78
Stage Two
[pain & guilt]
I believe that when a traveler from the depths of space arrives here on Earth, it inadvertently will alter our ecosphere. Likewise, when this same visitor returns to its world of origin, existence there will unintentionally, yet similarly, be amended; not necessarily for the worse, just change it.
It seems, therefore, that our literature and screenplays agree, and suggest that it really should happen; that we then expect it to be so. Our fascination with the unknown also suggests that we long to change our perception of our reality. But true to the complexity of our species, at the same moment that we are about to absorb this change into our culture as an alternate truth, we object and lie that it never happened. It is true that we want to believe, but we oddly also support those that criticize the advocates who promote change.
As a case in point, the writers and producers of a History Channel’s TV series, promoting the idea that aliens arrived on Earth thousands of years ago, want their documentary to be a testimony to the existence of that tall, non-descript, tablet that was found on the moon in the movie ‘2001’. Fiction? Possibly. When the narrative, however, is so powerful, so overwhelmingly filled with emotion and imagery, we can’t help transcend into that world, and then to allow it to transform our world. The reader is thus conveyed by empathy or by identification or by imagery, possibly credence, or by all of the above, to a world different from where they presently exist. For the duration of the narrative, we will consider it.
I suppose we want that to happen, we need this to be so, to change our perception of our reality so badly, to absorb this new undocumented truth into our culture as an alternate truth. We want to believe.
There is an Indigenous American proverb that claims that the one who tells the story rules the world. Possibly making a belief an oxymoron.
Finally scripting these last few paragraphs, reviewing them over and over to assure you would understand me, but leaving enough room in my dialogue for you to possibly disagree with me, all seems to have been enough reason for me to end my writing for the day. I’m tired.
His spiked collar loosely hanging around his neck, and his leash thrown around mine, we left our home. To take that earned break from our routine. As a pair so much in sync, we were totally ready to just daydream our separate thoughts together. Tucker is definitely an off-leash dog; always was. He is forever a free spirit that way. He is a big dog, 85+ pounds [depending on the time of day his weight is recorded]. Black with some white fur now advancing quickly around his body, so much more rapidly as he gets older. His face is now almost all white. White fur was also rapidly speckling his body, and hurriedly creeping up each leg. He looks so different now as he did as a pup. Staffordshire American Pitbull was his curse when I found him limply sitting on a bowl of adult dog food in the County shelter. He was seven hours from being euthanized at 4 ½ weeks. Today those pit bull characteristics are morphing into Great Dane features, a breed that has given him his curse today, hip dysplasia. But he longs for his walks; with pride oozing from every part of his 14-year-old body, his head held high; still has the stride of his youth, with an occasional misstep from his failing hips.
I understand that not everyone is a dog lover. Most that don’t know him, who approach him, show some lack of self-well-being, as they cautiously sidle up close and personal to this dog who, on the outside, appears to like sushi. When I adopted Tucker, I realized there was one imposing burden I would be embracing that now has become part of his very nature. He has always carried his Pit Bull lineage proudly; for which I will always brag audaciously. More than his physical features indorse, however, is his heart. His sense of caring that he brought into every relationship, human and beast equally. Yet, I will still carry his leash on each walk; hooking him up as soon as we have sight of someone that doesn’t know him. He’s okay with this decision. Taking it in stride, he expects the leash to be attached when a stranger is in view; head held high, sharply staring at his potential human opponent. They in turn nervously stare back. I enjoy this scene of dominance; ‘the street is ours’ Tucker proclaims. He is proud that his message was clearly sent and received.
It’s a short walk to the neighborhood lake; the gravel parking lot lying next to it. Usually with at least one person fishing from its banks, today it was serene and uninhabited. From there we followed the sidewalk at the other end of the parking lot, through a grove of herbaceous plants that lead us to a wooden bridge that crossed over a pool of water filled with lily pods and grass, rushes and reeds. I have to be honest, I’m not that Florida smart, so my knowledge that this area was the transitional edge to our final destination was not from folklore or textbook. My only understanding that this would lead us to a stream that was part of the tributary system leading to the Braden River was because Tuck and I take this route almost every day. Not from any knowledge of the notable geological features, but purely from previous experience, we knew we would soon be walking onto a dirt path that would become the passageway to our destination.
Untethered from each other, with his in-the-moment thoughts spiced with the path’s smells, and me with my memories and dreams; we moved in unison. It was a really pretty day. I had agreed earlier, without any argument, that it would have been a shame not to get away from the computer on such a beautiful day. Lower Topia just never seems to disappoint us when it comes to its climate. Tucker agreeably tagged along; shifting positions from behind me, to then being in front of me, then occasionally along side of me, but always he was with me. He knew where we are headed. He was getting excited with the possibility that his senses were correct, he knew we were getting closer.
We were walking to Tuck’s favorite place, a stream at the end of this path, where he loves to chase the fish; Wolf Slough. This stream is very popular with all ages of the human-kind and all breeds of dog. The slough of this creek, where the water reduces its flow to a slow-moving current most of the year, is locally known as the “Watering Hole”. A bend in the stream that is part of a collection of creeks that feed into a large river, whose head water is located on the farms two or three miles out east; its runoff moving eventually to the river’s mouth about 25 miles to the west.
With the heavy late-summer rains inundating the fields, the runoff floods the Slough, erodes into the soft clay soil, and seems to raise the outside banks of this meandering stream to almost 15 feet above its bed. At the same moment, on inside banks at this bend in the stream, to match the wall on the opposite side of the eroded banks, the deposition of sediment carried by the strong currents produce a small beach where visitors will be able to sit during the dry season, and dogs will dig.
When swollen, filled with rain and runoff, the stream becomes unapproachable and dangerous for the dogs to play. The local kids, however, accept the challenge, scream in joy as they became a circus trapeze artist swinging over the engorged creek; using ropes they tied, months earlier, to the branches of the large Live Oaks shadowing the stream. Shrieking with excitement, with the agility of Tarzan and Jane, they would let go of the rope and dive into the deep water rushing to its mouth. The strong current seizes them, pulls them downstream, but with the last surge of their adrenaline, they grab onto a bush or branch as it had reached out to catch them and bring them back safely to the muddy bank. Unharmed and with no remorse for their poor judgement, they return to their ropes, and gleefully redo their feat. When the current slows during the dry season, the stream quickly becomes shallow and manageable; lacking any guilt of once being the raging torrent of water just a month before, and a conduit of fun, risk and adventure.
During the dry season as the water flow returns to a babbling brook, the sheer wall of tree roots and vines, that dominates the outside bank, is only for the fit visitor to climb; it’s as sheer and challenging as any gym rock-climbing wall. Tuck and his friends do it with ease. Tuck, with his canine buddies, Baily, Bones and Kingston, would run up and down this slope with gymnastic grace. Hide-and-seek, ‘tag-your-it’, ‘ready or not here I come’, was their call to challenge; they conquered the steep slopes of Wolf Slough, and proudly claimed their victory to everyone watching.
Today, this stream would quietly sit, openly invite peaceful souls, like Tuck and myself, to visit the exposed Slough’s beach. On days like today, I would rest on a remnant of a fallen tree, and cool my feet in the lazy water; watching Tucker run through the creek chasing the Shiners and Gars.
It was a great day for sure. With our memory filled with wonderful images that will last until we revisit it again, it was time for Tuck and me to go home. Slowly. No rush to return, walking in step with our lazy stride, we followed the imaginary bread crumbs that we left on the same path of our ingress into this wonderful world of dreams and pretty visions; back to the large lake just outside our neighborhood and our home. We finally reached the edge of the grove of herbaceous plants, and the wooden bridge that crossed over a pool of water filled with lily pods and grass, rushes and reeds. Those last steps taken just outside the marsh and forest would again lead us to the dirt parking lot by the lake that resides in our neighborhood.
There we met Levi. An elderly man sitting alone on the bank of the lake.
“Hi!” I shouted, with a routine practiced over and over again, I habitually continued, “He is very friendly. Works as a Therapy Dog for a school for Special Needs children, and also a couple of local hospitals.” I’m not sure if it was the guilt I felt because I forgot to hook Tucker up to his leash when I first saw him, or just bragging to a stranger about Tucker’s talent. Tucker’s job description was recited so many times before, out of shear habit, I just blurt it out as automatically as a parent does when introducing their child; ‘here’s his resume for you to marvel at.’ In my defense, this guy did just seem to appear out of nowhere. There was no time to think about the leash that was uselessly hanging around my neck. Yes, I was deep in my daydreams when I realized he was sitting on the banks of the lake; it was really too late. However, he did deserve some reassurance that my big black dog with obvious Pit Bull features wasn’t going to eat him alive; he wasn’t a descendant of ‘Cujo’. Maybe it would be easier if I just kept the leash attached all the time. But that’s how Tuck and I do things. Tucker saw him, like me, without any warning. His daydreams can be as intense as mine, and apparently his senses were numbed, as well. Tucker stood motionless, starring at the stranger. But this guy never showed any indication he was concerned. He continued to sit on the bank of the lake, turning his head away from the water, slowly towards us. He casually stared back at Tucker.
“No matter. I like big dogs.” He voice a bit rough, almost like he was gargling some phlegm that needed to be dislodged from his throat. He did hear me. Good. My apology received, and accepted. The old man added, “I had a few when I was younger. Their too much work for me now.” His voice cleared a bit; ‘he must have swallowed’.
“Hi, my name is Charles. This creature is Tucker.” Tucker pulled back his ears upon hearing his name. He knew he was being introduced. I added to his resume that I just served; descriptive is always a good selling point to offer. “He’s big, but as big as he is, he is gentle and very friendly.” My confirmation that we’re cool respectfully submitted and apparently so noted.
“And a Therapy Dog, too.” The old man casually replied with a smile. Submitted and noted.
“Yes. He does good work.” Never willingly minimizing the importance of my dog’s work ethics. Attempting to smooth out the rough spots in my boastful introduction, I added, “Listen, I apologize. When I see someone on the same path, I would usually have him on a leash. I guess I was thinking about something else when we first saw you. Never really saw you sitting here. I do apologize.”
“Hi back, Charles. My name is Levi. Hey, don’t worry about that. Like I said, I’m okay with big dogs. All dogs, big or small, actually. I could tell he was a friendly beast. Hey, Tucker.” Levi reached out with his hand appropriately turned so the back of the hand touched Tucker’s nose first. Then slowly turning the hand so his palm and fingers could cup then pat the top of Tucker’s head. ‘Levi will be okay with you, Tuck. Good boy Tuck.’ Sending my compliment straight to Tucker.
Tucker heard me, pressing his head upwards against Levi’s hand. Then raised his head even more to allow his nose to smell Levi’s hand, then his mouth to lick the hand that was patting his scalp. Tucker’s introduction was also submitted, and accepted.
“Good boy, Tucker.” Levi said. Then adding, in the same breath, “I don’t live there, you know,” as he pointed to the homes where we live.
He directed our attention with the aid of a carefully folded piece of white paper. He held the paper tightly in his hand, so it began to neatly fold into a tube within his grasp, and then functioned this tube as his pointer, as if he was giving a speech and the world around him was his white board.
“It’s usually a bit of a walk to get here myself. Used to do it myself all the time. It would take most of the day, but it would be a pleasant walk if the weather cooperated. I have nothing else to do on most days. Hell of a trek during the deadly heat of late Spring and Summer. Let me tell you. But today my daughter drove me. I guess I must have sounded really achy this morning, so she volunteered to drive me here.” I turned and looked around the parking lot, and there it was, a car sitting at the other side, parked so that it could be easily seen from the entrance of the lot. ‘I’m positive it absolutely wasn’t there when Tucker and I first came earlier.’
Levi continues, “I come here with this timetable. It tells me when the bus is supposed arrive. And, according to it, the bus should have already been here. It must be late. Very late. I wonder why. Do you know why?” Showing me again the tightly held piece of paper rolled in his hand, he did so with respect and deference to its importance. I just assumed it was a timetable just like he had described it to be, which to him, legitimized the bus route on the Parkway. Confused, since I am certain, there are no transit buses running on this two-lane road, that actually dead-ended here, at the lake. The Parkway actually got its name not because of any proposed commercial use, but rather because it was my neighborhood’s only artery in and out of the area. So, I politely smiled.
“My daughter drove me here today.” Apparently, he forgot he just told me that. “Getting older, I guess. It’s a chore, it’s certainly is a bitch, to get here myself, lately. I objected at first, but with her driving me here, I figured, it now gives me more time so I can sit by the lake, rest and wait for the bus to come. It’s late today, you know. It’s never this late.” Levi affirmed.
“Bus? What bus is that, sir?” I attempted to sound patient. He’s old. Maybe he’s lost. Maybe that’s not his daughter’s car. Why wouldn’t I have believed him that it wasn’t? Maybe his having an issue of memory loss. He never had his daughter drive him here. Maybe he doesn’t have a daughter. How am I supposed to know? How am I supposed to react? He’s obviously elderly, why wouldn’t he have memory issues. ‘Don’t over stereotype.’ He could have wandered from any of the many neighborhoods that surround this lake. I remember finding my father walking around the block from his home when I visited him one day; seemed lost and confused when I found him, and brought him back to his house where he regained his sense of being. All this is possible. So, I asked myself again, ‘how am I to react with this gentle soul who likes my dog, waiting for this bus on a street that isn’t used by mass transit?’
Maybe there was a bus, and I just never saw it travel on this road. We call it the Parkway. Granted its name does implies that it’s a major thoroughfare, but every local resident knew its name, Parkway, was a just a misnomer. The early developers, during the initial design of this area, had bigger plans for this road. It was meant to be a major thoroughfare from one side of the community to the other, so they named it a Parkway in advance of its completion for the urban effect; they also added a grassed median that separated the two lanes to make it look like a Parkway. ‘But Levi, it was only meant to add to the ambience of the area. How in the world would any bus maneuver a 180 here where the Parkway ends at the lake?’
‘Sometimes it’s okay to let someone create their own narrative to believe in. Maybe sometimes, it’s okay to believe along with them. What harm is done.?’
“I have the timetable. See here in my hand?” Justification noted. “The timetable, here,” He repeated, while holding up the folded paper, holding it as a teacher’s stick, pointing in the direction of the bus route, ‘…to give it some relevance…how could this not be a bus route if this timetable exists to show it to be so?’
Unrelenting, he was very clear about the schedule. “The bus was due a while ago. I’ve been standing here waiting for it. I do this every day. Today, I got a bit tired so I thought I’d grab a cool breeze and sit here by the lake.” Levi sighs. “But time got the better of me, and now I hope I didn’t miss it. That’s possible, No?” Concerned, and I didn’t know how to ease his thoughts, telling him there wasn’t any bus coming on this road, ever.
He is definitely old, but I’m not sure how old. I’ll guessed well into his 80’s, possibly early 90’s. It’s tough to guess people’s ages when they get old. Some wrinkle early, some never do. Levi wore his age with some degree of grace, but he still was unable to hide the fact that he couldn’t be younger than 80. His wrinkles, so many of them, hid any evidence of past smiles, and eyes that hardly functioned with the convoluted creases on his eyelids almost closing them to barely functional slits. He’d looked dazed and confused; or maybe he was just tired. He was dressed very casually, dark grey sweat pants, black sneakers, and an orange long sleeve T-shirt; no design on the shirt, just orange; obviously all the pieces were chosen based on the ease of applying to his body. No food stains on his clothes, no indication of incontinence, just clothing slightly crumpled; they were clean. He had a mild old man smell; somewhere between musty, grassy, and a touch of maybe aged beer or buckwheat. The odor, what I call a bakery smell, an odor that reminds me of another time, reminiscent of another place, an event noted by a favorite food or song. This smell reminded me of my father. It’s a perfume that doesn’t mean the old person isn’t clean, just a product of a body that no longer has the metabolism to digest certain chemicals, so its sweated out through the pores. It was tolerable.
“I’m sorry sir, but I don’t think buses use this road. It ends at this lake and there is no place for it to have turned around to ride back down the road again. You might have better luck catching a ferry on this lake than a bus.” A bit cruel, he’s old. But I didn’t want this conversation to end with me walking away in frustration, when I thought it would be better if I helped him find his way back from wherever he came; to stop wishing for something that just isn’t coming.
“What a silly statement sir. Like this very big lake might even have a ferry running on it, it goes nowhere. Silly. How in the world could there ever be a ferry on this lake that would only take me to the other side of this lake. I could walk around it?” Point Levi! Levi was getting a little agitated, not sure if it was me and my stupid statement or his unproductive wait. The bus wasn’t clearly coming today, again. And he was very upset.
The parking lot between the lake and the Parkway had a few cars enter since I first met Levi. They all parked on the far end. There were a few people hanging around on or two of them. A pet, a bike, a carriage; people were preparing to travel on the path that Tuck and I just left. First thought was to agree that we got out of there just in time to miss the crowd. That would have surely put a burden on our freelance walk. But, then I realized I still haven’t seen anyone that could be associated with the only car in the parking lot when I first met Levi. If he was driven here, that must have been the car that got him here. I just couldn’t imagine Levi walking here.
“Levi, let me take you to the other side of the parking lot, and see if you recognize any of those cars. If you can’t remember, let me ask you to wait a few minutes, I will rush home to get my car, and drive you somewhere, maybe my home, so I can help you find your family.” Levi was silent, he face just wasn’t responding to this idea; no sign of acknowledgement, no agreement, no disagreement. His face remained speechless.
Then, patiently, after a few minutes, “OK,” was Levi’s answer. I let go of Tucker’s leash. Tucker didn’t move. I slowing placed my left hand under Levi’s left elbow, and my right hand moved around his back and under his right elbow. I slowly lifted him up. He was so light, air; he rose easily. I didn’t notice that as Levi allowed me to raise him, he had dropped his timetable on the sandy bank of the lake. A slight exhale of breath, mostly a sigh, from Levi as he finally stood upright. His shoulders showed the weight of gravity and time, as his head angled slightly downward. He gathered his balance carefully allowing me to keep my hands under his elbows until he gained his own equilibrium. I felt his attempts to regain his balance as he pressed against my hands; different pressure for each hand. He started to slowly walk by himself to the other side of the parking lot towards the parked cars, and I closely followed. Would he recognize any of them as the vehicle that got him here? Tucker, untethered, walked along side us, on my side of this freshly bonded trio.
“DAD!! DADDY!!” It came from the path that Tucker and I were on earlier. Levi and I stopped; Tucker stopped. We turned our heads and stared at this woman calling out. None of us recognized her, including Levi. I returned my hands under Levi’s elbows again. It was almost so automatic that it may me feel that Levi was my responsibility now, and as his protector and guardian, my hands really do belong supporting him.
“Hi. Is he alright? Oh Dad, are you okay? I’m so sorry. I thought you’d be okay while I went for a short walk over there”. I don’t remember seeing her on the path. But then Tucker and I do daydream a lot. It’s possible we just didn’t see her.
“Hi. My name is Charles. My dog and I found Levi sitting along the lake. Alone. He’s really okay. We were just concerned, especially when he was so insistent about a bus getting here late. Seeing no one in the parking lot, I was trying to figure what would be the best thing I could do for him.” Who exactly was holding her father and guiding him across the parking? Her confusion quickly morphed into defense and offense all at the same time. Guilty as charged lady. I have my hands on your father, but it isn’t what you think. I should say that out loud, but how do I do that without sounding guilty of attempted kidnap. She smiled, and looked at Tucker who was standing close by me, then at his leash, which was getting really dirty with gravel dust as it was dragged across the parking lot.
“Nice looking dog.” She replied. “I’m sorry for your concern. Thank you so much for caring enough to help him. He wants me to take him to this lake every day. I can’t do that, every day. We come here at least once a week. That’s my car over there.” That was her car. I thought so. Would Levi have recognized it?
“We don’t live far from here, but he can’t walk very well, so driving is necessary.” I looked at her, smiled, and released my hold on Levi’s elbow. He stood on his own.
“He told me his name is Levi. Tucker and I found him sitting along the lake, and we felt he needed assistance.” Tucker again pulled his ears back when he heard his name. “So, I hope I didn’t over react. I just saw him, alone with no one else around. I came over to introduce myself and if I could help him.”
She smiled. “Thank you. My name is Jane.”
“Hi, Jane. I’m Charles and this is Tucker”. I successfully fought off listing his accomplishments, she wouldn’t be interested anyway.
“Hi, Tucker. He is a very pretty dog.” She repeated. Almost as if she had nothing more to say to me. I think we both agreed that it was time to put this relationship to rest.
“Thanks” I replied. “Well, I’m thrilled you found him. I believe he is okay. He just kept talking about some bus that is always late. You know that there is no transit bus that comes down this road.”
Jane took a second to try to put together her explanation to a stranger that somehow got caught up in the same world that her father has created for himself and her. She definitely didn’t know how much information was too much information. I could sense that she was carefully putting together a story that she felt comfortable telling me, a stranger.
“Dad memories are all focused on the day his wife, my mom, died. They were both living with me at the time. Now, just Dad lives with me. Oh, almost a year ago. Anniversary is coming up soon. I was asking him if he wanted to do something on that day. I thought he would appreciate that chance to send his love to the woman that stayed by his side forever and ever. The van that carried her out of the neighborhood used this road. On that day, as the van pulled out of the driveway, down the street, and out of the neighborhood, he asked if I would mind if we followed the van in my car. Down this road, the Parkway. Almost a year ago.” Jane’s eyes started to tear, and her voice slowly allowed her story to be told between short attempts to resist more tears from forming. Levi stood next her now, head down, allowing the wrinkles on his face to completely hide any remaining evidence that he once smiled. He leaned into his daughter’s body as she wrapped her arm around his waist. The two of them stood there quietly as her story ended with them on the Parkway almost a year ago.
“So, he asks me to take him to the lake as often as I have free time.” Jane continues to tell me Levi’s story. “It is his time to sit by the lake by himself, looking at the road on which his wife was taken away from him. They were married for over 60 years. I know it was hard on him to lose her.” Levi started to shake his head in agreement, swaying his body as Jane cradled her father.
“Ella. Ella. Sweet dear Ella. I’ll meet you soon, Ella.” A whisper from Levi, both Jane and I heard.
It was time for them to go home, and for me to leave them to try to put those many pieces of their lives together until Levi’s next visit to the lake and Parkway.
As Jane placed her hands where mine held him a few minutes ago, she guided her father to her car. I took hold of Tucker’s leash and walked towards the street to finally go home. I turned to look again at the lake’s bank where we found Levi. I saw something white laying on the bank. I was about to dismiss this, but curiosity got the better of me, and I walked over check it out. With its telltale curl still formed, it was obvious to me that this was the timetable that Levi held and used as a pointer; it was apparent throughout our conversation that this timetable was really important to Levi. I bent down and picked it up. Turned to expect to find Jane and Levi gone, but Jane was still getting Levi into the car; carefully adjusting his position so she could fasten his seat belt. With the folder paper waving now as a flag to get Jane’s attention, I walked quickly to their car. Tucker tagged along burgeoningly; he was hoping I would forget my grip on his leash, and just let him dive into the lake and maybe catch a fish. But with my guidance controlling his tether, he resented my request that he follow my hurried pace.
“Hi. Jane. Hi. I’m sorry to bother you. But I think this is Levi’s. He told me it was the bus timetable. Maybe he would want it.” I reached out and gave Jane the folded paper.
“Oh, thank you.” She took the folded paper. She smiled and frowned at the same time. “Oh, this isn’t a timetable.” She uncoiled the white page like a scroll. Holding it open, as flat as the curles would allow her to, she now began to cry. She turned it around so I can see what she was looking at. Not close enough for me to actually see all the details, but near enough for me to definitely say it wasn’t a timetable. Not columns of times and locations, but rather a document, maybe a certificate, with boxes and information printed in bold black letters. A signature on the bottom of the page. A seal of some kind in the bottom left corner; the seal was stamped and definitely raised; it’s an official document.
“Oh. Wow.” Jane explained, “This is my mother’s death certificate. He always carries her death certificate when he comes here to the lake. I never understood why he does that.” She folded it back to its original shape, reached into the car so Levi can have it back. He took it slowly, and with obvious respect, and placed it on his lap. His hands clasping it, keeping the curl intact. He sighed loud enough for us to hear. She could not hold her tears from shedding anymore. Levi kept his head facing his lap and his timetable.
His wife’s death certificate. That was Levi’s timetable for the bus that took his wife. It was his timetable, too.
Charles/Charlie
Lower Topia
