Strange Brew

Tinkerbell’s “call” resulted in this excerpt from a book I wrote back in ‘94.

MEXICO

2039

It was spring in the year of 2039, a hundred years after the start of the great war in Europe.  Although frequent skirmishes, wars, disasters, famines and such have occurred in this time period, the big one or number three as most would refer to it, did not happen and according to the secretary general of the United Nations, probably never would.  This of itself is not unusual, but so many have waited for and predicted the end of the world that number three seemed an inevitable and fitting event to count on.

Yes, life continued at its mad, hectic pace, much as it did during the great growth era of the twentieth century.  Babies were born, grew up, did their thing and died.

This particular spring solstice a group of orphans, aged between four and fifteen years, surrounded an elderly man at a village square deep in the interior of Mexico.  Relatively untouched and isolated from modern civilization, the residents of the village lived a quiet and peaceful life, not unlike their forefathers of two centuries earlier.  The isolation from the major centers in Mexico did present its hardships and the community did not have much in the way of material possessions, but the people were close knit and the family unit held sacred.  There was ignorance and superstition of course, but this only added to the charm of the place.  The village did not have anything to attract the interest of the majority of tourists, so the world left it alone.

For a period of forty years or so, near the latter part of the previous century, many of the younger villagers left, lured by the promise of a better, richer life beyond the mountains.  Many eventually returned, finding their unexciting village existence preferable to the madness of the cities.

The orphans and the old man congregated beneath the sun’s benevolent warmth at the edge of the square, next to the softly cascading waters of the stone fountain.  It had rained a few days earlier and the flora blossomed forth with the help of the rain’s rejuvenating gift.  Birds skittered from branch to branch in the nearby trees, trying to outdo each other in their annual mating rituals.

The man drew in a breath of air, thoroughly enjoying the moment.  His clear blue eyes gazed lovingly at these twelve children.  A little girl grabbed the man’s sleeve and tugged, attracting his attention.  “Tio, tell us a story, please! .”

Tio looked at the little girl, “Gabriella, it will be time to go soon.  I’m afraid we don’t have time.  Besides,  you must all be  tired of my stories by now.”

The little girl faked a pout and the rest of the group vigorously voiced their common objection to being tired of the old man’s stories.  After listening to the children’s pleading, the old man grudgingly relented.  “I will tell you a story, but after that we must rush off or we’ll be late for dinner.”

“Thank you Tio,” they chorused.

Tio closed his eyes a moment, then started to speak.  The children leaned forward in an effort to hear him, for the old man’s stories never failed to capture their absolute attention.

“A long time ago, before any of you were born and I was just a young man in my prime…..”

“What’s prime mean?”

The old man was used to these interruptions, they did not perturb him in the least.  “Does anyone know what prime means?” he asked.

“I do!”

“Alex, would you be so kind as to tell Rubin what prime means.”

Alex, a tall, thin girl proudly replied, “Prime means at your best!”

“Thank you Alex.  Do you understand Rubin?”  The little boy nodded his head.

“No more interruptions or we’ll never finish this story. OK?”  He paused to make sure his charges received the message and started his tale anew.

“Before any of you were born, far to the North, there used to be a powerful nation.  This country survived many challenges in its history and grew very quickly.  People from all over the world would travel there in search of freedom and riches.  Some say the country’s streets were paved with gold.  We know that is not true, never the less, many people loved the country and its way of life,” the old man shifted his position and tried to make himself a little more comfortable. “In this country there was a very large city filled with every kind of person imaginable.  This city was so beautiful the people called it the City of Angels.”

“Angels?  That’s wonderful!” exclaimed Gabriella.

Tio smiled at the comment and continued, “Now, this country’s wealth and power became so great, that people living there began to think of themselves as very special and the people in the City of Angels were no different than the rest of the country.  They looked at the rest of the world and believed themselves to be living in a land that had no equal.  They saw themselves as the watchdogs and leaders of the world.  If a problem should occur anywhere, they would send money or soldiers to try and fix it.”

“Isn’t that good, Tio?”

The old man’s white hair glistened in the sunlight as he turned to face another child in his group.  “Yes and no, Rebecca.  After I finish my story, you can answer your own question, OK?”

“OK,” replied the thirteen year old.

“The City of Angels was a huge city, covering many miles of land and inhabited by many millions of people.  Miles and miles of very wide roads carried scores of vehicles every day.”

“What kind of vehicles?”

“Like the red one in our museum, the one with the funny wheels.”

“Ooh!”

“The city had scores of tall buildings reaching to the heavens.  It is hard to describe how tall they were, yet they were high enough that people called them skyscrapers and they were covered with shining glass to reflect the sun.”

“The City must have been something to see!” exclaimed Miguel.

“It was,” replied the old man.

“Did you see the City of Angels, Tio?” asked Gabriella.

“Yes I have,” replied the old man.  Having started his journey into the past, his mind started recalling events with such clarity, it was if they happened only the day before, not forty-three years ago.

“Tio?”

The old man snapped out of his thoughts, “Yes Jerome.”

“Is the city still there?”

“Yes, but it is much different now.”

“How different?”

“I will get to that,” the man answered, “Children, remember we agreed there will be no interruptions, or I won’t be able to finish the story.”

“Yes Tio.  We promise,” they agreed in unison.

“In this city there was a home, where children like you lived.”

“Orphans?” asked Hector.

“Yes, orphans,” The old man gave Hector a stern look for breaking his promise.  Tio looked at every one of their youthful and curious faces and began where he left off.

THE CITY OF ANGELS

1996

The middle aged couple finished tucking the last of the children in for the night.  This was no mean feat with eleven children of various ages, races and gender under one roof.

The woman went into the kitchen to make a pot of tea while the man tidied the living room and turned on the evening news.  She returned with the tea and snuggled with her husband on the couch.  This was a routine they both enjoyed and practiced daily.

Two announcers, a man and woman, reported the most recent, and hideous crime of the day, “A two year old boy was shot in another drive by shooting today.  A family walking home from the movies became the victims of an unidentified person in a passing car, who opened fire, missing the adults, but critically wounding the two year old infant, who was in his father’s arms at the time,”  The camera focused on the boy’s parents, who were devastated and in tears, “There are no leads or suspects at this time.”  The announcers looked at each other, each demonstrating an appearance of resigned  sadness over the unnecessary killing.  The interaction had been for the benefit of the audience, for the announcers had seen and heard too many horror stories in their careers to let this affect them.  The male announcer made a derisive comment about gang activity, then the two moved on, revealing other equally offensive events, to an audience ever hungry for more.

“What is happening Martha?  When will it stop?”  The man appeared to be genuinely saddened by the two year old infant’s death.  “Every day there is more and more.  I don’t feel comfortable going out in the streets at night anymore, and I’m a man.  Its like a giant crapshoot and the spoils are our lives.”

Martha looked into her husband’s brown eyes, feeling his frustration and sadness, “Honey, we see this getting worse year after year, and it doesn’t ever improve.  Madness is taking over.  I worry for our children and I pray that this insanity never touches them.”

“I know, I feel the same worry for our children.  What is to be done?”  This is not the first time that they had this conversation.

Joshua Ortega, was a simple and compassionate man who worshipped his wife, their children and the life they shared together.  An American by birth with a Mexican heritage, Joshua was a balding man of average height whose powerful body started to yield to the inevitable spread of middle age.  He had been a soldier in his youth and was one of the unfortunate few called upon to fight for his country in a nation called Viet Nam.  The vet had seen and experienced enough enormities during his tour in that country to last several lifetimes and thought he had left it behind forever.  Joshua Ortega now saw these same atrocities taking form in the City of Angels and in other parts of the country.   The realization depressed him.   Los Angeles was no longer the city of his youth.  Its not that they didn’t have violent crime and economic hardship during his childhood years, but the callousness and blatant disregard for the dignity of the human race seemed identical to what he had seen and experienced in the jungles.  People just didn’t care anymore.  Joshua couldn’t understand this.

Martha, a former Hungarian refugee, still possessed hints of her former beauty, but the trials of child bearing and life left their mark on the woman.  Streaks of gray savaged her blond hair and her once proud figure was only a cherished memory.  Joshua’s love and desire for her never waned in spite of this.  Their mutual love and the love she shared with her children made life not only bearable, but enjoyable.

The couple raised two children of their own, who had long since grown and moved out, starting families of their own.  After their youngest daughter left, Joshua and Martha lived alone for a year.  Martha couldn’t bear not having children around her and the emptiness she felt when Joshua was at work started to depress her.  The couple decided to become foster parents some ten years earlier.

Now, with eleven children currently under the couples’ roof, their home became known around the neighborhood as the “Orphanage,” and the term couldn’t have been more appropriate.  Every one of their foster children’s parents died prematurely to causes associated with drug overdoses, aids, alcoholism and murder.

The “Orphanage,” was an older two story frame home with four bedrooms upstairs and a converted bedroom downstairs.  One bathroom served the whole household.  The living room was fairly small, but the kitchen spread out over a full third of the ground floor, so it was natural for most of the family’s social interactions to take place in the kitchen where Martha spent much of her day.

The Ortega’s house became entrenched in a neighborhood that slowly succumbed to the decay of urban blight.  Joshua’s salary and the money received from the county barely provided for the real needs of the children and themselves, so they stayed in the neighborhood and adjusted to the deteriorating environment.

Each of the new arrivals at the Orphanage suffered from some dysfunction or emotional trauma of one type or another.   With patience, love and discipline, the Ortegas provided a life the children never experienced before.  Due to the children’s dubious origins and histories, combined with the fact that they were too old to attract prospective parents, the youngest being six years,  no one tried to adopt any of them.  The Ortegas had the current bunch for over two years.  The children called Martha and Joshua, “Mom” and “Pops”.

The couple continued watching the news, waiting for an update on the conclusion of a child custody battle.  The court proceedings stirred feelings of anger, empathy and sympathy within the couple.  The custody battle captured their interest because it involved an adopted three year old girl.   These child custody dramas between the adoptive parents fighting to keep a child whom they love, and raised from near birth and a child’s biological parents, whose consciences and guilt helped them decide that they want their child returned to them, regardless of the cost,  were becoming common these days.

The cameras closed in on the terrified three year old girl, who’s wide eyes were locked into the tearful eyes of her stepparents, pleading with them, not knowing what was happening to her or why,  while she screamed for her “mommy” as the police pulled her out of the arms of her adoptive parents  and handed her to the biological parents, one of whom had previously nurtured a notorious drug addiction and was now supposedly rehabilitated.

Joshua and Martha’s hearts sank at the injustice and sadness of it all.  The little girl and her stepparents lost to the indifferent machine of justice.  Three lower courts had agreed to let things be, but the natural parents had the resources, the law and a hungry attorney working in their favor.  They kept on fighting the battle of selfishness until a Supreme court decision overturned all lower court 0verdicts.  Martha hugged her husband.  She could not stop her tears from flowing at seeing the girl ripped away from the only parents she had ever known.

The couple sat there a while, not believing what they had just seen.  Finally, Martha  picked up the tea cups and headed toward the kitchen.  Joshua shrugged his shoulders, turned off the television and followed his wife of thirty-five years.

This particular night, July 13, 1996, after the couple had fallen asleep, a small black automobile glided to a stop in front of the Orphanage.  Two youths jumped out of the car, each armed with a Molotov Cocktail.

With speed and professionalism borne of training, the youths lit the wicks and threw the deadly bottles through the windows of the Ortega home.  The boys retreated into their lowered vehicle and made good their escape, leaving a blazing inferno behind them.

Fortunately for the occupants of the Orphanage, most succumbed to smoke inhalation before the fire performed it’s fatal dance.  The ancient two story frame home burned to the ground within minutes.  The fire department had responded immediately to the call, but the Orphanage had been burning for some time before anyone noticed it.  Fire crews could only prevent the fire from spreading to the neighboring homes at that point.

Police later surmised that the Orphanage had been a mistaken target in a war between two rival street gangs.  A well known crack house, looking a lot like the Ortega home, had been located only two doors down.  The Molotov cocktails believed to have set the blaze were actually meant for the crack house.  The news services carried the story of the tragedy nationwide.  Eleven children and two adults perished in the aftermath of a bombing intended for another target.  Victims of a senseless slaughter.   Forty eight hours later, the fire and the victims were a forgotten memory in the minds of the public, having been superseded by other dire events.

CHAPTER 1

-ARRIVAL-

He felt the urge, no the call, about a year ago while working on a farm near a small prairie town in Canada’s midwest.  Unknown to him, a year passed since the “Orphanage” had burned.  He had been on the move some twenty-three years by that time, barely making enough for food, shelter and traveling expenses.  He was a loner and a drifter.  No friends, no family, no anything.

The call, or urge, to pull stakes and wander down to Los Angeles did not make sense to him, yet he experienced deep anxiety and nervousness, emotions he did not feel often,  until the day he actually started his journey south.

He was forty one years old, had no past, and no future.  A tanned and weathered Caucasian, he had brown hair, blue eyes, medium build and was of average height.  There was little to distinguish him from the masses, except for sharply defined facial features, high cheekbones and a distinctive voice.   When he spoke, the deep bass resonance would ridicule his physique, sounding as if it should originate from a much larger man.  After a while, one would forget the incongruity of the voice and the man.

People were instinctively drawn to him, yet most could not explain why.  He never established close or long term friendships, and after a time would invariably move on and not be heard from again.  Although the man possessed no fixed address, he stayed out of trouble and lived a quiet, nondescript life.

The man was an enigma, a soul who had slipped between the cracks, lost to society.  He liked it that way.

A year to the day after the Orphanage tragedy, he arrived at the City of Angels.  The man managed to rent a modest one room studio apartment in a neighborhood that had long since seen better days.  He used the name John Bass on the rental agreement and paid for the first month in cash.

Feeling restless the first evening in his new home, the man decided to go for a walk.  He took with him the only thing he possessed that was worth anything, wrapped it in a cloth and put it under his arm.  The drifter proceeded to roam rather aimlessly around the neighborhood.  His meandering brought him into an neighborhood of older two story homes.  It was near midnight, the air was clear and the stars sparkled above.  It seemed unusually quiet.

The man walked down the narrow street, arriving at the site where the orphanage once stood. The charred remains and tattered yellow police tape bore testimony to the fact that a tragedy had occurred here.

The man stopped.  He did not know why, yet deep within him he knew that this had been the cause for his urge to leave Canada.   Inexplicably, anguish poured through the man’s being and tears welled in his eyes.

He grasped the package under his arm, gently unwrapped a gleaming object and stuffed the cloth cover into his pocket.  He inhaled, pressed the trumpet’s mouthpiece against his lips and looked toward the heavens.

With tears flowing down both cheeks, the man allowed his soul to travel through the trumpet’s gleaming metal form.  The sound that seduced the silence, opened the night to the most poignant and beautiful hymn that the people in the area would ever hear.  Crystal clear notes touched hearts and souls.

The neighborhood accepted this last homage to the couple and eleven children with total silence.

The man wrapped the horn in the cloth and returned to his room, wondering what was next expected from him.

Time to Die

The one bedroom apartment at the lower front portion of the old home was filled with the sort of things a man who lived a diverse and full life would accumulate.  Books lined most of the walls and a few reproductions of the famous masters, Van Gogh and Picasso adorned the space that still remained.  An old artillery shell lay on a coffee table, and the tiny kitchen suite had been fashioned entirely from Iron wood.  A Zulu warrior’s spear leaned against a corner of the living room.

The apartment was dark, except for the weak glow of a reading lamp emanating from the bedroom.

She sat in an old fashioned, leather recliner, which had been placed next to the bed so she could monitor his condition.  Intravenous tubes dangled from their glass vials and snaked their way into his flesh, injecting pain killers and nourishment into his ravaged body.  An oxygen mask covered the lower half of his face.

God he looked so helpless, she thought.  The woman’s heart sank just looking at him.  He used to be so alive!  Is this what we can expect?  The final humiliation of it all, a whole and complete life reduced to a that of a new born, and not even a healthy baby at that.

Six months earlier the feisty Kevin O’Malley appeared healthy and fit, looking a decade younger than his seventy years.  Now his wasted body approached the edge of life’s plateau.  Two weeks ago, he demanded to be released from the hospital.  In another time Kevin O’Malley would have bellowed, but his voice could only croak the words, “I’ll not stay in this God forsaken hole!”  That day arrangements were made and within twenty four hours Kevin lay in his own bed at home.  When the woman wasn’t there, a full time nurse provided round the clock care.

His eyes locked onto those of the woman next to him, then he looked to the tube inserted in his arm.

Speech no longer graced his lips.

“Papa, do you want me to pull them out–is that what you’re asking?”

His expression communicated his wishes–he had enough.  The woman was torn between her father’s silent plea and the realization that she would no longer have him in her life.  She thought about his suffering, knowing it could only get worse.  She anticipated the impending loneliness that she would feel knowing that he would no longer be there for her.

Kevin O’Malley’s only child made her decision.

She reached over and looked into his eyes, “I love you Papa.”  The tubes were gently removed and the mask pulled from his face.  A smile appeared on Kevin’s face and a tear trickled its way down a weathered cheek.

An hour later his body shuddered, then lay still, his heart no longer responding to life’s call.

The woman looked down at her father, grief started its painful journey into her heart.  She got up from the bed, walked over to the window and stared into the night.

She wondered why her father had insisted on living in this poverty ridden barrio these last years, never mind wanting to die here. She had offered to move him to a decent place.  Her income as a television journalist could easily support her offer, but he refused.

“Missy,” he had called her Missy since she could remember, her real name was Kelly, “I belong here.  Now I don’t want to hear any more foolishness about moving, it isn’t going to happen.” and with that the issue was closed.  It’s funny what goes through your mind at a time like this she thought.  She didn’t cry then and wondered if she would once the reality of her father’s departure hit home.

As Kelly stared through the window, she took notice of a man standing across the street in front of the lot that once housed the Ortega family and their orphans.  The weak rays of the street lamp located some distance away gave the scene an eerie quality.  The tattered remnants of the police tape reminded Kelly of the fear she felt for her father’s safety after she learned of the bombing.

The man across the street intrigued her.  He just stood there, his back facing Kelly.  He seemed to be absorbed in whatever may have remained on the lot.  Kelly wondered why he stood there at this time of night.  Maybe he knew one of the victims?

Kelly watched as he unwrapped the horn and put it to his lips.  The image of the solitary man, his golden horn pointed toward the heavens, reminded her of a famous statue she had once seen in Europe.

Shivers ran through her body when the mournful echo of the hymn reached her ears.  In her thirty-nine years, Kelly never heard or felt anything close to what she experienced then.

She listened intently as last note died in the night’s silence and felt another let down when she realized the enchanting music had ended.  Kelly watched the man wrap the horn in its cloth. He turned toward her and looked briefly into her eyes.  The man glanced toward the heavens and proceeded to walk away.  Something about the look on his face, or maybe the face itself, she was not quite sure, etched itself into her memory.  No, this was not a performance she would forget in her lifetime.

Kelly O’Malley turned and looked at her lifeless father.  After a moment she picked up the phone and dialed.

Excerpt from the epilogue of the book I wrote in ‘94.

-MEXICO 2039-

The ancient vehicle sputtered as it traveled on the dirt road.  There was only one occupant in the rental car.  He wiped the sweat from his brow, and fought with the wheel as the car encountered a number of ruts made during the last rains.

He had known about this man everyone called Tio for years, but never had the chance to meet with him.  Now the old man lay on his death bed.  He apparently regained his ability of speech, but the rest of his body refused to function.  A villager had been sent to get the doctor, a thin man in his fifties.

The doctor loved the people and the country.  He dedicated his life to it through his medicine and his love for humanity.  He in turn was loved and respected by the people in the poverty stricken areas in which he worked his wonders.

He didn’t make much money, and he didn’t care.  The doctor was at peace with himself and with God.

He noticed the crowd of villagers around Tio’s apartment.  Tio must be a good man, the Doctor thought.  He could see that the villagers were worried.

The doctor parked the car and emerged with a medical bag.  Some of the villagers turned to look at him as he approached and the crowd parted to allow him entry to Tio’s humble home.

The physician walked between the people.  They were a poor lot, some had their heads bowed.  One of Tio’s children, an orphan, called to him “Please make him better,” she pleaded.  The girl couldn’t have been more than five or six years old.  The Doctor knelt in front of her, “I will do what I can.”

As he entered the apartment, a middle aged woman pointed in the direction of the bedroom.  He approached the room.  The doctor could see the old man lying on his back through the doorway.  There was something familiar about Tio, yet he could not quite place it.

He reached the old man’s side, pulled out a stethoscope and started unbuttoning the dying man’s shirt.  The doctor noticed two scars.  They looked like bullet wounds.  He wondered how and when the old man got shot.  Tio’s eyes had been closed all this time.

The deep bass voice had lost some of its resonance, but it still had power, “There’s no need for that Rodney,  He is calling and I am willing to follow.”

Recognition came at hearing the sound of the voice.  The doctor was shocked.  After all these years?

“John, you said we would meet again, and to never lose faith.  I didn’t”

A smile appeared on Tio’s lips, “I know.  It is meant to be, our meeting this way.  It is good to see you son.”

Rodney was at a loss for words.  He thought about John often, even now, and now that his prophecy had been fulfilled, Rodney couldn’t respond.

“Please, will you reach under the bed.  There is something I have saved for you that belongs to you.”

“Belongs to me?”

“Please,” the voice was losing its strength.

Rodney knelt beside the bed and put his hand beneath it, searching.  He grasped something soft and pulled.  His eyes opened when he realized he had the horn.

He stood up holding the wrapped trumpet, staring at the old man on the bed.  Rodney’s hands were shaking.

The old man’s voice had dropped to a whisper, “Please play it for me.  It is yours now.”

Rodney had never played in his life, but something in the old man’s request compelled him to unwrap the horn and place it to his lips.

The sound was the softest and sweetest that anyone in the area had ever heard.  The birds stopped to listen and babies quieted as the crystal clear sounds of the trumpet echoed throughout the village.  Not a sound could be heard except for the trumpet’s call.

Tears streamed down Rodney’s cheeks as part of his soul became music.

The villagers mourned, knowing Tio was no longer.  Rodney finished and looked down on the bed with tear filled eyes.  He glanced at the ceiling and whispered a thank you.

Rodney gently wrapped the horn, picked up his bag and walked out of the room.  Before he closed the door, he took one last look at the empty bed and whispered, “Good-by my friend.”