Episode Three

Help Starts Here

The momentum of the previous day did not fly. I sent Hammond, Mr. Sanderson and Mr. Atwater to the park to pick up the people. Even though I couldn’t partake in the moment because I’m having a hard time feeling the same energy of yesterday, I cannot let another day go by knowing they’re in that place … under the frozen cold of an empty sky. So by dinner, I see a bunch of them in the yard working for Mr. Sanderson. Strangely enough, Mr. Atwater is there too. As I take another sip of my soup, I smile. Before another is taken, I join the scene.

"Perry, what’s up?" I throw out as I’ve no real reason to be here; in fact it just occurred to me I’ve enter into this situation totally unprepared.

I smile as I do not feel any fear but instead like the fact I am boldly going where I’ve never been before. You see, I’m an outsider here. I’m never the outsider. I am, by the very definition of my wealth, the insider. But not here. Maybe I’m just trying to regain the excitement I felt with John Wandering-Bear by exposing myself to places and situations unseen.

"No much. Just finishing these early-bloomers."

"Early what?"

"Flowers."

"Flowers? But spring is not for another ..." I start.

"That’s why they call ‘em Early. Mr. Sanderson says they’ll be in bloom for the party."

"But that’s in four days."

"I’m not the gardener … he is."

I turn to Mr. Sanderson, "Will these really be ready?"

"Oh yes. Special order from one of your genetic research labs. They’re guaranteed."

"Sounds great. How’s the help?" I point to the closest one.

"Fine. Mr. Rose, meet Mr. Buckmiller."

"You can call me Rose."

"I know a cute little girl named Rose. Now just to be sure, you did say Rose, like that cute little girl? Are you a cute little girl?"

"What do you think," the slur is not as obvious as the orientation.

"Then you are gay?"

"Whenever possible," Rose smiles with plenty of attitude.

I turn to Mr. Sanderson, "What’s his real name?"

"Hector Rose. He’s got ID. Checks out."

"What’s the hubbub, bub?" Rose makes sure we don’t forget we are talking about him to his face.

"Nothing Mr. Rose … I mean Rose. You can call me Joe," I’m doing my best. I don’t know if I’ve ever been this close to a homosexual without beating his brains in. Come to think of it, that’s the first thought I’ve had about violence … not to say I’m feeling violent; I’m just saying I’ve found yet another surprise: I’m actually conversing with a fag, I mean a gay, I mean a homo, I mean, oh whatever they call themselves these days. Point is: I’m talking to him and no one’s forcing him to respond. I’m experiencing so many new things: things I’m not too sure I’d approved of not so long ago. So I smile with my comment.

"Joe?" he confirms.

"Rose?" I respond.

"Yes?" he asks.

"What do you think about the flowers? Do you think they’ll bloom?"

"Anything’s possible when one has the money you do, Joe."

"I guess you might be right. But do you think they’ll bloom."

"Yes."

"Really. Are you a betting man?"

"Are roses red?"

"Then I wager you a job … a permanent position."

"And if I lose?"

"The bet is, if you tend these flowers with Mr. Sanderson and they bloom then you’ve got a job. But if they don’t, I expect to find you absent from the party."

"Mr. Buckmiller?" Perry inputs.

"Yes?"

"Don’t you think that’s a little harsh?"

"No. That’s all for now," I leave.

Why harsh? What just happened? I leave as though someone had prematurely pushed me out. That’s it. My ego shoved me aside. For some reason I would’ve been embarrassed to stay one more moment.

Honestly trying to do my best, I went outside all innocent and now I’ve got a bet with a man I don’t know. What if he wins? I hadn’t considered that. I’m just realizing it was too much to be next to this man so I found a way to get him out – an honorable way; a gentlemen’s wager. Wait. He’s no gentleman. He’s a fag.

That’s it. That’s why I made the bet. I’m still not quite kosher with his sexuality or should I say lack of mine. I think I need a hooker. Yes. That’s it. I’ll have Hammond pick me one up for dessert. Maybe I’ll feel better. Maybe I’ll have two. Maybe if I’d had the hooker before I went outside, that Rose guy would be at the party. Oh well. No use crying over spilt milk. I know I wanted to help everyone, but I’m not ready to help the enemy … to embrace it … or him … or whatever … I’m not sure what to call things like him.

So the next few days pass and the party preparations have reached their peak. When nothing more can be done and the sun sets on the last night before the big day, I sit on my balcony and watch the last rays disappear.

Hammond walks out with a phone and says, "Joe, it’s for you."

"Who?"

"John."

"John Wandering-Bear?"

"The very same."

I take the phone and eagerly ask, "Bear?"

"Joseph. Yes. I’m calling to let you know I’m in the limo with Perry. My whole family is coming … Mike, Angel and Rosemary. Perry says it’ll be a couple hours before we arrive, but I just wanted to call and let you know we’re on our way."

"Thanks."

"Okay then … the phone is breaking up … I’ll talk to you soon."

"Fine … see you soon John Wandering-Bear."

"Bye."

I hear the last word echo through the phone and feel a deep emptiness take over.

"What’s the matter?" Hammond asks.

"Nothing."

"What’d he say?"

"It’s not that ..."

"What then?"

"I don’t know … I just fear something’s going to happen. Like why did he call me just to say he’s coming? It feels like the death of his wife all over except it’s happening to me."

"What do you mean?"

"I feel like fate will take this day from me … for all the terrible things I’ve done?"

"What terrible things?"

"I don’t know … trying to kill myself live on the Internet … that’s pretty bad … not to mention I’m a raging selfish bastard."

"Some like myself might say otherwise … like the fact that you’ve helped a whole family. Rosemary doesn’t think you’re selfish."

I look at him so he says, "Let me ask you something, how did you hurt anyone by doing that thing … the Internet thing?"

"That’s not the question. The real question is how many did I hurt?"

"Really. Now how did you personally hurt the masses that night?"

"By telling them how to do it and not doing it myself … by being a coward … by promising them a great show and then weaseling out."

"You set the example."

"Ya the example of failure."

"You may not know this yet, but sometimes learning how to fail is the most important thing you’ll learn. If you fail to learn when you do not succeed then you are bound to the same failure time and again. You see, there are even some things which are just not meant to be successes."

"Like what?"

"Like … oh think of what it’d be like if you succeeded every time you had sex … you’d have an endless trainload of heirs with any number of women."

"I guess you’ve got a point there."

"Sometimes when we lose, we win ...right?"

Thinking of all the losses I’m so proud of and how happy I am that each grouping of gametes failed their mission, I see what he means and agree, "Like I said, you’ve got a point."

"But there is more to this than that, you’re expecting to lose. You want to lose."

"No I don’t," I pipe up.

"Sure you do. You figure you deserve it."

"So what if I do. That doesn’t mean I should fail … does it?"

"Thank God your not God. You’d have us all running around like a chicken with it’s head missing."

"What?"

"You’re giving mixed messages. Decide what you want. Then find a way to believe it’ll be part of your life or it won’t."

"I’m still not there yet. What are you saying?"

"It’s simple Joe. If you think John will die on his way here and you don’t deserve this day, then it won’t matter when you have it because it’s already spoiled. You’ll simply never enjoy it. Unless you decide to embrace the change in your life and realize no matter who you were before, the person you are now chooses the path you’ll follow, you’ll never release the past and its grip on your outlook. You’ve done a lot of good for a whole bunch of people and will do more for even more. Let yourself accept the fruits of these labors. Embrace tomorrow with sunshine and smiles. Don’t expect tragedy unless you want it. Instead, look for triumph."

"You’re saying if I want to have fun be ready for fun but if I want to cry, start welling up the tears?"

"Exactly. Now what do you want?"

I think; I smile; I say, "Fun. I want to have fun."

"Then let’s have some fun."

I like the way Hammond is always here for me. The way he always says the right thing and wants to help me understand myself better. I guess that’s why they’re called help, ‘cause they help.

Bear arrives after I’ve fallen asleep. It took a little longer than expected, you know traffic. Hammond makes the family feel at home while I continue to saw the log. The next day starts with the sun in my eyes. Sometimes the sun is like a dagger that pierces your ability to see. But today it’s a friend that warms your room with nature’s photons. In fact, when Hammond enters I tell him to keep the man made ones out for now so we might both enjoy nature’s bounty. Oh the light of the sun. It can not only be seen but felt.

When I stretch and make those early morning roars, I smile, laugh and say, "Is my bath ready?"

"Of course."

"I don’t want to leave a microbe of dirt on this body. No. Today’s much too important. I want to be as clean as possible."

"You’ve come to the right place," Hammond reaches and take my hand to help me out of bed.

I’ve always been a fan of a hot bath; but today’s is nicer than I remember. I see Bear on my way out and ask him to walk with me. Once we exit my front door, I see the masses have gathered.

"I hope you don’t mind, but I told everyone to invite everyone," the man stands in a beautiful suit.

"Bear, I don’t mind at all. This is your party. But where’d you get that suit?"

"It’s yours."

"Oh … then this must be it."

"It?"

"The day we meet, you took that suitcase and wore that nice outfit; but when I asked Hammond if it was your favorite, he said it wasn’t and that you were saving it for something … is this it?"

"The very same."

"But how did you know?"

"I didn’t. All I knew was a day like this would come and I finally had the suit for it."

"Cool. It must be because you’re Indian."

Bear looks funny and says, "Or maybe because I’m human."

"That too," I cover with laugher and quickly change the subject as even I am getting tired of my subtle prejudices – I just wish I could be made aware of them before they fall out of my bumbling mouth, "Is Rosemary and the rest joining us?" Good. That was fine. Back on track.

"Yes. But later."

"I see," we pass by the garden; look; the flowers are in bloom.

"Hammond is waiting for us in the gazebo," Bear says.

"Good. I take it he wants me to say a few words."

"Exactly," Bear smiles.

We make our way through the people to the oversized gazebo. Hammond points me to the microphone; then he steps away and the music stops. Tapping the mike, I watch the people’s attention turn this way.

I speak, "Welcome. I hope you all are have a wonderful time," the crowd reacts with affirmation.

"Great. I know most of you know the man standing next to me. For those who don’t, this is John Wandering-Bear. This is his party. And because this occasion is in honor of him, I want to honor you in his name.

"I know some if not most of you will not take this gift, but in Bear’s name it is given: anyone who wants a way off the street and the opportunity for work, I offer you a place and a path to do so. After lunch, tables will be set up and I’ll have people who will talk with all of you who want immediate change in their life the way Bear changed mine.

"But for those we cannot help find work, you’ll be offered a package of gifts including five-hundred dollars cash. All you must do for the package is go see these people and do your best to find a place to work for me or one of my associates. The package is guaranteed whether you find work or not. If you try and fail, you will still have something. Please. Everyone come to the tables after lunch and find something. If you can’t, then at least you’ll walk away with something you can spend.

"One more thing. Just to put you all at ease, this is not a job fair. This is a party. I simply feel so indebted to Bear I must do something for his family and extended family – you. If you don’t want to do anything but party today … then I challenge you to find a better party than this: a party lasting all weekend long. Have fun and most of all, enjoy yourselves. And don’t worry … what you break will be fixed … what you drink and eat will be replaced with more. Rooms are prepared and available for any of you who want to stay with us the remainder of the weekend. Thanks."

I’d half way expected a loud cheer. But the sparse whistles and dripping applause is thanks enough; I guess. Then again, I’m almost ready to get back up there to make sure everyone understands the great things I’m prepared to do when I see Rose.

"Rose!" I run to him.

"Joe?" he turns to me.

"I see our flowers have come into bloom," actually I am happy with this turn of events; I’m happy to see him and to know that he’ll stay. Wait. That didn’t come out right.

Yes it is true I expected the flowers to have failed and therefore Rose would be out of my life and I’d not have to endure him or his race of people. But in this exact moment, I must admit I’m happy he’s right in front of me, the very first person I see.

No. This still is not sounding right. Let’s try again because I don’t want you to think I’m sweet on Rose … either of them. I’m not fag and I’m certainly not one of those … I don’t want to even mention the sin of my Uncle. Children should never suffer … why do they?

Let’s see. Why? Why am I so happy to see him. Well, I do feel overwhelmed by the shear number of people here I do not know. They do not look at me the way other men of money do. No. These people have no reverence for my wealth. They intimidate me with their total lack of respect for their overly generous host.

Maybe, I’m embarrassed all these people didn’t give me more praise for everything I’m giving them. I guess I’m happy to see Rose because I’m happy at least I know one of these people – bums, not fags; but I guess he’s technically both. What I’m saying is I’m happy to see the bum in him, not the other. I’m glad I know one of ‘em as in one of these "transients," or I mean I’ve meet one and we have this thing: this bet. I mean bet not thing. When I say thing I mean bet, nothing more.

I guess that’s why I’m relieved he won; so the one I know is the one I owe – an element that always makes an encounter more enjoyable, at least for him. And right now, making him happy makes me happy because, at least for the next few moments – the crucial moments right after a speech when one is most vulnerable and needs praise akin to the need for air – I’ll be able to feed the monster within.

"Sure. Does this mean the position is still open?"

"Yep."

"Good. My sister will take it."

"Sister? You mean your lover?"

"No. Not my boyfriend, my real sister. She needs the work."

"What about you?" suddenly I see he’s not going to stay. I find myself clinging.

"I’m fine."

"Fine in a cardboard box? I don’t think so."

"Joe. Why do you worry about me? You want nothing more than to have people like me as far from you as possible."

"People like you?"

"Yes. Fag … butt-pirate … little Debbie; it matters not what name you use to cut me out of ‘your’ society and paste me into that little group of Troglodytes we sweep under the rug when company’s around; the only thing that matters is that you call me by my name or at least call me friend or foe. Cutting people out of humanity is really pasting yourself in Hell."

"Stop. I am your friend. I want you to stay and work as whatever you’re best at."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"I don’t think so. If you’d wanted me around, you’d have offered me a job … not put me in a situation where I’d lose … where I had to win … which I guess I have. But you lost the moment you made the bet. You lost my respect."

"I’m sorry. You’re right. But things have changed … I’ve changed. I want you to stay … I want your respect."

"Why? So you’ll have someone around who’s very presence says you’re no longer a hater? A little trophy boy? Hum? Someone for the mantle? Like when someone says, ‘I’m not racist, I’ve got a black friend!’"

"Hater? I’m not a hater or racist."

"Hammond was kind enough to inform me about your past. I think I’d be much safer far from here … as far from you as possible. If fact, why don’t you replace the word informed with warned."

"Rose. If I wanted you dead, don’t you thing you’d be pushing daises instead of my patience?"

"I suppose."

"Then give me a chance. I’ll hire your sister and you."

"No."

"Why not?"

"I don’t like dirt."

"You like flowers don’t you?"

"I am a flower."

"Exactly. Please make my flowers as lovely as you," I’m dumping on the cream and it’s making me feel nauseous. I think Rose sees I’m stretching this. He swoops in to save me with a change in direction.

He smiles, "Okay. But I can’t be a gardener."

"You don’t like Mr. Sanderson?"

"No. Far from it. He’s great. I just don’t like dirt. But I do like your house and I know I can do wonders with it."

"Wonders?"

"Yes. I’m an artist. Flowers are one of my paintbrushes. I’d be willing to splash beauty throughout your home with all the wonderful flowers Mr. Sanderson grows for the right price. Plus, I’d love to see more of my sister."

"Price? Don’t worry about money. Then it’s settled: paint your soul upon the canvas of my home in the medium of flowers."

"Flowers and other things."

"Are you talking about interior decorating?"

"Yes. Now you understand my art."

"Let’s just start with the flowers for now. Work with Hammond on the rest. He has a grasp on what I like. Whatever you want to do beyond the flowers, check with him and go from there. I’ll leave the house to the two of you. Do we have a deal?"

"Like I said, if the money’s right," finally Rose smiles wide.

I talk some more with Rose before we work out the cash flow. I nod to Bear as he’s talking with some people and I talk with others. Before long, I’m moving through the crowd as some kind of kid in a candy store on Christmas Eve. But as each encounter passes, I find myself less and less satisfied. Before long, depression hits and I’m in the woods, far from them.

It wasn’t the tears or the sounds of my wounds that made me feel embarrassed when Bear touches my shoulder. No. It was the fact that I’m out here all by myself. I wanted to mingle and find the treasure upon everyone’s face, but all I saw were bikers, bums, prostitutes, pushers and pimps. Sure I had fun talking-trash about this or that and nodding appreciatively when they remarked about the party or my estate, but I never found the treasure. I found some gratitude, some servitude and some interesting views on more things than I’ve ever thought of, but I found not one speck of It.

"Joseph. Something wrong?" Bear asks and sits next to me.

"No."

He laughs; he says, "Sounds like your fooling yourself again."

I turn to him in tears, "Why? Why can’t I find it again? I saw it in you and Rosemary, so I thought today would be a buffet of pure happiness. I figured I’d see it in everyone and everyone would see it in me. Today was supposed to be heaven."

"You have touched the promised land but you have not yet found a way to live here. You can take a few moments of this, but admit it: you can’t stand being here anymore than I."

"What do you mean?"

"This is a facade. It is a game you play with yourself. You want to live in the light, but you do not want to open your eyes and see."

"I don’t understand."

"You want to love and have all the wonderful things that come from a honest, open relationship but you have not yet cleared the way."

"Cleared the way?"

"Yes. You must cleanse yourself. You have tasted the future’s promise but in order to get there, you must leave the past’s heavy baggage behind."

"I have."

"You haven’t. You do not yet see the baggage. Seeing is the first step."

"Step? Are you talking about the path?"

"Yes."

"But I’m not ready."

"But you desire the treasure as some desire food, water or even air."

"I thought I had the treasure."

"You’ve only seen it. You’ve yet to touch it … hold it … make it your own."

"But if I’m not ready and I fail it’ll cost me my life … or worse."

"That’s true. But you are ready. Waiting will cost you more than your life."

"More? What could be more than that?"

"Your soul. Take hold now. You are ready."

"How do you know?"

"Because you’ve shown me. Deep within, you know this is true."

"No I don’t. What do you mean you’ve seen it?"

"Your tears are honest, open expressions of this. You cannot be more ready than you are right now."

"Really? I am ready?"

"Yes. Let’s begin. First you must stop and take a deep breath. I want you to breath in four counts, hold four and release a very controlled and slow eight counts. Can you do this?"

"I’ll try," I start to breath in but I cannot control it. And no, it’s not the tears … it’s something else. I must be out of shape or something.

"Calm down. The tears will abate with concentration on your breath. Let’s try again. Follow me," Bear looks at me with compassion.

I want to respond but he only smiles and leads with a consistent example. Soon I get a good, deep breath and hold it. Then I let it out. No more than three counts go by before I can no longer keep the flow from exiting. I’ll never be able to breath out for eight counts. Impossible.

After the third failure, Bear stops and says, "Put your tongue in the small opening you’ll make with your lips and let out controlled pulses of air like this," he shows me as the stuttering sound is made and then he finishes with, "Let’s try again, together."

By the second time I’ve got it. After two sets of these he changes the counts to a more even eight in, eight hold and eight out. After about three of these I feel a crystalline snap, popping-crackle in every corner of my flesh, all at once. Tingling passes through my body in a swirling motion as it focuses into a form and disappears into every speck of my being. I feel great. After we return to the original counting method, we end.

"Bear. Thanks. I feel much better. Is that meditation?"

"That is meditation’s door."

"Cool. I like it. Will you show me how to meditate?"

"Meditation is what we will do. Meditation is focused concentration. Now I want you to focus on my finger."

"Okay. Are you going to hypnotize me?"

"Hypnosis is simply a fancy word for the highest degree of meditation. So yes. Concentrate on my finger and I will help you find the deepest meditation while we attempt to cleanse your spiritual feet so you might walk the path of perfect intent."

"Am I ready?"

"You’ve already answered that question by asking it."

I am amazed by this man, "Where did I find you?"

"At the park."

"No. I mean: in what act or deed to the gods did I perform to have such an angel come to earth to help me?"

"It’s not always about you. This is as much for me as it is for you. Plus, I am not truly helping you. I am the guide you decide to follow. You are the actor … you are helping yourself; may we begin?"

"But if I’m not ready, I’m in the wrong place. You said the last step is getting there … I’m not sure where there is or where here is. How am I to know where here or there is? How am I to know when I’ve arrived?"

"You’re already here, you just haven’t arrived yet. The first step upon the path is to stop; stop thinking; stop deciding what you must know; stop controlling; stop wanting control. Stop pushing yourself into an answer. Simply stop and listen. I am here for you. Together we will discover the fact that there is simply here.

"Now. May I begin?" his steady look holds my attention.

"Sure," I leave his eyes and stare at his finger.

"I want you to do two things: listen to my voice and maintain a focus on my finger. I will give you instructions and ask some questions. You’ll allow the answers to flow as my instructions flow into being. Keep it simple. Do not think about anything except my voice and my finger. Do you understand?"

"Yes," I answer with no real volume; boy I’m relaxed.

"Good. When you answer, you’ll speak clearly. Answering my questions will feel good. You will answer the questions in a clear, steady voice with a volume appropriate for this conversation; is that understood?"

I clear my throat and answer, "Yes."

"Very good. Now that your eyes are completely connected to my finger, I want you to connect your eyelids to the altitude of my finger. As it falls towards the ground, your eyelids will be come increasingly heavy and want nothing more than to close into a natural, comfortable position. Once they shut, you will place one hundred percent of your concentration into my voice. You will not think of the answers you will give. You will only hear my voice ask and yours respond. Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now, feel your eyelids as my finger moves gently towards the floor. Calmly, gently I move my finger as your eyelids move with its pace. Feel how deep your breathing is becoming. Notice the relaxing nature of your hands and feet. Feel the energy move from their solitude down the extremities and into your center. The finger falls and the energy moves up the legs and through the arms. Further the finger drops towards its home – the only place it wants to be.

"The finger has dropped and your eyes are closed. Now you see a light. Your feet tingle … your fingers tingle … you feel warm, white energy filling this place … it’s okay to feel the love … to feel the light.

"Joseph, you see nothing but white light and feel nothing but calm, peaceful contentment. Imagine your body is a warm bubble in a froth of liquid love. Swimming through the happiness, you see this is your natural state of being. Everything you’ve ever wanted or cherished is here. Look, there they all are … everything. Tell me what you see."

"I see colors … and shapes. I see textures and feelings. Smiles and whispers. Moments. I hear words of happiness and promise."

"Good. Now you will notice one or more of these shapes will define themselves."

"Yes. I see a man. Hammond is here. Yes. There are others. I see old friends from childhood and my family. It’s good to see them again. I haven’t seen my family since I can remember."

"Okay good. Now look at your family. Tell me who steps forward from the mist."

"My father."

"Talk to him. Ask him why he’s here."

"Father, why are you here? … because you do not love me. But father, I do love you. … you loved my money. Yes. But I love you too. … you stopped loving me when you where a child; you hated your mother and I for no good reason; why?"

"Good. Your father is asking you why you stopped loving him. Put your father’s face into a pool of pure love and look into his eyes. Tell me what you see," the instructions continue.

"I see myself going from here down there."

"Where?"

"Childhood."

"What do you see as you move?"

"I see all the things I’ve done to him … all the times I harassed him and my mother until they could stand me no longer. I was not a pleasant son."

"It’s perfectly okay. Just keep moving. Move back until it happens."

"What?"

"Your father’s eyes will blink once you hit the moment this all begins. Tell me what you see once his eyes blink."

"They blinked."

"Where are you?"

"At home … in my room … wait it’s not my room … it’s the room of my childhood."

"You mean different from the room you stay in now?"

"Yes. My current room was my parent’s … this one is my room … the room of my childhood."

"How old are you?"

"I am a child … I don’t know, maybe six or seven."

"Tell me what you see … allow yourself into the moment."

"I’m walking out of my room. I’m walking down the hallway."

"Why?"

"It’s late at night. I’ve just awakened from a nightmare."

"Do you remember the dream?"

"It was the Monster again."

"The Monster? Did you dream often about the Monster?"

"Yes."

"Have you always dreamed of it?"

"After this night, it changed; it was never a monster again … it became a devil I could not see … the enemy behind my shoulder. It is the devil that still haunts my dreams … my reality. This is the last time I dream of the devil’s face … the last time I see the Monster."

"Why?"

"Because of what’s behind the door."

"What door?"

I become frustrated so Bear quickly says, "Let’s walk down the hall towards this door. You’ve just had a bad dream; we’re walking down the hall towards the door; what room is behind the door?"

"My parents room … the one I’m standing in front of … the one they are behind."

"Are they awake?"

"I don’t know … it’s very late. They should be asleep… but it’s okay if I wake them up … they told me it’s okay."

"Yes; it’s okay. You’re at the door, tell me what happens."

"I hear bad sounds. Daddy is in pain. I hear him scream. Ah …"

"What?"

"Someone’s in their room. I can’t move. I’m petrified. … Hammond," softly whispers, "Hammond come quick!"

"Can Hammond hear you?"

"No. I can’t even hear myself. I want to scream for help but I cannot."

"How do you deal with this?"

"I don’t know … for some reason, the next time my father screams I grab the handle and open the door … I want to let him out … give him a way to escape."

"Quite noble for a man of such a young age. Did you run inside?"

"Yes. I run inside … Let go of my Daddy!" I scream but then suddenly I cannot speak. I cannot breath. I go into shock.

"Joseph. This is only a memory; it cannot hurt you. I want you to breath. Joseph. Take a deep breath … Joseph … that’s right take another one for me … nice and deep. Tell me what’s just happened."

"I see my father. He’s tied up. Someone has tied his legs to the bed and his arms are spread-eagle across the adjacent bedposts. A masked man is whipping him from behind and yelling obscenities. Ah … they see me. Oh God!" I go into the same convolutions.

"Breath. Joseph breath … that’s it. Now what just happened?"

"It’s not a man … that’s my Mom!"

"Who?"

"The man beating and whipping my Dad is really my Mom."

"Your mother?"

"Yes. They’ve stopped and are screaming at me … oh God! I run … I run and I run and I run. I run outside and into the woods … I think."

"Then what?"

"Nothing. I don’t remember. I ran down the hill to the bridge … or did I cross the bridge … I can’t remember. Something happened. Wait. I feel wet. I remember something. They said I hit my head. But no. I don’t believe them now. I know someone hurt me."

"Did someone hurt you?"

"Well … it’s not too clear. No. I think I remember someone hurting me … like a dream."

"Was it the monster that hurt you?"

"Yes! That’s it. It was the Monster. The Monster wiped and beat me … just like my dad."

"Okay. But for now, let’s leave the Monster behind. What happened the following hours … the next day?"

"I woke up the next day in my tree-house with Hammond by my side. It was real political like. My parents allowed me to stay out there with Hammond until I cooled off."

"How long was that?"

"It took them three days before Hammond could convince me to come home. I was real shrewd though. Before I relinquished the holdout, I negotiated three full days for my next birthday party … which turned out to only be two and part of Friday night. I still had friends in those days. It was a great party."

"Did your parents ever explain to you what happened?"

"No."

"What did they say about that night?"

"They said I had a bad dream, ran away from home and got myself hurt. I couldn’t really remember that night because I apparently fell from the bridge that crosses the river by the pond into the water and hit my head pretty good. All I’ve ever been able to remember was the horror. I never again saw my mother doing those dirty things, instead it was the Monster in that room. It tortured my dad in the most humiliating way. It raped him as if he was the woman."

"All this time you have not remembered it was really your mother? You don’t recall they were engaged in consensual erotic diversion?"

"No. I only see my father being raped by this man in his own room … his sanctuary … the very heart and stronghold of my childhood home."

"I want you to move from that point to this in one fell swoop; but as you move, I want you to watch this event mold and shape in your mind. Tell me what it’s become today."

"I was raped by a monster in my parents bed while my father made fun of me."

"Now tell me how it became this fantasy."

"It started with the Monster raping my father. Many years later, after I tried to get them to tell me what happened, it turned into a plot where my parents hired someone to rape me. I think they figured since they hit my head and I wouldn’t remember the truth, they could pass it off as a bad dream. And since I didn’t know any better, I just hated them because I knew they did something terrible to me as a child but no one would talk about it. Then it turned into the Uncle angle – a phantom Uncle did it. I spent years staring into this unknown without ever seeing it. I told myself so many stories but all I was sure of was that something happened."

"What do you mean the unknown?"

"S&M. That is not part of who they are. They are refined … mannered … reserved. I never saw my mother even speak in a normal volume to my father; and he was just the same. They were so refined they were hollow. You see, I never heard my father scream at my mother. They raised their voice to no one but they both screamed at me when I ‘acted up.’ They screamed until I was a teenager."

"Why did they stop?"

"They couldn’t scream anymore. I guess they were all screamed out."

"Then did you stop the abusive rebellion?"

"Of course not. They still did not admit the truth … even though I had no clue what it was."

"And you were certain it was child abuse."

"Yes. I could even see it. By the time I was a teen, I had the whole fantasy contrived about all the dirty little things any wealthy family might have hidden away. Sometimes it was only one time … other times I made myself think it happened over and over. It changed, but it was always the same: they hired the Monster to rape me while they watched. Then my father raped me while my mother laughed… then they beat me until I escaped."

"Was Hammond aware of this night?"

"No. He only knew I ran away that night and hit my head because I was mad at them; he never knew what happened. I asked, many times. He’d always tell me I was making too big of a deal out of nothing and that my parents never abused me. He was always sure of that."

"Didn’t it bother you Hammond took their side?"

"No. Because he didn’t. He was just helping me deal with it. He would always tell me that if I let it get to me, it would hurt me more than I’d ever be able to hurt them back which would cause big problems for me in the long run. So it didn’t come up very often, only when the family had a really big fight. But Hammond promised nothing ever happened. He said I hit my head because of the nightmare about the Monster. Nothing more.

"Hammond always did his best to explain what he could and what he couldn’t, he’d just tell me to watch for the truth of it. He’d always say, ‘If it’s true, it’ll fess-up in the end.’ He always told me to be skeptical. Unless I had proof, it’s best to keep my beliefs about stuff in my head instead of in the newspapers."

"So you used this night as leverage against your parents?"

"Yes. And that’s why I knew something happened."

"Why?"

"Because of how well it works. They always crumble once I really dug in and made them realize it was an issue. Then I’d get what I want and it’d be over … until next time."

"So this became an ongoing problem for the family?"

"I guess … whenever it was a problem."

"What I mean is: do you feel this problem created others?"

"Oh yes. This was the issue … and became the reason I spent those months in the hospital. Everyone said my delusions were out of control."

"Would you say many of your serious problems are linked to this?"

"Not every single one but yes, many."

"Did you ever come to any degree of resolution between you and your parents before they died?"

"No."

"Joseph. Now. Look over your life one more time and tell me if anything else, not related to this, sticks out."

I look inside; nothing stands out; I say, "There is no more."

"Good. Then when I count to three, you will open your eyes and feel fresh, awake, alive and filled with joy. One, two … three."

I open my eyes and feel great; I ask, "Was I hypnotized … I wasn’t was I? I mean I couldn’t have been because I remember everything."

"You’re thinking of mind control. You see, mind control and hypnosis are opposite beaches of the same island. Mind control requires years of traumatic abuse juxtaposed with intense and contradictory pleasure in order to shatter a persona into compartments, accessed by conditioned stimuli such as a code word or visual queue. Mind control happens on many levels through many mediums. Advertising is the most mild while the robotic killing machine know contemporarily as the Manchurian Candidate is the most intense. Mind control happens over a lifetime while hypnosis is temporary.

"Hypnosis doesn’t make you forget. Sometimes a hypnotist may attempt to disassociate you with your memories by building a structure of detachment based on aversion but he doesn’t control you or anything about you. You choose to believe the structure … the manipulation of reason … the logical deduction of pain. You choose to fear his words and capitulate or you choose to follow your own.

"However, if you remember you are the one making the choices, you’ll have as much control during and after hypnosis as you desire … as you allow. You are not a man to give up any of that. So yes, you were hypnotized. But remember this: hypnosis is nothing like what’s on TV or in the movies; that’s mind control. Hypnosis is not magic. It’s simply focused concentration.

"Mind control is an intricate network of wholly independent personas: multiple personalities created for the use of the controller. These segregated personalities have there own memories and experiences and that is why they cannot remember what another personality did as you cannot remember what I had for dinner three nights ago because you and I are different personalities within different bodies only these people share the same body."

"Those people really exist?"

"Yes, they do. Governments across the world have been perfecting the technique for centuries. But remember, you were hypnotized, not mind controlled."

"So I won’t turn into a chicken when you say the code-word, ‘peanut butter?’"

We both laugh and Bear says, "Only if you want. Unless they have been manipulated through years of mind control, people who do that have simply created a structure or line of reasoning which disassociates themselves in relation to an act, object or interaction. On stage, Group-Think evokes compliance, securing your participation by the simple administration of a dose of sinister peer-pressure at just the right time. The moment you step on stage, you forget yourself as you’re totally preoccupied by the stare of hundreds of eyes.

"It’s also like putting on a mask or baby-talk. When we dress up, we feel different … distant from our everyday selves. This facade gives us a license to act contrary to our established persona. When we are in a group on stage, we are no longer an individual but one piece of a larger individual – the group. We are able to free ourselves from choice and happily join in as the hand joins the shoulder and arm in the task of moving the cup to our mouth. People who turn into chickens because of the code-word peanut butter are able to remove themselves from their actions in the same way an actor will become a villain or hero when in reality, they are neither."

"I see … it’s like pretend … like the time I stood on the dinner table as a chicken and squawked at my mom when I was being difficult. Could you call that self hypnosis?"

"All hypnosis is self hypnosis. You are the master and chief of your mind."

"I see … so my parents didn’t rape me … my father wasn’t raped … hell, all they were doing was getting it on … funky style … S&M. I guess it just looked strange to a child."

"Strange and horrifying. Just because your parents were not hurting each other, you didn’t know that. We can blame them and say they should have talked to you about this and not pretended it was a dream. We could. But how does that empower you to change your life? Even if you did want to blame them, they’re dead. There is nothing they can say or do to make you feel they’ve taken responsibility.

"No. Blame never solves problems. Blame empowers the one you blame … so blame yourself … empower yourself."

"Blame myself?"

"Better yet, blame your actions. Blame is assigned to those things in error. If you blame others, you cannot fix the mistake. Only when you blame your actions do you have the power to change your reality because you have the tools to fix the problem – you can alter your choices which create new actions and therefore you don’t have to worry about the faults of others; you’ll never find yourself in the same mire twice; you’ll be out of the situation because you took yourself out."

"You’re saying I should blame myself so I can discover what I can do to change the situation instead of allowing others to have control?"

"Exactly. Only when you criticize yourself can you uncover what you can do to change your life. For example: if you shop at a store but they’re always stuffing your groceries in upside down – something that’s clearly not your doing – you can still fix the problem by modifying a choice you’re making: shop somewhere else."

"I think I see what you’re saying: it wasn’t totally my parents fault I’m screwed up; I have a share in my own fate. If I’d realized I could’ve talked to them about my frustrations and eventually found out that it was a simple misunderstanding, maybe we might of cleared the air between us … we might never have had all those bad years. If I look at what I can do instead of what I can’t, then I’ll be able to see the choices I can make to find happiness … the Treasure … the Path ..."

"Right. You see Joseph, the only thing that causes mental disorder is misunderstanding … mixed messages … an inability for the soul to be grounded in its own consistent purpose – its own meaning; in other words, insurmountable confusion. When we are unable to maintain even the slightest connection with the integrity of our inner core, we lose our minds.

"Your father was an authoritarian. He never had to yell because his word was law; no one disputed this fact but you. Your mother was docile and demure. What you saw that night was the polar opposite: your mother was vulgar and domineering while your father was whimpering in submission.

"That night you learned one of the hardest lessons in life: what is seen is never the whole truth; there is an inner life to all things. At times, that life is in many ways a polar opposite to appearance.

"But to learn that at age four by witnessing parental S&M? No. That was inappropriate. Your parents didn’t do such a good job dealing with it."

"No they didn’t," I laugh though some tears.

"Now you must forgive them. You must understand what happened and look at it from their point of view. Then you must let it go … forgive and forget … let loose the ties that bind … surrender to reality … to love. Accept your life as it is and surrender to what will come by reaching out and taking hold of the choices you can make today. You can forgive them right now."

"Forgive … surrender?"

"Yes. Think of your father … talk to him. Tell him what you feel … pretend I am him."

I think for a moment; I think of how he tried and how much I hated him; I think of how difficult I made things. I gave them little time to deal with me. You see, it didn’t take long for me to coop the situation. Some might even say I didn’t give them a chance. I’m not even sure I gave them a full day before I began the march of manipulation that eventually split the family. Maybe I do have something to do with my own fate … my own "now." Maybe the suicide attempt down to the pain I feel this very moment could have something to do with my own choices. Then I realize I’ve turned an innocent misunderstanding into the most vial of all transgressions: rape.

With the understanding of my own deceitful exploits, I bust out in a deep, sobbing cry, "You didn’t rape me … you never hurt me … you only gave me everything I wanted … everything I demanded … everything I took and more. It’s not my fault your a sadomasochist … it’s no one’s fault. I guess you and Mom where just trying to have fun."

Then I think of something, releasing a sigh of laughter, and continue, "I must have scared you guys as much as you scared me. Maybe we were all more like children than anyone wants to admit. You might be able to run fifty of the top five hundred companies, but you couldn’t admit to your child that you like to get it on, freaky style … that there’s nothing wrong when Mommy ties you up and spanks the shit out of you …

"It’s not your fault. I forgive you for not knowing how to handle it. I understand, you figured it was swept under the rug like all other minor mishaps … a bad dream. I know you didn’t see it was still bothering me … it was the seed of our mistrust.

"I never told you. I’m sorry about all the times I caused you and Mom problems. It was only because I’ve never let go or even knew the truth of that night until this moment. Father … I love you … it was all a misunderstanding … a misunderstanding. It’s all my fault … I should have said something … I should’ve tried … I should’ve ..."

I’m not able to talk through the tears anymore. Bear simply holds my body and spirit with love and consistent kindness. I fall into a deep, powerful sleep, bordering on vision-quest, and dream of my parents. They are in the white light and are smiling. They nod as I understand their innocence when it came to raising a child. They could raise a defunct business into a hot property, but they couldn’t talk to their kid about very sensitive and personal things … like when their child accidentally walks in on an S&M session. That’s when we all laugh … I wake up laughing.

Bear is still with me, "Feeling better?"

"I just saw my parents … this was not a dream. I saw them. We said sorry ..." my smile is undeniable. I am joy.

"I guess so."

"Yes … for sure I’m feeling better. Thank you Bear. But I must ask something: will you live here, permanently?"

"I cannot. I’m sorry. I must live with my family as you with yours."

"But you are. All of you are my family. Simply move here."

"I don’t know about that. Maybe one day. Angel is not too keen on you. She thinks you’re a stereotypical, sick white man with nothing but yourself on your mind."

I think a moment, "She’s probably right," we laugh and I say, "But seriously. I need you. I want you to teach me … guide me upon the Path."

"I can only help you understand the Path. You must guide yourself as there is only room for one. But I’ll help. And maybe one day when Angel knows you better, I will live here … boy I love these woods … they remind me of my childhood and the woods near my house. We had a stream running though it too."

"Then you will come when I ask?"

"No. I will come when I can. You call me … I’ll check my schedule," we laugh again as he pretends to take out a pocket-scheduler.

"I guess we’ll play it by ear … sounds good enough to me. Now. Join me. I feel like mingling … and maybe some lunch."

"Me too. I hear the crab cakes are spectacular. We’re off then?" Bear puts his arm out like someone in an old musical and we dance away together in drunken laughter, although I’ve yet to drink a drop today.

"You’re in a good mood," I’m stopped by the voice of sudden disorientation.

"Dr. Daily … you scared me."

"I find that hard to believe."

"What are you doing here?"

"Hammond told me what you planned for today. I asked if I could be of any help. He suggested I set up a screening table for some of your ‘guests.’"

"Yes they’re my guests … so what?"

She laughs, "Nothing. I’m just surprised the King of Mainstream Media has this sort of element, running around his backyard."

"This is the north end of the estate, not the backyard. And what do you mean by ‘this sort of element?’ These are people too!"

"Whatever you say," she turns and leaves.

"Damn her!" I say once she’s out of earshot.

Bear laughs, "Joseph’s got a crush."

"No. What makes you say that … I hate her."

"Nothing … just the way your spirit jumps into motion when she’s around … nothing but a testimony of the body," Bear laughs full force.

"Stop. Don’t embarrass me ..."

"All right. But why don’t you smile when you see her next?"

"Smile?"

"Ya. That’ll help you relax."

"Shut up."

Bear can only laugh more. Eventually I let go of myself and join him. What a wonderful day. I don’t ever remember the sun shinning as bright or the grass as green. Even Ms Daily seemed to sparkle. You know, if she wasn’t such a bitch, I go out with her. Don’t you think she’s a real drag?

I mean, if I had a party on the Moon, she’d find a way to get up there and ruin it with her very smile – her condescending, I’m better than you, I saw you when your pants where down, I’m the one who can put you in the white room whenever I want, type of smile. You know, if you can’t see what I’m seeing in this woman and you think Bear is right and I like her, turn the sound of my mind off and put this away.

No. Don’t you dare ingest another word if you’re on his side. I don’t like her. She’s boring … dull … irritating. She’s everything I’m not and then some. How could I like her? Tell me. See. You have no answer for that. There is nothing between us and I have no desire for such a vivacious, youthful, round in all the right places type of woman. She’s too smart. High maintenance. Where’s the end of it? Don’t you see? You and Bear can’t be right about this. I’d never hear the end of it. She’d always be pointing out my plethora of deficiencies.

Ya sure. I can hear you now: all heart strung on the fact that there’s this energy between us. She’s my doctor. Of course there’s energy. She sees places I’ll never show you. That’s why it can’t happen. She knows me too well, if you get my drift. Plus. Don’t you need romance? We could never be romantic … always a fighten’ and a feuden’ … won’t happen. End of story.

So. I’m walking from the buffet table to sit with some of Bear’s close friends. Immediately I see someone that doesn’t belong. This man is young and fit. He’s no bum. Middle class I’d say. Touch of gray … side burns … no wait I think it’s blond highlights. He seems to have an air of sophistication.

"Hello, I’m Joe. What’s your name?" I ask this man as I shake his hand and sit.

"Brendan Milton. Please call me Brendan. I hate formalities."

"Me too. Brendan, I don’t mean to sound rude but why are you here? You don’t seem to fit."

He chuckles, "My uncle told me about this party. I came with him to make sure everything was on the level."

"I see. What do you do?"

"Personal Trainer."

"Trainer. I’ve been thinking about getting into shape. Got a job?"

"Well ..."

"Well do you or don’t you?"

"Yes … but no. I have prospects. I just graduated and I’m waiting to see who’ll pay me … you know … who’ll pay me the most."

"That’s simple. I will. I’ll pay you one hundred and fifty percent of your top offer. Then I’ll double that. Sound good?"

"Sounds like I have a job," Brendan is ecstatic, "I thought we were coming here to look into some temporary labor for my uncle. I’m glad to have scored too."

"Who is your uncle?"

"The guy talking to John Wandering-Bear."

"You know Bear?"

"Ya. He’s kind of extended family."

"But who? I don’t see anyone but another Indian talking to him."

"That is him. His name is Jeremiah Elk. He goes by Jeremy."

"But he’s Indian."

"I know. But he’s still my uncle."

Suddenly I realize my outward racism and feel ashamed; I divert, "Elk? As in Black-Elk?"

"Actually … kind of. If you’re talking about Mike, John’s son, yes. There was a time when Jeremy took custody and legal responsibility for John’s family. For a time, John was MIA, Vietnam."

"What’s the Black for?"

"To signify night … that the day had gone. It was in thanksgiving to Jeremy for helping them through the night of John’s absences. They kept their names in honor of Jeremy’s dedication to them as a surrogate father. Mike was mostly grown, but the other’s were not. It was hard. I think John’s daughter, Sky, took it the worst."

"I’ve heard about her."

"Jeremy’s son, Gaylyn, came to live at my house when I was young. We’re family. Jeremy might not be my blood uncle … but he’s my uncle."

"Came to live with you?"

"Yes. Part of some kind of charity or something. Churches send Native American to live with white families so they can attend white schools and get a white education. Growing up, Gaylyn was my brother. I didn’t always have a lot of friends … but we’ve always been best friends.

"He was almost two years older than me and kind of took me under his wing … protected me … stood up for me. And believe it or not, a debonair Indian in upper class, white-bread America is a phenomenon; to say the least, he was popular all throughout school and a quite a lady’s man. He was the one that got me into PE. I’d never of made it here if it wasn’t for my brother Gaylyn."

"Is he here?"

"No. He’s in the South Pacific."

"Doing what?"

"Marine Biologist. He thinks there’s a connection between salt water’s specific density and biodiversity in fungus … I think. Something about pollution affecting the makeup of ocean water and how that is changing basic relationships in the food chain. He’s a real big hotshot at one of those Ivy League schools … full professor and whatnot. It’s his own project … we’re real proud of Gaylyn. Personally, I don’t understand a word of it. He’s been over my head since the day he stepped of the bus."

"You must be close."

"Close? Close enough to ask if you’ve got some work for my uncle."

"You’re uncle can do anything he wants. I’ll make him your assistant and you can tell him what to do."

"I don’t think that’ll work."

"Why?"

"He likes to be his own boss. Do you have anything he can do?"

"What’s he good at?"

"He was in Korea. He’s SEAL, Special Forces and Force Recon. Served in the Marine Corps, the Army and the Navy in two different wars: Korea and the first part Vietnam … before John went missing. He was both enlisted and an officer. He knows how to do anything. I’d simply make him one of your stewards … the steward of smooth operations. He can really increase efficiency in anything … has a keen eye for imperfections. Just let him roam around and make suggestions. I’m sure he’ll have no problem finding something to do and I’m sure, in two months from now, you either love him or hate him. Either way, I’ll help the two of you get to know each other."

We laugh; I say, "He’s hired."

"Great. Should I introduce you?"

"Later. I’ve got to introduce you to someone," I stand up and yell, "Dave … Dave come here."

When the man arrives, I say, "Dave, meet Brendan Milton. He’s going to be my new personal trainer."

"New?" Dave asks. I decide not to respond to the obvious point that I’ve never had a personal trainer.

"Brendan, this is Dave Warner. You two will be working together. Dave’s been our equipment man since … well forever. I’m sure you’ll get to know each other and just so there’s no misunderstanding, neither of you works for the other. You both work for me. If you have any problems, which I’m sure you won’t, come to me … both of you … together if possible."

They respond with nods; then Dave asks, "Thinking about using the tennis courts and pools this year?"

"Yes … couldn’t have training without apparatus. I tell you what, open everything."

"Everything?"

"Yes, everything."

"You certainly don’t mean the Gym do you?"

"Of course."

"But the Gym … it hasn’t been open since your father … I mean since the ..."

"It’s okay. Since my father died. I know. Well it’s time to let the past pass. Open the Gym."

"But ..."

"I don’t care what it cost. If you need help, look around. We’ve got help falling from the trees … look there," a man is actually hanging from a limb. Drunken laughter plucks this fruit from its twig.

We all laugh. I watch Dave nod in approval and leave. Dave’s never really had much responsibility since my parent’s died. It was strange to see the five-‘o-clock shadow smile past the glazed look of a caged animal. He seems relieved to have something to do … finally. I never thought I’d be touching those who are so close to me yet so far away. There are other’s of my household I’ve not talked with and have not inspired with my new change. There are still more I must see today.

"I’m sorry Brendan. I’ve got some other people I’ve got to see," I put down the remainder of my sandwich and say, "Bear?" He looks over; I finish, "I’ll talk with you later … at dinner. I’m off to see others ..." then I stand up and walk to Jeremy, "Jeremy Elk, I am Joseph Buckmiller. Welcome to my home. I hope to talk with you at dinner as well. Join Bear and I at the Head Table."

"Okay," Jeremy says to me.

"Okay … I’ll talk to you guys later," then I leave. I feel as though I am an eagle. I’m scanning the endless land below while looking for my prey among the multitude.

Then it happens again. She runs into me. I smile at her and feel the space which separates her from me. It’s as if we are connected somehow by the very molecules between us. I’m drawn to her out of some kind of protocol. I’m the host. She’s the guest. It’s my duty to share a moment of personal space. A moment. That’s all. I guarantee it. Don’t believe me? Watch.

"Afternoon," I say.

"Hello Mr. Buckmiller."

"Why don’t you call me Joe?"

"I guess I can … Joe. Why don’t you call me Miriam."

"Because your a doctor. It’s improper. You don’t go into a court room and say, ‘Hey Frank.’ No. It’s Judge Franklin This-or-That. Or simply ‘Your Honor.’ Do you want me to call you that?"

She shakes her head and smiles; then she opens those red, full lips, "No. But I do have something to ask you."

"What?"

"Do you mind if we set up a Vaccination Tent. I’ve got connections with the Red Cross and others. They’d love to have a spot here."

"A spot. I don’t know."

"Come on. I’ll call you Joe."

"Blackmail?"

"Hardly. Call it professional curtsey."

"Professional curtsey? Still sounds like blackmail to me."

"Come on. Why are you stalling? You want to help these people as much as I. Let me do my job."

"No need to get testy. I was only fooling around … playing with your mind."

"My mind: more than you can handle. I think you’ll have to do better than that," her tone defines her jest.

"Really? I’ll give you more than you can handle," I find her slight suggestion worth a nibble so I return the sexual volley with fine form.

"Please. Put your hormones back in your pants," the tone of jest has jumped ship.

"I never ..." one must be quick to cover; but the wind blows as her voice cuts through my defense with a barrage of abuse.

"You’re right. You’ll never. Now. Can I tell my colleagues to make the arrangements for tomorrow?"

I have but one way to victory – concede her request in order to prove my point: I am a gentleman, not the ruffian I once was but she still sees me as. I have changed and she’s got to realize this. If I concede, she must too.

"Yes. You can," I begin; but now it’s time to set her straight, "But I want you to know I don’t know what you’re insinuating about my hormones. You’re the one telling me to play with more than your mind."

"Typical male. I said my mind is more than you can handle. You won’t

get in my way by trying to play games with this mind. You’ll get burnt."

"I wasn’t trying to get in your way and you couldn’t burn me with a forest-fire."

"Forest-fire? Really? Then what do you call your crude comment … a joke?"

"That’s right," I am frustrated; do you see it yet? We’re not meant to be anything except enemies; but what wonderful fights we perform.

"What’s funny about keeping medicine from those who need it?"

"What! I didn’t make fun of them … I was just trying to have some fun at your expense."

"Fun at the expense of others you mean."

"No. Just yours."

"You don’t like me much do you Mr. Buckmiller."

"I don’t know about that. You’re okay. Actually, I thought we were getting along now."

"We have made improvements."

"Then why can’t those improvements include a little humor."

"I don’t see why not. Humor, not pranks, not petty jokes bordering on insults."

"It wasn’t that bad."

"It was worse," she starts walking away.

"Oh … hey. Doctor … Miriam," she turns around, "Listen. When you know about the that tent thing, tell me. I’d like to let everyone know about it at dinner."

She gives me an awkward smile and says, "Okay."

I leave her behind. Yes, you heard me. I left her … behind. You see, I didn’t talk that long. I had to defend myself. I won’t let anyone get away with twisting the truth. Hey, I even got her to walk away. Now tell me, do you really think I like this woman? Of course, I mean more than professionally. She is a good doctor with a kind heart … if one can ever get close to it.

"Howard … Mr. Sanderson!" I call out to my gardener.

"Yes Mr. Buckmiller?"

"How many times do I have to remind you?"

"Sorry … I know better; it’s Joe. I’ll remember next time."

"I’m sure you’ll eventually get it."

"Might I say, you’re in a good mood."

"And why not?" I defend myself; I guess I don’t see I’ve taken this as an accusation that I actually enjoyed the doctor’s company.

"I’m sorry … I didn’t ..."

"It’s okay … not your fault. I am in a good mood … up until just now."

"Just now? What happened?"

I think over what’s happened; I must be thinking too long because Howard probes again, "Joe? What just happened?"

I come out of my daze, "Nothing … it isn’t you. But I am happy to have caught you. Let me ask you something ..."

"Yes?"

"What can I do to get more work out of you?"

"I’m sorry sir … I knew these new ‘employees’ wouldn’t work … if you’d just given me more time ..."

I cut him off, "No. No. Just the opposite. I love it. It’s magical … flowers amidst winter’s breath. No, I want to see more of your good work. I’m sorry it came out wrong."

"You like them?"

"I love ‘em. I want more of ‘em. I want you to create a central garden for this place: the works. Rose will help design it … I haven’t told him. He doesn’t like to get his fingers dirty, so we’ll get you as big of a crew as you need. Will twenty be enough to start?"

"Start? Start on what?"

"The garden."

"What garden?"

"Howard. Did you hear what I just said?"

"Heard? Yes. Believed? No."

"Well believe it. I want your artistry to spread across my estate like the sunshine."

"I’m no artist. I’m just a gardener."

"That’s why Rose will help. Talk to him. He wants to design things for the house. Tell him this is a tryout."

"But I could never tend to more than what you have already."

"We’ll hire more. Don’t you worry. I simply want you to feel more satisfaction when you come to work each day … I want us both to have something we can point to and say, ‘That Howard Sanderson is one hell of a gardener.’ Because, we both know it’s true."

"I don’t know what to say."

"Say okay."

"Okay … okay … thank you Mr. Buckmiller … I mean, Joe," Howard shakes my hand and thanks me more; finally he ends with, "I’ll find Rose and tell him the good news." Then he’s off.

"Brian! … Brian Lee!" I yell.

Its my old friend from the charity. Running up to him, I look for his dazzling daughter. She doesn’t appear to be here.

"Kachelle with you today?"

"Are you kidding?" he laughs, points around and says, "But someone else is."

"Who?"

"Twan. He’s right over there," his finger stops in Twan’s direction.

I see him and wave; he joins us and I say, "What’s up man?"

"How’s it going Joe?"

"Great. What brings you here?"

"Fun and to see how you throw a party."

"Really … not hitting me up?"

"Joe. Come on. You know I don’t have to make a personal appearance to get money out of you."

I laugh with him and smile, "Right about that. Well enjoy yourselves. I’ve got a few things to take care of before dinner. Why don’t the two of you join us at the Head Table."

"Sure."

I nod and smile as I leave. I make some great progress in running into my extended family – the ones who live with me and make my life possible. I do a great job finding them and thanking them for such a party, but not the best of them … yet. I have one more on my mind I just cannot locate. I searched until I could search no more. Dinner awaits. So I adjourn inside and enter my room. I’ll wear my really nice tux – the best one.

After I open my door with my shirt half off, I see her. The one girl I had not been able to find. But here she is; and appropriately so, since she is the one to clean my room and change my sheets. But then again, there is no work for her today and someone else is with her.

A young, beautiful girl sits in the very spot my head rests. I notice her. I like the way her hair flows in a glorious tapestry of color. They all seem to be there: red, blonde, brown and even a hint of black, here and there. Her face, temporarily masked by a veil of sparkling locks, reveals itself. Her lips and eyes framed by perfect cheeks. Now this is a girl I could get into.

"Eleanor? What are you doing in here? Why weren’t you at the party?"

"I’m sorry Mr. Buckmiller. I just wanted to make sure I talked to you."

"About what?"

"My friend: Deborah Shannon. Deborah, this is Mr. Joe Buckmiller. Mr. Buckmiller this is Deborah."

"Good to meet you," I walk to them as James Bond might.

"Nice to meet you Mr. Buckmiller," Deborah says in a voice angels might be jealous of.

"What is it about my name that I hate so much?"

She giggles, "I don’t know."

"I don’t know either. But I do know I prefer Joe. Okay?"

"Sure." Is this how the word is to sound; is this the way to say it? I think each syllable she says somehow defines its essence.

"Mr. Buckmiller," Eleanor steps upon this beautiful moment, "Deborah was just released from Widowmaker Estates and is wondering if you might need someone to do some personal work … an assistant."

"Sure I can. I’d be more than happy to have a personal assistant. Now, how old are you, Deborah?"

"I’m twenty. I have a degree in business management. Would you like to see it?"

"Oh yes … I mean no. That’s fine. You just show up Monday … better yet, why don’t I have Eleanor make up a room for you and you can stay here the weekend and enjoy the party. I insist. You’ll be at the Head Table with us."

"Mr. Buckmiller. She’s only nineteen," Eleanor clarifies.

"I’ll be twenty on Tuesday. What’s the difference?" Deborah defends.

"I just don’t want to get you off on the wrong foot with your new boss. I want him to know the truth … in case he checks," Eleanor says under her breath.

"Why would I check?" I jump in.

"I’m not saying you would. Maybe Hammond might. He’s so protective of you. I don’t want you to think we’d lie to you or anything," Eleanor says as she can’t stop looking at Deborah.

"White lies never hurt anyone. I wouldn’t have cared if Hammond told me … no wait I would’ve cared that it’s her birthday. In fact, I think we should have tonight’s dinner, only in part as I do not want to put too much pressure on our latest arrival, in honor of Deborah’s coming birthday and to welcome her with fine wine, food, song and dance into the third decade of her life," when I say the words third and decade, I realize just how young this girl is.

"Oh Mr. Buckmiller, I don’t think that’s necessary."

"Eleanor. When am I going to get you to call me Joe? Everyone’s finally starting to call me Joe. You’re one of the few holdouts. Please. Call me Joe for God’s sake."

"Of course. I’m sorry. But I don’t think Deborah will feel comfortable having everyone’s attention on her so soon. Singing to her? No. Not today. Isn’t it better not to thrust so much of the spotlight on her so soon?"

"You’ve got a point there."

"No. Joe. I’m fine with it. It’s wonderful you’re going to dedicate even one toast in my honor. Thank you. I will always remember my twentieth birthday … I’ll always remember the song you sing for me."

"You’re welcome. Then it’s settle. Now if you don’t mind," I point to the door.

"Of course," seems to come from them in chorus. When they’re gone, I think of what I’ll say at the dinner. Deborah … what a beautiful name … is that German or something? No wait. It’s Italian. Right?

Whatever. I feel wonderful. I’ve never felt this good. No wait. I’m remembering a time when my father took me fishing … how old was I? I’m five … no three. This is before all the … the crap Bear uncovered. This was when everything was still perfect … when everyone was still so happy. I’m laughing at a joke my father told. I can almost hear it; no. I think I’ll leave it in the past; it sounded kind of corny.

I guess happiness exists inside me. I guess it’s only been waiting to get out. Maybe it’s found its true home in freedom’s flight. I see I am moving down a road I’d never have found if it had not been for these last few months. The people I’ve met, the things I’ve done and the places I’ve been to witness such sacred things, I simply know something or some force must be guiding me back to this same place I was so very long ago.

Hammond enters; he says, "Ready? Dinner’s waiting."

"Sorry Hammond. I’ve had a long … beautiful day. How about you?"

My look, penetrating his eyes, makes him smile and say, "Great. Today’s been a smashing success. I’ve yet to see such a spectacle. You really did it."

"Thanks for the compliment. But I mean the people. It’s incredible what you said about the hiring we’ve done."

"Yes. But do you think these people are made of the same metal as … oh say you and I?"

"Same metal? What makes me, or you for that matter, better than anyone? I find them from the same metal as us: the human kind."

"You’ve got a point Joe. Sorry about doubting your choices."

"My choices? Don’t you see? Things are changing. Good things are coming. I’m no longer hunting down pleasure like some mindless predator. I’m dancing with life as some lover. I’ve never been this happy," I say and suddenly remember my recent memory of early youth and its happiness.

Hammond seems to know; he asks, "Do you remember when you were very young and we all used to go to the lake? Do you remember fishing with your father?"

"I do … I was just thinking about that; boy, I must only have one really good memory if you were just thinking of it too."

"There are others, but these stand out for sure. You remember how every time we went to the lake it was filled with joy and love?"

"I do ..." I’m entranced in the moment; I realize I am hypnotized by the truth of the past.

"Are you more happy now or then?"

"I don’t know … it seemed more pure then … but it seems more real now."

"It is real. That’s the difference. You are happy and fulfilled, yet you are seeing It. You are the fish that swims within water he sees; water he recognizes, water he knows. But remember Its source: the balance of your heart in the light of your actions; in other words, consideration for your surroundings; one might call this: loving God or the Universe.

"Imagine the power of one who has unconditional love for the Universe. Imagine the understanding that one must posses: instead of simply knowing you are surrounded by water, you have gained an intimate, integrated relationship with Its currents; then you seem to float effortlessly within the Ocean’s matrix of movement – instead of fighting and forging a way though the unknown, you glide as a dance partner, slipping down an eternal flow of sacred, shared intention."

"Dance. Wow. That’s deep," we laugh at the unintended pun and then I continue, "But you’re right," I look up to Hammond, "It is love. And I love you … I love Bear … I love those girls … Dr. Daily … well not so much Dr. Daily … but I love Brian, Twan, the children, you ..."

"You already mentioned me."

"I know … I love you more than once. I love Bear more than once too. Do you know what he did? He hypnotized me and we went back into my childhood and I got to see what’s been causing me problems and then I fixed them … cool huh?"

"Yes that is cool. What problems?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Yes. It turned out the whole thing was a misunderstanding and I’m resolving the issue. Turns out this problem was pretty significant but in reality was nothing more than innocent misinterpretation."

"Really. What?"

"Nothing … I’d rather talk about it later if you don’t mind. I want to shower again and dress – my tux. I’m so excited for dinner."

"That’s right. Dinner. Yes. Hurry. I’ll tell them you’re coming."

"Good. I’ll be right down."

I finish up and feel like a true gentleman. You know: the gentle part. I feel like I’m actually doing something for the people … helping where there is true need. I’m not giving raises to millionaires. No. I’m giving life to those who can’t get a break.

I’m walking out of my room and down the hall when it happens for the third time; there she is; I say, "Dr. Daily. Can I help you with something?"

"Yes. I think it’s great you’re going to announce my efforts to get more booths set up. I’ve also arraigned for a staff of professionals. I think many of these people need pharmacological and counseling assistance."

"Counseling?"

"Yes. Some need hospitalization."

"No. Anyone who stays until Sunday, I want you to give them a break. Arrange for whatever you need and if it’s about the law, I’ll make the necessary precautionary changes to a set of rooms they can inhabit. I don’t want anyone who comes to my party put in the Playpen for life."

"Playpen?"

"You know. The funny farm … the white room … the place where no one hears you scream."

"Okay. Enough of the stereotypes."

"Will you do it?"

"Sure. I don’t think it’ll be a problem."

"Good. Then I want you to stay involved … full-time. Okay?"

"Full-time?"

"Yes."

"I’ll have to consult the board. It’s their call."

"Then I’ll make the call."

"No. Let me."

"You?" I smile wide.

"Enough of your hormones. I’m leaving."

"Okay. See you at the Head Table … I want you to join us for dinner."

She turns around, seems to think a moment and says, "We’ll see." She’s gone.

I like her spunk … her spice. But that’s all mind you. I have no feelings for this woman. She’s all right. Hey, even if I did like her, do you really think she’d like me? Huh? NO. Definitely not. The only thing she likes about me is two fold: one, I’m rich; two, I’m not making her life Hell anymore. But as far as finding a redeemable, interesting and attractive quality? You tell me. I don’t see it either.

But her … I won’t talk anymore about her. Down to the tragedy at hand … I mean my speech. I guess I’ll mention her … the girl with the birthday … the job thing … and ...

"Joe. We’ve got to do this now. Dinner is getting crunchy."

"Crunchy?"

"That’s what the caterer said."

"We need our own cook."

"We have three."

"No. I mean special. For these kinds of occasions."

"Funny you should mention that. I’ve hired four more for the next gala."

"Really?"

"Yes. Now. You get in there, walk right up to the podium. Do your thing and you’ll see John at the Head Table."

"What about you?"

"Joe. I’m still employed."

"That’s right. Get someone you trust to fill in and take the rest of the night off."

"Okay. By your tone, it’s clear you insist."

"I do. Join us at the Head Table."

"Right. I’ll find someone."

"Well hurry because I’m going to wait for you."

"Right," Hammond scurries off.

Walking into the Dinning Hall, I greet many. After enough handshakes to make a governor feel tired, I see Hammond at the Head Table. I make my excuses and tell everyone to have a seat. The background music dissipates as I approach.

"Thank you all for coming," I start. Wow, would you look at that crowd. I had no idea so many people were here. There has to be nearly a thousand. A thousand. I wonder if that many people watched my Internet debacle. Who cares? They’re no better than me.

"I’d like to tell you all that today and the past few months have changed my life. There are some things I must get out of the way. First. If anyone has any medical or mental issues with a friend or loved-one, we’ll have tents set up to help, even if that friend or loved one is you. Drugs, counseling and just plain time will be available. If you need a little help or a lot, we have the means and the space to accommodate. No one need worry. No authorities or state medical people will be present. You can leave anytime you wish. I just want you to know I will provide all of you the kind of break I’ve been given … and I have the ability to do so.

"I’m so thankful to all of you. I hope you all get a job if you want. Hammond has told me we’ve hired over five hundred of you. That sounds like a lot. But I see it is not everyone. I hope it will be. You all have my personal invitation to work for me. But at the same time, I don’t want to pressure any of you.

"Speaking of pressure. Someone told me not to do what I’m about to do because of pressure. I’d like to dedicate this dinner to a girl named Deborah. Today’s the day we celebrate her birthday. As a special gift, I’ve made her my personal assistant. I hope she’ll find her way into our family with ease. I’d like everyone to stand and sing with me. Sing Happy Birthday to Deborah, my new personal assistant."

We get up and sing. I watch Deborah laugh and giggle like she was in third grade again. When we finally come to the big ending, I wave to the people and thank them. I don’t want to take any of this from Deborah, so I walk right to the Head Table and start to greet my guests. I don’t see the doctor.

But what I do see makes me smile. Kachelle is sitting next to Brian. Thank God at least one of my secret fantasies has come true. Now I’ve got two extremely interesting women at my table. I sit and talk to the first.

"Deborah, did you like it?"

She laughs and smiles shyly, "Yes. I loved it when you called me your personal assistant. Now I know I have a good job. When I think of my last one at Widowmaker, I shudder. But when I think of what’s happened since, I smile. Thank you Mr. Buckmiller."

"I know it makes you feel more comfortable calling me Mr. Buckmiller, but please, call me Joe … even now."

"Okay. Thank you Joe."

"You’re welcome. I look forward to working with you."

"Same here," Deborah smiles again.

I turn to Brian, "Not here … I thought you said Kachelle wasn’t here."

"It was true. Was. Now is a different story. I know you find my daughter attractive and interesting. I thought it’d be nice to have her here so tonight might be more enjoyable for you."

"Why?"

"What?"

"Why do you want to make tonight so wonderful?"

"Because I need you to do a job for me."

"Anything."

"We have a project to take kids from the projects to Disneyland. We’re calling it Project Disneyland. I was wondering if you’d put your name behind it. In the last few months, Buckmiller Charity has become the foremost attractive force in drawing money to worthy causes. I hope you find this one interesting."

I turn to Angel, "Will you join us?"

"Well ..."

"Please. I want Rosemary to see Mickey and Mini. Won’t you allow me to make her part of this?"

"My child is not from the projects."

"I mean, lend me her name … her spirit. I want to call the actual, very first day we get to spend at Disneyland: ‘Rosemary’s Day.’ I want her to be our guest of honor."

"I don’t think so," Angel defends as I’ve brought out the big artillery.

"Why? Because she’s just a regular kid from some trailer park who’s never had anything special ever happen? Face it. Things have changed in her life … and yours. When was the last time you stared a stock of celery in the face while knowing you’d have to chop the whole thing? I’ll tell you it has been some time. That food processor has changed you … everything that’s happened has made an impact … on me and you. Please let me thank your daughter in the name of your father, John Wandering-Bear. Let me do this for him … for her … for you … for me."

"I don’t know," she retorts but the citadel is weakening.

Then Brian steps in, "Angel is it?"

"Yes."

"Angel, let me assure you, everything’s on the level here. We only want to help. Your daughter is a perfect symbol of what we want."

"Oh. And what’s that?"

I answer, "She’s spunky, optimistic, full of life, bright, friendly, courteous, considerate ..."

"That’s enough out of you," Angel turns to me.

"Fine," I concede.

"Please," this time Twan enters the picture, "Think of the children. Think of the fact that most of these kids will never have the chance to spend a few days away from all the strife and trauma of their daily lives. Think of what’ll mean to them to have a girl who champions their dreams … dreams of family, an education, food and clothing, shelter … and best of all, a break from all their problems … even if it’s only one day or just one moment when they hear the words, ‘Rosemary’s Day,’ and imagine themselves in Disneyland as if they were your daughter.

"It means everything to the children to have one of their own involved … someone who understands them … someone with the fire of dreams still lit in their eyes. To have Rosemary as part of this will only spread her sunshine to hundreds of lonely, depressed and deprived children. Plus, I want you to think of when you’ll have the opportunity to give her such a gift … a toy-filled wonderland where dreams come true."

"You have a point. What’s your name?"

"This is Twan Williams from the Children’s Improvement Fund," I answer in my own defense.

"Children’s Improvement Fund. I’ve heard of you."

"Yes. We do our best."

"Well if you’re involved I guess it won’t be so bad."

"Yes I am involved. We are the cosponsor charity. We’ve been working with the Buckmiller Charities for awhile now."

"Okay. I guess you’ve got me. Rosemary’s name can be used. And I’ll let you take her provided Mike, John and I are invited."

"That’s all I want ..." I smile.

"Really?" Bear says something for the first time.

"Ya," I turn and answer him.

"Na … I think there’s something much more interesting that you want. Something with long legs and a gorgeous smile."

I laugh, "Sure. But she’s too young for me."

Brian counters as I’ve pointed out Kachelle, "Not forever. Wait Joe. Just wait. She’ll be old enough, soon enough."

"Youth … beauty. What more could a man want?" Bear teases me as he points to the prospect of such a fine woman; I see this; but what I don’t see is that Dr. Daily is now standing behind me.

"Yes. She is," then I look at Deborah, "But what about her?"

After looking at who I’m pointing to, Bear says, "Beautiful. But we all know she’s nothing more than plausible deniability."

"What?" I demand.

The mood is quite playful and serious statements disappear as daylight upon sunset; Brian says, "What about my daughter?"

"Fantasy," Bear concludes.

"Wait. Before we go there, you tell me what you mean here," I point from Kachelle to Deborah.

"Both are convenient denials of the one you truly want."

"Really? Who’s that?"

"The doctor."

"The doctor? Dr. Daily? Oh sure, she might look nice and talk with an air of confidence, but I wouldn’t take her over either one of these two enticing women."

"Please. Joe. You can’t fool yourself. You may want us to believe you don’t care about Miriam. But we all see it when the two of you interact. We know it when you disagree by the way you step closer to her and invade her space. But we all understand you’ll not admit this. Tell me Joe, when was the last time you mentioned Dr. Daily to someone without asking the person what they thought of her or how nice she’s looking?"

"What does that matter?"

"What do you really want?"

"I want to help people."

"That’s what you do. What you want is the undivided, unending attention of your doctor. You fantasize about the day you’ll go on your first date and kiss, don’t you. Just admit what we all see," Bear says as everyone’s attention shimmers at the edge of obsession; they all stare at me.

Enough of this! I’m setting everyone straight, "No I don’t! You couldn’t pay me enough to go on a date with that Amazon. She wouldn’t be on a date with me, I’d be on a date with her. Hell, I bet she’d insist on picking up the tab. Unending? That’s right, she’s an unending irritation, sort of like a disease. She’s no woman, she’s the cross-dressing son of Satan in disguise. No man could survive a date with that."

That’s when it happens. Finally her presence is revealed. She thrusts money on the table and grabs my shoulder. Hard. I feel words coming, but I know they won’t start until the laughter dies down to a point where she’ll be heard. I await my embarrassment. Why? Why God? Why did she have to be standing right behind me?

"That? What do you mean by that?"

"Aaa ..." I start.

"No. Better keep that mouth tightly closed before I stitch it shut."

"Sorry … I ..."

"No. You’ve said enough. You’ve insulted my femininity and my womanhood. You have no choice but to rise to the challenge and take me on a date. Here’s fifty bucks. You can pay."

"I don’t ..." I start out but she’s turned and found a seat.

She waits for the man to pull the chair out and opens her mouth, "No. I don’t want to hear another word. This is no romance … this is a test to determine whether or not I am a woman … something I could prove right now. But no. I won’t make it easy on you. You’ll have to work for it. If you lose and admit my overpowering femininity, you publicly apologize in the same way you’ve just insulted me. But if I lose … well just consider this: you’ll never have to see this Amazon again."

She sits; I start, "I’m sorry; I didn’t know you heard m..."

"Sorry? I know the way you feel. At least when you take me out as a woman, I’ll be able to crush your stereotype. Then you can correct your slanderous statement and change your attitude. What does it matter that I heard you this time? You’ve said the same things in different ways more times than can be counted. I’ve heard it before. Only this time, you’re caught with your pants down and your foot in your mouth.

"Now. I think it’s time to eat some of this incredible food you had nothing to do with. Don’t you wonder what it’s like to have made a simple peanut butter and jelly sandwich let alone something as disciplined and perfect as this? No. You’ve never done anything by yourself. Everyone else does it for you. But now you can do something for me: pass the salt."

I only take the salt and pass it towards her. I can’t believe what’s just happened. Do I really have to take her out? If I don’t, everyone will ask about it and tell me I was a real heel for not giving her a chance to redeem herself. Plus, this is a chance to get rid of her for good. I guess I do think of her as strictly a doctor. I’ve never even pondered upon the fact that she is a woman. I guess that’s why I’ve always denied her; you can’t be interested in someone who simply does not qualify. Doctors are not women. Are they?

I guess I’ll find out. Yes. This’ll be interesting. I’m not saying she’s interesting. I’m saying that I’ll perform an interesting experiment: can a doctor be a woman? I mean a real woman, like the pros. Wait. That means I’ll have to get her in bed. Is that necessary? No. I’m sure she’ll prove to be something other than female once I have her in the limo. No wait. Maybe I’ll take Hammond’s Toyota. Ya. I’ll take her out and I’ll prove she’s no woman. Boy will she look stupid when I stand up next time and proclaim her fraud. Then she’ll be out of my hair forever.

Despite the thrashing, I feel confident again. I’ll take her out. Sure I will. But then I’ll have the goods. Everyone, including you, will know: I’m not meant to be with the boring, nasty, sticky, smelly Dr. Daily … or was it me that was sticky and smelly. Either way, I have her and she’ll never be able to get the best of me again. You see, no matter what happens I’ll just say she’s no woman. I can’t lose. Seriously, how can I lose? You tell me.

Two days later, I’m talking with Hammond, Deborah, Rose and Mr. Sanderson outside. We go over some details for the coming week and send the group off to their chores when Hammond and I start back to the house. Things have gone nice and we are making preparations for Disneyland. But I’m not satisfied.

"Hammond?"

"Yes Joe?"

"About these figures ..."

"Yes?"

"Have you looked over them?"

"I have."

"Then what’s this?" I point out the problem.

"That. Yes. You must look at that as … well I think you’ll best understand this as a different color of money."

"Different color of money? What’s that suppose to mean?"

"According to the government, it matters where the money comes from. We’ve created this shadow charity to cover the extra expenses. This is for tax purposes."

"So we’ll save some money?"

"You could say that. Another way to look at it is diversifying to enhance output. We’ve just added a player to help us win the game … to help us make the best day we possibly can for our disenfranchised youngsters."

"You mean for the children?"

"Yes."

"I guess it’s okay then. I do have one other thing."

"Yes?"

"Can I borrow your car?"

"My car?"

"Ya. I need it."

"For what?"

"You know … my date."

"Please Joe, don’t do that."

I laugh, "Why not?"

"Doesn’t she deserve to be treated as the woman she is?"

"Hey, this is a bet. Like you said, I play to win the game … for the children … and for me. I plan on taking care of this once and for all. This way, no one will question the fact that I don’t like her."

"That’s what’s really bothering you, isn’t it?"

"What?"

"The fact that you do like her."

"Shut up," angrily I turn and leave, but then I realized I’ve forgotten something; I ask, "So I can use it then?"

"If you want … I deny you nothing. The Toyota is yours."

"Thanks," I huff and return to the business of evacuation.

Oh, did I mention? Tonight’s the night. Once I’ve adorned a T-shirt and shorts – it’s cold, so what? – I get into the Toyota and turn on the heat. Damn! It blows ice across my exposed skin. What’s wrong? It’s broken.

I return to the kitchen and complain, "Hammond, your car is broken."

"Broken? How?"

"The heater doesn’t work."

"Sure it does. Did you let it warm up?"

"Warm up?"

"Yes … give the engine time to create some heat … then the heater will work."

"Really? How long?"

"Once the temperature gauge moves, it’ll start to feel warm."

"Temperature gauge?"

"I’ll show you," Hammond leads me to his car and points out the dial.

Meanwhile the car is on and warming: a solution he claims will supposedly fix the problem. I’m not sure he knows what he’s talking about. I’ve never heard of warming up a car before. I mean, they do have cooling systems. Isn’t that the point: cars are hot by nature. Why would it then need to warm up if it must constantly be cooled?

I don’t know if I’ll ever fully understand this medium of the mediocre. Cars, food preparation, protocol, gardening, maintenance, kitchen devices, cleaning in general and even dates with doctors are simply things I’ve never had any interest in. Sure most of you work in one of these areas or another but I don’t. There’s a reason. Why else do people get jobs if not to remove the petty things I might otherwise have to know. Temperature gauges in Toyotas are most definitely one of ‘em.

Hammond has something on his mind, "Why are you doing this?"

"What?"

"Trying to cheat."

"Cheat? I’m simply making things fair. She’ll be the one cheating."

"Come on Joe. She’s never been anything but fair with you … all she’s ever done is endure your hatred."

"I don’t hate her."

"Really? Then why do you act like it?"

"I don’t."

"Denying one’s actions doesn’t remove them from existence. What about this bet? Is this the bet of friends?"

I chuckle, "Sure. Why not?"

"Do friends question the basis of the other’s being … their sex … the very definition of quest and victory?"

"Quests and victories? I never knew sex was so exciting."

"Oh that’s not true and you know it. Who is more enthralled with sex than you? How many hookers do you go through in a week? I don’t think anyone understands the conquest better than you."

I smile, "I guess you’re right."

"And do you think you’ll get lucky tonight?"

I blush, "Only if I want it … from that."

"That? Even now? Even when you admit your attraction to her do you deny her womanhood? What does that say about you? Are you gay? If she is not a woman and you end up having sex with … with whatever you choose to call a very, beautiful woman, then who are you having sex with … a man?"

"Now that’s crossed the line. I never said she was a man or that I was gay. You know I’m not gay. I’m the man who is the furthest from being gay."

"Sounds like you’re afraid of being gay."

"I’m not gay. That’s it. End of story. You’re right," I reach my hand in, "The car works."

As I get in, Hammond says, "I’m sorry to have insulted you Joe. I just want you to be open to the fact that she is a woman … an attractive woman you should be thankful to be able to spend this quality time with."

"Quality? You’re right. Tonight will be quality. I’ll get the quality goods on her."

"Joe," Hammond says as I begin to close the door, "Just be open minded … allow yourself to see her for what she is … not what you want her to be. Joe ..." I close the door and crack the window, "she might hold the treasure … the one you can keep forever."

"Heard it before ..." I say and drive off.

Now let’s see. I’ve got to find her house. Following the map was easy until I got into this neighborhood. I swear, every single one of these houses looks exactly the same. There’s no way I’ll ever find … wait. Is that it?

I stop the car, get out, walk to the door, wish I’d worn pants and knock. After the third knock, a man opens the door. At first, I wonder what a man is doing at her home. When I hear the children in the background, I wonder how good my targeting skills are. She said she had one girl, not many boys. This is not the right house.

Because the man only stares at me, I ask, "Does Dr. Daily live here?"

"Wrong house," the man turns to shut the door.

"Wait. Please. I need your help and I’m willing to pay handsomely for it."

"How handsome?"

"How about a bill … a hundred?"

"Dollars? Why … what help?"

"To be honest, I’ve never really driven anywhere. I don’t even know if I have a license," that’s when the man begins to turn around again, "But I do have money," I pull out a fifty and hand it to him.

"That’s yours … just for listening. I’ll give you a hundred once we reach her house."

"Her?"

"My date … my doctor."

"You’re dating your doctor?"

"Let’s not get in to that. By the way, I’m Joe, what’s your name?"

"George."

"George? Good to meet you. Now. This thing here says," I show him the map, "No. 5 12th Street and Vista."

"Yep. This is No. 12 5th Street and Vista. You need to go that way," he points.

"That’s my problem. This hellish maze has me beat. I can’t tell up from down nor any house from the other. I’ve been wandering for what seems to be hours. Kind sir, could you please come with me?" I add a little thirteenth century serf to my voice.

"I don’t think so."

"I don’t mean with me with me, I mean get in your car and guide me, make sure I get there," I complain as though my request is reasonable – a common curtsey extended to any weary traveler, lost in the night.

"For a hundred?"

"Listen, I’ll give you another fifty now and another hundred when I see her face … I won’t lose this bet. If I don’t show then how can I win?"

"Don’t know," he takes the second fifty, "But I’ll help you find her," the man shuts the door as he’s gone inside, yells something to his wife and returns, "Let’s go."

"Great. I follow you."

"Wouldn’t work any other way," he walks towards his car while I get into the Toyota.

Once we’re on the road, I think I’ll naturally lose this guy, but he’s great. He even waits past the stop light for me when I don’t make it through on account of Hammond’s clutch. I wonder where I learned to drive a stick. Or was it a clutch? What is the difference between a stick and a clutch? Oh the realm of understanding I’ll never need to know.

Anyway, it isn’t the first time money has testified to me of its power to rouse a man from his sanctuary upon the pilgrimage of an unknown, well paying stranger. So finally the guy stops in front of a house. We don’t move. Therefore, I assume we’re here. I get out and go to his window. He rolls it down and points towards the house.

"This is it then?"

"Wouldn’t be pointing at it if it wasn’t."

"You like sarcasm don’t you?"

"Wouldn’t use it if I didn’t."

I look at him a minute. I don’t know whether to find him funny or spiteful. Finally I laugh.

"I’ll be back," I tread up the path and knock on the door. This time it almost pops open. It’s her.

"Had to keep me waiting … wanted to see how I’d react? Well, no big deal … I’ve dealt with worse."

"Been stood up before huh?"

"I didn’t say that. I only mean I’ve met worse people. You’re nothing special … ready?"

"Sure. Get in the car. I’ll be with you."

"Fine. Do you think a lady must be treated as one to be one? No. I didn’t expect you’d dress for the occasion anyway."

"Whatever. I’ve got to talk to this guy … just jiggle the door handle if it sticks." Damn! She looks good. The way that dress brings out her figure … well I just might be in trouble. Might. Not saying I am. Just saying I might. But that dress … boy someone spent some time on that number. Or does she really have that sweet of a body? It’s got to be the dress.

I walk to George, "Thanks man. It’s the beast. This date is my only way to get rid of her."

"Man I don’t envy you a bit, having to outcast a catch like that … now for the … thanks," he takes the money, salutes me and leaves.

I see she’s already in the car so I join her; once the door’s open I shush her and start with, "I don’t want to hear it. I just want you to know I made it and therefore I win. You are no woman … you don’t even dress like one."

"Dress like one? It figures. You insult not me but the designer of this dress, who I’m sure you wouldn’t recognizes. No. You don’t even insult the designer, you insult the beauty of femininity. I think you’ve lost already."

"I’ve not lost. I’ll be the judge of who loses."

"You? Who made you judge?"

"Who made you?"

"This is pointless … drive somewhere will you," she says.

Boy is she testy. And what a look hangs from her face like an old coat. God, those lips in this subtle light … I’m telling you, if she was anyone else, I’d kiss that mouth. But this is reality and I only hope it stays shut.

"Sure … if that’s what you demand you’re holiness ..." I say; the rest of the ride – no, not just the rest of the ride, the rest of the movie and the dinner – is filled with silence. I took care of my end: dinner and a movie. Now the date is over and I’ve officially won.

When we’re heading home she finally breaks down in tears and admits defeat, "Fine. You win. I’m out."

My triumphant smile glows bright, "Good."

"Yes. It is good. You won. You picked me up in this shit-box, sputter me around the city for hours while we searched out that dirt-hole of a movie theater. And porn? You took me to see a pornography movie? That was the most disgusting thing I’ve ever been a party to. But it was sitting at McDonald’s that did it. When that chicken nugget fell from your face to the floor and you still ate it despite the fact that the sauce had stuck to that fuzzy spot in the crack next to the table’s base and still retained chunks of that filthy, hairy mess, I knew I’d never get my point across. You simply refuse to open your eyes to the truth. I can’t make you understand."

"Shut up, will you? Do losers have a right to go on and on about nothing? No. Shut up," Hammond’s words, regurgitated through her mouth, sound awful right now.

The rest of the ride is silent. But this time the silence is maddening. I’m trying to think of something to say so I can get back at her … something really good. I want her to pay for this feeling of angered frustration. I don’t need people telling me to open my mind. I have the singularly most open mind in the world. How do I open it further?

Huh? You tell me. How does someone who is so open minded they would kill themselves live on the Internet and on top of that, agree to this mind-numbing date with Dr. Doom, open his mind further besides blowing it clean off? I am the very definition of an open mind. No one can tell me I’m not able to understand including you … so keep any thoughts or feelings about me to yourself … thank you. Now back to this bitch. Finally we get to her house. She’s still so distraught she won’t open the door and leave.

"Dr. Daily … time to go," I push her. Is she asleep?

"Dr. Daily," my voice is loud and commanding, "We’re at your house … time to get out and go home ..." my tone gains a pleading, whining edge.

"Hey … what’s wrong with you?" I shove her a bit … not too hard. Oops, she hit her head on the window … hope it didn’t hurt too much.

"You okay?" I ask with an air of friendship. Finally she looks at me. But then she looks away.

"That’s it, I’ll carry you in if I have to but this night is over and I’m going home … I think I’ll call Nina," I get out of the car, open her door and work her big fat body into my arms. Okay. She’s not fat. But she is almost as tall as me. I feel like I’m carrying a big sack of concrete; she doesn’t wan