In my novel, American Boys, there is one purposeful inaccuracy. In the book, Lizzy has two sons, one with retinitis pigmentosa (RP), and one with autism.
I know that, because I have RP, my father had it, and my sons both have it, that it is passed from father to daughter, and daughter to son, so Lizzy's sons would both have RP, if one had it, but I could be wrong, because I have also heard it is a 50/50 genetic possibility. On the other hand, I have read that sons always inherit it from mothers, and daughters from fathers, so that if I had a girl, she would not have it.
The reason I decided to write it this way, is that first of all, it is fiction, so it does not have to be accurate to the T, but the thing is, even though we all have it, my sons and me, as well, I wanted their lives to be easier than ours. The younger boy has a seizure disorder, and my older son had a seizure disorder when he was twelve, and my younger son has asthma. So, I guess I was trying to make parallels, but wanted it to be palatable. I mean, it is hard for me to tell people the truth of my own life, because I hate pity, and I hate people to think of my life as too hard, because to me it is just a life, and I am not the only one effected. The kids are.
Some day, but probably not, I will write my own exact story, but I doubt it, because writing about my own story makes me sad somehow, so making fictional characters, with parts of my problems, made it go down easier, for the reader. At least that was my angle.
Possibly, but I doubt it, there could be some other weird gene pattern where my story's character, Daniel, could be the only one with RP in the family, and I guess it happens, but him having a brother, I highly doubt it. Also, usually the mother would have it, if she carried it. That is the usual way it works. Father to daughter, daughter to son, or mother to son.
I was born in Leon, Guanajato, Mexico. My parents were artists, who had met in Woodstock, New York, and moved to Mexico to paint.
My father owned a church converted to a house, in Woodstock New York, and he and my mother were both artists, so after I was born, they took all four kids, two from my mother's previous marriage, their son, my brother Christopher, and myself, the only one not born in Kingston, New York, and the one who always felt she was born to the wrong family somehow, not an unusual feeling, back to the church in Woodstock, to live. I did not feel this way as a small child, although I knew my sisters were closer to each other, than to me due to our different fathers, but even today, now that Dad is gone, I don't feel close to any of them, except my mother, and occasionally my brother and oldest sister, who scarcely know that I am alive, I think.
Shortly after my birth, they moved back to Woodstock, to the church, which I remember well, even though I only lived there until I was four, when we moved here.
My father had a studio, in the graveyard adjacent to that church, and I would sit on the floor when he painted, and draw, and I remember this. I also remember, not their finding out of Baba, really, but my father, who used to lie around on his bed, and listen to talking books as much as I do, because he had retinitis pigmentosa too, and went totally blind when he was fifty, sang me a Beetle song, but changed the lyrics to, I'm so sad and lonely, 'Baba' take a chance with me, rather than, baby take a chance with me.
So we moved here, and lived on the Meher Center, a gift from Baba, but to me just a life, and I will spare you the details of growing up in the bible belt under such circumstances, but enough to make anyone bitter.
I graduated from high school one year early. College was like finishing school for me. I learned to wear make-up, style my hair, and what to wear with what.
Soon after transferring, after my third year, I met my husband to be, a Baba follower. I was going to Coastal Carolina, working at a clothing store, and once he came back from India, in '82, he moved in with me.
I had my own apartment by then. I was only twenty.
Now, he is a born again Christian, but Mehera J. Irani adored him, and kept us together. Like many things, I think she was about the only glue to hold things together, in an abstract sense. Like so many things in this world, we crashed and burned, after her death, so to speak.
When I was pregnant with our second child, my parents divorced, and Dad lived on one side of the house, Mom on the other. It was that way until Dad died.
Before they moved here, Dad was discovered in the New York art scene, and had shows in Manhattan. Celebrities attended, such as Norman Mailer, who was actually my mother's sister's ex husband, and my cousin's father.
He gave it all up, for this, for what, to die a pauper, at the Meher Spiritual Center, where we have all been put down, pushed around.
If I were to stand there, and pretend to be a la di da Baba follower, I would only be making a mockery of myself, because when Mom dies, even if I were to try to live in our family home, they would just give me an eviction notice. So, there you go. So much for love and spirituality. My parents bought the land, payed for the house to be built, and payed taxes and insurance all the years, as well as designing, as well as paying for the building of the road that goes through Sheriar Gate, the Ott gate, my parents' gate, while the Meher Spiritual Center payed zilch in terms of their own taxes, because of their so called church status, and you wonder why you rarely see me there? And, they want a house that someone else built and payed for, payed taxes on for forty-seven years, as well as purchasing the land, for which they also payed taxes on for forty-seven years?! That's why. Church status - politics status. I don't care if no one likes this article. The truth will set you free, according to Jesus. Don't even look for a way to lecture me, because I will cut you to the quick. The truth needs to be known, no matter what anyone says, and I am not doing anyone a disservice, only the opposite, by exposing the truth. Truth.
Do you think my title is long enough, a rhetorical question I suppose? I keep going from one desire to the next, but they are all very innocent desires, if you can call desires innocent. I think I want fake leather pants. Don't ask me why.
I was staying at a friend's apartment, a few years ago, six to be precise. I cannot function without coffee in the morning, so if I ever stay at anyone's home besides my own, the first thing I ask about, in the morning, is coffee.
(Whenever I have traveled with anyone, and we stayed at a motel, the first thing I thought about in the morning, was, 'can we get a cup of coffee here? Can you bring us some?')
"Do you have any coffee?," I asked.
"No."
"Can we order out for coffee?"
"Order out for coffee?"
"Yeah, they do it in New York. I've seen it on TV."
He mimics talking on the phone, his hand near his ear, "bring my goddamn coffee now!," in a mock New York accent.
She laughs, but since there is no coffee, she goes back to bed and sleeps til 2:00 in the afternoon, long after he has left, and she departs on foot, gets a free cup of coffee at the hospital, only twenty blocks away, and calls her people.
Whenever I stay with people, like traveling or something, I ask them if they have any coffee in the morning.
Sometimes, they have coffee made. Once they said, "I suppose we can dig it out."
Once, someone made me an extraordinary cup of coffee with a french press.
Today, ours broke, so I pulled out all my coffee making devices. Coffee is like an antidepressant for me, or something, a stimulant.
Now that I am a feminist, it is one of my freedoms. When I was a young wife and mother, my husband forbade me to drink coffee. In California, I had to sneak to Melrose Ave. with the baby in the stroller to get a cappucino. That is if I could get enough money together, and I had the day off of work, which was never.
Now, I do what I want. If I were married again, I'd want to do what I want. That doesn't mean I would want to cheat or anything. I just mean, I would not want guidelines or rules about what I could drink or eat. I'm an adult. If I want coffee, I drink coffee. If I want to drink alcohol, I drink alcohol. I guess I don't have any other vices, so I guess that's about it.
I already am a good cook, and keep an immaculately neat and clean home. I even wash the walls down. Partly, it is because my son has asthma, and I have to keep the dust down.
When he was a kid, I had him allergy tested. The doctor drew a diagram on his back, with a big black marker, and inserted allergens into the boxes, such as dust mites, roach particles, shell fish such as lobster and shrimp, oranges, bananas, peanuts, ragweed, and it became inflamed in most of the boxes, meaning allergies. He went for allergy shots for a while. The point is he had a lot of allergies. Allergies and asthma go hand in hand.
Did you ever think about how in the hippie days, when feminism was emerging, how hippie chicks sang meekly along with their guitar playing, singer boyfriends? What was that about? More gender placement, and women playing out demure little roles. Not me, nope, never, never, never.
Oh, yeah, I mean, I admit, I used to be a major wimp. If you read any of my woe is me blogs, about my stupid past, you know it. I used to be a major dish rag: definition - a person who just lets their self be annihilated by pleasing another, and loses their own essence in the process.
That is it. Essence. The best book, as far as feminism, is Women Who Run With the Wolves. That book is amazing. All these archetypal roles are evident in the folklore, legends and stories, and Pinkola is a genius, in her dissertation, which the book actually is, based on Jungian psychology. Jung was so right about so much, like the shadow, which I speak of all the time in my blogs, and how we all need to embrace it. That does not mean, become a sociopath, or a bad person, but stop trying to be perfect, accept the whole self, not just parts and pieces.
I put myself down too much. I mean, I managed to get my kids through school, went back to school, myself, sent one kid to college, even though he did not continue. I made sure they ate, had a roof over their heads. I voted. I kept the utilities on, the rent payed. I worked. I drove them safely, in a vehicle when I could see. I took them to the doctor, to the dentist, got them vaccinated.
I may have had problems, emotional, or whatever you want to call it, but I was a fully functioning woman, and I still am. I may not be able to see well, but I can do many things well, still. I am established and a pillar of my community, my community at large. I realize I am not as spiritual as other Baba followers. Is it really that, or is it just that I am not a pretender? My spirituality is a personal matter, not a show, and I am not looking for spiritual approval. I bow to no one, and no one should bow to anyone. Meher Baba dropped the body in 1969. I need not pay homage to human figures, or so called spiritual giants.
I once heard my father talking on the phone, to the director of the Meher Center in Myrtle Beach. It was on my behalf. He said, "these people who come to the center have no idea what Meher Baba is about." I know I am being judgmental, but I can't stand pretense.
After participating in the town hall meeting, yesterday, with Rep. Rice, via telephone, I was disturbed by a few things. They never got to me, or my questions, so I left a message and sent an email today.
I could not believe what I was hearing people say. One lady said, we should not have pelle grants? He actually agreed, and I admit there was more to it than that, but do people know how expensive college tuition is now?
I am glad as far as jobs are concerned, that this gun manufacturer is coming from Connecticut, because South Carolina is apparently right up there with Texas where guns are concerned. How are we as a state, a county going to deal with gun violence, which was my question?
One lady said, the illegals are not good citizens. That is a bit unfair. It sounded like racism to me, and he just allowed it. He apparently is not for amnesty. People forgot that the Boston Marathon bombers, were not only legal, but white.
One lady I kind of agreed with, about the young Russian people coming and taking all the summer jobs. He claimed that no one else would do the jobs. I do not believe that. Citizens need jobs. Americans need jobs. It is so hard for Americans to get work visas to other countries. Only a rich kid could afford to come here on a work visa from Russia. So, here I agree with her, and disagree with him.
Thank you as always for reading my blogs.
I wrote in the past about my journey to India, my last trip, solo, in 1996, how very nonspiritual of me, but admittedly so, I went for the wrong reason(s). However, I did not write about my journey home, and this part is heart wrenching, to me, at least.
Well, because I was hanging out with a particular man, whom I shall let remain nameless, he decided, since we were an item, back then, that we should travel together to Bombay, and depart the same day. I was leaving on this particular day, no matter what, October 16, New Life Day, and had to get back to work, it having been hard to get the time off, and it being too expensive for me to change my ticket. So, I agreed to share a cab, from the pilgrim center to Bombay, even though I was flying to the states, and he to the UK.
The night before we were to leave, this young woman was trying to talk him into staying longer, and even offering to lend him money, since thief that he was, he always lied that he had no money. He had no character, whatsoever.
I simply said, that I was retiring. I woke up feeling sad, somehow, and I went to the tomb, early that morning, there being very little time to get ready, with breakfast and all, to depart, and so the que at the tomb, being incredibly long, discouraged me, and I returned down the hill, to the old pilgrim center, where my parents' murals are.
Dressed in a burgundy tee shirt, and an Indian print skirt, after packing I posed with everyone, including my so called companion, for a group picture, with him in his stupid outback hat.
The whole way to Bombay, I had to listen to this horrid man berate me, about what a terrible person I was. I was crying, but it had nothing to do with him. It was because I did not say goodbye to Baba at the tomb, and I knew in my heart of hearts, I was not returning. I did not know yet that I would go blind, even though I already had poor eyesight. I also did not know what financial dire straights, and hardships were ahead of me. I had only been divorced for a year, and once my ex-husband started having kids with his new wife, he did not take that much responsibility for ours, except that he did pay child support, which I have to give credit for.
Anyway, I retreated to a world of my own, and sang the Gujarati Arti to myself, in the taxi. We stopped at some hellhole, trash everywhere, filthy bathroom. There were lots of beggars. I had not eaten our lunch. I had no appetite for the food that had been given us by the kitchen staff.
We gave some food to a woman, but had nothing for a begging child. I realized when we drove away, that we had uneaten peanut butter sandwiches, which I could have given the child. I became grief and guilt stricken over this realization. I cried all the more, silently. I did not want this man, I was with, to know I was crying.
Once at the Lela Kempinsky, there were all sorts of ordeurves, cappucino, pastries, and anything the heart desired, but I could not eat a thing, thinking about the hungry child. It bothered me so much.
Finally it was happy hour. We went for drinks, like we always did. I drank four gin martinis. I was very drunk. I was not happy drunk. I was miserable drunk. The hostess even followed me into the ladies room, to ask me if I was in need of money or something. She had brought me a glass of water earlier, while I sat in the parlor, there.
I said, "no, I'm fine."
Finally, I left alone on a shuttle. He kissed my cheek, goodbye. I went to the airport drunk, and got a meal at the airport, while I was waiting, a veggieburger, I believe, and fries or fritters, perhaps, and probably coffee.
I flew back to America. The plane stopped in Frankfurt. I felt strange in the airport, felt the cold filter through the terminal. I drank coffee, a bottled water, tried to clear my head.
I slept a lot, but had almost no appetite for food. They used to feed you well on airlines, as well as free drinks on international flights. I did drink, however. And, I slept, slept a lot.
Finally, at home, after getting over jet lag, and getting over a sickness from the trip, I began to thrive again. I gave my dad's friend a gift, but I do not remember what else I brought from India, except some things that I had bought, and the nameless man, had bought me a ring, a green stone in it, but I really do not know the meaning, perhaps none, and he ended up, two years later, pulling it off my finger, and throwing it away. I feel like all that was just a nightmare, so unhappy, so blank, so soulless, so nothing. If only I could have found myself sooner, before I sank into quick sand. I had so much to offer the world with my music, writing, drawings and healing arts. It all seems a waste of a life now. I just do not know.
When Barbara Bamberger Scott was writing The Empty Chair, she asked me via email, to give her a memoir of my experience of being a child at the '69 Darshan. Of course, there were a few other children, and at least two that I know, also gave her memoirs, which they wrote about it. Unfortunately, I went by a nickname 'Sage' for ten years, and now go by Leslie again, my birth name, so my memoirs are published in the index, and in the book, as Sage Ott Walsh, rather than Leslie, but that is alright.
So, I thought I would tell you what I remember. First my father, mother, brother, who was nine, and I, seven then, traveled to New York city, with Dolly Lux, met my half sisters there, who were living with their father in Woodstock. They came, as well.
I recall arriving in Bombay, no terminal then, you arrived outdoors. I recall the heat, and the unique aroma of India, diesel and curry, I suppose.
Darshan was held at Guru Prasad, in Pune. Eruch, Meher Baba's interpreter said, "you have all kept your appointment with God."
There was a chair, 'an empty chair,' which everyone bowed to. There was a children's Darshan. Eruch had myself, my brother, the Riley kids, and Shelley Smith, come sit around Baba's chair.
I recall distinctly, but not exactly when, I first saw Mehera with Mani and the other women mandali. Her head was covered by her sari. She was in mourning. I went home to draw pictures of Indian women mourning Baba, and covering their eyes with their hands all around Baba's chair. I liked to draw then.
I was introduced to Mehera. She gave me a Baba button, with a gold background. I still have it.
We went to a Baba meeting in Pune, where Baba's brother, Jal, who I thought was handsome then, played drums, and people sang in Indian, and played other eastern instruments. It was a concert. We watched the entombment film.
We stayed at the Amir Hotel, in Pune. My mother freaked out, because someone told her they had seen me eating a salad. We were not to eat raw stuff like that, for hygiene purposes, so as not to get sick, but when she arrived, she found that the salad I was eating was cooked, and I never got sick, at all, that I remember.
We went to Ahmednaagar by bus. I fell asleep on an Indian man's shoulder. He smiled at me, when I woke up, and looked up at him, realizing I was sleeping on his shoulder.
We went to the tomb. I put my hand in the dirt, which was not covered yet, by any stone.
On the way home, we went shopping in Bombay. My parents bought me a gold metallic dress, with embroidery.
When we returned, the kids on the school bus were happy and surprised to see me back. I brought an orange sari to school, for show and tell, and my second grade teacher, Miss Simpson, I think, helped me stretch it out, and show it to the class.
I am sorry I did not have an earth shaking spiritual awakening, or anything, but I was only a child. I mean, I am not sorry for me, just sorry if you were expecting a big, amazing, earth shaking experience. I will say, though, that I enjoyed myself, with the presence and mindfulness, that only a child can possess.
I realize I may have lost friends, talking about politics. I mean Facebook friends, and although I am no longer going to say what my very unpopular views are on certain matters, not wanting to hurt people's feelings, because some of my views are a bit radical, and I realize that they have personal content.
For all practical purposes, I always vote Democratic. I have voted in every election, since I was old enough to vote, and the first person I voted for was Jimmy Carter.
I believe in a certain amount of socialism, but not complete of course. We already have a certain amount of socialism. I believe that this is a good thing, and I believe in the Democratic fiscal system, of rich paying more taxes, etc., rather than 'trickle down economics.'
However, when it comes to certain values, I agree more with the conservatives, not the radical ones, but the moderate ones. I am not liberal in all areas, which I will not expose in this blog, and are a personal matter, but I guess what I am saying is, I wish there were a political party that was fiscally liberal, not to the point of complete socialism, but fair socialism, and some capitalism, at the same time socially conservative.
In America, there is mainly a two party system, for anyone outside this country. There are other parties, like the Green Party, but these are kind of useless, because independents never win. Only a Republican or a Democrat can win an election, so people who vote for others, are really throwing away a vote.
I guess what I am saying is that I wish people did not have to be lumped into a category of thinking, or a complete thought system, due to the way they vote.
'Once she came into my room, feathered hat and all, wearing a warm wool shawl, wrapped around her shoulders, two eyes like lights, milky marble whites, looking up at me...' Cat Stevens (Sweet Scarlet, from Catch Bull at Four album)
It's funny how people drift apart. When I was about eleven, my second to oldest half sister, who was six or seven years older than me, said those lines to that song reminded her of me. We were in our room, in my parents house, listening to the song on her album, and she said that.
We have not spoken in over ten years, eleven I guess. I will not get into why. It is just funny how people drift apart.
It is sometimes more than that. There is some underlying deep seeded issue, that no one can talk about. Any feelings of love or fondness, or even good will get put aside, forgotten.
People forget that they ever loved you, or felt close to you. They choose only to look at what it is they do not accept about you.
It is just funny that way. I do not really know the reasons. People hurt people, and they do not even look back, or even think about it, nor care. It is like you knew them in another life, an alternate universe. Truthfully, I rarely think about it now.
You can be born from the same mother, have once lived in the same home, but it makes no difference sometimes.
We were like two sets of kids. My mother had two girls, the oldest and her, the one I'm referring to, when she married me father. Then my brother was born, and then me.
I never wanted the half sibling thing to matter, but it really did, because my sisters were always much closer to each other, than to me, and I guess still are. I suppose I am closest to my brother, although I do have a relationship with my oldest sister, who does not have a problem with me.
I have two sons, and they have half siblings, their father's kids, but although I know they like them, they are so much younger than my kids, even though their dad is much older than me. It is all a bit strange, I suppose.
It is funny, though, how people drift apart, no longer care for each other, nor love each other or even want a relationship with each other. It is just the way it is, just karma, I suppose. Maybe it is past life stuff.
I never did anything to offend her. She just put this huge wedge between us, and now the damage is done in a sense, the bridges are burned, and no one wants to make any step towards a reconciliation. It is okay with me, but I admit it is a little strange.
I think I am sometimes haunted by the past, by my childhood, the sixties, seventies, eighties, nineties. I cannot believe I am the same person I was when I was born, and yet some relationships are constant. My friends, my mother, my father's memory, my brother, my other sister, my kids, even my ex-husband is not on bad terms with me.
I do not really talk to ex-boyfriends, although if Alan had lived, we would probably be friends, at least sometimes, but as my son said, I may have glorified Alan, because he died. He was okay, but probably not as wonderful as I sometimes make him out to be, God rest his soul, no disrespect.
Life is strange. 'People are strange' The Doors, Jim Morrison
I am reading a book, originally written in Swedish, I think, translated into several languages, including English, called, Let Me In. It is very sick and creepy, like Stephen King, but entertaining.
Truthfully, as much as I like horror, I cannot watch the VHS we own, Silence of the Lambs, with Jodi Foster and Anthony Hopkins, alone.
I have thought about topics I might write another book about, but it will not be on line again, if I do. I have thought of writing something light and funny. I have thought of writing something suspenseful, like a Lifetime movie. They always show the same story again and again. I think I know the recipe by now.
Life is intense, and so much swift karma changing, maya's clutches on the world. Communication is not good right now, it seems. I have already butted heads with my kids today. Someone was saying that it is another retrograde, astrologically speaking. I do not know that much about it, truthfully, do not really understand. I have not delved into astrology in a really long time.
They also pointed out that perhaps, things are worse now that Mehera is gone, Mehera J. Irani, Meher Baba's beloved. That makes sense, in a way, I suppose. However, things have been intense as long as there has been history.
Well, I got off subject again. I am not a literary snob, nor an intellectual, even though a guy I hung out with a few years ago, called me a southern belle, Jewish intellectual, which was a funny combination. He must have thought that, because I dragged him to A Course in Miracles, and we went to see my mother's art work, and happened to come across my old papers, art critiques from college, taped into my sketch pad from college. Wow, I could really write then. My art critiques were rather sophisticated, to toot my own horn.
I really do not know why I read such crap, or maybe not crap, but morbid stuff. Perhaps, it makes me feel less morbid, by comparison. It is hard not to get depressed when you carry a load of responsibility, and you do one thing wrong, as far as grown kids are concerned, and your other kid gets pissed at you, and it's his birthday, and on and on it goes.
'And the seasons they go round and round, and the painted ponies go up and down...'
Joni Mitchell (Circle Game)
So, I just want to escape, even to a world of horror, because it is not as bad as the real horror, I suppose, but I am really over-reacting, I guess. And, I am sorry if this blog makes no sense, lol.
As a whole, I am totally okay with things, and am adjusted to partial blindness, even have a certificate from a program called adjustment to blindness, which took me five and a half months of classes at the South Carolina Commission for the Blind, in Columbia, South Carolina, to obtain. It took staying there all week, every week, Monday through Friday, and transported home for weekends to be with family, pay bills, and then back again, two and a half to three hours west of here, and back to the beach.
It took getting up at 6:00 every morning, having breakfast downstairs, and on to class after class, mobility training on the streets and malls of Columbia, as well as just doing stairways on the campus, two braille classes a day, home management, and vocational rehab. I guess the weekends home, sleeping in helped to regroup for the coming week.
Now, it has been four years, since then, and I am living in the civilian from blindness, sighted world, and some of it is a real bitch. I am sorry if I am using my blog as a bitch session, but I am sick of always acting like la di da, and life is so great, and I have all the answers. I do not.
I realize my third eye and throat chakras are both blocked. I did some testing and meditation yesterday, to help another person to try to open some of their chakras, being a reiki master, having that certificate too.
My goddess pendulum, given to me by Penny, my reiki and yoga teacher, when I got my reiki master certification, along with the other people getting theirs, is very accurate.
I can tell that these chakras are blocked, not only by the pendulum, but by the way I am approaching my life right now, and my lack of communication or assertiveness skills, as well as my lack of insight.
I have had psychic abilities and good intuition a lot, but now I have the worst judgment about people, and I cannot express myself, nor assert myself.
I will go on with why I hate being a visually impaired person, and try not to go on all day. Believe me, if I was in therapy, I would talk to them.
1) This is small, but paper work is a bitch, 2) lack of transportation: if I go out anywhere with someone, to a club, a concert, I am at their mercy. I cannot just leave when I want. I can either take a cab, which costs a lot here, or if close enough to home, and I know the way, walk home with my cane for the visually impaired. During the day, I do not need the cane. It is only at night, or in a dim building, that is congested or I am not familiar with, like going to visit someone in the hospital, for instance. 3) I hate the way people I meet, sometimes act about my disability, even though I do not consider my self disabled, just visually challenged, I suppose. They act awkward. They either do not see that I am blind, or even know what my cane is, and I have to tell them, or they act like I am totally blind, and they do not understand why I can get around somewhat on my own, and yet they either do not help me at all, or enough around stairs, steep stairs, or they help me too much. I would actually prefer sometimes to be helped too much. I feel like people ignore me, and pretend I am not even there.
The thing that burns me up the most, is when people are completely inconsiderate. You go out somewhere with them, and they want to stay and stay for eternity, long after the concert is over. They want to go to the next bar, with people they know, who don't know you, and you say, "okay," but you really want to go home. You are tired, but you are already there now, and if you ask them if you can leave now, they don't even seem aware of you. So, you finally say you are getting a cab, and they are so rapped up in their own self, and their conversation, that they say, "okay." But, you realize you are not that far from home, and you have made this journey on foot in the day, and even though you cannot see well, the darkness makes it cool, rather than hot. So, you decide to walk with your cane. But, you realize you are going in the wrong direction, are not oriented, and have to turn yourself around with what vision you have. You head for home. Then you hear people calling behind you, "are you 'so & so's' friend?," and you ignore them, and they keep calling, and so you turn around, and they say something. You are stone cold sober, but you can't rap your head around what they are saying, and so you say, "she doesn't give a shit," and you continue, not even knowing exactly what it was they said.
A guy comes up on a bicycle. You feel afraid. You pull out your cell phone. You cannot bring mace to concerts, but he keeps going. He stops ahead, and so do you, and you are ready to dial those three numbers, but he goes on. You keep going. The lights from your neighborhood grocery store, very close to your house, are illuminated. The store is open all night. You walk in front, where the light is, and voila, you are in your neighborhood, and you know it like the back of your hand.
You are hot and sweaty, hungry and thirsty. Your 'friend' comes by to see if you made it home, but you are in the shower, and your son tells them this, because it is true. But, you do not really want to hang out anymore. You do not want to go out with people you do not know well, anymore, even if you want a social life, and to have fun, because it is not fun anymore. It is a drag. They have no consideration, and do not treat you with the decency of a human being. Perhaps their intentions were good, but in the end, it's just me, me, me, for them, and you don't even matter.
That is the truth. That is how it really is. It is a bitch and it sucks, and it is really fucked up. I am sorry, but that is the truth, my truth, at this moment, and no, I don't apologize for my truth.
Dr. Gibson showed me to his office, in the green tinted building, with it's massive sky lights, a courtyard in the center, surrounded by light and trees, and a pond that ran along the side of the building like a mote.
I took a seat, not across from him, because his desk was pushed up to the window, in a manner so that we were not looking across at one another, but more like vertical or horizontal, I can never remember the two, or get them straight, but of course in this context it does not really make a difference.
"How have you been?," he asked me. We made eye contact. He was sort of handsome, in a way, through his glasses, brown eyes, I think. I liked the sound of his voice. Not too low, not too high, no accent. He looked down at his notes, my chart, or whatever it was on paper, he was looking at.
"Fine, I guess. I mean - I have some anxiety still, but not too bad."
"So, are you still getting married?," he asked, writing some notes down.
"No, he dumped me. I guess I told him too much about myself, my childhood, things that were personal. I'm always too open, and I need to be more guarded, I suppose. I guess he wanted someone who had a picture story life. Good luck finding it. Ya know what I mean?"
He nodded, and continued to jot something down.
"I used to have a fear of abandonment, but then I ended up alone, so I had to get used to it," I said.
He laughed. I always made him laugh, somehow. I have this way of making people laugh, even when I am not trying to be funny. I suppose it is like some sort of deadpan humor, that I do not even realize I have.
"So, I guess he wasn't the one, then," he said.
"No, I mean. I don't want to be with someone, who I can't really be honest with, or be myself with."
"That's true," he responded.
"You know, when I was in my twenties, before my ex-husband and I had our second child, we were separated for eight months, during which time I went to India, and left my boy with my parents. In fact, it was their idea. They thought it would get my mind off things. We follow an eastern master," I added.
"So do I," he said, and pulled out a picture of him. He was very old, Indian, with a long white beard, holding an alphabet board. He was silent like my spiritual master.
I gave him a card, with a picture of my own spiritual master, in a white sadhra, flowing hair, and one hand in a body of water, like a river. He kept the card.
I went back to my story. "Well, before I went to India, this guy I knew from California, southern California, came and pursued me, but I wasn't interested, because I really wanted to be with my husband," I said regretfully.
"You were in love with someone else," he said. Why do I not think of the obvious, sometimes, and act as if life should be lived from the perspective of practicality alone? Maybe, because I have made so many bad decisions in my life.
I was forty then, a single mother, and still hoping to find a decent relationship, after having been with a conman for six years, who stole everything I had, so that I ended up on assistance from the government. Never again.
"You seem okay with the breakup with your fiance," he observed.
"No, I feel kind of bad about it. He was a college professor. I thought we would have some security, but truthfully he was obnoxious."
Dr. Gibson looked at me. "There's always other fish in the sea. You have an aura about you, that men will always be attracted to."
I said nothing, almost a little embarrassed. I looked down at my gypsy like outfit, blue velvet skirt and black embroidered peasant blouse. My hair was longish, and back in a loose pony tail.
Time went by, and time turned to years, seven to be exact, but always looking forward to seeing Dr. Gibson.
One day I noticed he seemed distracted. "Are you okay?," I asked.
"Oh, yeah," he said, but did not look it.
We went on to discuss me. While he was writing me a prescription, he asked, "how did you know I was feeling out of sorts?"
"I don't know. I just did."
It went on like this for years, and my life too, one crisis after another, a horrendous relationship, a sick child...
Things really got worse than ever when I started dating my next door neighbor, who was an ex con, and although generous fiscally, a real head game player. He was handsome in an Arnold Swartzinager type of way, I suppose.
When I look back, I feel embarrassed at how much I showed my affection to Dr. Gibson. I feel like a stalker, when I look back on the whole ordeal.
First of all, I took my family to hear speeches he gave. He spoke about the 'big mind' vs the 'little mind.'
I wrote him a song, sent him get well cards when he was sick, followed him to a different office, one hour away, when he changed offices, so that when he came back to the original office after a year or so, he just took me back with him, informing me.
So, finally his health was getting bad. He had stomach pain, and was absent a lot. I guess that is when he told me he was having health issues.
We talked at great length. He was married to a Chinese woman, who's father had been a film maker. His brother was a famous film score composer. He was really into health food and supplements, and followed an eastern spiritual master, as I mentioned earlier, out in California. It was something we shared in common, following eastern masters, who were both silent for years and years.
"Do you meditate?," he asked me, one day.
"No, I don't," was my reply. "My spiritual master did not stress meditation to his followers, all that much, besides a few discourses, I suppose, but certainly never mandated it. He felt he was enlightened, and that we should love him. Guess it sounds a bit weird to you."
He shook his head, no. "I think yoga and meditation would help you," he said. "It would help you to be calm."
"How do you meditate?"
"Just watch your breath."
I called him sometimes. He would always call me back. Sometimes, he called without me calling, because he was concerned or alarmed about something like for example: I was too thin, and getting thinner, or I had told my counselor that I thought I might be pregnant, and would have the baby, if that were the case, but had not told him. I guess it was irresponsible of me, since I was on medication that you really should not take while pregnant. As it turned out, I was either not pregnant, miscarried, or was just perimenapausal, I am not sure which.
Looking back, I am so embarrassed by all my shenanigans. I was over forty, and acting like I was sixteen. All of my behavior was like some latent teenage thing, as if I had never been a teenager. Truthfully I met my husband, while still a teenager, and was practically a teenager when I had my first child. Plus, I had always been very controlled by men.
I straightened myself out, though, and finally the day came when he said he was moving to California.
I stared at his shoes for a while, trying to absorb this. Then I began to cry.
"I knew you would react like this," he said.
I said, and this seems really silly to me now, as well, "your wife is very lucky."
He nodded in agreement, with a bit of mischief in his eyes.
It would be absurd if I thought he left because of me, or maybe not. Maybe that master he had in California said, "you must come to California," or "you must give up your practice and come to California," or maybe "that patient of yours will destroy your happy marriage, if you don't come to California," but of course I am totally humoring myself to think it had anything to do with me, as if I were that significant.
Fantasy is a dangerous thing to play with, and I feel so silly when I look back at how obvious I made this silly crush.
I guess it touched me that he cared, like when I was too thin, and he called twice to find out if I was eating or not, once getting my mother on the phone, who said, "she's eating, she just eats like a model," which really means I was barely eating at all.
When I went to see him, he said, "you need to gain weight. You're not as beautiful as you used to be."
I was not insulted by this. It touched my heart, truthfully. It was like in Sea Biscuit, when the millionaire said to the jockey, "it's okay to eat," as he looked down at his soup. This may not make sense to anyone but me.
Once, another thing to cringe about, I brought him my charcoal drawings of nude goddesses, to look at.
He said, "all these goddesses, who I assume you think of as beautiful, are full figured and curvy, voluptuous. So, why do you think you have to be so thin?"
I stammered a bit, but I really had no good answer, and he knew it, and I think he knew why, and so did I, deep down.
Now time has gone by, and I rarely think about Dr. Gibson, and when I do, I admit I feel embarrassed for myself.
I learned a lot from him. I mediate, do yoga, I even corresponded with his master. I learned the technique of pretending your life is just a movie, when things get bad. I learned that being really thin, is just the Madison Avenue lie, that all suffering was caused by lies you tell yourself. I learned that there are always other fish in the sea, that mixing prescription pills with alcohol, was a form of alcoholism. I learned the difference between the big mind and the little mind. Most of all, I learned that I was beautiful.
I saw a post on facebook the other day. It said, "I wrote my novel, because I wanted to read it." I forget what author said it, but it is a good point. Stephen King says he reads his writing, and his wife Tabatha's as well.
When you write, of course you have to read your writing. My father wrote books. My parents wrote a short book together, with the help of Jal, Meher Baba's brother, called,
Beautiful Souls in Ugly Cages, about the lepers, in India.
My brother also wrote a book, called The Cosmology of Change, a Simpler Explanation, having to do with quantum physics.
My mother, years ago, said to me, "I'll pay you to read my book."
I said, "you don't have to pay me to read it. I was planning to read it anyway."
This was before it was published, her book with Barbara Bamberger Scott, Love Bade Me Welcome. She said, "I mean to edit it."
I guess it is kind of funny, that I actually thought she was saying she would pay me, just to read it.
It reminds me of a joke, where this guy hijacks a plane, and the pilot says, "I'll do anything."
And, the guy says, "I just want you to listen to me read some of my poetry."
Everyone who is a fiction writer, and who is an American, (unless they are a generic romance writer or something, just in it for the money, not that there's anything wrong with money, since everyone has to make a living) wants to write the great American novel, for example, Moby Dick.
I guess, in a way I wanted American Boys, to be at least a great American novel. I wanted it to be a book, realistically about the problems of the times, focused around the Iraq War, like many books have been focused in the periphery of WWII, and WWI, even Viet Nam, and now much fiction has been written about Operation Iraqi Freedom, although one must research the actual history, details, and statistics, in order to do that, which of course I did, but my book was not just taking place in Iraq. In fact, only a small part of it takes place in Iraq, and a very small part in actual combat.
There are some amazing authors like Joyce Carol Oates, author of The Gravedigger's Daughter, and now I am reading short stories by Alice Munro. She is a bit morose, like Mahler to composing, and in fact she references his composition, Death of Children. I also find these authors a bit anti-male. It is understandable why women become that way, especially if we have had bad experiences.
I like to write, and need to take some time away, away from my computer, to just enjoy the fresh air, beach and sunshine. I need to get out and meet people, and stop hiding away like a vampire. It's summer upon us, so I am going to let my book, finally truly be finished, and not just keep saying so, and then going back to it. I will try, anyway.
That night after the bar fight, and everyone had finally been gotten home safely, or sobered up, Jim invited Lizzy to come over to his place in Burlington.
She had never been over before. He had been to her house, and even spent the night, but Nicolas was staying at Sky's tonight, so he asked if she wanted to come, and see where he lived.
They were cleaning up, and Jim was giving a few orders to the kitchen employees, who were getting ready to leave as well. He had already turned the 'Well Water' open side around to closed, and turned off the neon sign that read, The Water Well, in huge purple letters, as well as the bright lights that went along the awning.
Lizzy was wiping down tables and chairs, Jim was ringing out the register. Mat and Carla, who worked in the kitchen, as well as doing some serving were cleaning and mopping the kitchen.
By the time they finally finished work, it was 1:00. Lizzy never worked this late when Nicolas was home. He would send her home as early as 9:30, if she needed to get home. Jim was flexible, anyway, but Lizzy being a single mother, he was even more flexible, and treated his other employees well too.
As he locked up, she asked, "I can't leave Rusty," she said. "I need to feed him, and he has to go out."
"We can bring him," Jim decided, "we'll just drive over to your place in two vehicles, you can feed him, and we'll walk him, then leave your truck at your place, take Rusty, and go back to my place in Burlington."
"Oh, okay, that makes sense. You don't mind having a dog in your apartment?"
"No, I own my apartment. Remember? I'm a landlord. There's four apartments in my building, and I rent out the other three. I'm upstairs."
"Oh, yeah, I remember you telling me that." He locked the door, from the outside, and they got in their vehicles, and headed to her house.
"Lizzy," he called through his open window.
She looked at him. "What?"
"We need to get your muffler fixed."
"Oh, yeah, I just keep putting that off."
They arrived at Jim's place in Burlington, with Rocky in the back of his double cab Chevrolet truck.
It was a four apartment building, and the stairs to his were on the right. The two of them climbed the stairs, Rusty in tow.
"I hope it's not messy," Jim said.
"Oh, goodness," Lizzy teased, "that would be a deal breaker."
Jim laughed, and they went in. Rusty ran from room to room, sniffing everything, the way dogs do in new environments. Jim grabbed a stainless steel bowl, and filled it with water from the kitchen tap, placing it on the floor for the dog.
The first room you entered was a mud room, with several jackets, umbrellas, and raincoats on hooks, and lots of snow boots, hiking boots, as well as other boots and shoes.
Then you entered the kitchen, which was mostly white, with oldish fixtures, but very clean. The floors were wooden.
"C'm on, I'll show you around."
She followed him through the archway, on the left, and there was a really cozy living room, with a fire place, a sofa, with some pillows, and two chairs, all earth tones. There was a large book shelf, stocked full of hardcover books, to the left, and a tall vase. The floors were wooden, as well, with one simple Native American rug in the center. There were a stack of Mexican blankets, in the corner, and a two foot tall Buddha statue.
It was simple, but really aesthetic, and tasteful, masculine, but still artistically decorated, and it revealed an esoteric side to Jim, that Lizzy had not been aware of.
There was another shelf to the right, which contained old vinyl records, and above an entertainment center, with a television, DVD player, VHS player, a turn table, and a CD player. Everything was organized, one shelf for DVDs, and so forth, each in the right category.
"Wow, I can't believe you still have vinyl. I still have a couple of mine, but wow, and a turn table, as well. Does it actually work?"
"Yeah, it does. Do you want to pick a record?"
"I will. Can I see your room first. I'm dying to see your whole place."
Next, they went straight through to Jim's bedroom. His bed was made, and it had an ethnic bedspread, with a couple of simple pillows. Above it, was a large picture window. To the left, was a print of the painting, The Scream. She smiled, covering her mouth, about to laugh.
Rusty had followed them into the room, and was sniffing everywhere.
Jim noticed her being tickled by the print. "Yeah, that's how I feel at work, sometimes, like today. Not to mention, the crazy drunk costumers. I wasn't expecting Charlie to come fist fight me today."
Lizzy burst out laughing so hard, her eyes starting tearing, and she was holding her stomach.
Jim laughed too.
"I can't believe what Charlie did." She shook her head. I can't believe he would do that. I'm sorry about that. I think we won't be seeing him around anymore." Part of her felt bad for Charlie. He had been her best friend, but she had no idea how upset about Jim, he had been. She had thought that he was as detached as she was. Well, she knew he liked her a lot, but she did not know he was so upset about her choosing Jim. She felt a little guilty, but put it out of her mind.
"Where's the bathroom?," she asked.
He showed her to the bathroom, off the living room.
"I'll open a bottle of wine," he said. "We have a lot to celebrate, surviving today, for one."
Lizzy had forgotten to put her purse down, so she pulled out her cell phone to check her messages. There were none, which was good, so she set her purse on the bathroom vanity to use the bathroom.
As she washed her hands, she checked her reflection in the mirror. She looked a bit tired, she thought, and her hair was a mess.
She pulled out her brush, from her purse, pulled the scrunchy out of her hair, and brushed it out.
She looked around, to see if there was anything out of the ordinary about Jim. She looked in the medicine cabinet, just razors, shaving cream, tooth paste, dental floss, a toothbrush, some aspirin, some digel, a brush and comb.
"Did you fall in?," he called, from the kitchen.
"I'll be right out," she called. The bathroom was nice too, just plain white fixtures, and a high window in the shower, bath, various shampoos and conditioners, like most people.
She came out. "I just wanted to make sure you were normal," she said, coming out into the living room, where he had set down two glasses of wine, and a plate of cheese and crackers, some chips and salsa.
"Oh, just making sure I'm not a serial killer," he said casually, and deadpan. "I suppose if that were the case you'd already be in the basement tied up with wire, and duck tape on your mouth, and I doubt I'd have let you bring your dog, for fear he might bite me." He was feeding the dog a cracker with cheese on it, but Rusty kept sitting there, drooling, as if he had not been fed, although he had. He was cocking his head from one side to the other. Jim gave him another cracker and cheese.
"Don't give him anymore, Jim. I don't like him begging. He'll never stop. Two is enough. He'll go away if you ignore him long enough, hopefully, anyway."
"C'm on, sit down. I hope pinot noir is good."
"Oh, ha ha about the serial killer joke, by the way," she said, as she sat down next to him, deadpan as well, bantering back.
She was still wearing her black hoodie, which she removed, since Jim had lit a fire. He had a stack of kindling and an ax, on the floor, near the fire.
"You look sexy in the tank top, and your hair down," he said.
She did look nice. Usually she looked almost mousy, in her baggy sweatshirts, and ponytail, always slipping out of place.
"Thanks, you're not bad, yourself," she said, and sipped her wine."
He put his arm around her. She welcomed it.
"So, tell me something," he said. "Why did you choose me over Charlie? Oh, cheers by the way," he said, and clicked his glass to hers.
"Cheers," she said, "do you really want to know the answer to that?"
He looked at her seriously, his gray eyes direct. She thought he looked handsome and rugged in his black t-shirt, with its sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his faded jeans. His brown hair was slightly graying, brushed back, in a standard, manly haircut.
"Oh, we don't need to go into that. You know as well as I do, that it's bad to talk about old relationships. I mean I never ask you about your ex's, Jim," she protested.
"Well, none of my ex girlfriends came to kick your ass, Lizzy. There's a bit of a difference here."
"You're not jealous, are you?," she asked, seriously.
"No, - I mean, - yeah," he said, seriously, as well. He was being quite earnest.
"You?!," she was surprised at this.
"I don't think you have anything to worry about. Charlie is history. I never felt for him, the way I should have, if it were to be more than a friendship. He was a bit helpful with my kids. It has been hard, but he wasn't quite what I was looking for. He did not really have his act quite together, - and I don't know, maybe just not the right chemistry. I mean, he helped, and I'm grateful, but with all the problems my kids have had, and I've had, I knew, and I think he knew, that he could never really be - uh, I don't know, like maybe, husband material, I guess."
Jim just listened. She had nothing more to say, and sipped her wine.
He kissed her, and said, "so am I?"
"Yeah, Jim, you are."
Daniel's cell phone was ringing. He could faintly hear it. He was in the shower. It went to voice mail, by the time he grabbed a towel. Wayne, one of his roommates, stood outside the bathroom, waiting to use it, looking hungover. They did not bother exchanging many words, besides, "morning."
He looked at his missed call, and listened to his voice mail. It was Christen, Adrien's sister, and she sounded like she was distressed, asking him to call back. He did.
She answered immediately, "Hello."
"Christen, you called me?"
Her voice cracked a bit. "Yeah, um, I have some terrible - Adrien got killed in the line of duty." She broke down. He could hear her crying.
He was stunned, and said nothing, at first, that moment of bewilderment, and wondering if you are dreaming.
He was trying to gather his thoughts around the news. "Oh, no," he responded, finally. "When, how?"
"Just two days ago. Some officers came to our door. My mom and Dad answered it, and I was at school - ." Pause. "They're coming to give him a funeral - the military - I mean. We've had people coming to the house a lot, to help with the cooking and all, but it is really - I just can't believe it. You should come home. I want you to sing at the funeral, and play your guitar. I want you to do, Wish You Were Here." She started to cry again.
Daniel was crying too, now. "Sure," his voice cracked now. "I'll get a bus ticket, right away. Do you want me to let Chris and Robert know?"
"Yes, I'd like them to be at the funeral. Their parents already know. It's been in the paper, and all, so they probably already heard." She sniffled and sobbed.
"Hang in there," he said, feeling lame and helpless, and mortified, himself.
He just sat on his bed staring in disbelief. Finally, he called Robert, who answered immediately. They talked about it at great length, and agreed that they all needed to go back to Vermont as soon as possible. Chris and Robert would drive together, from New Hampshire, and Daniel would get a bus home.
That night the Greyhound bus dropped Daniel at the bus station, in Burlington, the closest city, where Chris and Robert picked him up, and they drove straight to Daniel's house. Nick would be home alone, from school, and Daniel's mother would still be at work. He did not call her. He just did not have the strength. She would just have to come home to find them there, and hear the news, herself.
On the way to Vershire Center, just out of Burlington, Daniel asked, "Robert, can you stop at a liquor store, get us something strong? I'll give you the money, and I need some smokes."
"Yeah," Robert answered numbly. He pulled into the closest liquor store he came to, driving out of town. He went in to get some bourbon, a half gallon of it, and some beer.
Daniel went into the convenience gas station next door, and bought two packs of Marlboro reds, full flavor, and a lighter, since his was out. Chris stayed in the car.
They got back on the road. Robert had Metallica playing in his CD player. No one was talking, just silent. He had it on pretty loud. No one complained. No one felt like talking.
When they got to the house, both Rusty and Nick came out, Nick having heard a car drive up, as well as Rusty, who ran straight to Daniel, as he pulled his guitar and back pack from the trunk. He patted Rusty on the head, saying, "hey, boy."
"Hey, Daniel," Nick said, with more expression than usual, glad to see him, and surprised, since it was not even Thanksgiving yet, and he would have been at music college.
They all said, "hey, Nick."
As soon as they came in, they began getting tumblers of ice, from the kitchen they knew so well, and usually they would have to hide the alcohol from Lizzy, since she was not crazy about Daniel drinking, and was adamant about them not influencing Nick in a bad way. So, they took it in the downstairs guest room, where the XBOX and PlayStation were, as well as the DVD and VHS players. There was also the stereo, in there. It was sort of the den now, the hang out room.
Eventually, they settled down with their drinks, and told Nick what had happened.
"That's really horrible," Nick said.
"God, I can't believe it," Chris said, sipping his drink.
"I know," Robert retorted.
"I just can't seem to wrap my brain around it. Still in shock, I suppose," was Daniel's response.
They were getting drunk, as the hours passed, and Nick should have been upstairs sleeping, by now, because he had school tomorrow, but none of them were even thinking about it, and now Nick was the only one playing World Warrior. No one else was even slightly in the mood.
"Mute the sound, Nick, if you don't mind, I want to play a CD," Daniel requested. He did. He put on Dark Side of the Moon, Pink Floyd. This was the first time when drinking did not solve anything, or make anyone giddy, but it did help to numb out the pain. Still, the album reminded them all so much of Adrien, that they were all crying, drinking, and talking little. Just numb, but not 'comfortably numb,' like the Pink Floyd song, but weirdly, strangely numb. It was an altered state, but not a good one, a painful one. The thought of never seeing Adrien again, was baffling, hard to grasp, and he was no longer tangible, would never be present with them again, or answer his phone, or call, or hang out. He was just plain gone. Gone. Where? Heaven? If there was a heaven, he would surely be there. He was nothing but good, a good guy, a good friend, a brother, a good son, mature, responsible, there for everyone. He had a strength about him, that no one his age had, it seemed.
Robert began to speak. "He died saving some fellow soldiers and civilians from an explosion. He went back in after them. If he had made it, they would have raised his rank."
"Yeah, they'll give his Medal of Honor to his family, but there wasn't much chance of him making it. The Medal of Honor is the highest one, but it's only if you die. Strange, how that works. I suppose if he had lived, he would have got the Purple Heart, and the Distinguished Service Cross. I guess that's how it's done," Daniel said.
"Pretty much," Chris agreed. "It's just so fucking unbelievable."
"You're right," Daniel agreed, it's fucking fucked up.
At that point they heard Lizzy's loud, loose muffler, coming up the gravelly driveway. She still had not gotten that fixed.
'Oh boy, this is not going to be easy,' thought Daniel. 'Not easy. She will be all happy to see us, and surprised, and she doesn't take bad news well, and this is the worst news, next to it being me or Nick. She loved Adrien too.'
With dread, he heard his mother coming in the front door, saying, "hey Rusty, good boy. The guys must be here. Robert?," she called, thinking Robert had come by to see Nick, having seen his car parked outside. But, why wouldn't he be at school, in Durham?
And, then she saw them, in the guest room, Daniel, Chris and Robert, Nick on the PlayStation. She could see by the liquor, beer and smoke, which should have been out doors, and the liquor not at all, the expressions on their faces, that something was terribly wrong.
Authors note: it goes from here to the other part of chapter nine, which I wrote back in 2012, in the Spring, and recently edited. This part I just added, to make chapter nine more complete, and in depth.
After the dispersion of Daniel's performance, Jack took the guys out to the garage. There was a locked cabinet, which contained his hunting rifles, cartridges and bullets, mostly an assortment of rifles.
He unlocked the cabinet, and handed rifles to Jim, Daniel, and Nicolas.
Nicolas took the gun, a bit nervously.
"Jack, do you really think Nick needs his own gun?," asked Jim.
"You okay with that, Nick? It's not loaded. We do that later."
"Yeah, I'm good," Nick responded.
"Grandpa," Daniel began, "I don't think Mom would want Nick using a rifle. She's really protective, and - "
"Oh, Daniel, c'm on, how many times does he get to go hunting with his old grandpa?"
Daniel and Jim just looked at one another, and shrugged. Nicolas was just exploring the gun, in a curious way, but he seemed okay with it. Jim was thinking he may have to protest, if Jack starts to insist that Nick really fire the gun. He was looking forward to this, but at the same time dreading it. Lizzy had not really left the boys with him much, since they had been dating. Although, he knew Daniel was grown and in college, it had usually been when Nick was at his friend Sky's house, that she had come to hang out with him, in his apartment in Burlington, and had only spent the night if Nick was spending the night at Sky's. He had only spent the night at her house a couple of times, and although he had spent time with Nick, and talked to him, she had not left him with him at all. He had not even spent much time in Lizzy's house yet. He started to worry. He did not have kids of his own. What if Nick did get scared of the gun shots, or was it really responsible for Daniel to be hunting with bad eyesight? He suddenly felt over his head, and a bit bewildered, but he figured if he could run a bar, with a bunch of drunks every day, he could handle a damn hunting trip with Gramps and Lizzy's kids. Still, he felt nervous about things, even though he put on a calm demeanor, which was his style, anyway.
"Do we need hunting jackets, camouflage?," he asked.
"Yeah, I got some jackets and overalls you guys can wear."
They piled into the Hummer, the boys in back, and Jim up front with Jack.
"We'll be going to Dover," Jack announced. "It'll be a little while to get there."
He turned on the radio, easy listening '70's music.
They pulled into the hunting park, and Jack had to show his hunting license from his wallet.
"You're good to go," the guard told them, and off they went.
When they parked, Jack pulled the rifles out of the back. Jim helped him load them with cartridges, thinking 'what is the point in hunting foxes, anyway?' The liberal tree hugger in him, was fighting the macho, anything goes, hunter, tough guy in him, that wanted to impress his possibly, future father in law. He purposely, did not load Nick's gun, but gave it to him unloaded, knowing that Jack would not know the difference.
They began walking slowly through the woods, towards a rather empty field.
"There's a whistle you use," Jack whispered. He demonstrated the fox whistle. Jim imitated the sound. He had been game and deer hunting, as well as fishing, but not fox hunting. He thought kings and princes did this kind of thing on horses, like playing polo, and hunting of the aristocracy. Or, perhaps the rednecks.
Daniel knew that Nick's gun was not loaded, so this made him feel a little easier. He kept looking at his brother, in the oversized overalls and jacket. His own were just as baggy, since Nick was as big as he was, just skinnier. He was a bit on edge, remembering the time when Nick was nine, and he was thirteen, and Nick had freaked out when the gun went off. That had been the last time he and Nick had both been with his grandfather.
Jim and Jack were doing the fox whistle, trying to attract a red or gray fox. It was a bit suspenseful. Daniel was straining his eyes to see better. He could see during the day, but he had tunnel vision, and if the fox were out of his visual field, he would have a disadvantage, and that was a pretty big one, since his visual field was only five degrees, whereas a normal person had one-hundred, eighty. He wondered how he managed, but he was used to it. His acuity was only 20/60, and not correctable with glasses, which was why he did not wear glasses. He had as a child, but they really did no good. People did not understand his vision, because people think of legally blind as 20/200,
non-correctable, or 20/200 or worse, with glasses, but did not understand about tunnel vision, or night blindness.
Just then, in the middle of his thoughts, a red fox came into sight. A gun fired, and he did not know if it was Grandpa or Jim.
Grandpa yelled, "damn it!!!," at the same time exactly, that Nick began screaming, bloody murder. What the hell?
Grandpa and Jim turned around. The fox had made its getaway. Grandpa had fired. Jim had been about to, but Grandpa missed, and Nick was totally freaking.
"Nick, calm down," Jim said, "it's okay, just a gun. Nothing's wrong. You're okay, Buddy." But, Nick kept shrieking, and Grandpa Jack was bewildered and confused. Daniel did not know what to think. He was feeling bad for his grandfather now.
"Nick!," he shouted, "stop, it's okay!"
But, Nick did not stop, and before they knew it, he was having a full blown seizure, of which Daniel had witnessed only once, and was not sure what to do. They did not have a tongue depressor. The biggest danger, was him biting his tongue.
It finally subsided, and Jim and Daniel got on either side of Nick, and helped him to the truck.
"We need to take him to the emergency room," Jim said, knowing that was probably the right thing to do. "Do we have his medication, Daniel?"
"No, he only takes it at night. It's not an emergency thing, a systemic kind of med."
"Oh, Jeesh," Jack muttered, feeling bewildered, and not wanting to admit he was disappointed at the screw up of a hunting trip with his only grandsons.
They drove to the nearest hospital in Dover, and went straight to the emergency room.
