“ I returned, and saw under the sun that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favour to men of skill; but time and chance happeneth to them all. “
Ecclesiastes 9: 11
“ Shit happens “
-a homeless male, 1987, hitching a ride at the San Bernadino freeway ramp (formerly a corporate marketing executive)
The young father walked in dark distress. Frigid tongues of fierce arctic wind lashed at him. Snow crystals delivered onto his path from across the Canadian border crackled underfoot. Looking up, he saw endless, billowing layers of gray gloom above him. He felt abandoned in a lonely universe.
Downtown Buffalo, New York, was reeling under a killing cold. Tonight, January 6, 1947, the temperature was 5 degrees. Colder winds were forecast for morning. Upstairs, at the gambling tables of the Brocadero Club, he could hear warm laughter, a loud saxophone, and the muffled sounds of cheers and groans filtering through the soft parade of snowflakes. Winners and losers took their shot at battling the odds of fate, the plight of all travelers in this odyssey of life and death.
Sal talked to himself as he paced back and forth in the back alley entrance of the Brocadero. He repeatedly fondled his favorite deck of cards in the pocket of his coat, turning them over and over while softly, perhaps lavishly, rubbing them. The deck fit easily in his large hands. Although he was fairly short; no more than five foot nine, his hands and limbs were large and heavy with a laborer's strength and girth.
“Why am I doing this? Because Rocco told me to it, that's why. Kill the tootzoon, kill the friggin tootzoon! Rocco was very clear, wasn't he? God damn it! Joanne's family is never going to let me go. This won’t be the last guy they want me to whack. It’s so stupid! God, oh please God, show me the way out. I don't belong here.”
Shuffling his feet and rubbing his arms, he hoped movement and friction might drive out the shivers running frantically from his toes to his scalp. Out of habit or hopelessness he started reciting the Lord's prayer aloud, in a reverent whisper to himself. He was talking to another person inside. A prisoner within him remained a trusted confidant. The child inside of him struggled to be released from a misguided moral compass and years of acquiescence to pressures from within the goombah network of Sicilan hoodlum cousins and in-laws entangling him.
Escape beckoned him from outside the bars and chains of conformity's imprisonment and habits of acceptance forged over many years by family allegiance. These barriers lay embedded within his complicity during maturation and adaptation to the will of the powerful men controlling the world he lived in.
The code of “Family first” anchored his upbringing. He was held by a death-threatening oath of secrecy toward any outside influences that might compromise dedication to the ruthless edicts handed down by the head of the family. It was a cultural necessity for his ancestors in Sicily. Every two hundred years or so over two millennia their beautiful little island had been overrun and conquered by invading nations. Sal did not wonder why a Sicilian’s blood breeds skepticism of any government’s promises. Only the wholeness of the family had a chance to defend each member of the brotherhood from the vagaries of warring nations.
Now, a newborn spirit was stirring. A seed of purity came to life. A boy who never wanted to hurt another living thing was awakening to discover a young man perversely manipulated by his vices, his peers and the society he was born into. He was about to give birth to a new life
“Our Father who art in heaven, Hallow be thy name, Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done,... Damn, I gotta get out of here, now!”
As he turned on his heels to go back to the getaway car he had parked just down the street, a door to his left opened quickly. A solitary black figure trudged toward him, mumbling angrily, an apparent loser in the night's games running at the tables in the nightclub above. He wore a heavy coat with a hood pulled up over his head. When he looked up and saw Sal by the side of the building he stopped. The whites of his eyes flashed within the deep ebony contours of his face.
He began running toward Sal
“You sonofabitchin dago bastards don't quit.”
Sal saw the long switchblade drawn in his assailant’s hand, raised and lunging forward to stick him. In a flash, Sal’s reflexes took over and pulled the trigger from within his coat pocket. The sound of the gunshot leapt violently into Sal's eardrums. He shuddered from the shock and sting of the heavy recoil from the pistol smoking in his hand as he drew it out. The brick walls of the alley were still bouncing the harangue of the report back and forth when the attacker hit the pavement, heaved up, and slumped limp in the snow.
With a clumsy pirouette, Sal came around slipping and skidding on ice, knocking over metal trash cans in clamorous succession while he struggled haplessly to get around the corner leading to the street. He looked up at the street sign. Chippewa Street. The name registered in his mind just as he heard shouts and screams mingling with a piercing shotgun blast from a window above.
It was thirty yards or so to his car. Would it start right away? He caught the door handle as the first of the angry men in the pursuing posse stopped at the alley's entrance to Chippewa Street. He jumped into the seat as they swore and came running toward his car.
Eight clouds of billowing vapor from the violent, enraged men rose into the glow of the street light's penumbra. Sal turned the key. The car started up immediately. Thank God the engine was still warm. He gunned it, ducking down while he drove. Unfortunately he did not properly gauge the presence of the steering wheel being directly in line with the arc of his head’s movement. The horn blared as his forehead banged heavily into the unyielding steering wheel, “Damn it!”
The shattering glass of the car's windows being blown away by wild handgun shots drowned out the avenging words of the pursuers. The noise wove together into a torrent of seething hatred. They would soon be after him in their cars.
Swerving onto Delaware Avenue, he realized blood was gushing down the side of his face. City hall loomed in a tall, massive spire of aged, silent stone to his left while frigid air whistled in through the remaining shards of glass. His heart was pounding and furiously pumping blood to his right ear. In his pessimism, he began a lamentation dirge accepting the inevitable result of the tootzoons certainly catching him.
He drove poorly on snow and ice. Salvatore Testavita did not belong here in this frigid land of seemingly interminable winter.
“Shit! What a hellhole! Stupid bastard. Five more minutes and I was out of there. That dumb, black bastard.”
The car's rear tires slid out of the icy tracks on the frozen road and led the rest of the vehicle into a 270 degree slide. Sal lost his grip on the wheel as he was thrown to the passenger side. Half of the car came to rest in a snow bank. He pulled himself back to the steering wheel and stomped on the gas petal. The tires whined uselessly in the snow. Stuck.
There was nowhere for the car to move. He quickly turned the lights and motor off. The honking horns of the pursuing cars became a hydra-headed beast, wounded and yelping with fury. Had they made the turn onto Delaware yet? He slid down whimpering in fear. The horns blared eerily with a Doppler effect as they began the three blocks race to where he lay stranded.
Placing his feet on the driver side door, he laid his body across the front seat and waited. The streetlight above him was not illuminated. Intermittent clouds of frozen mist arose from his staccato breaths. When they got closer should he should stop breathing? When would that be necessary? As the mist rose would it linger? He stopped breathing.
His skull ached to burst and shed the mounting pressure of pain inside. The blood was in his ear and covered the collar of his shirt now sticking to his neck in a red, gooey frosting. Holding himself still and quiet made the inner pounding louder.
The rhythmic sensation made him think of the many nights he had stared in the black silence of his room trying to see the ceiling move with the bouncing energy of his mom and dad making love in the room above him. They thought he was sleeping. Sal loved that sound. It came out of the joined human locomotive, gaining speed determinedly until the shrill moan of his dad’s orgasm whistled the trip to an end. He wondered as a child why his mom was not heard. When he became more experienced as a young man, he knew why. His groin began reacting to this memory of secret voyeurism.
“God, it so damn cold I can't believe it.”
Moving faster than he had managed on the icy roads first one, then two, then the third and last car went past his side street. They were yelling as they raced by. He dare not look up to see how many there were. The posse went blazing further down Delaware Avenue looking for Sal. As soon as he thought they had made their way around the bend in the street he popped out of his stolen car and began running up the side street where the vehicle had come to rest.
The car had actually traveled up the street 20 or 30 feet and slid in behind a step van truck. His foot twisted on a chunk of ice. He crashed head first into pile of rock-hard snow.
“Crap!”
Inside his head the thrashing headache redoubled itself wildly against his temples. Lying on the snow bank, listening to this ugly, painful pounding, he realized his pursuers’ car horns were heading back up Delaware toward his position. The neighborhood where he had become marooned stared back at him.
What an ugly fate it portended. Blighted trees lined the avenue. They had been beaten into barren dormancy by the Lake Erie winds of winter. Each building seemed to reflect the mood. The homes had high fences locking out any intruders. All was immersed in at least three feet of snow. He compared this land of despair with the vibrant life of New York City during any time of the day or night and in any season. What a tremendous contrast with this dormant city, this island of frozen hope where he was now marooned.
Whiteness covered the brick roadway, the porches, the sidewalk,--- the world. Near a house, two driveways ahead, he noticed the remnants of a child's snow fort. It offered a small cave. Plow abetted snowdrifts over four feet high had sheltered it. Sal became distracted imagining the kids here having fun waging children’s warfare from these snow forts. As he dawdled in the thought of the local children finding amusement in the fairyland of white virgin snow still arriving from the heavens his options for survival continued to melt away in wasted distractions. He envisioned snowballs tossed like live grenades from one fort to another.
What? The physical world called him back.
The cars were stopping now at the corner. Several men approached the abandoned black sedan with shotguns. Sal crawled quietly into the children’s cave and covered up the entrance once he was inside. Doing this, he heard several loud blasts. Shattered glass splashed about.
“He's not here.” They shouted to each other moving up the street. “There's a lot of blood. Heh, look! Here.. there's a more. It goes this way. Come on....” Running, their feet pounded along just past where he lay hidden under a white wall three feet thick.
“Could be as many as eight or ten of them,” Sal thought, “ I could never shoot my way out of this.”
At the same time, his frantic analysis of desperation was being altered by intervening forces. For a few seconds the retreat of the running feet made it difficult to isolate and discern the other noise. What ? Oh,...sirens.
The posse kept going past him. Car doors slammed, tires squealed and the men were cursing violently. The sirens were getting very close, very fast. The posse of revenge roared away. Then the police entourage wailed by in pursuit. Whatever form of uncertain justice the police were carrying with them, Sal's enemies would not stay to find out. They were more likely to suffer abuse rather than righteous retribution.
Sal envisioned the possibility of actually living through this nightmare for the first time since he had sent that bullet tearing through the face of his victim.
A door opened in the house behind him. His thoughts froze still inside the small cave.
“See anything honey?”
“Yeah, I see a car in front of the Polansky’s house with all the windows blown out. “
Sal was suffocating; it seemed as though all the oxygen had been sucked out of the snow cave
“Sara, Sara,.... “
“Yeah, what is it Bill?”
“I'm going to take the car over to the garage up Delaware and get it off the street before any of those crazy jerks blow out our windows. I'll walk back”
“Be careful, Bill.”
“I've got the gun, sweetheart, I'll be OK.”
Sal heard the door close shut and a single set of footsteps walking down the driveway. As snow crunched next to the entrance of his hideaway, Sal erupted from his crouch into the open air. The man was startled and fell. Before he could react, Sal tucked his pistol tightly under his victim’s nose.
“Be smart Bill. Don't say a word. Let's get in your car and go for a ride just like you told your wife and everybody will come out of this just hunky dory.”
Sal had Bill open the passenger side door for both of them and slide across to the driver position. The car was hard to start making Sal jittery. Observing Bill, he didn't see any reason why this guy would risk getting whacked. Looked kind of wimpy actually, like a bookworm. That's OK, thought Sal, sometimes I wish could sit alone thinking things through all day on the clock instead of beating people up.
“Heh, Bill, I need for you to take me to the train station. Don't do anything foolish. I've got no beef with you. If you try something funny, I'll kill ya. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“Great. Is this car clock right?”
“Yes. It's 4:35.”
“Good. It won't be light out for another few hours.”
“Why?”
“In case the police get a description of me I don't want any more idiots spotting me.”
“Why are you hiding from the police? If you don't mind my asking?”
The guy was cooperating pretty well so far. He seemed to have accepted his role in driving to the train station as Sal had instructed him. Sal knew this because he recognized a couple of storefronts they passed as the same ones he had seen earlier in the evening. Sal felt like talking. Making this guy understand who he was might save both their lives. I sure don't want to kill him too, Sal thought
“I killed a nigger. One of the Chippewa Street gang. I didn't want to but he came at me with a knife. I blew his brains out. I hope I don't have to do the same to you. If you do everything exactly as I tell you, you and your wife will be fine. If you decide to do anything stupid, my family will burn your house down and kill everyone in it. That's the way it is. Questions?”
“No.”
“Good. Now, give me the gun you told your wife you were taking with you.”
Bill began to reach into his coat pocket to retrieve his gun when Sal reached out and stopped him.
“That’s OK, I will take it out for you so you don’t make a mistake and get shot by accident.” Sal pulled out the .38 pistol and put it into his coat pocket.
“I was so scared I forgot I took it out with me, honest.”
“It’s funny but I believe you. Let me tell you who I am so we are square with each other. It’ll help keep your head clear and avoid making a foolish mistake. I'm from The City. I had to take this guy out. He was a bad man causing trouble for everyone. It was an order I couldn’t disobey. Do it or have it done to you. It’s over for me after tonight. I wasn't cut out for this kind of shit. I was born into it, or married into it anyhow. After this, I'm going to even up with the family and disappear. Mom always told me we were born to be philosopher kings not thugs. Sicilians, that is. She said we have the blood of Archimedes running through our veins and should not demean ourselves with the base instincts of our relatives. Funny, everyone in America thinks of us as barbarians and hoodlums. What’s your last name Bill? “
“Dulski.”
Sal thought of several Polack jokes the boys were telling just the other day over at the union hall. He had never really enjoyed being around when the boys started in with that crap. There was no way to get away from it, though, is there? If you made a fuss about it the guys would just tear into you, making fun of you instead of the Jews or the Spicks or the Polacks. All in all, he felt uncomfortable with a great many of the things he found himself subjected to while he was involved with la famiglia.
Not that Italians were any worse than the other, run of the mill Joe blows walking the streets. He just didn't like the way people treated each other. No respect. There's a laugh, he thought to himself, I just whacked somebody and I'm complaining to myself about how people don’t respect each other. Pitiful. What a mess my life is in. No way out, is there?
“When you get to the train station Bill, take me to the back entrance. Drop me off and go home, just like you told your wife you would. If a cop stops you and asks what you're doing tell him you wanted to see what all the noise was about and got lost. If your wife asks you what happened, tell her the car stalled. Do not tell anyone you saw me or know anything about where I went. This is important, tell no one. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
“Let me make sure you do. If anyone finds me, then I assume you're the one who told them. My family will know your name and address as soon as I get to the station. If I don't make it back, you and your family will be dead within two days. I'm not a killer. That's why I'm letting you go home. Don't screw it up. The people who sent me won't wait half a second before they take you out. I'm probably in trouble already leaving a loose end like you around. But, like I said, I'm going to try a new life after tonight. Can you handle this Bill?”
“You don't seem like one of them.”
“Them? Who are you talking about, Bill?”
“You know, them ,...you don't seem like them.”
Sal laughed an exhaled sigh, shook his head in mock disbelief at the comment, and started singing a vibrant tarantella…
“Gia la luna e in mez-zo mare, mam-ma mia, si sal -te-ra! L'o -ra e bel - la per dan - za - re, Chie in a-mor non man - che -ra. ... so whatta ya tinka, eh?”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I've been bitten by the same crazy tarantula as the others. Italians love to laugh, sing, dance and be loud. It’s in our blood. We are an emotional people, as my father would always say.”
“That's not what I meant. I meant that you guys, the Mafia, don't usually trust stiffs like me. How do you know I won't go to the cops and have them protect me?”
“Bill, once I make my call in the train station, there is no protection for you or your family and you know it. As far as me being different from the mob, well, you're right. I don't belong here. Mom always thought I would be a ah...oh I don't know, a teacher or an engineer, but,…” Sal saw the entrance to the train station pass on their right as they headed to the loading dock. The car pulled up into a dark spot and stopped
“Sometimes people make mistakes. Sometimes your father makes a mistake and you're the one who has to live with it. Over how many generations do the sins follow the sons of those fathers? Maybe I was born into the wrong place. How do you get out of it? I don't know but I'm sure going to try. It’s like your father passes through his life leaving you behind in his wake. It’s hard to get over the swells into clear water.”
“Why don't you change your name and move out West?”
“Sounds like a good idea. Stay still for a couple of minutes while I get some snow to clean of this blood.”
Sal scooped up some of the snow from the ground and rubbed it into his handkerchief. He began wiping the blood from the side of head. In the warm car, he had forgotten the caked layers that stuck to his hair and clothes. It is a good thing we planned for a change of clothes, he thought to himself. I need to get those things in here without being seen, though. They were in a locker in the station.
“Bill, I need for you to do me a favor. Can you run a simple errand for me?”
“I hope so.”
“God. I am going to drive up to the front entrance. Inside those glass doors you will see a wall of lockers. Take this key to locker 523, pull out the small suitcase inside. Bring it to me back in the car. I'll be watching you.”
“OK. I got it.”
They drove around to the front doors. There were a few other cars outside. None had occupants. Inside the station the lights were on. The train for New York City would be departing in another twenty-five minutes. For the most part, the thirty or forty people asleep on the benches or standing in lines were there for the 5:25 train. Sal's tickets were for that train also.
Sal raised the gun and pointed to the doors. “Go ahead, Bill, I'll watch out to make sure you don't have any trouble. Get back here as quick as you can. I need to get on that train for everybody's sake.”
Bill went in and retrieved the small suitcase from the locker as he had been told. When he got it inside the car, Sal removed from it a complete Army uniform. He tied Bill's hands with his belt before he set the gun on the dashboard. The pounding at his temples returned with mounting pressure.
“Damn glad the hat goes with this outfit or someone might wonder why I've got these shotgun pellet holes in the side of my head.”
Taking a styptic pencil from his pocket, he dabbed at new lines of blood and tried to close the wounds. The sting made him wince with each stab but it also sharpened his concentration on the next test he would be facing. Walking over to Bill's window he asked himself if he should kill the guy or take a chance on Bill being smart enough to stay quiet about everything he had seen.
“Bill, go home like I told you. Nothing happened tonight. Take my advice and I'm gonna take yours.”
“What advise was that?”
“I'm goin out West, just like you said. You be good now.”
With those last words, Sal moved quickly into the train station. As he crossed over the granite floor, his steps sounded unusually loud to him. He felt self conscious about his appearance in the uniform of an Army grunt with hair that was long enough in the back to form an unmistakable DA. Someone was calling across the hallway in his direction but he could not understand him and he was not about to stop for a chat with a stranger in this get up.
“Soldier, Soldier! Hey, you dropped something son.”
When Sal responded to the tap on his shoulder he turned to make a quick life or death appraisal of his pursuer. Standing next to him was a middle aged train conductor holding a styptic pencil laden with crusted blood. His expression was one of perplexed anxiety.
“Sorry to bother you son but I saw you drop this. Looks like you've been bleeding pretty bad. Are you OK? You need some help getting on the train?”
“No. Thanks. Just a little loaded. I'm afraid I got into a nasty scuffle with some of the local boys. No problem, though. It was probably as much my fault as theirs. Thanks again, I just need to get home”
With that final explanation Sal stepped over to the stool and ascended up into the nearest car of the train. At 5:25 AM he was on board in his private compartment, waiting.
As he unwound from the tension of this evening's experiences, he drew out his billfold and began searching for a familiar object. His talisman had provided him some measure of comfort and good luck from the day his mother had given it to him. The magic item was a worn postcard from the Holy land. It had a picture of the virgin Mary and Jesus on the front. On the back was a poem he had written for his mother as a young man before he was married into la famiglia. He recited the poem.
“ Here I stand transparently, too young to be opaque.
My life to lead in honesty, avoiding all that's fake.
Rules of men confuse me, as at each turn I find,
what I thought I ought to see, is of another kind.
The goodness I was taught about,
and was told must surely be upheld,
has proved to be only roundabout
a truth to be withheld.
Instead, these men of authority, rank, and untold power
hide behind false probity within an impregnable tower.
I will not be among them,
I promised Jesus so,
when the time of resurrection calls
those His death saved to go.”
His mother had been adamant that he be taught by the Jesuits. He thought of her faith as he turned the postcard over to gaze upon the comforting vision of the Madonna and child. The picture was well worn after so many years of handling. Sal often sought solace and peace of mind when he retrieved it from his wallet. The train finally moved out of the station at 6:12 AM. Sal fell asleep at 6:45 with the door locked.
Dreaming of the Rocky Mountains, he saw himself alone there in the mountains on a clear, cobalt blue day. The light was so bright in the alpine sky that it appeared to exude neon luminosity. It shone on a peaceful man sitting in a semi lotus position surrounded by a lush green meadow resplendent with delicate wild flowers and circled by a grove of quaking Aspen trees. There was a voice speaking softly in his ear, “ I have a plan for your life.”
In his sleep, Sal’s body lay coiled up and squeezed on bouncing seat. At the same time, the sight of his mind’s eye stretched to the ends of the earth, to the portal of heaven. He became aware of a heavy metal door looming up to block his view. It was locked. Sal began banging on it in a rage.
“Open the door! When I get in there, I'm going to break your face. I'll bite your ears off. Let me in, NOW!”
On the other side, he could hear laughter. This incensed him even further. His blood felt warmer as he flailed at the barrier. Throwing his full weight and fury into it only succeeded in landing him in a pile of bruised flesh on the doorstep. His head must have hit something; it was bleeding. Still holding onto the doorknob, a strange sensation of being suspended in air enveloped him.
As he absorbed that sensation, he noticed that the mountain he had been standing on was now several hundred feet below him. The door swirled amid senseless clouds, rising aloft even higher. Voices began taunting him.
“Go away. We won't let any ruffians in here. You made your choice. Murderer!”
What the hell was going on here? Sal tried to recollect himself. The door continued to elevate maddeningly. Clinging to it, he winced at the yawing, tumbling gyration of this unlikely aircraft. Around him widened the all encompassing cobalt blue above. Azure blue lay peacefully below him and smothered sight of land in the hazy distance.
These were not just any hues of blue but shades and tone that induced in men a calm peace of mind, a serenity of safety from material harm or contact. It intimated an illimitable dimension.
Of course he knew the sky ended up there somewhere, right? At this moment, however, it sure didn't look like there was any end to it. His door continued rotating as it rose. There was nothing on the other side of it but blue. Each rotation revealed nothing but fathomless blue.
Voices? From where? He called out to them.
“My name is Sal Testavita, and I’m gonna beat you senseless when I get a hold of you?”
“How silly! Of course I know who you are.”
“So, why are you doing this to me?”
“You will not be allowed through this entryway without giving up that tarnished name. That is the name of a gangster, isn't it? A wiseguy, I believe is the technical appellation for you now.”
He was swept toward mountains looming from the horizon. Still below him, they were beginning to come into focus as an enormously, colored relief map. They did not seem real. His mother had taken him to the museum and explained those maps to him. The changing colors signified the height above sea level. They made them in his school with a salt and floor mixtures and food coloring.
He saw her in a memory, Sophia Testavita. She stood there with a wistful look on her face telling him about the mountains where she grew up in Sicily. Her maiden name was Sophia Augustini. Sal missed those days at the museum. Sophia made him promise to take her to the Rocky Mountains when he became a man. She died while he was still young and unable to fulfill that promise.
Sal had never gotten to the Rocky mountains, not even to the Catskills. Now he was flying on a doorstep above the highest peaks in North America. This was such a queer trip. He wished she were there to help him.
“Ma,...Maaaaaaa !”
“Yes, Salvatore”
“Ma, is that you?”
“Yes my little bambino. We've finally gotten to the Rockies together, eh?”
“Ma, what in the hell is going on here? Where are you?”
“I'm on the other side of the door sweetheart. Why don't you give up your life down there and come on over? You know I preferred the name Archimedes for you but your father insisted on naming you after his uncle. It’s up to you now. Leave your ruined life and get it over with won't you?”
“This is crazy, ma. Where am I going?”
“For a new life, my child. This one is over. I pleaded for you to have another chance. It can happen for you, if you start a new life. I promised them that you would become a mendicant in the mountains of the West. It's something that I always wanted for you. You'll need to quit your old life forever. Otherwise those hoodlums back East will find you and kill you. You could be like Saint Francis of Assisi. You could live with the animals out there in the mountains helping people instead of killing them.”
“What about my son, what about Angelo. I can't just leave him back in New York. I'm his father.”
“Too bad you couldn't figure it out on your own. Angelo is not your son.”
She continued to share this troubling history. “Remember when Joanne went to visit her cousin Marie in New Jersey. Well, Johnny Pascuchi made the baby with her while they laughed about you sitting all alone in New York. I never could stand that tramp. Why you ever married her I'll never know. You were too good for her, anybody could see it. I was so embarrassed when you married that whore. All my friends here knew it would end up in tragedy and here we are, the tragedy has happened. You know what I always told you. Take a bowl of shit and stir it and stir it and stir it, ... and you still got a bowl of shit, ... don't you now? Three years later and you got somebody else's son. Not to mention the fact that her family got you to kill that tootzoon. What a waste of your life. Ah,... so I got you a new one. It’s like labor pains twice. Don't string it out on me, the first time was more than tuff enough.”
“What are talking about, being born again as what?”
“Sal, have faith and trust. Just as you had no idea what life would be like while you were in my womb, you cannot imagine what you are being developed for in your next life. You did not know what use your hands, your feet, your eyes or your body could be while you lay alive inside the warm, dark center of my body. Even now, it would not be reasonable to look back from your view inside me and understand why organs like these would be developed for use unless the new world beyond the womb and full of light was known. This next birth will reveal more to you.”
Sal had trouble concentrating on what his mother said after the reference to Johnny Pascuchi. In addition to her queer mix of pedantic ranting and blunt, sometimes vulgar, adages and expressions from her Italian upbringing, he could not concentrate on anything but the cuckolding Pascuchi.
Johnny was one of the Saraceni family. Johnny was none too bright and completely unaware of the depth of his mental limitations.
The heads of the family boasted that he had a big future in the organization. Dark, oily hair all over his body and fluffed up out of his shirt at the neck. He had a large, muscular build from working as a manual laborer for years before he and his brother finagled their way up the union ladder. Now he was a top-flight enforcer, not a novice like Sal. He was a quintessential wiseguy. Killing enemies of la famiglia and whacking witnesses who were nothing more than innocent bystanders had become mere mechanical acts to be performed with precision. Introspection was not an option and the lack of that dimension in his perceptive abilities caused Johnny neither regret nor curiosity.
Why wasn't Sal's blood racing ? Picturing Johnny's face in his mind, Sal felt almost no emotion. This kind of insult should have put him into a blind rage full of heat and internal, primeval screams for revenge. Instead, it only whimpered through his thoughts, a soft echo drifting to a small corner of his skull and quietly dying away.
“Ma, why did you tell me about this? And why don't I feel angry? What is going on here Ma? I should be ready to kill Johnny and I feel nothing. No anger, no adrenaline, no nothin!”
“From up here, things down there look so small. When you line up what seems to matter down there on the infinite ruler for final measurement up here, they are not really worth getting angry over. That's why you can't find the demon born to make you rage. In eternity your rage is obviously futile.”
“When you think about it up here, Joanne and Johnny don't have the same place in your heart. They don't deserve you. You can see it from here.”
“She's my wife, Ma. I'm not just gonna leave her because she slept with some gigolo. I'll take her with me. Yeah, that's what I'll do, I'll take her and Angelo and we'll go away together.”
“You can try, Sal. She won't go anywhere with you though. Not unless you decide to stay with those creeps and keep killing people on their orders. I can't save you then, no one can save you if you go back to la famiglia.”
How could he consider abandoning Joanne and Angelo? None of this made any sense. Somehow he already knew he would never go back to Joanne. Sophia was correct in that prediction. An ancient conflict continued between choice and the preordained. He would make the offer to her. She might go to find him but she would never trade New York City for a hideaway in the west. It dawned on him that her quest might not be for anything about “him” but only for the money she might have the courts force him to give her.
For the moment his biggest challenge was to get past the door locked in front of him.
He would call Sophia’s bluff. “Alright, I'm ready. Now what does that do for me?”
Before he finished speaking, the door opened onto a green alpine meadow thick with quaking aspens majestically framing a large natural amphitheater. The whole area was filled with groups of the wavering, holographic images of men and women milling about. Their faces seemed oddly familiar to Sal. He stepped through the door and it disappeared as he passed through it.
Walking amongst these people he realized his first impression was unsuitable. Then Sophia stepped up to him and smiled, beaming with pride.
“Oh, so nice. It’s wonderful! Seeing you here in the mountains where I wanted you to be. Talk to everyone here you can, Sal. Now you're on the right path. This is what we had planned for you. This is most precious gift I could give you. You'll thank me for it for the rest of your life. Believe me, believe me.”
Over his mother's shoulder, he noticed three men and women speaking to each other in a close circle. As each spoke he or she projected corresponding images on a large, diaphanous veil. Each speaker created new images on the screen encompassing what appeared to be scenes from different parts of the world. Sophia's words were barely audible as he stared at the group.
“ Ma, where am I? What are these people doing?”
“This is the myth of Ithaka. It’s another world inside you. It’s your home, a kingdom within you. The spirits you see are refining the unfinished thoughts of their days on earth.”
“I never believed in spirits, mom.”
“Yes,... well, anyway, the inhabitants here aren't really people as you might think of them. These are the spiritual reflections of the minds of mankind that have proven valuable enough to retain a life of consideration and completion. After being chosen, they continue to pursue the ideas and discussions that engaged them while they lived in the physical dimension you inhabit. No, no, that's not it either. You see, we don't really exist, as you might understand existence. God has shared this place with us and the living. We, our souls that is, can pass into heaven to be with him, or spend some time in reflection here in your dreams.”
“So when I dream, I come here? Why don't I ever remember being here before?”
“Well, yes and no. I can't explain it all to you. So many people have tried to translate dimensions like Ithaka using the written word and they all fall short. Explaining God’s realm of power cannot be spoken adequately within the limits of a human mind, only in our souls. You're not ready for true wisdom because real, infinite wisdom is irrational just as infinity is irrational in mathematics. But I can tell you that you haven't been to this specific place before. This is not a place where everyone comes when they dream. There has to be a desire to see deep within yourself in order to reach this nexus. What you did this morning finally drove you to find us. You can never go back to what you were doing prior to shooting that man.”
“Ma, I didn't want to do it. He came after me with a knife, ... it was him or me.”
“You went there to whack a man and you did just that. Self-defense is not really an excuse. You were on the wrong path. When you fell asleep you wandered about calling for me. For years the Jesuits taught you right from wrong, the word of God, and how to live your life,...all of that was still within you struggling to see past the trivial concerns consuming your days; the female body, of course, being the most obtrusive obstacle to your spiritual development. After passing out, you came to me for help. This is what I can give you. A whole new life.”
“Am I still on the train?”
“Kind of. Your body is crumpled up on the seat in your compartment. Your spirit is with us here. Your mind's eye envisions thoughts from this place, for the time being. I guide you because it was through me you sought forgiveness.”
“What? I don't remember asking for anybody's forgiveness.”
The screen behind Sophia was constantly changing the content of the pictures Sal perceived with forms and objects that were not of his world. Airplanes became fantastic, sleek, multicolored metallic objects passing through the air like a blurred light running through darkness and had no propellers. A scene with a beautiful bay of frigid arctic water became a cesspool of black sludge covering the shoreline and flocks of waterfowl with an all-encompassing, adhesive gloom of tar. Over and over the subjects jumped from one living picture to another. It was directed by the speakers, by their hands and voice commands.
Intermittently he heard their words. At least they seemed to be words because that is how he gathered up the speakers' meaning. They weren't having a conversation like any he had experienced. In facing the speaker the others' faces reflected what was on the screen. Yet, the light couldn't be reflecting on them because they often weren't facing the screen while they were projecting what was appearing upon it.
“Heh, oaf, yes you, with the bulbous, multidirectional nose, you look like an empiricist. What are you doing here?”
The man speaking to Sal made him feel like trespasser in a hostile country. His face was placid and ethereal, as were the faces of everyone he saw around him. But his eyes were fierce in their intense and disdaining focus on Sal. He was awaiting a reply from Sal.
“I'm sorry but I have no idea what an empiricist is, so I doubt I could be one”
“On the contrary, I should think that you must be one by the way you are dressed. All of you modern men are scientific empiricists even in your ignorance of what you are.”
“I beg your pardon, but if you think I'm going to stand here and let you insult me you're crazier than you look.” Sal was sizing up the strange man speaking to him. He wasn't so much a man as a holographic thought of one. More so than many of the others around here, he was literally a wisp of a man. There was no way to keep him still in your sights. He kept wavering. His body wasn't solid. Sal decided to extend his hand in offering a handshake to find out if the man could be touched at all.
“My name is Salvatore, ... Salvatore Testavita.”
“I am Immanuel Kant, or at least a collection of his thoughts and writings.”
Kant made no effort to grasp Sal's hand. The others who had gathered around them were smiling at the impasse. Sal felt insulted, eyed them, and was unable to discern what was so amusing to them. Sophia spoke up, apparently wishing to ease her son's confusion.
“Sal, Immanuel was one of the world's greatest thinkers according to the most highly regarded experts on the philosophy of western civilization. Although he is in a terribly rueful mood these days. I'm afraid he is appalled by the course of history since his death.”
“Sophia, I will speak for myself thank you. Your ancient prerogatives don't make intervention imperative. So, Salvatore, you are a brutish lout. Yet, you fit well in the society that rightfully claims you as a member. You share a common trait with most men of your time in that your ignorance is well protected by your vanity and arrogance. If you wish to grow as a man into a being more noble than your current deeds portray, then please be silent and listen to what I have to say.”
“Heh, who the hell do you think you are? I don't take insults like that from some pipsqueak!”
Sal pushed out at the form of Kant and encountered only vapor. In the wake of his passing hands the image of Immanuel merely shimmered. Small ripples passed through the length of the glistening body and faded away into the soft amplitude of gently waving texture present before Sal's attempt at assault.
“What the hell?”
“Control your temper for a moment, son, and you may learn something for a change. I knew after my death you would become more like your father. I had hoped you would have remembered what I had taught you. Thank God a lot of what the Jesuits tried to teach you is still in your brain somewhere. Be patient and open up your mind. Listen!”
“Sophia, let me try to explain to your bewildered, belligerent progeny why we see him as ignorant. Perhaps he can be made aware and return to the world as an agent of redemption. Sal, you must be classified as an empiricist because of the manner in which you perceive and accept the world around you. I can show you this by asking a few questions. Do you wish to learn about what you do not understand?”
The tone of Mr. Kant's voice had softened and penetrated Sal's anger. Everything was so strange and unreal here. At the same time, there was a queer familiarity to this place. Sal reluctantly nodded his approval to begin the questions.
“I will use the idioms and language indigenous to your era and understanding rather than more advanced nomenclature and precise terms that only arise after your life. Remember that we are not trying to accuse you of pure malevolence. Your lack of understanding constitutes ignorance which can be corrected through the efforts of your mind and heart working in unison to elicit the essence of the soul God has created you with.”
“I don't know,...”
“Be quiet. What is happening to civilization is most unfortunate. So few amongst you have exhibited enough self-respect to speak out for honesty and virtue that the voice of compassion is totally drowned out by the howling hordes championing vulgarity and self-obsession. As if this transgression is not sufficiently damning, from up here we can see that the future will bring even worse offenses. How could you kill another man? You were not even acquainted with the man.”
“I had no choice. Rocco ordered the hit. There was no other way out.”
“You see. This is at the heart of your plight. Man has the inalienable right of choice in his actions. You chose to kill. You could have chosen to defy the orders of your patriarch. It was your choice.”
“That's no choice. I would have been a dead fool if I had gone against Rocco's orders.”
“Ending up dead or alive as a result of your choice does not negate the fact that your action was of your own volition. In the face of oppression, virtuous men make choices that allow them to retain their virtue. It may cost them their friendships, their vocation, their family, and in some cases their lives. But without variance a virtuous man is true to what he knows intuitively is right. He is not persuaded to abandon what is certainly ethically and morally right to assuage the feelings of others from whom he might be inclined to seek favor. The choice of action is your own inalienable right and cannot be passively transferred to another for credit or blame. Did you know it would be wrong to murder a fellow human being?”
“Yes. But if I had turned my back on this contract I knew I would never get any security for myself or my family. What else am I going to do? I'm a Sicilian. I'm never going to get a break unless I make one. Rocco gave me a chance to get off the assembly line and make some good money. Everyone would have thought I was an idiot to go back to the factory.”
“What you do as a man, or woman, must be in accordance with what is right and good. What is right and good is what ought to be not what is commonly accepted as the prevailing tendency. If you turn to the examples of what is being done around you this will surely mislead you. When you open up your heart and soul, the path is clear. You know what you ought to do. If you give that up to follow the commands of men who have no conception of right and good then you forfeit any claim to being a virtuous man. Do you think that Rocco has the authority to supersede your right of choice? Did he create you”
“No. It isn't just Rocco though. Everyone is on the take. That's just how the world works.”
“Graft and larceny are standard conduct these days, is that your defense for murder?”
“Well, not exactly, but everyone looks the other way to get what they want. You bend the truth a little here and there and it all works out. I don't think it has changed all that much since the first man decided he would be king of the mountain.”
As Sal and Immanuel talked, the onlookers continued to play what looked like cinematic displays to either side of them. Every so often, Sal would be distracted into watching glimpses of the action. On one he saw a city with skyscrapers of such enormous magnitude he realized it was pure fantasy, some Hollywood trick. But then the scene moved along to the streets where people were actively moving along and about their business. The people were real. They were dressed differently, wearing little boxes on their hips with wires extending into their ears. They were not like any actors he had seen, not even Buck Rogers. Was this the future they were reviewing? The crowds were all moving so fast it seemed the film was being run at an accelerated speed.
“What do you think would happen if men could find a reasonable way to resolve their differences and make decisions? Let us say that men and women were better educated and understood the scientific explanation for what they were asked to do. Do you think graft and larceny would be less of a problem then?”
“Why sure. If we could use science to run things we would be right on track, I guess. Or at least we wouldn't have to go along with people like Rocco, eh ?”
“Is that what you think? Do you see your choices being clearer if everything were decided by the logic of science?”
“Of course. When I saw what they were doing at the New York World's Fair about the future I wanted to jump in a time machine and get to future as soon as possible. Science can take care of a lot of these problems, is that what you're getting at?”
“Bravo, now you have brought yourself to the point of possibly seeing beyond your ignorance. Science is built upon the foundations of empiricism. By the observation of experience and analysis of data, scientists of all sorts have determined what the world is all about. This is empiricism. The more numbers you can accurately assign and mathematically relate to everything around you the better you can predict the future and make expansive conjectural stabs at the past. With ever increasing precision men will become able to calculate the most unbelievable intricacies of the material world. Do you think then that your choices as a man of virtue would be easier for you?”
“Sure.”
“You are wrong. Your choices will require even more strength for resisting evil.”
“How can that be?”
“When you have dissected all the organisms and assayed all the minerals you will have learned no more than you intuitively know already about the essence of what is right and what is wrong. Now your choices will be even more difficult to make because your superiors will be able to offer scientific, empirically proven rationale for commanding you to deny the authority of divine design in the knowledge of good and evil. “
“In some cases their directions will be consistent with what you understand to be virtuous. In other cases they will find it expedient to have you conduct yourself in a way that goes against your sense of right and wrong. They will prove to you that this is way the world is, therefore you would be unreasonable and irrational not to comply. Being virtuous is not a matter of proving the way the world is but rather seeking what ought to be. It is impossible to conceive anything in the world, or even out of it, which can be taken as good without limitation, save only good will and the life of Christ. “
“Science has no moral mind to value good will; it has only the data from observation and analytical manipulation. When you concede to the preeminence of pure, experientially derived order over the irrationally sacred values known intuitively through the categorical imperative of good will, you have denied your soul's existence. You will find yourself driven to agree with mathematically validated premises of mechanical science or look foolish in the face of their widely accepted arguments.”
“You're against science? You want us to go back to living in caves perhaps? Pandora opened the box, it's too late to put everything back again.”
“ How apt that you would reach for a pagan myth in your defense of empiricism. And the Sprites of disease, hunger, hopelessness, and cruelty that Pandora freed are the burdens of modern man. Old age, Sickness, Labor, Vice and Rampant obsession are the companions of modern man. They will not be overcome by measuring and observing them alone. There is an inner growth that gains a higher value than outer additions and expansions. It requires the overriding wisdom of men of virtue to translate the products of calculus into appropriate human intervention in the world. Perhaps my friend Darwin here can show you how the supposedly pure objectivity of science can lead to inhumane behavior.”
Another spirit which had been lingering in the crowd moved forward to address Sal. There were looks of disgust and disdain following his movement. It was palpable to everyone present.
“I am Charles Darwin. I have been abused here because of the misuse of my ideas among men. I never understood it would be the source of these tragic transgressions. What was observed amongst animals was for scientific purposes. How could I know that men would find my studies as a support for abandoning compassion and goodness? The concepts supporting survival of the fittest was a natural phenomenon, or so I thought at the time. “
“Unfortunately, modern man will find it convenient to overzealously implant this process into the systems of human interaction. This is not what I intended. While sailing on The Beagle I included in my voyage journals an affirmation of the progress made by the Christian missionaries. After nearly four years of being far from England’s shore, I shared an entry that I shall read for you now,…
Late in the evening I went to Mr. Williams’s house, where I passed the night. I found there a very large party of children, collected together for Christmas-day, and all sitting round a table at tea. I never saw a nicer or more merry group: and to think, that this was in the center of the land of cannibalism, murder, and all atrocious crimes! The cordiality and happiness so plainly pictured in the faces of the little circle, appeared equally felt by the older persons of the mission.
“I was not averse to the need for Christian missionaries work in developing natives. However, now, by adopting survival of the fittest as a means of ruling over the survival of our fellow men we descend into the realm of the bestial. The extrapolation of my concepts of evolution to apply toward social evolution defies the value of charity and compassion. Establishing an economic system based on predatory capitalism as the scientific equivalent of proper evolutionary forces for the development of a society is the reasoning of a civilization that has lost contact with its inner world of reflection and ethics. I should not be held responsible for this depravity. Science in and of itself is merely a tool. These people have used my theories poorly. Empiricism is not to blame.”
Kant, the prince of ethics philosophical realm, responded, “Enough of your sorry defense, Darwin. Our scorn for you will only diminish when you have absolved yourself of the absolute preeminence of your dear science. This attempt at the deconstruction of your history befouls your existence further. What arises from the play of numbers and formulae is much like the tapestry woven by the winds of Chaos. It can be overruled and eradicated by more powerful, inner truths.
“You may have supposed you understood the ways and workings of our core of life because you had observed a rudimentary anatomical explanation of life’s history on this planet and reasoned erroneously about what you saw as the general systems theory for existence. Your eyes were keen and your sight sharp but only to the superficial level of your capacity to see. That is the trick of empiricism. As a Christian, I was not fooled by the material world.
“You had not insight into the smallest parts of living things, that level where the differences in all life are so obviously borne of divine creation. You could not discern the irreducible complexity of life’s operations at the level of the individual cell and molecule. Where you failed was the arrogant overreaching your vision. It was a sin implicit in the neglect of ethical man’s a priori and assigning it to the random acts occurring in the world he designed and created.
“There is more to the infinite than rational numbers and scientific method can translate. You are still suffering from the sin of empirical conceit. Go off now. Search your soul not your mind. Seek the flow of God’s hand, not scientific control. Ask pardon of Jehovah and beg to see the beautiful way of vision from within ourselves. Go, out of our sight with you.”
The apparition of Darwin's thoughts passed through the scornful crowd to a crest or rock landing above the amphitheater. There he sat down amongst a group of what looked liked Navajo Indians. They were smoking a long wooden pipe which was passed to Darwin as he sat down dejectedly in their circle.
Sal had been trying to reconcile the conversation he had just witnessed with the recollection he retained of the Voyage of the Beagle. Darwin was a hero to his teachers. What Immanuel was saying in arguing against Darwin did not make sense to him, yet. Sal wished he had listened more closely to the lessons his mother had tried hard to impart to him.”
“That's right, Sal. I tried to teach you much of this, but you weren't paying attention were you? You thought your mother was almost as crazy as everyone in our neighborhood thought, those gossiping, mental dwarfs. I tried to cultivate that mind of yours. Maybe now you will be more attentive.
Sal pondered the circumstances of his current experience. His bafflement was generating a piercing stage of discomfort. The pain seemed to be penetrating his thoughts and reminding him of a physical ache. The phantasm of Immanuel was receding from his sight. Sal felt the need to resolve their dispute.
“What do want from me? What is it?”
“You must find us after you awaken. Go to the mountains and await us. We will send you guides for the next phase of your growth. You must never go back to the world of denial. You have seen a glimpse of the inner truth. Forfeit everything else if you must but never go back to the comfort of ignorance or you shall damn yourself to a fate far worse than death.”
Sophia shook him.
“Sal, Sal, pay attention to what I tell you now before you go back to the train. This is vital to your inner journey. You must take this new life. Go to the mountains you see here. Keep searching till you find what is here. Once you return here we can show you the way. As long as you live the life you currently do, you cannot be saved. In that case, your soul is only worth the value your friends place on it; and that is nothing beyond what it can bring them in terms of their own gratification. “
“You will find many paths which can lead you to where you need to go by coming back to this place and joining in the talks you see going on around you. I only have time to leave one key with you in these few moments until they take you back. “
There was a commotion behind her as she tried to rush her parting message to Sal. There were many people scuffling and retreating from some kind of intrusion. The air was being pounded by some kind of monstrous fan. The tunic wearers were scattering into the aspen grove and vanishing into thin air. Behind them came a group of men in three piece suits, each a dark shade of blue with gray pinstripes complimented by the same blood red ties. They were swinging umbrellas and copies of the Wall Street Journal as they attacked. . What did it mean?
In front of their onslaught the contemplative scene wilted. There were screams of fear,...
“It’s the global corporate empiricists,... run, quick, there is no safety here from their greed and hunger for the power of domination!”
“Salvatore, Salvatore Testavita!”
Sal wondered why his mother was shaking him so hard. Her face was fading from his sight but he could faintly hear her saying one last thing as her body dissipated in a cold fog.” Sal, remember what Solomon learned down there,...All is vanity. The entire duty of man is to fear God and obey his commandments. The Ten Commandments. Keep that with you, closer to your heart than the inner world Kant portrayed. Go beyond that door back into your world and SEE God and SERVE God. This can be your shield against all the deceits of Satan, the father of lies that hold that world captive. Find the meek and help them against the onslaught of duplicity. They are our last hope. Come back here and I will answer you. Don't let their illusions fool you. Bye, sweetheart. “
“heh, Mister ! Wake up! You done got blood all over and you look like you need a doctor real bad.. Come on, let’s get your butt off at the next stop.”
Between two worlds, Sal came out of one to greet the rude rumbling of another. He was on the train. A black porter was shaking him frantically. The porter's face looked very concerned. As he came into focus his words also sharpened their intent for Sal’s response.
“You gotta get out of here! You ain't no soldier and the conductor, he knowsit. He's gonna have cops waiting at the next stop. You betta git yor ass otta here quick.”
Sal could barely move his arms. They felt heavier than full-length totem poles. His legs pushed his torso up with a wobbly surge leaving him precariously lodged against the wall of his compartment, his head alone supporting contact with the bouncing surface jarring him with each bump in the rough ride..
The porter was terribly animated, jumping up and down, waving his hands, urging him out to the hallway and toward the rear of the car. Walking made Sal vomit. Making it to the end of the sleeper car, he was splashed with enveloping waves of frozen air as he opened the doors between the cars. It jolted his thoughts from the crippling concerns of basic motor activities.
They were slowing down in the middle of an urban area. Probably Albany by the kind of buildings he saw slide by him as moved to the next car. If the conductor was suspicious as the porter had told him, he would bring security police to his compartment. When he boarded the train he had noticed that there were four or five sleeper cars. Maybe he could get to the last one before they reached the gate.
His pace quickened. Upon reaching the end of the last car Sal could hear the train screeching to a halt and feel the floor sliding out from under him. He pitched headlong into the rear door of the car.
“Goddamnit !”
Oddly, a faint twinge of conscience whispered that he stop swearing so much. There was little time to ponder that area of personal improvement needing to be attended to when he had time.
Peeking around and looking out from between the cars toward the sleeper where his compartment had been, he watched the terminal security police join the conductor. The armed authorities hurriedly scrambled into the train. The station was fairly crowded, affording him sufficient cover to slip away amidst the heavily bundled, weary throng climbing down and moving into the terminal building. He separated himself from the rest of the incoming passengers milling about as soon as got inside and found the nearest exit.
Outside it was late afternoon. The brittle Artic air slammed against him. Pushed by a merciless wind, the piercing tentacles of frigidity seared his face with pain. Scanning the limited line of sight afforded him by the blowing snow, he sorted his options with tenacity of a buzz saw. No suitable option presented itself.
They would be pursuing him at any moment. It was hopeless. He felt so inhumanly tired. For a second he considered sitting in the snow to alleviate the impossible strain of standing on his failing legs.
“Need a cab mister?”
It was right in front of him. The way out just opened up before him as easily as stepping into a waiting taxi.
“Yeah,... I'm in a hurry. Take me to 425 State Street.”
Closing his door he slouched into the warm, cloth covered back seat and snuck a furtive peek over his shoulder. Through the glass doors of the main station entrance he quickly caught a glimpse of the conductor and security police running through the crowd gawking at faces, looking for his. They were moving rapidly toward the door he had just exited from.
“Any bags mister?”
“No bags,... and get a move on it bud I'm late.”
The taxi gradually picked up speed carrying him out of the snow packed parking lot into the traffic of the busy city streets. He was free. They wouldn't catch him this time. The bar at 425 State Street, Frank's Bar and Grill, was his ticket to freedom. One phone call would be enough to guarantee safe passage to wherever he wanted to go while he waited for things to cool off.
With the taxi gliding toward Frank's, Sal let his battered body relax and unfold. He kept his eyes fixed on the driver and the road ahead to make sure nothing interfered with him reaching his destination. Watching the streets pass by, he was struck by a phrase. All is vanity, all is vanity.
What the hell was that supposed to mean to him, he wondered, and why was he thinking about that now? He forced himself to discard that knotted thought and concentrated on plans to avoid pursuit.
The rest of his life he would wrestle with untying that knot and the delicate, diaphanous tapestry of introspection it generated. Sal was being ensnared. It wove him into the fabric of a new life. He was not fully aware of how much it would change him but he began to feel warm inside thinking of his mother and a strange alpine amphitheater filled with now familiar faces. Home? Ithaka? Heaven?
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