UNREAL STORIES PART I

I have a friend who is a well known, successful author. A lot younger than me, and yet he treats me with respect and kindness. I'm not going to tell you his name, or even hint at who he is. I don't trade on friendships. Never have, never will...probably to my detriment, according to some. Anyway, he is the motivation for this blog, and the others that will follow it in a similar vein. So, to my friend, I say thank you.

I didn't tell my birth Father about my heart attack until Fathers Day. He is eighty, and has had numerous heart attacks of his own, starting about 25 years ago when he was 55. I didn't want the potential stress of my own problems having a negative impact on him. I spoke with his wife when I called on Fathers Day, trying to get a feel for whether or not I should tell him about it. She is lovingly protective of him, as she should be, and I felt she would warn me if it wasn't a good time to tell him. She gave no indication that I shouldn't, so I told him about it when he got on the phone.

Come to find out, he had another heart attack...in January...almost at the same time that I had mine. I wrote about that to my author friend, and this was the first part of his reply:

Unreal story. And clearly meant to be.

He finished his response, as he always does, with kind remarks for me. He is, as I said, a very respectful young man. His remarks, however, got me to thinking. The first thing that popped into my head was the similar comment of a young woman who worked as a reader for one of my agents. This young woman had just finished reading one of my screenplays that happens to be based on a true story. She didn't know that; she also didn't know that her boss, the agent, had already read the screenplay a number of years before and declared it to be the best thing that she had ever read. The young woman's comment was as follows:

It strains credulity to think that this many bad things could happen to one man in the course of only one lifetime.

The comment made me laugh at the time. I had intentionally left a lot out of the screenplay just to tone it down: not only that, but it covered only a three year window in my life. I thought about all of the unreal stories that I had lived through prior to that one, and the many I have lived through since. When she called to give me her "notes", I asked her how old she was:Nineteen, she replied with all of the misplaced authority of her youth. I told her she needed to get out more, and politely said my goodbyes. She didn't know that after her boss read the screenplay for the first time, she tried to steal me away from my first agent instead of being a co-agent with her. She didn't know that her boss had gotten the screenplay to the top executives at Columbia Pictures, and that it was about to be given the green light when...

The Rodney King verdict was announced, and riots ripped Los Angeles apart. Suddenly, no one wanted to have anything to do with a story where the not so clean, undercover, half-breed cop, used black gang bangers to kill dirty, racist white cops for revenge...

Go figure, huh?

That screenplay became toxic for the next few years, and the agent was told, by the executives at Columbia, to drop me like a hot potato...which she did.

But, that is not the unreal story that I want to tell you today. I could start at the beginning; my unreal stories, I have been told, start before my birth, but I have my reasons for saving those for a while. There are many that occurred before the one I'll tell you today, but this is the one that seems to resonate in me at the moment. So, without further foreplay, we begin...

My senior year of high school was eventful, to say the least. Many of the things that occurred would make unreal stories on their own. Some of them will be mentioned briefly in the course of this narrative. Perhaps I will come back to some of them in the future, perhaps not. The story I have chosen merits being told first, I believe, because it has legs. It continues on for many years, sporadically rearing its disturbing mane and howling at the moon to remind me that things aren't always over when you think that they are.

The first incident of note my senior year, was that my brother ran off with the niece of the Pastor of our Church. He was 21 and she was sixteen, but that was only part of the reason their actions had such impact. She and her brother, who was my age, were living with the Pastor and his wife, their Aunt and Uncle, due to the extremist of circumstances. They had witnessed their Father murder their Mother in ways too graphic to describe here. He was captured, tried and convicted. At his sentencing hearing, he pointed at his two children and swore that he would break out of prison, hunt them down, and kill them. A few years later, he succeeded in escaping, and the two were shipped off from their home in the Midwest to hopeful safety in Southern California.

I was the only one who knew where she and my brother had gone, and everyone knew that I knew. I was pulled out of school at least twice a week by the police and questioned. Never told them anything, but I understood that they were just doing their job. I was already a pariah at my Church; I had been labeled a "sexual predator" at the age of fourteen, over a year before I had my first girlfriend, or even my first kiss. That is another of the unreal stories. This new development earned me the title of "Anti Christ" to go along with the other...and no, I'm not joking. There is a reason why many people feel driven from Church. Gossip and salacious innuendo rank highly on that list.

The second incident that is relevant to this story is that my Granny was diagnosed with terminal leukemia. She agreed to move in with us so that we could take care of her. Now, my Granny was my counselor, my advisor, and my best friend. She was the one person that I had always been able to talk to about everything; especially the difficulties that my parents and I were going through about my being adopted. My Mother was, at that time, going to college to get her teaching credentials. She had been going for thirteen years: it was a long, slow, and painful process for her. She volunteered to drop out, but my Granny wouldn't let her. You see, my Granny and I had already worked out an agreement. I would go to school for my first class of the day, and then I would walk home and stay with her until about a half hour before my Mom got home from college. Then I would walk back up to the school, turn around, and walk home. That way, if my Mom happened to swing by the school on her way home, she'd see me where I was supposed to be. My first class was actually at another school close by. I taught foreign students English. It was easy to go from there back to my house, and I didn't have to actually attend any classes at my high school my senior year to graduate. On days when my Mom had limited classes, I would stay at school for part of the day.

The story of why I didn't have to go to high school my senior year; the reasons why the school was just as glad when I didn't show up, and why I could have graduated much earlier, are another of the unreal stories best left for down the road. It made it easy for me to take care of my Granny, at any rate, and we were able to keep the secret until almost the end of her life a few months later. She told me that she was trying to hang on for only two reasons: she wanted to see my brother be able to return and get married, and she wanted to see me graduate. No one from our family had ever graduated with honors, and she made no secret of the fact that she was very proud of me. Her love and support saw me through many dark and difficult days...I miss her still. She hung on just long enough to see my brother return and get married...but she passed a few months before my graduation.

It was during all of this that our story for today took place. I was walking out to the parking lot of our Church one Sunday morning when I saw a beautiful girl walking my way. She had long, auburn hair that hung almost to her waist and translucent eyes. She looked up at me as we passed each other, and I inexplicably said,

Hi, TeeDee.

She smiled, a curious little Mona Lisa smile, and said hi back. We both continued in opposite directions, and it took me a full minute to realize that, not only had I never met her before, I had never even seen a picture of her. Anywhere. At anytime. I looked back over my shoulder, and caught her looking back at me. She was clearly puzzled, but not half as much as I was. I shook my head to clear the webs, went out to the family car, and went home.

My Father had been sleeping in my room since my Granny moved in. My Mom wanted to be next to her at night to be able to care for her, and my Dad, who was the most selfless man I've ever known, moved his clothes and gear into my room. He was the Head Stillman at an oil refinery, and because of that he worked rotating shifts each week: days, followed by swing-shift, and then grave yards. He went to bed after dinner when he worked grave yards, and then got up at eleven to go to work. There was no point in my even trying to go to bed before he left, so on those nights I was always up until after midnight. That Sunday was one of those nights, so I didn't even go into my room until almost one in the morning.

I have always been nocturnal as well, and falling asleep on the best of nights was, and is, problematic. That particular night my mind was racing about a million things, not the least of which was my meeting with the mysterious TeeDee, if that was even her name. I tossed and turned for a while, trying to put things to rest in my mind. The last time I remember looking at the clock, it was 1:53. I fell asleep at some point after that, and had the most incredible dream of my life...

The dream started in a wind tossed night some time close to the end of the Dark Ages. A castle, somewhere in what would now be northern France. The Lady of the Castle in childbirth, her husband pacing downstairs before the fire. The Lady is attended by a wizened old crow of a woman; part midwife, part faithful servant...and part witch. She gives the Lady a potion to drink for pain as the birth nears, and the Lady swoons into unconsciousness. The baby is born: cold, still and silent as the grave he will soon lie in. This is a disaster for the old witch. The Lady has had a number of still born children already, and the old woman has promised the Lord a healthy child. Not only healthy, but a son as well. It well mean her death if she fails again. She is racked with fear when she remembers something that might save her: the village whore had given birth the day before to a healthy baby boy. No one could be certain who the father was, but it was probably one of the Lord's soldiers. The babies were similar enough in appearance, and the witch was desperate. She barred the door and gathered the dead heir in her arms.

The Lord and Lady were relative new-comers to the castle, receiving it as part of an inheritance fifteen years before. The old woman, however, had been a servant to the owners of the castle since childhood many, many years before, as had her mother, and generations of her family before. She knew things about the castle that the current royals didn't, and that knowledge was about to come into play. She hurried to the fireplace, carrying the limp, small form next to her. Her gnarled fingers felt along the rough stones next to the dying fire, and turns and pushes of stones, practiced countless times over the years, caused a section of the wall to move. She reached inside the slowly widening space into the darkness and pulled a long wooden stick from within. Rushing back to the fire she lit it, and, torch in hand, began her descent down the winding stairs that the moving wall had revealed. A turn of an ancient wall sconce brought the wall closed silently behind her, hiding her retreat.

She had made this journey so many times over the long course of her life that she barely looked at the treacherous steps as she bounded down them. The paving stones were as worn and weathered as the old woman's feet, and the winding twists and turns of the secret passage were as familiar to her as the pulsing veins on the backs of her hands that throbbed now from her efforts. She came to the bottom at last, where three tunnels opened up before her. One led to other parts of the castle, one much farther out into the nearby woods, and the last to a small cave just outside of the village. She didn't hesitate for a moment as she darted into the last one, and minutes later found herself past the walls of the castle and hurrying through the musty dankness of the cavern. A waterfall covered the opening to the cave, but she knew a hidden path around it and soon she was flitting through the village, an old crow floating unseen through the moonless night with a package of death swaddled under her wings.

She hesitated before the whore's cottage, not daring to breath. She had already seen the whore in the village tavern plying her trade.There were things she could do to earn, even this soon after giving birth, and besides, she wasn't about to let a baby keep her locked away from the world. No, the old woman's only concern was that the whore might have left someone to watch over the baby. She needn't have worried. The cottage was empty save for the lone, small figure laying in the straw before the fire. Quickly the witch darted into the cottage, a plan formulating in her desperate mind. She picked up the healthy boy and lay the dead heir in his place in the straw. The whore had left her baby directly in front of the fire, and sparks popped out from the logs. She drew some of the fire into the straw and watched as it burst into flame. The baby was dead...he would feel nothing, and the fire would disguise any doubts the whore might have. It was unlikely that she would even mourn the child; her freedom was far more valuable to her. The old woman drew the bar down across the door and slid silently out the window, the now breathing bundle tucked in the crook of her weathered arm. She paused at the edge of the village and watched the cottage burn. People streamed from the tavern and the surrounding cottages, but the whore's hovel was built far enough away from the rest that none were endangered. Satisfied that her secret was safe, the old woman scurried back towards the falls and the entrance to the cave.

Her mind raced faster than her feet as she glided up the hidden stone stairs toward the Lady's room. She needed to disguise the fact that this child was already a full day old. She turned the sconce and hesitated as the secret wall pivoted. If the Lord had broken down the door in a panic while she was gone...but no, the room was as still as when she left it. She lay the boy on the bed and smeared the after birth all over him, then wrapped him in a small blanket. She pinched the child, hard, until he cried out. Then, unbarring the massive door, she rushed out and down the stairs to the waiting Lord.

She had been right; his eyes went immediately to the baby's genitals. He cared about nothing else than that he had a son. A living, breathing son. The excess blood was enough to dis way him from looking any closer, and she quickly swept the boy back into her arms and up to the Lady's room. Here was where her deception might not carry. The Lady had been present at many births: she might recognise that something was amiss. So, when the Lady began to awaken, the old woman gave her more of the potion to drink. It was enough to keep her asleep for at least another twelve hours. By that time, the ruse would be complete. She rocked the baby gently as she watched the Lady drift away into the land of Morpheus.

Days unfolded into years as I watched the boy grow, until one day, I finally realized that the boy was...me. The perspective of the dream changed from that moment on, and I watched events transpire as though I was living them. I grew into my teens, being taught by my adoptive father all of the skills necessary to one day become Lord of the Provence. I could ride, hunt, and fight as well as anyone, and my skill with a sword was unmatched. I was also trained by the monks in literature and the arts, as well as religion. My favorite tutor, however was the old woman. She taught me about nature, about life, but most of all, she taught me about people.

I had discovered the secret passages as a small boy when I was hiding in my mother's room and saw the old woman go out through the hidden doorway in the wall. She swore me to secrecy, and from that time on, I was able to come and go from the castle as I pleased. It was during one of these outings into the woods that I met a lovely young girl from the village. I felt an immediate attraction to her, even though I knew that our romance would be forbidden because she was a commoner. She felt the same for me, and our love grew over the ensuing years. By the time I was in my early twenties I had decided that I wanted to marry her, irregardless of our different stations in life. We met near our favorite little stream where I professed my love and intentions. She was overjoyed, and I left her with the promise that when I returned, it would be to make her my wife.

 It was the last time I saw her alive.

The old woman was waiting for me at the entrance to the cavern by the waterfall. She had been watching from the  bushes just upstream, and demanded to know what I was doing with the village girl. She flew into a rage when I told her of my plans. Her face contorted and she paced back and forth by the water's edge, her angry mutterings occasionally broken by a high pitched , nervous squeal. She begged me not to go through with it. I refused, and told her my parents would understand. We argued about it for a long time, until she finally asked me if I knew who the girl's mother was. I knew of her mother's reputation, but since she had been dead now for over three years, I told her I didn't see why it mattered. That's when the old woman sent my world into the abyss.

She told me the girl that I loved...that I wanted to marry...was my half sister. I, of course, didn't believe her. I raged against her lies and threatened to have her put to death for her treachery. Then she told me the story of my birth; of the desperate decision she had made, and the consequences to her if it were ever discovered. I thought, at first, that she might be lying to protect my parents from my marriage to a commoner, especially one who was the daughter of the late town whore. But the truth was there in her eyes...and in my heart. As much as I had loved the girl, I had always wondered why the desire to have sex with her had never really overwhelmed me. We had been alone all of the times we met, and she had offered herself to me on many occasions, but I have never gone ahead with her offer. I had told myself that it was my love for her that kept things pure, but I was certainly no virgin, and had sex frequently with the choicest of young ladies in the neighboring villages. I didn't know what to do. The old witch and I returned through the cave to the passages within the castle. I told her to go on ahead and waited alone in the darkness pondering my own fate. I couldn't go back now and pretend to be something I wasn't. I couldn't stay. So, I took the passage that led to the stables, saddled my favorite horse, and left.

I rode listlessly for a few days with no direction, either for the road or my life, in mind. One day I could smell the salt air of the sea nearby, and suddenly decided to take a boat across to the Isles of Britannia. I waited for a boat that could ferry me and my horse, and then made the trip across the straights of Dover. I wandered purposefully for weeks, taking in the new lands and people at my leisure. They weren't as advanced as my countrymen, but seemed to enjoy their lot in life much more so. This changed, however, as I traveled farther north. There , the people seemed more distrustful, more afraid. I was told by an inn keeper that the Earl of that area was a foul, evil man, who kept his subjects in line through intimidation and torture. No one ever felt safe, and even the King's men hesitated to come through without having great numbers. The Earl's men took pretty much what they wanted, whether in money, goods, or women's virtue.  Oppression hung in the air like an ocean fog; thick, heavy, and chilling. I should have turned back to the south, but something inside drove me onward.

Two days journey farther, and I knew why...

It was late afternoon when I heard the sounds of a disturbance off of the path I was on to my left. A brisk trot brought my horse and I to the edge of a small glen. There, not one hundred feet in front of me, four soldiers were attacking a young woman. They had cornered her against a large rock and were tearing her clothes from her despite her valiant attempts to fight them off. I reined my horse to the left, and then took off straight at them at the gallop. They looked up just in time to move off of her, and I slammed two of them backward with my steed's shoulder. I dismounted quickly, unsheathed my sword, and began a fight to the death.

The two soldiers who had evaded my horse's charge were on me as soon as I dismounted. Though they had the advantage of numbers, their skill with the blade was lacking. It was a matter of only moments before I had killed them both. I turned my attention to the other two just as one of them came at my back. The other was still on the ground, entangled in the brush by his chain mail. This new opponent was more of a challenge, but it it wasn't long before I had him on the defensive, his blows becoming weaker with each swing. I had just run him through with my sword when I felt a deep burning pain in my back. The fourth and final soldier had crept up behind me and plunged his dagger into my flesh. I wasn't wearing chain mail, or armor of any kind, and the blade did its evil work well. I went to one knee as he pulled his steel from me, my head bowed in pain. He came in to finish me, but he had waited a split second too long. I brought my sword up to parry his thrust, and drove my own weapon into him all the way to the hilt. He fell at my feet, and his flat, glassy eyes were the last thing I saw before I too crumpled to the ground, the darkness enveloping me.

I awoke to the feathery touch of cool fingers stroking my face. The young woman whom I had saved in the small clearing had brought me back to her small cottage and nursed me back to health. I saw, as soon as my eyes regained their focus, that she was...TeeDee. It was one of those moments, even in a dream, when you just stop...I knew I was dreaming. I knew that everything was also real. How, I would never venture to guess...

We lived together for a few years, and fell in love. There is too much of that time to tell; including her being taken by the evil Earl, and my fight to reclaim her which ended with his death. We were eventually to be married by a nearby priest when someone from my past found me.

The old woman knocked at the door to our cottage one day and, as soon as I saw her, my emotions were torn between confusion, anger, and regret. She told me that my parents had been taken captive by a neighboring Duke, and were being held for execution. I was the only hope that they had. TeeDee begged me not to go. I was torn, but the obligation I felt for the parents who raised me overwhelmed all else. I removed the cross I wore around my neck, and with the edge of my dagger inscribed the words, " pas même la mort" on the back...not even death. I swore to her that not even death would keep me from finding her again...and with that, I put the cross around her neck, mounted my horse, and rode off with the old woman.

I won't bore you with the story of how I stole back into the castle through the hidden passageways and killed the evil Duke, nor the joyful reunion with the people who raised, and still loved me. I told them of TeeDee, and they begged me to bring her back with me to resume my rightful place. We shared one last drink together, and I left to retrieve my bride to be. Everything should have turned out fine, except...

No one had told my half sister anything. Not that we were related, and that that was the reason why I left. All she heard was that I was going to bring back my new bride, and she went into a rage. She slipped a slow acting poison into the goblet which had held my drink...and then killed herself. No one knew what she had done...but its effects would soon appear.

I began to feel sick upon my return to Britannia. The illness progressed as I rode northward toward TeeDee. I became weak...dizzy. I clung to my horse's mane just to stay on. I passed in and out of consciousness. I don't know how long I rode that way. I finally regained consciousness. It was late afternoon, and I realized that I was back in the same glen where I had met and saved TeeDee many years before. My strength was ebbing. I fell from my horse. I gazed up through the canopy of trees at the slowly dimming light. I struggled vainly to hold onto life. My last breaths whispered the words, no, no, no...as the darkness of death enveloped me...

I awoke in my bed, screaming. My mother was standing at the doorway, fear etched into her face. I was drenched in sweat, and every muscle in my body was taut. I reassured her that I was OK, and she turned slowly back down the hall to my Granny. I looked over at the clock radio by my bed. It read 2:08. I had just dreamed an entire lifetime in less than fifteen minutes.

Part 2 to follow soon...

Moving the Box

Although this is being written with the current SAG issues in mind, the story is one that I feel is beneficial for all aspects of life.


I was at my dad's retirement party out at the plant when I was approached by a man I had never met. Very distinguished, about my Dad's age. Impeccable Suit. Tailored. Very expensive. Perfectly groomed. Hair as white as snow.

"Your Charlie's boy Chris, aren't you?"

"Yes sir, I am...and you are?"

"Harry Rothschild...got a minute?"

The owner of my Dad's company wanted to speak with me. I didn't know how he knew who I was(I'm adopted and look nothing like either of my adoptive parents), or why he would want to speak with me. I was a little nervous, but I went. He took me off to one side at first, but the room we were in was pretty noisy. He motioned to an adjoining room. I followed him in, and he shut the door behind us. He told me a lot of stories that afternoon...about my Dad...and about his relationship with my Dad over the years. The one I'm telling you today is one of the few stories about my father that I had never heard from anyone else before. I don't think too many people knew about it...which is part of the story itself.

My relationship with my father had been rocky for a number of years prior to that day, culminating with my being kicked out of the house on my 18th birthday. I had lived on my own for a number of months before my Dad asked me to move back in.(That's a story for another blog) I had only been back for a few weeks, and we were still doing that delicate dance between father and son. Mr. Rothschild's conversation with me...the stories he told me...started me on the path to looking at my Father with the kind of respect that had been so sadly lacking on my part for a long time.

"Have a seat, Chris. You know...there's an awful lot about your Dad I bet you don't know. Mind if I tell you a few stories?"

"No, sir."

"Good...maybe you are as smart as your Dad has built you up to be. Do you know Nate?"

"Yes sir. He's a great guy."

"Yes...yes he is. Did you know that Nate was the first black man ever hired into the union out here?"

"No...no, I didn't know that."

"Did your Father ever tell you the story of how he got Nate hired on here at the plant?"

"No, he never did."

"I'm not surprised. Your Father has never been one to blow his own horn. One of the many things I've always admired about him. This goes back to the late fifties. Your Dad came to me in private. He did that a lot if there was something important on his mind. He said,



"Harry, it's time we got this plant integrated."



I told him he was right...that it was long overdue. I couldn't, however, appear to be behind it. My doing so would make that first man's life a living hell, or I should say, more of one than it was already going to be.



"You know you've got my backing Charlie, but...you're going to have to figure out a way to get it done. The old-timers here are pretty die hard racists...the newer guys that you've hired over the years aren't as bad, but we can't have a civil war going on on the job. And Wiley..."



"I'll handle Wiley. Just wanted to let you know what I was setting in motion."



"You have a man picked out?"



"Yeah. Fine young man. Name's Nate. Worked on our construction team on the last project. College degree. Family. Good church-goer. Clean as a hound's tooth."



"Good luck Charlie."


Nate came in the next day to fill out an application. Wiley, he's my sister's husband, and my top manager, saw him from a distance. Grabbed his application as soon as he left. Now...Wiley is dumber than a post. No, seriously...dumber than a post. Being my brother-in-law is the only reason he has a job. I love my sister, I really do, but why she ever married that...anyway, besides being stupid, he's very prejudiced. I couldn't figure out how your Dad expected to pull it off.



Wiley had the option of firing Nate at any point up to his ninety day probationary period ended...and it would have been just like Wiley to do it on day one as it would have been to do it on day eighty-nine. The few old-timers left at the plant were either friends, or stooges of Wiley's. I just didn't see it happening.



You have to remember Chris...there were still "White's Only" signs all over the country. People were being beaten. Dr. King hadn't given his "I have a dream" speech yet. Things were tough. Trying to break the color barrier anywhere was difficult enough, but in the oil fields? Still...someone had to be first...somewhere had to be first. I was really hoping it could be here. It would cause a nice little stir at the country club where no one wanted me as a member, but couldn't keep me out of.



Wiley came running to me, giggling like a buffoon.



"I'm finally gonna pull one over on Charlie."



"How?"



"Charlie hates spooks. Hates them He just told Fred yesterday that he was scared I'd find out about this spear-chucker applying, and stick him with him, just to screw with him...and that's exactly what I'm gonna do. I want to assign this Nate to work every day...every shift, right next to Charlie...and you better not try and stop me this time Harry. Charlie's got it coming. I'm damn near blood to you...you gotta take my side...just this once."

"All right Wiley. Whatever you want."

Days turned in to weeks. I tried to stay abreast of everything as discretely as possible...which wasn't that hard...considering Wiley would talk to me almost every day about how miserable his stooges said your Dad was.

The ninetieth day finally came. Wiley signed off on Nate's papers. He was in. I called your Dad in to the office after Wiley went home that night. I had to know how he'd done it.


Your dad had started the day before Nate even applied. Every union has its Judases. Guys that report directly to management. Your Dad, of course, knew exactly who they were. He made sure that one of them saw him get visibly upset and take one of the old-line, anti-union racists off in the back. The spy stood just outside to listen in. Your Father told the old timer that he had heard "some colored guy" was going to apply. He was scared to death that Wiley would stick that "spook" with him, just out of spite...maybe even let him make it through probation and get in the union. If Nate made it, it would make Charlie the laughing stock of the union. Your dad asked the guy if maybe he could have a word with Wiley...or at least help your Dad drive the guy out by making him miserable.

Wiley got the info that day. That's why he pulled Nate's application so fast. He changed a bunch of the schedules so that Nate had to work every shift with your Dad...and he told all of his buddies that Nate was not to be touched. Period. Getting revenge on your Dad was more important to him than keeping the plant segregated. It was brilliant. Truly brilliant.

"My dad must have laughed so hard in Wiley's face when he told him...wish I could have seen it."

"Your Dad never told Wiley."

"You mean Wiley never found out?"

"Eventually...but not from your Dad."

"Who told him?"

"It was about six months later at our semi-annual meeting between management and the union...which meant your Dad. Wiley couldn't resist getting in some digs at him. I kept waiting for your Dad to tell him off. He didn't. Kept playing it like he was pissed off about the whole thing. I don't think your Father would ever have told Wiley the truth."

"Then who..."

"Me, I'm afraid. Your Dad wasn't too happy with me about it either...but I couldn't take that smirk on Wiley's face any longer. You should have seen both of them after I told Wiley how your Dad had played him. Wiley looked like the whole world had just seen him with his pants down around his ankles. Your Dad...he looked mad. At me. Wiley left the room, muttering to himself. Almost tripped and fell on the way out. Your Dad chewed me out after Wiley left. Told me never to do something like that to him again."

"Why?"

"He was afraid that if Wiley found out, he'd have those old-timers make Nate's life miserable...try and force him to quit. Told me he'd hold me personally responsible if anything happened to Nate. Then he stormed out."

"Did they go after Nate?"

"No. Thank God for me, no. Wiley was far too embarrassed to let anyone know how your Dad had played him. He continued to act like he had screwed your Dad over. Only the three of us ever knew...and now you."

"Wow."

"I learned a lesson in business a long time ago. Life is about "moving the box" from point "A" to point "B". Getting the job done. For most people, however, their box isn't the job...it's recognition...being noticed. They really don't care if the job itself ever gets done...just that people recognize their work. I learned early on that, not only did recognition not matter...sometimes it was better if no one even knew you wanted the box moved. The best circumstance was if you could get people to move the box for you...and think the whole thing was their idea.

Your Dad was one of only a handful of men I've known in my entire life who looked at that exactly the same way that I did. Your Dad was all about getting the job done. Period."

Mr. Rothschild told me a lot more stories that afternoon. I didn't find out why he took so much time with me that day for a number of years. Doesn't matter for this story...but I'm very glad he did.

That story...that lesson, has served me very well from that moment on...especially when I was a Deputy Sheriff in LA...and a high level bodyguard and then PI after my retirement. It's amazing what you can get people to do...especially if you check your ego at the door.

Some of you might be asking how this applies to the current situation at SAG. Check the latest news. Does what has happened, and continues to happen, sound like people are trying to get the job done...or be recognised for trying to do the job? I realize that in our business in particular, we tend to thrive on being noticed...complimented...stroked. We are, by the same token, the union best equipped to "move the box"...get the job done, without others ever knowing what it is that we are really trying to accomplish. We are, after all, actors.

I've tried to make this point before. I'll try again.

To all of the members of SAG:

Your brothers and sisters within the union are not your enemy. You only have one enemy. That enemy is the AMPTA. They may have moles, stooges and/or Judases in your midst...but those people are just pawns.

Meet behind closed doors. Formulate a long-term strategy that includes ALL of your affiliate unions. You may not be able to get everything you want this time. Do your best. But...if you unite with the other unions...if you can work together for a common purpose...then collectively you will have the strength to stand against the AMPTA...you will be able to "move the box"...instead of being the box that is moved by those more powerful...at their whim.

"A house divided against itself cannot stand... I do not expect the Union to be dissolved — I do not expect the house to fall — but I do expect it will cease to be divided. "

Abraham Lincoln

"Any group of men that can steal me into becoming a multi-millionaire are OK by me..." SAG vs The AMPTA

My grandfather was part of the Railroad workers strikes in California in 1916-1917 and 1922. My father, 7 during the first strike and 12 during the second, remembered vividly the boxcars full of scab workers...the beatings and deaths of his father's co-workers and friends...the joy of victory in 1916-1917 with the winning of the 8 hour day...and the tragic defeat in 1922...that defeat was laid at the feet of the operator's unions; representing the engineers, trainmen, firemen, and conductors, who did not join in the strike, by the striking shop workers. The operator's union represented the superstars of their day, and the impending wage cut didn't effect them. That lack of solidarity, by supposed union brothers, was not lost on my father later in his life and career as both a head stillman in an oil refinery, and as a union organizer.

My father's wages, as a head stillman, were never really a point of contention during strike negotiations. The head stillman of a refinery is the top blue collar job...responsible for overseeing every aspect of the refining process. It takes many years of hard work and dedication to reach the position: it requires you to have worked at every job at the refinery...to be able to not only direct the temperature of the "cracking" unit to tenths of a degree while monitoring the output of the various distilled fuels...it also requires you to be able to step in, at a moments notice, into any job within the refinery...from common laborer on up. Men like my father were few and far between, and commanded the top wage. Most, unlike my father, didn't remain in the position for very long. It was to each company's benefit to have, in their non-union management staff, a former head stillman. The reasoning behind this was obvious at each and every strike...management could immediately send someone over to insure the proper running of the refinery with scab workers, thereby ensuring product output during the strike...in other words, they wouldn't lose money from lost production while a strike was on-going. This was a huge advantage for the owners...and an enormous detriment to the strikers.

My father was offered a top white collar management job in 1946...almost immediately after his return from the War. The pay was three times his wage as head stillman. The caveat, of course, was leaving the union. He refused. My father had brought the union into that refinery. He had organized the men. Stood on the picket lines with them. He was their shop steward. He had protected them from harassment and physical attacks. He would not turn his back on them now. He remained head stillman at that refinery for the next 29 years...refusing the offer of management from the owner, a man he admired and respected, every year.

My father told me hundreds of stories about his days in the union. Two stand out in my mind, at the moment, as being pertinent to the ongoing problems between SAG and AMPTP.

My father was walking out into the refinery, late one night, at the beginning of his shift. His board man, "Mouse", walked by him in a huff. My Dad was the only person "Mouse" really got along with, so my Dad was used to seeing him in a foul mood.

The board man at a refinery is responsible for monitoring the temperatures in the "cracking" unit, the brain of the refinery. The raw crude is brought in and heated, separating it into layers which are siphoned off and heated to produce the various fuels. The temperatures have to be watched very closely...off to the slightest degree in either direction and the fuels don't separate properly. This results in inferior fuel products which can't be sold according to government regulations.

The board operator was not allowed to leave the "cracking" unit without a proper replacement. The only two people on site at the time who could were my Dad, and my Uncle "Dub". You can imagine my father's surprise when he saw "Dub" standing outside of the "cracker."

"I just saw Mouse storming off, so what the hell are you doing out here, Dub?"

"Management sent over some efficiency experts from Stanford...they're getting ready to raise the reactor temperature four and a half degrees."

"They can't do that...it will shut down the whole plant...didn't Mouse tell them that?"

"Yeah...he told'm...they told him he didn't even have a high school diploma, and they had PHDs in engineering form Stanford...that's when he told them to go...well, you know Mouse...and stomped out."

My Dad stormed into the unit just as one of the efficiency experts was about to turn turn up the temperature on the reactor.

"Get your hands off of that board right now...what the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Raising the reactor temperature four and one half degrees."

"Did my board man tell you what would happen if you did that?"

"Yes...he said it would shut down the whole refinery...but..."

"But what, you idiot?"

"Our studies have shown that, in theory, the optimal temperature for..."

"Theory? Theory? Do you understand that I'm holding this place together with baling wire and spit...that I'm already running her three degrees higher than she should go? That it's only the skill and knowledge of these men that allow me to do that?"

"As I stated...our theories show..."

"Get Wiley over here...right now."

Wiley was the top white collar manager for the refinery. A former head stillman, he had taken the promotion to management when my Dad brought the union in because he thought it would put him in good with the owner. Then he married the owner's sister. He hated my father...with a passion. The feeling was mutual.

It didn't take Wiley long to take the walk across the street from corporate into the refinery.

"What's the problem, Charlie?"

"You know what the problem is, Wiley...your experts here are about to shut down the plant. Tell them to back off. Now."

"I'm going to tell you the same thing I told Mouse when he..."

"Mouse already called you?"

"Yes...and what I told him applies to you as well...if I am going to take the word of someone on heating temperatures between a bunch of Stanford PHDs and a bunch of illiterate high school dropouts, I know who I'm going to pick."

"That's your final word?"

"That's my final word."

My Dad turned to the experts.

"Knock yourselves out boys. Come on Dub, let's go home."

They were barely fifteen feet out of the door when the rattling of the equipment shook the ground. Within five minutes, the entire refinery was shut down. My Dad was in the changing room about an hour later, getting ready to go home, when Wiley ran in. The owner, Harry Rothschild, was across the street. He wanted them both...right now.

They arrived at the corporate offices to find The Old Man stomping and swearing.

"Jesus H Christ, Charlie...what the hell did your men do?"

"My men?"

"Wiley said something about Mouse and the board..."

"Why don't you ask Wiley about his efficiency experts."

"Wiley, what in God's name have you done now?"

My father recounted the nights events. In perfect detail.

"Wiley, if you weren't married to my sister, I swear...OK, Charlie...what's it going to take to get her up and running again?"

"Double shifts for everyone...for about two weeks."

"Do whatever you have to, Charlie...Wiley...just go home."

Two weeks later, the plant was up and running. All it had cost Old man Rothschild, was a couple of million dollars in lost product...a couple of million dollars in 1950s money. Adjust that for inflation. All because of petty personal animosity...and the belief that people who've never gotten their hands dirty know a machine better than the people who work with it everyday.

The second story took place just a few months later. Union negotiation time with management. It was my Father's job to take the demands to management...which in this case was Old man Rothschild, Wiley, and the corporate attorneys. Wiley, never one to let a grudge go, thought he had a way to sting my Dad, and the union, again.

Construction work on a refinery was done by the lowest level journeymen. The tools for their specific job were purchased for each man. It was, and had been for over fifty years, standard practice for these journeymen to be allowed to take the tools home at the completion of the specific job. One of the few perks for manual labor. New tools were then purchased for the start of the next assignment...and so on.

There was an ongoing construction project at the plant. Phase one was completed...but phase two was not only behind schedule, it hadn't been started. Why? No new tools. Wiley was sure he had the union, and my Dad, this time. The old man had to walk by the project on his way into the meeting.

"Charlie...why are we behind on the new project?"

"I'll tell you why Charlie's men are behind, Harry...they're thieves. They stole all of the tools, and now they stand around waiting everyday, doing nothing."

My Dad, of course, had been asking for new tools for the men for weeks...to no avail. He was about to start in on Wiley, when Old Man Rothschild did it for him.

"Wiley, Wiley...how in the world does my sister stay married to you? I want you personally to go down to the hardware store right now...buy TWO sets of every tool that will be needed for every man in the plant, not just the journeymen, so we can get the project done."

"But, Harry...they stole..."

"Wiley...you're too stupid to be let out alone...any group of men that can steal me into becoming a multi-millionaire are OK by me...now get your ass over to the hardware store...what's next on the agenda, Charlie?"

And that was it. Wiley was forced to retire a few years later by the old man. Mr Rothschild thought so much of my father, he personally hosted his retirement party...and told me his version of both of those stories...which were far more colorful.

What points am I trying to make here?

1. Solidarity has been sadly lacking in our union's dealings with our brother unions. Collective bargaining between SAG, AFTRA, WGA, the directors, and the teamsters would be far more powerful and effective than the splintered approach that we have now. The main problem has been crossover...actors, writers, directors and others who fall into multiple categories, and are also producers. This presents a clear conflict which the AMPTA is only too happy to exploit. Divide and conquer is a mantra that has served management very well in its fight against unions in every field. We should never allow ourselves to be divided from a common, and mutually beneficial purpose.

2. I do not doubt the intelligence of those who have been negotiating on the union's behalf. I do doubt their hands on, practical app knowledge, of the "machinery" that they have been trying to improve. Those who work with it everyday are usually far better qualified to know when it might be reaching a breaking point.

3. Residuals are the "perk" tools that benefit the journeymen actor. They used to be the same for every job. But new tools are required now, as the jobs; IE different media streams, have changed. Even though everyone benefits from getting these tools, they're not a necessity for the head stillmen...let alone the former head stillmen now working for management. They are, however, a necessity...no...a hard earned right, for those who are least able to protect themselves. All of the superstars in our field should remember from whence they came...and look out for those less fortunate.

I do not know if we should strike or not. I am no where close enough to the action to even venture an opinion. By I can observe, even from a distance, the process...and I believe it needs to change. If not, we may soon have a union in name only...or not at all. What a shame that would be...not only for us...but for those who fought and sacrificed for us to have this union, so many years ago.

Lost Season 5: The Rules of Time Travel

"Raffiniert ist der Herrgott, aber boshaft ist er nicht."
"Subtle is the Lord, but malicious He is not."
Albert Einstein

"There are rules – rules that can't be broken."
Daniel to Sawyer

"You're special...the rules don't apply to you..."
Daniel to Desmond

First of all, let me say, I really enjoy "LOST". We started watching it at the end of the first season...bought the DVD boxed set, and watched it straight through over a couple of days. We got hooked. It's uneven...not always up to its own standards...but a very good ride.

From the very start, I've been intrigued with the way the story delves into time travel...a theoretical branch of physics/quantum mechanics. Time travel is a Pandora's box...the paradoxes that spring from it lead to far more questions than answers...and takes you through names like: Einstein...Werner Heisenberg...Niels Henrik David Bohr... Erwin Rudolf Josef Alexander Schrödinger...and Stephen Hawking, among a multitude of others.(pun intended)

It presents you with theories and thought problems like: The uncertainty principle... Schrödinger's cat... The Copenhagen interpretation of quantum mechanics...wave–particle duality...Quantum superposition... the anthropic principle... The Novikov self-consistency principle...and the many-worlds interpretation...to name just a few.

Confused yet? I'll put some links at the end for anyone who wants to read up on some of these people and theories...but first...

Let me tell you a story.

I was a weird kid. Even more weird than I am now(hard to believe, but true). My mom went back to college when I was four or five. She had no place to put me, so she took me with her. I still remember her Algebra class. The professor wrote an equation on the board. Asked if anyone could solve it. I waited. No one raised their hand, so I did. He laughed as he motioned me to come forward, then handed me the chalk. He wasn't laughing when I wrote the correct answer. Asked me how I knew...told him I just saw it. He figured it was a trick my mom was pulling on him. So...he wrote a few more problems for me...harder problems. I wrote down the answers. That's when he decided it was no parlor trick.

My mom told my dad about it when we got home. Now...my dad was pretty damn good at math. He was the head stillman at an oil refinery. He could work out calc-trig problems and extract cube root on a slide rule faster than I have ever seen anyone do it on a calculator...the man was good. He gave me a few problems...then a few more. Finally, he asked me the same question...how? I told him the truth...I just saw the answer. That was good enough for my dad. From that point on, I loved math.

Math is a language. When used properly, it is the only pure, universal language. I liked that. No mistranslations. It simply is.

They put me in college when I was twelve.(we're talking really, really weird kid...the only things I lacked were coke bottle thick glasses, a plastic pocket protector full of pens and pencils, a bow tie and suspenders...and a flashing neon sign on my forehead reading "GEEK"). I planned on staying with math from that point on...until...

Second year. Quantum mechanics. Heisenberg's uncertainty principle. Basically, you can't know a particle's position and velocity simultaneously. You can know one or the other, but...the act of measuring impacts the particle...so you either impact its speed, or its position. The bulk of modern quantum mechanics is based on a rule that says we can't know...not that we aren't capable of knowing, because of our ignorance or inadequacies at this time...no...the rule was it could NEVER be known.

My response at 14...BULLSHIT! One of my Professors tried to patiently explain it to me using the Schrödinger's cat thought experiment. This is it, in a nutshell...

You put a cat in a box. With it, you put a flask of poison, a Geiger counter, and a flask breaker. The box is sealed to keep out external phenomena. If the Geiger counter detects any radioactivity, the flask breaks and...the cat dies. There's just enough isotope in the box for the probability of it happening. According to quantum mechanics, the cat becomes both alive and dead...simultaneously. It is neither alive, nor dead, until...someone opens the box to observe its state. It is the act of observation that causes the cat to die.

I'm not making this shit up.

My dad had taught me from a young age that there was a world of difference between theory and practical app. When my professor was done, I proposed a counter experiment. I suggested he put his daughter, who was then my age, in the box with all of that equipment...not in theory, mind you...in a real box...with real poison. Then all he had to do was stand guard over the box...as long as he could keep anyone from opening the box, his daughter would never die.

He didn't think that was very funny. I wasn't laughing either. I told him he didn't really believe what he told me. I told him he was only involved with that theory...not committed. He didn't understand the difference.

My grandad had passed away recently. I used to ride my bike out to my Granny's trailer and mow her small patch of grass. Then she would make me something to eat, and we'd smoke and talk when I was done. One day I came over complaining about something. My Granny told me the problem was that I was involved in the circumstance, not committed. I told her I didn't understand.

She went over to her stove and started frying up some bacon. She laid it aside when it was done, and scrambled some eggs in the pan. She served them to me when she was done, then sat smoking while I ate...not saying a word...until I was finished.

"You like that boy? Good...no here's the answer to your question...the chicken that laid those eggs was involved in your meal...the pig was God damn committed..."

I've never forgotten that...I doubt that professor has either. He still had no desire to try out his experiment...and to the best of my knowledge...no one else ever has either...

That was the end of math for me...the higher up you went, the more it became like philosophy...or religion...instead of pure math...again, the hubris of human ego raises its ugly head...

Now, I'm much more like the following quote:

The human mind is not capable of grasping the Universe. We are like a little child entering a huge library. The walls are covered to the ceilings with books in many different tongues. The child knows that someone must have written these books. It does not know who or how. It does not understand the languages in which they are written. But the child notes a definite plan in the arrangement of the books---a mysterious order which it does not comprehend, but only dimly suspects.

Albert Einstein

That Einstein guy was pretty sharp...spent the last thirty-plus years of his life trying to disprove what everyone believed his own theories had proven. Thirty-plus years...that's the kind of stubbornness I can relate too...and I'd be lucky now to be able to add two plus two(it's five, right? please tell me it's five...or three)

Now, I know what your asking yourself..."OK Chris...what the fuck does any of this have to do with LOST?"

Good question. Here are Daniel's comments again...

"There are rules...rules that can't be broken."

"You're special...the rules don't apply to you."

He's talking about Time Travel. The Novikov self-consistency principle is a perfect example. It states: That if an event exists that would give rise to a paradox, or to any "change" to the past whatsoever, then the probability of that event is zero. Such as auto infanticide...you couldn't go back and kill yourself, your parents(before you were born), etc...because then you wouldn't have been alive to go back and...see the paradox? According to most physicists, if there is Time Travel, there has to be rules. You could affect the past...but not change it.

Then you have the MWI or many-worlds interpretation...simply: it means that there is a very large, perhaps infinite, number of universes and that everything that could possibly happen in our universe (but doesn't) does happen in some other universe(s).

Clear as mud?

Two schools of thought...both depending on observation...on an observer. Both presuppose that we are the observer. There is, in my opinion, a third option...What if...

Think of life...of time and our physical universe...as a film. Written before it was shot...already shot, and in the can...the beginning, middle, and end established...done. Now it's time for the test screening...your the writer/director/producer(God)...you like the film...it works...but you decide you want to make some changes without impacting the key points, especially the ending...what do you do? You re-write and shoot pick-ups to the scenes you want changed...carefully edit and splice them in...watch again...

How many times could you do that before you showed the "finished film"? An infinite number of times...

What is it that makes film visible to us? Light...when light passes through the moving frames of film, it comes alive...

Now, for the sake of argument, let's call that light "consciousness"...and let's say, that besides our individual consciousnesses, there is an ultimate consciousness. There would always be light on all frames of the film at all times...but we would only "see" the parts that we light up...

Have you ever had deja vu? Premonitions? Dreams of a past event that you know are different than the way you remeber it happening? Not remember an incident that others around you remember vividly? Are you skipping backward and forward through time?

Why is Desmond special? What, or who, does he represent?(Messiah-like sacrifices...first for Penny, then for the world...twice) Who is Ms. Hawking? Who, or what, does she represent?

Are the storylines in LOST set in stone...or just the beginning, middle, and ending?

Are our entire lives set in stone? Or, just the beginning...middle...and the end...or can even the ending be changed? Do we...like the characters in LOST, skip backwards and forwards in the film of time? Is it true, what Shakespear said, that "All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players:They have their exits and their entrances;And one man in his time plays many parts..." Is there a playwrite for us?

Are we on our own version of LOST?

Boshaft ist der Christofer Blake...aber raffiniert ist er nicht...

Malicious is Christopher Blake...but subtle he is not...

Let the comments begin...

Links...


http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wave-particle_duality
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Schr%C3%B6dinger_equation
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Werner_Heisenberg
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bohr-Einstein_debates
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Schr%C3%B6dinger%27s_cat
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quantum_superposition
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Many-worlds_interpretation_of_quantum_mechanics
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Novikov_self-consistency_principle
http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Albert_Einstein
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anthropic_principle
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Double-slit_experiment
http://www.quantumtea.com/blog/?m=200502

The Priests of Per-T Em Hru Chapter1

Chapter 1

Coming Home

Oh mighty Thoth…prepare the way for my journey home…send Sopedo to guard my path…command Wepwawet to open the doors for me…Am-Heh stands against me…it is Am-Heh who commands the demons of Apep to destroy me…plead with Atum to protect me from the wrath of Am-Heh…for only He can withstand him…without your Light, Oh mighty Thoth, I will become lost…and wander between the Two Worlds forever…

Prayer from the Book of Thoth

I stopped at the mission to pick up my girls, Ruby and Renee, before heading home to Los Angeles. My folks, Skip and Ellen, had been taking care of them while I finished my business with the “late” Captain Brown. One of the schoolteachers had resigned. Left and took her family with her. The place was just too hard for most bellagannos. Not my folks. They loved it…and they loved the Dine. The superintendant asked my Mom to stay and fill in for the departed teacher. Mom was sixty-four then; Dad was seventy-four…but she still couldn’t say no to God…and neither could he.

He helped me pack up the car for the drive home.

“Any problems, boy?”

“No.”

“Did you use the ratio of lye to pounds of body parts like I told you?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re sure? I mean, it’s not like you’ve ever done it before…maybe I should go back with you…check on…”

“What’s wrong Dad?”

“You can never be too careful about something like this, son…can’t afford to make a mistake…the consequences…to you and those little girls…”

“I know how to cover my ass, Dad. You taught me. No one will ever find him…or what’s left of him. You, of all people, know how anal I am about this shit. Now, what is it? What’s really wrong?”

“There’s so much about me you don’t know, son. So many things I never wanted you to know. I didn’t want you to grow up trying to emulate me. That’s why I’ve kept so much of my past…my real past, a secret from you. The path you’re on now is so much like mine. Not what I wanted…I’m sorry.’

“I love you Dad…but sometimes you say the stupidest things. You’re sorry? For what? Saving Ruby and Renee’s lives? For saving mine? Thanks to you, I’m not going to have to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder…being scared to death any time the girls aren’t with me that something’s happened to them. They’re safe now Dad…and so am I.”

He carried Renee out to the car across his shoulders. Fireman’s carry. Just like he had carried me so many times…so long ago. Yet, here he was…still carrying me. What a man. Ruby was asleep in my arms when I laid her down in the back of my Blazer next to her sister. Neither of them stirred.

Dad and I stood in the cold. Steam from our coffee cups floated lazily before disappearing. The smell of strong coffee mixed with the scent of fry bread cooking in lard over open fires. Dine women start their work early. There’s a peculiar quality to the air in the high desert of New Mexico in the early spring…just before dawn. The sky grows a pinkish orange on the eastern horizon, while the heavens remain as black as death overhead and to the West. The stillness of the air…as if waiting. Waiting to see if the Sun will once again vanquish the Darkness…or will this be the time when darkness wins again as it has in the ancient past…and plunges the world into the Abyss once more. An ageless battle…and one not yet over.

A joining of hands with my parents. My Father’s prayer for journeying mercy for me and my girls. I took a deep breath. Cold, fresh, pure air filled my lungs…a diver preparing for the descent into the blackness. Yeats was wrong…that “rough Beast” doesn’t “slouch toward Bethlehem waiting to be born.” It slouches toward Los Angeles.

Back home…into the Belly of the Beast…back to LA. It was time to go. I kissed them both...always made my Dad blush. No need to take the back roads this time. Out on the highway. Farmington...Flagstaff...Barstow...San Bernadino...Then Home. On our way.

Another man. Another prayer. Six thousand miles away, a man lifted his hands in supplication.

"Oh mighty Thoth...prepare the way for my journey home...send Sopedo to guard my path...command Wepwawet to open the doors for me...Am-Heh stands against me...it is Am-Heh who commands the demons of Apep to destroy me...plead with Atum to protect me from the wrath of Am-Heh...for only He can withstand him...without your Light,m Oh mighty Thoth, I will become lost...and wander between the Two Worlds forever..."

A prayer of protection for the fearful traveler. A prayer written in a book thought lost thousands of years ago. A prayer offered not in the hope that my Father had offered his. A prayer whispered in fear.

A soldier thought dead for over twenty years. A warrior of the Priests of Thoth. A man who had no confidence in his prayer. He had betrayed his oath. He had betrayed the Priesthood. He had betrayed his God…but he still cried to Him for help. He too was going to the Belly of the Beast. To LA. Going to see the daughter he had left many years before.

Our paths would soon cross…and both would change forever.

The Priests of Per-T Em Hru

The Priests of Per-T Em Hru

Book I

The Pharaoh’s Tomb

Preface

“I myself have read the Book of Thoth…written by his own hand…I have read its secrets, and know all that must come…I am the Ur-Kherp-hem…the High Priest…of Per-T Em Hru…the Coming of The Day…I have performed my sacred duties…faithfully…I am ready to hear as He hears…I am ready to see as He sees…I am ready to stand as He stands…I am ready to sit as He sits…I am ready to enter the House of Osiris with boldness…I am ready to be weighed on the scales…I am ready to stand at the Altar of the Lords of Truth…my Heart will NOT be driven away…and I shall look upon the Disk of Truth and Light forever and ever…”

I still have my copy of the Ritual…written in the Good Doctor’s own handwriting. I know that he believed in its power…that it was read, in secret, over his casket by the remaining Priests of Thoth…that a copy was placed in his lifeless hands for his journey to the Underworld…to recite to The Guardians of Truth…so that he could gain entrance into The Great Hall of The Light of Thoth…

He gave me a copy…just in case…just in case I changed my mind. He believed that one day, I would see the light…as he had…turn my back on the Evil God of Darkness and Destruction, YHWH…as he had…and become a Priest of Thoth as he had been…

He was wrong.

My name is Naaki Tslichi…means Two Dogs in Dine. That’s Navajo, to you bellagannos reading this…but you can call me Jay. If you don’t know who I am already, it means you haven’t read my first story…Two Dogs. If you want to know more about me…about who I am…what I am…and what made me this way, you should read Two Dogs first. You don’t have to…but it would help.

The story I’m about to tell you is true…to the best of my knowledge. It starts before the dawn of time…and stretches to eternity. It is a story of love and hate…of life and death…of death and re-birth…and life everlasting. It is a story of the wars of men to rule this Earth…and of those greater than men…and their war…


You may not believe some of it…hell, you may not believe any of it. The Good Doctor told me no one would…except the conspiracy kooks and Apocalyptic freaks. That’s OK…I doubt if I would believe it, if I hadn’t lived it…seen it…heard it…for myself. But I did…and I do. More than that, the people in this story believed it…especially the Good Doctor…and their beliefs…right or wrong…have changed the world.

Their actions continue to change the world. They believe everything that they have done will bring about Per-T Em Hru…“The Coming of The Day.” Total peace on Earth for every man, woman, and child…under the benign ruler-ship of their God-King…brought back from the Land of The Dead.

I know what your asking yourself…”How the fuck did you get your sorry ass mixed up in this, Jay?” You know, I ask myself that same question…every day.

I had a friend, out on the Rez. One night, dead of winter, there’s a blizzard blowing. Hard. We’re in his Hogan. Shootin’ the shit. All of a sudden, he gets up…takes off all of his clothes…runs outside…and jumps in a pile of frozen cactus. I get him out of it…and drive him the hour into town to the Hospital. He was cut up pretty bad…and severe frost bite. Lost three fingers…four toes…and a bunch of skin off of his ass.

Were on the ride home before I finally ask him…

“What the fuck did you do that for?”

“Just seemed like the right thing to do…at the time…”

I’m going to start the story the only place that makes sense to me. It’s going to jump around a bit through the telling, but…oh well…here we go.

I came back to LA from the Rez, after the events in Two Dogs, in 1984. I was raising my two little girls by myself. My folks had been asked to stay on at the Mission. I was retired now, and I had plans…big plans…

Then life jumped up and bit me on the ass…

TWO DOGS Part 1

TWO DOGS
( Naaki Tslichi)
By
Christopher Blake

Taaei Doo Da. No turning back.

Everyone who lived this story, and was old enough to know all of it, is dead. Except me…and I’m dying. The injuries that forced my retirement from the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department in 1984 should have already killed me. The doctors wanted to put a morphine pump in my back eight years ago…to keep me comfortable. They said six months. They were wrong. But…it’s getting close. I can feel it. Smell it. The way my Acheii, my mother’s great-grandfather could smell a storm coming on a hot, cloudless day. He was never wrong. And he taught me. The storm is coming. I don’t know how much time I’ve got before it gets here. I don’t think I can afford to wait any longer. I’ve always known I would have to tell the story. But I also knew, once I did…Taaei Doo Da. No turning back.

My birth mother was Dine. Navajo. My birth father was Bellaganno. White. A psycho, white state trooper. He beat her to death in front of me when I was little. Tried to kill me. My Acheii stopped him. I heard people whisper at my mother’s funeral. They pointed their chins at me(Dine don’t point with our fingers…it’s considered rude) and walked away. I thought they were calling me two piles of horseshit. I cried. That night, in my Acheii’s Hogan, I asked him why they called me that. He told me I listened like an old woman, not like his Aye…his grandson. Naaki Tslichi. Naaki means two. Tslichi means horseshit…but it’s also slang for dog. Two Dog. I asked him why they called me Two Dog. He said they were afraid of me.

“When the Great Spirit made us, he put two dogs inside of everyone. One white. One black. The one you feed the most rules you. Most people feed their white dog the most. Only when it is fat and sleeps does their black dog come out. Some people feed their black dog the most. Like your father. When it gets strong enough, it kills their white dog. They have no good left in them. They do not fear the white dogs. They laugh at them and herd them like dibe...like sheep. They only fear the two dog.”

“Then why do they call me Two Dog?”

“You were born under the blood moon, like your Acheii...your father was a black dog, your mother a white dog, like your Acheii…you feed both dogs, like your Acheii...you are not good...not bad...you are like the wind...like me.”

An older Bellagonno couple came to the reservation not long after that. Missionaries. They adopted me. My Acheii told me to go with them. They took me back to Los Angeles with them. I grew up. Got married. Had two little girls. Their mother was evil. A black dog. I went on the Sheriff’s Department. Back then, they hired you before the academy. Put you to work in Admin or one of the jails. A captain approached me. Wanted me to go undercover. Narcotics. He was the only one who would know…for my safety.

The reservation and the hood have a lot in common. You get jumped in when you’re old enough. Different ways, but still the rite of passage into manhood shit. Different language from whites. Special names different from your white name. There’s more, but you get the idea. It was a natural fit for me. And, I got lucky. Walking in the hood one day. Setting up my cover story. Pretty young black girl runs by. Two Bloods grab her. Try and force her into a car. I pulled her away. We ran down an alley. They came after us. Capping off rounds. Looked like we were goners.

I don’t really know how to explain it. It’s like everything went into slow motion. I wasn’t scared…in fact, I didn’t feel anything. I pulled out my piece(it was my dad’s gun) and took my time. I felt chunks of brick go by my head. Never panicked. Two shots at each. They both went down. My dad had always told me (my real dad, the one who raised me, not the sick fuck that raped my birth mother), “…if you have to take someone down, don’t let’em get back up…” I walked up to where they were lying on the ground. Not dead yet, but close. Shot them one more time each anyway. In the head. Now everything goes back to regular time. I hear sirens. A car pulls up. Young black guy jumps out. The girl’s older brother, B.D. OG Crip. Big timer. Pushes both of us in the car and takes off.

After that, I was golden. No undercover cop is going to walk up to two wounded suspects and put one between their eyes to finish them off, right? Yeah…fuck me. Gotta take a break from writing…take my pain pills. This shit is killing me.

TWO DOGS Part 3

Rollin', rollin', rollin'...

Back in the hood. Me and my boi B.D. are hanging on the stoop. Drinkin’ forties. Some Bloods cruise by. Payback time. They miss. I don’t. Chalk up a few more to the growing reputation of “Duece”. That’s what they call me. Our set is Second Avenue Crips. We go by Duece Crips. Nobody says “two”, so they don’t call me Two Dogs, and Duece Dogs sounds shitty, so it’s just Duece. Besides, none of them can pronounce Naaki Tslichi.

People talk about junkies like they’re pieces of shit. Some say crack is the most addictive. Others say heroin. Bullshit. The ultimate narcotic is power…and everybody’s a junkie for that, one way or the other. The ultimate power is life and death…and now I’ve got a real jonez. Women are throwing pussy at me like it’s free government cheese and I’m the only rat in town. They want to do me two, three, even four at a time…just to say they fucked Duece. It’s status for them. Other bangers see me coming, and they bail. Big men. Tough. Me, I’m five eleven and weigh a buck sixty-five soaking wet. Don’t matter. Everyone knows I don’t blink. Or miss. Or give a fuck. I’ve never been treated this way. I like it. A lot.

One of our tiny Gs fucks over some Blood associates on a nickel bag. They follow him home. He’s not there when they come rollin’ up…but his Moms and three little sisters are. The Bloods open up from their ride. Mostly automatics and shotguns. Blow the house to hell. His Moms makes it with just some scrapes. So do two of his sisters. Not the youngest. She takes two in the chest. They take her out in a body-bag that’s five times too big. She was three. Three. Fuck me.

We get the word. Find out where they’re going. An old warehouse to stash their ride. We show. There’s ten of us. Only one Blood. He pulls his piece. Shaking like a leaf as he waves it back and forth. Nobody knows what to do. Except me. You ever put your hand in water and can’t tell if it’s burning hot or freezing cold at first? That’s where I am. All I can see is that little girl. Three…just like my little Renee.

B.D and I walk up to him. I put my hands up, like I’m giving up. Make eye contact. He can’t look away. One side step forward with my right leg. My right hand closes on the cylinder. Now the gun won’t fire. My left hand under the barrel. Down with the right hand. Up with the left. I can feel the bones in his wrist and fingers break. I step across with my left foot. Left elbow straight to the nose. It breaks. He drops to the ground. I’ve got the gun. He looks up at me. Pleading with his eyes. Holding his broken wrist with the good hand. Blood from the broken nose. Tears. He’s crying. The revolver is upside down in my right hand. I pull the trigger with my little finger. Between the eyes. Reach in my pocket. Pull out a playing card. The Duece of Spades. My calling card. I want those fucking Slobs to know who did their boi. I drop the card. It floats in a pool of blood next to his sightless right eye.


It’s time to report to my captain. Back on the bus. I’m on transfer number two. In the back. Lost in my head. The bus stops. Four tiny G Crips hop on. Start fucking with some old white people. A middle aged black woman in nurse’s whites gets up. Tells them to knock it off. They push her to the floor. I’m not thinking. I stand up. Hand in my waistband.

“You in my ride motherfuckers.”

Almost in a whisper. They turn. I see the recognition in their eyes. The bus driver slams on the breaks and they rabbit off the bus. I walk over to the black woman. Help her up. Head back to my seat. I can feel her eyes on the blue bandana hanging from my back pocket…just like the ones they were carrying. She’s confused. Join the club honey.


Come in my apartment through the fire escape. I can feel someone’s there. Pull out my piece. Quiet. Then I smell it. Polo. It’s my captain. He falls out of his chair when I come up behind him. Tries to talk smack. I tell him to suck my dick. Give him my report. Then I tell him I want out. Time to be a regular Deputy. Go through the Academy. Work the jail. Ride in a black and white. He begs me to stay. Wants to know how much money I think they’re making. Again, my warning bells should have gone off, but they don’t. Finally, I tell him.

“I killed another one.”
“How many does that make, now? Four? Five?”
“Seven.”
“Seven... I never thought you'd get over the first two...”
“Neither did I.”
“Did killing that kid bother you that much? I mean, I know the first two, but since then...”
“Killin' that kid didn't bother me at all...That's the problem.”

TWO DOGS Part 4

I agree to stay undercover. What a dumb fuck.

Shawna and I had been seeing a lot of each other. I’d fallen in love with her. She has no idea about me being a cop…or a Crip. She and her little boy Tony, along with my little girls and my folks, are the only things keeping me sane…and that’s hanging by a thread. No one knows what I’m doing. Except my Captain. Biggest mistake of my life.

B.D. takes me for a ride. Won’t tell me where we’re going. Wind up at another house with a bomb shelter. Bigger than ours. Bunch of naked women with surgical masks processing liquid coke into crack. There’s a man walking through, supervising…and grabbing some ass. I recognize him. Well known black preacher and civil rights activist. Just then, some Bloods come in. I pull my gat. Figure they’re after me. They start to pull theirs. The “Reverend” calms the whole thing down. Tells us we’re all part of the BAF-Black African Family. No more Crips or Bloods down there. One group. Leads me and B.D. off upstairs. Tries to feed me this line of shit about how the BAF is there to “…free all people of color from the dominant power structure…”. Wants to know what I think. He laughs when I tell him it sounds like a crock of shit. Tells me I’m right. Says me and B.D. are the only one’s smart enough to figure it out. Wants me, ‘cause I can pass for white, to open the crack operations in the more upscale white areas. Gives me a Bible. It’s hollowed out starting at the 23rd Psalm…”The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want…”. Filled with hundred dollar bills. Got to give him credit…he’s got his own style.

B.D. and I are driving back. Quiet. Then he starts asking questions.

“What'd you think?”

“About what?”

“The Rev'rund...all of it.”

“You?”

“I mean...you buy all that one set shit?”

“You buy it?”
“Used to...now...all them cluckheads somebody's mother...sister... somethin'...if we beatin the system, how come it's still niggers killin' niggers?...that shit ain' right man...niggers killin' niggers, we ain' beatin' shit.”

Like I told you…B.D. was my boi. B. D. stood for Brain Damage. They called him that because of all the Sherm he smoked when he was a youngster coming up. It didn’t wind up fuckin’ with him though. He was one of the smartest, best men I ever knew. God, I miss him.

It was time to check in with the Captain again. I told him all about the meeting with the Rev. How the Rev had told me he had been dicking the middle man. How with my help, he could double-dick him. Showed the Captain the hollowed out Bible with the money. He was pissed. Kept muttering about the double-dicking as he stormed out. God, was I blind.

B.D. picked me up later. Started diving. Heading out toward San Berdoo. Won’t tell me why. We pull up to this nice little house out there in a real nice neighborhood. Go inside. B.D.’s lady and two little girls…just like mine. We hang out for a few hours while he plays with his girls. I watch them while he and his lady go off fro some private time. We wait till dark to leave. Quiet on the ride back. Finally, I’ve got to ask.

“You told everybody she took'em...went back east.”

“What the fuck would you do, you had family huh? You leave'm in the hood? Ain' jus' drive-bys anymo'...they snatchin' people, hold'm fo', ransom...it's fuckin' crazy.”

“Yeah...but lyin' to yo' own set...”

“I known them mothuhfuckers all my life...but they ain' jus' dealin'...they doin' the shit, all of'm...'cept me...an' you...when you got shorties its dif'runt, you gotta be mo' careful... niggers know you be stackin', nobody safe.”

“Why you tellin' me all this shit?”
“I been thinkin'...what if somethin' happens, ya know...who'd take care o'...I gotta trus' somebody...you m'boi, Deuce...shit, you saved my...”

“Hey...”

“What?”

“Fuck you.”

“...mothuhfucker...be the best you ever had.”

If you've ever lived in LA you know how the Santa Ana winds whip up and drive the brush fires...that's what the pain is doing to me right now...driving the fire through me like Santa Anas...gotta stop for the night...take my pills...and maybe some Patron...

TWO DOGS Part 5

The Santa Anas are quiet...for now...so let's start again...


We’re back in the hood. Walking down the street to the liquor store. Everything’s got me fucked up in the head. He’s talking, but I’m not really paying attention. My radar’s not up, so I don’t see the red Bronco cruising up behind us. The homies in front of the store do, and rabbit. B.D. sees them and turns just in time to see guns coming out the windows of the Bronco. Knocks me to the sidewalk as the gunfire erupts. Broken glass from the liquor store’s windows rains all over me. The neon sign shoots fireworks as it’s blown to bits. I roll to one side. Got the gat out. Get off a couple of rounds before they squeal around the corner. That’s when I see B.D. He’s down on his stomach. Not moving. I get to him as quick as I can. Turn him over. Gaping wounds in his chest. He asks me to take care of his little girls with his dying breath. Slumps in my arms. Motherfucker died saving my life. I hear sirens. Can’t be found there. I run.

I’m hot-cold again. Only way those fucking slobs could know where we’d be was if the Rev told’em. Either he set us up, or he’s slippin’ big time. Either way, it’s time for us to get things square. I head to the dope house he runs.

I’m creepin’ through the basement when I hear voices. Hide behind some boxes. Four guys in black clothes and ski masks drag the Rev down the stairs into the basement lab. I hear one of them tell the Rev…

“He knew you were dickin' him...you think he's gonna let you double dick'm? You lyin' sack of shit?”

The only one the Rev said “double-dick” to was me. The only person I told was my Captain. I know who the middle man is between the pharmaceutical company and the Rev. And I know I’m fucked. They put a minor beating on the Rev and leave with the boxes that have the Bibles stuffed with money. I watch out a window as they load the boxes into a van. I hear one of them say…

“God, I love fuckin’ with niggers.”

I’m pretty sure that the Rev shit his pants when I pulled him up by the huge gold chain around his neck. I tell him it’s time for confession. I’m able to persuade him it’s the right thing to do. He spills his guts like a hooker at her first confessional. Tells me everything. The whole set up. Then he tells me about the guys that just fucked him up. A group of the Deputies that work for the Captain. The most racist motherfuckers you’ll ever meet. The lead one, the “…I love fuckin’ with niggers…”, thinks Hitler and the KKK are too liberal. I let the Rev know that if he tells anybody about our little talk, I’ll front him off to every Crip, and Blood in his group. They ain’t gonna like him working with a cop. They’ll kill him. He knows it. He thinks I’ll leave now without beating him half to death…he’s wrong.

No time to think, but I have to. Shawna is waiting for me. She made a special dinner. The girls are at my folks. I don’t think the Captain knows that I’m on to him. Yet. Got to cover my ass somehow. Give myself some leverage. I stop at a store. Get some paper, an envelope and some stamps. Write down the basics of what the Rev told me. What the Captain is up to. How I’ve been working for him. I leave out the Bloods I’ve killed. Not going to put that on paper. Address it to my Dad. Mail it. Call him. I tell him there’s a package coming from me. Tell him not to open it. I’ll explain later, but…if I don’t call him tomorrow at this time, he’s to open it, make a copy, and send it to the LA Times. He doesn’t ask any questions, except if I’m OK. I lie.

Get to my apartment. That’s when I realize I’m covered in blood. B.D.’s blood. Can’t let Shawna see me like this. Go up the fire escape. Tear my clothes off in the bathroom. Go out to change. That’s when they jump me.

Fuck. Time for more pain pills.
The doctors tell me that the nerve damage, especially the pain it brings, is amplified by my PTSD. All I know is, writing this shit down is killing me.

There’s four of them. They’re on me before I can blink. Cuff me to a chair. The Captain comes in. He looks pretty happy. Cheshire grin. Thanks me for helping him. Lot’s more money for him now. I quote the exact dollar amount. He thinks I’m guessing. I tell him about being at the Rev’s when his boys were there. They tell him I’m full of it. I prove it by knowing exactly how many boxes of Bibles they took, and the exact dollar amount. He tells me that information won’t help me now. I lie. I tell him I’ve written a report every night. Mailed it to a PO Box. I call the place every day. The day I don’t make that call, the contents of the PO Box get sent to the Times, and the local TV news stations. His boys think I’m bluffing. I can tell he’s not so sure. He pulls a tape player from his pocket. Hits play. It’s my voice…copping to killing those Bloods.

“We seem to be at an impasse...any suggestions?”

“Go fuck yourself.”
“Anatomically impossible I'm afraid... well...you've been wanting to join the rank and file...there's an academy class starting next week...I'll make the arrangements...I do hope you've been keeping in shape, Jay...I hear they do a lot of running...Give him something to remember me...”

He leaves. They drag me and the chair in the bathroom. Hold me down. Prop my leg on the bath tub. Push down on it. I hear something pop, and it feels like a railroad spike is being driven through my knee. They leave me like that. I don’t scream until they’re gone. Then I cry like a third grade girl. Someone comes running in. I figure they’re back to finish me off. It’s Shawna. She heard me.

The ride to my real home is quiet. She doesn’t say much after I tell her I’m an undercover cop, separated, with two little girls. Not what she expected. I figure it’s over for us. She tries to help me to my door, but I push her away. Go inside and slam the door on her. Call my folks. Tell them to bring the girls home. Drag my leg to the fridge. Patron on ice. I start to get fucked up while I’m waiting.

The Santa Anas are back...with a vengeance...and that Patron I just wrote about is soundin' mighty good...gotta break for now...