CURIOUS REALITIES

Midnight

A summer night could be no more still, quiet or fair to walk. Behind me, the park playing fields were shrouded in shadows, and beyond them the home of a dear friend, where I’d left after watching a black and white episode of “The Outer Limits” on his parents’ TV.

The barred-windowed armory buildings rose, castle-like, as I passed beneath the crescent-mooned cirrus sky. Up the hill, lined with old trees and fine houses, I continued on as if in a peaceful dream. At Highland Avenue I turned left and proceeded along its flat and straight residential way.

Somehow, I did not feel alone. I looked down to my right and saw a large black, wolf-like dog striding alongside, its glistening eyes shining up at me. It trotted ahead to the next corner intersection and waited for me to reveal my direction, which was straight. The pattern repeated itself three times.

Far ahead the canine stood, nearly invisible, as a carload of trouble-seeking punks slowed down and stopped to call out threats from open windows. I snapped my fingers and said, “Here boy,” and my companion immediately returned to my side, and the would-be assailants sped away. The black dog followed me to the safety of my back door and vanished as mysteriously as it appeared.    

Thought Probing

In a bar one night, I bumped into a guy, Dave Johnson, from the old days at Amory Park. Twenty years plus had passed since our last encounter. We shared what we had been up to and stories of mutual friends, drinking pitchers of beer and having a good time. At one point he stopped talking to think, and looked at me, “Oh shit, what was the name of that fucking band from the sixties?”    
I leaned towards him, looked into his eyes, squinted and said, “Mott the Hoople.”
His mouth dropped open and his eyes popped wide, “Get out of my head, Kirchner! Get out of my fucking head!”

Suicidal

Late, on a bitter cold night, alone on river ice, I stood at the edge of an opening to black water flowing below. One brave moment—one plunge into the frigid void beneath the surface—and the current would sweep me away with no chance to change my mind. At eighteen years of age, I was indicted in a federal court and scorned by my father for refusing orders for me to travel to the other side of the globe to kill strangers. I faced five years in jail and a ten thousand dollar fine for my “crime,” and was one jump away from a freed soul.

My frigid body lost track of time and I found myself returning to land and walking through tall, brown, winter grass. A single light in the darkness beckoned me onward to the Unitarian Church. The illumination was from a single window. I had heard the minister there was opposed to the military draft and the war, and I thought perhaps I might find solace speaking to whoever was inside. I reached out for the back door handle and paused; I somehow knew it was not locked. Opening it, I entered a dark hall, lit only by a red exit sign.

Not wishing to startle anyone, I called out, “Hello. Hello. Is anyone here?”
I continued to another similarly lit hall, still announcing my arrival, but it became clear I was the only one there. The bright glow that had drawn me there shone through an open doorway to a kitchen. The warmth felt good. The clock read 3:00am, and I became aware of how hungry I was. Surely, if anyone were there, they would have given me food if I had asked, so with a clear conscience I opened the refrigerator.

It was completely, spotlessly empty, except for a small piece of white cardboard folded in half, allowing it to stand on its own. On it was a message written in black.

“This refrigerator is like life: you get out of it only what you put into it.”

I began roaring hysterically with laughter, and the sound of my emotional release echoed through the empty building. I experienced an incredible feeling that I had been manipulated that entire evening by some force for the purpose of realizing that epiphany. It was the revelation I needed. My future would not be determined by my family, friends, or the draft board. My future was in my hands.

I left the complex the way I had entered and walked home with a fresh resolve. I warmed myself with a cup of tea. The night sky began to brighten. I slept for the first time in nearly three days.

Howard

Howard lived with his wife in a modest house on a dirt road in the country. For a living, he sold firewood and homegrown potatoes, but most importantly kept old trucks and tractors running for his rural neighbors struggling through hard times. He was a master mechanic with a storeroom of old parts, and his main objective was keeping machines and men working, not making a lot of money. Howard charged what he needed to keep going and no more.

I received a call from him one day, telling me my 1970 Chevy dually flatbed was ready, and as always, I was relieved at how little he charged. My buddy Jim drove me across the New York State border into Pennsylvania to get my truck. It was a chilly, overcast morning. As is typical of men isolated in the sticks, Howard wanted to chat with us for a while, and we, appreciative of what he did for everyone, obliged. We stood in a small, dimly lit garage between his house and workshop. Howard was leaning on the front fender of an old car, smiling and petting his dog that stood loyally by his side. Behind them was a small window with four little panes of glass that was the sole light source to that space. Jim and I faced him, with me a few feet behind, and I noticed a bright golden glow to Howard that did not radiate around his car, his canine companion, my friend, or me. Just as I was questioning this anomaly in my mind, it was as if I could feel an invisible someone whispering close into my ear, “You know, some people can tell when someone is going to die.” Why would I imagine such a thing? I said nothing of my hallucination.

The following morning, I was told, Howard died of a heart attack while cutting a tree in the woods.

Crossroads

It was a sunny, summer Saturday afternoon, as I turned onto Seminary Avenue on my way home from downtown. A block onward to Murray Street, I stepped off the curb to continue walking straight forward, when I stopped, and for nor clear reason, was compelled to turn left and head south to Leroy Street. As I walked out of my way, I kept thinking, why am I doing this? Why not follow the path I always follow?

Several houses down, I suddenly came to meet a friend’s fiancé as she stepped down from a front porch.
“Joe!” she said in a tone of disbelief, “It’s you!”

She went on to explain that she had spent the last ten minutes trying to find my name and address in the phone book so that she could send me an invitation to their wedding but was not successful because she was improperly guessing at the spelling of my last name.
She was amazed, “I come out the door, and here you are!”

Kelly

Along the tropical island coast, a deceptive feature known as “False Entrance” provided safe passage only for shallow draft craft to enter the lush lagoon. Small boats lay anchored in the still waters, scattered as if tents in a campground, over whose sides dwellers defecated. Many were there in hopes of dry-docking in the boatyard for repairs, sometimes for nothing more involved than scrapping barnacles off a hull to increase glide. If the wait was too long, or the fee too high, Frog Man, heavily muscled with black hair and beard twisted together, was often hired to hold his breath beneath the vessels while chiseling away at the sea creatures. He was a quiet man, and not the sort to mess with.

An old wooden fishing boat, beached and leveled in the sand, was Ragged Man’s Bar. Its cabin served as a kitchen and cooler, its wide rails as the bar around which there were a dozen stools. Overhead, a canopy woven from palm boughs sheltered one from the searing sun. Picnic tables were positioned around the bright, hot perimeter. Owners of the more expensive cabin cruisers, secured on the high rent docking system, could step off the pier, onto dry land, and into Ragged Man’s. Among which was a most imposing man, Kelly. He didn’t seem to have a job but chose instead to lift weights in his stateroom to further pump up his huge chest upon which an American eagle was boldly tattooed.

I, exhausted after a day of manual labor in the sweltering heat, sat at a picnic table alone, sipping cold beer. “Hey, Joe,” a voice called out menacingly.

It was Kelly the giant, a person I had never interacted with before, and knew only by reputation. He pointed at me with his bottle and grinned threateningly. Too tired to be afraid, I mustered my confidence and looked him in the eye.

He reacted with a sinister laugh, “Don’t even think it!” and chuckled loudly as I left.

Our next encounter began the same, except when I looked at him, I perceived him clearly as he was as a young child. I held my gaze and he turned quickly away and said nothing. He never even glanced back.
That was our final confrontation.