Between the Filth and the Glory

            It was the sound of angry voices that jarred Tyrell from his sleep, eliciting a groan from his once peaceful and relaxed frame. He rolled to his side to crack open one eye and see that it was 3:30 in the morning, a mere two hours before his normal waking time. Yelling out of his partially open window would achieve nothing but additional hostile words and probably some sort of vandalism to his front door.

              He recognized the voices as belonging to his neighbors, it wasn't Spanish, it wasn't Russian, and it certainly wasn't Arabic, so he decided on Portuguese as the only possible option. Eventually falling back to sleep, as it seemed that the cause of the hostility had been resolved, he wakened in what seemed moments later to his alarm clock. A cup of microwaved coffee, three-day old doughnuts and a quick shower left Tyrell feeling awake, refreshed, and ready for another day of stock trading.

              His co-workers, all soft, middle-aged, white men from Manhattan never stopped questioning him as to why he lived in East Harlem when his salary could easily handle a home in Tribeca, NoHo, Central South Park or even Nolita. After three or four times of trying to explain himself, he eventually gave up trying, knowing that their soft, weak hands, their vain hearts, and their love for comfort would never understand his passion for things other than self.

              After an unusually successful day at work, Tyrell called ahead and pre-ordered sushi for dinner, to be picked up on his way home, remembering to remind his roommate that he was doing so and to get a bottle of Pinot Noir on his way home. The two trays of sushi sat on the seat next to him as he drove past an unabashed drug deal, a gaggle of prostitutes and a gang of Neo-Nazi's unleashing their aggression on a small Arabic boy. Tyrell made note of every detail, every tattoo, and every face in the last crowd of skinheads, determined to make a phone call when he arrived home.

              He parked in his private, secure garage across the street from his home and carefully crossed the street at the crosswalk at the end of the block, stepping over piles of human feces, bags of garbage, discarded syringes, and used condoms. The unavoidable death and disease that surrounded him always made him gag and, like always, made him begin to reconsider his seemingly fruitless efforts at improving his neighborhood.

              Tyrell and Jerome ate their sushi while watching the final episode of a Korean drama, the name of which neither one of them could pronounce. Tyrell swallowed the last of the Pinor Noir and leaned back on the couch with a big sigh. "I don't know how much more of this I can do," he said, "No, I'm not talking about the Korean drama but the filth, disease, corruption, and ugliness of this world we live in. I've been thinking through a different future for myself since I've been home. And don't worry, I've set aside enough money to cover my portion of the bills while I'm away."

              Lying in bed that evening, Tyrell's mind was traveling in a hundred different directions, struggling to find the perfect place to land, to explore, to understand, and to embrace as his own. With the blaring of the five thirty o'clock alarm, he followed his normal morning routine, to then place a phone call to his boss informing him of his decision to immediately take a vacation for at least six weeks, with the promise that he would stay in touch as time progressed.

              He spent the remainder of the morning searching through maps, feeling within himself what exactly it was he needed, and finally deciding on an off the grid cabin in the remotest region of the Rocky Mountains. Through an online app, he reserved the cabin for the next six weeks, paid in full, left a note for his roommate and made a trip to the sporting goods store to find and purchase everything needed for an escape such as this.

              With a fourteen-hour drive ahead of him, he cut the trip in half to spend the first night in a hotel and complete the drive the following day, marveling at the massive forests, the silence, the emptiness, and the perfect lack of people. He found the cabin an hour before dusk set in, giving him time to unload and wander the immediate area, creating an experience he never before imagined. He sat on the front porch in his boxers, surrounded by forest and a silence that revealed a gentle hum in his ears that was never before noticeable or possible to hear in the chaos of the city.

              "Let's go natural," he thought, "there is no need to watch the time, the stock markets, social media, or the news." When full darkness rested upon him and the forest around him, he slowly walked to the small yard behind the cabin to stare up into a black sky, untouched by electric lights, in awe of the beauty of possibly millions of stars, a sight never before ever reaching his sight.

              Waking with the sunshine each morning, eating whatever he felt like eating, napping whenever he wanted to nap, taking walks through woods filled with insects, small creatures, and large creatures, the latter group never actually seen, stirring up feelings of hopefulness, joy, and satisfaction, very much unlike his life in the city surrounded by corruption and violence.

              So many days passed that he completely lost track of days or even weeks, as far as he knew, creating a new rhythm within himself, a natural sort of life that felt more right than anything he had ever thought possible. After a light lunch on whatever day it was, he took a walk through the forest, perfectly at ease and at home, crunching through the undergrowth, to drop to his knees and breathe in the rich, pungent smell from the virgin earth and leaves. As he threw armloads of leaves into the air, a sudden sharp blow erupted in the center of his back, forcing him to flail around to determine the source of the stabbing pain, to discover an arrow protruding from just below his right shoulder blade.

              Struggling to his feet, he staggered back to the cabin to see a large black SUV slowly driving away, to recognize the profile of Lawrence from the office, as well as three other men in the vehicle with him. Still obscured at the edge of the tree line, he was certain that they did not see him, and he was almost certain that they presumed he was dead, for who, after all, would survive an arrow shot directly into one's back.

              He waited until the silence of his glorious vacation returned, the running of the engine, the crunching of the tires and the cheers and laughter from his attackers were all now absent, no longer polluting his heavenly abode. He moved slowly across the patch of grass that separated the cabin from the woods and wedged the arrow in the crook of the front porch supports, to slowly pull himself forward with the arrow inching out as he moved.

              It seemed that the arrow had struck no arteries or large veins as the blood merely oozed from him, creating a slowly increasing red blotch on his shirt. The recollection of seeing a medical kit in the bathroom gave him hope that he would not end his days in the obscurity of an unknown cabin in the literal middle of nowhere. Slathering a handful of bandages with anti-bacterial ointment, he created a sling to create pressure on the wound, to then lie still for several hours, trusting that the oft heard phrase "just put pressure on it" was legitimate.

              He woke with the morning sun, still flat on his stomach on the mattress in his clothes from the day before. He moved slowly from his prostrate position into the bathroom to create a new clean bandage, angling the mirrors to see his back, to be thrilled at the cessation of blood flow. The blood had somewhat crusted over, releasing a small spurt of fresh blood as he removed the bandage. He replaced the old with the new, using the same process as before.

              Carefully gathering his belongings, he loaded his vehicle and drove toward the nearest town in search of a hospital, a clinic, or even a small-town doctor, certain that he would need stitches. He fabricated a story of falling on the splitting maul, which seemed to satisfy the nurse who cleaned and stitched his wound, to send him on his way in less than an hour.

              He drove back to the same hotel he had visited on his drive away from the chaos of city life, slept well, ate the free continental breakfast, and arrived at home before the onset of darkness. The noise, the smell, and the filth of the city had remained the same. He parked his car and weaved through the feces, the garbage, the syringes, and the used condoms to be greeted at the door by his roommate sporting two black eyes.

              "Sorry, man," he said, "some of your co-workers insisted on forcing your address out of me. Judging by the way you're walking, I'm guessing they visited you as well, and I'm glad you survived whatever they did."

              "It's okay, no big deal," Tyrell answered, "I think they think they killed me but obviously they didn't. So, I'll need to lay low for awhile and heal up before I go back into work and I'm glad you're still in one piece. I'll figure out the best way to respond to this."

              "You said you'd be gone for six weeks, and it's only been four," his roommate said, "so you've got two full weeks to recover. We can take care of one another, order food in and watch a lot of streaming."

              "That sounds great," Tyrell said, "and I'll get the stuff out of my car tomorrow. I'm too tired and sore right now. Got any leftovers, cause I'm starving. I haven't eaten since breakfast and a meagre breakfast at that."

              The two men talked through all that they had gone though over the past month, Tyrell's experience sounding vastly superior than his roommates time amidst the filth and chaos and the beating he received from Lawrence and his buddies. After two weeks of reconnecting, watching television, and eating delivered food, Tyrell felt rested and healed, to return to work, relishing and thoroughly enjoying the look on Lawrence's face when he walked back into the office.

              The two men made eye contact as he walked past Lawrence's office, to give small smirk, and cheery hello the front desk secretary. He received far more welcome back's than looks of confusion and anger from Lawrence and his friends. He slid right back into his work, feeling like a new person, having been away from the stress and ugliness for such an extended period. He chose to ignore the attack and pretend it never happened, knowing that doing so would only confuse Lawrence and his friends even more.

              After his third day in the office, he sat in the break room telling stories about his time away, the beauty and silence and peace of his vacation, talking as if the whole time could not have gone any better. By the end of that day, two of Lawrence's friends approached him in the copy room and offered what seemed to be sincere apologies, explaining that Lawrence basically forced them into being involved, and claiming that they knew it was wrong.

              He and they, as the clock ticked to five, entered the elevator, to be quickly joined by Lawrence and his right hand yes man, with an obvious intent to inflict further harm upon Tyrell. But three against two did not go too well for Lawrence and his lackey. Tyrell and his two new friends stepped over two bruised and unconscious bodies as they exited the elevator into the parking garage. The three men stood behind Tyrell's car and talked through all that had gone on over the past six weeks, with Tyrell doing most of the talking, describing in beautiful detail the glory and peace of his wilderness escape, encouraging them both to do something similar, as he felt like a completely different person for doing so.

              Making plans to meet at O'Reilly's Bar that evening at nine to share a pitcher of IPA, they shook hands and parted ways. Eight forty-five rolled around and Tyrell explained his plans to his roommate and hurried across the street to his parking garage to drive the nine blocks to the bar, finding his two co-workers waiting for him with a full pitcher and three glasses. They picked up the story as they enjoyed the IPA, played a few games of billiards, and left the bar just before midnight.

              Tyrell just reached his car to find everything suddenly turn black preceded by a sudden flash of stars from a blow to the back of his head. A volley of blows and kicks immediately followed and through the blood in his eyes, he caught sight of Lawrence, his lackey, and the other two co-workers, laughing as they punched and kicked him, mocking him for believing that they actually enjoyed his company.

              Seven days later, Tyrell's roommate stood with a dozen of Tyrell's co-workers at the open casket service at Holy Trinity Cathedral, the photo of a smiling Tyrell looking down upon them. As the next several months passed, his roommate began to see a change in his neighborhood as crime declined, less and less homeless people were evident, and a program of restoration seemed to have been put into place.

              The roommate received a letter in the mail with a return address at a lawyer's office, explaining that Tyrell had been developing a social impact program funded by his extra income to restore the neighborhood, written by Tyrell himself, explaining that he knew what was bound to happen, almost as if he prophesied his own death.

              Though it had been over three months, simply seeing Tyrell's handwriting wrenched a new flood of emotion from him, marveling at how even the death of a good man could lead to something good and restorative.