Children of the Program (5 page)

              After a few rotations of the small hand, my shortsighted packing was complete and my pilgrimage began.  The complexities of the situation were never given the weight they deserved, nor a chance to take hold.  My cronies, neighbors and relatives were signaled, presumably by smoke, we exchanged swan songs, and my vehicle nonchalantly reversed from the driveway.  I made it to the closest convenience store, checked off my itemized to-do list, withdrew the last 200 dollars to my name and began descending into the abyss, to which I was called. 

              There was a certain romanticism to it all, but when I fastened my seat belt, it all began to click.

chapter 6

back from a suicide

The sun was a persistent antagonist.  All energy, siphoned; no explanation given
.
  The murderous growl of a motorcycle broke-up the monotony.  The hindquarters of the throttling hog kicked up a hellish sandstorm, blocking the group's vision from what lurked behind.  When the dust settled, an average-sized, shirtless individual emerged.  He was dirty, wore a black helmet, adorned with a rooster-inspired orange comb, and stood with devilish poise.

              Slowly removing his silver-tinted aviator glasses, the beast pulled a joint from his inside leather jacket pocket and commanded his steel horse to hush and heel.  The heart of the radio remained beating, while The Rolling Stones, “Sympathy for the Devil” killed the dead air with an awaited dialog.  Dark history surrounded Jagger's poetry, which made its eerie message seem awkwardly cliché.  The cruel summer sun only reinforced the notion that they were in hell!

              The man slowly walked toward the transfixed group.  They were noticeably tense, sitting with crossed legs on the mysterious ivory sphere.  He peered down with a cobra's disdain and magnetic eyes.

              “Name's Dez,” he gruffed.

              “Hi,” they responded, with begrudging acceptance.

              “I really don't feel like I belong here,” said Rand, under his breath.

              “You don't,” responded Simon.

              “Do any of you scarecrows have a little fire?” asked Dez, patronizing their suspicions.

              “I always carry a light.  You never know when you might find yourself in the middle of the desert and asked by a Hell's Angel for fire.  Ironic, really?” sassed Ash, curious if Simon caught her mocking quip.  “First, soldier, I think we'd all like to know a little bit more about you.  First question, are you Evel Knievel?”

              “Well, I have about 99 dollars that belonged to someone else, I'm withdrawing from dope and I've been on my uncomfortable bike for roughly seven hours in this godforsaken heat.  I think you know why I'm here, darling,” he barked, allowing his words to idle.  “Now, can I get that light?”

              “Give him the light,” said Neco, distracting Dez's focus and cooling the vibrations.

              Dez arrogantly whet his budding marijuana tongue and lit the roach.  He tossed back Ash's white lighter, refusing to cease eye contact, and sauntered from the uneasy group.  He nested in the rocks, to enjoy his grass in peace. 

              In what appeared to be a collective moment of deja vu, Magnus came barreling toward the circle.  His motorcycle, fully operational.  Though his entrance was far more subtle than that of his cancerous colleague, he still managed to raise a few eyebrows, fueling the speechless group's suspicion of what the getaway mile demon's club had conspired to do with them.  A human sacrifice, orchestrated by a notorious motorcycle gang, seemed entirely plausible.

              “I definitely don't belong here,” said Rand, under his breath.

              “I already told you, that!” joked Simon.   Petty banter drew them closer.

              “What do you got there, hot shot?” asked Dez, unimpressed.

              “Do you have a problem?” responded Magnus.

              “Not yet!  Let the territorial pissing begin...”

              Magnus shed a much smaller shadow, content to kiss babies and shake hands with the confused company.  He didn't have the energy to cast the same bravado as Dez.  His approach was the cool rain of a passing storm.  His jaded heart hadn't been completely soiled by his ruffled upbringing.  There was still a glimmer of hope in the iris of his emerald eyes, despite the darkness lurking behind his easy smile. 

              “The dreams got so bad that I tried to overdose and succeeded,” offered Magnus.  He knew they were looking for answers, but were fatigued by questions.  “When I died, a bright light took me to a beautiful circular room.  I knew, I'd been there.  On magnificent crystal walls, it showed me a desert landscape. Twelve purple-blue stones surrounded a large white circle.  I was told my time had not come and was tragically sent back.  I believe those rocks represent us!”

              The revelation gave everyone hope.  There was suddenly a reason to believe they weren't simply ushered to death's oasis and that other travelers, with answers, would be arriving.  Jealousy and suspicion drew a sobering Dez from the rocks.  His instinct to control lacked reach.  He became increasingly embittered by Magnus's ability to communicate and ability to connect.

              “I don't believe a word of it,” he hurled from the distance.

              “Wasn't it Mick Jagger who said, 'Lose your dreams and lose your mind...’” mocked Simon.  He knew Dez would catch his snark.
"Dreams are chased on faith.  Are you suggesting you do not believe in dreams?” he paused, placing Dez in check.  “Are we to assume you simply had nothing better to do today?” asked Simon, moving him into checkmate.

              “I guess you could say, our man, Magnus, is back from a suicide?” added Neco.

              Dez scoffed and returned to the clouds from which he came.  The group disregarded his attitude and began deliberating on the meaning of the stones.  Color and quantity were the Mystery Machine's only clues.   Their road, paved in speculative chatter, remained a welcome distraction from the still of voiding minds.  

              “Hello, I trust you're all tired, thirsty and confused,” offered a wandering mirage. 

              The man was dressed in a yellow and blue striped Polo shirt, corduroy slacks and white leather Nike Air golf shoes.  Short dirty blonde hair was tucked beneath a Titleist cap.  He was of average stature and appeal, offsetting the complexities of his city with the simplicity of his ironic posture.  Pulling a yellow No. 2 pencil from behind his relaxing ear cartilage, he began scribbling notes into a spiral notebook.  They were sure he'd soon hurl questions and perform a full audit of sorts.

              “What's your name?” scoffed Dez, from the distance.

              “Grayson.  I'm from Brooklyn.  I'd have been here sooner, but my flight was delayed in Texas.”

              “Thanks for the insight.  You don't look like you're from New York,” prodded Dez.

              “You don't look like you'd know,” said Simon.

              “Well, that's 7 stones,” added Neco.

+++

              The group grew exasperated.  Rand sat quietly.  He was synthesizing life's fodder, trying to produce his own tree of knowledge.  If patience was a fleeting virtue and mindless chatter an uneven crutch, he felt an anxious silence might bear him the sought after fruits of wisdom.  Ash had also reached her social limit and took refuge in Neco's welcoming lap.  Following the tempting lead of groupthink, Simon kneaded the sandy ground beneath his dirty paws and curled for a nap.  Dez baked.

              While the group recharged their taxed senses, Magnus took the initiative to stockpile water from a nearby gas station.  It was there he found Elisa asking for directions. Her abandoned demeanor immediately gave her destination away.

              “I can give you a ride,” he offered.  He could tell she was suspicious. “The dreams brought you here, right?” he added, with a smile.

              “Yes!” she said, with a smiling exhale.

              “Hop on!”

             
Elisa Tate was a shy bookworm of a soul.  She crawled about the center of her awkwardly perfect world, in hopes of never truly being unearthed.  A modest hole, on the surface, suggested she was open to the possibility and impossible to forget.  Her radiant hair was like the sands of the golden state that raised her. 

              She was gifted with wisdom, and carried an introvert's mystique.  A healthy and well-rounded family gave her shine.  She was poreless, beautiful and instantly intrigued by Magnus; he was the yin to her yang.  Growing up in a suburban neighborhood made charting the traditional course toward financial security a breeze and curiosity, a luxury. 

              Science was her God and she worshiped daily.  Societal laws were tolerated, so much as to gain the type of freedom that only submission could provide.  At heart, she was an artist, but her internal negative dialog refused to allow her to dismiss realism and risk judgment.

              Though withdrawn, she was still able to develop comfortable relationships in tragically hip social circles.  She did her best to till the garden for quality over quantity relationships and on this principle, only the most determined individuals were allowed behind the curtain.  Her rejection generated followers.

              Introductions aside, the two arrived.

Chapter 7

Visions of the red bird (anan)

The Council communicated through mad dreams and could send haunting visions of the red bird to participants of The Program.  The bird, Anan, represented dimensionality, and could effortlessly make the sands of an hourglass pour in both directions or in hypnotic tandem.  Orchestrating synchronicity in physicality was intuitive to its nature, as was leading unwilling spectators to the depths of life after life.

              Anan showed Programmers how to understand time beyond the boundaries of linear thinking, and encouraged them to divorce the simplistic measurements of man's capacity.  It explained the complexities of a mitosis-driven universe and was able to articulate how the beginning and end could simultaneously exist in an ever-expanding and fracturing soul cycle, while passing through each moment of awareness, connecting everything to everyone in every time period.

              Elisa recalled her dream.  Resting in puffy hotel linens, watching sitcom reruns and nibbling on leftover airplane peanuts, in a complimentary white robe, she found her taxed mind drifting.  It had been a long week of hotel hopping, with her Senior Week crew — she was wiped.  The posh parties had taken their toll.  As her bloodshot eyes switched the channels of consciousness, she encountered the ruby red bird. 

              From atop the television set, it stared through her startled eyes and instructed her to gaze into the static, like the girl from Poltergeist.  Scrambling signals, the tube idled and reflected her image like a mirror.  Intuitively she assumed she was being taped for a graduation prank.  Nervously testing its accuracy, she slowly waved her cautious hand about.  Accepting the lucid moment, Anan began rewinding her life.  She watched herself sleep, conscious, then quickly regressing through her current life, afterlife and witnessing a moment from her former life.  No longer the voyeur, she relived it, like reincarnation in reverse. 

              The Santa Monica Boulevard was tense and humid.  Distracted, looking for her mischievous keys in an extravagant Melrose-inspired handbag, Elisa emerged from an old mom and pop shop, awkwardly drinking from a tall carton of whole milk.  Crossing the threshold, dark storm clouds, manifesting above the quaking parking lot, began descending around her.

              “Hi, Elisa, what are you looking for?” asked a voice.

              “My keys...” she said, pulling a teething ring from her purse.

              “I may never see you again.  Please don't make me kill you.  We can still be together.”

              “What are you talking about?  Are you really trying to kill me in my sleep?” she asked.

              Shots fired.  She awoke, hurling expletives toward the idiot box.  The sequence was more lucid than any of the intolerably bad dreams she'd been forced to bear witness.  As her eyes focused on a new day, a magnificent cardinal caught her unfocused gaze.  Beckoning notice, it comfortably perched upon the sill, tweeting a soft short melody before taking flight.  Making the connection, Elisa rushed toward the window, but it was gone — blending with the towering New York City skyscrapers. 

+++

              Sometimes the dreams were guideposts.  I can still recall the unsettling feelings sparked by a marathon series of Faces of Death Vol. 1-4.  Fearing REM, heavy eyelids were reinforced with Jolt cola and Skittles.  A desktop lamp was tasked with running surveillance, and thwarting the threats of the monsters who would soon abound my twilit room. It was too late, nature had already begun its countdown, and prepared to up the ante on the disturbing images I'd carelessly consumed.  I awoke in a vision, wrestling immurement.  All exits were sealed. 

              Confined, the red bird, Anan, crowed to me.

              Upon acidic concrete prison walls, I was shown a tetrad of ways to understand the limitlessness of space.  Moments were shown on the dripping northern wall, from the past and of the future, when the astringent obstacles no longer existed.  It was an escape plan.  Chirps of faith encouraged me to risk chemical burns and simply walk through the blockade of smoldering green gasses.  Without caution, my spirit was released into a parallel dimension on the outside of the prison.

                “If time isn't confined to the body, how can these walls hold you?” asked Anan.

              I was then returned to the prison.  The only light came from the flickering southern wall.

              “In darkness, nothing exists, except for the fate created by an architect's mind,” crowed Anan.  When the illumination ceased, the walls faded and the universe, anew, became imaginable.

              “Everything is light,” added the red bird.

              Again, I awoke.  The eastern and western walls were replaced with mirrors, to express infinity.

              “Look to the East, everything is within,” said Anan.

              The mirrors vanished and I was startled by the lightning flashes on the western wall.  It was there I was shown the image of a baby with purplish eyes.  It represented the cycle of a promised evolution.  In the vision, I was chased by a possessed looking man with a piercing fury, while a beautiful young woman ran with the infant child through a bustling city.  She was surrounded by wolves.  I was trying to protect a new world from death's grip. 

              “With life comes death and in death comes life,” said Anan.

+++

              Few people understood the complexities of life more than Benjamin Maynard.  At an early age, he was abandoned by his cancerous mother and left to be raised by the Underground, lurking beneath the dank streets of London, England.  A nomadic calling drove her into the arms of a Tommy, with zero interest in raising a troubled young chap or sobering from his post-traumatic
stress disorder.  His biological father settled for a life on the run, after a bank robbery went south, resulting in the misfired deaths of three British Bobbies.  Society projected their disappointment upon the only visible reminder they could find.  Ben was marked.  Seeking his bourbon-riddled father would only carve distress signals, upon his otherwise blank mug and meant risking the whereabouts of a man incarcerated by anonymity; he knew it was wise to wait, without bated breath.

              He stood an average height and sported an overflowing dark brown mop top, reminiscent of the Fab 4.  His eyes, emerald; and his cautious smile, sincere.  His moral barometer was defined by observing neighborhood interactions between old friends and harboring families.  A vicarious life served as normalcy and kept his shattered spirit hopeful.  Absent from archetypes, his failed parents caused an overwhelming sense of rejection to brew within his tiny frame.  Commitment was seen as a home erected on shaky ground.  Gambling loss was a luxury built by the posh.  His interactions with passersby was curt, but cordial.  He was a survivalist, who kept hangers-on just beyond arm's length.

              His preteen years were strictly autonomous.  He knew the dock and restaurant schedules well enough to sneak seafood or whatever fodder his hands could stow.  Monitoring captains' work schedules enabled him short nights on port-side cabin floors; he'd scamper, if caught.  Before long, he found refuge with Britain's finest foster care program, no longer trampling the streets of a forgotten scorn.  His instincts were sharpened and his ability to survive, unmatched.  Though he'd made himself emotionally void, he was not impervious to the feelings aroused by his dreams. 

+++

              Resting on a dock, the red bird called.

              “I found myself lying in a rolling field, staring toward the heavens.  I often used the tall brush as a shelter from the noisy world and counted stars, until sheep lied down beside me.  On one haunting evening, I was already dreaming, though the lamb-scape never changed,” he explained and punned with an interviewing therapist.  “The clear sky was picturesque.  From my peripheral, I noticed a red star shooting towards me.  With focus, a tiny red wing span emerged.  Returning to the heavens, the mysterious falcon connected the stars like constellations, to resemble the Borromean rings.  They glowed red, green and blue and represented the past, present and the future,” he paused, allowing the intricacy to marinate. 

              The therapist carefully noted everything.             

              “I saw my face appearing in the top western ring.  It morphed and resurrected feelings from forgotten lifetimes.  My soul radiated from these familiar eyes, as I recalled their affect.  A strangely familiar girl appeared in the eastern circle.  Her face transformed, but remained discernible.  Reaching her shackled hands toward me, I could see her longing eyes welling with a vast regret. 

              “Do you believe she could represent your mother?” asked the doctor.

              Hypnotized by his account, Benjamin ignored her diagnosis and marched forward.

              “In the bottom circle I saw a brilliant pair of indigo eyes.  They instantly faded to black.  A small fire ignited and replaced the vacant ring; a fiery angelic face emerged.  Without caution, my instincts pawed toward the Aphrodite,” he paused, and quaked.

              “Continue,” instructed the curious therapist, placing a comforting hand on his clammy forehead. 

              “It distorted into a demonic figure and began screaming at me.  Its harsh tone was guttural, but piercing.  I cried in terror and my heart begged a swift exit from my pulsing ribcage.  Opening shuttered eyes, I saw three burning rings,” he said, calming.  I awoke with an old rusty black key clenched in my sweaty hand.”

              “Do you still have it?”

              “I have never been so terrified!  I can't shake this dream.  It haunts me,” he added, slowly rising from the leather couch.  He handed her the key.

              She examined the key and passed it back.

              “Do you believe this has something to do with your parents and how you might see yourself as the key to bringing them back together?”

              It was a fair diagnosis.