If Only to Find It

 

It seemed to Walter that time had stopped. The search had gone on and on and he still could not find that which he sought.  He had cut his sleep back to four hours a day.  He ate while he worked, and work it was.  The dark circles under his eyes only exacerbated the concern others felt for him.  "You're pushing too hard," they would say.  "You need to take a break," he would hear.  But he would only hear and never listen.  He needed to find it.  He had no choice.

For everyone else, it was a concert, a night out on the town, or a dinner for two.  But not for Walter.  This was life itself.  The hollowness, the emptiness, the perpetual black cloud that hung over him, the darkness in his soul could not be erased by just another hobby or just another distraction.  Walter was empty and he had to act.

It wasn’t that he was particularly brilliant. It wasn’t that he was particularly witty or clever.  He simply asked questions and tried to presume nothing.  He sought to understand the foundation for every answer and not take the answer as gospel, regardless of who spoke it. Most answers were built on presuppositions.  These were what Walter needed to know.  Right or wrong in the search, he needed answers.

Sitting in his car outside the local grocery store, the bizarre actions of a homeless man in a light blue stocking cap caught Walter’s attention. The man walked from the garbage near the north entrance to the garbage can near the south entrance. Back and forth the man traveled, the entire time talking with his hands in an excited fashion and he was saying something. Walter watched the man for nearly ten minutes before he roused the motivation to try to overhear what the man was saying.

Slipping out of his car, he walked to the southern entrance and stopped, pretending to attend to a loose shoelace. He could clearly hear the man but the words made absolutely no sense whatsoever. Grabbing a coupon book from a nearby stand, Walter stood up and thumbed through the booklet, all the while intently focusing on the man’s words. But still they seemed completely irrational. Returning the coupon book to the small stand, Walter returned to his car and continued to watch him.

“What is he doing?” Walter wondered. “Clearly he is communicating and most likely he believes he is communicating something of value. But the question is, with whom does he think he’s communicating?” Reaching for his car keys and slipping them into the ignition, he started the engine and at that same moment, the homeless man suddenly turned and began walking away from the store. Watching him disappear around the corner and down the sidewalk, Walter pulled out of his parking spot and followed him. Pulling ahead of him, he parked at the curb and watched him pass by, still in a robust conversation with someone.

The man walked past and continuing no more than twenty feet, sat in the bushes and continued talking. Sitting cross legged, he placed a rather worn out paper cut directly in front of him. Eventually a number of people walked past and dropped some change in the cup. After the seventh person had contributed to the man’s collection, he stood and walked back toward Walter’s car. Stopping by the passenger window, he knelt down and knocked on the glass. Out of curiosity, Walter leaned over and rolled down the window.

“Here,” the man said, “stick out your hand.”

“No, no, that’s okay,” Walter said, “I don’t want to take your money.”

“But I was collecting it for you,” the man said. “I can tell that you really need something. So here, put out your hand.”

The smell from the man had begun to drift into the car and it was far from pleasant. Assuming his best bet was to comply, Walter stuck out his hand and received a pile of change.

“Okay, thank you,” Walter said. “Have a good day.”

“Oh, I will,” the man said. “But more importantly, you need to remember.” The man then turned and disappeared through a nearby yard. Shoving the coins into his pocket, Walter had no idea how to respond to this unexpected manifestation of philanthropy. Driving home with this bizarre situation on his mind, he parked his car on the side driveway and walked into his house. Opening the fridge, he realized that he had gone to the grocery store but becoming distracted by the homeless man, had forgotten to go in and buy groceries. With a sigh, he returned to his car and returned to the store.

Skimming through the aisles, he grabbed the few items that he needed and got into the checkout line. Finally reaching the checker, the groceries were rung through.

“That’ll be $17.81,” the woman said.

Pulling his cash from his pocket, he only found seventeen dollars. Flashing a rather nervous smile, he cleared his throat and started to speak.

“Is there a problem, sir?” she asked. “Do you need to put something back?”

He almost began to answer but then he remembered the change from the homeless man. Jamming his hand in his pocket again, he fished out the coins and realized that they came to exactly eighty-one cents. “Well would you look at that?” he said. Receiving his receipt, he grabbed the bag and left the store, rather confused.

Lying in bed that evening, he replayed the events of that afternoon. It was then that it occurred to him what the homeless man had said. He told Walter to remember. “You need to remember? What am I supposed to remember?” he thought.

Finally getting up after rolling about for over three hours, he sat at his desk and tried to read the next section in the “Encyclopedia of Religious Thought.” It was with the re-reading of the same paragraph four times that he realized his efforts were futile. Lying back down, he eventually fell asleep. The morning sunshine lulled him from his slumber and swinging his feet over the edge of the bed he took a quick shower and stood in the living room, drying off as he watched the news.

“This just in,” the announcer said, “our own Hayley Marie is on site downtown where a house caught fire during the night. Hayley, what’s going on down there?”

“Thanks John,” she said. “I am here with Miss Felicia Gonzales. Felicia, tell us what happened.”

“My baby and I were sound asleep when we were suddenly awakened by someone pounding on our door. Of course, I was frightened, I mean really, who does that in the middle of the night? Right? So I got up and peeked out the little window and there was a homeless man in a light blue stocking cap standing on my doorstep. He was yelling something about a fire. It was then that I saw a thin layer of smoke in the kitchen. I grabbed my baby and ran outside. I don’t know how he saw the smoke but somehow he knew.”

“Were there any flames outside? Is the homeless man still here?” Hayley asked.

“No,” the girl answered, “that is what is so strange. From the outside, I couldn’t see anything. No smoke, no fire, no sound, nothing. I don’t understand it. But I called the fire department, and they came and put out the fire. I guess a wire on my kitchen stove had shorted out and started the wall on fire. But the homeless guy, I have no idea. He was gone when I came back out with my baby.”

“Well, there you have it, John,” Hayley said. “So whoever you are out there, thank you. It seems that Parksville has a guardian angel.”

Turning off the news, Walter scratched his head in wonder. Sitting on the edge of his bed, and putting on his socks, he paused and looked at the massive library staring down at him. “I guarantee that the homeless guy can’t define phenomenalism or explain the hypostatic union, but it seems to me like he’s doing something right. I don’t get it.”

Finishing his coffee, Walter walked out his front door and drove to work. Climbing out of his car, the homeless man in the light blue stocking cap walked up to him and simply said, “I’m glad you remembered.” Turning, he walked away.

Ribbons of Waves

 

The first time he saw them, they were light blue. Wallace had just finished taking a shower, and still damp, he was shaving. He apparently had not noticed the cord, but a single strand of wire had somehow snuck out through the rubber coating. The next thing he remembered was waking up upon the bathroom floor, his wife, Angela, looking down at him, her face ashen, eyes wide. But the thing that really struck Wallace as unusual, was the light blue ribbon gently waving, as if touched, ever so gently, by a slight breeze, emanating from Angela's head and fluttering in his direction. She helped him to his feet and to the edge of the bed, in a sitting position.

After overcoming the initial confusion, Wallace was eventually able to speak. “What happened,” he managed to stutter out. 

“I was in bed, just waking up, and you had just finished showering, when I heard your razor start and then abruptly stop, followed by a heavy thud, you hitting the floor I assume,” she spoke, the sound of her voice matching the gray color of her face. “When I came into the bathroom, you were lying on the floor.”

It was then that the full picture was finally realized by Wallace. Not only was there a wavy blue thread connecting he and Angela's head, Angela had literally millions of multi-colored thread projecting from every inch of her body, a veritable walking rainbow. 

“You're looking at me oddly, Wallace,” his wife uttered, her color slowly returning to normal. “Help me to the mirror,” he urged, “in the bathroom.” What he saw in his reflection, arguably, should have been surprising. On one hand, Wallace was shocked at seeing the same phenomena coming from his own body, but at the same time, he was not alarmed at all, for it was nearly identical to Angela's. Wallace sat back down.

I think I need to lie down for a minute,” he said. “I must have hit my head pretty hard. My vision is doing weird things.”

He had never seen his wife move so fast as the words left his mouth. Quickly getting dressed, she dropped the car keys into her pocket, shoved a sweatshirt over Wallace’s head and helped him to his feet.

“If you’re saying it, it must be serious,” she said. “The dark tenor returning to her voice with a tremble.

Pulling up to the emergency room main entrance, Wallace was torn between keeping his eyes closed versus looking around with the hope that his vision was normalizing. As the car stopped, he leaned forward and looked through the large sliding glass doors into the ER. Opening the door and swinging his feet out, his wife helped him into a wheelchair and he marveled at the literal millions of colorful threads that filled the waiting room. Ribbons of all sizes and shapes flowing off of the heads and bodies of every single person in the room. But then he saw something that deeply troubled him. Two men, not connected in any shape or form, sat across from him. One, clearly very wealthy and the other obviously homeless, had no color whatsoever. Both of these men, radically different, yet both emitting only black. 

Leaning back in his seat, he closed his eyes and hoped for the best. It was then that the litany of profanity started. The wealthy man had grabbed a bypassing nurse's arm and began complaining about the filthy, stinking, homeless man with whom he shared a row of seats. “He stinks!” the man yelled. “Get him out of here. What a disgusting waste of humanity. I don’t even want to breathe the same air as him.”

“Sir, please let go of my arm,” the nurse protested. “Everyone here needs help. Go sit somewhere else if this is a real problem.” Jerking her arm free, she continued on her way. Approaching the check-in counter, she grabbed a folder and called out Wallace’s name. Opening his eyes, he raised his hand and made eye contact with the woman. As he did, he noticed something very peculiar. As he looked at her, he watched a single thin golden thread weave from her and connect to a point in the center of his chest. Following her into the examination room, he noticed that the more they spoke and interacted, the thicker the thread between them became. 

The nurse left the room and the doctor entered immediately behind her and the situation between him and the doctor was a near replication of that with the nurse. Checking his pulse and his eyes, the doctor asked a number of questions and Wallace marveled as the golden thread continued to grow. 

“Well, Wallace, you seem to be just fine. I don’t see anything alarming or even slightly troubling. Do you have any pain at all, anywhere?” he asked.

“No, sir, I don’t,” Wallace answered, knowing full well he could not share this strange visual phenomenon. 

“Let’s try one more thing,” the doctor said. “Walk slowly across the room, touch the wall and then turn and walk back toward me.” Wallace did as he was told, steady on his feet and feeling as normal as ever, except of course, for the thousands of ribbons filling the room.

“Hmm, you seem perfectly fine. There is nothing else I can do for you,” the doctor said. “I see no reason for any concern. Have a good rest of your day.” It was at that point that Wallace knew something other than visual confusion was taking place, he just didn’t know what. Slipping on his jacket, he and his wife left the ER and drove him. It was a silent ride as he marveled at the millions and millions of colorful ribbons that flowed through every open space. 

Pulling into their driveway, he hesitated for a moment and of course his wife noticed his pause immediately.

“What’s wrong, Wallace?” she asked.

“Oh nothing, nothing at all. As soon as I stepped out of the car I realized that I didn’t tell work what was going on. I should probably hurry in.”

“No, don’t worry about that,” she said. “I called your boss while you were in the exam room with the doctor. Your boss said it was no problem at all and that Jerry would cover for you today and tomorrow.”

“Two days?” Wallace asked. “They said I could have two days off? Wow…. You know, it’s really nice out, how about we take a little walk?”

“A walk? Really?” his wife said. “Are you sure you’re up to it?”

“Yes, absolutely,” he answered. “The doctor said I was perfectly fine. Come on, it’ll be nice.” Without even going into the house, they started down the sidewalk and Wallace began to notice details and patterns in those they passed on the street. The variety of colors was the first thing he noticed and the size of the ribbons differed the more they knew the people. The occasional person would pass who carried no color whatsoever, just black and gray and remembering the man in the waiting room, he could only assume what sort of people these were.

As they approached downtown, a homeless man approached them, smelling strongly of body odor, asking for money. Wallace looked at the man and could only see gray and dull red. Pulling his wife closer to himself, Wallace quickened his pace and ignored the man.

Stopping at a large storefront, his wife became enamored with the jewelry on display. Wallace watched as her attention was drawn to the window and her threads began to change into more of a brown color. Wrapping his arm around her waist, he gave her a firm tug and changed the conversation. Happy to see her colors even back out, they passed two more storefronts and entered a restaurant. 

“Feel like a snack?” Wallace asked.

“Well, I’m not really hungry but maybe a cup of tea would be nice,” she said.

Sitting down at one of the tables, they waited a moment until the waitress appeared.

“Good afternoon,” she said, “can I get you started with something to drink?”

“Actually, we’ll just have some tea. Nothing to eat,” Wallace said.

“Are you sure, honey,” the waitress said, reaching out and touching Wallace’s hand. Looking up at the woman, he could only see various shades of red.

“Uh, sir, sir? Are you okay?” she asked.

“Wallace, what’s the matter?” his wife asked.

“Uh, nothing, nothing. Maybe we’ll take the tea to go. Thank you,” he answered. Hurrying his wife out of the shop, the two of them quickly moved back up the sidewalk toward their home.

“My goodness, Wallace,” she said. “What is the sudden big hurry to get home?”

“I think I need to lie down,” he said, not really understanding what was taking place. Hurrying into the house, he laid down on the couch and closed his eyes, hoping it would all go away.

Waking with a start, he realized that he had slept the entire night on the couch. Getting up, he climbed the stairs and found his wife still asleep in bed and, much to his delight, lacking any colorful ribbons whatsoever. Snuggling in next to her under the covers, she turned and cracked open her eyes.

“There you are, sleepy head,” she said smiling.

“Do you ever get a weird feeling when you see some people?” he asked.  

Revealing Darkness

 

He awoke in utter darkness.  Not a "wow, it's still dark out" kind of darkness, but the kind of darkness that one can feel.  The kind of darkness so thick that one's hand cannot be seen in front of one's face. Gregory sat up and tried to remember where he was.  The last thing he remembered was taking the garbage out, first thing in the morning. Sure, it was dark at that point, for it was only 4:00 am.  But this darkness was different, and he knew he was no longer outside, for there were no stars, or breeze or sound. Only dark, still, and warm.

He also knew that was sitting upon nothing but the floor.  Standing, he immediately hit the top of his head on something.  Swearing under his breath and holding his head, he stood at a crouch, about nine inches short of upright. Slowing walking in small circles with the top of his head just barely touching whatever it was above him, he found no respite from his compromised position. He had walked for what seemed to be several minutes when suddenly the back of upper leg cramped up, sending a wave of nausea sweeping over him. Dropping to his knees and then to his side, he involuntarily straightened his leg and tried to rub the cramp out.

Laying in the darkness in a cold sweat, he tried to catch his breath. Then, as if a flash bomb had gone off, he found himself standing in Mr. Lo’s Grocery store. He was seven years old, and his mom allowed him to visit the candy bar aisle. Looking up and down the aisle, he realized he was alone, and the king size Kit-Kat was calling his name. His heart beating in his chest like he had just run a marathon, he looked up and down the aisle again. Turning his back to the candy, he slowly bent down, picked up the bar and slide into the back of his pants behind his t-shirt.

Hearing his name suddenly called, he saw his mother standing at the door, ready to leave. “Come on Gregory, let’s go,” she said. Hurrying up the aisle toward her, he followed her out and they climbed in the car. Slamming the door, everything went black, and he realized that he was still lying on the floor in the darkness. Shifting to a sitting position, he still could see absolutely nothing. Leaning forward to a kneeling position, the flash bomb went off again and he found himself inside a locker in the girl’s locker room in junior high. One of the small ventilation slats had been bent and he had a clear view of the dressing area and the showers. Working hard to control his breathing, he saw the girls’ volleyball team come in from the gym. The pounding in his ears was so loud, he would have bet that anyone else could have heard it too. But he stood there and watched as they undressed and showered.

Waiting until they had all left, he slowly and quietly opened the locker door only to find himself again, in the stifling darkness. “What the heck is going on?” he thought. Dropping to his hands and knees, he began crawling in a straight line, hoping to find something, anything, any kind of clue that would tell him where he was. Unfortunately, he was moving a little too quickly and he found a post of some sort with the top of his head. The third flash bomb went off.

He sat in Chemistry class surrounded by his classmates, each one of them head down, feverishly writing on the final exam in front of them. Looking down at his own desk, he realized that he had half the test to finish and only fifteen minutes to do so. Peeking to his left, he realized that Mindy, the A+ student in the class, had moved her left arm down into her lap, exposing her entire test. A series of quick glances provided Gregory the last few answers he needed. A sudden ding of a bell went off as the period ended and he looked up to see absolute darkness.

Rubbing the top of his head, for it still stung from its abrupt contact with the post, he lay down flat on the floor and tried to make sense of what was happening. But he got nothing. There was no sound, no movement, no smell, nothing, but he was perfectly comfortable, save the small lump on the top of his head. Rolling back to his stomach and then into a hands and knees crawling position, he found the post again, worked his way around it and continued in what he thought was a straight line. Moving slowly, his left hand suddenly had nothing beneath it. Catching himself and pulling himself back, he eased forward and felt down as far as he could reach. Shimmying from one side to the other and finding only the same abrupt edge, he concluded that he had reached a crevice of some sort.

Turning himself around, he lowered his legs over the edge with the hope of reaching something further down. Eventually hanging by only his hands, his feet landed on a surface, solid but squishy. Feeling back with his foot as far as he could reach, the new surface seemed safe enough. Letting go, he stood on the spongey surface with his back to the wall. Sliding along it, first to his left, ten steps and then to his right twenty steps, he only found perfect symmetry. Returning to his hands and knees, he began again to move forward but noticed that the strange, soft floor had begun to further decline.

The slope was ever so slight but eventually he found the floor had gotten soggy and then the water had begun to pool. He was crawling through an inch of water, then few more inches and eventually a foot of water. Assuming he could stand upright, he got to his feet, stood up and immediately smacked his head on the ceiling above him. And the fourth flash bomb went off.

What he saw next was a kaleidoscope of color and sound. The crowd around him bounced and pulsed in perfect sync with the incredibly loud music. He remembered popping that small blue pill and could feel his energy go through the roof, a euphoria he had never before experienced. Working his way through the crowd, he joined a group of friends at the bar and began slamming shots of tequila. Five, six and seven shots in a fifteen-minute period, he had never felt so alive in his entire life. But that feeling suddenly left him as the tequila began dancing with the pork fried rice from earlier that evening. Bolting out of the club front door, he nearly made it to the parking lot when it all came up on his shoes and the bright red Porsche that happened to be parked there. Crumpling to pile, he closed his eyes.

Opening them again, he was sitting in elbow deep water in the absolute darkness that had now become his home. With a sigh, Gregory gave up. Hanging his head, he knew he was hopeless. But then two very strong hands slid under his armpits and lifted him to his feet.

“We found him,” someone shouted from directly behind his head. “Just keep walking forward into the water," the voice instructed, "until you can’t walk anymore and then sink to the bottom. You’ll be alright, trust me.”

Joshua Cast

 

Joshua learned how to cast. He couldn’t remember how or from whom or even the first time he did it. He just knew how. Ever since graduating high school, his life continued an interesting, twisting path. One couldn’t call the path “criminal”, for, technically speaking, he did nothing actually illegal. Aside from the typical, self-indulgences experienced by most, Joshua was all together, a pretty good guy.

As for the casting, as Joshua called it, he somehow was able to project his essence into the subconscious of others. He called it “essence” for he could find no other term to articulate exactly what it was. He could find no documentation, in all of metaphysics, history or philosophy, that identified what it was that he did. In short, Joshua could share, on a temporary, short term basis, the emotional/intuitive foundation of who he was. He shared no memories, he shared no knowledge, just essence. And more often than not, people would collapse and begin weeping uncontrollably.

His earliest memory of casting, though he was sure it was not his first cast, took place on the couch at his grandparents’ home at a Christmas Eve party for the extended family. He had just opened the one gift from his grandparents, a yellow and black floral print shirt. He smiled, he said thank you but inside couldn’t help but feel awfully disappointed. Then it happened, Claire, his one-year older cousin, opened her gift. Same size box, same wrapping paper. Squealing with delight, she extracted the newest i-phone from the box. Looking at Joshua, she discreetly stuck out her tongue and then jumping from her seat, hugged both her grandparents.

Joshua felt something very subtle, in the center of his forehead and as he looked Claire in the eyes, it happened. Suddenly she sat down, on the floor where she had stood and began sobbing.  The room fell silent. For the first three seconds, Joshua relished the feeling of victory.  But then, sitting there, looking at the teenage girl, curled into the fetal position, uncontrollably sobbing, her eyes squeezed shut into two thin slits, tears and snot cascading down her face, he suddenly felt horrible.

It was an awkward twenty-two seconds until Claire’s mother, Aunt Jane, dropped to the floor next to Claire and pulling her into her arms, embraced and consoled her. Initially, she tried to determine what exactly it was that she cried about but Claire, nearly out of her mind and incoherent, didn’t even try to answer.  Another twenty-two seconds passed and Claire’s father, Uncle Bill, helped the two ladies to their feet and guided them in the direction of the bathroom.

The room sat in silence as Uncle Bill left and then returned. The awkwardness was thick, like the undeniable presence of a fart that no one claimed. Eventually, small talk started, and the room returned to normal, for everyone that is, except for Joshua. His mind swirled as he replayed the scene over and over in his mind. Every ounce of his scientific mind could conceive of no possible explanation for the seeming connection between the buzz in his forehead and the emotional devastation of his cousin. But his heart told him otherwise. Without knowing how or what, he knew the entire scene was his doing.

“Bill, we need to go,” interrupted Aunt Jane as she poked her head out around the corner of the hallway. “We need to go right now,” she continued. Bill looking sheepish and apologetic, could only answer, “Yes, dear.” Hugs were exchanged, coats were retrieved, and Claire was not seen in the cacophony of relational communique. But Joshua only sat and pondered.

Four months later, it happened again. He sat in the front row of the high school auditorium, waiting his turn to recite an Easter poem. In his mind, Easter was an archaic holiday that only belonged to days past. But here he was, about to display his oratory prowess to an auditorium full of parents and siblings. He had deliberately chosen an obscure and somewhat controversial poem for his recitation, just because.

Patiently waiting, as each student rose from their seat, in proper alphabetical sequence, Joshua felt Brad, the class bully immediately to his left, shift in his seat and then stand. Stepping on Joshua’s foot and farting as he passed by, Brad’s face couldn’t hide the smirk that followed. Joshua involuntarily gagged. Then it occurred to him. ‘I wonder if the cast will work this far away.’ Gauging the distance to be nearly twenty feet, he felt like he would give it a try. Focusing his attention on Brad, standing before the podium and still smirking, he quietly begged for a split second of eye contact.

Then it came. Brad swept his glance across the front row and increasing his smirk ever so slightly, he made eye contact. Joshua focused on his forehead and the buzz lit across it like a cheap kitchen timer. But as soon as he connected, he suddenly felt horrible again. For the moment the buzz occurred, Brad’s ridiculous smirk turned into a sob. The tough guy Brad actually bellowed, sobbed and sounding somewhat like a donkey, gripped the sides of the podium and turned ash grey. Watching him crumple to the floor, everyone in the front row, almost in unison, rose to their feet to try to see what was happening. Brad, blubbering like a baby, just like Claire, curled into a fetal position and waxed incoherent.

Mr. Johnson, the high school English teacher and purveyor of fine Easter poetry, quickly ascended the stage and tried to intervene.  Helping Brad off the stage, he quickly turned and made a half attempt to call out for Brad’s parents.

Joshua knew how to cast, and he used it to his advantage. He was no criminal, though he certainly could have used this ability to that end. He was not even a mean person, for in his mind, emotionally crushing those whom he chose, was simply a means to an end, a source of justice for those who completely deserved the distress he shared. He considered himself a vendor of karma.

This manifestation of the mystical finally came to a head one evening as he sat in his college dorm room sharing a hookah with his roommates. Carl, the long-haired world religion major, had brought a girl to the party. She was an odd one, unlike anyone Joshua had ever met. The evening began innocently enough. Introductions were made and the hookah was loaded with Joshua’s favorite, Girl Scout Cookies. The hookah tube had made a single pass through everyone in the room, when the girl began talking about this weird buzzing feeling in her forehead. Joshua paused. He began to look directly at her but then caught himself. Staring instead at her navel, for she wore a half shirt, reality suddenly became very unreal.

“Hey, man, are you okay,” Carl asked. “You kind of look off.”

Joshua took another hit and lifted a single finger, as if to say, “Yeah, hang on a minute.” Holding it in and then exhaling, quite dramatically, he then spoke. “Yeah, it’s all good.” The weed should have distracted him enough to not think about what the girl said but he only found himself wondering all the more. He thought about casting her but that would require eye contact, which, he was sure, would open him up to her, if she was doing the same to him.

When Joshua woke up, he was wearing the girls’ half shirt and occupied the back seat of a 1962 Buick station wagon, belonging to whom, he did not know. With no recollection of how he got there or even where he actually was, he sat up and tried to gain his bearings. Checking the front seat and the rear area, he realized that he sat alone in an unknown car in an unknown field. Climbing out, he felt rather odd wearing nothing but a half shirt that wasn’t even his. Removing the shirt and wrapping it around his waist, he started walking towards what he believed to be a road. It was then that his friend Carl showed up.

“Dude, there you are,” he said. “Nice skirt you’ve got on there. I’ve been looking for you for almost an hour. Hop in, I’ll give you a ride back home.”

The two sat in silence for a moment and then Carl continued. “Man, that was one crazy night. I can’t believe what happened between you and that girl. Did you even know her?”

“I’m afraid to ask,” Joshua said. “What happened? I have absolutely no recollection of anything.”

“Man, I don’t know if it was the weed or what but out of the blue, you two started like a staring contest or something. It was wild. I’ve never seen two people get so intense. You kept getting closer and closer together and then all of sudden, it was like a volcano of light went off. The whole room lit up and everybody got super happy and smiley and peaceful. Oh, man the peace, the peace was unbelievable. Kind of like everyone was in one big hug, love fest. It was beautiful.”

“Uh…. Okay,” Joshua said. “That’s really weird. Is the girl still around? I don’t even know her name.”

“Yeah, when I left, she was asleep on the couch. But she could have left by now. I guess we’ll see when we get back.”

Heroes Among Us

 

“Do you know what it’s like,” the old man said. “To have no one your equal with whom to speak?” The teenage boy simply looked at him and smiled. “Don’t smirk at me, you patronizing little prick,” the old man barked. “You have no idea who I am or of what I am capable. What are you, 15 years old? Have you ever even left this little town? Have you ever even loved a woman? Of course not, you have experienced basically nothing, and your knowledge is just about as bad.”

“Well, it was nice speaking with you Mr. Solovyov,” the young man said. “I’ll see you next week.” Standing up the boy slid his chair back and left the room, giving a small wave as he left the old man’s room.

“Man, he is the weirdest old dude that I’ve ever met,” he said to his friend as they left the building.

“Are you still visiting that old Russian guy,” his friend said. “Why do you do that to yourself?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “There’s something about him that is really interesting. Kind of like the way you look at a car crash when you drive by one. I don’t know, he seems really smart and stuff but at the same time, he is super grumpy.”

Parting ways as they reached the end of the sidewalk, his friend turned. “Hey Steve, where’re you going? The bus is this way.”

“Yeah, I know but it’s last period and I’ve got everything I need from my locker, so I’m just going to walk home from here. It’s not that far.”

“All right, see you tomorrow then.”

Steve walked down the sidewalk, his head down with the words of Mr. Solovyov ringing in his ears. “Of course not, you have experienced basically nothing, and your knowledge is just about as bad.” “I’m not a bad guy,” he said to himself. “I know some stuff. I’ve had a girlfriend. The old guy just needs to give me a chance.”

Walking through his front door, he met his mom as she was coming down from upstairs. “Oh hi, Steve, you’re early today. What’s up, you look a little down?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. We visited the old folks’ home today during last period. I met that old Russian guy again, but I can’t seem to get his comments out of my head.”

“Was he being mean?” she asked. “I mean, the school shouldn’t put you in situations like that. What was he saying?”

“Apparently, he thought I was being smug and arrogant, but I wasn’t. He is just so different from anyone I’ve ever met before. I don’t really know how to interact with him.”

“Just try asking him questions about himself,” she suggested. “They say people like to talk about themselves and you can guarantee that someone that old and from another culture will have a ton of interesting stories. Anyway, dinner will be ready in about an hour. Try to be here.”

Lying in his bed later that evening, the caustic monolog from Mr. Solovyov continued to play in Steve’s mind.  “Aggh, I gotta do something to stop this. This is crazy,” he thought. Slipping out of bed and into his exercise clothes, he hurried down the stairs and outside. Breaking into a sprint, he ran with no real goal in mind. Finally reaching the edge of town, he turned around and sprinted back. Exhausted, he collapsed on the lawn, mere inches from vomiting. Waiting for the sensation to subside, he pulled himself up and returned to his bedroom. Taking a quick shower, he collapsed on his bed and immediately fell asleep.

In what seemed like a mere moment, Steve sat up and tried to adjust his eyes to the darkness of the room.

“Having a good sleep there, little boy,” came a voice from the chair in the corner of his room.

Letting out an involuntary reaction, he strained hard to try to see into the darkness. It was then that he realized that Mr. Solovyov was sitting in his room.

“Yeah, kind of weird, isn’t it,” the old man said. “To be lying in your bed and to have a complete stranger come in and start talking to you. Have you ever thought about just how strange that is?”

“What… how… what are you doing here?” Steve blubbered out, more scared than anything.

“Oh, I’m just here for a visit,” said the old man. “I thought I’d just sit here and look at you as you lay there in your pajamas. Nothing weird about that, is there?”

Rubbing his face and eyes, he repeated over and over to himself, “This is just a dream. This is just a dream.” Throwing himself back down onto his pillow. He realized in that same split second that his mother was standing over him.

“Hey, wake up, young man,” she said. “You’re going to be late for school.”

Quickly getting dressed, he grabbed a muffin from the kitchen counter, grabbed his backpack from below the coatrack by the front door and hurried out. Meeting his friend at the bus stop, he launched into the story of his evening.

“I’m telling you, man, the old guy was in my bedroom last night, like super late. I don’t know when, but I actually listened to him talk.”

              “Nah, that’s nuts,” his friend answered. “That old guy can barely walk, or not to mention getting out of the old folks’ home and into your house. You’re just feeling weirded out by the stuff he was saying.”

“Please don’t tell me that we’re going to visit them again today,” Steve said. “That would be just too weird looking at him and talking like nothing happened.”

“Nothing did happen, Steve. Get a grip on yourself.”

Meeting his friend at the door to the last period classroom, they sat down and waited.  Five minutes passed the beginning of class and Mrs. Abercrombie was nowhere to be seen.

The door opened and Principal Johnson came. “There has been a change of plans for your class today, students,” he said. “Mrs. Abercrombie had to suddenly leave for a family emergency, so instead, I’ll be taking you to the rest home for a visit.”

Steve dropped his forehead onto his desk and groaned.

Walking into the old folks’ home, Steve went straight to Mr. Solovyov’s room and knocked on the door jamb. The old man was sitting on the edge of his bed, dressed for day.

“Hello, Mr. Solovyov?” Steve called out. “Looks like we get an extra visit in this week. How about we go outside and talk?”

“Ah, taking my advice, huh?” the old man said.

“Pardon? Your advice?” Steve asked.

“Oh, don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about. I knew you punks would be coming so I hoped that you would heed my suggestion.”

Steve was afraid to go to bed that evening. Staying up late and watching a movie, he ordered a pizza delivery towards the end of the film, looking for any excuse to stay up even later. Finally, well past 1:00 am, he staggered to his bedroom and lay down, falling asleep immediately. Then like clockwork, he woke, looked at the clock and seeing 3:33, immediately recognized the old man’s form sitting in the chair in the corner.

“Wouldn’t want to miss our little talks, now would you?” the old man said. “Since you seem to scared to take the lead, I’m going to start telling you stories.”

Steve sat and listened to the old man recount the Napoleonic invasion of Russia, at which, Mr. Solovyov claimed to have fought. He listened to stories of the Crimean War of 1853, of World War 1 and World War 2. He listened to stories of fighting in Turkey, Poland, Lithuania, and Sweden. He told of all the women he had loved, in Russia, Ukraine, Poland and France. The French women were his favorite, he said.

Night after night, the old man would visit and weave fantastic tales of military prowess, both victories and defeats.  Then suddenly, he stopped visiting. For the next several days, Steve would wake up at 3:33 and look for Mr. Solovyov but he never came back.

The next visitation day at the old folks’ home, Steve didn’t go to Mr. Solovyov’s room, instead he went to the front desk and asked about the old man.

“I’m sorry young man, Mr. Solovyov passed away three days ago,” the nurse said. “Are you family?”

“No, ma’am, I’m not. I’m from the school and regularly visited him.”

“Is your name Steve?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am, I’m Steve,” he answered.

“Well, Mr. Solovyov left clear written instructions that you were to receive this on his passing,” she said. Handing Steve a thick photo album with a large S on the front, she smiled at him. “He spoke very highly of you,” she said. “You must have made quite the impression on him. I don’t know if I ever heard him speak well of anyone.”

Steve sat down in the main foyer and began thumbing through the photo album. Picture after picture passed before his eyes, in every one of them, he recognized Mr. Solovyov in various military uniforms. As he reached the last page, he came across a document, written in Russian. From the tiny footprint in black ink, he assumed it was a birth certificate, dated 1795.

“Uh, ma’am,” he called out, standing up and walking back toward the desk. “Do you have any idea how old Mr. Solovyov was?”

“No, I’m sorry, I don’t,” she said.

Slipping the photo album under his arm, he slowly walked home.