a personal hell for us as the dried thing won the moment and menacingly sparked into the greatest of conflagrations. My sister and I watched in horror as billowing smoke regurgitated out of the closed chimney and instantly filled the room, along with great flames that tore rents in the escaping black as it danced its way up to the ceiling, while illuminating the sheer terror on our gaping eyes. In utter fright, my sister froze in one spot and let out screams that could raise the dead - which did little more then give a voice to the fire and thoroughly rattle my nerves - while I scrambled to retrieve a garden hose.
The run to the hose was the longest I ever made in my life, and mere seconds seemed to turn into light years as I attempted to turn on the water and run back to extinguish the fire. Sheer panic collided with images of my family in a relief center without a place to sleep for the night, sound-tracked by the horrified screams of my sister that steadily emanated from the house. I started running and as soon as I hit the patio - which was naturally wet since I was thoroughly spraying it as I made may way towards it - I slipped and hit the ground hard as I turned to enter the house. Without even a moment to spare to wince from the pain, I was back on my feet and spraying down the fire that had already turned the wall and part of the ceiling a nice shade of soot-black.
As soon as the fire was out, my sister regained herself which was not a moment too soon since she was close to passing out from hyperventilating and fear, and we quickly assessed the damage. It thankfully wasn't serious, but would need some serious time to clean up. So we opened every window, fanned, mopped, sponged, painted, sprayed air freshener, worried, sponged some more, re-painted again and more or less spent the rest of the afternoon undoing the mess we had made. No sooner had we finished, our parents arrived home and were met by two kids who were themselves freshly painted in guilt and probably looked as if they had just killed the Pope. The smell of smoke soon gave us away and the story was out, but in the end and much to our surprise, we were praised by the way it was handled and the pistol whipping was spared for another day.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
"The Haunting of Timothy Birch" (C) 2009
Love is a timeless song whose music has enticed willing hearts throughout the ages, driving one to rejoice in its impulses, as well destruct on its behalf. Love is also indiscriminate in its calling, quickly securing any open heart that should come within its grasp.
Timothy Birch answered to it three decades prior, which produced a by-product amounting to little more than two out of control teenagers and a acutely depressed wife named Eloise. Timothy often reflected on his marriage and couldn't begin to translate into any understandable truth when and how it went so terribly wrong, to the extent that he could scarcely recall when the union ever resembled anything good. And if not for the years-faded wedding photo which hung slightly askew in the foyer of the Birch mansion, there wouldn't be anything to submit as proof of a happier time.
If the photo construed something of value that others could fashion into love based, to Timothy the static figures held within were distorted and appeared as abstract caricatures in a hastily rendered sketch, which supported a visual lie and little else. Eloise seemed indifferent to any reality that could be held by a truthful light, aided by her continual cocktail of life-numbing medications that ensured an incident free continuum. The only reality that Timothy could grasp was the stark realization that something had to change.
Per the advice of Timothy's prominent attorney, the Birches were soon scheduled to vacation on the Southern coast of Italy in an attempt to rediscover what Timothy knew to be permanently lost. This would look, as Timothy's lawyer had pronounced, very good for him down the road if he wished to pursue a divorce. With that, Timothy spared no expense and put everything in motion for a vacation he gathered would offer the same monotony abroad, as he was accustomed to at home.
On a crisp Connecticut morning, as slits of light tore through silhouette-rendered trees held tightly against a golden backdrop, a private car whisked away the Birch children. Another carrying Mr. and Mrs. Birch traveled slowly along their extended driveway, and out onto the pristine streets of the meticulously manicured Birch neighborhood.
Enroute to the airport, Timothy looked at Eloise and feigned a smile, which she returned with the expected stare of blankness. As the car ambled along, Timothy took in the large properties that signaled great affluence, he readily understood was obtained at any measure or cost. With this visual, his mind stepped through his life and he envisioned a great Karma-influenced scale that seemed to check and balance everything that was dear to him. He noted how simple his life was in another time and place - a place that seemed to exist as if in a dream, never having happened at all.
All of his efforts to afford his family with every comfort seemed to tip the scale and counter-balance that which he imagined weighed in as good, only to return in equal measure, if not a greater quantity, a counter-balance of negative outcomes to negate it. What was he paying for, he often lamented as he stared into the deep black from a loveless bed he and Eloise shared.
The long-gone-by years that Timothy held fondest contained the days when he had next to nothing as net worth, save for a few throwaway possessions combined with a part-time job as a waiter, as well as a stack of textbooks that he absorbed the contents of with a vengeance.
As the car raced along the interstate, Timothy wondered why those happier days had to leave so fast and how cruel the steady beat of time could be in stealing one's fondest moments away, only to offer what seemed to be dull replacements.
Timothy could almost transport himself back to the days of his wondrous youth, which held a great anticipation of all that the world would offer him. But time had made this ability increasingly harder, to the point that the feelings of youthfulness were imploding into nothingness and he felt soon would be forever lost. What Timothy missed most was the unpredictability of it all.
Timothy glanced at Eloise, who momentarily transformed into the beautiful girl he had once known as the morning sun pulled the shadows from her face, but her drawn eyes and a permanently etched-in sulleness quickly closed that curtain and brought her back. Timothy wondered at the imaginary Karmic scale and considered how cruel it could be, especially if Eloise was pawned out as payment for anything he had done.
As the car made its final turn into the airport, Timothy thought of the distant honeymoon that he and Eloise had taken in Greece, and how they had sat together at a small restaurant in Athens with a great and promising world before them. With only their love to guide them and keep them headed in true like a keel, he recalled how they had said to each other "let's always remember this moment, let's never allow it to die."
Love is all that matters was their long-running mantra and as the car stopped, Timothy repeated the words as an inner whisper, spoken somewhere in Greece and partly in the moment. As the driver opened the door, he could only think to touch Eloise's hand and let the thought graze his lips, that he he had lost the ability to articulate: "I loved you with all I had."
As if momentarily attuned to the silent communication, Eloise formed a slight smile, which was soon lost to her usual vacant stare. Timothy had slowly watched Eloise die inside, the illness stealing away a once vibrant and loving person, replacing her by a drug-induced robot. Why had mental illness chosen her? Was this her payout for trying to be a good wife and mother; a slow and steady sapping of herself.
As the plane departed, Timothy let his mind fall away as he traced back through his fleeting youth and the various travels he had taken over his lifetime. So many people and places he thought; just a confused stream now dripping as clock ticks into forgetfulness.
The Birches soon arrived in Almafi, which had a tranquil setting that made it appear to exist only in clouds, as it hugged the cliffs far above the Mediterranean, Timothy looked towards Eloise for a spark of anything that resembled joy, but only saw ennui and pain. On a friend's excited recommendation, the sprawling villa which they would occupy for the next four weeks offered both "earthly bliss and spiritual rejuvenation." Timothy could almost buy into the earthly bliss sell-point, but any spirituality that he once felt that could possibly be rekindled, had long since transmuted into a kind of dull acceptance of what was real and what would eventually come to be; an endless and empty black was the only eventual spirituality that he was able to conceptualize.
He use to feel God's presence when he was he younger; to even think the name instilled in him feelings that transcended that which other words could offer. But the only spirituality that Timothy could bring himself to grasp now, had been to make enough money to afford his progeny a fighting chance in the world - money, he reasoned, was the only spirituality that one needed to get by. It was a constant necessary that even allowed one to buy if need be.
Timothy would often lament over his family's condition, as if trying to purge out his strict Catholic upbringing for good by questioning what possible God could begin to take pleasure in causing such pain in the world, and personally for him, destroying what was so dear to him. If Almafi could offer rejuvenation of that order and a renewed confidence in what was behind it all, then Timothy considered that the small price of the trip would make the experience a steal.
As for finding earthly bliss, a hastily drawn curtain by the villa caretaker, Marco, revealed a 180 degree sweeping ocean view that was spotted by similar mini-palaces dotting a craggy coastline. There was no denying the earthly bliss part of it thought Timothy, followed by an utterance to Macro, "I'm nearly sold on the spirituality promise of it." Marco's limited broken-English could only offer "gud vue," in response.
Eloise reclined facing away from the window, and any inspiration she discovered in Almafi made her fall quickly asleep where she sat. Timothy rubbed his hand over her hair, put a bottle of water on an end table close to her, and was soon walking around the quaint coastal village before the last vestiges of light raced away.
As he walked along, golden and red reflections danced off the street and up the side of buildings, carrying along with them the quaint sounds of a city lost in time.
A warm wind stirred and carried with it timeless memories that transported Timothy back to his youth, where the same wind had brushed his neck and awoken something in him in a lost past belonging to yesterday.
Timothy instantly felt the youthfulness of an earlier time and place where the world was a treasure, abounding with as many opportunities as he could possibly imagine.
The wind spoke to Timothy's soul long ago in a fleeting moment held in his youth and an indelible moment was created, which he could feel as something tangible for years to come, but which would eventually lay dormant.
This wind-carried moment showed him a world that he felt so connected to and one which God was good and within reach. He had felt so alive at that time. Sometimes when a similar wind blew at night, he would look into the stars and far past, imagining heavens in which the gusts blew as a constant reminder as the exhalations of God.
As the wind hinted its message, Timothy now thought how cruel the hands of time were. In youth they moved so slowly as if not moving at all, only later to spin in a blur. Where had all the time escaped to? Was loose skin and ever-present fatigue his consolation prize in this harsh game dealt by time?
The wind blew again as if on queue and suddenly time stood still. He felt like he would exist forever with the wind and it awoke in him again what was always there.
As the evening encroached upon the city, the last glimpses of day scattered a rainbow of colors across the horizon, which Timothy marveled at as walked towards the villa.
With a spring in his step and a noticeably lighter feel of his person, he felt in that moment that he had been freed and was rediscovering something that was always there. Timothy passed a small cafe and noticed a raven-haired woman sitting near the front. She looked up and gave him a sweet and extended smile, which caused her beautiful onyx-shaded eyes to sparkle.
Timothy was taken aback and thought for a moment he mistook her smile for one that was directed at someone else, but didn't see anyone behind him when he checked. As he returned the smile mid-stride, something surprised him as he walked by the cafe. A reflection in the window mirrored his every move in reverse and he hardly recognized it; the image appeared vibrant and handsome, perfectly aligning itself to how he felt within.
As Timothy walked on, he thought of Eloise and his family. He loved them, but at what cost? Was this all that love had to offer; a slow draining and withering within? Why should he sacrifice his own life for the servitude of others who hardly seemed to notice? He thought of Eloise and how he once loved her passionately, and how his love for her had been real. She had raised their children and been a loving wife. She had seemingly given herself up as sacrifice and this was something he had allowed to happen through the years.
Timothy felt love Eloise, but his love had for the most part had turned into a dull habit, derived out repetition and time. When he thought of her, he felt genuinely sorry for what she had been through in her life. She was still a woman, who once was a girl with the world before her. She held her own great imaginings of what the world could offer and had saw in Timothy enough to walk down the isle with him in matrimony.
Timothy's mind raced with countless reflections as he walked on, and although the wind ceased, he still felt so alive. Timothy bought a gelato and sat on a bench in the town square, embracing a new calm and resolve that was manifesting him. He was suddenly stirred into the moment by a request for permission to join him by the same young woman who he had seen at the cafe.
"Do you mind if I sit with you sir," she said.
"Why of course not," was quickly uttered by Timothy in a welcoming inflection.
"How long are you staying in Almafi," queried the young lady.
"Forever and one day," said Timothy, "it is just lovely here."
"Well I should be so lucky, I'm Lucia" she answered and held out her hand, which caused Timothy to mind his posture and sit up straight.
Timothy felt the blood rushing to his face, as a boy might blush.
"I'm Timothy and it's a pleasure to meet you," he said and extended his hand which Lucia readily accepted and continued to hold onto.
An hour later the two were intimate friends and Timothy told her, partly believing with a conviction, that he could stay in Almafi with her until the end of time.
"You could stay with me Timothy," Lucia said with eyes that whispered of a young woman's amorous desires.
Timothy reluctantly confessed his marital status, which were offered by an inflection of mixed messages, to which Lucia simply retorted, "if you are unhappily married, then you might as well be dead."
"Have you been married before," inquired Timothy.
"No, me, no, no," resounded Lucia, as if the concept was quite impossible for her to imagine.
"You may be on to something dear girl," said Timothy, in the role of a matrimonial sage and continued, "Marriage is a multi-faceted entity, whose beginning can be as varied as its end, not unlike the night is from the day."
Lucia looked on playfully.
"Well, that's my twist on it at least," he continued, "it's not as easy as it seems, young eyes can mar its complexities. "For some love can change through the years, it evolves, it dies, and theb gets reborn into something very different from where it began; into something, I don't know what you call it, a dull acceptance I suppose."
"It sounds scary," quipped Lucia.
"That it can be young lady and you can not guess at its dynamic until you've been there," said Timothy. "You seem young and I'm old, trust me on this one."
Lucia smiled and grasped Timothy's hand tightly. Mustering all of the sex appeal her womanly nature could emphasize, she rubbed her hand through his wispy grey hair and said "you are never to old to be sexy."
Timothy felt a salacious pulse in regions that had long lay dormant and he kissed Lucia on the cheek. He then bid his farewell after asking if they could meet in the same place the next evening, which Lucia happily agreed to.
Timothy made his way back to the villa and immediately saw Marco pacing back and forth out front. A young girl was with the caretaker and served to translate that Mrs. Birch had been found sitting in the street crying and yelling for her children.
He went inside and found Eloise lying on a sofa aided by Marco's wife, and went to her side.
Upon seeing him, Eloise's distant look slightly softened and she said, "you left me Tim, you always leave me."
Marco's wife excused herself, giving Timothy an incisive gaze.
"I'm right here, I just left a moment while you rested," replied Timothy.
"Do you still love me Tim?" asked Eloise plainly as if asking for coffee.
Timothy thought a moment and responded from the heart, "of course I do, that will never change."
He sat next to Eloise, taking her hand within his and softly kissed it. He looked at her intently and asked, "Do you love me - can you remember the feeling when we first met?"
"That was so long ago," said Eloise, with a fleeting smile in her eyes, "I feel such pain when I know that I should be happy, some days it's so hard to go on."
Eloise looked about her, deep into Timothy's face, and pulled her hand from his, "You deserve better Tim, you're a good man."
Before Timothy could answer, she continued, "I'm tired Tim and sometimes I just want to go to sleep," and searched him with eyes that looked for an understanding. Eloise turned away and Timothy could see the pain she felt trace lines on her face and steal away anything that resembled a will to fight.
"I know it's hard honey, just stay strong for our family," was all Timothy could think to say.
Timothy heard someone clear their throat and turned to see Marco, his wife, and the young girl standing off to the side.
"My papa wants to know if you need anything, there is food prepared in the kitchen he brought for your welcome," said the girl in one breath.
Timothy excused them and put a plate of food close to Eloise, who was fast asleep by then and kissed her on the forehead. He ate his meal on the veranda under a blanket of stars and thought of Eloise, his children, and his life back in the States. He also thought of his meeting with Lucia and the feeling he had earlier with the wind. Why is everything so right, yet simultaneously so wrong, he thought under a moon that highlighted randompatches of an ice-flat sea.
Timothy was startled back to the moment by a noise within the villa and made his way to where Eloise was sleeping. He could see her under a soft reflective-light that was casting from an adjacent room. Eloise was moving slowly and as he drew near, he saw that she was touching herself. He made a move to go to her, but the sight gripped his heart, and he left her alone.
The image of Eloise alone with her illness and all of the pain that went along with it, pervaded him. There alone, yet with her womanly desires still a constant that he no longer knew how to satisfy. A lone tear rolled down his cheek. Timothy wondered if Eloise was thinking of him, or was the pain of her illness such that any attempt at fantasy was removed and the experience for her was no more than simply tending to a bodily need.
Timothy's emotions gripped him and he wanted to go to her, to hold her again as they held as young lovers. As he stood in the dark, he saw for a moment a young Eloise flash before his eyes, in her prime and so full of love. The bed of their youth was not in want of passion and desire, to the extent that he and Eloise used to run marathons beneath the sheets, effortlessly stealing away entire afternoons in a naked sweat, sharing in bliss whatever fantasy should filter into their love stream.
Timothy returned to the veranda. Why does time have to be a destroyer; why is everything required to change, wondered Timothy beneath a oppressive, star filled night. He considered Eloise alone in the dark, a fragile and loving girl, somehow taken prisoner by a now drawn and emotionally flat person.
He couldn't bear to see her pain anymore, nor could he imagine what her life might be like without him. With only two children he couldn't count on to offer her any emotional support, who seemed like all they were capable to do for her is exacerbate her pain rather than allay it, her options seem few.
As Timothy considered his life and what still lay before him, he knew in that moment that he must somehow find the strength to leave Eloise regardless of what would be in store for her, if he would consider saving himself. He went inside and covered Eloise, who was again fast asleep next to her untouched meal. Timothy showered and quickly fell asleep on an adjacent couch.
***
A steady stream of golden light kissed Timothy's eyelids and drew him awake. He opened the curtains and squinted at the blinding white that soon softened to reveal the expanse of the green and deep-blue Mediterranean Sea. Pulling sharply away from the villa's overlook, it made Timothy think that perhaps heaven was truly on earth.
The moment was stolen by the sudden sound of breaking and a loud moan. Timothy rushed over and found Eloise in the hallway standing within reflecting shards of glass and looking at the painting of an older gentleman, who by a stretch of the imagination carried an aged resemblance to himself.
"What is it," shouted Timothy, "be careful of the glass."
"You look so old in this painting," said Eloise woefully.
"That's not me El, do you know where we are?"
"Yes, we are at your mother's house?"
"We are in Italy, have you been taking the new medication?" Eloise walked off without answering.
Again the thought of leaving Eloise seized Timothy. He felt so troubled at seeing her in this state where she needed him more than ever; in sickness and in health repeated itself within him like the steady chant of a monk.
He had rehearsed his words so carefully, how he would support her and the children to the end and try to remain close. But his words seemed so hallow and foreign when he silently recited them, and he soon realized that no words would ever sound right. He would simply rely on his heart and hope that it would inflect his words with compassion, as they struggled to resound with a hint of good.
Timothy washed his face and as he looked in the mirror, saw someone he hardly recognized. It was the face of a tired-looking old man; a face so different than what he wore the previous night laughing with Lucia in the square.
"I cannot loose my life for another, this situation is slowly killing me inside," he thought. And as he looked on at his own image, he took a deep breath and exhaled the words "I have to survive."
Timothy planned a day tain excursion to Venice, and summoned a private car to take them to the station. His stomach churned as he considered what only he knew and the uneasiness in his face was perceived by Eloise, who seldom commented on his appearance. She said that he looked so very sad. He considered at what level she might consider him unhappy and if it was to the same abysmal degree that she was accustomed to, or further?
"I'm fine, just thinking of the kids," he said as he kept his eyes fixed on the blurred images that streamed pass the window as the car made its way to the station.
The Birches boarded a first-class train and were given a private compartment. They traveled in silence to the floating city of countless legends, which Eloise could only think to comment on the return trip to Almafi that its filth made it unbearable. Nonplussed, Timothy left the stately compartment and made his way through the train, just as the last vestiges of the day raced away, leaving behind it trails of warm hues on the passing landscape.
Timothy reached the end of the train and attempted to pass through a door to the next car, but it didn't budge until a small knob was pulled out and turned. As he opened the door, he moved to step onto the platform that connected the two cars together, then suddenly paused at the louder than usual rail noise, noticing that the platform was in disrepair and open track lay below. One misstep and that would have been it, he thought, and he quickly stepped back and shut the door.
As he walked back towards his compartment, he noticed Lucia sitting alone.
"Lucia, remember me," he asked.
"Of course my gray fox, are we still meeting tonight," she said with smiling eyes, while Timothy fidgeted with his wedding ring.
"Yes, will you be at the cafe?"
"Until eleven or so," said Lucia.
Timothy kissed her outstretched hand and nodded goodbye, embarrassed by the many eyes he perceived following his every move as he proceeded through the train. He returned to his compartment and found Eloise sleeping, as the countryside now swabbed in deep shadows rolled by. As she slept, he saw in her face an innocence that made him want to cast blame and to be angry, but Timothy didn't know how or who to direct it at.
"How can I ever tell her, I don't know that I have the courage; perhaps she already knows and is just waiting for the words," he thought.
As he looked at her, his mind began to wander. A sudden, abstract impression formed from somewhere dark and remote, took hold and crystallized into a thought which became the basis for an alternative solution he had been looking for; something he could hardly believe came from within him and regarded long enough under any reasonable light to shine on it. He dismissed the thought and continued looking at Eloise.
"I cannot live like this anymore and watch her deteriorate from within," Timothy lamented to himself, "she is dying within and taking me with her."
The previous idea suddenly rose up again and overtook his attempts to disown it, returning full force in a guise other than evil and presented itself as something good. "Eloise simply needs to walk the length of the train car on the pretext that there is something on the other side of the door and it will be done," the idea eerily spoke out.
"This is madness," thought Timothy, and he once again forced the thought from his head.
The idea soon returned and brought with it new revelations of an easy way to solve everything. Timothy looked at Eloise with a torn expression and wondered if she dreamed.
When Eloise awoke, any hint of the day was gone, giving way to a new darkness that weighed heavily on Timothy. Timothy stared out the window as if attempting to transport himself into one of the idyllic farm settings he could faintly discern in momentary flashes, as the train hurled past.
"Tim, I'm parched," shouted Eloise.
Before Timothy could answer, the idea had fully manifested and he embraced it and took full ownership.
"Why don't you stretch your legs, I think the diner car is the next one over."
No sooner did Timothy say the words, Eloise was shutting the compartment door and heading towards a fate that Timothy had predestined for her.
The door swung back open a instant later and Eloise looked in at Timothy with almost knowing eyes and said "I love you Tim, I have always loved you," and quickly shut the door before he could answer.
Timothy saw his idea again in a truer light and felt sickened that he had the capacity to imagine it. He raced for the compartment door and as he opened it, a group of young soccer fans blocked the way reveling in an apparent victory. Timothy tried to pass through them and yell for Eloise, but the din from the celebration canceled out any silence that would otherwise offer itself to carry his voice.
When Timothy finally made his way into the open aisle, he saw that Eloise was just nearing the end of the car. A flash of what was likely to happen to her in mere moments, alive and breathing, and then battered and cold on the tracks played out on tiny circular canvases where his optic nerve connected to his brain. His part in it was nothing short of playing God and he hated himself for it. And the love that he still held for Eloise screamed to his heart, but never made it through his lips.
Eloise continued to walk towards the door and when she got to it looked back towards him and he stood silent. She smiled and proceeded through and disappeared into a black void.
Timothy bolted towards the door, as screams of horror filled the train car. When he made it to the front of the car, several passengers where already standing around the swinging door calling foreign instructions to the conductor. Timothy looked through the door and saw emptiness in the tracks below. He considered what Eloise must have felt and if she was still alive on the tracks enduring unspeakable pain.
A moment later Timothy felt the train slowing to a stop and as he turned, several eyes were on him and any sadness he felt was instantly transmuted to shame. He felt his eyes speaking truths and could only think to cover his face and feign grief. Timothy walked the length of the car and felt as a condemned man might who is taking his last walk to the gallows. He saw mouths move, but the words spoken did not coalesce and became garbled monotone, uttered by floating and blurry faces.
Lucia approached him and offered her hand, but the guilt within him weighed heavily making him feel so evil in his skin, and he simply nodded and walked to his compartment. The train was now stopped and the conductor met him at his room door. In broken English, he told Timothy that he should stay there and any news would be brought to him as soon as possible.
The conductor continued, "an inspector will come to take statements, this appears to be an accident, but all train related deaths," the conductor caught himself before he sounded out the entire word, "I should say causalities, are treated as serious incidents." Timothy nodded in acknowledgment.
Timothy thought of his children and of the pain the news would bring to them and wondered if their mother's accident would even solicit any pain in at all? Would his own death cause something in them to stir?
He then heard muffled voices around his door and a sudden loud knock. He swung the door open and was met by the conductor.
"What is it?"
"We found your wife alive," announced the conductor, "but we need to hurry."
Timothy ran with the conductor towards a dancing flashlight that floated in the darkness by the side of the tracks. As he approached, he could see the train personnel standing by what appeared to be a twisted bundle of rags. As the light illuminated random circles on the tracks, he clearly saw Eloise's shoe standing upright with as severed ankle visible at the opening.
He screamed and moved towards the heap by the tracks, readying himself for the worst. A gap widened to allow him in and the few steps to get to his wife's side felt to take an eternity. Timothy became hyperaware of his actions, which caused an awkwardness that seemed to belie any truth and confidence that he imagined he carried, as well terminated any justification for what he had done.
The sympathetic faces of the train workers transformed into masks of scorn, and a new and unwilling mantra repeated again and again somewhere within him: "murderer, murderer, murderer," which rang out as a stark realization of all that he was, and all that he would ever be.
"She is in grave condition," said the conductor, "a helicopter has been dispatched."
Timothy knelt by the twisted mass and heard a faint moan. It was dark and he reached out and felt a wet hand, which instantly grabbed his.
"I'm here honey, help is coming...hold on."
A momentary shine of the flashlight illuminated Eloise's face, whose wide-eyed stare of shock did not blink. She was ghost white from the great loss of blood.
"Don't shine the light on her," yelled Timothy, "hold on honey, hold on for me and the kids." Timothy felt her hand tighten in his, then suddenly go limp.
Timothy cried out, and was pulled aside. He watched his wife get her pulse checked, but the beating signal that marked life slowly faded away. Before Eloise was covered, he saw the light shine on her again full length and could discern her twisted limbs and battered body. He fell to his knees and screamed to the unresponsive night.
The conductor was by his side and attempted to console him, but Timothy tore his hand from his shoulder and rushed over to his wife's side. He felt for her hand and squeezed it gently and said "I love you, please rest now."
There was a final twitch in her body that momentarily startled Timothy, who felt her soul pass through him as a cold tingle. Timothy let her hand fall and began to weep.
"What have I done, what have I done," he repeated as he tore at his hair.
"Mr. Birch, I am so sorry for your loss," said the conductor, "we must get back to the train."
As Timothy and the conductor neared the train, a uniformed man with a notepad met them.
"I am inspector Rafael, I will need to take a statement," the inspector paused when he looked in the conductor's telling eyes, "when you are ready that is."
The three continued towards the train and Timothy stopped and turned back to look at Eloise, who was being lifted onto a stretcher. He suddenly felt a cold chill on his neck, as if a hand was about to touch it and when he quickly turned back, saw that the inspector and conductor were standing a few feet away.
"What is it Mr. Birch," said the inspector.
Timothy felt faint and started to wobble, but was quickly taken by the arms and led back to the train. Timothy regained himself when they reached his compartment, and was meant by Lucia who stood wating at the door.
"How is your wife," said Lucia, but before Timothy could answer she looked at the conductor who nodded solemnly. "I'm so sorry Timothy, if I can be of any help don't hesitate."
Timothy didn't acknowledge Lucia and unlocked the compartment, staring at her blankly as she left. He stood at the door and hesitated.
"I need a drink, I need to sit," said Timothy.
"Is that woman your friend," asked the inspector.
"No, I just know her from town."
"So she's just someone you know."
"Exactly," retorted Timothy, whose voice seemed alien to him, making him feel as if he spoke through someone else.
The inspector looked at him with a puzzled expression.
"Let me sit, I just need to compose myself," said Timothy.
He attempted to push the compartment door open and enter, but something blocked its way. The inspector helped him give it a push and after a couple of heaves, it gave way to a room that was in disarray.
"What happened here," queried the inspector.
"My room has been ransacked, isn't that apparent," retorted Timothy.
"The door does not look forced and am I'm certain that you unlocked it," said the inspector.
"I did unlock it," Timothy paused, "please let me sit."
"Yes of course," said the inspector, as he reached down and picked up a torn photograph of Eloise. "Is this your wife, it is strange the photo is torn."
Timothy stared at the photo with wide eyes and went flush. The picture was one he had never seen of Eloise and it looked contemporary. The inspector put the torn quadrants together and the picture showed a confident looking Eloise with loving eyes. On the back of the photo was penned a message to Timothy "you are my heart, please always stay strong."
"Your wife seemed to have loved you a lot."
Timothy nodded and drank from a tepid water bottle that still had remnants of Eloise's lipstick on the top. "She already had water, she didn't need to go," screamed at him from somewhere within. The inspector looked about the compartment, adjusted his tie, and sat next to Timothy on the bed.
"Mr. Birch, it visibly appears that there was an argument, as well I took some statements prior to meeting with you and have first hand reports of loud yelling coming from your room," coldly stated the inspector with searching eyes.
"I loved my wife very much, there wasn't any argument," returned Timothy with directness.
"I trust that sir, but I'm just trying to piece together the situation and I can only go off what witnesses are telling me."
"There is no situation," retorted Timothy, in a voice that seemed strained through his attempts to infuse if with confidence.
Fear began to grip Timothty and he wondered how it must have looked that he opened and looked out the very train door that his wife fell through just moments afterwards. Certainly someone must have seen him and the information would be telling. He suddenly felt the weight of all the bad years with Eloise upon him, and while they had occasionally argued, it never had gotten heated as the scene would suggest. What of the mess and the witness reports, thought Timothy. And the photo, this must be an elaborate joke. He looked about the compartment and thought, "this isn't real, it's just a horrible dream...wake up, damn it Tim, just wake up."
The inspector gazed on intently as Timothy's mind wandered back to the present. "I need to be alone," said Timothy, "you know where to find me."
The inspector's stare lingered, causing Timothy to feel uncomfortable and brought him to the fringe of breaking down, but he managed to hold on to himself. The inspector continued to look at Timothy as if trying to pull a truth out with his eyes, then excused himself.
As Timothy shut the compartment door, he notice Lucia standing close by and assumed that she was there to offer him comfort. She glanced his way, but her eyes darted quickly away when she perceived him looking at her. Timothy watched as she whispered something to the inspector, and intently listened as if trying to make silent sounds register.
Timothy saw several passengers looking at him with sorrowful expressions. Innocent regard transmuted into scornful and condemning looks of disdain, transformed by the minute and distorting fun house-mirrors he now saw his world through. Everything became twisted and biased, with his undoing as its chief design.
He wiped his face with his hands, as if the motion would erase off any impurities and unspoken truths, so he could offer up a new blank face to carry the justification for himself. He looked about the train car and could see Lucia and the inspector look back in his direction, then quickly look away.
"She must be telling him about what I said to her about marriage," he thought, "I will be found out."
An impression formed of tight shackles and of a person standing before a judge. As the person was sentenced to the harshest terms and turned to meet his fate, a hazy image of person emerged that wore Timothy's face. He gasped at the thought.
"This is madness," he countered back to himself, "they could never prove anything... just stay cool Tim and get a hold of your self." He quickly shut the door and at that moment the train lurched forward, catching Timothy off guard and making him loose his balance and topple over Eloise's bag. He caught the side of his head on the basin and awoke in an unknown timeframe by a loud knocking at his door. His body ached all over and felt the side of his head which was damp.
"Yes, one moment, I'm coming," said Timothy.
He made his way to the door by crawling and inched up to the handle, never quite making it to his feet. The inspector looked in at eye level, then down at Timothy who was still on his knees.
"Have you been drinking sir," said the inspector after noting him on the ground and in his disheveled state.
"Of course not, I must have fallen," Timothy said irritated as he got to his feet.
After regarding him with piercing eyes that never softened, the inspector said firmly, "sir, I have taken a few reports and have come up with a very disturbing scenario."
"I don't know what you mean, I've knocked my head and need medical attention," quipped Timothy.
Timothy almost heard himself saying that he didn't wish to speak without an attorney present, but caught himself believing that the mere phrase was generally an admission of some guilt.
The inspector called for the conductor to administer any first aid he could offer Timothy, and excused himself to take more statements from the passengers, which was emphasized for a possible reaction from Mr. Birch.
As Timothy was being treated, he went through the events of the evening in hyper-speed, until the very moment of being with Eloise next to the tracks slowed the visual stream down until it became frozen stills of her in a twist of bones and flesh; a photo-mosaic of Eloise in painful poses. Timothy recoiled at the thought and tried to shake them away, only to find them staring back with greater detail.
He attempted to justify his actions and resell them to himself, whose inner acceptance now recoiled at the thought and seemed an unwilling participant.
"I wanted to stop her," he reminded himself. "But you put it all in motion," screamed back from some unknown inner voice.
The conductor finished wrapping Timothy's head and assured him he would be fine. Sensing that he was lost in grief and needed to be alone, the conductor got up and left without a further word. Timothy perceived it as a statement of disapproval and slammed the door as the conductor left his compartment, without any indication of gratitude.
"I didn't even thank him," he thought, and quickly opened the door to catch him and was once again face-to-face with the inspector.
"Sir, we will arrive to Gar De Lyon station soon and I must ask that you accompany me to headquarters," said the inspector. "Or if you wish I could take a couple of more statements from you now and depending on my satisfaction, will perhaps feel compelled to wrap this up tonight."
"Yes, of course," said Timothy, "I mean ask what you will and the sooner we take care of this the better,"
"Your wife is deceased sir, that seems insensitive."
"I know what you are trying to do," said Timothy, "I know what you are all trying to do."
"Sir, I am trying to be sensitive to the situation and I just want to clear this up, that's all that I'm trying to do; perhaps the bump on your head is making things appear different than they really are," said the inspector.
Timothy felt the clarity of the moment unlike any he had perceived before, in that he was exactly in the moment and quite clear of his every sense which seemed amplified, making him feel as if he was connected to tenuous threads that were ready to give way at any moment to the prying eyes of the inspector.
The inspector readily sensed the awkwardness and uneasiness of Mr. Birch, and asked him to set down until the train reached the station.
"Mr. Birch, please understand my position, it seems that in everyway this is an accident, if not for a couple of idiosyncrasies that shine poorly on the case," said the inspector with a tone of reproach. He continued, "first, several passengers heard a very loud argument from your compartment, and also witnessed you walk up the train car an open the end door and look out."
Timothy looked blankly at the inspector and fought to maintain his composure.
"Finally, I have two eyewitnesses that saw you open your compartment door holding your wife by the arm, while pointing sternly towards the train door she fell through moments later," the inspector paused and looked sharply into Timothy's eyes, "the very one you had moments before looked through - how would this sound to you if you were in my position?"
Timothy recoiled and put his face in his hands, loosing touch with what seemed real to him and what he was hearing from the other accounts of his actions. The inspector reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder.
"My wife is dead, I did not cause her to fall off the train," said Timothy as he brushed away the inspector's hand.
"Again, the witnesses stated you opened the door that your wife fell through just moments before the accident," the inspector inflected a non-believing tone as he said "accident," which seemed to cause the word to hang in the air and he continued, "surely you would have seen what was on the other side?"
"I did look out, but it was dark," retorted Timothy, "I couldn't see a thing."
"But you would have heard," quipped the inspector.
Timothy drew a breath and stared directly at the Inspector, "listen, I just cannot talk about this anymore tonight, I am staying at the guest villa in Almafi, which I'm sure you can easily find."
"Of course sir, that should do it for tonight. The inspector hesitated then continued, "but please notify me if you intend to leave the country; here is my contact info." The inspector handed Timothy his card and sternly studied his face while doing so, looking for the slightest indication that might offer him a new line for questioning.
A sudden screech from the stopping train caused Timothy to hear within the grinding metal Eloise scream his name, followed by the door to the compartment swinging loudly shut.
Timothy went pale from fear and the inspector looked at him quizzically.
"Those doors are always doing that, they could really hurt someone if they are not left locked," said the inspector.
"Exactly, why would they be left unlocked," stated Timothy, "perhaps your attention should be focused on the train personnel."
Inspector Rafael looked at Timothy in length, turned as if to leave, and then wheeled back around.
"That is the point most troubling to me Mr. Birch," he paused, "you were seen unlocking that door latch, locking it, and then unlocking it and not returning it to its locked position...I have eye witness accounts confirming this."
Timothy looked out the train window and could see the passengers disembarking. Lucia walked by and looked up towards Timothy's compartment, but deflected any recognition from his peering eyes when she saw him and quickly walked off.
"Mr. Birch, once again, do not leave the country until you get clearance," said the inspector.
Timothy looked at the inspector's card in his hand, nodded with understanding, and watched him stiffly walk off without a further word.
The air in Timothy's compartment was stifling, so he quickly gathered up the mess on the floor and took a car back to the villa. The caretaker was out front when he returned, and with the help of his daughter questioned Timothy where Mrs. Birch was.
"She didn't make it," Timothy paused, "she had an accident on the train and was taken to town."
"We would visit her, where in town," said Marco.
"She didn't make it and I will be leaving soon," retorted Timothy, "can you help me gather her luggage...I don't know that I can do it myself."
"Her bags are by door, she would leave early? I saw when I came to change towels," said Marco.
Timothy stood in disbelief and dismissed Marco's statement as a misunderstanding and sent him and his daugther away. Upon entering the villa, Timothy noticed all of Eloise's suitcases in the foyer. He gasped at the sight and could hardly process the force that had brought them there. He felt hazy from the bump on his head and could only think to shower in an attempt to wash away the day.
Under a scalding stream, Timothy scrubbed his skin and saw the soapy water funneling into the drain as, metaphorically, a dropping away of the images and knowledge he hoped would never to return again.
Timothy envisioned a purging of the past years and his dull existence into something that might be able to resemble happiness and an excitement to live again. As Timothy gave into the water, the bathroom light hissed and went black. Being unfamiliar with the bathroom's configuration, he took slow steps on the marble and felt for a towel.
A sudden brush of air moved through him, as a soft whisper registered in his ear.
"Timothy, why Timothy," distinctly formed, spoken in a thought that was loud enough to hear, carryinng with it great pain and agony.
"Eloise, I'm so sorry...I wanted you to be in a better place."
"Twisted and battered on the tracks."
"Eloise, please forgive me."
"It hurts Timothy, I'm cold...why won't you help me?"
As Timothy stood frozen and naked in the dark, the door handle started to shake violently.
"I didn't mean to cause your death, forgive me Eloise, please forgive me." Timothy slunk to the floor and began to sob.
The door handle turned and a shadowy figure stood, outlined by a soft backlight from the hallway light.
"Mr. Birch, you will need to accompany me to the station, I have reason to believe that you orchestrated the death of your wife," said Inspector Rafael.
"Why did you come here, there are laws against that."
"You are correct sir, but you initiated a ll for me to come at once so you could give me important news." Timothy looked on in disbelief.
"All inbound station calls are recorded if you've forgotten about it," continued the inspector quizzically. As the inspector led him away, Timothy continued to hear Elosie scream his name.
"It is Eloise, I hear her, she needs me," said Timothy stunned.
"You are under a lot of stress," said the inspector, as he led him to an awaiting car.
"Please tell me you hear her, she's screaming," said Timothy trembling.
"Please Mr. Birch, compose yourself," said Inspector Rafael as he gripped Timothy's arm tighter, "the wind is the only noise I hear."
As Timothy entered the car, he looked back and clearly saw in an upper window Eloise peering out expressionless, with part of her face peeled away exposing bone.
Timothy screamed and tore away from the inspector and ran towards the rear of the villa, where the salt air was carried by a once familiar wind, which was now silent and devoid of any meaning. Timothy moved to a small rock wall that offered the only security from a sheer drop off into the ocean.
"Stop Mr. Birch, don't do it," yelled the inspector.
Timothy looked back at the inspector, looked up at the starry night, and without a word hurled himself over the wall. The inspector ran to it and shined a light below. He could faintly make out Timothy precariously situated, caught up in a small outcrop that held him from a certain death.
"Don't move Mr. Birch, stay still," screamed the inspector.
The inspector radioed for help and in the static heard a woman's voice scream the name "Timothy," and then the radio went dead. The inspector looked below in time to see Timothy heave as if being pulled by another force, and then fall onto the jagged rocks far below.
A cold wind blew through the inspector, carrying within it a message that he clearly understood.
Timothy Birch answered to it three decades prior, which produced a by-product amounting to little more than two out of control teenagers and a acutely depressed wife named Eloise. Timothy often reflected on his marriage and couldn't begin to translate into any understandable truth when and how it went so terribly wrong, to the extent that he could scarcely recall when the union ever resembled anything good. And if not for the years-faded wedding photo which hung slightly askew in the foyer of the Birch mansion, there wouldn't be anything to submit as proof of a happier time.
If the photo construed something of value that others could fashion into love based, to Timothy the static figures held within were distorted and appeared as abstract caricatures in a hastily rendered sketch, which supported a visual lie and little else. Eloise seemed indifferent to any reality that could be held by a truthful light, aided by her continual cocktail of life-numbing medications that ensured an incident free continuum. The only reality that Timothy could grasp was the stark realization that something had to change.
Per the advice of Timothy's prominent attorney, the Birches were soon scheduled to vacation on the Southern coast of Italy in an attempt to rediscover what Timothy knew to be permanently lost. This would look, as Timothy's lawyer had pronounced, very good for him down the road if he wished to pursue a divorce. With that, Timothy spared no expense and put everything in motion for a vacation he gathered would offer the same monotony abroad, as he was accustomed to at home.
On a crisp Connecticut morning, as slits of light tore through silhouette-rendered trees held tightly against a golden backdrop, a private car whisked away the Birch children. Another carrying Mr. and Mrs. Birch traveled slowly along their extended driveway, and out onto the pristine streets of the meticulously manicured Birch neighborhood.
Enroute to the airport, Timothy looked at Eloise and feigned a smile, which she returned with the expected stare of blankness. As the car ambled along, Timothy took in the large properties that signaled great affluence, he readily understood was obtained at any measure or cost. With this visual, his mind stepped through his life and he envisioned a great Karma-influenced scale that seemed to check and balance everything that was dear to him. He noted how simple his life was in another time and place - a place that seemed to exist as if in a dream, never having happened at all.
All of his efforts to afford his family with every comfort seemed to tip the scale and counter-balance that which he imagined weighed in as good, only to return in equal measure, if not a greater quantity, a counter-balance of negative outcomes to negate it. What was he paying for, he often lamented as he stared into the deep black from a loveless bed he and Eloise shared.
The long-gone-by years that Timothy held fondest contained the days when he had next to nothing as net worth, save for a few throwaway possessions combined with a part-time job as a waiter, as well as a stack of textbooks that he absorbed the contents of with a vengeance.
As the car raced along the interstate, Timothy wondered why those happier days had to leave so fast and how cruel the steady beat of time could be in stealing one's fondest moments away, only to offer what seemed to be dull replacements.
Timothy could almost transport himself back to the days of his wondrous youth, which held a great anticipation of all that the world would offer him. But time had made this ability increasingly harder, to the point that the feelings of youthfulness were imploding into nothingness and he felt soon would be forever lost. What Timothy missed most was the unpredictability of it all.
Timothy glanced at Eloise, who momentarily transformed into the beautiful girl he had once known as the morning sun pulled the shadows from her face, but her drawn eyes and a permanently etched-in sulleness quickly closed that curtain and brought her back. Timothy wondered at the imaginary Karmic scale and considered how cruel it could be, especially if Eloise was pawned out as payment for anything he had done.
As the car made its final turn into the airport, Timothy thought of the distant honeymoon that he and Eloise had taken in Greece, and how they had sat together at a small restaurant in Athens with a great and promising world before them. With only their love to guide them and keep them headed in true like a keel, he recalled how they had said to each other "let's always remember this moment, let's never allow it to die."
Love is all that matters was their long-running mantra and as the car stopped, Timothy repeated the words as an inner whisper, spoken somewhere in Greece and partly in the moment. As the driver opened the door, he could only think to touch Eloise's hand and let the thought graze his lips, that he he had lost the ability to articulate: "I loved you with all I had."
As if momentarily attuned to the silent communication, Eloise formed a slight smile, which was soon lost to her usual vacant stare. Timothy had slowly watched Eloise die inside, the illness stealing away a once vibrant and loving person, replacing her by a drug-induced robot. Why had mental illness chosen her? Was this her payout for trying to be a good wife and mother; a slow and steady sapping of herself.
As the plane departed, Timothy let his mind fall away as he traced back through his fleeting youth and the various travels he had taken over his lifetime. So many people and places he thought; just a confused stream now dripping as clock ticks into forgetfulness.
The Birches soon arrived in Almafi, which had a tranquil setting that made it appear to exist only in clouds, as it hugged the cliffs far above the Mediterranean, Timothy looked towards Eloise for a spark of anything that resembled joy, but only saw ennui and pain. On a friend's excited recommendation, the sprawling villa which they would occupy for the next four weeks offered both "earthly bliss and spiritual rejuvenation." Timothy could almost buy into the earthly bliss sell-point, but any spirituality that he once felt that could possibly be rekindled, had long since transmuted into a kind of dull acceptance of what was real and what would eventually come to be; an endless and empty black was the only eventual spirituality that he was able to conceptualize.
He use to feel God's presence when he was he younger; to even think the name instilled in him feelings that transcended that which other words could offer. But the only spirituality that Timothy could bring himself to grasp now, had been to make enough money to afford his progeny a fighting chance in the world - money, he reasoned, was the only spirituality that one needed to get by. It was a constant necessary that even allowed one to buy if need be.
Timothy would often lament over his family's condition, as if trying to purge out his strict Catholic upbringing for good by questioning what possible God could begin to take pleasure in causing such pain in the world, and personally for him, destroying what was so dear to him. If Almafi could offer rejuvenation of that order and a renewed confidence in what was behind it all, then Timothy considered that the small price of the trip would make the experience a steal.
As for finding earthly bliss, a hastily drawn curtain by the villa caretaker, Marco, revealed a 180 degree sweeping ocean view that was spotted by similar mini-palaces dotting a craggy coastline. There was no denying the earthly bliss part of it thought Timothy, followed by an utterance to Macro, "I'm nearly sold on the spirituality promise of it." Marco's limited broken-English could only offer "gud vue," in response.
Eloise reclined facing away from the window, and any inspiration she discovered in Almafi made her fall quickly asleep where she sat. Timothy rubbed his hand over her hair, put a bottle of water on an end table close to her, and was soon walking around the quaint coastal village before the last vestiges of light raced away.
As he walked along, golden and red reflections danced off the street and up the side of buildings, carrying along with them the quaint sounds of a city lost in time.
A warm wind stirred and carried with it timeless memories that transported Timothy back to his youth, where the same wind had brushed his neck and awoken something in him in a lost past belonging to yesterday.
Timothy instantly felt the youthfulness of an earlier time and place where the world was a treasure, abounding with as many opportunities as he could possibly imagine.
The wind spoke to Timothy's soul long ago in a fleeting moment held in his youth and an indelible moment was created, which he could feel as something tangible for years to come, but which would eventually lay dormant.
This wind-carried moment showed him a world that he felt so connected to and one which God was good and within reach. He had felt so alive at that time. Sometimes when a similar wind blew at night, he would look into the stars and far past, imagining heavens in which the gusts blew as a constant reminder as the exhalations of God.
As the wind hinted its message, Timothy now thought how cruel the hands of time were. In youth they moved so slowly as if not moving at all, only later to spin in a blur. Where had all the time escaped to? Was loose skin and ever-present fatigue his consolation prize in this harsh game dealt by time?
The wind blew again as if on queue and suddenly time stood still. He felt like he would exist forever with the wind and it awoke in him again what was always there.
As the evening encroached upon the city, the last glimpses of day scattered a rainbow of colors across the horizon, which Timothy marveled at as walked towards the villa.
With a spring in his step and a noticeably lighter feel of his person, he felt in that moment that he had been freed and was rediscovering something that was always there. Timothy passed a small cafe and noticed a raven-haired woman sitting near the front. She looked up and gave him a sweet and extended smile, which caused her beautiful onyx-shaded eyes to sparkle.
Timothy was taken aback and thought for a moment he mistook her smile for one that was directed at someone else, but didn't see anyone behind him when he checked. As he returned the smile mid-stride, something surprised him as he walked by the cafe. A reflection in the window mirrored his every move in reverse and he hardly recognized it; the image appeared vibrant and handsome, perfectly aligning itself to how he felt within.
As Timothy walked on, he thought of Eloise and his family. He loved them, but at what cost? Was this all that love had to offer; a slow draining and withering within? Why should he sacrifice his own life for the servitude of others who hardly seemed to notice? He thought of Eloise and how he once loved her passionately, and how his love for her had been real. She had raised their children and been a loving wife. She had seemingly given herself up as sacrifice and this was something he had allowed to happen through the years.
Timothy felt love Eloise, but his love had for the most part had turned into a dull habit, derived out repetition and time. When he thought of her, he felt genuinely sorry for what she had been through in her life. She was still a woman, who once was a girl with the world before her. She held her own great imaginings of what the world could offer and had saw in Timothy enough to walk down the isle with him in matrimony.
Timothy's mind raced with countless reflections as he walked on, and although the wind ceased, he still felt so alive. Timothy bought a gelato and sat on a bench in the town square, embracing a new calm and resolve that was manifesting him. He was suddenly stirred into the moment by a request for permission to join him by the same young woman who he had seen at the cafe.
"Do you mind if I sit with you sir," she said.
"Why of course not," was quickly uttered by Timothy in a welcoming inflection.
"How long are you staying in Almafi," queried the young lady.
"Forever and one day," said Timothy, "it is just lovely here."
"Well I should be so lucky, I'm Lucia" she answered and held out her hand, which caused Timothy to mind his posture and sit up straight.
Timothy felt the blood rushing to his face, as a boy might blush.
"I'm Timothy and it's a pleasure to meet you," he said and extended his hand which Lucia readily accepted and continued to hold onto.
An hour later the two were intimate friends and Timothy told her, partly believing with a conviction, that he could stay in Almafi with her until the end of time.
"You could stay with me Timothy," Lucia said with eyes that whispered of a young woman's amorous desires.
Timothy reluctantly confessed his marital status, which were offered by an inflection of mixed messages, to which Lucia simply retorted, "if you are unhappily married, then you might as well be dead."
"Have you been married before," inquired Timothy.
"No, me, no, no," resounded Lucia, as if the concept was quite impossible for her to imagine.
"You may be on to something dear girl," said Timothy, in the role of a matrimonial sage and continued, "Marriage is a multi-faceted entity, whose beginning can be as varied as its end, not unlike the night is from the day."
Lucia looked on playfully.
"Well, that's my twist on it at least," he continued, "it's not as easy as it seems, young eyes can mar its complexities. "For some love can change through the years, it evolves, it dies, and theb gets reborn into something very different from where it began; into something, I don't know what you call it, a dull acceptance I suppose."
"It sounds scary," quipped Lucia.
"That it can be young lady and you can not guess at its dynamic until you've been there," said Timothy. "You seem young and I'm old, trust me on this one."
Lucia smiled and grasped Timothy's hand tightly. Mustering all of the sex appeal her womanly nature could emphasize, she rubbed her hand through his wispy grey hair and said "you are never to old to be sexy."
Timothy felt a salacious pulse in regions that had long lay dormant and he kissed Lucia on the cheek. He then bid his farewell after asking if they could meet in the same place the next evening, which Lucia happily agreed to.
Timothy made his way back to the villa and immediately saw Marco pacing back and forth out front. A young girl was with the caretaker and served to translate that Mrs. Birch had been found sitting in the street crying and yelling for her children.
He went inside and found Eloise lying on a sofa aided by Marco's wife, and went to her side.
Upon seeing him, Eloise's distant look slightly softened and she said, "you left me Tim, you always leave me."
Marco's wife excused herself, giving Timothy an incisive gaze.
"I'm right here, I just left a moment while you rested," replied Timothy.
"Do you still love me Tim?" asked Eloise plainly as if asking for coffee.
Timothy thought a moment and responded from the heart, "of course I do, that will never change."
He sat next to Eloise, taking her hand within his and softly kissed it. He looked at her intently and asked, "Do you love me - can you remember the feeling when we first met?"
"That was so long ago," said Eloise, with a fleeting smile in her eyes, "I feel such pain when I know that I should be happy, some days it's so hard to go on."
Eloise looked about her, deep into Timothy's face, and pulled her hand from his, "You deserve better Tim, you're a good man."
Before Timothy could answer, she continued, "I'm tired Tim and sometimes I just want to go to sleep," and searched him with eyes that looked for an understanding. Eloise turned away and Timothy could see the pain she felt trace lines on her face and steal away anything that resembled a will to fight.
"I know it's hard honey, just stay strong for our family," was all Timothy could think to say.
Timothy heard someone clear their throat and turned to see Marco, his wife, and the young girl standing off to the side.
"My papa wants to know if you need anything, there is food prepared in the kitchen he brought for your welcome," said the girl in one breath.
Timothy excused them and put a plate of food close to Eloise, who was fast asleep by then and kissed her on the forehead. He ate his meal on the veranda under a blanket of stars and thought of Eloise, his children, and his life back in the States. He also thought of his meeting with Lucia and the feeling he had earlier with the wind. Why is everything so right, yet simultaneously so wrong, he thought under a moon that highlighted randompatches of an ice-flat sea.
Timothy was startled back to the moment by a noise within the villa and made his way to where Eloise was sleeping. He could see her under a soft reflective-light that was casting from an adjacent room. Eloise was moving slowly and as he drew near, he saw that she was touching herself. He made a move to go to her, but the sight gripped his heart, and he left her alone.
The image of Eloise alone with her illness and all of the pain that went along with it, pervaded him. There alone, yet with her womanly desires still a constant that he no longer knew how to satisfy. A lone tear rolled down his cheek. Timothy wondered if Eloise was thinking of him, or was the pain of her illness such that any attempt at fantasy was removed and the experience for her was no more than simply tending to a bodily need.
Timothy's emotions gripped him and he wanted to go to her, to hold her again as they held as young lovers. As he stood in the dark, he saw for a moment a young Eloise flash before his eyes, in her prime and so full of love. The bed of their youth was not in want of passion and desire, to the extent that he and Eloise used to run marathons beneath the sheets, effortlessly stealing away entire afternoons in a naked sweat, sharing in bliss whatever fantasy should filter into their love stream.
Timothy returned to the veranda. Why does time have to be a destroyer; why is everything required to change, wondered Timothy beneath a oppressive, star filled night. He considered Eloise alone in the dark, a fragile and loving girl, somehow taken prisoner by a now drawn and emotionally flat person.
He couldn't bear to see her pain anymore, nor could he imagine what her life might be like without him. With only two children he couldn't count on to offer her any emotional support, who seemed like all they were capable to do for her is exacerbate her pain rather than allay it, her options seem few.
As Timothy considered his life and what still lay before him, he knew in that moment that he must somehow find the strength to leave Eloise regardless of what would be in store for her, if he would consider saving himself. He went inside and covered Eloise, who was again fast asleep next to her untouched meal. Timothy showered and quickly fell asleep on an adjacent couch.
***
A steady stream of golden light kissed Timothy's eyelids and drew him awake. He opened the curtains and squinted at the blinding white that soon softened to reveal the expanse of the green and deep-blue Mediterranean Sea. Pulling sharply away from the villa's overlook, it made Timothy think that perhaps heaven was truly on earth.
The moment was stolen by the sudden sound of breaking and a loud moan. Timothy rushed over and found Eloise in the hallway standing within reflecting shards of glass and looking at the painting of an older gentleman, who by a stretch of the imagination carried an aged resemblance to himself.
"What is it," shouted Timothy, "be careful of the glass."
"You look so old in this painting," said Eloise woefully.
"That's not me El, do you know where we are?"
"Yes, we are at your mother's house?"
"We are in Italy, have you been taking the new medication?" Eloise walked off without answering.
Again the thought of leaving Eloise seized Timothy. He felt so troubled at seeing her in this state where she needed him more than ever; in sickness and in health repeated itself within him like the steady chant of a monk.
He had rehearsed his words so carefully, how he would support her and the children to the end and try to remain close. But his words seemed so hallow and foreign when he silently recited them, and he soon realized that no words would ever sound right. He would simply rely on his heart and hope that it would inflect his words with compassion, as they struggled to resound with a hint of good.
Timothy washed his face and as he looked in the mirror, saw someone he hardly recognized. It was the face of a tired-looking old man; a face so different than what he wore the previous night laughing with Lucia in the square.
"I cannot loose my life for another, this situation is slowly killing me inside," he thought. And as he looked on at his own image, he took a deep breath and exhaled the words "I have to survive."
Timothy planned a day tain excursion to Venice, and summoned a private car to take them to the station. His stomach churned as he considered what only he knew and the uneasiness in his face was perceived by Eloise, who seldom commented on his appearance. She said that he looked so very sad. He considered at what level she might consider him unhappy and if it was to the same abysmal degree that she was accustomed to, or further?
"I'm fine, just thinking of the kids," he said as he kept his eyes fixed on the blurred images that streamed pass the window as the car made its way to the station.
The Birches boarded a first-class train and were given a private compartment. They traveled in silence to the floating city of countless legends, which Eloise could only think to comment on the return trip to Almafi that its filth made it unbearable. Nonplussed, Timothy left the stately compartment and made his way through the train, just as the last vestiges of the day raced away, leaving behind it trails of warm hues on the passing landscape.
Timothy reached the end of the train and attempted to pass through a door to the next car, but it didn't budge until a small knob was pulled out and turned. As he opened the door, he moved to step onto the platform that connected the two cars together, then suddenly paused at the louder than usual rail noise, noticing that the platform was in disrepair and open track lay below. One misstep and that would have been it, he thought, and he quickly stepped back and shut the door.
As he walked back towards his compartment, he noticed Lucia sitting alone.
"Lucia, remember me," he asked.
"Of course my gray fox, are we still meeting tonight," she said with smiling eyes, while Timothy fidgeted with his wedding ring.
"Yes, will you be at the cafe?"
"Until eleven or so," said Lucia.
Timothy kissed her outstretched hand and nodded goodbye, embarrassed by the many eyes he perceived following his every move as he proceeded through the train. He returned to his compartment and found Eloise sleeping, as the countryside now swabbed in deep shadows rolled by. As she slept, he saw in her face an innocence that made him want to cast blame and to be angry, but Timothy didn't know how or who to direct it at.
"How can I ever tell her, I don't know that I have the courage; perhaps she already knows and is just waiting for the words," he thought.
As he looked at her, his mind began to wander. A sudden, abstract impression formed from somewhere dark and remote, took hold and crystallized into a thought which became the basis for an alternative solution he had been looking for; something he could hardly believe came from within him and regarded long enough under any reasonable light to shine on it. He dismissed the thought and continued looking at Eloise.
"I cannot live like this anymore and watch her deteriorate from within," Timothy lamented to himself, "she is dying within and taking me with her."
The previous idea suddenly rose up again and overtook his attempts to disown it, returning full force in a guise other than evil and presented itself as something good. "Eloise simply needs to walk the length of the train car on the pretext that there is something on the other side of the door and it will be done," the idea eerily spoke out.
"This is madness," thought Timothy, and he once again forced the thought from his head.
The idea soon returned and brought with it new revelations of an easy way to solve everything. Timothy looked at Eloise with a torn expression and wondered if she dreamed.
When Eloise awoke, any hint of the day was gone, giving way to a new darkness that weighed heavily on Timothy. Timothy stared out the window as if attempting to transport himself into one of the idyllic farm settings he could faintly discern in momentary flashes, as the train hurled past.
"Tim, I'm parched," shouted Eloise.
Before Timothy could answer, the idea had fully manifested and he embraced it and took full ownership.
"Why don't you stretch your legs, I think the diner car is the next one over."
No sooner did Timothy say the words, Eloise was shutting the compartment door and heading towards a fate that Timothy had predestined for her.
The door swung back open a instant later and Eloise looked in at Timothy with almost knowing eyes and said "I love you Tim, I have always loved you," and quickly shut the door before he could answer.
Timothy saw his idea again in a truer light and felt sickened that he had the capacity to imagine it. He raced for the compartment door and as he opened it, a group of young soccer fans blocked the way reveling in an apparent victory. Timothy tried to pass through them and yell for Eloise, but the din from the celebration canceled out any silence that would otherwise offer itself to carry his voice.
When Timothy finally made his way into the open aisle, he saw that Eloise was just nearing the end of the car. A flash of what was likely to happen to her in mere moments, alive and breathing, and then battered and cold on the tracks played out on tiny circular canvases where his optic nerve connected to his brain. His part in it was nothing short of playing God and he hated himself for it. And the love that he still held for Eloise screamed to his heart, but never made it through his lips.
Eloise continued to walk towards the door and when she got to it looked back towards him and he stood silent. She smiled and proceeded through and disappeared into a black void.
Timothy bolted towards the door, as screams of horror filled the train car. When he made it to the front of the car, several passengers where already standing around the swinging door calling foreign instructions to the conductor. Timothy looked through the door and saw emptiness in the tracks below. He considered what Eloise must have felt and if she was still alive on the tracks enduring unspeakable pain.
A moment later Timothy felt the train slowing to a stop and as he turned, several eyes were on him and any sadness he felt was instantly transmuted to shame. He felt his eyes speaking truths and could only think to cover his face and feign grief. Timothy walked the length of the car and felt as a condemned man might who is taking his last walk to the gallows. He saw mouths move, but the words spoken did not coalesce and became garbled monotone, uttered by floating and blurry faces.
Lucia approached him and offered her hand, but the guilt within him weighed heavily making him feel so evil in his skin, and he simply nodded and walked to his compartment. The train was now stopped and the conductor met him at his room door. In broken English, he told Timothy that he should stay there and any news would be brought to him as soon as possible.
The conductor continued, "an inspector will come to take statements, this appears to be an accident, but all train related deaths," the conductor caught himself before he sounded out the entire word, "I should say causalities, are treated as serious incidents." Timothy nodded in acknowledgment.
Timothy thought of his children and of the pain the news would bring to them and wondered if their mother's accident would even solicit any pain in at all? Would his own death cause something in them to stir?
He then heard muffled voices around his door and a sudden loud knock. He swung the door open and was met by the conductor.
"What is it?"
"We found your wife alive," announced the conductor, "but we need to hurry."
Timothy ran with the conductor towards a dancing flashlight that floated in the darkness by the side of the tracks. As he approached, he could see the train personnel standing by what appeared to be a twisted bundle of rags. As the light illuminated random circles on the tracks, he clearly saw Eloise's shoe standing upright with as severed ankle visible at the opening.
He screamed and moved towards the heap by the tracks, readying himself for the worst. A gap widened to allow him in and the few steps to get to his wife's side felt to take an eternity. Timothy became hyperaware of his actions, which caused an awkwardness that seemed to belie any truth and confidence that he imagined he carried, as well terminated any justification for what he had done.
The sympathetic faces of the train workers transformed into masks of scorn, and a new and unwilling mantra repeated again and again somewhere within him: "murderer, murderer, murderer," which rang out as a stark realization of all that he was, and all that he would ever be.
"She is in grave condition," said the conductor, "a helicopter has been dispatched."
Timothy knelt by the twisted mass and heard a faint moan. It was dark and he reached out and felt a wet hand, which instantly grabbed his.
"I'm here honey, help is coming...hold on."
A momentary shine of the flashlight illuminated Eloise's face, whose wide-eyed stare of shock did not blink. She was ghost white from the great loss of blood.
"Don't shine the light on her," yelled Timothy, "hold on honey, hold on for me and the kids." Timothy felt her hand tighten in his, then suddenly go limp.
Timothy cried out, and was pulled aside. He watched his wife get her pulse checked, but the beating signal that marked life slowly faded away. Before Eloise was covered, he saw the light shine on her again full length and could discern her twisted limbs and battered body. He fell to his knees and screamed to the unresponsive night.
The conductor was by his side and attempted to console him, but Timothy tore his hand from his shoulder and rushed over to his wife's side. He felt for her hand and squeezed it gently and said "I love you, please rest now."
There was a final twitch in her body that momentarily startled Timothy, who felt her soul pass through him as a cold tingle. Timothy let her hand fall and began to weep.
"What have I done, what have I done," he repeated as he tore at his hair.
"Mr. Birch, I am so sorry for your loss," said the conductor, "we must get back to the train."
As Timothy and the conductor neared the train, a uniformed man with a notepad met them.
"I am inspector Rafael, I will need to take a statement," the inspector paused when he looked in the conductor's telling eyes, "when you are ready that is."
The three continued towards the train and Timothy stopped and turned back to look at Eloise, who was being lifted onto a stretcher. He suddenly felt a cold chill on his neck, as if a hand was about to touch it and when he quickly turned back, saw that the inspector and conductor were standing a few feet away.
"What is it Mr. Birch," said the inspector.
Timothy felt faint and started to wobble, but was quickly taken by the arms and led back to the train. Timothy regained himself when they reached his compartment, and was meant by Lucia who stood wating at the door.
"How is your wife," said Lucia, but before Timothy could answer she looked at the conductor who nodded solemnly. "I'm so sorry Timothy, if I can be of any help don't hesitate."
Timothy didn't acknowledge Lucia and unlocked the compartment, staring at her blankly as she left. He stood at the door and hesitated.
"I need a drink, I need to sit," said Timothy.
"Is that woman your friend," asked the inspector.
"No, I just know her from town."
"So she's just someone you know."
"Exactly," retorted Timothy, whose voice seemed alien to him, making him feel as if he spoke through someone else.
The inspector looked at him with a puzzled expression.
"Let me sit, I just need to compose myself," said Timothy.
He attempted to push the compartment door open and enter, but something blocked its way. The inspector helped him give it a push and after a couple of heaves, it gave way to a room that was in disarray.
"What happened here," queried the inspector.
"My room has been ransacked, isn't that apparent," retorted Timothy.
"The door does not look forced and am I'm certain that you unlocked it," said the inspector.
"I did unlock it," Timothy paused, "please let me sit."
"Yes of course," said the inspector, as he reached down and picked up a torn photograph of Eloise. "Is this your wife, it is strange the photo is torn."
Timothy stared at the photo with wide eyes and went flush. The picture was one he had never seen of Eloise and it looked contemporary. The inspector put the torn quadrants together and the picture showed a confident looking Eloise with loving eyes. On the back of the photo was penned a message to Timothy "you are my heart, please always stay strong."
"Your wife seemed to have loved you a lot."
Timothy nodded and drank from a tepid water bottle that still had remnants of Eloise's lipstick on the top. "She already had water, she didn't need to go," screamed at him from somewhere within. The inspector looked about the compartment, adjusted his tie, and sat next to Timothy on the bed.
"Mr. Birch, it visibly appears that there was an argument, as well I took some statements prior to meeting with you and have first hand reports of loud yelling coming from your room," coldly stated the inspector with searching eyes.
"I loved my wife very much, there wasn't any argument," returned Timothy with directness.
"I trust that sir, but I'm just trying to piece together the situation and I can only go off what witnesses are telling me."
"There is no situation," retorted Timothy, in a voice that seemed strained through his attempts to infuse if with confidence.
Fear began to grip Timothty and he wondered how it must have looked that he opened and looked out the very train door that his wife fell through just moments afterwards. Certainly someone must have seen him and the information would be telling. He suddenly felt the weight of all the bad years with Eloise upon him, and while they had occasionally argued, it never had gotten heated as the scene would suggest. What of the mess and the witness reports, thought Timothy. And the photo, this must be an elaborate joke. He looked about the compartment and thought, "this isn't real, it's just a horrible dream...wake up, damn it Tim, just wake up."
The inspector gazed on intently as Timothy's mind wandered back to the present. "I need to be alone," said Timothy, "you know where to find me."
The inspector's stare lingered, causing Timothy to feel uncomfortable and brought him to the fringe of breaking down, but he managed to hold on to himself. The inspector continued to look at Timothy as if trying to pull a truth out with his eyes, then excused himself.
As Timothy shut the compartment door, he notice Lucia standing close by and assumed that she was there to offer him comfort. She glanced his way, but her eyes darted quickly away when she perceived him looking at her. Timothy watched as she whispered something to the inspector, and intently listened as if trying to make silent sounds register.
Timothy saw several passengers looking at him with sorrowful expressions. Innocent regard transmuted into scornful and condemning looks of disdain, transformed by the minute and distorting fun house-mirrors he now saw his world through. Everything became twisted and biased, with his undoing as its chief design.
He wiped his face with his hands, as if the motion would erase off any impurities and unspoken truths, so he could offer up a new blank face to carry the justification for himself. He looked about the train car and could see Lucia and the inspector look back in his direction, then quickly look away.
"She must be telling him about what I said to her about marriage," he thought, "I will be found out."
An impression formed of tight shackles and of a person standing before a judge. As the person was sentenced to the harshest terms and turned to meet his fate, a hazy image of person emerged that wore Timothy's face. He gasped at the thought.
"This is madness," he countered back to himself, "they could never prove anything... just stay cool Tim and get a hold of your self." He quickly shut the door and at that moment the train lurched forward, catching Timothy off guard and making him loose his balance and topple over Eloise's bag. He caught the side of his head on the basin and awoke in an unknown timeframe by a loud knocking at his door. His body ached all over and felt the side of his head which was damp.
"Yes, one moment, I'm coming," said Timothy.
He made his way to the door by crawling and inched up to the handle, never quite making it to his feet. The inspector looked in at eye level, then down at Timothy who was still on his knees.
"Have you been drinking sir," said the inspector after noting him on the ground and in his disheveled state.
"Of course not, I must have fallen," Timothy said irritated as he got to his feet.
After regarding him with piercing eyes that never softened, the inspector said firmly, "sir, I have taken a few reports and have come up with a very disturbing scenario."
"I don't know what you mean, I've knocked my head and need medical attention," quipped Timothy.
Timothy almost heard himself saying that he didn't wish to speak without an attorney present, but caught himself believing that the mere phrase was generally an admission of some guilt.
The inspector called for the conductor to administer any first aid he could offer Timothy, and excused himself to take more statements from the passengers, which was emphasized for a possible reaction from Mr. Birch.
As Timothy was being treated, he went through the events of the evening in hyper-speed, until the very moment of being with Eloise next to the tracks slowed the visual stream down until it became frozen stills of her in a twist of bones and flesh; a photo-mosaic of Eloise in painful poses. Timothy recoiled at the thought and tried to shake them away, only to find them staring back with greater detail.
He attempted to justify his actions and resell them to himself, whose inner acceptance now recoiled at the thought and seemed an unwilling participant.
"I wanted to stop her," he reminded himself. "But you put it all in motion," screamed back from some unknown inner voice.
The conductor finished wrapping Timothy's head and assured him he would be fine. Sensing that he was lost in grief and needed to be alone, the conductor got up and left without a further word. Timothy perceived it as a statement of disapproval and slammed the door as the conductor left his compartment, without any indication of gratitude.
"I didn't even thank him," he thought, and quickly opened the door to catch him and was once again face-to-face with the inspector.
"Sir, we will arrive to Gar De Lyon station soon and I must ask that you accompany me to headquarters," said the inspector. "Or if you wish I could take a couple of more statements from you now and depending on my satisfaction, will perhaps feel compelled to wrap this up tonight."
"Yes, of course," said Timothy, "I mean ask what you will and the sooner we take care of this the better,"
"Your wife is deceased sir, that seems insensitive."
"I know what you are trying to do," said Timothy, "I know what you are all trying to do."
"Sir, I am trying to be sensitive to the situation and I just want to clear this up, that's all that I'm trying to do; perhaps the bump on your head is making things appear different than they really are," said the inspector.
Timothy felt the clarity of the moment unlike any he had perceived before, in that he was exactly in the moment and quite clear of his every sense which seemed amplified, making him feel as if he was connected to tenuous threads that were ready to give way at any moment to the prying eyes of the inspector.
The inspector readily sensed the awkwardness and uneasiness of Mr. Birch, and asked him to set down until the train reached the station.
"Mr. Birch, please understand my position, it seems that in everyway this is an accident, if not for a couple of idiosyncrasies that shine poorly on the case," said the inspector with a tone of reproach. He continued, "first, several passengers heard a very loud argument from your compartment, and also witnessed you walk up the train car an open the end door and look out."
Timothy looked blankly at the inspector and fought to maintain his composure.
"Finally, I have two eyewitnesses that saw you open your compartment door holding your wife by the arm, while pointing sternly towards the train door she fell through moments later," the inspector paused and looked sharply into Timothy's eyes, "the very one you had moments before looked through - how would this sound to you if you were in my position?"
Timothy recoiled and put his face in his hands, loosing touch with what seemed real to him and what he was hearing from the other accounts of his actions. The inspector reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder.
"My wife is dead, I did not cause her to fall off the train," said Timothy as he brushed away the inspector's hand.
"Again, the witnesses stated you opened the door that your wife fell through just moments before the accident," the inspector inflected a non-believing tone as he said "accident," which seemed to cause the word to hang in the air and he continued, "surely you would have seen what was on the other side?"
"I did look out, but it was dark," retorted Timothy, "I couldn't see a thing."
"But you would have heard," quipped the inspector.
Timothy drew a breath and stared directly at the Inspector, "listen, I just cannot talk about this anymore tonight, I am staying at the guest villa in Almafi, which I'm sure you can easily find."
"Of course sir, that should do it for tonight. The inspector hesitated then continued, "but please notify me if you intend to leave the country; here is my contact info." The inspector handed Timothy his card and sternly studied his face while doing so, looking for the slightest indication that might offer him a new line for questioning.
A sudden screech from the stopping train caused Timothy to hear within the grinding metal Eloise scream his name, followed by the door to the compartment swinging loudly shut.
Timothy went pale from fear and the inspector looked at him quizzically.
"Those doors are always doing that, they could really hurt someone if they are not left locked," said the inspector.
"Exactly, why would they be left unlocked," stated Timothy, "perhaps your attention should be focused on the train personnel."
Inspector Rafael looked at Timothy in length, turned as if to leave, and then wheeled back around.
"That is the point most troubling to me Mr. Birch," he paused, "you were seen unlocking that door latch, locking it, and then unlocking it and not returning it to its locked position...I have eye witness accounts confirming this."
Timothy looked out the train window and could see the passengers disembarking. Lucia walked by and looked up towards Timothy's compartment, but deflected any recognition from his peering eyes when she saw him and quickly walked off.
"Mr. Birch, once again, do not leave the country until you get clearance," said the inspector.
Timothy looked at the inspector's card in his hand, nodded with understanding, and watched him stiffly walk off without a further word.
The air in Timothy's compartment was stifling, so he quickly gathered up the mess on the floor and took a car back to the villa. The caretaker was out front when he returned, and with the help of his daughter questioned Timothy where Mrs. Birch was.
"She didn't make it," Timothy paused, "she had an accident on the train and was taken to town."
"We would visit her, where in town," said Marco.
"She didn't make it and I will be leaving soon," retorted Timothy, "can you help me gather her luggage...I don't know that I can do it myself."
"Her bags are by door, she would leave early? I saw when I came to change towels," said Marco.
Timothy stood in disbelief and dismissed Marco's statement as a misunderstanding and sent him and his daugther away. Upon entering the villa, Timothy noticed all of Eloise's suitcases in the foyer. He gasped at the sight and could hardly process the force that had brought them there. He felt hazy from the bump on his head and could only think to shower in an attempt to wash away the day.
Under a scalding stream, Timothy scrubbed his skin and saw the soapy water funneling into the drain as, metaphorically, a dropping away of the images and knowledge he hoped would never to return again.
Timothy envisioned a purging of the past years and his dull existence into something that might be able to resemble happiness and an excitement to live again. As Timothy gave into the water, the bathroom light hissed and went black. Being unfamiliar with the bathroom's configuration, he took slow steps on the marble and felt for a towel.
A sudden brush of air moved through him, as a soft whisper registered in his ear.
"Timothy, why Timothy," distinctly formed, spoken in a thought that was loud enough to hear, carryinng with it great pain and agony.
"Eloise, I'm so sorry...I wanted you to be in a better place."
"Twisted and battered on the tracks."
"Eloise, please forgive me."
"It hurts Timothy, I'm cold...why won't you help me?"
As Timothy stood frozen and naked in the dark, the door handle started to shake violently.
"I didn't mean to cause your death, forgive me Eloise, please forgive me." Timothy slunk to the floor and began to sob.
The door handle turned and a shadowy figure stood, outlined by a soft backlight from the hallway light.
"Mr. Birch, you will need to accompany me to the station, I have reason to believe that you orchestrated the death of your wife," said Inspector Rafael.
"Why did you come here, there are laws against that."
"You are correct sir, but you initiated a ll for me to come at once so you could give me important news." Timothy looked on in disbelief.
"All inbound station calls are recorded if you've forgotten about it," continued the inspector quizzically. As the inspector led him away, Timothy continued to hear Elosie scream his name.
"It is Eloise, I hear her, she needs me," said Timothy stunned.
"You are under a lot of stress," said the inspector, as he led him to an awaiting car.
"Please tell me you hear her, she's screaming," said Timothy trembling.
"Please Mr. Birch, compose yourself," said Inspector Rafael as he gripped Timothy's arm tighter, "the wind is the only noise I hear."
As Timothy entered the car, he looked back and clearly saw in an upper window Eloise peering out expressionless, with part of her face peeled away exposing bone.
Timothy screamed and tore away from the inspector and ran towards the rear of the villa, where the salt air was carried by a once familiar wind, which was now silent and devoid of any meaning. Timothy moved to a small rock wall that offered the only security from a sheer drop off into the ocean.
"Stop Mr. Birch, don't do it," yelled the inspector.
Timothy looked back at the inspector, looked up at the starry night, and without a word hurled himself over the wall. The inspector ran to it and shined a light below. He could faintly make out Timothy precariously situated, caught up in a small outcrop that held him from a certain death.
"Don't move Mr. Birch, stay still," screamed the inspector.
The inspector radioed for help and in the static heard a woman's voice scream the name "Timothy," and then the radio went dead. The inspector looked below in time to see Timothy heave as if being pulled by another force, and then fall onto the jagged rocks far below.
A cold wind blew through the inspector, carrying within it a message that he clearly understood.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
I am
simultaneously
old and young -
the hard lines
that divide
youth from age
have vanished,
leaving opposing
concepts
to crash head on.
Idealism
battles with
sensibility,
muscles fight with
loose skin.
Torn calendar pages
litter the floor
of memory,
scattering
wild-west days
rich with lost places
and faces,
into a
confused stream
that drips as
clock-ticks into
forgetfulness.
I struggle to
grasp
onto something
indefinable
that is slipping away,
unwillingly freed from
the trappings of youth.
The hazy signposts
to another day
of impracticality
and recklessness
flies by in a blur,
and ever-so-slowly
the hints of
who I am,
vanishes
into something else
I'm becoming.
simultaneously
old and young -
the hard lines
that divide
youth from age
have vanished,
leaving opposing
concepts
to crash head on.
Idealism
battles with
sensibility,
muscles fight with
loose skin.
Torn calendar pages
litter the floor
of memory,
scattering
wild-west days
rich with lost places
and faces,
into a
confused stream
that drips as
clock-ticks into
forgetfulness.
I struggle to
grasp
onto something
indefinable
that is slipping away,
unwillingly freed from
the trappings of youth.
The hazy signposts
to another day
of impracticality
and recklessness
flies by in a blur,
and ever-so-slowly
the hints of
who I am,
vanishes
into something else
I'm becoming.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
If heaven could exist in flowers,
as a floral space for souls to alight,
golden angels would rise as daffodils,
haloed in garland of purest white.
Blossoms would form endless rivers of color,
spreading forever, embraced by the sun,
wreathing the world in a colorful brilliance,
an ongoing floral essence, never undone.
The petals would carry reminders,
in pastels there would be subtle clues,
perfumed messages sent by the weightless,
captured forever in a myriad of hues.
in pastels there would be subtle clues,
perfumed messages sent by the weightless,
captured forever in a myriad of hues.
Heaven would float in the air as bright colors,
dance in the wind like a passionate flame,
where quiet hearts beat only as echoes,
countless flowers would always remain.
dance in the wind like a passionate flame,
where quiet hearts beat only as echoes,
countless flowers would always remain.
Friday, April 17, 2009
As I opened my closet door, the sinking feeling of having nothing that could begin to mimic appropriate attire, even by the greatest of stretches, made me quickly shut the door and go into panic mode. I suddenly needed a suit to wear to a function that usually comes without an advance notice: a funeral. When thinking back, perhaps there was some notice - in fact it was more or less inevitable - but still, if there is a glimmer of something you can fashion into hope, why not shoot for it?
Several months back, my dad had decided that he had encountered a few too many let downs and opted to look for answers inside a bottle...and boy did he ever find answers. He learned about the easiest way to drive one's immediate family crazy; he learned of the surest way to destroy oneself from the inside out; he learned how the total loss of faith in himself could be fashioned into a suedo reality where it became everyone else's fault but his - how he could turn the most logical of concepts around and mold them back into something twisted - telling you how things actually were through his eyes, almost getting you to believe it, all the while spiraling down and down.
When I told myself I was too tired to try again and that he had made his choice, I found myself once again knocking at his door hoping to find a glimmer of the person I knew in the past on the other side. But a lie would always be staring back, attempting to portray itself as a truth. I would stay with the lie and bleed myself of every possible emotion: anger, sympathy, compassion - I even tired empathy and fashioned myself into a lie so I could attempt to see through the lie's eyes, but that hardly solicited a flinch and the lie would just look back without being moved at all, revealing not a thing.
As strange as it sounds, when the call came in that my dad was in the VA hospital it was almost a relief. As if now he was somewhere that would force him to get well. But when I went to visit, the person in the bed wasn't my dad. Instead a bloated and yellowed version of him was lying there doing battle with his liver. The doctors said his liver was too far gone and that our family should prepare ourselves for the worst. I thought, you're telling us to prepare for the worst, do you know what the fuck we have just gone through for the last year?
After a few days he came around a bit by getting force fed some nourishment, without a proof label on it. The doctors kept saying that people in this state can sometimes be delusional and if he doesn't recognize us, or says something off the wall, that we should just understand it's the byproduct of having your liver shut down while toxins flood the body. But my dad was perfectly lucid and for a few days almost became himself again, recounting stories from the the distant past that I had long forgotten.
Once when we were alone, I asked my father why did you do this yourself - you never had a serious drinking problem. Is this just another form of suicide? He shut his eyes and turned away. I had the floor and if this was the last chance I had to speak to him, I was going to open the flood gates.
Can you hear me? It's almost better you don't answer so I can finally speak uninterrupted for a few minutes. How dare you put our family through hell and put us all down because you decided to put your own life into a tailspin. You made your choices and are one-hundred percent at fault here; no one else put those bottles into your hands but you. To suggest we didn't understand is laughable; the problem is that we did understand - it was all so crystal clear. But all you could do was rub our faces in this twisted reality of yours that puts everyone else at fault except yourself, apparently to appease what's left of your ego and somehow justify your stupidity.
I'll be honest with you, the doctors say it doesn't look good. Your liver is a mess and your body cannot function in this state much longer. If you have any fight left in you, you had better give it all you got - you have to decide if you want to live or call it quits. I wanted to come hear today as the caring son and somehow find the strength to say just the right words. In the version that keeps playing over and over in my head, my words finally hit a chord in you and you're struck by the passion and truth in them. You finally see everything for what it really is and continue on with your life, realizing what a terrible mistake you had made. That's all it is, right, a mistake? But now, seeing you in this state, my words feel so empty and hollow.
I still don't get it, a handsome and charismatic guy who always had more girlfriends than there was the time in the day for, a promising book in the works, caring friends and family, and until now good health, all to be eaten away by a bottle. You really hurt your family, in fact I think I'm the only one left who will have anything to do with you, emotionally that is. The rest of the family is here in body, but honestly their tears have dried and they are attempting to move forward and take the hold button off from their lives. They didn't have the strength to get mentally beat up anymore and are just numb to the whole thing. I'm somewhere between numb and still trying to believe - I don't know if I should call it stupidity or optimism , but I don't know what else to do, or who else to be. You know me, if the cup needs to be filled with something just so I can try to think positive, I'll fill it with crap if I have to. I should just wear a shirt that says: idealistic fool for hire.
Maybe somewhere along the way you taught me that; to keep believing. You didn't have to say it, you lived it and I was watching. Up until now I've always believed in you -you're a survivor and can make it through this if you wanted to. Remember how you went through hell on a battlefield a half a world away and nearly died fighting for a facade called freedom? Remember how the bullets shattered your shin and tore part of your boot off? Remember how the shrapnel bounced around inside your helmet until the blood and the sweat and the fear streamed into your eyes and made you blind? You must remember how you woke up on the side of a helicopter saved by an unknown comrade, perhaps thinking you were ascending to heaven. I know the stories were real, I saw the scars and the sadness in your eyes. You were so young and probably weren't told that the lives you were ordered to take would continue to fight with you long after the battle had stopped. A Purple Heart medal was your door prize- what a kick in the ass that must have been!
And now you lie here in a battlefield of your own making, at war with your own body. You have apparently given up and I can't step in and live your life for you. I honestly don't know what to do from here; I can't magically fix this and make it go away. If there is anything to be learned, it's that as hard as it is to accept, we can't always make things right. The way it looks is that you are going to bow out and leave your family to sort this out for the rest of our lives. I feel like punching the walls and shaking you to your senses, but don't even have the strength to get mad anymore. I wish you would open your eyes a moment, just to let me know you can hear me. Is there anything left in you that hasn't been consumed?
Visiting hours ended all too soon and I left my dad lying there. It was the last time I ever saw him alive. I drove away in a blur of green and red traffic lights hardly recognizing what I was seeing, as I tried to make sense of pain I was barely old enough to understand. Tears were trying to flood, but only pooled within becoming the hardest ones to wipe away.
As I swung open the doors to the store, I quickly saw that everything was too stiff and cost too much. But then something in the back caught my eye. It was an unpretentious suit for $99 that fit just right, and that was just the amount I had to my name.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Evolution has bestowed on me five senses that are vital to assimilate my world and I could never imagine doing without any of them. Sight floods a steady stream of flipped images into my brain that are inverted back to normal through a magical process, allowing me to capture it all right side up; hearing replays an endless loop of meaningful sounds that facilitates communication and understanding; taste makes my world rich and delicious, as well as unpalatable; the sense of touch makes it tactile, allowing for both pleasure and pain; smell screams out if something is foul, or can trick my senses into a state of craving.
Smell also has a transporting quality about it and without notice can take me from simply biting into a pizza, to standing on the Rialto bridge on the Grand Canal in Venice where I once stood in a hazy and misplaced day, that is recovered again in great detail in the folds of a scent. The smell of mint suddenly sails me into Morocco, where I drank tea laden with its leaves and walked through ancient streets and markets that looked like movie sets frozen in time. A stronger whiff forcibly yanks me into a centuries old cafe, where cadverous old men fumigated themselves with hashish and exaled Aladdin and a thousand thieves on gilded carpets waiting to fly me away.
Smell was obviously vital as my ancient ancestors traversed over savannas thousands of years ago, trying to figure out what was beneficial and what was to be avoided. And perhaps they left me with something since the smell of a barbecue seems to stir up a primal arousal and remembered importance that transcends other smells, as if my genes somehow carry instinctual instructions encoded through eons that lures me to the smell of food cooking on a fire, whether I'm hungry or not.
There are other smells that carry messages of more immediate yesterdays, like the scent of wood burning in a fireplace, that can instantly bring me back to mislaid moments spent camping in the Sierras with my family. As the fire burns, the smoke of yesterday swiftly carries me back to unhurried days, where time stood still during the endless days of Summer. We lived under the stars aside raging fires of red and gold, that uttered a shrill call and billowed smoke into my young imagination, forming countless dancing apparitions that haunted my dreams beneath the black and tree filled sky. The morning smell of eggs cooking combined with the right accents of pine and soil, signaled a new day that chased away the haunts that stole the night.
The smell of cake and burning candles, wafting through tiny inner passages of remembrance, quickly drags me back to a place where I was the most important person for a day and wishes really came true simply by blowing out the candles. And a certain gas-oil lawnmower smell lands me on the seat of my old Yamaha 100 dirt bike – now absorbed by rust - that on a shinier day would rip me across the desert to the first whip-di-doo that availed its self, with the intent of hurling me headlong over the handlebars. The rich smell also has enough room to carry along my step- father following on his bike, amazed at seeing me fly through the air at 50 miles an hour, bounce like a rag doll, and get up and laugh it off. I can soar through an empty red desert in that scent, under an endless Arizona sky that stole all the hues off an artist's pallette.
The unexpected smell of a train usually catches me off guard and speeds me along to other yesterdays, when I took a great trip across the US. Within the diesel and track odor, lie an endless stretch of track and wonder; there always waiting within the same aroma, beneath the same full moon that painted the empty desert in pale blue, and allowed room for Indians and tepees to magically grow out of the soil of a young boy's imagination. Another draw of the scent races the train through thickets that hid lurking train robbers, only to be driven off by honest TV cowboys like The Rifleman who were real and sprang up out of nowhere to save the day. If the smell lingers long enough, I can once again climb into the raised glass-dome car that gave a better view of the flowing landscape, where countless fireflies that looked like tiny dancing strobes held in an already starry expanse, would fan around the moving train like scattering diamonds.
Occasionally, the accidental smell of a certain perfume carries me back to my first love – a pretty blue-eyed girl who changed my world forever. Her lost fragrance allows me to once again describe the perfect lines that fell down her neck and across her shoulders, as I crossed into a place that never let me return. Carried by the scent, she reaches out through time when I least expect it, as if to remind me of something that only took place in a dream.
Although some smells hold no significance and quickly dissipate, others carry in them traces of things that should be remembered. Like waking up to find out something was only a dream, the timeless scents often remind me that the moments that seemed like dreams were actually real. Random smells like mint and trains, carry in them the keys to lost shadowboxes brimming with the past - hidden safe within tiny scent molecules, just waiting to explode again and again when I least expect it.
Smell also has a transporting quality about it and without notice can take me from simply biting into a pizza, to standing on the Rialto bridge on the Grand Canal in Venice where I once stood in a hazy and misplaced day, that is recovered again in great detail in the folds of a scent. The smell of mint suddenly sails me into Morocco, where I drank tea laden with its leaves and walked through ancient streets and markets that looked like movie sets frozen in time. A stronger whiff forcibly yanks me into a centuries old cafe, where cadverous old men fumigated themselves with hashish and exaled Aladdin and a thousand thieves on gilded carpets waiting to fly me away.
Smell was obviously vital as my ancient ancestors traversed over savannas thousands of years ago, trying to figure out what was beneficial and what was to be avoided. And perhaps they left me with something since the smell of a barbecue seems to stir up a primal arousal and remembered importance that transcends other smells, as if my genes somehow carry instinctual instructions encoded through eons that lures me to the smell of food cooking on a fire, whether I'm hungry or not.
There are other smells that carry messages of more immediate yesterdays, like the scent of wood burning in a fireplace, that can instantly bring me back to mislaid moments spent camping in the Sierras with my family. As the fire burns, the smoke of yesterday swiftly carries me back to unhurried days, where time stood still during the endless days of Summer. We lived under the stars aside raging fires of red and gold, that uttered a shrill call and billowed smoke into my young imagination, forming countless dancing apparitions that haunted my dreams beneath the black and tree filled sky. The morning smell of eggs cooking combined with the right accents of pine and soil, signaled a new day that chased away the haunts that stole the night.
The smell of cake and burning candles, wafting through tiny inner passages of remembrance, quickly drags me back to a place where I was the most important person for a day and wishes really came true simply by blowing out the candles. And a certain gas-oil lawnmower smell lands me on the seat of my old Yamaha 100 dirt bike – now absorbed by rust - that on a shinier day would rip me across the desert to the first whip-di-doo that availed its self, with the intent of hurling me headlong over the handlebars. The rich smell also has enough room to carry along my step- father following on his bike, amazed at seeing me fly through the air at 50 miles an hour, bounce like a rag doll, and get up and laugh it off. I can soar through an empty red desert in that scent, under an endless Arizona sky that stole all the hues off an artist's pallette.
The unexpected smell of a train usually catches me off guard and speeds me along to other yesterdays, when I took a great trip across the US. Within the diesel and track odor, lie an endless stretch of track and wonder; there always waiting within the same aroma, beneath the same full moon that painted the empty desert in pale blue, and allowed room for Indians and tepees to magically grow out of the soil of a young boy's imagination. Another draw of the scent races the train through thickets that hid lurking train robbers, only to be driven off by honest TV cowboys like The Rifleman who were real and sprang up out of nowhere to save the day. If the smell lingers long enough, I can once again climb into the raised glass-dome car that gave a better view of the flowing landscape, where countless fireflies that looked like tiny dancing strobes held in an already starry expanse, would fan around the moving train like scattering diamonds.
Occasionally, the accidental smell of a certain perfume carries me back to my first love – a pretty blue-eyed girl who changed my world forever. Her lost fragrance allows me to once again describe the perfect lines that fell down her neck and across her shoulders, as I crossed into a place that never let me return. Carried by the scent, she reaches out through time when I least expect it, as if to remind me of something that only took place in a dream.
Although some smells hold no significance and quickly dissipate, others carry in them traces of things that should be remembered. Like waking up to find out something was only a dream, the timeless scents often remind me that the moments that seemed like dreams were actually real. Random smells like mint and trains, carry in them the keys to lost shadowboxes brimming with the past - hidden safe within tiny scent molecules, just waiting to explode again and again when I least expect it.
Monday, March 2, 2009
The Room (Eng. Assign.)
A numbered door guards both a quiet and deafening space. Like the mouth of a cave, the entrance belies the contents, shrouding its immensity and revealing only small hints of substance, which strain to be noticed under a tenuous light.
The space is confining, a few hundred square feet at most. There is a worn fabric couch, generic in appearance with a colorful stitched pattern competing with dirty-worn arm rests. If moved, its outline is etched heavily into the carpet, showing contrasting divides of purity and soil. Next to it is a small table and lamp, utilitarian at most. On the table is a nearly complete LA Times cross word puzzle from a couple of Sundays back, a deck of cards, a TV Guide, and a dusty chess set with the white king not quite centered on its square.
The decor reeks of Brady Bunch and is firmly locked in place, with occasional hints of worldliness mixed in from trinkets collected abroad. A shelf holds a wooden box that houses a purple heart military medal, honorable discharge papers, and assorted documents outlining various campaigns fought in. There is also an application for a patent, with details of a invention called “Filtar,” the first of its kind, when cigarettes were only offered non-filtered. It was a filter attachment that was able to remove 98% of the tar and nicotine produced by the cancer sticks, but never made it to the store shelf. Several books fill a small bookcase, mainly classics.
A hanging lamp hovers above a Formica table and four chairs, all tucked in place except one. There is an old Smith Corona portable typewriter on the table with a neat stack of papers full of text. One sheet is pulled aside and has a glass stain on it with corrections here and there in red. Near the table is a counter and two stools. There is an overhang of wall above it, with a bit of an art installation tacked up - a fishing net and some plastic sea plants; a testament to the ocean and its allure. A carved-wooden seagull stands below on the counter, like a sentry with blank eyes – still standing somewhere in some unknown space.
An empty gin bottle sets on the counter with some loose change - a quarter, a dime, a couple of pennies, and a crumbled receipt. Nearby, a painting of a lone sailboat hangs askew. In a paper bag that serves as the trash, a hastily unwrapped TV dinner package and a broken glass mingle.
Pictures dot the refrigerator, random smiling faces enjoying lost-happy moments beneath a layer of cooking grim. The stove adjacent seems well used, with old-dried drips of miscellaneous sauces on top as hard as cement. A lone dusty kettle waits to heat water for tea. The air is stale; the windows and doors seem forever sealed – constricting the space in rapid exhalations faster than new air can be drawn in. Invisible juxtapositions of frenzied energy fill the space; creativity at arms with ennui and frustration, both vying for dominance. The sum of the parts falters, as lost distinction drowns within.
The space is confining, a few hundred square feet at most. There is a worn fabric couch, generic in appearance with a colorful stitched pattern competing with dirty-worn arm rests. If moved, its outline is etched heavily into the carpet, showing contrasting divides of purity and soil. Next to it is a small table and lamp, utilitarian at most. On the table is a nearly complete LA Times cross word puzzle from a couple of Sundays back, a deck of cards, a TV Guide, and a dusty chess set with the white king not quite centered on its square.
The decor reeks of Brady Bunch and is firmly locked in place, with occasional hints of worldliness mixed in from trinkets collected abroad. A shelf holds a wooden box that houses a purple heart military medal, honorable discharge papers, and assorted documents outlining various campaigns fought in. There is also an application for a patent, with details of a invention called “Filtar,” the first of its kind, when cigarettes were only offered non-filtered. It was a filter attachment that was able to remove 98% of the tar and nicotine produced by the cancer sticks, but never made it to the store shelf. Several books fill a small bookcase, mainly classics.
A hanging lamp hovers above a Formica table and four chairs, all tucked in place except one. There is an old Smith Corona portable typewriter on the table with a neat stack of papers full of text. One sheet is pulled aside and has a glass stain on it with corrections here and there in red. Near the table is a counter and two stools. There is an overhang of wall above it, with a bit of an art installation tacked up - a fishing net and some plastic sea plants; a testament to the ocean and its allure. A carved-wooden seagull stands below on the counter, like a sentry with blank eyes – still standing somewhere in some unknown space.
An empty gin bottle sets on the counter with some loose change - a quarter, a dime, a couple of pennies, and a crumbled receipt. Nearby, a painting of a lone sailboat hangs askew. In a paper bag that serves as the trash, a hastily unwrapped TV dinner package and a broken glass mingle.
Pictures dot the refrigerator, random smiling faces enjoying lost-happy moments beneath a layer of cooking grim. The stove adjacent seems well used, with old-dried drips of miscellaneous sauces on top as hard as cement. A lone dusty kettle waits to heat water for tea. The air is stale; the windows and doors seem forever sealed – constricting the space in rapid exhalations faster than new air can be drawn in. Invisible juxtapositions of frenzied energy fill the space; creativity at arms with ennui and frustration, both vying for dominance. The sum of the parts falters, as lost distinction drowns within.
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