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The Sampler of MIDNIGHT BLUE
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by David Klein-Stoller for Laura Boyd
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Dear Person,
please scan to the right to see a picture ofLaura best.
Contained in this communication, is a `sampler' of my work.
I jokingly refer to it as, `The Last Great American Novel of The Twentieth Century'. Of course, I'll be content if it gains acceptance, simply as: "Midnight Blue"..., Or whatever you care to call it, when you buy the rights.
Right now it's a buyer's market. You have received, only a `sampler' because; it is all I could afford to print. I've got no idea, how I will mail it to you. I don't even know where you can send your reply. I live in a cave with stolen electricity for my stolen word processor, which has three sticky and two broken keys.
However, I'm a product of that `peculiar' American Culture that Schlessenger attempted to define in his book. Which among other things; means that I live on dreams, and will continue to hope for success against all rational judgement, until they bolt the lid shut, and throw the dirt in on top of my box.
They say Condesort, was in even worse shape. I'll bet the publishers who passed over his stuff, would be kicking themselves if they realized what they missed.
You are holding one out of every seven pages in the present edit of Midnight Blue. Although, I admit they have been `gleaned from the chaff'; I stake my life upon the notion that the best is yet to come.
I started on October 10, 1998. I can't imagine it ending up in less than a quarter million words, but I can finish it in time for a January 1, 2000 release -- if we hurry.
By the way, its all about sex, drugs, murder & mayhem, rock & roll, mystery & intrigue, and PHILOSOPHY. It is brutally honest. It is a tasty slice of the current state of AMERICANA.
David A. Klein Stoller
On A Gray Dawn Mourn
Late August of '98
Meth Mountain Mo.
To each of you who were kind enough -- or even just curious enough, to open this packet -- I say, `Thank - You', very much.
The goal of this mailing is to re-establish `dialogue' with
my `lawfully wedded wife' -- LAURA B. BOYD; Born here, near
St. Louis on: 09 - 04 - 56.
When attempting to identify her, don't let the numbers fool you. Please keep in mind, that the last time I saw her, dressed up, five foot, five inch, broad shouldered, narrow hipped, one hundred and twenty five pound frame -- she was in a room full of women ten years her junior -- but unanimously, she was the winner of the evening's "Turned Heads Award", and was a definite candidate, for setting the standard, on the international "Look Good Meter".
She has hazel eyes, and at that time, she had light brown hair.
Not only is she an attractive woman -- but she was very intelligent and fairly well educated, having scored a 4.0 her
last semester in attendance; and already having an `Associates
of Science in Electronics', she would most likely, have cruised easily, to a second degree -- with honors. I suppose -- No -- I'll show my slow, but steadily growing ability to take responsibility for my actions, and state it straight up -- it is my fault, that things didn't go just that way.
Laura deserved better; but she always did, and always will, no
matter; me, or some other guy -- she would always deserve better.
That's why I call her; Laura Best. The `B' is really for Beth, which rhymes with Meth, and is short for Elizabeth -- a Girl's name we don't use much around here anymore -- because we knew one who was truly, a despicable young whore.
If you ask me -- Laura was terribly deprIved while growing up, and she will most likely be deprIved in her `golden years' as well. But on the `up side', I thank God, that she was so delightfully deprAved.
The deprIvation was a family tradition. Unlike the sights on the patriarch's many guns, the Boyd Klan's `achievement sights' were set so low, that the Raulsean theory of justice would find it a perfect environment in which to be tested and flourish. Right here, in Dogpatch, U.S.A...,
While our life together was a model of solidarity, it was seasoned liberally with the exotic flavor provided by diversity.
The general rule of thumb was; that we could have whatever we wanted as long as we did it together -- never behind the other one's back; nor while one of us, could not attend.
Life was good. It was a midlife, fantasy haven.
These things alone, are enough to explain why I wanted, and still do want her, and yet, there is so much more, to say good, about her, that I could never put it all in a single envelope.
Be it sufficient to say:
I WILL LOVE HER ALWAYS
and I would do:
ANYTHING
To hold her in these empty arms again.
So, you may be wondering why she ever wanted me, especially if you could see me sitting here now -- simply the empty shell of a man -- having degenerated to a worse condition than I can recall of my past. And I'm just one of many, who will tell you, that I have had some up's and down's, and taken some well placed punches and some `low - blows', not to mention the occasional `crushing blind side tackle' from some pretty fierce competitors -- yet I always managed to stay on my feet -- until I came home -- THAT DAY.
I noticed the lock first -- the pad lock and hasp on the door -- reserved for those times when neither of us were expected `back for a while'. It was in use, and the `hidden key' would be needed. As I walked to the window `shutter' to retrieve it -- I noticed, what at first, was identified by my mind, only as an `unusual emptiness', beyond the glass of the window -- which was quickly transformed into the abyss of `lost hope', as I understood the fact that the bird cage was gone. It was always there -- on & open to the inside of the sill -- except when it was being used for travel. And a realization was born and came to consume my heart, that she had left; and it was very serious -- she had taken the birds with her.
They were very important to her..., she was indeed..., GONE.
I could sense the tremors in my ankles, and felt my knees wobble, much as would a stunned boxer. My right hand fell to my side and my fingers were drained of the strength needed to remain
curled around the rose, that I carried for her -- an `apology rose' for a tiff we had before I left for a rare solo trip to work. Now, in my peripheral vision I saw it was falling -- and stranger
yet, as if it were in a lesser gravity -- a shift in gravity which produced a vertigo which swept up thru me as a violent wave of
nausea -- forcing my eyes to roll upward in their sockets, like a fighter pilot turning too many G's, about to black out -- ripping external vision from my faculties, leaving me blinded by a series
of flashing and fractured images of HER -- to cascade in upon my visual cortex. Now the color, was fading to black and white -- to dark and light gray -- and finally, just as the ground rushed up to strike my chin, even the gray light dimmed to nothing, and not from my mouth, but from my loins, it moved up thru my chest, stopping the very beating of my heart, then thru, and out the top of my skull; as a black mushroom cloud blanketing all of Meth Mountain. This singularly grievous and consumptive thought had erupted:
LAURA's GONE...,
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Before the beginning; But after it all started:
Generally, I could sleep anytime & anywhere that she would lay down beside me: On a stack of drywall, in the back of the wonder car, the front seat of the truck, or under a tree on a summer day. We had slept in basements, on rooftops, on a train, in a boat,
and a plane -- in shacks, hotels, motels, no-tell motels, penthouses, million dollar homes, and this God forsaken trailer on `Meth Mountain'.
Regardless of chemicals or comfort, if I could feel her heart beat along side mine -- it was OK; unless, her heart should beat
in a less than perfect rhythm.
I had grown intensely aware of the intricacies of that rhythm; from the FIRST time it STOPPED.
She had surreptitiously created her own over-dose, and I was the only one available to restore her life.
She was convulsing. I placed the fingers of my left hand in her mouth -- amid the foam -- depressing the thrashing tongue, and absorbing the gnashing of her teeth. Her eyes had rolled back to where I could just see the bottom of the irises when I pulled the lids back with the fingers of my right hand. Her face was full of horror and pain. Her back was arching up to escape ..., and blood was beginning to stream from her mouth -- over `black orchid lipstick' -- as her teeth bit deeper into my fingers.
I placed my right ear between her heaving breast -- and heard the most sickening gurgling noise -- it was coming from her heart.
I yelled for the other occupants of the no-tell motel to call Nine One One -- even though the arrival of the authorities would certainly cost me my freedom for several years to come...,
I realized at that moment -- that I had, over the preceding couple years -- grown, to truly love her.
S-3
*
I feverishly administered CPR to her -- while checking for
her heart beat. It began changing rhythms like Dave Brubeck changing time signatures in a jazz composition -- and in about two of the longest minutes I can remember -- it stabilized: "thumpity, thump-thump >< thumpity thump-thump...,".
It is still the most beautiful sound that I am aware of; and hers is different than yours -- I can hear the undercurrents of the harmonies of love -- when everything is just right.
We ended up staying the night..., but that is another story.
That was about seven years ago.
Since then, whenever I've held her close: while making love or having a fight -- when we were laying together on the couch studying for an anthropology test, or laying together in bed watching a porno -- when she and I were entertaining a Saturday night special, or when we awoke on a lazy Sunday morning -- or simply falling to sleep on a typical work night; I would listen closely and study its rhythms and sub-harmonies.
I could, by listening to its `thumpity thump-thump', tell if she was happy or not -- regardless of what her lips said. On occasions when her heartbeat and lips told different stories; I would be sensitive enough to the essence of her being, that sleep would not come for me.
Rather than stay on the mattress -- rolling and thrashing at the demons that pursued us both -- I would lead them out of the
room and wrestle them out on the keyboard -- hopefully leaving her to the peace, that I knew she needed so badly.
Later, after exorcising those demons -- I would -- as stealthily as I could, slip back into bed, along side her beautiful and warm, soft yet firm body, and intertwine my limbs with hers, as was our custom. I would check her heartbeat against my own to determine if they were back in synch. When they were, I would whisper in her ear; "I love you, Laura Best", and she would give a little shrug that gently pressed her back & buttocks against my chest & groin -- placing my manhood in the cleavage of her firm derriere' as she made this little `cooing' sound -- like that of a dove...,
I would smile to myself and relax -- and `crash into us'..., and I would enjoy the simplicity that enraptured me until it came time to start a new day..., Which was always something I could deal with; because we would face each new day together, hand in hand -- standing as one -- against any & all challenges.
Together -- there was a bizarre -- yet certain invincibility.
On the mornings after such evenings..., upon rising..., she knew to check the `screen' for a little `love note'.
On the morning of May 13th, 1998; this was awaiting her...,
Tuesday Evening May 12, 1998
My Darling Laura Best,
I am so sorry that once again, your daughters have failed to show respect and appreciation for your deeds and virtues. You truly are, and have been an excellent Mother -- and you deserve to experience the accolades for which Sunday past was dedicated.
In spite of YOUR Mother's repeated attempts to undermine both, our marriage, and our relationships with the Girls; you were thoughtful enough -- after twenty five years of independence -- to express gratitude for your Mother's -- only near -- fulfillment, of her parental obligations. You exceeded the example set by her in many ways:
In spite of your multiple husbands -- and even my quirks of personality -- your daughters were never subjected to the physical abuse that you & I found common place in our childhoods. The girls were never subjected to living in a home where utilities were routinely disconnected -- in winter. Although we have occasionally, used food stamps -- we used them to maintain a steak and potatoes standard of living -- not as a luxurious addition to the subsistance menu of commodities which your parents provided for you. You made certain that your daughters were encouraged to educate themselves and created for them extraordinary opportunities, which allowed them to go as far as they were inclined to go. The more gifted of the two acquired over three years of college at a better than average private school, while in our care; and the more average of them, was on the threshold of that same journey -- until she returned herself to her grandparents' archaic ways.
Do you remember Heidi's first Mother's Day at Lindenwood ?
Do you remember, the one hundred and fourty-five I.Q. powered, bright-light, that exploded in her eyes, that afternoon, when she finally read back to us, in its completed form, the introduction to her Philosophy Term Paper...,
REALIZATION
"It was probably a couple hundred thousand years ago, my Darling, on a night very much like tonight, maybe a little cooler, maybe a little crisper, very likely that the sky was clearer, when some early sentient being walked out on this high plateau and noticed that the evening sky was not so completely black tonight.
S-5
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There were a larger number of pin pricks of light permeating the heavens. It hadn't noticed so many of them last night, and it wasn't sure how good its memory was, but it was certain that there was a change in the sky. It was different now than a short while ago. It didn't understand stars or clouds. This being didn't understand that the universe had elements beyond that which it was capable of interacting with.
And at that moment......................................
A realization was born that the universe had many elements and was many magnitudes more vast, and had a complexity derived from components; and as had been the case, and as most likely would be the case in the future, when a sentient being made mental progress, it assumed itself to have a more grand relationship to a more grand universe, and that even those questions, which occurred to it without answers, could be categorized and attributed to that set of things which would eventually be referred to, and defined as, God.
Things, or consequences of events, that could not be explained to the satisfaction of the questioner, would be attributable to Jehovah, or the God of Abraham, to the God Mars, Rah, or the Greek Goddess Venus, and still today; when Stephen Hawking can't quite pin the tail on the Big Bang theory -- even he acquiesces to the Pope's position -- that it was indeed, "... the work of God".
So, even our greatest minds, equipped with our greatest philosophy, supported with all of the available technology, still bind themselves to theology, in order to maintain psychic stability and sanity. For at the end of our best reasoning, there will still occur a question unanswered, and it will fall into that set of things, which has become known, as the force of God.
So, you see my Darling, much as we may try, we will never be able to unravel philosophy, technology, and theology.
Yet paradoxically..., the trick is to reconcile them."
Do you remember her beaming smile -- from ear to ear, when she finally realized its meaning, and the significance of her paper, to the relativistic philosophy of the `physicists' that have been the natural objects of her affection and worship -- all her educational life ?
Do you remember, a FUNDAMENTAL MOMENT like this..., in your Mother's home? Did she provide you, with any such profundity?
Yet inspite of your adolescent experience with deprivation -- you still called your mother on her Sunday, and had the decency to say `thank - you'.
S-6
Both of your girls were provided with enrichments, the likes of which -- you -- as a little girl, never even dreamed of: dance lessons, modeling schools, braces, airplane rides, sailboating, concerts -- both classical and pop, and the opportunity to enculturate as part of middle America, instead of being identified by their peers, as members of some bizarre cult, as you were.
Your girls were better cared for and had greater opportunities presented to both of them -- than were you -- by your mother.
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Sitting down with his back to the grade, he looked out past the river, to the moon lit, mile wide, curved strip of farm land, that had been formed since the end of the Wisconsin maximum glaciation. For nearly 8,000 years, the fifty meter wide Merramac would leave its banks at least once a year, thereby depositing an ever thickening layer of lush top soil, as the river swung thru its one hundred and twenty degree curve -- wider and wider -- until it was hemmed in by this steep wall of granite. And just as the river had met stiff resistance, so too, would Crum and others of his circumstance -- meet an opponent -- with a `will of granite', who was dedicated to restoring the contemporary notion of `balance', to the `Heartland'.
Much of America's true wealth lay in soil created and deposited by her many rivers -- both large and small. And no where was it more obvious than here in the `Heartland'. This was the nation's bread-basket.
Until recently, the `Cancer of drugs' was thought to be an urban phenomena; but the tumor has mutated and metastasized, so that now, the disease is being pumped and spread throughout the body by its most essential organ -- it's own heart.
Likewise, until recently, the Nation's conscience -- operating from its central nervous system -- was formulated from roots,
meshed deeply in the Heartland's agrarian values. As the Heartland itself, slowly migrated from Jefferson's Virginia -- westward across the continent: so too was the distance increased, between those who established policy & made law -- and those who had to live with the results.
As Jefferson wrote to James Madison in 1787: "..., our [Country) will remain virtuous..., as long as we remain chiefly agricultural..., and this will be for as long as there shall be vacant lands in..., America."
This nation's conscience spoke with the soft and murmured voices, of those such as Jefferson, who facilitated the acquisition of that great expanse of land known as the Louisiana Purchase; and
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Lincoln, who authorized and conducted a war to stop the spread of slavery, and to retain this great wealth of natural resource, as part of a United States of America. Both these great men actually worked the soil with their hands. They were both -- among many things -- agrarians -- in their political philosophy.
Regardless of Adam Smith's acclaim, that labor is the `Wealth of Nations'; labor is most efficiently employed, when the natural resource is close at hand. It is Mother Earth that feeds us all.
It has been found that the labor of `free men' is the most productive. That is why, long before Lincoln was born, Jefferson introduced legislation to abolish slavery in Virginia.
The conscience of America was a collective voice whispering constantly in our ear, the firm, yet friendly reminder, that the cost of freedom was hard work, and occasional personal sacrifice. It was a voice that was passed on, by the head of the family -- to the successor, thru generations -- thru four centuries of its cultivation. It was a message of enculturated civil restraint, mixed with an aggressive attitude about, `getting the job done'.
It was the value system which had been developed in colonial times and maintained thru to the late nineteen hundreds, by the family farm and the peripheral, family operated enterprises, that were in symbiotic relationships with those farms.
It was this value system, nurtured in the fertile fields, by
those who knew, that in order to harvest fruitful returns, it was necessary to mix large amounts of labor with the earth; which, became the foundation upon which, the `work ethic' was built. It was constructed in such a fashion, as to be broad-based and inclusive. It took advantage of the wisdom of many different ethnic groups. And the authors knew, that the `work day' didn't seem near so long, when it was shared by a harmonious, healthy and reliable team: the family. Once designed and written; we the people, voluntarily entered into a `social contract', which facilitated that mode. That Social Contract was named:
The CONSTITUTION Of The UNITED STATES Of AMERICA
Among those ethnic groups, which came late to blend into the Heartland's melting pot -- and of those who are still found most highly represented on those few remaining family farms -- are those German immigrants of the valid, yet failed, European revolution of 1848. They carried with them the reminder, from the great eighteenth century, German philosopher, G. W. F. Hegal, that even for him -- the family was his "immediate ethical substance". It was indeed, these `fourty-eighter's' as they were known, who soon after their arrival in the `Heartland' became Lincoln's Republicans, and represented the margin by which he won the Presidency, in November of '60.
The American Civil War, although morally justified, unwittingly promoted industry to an excessive level -- along with its attendant value system, that would all too quickly, come to over-run our agrarian `roots'. This event swung wide the door, for the venture capitalists to become the dominant force in our culture: these persons of a group who grew no crop, yet lived lavishly, by counting the beans. This group of `others', with no tangible work product to show, felt and expressed a belief that; `those' who had callused hands, soiled by the earth, from working the fields which yielded the beans that the `others' -- counted and dined upon -- held lesser stations in life...,
THOSE who worked in the fields...,
THOSE who died in the fields...,
..., fields that were made lush and fertile by rivers like the
Merramec, which now lay fourty meters below him. Yet, even from that distance, the area and this evening, combined to form a peaceful, calm, and soothing, environment..., An environment so tranquil, that he could hear the current of the river, lapping, like a metronome, against the hull of the five meter bass boat secured to the pine on the bank below. There was the sound of a hoot owl, and a million part choir of locusts, with double that number, of the lesser voices of crickets singing back up, as the rustle of oak leaves, in a warm & gentle breeze, played like a sustained brush roll on a high-hat cymbal, and the occasional low drone of a diesel rig downshifting at the bridge approach, provided the punctuation that would have been played by the bass..., as if, his environment was playing for him, one of `Mozart's melancholy symphonies.
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And although he was physically alone, he could not, and would not ever, be able to shake the unpleasant companionship, of the ghastly images that were `burned-in' and superimposed upon his visual cortex. Those images, from his last moon lit evening, on this hill, would come to be part of any field of vision, any landscape, any thing of beauty that was without its own perfect and overwhelming clarity. Those images would come from between tree
trunks, through the leaves, or in the blurry reflections of the river. They would appear in clouds in the sky on an otherwise serene Summer day. There would always be a face that stared back at him -- a face filled with absolute horror. It held many of the features that might appear in a caricature of Laura's face -- if it were derived from the images that haunted me -- images of that night in the `no-tell motel', seven years earlier.
So much had happened since then. Some of which I was aware and understood -- some of which I was simply aware -- and some of which I was left totally in the dark -- alone with my doubts, fears, and dreamares...,
Being alone with your fears is the down-side of manhood. Fear etches itself upon your face, beyond the cover-up of a smile; and acts as a scarlet letter. It says, "this one is untouchable". And loneliness becomes a way of life for he who bears this mark.
Women, being universally desired -- unless they neglect themselves -- never face this.
Men are to alleviate the fears and insecurities of women.
That is the true test, of fitness. I came to believe, this was the real reason Laura was to leave me: INSECURITY
I failed to make her feel safe.
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Crum reached the clearing about the same time I said, "I love you, Laura Best", and she shrugged that special way I told you about.., as she cooed like a dove.
I didn't know it then, but it was to be the last time I would be allowed that pleasure. My last little coo..o in the dark from my little dove.... My last evening to crash into us, and enjoy the rapture.
Never again, would I be, truly happy.
At least Crum wouldn't need three weeks to realize his disappointment and loss.
It was right before his eyes....
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The Power
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Mount Eureka, Missouri
The other guys; Just after Easter, 1998
It was just before midnight, and quite well into spring; yet the air held the chill, that unmistakably told, of the coming of a late, and final frost. You could see the `mid-night blue' of the atmosphere, from the light provisioned by a multitude of stars, and the full moon hanging low in the crystal clear, Eastern sky.
Among the stars, of the Eastern sky, were the constellations Libra, bearing the burden of the scales of justice; and Serpens, the snake, which slithered along in vain trying to keep pace with the lunar sphere, as it traversed the azimuth.
There were two men on top of the mountain. One of them was well aware of the ongoing cosmic ballet: he had been a farmer, and a scholar and knew well of the seasons and the stars. The other man, was too far into his own notion of `civilized' -- for all that ancient stargazing stuff. He was of the, `novus ordus seclorum'.*
S-10
(* see back of dollar bill, below the `pyramid': New World Order)
* Now, if you'd been on top of the mountain with the two intense men -- you could have seen that same mid-night blue colour of the evening sky, as a glow, emanating from the large glass bowl at their feet. The glow was produced by the liberation of electrons from Lithium atoms in liquid anhydrous Ammonia -- at negative seventy degrees centigrade.
Solvated electrons in an ammoniacal soup; so..., primordial.
It was a simple, cheap, and easily conducted chemical reduction of the otherwise tenacious hydroxyl group on the alpha carbon, of ephedrine molecules, that made the difference between the `over the counter' cold remedy, and the powerful and lucrative drug: Methamphetamine.
The procedure could yield a five to ten fold increase in the dollar value of the reactants. Even a poor boy from one of the
Heartland's thousands of dead or dying family farms, could quickly climb back from America's impoverished yet hard working, `New Poor', to the comparative luxury of the `middle class'; which until recently was the `birth-right' of rural Americans, who worked the rich soil of the Midwest.
Now if you'd been the thinner of the two tall men -- you could have seen the tiniest twinkle of that same blue colour, peeking out from below the hem of the heavier man's right trouser leg. As the heavy one squatted, to look into the bowl, the blue from the tip of the muzzle of the small weapon strapped to his right ankle was inadvertently exposed, by the pulling up of his trouser leg; which happens, when one squats in such a fashion. From the outline of the bulge above the hem, it appeared to be a snub nosed revolver -- a
thirty two -- or maybe even smaller. Just like the one in Kathy's
safe. "A lady's gun...yet lethal...", Crum thought to himself.
The gun itself was no shock to him -- all of his `people' kept weapons. But like himself, they had grown to favor `clip guns', of larger caliber; `Nines' and `Fourty-fives', and generally in black, or occasionally, an extrovert may pick one in `nikel' -- but, rarely in this old fashioned `blueing'. The old style, blue revolver had long been the symbolic choice of that `thin blue line' -- the line of men that kept civil society -- somewhat civil.
The old school cops...,
Being a cop ran in families -- like being Shoemaker's, Carpenter's, Baker's, and Farmer's. There was something in a name..., Crum often wondered why there were no `John Constable's' in the phone book. Of course, there weren't any `Bootlegger's' or `Methchef's' in the phone book, either; and, even Crum and those of his ilk, realized that there were some things that you just didn't go `public' about. None the less, he couldn't help but wonder if all the `Hooker's' in the phone book were really from families of fishermen.
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S-11
UltraReality -- the experiencing of the instantaneous `moment of truth in action' -- that makes the difference between personal survival or extinction, is a prerequisite, to the malaise known as `burn-out'.
Soldiers -- of all kinds of wars -- are those who have the most first hand knowledge of this condition. No psychiatrist or lesser clinician (unless a member of the afore mentioned fraternity) is qualified to render a diagnosis of `burn-out'. The use of the term by non fraternity members, is too often a failure to properly diagnose the condition known as `malingering'. No Ph.D. is necessary for that -- just ask any `first sergeant'...,
Although this mode is only capable of a minute or so of continuous operation per occurrence -- so much data can be received and transmitted during that time -- that one experiences an intense distortion of time and space.
One seems to suddenly, find one's `self', deposited outside of, above and slightly behind one's own body -- kind of floating in a
different time -- almost feeling like an observer of a slow motion apocalypse; and you sense that the medium of observation is incredibly `time expanded'. Time passes by in a slow motion sequence of events that seem to last for minutes but in reality
only represent the length of time that the second hand on the old school house clock, needed to go forward three fourths of a
single incremental marking, and then make that little fall back as the gears ratcheted for the next cycle -- about half a second. But such events as occur during an UltraReality experience, carry with them a degree of anxiety, which is many magnatudes greater than you endured while waiting for the bell to ring on the last day of class.
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A second may seem like a life-time, because it determines yours.
Like that moment of carelessness by the field mouse, spot lighted in the full moon, in the middle of the recently planted field, as the sharp black beak plunged thru the base of its skull...,
A killer crow -- a Raven..., so called for its ravenous nature.
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That kind of time... As Crum's arm flew toward him -- like Mohammed Ali's jab, he saw the rippling of muscle around the distal portion of the forearm -- and the ruffling of the `fatigue jacket' sleeve as it was buffeted back on the arm by the air it was slicing thru. He saw the white nozzle; now looking like a cannon...,
With nearly equal speed Bill thrust his right leg out and to the side, flipping the foot so the fatigue trouser leg would ride up over the mini holster on his ankle. As his heel dug into the dirt -- about two thirds of the way to its full extension, he was propeled backward and to the left -- just past the tree. Then while beginning a slow motion fall in the pike position with the left shoulder rotating toward the ground -- a reaction to the right arm's acceleration toward the weapon; so many miles away on his ankle...,
Crum was still coming -- the right arm targeting the cannon at his face, and the left hand was beginning to rotate the valve...,
..., Bill, actually saw the bronze ball of the valve, in the nozzle of the hose: it was rotating -- he saw the hemisphere of the hole that ran thru it, begin to phase -- the way a dark sliver of the moon becomes full in an eclipse -- his fingers touched the gun -- the pinky fell along the wood grained handle guiding the two fingers above it to the grip and the index finger pushed into place -- thru the guard and across the trigger...,
Crum, felt the surge within the hose that told him the ghastly stuff was on the move, and he planted his right foot -- digging hard with the great toe at the thick sole his boot to halt his forward movement -- and he froze his diaphragm -- making the slightest compression of the individual ribs to maintain the slightest positive air pressure, outward in his nostrils...,
Bill, made the grip, and oddly enough he noted its warmth, as the first of the hideously cold stuff struck his forehead moving steadily across the temple. His hand was pulling the gun up toward Crum's torso. The right eye closed before he actually felt the pain, and he realized that the stream of boiling ice was targeting down his face -- neck -- and chest, to intercept the raising of the weapon. His left shoulder struck the ground, as the stream struck his wrist, and as his body rebounded an inch or so off the hard earth -- the stream from hell came off his wrist to splash on his groin and then back on to his hand while the index finger, was beginning its compression stroke on the trigger; his left shoulder and flank settled solidly back to the ground...,
Crum too, was in hyper drive, and he saw the stream of hydrous stabbing like a light saber at Bill's wrist -- and saw the index finger beginning to squeeze as the rotation of the wrist and elevation of the forearm were bringing the muzzle to bear in his direction...,
As he was inundated by the stream of ice, he could no longer continue to raise his arm. His nose, mouth, and throat had been invaded by a pummeling club of spikes made from jagged glass shards that seemed to rip him apart from the inside -- each puncture and tear -- ripping away strips of lung flesh -- each of them, being packed with white hot acidic coals. The weapon was frozen in a direction that would convey no lethality; yet for a microcosm in time he thought -- ironically; at least if he could squeeze the trigger -- MAYBE some one would hear -- maybe someone would bring Crum to justice -- but the finger could no longer respond...,
Crum, saw the movement of the hand and forearm decelerate, and he kept the stream -- and his attention focused at the nexus of man and weapon until the movement stopped. In fact it seemed to actually begin to reverse, and accelerate now, in the direction of harmlessness -- before he re-targeted the stream on his quarry's head and face...,
They both knew this was to be the `knock-out' & `death-blow'.
As the stream of Anhydrous came up his flank, Bill was beginning the psychological transition to absolute horror.
The ice saber seemed to be carving him apart in huge slices until it began the methodical destruction of his cranium. He never quite made the conceptual realization of it -- but the freezing of the cerebellum had paralyzed his willful movement and for a few moments -- a second or two -- the pain began to soar to levels that were incomprehensible. Then the freezing reached thru the cerebellum, to begin the deactivation of the medulla oblongata -- and the cessation of those non-voluntary bodily functions. Those which are fundamental -- those that were so...primordial.
It killed the pain -- and him too.
Through the spreading sphere of nothingness, his hearing was rapidly being diminuated, but the echo of an increasingly irregular heartbeat -- his own -- broadcast to him, his coming demise.
The last sound he heard was the transitioning of his own heartbeat from the rapid thumpity thump-thump of a combatant to the sickening gurgling sound of blood turned to jelly unable to ooze through the vessels and chambers of his heart -- the last sounds of the vanquished.
He was already dead -- his heart stopped -- and it would never be started again.
His senses faded rapidly from hyper to nothing...,
Even sound had stopped - his eardrums and cochlea frozen -- the nausea of neural vertigo -- detached from any reality except the certainty that this was the end -- into the nothingness forever...,
Crum was sweeping the stream across the forehead when the feeble convulsions of the `death throws' started -- but even they were immediately frozen -- denying even the final struggle for life that the horse had shown him...,
His Mind was becoming a seething cauldron of psychological pain without function..., best represented as a rapidly narrowing tunnel of cold fire closing in on a claustrophobic point without time.
He had no further sensation except; the horror of the nothingness.
This he had to endure for several eternally long moments as this totally isolated & absolute psycho horror brought that final sufferance to him that all living things of `free will' must endure upon their end.
Even the burning ice of the light saber lobotomy;
could not spare him that final agony.
It was the extinction of Bill's ego centric universe.
He was worse than alone -- he was, is & will be -- of the
NOTHINGNESS
And for a brief moment he may have realized it.
But he is gone now -- just empty eyes staring out of a
thoughtless skull.
This, Bill from the Hill, had in common, with Mouse from the field.
The thirty-ninth Lithium strip had vanished along with the spark of life that was once the retched soul of Bill from the Hill.
So, primordial...,
All Crum saw: was the recoil of Bill's body when he saw the nozzle, the attempt to bring the weapon up, the effort to squeeze the trigger -- and the empty eyes staring back from a thoughtless skull -- now frozen in the expression of pure thoughtless terror.
Oh..., the Horror of it all...,
But Crum did not go unscathed -- the back blast of the anhydrous off Bill's face had inundated his hands. While the afore described took less than a half a minute, so much data had been streaming to Crum's central processor that those impulses carrying the messages of pain, had to wait in the log jamb of data yet to be processed.
The neurological log jamb cleared -- and the pain impulses cascaded in upon him with such ferocity that at first he was unaware of their origin. The overwhelming number of pain impulses were overloading his sensory circuits, and robbing other processors of the power needed to sustain operation. He was loosing consciousness.
S-15
He dropped the nozzle: it expelled the remainder of the tank into Bill's still gaping mouth. The mouth, which held, an as yet, unreleased scream.
Crum's vision blurred and tunneled, the goggles were swept away somewhere by something, his ears rang, he lost equilibrium and began staggering back, tripping over the tank, and accelerating head over heels -- bumping and thumping -- into this and that -- rolling in a backwards somersault down the steep northern face of Mount Eureka.
His plummeting down the mountain stopped with a terrible `crack' as his head struck the center of the trunk of an oak.
And the ammonia vaporized up into the starlit heavens
of that midnight blue sky.................
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It stood on one leg, and threw its head back, slinging most of the water from its plumage; then wrapped the toes of its elevated
foot, around its sharp beak in an almost human like cleansing ritual.
The Raven had paused at the south bank of the Merramec, to clean up after its midnight snack. It would return to its nest, a'top the tall oak on the ridge, and wait for a new day before
making another kill...,
(50 pages of finished text)
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From the beginning, Laura and I, had mixed emotions about Kathy...,
The first time we scored from her was just after Thanksgiving of '97. It was also the first time either of us had met her.
AND, it was ten years and eighty seven days since the first time Laura and I had sex..., together that is.
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We had recently finished wiring the whole building and setting the `Real World' deco-pack for the new Ameritech Store in Dillon Plaza. That's down in High Ridge Missouri. We had done a pretty good job -- all things considered -- so, the contractor -- Dwight VanDeveer, had ear marked us for the next major project; the new Orville & Wilbur's Restaurant in Ellisville. But that project was slow in getting underway due to many factors -- not the least of which -- was the negotiation of the terms of the contract. There were also, some lingering issues from the work done the year before on the Westport properties held by the same company. That's where we met Brad.
Although we were between `regular' work projects, we were still doing thirty six to fourty hours a week. During the interim, Dwight had kept us busy performing a number of multi-disciplined tasks on his `soon to be', new residence -- an old farm house, on a `mountain' near Pacific, Missouri. When Dwight was pleased with its progress -- he would call it `the money pit' -- and at other times..., simply `the hole'.
One Friday after working on the hole..., we thought a little week-end enhancement had been earned; so, we called Dave Shortter's pager -- among others -- but his was the first positive response.
We had met Dave back in June, when he brought Melinda to our place. He was her `near eunuch'-- `chaperon' -- and her fourty year old husband's, thirty year old `butt boy'. Her husband had recently taken up such an interest in youngER boys (as he at one time had for youngER girls) that he now regarded her as little more than a source of revenue and drugs.
Her old man -- when he was pleased with her -- would call her the `money pit', and at other times...., simply....,
They owned a modest house in a middle class neighborhood -- in the slightly better than middle class township of Kirkwood. If you had any doubts regarding the claims made of her, back in the introduction; I submit for your consideration that this young girl had produced the income necessary for the down payment on the place, and had been paying the bills ever since. They'd been living there for five years.
She's twenty now, going on fifty.
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It was a small room to be in while Laura was getting off. I,
can't even count, how many times it took us days just to get out of a bathroom..., God how I loved it...,
"yea..., I'll get it for you...," and Kathy pulled the door open on the large safe, and Laura followed us out of the bath.
As the door swung on its hinges, I saw a silver thing on the middle shelf. It was a pearl handled COLT 45 semi automatic pistol, and along side of it, was a smaller black semi-auto pistol -- about a thirty two, I guessed. Both of the girls followed my gaze -- But Laura spoke first.
"Looks like my dad's house", she was more observant than myself -- as she pointed to the lower shelf -- where there was another large caliber black semi auto, and two revolvers. " I grew up with guns around -- hell I learned to shoot before I went to school and went deer hunting when I was nine..., may I look at this one ?" She pointed, almost touching the long barreled blue revolver, "eh"?
S-17
*
"Sure, by the way -- that's the one I got shot with -- its a 357. I don't keep it loaded...," The remaining weapon was snubbed nosed, and it too was blue, about 32 caliber.
As Laura picked up the large weapon, she observed all the proper safe handling practices of an experienced gun enthusiast. I'd seen her handle them before: and Kathy nodded and discreetly pulled the collar of her blouse aside to expose her left shoulder. Right behind the strap of her bra, (black) just in that little
fleshy hollow below the bony part of the shoulder, was a scar about the size of a quarter. I was sure that the exit wound was about the size of a silver dollar. But I didn't think this was the time or the setting to ask her to show it to us.
As she re-straightened her garment Laura let out a little whistle -- that trailed off as the clicks from the cylinder she had just spun, slowed down, click., click.., clicking..., and came to a halt -- allowing her to confirm that all of the chambers were empty. With a punctuation she closed the loading gate and asked, " how'd you get shot Kathy ?"
For some reason, that I'll never understand; people always let Laura handle their guns -- even people with whom we had strained relationships.
Her charms, were truly disarming.
"Well, as I told you, I got this...," continuing, as she retrieved an envelope from the top compartment of the safe, "from a guy in Moberly -- he's my old man's cell mate -- they're both doing `quarters' -- the guy for manufacturing & distribution, and my old man for two counts of second degree murder."
She maintained possession of the envelope, though making an obvious flourish of it, and continued to explain, "My old man, should have been acquitted by `self defense' on both counts, or, at least no more than a single count of manslaughter -- that way he would only be doing a dime -- he'd be out in six years. You know, if the same evidence had been presented in a case against a client that was an upper middle class suburbanite -- he'd never have done a day in the penitentiary. The way things look right now, it will be, like fifteen years before I'll get to sleep with him again. You see why, he wants to get some money together for an appeal..., don't you ?"
"Oh, I understand...," and as the words left my lips, I began to realize, just how many ways I meant it...,
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*
While, Kathy continued with the story, Laura continued checking the weapons. "We'd been into the coke real heavy.., and, we got to doin' over half an ounce a week -- and of course we couldn't work -- you know -- too fucked up. So we started dealing -- an ounce or so a week, and we were still falling farther behind", she handed the envelope to me and I opened it as she nodded and yet again went on with her story.
"It got to the point where we were handling over two ounces a
week, and we were real fucked up. So, me and Tom found ourselves sitting in the living room of our connection's house one evening --
early -- when two Sheriffs cars came up the farm road."
As with most farm houses, the `sitting room with a view' of the approach to the house provided the same buffer against surprise intrusions by modern foe, as it did against the Indians on `horse- back', when it was originally constructed. This may help to explain why these old farm houses were still, in such high demand as rental units.
"Well the connection, a guy named Jimmy, had some petty warrants, on him so, he was afraid to have the cops come in...,
because there was the better part of a quarter pound of coke in the bedroom..., he wanted to meet them outside -- you know -- that way they'd need a separate warrant for the coke -- which they didn't have -- just the warrant for his arrest which wouldn't authorize
a search if we were all outside. So, we all went out and pretended to be saying good by, just as they came into the yard."
"Let me guess," Laura was tuned in, "they shook every body down, arrested him and turned you guys loose."
"You got it...,"
Laura cut her off, again, "and you came back in fifteen minutes and cleaned the fuckin' place out..."
"Yes M'am..., and of course we threw a hell of a party, sold a bunch, paid some bills, bought those two guns..," she said pointing to the shelf with the silver fourty five.
It was now the only weapon in the safe that was pointed to the right. This was Laura's way of letting me know, that it was the only one that was loaded.
I also knew that it was unchambered..., and that if it was picked up carelessly -- the clip would fall out.
We always did what we could to level the playing field.
S-19
Kathy went on, "This started on a Friday night -- Jimmy got out on bond Monday and got home around noon. By twelve o' five, our phone was ringing -- and he was PPISsedD. He wanted four grand, or his shit back. We had about six hundred, and an ounce left. So we said, `what a ya talkin' about..., duh what?' and he said, `Fuck you -- I'll be out soon enough'...,".
Laura and I nodded -- we'd done similar shit before -- more than once -- and knew how things could go from there. But at the moment all we owed Boy2, was about eight hundred and fifty dollars.
As Kathy continued, I started reading the four pages of
instructions. They were in `upper chicken scratch', and so..., primordial. Not at all the `tech' style I was accustomed to seeing.
She went on..., "We lived out in Catawissa, at the time -- up on a hill. At sunset they came, three of them -- Jimmy on a bike and two bikers in a Jimmy..,"
"Oh shit..," Laura said.
"Oh shit is right, they plowed right thru the fuckin' front door with the Jimmy, and we ran out the back door -- snatching the guns dope and money off the kitchen table on the way."
"When we got out back, we were fifty yards from the woods -- so we split the target -- I broke to the right and Tommy to the left.
Jimmy came around Tom's side while the other two backed the jImmy up out of the front wall of the house -- and then they got out and came running around on my side. Well, Tommy turns, and hits the ground about half way to the woods and starts blastin' at the headlight of the bike. He popped Jimmy right in the fore head on the fifth shot -- when the bike was within five yards of him. The bike went into the dirt so that the head light was shinning right on me as I hit the woods and turned around."
"The guy closest to me fires four shots and catches me in the shoulder with the last one. He'd have probably kept shooting, but Tom turns towards the gun noise, and fired from a squat -- and popped one right in the guy's spine. The impact of `my' bullet knocked the wind out of me, and it spun me around, back and down, face first, -- blood and mud and leaves and twigs all stuck in my mouth nose ears and eyes; and it felt like some one ran a red hot poker thru my shoulder, but on instinct, I turned back around, and started shooting back toward the third one."
"Tommy was firing at him now too, and one of us must have winged him, because he dropped the gun -- the snub nose on the bottom
shelf -- and he ran off to the Jimmy." We never did find out who he was".
S-20
*
"I kept firing until my gun was empty -- but Tom saved four rounds and walked over to the guy who was face down in the dirt and put all four of them in the back of his head -- there wasn't much skull left -- just gray gooey shit all over. When Tommy came over to me, I still had shit in my eyes so I really couldn't see very well -- thank God -- because I could see enough as it was -- Tommy was wearing the guy's brains all over him."
"And up until then, the self defense thing would have worked,
right ?" I interjected.
She said, " yea, but the coroner testified that the bullet in the spine had him paralyzed and unconscious -- so it was excessive force, and they hated my old man anyway, cause they knew we were dealing". She paused, a beat to catch her breath, then went on, with her modest sized breast heaving and her nipples quivering...,
"We were gone before the cops got there.., Tommy gathered up the guns, and dope and put them in a book bag which he hid behind some weeds next to a pay phone that he used to call a guy named Crum, who picked them up for us and hid them until about a month ago. I was loosing so much blood that Tom snatched me up and took me to Washington -- he was gonna drop me at the corner by the
hospital -- but they were waiting for us."
(75 pages of finished text)
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About the time Jefferson penned the `Declaration of Independence'; Adam Smith's `The Wealth of Nations' was published, David Hume died, and J.J. Rousseau, had been branded an enemy of the French
State, largely for his philosophical work in which he dubbed Man:
THE NOBLE SAVAGE
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The Glory
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VDaybreak at Cahokia Mounds
"It was probably about a thousand years ago my darling, right here, on this very spot, when some early native American -- "Primal Man" if you will -- climbed this then -- much lesser hill, with his wife and daughter, thinking that it may be a good place from which he could defend his family from predators and other less noble, Rouesseauian savages."
"I brought you here at this wee hour before dawn so you could enter this "time vault" at the darkest of hours. This is a geological repository of history, an archaeological dig; more specifically a tel as in Tel Aviv. Here we so ungloriously call it, `a mound'; but it is truly a treasure chest containing a time vault to an era when the members of this community had not yet mastered written language."
"Primal man, with his family, `the most ancient of all societies and the only natural one . . . [where] children [and wives] remain bound to the father as long as they need him for [their] self preservation . . .,'(*) congregated with others who had similar concerns and communalized on this spot about the time St. Anselm was born."
"No flashlights: stumble around in the dark, through the bits and pieces that were another man's most prideful possessions. Kick over that pot that some woman spent days making, if you count the digging of the clay, and the gathering of the wood, to fuel the stove-oven-kiln-furnace; that was the center of their simple home. And all this was done, so she could fetch water tomorrow. Simple subsistence: it was so primordial...,"
"Take care where you tread; lest you crush some child's toy or break the Noble Savage's weapons of defense and survival, while you grope your way to the top of the hill to see the first rays of the morning's light, the same rays magnified in Columbus' telescope, at the height of this Cahokian culture. Then try to imagine the shock, a mere century later, as those same rays became your wake up call, to the French expedition coming your way along the lush strip of fertile soil that was deposited by `the river of God'. Wake up to the end of your culture as `The white skins' -- the French, as they called themselves -- came in strange, brightly colored uniforms, brandishing silvery instruments of destruction. They brought with them, tall beast of burden, that drew behind them, sinister looking weapons that must have been spawned by evil Gods, for their force was followed by the sounds of malevolent Gods hurling lightening bolts that could not be seen -- but could -- just the same, strike down the noblest savage. They had brought all the power necessary to force Primal Man -- that Noble Savage -- to be Free."
"Run Darlings, run; Rousseau, Marx, Engels, and Rauls are coming. It's the comunitarian enlightenment. And they have brought with them their God given: THEORY OF JUSTICE.
S-23
"And now, before running for his own life; the Noble Savage, sends a message in smoke to his western cousins, on mounds `Cedar', `Fresh water at home', and `I found It', lest they too, be taken by surprise."
"It is just such a sense of duty, which breeds true nobility."
A one man play, with audience participation, at Cahokia Mounds.
Daybreak April 13, 1994 DS & LB: Another fundamental moment...,
(*) From Rousseau's Second Discourse
" As The World Turns...,"
On this day too, as had been the case, at the start of every day, for thousands upon thousands of millennia, the Sun's rays swept past Cahokia, across the Mississippi river, and brought dawn to the hills of Eastern Missouri. On this particular day, they streamed thru the window, just clearing the sill over the kitchen sink, catching the short young whore by surprise, like a laser beam in her eyes...,
As the earth spun...,
She reeled -- mishandling the plate...,
An instant later, dawn broke over the mountain...,
The plate struck the floor between her bare feet..., breaking..., shattering; both the plate and her unwholesome dreams.
The raven, perched in the top of the tall oak -- awoke.
The rays of the Sun found the dead man first; but to no avail.
Miles away, the dread was catalyzed into lost hope.
The rays swept on, illuminating now with directness the north face as well.
The raven stretched its wings and surveyed the new day.
She had felt the dread these last few hours.
They found and began to warm the unconscious body...,
The warmth was thinning the injured man's blood, which had remained so very sluggish these last few hours.
..., precisely the amount of time that she had possessed
this feeling of dread.
S-24
The Sun's rays slowly, methodically, reached further and further into the crevices of his neuro net. And gradually over a period of hours yet to come -- he would regain consciousness -- as would a snake at winter's end.
The last time Kelly felt `his invisible hand' reach out thru time and space to tap her on the shoulder; was the time he had gone to retrieve the `coke' from Kathy and Tommy.
But this time there was a difference..., this time -- no amount of time -- would be adequate to heal his wounds.
The raven, jumped from it's high perch in the tall pine, and spread its wings -- never making a stroke -- until it glided
down in lazy circles, to a point, just a foot above the torso's gray skull. Then, with a single downward and forward sweep of its wings; it made a perfect landing a' top the still frozen orb.
The raven didn't mind the cold...,
The raven didn't mind the stink...,
Most birds, have no use for a sense of smell, for they glide along on the currents of air -- above and ahead -- of the stench from below -- caused by the ever spreading decay.
The cultural decay which was brought then sought by `others' of lesser nobility...,
Vultures are the only avian who possess olfactory.
Its strange how each culture creates, its own Archaeology.
Crum would have a hell of a time at St. Peter's Gate.
If Libra were to misuse the scales of justice,
Zeus would hack off the arms and legs; and leave it to slither...,
There would be no redemption for Crum.
Neither would there be a rebirth for Bill.
Even the notice in the paper would be late:
June 1, 1998
Obituary of Hill, William F., age 30
Born: December Seventh..., sixty seven.
A Day that will live in..., Infamy
Bill from the Hill died early on the morning of April 13, 1998
His greed and lack of integrity acquired for him what was due:
NOTHINGNESS
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TWO WEEKS AFTER LABOR DAY '98
It was one of those depressingly beautiful days...,
You know the type -- it was sixty five degrees, there was a five mile an hour breeze -- from the west, and the sky was pure baby blue without so much as a wisp of white, to forecast the coming of clouds. And everyone else on the planet had their affairs so neatly in order that they couldn't help but enjoy nature's perfection.
Everyone that is, except for me and the old man.
I was on my way home from jail, cutting across the cemetery. It was the shortest hike from new Highway twenty one, to the intersection of old Highway twenty one, and "M". There was a good chance that by hitching a ride from there, I could make it back to Meth Mountain in a single shot. I'd hoped that my truck would still be there. I'd also hoped no one found my `emergency fifty dollar bill'. There was a tendency -- if my neighbors knew I was `in custody' -- that certain individuals would take advantage of the situation to break in, and loot thru my shit...,
Blinded by this string of contemplations I almost bumped
into him...,
My first impression was that he was an Anglicized Native American Indian..., an old one at that. Don't let the eyes fool you, its the cheek bones and the natural bronze skin tone that tell the story.
His brown suit was cleaned and pressed, but a little shabby none the less, due to its obvious age. His loss of musculature, which he suffered simply as a result of his very obvious age, left the suit a little baggy as well. The shoulders slumped down and forward. Just over his heart, there was an even more misshapen baggyness to the suit. In front and below his waist, his shaky and
S-37
gnarled hands were clasped together around a simple bouquet of flowers. They were a collection of wild flowers, which were of predominantly, sad earth tones.
His face maintained a field of gray stubble that was the result of being unable to shave closely against the background of crags and creases, that he now, wore as a permanent part of his countinence. The `crow's feet' surrounding his eyes were wet, and the tears were over-flowing the creases, thus creating tiny little tracks, which pooled down in his hollow and vericosed cheeks. Until recently his blue gray eyes held a sparkle -- that matched his memory of her's. Now they were a series of concentric circles of ever darkening gray, which grew -- darker and darker -- until reaching his pinpointed black pupils.
He still had a memory which contained the perfect vision of
his beautiful young bride -- all dressed in white -- pristine.
She was the modicum of all that a women could be. Average height,
ever so slightly heavy in the bust, ever so slightly narrow in the hips, with a smile that gave testimony to her cherubic nature, yet there was little twinkle in her eye, that reminded him, that although he was the `only one' -- she should have at least, added a pastel trim, to her white wedding gown..., So, many moons ago..., But that was the high school lovers', secret until the end of time.
And the old man would never betray that confidence -- nor any other aspect of their vows, which had governed their sixty years together.
NOT Until death do you part...,
My vision, of my beloved bride, was a little less pristine, but no less endearing. She wore red, her daughters wore black, and Krickett wore horizontal black and white stripes.
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There were red and yellow roses along side the grave. They were from his dearly departed wife's younger sister. The younger sister was seventy two.
Realizing that I had become an intruder at the laying to rest of the old man's beloved, I halted my approach and stood at parade rest. My time in the Army had brought to me an understanding and acceptance of such customs. I stood still, only my eyes moving to take in the rest of the scene. A man of the cloth, not a Catholic Priest I don't think..., He was probably Episcopalian judging from the maroon tunic, was just finishing the prayer.
His final words faded from me as I recalled another little piece from Laura's and my attempt at a book together....,
S-38
Heartbreak
"The Nobel American savage, primal man if you will, had come to the verge of communalization many times before, yet each time he arrived, his group was denied. His group -- a sub race -- traveled, farther and longer, than any other known group. Across Siberia, The Bering Strait, Alaska, the Great Plains, and Wisconsin, settling every few thousand years, recouping his numbers, only to be viciously attacked again by nature itself -- in the final upheavals of the glacial epoch -- the first great aberration of the evolution of communal man. In fact, it was that very same final surge that drove our native American Indians from Wisconsin to Cahokia that also drove the Norsemen back from Greenland, and temporarily maintained the peace and privacy of these Cahokians, until that Johhny come Lately -- Columbus and Co.."
"The length of his journey, was testimony to his desire to live in the state of nature without encroachment upon others. This was his manner of seeking peace."
As the attendants began lowering the casket into the ground,
the recording in my head continued...,
"Often it is asked by those who subscribe to the theory of evolution: at just what point do we make the distinction between anthropods in general -- and Man in particular ?"
I saw the old man walk over to the hole in the earth as the top of the box, slipped below the grade.
He began to shake and tremble...,"
I could see Laura's beautiful face thru it all -- and the old woman's -- and I could hear myself...,
"And the late great Issac Asimov replied with this suggestion: We should make such a distinction based on behavior..., probably some peculiar act of Grace. And we must note, that Neanderthal was the first to bury his dead with ceramony...,"
The old man threw the flowers into the grave. I had no doubt that they landed squarely on the center of the casket....,
"...., he provisioned the grave with flowers and food -- provision for the journey into the here after...,"
And the old man drew the nikel plated revolver from his breast pocket -- did a smooth about face at the foot of the grave, facing me staring directly into my eyes, with his back to the grave -- while placing the muzzle in his mouth. He pulled the trigger, blowing his brains out and propelling his convulsing body, backward into the grave, on top of the casket..., throwing himself in as good measure, for her journey into the here after...,
Not until death do you part.
And not even then -- for those who truly love...,
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