

### Volume I

a fool's journey

Mosanami Etal

Book One

SmashWords Edition

_a fool's journey_ \- Copyright 2013 by Mosanami Etal

SmashWords Edition, License Notes

All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author and publisher of this book.

Formatting by RikHall.com

Acknowledgements

A big thank you to the team who breathes life into this book series: the graphic designer, the editor, the formatter, and the international core beta reader groups one and two.

Book Series Dedication

To the living memory of my mother.

BOOK ONE is the first of an ongoing book series where the Author takes pause to reflect upon his life as a jigsaw puzzle. It is a mystery where he begins to fit the pieces of the puzzle together in the hope of achieving greater understanding of why he is here.

"I share with Roland Barthes the opinion that the text is formed by the reader rather than by the author." — Rain-walker

Author's Introduction

In the story of Tarot, the Fool represents each of us as we begin our life journey. At birth, we willingly play the role of fool because only the purest of Spirit brings forth the innocence and blind faith to trust.

The Fool is ready to embrace whatever comes down his or her path to learn the lessons of the world, and is oblivious to the hardships and vicissitudes of life. Newly born, bright, and open to spontaneously venture to adventure; from comfort and joy—to pain and suffering.

It is in this context that I share with you the stories of my life: _a fool's journey_. So please, if you will...

"Sit by my side, come as close as the air,

Share in a memory of gray;

Wander in my words, dream about the pictures

That I play of changes."

\-- " _Changes_ " by Phil Ochs

# Book One, The Ring Bearer

It is always the Darkest...before The Light. That is one of the many life lessons my mother tried to teach me. Yes, I do mean 'tried.' In fact, they all tried. All of my mothers took me to school: my birth mother, surrogate mothers, Mother Earth, Mother Nature, and the Mother of All Creation. And still, here is where I remain—a student.

My earliest childhood memories go back to when I was five years old, an untried and callow time.

That is where my life began—on the day my Aunt Mary was going to teach me how to swim. I needed to learn to swim because that summer I was going to spend four weeks at the Miller family's beach house. Aunt Mary was really not my aunt at all, but she looked after Elizabeth and Jessica Miller, and sometimes me too. My mother considered Aunt Mary to be one of her closest friends. I had a lot of Aunts, but few of them were related to me by blood. They say it takes a village to raise a child, and many of my Aunts lived in my village—Greenwich Village.

Aunt Mary was engaged to a man named George. George was a very nice man. Coming from me, this is a compliment of the highest order, because I did not care for men at all when I was younger—didn't trust them, didn't like them. But George was different than the others—that was why I called him an uncle! Uncle George wasn't there on the day of my swimming lesson, due to his busy work schedule, but Elizabeth and Jessica were going to take the swimming lesson along with me. We were fortunate to have Aunt Mary teaching us, because she was a certified swimming instructor.

There were two swimming pools—one was knee-deep and square for wading; the other was long, rectangular, and Olympic-sized. We arrived early, as my mother was never late for anything. She would prefer to patiently wait an hour rather than play beat-the-clock. Me? I did not inherit her unending patience. Nope—I gotta move!

That day, however, I made a concerted effort.

"You better keep still BOY, if you know what's good for you!" She bellowed at me.

I was well aware of what was coming next. There was a consistent pattern. The first warning was the menacing glare out of the corner of one of her squinted eyes, accompanied by a terse, tight, quivering of the lips. There was never a turn of her head, just the sidelong glance. The second warning was always started with, "You Better..."

Two warnings were all you were gonna get. And that second one was a gift from her Christian, God-fearing, compassionate side. As far as she was concerned, one warning was more than enough. Mom was Old School. On the third strike, you got what was coming to you. She was gonna knock you straight through Purgatory and into Hell on that third one.

Mom was a maestro too—the maestro of the backhand slap. She was as quick as greased lightning! Impressions of the back of her palm often were emblazoned on my tender cheeks, serving as a reminder. On that day, I had a handprint that was reminding me of a couple of Sundays before. On the way home from an agonizing three-hour Church service during which I had to discipline myself to remain as still as humanly possible, we ran into one of her friends. We were only three city blocks from emancipation—the place we called home. The place where I could shed the skin of the navy blue blazer, bowtie, white shirt, suspenders, navy blue shorts, navy blue knee-high socks, and black shoes.

As Mom stood there chatting with her friend, I was terrified that my worst nightmare would come true—that one of my friends would turn the corner and catch me standing there in my Sunday best, with my mother holding my hand. Imagine! I couldn't think of anything worse.

I was fidgety, looking over my left shoulder first, then my right. I needed to buy some time to pull away if need be. And there my mom was, just chitchatting away slowly and calmly, as if I had nothing better to do with my time but hold her hand and listen.

Then, in the distance, I caught a glimpse of two familiar figures. It looked like Bernard and his brother Peter. Could it be? Were they coming this way? They were too far away for me to tell for sure, but too close to take any chances. I started to panic, thinking of what I should do. Then it hit me—I could bend down real low to pretend to tie my shoelaces; maybe then they wouldn't see me.

Yes! That's it!

Suddenly my mother's grip became tighter. This wasn't gonna be easy, but I couldn't think of anything else in the moment.

Pull away—NOW!

I successfully wiggled my tiny hand free from her grip. At just that moment, with a fluid pendulum motion, she swung her now-free hand upward in a gesture to her friend. With the velocity of a guillotine and the intense ferocity of renowned Italian conductor Arturo Toscanini, she delivered a backhanded slap across my face. Before I could so much as register the shock, that same free flowing hand secured mine once again in an even tighter grip. The cadence of her voice never changed, and not for a blink of an eye did she remove her gaze from her friend's.

I briefly relived that moment of shock, and felt a little numbness in my right cheek. I kept my body still but allowed the unbridled imagination of my mind to run wild and free, like a massive herd of stampeding wildebeests sweeping across the open African plains.

I hitched a ride, and they dropped me off at the edge of the jungle, leaving me alone to call upon the greatest swimmer in the history of swimming: Tarzan, the Ape Man. I watched every movie in the Tarzan series on TV over and over as a child. He was one of my heroes. Not just any of the Tarzans either, as several men played the part. For me, there was only one Tarzan: Johnny Weissmuller.

Back at the swimming pool, I peeked over at my mom, who was still sitting quietly, her eyes closed. I felt the urge to nudge her and let her in on my little secret: I already knew how to swim! I had learned by watching the best swimmer in the whole wide world, over and over again—I was certain I'd take to the water like a fish.

Maybe she was asleep; she was tired and had just come off of the graveyard shift. I could not tell for certain but my common sense told me waking her would be a grave mistake. She wouldn't believe me anyway. She was simply going to have to see for herself. And, Oh Boy! Was she ever going to be surprised!

In my mind, I replayed images of Tarzan swimming. As soon as I felt I had memorized his technique, I opened my eyes to observe both empty pools. The long, rectangular pool had a super-tall ladder that led to a diving board.

Yes, that will substitute nicely for a giant tree in the jungle. But something is missing. What is missing? Yes! Of course! There are no vines to swing from! No worries—I'll be Tarzan diving off a cliff. Done! Cliff diving will certainly be a lot easier than swinging from a vine, at least for my very first time. Okay, good—almost ready.

I needed a storyline and a mission. I let my imagination run wild.

Cheeta, my faithful chimpanzee and best friend, frees me from the bondage of those diabolical White Hunters. The Hunters have gone to find and kidnap Jane. Their plan is not only to poach the animals that are my friends and family, but also put me in a zoo and return Jane to her family in the far-off modern world.

Must find Jane before they do!!! Must find Jane!!!

Mom! You are one of the White Hunters assigned to guard me. But you fell asleep, didn't you? You have been awake guarding me all night, and no one came to give you a break.

Cheeta? Is that you? I'm over here! Quick! Untie my wrists and ankles. Thank you, Cheeta! Do you know where Jane is? Swimming? Where? In the Crocodile River? But I told her to never swim in that river without me! Don't you worry Cheeta -- I know a short cut up a cliff! Wait! What's that noise? Hush. Be quiet. I hear something.

Once more, I surveyed the surrounding area. No adults yet, which meant the Hunters had not yet returned. There was still time to rescue Jane!

Okay, Cheeta, follow me. But be very, very quiet.

We made it to the bottom of the cliff without waking the guard and drawing attention to ourselves.

Cheeta, wait here and keep a lookout. I know you want to go, but you can't swim, and I don't have the time to teach you now. I'm sorry, Cheeta, but I promise to teach you when I return. Okay?

Carefully, I climbed up to the top of the cliff. I crawled along the long board, imagining it as a log sticking out of a rocky wall. I looked over the edge. It was a long way down.

Suddenly, a commotion of voices caught my attention. Aunt Mary had arrived with Elizabeth and Jessica! Just in time! My mother was awake! I could see that they were looking around for me. Up here was the last place they would look. I figured I had better let them know where I was before they worried too much.

I looked down into the water, and I saw her—Jane! Jane, and—CROCODILES! Not another moment to spare!

I'm coming for you, Jane! Here goes!

I bounced up and down on the log then sprung up into the air. I beat my scrawny chest with my tiny fists, and let out a Tarzan yodel.

"Aaaaaaah-Uh-aaaaaah-uh-AAAAAAAAH!"

For sure, everyone knew where I was now! SPLASH! I hit the water! I was going down, down, down. I opened my eyes and felt the sting of chlorine. My nostrils were burning, too. My eyes were on fire, but I needed to keep them open to see where in hell I was going. Suddenly, I remembered what to do!

Blow up my cheeks like that famous man who plays the trumpet with his eyes bulging out of his head. Now swim! Kick your legs out like a frog! Flap your arms about like the wings of a Butterfly, and swim! I'M DOING IT! Yes! I'm swimming!

I had mastered the Tarzan technique. But there was one thing that I could not understand. Why was I still going down, down, down? I was doing everything right! What did I forget?

And then a feeling came over me that I will never, ever forget. EVER! It was an empty feeling without any emotional attachment.

Oh, well...I tried.

This was followed by an act of complete and absolute surrender. There was no fear or panic whatsoever; there was no sadness, not even remote disappointment. I was calm and collected.

I tried and it just didn't work out, but this is okay.

I relaxed my body and opened my mouth to release whatever air was left, and to permit passage of the water.

To this day, I remember this act of surrender as the most serene, tranquil, and euphoric feeling I have ever felt. As if it just happened this morning.

I didn't share this experience with anyone until I was an adult. I chose to let people believe that I was afraid of the water, afraid of drowning. But this was not the case, not at all—it was the exact opposite.

In my late teens, I read about others who have had what "experts" refer to as a near-death experience. Most of these so-called "experts" have studied others who have had such experiences. But as far as I am concerned, an expert is only someone who has endured the experience him or herself, many, many, many times.

Just like others have described, I could feel myself leave my body, though there wasn't any significant emotion attached to my response. I found the experience interesting more than anything else.

Hey! I'm leaving me! Wow! Isn't this interesting?

And yes, there was the whole vision of white light that is commonly shared by people who come close to death. But I don't remember a tunnel of any kind. I just remember everything being so bright. Then, I paused and turned around to look down to observe Aunt Mary diving into the water to rescue me.

I watched as she pulled me out of the water, gave me mouth-to-mouth, and pumped the water from my chest. I remember thinking.

There is a reason I came here. I came here to experience something I have not yet experienced, and I can only experience it—here.

This thought was in my own voice. My Voice and My Choice.

In a fraction of a second, I returned back to my body. After the last few ounces of pool water were pumped out of my body, and the first breath of oxygen expanded into my lungs, I recall what was without a doubt, absolutely, and positively, to this very day by far...

THE MOST PAINFUL EXPERIENCE THAT I HAVE EVER ENDURED!

When I became an adult, I reflected on this pain. I arrived at the conclusion that this must be why no one remembers being born. I have never heard of any person who remembers what it is like to be born.

And when I heard Annie Lennox sing for the first time, "Dying is easy, it's living that scares me to death," I laughed out loud.

Ain't that the truth—You got that right!

Anyway, I figured out later on that one of the things that I must have wanted to experience was being a ring bearer in a wedding, because Aunt Mary asked me if I would perform the honor when she married Uncle George. Elizabeth and Jessica were to be the flower girls. I accepted, and was excited and nervous at the same time; I took the role very seriously. The way that I saw it, there was not a single duty of greater importance than that of The Ring Bearer.

I wore my Sunday bests to the ceremony, even though the wedding was on a Saturday: black shoes, navy blue knee-high socks, navy blue shorts, suspenders over a crisp white shirt, bow tie, and a navy blue blazer. I was the proudest little boy to have ever lived on that Holy Day of Matrimony.

The Magic of Butterflies and The Glow

I never did learn to swim that summer, but I still was invited to spend four magical weeks at the Miller's Beach House in Amagansett on the far eastern end of Long Island. It was indeed a _long_ island—it seemed like it took us forever to get there. There was only one more town after Amagansett, after that it was all about the reach of the ocean, all the way to Europe – I think. Anyway, whatever piece of land was on the other side, I knew it was too far away for me to swim.

Their house was on Bluff Road, not too far from A&B Snowflake, which is where we got our ice cream cones and root beer floats. They also carried other stuff, but what else would a kid want besides ice cream cones and root beer floats at the beach?

The house was a "real" beach house too—right on the beach, surrounded by sand and surf. The best part was, you could drag the sand into the house with you, and the adults wouldn't even yell at you. The furniture was made of things that one would find on the beach, like sun-bleached driftwood, and the Miller family created the coolest pieces of artwork using seashells. Every night there was a cook out, with people playing musical instruments, singing, and dancing. There was no television, and no one missed it. It was summer—nothing but re-runs anyway!

When I was older, I would visit the beach homes of my schoolmates. The houses were mostly furnished like New York City apartments or townhouses—like museums. You were always afraid to sit on anything for fear you would break or damage it in some way. And God forbid if you so much as dragged a grain of sand inside the house—you would never be invited back! I could never understand why these people didn't buy a house in the mountains where there was no sand. Of course, many of them had homes in the mountains as well. I suppose they believed children were not made to feel comfortable. The only the children who were comfortable, we called "young fogies." And they were not much fun.

My mother raised me to show respect toward adults. I always said, please and thank you. I never spoke unless spoken to first, and I made certain that my answers were brief, because adults were rarely genuinely interested in anything I had to say anyway. For the most part, adults only truly cared about what they had to say. That was great preparation for life—a valuable lesson! Thanks Mom!

When you are silent but present, the only thing left for you to do is observe and listen carefully. And that's exactly what I did, which explains why I did not care for adults. They say one thing, then turn around immediately and do something else. Any child who pays attention will see that adults are most often an uptight, self-important, know-it-all, bossy, and downright stupid lot, no matter how intelligent and successful that they believe themselves to be.

The Miller parents, however, were an exception to the rule. They were gentle, kind, patient, and respectful to children and adults alike. They were cool! Both were professors at the University, and they enjoyed most of the summer free from work.

One night over dinner, I shared with them my desire to catch a Butterfly. I told them I wanted to catch it the following morning. After we finished eating, they unearthed about a dozen empty glass jars with fitting lids, and I spent the rest of the evening selecting the perfect jar. Then I brought it to bed with me and slept with it.

The morning was bright and sunny. I was the first in the house to get out of bed. I rummaged about downstairs until I found a screwdriver to pierce holes in the lid so the Butterflies could breathe fresh air. It took me a lot of time to decide on the number of holes. First I needed to figure out how many Butterflies I wanted to catch. One would be too lonely. Two might be good. I didn't think three was a good number, and four seemed like too many. So, two it was! Eight air holes! Four holes per Butterfly should be the perfect amount.

I knew they'd need food, too. What do Butterflies eat? I didn't know. This was becoming much more difficult than I thought it would be.

Let me see...where do Butterflies like to hang out? Of course—around flowers! Not so difficult after all! I'll pick up some flowers along the way. What about to drink? Hmmm... That's easy! Every living thing drinks water! When it rains, I will put jar the outside. And if it doesn't rain for a long time, like five days or more, I'll put the jar in the shower!

What's next? The net! Where did I put it? Underneath the bed.

I went to retrieve the net and checked it thoroughly for rips and big holes. None. I was good to go!

It was a gorgeous day. I left the beach house armed with the jar and net, in search of flowers, but I couldn't find any to my liking near the house. So I paused momentarily to take note of the tall grass on the sand dunes in the distance, blowing gently with the wind against the big, blue sky. It was so quiet and calm that I swear I could hear the blades of grass whistling to each other. Ready or not Butterflies, here I come!

I climbed up and crept into the tall grass on the sand dunes. Right away, I noticed a beautiful monarch fluttering about.

Oh Man! She's SO big!

Her wings were larger than my ears. I began the pursuit. I chased her, and I chased her, and I chased her, and I chased her until I was completely out of breath. I was fast, too. I was the fastest little boy in my class, but that Butterfly was a lot faster. And she could fly, too! I had not learned how to fly yet. After I learned how to swim, then I would learn how to fly!

But that day, I became stuck and did not know what to do. At some point during the great chase, I lost my jar. I stood dumbfounded in the tall grass. I found myself in a place in which I did not desire to be—not knowing what to do next. I thought about how to get out of that place. Finally, I dropped to my knees and raised the Butterfly net high above my head, as far as my arms would stretch. Camouflaged by the tall grass, where no one could see me, I knelt in silence and stillness, eyes closed.

You better be still, boy, if you know what's good for you.

The sounds of the Atlantic Ocean waves thrashing and rolling up on the shore, flies and bees buzzing, seagulls chitchatting, were all layered over an unfamiliar hum. I could feel the slowly rising sun grace the crown of my head with a warm, tender, loving massage. Salty air and the ever-present scent of wet seaweed filled my nostrils. My lips became dry, so I stuck out my moist tongue to lick them.

When I opened my eyes, lifted my chin, and tilted my forehead to the bright blue sky, I saw that the Monarch Lady was in the net! I stood up, nice and slow. Then I reached into the net and cradled the Butterfly in my hand. I opened my hand to have a closer look at her. The bright colors! I felt her tickling the palm of my hand. And she did not fly away!

Hey! How about that? She likes me!

We spent a good part of the early morning strolling on the beach, just the two of us. She stayed in my open palm for the longest time, and then flew off to flutter about my head as we wandered along the shoreline. On the return walk to the beach house, she rested on my shoulder for most of the way.

When I arrived at the steps leading to the front porch, I paused for a moment, and then she fluttered away. I shot a cheerful and contented smile her way while waving goodbye.

That was a gift, that magical experience. It's another story I chose not to share with anyone until I grew older. I didn't believe that anyone else believed in real magic. I was sure they would think it was nothing more than a tall tale from the tall grass of the sand dunes.

This lovely Monarch Lady taught me the true value of Stillness and Patience, and made me a firm Believer in Magic too! And now, I had two secrets. But there were three major life-altering events that occurred during my fifth year. The final one of these events was my first indication that there was "something more," her name was Becky.

We were schoolmates. I did not consider her a friend, but we did say hello to each other every day. There was only one girl in my group of friends, Marianne, a tomboy. We played _Johnny Quest_ on the playground during recess, a cartoon television show we all loved.

There was Johnny Q, Dr. Q, Race, Hadji, and Bandit, the dog. Because I was the only person of color, I had to be Hadji, the Indian character, every time. I didn't mind so much, because he was Johnny's best friend. But Marianne was the only girl, so if she wanted to play, she had to be Bandit the dog. There were simply no other roles for girls.

One day, Marianne decided she didn't want to be the dog anymore. She wanted to be Hadji!

What the f—? No way! Hadji is all I have! There is no way I'm giving him up. Not gonna happen! Not today! Not tomorrow, or the next day either!

Well, Marianne threw a tantrum and delivered a swift and powerful, unexpected kick to my balls, which put me out of the game for a couple of days. That's how long it took for my balls to complete the return journey from the bottom of my throat to my ball sack. For those two days, Marianne got to play Hadji.

I did not care much for girls after that experience, though I didn't really care for them before then, either. But one day, Becky's mother called my mother to invite me over to their apartment for milk and freshly baked chocolate chip cookies to celebrate the expected birth of their cat's kittens.

"Yes. Next Wednesday. Becky stubbornly believes that next Wednesday is the day. After school. You know children and their vivid imaginations—let's not promise him delivery upon demand."

My mom passed along the invite. And I said, "Yes."

Cool with me. I was never one to turn down milk and freshly baked cookies. Yum! Yum! Eat'em up! I was all about those cookies! Deal me in! I don't even think I heard about the kittens. Didn't really want to hear about that at all.

The following Wednesday rolled around, and there I sat at Becky's kitchen table, chomping down on those cookies.

Oh, Yeah!!! Let me dip another one of them into my glass of milk. Dang! These cookies are jammin' delicious! Warm, crunchy, and gooey, all at the same time. Got to lick my fingers while nobody is looking and get me some of that runaway chocolate.

I wasn't even looking at Becky.

Becky? Becky Who? Is she talking to me? Hell if I know, I am all about these cookies!

Suddenly, Becky rose from the table and snatched a cookie from my hand.

What tha—? Really? What is UP with the girls at my school? They all just wanna take over!

"C'mon! Now is the time! We must hurry, or we're going to miss it! Come ON!"

Miss what? Come where? This was a bad idea! I want to go home now!

She grabs a hold of my hand, yanks me out of the chair, and drags me into her mother's bedroom. Less than a minute later, I was blown away! A magnificent sight to behold!

The Miracle of Birth! It's a Miracle!

Becky and I smiled gleefully as we gazed back and forth from the newborns to each other's eyes. I believe that this was the very first time that I saw Becky, when I looked into _The Glow_ of her eyes. I could really see who she was, and damn! She was beautiful!

When I returned home, I asked my mother if I could have one of the kittens. Becky and her mom said they would love for me to have one. But not my mom—she wasn't having any part of it. My mother grew up on a farm where cats and dogs lived outside with the rest of the animals, or inside the barn. There was no way that she was going to share an indoor space with a cat and its kitty litter.

Right before I fell asleep that night, I remember thinking about how Becky knew exactly when those kittens were going to be born. She predicted the exact day and time. How was it possible, and why did she choose me to share the experience? We never spoke, other than to say hello.

So, how did she know?

I didn't even know I had such a natural connection to animals. I only knew that I loved Butterflies! And there was no way she could have known that about me. How in the world could she possibly know I loved animals before I knew that myself? How was that possible? And what was going on with that "glow" thing in her eyes? Maybe she was an alien from outer space. That was the only explanation that made any sense to me—an alien, like the ones on _The Outer Limits_! But maybe she was a nice alien, from a nice alien family who escaped from a bad alien planet.

Does that mean the kittens were aliens, too? Hmmmmmmm...I wonder.

I returned to Becky's home once a week to enjoy milk and freshly baked cookies. And, of course, to play with the kittens, gaze into the glow of Becky's eyes, and look for where her family was keeping their spaceship uniforms. Maybe the glow was an alien secret, because she never had it at school. I felt honored that she let me see her eyes glow like that. We still didn't talk much at school, but we still said hello when we crossed paths. The kittens, milk and cookies, and the glow? Well, that was our little secret.

Now, I had three secrets. I definitely didn't want the other boys to find out about my relationship with Becky, but Marianne looked at me funny after she saw the two of us greet each other. She always looked at me as if she knew something I didn't want her to know. But I was ready for her. I would move my hand over my crotch area and kept an eye on her right foot.

A few weeks later, a woman who lived on our floor asked my mother if I could take care of her cat for a week while she went away on a trip. She was going to pay me, too! Mom was cool with that. It was my first job, and I did really well with it. That's what the lady told my mother, and she referred me to all of the other cat owners in the building. Some had cats and dogs, and I took care of both.

That year, I got all kinds of pet-sitting offers to care for cats and dogs in our building. Word that I was good with animals was out—and people also knew I was very responsible. I was making good money, enough to build up my kickass comic book and costume collection! And all the candy, pizza, and ice cream I could ever wish for. I was able to treat my friends, too!

Oh, Boy! How sweet is this? Getting paid big money for loving animals!

So instead of having one kitten, I was blessed with more than a dozen cats and dogs in my life, all of whom were so happy to see me. They loved me! Every time I had a dog to take care of, I would swing by Becky's home to see if she wanted to walk with us. Most of the time she did! We would take the dogs to the village dog run and watch them play. Sometimes we would run with them! We were delighted to see dogs running free—they were so happy, always smiling! We would smile too! And then we would gaze into each other's eyes and smile. And, do you know what else? Becky also showed me her glow when we were smiling.

After Becky and I became close, I always searched for the magical glow in the eyes of other people. But I guess there weren't too many other aliens living in the village at the time, because I never did see the glow from anyone else. I changed schools and made different friends, and Becky and I drifted apart, because our lives became very busy. We tried to get together every now and then, but at the end of the day, it just didn't work.

Years later, in the decadent period of my early twenties, I was dancing in a crowded, underground after hours club in SoHo. Across the dance floor, I recognized—Becky! All grown up! Damn! She looked good too! Sure enough, as soon as I said that to myself, she lifted her head and looked up at me. It was like she heard me say how good she looked. Then, we began to dance and move in the direction of each other. Over a period of about three songs or so, we met in the middle. We danced together past daybreak and into the morning. And, we never said one word to each other. Not even "Hello."

I walked her home in silence. She didn't ask me to come inside, but she shot me an inviting look and held the door open. We spent the day in bed together. We didn't say much, if anything at all. Didn't eat either. The entire time, I was searching for the glow in her eyes, but I never saw it. I had the suspicion that something unspeakable had happened in her life that forced her to drop a black veil over her glow.

I felt sad for Becky, and I could feel her sadness inside of me. But I wasn't going to ask her anything. I just held her in my arms all day long. As I prepared to leave that evening, we gazed into each other's eyes for one last time. No glow, no goodbye, only a sad smile and a warm hug. We never saw each other again.

I still look for that glow in the eyes of people—especially women whom I'm attracted to. It's a rare, magical sight. But now I know it's not an alien genetic trait like I once thought. However, it is alien to most of us, even though we all have the capacity for it.

Occasionally, I'll see the glow flash in someone's eyes, but I have found that people usually don't sustain it for very long. I'm not sure if they just don't want to or, they simply aren't capable. I do not know. All I know is that the sexiest and most exciting thing in the whole wide world is seeing the glow in the brightest pair of eyes!

Five years of life. Three secrets. Many life lessons—the grace of sweet surrender, life perception through an altered state of awareness, the pain and suffering of re-birth and change, the power of stillness and quiet, the expressive nature of freedom, the joy of birth, and the mystery of life.

My life is indeed a mystery. And the many life lessons learned during my fifth year have appeared again and again throughout my life. Fortunately or unfortunately, I am a slow learner. However, slowly but surely, I am beginning to recognize those patterns of behavior, and ways of seeing that ultimately lead me back to the beginning of the end, up on the end of that high diving board.

O'Mary

She was a homely and dumpy young lady, nondescript. She frequented a tiny cafe where I used to hang my hat at least three times a week, called The Rosy Lee. It was small—only eight to ten tables in the whole joint.

This Greenwich Village eatery was owned & operated by pistol of a woman, Vicky Turnbull, the only Brit in the city who served proper English grub. It was really the best damn food, and she made everything herself from scratch. Vicky's claim to fame, before she came into her own, was that she was number one on the roster of Band-Aids of the popular, new wave British band Squash.

Nicki was very proud of her status. We'd be backstage after a concert, and suddenly she'd announce to the Band-Aid wannabes, "Oym bloody fucking numba one Oy am! Numba fucking one! And Oy say it's time for all of yuze ta go home! Be Gone! The lot of you! And if any of you cows who have the balls to call yerselves ladies have a problem with that, we can just take that problem outside right now, and I'll rip your balls off and shove them down your bloody throat!"

No one ever had a problem.

Vicky was a friend who nurtured me back to health during an emotionally troubled time. The entire staff took exceptionally good care of me. The cafe had a solid group of regulars, especially this one woman, Mary. She was an aspiring actor from farm country, Pennsylvania, who had been trying to land an acting job for ten years. She never landed one gig. Not even a cameo. In fact, she couldn't even score an acting role as a volunteer.

She wanted to continue her acting studies at the Actors Studio but couldn't afford the tuition. Her family refused to help her out. They believed she was a total basket case and completely disowned her. We all thought her to be a little off as well. She used to sit for hours, drinking her pot of tea and sharing her story with anyone who would listen. Of course, that story was about her failure at her acting career—and how she was unable to hold down any other job. Since moving to the city, she had every menial job imaginable, and had either, quit or been fired or arrested. Her stories were hilarious, and she really came alive when spinning a tale. The first time she told her story, it was so funny that one could not help but roll over into belly aching laughter, but after the twentieth time or so...

Vicky had a strict set of enforced rules every customer had to abide by if they wanted to dine in her establishment. They were listed on the entrance door, the bathroom door, and the menus. If someone broke one of those rules, she'd come over, whisk their plates off the table, kick them out, and ban them from ever returning.

One of the rules addressed harassing other customers. Vicky would determine what constituted harassment, not the customers.

Mary was wearing out her welcome. She was, you know, kind of loud. One day, Mary started up again when the restaurant was full. Vicky had enough. She was beet red. We all saw it coming, the storm brewing from the window of the open kitchen. But then this one woman whom no one had ever seen before, got up and approached Mary's table just as Vicky was coming out of the kitchen.

"Excuse me, can you do that again?"

"Do what?" Mary asked.

"Exactly, what you just did."

"You mean tell my fucking life story? It's hell, sweetheart and I'm living it!"

"What I'm asking you is, could you tell it again just like you did?"

In this moment, The Rosy Lee regulars were all looking at each other thinking the same thing: Here's another bird that's fallen out of her tree. And the expression on Mary's face was priceless, it said, "Get the hell out of my face, you whacko!" Mary tried to ignore the woman. Who woulda thunk that the way to get Mary to shut up was to ask her to speak up.

"I'm talking about on stage. I'm a theatrical producer, and I am very interested in producing a standup, one-woman, off-Broadway show of you telling your story—just like you did just now."

We were in shock.

"Look here's my card. Think about it. If you're interested, give me a call. What's your name young lady?"

Mary remained speechless, but Vicky spoke up. "Her name is Mary." She looked at Mary with a wry smile. "Isn't it, dahlin'?"

Mary nodded as she passively stared into her spot of tea. The woman paid her bill and left the restaurant. Vicky approached Mary's table and said, "I was just about to throw yer ass outta here, _young lady_!"

Mary's standup show was sold-out for one solid year. The producer gave Vicky a dozen tickets to opening night. We all went. It was brilliant! The show received stellar reviews from all of the theater critics, including the ones who make a living from being brutally harsh. Mary was on all of the morning television programs. She achieved local celebrity status overnight. And yet she asked for none of this. She never wanted her own show or celebrity status. All Mary wanted was to land enough small roles so that she could do what she loved and pay her bills.

How was Mary to know that not being able to hold a job and land an acting gig was fodder for her one-woman show? And how was she supposed to know that repeating her story over and over to anyone and everyone who would listen would be preparation for her upcoming success? How was she supposed to know that when she came to the Tea Shop that day, a theatrical producer was going to be present to listen to her ranting and raving?

Life is a mystery. We're not supposed to know everything. The mystery is part of the adventure. All of our lives are mini-adventures, and all of our life experiences prepare us for something, though none of us know what that something is. Everyone is on a journey to their heart of hearts, whether they're conscious of it or not. And, if they are not aware of it, then they are not supposed to be.

The Pretender

In the corner of my space lived a simple black trunk with silver closing latches and lock and two carrying handles. It was the kind of trunk that many kids took with them when they went to camp. But I didn't go to camp, so my trunk didn't need to be carried anywhere. It didn't look like much from the outside, but the inside told a different story. Inside of my trunk was my treasure. I never needed to use the lock, because I was an only child, so I didn't have to worry about any brothers or sisters pillaging through my loot. The treasure was also of no value to my mom, so everything was always exactly as I left it.

Inside were my treasured costumes: Diver Dan, Infantry Man, Tarzan the Ape Man, Superman, Batman, the Three Musketeers, a swashbuckling pirate, and my prized Cowboy outfit with a quick-draw, cross-draw, Western gunfighters double rig. I even had the sword from one of my favorite movies of all time, _The Sword in the Stone_! Get BACK Jack! I was the man of the house!

And, at the bottom of the black trunk, hidden by the weight of costumes, were my gold nuggets. These were the most precious of my precious Marvel & DC comic book collection. All of my other comic books were on display, but I didn't want anyone to know that I owned these babies, so I made certain they remained hidden. My mom believed that comic books were evil and part of a conspiracy to keep kids of color stupid, so I only left out in the open the ones that I was certain I could replace. Because I had this feeling that if I ever received one unsatisfactory grade from school, they were gonna be gone!

My mother always tucked me into bed before her nighttime power nap. She was a pediatric nurse who worked the graveyard shift. Like clockwork, I would wake up somewhere between three and four o'clock in the morning, when my mom was at work. I'd get out of bed and immediately turn on the television to see what was on.

I was only permitted to watch an hour of television a week. That was the deal. The year before it was a half hour. When I turn eight years old, I would be awarded another half hour. But I could watch anything I wanted with my hour. Anything! So I would listen to what the kids were talking about at school and then check it out for myself the following week.

There were free programs I was allowed to watch. They did not count as part of my hour. They included anything considered to be educational, as well as news programs. We were a CBS News only household. The television night ended with the Father of News, Walter Cronkite, signing off with, "And _that's_ the way it is." My mom would always repeat him, and then "click," it was bedtime for the television set.

But at three o'clock in the early morning, it was my time! And who was going to tell on me? Nobody, that's who! Not another living soul was around!

There was always the Late Show, followed by the Late, Late Show. There was even a Late, Late, Late Show, too. I was good for at least one to two full movies, and on rare occasion I would stay awake through "Modern Farmer" to make it to the early morning cartoons, then sneak back into bed before I heard the key slip into the apartment door lock and the dead bolt turn.

There were usually great westerns, gangster, or war movies on late at night—sometimes a pirate movie. I had costumes for them all! I would put on the proper costume and play pretend along with the actors in the movie. I had a good thing going for many moons, until one morning I got busted! I fell asleep in my full cowboy outfit on the floor in front of the loudly blaring television set, and when my mom entered the apartment, there I was.

I had no idea what my punishment was going to be. She didn't say anything to me for the longest time. She didn't even say goodbye when she dropped me off at school or hello when she picked me up. I didn't get a beating, not even after we returned home from school. I had no idea what my punishment was going to be, never believed that I would ever get caught.

Usually, the beating came in the heat of the moment, but she had just returned from work when she found me, so maybe she was too tired to swing that heavy, wide, black leather belt with the over-sized silver buckle. I don't think she ever wore that belt; it was only set aside for those special occasions when I crossed the line, or when there was a line that I wasn't crossing fast enough. That belt taught me how to ride a two-wheel bicycle. One day, mom decided it was time for the training wheels to come off, so she removed them and brought the bike, the belt, and me to Washington Square Park. I learned to ride on two-wheels in two tries.

The night after she had found me, she still said nothing except, "And that's the way it is!" I lay awake in bed wondering about my fate. There were the usual punishments: no going outside to play, no play dates, and additional household chores. She couldn't exactly punish me by banning television, unless she threw the set out the window. I figured she was struggling to come up with something she felt would work. But I must say that the suffering and pain of the wait was punishment enough.

What is my worse-case scenario? What is the most awful thing that could happen? If I was gonna punish myself, what would I do? Let's see... What would I—Oh no! NO! What if she decided to throw out my costumes? And then she'd discover my gold nuggets, my hidden treasure!

That would be the absolute worst thing imaginable! Now, I was nervous. I didn't believe I would survive that loss. I thought it might be wise to relocate my most precious comic books.

I better get on top of that as soon as I wake up.

The following morning, when she returned from work, once again without greeting me she walked directly over to the television set and felt it all over. Up and down. And she shot me with the evil, hairy eyeball while she was doing it, too.

_Hmmmm...now what is she doing?_ I thought to myself. Is she reminding me that this is her television? But I already know that! She must be telling me something that I don't already know. What don't I know? Of course! She's feeling it to see if it's warm or hot.

But the television was still cold, because I was not going to get myself busted two nights in a row for the exact same thing. Comic books hadn't kept me stupid. I didn't read Archie, and I was no Jughead. Nope! I had planned on lying low for a little while anyway. And now I knew I needed to turn off the television with enough time for it to become cold again. _Only the "Late Show!"_

Later in the day, after school, we walked a different way home, on unfamiliar streets. We stopped in front of a building that looked very much like another school, but I did not see any other kids around. There were only adults without books going in and out of the red brick building. We passed through the revolving doors, then through the lobby to a bank of elevators, and rode them up to the second floor. When the doors opened, we were met by an adult sitting behind a desk. She wore black-framed glasses and her hair was pulled back into a bun behind her head. There were many black-framed posters hanging on the walls, but I didn't recognize the images inside them. There was a leather couch and two over-sized leather chairs. My mother walked me to the couch then released my hand. She nodded. I sat.

She approached the woman behind the desk, and they shared a few soft words, but I did not hear them. Afterwards, my mom took her place on the couch next to me. We didn't have to wait too long before another adult arrived in the waiting room to greet us. He was taller than my mom, but not by much. His face was hidden by a full, bushy, black beard, and black-framed glasses. He wore a jacket and tie, just like Professor Miller. My mother stood up, and they also exchanged a few soft words that I could not hear. She motioned for me to rise from the couch, and we followed the adult into a big room with a long oval-shaped table. There were many more black-framed posters on the walls, as this was a much bigger room than the waiting room.

The man directed my mom to a chair on one side of the table, and me to one on across from her. He sat in the middle at the head of the table where adult men like to be seated. I studied his hands; they were soft and relaxed. I wondered if he was going to talk at me, to me, around me, or with me.

"Hello, little fella!" He tried to force a smile underneath his black beard. His teeth were bright yellow as the sun.

_Little fella?_ God! I hated that! But I responded immediately and looked him squarely through the frames of his eyeglasses, like I was taught.

"I understand that you like to dress up in costumes, and play acting? Please, will you tell me a little more about what it is that you do?"

This is it? This is my punishment? Who is this man? How did my mother find him? Why is he asking me trick questions? What is he going to do to me? And...when is he planning on doing it?

I looked across the table at my mother for permission to continue. She nodded. I remembered how important it was to answer the exact question an adult asked. Give them nothing more and nothing less. Hold your chin up, shoulders up and back, and look directly into their eyes. Speak slowly and clearly to be understood.

"Well, sir, yes. I do like to wear costumes and play pretend, and make-believe."

_That was a good answer_ , I thought. "Dress up" was what you did for church services, weddings, and funerals. I was not going to use those words. And "acting" I associated with my mother scolding me to "stop acting up!" I wasn't going to use that word either, because I would be admitting that I did something bad. Playing pretend is not a bad thing at all. And make-believe was the "a little bit more" he was asking me for. It was a good answer.

He chuckled and laughed.

What was he laughing about? Nothing I said was funny, but he's laughing anyway. Maybe he was laughing about what he was planning on doing to me. Is my mother really going to leave me here alone with this strange man?

I shot her a quick glance. She nodded, so I returned my attention to the man with the hair on his face.

"Haha! Yes! You are _right_! It's _all_ pretend and make-believe—nothing more grand than that!"

Whoa! Is this really happening? An adult telling a kid that he is right about something and possibly suggesting that the adult is wrong. That the adult didn't know everything that there is to know about everything there was to know?

I closed my eyes for a moment and relaxed my body, prepared myself to listen carefully to what he had to say.

"We grownups have a tendency to complicate things when they are really not all that complicated. Oh, I'm sorry! Here I am running my mouth, using words that you probably don't understand. Allow me to put in another way—"

"Excuse me. Sir?"

I had interrupted an adult, which I knew was a big no-no, unless you needed to use the bathroom. But I felt that this one time, it was okay. He agreed and nodded permission.

"I understand the meanings of both tendency and complicated, and how you are using them. So I do understand what you are telling me."

He looked confused, because he probably thought that I didn't understand what "acting" meant, which would mean I also didn't understand bigger words. But I never said I didn't understand, and he never asked me. If somebody wants to know something about me, they need to ask me.

I knew what "acting" meant, I just didn't want to use that word. I know many words that I never put in practice, because I want people to understand what I am saying. If I use words that I am not absolutely sure that the person I am addressing will understand, then I am the stupid one.

"I like to read Sir, and I read a lot!"

"Oh, yes, I see. And what is it that you like to read, young man?"

Ah, I have been promoted in his eyes from "little fella" to "young man."

No adult had ever asked me what I like to read. They were usually too busy telling me what I _should_ read.

_Maybe we can now continue with what adults refer to as "conversation_." I thought. I could feel myself beginning to warm to this man. He wasn't like the others. I did not know if he was as nice as Uncle George, but he appeared to be open and understanding, like Professor Miller.

"I like to read Marvel & DC comic books, the _Encyclopedia Brown_ series, _The Hardy Boys_ , some _Nancy Drew_ —I like to read mysteries! I also read the newspaper that my mom brings home from work, the _World Book & Americana Encyclopedia_ sets, and Mr. Webster's dictionary."

"Can you tell me why those two sets of encyclopedia, as opposed to others?"

"Because those are the two sets that we have at home. My mother got them because I was always asking too many questions, and she said it made her head spin, and then she would get dizzy. So now, when I have questions, there are three places where I can go to find the answers: the two encyclopedia sets and the dictionary. I don't have to dance on my mother's last nerve anymore."

"And what about the books they give you to read at school? You forgot to mention them."

"What about them? You asked me to tell you what I liked to read, and I did."

"You don't like the books they give you to read at school?"

"No, I don't."

"Will you share with me why you don't?"

"Because the textbooks they give us to read at my school are not written for me. Adults write the textbooks. And like you said, adults have a tendency to complicate things. So they are really writing for themselves. Also, these same adults do not teach kids. All they do is force teachers to translate their textbooks for them."

Did I say that correctly? I hope he understands what I was trying to say. I think that maybe I was speaking too fast. Speak slower.

"What I am trying to say, sir, is just maybe if the teachers wrote these textbooks, they wouldn't be so boring. The textbooks are boring, and the teachers who force kids to read them are boring too."

"So you don't like teachers?"

"I did not say that I didn't like them. I said that they are boring. Some I like more than others, but I usually just don't care about anything they have to say."

"How do you feel about the school books that are not textbooks?"

"Some are okay. The teachers tell you that they are _all_ important to read, but not one of them can tell you _why_ they are all so important. Probably because they don't know why themselves."

"Okay. I think I understand what you are telling me. Now, I would like to return to what it is that you _do_ like. When you are in costume and play pretend, what do you enjoy the most?"

"That's an easy question. I like the movement the most—the action!"

"Very interesting...very interesting indeed. Will you kindly tell me a little more about how the movement leads to action?"

So...this is it? This is my punishment? To talk with an adult about what I like to do and why I like to do it? I got off pretty easy!

"Well, it's like the foil versus King Arthur's Sword. The foil is light and can bend. The sword is heavy and cannot bend. How much the weapon weighs, how it can be moved, and what you are wearing tells you how you need to move and act in order to..."

My heart was beating too fast. I was too excited! I was advancing too quickly! Retreat! Now! Bend my attention, like the foil, to the black-framed posters on the wall, then the ceiling lights.

"Please, please continue. In order to what?"

Wow! This man is really listening to me! It's like he doesn't have anything else on his mind other than being here and listening to what I have to say! Shazaam!

"In order to...live, sir."

After I said what I said, I stared with my head down at the table. Did I make a mistake to trust this man? I don't know why, but I felt something strange moving inside of my stomach. I felt as though I had just shared one of my biggest secrets with a stranger, a secret that I didn't know I had. I could hear silence for a long time; it seemed like forever. I was uncomfortable with it, and suddenly I felt like I just wanted to cry. But I didn't want to give my tears to a stranger.

I could feel the tears climbing up from deep inside of me to fill my eyes. I didn't know how to stop them from coming up. I couldn't stop them from coming up, because it was too late. But I could stop them from pouring out of me!

Yes I can! And I will! I will do it! But I need help!

Then I swallowed has hard as I could and summoned Zeus to help me.

Please Zeus, the Father of Gods and all men—help me! Now I must concentrate...concentrate...concentrate...

"Yes! I believe you would fit very well in our program here. And I will enjoy very much working with you."

The tears were in retreat, backing down from the great power of Father Zeus.

What? What did he just say? Program? Here? Work?

I could feel myself breathe once again. I lifted my chin and turned my face to meet his smiling face, looking at his thick beard and yellow teeth. And then, I spoke slowly and clearly as I peered into the pupils of his eyeballs.

"Where...is here? And who are you, anyway?"

He flashed a peek at my mother, then cleared his throat as he returned his attention back to me.

"Please forgive me for becoming carried away with the assumption that you knew how you came to be here. We are presently seated in an administrative conference room of Hills College of Education. I am Professor Dodge of the Dramatic Arts Department. Professor Miller is a dear friend, and he recommended that I meet with you."

Professor Miller? Okay. I felt much better now. I did not make a mistake.

"Dodge? Do you mean like dodge ball and Dodge City?"

"Yes. Just like dodge ball."

He smiled again. I was excited! But I remembered that I needed to learn how to become more careful about getting too excited. I did not like that feeling in my stomach or the tears that came up inside of me when I thought I had made a mistake.

"I like dodge ball, too! It's another thing that I like to do, because I get to move! You also said something about a program—what kind of program?"

He cleared his throat once more.

"It is a dramatic arts program. I direct college students in the finer exploratory and expository aspects of pretend and make-believe."

"Explore like Christopher Columbus?"

"Yes."

"And what exactly do you direct the students to expose?"

"Themselves."

I let this thought settle in my mind for a moment.

"Okay. So it's like you are Christopher Columbus and you have this boat called 'aspects.' And even though, all of the other adults in your world say the world is flat, you don't know that it's true just because they say so. Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. So, you invite anyone who wants to come along on this journey to what is not yet known, on your boat called 'aspects,' where you are the navigator. But the journey is not to explore and discover new worlds outside of the world, as we know it, but to explore, uncover, and expose new frontiers hidden deep inside of each journeyman! But this would mean that the boat would have to change form and become a submarine! Surprise! C'mon! How cool is _that_? And the voyage is now to the very bottom of the deepest part of the ocean! Something like that, Professor?"

"Precisely like that!"

"Why, it's just like one gigantic mystery! Isn't it, Professor Dodge?"

We both laughed out loud.

"Yes! It is! One gigantic mystery where all of the dragons, demons, sharks, bad guys, and good guys are all alive and well, kicking inside of you. Tell me—does any of this interest you?"

"I like mysteries a lot! And, yes! I am very interested!"

"One more thing—please try not to see me as a teacher. I consider myself to be more of a guide, and a director, and a student also, as I am constantly learning new things all the time."

"How can I see you as a teacher when you are not? You are a Professor like Professor Miller! I mean, you don't teach kids in grade school, do you?"

"No, I can't say that I have, nor do I have any plans to do so in the foreseeable future. Now, fortunately, we are still early in the semester, so you have not missed terribly much. We look forward to seeing you this Saturday in the theater."

I had only missed three weeks of the program. This was a good thing, because all of the missed sessions were lectures given by a well-known village theatrical director, a theatrical actor, and the professor. _More adults talking at you_ , I thought. I believed I had received enough lecturing at home and in church service, so I would have been bored restless.

The program was held in a small theater, nothing like Radio City Music Hall. My first day, I was instructed to sit still and observe the group. This session was devoted to blocking, the positioning of the players' body on stage. I studied every single player carefully when they appeared solo on stage to demonstrate their assignment from the previous week. I wondered if I could do what they were doing.

There was a small group of us, thirteen players including myself. I was the only kid—the rest were young adults who appeared to be holding out before surrendering to become full adults. Half of these were female, just like in grade school.

At the end of the morning session, the professor passed out assignments for the following week. Each player received an individual assignment sheet. My sheet only had four lines, which read:

Role: Theatrical Actor

Costume: None

Props: None

Question of Exploration: From the beginning, what compels your character to act?

_The very first thing I will do when I get home is ask Mr. Webster what the word "compel" means_. I thought. _I will study the definition over lunch._

I thought of actors as adults who like to play pretend. I was but a child. I wasn't quite sure about how to approach this challenge. I peered between the bread at the peanut butter and jelly in my sandwich for guidance.

I worried for a moment that this was too great a challenge for me. But then, I re-read the Question of Exploration over and over again.

Hmm—okay, so where do I begin?

The answer to my question was boldly staring right back at me off of the assignment sheet – yelling at the top of its lungs! _Here I Am! Over here! Why can't you see me?_ The corners of my mouth lifted, and I enjoyed a belly laugh at myself. Of course, you ding-a-ling! I begin at the beginning! When the theatrical actor was a child! This is what I know! Begin with what I know!

Again, I re-read the Question of Exploration: "What compels..." Why does this Theatrical Actor do what he does? This is a Question of Exploration, there is no concrete answer to find only the question to explore.

Good, I'm gonna begin with the what to explore the why, because the what does not change—it stays the same all the time. A theatrical actor acts. He pretends that he is something or someone other than who he is. And this is what I do when I play pretend. I put on my costume and become somebody else. All of the super heroes in my comic books were similar. They change into costumes to become other people. But the theatrical actor on my assignment sheet does not wear costumes.

That year, there was a new super hero character that DC Comics introduced that didn't wear a costume: Metamorpho, the Element Man. Before he became a super human, he was an adventurer, and then he was exposed to a radioactive meteorite in an Egyptian pyramid. This exposure changed him into The Element Man.

Adventurer. Exposure. Change.

To me, an adventurer and an explorer were one in the same. Metamorpho could transform his body or any body part into any element or combination of elements.

Explorer. Exposure. Change. Isn't this what an actor does? Yes, it is. The what. Well, that was easy! Now, I will explore the why. I know I don't have much life experience, as I have only been on Earth for a very short period of time—eight years in December. And I can only remember three of those eight years. But I have had some experiences, and I don't have much choice other than to use what I have gained. My exploration of the what has led me to focus on: change, Metamorpho the Element Man, metamorphosis, and the elements of change.

And then, my mind drifted to my intimate experience with the Butterfly. The Butterfly was my favorite living thing. But the Butterfly was not always a Butterfly. Before it was a Butterfly, it was in a cocoon, and before that, it was a caterpillar. It changed from a caterpillar to a Butterfly without a costume.

I could feel my heart beat. It was beginning to pick up its pace. It felt like I was getting closer.

What did the Butterfly teach me? There is the importance of freedom. Okay, what else? Talk to me Lady Butterfly—what else?

I closed my eyes and opened my mind to relive the experience with Lady Butterfly in my head. I could feel myself smiling again.

Yes! Of course! The power of stillness! That's it! That's the place where I need to begin my exploration of the why! The greatest mystery of all mysteries: the cocoon. What goes on inside that cocoon? I must create a cocoon and remain still inside of it!

I was so happy with the progress that I made over a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a tall glass of chocolate milk!

I went into the kitchen to wash my plate and glass. It was then that I realized I had been exploring backwards. The Question of Exploration was more about what compels the caterpillar. I needed to really begin with the caterpillar, but at that point in my life, I hadn't spent much time with the insects. It was autumn, and not many caterpillars are around that time of year.

I thought about what I had that could help me? The encyclopedias! The next drama session was Wednesday, and I wasn't expected to perform until Saturday; there was plenty of time for exploration.

When I woke up early the following morning, I did not turn on the television set. I browsed through my mother's record collection: Glen Miller, Sentimental Journey, instrumental. Perfect; no words. I had already begun my own record collection. My first two albums were The Beatles and The Supremes, and I owned about thirty singles on forty-fives. But all of my records had words in the songs, and the only words that I wanted to hear that morning were the words in my head.

I studied the descriptions of the caterpillar in both of the encyclopedias. Then I lay down on the carpet on my stomach and tried to move like one...again...and then again...over and over. Finally, I collapsed on my stomach. The record was over. All I could hear was the needle scratching the end of the album. I got up to take the needle off and return the album to its sleeve and put it back in its proper place.

It was quiet, and this is where the thought came to me. The caterpillar was not the proper place to begin the exploration. No, the caterpillar was something else before it became a caterpillar.

Okay, back to the encyclopedias. What is it? Look! There it is! An embryo. The beginning.

I lay down on the carpet once again and curled up into a tiny ball on my side, then stuck my thumb into my mouth.

The week ahead was to be eventful, and though I had done lots of thinking and planning, I was still not prepared. At the close of the last school year, there was a big Parent-Teacher Association (PTA) meeting. My mother said she had to go, because there were going to be big changes. The association had decided that there were kids who were slow learners and kids who were faster learners. They reached a decision to create two classes for each grade made up of only the fast learners. They named these classes the IGC classes, for Intellectually Gifted Children.

When the year began, my mother was heartbroken that I was not included in this group. She never said anything to me, but I would hear her talking on the phone to Aunt Mary. She was so upset and sad. And I felt so sad for her. One day, out of the blue, I said, "Mom, you don't need to worry. Please don't worry. I will get into that IGC class if it's the very last thing I do. I promise!" I had absolutely no idea what I was talking about; I just wanted for her to not be so sad. I think it worked, because she smiled after I said that.

Well, wouldn't you know, that coming Monday they asked my mother into the principal's office and made me wait outside in the front area. It was torture for me! I tried so hard to remember all the things that I had done wrong that year, all the reasons my mother could have been called into that office.

But I didn't do anything! I swear to God!

My mother came out with a big o'l smile on her face. The principal followed her out of his office and led me to my new class, the class for faster learners.

I had absolutely no idea how this had happened. I figured that maybe it was because of all the praying my mom did. Because this had nothing to do with me, I was only trying to help her feel better. Maybe she prayed so hard that God finally heard her and then he told the principal that the school had made a mistake and that it was up to him to correct it.

All I know is this: When I walked into that classroom, all of my friends were there. The entire _Johnny Quest_ crew, the twins, Jessica Miller, and Becky. And in this sense, I felt that I belonged in this class, because they were all very happy to see me there. And I was happy to see them, too!

After school, the teacher told me to stay late so she could tell me that I had a lot of catching up to do. She also told me that from what she had seen that day, my math skills were not as strong as the others. At first I was a little confused when she said this, because I could add, subtract, multiply, and divide, even without a pencil and paper. I was okay at fractions too. This is just the beginning of second grade! What else do I need to know about math? What else could there possibly be?

But then I remembered what we did in math class that day. We were doing something I had never seen before; I didn't even believe it was math. She had us working with miniature wooden blocks of different shapes, colors, and sizes. It had something to do with geometry, a word I needed to look up when I got home. She decided she would assign one of my classmates to tutor me until I caught up with the rest of the class. And whom did she assign? The best math student in the class, the fastest of the fast—Marianne, the girl who had kicked me in the balls so hard that every time I looked at her I could feel two lumps stuck in my throat.

My mother was smiling during the entire walk home, saying "Hello!" and "Have a nice day!" to every person we passed along the way. The only thing that I felt was the urge to throw up, and that my knapsack had become twice as heavy. When we got home, the telephone rang non-stop, and my mom was just chatting away about me getting into this IGC class after promising her that I would. She was so proud!

The first thing I did was look up geometry.

What? Why? Why do I need to learn this now?

Then I reviewed my list of homework assignments for the next day.

Are you kidding me? When am I supposed to do all of this?

I was in the class for faster learners, but I was quickly learning that we would be using the same textbooks as the slow learners but moving through them twice as fast. The slow class gets through half of each book—if that—each semester. And the only way of getting through entire textbooks for the semester was to do twice the work in the same amount of time. This was really four times the homework!

There is nothing more that I hate as much as homework—I HATE IT!

There were too many other things that I would rather be doing. Household chores, okay, no problem! That's what I call real homework; classwork should only be done in the classroom. Why must we bring it home?

I had far more important things to do away from school; there was my animal care business, which was helping to build my comic book, costume, and record collection. Then, I needed the time to read the comic books, play in my costumes, and listen to my music. And what about play dates with my friends? And cub scouts? I didn't want to be a wolf forever; how was I going to make it to bear? There were also the martial arts classes that I was saving up to join.

And now, there is this drama program on Wednesdays afterschool and Saturday mornings. I also needed to create time to prepare at home for the following week's assignment. Plus church service and Sunday school! I became exhausted just thinking about all of the work I didn't have the time to finish. I did homework the entire afternoon, evening, and night until bedtime. I didn't even finish it all, but that killer math assignment was done. This was the most miserable that I could remember feeling, but I had never seen my mother happier.

The next day in school, Marianne sat beside me in her new assigned seat. She kept her eyes on every move I made, everything I did. I felt embarrassed, but at the same time, I was desperate to show her that I could do this geometry thing without any assistance from her. But I would learn during my second day that this was a lie, I needed her help.

Over time, the more I surrendered to the reality that I truly needed her help, the more I realized that I had developed a serious crush on her. How serious? It was very, very serious—serious enough to become my fourth secret. It was so serious that I fantasized about being stupid and slow for the rest of my days so she could tutor me through life.

On the one hand, Becky was probably the nicest and cutest girl in the entire grade. She liked to hold my hand, have me bathe her glow, and delighted in serving me freshly baked chocolate chip cookies in the privacy of her home. I associated Becky with joy, freedom, and the celebration of Life. We enjoyed countless memorable moments together.

On the other hand there was the non-descript girl who was the bearer of brutal physical pain, who had lasers for eyeballs, wore ugly eyeglasses, and had freckles all over her face. Marianne scared the living daylights out of me! And this girl would become my first crush? Great! I sure know how to pick 'em! I chose the girl who carried my pain, suffering, and humility as a trophy, and who served as a daily reminder that I am geometrically obtuse.

By the time Wednesday rolled around, I was feeling relieved to go to Drama class. It was a great escape from the madness of my world, which had suddenly turned upside down and was tumbling and collapsing on top of me.

The session was divided into two parts, the first of which was a demonstration from a fashion photographer, a man with lights, and a rail-thin female model. The photographer demonstrated the importance of lighting, shading, and shadows when telling a story on stage.

The second part was designated for the players to take the stage, all thirteen of us at the same time. The professor asked us to block out the portions of the stage that we would need for Saturday's performance. I was ahead of the game, as I had blocked out the stage in my head during the demonstration. I counted six paces from the stage left curtain toward the center of the stage, but a lot closer to the side curtain. This is where I would open. Now I was trying to figure out how to open my performance as an embryo because I needed to be lying down on the stage floor curled up on my side. I came up with a couple of ideas, but they just didn't feel right.

I could see that it was going to be difficult to tell my story of exploration as I intended. However, it did occur to me that I could tell the story as I explored the question—backwards.

Yes! That's it! Backwards! When I walk up the side stage stairs, as soon as I am on the stage landing, I will jump and flap about like a Butterfly to the six pace spot on the stage, and then make a U-turn to the curtains. Okay, this will work. What am I gonna use to mark the six-pace spot? The seats in the audience! Good! Back into the cocoon of the curtains, spin out into a caterpillar, crawl to the six-pace spot, and curl into an embryo. Very good!

During this walkthrough, although I wasn't supposed to find an answer, I found one: evolution. What compels a theatrical actor to act was his inner most desire to evolve. That made perfect sense to me.

Somehow, I made it through Thursday and Friday and managed to pass three nasty pop quizzes. During this time, it occurred to me that all of the kids in my class had parents who were surgeons, scientists, lawyers, architects, professors, well-known artists, and authors, important people because they were well-known. After all, the Father of News knew who they were. These parents must be helping their kids with all of this homework! How else could they get it all done? Or maybe they were just smarter and faster than I was, and I didn't really belong in the same class with these IGC kids. Maybe it was that simple. Yes, this was most likely the case.

In any event, I knew that I would never have the courage to say to my mom, "Sorry, Mom, but I'm just a regular kid. I mean, I know you really want me to be special, but I am not special. There is nothing special about me. I'm regular. I like waffles and crispy bacon for breakfast. When I have cereal and milk, I like to read the back of the cereal box. I don't like to eat the cereal after it loses its crunch. So when you leave the room, I'm gonna sneak into the bathroom, pour the soggy cereal into the toilet, and then flush. And I'm sorry that there are starving children in Africa and parts of America that would love to eat my soggy leftover cereal. I am really sorry for them, and I would send it to them if I knew how – but I don't.

"I love pizza, and I would have it every day for the rest of my life if I could—and chocolate too! See, mom? I am just regular. I hate church and I'm not sure I believe in God. I didn't see him back in the pool, but I did see an Angel—my Aunt Mary, who's not even really my aunt. Sometimes I think adults made God up, just like they did with Santa Claus, I only like Sunday school because I have friends my age there, but I do believe that Jesus Christ is the best teacher of all time.

And, I _hate_ homework! But I love comic books, wearing costumes, and playing pretend. I love my growing music collection, and kittens, puppies, cats, dogs, and Butterflies. And I enjoy playing outside with my friends. I'm sorry, but I don't believe that I will ever grow up to be someone important like a doctor or a lawyer, even though I know you really want me to be. I don't believe that I am special enough to be that important. And I don't believe Walter Cronkite will ever know who I am! See, Mom? I'm only a regular kid, but I love you even though you are an adult.

"Anyway, I just wanna return to the class for the slower learners, so I can have more time to do the things that I enjoy most."

This confession would break her heart, and my entire comic book collection would be tossed into the incinerator. So I didn't have a choice but to find a way to stay in the IGC class, and pass.

The weekend homework assignments were killer. And there were going to be tests on Monday in every subject. The surprise quizzes that week were not easy, but they were not too hard, either. I expect the teachers were going to make the tests very, very difficult to pass. All because of that damn PTA meeting! The parents probably made the teachers angry when they said, "If our children are not being challenged enough in this school, we will take them elsewhere."

Whatever they said to those teachers must have lit a fire under their seats. And there I was, caught in the middle.

How will I manage the weekend? Friday afternoon, evening, night until bedtime, I will work on the assignments. Early Saturday morning when I wake up, I'll rehearse my performance. Saturday afternoon I'll work on the drama assignment for the following week. Saturday evening and night, I'll study for tests coming Monday. Sunday church—hey! Maybe I can get out of church service and Sunday school!

Unfortunately, I overslept on Saturday morning. When I finally dragged my body out of bed, all I wanted to do was climb back in and fall back into _sand land_. I still felt tired. All of the life changes that week had worn me out. But I still had a little over an hour before my mom came home to rehearse without distraction. Before I began, I made my bed so I didn't get yelled at first thing when she got home.

There was a full-length mirror behind the dressing room door that I used to rehearse.

Now let's see if I can fly like a Butterfly. No, it is not happening. No matter how hard I try, I simply cannot replicate the fluttering rhythm of the flight pattern. Whatever I do, I look like a wounded pterodactyl in flight. There is no way, that anyone will be able to guess that I'm a Butterfly. I needed more time to explore, which I did not have—I was just going to have to wing it on the stage.

I still had time to decide what I will wear. The stage curtains were a rich burgundy color. I removed a maroon turtleneck from my drawer and tossed it on the bed. The stage floor is wooden, not too light or dark, somewhere in the middle.

To the encyclopedias to find a color match! Got it! It falls somewhere between maple and cherry. What's the closest pair of pants that I have to blend in with the floor? My light honey brown corduroys—looking good. Almost done.

What happens inside the cocoon? Change. I need to take something off, because I'm moving backwards. Something colorful.

I had a canary yellow and navy blue argyle sweater, which was hideous, but it was bright and would do just fine. Sneakers for caterpillar crawl are good to go.

I was the last of the group to be called upon. The professor read aloud my assignment. I still hadn't figured out how to properly portray a flying Butterfly without looking like an idiot. As I made my way up the side stage stair steps, I could feel movement in my stomach. It wasn't gas or that strange feeling I had in my first meeting with the professor. It was a new, strange feeling, like Butterflies fluttering about in my stomach.

Haha! The Butterflies were with me! Everything was going to be okay!

Please help me, teach me how to fly like you do. What did I learn from my Butterfly experience? What was I taught? Stillness, and...freedom! Yes! That's it! All I need to do is dance freely and be happy, just like the Butterfly! Smile all the time that I am dancing. Freedom is happiness!

I began with a jump into the air and a huge smile on my face. At once, I realized that I had to dance backwards, which I did, but this was not easy. So I spun around a lot and kept the smile. I backed slowly into a fold of the heavy curtain and spun myself inside my cocoon.

The next part was gonna be tricky. Removing my sweater took some work, because I had no time to practice how I was gonna do it. I spun out of the cocoon and then dropped to the stage floor. Facing the curtain, I began the caterpillar crawl backwards. I crawled uncomfortably until I was tired of crawling, then curled up into a ball while lying on my side.

My face was now fully exposed to the audience. I stuck my thumb into my mouth, and closed my eyes. The next thing I did, I had no idea that I was going to do—I jumped up! And then I stretched my arms up high over my head, lifted my chin, and pointed the tip of my nose to the sky, to the place where I began.

The silence in the theater was broken by the sound of hands clapping together. I was frozen in my posture.

The Professor interrupted loudly, "Please, please do remember that there is no applause for performers! This is a workshop! I have your assignments for next Saturday."

I lowered my head and retrieved my sweater from behind the curtain. I made my way down the stairs and waited. I was the last name to be called.

"Here is your assignment." He handed me a handful of torn and ripped paper. "You have a choice. You can put together the pieces of paper to find out the assignment I prepared for you, or you can come up with an assignment for yourself. You must decide by Wednesday's session."

On the way home, I ran into the twins, and they asked if I wanted to meet in the park after lunch. It was a beautiful, warm, sunny fall day, so I agreed. I remembered over lunch that I had created a schedule for myself and was supposed to prepare for next week's Drama assignment. I thought about how long it was going to take me to put all of those pieces of paper together. Too long, no matter how curious I was—it was not time worth spending.

Okay, I'll make the assignment. I'm going to explore what happened before my mother came home from work and busted me in my cowboy costume. How did the Indians finally get to me? I'll explore backwards, because I like exploring that way. But this time, I'll tell the story forwards, because backwards was too uncomfortable. Done! Now I can spend the afternoon outside playing with Bernard and Peter.

We were in the park, playing and free, enjoying the glorious freedom from all of the responsibilities adults had introduced to the world, when a thought came over me. I suddenly remembered the applause I heard while on stage. At the time, I believed that the group was clapping because the session was over, and finally everyone could spend the rest of Saturday outside in the glory of the sun.

But it occurred to me that maybe the applause was for the Butterfly performance. It had felt good to hear that applause—really good. Maybe that's another reason why theatrical actors enjoy playing make-believe, to feel connected. They evolve from where they began to where they are, and then connect to a living audience by pretending they're someone else.

Question of Exploration: From the beginning, what compels your character to act?

What compels me to act? It feels safe to play pretend.

And that's my final answer.

####

# Book Two, The Element Of Changes

a fool's journey

Mosanami Etal

Book Two

BOOK TWO is the second of an ongoing book series where the Author takes pause to reflect upon his life as a jigsaw puzzle. A mystery where he begins to fit the pieces of the puzzle together in the hope of achieving greater understanding of why he is here.

"I share with Roland Barthes the opinion that the text is formed by the reader rather than by the author." — Rain-walker

Author's Introduction

In the story of Tarot, the Fool represents each of us as we begin our life journey. At birth, we willingly play the role of fool because only the purest of Spirit brings forth the innocence and blind faith to trust.

The Fool is ready to embrace whatever comes down his or her path to learn the lessons of the world, and is oblivious to the hardships and vicissitudes of life. Newly born, bright, and open to spontaneously venture to adventure; from comfort and joy—to pain and suffering.

It is in this context that I share with you the stories of my life: _a fool's journey_. So please, if you will...

"Sit by my side, come as close as the air,

Share in a memory of gray;

Wander in my words, dream about the pictures

That I play of changes."

\-- " _Changes_ " by Phil Ochs

Elements of Change

Somehow, I advanced past the second grade and managed to float while keeping my head above water. But floating wasn't good enough, as far as my mother was concerned. She wanted me to swim the fastest, so she enrolled me in summer school.

As she dropped me off on that first day, she parted with her signature remark to the homeroom teacher. "And please, don't spare the rod!" Immediately afterward, a broad smile crossed her face followed by, "That's right!" My mom loved saying that to all my teachers. She loved giving them permission to beat me into submission, as if that were the secret to get me to learn faster. It was probably some back-in-the-day, backwoods, down-south country thing. The whole way of living gave me the creeps. I'd seen it on the news.

What my mom refused to understand was that summer school was for the slowest of the slow, not the slowest of the fastest. But I didn't mind, because the school day was shorter, and they gave you all of your assignments in the beginning of each class for the next day. So by the time the class was over, my homework was done.

On my second day of school, the teacher asked me to stay behind, along with two other boys. One of these boys I recognized from when I was in the slower class. I remembered that I liked him, and though we never spoke, we smiled and nodded to each other every day in class. He had a really nice face. The other boy seemed out of place, like he didn't belong here.

She asked me if I would stay after school each day for one hour to tutor these boys in English, Math, and History. My first thought was, And what, cut into my playtime? Not a chance! But then I thought of how much Marianne had helped me with Geometry. I really didn't believe that I would have passed second grade without her help. Maybe, I thought, I can actually help these kids.

"Okay! I'll do it!"

Little did I know, neither of these boys spoke English very well. The familiar boy, Johnny Rivera, was from Puerto Rico and had only been in America for one year. The other boy, Augustino, seemed like he had just gotten off the boat yesterday from Sicily. He told me to call him Auggie, so I called him Auggie Augustino.

Auggie was going to begin his first year at Our Lady of Knock, where there were tales of nuns who ripped the ears off of kids who didn't know how to listen. If you don't know how to use them, then you don't need them, they'd say. That's where most of the Italian and Irish kids went to school, there or St. A's, where the nuns sang the same tune. The catholic kids in my building all attended St. Joe's, where the nuns were angelic.

Johnny was from across Fourteenth Street, in the part of Chelsea that no child dared go without an adult. It was a rough-and-tumble neighborhood, and for the most part, the Rivera family ran the streets. And there were a lot of them too—hundreds of blood cousins. Each cousin was bigger, stronger, faster, and meaner than the last. The teenage girls were even meaner than the boys, and they roamed the streets in packs, like hungry wolves.

Auggie lived on "The Block" in Westside Little Italy, below Houston Street, another place that was too dangerous to be visited without an adult chaperone. It was only four city blocks from my building. If you were a kid growing up in the Village during this time, you best know where you could and could not go, and what time of day it was safe to go there. And you did not learn this from adults; you learned this valuable information from the horror stories other kids told you. Even though Auggie was small and fresh off the boat, he gave me the feeling that he lived on that block for a long time. He was a "big small."

The teacher left us in the classroom alone. I had no idea how to go about tutoring these kids. They were waiting for me to begin. I asked them to give me a minute, because I didn't know how I was going to do what I needed to do just yet. They both smiled and nodded. Okay, I thought, they can understand me—that's a good start.

I thought for a moment, and realized that although we were from different blocks in different neighborhoods, we had something very important in common. All three of us were kids! We were in the same boat! It was us kids against them—the adults. I felt relieved.

At this point, I began to understand how to approach the tutoring. Basically, the adults spoke a different language than we did, so not only was it essential that Auggie and Johnny comprehend English, but they had to learn the adult language, too. "Once you understand both languages, everything else will come much easier," I promised. They both laughed so loud that another teacher peered through the door window to see what the ruckus was all about.

Okay, for Math I'm gonna use pizza sketches, because all kids love pizza. I will use slices and whole pies for addition, subtraction, multiplication, division, fractions, and even geometry, I thought. But I doubted that we would get to geometry in six weeks. English and History would be straight translation; this is what it says, but this is what it means.

And I'll give a lot of attention to helping them to understand the trick questions that adults always throw at you to help make you feel more stupid than you truly are. If I can help them understand the questions, they will be able to figure out the answers easier, I thought again. So what I am going to do is act everything out, like in the Drama program. This way, they can see what it looks like off the page. And as there is no Drama program this summer, this will be good practice for me. Good to Go!

My goal was to have them finish all their homework in the hour we had, without me doing it for them. They loved that! Because really now, think about it—what kid wants to take schoolwork home with them? Especially in the summer! It turned out that the two of them were very fast learners, and after three weeks I no longer needed to tutor them—they were doing well on their own. The truth is that they were both smart. I figured they could be in that IGC class in another year.

That summer, I only spent two weeks with Mr. and Mrs. Miller in Amagansett. It rained a lot while I was there, so we were indoors most of the time. The professor introduced me to his record collection—mostly rock and jazz. He exposed me to excellent music that I had never heard before. It was the kind of music that wasn't played on the radio. I could feel I was beginning to develop a sense of why I enjoyed the different kinds of music that I did.

He taught me how to play backgammon, a board game I grew to love. I also tasted lobster for the very first time! For some reason, it tasted like fresh popcorn with gobs and gobs of butter! Lobster was really good! It wasn't as good as John's Bleecker Street Pizza, or even the Eighth Street Pizza Place, but it was yummy delicious. I made certain to thank the professor for the lobster, the music, and the introduction to Professor Dodge.

The remaining two weeks of summer vacation I spent at Auntie's. Auntie was an older woman who cared for kids like me, kids who had a single mom who needed a break for some "peace of mind". So Auntie wasn't really an aunt, and the other kids who came in and out of the household weren't really my cousins. But when I was there, she was my aunt, and they were my cousins. Auntie's husband was my uncle, her daughter was also my aunt, and her son-in-law, the electrician, was another uncle.

They all lived together in a nice big house on Long Island, about an hour outside of the city. It wasn't the country, because the houses were too close together. But it wasn't the city either, because the houses were too far apart. It was somewhere in between. In that color filled home is where I was enlightened about music from the Soul. I branched out from The Supremes to The Temptations, The Four Tops, Otis Redding, Wilson Pickett, Sam Cooke, and James Brown.

The Good Humor ice cream man came every day at the same time. It was a big deal for all the kids in the neighborhood. The best part of every day was when you heard those truck bells ringing in the distance. And there were barbeques almost every day; somebody was always having a cookout, and every other house had a swimming pool.

I was certain that the best potato salad in the world was invented in this neighborhood, and the corn on the cob, chicken, burgers, and hot dogs were all finger-lickin' good. Every household had their own secret barbecue sauce recipe. Everyone was always dancing to the music, always moving, old folks, young folks, and kids—nobody stood still.

Until one day when everyone did stand still—in shock! It was the time that I shouted out from the top of my lungs in between songs...

"Hey! Does anybody here have any Elvis? Elvis Presley?"

Man, it got quiet lickety-split. The music stopped playing completely. Everybody stopped doing whatever he or she was doing and stared me down as if I had crashed the party. Finally, someone spoke up; I can't remember who it was, but I do remember what was said.

"We don't listen to Elvis out here, and you shouldn't either."

Well, I should have left well enough alone, but I didn't understand.

"Why not? I like Elvis! He can really move!"

And then someone else jumped into the conversation.

"LIKE ELVIS? You better shut your mouth, boy, 'cuz you better best believe that Elvis don't be liking YOU! Like Elvis...shoooooot! I guess the news don't travel to your home in the big city, but Elvis is the man who said, 'a colored person ain't fit to lick my shoes!' AIN'T FIT! That's what the man said!"

Now I was even more confused. What was wrong with what he said? I didn't see myself as fit to lick his shoes, or anybody else's shoes either. Who would want to be fit to lick somebody's shoes? That was one of the dumbest things that I had ever heard, and I couldn't believe it upset so many people. And anyway, how did they know that Elvis wouldn't like me? He'd never met me, and not one person there had met the man! Before I could think another thought, someone else put in their two cents.

"Lick his shoes? Colored folks been dancing his moves long before that piss-po' cracka' been wearing shoes!"

And then, another...

"Uh huh, that's what the man said. 'Ain't fit ta lick!' Cracka' can't sing for nuthin' any ol' way! Can't sing, and sho' 'nuf cannot dance! "

...and then another...

"Got some nerve, after stealing colored folks' dance moves n' trying to call them his own, and then comin' 'round talkin' 'bout somebody ain't fit to be lickin'—hillbilly cracka'! Ain't nuthin' but a hillbilly cracka'!"

I kept my mouth shut and tried to become invisible. I knew better than to speak so freely around adults. But sometimes when I became excited, I couldn't help myself and I just opened my big, fat, stupid mouth and said whatever was on my mind.

Oh well, tomorrow brings a new day, I thought. And maybe tomorrow everybody will forget what I said. But I really don't care what the man said. He knows how to move, and I liked to watch the man move! And I am sorry, but he is on a short list of men who knows how to sing a slow song. I really enjoy the sound of his voice. And, by the way, The Beatles loved Elvis too! My favorite singing group—they idolized Elvis!

I knew it was wise to avoid bringing up The Beatles because of what John Lennon said about Jesus Christ. Because every living room in this entire neighborhood had the same two gold-framed, color photographs hanging side by side on the wall: one of President John F. Kennedy and Jesus Christ. It was like Elvis and The Beatles were the anti-Christ brothers.

This must have something to do with the ways of the deep south, the people of the south, and what was going on in the news. A couple of years before, I was in Washington Square Park, and this woman who was talking to my mother asked me if I was learning how to spell yet. I told her that I already knew how to spell, that I could spell "Mississippi." Then I spelled it for her so she could see that I was being truthful.

I told her that one day, I might go there for a visit. She asked me why, and I replied, "Because I can spell it, and that is where Elvis was born!" She carried on and on about how I should find another place to spell and visit. She assured me that Mississippi was the last place on Earth I would ever want to visit.

I didn't trust this woman, because I had a feeling she was the one who ratted me out to my mom because I cursed loudly after a bad fall from my bike. I got a serious, "not-to-be-forgotten" beating for cursing. But just because she was a rat did not mean she was wrong about Mississippi. Maybe she was right. I would have to pay a little more attention to the state called Mississippi.

There was a lot of change happening in the south during this time. Slow changes. And there were many very angry and mean adults who didn't want this change to happen. They wanted everything to stay the same, because they had a real good thing going, and they wanted to keep it going forever. It was on the news every day.

All of these nice adults who had grown sick and tired of seeing the pictures on the news got on buses to go help with the change. Most of these adults were young, like the ones in the Drama program. They traveled from all across America. I think they only wanted to help speed up the slow changes, but those angry, mean adults did not want them helping, so they beat them up after they arrived.

Some adults were even getting killed, but none of the angry and mean adults got killed, only the nice ones. The nice ones who didn't know how to be mean got killed by the angry, mean adults. It did not matter; there were more nice, young adults who got onto more buses. They just kept coming and coming, like waves on a beach. I bet those angry, mean adults of the deep south were surprised there were so many of them—I certainly was.

I cheered with my heart for their courage, because they had no super powers or weapons to protect them; they were just ordinary people doing something extraordinary. And they couldn't even go to the police for help, because it was the police who were beating them up. Imagine, getting on a long bus trip to go to a place where you know for sure that you are going to get beat up and possibly killed. You've got no knife, no sword, no gun, no super powers—nothing. Now that's what I call courage! But I was afraid that if the angry, mean adults would kill them all, who would be left? Only the angry, mean ones.

What was happening on the news in the deep south was far, far away from my block. There were things that happened closer to my block that made it to the news, and that's what I worried about. There were times when I worried about my mother never making it home from work. What if one day that deadbolt never turned and that door never opened? What if an angry, mean adult got a hold of her? What if he took her purse and her house key and then came for me?

There were many angry, mean adults who lived in New York City, too. They were harder to recognize, because they could be anyone. Down south, they all looked the same and lived in the same neighborhood. If they were coming your way, you could see them from a mile off, and you had plenty of time to hide.

Here they traveled around in disguise as nice adults, and they pretended to do nice things for others. But I was certain one day would surely come after they had fully gained our trust, when they would remove their disguise and become the mean, nasty, and cruel adults that they truly were. We would not have any time to hide. Nowhere to hide, nowhere to run. So I had enough to worry about here, in my world, where I lived.

I was a kid, first and foremost. That was how I saw myself. And the world, as I saw it, was divided into kids and adults. There were adults who wanted me to see things differently because of what was going on in the deep south—the place where there were angry and mean adults who didn't want change to come, and they were fighting it like mad dogs from Hell to stop it.

Well, I had change come my way last year, when I had a good thing going in the class for slow kids. I didn't like the change, either, when it came. I would have fought it like a mad dog if I could have. So I was not going to fall for that adult trick of paying too much attention to all that was going on down south. I was not going down there. Nope—staying in New York City. I made a vow to pay more attention to all that was going on with the adults in my world.

And as far as I was concerned, the adults at the barbecue who spoke badly about Elvis were very angry too, just as angry as the mean adults in the deep south. I wondered why they did not get on one of those freedom buses for a ride down to mad dog Hell. After all, they were talking all big and bad about Elvis. Okay, then get on a bus. That's what I wanted to say to them. Shut my mouth? No! Why don't you shut your mouths, all y'all, and get on a bus!

Overall, it was a good summer. I was a happy camper. My music collection was growing steadily; I was current with The Beatles' new releases. And during my two-week stay at the Millers' in Amagansett during the summer, I was introduced to The Rolling Stones, The Blues Breakers, Bob Dylan, The Yardbirds, The Spencer Davis Group, and The Who. The professor also turned me on to Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Stan Getz, Coleman Hawkins, Sonny Rollins, and Thelonious Monk.

I developed a stronger connection with music from the Soul and a deeper appreciation for my mom's collection, which included Ella Fitzgerald, Louis Armstrong, Glen Miller, Dave Brubeck, Duke Ellington, Sarah Vaughn, and Billie Holiday. As the Drama program continued to satisfy my urges to act out, my early mornings were now reserved mostly for listening to music and reading comic books.

# # #

But the fall season would again bring more changes to my life. The biggest change was that my mother would not be able to pick me up from school anymore, because she had gotten a second job to help save for the private school that I did not know I would be attending in two years. I would have to walk myself home or walk with a friend and his parent, who lived close by. So I became a latchkey kid, with my house keys dangling from a string around my neck.

One day after school, I was clumsy and stupid with my freedom. I went to the penny candy store next door to school for my favorite sweet treat to find that they were sold out. I had a mad craving! I had to have this candy! The owner told me that I could get it at his other candy store, which was only seven blocks away. Seven blocks in the opposite direction from my house, which meant that I was gonna need to walk fourteen extra blocks. It took almost two minutes a block. With the time it took me to purchase the candy, I figured I needed an extra thirty-five minutes, and another twenty minutes for the walk home. Fifty-five minutes. My mother would still not be home from work yet. Who would know? Nobody!

Go for it!

Once I crossed Fourteenth Street, I only had two more blocks to walk, but one was a very long block. It was equal to more than two regular blocks. I was happy that I had built in some extra minutes to allow for something unexpected. I was feeling proud and really good with my freedom.

Then, as I got closer to the middle of the block, I saw that there was a group of boys hanging out on the stoop of a building listening to loud music from a boom box.

I recognized one of these boys from school. He was scary looking and a couple of grades older. He always had this look in his eyes that said, "I can't wait to kill my first person! It's gonna be so much fun!" And he had all of these nasty scars on his face. Every time I saw him around school, I would put my head down and try to become invisible. I didn't want him to get any ideas about me becoming his first victim. I stopped dead in my tracks and thought nervously about what to do next. I was almost to the candy store. It was only another block and a half away.

I could cross the street maybe, and try to become invisible—take my chances that I won't be noticed. Or, I could double back and walk around this block to the other side. This was by far the safest thing, but I would be cutting it too close on time—it was a long block, the longest I had ever seen!

Hurry up already and make up your mind. Okay, okay—cross the street while there are no cars coming.

Too late! I caught the attention of one of the boys on the stoop by standing frozen in the middle of the sidewalk, looking like a lost and confused idiot. Suddenly they were all staring in my direction. One of them had turned off the music! Oh no! There was only one thing I could do now.

Turn around run, run, run! As fast as you can! Don't stop until you get home! Keep running! Faster! Faster! I must run faster!

Like I said before, this was the longest city block I had ever seen. It was only about twenty-five more strides to the corner when I felt a hand grab my right shoulder from behind, and then my butt kissed the hard pavement. The next thing I saw was Scary Face standing over me with the boom box in his hand. It was him! It was all over! I thought I might never make it home! I remembered that I passed St. Vincent's Hospital on the way here. Someone might get me there in time for the doctors and nurses to save my life. But I pretty much figured that this was gonna be the day that my life would be over. This was the day.

He bent down slowly in front of me and set the boom box on the sidewalk. And he smiled the sick, drooling smile of the killer that I knew that he was—and I suddenly doubted that I would be the first.

And there I sat, soon to be choking on my own blood because of what, a mad craving for fucking candy?

This is my final moment and do you know what? I am going to curse now! That's what! I don't care! No! I don't give a fuck! I'm gonna fucking curse my ass off! Fucking candy! Candy that was gonna do nothing for me but rot my teeth! Shit! I fucked up, and now I'm gonna pay for it!

Hey! He's wearing this really cool leather wristband.

I recognized it from the back of a comic book. Shit! I was gonna send away for that wristband.

Finally, he spoke. "Getz Up!"

Why? I was thinking. Why should I "getz up"? So you can knock me down on my ass again?

I didn't say a word. I just sat there with my ass burning and stinging, looking as scared as I was.

"I sez getz up!"

I was making him angry now. My heart began to beat much faster than it had when I was running away. I got up carefully, making sure my shoulder was facing him and that both hands were in a protective position in front of my balls. I did not want to die that way—getting stabbed in the balls and bleeding to death.

He kneeled on one knee but never removed his creepy leer from my eyes. "Now..." He paused for a moment to fumble around with the boom box, but he never took his eyes off of me. He found the play button and pushed it down, and then he yelled, "DANCE! Now dance! Dance NOW!"

The song "You Can't Hurry Love" by the Supremes was playing. I recognized it from the first three beats.

Damn! This is my song! I can dance to this! I've been grooving my ass off to this song all summer long at the barbecues.

I began to dance with a big ol' happy smile, and he was smiling while nodding his head to the beat. I gave him a good show!

Before the second chorus, I felt another hand on my right shoulder. I stopped dancing, froze immediately, and closed my eyes. The others had caught up. A voice.

"Hey!"

It was a familiar voice that I could not place. I opened my eyes and there stood Johnny Rivera before me with that beautiful, angelic smile he wore so brightly.

"Hi! Johnny!"

His smile faded as his eyes dimmed from angelic brightness to the dead blackness of a cold-blooded killer. He turned away to face Scary Face, and swiftly kicked the boom box, sending it flying over the curb and onto the street. He killed the music. Scary Face became Stone Face. Then, suddenly, Scary Face became Scared Face. Johnny talked at him in Spanish. I could see the veins popping out of his neck and the spit spewing out of his mouth. But he never raised his voice.

There was a moment when I thought that Johnny was going to forever silence the voice of Scared Face. But then Scared Face lifted his head to talk over Johnny and defend himself. He made his case. Johnny became silent. He took a couple of deep breaths to find calm, and then he turned to me again and placed his left hand on my right shoulder. He said calmly and slowly, "Don't ever run like you did. Never run away. Okay?"

"Okay, Johnny."

"Okay. See you at school. Here!"

He smiled and handed me my knapsack, which I must have dropped during my escape attempt. His brightness was back, as well as that beautiful smile. He went over to the street and picked up the busted boom box. Scared Face returned to Scary Face again. He stood up and gave me the down nod. Johnny put his arm around him and gave me the up nod. Then they walked off down the block. Damn! Johnny was the man! And he was hiding a face that was a lot scarier than Scary Face.

The down nod is when the chin moves down first, and then up. Between city kids, this was the nod of respect. It's when you acknowledge the personal space of another. Don't get in my space and I won't get in yours, then we won't have a problem. With the up nod, the chin moves upward first, accompanied by raised eyebrows. It's is acknowledgement that you share a bond; it's used as both a "Whassup?" and "Yo! Catch you later!"

There were a lot of ways city kids communicated to each other without speaking. Although there were many language and culture barriers, we all shared a common body language. When I was growing up, a kid could get seriously hurt by looking at the wrong kid in the wrong way. There was no textbook for this language; the only way to learn was to keep your mouth shut and observe others without calling attention to yourself.

I gave Johnny angel status. Aunt Mary and Johnny were the first two angels in my life. I had never before seen a living person change so quickly from one person to another and then back again. It was like Dr. Bruce Banner transforming into The Incredible Hulk at lightning speed.

Also, it was the first time that I ever looked into the dead blackness of the eyes of a killer. The eyes of a killer shark and a cobra, filled with empty darkness and no feeling. Johnny was a killer; beneath his beautiful, angelic smile, his blood ran cold. I would never have guessed this in a million years from the way he behaved at school. But in his neighborhood, the place where I knew I had no place being, it was common knowledge.

On the walk home, I gave some thought to what Johnny had told me.

Never run away. Run away from another kid? Really, what's the worst thing that could happen to me? Okay, I could get beat up. But my mom beats me, and I am still here. They could kill me, and then I would return to the Light again that I remembered from the drowning pool. That experience felt really good, so I am not afraid. But I have decided that I wanted to stay here for a while longer to experience whatever it is that I am supposed to experience. And, I don't believe that I have yet—no, not yet.

I arrived home two minutes before my mom.

"Are you just now getting home?"

"Hi! Yes! I was at the library researching a project for school."

The library would become a regular alibi for a long time to come before I would get busted.

"The seat of your pants is filthy, Boy!"

"Uh, yup! I slipped and fell during recess."

"Well take them off then, and put them in the hamper where filthy pants belong."

"Sure thing, Mom!"

# # #

I was looking forward to the early morning when I could listen to my music. It was my great escape. There was music that I played for dancing, music for singing along, music when I was feeling sad and lonely, and music for listening when I wanted to let my mind drift and wander. Unlike the television movies where I couldn't watch what I wanted to watch when I wanted to watch it, I could always hear the music that fit my mood. The music also helped with my Drama program preparation. The wee hours of the morning was my time! It was also the time I could read my comic books in peace.

Naturally, when I became comfortable with managing time and balancing a new way of life, more changes were on the way. That fall, the changes would continue to blast into my life from outside school. The Golden family lived in my building, and they hired me to walk their dog. One Saturday night, their regular babysitter got ill, and they found themselves in a jam, so they called my mom to ask if it was okay for me to take care of their two-year-old daughter for the evening.

The next thing I knew, I had three families who called upon me regularly to sit for their kids. The money was too good to be true! I was only in the third grade, so what else did I have to do on Friday and Saturday nights? And after I put the tiny little terrors to bed, I was getting paid to do homework while helping myself to the goodies in their cupboards and fridge. They all kept their pantries stocked with my favorite foods. How wonderful was that? Getting paid to do homework, eat goody yum-yums, and browse records!

After my first night of babysitting, Mrs. Golden asked me if there was anything that they could get for me to put in their fridge that they didn't already have, since they were planning to use my services again. There was only one thing they didn't have that I wanted: Coca-Cola. They were Pepsi people. I didn't like Pepsi—it didn't taste nearly as good as Coke, and I always burped too much when I drank it. In my world, this is how it broke down: your household was either a Coke or Pepsi household, or a Crest or Colgate toothpaste household. My household was Coke and Crest. Most of my friends were Coke and Colgate.

"We're sorry. We like Coca Cola too, but we refuse to buy Coke anymore because the makers of Coke do not support Israel," explained Mrs. Golden. "Now we only buy and drink Pepsi-Cola. But anything else that you want, just ask and we'll get it for you."

Hmm...I see—this is a little bit like the Elvis thing, I thought.

"That's okay! I mean, Pepsi is okay! Thank you very much for asking."

When I woke up early the following morning, I did not get out of bed right away. I needed to give more thought to this Coke vs. Pepsi situation. I did remember hearing the Father of News talk about Israel, but I wasn't paying too much attention at the time for a couple reasons. I was always doing damn homework during the broadcast, and Israel was too far away for me to hold my interest.

Also, I knew that this Pepsi family was not from Israel but Kansas City, Missouri, a place that is no closer to Israel than Greenwich Village. Perhaps, I thought, they have good friends there, or family, or friends and family. Something is linking them to this place that is so far away, and that link is very, very strong. Something that is really none of my business. My business is to care for their dog and daughter. But I will pay more attention to what is going on in Israel, because I like these people. They are still young adults too, even though they have a baby. Okay, I will research what is going on in Israel, and will make a greater effort to stay on top of the news.

The next decision was about Coke. I liked Coke—a lot. In fact, I liked Coke more than Elvis but not as much as The Beatles, John's Bleecker Street Pizza, or the X-Men. I gave some deep thought to this matter and made a decision. I decided to stop buying and drinking Coke. The Pepsi family had used my services to take care of their dog for almost three years now. They had also decided to use me to take care of their two-year-old daughter. Their dog and daughter were probably the most important things in their lives at this time, and who did they trust with the two most important things in their life? Me! And the generous amount of money they paid me was a reminder of how important their dog and daughter were to them.

They trusted me with their dog, daughter, and all the things that were of value in their apartment. They never told me that any area of the apartment was off limits and left all of the doors wide open in trust. So I made the decision that I too, would not buy or drink Coke. This had nothing to do with Israel; I didn't know anybody over there. And, as far as I knew, there was nothing happening over there that affected me in my daily life. But I would research the matter, as I did not know for certain that I was correct.

However, there are a few things I do know for certain. The Pepsi Family never told me I shouldn't drink Coke. They didn't make me feel badly for asking for it, and liking it. They weren't angry like the barbecue adults, and they never raised their voices at me. So I'm not gonna buy or drink Coke, because I support them. But I am sure as Hell not gonna drink Pepsi! I must research the other soft drinks that Pepsi makes; they must make something I will like to drink. Hey! They might even make a soft drink that I'll like more than Coke! I doubt it, but who knows? Now that I have made this important life decision, I am ready to begin my day.

Changes. Life changes. So many good things came my way during that fall season, but the biggest change of all was the new freedom I had after school to explore my world. Money was never a problem; I had more money than I knew what to do with. It was only a question of how I wanted to spend it.

The first several weeks of freedom, it was all about pizza. I already knew that John's on Bleecker Street was the best pizza in the whole wide world, but they did not sell slices. Of course, I could easily throw down an entire small pie by myself, but there was no way that I would be able to finish dinner if I did that. My mom would be wise to me, and then I would get busted.

The plan was to try every pizza place between home and school. Most pizza places had pinball machines, and many had arcade video games too. So naturally I had to try those out as well. And there was the regular pizza slice, and then the Sicilian pizza slice. It was important to try them both, because what if the regular slice was awful, and the Sicilian was dynamite? How would I know unless I tried both? Also, there were a lot of record stores in the village, and I needed to explore these too. I was busy! There was a lot to do!

Freedom was truly a beautiful thing! And I could walk everywhere! Everything was close to my home—adventure was fifteen to twenty minutes away, every day. The more comfortable I became with my freedom, the more careless I became as well.

For a long time, I avoided going to this one place, the Box Apizza, because it was too close to "The Block" in Westside Little Italy. But I had heard the pizza was good there, and I just had to try it. Many neighborhood kids knew the eatery as a place that not only sold pizza, calzones, and stuffed bread, but also guns! Lots of guns! If you had money and you knew how to place the order, they would sell you as many guns as you had money to buy. They would even sell guns to kids—they didn't care.

There was an ongoing joke between my friends when one was annoying another. "Keep it up, why don't you? Go on! Just keep it coming! You want me to take a walk? Well, do you? Please don't make me walk down to 'The Box,' because I have the money, and I will."

A gang of older Italian boys on stingray bicycles from "The Block" liked to roam the Village streets and beat up kids who were walking around without adults. They couldn't be bribed with any money, either. If you offered them money, they would be insulted and beat you up more. I was familiar with this gang and its leader, Danny "The Sick One," as we called him. They harassed most of my friends who lived in the building. We called them the "Junior Mobsters."

One afternoon, Brett and Mordecai, two boys who lived in my building, went to the supermarket, which was only one block away. On the walk home, they ran into the Junior Mobsters on their stingrays. The gang rode in a tight circle around them so they couldn't escape.

"Nigga! Yer dead! Ya dead, nigga! You are DEAD!" their leader chanted. Danny always did all of the talking, and he always said the same thing, whether you were or were not a "nigga."

The two boys made three mistakes that day. Mordecai, the younger one, explained that he wasn't a nigger because he was Jewish. That was a big mistake. But how was he supposed to know that Danny "The Sick One" hated Jews as much as he hated niggas?

With that remark, Danny jumped off of his bike and spit on the ground in front of Mordecai. When a kid spits on the ground in front of another, it's like a bull scraping its hoof on the ground before it charges. You don't want to be in front of that bull. Danny got all up in Mordecai's face.

"What tha fuck you call me, nigga? A fuckin' Jew bastard? Ya call me a Jew bastard? Is dat right, ya dead nigga?"

Danny got his nickname for a reason. The stories about his "sickness" were legendary in our world. Danny was a very small kid, but he lifted weights because he liked to show off his arm muscles while popping wheelies on his bike. I think the worst story I heard about him was when he ordered his homeboys to tie up a kid, then sat on the kid's back and repeatedly slammed his face into the sidewalk concrete. Then he lit a cherry bomb and stuck it underneath the kid's pants, in his asscrack. Danny stayed on top of him, laughing out loud and smashing this poor kid's face into the sidewalk, until the cherry bomb went off.

After Danny pushed Mordecai to the ground, Brett stepped up to protect his younger brother. He really didn't have much of choice. He reached into his pocket and pulled out all the cash he had. Mistake number two!

"Here! Take it! This is all we have. My brother doesn't have anything."

Danny snatched the bills out of his hand and threw them down at Brett's feet. And then he spit on them!

Brett had a temper, and this made him angry. I mean really, how was he supposed to pick up the wet, nasty bills and put them back in his pocket? Brett was also twice the size of Danny and probably thought this gave him an advantage. Mistake number three.

Danny made both of them pay for their mistakes, and the rest of his gang never got off of their bikes.

One day, after I finally worked up the courage to go to the Box Apizza, I came outside to find the Junior Mobsters waiting for me. I wasn't going to run away. I just stood there quietly while I listened to Danny say what he always said. I wondered how bad a beating I was going to get. I wished they would just hurry it up, so I could get home, clean up, and change my clothes before my mother came home. I was already trying to come up with a story to explain the bruises, the bloody nose, the fat lip, and the swollen eyes that I was probably gonna get. I'd seen what Brett and Mordecai looked like the day after their beating. I hoped I'd have enough time to ice my face. Let's get on with the beating already, I thought.

The beating, as it turned out, wasn't going to come my way that day. Auggie Augustino just happened to turn the corner of the block, accompanied by his older, meaner-than-mean cousin, Carl, who was connected. And this of course meant that Auggie was connected too. And the only way you could be connected as a kid was to be born connected to "The Family." Danny "The Sick One" was not connected, even though he wanted to be. It had to be in your blood—playing Junior Mobster was not going to connect anybody.

Auggie was small like Danny, but his cousin Carl was almost a teenager and a lot bigger. Auggie walked over and put his arm around me, then introduced his cousin Carl. Carl said how he had heard all about me, and extended thanks for helping out his cousin. On that note, Danny tried to turn the wheel of his stingray to make an emergency exit, but...

Auggie grabbed the handlebars of the bike, faced Danny head on, smiled, and then spit on the ground. His back was to me so I couldn't see his eyes to tell if he was a killer. But I could see the fear in the eyes of "The Sick One," and he was afraid like "Scared Face" had been. He was a lot more afraid of Auggie than I was of _him_.

Auggie, without letting go of the bike, turned back around and said, "Iz dis a problem hea? We gotta problem or what?"

I thought about this for a moment.

"No, Auggie. Nope! No problem at all."

Auggie gave me an up nod and released the bike. Danny and his boys sped off. Angels Auggie and Carl went into "The Box," and I went home.

That year, I would have further run-ins with Danny and his boys, but none of them ever spit on the ground or got off of their bikes. Danny would only run his mouth as usual. But one day I spoke up and I said...

"You know Danny, you better be real glad that there are niggas in the world, because if there weren't any, you would be the nigga."

That shut him up. He appeared as though he was actually thinking about it, and in some weird way, perhaps it made sense to him. He gave me a bright smile, an up nod as he popped a wheelie, and then sped off on his bike with his boys. I was surprised that "The Sick One" even knew how to smile!

One day I brought Danny and his boys a present. A group of big-kid hoodlums were trying to hold me up two blocks from "The Block." These kids were from the St. Didacus House, a place in my neighborhood where they temporarily put kids who were in between foster homes. My homeboys and I called them, "The Forgotten Ones." You could always spot the kids from this house. They didn't know the neighborhood, and it was obvious. All they could see was that there were a lot of white people living in nice buildings, so they must have figured everyone must have some money to give them.

For the most part, I was very good at spreading my money around. Put a few dollars in one front pant pocket along with some loose change, a few in a back pocket, five dollars in one shoe and five dollars in the other shoe. I felt that getting mugged by hoodlums was like paying a freedom tax. It was gonna happen; that's just the way it was. Freedom for kids came at a price, so the money in my front pant pocket was theirs for the taking. I would pull out the dollars and change along with the pocket itself so they could see there was no more to be had. If you lied and said you did not have any money, the standard hoodlum response was, "All I find, all I keeeeeep? All I find, all I keeeeeep? All I find, all I keeeeeep!?" A question that's not a question. It translates to, "All that I find on your sorry ass is mine!" Hoodlums can become downright nasty, vicious, and merciless if it they discover that you lied. They'll beat you senseless anyway for wasting their time, and take all of your money too. So don't waste their time, and don't waste yours. Be prepared to give something up. Give up just enough money to keep them moving along their way, but never too much, because then they will start looking for you every day.

For some reason, and I don't know why, I didn't feel like giving this pack of kids from St. Didacus one fucking dime of my money. I remembered having just seen Danny and his boys turning down "The Block," so I kicked the kid closest to me as hard as I could in the shin, then ran like hell.

And I wasn't running away this time. Nope! I was running toward something. I turned the corner onto "The Block," which was bustling with Junior Mobster activity. I shouted out Danny's name as loud as I could. Danny and his boys popped out from outta nowhere, and I didn't have to say another word. They could all see what was coming down their block.

Danny grabbed a baseball bat from some other kid that was sitting on a stoop and walked past me as I ran. All I heard was Danny's voice screaming, "Niggas! Ya all DEAD!"

I did not stick around for the party. I was gone like the wind! See, I understood how Danny thought. He thought that I was his nigga. And if anybody was gonna enjoy the pleasure of beating me to a pulp, it was gonna be him. And seeing how he was never gonna get a chance to do that now because of Auggie and his cousin Carl, he certainly wasn't about to let a group of other kids—niggas no less—steal his pleasure.

Rumors flew throughout my apartment building about the blood bath that happened on "The Block" that day. Of course rumors get exaggerated, so no one was talking about how those hoods made a wrong turn on the wrong block at the wrong time. Most kids believed that the group just got lost and then found by "The Sick One" and his gang. And the overall feeling among my homeboys was, "Better them than us!" Damn right! It was another reminder of the potential danger that lived only four blocks away.

The adults, on the other hand, expressed deep sympathy for these "forgotten, disadvantaged youth who were victimized by the hands of the terror and violence that stems from extreme prejudice."

But the word traveled back to the other kids of St. Didacus, and the message was clear: Stay as far away from that block as possible. Walk east. The way I saw it, that was one less group of hoodlums that I needed to worry about. However, I felt a strange feeling come over me too, the feeling of nothing, no emotion whatsoever, like a killer shark and a cobra. This became another secret of mine.

# # #

As I continued to explore the world around me, I began to see things differently. In the past, I had tried to put people into simple categories that I could understand right away. Adults and kids is where I started out—them and us.

Within each group there was nice, angry, mean, and meaner-than-mean. I viewed nice and angry as temporary conditions. But mean and meaner-than-mean were pretty constant. If adults had meanness as a part of themselves, no one could convince me that it was going to ever go away for good. However, I also discovered that some people could be more than one thing. For instance, some people were nice on the outside but mean on the inside. Some could be angry on the outside but nice on the inside. Some were mean on the outside and meaner-than-mean on the inside.

More often than not, things were not all they appeared to be, much like the super heroes in the comic books I read. People wore disguises and kept secret identities. It served me best to never judge a book only by its cover. I didn't trust anybody who tried to convince me to judge a book by its cover.

I had a secret built-in thermometer that I used to measure the trustworthiness of adults and kids. Zero was in the middle, and that is where I put everyone when I first met them, everyone except for firemen.

In the adult group, firemen were definitely the only sub-group that I could absolutely trust. Police? Not a chance! Some were nice and others were mean, or even meaner than mean. But firemen boldly enter a blazing fire, risking their lives, to save the lives of people who cannot save themselves.

Policemen take lives away from people, sometimes the lives of bad people but sometimes the lives of good people, too. Firemen don't rescue only the good people. They don't go into a fire and say, "Hey! I recognize that killer from the news. Let's leave him here to burn in Hell!" So all firemen started out at fifty degrees of trust. This was the highest mark on the thermometer! Policemen start out at fifty below zero.

Let me put it this way: If my doorbell rang at four o'clock in the morning, and a voice said, "Firemen here, open the door!" I would have stood on a chair and looked through the peephole. If the fireman was actually who he said he was, I would have opened that door.

But if the voice said, "POLICE! Open up!" I would have been scared out of my mind, and wouldn't go anywhere near that door! I would have called the fire department, coughed, and reported a fire in my apartment. Then I would have called the police station and reported a robbery in action. After that, I would have found a good place to hide.

Why? Because policemen carry real guns loaded with real bullets; firemen do not. I watched the news. So policemen were at fifty below zero, firemen were fifty above, and everyone else who wore a uniform began at zero. A uniform tells others what you do, but it doesn't say who you are.

And just because somebody was trustworthy once doesn't mean they're going to be trustworthy the second or third time around, or even ever again. You can only trust that a person is going to be who they are, but if you don't know for certain who they really are, what are you really trusting?

The nice, young adults that rode on those freedom buses to help bring change down south were kind of like firefighters. They were entering a blazing fire as well, but they didn't have any equipment at all. They probably assumed that if there were enough of them, they could blow the fire out. Between the freedom fighters for change and the players in my Drama program, I had identified a new sub-group: "The Young Adults." I liked them!

In addition to the added young adults category, there were many new categories that I introduced to the kids group. These categories were increasing as fast as my record collection. There was "The Killers," "The Meaner-than-Mean Ones," "The Tough Ones," "The Sick and Crazy Ones," "The Hoodlums," "The Slippery Ones," "The Angry Ones," "The Quiet Ones," "The Bullies," "The Forgotten Ones," "The Bossy Ones," "The Young Fogies," "The Regular Kids," "The Nice Kids," "The Sensitive Ones," "The Pretenders," "The Cool Cats," "The Geniuses," "The Temper Tantrums," "The Brats," "The Brownnosers," "The Back Stabbers," "The Scaredey-cats," "The Rats," and "The Lollipops."

A kid could fall into many categories. I definitely fell into more than one: "The Quiet Ones," "The Angry Ones," "The Pretenders," "The Regular Kids," "The Nice Kids," "The Sensitive Ones," "The Scaredey-cats," and on special occasion "The Slippery Ones." And when I became "The Quiet One," many times I was also one of "The Angry Ones" on the inside, but I was careful never to let him show on the outside. I didn't believe that other people wanted to see him, and I really didn't want to see him either.

The angry part of me was the easiest to hide, even when I became an adult. When I become passionate about something that I believe is unjust, I am animated and raise my voice. People convince themselves that I am angry and, more often than not, directing it at them. But I am really not angry at all. I am only passionate and at times frustrated. When I try to explain this to people, they don't want to hear it. People want to believe what they want to believe, so I don't bother to explain anymore. But I am exactly the opposite from many others; the angrier I become, the quieter I become. I put the angry part of me into a hiding place, because if I ever let it on the outside... Well, that's why I don't.

And, there are times when "The Quiet One protects "The Scaredey-cat" or "The Sensitive One." Outside of myself, I feared "The Quiet Ones" the most, because they never gave anyone a clue to what was buried within. So whenever I was in the presence of one of "The Quiet Ones," I paid extra attention, and I became super, super quiet, always expecting the unexpected.

More than any other kid types, the one category that is true to who I am is without a doubt "The Sensitive Ones." And I used "The Pretender "most of the time, to try to hide this one from everyone. But there were too many people who saw straight through me anyway—"The Nice Kid" part of myself would give him away every time. I could see the look in others' eyes when "The Nice Kid" gave up my front. It was a look that said, "Ha! We're on to you now!" So sometimes "The Nice Kid" behaved like one of "The Rats."

I never fully realized how sensitive I truly was until I performed solo on stage during the second week of the drama program that first semester. My preparation was different from the first week; I never considered rehearsing any movement, but played out various scenarios in my head. My Question of Exploration: How did the Indians kill the cowboy?

Saturday morning before the performance, I woke up early as usual. I put on one of my mother's instrumental records and packed a bag. I threw on some chaps to go over my blue jeans, then put on my quick-draw, cross draw, Western Gunfighters double rig, and cowboy hat. Finally, I added boots, jeans, and Western-style shirt with white pearl button snaps. I did not have a clue as to what I was going to do. What surprised me was that I was not concerned or nervous at all. I would explore the question during the performance.

Finally, it was my turn. I always went last. I figured that this was because I was the very last person to join the group. I walked up the side stage stairs and stopped at the top, just like the week before. I closed my eyes for a moment to visualize the scene: inside a saloon, a famous Western Gunslinger who resembles all of my favorite cowboy heroes, a man tending bar. I opened my eyes. The saloon was on the other side of the stage. How was I gonna get there? On a horse, of course!

Skip and hop. Listen to the beats of my boot heels as they cross the floor. They sound like a horse! Be careful not to skip or hop too high, I thought, because my guns may fall out of their holsters. Ride to the other side. Pull the reins. Stop. Dismount like on the merry-go-round in Central Park. Tie up Mister Ed. Push the open the saloon doors and make my entrance.

See my hero at the bar shooting a shot of whiskey. Look up. Remember that he is much taller than you. A big smile! Position myself so the audience can see all of my facial expressions and movements. Now go give your hero a huge hug! No, wait! Cowboys don't hug! What do they do? Shake hands? Nope, they don't do that. What do they—yes! An up nod! And a tip of the hat!

Saddle up to the bar and order a bottle whiskey from the barman. Toss two bits on the bar. Pour your hero a shot. Pour myself a shot. Raise my glass with another up nod. Add a smile. Down the shot. Slam the glass on the bar. Wipe my shirtsleeve across my mouth, then look at my hero and beat my chest once with a closed fist. Yeah, feeling like one bad ass cowboy now. Super bad!

What is that commotion I hear outside of the saloon? A voice shouting out my hero's name! My hero makes a move. I put one open hand on his chest to stop his movement, letting my other closed fisted hand beat on my chest. Then I show off my mastery of a thumbed, two-gun, high hip, cross-draw that is smooth and lightning fast.

I walk to the saloon doors, swing them open, and step outside. I stop. What do I see? In my eyes, the bright sun is setting behind the building across the street. I tip my hat downward to block out the glare. The long over-under barrels of a Winchester rifle are aimed square at my heart. Then I notice that the triggerman is not a man at all but a boy, like me.

He is a small Indian boy with tears dropping steadily from his eyes. He was not here for me, but had come for my hero's blood to satisfy his revenge. My hero had killed his father in cold blood, for no good reason—he cowardly shot the man in his back.

I loosen my gun belt and release my weapons to the ground. I raise my hands in the air and walk slowly toward the boy. I get down on my knees and guide the rifle away from my face, then gently place it on the ground. I did not feel them coming up like I usually do, but my tears just begin to pour out of me, and I reach out to hug the small Indian boy.

A SHOT! OH NO! I've been shot! I examine the wound in my chest. It's burning...on fire! The small Indian boy has been wounded by the same shot! Look over my shoulder to see my hero, who shot me in the back. I shoot a facial expression to the audience that asks, "WHY?" I collapse on the stage.

There would be no applause today. I was terribly shaken. This was obvious as I moved off of the stage. On the return trip to my seat, another player interrupted me. She stepped into my path, leaned over, and gave me a big, warm hug until I trembled no more. She smelled of warm, homemade apple crumb pie with vanilla ice cream! My world was suddenly right again even though my heart felt broken after I discovered that it was not the Indians who killed the cowboy but his hero.

On the walk home, I gave some thought about "The Sensitive One" inside me, and how big of a part of me he was. I didn't know if this was a good or a bad thing, but I believed it was a good idea not to let too many others see him. Yes. "The Angry One" and "The Sensitive One"—they must not be seen. In Drama session it was okay; that was why we were there.

More than any of the kid groups, the one I despised the most was "The Bullies," because most of them were also one of "The Lollipops" in disguise. They might have been bullied at home by an adult or older brother, and then they went out into the world and bullied other kids they saw as "Lollipops." I saw that as weakness. Maybe they figured that the more "Lollipops" they bullied, the better the chance that their own "Lollipop" traits would disappear. I thought that was pretty stupid, but then again, they were the stupidest of the lot, so this made sense to me. Also, they talked way too much, constantly bragging about themselves.

The other groups I could not stand were "The Bossy Ones" and "The Young Fogies!" Ugh! Both groups tried to behave as though they were adults and better than everyone else, but they were only kids like the rest of us. In your room with your things, you were the boss. In your home, without adults or an older brother or sister around, you were the boss. But not on the playground—there, you could not be the boss of anybody. Maybe your little brother or sister if you had one, but that was it! It made me quiet and angry to be around them. If I had been born with "Meaner-than-Mean" running through my blood, I would have menaced and tortured these three kid types to no end. Yes, I most certainly would have!

There was just one other only boy child in my building: Johnny Padulovic. He used to play with the rest of us in the playground. I didn't know for sure, but I believed that he was one of "The Forgotten Ones." He called the woman of his household "Senka," never "Mom." What kid calls his mother by her first name? And they had different last names too. But like I said, I wasn't certain. I was only positive that he was one of "The Tough Ones." At one time or another, he gave every one of us a beating, except for me. It wasn't that I was special or anything, I just never gave him reason.

And I knew that I wasn't supposed to think this, but every beating he dished out was well deserved. There were kids picking on smaller kids and hijacking other kids' toys right out of their hands in the sand box. He would send boys crying to mothers daily. The boys would only tell what Johnny did to them and never what they did that was wrong. If Johnny saw something going on that wasn't right, he made it right. He was the ruler of the playground.

Johnny went to some Catholic grade school on the East Side. I guess most of his new friends lived over there, because he rarely came out to play with us. He was without a doubt by far the toughest kid in the building, and he looked it too. He wasn't mean, but he was tough, so tough that hoodlums of any age would cross the street when they saw him coming. He was just that kind of kid. He could walk into any neighborhood, day or night, even "The Block!" But as tough as he was, stupid he was not.

# # #

The rest of the boys my age had one brother, either a year older or younger. There was Joaquin and Alejandro, Mark and Gary, Danny and Timmy, Brett and Mordecai, James and Stephen, Max and Fabrice, John and Peter, David and Christopher, and the twins, Bernard and Peter. There was also Paddie Mac. He had a younger sister and an Irish temper. The building was a miniature United Nations; my friends were from Argentina, Canada, Columbia, England, Ireland, France, Germany, Ghana, Venezuela, California, Ohio, and Pennsylvania.

Our favorite game to play was Secret Agent. We would come up with a mission and then split into two teams. There was an enormous two-level garage underneath our building. We had drawn out two maps, one for each team. There were alarms on all of the doors.

One group would hide things underneath cars and the other would have to find them all and return to home base in a race against time. During the next outing, we would switch it up. The enemies were the security guards, garage attendants, and car owners. We all knew how to disable the alarms and reset them when we were done. If you were caught, you had to say you were working solo. Under no circumstances were you to become "The Rat" and kill our game.

There was one kid who was new to the building who was introduced to the group. We had to vote on whether he would be accepted into the game. The vote was unanimous in favor! Why? The only reason was because we discovered that he was the younger brother of a new girl who had just moved into the building—Madeline. And Madeline was really, really cute! She was the girl who became the reason that all of us boys began to really like girls. And we were all going to treat her brother nice so we would get invited over for a play date to get a closer, longer look at her cuteness.

Unfortunately, this never happened for any of us, because her brother, I don't even remember his name, was lame at the game. He didn't listen to us and got busted his first time out. And what did he do? He released his inner rat! He gave up all of our names, and all of the information that he knew about us. Maybe he did listen to us and was just a born a rat!

We were all severely punished for a month. Our parents must have had a meeting and decided we would all serve the same exact punishment, four weeks of house arrest. On top of that, I got beaten pretty badly for being an embarrassment to my mother.

Well, after we all served our time, we held a secret meeting. We agreed that not one of us would ever talk to this boy again—ever! If anyone of us talked to this boy, the rest of us would never talk to him again—ever! It didn't matter how cute his sister was; no one was allowed to talk to her either. We were serious enough to take this oath and draw blood on it. First we wrote the credo down on a piece of paper, and then we cut our fingers and smeared a straight line on the paper with our blood and signed our names above. Everyone had to read the oath aloud, and after that we burned the piece of paper.

We also confessed to each other at this same meeting that the "jig was up." We knew that all of us liked girls now—a lot. Madeline had broken the ice for us. We talked about the other cute girls who lived in the building. There were as many of them as there was of us, if not more. Plenty for all! So there was no sense in fighting over any one of them, and there was to be absolutely no showing off by trying to make each other look bad. We did not draw blood on this oath, so it was more of what we called a mutual understanding.

At that time, Becky was still the most special girl in my life. She may even have been the most special kid in my life, too, because I never felt the need to hide "The Sensitive One" when I was with her. Even if I tried, she would see right through me anyway, so there was no point. She was number one.

Number two was Marianne. Once in a while, I would play stupid and pretend that I didn't understand something in class and ask if we could meet after school for a tutoring session. She lived only two blocks away. Every time I asked, without fail, she gave me the same response.

"What do you think? That I have nothing else to do but to tutor you? I have ballet lessons, and violin lessons, and I must practice, and then there are my girlfriends to play with, and...blah, blah, blah..."

And so on, and so forth. But at the end of her carrying on it was always, "Okay! I'll meet you at the candy store after school!"

We'd go to her house for an after-school snack and open a book or two. I studied her hard. She was still a mystery to me, and I still did not know why I had a crush on her. I waited for a glow that never came, although once in a blue moon her eyes would become brighter than usual. There was, however, this thing she did with her lips! It was kind of a pucker thing—not a full pucker, but it kept me playing stupid, so I went back for more again and again.

Also, there was a new girl at school, Jill. Her last name came after mine alphabetically, so whenever there was a class outing and we were herded two-by-two in a single file, we held hands. She had big, beautiful, bright blue eyes, ultra long eyelashes, a great smile, dimples in her rosy, pink cheeks, and little curls inside of the bigger curls in her brown hair.

Jill was cute too, but there was one thing about her that bugged me a little; she had a habit of sucking on her fore finger and middle finger together. That wasn't what bugged me—I mean it looked a little retarded and all, but it wasn't that; it was that she never bothered to wipe the wetness off her fingers before she held my hand. I gotta say, it was never a pleasurable experience. But still, in school, she was number three.

The cute girls who lived in our building, all of whom attended all-girls schools, had never really gotten our attention. Now we knew all of their names and always said "Hello!" with big, happy smiles. If we held a secret little crush on one, we might throw out a little wink if we knew the other boys weren't paying attention. It was like, "Yeah, okay, I know I say hello to all the girls, but only you get the secret little wink."

Pamela Schulze was often the recipient of my little wink. The Schulze family were from Germany. Alison, her sister, was older and the cuter of the two, but Pamela's entire face lit up when she smiled, and when she giggled she took me to heaven. Man, oh man! She was funny too—a live wire! She also had a little tomboy thing going on, which I liked. The girl wasn't afraid to get a little dirty.

One day I was feeling like Captain Courageous, so I came directly home after school and just hung outside of my building, waiting. I tried hard not to look like I was waiting and wondered if I hadn't gotten home fast enough. How long should I wait? Did I already miss her? Maybe, I did. Maybe I didn't. Hey! There she is, walking down the street with her housekeeper. Let's see... How am I going play this?

"Hi Pamela! Hey! I want to ask you something."

The housekeeper was standing close to her, scowling at me as if I might kidnap her responsibility. I whispered softly in Pamela's ear, "Do you wanna have a play date?"

"A play date? With you? Sure!" She shouted. "But I can't play now. How about tomorrow?"

Her voice was so loud my ears were ringing. Doesn't the girl know how to whisper?

"Ahem, uh, uh—okay. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, yes, yes after school tomorrow is good. Wanna meet, uh—how 'bout, uh, in the lobby? A—a—at, three thirty?"

"Sure! I'll meet you in the lobby at three thirty!"

The housekeeper took a hold of her hand and dragged her to the building's entrance. Right before they entered the building, Pamela turned around to me and shouted, "See you tomorrow! I can't wait!"

Well, that was easy enough. The ultimate goal of our homeboy group was to get a one-on-one in the staircase for a little "Show and Show" with one of the cuties. You know in kindergarten how there was "Show and Tell?" This was more of a, "You show me yours and then I'll show you mine—and we won't tell another soul."

Based on her enthusiasm, it was looking like I picked the right girl. As far as I knew, none of the other homeboys had made it as far as I had. She was easy to get into the staircase, but once we were inside she wasn't so easy anymore. Being a guy and all, I tried to take the lead.

"Okay, listen, it's called Show and Show." It's a game. Nothing more than a silly little game."

"Great! I love silly little games! How do we play?"

Yes! Am I in? Or, What? I am so in! I ran my kindergarten "Show and Tell" rap. I thought that was a good one. They must have "Show and Tell" in Germany. I was pretty sure it was a worldwide kindergarten activity.

"Oh, yes! I just love Show and Tell! Please go on!"

Wooo Hooo! Get Down with your smooth and polished rappin' self! And I'm new at this! First time out! My cheeks were bursting with delight. I couldn't believe my great fortune! I went on to explain the game. I prepared something to say in my head in case she had a sudden change of heart and didn't want to play anymore. I held my breath until I heard her say, "Great!"

Oh, man! That's twice that she said, "Great!" Twice as nice! But I'm gonna have to teach the girl how to whisper; otherwise she's gonna get us busted with our pants down.

"So who goes first?" she asked.

"Well, you do of course! It's ladies first! Ladies are always first." What kind of stupid question is that? I wondered.

"Why do you say 'of course'? Why don't you go first?"

I had not prepared for this question. I had to think quick!

"Because...because...I'm the guy, that's why. And in this game, those are the rules. Ladies go first! Do you see now? I'm the guy here!"

"Well, that is just about the stupidest thing that I have ever heard. Besides, you are older than me. When is your birthday?

"December. And yours?"

"February! That's two months!"

"I can add and subtract too. So what?"

"You came into this world first, so you have a responsibility to show me the ropes because you've been here longer than I have."

"But Pamela, can't you see? I am showing you the ropes! That's why I'm introducing you to this cool game!"

"I don't see—you haven't shown me anything; that's what I'm waiting on. So?"

"So what?"

"So I don't see nobody's rope, so show me the rope—show me!"

I was not prepared for this negotiation, and I didn't really know what to say next. Wait! What was that?

"Sh! Quiet! I think I hear something!" I whispered.

Sure enough, we could hear the staircase door open a few flights above us, followed by heavy footsteps. I pointed to the door and whispered.

"C'mon!"

I grabbed her hand.

"Let's go!"

We went to the elevator bank and shared a ride down to the lobby.

"Whew! Now that was a close call!"

"I know! It was a lot of fun, too! Thanks! I like this game! When can we play again?"

She was as cute as a button. I needed to prepare better for the next play date. It wasn't like there was anyone I could go to for advice either. I didn't have an older brother, and I wasn't going to ask my mom. I definitely didn't want any of my friends to know what happened. I wasn't going to worry much, though. I knew I would think of something.

It took about three more rounds of negotiations before she wore me down, and I gave in.

"Okay, okay already! I'll go first!"

Who's going to know? Nobody, that's who!

I unbuckled my belt, and pulled down my pants and underpants together, down to my ankles. She stared long and hard with her hand over her mouth and cheeks puffed out. I looked down to see what she was looking at for so long.

I was about to say, "Okay, now it's your turn," when she shoved me out the way and said, "Excuse Me!" and exploded into hysterical laughter as she ran down the stairs! I could hear the echo of her outburst ricochet off the stairwell walls. It sounded like the laughter of a hundred little girls. To make matters worse, it was taking me forever to pull up my pants!

As soon as I got home, I ran into the bathroom, and locked the door behind me. I pulled my pants down to look at my reflection in the mirror. I wanted to see what was so funny. I didn't see anything funny! And I stared for a good long time to make certain that Marianne hadn't left any bruises. There was nothing funny at all going on down there.

The next time I ran into Pamela, I was a little embarrassed. Only a little bit, but I accepted that I had failed miserably in the guy department. I wasn't a lollipop yet, though, because I wasn't gonna give up. Even if I never ever got a show from Pamela, I would never be considered a lollipop unless I give up on myself. So even if it wasn't with Pamela, one day I was gonna see a cute girl's show.

A few days later I ran into Pamela at the playground, she skipped up to me with her cute as a button smile and whispered into my ear, "Next time, it's my turn, I promise you. I can't wait!"

It would take about five more "next times" before she would take her turn. "Next time, next time, can't wait," she'd always say. What this meant was that I showed my show five more times without a Pamela show in return! It was the exact same show with the exact same response. Afterward, I would run into the bathroom and check to see if I was missing something.

When she finally showed her show, it wasn't exactly the greatest show on Earth, if you know what I mean. My show was definitely the better show, so I don't know what she was laughing at. But after she pulled up her underwear back up under her plaid school skirt, she gave me a big, fat smooch on the lips, and that was worth all the embarrassment I suffered through on my first six attempts!

I wished that I had a little brother. I would pass along the wisdom.

"Yo! Lil Bro! Listen!" I'd say. "I'm gonna hit you up with some wisdom. There is absolutely nothing to see! It's a scam game that some girl probably made up. They got nothin' for show—we got the show! Negotiate for the big, fat smooch on the lips! I'll coach you! This is what you say. Try to get them to go first. If they agree right away, change your mind, and say you'll go first. But before I do ask for a smooch on the lips. Pray for the smooch. After you get it, give her the show. When it's her turn, tell her that her smooch was so good that instead of giving you a show, you'd prefer a bigger, fatter smooch instead? Anyway, however you go about it, remember that is your goal: a smooch before your show and a bigger, fatter smooch after."

The "Show and Show" was lame. I did not need to have the experience again. I figured that every cute girl's show looked identical. Guys were all different—that's why our show was so much better. The girls never knew what they were gonna get. It simply wasn't a good trade. It would be like trading X-Men #1 for the entire Archie comic book collection. Lollipops aside, who would be that foolish?

After my experience with Pamela, I wanted to smooch all the cute girls to discover who gave the best kiss. It would be another adventure, like discovering the best pizza by the slice. First there was Becky, who would probably smooch me if I asked. But for some reason, I did not want to smooch Becky. Our thing was holding hands and looking into each other's eyes.

And then there was Marianne. She did this pucker thing with her lips, which meant that most likely she had been practicing. But who knows with her—she might suddenly feel the urge to bite off my lips. Anyway, I wasn't interested in kissing her; I was only curious as to why I had a crush on her. There was now Jill too, but she had the fingers-in-the-mouth action, so that simply just wasn't gonna work.

Girls were a puzzle; I did not understand them the way that I did boys. I had to categorize them differently. I categorized others based on my observation of how they choose to express and relate to the world around them. I knew that this was only part of their story, but it was where I began. I did not spend enough time with girls for a thorough observation, and I really had zero interest in spending the time figuring them out. So I could only categorize them as they expressed and related to me.

There was Becky, who discovered and uncovered me. She was brave like a pioneer. Okay, so that was one group: "The Pioneers." Marianne was a tough one to categorize. She was just too mysterious. That was all I had to work with, so I named the next group "The Mysteriosos." Then, there was Pamela who liked to play games; that was an easy one: "The Players."

"The Pioneers" were brave straight shooters. With "The Mysteriosos," you never knew if they were coming or going, or when, or how, because they themselves didn't even know. And "The Players" liked to have fun, play, and laugh, even if it was at your expense. There was, however, one single characteristic that they shared—at some point, they all were gonna wanna take over.

After some thought, I decided I would not kiss any girls from my school. I'd keep it in the building, where there were plenty of cute girls to smooch. It was too weird to smooch a girl from school, because I'd have to see her everyday after that—not a good idea. Save the smooching for the home girls. And I knew there had to be another kissing game that didn't take nearly as much time. It took so much effort to get a smooch. I wished that I'd had an older, cool brother to help me.

Let's see, who has an older, cool brother? Or better yet, an older, cool sister? Yes! Got it! Elizabeth Miller! She is totally cool!

The following day, during recess, I was able to get Elizabeth away from her friends.

"Hi! I was wondering if you could help me out."

"Okay, if I can, I will."

"Thanks! I have a friend who lives in my building, and you see, he doesn't have any older brothers or sisters to show him the ropes—just like me. Anyway, he wants to know if there are any kissing games that girls like to play. I thought that because you are older maybe you would know of one or two."

"The first kissing game any kid plays is Spin the Bottle. Your friend—is he cute?"

How am I supposed to know that? I thought. He's a boy!

"Elizabeth, boys can't be cute. Only girls can be cute!"

She laughed at this. "To girls, boys can be cute!"

"Gosh, really? Does it make a difference as far as the kissing games go?"

"Let's just say it helps—a lot! That is, if you want to get the cute girls to play the game."

"Oh, I see. Well, I can't really say if I even know any cute boys, so this might be a problem for my friend too. But I will tell him anyway, because I promised I would ask around. He goes to an all boys' school, so he's a little shy with the girls."

"Nothing like you, huh?"

What does she mean by that? And why is she smiling at me like the devil? This is taking too long.

"So how do you play this game...Spin the Bottle?"

"The same number of girls and boys sit in a circle on the floor. Boy-girl-boy-girl. You start with an empty soda bottle on the middle of the circle. A boy or girl spins the bottle. When the bottle stops spinning, whoever the bottle is pointing to must kiss the spinner. Then the bottle is passed to the boy or girl to the right of the spinner. Everybody gets a turn, and then the game is over."

"That sounds simple and fun too! And you don't waste any time!"

"Well, the hardest thing is finding a place with no adults around."

"How much time does the game take?"

"Depends on the number of people playing."

"Yes, that makes sense. And what happens if a boy spins the bottle and it lands on another boy, or a girl spins and it lands on a girl? What happens then?"

"Then the spinner spins again."

"That's a good rule. What happens if a boy or girl doesn't want to kiss the boy or girl that the bottle points to?"

"There are no rules for that. This is why it helps if everyone who is playing the game is cute! If your friend is as cute as you, then I will invite the two of you to the next game of Spin me and my friends play."

"But—but you and your friends are all too old for us. And besides, we don't have any experience kissing! Not much anyway, and—"

"How do you expect to get experience, silly? Ask your friend to lend you a photo of him and I will decide if he is cute. Or if your friend is too shy, you can come by yourself. Just let me know, okay?"

"Okay. Hey, thanks a lot, Elizabeth! Thanks for your help!"

There wasn't a chance in Hell that I was going to play "Spin the Bottle" with Elizabeth and her friends. No way, no how. Trying to make certain that all the players in the game were cute was a difficult task. I needed help, because I didn't know how to tell if a boy was cute. As far as I knew, Elizabeth could have been the only girl in the world who thought I was kinda cute. I didn't know how other girls determined whether boys were cute or not. There is only one person who could have helped me with the issue, and I was just going to have to ask her—Pamela, "The Player."

I'll tell her the names of the cute girls, and she can give me the names of the cute boys. I sure hope that one of those names that she gives me is mine. Uh, oh! What if my name is not on that list? What if the only girl who wants to kiss me is Pamela? I will ask her to only include the girls who she knows for certain do not have a problem with kissing me.

Imagine the bottle pointing in my direction, and the girl spinner saying, "NO way! I'm not kissing him!" I believe I would cry right there on the spot! Cry like a baby in front of all my homeboys, who would all be laughing their heads off at me. Kids can be mean to other kids in that way. I cannot allow this to happen!

After a staircase rendezvous with Pamela, I found she was down with the plan! I gave up my list of girls and copied her list of homeboys. We agreed that ten was the appropriate number for the first game. Two sets of brothers, two sets of sisters, and two only children. I added a rule that if someone refused to kiss someone else, they lost their spin. She agreed to that, too.

We had matched the secret crushes together, too. She was good at that! She said we could play at her apartment next week on a day after school when both of her parents would be out. We would have about an hour to play the game. With the small group we had, we guessed we could fit in two or three rounds. I elevated her to a new category: "The Killer Player!"

We would meet again in two days to review the plan. The girls and boys were all good to go on the date and time. Everything was set! Then, two days before the date, Pamela was waiting for me in the lobby of our building after school. She told me there had been a change. Pamela and Alison's apartment was no longer available. Their mother's appointment had been rescheduled.

But then she said that she had checked with a friend across the street whose parents were never home, and she was cool and down with having the game at her apartment. I wasn't too comfortable playing with someone I had never even seen before, but I didn't have a choice. It was too late to find another place.

The girl's name was Stacy. She was only a year older, and she was cute too! Okay, I thought, she will fit in well with our group.

When we got to Stacy's, there was a plate of hard-looking cookies and a pitcher of Hawaiian Punch waiting for us on the coffee table in the living room. At first, I thought it to be a little "Young-Fogey-Like," because this is the sort of setup that parents put together when they host a play date. I would have put out maybe some multi-flavored Life Savers, including all of the mint flavors, and water.

She wasn't exactly thinking like a kid, but she was a girl, so who knew what she was thinking. But for the first time, I became aware of how girls could also fall into the same categories that I had created for boys. That is, if she was truly a "Young Fogey." I vowed to give more attention to this possibility. Anyway, she was cute, and she was letting us use her place. If she turned out to be a "Young Fogey," so what?

Pamela announced the rules. She totally took over, but she was awesome, so I didn't mind at all. We sat in a circle: boy-girl, boy-girl. The girls were giggly and nervous, and the boys—we were just nervous. Stacy appeared to be neither.

We would draw straws to see who would begin the game and then proceed counter-clockwise. The way it fell out, I would be the last to take a turn. Stacy sat on my left and was second to last. Pamela, who was on my right, was first. I watched Pamela as she picked up the bottle, and then spun it. I found myself wishing and praying that her spin would land on me. Naturally, it did not—it landed on Alejandro. His face turned beet red after she kissed him, and then he said, "WOW!"

Yup. Exactly. There was no other word to describe a kiss from Pamela Schulze. Suddenly I was feeling that I didn't really want to kiss another cute girl. If I could get John's Bleecker Street by the slice, would there ever be a need to try other pizza slices? No. So I had a bigger wish now. I only wanted to kiss the cute girl to whom I had showed my show. Everyone was laughing and having a good time. Nobody was nervous anymore. There were only two of us left who hadn't had the opportunity to kiss: Stacy and me, the last two to take a turn.

Stacy was up. Her spin landed on me. She announced in a loud booming voice, "No way! I'm not kissing him! I'm spinning again!"

She didn't look at me when she spoke; it was as though I wasn't even in the room. I looked at my homeboys, but none of them were laughing like they had been when I imagined this nightmare, and I didn't feel any tears welling up inside of me. Thank God!

"The Killer Player" jumped up to make a play. She snatched the bottle from the hands of our host. "No, Stacy. I made the rules perfectly clear before we began. If you pass on a kiss, you lose your turn."

Pamela passed me the bottle, as Stacy voiced further objection.

"Well, guess what Pa-me-la? This is my house, and I'm changing the fucking rules, okay? My fucking house, my fucking rules!"

Shit! I was right! She was another "Young Fogey!" I knew it! Spin the bottle quickly before she takes it away. I'm not leaving this place without a kiss! My spin landed on—oh no! "The Young Fogey!" Why is this happening to me? What did I do to deserve this? Quick! Spin again! Uh oh! That really pissed her off!

"That does it! All of you—out! Get out of my fucking, goddamn house! Get the fuck out of here right now! This very minute!"

She marched over to the door and opened it. We filed out of that place as fast as we could. When the elevator door opened to take us downstairs, Pamela grabbed a hold of my hand and pulled me back.

"Go on, you guys. It's too crowded for us. We'll wait for the next one."

When the elevator door closed. Pamela turned to me and said, "I think someone was cheated out of a kiss today."

She planted a kiss on me like the ones that you see in the movies—long, nice, and juicy. You know, the kind of kiss that makes your face melt, your heart stop beating and start singing instead, your knees buckle, your legs turn to Jell-O, and your body become one giant mess of Silly Putty. I made a wish during that game, and it came true, even though it didn't appear like it was gonna come true at the time. My mother was right: "It's always the darkest before the Light." Thank you, thank you, thank you, Mom!

During that first year of discovery, "Spin the Bottle" was the game that united the boys and girls who lived in my building. There was a game at least every other week. But after that first game at Stacy's place, Pamela and I never played again. We continued our rendezvous play dates in the stairwell, and that was enough for the time being. Every so often she would ask for a show, and I would give her one. She would laugh so hard! I did not mind, because I loved to see that cute girl laugh.

I even shared with Pamela the little problem I was having with my show during this time. I would wake up in the early morning like I usually do, and the first thing I needed to do was pee. My "pee-pee"—that's what I called my show because that's what it did—was becoming stuck in in a position where the crown of its helmet was pointed to the ceiling. It was difficult to direct the stream toward the toilet because my "pee-pee" was usually rock hard with its head to the sky every morning. I would have to stand on my tippy toes and hold it down with my thumbs to get the right angle.

But what kept happening is that it would slip between my thumbs while I was peeing. It was like a fire hose on full-throttle! The pee would go everywhere except where it was supposed to! I would have to clean up the entire bathroom—Spic and Span—before my mother came home from work. Pamela laughed hard at that story, more so than any other story I shared with her. And I laughed with her.

I desperately wanted to know what was going on with my "pee-pee." Sometimes it got so rock hard that it was very painful.

Something may be wrong with me. What if something is wrong and they have to cut it off? I wouldn't have anything to show! This must have something to do with sex. Time to breakdown and ask Mom.

I did, but she only responded with silence and a pair of squinty eyes.

Okay, who else can I ask? Many of my friends' parents are doctors, or maybe I can go to my pediatrician's office some day after school before Mom gets home. No good—my mom would find out. Maybe I could go to St. Vincent's Hospital around the corner from school! Hey, wait a minute! My mother is a nurse and works in a hospital—why won't she help me? Anyway, I won't be able to go until two days from now, and by then it may be too late to get this thing fixed.

The very next day, when I came home from school, a big, thick, textbook was waiting for me on the desk in my homework area. It was a medical encyclopedia! Thanks, Mom! Everything I wanted to know was gonna be in that big book! I flipped through the pages, but it was written in a language I could not understand.

Well, this sucks! Wait! There are a lot of large color pictures and diagrams in this book. Let's check them out. Oh my God! What tha'? Chlamydia! Gonorrhea! Syphilis! Trichomoniasis! Do you think—? No way! All I did was look at the show! That's all I did!

Suddenly, my stomach became knotted, then began to twist and turn. I ran to the bathroom and threw up pizza!

I had nightmares all night long, but when I woke up my "pee-pee" didn't have that rock-hard bone action going on. In fact, I could barely find the damn thing! It was hiding out! I almost needed to borrow my mom's tweezers to take a pee! It was time to make a deal: If my "pee-pee" wouldn't do the rock hard thing in the morning when I had to pee, then I wouldn't put it anywhere close to a girl's show. That deal was good until I was thirteen; then I had to make a brand new deal.

Pamela and I would become better friends as we tried to figure out ways to spend private time beyond the stairs. We wanted to find a place where we could smooch uninterrupted for longer periods of time. It wasn't easy on her end, because her mother and sister were always home. And I never knew about my mother during the day—it was hit or miss.

Mom worked nights so she could be around during the day to take me places I could not go by myself and attend school meetings. She had another job for part of the day, but the times were different every week. If she was home during the day, she was often sleeping, and we would have to be very quiet. With Pamela's giggle and inability to whisper, it was way too risky.

There was only one place we knew we could go for certain, and we didn't want to go there: Stacy's place. Unfortunately, it was our only choice. Pamela agreed to bite the bullet and apologize. What else? We would probably need to set her up with one my homeboys. It has to be one who was not there during the first game of "Spin the Bottle." Pamela was going to find out what type of boy she thought was cute, and we would do the matchmaking. It would be like a double play date. Stacy's place was big enough for each couple to have a private space.

At our next rendezvous, Pamela gave me an update. "It's doesn't look good. We need to put together another plan."

"Why?"

"Well, she's okay with the double play date, so that is good. But there is only one boy who she wants to kiss—the boy she has a crush on. Some boy named Jacques who lives in her building."

"Jacques? Really? Hmm... Hey! I know a boy in her building named Jacques! Is it Jacques Guillotine?"

Pamela laughed.

"I know! It's funny, isn't it? Someone in his family invented it a long time ago. But I'm serious! He's a year older, but his brother Andre is in my class. They are not my homeboys but they are my home slices. And we have play dates every once in a while; we like to go to see movies together. His mom takes us to the movie theater. Did she say Jacques Guillotine?"

"Nope. She just said Jacques."

"Can you call Stacy when you get home, and ask her? Then call me, okay? If the answer is yes, then I will talk to Jacques at recess tomorrow. Then let's meet here after school. Well, even if it's not the Jacques I know, we should meet anyway, okay?"

"Okay! I'll call you!"

It turned out it was indeed Jacques Guillotine. Things were looking up again! I met with him during recess to explain the plan.

"Stacy who?" he said. He didn't even know she existed! Never saw her, never heard of her.

"What if I don't think she's cute?" he asked.

"But she is cute!" I explained.

Judging by his face, he wasn't convinced.

I was trying to think of something I could trade, but I couldn't think of anything I was ready to part with that would be of value to him. Meanwhile, he was thinking too. Finally, he said he would agree to one double play date to check out this girl named Stacy. If it turns out that he didn't think she was cute or she was a sloppy kisser, he was "histoire!" He said he would just walk out and Pamela and I would be on our own! If that happened, we knew Stacy would throw us out again!

The deal with Stacy was that both of her parents worked long hours. There was a housekeeper because the apartment was so big that every time she cleaned the place, it needed to be cleaned all over again. I didn't understand how a place could get so dirty with only three people living in it, and no pets. But the housekeeper left everyday at three thirty after she prepared dinner for the family. She had a family of her own and it took her three subway trains and a bus to get to the place she called home.

This gave me a better understanding now of how Stacy became a "Young Fogey." I was happy that she was, because her parents trusted her to be responsible like an adult.

But more importantly, Stacy brought to my attention that I had a little "Young Fogey" part of me too. Like when I care for pets and babies. Now, I was a little confused, because I despised this category. At the same time, I saw how useful it can be. Still, overall, I didn't want to like "The Young Fogies," because they just didn't know how to have fun.

When Stacy open the door, I pretended we had never met. I introduced myself and shook her hand. I was making believe that I was a gentleman, like in the movies. If I'd worn a hat, I would have removed it at the door. She liked "The Pretender." Then I introduced my "good friend" Jacques, who lived in her building. She liked that even better.

Jacques shook her hand, and said, "Hey! You are cute! I had to see for myself. I was told that you were cute, and you are really, really cute!"

Well, she was head over heels at that comment! She looked at me, smiled, and blushed, because she knew it was me who told him how cute she was.

Yes! We did it! Not so fast—they have yet to kiss.

We gave Stacy plenty of time to comfortably go through her "Young Fogey" routine. She took her sweet time doing it, too.

She passed around the same hard-looking cookies on a silver platter layered with doilies. In her other hand she held white cocktail napkins to eat off of, and then she offered Hawaiian Punch out of a glass pitcher. Tall lemonade glasses sat on top of another silver tray, next to a pile of coasters on the coffee table. There was also a silver bucket filled with ice and a plate of sliced lemon slices for the punch. It was quiet, but we were all smiling and making eyes at each other.

I was seated on one end of the couch with Jacques on the other and Pamela in the middle. There was this brief moment when the silence became uncomfortable, after Stacy was done with her "Young Fogey" act.

That's when Pamela, my "Killer Player," jumped up off of the couch to make a play! She landed on my lap and said, "Let's make some room for Stacy, our delightful hostess!"

Perfect timing! Damn, was she good or what? Stacy smiled with glee and seated herself on the couch.

As soon as Stacy's bottom touched the couch cushion, Pamela added, "Hey, Jacques! We like to kiss!"

She swiveled her body, leaned her head back onto my shoulder, and then raised her head to give me a sweet, short kiss. It was longer than peck, but not long enough to be a smooch. Afterward, she peeked across the couch to Jacques. "See? Do you like to kiss, Jacques?"

Then she gave me a big ol' smooch to give Jacques plenty of time to make his move. And he did! It turned out that Stacy was a terrific kisser—at least that's what Jacques said when the girls went to the bathroom to do whatever girls do together in the bathroom. After we had hung out for a long while, Stacy thanked Pamela for "orchestrating the best day of her entire life!"

Gotta say that I am very happy that Stacy did not want to kiss me, because if she was really that terrific, and we enjoyed kissing each other, then I would be in big trouble. I didn't want any big trouble. Already I could see how my life was becoming far too complicated for a boy my age. Keep it simple. No more Marianne. Becky is my only schoolgirl. Pamela is my only homegirl. Life doesn't get better than this, nope – it doesn't.

I had a real good thing going again. Freshly baked, warm cookies and tall glasses of milk shared with Becky, as well as our celebration of life and freedom with our animal friends. And there was Pamela, most likely the best smoocher in my building, and probably all of Greenwich Village. And who was the lucky little boy who got to smooch her on the regular? Me!

Then there was the excitement of exploring and exposing the mysteries of myself in the Drama program. And I was making serious bank by caring for pets and babies, too. I was doing so well, I never needed to ask my mother for money.

I had many good friendships going with my homeboys and home slices. Angels that I could see, hear, and touch protected me. And I went to Sunday school and church service every week, so just in case there was actually some dude named God keeping an eye on me, I was covered! Life was good!

The only thing that I was not entirely happy about was school. Don't get me wrong; school was okay, but the homework part of school was not. It sucked! But if I ever got stuck, there was Marianne, the fastest of the fastest, and the best of the best, to tutor me. I hated homework more than I loved John's Bleecker Street Pizza and The Beatles! However, if someone said, "Let's Make a Deal! No more homework for the rest of your life if you give up John's and The Beatles," I would have had to think about it! Kicking the Coke habit was easy, but it didn't touch my addiction to pizza and The Beatles.

Even after the rat killed our cool Secret Agent game, we were eventually able to develop an even cooler and more daring secret game during the following school year. We were never busted again, because we all learned our lesson from "The Rat." Under no circumstances was a new kid to be let into our secret game. But until we had created that next game, we turned our focus to team sports. We played football, soccer, and Wiffle ball. Football was everyone's favorite. We'd play touch football in the fire lane on the hard blacktop.

The game we played was not a game for "Lollipops," Sensitive Ones," "Scaredey-cats," "Nice Kids," or "Young Fogies." You could play if you were a "Regular Kid," but you had best stay a "Regular Kid" and not let any of those others that I mentioned show up. So right away, I was challenged, because I needed to hide the "Sensitive One," "Scaredey-cat," "Nice kid," and "Young Fogey" parts of me. I focused on creating a "Tough One" on the inside and a "Cool Cat" for outside cover when I wasn't using "The Slippery One." Oh yeah, also, you could only be "The Bossy One" if you were a strong leader, a very good player, your teams won more than lost, and most everybody liked you.

Even though this was a touch football game, you were allowed to push a player as hard as you could after they caught the ball; you could even trip them when they ran. You could not tackle, punch, or grab someone and throw him to the pavement. Still, there was often blood spilled on the black tar and a lot of fights, because out of every pair of brothers, one had a nasty "Temper Tantrum One" on the inside. We also discovered that we had a "Meaner-than-Mean" one among us who had been keeping that part of him hidden from the group. But we also remembered how many times Padulavic had punched him out and shut him up in the sandbox.

I figured that because my mom had beaten me so many times, I could take a pretty damn good beating from any other kid. And every time that I survived a good, long beating from my mom, I became tougher inside. She was seeing this too, because she was starting to come up with new instruments of pain to use.

My mom had created an inner "Tough One" in me that none of my homeboys knew about, but they were gonna see him during this game on every single play. There was only one concern—the crying of "The Sensitive One." There was no way I could afford to have him slip out; "The Tough One" had better shut him down.

We played in the rain, sleet, snow, and ice. We did not care. We wanted to be like the Green Bay Packers, Minnesota Vikings, Chicago Bears, and Detroit Lions. The more hazardous the weather conditions, the more fun the game was.

One needed to learn how to focus on maintaining balance at all times. As soon as the ball was thrown your way, you had to expect to be pushed from behind before you even caught the ball, tripped up, and then pushed to the pavement. You could not drop the ball after you got hit. After crying, that was the worst thing you could do in this game.

When we first started playing, there was only one kid who had a ball. Naturally he was the richest kid in the building, so there wasn't anything he did not have. He was one of "The Bossy Ones" who always wanted to be captain and quarterback of every game. He was not a strong leader or a good quarterback, but he thought he was. He couldn't even throw a bomb! How you gonna be quarterback if you can't throw the long ball?

He didn't know how to spread the ball around either. A quarterback makes sure all the players get enough action with the ball to keep the game going. Otherwise, people will say "This sucks!" and leave to go do something else. If you are captain, you need to keep the peace when a fight breaks out to make sure kids don't get too beat up to the point that they can't or don't want to finish the game.

We let him have his way for a few games, but one day, no one wanted to be on his team, so he left like a brat with his ball because he could not have his way. I was hot! "The Angry One" inside of me was very angry; I cannot tell you how angry he was! Pissed off to no end! The following morning, I addressed the angry one during my time as "The Quiet One."

I opened my trunk and dug out my over-sized, cleaned-out Skippy peanut butter jar, and emptied its contents onto my bed. It had been a while since I counted the money I kept there; I was too busy, and there was no one that I had to worry about stealing anything anyway. This was the plan: After school, go to Paragon Sporting Goods and price out footballs, come back home and get the exact amount of money, put it all in my shoe, head back to Paragon to buy the merchandise.

What about transportation? What's the best and safest way to the store and back home? It's a direct shot up the one street from my building, about ten to twelve regular blocks. Or I could take a bus, but I would have to walk several blocks out of the way to the bus stop, and then wait like a sitting duck. The bus doesn't even drop me off in front of the store.

Either way, it's a risk. Hoodlums are able to smell cash money on a person—especially, a nervous person like I'm going to be with all that cash in my shoe. And I'm going to need a bag to put the merchandise in, and not one with the store name. I'll need a bag that says there is nothing of value inside.

It was a successful but expensive trip. I bought two footballs; one was the official ball used in the NFL—"The Duke"—and the other was a more durable and less expensive AFL style. "The Duke" was not going to have a long lifespan on the pavement. All the dropped balls, underthrown and overthrown passes, were certainly going to take their toll.

Two seasons of life at most for "The Duke" was my estimate. And of course there was always the chance that a group of hoods would swoop down onto the lot and hijack the ball. But what could I do about that? Stow the ball away inside my trunk and not use it?

I will give the AFL style ball to Alejandro and Joaquin for them to bring to the tar top, just in case I am not available to play. Done.

Wiffle ball was fun, too, but there were too many game delays. Wiffle ball season was also the season when adults liked to jump off the roof or out of the windows of the hotel across the street. When you were playing the field and saw the batter looking up to the sky, you knew there was a jumper, so you had to turn around quickly if you wanted to see the splat. And we all wanted to see the splat.

Danny Boy was the resident "Genius" kid of the building. His father was a scientist, and Danny Boy's bedroom was one gigantic, chemistry set. No, the rest of us had chemistry sets; Danny Boy had a biochemistry lab.

I have never seen a kid so happy and excited by something so nightmarish as a jumper hitting the pavement. He would race upstairs and return with a kit and tools to scrape up what he wanted from the sidewalk before the ambulance and police arrived. He would race upstairs and lock himself in his room to conduct experiments. No one knew what he did in his room, and we were all afraid to ask. Even his little brother was afraid to ask.

Yet another group I needed to remain aware of: "The Jumpers!" What if one landed on top of me? You never know! That's why I always walked as close to buildings as possible.

# # #

My mother worked very hard and couldn't be everywhere at once to protect me. She could only do her best to teach me about the harsh reality of the real world. And I have to hand it to her that she was pretty successful without freaking me right the fuck out!

On those days when my mom and I would cut through Washington Square Park, she would always remind me not to stare at "them."

"I see you looking at them. You know I see you looking. Please, don't look at those people."

"What people?"

"You know what people I'm talking about."

"I do?"

"Yes, you do."

"What's wrong with them?"

"What's wrong with them? What do you think? Those people are crazy! And they have all kinds of bugs living on them—in their hair that hasn't been washed for God only knows how long, and on their bodies and the rags they're wearing, which also haven't been washed for God only knows how long. And if you look at them, you might draw them over to you. And you know, all those bugs are always looking out for a new place to live—a clean place. They would just love to come home with you! And don't sit on the park benches either, because one of them may have slept there. You never know! If you want to sit – come home and sit."

"Oh, okay."

I wanted to believe my mom, but whenever I was in the park by myself, I looked at them. I was curious. I don't know why, but I wasn't afraid of them. Once in a while, one of them would come over and talk to me. They all called me, "Son," and each had a different story to share.

"Listen, Son. Listen. Go to school. Stay in school. Get an education. Be somebody. Don't end up like me. Be somebody!"

I used to hear adults say this a lot—the clean ones, who didn't have bugs living on them. But it confused me. It made absolutely zero sense. I believed that as soon as you were born, before anyone gave you a name, you were somebody. I thought that school was a place you went to find out what it was you liked to do and wanted to do when you became an adult.

But I would always nod my head with respect when people told me to "be somebody," because they were all adults. They were probably trying to come from a good place, but their message wasn't getting through to me at all. The only message that was coming though was, "You are nobody!" And I'm sure that there were many other kids who got this same message. I don't know if it made other kids angry, but it made me very, very angry!

One time, one of "them" talked to me for a long while. He told me how once upon a time he had a very important job where he made a lot of money. He went to a good college where he was cuma cuma this and cuma cuma that, and the president of his class. He married his college sweetheart. He had a beautiful wife and children. He lived in a great big house in New Jersey. He owned several cars and boats. Everything he thought he ever wanted from life was his to enjoy.

And now, here he was. I had to ask him for more information, because I had to know what happened. He just stared at the ground for the longest time, and then he looked up at me with tears in his eyes and said softly, "I lost my mind." Then he shuffled away. I don't know if I have ever been sadder than when he murmured those four words.

There were others who sat on the park benches all day, talking out loud to themselves. Some would ask the same questions over and over again. If I knew the answer, I would stop, look him in the eyes, and give the answer, and he would smile, and stop asking the question. It made me feel really, really good inside to see them smile. I don't know why, but it did.

I began to see them smile a lot more when they saw me, and I would smile too. Even when I was with my mother, I would sneak out some smiles. I knew Mom was right about the bugs, because they were always scratching themselves. And every time I saw one scratching, I would start itching all over my body. When I got home, I would go to the bathroom and check for bugs, but I never found any.

My mom and I managed to share Sunday suppers after Sunday school and church service most every week. Over one Sunday supper, she began a conversation without ever looking up from her plate.

"You know, one day you are going to be outside somewhere, by yourself."

She cut herself off. Never uttered another word. The following week over Sunday supper, however, she continued.

"You know, one day you are going to be outside somewhere, by yourself, and all of a sudden—"

She cut herself off again. Never uttered another word.

Now, I'm thinking to myself, Okay, Mom is really starting to lose it.

The following week over Sunday supper, though, she said more.

"You know, one day you are going to be outside somewhere, by yourself, and all of a sudden someone will approach you."

Yup! She's losing it alright! Falling right out of her tree!

The following week over Sunday supper she said, "You know, one day you are going to be outside somewhere by yourself, and all of a sudden someone will approach you—approach you as if they know you."

Then, the next week:

"You know, one day you are going to be outside somewhere by yourself, and all of a sudden someone will approach you—approach you as if they know you, with a smile or a lollipop. Lollipop in one hand, and the other hand is open, and reaching out for yours. Do you understand what I'm telling you, boy?"

"Sure, Mom!"

What you're telling me is that you are losing your mind! I don't even like lollipops! You know that!

"Well, there is going to be a moment here. One moment. In this moment, you are going to feel uncomfortable, because even though this person is approaching you as if they know you, you won't feel as though you know this person. As this will make you feel very uncomfortable. Do you know why? Do you know why you'll feel like you don't know this person?"

"Uh, nope. Why, Mom?"

"Because..."

She paused for a long time. I could feel her stare. She was finally, after weeks of staring into her plate, looking at me directly and calling my attention. I could feel it! So I gathered the courage to look her directly in the eye. And when I did, she continued.

"It's because, you don't! That is why. You do not know this person. Do you understand me, boy?"

"Yes, Mom. I do."

I had no fucking idea what in the Hell she was talking about! I thought she was becoming like those crazy homeless people in Washington Square Park!

Many moons later, I was coming out of the Carvel ice cream shop on West Third Street, two blocks from my apartment building. I stopped outside the shop to lick up the chocolate sprinkles that had fallen off the cone and landed between my fingers.

Got 'em! Runaway sprinkles—I think not!

As I lifted my chin, opened my mouth, and stuck out my tongue for my first ice cream and sprinkles lick, I felt the strangest feeling come over me. I took my eyes off the cone for this moment and noticed this balding, older man with gray hair and wire-rim glasses, staring in my direction. I glanced over my left shoulder, then my right shoulder—nope! Only me here. He can only be looking at—

Then it hit me.

Oh shit! This is the person that my crazy mother was talking about!

I turned the corner down Sullivan Street to Bleecker Street. Damnnit! I dropped my cone! No matter! I was booking my ass—and I was fast! The fastest little boy in my entire class! No knapsack filled with books to slow me down! There was no way that sawed-off, short old man was gonna ever catch me!

After that, I would periodically see this man in the Village. I would spot him blocks away. I had built-in radar for this dude. Whenever that same funny feeling came over me, I knew he was around, so I always paid close attention, and shortly thereafter he would appear. And then I would disappear!

So although my mom was not always around, she encouraged me to trust my quiet voice. And as a latchkey kid in the greatest city in the world, it saved my ass many, many times.

# # #

The new drama session for the fall was a scene study. It was the same group of thirteen players as the year before—everyone returned. That semester, we were assigned a partner and a scene to study and explore every week. On Wednesdays, we were given our scene assignment, which we explored with our partners. Saturdays we performed the scene without dialogue or props. It was cool! Professor Dodge always professed the importance of performing as if our audience was deaf.

Even though I was a kid, the professor very rarely gave me any kid roles to play—mostly I was playing young adults and adults. One time he even had me play a grandfather, and the other player was my grandson! That was one of my favorites! The professor always said as he handed me the assignment, "Stretch your character by stretching yourself." When he first said that, what came to mind was Dr. Reed Richards from the Fantastic Four. But soon enough I taught myself how to use the kids' categories that I created to expand my characters in each scene.

But my most favorite scene was the one that I played out with the player that smelled like warm apple pie with vanilla ice cream. In the scene, she was my wife and pregnant with our child. I was arriving home from having just lost my job. I'd been fired on that very day.

When we met on Wednesday to rehearse this scene, we agreed we would improvise entirely. We would use the rehearsal time to get to know our individual characters.

"What do you want your character's job to be?"

"I want my character to have a job making pinball games."

"Do you mean at a factory putting the machines together?"

"Oh no! That can't be any fun at all! No, what I'm talking about is the actual game! For instance, I would say, 'Hey, guys! Come on! Let's make a cool X-Men game, everybody! Okay? Let's start here! Now, the silver ball travels here, and does that, and then it goes there and does this!' You know, that sort of thing. Someone, someone does this for a job, and that's the job I want my character to have. And what about your character? What job does she have? Does she have one?"

"Well, yes and no. Not a job outside of the home. She keeps house...and stays pregnant. So she has two jobs inside of the home. And your character told her that she would never have to work again after she was pregnant, not if she didn't want to work. He promised her that he was always going to have a job to support his family. "

"He did?"

"Yes, he did. This is what he promised her."

"Oh... I see."

"And even though he loses his job, she still has her two jobs to do keep up the home and mother her unborn child. And although she doesn't get paid directly from your character, she does get paid indirectly. But after your character loses his job, she won't get paid anymore for doing her two jobs. Do you understand?"

"Do you mean that she becomes like a slave who works hard for no pay?"

My scene partner laughed at this. "Well, not exactly. I mean, yes, she will continue to work her two jobs for no pay, but not for nothing. You see? She works for love!"

I did not know that love was something that had to be worked for. This made absolutely no sense to me. People make you work for it? Like a slave?

"Do you see?"

"Sure! I mean—I don't know. I think I understand, but I'm not sure."

This is what I understand – that my character is going to step into some deep shit when he walks through that fucking apartment door.

"And there is also something else that you should know. Her parents did not want her to marry your character."

"They didn't? Why not? What did he do? Did he kill somebody?"

"No. They just said that they didn't believe your character was good enough for their only daughter. But she didn't listen to them. She ran away from home, and married you anyway. Now, they refuse to speak to her. They hang up the phone on her when she calls—slam!"

"Gosh... Well, maybe she should have listened to them."

"But she didn't listen to them. She was madly in love and wanted to have their baby. And she's having this baby because she knows that he or she would be born from their love. She didn't care that her parents believed your character was the biggest loser they had ever met!"

Hmm... I thought. Maybe they didn't like him because he was a midget, and they thought he was too small for her. They wanted her to be with a tall man, but he will never be any taller. Her parents must be very tall. That must be the reason! I am going to pretend that he is a midget because there is nothing he can do to change that.

"But in her heart, he was always the biggest winner! After all, he had won her heart! And her heart was the most valuable jewel in the entire universe! Hey, are you even listening to me?"

"Of course I'm listening! Her heart was the most valuable jewel in the world, and she gave it to him. See?"

Oh, man! I thought. This is not looking good for my character. Wasn't it bad enough that the guy had lost his job?

At this point, I would never have believed, not in a bazillion years, that this would become my favorite scene study. I didn't even want to pretend to walk through that door. I just kept reminding myself that in this scene, I was married to warm apple pie and vanilla ice cream. Still, I was afraid to give any other thought to this scene before Saturday, so I did not.

This is how it played out:

I stood off to the side by the curtains. My wife, Apple Pie, was on right center stage, washing dishes. I took a few quiet steps to the apartment door, reached in my pocket, and took out the house keys. I took my sweet time finding the proper one. I was afraid to open that door. I really was too! I took a few exaggerated long, deep, slow breaths.

Go on now, you can do it! Open the door! Done.

He closes the door softly, removes his hat and hangs it up on the coat rack. He places his coat on the rack, too, and then kicks of his shoes loud enough to get her attention. It works. She glances over her shoulder, and smiles—so happy to see him!

She dries her hands on a towel, and then bends over to open the oven door. Mmmmmm...whatever is in that oven smells finger-lickin' good! Some kind of casserole, maybe. He lifts his chin, open his nostrils wide, and flares them with delight. He lets out a silent sigh and smiles.

Apple Pie is making this more difficult for my character. She is far too happy! The happier she appears, the harder it is going to be to tell her the bad news. She twirls and dances over to him with one hand on her belly, and plants a kiss on both cheeks! Then she takes his hand and slowly they twirl around the stage. I know that my character is not supposed to be happy right now, but he is! He is really happy! He has completely forgotten about losing his job. Dance! Dance! They dance until they are completely out of breath.

She laughs with glee while holding her belly! They laugh together! She leads him to center stage and motions for him to sit on the floor. He follows her direction. She walks over to the kitchen area with her hands on her belly and glances over her shoulder with a delighted smile. She takes something and puts it over her hand—an oven mit.

Okay! I guess my character is seated at the dinner table.

He takes her lead and plucks the dinner napkin off of the dinner table, opens and flaps it about, then places it on his lap. My mother taught me how to do that.

Apple Pie bends over and removes the casserole from the oven, then comes over and places the hot dish ever so carefully and gently on the table. And then she sits down cross-legged next to him, where the audience can see them clearly.

Her leg brushes up against his as she reaches for the casserole dish. What's for dinner? Lasagna covered in red sauce! With meat! And layers upon layers of stretchy, gooey, yummy cheese between the layers of noodles!

She serves him and then herself. She picks up a pitcher of homemade, freshly squeezed lemonade, and fills their empty glasses. She raises her glass. He follows her lead. She smiles a lovely, gentle smile, and he does too! They clink their glasses.

His mind wanders to when and how to break the news. He begins to get nervous, and one crossed leg begins to tremble. Now, over lasagna and lemonade, is not the proper time. As he tensely picks up his fork to dig into his plate, she reaches over, lays her hand on top of his, and removes the fork from his hand. She feeds him. He follows her lead—picks up her fork and feeds her too.

A few bites each, a couple of swigs of lemonade, and the meal is over. She reaches over to clear his plate. He takes a hold of her hand and gently tugs it away from the dish. With his other, he uses his napkin to wipe his face, then puts the napkin back down and smiles. She waits. He stands and clears both plates from the table.

He walks over to the kitchen sink and begins to wash the plates. She follows him with the glasses and then returns to the table for the casserole dish and the pitcher. When she returns to kitchen area, she wraps and puts the casserole dish and pitcher in the fridge. Then she reaches out for the drying towel and takes a couple of steps backwards to begin drying the dinner dishes. She creates enough space between them so the audience can see their facial expressions.

Okay—now! The time is now! He has showed how he can help with one of her jobs until he finds another outside of the home. But he has no idea how he can help with this other one—her pregnancy. Still, helping with one is better than none. He positions his body to face her, but he cannot bear to look his sweet Apple Pie squarely in the eye. At the same time, he fights back the tears building inside. He refuses to cry, and looks up at the ceiling while he explains his situation using gestures.

Then he lowers his head and spins on his heels quickly, turning his back to her, and stares deeply into the sink. He cannot see her reaction. However, he can smell the moving presence of warm apple pie coming up directly behind him. He feels her warm hands placed on his shoulders. Next, he receives a shoulder rub. His entire midget body loosens, and the tightness of his nervousness, and torture of sadness evaporate. His body becomes limp and very tired.

For a moment, he believes he will drop to the floor like a big sack of potatoes. In this very moment, she brings her arms downward and wraps him in an embrace. This was not a hug. No, it did not feel like the hug that I received after the Cowboy performance. This was different. So different, that I wasn't immediately certain how to describe the feeling. It reminded me of being tucked into bed on the coldest of winter nights, so cold that I had to pull the covers over my head to hide until the warmth of my body surrounded me.

No, this is not a hug from warm, apple pie fresh out of the oven. She is not hugging him—she is holding him closely. He is being held. Held so closely that all he can feel is her warmth moving freely inside of him. When the time felt right and everything was good, she swiveled her head directly to audience and said, "Thank you." Then she led me by the hand off of the stage.

Yes, I must say that this was my favorite scene study. But I also must confess that I am not sure of why. I really don't know. And I'm not sure that I will ever know, or even if it is something I need to know.

I loved drama sessions with Professor Dodge! They were the best! And you didn't have to do homework either! Well, of course, you could if you wanted, but your homework was basically to return to your life in your real world and live! Experience your life, and then bring your experiences back for when you play pretend.

So I guess what I was learning in the drama sessions was that there wasn't much difference between playing pretend and real life—not inside of me anyway. It wasn't all that separate! Because no matter where you go, inside of self or outside of self, there you are! You simply cannot hide from yourself, no matter how hard you try.

Professor Dodge was like Merlin in "Sword in the Stone," my favorite movie of all time. And I was kinda like Wart. The Professor wasn't another angel in my life, and he wasn't a teacher—he was a Magician! And he was training me to how to fulfill my prophecy to become the King of my own kingdom—the King of Me!

Just like Professor Miller, who opened my mind, heart, and soul to the magic of music listening, Professor Dodge was a guide in the magical world of pretend. So not only do I have angels who come into my life to protect me, I have magical guides too.

That year was my most special yet. I had everything going for me. It was also the year that I fell madly in love with movies on the big screen. Going to the movies was always a huge event, especially at Radio City Music Hall. I saw my first movie there when I was five years old. It was just mom and me. It was "Sword in the Stone."

My second movie experience was also at Radio City in my fifth year with my mom: "The Three Lives of Thomasina." The movie was about a little girl just like Becky, her cat named Thomasina, and a witch who really wasn't a witch—not a bad witch anyway. She was magical, like Merlin! She lived in the woods away from people, where she loved and healed animals. But Merlin was magical with animals and every living thing in nature, so he was the much better guide.

Later that year, I saw "Goldfinger"—again it was just Mom and me! James Bond was pretty much the coolest man alive that was not a magician! That's who he was! He was a kickass secret agent who got to kiss all the girls! I kept my official Bond attaché case hidden in my black trunk, along with the official Corgi Aston Martin from the movie and his signature Walther PPK handgun with holster.

If someone asked me, "Who Are You?" I guess I would have to answer, "I am Wart, student of Merlin the Magician. I am The Witch of "Thomasina," who is the lover and healer of all animals. And I am James Bond of Goldfinger, because I am the agent of my many secrets, and I like to kiss the girls. So do you really wanna know who I am? Okay! Go see those movies, and you will find out!

My life, to me, is like a moving collage of short movies with the music that I love the most as the background.

I just didn't believe that any other little boy in the whole wide world had it any better than me. There was still the homework thing, but every kid had that problem. I knew that I had a good thing going, and I just couldn't see how on Earth it could get any better. Well, I didn't need to worry myself, because life changes were up around the bend.

The first change was that the Schulze Family was going to return to Germany at the close of the school year. Mr. Schulze landed a very important job, so this was a great move for their family. Their relatives lived in Germany too, and now they were going to have the opportunity to see them more often. I marked on my calendar the day they were planning to leave, and I was careful not to make any other plans for that day.

For the remainder of the school year, Pamela and I never brought up the fact that she would be leaving for good. There really wasn't any point in bringing it up again, because there was nothing that we could do about it. So we just kept doing our thing, enjoying each other in the private adventure of our time spent together.

On the day she was leaving, I checked the balance in my money jar. I was in fairly good shape, and I remember thinking that I probably should have thought about that earlier, but I did not. I don't believe that I wanted to believe that she was really moving so far away. What gift should I get for Pamela? I did not know, but I knew it had to be something to remember me by.

It probably wasn't the best idea to roam in and out of too many neighborhood stores with the amount of cash in my shoe. "The Hoodlums" would be sure to smell the cash on me, and if they saw me going in and out of stores, that would be a dead giveaway too.

There was a record store that had a lot of other stuff other than records. It was only about five or six blocks away, and I just had to visit. Once inside, I felt pretty good that I had made the correct decision. They had lots of stuff, too! Necklaces, bracelets, and rings—you know, the kind of stuff little girls like to wear. But the problem became clear over the passing of time—I had no clue as to what Pamela would or would not like. If it turned out that she didn't like what I bought her...

Okay, let me check out the record album bins. I'll begin with A. Nothing. Onto B. Of course! The Beatles! Now, which album? It must be something— "Something New!" It has "I Want To Hold Your Hand" – in German! "Komm, Gib Mir Deine Hand"! Perfect, or what? It also has a good number of other upbeat songs, and not too many mushy songs. However, there was one kind of mushy song that I loved singing during my quietest alone times: "Things We Said Today."

This mushy song I will dedicate to my dear friend and life adventure partner, Pamela of the Pamela and Alison Schulzes', from Germany.

You say you will love me,

if I have to go.

You'll be thinking of me,

somehow I will know.

Someday when I'm lonely,

wishing you weren't so far away,

then I will remember,

things we said today.

On the day the Schulzes left, there was a long, black car waiting for them in front of the building to take them to the airport. I waited in the lobby. Pamela came out of the elevator with her mom and sister. We didn't say much of anything at all. We just smiled. She walked over, reached out, and took my hand. She held it in hers, and we walked hand in hand through the lobby to the waiting car. It was the first time we ever held hands. It felt good.

The time had arrived for Pamela to leave. I presented the album to her. I didn't bother with gift-wrap. It wasn't that sort of gift. She smiled as her sister and mother climbed into the waiting car. I turned over the album to its back cover and pointed to "Komm, Gib Mir Deine Hand." She giggled. Then I pointed to "Things We Said Today." She stopped giggling and just smiled. Then she kissed me.

She kissed me right there in front of her sister, mother, the doorman holding open the car door, and the passersby—she gave me a big, juicy smooch! That was Pamela! "The Killer Player" didn't care who was watching us. I was downright numb with joy, not sad at all. I was so happy! Happy that we were able to share those special private times together.

Finally, she joined her family in the black car. It slowly rolled away from the building to make a right turn. I could see that Pamela's full face was looking through the rear window. And I don't know what came over me, but I began to chase the car like a dog! Pamela was just laughing her head off at me. That was probably the fastest I ever ran, because I still can't believe how well I kept up!

When the car came to a stoplight, I had a chance to bend over and catch my breath. Before the light changed to green, I looked up and noticed the St. Didacus Home for "The Forgotten Ones" down the block. I also remembered that I still had a good amount of cash money in my shoe.

Now was probably a good time to make my way home; I didn't want to push my luck. We didn't wave goodbye, just smiled at each other. That's all we did! I don't know if she caught it, but I threw in a wink at her, because that was how we began. The traffic light changed from red to green, and the car continued to the airport.

Okay! Time to pay attention! Pay attention to all that is around you! Look down each block. Good to go! Head back home.

When I was only a short distance from my building, I could see two familiar kids heading in my direction. It was none other than Madeline and her brother, "The Rat." All of the homeboys kept our blood oath: Under no circumstance were any of us to talk to either of them—ever!

This was the first time I had run into the two of them since the pledge. As the gap closed between us, a couple of thoughts entered my mind. First thought: Madeline didn't look so cute to me anymore; she just looked like any regular girl. There wasn't anything special about her at all. The second thought was that if her brother hadn't ratted us out, this entire year may have played out differently.

When he ratted us out and killed our game, we had to come up with "Something New." And because he ratted us out, we all admitted to each other that having secret crushes on his sister was the only reason that we let him play. We needed a new challenging game, and liking girls was now a good thing. So we put the two together and came up with "Show and Show," the lame-ass game that led to Pamela being my number one and only homegirl.

Now, all of a sudden, his sister wasn't cute anymore. But Pamela had looked cuter than ever as she smiled from behind the rear window of that black car.

What if he hadn't ratted us out and we became homeboys? And, let's say that we had a lot of play dates with his sister around. Then let's say his sister and I grew to like each other. Well today I would no longer think that she was cute, and Pamela would be on her way back to Germany without ever having given me a single smooch.

The more I gave this scenario thought, the more I realized that I had a "Rat" to thank for my time with Pamela. It was the rat that made this all possible. It was all thanks to "The Rat," who killed our favorite game that led to a beating that was "not to be forgotten" and house arrest for a month, that I got to experience those lengthy smooches with probably the best kisser in all of Greenwich Village.

When we were less than half a dozen feet apart, I glanced over at Madeline to make sure that she was no longer cute. Nope, not cute. Then I looked hard at her brother, right into his eyes, and unleashed a half smile. I lifted my chin and gave him an up nod, and he returned a slow down nod. I didn't break my oath, and that was the last we ever saw of each other, because they moved away too. As soon as we passed each other, his name came to me. Charles. He was one of my many Blessings in Disguise. Charles and Stacy.

I gave this more thought the next morning during my quiet time alone—how someone could breeze into your life and leave a really bad taste in your mouth by screwing you over, or simply by doing something that you don't like. But somehow or another, your experiences with these people pave the way to an awesome experience with someone else. It's like everything always works itself out in the long run.

This must be the mystery part of life. And I do love mysteries!

# # #

This school year would be my last year in the college drama program. Someone had recommended me to a prestigious acting program for children located in midtown, near the Theater District. Classes were also held on Wednesday after school and Saturday for the entire day. At first, I was very excited because I thought that it would be the same as Professor Dodge's drama program, except with all kids. I believed that all of these kids would be exactly like me!

I was wrong twice. The drama program was nothing close to Professor Dodge's program. It was the opposite. And none of the other kids were anything at all like me. This new program was very, very serious, and the kids were too. I realized that I had a lot more in common with the young adult players and a greater sense of appreciation for the purpose of the professor's program. It all made sense!

This program only accepted twelve players—six boys and six girls. You had to audition to be accepted. The program was divided into four categories: acting, dance, singing, and speech, which was elocution and projection. But as far as I was concerned, both singing and speech were all about breathing exercises, because for the six months that's all we did.

Also, we were not players; we were students. And we weren't exploring or exposing anything; we were only practicing how to take direction from the directors of each category. We'd go through the same motions over and over again. The word "improvisation" did not exist in the program. A student's way of seeing did not exist. The freedom of movement and expression that I enjoyed in the playing of pretend was history.

It was clear as day that all of the other students knew for certain that this is what they wanted to be doing, and were going to be doing for the rest of their lives. They were going to become professional actors. And that is precisely how they approached every minute of each class: as professionals.

And me? I was "The Pretender." I pretended that I felt as though this was exactly what I wanted to be doing for the rest of my life. I made believe that I shared this bond with my classmates. I surrendered to the discipline of repetition and accepted and responded to direction as good as anyone. But truth be told, I had no idea what I wanted to be doing for the rest of my life. The only thing that I knew was that I wanted to be me, but in this program, I could not be.

In Professor Dodge's drama program, I felt connected. I was connected to the professor, the stage, my characters, my scene partners, the audience, and most importantly, all of myself. I was keenly aware of how I experienced the adventure and the mystery of life. Now, suddenly, I was feeling completely disconnected in this new class.

We were all being groomed to nail the audition performance. It was never about landing a role. We accepted that we had no control over casting. None of us cried over not being cast. Disappointment only reared its head when we didn't feel that we nailed the performance, because we each knew that we could have. The audition was the performance, and nailing the performance was the prize.

There may very well have been kids who were more talented out there, but there certainly weren't going be any who were better prepared than us. And once we made it past the casting director to the director himself, the message of our audition performance was cloudless. Yes, you can work with us, and yes, you want to!

The students in my group were enormously talented. And this is not just me saying this either. Most of my classmates moved forward to become household names as kid actors and adults. And we all made money. Some made money in theatre, others in movies, and others from television. I would move on to experience success in children's print fashion editorials, print advertisements, and television commercials.

Needless to say, my mother was beside herself with delight. I made serious money! Adult money! And there were many other kids who were envious that my face was out and about. They had a warped idea that the end product was the result of glamorous work. It wasn't. For my personality type, the work was torture, because too often, perfect stillness and mundane repetition was required. And the constant interruption of movement flow and repetition of shooting TV commercials was painfully tedious and outright boring.

A few years down the road, an Off-Broadway musical was being cast that was of particular interest to me. I didn't care for musicals in general. For the most part, I didn't like the music, because while listening I never felt anything. Either I need to feel something or the music had to take me somewhere magical. Show tunes all sounded the same, no matter how strong the singing voice. It was like the voice was singing at me, pushing me away. Therefore, the storytelling wasn't coming through.

But as soon as I heard its name, the musical caught my attention: "The Me Nobody Knows." The song I chose for the audition was The Beatles' "Yesterday." I selected this song because it was what I was really feeling at that time. Imagine, not even a teenager yet, and already longing for yesterday.

I nailed that audition. I walked on stage and decided I was gonna sit on its lip facing the audience and give my best performance ever. And I did! Finally, I hit it!

I was trained well not to think beyond the audition, so I did not. Sure enough, the musical that appealed to me more than any other was the one that called me back again, and then again. I learned how this was a different kind of musical than the ones that played on Broadway. First of all, the music was amazing! None of the songs sounded like show tunes.

Secondly, there wasn't really a plot or even a story line. The inspiration for the play was rooted to a book titled "Children's Voices from The Ghetto." It was a collection of material written by impoverished and underprivileged New York City kids. These kids wrote things like, "How I See Myself," "How I See My Neighborhood," "The World Outside", and "Things I Can't See or Touch." Basically, our way of seeing was one in the same.

So even though, I was neither impoverished nor underprivileged, and definitely didn't live in anybody's ghetto, there was no childhood actor better suited to represent these voices. The discipline of repetition, learning how to breathe correctly and take direction had prepared me to professionally represent their voices and way of seeing. It was an honor to be considered for a role in this production, and I considered it to be so.

"Oh, I believe in Yesterday." Yesterday were the days of Pamela and Professor Dodge, and those days were gone. These were new days. After Pamela moved on with her life, I put myself back on the Spin the Bottle circuit. It was lame. My time with Pamela would be replaced by my growing love for team sports and movies, and my undying love for music.

Alejandro and I were the romantics of our homeboy group. We had secretly confessed to each other that we liked many of the corny, mushy songs that played on the radio. We enjoyed melody and harmony. We liked Simon and Garfunkel, Frank Sinatra, Bobby Darin, The Monkees, The Mamas and the Papas, and even The Beach Boys.

There was another cute new girl who moved into our building along with her two younger, bratty brothers. Her name was Kim. The girl only had one facial expression—stone cold hardness. Our goal was to get her to smile, and we had a good time trying to do it too. We wrote songs for her, practiced singing them, and would serenade her every opportunity was presented. The first one went like this:

I'm gonna jump in the river, gonna take a swim.

Gonna jump in the river with my little Kim.

Gonna live a little, laugh a little, have some fun.

Then I'm gonna kiss my Kim right under the Sun!

Baduh Daaaaah! Bauha Daaaaaaah!

Baduh Daaaaah! Bauha Daaaaaaah!

We made absolute fools of ourselves and could not get the ice princess to crack so much as a half-smile. But we didn't care, because our songs were getting better with each fool's serenade, and our harmony became tighter too. We would laugh ourselves silly, slap high fives, and pat each other on the back after every sound performance. That was all we truly cared about!

# # #

Entering the fifth grade, I attended a new school in the East Village. It was a private and progressive school with students from all over Manhattan. It was only nine short blocks plus two very long blocks away from my building. I was given a bus pass but rarely used it. My awareness and confidence while walking the streets was peaking. Seldom were there times when I caught myself not paying attention.

There was a noticeable difference between Greenwich Village and the East Village. As soon as I crossed Fourth Avenue, the surroundings were funkier. The streets, buildings, and people were considerably dirtier. This made me feel a little uncomfortable, because I stood out more than usual. It was more difficult to become invisible.

I enjoyed walking to and from school for a couple of reasons. On the morning walk to school, if I timed it right, there was this really cute girl who lived along my route. She went to a neighboring private school, and the skirts of their uniforms were, well, cute! Also, she reminded me of Pamela. On the way home, I discovered that if I walked two short blocks out of my way, I'd get to the best pizza by the slice on the planet!

There were no familiar faces at the private school. Also, I was no longer the fastest runner in my class. There was one boy who was much faster. He was nothing but legs. Another boy and I took turns at being the second fastest. Dodge ball and kick ball were big, but basketball was bigger. I didn't play basketball, so when it came to picking teams, the captains always picked me dead last. That did not feel good, but I couldn't blame them. I would have picked me last too.

Music was huge! There were at least a half dozen soundproof rehearsal rooms. Assemblies were held in the theater twice a week, the first half of which was always musical performances. Almost every kid played at least one instrument very well. Not me—my main musical instrument was my voice. I could play the recorder, a little guitar, and some percussion. Only a handful of kids could not read music very well, and I was one of them.

Current events, literature, and history were taught with emotion and passion. There was no choice but to pay attention. Teachers were excited about the subjects they taught. Sometimes a teacher would become so moved by the lesson that he or she would jump up on their desk. I had never seen anything like that before. They had very strong opinions about everything they taught, but they also shared the opinions of others.

However, if you didn't pay attention in class, and didn't write down or memorize what was on that blackboard, you were simply not going to pass.

They didn't teach solely from textbooks; they taught from bookstore and library books as well. I began the year behind, because at the end the previous school year, a list of "suggested" summer reading material was distributed to each student with a final report card. If you managed to read every book on the list over the summer, you were good for the entire year. I didn't receive a report card or a list.

My favorite classes were Current Events, History, and Geography. Current Events was about what was happening in the world today, History was about the events that occurred yesterday, and Geography helped to link the past to the present. The same teacher taught all three subjects and tied the lessons together so it all made perfect logical sense. His teaching process was identical to my process of character exploration: Here is where I am. How did I get here, and what compelled me to move in the direction that brought me to where I am?

Because most Americans were of Western European descent, we spent a significant amount of time studying European history. And then we moved to the African and Asian continents. Our field trips were embassies, consulates, the United Nations, ethnic neighborhoods, and restaurants. The social leaders from urban neighborhood ethnic clubs would come to our class and share their effort to preserve their culture.

We enjoyed guest speakers from many political parties: Democrats, Republicans, Revolutionary Extremists, and Independents. We were taken to movie theaters to see documentaries and off-off-Broadway theaters to see theatrical productions steeped in social commentary.

Our class was exposed to every newspaper and magazine that was available for purchase. Not only did we have to read these publications but also understand each editorial point-of-view. For homework assignments, we were given a fictitious but realistic local news event and three publications to work with. Then we had to write three editorials, one representing each publication. We were given a week to complete these assignments.

Homework! Lots and lots of homework! The one aspect of my childhood that did not change was the amount of homework. But some things about it did change. I loved most of the assignments! I loved researching the projects at the library! I loved reading the written material!

But the issue remained the same, and that issue was time. There was never enough time for me. I spent all of the time allotted for homework working on the assignments that interested me the most. I never rushed myself. I took all the time I needed until I reached a point of complete satisfaction.

The fallout from this approach was that I didn't leave any or enough time to work on assignments that were of no interest to me. Fortunately I paid enough attention in class to test well enough to pass these subjects. All of the classes were pass or fail, not excel or derail—thank God!

Music assignments were time consuming, too. You were assigned partners, so it was necessary to coordinate our busy schedules in order to complete assignments. If the partnership wasn't working out, you had to find another partner, which only cut into your rehearsal and practice time. I was fortunate in this area.

I began early in the semester with two partnerships. The first was with the other second fastest boy runner in the class, Scott. He played guitar and had a naturally hoarse, scratchy singing voice to accommodate mine. The second partnership was with Caitlin and Allegra, who both played guitar. Caitlin's father was a prominent member of a popular folk group. Both girls lived in the Village and were really, really, really cute! Those girls could pick and play the guitar like nobody's business and sing at the same time too!

Our music teacher would select partnerships to perform each week in assembly. Both of my partnerships were selected to perform on the same day. Scott and I chose an upbeat, straightforward, classic folk song, "The Cat Came Back." The guitar rhythm was simple, and I would play the conga drum to maintain the strong beat. The simplicity of the song bought us enough time to explore harmony in various keys and octaves until we felt compatible.

Harmony was the focus of the music partnerships—harmony with the melody and between the partners. My partnership with the girls was second to none. The girls selected the song. Cool! This was one less step that needed exploring, and one less thing that I needed to do. The song was another folk song, written by Phil Ochs. Our first run-through was perfect, and I was running tears from beginning to end.

Never was I so deeply touched, humbled, and moved by the singing of a song. It was overwhelming. I apologized to the girls for crying. They shared how they cry inside every time they sing it, and that's why they chose the song. We only needed to run through the song one time. Then we smiled at each other. No need to rehearse.

On performance day, Scott and I opened first. We were joyfully upbeat, and the audience was clapping and joining us in the chorus. It was fun! It was the perfect song to begin the assembly. The girls and I were scheduled to perform last. Every partnership before us performed really well. This wasn't a competition; we all wanted to see everyone sing and perform in harmony. That is what this exercise was all about—creating harmony between people of different backgrounds with different voices.

When it was our turn, we brought three stools on stage. I sat in the middle. We waited until there was complete silence in the theater, and then we began to sing the song named "Changes," the song that became my life anthem. It came out like this:

Sit by my side, come as close as the air.

Share in a memory of gray;

wander in my words, and dream about the pictures

that I play of changes.

Green leaves of summer turn red in the fall,

to brown and to yellow they fade.

And then they have to die, trapped within

the circle time parade of changes.

Scenes of my young years were warm in my mind,

visions of shadows that shine.

Till one day I returned and found they were the

victims of the vines of changes.

The world's spinning madly, it drifts in the dark

Swings through a hollow of haze,

A race around the stars, a journey through

the universe ablaze with changes.

Moments of magic will glow in the night.

All fears of the forest are gone.

But when the morning breaks, they're swept away by

golden drops of dawn, of changes.

Passions will part to a strange melody.

as fires will sometimes burn cold.

Like petals in the wind, we're puppets to the silver

strings of souls, of changes.

Your tears will be trembling. Now we're somewhere else.

One last cup of wine we will pour.

And I'll kiss you one more time, and leave you on

the rolling river shores of changes.

We all ran tears through the entire performance, but our harmony never faulted. When we finished, the audience was as silent as when we began. The principal came on stage, and we picked up our stools and made our way into the audience. He thanked all of the performers, and then proceeded with the order of business for the day.

After the assembly, I was approached separately by two classmates: Brett and Jonathan. Brett had some wild and crazy hair action going on, and this Bugs Bunny thing happening with his top front two teeth. He wore a retainer, freckles, a psychedelic purple tie-dyed tee shirt, and bell-bottom, embroidered jeans with "Peace, Make Love Not War," and Yellow Smiley-face patches all over.

He told me that he wanted to create a partnership, a three-piece rock band. The first lead vocalist didn't work out. When was the soonest I could come over to his Upper West Side apartment after school? He wasn't asking me if this was something that was of interest to me. Basically, he wasn't giving me a choice. It was the first thing that struck me about Brett; he was a kid that knew exactly what he wanted.

Jonathan played the flute, clarinet, and tenor saxophone. He was a classicist who looked professorial in his button-down, blue shirt, beige corduroys, and brown penny loafers. The boy had a serious set of chapped lips and was constantly picking the skin off of them. He shared how he was exploring Jazz, Bossa Nova, Afro-Cuban, and Middle Eastern musical expressions. He asked me if I would be interested in exploring these genres of music in a partnership to create new sounds. Yes! I was most definitely interested! He asked when I could come over to his Upper East Side apartment for a music listening session.

Jonathan was specific. I understood what he was asking, and exploration was the same as an adventure to me. This was the magic word if someone wanted to motivate me to do something—"explore!" Brett, on the other hand, did not use this word. And I questioned what led him to believe that I was a suitable lead vocalist for his rock band after listening to me sing two folk songs. But as a courtesy I agreed to waste my valuable free time and meet with him the following day.

We had to take two subways to get to his apartment building. I was unfamiliar with the Upper West Side. I'm not sure why, but I didn't feel comfortable walking the streets. It wasn't anything like the West Village, Greenwich Village, or the East Village. It was dirty in a different way than the East Village. The East Village was funky with funky people, but it had a neighborhood soul that you could feel. This Upper West Side didn't have any soul to it. It was just buildings of people who lived on top of one another.

Brett's apartment was enormous—the most spacious apartment I had ever seen. The rooms were plentiful and huge. Every time Brett opened a door that I was certain was a closet, it was either a hallway or another room. Some rooms had two doors on opposite ends! The walls were thick, and the ceilings were high.

Brett's room was a big pigsty, kinda like Brett! There was shit strewn everywhere! There were psychedelic posters on the walls of bands and musicians I had never heard. The room was dark, lit with only black lights and lava lamps. He tossed his knapsack on a pile of clothes and then led me to the kitchen for a snack.

It was in this kitchen where I was introduced to Philadelphia Cream Cheese and Welch's Grape Jelly sandwiches for the first time. People love to say that brand names don't mean anything when it comes to food, but believe me, I can tell the difference. If you enjoy eating as much as I did and still do, you can tell the difference. This sandwich was the jam jamboree, and it became my new favorite sandwich over Skippy Peanut Butter and Marshmallow Fluff—the "Fluffanutter." Yummy!

After we stuffed our faces, we walked about a country mile to the music room. There was a piano, a keyboard, three electric guitars, two acoustic six-strings, one twelve string, two electric bass guitars, a three-piece drum set, two stand-alone tom toms, microphones and stands, four amplifiers of various sizes, and percussion instruments galore. There was also an elaborate stereo system with a reel-to-reel tape deck, four tall speakers, and at least ten times as many record albums than I had comic books, which were alphabetized on shelves. The room was soundproofed, tidy, spotlessly clean, and everything clearly had its place.

His older sister, Rachel, had returned home from school and popped her head inside of the music room to say hello. She was a lot older, a junior in high school, and she also had that crazy, wild hair thing going on, but her teeth were nice and straight. I could tell right away that she was cool; she was a cool hippie chick and flower girl.

Brett put on an album of some ancient guitarist that I've never heard before. A dude named Robert Leroy Johnson. He watched me intently as I listened. Now I'm thinking to myself, this ain't rock! It's just some old shit song—by a dead man no less. His voice was eerie, like a dead person singing from beyond the grave. I tried to be polite and tapped my foot to the beat and nodded my head every once in a while.

Brett saw right through me, and his sparkling blue eyes began to beam and shine.

"It is my opinion as a guitarist that this is where it begins – with Robert Johnson, the best guitarist to have ever played a guitar. But there is one emerging right now who may be even better than the best—Hendrix."

I was silent. I was not a guitarist. Why didn't he ask another guitarist to join his partnership, one who could sing too? Maybe he wanted to be the only one. I don't know, but I was already looking forward to my meeting with Jonathan. I mean, thanks for the introduction to Cream Cheese and Jelly sandwiches, but you got the wrong guy.

He only played that one song. He removed the album off of the turntable and returned it to its proper place. He did this with the care and precision of a surgeon, as if this album was the most fragile and delicate object on Earth.

"You see, every single song you hear today is derived from music created long ago...derivation, individual interpretation, and reinterpretation. Today's greatest Rock music is all rooted in the Blues, even though you may not hear its connection immediately—no matter what the interpretation sounds like, it is Blues inspired."

He returned to the turntable with another album.

"What I am going to put on now is a modern day rock interpretation of the song you just heard. Oh! And I'm gonna crank the volume, so prepare yourself."

He wasn't lying! That first bass line almost ripped the heart from my chest! Damn! This shit was on! My heart was racing! I couldn't believe this was the same song that I just heard! The sound was so much cleaner! It was smoking hot! Oh yeah! When the song was over, he returned the album to its proper place with care, and then he picked up his Gibson, plugged it into an amp, and turned on the power. He put on a harmonica neck brace and then brought over a microphone stand. He input the mike cord into another amp. He began to tune the guitar on low volume.

"And this is my individual interpretation of the same song."

He cranked up the amplifier volume. If I wasn't sitting in the same room, listening with my own ears and watching with my own eyeballs, I would have sworn on my mother's grave that there were two guitarists playing in the space. He also introduced two elements to the song that the other two versions did not have: a rhythmic Gatling rapid-fire machinegun sound, which gave the song a little Funk, and a harmonica to replace the vocals.

The way he alternated back and forth between the rhythm chords and the lead guitar notes was so smooth, seamless, and effortless. I mean, here I was sitting down watching as close as possible, and I just could not understand how his fingers and hands weren't moving faster. It appeared that his hands were moving in slow motion while the music blaring out of the amplifier was pure speed.

When he was finished playing all I could say was, "WOW!"

"Do you get it now? That's what I'm talking about; derivation, interpretation, and reinterpretation through inspiration. Now, I am going to play the original song again. I believe you will hear it differently."

He was right! I got it! It was as though I was listening to the song "Cross Road Blues" for the very first time, which was because I was!

"Ah, I can see that you're getting this now. Cool. I've cued about a dozen songs on the reel-to-reel that I would like to interpret, and I'd like to hear your thoughts on vocal interpretation. Let's listen together."

All of the songs were by The Beatles, Cream, Hendrix, or Dylan. Some I could feel more than others. The ones that I couldn't feel as much, I believed that I could reinterpret to sing with greater feeling. I didn't want to sing any song that I could not feel.

I was positive that Brett could read minds, because after we were done listening, he said, "The other vocalist didn't work out, even though he has a really good voice. You know, he just wasn't feeling the music, man. Not because he didn't want to—it just wasn't a part of him to connect to the music in that way. You know what I mean? The cat was as numb as a doorknob. I just don't get that, cuz if I don't feel the music, then I can't play the shit."

"Exactamundo! I'm with you on that!"

He proceeded to ask what each song meant to me. What was the story being told? Who was the storyteller and to whom was he singing the story? Where was the setting of the story? For Brett, it was all Blues related; the vocalist was blue, the song was blue, or the intended recipient of the song was blue. It was one or two, or all of the above. And if the singer was singing about happiness, the song was about denial.

Also, he liked to throw drugs into the mix of every song interpretation. Somebody was feeling blue, so they took drugs to feel better, and after a while not only did they not feel any better, but they felt worse and could not stop drugging. He believed that they replaced their deep-seated yearning for a permanent, universal love high with a habit for the temporary high from drugs. It was simple as far as Brett was concerned; when people felt low, they took drugs to feel higher. And he believed strongly that romantic love was a fucking drug, and nothing more than "a temporary, unsustainable, Bullshit high! The most damaging drug of all!"

Brett knew all about drugs too—the different types and the effect each had on a person. He'd say that a song sounded like the person is on this or that. He went on to explain how the only person, who truly understood the true meaning of a song is the one who wrote the piece. Everybody else doesn't know shit—that's what he said. Nobody knows any more or less than you do about the meaning of a goddamn song.

Brett explained that his sister was a "dynamite pianist" and keyboardist, and was well connected in the city's inner music circles of studio production. He talked about how she is able to take him to concerts with backstage passes. The year before she took him to see the band Cream, and he shared how that experience had altered his style of playing, challenging himself to stretch more in his quest to discover his own voice and evolving style.

"Stretch." That was another magic word. I was sold. Brett reminded me very much of Professor Dodge, but his energy was far more dynamic. He was a born leader and a genius, and his passion for the music was immeasurable. Before he picked up that guitar, one might get the impression that he was a little goofy. But as soon as he picked up that Gibson, he became someone else! That boy could play!

I was scheduled to meet with Jonathan the following day. As much as I wanted, there was no way I would be able to participate in four partnerships. For a moment, there was a fleeting thought of dissolving my music relationship with Scott. All the songs we played were going to be safe, feel-good, upbeat folk ballads. There was really no exploration or stretching involved in our partnership. But he was a really good friend, and there was something to be said for that.

There was also a passing thought about my relationship with the girls. Even though they are not as direct in their expression of motivation like Brett and Jonathan, judging by their reasoning for the first song selection, I expected that they would continue to tap deeply into the emotional well. Since the professor's Drama program, there was no other vehicle to take me to that place. Besides, our music teacher created the partnership, and that certainly says something.

Brett's band was going to need a lot of practice time because of the direction he wanted to take. Scott and I basically were going to play songs that we sang in school—no practice needed. The girls were best friends, so they were always practicing without me, and the three of us shared a natural harmony. Sorry Jonathan. I gave him the news at school the next day. He invited me over anyway, just to hang out.

The Upper East Side. The only time I ever spent there was when my mother would take me to get new loafers or tie dress shoes at Indian Walk on Madison Avenue. I've been going there since I can remember walking. The neighborhood was clean. The people who walked the streets were spotless and well dressed, but I never saw any one of them smile a real smile. Everyone looked as though they did the exact same thing day after day. The neighborhood reminded me of an outdoor hospital.

Jonathan's apartment was big, but not the size of Brett's. I don't believe I had ever been in an apartment that clean. It was even cleaner than Stacy's apartment. There wasn't a speck of dust anywhere to be found. And while we were there, the housekeeper never stopped cleaning, even as she prepared our afternoon snack of a variety of cheeses, bread, and fruit.

I couldn't help feeling that I was on a school field trip to a museum of fine art. Intimidated and uncomfortable, I was afraid to sit down or touch anything for fear that I may accidently break something. It felt as though very serious people lived in this neighborhood and apartment. In fact, Jonathan was very serious. I can honestly say I never saw that boy smile.

His room was organized, orderly, and spotless, more so than any other boy's room I had been in. But as soon as he closed the bedroom door, I felt some tension release from my body. We were in our own world now. Okay, let's explore! He introduced me to many genres of music from various corners of the world. I listened and appreciated most but not all of them. But I loved the rhythms and beats of Bossa Nova!

Jonathan definitely knew music well beyond simple appreciation. The boy was knowledge. He never expressed likes or dislikes; it was always more, this is what it is and what is happening. It wasn't about which musician was better than the next. He discussed each as an individual within the context of a developing body of a musician's existing material. He wrote his own compositions, developing his own body of material. I found him to be exceptionally brilliant and intellectual; another genius like Brett, only without the visual expression of passion.

On the subway ride to the Village, I carelessly let my mind wander and drift about my harmonious musical partnerships. There was something about how we all related to the music, as if we were reaching in, then reaching out, to connect with something greater than ourselves. Something greater, like the Spirit of God. It was as if we were all trying to find God and then express the experience of reaching for God through our self-expression of the music.

I will explore this further during my quiet time. The crowded subway, during rush hour, is not the proper place to allow my mind to meander. Nope. Don't want to end up in some Godforsaken neighborhood in Brooklyn while I'm thinking about God. This is why people went to church service and reserved their silent prayers before meals and bedtime.

The following morning, I opened my eyes earlier than usual. I didn't feel any urge to leave my bed. I looked for God through the darkness of my space. I wondered if He was watching over me in that very moment. But at the same time, I believed that He was tending to issues of much greater importance. But then again, if God can be everywhere at once, He must be here with me too.

There were many questions that I had for God, but first I thought it would be best to give some thanks. I also explained that I understood better now why my mother enjoyed church service as much as she did; it was about feeling inspired and moved through the singing of the music. I mulled that word over in my mind.

Inspired...in...spired...in spirit...with spirit...with...in...the Spirit of God. The Holy Ghost can be felt through the music, and singing in harmony with others!

I gave thanks to Him, because I loved where I was in the moment of time, at peace in the comfort of feeling connected to Spirit. I counted my many blessings and gave thanks. I loved my mother. I loved my freedom. I loved my homeboys. I loved my new school. I loved my animal friends, my friendships, my new and harmonious musical partnerships, and all of my relationships with the angels and guides who blew in and out of my life. I felt fortunate and blessed. Life could not be better. I thanked Him just in case he had anything to do with it all.

I collected myself and just bathed in the feeling of being connected to God. Now, I had many questions for The Man, and I was going to ask a few of them during this quiet time. There was only the two of us there, if He was listening. But I didn't expect Him to answer in this moment, because His voice would certainly scare the living daylights out of me. And, I told Him this too.

Okay, here we go. I have been attending Sunday school and church service for as long as I can remember. And what they have taught me is that Jesus Christ is your son, and our savior. The Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.

So my first question is...

####

# Book Three, Illusions...

a fool's journey

Mosanami Etal

Book Two

BOOK 3 is the third of an ongoing book series where the Author takes pause to reflect upon his life as a jigsaw puzzle. A mystery where he begins to fit the pieces of the puzzle together in the hope of achieving greater understanding of why he is here.

"I share with Roland Barthes the opinion that the text is formed by the reader rather than by the author." — Rain-walker

Author's Introduction

In the story of Tarot, the Fool represents each of us as we begin our life journey. At birth, we willingly play the role of fool because only the purest of Spirit brings forth the innocence and blind faith to trust.

The Fool is ready to embrace whatever comes down his or her path to learn the lessons of the world, and is oblivious to the hardships and vicissitudes of life. Newly born, bright, and open to spontaneously venture to adventure; from comfort and joy—to pain and suffering.

It is in this context that I share with you the stories of my life: _a fool's journey_. So please, if you will...

"Sit by my side, come as close as the air,

Share in a memory of gray;

Wander in my words, dream about the pictures

That I play of changes."

\-- " _Changes_ " by Phil Ochs

ILLUSIONS OF SEPARATION

It's a bright and sunny late afternoon.

Labor Day weekend in Petworth, Connecticut.

Welcome to "The Best Small Town in the U.S.A."

THE DEEP RIVER – EVENING

Dead silence.

We see a series of aerial shots.

Holiday marine traffic is heavy.

Moored boats bob high and tug.

The majestic tree-lined riverside landscape is evergreen. Impeccable lawns sweep down to private boating docks.

We hear powerful, rhythmic bird flapping and whistling wind.

Followed by – the deafening eruption of a calling crow.

THREE CROWS glide high in the sky.

They appear to provide escort for a BLACK RANGE ROVER snaking its way on the long and winding River Road.

The vehicle turns onto a steep driveway.

The Range Rover rolls to a full stop in front of a mansion resting on a hilltop overlooking the river.

The Three Crows land and perch on separate limbs of a tree.

A SOULFUL, ROCKING BLUES BAND.

An all-American, cheerful college-aged valet greets the car's arrival.

The driver side door opens.

Exit an over-sized, well-worn, elk skin, black cowboy boot, partially covered by a faded Levi's blue jean pant leg.

THE DRIVER.

The steady movement of the pair of boots and jean legs, on a cobblestone path toward the sound of music.

Party guests mill about with their cocktails on the manicured lawn in the rear of the imposing residence.

In the crowd, a woman with a funky floral headdress swivels her head to face the arriving driver.

Her smile is gracious and eyes are bright.

The sexagenarian HOSTESS dances between partygoers with the posture and poise of a prima ballerina in slow motion.

She greets The Driver with a warm embrace.

As he continues to carve a path to the bar, he's recognized and welcomed by several guests.

THE MUSIC BECOMES LOUDER.

THE BAND plays on a large, river view terrace.

The guests chat, drink, smoke, and dance.

As the music segues into a romantic ballad, a chorus of tree frogs and crickets awaken to the settling dusk.

A rear view of The Driver, planted in a bed of grass.

Black boots.

Faded blue-jean legs.

Black belt.

Long-sleeved, black, tee shirt adorns an upper athletic body that's cut like a broad-shouldered, competitive swimmer.

He mixes a Jack Daniels on the rocks with a splash of soda, at the white table-clothed, self-service bar.

He hears a jubilant voice behind him.

WOMAN

Hello!

The Driver begins a rotation like the first revolution of a 33rpm record on a turntable.

A MYSTERIOUS BLONDE-HAIRED WOMAN in approach.

She's only a giant frog's leap away from him.

Except for a pair of sparkling iridescent blue irises, her face appears out of focus.

A faint, pulsating glow of white light emanates from her presence and lights up the twilight.

He can't believe his eyes...

Or the brightness of her sparkling blues.

Bedazzled and bewitched in the same breath, The Driver resides in a temporary state of suspended animation.

For a moment, his twinkling gaze drifts toward sound of the THREE CROWS taking flight.

THREE REMOTE "CAWS."

The music volume swells.

The Driver and Mysterious Blonde-haired Woman stand close. There's only just enough breathing room between them.

Smiling.

Whispering.

Laughing.

Touching.

The Band transitions to an upbeat song as a DARK-HAIRED WOMAN in her late twenties enters the frame to join the couple.

She threads her hand between The Driver's arm and rib cage. Without missing a beat, he introduces her to the Mysterious Blonde.

A SECOND DARK-HAIRED WOMAN, in her mid-forties, enters the frame and joins the trio.

The Driver extends his hand to the Second Dark-haired Woman and introduces her to the First Dark-haired Woman.

The Driver and the Mysterious Blonde hold court.

The Hostess joins the group.

They talk.

They laugh.

They part ways.

NIGHT

There's a long line at the buffet table.

Party guests dine at various white table clothed, round tables that are scattered across on the lawn.

A final glimpse of the river view before...

Torch lamps light the night.

A soft blues ballad plays amidst socializing chatter.

Three couples are seated at a table.

The Driver sits between the first dark-haired woman and an OLDER BLONDE-HAIRED WOMAN in her mid-fifties.

Eating.

Drinking.

Smoking.

Laughing.

MANSION LIVING ROOM — NIGHT

The Mysterious Blonde sits on a long couch with a dinner plate on her lap.

She's between two twenty-somethings, a man and a woman. Chatting.

Eating.

Drinking.

MANSION OUTDOOR PARTY AREA - NIGHT

The band breaks down and packs their equipment.

Party guests begin to exit the lawn and terrace.

The Driver excuses himself from the table, hand gestures goodbye, and then walks away slowly with his head down.

Watching each step, one black boot steps forward.

Then the other boot, and so forth.

He lifts his chin to see the Mysterious Blonde walking in a direct line toward him.

Ten paces away.

After each step her face becomes clearer.

Her features are more defined.

We witness her striking and captivating presence for the first time.

She beams with delight as the distance narrows between them.

The Driver moves in a deep trance.

Out of the blue, a woman's arm reaches out and yanks him off his path.

It's the Older Blonde Woman who was seated next to him at dinner.

She rests one hand on his shoulder while her other hand points in the opposite direction.

OLDER BLONDE WOMAN

Mosa! Your car is parked over there!

MOSA is released from a hypnotic trance as the Mysterious Blonde Woman grins from ear-to-ear in the sobriety of reality.

If uninterrupted, they would have faded into the night without looking back.

FADE TO BLACK

MANY YEARS EARLIER – LATE SUMMER

NEW YORK CITY - NIGHT

A series of shots: the bustling city – from Downtown to Midtown through Uptown residential neighborhoods.

UPPER WEST SIDE JAZZ LOUNGE AND RESTAURANT

A JAZZ BAND plays to a full house in the intimate but spacious, candle lit dining room.

It's the kind of place where one could expect to find the spirit of Duke Ellington seated in a cozy banquet with his mistress.

A watering hole where lovers meet to wine and dine...

On the night they both know — that they WILL be lovers.

A telephone rings at an almost empty BAR.

The hustling BARTENDER ignores the phone while serving the WAITSTAFF.

MOSA, sits in the far corner.

He cradles a cold one with one hand and in the other; the smoke from a Marlboro Red rises from his fingers.

He's tuned into a football game on the small, silent screen behind the bar.

A sultry, steamy, sexy voice appears on his blind side.

FEMALE

Well hello, Mista Man.

Mosa turns his body slightly, and tilts his head.

MOSA

Hi.

He returns his attention to the game.

A tall, attractive, well-endowed, curvaceous URBAN WOMAN leans onto the bar.

She's wearing a revealing low cut, tight fitting, and t-strap satin dress.

The woman is stacked.

URBAN WOMAN

Well? Gotta name?

He's not in the mood.

MOSA

Mosa. And you are?

She polishes her Russian Red painted lips with a roll of her wet tongue.

URBAN WOMAN

Pa -- trice.

Patrice breaks out a smile like a Cheshire cat with a full belly of canary.

MOSA

Patrice—

Sliding her elbow further onto the bar reveals the full embodiment of a set of bodacious tatas.

He takes notice, nods and raises his glass chalice of golden brew.

MOSA

A pleasure.

And then, he smirks.

PATRICE

I'm sure!

She busts out a giggle and blush like a schoolgirl.

MOSA

Uh, Patrice—I'm, uh, not trying to be rude but I'm just here to, y'know—

He pulls a drag from the smoke, exhales away from her face and puts the Red out in an ashtray on the bar.

MOSA

Watch the game, and chill to the music.

Patrice rears up off the bar and recoils like a cobra.

MOSA

Just been that kinda week if you know what I mean.

PATRICE

Uh, huh, uh, huh. Yeah, okay. Now lemme tell you a lil'

sumthin' sumthin' 'bout what Patrice know. Listen up.

She rotates her chin in a circular motion, tucks it in-between her collarbones, and then — strikes out like a King Cobra.

PATRICE

You ain't nuthin' but anutha game playin', jive talkin', good for nuthin' brutha playin' hard to get like you got

somethin' somebody want.

She waves her hand in a semi-circle in front of his face, and finger snaps.

He's wide eyed.

PATRICE

News flash — you ain't even all that cute! Actin' like you

got somethin' and not even—

His lower lip drops in dumbfounded amazement.

MOSA

Excuse me?

She moves closer.

PATRICE

— EVEN cute!

So close that the aroma of her sickly sweet, cheap perfume almost knocks him out of his bar seat.

PATRICE

That's right!

The rekindled childhood memory of the stench of good milk gone bad, begins to unsettle his stomach.

PATRICE

Just anutha brutha thinkin' he's all that! Well check out this here, I'm hip to you!

He tries to hold his breath to save himself from the total recall of gagging on a huge swig of chunky, rotten milk.

PATRICE

Oh! And! Anutha thing 'bout your sorry self – you ain't

about shit! An'—

Finally, he swallows the clump lodged in his throat.

MOSA

WHOA! Hold up! Do I know you?

With squinted eyes he scans her face, trying hard to remember if there's something to remember.

Meanwhile, there's no stopping her — she's on a roll!

PATRICE

I am sick and dog tired of bruthas like you just sittin'

back, waitin' on fresh lookin' women, such as myself, to do

cartwheels 'cross the floor for y'all.

She pulls up from the bar.

Pulls down her dress.

And places her fists on her hips.

PATRICE

Patrice don't do cartwheels for NOBODY! So you can take

yo' weak-ass, nobody game to St. Elsewhere cuz Patrice

don't play that!

She spins on her stiletto heel and storms off.

Mosa closes his eyes, and shakes his head in disbelief.

Takes a deep breath.

Drops his forehead on the bar.

BARTENDER

Shot of Jack?

He sets, and then fills an empty shot glass on the bar.

BARTENDER

It's on me.

CORPORATE CONFERENCE ROOM – NEXT DAY

A swarthy, hairy, ape-like hand, in a white starched French shirtsleeve cuff with diamond stud cufflink, creeps out from a solid navy blue suit sleeve.

In the background, Mosa concludes a presentation.

MOSA

So there you have it. The strategic plan for blowing

_ONIT! TV_ – completely out of the water.

The hand pours ice water from a crystal pitcher into a short glass.

MOSA

They'd rather keep us in a fight to impede our progress

but we're still ahead. Why let them catch up?

Dressed in a smart navy blue pinstripe suit, Mosa stands at one end of a long, oval conference table.

MOSA

Besides, this fight?

He spreads his fingertips across the table's edge.

And punctuates his conclusion with supreme confidence.

MOSA

It's costing us big!

The FIRST SUIT seated on his immediate right.

FIRST SUIT

Very good, very good. Let's move forward!

The SECOND SUIT seated on the Mosa's immediate left.

SECOND SUIT

See no sense in waiting.

On the Second Suit's left sits the THIRD SUIT.

THIRD SUIT

Good work!

Directly across from the second suit — the FOURTH SUIT inflates.

FOURTH SUIT

Works for me too! I'll get my people on it right away.

A deep, brusque, authoritative, contrarian, masculine roar erupts in the background.

MAN

WELL I DON'T LIKE IT! HOW ABOUT THAT?

His booming voice is the gavel slamming on the table, like a five hundred pound alpha silverback gorilla bringing order in the midst of unruly juveniles.

The Fourth Suit GULPS hard.

The Four Suits hang their heads and stare into submissive blankness.

Mosa remains focused straight ahead.

He feels the genesis of a destructive emotional tornado forming and developing inside of his chest.

He manages to breathe his way into a calm center.

MOSA

And, why is that? Sir.

MAN

Beee–cause — I don't want to do it! THAT'S why!

Mosa finds himself on THE BRIDGE that is no man's land.

It's the interior of a man before he explodes into rage!

Or tears.

A state of paralysis where all he can hear is the pounding rhythm of his heartbeat.

We hear a chair pulling back from a table, footsteps, and then the opening of a door.

Three more chairs pull back in succession.

Nervous whispers as the footsteps leave the conference room.

Mosa stands alone.

Deflated.

The First Suit approaches and rests a hand on his shoulder.

FIRST SUIT

Hey kid! Hold your head up. You did a helluva job! C'mon, let's get outta here!

They exit the conference room into a corridor.

FIRST SUIT

Don't take it personally, kid. He wants the fight.

MOSA

Well — I-I-I guess I don't understand – the why, Chip. We're just throwing away money.

Chip's head swivels over his shoulder in response to distant female voices in conversation.

It's the executive conference room CLEAN UP CREW.

He checks his wristwatch.

CHIP

It's not about the money.

MOSA

Huh? It's a biz—

Chip's stomach begins to growl.

CHIP

I drink too much damn coffee in these morning meetings.

He motions to Mosa.

CHIP

Come on! Gotta hit the head!

EXECUTIVE FLOOR BATHROOM

Chip opens each swinging door of the empty four stalls.

Returns to the first one and enters.

Shuts the door.

Mosa stands to the side of the closed door.

CHIP

Ya see kid, the history is—

He grunts a few times.

CHIP

The CEO of _ONIT!_ and Lester grew up together right here at _HMTV_.

The grunting isn't loud enough to blanket the noise from his rumbling stomach.

CHIP

They built this company! Were the best of friends too. Tight as thieves! Ugh, Ugh!

He begins to release some gas.

CHIP

Aaaaaaaaaaah — so when Lester was appointed CEO, he made Steve his right hand. And the next thing you know—

An explosion of volcanic proportion!

Mosa prays for a courtesy flush that never comes.

CHIP

Steve abandons ship to run his own show. Now this, this, was the ultimate betrayal as far as Lester was concerned.

A few more thunderous splats assault the water, followed by the sound of unraveling toilet paper from its roll.

CHIP

And to this very day, Lester never forgave the man. So now, you see—

The grand finale of the toilet flush!

CHIP

Every opportunity Lester gets to fight, win and show that he's the bigger fish — he takes it, and goes right for the juggler.

Mosa's lips twitch before letting out a nervous chuckle of laughter.

MOSA

Ya gotta be kidding me!

CHIP

Nope. It is what it is.

ELEVATOR

Mosa looks up to the hidden security camera.

MOSA

Can you believe this shit? I'm workin' in a goddamn sandbox!

MOSA'S OFFICE RECEPTION AREA

RWANDA, Mosa's executive assistant, listens on the phone behind her desk.

She raises a forefinger when he arrives.

He lifts the message pad off of her desk, and then reviews it.

RWANDA

Okay, yes, yes – thank you.

She shoots Mosa a quick glance and her eyelashes flutter.

RWANDA

Nope. That's all for now. Thanks again!

She hangs up the phone.

RWANDA

Uh-oh! How'd it go?

No response.

RWANDA

You know I can tell by just looking at you. Can't hide from me, Mosa. I see straight through you.

MOSA

Yup. Seems like everybody's just looking right through me.

RWANDA

Forty minutes before your next meeting. Go! Go lie down. I'll hold the calls.

Mosa smiles.

He drops the message pad on her desk and bends over to whisper in her ear.

MOSA

You take such good care of me.

She blushes.

RWANDA

Haha! Yeah, okay! I'll be sure to remind you of that when my review comes up.

MIDTOWN - EVENING RUSH HOUR – SAME DAY

Bedlam.

Heavy traffic.

The hustle.

The bustle.

TOP OF SUBWAY ENTRANCE STAIRWAY - 86th STREET & CENTRAL PARK WEST

People march up the entrance stairs.

Careless people race down the entrance stairs, brushing and bumping into each other along the way.

A suited-up Mosa climbs the stairs.

It's a residential neighborhood.

Green awnings.

Doormen.

Dog-walkers.

Baby-strollers.

Delivery boys.

A homeless man begs on the street corner.

A homeless woman panhandles on an adjacent corner.

Mosa moves along 86th Street toward Columbus Avenue.

He slows his pace when noticing a small group leaving the coffee shop near the Columbus Avenue street corner.

He stops and allows them to pass ahead.

After a brief pause, he uses the group to run interference while turning the corner to avoid an aggressive panhandler who approaches the group for spare change.

Mosa squeezes by on the sly.

He makes his way home past the corner deli on 87th Street, passing a row of elegant pre-war brownstones.

We come to an outdoor vestibule of an uninhabited brownstone where a disheveled HOMELESS MAN is laid out on his back.

A blurred Mosa stands over him.

MOSA

Hey buddy! How ya doin' today? Wait right there! Don't move! I have something for you!

Then he steps away, looking over his shoulder, at the homeless man who maintains position.

MOSA

Like he's really going anywhere.

Mosa sprints up the stairs of the neighboring brownstone, like Usain Bolt on amphetamines.

MOSA'S BROWNSTONE

He dashes through the foyer!

Bounds up the circular stairway to the second floor!

And, unlocks his apartment door.

MOSA'S STUDIO APARTMENT

We see an open futon bed.

The bed is made.

He tosses his briefcase on top of the bed.

And, kicks off his loafers through the open closet door.

And then, removes his suit, shirt and tie, and tosses his clothes on the closet floor...

Grabs a pair of faded blue jeans from a hanger...

Picks up a long-sleeved black tee and tennis shoes off the floor.

He gets dressed.

In the open entrance of the tight and narrow apartment kitchenette alcove, a large dark green, partially filled TRASH BAG rests in the middle of the floor.

A collage of empty beer cans and bottles canvas all of the kitchenette surfaces.

With blinding speed, Mosa empties and rinses out all visible beer cans, and fills the trash bag to capacity.

Perspiration beads roll over his brow as he sprints down the circular stairway lugging the overstuffed bag over his shoulder.

SIDEWALK

The homeless man hasn't moved a muscle.

A blurred Mosa places the trash bag on the ground.

MOSA

Here! There's at least – WHEW! Ho-hold-on a min—

His palms rest on his knees as he gasps for air.

MOSA

Whew—lemme catch my breath.

The homeless man remains dazed and unfazed.

MOSA

Okay. Here. There's at least five bucks worth! Maybe more! I rinsed them out too! Now all you gotta do is stroll down to the corner deli and cash 'em in!

Mosa is pleased and self-satisfied.

The homeless man shuts both eyes for a moment.

And then, he opens one eye real slow.

HOMELESS MAN

Naw man --

His voice is hoarse and raspy like he just inhaled an entire blunt.

HOMELESS MAN

Ain't ma thang.

Mosa appears shell-shocked as though he couldn't have possibly heard what he just heard.

MOSA

Excuse me?

The homeless man opens his other eye.

Big yawn.

Both eyes are wide open now.

HOMELESS MAN

Not ma thang man. Not my thang.

He raises one hand and points ACROSS THE STREET.

HOMELESS MAN

See dat bruthaman ova dere?

A homeless man pushing a supermarket-shopping cart filled with returnable bottles and cans.

He scavenges through the neighborhood trash.

HOMELESS MAN

Dat be his thang, his thang.

Mosa turns around from observing the bottle collector.

He's no longer a blurred image.

Bending out of shape, he delivers a sarcastic quip.

MOSA

Is that so?

He folds his arms across his chest.

MOSA

Okay then, tell me — exactly what is it that you do? What

is YOUR thing?

Mosa kneels down on one knee as to not miss a word.

With the gait of a crawling garden slug, the homeless man lifts his right arm a foot off the ground.

He opens a bloated hand, palm to the sky, until his fingers are as fully extended as possible.

And then—

A toothless grin.

HOMELESS MAN

Dis. Dis here. Dis my thang! Got sumthin' fo' me today?

Mosa's facial expression transforms from puzzlement to agitation in a heartbeat.

Mosa drags the trash bag down the street.

And then, he slams the bag into the metal wastebasket in front of the DELI.

BUSY STREET SCENE – NIGHT – SAME DAY

People.

Homeless people.

Cabs.

Buses.

Cars.

Noise.

Mosa enters O'FLANNERY'S BAR & GRILL.

O'FLANNERY'S BAR & GRILL

THREE CRUSTY OLD MEN are dispersed evenly around the dusty bar, nursing the hard stuff.

There's not a grill nor kitchen in sight.

The BARTENDER, a strapping young man with a baby face, greets Mosa with cheer.

BARTENDER

What's good today, my man? Gotta a pint with your name on it!

Mosa straddles a bar stool as he nods hello to each of the three wise men around the bar.

Lost in the sauce, they pay him no mind.

No matter — Mosa is a happy, murmuring man.

MOSA

Aaaaaah, yes. It's the little things in life. Peace. Quiet. And — the game.

He slides a twenty spot on the bar.

MOSA

Thanks Case! How 'bout puttin' my name on a double-Jack rocks. And if it's alright with these distinguished gentlemen, I'd love to see the game.

CASE

Comin' atcha!

Casey delivers the filled to the brim rocks glass and the game.

Mosa raises his glass to toast the ceiling, and then brings the glass gently to his lips and plants a soft kiss.

MOSA

Cheers to my o'l friend Jack. Forever true. Forever blue.

O'FLANNERY'S BAR & GRILL – EARLY MORNING

The quiet streets are near empty, except for a few taxis.

The bar door swings open.

Mosa stumbles gently out of the door as Casey follows closely behind.

He helps Mosa upright.

CASE

Hey buddy, you sure I can't get you a cab?

MOSA

Luv ya Case, but I can make it the two blocks. It's the stairs I'm worried about.

He belches.

MOSA

Just kidding, the fresh air will bring me around.

He staggers up the street.

Case shuts down the bar for the night.

86TH STREET STATION SUBWAY ENTRANCE – EARLY, EARLY MORNING – NEXT DAY

Stumbling down the stairs, Mosa clings to the handrail.

86TH STREET SUBWAY STATION - EMPTY SUBWAY PLATFORM

Buckled over, on a subway platform wooden bench, Mosa sits.

The station clock reads: 3:45am.

The hands sweep to 4:05am.

A rumbling train in the distance becomes increasingly louder.

The subway train pulls into station and brakes.

Its doors open.

Mosa staggers onto the subway.

The doors close behind him.

The subway car is half-filled with MALE CONSTRUCTION WORKERS, MALE SUBWAY TRAIN WORKERS, FEMALE NURSES, a few LATE-NIGHT REVELERS, and a couple of HOMELESS PEOPLE.

There's an empty two-seater next to the door that separates the next subway car.

As the train begins to pick up speed, Mosa slumbers into view.

He swings from a stationary metal pole to an overhead straphanger, and then lands on the two-seater like a sack of potatoes.

He passes out into a deep sleep.

CONDUCTOR

Next stop! 59th Street!

THE DOORS OPEN AND SHUT, AND THE TRAIN MOVES.

CONDUCTOR

NEXT! West 4th – Greenwich Village.

The train brakes into the station and stops.

The subway doors fly open.

We hear the train pulling out of the station.

We dash with lightning speed through the open subway doors, then from an empty platform up the staircase, through the turnstiles, past the clerk in token booth to a stairwell leading up to the street.

THE SOUND OF HIGH SPEED WIND PASSING THROUGH A TUNNEL

Up two flights of stairs, past outdoor basketball courts, across West 3rd Street, passing closed shops and restaurants for five blocks, until we reach an apartment building.

APARTMENT BUILDING

We enter the lobby and pass a UNIFORMED DOORMAN.

Up the lobby staircase to an apartment door: APARTMENT G.

FLASHBACK!

The chilling SCREAM of a child!

CHILD

AHHHH!!! NO! NO! NO!

NOOOOO! STOP! STOP IT!!!

We pass through the apartment door like an o'l skool barber's freshly sharpened straight edge razor passing through a brick of butter. As the wailing continues, so do we; into the apartment darkness to an aerial view of the child's bed.

Silence.

Five-year-old LITTLE MOSA is laid flat on his back.

Tears and perspiration blanket his face.

Two eyes are welded shut—

They flash wide open!

He eyeballs the ceiling and then, yanks the bed sheet over his head.

The little boy slithers from underneath cover and sinks to the carpet.

He crawls to an open TRUNK in the corner of the room.

It's filled with comic books, costumes, toy weapons, and miscellaneous little guy stuff.

His facial features become tighter.

Eyebrows squeeze closer together to create a crease.

Eyelids are tight and straight.

He peers into the trunk through a lowered brow.

Ready.

Go!

Like a thunderstorm phobic dog in a frantic attempt to dig away from the storm, he pulls stuff out of the trunk.

He dresses in a whirlwind.

Gladiator costume, helmet, shield, and sword...

A little boy that's fit for the battlefield.

We hear muffled and flat toned voices—

GENDERLESS VOICES

Doooo not beeee a-a-a-afraid for there is — noooooo thing to fear.

Little Mosa positions the shield in self-defense while brandishing his trembling sword as he glares upward...

LITTLE MOSA

Afraid? I'm not afraid! I'll chop you to bits!

A shaking sword slashes the air with spastic ferocity.

LITTLE MOSA

And pieces! Pieces and bits!

Trembling.

LITTLE MOSA

And I'm not a-a-a-afraid of-of anybody!

The voices are louder and clearer now.

GENDERLESS VOICES

We are here to help—you—are here to help us.

Tears scamper down his cheeks.

The grip on the sword begins to loosen.

He tries to close his eyes but he can't.

LITTLE MOSA

But I don't want your help. I don't need anybody's help! I have my sword! And I will—

He hesitates for a moment, almost losing all of his nerve.

And then—

The swagger returns.

He jumps onto the bed, and addresses the ceiling.

LITTLE MOSA

HEY! You're not even here! There's NOBODY here!

BLACK!

The light of dawn breaks and streams through the window.

Little Mosa is hidden under the covers with his battlefield gear.

A moment later, he rises and struggles to his feet.

He disrobes, and returns the costume, along with the helmet, sword and shield, back to the trunk.

After turning on the television to early morning cartoons, on automatic pilot, he trudges sleepily into the bathroom.

BATHROOM

The little boy stands in front of the toilet, eyes at half-mast.

He pees like a racehorse.

Never bothers to flush before he shuffles on his way.

KITCHEN

Climbing onto a chair, he opens a cupboard door, and removes a box of cereal.

He places the cereal box on the counter then drags the chair to another location in the kitchen.

Bowl.

Milk.

Spoon.

Cereal.

Good to go.

Laughing aloud and enjoying a breakfast for champions, the child sits cross-legged on the carpet in front of the television.

KEYS UNLOCKING THE APARTMENT DOOR — DOOR OPENS AND SHUTS.

A weary yet firm voice commands his attention.

FEMALE VOICE

Child! You're not dressed yet? Turn off that TV and drag

your skinny behind to the bathroom and brush your teeth,

boy. You will not be late for school! Not as long as I have breath.

Why colored folks always want to be late for everything? Got to be late for everything! Shoooooot—make me so mad sometimes.

Little Mosa cautiously spins around.

We see a pair of white orthopedic shoes and white stockings.

LITTLE MOSA

Hi Mommy.

FLASH FORWARD TO PRESENT DAY!

Over the subway train loudspeaker—

CONDUCTOR

Spring Street. Next.

THE SUBWAY TRAIN BRAKES INTO THE STATION

The train doors open then slam shut.

FLASHBACK!

LITTLE MOSA'S APARTMENT BUILDING

We charge through the door of APARTMENT G!

And then race in the darkness to an overhead view of Little Mosa's silhouette in bed.

A LOUD CRASH!

The child remains tangled under the cover of a deep sleep.

The sound of a creaking window opening wide, a grunt, a thump, and a low, deep male voice mumbles under his breath.

Another grunt.

Another thump.

Rapid footsteps.

Drawers opening and slamming shut.

More whispers.

More thumps.

More grunts.

And then...

Silence.

Little Mosa's eyes pop open.

With furrowed brow, he stares at a bright white ceiling.

Proceeding with caution, he turns his head.

All of the lights are on!

A GENTLE BREEZE BLOWS AND STIRS THE WINDOW CURTAINS.

A wide-open window reveals only darkness.

Little Mosa peels back the bed sheet cover and rises slow.

His narrowed eyes study with vigilance.

A bent window screen lies on the beige carpet, next to—

Spilled plant soil and shards of a terra cotta pot.

A large empty space replaces the television and stereo console.

A long, glistening BUTCHER KNIFE rests on the windowsill.

Little Mosa stands petrified.

He steps backwards, as if someone was about to chase him, until he bumps into his bed.

His hands lift his feet off the floor, and legs swing upward onto the mattress.

Another booming announcement by the subway train conductor reverberates with an eerie beat.

CONDUCTOR

Chaaambers Street!

Little Mosa scampers and slips completely under cover.

FLASH FORWARD TO PRESENT DAY!

Subway doors opening then QUICKLY pounding together.

We hear THE SOUND OF HIGH SPEED WIND IN A TUNNEL.

The rear view of Little Mosa parked outside the door of APARTMENT G.

He's a little taller now.

A seven year old, latch key kid.

The keys jingle as he raises the black shoelace necklace from around his neck, and over his head.

He inserts one key into the top lock cylinder of the door.

The key cannot complete a full turn.

It's not locked!

He removes the key.

Takes a deep breath.

Checks his wristwatch.

PAUSE.

He slides another key into the bottom lock.

Unlocks and pushes the door open.

Easy does it.

He creeps inside the apartment and closes the door.

Little Mosa turns around and without expression—

Stares straight ahead.

He takes pause and listens to the acoustics of a running faucet in concert with the washing of dishes.

The familiar weary yet firm voice commands his attention.

FEMALE VOICE

Take off those dirty clothes. And take yourself a bath.

With his head lowered and tail between his legs, he shuffles past the kitchen entrance.

Enters the bathroom.

Closes the door.

BATHROOM

There are no visible towels or bath mat anywhere.

A SURGICAL RUBBER, BURNT ORANGE ENEMA BAG and orange COLON TUBE hang together off one of the bathroom walls.

The bathroom AIR VENT above the bathtub is blocked by a makeshift, folded, cardboard shoebox cover that's secured with thick, black masking tape.

Little Mosa sits in the bathtub filled with Mr. Bubble.

The running water creates rolling hills of white mountainous foam.

Silently, he plays with a few battleships and submarines.

His head shifts to face the hanging orange surgical rubber COLON TUBE.

It's coiled like a bullwhip on a cowboy's saddle.

He rolls his eyeballs above to the sealed AIR VENT.

His mind projects an image onto its makeshift silencer.

It's Lash LaRue, "The King of the Bullwhip!"

An eighteen-foot bullwhip is this comic book cowboy hero's choice weapon of justice.

The weapon he relies upon to right wrongs across the wild American West of yesterday.

The tepid bathwater moves into a cool chill.

Little Mosa notices his fine body hairs perk up from the landscape created by his goose bumps.

Hairs standing erect like the attentive ears of a dog anticipating an imminent thunder and lightning storm.

The bathroom doorknob turns.

The door creaks gently while opening and closing.

Light footsteps.

Silence.

All of a sudden...

The bathtub drain stopper is jerked out!

Water drains from the tub until only foam residue remains.

Little Mosa feels the sparks of shiver shoot up through his spine from the cool porcelain beneath his bottom.

FEMALE VOICE

Get out — of the tub.

He follows orders and shivers stark naked out of the tub with beads of water dripping down his skinny frame.

A shallow PUDDLE OF WATER spreads beneath his feet across the bathroom floor tiles.

INSIDE OF HIS HEAD, he hears the soothing but disembodied voice of his best "man-friend," The Professor.

THE PROFESSOR

In a thunderstorm, if you're standing in a puddle of water

it's likely that you're going to be struck. That is, of

course, if the lightning strikes anywhere around you.

He's surrounded by water.

The burnt orange surgical COLON TUBE is no longer in its place.

And, the fear of imminence sweeps across his face.

The puddle. And then...

The Calm—

FEMALE VOICE

I don't know how many times we need to go through this.

Before—

FEMALE VOICE

But I do know that I work too cotton pickin' hard to be sittin' up in here wonderin' whether you dead — or alive. Too damn hard!

The—

FEMALE VOICE

Here I am, runnin' like a chicken with its head chop off, from one job to the next, so you can have a safe place to live and go to those fancy schools you go to — for what? FOR WHAT?

So I can sit here waitin' on you to stroll on home like somebody's husband, when I should be gettin' my sleep? NO! We not gonna be having no more of this, DOG TAKE IT! Oh, Noooooooooooooooo—

STORM!

FEMALE VOICE

NOT IN MY HOUSE!

He holds position.

His head lowers with intent.

Searching that puddle of water for a magical escape hatch.

The Thunder arrives but the hatch does not.

FEMALE VOICE

NOT AS HARD AS I WORK!

Little Mosa's stuttering voice is brittle.

LITTLE MOSA

I-I-I-I—

He bursts into tears.

LITTLE MOSA

I-sa-sa-sor-sorrrry, Mommy—

And, he sniffles his running nose...

LITTLE MOSA

I-I-I-sor-REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

And then — THE LIGHTNING STRIKES!

The little boy unleashes a hysterical scream for "HELP!" at the top of his lungs as the long, narrow, surgical hose slaps hard against his damp, fragile body.

Not one stroke of luck to be had as he raises an arm to block the lashes.

The whip extends over his arm and wraps around his back, and across his stomach.

Fast and—

Furious!

REPEAT!

He folds forward and threads both arms between his thighs.

A CRACK and SLASH across the buttocks and back of his legs.

He dances to the tune of a thousand bee stings.

And then, runs rapidly in place to shake off the intense burning sensation of each fresh welt planted on his tender flesh.

His BLOOD CURDLING SCREAM and the CRACKLING SNAP of a bullwhip repeatedly finding its mark, merges with the SCREECH of a braking subway train coming to a halt.

BLACK

FLASH FORWARD TO PRESENT DAY!

Mosa's bloodshot red eyes pop open—

He's awake!

CONDUCTOR

Broooooklyn Bridge!

He jumps out of the train seat and slips through the subway doors as they slam behind him.

CLOSED SUBWAY DOORS

FLASHBACK!

HEAVY CURTAINS DRAWING OPEN ON A LARGE STAGE, REVEALING—

A GOSPEL CHOIR IN SONG.

A petite, young, thin, AFRICAN-AMERICAN FEMALE LEAD with a powerful voice in the forefront.

FEMALE LEAD

Satisfied.

The traditional GOSPEL CHOIR sways on stage.

GOSPEL CHOIR

Satisfied with JESUS!

FEMALE LEAD

Sat—Tis—Fied.

GOSPEL CHOIR

Satisfied with JEEEE-SUS!

CONGREGATION joins GOSPEL CHOIR in song and spirit.

EVERYBODY

He said He'd be my SAVOIR!

He said He'd be my GUIDE!

The CONGREGATION: standing, singing, clapping, and dancing in front of their seats.

Some spill into the aisles.

EVERYBODY

Ah when I looked at my feet,

They knew too!

And then I looked at my hands

They did too!

And ever since that wonderful day,

My soul's been satisfied!

The hand clapping continues as a deep male voice over a PA

Speaker introduces—

DEEP MALE VOICE

Ladies and Gentlemen! THEE REVEREND SPIKE!

THE REVEREND SPIKE, a towering, handsome African-American man adorned in LOUD gold and diamond jewelry and a pale lime green suit with matching tie — runs out on the stage, and grabs a mike off of a stand.

He sings and smiles with JOY.

REVEREND SPIKE

Satisfied!

EVERYBODY

Satisfied with JEEEE-SUS!

REVEREND SPIKE

I'm SAT – TIS - FIED.

EVERYBODY

SATISFIED WITH JEEEE-SUS!

REVEREND SPIKE

What he say?

EVERYBODY

He said He'd be my SAVOIR

REVEREND SPIKE

I can't HEAR YOU!

EVERYBODY

HE SAID HE'D BE MY GUIDE!

Ah when I looked at my feet,

They knew too!

Ah then I looked at my hands

They did too!

And ever since that WONDERFUL DAY,

My SOUL'S BEEN SATISFIIIIIED!

The Reverend Spike perspires a bucket full.

ORGAN INSTRUMENTAL

He wipes his brow, cheeks, and neck with a white hanky.

HAND CLAPS FADE

REVEREND SPIKE

Whew! Good GOD ALMIGHTY! I am satisfied tooooo-day! And Ah Thank Ya JESUS! Can I hear a Thank Ya Jesus???

EVERYBODY

THANK YOU JESUS!

REVEREND SPIKE

AMEN! Praisin' the Lord in the house of God to-DAY! In His House TODAY! HALLEHUJAH! PRAISE THE LORD!

The Congregation screams, sobs, and yells in praise.

CONGREGATION

PRAISE THE LORD! HALLEHUJAH!

CONGREGATION MEMBER

TELL IT LIKE IT IS REVEREND!

REVEREND SPIKE

AMEN! Hehe—Now you know this Reverend don't know no other way, other than to tell it like it is.

The Congregation begins to settle down.

REVEREND SPIKE

Y'know, they're some people out there that just love to talk 'bout the Reverend Spike. Talk 'bout his jewelry. His fine clothes. His good looks.

OLDER FEMALE CONGREGATION MEMBER

Uh, huh! Good lookin'!

REVEREND SPIKE

And how he jus' love to preach that gospel. Well, I'm jus'

gonna haveta plead guilty my brothers and sisters. Guilty as charged! Yes! I AM! C'mon, an' tell me now — anybody here believe that the Great God Almighty put his children on this here Earth to be POOR?

EVERYBODY

NOOOO!

REVEREND SPIKE

Do you believe that the GOOD LORD put us here — to be — to be HUNGRY?

EVERYBODY

NOOOO!

REVEREND SPIKE

THAT'S RIGHT! Now how many of you believe that GOD wants to see his children runnin' 'round in rags pickin' off fleas from their colla? HOW MANY? C'mon y'all! Git yo' hands up!

A hush falls upon The Congregation.

REVEREND SPIKE

Yes, I see. And how many people believe THE GREAT GOD ALMIGHTY is gonna call upon somebody who ain't nice to look at — to preach HIS Gospel? ANYBODY? DOES ANYBODY HERE BELIEVE THAT?

EVERYBODY

NOOOOO!

REVEREND SPIKE

A-MEN! PRAISIN' DA LORD!

I don't judge ya—NO! Bee-Cause — I LUV YA! That's what THE

GOOD LORD tells me! My brothers and sisters, if you want to stay on welfare — I dun't care. NO! Cuz I LUV YA!

If you want to shoot DRUGS in your veins, an' drink Johnny Walker Red till you dead in yo' head — I dun't judge ya my children — NO! Cuz I luv YA!

And should you choose to live in the po' house instead of the HOUSE OF THE LORD, I won't turn my back onya when ya come a knockin' on ma door—HELL NO! I WILL NOT TURN MY BACK TO YOU! I WILL NOT! TURN MY BACK—TO YOU!

CONGREGATION

THANK YOU JESUS!

REVEREND SPIKE

An' when those cold, cruel hearts of the world become too much for you to bear. You gotta open invitation to MY HOUSE where this landlord always keep the heat on!

The Reverend pats his forehead with a handkerchief.

REVEREND SPIKE

Now say Amen if you can feel the heat!

CONGREGATION

AMEN! AMEN! AMEN!

REVEREND SPIKE

AMEN! It's never too late — to walk through Heaven's Gate. That's right! And didn't he send his only begotten son to show us the way? He did—didn't he? Who can tell me why?

EVERYBODY

BECAUSE HE LOVES US!!!

REVEREND SPIKE

Oh really? Who — does he love?

EVERYBODY

US! HE LOVES US!

REVEREND SPIKE

And who — are you?

EVERYBODY

HIS CHILDREN!!!

REVEREND SPIKE

WHOSE CHILDREN ARE YA?

EVERYBODY

GOD'S CHILDREN!!!

REVEREND SPIKE

How many of god's children have come today to be saved and healed? Put yo' hands up high!

EVERYBODY

MEEEEEEE! OHHHH MEEEEEE!

REVEREND SPIKE

PRAISE THE LORD! I'm gonna reach out and touch as many as GOD will allow for today. But first — USHERS, please pass the plates. GOD's children give what you can. But don't be stingy because remember GOD? He don't like stingy. Amen!

Everybody begins to sing and clap.

EVERYBODY

AAAAAAAA-MEN! AAAAAAA-MEN!

AAA-MEN, AA-MEN, AMEN!

The Reverend Spike sings and sways with closed eyes.

REVEREND SPIKE

Ah-THANK YOU JEEESUS!

STREET CORNER – DAY

A HEROIN JUNKIE nodding from an upright position on a street corner like a bobbing leaning Tower of Pisa.

We hear the CONGREGATION AND GOSPEL CHOIR IN CHORUS SINGING "AMEN."

We see the STREET ACTIVITY around the junkie and a THEATER MARQUIS, which reads: THE REVEREND SPIKE AND THE HEAVENLY SAINTS GOSPEL CHOIR -– ALL SINNERS WELCOME!

REVEREND SPIKE SINGS IN THE BACKGROUND.

REVEREND SPIKE

He's ma Savoir!

EVERYBODY sings "AMEN" chorus.

A raggedy HOMELESS MAN picks through a garbage can on the opposite street corner of the heroin junkie. The junkie tilts slowly forward, toward the sidewalk pavement.

REVEREND SPIKE

And he's ma Doctor!

An AMERICAN SOLDIER in VIETNAM falling over as bullets rip through his chest.

EVERYBODY sings "AMEN" chorus.

Expressions of grimace, pain, and agony stain the soldier's face.

He crashes to the dirt with a hard THUMPA!

REVEREND SPIKE

AH THANK YOU JEEESUS!

A YOUNG AFRICAN-AMERICAN WOMAN, clad in her Sunday best, hunkers down in the middle of a tar-paved street.

She squirms like a worm scorched by the rays of a blazing Sun.

Everybody sings the "Amen" chorus finale.

EVERYBODY

A-A-MEN, A-MEN, AAAAAAAA...MEN!

Two barking heads of a CANINE POLICE UNIT nip at her torn-stocking legs as unrelenting police batons crack her upside the head.

The young black woman is dragged by TWO POT-BELIED WHITE CRACKER POLICEMEN into the back of a PADDY WAGON as CIVIL RIGHTS PROTESTERS scatter.

We see that the two previous scenes are being watched on a TV set.

The volume is set very low.

THE FATHER OF NEWS appears.

THE FATHER OF NEWS

This has been a special News Report. Please join us for more news on tonight's Evening News.

Little Mosa is ten years old now.

He fiddles with the place settings at the dining room table.

It's a routine Sunday afternoon, family supper.

TV CLICKS OFF

Mosa's Mommy chats on the phone.

MOMMY

Well I sure wish you could have been at today's service Ellie. That Reverend Spike can preach like nobody's business! There's just nobody better at doin' GOD's work than Reverend Spike. I'm telling you! Ooooh! I just get

the CHILLS when I talk about him.

An oven door opens and closes.

MOMMY

I'm so sorry to hear about your sister, Ellie. Listen, next time Reverend Spike comes to the city we need to bring her downtown to see him because he will heal her you know. You just won't believe how many people he healed today!

People just falling over left and right, right and left. Everybody was gettin' the Holy Ghost today!

Uh huh, uh huh — yeah!

Oh, YES! Well I'm prayin' hard for all y'all now, ya hear?

Uh, huh—okay, okay. Well, let me go now and feed this child of mine. GOD BLESS YOU ELLIE! Bye now!

Little Mosa still fidgets at the table.

His mother sighs.

MOMMY

Child, will you please sit up properly and stop playing with the silverware? Please! Thank you. And please, place your napkin on your lap, supper is being served.

We see only her forearms, partially covered with potholder mittens, serving Little Mosa's supper plate.

MOMMY

Careful now, my darling, this plate is very hot.

As she removes her oven mitts and takes her place at the table—

He touches his plate.

MOMMY

Would you like to say grace?

He hunches over and lowers his head to avoid eye contact.

LITTLE MOSA

Uh, no. I mean, no thank you, Mommy. You say it.

Little Mosa puts his hands together, closes his eyes, and lowers his head further.

MOMMY

Jesus, be with us now and please bless our food and all that helps me to prepare meals and keep up our humble home.

We see a third place setting at the table.

MOMMY

We Thank You for Your Spirit, Your Support, and Your Peace. Let us be nourished and healed by Your Holy Presence today.

Please... Join Us.

Little Mosa opens one eye and peers up to see if she's finished yet.

MOMMY

Thank you Jesus!

He quickly shuts the open eye.

He waits a few seconds, opens both of them, and then picks up his fork and begins to eat.

LITTLE MOSA

Are we all really GOD'S children?

MOMMY

Now what kind of stupid question is that? Of course we are!

He chomps and chews a mouthful.

LITTLE MOSA

Then how come he lets—

Chomp.

LITTLE MOSA

His children hurt and feel badly?

Chomp, chew.

LITTLE MOSA

Doesn't he love all of his children?

Chew, chew.

LITTLE MOSA

Or just some?

She shoots him with a stern expression.

MOMMY

Boy? What did I tell you 'bout talkin' with food in your mouth?

He swallows.

MOMMY

Yes! GOD loves ALL of his children! Some of his children are just hardheaded that's all. They choose to hurt themselves because they choose to not believe.

LITTLE MOSA

Be-weave?

Chomp, chew.

LITTLE MOSA

Believe in what?

MOMMY

Boy, don't let me have to tell you again.

He swallows hard.

LITTLE MOSA

Uh, sorry Mom.

MOMMY

Believe in the Holy Scripture, that's what! The Bible! The Ten Commandments! Going to Church! Gettin' Saved! Becoming Born Again Unto The Lord!

LITTLE MOSA

Is that all people have to do, to stop other people from being mean to them, and beating them, and hanging them, and shooting them?

MOMMY

What do you mean is that all?

LITTLE MOSA

I mean — if that's all people need to do to stop from getting hurt, then why don't they do it?

MOMMY

I already told you Boy! Cuz they hard-headed and don't believe!

LITTLE MOSA

Oh—uh, okay.

She tries to hold back her laughter.

MOMMY

That's right! And the Devil just loves people who don't want to believe! He's just a sittin' and a rockin' 'round the eternal ring of fire, toastin' marshmallows, waitin' on folks to come down.

LITTLE MOSA

To come down?

She leans across the table to whisper.

MOMMY

To Hell!

LITTLE MOSA

Oh, I can't believe that GOD would let any of his children

go to Hell to toast marshmallows with the Devil.

MOMMY

Hahahaha! Okay! Well you just keep on not believin' the word of the LORD and you'll be goin' down there to see for yourself, and you won't be toastin' marshmallows either—no sir-reee. You gonna BE the marshmallow!

His mother gently pounds her fist on the table.

MOMMY

I just don't understand people!

Little Mosa lowers his head.

MOMMY

It's all right there in the Ten Commandments! THOU SHALL NOT! Clear as day! And people got to go out and do it any o'l way!

Cursin', drinkin', smokin', doing drugs, fornicatin' without being married, shackin' up and livin' in sin, committin' adultery, stealin' from one another!

Now just think if I carried on like that where we would be today. Tell you where we wouldn't be, we wouldn't be here! That's right, Mosa! We wouldn't be here.

So you best to get down on your rusty knees every night before you go to bed and THANK GOD that your mother is NOT a sinner! YOU HEAR ME BOY?

LITTLE MOSA

Uh huh, I hear you. Um, may I please be excused to use the

bathroom?

FLASH FORWARD!

BROOKLYN BRIDGE – NIGHT

Mosa treads in the direction of a desolate Brooklyn Bridge.

He stops.

He wipes the tears from his sorry eyes with his shirtsleeve.

MOSA

Sorry Mom.

And then, he weeps like a baby.

FLASHBACK!

Mosa, in his early twenties, wearing a suede bomber-leather jacket, black tee shirt, jeans and cowboy boots, engages in an earnest conversation on the Brooklyn Bridge promenade.

MOSA

Look Grits, you've got the wrong guy! You deserve a whole lot better than me, a lot better. And you know I'll never make you happy anyway. We just don't want the same things.

I'll never move out of the city. NEVER! Much less to a place in the burbs with a white picket fence, a yard, and what not. I'm sorry babe, but—

I'm not that guy.

Commutin' to work during the week in a coat and tie, mowing

the lawn on the weekends. That's DEATH for me.

And you want kids! There's no way I'm comfortable

bringing kids into this fucked up world. No way, no how!

That's not happening! Too many people in the world as it is! Less people and more trees is what the world needs.

In the background, GRITS begins to cry.

GRITS

Let's just call it what it is. Five years. And you still don't wanna grow up! And that's what it is.

A cheerless Mosa stands alone on the Brooklyn Bridge pedestrian path, while we listen to Grits' sobs and clicking high heels fade away.

FLASH FORWARD!

Mosa in his late twenties, wearing a coat and tie, horn-rimmed glasses, and holds a briefcase while standing inside an apartment, in front of the closed apartment front door.

He awaits a response from—

GIRLFRIEND

I can't believe I'm standing here listening to this!

A flourish of concern etches across his face.

MOSA

Maybe you should sit down.

GIRLFRIEND

Just tell me again, one more time — why exactly are you leaving me?

MOSA

Uh, because basically — you've been treating me like a piece of shit for the past five years.

She gasps and begins to cry.

GIRLFRIEND

UGH! I can't believe this is happening! An' wha-WHAT? WHAT did I ever do to deserve this? All I ever did was LOVE YOU! WHAT EXACTLY? GIMME SOME EXAMPLES—TELL ME!

MOSA

Listen, why drag it out further. The bottom line is that I'll never make you happy. I know this. You know this.

I'm not that guy.

Look, you're a hot babe, you'll have no problem landing another chump. They're probably lining up outside right now as we speak. You'll do just fine.

Mosa turns his back to her.

GIRLFRIEND

Buh-but—I really thought we were going to get married.

Opens the apartment door, it slams behind him.

BLACK

ANGELIC MUSIC IN THE BACKGROUND

We travel from slow to light speed space travel through the stars.

It's like we're traveling in a space ship.

There's an ABRUPT STOP.

DARKNESS.

A bright glow begins to emanate from a distance.

We zoom at light speed through the brilliant white light. An ABRUPT STOP!

A LARGE NEON SIGN READS "HOUSE OF MANY MANSIONS."

We pass through a door and down many corridors with many doors then spiral downward past many, many levels into total darkness.

Until...

We see a door with a RED LIGHT NEON SIGN flashing "THE MANSION OF LESSER LIGHT."

The door swings open.

We move swiftly through empty corridors and then stop at the door with the neon sign that reads: THE HOUSE OF PAIN AND SUFFERING.

The door opens to deafening heavy metal music mixed with angry, early East Coast rap.

Bustling activity.

Alarms are sounding off!

Bells are ring-a-ding-a-linging!

LOUD!

AND LOUDER!

It's a big o'l party — Vegas style!

A grand Hedonistic atmosphere loaded with REPTILIAN CREATURES partying hearty: laughing, dancing, drinking, smoking, fucking.

The music stops.

A high-pitched siren freezes Partygoers in place.

The Creatures run and fly...

Pushing and shoving each other over to get to...

A HUGE ARENA with floating open skyboxes and grandstands.

A big wheel "THE COSMIC WHEEL OF FEAR" starts spinning on stage.

It explodes into a massive fireworks display, the smoke settles to reveal a multi-level, multi-screen scoreboard with betting odds running across the top.

A REPTILIAN MASTER OF CEREMONIES gestures to the screen in twisted, sardonic laughter.

REPTILIAN M.C.

Yes! Ha, ha, ha! Three-peat! Back on Da Bridge! Third time in 30 Earth moons ma bitches! One, two, three times a lady! Ya beastly morons got exactly ten Earth minutes to place yo' bets!

TEN EARTH MINUTES!!!

TWO REPTILIANS chat away.

REPTILIAN ONE has a shrill voice.

REPTILIAN ONE

Wunda why dem odds be so low?

Can't only be cuz diss his third out in 30 moons. Naw, me not buy inta dat.

REPTILIAN TWO owns a deep, booming voice.

REPTILIAN TWO

Naaaw, course not. Jus' look at tha' Fool! Bitch be wasted! A scared o' heights too. Dizzy Miss Lizzie dun los' da Will.

Pas' pa-fomance board — check it out! Drowned once at five

Earth years dis Life, tryin' to check out early and what not. Ah los' me a bundle o' lifetimes on that one.

REPTILIAN ONE

Oh yeeeaaah — me amemba dat! Boy took you out!

REPTILIAN TWO

Well payback is a muthafucka! An' diss time, no angels or

guides floatin' 'bout to bail his chump ass out. It be—

Payback time!

An' diss sucka owes me—a BIG ASS PAY DAY!

On the MULTI-SCREEN, we see Mosa wobbling on a high beam of the Brooklyn Bridge.

REPTILIAN AUDIENCE

Ooooooooh! Aaaaaahhh!

REPTILIANS CHANT

Off yo' punk ass, ya weak sack a shit! Make me a winna!!! Winna, Winna, Chicken Dinna!!!

Jump to it, Fool!

Stop the Suffering!

Kill the Pain!

Den tomorra bitch—

Start ova a-gain!

HAHAHHAHAHA! HAHAHAHAHA!

Mosa holds on to a steel wire cable for his life.

He shudders at the sight of the turbulent and ferocious water that beckons below him.

Reptilian Two scowls and waves his arms with impatience.

REPTILIAN TWO

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Cum on now an' git on wit it! Ya cost me big! Now ya owe me big! And now sucka, ya gonna pay me big!

REPTILIAN M.C.

Three Earth minutes to place yo' wagers. Den we have a

surprise act for y'all afta the fall! Aw, I hate surprises

so I jus' gonna tell y'all. Straight from da SOUL PLANE

LINE, we got dem SOUL PLANE DANCERS on da tap. Hear me

right! So stick aroun' an'—

LET'S GET DOWN!

REPTILIAN TWO

Awright! Good ta go! Be layin' triple down on the jump. Double back-up on da no flotilla. Straight double-down—No! No! Make dat triple back-down on the Hell NO Comeback. Take DAT to the Soul Plane baby and git me sum gravy!

REPTILIAN ONE

Ooooh! I'm all on top o' dat! Ova, Unda and InBa-tween!

A THIRD REPTILIAN creature squeezes between them.

REPTILIAN THREE

Yo! Yo! Hehe! Check-eee out! Check-eee out! Me gotta HOT TIP!

REPTILIAN TWO

Betta git outta ma sight scale face! Tips are fo' assholes! Ah look like sum kinda hole?

Reptilian Three whispers into Reptilian Two's ear.

Reptilian Two steps BACK!

REPTILIAN TWO

Say WHA? Ya dink me have buh a-one lifetime? Bawn today?

Me Ain't No Fool! Wha da odds he gonna amemba who he is befo' tha dive? Look at 'em! Nuthin' buh tha Fool on-a cliff!

REPTILIAN THREE

Yo! Damn! See dis shit? Dun't EVEN talk ta me face! Callin' me self hepin' out me fellow Lizzie. Twice as nice cuz me owe ya one. Buh Naaaaah! Okay! Be like dat! Be a free will Universe baby, do wha' chew will. Buh Me goin' hard action-nay da otha way—

BIG TIME!

REPTILIAN TWO

Yeah, yeah, so ya be big time now? Ya BE Sumbody?

REPTILIAN THREE

Ya got dat right, Fool! Got ta be sumbody befo' ya can BE SUMBODY! An' ya got ta BE big time befo' ya can win Big Time! Me be layin' triple back-down 'cross the Board — Trips in Da HOLE!

Gonna mack me own damn planet! Not gonna haveta go thru nun o' dat karmic bullshit! Skip Dat! Me gonna git ta roll-in and rule me shit straight o'way!

Me gonna rock arm-ta-da-teef militia wit' da latest galactic weaponry! Me talkin' state! State-o'-da-art! 'Round the clock slaves, all dat, and MORE! MORE! MORE! MORE!

REPTILIAN TWO

Hmmmm... Be riskin' 'bout all yo' lifetimes on this bet scale face, ona tip from Da Office Of Da Unity of Days?

Hmmmmmmmm... Dat be da prime source o' Light. Tru' Dat.

REPTILIAN THREE

Bull's-eye Jungle Jim! Dis be a one in a trillion lifetimes leak! Lookie, Lookie! Why ya dink dey ain't no Angels or Guides down there ta give da Fool an out?

Ya see any?

Eva see a Fool try ta off dem sef wit no boots on da ground Angels or Guides hangin' out jus' in case da Fool gets da change o' heart an' decide a quick return?

Lemme hep ya out wit diss one ma lizzie da ansa be — Hell NO!

Dis sucka be alone as lone can be! An' why? Ima tell ya why!

CUZ NOBODY BE WORRIED! DAT'S WHY! Dis be a sucka bet for suckas!

REPTILIAN M.C.

One Earth minute to closing!

REPTILIAN THREE

An' amemba dat he dun't need ta amemba who he is, only mus'

memba—

Who he ain't!

Pandemonium hits the ARENA.

The odds drop dramatically across the screen.

A SIREN SOUNDS!

SILENCE!

On the ARENA MULTI-SCREEN, Mosa holds on.

And then—

He throws up and loses his balance!

It appears that he's a mere moment away from that fatal slip and fall.

But then—

Mosa regains his balance.

ARENA AUDIENCE

WHA' THA?

He gracefully kneels and perches into the perspective of an Angel atop the oversized cylindrical beam.

MOSA

No.

He settles into composed grace.

ARENA AUDIENCE

NO? YES! YES! YES! C'MON, FOOL! YOU CAN DO IT! YOU CAN DO IT!

MOSA

No.

ARENA AUDIENCE

OH NOOOOO! NO!! NOOOOOO!!! DIS CAN'T BE HAPPENIN'!!!!

MOSA

I'm not — that guy.

The arena falls into silence.

REPTILIAN TWO

We be square scale face, right here. Right now.

REPTILIAN THREE

Know DAT! Jus' landed yo' scaly ba-hind a planet fo' rule ma fella lizzie, bes' ta amemba dat! Amemba when ya be bored rockin' yo' throne, where eva in Hell dey slap yo' booty down — ya don't be scopin' out me planet fo' raid! Amemba dat we be square. Peace.

An evil and demonic smirk unfurls across Two's face.

REPTILIAN TWO

Let fear rule da Universe.

Reptilian One raises a grog filled with smoke.

REPTILIAN ONE

A toas' ta Pain and Sufferin'!

Reptilian Three toasts with glee!

REPTILIAN THREE

HAHA! Oh, yeah! FEAR RULES BABY! GOT DAT RIGHT!

The three Reptiles all high-five and belly bump.

FADE TO BLACK

PETWORTH COUNTRY – EARLY EVENING

Fall leaves swirl and sweep a country road.

We hear a car shift gears, and then the voice of a mature man as a white Saab drives down a windy, country road.

MATURE MAN

Our time is just about up now. I'd like to remark on how much progress I believe we've made.

A mature female voice responds.

MATURE FEMALE

Thank you, Deacon! I'm in a really good place right now. I've had an active summer and all, and I'm out and about!

DEACON

Well, you've certainly been through a lot Helen: the divorce, the move, two boys off to college, the financial disaster and — well, you know, I don't need to go on. One helluva year! I'm really proud of all the work we've done.

R.I.P. RETIREMENT VILLAGE PARKING LOT

The white Saab pulls into an outdoor parking space.

The MYSTERIOUS BLONDE from the opening scene party steps out of the car.

DEACON

In any case, have a great weekend! Any plans?

HELEN

I'm off to Vermont to visit Willy and Fanny. And I'm really looking forward to the drive! There's nothing quite like a long drive through New England this time of year. Love those colors!

DEACON

I know exactly what you mean, there's nothing quite like it. Enjoy!

HELEN

Thanks! I'll see ya next week!

It's the MYSTERIOUS BLONDE woman from the Labor Day weekend party.

This is the first time we get a clear look at her.

Her appearance is striking!

Her age is difficult to pinpoint, anywhere between early forties and late forties.

Classic and gentle well-proportioned features are symmetrically placed under loose bangs of soft fine hair. Piercing blue large almond-shaped eyes set below arched eyebrows against a healthy bronze suntan.

Tasteful but subtle silver and turquoise jewelry: earrings and necklace.

She sports a tailored designer black pants suit over a white and pink cotton narrowly pinstriped open collared shirt.

Her bare feet stand in a comfortable black pair of Pappagallo flats. She closes the car door and walks to the rear of the car and opens the trunk.

Inside of the trunk: a briefcase, a set of golf clubs, golf shoes, tennis balls and racket, sneakers, an umbrella, roller-skates, laundry detergent, and Clorox bleach.

She grabs the briefcase and closes the trunk.

R.I.P. RETIREMENT VILLAGE ADMINISTRATIVE LOBBY

She enters the lobby and goes over to the reception desk. A YOUNG RECEPTIONIST MALE in his early twenties sits behind the desk engrossed in a magazine.

MYSTERIOUS BLONDE

Hello Jake! How are you?

She catches him off guard.

JAKE

Uh, oh yes—Hi! I mean, um, very good Helen! Very good! Thanks and you?

Helen raises one eyebrow and half-smiles.

HELEN

Couldn't be better! Any messages?

JAKE

Oh, yes! I almost forgot! Ben wants to see you in his office as soon as you get in, an—

HELEN

Okay. I'm in.

JAKE

And Christina's waiting to speak to you in your office I think. She's there now — waiting. For you.

HELEN

Yes. Is that all Jake?

JAKE

Uh, na-No! Mrs. McKenzie has been calling like crazy, man!

She's been looking for you an' --

Helen turns away, and interrupts him, in mid-sentence.

HELEN

Thanks for the heads up!

BEN'S OFFICE

BEN, a friendly, slightly nervous, gentle man in his late thirties, sits behind an orderly desk in his tidy and minimally decorated office, busily doing paperwork.

BEN

Helen! You're here!

HELEN

Of course I'm here. Where else would I be?

BEN

Well, you know, I've been trying to reach you.

HELEN

Ben, it's Friday. You know where I am on Friday afternoons.

BEN

Oh yeah, I forgot. Please, sit. No, no. Close the door first.

Helen shuts the door then takes a seat.

HELEN

Okay, now you got me! All yours, Ben.

His expression becomes grave.

BEN

Our nightmare comes true. But nothing you should worry about. Not yet anyway.

HELEN

Spit it out.

BEN

The Reese's filed for bankruptcy. The bank has taken over. They just left a little while ago.

HELEN

And?

BEN

For now, a hiring freeze.

HELEN

For how long?

BEN

Indefinitely.

HELEN

Didn't you explain how we're short on wait staff as it is?

BEN

These people only care about the bottom line. It's a bank.

HELEN

But what about everything we talked about? Better serv—

BEN

Helen! THEY DON'T CARE!

HELEN

Well, wha—

BEN

Believe me. I'm just as upset as you are. I can't tell you what a miserable day this has been.

She mumbles out loud to herself.

HELEN

Hmmm... So that must be what Mrs. McKenzie waa—

BEN

Come again?

HELEN

Oh, never mind. Just trying to brace myself for dinner. Look, I gotta run.

Helen heads for the door, stops, then does an about face.

BEN

I know Helen — I know.

HELEN'S OFFICE

Helen reviews a scheduling chart at her desk.

HELEN

Keep it together Helen.

There's knocking on the closed office door.

HELEN

Yes?

CHRISTINA, a tall lanky, mousy brown-haired woman in her late twenties, wearing black slacks and a white shirt, opens the door but remains standing outside.

HELEN

Hi Tina! Come in.

CHRISTINA

Uh, thank you. Okay, yes. This shouldn't take too much of your time, I know how busy you are, and I don't—

HELEN

Please, Tina.

Helen smiles.

HELEN

Please. You're making me uncomfortable, standing there like a disgruntled postal worker. Please come in — and sit.

Christina sits down and crosses her legs.

HELEN

You're not scheduled for tonight.

CHRISTINA

Yes. I mean NO. No, I'm not.

Helen reaches out and takes a hold of both Christina's hands.

HELEN

Tina. Relax.

CHRISTINA

Okay, okay. You see Sandra's car broke down and Charlie's

not home from work yet to watch the kids so she asked me—

HELEN

Save it Tina. Charlie doesn't work. Sandra's car is fine.

CHRISTINA

I'm sorry but I don't know what you're talking abou—

HELEN

Tell her to call me. Okay?

God forbid that beer-sucking, wife-beating, redneck savage gets her pregnant again.

Tina holds her head down then pulls her hands away from Helen's to wipe the tears from her cheeks.

HELEN

Did you ever see that Julia Roberts movie where she's held

captive by her husband? Know the movie I'm talking about?

Christina sniffles and nods with her head down.

HELEN

That was my life. I was younger than Sandra even, and for too long of a time, I believed it was me.

Christina lifts her head and opens her eyes.

HELEN

I'm here to help.

Christina nods again, then stands and leaves the office.

R.I.P. RETIREMENT VILLAGE DINING ROOM

A smiling, cheery Helen greets RESIDENTS as they enter.

Later, she makes the rounds at the dining room tables.

Then she says good night as the Residents leave the dining room.

PETWORTH - NIGHT

A converted barn sits back fifty yards from a quiet street near the center of town.

The outside barn lights are on.

We hear a toilet flushing over faint classical music.

As we move towards the barn, we can hear Helen in a playful high-pitched voice.

HELEN

Hello my little darlings! Oh, how I missed you all, today. Who wants a treat? Treat-eee, treat-eee, treat-eeeee!

HELEN'S BARN — NIGHT

Helen hits a button on the answering machine that sits on the kitchen counter.

She takes out a plastic bag of cold cuts from the fridge. We see one sheepdog, two Abyssinian cats, and a large Maine Coon cat.

ANSWERING MACHINE

You have fifteen new messages.

Helen raises her eyebrows while tossing treats to the pets.

ANSWERING MACHINE

Received today at 3:11pm.

Helen prepares dinner for the pets.

ANSWERING MACHINE

Click. Beeeep! Next message. Received today at 3:42pm.

"Hi Helen! This is Isadora Melon. We're having a small dinner party Saturday at 7:30. We'd love if you can make it! Nothing formal. Just bring your smile."

Beeeep!

The cats rub up against her legs.

HELEN

You guys are hungry!

Helen reaches into a cupboard.

ANSWERING MACHINE

Next message. Received today at 4:11pm. Click. Click.

Beeep! Next message. Received today at 4:19pm.

"Uh, Helen, Conrad Schaffer here. I bought you that new tennis racket this summer for a reason, you know? Let's play this weekend, while the weather's still good. Give me a call. Later!"

Beeep!

Helen feeds the pets.

ANSWERING MACHINE

Next message. Received today at 4:31pm.

"Helen darling! Shoot! I must have just missed you! It's Sophie Ketchum! There's a Spontaneous, girls-only, Indian

Summer member/guest at the club next Wednesday! 9 a.m. tee time — can I count you in? You, me, Barb and Trish. Call, call, call!"

Beeep!

Helen picks at food from a Styrofoam container on the kitchen counter as she scribbles notes on a legal pad.

ANSWERING MACHINE

Next message. Received today at 4:45 p.m. Crackle, crackle, Click. Beeep! Next message. Received today at 4:53 p.m.

A Female Voice...

"Hey Bud! What a lousy week! I need a hug from ma Bud! Are you around this weekend? I can't remember. Loving You!"

Click. Beeep! Next message. Received today at 5:00 p.m.

A Male Voice...

"Helen! Tally Jennings with a tally-ho to you! You 'round

this weekend? I'm sailing down from Nan and thought I'd puddle over to Petworth and take you for an overnight up the river. See you tomorrow!"

Beeep!

Helen smiles while opening a bottle of Chardonnay.

She pours the wine then reaches into a straw basket on the kitchen counter filled with prescription-labeled bottles, and removes a bottle of Excedrin.

Shakes out two.

Looks in her hand and shakes out one more.

She pops them in her mouth and washes them down with a large gulp of wine.

ANSWERING MACHINE

Next message. Received today at 5:11 p.m.

A clumsy hang up...

Beeep!

Next message. Received today at 5:19 p.m.

A Female voice with a slight nasal twang talking very clear but very fast...

"Helen, it's Fanny! I'm SO excited! You won't believe THIS! Remember me telling you all about Beau Rogers! You know, the catch of all catches! Allow me to refresh your memory: house in Aspen, flats in New York and London, private island in the Bahamas, and very available. Well, darlin', he's flying in from Aspen in his — lear jet — for the party tomorrow night! Been trying to get the two of you together for the longest time! Call us to let us know when we can expect you."

Helen walks into the bathroom.

ANSWERING MACHINE

Click. Beeep! Next message. Received today at 6:07 p.m.

Another Male voice...

"Hi Mom. Just calling to let you know that I won't be coming home tonight. We're studying."

A female chuckles in the background.

"If you need to reach me, I'm at Kelly's. Otherwise, see you tomorrow. Oh wait, you're driving up to Uncle Willy and Aunt Fanny's tomorrow — have a great weekend! Oh! And Kelly says Hi."

A girly female voice in background...

"Hi Helen!"

Helen returns to the kitchen wearing an oversized men's flannel pajama top.

ANSWERING MACHINE

Click. Beeep! Next message.

She refills her wine glass, walks over to the living room sofa, and sits down.

ANSWERING MACHINE

Received today at 6:11 p.m. Click. Beeeep!

The sheepdog jumps on sofa and rests her head on Helen's lap.

ANSWERING MACHINE

Next message. Received today at 6:30 p.m.

A very soft, weary and teary female voice...

"Oh Helen, just back from the hospital. They—"

She clears her throat.

"They tell me it doesn't look very good. In fact, it looks pretty bad. Think I'll call it a day."

Helen kills the remainder of the wine in the glass.

ANSWERING MACHINE

Click. Beep! Next message. Received today at 7:11 p.m. Long silence. Click. Beeeep! Next message. Received today at 8:11 p.m.

A desperate female voice...

"Helen, it's me, Evie. I'm calling to remind you about my

court date next week. I really need your support. Everybody's been letting me down lately. I'm counting on you!"

ANSWERING MACHINE

Beeep!

Helen sits upright on the sofa; sound asleep, with the head of Millie the sheepdog, on her lap.

MANSION OVERLOOKING LARGE LAKE IN VERMONT – NEXT DAY

Through a BEDROOM WINDOW, we see Helen, Millie, and a MEDIUM-HEIGHT, MIDDLE-AGED, FROSTY BLONDE WOMAN.

FROSTY BLONDE

Ooooh! I just adore that black dress! One simply can't go

wrong in a simple black dress.

GUEST BEDROOM

Helen sucks in her stomach while modeling the black dress.

Millie is spread eagle across the bed.

The FROSTY BLONDE sports a preppy, tweedy, fall outfit with her hands placed on her hips.

FROSTY BLONDE

Hmmmmm...what do we need? Now you wait right here darlin'. I'll be right back! Just gonna run and find some accessories.

HELEN

No really Fanny, that's not necessary—I brought my own.

FANNY

Don't be silly.

She smiles a big o'l smile!

FANNY

How many times must I tell you? You can't attract a million without looking like a million. Now can you? Why of course not! Be right back with the loot!

Fanny bolts from the room.

Helen releases a big sigh and collapses on the bed next to Millie.

Her eyes are welled up with tears.

HELEN

Ugh! I can't stand feeling like this! Oh Millie, I love you so much! No matter what happens, you will forever be the love of my life. No matter what!

Helen begins to sob with Millie in cradled in her arms.

Fanny enters with a mini-jewelry case filled with baubles. Discreetly, Helen wipes the tears from her reddened eyes.

FANNY

Why you poor thing you. Look at you — you must be exhausted from the drive. Don't you worry darlin', you'll have plenty of time to nap when we're done.

Helen rises slowly from the bed.

FANNY

It'll only take a mina-golleeee! Your eyes are REALLY red! C'mon! Let's hurry it up so we can get you right to bed!

Fanny places the case on a bureau and opens it.

FANNY

Ta-Daaaa! Everything a lady could possibly need!

HELEN

But you don't have to do—

FANNY

Nonsense girl! You can't catch the dashin' without a little bit of flashin'! Hmmmmm, now let me see—

HELEN

Not quite sure I wanna catch anything, seems like the wind's been taken out of my sails.

FANNY

Yesssss, something... Subtle.

Fanny removes a diamond choker and matching earrings from the jewelry case.

FANNY

Please. Get real darlin'! What happens if you change your mind in the middle of dinner?

She puts the glistening jewels on Helen.

FANNY

Now this is flattering!

Helen raises her eyebrows with surprised approval.

HELEN

Hmmm, well, I must say—

FANNY

See? Now if you and Beau hit it off, I'll be borrowing your loot. Cuz darlin', you'll be rollin' in it!

HELEN

Don't count on it Fanny!

FANNY

Somebody for everybody. That's what I always say! There are men out there with the right stuff that do know how to

treat a lady. Believe me. But you got to BE a lady! AND—

You got to be in it – to win it!

Ginny shuts the jewelry case then shoots Helen a broad smile and a wink.

FANNY

If you know what I mean.

Helen is tickled pink but she tries hard not to laugh.

HELEN

Oh, I've been in it alright! Up to my—

FANNY

Now you just hang in there girl! Stay in the game. You'll see!

Fanny exits the bedroom.

We follow Helen to the bathroom.

She stops to check her reflection in the mirror, and notices her hair.

HELEN

What to do with this bird's nest? Later. It's nap time!

Helen pulls out a bottle of prescriptives from her cosmetics kit and pops a few pills.

VERMONT MANSION – LIVING ROOM AREA – NIGHT

A sophisticated group mills about enjoying cocktail hour.

The guests are now seated and enjoying dinner.

Helen is chatting up BEAU ROGERS.

BEAU, mid-sixties, is a Larry Hagman "J.R. Ewing" Dallas gentleman type but with a larger-than-life Texas "yahoo" personality.

Helen excuses herself from the table.

GUEST BEDROOM

The room is dark.

Helen curdles into the fetal position on the floor with Millie.

We hear two knocks and then the bedroom door opening creakingly.

Fanny pokes her head inside of the guest room and whispers.

FANNY

Helen? Are you okay? You've been gone for almo-OH MY GOD!

She turns on the light and kneels next to a moaning Helen.

HELEN

Ugh—my stomach arrrrgggh! Cramps!

FANNY

I certainly hope it's not food poisoning!

HELEN

Oh nooooooo, Fanny. This sort of thing just happens every now and again.

Fanny springs to her feet.

FANNY

I'll call for an ambulance!

HELEN

No! No! Please—don't! I just need to let it pass.

She twists onto her back and lifts her head.

HELEN

Please apologize for me. I'll feel better in the morning.

The following week...

HELEN'S BARN - NIGHT

Oversized candles illuminate the phone and answering machine on the kitchen counter.

Helen depresses a button on the message machine.

ANSWERING MACHINE

This message has been deleted. Tonight she wears an elegant, sleek, luxurious pajama set.

ANSWERING MACHINE

Next message. Received today at 6:11pm.

A female voice...

"Hey Bud! I know you're still at work, didn't want to disturb you there. Met a woman at the gallery today who found this adorable dog. Long story. Anyway, she can't keep it.Another long story. I told her about your animal

rescues, and she already heard about you. You're a legend girl!

"So I gave her your number. Hope that's okay! Oh, her name is — get this! Lucy McGuillicudy! Can you believe that? Later Bud!

ANSWERING MACHINE

This message has been deleted. Next message.

Helen tops off a glass of white wine.

Empties the bottle.

ANSWERING MACHINE

Received today at 6:42pm.

A Male voice...

"Helen! Where have you been? You certainly must be one busy little bee! Pete McDaniels here! Been trying to reach you for over a month now. When can we have dinner again? We had so much fun last time out—

Helen drops the empty wine bottle into the kitchen wastebasket.

The bottle lands on a wrapped bouquet of fresh flowers.

ANSWERING MACHINE

Hey! Have you been getting the flowers I keep senn..."

Beeep!

This message has been deleted. Next message. Received today at 7:11 p.m.

She lines up prescriptive bottles on the kitchen counter.

ANSWERING MACHINE

"Hello Helen. This is Joy Krumple from The Animal Rescue League. I just heard that you will no longer be volunteering at the Rescue Center and I'm calling to thank you for all of your time. You're so magical with animals. You will be sorely missed. No one can ever replace you! Thanks a million! Please don't forget to keep in touch."

One by one, Helen empties the prescriptive bottles on the kitchen counter.

She spreads out the pills.

She reaches over to the answering machine again.

ANSWERING MACHINE

This message has been deleted. You have no more new messages. Your message bank is now empty. Goodbye.

The flames of the candle lit barn flicker wildly in the background.

We hear Helen walking upstairs.

An oversized candle on the kitchen counter morphs into an agitated and fitful burn.

The rapid flicker of flame accelerates.

We hear angelic music playing softly but as the candlelight begins to fade, the music becomes louder and — LOUDER!

The firelight fades out to fill the barn with utter darkness.

Silence.

OUTSIDE THE BARN

The bright constellation lights the night sky.

We travel through space very fast to a sudden stop into complete darkness.

A bright glow begins to emanate beneath us.

The brilliant white light reaches up to surround us.

We zoom through the white light at a blinding speed.

An abrupt stop at a large neon sign reading: HOUSE OF MANY MANSIONS.

Again, we zip through many purple and indigo lit corridors and shoot upwards past many levels to a door with a purple neon sign that reads: HOUSE OF THE GUIDING WHITE LIGHT.

The doorway opens.

We enter a white cloud-like collage.

We see a crowd of iridescent, androgynous men and women representing all races of the planet earth.

They are clad in brilliant white, sheer robes.

All of the inanimate objects present are made of crystal in bright purples, greens, pinks, violets, yellows, and blues.

We hear a series of loud, hard-strumming, harp chords.

The crowd becomes still and silent.

The harp stops strumming.

ETHEREAL VOICE

Earth Watch. Guiding Lights representing H-11-11, please appear at transition maintenance, immediately. Giving Thanks.

ELEVEN MALE AND FEMALE iridescent bodies transmute into bright little stars.

One-by-one, they blip off to the tune of a MAXWELL HOUSE COFFEE television commercial from the late sixties and seventies:

"ba, ba, ba, ba, bum bum — ba, ba, ba, bump, bump!"

We arrive at an open space in space: no walls, no windows. An imperfectly round, iridescent, violet crystal table with a doughnut hole in the middle, hovers steadily: THE TABLE OF HIGHER CONSCIOUSNESS.

The harp notes & chords return.

One-by-one, the guiding lights representing H-11-11 pop around the table to the tune of:

"ba, ba, ba, ba, bum, bum — ba, ba, ba, bump, bump!"

Silence.

A beam of crystalline tube of bright white light shoots up from under THE TABLE OF HIGHER CONSCIOUSNESS through the doughnut hole into the stratosphere.

Helen's iridescent presence slowly fills the center of the cylinder of white light, and then hovers slightly above the table.

GUIDING LIGHT #1

Greetings. Always an honor. You question your original Soul contract, do you not H-11-11?

GUIDING LIGHT #2

We present a question to you as we sense a contradiction.

GUIDING LIGHT #3

If you choose to accept that ALL THINGS are of GOD then, does this not mean that GOD and Heaven are always forever present on the planet Earth as well?

GUIDING LIGHT #4

If so, then what is there to leave?

GUIDING LIGHT #3

And why?

GUIDING LIGHT #5

Have you not found this — this what you seek?

GUIDING LIGHT #6

If you choose to resume this life, we propose that you return from the here and now with what it is you seek.

GUIDING LIGHT #7

We offer LOVE and encouragement in your struggle to remember your Soul purpose in this chosen life.

GUIDING LIGHT #8

The only truth we know to be true is that one can never Exit the Reality of GOD but only choose to Deny the Reality of GOD—

GUIDING LIGHT #9

And, that every life form exists in The Many and One Universe—Of Its Own Free Will. Otherwise, ALL THINGS are possible.

GUIDING LIGHT #10

Answers? Only you possess these answers that you seek. Yes, no. No wrong. No right. There is, and will always be, only your choice. Always, and forever more.

GUIDING LIGHT #11

You are on the path of your own choosing, the creator of your own destiny. What we propose is that you close eyes, open heart, breathe and feel deeply. And then, open eyes to see what you find — inside your heart of hearts.

ALL GUIDING LIGHTS

We Love You! As you choose the struggle to re-member that you are a Member of Our Family. We bid farewell with Peace, Love, and Harmony. GOD Bless You.

One-by-one, the eleven guiding lights blip into stars and zip out of sight:

"ba, ba, ba, ba, bum bum — ba, ba, ba, bump bump!"

Helen remains in her position, suspended above THE TABLE OF HIGHER CONSCIOUSNESS.

She's expressionless.

The eleven guiding lights blip on, one-by-one, to the Maxwell House Tune. There are now inside a screening room of THE DIVINE HOUSE OF INTERVENTION.

We see a huge multi-leveled, multi-screen that fills the wall space of the room. On one screen is Helen as we saw her last.

And on another screen...

WILLY & FANNY'S VERMONT MANSION – BEDROOM - NIGHT

Fanny is in bed, breathing heavily in a deep sleep.

Her eyes open in alarm!

They shut tight.

They open again, wider than last time, and shut.

She turns over to Willy.

He snores aloud with his back to her.

She turns away from her husband with her eyes closed then opens them again.

We see an iridescent Helen hovering next to the bed with an angelic half-smile gazing at Fanny.

FANNY

Must be a dream. That's what this is — a dream.

Fanny closes her eyes tightly again.

And then, re-opens them.

FANNY

Nope. I'm wide-awake alright.

Helen is still smiling.

FANNY

Now I know I'm not crazy! Cuz crazy doesn't run in my family. Helen? That is you, isn't it? What in Heaven's name—? No, don't answer me. You'll wake up your brother and give him a heart attack, when he sees you floating up there like a balloon! And we can't have that–not tonight. We have an early tee time with the Samsonites this morning.

Helen smiles widens from ear-to-ear.

FANNY

I hope you're feeling better, I mean, you look real good and all, but aren't you a little cold in that flimsy pajama set? Don't get me wrong; it's beautiful but there's not much to it. Well, you know where the closet is – help yourself.

Look, I'd love to chat some more but this lady needs her sleep and—

On another screen in the Divine House of Intervention:

HELEN'S BARN – THE NEXT DAY

We see the TELEPHONE and ANSWERING MACHINE.

The telephone RINGS.

We hear a door open and close.

A YOUNG MAN in his mid-twenties picks up the telephone.

YOUNG MAN

Hello?

Good morning Dr. Lipton.

Fine thank you!

Yes! The big exam is this week.

Thank you, sir.

Sure! Hold on.

The Young Man puts his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone.

YOUNG MAN

Hey Mom! It's Dr. Lipton! Seems pretty urgent! Mom?

He takes his hand off the mouthpiece.

YOUNG MAN

Can we get right back to you? You're still in the city, right? Okay—okay, we'll page you.

And on another screen in the House of Divine Intervention screening room...

HOSPITAL EMERGENCY ROOM – SAME DAY

The lights are bright and there's a lot of activity.

PARAMEDIC ONE

Let's move it! We've gotta live one here!

Organized chaos.

Doctors and nurses at work.

HOSPITAL - INTENSIVE CARE UNIT – NEXT DAY

Helen recovers in bed.

Her heartbeat is strong.

HOUSE OF DIVINE INTERVENTION

GUIDING LIGHT #11

So be it.

HMTV OFFICE BUILDING LOBBY - DAY

It's the morning rush hour.

Security guards routinely check employee identification cards.

Mosa approaches a most cheerful SECURITY GUARD.

SECURITY GUARD

Good morning Mosa!

MOSA

Joe! What's the good word?

SECURITY

Jus' takin' one day at a time!

MOSA

Have a good one!

Mosa walks down the long lobby corridor to the elevator bank.

He squeezes onto a full elevator.

He steps out and is greeted by various employees.

MAN #1

Mornin' Mosa!

WOMAN #1

Hi Mosa

WOMAN #2

Good Morning Mosa!

Mosa swings around the side of Rwanda's workstation.

MOSA

Gooood Mooorning Rwa...

RWANDA

GOOD LORD! You look terrible! And your breath stink too! Pee U! Get some Altoids—PLEASE!

MOSA

Is it that bad?

RWANDA

Worse! Didn't get much sleep last night, did you?

MOSA

Too busy living out my worst nightmare. Y'know?

RWANDA

Now how would I know? But to look at you—it can't be good.

MOSA

Well, just imagine that you've just realized that your worst nightmare isn't a nightmare at all but it's really, your life!

RWANDA shakes her head from side to side.

RWANDA

Uh-uh-uh—Lawd have mercy—that's a cryin' shame.

She peers over her cubicle and looks around to see if anyone is within earshot.

RWANDA

All I know is that before I welcomed the Good Lord into my life I had trouble sleeping too. But now, I give all my worries to HIM. The Lord is My Shepherd, so I no longer have to count sheep to sleep—he counts for me. And me? I just sleep. And sleep good too! I'll pray for you.

MOSA

Oh Rwanda—what would I do without you?

Rwanda rolls her eyes up to the ceiling.

RWANDA

I got one word for you this mornin'—ALTOIDS!

MOSA's OFFICE

It has the look of not having quite settled in.

Stacks of files and loose paper are spread across his desk. Rwanda enters and sits facing him.

MOSA

I know, I know, but believe me, I know where everything is.

RWANDA

That's downright retarded.

Rwanda passes Mosa's message book to him.

He reviews his messages.

MOSA

What? Chico still hasn't gotten back to me?

RWANDA

How many times must I tell you? Chico care 'bout Chico! And don't forget, those kids are coming tomorrow.

MOSA

Oh, shit! That's right!

RWANDA

EXCUSE ME!!!???

MOSA

Sorry! Sorry! Look, I need you to book a conference room for tomorrow at—

RWANDA

Done. Honestly, Mosa—Do you really believe that I sit on my thumbs all day waiting on direction from you?

MOSA

You're the best! Gotta run to H.R. Be right back!

Mosa exits the office and races down the corridor to the elevator bank.

He makes a mad dash out of an elevator and runs to CHICO'S ADMINISTRATIVE ASSISTANT'S cubicle.

MOSA

Do-Dor–Dorothy. Whew! Gotta stop smokin'—is-is-he in?

DOROTHY is not amused.

DOROTHY

He's on the phone.

Mosa checks DOROTHY'S PHONE SET to see if any lines are lit.

He steps back and peeks into Chico's office.

CHICO, a middle-aged fair-skinned Latino, reclines behind his desk with his feet up.

His office is immaculate and decorated with sports trophies and framed photos of himself smiling with "very important" people.

CHICO

Sure! Sure! I got the budget for that! Yes! I do believe we can do business together.

Dorothy notices Mosa eavesdropping.

Mosa smiles and then turns to Dorothy.

MOSA

Five minutes—promise.

Mosa goes into Chico's office and closes the door.

CHICO

Hey Mosa! Can I sign you up for volleyball this season? We could use an athlete like—

MOSA

Love to Chico but I'm here to discuss holding the Wayward House sessions here in the building.

CHICO

Huh? I'm not aware of that request.

MOSA

Uh—I ran it by you about a month ago.

CHICO

You did? Refresh me.

MOSA

These kids will be able to focus much better in a professional environment. I know that I can get them to focus here! Inside HMTV! The Big Time! It's a great opportunity to truly help them turn their lives around.

Anyway, you said you'd get back to me about having them here.

CHICO

Didn't I? I'm sure I did.

MOSA

Uh, no Chico—You didn't.

CHICO

Good idea! Can't be done.

MOSA

Why not?

CHICO

Insurance. And, we don't have the budget for extra security.

MOSA

We're only talkin' ten kids. Two program counselors will be here to monitor them at all times. Not a big deal.

Chico scowls at Mosa as he tosses a Nerf ball into a miniature basketball hoop hanging from his wall.

MOSA

Seriously Chico, why not try it out for a couple of weeks and see how it goes?

Chico stands up.

Walks over to Mosa and puts hand on his back to usher him out of his office.

CHICO

Do you know what? You just might be onto something! Let me get back to you on that!

Outside of his office, Chico looks over to Dorothy and rolls his eyes.

CHICO

So D, who's on deck for lunch?

MOSA'S OFFICE AREA

Mosa arrives at Rwanda's cubicle.

RWANDA

Tim was here looking for you.

MOSA

What did he want?

RWANDA

To know where you were.

MOSA

What did you tell him?

RWANDA

Where you were.

MOSA

Well? What did he say?

RWANDA

That he'd be back, and then, he came back and said he'd be back again. And I told you—Chico don't care nuthin' bout those kids!

Mosa enters his office.

He begins to go through the mail.

Picks up the Industry Trade Publication and starts flipping through the pages.

Over the intercom...

RWANDA

He's coming back. I can hear him talking to Richie down the hall.

Brooklyn-born and bred, rough-and-ready, bearded TIM McCLANCY, late-forties, red-faced, blue-eyed, dusty-haired, ordinary-looking Irish man, walks past Rwanda's cubicle.

TIM

Is he back yet?

RWANDA

Just got back.

Tim walks into Mosa's office and shuts the door behind him. Mosa looks up.

MOSA

Hey Ti--

TIM

Lou Pancetta stormed into my office first thing this morning and ripped me a new asshole. How come we didn't know about this piece ahead of time?

MOSA

Tim! It's an editorial!

TIM

Let's just be sure to get our position across in the next issue. Let's do that.

MOSA

And that is?

TIM

That the added value of our new format justifies our rate increase. We need a story out there to raise the perceived

value of our—

MOSA

Perceived value? Tim, what does that mean? Either it adds more value or it doesn't. What's the reality here?

TIM

The reality? Okay. I'll explain the reality. I'll keep it simple stupid for you.

My reality is I'm sittin' here tellin' you what the you're gonna do and your reality is that you're gonna fuckin' do it!

You see, Mosa? This is why we pay you—what we pay you. Work your magic and make it happen.

Jim storms out of the office!

Mosa boils in silence.

RWANDA

I'll be right in.

86th STREET SUBWAY STATION - EVENING RUSH HOUR

Mosa climbs up the subway stairs.

Further down the block a HOMELESS MAN panhandles.

Mosa slows his pace.

He spots a LARGE MAN leaving the building in front of him and shadows the man.

They move closer to the street corner where homeless man is working a L'IL O'L LADY.

HOMELESS MAN

Can ya pleas' hep me ma'am? Tryin' ta git sumthin' ta eat. Bit o'change? Anythin'—pleas' ma'am, I'm hungry.

The traffic light signals WALK.

The LIL O'L LADY steps down off the sidewalk curb.

She crosses the street.

The LARGE MAN follows and exposes Mosa face-to-face...

HOMELESS MAN

Spare sum change bruthaman?

Mosa raises a deaf ear and looks down at the pavement.

HOMELESS MAN

Can ya spare some chaa—

His body shifts to take a sharp right at the corner.

HOMELESS MAN

Yeah, yeah, uh-huh, ah see ya bruthaman.

Mosa stops abruptly.

HOMELESS MAN

See ya every day, every day I see ya. Can't even look a brutha in da eye. What you be hidin' from? Why doncha hep a brutha out?

He turns and looks directly into the eyes of the Homeless Man.

A deep inhale.

Exhale...

MOSA

Sorry man, not today.

HOMELESS MAN

Oh yeah, yeah, okay, ah see. Ah hea' dat! When ya gonna hep den? Ta-marra?

MOSA

Look buddy, I can't help out everybody in the neighborhood. Hate to break it down like this, but—you're not my guy.

Homeless Man gives a puzzled expression.

MOSA

That's right. This is how it works—I don't live on this block. I live on the next block. And you know the down and out bruthaman who hangs out on that street corner?

Mosa points to the homeless man that he tried to give his bag of empty beer cans.

The man stands off-balance, slightly hunched over with his open hand extended as pedestrians pass him by.

MOSA

That's my guy! My block. My guy. You see? I take care of my guy. Now take a good look at all of the green awnings on this block.

Homeless man takes notice.

MOSA

All the folks who walk in an' out of these buildings—

All of 'em, all those people. Those are your people, man. That's right! Every last one of them! And you're their guy. Betcha they don't even know that yet,it's on you

to let 'em know—they're supposed to take care of you! See? Makes sense, doesn't it?

The Homeless Man is speechless.

Mosa smiles, and...

MOSA

So my bruthaman, you have a wonderful evening!

...continues down the block and stops in front of his guy.

MOSA

Hey! How's the neighborhood block watch? Any news today?

Mosa's guy nods slowly with eyes half-mast.

Mosa reaches into his pocket and pulls out a few dollar bills then places them in the man's hand.

He closes the hand gently into a fist to secure the bills.

He wraps one arm around his shoulders and turns to face the other homeless man down the block.

He smiles proudly while pointing to the homeless man in his embrace, and mouths silently...

MOSA

My guy!

MOSA'S APARTMENT – NIGHT

An overhead view of Mosa in boxer shorts; stretched out, face up, across his bed.

As he closes his eyes, we hear angelic music faintly in the background.

FADE TO

HOSPITAL INTENSIVE CARE unit

An overhead view of Helen...

She lies unconscious in a hospital bed with a tube down her throat.

We hear her heart beat.

The room is overflowing with: cards, flowers, and stuffed animals.

Her voice is in the background...

HELEN

When I was a young girl, I overheard Mother telling my Aunt Bernice about her out-of-body experience.

She left us while giving birth to my younger brother Willy.

And this is exactly how she described it, looking down. She said that she decided to return because she felt that Willy really needed her to take care of him. I always wondered if she would have come back for me.

No. She wouldn't have.

I never understood why she was so nice to everyone except me—I don't know. Maybe I tried too hard. I really don't know.

Into the hospital room enters a TALL, ATTRACTIVE, THIN WILLOWY, MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN.

She pulls up a chair next to the bed and takes a hold of Helen's hand.

HELEN

Hey! Hi Glenda! I'm sorry you're so sick. I wish I could help you. Would you like to take my lifetime?

Glenda is replaced in the same chair by a PROFESSORIAL-LOOKING, MIDDLE-AGED MAN WITH GLASSES.

He speaks to Helen as if she was wide-awake.

HELEN

Oooooh—is he bumming out, or what?

Golly Deacon, don't take it so personally! This doesn't have anything to do withyou and your ego—get over yourself!

She laughs.

HELEN

He's really mad at me! Wow! Check that out!

Another woman appears in the seat.

She takes Helen's hand and begins to tear.

HELEN

Hey Bud! Aw, that's ma Bud! Nice haircut! Love ma Bud!

Sister-n-law Fanny pops into the seat while brother Willy stands over Helen on the other side of the bed.

HELEN

Brother Will? Please don't cry. I'm okay. Honest. I don't feel the pain anymore. See? It's all gone.

Guess they never saw it coming. I really fooled them all.

Helen's two sons stand bedside.

Each of them holds one of her hands.

HELEN

My babies! All grown-up. Look at them! They make a mother proud! You don't have to worry about taking care of mom. GO! LIVE YOUR LIFE! Enjoy your life!

Oh my God! What have I done? Blake's big exam! I forgot! How selfish of me! Damn! I should have waited!

A middle-aged couple hovers over Helen.

HELEN

The Lipton's. Good people—like family. Gave me a place to live. Met them through Vic—

A middle-aged woman in the bedside seat holds her hand.

HELEN

Victoria! There you are! I was just thinking about you!

A fast-moving collage: men, women, and children fading in and out of Intensive Care.

HELEN

Take a look at this! All of these people! All coming to see me! Look Mother! Look!

HMTV BUILDING – 10TH FLOOR CORRIDOR

A DOZEN ETHNICALLY MIXED ADOLESCENTS – ages 17-25 – file into a conference room, followed by TWO GROUP COUNSELORS They look in awe at all of the state-of-the-art equipment. Rwanda grabs Mosa's arm before he enters the room.

She rises on the tips of her toes to whisper into his ear.

RWANDA

Has this been approved?

He smiles and winks.

MOSA

Not yet!

10TH FLOOR CONFERENCE ROOM

Mosa stands before a long oval conference room table where the kids, seated at attention, hold on to every single word that comes out of his mouth.

MOSA

Okay, next, I'm going to have you fill out these mock job applications that we'll use as a springboard to create your

resumes.

After that—we're going to videotape each of you conducting pretend "mock" job interviews. Any questions?

A seated YOUNG AFRICAN-AMERICAN MAN raises his hand.

MOSA

Yes Sir!

YOUNG AFRICAN-AMERICAN MAN

What if we ain't had no real job-like experience?

MOSA

Excuse me Sir, what's your name?

YOUNG AFRICAN-AMERICAN MAN

TyRaan.

MOSA

Well TyRaan, just do the best you can and we'll take it from there—okay? More questions?

TYRAAN

But Ima tellin' you, ain't done worked for nobody—jus' fo' ma sef.

MOSA

I see. What did you do?

TYRAAN

Been dealin' herb an' what not in Sacr'mento since I wuz 'bout thirteen. Ran a big o'l operation too. Ma crew wuz tight! Fifteen to twenty homies workin' 24-7.

MOSA

So, you were an entrepreneur.

The adolescents in the room break out in laughter.

MOSA

Seriously! You saw a demand for a product in the marketplace and you supplied that product to fill that demand. Kinda like those big pharmaceutical sales companies.

TyRaan puffs out his chest as he nods with pride.

TYRAAN

Yeah! Guess you could say dat's wha' ah did but ah didn't grow nuthin'—didn't do no farmin' or lab work, nuthin' like dat.

MOSA

Yes! That's exactly what you did! Distribution, Sales and Marketing! And you were successful too!

TYRAAN

Word! So damn successful had ta move my black ass coast to coast. Cuz dat heat was on and on till da break o'dawn!

MOSA

You see TyRaan, you've developed many skills that a lot of people go to business school to learn like sales, marketing, managerial, accounting, sourcing, distribution, maintaining profit margin—why you probably even know what a proper P & L line is—Am I right?

All learned in the grossly undervalued School of Hard Knocks.

TYRAAN

Proper! Check dat shit out! I'm straight wit DAT!

FEMALE COUNSELOR

TyRaan! You best to watch that mouth of yours and act correct! Or you'll be straight—out the door! Keep a lid on the foul language.

TYRAAN

Yo, sorry 'bout dat.

MOSA

To be honest with you TyRaan, you could probably do a much better job of running HMTV than the folks running it now.

The room breaks out into laughter again.

TyRaan blushes.

MOSA

I mean that. But the question to you is—what do you want to do with all of the knowledge and skills that you have acquired over the years?

Tell me.

What would make TyRaan's heart sing?

TYRAAN

Cuttin' heads! An' one day, mebbe even, open ma own sha--

The room breaks out in laughter.

TyRaan projects a menacing stare across the room until silence falls.

MOSA

A hair salon? No problem at all. Now let's get you going! Let's make it happen!

PSYCHIATRIC REHABILITATION FACILITY – LARGE CONFERENCE ROOM

There's a loud group session of fifteen men and women.

Everybody speaks at once.

Helen leads the discussion.

Helen narrates...

I'm very good at deflecting attention away from my issues.

PSYCHIATRIC REHABILITATION FACILITY – OUTDOORS - DAY

Helen strolls the facility grounds with Brother Willy.

BROTHER WILLY

Fanny and I want to help you get back on your feet again.

We're going to cover your rent.

I felt kind of badly about the shit I put people through.

A lot of folks were in shock because I always made sure to keep my sunny side up. And the other part of me felt like this complete failure—the part that can't even check out successfully.

PSYCHIATRIST OFFICE

A FEMALE PSYCHIATRIST sits across from Helen.

DR. TOTZ

Your condition is dysphoria. It's when you have no sense of who you are and there's this big empty hole inside of you. We're going to increase your medication.

Oh yeah, right. Like increased medication is really going to fill that big empty hole inside of me. In my heart, I knew I needed to add more value to my life.

A visual collage: Helen in a classroom taking notes, Helen at home reading in bed, Helen in a sailboat taking lessons and crashing into a moored boat.

Reaching out. I gotta lot out of that Women's Studies course I took on metaphysics, history religion, and philosophy—all from a woman's perspective.

But the sailing lessons—nope! I didn't enjoy that as much.

GYM - DAY

Helen works up a sweat with a personal trainer.

Another gift from generous Brother Willy. He believes getting in good shape helps one to feel better about oneself. I believe that too.

PETWORTH CEMETARY – DAY

Helen walks her dog Millie on the snow by the river.

I noticed how different I felt when I came back. I was surprised to see how many people loved me. And no one ever mentioned my dastardly deed. It was hush-hush.

I began to recognize the oneness of everything. How if God was a slowly melting ice cap on a mountain, then we are all but drops of water trickling down from that cap of ice.

Helen and Millie watch the river flow.

I saw the beauty of that Oneness. Why I could even feel it. It was in this very moment that I sought to add even greater value to my life by reaching out to help others.

HELEN'S BARN - DAY

A group of about twenty women: socializing, laughing, and enjoying each other.

Helen enjoys playing the hostess.

I had all of these wonderful women in my life. And they didn't know each other so I created a sort of Female Connection Group who met once a month. A lot of good friendships were created as a result, and I'm very proud of that.

Various shots of Helen: on her hands and knees cleaning up a scummy bathroom.

I volunteered to do chores that I've refused to do for myself...

Helen shops at a small grocery store in a funky, down and out urban neighborhood.

Errands...

Helen with ROXY, an emaciated, scab laden Aids victim, in a sexy lingerie boutique at a shopping mall who's trying on under garments.

And provide companionship for ROXY—a lonely, twenty-nine-year-old AIDS victim who looked like she was ninety-three...

Roxy in another outfit, then another, and another.

She poses.

She smiles a weak and fading, smile.

Then ever so slowly, she twirls and...

Releases the sneeze of all sneezes as she turns to face Helen.

In slow motion, an elongated blob of mucus whips through the air.

But even though Roxy was terminally ill, she held on to her love of wearing nice lingerie. And she had me wheel her along to every lingerie shop on the Shoreline.

I admired her joie de vivre! But the last straw was—

A LOUD WHACK!

AS IF SOMEONE WAS SLAPPED ACROSS THE FACE.

Helen's face and hair covered in dripping mucus.

A look of disgust comes across her face.

Hey! Call me politically incorrect. Call me ignorant, or whatever—I know, I know! I did try to kill myself but I didn't want to become an AIDS victim. No thank you! Gimme pills! Pills, I can do!

HOSPICE

Helen is in a room with a BEDRIDDEN HOSPICE RESIDENT and TWO OF HIS MATURE CHILDREN arguing in tears.

Helen tries desperately to create peace in the room.

Here I go again, trying to add more value to my life two days a week. Feed. Bathe. Move them. Caring for the residents wasn't the problem but the relatives who came to visit—Can we talk?

HIGH SCHOOL AUDITORIUM

A full house: men, women, children, people in wheelchairs and on crutches, lining up in the aisles to be ushered on stage and healed by...

FAITH A. BOUNDS, a female minister in her early forties who slightly resembles a cheerful and sober, well endowed female Elvis impersonator.

Brenda and Helen inch their way down a crowded aisle.

The audience sways gently to the music played by the live band on stage.

It's Fall again—a full year past my dastardly deed. And now, my best friend is slowly dying of cancer. I HATE the Fall. Depresses me to tears.

One day we went to see Faith for a healing. Brenda heard about her miraculous healing power—Nothing to lose.

Brenda waits her turn on stage.

She towers in height over a FRAGILE-LOOKING ELDERLY MAN who stands behind her.

Helen flanks her right side.

Faith sings and smiles.

FAITH

Yesss! Jee-sus loves meeee! Yesss Jesus loves mee! Yesss! Jee-sus loves meee cuz the Bible tells me soooo!

Faith walks over to Brenda with a microphone in one hand. She raises the other arm, and then slowly lowers her open hand and places it onto Brenda's forehead.

FAITH

IN THE NAME OF JEEEEES-USSSS!!!

Brenda does a full-tilt towering backward boogie drop and collapses SMACK right on top of the fragile-looking elderly man behind her.

Leaving Helen exposed and desperately trying to hold back her laughter.

Faith stands over Brenda who's passed out.

Then raises her head and hands to the sky.

FAITH

SAY THANK YA JEEEEES-USSSS!!!

Faith lowers her head, looks at Helen, then gives her a little tap on the head and moves on down the line.

We see a look of "That's it?" disappointment on Helen's face.

One year later, Brenda gave up the fight.

DR. TOTZ' OFFICE

Dr. Totz looks very officious, and Helen _—_ exhausted.

DR. TOTZ

Be sure to check-in about once a month. The phone will do. Remember, whenever you're feeling that feeling again _—_

Just pick up the phone and call one of your chosen friends or family, and give them the password. And the password is?

Have I regressed to pre-school? Or what?

DR. TOTZ

Hell-In?

HELEN

Uh-yes, yes Dr. Totz _—_ BINGO. The password is BINGO.

NEW YORK CITY PSYCHIATRIST'S OFFICE

Mosa and DR. PEPPA in lazy boy chairs, face to face, separated by a small round coffee table with a loose stack of magazines on top.

Dr. Peppa looks like a rounder-faced version of Abe Lincoln with thick glasses.

MOSA

I don't know what's come over me! Lately, I just wanna kill all white men wearing suits. Every single sonuvabitch I see!

DR. PEPPA

Mosa _—_ did you dream?

MOSA

Uh, I-I-I don't think so.

NEW YORK RESTAURANT – NIGHT

Mosa sits across from RICHIE ESPOSITO, an ordinary-looking white guy with freckles, a deep receding hairline balding head, and a slight New Yawk accent _—_ in a suit.

He laughs nervously.

ESPOSITO

Mosa _—_ Mosa _—_ Mosa! I'm really worried about you!

MOSA

Why?

ESPOSITO

Why? WHY? One of my best buddies tells me that he's fantasizing about killing white men in suits _—_ that's enough by itself!

To top that, he's asking me why I'm worried! What does your shrink have to say about this?

MOSA

Oh, he's not worried.

Esposito shakes his head back and forth then drops his forehead on the table.

He lifts it up slowly.

MOSA

He says that my real desire is to kill the parent, conformist side of myself _—_ the part of me that's judging all of the time.

ESPOSITO

And then? Did he write you a prescription?

MOSA

For what?

ESPOSITO

Jesus! Nevermind. So, tell me _—_ how do you plan to go about doing this?

MOSA

Wiping out the present menace to society and Mother Earth? Hmmmmm... good question Espo. Not sure yet.

ESPOSITO

No! Whacking the parent inside of you or whatever the fuck your shrink is talking about. Did he tell you how you're supposed to do that?

MOSA

We ran outta time, maybe next week's session.

ESPOSITO

Oh really? And what about in the meantime?

Mosa smirks.

MOSA

Dress casually when you go to work. Leave a suitin your office for meetings, and order in for lunch.

ESPOSITO

Gee, thanks for the tip, Mosa _—_ Jeeeezus! Let's blow this joint. C'mon! Let's get outta here! Order in for lunch, puh-leaze.

ESPOSITO drops a wad of cash on the table to cover the bill.

POLICANO

Speaking of "blow," all that money you're blowin' on that psychotic shrink of yours would be better spent on getting some real BLOW JOBS! That's your goddamn problem!

MOSA

I don't think my medical insurance policy covers that _—_ does yours?

ESPOSITO laughs.

ESPOSITO

Hahaha! Ya know what? You're crazy! I love you but _—_ WHAT am I gonna do with you? C'mon! Whaddya say we go hit up the Kit Kat Club for a nightcap?

ESPOSITO has his arm around Mosa as they walk out.

FADE TO

A closed elevator door at HMTV.

The door opens.

A medium-sized, balding, upper middle-aged, clean-shaven MAN IN A NAVY SUIT occupies the elevator _—_ alone.

The elevator doors close.

The Man In The Navy Suit looks up briefly to dismiss the new presence in the elevator then he looks down at the floor.

We hear a LOUD SWITCH.

The elevator stops.

The man in the navy suit looks up again.

The next thing he knows, he's been lifted one foot off the floor and is being choked -- to death.

His eyes pop out of their sockets, his veins protrude from his forehead, and his face turns from red to purple as we hear the sound of a man swallowing his own tongue.

FAMILIAR GRUFF VOICE in the background.

WELL I DON'T LIKE IT!

The Man In The Navy Suit disappears from the frame and drops to the elevator floor.

We hear the LOUD SWITCH again.

The elevator begins to move.

FADE TO

HMTV HALLWAY

Dorothy, Chico's administrative assistant, heads into the ladies room.

CHICO'S OFFICE

Chico reclines behind his desk with his feet up on the windowsill while he's talking on the telephone.

We can't hear him talking.

We hear Chico's office door close quietly.

Click.

Chico places the telephone on the receiver.

Click.

We see framed photos of Chico smiling with "very important" people.

A DEAFENING "WHACK!"

Chico's blood splatters all over the framed photos.

Chico's voice...

Refresh me.

We hear his office door close.

Click.

Chico slumps over his desk in a pool of blood and a broken, blooded volleyball trophy lies beside his busted head.

We hear a toilet flush, and then running footsteps.

TIM'S PLUSH EXECUTIVE OFFICE

Tim is sitting on his office windowsill flipping through a magazine.

We hear footsteps become progressively louder.

Tim looks up in puzzlement.

Tim's voice...

That's my reality! And YOUR reality is _—_

A large body hurls itself into the office, engulfs Tim, and continues to fly and shatter the window glass before both bodies, in full embrace, fall out the window, ten stories toward the pavement.

BLOOD CURDLING SCREAMS!

MOSA'S APARTMENT - NIGHT

Mosa leaps out of bed in a cold sweat.

HMTV ELEVATOR - DAY

The doors open.

We move down empty corridors and vacant cubicles.

Mosa narrates...

A year ago, a good friend of mine gave me a book that she got from her brother as a gift. "To Dance with Angels." Said she had it for a while but was too afraid to read it. Her feeling was that the book was meant for me. She was right.

We bypass a CLEANING CREW vacuuming the corridor carpet.

The book was a compilation of sessions channeling the spirit Dr. Peebles through Thomas Jacobson. The book really resonated with me and today I needed some answers. I needed some guidance. But most of all, I believed that I was ready—

To Dance!

We pause at the door of the 10th floor conference room.

The door opens.

The room is empty.

Mosa enters and begins to set up the room.

He sits at the head of the long conference room table then adjusts a phone and a legal yellow pad and pen.

He looks at his watch then starts to write.

We see that he's making a list of...

THREE QUESTIONS.

My life experience had led me to question my belief in God.

But in my heart I knew that there was something more. There must indeed be a reason for all the pain and suffering in the world. And _—_ In My World.

He looks again at his watch.

He hooks up a tape recorder.

I was always fascinated with the occult, y'know _—_ the shit that we don't know. The Mystery of the Unknown!

I experienced many psychic and tarot card readings. And what I learned was that: some were remarkably on the money and others, just took your money. Hit or miss.

If a reader said that you going to get hit by bus crossing 59th street at Columbus Circle on a rainy day. Would you ever find yourself on Columbus Circle on a rainy day? Would you take that chance?

So I believed firmly that there was no fate except for what you made. And I was no longer pleased with the life path that I was choosing for myself. I was ready to make some changes.

Mosa turns on the speakerphone.

We hear a dial tone.

He dials.

We hear a phone ringing.

A mature woman's voice...

Hello?

MOSA

Hi! This is Mosanami Etal calling. I have a session scheduled with Dr. Peebles.

MATURE WOMAN

Thomas Jacobson will be with you shortly _—_ please hold.

Mosa tears off the top sheet of the yellow legal pad.

THOMAS JACOBSON

Hello Mosa. I'm going to go into a trance state. There will be a period of silence before you'll hear a clearing of my throat, some coughing, and then Dr. Peebles will present himself.

Mosa takes a slow, long deep breath.

He depresses the record button and then the pause button on the cassette deck.

THOMAS JACOBSON

We call upon the Spirit of Light and Love, lifting ourselves above the confines of the earth, the body, and the mind _—_ opening ourselves to receiving Light and Truth.

There's a long silence.

Thomas clears his throat.

Mosa releases the pause button on the cassette deck as Thomas begins to cough.

There's more coughing in concert with heavy breathing, and deep throat gagging, and then _—_

A brief silence.

Mosa hits the MUTE BUTTON on the telephone pad.

The vibrational tone from an otherworldly speaking voice...

DR. PEEBLES

God Bless You. Dr. Peebles here. It is a joy and a blessing when man and spirit join together in search of

greater truth and awareness.

MOSA

Showtime! At the Apollo!

DR. PEEBLES

You are on the school called Earth of your own free will. Hand in hand with all humanity. Each and everyone, a student _—_ a student of the Divine.

In your journey to the heart, you will discover illusion. Illusions of Separation Within Self _—_ Between Life.

MOSA

Okay, okay, I remember him talkin' 'bout this illusion stuff in the book. Get to the real deal. C'mon Doc, cut to the chase, tell me _—_ what's real?

DR. PEEBLES

It is your own labor of love to diminish, to dissolve, these very same illusions. Therein you will discover fulfillment beyond even your wildest dreams and imagination. We offer you the following tools to be used in tandem:

MOSA

Tools! Okay Doc, now we're talkin'!

Mosa picks up his pen and poises to write.

DR. PEEBLES

Number One: Loving Allowance for All Things to Be in its Own Time and Place.

Mosa begins to write.

DR. PEEBLES

Number Two: Increased Communication with All Life, and with RESPECT!

He sets the pen back on the table.

DR. PEEBLES

Number Three: Self-Responsibility for Your Life as a Creative Adventure through Your Choices. Always the Creator, the Victim _—_

NEVER!

MOSA

WHOA! That's some deep shit!

Mosa starts to doodle on the legal pad.

RESTAURANT ON THE WATER'S EDGE - NIGHT

There is a baby shower in a private room at a swank restaurant on the shoreline.

We can hear the party chatter and see a group of about twenty women _—_ Helen is among them.

We can also see that there's a SNOW BLIZZARD outside.

Mosa narrates...

That Dr. Peebles dude really blew my mind! I had prepared my list of three questions, y'know, to ask him at the end of my session. But after all he told me, my questions

just seemed so insignificant in the larger picture.

The women begin to hug and kiss each other goodbye.

There was a lot to digest. It was kind of overwhelming.

FADE TO

Helen and ANOTHER WOMAN from the party are seated having dinner at clearly what is another restaurant _—_ more casual.

The SNOW BLIZZARD is getting worse.

Everything he told me sounded familiar but at the same time, it confused the hell outta me.

FADE TO

Helen and ANOTHER WOMAN say goodbye as they leave the restaurant.

It's windier now and the visibility is close to zero. Helen gets into her white Saab, which is covered in snow.

But there was one thing he told me that really hit home.

Helen drives home at a moderate speed on US Route 1 as the wind howls.

Through the windshield of the white Saab, we can only see the blinding white snow.

He said—

FAST FADE

To a younger Helen, in her late-twenties.

As she sobs in a master bedroom, a male quickly approaches from behind her and _—_

A LOUD WHACK!

He whacks her so hard on the back of the neck that it sends her face crashing against _—_

We hear GLASS SHATTERING – LOUD!

FAST FADE

To the immediate aftermath of A MOTOR VEHICLE COLLISION!

We see that Helen's white Saab is totaled, demolished. Shattered glass is everywhere!

POLICE, FIRE ENGINE, AND AMBULANCE SIRENS

Helen is trapped and unconscious in the white Saab. Firemen and policemen arrive on the scene, feverishly working together to rescue THE VICTIMS.

That I wished to understand pain and suffering in this life. To help myself—

Helen slowly comes to semi-consciousness as she's being carried on a stretcher into an ambulance.

She's in a daze.

HELEN

Help the others _—_ forget about me _—_ help the others.

AMBULANCE ON THE MOVE

And then, help others to understand the nature of pain and suffering. What does it have to do with a loving God—in a loving Universe? Or, is it an exception to God?

Helen rides in the ambulance on life support.

And, to understand suffering as part of God—not an exceptional failure of Divine Law.

HELEN BREATHES

To consider that when there is pain and suffering, you are feeling the invocation of a Divine Messenger within you, helping you to understand your resistance to intimacy.

And how, in the months and years to pass, I will somehow muster the courage to cast aside my greatest hopes and fears to wander upon intimacy.

And, to embrace my longing desire to touch and be touched, to love and be loved as never before.

And while I wander upon my new path in the search for intimacy, I will meet this woman. Yes. This woman. And when we come together—at long last—we will discover the fulfillment of intimacy beyond our wildest dreams and expectations. This woman will change my life—

Forever.

ROLL CREDITS

Hit? Or, miss?

There is no fate except for what we make.

SLOW FADE OUT

# Book Four, The Bridge—Do You See?

BOOK IV is the fourth of an ongoing book series where the Author takes pause to reflect upon his life as a jigsaw puzzle. A mystery where he begins to fit the pieces of the puzzle together in the hope of achieving greater understanding of why he is here.

"I share with Roland Barthes the opinion that the text is formed by the reader rather than by the author." — Rain-walker

Author's Introduction

In the story of Tarot, the Fool represents each of us as we begin our life journey. At birth, we willingly play the role of fool because only the purest of Spirit brings forth the innocence and blind faith to trust.

The Fool is ready to embrace whatever comes down his or her path to learn the lessons of the world, and is oblivious to the hardships and vicissitudes of life. Newly born, bright, and open to spontaneously venture to adventure; from comfort and joy—to pain and suffering.

It is in this context that I share with you the stories of my life: _a fool's journey_. So please, if you will...

"Sit by my side, come as close as the air,

Share in a memory of gray;

Wander in my words, dream about the pictures

That I play of changes."

\-- " _Changes_ " by Phil Ochs

**THE BRIDGE** — **DO YOU SEE?**

Many Moons Later...

RED ROCK COUNTRY - EARLY AFTERNOON

On the side of a trail in the woods...

A RINGTAIL performs cartwheels using its tail on a sturdy branch of an OAK TREE.

A CROW is perched like a gargoyle on an adjacent tree.

MOSA stands comfortably dressed in light hiking attire. He's parked off the side of a trail underneath the oak tree branch, mesmerized and entertained by the Ringtail's acrobatic performance.

The Crow shifts position on the branch.

Mosa abruptly darts a glare over his shoulder to confront the sudden presence of...

A mere three feet away, a TALL MAN stands motionless. If Jack White had an older brother who was the front man for a Goth/Heavy Metal hybrid band, we've just met him. A buffed, jacked and ripped Jack White.

Mosa leans back a little and takes in a flash observation of the GOTH MAN from bottom to top. Doc Marten style boots with lots of buckles. Black jeans tucked into the boots. Black Mesh tee over seriously inked guns for arms and a black Rocky Horror Show tee shirt. A Dragon necklace with a red Ruby gem hangs to his solar plexus as a centerpiece.

Shoulder length, jet-black, straight, limp hair parted down the middle. Full ruby red lips against pasty white skin like Dracula. His eyebrows are dark, furry, arching, and menacing. His eyes: large almond-shaped, deep-set, black with long black eyelashes. Mosa notices a touch of tastefully applied mascara for accent, and too many piercings to count in a hurry.

MOSA

You startled me.

GOTH MAN

You don't look startled.

MOSA

Well, I just didn't hear you comin'—that's all.

GOTH MAN

Yeah, most people don't.

MOSA

I was lost in the performance of that there lemur type animal up that tree.

He motions up to the tree branch.

MOSA

Never seen anything like it. Kinda looks like it could be related to a fox.

GOTH MAN

It's a Ringtail, on account of the rings on its long ass tail. And it's a cousin of the Raccoon.

MOSA

My first Ringtail! You missed quite the show!

GOTH MAN

Oh, yeah! I've seen 'em in action! You ought to see one right when it ambushes and nails its prey to the ground with its razor sharp claws, and then rips the head clean off with its teeth in a single fluid motion—one heartbeat. Wanna see a show? Hehe. Now that's a show! What a bloody mess they can make! Messy eaters for sure!

He scratches his head.

GOTH MAN

Ain't that strange.

MOSA

What's strange?

GOTH MAN

Strange behavior. Ringtails are creatures of the night. Night critters.

Mosa raises his eyebrows slightly. And then, he...

GOTH MAN

Ain't supposed to be here now.

... _delivers a half smile._

MOSA

Is that so?

Goth Man busts out in laughter!

GOTH MAN

HAHAHA! Jus' like me!That's what you're thinkin' here—ain't it? Hahaha! Okay, haha! Good one!

He returns his attention to the Ringtail.

GOTH MAN

Hmmmmmm... Yeeeaaaah, that's it, she musta been waitin' on me. Holdin' your attention till I got here.

MOSA

And, here you are.

GOTH MAN

Waitin' on me alright, but lookin' at you. Look how she's just staring at you. Go on and take two large side steps and watch her eyes as they follow.

The Ringtail attentively follows Mosa's movement.

GOTH MAN

Yup! Just what I was feelin', she's got a message for you.

MOSA

Message? What kinda message?

GOTH MAN

Let's see. She's facing you from the South. That means you got some obstacles to overcome in the near future. This fits with her usual message about preparing to make a change in a 180-degree direction out of a tight situation.

You in a tight situation of some kind?

MOSA

From where I sit — couldn't be much tighter.

GOTH MAN

Sometimes, you see, dependin' on the situation. The Ringtail's appearance could mean a marriage tolerated for the sake of the children. And that situation ain't good for all parties involved.

Mosa looks away and stares at the ground.

GOTH MAN

Nope! Ain't gonna be easy for you either. Hell No! Nothin' easy 'bout making this change. No offense, but I sure wouldn't want to be you right now. But on the upside...

Mosa returns his attention.

GOTH MAN

She's delivering her message from an Oak. The Oak Tree stands tall through ALL things. It's got strength, endurance, courage and power. You WILL weather this storm.

You have the fortitude of an Oak and the nimbleness of the Ringtail.

He pauses.

GOTH MAN

Now let's try to count the rings on her tail. Hold still girl. Good girl.

He counts using head nods.

GOTH MAN

I count 13. What you got?

MOSA

Same.

GOTH MAN

Thirteen is the Death card of the Tarot. And what that card represents in this context, is simply — one door closes and then another door opens. But you've got to close that open door first before the other one will open. And after you close that door it's gonna be real dark for awhile but you gotta stay open and TRUST.

It might even be dark for a very long time. No way of knowin' how long. No matter. You must firmly believe that The Light will make its way through that darkness.

MOSA

It's always Darkest — before The Light.

GOTH MAN

Always.

MOSA

Yeah, my mother used to say that all of the time.

GOTH MAN

What's that there?

He points to Mosa's feet.

GOTH MAN

Sticking out from under your foot? What is that?

Mosa looks down at his feet and notices something stuck to the bottom of one. He lifts up his hiking boot, and removes what's stuck.

GOTH MAN

Hey! It's another message for you! Let's open it! A snake's skin. Ever watch a snake shed its skin?

Mosa shakes his head.

GOTH MAN

A sight to behold. It enters a state of trance right before the shedding begins. Limbo. Then its eyes become cloudy. Kinda like this.

He raises his eyeballs up into his head.

GOTH MAN

I can't see you right now, or anything else either—only the pitch black of darkness. Why if I was a snake and you reached out to me with your hand, I would sense that you must be trying to feed me — your hand!

His eyeballs drop back down into their sockets. He unleashes a sinister, devilish, razor thin, smile.

GOTH MAN

You see, during the shedding process, the snake slowly regains its eyesight. And coming from that darkness, everything becomes so much clearer. Its vision is infinitely better, and its awareness much more acute than it was before the shedding process began.

Y'know, snakes—they teach us all about rebirth and resurrection, the cycle of death and rebirth. Round and round like an endless merry-go-round. That's what the shedding of its skin represents. Once you shed your skin, what no longer serves your personal growth, your eyes will become clearer and you will see things much more clearly than you have been—in a new skin.

Do you see?

MOSA

Feels similar to the metamorphosis of the Butterfly. The snake goes inside its cocoon of darkness, and when it emerges—

GOTH MAN

Yes, very good. The Butterfly is one of the best teachers for humankind.

MOSA

Where did you learn so much about animals and wildlife? Did you go to a specialized school to study it?

GOTH MAN

Earth is a school in a University known as The Universe. And I grew up right here in Red Rocks Country. I grew up paying attention to my surroundings. Where did you grow up?

MOSA

The City! Greenwich Village.

GOTH MAN

Tell me. Growing up in the city, did you make a point to pay close attention to your surroundings?

MOSA

360-degree situational awareness, at all times.

GOTH MAN

Situational awareness. I like THAT!

MOSA

Got to have it!

GOTH MAN

Haha! Well that's a damn good thing cuz you're gonna be needin' it! So tell me, what led you here?

MOSA

Well, I was in L.A. trying to produce this film. And one day, I found myself sitting at a restaurant table in negotiation with the insecure idiot son of the man who sold the belly of the beast. All of a sudden, it dawned on me how much I despise the game and its players with an enormous and profound passion.

Then, I politely excused myself from the table and placed a call to Maia. Told her that I wanted to take her up on her offer to apprentice. Made the drive. And—here I am.

GOTH MAN

Interesting. Doesn't answer the question I was asking but interesting nonetheless.

MOSA

No?

GOTH MAN

No. Anyway, are you aware that Maia hasn't taken an apprentice for many, many years?

MOSA

Yeah, that's what she told me. But she said that she would make a rare exception because the heat coming off my body was like "WHOA!" And that I had "The Gift."

GOTH MAN

Everybody has "The Gift." So don't go an' start believin' that you're anyone special, because you're not. But then again, at the same time—you are extraordinary! I see why she likes you as much as she does. Has she exposed you to The White Light Workers yet?

MOSA

Sure as Hell did! More like The Great White Sharks! That's one scary group of people! Lemme tell you! But also, they're the most physically attractive group of individuals that I've ever seen assembled in one place at one time — anywhere!

Seriously! Where do they find these people? They have representatives from all corners of the World, every ethnic group. And, I mean, insanely beautiful people!

GOTH MAN

Beautiful, seductive—

MOSA

And insane!

GOTH MAN

And POWERFUL!

MOSA

But they put the Dark into Darkness — no joke!

GOTH MAN

And yet, you're still here. Who did they send for you? Clarissa?

MOSA

Yup!

GOTH MAN

Clarissa, right off the bat? Damn! They musta wanted you bad! They usually save her for the ultra resistant ones!

MOSA

Man, she's good too! The woman has serious game! SERIOUS! Almost had me too! It was THAT—

He finger snaps!

MOSA

CLOSE! To tell ya the truth—I was kinda pissed off that Maia didn't give me a heads up 'bout their hidden agenda.

GOTH MAN

Well, ever since they arrived here, she's lost every worthy male apprentice to them. This is a big reason why she refuses to take on any more. Ain't no point! She must've felt strongly that you could handle the intense but subtle pressure of the game.

MOSA

Yeah, I guess you're right, cuz afterwards, she did say that it was the final test.

GOTH MAN

Don't fool yourself. She's the final test.

MOSA

Huh? Uh—what you talkin bou—

GOTH MAN

Have you slept with her yet?

MOSA

What? Yet? No! Of course not! Never crossed my mind.

GOTH MAN

Do you not find her attractive?

MOSA

Well, I didn't say that. I said that—

GOTH MAN

C'mon now—ya gotta admit, the woman IS smokin' hot.

MOSA

Dude, I'm telling you. It's not gonna happen. Especially now, after she purposely threw me inside a den of hungry wolves. Or better yet, hungry wolves in sheep's clothing.

GOTH MAN

Whoa! Easy cowboy! Hold up.

Goth Man rolls up a short shirtsleeve and flexes a well-defined bicep to reveal—

GOTH MAN

Stand down.

An intricate tattoo of a WOLF'S HEAD!

GOTH MAN

Wolves are my people.

MOSA

Just an expression, didn't mean to—

GOTH MAN

Find another one.

Mosa begins to nibble on his lower lip.

GOTH MAN

In this part of the world, the good guys wear black. It would be wise for you to remember th—

MOSA

Y'know what? Sounds to me like you're the one with an interest in Maia. Or did she already roll over your corpse?

GOTH MAN

She doesn't wear enough black to suit my personal taste. Now let's try again—shall we? What led you here?

Mosa closes his eyes and takes three long, deep breaths.

FLASHBACK!

A CITY - RESIDENTIAL BROWNSTONE NEIGHBORHOOD - MORNING

The largest Crow imaginable, two to three feet tall, is perched on the roof of a black Range Rover spewing eardrum shattering "caws." Screeching in the direction of Mosa, suited up with briefcase in hand, as he heads to the driver's side door. The Crow hops to the driver's side and continues its rant.

Mosa walks around the vehicle to the passenger side. The Crow hops over to the passenger side and lurches his head out toward Mosa as if it wants to tear the man to shreds.

A CITY - BUSINESS DISTRICT – AFTERNOON

A large Crow glides down over a casually dressed Mosa as he walks in a parking lot to his vehicle. Suddenly, it drops what appears to be a cleanly striped to the bone, human limb in front of his feet. A closer view reveals the tibia or what's known as the chin bone.

The Crow ascends to the lowest part of a neighboring building fire escape to observe Mosa's reaction.

A CITY - INDUSTRIAL NEIGHBORHOOD – EVENING

Suited-up Mosa walks to his vehicle and pause to take notice of, at least, one hundred Crows sitting in a row across a telephone wire on the perimeter of the parking lot.

FLASH FORWARD!

RED ROCK COUNTRY - OFF TRAIL IN THE WOODS – PRESENT DAY

A Crow perched on a tree limb observes Mosa enjoying the Ringtail's performance.

In the background, we hear a loud and explosive — "CAW! CAW! CAW!"

Mosa lifts his chin and opens his eyes to greet the intense, surreal, and ethereal blue desert sky. He beams with brightness. Then he lowers his chin to see Goth Man sporting a wicked smile as he rolls up his other sleeve to reveal another intricate tattoo of—

GOTH MAN

Looks like you just shed your skin.

A CROW!

Mosa's smile spreads wide as his eyes light up.

GOTH MAN

You may be interested in picking up a book on Animal Spirit Guides. There are many but there is only one. You'll know it when you see it. You can find it at the bookstore in town.

MOSA

Thank you. Hey! By any chance, are you a member of The Water Clan? Any relation?

GOTH MAN

Aaaaah, yes! Great teachers! But no — no relation. Why?

MOSA

Maia sent me to spend the night with them earlier this week. I was looking forward to, you know, sittin' 'round the campfire shootin' the shit, getting laid by wisdom, while passing the peace pipe. Or maybe even a magical mushroom adventure with my newfound desert comrades.

GOTH MAN

Haha! You watch way too many movies! So? What d'you get?

MOSA

They drove my ass to the middle of the desert and dumped me there with a "See you when the Sun rises."

GOTH MAN

And how would you describe your experience?

MOSA

In a word — COLD!

GOTH MAN

Hahahaha! Great teachers!

He places his hands on Mosa's shoulders, and looks directly into his eyeballs.

GOTH MAN

The time has come to part ways, my brother.

MOSA

Thanks for droppin' in on me.

He smiles as his eyes begin to swell with happy tears.

Goth Man gives Mosa a big o'l warm, loving HUG!

GOTH MAN

I love you, man! You are part of our family—WE Love you! I've been here all my life. Ah seen' em come brimmin' with hope and enthusiasm, only to see 'em go—busted up and broken down.

But you! If you do decide to return—you will do well here. But first, you must return home to take care of your business, and close that door.

MAIA'S HOUSE - OVERSIZED KITCHEN – LATER THAT DAY

Imagine. Beyonce and Sofia Vergara are abducted by a group of Aliens and whisked away to a remote uninhabited island. The Aliens enable the two women to conceive a daughter who has been genetically programmed to infiltrate the human race, and when the time is ripe — take over! And then, rule the World!

Imagine what their daughter would be like — introducing...

MAIA

Where's Mosa? Anybody seen him?

WOMAN #1

He went on a hike down by the riv—

WOMAN #2

No.

WOMAN #1

No?

WOMAN #2

Well, I mean, he did but he's been back since. Came back a while a—

WOMAN #3

Said something about going—

We hear the front door of the house open...

WOMAN #3

to the bookstore, was it?

... _and then, close shut._

WOMAN #4

Heeeeee's baaaaaack!

Mosa enters the kitchen.

MAIA

Okay! Now that everybody's here—

She darts Mosa a sharp nod.

MAIA

Let's review how this evening will play out. The appropriate greeting is—with the utmost Respect! Proper Respect. And from the Heart!

Follow my lead, as I will receive him first. Form a receiving line behind me, three feet apart from each other in the following order: Number Two, Number Three, Number Four, and then Mosa. Do exactly as I do. No less. No more.

She takes a deep breath.

MAIA

Now, seating. I will pull out his chair at the head of the table. I will sit on his left. He will choose who sits on his right.

Everyone else, please sit where it suits you. Nobody sits until he sits. And whenever he stands, we ALL stand. Okay? Okay.

She addresses Woman #1.

MAIA

Number #1, you're picking him up at the airport. Mosa. Do you have a full tank of gas?

MOSA

Just about. What's going on?

MAIA

Hand over your keys to Number One.

Mosa complies.

WOMAN #1

And when do I leave?

MAIA

Now. Number Two, you—

WOMAN #1

But Maia, the flight doesn't arri—

MAIA

Bring a book.

She delivers a playful smile.

MAIA

Reminder. Call me when the flight lands. And then again, as soon as you see his face. Remember what we went over about the greeting?

WOMAN #1

Three times?

MAIA

Yes. And—with Respect.

She nods with respect.

MAIA

And please, try not to become too carried away—okay? No need to prostrate and make a fool of yourself at the airport. We are not the Woo Woo people.

MOSA

Prostrate?

MAIA

Another reminder—

MOSA

Woo Woo?

MAIA

He does absolutely nothing for himself! He doesn't pick up anything, open or close any doors. Nothing! Got it? Got it.

MOSA

What if he needs to go to the bathroom as soon as he gets off the plane like I always do? Who is this guy? Is he human?

Mosa's quips are ignored by all.

MOSA

And who's the privileged one who gets the honor of feeding him?

MAIA

Bye, bye!

She waves goodbye to Woman #1.

MAIA

Next. Number Two. You are responsible for the caterer. Here's a print out of the menu. Go there to ensure that the food is prepared as requested, and delivered here on time. Escort the delivery.

WOMAN #2

When sh—

MAIA

Now.

WOMAN #2

But Maia, am I dressed appropriately for dinner?

MAIA

This is an informal dinner. So yes. Everyone is dressed appropriately but Mosa—

She turns to face Mosa.

MAIA

Feel free to shower, shave and change.

MOSA

What's happening?

MAIA

Number Three? You will drive me out to Red Rock Spa in my car. They have a nice selection of magazines in the reception area, or—you can bring a book. You will hold my phone and take charge of my incoming calls.

WOMAN #3

We leave now?

MAIA

No. Not yet. I still must decide what to wear. Oh, decisions, decisions! Let's rummage through my wardrobe and see what we can come up with. We'll see.

We may need to swing by The Peacock before my spa appointment to see if I can find something there. We should have more than enough time if need be.

Why don't you go upstairs and begin the selection process. And yes, Number Three, now would be a good time.

She smiles.

MAIA

Number Four, you are responsible for setting the table, and basically anything and everything that has to do with the table. Flowers, candles, fruit bowl, you know where everything is—right? Right.

And, of course, you will tend to the food and beverages when they arrive. You know what to do. Also, spot check for dirt and dust. Although, I must say that this place is pretty clean, I expect it to be cleaner when I return.

MOSA

Anybody wanna tell me what's going on? And what my duties and responsibilities are?

MAIA

A very special guest of honor will be joining us for dinner this evening.

MOSA

Anyone I know?

MAIA

You'll see.

MOSA

Well, how can I help? I mean, what would you like me to do?

MAIA

I would like you to don't.

She smiles.

MAIA

Don't go anywhere. Remain inside of the house, and out of the way of others who are doing. You think you can do that?

MOSA

Hahahahahahaha! Okay!

MAIA

By the way, did you find the book that you were looking for?

MOSA

Why yes, I did.

MAIA

Now would be a perfectly good time to begin with the read. Yes? Yes.

She reaches out and pulls him closer. Close.

His body twitches and shivers a little from the goosebumps rising through the surface of his skin.

She stands on her tiptoes and whispers...

MAIA

Wear something — nice.

She opens her other hand, places it on his chest, over his heart, and gently but firmly — pushes him away.

RED ROCK COUNTRY - MAIA'S HOUSE - DINING ROOM

The room is silent except for a Tibetan Bells cd softly playing in the background.

Maia peers out of the window. She looks stunning and beautiful in a "Wow!" dress, like an ancient Greek Goddess waiting in anticipation for the arrival of Zeus.

Draped over her hands is a white silk scarf.

WOMAN #4

He's here.

She gives one last inspection to the dining room table.

We hear a car enter the driveway.

MAIA

Places everyone! Please—

She moves to the arched entrance to the dining room.

MAIA

Take your places!

Everyone files directly behind Maia.

We hear the front door of the house open...

And then, close shut.

From the Special Guest Of Honor's point of view, we see: Maia's face light up under the archway.

She lowers her head and descends into a deep-knee bow while extending and outstretching her arms bearing the offering of the white silk scarf.

After the Special Guest Of Honor receives the scarf, he turns around passes the gift to Woman #1. Maia bows two more times with hands together in prayer. When she assumes the third and final bow position, he places a hand on the crown of her head.

Next in line. So on, and so forth.

The Special Guest of Honor removes his hand from Mosa's crown.

From Mosa's point-of-view as he slowly raises his head: two bare feet, and a burgundy robe draped over—a TIBETAN MONK!

Maia leads the Tibetan Monk to the head of the dining room table. She takes her place on his left side. The remainder of the group forms a cluster off to one side of the table.

The Tibetan Monk extends and lifts his arm with an open palm in Mosa's direction. Then, he lowers the arm to the empty chair on the right. Mosa nods and takes his rightful place.

All are seated. _The_ Meal is Blessed.

MAIA

Rinpoche, we thank you for taking the time to join us.

Her eyelashes flutter as her eyes twinkle like a star struck, adolescent groupie.

MAIA

We are most grateful.

She gushes with delight awaiting his response.

RINPOCHE

And I am most grateful to be here. Thank you, Maia.

Her face glows and basks in the satisfaction of hearing him speak her name.

RINPOCHE

His Holiness is not expected in Los Angeles until tomorrow. His delayed arrival makes it possible for me to share this meal with you today.

MAIA

His Holiness, the Dalai Lama, what is your relationship?

RINPOCHE

His Holiness became my spiritual master. And I became his disciple. That is my relationship with the Dalai Lama.

MOSA

How often do you see—

A smiling Maia shoots Mosa a look as she places a forefinger over her mouth in the "ssshhh" position.

Mosa grabs a hold of one of his agitated legs to prevent it from twitching any further out of control.

All begin to eat in silence. A healthy amount of time passes.

Rinpoche takes a sip of water.

MAIA

My feeling, Rinpoche, is that the term Spirituality has been overused and even abused to a large extent in our country these days. The purity and integrity of the word has become tainted, I believe. And, I would even feel comfortable extending my perception of this overuse to the overwhelming majority of the Western world.

She pauses briefly.

MAIA

Rinpoche, religion and philosophy aside—will you please share what you believe are the qualities of a spiritual person?

RINPOCHE

I hear two questions. The one you asked, and the one you did not.

She nods in recognition.

RINPOCHE

Yes. We live in today's world—the modern world. The modern world has complicated life. Life is simple.

Often we complicate life by choosing to live in the past or the future. The best way to live without complication is to live in present moment always.

MOSA

Living in meditation. Always present! Cool!

Maia shoots Mosa a piercing look that would slay the fiercest dragon, followed by—

MAIA

Mosa! Hush!

She returns her attention to Rinpoche.

MAIA

Apologies Rinpoche. Please continue.

He carries on without missing a beat, as though there was never an interruption of any sort.

RINPOCHE

The best way to live happily—is to live in present moment.

To live in the moment with an open heart and an open mind and with this openness—bring more spirituality in your life in each moment to become a more spiritual person.

Yes. This is the best way, I believe.

He lifts his fork and continues to enjoy his meal. The group follows suit.

After some time passes, he takes a sip of water.

RINPOCHE

What are the qualities of a spiritual person? Being. Being warmhearted and kindhearted, with—an open mind. An open heart with an open mind.

How does one become a spiritual person? I believe that it is best to begin with opening one's heart to one's Self.

In other words, truly loving yourself, and then allowing this love to completely fill and overflow from your heart to many others in your daily life.

MAIA

Rinpoche, we thank you for sharing. I see now how the Woo Woo people are all missing the entire point of spirituality. They're going about it backwards.

MOSA

Excuse me. I beg your pardon for this interruption, Rinpoche. My apologies in advance. But will someone please explain to me what is a Woo Woo person?

Rinpoche turns to face Mosa.

MAIA

Respect, Mosa! Please! That's just rude!

RINPOCHE

Yes. The Woo Woo people profess to live their lives in love, for love, and to be motivated by this very love. Love for this, and love for that.

However, they do not truly love themselves with an open heart. They seek only to love entities outside of themselves, and as a result—their hearts remain empty.

It is best to truly love one's Self first, and then allow this love to overflow to others.

MOSA

I see! They talk the talk, but don't walk the walk. But why are they called Woo Woo people?

RINPOCHE

Because they run around like this—

He raises his arms in the air and vigorously shakes his hands.

RINPOCHE

Woo! Woo! — Woo! Woo! — Woo! Woo! In circles of celebration.

Mosa laughs.

RINPOCHE

They have become over excited about someone or something outside of themselves. Perhaps something up in the sky, or as far away from them as possible. They believe that they have found the supreme answer. And, they are absolutely certain of this answer with a closed mind.

MOSA

Aaaah, yes! How familiar — the league of the righteous and self-righteous. Supreme arrogance, in the name of whatever.

RINPOCHE

But at the end of each day, when they look into their reflection, their Woo Woo is gone.

Maia refills Rinpoche's water glass.

RINPOCHE

All they are able to feel is emptiness because they still do not truly love themselves with an open heart.

He returns to enjoy the remainder of his meal. All others follow suit.

Time passes.

Rinpoche finishes his meal.

RINPOCHE

Thank you Maia for this blessed meal.

He turns once again to Mosa.

RINPOCHE

I do enjoy a pleasant walk after a fulfilling meal. Please, Mosa — will you join me?

MAIA'S PROPERTY - A WALKING PATH - EVENING

RINPOCHE

And His Holiness continued to meditate daily on the whereabouts of this missing Rinpoche for years and years.

MOSA

While most believed that he was never incarnated.

RINPOCHE

Yes. I was in boarding school in Northern India. More than a thirty-hour bus ride from my home village. One day as I was walking along a school corridor returning from lunch—I see my father as he turns the corner.

He pauses.

RINPOCHE

My first thought was, "Oh NO! What did I do?" I panicked but kept walking.

MOSA

So you mean you had no idea that he was coming to visit?

RINPOCHE

Our family did not have the money for the bus ride. I knew that I must be in big trouble for certain. But I could not remember what I did wrong for the school to send for him to take me home.

MOSA

What could you have possibly done that you couldn't recall that was that bad?

RINPOCHE

Nothing. Well—

He smiles sheepishly.

RINPOCHE

I was a bit of a cut up in school but nothing major, although I was disciplined on many occasions.

MOSA

So you see your father down the hall, and? What happened next?

RINPOCHE

We walked to each other. Slow. There was no expression on his face. When he gets about three feet away, he drops to his knees, and bows at my feet.

MOSA

Jesus!

RINPOCHE

And when I looked up, I see a large team of monks with several of my teachers turn the corner in my direction. As soon as they get to my father, they all drop to their knees, and bow before me.

MOSA

Jesus! Did that blow your mind, or—WHAT?

RINPOCHE

At first, I did not believe that I was who they believed me to be. Then they took me away and tested me for days and days.

MOSA

When did you finally realize that you were this Rinpoche that had been missing?

RINPOCHE

These tests they gave me, I knew all the answers without thinking. See, I was not a very good student. No. But these tests they gave me, even the ones in Sanskrit—I knew everything! I said to myself, "I must really be this Rinpoche."

MOSA

What a wonderful story!

RINPOCHE

Yes. But I had so many dreams. And I was looking forward to experiencing so many experiences in life.

MOSA

Like what?

RINPOCHE

I was a teenager and I had dreams of becoming a professional footballer. I was a very good athlete.

MOSA

Haha! And you just thought that you would slip into this lifetime on the sly? Undercover RIN-PO-SHAY! Haha! Well, you almost pulled it off!

RINPOCHE

And I looked forward to making love, and—falling madly and helplessly in love.

MOSA

Oh, yeah—that.

RINPOCHE

To have my heart broken—and crushed into tiny pieces from that very love.

MOSA

Oh noooooooo, Rinpoche. Believe me, you're not missing out on anything. I've had enough broken and crushed hearts for the both of us. Trust me on this—it SUCKS!

RINPOCHE

You have had many broken hearts? How many?

MOSA

Oh, yes! Many! So many that it would break my heart again to count them all.

RINPOCHE

You must have suffered enormous pain so many times. And yet—

MOSA

You don't even wanna know how great my pain and suffering.

RINPOCHE

And yet — not enormous enough for you to abandon all hope of experiencing your greatest heart desire . After all of your many broken hearts, you are still here. Yes?

Mosa.

Rinpoche stops dead in his tracks, and waits for Mosa's undivided attention.

RINPOCHE

Mosa, this is life. This is the human experience.

MOSA

Well, I guess, but—

RINPOCHE

Life is not about sitting on a rock in middle of nowhere in meditation.

MOSA

Uh, no—

RINPOCHE

No.

MOSA

I guess not.

RINPOCHE

It is not.

Mosa tries hard to penetrate the ground with his stare.

RINPOCHE

Mosa.

Mosa lifts his head...

RINPOCHE

This is—Life.

... _and then, looks directly into the eyes of Rinpoche._

RINPOCHE

Do you see?

PETWORTH - HELEN'S CONVERTED BARN – DAY

A wiry, lean, RED ABBYSSINIAN CAT tries to escape out of the kitchen through a partially open porch door.

An OVERSIZED, LIGHT HIKING BOOT moves abruptly to block the cat's passage to freedom.

MOSA

Sorry Cheech, luv ya babe but—not gonna happen.

His foot nudges the cat back into the kitchen. He shuts the door.

MOSA

End up hijacked by a Hawk like his brother Chong. Not on my watch—damn cat better learn to listen.

Mosa carries an extra large, economy-sized, heavy bag of Organic Dog Food down the porch steps...

On the porch table...

A CELL PHONE RINGS

He marches back up the stairs and picks up the phone.

CALLER ID: MAIA

Mosa sets the phone back on the table. He schlepps back down the stairs and then continues across a wide, mowed, grass path that leads to a cove off the river.

He stops when he reaches a four feet high, man-made, rock wall. A cemetery rests on the other side.

He places the dog food bag on top of a large flat rock on top of the wall. Then he cups both hands around his mouth to create a loudspeaker, and calls out at the top of his lungs:

MOSA

CAW! CAW! CAW!

THREE CROWS fly across the cemetery and land on a tree branch almost directly above Mosa's head. A close up reveals that these crows all have healthy, shiny black coats, and are—HUGE!

Mosa pours a large amount of dog food on the rock table before heading back to the porch to sit and enjoy the family of Crows feed.

Four more Crows land on the tree branch vacated by the previous three.

MOSA

Seven. Family's growin' fast!

He picks up the cell phone off the table.

MISSED CALLS: MAIA

SEND

RING! RING! RING!

The four Crows have now joined the feast on the flat rock table.

MAIA

Mosa!

MOSA

Hey!

MAIA

Just got back from Japan. Here for about three to four weeks before taking off to Greece. When can you fly out?

MOSA

No can do.

MAIA

Well, I'm not sure how long I'll be in Greece this time around. I'll be pretty busy over there!

MOSA

Haha! When are you not busy? That's how you like it!

MAIA

Mosa, we need to get you back out here, and sooner is best, rather than later. You have not yet completed your apprentice Mastership. You know this. Yes?

MOSA

Yes, Maia.

MAIA

Of course you do. What are you doing these days anyway. How are you?

MOSA

Well, I'm finally living in My Truth and I've opened shop with someone. We work mostly with Stage Four cancer patients. You know, people come to us as a last resort. The East Coast just isn't as open minded as the West Coast. Folks here are far more conservative.

SILENCE...

MOSA

Anyway Maia, my partner, her name is Helen, and you're gonna LOVE her! I just know you are!

SILENCE!

MOSA

Yeah, you're gonna love her alright—she's one of us! Down to Earth! Real! Not the least bit Woo Woo at all. She rescues and heals animals. She's not formally attuned or anything like that, but she's just a natural healer. Got "The Gift!"

She has this wonderful nurturing, loving energy to balance my poignant and powerful energy. Kinda like us! One opens and provides comfort, and the other one ZAPS! It's lovely working together. We're a good team.

SILENCE!!

MOSA

AND—guess what? We've just been accepted to a prestigious Alternative Medicine Volunteer Program in a reputable Big City Hospital in Oncology and Intensive Care.

They put us through a helluva rigorous, training program. But as we live in such a litigious society these days, you know, they gotta make sure people ain't gonna Woo Woo around patients in the hospital.

Haha! Could you imagine? WOO! WOO! WOO! WOO! Hahahahaha! That's funny!

SILENCE!!!

MOSA

Hello? Maia? Are you there?

He checks the call minutes as they blink away on his phone. He hears Maia take a deep breath.

MAIA

Yes, Mosa. I am here. Have you finished?

MOSA

Yeah, I believe I brought you up to speed.

MAIA

Listen, carefully. I will repeat myself slowly so that you may absorb better.

We—are—not—finished—yet. You must return here.

DEAD SILENCE.

Mosa? Do you understand?

MOSA

Yes. I do. Call me when you return from Greece. And we'll come out, and—

MAIA

Not "we," Mosa—YOU!

MOSA

No Maia! There's an US now! You'll see! She's THE ONE! I'm sure of it! Never been more certain of anything in my entire life—ANYTHING!

MAIA

Oh Mosa, my darling Mosa. Have you already forgotten what you've learned here? You are THE ONE. The One is—YOU!

MOSA

Yes! I know, I mean, NO! Wait! You'll see Maia, when you return from Greece—you'll see for yourself!

Maia takes another deep breath.

MAIA

Yes, Mosa.

Yes.

She pauses.

MAIA

WE—Shall most certainly -- See.

SUN IN TAURUS

Cad Liniment Soon Vow's The Turning Point presents

Helen & Mosa — LIVE!

CAD

So. You're a very unlikely couple. Please, tell us. How did the two of you meet?

HELEN

Oh, yes! It's a very lovely story! Truly romantic! At least we believe it is. But everyone believes that their story of coming together is the most romantic—don't they?

CAD

I believe that this is true.

HELEN

Anyway, our story is about a younger man and older woman who overcome their individual life struggles to become the creators of their own destiny. They turn their backs to conventional wisdom, follow their intuition and spiritual guidance, find each other—and true love! From the inside-out!

The first part of the story really needs to be told from Mosa's perspective. And there's a very good reason for that which will become clearer later on.

MOSA

Well, we first met at a Labor Day dinner party—in Petworth. I was married and living about an hour away at the time.

In any case, this was a terrific outdoor party with great food and drink, and a rockin' blues band. I went over to the self-service bar to refresh my beverage. Coming up behind me, I heard a woman's voice—

"Hello."

I turned around slowly and there she was on her way to the bar. We hung out and enjoyed a pleasant, social chat for about maybe about fifteen-twenty minutes, or so.

And then, my ex-wife, Taurus Numero Uno, caught a glimpse of us and marched over from across the lawn to join the conversation.

CAD

Taurus Numero Uno?

MOSA

Helen is number two. An inside joke between Helen and I. Two wives, two Taureans. The second one is the charm.

In any case, the three of us chatted for a while before the Hostess, another Taurean by the way, came over. Three delightfully engaging Taurean women and a Mosa! I was loving life!

Then, one of Helen's best friends, Victoria, and my very dear friend, Susan joined the group. Victoria and Susan had been good friends for a long time. The three of us share some history together in the city. As you can imagine, the energy of this group was electric.

The five of us are hanging out, sharing a lot of laughs, and enjoying a wonderful time. No big deal—right?

Dinner was served and we all went our separate ways. Helen and I never saw each other until well into the night. As I was leaving to get my car, I saw Helen coming out of the house, alone. She was walking directly towards me. We were on a collision path. We were about five feet apart when the hand of my dear friend, Susan, appeared out of nowhere and took a hold of my arm.

"Mosa!" She said. "Your car is parked over THERE!"

Susan really snapped me out of the daze that I was in at the time. But still, there was no doubt in my mind that if Susan didn't come along when she did—

I would have taken Helen's hand, without a word, and would have gone off together—without ever looking back! Not even a glance. It was that powerful of a connection, like two blobs of mercury slowly coming together across an elongated table.

I spent the night at Susan's house across the river. When I awoke in the morning, I was like—

"WHO was that woman???"

She definitely left an indelible impression. And I was interested in finding out more. But I also knew better than to ask Susan. Instead, I posed the question to her husband who was also my good friend from childhood.

He didn't really know very much about the woman, other than her name. Helen. Helen Clifford.

"Hmmmmmmm—okay." I thought. "Let it go."

I felt that I had been around the block often enough to know that if the grass appears to be greener on the other lawn, then the maintenance is probably a helluva lot higher. More often than not, you just end up trading one set of problems for a new and unfamiliar set.

After all, how many social events had I attended where I met a remarkably attractive woman? They're a dime a dozen. They're everywhere!

And things are rarely what they appear to be, you know? All that glitters ain't gold, so to speak. I firmly believed that great-looking women were just trouble looking for a place to happen. And I became pretty damn good at recognizing that for what it is, and letting it go.

So I concluded that my meeting with Helen was just another meeting with another pretty face. And instead of looking to create another mess in my life, I decided that it would be best to place my focus on how I created the miserable mess that I was living in.

CAD

Doesn't sound as if you were in a happy place at the time. Not happy?

I was not happy. I was in a high-stress level position in a dysfunctional and dishonest, corporate environment. Over-blown, unhealthy male egos were clashing and butting heads daily at the top of the pyramid. But it was a job that I needed to endure in order to support my family. You know, the noble effort to do the "right thing."

On the home front, there was constant bickering, yelling and fighting. At what point do you say, "This isn't the best environment to bring up your children. Time to toss in the towel and call it a day." You know, you can't fool children; they know when you're miserable.

Everyday, I'd leave one unhealthy environment and replace it with another. Back and forth—and back again.

The only upside of the job was extensive and frequent travel which kept me out of both the home and office, but the storms were always there brewing awaiting my return.

That's where my head was when we met. Not a happy man.

About six months after I let all thoughts of Helen go by the wayside—she comes up again. I dismissed the thought, which I soon enough realized was more of a feeling than a thought. But then I thought that this was rather odd because I didn't even know this person at all.

Roughly five to six weeks later, she pops up again. Again, I dismiss her. Then, four weeks later. And then, three. Two. One. The intervals were coming closer and closer together. And the feelings were becoming increasingly more profound each time.

There were times on the road when I'd wake up in the middle of the night in some hotel room in Miami, San Diego, Milwaukee, Minneapolis, or another city to find myself yelling out from the bowels of my lungs—

"HELEN! Where ARE YOU??? JESUS! Who IS this person?"

HELEN

Ooooooooh—I LOVE THAT! That's one of my favorite parts of the story. You just gotta love it!

MOSA

I must say — it was a sobering experience.

HELEN

I just LOVE IT!

MOSA

Anyway, like I was saying, the nature of my profession required extensive travel. And traveling always puts some wear and tear on the body and mind. So I was always open to methods of balancing and centering myself: body, mind, and soul.

Many, many years ago, I began with simple massage therapy for relaxation, and chiropractic body work for physical alignment. When new techniques emerged, I would try them out as well.

I would also try to find a reputable and gifted, intuitive counselor when I traveled — to help me pay attention to what I was choosing to not see in my life at the time. I had at least one contact in every major metropolitan city in the U.S.

About 10 months after our meeting, Helen began to turn up in every intuitive counseling session that I had.

"There's an older woman who is very important in your life."

There was this one guy in Kansas City that I met randomly at a bookstore. We were talking about books. Books! And then, out of nowhere, he brings up this older woman in my life and says—

"You know, this older woman that's been on your mind? Well, the two of you agreed that you would meet in this lifetime to tend to some unfinished business between the two of you."

"Oh, yeah?" I responded. "What's supposed to happen?"

"You agreed to meet again. That is all. What happens from there is entirely up to the two of you. Why don't you just give her a call, and find out?"

This guy is nuts, I thought. No way, no how am I calling this woman! But there was something that he said to me at the conclusion of our meeting. The very last thing he said stayed with me. His parting words were—

"How many people do you know who are truly living their dream?"

"Gosh, I don't know," I replied. "Not many, I suppose."

"Precisely!" He added. "Now, go! Go and live your dream!"

CAD

A single conversation with a wise man is better than ten years of study. Chinese Fortune Cookie saying, I love them!

MOSA

Yeah, that message hit home hard. I definitely wasn't living my dream. In fact, I was living my nightmare. And given that we're only on this terrestrial ball for a finite period of time—what's the point of being unhappy? There is no point! Uh, I see that I may be a bit off track here. Where was I?

CAD

How you couldn't prevent your deep-seated feelings for Helen from rising into your consciousness.

HELEN

Ooooooooh Cad, darling! Well said. I like that!

CAD

Why thank you, Helen.

MOSA

Yes, okay. September. One year later. I simply couldn't take it anymore. I thought that I was losing my mind. But at the same time, I felt that this woman was a part of me, kinda like Invasion of the Body Snatchers, or something like that. It was truly a bizarre experience.

So here I am. One year later. Feeling this presence of a person inside of me, a person that I didn't even know. And, do you know what? I couldn't even recall exactly what she looked like. All I could remember is that she had blonde hair and blue eyes, and was older than I was but I wasn't certain how much older. It simply wasn't important.

However, I did sense that she was striking in her appearance, enough to hold my attention even though she was not really my type, per se. At least, I hadn't been strongly attracted to that physical type in the past. So I became all the more confused. Was this an illusion? A distraction? Or, what?

CAD

One Fortune cookie says, "An attractive woman has a message for you." And another says that, "All the water in the world cannot sink a ship unless it gets inside." It appears that the water carrying an attractive woman with a message for you had breached your boat. How did the water get inside? Perhaps, a leak in the boat?

Well, for the most part, I was successful at maintaining a safe emotional distance in intimate relationships. Like that cookie says, "unless it gets inside." The development of an interior defense mechanism designed to prevent total devastation is necessary to prevent the water from breaching and sinking your boat. Kinda like—

"Come closer! Closer! But, hey—WAIT! What are you DOING? Not too close!"

I believe that this must be common, people erect massive brick walls to protect their hearts. Once a certain comfort level is reached, then one begins to remove the bricks, one at a time. It's really about establishing trust in order to feel safe before you become too vulnerable, and bring both feet inside that door.

Because really—what happens when you fall in love and all your bricks come tumbling down? Aren't you giving the power to another to totally annihilate you? And at the same time—aren't you trusting that they won't abuse that power to that end? Don't you trust that the other person will use that power to love you all the more?

That's probably why it takes so long to get to that On Golden Pond relationship. Building the trust level takes time. It's easy to get along when everything is going well.

But when trauma and misfortune make an appearance, the opportunity presents itself to see how well you truly get along, and to see if the love that brought you together shows up to keep you together through those challenging periods.

So consciously, I knew better. However, like I said, this woman's presence was eating at me from the inside-out. Somehow she had penetrated my impenetrable brick wall. And I couldn't for life of me figure out how in the hell she got there—much less how to get her out.

"There's got to be something more than the obvious 'boy meets girl' thing going on!" I thought. "Something more is definitely going on here!"

The only way to find out if this was in my head, or what our connection was—was to see her again. The way I saw it, I didn't have much of a choice. The Kansas City bookstore man was money—I had to take that dive.

So I tracked her down. I tried calling a few times but always got the answering machine, and hung up. I didn't know anything about this woman. Where did she work? Did she work?

I was eternally grateful that I never got her on the phone. Thanking God for the out. I mean, seriously, what would I have said? "Abba Abba Abba, A-mem-ba me?"

I tried to take the out by telling myself, "Okay, you made the effort to contact the woman a few times. Took the dive and didn't hook. It's a blessing. Call it a day. Let it go and be done with it!"

But it was much too late to let it go at this point! One way or another, I needed to find out what the deal was. I wasn't done with it yet. Okay, making contact by phone didn't work, so now—I'll write!

I was reluctant after realizing that this was a borderline stupid idea. I knew too many people in and around Petworth to leave a paper trail. After all, I was still married, and no matter what I write, it's not gonna look good in the wrong hands.

Much too late for common sense cuz now, I just gotta know. Pick up a pen Fool—and write!

Basically, here's the brief note that I wrote:

"I don't know if you remember me but we met one year ago at... And there was a powerful connection between us... Would enjoy seeing you again. P.S. Even my wife noticed our connection."

I drove to the post box, opened the receptacle, and dropped the letter in the box. When the door slammed behind the echo of the falling letter, I felt as though the heavy blade of a guillotine was about to behead me. Sticking my neck out—OUCH!

CAD

Chinese fortune cookie says, "He who takes no risks... Risks having no accomplishments."

HELEN

Well! I get this letter in the mail from a "Mosanami Etal." And I'm thinking that, "I don't know any Mosanami Etal!"

And furthermore, he's got a helluva nerve writing to me when he's married. Who does he think he is? Better yet — who does he think I am?

Then I go next door to see if my good friend, Victoria, knows anything about this Mosanami Etal. After all, she did bring me to the party. I showed her the letter and she reacted exactly as I did—

"Of all the nerve!"

Now it turns out that she did know him. She described him as "a good-looking, you know, kind of smooth — black man."

"A black man?" I asked her. "I most certainly don't remember meeting any 'black man' at that party!"

CAD

Wait a second, Helen! You didn't remember meeting—HIM? What on earth were you drinking that night?

HELEN

I know! Can you believe it? I honestly don't recall meeting this man. And that's the reason why the story needs to be told from his perspective, because even to this very day—I simply don't remember meeting him. But I wrote him back anyway.

MOSA

It had been about three or four weeks since I mailed that letter, and I hadn't yet received a response. So, I kinda figured that there wasn't going to be one. And, in a way, I was relieved. It was like, "Now, I'm definitely off the hook! SWEET! Finally! Let this person go!"

Sure enough! As my Life would have it, as soon as I was perfectly comfortable with all of this—I received a response!

My Administrative Assistant brings the mail into my office as she always does promptly at 10 a.m. Business-related mail opened and placed in order of priority in one folder. All other mail was unopened and placed in another folder.

Intimidated by the size of the business-related mail folder, I immediately reached for the other one. It contained one lone sealed envelope. The envelope was so small that I thought my assistant forgot to include the gift that came with it. The return address—

"Helen Clifford

14 Pentway Lane

Petworth, CT"

I stared at the envelope. "Be careful what you ask for young man..." I thought. My heart skipped a beat, or maybe it was two. And then, it began to race. I got up from behind my desk, and closed my office door. I never closed my office door, not even in a meeting! Sat down behind the desk again and tried to compose myself. Stared at the sealed small envelope. The one with no gift.

Wasn't expecting a response. Gotta get a cup of coffee. Go down the corridor to the kitchen. Help myself. Return to my office. Close the door. Sit down. Stare at the envelope.

Gotta have a smoke. Walk down the corridor to the elevator. Down four floors. Walk a hundred and fifty yards to the fence. Light up to lighten up. Have my smoke. Drink that coffee.

Return to my office. Close the door. Sit behind the desk. Stare at that envelope.

Can't deal with the unknown on an empty stomach — after lunch.

This went on everyday for at least five business days, until finally—I closed my eyes and took three, long, deep breaths, and opened that damn letter. It was brief. My immediate take away was—

"I'm afraid that we're not destined to meet because you have a wife."

"Destined to meet..." WHAT? What is she talking about? Is she playing with me? "Destined to meet..." WE'VE ALREADY MET! Either she doesn't remember meeting me, or even worse, I didn't get my homework right, and—I mailed my note to the wrong person!

"Oh, no!" I thought. "The wrong person! It's in the hands of the wrong person! What a way to get busted!"

CAD

When you discovered that she may not have remembered you, that certainly must have been a huge blow to your ego!

MOSA

Not sure if it was an ego thing. I do believe I have a healthy ego, but it was a definite shocker when I did finally find out. Because, you know, we chatted together for a lengthy period of time. And it wasn't like we were at a Black American Music Awards party, or an event of that nature. This was in Petworth! Cad, have you ever been to Petworth?

CAD

No Mosa, can't say that I have.

MOSA

Ever seen a raisin in a sugar bowl? Or let me put it this way — it ain't exactly Banco Popular with the bruthas. If you catch my drift.

HELEN

Yes, I know it sounds strange—because you would think that, well, you know—you would think that I would remember this man. I mean, really, I do remember the party quite well. And I remember meeting and talking with several people whom I had just met but I don't recall meeting Mosa, and I certainly don't recall meeting any "black man." Go figure!

MOSA

Just about now, I'm going out of my head! Only, if I could see her again, no need to even talk. Just see the woman. Then I would know for certain. How could I do that? Spontaneously, I would up and leave my office and drive to Petworth to see if I could see her from afar.

I'd low ride down Pentway Lane. It's a charming, little, dead-end street, with a STOP sign at the end—right before it drops off into the water. Dead End. They weren't joking when they put that Stop sign up. I always had a difficult time turning around.

Perhaps I drove up and down that street four or five times before I finally gave up.

CAD

It appears, Mosa, that you were stalking her. You know, like a stalker.

MOSA

Stalking? There's such a strong negative connotation to that word. In the literal sense, yeah, I guess you say that I was indeed "stalking" because I was trying to track her down. But I only wanted to see her from a distance.

At this point, I believed that there was some deeper mystery involved. Something not easily explained or understood. I felt that one way or the other, I needed to find out—to know.

Well, I certainly didn't find out much of anything driving up and down that street. The house that was number "14" was always dark and empty. And behind it appeared to be a greenhouse.

HELEN

I live in a converted barn behind the main house. Before the trees are bare, it's always difficult to see from the street. And the Lipton family is rarely there during the week.

MOSA

The funny thing is that every time I drove down that street, I saw the same elderly woman across the street from Helen's place. She was always outside as if she was waiting for me to arrive. She had the warmest, most beautiful smile but was like eighty-years old. I was like—

"No way, could it be? I mean I remember she was older and all but—no way, that can't be her. Can it? Is she really that old?"

HELEN

Haha! That was my neighbor Joan! A delightful and remarkable woman! Does everything for herself!

MOSA

Well, I was outta there like a bat outta hell! Kept reminding myself, "Dude! Check yourself in the rearview mirror. See? You're still a black man! What in the hell are you doing? Are you an idiot, or what? Seriously, Mosa—you're smarter than this!

People are gonna start assuming that you're driving up and down that street casing houses to rob, or something criminal-minded like that. What a stupid way to get busted! And just my luck too. Best to quit while you're ahead."

Then I responded to her reply and basically said that I believed that she misinterpreted my intent.

CAD

Misinterpreted your intent? Mosa! Please! You were stalking the woman!

MOSA

Y'know, Cad—you're really starting to bug me. You're not getting it yet! Like I've been telling you—it wasn't like that. This wasn't a simple boy meets girl kind of thing. I already told you that. This was different!

I mean seriously, Cad, if I wanted to have an extra-marital fling that would have been relatively easy for me. Opportunities are forever presenting themselves to bring more drama into your life. No need to stalk!

The point is that I wasn't certain what the connection was—it was a mystery! So I felt more like a private detective than a stalker.

HELEN

Haha! I used to be a private detective! So I can appreciate the mentality behind your intention, darling.

MOSA

Thank you! That's all that matters! Isn't it? That you get it.

Keep in mind, Cad, it was over one year before I tried to contact her. I waited an entire year!

And my intuitive sense was that our connection could have been related to any number of mutual interests: business, creative, spiritual, etc.

Once again, I didn't know.

HELEN

I never responded to his second letter. But I held onto it. In fact, I held onto all of his correspondence, which is way out of character for me. I mean, you know, I receive a lot of letters and stuff from men, I do, and I usually just toss them in the trash. But for some, odd reason, unbeknown to me at the time, I saved Mosa's letters. I saved them all!

MOSA

Yup! No response. I thought that I might try a planned coincidence. But I just didn't know enough about her to plan accordingly. It was either I was going to get lucky, or I wasn't!

So I posted up at the bar of the closest restaurant walking distance from her house. The Black Hole. I went there a few times to try my luck, which was no luck at all.

HELEN

You see, I work from 5-9pm. And, of course, Mosa didn't know this. But when he was sitting in The Hole at that bar, I was most likely walking my dog right past the place, which I often did when I returned home from work.

MOSA

Well, The Black Hole routine was a brief stint. The bartenders began to ask me too many personal questions. Paranoia set in and I was outta there. Threw in the towel on the planned coincidence idea. It wasn't meant to be.

CAD

At this point, did you lose your burning desire "to know?"

MOSA

No. Not at all. However, I did feel deeply the marrow of my bones that one day our paths would cross again. And it also became increasingly apparent how this was something beyond my control.

So although I never stumbled upon Helen, I did stumble upon patience. And I learned to trust that if something or someone is meant for you, it'll come around in its own time.

CAD

Fate?

MOSA

You can call it fate. But I'd rather think of it as a loving allowance for all things to be in its own time and place. I accepted how nothing ever goes my way when I push too hard, or try to plan and control too much. My Life works better for me when I roll with the flow.

There's a Yiddish saying that translates to, "Man plans. God laughs." And the big guy has most certainly enjoyed some big laughs at my expense. So the lesson for me here, as I saw it, was to learn how to go with flow of Life on Life's terms. And, you know, to ride with the wind, instead of trying to piss against it. Time out to send a shout out to My Angels for working overtime to remind me, to "Stop Pissing Against the Wind!"

Therefore, even though, I still felt that our meeting was significant, I refused to obsess over it any longer. It was tiresome. And I didn't wanna push my luck any further either. I decided to make a conscious effort to focus on what I desired to do with the rest of my life.

CAD

Did you share your feelings for Helen with any close friends?

MOSA

No. Absolutely not! There was nothing to share! Other than I felt that we made a strong connection. That is all. And that, I believed we would meet again.

Also, I believe that men are very different from women in so many ways, particularly when it comes to "love." It's not something we seek out, as much as it's something that just happens to us. Of course, I can only speak for the men that I've known and respect, and myself.

While many of my single female friends are constantly spinning their wheels looking for, and talking about, finding "true love" in more of a romantic context. And being rescued by the feeling of being romantically "in-true love." You know, whatever their definition of "true love" may be.

CAD

Helen. What is your point-of-view with regard to what Mosa is saying about the differences between men and women as it relates to seeking Love.

HELEN

I know that I often use "true love" as an expression, Mosa. Yes, I'm aware of that. Regardless, I believe that there is only Love. Period. That is all. All else is a product of Love. Think about it. Is there such a thing as "false love?" Love is truth. And as for romance, it's merely an expression of Love.

MOSA

And what about Peace?

HELEN

Yes. Peace is also an expression born from Love. Love is the root and the mother of all.

MOSA

Okay. I agree, yes—Love is the mother and root of all. But the men that I know, aren't seeking Love per se, we're actively seeking Peace. Peace of Mind. Peace of Being.

So for us, the path to Love is through Peace, as opposed to let's say, Romance. Romance is a great path to making love but Peace is a better path for living in everlasting Love with an open heart.

CAD

So Mosa, are you saying that if Love is a room—

MOSA

Yes, Cad! Excellent! If Love is a room with a door, romance can open that door and lead you to the bed, but it's Peace that will keep you inside of the room. Not romance. Not even the greatest sex known to man, only Peace.

Because, you see, it's only when we feel this Peace within ourselves that we're able to open our hearts to Love. Why? Because that's the only time we realize that we are Love. And only then, are we capable of giving and receiving Love freely without effort.

CAD

So you didn't feel that there was a possibility that a meeting with Helen could lead to a love relationship during that time?

MOSA

Believe me. I am a romantic—an utter and complete Fool for romance. So I didn't entirely rule it out. But still, I didn't feel that I was in the proper place to attract the partner who was most suitable for me.

CAD

Do you mean because you were still married?

MOSA

No, that's not at all what I'm talking about. That's putting a conventional spin on what I'm trying to convey.

I believe that Robert Evans, the producer of the film Chinatown, sums it up the best. He went through a period in his life when he really hit rock bottom. And he said something coming out of that experience that resonated with me very much. He said—

"I believe that a man really only looks for two things from life, to find Peace, and to genuinely like himself."

And that's the proper place that I'm talking about. Although, I would add "and, to unconditionally love himself." You know, in the same way that a loyal dog loves its owner. I believe that once we get to this place, the love just comes pouring out of us.

The women I know feel the opposite, they believe that "true love" will bring the Peace within as Helen expressed. I disagree, and say that—that's not the way it works for the men I know. That's just ass backwards. Love & Peace go hand in hand, with the essential Peace coming first.

Having said that, yeah, I will confess that in the past if I was very attracted to a woman, I'd go along for the Love ride to give Peace a chance to show up. Just like my man John Lennon sang, "Give Peace A Chance." But, over time, if the Peace is a no show—

CAD

No Peace, No Love?

MOSA

That's the bottom line, Cad.

CAD

So instead of a "boy meets girl" story, this is the story of Peace Meets Love!

MOSA

Hahaha! Good one, Cad!

HELEN

Détente! World Peace!

CAD

Okay. Now I see! Clearly, you must have arrived at this place in your life. Please share with us how you came to this place of Peace Within, Self-Like, and Self-Love. What was The Turning Point?

MOSA

Yes. I believe that this is an important part of the story. In January, five months after meeting Helen, I took an excursion in between business trips. I thought of it as a New Year's gift to myself.

I wanted to create an opportunity to reflect upon my life path, why I was feeling so miserable, and what I intended to do to turn my life around. In short, I took this trip to collect my life.

A friend suggested that I go to Red Rock Country. He said that, "it's the perfect location for collecting oneself." And, that it's perfect for me. "A very spiritual place."

I spent five days there in between cities. Upon arrival, my first priority was finding a Reiki Practitioner so I could get some "body work" done. Open my all of my energy centers in order to think clearly and feel deeply.

I settled on a Reiki Master named Maia. It was the best "body work" session that I've ever enjoyed—Relaxing, Cleansing and Re-energizing!

At the end of the session, Maia tells me that I too have this gift, and if I ever wanted to apprentice and become an attuned Master, to contact her. She travels a lot but if she's in town for a while, she'd take me on. She hadn't—

CAD

Mosa, hold up a minute, please. You lost me at "gift." What "gift" was this woman referring to?

MOSA

The ability to help others, heal themselves. Reiki is an ancient healing technique and practice.

The technique is basically opening up your heart to tap into the well of Universal Life Source Energy to help people heal themselves with compassion and Love. But I've since discovered that you don't need a technique of any kind to assist in the healing process of others.

CAD

C'mon Mosa, are you saying that this technique can actually "heal" people?

MOSA

The healing is not so much in the technique as much as it is the desire and the will of the recipient to be healed.

CAD

Okay, I see! It's kind of like a placebo!

MOSA

You are free to call it what you choose. There is nothing more powerful than free will.

CAD

Oh, so now you're a "Healer?"

MOSA

Cad, have you ever picked up a crying infant and held it lovingly in your arms with unwavering love and compassion, until it stopped crying?

CAD

Uh, no—can't say that I have.

MOSA

Or perhaps—a family member, friend, or lover?

CAD

Well, I—

MOSA

It's the same thing, Cad. EVERYONE is a healer! But we're jumping way ahead here. Can we chat about this later?

CAD

Of course! But please, one more question before we move ahead. Tell me. Why do you refer to this healing thing as a "Gift?"

MOSA

Anytime a person recognizes an ability to help themselves and others, remember—

HELEN

Remember. To RE—Member.

MOSA

Precisely! Remember who they are, why they're here, and reconnect with Spirit — with GOD! It is a GIFT!

The ability to touch others in their heart of hearts—is a GIFT! And this GIFT is a blessing that lies dormant in everyone, even you Cad. You only need to unwrap it!

CAD

Yeah, right! Hehe—

HELEN

Cad darling, the "Gift" is Love. That is all it is. It's just LOVE!

CAD

Love, and—Peace, isn't that what you would say, Mosa?

MOSA

Yup! No Love without Peace. No Peace without Love.

CAD

Okay! I'm satisfied now. Let's return to Red Rock Country.

MOSA

After my session with Maia, I sat on a rock by a stream, and asked myself a question. It's a question that I find myself asking friends and acquaintances that seek my personal counsel and emotional support, when they're feeling down and out.

"What would you do if a group of Medical Experts or God, whomever you would choose to believe without question, told you that you only had five years left to live your Life?

Would you choose to live, from day-to-day, any differently than you do now? If yes, then why weren't you living that way the day before you got the newsflash?

What concerns you now that would no longer concern you?

What were you afraid of before the news? And why?

Because you don't know how many years you have left on your clock to live. Do you? After all, you could die in your sleep on any given night, and have no tomorrow!

So? What on Earth are you waiting for?"

CAD

And, did you answer your own question?

MOSA

Yes! And that was a major turning point in my Life.

HELEN

I call it taking the turn towards living in One's Truth. That's what I call it.

MOSA

Yes! And in this moment, as we speak, I'm living my life from the core of my truth for the very first time.

HELEN

Living in your Truth, my darling, living in your Truth.

MOSA

Now sometime between January's Red Rock Country trip and June, I paid a visit to spend time with my dear friends Susan and Pieter. I came across a stack of photos on a side table in their living room.

I don't know why but I just picked up the stack and began to browse through them. I recognized that there were photos from the Labor Day Party in the stack — YES!

I rifled through the pics silently, discreetly, and quickly until I came across a photo of—Helen!

There she was. Flanked by Victoria and The Hostess. Okay, I remember her vividly now. Yes. She's striking! No question. And she appeared to have a far-reaching glow of white light emanating from her presence, like an angel. Then I relived that night through the photograph.

I can't express in words how much of a relief it was to be reassured by this photograph that I wasn't out of my mind. And then I thought—

"Okay, this must have something to do with my spiritual development. Yes. That's what I'm getting from this photograph. I get it now. I had been neglecting the spiritual aspects of Life. My meeting with Helen served as a reminder of the need to live my life in Balance."

You know, at times we become so busy with the day-to-day activities of Life, we choose to forget. We forget to take care of ourselves, and give ourselves the body, mind, and soul nourishment that we need. We become human doings, instead of human beings. And then, all of a sudden—

When we stop to breathe, we realize that Life has become extremely complicated, and we embrace how we're no longer enjoying ourselves. It's like we're barely surviving but insist on adding more things to further complicate our lives as we move along. And when we do, Life becomes more stressful, overwhelming and unfulfilling.

It's like, you are no longer working for you. Instead, you're working for a lifestyle in the future, when there is no guarantee that you're even gonna make it to the future, especially when you're burning yourself out in the present.

Well, coming out of Red Rock Country, I felt a strong desire to slow my Life down, simplify my Life, and pay closer attention to increasing my awareness in the present through the practice of meditation and Yoga.

CAD

Was that The Turning Point that helped you to find the Peace that you were seeking?

MOSA

Uh, yes. It pointed me in the proper direction to that end. It was where I made the commitment to actively seek out the Peace within. I realized that Life is a Gift that's supposed to be a Blessing and a Joy — not a drag!

And with this understanding, it's terribly difficult to do anything that doesn't bring you happiness. You begin to recognize and accept how you are solely responsible for your own happiness, pain and suffering, through your subconscious and conscious choices. You cease blaming others for whatever predicament or situation that you find yourself.

As you begin to take full responsibility for your Life choices, you empower your Self!

CAD

I don't know if I agree with you there. Some people are simply dealt a bad hand in Life.

MOSA

Of course you don't agree! Why would you? But I'm not here to argue with you, Cad. Anyway, we're getting off the track again. Let's see now... after Red Rock Country. The company where I was employed went bankrupt that April.

I made a vow never to work in a corporate environment for the rest of my Life. No matter how desperate and destitute I become. However, I did have many years of experience, which I chose to try to leverage for short-term revenue.

However, I was far more interested in developing my longer-term creative projects. I rented a house on a cliff over looking the water in Bodega Bay, California where I could dive into the creative stuff.

HELEN

And oddly enough, we figured out that I was in the area at the exact same time! I was visiting my son, and I convinced him to drive to Bodega Bay. For some reason, I found myself drawn to Bodega Bay while I was there.

CAD

Did you run into each other in Bodega Bay?

MOSA

So close, yet... No.

One morning, I was enjoying breakfast at a café in neighboring Occidental where I stumbled upon this article, The Art of Dreaming, Life, and Love. A Shaman penned the piece for a local weekly publication. The article reflected my feelings and point-of-view on Life, Love, and Relationships. I mailed a copy of the article to several friends of mine, and Helen as well.

HELEN

The article was nothing short of magnificent! It truly was! It definitely resonated with me! I even highlighted segments of the article that I strongly identified with, and was planning on sending a highlighted copy back to Mosa with an encouraging note.

You see, he wrote how most of his life he felt that he was "a little out of his tree" because he thought differently about things—about Life and all. And I emphasized with that feeling. So I wanted to offer encouragement because I could see how far he had come since his first letter to me. How he was becoming more enlightened with each letter.

Other than the fact that in one of his letters, he signed off with this kind of smug "Ciao Baby", or something like that, which kind of turned me off. He writes this wonderfully nice letter, and then this "Ciao Baby."

MOSA

Nooooooooooo, Helen! It wasn't "Ciao Baby!" It was "Ciao Mein, Chili Dog," which was meant as light-hearted and delightful play on words. Cad, you see can see that, right? Help me out here!

CAD

Haha! Nice try, Mosa, but you're not dragging me into the middle of this.

MOSA

Hahahahahaha! Busted! Okay! Well, I will confess that I continued to write Helen begrudgingly because she wasn't responding to any of my correspondence, and I really just wanted to write her off, you know, not to ever write her again. "Ciao Mein, Chili Dog" was my way of saying that although I am sincere, I'm not all that serious.

CAD

Helen, did you ever write him that note of encouragement?

HELEN

No. I intended to write back but for some reason, I didn't.

MOSA

Flash forward to September! I was in L.A. developing my longer-term project when I realize that even though I was out of corporate world, I was not. I was still very much part and parcel of the corporate culture — still on the treadmill, and not going anywhere that I desired to go.

I desperately needed to cut that cord. So I dialed up Maia. Wanted to see if I really had this Gift thing that she was talkin' about.

CAD

You mean this Rake thing?

MOSA

Whatever you wanna call it, Cad. Anyway, I returned to Red Rock Country. And it was an extraordinary experience! I met the most wonderful, like-minded people, and some others who were diabolic and not so wonderful.

I shared a delightful meal and an enlightening stroll with a Tibetan Rinpoche who has an awesome backstory! We enjoyed a powerful connection. I also enjoyed a random Love encounter with the most remarkable man in the woods.

And then, I blew through my Reiki attunements in three days. I was like, "WOW! I can really do this!"

The first day was very emotional, very cleansing. The second day was extremely empowering. And on the third day, I was humbled. It was the most humbling experience. This was the day when I realized that I was but a mere servant, a servant to God and of God. Nothing more. Nothing less.

And it was on that third day, when I found the Peace within that I had been seeking, through humility and humbleness.

After spending several days working with recipients, I decided that this is what I wanted to do back East. And how I LOVED working with children! You know, children, they are so magical and full of wonder!

However, before I could begin a practice, I needed to resolve some unresolved issues in my Life.

CAD

Your marriage?

MOSA

Yup! To say that my 180-degree turn in direction wasn't gonna be a hit on the home front is the understatement of the century. And, it's a peculiar thing but when you make a commitment to evolve spiritually, it's very difficult to relate to the conventional wisdom of your conditional past. God's Love is Unconditional! And, conventional wisdom no longer serves your personal growth. There's just nothing in it for you!

And, Maia—God bless that woman! She really made it a point to drill this reality repeatedly into my head!

"Mosa, there is no turning back now!" She said. "Do you understand? There is no turning back!"

HELEN

And it was around this time that I was making some major life changes as well. I had gone into the city to see and listen to the Dalai Lama speak.

When I came away from that experience, I realized that I wasn't living in My Truth. I was in an intimate relationship that I truly didn't desire to be a part of anymore, it was with my ex-husband. And, he's married.

It felt safe for me because it was familiar but I really needed to put an end to it, and close that door. And I did. I believe—

MOSA

Closing the door that must be closed before the other door opens, the door you wanna walk through.

Finally, now, I was feeling the Peace. So I wrote Helen to basically apologize if I had been intrusive and acknowledged that, with hindsight, that she was right not to return my correspondence. You know, because I wasn't in a good place at the time.

But now that I was in a good place, a proper place, I would still enjoy writing from time to time. And, if this was a problem, I asked her to give me a call and leave a message on my cell, and I would stop writing.

HELEN

Well, I received this correspondence, and I could definitely feel that he was coming from a different place, not from "Ciao Baby!"

MOSA

No baby! No! It was "Ciao Mein, Chili Dog!"

HELEN

This letter was very endearing and sincere. It was clear that he was moving spritely and consciously along his spiritual path. And once again, it was my intention to write him.

CAD

A Turning Point! Now where are in terms of dates? The Return to Red Rock Country was in September, at the two-year mark after the first meeting. Where are we now?

HELEN

October. I received his letter in October. Interestingly enough, I shared his letter with one of my employees. Then I told her about all the other letters, and how I never wrote him back.

"HELEN!" She responded. "Are you CRAZY? Write him back! You're going to marry this man!"

Well, I didn't write but I did call him.

MOSA

In December, I got the call, the day after my birthday.

HELEN

We chatted on the phone for a very long time. Mostly about spiritually related stuff, books we've read, and so on. This was shortly after noon, and I thought how ridiculous this was, we might as well see each other because I don't need to begin getting ready for work until around 4 p.m.

So I asked him if he wanted to get together.

MOSA

I'm like, "Okay, that's cool. Where would you like to meet?" And then, she says—

"Why don't you just come here — come over to my place."

SAY WHAT? I'm looking at my phone, asking myself, "Did I hear that correctly?"

HELEN

And at the same, I'm asking myself, "Did I just say that?"

MOSA

So I asked her if she was sure that she was comfortable with that, to give the woman an out. She was good.

She tells me that she lives in a converted barn next door to Victoria's.

A converted barn? I didn't remember ever seeing a converted barn! So I ask, "Are you sure?" Haha! Yup, she's sure — and off I go!

I'm running about fifteen minutes late so I give Helen a call to let her know, and there's no answer! Then it hits me!

Of course there's no answer! She doesn't remember meeting me! She's probably outside waiting to see me to arrive! Sure enough, when I drove into the driveway, there she was!

Now the first thing that I'm looking for is the glow that I saw in the photograph. "Where is it? C'mon, where is it?"

HELEN

This mammoth, black Range Rover pulls into the driveway. It was like a tank from Desert Storm rolling into our cute little drive way. And the first thing that I see is this huge black boot coming out of the driver's side door.

Now judging from Victoria's description, I really expected to see, you know, like an O.J. Simpson clone or someone like that—you know? Some "smooth, black man."

But he wasn't like that all! He had these horn-rimmed glasses, flannel shirt, faded blue jeans, cowboy boots—he was kind of cute, and not at all what I expected.

MOSA

We go inside the barn, and I look around to try to quickly absorb as much as I could without being to conspicuous. I knew absolutely nothing about this woman. Now let's see what's important to her.

In the kitchen, I noticed a wooden-framed, pencil sketch of a house with a hand-written caption, "Happiness House." Her dream house—cool! Respect. I had architecturally designed my dream house in my head when I was eighteen, "Octagon House." But I never put in down on paper.

HELEN

We go upstairs to sit on the couch to talk. Mosa is talking straight ahead. He never looked at me directly. Not once! Occasionally, he would sneak a peek at me from out of the corner of his glasses, but he never once turned his head to face me.

MOSA

Well, naturally! I had already put myself out there, you know, exposed. So, I was, you know, kind of—well, shy.

Anyway, the more we chatted, and the more I learned about Helen, I could see that she was a healer too. My kind of healer! Down to Earth!

She shared some of her animal rescue stories, and how she related to people in the workplace and socially. AND—how her hands heated up like they do when you become Reiki attuned. She never had any Reiki attunements, and yet she was a healer in every aspect of her life.

We decided to meet again the following week. My experience with the first Helen meeting was very significant in my life at that time. Since my return from Red Rock Country, I spent a lot of time in workshops to sharpen my technique and connect with spiritually conscious, like-minded people of the East Coast spiritual community.

I was disappointed, and dare I say—heartbroken? Yes. My heart was indeed broken. Because I found many of the same issues that were prevalent in the corporate community: unhealthy and inflated egos, self-righteousness, pride, greed, dishonesty, abusive behavior, etc. It broke my heart to feel the absence of Peace and Love in the spiritual community, and even more important—

A complete and utter lack of surrender to humility and humbleness! Not one person I met shared my experience of being humbled.

Furthermore, most of the healers who I encountered were so busy "healing others," that they had never spent the time or energy to heal themselves. I took issue with that; it was the big red flag. I was like, "SHIT! This SUCKS! What am I gonna do now?"

And I recall thinking on the drive home that perhaps the reason we met was because we're supposed to work together.

"Yeah, that's IT!"

HELEN

Mosa returns the following week and prepares dinner for us at the barn. Very nice. Very comfortable. Coming together was very easy for us. Aside from the fact that even at this point, he was still unable to look at me directly in the eyes.

MOSA

After dinner, we experimented with an energy exchange exercise that I picked up from one of the workshops I attended.

After a while, I released that we shared the exact same energy. Now I had performed this exercise with over a hundred healers since I returned to the East Coast, and have never experienced this before.

CAD

Huh? A what? Energy ex—

MOSA

Never mind. Let's just say that two of us, we clicked. And that, it was indeed another major Turning Point for me.

But now I was also thinking for the first time that this woman may very well be "The Real McCoy."

CAD

Do you mean "The One?"

MOSA

Possibly because she was REAL! You got to be "The Real McCoy" before you can be "The One." So now, I was entertaining this possibility. Well, the evening rolls to a close and before I leave we hug each other in the kitchen. We enjoyed a great, big, long, warm embrace during which this feeling comes over me. The feeling of home, that—

Home is where the Heart is.

HELEN

Oh yes! Home! I felt that too. It was like you had been traveling your entire life, wandering like a nomad. And then all of a sudden, suddenly, you stumble upon home.

MOSA

I don't know how else to describe that feeling because I've never felt it before. I felt safe. Then, as we slowly pulled apart, I looked directly into the eyes of Helen for the first time. And finally, I saw it, and I thought—

"Oh My God!!! It's the GLOW! It's the one I saw when we first met, and then again in the photo. It's the damn GLOW! YES! Mosa! She's—The One!"

HELEN

And I had truly given up on finding "The One", at least not in this lifetime anyway. My two failed marriages had most definitely taken the wind out of my sails. I had also grown weary of being fixed up with men who weren't ideally suited for me. It's such a waste of time and energy.

CAD

When did you know for certain, Helen, that Mosa was "The One?"

HELEN

I was given a rare Tibetan Spaniel about two years ago. He was terribly abused. Terribly, terribly abused by the hands of a man who didn't care to understand the breed.

He's an alarm dog with an acute sense of smell who belongs inside of the monastery, and not chained to a little dog house in a backyard during the dead of a blistering and brutally cold winter as a frail puppy.

My adorable little Tibbie barks excessively. He's extremely territorial, and over-protective of me because I basically saved his life. He barks voraciously at any one who comes remotely close to me. And, he amplifies the bark when it comes to men—to the point of viciousness. Even with my two sons, my own flesh and blood, that dog will not let up.

Men! He doesn't trust them. He doesn't like them. In fact, he despises all men, and I can't fault him for that. When I rescued him, he was in a catatonic state from repeated severe beatings by a man. And he's such a small, little, precious creature who is fortunate to be alive today. It's quite the miracle that he survived.

Well, when I went to the driveway to greet the Mosa, Little Tibbie was in my arms. The Range Rover pulls into the driveway. He doesn't bark once. That is unheard of! There isn't a car that pulls into the driveway that he doesn't bark at.

Mosa gets out of the car. I have a hand at the ready to cover Tibbie's mouth. Dog doesn't bark.

Inside the barn, I put the dog down on the kitchen floor. He sniffs Mosa's boots and pant legs. I'm watching him closely, prepared to intercept him if need be. He doesn't bark. In fact, the damn dog was wagging his tail.

We go upstairs and sit down on the sofa. Tibbie jumps and sits by Mosa's side. And not, mind you, on the side of Mosa that is next to me. I made sure that there was plenty of space between us because I anticipated that Tibbie would be his usual over-protective self.

And then, he rests his chin on Mosa's leg, and allows Mosa to massage his crown, and responds with the purr of a cat.

After Mosa left the barn, I looked at Tibbie, and said—

"He's "The One," isn't he?"

Dog wagged his tail so hard that I thought it was gonna snap off. That dog knew before I did!

Love is truly transformational! It truly is! You should come visit the barn to feel it for yourself! All of our animals are rescues. And you should see Tibbie now! He's just as much as Mosa's dog as he is mine. He's so happy! He's almost a normal dog again!

Each day with Mosa just keeps getting better and better! I have to keep pinching myself to make sure I'm not in a dream state.

CAD

Aaaaaaaah, yes! I know! I know! There's nothing quite like the beginning, is there? That honeymoon phase of the relationship, what an unbelievable high!

HELEN

Oh, yes Cad! It's such a high when you are able to connect spiritually, physically, and mentally. And we share a lot of laughs and have a lot of fun being joyful.

But, at the same time, it's not all fun and games. We began with a conscious effort to focus on all the emotional stuff that's been impeding our individual progress over the years, as well.

We're really committed to helping each other heal those old, open emotional wounds that have been just hanging around and lingering for far too long. You know, just letting go of that emotional stuff that doesn't matter anymore. And more often than not, the emotional stuff doesn't rear its head until long after the Honeymoon phase.

CAD

You guys are making a concerted effort to get ahead of it! I believe that's a good approach. Very good. I applaud the two of you. I mean, seriously — WHO does that?

MOSA

And it sure as hell ain't easy Cad. I'll tell ya that! Not easy at all. But we accept that it's essential to our individual growth as well as our growth together.

I believe Helen said it best when we were discussing whether it was a good idea to live together right away.

"We didn't come together—to be apart. And we didn't come together to grow apart."

That became our mantra to remind ourselves so we won't forget.

CAD

Good stuff! What surprises you most about your coming together? What do you find most difficult to swallow? Kind of like, that advertising campaign, "I can't BELIEVE it's not butter!"

HELEN

Hahahahaha! What is most unusual, I believe is that neither of us came in a package that we expected. I'm nearly twenty years his senior.

CAD

Really? You look almost exactly the same age!

MOSA

I know! Can you believe IT? I never knew how old she was and never cared to ask. Who cares? She looks great! Right?

HELEN

Awwwwww! So sweet! Thank you boys! And, let's see, what else did I find difficult to swallow?

I've never considered dating anyone who didn't have a pair of blue eyes as bright as mine, much less—a black man without them! And Mosa had never been super attracted to blonde, blue-eyed women. He felt that after a while, we all look the same.

So, on paper no one on Earth would have put us together. And yet, we're very attracted to each other, but the attraction comes from the inside-out.

MOSA

An interesting aside to me thinking how Helen was not my type, not too long ago, I came across some old black and white modeling photos—

HELEN

Oh yes! Those photos really threw him for a loop! Because the photos feature my natural hair color which is auburn! And he—

MOSA

I was like, "Damn! IT'S BUTTA! Never judge a book by its cover! My baby was butter all along!"

HELEN

I had to explain to him that ninety-nine per cent of the time in the U.S., if you see a woman over twenty-five who's a blonde, then it came out of a bottle! You would think that this man would know that! Haha!

MOSA

Hey! I knew that! I just forgot—that's all!

CAD

When you share your stories with others, how do they respond?

MOSA

My observation is that it depends entirely upon where the individual is on their life path. As expected, people have a tendency to project their hopes or fears onto the story.

For example, if you're single, you might say—

"Well, I've experienced that too, and it's short-lived so enjoy it while you can."

Or—

"Hey! That's exactly the kind of relationship that I'm holding out for!"

However, if you've been married for a long period of time, paid your dues, and really worked hard to make it work, you might be insulted, and say—

"Of all the arrogance! This couple is delusional. They have no idea what lies ahead. Talk to me in thirty years."

Or, it simply could strike a chord within, if you're struggling to keep a relationship intact.

HELEN

On a more positive note, if you're secretly unhappy with your current situation, our story can serve as a catalyst for change in a person's life. Why settle if you're miserable? Everybody is worthy and deserving of happiness! That's why we're here people! We're not here to be miserable!

Now, of course, every individual has his or her own life path to walk, and we do honor and respect that. Our only desire is to encourage others to live in their Truth. Whatever that may be. And, if they must jump off a cliff to get there, we say—

"JUMP! GO FOR IT!!!"

FULL MOON IN TAURUS

Many, many, many moons later...

August. I'm enjoying coffee at the neighborhood café when a friend of my wife approaches.

MISSY

Y'know Mosa, Doc is going to have access to all of this audio-visual and lighting equipment next weekend. And he just loves to shoot shit.

MOSA

Yeah?

MISSY

Helen told me that you've written several screenplays. Well, if you're interested in directing an excerpt from one of them for a short film, Doc would be open to that.

MOSA

Hmmm... Nothing that I've written is really suited for here. Let me try to write a piece specifically for Little Beach.

THE SCREENPLAY

Now let's see... Where to begin? I don't have any money.

So I'll begin with: what do I have to work with? Then, I'll write backwards into the story using the resources available to me.

There's an academic rental that's vacant. Unfurnished. A controlled environment—PERFECT!

Okay, now who comes to rent it? And why?

I work evenings and nights. I'm home during the day. Who's around during the day? Mothers—mothers with children. Great! I can rehearse during the week and when we shoot over the weekend, the hubbies will be available to look after the kids. And I'll get the hubbies involved somehow so they'll have a vested interest in the film.

Finally, I need to be honest with myself. Who am I writing this for? Me. I'm going to make a film that I will enjoy seeing.

Okay. What do I like?

I like Mystery. Subtlety. Engagement. How things are not always what they appear to be. I like tight dialogue with windows of pause for reflection. Double entendres. Multi-dimensional and vulnerable lead characters.

But most importantly, I love a film that moves! It has to feel a lot shorter than it is.

I'm gonna make an open for a feature-length film. Where the story really begins after the credits roll. Some questions will be answered in the open, and others will not.

Two days later, I had a screenplay. Estimated running time: twenty minutes.

THE COLLABORATION

I dropped off the screenplay to Doc the Camera Operator. By the time I returned home I had a message to call him immediately. So I did.

DOC

Oh shit, yeah! I'll shoot that shit—I'll shoot anything!

" _Shoot that shit..." Did he even read IT?_

DOC

Now before we get started, I'm gonna tell ya upfront that I'm the only person authorized to operate any of the equipment. You got that?

MOSA

No worries.

DOC

Good! An' anutha thing, I don't do nuthin' but shoot shit. That's what I do. Don't do no production stuff, no schedulin', no askin' people for shit, nuthin' other than shoot. You need sumthin'? You're on your own.

MOSA

Got it.

DOC

Good. It's always to best to put the upfront shit where it belongs. At the get go! Hey! You gotta storyboard? I wanna see a storyboard!

MOSA

No. I don't have one yet. I'm thinking that the priority right now is casting. No actors. No film.

DOC

I know some good actors in the city!

MOSA

I'm sure you do, Doc. But seeing how we're gonna be shooting in five days on a very tight schedule, I'd like to cast locally, using non-actors who can walk to location. You know, logistics.

DOC

Yeah, logistics—that's good thinkin' buddy! Hey bro, I don't know what you're plannin' to do with this film but I'm gonna give ya some inside info.

MOSA

Do with it? I'd be more than happy to finish it!

DOC

Well lemme tell ya somethin', ya see I know people. Yeah, that's right! Important people at the Big Shot Film Festival. And what they told me that if the lead actress is a babe, that the film is a shoo-in for acceptance.

You wit me here? Eye to eye? A shoo-in! No matter how bad the film, it's in the door!

MOSA

Well, like I said Doc, I jus--

DOC

Oooooooh yeeeaaah, I'm thinkin' Krystal! That's what I'm thinkin' 'bout! Krystal or maybe Taylor. One of the two. I dunno. It's a tough one. Can't make up my mind. What do you think?

MOSA

I don't know, Doc. Let me give that some thought.

CASTING

The guys were easy. I wrote the parts specifically for them. The mothers and children were all set too, they're in playgroup together and tight as thieves. The lead actress was much more challenging to cast.

Let's see, who is the yummy mummy that every married guy in the neighborhood secretly wants to sleep with? And, why?

What is it about her persona that differs from all of the other yummy mummies in the hood?

And how does this persona lend itself to the character of the lead in the story, and to the piece of the story I'm trying to tell.

And, will I be able to capture this persona on camera?

It must be a woman who is attractive but instills fear in the hearts of men—the kind of fear that keeps men inside of their pants. Because they know deep down in their bones that if they tried to go there—

She'd have them dangling from a bridge in a week.

Okay, now. Who is she?

DING DONG! The doorbell.

WOMAN'S VOICE

HI!

MOSA

Hi Kat! Got a minute?

KAT

Sure, Mosa. Come in!

A little later...

MOSA

So that's the story. Here's the screenplay. Give it a read. I'd like you to play the lead. It should be a lotta fun, you know, kinda like community theatre.

KAT

No, I don't think so. I was in a short film once when I was in college at Santa Cruz.

MOSA

Wow! You have experience!

KAT

It was a bad experience — with a stalker! He was a nightmare in my life for a very long time.

MOSA

Ooooh, gosh Kat, I'm sorry to hear that.

KAT

But thanks anyway, I'm flattered that you would even think to ask me.

C'mon Mosa, gotta think fast!

MOSA

HEY! I got it! We'll change your name! How 'bout that?

KAT

I'm so sorry. You know, I still have these God-awful nightmares from time to time. I'm really sorry.

Silence.

No. I'm not going anywhere. Because right now I'm sure that she's the one for the role. Yup! She's THE ONE! Please God, please—HELP A BRUTHA OUT!

KAT

Tell me, Mosa. When you were writing this story and developing the character that you're asking me to play...

She pauses.

KAT

Were you thinking about me?

Another pause.

Please, God! A little help would be nice right about — NOW!

KAT

What I'm asking you, Mosa, is — that when you were writing about HER, were you thinking about ME?

This wasn't the help that I had in mind. But now, at least I have a 50/50 chance. What's the right answer? Can't fuck this up!

MOSA

Yes!

KAT

Okay then, I'll do it!

WHEW! There is a God!

KAT

I'll reschedule my plans this week and give you as much time as you need.

MOSA

Thank you, Kat. Thank you.

Be careful what you ask for young man, because you just might get it.

PRODUCING, LOCATION SCOUTING, SCHEDULING, LOGISTICS, PROPS, WARDROBE, ETC.

I work nights. I had two days. Two days in Hell. Never been so stressed out in my entire life.

And, you know those people in your life who always say:

" _Hey! If there's anything I can do to help you, anything at all..."_

No. You won't!

At least, Doc the Camera Operator was straight up from the giddy-up.

" _You're on your own."_

THE STORYBOARD AND REHEARSALS

I detailed every single camera angle and movement for every shot, the color palette, the lighting needed to get what we absolutely had to get. Shot by shot, blocked out every movement and gesture of every player. The Storyboard. Then, I dropped it off at Doc's place.

Now this was my situation. I had a vision. People volunteered their free time to help me manifest this vision. They have no experience and no ambition whatsoever in this arena. And I can't afford to pay any of them a fucking dime.

Preparation. I'm big on preparation. Everyone had a schedule. I built in bumper windows. Scheduled around kids' nap times. I must have changed and redistributed the shooting schedule twenty times in two days.

Time was money for the film shoot. I needed to budget time.

_In the corporate world I worked a lot with big budgets. One of the things I learned early in the game is, that as soon as you complete a budget, there is only one thing that is absolutely certain. And that one thing is—_ it's wrong _!_

So I composed myself to expect the unexpected, to remain open and flexible, and to be prepared to roll with the punches.

Right away, rehearsals were a bust. These were busy people with kids and priorities. Rehearsals never made the cut for their "To Do" lists. So be it. I'll build in rehearsal time before each shoot and pray that they make the time to learn their lines.

Kat came through big time! She gave me three mornings.

The first morning, she didn't get it.

The second morning, she didn't get it but at least she knew her lines.

The third morning, we rehearsed blocking, movement, gestures, reaction, and expressions. I walked through the script with her line-by-line. Still, she wasn't grasping the depth of her character. I had thirty minutes left. We were shooting her the next morning.

I took her copy of the script.

MOSA

Look, Kat! This is what she's saying, right? But THIS—

And then I wrote in the margins.

MOSA

THIS, KAT! Is what she really means!

THE SHOOT: 3 DAYS AND 3 NIGHTS

I work nights at a restaurant. When I don't work, I don't get paid. I was at a place in my life where I couldn't afford to take off one night of work. But I was also at a place in my life where I needed to believe in myself, and in order to get there; I needed to take off three consecutive nights.

Like I said, the budget for this project was about time: 3 Days and 3 Nights. And although I spent an enormous amount of time and energy preparing this budget, I knew moving forward that shit I didn't plan for was sure enough gonna happen.

Doc and I met briefly before Kat arrived on the set. Doc and Kat have never seen each other although they live on the same street, five houses apart. Busy people.

MOSA

Doc, you know a lotta folks become very self-conscious when they're in front of the camera, and even more so when they're not used to it. I know that you know this. So, I really need to help them get to that place where they feel comfortable.

DOC

Yup!

MOSA

And, another thing is that people never feel that they look good enough when they see themselves, especially women. All they can see is fat, blemishes, and a host for physical defects.

DOC

Ya got that right!

MOSA

Good. So it's very important that none of the actors see the footage. Okay? No one sees the footage except for you and me. I just wanna make sure that we're on the same page here because if the actors become more insecure than they already are—we're fucked!

DOC

Yeah, yeah, same page.

We all share the frustration of trying to get someone to do something the way we want it done. Resistance is a KILLER! The resistance we meet—even when we're paying people!

We were all supposed to be doing this for fun! It wasn't fun.

Enter Kat. I can't find the words to describe Doc's physical reaction to her presence. He was a wreck!

DOC

Hi! I'm Doc, the Director of Photography.

He went from an ordinary guy who likes to "shoot shit" to the Director of Photography—just like that!

DOC

I know people. Important people.

He just took over, and left little room for interruption.

MOSA

Doc! Doc! We're on a tight schedule. We have the light we need for the first shot right now! C'mon, man! Plant the tripod. Let's test and roll while we have the light.

DOC

Yeah, we got the light alright. C'mon Kat, cum wit me. I'm gonna setcha up ova here by this tree.

Tree?

DOC

I kinda like da way da light's a comin' thru dem branches.

Branches?

DOC

Oooh yeaah, Baby Girl!

BABY GIRL??

DOC

Now gimme a big o'l smile, nice and big. Yeah baby girl, dat's what Big Poppa likes.

BIG POPPA???

DOC

Uh, huh, uh-huh—you got it goin' on too. Oh yeah ya do! And yo' Big Poppa's gonna make u look soooo good! Baby Girl? You gonna jus' love the way you look!

WHAT?!!??

DOC

Now why doncha jus rub yosef up against tha' tree an—

MOSA

Yo Doc! DOC! What are you doing?

DOC

I'm testin'! What duz it look like I'm doin'? I think I'm gonna work more with ma hand-held camera moves. Ah bin practasin'.

MOSA

C'mon Doc, we're on a tight schedule. Let's just follow the Director's Shooting Schedule & Storyboard. You know, the shit I dropped off the other day. The first shot is the Garden Shot on the Tripod. Let's rock it, Doc!

Doc—a deer in headlights.

MOSA

Doc? Are you with me? Where's your copy of the Shooting Schedule & Storyboard?

DOC

I threw it out.

MOSA

YOU THREW IT OUT?

DOC

Yup. Damn right I did. Cuz that's not the way I work. I don't read shit! I shoot shit.

MOSA

Kat, we're gonna take a five minute break. Take Five. Why don't you sit on that bench in the shade. Keep yourself cool.

I wanted to kill him.

MOSA

Doc, can we go inside for a moment?

DOC

Sure!

Inside.

MOSA

Doc? Who's the Director?

DOC

You are.

MOSA

And, who wrote the piece we're trying to shoot?

DOC

You did.

MOSA

Y'know Doc, we don't have to do this. Nobody's getting paid. We can simply call it a day, right now.

DOC

Do you mean that?

MOSA

Yes. I do. We need to be able to work together.

DOC

Well, I don't have any problems working with you. I really enjoy working with you! In fact, I was just telling Missy the other day how professional you are.

MOSA

Look Doc, none of these actors are professional. It's going to be very difficult for them to give me what I need to get in order to tell the story that I'm trying to tell. And it doesn't help, when you tell them to do the opposite of what I'm trying to get them to do.

DOC

Okay.

Big Poppa withdrew to his cage long enough for me to focus on how to get Kat to the place where I needed her to be. But she really fought me hard and challenged every direction. We needed another break. And I needed to pee.

When I returned, Big Poppa was out of his cage again. He had just finished screening Kat the footage.

MOSA

Doc, can I talk to you for a moment?

DOC

Sure!

MOSA

What were you doing?

DOC

I was showing her how good I can make her look. I wanted her to see how good I am with the camera. I want her to have confidence in me, and my ability.

MOSA

You see, Doc? This is exactly what I was talking about. This isn't about you. We had an understanding. No one screens the footage. Now take a look at the damage you've done.

Kat was sitting on the bench, holding back tears.

MOSA

Kat, what's going on?

KAT

I don't think I can do it.

MOSA

Do what?

KAT

Play this character. She has too much depth. She's too complex. It's really painful for me to go where I need to go inside of myself to play her, and I saw the footage, Mosa — she's not COMING THROUGH!

MOSA

Well, I've seen glimpses of her so I know you can do it. And I'm sorry it's so painful for you. I am. But I promise you this: that if you stop fighting me on every single direction you won't feel the pain.

Kat surrendered to her character, and her character — blew me away!

The guys were all great! I'm talking about the ones who showed up. The only direction I needed to give them was:

" _I need you to BE this character. BE that guy!"_

Doc the Camera Operator was tolerable when it was only us guys. But as soon the gals arrived, Big Poppa the Director of Photography took over and it was a big time struggle to get him back in his cage.

HELEN

Mosa, you need to be more sensitive to Doc.

MOSA

Why? He's an asshole!

HELEN

Because he's having problems, that's why. Missy says it's kind of a mid-life crisis coupled with a lot of severe psychological issues.

MOSA

Yeah, like what?

HELEN

Well, there's the Attention Deficit Disorder.

MOSA

Nooooo! Not THAT!

HELEN

And then, there's the bi-polar schizophrenia thing that he's on meds for, and—

MOSA

And, AHDH, DMV, MTA, MDMA, NYPD, BBD&O. Am I missing anything?

HELEN

You're not funny. You know, he really likes you.

MOSA

I don't want him to really like me! These are YOUR friends! And you're supposed to be MY wife! Don't ya think that just maybe you shoulda told me this shit, like maybe a week ago?

HELEN

Oh, puh-leaze, GROW—UP! You're upsetting him! If you can't BE an adult, try acting like one.

All of the female lead characters — with one exception, and she wasn't my wife, were all a royal fucking pain in my ass. It was like their mission statement was to rewrite the storyline, as though someone was paying them handsomely to do so.

Nope. This wasn't fun for anyone. It was a bad idea that should have been left alone because it only got worse.

We shot 30-plus hours of footage. Our schedule was so tight and so many things went wrong, that we didn't have any time to review any of the footage during the shoot.

THE SOUNDTRACK & THE EDIT

Doc scheduled the edit sessions. Editing is his true passion and area of expertise, that's what he told me. He enjoys it even more than "shooting shit." Then, suddenly he was very busy. MIA: September, October, November, and December.

During this period, I collected original music for the soundtrack. And it's awesome!

We linked up after the Holiday season:

DOC

Mosa, I may have misled you. I don't know the first thing about editing. Here's the laptop. Good Luck!

Yup, I know. "You're on your own."

First things first, let me see if there is anything to edit. January, I reviewed the footage: eighty percent was unusable.

However, I only needed twenty minutes to tell the story. I was positive that I could get twenty minutes out of thirty plus hours less eighty percent.

February & March. The program: Adobe Premiere. Didn't know the program. Needed to teach myself. Trial and error. I spent an estimated two hundred and fifty hours editing the material. And a lot of that time was spent starting again from scratch about twenty times. I would get it to a certain point and then I'd lose every thing because the computer would crash and I neglected to save and render. Which of course meant that I had to begin all over again from the beginning. Yup, like I said, that happened about twenty times.

Finally, I took the material as far as I could take it on my own. I needed help.

April. I screened Dave. He couldn't believe what I was able to put together. Then, I screened all of the lead characters. The piece exceeded everyone's expectations. It was an okay piece. But it wasn't good enough. Not for me.

It was supposed to be a mystery but there were still too many holes in the narrative because of an essential scene that we weren't able to shoot during the 3 Days and 3 Nights.

I wrote some new shit and lobbied hard to have it shot. Dave saw the potential and signed on. All of the players were on board except for Kat. And I needed Kat. There was no way that I could pull this off without Kat.

KAT

Mosa, we've been down this road before.

MOSA

We have?

KAT

Yes. Don't you remember?

MOSA

I guess—I mean—well, no. I don't.

KAT

What? Are you telling me that you don't remember how painful that experience was for me? It was too painful! I've moved on with my life! I'm so OVER THIS!!!

MOSA

Buh—but, Kat! Now that you've seen what we've done, and how good it is, and how good you are, and the potential for the finished product—well, doesn't that make a difference?

KAT

No. It doesn't.

I came a ringing on Kat's doorbell everyday for two weeks straight. I would have offered her thousands of dollars if I had the money but I didn't have a dime. All I had to offer were my two kneecaps. So I got down on my knees and begged like I was begging for my life. I've never begged for anything before because I've never experienced anything or anyone that was worth it.

KAT

Okay, okay already! Enough! I'll do it. But just finish this goddamn thing!

THE FINAL SHOOT

It had to be postponed. Kat got really sick. But we ultimately got it together after miscommunication led to downright nasty finger pointing. The shoot was tense and ugly. We only had an hour.

I told Doc to bring a tripod. He didn't bring one. I had only twenty minutes out of the scheduled hour without Big Poppa. But the women fought the direction harder than ever, they had me in the corner, up against the ropes, and that's when — Big Poppa busted out of his cage! And, there was no getting him back in the cage this time out.

The next thing that I knew, the shoot was over. I got twenty minutes to get three. I was pretty sure that I got enough to finish the "goddamn thing."

Doc called me two days later.

DOC

This is the sort of thing that happens one out of a thousand times. We shot with a bad tape. The computer won't capture any of the audio and very little of the video. So basically, you're fucked because I'm done with this project. I'm over it. And I need the laptop back as soon as possible for other business I must tend to.

Yeah, I know, I know — I'm on my own.

There was a pivotal point during the shoot when I realized that my wife and I had grown too far apart to grow together again.

It's the grand finale scene of the film. All of the lead female characters are in it: Kat, Krystal, Taylor, Hannah, Missy, and Helen.

The scene marks a Return from the Depths Of Darkness into the Brightness of Illumination—a Full Moon in Taurus. It was my favorite scene to shoot. There was an overwhelming outpour of silent emotion on the set. It was beautiful and magical, and perfection: the lighting, the colors, the radiant women, Doc, and me.

There was this one moment in this final scene when I looked at Helen on the set, and felt a twinge of sadness in my heart.

Then I thought... "That's it. It's over. I'm going to leave her as soon as I finish this film."

IT'S ALWAYS DARKEST...

Two days after Doc gave me the news about the bad tape, Helen picked up raging viral pneumonia.

" _Got her to the emergency room in the nick of time," is what the Doctor said._

Every day that week the blood tests came back with something new and fatal. For two weeks straight, life or death was a 50/50 chance EVERY DAY. We could have began and ended each day with a coin flip.

I felt guilty. You know, like I had something to do with her illness because I desired to move on. I mean, shit! I wanted to end the relationship, but — I didn't want her to DIE! So I used my Reiki best to muster all of the compassion in my heart to help nurture her back to health.

... _BEFORE THE LIGHT_

Yes. She recovered fully. And the film took on a life of its own. It's ninety-eight percent complete. No, it's not great. It's probably not even good. But all I wanted was to finish the "goddamn thing." And I did!

I never believed the film would amount to anything more than the first pancake, you know? The one you throw away. But I have never been as proud as I am in this moment, that I accomplished so much with so little. And would I go through Hell and back again to make another? In a fucking heartbeat!

LOVE IN THE PEACE THREAD

Many moons later.

A STREET CORNER - DAY

MOSA

OmiGod! I can't believe it! It's—BUTTA! HEY! What in the Hell are you doing these days? I heard you killed the show!

CAD

Hey, Hey! Mosa, My Man! You won't believe THIS! I got tons of mail after your show. And I read all of the notes and letters. Every last one! But, there was one letter that especially touched me moreso than the others, so I set it aside.

I read it again and again. It touched me a little deeper each time. At the end of each read, I thought of you and your story, so finally I got the courage to track down her number and call her. Had no idea what I was going to say.

MOSA

You GO, Cad! Take that jump! Well, don't leave a brutha hangin'! What did you say to the woman? What happened?

CAD

I told her how much I loved her letter. How many times I read it, and how much it touched me with each read. And, that I loved it so much that I felt compelled to call to ask for her permission to read it on the show. She gave it to me, and I did—I read it!

MOSA

Smooooooth! And?

CAD

AND, you won't believe this!

MOSA

Try me.

CAD

When I was done with the show, I went out through the reception area to head to the head, and—the most beautiful woman that I have ever seen is sitting in a waiting chair. So I said—

"Excuse me, but is anyone helping you? Are you waiting for someone?" And she said—

"That magnificent voice! You must be Cad Liniment Soon Vow."

CAD

And then I said—

"Cad I AM!"

MOSA

Haha! That was weak, Cad!

CAD

Haha! I know, I know, but hey! Give a guy a break, why don't you! I was nervous, and on top of that I felt a little trickle down the inseam of my pants.

MOSA

Please tell me that you weren't wearing khakis.

CAD

Heavens no! Thank God! Well then, she stood up, extended her hand, and said—

"Then I've been waiting for you. Please, allow me to introduce myself, I'm the woman whose letter you just read on air."

MOSA

JESUS! NO WAY! ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

CAD

I know—right? Mosa, she's drop-dead beautiful!

MOSA

Damn! So what happened next?

CAD

I shook her hand, and she smiled. And then, she said—

"Would you care to join me for a cup of coffee or tea?"

I almost dropped dead on the spot! But I held up long enough to ask—

"When would be a good time for you?"

And she said—

"Right, now. Now is a very, very good time."

And then, I said, I can't believe that I said this either—

"Shit! Right, now? I was just on my way to the head to take a wicked piss. Will you wait for me? I promise that I'm really fast!"

MOSA

Hahahahahahaha! Noooooooooooo! Please, tell me that you didn't really say that!

CAD

Hahahaha! Yup! That's what I said!

MOSA

What did she say after that?

CAD

"Just don't forget to wash your hands!"

MOSA

Cool!

CAD

And we've been together ever since that day.

MOSA

Serious?

CAD

Two kids and a mortgage, serious. I'm a stay at home dad and loving my life! As Helen would say, "Living in my Truth." Speaking of Helen—

MOSA

Wow! Congratulations Cad! I'm so happy for you! You're just glowing! You must be really happy!

CAD

I'm over the moon! I go to sleep over the moon and wake up over the moon each and every day!

MOSA

How old are the kids?

CAD

Five and Six. Blessed with a boy and a girl.

MOSA

Damn! You people didn't waste any time!

CAD

Time is not for wasting. It's a Gift! You, of all people, know this! But enough about me! How are you guys? How's Helen?

MOSA

I'm embarrassed to say that we didn't make it, Cad.

CAD

Wow! Really? I am SO sorry!

MOSA

Don't be. I'm not.

CAD

Well, I AM! What happened? Tell me, "How Could A Love So Right, Turn Out To Be So Wrong?"

MOSA

Haha! Really, Cad? You've given up your Chinese Fortune Cookie obsession, and replaced it with, what — The Bee Gees?

CAD

Hey! She loves The Bee Gees! C'mon, what happened to you guys?

MOSA

Oh, I don't know Cad, we just grew apart, that's all.

CAD

You don't know? We'll let's find out! What was The Turning Point?

MOSA

Well, when I asked her what happened to us, she said—

"Money. The financial struggles that we're going through — they killed us."

CAD

Hard times?

MOSA

It was a struggle. But we always had enough! I guess that enough was not enough—that good health, Love, and enough money was not enough. And then I asked her, "when did we begin to fight all of the time?" And she said—

"We were always fighting."

"We were?" I asked.

"Yes, we we're," she answered.

She was right. I don't know why I blocked that out. After all, we did go to see some marriage counselor psychologist dude for a few helpless sessions, relatively early in the marriage. I had completely forgotten about that. I've always maintained that the day a couple seeks out a complete stranger to teach them how to communicate with each other is definitely the day that the party is over. And for some reason, I blocked that out.

CAD

Okay. Enough about what Helen said. I'm talking to you, Mosa. What do you say? What was The Turning Point?

MOSA

Hmmmmmmm... Gosh, Cad, you know I'm just not sure. It could've been the time that she kicked the dog. Coulda been—

CAD

WHAT? Are you kidding me? That abused Tibetan Spaniel?

MOSA

Yup! She did. Cad—that was the closest that I ever came to killing somebody. I wanted to kill her.

CAD

Was that was The Turning Point?

MOSA

Or, it could've been the time I caught her boldface lying to a five-year old. He called her on it too, and then she boldface lied to him again. I was standing right there. Me, and that little boy, we both knew what was up. It was way that he looked up at me for help—y'know? Broke my heart.

Kicking a little dog who does nothing but loves you unconditionally, and lying to a child, while you constantly preach about always coming from a place of Love? Gotta say—

CAD

That just doesn't sound like the Helen I met. Doesn't make sense! Is there something else? There must be. Dig a little deeper, Mosa. When was the first time, that you could feel the turn, that very first swivel. When did it begin?

Mosa closes his eyes. He takes three, slow, deep breaths. He opens his eyes.

Silence.

MOSA

Yes. It's slowly coming back to me now. No. It wasn't the time she concealed a loaded gun in her purse for our first visit with Numero Uno. Didn't let me know that she had packed heat until long after the fact.

No. It wasn't that.

Okay! YES! I remember now! I know exactly when it was! It was early in the relationship. Shortly after we were wed. Not too long after our interview with you.

Yes, Cad. This was it! This was definitely The Turning Point! Definitely!

When I returned East from Red Rock Country, one of the first things I did was choreograph a series of movements and stretches to keep me aligned, centered, aware, and present.

CAD

In order to maintain the Peace within that you were feeling? To keep it going?

MOSA

Yes, precisely. I knew the divorce was gonna be wicked ugly and nasty, and I accepted that there was simply no way around that harsh reality—that it was just gonna be what it was gonna be. I needed to maintain the Peace Within to get through it all in one solid piece.

Because when she's pissed off, Taurus Numero Uno is a force as powerful as a Category Five hurricane. I'd put her up against anybody. And what I knew was that, what I was about to do, was sure as Hell—

Gonna Piss That Woman Off!

So, every morning as soon as I got up out of bed, I danced my dance to greet the morning Sun to temper myself for the present day. Every morning without fail — it soon became an extension of who I AM, it was just another part of me.

I carried this practice into the relationship with Helen. I don't recall exactly how it came to be but Helen eventually joined me in my morning greeting ritual of Peace within maintenance.

It was great too! Just another expression of our togetherness, we were tempering the "us," I thought. You know?

And then, one lovely Summer morning we were moving through the ritual outdoors, face-to-face, across from each other. Slow movements in tandem, in concert with unison breathing, a most beautiful thing on a beautiful day!

About a quarter of the way through, she very slowly and deliberately changes this one movement of the ritual, and begins to take it in the polar opposite direction.

Cad, there was this look in her eyes, and a facial expression that I had never seen before from her. I don't even know how to describe it other than it was the look of the Power of—Personal WILL, the Personal WILL of a person that I no longer knew. I recall thinking, "Who is this person?"

I didn't say a word because I was totally in my peaceful place within, you know? But the thoughts began to race through my mind at lightning speed—

"What is she doing? And why is she doing it? Okay, now what am I gonna do? I've been put in a position where I must make a decision. I do have a choice. I can either stay open and go with the flow with an open mind and open heart. Or, I can stay inside my Peace within and continue my personally choreographed ritual." And all of these thoughts came in a FLASH!

CAD

I see the predicament.

MOSA

I consciously chose to go with the flow and follow her lead.

CAD

You sacrificed your Peace? For what? For the sake of the relationship?

MOSA

For Love, Cad. After all, I did believe she was "The One."

CAD

No Love without Peace.

MOSA

And, No Peace without Love.

CAD

So you took the chance that if you let go of the Peace within that it would come back to you again through Love. But I can see as you stand before me that it didn't. You had given ALL of you, and still, it wasn't enough. But yet, it was ALL you had to give!

MOSA

Yes. Giving up my Peace—this was my weakness, the chink in my armor. Because this was really about control, manipulation, and domination—the polar opposite of Love! But I couldn't see this at the time.

CAD

You're only human, man.

MOSA

Anyway, we began to grow apart after that morning. I ceased living in My Truth and adjusted my being to live in Her Truth. I was trying to be flexible and not so close-minded, you know? But the more I learned about Her Truth, and the shadow-side of her person, the more I discovered how far away Her Truth is from mine.

I mean, Jesus, Cad! She KICKED THAT LITTLE DOG!

And you know what? Now that I see The Turning Point clearly—I'm so ANGRY with myself! Because now, I can also see how I have put myself in that position in every serious, intimate relationship that I've had. Time and time again, I always HAD a choice!

There was always a Turning Point! And I always made that same choice! I'm such a damn FOOL! Repeating the same pattern, again and again! Like that Einstein quote about doing that same o'l shit and expecting different results.

CAD

Chinese Fortune cookie say, "To be old and wise, you must first be young and stupid."

MOSA

But I'm not young any more! Just stupid!

CAD

Then perhaps, you are young in heart, and will live—long time!

MOSA

Nope, I'm just a slow learning Fool. Even Numero Uno tried to hit me up with some parting wisdom. Her final words before I finally closed that door, were—

"WHAT? What do you think? Do you honestly believe that it gets any better than this? Do you? Because if you do, then you're living in a pipe dream! Because this—is as good as it gets!"

After she she said that, there was nothing that I wanted more than to prove her wrong with my happiness. But it turns out that—she was right!

CAD

Try not to be too hard on yourself.

MOSA

And, Maia too! Damn! She was right all along! I wasn't ready yet. I wasn't ready to become The Bridge. The Bridge between the Impractical Nature of Unconditional Love Expression and the Conventional World of Practicality. The Bridge between Love and Peace.

CAD

Now I know that you know, that I have absolutely no idea what you just said, you know that—right?

MOSA

Goth Man. Rinpoche. I chose not to listen. I Am "The One."

Oh, shit, Cad! I'm running late! I gotta go! But it was great to see you! And, HEY! I'm so happy for you! Truly! I truly am!

CAD

Please, one more Fortune Cookie saying for the road ahead—"Someday, everything will all make perfect sense."

Mosa extends his hand. Cad receives it, and pulls him close. He gives Mosa a big, warm, GOTH MAN style, HUG!

####

THE END OF VOLUME I

