Chapter 1

US 169 follows the Minnesota River until it reaches the rural outskirts of Minneapolis. It has some of its most breathtaking scenery around Shakopee, as the highway descends the bluffs and winds its way through the river basin before climbing again to the flat lands. The landscape is lush and green, with elm trees and maple trees thick along the river. I was following a semi-trailer rig when my eyes glazed over and I lost the ability to focus my sight. The red lights of the trailer danced and swirled before me like a gaudy Christmas tree. I shook my head forcefully, hollered at Steve to wake up, and pulled over to the side of the road. Steve rolled down his window and a blast of fresh air brought me around.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said. "But I think you'd better drive."

We had only a couple of hours left. We were a few miles southwest of Jordan, Minnesota, when Steve took the wheel. It was about sixty miles to Minneapolis, but then we would have to wind our way through the city to our homes. I settled into the bucket seat, closed my eyes and slept.

That didn't last long as Steve tuned in the radio. "Sorry `bout that buddy,but I need the noise." The Gremlin hummed as Steve held it at a steady sixty five miles per hour. Even with the radio on I drifted in and out of sleep. The gentle sway of the road reminded me of Debbie. I don't know why, it just did. I wondered what her parents were like. Salt of the earth types, I imagined. honest and kind. Had to be to produce a sweetie like Debbie. I drew a mental picture of what their farm looked like: There would be a two story clapboard farmhouse flanked on one side by a grove of trees and a large barn, three stories tall, set a hundred yards or so behind the house. Next to the barn would stand a machine shed and two silos the size of small sky scrapers, rising abruptly into the blue Kansas sky. I wondered if they had a dog? Sure, every farm had a dog! A border collie would bark as we pulled into the driveway.

"Almost home," Steve said. I opened my eyes to see the bluffs of the Minnesota River. We were descending down into the river basin, the road following the edge of the bluff, when a loud explosion rocked the right side of the car. We veered sharply to the right and bounced out of control heading toward the river. Steve pulled the steering wheel hard to the left and we shot past the center line. Head lights appeared out of nowhere and a horn broke the awful silence, screaming a banshee's scream. Steve tugged the wheel to the right and slammed on the brakes. I heard the sound of tires screeching and glass breaking and then felt the impact behind me. The force of the blow caused the Gremlin to spin wildly and we skidded over the edge.

Everything moved in slow motion as the car spun in the air and fell like a saucer to the earth. We entered a black hole as the Gremlin's head lights dissipated into the darkness illuminating nothing. I thought of my promise to Debbie and cried. God this would hurt her. The car slammed into a tree, shearing off a limb, and cascaded to the ground. I felt the door pierce my side and then was thrown forward against the windshield. Bones cracked and the glass cut into my eyes and blinded me. The pain was overpowering.




Chapter 2

Lord, do I feel lousy. It feels like my neck is stiff, and there is a rasp where my chest would be, and a soreness through the area my shoulder blades would be. I’d swear I’m running a low grade fever. It feels almost as if I’m coming down with a cold or the flu.

Of course those things aren’t supposed to happen hereabouts, ‘no more diseases’ and that sort of thing. But that’s how I feel. I can’t lie to you, not any longer. No more pretending is one of the house rules. If I had a bed I think today I’d spend the day in it, drinking hot lemon tea and watching Vanna White and what’s his name. Oh well...

This place is really quite nice. I remember a number of years ago someone asked "where’s the golf courses?" It seems that some Lutheran Pastor from Minnesota had told him that if he wanted a duplicate of the eighteen holes at Pebble Beach he could have it so. Not only that but he was looking forward to his first hole in one, all things being perfect and so on. I told him that there weren’t any golf courses around, as far as I could tell, but then he should ask someone who had been around a little longer than I. He expressed his disappointment forthrightly since one can’t even pretend to not be disappointed any longer, and said he’d do just that, he would. He then marched off into the mist.

There is one misconception I can clear up for you. All that nonsense about celestial beings is greatly overplayed. There is only one who qualifies for that description. The rest of us pretty much look like the creatures we were, excuse me, are.

There are some differences: like the fact that we aren’t plagued by illness. I’ve been told that what I’m feeling today is primordial endorphin shadow syndrome. In other words I’m remembering the way things were. Jeb said it’s sort of like experiencing pain in a limb that has been amputated. The pain is really experienced but isn’t real pain because the limb no longer exists. The nerve endings leading to the amputated area become inflamed and it feels like the absent limb hurts. My flu symptoms come under the same heading. They really are flu symptoms but I can’t have the flu because I’ve no body to become infected with a flu virus. Jeb said it’s a little more complicated than the phenomenon of pain in an amputated limb, but basically my consciousness is adjusting to the fact that my body no loner exists. Sometimes it remembers what it was like to be flesh and blood. Well, I’ve always had a good memory.

There aren’t a lot of rules here. In fact there is only one I can think of that is truly important: others first. Everything else follows like ducklings on a pond. You can always tell who the newcomers are because they always open the doors for you and say "you first" as if they will gain more brownie points for their act. There aren’t any brownie points here. Nobody keeps a score anymore. There aren’t any movies of your life either. Once the primordial endorphin shadow syndrome passes there is nothing to remind you of what once was. There is a Genesis library where records are stored but no one ever goes there.

Is there sex? Well... yes, but it’s different, better. Others first

Oh, yes, one more thing. There is only one requirement to get in here: you must stop pretending.

There wasn’t much pain. What I mean is that it hurt like hell for a second or two and then all the pain was gone. I mean ALL the pain was gone. I’ve had rheumatoid arthritis since I was a kid and my life has been measured by a secession of joint pain. Not always serious, mind you, but always present. I always knew my ankles existed for they were ever announcing their presence. The same holds true for my wrists, fingers and knees. I used to dread growing old since youth brought such aggravation.

Anyway I noticed that my fingers weren’t stiff and my lower back didn’t hurt. Then I felt really warm; not hot but gloriously warm. My body felt like it was floating in a soft warm gel. Not the gooey kind and not wet but warm and soft. Like sand without the grainy texture and weight. The heat radiated into every joint. Lord, it was heavenly.

Jeb said what I experienced had to do with my arthritis. Since rheumatoid arthritis was my chronic affliction, my first experience of bliss was connected with it. It’s always like that, he said. The blind see, the deaf hear, the lame walk and so on. Everyone has a chronic affliction according to Jeb. Sometimes it’s physical, sometimes emotional, and sometimes psychological. Bliss is encountered first in those areas because we will immediately recognize the healing that has occurred. Moreover, Jeb said, it gets people in the proper frame of mind for what comes next.

What came next for me was the Twins winning the World Series. Lord, was that bliss. There I was watching some guy named Hrbek hit a grand slam home run and my beloved Twins celebrating a victory over the Saint Louis Cardinals. Jeb says that, too, is different for everyone but that we are allowed to participate in something that would’ve brought us great joy had we been around at the time. Lord, it was wonderful.

After that I guess I blacked out or something because the next thing I remember I awoke in a most comfortable bed with feather pillows and a glorious down comforter. Jeb was sitting in an easy chair next to the fire reading when I awoke.

"Hello, Jeb," I said.

"Hello, Mark," he replied.

"Do I know you?"

"Well, we’ve never been formally introduced," Jeb said, "but I’ve known you since you came to be."

"How come I know your name?" I asked.

"That’s kind of hard to explain," Jeb said. "You’ve been through a lot lately...let’s just say you’ve always known me."

"Well you sure do look familiar. I’d recognize you anywhere, especially with that prominent proboscis."

"Don’t make fun of the nose. It’s a gift from the creator. I’m quite proud of it," he said.

"No..no, I wasn’t making fun. I meant that it’s very distinctive and marks you well.”

"Thank you.”

"I do feel like I’ve known you for a very long time," I said. "Who the devil are you?"

"Poor choice of words," Jeb corrected me.

"Okay, who the BLAZES are you?"

"That’s passable," Jeb said, "but marginal. Give it time and it will come to you. I was with you when you were born; I was with you the first time you rode your bike without falling off; I was with you when you hit your home run in the tenth grade. Those were good times. I was also with you when you lied to your mother about the car and when you lied to Jill and when you lied to Lisa. And I was there a few days ago when you stopped pretending with Debbie."

"I knew that." I said. "I mean, I know that, and I know who you are. It’s nice to see you Jeb. I hope I didn’t cause you too much trouble over the years."

"You kept me busy.”

"Well it’s nice to finally meet you in the flesh," I said.

"Poor choice of words, Mark, but I know what you mean and I agree: It’s nice to see you face to face.




Chapter 3


I suppose I should tell you something of myself. I’m the baby of my family. My parents had three children, of which I was the last, obviously. My two siblings were five and 10 years ahead of me, respectively. The first born was a girl. She is very nice. The middle child was a boy, very gifted. Then I came along. I’m gifted too; I lie very well. My parents were concerned about family planning and being Lutheran managed to space their children at regular intervals. I filled the last space, as it was. Enough about me. Oh, yeah; my given name is Mark Daniel Peterson.

Steve, my singing partner, was from a family of ten. Irish Catholics the lot of them. Besides Steve, who was the third to grace this earth, the children were named Mike, Thomas, Patrick, Bridget, Ian, Colleen and Jennifer. Jennifer was a mistake.

Steve’s full name was Stephen Ian Anthony Michael Patrick O’Neill. Honest. Why would I lie? His confirmation name was Anthony, after the Saint. He was allowed to choose that name himself. The others were foisted upon him as was his zeal for Ireland. Steve knew the history of the ‘Irish problem’ as they say in the United Kingdom. The Orange and the Green identified the poles around which he moved. The Easter uprising, The UDA, the IRA, and James Joyce were apt to cause his voice to raise a level or two if brought into a conversation.

He was also very accomplished on the guitar. He played a delicate finger-pick style common to Irish folk ballads. It was quite soft. An uncommon product one would think of a culture so long embroiled in violence. Something from The Beauty and the Beast.

Steve was a small fellow, wiry, about five feet five inches tall and one hundred and forty-five pounds. He wrestled in high school. He wore curly - no make that wavy - dark hair, unkempt to match his clothes. He was always rumpled. Often he slept in his clothes - arriving to his bunk after a late evening to simply fall into it and sleep. He gave definition to the phrase "to crash," meaning to fall asleep after a long stint of partying.

I met Steve in high school but we didn’t become close fiends until after we had both graduated. It was at a party that we discovered we were both accomplished liars. Steve was performing his Irish bit, complete with a full brogue and Guinness Stout, when I complained loudly that these Irishmen have no class. Only the English, I had said, know the meaning of class. I had said this in a rather nice accent, stuffy and distant, with a not-so-subtle arrogance supposedly of the well born. Steve attacked me with arms flailing and we’ve been close ever since.

We noticed that our dates had become especially tender after our skirmish, begging us to reconcile and nursing our wounds, so we took our show on the road. We softened the anger some what and became the life of the party. Such is life. When you are eighteen years old being the life of the party and having a young lass to nurse you puts the universe in proper perspective. Everything revolves around you, which is as it should be. Anyway, we were just pretending.

Steve got a job at an old hotel near Lake Calhoun. At one time it had been an important locale for the elite of Minneapolis. Now it was just old. It reminded me of a silver haired old gent with a gold topped cane and a ‘52 Mercedes. Steve worked in the Kitchen. I worked at a corner grocery store, part -time, and a Standard Oil gas station, also part-time. Friday and Saturday nights were reserved for parties and the occasional gig. Pretending was great fun.

I think I know why some people lie so often: it’s fun.

Jennifer was born when Steve was fourteen years old. Three years earlier Steve’s father had disappeared while stumping for the IRA in Boston. Foul play was suggested but there is no evidence to support such a claim. The evidence shows that one day Mr. Patrick Ian O’Neill failed to appear as scheduled for a meeting with the Teamsters Union.

Mr. O’Neill had checked out of his hotel earlier that afternoon, but that was not unusual for he was booked for a return flight to Minneapolis later that evening. A check of the area rental car agencies displayed no record of any rentals that could in anyway be connected to Mr. O’Neill. A review of the phone calls made from the hotel indicated that there were two calls made: one to his family in Minneapolis and one to the Teamsters’ hall to reconfirm his engagement. Mr. O’Neill carried little cash; less than fifty dollars. The hospitals had no admissions to match Mr. O’Neill’s description; neither did the city morgue. He simply vanished. Rumor has it that the Boston harbor now has Irish blood mixed with its English tea but no search of the harbor was warranted and none ever made.

Steve’s mother was stoical through the loss. She was a strong woman; petite with auburn hair and crystal blue eyes. She had married Patrick at nineteen, he was twenty-five. They had lived for the next ten years in Wichita, Kansas, where Patrick worked as a tradesman - a carpenter. Through six children Wichita was home. When Steve was seven years old, the family moved to Minneapolis.

After Steve’s father disappeared, his mother became more involved in grass root’s politics. She was active in the Tenants Union, carrying the concerns of the underclass against the windmills of democracy. Most people were afraid to do this, she had told Steve. Most people are unwilling to risk the little they have gained in life for social and economic justice. The landlords, even at their best, have mixed concerns. They have a capital investment, which must be protected. She would stand up and speak for those who could not or would not speak; for those too afraid or simple. She had nothing to lose, she told Steve. They had already taken her husband.

One of the lawyers who worked as a volunteer with the Minneapolis Tenants Union was Alan Clarke. Alan was employed with Legal Aid, a program formed during the Johnson Administration’s great society campaign. Alan was thirty-five and brilliant. He was tall, standing over six feet, with sandy blond hair. His wit was dry, his smile quick and his commitment to the things he believed in deep.

Margaret (that was the name of Steve’s mother) worked with him for two years before she dated him. Even then, to call it a date would be hyperbole. Alan asked her to join him for a scotch after a city council meeting one night to discuss the direction the council was heading. "No," she said, "maybe for a Jamison but never for a scotch." They both laughed.

In the weeks ahead Mr. Clarke, as he was introduced to the children, began to stop by on Saturday mornings to help the boys work on the family car or put up the storm windows or clean out the rain gutters. All of the O’Neill children called him ‘Mr. Clarke’ and he would call them ‘Tommy’, or ‘Patrick’, or ‘Ian’, or ‘Colleen’, as the case was. He wore chino slacks and starched plaid flannel shirts. Occasionally he would stop by in the early evening to pick up Mrs. O’Neill for a Tenants Union meeting and then he would drop her off once the meeting was over. He would always walk her to the door on those nights and the two of them would exchange pleasantries as they said good night.

Steve heard his mom call Mr. Clarke, Alan, only once. That was when she burned her hand on the
stove and he insisted on taking her to the emergency room. "This is silly, Alan. I can care for this myself."

"It’s a very nasty burn. Do it for me, Maggie. I’ll pay for the doctor."

Steve turned fourteen in April and in June of that year Mr. Clarke moved to Omaha, Nebraska. He took a position with one of the insurance companies headquartered there. In January of the following year Jennifer was born. She was a beautiful child with blond hair and her mother’s crystal blue eyes. She was a cheerful baby with a happy smile and a twinkle in her eye. Steve loved her a great deal and helped care for her.

When Steve turned eighteen, his mother told him who Jennifer’s father was. It came as no surprise. Alan Clarke was Jennifer’s father. No, she told Steve, he didn’t force himself onto her. "I was lonely and very much needed someone. He was a good man who loved your mother."

"Then why did he leave?" Steve asked.

"He doesn’t know about Jennifer. I am still married to your father."

My own parents are very much alive and living content in Lake Havasu City, Arizona. They moved there after Dad retired, fleeing the snows of Minnesota. From their condominium you can see the London Bridge spanning the coral blue water of Lake Havasu. Lake Havasu is a man-made lake in the Arizona desert. The developer heard that the English were set to tear down the famous bridge over the Themes river, so he bought it, dismantled it stone by stone, and reassembled it in Indian country. It looks nice. My parents think so too.
Chapter 7

The red lights flickered like Christmas lights in the darkness. The Gremlin’s headlights lit up the highway but all I could see were the little red lights swirling in the night. They danced with grace. I shook my head to snap my eyes back into focus. The outline of the Semi-trailer returned.

"Steve, wake up! Talk to me or we’ll both be dead.”

We were twenty hours into our return from Vail, Colorado, driving on U.S. 169 southwest of Jordan, Minnesota when the Christmas lights appeared. We had two hours of night driving ahead.

“Steve - wake up! I can’t see. I’m falling asleep.”

“What?” Steve asked.

“Talk to me!” I said. I shook my head again “Unless that’s a huge Christmas tree I’m following we’d better pull over.”

“Right,” Steve said, rubbing his eyes clear. “OK . . , pull over up ahead.” He rolled down his window and I felt the cool air burst across my face.

“Damn, it was pretty. One minute I was following a semi and then the next thing I knew those little red lights began to look like the lights on a Christmas tree. Damn it was pretty!”

“I think I’d better drive for a while,” Steve said

“Right,”

The trip to Colorado had started out as a lark, if people still use that word. One week earlier Steve and I had been discussing the general lack of excitement our lives held when we decided we needed a change of scenery. “Vail,” I suggested.

“Why Vail?” Steve asked.

“Why not? Last year my brother spent the summer there and had a great time.”

“But it’s a ski town,” Steve said. “What are we gonna do in a ski town in August?”

“It’s also a resort town, with hotels and restaurants and bars and parties and girls - who knows what we’ll do. I don’t know what we’ll do. My brother had a great time, so will we.”

“OK,” Steve said. “Vail it is - when do we leave?”

“How about Friday after work?”

Steve looked pained. “I don’t know if I can get off that soon. They usually like one week’s notice.”

“Ask, or quit.” I said. “Be here Friday around 6:00 pm.”

We loaded my Gremlin X with everything essential for the trip: a couple of changes of clothes, a cooler filled with Grain Belt beer (we intended to restock the cooler with Coors for the trip home), a thermos of coffee and Steve’s guitar.

Steve and I formed a little noticed, lesser booked, singing duo called Me & Steve. OK, the name isn’t exactly memorable, (Peter, Paul, & Mary is a memorable name - but it was already taken) but Me & Steve worked well for us at the few gigs we played. Someone would introduce us to the adoring/snoring crowd and Steve would slip up to the microphone and say: “Hello -I’m Steve.” I would then chime in with charming wit, “and I’m me.” It usually got a laugh, and that’s what we were after.

We sang folk music - American and Irish - and soft folk-rock ballads. We fancied ourselves somewhere between Simon & Garfunkle and the Irish Rovers with a little bit of Woody Guthrie and his boy Arlo thrown in. Steve was Irish Catholic, big into the problems of Northern Ireland. I was German and Swede, but traced a little English blood from my mother’s ancestry. That trace became my professional nationality and our act was built on the good natured feud between an Irish rogue and his English buddy.

It went over well enough. We had been singing for about six months. We didn’t expect great success at this point in our careers. Our careers? Let’s be honest, singing provided entry to many of the clubs in town even though we were under age. We knew some of the ‘real’ artists and would bring our dates to their shows. We would cozy on up to the stage, sitting at the nearest available table, and invite the performers to join us after the set. It never failed to impress the girls. Hey, just getting into the bars impressed the girls.

After loading the Gremlin we made our departure. Des Moines was to be our first stop. Steve was late so we didn’t leave until around 8:00 pm.. Des Moines would arrive on our flight monitor around midnight.

My Uncle lived in Des Moines with his six kids and war bride. I had no idea where his house was located. I had never been to his house. For that matter, I had never been in Des Moines. As a child I'd been in Clinton, Iowa. My grandparents had lived in Clinton when I was young. But I digress.

We exited Interstate 35W after it merged with Interstate 80, heading into the city through a residential section northeast of downtown Des Moines. We passed Drake University and drove through a black neighborhood. Steve was more than a little nervous.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“Des Moines.”

“No shit, Sherlock. Do you have any idea how to get downtown?”

“Well,” I said, “The neighborhood has gotten progressively darker as we have traveled down this road so I would assume that soon we will arrive at the city center.”

“In other words you don’t have the foggiest idea where the hell we are?”

“Des Moines, Iowa.”
My calculations were correct and the small vein we had been driving on spilled us into the heart of Des Moines. The city appeared prosperous, a smaller version of Minneapolis. Bank buildings and Department stores lined the streets.

Des Moines is the bug capital of the Midwest. At least the little-green-barely-bigger-than-gnats bug capital. The street lamps gave off a green glow as zillions of little-green-gnat-buggers floated about the artificial firelight. They moved like waves overhead in the dark August heat. They landed on the windshield when we stopped for a traffic signal and smeared the windshield with green bug-shit and putrid bug-intestines under the blades of the wipers. There were zillions of them.

“I’m hungry,” Steve announced. “Let’s get something to eat.”

I parked the car in front of an all-night Drug store and we headed inside. The grill was busy; all the booths were taken so Steve and I took our places at the counter sitting on the swivel stools. “Two coffees,” I said to the waitress.

“Will there be anything else?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “We’ll look at your menu; probably get a burger or something.”

As I was reading through the menu Steve jabbed me in the ribs. “Mark - look at that!” I turned to view a tall, thin, and garishly dressed black woman enter the Drug store. She wore a blond wig that spilled out over her shoulders and immense gold hoop earrings. Hoops within hoops within hoops dangled from meaty black lobes. Her neck was long with a prominent Adam’s apple bobbing in its center. Her mouth was painted bright red and her eyes lavender. As she made her way closer she laughed in conversation with the young man on her arm, her head darting backwards as she laughed. She was very animated, her hands waving the words away from her face and into the corners of the room.

“Is that a man or a woman?” Steve asked.

“I don’t know.”

The princess bride turned her attention to the two white boys seated at the center of the counter and winked.

“Steve, you can eat in Omaha,” I said. “I’m getting out of here.”

It was a man.



Chapter 8


"I’m hungry," Steve said. "Where are we?"

"Omaha, Nebraska.”

"Let’s stop and get something to eat."

We crossed the border from Council Bluffs, Iowa, and took the first exit into Omaha.

"Where the hell are you going now?" Steve asked.

"You wanted something to eat didn’t you? Well there sure as hell aren’t any restaurants on the freeway."

"There aren’t any here either.”

The exit dumped us into an industrial section of Omaha. The streetlights cast just enough light to form threatening shadows. As we moved from the diminished light of one street lamp we’d enter the weak grasp of another. Warehouses occupied the city; massive hulking dormitories of industry set side by side; red brick structures with immense steel doors and grimy opaque windows.

"There’s a bus station," I said. "They’ve got a grill in bus stations."

Pulling into the parking lot the blue lights of a police cruiser flashed behind us accompanied by the yelp of its siren. A uniformed officer approached our car with his hand on his service revolver.

"What’d I do wrong officer?"

"May I see your license and vehicle registration please?"

"Steve," I said, "look in the glove compartment and grab my registration will you."

I handed my license and registration over to the officer and he disappeared into the patrol car. He re-emerged a few minuets later, both hands in front of him.

"What are you doing in Omaha, Mark?"

"We’re traveling to Colorado. We got off the freeway looking for someplace to get something to eat."

The officer handed me my license and the Gremlin’s registration. "There aren’t any restaurants in this section of town," he said. "I pulled you over because we’ve had a lot of visitors assaulted in this area. An out of state license plate is an invitation to trouble. Best get back on the freeway and head on out of here."

"How do I get back on the freeway?"

"Take a right up at the stoplight then continue straight until you come to the interstate. I’ll follow you to see you get there." he said.

"Thank you, officer." I said.

As I pulled out of the parking lot Steve congratulated me. "Awfully polite aren’t we?" he mocked. "This is great - first you bring me to see a drag queen in Des Moines and now I get run out of town by a Nebraska Mounty."

"You wanna drive?" I asked.

"No," Steve said.

"Then shut up!"

It was 3:30 in the morning. We left Omaha with our hopes pointed west. Steve fell asleep so I was left to entertain myself with random thoughts.

I thought of Lisa, back in Minneapolis. I had promised Lisa that she could come with me to Vail. Lisa was twenty one and believed I was nineteen. That was a small lie I fell into while discussing birthdays. At a party to celebrate her twenty first birthday Me and Steve were the main attraction. Since I was only fours months away from my own birthday I had told her I was nineteen. It wasn’t much of a lie, soon I would be nineteen. Later, when she asked when my birthday was, I told her the truth, December. Lisa put two and two together and figured I would be twenty in December. I didn’t bother to correct her. Why haggle over details? As the evening wore on and beers flowed freely, I mentioned our plans to spend a week in Vail. "Why don’t you come with us?”

"No, I couldn’t," she said. "School starts soon and I have to get ready."

"No problem," I told her. "We’ll be back before classes begin. I’d really like you to come."

"OK," she said, "I will."

I was to pick her up that Friday around 8:00 pm .

The car was over packed. There was no room. Steve objected; Bringing a date would hinder meeting new people. I left without her.

The sun rose behind us as we reached the outskirts of Lincoln, Nebraska. The morning light spread across the fields like spilt Kool-Aid. I turned on the radio and let a station from Los Angeles clear the thoughts of Lisa out of my head. "Los Angeles; God wouldn’t that be great. Maybe after we leave Vail we could head for Los Angeles." It was an odd feeling listening to LA. It sounded exotic: California, Los Angeles, San Diego! I’ll just keep driving.

Steve awoke and asked where we were. "Fifty miles west of Lincoln," I said.

He sat up in the seat, rubbed his eyes and glazed at the landscape. It was flat and treeless. The fields stretched to meet the horizon in every direction. The sky dropped cloudless to the earth, Parallel lines merged in the distance.

"Look at that," Steve said.

"Look at what?"

"To your left, do you see that?"

"See what? I said. "There’s nothing there."

"Right," Steve said, "and that’s all you are going to see for the next four hours. If you look real hard you can see Kansas, it’s the same thing."

"There’s a Stuckey’s up ahead," I said. "Let’s get something to eat.



Chapter 9

1800 A.D – 1921 A.D.
For all its corruption the Irish self rule was short lived. In 1800 the Irish Parliament passed the Act of Union which closed down the Irish Parliament and transferred all legislative power to London. The Irish were now a part of the United Kingdom. Unofficially they had been so for some 800 years. Now it was legal. No more pretending.

In 1793 A.D. the Catholics were allowed to vote in parliamentary elections. They were still forbidden from taking a seat in the Irish parliament. This segregation was accomplished not with an outright ban but rather through an oath required of every member of parliament to renounce the Catholic religion. So technically Catholics could run for office, they just couldn’t hold office and remain Catholics.

Of course, after the Act of Union of 1800, the Irish Parliament stopped pretending altogether.

The Catholics went along with the union because they were promised by their Protestant cousins that once union was effected Catholics would be allowed to hold seats in the English parliament. A bill to such effect was passed but vetoed by King George III in the early 1800’s. We tried guys!

With the departure of the legislature from Dublin the Irish members of parliament now had to make the trip to London. That was an uncomfortable trip so most of them moved back to London and became absentee landowners. They maintained the profitability of their Irish holdings by exacting as much rent as the market would bear and neglecting to make needed improvements. Profiteering, I think that’s called.

This produced a quaint standard of living for the tenant farmers of Ireland. A young laborer could grasp a view of his future when he erected a wretched hovel. He would never obtain more. What he could build at twenty he would die with at fifty. The only wealth he could gain was Biblical: he could raise lots of babies, and usually he did.

The population of Ireland exploded over the next forty years. Babies followed babies and the potato fed all of them. There followed a time of relative peace, and peace brought a relaxation of the anti-Catholic laws. The sons of Ireland could now become lawyers and doctors. They could not, however, enter public life.

One of the sons of Ireland, Daniel O’Connell, became a barrister. He agitated for Catholic rights using the courts as his soapbox. He came to the defense of lads facing political prosecution and spoke eloquently for Eire. In 1823 A.D. barrister O’Connell formed the Catholic Association. Dues were a penny per month and thousands joined.

In 1828 Mr. O’Connell was elected as a Member of Parliament from County Clare. He was elected but didn’t take office as he refused to do so until the required oath of office renouncing the Catholic religion was abolished. This was not that great a sacrifice as Mr. O’Connell was Catholic and wouldn’t be allowed to take his seat without taking the oath. The Irish however had found a hero. One who spoke grandly and passionately. One who understood what it meant to be Irish.

The Duke of Wellington, Prime Minister of Britain, feared a civil war. The duke forced King George IV to sign the Catholic Emancipation Act in 1829 by threatening to resign as Prime Minister. O’Connell took his seat in the English Parliament.

Most of the members of parliament were, of course, English. Most of the activity of parliament was concerned, of course, with England. O’Connell quit.

Barrister O’Connell’s next battle was fought with the pen. In 1842 A.D. he, along with Charles Gaven Duffy, and Thomas Davis, organized the ‘Nation’ newspaper. They wrote of Ireland’s recovery, of a return of Irish glory in economics, politics and the arts. They set in motion a series of huge nationalistic revival meetings throughout Ireland. In October of 1843 they scheduled a most magnificent rally at Clentarf to demand an end of the union with England.

The English were concerned about the effect this rally would have on their relations with Ireland and closed off all access to the rally site with troops and artillery. The rally was canceled. O’Connell was arrested, charged with seditious conspiracy and sent off to prison. Things returned to normal.

The Irish continued to have babies and by 1845 A.D. 8,250,000 people lived on the emerald isle. By 1921 A.D. 3,900,000 fewer people called Ireland home - almost 50% fewer people. How did that happen? This is what happened: the time bomb that was the potato exploded.

The potato blight reached Ireland in 1845 A.D.. Some blamed the English for the blight but that was because the cause and the cure of the blight were unknown. The blight destroyed the potato crops of 1845, 1846, & 1847. It destroyed a good portion of the Irish people as well. People died from starvation, typhus and cholera. The small plots of land once capable of feeding large families through the wonder of the potato now served equally as well as family burial plots. All in all some 500,000 people stopped pretending.

Those who survived did so on charity. Soup kitchens had record attendance as meager assistance was provided by private organizations. Most of the aid came from charities in the United States. Refugees clogged the roads to Oz. By 1851 A.D., six years after the onset of the potato blight, 1,750,000 fewer people lived in Ireland. By 1861 A.D. another 800,000 people had fled Ireland, or died, dropping the population to under 6 millions. In fourteen years 29% of the population of Ireland either died or moved elsewhere. Many came to America.

In 1858 the Fenian Brotherhood was formed as a secret society in the United States. The ex-patriots still supported their brother’s cause. The Fenians agitated for Irish independence and blew up buildings and such to prove their moral authority. The Fenians are the roots of the IRA and the Sinn Fein.

1870 A.D. brought the first stirring of Irish Home Rule, as it was called. Basically the idea was of modest concern calling not for Irish independence but rather for a return of the Irish parliament. The first Home Rule legislation was introduced in parliament in 1886 A.D.. It was defeated in the House of Commons.

One Charles Stewart Parnell, a young Irish landlord, led the drive for Home Rule. He was gaining considerable support for his ideas when his career was derailed by scandal. In 1890 the young Irishman Parnell was implicated in divorce proceedings by a colleague from the parliament, Capt. William Henry O’Shea. Parnell became a political leper and stopped breathing in 1891. In 1893 A.D. a second Home Rule bill was introduced only to be defeated in the House of Lords. Not until 1912 was another Home Rule bill introduced. It was passed in 1914 A.D. but never put into effect.



Chapter 10


Strange things were occurring in Ulster during this time. Ulster was controlled by Unionists and violent resistance was organized to Home Rule. Belfast was their seat of power and in 1914 A.D. Sir Edward Carson formed a provisional government in that city. The Provos (the term ‘Provos’ will come to mean something else later, but I use it here to identify the forces of the Provisional government of Ulster) were determined to maintain unity with their British ancestors over against the Irish Nationalists. Civil war seemed eminent. Only WWI prevented it.

With the onset of WWI the English decided to leave the defense of Irish isle to the warring factions of Ulster and Ireland. They allowed the Irish Nationalists and the Ulster Volunteers to form defense forces. This was probably a mistake. On Easter Monday, 1916, the Fenian Brotherhood rose in defense of Ireland.

Under the leadership of Patrick Pearse and James Connolly, with less than 2,000 men, they stormed the General Post Office. For six days no one received their mail. They proudly announced that the Irish republic was now a reality and for those six days it was. The British set aside the German problem and descended on Dublin. They laid waste to Dublin and crushed the uprising. Over the next several weeks, in a prolonged show of vengeance, they executed the leaders of the rebellion. Ireland now had her martyrs. It is upon the blood of martyrs that fervor grows.

Eire took to the polls and elected members of the Sinn Fein to parliament. Prime Minister Lloyd George attempted to negotiate with the Ulster unionists (Protestants) and the Sinn Fein (Catholics) but Ulster demanded exclusion from the 1914 Home Rule Act. In 1918 A.D. the Sinn Fein won an overwhelming victory at the polls. Heady with power they demanded an independent, united Ireland. In January of 1919 they departed from the English parliament and formed their own legislative body, the Dail Eireann. They then, once again, proclaimed the existence of the Irish republic. The results were the same as last time.

Lloyd George was serving as the Prime Minister of England, and he was, as far as I know, not related to Oliver Cromwell. They must’ve read the same books, however, for Lloyd George responded to the fledgling republic with Cromwell’s diplomacy: he sent troops. The Irish police resigned en masse and Lloyd brought in more troops. The Irish Republican Army retaliated with guerrilla warfare. The British then began a systemic repression. They murdered mayors and other local leaders. They burned villages and towns. They destroyed most of the city of Cork. They were brutal, Cromwellian.

Sensitive Englishmen objected to Lloyd’s methods and in 1920 A.D. another Home Rule Act was passed. This one created two Irish states, one in the 26 counties of the south, one in the six eastern counties of Ulster. Only two of the six Ulster counties had Nationalist majorities but the English were in a hurry to do something right. Haste makes waste. In 1921 the Ulster parliament opened for business. The southern counties refused to recognize this action, demanding complete independence. Negotiations broke down and Lloyd George threatened “immediate and terrible war” if the negotiated settlement was not signed at once. In that same year, by a vote of 64 to 57, the Irish Free State was born.

The opposition, represented by those 57 negative votes on the negotiated settlement, revolted under Eamon de Valera and occupied much of southwest Ireland. The leader of the new government, Michael Collins, was murdered in an ambush in west Cork. Civil war replaced war with Britain. Eventually de Valera compromised and joined the new government as loyal opposition.

The six counties of eastern Ulster, including the two with nationalist majorities, were excluded from the new Irish republic. The governing documents of Ulster contain a provision stating that Ulster may become a part of the republic of Ireland by consent. (It was called the Irish Free State at the time; now it is known as Eire.)

There are many who have pressed the Protestants of Ulster to grant that consent. There are equally as many who have pressed the Catholics of Ulster not to grant that consent. The English remain in Ulster. Their troops are charged with maintaining the peace. Their goal is to ensure the right of self determination for the people of Ulster. Too late noble. They use rubber bullets and preventative incarceration to accomplish that goal. As for the people of Ulster, a whole lot of them have stopped pretending over the years. Just last week a young mother and her baby daughter stopped pretending when a car bomb exploded in Belfast. The dissonance keeps spilling out.

A Nation once again
A Nation once again
That Ireland long a Province be
A Nation once again

(From the 19th century, an unofficial Irish National Anthem - one of many. The official national anthem at the time was God Save The King. Very few of the Irish were happy with that selection so they continually made up new tunes.)



Chapter 11


North Platte sits amidst the rolling hills of western Nebraska. Approaching Colorado the earth begins to ascend and ancient waves ripple through the fields: the outer ridges created by the thrust of the earth skyward 400 miles west. The promised-land sits at eight thousand feet and the hills of western Nebraska arrive as first fruits. We had stopped at North Platte to refuel the Gremlin.

“We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto."

“What?” Steve asked.

“I said ‘we are not in Kansas anymore, Toto' - over there, that’s not Kansas,” I was pointing west. “Will you look at those hills. Colorado is invading Nebraska. The closer we get the more the land is transformed. I can feel the mountains, Steve. God, is this going to be great.”

North Platte appears little more than a commercial oasis in a wheat desert. Closer examination proves that assessment accurate. I looked over the top of the Gremlin, back east, as the attendant filled the tank. The North Platte river spreads out as wide as a football field - and about as deep. Multiple sand bars strip their path through the shallow waters. The largest river in Nebraska looks like my Grandfather’s corn fields after a heavy spring rain. “I suppose if you laid face down in the center you could drown in it."

“It’s been a dry summer." The gas station attendant is being friendly. "But then it always looks like that in August. You from Minnesota? I’ve a cousin lives in Minnesota; Fergus Falls - runs a pizza parlor there; been there about ten years now. Where in Minnesota you from?”

“Minneapolis,” Steve said.

“Moving?”

“No, we’re going to Vail for a week’s vacation.”

“I’ve been to Aspen once, never been to Vail. That’ll be seven dollars and fifty cents,” he said, returning the hose to the pump. “Shall I check your oil?”

“No, I checked it back in Lincoln.” I handed him a ten and he returned to the station to make change.

“I’m gonna use the biff,” Steve said.

“Hurry up, I want to see Denver.”

“Two fifty change,” the attendant said. “Say, I noticed your right front tire looks a little low - do you want me to check it out?”

“No thanks. It’s got a slow leak. I’ll put some air in it.”

“You’ll want to fix that before you get into the mountains."

“I’ll do that. How far is Denver from here?”

“Oh, maybe three hours,” he said.

“Thanks." I started the Gremlin and pulled over to the air hose and began filling the tire when Steve returned from the john.

“Something wrong with the tire?”

“Just low on air.”

“Well hurry up buddy, I want to get to Denver."

The countryside flattened out once we crossed the Colorado border. The scenery stretched as broad and as flat as any we had traveled through. The Gremlin ran flawlessly as I held her at a steady eighty five. We glided through the expanse and I grew impatient. Steve dozed. I wondered when I’d see the mountains. Up ahead at some distance the clouds stood high in the sky. They were massive solid chiseled blocks of white. If it weren’t August I’d have mistook them for the mountains I longed to view. “Damn, Where are they? I want mountains!”

We arrived in Denver Saturday afternoon at 2:00. We entered over the rail yards then circled the city and exited the interstate at U.S. 6, which would take us to Vail. Every city we pulled into on this trip showed us its down side first. The poor neighborhood in Des Moines with shabby housing and struggling citizens; the warehouse district of Omaha with grimy industrial monuments; and now the hobo heaven of Denver. These were not views of Paris in the spring; more like Sioux City, Iowa, when winter drains off exposing the litter, slush and animal waste. Vail was only one hundred and twenty miles away.

The mountains are exactly as I imagined. Seventy five miles east of Denver they first caught my attention. It was the most erotic thing I have ever experienced. It wasn’t sexual - but that’s the only word I can think of to express the sustained excitement. Standing at the pumps of a Conoco station I am Moses gazing from Mount Nebo. I also have to pee.

The foothills of the mountains rise directly in front of me. I want to touch them. I want to roll in the dirt and grass; run up as high as my lungs allow and then run back down the steep slopes until my legs give out and my knees buckle. Rising behind the infant peaks are towering old men. Knights in the castles of gods. Life hides in those mountains. Secrets hide in those mountains. Girls hide in those mountains. God this was great. We were almost there.

Steve is less excited than I. The heights before us would have to be overcome and that meant death. At least permanent disablement.

U.S. 6 winds out of Denver into Golden. The Coors brewery is in Golden. Coors tastes the same as Grain Belt (a beer is a beer right?) but Coors has mystic. It is available only in the five mountain states. To sip a Coors is to have the mountain as your neighbor. To sip a Coors in Minneapolis is to have returned from a great adventure. Coors is an icon, its brewery a temple. We didn’t stop. Why visit the temple of gods when you could lounge in their rec-room.

Leaving Golden the highway meanders, one curve follows another into another. Tunnels bore into rock like passageways of privilege. We disappear into the tunnels and proceed through them like babies through the birth canal, soon to be born on the other side of darkness. Birth follows birth, leaving behind past lives. At Loveland pass Steve turned pale. Up till now our ascent has been gradual. Now the mountain lurches before us and the highway threads its way up the breasts of the earth. Halfway up Loveland pass Steve’s right hand grasps the arm rest. His knuckles white, his forearm taunt. Looking out the Gremlin’s passenger window he sinks lower into his seat. “Mark, move more toward the center of the road will you please? All I can see are the tops of Fords.”

“Look, Steve, you’ve got two choices: either we slam head on into the oncoming semis or plunge off the edge into the abyss. Which would you prefer?” Steve groaned and closed his eyes. I steer the Gremlin as close to the center line as I dare, feeling the breeze of each passing truck.

Once we reach the crest I pull the Gremlin into the observation lane. Snow is falling. Steve poured his body out of the car and walked toward the observation point. I joined him.

“God I love this,” I said. “You’re looking better. A little frightened back there were we?”

“I swear to God, Mark, I looked out the window and I couldn’t see the side of the road. All I could see were the tops of cars and I knew we’d go over the edge. I’ve never been so scared in my life!”

“Well, there’s only one more pass to cross, buddy,” I said.

“There’s more?”

“According to the map we have to cross Vail pass.”

“Oh shit. I don’t know if I can handle another one.”

Vail pass was easy, a steep but straight ascent. There were a few curves to master but no switchbacks. We made our decent and eyed the valley for the village. After four hours of mountain driving, we exited into the village of Vail. I parked the Gremlin in the parking lot of the Vail Village Inn and we headed into the bar. We both needed a drink.



Chapter 12


“Two Guinness’s,” Steve said. His accent caught me by surprise. I was tired and unprepared.

Vail Mountain stood behind us as we entered the lounge of the Vail Village Inn. Steve was a mess. Unkempt, as always, his clothes bore the lessons of twenty hours of travel. He wore a white cable knit sweater and jeans, topped off with a white knit cap similar to a beret. His hair and disposition matched his clothes. I was dressed in jeans and a football jersey.

The lounge was empty of guests, save for a middle aged man seated at the bar. As we entered he finished his drink and departed. To the right, through double doors stood unoccupied tables and a small stage. An attractive young woman staffed the dispensary. Steve and I took seats at the bar.

After a moment’s hesitation I picked up my part. We worked well together. “Just one, luv’” I said. “I’ll ‘ave a coffee - black.”

The full brogue Steve is capable of demands attention. It is a tangle of sounds spit out and left lying before the listener like the root system of peat moss. My own accent was awful, composed of cartoon hi-lights from Saturday mornings. In the wake of Steve’s it gains credibility. It was as simple as Steve’s was complex and accepted as genuine only because it was ignored. Like our stage performances, Steve provided the melody and I the harmony.

“Where are you two from,” the barmaid asked.

“Eire,” Steve said.

“Sure, but that’s not really true now is it,” I added. “”I mean Ireland’s ‘is ‘ome but we’ve just arrived from Minnesota.”

“Ireland?” She asked.

“Eire’s the proper name,” Steve said. “Ireland’s the English name.”

The barmaid placed the stout in front of Steve and the coffee at my elbow. She is lovely. Her hair falls straight across her shoulders, crimped and natural, soft and full. Her eyes are a deep brown and the lights of the darkened room played in them when she smiled. “Eire,” she said. “What brings you to Vail?”

“The mountains, luv.” I said. “Steve’s never seen anything larger than a modest hill and I thought I should enlighten ‘im. The Irish are a bit backward, you know.”

“Easy, “ Steve said, “there’s no reason to get insultin’”

“They’re a temperamental lot, too,” I said, “unreasonable bastards with an ungodly appetite for stout and potatoes.”

“That’s an ‘ell of a lot better‘n them bloody tea and biscuits you pansies eat, “ Steve said.

“You’ll ‘ave to excuse my friend ‘ere,” I said. “The Irish are an ‘ostile race.”

“And the English are prim sons-of-bitches; think the sun rises and falls over their ‘arse.”

“Are you two friends?” she asked.

“In a manner o’ speakin’,” I said.

“‘e’s me penance for past transgressions,” Steve said.

The barmaid wears the uniform of the day: bell bottom jeans and a oxford shirt with the top two buttons unbuttoned. She was small breasted. The shirt fit loosely over her frame. “You said you were from Minnesota?” she asked.“Yeah,” I said. “Well I am at any rate. Steve ‘ere is indeed from Ireland. I found ‘im about a year ago wandering the pubs.”

“Liar,” Steve said.

“...pay ‘im no mind, ‘e’s a ‘ostile bastard. Steve was singing for ‘is supper in a pub on Lake street
when I found ‘im. I invited ‘im to a party and ‘e’s been following me ever since.”

“What really ‘app’ned is that Mark ‘ere lied ‘is way into my act.” Steve said. “It’s true that I was singin’ for a meal, but then this fellow came along and suggested we could do better singin’ together than we could on our own. I warn you, lass, the English are born liars.”

“What kind of music do you sing,” she asked.

“Mostly folk songs,” I said. “Irish and American folk music.”

“Do you guys have a name?” she asked.

“Me and Steve,” I said.

“I mean a stage name,” she said.

“That’s it, luv. Me and Steve.”

“I’m Steve,” Steve said.

“And I’m Me,” I added. Our timing is still good even after 20 hours on the road. “My given name’s Mark.

“I’m Debbie,” she said. “I gather that’s Steve’s Irish, and you’re English?”

“Yeah,” I said, “well my father’s American and my mother’s English. She was a war bride in ‘45. Dad brought her back to Minneapolis and I’m the result.”

“How’d you get your accent?” she asked.

“Well I learned it from my mother. It’s naturally confused. When I’m surrounded by Americans it begins to disappear. For the past year I’ve been singin’ with Steve ‘ere so I sort of fell into it again. There’s not much I can do about it.”

“I wondered,” Debbie said. “Glenda’s from London and her accent is more distinctive than yours.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” I said. “growing up in Minneapolis surrounded by Swedes, listening to my mother and then listening to this bloke has destroyed the Queen’s tongue. I apologize.”

“I can still hear it, though,” she said. “Would you care for another beer Steve?”

“No,” Steve said, “I’ve got to save me money.”

“This one’s on me, a welcome gift to Vail,” Debbie said.

“Well then,” Steve said, “you can make me an Irish coffee.”

“Mark? What can I get you?” Debbie asked.

“If you’re buying, I’ll ‘ave a scotch,” I said.

“I’m buying. A scotch and water?” she asked.

“Add the water only if there’s room.
“
Debbie mixed the toxin and returned. “So where are you staying?”

“On the mount’n I sup’ose,” Steve said.

“There’s room in the Inn,” Debbie said.

“Aye,” Steve said, “but none in me wallet.”

“We’ve got sleepin’ bags,” I said, “Steve’s used to sleepin’ outdoors.”

“It can get cold at night,” Debbie said. “Listen - why don’t you two stop by after I get off work. There’s a party tonight, I’ll introduce you to some of the crew and we’ll find you a place to stay.”

“What time’s the party?” Steve asked.

“The party doesn’t start until 11:00p.m. I get off in an hour, you guys can come over to my place and clean up. I’ll show you around some and then we’ll go to the party. I want you to meet Glenda.”

“Sounds good,” I said. “Are you sure you can trust us?”

“No, but I’ve a big dog,” she laughed.

“I like dogs,” I said.

“I don’t,” Steve said, “bastards bite me all the time.”

“I promise she won’t bite,” Debbie said, “If you’re good.”

“I’m always good,” I said. “And Steve ‘ere can work at it if ‘e knows ahead of time and ‘as time to prepare.”

“What part of Ireland are you from, Steve” Debbie asked.

“County Cork.”

“What brought you to the States?” she asked.

“Relatives and politics,” Steve said. “My uncle lives in Boston. I was ‘elpin’ ‘im raise funds for the IRA.”

“The IRA?” she asked.

The Irish Republican Army, dear. It takes money to fight a war.”

“I’m not following you...what war?”

To free Ulster,” Steve said. “To drive the English back across the Irish sea and return Irish lands to their rightful owners.”

“So how did you end up singing?” she asked.

“I took a year off to see America. Singin’s one way to feed the belly.”

“Say, you don’t serve food ‘ere do you?” I asked.

“No,” Debbie said. “There’s a restaurant in the village, take a left outside the door and keep walking for a few blocks.”

“Well if we’re goin’ to be back ‘ere in an ‘our we’d better be goin’,” I said. “I’d like to get somethin’ to eat.”

“It’s not expensive is it?” Steve asked. “I’ve got to conserve me money.”

“I’ll buy,” I said. “Debbie, we’ll see you in an ‘our. You’ve been most kind.”

“Bring your guitars,” she said, “I’d like to hear some of your music.”

“Aye,” Steve said, “We’ll do that”



Chapter 13


Jeb is a Guardian Angel, or as he prefers to be called, a Personal Field Representative. “I do a whole lot more than simply guard things,” he said. The position has lost some prestige recently, according to Jeb, but those who hold the position still regard it as most significant.

“It’s becoming more difficult to carry out our assigned duties,” Jeb said. “A certain degree of cooperation is required between a field rep and a client.”

“A client?” I asked.

“That’s what we call the people we are assigned to, clients.” Jeb explained. “We used to call them people but a few years back Malachi, he’s the area manager, decided it was too informal and lacked professionalism. So now we call them clients. Personally I think it’s dumb. Anyway, a lot of what a field rep does involves guidance through subtle forms of communication and the clients don’t seem to catch on as easily as they used to; they take heed less and less these days.”

“Why is that?”

“I personally believe it’s the fault of Grandmothers,” Jeb said, “and the shrinking size of the family.”

“Explain.”

“It used to be that Grandmothers lived within the family. Now they live in Florida or Arizona. At one time Grandmothers played a prominent role in rearing children and they taught them about guardian angels. Children were taught by their Grandmothers to trust the angels and listen for our guidance. Now Grandmothers rarely spend the time that’s needed to properly teach the children. As a result the children don’t understand the concept of guardian angels and don’t believe we exist. And you can’t trust or listen to something that doesn’t exist, can you?”

“I suppose not,” I said. “How does the Guardian Angel...

“You mean the Personal Field Representative,” Jeb corrected.

“Of course, the Personal Field Representative,” I said, “how does he communicate guidance to the client?”

“Guidance occurs through the client’s conscience. Understand, not everything a client’s conscience brings to their attention is our guidance. Some of it they provide themselves. Our access is really very limited. During quiet times, when the clients are sleeping or in deep thought, we will speak softly into their conscience and plant the seed of advice.”

“Then what?”

“Then later,” Jeb explained, “when the circumstances warrant it, the client’s conscience will bring the advice we’ve provided to bear on the problem they are facing.”

“So this guidance is to help us through the really big troubles.”

“No, no,” Jeb said, “you’re missing the point altogether. We are concerned with the basic values, which will provide the foundation of your moral development. You take care of your own problems.”

“That’s not what Grandma said,” I told him.

“Cute, Mark. Look. It works like this: Do you remember thinking about Lisa during your drive through Nebraska?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember what you thought?”

“Sure, I was feeling lousy about dumping her.”

“That came from something I had said to you while you slept the night before you left Minneapolis.”

“So you guys make people feel guilty,” I said.

“Oh no,” Jeb responded, “you brought that on yourself. I simply reminded you that Lisa was a very sweet girl who trusted you. I then reminded you that such trust should not be betrayed; a person’s responsibility to another is sometimes more fulfilling than their responsibility to self.”

“Others first,” I said.

“Precisely; The guilt was your own. You accepted the premise and disregarded it. I can’t make anyone feel guilty. Besides that’s not my task. I simply teach, remind. Guilt is a result of the client’s own moral barometer at work.”

“But I did feel guilty.”

“And finally the guilt caused you to change,” Jeb said. “You had only two choices: to either erase your standards of what was right or attempt to conform to them. People can’t operate happily with a conflict between what they believe to be true and the lies they live. Eventually they must either abandon their premise or abandon their lies.”

“That makes sense.”

“And in theory it works,” Jeb said. “But what often happens is that the personal dissonance spills out onto the world around them. Very few people understand the cause of the pain they feel so very few change. As the dissonance increases, they hurt those around them which at least evens out the level of pain. If they cannot bring themselves to lash out, and cannot change, their despair eventually will lead to suicide.”

“I don’t think I like this subject matter,” I said.

“Humans are complex beings,” Jeb went on. “They are a mixture of competing desires. They are unclear as to whom they are - their spot in the universe as it were - and equally unclear about what brings a happy and fulfilled life, and the two are connected. So they devise schemes to make themselves happy; scenarios where they can role play. They write scripts, set the stage and play their parts. Then, when pretending doesn’t bring happiness, they are confused. But pretending never brings fulfillment.”

“Why is that?”

“Because pretending, by it’s very nature, denies existence.”

“Does anyone ever stop pretending?”

“Some do, before they die,” Jeb answered. “Look, not all pretending is wrong. Children pretend and learn a great deal from their role playing. Adults paint pictures of future events to better prepare themselves for them. Pretending can also ease the burden of being human. But those times of prevarication should be short term exercises. For many people pretending is a way of life.”

“To your own self be true,” I said.

“Not exactly,” Jeb said. “First, you must learn of yourself, and second - and this is very important - you must learn to be comfortable with yourself.”

“That’s not easy. We screw up so often our self esteem takes a beating.”

“I know, but grace doth abound,” Jeb said.

“You’re getting religious on me.”

“Lord, I hate that,” Jeb replied. “When I talk of things that matter I’m accused of being religious. That’s only a label people use to avoid the issue. Grace removes the barrier your screw-ups build. It sets the captives free.”

“Free to stop pretending,” I said.

“Free to be who they are.”

“How’d I do?”

“You stopped pretending the day before you died,” Jeb answered.

“Pity.”

“Yes, but that’s the way it usually goes. Only the dead have stopped pretending.”



Chapter 14

The party went well. Glenda listened to Steve intently and ignored me after we exchanged greetings. When forced to answer her I spoke in short bursts. She seemed amused. Steve invested her with the history of the English atrocities in Ireland and she held up under the abuse. She offered very little defense for her native land. She agreed completely with Steve’s assessment. “The Irish should be left to devour themselves,” she said.

Sometime after 1:00 AM we began our show. The condominium was crowded and we held court in the entertainment room off the kitchen. People moved freely in and out of our presence. The Ballad of the Orange and the Green was followed by Finnegan’s Wake. That livened up the atmosphere. A few Kingston Trio numbers followed and we began our American set. The crowd was as easy to please as any back in Minneapolis. Like previous shows, a good time was had by all. People will believe anything as long as it’s different from their own experience. They suspend disbelief because they want to believe. They want to have a good time. We were pleased to oblige.

Debbie stayed close all evening. She introduced me to more people than I remember and enjoyed displaying her find. There was no pretense about her joy, no selfishness. She was truly excited about these two fellows who had dropped into her life. She was sweet and tender and listened carefully as we talked.

She wanted to know everything about me: about my family, where I went to school, etc. She absorbed my false life and added it with her own. Steve loosened up after a few drinks. His antagonism lost its edge and our bantering became more good natured. He was busy impressing a blonde when Debbie asked me to go for a walk. “Sure,” I answered. “Lead me to the promised land.”

The air was cool as we stepped into the night. The sky was clear and I turned my head to gaze at the evening's lights. “Starlight, star bright, first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might, ‘ave the wish I wish tonight.”

“And what would that be?” Debbie asked.

“I already ‘ave part of it; to walk with you is the beginning. Perhaps if the stars are kind more of my wish will be fulfilled.”

“And what would it take to make your wish come true?”

“Time,” I said. “You’re goin’ to embarrass me. I’m not used to tellin’ my ‘opes so quickly. I’d just like to spend some time with you. You are very nice.”

We walked up the mountain surrounded by the night. Time grew quiet. The sounds of the party grew faint land I watched with admiration as she climbed . She wore a peasant’s skirt, light blue with lace borders falling just below her knees. Her blouse was white cotton, embroidered with delicate flowers about the bodice. The tiny petals of the floral arrangements on her bosom revealed a tease of what lay beneath. “I love the mountains,” she said.

“They are quite beautiful.”

Debbie sat down and leaned against an evergreen. I sat opposite her and a few feet below. The moonlight reflected in her eyes much as the lights in the bar had done earlier that afternoon. I looked into the brown depths and got lost, swimming upstream. They had an innocence that attracted me; a sensuality that excited me.

“I don’t think I could ever move away from the mountains,” she said.

“Why would you?”

“A better job, maybe. I’m not sure I want to tend bar all my life.”

“You won’t,” I said

“How do you know?”

“I can tell. I can tell a lot of things about you.”

“What can you tell about me?”

“I can tell that you are a sensitive woman. You care about people or you wouldn’t ‘ave offered your ‘elp to Steve and I; I think you’re searchin’ for somethin’, but I’m not sure what it is.”

“Go on,” she said.

“I think you’ve been ‘urt recently...”

“Why do you say that?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s none of my business.”

“No, I want to know. What made you say that?”

“ I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not upset, I just want to know how you knew.” she said.

“It’s in your eyes, luv. There is a depth of feeling’. How long ago was it?”

“Three months.”

“Were you together long?”

“Not really.” She pulled at the grass by her knee and tossed it into the darkness. “Four months is all.”

“Why did it end?”

“He wanted it to end,’ she replied, “so he left.”

I let the solitude of the evening enter before I continued. The darkness and silence accentuates our emotions. “Did you love ‘im?”

“Yes,” she answered.

“I’m sorry. I won’t pry further.” Once again the darkness filled the space between us and the loneliness entered. After a moment she spoke.

“No, that’s okay. You’re the first person I’ve talked to about it since it happened. That’s odd isn’t it? I barely know you...”

“You know me better than you think,” I said.

“I’m very comfortable talking to you.”

“The hurt does go away.”

“I know.”

“It’s important that you let it hurt,” I said, “you can’t hide from your feelings without hiding from yourself; and it’s important to continue to love, don’t draw away from people, not everyone will hurt you.”

Debbie looked into the heavens, into the darkness and the solitude and the vastness of space.

“I’m sorry, I’ve overstepped my boundary.”

“No, that’s okay,” she said. “I was just thinking.”

“Thinking’ what?” She looked at me and smiled.

“Starlight, star bright, first star I see tonight...”

“I wish I may, I wish I might, ‘ave the wish I wish tonight?” I said. “Per‘aps the stars are indeed kind tonight.”

“Perhaps they are,” she answered.



Chapter 15


“I want to change the subject,” I said. “Tell me how you got your assignment.”

“Do you mean as a Personal Field Representative?”

“No, I mean how did it come about you were assigned to me?”

“Well, I had finished up an earlier assignment, an Irish lass named Margaret who died in county Cork in 1922 during the ambush of Michael Collins, and was enjoying my R & R when the call came,” Jeb explained.

“The call?”

“It’s like a beeper. It tells you to report for duty,” Jeb said.

“When was the call made? After I was born?”

“The day you were conceived,” Jeb said. “I’ve been with you ever since. Once you’re established here, I’ll get a brief rest and then back to work.”

“When will that be?”

“Not for quite some time, we’ve a lot of work yet to do.” Jeb said.

“I’ll miss you. You’ve been a good friend.”

“Thank you, I’ve enjoyed working with you. But like I said, we’ve got a lot of work left to do to get you ready for your audience.”

“When do I get to see God?”

“God? You wouldn’t recognize God right now, Mark. Soon you will.”

Jeb has asked me to make a list of the things I once thought were important; while still in the flesh as it were. “You don’t have to rank them in order of importance,” he told me, “just make a list and give me a brief explanation why they were important.”

Jeb said that the exercise was part of the preparation for my audience. “It’s like the moral inventory of Alcoholics Anonymous, where they sort through the bilge of the past so they can make restitution for their failures; it’s a process of self redemption on their part but I have nothing so grand in mind for you. Just make up the list.”

“Do we have to discuss it?” I asked. “I’m none to keen on public humiliation.”

“No,” Jeb said. “There will be no discussion. I won’t even read it if you’d rather I not.”

“That’s ok,” I said. “I trust you.”

This is the list I came up with:


THINGS I THOUGHT WERE IMPORTANT

1. Being the center of attention was important. As the youngest in my family I grew up a tad spoiled. My parents had more money to spend on me than they had for my siblings. Like parents everywhere they wanted to give me the best. This tended to bend me in the direction of self indulgence. I nearly died in birth and my mother thought my survival indicated I was a very special gift from God. She was forty years old when I was born. I used that to my advantage. I liked attention. It made me feel good, important. I wanted people to notice me.

2. My dog was important to me. When she died, I cried and cried all day. I know that’s a cliché but it’s true. I was seventeen when she died. Bumpers - that was my dog’s name - had suffered a stroke that left her without control of her hind quarters. It was so sad to watch. I would come home from school and Bumpers would struggle to her feet and try to run to greet me like she had always done in the past but she couldn’t run without falling. So she’d fall, and struggle up, and fall again. I’d run to her to stop her humiliation. She’d wag her tail and smile as I stroked her head.

The veterinarian said that she really should be put out of her misery; that she would suffer future strokes, which would take even more out of her; so I made the appointment to kill her for a Tuesday afternoon. When Tuesday arrived I loaded her in my car and we drove to the park. Bumpers loved to ride in the car and visit the park. She smiled at me and weakly wagged her tail. After lunch I drove to the Vet’s office. Once inside I lifted her onto the examination table and cradled her in my arms. Her eyes looked up at me as I held her. I could feel her body shake, quick jitters of fear. I talked to her and stroked her head as the vet eased the syringe into her front leg. Within seconds after he had emptied the poison into her vein, she closed her eyes and slumped forward into my arms and Lord did I cry. I cried right there at the table for everyone to see. I felt so evil. She trusted me.

Everyone said that it was the right thing to do and eventually I believed them. I can still see her eyes pleading with me and feel her body shake with fear. Like a lamb lead to slaughter she opened not her mouth. I killed my dog.

3. My mother was important to me. I don’t know why. She was my mother and that’s reason enough. She wasn’t a great mother and she wasn’t a bad mother. She was just my mother. She loved me.

4. Peace was important to me. Well-let me explain that. Peace in Vietnam was important to me. When I was seventeen, I seriously considered resisting the draft. I had determined that I would go to jail rather than serve in such an unethical war. That seemed the only noble thing to do. Canada was for cowards.

Two of my classmates had quit school in my senior year and joined the Army. Within five months they were back home. One returned without his legs. A boy I knew only slightly, who was a year older than me, came home in a body bag. Those concrete expressions of the Vietnam War galvanized my antiwar feelings.

5. Sex was important to me. I don’t need to explain this do I?

6. Having a good time was important to me. Lord if there was anything I hated it was being bored. I took speed a couple of times at boring parties.

7. God was important to me. No kidding! Not all the time or anything but God seemed always to be in my closet. Not literally, but always in the storage areas of my life, tucked away but ready if ever needed. My family had stopped attending church regularly when I was ten years old. When I was twelve, my Pastor politely asked my mother to refrain from sending me to his confirmation classes. I was causing trouble. Our church was a mid-sized replica of a Gothic cathedral. At least that’s how I envisioned it. The pulpit was elevated and the Pastor had to exit the sanctuary through a door off the altar area to gain access. He’d then reappear and loom over the congregation like the Archangel Michael himself. When I was little, I’d lay my head on my mother’s lap during the sermon and sleep the sleep of the innocent. When I was fifteen, I’d quietly take my seat in the balcony to the right of the pulpit and look down as the angel spoke the words of God. Once the service was completed, I’d depart the balcony and exit unnoticed through the side door of the church. One New Year ’s Eve I talked a friend into joining me in my balcony perch.

I didn’t go to church often. Just often enough to be reminded that I fit somehow in a cosmic order. One night in my room I read the entire Gospel of Mark by flashlight.

That’s about it I guess. It’s a pretty meager list. I wish I’d been someone of more substance but what you see is what you get. No more pretending.



Chapter 16


In 1921 the Irish dream of an independent Irish nation was fulfilled. Sort of. The Irish Free State was born on December 6, 1921 with the signing of the Anglo-Irish treaty by members of the English government and the leaders of the IRA. Well, some of the leaders of the IRA signed the treaty. Others found the whole thing reprehensible and a split occurred in the Brotherhood.

The two leaders of what would become the faction parties were Michael Collins, a militant republican and member of the IRA (The Irish Republican Brotherhood), and Eamon de Valera, an equally militant senior commander of the 1916 Easter uprising and long time member of the Irish Republican Brotherhood (The IRA).

Collins was something of an upstart. He had participated in the Easter uprising as part of the rebel headquarters at the General Post Office. After the English had restored order, the leaders of the ‘Easter Rising’ were arrested and sentenced to death. Many of the executions were carried out (although not all were). Collins then shot to the forefront as a leader of the republican cause.

Collins was not given a death sentence. Rather he was interred at the Frongoch prison camp in North Wales. The English apparently felt that Collins was not a threat to lead further rebellion, nor attempt to further disrupt the mail. That assessment turned out to be incorrect. Michael Collins was just getting started.

While interred Collins set about to organize the Irish Republican Brotherhood within the Frongoch prison camp. Using contacts made in earlier days he ensured that all holding key administrative posts in the camp were of like mind, political allies as it were. He held classes on both political and military strategy and laid the base for future agitation. Evidently it was a rather loose camp. When Collins was released from Frongoch both the organization he had created in the camp and the network of contacts he had established served him well. Let me explain.

Up to this point the people of Ireland were never truly committed to the agenda of the IRA. Support was generally given to the existing political apparatus, which governed in cooperation with British authorities. The Irish elected their own members to the English parliament and seemed rather satisfied with that arrangement. There were problems, sure, but in the minds of the people the dream of an Irish republic was not that big a deal. For example, in the bye-elections of 1916 A.D., the candidates from the Sinn Fein, the political wing of the IRA, were soundly defeated by the established political parties.

"Something has to be done," the republicans said, "to change public opinion or the republican cause will die." Collins figured something out.

This is what he did. Using the network he had established Collins and the Brotherhood worked tirelessly for the republican candidates of the Sinn Fein. Appealing to the latent nationalism of the Irish voters and recalling the atrocities of the recent past the IRA soon began to swing the mood of the people to their favor. They added to their political machinery a campaign of violence against British troops and government sympathizers. They murdered individual soldiers and ambushed citizens.

Collins was masterful. By using moles within the local constabulary he was able to identify the men conducting the British investigations of the IRA. Collins’ companions would then come calling late at night to persuade the investigators to discontinue their activities. If they refused an opening was created on the organizational charts of the local police. It was a very effective tool of persuasion and the investigations stalled.

De Valera had been sentenced to death for his part in the Easter uprising. In an effort to regain the moral high ground the authorities commuted his sentence and he was released in 1917. Under the banner of the old Sinn Fein, and using the new organization provided by Collins, de Valera won an overwhelming victory in the 1917 elections. The two militant republicans were now banded together for the future of Eire. With a song in their heart they set out to bring the republican dreams into reality.

A Nation once again
A Nation once again
That Ireland long a Province be
A Nation once again



Chapter 17


It was under the leadership of Collins and de Valera that the Irish members of parliament withdrew from London and formed their own government. You will remember that Britain responded with Cromwellian efficiency and sent troops. Who could possibly have been surprised? It was their custom. In the years between 1917 A.D and 1921 A.D. the Irish Republican Army (still mostly a guerrilla force) fought repeated battles with the occupying forces and the puppet government which had been set up in Ireland. Most of these battles were of the hit and run variety, with a few soldiers or policemen (or a few suspected informers) ambushed and killed.

The battles were ruthless and the British forces soon began to imitate the irregular tactics of the IRA, murdering mayors and so forth. They did this a lot and word of their methods eventually got around to the English parliament, the members of which took a dim view of this affront to their civility (these were English lads acting as if they were Irish for God’s sake!). The English were stunned and petitioned for and obtained a temporary peace. On July 9, 1921 a truce was signed by de Valera and representatives of the British government. The end of the bloodletting had arrived. Sort of.

Negotiations began in earnest for the formation of the Irish Republic. Eamon de Valera was adamant in negotiations for a sovereign Irish Republic. There would be no association with the British Commonwealth, no pledge of loyalty to the English throne, and no compromise on the northern counties. De Valera was pissed when the Anglo-Irish treaty was signed on December 6, 1921.

As de Valera saw it, Michael Collins, who had headed the Irish delegation and signed the treaty, had sold out Ireland. Collins didn’t see it that way but facts are facts. None of the dreams the republicans had long fought for were realized. Well, one was realized: the English finally departed from Irish soil. Sort of.

These are the items de Valera objected to which Collins had included in the treaty:

1. The state created by the treaty was called The Irish Free State, not the Irish Republic. (What’s in a name?)

2. Ireland was granted independence, but was retained as part of the British Commonwealth - much like the status of the Dominion of Canada. (The Canadians don’t seem to mind).

3. The treaty contained a pledge of loyalty to the English throne. (Something Ireland had always done, right?)

While the six northern counties were recognized in the treaty as part of sovereign Ireland, that sovereignty was suspended for thirty days to give the people of Ulster opportunity to opt out of the agreement and remain in union with England (which they promptly did.) Collins is reported to have said, shortly after signing the treaty, "I have signed my own death warrant." Perhaps he was melodramatic in his assessment but essentially he was correct. He was assassinated in 1922.

The vote to ratify the treaty was close. After ratification anti-treaty forces of the Irish Republican Army with de Valera at their head withdrew from the government and set up camp in abandoned British barracks. Pro-treaty forces of the IRA, with Collins as leader, assembled and became the army of the new Irish Free State. Both armies were well armed. Both were well organized. Both disagreed as to how the old dream of an Irish nation should best be fulfilled.

Their disagreement soon became ugly as such disagreements between friends are wont to become. It didn’t matter from which perspective you gazed, part of the old IRA was now your enemy. On the one hand the Irish Free State was made up of traitors who had sold out the republican cause. On the other hand the new IRA (which was actually the old IRA) was composed of rebels fighting against the free Irish state. The more things change the more they stay the same.

Chapter 18


“It’s Steve isn’t it?”

“Aye, that it is,” Steve responded, “but I don’t believe aye know who you are.”

“Tom Davies,” he said. “Where’s your partner?”

“‘e must’ve wandered off with someone. ‘e was ‘ere a minute ago.”

“You two are very good,” Tom said.

“Thank you,” Steve said. “Ev’ryone seems to ‘ave a good time.”

“How long are you going to be in Vail?”

“A few days maybe, if we like it, maybe longer.”

“I’ve got a proposition for you; I’d like you to think about.”

“And what would that be?” Steve asked.

“I’m opening Tuesday night in the lounge at the Vail Village Inn and I’d like you to join my show,” Tom said.

“You’re a singer?”

“Yeah, pop tunes mostly,” Tom said, “entirely different from what you do, which makes the arrangement perfect. What I have in mind is to have you and your buddy fill in between sets. I can’t pay you but it will give you great exposure.”

“Are you sure the management won’t mind?”

“Hell, it’s my show. As long as it doesn’t cost them anything they’ll let me do what I want,” Tom responded. “So what do you think?”

“‘ow long do you want us to sing?”

“Between sets; Three sets, twenty minutes each.”

“And you want us to sing the songs we sang t’night?”

“Don’t change a thing. It’s a perfect contrast to my numbers.”

“I’ll ‘ave to talk to Mark,” Steve told him.

“Do that,” Tom said. “Stop by the Inn tomorrow afternoon and let me know. I’d like to add you to the show. We can make some arrangements for some cash to tide you over if needed. I think you’ll end up with your own contract soon, however.”

“Tom,” Steve said, “We’ll be talking to you t’morrow. I think we’ll be joinin’ your show.”

“Great,” Tom said, “great.”

“Aye, it’ll be grand.”



Chapter 19


“Come follow me. I’ve got something I want to show you.” With that Debbie began an ascent up the side of the mountain, moving through the trees, angling upward. We scaled the slope until we reached a ravine that cut deeply into the hillside. “It’s not far, just up ahead.”

I labored under the strain of too many toxins and too few hours sleep to reach her side. The wound in the mountain had cut away the trees to expose the village below and Debbie stood at the edge looking at the lights of Vail. “Isn’t it lovely? In the winter you can’t get to this place because of the snow. Look, you can see all the way to the edge of the village, even beyond when the moon is full. I like to come up here and think, meditate. It puts things into the proper perspective.”

The hotels of Vail sat like monopoly pieces on the boardwalk below. The lights from the street lamps and windows illuminated tight, restricted areas under their direct influence, but the darkness controlled the setting.

“The mountains and the stars have substance,” Debbie continued. “From here we can begin to see where we fit in.”

“And where is that?”

“I don’t know yet,” Debbie laughed. “I said we can begin to discover our place - I’m still learning.”

“Do you come ‘ere often?” I made room behind me and sat against a tree.

“Maybe once a week, when I want to be alone,” she answered. “You’re the first person I’ve brought up here.”

“I’m flattered. Come, sit down b’side me.”

Debbie cleared the blanket of pine needles and took her place by my side. “It is a beautiful place, and you are a very beautiful woman,” I said. I touched her cheek and turned her face toward my own. Her eyes still held the moonlight and I could see myself in their hazel warmth. Without speaking I softly kissed her lips. I placed my arm around her shoulder and pulled her close, stroking her hair and neck. For ten minutes we sat entwined together without speaking. I lifted her chin and kissed her again with more passion; holding her head in my hands, kissing her cheeks and earlobe, resting against her bosom. We remained there for an hour without need of conversation. We held each other and supported each other in ways our parents would understand. God, her eyes are beautiful.

We descended the mountain and the darkness filled with sound as the stars pulsed and the moon sang and the pine needles cracked beneath our feet. “Debbie,” I said, as we approached the condo.

“Umm?”

“If I were to tell you that I could love you, would you understand?”

“Yes.”

“I mean... I can’t promise anything... and I don’t know what will ‘appen... but right now, tonight... I do love you.”

Debbie smiled. “I understand,” she said. “I can wait for promises. Let’s go home.”



Chapter 20


The civil war between friends raged from 1922 to 1923. The old IRA, now the army of the Irish Free State, and the new IRA, now rebels in their own land, set about to kill one another. Just two years earlier the leaders of each faction were plotting together against the English. Now they plotted against each other.

Collins responded to the threat against the infant nation and sent troops, which advanced on Republican rebel strongholds in southern Ireland. The new IRA fell into disarray and resumed their irregular methods of war. On August 22, 1922, after reviewing the gains made by Free State troops around the city of Cork, Collins was ambushed by IRA troops laying in wait. He died.

After the death of Michael Collins the new Irish Free State adopted harsh measures. They arrested as many of their former comrades as they could get their hands on and threw them into prison. The new IRA retaliated with action against Free State outposts and sympathizers. Al Capone would have been proud. They liberated buildings and repatriated bank notes. The Dail (the parliament of the Irish Free State) quickly passed the Emergency Powers Bill which gave the government authority to shoot any Republicans taken in arms. Of course there were no Republicans seated in the Dail when this piece of legislation was passed for they refused to participate in such treason.

Over the next seven months seventy-seven Republicans were executed by the Irish Free State. Some were friends. In the middle of the night, on a cold November day in 1922, four executive leaders of the new IRA, who had been held for five months, were removed from their cells and executed without benefit of trial. Rory O’Connor was one of those executed that night. Kevin O’Higgins was a member of the cabinet, which ordered his execution. Mr. O’Higgins also had been the best man at Mr. O’Connor’s wedding. Pity.

In May of 1923 de Valera, leader of the new IRA, had enough and ordered his men to ‘dump arms’. They did so and peace was now at hand. Sort of. The Republicans still objected to the Irish Free State and there was still the question of Ulster. But other ways would have to be sought to gain the republican dream. As the new IRA fell into defeat the song they loved began to sound like a dirge. But they continued to sing.

A Nation once again
A Nation once again
That Ireland long a Province be
A Nation once again

In 1926 de Valera abandoned the Sinn Fein to form a new political party, the Fianna Fail (Warriors of Ireland). In the elections of 1927 the Fianna Fail won almost as many seats in the Dail as the party of the Free State. They refused to take their seats in government due to the loyalty oath required of every member of the British Commonwealth. In 1937, some fourteen years after the end of the civil war, de Valera and the Fianna Fail accomplished through the vote what they had failed to accomplish in battle: de Valera and the republican agenda returned to power.

Over the next sixteen years they set about to order Ireland accordingly. A new constitution was written removing the oath of loyalty to the English throne. The name of the state was changed from The Irish Free State’ to Eire, the old Gaelic name for Ireland. Sovereignty was claimed for all of Ireland, including the northern six counties in Ulster, although it was recognized that the ability to enforce that sovereignty was "temporarily in abeyance." All Ireland sang their tune:

A Nation once again
A Nation once again
That Ireland long a Province be
A Nation once again

De Valera renounced the use of force in liberating Ulster and Fianna Fail ruled Eire until 1948. The IRA, as a result of de Valera’s success in establishing most of the republican objectives, lost it’s appealing passion. Sort of. There was still the question of Ulster. Because de Valera had given up on the use of force in Ulster the militant Republicans placed him in the same category as the long dead Michael Collins. He probably was. When faced with diplomacy compromise is inevitable. Collins had believed compromise could establish the freedom of Ireland and the necessary changes could be made later, once Ireland was firmly in the hands of the Irish. Early on de Valera refused to compromise, carrying his ideology to the death of comrades. Once the hoped for military solution was shown to be unattainable he was able to rationalize the necessity of compromise. Live and learn I always say.

Eventually he saw his agenda adopted through political operations but that lesson was lost on the militant republicans. His compromise on Ulster struck at the heart of republican dreams. Ulster was a part of Ireland; Ulster was still in union with England; therefore de Valera was a traitor. Makes sense to me. The battle for Ireland, which for so long consumed the Island of Eire, now moved to the six northern counties.

Remember the terms IRA, Republican, and Provo’s. They are closely identified with Ulster’s Catholics and will play an important role in the unfolding history of Ulster. Remember as well the UVF, the UDF and RUC. They are the protestant counterparts. I’ll explain what the acronyms stand for later, but suffice to note that each represents age old passions in the story of Ireland. Nowhere are the effects of pretending so apparent than in the conflict in Northern Ireland. The self-aggrandizement and distrust allows actions most would find appalling. I don’t find them so. I find them predictable. Every one pretends. It’s only a matter of degrees.



Chapter 21


Sunday morning in the Vail Valley didn’t arrive until afternoon. The unheated waterbed had solidified my joints over night and I awoke in modest pain. The daylight brought a simple confusion. I wondered what day it was.

“Tuesday? Is it Tuesday? How come this room doesn’t look familiar? Where the hell am I? It’s Tuesday, right? What time is it? 12:25 pm - holy shit I’m late for work - is it Tuesday? No it’s Sunday! God I’m stiff.”

My disorientation gave way when I noticed the young woman curled next to me. “Right, its Sunday, I’m in Vail and have spent the night with Debbie.”

That settled I relaxed and got in tune with my body. Not by design, though. The various and sundry joints of my bone structure stood to voice their objections to the crown’s behavior. Like MP’s in parliament, backbenchers mostly, they spoke long and forcefully about the abuse their leader was hurling on the home provinces. “We may not be able to insure peace,” they warned. “Already areas we represent are inflamed. Whole scale rebellion is possible unless actions are taken to correct the situation.” I listened to their refrain and vowed to abdicate one of these days.

“God I hurt,” I said. Debbie was a comfort, even asleep. The night had been a busy one.

We had returned to her apartment after our mountain sojourn, picking up Steve at the party, and talked until we didn’t want to say anything more. Steve wandered off to bed around 5:00 am and Debbie and I talked about God.

“I think God is somehow involved in everything that happens,” she had said.

“Right, well that sounds orthodox doesn’t it,” I teased. She ignored me.

“Not just in the events that happen to people,” she said, “like ordering their days, but God is involved in the essence of everything - from the snow on the hills to thoughts in our minds. God is of all of those things and yet transcends each of them. Each tiny fragment of life holds something of God and yet cannot be simply identified with God.”

“So how do we learn of God?” I asked. “Is Sunday School enough?”

“You’re mocking with me,” Debbie objected. “I’m serious.”

“I am sorry, my attempt at humor was out of place,” I apologized. “Let’s assume you are correct, and there is a God who is immanent. How do we learn of God?”

“Since God is in the world around us we must learn as much as we can about the people and things of creation. Each brings some knowledge of the divine. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“No, but you’re saying it wonderfully,” I said.

“Take you, for example,” she said. “I think we’re together because God has something to say.”

“To me?” I asked.

“Maybe,” she went on, “maybe to both of us, and to Steve and to others who know us.”

“What’s ‘e saying?”

“Something about love,” Debbie said. “I’m not sure what just yet.”

“Let me guess.., ‘e’s saying you are the most beautiful girl I ‘ave ever met and that I desperately wish to make love to you.”

“I don’t think so,” Debbie responded. She was smiling.

“No, you’re right, it’s me who’s saying that. And its true. I’ve never meet anyone quite like you.” I reached across to her face and touched her cheek by her ear, softly stroking her with my fingertips. She watched me, directly. Her eyes breached the wall my lies had built and stared into my heart. She didn’t say anything, she just watched, probed. I felt naked.

“If you wish I won’t mention it again,” I said. “If you wish I’ll spend the night on the couch, but I want to be with you and I think you want to be with me.”

“I do,” Debbie said. She then fell silent for a moment, watching me. “I want something else, too,” she added.

“What would that be?”

“I want to know who you are,” she said. “I want you to promise you won’t lie to me.”

“Why would I lie?” Why would I lie? The words struck home. They upset me. They stood as a crucifix before my eyes. Why would I lie? A sadness rose inside of me and I turned away to find my scotch. “You know who I am,” I said. “I ‘aven’t lied to you.” I took a large swallow and set my drink between us. “I’ll tell you anythin’ you wish to know.”

Debbie touched my cheek and raised my face to eye level. She leaned forward and kissed me once on each eyelid, gently touching them as if to reassure me and then kissed me fully on my lips, not passionately, but willingly, lovingly. “I love you,” she whispered. I closed my eyes to hold back the tears and said nothing. The silence was frightening. Debbie sat back, across from my scotch and watched.

“The sun’s coming up,” I said, smiling. The morning light entered the room carefully. It exposed the corners of the room first and then drifted toward the center where we were seated. I watched the dust swirl and play in the day's glory. Nothing unclean stays settled in the light. “It’s time for bed, luv,” I said.

Debbie lifted my drink and took a small sip. “Mark,” she said.”

“Yes,” I answered.

“Earlier tonight you said you loved me...is that true?” she asked. “Don’t lie to me, please.”

“Yes, it’s true,” I said. I wasn’t lying. I had no idea what it meant, but what I felt was not lust of that I was certain. I was scared, upset, and very much wanted her beside me, even if we didn’t have sex. “I’m not sure what I should say, luv, but I’m not lying.”

Debbie watched me carefully as I spoke. I returned her focus and spoke with sincerity. Even if I didn’t love her, I sure as hell wanted to love her. Whatever I was feeling would have to do. I believed it would. Debbie took me by the hand and walked toward her bedroom. We stopped in the hallway and embraced. “Tell me again that you love me,” she said.

“I love you.”

“Promise me that no matter what happens you won’t lie to me.”

“I promise,” I lied. It was a small lie.

The waterbed was worth the pain the morning brought. As I watched her in sleep I wondered if more than quick wit had slipped out of my mouth during the night. Even closed her eyes commanded my attention. Her hair spread over the pillow and feathered across her face like a veil. Her eyebrows were thin, her countenance undisturbed as she slept. I kissed her eyes softly and curled beside her with my arm about her waist resting my hand on her breast.

“I don’t know, God, this is different. I think I love this girl.”

I held her and breathed he into my life. The MP’s dismissed parliament and returned to their districts. The pain subsided.


Chapter 22


“Get your ass out o’ bed you lazy bastard.” It was Steve. “We’ve been invited to perform startin’ Monday night at the Vail Village Inn.”

“What?” Steve’s brogue was not something I looked forward to in the morning.

“What did you say?” I repeated.

“Aye said, ‘get your limy ass out o’ bed, we gotta re‘earse. Tom has asked us to join his show on Monday and Ay' am goin’ over there to accept his offer. Get out o’ bed.” He begged forgiveness from Debbie for his intrusion and left.

“Who’s Tom?” I asked.

“Tom Davies,” Debbie said. “He’s a singer. He worked the melodrama this summer and has a show opening tomorrow night. He was at the party.”

“I don’t remember ‘im,” I said. “But then you kept me occupied didn’t you? What does he sing?”

“Pop tunes, mostly,” Debbie said.

“Do you think he was speakin’ through his ale?” I said.

“Tom was pretty nervous about his show. He had to put it together himself. It wouldn’t surprise me if he seriously asked you to be a part of it.” Debbie said. “You’re good."

“Damn!” I said. “Good God Damn! How about that!”


Chapter 23


“You did what?” Cathy said. Her eyes flared and her cheeks flushed as she spoke. This was unbelievable.

“I asked that Irish fellow Steve and his buddy to join the show,” Tom repeated. Cathy’s reaction caught him by surprise.

“Tom, why did you do that?”

“They’re good Cathy, They will add to the show - provide constant entertainment.”

“I know they are good, I was at the party too, remember. Tom, they are a distraction.”

“Nonsense,” Tom said. He was becoming angry. “They don’t sing the same type of music I do. They’re party boys - they’ll entertain the crowd between sets.”

“Tom your show is good, why share the spotlight?” Perhaps flattery would help.

“The point is to give a good show, Cathy. I’ve been singing in these clubs a long time and it’s about time I did something other than hit the right notes. Producing a show moves me away from being just another talent. It makes me more valuable.”

“It’s a mistake,” Cathy said.

“Fine,” Tom replied angrily. “Then it’ll be my mistake. It sure as hell won’t be the first one I’ve ever made.” Tom walked away from the keyboard toward the bar. Just what I need, a pissed off accompanist. Just when I get the goddamn show put together the way I want it something happens to screw up the works.

“Cathy trust me on this, I really need your support.”

“I’m sorry Tom,” Cathy said. “I’m probably overreacting. I think you are very good. You don’t seem to recognize your own talent. You are good. You don’t need those two.”

“Thank you,” Tom replied. “I know I don’t need them, but I want to add them to the show anyway.”

What had Cathy upset had to do with the nature of Vail. Steve and Mark were party boys, and Vail is a party town. Having a good time was the reason Vail existenced. Having a good time was the central goal of Steve and Mark’s act. They may never be recording artists but they give their audience what they pay for - one hell of a good time. People loved it when the two of them bickered on stage. They insulted each other between songs; told stories about the other’s misdeeds. They even asked people to sing along for God’s sake. At the party, they had the whole damn room singing along on one of their silly tunes. Court jesters, that’s what they are. Damn good ones, too. Tom would suffer by comparison precisely because they were clowns. The Legionnaires would want to party, not attend a concert.

“Tomas!” The full Irish brogue made the name sound broken. Steve entered the lounge from the hotel lobby. A two day growth of beard added to his rumpled appearance.

“Steve - we were just talking about you,” Tom said. “Where’s your partner?”

“‘E’s entertainin’ a lady friend,” Steve said. “Listen, Tomas, Aye talked with ‘em and ‘e’s agreed t’ go along with your proposition.”

“Great, great,” Tom said. “Oh - excuse me,” he said, motioning toward Cathy at the keyboard, “let me introduce you to my accompanist. Steve this is Cathy - Cathy, Steve”

“We’ve met,” Cathy said. She brushed her blonde hair away from her face and looked at Steve coolly.

“Aye, last night,” Steve said. “She didn’t appreciate a suggestion I made t’ ‘er and slapped me one.”

Cathy was unimpressed; Tom confused.

“She was right t’ do so, too,” Steve continued. “Aye was out o’ line. Aye ‘ad a wee too much t’ drink, you know. Aye ‘ope you’ll accept me apology and forgive me forwardness.”

Cathy was still unimpressed. “Apology accepted,” she said, sorting through some sheet music. “Tom, we need to finish our rehearsal.”

“Right,” Tom said. He didn’t remember Cathy meeting Steve last night. It must’ve happened after he went home. “Say Steve, great to have you on board. You guys will go on about 8:45 tomorrow night. Try to be there about 8:00.”

“We’ll be there. Just ‘ave the crowd prepared.” Steve said. “And Cathy, again apologies. Hope we get a chance to start o’er.”

“Goodbye Steve,” Cathy said. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.” As for starting over, she wasn’t buying it. Drunk or sober he was still a rogue.


Chapter 24


Before we review the history of Ulster it should be noted that the people of Ulster have long memories. The Ulster Protestants remember the massacre of 1641 AD, and the glorious campaign of Oliver Cromwell to avenge those killed in the massacre. They also remember the victory wrought by William of Orange in the Battle of Boyne in 1690 AD. They celebrate Willie’s victory each year with a parade through Belfast and other cities in Northern Ireland. The Ulster Catholics in turn remember the forced resettlement under the Bible patron, King James, the penal laws once imposed by the English parliament and other lessons of history including the ‘Easter Rising’ of 1916 AD. They celebrate Willie’s victory also, with a wake held in honor of those who died in the battle for freedom.

In the color scheme of the turmoil the Ulster Protestants are ‘Orangemen’, or simply the ‘Orange’ while the Catholics are known as the ‘Green’. Having a color helps identify your loyalties. As you might well imagine the ‘Orange’ and the ‘Green’ don’t mix well together. When they do a blood red is often the result.

The Ulster Protestants feel, perhaps not without reason, that union with Eire would mean an end to their way of life. The Ulster Catholics feel, again, not without reason, that nothing short of union with Eire will ensure the civil liberties of their progeny. As you examine the recent history of Northern Ireland you get the feeling that both of them are right. Such is life.

When the treaty of 1921 was announced the Protestants of Ulster became very nervous. Remember, the Anglo-Irish treaty officially recognized a sovereignty of the Irish Free State that included the six northern counties. The Protestants feared that Ulster would soon be handed over to the republicans. A national debate on the subject broke out in Belfast in 1922 AD, and Protestants and Catholics alike expressed their opinion. Usually their opinions were lethal. Two hundred and fifty two people died in the melee, most of them Catholics. Everyone knows that Catholics are rebels.

The Ulster nationalists (read Protestants) clamped down to retain their privilege. A provisional government had been established in Belfast in 1914 AD, by Sir Edward Carson. This was done in light of the rebellion brewing in the south, just in case the English wimped out. The loyalists refused to participate in the negotiations conducted with the IRA (they weren’t invited) and demanded Ulster be excluded from the new Irish state. It was. In 1921, after the English Parliament established home rule, the Parliament of Northern Ireland was opened in Belfast.

For the first fifty years of Northern Ireland’s official existence Ulster was governed from a parliament on their own soil. Catholics were not denied representation, but Protestants dominated the legislature by a measure of four to one. The fact that Ulster’s population is approximately 2/5 Catholic, and in some areas Catholics are in the majority tells you something about the pretending that went on.

In 1933 the Ulster parliament moved into Stormont (an appropriately massive fortress-like building with a statue of Sir Carson, the first provisional governor, standing in a defiant pose, guarding the halls of liberty. Presumably against the Catholics). It remained there until March, 1972, when direct rule was imposed by England. I’ll explain why direct rule was imposed later. For now let’s simply say that the English have always seen themselves as lords benevolent toward their subjects. The Catholics of Ulster, whatever their creed, were still British subjects. So the British stepped in like a good bastard parent to set things straight. Pity poor England. They are sworn by treaty to protect the self-determination of the people of Ulster, a progeny of their adultery, and at the same time must protect these determined people from themselves. Sew the wind and reap the whirlwind is what I always say.

The violent problems in Ulster trace their genesis to 1969 AD. Prior to that date little in the way of protest was undertaken. The IRA had grown weak with de Valera’s success at securing republican goals in the south and while Ulster remained a thorn in the republican flesh most of the people of Eire set about to built a better life: raising their families, celebrating Christmas, and so on. Ulster was left to the diplomats. A few scattered uprisings occurred (instigated by the IRA) from 1956-62 but they met with defeat. There just weren’t that many people upset enough to continue the fight. By 1969 more and more people were becoming upset. Not all of them Catholic.

The source of Catholic indigestion was the manner in which Ulster was governed. For example:

Londonderry has a Catholic majority (3/5 of the city is Catholic and 2/5 protestant). Until direct rule changed things the Londonderry city council was exactly the reverse (12 Protestants and 8 Catholics). Since a 3/5ths majority controlled city hall the Protestants effectively controlled city government. This was all done democratically. At least it was done legally. The way the city government was organized insured it would never be done differently.

87% of the Catholics of Londonderry were grouped into one district (represented by eight seats). 87% of the Protestants of Londonderry were grouped in two smaller districts (represented by twelve seats). Moreover, Londonderry didn’t allow just any Tom, Dick, and Harry (or Ian, Michael, and Patrick) to vote. Londonderry used a variation of the one house one vote rule.

Only resident occupiers, that is the owners or tenants of a house, were allowed to vote. There was a minimum of one vote per house. If you didn’t own or rent a house, or if you lived with someone else, you were shit-outta-luck. If you owned a house (verses renting in this case) the situation improved dramatically. A curious law allowed for as many as six votes for homeowners, depending on the value of their property. The more their house was worth the more votes they were entitled to cast. Guess which part of town was most prosperous? I’ll give you a hint: there were no rosaries in that part of town.

There were rosaries in the other part of town. A lot of them in fact. Three fifths of the population owned rosaries. Many of them lived with relatives, however, and were thus denied the vote. Housing was in short supply and controlled by the mayor. If a person needed a house they were placed on a waiting list until one came available. Since the mayor was inevitably protestant, and since occupying a house brought with it a vote, Catholics waited a long time for available housing. A real long time.

So the minority controlled Londonderry. This pattern was repeated across Ulster. Not in every town or district for as a whole Protestants were the majority. Just where it was needed. Sometimes the pattern was followed even when the Protestants held a majority just to keep everyone in their place.


Chapter 25


My grandfather on my father’s side spent forty years as a missionary in India attempting to bring Lutheranism to the Hindus. When he stepped off the boat in 1929, he was met by an official of the United States government. When he found out that my grandfather was a Lutheran minister he said: “Finally, a godly Peterson.”

My father was born in India. When he was five, he was sent to live with his aunt in the United States. He grew up in Osseo, Minnesota. Every three years or so my grandfather would return on furlough and spend nine months to a year with his son. My grandmother died of cholera when my father was eleven years old. Two years earlier she had visited him. She wrote often, sending pictures of Grandpa baptizing adults and of herself teaching the children of India. Dad would send pictures via return mail of his Sunday School class and of him working Aunt Thecla’s farm. Grandpa made it home for Dad’s confirmation.

My father never rebelled. He walked a straight and narrow path. He married my mother, Eunice, in 1940. He worked for General Mills as an accountant. They bought a home in south Minneapolis and raised their children. Dad never once strayed. My mother had three affairs, according to the records. One, in 1944 while Dad was overseas, two more after I was born. Dad never knew. Mom was discreet. She was loving, and vivacious, and playful. She was an artist. She painted wonderful watercolors of clowns and carnivals. Every wall of our house was decorated with watercolor clowns and watercolor Ferris wheels and watercolor carrousels. When they would fade, she would replace them with another of her own creation, tossing the faded work aside without a second thought. “Don’t look back,” she told me. “Don’t envy the past or find remorse in things failed. When a picture fades simply paint another.” She was always painting new watercolors. I learned a lot from my mother.

Dad did have one passion: Baseball. He followed the old Minneapolis Millers when Willie Mays played for them back in the early 50’s. When Calvin Griffith moved the Washington Senators to Minneapolis in 1960 Dad was ecstatic. We spent every Saturday afternoon, when the Twins had a home stand, at Metropolitan Stadium watching his beloved Twins. When the Twins were on the road he would sit outside with a Grain Belt beer and listen to the broadcast on WCCO radio. Halsy Hall did the play by play. In 1965 the Twins played the Los Angeles Dodgers in the World Series. They lost in seven games. “A proud day for all true fans,” he said afterward. “A proud day, indeed!”

According to the records, my brother and sister have followed in Dad’s footsteps. They’ve never been divorced or even tempted to fool around. Their spouses are less angelic. I’m not sure if I followed in mom’s path or in the path of one of those other Peterson’s Grandpa heard about in India. I do know that Dad left something of himself in my life, even if I haven’t always lived up to it. He was a good and decent Man. The only time he ever lied was when he said he enjoyed his life as an accountant. Deep down he had always wanted to pitch in the Major Leagues.


Chapter 26


“I want you to define love,” Jeb said.

“It’s the opposite of hate,” I replied.

“No, it isn’t,” Jeb continued. “I want you to do some research and write me something that defines love as you understand it.”

“Research?” I asked.

“Research,” Jeb replied. “Many great authors have written about love and I want you to research their material and come up with a definition. You’ll find their works over in Genesis Hall on the fourth floor, rooms 432, 433, 434, and 435.”

“How long do I have to accomplish this task?”

“Take as long as you like. I want you to do a good job. If I don’t like your definition, I’ll send you back to do some more research.”

“You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”

Jeb said, “You are nearing completion of your transition training. This is the last function before your audience. Do a good job, Mark.”

“Does this have to be an original composition? Or can I plagiarize?”

“You can paraphrase another work,” Jeb said, “but it must be your definition. You can use any form, from a declarative statement to metaphor, but it must be definitive.”

I spent four days in the Hall of Records researching love. It’s amazing how many different ways people have written of love. Lord, are they confused. Love is grand; love is painful; love is the color of my true love’s eyes, etc. People love their country; people love their dogs; people love chocolate and sex. One writer wrote about love in an immensely popular Gothic novel where the heroine was treasured by her lover and protected by him from all evil. She lived on an estate in England and he doted on her desires. Another wrote of love as total abandonment to emotion, flying in psychotic passion to incredible highs and lows. Lord, were people ever confused.

Early on I came across a short piece written around 55 AD. Through the ensuing days it stuck with me. I kept coming back to it and rereading it. Each time I became more and more impressed by it’s simplicity and profundity. I finally stopped my research and decided I would paraphrase that early work in my definition for Jeb.

My skills as a writer leave something to be desired so please excuse the abrupt nature of the piece. In it’s original it flowed smoothly. My paraphrase is called “Love is” and follows:


LOVE IS:

Love waits a long time for others and is nice to people. Love is easygoing and doesn’t seek to own other folks, but rather is happy when they succeed.

Love is humble in the presence of a person’s own accomplishments and doesn’t pat itself on the back like some people I know. Love is genteel and civilized for the most part.

Love isn’t selfish; it doesn’t take the ball and go home if people won’t play the game the way you want it played. Love is cheerful, not grumpy or easily irritated. Love doesn’t bear a grudge.

Love isn’t pleased when someone else suffers an injustice, even if it doesn’t concern you. Love finds great joy in all things right. Love carries another’s burden, trusts as a manner of life, holds out hope for everyone, and puts up with people’s foolishness.

Love lasts forever.

The original can be found in the Apostle Paul’s first letter to the Corinthian’s, chapter thirteen, starting in verse four. Paul’s version reads like this:

Love is patient and kind; love is not jealous or boastful; it is not arrogant or rude. Love does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrong, but rejoices in the right. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, and endures all things. Love never ends...

I think Paul had something there. As for a brief definition of Love, I’m going to define it by it’s opposite. The opposite of Love isn’t hate. It’s narcissism.


Chapter 27


My head throbs but at least the joint pain has decreased. The pounding of the hot water has massaged and warmed my body limber. After my shower I dress, make a pot of coffee and wander out on the deck. Debbie’s apartment faces the parking lot and gives a glorious view of the Detroit dream. Well, a mechanic’s dream anyway.

Parking lots look pretty much the same everywhere. There is no attractive way to arrange our monsters of mass transit. They sit like little piss buckets and rolling mortuaries for old hopes, parked helter-skelter like the crap that rolls up on shore of the Mississippi river. Beer can Fords and pop bottle Chevies alongside tampon Toyotas and dead fish Datsuns. They could clean up this garbage, hide it from view, but it would cost money. The developers would rather have fake fireplaces and tiny decks. So I stand at the base of my dreams, feeling like shit and view a rust-pocked shit green pick-up parked next to a shit can rice rocket. My vocabulary is limited at times such as these.

The air is cool, the deck faces north in the shadows of the early afternoon. I take a seat, set my coffee on the small metal table and light a cigarette. Melancholy. Melancholy is much too troubled a word to describe how I feel. Brooding? Bullshit! I am hung over, my throat hurts and my bones carry a residual ache because I lay too long in that God-damned waterbed. Talk to me now and I’ll beat your ass! Imply that it’s a beautiful afternoon and I’ll punch your lights out. Tell me to “have a nice day” and I’ll tell you to eat shit. There, that feels better.

Physical discomfort affects your whole outlook. The world is a hell hole when you are in pain. Such is life.

“Mark, are you ‘ere lad?” The sound attacked my ears. The lilt of Eire seemed to fit my mood: burdensome.

“Yeah, I’m out on the deck.” I was not up to sorting through of Steve’s accent. Steve wandered through the living room with a smile as big as my lousy mood.

“We did it, lad,” he said. “We op’n t’morrow night with Tom at the Vail Village Inn”

“Great,” I said, trying hard to be enthused. “How much do we get for the gig?”

“Spendin’ money and the op’ortunity to be heard. Tom’s willing’ to make financial arrangements after the first show.” Steve took a seat at the small table and placed his feet over the railing.

“After the show?” It was harder to seem enthused. “So it’s another freebie.

“Pull off the show, lad, and it’s our own deal. The man is in a panic. Where’s Debbie?”

“She went shopping, she’s invited some of the local talent over for tonight.”

“Another party?” Steve said. “Is the boy up to it?”

“No, it’s not a party, just some friends stopping by.”

“Who’s coming?” Steve asked.

“I’m not sure. Some girlfriends of Debbie, a few couples. It’s her night off. We, my boy, were not originally on the guest list so she had to do some extra shopping.”

“Ladies?” Steve said. “Do you sup’ose aye can ‘ave the opp’rtunity to meet one of the young ladies and ‘ave a compelling’ conversation with ‘em.”

“Yeah, maybe you’ll get lucky,” I said. I flicked my cigarette over the rail of the deck to join the dump below. “Look, you can drop the Irish bit, there’s no one here to appreciate it except me, and I’ve heard it before.”

“Right,” Steve said, “it gets to be a habit.”

“I know, I’ve been dying to say something without that phony English accent but everyone’s bought into it. One of these days we’re going to have to confine the act to the stage.”

“You seemed to do well with Debbie last night, didn’t you?” Steve said. “Nice ass on that one. Did you sleep with her?”

“You were here - you woke me up this morning - who was lying next to me?” Sarcasm is wasted on Steve.

“I’ll bet she’s a tiger in bed.”

I didn’t answer. Sometimes the man has no tact.

“I wasn’t so fortunate last night,” he continued, “I choose the wrong girl.”

“What happened?”

“Well, I was talking to Cathy - Tom’s accompanist - she was the blonde at the party last night, and things seemed to be going well and then I said something and she slapped me.”

“What’d you say?” I laughed. Steve’s lack of tact was without measure or sexual distinction. I’ve seen him walk up to women he didn’t know and ask them if they’d like to screw.

“I told her she had a nice ass.”

“What else?” This would be good.

“Nothing,” he protested.

“Come on, man. I know you. What’d you say to upset her?”

“Well - it might have been when I suggested we sneak into the other room.”

“And?” I pressed. I was looking forward to this, something gloriously obnoxious was bound to be next.

“I think it was when I said ‘I’d like to dip me wick into that tight little ass of yours’ that she took offense.”

“Oh shit, you didn’t?” Laughter rolled from my eyes, “Dip me wick? You actually said that? Oh shit, I wish I’d been there.”

“It was good,” Steve said, there were tears in his eyes as we joined our laughter. “She got this shocked look on her face, her eyes sort of narrowed and her ears turned red and she busted me.”

“You’ll never learn, will you,” I said, still laughing. True to form Steve’s adventures were always amusing, in a crude way.

“Oh hell, man, sometimes the act gets out of control - it takes on a life of its own,” he laughed. He was enjoying it as much as I was; two peas in a pod.

“Tell me about the gig,” I was definitely in a better mood.

“Well, we go on at 8:30 pm or so, Tom would like us there by 8:00 pm. We’ll do three twenty minute sets of our own material, covering the time Tom is off stage.”

“So what’s the deal with the money?” I asked.

“Like I said, if the show goes over Tom will provide us with living expenses and attempt to get us a contract with the Inn.”

“That’s kind of iffy isn’t it?”

“Hey fella, it’s great exposure. That in itself is worth big bucks. Lighten up, man. We’re in Vail, having the time of our lives, and tomorrow night we’re on stage. They’ve a host of Legionnaires coming in tomorrow afternoon; there will be more people in our audience than we’ve ever had before. Life is great! Man, this is wonderful. We used to dream of this shit.”

Steve’s enthusiasm had broken through my dreary disposition. It was amazing when I thought about it. One week ago I was pumping gas part-time in Minneapolis, doing a job no one cared about, washing the windows on cars at the gas pumps and getting my jollies peering up the skirts of the ladies at the wheel as I scraped the bug shit off their windshields.

“Yeah man. Life is great.” I lit another cigarette, expelling the smoke when a question arose from below the deck.

“Hello - is Debbie home?” The intruder was a male. “I rang the bell and didn’t get an answer - I heard voices and thought she was out on the deck.” He looked like a cowboy. The Marlboro Man without his horse.

“No,” I said. “She went to the store.” I had rediscovered my accent. “Can I tell ‘er who stopped by?”

“I’ve got some books of hers that I wanted to return,” the cowboy said.

“If you want, I can take ‘em,” I said.

“No, I want to give them to her myself. Any idea when she’ll be back?”

“No, she said she ‘ad some errands to run. She’s ‘aving some friends o’er t’night, you could drop them off then.”

“Thanks,” he said. “Are you two new to Vail?”

“Just arrived Saturday afternoon, came to see your mountains.”

“Well, welcome to Vail. Where are you boys from?”

“Minneapolis,” I said. “Steve ‘ere’s from Ireland-“

“Eire,” Steve corrected.

“Eire,” I said.

“No kidding,” the cowboy said. “That explains his accent. How long are you boys going to be in Vail?”

“A few more days,” I answered.

“Aye, but if this gig works out, all winter ma’be,” Steve said.

“We’ve been off’red a spot singin’ with a fellow at the Inn,” I explained. “If things works out, per‘aps we’ll be ‘ere longer.”

“Well good luck,” the cowboy said. He started to mosey on off, as they say, when he turned around as if he had forgotten something. “I didn’t catch your name,” he said

“Mark,” I said. “This ‘ere’s my singin’ partner Steve. Who shall I say stopped by?”

“Tell her Jerry stopped by; Tell her I’ll bring the books by later tonight.”

“Will do.”

So Jerry’s a Marlboro man. That’s fitting. Steve’s Irish, I’m English, Tom’s a showman, Debbie’s a romantic, and Jerry is the Marlboro Man. We ought to get the cast together and go on the road.


Chapter 28


The Protestants of Ulster are not bad people. They are simply afraid. Like the Afrikaners of South Africa, history gives them pause. Yet it’s hard to maintain fear over a great length of time, just as it is hard to maintain hatred. Both have to be stirred up every once in a while. No one has done that better of late than the Rev. Ian Paisley.

Rev. Paisley hates the Catholics with a good righteous hatred reserved for the true believers. Other true believers nod their head in agreement when the Rev. Mr. Paisley points out the abominations of the rebels in their midst:

“Go into any Roman Church in this city and what do you see? It’s like Madame Tussud’s in London. Legions of graven images! Gaudy and vulgar, and an abomination in the sight of God. Equally rank in the nostrils and nauseating are the sanctuary lamps and candelabra placed before sickly prints of the Virgin and other saints. These are the trappings of the great whore of Babylon and the Scarlet Woman. This is what the World Council of Churches is seeking to reconcile with, to unite with, and by doing so betray its protestant trusteeship. Are you prepared to be a party to this base surrender, to be Lundies and Papists?”

Of course not! Who would want to be a Lundie? Lundy was a seventeenth century traitor to the loyalist cause. I told you these folks have long memories. The Rev. Paisley follows in the tradition of other clergy who have warned their communicants of the dangers of Catholicism. The Rev. Thomas Drew warned his followers in the 1850’s about the Lords of the Catholic Church:

“With their hands strained on the rack the limbs of delicate protestant women, prelates dabbled in the gore of their helpless victims. The cells of the Pope’s prison were paved with the calcined bones of men and women and cemented with human gore and human hair...”

No wonder Catholics aren’t trusted. Who wants to become the floor of some demented prison? Not me! Of course the clergy weren’t the only ones to speak poorly of the Catholics. A. P. Babington, a Unionist member of parliament, said this in defense of two men accused of murdering a Catholic in Belfast in 1935:

“The man (the victim) was a publican and a Roman Catholic and therefore liable to assassination.”

Makes sense to me. The result of all this stirring can be seen on the walls of the buildings of Belfast: Fuck the Pope is the most common slogan. Crude but it does get the point across. Fuck the IRA is also common.

The IRA is active in the struggles of Northern Ireland. After the failures of 1956-62 the leadership of the IRA decided not to pursue violence as a means of gaining their ends. Honest, that’s true! That decision brought about a splinter group called the Provisional IRA, or Provos as they are commonly called. You’ll remember that I identified the forces of the provisional government of Ulster, who fought the threat of union with the Irish Free State and then later in WWI, as the Provos. Technically that is incorrect, they were known as the Ulster Volunteer Force (UVF). I identified them as Provos because of their identification with the provisional government of Ulster and because, save for their loyalties and their time in history, the two groups have similar methods: they both shoot people. Anyway, when you hear the term Provos now know that it refers to the splinter group of the IRA committed to violence.

The UVF (a protestant group, the Ulster Volunteer Force) was dismantled once Northern Ireland became a separate entity. It was revived in 1966 AD in anticipation of an all out attack by the IRA. The attack never occurred but that didn’t stop the UVF. “Known IRA men will be executed mercilessly and without hesitation,” they proclaimed. They then proceeded to kill three people: a Protestant old lady in a miscue, a drunken Catholic walking home singing Irish songs (an obvious rebel!), and a young Catholic barman. Two out of three ain’t bad. The UVF disbanded within a year of its revival.


Chapter 29


The RUC, the UDA (Ulster Defense Association, a Protestant group) and the Provisional IRA (Provos, the militant splinter IRA group) have interlocking histories. The validity of the Provos and the formation of the UDA both stem from the actions taken by the RUC in 1969. The RUC is the Royal Ulster Constabulary - until 1972 the official police force of Ulster. They stirred the pot and the alphabet soup of militant organizations resulted. This is what happened:

A peaceful demonstration in Dungannon was organized in August of 1968 by the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association (NICRA - not associated with the IRA but predominantly Roman Catholic). They organized a march in response to blatant housing discrimination. A single protestant woman had been given a house in preference to a number of large Catholic families. Somebody figured out that was wrong and thought a protest was in order.

The NICRA (everyone has an acronym) was not a republican organization. Their focus was civil rights. Knowing how touchy the Protestants were they strictly avoided using any terms that could arouse protestant fears. March was one word they forgot about. Demonstration was another. Upon hearing of the plans for the demonstration the Rev. Mr. Paisley (remember him?) organized a counter demonstration. He formed the Ulster Protestant Volunteers for just that purpose. The two groups squared off on demonstration day and the RUC (Royal Ulster Constabulary) scuffled with the Catholic demonstrators before breaking up the march.

Another demonstration was set for October 5th by the NICRA in the city of Derry (now Londonderry). The march was banned by the government but the NICRA decided to hold the demonstration anyway. Unarmed they marched toward the lines of the RUC, who were eager for a confrontation. The RUC charged the demonstrators (who were, after all, breaking the law) and beat them bloody with billy clubs.

Seventy seven demonstrators were injured. A socialist student group scheduled another march for January 1969. They were met by members of the Ulster Protestant Volunteers (The Rev. Mr. Paisley’s buddies) and a police support group known as the B-Specials. (I have no idea why they were called the B-Specials. They were a para-police group that worked along side the RUC.) The marchers were ambushed and beaten senseless. One woman nearly drowned in a stream after falling unconscious.

The Rev. Mr. Paisley’s UPV (Ulster Protestant Volunteers)saw the great and eternal danger these Catholic demonstrations held and began bombing important Catholic strongholds to put the fear of God in the uppity Catholics. Mostly they bombed churches. They also decided to flaunt their power and a parade was organized in Derry by the Orange Order in August of 1969. This time the Protestants would march! And march they did; right through the Catholic neighborhoods of Derry. The Catholics responded with rocks. The Orangemen retaliated against the enemies of the state. Finally, the RUC entered the fray to restore order. That was their job, to restore order. They failed.

The Catholics barricaded the streets. This was a defensive maneuver for they remembered the last time the RUC attempted to restore order: a number of Catholics ended up with busted heads. Anyway, things appeared very disorderly, what with the streets blocked and all, so the RUC charged the barricades. They swung their batons indiscriminately and the Battle of Bogside was underway. Before it would end Ulster would suffer.

The battle spread throughout Northern Ireland. The worst battle raged in Belfast. Belfast came ablaze when they heard the news from Derry. "Bogside is ‘rising’," came the news. The Catholics of Belfast rose in fraternal union and stormed the police stations on Falls Road (a Catholic section of town). The Royal Ulster Constabulary (RUC) saw a full scale rebellion and responded with armored cars and heavy caliber machine guns. We’re talking heavy firepower here. And they weren’t afraid to use it. They fired their machine guns on advancing Catholic homes killing a nine year old boy. They blew his head off as he sat up in bed startled by the noise. Bombay street, another Catholic neighborhood, was burned to the ground by loyalists (Protestants). The RUC did nothing to stop it. Miraculously only eight people died. Six were Catholics. That was one majority they were used to.

When things quieted down protestant and Catholic vigilantes patrolled the streets. The Catholic population understandably felt that the RUC (Royal Ulster Constabulary) was not about to protect them from the protestant mobs. In fact the RUC hadn’t protected them and wouldn’t protect them in the future. Like the B-Specials who gave official support, the Royal Ulster Constabulary was made up of Ulster Protestants. Stands to reason, doesn’t it?

The IRA stepped into the void (the Provos especially) and set up their own police force in Catholic neighborhoods. It is the protection provided by the IRA during the riots of 1969 that people remember. It is the source of the IRA’s strength. The Ulster Defense Association (UDA) was established by the protestants due to the threat contained in having armed members of the IRA wandering about the streets of Belfast and Derry. After burning down Catholic homes the protestants figured somebody just might seek revenge, and they would put a stop to it, by George. Everyone has the right to protect their home!


Chapter 30


Here’s a few items I discovered while rummaging through the records over at Genesis Hall. According to the records no one has ever skipped death. Every single human being ever born eventually has died. That, of course, doesn’t include those currently living - who obviously haven’t as yet died. I suppose one could make the case that the final tabulation isn’t in yet and project the possibility that somewhere someone will live and not die, but with 99% of the precincts reporting, with more than 90% of the vote counted, death reigns over all.

There are recorded various myths and legends concerning those who were translated into eternity without tasting death, but they are simply that: myths and legends. There is one interesting report concerning one Enoch from the ancient mideast, but close examination of that report indicates that he ‘was no more for God took him’. It doesn’t say he didn’t die. It doesn’t say that he did. It says that God took him, which sounds rather euphemistic to me. A later report says that Enoch never tasted death, but I don’t know who submitted that report. At any rate, even if Enoch didn’t die, his is the exception that proves the rule.

According to the records Elvis is dead, which is news to me. So is Jimmy Hoffa, which no one doubted. The records show that Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone; Jack Ruby acted in concert with his personal demons. Jim Morrison, Mama Cass Elliott, Jimmy Hendricks, Marvin Gaye, and a host of other musicians have stopped pretending. As has Lenny Bruce. Also listed as dead are Bobby Kennedy, Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcolm X, and one Robert James Mitchell who died in Vietnam during the 68’ Tet offensive, ninety one days before his tour of duty was over.

I looked for Bobby’s name because I remember his death. I wish I had known Bobby better. Perhaps it would hurt more if I had known him better. As it was, his death was tragic, in that sort of newspaper headline sense where everyone is appalled and shakes their head and says “tsk-tsk-tsk isn’t it tragic? It’s just tragic that something like that should happen to a young man. Imagine what his family is going through; ninety one days before his tour ended. It’s just tragic. Tragic.” It was, really. That word means very sad. The only people who cried, that I know of, were the members of his immediate family. But the rest of us thought it was tragic.

I’m not sure what to make of the following bit of information so I’ll just repeat it for you. According to the records, on Friday, April 7th, in the year 30 AD, between the hours of 9:00 A.M. and 3:00 P.M., the judgment of God was executed on creation. The earth shook, the sun was darkened, the graves gave up they’re dead and justice rolled like thunder as the wrath of God visited the earth to punish the transgressors. Now that’s news! The ‘great and terrible day of the Lord’ is a thing of the past!

Can you imagine what would happen if that became known? I can. A whole lot of people would stop pretending, both figuratively and actually. If people understood that judgment has passed they’d stop being afraid. An awful lot of pretending goes on with respect to judgment day. Some of it is done in anger: “What gives you the right to judge me?”, which is silly because someone must judge and I can’t think of anyone better qualified than the Lord. The rest of it is done as an effort to escape judgment: “Maybe if I’m good I’ll escape.” Those who don’t pretend are frightened. They understand that if Judgment Day arrived everyone would be in for one hell of a bad time, as it were. According to the notes I found in Genesis Hall we have nothing to be afraid of: Judgment has passed. We can stop pretending.

God’s favorite football team is the Minnesota Vikings. That’s why they have lost so many Super Bowls. He is on the side of the downtrodden. His favorite baseball team is obvious: the Chicago Cubs, whose fans define the term downtrodden. His favorite female Hollywood star is Gracie Allen. She brought laughter to heaven. And yes, even God likes Sally Fields. Hard to believe, huh? There is no listing for a favorite male star.

What else....the ‘57 Corvette roadster convertible is his favorite automobile; Don Quixote his favorite literary character; and Kurt Vonnegut, that confirmed heathen, his favorite author - which only goes to show you that the Lord does forgive. His musical tastes run toward the classical end of the spectrum: Beethoven is his favorite. Van Gogh captures his eye when it comes to painting. The remaining categories of art remain up for grabs. Me and Steve made his list at position 25,652 under a subcategory for folk music. Such is life.

The various stories of creation are, by and large, incorrect. Augustine’s view came closest to the truth. It happened like this: One day the Lord was imagining what it would be like to have a physical universe and the next thing you know there it was. It was a stray thought, not a purposeful thought or anything, just sort of a random idea that took roots. Some of humanity’s best inventions started out as random thoughts so you shouldn’t find it offensive that life, as we know it, was a product of a random thought. It wasn’t a wasted thought.

At any rate, the next thing you knew there was a physical universe, poof - right before you very eyes - as it were, and the Lord decided he might as well follow this through. He thought about rocks and trees and clouds and birds and fish and grass and wheat and lady bugs and they appeared as he thought. Then he thought about people. He thought about them a number of times, giving them various shapes and dimensions as he thought, and each thought came to be and passed from existence over the course of time. Of course Time itself was something he had to think of, and he did that early on.

Eve, or the woman we have come to know as Eve, lived in what is now west central Africa. She was a very beautiful woman, capable of producing many children, which was then the definition of beauty. She is our common ancestor. Adam, or the man we have come to know as Adam (his name, in English, was simply ‘Man’) was a strong fellow who could insure Eve that her children would be properly fed, clothed and protected. This he did and the rest is history. They did bear the image of God. They were after all products of his thought. It’s only after they started to think for themselves that the image became confused. It remains as a shadow which each of us recognize only because it points to something no longer there, like a fossilized fern or vertebrate. That was when people first began to pretend. They would pretend that the fossil was something other than a shadow.

The first murder occurred because some guy pretended that he knew the best way to keep the shadow alive. He was proven wrong, shown to be pretending, and got upset and killed the guy that was right. That was when people figured out that might equals right. The first war occurred shortly thereafter as a bunch of folk determined that they were mightier than their neighbors and therefore righter - which isn’t a word and shows you where pretending leads: into irrationality.

The whole mess had gotten out of hand and the Lord got upset the way these random thoughts were behaving (decently and in order is the preferred structure) so he decided to vent his anger upon his thought product. Being creative he determined that he’d find a way to do so that would result not in the destruction of his thoughts but rather in the elevation of them to a higher order. It would have been easy just to think new thoughts but the challenge lie in recreation. So he accomplished both on Friday, 7 April, 30 AD. He judged, vented his wrath, and recreated everything. Quite an accomplishment, don’t you think? The truth is that it wasn’t an easy thing to do. Since he was the originator of these random thoughts, he decided that he would have to vent his wrath upon himself. This gets complicated but essentially this is what happened: Wrath bought mercy, death brought life, and pretending brought an end to pretending. In six hours everybody got the opportunity to start over, unafraid and without the need to pretend. It was a good thought.


Chapter 31


Jeb said that my audience would be in a few days - that is, tracking time as I understand it, it would co-ordinate with roughly 72 hours.

“It gives you some perspective,” he said. Once the audience is over, you’ll have no need for time.”

I don’t really understand this, but Jeb said that we are basically outside of time. The Genesis Hall is the only institution that coordinates the two zones - time and timeless.

From our perspective, Jeb said, “if you could look out onto time it would appear as a salt and pepper rug with each individual moment represented.” When Jeb returns for his next assignment he will re-enter the arena of time at the proper moment and there after time will unfold in the linear manner that we are accustomed to. From up here time floats like the snow in Grandma’s glass bubble: swirling disconnected points of history that never settle.

“So there is no time,” I said.

“Yes and no,” Jeb said, “properly speaking, once you begin your audience time will cease to have meaning. But then it is technically possible for me to re-enter time at some point in your life and still find you, say, riding your bike.”

“So I’m still alive?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. You have reached the end of your time but within the confines of time you still exist,” Jeb explained.

“You are losing me,” I said. “I am alive in time, but I am also here?”

“Everyone is alive - in the flesh - in time. And everyone is dead - out of the body - out of time,” he went on.

“So time isn’t linear from this perspective,” I said.

“No,” Jeb said. “Only in time is the experience linear.”

“Could you then enter time at some point in the future?”

“Well yes,” Jeb said. “But remember, past, present and future are all spots on the same rug. It is only as I re-enter the arena that the term future has any meaning. For example: I just received my next assignment.”

“Who is it? I don’t suppose that I know them.”

“That depends on how well you know your history,” Jeb said.

“Huh?”

“My next assignment is Marie Antoinette.”

“Of ‘let them eat cake’ fame?”

“One and the same,” Jeb said. “I’ll enter the spot on the rug that coordinates with Marie’s conception and depart from the spot of her death.”

“I’m trying hard to grasp this,” I said. “Let me get this straight. Right now I’m outside of time, yet in some respect still in time? You did say my audience was in 72 hours.”

“Sort of,” Jeb said. “Think of your present location as an anteroom aside of time but not yet apart from it. Right now I’m preparing you for the absence of time. Once you begin your audience time will no longer exist.”

“So I’m not on the other side of time just yet?”

“No, not yet,” Jeb said. “You ask too many questions. It will become clear within 72 hours. Take it one day at a time.”

“At least for the next three days,” I said. “After that it won’t matter.”


Chapter 32


Glenda was probably the biggest surprise of the evening. She and Steve got along famously. She allowed him to expound on the horrors of Irish history and once again, without sarcasm this time, agreed with him. Specifically she agreed that English troops did not belong in Ulster. She politely pointed out that the people now living in Ulster, the Protestants, whatever their ancestry, were by now native to that land. Four hundred years in one place is longer than any American has occupied his homeland and no one doubts the validity of their claim to the land. Except the Indians.

She then said that since the English and the Irish were neighbors they ought to try and behave neighborly and that she, for her part, would extend diplomatic relations and the hand of friendship to Steve and surely he would reciprocate. Steve immediately warmed up to the challenge and a compelling conversation seemed just around the corner.

Glenda is a most attractive young woman. She has long straight brown hair and is as polite as polite can be. Her eyes are crisp green and her nose slender as is the rest of her bone structure. She moves gracefully even in conversation, her hands unobtrusively adding emphasis to her words. There isn’t a rough edge about her. Civilized, I guess you’d call her. Very pleasant, very affirming and very civilized. Here’s to you Henry Higgins!

In addition to Glenda, Bill and Beth joined us for the evening. An uncoupled couple, Bill works as a ski instructor/desk clerk while Beth works with Debbie in the lounge. Debbie threw together a large offering of Spaghetti for the gathering (the sauce of which was heavy on the oregano), along with a tossed green salad, garlic bread, and Sangria. For dessert there were three dozen brownies, baked that afternoon, which carried the same odd after taste as her spaghetti sauce.

I thought nothing of it and devoured multiple portions, as did Bill. There was more than enough food to go around as Scott and Tammy had canceled due to Tammy’s illness. (She’s in bed coughing and hacking and bitching and moaning,” Scott had told Debbie. “I’d love to come by myself but I think I’d better stick around tonight and suffer more abuse.”) After dinner we retired to the living room for some good music.

“Put on the Moody Blues,” I suggested and soon Nights in White Satin threaded its way around the room. Note after note tip toed around the sanctuary, careful not to disturb our thoughts. They lifted our eyebrows and eased into each medicated muscle of reason and made us think the most profound thoughts. Bill was the first to become inspired. Three quarters of the way through the Moody Blues he sat up straight and said, “I know how they do it.”

“Do what?” Beth asked. She leaned forward against the large floor pillow and looked at Bill intently. “They who?” she said. “Do what?”

“I was sitting here listening to the music,” Bill said, “when I started thinking about M & M’s.”

“M & M’s?” Beth said. The logic escaped her.

“You know how they are coated with a hard candy coating?”

“Yes”

“Well I was thinking ‘how in the hell do they do that?’ I mean there aren’t any seams so they couldn’t have laid the bits of chocolate out and poured the candy coating on top, right? I mean, look, I’ll show you.” Bill walked over to the closet and pulled a package of M & Ms out of his jacket and poured the small nuggets into his hand. “Here, look at this,” he said, handing a piece of candy to Beth. “It’s even, there’s no seams, no thin spots, nothing. Yet somehow they got the little piece of chocolate inside. I know how they did it.”

“How?” Beth asked.

“They drop the little bits of chocolate through a shaft and spray the candy coating on. It’s a long shaft so by the time they hit the bottom they are dry. That’s how they do it so there aren’t any seams.”

Beth wasn’t convinced. “How come they’re all different colors?”

“They drop them through one at a time and change the coating color for each one.” Bill was very animated as he spoke. The excitement of discovery had caught him. “Either that or they have one shaft for each color and mix them later when they package them.”

“Then how do they get the M & M printed on?”

“That’s sprayed on later - on a regular machine where the candy sits on a conveyer belt and passes under a nozzle.”

The discussion intrigued me and I joined in the debate. “I don’t know Bill, that seems like an awful lot of work just to make some candy.”

“Well they sell billions of these things, they can afford it,” Bill retorted. “How do you think they do it?” Bill handed me a piece of candy.

He had me there. I didn’t have any idea how they did it. I examined the candy closely and it appeared exactly as Bill had described. There were no seams, and no indication of any marks where someone had gripped the candy with mechanical hands or anything. “Amazing,” I confessed. “You may be on to something, Bill." I handed the small wonder to Debbie for her to examine. “Look, luv, ma’be you can give us an answer.” Debbie took the candy, turned it over once and popped it into her mouth.

“I like them with peanuts too,” she said.

Steve and Glenda were engaged in their own conversation and decided to take their negotiations outside under the stars. Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young replaced the Moody Blues to be followed by Uncle Arthur and the rest of the collection on Paul McCarthy’s album, the one with the red cherries on the cover. It was on the Apple label. “Got any munchies?” I asked.

“Pizza,” Bill suggested. “I feel like a pizza.”

“I’ve got couple of frozen pizzas,” Debbie said.

“That’ll work,” Bill said.

Debbie went into the kitchen to prepare the pizzas while Bill, Beth and I submerged ourselves into the room. The music invited us elsewhere. Bang! bang! Maxwell’s silver hammer came down upon his head. Bang! bang! Maxwell’s silver hammer made sure that he was dead. Hand’s across the water. Hands across the sky. We’re so sorry Uncle Albert. Gideon checked out but he left it no doubt to help with poor Rocky’s revival. Ahhh.

“Someone’s at the door,” Beth said.

“Are you sure?” I asked. “I didn’t ‘ear a bell or anythin’.”

“Neither did I,” Beth informed me, “but Debbie’s been standing in the hallway for fifteen minutes now so I think somebody’s out there.”

“Who do you suppose it is?” Bill asked. His eyes were closed as if conjuring up an image of the nocturnal visitor. “Steve and Glenda?”

“No, it wouldn’t be Steve and Glenda,” Beth said. “They wouldn’t stand in the hallway talking.”

Muffled voices drifted into the room from the entryway. Both voices were hushed, strained as if the speakers were making an effort to subdue their volume. I could identify Debbie’s voice, but not the accompanying one. It was a male voice, intense and forceful, emotionally packed and somewhat desperate. I listened carefully, but I couldn’t decipher their code. “Phony,” I heard the male voice say. “Fucking liar,” he added. “I don’t care,” the female voice interrupted. “No...stop it...you’re wrong,” she objected. Then she began to gently weep. It was quiet for a few seconds, there were sounds of movement. The sobbing abated and once again the gentle voice spoke: “no, don’t. Please go away.” Again it was quiet. Then the door closed hard, abrupt, and only the weeping remained. It fell soft upon my ear as the morning dew.

Steve and Glenda never returned. After Pizza Bill and Beth headed home leaving Debbie and I to resolve our differences. She had been quiet after the episode in the hallway, as if she had drawn into herself to protect herself. She curled up and laid her head on my lap. I stroked her head and bussed her cheek and felt her heartache. She wouldn’t talk to me.

“What’s wrong, luv,” I asked. John Sebastian answered. She’s a lady, and I chanced to meet her in my scuffling days. She’s a lady, hypnotized me there that day. I came to play in my usual way. Hey...You know there’s things, you’ve never thought before. That have to do with walking out old doors. You’ve been prepared as long as time allows. And I don’t know how, but you’re a big boy now....and love will make you strong as a team of wild horses.

“Was it Jerry?” I asked. “What did he say, Debbie?”

“He said he loved me, and wanted me back,” she answered.

“And what did you tell him?” There were tears forming at the corners of her eyes. I wiped them dry.

“I told him that I didn’t love him; that he had lied to me and hurt me and I didn’t want to be with him any longer.”

“Why are you crying, my love? What can I do to ease the pain?”

Debbie fell silent. I cradled her in my arms and gently rocked her. “I am not much for fighting, but if he has hurt you, and you wish, I’ll confront him,” I said.

“No,” she said.

“What can I do to help?”

“I’m afraid,” Debbie said.

“Afraid of what, Debbie?” Debbie uncurled and rose to sit in front of me. She brushed the hair out of her eyes and composed herself and spoke directly.

“You,” she said. “I love you, at least I love the man I have been with these last three days. But I’m not sure he exists.”

“He’s here,” I said. “He always has been.”

“Will he lie to me?” Debbie asked.

I reached across the divide and touched her hand, closing it in my own and raising it to touch my face. “He has lied,” I said. “But he stopped ten minutes ago. He never lied about his feelings for you.”

“Why did he lie about anything?”

“Because he was afraid,” I answered. “Who is interested in a Swede from Minneapolis?”

“I am,” Debbie said.

“I don’t want to hurt you. To see you cry....God, I would rather die than hurt you. If you want me to go, I will.”

“No,” she said and curled up against my bosom. I stroked her hair and kissed her and held her against the night.

“My parents are German and Swede,” I said. “I have a brother and a sister back in Minneapolis, and the only thing I’ve ever loved until now is my dog, who died at my hand. I love you. I don’t want that love to die at my hand also. I do not feel I am particularly lovable. I don’t speak with an accent; I don’t sing very well; and I want to hold you forever if you’ll let me.”

“I like the way you sing,” Debbie said.

“Is that all?”

“I like the way it feels in your arms; and I like you better without an accent.”

“Can I stay?”

“Yes”

“Do you believe that I love you?”

“Yes,” Debbie said. “As long as it sounds like it comes from the Swede from Minnesota.”

“I’m sorry, love.”

“It’s ok,” Debbie said. “We’ll be afraid together.”
Chapter 33

So the UDA and the IRA formed armed camps. Armed people who hate one another search for ways to express themselves. It is almost an artistic obsession to give expression to such hatred. In the years that have followed they have learned to express themselves with assassinations, knee capping (a bullet through the knee caps) and bombings. They’ve been expressing themselves with eloquent brutality for years now. They only get better at it.

Things eventually cooled down in Ulster. Open warfare is rare these days. The English sent troops to replace the RUC when they established direct rule in 1972. I told you I’d explain the reason for direct rule and I have. The reason lies in the systemic discrimination practiced in Ulster. Moreover the Ulster parliament had demonstrated that they were unable to handle the situation so the English sent troops. Why am I not surprised?

Everyone still remembers the turbulence of 1969. The years that have followed have not been much better. The UDA and the Provos continue to assassinate each other. Many of the assassinations are carried out against sympathizers or suspected sympathizers or family members of suspected sympathizers or whoever is unlucky enough to be nearby. Women and children are not immune. War is hell. Since 1969 over 2,750 people have been killed in Northern Ireland, most through sympathetic assassination. Other troubled locations have greater numbers but none can match Ulster’s consistency. It stands in the tradition of great Irish craftsmanship: methodical and deliberate.

Given the hatred inbred in Ulster one might wonder if there will ever be a peaceful settlement. I think not. Seventy eight years ago there was a chance for less bloodshed then there is today. One hell of a lot of people will have to stop pretending before this mess is settled. Pity.

I know a song they could sing in Ulster that could replace God Save the King (now Queen) and A Nation Once Again. All of them could sing it; it could unify the people. It goes like this:

A voice was heard in Ramah.
Rachael weeping for her children
for they were no more.

Some are singing it already.


Chapter 34


The show started at 7:30 pm. Tom wanted us at the lounge no later than 8:00 pm. That would be no problem; Steve was ready to go by 4:30 pm.

He appeared without invitation at Debbie’s apartment and began badgering me to get ready. I was ready. All I had to do was take a shower, get dressed, grab something to eat, write a postcard to my mother and jot down some ideas for our evening performance. I accomplished all of that, slowly and deliberately. Steve couldn’t handle my circumstantial rebuttal. The man has always been excitable.

“What the ‘ell you doing now?” he asked.

“Clipping my toenails,” I said.

“God damn, Mark! We go on in a few ‘ours, who the ‘ell’s gonna see you bloody toes?” The words spit out in unintelligible chunks. When Steve gets anxious he hops around like a crazed springer spaniel - up and down, up and down. He can’t sit still. His attention becomes fixed on the awaited event and he squawks like a disturbed cockatiel. Focused is his explanation. “I’m focused on the show,” he says. Single-minded is another term he uses to describe himself. Personally I think neurotic is a better word.

We left Debbie’s apartment at 7:30 pm. There was no way to delay it further without locking Steve in a closet. The evening was brisk as the late afternoon melted over the mountain like a strawberry daiquiri. The clouds formed shadowy wisps that circled overhead, dark pigments of gray that swirled through the red and orange of the evening sky like a technicolor fantasy. The air smelled fresh. The Magic Kingdom stood at the base of Vail mountain and offered its wonders to behold. Steve tossed his guitar into the back seat of the gremlin and we headed down the yellow brick road.

We arrived at the Inn at 7:35 pm. Debbie stood behind the bar and waved as we entered the lounge from the lobby of the hotel. The lights were dimmed to give a feeling of intimacy, but you could still see everything in the room. We made our way past the assembled Legionnaires, around the backside of the lounge and took our place at the end of the bar. Steve set his guitar against the wall and ordered a Jamieson straight up.

“Can I get you something, Mark?” Debbie asked.

“Sure, luv, I’ll ‘ave a scotch and water.

Debbie looked at me with an odd expression. “You don’t mind, do you?” I said. “It’s only for the act.”

Debbie smiled as she made my drink. “No,” she said, “Just don’t bring it home after the show.”

The crowd was good for such an early hour. Two squads of Legionnaires dressed in casual uniform were stationed in the room. They were strategically placed: four covered the exit, six sat by the stage, three at the bar and a few more were scattered in pairs in the center of the room.

Some of the men were joined at their tables by the thankful maidens of the occupation: housewives from Omaha and Sioux Falls dressed in party dresses and faux pearls. The atmosphere was pleasant, if somewhat detached, and they clapped appreciatively as Tom finished his number.

“We’ll start with the Irish bit,” Steve said. “Just follow my lead.”

“The ballad of the Orange and the Green?” I said.

“Yeah, and ‘Galway Bay’, ‘Rattlin’ Bog’ and that shit. As soon as we’ve been introduced we’ll jump into ‘Rattlin’ Bog’. After that we’ll play off our identities.”

“Sounds good,” I said. Anything sounded good. Steve took care of the details. I just provided the harmony.

By 8:20 pm. the crowd had grown so that the room was three quarter filled. Debbie was busy at the bar as the Legionnaires loosened up and relived the Normandy invasion and the liberation of Paris. Beth, one of the barmaids, worked non-stop from the front of the room and two other barmaids worked the center and the rear keeping the boys happy. They drank freely and talked incessantly and laughed in baritones. A cacophony of sound bounced around the room in anticipation of joy. They were ready to party. Tom’s last number of his first set was Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head from Midnight Cowboy and the Legionnaires clapped enthusiastically.

“Thank you, “ Tom sighed. He was enjoying himself. “I’m glad you’re here tonight. We’ve got a great show for you so stick around. I’m going to take a twenty minute break - but before I go I want to introduce to you two boys from overseas who are going to fill in for me. Steve’s from Ireland, Mark’s from England. Together they form a duo known as Me and Steve. Please welcome them.” Tom spread his arms wide and swept their attention toward the back of the room. That was our cue. Steve bounded on stage and I worked my way slowly through the tables of heroes to join him. It was show time.

The stage was small, lit up by a series of footlights that hid the audience from view. The glasses clinked and the Legionnaires laughed a slow rumble but we were isolated from them. Only the first few tables were part of the scene. Steve cut loose his excitement in the most tangled brogue I’d heard to date.

“Good ev’nin’,” Steve said. “Aye 'am Stephen Ian Anthony Michael Patrick O’Neill, from County Cork in Ireland. And this ‘ere’s me singin’ partner Mark...” I nodded at Steve’s introduction. “T’gether we’re known as ‘Me and Steve’. Obviously, Aye am Steve..”

“And I’m Me...” I retorted. A mild laugh followed.

“Mark ‘ere’s English,” Steve continued, nodding in my direction. “‘E’s not a bad sort - - for an Englishman. It’s not that Aye don’t trust ‘im you understand, it’s just that one ne’er knows ‘bout these boys, they talk funny.” More laughter trickled about the room. “Anyway it’s good t’ be wit’ you t’night. Aye ‘ope you enjoy the show. Let’s start wit’ a song from me ‘omeland.”

Rattlin’ Bog was followed by a rousing rendition of Finnegan’s Wake which moved quickly into the Ballad of the Orange and the Green. Steve altered our set every gig. I never knew what would come next which was why I never bothered to prepare ahead of time. It’s not as unpredictable as it sounds, there are limits to what we can do. Steve would read the needs of the audience and take off. It was my job to read the direction Steve was going and respond in kind.

It flowed freely and spontaneously and never seemed to fail. And it wasn’t failing tonight. The
noise level of the club rose with the close of every number. Steve took a sip of his drink and it was my turn.

“Steve is visiting’ me from his ‘ome in the bogs of Ireland,” I said. “‘E’s from a family of ten, last time they counted. There’s one thing you should know about the Irish, they are sentimental about their ‘omeland. If there is anythin’ that’ll bring an Irishman to tears it’s the thought of ‘ome and family. The next song is a sad number. An Irishman, far away from home, remembers ‘is beloved ‘omeland and the dear lass who waits for ‘is return. It’s a very sweet song.” It was time for Galway Bay.

The crowd quieted and we waited to begin. Steve strummed slowly and we took our cue from each other. As the eyes and ears of our captives focused we began slowly with the melancholy sound of one who longs.

“O, then maybe someday I'll be going ' 'ome to Ireland. In 'opes me dear ol' wife has passed away. It's not that I am tired of 'er naggin'. But she's got a mouth as big as Galway Bay.”

Galway Bay closed our set and we slid off stage and joined the troops at the rear of the lounge. Within minutes of taking our seats our table was set with appreciative glasses sent over by the dough boys. “Scotch and water,” I said to Beth when she asked what I wanted. “Jamieson’s,” Steve replied.

Lined up three deep the glasses of remembrance spoke of hard times and buddies lost. Twenty seven years after the war had ended they still wanted to know their sacrifice was for friends. After our second set a slightly inebriated Legionnaire stopped by our table.

“You’re from England,” he said to Steve. There was a hopeful look of recognition in his eyes.

“No,” Ireland’s me ‘ome,” Steve said. “Mark ‘ere’s from England.”

“I was stationed there in ‘42,” the soldier said. “Damn good people, the English. I love you guys.”

It didn’t matter if Steve was Irish, or if I was English, or if either of us were who we seemed to be. The Legionnaires were the ones pretending.

The pain never goes away. The cause is worth holding onto for it made sense out of their ordeal. The years may have removed them from the blackouts and the bombing runs and the shattered streets of London but the timeless quality of life brought it all back into the present. Steve and I served as the catalyst of memory. The more we sang the more they drank and returned to their moment of angst. The more we sang the more they pretended to hide from their past.

Our second set was filled with American tunes. We opened with Arlo Guthrie’s Motorcycle Song and proceeded to Alice’s Restaurant, closing with a number about dope smuggling.

“Coming in from London, from over the pole. Flying in a big airliner. Chickens flying all around the place. No we couldn’t feel much finer. Coming in to Los Angeles. Bringing in a couple of keys Don’t touch my bags if you please, Mr. Customs Man.”

They loved it. It didn’t matter if we were coming in from London on a scotch and water or flying high on medicinal weed. Everyone wanted to pretend.

Tom kept the crowd at home. His show tunes went over well with the ladies in the audience and provided a break for the Legionnaires. Tom offered a different fantasy. Musical scenes of unrequited love and sexual passion were topped off with the escapist tunes of Tom Jones. “What’s New Pussy Cat - Wo ..oh..oh...o..oh” Things were going well.

Our third set opened with April Come She Will from Paul Simon followed by She’s A Lady from John Sebastian and Norwegian Wood from the Beatles. We then moved into The Kingston Trio’s material and ended with Tijuana Jail and MTA. Steve closed out our act with his best wishes and a request:

“We’ve enjoyed being wit’ you t’night. This was sort of a try out for us, so if you enjoyed yourselves and would like t’ see us back please inform the management. If you liked us, thank you! Our name is Me and Steve. If ya didn’t like the show and wish to express your disapproval, well, we’re goin’ by the name of Simon and Garfunkle.” The Legionnaires sounded off their opinion with applause and we stepped off stage.

After our third set the manager of the Inn approached our table. He leaned over between the two of us with a smile belying his tension. “Listen,” he said. “I can’t offer you a job on stage, the owner hires all the talent. But he’ll be here Friday and I want him to see your show. I’m positive he’ll give you a contract. In the meantime I can give you a place to stay in the hotel, free meals and if you need some spending money you can work the bar a few hours. If it was up to me I’d hire you tonight.”

“I’m supposed to be back on the job in Minneapolis Friday,” Steve said.

“I’m positive he’ll give you a contract,” the manager responded.

“Well half of my vacation pay is back at the hotel, I’ll lose it if I don’t show up,” Steve explained

“Can you pick it up early?”

“Sure."

“Can you be back by Friday?”

“If we leave by Wednesday morning we can be back by Friday afternoon.”

“Do that! I want you guys on stage Friday night when the owner arrives.”

Steve looked at me and I nodded my agreement. “You got a deal,” I said. “We’ll be here at 8:00 pm Friday night. Make sure the owner’s here.”

“He’ll be here, and he’ll like what he sees.” The manager’s smile widened at his success. “You guys really know how to work a crowd.”

“We just ‘ave a good time,” Steve said. “Everybody wants to ‘ave a good time.”


Chapter 35


I was pumped; high as a kite. Walking on air. Head in the clouds. Excited enough to run up to the summit of Vail mountain, scream at the top of my lungs and slide down the grassy slopes on my ass the hell with the rocks and needles. No shit! This was great! Hot damn! Bull titties! Horse balls! Good God-damn can you believe this shit! Wooeee!!! I gotta hug somebody! Damn I gotta scream! Tell somebody and dance and dance and dance!

Steve took off with Glenda after our final set and I waited until Debbie closed the bar down around 1:30 am. “Come with me,” I said, grabbing her hand and dragging her toward the slopes. Debbie jerked forward and stumbled as I pulled her along.

“What’s the rush?” she said. “Where are we going?”

I slowed to catch her as she stumbled forward, lifted her and swung her about. “Hot damn!” I said. “I love you!” I planted her on her feet an kissed her, lifting her again and swinging her about at the close of our embrace. She giggled and laughed.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“I’ll tell you when we get there,” I said and pulled her forward so we ended up running through the village streets, past the lift house and up the slopes.

“Slow down,” she said.

“I can’t, I’ve got too much to tell you and if I stop now I won’t be in the right place to do so.”

“I’ve got a stitch in my side,” Debbie said, “I need to stop for a minute.”

We slowed at the edge of the slopes a few hundred yards up the mountain and sat down by an Aspen tree. The moon was full and the night sky cloudless. The milky streams of light cast out the darkness. Debbie caught her breath and spoke first.

“So what’s so important?”

“I can’t tell you yet, we’re not there yet. Can you go on?”

“Yes”

“Good, let’s go.”

I rose to my feet and helped Debbie up and we walked into the strand of evergreen trees. The air was fragrant and the pine needles snapped under our feet. We climbed up and west until we came to a spot at the edge of a ravine. The lights of Vail shimmered below.

“Do you remember this place?” I asked.

“Of course,” Debbie said. “I’m the one who brought you here.”

“I know. You said you like to come here alone to think and watch the stars and look out over the village lights. It sounded like this place was special to you.”

“It is,” Debbie said. “Why are we here?” The moon light slipped across her face and made it glow. God she was beautiful.

“Because something special has happened.”

“What?”

“Sit down Deb,” I said, guiding her against the trunk of a tree. “Steve and I have been offered a job singing at the Inn!” The words exploded off my lips. “We start Friday night. Well actually we haven’t been hired yet, the owner has to do that but the manager believes it’s a sure thing and wants us on stage Friday night when the owner arrives. Then we’ll have a contract.”

“That’s wonderful.” Her affirmation danced in my heart and lifted me above the clouds. She jumped up onto her feet and threw her arms around my neck. “That’s wonderful,” she repeated. “I knew it would happen.”

“Lord, I’m so happy,” I cried. “This is a dream come true.”

Debbie smiled and I looked into her eyes and fell into her. I lifted her high and twirled until we lost our balance. We fell to the moss covered floor and rolled and laughed and laughed and rolled coming to a rest against a boulder where we embraced.

“God you’re beautiful,” I said.

“You’re not so bad looking yourself,” she laughed.

We made love in the cool of the night. I fondled her breasts and slowly stroked her thighs, tickling her with my fingertips, running my hand up along her soft flesh. Cupping my hand I pressed my fingers against her pelvis and moved them with a deep circular motion. I kissed her ears and her mouth and her neck and traced my tongue down to her belly button and up again to her warm nipples. Debbie’s hands found their way and guided me as we made love. I held her in my arms and we lay together and whispered our words, soft promises given unafraid. Lord, she was beautiful.

“I want to stay with you forever,” I said.

“That’s a very long time.”

“I know. Will you stay with me?”

“Forever?” Debbie teased. “What happens if I become old and gray?”

“Then I will become old with you, and help you dye your hair.”

“And if I become sick?”

“Then I will nurse you to good health.”

“What if I can’t become well?”

“Then I will hold you and tell you I love you always, until always is no more.”

“And if I become rich and famous?”

“We’ll buy a Porsche and a home in Palm Springs.”

“And if I’m forever poor?”

“Then we’ll drive my Gremlin and eat macaroni and cheese off paper plates.”

“And you’ll do this forever?”

“And always!”

“And you want me to make the same promise?” Debbie was serious. I looked at her and my heart began to break. Perhaps she wouldn’t want such a tie.

“Yes,” I said. “I would very much like you to say you will love me in the same fashion.”

“And if I cannot say that?”

The words hurt. I looked at her and fell silent, and then looked to the sky expecting it to be empty. The stars flickered aglow and the moon spread its resplendent light across the mountain. I spoke to the stars.

“Then I will love you anyway and wait for the day my love is returned.” I turned and watched her eyes fill with tears. Debbie touched my cheek and kissed my lips softly.

“You won’t have to wait very long,” she said. “I will stay with you and love you.”

“Forever?”

“And always.”

We fell into each others arms and made love: gentle caring affectionate love. A bliss like I’ve never imagined joined us as our bodies became one. We made love.

As we walked off the mountain the first light of the morning broke across the eastern peaks. “Deb, there’s been something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

“Yes,” Debbie said.

“Well, now that it appears we’ll be together for a very long time, I’d think it would be proper to know your name.” Debbie smiled. “Deborah Marie Thompson, of Scott City, Kansas. My parents farm, wheat mostly. I have two younger brothers and an older sister. I was raised Roman Catholic and would like a Church wedding someday. My mother has saved her wedding dress for the first daughter to be married in.”

“What’s your confirmation name?”

Debbie looked puzzled.

“Steve’s Catholic,” I said. “His is Anthony.”

“Elizabeth,” she said. “It was either that or Catherine. I’m not sure I picked the right one.”

“Deborah Marie Elizabeth Thompson?” I said. “I like that.”

“Thank you,” she said as she took me by the hand. “It goes well with Peterson too.”


Chapter 36


“We’ll be back Friday morning,” I said, as I climbed out of the shower.

“Back? Where are you going?” Debbie asked.

“Oh, God, I didn’t tell you did I? I’m sorry love. Steve has to return to Minneapolis to pick up his vacation pay, otherwise he loses it. We planned on leaving tomorrow morning so we could be back by Friday.”

Debbie was obviously upset. She was folding clothes in the bedroom when I entered dripping wet.

“Deb, why don’t you come with me?” I said. “You can meet my mom, spend the night in our guest room - that’ll be different.” Debbie laughed.

“I have to work,” she said. Her eyes lightened.

“Ok, then I’ll give the keys to Steve and I’ll wait here until he returns.”

“No,” she said. “That’s a long trip, you’ll need two drivers if you are going to travel straight through. I’m ok, honest. It caught me by surprise that’s all. You just make sure you hurry back.”

“With wings on my love.” I said, flapping my arms and dancing towards her. “Nothing could keep me away.” I grabbed her around the waist and pulled her close to me.

“You’re wet,” she said, trying to pull away.

“I know, isn’t it grand?” I lifted her and we fell onto the newly folded laundry. “Will you be here when I get back?”

“Maybe,” Debbie said.

“Promise me you’ll be here when I get back or I’ll not let you up off the bed.”

“I promise,” Debbie said. “I’ll be here. Now let me up.”

“In a minute,” I said. “I like the way this feels.”

Debbie put her arms around my neck and wrapped her legs around my hips and kissed me. “Me too,” she said. “Now get up.”


Chapter 37


Tuesday night’s show was more of the same. The Legionnaires enjoyed themselves immensely and Steve and I relaxed in the knowledge that our future was secure. Steve added a bit about his sister Colleen, warning me to keep my hands of her and I casually mentioned that the problem lie not with me, for I had always been a perfect gentleman with the lady, but rather with Colleen.

“She’s very aggressive,” I said. “I can understand why you’re concerned. May I suggest a leash?” Steve murmured something about English slime and began a tirade against the colonialist power. I smiled and said that one day the Irish would become a civilized people.

Tom was ecstatic. He had found his niche. He seemed to get more pleasure out of the Legionnaires response to our act than we did. Of course his act was going well also. After the doors closed for the night Tom, Cathy, Steve and I sat around in the lounge and replayed the two shows. Debbie was busy balancing the cash register.

“I told you it would go well,” Tom said to Cathy. He leaned back into his chair to hold court. He was animated and sober. Tom didn’t drink.

“You were right,” Cathy said with a smile. “The show is a big success.”

“Aye,” Steve added, “it was fun.”

“Steve, I think I owe you an apology,” Cathy said. “You are far more accomplished than I imagined.”

“No apology’s necessary,” Steve said. He was being coy. Humility is something he can ease into when it’s needed.

“No, it is necessary,” Cathy went on. “I was angry when Tom said he was going to add you to the show. I thought of you as someone who would take advantage of Tom. I thought your music was barbaric and your personal style lacked integrity.”

“Ouch,” I said. Steve remained silent.

“Well I’m sorry,” Cathy said, “but that’s how I felt. You’re comment at the party that night didn’t help.”

“What comment?” Tom asked.

“I heard about that,” I said. “It was crude.”

“What comment?” Tom pressed.

“You don’t want to know,” I answered.

“Yes I do - what did you say Steve?”

“Oh lordy,” Steve said. He was blushing. “Aye can’t repeat it here Tom. Aye was drunk and made an uncouth comment that was meant to offend.”

“What did you say.” Tom was determined.

“‘He asked Cathy to accompany ‘im to the bedroom for a little fun and games,” I said. “But he used different words then that; more earthy words.”

“Aye am truly sorry aye said that, Cathy. Aye often put me foot in me mouth. Sometimes aye get a little carried away wit’ me act.” Now it was Steve’s turn to apologize.

“Well - you are a rogue,” Cathy laughed, “but I don’t believe you mean any harm.”

“Aye can be crude,” Steve said, “but you’re right - aye mean no harm. Can you forgive the stupidity of a drunken Irishman?” Steve’s face took on the look of a basset hound and contrition poured from his eyes. Cathy was sympathetic.

“Sure,’ she said. “I’ll make allowances.”

“Well,” Tom said, “now that we’ve covered our apologies, let’s talk about Friday night. The owner will be here and I think I can work out a contract for you.”

“Aye,” Steve said. “The manager ‘as already mentioned that possibility.”

Tom paused momentarily. “The manager?”

“Aye - ‘e said ‘e wanted us on stage Friday night. Said ‘e was sure ‘e could get us a contract. ‘E must’ve spoken to you about it, too.”

“No, he didn’t,” Tom said. He looked surprised. “What did he offer?”

“‘E didn’t offer anything,” Steve explained. “Said the owner ‘ired all the talent but that we were a sure thing to get picked up. ‘E didn’t talk to you?”

“No,” Tom said. He moved forward in his chair and leaned on his elbows. “Of course there was no reason for him to ask me about it.”

“Hell,” I said. “Listen, Tom, we don’t know the first thing about contracts - and you’re the one who put us on stage. Steve and I have to head back for Minneapolis tomorrow to pick up a paycheck but we’ll be back by Friday morning. You talk to the manager and tell him we’re under contract to you....”

“We don’t have a contract,” Tom said.

“Sure we do,” I said. “We owe you that much. You negotiate the deal with the owner and take ten percent for yourself.”

“Are you sure you want to do that?” Tom asked.

“Tom, this happened because of you,” I said, “whatever you work out we’ll sign.”

Steve nodded in agreement. “Aye, Tomas!

Tom eased back into his chair. “I’ll start planning tomorrow. Make sure you’re here Friday night. I can’t work out a contract without an act.”

Debbie joined our table once the night’s receipts were safely stored away. “Ready to go?” she asked.

“Ready?” I said. “I been waiting all night to go home with you.” I rose from my chair and extended my hand across the table. “Tom, I look forward to working with you. We’ll see you Friday.”

“Drive safely,” Cathy added. “It’s a long trip.”

“I’ve got two reasons to return intact,” I answered. “Not to worry.”

Steve, Debbie and I headed outside. Steve decided to stop by Glenda’s so I gave him the keys to the Gremlin. Debbie and I walked the short distance back to her apartment. The night air was brisk and the clouds sealed in the valley. We walked slowly and didn’t speak. I didn’t want tomorrow to ever come. I didn’t want to leave.


Chapter 38


Wednesday morning arrived with a thud. Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! It sounded like a pile driver, driving wooden stakes into the heart of the earth. Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Rhythmic and incessant they pounded away at the granite bedrock. Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! I turned on my side and viewed the fuzzy numerals on the clock radio: 5:30 am. Who the hell was building a pier at 5:30 in the morning? Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Damn heathens.

“Mark, get your feeble ass out ‘ere and open this door!” The voice was accompanied by more thuds. Only Steve could wake the dead.

I rolled over Debbie and felt my way through the hall to the front room and opened the door.

“Bare ass naked, are we?” Steve said. In my confusion I had failed to dress. Steve entered the apartment and closed the door behind him. “Come on laddie, it’s time to go,” he said. “We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”

“You make some coffee,” I said, “I’m gonna take a shower.”

“Move it,” Steve commanded, “we need to be on the road by 6:30. You can sleep in the car.” He sounded cheerful. How the man could be cheerful after a few hours sleep was beyond me. His eyes were clear and his face carried a smile. Disgusting. I wandered off to the shower.

Debbie was in the kitchen making breakfast when I emerged from the shower. The warm water had worked its way into my joints and washed the lint out of my eyes. “Where’s Steve?” I asked.

“He took a load of things down to the car.” Debbie brought a plate of sausage and eggs over and set it before me.

“For me?” I asked.

“For you,” Debbie said. “I want your tummy full so that you’ll think of me the next time it’s empty.”

"I could get used to this, you know.'

"Don't," she said. "Once you're back you get to make breakfast for me." She sat across the table from me and smiled. Another person who's cheerful in the morning. God, I'm surrounded by heathens.

I finished breakfast and dressed. Steve had carted most of his goodies out to the Gremlin - leaving behind his guitar and the cooler we had intended on filling with Coors for the return trip home. "No use taking up the room," he had said. "We're coming back."

I threw a change of clothes into a small overnight bag belonging to Debbie. My suitcase was far to big for such a temporary absence. I wasn't going to risk taking along anything I might not need. I wanted to leave behind multiple reasons for my return. I'm not superstitious, but the gods needed to see that I was intent on coming back to Vail. Lest they misunderstand. We finished loading the car and I headed back to the apartment to say good-bye. Debbie was standing on the patio when I entered the apartment. The morning was overcast and a slight rain fell onto the mountains. I joined her on the deck.

"Even in the rain the mountains are beautiful," I said. Debbie smiled. She was still wearing her terry cloth robe. It was oversized and her arms were folded across her breasts to keep it in place. "Deb - it's time to go," I said. She nodded. "I can still give Steve the keys and tell him I'm staying behind."

"No, we already talked about that," Debbie responded. She turned towards me and placed her hands on my chest. I encircled her with my arms and held her gently. "I've just gotten used to having you around," she said. The words danced in her smile.

"I'll be back Friday morning," I promised. "Only an act of God or car failure could prevent it."

"No car failure; no acts of God," she said. "If something happens to delay you, call me and let me know."

"I will," I promised.

"And drive safe," she said.

"I will," I promised.

"Okay," Debbie said. She buried her head into my chest and then kissed me once and let go.

"I love you, Deb," I whispered. "Always will."


Chapter 39


The rain fell gently in the higher elevations, the clouds draped the peaks down to about 10,000 feet. As we ascended out of Vail the village disappeared into the mist like OZ. Steve curled up in the passenger seat and slept until we reached Denver. That was good. Descending the switchbacks in the fog would have driven him mad with fear. He's such a candy assed son-of-a- bitch.

We drove straight through Denver and stopped at North Platte, Nebraska, to refuel, grabbing a bite to eat at the truck stop before pulling up to the gas pumps. It was the same service station we had stopped at on the way out, but the attendant was different. I was tired and cranky so I didn't make conversation with the laborer. He filled the tank. I paid for the gasoline, and we left. It was Steve's turn to drive, my turn to sleep.

About twenty miles west of Kearny, Nebraska, Steve stopped to pick up a hitchhiker. He was heading to Chicago, he said. He'd been hitchhiking across country for the past two months and he was heading home. "Got a girl at home," he said. "Looking forward to seeing her, too," he said. He said a lot of things. Steve entertained him with his Irish brogue until we reached Omaha where the motor mouth disembarked. I was glad to see him go. This was turning into a long trip. The rain had stopped before we had reached Denver but the sky had remained overcast throughout Nebraska. It was hot and humid and I didn't want to be there. I took my turn at the wheel after we filled the tank in Omaha. I decided to head north along Interstate 29 to Sioux City, Iowa, and then cut across northwest Iowa on State Road 60 into southern Minnesota. I was hoping to save time. I was in a hurry to get home. No, that's not really true. I was in a hurry to return to Vail.

The corn fields of Iowa and southern Minnesota were tall and ready for harvest. The Gremlin flew between the stalks like a B-B in a gutter. We pulled into Worthington, Minnesota a little after midnight, and stopped for coffee. Steve was hungry, so we spent about an hour feeding his face, peeing, etc.. Mankato was our next stop, for more coffee. By 3:00 am. we were on US 169 heading north.

US 169 follows the Minnesota River until it reaches the rural outskirts of Minneapolis. It has some of its most breathtaking scenery around Shakopee, as the highway descends the bluffs and winds its way through the river basin before climbing again to the flat lands. The landscape is lush and green, with elm trees and maple trees thick along the river. I was following a semi-trailer rig when my eyes glazed over and I lost the ability to focus my sight. The red lights of the trailer danced and swirled before me like a gaudy Christmas tree. I shook my head forcefully, hollered at Steve to wake up, and pulled over to the side of the road. Steve rolled down his window and a blast of fresh air brought me around.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said. "But I think you'd better drive."

We had only a couple of hours left. We were a few miles southwest of Jordan, Minnesota, when Steve took the wheel. It was about sixty miles to Minneapolis, but then we would have to wind our way through the city to our homes. I settled into the bucket seat, closed my eyes and slept. That didn't last long as Steve tuned in the radio. "Sorry `bout that buddy," he said, "but I need the noise."

The Gremlin hummed as Steve held it at a steady sixty five miles per hour. Even with the radio on I drifted in and out of sleep. The gentle sway of the road reminded me of Debbie. I don't know why, it just did. I wondered what her parents were like. Salt of the earth types, I imagined. Honest and kind. Had to be to produce a sweetie like Debbie.

I drew a mental picture of what their farm looked like: There would be a two story clapboard farmhouse flanked on one side by a grove of trees, and a large barn, three stories tall, set a hundred yards or so behind the house. Next to the barn would stand a machine shed and two silo's the size of small sky scrapers, rising abruptly into the blue Kansas sky. I wondered if they had a dog? Sure, every farm had a dog! A border collie would bark as we pulled into the driveway.

"Almost home," Steve said. I opened my eyes to see the bluffs of the Minnesota River. We were descending down into the river basin, the road following the edge of the bluff, when a loud explosion rocked the right side of the car. We veered sharply to the right and bounced out of control heading toward the river. Steve pulled the steering wheel hard to the left and we shot past the center line. Head lights appeared out of nowhere and a horn broke the awful silence, screaming a banshee's scream. Steve tugged the wheel to the right and slammed on the brakes. I heard the sound of tires screeching and glass breaking and then felt the impact behind me. The force of the blow caused the Gremlin to spin wildly and we skidded over the edge.

Everything moved in slow motion as the car spun in the air and fell like a saucer to the earth. We entered a black hole as the Gremlin's head lights dissipated into the darkness illuminating nothing. I thought of my promise to Debbie and cried. God this would hurt her. The car slammed into a tree, shearing off a limb, and cascaded to the ground. I felt the door pierce my side and then was thrown forward against the windshield. Bones cracked and the glass cut into my eyes and blinded me. The pain was overpowering.


Chapter 40


I walked the distance to the doorway and grasped the handle, pausing to say goodbye to Jeb. He was gone. I turned the handle and entered an open, airy room. The walls were painted the same antique white that had graced the double doors and they closed off three sides of the room. The mist was ankle-deep at the doorway but rose near the center of the room to cover both the ceiling and the opposite wall. I walked a few feet into the room and heard the door close behind me. "This is it," I thought. "I'm here Lord."

I timidly approached the center of the room, mindful of my insignificance. With each tender step the mist expanded and soon my vision is limited to the fine silver-white beads that float everywhere. The mist is without substance, yet as dense as any pea-soup fog. It isn't like steam; I can't feel it. Perhaps the fog that comes off dry ice best exemplifies it. It swirls slowly about as if carried by irrational air currents.

I am thoroughly isolated by it. The room is awash in light, but the floating silver beads reflect and refract the light, scattering the rays as to give no meaning to spatial relationships. Everything is illuminated so as nothing is illuminated. The fog consumes me and so denies my sensory perceptions. I am in danger of becoming the beads and have to consciously remain separate from them. I concentrate on self to preserve self.

A smoldering fire pot appears to my left in three dimensional form. A blazing torch passes before me and disappears. As I watch the flaming torch being swallowed by the silver beads, an explosion of tremendous force suddenly knocks me to the floor. A great whoosh of wind roars through the room, deafening in scope and I cover my ears. The silver/white beads remain static, unmoved. I lift my head to face the storm and feal its forces manipulate my face, turning my cheeks rubbery, causing them to flutter. Then it stops. A great pillar of fire ascends before me with flaming tongues leaping forth, dancing upwards in demonic fury. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the pillar vanishes.

For five minutes nothing happens. Jeb had said I would understand, and I strain to do so. "Visions of glory," I thought. I wait in the silence and wonder. "I am here Lord," I said.

A single scene of great misery appears before me. Multiple visions from multiple ages consort together on one stage. In costumed dress from ancient times, their robes flowing in rivers of blood, Priests sacrifice children to the insatiable mouth of Molech while drums beat out a deafening rhythm and psychotic chants echo through the room. Guards wearing Nazi uniforms stand by emaciated prisoners who are transformed into piles of bone and hair and skeleton thin dead bodies. Rice paddies are teeming with men clad in pajamas harvesting human remains. Rows upon row of human skulls - thousands of them - are stacked neatly on wooden shelves under a bamboo roof. A solitary, gray horse appears, pulling a carriage through the streets of London's ghetto.

Four men exit a tenement house carrying a small, awkward bundle wrapped in blankets. The stench is incredible. It hangs oppressively in the air, burning my nostrils. The four men toss the bundle into the street and return to the dwelling only to reappear carrying another child. A car explodes and lights up the streets of Belfast; A woman is raped and beaten by a gang of youths, who laugh with Satan's delight. A black man hangs high in a tree as hooded gangsters bow to their idol. I am unable to bear it. "How long, O Lord, how long?" My cries go unheeded. I bury my face into my hands and weep uncontrollably and the sounds of the misery grow faint.

When I raise my head to view, the screams begin anew. The earth groans and heaves with cataclysmic force, its jaws open wide and the lot of misery falls into the gaping hole. Screams of pain and panic fill the air as the earth closes in on itself. A belch of smoke escapes and then all is silent. I am exhausted. I rise to my feet and stretch my arms upward, grasping for the deity. "How long, O Lord, how long? Will you be angry forever?"

The holograms begin again. A burning bush races from left to right followed by a stoke of lightening which flashes out of the mist accompanied by peels of thunder. One! Two! Three! Four! The lightening bursts like a divine strobe and the thunder crashes like sonic booms of wrath. Crack! Crash! Boom! Ka-Pow! It sounds to my left and right. A garden now lies before me, lush and green; opulent and productive. I reach for a fruit to satisfy my desires and the garden melts before my eyes into a stinking heap and my hand sinks into the morass. "I'm here Lord."

Jeb said that I would understand. I don't. The scenes have been frightening. My ears still ring with the screams of the victims. My nose is still fouled by the stench of death. I feel a great wrath swelling up inside of me; an anger indescribable, immense in its fury. I am indignant.

The room grows dark and a slide show begins. The images flash rapidly before my eyes. A bent finger, curled inward; a bloodstained torso, a gaping wound in its side; feet pointed downward with two spikes driven through them; one wrist and then another, alternating in view, with similar spikes driven between the bones; a bleeding, torn back - multiple contusions and holes where the flesh has been ripped out with jagged iron; a face, bowed, with blood dripping into the eyes - streaming downward like tears.

The scenes repeat themselves moving ever faster. Faster and faster they appear, the finger, the torso, the feet, the wrists, the back, the face. Again and again they appear in a frenzy of pain. And then they stop, and one picture remains. I am dizzy and nauseous. The finger, torso, feet, back and face has joined together to show a man, crucified. The sky above the man is dark, and rain is falling down like the tears of God. An eerie chill sweeps past, touching my bones before moving on. A woman lies in a heap at the foot of the cross, broken and suffering she weeps. Her tears are joined with my own and together they flow co-mingled down into the blood and the mud of the hill.

"I am here, Lord," I said.

For the next fifteen minutes the room is silent. The darkness is broken by a pinpoint burst of light, directly in front of me, which grows stronger and stronger. The light begins as a minuscule speck and explodes into a ball of glory. Standing in its epicenter is one like the son of man. His head is covered with wool, pure and white. His feet are burnished brass. In his left hand are seven lamp stands and out of his mouth comes a sharpened two-edged sword. I watch as he ascends upward into the clouds and disappears. As I watch, the thunder rolls and fells me to the floor. On hands and knees I whisper, "How long, O Lord, how long?"

There is no response.

I sit with my head bowed and my arms wrapped around my knees, weeping. A dog barks. It strikes me as odd, under the circumstances, but I am most interested in my arms and knees. Somewhere along the line I reacquired them. I can't see them, the silver fog is two thick, but I can feel them. I run my hands along my legs and rub my chest and face. When I bring my hands directly in front of my face, I can see them. All five fingers wiggle in front of my eyes and I laugh. The barking of the dog breaks into my glee; I've heard that bark before. Bumpers?

The barking continues. It is a happy bark. A frolicking youthful bark of a dog in its prime. A bark of recognition and love. The mist clears and Bumpers sees me. She bounds toward me with her tail wagging an leaps into my arms. Her tongue washes my face, great slobbering licks, and she jumps and spins and barks and leaps once again against me, knocking me onto my back.

"Oh, Lord, am I glad to see you! How ya doing girl!" I scratch behind her ears and she slobbers my face. We roll around and play the games of children until we both are exhausted with happiness. "This is great, Lord. Thank You."

The mist parts once again, and a lone figure appears in the distance. A voice comes from the mist and fills the room, echoing through the beads: "This is my beloved," it said. "This is my beloved; my beloved; my beloved."

"I am here Lord," I said.

I rise to my feet to await my confrontation. My head is bowed as I step forward. Bumpers stays behind.

The figure is ill distinguished in the mist so I approach it slowly. I begin to quiver at the thought of meeting God. A bright light splinters out from behind the living being casting its body in shadows. Rays of light shoot forth from between its arms and legs and spread out from behind its head. A similar light bursts forth behind me. As I walk forward, it begins to take shape. It is small, five feet five inches tall, and delicately proportioned. I take two more steps and the figure turns to the side exposing a fully formed breast. Long, flowing hair falls across her shoulders and she turns to face me once again. Her eyes sparkle as the light dances in the depths of revelation.

"Debbie?" I ask, afraid to be wrong.

“Mark?" she responds. Her voice is questioning, as if carrying the same fear.

I run to embrace her and she to me and we fall into each others arms. The warmth of her body envelopes me and like a moth to a flame I am drawn in. The heat touches the nerve endings of my soul. I hold her with all my strength and great tears of joy fall from my eyes. I touch her face and kiss her mouth and taste the salt of her own tears. "I told you I would be with you forever," she said.

"And I didn't believe you," I said. "Silly me!" I lifted her up, swinging her high into the air, and we laughed and kissed and cried with joy. "Lord, am I happy to see you," I said. "It wouldn't be right without you."

"Amen," she said. "Amen."

The mist lifted completely and we stood at the edge of a garden. We walked without speaking in the cool of the evening, hand in hand, naked and unashamed. In the center of the garden stood a single tree with fruit ripe and pleasant to the eye. We took of the fruit and ate and satisfied our hunger. We remained unashamed

Everything was fine.



The end