

The Seduction of Monet Dawson: Confessions of a Military Wife

Copyright © E. Clay 2013

New Paradigm Publishers. All rights reserved

ISBN 978-0-9891548-3-3 (paperback)

ISBN 978-0-9891548-2-6 (ebook)

Conversion to eBook by www.wordzworth.com

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by photocopying or any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage or retrieval systems, without permission in writing from both the copyright owner and the publisher of the book.

This book is inspired by true events, but names and some events have been changed to protect the privacy of those portrayed.
A very special heartfelt thanks to Monet Dawson (not her real name) for granting me permission to write this story.

Thanks to Neil McKenzie, John, Fred and Dwayne of the California Executives. Finally, to Jim and Patty of the Hypnosis Institute of San Diego, I appreciate all that you have taught me.

# PROLOGUE

Monet Dawson is an everyday woman leading a typical life as a military spouse just outside Marine Corps Base, Camp Pendleton, California. Like some military spouses, Monet often sees herself as a mere extension of her husband, putting her life on hold to further his career. Years of sacrifice and compromise has created an existential crisis which she finds increasingly unbearable.

One day, Monet encounters a gentleman with a unique skill set who causes her to question everything she knows about love and happiness. Will she dismiss the only love she has ever known for a fantasy, or will she remain true to her principles and values and resist a firestorm of temptation?

(Based on a true story)

Contains moderate implications of sexual activity.

# — CHAPTER ONE —

# Caller in Distress

## 18 June 1991. 12:05 p.m.

911. What is your emergency?"

"Can you send someone, please? I'm scared."

"Okay ma'am, can you speak up, I can hardly hear you."

"I can't. I'm in the upstairs closet. If I talk louder then...wait, I hear footsteps."

"Okay, we have you at 3553 Sandpiper Place. Someone will be there shortly. Just stay with me okay?"

Click.

"Ma'am are you there? Ma'am?"

## One week earlier

Home sweet home. I had been back in the U.S. for a month from my year-long assignment in Okinawa, Japan. I was very happy to be reunited with my six-year-old son Clay Jr. I was so lucky to return to Camp Pendleton, California. I moved right back into my condo just off of College Boulevard. Since the court awarded me child custody, I got the house and the fat mortgage along with it. I was buried in debt. You would think a Gunnery Sergeant who had been in the Marines almost eleven years would have a decent lifestyle. Some probably did, but I was as broke as they come. I remember being so broke that I had to make a U-turn on the way to work to avoid paying a toll charge. I didn't have any money. Whenever my dates walked in to my house for the first time, they would always say the same thing.

"I can tell this is a bachelor pad."

I managed to put a little money away while I was overseas. For the first time in a long time, I felt good about my finances and my overall disposition because now I had a little money in the bank. I decided against fixing up my Mazda RX-7 and decided to spend a little on the house. I needed to de-bachelorize it and make it a little more decorative. The condo was a two-story unit that hadn't been upgraded since it was built in the early 1970s. It had wood paneling throughout the downstairs and cheap furnishings that I picked up second hand from the old couple that sold me the property in 1985.

My son and I were watching our favorite Sunday TV show In Living Color, and in between wiping the tears of laughter from our faces there was a commercial break.

Montgomery Ward was having an inventory closeout sale. Up to fifty percent off on home furnishings. That got my attention. The following evening, my son was in the toy section and I was roaming the aisles looking for a bargain.

"Sir, have you found what you are looking for?" asked a male store attendant who snuck up behind me.

"Ahh, yes. I saw a commercial on TV and it mentioned you had a sale on home furnishings. Fifty percent off."

"That only refers to our curtains and blinds. We are discontinuing a line of mini-blinds. You will find them on aisle six next to the curtains and rods," the attendant said as he led the way.

As I approached aisle six, I was immediately drawn to the mini-blinds with a dull brass finish. While in Okinawa, I bought some brass souvenirs to place on the fireplace mantle and thought the brass mini-blinds would complement them nicely.

"Is there something specific you are looking for?" asked a woman standing directly behind me. Once again, a store clerk magically appeared behind me like a leprechaun. I was slightly annoyed, until I turned around.

Standing in front of me was a lovely Black woman about my age (30ish) who spoke in a manner that was very familiar to me. Behind the glasses and modest appearance there was something very special about her. What I noticed most was her perfect smile and shoulder-length jet black hair. There was a vibe I instantly felt when we made eye contact. I had to consciously look away to avoid creeping her out.

"Excuse me. You wouldn't be from Detroit, would you?" I asked as I placed my hands in my pockets and smiled.

"Yes, my husband and I are both from Detroit. He's in the Marines," she replied as she subtly adjusted her glasses, intentionally exposing the rock on her finger.

I was disappointed, and I think it showed.

"I'm from Detroit too, West side. Small world," I sighed.

"Well, if you need any assistance you can ask at the counter. I'm just about to start my break."

As she did an about face, I tilted my head to one side, crossed my arms and admired her tapered figure. Wow.

She turned around and caught me staring. I immediately took that stupid smirk off my face and pretended to check the time on my watch. I soon snapped out of the trance I was in and moseyed toward the mini-blinds.

I decided to buy the blinds and was ready to place an order but there was not a store clerk in sight. I had to walk way over to the appliance section to get a customer service rep.

"Excuse me sir, I would like to place an order for the miniblinds on display. The brass blinds over there," I said as I pointed.

"If I get the one on display, can you reduce the price?'

"I'm afraid not."

"Do you have a military discount?" I asked as I followed him to the display.

"No. Do you have an installer?" The store rep asked as we approached the blinds on display.

"No. Do I have to pay for that too? That should be part of the price."

The customer service representative was at the end of his tether with me and my Okinawan-style of bargaining.

"There is an installation charge of 35 dollars and delivery is free if you live within a ten-mile radius."

"Okay. I will take it. I live only two exits off the 78 freeway on College Boulevard. I don't have the money for the install now, can I pay later?"

"You don't pay us. You will pay the installer on the delivery day. When would you like to schedule? Lunch times and the evening work best for her."

"Oh, it's a woman installer? In that case make it lunch time...next Wednesday. I have a very jealous girlfriend and the thought of another woman in my house.never mind, it's a long story."

"All right, Mr. Thompson, it's booked. We will see you at 11:30 on Wednesday," he said as he handed me my copy of the purchase order and gave me a fake smile.

On the way home, my son Clay Jr. was thrilled about the super soakers I bought for him and me. I was happy too. By scheduling the installation during the day I averted having a stupid conversation with my girlfriend Kay about why the install guy was not a guy. I was planning to break up with her anyway because she finally opened up to me about her feelings about betrayal and infidelity. I remembered my last conversation with her on Saturday night.

"Hebrews 13:4 says 'Marriage is honorable in all and the bed undefiled, but whoremongers and adulterers God will judge.' My husband knew I couldn't have kids when he married me. After five years of marriage, he met Cynthia and they had an affair. On the way home from church one Sunday, he told me Cynthia was pregnant with his child. I was devastated and heartbroken. It hurt me to see how excited he was about becoming a father. After Cynthia was seven months, they found out it was a girl and decided to name her Diamond. That was too much for me and it was only the grace of God that kept me from killing him in his sleep. I fasted and prayed for Cynthia to lose the baby. And the Lord answered my prayers, thank you Jesus. She got what she deserved, praise God. It was God's will that the baby not enter this world."

I was so disgusted; I moved my arm from around her and moved towards the end of the sofa. Rejoicing at the news of the death of a child was depraved and unconscionable in my book.

"Clay. When you stray from God's will, there are consequences," Kay said with an unremorseful half-smile.

I wanted to break up with Kay right then, but I wasn't familiar with the protocols for breaking up with psychos. I knew that this relationship would soon run its course. I only hoped it would not be a collision course.

It was 10:45, Wednesday morning. I was at work just waiting for 11:00 so that I could head home and let my installer in. I couldn't remember if I had given my address on the purchase order. I decided to stop by Montgomery Ward on the way home just to make sure they had my address. When I strolled into the store, I eagerly looked for my dream girl with the beautiful smile and tapered waistline. I went up and down every aisle in search of her, but she wasn't around. I approached the counter and asked for my purchase order. My address was there as I suspected. The clerk asked me if I wanted to buy a mini-blind duster. It was on sale, so I put it on my credit card.

As I pulled into my drive way, I noticed a white Nissan Maxima parked in my spot. I parked behind the car and got out. I approached the driver's side. My heart stopped, or at least that was what it felt like. It was her, my dream girl. I nervously opened her door and introduced myself.

"I am so sorry, I am late. I was just at the store. My name is Clay," I said and heard one of my favorite music artists jamming from her front and rear speakers.

"Hi, Mr. Thompson. I didn't hear you pull up. I must have had the music up too high. My name is Monet, your installer."

"I'm a fan too," I commented.

"A fan, excuse me?" Monet responded as she pulled her car keys out of the ignition.

"A Johnny Gill fan. That tape is in my car stereo right now."

"Oh my, what a coincidence," she said sarcastically, rolling her beautiful light brown eyes.

"You don't believe me, do you? You think I'm lyin," I said with a smile as I walked toward my car and put my key in the ignition.

Monet just stood there with a half-smile on her face as she popped her trunk.

Within a few seconds, track six of the Johnny Gill tape played the song My, My, My.

Monet slowly looked over her shoulder at me with a smile. The ice was broken.

"That's my favorite song on the cassette; could you turn it up a little?" she asked as her head slowly nodded from left to right to the beat.

I obliged her request. It was times like that when I wished I could sing. We listened to the entire song. After the song, I assisted her with the long oblong-shaped boxes in her trunk.

I opened the sliding patio door and we both walked into the kitchen area and placed the boxes on the counter. Monet adjusted her blouse and looked around.

"I can tell a bachelor lives here," she said jokingly as she turned around and faced me.

"Yeah, I know. It needs a little TLC. By the way, I owe you 35 dollars," I said as I reached into my back pocket to retrieve my wallet. It wasn't there. I started to worry and excused myself to check my car. It wasn't there either. Monet walked outside and asked me when was the last time I had it. I paused and rubbed my forehead in desperation, trying to think of when I had it last. Then it dawned on me as I looked in my backseat and saw the mini-blind duster.

"Whew! I must have left it at the store. I think it's on the counter. Can I leave you here alone?" I asked with a sense of relief.

"Do you trust me, being a complete stranger? Never know what I could be up to," she said with her arms folded.

"We're not strangers anymore," I said as I started up the car and reversed, playing her favorite song. I waved to her and she waved back.

I had a conversation with myself on the way to the store, a conversation about Monet.

What a cutie! What's it like to come home to that every day?

There was just one small problem—not only was she out of my league but she was married too. The last thing I wanted was a jealous husband hunting me down. By the time I got to the store, I compartmentalized the notion as a fantasy that I would play out only in my head.

"Excuse me sir, I was just here about twenty minutes ago. Did I leave my wallet here?"

There was a new person behind the counter and I was hoping to see the guy who sold me the duster.

"Can you describe it?" asked the customer service rep.

"Yes. It is black with my military I.D., a video loyalty card and drivers license. And there's no money in it."

He reached under the counter and retrieved my wallet. I was so glad and relieved.

"Thank you so much. I would tip you...but as you can see I can't," I said as I exposed the emptiness inside.

On the way home, I indulged in my Monet fantasy again. Before I knew it, I was turning left onto my street. I was really looking forward to seeing her again. In the space of only fifteen minutes, I missed her, as silly as that sounds.

As I approached my driveway, I began to feel sick in my stomach. I saw my girlfriend Kay's car parked directly behind Monet's car. I knew there would be hell to pay. I had no idea what I would encounter, but one thing I knew for sure.it would be evil, pure evil. I pulled the sliding door open and reluctantly walked in.

# — CHAPTER TWO —

# Psycho

There was complete silence as I passed through the kitchen. I saw Kay's tan purse on the living room sofa.

"Kay! Monet!"

There was no response. I thought this might be a 911 situation, so I cautiously backtracked to the kitchen to get the phone, but it was not in its cradle. I took a deep breath and was mad at myself for being scared of a five foot five inch, 120 pound female. It was time to man up.

My fear yielded to my anger. This was my house and it was a drama-free zone. I approached the bottom of the stairs and called their names one last time, but again there was no response. I proceeded up the stairs and I could hear movement in my son's room. I walked in. Kay was standing in front of the wall closet with a phone in her right hand. The phone had a bloodstain on it.

"So. Do you wanna explain the whore in the closet?" Kay asked waving the phone around in a circular fashion.

'What the hell? Kay, what have you done?" I said as I advanced towards her to move her out of the way. Then we danced. She tried to block me as she didn't want me to open the closet. Her face became enraged and she started her mental meltdown right in front of me.

"Reggie! You promised not to hurt me. Is this what you do when I am not around?" she asked as she gripped me around my waist trying to keep me from the closet.

Her calling me Reggie freaked me out. Whoever Reggie was, I was going to pay for what he did to her.

Then I heard Monet call my name from inside the closet. The sound of her distressed voice gave me a sense of relief in knowing she was still alive, but it was short lived because I had to deal with this psycho clinging on to me. Kay broke her grip around me and took three steps back, weeping with her arms stretched out to me.

"Why, Reggie? Why? I would've given you everything!"

I took the opportunity to open the closet door and saw Monet crouched down with her hands covering her head in fear. I entered the closet and bent down. I saw a nasty bruise on the side of her forehead. I helped her up. Monet was nearly catatonic; she was in shock. I felt a light tap on my shoulder and slowly turned around. Kay's eyes were dilated and bloodshot. She also had a bit of white foam in the corner of her mouth. She looked possessed. She continued calling me Reggie, but now in a little girl's voice.

As I stood there with my head turned in her direction, she moved forward to kiss me. She looked so wounded and disturbed, so I reluctantly let her. She started to suck my bottom lip. I recoiled a bit and then Kay bore her teeth like a crazed rabid animal and bit down as hard as she could. The pain was excruciating and blood started pouring down my camouflage uniform. Then Kay began pulling away from me with my bottom lip in her mouth. She was gnawing my lip like a wild animal tearing into raw meat. I had to face her to prevent her from severing my bottom lip. She bit through and kept grinding her teeth moving her head violently from left to right. My lip was hanging on by loose tissue at that point and I thought I was going to lose it. Luckily, Kay began to choke on my blood and she grabbed her throat coughing. She vomited. There was blood, puke and a hunk of meat on the floor. After she stopped coughing, she told me to go to hell and left. Moments later, I looked outside my son's window and saw her reverse out of my drive.

Monet was hunched back down in the closet, covering her head and sniffling. My son's room looked like a crime scene where someone had died. There was so much blood. I looked at my reflection in the window and saw my bottom lip just barely hanging on. I knew I had nerve damage because the affected area was completely numb.

I bent over and cradled Monet; she placed her hands on top of mine.

"Is she gone?" Monet asked as she managed to look up at me.

"Yeah, she's gone."

I immediately noticed that my speech was affected as it became slurred. I didn't have the power of my bottom lip and words came out half-pronounced like a drunk. I didn't realize that my lips played such an integral part in the way I spoke. I did the best I could with what I was left with.

I helped Monet up and escorted her to my son's bed. When she saw all the blood and white meat on the floor, she placed her hand over her mouth to stop herself from throwing up.

"Clay. Your lip... oh my God," Monet said with wide eyes.

"Monet, I'm going to my bedroom to call the police. I will be right back. I promise."

Monet nodded and then looked out the window to ensure Kay's car was gone.

"911. What is your emergency?"

"My name is Clay Thompson and my guest and I have been assaulted. Can you get somebody here fast?"

"Are you at 3553 Sandpiper Place?"

"Yes."

"We had a call earlier and a patrol unit has been dispatched. It should be there in a few moments."

Within seconds of my call, I heard sirens and a squad car pulled up. Two male officers exited the vehicle.

I greeted the officers on my patio. I could tell they were somewhat startled by the expression on their faces. I was covered in blood and I had a hole that you could put three fingers through beneath my lip.

Both officers took a few steps back and one radioed for an ambulance.

"Can we meet in the living room? I have to check on my guest."

"Is the assailant still on the premises?" asked the senior officer.

"No, I think she went back to work."

I went upstairs to bring Monet down. She had calmed down a bit but you could tell she was still quite edgy. Surprisingly she was worried about me and not so much herself.

"Clay, are you gonna be okay? Your lip, it's really bad."

"Don't worry about me, I will be okay. You need to get that bruise looked at. The police are downstairs and they want to speak with us."

The police officers stood when they saw Monet and me walking down the stairs.

"Ma'am, do you live here?"

"No," Monet replied as she sat next to me on the opposite love seat.

"Do you require any medical treatment?"

"I don't think so; it's just a bruise," she said as she delicately ran her fingers over the bump on her head.

"Can someone come and pick you up?" The junior officer asked as he started filling out a few forms.

"My husband is in the Marines and is deployed on a ship. I live alone, but I can drive myself home."

After we went over the scenario about ten times, the officers began to wrap up their questioning. Mid-way through the questioning an ambulance arrived and they too were put off by my dangling bottom lip. I declined medical attention because I could go straight to the hospital on base for free. Monet asked if she could go home and the officers escorted her to her car. I accompanied them and I was at a complete loss of words.other than Goodbye. Monet drove off and left me with the two patrolmen.

"Mr. Thompson, we didn't want to ask you this question in front of your guest, but."

"But, what?" I asked as we walked back into the living room.

"Did you hit Kay back after she assaulted you?"

"No. She had my lip in her mouth."

The junior officer stood and scratched his forehead.

"Why not? You had every right to protect yourself. We respond to so many domestic violence calls and rarely is the male justified in striking a woman. But in this case, the law would have protected you under self-defense. You should have clocked her." "Sorry to disappoint you but, it never crossed my mind," I replied as I shrugged my shoulders.

"But, you are going to press charges, right?"

"I don't know. I haven't really thought about it."

At that time both officers just looked at me as though I had three heads. They both were disgusted with me.

"Mr. Thompson, I am not here to advise you but, there is a trail of blood that goes from the patio to your upstairs. You will be disfigured for the rest of your life. And you don't know if you will press charges? That doesn't make sense to me."

"Sir, that woman, Kay, she doesn't belong in a jail. She needs counseling. She's not a criminal, she's disturbed. So, no charges will be filed."

"Okay, Mr. Thompson, but if she ever darkens your doorstep, just remember you have been warned. Consider yourself lucky this time; next time you could leave here with a sheet over your face."

This sent shock waves all over my body. I needed to be sensible.

"Can I get a restraining order?"

I would run into her again.

# — CHAPTER THREE —

# The Hole Truth

When the police officers left, the severity of the situation finally dawned on me. I ran into the downstairs bathroom and looked into the mirror. I was severely disfigured and I started to panic. I immediately grabbed my car keys and walked briskly to my car. I placed my head on the steering wheel and paused for a brief moment. I began to question why I was center stage in this bizarre freak show. I had never been in a situation like this before and I was running on pure adrenaline. I spun my tires in reverse and took off like a car thief. While at a stop light, I casually looked over at the driver on my left. She was so repulsed that she didn't wait for the light to turn green. I was now officially a freak. The first thought in my head was no one would ever date me. I looked in my rear view mirror and saw that my bottom lip was beginning to turn black. It was dying. I came up with an idea. I pulled in the 7-Eleven store down the street. I walked in covering my mouth and headed straight to the Slurpee machine. I got a large cup and filled it with just ice. Patrons scattered when they saw me because I forgot that I was completely blood soaked. The cashier backed away and told me it was okay to leave without paying. I sat in my car, tears streaming down my face. My plan was to yank my lip off and pack it in ice. I thought that would be my best chance of saving it. Keeping the cup of ice in my left hand, I nervously began to pull my lip. Damn. I couldn't do it. I took my chances. The hospital was only about fifteen minutes away and traffic was light. My life changed in a split second by a misunderstanding that wasn't my fault. I said a prayer on the way to the hospital.

"Lord, just save my lip, please."

I saw the hospital as I turned onto that long winding road just past Lake O'Neil. As I pulled into the parking lot, my heart was racing. I purposely did not look into the rear view mirror. I ran as fast as I could to the emergency room with the cup of ice still in my hand. I was out of breath by the time I reached the reception desk.

"Excuse me ma'am, I really need to see a doctor."

The receptionist was filling out some forms and she spoke to me casually until she looked up. It was like a domino effect. First she scooted her chair back with that same look of repulsion that I was so familiar with; then others standing by followed suit.

The receptionist took charge.

"Someone get a doctor now!" she commanded.

Within moments, I was whisked away in a wheel chair into a waiting room. I had never been attended to in such a caring way before. The nurse that wheeled me in assumed I had been bitten by a dog.

"Sir, that is one hell of a dog bite."

"It's not a dog bite," I replied as I slurred my words together.

"It's not? What happened to you?" she asked while surveying my lip.

"My girlfriend did it."

Her demeanor shifted as she had the most puzzled look on her face.

"Your girlfriend did that to you?" she asked with her head cocked to the side.

"Yeah. Do you think the docs can save my lip?"

"I have to be honest; I haven't seen anything like this before. But we have the best surgeon in Tri-City on our staff. He's not military, he's a civilian. His name is Dr. Stein. If anyone can save your lip, he can," she said as she patted me on the shoulder to comfort me.

The nurse proceeded through the double doors and left me in the waiting room with others in need of immediate medical attention.

I looked down to avoid having to disgust neighboring patrons. While I was twiddling my thumbs, I noticed a small group of staff, all women, gathered in front of the double doors. One was pointing at me, making fun of me. Then they all started placing their hands over their mouths to stifle their laughs. It bothered me that they would act in such a childish fashion. I am sure they had seen much worse. They just kept pointing and staring. Again, my thought was, "No more dating for me."

In the midst of me feeling sorry for myself, a young doctor emerged from the double doors.

"Gunnery Sergeant Thompson, Gunnery Sergeant Thompson?"

Three of the ladies who taunted me assisted me into the surgery room. One of the ladies introduced herself to me and asked if she could remove my jacket. Her name was Celia.

"Good afternoon, Gunnery Sergeant. My name is Celia. Could you just lean forward a little bit so that I can remove your top? And let me have your glasses; you have blood spatter on the lens. I don't know how you can see through them."

I obliged, but I was still mad at her for teasing me with her friends in the waiting room. She removed my jacket and I gave her my glasses. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her placing folded up pieces of paper in my lower right pocket. I was so concerned about my lip that it really didn't register. After she hung up my jacket, she left me alone with the doc.

The doc looked at my lip and accurately assessed what had happened with a quick visual examination. He held a pen light above my head and looked over his glasses, surveying the damage.

The doctor sighed and stepped back before he gave me his prognosis.

"It will never be exactly the way it was, but I can save it. Fortunately, there is no real damage to the lip; it is just the connecting tissue."

I was so incredibly relieved; it was the best news possible. I really thought I had lost it.

I don't remember much about the surgery; it was like a faint dream that escapes you the moment you wake up. I just remember waking up feeling really sore around my mouth area. The doctor gave me a mirror and I was still bummed out because I had so many sutures below my lip, but at least I had a lip and it was slowly regaining its color.

I looked in the mirror and shook hands with the doctor and thanked him repeatedly.

"So, Mr. Thompson. You seem to be the talk of the town."

"Yeah, I kinda expected that. I am sure I will get teased at work," I said as I stood and reached for my jacket.

"The women staffers haven't stopped gossiping since you arrived."

I looked in the mirror one last time and attempted to smile. Ouch.

"Well, doc, thanks to you I might be able to get a date in the near future," I said as I buttoned up my camouflaged jacket.

The doctor removed his glasses and placed them in his shirt pocket. Then he shed some light on a twisted misunderstanding about what had happened.

"Dating? Oh, I don't think that will be a problem at all," he assured me.

"Really? I would like to be optimistic but I will just take one day at a time for now," I replied.

"Mr. Thompson, you really don't know what is being said, do you?

"No. No, I don't," I replied as I was about to leave his office.

"Your medical records state that you are single. Is that true?

"I'm a divorced single dad. Why?"

"I can think of at least four women staffers who would date you right now, even in your current condition."

I was confused. Was I some sort of charity case now or what? Nothing made sense.

"Okay, what are they saying?"

"I overheard one lady in the break room say, "Any man that can please a woman to the point she almost bites his lip off, is a keeper."

That's not what happened at all, and I laughed at their misinterpretation, but I was happy to let them think that.

After I was released, I noticed so many women staff eyeing me on the way out, women of all ages, from thirties to sixties. Three whispered "Call me" on the way out. But how could I? I didn't have a number to call.

I was sitting in the parking lot and I felt a slight bulge in my lower jacket pocket as I buckled myself in. Inside my pocket were five folded pieces of paper. Inside were pager and home numbers to call. I knew I would never call the numbers but it was so nice to get the offers. My dad always said I lived a charmed life. I started to believe he was right.

Actual Emergency Medical Care Record

# — CHAPTER FOUR —

# Lost in Translation

The doc gave me three days off to convalesce, so I headed to my office to apprise my officer-in-charge about the situation. As I was driving to work, I had no idea that rumors about what happened to me were traveling almost at the speed of light. When I walked into my office, a few Marines showed genuine concern, while others just shook their heads and rolled their eyes. As I walked into my Captain's office I noticed him on the phone with his feet up on the desk having a good ole chat. He shooed me out of his office and told me to wait outside. He was rude, but then he was always rude. I overheard his conversation and I thought for a second I heard Kay's name mentioned. Then I got angry, really angry.

"Yes, Ms. Little, we will get to the bottom of this. I assure you. I am so glad you called. We will be in touch. Goodbye."

"Gunnery Sergeant Thompson, I want you in my office now," the Captain commanded as he stood and walked behind me to shut the door. That wasn't a good sign of what was to come.

"Yes, sir."

"So, you like to put your hands on women? That poor woman poured her heart out to me. She said you hit her, and I believe her. I know when someone is telling the truth."

"What? I hit her? Wow, I can't believe she said that. How did Kay get your telephone number?"

"She called your desk about an hour ago and you weren't here, so I picked up. But you are missing the point; you assaulted her and that is a punishable offense."

"Captain, I just had a minor surgery to repair the lip she almost chewed off," I said as I pointed to my bottom lip.

"I can see that. She probably bit you in self defense."

The Captain showed his true colors by not getting my side of the story, but given our history I would expect that of him.

"Sir, you're wrong. She didn't bite me because I hit her; she bit me because she found Monet in the closet."

Damn, I wished I had thought about how that sounded before I said it.

"In the closet? I really don't care to know what kind of sick shit you get up to on your own time, but when it affects this office it becomes my business."

"Sir, this is a personal matter. My girlfriend, I mean my exgirlfriend, shouldn't be harassing me at work."

"Well, you should've thought about that before you put your hands on her. This matter is far from over; you may be subjected to disciplinary action. You are dismissed for now."

I knew exactly what to do. Next stop... home to change clothes, and then onto San Marcos county clerk's office.

I had never filed a restraining order before, but I needed legal protection to keep her away from me.

I walked into the county clerk's office and had to pass through almost airport-like security. It was a large complex with courtrooms on either side of the long hallway. On the wall were framed pictures of former Magistrates dating back to the early 1900s. At the end of the hall I saw an information bulletin board. I was completely lost, so I studied it. On the bulletin board I saw a familiar name, Mr. Mike Logan. Mike Logan was once Major Logan, who was a Marine Staff Judge Advocate on Camp Pendleton. Back in the early 1980s, he was the Camp Pendleton freestyle wrestling coach and I was his 180-pounder. Apparently, he either retired or resigned his commission and was now a civilian attorney working at the county clerk's office.

It didn't take me long to find him. He was coming out of the cafeteria. His hair was long and he had long sideburns and a salt and pepper goatee. I almost didn't recognize him.

"Major Logan?" I said as he walked right past me in the hall.

"Corporal Thompson, is that you?" he asked as he ended his conversation with a client.

"Yes, sir. I'm a Gunny now."

"Congratulations. I have a few minutes to spare. Follow me to my office and let's chat. Still wrestling?"

"Yes, sir, but not at 180 pounds. I'm up to 198 pounds now."

He opened the door to his office and told me to have a seat. Then he walked around behind his desk and sat in a really expensive black executive chair. He placed his hand behind his head and set a relaxed tone.

"Hey, you don't have to call me sir anymore. Those days are long gone. I resigned about five years ago to break out on my own. I really like being a civilian; it's a different type of hassle. So, what brings you here?"

I told him my story and I could tell by the serious look on his face that he was engaged.

"Mike, I just want her to leave me alone."

"Well, I can help you with that. You mentioned she is phoning your work place. That's harassment."

"Yeah, but I don't think I can do anything about that. She has my Captain wrapped around her little finger," I commented feeling defeated and mentally fatigued.

Mike began to stroke his sideburns while he contemplated my situation.

"I'm going to advise you to seek a "no-contact restraining." If she attempts to reach you at work, she can be held in contempt of the order. Anyone who engages her on the phone at your job will be a party to the violation of the court order."

"That would be great, but how long does that take to get issued?"

Mike looked at his watch and smiled.

"Follow me, let's get this done right now."

In less than one hour I had the no-contact restraining order in my hand. Mike handed me his business card and wished me luck during the next wrestling season. He shook my hand before going back into court.

Actual Record Locator for Restraining Order

As I drove past the military police gate guards, I felt empowered. Round one ended with me on the canvas, but I would make the standing eight count. Round two began the moment I walked into the Captain's office after lunch. Apparently, Kay called again.he was on the phone with her as I walked in.

"Sir, you have to hang up the phone," I said confidently as I stood across his desk.

That pissed the Captain off and he immediately muffled the phone with his right hand.

"Have you lost your mind, Gunnery Sergeant? Take that smug look off your face. Do you read me?"

"Yes, sir. I read you. But you should read this," I replied as I handed him the no-contact restraining order.

He looked it over, quickly flipping the pages of the court order.

"What's this?"

"Sir, according to this no-contact restraining order, you are a party to contempt of an issued court order. See, it says right here that Ms. Little is not to contact me at my place of work."

The Captain sighed and then looked out his window for a moment.

"Excuse me Ms. Little, but I am afraid this conversation is over and I have been advised to tell you never to call this office again. Goodbye."

Justice was served and it tasted sweet. On my desk, there was a yellow sticky that said the Company Gunnery Sergeant wanted to speak with me. The only time you saw the Company Gunny was when you were in trouble. I was not optimistic about seeing him, but I didn't want to blow him off. I immediately went to his office.

"Gunnery Sergeant Thompson, take a seat. I think the entire base knows about your confrontation this morning. I've heard bits and pieces, but I just wanted to hear your side.

"Well, it's all kinda blurry. All I really remember was that as soon as I came out of the closet, she lost it. She was all over my lip. I couldn't stop her. Is that close to what you heard?"

"Pretty much."

The Company Gunny was very supportive and understanding.

"You did a very courageous thing today; I am proud of you. It must have taken a lot of thought."

"No. I don't think what I did was courageous at all," I replied rather confused.

The Company Gunny then stood and shook my hand and walked me to my car. I got in my car and rolled down the window. He looked left, then right, and stuck his head in the window. He had something to say.

"For years, I have wanted to "come out of the closet," but my wife would kill me. I only have two years till retirement. I can't risk losing my career. I wish I could be as bold as you. We should hang out. What are your plans this weekend?"

# — CHAPTER FIVE —

# Lip Service

I looked in the mirror at least three times a day, admiring the doc's handy work on my lip. I had internal dissolvable sutures and loose external sutures. When I first left the hospital, my wound looked jagged and the seams were not as tightly stitched as I would have liked. I called the doc the next day to voice my concern about loose sutures.

"Yes, sir. This is Gunnery Sergeant Thompson. You stitched my lip up, remember?"

"Yes. Is there a problem?"

"I don't think so, but the outer stitches seem a little loose, that's all. Maybe they need tightening up?"

"Gunnery Sergeant Thompson, the outer sutures are loose for a reason. I assure you everything is fine."

"Loose for a reason? Why is that?" I asked.

"Ten to fifteen percent of human bites become infected. The stitching around your lip area has a strong possibility of becoming a petri dish of hundreds of bacteria. If I had sewn the stitches tight, then there's the risk of closing up the infection. You probably will experience some drainage, but that is a good thing."

"Oh, great. I guess I should start wearing a bib now."

Paging Doctor Stein, Paging Doctor Stein.

"Gunnery Sergeant Thompson, give it three weeks. I think you will be just fine."

## Three weeks later

Every day for the next three weeks, I constantly examined the doc's handy work. It became an obsession almost. I found myself lightly stroking the stitched area, completely unaware that I was doing it. I relished the fact my lip was healing at a faster rate than I had expected. After two weeks, the jagged appearance was gone and the skin seemed to graft itself to new skin. After about three weeks, I was left with light scarring that you hardly noticed unless you were up close. It was as perfect as could be and I was grateful to Doctor Stein, very grateful. I was only left with one question: would kissing ever be the same?

It was payday Friday and I wanted to do some grocery shopping before the mad rush began. My son was with his mom for the week, so I headed straight to Ralphs supermarket on Oceanside Boulevard right after work. While I was in the cereal aisle, I saw my ex-girlfriend Kay pushing a shopping cart headed toward the freezer section.

Damn!

Strangely enough, I didn't harbor any nasty feelings. I just wanted to avoid her at all costs. That's exactly what I did. I went to the produce section and examined mangos for about twenty minutes, just waiting for her to finish up and check out. After I was confident she was gone, I went up and down every aisle just to make sure. I didn't see her, so I finished up my shopping and headed to the checkout counter.

"Sir, do you have any coupons you would like to redeem?" asked the cashier.

"No, I don't. Thanks anyway," I replied as I unloaded my cart onto the conveyer belt.

"Clay?"

You gotta be freakin kiddin me, I thought to myself.

I immediately froze with a box of Cap'n Crunch in my hand. I thought she had left. This time there was a shopping cart between us and I was prepared to use it as a defensive weapon if I needed to.

I thought of one hundred responses to her greeting, but none of them was nice and not really my choice anyway.

"Oh, hi Kay. How are you?" I said smiling, hoping she would notice my lip.

"Doing great, doing great. Praise God."

"I'm glad to hear that," I said as I reached for my wallet to pay for the groceries.

"Clay, I have been praying since our last quarrel and I forgive you. I decided to take you back under one condition; you truly give yourself to the Lord."

(What I wanted to say) You must be effin insane! You tried to chew my lip off, quarrel my ass!

(What I actually said) "Kay, we had some nice times together, but I think I'm just gonna go solo for a while. I'll see you around, take care, " I said as I collected my grocery bags and smiled.

I left Kay at the cashier and walked away. I never saw her again.

Almost four weeks had passed since the incident and I gradually became more resentful of what Kay had done. I had gotten over what she did to my lip, but I couldn't forgive her for interfering with a fantasy I had fallen in love with. My phone got cut off for two days because I sent Monet flowers at her job. My check to AT&T bounced. I also sent her three long letters apologizing for what happened. No response, but how could I blame her? She was put through hell for just doing her job. She must have thought I was a total loser for being with someone like Kay. I was tempted to just drop by the store but I thought it would make matters worse. Although I knew she was married, I still felt I lost something very special. I just wanted to be in her life, but the more time passed the less likely it seemed. As strange as it seemed, I kept replaying the scene where I was holding her in the closet on bended knee. It was time to let go of my fantasy and move on.

The following Saturday morning I took a shower, got dressed and walked next door to have coffee with my neighbor Lori. Lori was a White lady in her late fifties and she was like an aunt to me. I appreciated the fact that she didn't pry into my business, but she didn't have to. I told her almost everything anyway, including the Kay saga.

"Hey, kiddo. I think those stitches can come out now," Lori said, examining the few remaining stitches that were left.

Lori went upstairs and came down with something concealed in her hand.

"Whatcha got there Lori?" I asked hesitantly.

"Have a seat. This won't hurt. I've had plenty of practice with my three kids."

With one hand on my forehead and the tweezers in the other, she slowly and painlessly teased the last few stitches out. It felt funny as the thread passed through.

"There we go. All done!"

I felt my face and I was surprised how easy it was.

As Lori looked out her window, something caught her attention.

"Are you expecting someone?"

"It's not Kay, is it?" I asked as I stood and joined her at the window.

It was Monet's car, but she was leaving.

I opened Lori's sliding door and ran out to catch Monet but it was too late. I know she didn't knock on my door because I would have heard it. I was confused.

As I returned to Lori's patio, I noticed a sealed envelope on my windshield. My name was written across it.

I raised the wiper and slowly picked up the letter. I took the letter to Lori's and told her I wanted to read the letter in private. After we finished our coffee, I hugged Lori and went home. I tried to manage my expectations; I didn't want to be disappointed. I went upstairs to my bedroom and sat on my bed and slowly opened her letter.

8 July 1991

Clay,

Thank you for the lovely flowers and letters. I was really surprised when I received them. I would have responded sooner but I took a few weeks off to visit friends in Indianapolis.

I wanted you to know that I don't hold you responsible for what happened. I find it interesting that we view the same situation so differently. You didn't put me through hell; you rescued me from hell. I was so scared when Kay took the phone from me when I called 911. When I heard your voice downstairs calling for me, I knew I was going to be okay. Thank you.

By the way, my favorite restaurant is the Black Angus.

Call me anytime, my home number is 630-5272.

P.S I hope your lip is okay.

Monet

# — CHAPTER SIX —

# Dinner at Black Angus

I called Monet immediately and she seemed okay on the phone. She didn't seem excited, but then again she didn't seem to be mad at me either. We talked for a few minutes and she agreed to let me take her to the Black Angus restaurant the next Saturday at seven p.m. She insisted on taking separate cars, and I was more than cool with that.

Two hours before our dinner date, I was standing in front of my closet thinking about what to wear. I got frustrated because all I had were my snakeskin MC Hammer pants and a black leather outfit. My leather outfit was tailor-made years ago after the Thriller album came out. It fit me pretty well in 1985, but six years had passed and I had put on some weight. I went with my leather outfit. I jumped in the shower and I was just hoping to somehow squeeze myself into my leather outfit. As soon I put one leg in I knew this would be no easy task. After a lot of hip swiveling, I managed to get the other leg in. In doing so, I broke a light sweat. I looked down at my zipper and I thought No way. I needed some help and my son was outside playing. I called my trusted neighbor Lori. After a few minutes, I heard Lori open the sliding door and I called her up to my room. She walked into my bedroom and saw me standing in front of my bed with my pants unzipped.

She was mildly surprised.

"I thought booty calls were after midnight," Lori said smiling in the doorway.

"Oh, sorry Lori. It's just that I can't zip myself up. Can you help me?

"Okay, kiddo. Lie down on the bed."

For a split second, I thought I was being seduced. But I trusted Lori and there must have been a good reason for me to lie on the bed. So I did.

"Okay, now what?" I asked, staring at the ceiling.

"Now, just relax. Grab the zipper and take a deep breath. Now work the zipper upwards. Suck in your gut; you can do it."

After three exhausting attempts, I zipped up my trousers. I reached for my black leather jacket and put it on.

"Lori, how do I look?" I asked her as I turned around and faced her.

"You look as if you could sing lead for the Village People."

I pulled into the parking lot exactly at seven o'clock and saw Monet's white Maxima near the entrance. I was a little nervous because I wanted to make a good impression and my pants were just killing me. I felt as though I had a tourniquet around my waistline cutting off all blood flow to my lower extremities. I walked into the lobby area and I saw Monet a few feet in front of me. Damn she was fine. Monet wore a form-fitting knit black dress that fell just above her knee with matching high-heeled black pumps. She carried a red and black leather purse in her right hand. I loved the fact that her dress exposed her shoulders and her perfectly toned arms. I felt like a million bucks knowing she was my date.

"Monet."

She turned around and smiled as she walked towards me.

"I just got here about a minute ago and I have already reserved a table for us. It should only be about five minutes or so," she said as she looked at her watch.

It didn't take long at all. The smartly dressed waiter motioned for us to follow him to a private booth and then he handed us two large menus. I had a total of $36.82 in my wallet for dinner and I was nervous about the pricey menu items.

"If you want to order your drinks, I can do that now for you."

I couldn't stop looking at Monet across the table, but that rock on her finger was a constant reminder that she was not available.

"I will take a glass of Merlot please," I said in my dignified voice.

Then Monet leaned over the table and whispered the correct pronounciation.

"Clay, it's pronounced Merlow. It's French."

How was I supposed to know that? Man, I was so embarrassed. Monet tried to keep from giggling, but the more she thought about it the more she giggled.

"Clay, you are too funny. That was classic. I needed a laugh."

She ordered the Surf and Turf and that left me with enough money to get a Reuben sandwich.

"Clay, I would really like it if we don't talk about what happened. What is done is done."

"Sounds like a plan to me. In fact, I don't even know what you're talking about."

For a woman of about 130 pounds, Monet had an appetite. After we finished our meal, the waiter took our plates. Monet gently wiped her mouth with her dinner napkin and said, "Let's talk."

"Okay, but ladies first. So, what's going on with you?"

Monet slumped a bit and rolled her eyes to the ceiling.

"I'm in the middle of a crisis. At least I think I am, if that makes sense. I love being a wife, but I hate being a military wife. My husband has been in the Marines just over ten years and I don't know if I can do ten more. Sometimes I feel like a second-class citizen being his wife. Even my ID card says Dependent."

"You said you feel like a second-class citizen, how come?" "Well, just last month, I was standing in line waiting to cash my check at the credit union. A lady approached me and asked me what my husband's rank was. I told her he was a Gunnery Sergeant. Then she jumped in front of me after telling me that her husband was a Colonel. She repeated that to the women in front of me and the next thing I knew she was near the front of the line. She puts her panties on the same way I do. Why should she be priviledged?" Everything she said after the word panties was a mental blur. I had to reengage the conversation, my mind drifted.

"There are so many challenges military wives face that no one seems to take notice of."

"Like what?"

"It is easy to get low paying jobs on and off base. But, try to apply for a meaningful job with a good salary as a military wife! As soon as they find out your husband is military, they know you will only stick around for three to four years and then you're gone. I see their point; they see us as temps. Even if I got a great job, I would never be able to stay long enough to get seniority."

Monet had a lot to say, and I was more than happy to be a sounding board.

"When I worked on base, a few girls decided to have a night out at the club on base. I couldn't go because it was at the Officer's Club. I recently moved off base because I just wanted to get away from the military. I am so tired of being the wife of a Gunnery Sergant. Another thing, I love my independence. Why do men think after being away for a year, they can just come home and take over? The first thing they want to do is regain ownership of the remote control. Some men are so naïve; it's just crazy or maybe it's denial. You have no idea what some women get up to while their husbands are deployed. Last week I got invited to a party on base. After I found out it was a key party, I left. Do you know what a key party is?"

Easy, Clay. Don't answer too fast or she'll think you're a freak.

I paused for a moment and looked up and to the right before answering. "I heard it's the kind of party where everyone places their car keys in a punch bowl as they walk in. At some point the husbands reach into the punch bowl to grab a set of keys. Whichever wife belongs to the keys, that's who you...well you know." "How do you know that? I am afraid to ask. Well, the party I went to had a different twist to it."

"How's that?'

"The party I was invited to was for women only, no men were allowed."

Whoa.

That shouldn't have surprised me, but it did.

"You mentioned denial. What do you mean by that?"

"If you come home after a year-long deployment and all of a sudden your wife wants to try new things in bed, it's not because she is curious; it's because she's experienced. I have a neighbor; her name is Barbara. Her husband had a vasectomy, yet she still is on the pill."

"Now that's a dead give away. How does she justify that?" I asked.

"She tells him that it helps regulate her cycle. Guys will believe anything I guess. I don't lie to my husband because I don't want him to lie to me. I know so many women who cheat while their husbands are on ship. Not me. I've been married for ten years and to risk all that for a fling is just dumb. Everything I know about sex, I learned from him anyway. In fact, I can honestly say that Marc is the only man I have ever been with. The thought of some guy fumbling and bumbling and drooling on me puts me right off. No thanks."

As much as I loved to fantasize about Monet, that last conversation pretty much put that to rest. It was time to wake up and reassess my feelings.

"Well, enough about me, Mr. Key Party. Talk to me," Monet said as she sipped her wine.

"I never said I went to a key party, a friend told me about it."

"Yeah, right. Whatever."

"Well, I've been a single parent for about three years now. My son is Clay Jr., he's six now."

Monet smiled with approval.

"I'm impressed; you don't see that very much."

"People tell me that all the time, but he's my kid. No man could be a better father to him than me. It's really nothing special; women have been doing it forever. But sometimes being a single parent gets tough with classes twice a week."

"Oh. What's your major?"

"I'm studying at an academy, not a university. I just enrolled at the Hypnosis Academy of San Diego," I said before taking a deep sigh.

Monet's curiosity was piqued and she was very interested in my hypnosis training.

"Hypnosis? I have always been intrigued with hypnosis but I have to tell you that I am a big skeptic. But I think you have the voice for it; it's relaxing."

Monet noticed my lack of enthusiasm. "You don't seem to be very excited about it."

"I'm with you. I don't believe it either. I enrolled basically as part of a fact finding mission, mainly to disprove it. The claims the staff are making don't pass the common sense test. I really think it's a scam, but I need to find out for myself. I know some of my classmates are faking or pretending to be hypnotized during class."

"Why would they do that?" Monet asked.

"No one wants to hurt each other's confidence. I told the course director to tell me so if hypnosis was fake, promising that I would take the secret to the grave."

"And what did he say?'

"He said 'Let's have this conversation after you hypnotize your first client outside the classroom.'"

"So, what happened? Did it work?"

"That's just it. I haven't done it outside the classroom yet. The reason is simple. If it doesn't work, I will know that I just wasted thousands of dollars on tuition, right down the drain. It's such a big gamble that I'm not sure I want to take it just yet," I said as I sipped from my wine glass.

"What if I let you do me?" Monet asked with wide eyes.

If she only knew how nice that sounded.

"Yes, I want to be your first. Would it be okay if my girlfriend Barbara watched you do me?"

Her last response almost caused me to spit my wine all over the dinner table. I began to choke on her words. She continued.

"Are you chicken?" she asked.

"Okay, okay. Wanna do it at my house?"

"No chance. We'll do it at my place. I know I can relax there."

I can't believe I suggested my house, given the Kay factor.

"How about next Friday about 6:30-ish?" I suggested.

Monet reached into her purse and wrote her address down on the back of a receipt.

"Clay, I am really looking forward to Friday. What's the worst that can happen, right?"

In my mind, the worst thing that could happen was that I would realize I wasted thousands of dollars on tuition. But there were other possible outcomes that I could have never forseen. Outcomes with consequences that neither one of us were prepared for. The first domino had fallen, I just didn't know it.

# — CHAPTER SEVEN —

# The Edge of Trance

As Friday approached, I became increasingly nervous about having to hypnotize Monet. I didn't want to fail in front of her and look like a loser. I needed a confidence boost, something to encourage me. I decided to call Jim, my faculty advisor at the hypnosis academy.

"Hello Jim, this is Clay, Clay Thompson."

"Clay, how are you? Is everything okay?"

"Well, I have a client in a couple of days and I'm a little nervous about it."

"Clay, your homework for last weekend was to hypnotize someone. Someone other than a friend or family member. What are you waiting for? The rest of the class is ahead of you."

"I guess I'm still a skeptic and not totally convinced that hypnosis is real. I know some of my classmates are pretending to be in trance when I know they aren't."

"The staff is fully aware of this. It happens in all our training sessions. They're just being polite, not wanting to hurt people's feelings. That's why you need to take the plunge outside of the classroom; that's the only way to get your confidence."

"Okay, Jim. Is there any advice you can give me?"

"Definitely. The first thing is to be positive in your outlook. If you go in there under confident, then your client will pick up on it and induction will be problematic. The second thing is to find something the client really wants to resolve. That way the client will be more cooperative and less likely to fight you entering into trance."

"Okay, I guess I'm good. One last question. If it doesn't work, can I get a refund on my tuition?"

There was a brief pause in the conversation.

"Just kidding," I said jokingly.

Although I said I was kidding, I really wasn't.

"Good luck, Clay. I am sure you will do fine. Remember, the question is not if a person can be hypnotized; it's just a question of how fast."

After I hung up I felt a little better about hypnotizing Monet. If I failed, I would fail boldly.

It was Friday and although I was slightly nervous, I began thinking about what if it worked. I was well read in the procedure of inducing trance; I just needed experience from a neutral party, someone who would tell me the real deal without any regard for my feelings. Monet, being a skeptic like me, would be the perfect candidate.

As I pulled into her driveway I sat in my car for about five minutes, visualing the induction. I asked the Lord for a little confidence and off I went.

"Clay, you are right on time. I am so excited. I have someone I'd like you to meet. Clay, this is Barbara my next door neighbor." Barbara was a pretty girl who kind of reminded me of a stripper version of Marcia Brady. She wore a Los Angeles Lakers jersey and black spandex underneath. She had an awesome pear-shaped figure. She could easily have been an MTV video girl.

"Hi Clay. Monet has been talking about this all week. Can you make her bark like a dog?" Barbara said, looking at Monet before erupting into a laughing fit.

"I'm afraid not. I'm a hypnotherapist, not a stage hypnotist."

"Sorry, but I don't believe in hypnosis and I don't trust therapists," Barbara said.

"Why don't you trust therapists?" I asked as I looked around Monet's home, noticing the wedding photos on the coffee table and in the hallway leading up the stairs.

"The word therapist is actually two words joined together," Barabara commented.

Monet chimed in.

"What two words Barbara?"

"The rapist, therapist," Barbara replied as she sat down on the love seat.

Monet positioned a chair directly in front of the sofa, pre-sumbably where we would begin the session.

"So, is this where you want me to hypnotize you?"

"Yes, I have it all set up for you."

"If we could just slide the chair off to the left of the sofa, that would be perfect," I said as I moved the chair out of direct line of sight.

Monet was curious and asked me why I moved the chair.

"I want you to be as relaxed as possible, so I need to respect your personal space. Sitting directly in front of you would probably inhibit trance."

Wow, I sounded as though I knew what I was talking about. From that moment on I decided to give it my best shot.

"Okay, Monet. Are the phones turned off?"

"Yes."

Monet was wearing a blue-flowered dress and tan sandels and she adjusted herself before sitting next to the edge of her black leather sofa.

Barbara was staring intently from the adjacent love seat. The atmosphere became surreal. All eyes were on me.

"Monet, let's make this worthwhile. Is there something you want to stop doing, or start doing? Or is there something you want to know about yourself; for example, why you do a certain thing?"

"Hmm. Let me think for a second. There is something, but it's personal."

"Well, hypnotherapy is personal, but it gets to the root of the issue. Can you tell me what it is?"

Monet sighed before picking up her framed wedding photo from the coffee table.

"I want to know if I married my soul mate. Sometimes I think yes, but there are times when I think I am living someone else's life, a life that is unfulfilled."

"Okay, how about I ask you in trance?"

"Will I remember what I said?" Monet asked as she looked at me and Barbara.

Barbara interjected.

"Well, if you don't I'll tell you."

"Okay, let's begin. I want you to find a spot on the ceiling, about an inch above eye level."

"Okay."

"From this moment on, I want you to focus on the sound of my voice. All other sounds become insignificant and faint. As you focus on the spot on the ceiling, your eyes soon will become weighted and weary. I would like you to concentrate on a special time, maybe a birthday party years ago or a Christmas day when you received a nice gift."

I glanced over at Barbara and she just rolled her eyes and shook her head in doubt.

After ten minutes, Monet still had not entered into trance and her eyes were wide open.

"Clay. I don't think this is working. I can still hear your voice and in my head I am balancing my budget. I'm really sorry. Can I get you something to drink?" Monet asked as she got up from the sofa and stretched.

Barbara was quick to comment, "Monet, I told you this was fake. I should be getting dressed to go to the club on base."

Don't panic. Get her beautiful butt back on the sofa.

"Monet, let's try again. There is nothing wrong, I promise."

Monet sat back down on the sofa as if to humor me.

"Okay, but it's not going to work. I don't think I can be hypnotized. Maybe I am too controlling."

We did a few breathing exercises before I had her stare at the ceiling again. After a few minutes I noticed her eyes getting glassy and she began to blink slowly. Her breathing was noticabley more subdued. I noticed my voice becoming more melodic and soothing. I was going into trance as well and I was on automatic pilot. The words just flowed and I felt a surge of confidence. The look on Monet's face told me she was almost there.

"S L E E P N O W!"

Before I could finish my sentence, Monet's eyes closed shut and her left arm fell from her leg to the sofa. Barbara rubbed her eyes and leaned forward. She was captivated.

Monet's lips gently parted and her head leaned slightly to the right.

I felt a spirit of control come over me, but it wasn't a pleasant feeling. It felt lust-based, so I prayed for humbleness and client empathy. It wasn't immediate, but I felt a darkness leaving me. I was put in a position of trust and I wanted to do the right thing, but I could easily see how someone could succumb to that feeling of control.

"Monet, in a moment you will see three very large mahogany doors, all side by side. You will be standing in front of them. Tell me when you see them."

Monet responded in slurred speech.

"I don't see anything. It's dark, all I see is darkness. I'm scared."

You could see the emotion on her face. I felt compassion for her.

"When I count from five down to one, you will turn on the lights."

"How?"

I looked around and saw a remote control on the coffee table and placed it gently in her right hand.

"Monet, all you have to do is press a button and the lights will come on automatically. Do it now."

She pressed a button. The fear on her face left and she was more peaceful.

"Wow. The doors are so big. I can see the shiny brass door knobs."

"Okay, Monet. Among the three doors there is one door which is the gateway to life with your soul mate. Do you know which door it is?"

"Uh huh. It's the door on the right," she pointed briefly.

I reached into my pocket, grabbed my car keys and removed the remote control from her hand and placed my keys there.

"Monet, I want you to approach the door on the right and insert the key, but don't turn it yet."

Monet slowly raised her right arm as if she were going to unlock the door. Her arm was sticking straight out.

Barbara was using sign language to assure me Monet was in trance, but I already knew it.

"Turn the key and open the door."

Her rapid eye movement was off the charts; I wondered what she was seeing.

"Do you see your soul mate?"

"Yes, he's waving at me to come in. He wants me to follow him. I can see his heart. He loves me, I know it. I can feel it."

"What are you doing? How do you respond?" I asked.

"I follow him; I trust him. I love him. It's so beautiful here, flowers everywhere, and I see a bridge over a small creek."

I was feeling super confident, not just because it worked, but because it was so powerful and real. I had a front row seat.

"So, Monet, what happens next?"

Her rapid eye movement activity skyrocketed.

"We're making love. It's relentless; he won't leave me alone. I can't say no to him."

Whoa. Monet's body language clearly indicated she was in passion mode. Her head slowly went left to right and her body was responding to thrust-like motions. Monet dug her nails deep into the seat cushions. She began to hyperventilate with intense pleasure and her body was braced.

Barbara couldn't contain herself. She stood perplexed and observed her friend in utter disbelief.

"Okay, Monet. Fast forward. You are finished making love and you will begin to awaken when I count from one to five."

"No. He's not finished with me. I can't stop him."

It seemed as if she was on the verge of a colossal climax and I couldn't let that happen. I looked at Barbara and she had her hand over her mouth.

"Monet. A W A K E N N O W!" I said as I snapped my fingers in the middle of her face.

Monet's eyes slowly drifted up toward me with a sinful look on her face and then her eyes closed for about a minute. Then she let out a big sigh and her eyes opened wide, looking around the room. Her eyes centered on me, then she became nervous and wiped the water from around her eyes. She spoke.

"I'll be right back. I just have to go to the bathroom. Excuse me," she said as she stood and tiptoed upstairs.

Barbara watched Monet walk up stairs and as soon as we heard the bathroom door shut, Barbara jumped onto the sofa and commanded me to do her next.

"Do me, please, I will pay you. You made me a believer, Clay. I thought this was bullshit at first, but now I saw it for myself. It's real. Whatever you did to Monet, that's what I want."

Although I was happy to be the newest hypno convert on the block, it was anticlimactic and Monet was obviously embarrassed by it all.

"Barbara, maybe some other time. Could you check on Monet? I'm a little worried about her," I said as I stood at the bottom of the stairs.

Barbara was disappointed that I would not accommodate her right then and there, but she agreed to see about Monet.

Twenty minutes later, Barbara came down with a look of confusion on her face. I was dying to find out what happened.

"Clay, Monet is all right, but she said she is not coming down. She will call you in a few days and let you know how things are, okay?"

I had a million questions, maybe more. I reached for my car keys sitting on the coffee table and started heading toward the door. Barbara opened the door and I stood in the doorway and turned around to face Barbara.

"Did she find her soul mate?" I asked, noticing how dark it was outside.

Barbara looked down first and then she looked directly at me before she spoke.

"Yeah, she did, but it wasn't Marc."

# — CHAPTER EIGHT —

# Cross Roads

I didn't know what to think or how to feel. Was my session with Monet a success or had I failed miserably? I wanted to know everything about her experience in trance, or was it a trance? Could it have been some wet dream I clumsily induced? Regardless of what happened, I didn't feel good about the experience and it left me with a bad vibe. I called a few classmates and asked them about their personal experiences and all had positive things to say, except me.

Two days passed since my session with Monet and still no call. I thought about calling her but if she wanted to speak she would have called me. What happened to her? Only she could tell me and I would just have to wait patiently for the phone to ring.

Later that night, I attended my hypnosis training. After I returned from a ten-minute break outside, I saw a cupcake with a lit candle in the middle. My classmates celebrated me losing my hypno-virginity. I was the only person in class who had not induced trance outside the classroom. They really made a big deal out of it and I pretended to be excited, but I wasn't.

I remember the first time I think I might have been hypnotized in training; it was for a past life regression. My partner was Joan who wanted to learn self-hypnosis to stop biting her nails. Anyway, I remember her doing everything right and her voice was calming and relaxing. I connected with her voice and in the span of a few minutes everything went black. It was as though I lost time. I didn't recall anything during that fifteen minute time span. But there was a strange twist at the end of the session because it was Jim, our instructor, who brought me out of trance. Why was Jim terminating my trance and not Joan? I woke up and saw Jim in the chair next to me and Joan standing in the corner petrified. Joan's face was flushed red. Joan wiped the tears from her eyes as I emerged from trance, and breathed a sigh of relief before she slowly walked towards me.

"Clay, you scared me. Don't do that to me," Joan said.

"Do what? What did I do?" I asked as I sat upright in the chair.

"I tried to bring you back and you wouldn't respond. It was as though you were in a coma. I kept shaking you, but you didn't wake up,"

"He's fine, absolutely fine," Jim assured Joan.

"Well, why didn't he wake up?" Joan asked.

Jim stood and addressed both of us together.

"This was a past life regression. Clay, maybe you are a new soul," Jim commented as he extended his arm to assist me out of my groggy state.

"I feel fine, but both sides of my face sting like hell," I said as I lightly rubbed my right and left temples.

"Sorry, Clay, I panicked," Joan replied with a sheepish look.

During the last hour of class we learned how to unlock inner child issues and I was paired up with one of the nicest guys in class, Roger. Roger must have been in his late fifties and used hypnosis to overcome a fear of public speaking, which he did after three sessions with Jim. The only problem with Roger was that he smelled absolutely rancid, like stale urine. The smell was so bad that it gave me a headache. He tried very hard to induce me into trance but I couldn't get past the smell. He tried over and over again which made it worse for me because it meant I had to endure the smell longer. I had no choice and so I faked it. We ran out of time, so I didn't get a chance to regress him but I was just glad to breathe in fresh air. I left class that night deflated. I was deflated because I thought I might have hurt a friend, and I was now one of the fakers. I asked myself if I should return to class; maybe I was just in over my head.

When I arrived home from work the next day, I saw a 911 call on my pager. It was Monet. I grabbed the phone and called her immediately, but her phone was busy. Damn! I kept calling but I couldn't get through. I contemplated driving to her house. Too stalker-ish, I thought.

As I was getting changed out of my camouflaged uniform, I heard my phone ring. With my trousers around my ankles, I bunny hopped to the phone.

"Hello?" I said out of breath.

"Clay, it's me, Monet. Can you talk?"

"Monet. I have been waiting for you to call. Are you all right?"

"Yes, I think so. We need to talk. Something happened to me that night and it flipped my whole world upside down. I was wondering if you could walk me through some things."

"Monet, I think I am as confused as you. I am sorry for what happened; I think I'm done with hypnosis. I'm in over my head. I don't even know if I believe in it, even after the other night."

"Clay. I didn't say what happened to me was bad. I don't really know how to interpret it. But I assure you it's real. More real than you care to know. I have proof that hypnosis is real. I don't know what they taught you in class but I think you've got it; it's crazy."

"Okay, Monet. What do you want me to do?"

"Clay, I know it's late but can you come over? I really need to talk with you in person."

"Sure, I could have Lori check on my son while I'm out. I will come over right after I make dinner, okay? See you at about seven."

Things started to brighten up. One the way over to Monet's house I decided to delay my decision to quit hypnosis training at least until I spoke with Monet. She held the keys to my belief in this strange new world called trance.

I knocked on the door three times before I heard Monet's voice.

"It's open, come on in."

I walked into her house and she was upstairs on the phone. I looked around her house and I noticed there was something different that I could not put my finger on. As soon as I sat on the sofa, I realized all of Monet's wedding pictures were gone. I was confused. Did the session have anything to do with it? Monet came downstairs with a white lacy shirt and a pair of jeans on. She was in her bare stocking feet, exposing her pretty red painted toe nails.

Monet approached me and gave me a nice hug, certainly not like a sister hug. We sat next to each other on her sofa.

"Glad you could come over. Remember when I said something happened to me?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I don't know how to say this, but I went somewhere and I saw things, things that, maybe, I shouldn't have seen."

"Like what?"

"Do you believe in destiny or fate?"

"To a degree I do, but I really don't give it much thought. Why?"

"I think when you put me in trance the course of my life was rerouted or put on a different track. I saw so many things, things that don't make sense."

"I thought it was just about sex," I said as looked at her wedding ring, still on her finger.

"Yeah, that was a big part of it but there was much more than that."

"So, you believe you were hypnotized and you have proof?"

"Yes, I do, but I will get to that later. This may sound strange but I saw you in trance."

"What? You saw me? How, where?"

"You were much older, maybe late forties or early fifties. I'm not sure, but it was definitely you."

I was spooked, but intrigued. I needed to understand what had happened, but at the same time I didn't want to know anything about me later in life.

"I don't know where we were, but it was a cold night and you were dressed in a long black leather coat with a raised collar. It had black fur lining and brass snaps. You also had a black felt hat with a red feather on the side."

"Wait a second. The coat you just described is the coat I bought my dad for Christmas last year, but he never wears it."

"Does it have shoulder tabs?" Monet asked.

I didn't answer her. My mind was in a tailspin of confusion from her uncannily accurate description of things she could not have possibly seen.

Monet continued.

"You appeared slightly tipsy and you had a distinct limp when you walked toward me. You were handing me something."

"Do you remember what it was I gave you?"

"Yeah, it was a book. The book was brown."

"Why would I be giving you a book?" I asked scratching my head with feelings of trepidation.

"It was a book that you wrote."

I became even more confused because I was never a book person. The last book I read was Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger, and that was in the 11th grade. I remember because I had to retest twice to pass.

These were the facts.

  1. I was wearing my dad's coat for some strange reason.
  2. I was walking with a limp.
  3. I was drunk (and I drank maybe twice a year).
  4. I was an author (D+ student in English).

All the above made no sense whatsoever.

Monet looked at me and we both were lost as to the meaning of what was revealed to her while in trance.

"Monet, I really don't know what any of this means. Maybe you had a dream or something."

"I don't know either, Clay. Is it hot in here or is it me? I'm going to get a drink; would you like one?" Monet said as she stood and walked to the kitchen.

"Yeah, I will take anything you're having. How about a glass of Merlow?" I joked.

"You mean Merlot?" Monet laughed.

Monet brought two glasses of Pepsi and it appeared we both were pretty thirsty.

"Barbara told me you found your soul mate. She also said it wasn't your husband. Sorry," I said looking down and reaching for my Pepsi.

"No, it's not my husband. Maybe deep down I knew it all the time."

"So, is he a stranger or is it someone you already know?"

"He's not a stranger; I know him."

"Can you tell me who he is? If not, I totally understand," I commented as I took another sip.

"Clay. It's you."

# — CHAPTER NINE —

# The Five Percenters

No single word could describe what went through my mind after Monet's heartfelt revelation. I was numb all over; there were forces at hand that I did not understand and which challenged my entire belief system. I stood and paced in front of the coffee table not knowing what to say. What do you say to that? I looked at Monet and saw that she was nervously gauging my reaction. It was heavy, really heavy, and it was about to get even heavier.

"Clay, there is just one more thing I need to tell you," Monet said as she stood embracing me.

"Wow, I can't think of anything that could surprise me after that. What is it?"

I looked at Monet and saw she was solemn. She put her head on my chest and hugged me tight.

"Clay, I'm going to have your baby."

I placed my hand under her chin and saw that she was emotional.

"Monet, calm down sweetheart, it's okay."

I couldn't believe I just called her sweetheart so naturally.

Then she got really animated, almost beating her hands on my chest.

"No, it's not gonna be okay. Don't you understand? It's over. It's over."

"What's over? What are you talking about?"

Monet broke her embrace and turned her back on me as she wiped her tears away.

"My marriage. My marriage is over. I called Marc last night and told him I want a divorce. I'm filing for divorce."

"Whoa. Monet, you can't throw ten years of marriage down the tubes because you had a vivid dream. Seriously."

"Clay. You weren't there. I know what I saw. I know what I felt. Hypnosis is real and I'm going to prove it to you," Monet said as she began walking up the staircase.

I always considered myself a rational person, a logical person. I knew there was no way on earth for Monet to prove to me she was hypnotized. However, I would at least hear her out.

Monet was upstairs for about five minutes. There was no movement and it was completely silent.

"Monet. Monet, are you okay up there?"

Still there was no response.

"Monet!"

I was worried. I knew she was in a hell of a mental state and I decided to investigate. I slowly crept up the stairs feeling extremely anxious. I braced myself for the worst. Once again I found myself walking upstairs thinking I might encounter a 911 situation. I got to the top of the stairs and I saw a night light on in the master bedroom. The door was slightly ajar, so I opened it.

"Monet?"

Monet was sitting on her bed Indian style with a red short silky robe on. Her name was inscribed across the right breast area. It appeared that she had no clothes on underneath. Tears began to stream down her face.

"You told me you wanted proof to show hypnosis is real, right?"

"Yeah, but..."

Monet slowly moved off the bed and stood by the night stand. She removed her wedding ring and placed it in the top drawer.

"Monet, wait, hold on now."

Monet walked toward me and stood about three feet away from me in front of her bed.

"Clay, how do you explain this?" Monet said as she opened her robe, exposing her beautiful nude honey-colored body.

"Monet, what happened to you? Who did this to you?" I said in a state of rage.

There were light bruises all over her lower neck, breasts and thighs. Then she showed me her wrists. There was light bruising around her wrists as well, as though she had been restrained or something.

"There's more," Monet whispered as she slowly turned around with the grace of a ballerina.

As she turned around I saw more light bruises on the spine of her lower back and I thought I saw what looked like a handprint on her right butt cheek.

"Monet, let's call the police right now. Whoever did this to promise you... "

Monet closed the gap between us and put her arms around my neck and kissed me briefly.

"Clay, you don't get it, do you? We can't call the police; there's no reason to," Monet said as she kissed my face.

"Why, why not?" I replied as my anger began to yield to feelings of unspeakable desire.

"Because, I wasn't a victim. I loved every minute of it. I'm going to call the man that did this to me, hold on."

Monet broke our embrace and reached for her phone and began dialing. I felt as if I was in a movie waiting for something to happen. I didn't know what the hell was going on.

I felt my pager go off in my shirt pocket; I thought it might be Lori. It wasn't.

It was Monet.

"Monet, why are you paging me?"

"Clay, the man who did this to me is you," Monet said pointing at me with that same look I saw when she emerged from trance.

"I was there; I felt it. These aren't bruises; they're passion marks from when you made love to me. I woke up the next day and saw them all over my body."

I was experiencing a severe logic deficit. But staring at me was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. My common sense was fighting my instincts in a losing battle.

I had to avert the inevitable somehow.

"Monet, I have pledged not to exploit client relationships. I am bound by a certain code of ethics. We have a therapist-client relationship."

"Mr. Thompson," Monet said as she began stroking my face.

"Yes," I responded with beads of sweat forming on my brow.

"You're fired."

I left Monet's house about nine p.m. the following night. We did not sleep. I called Lori and made arrangements for my son and I didn't even go to work. I called my boss and told him I couldn't get out of bed. What I experienced was mind-bending and addictive. I now had a drug of choice and her name was Monet. I think I opened a door that, maybe, I shouldn't have; it was a high that was reserved for addicts and fiends. Was that me or was it something that came over me during our non-stop lovefest? I had a script, but it wasn't mine. Whatever it was, it was real. Hypnosis was real, but that was secondary to my new addiction. I should have felt guilty, but I didn't. I felt she belonged to me, like she always belonged to me. I believed we were meant to be togther on a metaphysical level.

The drive home was surreal. I began to question everything that happened. Then I thought maybe she spiked my Pepsi and the whole thing was a bad trip. Naw. The love making was trancelike, but I remember coming down from my high.and the passion marks as she called them were still there. That confounded me, and I needed some serious answers. Answers that only Jim could provide.

That afternoon I called Jim to schedule a private meeting after his last client of the day.

"Clay, have a seat, your body language and demeanor speak volumes. What's up?"

"Jim, I'm a believer now. But I don't know what I'm believing in. Whatever you call it, hypnosis or trance or whatever, it's powerful, very powerful."

Jim stroked his lamb-chop sideburns and addressed my concern.

"Yes, it is. I have been practicing hypnosis for over a decade and there are things that still surprise me," Jim said as he sat behind his desk. Behind him the highest certifications of hypnotherapy were mounted on the wall.

I revealed to him the G-rated version of my experiene with Monet, particulary the passion marks on her body.

I thought Jim would be surprised, but strangely he was not. He swivled his chair to his left and reached in a desk drawer to retrieve a news article.

Man Freezes to Death in Meat Locker, was the headline. Jim told me to read the article, so I did. After reading it in full I handed him the article and shrugged my shoulders. "Okay, a man freezes to death in a meat locker. He probably got locked in from the outside. I don't get it."

John took the article and carefully placed it back in his portfolio before explaining, "Clay, Monet and the man who died in the freezer are Five Percenters."

"Five Percenters? What?" I asked.

"Approxiamately five percent of the population are hyper suggestible to trance. If you suggest it's cold, chill bumps begin to manifest. If you suggest it's dark, their pupils expand. The man who froze to death in the meat locker did not need to die. The cooling element in the refrigeration unit had failed that night. He died at room temperature not much colder than it is in here. But in his mind, it got colder and colder, and colder until he froze to death in the fetal position. The power of suggestion is real and sometimes it can be deadly real. You must use it for what God and the Universe intended, to bring healing."

I left Jim's office feeling enlightned and more comfortable with what hypnosis was and what it was not. From that moment on, I decided to pray silently before every session, to ask God to bless me with the power of divine insight. I would continue this practice for the rest of my life.

# — CHAPTER TEN —

# The Dance

I would have thought that after three weeks with Monet the fever would subside, but in fact it got hotter. I saw Monet everyday and sometimes twice a day even if it was only for a few moments. I started to bring my son over and he became best friends with Barbara's son Michael. I never stopped thinking about her experience in trance and I often wondered what I looked like in my fifties. So one evening after I picked her up from work, I asked her. I reached for her hand and had one hand on the steering wheel. "Monet, I've been doing a lot of thinking lately, ya know?"

"Thinking about what sweetheart," she asked as she turned the radio down.

"I don't know how this is gonna sound but...I love you."

Monet raised my hand to her lips and kissed it.

"I know honey, I love you too."

It was kind of anticlimactic. Since this was the first time I said it, I think I expected more of a response.

"Monet, you act as though I've said it a million times before."

Monet unbuckled her seat belt and whispered in my ear.

"Baby, you have and I remember every time you said it."

She often spoke of the future as if it had already happened, but in her mind and in her soul it had. I was competing with her memory of my future. It made my head hurt thinking how crazy it sounded.

The more she spoke of the future, the more I became curious about what kind of man I was in my fifties. As I pulled into her driveway I asked her a few questions to satisfy my curiosity. "So, am I still in shape?" I asked as I opened her car door.

"Hmm, not really. But I like you better older, you're all grown up and you know who you are. As if you found yourself."

"Do I still have all my hair?"

"You keep it cut pretty low. I like the salt and pepper look on you; it makes you look distinguished. Oh yeah, I remember where we got together," Monet commented as we walked into the house and she put her purse on the coffee table.

"Where?"

"I am almost sure it was the Hilton Hotel."

"Whoa, now I know you were dreaming."

"Why do you say that babe?"

"The Hilton? Do you know how expensive it is to stay there? It's a fortune."

I wanted to ask more questions but I didn't want to know too much. The questions I really wanted to know were why I was drunk, why I was wearing my dad's coat, and why I was walking with a limp. The book thing didn't make any sense so that I dismissed it completely. I deliberately didn't address the problem of her having a child; after all, she wasn't even divorced yet.

Weekends were especially lazy for us. On Saturday mornings we watched my son's football games on the base. It was as though we were a family. She knew what position he played and cheered him on in the stands as if she was his real mom. She loved football and her favorite pro team was the San Diego Chargers. Sometimes when we were in bed she would read the newspaper and go straight to the sports section and check to see the standings of her favorite team. I wasn't so much of a newspaper guy until I met Monet. I would sometimes get a kick out of some of the headlines that made the paper because of the stupid things people did or tried to get away with. Monet and I started this silly game where I would read the name of an article or a headline and she would try to profile the perpertrator. It was a modified version of the game Jeopardy. I usually started it off. It went like this.

"Hey, babe. Check it out. Ten Thousand Dollars of Baby Back Ribs stolen on the Eve of the NBA Finals."

Monet responded. "Well, Alex. I will take Negroes for 400."

She was right; it was two Black guys who lived on Vista Way down the street from Ribs and Bibs.

"My turn, hand me the paper," Monet demanded.

"Okay, hon. How about this. Woman Spectator Gets Injured in Toilet Seat Throwing Contest."

It was my turn to respond.

"Well, Alex. I will take Rednecks for 600," I said after humming the Jeopardy theme song.

"Clay, sit down crazy," Monet took another turn.

"Okay, last one. Adult Novelty Shop Robbed, Rabbit (vibrator) Stock Wiped Out."

I chimed in.

"Alex, I will take Lonely Military Wives for 1000 please."

After a month, Monet and I realized that we really didn't go anywhere. Monet voiced her concern to me.

"Hey babe. There is this new thing I want us to experience. I know you don't know much about it but I think we should expose ourselves to it, at least once," she said at the breakfast table.

I took a sip of my coffee and replied.

"Sure. Anything for you. What is it?"

Monet stood and walked around behind me and whispered in my ear.

"It's called daylight."

The following week Monet surprised me with tickets to see our favorite recording artist Johnny Gill. Apparently Johnny Gill was appearing on the base and our tickets were dirt cheap. We were both very excited and looked forward to a night out. Barbara agreed to watch Clay, Jr.

As much as I despised using that credit card that I vowed never to use, I was burning up the transactions. Mostly on small gifts for Monet like flowers and perfume and stuff. I even bought a decent suit for our night out. The night we were to see Johnny Gill, I got dressed first and I remember sitting in the bedroom waiting for her to shower and get dressed. She came into the room with a towel, drying herself off. As tempting as she was, I restrained from those thoughts.

Then she sat on the bed and put on her stockings. Those thoughts came back with a vengeance. It was getting more difficult to keep myself in check. I felt the tension in my shoulders building and I could feel my teeth in a clench. I thought I would break when she asked me to zip up her red dress. She smelled so damn good.

Hang on. Just hang on.

Then she started putting on her lipstick. I had to have her, but I couldn't just pounce on her. I put the Johnny Gill casette tape in and played it.

"Honey, you look fine. Super fine. Can I have this dance?"

"No, Clay. Every time we dance we always end up in bed. I know your tricks, Mister," Monet said, looking at me in the closet mirror while putting on her earrings.

"I promise to behave, I promise. Just one dance. Two minutes, that's all," I said as I put my arms around her waist from behind.

"Okay. But I know your two minutes."

We danced.

We never made it to the show. Just a trail of garments throughout the house. I apologized to her. I felt so guilty for us not making it to the show. But then she surprised me with a chronology of events as we lay in bed.

"No, babe. I apologize to you. When you tried to let me go, I didn't let you."

# — CHAPTER ELEVEN —

# The Eyes Have It

We just finished eating at our second favorite restaurant, The Olive Garden. They make the most delicious salads there. I don't know what kind of salad dressing they use but I could just eat salad there and nothing else. As the waiter cleared our plates, Monet mentioned that Barbara could not stop talking about the hypno trip.

"Clay, Barbara is starting to get on my last nerve."

"What's she doing now?"

"She wore me down. I just got tired of her bugging me day in and day out. She says she has a proposition for you," Monet said as she folded her arms.

"I'm afraid to ask."

Monet started playing footsie with me under the table and game me a million dollar smile. I knew something was up.

"Be warned, she's coming over tonight."

"Oh, great."

Monet and I had been home less than ten minutes before the doorbell rang. I knew who it was.

"Clay, can you get the door? It's Barbara," Monet called from upstairs while changing clothes.

As soon as Barbara walked in, I could sense she was very lively and almost businesslike.

"Clay, sit down, sit down. Relax yourself. I have a few ideas I want to run by you. I think you'll like them."

"I can't wait. I am all ears," I replied, kicking my shoes off.

Barbara grabbed a chair from the kitchen and sat it beside me on the sofa.

"Together, you and I are gonna be rich. I've been thinking a lot about this hypnosis stuff. I think we could take this show on the road and cash in."

"Oh, really?" I replied feigning interest.

"But, you'll need a manager. That's where I come in the picture. I will be your manager. But of course I'll demand a standard fee of forty percent. It's the going rate these days."

"The last time I checked Barbara, it was around ten percent. That's what the lead singer from the California Executives told me."

"Well, we can negotiate that later, but I even came up with a stage name for you."

At this time, the love of my life came strolling down the stairs in her PJs, listening intently to Barbara's master plan.

"A stage name? Are you serious? This I gotta hear," I said with simulated enthusiasm.

Monet interjected as she sat next to me.

"Okay, Barbara. Let's hear it."

Barbara stood in front of Monet and me very excited.

"Okay, how about...Hypno Bro?"

I looked at Monet and we both tried to keep from busting into maniacal laughter. I did my best to keep my composure.

I responded. "Well, at least it's not ridiculous or stereotypical," I commented before just absolutely losing it in Monet's lap.

Barbara didn't see what was so funny. She was serious, and that made me laugh even harder. Monet couldn't stop giggling and then she let loose.

"Okay, okay. I have another idea."

I didn't know how much more I could take. I was still laughing at Hypno Bro.

"Clay, we know you can send someone forward in hypnosis, right? Well, the way I see it, if you can hypnotize me to get the winning lotto numbers this Friday, I will split the winnings with you. I will give you thirty percent of the winnings."

"Thirty percent?" Monet and I both responded together.

"Yeah. I came up with the idea, right? I can see me now, driving a brand new 1991 red Corvette. Oh yeah, I would get a boob job too. Forty four double Ds please."

Monet shook her head and commented.

"Girl, your breasts are big enough; really, they are fine."

"My ass is too big, and it makes me look out of proportion. I have way too much ass for a White girl," Barbara said as she looked behind at her butt.

I had to comment that there was too much estrogen floating in the air.

"Too much ass, that's like having too much money. Impossible," I replied as I pinched Monet's left butt cheek.

I circled back to her earlier point of the lotto draw.

"Barbara, even if I could somehow find out the winning numbers for Friday's draw, I wouldn't. It would be abusing an ability, and I am sure there would be consequences on the other end. Sorry, can't go there."

Both of Barbara's ideas had been kicked to the curb, but she had one last request. She plopped down on the love seat across from us.

"Well, could you at least read this?" Barbara asked solemnly as she handed me a sheet of paper folded in half.

I opened it and read it silently.

## My List

To want to have sex only with my husband.

To find out why I fainted at my grandmother's funeral when I saw two older relatives I didn't know.

To find a way out of this rut and live a life of comfort.

Monet asked me what it was.

"Honey, she wants me to hypnotize her. This is her request list," I said as I put it on the coffee table.

Barbara's demeanor changed to a sober state.

"Clay, I tried giving marriage a chance. It's not really me; I should be free and single with my hair in the wind. Marriage is a long boring meal, where dessert is served first. Monet knows I sleep around; his name is Caesar. He drives a black pick up. I think he's a drug dealer, but he treats me nice."

I looked at Monet and her response told me she knew. Barbara continued.

"My anniversary is coming up soon and my husband is in Officer Candidate School. I'm glad he's there. I like my independence. I love it when he deploys. But I can't forgive him for letting me work at Denny's serving rude ass customers who look down on me. He makes enough money, so I shouldn't have to work. I was wondering if hypnosis could help me find a way out. I need to have hope. Can you help me please?"

Wow. I had never seen Barbara so vulnerable. I felt compelled to help her out of her despair. I looked at Monet for her concurrence.

"Sure. Now I get to see from the other side," Monet stated.

I told Barbara I would do it then, but I needed her to check on the boys to see if they were all right.

Barbara returned from checking on the boys. They were eating popcorn and playing Nintendo.

While Barbara was out, I remembered a new technique to induce trance that I learned during my last training session. It was called a Rapid Induction, meaning the person is hypnotized instantly in seconds. It was an aggressive technique that was truly eyeball-to-eyeball. However, it required one hundred percent confidence to pull it off. It involved me holding her hand and staring intently making a subconscious connection. And then the command S L E E P. All this in a matter of seconds.

When Barbara returned she assumed the position and started staring at the ceiling. I had to advise her of my change in plans.

"Barbara, we are going to do this a little differently, okay?"

"Okay, what do you want me to do?" She asked as she stopped looking at the ceiling and sat upright.

I pulled up a chair directly in front of her, my eyes fixated on hers. My eyes felt like they were on high beam with intensity.

Monet got up and observed from the kitchen.

"Okay, Barbara. Give me your hand, okay? That's it, now look at me. Take a deep breath and hold it.

"S L E E P NOW!" I said as I jerked her hand down in a startling motion.

Barbara was gone. Way gone. It may have taken three seconds. It worked just like Jim said it would. I think the fact that Barbara saw me hypnotize Monet played on her subconscious in my favor.

Since Barbara was already in trance, I went straight into the issues at hand.

"Barbara, you confided in me that you want to be faithful to your husband. Can you do that?"

Barbara did not respond immediately, making me a little anxious about her trance state, but she eventually spoke in a whisperlike voice.

"No."

"No, what?" I asked.

"No, I can't be faithful."

Alrighty then. Onto the next issue.

Monet was still observing from the kitchen but I was focused on Barbara.

"Okay, Barbara. I want you to imagine yourself successful, living the dream. See yourself now."

Barbara's eyes were half-open but you could tell she was still in trance. Within a few seconds she started to simulate driving. She was shifting gears and even honking at slow drivers. But she was in the zone, and smiling. Then she started to lean forward a little and that confused me, so I asked her why she did this.

"My breasts, they are huge. My back is straining to sit upright. Do you like them?"

I looked at Monet and she was stunned. Her hand covered her mouth in disbelief.

"Yes, Barbara, they are very nice. Okay, I want you to visualize a way to achieve this lifestyle. Let your subconscious work for you. Tonight in your dreams, it will come to you."

On to the next issue.

"Barbara, when I count to five you will go back to your grandmother's funeral. Let me know when you are there."

"I'm there. I see the casket. It's there," she said pointing straight ahead.

"Okay, do you see the two men in question...?"

Before I could finish my sentence, Barbara's eyes popped open in fear. She broke her trance state. She was scared and kept looking around. Then she spoke.

"Are they here?"

Monet came into the room and sat next to Barbara and began stroking her back to comfort her.

"Who?" I asked.

"The two men," Barbara explained.

"No, there is no one here but us," Monet replied.

Barbara looked as if she had seen a ghost. She sat silently for about five minutes before she revealed what she had experienced in trance.

"I know who the two men are. They molested me when I was two. They're my cousins, but they were teenagers then. They are in their forties now. That was thirty years ago, but I remember it as though it was yesterday."

Strangely enough, Barbara thanked me for the experience and she felt confident she would find a way to achieve her life of success. Although I had a new profound respect for the power of suggestion, I wondered how it would address a complex issue such as Barbara's. Was it beyond the scope and limitations of trance? Or would Barbara's subconscious mind be able to solve this mental Rubik's Cube and find success?

# — CHAPTER TWELVE —

# Microphone Check,  
One Two, One Two

After seeing Barbara's session up close, Monet told all of her friends at work about hypnosis. She was very supportive of me and my newfound interest. I think she was proud of me which gave me great satisfaction. One day, I decided to surprise Monet at work and take her to lunch. As I headed towards her department, I saw a middle-aged stocky Black guy with an afro leaning over the counter speaking to Monet in a seemingly flirtatious manner. I was jealous and angry. Who was this guy and why was he leaning so far over the counter? As I approached, I saw Monet reach into her purse; she gave him a pen. He wrote something on a piece of paper and slid it to her with his index finger. She seemed excited. My first thought was to pretend it didn't happen and just wait till he left. No way in hell. I had to impose and break it up, whatever it was.

"Monet."

I would be able to judge by her response if there was anything amiss.

"Clay, we were just talking about you. Clay this is Neil. He's the promoter for the group The California Executives."

The gentleman turned around and his demeanor said everything. He was absolutely the friendliest guy you ever met. It wasn't what I thought, or feared.

"So, I finally get to meet you. Monet has told me all about you. You gotta minute?" Neil asked as he was eager to get acquainted with me.

"Yeah, I guess so."

I was still a little nervous about the piece of paper he slid to Monet.

"I just got a three-month contract at Club Paradise in San Marcos and I could use you, I really could."

"But I don't sing. By the way, I know one of your lead singers, John. He's freakin amazing."

As Neil and I were talking, a disgruntled customer approached the counter to return merchandise for a refund. Monet donned the required pretentious smile and insincere concern as she addressed his needs, leaving Neil and I alone to chat.

Neil was surprised that I knew John, and told me the names of the others in the trio, Fred and Dwayne. We all had something in common. We were all Marines, including Neil, who was a reservist or a weekend warrior as we affectionately called them.

"Clay, I'm not looking for a quartet. I need an emcee, a master of ceremonies. Someone to keep the crowd going in between acts. Monet said you would be perfect for the job."

I was stunned. I knew the type of person required to pull that off, and I was far from it. Getting on stage in front of a crowd and grabbing the microphone was unappealing and intimidating. Entertainment was akin to the ministry: it was a calling, not something you volunteered for.

Before I could vehemently decline the offer, I remembered a comment Jim made during my last hypnosis training.

"Never say you can't do something and always confront your fears. Be empowered."

I responded.

"When do I start?"

Neil smiled from ear to ear and put his hand on my shoulder.

"This Friday at 8 p.m. sharp. I gave Monet my number to give to you. Call me if anything comes up."

What the hell did I just sign up for? I had no idea, but it was too late to turn back. I was committed. I was about to be tested way beyond my limits. The stress was on, big time.

That Friday, I was a complete nervous wreck. I wanted something to happen to preclude me from having to go through with it. My mind was hijacked by doubt and reasons why I would fail in front of all those people. Monet called me at work to tell me she had bought an outfit for me to wear. Apparently, there was a sale on men's clothing in the men's department where she worked. She also mentioned that she invited some of her coworkers to the show.

"Oh, honey. That's great," I replied. That was all I needed. More pressure. I called Lori at her job to watch my son for me and she agreed.

I went home, got showered and drove to Monet's. I didn't know how to deal with this mounting pressure. It was too much and I needed something to take the edge off. Alcohol came to mind, but I couldn't get past the taste. I thought about prayer, but what kind of prayer would that be?

Lord, please give me the strength to rock the house. Amen.

No, that was dumb. I couldn't say that prayer. I said a simple prayer. The Lord's Prayer. Was I still nervous? Hell, yeah.

Monet greeted me at the door with a kiss and a black garment bag. I was glad to see her but at the same time I was trying to keep my cool. Inside the garment bag was a simple outfit, but I liked it. It was a pair of black slacks and a form fitting black long sleeved shirt with a raised collar. Inside was also a shiny leather belt with my initial "C" encased in the gold buckle.

Monet did well, but there was more.

"Honey, I also bought you these," she said handing me a shoebox.

Inside was a pair of shiny black Stacey Adams that laced up. I was impressed with her taste in men's clothes and her unexpected generosity.

I immediately got dressed and waited downstairs for Monet. At 6:45 she came down dressed in a cream-colored satin mini dress with matching stockings and white pumps. The dress really complemented her figure. For a moment, I was distracted from my anxiety. Monet said she knew where the club was, so she insisted on driving, which was cool with me. The club was only twenty minutes away and we left at 7:00, giving us plenty of time to make the 8:00 start. As much as I loved my darling princess, she had this tiny flaw. Her navigational skills were lacking somewhat, maybe a lot. We could see the large palm tree neon sign that flashed Club Paradise on the left on the 78 highway, but for some reason Monet overshot the exit, at least three times. This added to my already heightened stress. But I didn't say a word. She kept looking at her watch and I think she was getting a bit nervous as well. We eventually arrived forty minutes later. As we pulled into the Paradise nightclub parking lot, I noticed a steady flow of cars pulling in behind me, increasing my stress way beyond my comfort level. My hands were clammy and I had to keep clearing my dry throat.

I walked into the club with my arm around Monet's waist. It was like walking on death row to see my executioner. The club was elegant and massive. There was a well-dressed doorman who greeted us and checked our names off the guest list. You could see the flashing lights projecting in the lobby area from the dance floor off to the right. A slow creeping fog from a smoke machine hugged the red-carpeted floor. The DJ played It Takes Two by Rob Base and DJ Easy Rock. Neil nervously paced the lobby until he saw us. He was dressed fairly casually, but then he was a behind the scenes guy.

"Clay! Man, you had me worried. Okay, let's get you back stage. I want to go over a few things with you before you go on," Neil said as he peeled me away from Monet.

As Neil whisked me away, Monet was greeted by a few of her coworkers entering the club behind us.

I didn't think things could get any more stressful, but I was wrong. Neil laid it on me.

"Clay. The dance troupe Culture Shock had to cancel at the last minute, so I'm stuck with a huge gap in the middle of my set. I need you man, big time," Neil explained nervously.

I was confused.

"Neil, now you want me to dance? Have you ever seen Carlton on The Fresh Prince? That's me. Sorry, man, but that's a big no."

"No, Clay. Monet told me about your hypnosis. I want you to do a stage hypnosis act. You can have all the time you need, brother."

At first, I thought I was on the verge of a full-blown panic attack. I was sure that the stress I was experiencing probably shaved a good thirty minutes off my life expectancy. But I felt that hypnosis was something that I knew I could do. After my third week of hypnosis training, Jim took us to a hypnosis stage act at the Improv in downtown San Diego. While watching her show, I remember thinking I could do that.

"Okay, Neil. I'll do it."

"Dude, you're a lifesaver. Let me introduce you to the group."

Neil McKenzie Present Day

John, Fred and Dwayne were busy harmonizing in preparation, so I didn't bother them. If I closed my eyes, it was as if I was listening to Marvin Gaye, Luther Vandross and Howard Hewett all on the same stage. I just kept to myself and Neil left to do a sound check. Every now and then I found myself peaking from behind the red velvet curtain to see how many people had showed. It was a full house. Waitresses were scurrying about delivering drinks in scantily-clad outfits and vibrations from the bass speaker reverberated throughout my body. While the DJ bobbed to the beat, he flashed me the five-minute sign.

I took center stage, rehearsing my lines from a sheet of paper.

I can't do this.

I felt ill and my heart raced with anxiety.

I wanted to just walk away. But I couldn't disappoint Monet. I was getting angry because I couldn't stop my right hand from shaking uncontrollably. I heard the countdown from the club manager from the left side of the stage.

"Five-Four-Three-Two-One. You're on!"

Fuck it. What do I have to lose?

I took my glasses off to clean them as the curtain opened to the music of I'm Your Baby Tonight by Whitney Houston.

I realized that without my glasses, I couldn't see the faces in the crowd. I knew they were there but I couldn't tell if they were judging me. I put my glasses in my right shirt pocket and walked toward the edge of the stage full of adrenaline and high octane endorphins running through my veins. I was hyped. I balled up my script and threw it back stage. Here we go.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'm your MC for tonight and to all of you who snuck in without paying, you're gonna get your money's worth tonight. You can believe that," I said as I pointed to members of the crowd, pacing the stage as though I owned it.

"We gotta a great show tonight. Luther Vandross and Boyz II couldn't make it tonight, but that's okay because The California Executives are here to rock the house. Can I get an 'Oh Yeah'!" I said as I placed my right hand behind my ear.

"Oh Yeah!" a few drunk patrons screamed out.

The audience responded well to my enthusiasm and animated gestures. I had their attention and it was nice to hear them applaud. Monet and her crew were standing, clapping and dancing by their seats.

I got this. My confidence level had never been higher. I wasn't acting; I was just being my normal foolish self.

"Before I start the show, I wanna know who wants to win this hundred dollar bill right here?" I asked as I jumped off stage and walked into the crowd with my wireless headset.

The hundred-dollar bill was my payment for the night.

Half the crowd got on their feet and raised their hands. I played this game with my friends back in junior high, and decided to use it in my act.

"Okay, you...in the tight shirt. What's your name?"

The gentleman was obviously a body builder wearing a black muscle shirt and a matching do-rag. He was straight up ghetto. He stood beside me and took a bow.

"My name is Raymond, but my peeps call me Ray-Ray for short."

"Okay, Ray-Ray. To win this hundred-dollar bill, all you have to do is answer every question with the word.pencil. Like the one I have in my hand."

"Aight," Ray-Ray responded rubbing his palms together.

I gave the hundred-dollar bill to a nearby waitress to hold.

"Okay, Ray-Ray do you understand the rules of the game?"

"Pencil," he replied.

Damn! Maybe he knows this game. But I can't lose this hundred dollars!

"Why do you want to take my hard earned dough?' I said, facing the crowd.

"Pencil," he replied, flexing his muscles to his homeboys in the back of the club.

The crowd got quiet; the music stopped. Everyone wanted to know my next move. Would I lose the hundred dollars?

"Okay, Ray-Ray. Last question. What do you want more, my hundred dollars or this pencil?"

"Pencil? Son of a bitch," he replied, conceding defeat by hanging his head.

"And here you go. Give it up for my boy Ray-Ray. Let's get this party started. Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for the California Executives!"

The crowd applauded and the music started again.

I put my glasses on and saw Monet in the crowd. She was standing and the last one to stop applauding. I think I made her proud. I pulled it off. That night we made mad-crazy love.

# — CHAPTER THIRTEEN —

# Third Show

It was my third show and by this time I had matured as an MC and as a stage hypnotist. I quickly learned that He who has the microphone is most powerful when it came to dealing with annoying patrons and hecklers. Monet was a big part of my success as a stage hypnotist from the very first show. The hypnotist I saw with my classmates at the Improv hand-picked her subjects from the crowd, but that seemed almost pre-staged. I opted for a different approach, but it was risky.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I am an equal opportunity hypnotist and I encourage anyone who wants to experience the power of trance to come forward," I said as I walked through the patrons' tables looking for volunteers.

Initially there was no response; people just whispered among themselves, shaking their heads as I looked in their direction. Unlike most shows, with stage hypnosis the volunteers are the stars, but you have to convince them to come forward. That's where Monet stepped up to the plate from the beginning. Monet grabbed four of her friends and came on stage and filled half of the empty chairs. People clapped and cheered them on. This started a trickle of other volunteers, allowing me to start my induction with ten butts in ten seats. What I soon realized was that although people wanted to come forward, no one wanted to be the first. Monet broke the ice at the beginning of my first two gigs, but that caused a problem during my third show. Neil broke it down for me.

"Clay, we have a big problem, and the manager is pissed," Neil stated, huffing and puffing as he approached me in the lobby.

We were about to start the show in twenty minutes and only a handful of patrons outside were coming into the club, all because of one lady, one very large lady.

She was a White woman about six feet tall who weighed north of 300 pounds. She was wearing a canary yellow long sleeved shirt and black spandex. This lady had dishwater greasy hair and she was chewing gum as though it was nobody's business. You could hear her from inside the lobby.

"Don't waste your money. He's a fake. F-a-k-e, fake."

This woman was discouraging the customers from seeing the show. The manager tapped me on the shoulder.

"Hey, today is payday. If I don't get paid, none of you get paid. Get rid of this Jerry Springer reject. I don't need this shit," he said as he lit his cigarette and stood near the entrance observing the situation.

I had to use diplomacy because, after all, she was bigger than me.

"Excuse me. What seems to be the problem?" I asked as I made my way through the crowd.

"You da problem. You are so fake, you ain't foolin me though."

"Why do you think I am fake? Explain that to me," I asked as I looked up at her.

"I know you're fake because for the last two shows, it's that same girl who always comes on stage. I saw you two driving home together. Your girlfriend is a plant. I got eyes and I can see what's goin on."

By this time she was starting to sweat. She began wiping the perspiration from her forehead using the lower part of her shirt exposing her belly.

"Ma'am, is there anything I can do to prove to you that I am real?"

"Yeah, hypnotize my husband. Bobby, get over here."

Why is it that the biggest women always go for the skinniest guys? Not only was Bobby skinny but he was barely five-foot five inches tall. Bobby emerged from behind her and never made any eye contact with anyone. It looked as if he was scared.

"Okay, deal. I will pay for you and Bobby to get in, but if he gets hypnotized then pay me when the night is over. By the way, what is your name?" I asked.

"My name is Bambi, and I will gladly take your money. Come on Bobby, let's go."

Bobby scampered behind her, tucking in his shirt and adjusting his glasses.

After Bambi went inside, the crowd soon followed and by the time the show was ready to start, we had a full house.

I went into the club and sat by Monet at her table.

"Is everything all right, babe?" Monet asked as she ran the back of her hand on my face.

"Yeah, it's cool. But when I ask for volunteers I need you and your posse to stay put. I will explain later. Love you baby," I said as I stood and headed back stage. I brainstormed for a new strategy. I had an idea.

"Welcome to Club Paradise. We're going to mix things up a bit tonight to accommodate you non-believers in the house. Some of you think I'm fake, some of you think hypnosis is for the weak-minded. Tonight, I hope to change a few minds," I said as I looked in Bambi's direction.

"If you would like to experience the power of trance, Come on Down."

Bambi kicked Bobby's chair and he stood and looked around like a lost puppy. He walked past me and sat in the chair closest to the exit. No one else responded and I knew I couldn't make a show around Bobby alone.

"Okay, let me sweeten the deal for you. How many dreamers do I have in the house tonight?"

Everyone looked at their neighbor confused, shrugging their shoulders.

"A dreamer is someone who dreams. But, a lucid dreamer is someone who controls their dreams while they sleep. Only a small percentage of the world's population have this ability. For those of you who trust me and come forward, I will suggest that you will have the ability to control your dreams tonight. Imagine the possibilities."

It took about fifteen seconds for the possibilities to marinate in the minds of the patrons. Then the mad rush began; people were fighting for seats so that I had to get more to accommodate everyone. It seems that they all wanted to have this private Total Recall experience in the privacy of their own minds.

The DJ killed the music and I started my induction. Bobby was fast asleep halfway through. The people who did not enter into trance on stage were replaced by those patrons behind me who got sucked in by my voice. I guess some people thought hypnosis was line of sight. Nope. It's omnidirectional. I also learned how to identify my fakers on stage. I did this by suggesting hysterical laughter as my first suggestion, which everyone, including the fakers, indulged in pretty convincingly. But what my fakers didn't know was how to respond to the word S L E E P in midstream during their laughter. My fakers would wind down as you normally would after hearing a good joke, but a person who is truly hypnotized falls asleep instantly.

After I had my subjects entranced, I could hear Bambi having a loud conversation with some of her friends who accompanied her. It was annoying and distracting as hell. I wanted to quiet her but I didn't want to lose the crowd by getting into a verbal altercation. I saw Monet get up and walk towards Bambi. I shook my head signaling for her to return to her seat, but I did it with a smile. I had another idea, an idea that involved Bobby.

"The person that I am touching, and only the person who I am touching. When I count to five you will be in charge of noise control and it is your mission in life. Everyone here is a stranger. You report to me. One-two-three-four and five!"

Bobby woke up and sat up straight. He had a completely different demeanor about himself. He stood and scanned the crowd and fixated on Bambi. This was about to get interesting.

"Hey, you! That's right, I'm talkin to you chatterbox. Keep it down and let the man do his show!"

Bambi and her crew of friends were stunned in their seats at Bobby's defiance. Bambi stood and had a few words to say.

"Excuse me. Who do you think you're talkin to?"

"Read my lips. I'm talking to you lady," Bobby replied as he stood and pointed to her.

"Have you lost your mind?!" Bambi said, infuriated.

"No, but I am about to lose my patience with you. Now sit! Right now!"

She sat.

Wow. I thought there would be more back and forth but it ended right there. Bambi didn't say another word. Bobby approached me after she sat in her seat.

"Hey, boss. I think I got it under control now. But I was wondering if you could let me clock out a little early tonight?"

"Sure, Bobby. What for?" I asked.

"That lady in the yellow top, damn. I gotta get her number. She's talks a lot. But man, she is a hot number. Do you think I stand a chance with her? I wasn't too hard on her, was I?"

"Bobby, I think your chances are better than you think," I said as I patted him on the back.

"Thanks boss, I have a feeling about this one," Bobby said as he returned to his chair visibly excited about the honey in the yellow shirt.

"S L E E P N O W! Bobby, when you wake up, you cancel any suggestions given during the show," I said as I placed my hand on his shoulder.

Bobby passed out.

The rest of the show went great. After the show, I apologized to the manager for the disturbance outside. He had an interesting response.

"You kidding! We made a killing tonight at the bar. That was a damn good show and I will talk to Neil about extending your contract to six months. By the way, I didn't know you were real until tonight."

"But you hired me," I replied as I saw Monet walking toward me, ready to go home.

"Yeah, I did, but I just thought you were an entertainer. I didn't care either way; what I care about is the m-o-n-e-y."

As Monet and I were walking toward my car, we saw a guest standing by the driver's side door. It was Bambi and she was ever so humble.

"Sorry for showin' my ass. I thought you was a fake. But you fo real."

I was pleasantly surprised.

"I thought you might be mad at me for the way Bobby addressed you in front of everyone."

"No. Tonight, he stood up for himself. Somewhere inside of him is a real man. I guess there is hope for him after all. Do you know what part I liked best?"

"No, tell me."

"After twelve years of marriage, he still thinks I'm hot. Out of all these skinny hoes with their tight asses, he picked me. That made me feel special."

Bambi shook my hand and slid me thirty dollars. She smiled and walked to her car.

"Hey, Bambi. Admission was $10.00 per person; you gave me an extra $10.00."

Bobby started the car and began to drive off.

"Naw, it was worth every cent. Goodnight."

The Group Nice  
(formerly known as The California Executives)

On the way home, Monet and I recapped the night's show while it was still fresh in our minds. Monet kicked off her shoes and leaned her head in my direction as we merged onto the freeway. I gave Monet a look.

"What's that look for mister?"

"I saw the way you looked at John when he called you out to serenade you. I thought he was going to charm the panties off you," I said semi-seriously.

"Don't be silly. I think you might be jealous. Are you?"

"Maybe."

"John is a charmer and the boy can sing his ass off, but he can have all the panties in the world, except mine," she said as she grabbed my hand to reassure me.

Although she did her best to ease my insecurities, I saw the way they connected when John sang A House is not a Home by Luther Vandross. John owned that song and it was mesmerizing. I guess there was more than one way to induce trance.

As we pulled into the carport, Monet volunteered to drive the following week. She noticed my reluctance. "What? You don't like my driving?"

"Sweetheart, your driving is fine. It's your navigational skills that concern me."

Monet unbuckled her seat belt and turned down the radio. "My navigational skills are just fine, thank you," she replied.

"Monet, you know I love you to death but, it would have been great if you could have been the captain of the first slave ship," I commented as I unbuckled my seat belt.

"Why?" she asked.

I kissed her forehead before I responded. "Because, the ship would never have made it. You could have single handedly averted slavery."

I tried to keep a straight face but I couldn't help but laugh a little.

"Slavery? Let's just see who owns who."

Monet then grabbed my collar and whispered something in my ear. She reclined her seat all the way back and I obliged.

Ten minutes into our rendezvous we were interrupted by a beaming ray of light peering through the fogged windows.

It was an Oceanside police officer. He knocked on the window.

Monet quickly adjusted her clothing and I just panicked in place. Monet rolled the window down.

"Driver's license and registration please," the crusty old cop demanded.

I nervously scrambled for my wallet. Monet grabbed her purse.

I gave him my driver's license and registration while Monet surrendered her Detroit license, withholding her military dependent ID card.

"Mr. Thompson, just what were you doing down there?"

"Officer, you won't believe this but I was looking for my keys."

The cop wasn't buying my lame story.

"And you thought you just might find them under her dress, is that right? I am going to advise you that you are in violation of penal code 314."

"What is penal code 314?"

"Lewd Conduct in Public and Indecent Exposure," the officer said as he finished examining Monet's license.

I feared my career was done. Monet was still legally married and I could easily be the subject of a court martial.

The officer checked my tags and examined my license.

"Mr. Thompson, it says on your license you work for Military Police Battalion. Are you an MP?"

I was administrative support for MP Battalion and when I first arrived a fellow Marine told me to put my MP address on my license in case of a rainy day.

"Sir, I work for the Provost Marshal's office (aka Military Police) on base."

"Why didn't you say so? I don't give cops tickets; I give them warnings. It's the code."

I looked at Monet and we were so relieved. Things could have gone really bad for both of us.

The officer flashed his light on the ignition.

"Well whadya know, I just found your keys. Right there in the ignition. I would have never looked there," the officer said as he put his clipboard away.

"Mr. Thompson, thank you for your service. Consider this a warning."

The officer returned to his patrol car and drove off.

You would think that after all we had been through, it would have killed the mood. Naw.

Monet and I stumbled into her apartment like a prom couple whose parents were away for the weekend.

## One million calories later

It was about six in the morning and Monet fell asleep on top of me. She still had her dress on. I hated to disturb her because she looked so peaceful in her slumber. I made a mental recording of that moment in time. Life was perfect.

Monet woke up after feeling my hand stroking her lower back.

"What time is it, honey?" she asked as she sat up and yawned.

"I think it's after six."

Monet looked around the place, distressed.

"What happened here? Clay, call the police."

I slowly rose to my feet and noticed a perfect sweat stained silhouette of my body on her tan carpet. I also noticed her apartment was in a state of disarray. The coffee table was flush to the wall, the picture on the wall was cockeyed, and the door was wide open.

"Honey, we weren't robbed," I said as I put on my trousers and closed the back door.

"Then what happened?" Monet asked.

"We happened. We did this, all of this."

Monet calmed down, but she still had her doubts.

"Okay, okay. Whew, that scared me. Do you want something to drink?"

"Yeah, what do you have?"

"Well, you've got two choices. Cranberry juice or cranberry juice.

"I'll have the cranberry juice instead."

I looked on the back of my arms and I saw imprints from the tweed carpet.

Just as soon as I thought Monet had calmed down, she panicked again.

"Clay. Where are my panties? I can't find my panties. Where are they?"

I picked up the phone and started dialing.

"Clay, who are you calling at this hour?"

"I think I know who has your panties."

"Who?"

"John."

"Clay, I'm serious. Who breaks into a house and steals a woman's panties?"

"Well, maybe you left them in the car," I said as I lifted up seat cushions.

"You didn't take them off me; you ripped them, remember?"

"Oh, yeah."

After about twenty minutes of searching, our minds were put to rest.

"I found them, I found them," I said as I held them in my right hand.

"Where were they? I was really worried."

They were lodged between the sofa and the wall.

Most guys I know, including myself, wouldn't have given a second thought over lost or stolen boxers. But I learned a lesson. Anything that was important to Monet needed to be important to me.

She grabbed me by the hand and we went upstairs...to get some real sleep.

# — CHAPTER FOURTEEN —

# Higher Calling

Watching In Living Color on Sunday nights was now family time for Clay Jr., Monet and I. My son's favorite skits were Homey da Clown and Handi Man, while Monet and I laughed hardest watching Men on Films. After watching the show on Sunday nights, I established a routine of writing my monologue for the next gig. I wanted to develop my own stage persona and not clone myself after someone else. I decided I needed something to grab the audience's attention instantly, as I walked on stage. As I contemplated my opening act, I thought of an In Living Color skit that featured Jim Carrey's character Fire Marshal Bill. That's it. I'll learn how to eat and breathe fire. That would be my opening act. I didn't want to read Fire Eating for Dummies because something that dangerous would be best learned under private instruction. I thumbed through the yellow pages and I came across a magic shop that sold pyrotechnics to the entertainment industry. The owner gave me the name of a stripper who used fire eating in her act. Her stage name was Crimson. This didn't go over very well with Monet because she thought it was too dangerous. But I was stubborn and I pleaded with her to accept my decision. She reluctantly conceded after she saw how absorbed I had become over the idea. The way I saw it was, if I could jump out of a perfectly good airplane for the Marines, I could eat fire. I contacted Crimson via the magic shop and she agreed to teach me for seventy-five dollars. Monet made a snarky comment.

"You better ask if she accepts anything other than ones."

I actually liked the idea of being taught by a stripper, as I had never met a stripper in person. I told a couple of guys at work and a few wanted to come along. Crimson insisted that she come to my house for the lesson.

My son Clay Jr. leaked the news to all his friends and they randomly showed up minutes before Crimson arrived. I was slightly anxious; it was as though I was waiting for a celebrity to show up. I told Clay's friends that they would have to leave once she arrived, and as you could imagine, they were disappointed. I heard three knocks at my front door. I opened the door. Whoa. There must have been a mistake.

"Are you Clay Thompson?" she asked.

"Ah, yeah."

"Hi, I'm Crimson."

Crimson was easily in her late forties, about five feet four inches and very skinny. She was wearing dingy grey sweats carrying a small zip up gym bag. She had dark circles under her eyes and she smelled like an ashtray. You could tell she had a hard life. Her teeth were dark grey and her lips were seriously chapped and cracked in the middle. Her hair was as grey as a badger and she wore no makeup. She looked like a recovering druggie. The thought of her stripping made me a little queasy. My son's friends left immediately without being told.

I responded to her greeting.

"Fine, thank you. So, what club do you...?"

"Oh, I've been retired for almost twenty years now. Hell, I haven't stripped since the mid-seventies. I subcontract strippers to clubs now. I run Crimson Tide from home and every now and then one of my girls wants to do a fire routine, so I teach em. I teach magicians too. So what's your gig?" she asked as we walked to my rear patio.

"I'm a stage hypnotist and I emcee. How many lessons do I need?"

"Well, if you do it right the first time, just one lesson. And if you do it wrong the first time, just one lesson."

I was puzzled by her comment, so I asked her to explain.

"This is serious business. If you don't do it right each and every time you don't get a second chance."

"What do you mean no second chance?"

"Just as I said. If you breathe in a flame you could easily collapse a lung or induce a heart attack. Also, if you swallow the fuel, it's carcinogenic and extremely toxic. And then there is the risk of setting yourself on fire and burning to death. Other than that, it's pretty safe."

Fire Marshal Bill made it look so simple on TV, but now I had second thoughts.

"I will need you to sign this; it's a letter of absolving me of any responsibility."

I felt as if I was literally signing my life away.

"That will be seventy-five dollars, please."

I paid her with the wages I made from the previous gig. She retrieved two thin stainless steel rods, a bag of cotton balls, dental floss and a yellow and blue tin can of Ronson lighter fluid from her gym bag.

"Hold these. These are your sticks. I'm going to show you how to make a torch."

I didn't know what I was thinking, but I kind of expected them to be something you could buy off the shelf already assembled like at K-Mart or something. She grabbed a handful of cotton balls and squeezed them tightly around the tips of the steel rods. Then she bound them tightly with dental floss. After both rods were done she doused one with lighter fluid. She lit one and tilted her head way back and slowly extinguished the flame in her mouth.

"Okay. Your turn. And remember if you do it wrong, you'll kill yourself. Do I have permission to hose you down with that hose pipe in case you light up like a Christmas tree?"

Damn. This is serious. What am I doing here?

"Gulp, of course."

"Take a deep breath and tighten up your sphincter."

"Okay, hold on a second. Why do I have to clench my butt cheeks?"

"Because, it lessens the chance you will shit yourself the first go round."

"Oh, okay. I really don't want to do that."

I grabbed the rod and she doused it with lighter fluid. She stood back and turned on the hose as a precautionary measure.

I lit the torch, holding it in my hand. I quickly found out that there were few things that were as unnatural as thinking about eating fire, much less actually doing it. All kinds of survival instincts just kicked in. I kept thinking Don't inhale, don't inhale, with my cheeks in a clench. I felt as though I was inducing a heart attack. My heart beat like a jackhammer.

I titled my head way back. I expelled all of the air out of my lungs and my trembling right hand finally directed the lit torch to my mouth... after the eleventh try.

I did it. How did I feel?

This must be the dumbest thing I have ever thought of.

That was my lesson. What a waste of seventy-five dollars.

I got in the car and headed to Monet's house after Crimson left. What was I thinking? I needed Monet, she was my rock and voice of reason. I should have listened to her. After we ate dinner she said a few profound words that would stick with me for the rest of my life, changing my entire perspective about my direction.

"Clay, I only want what's best for you, but ask yourself one question. Are you an entertainer who dabbles in hypnosis or are you a hypnotherapist that can do entertainment?"

I had to reassess not only what I was doing, but what I was supposed to be doing.

Monet continued.

"Hun, any entertainer can make a show, but it takes a special person to make a difference."

It was as if a light bulb came on in my head. It was time to reprioritize. I knew those were the words from a woman who loved me. I positioned myself behind her and whispered in her ear.

"And that's why I love you so much."

I loved her, but I needed her too.

Over the next few weeks, I focused more on hypnotherapy, testing the boundaries of trance. At first, most of my clients were Monet's co-workers. I addressed all kinds of issues such as tobacco cessation, memory, test anxiety and chronic pain. The chronic pain session was quite interesting. When Mr. Jones asked me if I could address the pain in his left foot, I just naturally assumed he had a left foot. But he didn't. I felt funny for accepting credit for removing a pain that wasn't really there in the first place. I was growing as a hypnotherapist and had a sincere appreciation for client empathy. After dozens of sessions I found it more rewarding to shake a hand after a session than to take a bow after a show. Monet was responsible for my new found compassion.

Monet convinced me to inquire if the base newspaper would be interested in a human interest story. After dinner she mentioned she read the base paper I had brought home the week before. She unfurled it right at the dinner table and read the headline aloud.

"Marines Deploy with New Water Purification System. Wow! Somebody call Phil Donahue. This is news I can use," Monet said sarcastically from behind the paper.

"Clay, you have a real story that people will want to read about. You just have to be persistent and sell yourself. Think of an application that Marines could benefit from."

Once again, she was my motivator. I agreed and took the paper from her to throw it in the trash. She objected.

"Don't throw it away, I might need it at some point," Monet commented.

"For what?"

"In case I get insomnia, this article will bore me to sleep."

The following day I paid a visit to Public Affairs on Camp Pendleton. After multiple phone calls and personal visits, I finally got an appointment with Ms. Schaefer, the senior editor. The editor resembled and treated me like my high school assistant principal, condescending as hell.

"Gunnery Sergeant Thompson, what can I do for you today?" she asked, shuffling paperwork without making eye contact.

"Well, I'm a student at the hypnosis academy in San Diego and I was wondering if you could help me with a research project I have been thinking about."

"Just what kind of research project?"

Still no eye contact.

"I have a theory that hypnosis could be used to help Marines improve their marksmanship skills. In fact, I will be on the rifle range myself next week."

No sooner did I complete my sentence did she grace me with her eyeballs, but not in a friendly way.

"Listen here, I am sure you must be very proud of yourself. But we are not here to promote personal interests or selfindulgence. The base commander deserves better than that. Our stories must meet strict criteria that ensure enjoyable reading for the commander and all of our readers."

Yeah, like Marines Deploy with New Water Purification System." I thought.

"It was just an idea, sorry for taking up your time Ms. Schaefer."

I left her office deflated, but not for long.

# — CHAPTER FIFTEEN —

# Shooter 33

It was zero dark thirty, the birds weren't even awake yet and there I was on the rifle range standing in line waiting to receive my ammo for my M-16. The only reason why I volunteered for the rifle range was that the last time I qualified I had a bad week and barely qualified marksman. Of the three shooting badges, marskman, sharpshooter and expert, the marksman badge was the ugliest of them all. Marines referred to that award as the "Toliet Seat." I wanted to redeem myself and trade my toilet seat for an expert badge.

After I received my ammo, I walked over to my shooting position, target 32. Shooters were instructed to assume sitting positions awaiting further instruction from the primary marksmanship instructors, referred to as PMIs.

It was a perfect day for shooting. The sun was just beginning to rise and the air was calm. It was the first of three practice days before we had to qualify on Thursday. The stages of fire were sitting, kneeling and standing from the 200 yard line, kneeling and sitting from the 300 yard line and just the prone position (lying down) from the 500 yard line. I could smell traces of lubricant from my bolt assembly as I held my rifle in the sitting position.

The PMI shouted commands from the tower over the PA system.

"All ready on the right, all ready on the left. Shooters, you may begin shooting once your targets appear!"

Everyone was quick to get their first shot off. I could see puffs of grey smoke from the orchestra of M-16s sounding off in almost perfect harmony. I could smell the gun powder in the air. It was my turn to join in the fun.

I was rigid and my sight picture was perfect. I saw my target emerge from downrange. This was a guaranteed bull's-eye. I slowly exhaled, slowly squeezing the trigger. As I was about to fire, my target went down. I eased off the trigger and flagged a roving PMI and asked why my target was pulled. The PMI radioed down range to inquire.

"Shooter 32, the reason why your target was pulled was because you fired and missed."

"That's crazy, I haven't got a round off yet."

"Don't worry, this is just practice. Regroup and start again."

I was annoyed. This wasn't the start I envisioned.

I took a couple of deep breaths and settled in. As before, I had perfect sight picture and my breathing under control. The target emerged again. As soon as I engaged the trigger my target was pulled. Okay, something was definitely wrong.

"Shooter 32, another miss," the PMI advised.

I looked over to my right, and then to my left. I found the culprit.

"Hey Marine! Shooter 33, stay off my target!"

The shooter on target 33 placed his rifle on his lap and nervously wiped sweat from his brow.

"Sorry, Gunnery Sergeant. It won't happen again," the Lance Corporal replied.

I watched him aim in. His rifle barrel was doing wild and crazy figure eights and it soon caught the attention of the PMIs. Maybe two of his ten shots landed on his own target. He was all over the place. The PMI's chastised him but that just made it worse. His shooting was so bad that the target pullers down range complained because wood chips were flying off the target hoists.

I saw how nervous he was and it angered me when I saw how much abuse he was subjected to. I wrote that day off because I really couldn't concentrate with all the distractions. By noon we were done and we stood in line to turn in our saved rounds and calculate our scores. I didn't bother. As we boarded the bus to return to the armory, I saw the Lance Corporal sitting at the back of the bus. No one wanted to sit with him. He was still getting hazed from a few Marines.

I saw an empty seat next to him, so I politely inquired.

"Lance Corporal Spaz, do you mind if I sit next to you?"

"No problem, Gunny, but my name is not Spaz, it's Jackson."

"But I heard the PMIs call you that all day long?"

I was a little confused, but he offered an explanation.

"It's a bad joke. Spaz is short for spastic," the Lance Corporal replied.

"Oh. Sorry 'bout that, I didn't know."

"It's cool, I'm used to it now."

Jackson was a mild mannered kid about twenty-one, but he could have easily passed for seventeen with that baby face. Looking at him made me feel old. He was defeated mentally. Most of the PMIs had written him off, and hazed him unmercifully.

I had seen some poor shots in my day but it was safe to say he was probably at the top of that list. As the bus started its engine and drove off, I asked him a few questions.

"So, Jackson. What did you shoot the last time you were on the range?"

He shook his head before answering.

"Gunny, I have never qualifed with the M-16, ever."

"But you're a Lance Corporal, so you've been promoted at least twice and I know you can't get rank without qualifying."

"If you ask me, I think it's because of my job that I get a pass." My bullshit flag went straight up. I had never known a Lance Corporal who had that much pull based on his job. But Jackson wasn't just any Lance Corporal. He was the General's driver. Apparently, no one wanted to tell the General that his driver couldn't hit the broad side of a barn. As I was contemplating his situation I thought Jackson just might be a prime candidate for my research project.

"Gunny, I think I am beyond help. I have tried everything and nothing works. Just the thought of coming out here tomorrow makes me nervous," Jackson said as he showed me his right hand with a slight shake.

I was hoping he would jump at the chance but he had given up on himself. I respected his decision. As we were off loading to turn our rifles into the armory, I wrote my number down on a brown piece of cardboard from my ammo cartridge.

I was hoping the phone would ring Monday night but it didn't. Tuesday night I lay in bed with Monet and we talked about it for at least two hours and I appreciated her hearing me out. I really wanted to help Jackson but there was also a selfish motivation. I wanted to test the application and limitations of hypnosis.

On Wednesday, after work, my son and I went home and did a few chores before going over to Monet's as usual. When she let me in she had a big smile on her face. I was wondering what she was up to. Clay, Jr., went scurrying over to Barbara's and I plopped on her couch. I couldn't help but notice the brand new expert badge she purchased from the base store. It was on the coffee table.

"Thanks, honey. Now that's what I call optimistic. I don't think I will have a problem getting expert this time. I already have an expert badge from the time before last. But thanks anyway."

Monet sat on my lap and hugged my neck.

"Clay, I'm not worried about you. This expert badge is for Jackson. It might give him some hope. It might show him that there is someone out there that believes in him, maybe that's all he needs. Just give it to him tomorrow."

I loved Monet's optimism. The glass was always half full with her and that's what they taught us in hypnosis training. It was all about perspective.

At 7:30 that night my pager went off. It was Jackson. I returned his call.

"Uh, Gunny. This is Lance Corporal Jackson. Could I make an appointment with you?"

"Hey, Jackson. You know tomorrow is qual day, right?"

"Yeaaaah, I know. Are you free tonight?"

I muffled the phone and asked Monet if we could do it at her house. She was suprisingly excited and agreeable.

"Sure, the address is Shadow Mountain Apartments, 216D. I'll see you soon."

When Jackson walked in, Monet didn't believe he was old enough to be in the Corps. He was a little nervous but when Monet went upstairs he settled down. Within a few minutes of my induction, he was gone.

"And one, two, three, four and five. Return to full consciousness. Awake now," I commanded as I terminated my session.

Jackson slowly emerged from trance. For a moment, I thought I would have to use a more aggressive trance termination technique.

"What happened?" he said, wiping his eyes and looking around.

"Jackson, you were out like a light. I've never seen anyone go that deep into trance. How do you feel?"

"I feel fine, just my fingers feel kind of tingly and numb."

Jackson looked at his watch; he had been in trance for over an hour.

"Where did the time go? I remember you counting and the next thing I knew I was coming out. Wow."

"So, how do you feel about qual day?"

"Nothing really. Just another day. The word bicycle keeps popping in and out of my mind, why is that?"

"It's a post hypnotic to allow you to re-engage the target if you start to lose focus. Don't know where the word came from; you picked it in trance."

I was hoping for a little more enthusiasm, but he was already in the new norm which yielded little appreciation from the previous state. I had to manage my expectations for the coming day, but it was difficult. Monet came down and asked Jackson a few questions. Since she bought the expert badge, I thought it was befitting that she present it. He smiled, a confident smile.

## The Next Morning.

As much as I was focused on Jackson, I had to remind myself that I was on a mission too. I kissed Monet on the way out and thanked her for taking my son to school in the morning while I was on range detail.

The PMI barked out his command to start the day.

"All ready on the right, all ready on the left. Shooters, you may begin shooting once your targets appear!"

My first shot was dead center, bull's-eye. I looked over at Jackson. He took longer than usual to settle in the sitting position but he appeared to be in control which I took to be a good sign.

I watched his first shot. It was a bull's-eye in the upper right corner of the black. His reaction surprised me.

He wasn't happy. He was disappointed. I wanted to stop shooting and congratulate him but I knew I had to keep my focus. After he shot the next round I found out why he was not happy with his first shot. His second shot put a hole right on top of the X in the bull's-eye. Then he settled in and ripped more bull's-eyes in nearly the same spot.

The roving PMI thought someone was shooting on his target and watched the rifles on either side of him. The PMI radioed the other PMIs and soon they congregated around Jackson in awe of his prolific shooting. All of his rounds during the 200 yard line of fire were in the black. His most impressive string was in the offhand position (standing) where he had the least stability.

"Shooter 33, what the hell's going on? No one improves overnight like that. It's impossible. I want to see your ID card, you can't be Spaz."

Jackson stood and pulled the magazine clip from his rifle and secured it at sling arms. He removed his Ray-Ban sunglasses before responding.

"You're right, Sergeant. I'm not Spaz. I'm Lance Corporal Henry Jackson."

His demeanor changed; he was a different Marine with a rifle in his hand. He was well on his way to expert. I set the bar high for my expectations. It wasn't good enough for him to shoot sharpshooter; I wanted him to be an expert. After the 200 yard line string of fire, we marched to the 300 yard line.

For whatever reason, Jackson started spraying the target with rounds all over the place. I couldn't figure it out. Either the session was successful or it wasn't, but it took a disappointing turn for the worse. Jackson was getting frustrated with himself and the PMIs started the abuse all over again.

"Now that's the Spaz that I know and love. Welcome back," said one of the PMI's.

However, there was one PMI who was empathetic to Jackson and refrained from the harassment. His name was Sergeant Alvarez.

I was on course to shoot expert; I just needed to get a decent score at the five hundred yard line.

I asked Sergeant Alvarez what Jackson needed to shoot to get expert. His response was discouraging. He needed to max the string of fire with all bull's-eyes...from 500 yards. From that distance the targets looked microscopic. Imagine five football fields in length. That's how far it was.

I didn't want to think negatively, but a little negativity tried to creep in. As all the shooters got down in the prone position, I heard the command.

"All ready on the right, all ready on the left. Shooters, you may begin shooting once your targets appear!"

I just remembered something, so I flagged PMI Sergeant Alvarez.

"Hey, Sergeant. Could you do me a big favor, quickly? It's really important."

"Sure, Gunny. What is it?"

"We don't have much time, but could you whisper the word bicycle in the ear of shooter 33? Quickly, before his target appears."

"Okay, Gunny. This must be a joke, but I will play along."

Sergeant Alvarez took a few steps and whispered into Jackson's ear.

"Shooter 33. Bicycle."

Jackson's target appeared. Bang. Dead center.

Alvarez looked at me with a bizarre look. He was confused.

My last shot was just outside the bull's-eye, but good enough for expert. A weight was lifted off my chest. I did what I set out to do. I looked over at Jackson but he had already finished his string of fire and packed up. I looked all over for him but I couldn't find him. Apparently, he got a ride from an officer that worked in his section. Although I wanted to know how he scored, I didn't ask anyone. Either way it went, I preferred to hear it from Jackson. I hitched a ride back to the armory.

I went to work the next day feeling demotivated about how promising it all started out. It left me feeling as if I had finally reached the limitations of trance.

After I returned from my morning coffee run to McDonalds, I saw a yellow stickey on my phone. It was from the Company Gunnery Sergeant. Please See Me.

During the last conversation I had with the Company Gunny he disclosed the fact that he was gay because he thought I was gay. I was just hoping he wasn't going to ask me out on a date or anything like that. Then I would be forced to 'out' myself as a straight person.

"Gunnery Sergeant Thompson. Please have a seat. And shut the door behind you. I have a personal matter I would like to discuss with you."

Oh, great. Here it comes.

"Sure, what's up?" I responded with a little bit of uneasiness.

"Well, my nine-year-old daughter Renee has reoccurring nightmares. At least three times a week she ends up in bed with me and my wife. She's getting too big for that now and I was wondering if maybe you could hypnotize her. I can pay you, that's not a problem," he said with concern.

"Sure, I would be glad to help. I'd like to consult with my mentor at the academy but I've seen training tapes that address that issue. But, I would need you or your wife to be there during the session."

"Of course. Whew, I can't tell you how much I appreciate this. Just give me a call when you can book time in."

We both stood and shook hands. I was so relieved it wasn't anything like I thought. He was cool. On the way out I asked him how he heard about my hypnosis training. He reached in his desk drawer and pulled out the latest edition of the base paper that read...

"From Marksman to Expert" by Lance Corporal Jackson.

He did it. When I returned to work, there was a note of thanks paper-clipped to the news article, a keepsake I would treasure for the rest of my life.

# — CHAPTER SIXTEEN —

# Dream Analysis

Monet and I made reservations to eat dinner at the Red Lobster in Carlsbad. I was a little late because I was waiting for my ex-wife to pick up my son. She arranged to take him to New York with her to visit family for the summer. When my ex arrived, I was all dressed up for my dinner date with Monet. It was a little surreal because at one point after we split up, I didn't think I would fully recover. But there was life after divorce and plenty of it.

I loved my Fridays because I knew it was the beginning of the weekend and they were always special. This particular Friday was extra special because Club Paradise was closed for renovations for the next six weeks.

Monet and I had grown very close; I couldn't imagine life without her. Monet wasn't a girlfriend. She was someone I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. At some point I knew we needed to have that conversation, soon.

As I pulled into Monet's carport, I saw Barbara's boyfriend's truck for sale. The truck was priced ridiculously low and it made me think about trading in my two-seater. If Monet and I were to be a family, I would have to ditch the RX-7 anyway.

As I walked along the pathway, I saw Barbara duck out of her apartment and head over to Monet's. I hurried and tailed right behind Barbara, surprising Monet.

I hadn't seen Barbara in quite some time, so I called her on it.

"Wow, Barbara. If I had known you were coming I would have bathed and put on clean underwear. Where have you been?" I asked as I kissed Monet on the forehead.

Barbara deferred to Monet and Monet responded.

"It's Caesar. He doesn't like her hanging around us anymore," Monet explained as she put on her heels while sitting on the sofa.

"What did we do to him?" I asked.

Barbara sighed, looking out the window.

"Clay, he found the paper from my hypnosis session."

"So what?"

"Well, he wasn't too thrilled about the part of me wanting to be faithful to my husband. I don't know why I even wrote that in the first place. I am so tired of arguing with him over it. Next month, Caesar is taking me shopping for my birthday; he'd have kittens if he knew it was my wedding anniversary too."

"Yeah, my sister did that. She got married on her birthday too," I replied.

"Monet, I think I've seen Clay here almost every night. It must be nice to have a man around the house."

"Yeah, I keep him around in case I need to move heavy furniture," Monet replied as she fixed my collar.

Monet left herself wide open on that comment.

"She's right. Sofas in particular, you'd be surprised what..."

Before I could finish my sentence she put her elbow in my side. I had to go there.

Monet and I were running late but we hadn't seen Barbara in a long time, so we continued our conversation.

"So, Barbara. I saw Caeser's truck outside. Why is he selling it so dirt cheap? I would buy it if I had the money."

Barbara rolled her eyes to the ceiling. Something was up.

"Clay, don't even think about it. The truck is marked."

"Marked, what do you mean marked?"

"One of Caesar's friends did a drive by in it last week. So he has to get rid of it."

Monet disapproved.

"So what's gonna happen to the poor guy who buys it?"

Barbara shrugged her shoulders.

"Well, me and my man have a date. Sorry, Barbara, but we're running a little late."

"All right. I just wanted to stop by and say hello. By the way, I am still optimistic about achieving my vision of life in the fast lane, Clay."

"Good for you Barbara." I was curious but I didn't want to ask.

"I think about it all the time. I'll get there. It's just a matter of time," Barbara said as she headed towards the door.

As we were handed our menus, I realized I was a little too hungry for seafood. Monet and I both ordered lobster as our main dish. I could never master the art of eating lobster. I seemed to always break the shell in the wrong place, leaving me with the stringy tendon part and just a little bit of lobster meat. On the other hand, Monet had it down to an art form. Midway through our meal, I thought I might have to make a stop by KFC to satisfy my insatiable appetite.

I didn't talk a whole lot while eating, so Monet waited until I came up for air to initiate conversation.

"Babe, I had an interesting conversation with Ms. Beatrice, our upstairs neighbor."

"You mean the old lady upstairs? How old is she anyway? She must be over a hundred."

"Anyway, I think she heard us making love last night."

"What makes you think that?" I replied as I tried one last time to get the big piece of meat out of the lobster claw.

"Well, she knocked on my door this morning as I was about to leave for work. When I opened the door she poked her head in and looked around. Then she asked me if I was all right. I told her I was fine. She said she was this close to calling the police," Monet gestured with her right hand.

"Call the police. What for?"

"She said she heard a lot of noise and then she heard screams. She thought we were having a domestic (fight)."

"What did you tell her?"

"I just told her we were watching a video and the volume was up too high."

"Good comeback. I wonder if Barbara can hear us; she lives right next door."

"No, don't think so. She would say something if she heard us. I know her. Speaking of Barbara, it seems she is hanging on to her fantasy of the good life. Baby, I'm a believer in hypnosis but even I know there is only so much you can hope for."

"Yeah, who knows," I said as I contemplated a two-piece chicken dinner at KFC.

"Clay, speaking of hypnosis, can hypnosis affect your dreams?"

"Yeah, we've addressed it in class. Dreams come from our subconscious so it only makes sense that anything done in trance could influence our dreams."

"Well, ever since you hypnotized me I've noticed I'm more in tune with my dreams. For years, I had this reoccurring dream about losing my hair. I wonder what that means?" Monet inquired as she finished her meal and placed her napkin on her plate.

"Losing your hair? I remember that one. I think it has to do with worrying about aging. I don't really believe in dream analysis because different cultures and belief systems interpret things in their own way. I think the best way to do dream analysis is to induce the dream in trance and then ask the subconscious. That way you interpret your own dream and not some matrix or chart." "Well, the good thing is that since you hypnotized me I haven't had any more bad dreams, which is great. But now my dreams are more of an intuition, as though they are trying to tell me something."

"Like what?"

"Well, lately I've been dreaming about Babs."

"You mean Barbara?"

"Yeah. I feel I need to warn her about something, but I don't know what. I know it sounds crazy but that's how I feel when I wake up."

"Oh. I think I know what you mean. Now I remember what I felt this morning, too."

"What's that, babe?"

"Flesh."

"Can you ever be serious?" Monet said as she balled her napkin up and tossed it at me.

"Babe, I'm sure Babs is fine."

While driving home from the restaurant, I am sure we thought of a lot of things, the things we talked about and the things we couldn't. The emerging issues we would soon face were nicely tucked into a box, a box labeled "too hard to do."

The second domino was about to drop.

# — CHAPTER SEVENTEEN —

# Tainted Letter

After the article From Marksman to Expert ran in the base paper, I was inundated with all kinds of requests from Marines and their spouses on base. I took on all requests. I did most of my sessions during lunchtime in secluded areas near the picnic area close to Lake O'Neil. A few of them called me at work, which made me really uncomfortable because the Marine Corps was very clear about separating work from personal endeavors. Some of the sessions were pretty heavy and some were just out of the ordinary. The quickest session was with a Sergeant who asked me to remove a curse from his ex-wife. In trance, I asked him to visualize his ex-wife casting her hex, watching it on the VCR of his mind. I told him if he wanted to remove the curse, all he had to do was rewind the tape which would reverse the hex. Then I told him to record over the tape with a pleasant memory. The session lasted less than five minutes and when he came out of trance he no longer believed he was cursed.

About two weeks later, after completing my unit physical fitness test, I reported to work and was met with jokes about my special relationship with the Company Gunny. I didn't have a clue what they were teasing me about. My coworker Gunnery Sergeant Monroe flashed me the blow job gesture before laughing his head off. I was getting angry because I thought the worst. Maybe the Company Gunny mentioned me in an inappropriate conversation or something. Within seconds of entering my office, I ascertained what caused all the fuss. On my desk was a fruit basket from the Company Gunny. That crossed the line. I was humiliated and thoroughly embarrassed. Even my Captain had a good laugh in his office. You don't expect such blatant overt displays of attention, especially from someone of the same sex and especially from someone in the Marines. Granted, we were no longer in the 1980s anymore, but we were far from accepting the Gay lifestyle. To be perfectly honest, I didn't care that he was Gay, I just didn't want to be the object of his desire. I felt really emasculated and decided to put an end to the nonsense once and for all. I was furious and I rehearsed in my head what I was going to say to him. I needed to be perfectly clear but also respectful. After a short drive to his office, I found myself standing outside his office banging on the door. No one answered, so I walked in. He wasn't there. I had to let him know how I felt about the situation and I was angry that I couldn't vent. I decided to write a letter and leave it on his desk. I said everything I need to say. It was probably a little harsh but I knew it would get the point across. After reading the letter over and over again, I decided I really needed a face-to-face. I tore up the letter and threw it in the trash, and left a note for him to call me.

I still had not calmed down. If I hadn't known that he was Gay, it probably wouldn't have been such a big deal. But I knew what he meant by the gesture. When I returned to my office, I was relieved that the Captain ordered my coworkers to knock it off and get back to work. As I sat at my desk with the fruit basket in front of me, my first thought was to throw it away, but it was an expensive arrangement and I love oranges and apples. I just sat there fuming. I noticed there was an envelope with a card inside. I imagined it to be signed "Love Gunny." I don't know why I even considered opening it up and reading it, but I did. The card read...

Dear Mr. Thompson,

This is just a small token of our appreciation for what you have done for our daughter Renee. My husband and I can't thank you enough.

God Bless,

Carla and Jerome Braxton

I felt terrible, just awful. I rushed to judgment and almost made an idiot out of myself. Boy, that was close. A few minutes later the Company Gunny walked into my office, smiling ear to ear. He couldn't thank me enough. Fortunately, all of my coworkers overheard his conversation and figured it out. As he left my office, he turned around and asked me about the note I left on his desk. "Oh, I just wanted to thank you in person, that's all."

As I sat in my office I thought about the one issue Monet never addressed, my time left in the Marine Corps. She was very clear about how she felt about being a military spouse. She never came right out and said it but I knew she wanted me to get out of the Marines and become a civilian. I had ten years left until retirement, the same as her soon-to-be ex-husband. If she made me choose between her and the Corps, I would be torn. I loved the Corps and it was how I was able to provide for my son. In just ten more years I could have a lifetime of retirement and VA benefits. I couldn't tell Monet that I'd requested a six-year reenlistment just before I met her. There was a reenlistment bonus of twenty thousand dollars, half up front and the rest in installments over six years. It seemed like an inexhaustable amount of money. Right after work I went to the Carlsbad Mall and visited the Zales Jewelry shop. There was a Filipino lady behind the counter and she quickly made a beeline for me.

"We have sale on. Big discount for you," she said with a friendly smile.

"Just looking, thank you," I replied as I browsed the display case.

After browsing for ten minutes I was not happy with the selection and decided to go elsewhere.

"Wait. I have special ring for you. Special ring for special lady in your life."

The woman spoke in Filipino (Tagalog) to an assistant who went into the back room to show me a ring. I would have left but I had a soft spot in my heart for Filipinos from my many tours in the Phillipines.

The young lady returned with a red velvet ring case. When she opened it there was a tiny light in the top part of the box that made the ring look spectacular. It was a marquis diamond, a half carat. It had so many sparkling colors as I removed it from its box and held it in my hand. I was sold even before asking how much. I felt the ring perfectly stated my love for Monet.

"How much?"

"Do you have military I.D.?"

"As a matter of fact I do, bam!" I replied excitedly, presenting my ID card two inches from her eyeball.

The ring was reduced from $5,000 to $3,500. But it required a ten percent non-refundable down payment. I was comforted by the fact that I was expecting a windfall of money from my up-comming reenlistment, so I put the deposit on my charge.

Monet was working late that night, so I waited at her house to come home from work. I was so excited about the ring. I decided to turn my nervous energy into something productive. I tidied up the house. I saw a stack of mail on her counter, so I placed the mail neatly in her mail tray that separated bills from letters, etc. While I separated her mail I stumbled on a letter from Gunnery Sergeant Dawson dated two days before. Damn.

I needed to respect Monet's privacy. I trusted her one thousand percent but there was a tiny doubt in the back of my head. I needed to know for sure. The letter was already opened, so maybe I could get away with reading it without her knowing. I checked my watch. She would be home in about an hour. I called her at work just to make sure she was there. I never called her unless it was on her break and I am sure it was somewhat suspicious when I called for no reason while she was on the register.

After I hung up the phone, I washed my hands three times to make sure I wouldn't leave any greasy stains on her letter. My heart was heavy and beating fast as I held the letter in my hand. As I read the letter my conscience kicked in, hard. This guy was trying to reclaim what was already his. The letter basically stated he would do everything in his power to make it right again. Enclosed was a wallet-sized photo of them taken back in the early seventies. Monet looked so young and so happy. My entitlement to Monet's love was now being challenged by my conscience. But I didn't seek Monet out, and she didn't seek me out. It was just an extraordinary timing of events and circumstances that brought us together. I tried to justify it as fate, but even that was a hard sell to my conscience. I felt that the one thing that gave me hope and happiness, besides my son, was slipping like grains of sand through my fingertips. I knew I was in love with her, but my conscience was just killing me. I felt sorry for Marc and wanted to apologize for interfering. My heart was breaking in two. As careful as I was to make sure I left no traces of reading the letter, I failed. There was one thing I didn't think about. My tears on the picture ruined the photo and my tears on the letter made the ink run. She would find out.

# — CHAPTER EIGHTEEN —

# Strangers in the Night

Two weeks had passed since I read the letter and I was on edge waiting for the shoe to drop. I couldn't imagine how awful it would be to stand in front of Monet and tell her I had betrayed her trust. As protective as I was of our relationship, I was now threatening it at its foundation. Between the letter and my impending reenlistment, I was on the wrong side of where I needed to be. Despite all this, Monet never let on that she knew about my snooping. Our passion for each other continued to escalate from nuclear to thermonuclear, but more importantly, I recognized her as my best friend.

I was sitting at my desk filing police reports that had come in from the weekend. The Captain emerged from his office and called me and Gunny Monroe into his office. Gunny Monroe was the Captain's favorite and he made it known on several occasions. The Captain and Monroe were both bikers, serious bikers. I quickly found out there was a brotherhood among bikers, especially ones that owned Harley Davidsons like the Captain and Monroe. I resented always being outperformed by Monroe. Monroe was a military policeman and I was just admin support, so I was never going to outshine him in the Captain's eyes. One thing I quickly noticed was that every time our unit had morning physical training, Monroe always had a note from the doc that precluded him from running. He always had an ice pack in the fridge, but it was all part of the charade. Monroe had a nickname that pretty much summed up how untouchable he was. He was known as The Teflon Gunny because of an incident that seemed to go unnoticed by our command. Just before Christmas last year, Monroe reported his badge stolen while he was off duty. Cops were heavily scrutinized if they lost a badge and usually there was an investigation that ensued. To complicate his case even more, it was reported that he lost his badge in a briefcase that contained ten thousand dollars in cash and a 9mm pistol. Nobody raised the bullshit flag. He could do no wrong in the command.

Anyway, the Captain requested our presence to advise us that both our reenlistment packages were reviewed by Headquarters Marine Corps. I didn't know Monroe had submitted his package. But apparently, this reenlistment would take him to the twenty-year mark. I had one more reenlistment after this one if it was approved. The Captain directed us to report to the Colonel to get the word on our packages.

Gunny Monroe reported first. After fifteen minutes, I thought something might be wrong. It was either thumbs up or thumbs down. I couldn't imagine what was taking so long.

Monroe finally came out.

"They denied me. I can't believe they denied my package. I only needed four more fucking years and they couldn't give me that," Monroe said as he slammed the Colonel's door.

I was surprised. He walked on water as far as all the officers were concerned. He was the highest rated Gunnery Sergeant in Security Battalion. If they denied him then I knew I didn't stand a chance. I stood from the bench outside the Colonel's office and engaged Monroe.

"I thought the Colonel had your back. If you didn't make it, what are my chances?"

It must have been a shock to be handed your pink slip four years away from retirement. Monroe hesitated before responding. "It wasn't the Colonel, it was the Chief Medical Officer. He said he was following strict guidance from the General to reenlist only the most fit Marines."

All those times he went to medical to be excused from unit physical training were documented and it ultimately cost him his career and a lifetime of retirement. Two months later, Monroe was discharged from the Marines and started working as a nighttime watchman at the Carlsbad Mall making $4.25 an hour.

"Gunnery Sergeant Thompson, are you out there?" the Colonel asked in a gruff voice.

I straightened my uniform and marched into his office. "Sir, Gunnery Sergeant Thompson, reporting as ordered, sir."

The Colonel looked over his bifocals at my reenlistment package. I was nervous as hell. As much as Monet would have loved for me to be denied, I wanted to reenlist. I was halfway to retirement.

"Well, Gunny, it seems there was a problem with your package here; that's why it took so long."

"Sir, the career planner and I went over the package over and over again. What was the hiccup?"

The Colonel removed his glasses and cleaned them with a handkerchief. Then he replied. "There was no mistake. At the time your package was forwarded, the bonus multiplier was four. When Headquarters Marine Corps received your package it jumped to six. I got just one question for you Marine. What are you going to do with twenty-six thousand dollars? Congratulations."

I could breathe again. Whew! Not only was my career intact, but I was getting an additional six grand. Cha ching.

"Gunnery Sergeant Thompson, when do you want to reenlist, and who do you want to perform the honors?"

No way on earth would I pick my Captain to reenlist me.

"Sir, I would like to do it as soon as possible, and I would be honored if you could reenlist me."

As happy as I was, the Colonel's next question took some of the wind out of my sail.

"I can do it next Wednesday morning at ten hundred hours. Do you have a special someone that can stand by your side while you reaffirm your oath?"

I hesitated. I first looked down at my feet and then I stared in space for a few moments before responding, "No, sir. No, I don't."

This would be my little secret.

That weekend Monet and I drove to Las Vegas. It was our first little trip together. What I really enjoyed about my time with Monet was we never ran out of conversation. We decided to stay off the main strip and book a hotel just far enough away from the madness. We didn't gamble that much but boy, did we eat! Actually, what we did was more like grazing, because we never really stopped eating. It was sheer gluttony. We took pictures of the meals we ate and had the waitress take pictures of the both of us after we stuffed ourselves silly.

When most people go to Vegas they remember the gambling, the neon lights and the hustle and bustle until four in the morning. What I remembered most was Monet lying in my arms in bed and watching old reruns of Perry Mason and the Twillight Zone until two a.m.

We had an amazing time during our little jaunt to Vegas. Despite not gambling much, Monet won ninety dollars at the slots and I came close to breaking even playing black jack. The drive home was mellow as we listened to Luther Vandross and Johnny Gill tapes most of the way home. Before we knew it we were coming off the freeway just a few miles from her house. As soon as I saw her apartment complex I had a strong urge to pee and I couldn't get out the car fast enough. I tried to walk as normal as I could but I really had to go. It seemed like a lifetime just waiting for Monet to open the door. I kept telling myself just hold on a little bit longer. Once we walked in her apartment I placed my wallet and keys on the counter and proceeded to the upstairs toilet. I kept my cool but inside I was bursting. Then my angel hit me with a request that would delay my urgent matter.

"Honey, I think I left my purse in the car. Can you get it for me...sweetheart?" she asked as she tossed me the keys.

Damn. As much as I wanted to ask her to wait, I didn't.

"Sure, sweetie," I responded, thinking I might have to find some bushes to hide behind on the way back.

I shut the door behind me and did the pee-pee walk all the way to her car. I was stressed and I knew I was out of range to make it back to the bathroom. I opened the car door and found her purse in between the seats. As I retrieved her purse, I noticed two muscular Black dudes coming from Barbara's house. They must have been friends of Caesar. I wasn't nervous at first but when they spotted me they walked straight for me, causing me a little anxiety. As they approached I could smell the stench of weed and booze. I locked the car door and when I turned around, there they were right in front of me. Both were just over six feet tall. One had dreads and the bald dude was cross-eyed which confused me because I didn't know which eye to focus on. I knew I was in trouble and I no longer had to pee. I was familiar with this situation. I had been robbed on three separate occasions and all three started out the same way. Every time I was robbed it began with the perpetrators asking me for something and this would be no different.

"Sup, homey? Can you spare a brotha some cash, I'm a little light?"

I just remembered I left my wallet on the kitchen counter and thought I could talk my way out of it. I was fluent in ghetto, so I was confident we could converse.

"Yo man, you picked the wrong brotha, because this brotha ain't got shit," I said as I unfurled my pockets to show thug one and thug two.

I started to calm down because it was pointless for them to bum rush me as I didn't have anything. But, there was this one detail that I had not considered, a detail that was a game changer for me.

Thug two, the bald guy, got froggy and stepped up to me.

"Then give me the motha fuckin purse, biatch."

I probably wouldn't have fought for my own wallet given the situation, but this was Monet's purse. The issue of her purse caused me to become extremely anxious because I knew I wasn't going to give it up without a fight. As a general rule I didn't fight bums and low lifes because they had nothing to lose.

"No," I said, standing my ground. I couldn't let them have it. My adrenaline level was through the freakin roof because I knew violence was imminent and these guys were much bigger than me.

They both grabbed Monet's purse, trying to snatch it from me, and we briefly engaged in a tug of war. My subconscious took over and I was in fight or flight mode. I knew bodily harm was impending.

I did what I had to do. I didn't think; I just reacted.

Moments later I was dragging their limp bodies one by one to the grassy area in front of the complex. I wiped my hands on my trousers and went into the apartment to pee, finally.

Monet must have caught the confrontation before the fireworks began because she asked me about it.

"Honey, what did those two guys want with you?"

I handed Monet her purse and kissed her on the cheek before responding.

"They just wanted directions, that's all."

As I got under the covers with Monet that night, I reflected on my recent encounter. I thought I learned something new, but I didn't; it just affirmed what I already knew.

  1. Rapid induction was extremely effective when fueled by adrenaline.
  2. Multiple persons could be induced simultaneously.
  3. People were much more susceptible to trance in emotional or traumatic situations.
  4. Participants need not be willing.

The only thing I had not been able to ascertain was would they forget the incident as I suggested before I walked away.

I never had to raise my fists, only my voice.

"S L E E P N O W !"

And they slept instantly, falling like trees in a forest.

# — CHAPTER NINETEEN —

# Trouble at  
Shadow Mountain Apartments 216E

Gunnery Sergeant Thompson, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies foreign and domestic; and that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to the regulations of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God."

"Congratulations, Gunnery Sergeant. Welcome back to the Fleet."

"Thank you, sir."

I shook hands with the Colonel and grabbed my paperwork and headed out. There was one question that I forgot to ask.

"Excuse me, Colonel. Do you know when I get my first installment?"

"My admin officer will run it on the unit diary today, so you should receive it in about one or two pay periods. If you have a problem, come and see me."

I was relieved the ordeal was over but I was being less than honest with Monet. When I returned to my office, my Captain told me to take the rest of the day off. That surprised me. On my way out the Captain relayed a message.

"Gunny T, a Monet Dawson called for you, twice."

Oh, shit.

"Ah, did she say what she wanted, sir?"

He just closed his office door without answering. He hated taking personal calls for me, and never took messages. I knew her break wasn't for another ninety minutes but I called her at work anyway.

"Home furnishings, Monet speaking. How may I help?"

"Monet, I just got your message that you called. Can you talk?"

"Clay, my boss is right in front of me. I will see you tonight."

Click.

My appetite vanished and I was nervous. I regretted not telling her about reenlisting, but what was done could not be undone. Did she know or not? The suspense was screwing with my mind. We had never even had a disagreement. My parents always said the true test of a relationship is not how well you get along; it's how well you don't get along, meaning how well you resolve conflict. Monet and I had never been tested and I had never seen her angry. But this was a much bigger issue than me forgetting to put the toilet seat up.

By the time I got home, my t-shirt had large perspiration stains under the armpit area. I waited outside in front of the carport for her. When she arrived, I noticed slight damage to her front end. Her radiator was leaking as well.

"Monet, what happened?" I asked as I opened her door for her.

"I hit a dog on the way home; he just came out of nowhere. The owner kept screaming and screaming at me. It was an accident," she said while she wiped away her tears.

As we walked towards her apartment I reached for her hand but she pulled away.

I was confused. Was she upset because she knew or was it because of the accident? Or was it both?

I had never seen her angry or upset, so I didn't know how to gauge her lack of interaction with me. What was in her head? I needed to know but I couldn't ask her anything. I would just suffer in silence and wonder.

I wasn't accustomed to this strangeness. I wanted to hold her like I always did, but I was cautious, wary and guilty. We hardly spoke that night and she made a lot of phone calls upstairs while I watched Three's Company on television alone.

That night, for the first time, she came to bed in pajamas and there was no love making. She let me snuggle up to her but that was all. She fell asleep first and around midnight I finally nodded off.

At around 4:00 a.m. Monet woke me up, but not for that.

"Clay, Clay. Wake up," she said as she removed the pillow from on top of my head.

"What's wrong, sweetie pie?" I asked with my eyes still closed.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

I immediately became alert and looked at Monet.

"What was that? It sounded like shots next door," Monet said as she sat up and grabbed my hand.

I whisked away the covers and looked out the window. I watched Caesar get into his truck and speed out of the complex. The loud screeching of his tires caused some neighbors to peep from behind their bedroom curtains.

"It's Caesar. I just saw his truck leave. I think he shot Barbara, babe. Call the police," I said as I stood peering through her blinds.

As bad as my situation was last night, this overshadowed everything. I imagined Barbara lying in a pool of blood. It was as though my mind stopped functioning. I didn't know what to do. Monet and I were momentarily bonded by a tragic event. We both were facing the possibility of our friend being shot to death. I heard three shots and Monet had heard one just before that. It was doubtful whether anyone could survive being shot that many times. Monet was trembling badly as the phone kept slipping out of her hands. She dialed 911 in a state of distress.

"Hello, I'm in Shadow Mountain Apartments number 216 D. I think my neighbor has been shot. I heard four shots."

Monet was shaking all over and I held her, trying to calm her down. Her voice was distorted by her sniveling on the phone and I could hear the operator trying to calm her down as well.

Monet ended the call. Apparently, other neighbors had called 911 before Monet.

The police got there pretty fast. I put a pair of jeans on and hopped my way down the stairs, with Monet right behind me. We opened the door and the police officer told us to get back into our apartment.

We heeded the officer's request and observed from the downstairs window which was slightly ajar. The flashing police lights were blinding and there were traces of gunpowder in the air.

Two police officers went into Barbara's apartment with raised pistols. One came out and radioed someone. We braced ourselves for a bloody spectacle. We were already mourning Barbara in our minds and hearts. The paramedics arrived about ten minutes later without their flashing lights on, signaling it was probably a homicide. During the few times I saw Caesar going to and fro from Barbara's, I never pegged him for a violent person, although his company was highly suspect.

Two paramedics dressed in all white walked into Barbara's apartment with a gurney. By that time all the neighbors had their porch lights on and some observed from the other side of the carport. I heard one of the patrolmen mention the word homicide. Monet put her hand over her mouth and went berserk. She lost it. Monet fell to her knees and just cried. I let her be; this was too traumatic. My heart was heavy and my eyes welled up thinking about how Barbara always wanted a better life for herself. She was a good person; she just wanted to be happy. It was sad, very sad.

I continued to observe from the window and I saw paramedics carry the gurney out of the apartment. It was a bloody mess. The body was covered by a white sheet that was soaked in blood that continued to drip while being transported into the ambulance. It was hard to take it all in. Her kid must have been over at someone else's house because there was no sign of her son. I said a silent prayer for Barbara's soul and asked God to bless her.

Apparently, the police identified the suspect, who was still in the house. That surprised me because I saw Caesar flee the scene after the shots.

The police officer standing by the patrol car opened the rear passenger door to receive the suspect. If it wasn't Caesar, who shot Barbara?

"Babe, it wasn't Caesar. They're bringing the suspect out now."

Monet pulled herself together as best she could and joined me at the window, looking over my shoulder.

We saw the suspect come out in handcuffs. It was bizarre and stranger than fiction. Monet couldn't believe it either.

The suspect, who came out in handcuffs, was Barbara. She was still in her nightie. The ambulance and the patrol car drove off within minutes apart. A team of police officers remained at the scene and taped off the area. Monet and I had the same question: whose dead body was strapped to the gurney?

One week later, Oceanside police cleared Barbara for shooting her husband, who had come home to surprise her for their wedding anniversary. Barbara claimed she thought a burglar had broken into her apartment and fired out of fear for her life. According to the police report that hit the Military Police desk, Barbara killed her husband with a nickel-plated 357 Magnum pistol. The gun was legally registered to Caesar Alvarado.

Three months later, Barbara began receiving death gratuity payments from two separate insurance policies, one of which was the Servicemember's Group Life Insurance. In total, Barbara would receive almost four hundred thousand dollars from the two polices.

Barbara eventually moved out of the complex and bought a two-bedroom condo in a gated community of La Jolla, not far from Oceanside. I often reflected on my session with Barbara. Everything she wanted in life would be hers for the taking and more. Did she kill her husband intentionally or was it an accident? Only she knew the answer.

# — CHAPTER TWENTY —

# The Dark Side

Over the next two weeks, my relationship with Monet was fraught with tension and silly disagreements. I played defense to keep the peace by taking the blame for everything. That got old quick. Monet was hell bent on this constant criticism of me. I even took the blame for missing the Johnny Gill concert. The intimacy between us took a hard toll. Making love (if you want to call it that) was less frequent and more out of sheer need than desire. Sex for me became a privilege, while sex for her remained an entitlement. It was now all on her terms. There were times that I reflected on my promise to myself after I got divorced. No more serious relationships. The deeper you fall in love the deeper the cut when things don't work out as planned. Our torrid and scorching love affair was on the ropes.

After being constantly badgered about everything and anything, I finally found a legitimate issue that put her on defense.

"Monet, have you told you parents about me yet?"

"No, I haven't," she replied while reading a newspaper.

"Why not? I've told my folks."

"It's not that easy. I've been with Marc since junior high. I can't just pick up the phone and say, 'Hey, I've just flushed ten years of marriage down the drain.' It's complicated. I'm thinking about going home for a couple of weeks. I need to clear my head. Hopefully, when I get back I will have some answers," she said after she finally came from behind the newspaper to engage me.

"How much vacation time do you have? You just took three weeks off in June."

"I'm taking weather vacation," my angel replied sarcastically.

"Weather vacation? What's that?" I asked naively.

"It's vacation that I'm taking whether they approve it or not."

"I think I'm starting to rub off on you. So who have you told about me?"

"My best friends Kim and Becky. And my sisters know about you too."

"Do you still love me?"

Monet put the paper down and slumped in her chair while reaching across the kitchen table to touch my hand.

"Of course I still love you. I know I'm taking it out on you but I've been blindsided lately and I'm trying my best to bounce back. I'm going through ten mood swings a day; I'm all over the place. I just need to settle down. I'm trying."

I could tell Monet was on the verge of telling me what was under her skin, but she fell short.

Of all the criticisms Monet dished out, one cut me pretty deep.

"Clay, do you feel any responsibility for the death of Barbara's husband?"

I immediately stopped my ascent upstairs and grabbed the bannister. Clearly, this was a below the belt violation.

"What the hell are you talking about?" I asked from the fourth step.

I was furious.

"I was just wondering if you could have triggered something in her subconscious. One of your suggestions was that she wouldn't let anything stand in the way of her dream. Maybe somewhere in her subconscious she felt it was her husband that held her back."

I had never been so angry at someone I loved so much.

"Monet, that's the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard. Why would you even say something like that?"

"I don't know Clay. There's so much about the subconscious we don't understand. But just like everything else, there is a dark side." For days I replayed that conversation in my head and wondered if there could be any truth to Monet's assertions. I needed some answers. So I called Jim, of course. We conversed in his private office. I told him everything about the tragic event.

"Clay, I'm sorry to hear about what happened. But you are assuming way too much," Jim commented as he rocked back and forth in his chair.

"What am I assuming?"

"You are assuming that Barbara had prior knowledge of her husband's surprise visit."

"Well, maybe she knew he was coming and had it all planned to make it look like an accident. It seems like a coincidence that her son was not there at the time."

Jim's response helped me to put my mind at rest.

"If that was the case, do you really think she would have Caesar at the house? She appears much more credible as a spooked spouse alone in the middle of the night than a woman in bed with her drug dealer boyfriend in a panic."

That made sense to me. I knew I would never know the truth but I bought into Jim's logic and it eased my mind. I had further questions.

"Jim, can hypnosis be used to cause harm or for personal gain?"

I could tell by Jim's body language that it wasn't a simple yes or no answer. His delayed response was slightly unsettling.

"Hypnosis is a tool, a powerful tool at that, and just like a doctor's scalpel, in the wrong hands it can be dangerous. There are rumors that claim the reason why Freud stopped practicing hypnosis was that his wife allegedly believed he used it to seduce women clients. Hypnosis has been around for a long time and I've met some scholars and academics in the field who cite well-documented claims of hypnotism malpractice."

Jim had my undivided attention. I took in every word. It was informative and interesting. Jim opened his desk drawer and retrieved his portfolio. This time he showed me a section in the back that I hadn't seen before. There were several sensationalized headlines that caught my attention.

Robber Hypnotizes Bank Tellers to Steal Cash  
Woman Dies on Stage during Hypnotist Show  
Porn's Newest Genre, Hypnotism  
Kennedy Shot by a Real Manchurian Candidate

After the Marksman to Expert article hit the base paper, I later found out there were three tellers at the base credit union who would never take my transactions. Maybe they heard the stories too.

The woman who died on stage allegedly died at the suggestion 'You will have a mind blowing orgasm when I shoot you with my climax gun.'

Paramedics could not save her; she died of a cardiac arrest in front of two hundred and fifty people.

The article about porn was so disgusting I couldn't finish reading it.

Apparently, porn producers thought it would be cool to hypnotize mothers and sons, or brothers and sisters, to have sex on camera. The shock value on the subject's faces when they woke up and realized what they had done was the 'money shot.'

Lastly, several defense attorneys offered mind-control as a bona fide legal defense. Some of the leading hypnotists in the country stated that Sirhan Sirhan murdered Senator Bobby Kennedy in 1968 under the influence of hypnosis.

I appreciated Jim's candidness by telling me the rest of the story. I can see why he omitted these disturbing topics during training and private off-line discussions. We both stood as our indepth conversation concluded.

"Clay, don't concern yourself about what other people do with this ability. The question is 'What are you going to do with it?' The Universe and God are united in how to dispense healing and wellness, with love in your heart. Have a safe journey home, and I will see you on Thursday for class.

One the way home I reflected on my many sessions including my first session with Monet. I realized that all my sessions were confidence-based.

  * Confidence to do X
  * Confidence to stop doing X
  * Confidence to do X better

But confidence had a knock on effect that had unintended consequences because it crossed over into other aspects of life. When it does there can be life altering consequences.

Confidence can give you the nerve to tell your boss to go screw himself. Confidence can unleash a demon that will clear a path to happiness, by any means necessary. And confidence can make you leave your husband after ten years of marriage.

# — CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE —

# Told You So

The night before Monet caught her flight back home she suggested that I stay at my place since she had to be at the airport at an ungodly hour. At first I was a little wary but we needed the break and what was one more day anyway. I missed getting my chat on with my neighbor Lori and looked forward to venting. During my last half hour at work I checked the paper to see what was playing at the Carlsbad Cinema; it was Child's Play 3. I saw the first Child's Play movie in 1988 and it bothered me more than I ever admitted. The premise was silly—a kid's doll coming to life and embarking on a murder spree. After losing a whole night's sleep, I realized why it bothered me so much. When I was four, my parents bought a life-size doll which my sister and I affectionately named "big doll." I didn't have an issue with big doll during the day but at night it caused me big problems. When I went to bed my mom always placed big doll on the top shelf in my closet. My sister Cheri shared a room with me and was afraid of the dark and she had to have a light on at night time. My mom always left the light on in the closet so that we could sleep. However, the light in the closet reflected off the eyes of big doll giving her a life-like presence at night. I kept waiting for the doll to come to life and run out of the closet to get me. I was so glad when we finally threw big doll away.

After I made it home, I reconsidered my movie choice. Lori had the Night Gallery series in a video box set and invited me over to watch it. I made a quick trip to the local convenience store and picked up a couple of super slurpees and some popcorn. As fate would have it, the last Night Gallery episode we watched was about a demonic plaything called The Doll.

After that credits rolled, I stretched and stood, thanking Lori for the invitation.

"I will see you tomorrow for coffee. The usual time?"

"Okay, kiddo. How about ten o'clock?"

"And how about I stop by Dunkin Donuts and get some pastries?" I replied as I hugged her before walking to the patio door.

"Don't forget to get a couple of my favorites."

"Of course. Apple fritters right? I'll see you in the a.m."

It was almost midnight when I left Lori's and the big doll theme played with my head. I could hear the eerie Night Gallery trailer music in my head too. It was totally irrational but it messed with me.

As I walked onto my patio, I had this sense that someone or something was following me. It was creepy and the hair on the back of my neck stood up. I turned around. It was a life size doll standing behind me and it scared the shit out of me.

"Monet! Damn, don't do that," I replied looking as though I'd seen a ghost. Whew. "I thought you were going to have an early night," I said as I opened the patio door.

Monet wore a dark blue coat and just her gown underneath.

"Clay, I couldn't sleep. Can I stay here tonight?"

Monet hadn't set foot in my house since the Kay incident and it was a surprise. A pleasant surprise!

"Sure, babe. Excuse the house; I haven't really tidied up."

Monet looked distraught and nervous. I could tell she was mentally preoccupied because she was fidgety. She hung her coat up and walked upstairs to my bedroom and got in bed. Her gown was hanging in the closet.

As I rolled the covers back to join her, I noticed that she held the covers in a tight bunch around her neck as if she was scared or something. I had to inquire.

"Okay. Question time. What's wrong?" I asked sitting up in the bed.

Monet eased her grip on the covers and turned toward me.

"Clay, I love you. I will always love you no matter what. Promise me that whatever happens, you will always remember that. Promise me?"

"I know you love me, Monet. What's this about? Is there something wrong?"

She didn't answer me. Instead she just held onto me. I saw two tears fall from her face onto her breasts. I just held her in my arms and we went to sleep.

Around four a.m., Monet woke me up to make passionate love, but it felt different. I couldn't put my finger on it but it was as though she was making a statement. After we made love, I cuddled her and we returned to our slumber.

Around seven in the morning, I reached to my right for Monet. She was gone. I sat up in the bed and called her name before eventually yelling her name.

"Monet. Monet? Monet!"

I put on my robe and looked out of my son's bedroom window; her white Maxima was gone. I felt terribly alone for the first time since we met. But it would only be two weeks; I could handle two weeks.

I promised myself I wouldn't call her pager number while she was back home. I broke that promise after the first week. I must have paged her over one hundred times and she never returned my call. I lost seven pounds the first week because I wasn't eating out all the time at the Black Angus and the Olive Garden. I wasn't interested in food anymore. It was as though I ate just to give my body the necessary fuel to function. I marked off how many days there were till she came home and that gave me a little peace.

The evenings were so long now. I didn't really know what to do with myself. Long distance calls to family and friends were comforting but very expensive. However, I was happy to receive news that my longtime friend Yolanda and her family would be relocating near me before Christmas. Yolanda was like a sister to me.

I appreciated Lori's support during times of crisis. Lori was always there for me and I leaned on her pretty heavily the first ten days.

As I got within three days of Monet's return, I could finally see a light at the end of the tunnel. Seventy-two hours was doable and I gladly x'ed out another day on my calendar. I was a little upset because my first installment check had not hit my account yet. I planned to show Monet the ring by the time she got back as a surprise.

Friday morning came and I could breathe a sigh of relief. My appetite was back with a vengeance and I couldn't wait to get off work and call her. I wanted to make an impression on Monet, so I thought of having the California Executives surprise Monet with a serenade outside her apartment. Fred and John were free but Dwayne had already made plans. John and Fred wanted to serenade Monet with an a cappella version of the Boyz to Men song On Bended Knee. I thought it was an awesome selection. In return I agreed to emcee an upcoming corporate Christmas show at Calloway Golf where John worked in La Jolla.

After I confirmed with Neil about the serenade, I nervously called Monet at home.

Beep. The number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service. Please check the number and dial again. Beep.

I tried again and carefully dialed 630-5272. I got the same recording once again.

Panic time. I played worst case scenarios in my head and I spi-raled into anxiety. All my plans, the serenade and the ring on layaway, were evaporating and I couldn't do a thing about it. I circled my coffee table dozens of times trying to figure out what to do next. I got it.

I got in my car and drove to Montgomery Ward. I had forgotten that I was still in military camouflage uniform, but it never crossed my mind. I needed answers. I was becoming unraveled emotionally. I walked into the store and made a sharp right towards Home Furnishing and saw a new person on the till.

"Excuse me. I'm looking for a Monet Dawson. When is her next day back at work? I'm her fiancée," I said with both hands on the counter.

The young man seemed very nervous and somewhat intimidated by my questioning.

"Excuse me, sir. I will be right back. What was your name again?"

"Clay, Clay Thompson."

The young cashier returned with his supervisor Linda, whom Monet didn't really care for.

"Mr. Thompson. Monet gave her two week's notice. There's a rumor that she reconciled with her husband and I think she went with him to his new duty station. I think they went overseas, maybe a few days ago. He was here only for a day before they left."

My dream died right where it began, at Montgomery Ward. I was sick; there was no more joy in my life. All the memories we had were just that, memories. I left the counter in a hurry because I couldn't really hold it together. When I got back into my car, the tears rained a torrential downfall. I kept asking God what was the purpose of introducing something so special just to take it all away. It wasn't fair. Monet changed my life forever, and now she was gone. I regretted not being able to kiss her goodbye. Then I got mad because she had to plan the whole thing. She had to know it would destroy me inside. I guess she came by my house that night to give me a goodbye fuck, but I just didn't know it!

I don't even remember the drive home; I just remember going home and hearing the phone ringing off the hook.

"Clay, it's John. We're headed to Shadow Mountain Apartments now. We just wanted to make sure we got the right apartment number; we don't want to serenade the wrong woman. You know what I mean."

I had completely forgotten.

"John. Thanks for everything but Monet missed her flight back home; so I'm gonna cancel. Sorry about that. I just found out."

"It's cool, my lady will be glad that I have the evening free. Just give us a shout when she gets back. Later, dude."

Monet wasn't coming back. All those days I suffered and she was in that apartment packing with her husband. The thought of her husband having sex with her made me sick to my stomach. I screamed at the top of my lungs. I had a personal swearing contest with myself. Then I thought about the ring. There were so many things in my life that I had to undo now that I had this gaping hole in my soul. But I couldn't undo my love for her.

Saturday morning I went to Zales jewelry shop to get my refund. I was still a mess from the night before.

I saw the friendly Filipino lady at the counter.

"You come to collect ring for special lady?"

"No. Just checking to see if I can get a refund. We broke up."

I never thought I would say those words, never.

"So sorry, Mr. Thompson. Deposit, non-refundable. Maybe you buy for next special lady."

I remembered. She made it clear that it was non-refundable when I gave her the deposit. I just never considered that I would need one. Another blow to my psyche!

"There's only one Monet. There won't be another, not in this lifetime. Sige.

For the next week, I contemplated morbid thoughts that I kept to myself. Life became meaningless. However, my son's return gave me hope. His presence took me out of the dark crevices of my mind.

I hit rock bottom and I had many phone conversations with family members and friends but it was a particular conversation I had with Lori that allowed me to feel that I would one day get past this. We were sitting at her kitchen table as usual.

"Hey, kiddo. I know you're hurting and I really can't say I know how you feel. But I can tell you that there is life after Monet. Remember your divorce?"

"How could I forget? I can't believe I'm in this same stupid black hole, again. I never want a serious relationship, ever. And Lori, if you ever hear me talk about love again, slap the shit out of me because it's fake. Promise me you'll do that."

"We'll see. But I want you to promise me one thing, Clay."

"Sure, what's that?"

"Promise me you'll give me the chance to look you in the face one day after you are over Monet. I will have something to tell you then."

"Tell me what?"

"I want the chance to tell you I told you so... there is life after Monet. I was there through your divorce and I will be here for you now. But one day, I'm gonna tell you, I told you so," Lori said as she handed me some tissue.

I couldn't quite see it then, but she was right. One day she would tell me those exact words. I told you so.

One week later, I received a refund in the mail from Zales for the ring. There was hope; I just needed to hang on to it.

Thoughts of Monet and me during the day weaved themselves into my dreams at night. One of those dreams was a very vivid dream of my father and I connected it to my break up with Monet. Vivid really wasn't the best way to describe it. It seemed more like a vision rather than a dream. I think the dream was meant to uplift me and give me courage. It did in a profound way.

I was sitting across the kitchen table in my parents' house back home in Detroit, the same table where my father and I played hundreds of games of Hearts and Mille Bornes. It was Sunday morning and my dad was dressed in all white listening to the Gospel song The Blood, in preparation for his Sunday sermon. He rocked gently in his chair with his eyes closed as the lyrics spoke to him. He started humming along and moving his head from left to right in the spirit. As the song ended he opened his soft brown eyes and spoke. "May God grant you time. Time to live, laugh, learn, and to love." That's what he said. It was powerful and reached me as only he could.

Then my mom walked past us into the kitchen and urged me to get a move on. But I thought it was strange that she didn't acknowledge Dad. When my mom opened the closet door, she was holding my dad's long black leather coat and stood there holding it. It was the coat I bought for him.

"C'mon Clay, put this on, it's very cold outside. Hurry."

But that was Dad's coat. Why did she want me to wear it? I felt strange putting it on, but it fit perfectly. When we walked outside there was a black car waiting to take us to church. The driver opened the door for us and we got in, except for my dad. I rolled the car window down looking at my dad. He had a great big smile. It was cold and it started snowing. I was concerned because my dad didn't have a coat. When the car pulled off I called to my father as he walked away waving.

"Dad, why aren't you going with us?"

My father stood there on the corner and smiled, showing his pearly whites. "I'll meet you at the church."

He would keep his promise. The very next day I called my dad to make sure he was okay. My folks were at church and I got the answering machine.

Beep. Now connecting to an answering machine. 'Speak slowly and distinctly and we will return your call at our earliest convenience. Have a wonderful day and may God richly bless you' Beep.

The sound of his voice comforted me. I recorded his voice message on onto a cassette. His voice would live on beyond his years, in my tape deck and in my heart.

# — CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO —

# Time Capsule

## Twenty years later  
Cambridge, England

New Years Day 2011. I had long retired from the Marines and was now living in the UK. I took a job with INTERPOL working as a research analyst. So much had happened during my eleven years in England. My son was a Staff Sergeant in the U.S. Air Force and was now my neighbor down the street. Kids make awesome neighbors; lodgers, not so much. Somewhere in the last four months I gained a hundred and thirty pounds. Her name was April, my fiancée. I was still active with hypnosis but I ceased advertising my services, relying only on referrals. I wanted my services to be affordable to everyone, so I stopped charging and just took donations. It never was about the money.

After being a confirmed bachelor for almost twenty-five years, I decided to settle down with someone I could spend the rest of my life with. April had all the qualities I wanted: similar values, intellect and beauty. She wasn't the typical blonde haired blueeyed beauty; she was more than that. I was totally disarmed by her in just a few months. When we first met she was in a deteriorating relationship with someone I knew in passing. What I admired most was how she parted ways with her ex long before ever recognizing my gestures. She was loyal to him to the very end. I really thought that spoke volumes about her character. The first week I met her, I Googled her on the internet. I found a beautiful picture of her holding a puppy lab standing next to a priest in a local church. That was pretty much it for me. I was an animal lover myself and had a personal relationship with God. One promise we made from the very beginning was to cut off contact with our ex love interests. No problem.

Before I met April, I was the butt of a lot of jokes in the office. I had the distinct pleasure of working with six women, varying in age and all married. The one joke that bothered me most was about my bachelorhood.

"Clay, do you know the definition of a bachelor?"

"No, Rose. But I am sure you do."

"A bachelor is a guy who has never had a successful relationship."

Although it was meant to poke fun, there was a bit of truth in what she said.

When I announced I was engaged to April, there was an office pool betting how long it would take before I called it off.

I think I got off to a bad start with relationships. When I was a freshman in high school, my first girlfriend was Marlene, a friend of my Mom's. She was in her forties and I was fifteen. Although I was told to keep it a secret, I didn't see anything wrong with it then.

Every time I started a new relationship, in the back of my mind was one question: How is this going to end? I did that for all relationships except with April. I wanted that to last forever.

My rock-solid relationship with April would be threatened by my past and my future. I never saw it coming. It all started with a certified letter in the mail. My receipt of the letter altered the course of my life and put my marriage plans in a tailspin. The certified letter came from the Tri County Storage Company in San Diego.

When I accepted orders to Okinawa, Japan, in August 1996, I placed most of my household effects in storage, courtesy of the Unites States Marine Corps. I served three years in Okinawa, from 1997 to 2000, and then I retired before coming to the UK. When I requested the release of my household goods in 2000, things got interesting.

"Yes ma'am. I'm Gunnery Sergeant Thompson and I just retired last month. I live in England now and I was hoping you could assist me in having my household goods shipped here."

"Gunnery Sergeant Thompson, is that correct?"

"Yes, that's me."

"Is your social security number xxx-xx-xxxx?"

"Whew. Yes ma'am, that's me."

"Yeah, we don't have you in our system."

Responses like that deserve relentless verbal abuse.

"But you rattled off my social security number, so I must be in your system."

"I see where you transferred goods overseas, but there's no record of hold storage. Do you have paperwork?"

Of course I didn't.

After countless phone calls to the States after my retirement in 2000, I finally gave up on ever seeing my stuff again. Eventually the storage company contacted me in England via the internet. I got a big fat bill, over sixteen thousand dollars. I complained to the military transport office but as a retiree I had no influence. Fortunately, my point of contact at the storage company was sympathetic and we agreed on a significantly reduced fee, a few grand. After I settled the debt, I had two options: I could have them sell my goods, or I could collect them myself. It had been so long, what was in those sixteen boxes. Within two weeks, I was on a plane to San Diego, California, to inspect and collect my time capsule from 1996.

While my plane taxied onto the runway at San Diego Airport, I started to reminisce about the good times I had while stationed at Camp Pendleton. Normally I would have given Lori advance notice but I planned a surprise visit. She emailed me a few months earlier and said she was feeling ill, so I sent her flowers which she loved. I missed our chats over coffee and sweets. Although I was primarily in San Diego to collect my personal effects, I had other important things I needed to accomplish like renewing my driver's license and going to the County Clerk's office to get a copy of my divorce decree so that I could get married in England.

When the plane finally came to a halt you could hear the frenzy of seat belts unbuckling and people jockeying in the aisles to get their overhead baggage. I traveled light with just a clothing bag and a black leather briefcase. I cleared customs in record time and before I knew it, I was in my Hertz rental car driving up the Interstate 5 freeway admiring the beautiful hills and palm trees dotting the journey.

"Hello, Mr. Thompson. If you just follow me to the warehouse, I believe your crates are being opened as we speak."

As I followed the accounts manager, I was excited about unearthing my past from 1996. I thought I might find some things that I wrote off as lost along the way like my Muhammad Ali scrap book.

The last door we passed through led us into a large warehouse that had several open bays with forklifts heading in several directions at once. It was a gorgeous day out and I got there in plenty of time to rummage through my belongings.

Two warehouse men used crowbars to open the tall wooden crates standing about fifteen feet in front of us. After I signed some paperwork the accounts manager left me to it.

I felt as if I was time traveling. I had so much junk. The first five boxes were bedding and appliances like toasters and blenders. Those went straight into the trash.

Then I started to come across belongings that were more reminiscent of my life journey.

One of the warehousemen stayed behind to help me. He found some of my personal effects quite interesting. He had a few comments.

"Dude, are those MC Hammer pants?" he asked.

"Yes indeed. And I wore them proudly," I jokingly replied as I held them up to my waist.

My new friend seemed to be fixated on one item in particular.

"Wow, a Ninja Turtle lunch box. I remember these when I was a kid. This brings me back to my childhood."

"My son is grown now; I don't think he will miss it. Do you want it?" I asked while in the crouched position looking at my music collection of albums and cassette tapes.

"Oh hell yeah," he said.

Then he opened it. Inside was a partially eaten ham sandwich and some fruit that had fossilized. Unbeknownst to me he ingested some of the dust from the ham sandwich and ran outside to puke. I tried not to laugh but it was funny.

I opened a shoebox stuffed with letters from friends and family dating back to my boot camp days. I was having fun taking a stroll down memory lane until I came across a letter that made my heart sink. It was the first letter Monet placed on my windshield accepting my offer to go to dinner to make up for the Kay incident. I regressed. All the memories that I had suppressed all those years overwhelmed me. I needed to be strong but the letter hit the playback button in my mind and I could hear her voice, smell her scent and see her smile. I wiped a tear that formed in my eye. I wasn't expecting that. There was more to come. I came across a picture of the two of us sitting at a breakfast diner from our Las Vegas trip. We looked so happy then. What happened? I asked myself. What happened to my perfect love?

Lastly, I came across a cassette tape labeled Quiet Storm. I knew I was treading on dangerous ground when I removed the cassette from its case. When I first met Monet I spent two hours mixing a ballad of our favorite R&B artists that included Johnny Gill, Luther Vandross and Keith Washington. I also recorded Careless Whisper by George Michael which she loved. I never told her but my favorite song on that cassette wasn't by Johnny Gill; it was Reaching for the Sky by Peabo Bryson. As much as I wanted to play that cassette, I knew it would hurt me emotionally and haunt me.

After I had completed my survey, I had one huge pile of junk at my left and a small pile of treasure on my right. It was more emotional than I thought it would ever be. I gave a lot of stuff to Hector the warehouseman. He appreciated the ten-speed bike the most.

I looked at the small wooden crate that I deemed of value, things that I knew I couldn't throw away. In that crate was a picture of Monet and her letter. I just couldn't bring myself to throw those two items away. But, at the same time I knew I could not take them home. I was torn as to what I should do. As always my mind reached a logical solution.

"Mr. Thompson, if you just sign here on the dotted line, I can close out your account."

"Ms. Jones, I don't think that will be necessary. How much would it cost me to store just one small crate?"

Actual Invoice from Storage Company in 1997

# — CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE —

# Always in Threes

## January 2011

I worked up an appetite going through all my boxes. I took a couple of things that I could fit in my briefcase and stored a crate of keepsakes. On the way back to my hotel room I stopped by El Pollo Loco on Mission Avenue. I hadn't had El Pollo in almost fourteen years and so I overindulged. As I sat in my booth licking my fingers, I remembered an old lady named Irene who ran an arts and craft store on Mission Avenue. Irene was my hookup for ordering plaques for Marines either retiring or transferring when I was stationed at Camp Pendleton. She never charged me for rush jobs or extra engraving. Her specialty was shadow boxes, an enclosed display case containing an American flag and military miniature medals.

As I parked in front of the store, I was impressed by its apparent face lift. In the past it looked like a Mom and Pop shop. Now it looked very modern with fancy lighting, porcelain flooring and piped-in elevator music. I walked into the store and it was quite busy considering it was only fifteen minutes from closing. I didn't see Irene but I did spot Eric, her loser son who I tried to avoid. Too late.

"Clay? Long time no see, buddy. How do you like the shop? Business is booming, and I literally mean booming. Let me show you around," Eric said as he stepped from behind the counter.

I was impressed and I let him know.

"Wow, the place looks totally different. I can tell business has picked up since the last time I was here. You must be doing something right."

The store's profit windfall was directly attributed to the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Marines, Soldiers and Navy had record discharges due to serious bodily injuries suffered in the conflict areas. The store also profited from the deaths of returning veterans. There was a backorder of wood engravings that pictured the fallen.

"When I left for Oki, this place was on the verge of closing. Your mom said it was a tax issue."

Eric stopped dead in his tracks and faced me with a snarl on his face. "Yeah, I remember. I got caught smoking pot with my girlfriend in my room and my mom kicked me out of the house. It was my twenty-fifth birthday. I had the window open and the door shut. What was her deal? I got her back; I reported her to the local IRS for doing work under the table. That taught her a lesson."

I was really desperate to end my nauseating conversation. I was looking for Irene and couldn't see her.

"So, where is your mom? I'd like to say hello since I'm in town.

"She's in an old folks' home. She suffers from MS. I finally convinced her to move out and find a decent nursing home. Got the whole house to myself now. I need to have a word with her soon, really soon. Her medical bills are eating up my inheritance." Just before I departed I saw a shadow box with a name on it that I was all too familiar with, Master Gunnery Sergeant Howard. I took a closer look and saw it was a display model.

"Hey, I think I know this guy; we served in Mogadishu together. Why is his shadow box still here? I'm sure he retired long ago."

Eric leaned over and read the nameplate.

"I remember this one now. Wow, that was ages ago. I think he's the one that got sick before his retirement ceremony and his office never picked it up."

Howard and I were on a night patrol in Mogadishu, Somalia, and got ambushed by insurgents. We were surrounded and outgunned. There were only four of us in our Humvee including a U.S. Marine interpreter. Eight insurgents formed a firing squad and it looked like impending doom for all of us. I had written my life off and thought I was gonna go out in a blaze of glory. But somehow, our interpreter worked some kind of magic to negotiate a way out for us. We cheated death that night and by some mysterious divine intervention we were allowed to return to camp. Not one shot was fired. For many years I often thought I died that night and I was now living in my afterlife.

"Eric, Howard is probably still in the area. He bought a house in Vista not too far from here. Can I take the shadow box? I'd like to present it to him."

"Sure, no problem. Just let me check to see what the remaining balance is. I'll be right back."

Eric had the nerve to charge me $13.50.

I drove by Howard's old house in Vista and it was occuppied by a young Corporal and his new wife. They were just renters and never knew Howard.

The next morning I went to my old unit Headquarters and Service Company on Mainside. I was hoping someone there may have remembered him. I ran into a retiree working in the finance department who knew Howard pretty well. It wasn't good news; Howard was in a local hospice battling terminal cancer. I didn't bother to ask the details; I just wanted to know where I could find him. It saddened me to hear such news of a true warrior. I had seen Howard in combat and he had nerves of steel. He was a big man and I knew if I had been hit by enemy fire, he was the kind of guy who would toss me over his shoulder and keep going. When bullets were flying and people were getting hit he pressed forward. I will never forget his famous words in battle.

'Pain is a sign of weakness leaving the body. If you have pain it means you're not dead yet.'

It's always the quiet ones that surprise you the most in combat, and that was Howard.

Before I visited Howard, I had my license and divorce decree to settle. While driving on El Camino Boulevard I noticed Montgomery Ward on the right. Wow. That took me back twenty years. I remember how beautiful Monet looked when I first saw her. I couldn't go there in my head. It was too much to think about. Then I passed the Black Angus where we had our first date. Back then I hardly had a nickel to my name but I was rich in other ways. I would have thought my memories of the area would be more balanced but they were not. Just memories of Monet.

I spent three hours at the DMV waiting in line and studying for the written exam. I only missed one question and my mission was accomplished. Next stop: county clerk's office.

It was nice being distracted while at the DMV. I didn't think about Monet even once as I was too busy trying to cram for the test.

When I entered the county clerk's office, I remembered that I had a couple of liens on my property that I paid off years ago. I wanted to make sure that my property title was clear, so I asked for all records filed in my name.

"Excuse me sir, my name is Clay Thompson and I was hoping you could pull my records. I have I.D.," I said proudly displaying my newly issued license.

The clerk looked at the front and back of my license and looked at me.

"Yup, it's you all right. Will you need photocopies? It's two dollars a page."

"Sure, why not?"

The clerk returned ten minutes later and rang up the bill.

"That will be $32.00 plus tax. How do you want to pay?"

I wasn't expecting to pay that much. I had to inquire.

"Thirty-two dollars? It seems a little steep. What's in the stack?" I said as I handed him my debit card.

The clerk handed me the stack of xeroxed copies.

  * Divorce decree-six pages
  * Quit Claim deed (from ex-wife)-four pages
  * Repossession lien (that was paid off)-two pages
  * Restraining order (against Kay)-four pages

The cashier ran my card and returned it with a receipt.

Out of the four documents I collected, I fixated on one: the restraining order I filed against Kay back in 1991. Once again memories in living color returned with deep feelings. I never once thought of Kay or how she almost chewed my lip off. I thought of holding Monet in the closet on bended knee.

The next day I got an early start and after a few calls I was able to locate the hospice where Howard was residing. Howard was a resident of the Daisy Lane Care facility in Carlsbad, about a ten-minute drive away. I hated going to these types of places because it was so damn depressing. I always thought hospice was the end of the line, a place where people go to die. I tried to mentally prepare myself as best as I could but as they say, "It is what it is," and there was no escaping that.

The hospice was an elementary school in the 1950s before it was converted. The classrooms were converted to patient living areas and there was plenty of space for the occupants. There was a lower and upper level with beds on both floors.

"Welcome to Daisy Lane; who are you visiting today?" asked the young lady at the reception desk.

"I'm looking for a Mr. Howard. I think his first name is Brian."

"Mr. Howard is on the upper level in the O'Conner Ward. We have a cafeteria if you want a snack or drink just down the hall. But we require all guests to sign in over there before visitation," said the lady as she pointed to the sign-in desk.

My appetite was long gone and I didn't expect to eat anytime soon. I thanked the lady and stood in a short line to sign in. I was carrying the shadow box under my arm and I was hoping to bring a little joy to a comrade who I shared a death defying experience with from years past.

In front of me in line was an attractive Black woman with two small girls no more than four or five. The girls were cute as buttons, and they were dressed alike wearing polka dotted outfits. They smiled back at me as they both hid behind their mom, playing peek-a-boo with me.

When I finally got a chance to sign in, I realized the mom and the girls were also visiting Howard. I quickly scribbled my signature and followed the party as I assumed they knew exactly where to go. After they made it to the top of the stairs, one of the daughters tugged on her mom's dress and made an urgent potty break request. The mom took both girls into the ladies' room.

Without my guide, I stood there at the top of the stairs trying to recall the receptionist's instructions. The smell in the corridor was pretty bad. It was beyond me how the staff could eat there. I headed to the first room I saw on the right and walked in. Two of the four occupants had visitors, so I asked the resident closest to me if he knew Brian Howard. He looked half asleep.

"Hate to bother you, sir, but do you know Mr. Brian Howard?" I asked as I shifted the box from one arm to the other.

The gentleman became fully alert and sat upright. He was an elderly man, completely bald and looked like a bag of bones. He was wearing an oxygen mask and he looked pretty close to death. He lowered his oxygen mask to speak.

"As a matter of fact yes, I do," the old guy replied with spunk.

I was relieved that I didn't have to bounce around all over the place to find Howard.

"I think this is the right place; can you point to which bed he's in?"

His blue eyes locked with mine.

"You don't recognize me do you, Gunny T?"

I knew what I was hearing but there was a misfire in my cognitive process. The audio didn't match the visual at all.

The gentleman revealed his USMC tattoo on his right bicep that read Death Before Dishonor.

It was Howard and I couldn't believe it. He had aged so much. He still had the same smile and the same expressions and even his voice resembled that of the old Howard. Sadness came over me as I realized this was my friend, not much older than me. It was heavy and it completely caught me off guard. It took a while for me to compose myself to engage in conversation. Howard saw what I was going through and passed me a few tissues from his bedside.

"Gunnery Sergeant Thompson, ATEN HUT!" Howard commanded in his drill instructor voice.

People looked over to see what the commotion was all about. Howard still had the voice of authority and his gruff tone snapped me out of my pity party.

"Whew, okay Master Guns. I'm good. I got something for you. It's long overdue," I said as I removed his shadow box from the black plastic bag.

Howard's eyes perked up.

"What'cha bring me, Devil Dog?"

I placed the beautiful mahogany display case with all of his medals and ribbons perfectly centered and mounted against a black velour backdrop. Below his name and dates of service read Semper Fidelis, Always Faithful.

Howard silently broke down and wept with his face in his hands. He set me off just looking at him. Two retired Marines overwhelmed by emotion, something you probably don't see every day.

Howard wiped his eyes and cleared his throat before he spoke.

"Guns, you can't know how much this means to me after all these years. I never got my send off. I never got the chance to say goodbye to all my troops and officers. I had a speech prepared and everything. Way to motivate me, Ohrah!"

I pulled up a chair next to Howard's bedside and before long we got past the rough patch and started conversing as we did back in the Corps. Mentally he was sharp as always and had that same fighting spirit. We chatted briefly about what we did with our lives after the Corps. Howard became a dispatch supervisor for the North County Transit Authority where he worked for only a few years. He had a short story to tell about his brief stint there, one that I would never forget.

"Do you believe those sons of bitches fired my ass? Damn civilians. Everyone's worried about hurting people's feelings these days. Can't say what you want to anymore. Gotta be PC to survive," Howard commented as he stared out the large bay window.

Howard was a stellar Marine and I knew getting fired wouldn't sit well with him, so I asked him for the rest of the story.

"They branded me a racist and fired me, all inside a month. Poof! I was gone."

I weighed in.

"You, of all people, a racist? I don't get it."

"I had a Black woman bus driver doing the 309 Route, Oceanside to Encinitas. Her name was Cynthia Moore. She was a nice lady but she couldn't drive worth a shit. She had two accidents during her first two weeks on the job. After the third accident I had no other choice but to can her."

"So why did you get the boot?" I asked.

"Well, Ms. Moore claimed she was a victim of racial discrimination and filed suit against the Transit Authority. She got people riled up and there were protests outside the corporate offices for days. The big boss decided the best course of action was to let me go and hire her back."

"That's so messed up."

"They got out of the spotlight and the protests went away. I went home and told my wife I wasn't gonna go away. I went tactical on their ass."

"What do you mean, tactical?'

"I took them sorry pansies to court on the grounds of wrongful termination. As I expected they assembled a legal team and we went to court. It was me versus them."

"Sounds very expensive."

"Negative. I represented myself and won, big time," Howard said as he reached in a bedside table drawer and showed me an article.

Oceanside Ex-Marine Wins Wrongful Termination Suit

"Hell, yeah I won. I called three witnesses and the case was closed."

"Okay, what three witnesses?"

"If you look behind you here they come, late as usual," Howard said as he looked at his watch.

"Daddy, daddy."

Howard's witnesses in court...was his lovely wife and two daughters. The same Black lady flanked by two angels that signed the guest book ahead of me.

Clever. How can you prove someone is a racist when you have two children from a Black spouse?

I was surprised. His lovely wife came in, put her purse in the chair and kissed Howard on the side of his face. She held his hand as if she didn't want to let go. Howard introduced us.

"Honey, this is Gunny T. We were in Mogadishu together and found ourselves right in the middle of a shit sandwich. Remember that night, Gunny?"

"Oh, yes. For years I've wondered how we made it out of there alive. I thought we were dead."

His wife and kids stood by his side and marveled at the shadow box.

"Would you like to know the back story to why and how the rebels released us?"

For nearly twenty years, I'd wanted to know. Howard enlightened me as he leaned forward in his bed. "Gunny T, do you remember the Marine interpreter who was with us when we got ambushed?"

"Yeah. Corporal Hussein."

"You can thank him for us being alive. If we'd had any other interpreter with us, we would be worm food."

"What was so special about Corporal Hussein?" I asked.

"Corporal Hussein was the son of the Warlord Mohamed Far-rah Aidid. The rebels knew that by killing us they would have to deal with Aidid's men, so they backed off. That is the only reason why we survived."

I didn't offer a reply. I was so affected by his last comment. To think that my life hung in the balance and the balance swung in my favor because of an assignment roster.

"There's more to the story. Corporal Hussein got out of the Marines and went back to Somalia after his father was assassinated."

"To do what?"

"To run for President. And he won. Now that's a story that needs to be told. Do you agree?"

Howard's wife interjected. Her name was Debra.

"Don't get him started. He's written one book about the first Gulf War. He will talk your head off if you let him," she said as she led her daughters to the play area across the hall.

"Gunny T, I'm serious. I never published my Gulf War memoirs but this Mogadishu story of ours has to get out there. The only thing that keeps me going is hope. Let's do it, why not?"

"But Howard, I got only a D+ in English my senior year. I wouldn't know where to begin."

Howard folded his arms across his chest and replied.

"I will help you."

Howard told me that the next time I came to visit, I'd better have two stubby number two pencils and a note pad. He was serious about the book. I spoke briefly with Debra when she returned. I admired how she stood by her man. She was Howard's rock. Debra expressed her gratitude for the shadow box. She wrote her email down on a piece of paper and told me to keep in touch. By that time Howard was fading because the morphine drip in his IV was kicking in. Debra waved goodbye with a brave face as she sat on Howard's bed.

I left the building enlightened with a new focus, and a drive that would take on a life of its own in the days to come. I felt so inspired and moved by my visit with Howard. I liked the idea of us telling our story together.

It was nice to take in some fresh air as I headed to the parking lot. I cleared my mind and focused on seeing the best neighbor in the world, Lori. On the way I stopped by Dunkin Donuts to get some coffee and apple fritters just as in old times. I missed Lori and every time I came home on leave to visit her it was always the same question.

"When are you coming back here to live?"

I remember years ago she told me I would bounce back from my break up with Monet and I looked forward to hearing those words she promised me. I told you so.

I received an email from her saying that she was ill and I was just hoping that she would be better by now.

I parked my car right behind hers and was optimistic she was home when I saw the patio door open. I could hear the TV on in the living room. I knocked on the rear patio door.

"Is the lady of the house here?" I joked as I poked my head inside the kitchen.

I was pleasantly surprised when I saw Heidi, Lori's granddaughter, running down the stairs. I remember Heidi when she was six years old and now she was an adult. She really grew up.

"Clay! Come on in," Heidi replied as she hugged me.

"It's nice to see that nothing's changed after all this time," I said as I placed the coffee and donuts on the counter.

"Take a seat, take a seat. So much has happened since Lori's been gone. Sometimes I still can't believe it.

"What do you mean, gone? Where is she?"

Heidi covered her mouth and looked away. She let out a big sigh.

"Clay, I thought you knew."

"Knew what? What's goin' on Heidi, where's Lori?"

Heidi left the table and went running upstairs before coming right back down again.

"Clay, I don't know how to tell you this but Lori passed away two weeks ago," Heidi said as she showed me Lori's obituary.

"Clay, are you all right?"

"No, I think I'm gonna be sick." I ran straight to the bathroom and threw up with my head in the toilet.

It was as if my body was purging the information I just ingested. Heidi placed her hand on my back to comfort me.

"Why didn't anyone tell me?" My voiced echoed from the toilet bowl.

"Clay, we knew she had cancer last year. She didn't want you to know."

I just lost my best friend and I never had a chance to tell her how much I appreciated her for everything. As sad as I was, I didn't shed a tear. I was too emotionally tapped out.

"A few weeks before she passed, she had lockets made for her children to remember her by."

Heidi gave me a face towel and I cleaned myself up.

"Man, I can't believe she's gone. I'm gonna miss her; she was always there for me. Heidi, you can have the coffee and donuts; I just lost my appetite. I think I'd better go now. Tell Todd, Sean and Dawn (her children) I stopped by."

As I walked to my car, Heidi called out to me.

"Clay, remember I said she had lockets made for her children?"

I sat in my car and rolled the window down. Heidi approached me on the driver's side.

"Yeah, you did say that."

"Well, there's one here for you. She thought of you as one of her kids," Heidi said as she passed me my locket.

Okay. That broke me seeing Lori's picture smiling at me as I opened the locket.

"Clay, I think there's a message on the back."

My hand was shaking as I removed the picture from the locket. The message on back read: Hey, Kiddo,

I told you so!

Love Forever, Lori

Lori Murdock Rest in Peace

Two weeks later my dad passed away. My mom asked me what I wanted to take back with me as keepsakes. I took his high school scrapbook, a dozen or so cassette tapes of his sermons and the black leather coat I bought for him.

# — CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR —

# It's 4:30 a.m.

## January-February 2011

It was a shame. It was a shame that the same man who boarded a flight from Heathrow airport bound for San Diego, California, would never return. The man who took his place harbored an insatiable desire to tell a story and was haunted by suppressed memories of a long lost love. News of Howard's death in coming days would only add fuel to the fire.

Was I aware of how my life was tracking in parallel with Monet's vision in trance? Most definitely. To some degree I resented being a spectator in my own life, not having full control of my destiny. I didn't want to be a puppet on a string, just following a pre-scripted storyline. But, if I could change the future, was it ever my future? Over the last twenty years I had become a well-read student of trance, and time travel never passed the common sense test. But how could I deny events in my life unfolding before my own eyes, events that Monet couldn't have known? I had second thoughts about taking my dad's leather coat home to England, but I was drawn to it. During my time with Monet she often referred to our incessant passion somewhere in our fifties. By her account the hunger and desire we would experience then would overshadow anything in our youth. I remember those passion marks all over her body and it was the older me that put them there. The whole notion was so bizarre that I couldn't tell anyone about it. One thing for sure, I didn't see a pathway for her to reenter my life. After all I was engaged to April and living in England.

Over dinner April asked me about my trip to California.

"Well, I got my divorce decree and my driver's license and saw an old Marine buddy from my Mogadishu days."

April stopped cutting her steak in mid-stride. She had a question.

"But what about your personal belongings in storage, the main reason you went in the first place?"

I could feel the tension in the air.

"I went there. I just didn't bring anything back with me other than a few things I could fit in my briefcase."

"So the whole trip was just a complete waste of time? You could have renewed your license and ordered a copy of the divorce decree all online."

I resented the tone of questioning and it reflected in my tone as well.

"No, it wasn't a complete waste of time. I told you, I stopped by to see a buddy and I paid a visit to Lori."

"Lori, your old neighbor? The one who never acknowledged the flowers you sent?"

"She didn't acknowledge the flowers because she was too busy dying. She's dead now. And on that note, I think I will head to the study to start on my new book," I said as I got up from the table and walked upstairs.

April got up from the table and walked to the foot of the stairs.

"Since when did you become a book worm?"

"I'm not going to read a book; I'm going to write one. Thank you very much."

April giggled to herself.

"First it was hypnosis, then it was buying and selling cars and now you want to become a writer. Where does it end Clay? And where do I fit in?"

This would become the new norm. I was less attentive and always preoccupied with the book.

I swung my chair in front of the computer workstation and opened up an empty word document. I had the motivation; I just needed to channel it into words. Here we go.

I needed a title.

Hmm, Life and Times in Mogadishu.

Reject. Maybe if I just started writing, I could think of a book title later.

"There once was a man named Clay."

That's retarded.

Okay, one more try.

"Here's the story of a man called Gunny, who had..."

Wait a second, that's the Brady Bunch theme song. Shit.

Damn. How do you write a book? Where do you start?

Obviously, I needed help. A lot of help. I knew just where to go to get the help I needed.

www.ghostwriters.net

"Hi, my name is Clay. I am calling from overseas. I was wondering how much you charge for ghostwriting services."

"Hello, Clay. Thank you for going to our website and choosing our services. First of all, I'd like to introduce to you three packages."

"No, I'm just interested in your most economic, least expensive package. Nothing fancy."

"Okay, in that case you want our bronze package. This is just the bare bones but it will get you started. For this service we charge only $10 per page."

I had no idea how many pages I would need, so I couldn't calculate the expense in my head.

"That sounds pretty reasonable, I think."

"I think you will be happy with that service, but we do have a minimum page count."

"Oh, what's that?"

"Our minimum page count is three hundred pages double spaced. We're looking at about four months till completion once we assign you a writer. Of course we will want that up front."

"Three hundred pages? That's three thousand dollars. And that doesn't include publishing costs."

"Mr. Thompson. This is your dream. If you let finances get in the way then maybe you aren't ready to move forward.

Click.

I was so deflated. There was no way I could pay that type of money after spending a few grand on back-storage fees and plane fare. I did what I always did when I had nowhere else to turn. I prayed.

Lord you've given me this story, please help me get it out there. If you bless me with this, I will uphold my promise to tithe ten percent of whatever I make, and give you the glory. Amen.

The next day I went on a spiritual fast to let the Lord know I was committed. April began to see a different side of me, a side that was unfamiliar to her, a side that wasn't part of the initial package that made her fall in love.

For the next week I would sit at the computer and...nothing. I was losing hope and my motivation to get the book out started to wane.

Three weeks later, I was somewhere in my peaceful slumber on a workday when all of a sudden I woke up for no reason. I looked at the clock and it was only 4:30 a.m. I tried going back to sleep but I couldn't. I got frustrated just staring at the ceiling doing nothing. This continued for weeks. Every day I would wake up at exactly the same time and stare into space for two hours before I had to get up and go to work.

By the second week, I was beat into submission and just got used to waking up at 4:30 in the morning. I wasn't angry anymore; just idle in my mind.

On the Wednesday of that same week, I woke up as usual and looked at the ceiling, just twiddling my thumbs under the covers.

That was it.

Within a few minutes, my motivation to start my story returned with new and fresh ideas. Hundreds of them. So many ideas flooded my mind that I had to jump on the computer to record them all. It was no longer a matter of what I was going to say; it was now a matter of how I was going to say it. The words flowed as though I had my own personal team of ghostwriters in my head. The best thing was I found my narrative voice. Some of the ideas in my head I was so sure of while lying in bed, but found them cut before I could type them. Someone was driving my creative flow, and it wasn't me.

Once I found my groove I couldn't stop. I just kept typing and typing. April said she saw more of the back of my head than my face. She didn't approve of the time I invested. I was distant in my own little world. It wasn't fair, but I couldn't help it. Every day, including weekends, I would wake up at 4:30 in the morning, and by 4:35 I was logged in, ready to type.

The name of the book was finally fixed—The Mogadishu Diaries. It was written in only six weeks.

While I was at the computer looking for self-publishing companies, April walked upstairs and stood behind me. Just before she walked into the study I closed my browser and opened CNN.

"Clay, I'm not stupid. I know you are not reading CNN, it must be something to do with the book. I told friends at work that you were thinking about writing a book."

I swung my chair around and looked up.

"So, what did they have to say?"

"They all want to know what makes your life so special that you think people will want to pay to read about it."

April hit a nerve.

"You and your friends don't get it. It was never about becoming an author; it was never about making a buck. I'm offering the book for free. I just want to tell a story that I shared with someone, someone who inspired me and left me with a dream."

After I had read and re-read my manuscript a dozens times over, I decided to have it reviewed by someone who was tangentially part of the story, Debra Howard. I sent her an email on Hotmail and attached my manuscript. After I hit the send button I scooted away from my computer and ran a few errands in the local village.

When I returned, I noticed I had an unopened email in my inbox. It was from Debra Howard. She was very happy that I followed through with the project and thought her husband would have been proud of the way I captured the sights, sounds and smells of our time in Mogadishu. Attached to her email was an early draft of Howard's memoirs from the first Gulf War.

After reading the first four chapters I had to stop to reflect on his writing. Our writing styles bore strong resemblances. We both wrote in a conversational writing style, preferred short chapters to long ones and even had some of the same grammatical errors. I thought it was funny that we both overused the three dots known as ellipses.

I sat back in my chair and smiled. I'd like to think that Howard did hold true to his promise...he helped me with the book.

I had the manuscript proofread by two editors and I realized I needed a book cover. I knew a graphic artist named Doria who lived nearby and I commissioned her to do the art work. One week later, Doria emailed me three versions of the same book cover but in different color shades. The color that I felt was most suitable had a brownish tint. Just before I was about to approve the cover I remembered Monet's revelation that the book I would one day give her would be brown in color.

No, way.

I had complete control and I could choose any color shade I wanted. I picked the green camouflage tinted version. Why? Because I could.

As I progressed in my project I realized I knew nothing about marketing. After hours and hours on the internet I settled on two marketing agents. One agent would focus on getting the book reviewed by independent journalists, bloggers and other authors, while the other agent would concentrate on mainstream media, TV, radio, etc.

The agent who undertook the main stream media project was a smooth and fast talker, but I liked his passion.

"Clay. This book would be a great Memorial Day read. Let's time the release date during that time when the military will be the flavor of the month. Gotta strike while the opportunity is there. Oh, yeah. Who did your book cover?"

"I had a friend of a friend do it. She's a graphic designer, so she knows what she's doing."

"It looks like a power point job. Let us handle it for you. You need a professional cover designer, not a graphic artist. I can do all this for you for $3,700."

That was a lot of money but I was committed.

"Okay, deal. I will pay half upfront. After I get the book cover, I will pay the remaining balance."

The finished product was amazing. I liked the way he breathed life into the cover. After I approved the cover I paid the remaining $1,900. I never heard from them again. They took the money and ran. The color shade of the book, yeah, it was brown.

The Mogadishu Diaries Approved Book Cover

I learned a very valuable lesson. All was not lost because my agent in charge of putting my book out there for reviews was kicking ass. The reviews started with a trickle and then sometimes I would get two and three a day. Most of my reviewers were women and I was delighted that my book didn't alienate half of the population. I read all the reviews, but there were two reviews that really caught my attention.

One of those reviews was by an academic on African Studies. Dr. Tsonga was a renowned scholar and was scheduled to speak at the conference I was attending in Quantico, Virginia, the following month. He gave me a four-star review which I was proud of. I looked forward to meeting with him in person after the conference to discuss his thoughts about The Mogadishu Diaries. The other review was more of a message than a review.

I knew exactly who wrote that review. After a little light research on the pseudonym, I verified that it was Monet. She found me. I had to restrain my emotions because I could feel myself wanting to get lost in her love all over again. I needed to stay strong and focused.

That Friday, my son invited me to his house around the corner to play cards before he went clubbing at Level 2, the local hangout. Clay Jr. was on his laptop responding to Facebook requests when I arrived. He was a bit agitated.

"Arrghh. My laptop froze again. I think I have a virus, it keeps freezing up on me."

I sat down on the sofa next to Clay and shook my head when I saw he had over 400 friends on Facebook. I looked at his friends list and saw that we shared a few mutual friends, but one in particular got my attention.

"Clay, is that Monet on your friend's list? How long have you two been in contact?" I asked excitedly.

"Dad, Ms. Monet and I go way back to the MySpace days. We don't chat a lot, mostly during holidays and stuff."

"You remember Monet?"

"Dad, we practically lived at her house, remember?"

"Does she ask about me?"

"Yeah, sometimes. She still remembers your birthday. You should look her up."

"Oh, boy. I can't. It's a road I can't go down again. It's a long story. So, how about those cards?"

It seemed Monet had found her own pathway to me in cyberspace.

I had just returned from a high school college night. There I met with young students who also were aspiring writers like myself. It was nice to engage with others who were so passionate about writing. Despite our age differences we were bonded by our love of the written word.

I was in a great mood when I left but that would be short-lived once I set foot in the house. April had a copy of my book in her lap on the couch. I could tell she was crying. I asked what was wrong.

"I just read your book. Who is Ayan?"

I hung up my jacket in the closet and joined her in the living room.

"Ayan was one of our interpreters in Somalia. Why?"

"Well, it's pretty clear you fancied her back then, according to the book," she stated as she tossed it onto the coffee table.

"Yeah, but that was over twenty years ago. Nothing ever happened between us; it was just a crush."

"So, all this time you've been upstairs writing about some fling you had, reminiscing. I find that very disrespectful," April commented as she wiped her eyes.

"But nothing happened."

"In the book you described her as stunning and very beautiful, was she?"

I sat closer to her and tried to comfort her.

"No. I exaggerated to make it more appealing to the reader; in real life she was just average. Okay? She was just average."

I put my arm around her and tried to ease her mind.

I was looking forward to meeting Dr. Tsonga during my conference the following day. I made a mental note to bring a few copies of the book with me. The girls at work gave me a list of a few things to buy for them while I was in the States. Tamara was the youngest woman in our office and she was kind enough to check the weather in Virginia for me on the Internet.

"Clay, you might want to dress really warm. It looks like freezing weather for the entire week you're there."

In the back of my head, it was enough for me to know that Monet didn't just forget about me. I didn't feel compelled to track her down and ask all the millions of questions I had. She still remembered me and that was enough.

I took a half-day at work to run errands before my flight the next day. When I got home, I realized April left the computer on, so I went upstairs to shut it down.

As I stepped into the room I saw a note from April with her engagement ring placed in the center.

The computer was looping a YouTube clip. April must have Googled Ayan and found a clip of Ayan and other linguists giving a CNN interview prior to their departure to Somalia in 1992. Ayan was just as I described her in the book, stunning and alluring. I was caught in a lie, albeit a white lie, but it was still a lie. The note simply said to let her know when the old Clay was back. My heartache led me to a sad reality; it was one thing to meet the girl of your dreams but it was another thing to actually keep her. In my mind and in my heart I knew April didn't run away. I drove her away. I loved her but I didn't deserve her.

# — CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE —

# The Last Domino

## Marriott Hotel, Woodbridge, Virginia

Welcome to the Marriott Hotel, are you checking in or checking out today?" asked the young lady behind the counter.

"Chhhhecking in," I responded, still shivering from the subzero temperature outside.

Eventually, I managed to retrieve a printout of my reservation and slid it across the counter. I hadn't experienced temperatures that low in over thirty years. It was as though I had brain freeze, but all over my body. My dad's coat did well to protect me from the whipping wind, but my face, ears and hands were numb to the touch.

"Mr. Thompson, we have you for six nights, checking out on Saturday morning. Is that correct?"

"Yes. If I need an extra blanket. Would that be a problem?"

"Mr. Thompson, our rooms are well-heated. I am sure you'll be fine. Here are your keys. Here is your Wi-Fi password. You are in room 660. The elevators are just around the corner and have a nice afternoon."

As I was handed the hotel key, the lobby door opened and a gust of chill said hello. I was annoyed. I grabbed my briefcase and garment bag and made my way to my room.

The first thing I did was stick my card key in the slot to turn on the lighting and electrics. After I dropped my baggage next to the nightstand, I sat on the radiator to warm up. I could have sat there all night. Within the hour I had already showered, unpacked and powered up my laptop. I had a nice view. I could see for miles and it was just nice to be back in the States, home of fine cuisine: the IHOP, Cracker Barrel and White Castle. There was no way I would journey out to eat that night, so I moseyed downstairs and had a club sandwich and a bowl of vegetable soup.

Halfway through my meal, I was disturbed by the gusts of wind blowing into the lobby from the doors opening and closing every time a party arrived. I finished the rest of my soup and took my half-eaten sandwich to my room.

Lounging in my warm black robe, I decided to check my new author website I uploaded to the web to promote my book. I was happy to see that I had a few hits on the site and my first email.

It was from Monet.

Please accept my Facebook friend request.

This was the first direct contact I had with Monet in over twenty years. At first I was really excited, but then my elation waned quickly. It waned because I couldn't bear the thought of someone who I loved so deeply being just a cyber-friend. My feelings would not fit into that tiny box. But I couldn't just ignore her either. I had to brace myself and replay all scenarios in my head for the recontact. However, there was one scenario that I couldn't have foreseen.

I opened my Facebook page and I quickly spotted her friend request. I saw that she was online and I confirmed her request. I exhaled slowly while slouched in my chair. Within a minute, Monet and I would engage some serious textual intercourse of a non-sexual nature.

## Email trail

Monet> Your son told me you'd be making a trip to Virginia.

Clay> Yeah, I just landed a few hours ago.

Monet> I'm close by.

Okay, things just got interesting.

Clay> You live in Virginia?

Monet> No, I live in Evansville, Indiana.

Clay> What brings you here?

A part of me had hoped she flew to Virginia knowing I would be in town.

Monet> Visiting someone.

Damn. I should have known; it was too good to be true. I shouldn't have let my guard down so easily. It stung.

Clay> Who? Marc?

Monet> No, we split up. I'm having dinner later with a Marine stationed at Quantico. He's a military policeman.

This was harder than I thought and I began to regret accepting the friend request. But there was more to come.

Clay> Nice.

Monet> Clay, it would mean so much to me if you could join us for dinner. Please.

Love is blind but it's not deaf and blind. No way could I torture myself like that. I considered it an unreasonable request.

Clay> As much as I want to see you, I can't sit across from you and some other guy. Too hard. Sorry.

Monet> He's not just some guy.

Clay> Can I be nosey?

Monet> Yes.

Clay> Do you love him?

Monet> Yes.

Clay> Why are we having this conversation?

Monet> Because, he's not just some guy.

Clay> OKAY, OKAY. WHO IS HE?

Monet> He's our son.

I pushed back from the desk and scooted to the back of the room. I stood and looked at the laptop as though it was an alien. I paced the floor before sitting back down. I experienced three distinct ranges of emotion.

Anger: Because I was left out of a decision that would ultimately change my life. I didn't have a say.

Confusion: Because my life would be altered forever and I didn't know what my new life would look life.

Joy: At the knowledge that a life was born out of a pure love that I was a part of.

Monet> Clay, are you there?

Clay> I'm here. Wow.

Monet> Call me. Xxx-xxxx

I was overwhelmed. I didn't have a playbook response for "You are the father."

For the first time in my life I took a drink to gut through an issue. I opened my mini fridge and downed a miniature Jack Daniels.

Yuck, how can people drink this?

I had two more for good measure. I didn't want to get drunk; I only wanted to relax. That was all. I called Monet on my cell. I was nervous.

Ring.

"Monet?"

"Hey."

"Monet, I don't know what to say. But why tell me now after all this time? Why now?"

Monet's voice cracked nervously as she spoke. She always did that before she was about to cry. And she did, hysterically.

"In the morning, he's gonna leave me. My baby. I might not see him again. I'm scared, Clay!"

"Okay, sweetie. Calm down. Where's he going?"

I could hear the sadness in Monet's voice and it hurt me to hear her like that.

"He's going to Afghanistan in the morning for a year. He lied to me. He told me he was finishing a college degree program because he didn't want me to worry. But someone posted it on his Facebook page, that's' how I found out."

I tried calming her down, but she wasn't done crying.

"What's his name?" I was hoping it wouldn't be Marc Jr.

She named him Robert after her brother. I couldn't figure out why Monet was so hysterical but when she told me that he was a part of a mentoring program for the Afghan Security Forces it all made sense. The Taliban hit the Afghan Security Forces hard and often. Moreover, military policemen paid a heavy toll in casualties, mostly from suicide bombers in vehicles crashing into perimeter compound gates.

"Clay, I couldn't say goodbye to Robert without letting him see his real father. I need you to come. I need to see the both of you together. Robert is a good kid. You'd like him."

"Okay, I'll meet you. How are you going to introduce me?"

"I'll figure something out. Just come, okay? We will be at Smoky Bones in a couple of hours. And Clay?"

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry for leaving you. I know I hurt you. Maybe one day you will forgive me."

"Thanks for that Monet. I thought you forgot all about me."

"How could I forget? I've been raising our son for nineteen years now."

Just as I was starting to feel better, I heard a loud siren in the hallway. I ignored it.

No one knew about me being Robert's dad and Monet wanted to keep it that way.

Monet calmed down and we even laughed about old times. I couldn't believe she remembered Hypno Bro. She told me that it was ultimately her family that swayed her to stay with Marc. Our conversation was cut short by a knock at the door.

"Excuse me, sir. This is not a drill; there is a fire on the floor. We need you to evacuate the building immediately, dress warm; the temperatures are dropping fast."

I quickly grabbed the phone and said goodbye to Monet, letting her know I would meet her at Smoky Bones. I put on my dad's coat and grabbed a pair of white sweat socks to use as gloves. I could smell and see black smoke when I walked in the hallway. I felt like an idiot waiting on the elevator by myself while everyone else made a mad dash to the stairwell.

"Excuse me, sir. The power to the elevators has been cut; you need to exit via the stairwell and find your way to the designated assembly area outside."

The thickness of the smoke became suffocating and I realized the seriousness of the situation and understood why people were panicking. I was slightly tipsy from the Jack Daniels and I got shoved around a lot on the way to the stairwell. The hotel staff were positioned in the stairwell and asked patrons to allow families with small children to have priority. No one listened; it was every man for himself. People in the stairwell were getting trampled and on the way down I slipped on something, twisting my ankle. It was a stupid Barbie doll. Damn, it hurt. People stepping on my ankle in the frenzy just made it more painful.

I finally made it outside in the big chill, keeping pressure off my right ankle. After standing in the assembly area for twenty minutes freezing my ass off, I noticed a men's store just across the street. The sweat socks I had on my hands were completely useless and my face was freezing. I made a beeline to the shop.

I was looking for the cheapest gloves I could find and there was nothing under $25.00. I let the sales rep talk me into buying a package deal for $50.00 that included a scarf, black insulated leather gloves and a black dress hat.

I stuffed the scarf inside my coat, put on my nice warm gloves and donned my hat. I looked in the mirror.

"So, how do I look?" I said as I kept an eye on the assembly area across the street.

"You look marvelous in all black. I really like that hat. I think it's the red feather that really sets it off."

I paid with my debit card and hopped on one leg to rejoin the crowd. I was still cold but it was manageable. Within five minutes of my return, a member of the hotel staff made an announcement.

"People, if I could just have your attention, please. If you are on floors two through six we have made new accommodations for you at nearby hotels. A shuttle bus will transport you to where you will be staying tonight. If you have left any possessions in your rooms, we will have them delivered to you tonight. Thank you for your patience."

I hobbled aboard the crowed shuttle and our first stop was the Hyatt. My name wasn't called, so I remained on board. Mine was the very last stop. I could see the red neon light just ahead. As I walked into the Hilton Hotel, I thought a lot about my journey over the last twenty years. A journey that was foretold so long ago, by an angel.

Sometimes there are forces at work that we either don't acknowledge or understand. Yet despite our lack of understanding they still exist.

I saw Monet sitting at a booth as I walked towards the main entrance of the restaurant. It was a sobering moment. I had only one emotion, just love. I walked inside and passed the bar close to where they sat. I couldn't see the gentlemen sitting across from her as his back was to me. Monet waved at me to get my attention. Twenty years had passed since I had seen her. I hobbled over to her table and the gentleman sitting across from her looked up and smiled at me. I gave Monet a kiss on the cheek and shook the hand of the son I had never met. As I held Monet's hand underneath the table, I knew exactly what story I would tell in my next book. You've just heard it.

# ABOUT THE AUTHOR

The author studied Transforming Therapy at the Hypnosis Institute of San Diego in the early nineties. His respect for the practice of hypnotherapy is only exceeded by his passion to help others. With over two decades of experience, the author continues to push the boundaries of this amazing and yet misunderstood discipline of wellness.

The Seduction of Monet Dawson was written in eight weeks. Other titles by the author: Flagrant Misconduct, My Name is Elijah, Insider Threat and The Mogadishu Diaries.

This literary work depicts real life situations and is not intended to glamorize or promote infidelity.

Art Design: Martin Pope  
www.new-paradigm-publishers.org

Front Cover Art Design by Marketsharemasters

# NOTES

 Filipino for bye.

 A French card game

 Term of endearment among Marines

 War Cry of Marines
