Last Bastion

Names have been changed (or ommited) to protect the innocent (or guilty.)

The office is bright from the light streaming through the plate glass window, even though it is covered with a fine silver sheen of tinting. The view is of a child's playground, complete with the multicolored blocks that kids can crawl through. There are no kids crawling at the moment. The weather outside is cold as indicated by the skeletal branches of the mulberries reaching towards the overcast sky. A mini tornado whirls a pile of leaves through the double swing set so that the leaves litter the entire yard again, only to be swept later to the fence line from the continual gusts of bitter wind.

Inside it is warm. A fire crackles gently in the fireplace directly across from the large cherry wood desk in front of the window. A black metal screen hides the flames from view but at the right angles you can see the orange glow from within the belly of the house. Books make the walls of the study, except for the occasional break of a doorway or window.

Equidistant from the fireplace on both sides are two such doorways. The one on the right is an opening that peers down a long hallway to a red tapestry adorning the far wall. The view out the doorway on the left is obscured by a large heavy oak door with iron trimmings, that is partially open. Along the left wall is a respite for a window. In front of it sits a dark leather sofa worn by years of sleeping readers. An overly large coffee table made of cherry to match the desk sits before it. Two wing-backed chairs with draped velvet throws flank the coffee table. On the table sits a silver coffee service tray with antique white cups turned upside down to prevent dust from contaminating the inside. On the right wall is a ladder on a ceiling track so the books on the very top shelves can be reached by even the smallest of children.

The desk is organized and all the normal desk ornaments match. The in and out file, pen holder, letter opener, desk lamp, tape dispenser, and paperclip tray are made of the same colored cherry wood as the desk. On the left corner of the desk sits a large replica of a jet fighter with its nose tilted upwards in flight. "FJ-445 U.S. Air Force" is stamped along its body in black letters and under the cockpit window is written "Capt. Donald Freeman," the owner of the desk.

He sits behind the desk in a large, black, leather swivel chair. Just to his right is a black wheelchair with cherry wood handles that match the office decor. Don, as we call him, is my boss; damn near a surrogate father. I've been working for him for over 23 years. He is one of the best people you could ever know.

The last bastion of loyalty in loyal-free world, Don was like his office; neat, organized, disciplined and knowledgeable. His hair is silver white, trimmed high and tight as if still serving in the Air Force. His demeanor is polite and reserved although the occasional string of curse words escape his lips whenever he cannot manage a small detail with his hands. Don is afflicted with an unknown neural disease that robs him of his ability to walk without help or to button his shirts or to separate pieces of paper stuck together by invisible glue. The doctors thought it was Lou Gehrig's disease at first, but now it's a complete mystery. He has been undergoing experimental steroid treatments for a few months and there have been no improvement as of yet.

At work, I do not manage the incoming invoices or check them against corporate accounting for the store so that Don still has a reason to come into work everyday. His visits to the store to complete this part of the day is short, usually limited to about an hour or two. He used to spend six to eight hours a day there when I started working for him but through the years as I learned to manage the store, his visits were able to shorten to three to five hours. When his hands started to fail him, I took over all together. I suggested that he spend more time with his family, take more vacations, etc. I am glad to say that for the last three years he has had enough confidence in me to take the time off during baseball season to follow his grandson around the U.S. to watch him play college ball. Photos of his grandson in action clipped from newspapers pepper the wall in our office.

The last few months, unfortunately ... or maybe fortunately, if the treatments work, Don has not been able to come into the office daily as normal. Treatments are an all day process with a home nurse and dripping IVs. So, I take the work to him. During these monthly week-long sessions, I bundle up the reports and invoices and go to his home where we sit at his kitchen table, drink coffee, and do it together. Then I bundle up all the finished work and bring it back to the store. As of late I've been able to help him with his new computer as well.

Today, we are sitting in his office because he has moved in with my sister. This is my sister's house and with that realization, I can hear the giggle of a little four year old princess coming from the room where the oak door is cocked open. In my hands I hold a printout of the pay outs corporate accounting has charged us with. Don holds the yellow copy of the invoice log. I read off the abbreviated names of the companies whose invoices appear on my pay out sheet. He reads the amount from the yellow sheet and if they match, I cross them off on my paper. We are at this for a while until my nephew enters the room from the oak door and asks us if we want anything special for dinner. "My mom told me to come ask," he says as if to excuse the politeness of his being.

"As long as there are French fries, I'll be happy," Don says and my nephew's smile grows from ear to ear. French fries are his current favorite food. He skips back through the doorway careful to put the oak door back into its cocked position. When we finish Don helps me bundle up the paperwork and then begins the process of switching from his large leather chair to his wheelchair. Using his forearms, he raises himself onto his feet with the help of the desk. he slowly shuffles to the right, while simultaneously turning the wheelchair to align his backside with it and then using the desk again, he slowly lowers himself into his chair. He is not seated as properly as he would like so a whispered string of those curse words fill the air as he tries to adjust himself.

"Your forearms must be as big as Schwarzenegger's," I say, as I come around to push him to dinner. I ask if he wants some help and he barks at me. I can hear the frustration in his voice so I say nothing. I move to put the little footrests down but he beats me to it and waves me away so I just wait until he stops moving.

"Ready," I ask. Breathing heavily, he nods. I push him towards the ramp to take us up the single level that we are away from dinner.... with French fries.

After dinner, in response to the political protesters in front of the house, my sister calls the police and complains of a disturbance of the peace of the neighborhood. Sue and I stand outside to ensure no damage is done to the house while we wait for the authorities. My sister comes out to join us and we begin to discuss the addition of a playroom onto the house and where the window placements should be. As if our very presence is the catalyst, a trash can flies towards the front installed window of my sister's house. Fortunately, it falls short, but the crash landing of the aluminum can results in an explosion of garbage all over the front lawn. A flurry of insults aimed at the protesters eschew vehemently from my sister and it takes all the strength of Sue just to hold her back from attacking.

It was not the house they were protesting. They were just protesting, seemingly for the sake of protesting. Why they chose to protest in front of my sister's house is still a mystery. That and the fact that they were not unified in their protests. Some were protesting abortion, others were protesting the war and still others were protesting Barak Obama running for president. (Odd, I do not agree with any of them.)

The arrival of the police is enough to disperse the protesters as if they are just finishing a normal day of work, and it is time to go home. "Clock out" seems the right term to describe the sudden stoppage of screaming and yelling. Mystified, my sister, Sue and I return indoors and send my nephew out to clean up the yard. (See what I mean about kids being useful?)

I return to Don's office as my sister and Sue go elsewhere in the house. Don is playing on his computer trying to figure out how to underline the word "fart' in an e-mail to his mother and when I come in and he seems overly grateful that I have arrived. I position myself behind his left shoulder and explain the process, resisting the urge to take over the keyboard to do it for him.

A tall man comes out of a room in the hallway on the left without the door. Both Don and I recognize him immediately. It is my ex-boyfriend. He kneels down next to a backpack he has sitting on the floor at his feet. From it he extracts a long Kris blade knife with a copper handle that is in the shape of an eagle's head and outspread wings. I recognize it as a friends magical blade and wonder why he has it. Perhaps he is here to return it to me so I can give it to its rightful owner.

"Uh, should he have that," Don asks me as we watch him stand up holding the knife and dropping the bag. I am not in fear of any danger for myself so I reply that I think it will be okay. Then he changes his grasp on the weapon and from its menacing posture, I can tell danger is imminent.

"Crap," I mutter, and look frantically around the office for my own weapon if I need it. My eyes settled on the large cherry coffee table. It seems long enough to keep me out of the man's lanky reach. I sweep the coffee service off the table and move it between me and him. Unfortunately, I did not account for the length of the blade and he is able to make several cuts across my inner forearms and biceps. I discard the coffee table and move in close to get in under his range hoping it will be to my advantage. I am able to surprise him by the move but it only gives me seconds to decide what to do next.

Standing with my back in the crux of his shoulder as if we are about to cuddle ... except that I am holding the knife at bay, I intertwine my legs with his and lean back hoping that I will be able to throw off his balance. Luck, gravity, and my weight is enough to knock the air out of him as we hit the ground and he drops the weapon. It skitters across the floor just out of reach. My right leg is screaming in pain from riding the corner of the desk on our way down. I can feel my skirt begin to soak with blood.

My first instinct is to get up as quickly as possible and run, but I find that I cannot. There is no deer-in-the-headlights energy working here; instead it is a mother's protective instinct that kicks in. Running would leave Don alone with this maniac. Don, a man I've known and loved over half my life. Don who never would have abandoned me. Don, who never would have abandoned anyone, ever. Deserting Don is not an option. I look to find the knife that has fallen free. It is just beyond the other side of the desk. I roll off my ex and start a low crawl towards it.

The pain in my arms and leg from the injuries meld together and become one. The pain crescendos with every muscle flex as I move towards the knife. Small cries of anguish escape me with every worms distance. As my head reaches the other side of the desk I feel a hard clamp on the back of my shirt. A hoarse cry of true fear finally escapes me. I am able to resist the drag backwards but he is able to use me to propel himself forward. I reach for the knife and pray I am close enough. My fingertips barely touch the copper eagle's head. I allow my body to relax to get the mental running start to reach again. I cannot fail, I tell myself. My arm stretches out and the curvature of the eagle's head is enough to move the knife millimeters away as my fingers graze it again. I do not relax because I know it is all or nothing at this point. I try to move myself forward with my legs but the grasp on my shirt holds me in place and I have to stop. I feel the hot breath of the devil on my shoulder as the inevitable looms closer.

My forehead rests on the floor and I consider surrender. But still, I cannot. I roll onto my side so that I am face to face with him. I begin to flail wildly concentrating on the arm he extends to reach for the knife. I watch as his range is enough to clear the distance, and his fist clenches over the outspread wing. A guttural, almost imperceptible "Fuck," is uttered aloud. I thrash again, punching, kicking, and screaming as hard as I can. It is to no avail. The arm and knife raise themselves to strike. I close my eyes in resignation and stop moving.

The path to the other side is pictured in my unbelieving reeling mind as a long, desert, two-lane road at twilight. I find as I travel forward that what they say about the moments before death is true. Billboards with the animated smiling faces of all the people I have ever loved and known flash past me. The splendid silence of the desert is filled only with the slowing beat of my heart as it, too, resigns itself. Then the low rumbling begins. It is a feeling of sound more than a just a sound itself. The earth is about to quake, opening a maw to allow access to the deepest reaches of its center, allowing me to return home. I ride the road as it begins to undulate in waves. I can feel my soul separating from the physical in slow rollers, not unlike to unbuttoning of a simple shirt. The muscles of my hands and body tense to undo one button and then, there is a pause as a small bit of my soul is released from the physical, I search the next button. My body clenches once again and another button is undone and I relax as I search for the next button. As my body tenses once more to work on the next bit of release a loud crash of metal startles the meditative work. The rumbling and waves cease immediately. I recognize the sound instantly and my eyelids flash open.

The long metal knife has fallen to the ground and the beak of the eagle looms large in my peripheral vision. Wisps of my own hair, severed by the blade, float away with my breath. My ex is slumped before me with a large red stain spreading across the side of his head. I am two buttons away from fully comprehending everything but it all comes into full focus with the shift of the shadow over the fallen mans face. I look up and standing over me is Don. He has braced himself with one arm on the desk and in the hand of the other is a bloodied jet fighter with a broken tail. My eyes close again, I sigh deeply and then I frantically work to button back up.

Intermittent flashes of blue and red alternate on the walls surrounding me and Sue as she finishes the patching on the burgundy welling cuts on my arms. She gently washes the scarlet from me and smiles, thankful and grateful I am still standing. I feel the onrushing ripple of love pouring from her, and I bask in its warmth. I smile quietly back. Across the room, my savior sits in his wheelchair talking to a plainclothes police officer. The man bears a striking resemblance to Don, and I realize it is his own son. The man puts his hand on Don's shoulder and again, a wave of love washes over me from the small smile they give one another.

The black, plastic covered body of my assailant is placed into the back of an emergency vehicle and I watch with great sadness. I do not understand why I am sad on the surface of my thoughts, but I think I do deep within. I leave it at that.

originally posted February 28, 2008-This was a dream I had on January 28, 2008. Great, huh? Unfortunately, except for the name, everything about my boss was true. He passed away February 6, 2009.

The Volcano and My Mother

I was standing on a bridge just staring at the column of smoke rising from the mountain. There were only about a dozen people there with me. The rest of the world had opted to ignore the warning sign and go about their business. I wondered if I should be evacuating instead of waiting for something, or nothing. Then the volcano had exploded, not as violently as we had expected, but a large chunk of it had flown off the top and showered down in a million pieces. Cries of "O my God!" and "Jesus Christ!" erupted from the group around me. Everyone left the bridge hurriedly except for a man in a dark blue business suit and a trench coat who just stood at the rail, eyes closed, shaking his head.

A rolling panic started through out the community. It took almost half the day before the streets completely emptied. As I made my way home through the empty cobblestone streets, I noticed an assembly of cheerful townsfolk entering and exiting one particular house. I passed a threesome of amiable patio conversationalists and made my way to the rear of the house. Here, where the sea touched the shore, was a small army of people, preparing to survive by floating on air mattresses. At least three-dozen mattresses were spread out in the backyard and several people lay upon them waiting for the water and lava to arrive. There was no panic here, just organized chatter.

Safety orange colored rubber sheets covered many as they waited patiently on their floats. Some seemed to be sleeping, others read paperbacks. It reminded me of a passenger terminal at an airport where everyone sits around impatiently waiting. Someone had the bright idea of filling the sea with mattresses to approximate the timing of the lava flow and surge of water. Three mattresses out someone yelled 'Three' above the din. 'Three' was bantered around so everyone could hear it. I never heard the count of two. All I heard was "Here it comes!"

I stepped off the back porch to get a better look. Tall hedges and overgrown trees only gave me a partial view of the sea out of the corner of the yard. The bright red and black lava seemed to float upon the sea like a life raft. The head of the flow was over a foot thick, maybe two. A surge of water hit the shore and a large dollop of salty lava flew towards the porch and landed where I had just been standing. Flames leaped up immediately. An air mattress and safety sheet exploded and caught fire but was quickly quenched by the surging water, but not before the poor soul had been melded to the plastic like a butterfly trapped for eternity in its cocoon. Small fires instantaneously appeared everywhere around the yard. The order deteriorated. Chaos was now the order of the day. People ran to and fro trying not to get hit by the particles of lava being flung by the force of each wave. A young man dissolved in front of me as he was caught by sea spray mixed with the red-hot pellets of molten rock. I ran for the door to get back on the street. A fire burst forth directly under my feet as I crossed the threshold of the door. I felt the singe of heat, but hoped I had made it over fast enough to do no damage. I realized I was barefoot.

The building would only serve as a very temporary barrier to the lava flow, I knew. As I ran out of the house with the warm, foamy water sloshing around my ankles, a man behind me was also headed for the front door carrying a kitchen's butcher knife. He wore a dirty, dark, gray sweatshirt jacket with the hood covering his head and half of his face. He muttered under his breath about the coming of the end and the worthy and the undeserved. His mind must have snapped from the pressure. I secretly hoped the lava would catch him quickly.

I ran up the street noting the coming dusk. The darkness of the hour made all the buildings look a single gray color. Next to the steps of the courthouse I turned and hit the buzzer on the door of a tall old building to get let in. A deep gruff Irish accent grunted at me as he came out that said, "There's nobody there."

I wasn't going to trust a stranger with the whereabouts of my mother so I dashed inside and sprang up the steps. Nearly choking from the inability to breathe, I clanged open the door for the 27th floor. The hallway was empty. It seemed the darkened day had made it inside as well. The same gray from outside muted every color. I ran towards our apartment. I yelled out, "Mom!" several times.

After nearly breaking my fingers trying to unlock the door, I burst into my apartment calling out again. She was looking out the window at the smoking volcano.

"Mom, we should get out of here," I said. "The building is sure to catch fire."

"Where will we go, " she said, her gaze not moving.

"It doesn't matter," I said, "as long as it's away from all of this."

Knowing she would want a destination before moving I said, "At least to the other side of the bay."

My mother was a small, petite, perfectly coiffed gray-haired lady that looked older than time. Stretched across her high cheekbones was porcelain paper-thin skin that wrinkled when she smiled or frowned. Deep furrows on her forehead and the etched crows feet around her eyes only served to make her more beautiful. I grabbed our emergency bags and gently took her arm and pulled her away from the window.

We were on a bridge across the bay watching the small town ever so slowly being engulfed by the volcano. The day was bright, blue, and clear. A long yellow ribbon trailed off my mother's hat in the ocean breeze as she stood at the rail, watching the scene. I was on one knee, latching the Velcro of my boots. I stood up next to her and put my arm around her and kissed her ridged forehead. She told me to come back safe. I picked up the fireproof jacket that matched the bulky pants I was wearing and headed for the truck. The trip to the docks was within walking distance but if I came back with injured I wanted a quick way to get them to a hospital.

I felt heroic the whole next day. I may have even did some heroic things.

The Offering

The air was thick with concrete dust from the falling buildings. The windshield of the car was covered in a dusty film. It got so heavy, we had to utilize the windshield wipers so we could see. I checked our rear. The tank was right behind us. Damn, it moved fast for such a large vehicle. It was almost unreal. The driver swerved viciously to avoid another falling building and I was thrown around the small compartment of the back seat. I quickly regained footing and watched as the tank plowed right through the debris, exploding another cloud of particles.

"Hurry," my mind screamed and then I voiced it aloud! "Hurry! He's catching us!"

"We'd probably be better off on foot," the driver said and I watched the back of his head move as if searching for a good spot to ditch the car. Periodically, I was tossed about as he weaved his way through the forsaken city. It had all just changed. The world was a different place. No longer could nights be spent just watching a television or hanging out at the bar with friends. Now was a time for survival. Avoid getting caught. Avoid being enslaved. Avoid torture and internment. And this was from our own government.

I checked our rear. At sometime the back window had been blown out and the clarity of the scene behind me gave me shivers. Vegas was in complete ruins. Small orange fire glows everywhere silhouetted the damage against the fading sky. Smoke tendrils reached up into the dark purple space that replaced the once ever-present orange glow. Here and there you could see singular souls, covered in soot and rags diving for cover from the search vehicles. Ours seemed to be falling behind. Maybe it had found new quarry. I felt relieved, yet sorry all at once. I informed the driver and noticed we were slowing down.

He pulled in under the half collapsed canopy of what used to be a small casino and we struggled with the doors to let ourselves out. The other passenger in the front was a small east Indian boy with eyes like the ones you see on the covers of National Geographic. His face was drawn, as if in deep thought. Once released from the vehicle, all of our eyes swept the surrounding area. The distinct whirring of choppers getting closer made us move quickly. Next to the casino was an alley and we ducked into it.

The driver was a man in his mid-thirties. He had dark hair, although the light coat of dust made it seem white. He was Italian, I think. He had that stereo-typical swarthy-ness of a lithe Italian soccer star or model. His lips were full and almost constantly pouting. He ran his long, dexterous fingers through his hair and it became black again. Sporting a white open collar shirt that was only half-buttoned up, he grabbed the young boys hand as we walked down the alley.

We came to the passageways end and a ragged cloth curtain blocked our progress. The Italian swept it aside and the sunlight pouring through the opening hurt my eyes for a moment. As my eyesight adjusted to the light, I could make out a marketplace teeming with people. Most were Indian, like the boy. It was near shoulder to shoulder walking through the melee. Suddenly the crowd parted and an Indian man in his forties was on his knees with his face up towards the heavens. His arms were outstretched to the side as he muttered in a language I did not understand. Finally his arms dropped and a couple of the bystanders went to help him up.

At my side was a young Indian girl, who smiled at me when I looked at her. Her eyes then traveled towards the Italian and she said in perfect English, "An offering must be made," and then turned to walk away. Sensing his confusion, I touched the girl on her shoulder ad asked what she meant. She pointed to a small cart from which fetishes and magazines dangled.

"Purchase something from him and make it an offering in the temple." I asked if she would show us. I followed the braided girl and indicated for the Italian to follow.

There wasn't much of a selection. An offering of bubble gum or a deck of cards seemed mediocre for an offering. A small Indian man before us bought a fetish of an elephant and walked off, presumably towards the temple. The Italian settled on a deck of colorful playing cards, almost Italian in design. He turned them over and over in his hand as the girl led us towards the temple. She started to explain.

Ever so often, God touches a soul here and announces that to save the lives of four hundred, the two hundred males around the touched must make a sacrifice of something. The sacrifice can be something as simple as a pack of gum or a deck of cards. I asked why and she did not know. It had begun long ago, but it happened very frequently. I asked if the announcement had never been complied with. She pointed to the line of forty or so men waiting to make their sacrifice.

The young Indian boy stood in line with the Italian, holding a small doll as the girl led me up the steps of the temple. We stood off to the side, but I could see the drop box protruding from the wall, the men pitched their offerings into. Some just walked up and tossed them in and moved on. Others said a small succinct prayer before doing so. The Italian reached the box and paused. He muttered no prayers. He lowered his eyes and leaned against the wall. I could tell he was contemplating the decision.

The girls face wrinkled. She wasn't very happy.

"Why does one pause to save the lives of four hundred? At such a low price?"

And then I woke up. Great dream!