Castles (19 page)
Steve was in the Bus, waiting for the others. Together, they would all wait for the eels to come. Only then could I place those bricks in my castle in the sky.
It was in the summer of the following year that men came to clear out the land beyond the trailer park. They came with fences, with cranes and with tractors. They came in droves, like ants with little yellow hats, marching to the tune of progress, oblivious to the life they were obliterating. Smoke billowed from the exhaust pipes of bulldozers. Giant iron claws scratched the desert floor. The sounds of hammers and drills and metal pounding on metal filled the air for months.
On a stormy day, a flatbed trailer with a warped plywood surface and rusted chains came. It hauled away the 1967 Volkswagen Bus, the sacrificial altar, the birthplace of the bricks in my castle, the tomb of Michael, of Steve and of his friends. It sputtered in its task and finally left with as much impersonal aplomb as it had when it arrived.
Now I sit and now I wait. I wait for the eels to return, for the voices in the wind to let me know what to do next. I sit on the chair Grandma sat on with her afghan wrapped around me. I sit with my back to the trailer, my eyes on the desert beyond. It doesn't matter to me that the Bus is gone or that the men of progress are changing my view of things. In fact, the men are building homes, places of other men, of other messes to be made.
Men of progress are bringing more bricks for my castle.
They can't resist a poor woman with child. When they get here, they will think they can rescue me from my trailer, rescue me from my life of misery. Then they will try to hurt me, they will try to take away my will to survive, my strength as a woman.
They will try, and they will fail.
The dust eels will come over the horizon. They will swim in the wind, gnash their teeth. Their bodies will slam against each other as they ride the storm.
You see, God provides us the tools to clean up our messes, but we have to step out ourselves and do the work. We have to stand in the wind that rages around us and listen to His guidance. We have to confront what we have caused and wipe free our own slates. We have to act.
I didn't realize any of this until I looked in Steve's eyes and saw how messy life had become. It was then that I needed to cleanse my sins and lay down that last brick to my castle.
But I was wrong; there are more bricks out there. My castle is not yet large enough.
The dust eels are coming, and I'm sure you understand.
So, who am I? That's really not an easy question to answer, although you may think so. Who are we? Electrons and protons and neutrons held together by some quantum force to form neurons and cells and synapses? Are we flesh or are we soul? Isn't this the stuff philosophers and scientists, monkeys and preachers have been asking for centuries?
If you're looking for a quick biographical sketch of my life, here's one for you: I have been--at different times, of course--a fry cook, range boy, greens maintenance technician, reservations agent, room service attendant, editor, banquet server, meteorologist, instructor, program manager for Internet applications and curriculum developer.
Exciting stuff, to be sure. I mean there was that one time I took flight on the wings of an F-16, but I puked. So, I usually don't count that.
All in all, the important thing to remember is that I am a writer. I have penned a few novels, deleted a few novels, edited a few novels and am, of course, writing a few novels.
