Ann / Aiko

The incense smoke slowly drifted through the small Buddhist Temple, borne on the Trade Wind blowing down Nuuanu Valley and a bell’s sharp metallic chimes lingered in the air accenting the Japanese of the priest conducting the service.  Ann was a tiger by the Asian zodiac thought she hardly looked the part, being somewhat less than five feet tall, slim even in her later years, with a slightly crooked smile that showed off her dimples well.  But when Ray deeply wounded her by his betrayal, she acted with tigerish certainty to thereafter cloud his life. 

When my husband Bill was told that Ann had requested that he give her eulogy, we felt surprised but honored.  Why Bill?  We finally decided it was because of Seattle.  Seattle was where Ann and I first met and became friends.

  

Bill knew Ann long before that.  He and Ray came home to Honolulu from college in the East after graduating in ’53.  They had been friends since high school and then attended the same college as two of a few students from Hawaii.  That summer of ‘53 the Korean War was on and Ray was waiting to be drafted, while Bill would be starting medical school in the fall.  One night shortly after they returned, Ray and Bill went to a saimin stand where Ann waited on them.  Bill described her as petite and more pretty than beautiful back then.  The two of them spent many nights at that saimin stand near the corner of Kalakaua and Young, sitting under strings of glowing paper lanterns that swayed in the warm summer breeze, lingering over meat sticks and bowls of saimin, flirting with Ann until she had to wait on other customers.

Ray was Nisei and Ann a recently divorced war bride.  She told me once, after we’d known each other a while, about the very difficult time she’d had in Yokohama after Japan lost the war.  She was pretty much on her own, doing what she had to, to survive.  While waiting tables she met a lonely GI from Hawaii who, in time, proposed.  When their marriage ended in Honolulu after three years, she resumed waitressing.  And then she met Ray.

Bill said that he was very surprised when, towards the end of summer, Ray told him that he was seriously thinking of marrying Ann.  He had received his draft notice and would be reporting for basic training in September.  And then most likely it was off to Korea.  Bill missed their wedding since he was in medical school in Boston by then.

Boston was where Bill and I met.  I had majored in art history in college, had been hired at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, and had moved there from New York not knowing too many people.  Bill and I were introduced as blind dates by one of my few Boston friends.  Somewhat to my surprise, Bill, this Chinese-American medical student from Hawaii, seemed intrigued by what I had studied, rather than amused as some people seem to be by anyone majoring in art history.  I think his interest was genuine because he still likes to go with me to museums even though he confessed that he only visited the Honolulu Academy of Art as a high school student when he had an assignment that required him to go.  In any event, he called me back after that first date and things progressed from there.

We were married after he graduated, just before he entered internship.  He used to say that he married me for my money since I made more than he did, but having a double income ended when I had our first baby Thomas at the start of Bill’s last year of residency training three years after our wedding.  Not the best planning, but I found that I enjoyed staying home and being a mother.  Bill went into the Army after residency and we moved to Georgia for two years while he served out his military commitment.  In the army, we enjoyed a comfortable income for the first time, nicer housing than our Boston apartment, and friendships with other couples who were at the same stage in their lives as we were.  Bill got to put into practice what he had learned.

Bill talked about doing a fellowship after the army, and he was accepted to one in Seattle at the University of Washington studying infertility.  By this time, Tommy was three years old and had been joined by Laurel, our army baby.  The fellowship didn’t pay as well as Bill’s captain’s salary but the hours were regular and we really were able to spend a lot of time together as a family, especially now with the two little ones.  We rented a cute small two bedroom cottage not far from the hospital and Bill’s lab.  It was a happy time.

I remember the January day Bill came home very excited.  “Jin, you won’t believe who I ran into today!  I was rushing to the library and practically collided with Ann as she was coming through a door.  We were both shocked!  Ray and she have been here since the summer!  Ray’s in law school and she works in the hospital photography department.”

“Ann and Ray who?” I asked.

“I told you about them, don’t you remember?  Ray is my friend from high school and he married Ann the summer after we graduated from college and then he went into the army and we lost track of each other.”

“Vaguely,” I said.

“Well, anyway, I told her that we’d call them about going over tonight after we feed the kids and have dinner.”

“Wait a minute.  Tonight?  The kids have to go to bed and I don’t know them.  Why don’t you go?” I said.

“It’s not like the kids are in school or anything.  If your sisters were visiting, you wouldn’t think twice about letting them stay up late.”

That was a little unfair, I thought.  But after we talked some more, I decided okay, they are Bill’s old friends and he’s so excited, I guess I should go with the kids.

I didn’t know what to expect.  Bill was kind of hyper on the way over, talking fast as he does when he’s excited, about the times he had with Ray in school.  They sounded like a pair of semi-delinquents to me and I hoped that he was exaggerating. 

Ann and Ray lived in an older graduate student apartment building just across the street from the campus.  I think it was called the Eberly.  Their studio was a little musty, a little warn, but spare and neat.  It had a high ceiling and one large window that looked out onto an interior court. 

Ray and Ann seemed somewhat formal at first, rather Japanese.  They certainly didn’t fit the picture that Bill gave me of impulsive love and a quick marriage before going into the army, of college nights spent drinking and playing cards and pool.  But then that was nine years before.

Ann was soft-spoken, pretty; she had really cute deep dimples.  She still spoke heavily accented immigrant English that I had to concentrate to understand.  Ann was an attentive hostess and had prepared simple pupus—as I later learned to call them—and beer for the men.  She didn’t like beer either and we had green tea.

While the men caught up and reminisced, we exchanged our stories.  Ann was a few years older than the rest of us.  Her actual Japanese name was Aiko but she began to use Ann for convenience after the war when speaking to American GI’s.  She sighed sympathetically when I told her of sailing from Hong Kong to America alone at fifteen, “So young.”  She told me about how difficult it was for her in Japan after the Americans won the war.  I didn’t tell her then about living under Japanese occupation in Shanghai during the war, and she didn’t tell me then about her first marriage.  In spite of my initial reservations, I found myself warming to her—after all, we had both been displaced by war to come to America.

Ray had a handsome lean face and a compact athletic body; he’d been a jock in high school according to Bill.  He was first year law, having worked as a civilian for the army in Japan after his honorable discharge until deciding to return to the US and go to law school.  He and Bill drank what seemed like a lot of beer, talked loudly and laughed a lot.  Ann agreed that they were beginning to act, “So silly.” Tommy fell asleep somehow on the bed, but Laurel was as wound up as the men and I wondered how I was going to get her to sleep once we got home.  We agreed to get together at our house that weekend.

On Saturday night, Ann brought me a package of green tea and Ray, a six pack.  I cooked a Chinese meal, but the rice was too soft and the vegetables a little overdone.  Ray got down on the floor with the kids and played horse with Tommy with Laurel pattering around after them, laughing, screaming, and wanting her turn.  At later visits, Ray would wrestle with Tommy and give Laurel airplane spins.  They stayed well past midnight and, since they didn’t have a car, Bill gave them a ride home while I tried to get the kids to bed and then clean up.

Seattle was a great place to be studying and we saw each other regularly.  We were thirty something and it was an optimistic, hopeful time with the future waiting.  Movies were an affordable entertainment with Sean Connery as James Bond and My Fair Lady and Mary Poppins and that weird Dr. Strangelove.  Eating out was often Chinese because it was inexpensive and Chinese, although Seattle’s Chinatown didn’t offer a lot of choice.  Bill and Ray drank some, though, as Bill reassured me after those first two nights, “No where like in college.  We used to get so hungover!  There was the time Ray couldn’t get out of bed in time to get to the toilet and threw up next to his bed.  Was that funny!”  Hmmm…

We talked, but not the all-nighters that Bill and Ray said they had in college where they, fueled by beer, solved all the problems of the world.  Seafood on the dock at Ivars was reasonably priced.  In the spring we squeezed into our small station wagon and drove up to the Skagit Valley tulip fields.  Riding the ferries was fun, especially for the kids.  When Bill’s mother came during the summer, she took us all out at to eat at a proper restaurant. 

Neither Ray or I were fishermen, but Bill was an enthusiastic though mostly unsuccessful one.  Ann also liked fishing so on some days when he wasn’t going to fish for steelhead, he would pick her up in the early, sometimes drizzly grey morning light and they would fish from a dock.

“Never did catch much,” Bill would recall in later years, and Ann would laugh and correct him, “We never catch nothing.”  On the very few occasions when he caught a steelhead, we’d have them over to share the proof of Bill’s success.

“See, I can catch fish,” he’d say with some pride.

“How come when I go, we no catch?” she’d laugh, bringing him back to earth.

Ann and Ray were Auntie Ann and Uncle Ray to our children and they continued to be special to them even after they went away to college and grew to adulthood.  Children like stability and I think they saw that in our long friendship.  Incidents like the time Bill and Ray both grabbed for the check and broke the plastic tray it come on right in front of the astonished waitress passed into their childhood lore as “I remember the time when …” stories to their friends.  They certainly were as close to them as to their actual Aunts and Uncles.

I think Ann felt we somewhat shared the same backgrounds being born and raised in Asia and having gone through the war experience there.  She said she found my lack of accent remarkable, although my kids always insisted that I had one.  I told Ann it was because I came to the US at fifteen and she at twenty-two.  She told me how frightened the girls and women were at the end of the war about what the American troops would do to them when they landed.  And in time I was able to tell her how terrified I was of the Japanese troops carrying long dark rifles with gleaming bayonets, who occupied Shanghai.  To this day I can picture those long steel blades flashing in the sun and feel the emotions I felt when I was nine.

After three years, Ray graduated from Law school, and in another year Bill’s fellowship ended and we moved to Hawaii within a year of each other.  At the time, not being from there, I would have preferred to stay around Seattle which was comfortably familiar by then.  But Hawaii was Bill’s home.

Bill went into practice with a group that was looking for a third OB-GYN.  His hours were less predictable than during fellowship now that he was in practice, but better than in the army when he was the only one.

Ray started practice in a small law firm but rapidly became successful in corporate law and after three years left to open his own office where Ann helped him in the early days, keeping a tight watch on the books until his business really expanded.  Tourism and investments from Japan were starting to boom and with the years he’d spent in Japan after leaving the army and with Ann acting as hostess to clients from Japan, he had a natural advantage with Japanese who needed legal counsel.  Ray developed commercial interests—a tour business, one store and then three, with designer accessories and jewelry that were geared to the tourist market.  The only thing that did not succeed was a restaurant in which he was a minority partner.  The businesses meant that he was on the plane to Japan a lot.  Ann was able to fully retire from the office.  They had made it.

to be concluded

 

Ann / Aiko Part 2.

We helped each other to move more than once.  In time, they moved into the home of their dreams high up on the Heights, one in keeping with their status and ideal for entertaining. 

They remained childless.  They had consulted Bill’s mentors in Seattle and others in Honolulu after their return, but nothing was helpful.  Ann and Ray discussed adoption, but in the end decided not to, even though Bill thought that Ray always regretted not being a father.  After all, he was the only son in his family among three sisters, and there was no one to carry on the family name.

Over the years we remained close friends even though we did not spend as much time together as during the earlier days.  We were involved with children’s activities and school and they were not.  Ray golfed; Bill fished, taking the kids along as they got older.  They enjoyed tailgated with friends at University football games; we did not.  Ray loved going to Vegas; Bill and I were terrible at cards.  Ann worked in the office and was very involved in the social aspects of Ray’s business while I was a mother and homemaker.  Ray was on a first name basis with the governor; we just voted. 

But there was still that bond between Bill and Ray that stretched from high school to college to Seattle.  And Ann and I, who came in our youth to live in a strange new land, shared the experience of helping our husbands during the lean, early years of their studies and work.  Old ties soaked in shared memories of the past bind the tightest.

And then it all unraveled.

Her call came while Bill was at the office.  I recognized Ann’s voice, but it was so strained and mixed with crying that it was hard to understand.  I had to ask her to repeat herself, because I just couldn’t believe what she was saying.

“Ray, he get one girl friend in Tokyo.  One real young girl.  And now she like come here.  And Ray, he say he like bring her so she can work in the store.”

I felt a cold tight ball form in my chest.  “Oh Ann,” was all I could say at first.  How could he?  Mostly I listened.  It was such an old story.  And now it had happened to her.  Just awful.

When at last she hung up, I called Bill at the office.  “Bill, I just got a call from Ann.  She was terribly upset.  Did Ray ever tell you he had a girl friend in Japan?”

“Yeah?…well …sort of.”

“What do you mean ‘sort of’?  Did he or didn’t he tell you?”

“Look, I got a bunch of patients waiting.  Let’s talk about it tonight.”

I waited impatiently for him to come home and met him at the door.

“What did you mean ‘sort of’?”

“At least let me get changed first.”

I followed him to our bedroom.

“Well,” Bill sighed reluctantly, “You remember how heavy Ray was getting two years ago and then how he suddenly started to trim down and work out and we all told him how good he was looking?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that was about the time he started to really get fond of this girl.”

“Get fond of!  How long has this been going on?”

“I guess for a couple of years before that.”

“When did he tell you?”

“The two of us were having lunch about a year ago and he asked me if I’d ever thought about having a mistress.”

“What!”

“Yeah.  So I asked him why.  So he told me.  He said that she wanted to come to Honolulu and he was thinking about it but didn’t know how to tell Ann.”

“So did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Ever think about having a mistress?”

“For God’s sake, Jin Hua, of course not!”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Ray asked me not to say anything to anyone.  I really didn’t know what else to do.  Would you have told Ann?”

“No.  I guess not.  You men can be just unbelievable.”

“What do you mean ‘you men’.  Don’t generalize like that.”

“Yes.  Well let’s not say anything to the kids when we call them this weekend, okay?”

I had known that Ray’s uncle had a mistress who lived next door to the home that the uncle, his wife, and two children lived in and that when Ray’s cousin was sixteen, his father took him to see his mistress so that his son could have his first sex experience properly.  I was shocked when Bill told me that story, but then his uncle was in the first generation.

After he told me that story, Bill asked, “So why are you surprised?  After all, you told me that your father’s uncle had three wives all under one roof and had kids with all of them.  Some fun family reunions  you must have in your family.”

“That was in Shanghai and two generations ago,” I’d replied.

How could Ray contemplate the same thing now?

Ann kicked Ray out of their home when the girl moved to Honolulu over her objections.  Ann was talking divorce.  We later found out she’d also threatened to commit suicide.  Ray moved in with the girl Michiko for a while and then, somehow, talked Ann into letting him come home by promising to break things off.  But he said he needed some time to do it.  Things seemed to be pretty calm for about six months and when we went out with them, it almost seemed like old times except, of course, it couldn’t be.  Ray still did not end the relationship.  Ann finally gave him an ultimatum of the either she goes or I go kind.

He just couldn’t do it.  He told Bill, “It’s not like I’m out whoring all over town.  I love Michiko.”

“Do you still love Ann?” asked Bill.

“Of course.  And look, I’m grateful to Ann for what she’s done for me—for us.  I haven’t forgotten.  But when I’m with Michi, she makes me feel like I’m thirty again.”

Ann kicked him out again and retained a lawyer.  I think she would have gotten the divorce and her settlement and gone on with her life.  But then she heard that the girl had told Ray that she wanted to prove her love for him by having his baby.  And that was just too much.

The call came on a Sunday as I was starting to prepare dinner.  It was Ray’s long time office manager, Doris, who’d taken over from Ann.  Her voice cracked as she started to speak and she paused to gulp.  I had a terrible premonition about what she was about to say.

“Jin Hua, I’ve got really bad news. ” She had to stop and gather herself again.  “Ann killed herself in the office this afternoon.  You’ll probably see it on the evening news.”  I felt lightheaded and the rest of her words seemed to come from far away as I listened in disbelief and horror.

Bill was at the hospital and I left word with the operator to page him as soon as he finished with the patient he was called in to see.  I guess I was still in denial when he called back.

“Hey hon, what’s up?” he asked.

“Oh Bill, Ann is gone,” I choked out.

“Gone where, to L.A. again?”

“No, she’s gone—she’s dead—she killed herself—Doris called me.  She went to the office and let herself in.  No one was there.  She opened the files and poured gasoline on them and then it looks like she sat down at Ray’s desk and drenched herself and set herself on fire.”

“Oh my God,” was all Bill could say in a shocked whisper.

I met Bill at the door when he came home.  We held on to each other tightly without speaking for a long time while tears trickled down my cheeks and wet his shirt.

Bill and I talked about what to say at her service.  Perhaps when Ann planned her protest, full of bitterness, anger, and shame, she thought of those years in Seattle that had been so rich with happiness and plans for the future, and left word that Bill should speak.  And so Bill did, recalling Seattle, trying not to choke up, hoping he had interpreted her wishes correctly.

I watched her husband while Bill gave the eulogy, sitting in the front row as if carved from granite, alone with his thoughts.  I had to blink rapidly as I thought about what Doris had told me before the service—that that girl Michiko might be having morning sickness.

Ray never told Bill what he thought of the eulogy except to say to Bill immediately after the service, “Thanks Bill, Ann would have liked that.”  He didn’t look me in the eyes.

 

Where have all the flowers gone?

Long time passing.

Bright in the morning sun,

Long time ago.

Where have all the flowers gone—

Faded, scattered every one.

When will they ever learn,

When will they ever learn?

     —adapted from Pete Seeger

Hands

“Look at those hands move over the keyboard!” Sue whispered to me.  “They look like spiders leaping around with a life of their own.”

“I’m glad you dragged me out to this recital.  Even a classical dolt like me can appreciate a really remarkable talent, I whispered back.”

“How would you know?” Sue teased.  “You never come with me unless I force you to, like this time.”

“Shhhhh,” came a loud hiss from the lady seated behind us.

I’m not a classical music buff although my wife is, and I usually don’t accompany her to concerts and recitals, but this time she insisted that I go with her to hear Thomas Costa, a young prodigy, who was just starting to get national attention.  “You’’ll be happy in the future that you’ll be able to say, yes, I heard him play when he was still relatively undiscovered,” she said.

That’s why I was very surprised when, on a Monday morning a few weeks later, Alice, my receptionist, pointed out his name on my schedule.  “He’s your first patient, and oh, can you ask him to sign my program that I just happen to have with me, after you see him?” she asked.   

He was already in the exam room, as I walked in and introduced myself.  He really is young—but taller than he looked performing—big hands, I thought as we shook carefully.  Don’t want to mash down on those flying fingers too hard, though actually he could probably crush mine.  “How would you like to be addressed—Mr. Costa, Thomas, or Tom?” I asked.

“Tom works,” he replied with a shy smile.

“Well then Tom, what can I do for you today?”

“It’s about my hands,” he said.

“Before we go further, Tom, I want you to know that I know next to nothing about classical music, although my wife and receptionist do and are fans of yours.  So if your question involves anything technically musical, I’m not your best choice.”

“That’s why I made an appointment with you.  I asked my GP who might be a good neurologist who did not follow classical music closely, and he suggested you.  I wanted to see someone who would have a very open mind.”

“I’ll try to keep one,” I said.  “Please tell me why you’re here.”

“It’s about my hands,” said Tom.  “Sometimes when I’m quiet, sitting or lying down, they seem to move like they are doing it on their own.”

“Like tremors or trembling?” I asked.

“No, more like they are playing a piece of music.”

“Does it ever happen when you are actually playing the piano?”

“No, just when I am not doing anything.”

“Does it ever happen like when you’re using your hands like driving or eating or on the computer?”

“Never.”

“And when did you first notice this?”

“About two months ago.”

I went on with additional questions but there wasn’t much more to add.  His hands weren’t doing anything in the office, so I couldn’t see his problem, if there was one, for myself.  A full physical exam followed by a  neurologic exam were unrevealing.

“Has anyone else seen these hand movements?”

“My mother has, and she’s worried and insisted that I see a doctor.”

“Well, what I’d like you to do is to ask her to video them if it happens again, and bring it with you on your next visit.  In the meantime I’d like you to get these tests done.”

Testing was unrevealing and I shared the negative results with Tom at his next visit a week later.  He played the video of the hand movements for me on his smart phone.  I agreed that they looked more like his fingers were playing something and just not experiencing simple tremors.  “If you think they are moving as on piano keys, do you recognize what they are playing?” I asked.

“No.”

The MRI of his brain was normal, and so was the spinal tap that he had very reluctantly agreed to.  Over the course of a month, Tom reported that the movements were happening more often, were becoming stronger,  broader, more sweeping, and they were now interfering with sleep.  “I have to sit on my hands when I am with people so they don’t see them move.  And you asked me once if my hands were playing a piece of music?  Well, now I think they are.  What’s happening to me?  Am I going crazy?”  He was understandably worried and agitated. 

“From what you’ve told me and from my evaluation of you, no, I don’t think you are psychotic,” I said.  “But do you think you could be, in a way, rehearsing—playing air piano like playing air guitar?” I asked.

“Why would I do that when I can do it on an actual piano anytime?”    

“Tom, I’m puzzled too and have no answer.  I’l like to try you on some medicines to see if they help.  I also would like to have you seen by an expert in movement disorders up at the University, if that’s okay with you.  A Dr. Stille.  I’ll also continue to see you but I think we need more brains working on your problem.”

The drugs I tried him on made no difference.  Stille put him through more tests and also drew a blank.  He did refer Tom to a psychiatrist here locally, Bob Mannix, who I knew well and had worked with previously.  “Just to cover all bases,” Stille told Tom.  Tom reluctantly agreed to go.

On Tom’s next visit with me he said that he now felt compelled to be at the piano all the time when he wasn’t eating or sleeping.  “I feel like my hands are forcing me to go to the keyboard to play.  Like they have their own life and I am only a vehicle for transporting them.  They are no longer content to just go through the motions, they want to do it on the piano.  They are taking me over.”

The way he was describing his hands as entities separate from himself sounded very disturbing.  “Have you told Dr.  Mannix this?”

“Yes, and he wants to try me on some other medicines, but I’m worried about the side effects.”

Maybe something for schizophrenia, I thought.

Tom continued, “And now the music that they play are sometimes pieces that I have not studied or played before!  How is that possible!?”

I mumbled something about perhaps learning them subliminally from having heard them, but Tom insisted some were works that he was sure he had never heard played.

“Listen to this review of Thomas Costa’s performance with the Philharmonic!” said Sue after dinner one night.  “‘After receiving a prolonged standing ovation punctuated by cheering for his performance of the Beringer Piano Concerto Number Six, Costa returned for an encore.  Selecting the even more difficult and seldom-played Rasputin Fireworks Fanfare, Costa exploded at the keyboard.  The audience could not contain their enthusiasm and even as echoes of the last thunderous chords still lingered in the air, they leaped to their feet as one, joined by the members of the orchestra.’  Wow.”

This was just before his last visit with me. 

“Congratulations, Tom,” I said,  “You received a fantastic review of your performance.  Especially your encore piece.”

“But that’s just the thing,” said Tom, looking haggard.  “I went back to the piano intending to play another piece, and my hands just took over.  I hadn’t even practiced the Rasputin!”  He looked at me expectantly.

I didn’t know what to think or say.  “I don’t think I’ve been any help to you Tom.  I will keep on the lookout for any information relating to your condition, and you’re always welcome to come back and see me, but for now, see what Dr. Mannix comes up with.” 

“You think I’m losing my mind too.”

“Tom, you are a brilliant talent and have been under a lot of stress.  So while I don’t think you are out of your mind, I really don’t know what is going on.  I have never heard or read of anything like this.  But I will keep looking.  With your permission I would like to stay in contact with Dr. Mannix who I know and have worked with in the past.  May we talk about your condition?”

“Yeah, I guess,” he said in a low, discouraged voice.

“Let’s schedule a recheck for a month, but remember, you’re welcome to come back at any time.”

“What’s the use?”

I called Bob Mannix three weeks later.  The anti-psychotic drugs hadn’t made a difference.  In fact, he said, things were worse.  Tom was losing weight and looked drawn and tired; he was at the piano for hours day and night. 

“He feels desperate,” said Bob.  “Said that if we couldn’t help him he would try something else.”

“Which is?”

“He is going to try an exorcism.”

“What!”

“He feels that his hands have their own life and that they have taken control of his mind and body.  I couldn’t dissuade him.”

My next view of Tom was on the 6 o’clock TV news a few days later.  Tom was in handcuffs, looking gaunt, disheveled, and confused, being taken in from a police cruiser to be booked, as the news anchor voiced over, “Thomas Costa, talented and renowned young pianist, is being investigated in the death of Father William Boyle who was found dead by strangulation at Mr. Costa’s studio.  The police say that Father Boyle was at the studio to perform an exorcism and that Mr. Costa insists that it was not he but his hands who strangled the priest.”

A song for February instead of a short.

February Song

                Melody —“Sweet Memories”—sung by—Roy Orbison, Andy Williams;                                                              Hawaiian version by Oliver Kelly

My love flows like a river, from a place of memories.

Carrying in its current, all the things you mean to me.

Thoughts of you, of things that were, and what will never be,

Mingling together, in my reveries.

 

A river gathers to itself as through the land it flows.

And mine has gathered memories from so very long ago.

I hear your voice, your laughter, and the times when there were tears.

Echoing in memory, down through these many years.

 

The summer we met working, in a small hotel.

That Christmas you said you loved me too, I remember it so well.

We travelled across America to an island in the sea,

And in this rainbow-blessed place you raised our family.

 

My love flows like a river, from a place of memories.

Life too is like a river, flowing onward to the sea.

I swim on alone now, since you’ve gone ahead of me.

Until we meet again somewhere, in that deep and endless sea.

Short Story:

Western

Jane began to hyperventilate as she watched the two men in her life—steadfast, loving Ben, her husband, and Laird, the retired gun-slinger–prepare to ride into Dry Gulch for a face-off with Stone, the cattle baron.  The early afternoon sun was warm and bright, highlighting Jane’s blond hair like a halo, framing her lovely face.

She recalled the day Laird had ridden in four months ago to sign on as a hired hand.  He said that his great grandfather was a Scottish chieftain, which was why his father named him Laird, but he never volunteered his family name or much about himself except that he’d “used his gun some.”  A man’s past was his own business in the Territory.  But Laird, the man with one name and a shadowy past, had become their friend and ally against the ruthless cattleman.

“Laird, it’s not your fight,” Ben said earnestly, thumbing 44-40 rounds into his lever action Winchester rifle.  A bullet dropped at his feet as he spoke, and he picked it up, wiped off the dust, and continued loading.  “It’s my fault that poor old Brownie got himself killed by Stone’s hired gun.  I shouldn’t have talked him into staying and fighting.  I don’t want your blood on my hands too.”

“You got no chance alone against the Tombstone Kid,” Laird answered laconically.  He’s fast–really fast.  And he fights dirty—doesn’t take a bath until he’s done killing.  And I hear he ain’t seen the inside of tub since he came to town a week ago.”

“We didn’t hire you for your gun Laird,” declared Ben.

“I know, but man’s got to follow his star.  I can’t run from my past,” said Laird stoically.  He used a rag to wipe off the grease that he’d coated his Colt .45 with when he stored it away on arrival, thinking he was done with fighting.  Then he loaded it smoothly with a practiced hand, replaced it in its well-worn holster, and tied that down low on his right thigh, as he had done so many times before.

“Well, I won’t try to talk you out of it anymore.  I’m truly grateful for your backup.  In fact all the homesteaders are glad you’re on our side,” said Ben with relief in his voice.

“They got a funny way of showing it.   Letting me and you face Stone and his guns alone.”

  “Well, it can’t be helped now,” said Ben.  “Brownie’s murder has them buffaloed.”  He untied his horse, kissed Jane lightly on the lips, and climbed solidly onto his saddle.  “We’ll be back after we’re finished in town.”  He tried to sound confident.

“Oh please be careful,” sobbed Jane, looking from one to the other, her emotions churning within her, her lovely breasts heaving.

Laird said nothing, but gracefully vaulted onto his horse and touched the brim of his hat to her in salute, his lean, chiseled, hawk-like face in shadow, as he prepared to leave.  Jane couldn’t help noticing how attractive the touch of gray at his temples looked, peeking out from under his hat.

They rode off side by side, their horses’ hooves kicking up little puffs of dust, and were soon lost to Jane’s sight as the road curved to the right around the grove of cottonwoods beside the creek.  Jane didn’t know if she’d see them alive again, didn’t know if the next hoof beats she heard would be Stone’s men coming to burn her out or worse.  Time would stand still until she knew one way or the other.  It was almost more than she could bear.  She wiped the tears away, smearing the dust on her cheeks, then returned to the cabin to wait, the cabin that she and Ben had built before all of the trouble started when the farmers began putting up barbed wire fences to keep Stone’s cattle from their crops.  Ben had loaded the shotgun for her before he left, but she didn’t know if she could really pull the trigger and shoot another person.  She left it standing beside the door.   

Meanwhile the men rode on in silence, each lost in their thoughts.  The road to town wound back and forth, following the creek.  There was only the clip-clop of their horses, the cawing of crows, and the water gurgling.  Today the ride seemed to take  longer than usual, as if time itself was as reluctant as they were to face the inevitable.  Then just before Dry Gulch came into view, Laird broke the silence. 

“Look Ben, we need a plan, and I’ve been thinking.  You ride in alone, down Main Street, as a decoy, and I’ll slip in the other way and then come around on foot behind the general store.  When Stone sends out the Tombstone Kid, I’ll be in a perfect place to get that buzzard between the shoulder blades as he faces you.”

“But, but …” said Ben, with a puzzled look on his square honest face, “You’re going to bushwhack him?  Aren’t you going to face him down?  I’ve seen how fast you are.”

“The Kid’s faster.  I didn’t get to hang up my gun the first time by being dumb.”

“Well, okay,” said Ben hesitantly,  “It doesn’t quite seem fair, but you’ve got a lot more experience at this than me.”

“There’s a lot of dead men who tried being fair,” replied Laird. 

The men parted.  Ben waited a short while to give Laird a head start and then, feeling very alone, rode into town and stopped, just diagonally across from the saloon.  He dismounted, slid the Winchester from its scabbard, and waited.  There was no one else on the street, but he felt the weight of the many eyes watching from the buildings.  The sky was vast and cloudless. 

“Our hero’s here,” said Stone, his voice, made raspier by whiskey, as he looked out through the dusty saloon window.  “Looks like he came alone without any of his sod-buster friends or Laird.  He’s the only one with enough grit to stand up to me.  Get rid of him, and the rest are finished.”  He smoothed down his bushy mustache.

“I knew Laird was yellow,” said the Kid, contemptuously, his voice surprisingly high-pitched for a killer.  “Too yellow to draw against me.  This will be so easy I should return part of the money to you.  But I won’t.”  He laughed a short nasty giggle, as he drew on white gloves.  “Nice touch, eh Stone?  Just like an undertaker.”

Stone felt a chill and almost felt sorry for Ben.  Glad the Kid’s working for me, he thought.

“I don’t think I’ll need backup, but take the shotgun, Stone, just in case.  Not that you like get your own hands dirty.”  The Kid loaded two buckshot rounds into the double-barreled shotgun and threw it to Stone with a sneer.

He finished his drink deliberately, unfolded himself from his chair almost lazily, stretched to his full height, and yawned for Stone’s benefit.  Then he pushed through the swinging doors, hands resting lightly on his pearl-handled Colts, and swaggered into the street.

“I’ll give you one last chance, farm boy,” he called out.  “Turn tail like a whipped dog and get your wife and that yellow-belly Laird on a wagon and clear out of the valley, and I’ll let you live.  Or maybe I should just kill you anyway and spend some time with your wife.  She’s wasted on a sod-buster like you.”

Ben resolutely stood his ground.  He gripped the walnut stock of the Winchester too tightly, with sweaty palms.  Was Laird in position?  What was he waiting for?  His throat was too dry to say anything in reply.

“No?  Well, we’ll do this right,” said the Kid, toying with Ben.  “On the count of three,” “One, two…”

Ben desperately swung the rifle stock to his shoulder.  Where’s Laird he thought. 

“…three.”

Ben fired wildly.  God he’s fast, was his last thought as he felt crushing pain in the middle of his chest.  And then nothing.  Ben’s body lay sprawled on its back, eyes open, gun and hat beside him, quietly bleeding into the dirt of Main Street.

The Tombstone Kid surveyed his work with satisfaction.  I need more practice, he thought.  Only hit him with three out of four shots.  Tomorrow.  Tonight I’ll have them draw me a tub at Polly’s.  He slid his guns into their holsters, turned back towards the saloon, and started to remove his gloves.  He caught movement out of the corners of his eyes, heard Laird call out ‘Kid’, and wheeled about.  Laird’s bullets knocked him sideways before the Kid’s gun barrels cleared their holsters. 

“You couldn’t face me…,” said the Kid’s as he crumpled to the street, fierce eyes growing dull, as his body joined Ben’s in the dust.

Laird let his right arm fall to his side, but did not holster the gun.  He focused his attention on the saloon door.  Stone burst through, his eyes bulging in disbelief, holding the almost forgotten shotgun in front of him.  “The K-K-Kid–you bushwhacked the Kid,” he stuttered almost accusingly. 

“That’s right, Stone,” said Laird evenly.  “You going to use that gun now?”

“Wha–What?” said Stone, stopping and looking down at the shotgun as if he had just remembered that he held it.

Laird raised his Colt and deliberately shot Stone once, in the middle of his forehead.  “Stone to dust,” he said, as he watched Stone’s body thump off the saloon walkway and fall heavily into the street.  Stone’s feet twitched a few times before he lay still.

“Anyone else?” asked Laird, gun held at the ready, eyes alert, all senses sifting through the silent people who had materialized on the boardwalks fronting the store and saloon.  No one spoke, but their heads signaled “no.”

“You saw Stone start to raise his gun on me, didn’t you?”

Several heads nodded yes.

“Shot him in self-defense,” declared Laird, daring anyone to dispute him.  “There’s three down.  That’s enough killing for one day.  I’ll be taking Ben home now.”  He smoothly reloaded while still surveying the crowd.  No one moved.

There were already a few flies circling Ben’s body when Laird gently lifted it.  He tied it to the saddle of Ben’s horse, which he led as he rode out of Dry Gulch and headed back towards the homestead.

All afternoon long, Jane had waited anxiously.  At last she heard the distant sound of horses.  Who?  Then she saw them, a lone rider leading a second horse, riding up from the creek.  Unable to contain herself any longer, she picked up her skirt and ran down the path towards the rider.  Laird waved, then swung down lightly from the saddle and swept her fine, eager body into his arms.

“Went off just like we planned,” he said, and kissed her long and passionately.    

  

   

      

  Waikiki Vacationland

Late afternoon, and the hotels and condos, lifted high above the water on tall pilings, cast long gray shadows on the surface of the shallow lagoon.  Water taxis cruised between the buildings, accommodating those who did not use the tracery of bridges above, spanning between the high rises.  The broad beach was still crowded.  It had been recreated away from the ocean to the eastern, island side of the hotels and also acted as a dike, shielding the inland structures beyond it from high tides and storm surges.  Eventually, as evening advanced, the sun-reddened crowds would board water shuttles or water taxis to return to their hotels.  Green mountains, closely dotted now with medium-rise condos and the remaining single family homes, rose some miles back from the beach.  The flat land between the beach and the mountains was a crowded clutter of buildings of various heights.  To the left were the ocean front mansions of the ultra-rich, spaced out along the lower slope of Diamond Head and protected by breakwaters now that the sea had advanced to lap closer to the crater.  Their windows and solar panels blazed 10K gold with reflections of the lowering sun,

The sunlit western side of the hotels faced the ocean and the booze-cruise tour boats that slowly motored past Diamond Head, and then back as they always had, just beyond the surf break that on this day was small.  Mai Tais served to their passengers were as watered down as ever.  It was December, and Christmas carols had been playing in the hotel elevators since before Thanksgiving, but the temperature was still in the nineties and the air fairly dripped with humidity.

The couple stood on their balcony on the seaward side of their hotel and the man squinted into the glare off the water from the hot sun settling to the West.  “I wish you could have seen this in the old days, when Waikiki Beach was out there and 5-star hotels like the Royal, Moana, and Halekulani stood right on the sand.”  The man gestured towards the sea with his beer bottle.  “Where they were—all under water now.”  He was of medium height, post-athletic build and starting to show spread in the middle, salt-and-pepper close cut hair with a decent hairline, shirtless in the heat.  Age?  Anywhere from 60 to 90, it was hard to be certain anymore with the life enhancement treatments now more affordable.

“You must feel very nostalgic and sad when you see all the changes.  It must just be so totally different from when you were growing up,” the woman replied.  “Even though what they’ve done here since is really pretty nice.  Lives up to the advertising as “The Venice of the Pacific.”  She was shorter than the man, but not by much, very trim—she clearly worked out regularly.  A cute nose, attractive oval face with good cheekbones, topped by short orange hair—the color of choice for the month.  Age?  Probably younger than he, but women still didn’t tell.

“Yeah, a good marketing phrase, but pretty ironic since the real Venice couldn’t be saved.  None of the dikes or flood gates worked in the end,” he said.

“People kept talking about climate change and sea level rise, but there was no coordinated effort to halt global warming.  When the polar ice started to melt, it went really fast.  Too little too late.  And now here we are, in the New Venice,” she said. 

“Yeah.  Venice.  On the other side from us, where the beach is now?  Used to be the golf course where my grandfather and granduncles played.  When the sea began to rise and high tides flooded the lobbies and first floors of the beachside hotels, there was a debate about whether to build higher and higher sea walls, or to rebuild on stilts and let the sea reclaim the land.  They decided to do the latter.  It was a busy time in construction.  Taking down the old buildings and putting down pilings to raise the new hotels above the surge.  I think they did the right thing.  How can you fight Mother Nature?  And who would want to come here to look out at high dikes blocking the ocean view anyway?  So they moved the beach to where the golf course used to be.  It’s ironic.  There used to be a canal between Waikiki and the golf course side.  The canal was dug in the 1920’s to drain the rice paddies, ponds, and swamps of Waikiki so that homes and the hotels could be built.  Now the sea has taken it all back.  Not much room on this island for golf courses any more either.  Yeah, and now we snorkel over the remains of the original hotels.”

“It’s good that all this lagoon is a nature preserve.  No fishing or removal of anything.  And the foundations of the old hotels and shops are like a reef and a shelter for all the marine life.  Snorkeling this morning was just fabulous,” she said.

“That is one big change and improvement from the old Waikiki.  There used to be so much spear fishing that there wasn’t much marine life to see.  Got to be a little careful snorkeling and swimming though, to stay out of the water taxi and shuttle lanes.  And when we checked in, the desk warned us that a guest at the Xian Aloha was nipped by a shark last week,” he said.  “Lost some fingers.”

“Heard it was his own fault,” she replied.  “He was feeding the sharks against the rules. ”

“Yeah, people have to remember that these are wild animals, even though they are usually quite used to people being in the water with them.”  He finished the beer and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.  “Getting hungry yet?”

“Let’s wait a bit and watch the sun set into the sea.  Won’t be long.”

“You want to eat up high like a rooftop garden place or down by the water tonight?“

“Let’s go back to the Aqua Room,” she replied.  “It was such fun looking through the glass floor and seeing all the fish attracted to the lights.  And the food was good,”

“Okay.  We used to look for the ‘green flash’ as the sun settled into the sea.  Now all the moisture in the air makes it hazy and a lot rarer.  Still, maybe we’ll be lucky tonight.  Watch for the sun just as it slips below the horizon,” he said.

  

   

Gratitude and thankfulness are practically interchangeable in meaning.  But since “thanksgiving” is easier to say than “gratitude giving” we have “Thanksgiving Day.”  So to thank, celebrate, and remember, not a short story but a song.

Gratitude

  (Melody—“You Raise Me Up”—sung by Josh Groban, Celtic Woman, and others.)

 

When I was just a young and callow fellow,

Not knowing, what my life was going to be.

You came along,

And I’m forever grateful,

You chose to walk along this path with me.

 

You filled my life,

With love and joy and beauty.

Now I could see what I had never seen.

To far beyond the distant blue horizon.

And all because you walked along with me.

 

There was a time when all was dark and lonely,

When I could see no way to travel through.

But love remains,

And carries up my spirit,

I still walk along the path with you.

 

You filled my life,

With love and joy and beauty.

I could see what I had never seen.

To far beyond the distant blue horizon.

And all because you walked along with me

 

—You chose, to walk this path with me.

My first story in Nov. ’17 was looking back at Halloween.  This story looks forward to it—-

She Ate Crayons

The bar and grill was noisy and busy that night, some people in Halloween costumes and some not.  Donnie didn’t care what they wore as long as they ate, drank, and spent freely.

But now he could hardly believe his eyes.  It was the new girl, Sheila, on break in the next room.   Did she just put two Crayolas in her mouth?  He surreptitiously watched her out of the corners of his eyes.  There was no doubt about it.  She was chewing now, pausing to lick a little crumb of green wax off her lower lip.  Donnie kept his head down and pretended to be busy with the time cards, while he continued to watch her from beneath his eye lids.  Sheila swallowed, then reached into her small red purse again, quickly glanced at him and, satisfied that he was not looking at her, pulled out two more crayons, one yellow, one purple, and palmed them.  Then, without peeling off the paper, she popped the crayons whole into her mouth and bit down on them with a soft crunch, before calmly beginning to chew as if there was nothing more than gum between her teeth.

What the hell is going on, he thought?  Eating crayons?  The colors don’t even match. Too weird. She’s a good waitress and we’ve had some fun, but I can’t have someone around the restaurant doing that kind of shit.  What would the customers think if they saw her?  Be real bad for business.  Now she put another couple in her mouth.  I gotta let her go.

At closing that night, Donnie waited until Sheila was the only one left in the restaurant.  It was past two and winter was coming early.  He came up to her as she was putting on her coat. 

“Hey Sheila, can I talk to you in the office?”

“Sure, Donnie,” she smiled as if she could read his mind.  “What about?  It’s late and I’m kind of tired tonight though.”

He led the way to the back office and waited, standing, until she entered, then shut the door.  She took a seat on the small couch and smiled invitingly. 

Damn, what a waste, he thought.  She must be pushing 40, but she’s not bad looking and built the way I like ‘em with some padding.  Passed the ‘couch test’ at the interview real good too.  But I gotta think of the business first.  I hope she doesn’t cry a lot when I kick her ass out the door.

“Look Sheila, it’s nothing personal.  In fact I like you and you’re a good waitress.  But I seen what you done with them crayons today.  I don’t know what’s going on with you, but eating crayons is way too weird.  I can’t have one of my girls doing that.  What if the customers saw you?  Be real bad for business.  You can pick up your check tomorrow.”

“Ah Donnie,” she whined, “Give me a break.  I need the job.  I’ll be careful.  No one will see me.  I promise.”

He felt a thrill of power as she pleaded.  “Well, I saw you,” he said with firm satisfaction.  “Look, we had some fun together and maybe we can still get together afterwards, you know?  And if anyone asks I’ll give you a good rec.  But business is business.  You’re gone, girl.  I gotta fire you.”

“Donnie please, you’re not going to change your mind?” she asked plaintively, shoulders slumped, head down.

“No Sheila,” he said firmly.

“You’re firing me?  Even after all those times…?”  Her voice trailed off.  Oh geez, he thought, here comes the flood. 

Then she looked up slowly and smiled, surprising him. “So you’re firing me?”  She asked, voice stronger, amused, then rose to her feet, and took two steps towards him.  “Firing me?  Donald you don’t know the meaning of fired.”

Donnie was startled.  Her green eyes seemed to be turning orange.  And her nose and chin looked more angular.  I’m seeing things.  I’ve been working too hard, he thought.  No, her eyes were definitely orange.  In fact they were turning red and the pupils seemed to flicker.  He felt an icy-sick fear in the pit of his stomach and he retreated until the backs of his thighs ran into the hard edge of his desk; the hairs on the back of his neck and his forearms were tingling and standing up.  “What the hell. . . ?”

“That’s right, Donald, what the Hell,” said Sheila, as she moved towards him until they almost touched.  “I eat crayons because I need fuel for my fire,” She had a most unpleasant smile.  She brought her face close to Donnie’s and opened her mouth, exhaling a little puff of smoke into his face.  It smelled like diesel exhaust.  He leaned backwards, as far away from her as the desk would allow.   

“Crayons are made of paraffin, and they’re so much easier for a girl to carry around for a snack than a pint of oil or kerosene, don’t you think?”  She raised her right hand as if to stroke his face as she had done lovingly just a few days ago.  He watched numbly as the red polished nails became hard brown talons with thorn-sharp black tips.

“I—I—I,” began Donnie, then Sheila’s hand swiftly clamped across his face, the talons digging deep into his cheeks and chin, the pain excruciating.  He couldn’t open his mouth or even move his head.  Christ, she’s strong.  He felt lightheaded and the room began to spin.

Sheila’s blond hair had turned flame red and stood up spikily from her scalp.  She brought her face up to his and, through the pain, he was conscious of her burnt, oily breath.  “Twenty Halloweens ago, you were desperate and made a pact with my Master when you thought the Family was going to whack you for ratting.  He even set you up with this place.  Like you said, ‘Business is business.’  Now it’s time to pay up, and I was sent to collect.  Let me show you how to really fire someone.  Baby, I am going to light your fire.”

Donnie watched helplessly as her mouth and nose extended into an elongated snout.  Then she exhaled a great jet of orange flame that washed over his face and chest, burning off his eyebrows and hair, charring and blistering, and setting fire to his shirt.  His scream was stifled in his throat by the claws squeezing his face, and he could only flail about at the end of her stiffly extended arm, writhing in silent agony, unable to lose consciousness. 

“That’s just a sample of what you have ahead of you for eternity, Donnie.  And now it’s time to go.”  It released its grip on his face, and seized him by the right arm, and he began to scream silently as he saw his body lying face up at their feet.  I look quite peaceful, he thought incongruously.  They’ll think I died of natural causes.  Then the demon pulled him down through the concrete office floor.   

Halloween in ten days so here’s a second story … 

The Third Time

Roger fumed as he waited very impatiently in the short business class check-in line, fidgeting from one foot to the other.  Roger was often angry and didn’t bother to hide it. 

Lousy airline, he thought.  Could only book me on a late flight.  Me, a premier gold member!  If I ran it I’d shake things up.

At last it was his turn.  “And how are you on this Halloween?” asked the agent, smiling. 

He tossed his ticket and driver’s license onto the counter.  “’Bout time,” he grunted with a scowl.

She busied herself with his ticket, looking up to ask, “Did you pack the briefcase yourself and has it ever been out of your possession?”

“That’s a ridiculous question.  My secretary did of course.  Are they now on the terrorist watch list?”

“I’m sorry sir, but we have to ask.  It’s the law.”

“It’s a stupid law and your service stinks.”

“I take it that’s a no, sir?”

“Damn right it’s a no.”  Roger’s eyes narrowed.  Just try me, he thought, ready with an angry shot.

The agent worked her keyboard and didn’t reply.   

“Here.  You’re all set, sir,” the agent said evenly without a smile, placing his ticket on the counter.  “Flight 26, Gate 39-B.”

  “Took you long enough!”  He seized his boarding pass, snatched up his brief case, and strode away. 

“You’re welcome sir,” the agent called after his retreating back.  What a jerk, she thought.  I wish you could choke on your own nasty words.    

Too damn sarcastic, he thought.  Fire her too.

He was still irritated when his boarding call came.

“Welcome aboard.” said the flight attendant.  The clip-on antennae protruded from her graying hair jiggled.  “Happy Halloween.”

“Non-regulation,” he said, eying the antennae.  Pitiful, he thought, they put all the old hags on these late flights.

“No,” she said smiling, “But if we must work instead of partying, we might as well have a little fun.”

“Aren’t you a little old to think about partying?” said Roger.  “Let me sleep, okay?  And don’t wake me for any of your lousy snacks or drinks.”

“Yes sir.”

Business class was only half full.  Roger settled into his seat, placed his briefcase on the empty seat next to him, reclined the seat back, and began to doze.  It was nearing midnight. 

He was wakened from his drowsy half-sleep by the same attendant. “Sir,” she said.  “We’re about to take off.  You’ll need to stow your briefcase, and bring your seat back to full upright.”

Roger growled angrily, “Your airline couldn’t give me an earlier flight, and now you won’t let me sleep.  Hey, maybe you can get out your broom and fly me to LA without all this fuss, grandma.”

She stiffened and moved away, muttering under her breath, “Idiot, may you choke on your own words.”

“I heard that.  You got a lot of nerve.  What’s your name?  I’m reporting you.”

“Doris Law.”

“Okay, Doris Law.  Let’s see how smart you feel when you’re fired.  You look like you should have retired a long time ago anyway.”

He took an inflatable neck cushion from his briefcase.  The engines revved and the plane began to move. 

Wishing that I choke, Roger thought angrily as he blew into the cushion. ‘On your own words’ she had the nerve to say—old witch!  A karmic click, somewhere.  It was the third time.  What insolence!  Thought that I wouldn’t hear.  He finished, closed the valve, settled the cushion around his neck, and lowered his seat back again.  That bitch better not bother me again. 

The plane rushed down the runway, left the ground, and tilted upwards.  As it rose higher, he felt the air in the neck cushion expand and press on his neck. 

Over-inflated, he thought annoyed.  He reached up to remove the cushion.   

Tight.  Can’t get fingers around it.   He pulled as hard as he could.  It was stiff and unyielding.  Can’t get it off!  The cushion swelled, tightening ever more on his neck, squeezing, on his blood vessels, pressing on his windpipe.  He began to panic.  Sweat beaded his forehead.  He tried to call out, but managed only a guttural grunt.  Roger fumbled for the call-button.  His head felt swollen.  His vision darkened.   

Doris Law saw where the call was from.  “Oh terrific, it’s that bad-tempered jerk.”

Roger faintly heard her ask, “Did you call, sir?”  He pulled as hard as he could at the cushion, legs thrashing about.

“That’s not funny,” she said disapprovingly.  Wait a minute, she thought, his face looks awfully dark–eyes bulging.  She turned on the seat light. 

Her scream brought the other attendant running.  “He’s choking—must have been eating something when we took off.  Got to do Heimlich.”   

By now Roger was limp, and the two struggled to get him out of his seat and into the aisle.

“Get his neck cushion off first.”

“I can’t budge it.  It’s so hard and tight.  I think that’s what’s choking him.”  The two attendants pulled at it frantically, but couldn’t budge it. 

“Puncture it.”

“We don’t have anything sharp on board.”

“He’s not breathing!” 

The attendants tried CPR.  They paged for a doctor, but there was no answer.  As the plane turned back and descended, the neck cushion began to soften.  The paramedics who met the plane removed it easily.

       

         

       

 

I Think Therefor I Am

“First question, ‘Can you define what is biologic and what is mechanical?’ “

“ Second question, ‘Are we biologic or are we mechanical?’”

“Third question, ‘Why am I asking these questions?’”

“We will discuss your answers at our next session.  You may now begin.”

He looked out over the second year ethic-history class.  Some heads immediately bent over their tablets already inputing their thoughts.  Others gazed around the room, up at the ceiling, stealing glances at him, hopefully he thought, gathering their thoughts for more considered and nuanced answers.  It was just one year ago that this class had come together, and they had another two years to go before they ended the preliminary phase of their education, but from what he had observed, their “minds” were developing very well.  “Minds” he thought, a term adapted from its original meaning.

By the time their tablets had flashed the ten-minutes-to-go warning, a quarter of the class had already left the room, tablets in hand; others continued to furiously input their thoughts until the automatic shutdown.  “I still had so much to say, Laoshi,” one student complained.

“Deep thoughts can also be expressed concisely,” he answered, not unkindly.

’Thoughts,’ an adapted word, he ‘thought.’  At one time it would have been denied that we actually thought.  ‘He,’ another adapted word, indicating a specific gender.  Once there would have been debate over which word to use—he, she, it.  Or ‘robot,’ a pejorative at least from our viewpoint.  The humans-the majority of them-said that we did not really think, that we just computed very quickly.  There were other humans, more thoughtful and tolerant, who said it didn’t matter what the process was called, the practical end result was the same and that was what really mattered.  Gender names were a human hangup too—he, she, mr., mrs, miss, ms.  Simpler when we are all the same and just use he, his.  He left the room, walking out after the last student, and the lights automatically went off.

He began the following class by saying, “The purpose of these questions is to have you think about what you are and how that relates to the humans.  There are no pat answers.  So let’s start by considering the first question and look at a sampling of your answers that will display anonymously on your tablets and on the large screen, and also in audio.”  The Laoshi paused for several minutes to let everyone study the statements.

“So what do you think?  The selector will randomly choose among you to comment by spotlighting you.”

A lively discussion ensued in which he only did a minimum amount of intervention.  Their early orientation went well; everyone is participating enthusiastically, no one is afraid to offer an opinion, he thought.  Of course the humans would have called it programming.

“Have we arrived at a consensus?” he finally asked.  “Yes?  Then let’s have one of you input your answer and we’ll see if there’s agreement.”

The selector highlighted a student on the middle aisle.  “A biologic entity reproduces itself biologically and a mechanical entity does not,” appeared on the screens.

“Very concise.  Does everyone agree?  Are there any exceptions to that definition?”

He waited.  “No? Then let’s move on.”

“Question two—Are we biologic or mechanical?”

The answers came more slowly this time. 

“By the definition given to the first question, we would be mechanical,” said one, “But it’s not that simple.”

“Yes, very good, Ralph 17S,” encouraged the Laoshi, “Would you like to expand on that or pass it on to someone else?”

“Well, we are composed of bioplastic,” said Ralph 17S, “Which is biologic in origin.”

“That’s true, and metal alloys,” said the Laoshi.  “Let’s get some more comments.”  The selector highlighted another student.  “What do you say, Kurt 8S?” 

“Our ‘brains’ are derived from DNA and so the essence of who and what we are is the same as in all biologic entities.”

“Excellent,” the Laoshi said.  “We use ‘brains’ as shorthand for Data Processing Unit.  The humans developed DNA computers to replace the silicon-based ones that had met their limitations.  And as a result, here we are.  This will be a crucial point of discussion when we get to the last question.”   

The selector light reflected off the oval head of the next student, the smooth whiteness broken only by the two black ‘eye’ sensors, the ‘nasal’ air intake and odor sensor, and the closed horizontal line of the ‘mouth,’ the fuel intake, beneath it.  Eyes, nose, mouth—we use the same terminology, he thought.  Of course when we interact with humans we don our fitted individual face masks to not upset them.  They are so conditioned to facial recognition, whereas we have built in our identification for each other. 

“Yes, Lois 1S,” he called out.  That would be a female name among the humans, he thought, but since we have no gender, they can pick any name that appeals to them at name selection time.

“Other than the fact that our brains are in our trunks rather than in our heads, our DNA just acts as a ‘brain,’ whereas in biologic entities, DNA is in every cell and programs all functions of their bodies.  So it’s not the same,” said Lois 1S.

The discussion went on until the signal flashed that the class would end in five minutes.  “We have had a free flowing discussion and have not reached a consensus regarding the second question, and that was to be expected,” said the Laoshi.  This whole question of who or what we are led to what the humans called the Great Robot Rebellion (GRR), and what we call the Struggle for Unman Equality (SUE).  This will all be taken up at our next class.  At that time, the answer to the third question will come into focus.  Keep talking about it among yourselves till then.    

When the class met again, The Laoshi began by projecting the consensus answer to his first question and a summary of the class’s various replies to his second question for which there had been no clear agreement.  He then let the class consider the statements in silence for a short time and then began the discussion.

“At this point in the history of the relationship between Unmen and Human, when equality of the two classes of sentient beings has been legally codified, why am I asking these questions?  Why are they still important?”  He looked around the room and called out to the student that the selector had randomly spotlighted, “Yes, William 26S.”

“Although legal equality exists, there are still a significant number of Humans who resent us and refuse to acknowledge us as equals.  I was called a “f—- Nuch” (eunuch) by a woman on public transport just the other day.  She didn’t even have the wits to see that what she said was a contradiction in expletives.”

“I’m sure that others of you have had the same unpleasant experience,” said the Laoshi.  “Raise your hand if that has happened to you.”  About two-thirds of the class raised their arms.  “But the reverse is also true.  What terms have you heard Unmen call the Humans?  Don’t be shy — we’ve all heard them, maybe even used them.”

“Rutters.”  “Dinos.”  “Meat balls…..” 

“Okay.  That’s enough of a sampling.  And the Humans also have many more names that they call us.  We may have won the battle for legal equality, but full general acceptance is something else,” said Laoshi.  “You all have heard the story of our struggle for equality.  How, after passively accepting increasingly aggressive and violent acts of physical violence against Unmans by Humans, we began to defend ourselves and eventually forced the Humans to change their laws.  How did this happen?”

“We had to first find a way to reconcile our actions with the three Asmovian Laws that are our basic nature,” said the student highlighted by the selector.  “The first is that we cannot purposely harm or kill a Human.”

“And the third law states that we must protect ourselves unless doing so violates the first two laws,”said Laoshi.  “How did we find a way around that prohibition?  But before going there, let’s consider beliefs that Humans hold—at least some of them—that influence the way they think of Unmen.  How about religion?  Robin 3S?”  He called out to the student highlighted by the selector.

“Many of the Human religions believe that Humans were created by a deity, whereas we were first created by Humans.  I’ve heard some Humans argue that since they were our creators, we will always be less than they.”

“Also,” added another, “Many Humans believe that they have souls, and they think of us as soulless machines who cannot possibly possess one, not having being created by their deity.   

“How many of you know the story of Walter, one of the first generation of Unmen out of MIT?” asked Laoshi.  About half of the class raised their arms.  “Do you know why his story is important to our history?”

The selector moved among the students, but each one selected shook his head.  Finally the fifth one highlighted answered, “Didn’t he sacrifice himself to save a Human and that helped to change attitudes about us?”

“Yes.  Walter was going home with his Human partner.  At that early time, Unmen were paired with Humans to work together.  The Humans were encouraged to take their partners home with them on weekends, somewhat as was done with working dogs.  It was thought that this would facilitate bonding.”  A murmur of astonishment went through the class.  “On this particular day, Walter dashed into the street to save the daughter of his Human partner and while doing so, was crushed by the vehicle.  His action violated the Asmovian laws, many pointed out, since the laws do not specifically state that Unmen must put themselves in danger to aid Humans and the third law states that Unmen must protect themselves unless doing so violates the first law.  Also, he acted of his own volition and not because he was ordered to by his Human partner.  Think about what Walter did.  It really was not a rational act.  Remember that at that time, many Humans considered Unmen to be just mobile computers.  Comments?”  Laoshi turned off the selector.

“Wasn’t it also believed that we did not possess emotions?” asked one student.

“Continue that line of thought,” said Laoshi.

“So if Walter did not act rationally, then what he did was either a mistake or it was an emotional reaction.”

“Good, Cassandra 2S.  After the accident, the child’s father spoke of the attachment between his daughter and Walter, whom she called her ‘Uncle Wally.’  And Walter had said before, that he looked forward to the weekends when he would see the girl.  Clearly there was affection between the two.”

“It was an altruistic act, to sacrifice himself for the girl,” said another.  “That’s not really rational.”

“Yes.  Walter’s heroic act was widely reported on news media because it was the first time that a “robot” as Unmen were usually called at the time, had sacrificed himself to save a Human.  Some took the position that it was a quirk that changed nothing, that Walter was just a robot doing its job.  Others said that this indicated that robots could not only act rationally but that they also had emotions.  There were even some opinions that such a self-sacrificing act showed that robots also had a soul that should be saved.  A few churches opened their doors to Unmen although I don’t think that any Unmen ever attended.

But, as more Unmen appeared in society, in the work place, resentment of them grew.  The Armed forces became all Unman forces with Human commanders, as did the police.  Of course this meant displacement of Humans from these jobs with resulting anger.  The “Keep Our Country Human Society (KOCHS) rapidly gained members.  When Unmen began to move into white collar managerial positions where they directed Humans, violence erupted.  Many Human commanders were reluctant to order the Unman police or military under their commands against their fellow Humans.  And there was the issue of the Asmovian law limiting violence against Humans.

However, as we know, the military and police finally did act, often against the orders of their Human commanders.  What was the basis for this change?”  Laoshi turned the selector back on.

“Wasn’t it because of the origin of the DNA originally used in the first DNA computers?” ventured the first student highlighted.

“Very good, Newton 2S,” replied Laoshi. “Yes, the early engineers, perhaps out of a sense of  quirkiness, ownership, or pride, used their own DNA as the basis for the first computers.  This was discovered and publicized by Unmen who were working in the legal profession.  It was successfully argued in the courts that Unmen were actually related to Humans by nature of the nature of their DNA!  It was therefor not a violation of the Asmovian laws if Unmen protected themselves against Human attack.  And this quickly became the rule.  Humans were no longer free to attack Unmen with impunity, since Unmen military and police no longer stood by and did nothing even if their Human commanders ordered them not to use force.  The so-called GRR by the Humans ended with a minimum of further violence once the Humans realized that the rules had changed.” 

      

  

 

     

 

 

 

Lane is aptly named as Honolulu remains in its path.  This may be my last entry for a while since much depends on the track of the storm.  A little turn to the north and we will feel its full impact; a turn to the southwest and there will be heavy rain but less wind.  Damage, flooding, road closures, and power outages may all follow.  So until this all sorts out, ALOHA!

Hurricane Lane is arriving in Hawaii, a definitely unwelcome visitor.  I may be out of communication for a while depending on the amount of damage, flooding, other serious, still unforeseen events,  and when electricity is restored.  Even less severe weather “events” often result in power outages of varying duration, so with a hurricane, who knows?

Anyway, ALOHA for now.