Читать книгу No U Turn - Michael Taylor - Страница 6

July 27, 2009

10:00 pm

A 2003 white 4-door Cadillac was traveling north at 60 mph, while the two police cars were engaged in a complicated high speed pursuit of someone else—a young man on a motorcycle—one car passed him on the right and the other black and white started to go through the intersection up ahead—crossing from his left. The Caddy first hit the rear right end of the FHP perpendicularly as the police car was screeching to a halt as part of the planned barricade in the upcoming intersection. Careening diagonally off of the Florida Highway Patrol car, the Caddy twisted slowly in the air, like in an old motion picture, before it hit the nearest fire hydrant and stopped upside down, three feet in front of the four people huddled against the store window. And all the while, the driver was high on two Xanax—just for the hell of it. Out to take a ride and enjoy the Florida night.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sound and color commingled. Touch and memory, senses and feelings all mixed and swept past each other. All were within his body and mind, surrounding Ben’s head and felt deep in his organs. Like swimming underwater very slowly, smoothly, serenely. But with one’s eyes closed, mouth open and the liquid flowing gently through, inviting and gratefully received, not suffocating; the temperature close enough to match the skin, so that the experience was one of gliding smoothly through the fluid, with just the slightest resistance to the pull of each stroke.

The lilt of sitar and zither music was felt, but not heard. Emotions were experienced without fear, surprise without fright. Dramatic of course. He had always been dramatic, even showy. But not here. Not now. But in this place the drama felt deserved and fully earned—even reasonable. Reasonable to believe he was dead. But he had committed no crime, was guilty of nothing. All the evidence was in Ben’s head and heart, at his lips, and almost able to be verbalized. But he could not speak or distinguish between what was his brain, his hands, his thoughts and touch, or the ability to feel.

~~~~~~~~~~

July 27, 2009

10:06 pm

The two EMTs worked quickly. They twice attempted, unsuccessfully, to wake the victim. Peter quickly read from the wallet in his left hand, “Benjamin Geller, 190 lbs, 5’11’, 1948 … 61 years old, Ft Lauderdale.”

“Mr. G! Mr. G, can you hear me?”

His eye twitched and with a dry mouth, he asked, “Who are you?”

“You can call me Max and this is Peter,” said the senior tech. Max’s hair was prominent, even in Pompano Beach’s downtown darkness. Prematurely gray, it looked almost white under the street lamps. “The stress of the job,” the doctors had said, with some “genetic history” thrown in.

As they leaned over the victim, Peter—having only been on the job six months—deferred to Max. A quick shake of the head by one and a nod in agreement by the other confirmed that—although Peter was a strong, well-built 6-footer—the two of them were definitely going to need help to stabilize, extricate and move the 275 lb. man from behind the steering wheel.

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July 27, 2009

10:40 pm

“Mr. G? Mr. G, can you hear me?” repeated Max. “You have to be strong. You have to stay calm. Try to relax and trust us.”

“Max,” asked one of the two other EMTs that had now joined them, “have you determined the extent of his injuries, yet?”

“Yes, I have,” Max answered without elaborating, and motioned for Peter to follow. “But not here. And the rest of you, not so loud. He may still be able to hear us. Peter, let’s step over there. Sometimes, when we think they’re unconscious, they can still hear. Let’s not scare him unnecessarily.”

While discussing the victim’s status, Peter and Max are suddenly interrupted by Boogie shouting loudly, from 10 feet away.

“I can’t move!” yelled Boogie, momentarily left alone.

“Please try and stay calm,” said Max, quickly returning to Benjamin Geller’s side just as he lapsed into unconsciousness, again.

Gently, Max asked, “Mr. G? Mr. G, can you hear me?”

~~~~~~~~~~

July 27, 2009

10:40 pm

“Mr. G? Mr. G, can you hear me?”

The words arrived as total whiteness, everywhere at once. They couldn’t be heard, but they were felt. It was a pressure in his head, a change in temperature on his ears, an extra pounding within his heart. A bubble without substance, surrounding his feelings. He was both inside of it and simultaneously a part of its structure—looking at it, but without really seeing it. It was devoid of sound, yet filled with emotion.

“Mr. G! Mr. G, can you hear me?”

Boogie Geller ignored the blackjack dealer— annoyed by her interruption to his concentration—while trying to decide to hit, double down or unnecessarily risk splitting the fives, with the dealer showing a ‘four’ and 10s coming, as the shoe turned strongly positive.

“Mr. G! Mr. G!” louder.

Boogie yelled out to no one in particular, “Just a minute!”

“That’s one possibility,” said the attractive cocktail waitress with the knowing smile, as she efficiently removed a goblet of Merlot from her tray of drinks and placed it on a coaster to his left, deftly accepting the $5 chip from the balding man at the $100 table, while avoiding his smoldering hand-made Helix cigar.

The Pit Boss, pretending to adjust Mr. G’s playing rate and up-date the comps, signed out and took a short, furtive glance at the dark silhouette reflected on the small screen. Adjusting a brightly colored tie, the Boss turned from the monitor, rose, and walked slowly past Ben reminding him, “Mr. G, it’s time!”

“Time for what?” asked Boogie, rising quickly, intending to follow the Boss.

Instead, Boogie stopped unexpectedly and turned around. From behind him, in a sing song, but commanding voice came, “Time for everything. Time for nothing. Time for show. Time for tell. Time for ‘Show and Tell.’ It’s your choice.”

“What’s with the riddles and attempts at bad humor?” Boogie asked snottily of the new voice.

“Because, Benjamin ‘Boogie’ Geller, that’s why you’re here.”

“I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean—and how do you know my name? —But no … I’m here to try and make some money. Or at least get even.”

“How much is some money?”

“I don’t know … ten—, or 15 thousand.”

“And ‘Get even’ for what?”

“The way life has treated me,” Boogie said caustically. “But I’ll settle for just today’s losses.”

“Well, either of those scenarios could be considerably more than you expect.”

“You know—how about tellin’ me where I am and what the HELL is that last remark about ‘scenarios’ mean?” shouted Mr. G in frustration.

“WE DO NOT USE THAT LANGUAGE HERE,” thundered through Ben Geller’s tissues and neurons. Maybe it was the 4 glasses of Merlot on an empty stomach, but he felt like he was going to throw up.

A long moment of utter silence. And realization … Or at least the possibility of where he was and the seriousness of it all. A small and extremely frightened voice that once belonged to a much younger Benji Geller came out with, “Yes Sir.”

“Thank you for your attention and attempt at a change of attitude, but it’s not necessary to call me ‘Sir.’ ”

“Then what should I call you, S—” said Ben somewhat meekly; looking down at his hands and hoping the verbal slip went unnoticed.

“You may call me Amaterasu, Bhagawan, Chaacs, Dumnezeu, El Shaddai, F’sahg, Gospod, Hera, Imana, Jumala, Kwoth, Leza, Mulungu, Ngai, Ormuzd, Perendia, Ra, Shen, Tengri, Ualare, Votan, Waqa, Xwede, YHVH Tzva’ot, or Zikhle Zin … You may have heard of me.”

“What happened to Q?”

“Even James Bond films need a tune up!”

“You have GOT-to-be-kidding!”

≈ Hmmm. Some of The Chosen People have been known to pronounce it GOTT, thought GOD ≈

“You’re getting close, but most Westerners just spell it with a D,” said GOD playfully. “OK. Tell you what! Let’s make it easy! How about calling me Max?”

Looking into the distance, a long silence was followed by a pondering … “ ‘Max’ ?”

“Yes? What is it?”

“No, I wasn’t calling You,” Ben explained delicately and with much respect eventually asked, “I was wondering about the name ‘Max’ … I mean … you know—Max—what kind of name is that for GOD?”

“Good! You have figured it out. So now, let us move on! First let Me answer you—a very good question, by the way—The Name doesn’t matter! It is the belief and the reverence with which it is used. The older angels sometimes call me ‘Max the Mensch.’ ”

“What’s a Mensch?”

“Why don’t you know what a Mensch is? I thought you were Jewish?”

“I am, but I wasn’t Bar Mitzvah’d.”

“Not Bar Mitzvah’d! What’s that got to do with paying attention to life or listening to your family? I know you had a Bubbie [Jewish grandmother] who spoke Yiddish. Are you trying to change the subject? No, don’t bother to answer! Besides, whose fault was it that you weren’t Bar Mitzvah’d?”

“My parents,” answered Ben.

≈ Always, ‘The Parents!’ thought GOD loudly ≈

“Now, how many times have we heard that before?” GOD asked Peter rhetorically.

Peter suddenly got that ‘Oh, Shit! Here-we-go- again’ look on his face; but from long practice he controlled himself, considering where they were and in Whose presence he was. So instead, Peter quickly put on an ‘Oh, Merde!* Here-we-go-again’ look on his face.

~~~~~~~~~~

*Author’s NOTE: Even in heaven, French makes everything better. Inappropriate thoughts sound elegant. Speaking in French also improves looks, digestion and skin tone. And generally makes everything rude appear more acceptable. For example, the distasteful Washington, DC water, with all of its ailments, odors and bad publicity, becomes palpable in the Dupont (French again) Circle area, when served in a bottle that once held a fine Pinot Noir; especially if the water was left to age sufficiently on an appropriately colored—red and white—cloth, covering a small table for two that has been set for a party of four, in the very authentic atmosphere of the very French ‘Bistro Du` Coin.’

~~~~~~~~~~

“Mr. Geller, are you trying to change the subject?” asked GOD.

≈ Again? thought Peter loudly ≈

“No. Sorry. Force of habit. I’m a salesman.”

“Let’s get back to Mensch. It means ‘a human being, a good person, or a person of integrity and honor’ in the sense of how I built you and what I hoped you would become: The nice-, kind-, happy-, good to your neighbor-, love your family-, be charitable-type of human being.”

“But Max, if you are a Mensch, how can a human also be a Mensch?”

“That’s easy. I made you in my image—in my likeness. Remember? You have heard of that concept before, haven’t you?”

Without waiting for a response, GOD said, “So, be a Mensch and tell me all about yourself.”

“What is this, a date?”

Understanding the source of his fear and reluctance to divulge personal things, GOD ignored Boogie’s sarcasm and controlled the urge to just smite him. Instead, GOD said soothingly, “No this is not a date. It is a Determination.”

“What is that supposed to mean? I don’t understand.”

“You always want to know what something means, but won’t make the effort to thoroughly investigate the concepts. But to get you started—to motivate you—a Determination is your opportunity to tell me all about yourself. It will determine your fate. So please begin.”

“What happens if I don’t want to tell you?”

“The same thing if you do tell me and don’t reveal yourself honestly.”

“How much time do I have?”

“That is what is going to be Determined.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“You have always had choices and this is no exception.”

“How did I do?”

“How did you ‘do’ with what?”

“With my choices.”

“You did!”

“I did what?”

“Everything. You did everything you wanted to do.”

“No, I didn’t!”

“What didn’t you do?”

“A lot of things. I could give you a list, but it would take forever.”

“I have forever. It will be entertaining. It’s my job.”

“You have a job?” Ben asked incredulously.

“Of course.”

“Tell me about it.”

“No, that would take forever,” said GOD sardonically.

“I have time,” said Boogie, admiring the return cut. Then, trying to be funny and still believing his bantering with GOD could delay the inevitable, he added coyly, “I have lots of time.”

“Do you?”

Silence.

Then, after a long delay to consider the possible consequences of his next question, Ben asked thoughtfully, “What does that mean?”

“It means: Go slow. Take it easy. Settle down. Take a deep breath … Relax. Tell me who you are, what you think you did, and what you fear. What you believe and what you think you didn’t do. Your accomplishments, your regrets. Unload. Get it off your chest. Give it your very best shot.”

“Sometimes you talk funny, I mean unusual,” Ben said, quickly correcting himself.

“I speak so you can understand me. So that there is no ambiguity.”

“But there has been. Your answers sometimes confuse me.”

“And your questions are not always clear, or appropriate. You forget yourself. You forget to Whom you are speaking … So let’s get started. Tell me all about yourself. Tell me everything important about your life, but please spare me the details!”

≈ Besides, I already know them ≈

“Just sit down on that sofa over there. Make yourself comfortable.”

“Okay.”

“If you get stuck, or lose your concentration, or get bored, I may ask you some questions to coax you along, encourage you, help you to remember, jog your memory, inject a few points, or just call attention to some contradictions.”

“No problem.”

“Remember, I just want a summary—your impressions about the things that had meaning for you.”

~~~~~~~~~~