Episode Two

What’s This?

It’s been eight days since these covers uncovered this depressed body. I don’t know how much longer I can take this. Once in awhile I think of starting over and doing an encore; that’s when I realize the stupidity of an encore to a suicide – an oxymoron. And that’s exactly what I am – a moron.

So I sleep and watch stupid cartoons from the command center: my bed. I can’t even remember the last time I went to the bathroom … or did I. Sniff. Sniff-sniff. No. I didn’t make it. Oh what the hell’s the use? Maybe I’ll just take some pills and end this pathetic battle for nothing to go nowhere. I deserve it. I deserve the torture of poison. Why God? Why did you put me on this Earth to do nothing but whine and shit? What’s the meaning of all this?

It seems every second I’m trying to get in touch with myself and have a moment, that damn doctor interrupts. The door opens and I feel the hot side of death flame its ego. While she approaches my bed in a most businesslike way, I secretly smile as I remember my misfortunate bathroom breaks. She stops. She knows. Ha! The look on her face says it all.

"Don’t you ever get out of that bed to utilize the facilities?" she asks.

"I thought it’d be nicer if you just took a specimen from here," I point to a few lovely sites.

"Disgusting," is all she says

"Why don’t you quit? Better yet, you’re fired. Leave."

"Sorry. I have a contract."

"I don’t mind."

"Not with you. With the board. They’ve got to relieve me of duty."

"Not a problem."

"Mr. Buckmiller, please get out of bed for me."

"No. I’ll just make a few phone calls and you’ll be out of his shit-hole. I’d hate for someone to have to endure my stench. Please leave."

"Do you wish to torment me?"

"Yes … if I can. Why?"

"If it were only that easy. If only you could make some phone calls and I’d be out of this job once and for all."

"What do you mean, once and for all? Sounds like you’ve tried but had no luck."

She only points to her nose with attitude as if to agree. I hate this woman … this thing of a monster who only pesters me. Why won’t she leave me to die? Why’d she have to show up that night? Why’d she have to derail the train? I started to make such great progress until she showed up.

"If you won’t get out of bed, will you at least turn over so I can take some blood and give you this?"

"What is it?"

"Something to make sure you don’t die in these … these conditions you live in. Please … thank you."

She injects me, takes what she came for and says, "Now. I only have one more thing," she sits down and continues to spew her dirty words of practiced concern, "I want to talk to you about last week. I want to discuss your episode."

"Episode?"

"Yes. Lets talk about what happened."

"You can go to hell."

"Fine. If you don’t want to talk then I have nothing more."

"Good."

She gets up, walks away, opens the door, turns to me and says, "If you can’t talk to me, talk to someone."

"If you can’t talk to me … blow it out your ass."

I head for my loyal bed covers. She leaves and that’s when the other shows.

"Mr. Buckmiller?"

"Yes Ms Roe?" I try to be nice.

"Hammond asked me to change the sheets."

"Get out of here!"

Then he shows up; I say, "Great. My reason for living." Good sarcasm affects like fine wine.

"Joe. Let her change the sheets. Dr. Daily told me it’s becoming a health-hazard. Please for me?"

"For me?" my childish whining will not avail. I can’t seem to help myself; it’s sort of like falling off a log into cherry syrup … how can one resist? It’s just too easy and feels too good to be mean as hell.

Hammond only looks at me like someone who’s staring at their dying pet … so concerned and yet distant at the same time. So finally I say, "For you." I change my attitude and slink out of bed. I may not be cordial, but I’m not being an ass anymore.

After I watch the face on that bitch take my soiled sheets and replace them with a fresh field to fertilize, I snicker at her. The way she looks at me when her nose makes that noise, I hate her too. She can go to hell with that attitude. I think maybe she’s forgotten who pays her bills. I’m pretty sure I can fire her without the Board’s permission.

"Joe?" Hammond watches her leave, shuts the door and approaches me.

"What."

He sits on the bed and touches the fresh sheets, "Doesn’t that feel better … look better … smell better?"

"Looks like a canvas to me," I motion for my tool of this art when he grabs my wrist; I give in and sit next to him; he lets go of his hold.

"Come on Joe. Tell me what’s wrong. Why did I have such a happy Joe and now I’ve got this? This is almost worse than before."

"Worse? You took the only thing that every truly gave me happiness; you took my death by being my friend. You asked me not to do it. So I won’t. But when you’re gone, I’m right behind," I smile for the first time.

"See. There’s the treasure."

"Treasure?"

"Yes. Your death was your first treasure. That night, you stood next to it like a child who opens their first real present they just know will be everything they’ve ever wanted, needed and expected. You caressed the moment with your joy. But when it all came crashing down because of friend and foe alike, you lost your treasure. We must simply find it again, only this time it will not be your end but your beginning … just as that smile is a beginning. Now why can’t we have more smiles?"

"Because there’s nothing to smile about … except thinking of the day I won’t have to smile … or frown. Treasure? My treasure still awaits only I can’t enjoy it anymore … not ‘til I grip it, smash that lock and open the chest. Only then will happiness shine from this face."

"Why do you love death so much?" Hammond takes my arm and asks with the kind of piercing integrity one must simply answer due to some kind of unwritten law of nature.

"I don’t know … maybe because I hate life."

"Why? You have everything. You have more money than one could possibly spend in five lifetimes. You’ve got a family of caretakers who love you … well some of us do anyway. Point is, you can have it all … you can find the gold at the end of the rainbow."

"Don’t you look around once in awhile. My dad built the rainbow. It’s our gold."

"No. I’m not talking about money. I’m talking about love and joy."

"Love? Love’s a fools paradise; and joy, just a word."

"I guess for someone who has yet to experience the drug called love, taken from the treasure chest of freedom, you can dismiss it all you like but it still doesn’t change the fact you’ve yet to experience what life is about."

"I don’t believe in love; I believe in sex … and lots of it. I get plenty of joyful pleasure from sex. Except this week … " I look around as though I’ve lost something; oh ya that’s it: I’ve yet to have sex since my appalling performance. Time to call a hooker.

Hammond seems troubled – he too seems to be looking for something he’s sure he set right in front of him – he suddenly sits up and says, "Then pure pleasure is your point."

"Yes. Call a hooker. I must have sex."

"What about other things of life?"

"Sex is life."

"Sex is a part of life. Life is many things. What about other things?"

"I’ve done everything. I’ve been everywhere. There is nothing left but a few creative moments with a professional … and I mean a real pro. It takes talent to find what’s left of this libido.

"Don’t you get it? I’ll never see anything new … experience anything unexpected. Life means nothing. I’ve done everything plus a few things many could never imagine. I have lived to tell the tale," I look to my only friend, "I have all this money – all this resource – but I have nothing to do. I have no obstacle … no challenge … no reason. There’s no purpose, no place for me.

"Don’t you see my friend, I’m all dressed up with nowhere to go. Nothing gives me pleasure. Supermodels used to set me afloat. Parties, lasting for months, would catch my eye. I even spotted a space-station that held my interest until I actually got there. You know. You know how disappointed I was. You were there.

"Twenty mill, what a waste; I could’ve chucked it at someone in the street and at least got to watch them, not only crash their bike, scream, curse and threaten me, but to watch them turn to what hit them as they turn from foe to friend to slave again, that is the best part. I guess I have always liked hitting people with a wad of cash; they hate you until they see what hit them. Then they love you … if the wad’s big enough, they worship you.

"But I don’t know. I’ve done it so many times it’s only slightly more interesting than that boring view I endured. International Space Station? What a crock. That thing is run by you-know-who and we’re not accepting reservations. International? Did you see anyone international up there?"

"No. I don’t remember anyone like that. Just us folks."

"Exactly. You know, there was a time I’d actually watch commercials, TV shows and movies just to see what seemed fun. But every time I tried base-jumping or people-hunting, it just didn’t seem like the real thing – what I’d seen on TV. None of it makes sense. Everything the world tells me is a lie. When those soft-drink commercials show kids doing those crazy things, they’re just not that fun in real life. Nothing makes sense."

Hammond doesn’t say anything right off so I ask, "What do you think? What makes sense to you?"

"What I’m doing right now: being your friend. I want to help."

"What?"

"When you help someone, you’ll get more out of it than you’ll ever comprehend. The joy and pleasure associated with making someone’s day brighter is indescribable. Maybe you should try it."

"Helping people?"

"Yes."

"How can I help people? I can’t even help myself."

"Maybe. Maybe that’s the whole point: you can’t help yourself. Maybe, others will help you as you help them."

What’s this? My mind is blank. For the first time a thought has entered that demands processor time. I can’t believe what I’ve just heard. Did my butler tell me the meaning of life? Did he take the time to inform this idiot called Joe what one really is meant to do with one’s self upon this journey we call life? Or did he just say whatever came to mind ...

Helping people. What a concept. I’d never thought it’d actually ever mean anything to me. But it’s true, I’ve done everything possible for myself; maybe helping others will be something new … something yet to be done … a goal yet to have … a passion yet to experience.

But then again, who do I help? Who is worthy of such a gift? Why do I care? I mean of all the things I could do in this world, why would this strike a cord. I know. It’s because it’s impossible. I can’t help anyone. Then I realize, I don’t want to help anyone. Why? They’re no better than me; they made their bed so let them die in it. Must I suffer because mine is gold plated?

"I don’t know. It sounds so complicated. I think I’ll just watch TV," I pass on this attempt at helping my state.

"What can TV give you? What will you see in that box you haven’t seen before?"

"So. What will helping others do? What’s so great about that?"

"Knowing."

"What?"

"Knowing the smile upon their face has something to do with you."

I think about it; then I say, "What’s the difference between a smile and a frown. I like to see fear and compliance. When someone smiles at you it’s because they’re getting over on you. When you see people respectfully bow and do your bidding, that’s much more fulfilling."

"Is that what you want from me? A bow here, a curtsy there. Do you fantasize about my terrifying end?"

I’m shocked. What is Hammond saying? His end?

"No. You’re different."

"Different. How?"

"Because you’re Hammond."

"Yes. But I could be Mike or John or even Joe. It’s the roll of the dice. I’m no different than the rest of those pests out there. The only difference between me and them is you have yet to get to know them."

"What are you saying? I know the doctor and that little whore who just stole my latest artistic endeavor."

"Not everyone is like Dr. Daily and Ms Roe. And there isn’t anything artistic about relieving one’s self when one is passed out from one’s latest bout of boozing. Artistry, by definition, takes insight. Your ‘work,’ by definition, lacks all thought."

"So?"

"So she’s not a whore and stole nothing from you. She’s helping you by cleaning your sheets."

"No. She’s like every other human: interested in only one thing – themselves."

"Joe, many are like me when you give them a chance to get to know the real you … not this pain in the ass before me. You can have more friends. If you’d give yourself the chance – the opportunity – to see what it feels like to help someone you don’t know – a stranger – and watch the joy you give them spread across their face, then I’m sure you’ll be happy Joe again."

I think about this. Maybe everyone doesn’t make their own bed. Hell, I surely didn’t sweat and toil for my golden foil. I’ve never worked a single day of my life. Not even my father laid a single brick of this house; many build my fortified bunk; maybe many built theirs too … maybe society’s neglect forged the oxidized iron of that bed.

I say, "One chance. You have one chance to do this."

"No, it’s you that must do this."

"Hey. Look. I’ll only going so far. You’re the butler here."

"Fine. But you promise you’ll try?"

"Of course. When do we do this?" I turn away from him and roll into the fetal position.

"I’ll let you know tonight. Good afternoon Joe," Hammond turns and leaves.

When I wake that night I see Hammond has brought someone. I figure this guy needs help. His cloths are ghetto. The jewelry, adorning his sense of style, is fake. I’m not sure if that hair needs a good scrub down or a clean mowing. He’s obviously had some shoddy dental work done. And plus, he’s not even white. I can’t tell what he is. It’s hard to tell these days.

"Joe. This is Mr. Williams. I brought him to see you."

"Hi. What are you?" I ask as I’d like to know what I’m dealing with.

"I’m the Director of the local Chapter of the Children’s Improvement Fund. Mr. Welsh told me you’re interested in sponsoring a fund-raiser."

"No. I mean what are you … what are you made of or I mean where are you from – your history."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Mr. Williams is suddenly smart with me.

"Look I want to know who I’m dealing with," I think I made this plain from the get go – it’s been my only question.

"You’re dealing with Mr. Twan Williams of the Children’s Improvement Fund. I thought I made that clear."

"That part I got. I want to know what you are. What’s your background."

"I’ve been with the Children’s Fund for twelve years. Before that, I was Director of ..."

I cut him off, "No. Not that. Your blood."

Then this man turns from me to Hammond and complains, "I’m sorry Mr. Welsh. It seems we have a misunderstanding. If you’ll show me the door."

"No need for that Mr. Williams. I’m sure we can work something out," then Hammond turns to me as I know what’s coming and only await the words, "Joe. Please. What we are doing tonight is not about Mr. Williams. It’s about the children. All we need tonight is a signature."

Unexpected. I guess I can let this man off the hook, for the children I mean. That is the right phrase, isn’t it? "For the children," that is what people say to one another when it really comes down to those tough decisions like ten billion in profits or the gradual accumulation of toxic pollution, impacting the children’s health. I mean, that is what the loser says when they’re beat by public opinion and concede to demands. It might not be ten billion, but my pride is worth at least half that … no, two-thirds. On the other hand, all he wants is a signature – something I do on a daily basis, nothing so tough. I’ll let him go, for the children, right?

In an endeavor to maintain the social grace of protecting those little brats from the greed of monsters like me, I ask, "All you need is a signature?"

"Yes Joe."

"Bring me the papers. I’ve signed a million things. At least this one I’m doing for you … Hammond … oh, and for the children too."

Hammond gives me the look. I know I said it right. "For the children," is what we say in order to remove responsibility for one’s inadequate defense of one’s rights to make ten billion. But I don’t understand the look Twiggy Twan gives.

Why does he look disgusted? I just gave him money. Most times, people smile when I say, ‘Bring me the papers,’ and then the toothy grin when I say, ‘Sign where?’ I don’t even need to go into what they look like when I say, ‘All done,’ because I’m sure you can come up with your own idea of Heaven. And that’s what money is: Heaven. So why does this man spit upon it?

I sign anyway. The man won’t even talk to me as he leaves. He says goodbye and good luck and those kinds of things to Hammond. But for me? Nothing. I hate this guy. Good. It’s been a long time since I found someone truly worthy of my hatred.

After he’s gone, I talk to my butler in private, "What’s this about?"

"You’ve done something good. You’ve given. Now how do you feel?"

I check myself. I notice nothing different. "The same. Maybe poorer," I answer.

"No. Not poorer. Richer. You purchased happiness for the unfortunate. Treasure awaits you tomorrow night. What you have bought tonight will be given to you tomorrow. Now how do you feel?"

"Tomorrow night. What’s tomorrow night?"

"The Benefit. Your Benefit."

"So?"

"We will go tomorrow night and you can meet some of the children you’re helping."

"Why would I want to do a thing like that?"

"Because it’ll make you feel good."

"How?"

"This is something one cannot explain. You have to experience it for yourself. Now. You signed the papers for me, will you do one more thing?"

"Of course. What?"

"Go with me tomorrow night and find your treasure in the eyes of the children."

"Okay," reluctantly follows.

I don’t have to tell you that night and the next day were uneventful, so I won’t. Late-afternoon, Hammond wakes me and starts getting me ready. I like the way he does the things he does so well. I even like the things he does as any average man might. In his hands, he seems to make it all magical. It’s as if each one of his movements is choreographed by some ancient butler code, known only to the most exclusive fraternity.

So, I’m standing in a tux while examining perfection in the mirror. Oh, the suit looks good too, but I must say, I haven’t looked this nice since graduation. I did graduate from somewhere … didn’t I? No big deal. I’m sure I look better tonight.

We go. After a long and boring session of speeches and me continually getting out of my chair only to sit down and do it again, we reach the end of the formal part. I think the night’s a bust as it’s time to go home when Hammond turns and says, "It’s time for the gift you’ve given to return a hundred fold."

"Huh?" I respond.

"You know: what I told you about last night. It’s time to receive your Treasure."

"Oh that," I must admit, I light up with the thought of something wonderfully unexpected.

We see some of the kids. Most of them are well behaved enough. I still don’t see it. I shake a few of their hands and say, ‘You’re welcome,’ about a hundred times when Hammond looks at me as if I’m suppose to be getting it. Sure they’re cute and all, but I just shake my head to let him know nothing’s happening.

But then it does. Hammond was wrong. I did not first see what he was talking about in the eyes of these semi-grateful but definitely bratty young dregs of society. No I see it in the eyes of that exquisite woman that just finished talking with the kids. I watch her perfumed body spread beauty upon the night’s ambiance. The titillating aroma teases me with its touch. Her delicate hand extends; I won’t miss the opportunity to press these lips upon her flesh.

When I release my grip she says, "Don’t you just love the children?"

"I do. I really do. This is my benefit you know."

"Of course it is Mr. Buckmiller. The Buckmiller Charity hosts this affair. I must say, it has been a wonderful night and we all owe it to you."

Yes! Finally. Praise from a goddess has no equal. I’m in-love. It’s for sure. This is the One. What’s her name? I must ask. I’m afraid. I did not expect to find my one truelove tonight! What do I do?

"Thank you. But it’s Joe."

"What?"

"My name is Joe. Please call me Joe."

"Okay. I’m Kachelle."

"Good to meet you Kachelle. I’m Joe."

"I know," she giggles.

Hammond breaks in, "Joe. There are others you must meet. If the lady would like to have a seat and wait, I’m sure we’ll have time in a few minutes."

I make my best puppy-dog face for this, this woman and plead with her to stay. She smiles and giggles again. Hammond shows her to a table and if it weren’t for his pushing me back in line, I’d be with her right now.

After many more boring people pass, Hammond says, "Finally, this is Mr. Lee. This is his building and his Fund."

"Don’t you just love children?" his oriental accent is thick.

"Sure," then I turn to Hammond, "Are we done?"

"Joe. Please. This is Mr. Lee."

"Brian Lee. You can call me Brian. Joe is it?"

"Joe is what my friends call me. I’m busy. I’ll talk to you later," I head for the jewel, sitting upon a crown of red – the red chair I mean. But that pesky man and Hammond follow.

"Please," I turn to Hammond under my breath, "Give me a moment."

This works as Hammond pauses the advance long enough for me to sit down with her and ask, "So. Kachelle is it?"

"Yes."

"What do you do?"

"Well, I’m ..."

"I mean. Do you want to go out sometime?"

Suddenly her spacy, get-to-know-you look is replaced by this sharp, confused pocket of doubt; so I ask, "Is there a problem?"

"Well, I ..."

Then I realize this woman may only be a girl, "How old are you anyway?"

"I’ll be seventeen next month."

"You’re only seventeen?"

"No. I will be seventeen … next month."

"Damn," I say as I think about how much this night is backfiring; that’s when Hammond finishes catching up. That guy is still with him.

I look from them back to her. I smile and think about how she’s not at fault for how old she is; so I ask, "Well, do you want to go out anyway? We’ll start at friends for now ..."

Mr. Lee sits down and Kachelle’s face has a funny look; he says to her, "Hello Kachelle. Where’s your mother?"

What a funny question for this man to be asking – awfully intimate don’t you think? It’s almost as if they know each other … well … very well … almost like family. But she’s white and he’s oriental. They can’t be related.

"She’s home, waiting for you," Kachelle answers.

Now they’ve got me going, so I ask, "Kachelle. What’s your last name."

"Gilbert-Lee."

"Kachelle Gilbert-Lee?"

"Yep."

I look at Dad and start to ask why he’s oriental and she’s not when I have a breakthrough. Although this girl is jailbait and I simply don’t want to end up as some overbearing man’s bitch, I still like her … love her maybe. I consider how my statement will sound to her. I don’t like the way it sounds so I leave it alone. But I must say something. My mind will not let this connection go with out more study.

"Adopted?" I ask.

Mr. Lee laughs and says, "No. Why? Can’t you see the resemblance?"

I only laugh back and shake my head in the affirmative as though we all knew I was joking. Yet I wasn’t and everyone knows this on some level. Why they don’t react, why they don’t respond, why they don’t point out my tendencies, why they simply continue to be my friend, I don’t know unless it has to do with my money.

But money doesn’t explain everything. The look in their eyes is genuine. I know a salesmen when I see one. This man looks at me the way Hammond does. And Kachelle? She looks at me the way a man needs to be looked at by a woman who’s pure beauty of form and function soothes the savage soul. She is a true angel. Money can’t buy the beauty inside her – that comes from something beyond money, man or manipulation. What I see within these two new friends, makes the trappings of money momentarily disappear. For once, I notice people, not profit or pleasure.

Something inside me accepts this man a little as I must accept he created such scolding beauty – beauty so intense, her very image will remain imprinted as a scar of possibility upon these neurons until they fire no more. It also seems as simple as truth … the truth that I know something as beautiful as this girl can exist. Somehow, that makes the world seem better. I take a liking to this oriental-guy.

"Brian is it?"

"Yes."

"Well Brian. I must say you have a beautiful daughter."

"Well Joe. I must say you have a beautiful Benefit."

We talk into the night. I find many others at the table. I watch the way these powerful people look at me. I like it. Soon, I realize I’ve never had people look at me this way. This is admiration. Not fear or gratitude or thanksgiving for a paycheck. No. These looks stem from their perception of my worth. I didn’t think I’d find what Hammond said I would. I didn’t find what he said I would in the eyes of the children. But in the eyes of these people and that girl, I catch a glimpse.

Even though Twan Williams set up the whole thing, I didn’t see him until the third benefit. By that time I was getting really use to all this. Praise has a way of burrowing into ones heart and making a nice, quiet home. I’d gone to Hammond and we’d worked out a new schedule. Now I’m on the road all the time. The last time I was home was three months ago. But I love it. I’m meeting so many new associates. Brian Lee and Twan Williams have become good friends. I’ve never had good friends before, except Hammond – but he’s my best friend. I guess one can only have one best friend, by definition. Or can they?

But when Dr. Daily attends my latest, I lose control of my refined demeanor I’ve been working so hard to perfect. I’d not realized just how beautiful she is. Well maybe that’s because I’ve never seen her outside of my dingy room. Is she wearing high heels?

"Dr. Daily," I approach her.

"Mr. Buckmiller."

"Good to see you. You look lovely. Is this your dress?"

She slightly laughs at my ice-breaking humor, "Yes. Do you like it?"

"No. I like what it’s covering," with that, my embarrassment peaks and I walk away to talk to the other guests. I hope I did not just make a pass. I mean I didn’t make a pass, I just hope she doesn’t think I did.

Something inside me expects to be the gentleman with her today, but in fact I still feel like the dirty child she cares for. No wait. I just feel that way around her. Around everyone else, I feel like the man. Maybe I’ll just avoid her. Ya. That’ll do; you know, so I can maintain appearances.

"Ms Roe. What are you doing here?"

"Dr. Daily got some of us together at the house and said we should support you tonight … seeing how it’s the night they’re presenting that award to you. Mr. Warner, Mr. Sanderson, Mr. Milton … we’re all here."

"Award? Oh yes. That. No big deal. What’s a big deal is seeing you. You really clean up well," and again I’m off to someone else.

What I don’t see as I leave this seemingly useless woman, is Pilar Widowmaker from Widowmaker Estates Inc.. Pilar’s father is in real estate. To say the least, this family is loaded … loaded like a train; each time you see a car pass, two more are added to the end. I mean, this guy is rich. I’m surprised I didn’t see him. But he sees Ms Roe.

"Eleanor Roe?" Pilar asks.

"Yes?"

"My name is Pilar Olden Widowmaker Esq. the Third."

"Good to meet you Mr. Willowmaker … squire the turd," actually she is doing her best to make sense of what she’s heard.

"The Third. Mr. Widowmaker the Third. But you may call me Pilar. All my friends call me Pilar and I hope you’ll be my friend."

"Of course … Pillar."

"No. It’s Pilar … pee-larr … that’s right," he says as she learns to pronounce his name correctly with him.

"Eleanor?"

"It’s Eli for short."

"Fine. Eli. Do you like your boss?"

"Why. Do you need another maid?"

"Oh no. It’s just that I’m under the impression he doesn’t pay you enough … treat you with enough respect … that sort of thing."

"Oh that. Ya. It’s always been that way. He’s not so bad now. But he’s still very insensitive: I clean up well? How can he say such a thing … well he cleans up worse. I hate that bastard if you must know. He stinks. He’s rude and crude and doesn’t know his ass end from the front end."

Pilar joins her moment in laughter before he says, "So I’m right. You could use some supplementary income?"

Her head perks; she listens intently after asking, "What kind of suplum … suplitary … sup ..."

"Supplementary."

"Right. What are you talking about?" and the two walk off while making plans that do no good for me. But enough of that. I don’t even know that conversation was ever had; but you do.

Back to the really important things. Like the way Dr. Daily looks at me right now. Sure I’m walking away from the pulpit after being handed the Humanitarian of the Year Award. But it’s more than that. I think I see, within her, the kind of healing energy I’ve been looking for. I mean, this woman has seen the worst of me and now she see the best of me. I think I like it. I think she’s forgotten what I was and sees what I am. Maybe the whole world can see this.

Then it happens; I walk by Dr. Daily and, as I pass, she says, "I’m proud of you." That’s it. I’m hooked. Is this the treasure?

As soon as I get home, I’m going to talk to Hammond so we can find out how to increase my exposure. I love all this praise and attention … especially from those like Dr. Miriam Daily … those who despised me and now bow to me … well at least praise me. And I want more praise. Lots more. Then I think of how I still don’t really like my doctor; but then again, I don’t really hate her anymore either.

As I’m walking to his study very late in the night, I pass Ms Roe; she says, "What a night Mr. Buckmiller. You really made us feel proud of you. Sounded real good – what you said tonight."

The awkward way she tells me this as she tugs on her left ear makes me suspicious. But then I realize this is Ms Eleanor Roe … Ms Roe! She’s hated me for as long as she’s been employed with us. She’s never said one nice thing to me my whole life. I must really be having an affect on people. If Ms Roe can turn, anyone can.

"Thank you. It’s really nice the way you all came out to support me."

"Ya. Better than that Internet thing … what a weirdo you use to be. But you’re much nicer now … you’re real good to us, Sir," after her outburst of laughter at the mention of my suicide attempt, she suddenly becomes very respectful. Maybe she’s still touchy about what happened that night. I can forgive her.

"That’s okay. Let’s just say I’m happy to see you up so I can thank you for coming to see me … nothing more."

"No there is more. I’m sorry Sir. I didn’t mean to open my stupid mouth … to pick at the scab of an old wound."

She’s really scared now. I’m about to ask her what old wound when I realize what she’s talking about. I think about it a moment. She must believe I’m embarrassed. Not at all. I’ve never cared what others think. I’ll do as I please. Hell, they’re no better than me. And just like those needy children, I see someone in need right now.

I say, "Oh Ms Roe. Please. That’s over. Like I said, nothing more to worry about. Smile for me will you? I miss the only smile I’ve ever seen from you … just now. Let me see it again, please?"

She smiles and says, "Thank you Mr. Buckmiller. I won’t ever mention the Internet thing again. I’m so sorry I called you a weirdo."

"Why? I still am," I turn and walk away as I finish, "Goodnight Ms Roe. It’s good to see you smile."

I reflect upon what just happened. I almost don’t believe I dealt with this opportunity. Yes. Opportunity. That’s what I’ll call my problems from now on because that’s what I’ve turned them into. An interaction with someone who’s hated me from the get-go has become an opportunity: now I make her smile. I really am a great person, probably someone called by God or something mystical like that to do a great work. I don’t know anything about God or magic or spirituality, but I do know what I like.

And I do know where I am going – one day. I may not have crossed the threshold like I wanted, live on the Internet, but I am headed that way and I’m sure this period of God’s grace has a reason and that reason is me. It’s as if part of me has crossed the threshold and part remains here. I wonder if I’ll get super-powers?

So I open the door to Hammond’s room and immediately go into spouting mode, "Hammond, do you know what just happened?" before a reasonable pause provides the opportunity for response I keep pouring it on, "I just talked with Ms Roe and she smiled. She said she was proud of me and I said some great things. Then she said something that made her feel uncomfortable and I was able to make her feel good again. I must have some gift from God. Right?

"I mean, I must have some great power to do some great work. And that’s what I’m here to talk to you about. I want to do something so great that everyone will know my name. I want to have so much love and admiration from everyone that I can’t walk around a private club or sporting event without people chanting my name. I want the glory!"

"Settle down. What’s come over you?"

"My own greatness. I am wonderful. I am the best person in the world. Not so long ago I was a festering sickness in this world. Now I’m a healing source, thanks to you. You’re my right-hand man. You are the wizard behind the curtain and I am the ball of fire. Together we can really make a difference in this world so I can become a god … or something like that … what would that be … a god? Or maybe a saint? Or is it a prophet? Maybe an angel? I forget, what is it?"

"Human."

"Right. I’m human … or is it something more."

Hammond doesn’t share my enthusiasm, "Let me get this straight. You are doing this, not for the children you help, but because of how you look … what you might be called? I thought you didn’t care what others think."

"I don’t … I mean. Well that’s different. I don’t care if someone says something bad about me but when they say something good it’s like … well I just can’t describe it."

"You don’t feel it when the children say something nice?"

"No. Why? I mean, I don’t relate. I don’t know ‘em. But those of my own class, age and education reward me with the praise and adoration I desire … especially from the hot women. To be honest, I could care less about the children. You were wrong about that."

"Education? I don’t think you have one."

"I don’t?"

"No. I don’t think so. You fell asleep in the tenth grade and never woke up. Your father paid for your high school diploma and a general ed. from some out-of-the-way community college. But as far as a degree goes, no I’m sure you don’t have one."

"Oh. Well. Does that matter?"

"Not always. In your case, no."

"Are you saying there’s something wrong with my desire to do good so people will kiss my ass?"

Hammond thinks; he says, "I do not pretend to judge the intention of what motivates you. I do see that sometimes any reason is the right reason if it helps those in need. Let’s just say I imagined you’d find what I’m trying to show you … the treasure."

"I don’t see it already?"

"No."

"I’m sure I do. You said if I helped others I’d feel better. I do. I am. But you say I don’t see it. I don’t understand. What are you saying?"

"I’m talking about doing these things, not for you’re immediate gratification, but instead for other’s. I’m talking about your happiness being based upon others’, not upon the praise of others. I’m talking about seeing what I told you to look for in the eyes of the children not what’s found in the eye’s of your peers.

"Now you’ve made me aware of the truth of your perception. That is good. I can do something to help you find more happiness. The drug of love, as I’ve called it, is not yet pure. As we make it so, it will only get better."

"You mean to tell me there is something more than this? You mean to say I’ll become even more happier?"

"Yes Joe. That’s what I’m saying."

I smile wide; I can’t believe I could ever feel better about myself than today; I say, "Really? I can’t wait. When do we start?"

"I’ll think about it. But whatever I come up with, we’ll do this by tomorrow night."

"Then this is it … my big event! You’re going to plan it and bring it off by tomorrow?"

For a moment Hammond does not reply; but then the time of hesitation ends and out of that face full of solitude falls the words, "Right Joe. I’m going to pull it off by tomorrow. Now get some sleep."

"But I want to talk about it. When you say tomorrow … is that today?"

"Okay. It is well after twelve … in fact it’s just after four in the morning. It will actually be tonight … after you get some sleep."

"But I want to know more. What’s it going to be like? Who’s going to be there? Will there be national media coverage? Will my broadcast and print companies be doing background and exclusives and whatnot? Will there be an hour of preliminary buildup just about me?"

"Joe you’re not getting it."

"I’m not?"

"No. But you will tomorrow night."

The temporary frown turns upside down when I say, "Good. Goodnight Hammond."

"Goodnight Joe. Sleep well."

"I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep at all. I can’t imagine being happier than I am right now but I know you’re going to show me how. I’ll be happier than I’ve ever been. I just can’t imagine it … what it’ll be like."

I smile at Hammond. He only closes the door with a solemn look. I wonder why he’s not as excited about this as I. Then I think upon all the cool possibilities tomorrow will bring: interviews with big-shots; celebrity endorsements; hobnobbing with the swells. What more could a boy want for Christmas? And its not even August.

So I can’t wait another minute. I’ve got to have mine. I jump out of bed and run throughout the house. I yell for Hammond. Nothing. I check his room, his study, the library, the sitting room and on and on. Finally I must have some water as all this running and excitement has parched me. I make it to the sink and suck down the water.

"Joe. What are you doing up?" Hammond stands next to me. How did I not see him?

"Hammond. You startled me. Don’t do that," I say as I readjust and reconnect myself to my original course with, "I can’t wait."

"Wait?"

"Yes. I must have it now!"

"It?"

"The prize … you know, the thing we talked about not twenty minutes ago."

"Oh yes," Hammond suddenly becomes the same kind of serious he was before.

"What’s that?" I ask.

"What?"

"What you’re doing?"

"I’m not doing anything."

"Yes you are … you’re looking that way."

"What way?"

"Like you’re mad at me or something."

Hammond understands; he thinks a moment before he says, "Yes. That. Well. I don’t know what to tell you."

"Tell me the truth. What makes you look like that?"

He thinks again; he says, "I guess it’s because I want you to see what I have to show you but I’m not sure whether you’re ready. I don’t know if you’ll be able to see what I have to show you."

"Why? Is it not real? I see the pot in your hand. I see the water in it. What can you show me that cannot be seen?"

"I didn’t say it cannot be seen only you might not see it for what it is."

"I don’t understand."

"That’s okay. The question is, do you want to understand?"

"Yes."

"But do you want to understand more than you want this to be what you want it to be instead of what it is."

"You’re losing me."

"Do you want to see this more than you want to be seen by those who adore you?"

I get it. Do I want to understand whatever it is he’ll show me more than I want it to be what I want it to be? I bet he’s worried I won’t see it for what it is because I’ll only see what I want. I’ll ask.

"Are you saying I’ll only see what I want?"

"Very good. I guess you do understand," Hammond puts down his kitchen utensils and looks right at me, "And you want to go now?"

"Very much so … I want to go right now."

Hammond does all those little things a good butler does when they leave the kitchen for any extended period of time. This takes a few minutes and I watch with interest. When his apron is finally placed in the closet, he turns and says, "Okay. It’s a little early for breakfast so we’ll skip it. Sun’ll be up soon … we’ve got time enough to make the trip."

We walk out of the house; Hammond says, "We better take my car."

"Why?"

"It’s just better this way," Hammond leads me to his gray Toyota hatchback. He opens the front door – the one next to the driver. For a moment I look at him as I’m standing next to the rear passenger door. I decide to oblige and sit next to him. So I nod and get in.

"Sorry Joe but we are going to a place where it is better you put on my sweatshirt and sit in front with me."

"Is that why we don’t take the limo or the Jag or the ..."

"Exactly."

"Then where are we going?" I take the garment and put it on.

"You’ll see."

"Tell me," I connect the seat-belt.

"What I will tell you concerns why we are going."

"You will not tell me where we are going but why?"

"Exactly. Now don’t worry. Nothing’s going to happen … but it is better if you blend in."

"Why?"

"You’ll see when we get there. Now on to the important stuff."

"What important stuff?"

"Just listen."

"Okay. I’m sorry," I say as we leave the estate behind.

Boy the world is full of people at this ungodly hour; look, the sun is just peaking over the horizon. I’ve never really been out in a car like this one before. You can see everyone and everything. I see people at the park and wonder why everyone spends so much time there. Why not at home like me? My estate is much bigger and more beautiful than this. Why would anyone come here when they could stay at home like me?

Hammond watches his driving until we get on the freeway; then he talks again as the sun is rising, "What is your biggest concern … what’s your greatest fear?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"A very important one."

"I guess it is," I stop to think and then blurt out, "That other people won’t like me … that’ll I look stupid and embarrass myself in front of the world."

I look at Hammond; I know what he’s thinking in this brief moment before he’ll speak. I know he thinks I’ve already done worse than that with my Internet stunt. But he’s wrong. They’re all wrong. I didn’t embarrass myself. How could I? Hell, they’re no better than me. I was just demonstrating something for the benefit of all. I gave some good advice and simply cut the demonstration short. Plus, I’m going to finish that demonstration once Hammond dies anyway. He’s old. I’m sure it won’t be long until I’m gone.

But he says none of this, "Do you see that man there?"

Hammond points to the only person on the freeway – a bum on the exit ramp with an all-purpose begging-banner, cut from old cardboard; I say, "Yes … him?"

"Yes. What do you think his greatest fear is?"

"That he won’t be able to find a pot to piss in!" I laugh out loud until I see the disgusted look on Hammond’s face, "Sorry."

"Don’t say sorry to me, say it to him," for a second I thought Hammond would actually stop the car, back up and make me apologize to the man; I never would’ve thought I’d respond to demands on any other day but some kind of magically stern confidence possesses Hammond and I’d comply to just about anything he commands. I’m happy he continues to feather the gas-pedal forward.

"What’s his greatest fear?" I’m humbled and restate his question for the sake of clarity.

"Yes. His greatest fear, not yours."

"I know," then I think; finally I say the most logical thing, "Food."

"Maybe. Or maybe it’s shelter; or disease; or a loved one; or liquor; or maybe it’s the fact that he doesn’t know his name anymore and he’s afraid if he tries to remember, he might."

Suddenly the warm face of funny-man completely disappears as my humility takes charge; I actually imagine this man searching for food in the dumpsters. Then I realize this man is only one of millions. I feel despair.

"When was the last time you worried about food?"

"Never," I say and a lump moves down my throat as I see myself searching the same dumpster.

"You do not know what most face. Your wealth has shielded you from reality. It’s no wonder you can’t feel other’s pain and empathize. I have decided this fact makes you naive to many fundamental things. Experience is the only way to lift the veil of innocence. You cannot receive the treasure until you are able to see their pain."

"Who’s pain?"

"The one’s you help."

"So they are the treasure?"

"No."

"Then what is the treasure?"

"Joy."

"Pleasure?"

"Pleasure is rarely joy … joy is different than pleasuring one’s desires."

"Then what is it?"

"Spiritual fulfillment … a feeling of connection that integrates yourself within the world around you. Joy is knowing you fit into the universe because you are Joe. Joy is the place you lose yourself and become everything."

"That is not possible."

"Not from where you are standing. But once you open your mind to the true nature of the universe, you’ll see."

"The true nature … what the hell are you talking about. No one sees the true nature of the universe but God and I’m not God," I redirect as I turn to him with a totally different attitude, "So Einstein, what’s the nature of the universe?"

"Change."

"Change?"

"Yes change. Change is the constant. You change. I change. Your sheets are changed … every so often. Think about it. Everything changes. This means everything is always new. What was is not replaced by what is but instead built upon itself. We grow. We do not become new people but instead grow into new forms of life. We make mistakes and learn from our past so we might cherish the glimpses of truth we find."

"I don’t understand."

"I don’t expect you to. Just listen. Change is not taking one thing and replacing it with another. Change is modifying the one thing until it is another. Then it is both. You are different but you are still the same, right?"

I think about how I’m able to get out, go places and meet people. I’ve never done these things before. But it is true, I am the same person. I feel the same … okay, maybe happier, but basically I am still Joe. But I am different. Hammond is right; so I say it, "Right."

"The universe is this way. It is changing by becoming more because it constantly rearranges itself in order to discover more truth – more of itself.

"We’re here," Hammond suddenly shifts communication’s gears as he shifts the car’s gears.

I hadn’t even noticed we’d gotten off the freeway. We sit at a parking lot near a supermarket.

I ask, "A supermarket?"

"I’ll be right back; meanwhile, you think about what I’ve said." Hammond leaves.

Change. I think about it. Then I see myself again. I see how I’ve changed. But it’s really not change; it’s learning – building upon what was in order to gain what is. I see this is true but I don’t see how change makes one see more truth.

This part has me stumped. Doesn’t change come because one sees more? I mean, isn’t it because you see the other car swerve that you too take action to avert an accident? You don’t swerve and then see the other car round the corner, do you? I guess psychics do. But for the rest of us, change does not show us more but is instead a result of seeing more. Hey, I’m smarter than Hammond.

When Hammond returns, puts the groceries in the back and gets in, I point this out, "There’s a flaw in your logic. Change does not make one see more; instead change results from seeing more; not the other way around."

"Why not the other way around … why not both?"

"I don’t know. Because it can’t be both," I say with a bitter taste.

What is he saying? Both? Never! He’s wrong and I must defend my precious point of one-upmanship in order to help my misguided brother see the truth. If I’m not right about my bold assumptions now that I’ve changed and become a new man who’s intelligence and decree have help so many and is therefore noble, right and just – intrinsically – then how else will I maintain this illusion of manhood? I mean if it is both then I’m not right. Or am I? No I’m right. Now that I’m a "good-guy," I’m always right, by definition, right? Then I guess Hammond is wrong for once.

"Let me get back on the freeway and we can talk," Hammond says and makes a right turn out of the parking lot. He’s totally unfazed by all this.

Once we’re on the freeway I ask, "We going home?"

"No."

"To the thing then?"

"Yes."

"Will you answer my question?"

"I’m sorry. I forgot. What’d you ask?"

"How does change help you see more truth? Isn’t it the other way around: that change is the result of seeing more truth. Then you said something about it being both which I just can’t agree with."

"Just because one thing exists doesn’t mean something else cannot. That’s the beauty: change often brings more truth both before and after. Get me a can of soda out of a grocery bag."

"A can of soda?"

"Just do it."

I laugh, "Okay. But I don’t see it. Does the pop help you answer the question?"

"Yes."

"Why? Do you have a sugar deficiency I’m not aware of?"

"No. Just hand me the can. I’m not going to drink it."

"Am I?"

"Just get the can," Hammond pushes my shoulder with his free hand.

"Fine. Here it is," I hand his precious pop over.

"Thanks," he holds the can between us and asks, "Describe exactly what you see in my hand."

"One can of soda."

"Right. Now tell me what it looks like."

"I see a bunch of writing – ingredients I think. It’s written in red. The can is white. I see a box with some numbers – looks like a breakdown of sugars and calories … stuff like that."

"I disagree."

"What?"

"I don’t see what you see, yet I am looking at the exact same thing – the can of soda."

"Are you trying to start something?"

"No. I am simply telling you that all I see is the logo. I don’t see any of these mythical words and paragraphs you speak of."

I take the can from his hand; a task not too complex as he is driving. Hammond is a calm and collected man. We do not even swerve. Hammond only smiles as I twist the can and place it in his face – another feat that does not cause an accident.

"Mythical? Look you idiot. There, right here – just like on any other can of pop," I point out the obvious.

"Yes. But in order to prove your point you changed the can and changed my perspective of it. In effect, you changed me by changing my view of reality. Now I can see you are right. Now I can see more of the world because you took the time to show me. Change has shown me more truth."

"You and your weird ideas. I think we should just go home."

"Soon enough. But for now, I think it’s important for you not to miss the obvious. Do you think a fish knows it’s swimming in water?"

"Another strange story? Just take me home."

Hammond pulls into the emergency lane and brings the car to a prolonged stop; he finally says, "Joe. You’ll never see anything if you don’t change your perspective – if you don’t open your mind."

"My mind is open."

"Sure it is. It’s so open I’d only need four pounds of dynamite to crack that safe."

"Are you insulting me?"

"Joe. Calm down. Everyone thinks they’re right. Even Hitler thought he was saving mankind from itself."

"Are you drawing a parallel between me and Hitler?"

"Calm down Joe. You’re getting all worked up. All I’m saying is even the worst people think they are the best. No one thinks their mind is anything but open. Only a man with a truly open mind can see how it is closed."

"You’re saying that I won’t know the difference if my mind is open or not … that everyone always thinks they’re right – even Hitler?"

"Yes. I’m saying only when you see how your mind is closed can you open that part. We’re all set in our ways until we find one of them is a problem. Then we change. The sooner we see it, the less pain we cause ourselves and others."

I sit and think awhile as we continue the drive. I’m ingesting the feeling of actually being flawed. I never conceived before this moment that I might’ve made a mistake at some point in my life and all the pain in my life might’ve been different if I’d changed.

Suddenly a thought blasts. I think of how I did change when I decided to live. Instead of killing myself, I found a friend – Hammond. I realize that change – that one simple moment of not pushing the button – turned into this. I’m out and about. I’m downtown in a Toyota.

I smile as the warm sun coats my skin with soft heat, massaging intoxicating vibrations into my mind. The slow rocking of the car closes my eyes and loosens my neck. My smile grows as I see all the things I am now that I was not before; my nostrils pull in a warm smell of an old car as my deep breath clears my head.

Then the smile fades when I think upon the possibility this pain was a problem; maybe the change fixed something inside me that was broken and now, without the impediment, I am free. Maybe there are other obstacles I have not seen. Hammond could be right; maybe there’s more. Wow. Think about it. If I’d realized I just needed a friend, I would not have embarrassed myself that night.

What? I didn’t just say that. You didn’t hear a thing. I’m telling you, you can’t tell anyone I might’ve possibly just admitted I was wrong to try to kill myself because if I admit that, I won’t be able to kill myself when Hammond dies. I might have to live. I might not have an excuse.

No. I will die when Hammond goes. And you didn’t hear a thing. I didn’t say I was wrong, did I? No. All I said was I needed a friend. I have that friend and when he’s gone I’ll be in the exact same predicament. Then I’ll kill myself. No problem. Back to square one. I hope you’ll log on to the site and join the festivities when I do. I’m not too sure of the site’s URL right now, but I’ll let you know when I have it.

All I’ve admitted to is I did make a change and fixed something. Not to say it was the suicide itself. Hell, that helped me find the change. So, what I’m saying is I can understand some of what Hammond said based upon the thing – the Internet thing.

But as far as me being wrong, I guess I was wrong about something. But as far as the Internet thing goes, I was right. No arguments. I don’t want to hear a peep from you. Hey! Not even a thought. I wasn’t wrong about that. Suicide is a personal decision and no one can judge another when it comes to this. SO STOP JUDGING ME!

Sorry. I just get upset when I see someone has a negative impression of me. Why? Because it’s not true. I’m a good person. I’ve helped more in the last few months than you have in your whole life. So give a guy a break. I might be disgustingly wealthy, a pain in the ass, rude to a fault and unabashedly honest, but I’m not a bad person. Basically I’m just your average guy with a few quirks, here and there.

Plus, you’ve heard the adage money is the root of all evil. I’d like to see what happens to you in the Pit of Hell. I’d like to see if you’d be half as decent as I, living within this chasm of cash. And through all this, I’ve never done anything to anyone. I’m innocent. Wait. Where are we?

"Hammond. Where are we?"

"Wiltshire and 3rd. The old Federal Building."

"What are we doing here?"

"We are here for you to turn the can."

"Turn the can … what are you talking about?"

"We are here for you to change someone’s perceptive – change the can of reality and show them your kindness. Then you can look into their eyes and see the treasure."

"Again with the eyes. What is it about the eyes?"

"People see the world with them. Nothing tells of the soul’s intention as the eyes. Look into a stern, steady gaze of pure appreciation and you’ll see the heart of another – the truth of the treasure."

"I don’t get it. Maybe we should just go home."

"You wanted to go on such sort notice. Live with the consequences of your impatience. I wouldn’t be improvising if you’d given me the day."

"Okay fine. What’s next?"

"Let’s get out of the car and walk around. See if anyone strikes your fancy. Imagine you’re Santa Claus and have great the Christmas Gift. Find the one you want to bestow the blessing of monetary change."

"Santa Claus? You’ve lost it," but I smile and get out of the car; I ask, "Where to?"

"The park. Right there," Hammond points across the street.

We walk around a bit. I see the bums. Everyone asks for spare change. But I only tell them my accountant handles the books. That doesn’t seem to have the affect of humor I’d imagined. But as I shop for a soul I begin to think to myself. I wonder if these men know who I am and what great thing awaits one of them. I’m not even sure what that great thing will be, but I’m sure Hammond knows.

I imagine I am one of these bums – that I’m the one I’ll pick. The glory returns. I see it now. I can see how I’ll make this man happy and everyone will see how happy he is and then they’ll love me.

"I don’t care. You pick," my smile gives me away.

"You’ve got your benefit face on. Why do I get the feeling you’re doing this for the snobs?"

"Sorry. I remember now. If I look at this in that light I won’t see the other thing you’re talking about," my smile disappears behind the wall of concern. I think, how am I going to see something that only appears to be more admiration from my new found group of admirers: bums without money instead of bums with money?

Now I see what Hammond was talking about. I am blinded by my desire for the attention of my peers. I don’t even care who’s life I change as long as it makes me look good. And now I realize I don’t even care who that is. Everyone is my peer.

All of the sudden I feel a little sick. I understand if I was one of these guys and really needed help and was not picked, I’d feel horrible. How can one single out a man for change and leave the rest? That’s too much responsibility.

"Please Hammond. Choose. I can’t. How can I choose one and not the others? What if I choose wrong?"

"Put it in God’s hands and just pick the next one to catch your interest … the next one that holds your eye."

"Based upon what? How can I pick this guy over that just because he wore his ugly-sweater today. Or maybe it’ll be some injury … a limp maybe. No wait. It’ll be the crazy one. Ya. Cause I’m crazy … the insane kind of crazy. But is that right? Why should that make him win?"

"Win? It isn’t about winning. It’s about you finding the drug called love. Don’t pressure yourself so much. We only need one because what you need to learn is intimate. You simply can’t learn this in a group. Pick one and let’s move on to stage two. If you want, we’ll come back later and pick them all. You see, in time, you can have both."

I smile; this makes the weight lift but then I say, "Oh. I can’t."

"Then we’ll do this the old fashion way. Close your eyes, point your finger and spin around three times."

I close my lids. No. I open them and my looks says it all. But Hammond’s look answers with, ‘you better just do it.’ So I close my eyes again and spin with my hand stretched out. I finally stop. I open my eyes.

"Him," I say as my hand points right to a man, walking by.

Hammond runs up to the man and has a few words while he brings him my way; he says, "Joe, this is John Wandering-Bear. He’s Navajo."

"Just passing through," John says.

"Yes. Just passing through. But he says he’ll be happy to join us for lunch," Hammond presents the man as a gift.

"Lunch and a job. That’s what you said. I’m no bum. I work for a living. You said you had a five-hundred dollar job. That’ll get me a train ticket to see my granddaughter. I’m much obliged to work in your yard for cash … the non-check kind of currency."

John Wandering-Bear smiles at me. What an ugly set of teeth. I think this man could use much more than five-hundred dollars. I only smile at him and point to the Toyota.

"This way John," Hammond takes the man’s arm and we leave the Supermarket o’ Transient as our shopping is done for the day. I must say, I don’t like this part of town too much; too much activity; too many poor people looking at me.

With the prize in hand we get on the freeway; I say, "Thank God we’re out of that place. Hammond, where’d you say that was?"

"Wiltshire and 3rd. The old Federal Building."

"Right. What a strange place. I think I saw people doing drugs by that train. Was that a real train or a model?"

"Real. They moved it there after the historical train station was torn down. It stands in its place."

"Interesting. How long ago was that?" I am asking somewhat tangential questions. Some might say I’m even avoiding the man in the front seat. That’s right; he’s in the front seat … shotgun. Be quiet. I know he’s in my seat … or was my seat. Doesn’t matter. The one in charge always sits in the back. I wanted to sit here anyway … from the get-go.

"Oh … thirty years or so. It’s been a while."

"Hum. Do you think that train was important?"

"What I think is important is John Wandering-Bear. Why don’t you ask him if he knows."

"I don’t," John immediately answers.

Silence follows our wake as we travel. Finally I become bored and therefore bold. I turn to this guy and look him over. I guess I don’t realize I’m looking at him as meat until he gives me a noticeable frown. That’s when I’m forced to cover.

"So. James Walking-Bull is it?"

"John Wandering-Bear."

"Right," I look him over some more until I say, "So, where are you from?"

"Oh. Everywhere."

I laugh, "Reservations aren’t everywhere. There only in the west … right?"

"Oh. The Rez. I thought you meant where do I call home."

"You call everywhere home?"

"I do. The Rez is just what my ancestors were left with. It’s not my only home. My true home is freedom."

"Freedom? Doesn’t sound like it’s done you so much good. When was the last time freedom fed you?"

John looks at me like I’m some child who’s just fallen and hurt himself, "Freedom is the food of the soul. What happens to the body means nothing."

"Nothing? Then why did you accept Hammond’s request to join us for lunch?"

"Lunch is extra," John turns to Hammond, "Right?"

"Of course Mr. Wandering-Bear. You have my word everything I told you will happen just as I promised."

"Fine," the Indian turns to me, "I do this for my granddaughter, Rosemary."

"You mean the money that’ll get you to see her. My money."

I can tell my words have affected as he turns forward. He doesn’t answer me. For a moment I was going to make him. I wanted to point out how everything that’ll happen for him from now on will be because of my money … my choice … my generosity. I chose him and now it’s time for him to admit this and give me my treasure. But then I see Hammond’s eyes. I realize my boldness.

But I can’t let him win, so I ask an innocent question, "What is it that do you do?"

"Excuse me?" John turns to look me square in the eyes.

"What do you do … for a living?"

"Most everything."

"That’s no answer."

"But it’s true."

"Then what was the last job you had."

"Yesterday I cleaned out part of an ally for a shelter. They put us to work for minimum wage."

"You don’t have a real job … a career … something you’re good at?"

"I’m a good father. I’m a good citizen. I’m a good man. But there are no monetary benefits in any of those … there’s no paying career path in being a good husband, brother and friend … there are only spiritual rewards upon the spiritual path of being."

"Being? Being a friend? Exactly. We call them fair-weather friends. Here to enjoy today’s sunshine but gone by tomorrow’s rains. I guess you’re just an uneducated drunk … you know, your standard bum."

"That’s enough Joe," Hammond steps in with a stern correction.

"Sorry Hammond."

Then this Indian looks at Hammond for a moment with a surprised glare before he blurts out, "But you’re help?"

Hammond and the Indian converse without me; Hammond: "Yes."

The Indian: "Anyone else talk to him in this way?"

Hammond: "No."

The Indian: "Why only you?"

Hammond: "I’m the only constant this young man has ever had."

"I see," John Wandering-Bear sits back in his seat and studies the road.

After more time, I grow impatient and ask, "SO?"

John turns to me, "So it is quite simple."

"What?"

"Your sickness."

"What?" this time with verve.

"You, like all modern men of this world, are sick. You pointed out my disease, now I’ll point out yours."

But I stop him, "Who are you to know me?"

"I am a medicine man!" then he extends his fingers, fluttering, and makes a lot of childish ohhs and ahhs.

"You’re no medicine man."

"Does it matter? Your problem could be pointed out by a child. It walks with you as an enemy. But you treat it like a brother."

"What then … what problem do I have? I know I don’t and therefore you’ll have nothing to say."

"You have no sight."

"I see you. What in the hell are you talking about?"

"Your soul is blind."

"Blind? Blind?" the pitch intensifies, "Who are you to tell me what my soul is? You’re no better than me!"

"That too?"

"What? You make no sense. Do you speak English?"

"Joe ..." Hammond censors our conversation.

A moment and then he says, "Your problems are many. But the sickness of the spirit is simple. You have not embraced love … you do not know meaning. You soul has no purpose … no home to find refilling repose. Your sight is filled with emptiness."

"That’s it. Hammond let’s take this one back. I can’t help him. Apparently he has all the answers."

"Joe ..."

"Sorry Hammond. It’s just ..." suddenly I’m struck with tears. I feel hope, promise and pain all at once. I find myself wanting the treasure more now than ever but I know I won’t get it. I give up. Fine. I don’t care.

"No lunch," I say through my tears.

"Excuse me?" Hammond asks.

"You heard me," I unwrap my hands to reveal the reddened face; I am naked in my emotion. To say the least, all this has powered my words into a thunderous scream.

"You! Mr. Walking-Bull. You took it from me and so I’ll take it from you. You won’t take charity. Well I’m about to shove it down your throat. There will be no lunch. There will be no job. There will be no five-hundred dollars."

"Joe. I can’t. I made a promise," Hammond stops the car and pleads.

"I don’t care. This man is rude and mean and I want him out of the car!"

"Fine with me," John goes for the door.

"Please. Everyone calm down," Hammond says. I’ve never seen him rattled before.

After John stops resisting and attempting to leave, Hammond releases the man’s arm and says, "Joe, please. I will keep my word to this gentleman even if my work to show you the treasure has gone down the drain.

"We are going home now. I’ll drop him off and leave instructions for Mr. Sanderson to take care of him. We’ll try again."

"I don’t want to."

"Not today."

"I mean ever," those are the last words said for awhile.

After I’ve calmed down and once more find myself bored, I start again, only this time with some kindness, "John. Can I ask you something?"

He turns to me, "Sure."

"How far away is your granddaughter."

"Not too far. About a hundred miles."

"A Hundred? Not more?"

"No. A little less than a hundred from the city."

"Why are you going to see her … why now?"

"I just buried my wife. I’ve been trying to get to my son’s home to live with them … he’s Rosemary’s father. Today’s her birthday."

"Birthday … hum. Do you know the way from here?"

"Sure."

"Good. I’ll take you. Hammond turn the car around."

"But what about the job. I need that money," he attempts to stop me.

"Look Mr., you stole my treasure. You’re not going to take my dignity. Now. I propose a compromise. Since you took from me, I take from you. I will give you a ride for free. You know, free as in freedom."

"I have my pride."

"Exactly my point. Your pride in exchange for my treasure. Sounds fair to me … what do you think Hammond?"

"I think it’s nice to hear you two talking."

"Ya. But what about the deal?"

"Joe. You can’t ask a man for his pride. It’s sacred."

I get upset, "But he stole my treasure." The tears poke out from around the corner of my control.

"Joe. I’m sorry but ..."

John steps in, "Mr. Hammond, it’s okay."

"Just Hammond."

"Okay. Hammond, I’m fine with the trade. My people have sold their pride for the treasure of the white man many times. At least if this white man keeps his word I’ll get to see my granddaughter." He smiles. Oh the teeth. If only we had time to get him to a dentist first.

"Great. Would you like to ride in a limo or maybe a Lexus?"

"Do you have a Firebird?"

"A what?"

"Firebird ..."

"Not following you."

"I guess you don’t. I’ll go with the limo."

"Good. My choice too. I like a limo for a long haul," I turn to Hammond, "Hammond, keep going home; we’ll be needing the limo for this ride," then I turn back to John, "Can I offer you a doughnut or a cookie … how about a soda," I reach into the back and start feeding the man.

I notice Hammond smile. I may not see this treasure, but I see my friend smiling and I know it is because of me. Yes. This does feel good. Then a strange side effect takes place: I find myself smiling at the Indian. I guess he’s not so bad.

When we get out of the Toyota, I walk past Mr. Bear’s gawking gaze and smell the air, saturated with his stench; I say, "But before we go, Hammond will show you to the servant’s quarters for a bath and a fresh set of clothes." He only nods as he’s still taking in the magnificence of my home.

I too have taken a shower and find myself awakened by Hammond. Still in robes, I return to the process of getting myself ready to take this guy to see his granddaughter. I wonder what it’s like to have a grandchild let alone a child of my own. Imagine. Little me, running around with a great, big, fat smile. I smile. I laugh and comb my hair in the mirror.

Then it happens. I look into the reflection and notice myself. Noticing myself is a moment by moment ritual; I’m always aware of me. What I saw this time was that I had just noticed me. For once in my life, I’d actually been looking at myself without being preoccupied with myself. But then again, I was thinking about a smaller version me. Maybe I was still thinking about myself. Whatever, the fact remains my thoughts were elsewhere instead of in the mirror, instead of gawking at my own glory.

"Joe?" Hammond’s voice finds me.

"Hammond?"

"Joe are you ready yet?"

"Sure am. Is it time?"

"Meet us downstairs as soon as you can," I hear the voice leaving.

"Wait," I run and find Hammond’s shoulder, "I’m ready now."

"You look nice."

"Thanks."

"Why are you wearing your Tux?"

"It’s her birthday. You wear a Tux to a birthday … everyone does. That’s why it’s called a birthday-suit … it’s the suit you wear to birthdays."

Hammond breaks out in laughter, "Joe. A person is born in their birthday-suit."

"I was born in a Tux?"

Hammond laughs as we come to the foyer’s staircase; I see John. He has a suitcase. I don’t remember him having a suitcase. Is it one of mine?

"Hammond, what’s he carrying?"

"Mr. Wandering-Bear couldn’t decide on a set of clothing to wear. He liked them all. Since they’re going to charity anyway, I let him have the ones he liked best."

"Is he wearing his favorite?"

"No. Oddly enough, he says there is something he’s saving it for."

"Did he say what?"

"No."

"Well he looks nice."

"You should tell him that."

"I don’t think so."

"Why?"

"I don’t know. I just don’t think it’s right."

"There’s nothing wrong with it."

"I don’t know about that. Plus, I won’t feel right."

"Well I hope you will. It’ll make him feel good," Hammond’s tone sharpens.

I think about it as we approach the man; Hammond says, "Everyone ready? Mr. Atwater has pulled the car around front. If you’ll follow me."

I pass Mr. Bear and smell flowers. Nice. I’m glad the street will be under the tires instead of up my nostrils. That’s not a clip-on bow-tie John’s wearing, is it? No. It’s real.

As the midday sun follows us across the driveway, I ask, "Did you tie that?"

"Yep," John answers.

"Good. It’s a shame to give away a perfectly good bow-tie when one doesn’t know how to tie it."

"Do you?"

"That’s not the point; I’ve got plenty of people who do."

"Yes, but when one knows how to fish, one will not starve when one’s fisherman goes missing."

"What are you saying?"

"It’s better to know for yourself."

"Why?"

"Because people are unreliable. They die, get hurt, run late, back-stab each other for the littlest things. It’s best to rely on yourself alone. Maybe the next time you’ll need one tied, no one will be around to do it for you."

"I don’t even like bow-ties. Plus, I disagree. A man cannot know everything … especially by himself."

"I did not say by himself … I said alone. Rely on no one but yourself to know the ways of important things so they might be mastered."

"You have an answer for everything don’t you," slowly, my amazement and irritation towards this man grows; I’m either going to hate this guy or love ‘em … I mean in the friend way.

"Many things I’ve seen, but everything? I only hope to know the company of God."

"God?"

"God is everything. I know of God, but I do not know God and I certainly don’t have all of God’s answers. A few? Yes. All? No."

"Well, I don’t know about God and rather not talk about it," I say as I remember the last time that word crossed my lips – when I was about to meet him … or her .. or it … or whatever … the point was, I was going to find out the real deal about all this God stuff and existence after death and whatnot. I’m not too sure I want to hasten that truth-fulfilling rendezvous.

"Okay. We don’t have to talk about anything you’re not comfortable with," John says as Perry Atwater, my chauffeur, opens the double doors. My limo is custom, just as any other really rich person.

After I settled and the car is moving, I say, "You look nice Mr. Bear."

"Thanks. Please, just John. You look nice too."

I smile. Hammond smiles. Then the drinks are passed around. After some time, the liquor wears off and I awaken. Hammond and John are talking.

"I need some water;" Hammond is quick to fill my every need; I say, "Thanks."

"Yes. You’re welcome."

"Hammond, where are we?"

"About twenty minutes away."

"Is that all?"

"Mr. Atwater has done a superb job getting us here."

"Of course he has. I hired him. He’s the best."

"That he is."

Then I ask John, "So why are you going to see your granddaughter?"

"I told you; it’s her birthday."

"No. I mean. Why aren’t you there already?"

"Because you woke up too early," he smiles; even I chuckle once or twice among the crew’s laughter.

"No. I mean why didn’t you live there from before?"

"Oh I see. Well it’s simple really. I was with my wife. We were north of the city … about hundred miles. I made it the first hundred, thanks for the last."

"You’re welcome. Now tell me your story."

"It all started when we had to go and see my only daughter. She was sick."

"What disease?"

"The disease of wealth … prosperity … fame … riches of every indulgence."

"I don’t understand."

"She was addicted."

"To what?"

"Everything. Drugs, men, sex, image but mostly money. She always had to have enough money and the right man … and best drugs and the right look and the right house in the right neighborhood. She was a poser."

"A what?"

"A poser for pictures."

"You mean a model."

"Right. A model … that’s right, she called herself a supermodel."

"A supermodel? She was a supermodel?"

"You say that as if you’ve heard the term."

"Who hasn’t?"

"Oh … I always thought it was her pride."

"Pride is right. You’ve got to have a certain confidence to be a supermodel."

"Right. I see. Well we went to see her after she’d come home from the hospital. She didn’t have anything to say to us but the loud words of the whiteman’s world. She disrespected her mother and I until we could take no more.

"That’s when we found her not breathing on the bathroom floor. I called 911. Because of the neighborhood we were in, they had her at the hospital before I could find my jacket. You see, we were packing to leave when this happened. My jacket had accidentally been stuffed in one of the bags. By the time we got to the hospital, there was no sign of the ambulance.

"So, I parked the car and we started for the Emergency Room doors. Just as we began to cross the street is when it happened. I dropped my keys and bent down to pick them up when the garbage truck hit her."

"What ..who … hit who?"

"My wife. She was killed instantly. I was next to the van where I’d dropped my keys. The driver must not have seen her step out from behind the van. Oh God … if I’d only held her hand," John begins to weep.

"What happened to your daughter?" I finally ask.

"I don’t know."

"You didn’t see her again?"

"Yes for the last time. I’m pretty sure she died too. The doctor’s didn’t think she’d live with all the brain damage. It was a pretty bad OD. I didn’t stay. I had to take my wife home to be buried in the old way."

"How long ago was that?"

"Seven years."

"Seven? What have you been doing since then?"

"Just like I said … I’ve been making it that first hundred miles."

"What? It doesn’t take seven years to walk a hundred miles … I bet a determined paraplegic could crawl the whole two hundred in five. You could’ve gone to see your son long before now. The fact is you didn’t. Why?"

"Have you lost anyone?"

"My whole family."

"How?"

"Different things."

"Were you close to any of them?"

"Sure."

"Did you miss them when they left?"

"I don’t know. I guess."

"Then you don’t know … you don’t know what it’s like to lose someone who holds your soul in their hands. I see the way you love Hammond. Imagine he was killed. What would you do for the next seven years?"

"Rot."

"What?"

"I wouldn’t need seven years. I’m going to die the moment Hammond goes. It’s that simple."

"Then you do understand."

"What?"

"Why it took seven years for me to let enough of her go so I could make the journey to my granddaughter and live my last days with my son."

"I guess if Hammond died and I still lived, I’d be unable to make heads or tails of anything … maybe forever. Maybe seven years isn’t too long. I guess it is possible you haven’t had the opportunity until now to see her."

I smile at John as he looks out the window with childlike eyes, searching the landmarks for familiar signs. His eyes lighten; he begins pointing. I see tears. His words try to make sense but do not.

Finally I say, "Perry. Make the next right." And then we focus on the final steps of this climb. Left and right we go. John can only point as I become his mouthpiece.

Then the pointing stops at what must be their home. It’s simple. Lots of children’s toys strewn across the front yard with a chain-link fence. A big white pickup sits next to the little white trailer they must be using for a home as I see no house near by. They must call this place a trailer park as the only thing I see that even resembles a residence are a bunch of permanently parked boxes, usually pulled behind a vehicle.

I hear sounds break the front door and a woman, inquisitively looking at us, stands in the space between the inside and the outside when I ask Hammond, "Is this what they call a trailer park?"

He affirms with a nod and points to the woman in the doorway. Her eyes do not trust the length of my limo, the fancy light-strips on the side nor the vacant, covered Jacuzzi at the tail-end. The children form behind her legs and point to this new wonder of their world. Perry gets out, smiles, tips his hat and says, "Afternoon."

"More like evening," the woman retorts.

"Of course," Mr. Perry Atwater tips his hat again and walks to the doors. They open by his gentle command. I step out first. Then Hammond. Then John Wandering-Bear.

The woman starts towards us but then trots at a good pace as she recognizes, "Dad … Dad is that you?"

I turn to Hammond, "Dad? Is that his daughter?"

"I don’t know. Sometimes close families call their stepfathers simply father. Maybe this is similar. Plus. She doesn’t look like a supermodel nor does she suffer perceivable brain damage."

"You’re right."

"John Wandering-Bear?" the woman finally says as she takes the man into her arms of home.

"Where is my Rosemary?" John asks through the tears

"Right here ..." the young girl shows herself.

"I am Grandpa John. I have a birthday present for you."

"Really?" the young eyes turn bright.

"Today is your birthday … isn’t it?"

"Yes," her ample shyness stays put.

"Good, then come with me," John leads her to the trunk of the car with Hammond and Perry in tow.

"Hammond?" I say and follow.

"Yes."

"What’s this all about?"

"I thought, since you traded his pride for your treasure, I’d throw in a gift or two for his granddaughter. You don’t mind, do you?"

"Of course not. I just wished I’d been included."

"I didn’t think you wanted to be bothered," John steps in.

"Bothered? Why?" I return a timid defense.

"Let’s not get into that," the Bear tries to stop this.

"What? Get in to what?" I’m still defensive.

"The way you two fight … " Hammond returns.

"We don’t fight. John is a good friend."

"A good friend?" Hammond’s surprise doubts.

"Sure. Why do you think I got his granddaughter the presents you got … what’d we get?"

"We? No, John. John got her a doll … among other things."

"Where’d you get a doll on such short notice?"

"Perry went to the stores while you slept."

"In the car?"

"No, on the bed at home. This was before we left."

"How much was it?"

"More than you want to hear but nothing compared to what you have."

"What?" I respond to Hammond’s look.

A moment and he says, "Nothing."

"No. What?"

"It’s just that you’re so close. Keep your mind open and your eyes fixed on hers."

"Who?"

"Rosemary."

"Why?"

"She might have your treasure … but don’t get upset with her if she doesn’t."

"Upset?"

"Yes upset. You like to blame others for your own shortcomings. It is in your hands to find your treasure … no one else’s."

"Then why watch Rosemary?"

"The bridge, crossing the distance between you and your treasure, awaits in the eyes of those you help. You’ve brought her a present, given to her by her grandfather. I’d say you’ve made this little girl’s birthday bright."

"Made her birthday bright?" I ask as I think about the implications. I’ve never made anyone’s day let alone a whole birthday let alone made it bright. Could it be possible she jumps up and down in jubilant anticipation because of me?

"Yes. Now help take in a box."

"Box?"

"It’s about time some of the charity goes to the needy. Now get a box."

"What’s in the boxes?"

"Clothes, food, electronics, stuff … you know, stuff you don’t use."

"I use those things."

"Not these … why are you having such a hard time giving?"

"I’m not."

"Yes you are. Everything you give is given with a mind to take it back."

"No I don’t," then I think of all the complaints I’ve just made over the doll and the boxes. Maybe I am being a bit miserly about all this. "I guess your right. I’ll try to do better. I’ll look for my treasure like you said."

"No. Don’t. Just enjoy yourself. The treasure will find you. Don’t look for it or it’ll elude your every step. Look into the eyes of others. Simply be prepared to receive it. But for now, pick up a box."

"Okay," I take a heavy one and start towards the house.

John tries to talk to the woman, but the child will not allow it. She wants to open her presents now. It is obvious she is being told no. Then John picks her up, whispers something in her ear and returns her to her feet. She pipes down and runs inside.

Once the group stands in the front-room, we find a man on the couch. Maybe this is John’s son. When Rosemary jumps on him and pulls his hand, anyone could conclude he must be someone she knows.

"Hammond, I want to introduce my family."

"Fine. I’ll get Joe," Hammond walks outside and calls me in. I’m talking to Perry about the doll. It seems he has a daughter too. I guess Rosemary might actually like her present.

When Perry and I enter the room, John starts, "This is my daughter-in-law and my son," he points to the woman and then to the man on the couch, "Angel and Michael Black-Elk. And this bundle of energy is my granddaughter Rosemary. You can call her Rose.

"Angel, Mike and Rose, this is Hammond and … I’m sorry, do I call you Mr. Buckmiller or what?"

"Just Joe. Everyone calls me Joe."

"This is Hammond, Joe and Perry. They’re some friends I met today that agreed to give me a ride."

"From where?" Angel asks.

"The City."

"You came all that way … in a limo? Sounds tough," she laughs. This gets the rest of us going.

"Now! NOW!" Rose cries.

"Settle down Rose. Dinner’s almost ready."

"Can’t I open my gifts now … before dinner … before the nice men have to leave?"

"Leave? I hadn’t thought of that. Hammond, Joe, Perry will you join us for dinner?" John asks.

"Well I ..." wanting to leave I try to get out of it.

"Of course. Wouldn’t be a proper birthday if we didn’t stay for dinner;" Hammond smiles at Rose, "… why do you think we brought extra food and a special cake made totally of ice-cream?"

"An ice-cream-cake?" the small child’s uncovering of the concept of cake and ice cream being one thing infatuates.

"Then it’s settled. You’ll open your presents after dinner," Angel finalizes the plan.

Once I’m filled with good food and we sit around the coffee table for the festivities, I notice Mike occupies the couch as some indigenous lifeform. For once in my life I’m beginning to think before I speak. I was going to ask what’s wrong until I realize this might not be the best time for that.

Instead, I say, "It might be best to open the boxes first … kind of a buildup to Grandpa’s gifts."

Angel nods her head and the cardboard flies. Although this woman is a take-charge kind of gal, I see her facade crack a smile when the food processor is revealed. She takes hold and immediately finds a place for it in the kitchen.

When I see Mike notice the HDTV, standing next to the latest gaming system – apparently one of my chains of superstores had an overstock this year and stored a few at the house – I admit to myself, all this excitement is contagious. Boy, I must be close to the treasure because something nudges me when he sits up and directs the kids away from the two units. Then I see it. His legs are not the right size. One’s longer than the other. In fact, I think one is bent or twisted somehow. But the smile on his face is far from twisted. It’s joyful. I smile too.

When the finale arrives and Rose has opened all her presents save the doll, I feel something new. As Rose takes her doll from the wrapping paper, I intently watch. I remember what Hammond said. I look into her big, brown eyes. I see the way she looks at her grandfather – a kind of Santa Claus on the Christmas of her birth. She smiles so wide and so bright I figure we no longer need lights to illuminate.

But I don’t find it. Slightly disappointed, but thankful none the less, I give up my search and sit back. Hammond’s right; you never seem to find what you’re looking for until the moment you stop looking.

I look away from her and suddenly see the Treasure. It was in John’s eyes all along. The way he looks at his granddaughter contains the mystery. The way the tear falls from his cheek defines its meaning. The way his hand works to help Rose release the packaging from around her new friend speaks volumes of its truth. Yes. I see it in his eyes. I see the joy and thanksgiving.

My heart beats. I feel strange. All of the sudden I see the room, the door, the table, the chairs, the couch and the people all at once. I am. I am here. I am alive. The energy in this room ignites my spirit and sets free my self-loathing criticism. I feel a shift of motion between the lower and upper half of my body. The spin seems to switch and flip to the top – my heart and head turn with glee while the lower warms its deceased emptiness in peace.

The focus of my life has always been me. But when I see John look into Rose’s eyes and kiss her cheek, I forgot myself. I was simply happy to see this, to be part of it, any part. I think that’s precisely when it begun.

I see the movie of life upon the double-wide screen. I see the children play and the others talk of future uses these new trinkets posses. Then I see myself. I don’t just see myself; I see the part I play in all of this. I see my role … my character. Therefore, for the first time, I see the distance between others and myself does not exist. I see my unique vibration fit into to the life around me.

I am but an extra – an observer stage-left. And my sight is simply this musical, held within my mind’s eye. I wipe my tear into my finger. I taste as if the salty flavor would be otherwise as suggested by its source: instead of myself, it has become others. I am a tool of the story. I am a participant in the joy of these glorious others who fill the screen of rapturous, silent peace.

I get up, grab the newly setup stereo and turn it on. I dance with Rose. I let go. This little girl did have the treasure. She had the love in her eyes that soften John’s soul with the touch of the most comfortable home – his. When she said thank you to her grandfather and kissed him back, I lost it. I admit it. I saw the treasure move from her to him and back … from eye to eye and onward to me. I see the way they love each other.

Everyone lets go and the scene is a party. For once in my life, I find meaning, a reason to be alive, to experience. If it where possible, I’d wrap them all up and take them home with me. But then I tell myself how this could not happen anywhere but here and now. I am here, now. I am where the Universe wants me to be when the Universe wants me to be.

Late into the night, I’m in a back room talking with John. Hammond fell asleep on the other couch and the rest have joined. But John and I have some more distance to travel together before we hit the slumbering road.

"Can I call you Bear?"

"Sure. Can I call you Joseph?"

"I guess. Why? Isn’t it easier to call me Joe?"

"Maybe. But I like the way Joseph sounds. I like how it feels when I say it. Joe just doesn’t do it for me. You are Joseph for me."

"Oh. Then please do. I never though of the way a name sounds … only the simplest and therefore easiest way to say it. That’s why I like Bear. It’s easy."

"Sound touches the soul. It is the form of Form. It is always important to be aware of the sound you make."

"Sound I make? Form?"

"Yes. The sound you make is the energy that flows from your actions and your communications. These sounds create harmony, destruction or simply irritation to all within its radius. It depends upon the intention of the musician and the skill he has to play his instrument."

"Instrument? What instrument?"

"Your body … your life. That is the instrument we play the soul’s symphony upon within the concert hall of eternity. The song you play is the direction you walk … the form you take."

"Direction? Form?"

Then Bear looks at me and stands up. He goes to a drawer, takes out some kind of smoking-plant and stuffs it in a peace-pipe. He sits, lights up, toques, takes a puff and hands it to me. I toque and puff.

"Now. If you wish, we can talk about direction and form. Do you wish to open your eyes upon this path?"

"What path?"

"The path of the soul."

"What? Does this have to do with the treasure?"

"The treasure? Oh yes. The Treasure. That was Hammond’s way of making you aware of the Path. The Treasure is simply a word for the moment you glimpsed the Path. The Path is what lies beyond the Treasure."

"Such big words … Treasure … Path. Let’s keep it simple. But go on. I’ll listen."

"This isn’t simply filling time with idle conversation. This is important. You must request … you must desire."

"Sure. I request and want to know."

"I do not think you understand. I will tell you some other day."

"Why? Why not now?" I say and think he’s holding something back.

"You are not prepared. Someone who asks to walk this path must be ready. You will either walk on the path or the path will walk on you. It has the power to heal you or destroy you."

I swallow hard; I realize I am not prepared; I ask, "Why?"

"The power of the path is so great that a man will either find eternal form within the energy and sound of limitless peace or endless pain. If a man does not prepare himself to define the creature within through battle or surrender, the man will become a slave to the beast and may never find the harmony of the swan upon the placid lake but only the pain of the snake in the clutches of the eagle."

"So I might go insane?"

"Could. Could go lots of places. But if you find the one place at the end of every path, you’ll find harmony of mind, body and spirit."

"I’m not ready … yet. Do you think you could tell me about the path and then maybe help me prepare?"

John Bear laughs; I notice this stuff we smoked is nothing I’ve ever smoked and I’ve smoked it all. I laugh with him … but not out of control or magnified in anyway. I feel clear.

"I tell you what was told to me: Each path is different. Each path is the same. Each one of us has our own path. Every path is our own. Each step of each path is the same step which leads to the same place. Every step of every path is a unique step everyone takes. The path is you. The path is us. I will tell you about the path given to me by my father."

Bear’s hand opens, fingers extended; he counts each as he starts with the pinkie finger and moves to the thumb, "If you want to find the form and sound of peace you must take hold with all five fingers as your hand steps upon each stone. One: stop. Two: surrender. Three: understanding. Four: prayer. Five: arrive. In order to walk the path, one must know the five steps. In order to walk the path, one must take each step in the stride of five.

"That’s it. That’s what was told to me by my father and his father before him and on and on. I will help you prepare when you desire."

"I desire now."

"You’re drunk now. Maybe tomorrow."

"Okay. But when you said prayer … do you mean like a rain dance?"

"That’s part of it."

"Really?" my eyes widen.

"Really. Man is not separate from nature. When man controls himself, nature can seem under control."

"I’ll be able to control nature?"

"No. There is only one kind of control: self control. But when you do control yourself, you gain a relationship that is … oh how do you whitemen say this … profitable? … yes, profitable."

"I’ve always been good at that … making money … finding and maintaining control of my assets," then I stop myself. I realize I might’ve been good at this one time for one moment, but I’m not too sure I’ve ever been in control of anything let alone myself.

"We’ll see. Now. Do you want some more chicken?"

"Oh ya," I feel hungry; but then I say, "Wait. Before you get the food. I must ask if you’ll come to one more party. This one is for everyone at the park where I met you. It’s in honor of you. I’ll distribute some more clothes and stuff but at the same time have a real party. What do you think?"

"Sure. I’d love it; at your place?"

"Where else? Hey, will you come with me tomorrow to get started?"

"Not tomorrow. Why don’t you pick me up in a few days? Once you’ve got it planned, drop by and I’ll help with the finishing preparations and getting the guest list together."

"But what about them? They’ll be on the streets tomorrow and the next day. Why not round ‘em up now?"

"You don’t need me for that."

"Sure I do. Why are you so adamant about not going tomorrow?"

"Isn’t it obvious?"

"No."

"I want to spend time with my family. Give me a few days."

"Oh. Of course. I see. I’m sorry. Sure. How long do you need?"

"Tell you what. If I haven’t called you in a week, come and get me."

"Okay," I smile, "Wait. One last thing. What did you say to Rosemary when we first got here … you know, to get her to go inside?"

"I told her a magical spirit watches and brings a wonderful gift for her birthday; I told her to go inside and wait for her mother because only her mother decides who may enter with what," Bear leaves.

By the time he returns with the catch, I’m asleep. I couldn’t help it. It was a real long day and I didn’t get much sleep last night. Wait. Did I sleep last night? Anyway, when the smell of sausage hits, I smile and wake. Then I look around and remember where I am. I grin at all the memories of the night before.

After breakfast, I’m talking to Rose, "So what is it?"

"I can’t tell or it won’t come true."

"Maybe on any other day, but today you have a chance to tell someone who can make it come true."

"You could make it come true?"

"Tell me what it is."

"Disneyland."

"No kidding. I guess that’s the fantasy of every kid. Okay. Disneyland it is."

"Really? Are you really going to take me to Disneyland?"

"Sure. All we have to do is ask your mother."

"MOM! MOMMM!" Rose rockets off. In few minutes she returns in tears and grabs my hand.

"Please. Make her say yes ..." she pulls.

I stand and follow. Once we’re in the washroom, I listen to Rose, "Joe says we can go … he’ll take us. Please mom. I’m not making this up."

"Oh Honey I know you’re not. But I need you to realize it can’t happen," Angel answers.

"Why?" I jump in.

"Why? Simple. I don’t know you. Do you think I’m going to let my baby girl go with some stranger?"

"No. You’ll come too."

"No thank you. I know what you rich people are like. I’ve worked for a few. Crazy. The lot of ya. I’m thankful for the gifts; those we can keep. So, I’m sorry. I just can’t accept a trip to Disneyland. I know how it works. You’ll eventually ask us for something we can’t give or maybe you’re just a crazy ax-murderer."

I laugh; the best idea crosses my mind, "You may not trust me now, but when you get to know me, you’ll see I’m not so bad. I’ll be back here in a week to pick up John for a party at my place in his honor. Until then, you talk to John and think about letting me take Rose to Disneyland and other things I’ll talk to you about when I see you next. But I want you to promise you’ll join us next week at his party, okay?"

She reluctantly compromises, "We’ll see."

Episode 3

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 Jax Design of UEC

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