I started eating natural foods at the age of 21. Considering that was 42 years ago, I am somewhat of a pioneer or at the very least an early adopter.
The increasing popularity of natural foods is proof positive that human consciousness is continuing to expand. However, I am at a loss to explain how the average natural food enthusiast can afford the cost of gas and natural foods.
Wait a minute. Maybe if you eat one-and-a-half meals a day instead of three you can afford both.
Hold on. I think I’ve finallyfigured it out. Yes, this has to be the answer:
People who buy their groceries at natural food stores and continue to drive their cars no longer go to the movies.
This means that the decline in movie box office sales is NOT due to the quality of the movies coming out of Hollywood nowadays. It is due to a redistribution of disposable income into the natural food sector.
Let’s move on to a few important facts of interest that will affect your life, whether you eat natural foods or not, and whether you like it or not (the facts, I mean.)
Tofu is the natural food equivalent of Hamburger Helper.
People who eat natural foods are 37% less likely to be involved in road rage incidents when compared to a statistically relevant sample of processed food consumers.
Children brought up on natural food are 26% more likely to realize GOD at some point beyond the age of 40.
In ten years, there will be 2,719 WHOLE FOODS stores in China.
If natural food consumption continues to grow at its present rate, financial analysts predict BURGER KING and McDONALDS corporations will merge within the next seven years and the new company will attempt to buy the WHOLE FOODS chain.
Open your mental windows. Let your attitude bathe in the sunshine of optimism. Don’t worry about the possibility of sunburn.
That’s a pretty corny metaphor. Just imagine, however, what would happen if every chronic pessimist on the planet took this advice.
The cost of healthcare would plummet. There would be fewer traffic accidents. The unemployment rate would nose dive. The average human life span would increase by five or ten years. These are just a few of the likely outcomes of a few billion upgraded attitudes.
My optimistic attitude is based on the belief that at the very center of the universe in which we live there dwells a loving kindness that cares about our happiness and well-being.
When I choose to believe and to feel this way, life becomes easier.
Through the eyes of optimism, I see the world as a place full of endless possibilities to express myself positively.
There is a voice in my head that tries to convince me otherwise. I suspect I am not the only person who hears this derisive, discouraging voice. The only difference between most of us in this regard, it seems to me, is how we deal with this voice.
I used to believe the discouraging voice in my head was a friendly voice. I believed it was there to warn me not to try things I couldn’t or shouldn’t do. It has taken a lot of growing through painful experience to learn the critical voice was not my friend most of the time.
On the surface, it would seem an easy task to learn the difference between healthy self-restraint and the paralyzing fear engendered by an over-abundance of self-criticism. Perhaps the messages a person hears as a child from parents and teachers makes a difference in the way he or she responds to their inner critic. A strong self-image provides a safe haven from the twin sirens of doubt and fear.
I have found it helps to express your fears to a friend or to a mental health professional to get an objective view of your thoughts as they relate to accomplishing goals. Most fears, when expressed out in the open, prove to be phantoms made of irrational thinking.
The dream in your heart needs to be nurtured with positive, reinforcing thoughts in order for it to manifest into a concrete reality. It takes a persistent, consistent effort to escape the prison of the jailing voice of discouragement.
Being optimistic is an act of loving yourself and your possibilities. It is an act of flying above the clouds of doubt.
Personal fulfillment and the joy of helping others flow from the fountainhead of optimism.
An attitude of optimism leads to an active life of freedom.
Opportunities for growth and prosperity surround us constantly. Smile. Open your heart and embrace these gifts as they come your way. The loving force at the center of life beckons you to become your highest, happiest, and best self.
Nature persistently taps me on the back with subtle hints on how to live a happier, more fulfilled life.
As my sixty-fourth birthday approaches, the hints are becoming less subtle.
Take my right knee, for example. It’s falling apart. The cartilage in the joint has moved out. Arthritis has moved in. The good news is that I’ve found a skilled surgeon who can repair my knee with an artificial joint. Still, I must not allow this newfound hope to obscure the lesson available to me from this latest brush with nature.
As I watch my body deteriorate, I must constantly remind myself that no matter how much I exercise, eat right, think positively, love my wife and daughter, and take care of my 90 year-old mother, I am not getting any younger.
The time to be happy is right now.
The thing is, I don’t want to settle for just a little happiness. I want to be really happy. I want to, believe it or not, live in joy. It’s something I’ve put off for long enough.
About twenty-five years ago, a friend introduced me to a teacher who helped me to find joy within myself.
To be perfectly honest, I haven’t taken full advantage of the opportunity. You might say I’ve been playing a game of hide and seek with my capacity to feel joy for most of my life.
In a sense, I’ve made of habit of putting my happiness on hold by making other things in my life more important—like my desire to write ten best-selling novels, or to sell my latest screenplay to Miramax Studios, or to make a quarter-of-a-million dollars in real estate commissions in a single year. It’s not that these pursuits are unworthy goals. The problem is, I made them the number one priority in my life, rather than making peace and joy the number one priority.
Don’t get me wrong. I’ve experienced more than my share of joy, peace, and love in my life, thanks especially to the unique inner experience my teacher revealed to me. It just could have been more consistent. My teacher has taught me that happiness is an art. I want to become an accomplished artist in the field of happiness.
I only hope this moment of clarity lasts. From now on, I’m determined to harvest every last droplet of joy that comes my way…before my left knee gives out.
I remember the day my father asked me to become a partner in the stable. He was sitting behind his desk in the temporary office space we rented then, dressed in a camel colored sport coat and checkered cotton sport shirt. He looked straight at me with his bright, keen eyes and proceeded to make an offer that took me back to my secret weekend excursions in high school with my best friend, Danny. We were seventeen, a year too young to pass through the gates of any gambling establishment. That didn’t stop us. Danny and I were tall enough to look the part. On Saturdays, we drove to the “flats” at Monmouth Park on the Jersey shore and the “trotters” at Roosevelt Field in Long Island at night. We would bet two dollars a race and have the time of our lives.
My father, B. Morton Gittlin, was an unpredictable genius. At sixty-one, after selling a wallpaper manufacturing and distribution business he had built from a small company into a national market leader, he began purchasing thoroughbred horses. Completely in character, he shocked me with his offer to become a partner in a racing partnership he intended to name “Three G Stable,” assuming I agreed to become the third “G.”
I never suspected my father had an interest in thoroughbred racing. We used to play a lot of golf together on the weekends when I was growing up. I cannot fathom how or when he found the time to sneak away to the track with my mother. He certainly would never have gone to the racetrack during the week. He was too disciplined and focused on building businesses into powerhouse companies to fritter away time during working hours. I imagine he didn’t share his secret passion for the horses with me when I was a minor because it involved gambling.
My own secret interest in the horses took a long break after high school. Danny, my dear friend and co-conspirator, attended a different college than I and we grew apart. I was eager to move on with my life and put childish interests behind me. Thirty years flew by filled with adult activities—marriage, a family, and a career in marketing next to my father in the family business.
I accepted Morton’s offer to join Three G Stable as a full partner. It was an entity created out of my father’s love for us as well as his love for the sport of kings. The stable gave us something to keep us together and have fun with after we sold the wallpaper business.
There is nothing more exciting than seeing a horse you own pounding down the stretch in the lead. My parents and I were fortunate to experience the exhilarating feeling of victory often in the twenty years the Three G Stable was in operation. We owned and enjoyed a number of remarkable, stakes-winning horses. One of them reminded me of my father. His name was “Storm Predictions.”
The Excitement of Horse Racing
We acquired Storm Predictions by claiming him out of a race as a two-year old. Many of the more experienced owners and trainers at Calder Race Course laughed behind my father’s back for claiming Storm Predictions. Although the young horse was winning races, it was common knowledge he had some problems. The breeder couldn’t sell “Stormy” at the two-year-old-in training auctions because he had what the veterinarians called “sawdust,” or bone particles in one knee. This is an ominous condition for most horses, indicating a tendency towards bone and joint injuries. My father didn’t care. He saw in Storm Predictions the rare courage and talent of a potential champion. The other owners and trainers saw a horse with a limited future.
As a three-year old, Storm Predictions won the Palm Beach Stakes on the grass at Gulfstream Park competing against the best horses on the East Coast. Then, our gutsy gelding won the Inaugural Stakes and the Tampa Bay Derby, a race for three-year olds on the Kentucky Derby trail. Ridden by an unheralded journeyman jockey, Storm Predictions won with a flourish of speed at the top of the stretch, upsetting the heavy favorite in the race.
As a four-year old, “Stormy” won the Americana Handicap on the turf at Calder, as well as a number of “overnight” stakes and allowance races. The gelding banked close to $400,000 in purse money during his racing career. The horse cracked bones in his shins and suffered from joint aches and muscle pains of all sorts. Nothing stopped him. We just gave him long rests when necessary. Storm Predictions always came back running hard and winning. We gave Storm Predictions away to a caring farm owner when his racing days were over. The gelding lived a long and useful life after his years at the track as a pleasure riding horse.
My father, like Storm Predictions, was no stranger to adversity. After clearing the inevitable hurdles of a successful business career, he endured many physical setbacks in retirement, including a hip replacement, throat cancer, and emphysema. Nothing stopped him. He just kept enthusiastically pursuing his interests and enjoying life to the fullest, until the effects of exposure to asbestos as a boy caught up with him at age eighty-three. Even then, he didn’t want to give up. On the last day of his life, lying in a hospital bed, his body whittled down to skin and bone by Mesothelioma, my father threw off his covers and announced he intended to walk to the bathroom unattended. We practically had to hold Morton down to spare him further pain and embarrassment.
I still dream of my father and the horses. We call him “Morton” now, instead of Dad, or Pop, or my husband, or my father-in-law. We call him by name because he was such a unique individual. Anyone who knew my father well knows what I’m talking about. Morton has been gone five years now, and I miss him terribly. We sold all of our horses and disbanded the stable shortly before my father’s death. The world of thoroughbred racing, like my father, has moved on. Hialeah Park, once a haven for fabulous Flamingos and the finest thoroughbred racing in the East during the winter, is now a relic that hosts a brief quarter horse meeting. Gulfstream Park, another south Florida track, was razed and rebuilt into an enormous shopping center and gambling parlor. Gone are the fan friendly grounds where patrons spent the day with family members in a country fair atmosphere.
I remember taking my five-year old daughter to the petting zoo and putting her on the backs of Shetland ponies for rides at the old park. The spacious, open-air grandstands and box seats where fans used to bet, eat, drink, and watch the races all day long, are now an unfriendly complex of cramped, concrete buildings.
Thankfully, I still have my memories. I remember Morton and the horses. I remember the chain of love known as Three G Stable that linked me together with my parents, wife, and young daughter, in those glorious, fun-filled days gone by.
When the horses reached the quarter pole, just before turning for home, Silver Sunsets galloped contentedly, exactly where he wanted to be — in last place, thirty lengths out of the lead.
Casual bettors, who picked Silver Sunsets by his number or the way he looked in the post parade, are tearing up their tickets in disgust. In thirty seconds, they will regret this act. They will watch, in utter amazement, as Silver Sunsets begins a furious stretch run, weaving in and out of traffic, passing horses as if they were standing still, crossing the finish line in first place.
Silver Sunsets was a top-ranked thoroughbred during his two-year old and three-year old racing seasons. I remember him now, twenty years later, because of the lessons he taught me. Be yourself and; it is never too late to do your thing.
Nikki and Darren (Actors Justin Nichols and Sophia Bush)
Seagulls falling out of the sky raised a line of puffs on the barren beach as they smacked into the sand.
Darren glanced upward shielding his eyes from the blazing sun. Nikki, lying on the pink towel next to him, rose on both elbows. She screamed.
More birds pelted the beach. A few hundred yards to the south, it was raining seagulls. “It’s coming this way,” he told the hazel-eyed beauty.
“Head for the water. It’s the only safe place,” he shouted.
They raced towards the incoming tide, extending their long, lean bodies over the surf. The couple pummeled the aqua water with furious crawl strokes, side by side. When they were far enough from shore, Darren pulled up, treading water. Nikki’s head broke water just as a wave rolled over her. She came up coughing and spitting water. Darren reached out. She flattened her curvaceous body against his hard torso, encircling his neck with long, slender arms.
Thunder rumbled. The waves grew higher. Darren watched in disbelief as the storm of falling seagulls engulfed the Canyon Ranch Spa and Hotel.
“The ‘Millennium Predictions’ are coming true,” Nikki gasped.
The seagull storm swallowed up the hotel. The bird-cloud mushroomed towards the sleek concrete and steel skyscraper to the north. The sky darkened. A squall rippled towards them from the macabre scene unfolding on the shore.
Darren held her tightly. “I’ll always love you, even if the world ends.”
Nikki pushed away from him with a wild-eyed expression.
“Cut,” the Director yelled from the filming platform six feet behind them.
The computer-generated effects Darren had spent hours studying the night before dissolved on the screen of his imagination. The newly built Canyon Ranch Hotel gleamed in the South Florida sun, perfectly safe as a dreamer waking from a nightmare in a comfortable bed.
He had been lost in the moment. He had made it all real. Instinct and a script two revisions old had taken over.
Darren smacked his head with an open hand. “Sorry.”
“You’re supposed to say, ‘I thought we could change the future,” the pot-bellied, bearded Director said. He pulled off his black sunglasses and glared at Darren. A gust of wind rustled his mane of graying hair. “Let’s take it from Nikki’s last line, then we’ll break for lunch.”
“Soften your expression,” Nikki told him. “You look too serious.”
One of the benefits of working with your real-life girlfriend was honest feedback.
They sat at a table for two in the crowded Spa restaurant, next to a picture window overlooking the beach. Darren munched on an under-sized grain burger with sprouts and raw carrots on the side—no dressing. Nikki played with a small bowl of whole-wheat spaghetti topped with a hint of marinara sauce—hold the parmesan cheese.
Darren reveled in the few moments of leisurely time they shared before the long night of shooting ahead of them. Two days of bad weather had thrown production behind schedule. The production crew had to squeeze six days of shooting into three. The Director expected actors and crew to stay fresh and energetic, despite the hectic schedule.
Nikki had piled her long red hair in a bun atop her head. She wore no makeup, only a thin layer of moisture cream for protection. Darren had met countless beautiful women in his acting career. Nikki was different from all of them. She wasn’t self-absorbed, and she wasn’t petty, as most of the women he knew tended to be. She read voluminously between acting roles, and was a fine painter. She could be intellectual and sophisticated or simple and playful as a happy child, depending on her mood.
She had stolen his heart shortly after they met at a wedding party eight months ago. There was only one problem. It haunted Darren day and night.
“There’s something we have to talk about, Darren darling. It’s been on my mind for the past few weeks.”
He felt an ache in his heart. He knew the issue had to come up eventually.
“Not now, Princess.”
“It makes me feel like your daughter when you call me that.”
“I can’t help it. I believe you’ve come to me from some enchanted land, or sprung up whole from a ponderous book of fairy tales.”
She stopped smiling.
“What’s wrong?” he said.
She appeared to grapple with what to say next.
“Let’s agree to hold off all serious discussions until the film wraps,” he said. “Until then, we should only try to amuse one another in the few private moments the stingy Director allows us. Now, stop nibbling at your food. Eat up. You need your strength.”
“You eat your grain burger.
“It has no taste.”
“Use your imagination,” she said.
Darren took a bite. “Mmmm. He picked up the remaining piece of grain burger and admired it as if it were the Hope Diamond. “Remind me to ask the chef how they make it taste like dried corn-stalk compost.”
He watched her turn and gaze out the window. The surf was up, reaching with long fingers, almost up to the concrete foundation of the hotel. The sun had disappeared behind late afternoon clouds. He noticed her mood remained somber.
“If you insist on being serious, you might as well tell me what’s on your mind.” He felt the ache in his chest again.
She sighed deeply. “These past eight months have been much more than I ever expected, my love.”
“There’s no reason to believe the next eight months won’t be even better,” he said in his best imitation of a well-known motivational speaker.
He had imagined this painful moment too many times. “I’m concerned about the age difference,” she would say. “What will happen when we get older?” No matter what he said in response, her words would mark the beginning-of-the-end their relationship.
“I fell in love with your humor before I fell in love with you,” she said, instead of the dreaded words he had anticipated hearing.
“And you’ve been dying to confess this to me but you didn’t know how,” he improvised.
“Don’t make this into another game.” Nikki kept staring at him with a horribly solemn expression.
“I’m not from this world,” she said.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you correctly. The acoustics in here are awful.”
“Please try to believe what I’m about to tell you.”
“It’s perfect, sweetheart. Who offered you the role?”
“I’m not trying out a character, Darren.”
“Can’t we just be ourselves with the little time—“
“—I am being myself. Listen to me.”
He stared into the depths of her searching eyes. Nikki lowered her voice. “There are about a million travelers like me scattered in every country of your world.”
Chills ran through his body. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the events depicted in ‘The Millennium Predictions.’ I’m talking about a decision you have to make.”
“You’re telling me they changed the script again and didn’t tell me. They’ve cut down my role. That bastard who calls himself a Director doesn’t like me. That’s it. Isn’t it?
She stared back at him, perfectly still. “I’m not talking about the movie.”
“You can’t be an alien. I’ve kissed every inch of your body. Every part of you is perfectly, beautifully human.”
“Calm down. We’re attracting attention.” She placed a hand over his. “We have the same origin. Our ancestors seeded the galaxy with our kind millions of years ago. It was a grand experiment to study how civilizations develop in different environments. The project is also intended to ensure the survival of our genome.”
He sat there in stunned silence.
“We thought we could blend in and help your civilization grow in a more constructive direction—until recently. We’ve determined your problems are too severe. It’s too late for our help. Your civilization is a failed experiment. Our work here is finished.”
“But—“
“—Hear me out, Darren. Some of us, like me, have formed strong relationships while we’ve been here. We’re allowed to take one person back with us.” She held his hand tighter. “I want you to come with me when I leave.”
“Nikki, please, this isn’t funny. You must stop it now.”
“I’m not joking. I understand how overwhelming this must be for you. I’m asking you to be strong.”
“You’re asking me to give up everything and pop off into space with you somewhere. Why can’t you stay here with me?”
“Your civilization will most likely destroy itself,” Nikki said.
“How can you make a statement like that and sound so sure of yourself?”
“To put it in simple terms, we can chart the future of a civilizations based on socio-economic, environmental, birth rates, art, scientific measurements and other factors. Our predictive model comes from thousands of civilizations we have studied.”
Darren strained to wrap his mind around what she was telling him.
“What if you get tired of me?” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. His composure was melting like a sandcastle at high tide.
“Don’t be insecure,” she said.
“I’m twenty years older than you.”
“It never occurred to me. The average life span of my people is two hundred years. A twenty-five year difference in couples is quite common.”
“But I’m not going to live that long.”
“You will once you begin taking the bio-agents we’ve developed to stay young. You’re at the height of your powers, Darren. I’m offering you the chance to stay that way for at least another five decades.”
“It sounds too good to be true. For all I know, you’ll put me in a cage five minutes after boarding your ship.”
“Darling,” she said with a gleam in her eye, “we’re vegetarians, not meat eaters.”
He smiled, despite the feeling of utter uncertainty. “Do you think we can last a hundred a fifty years together?”
“Wouldn’t you love to try,” she said, deftly lowering one eyelid.
He leaned close to her. “Do they need actors on your planet?”
“Yes, my darling. You’ll have time for at least five different careers in the dramatic arts if you get bored.”
“Look at me, sitting here thinking only of myself while you’re telling me the end of the world is at hand.”
“There’s nothing you can do about it.”
“Can’t your people warn us in some way?”
“The warning signs are everywhere. Only a handful of people heed them.”
“There has to be a solution.”
“There is, darling Darren. Come with me.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
It’s not that complicated, my love. You have no children. Your parents are gone. And you’re an only child.”
“I’ve taken a lot of chances in my life. But this…I need time to think.”
“I understand completely,” she said. “We’ll talk again after the film wraps. In the meantime, don’t say a word about this to anyone. It could jeopardize my safety.”
“That’s the last thing I’d ever do.”
She looked at him with an intensity he had never seen before. “We can do this, darling. I know we can if you give it a chance. You’re the perfect man for me.”
He squeezed her hand, kissed her, and walked out of the restaurant on unsteady legs.
The woman known to Darren as Nikki turned to watch the sunset through the picture window. The orange sun plunged into the ocean surrounded by a bevy of pastel pink clouds.
Darren was perfect, she thought—bright, handsome, hardy, talented and most importantly, virile. His sperm count ran off the charts. She had tested it herself with a kit hidden in her dressing trailer. It was a miracle the man hadn’t accumulated a brood of children inside or outside of marriage. She guessed it was due to his exemplary character. He didn’t believe in having children if he wasn’t going to be there for them as a proper parent.
It was ironic that Darren was destined to father thousands of children though he didn’t know it yet. He was going to be on the star ship with her one way or another. Preferably, Darren would decide he couldn’t live without her and leave voluntarily. That way, she could break the news to him gradually during the journey to his new home. He would have time to adjust to the idea of becoming an alpha breeding male for her dying race.
She regretted lying about the nature of her mission and the prospect of her lover living another hundred and fifty years. Even with the bio-agents, the strain of steady breeding would shorten Darren’s life span considerably. But there were much worse fates in the universe than sleeping with gorgeous women like herself who possessed brilliant minds and a multitude of fascinating professional abilities.
The new job came with an array of attractive benefits. Aside from his conjugal duties, Darren’s schedule would include a healthy chunk of time in a classroom to avoid his becoming a conversational bore. Good conversation before mating improved the conception rate dramatically.
To avoid psychological problems, Darren would continue his career in the dramatic arts on her planet as she had promised, under careful supervision of course. She might even be his “girlfriend” for a while to make the transition smoother. Yes, Darren would adjust and eventually thrive in his new role. His qualities of optimism and flexibility almost guaranteed it.
The more she thought about it, the more good ideas came to her for selling the new role to Darren. When you sat back and added it all up, she believed he was a lucky man. This was especially true, considering his slim chances of survival on the sordid, troubled world he would soon be leaving behind.
I am trying to write my second novel. It is not easy, to say the least. I am confident, however, that this is a universal truth among authors attempting to write their first or seventy-first long piece of fiction or non-fiction. The reasons for this difficulty may vary from author to author. My main roadblock seems to be the increasing disenchantment of sitting in a room all by myself for long periods of time. Again, I suspect I am not alone in this predicament. The problem apparently extends far beyond the relatively small segment of the population on planet earth attempting to write novels. I know this because I have recently taken my laptop to a local Starbucks to resolve my isolation problem.
The Starbucks I now regularly inhabit is not your everyday Starbucks. Management recently retrofitted the place with long tables, benches actually, with stools and a strip of electrical outlets underneath to plug in battery cables. Droves of people come here, not just to chat and caffeinate, but to do WORK! This includes college-students doing real, actual homework, not wasting time on Facebook. Freelance, self- employed, and independent contractor types also hang out here. These people, like myself, are hard at work, despite the distractions of noisy conversation and often-times idiotic, piped-in music. I find this phenomenal and wonder,”Why do we come here?” Many, if not all of us, are surely not homeless.
I can only speak for myself. I come here to overcome loneliness—to make some sort of connection. And I’m happy to report that my new strategy is paying off. I’m writing my novel on a regular basis, slowly but surely.
Now that we may have some insight into the reason for the overwhelming success of the Starbucks chain, I would like to come to the point of this piece. Many years ago, I began listening to Prem Rawat speak about an inner experience of peace and contentment. At the time, I did not have to go to Starbucks to be around people. I had a full time, good-paying job, a girlfriend, my parents and cousins to surround me. Yet, something was missing.
Mr. Rawat’s message of peace captivated me in a way nothing had previously. I followed up on his promise to reveal a source of peace and contentment within myself. I practiced the techniques of what he calls Knowledge, and, to make a long story short, I have not been in the least bit disappointed. Well, perhaps that statement is not entirely true. I had the idea shortly after receiving the techniques of Knowledge that I would not need anything else, including people. To make another long story short, that idea turned out to be foolish and a bit funny, now that I look back on it.
But there is a point here, somewhere. Oh yes, here it is: I need outer connections—with colleagues in my chosen profession, with friends and family, even Facebook connections. Thanks to the experience of Knowledge, I’ve learned that I need something else. I need a connection with myself for my life to be complete. I’m not going to put a name to what I’ll call “myself,” because I’ve learned that names are insufficient to describe it. I will just say this: I was looking for a missing piece of the puzzle of my life. Prem Rawat helped me to find it. Now, I feel my life is complete. It is full, not stuffed with things on the outside, but from within. And my connections on the outside are more fulfilling, because I am a more full and complete person, with more to offer to others.
The words resounded against the dripping walls. “Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.”
Blood trickled from the corners of Trevor Hartigan’s mouth. His awareness flickered from the pain coursing through his broken fingertips to the oppressive heat in the room, to the crooked expression on the interrogator’s ugly face.
“If you lie to me again, you’ll beg me to kill you after what I do next,” the Confessor snarled, baring his nicotine-stained teeth.
Trevor’s spine ached from about a half-hour of confinement lashed to a straight-backed wooden chair. The duct tape wrapped tightly around his upper body dug into his back and chafed the skin on his abdomen. It seemed he had been sitting in this tiny dungeon for hours. He cursed himself for whatever carelessness had landed him in this predicament. He suspected it was the girl. He had let down his guard in a moment of weakness. Blanca had to be one of their spies. He worshiped her, had asked for her hand in marriage, and she had betrayed him.
He focused on the gap between his tormentor’s chipped front teeth. The gap reminded him of a missing board in a white picket fence. He imagined crawling through the hole in the fence to freedom.
“Save your energy and kill me now,” Trevor said in a low voice.
The pain in his body only served to sharpen his mind and resolve. He carefully hid this fact with every word out of his mouth, every subtle gesture. He had to convince the Confessor he was telling the truth.
“I’m a professional, Hartigan. I’ve seen every trick in the book.” The Confessor picked up a scalpel from a row of surgical knives glinting on a steel tray next to Trevor. “You’ll tell me what I need to know or I’ll cut out your eye. I want the names of your confederates.”
Beads of sweat ran from Trevor’s forehead. He blinked reflexively to keep the moisture from stinging his eyes.
“I’m a loyal citizen of the Conglomerate, Brother Confessor. I’ve been falsely accused by inferior minds jealous of my position.”
“You are a traitor and a fool, Hartigan. You enjoyed wealth and privilege as the Conglomerate’s Master Architect. You had the opportunity to design buildings that would have lasted for centuries. Your fame would have spread around the world. You threw it all away when the girl convinced you to join the resistance.”
The Confessor ripped off his cowl. His head began to transform into the head of a Praying Mantis. Long, spindly legs sprouted underneath the Confessor’s navy blue robe. The garment burst apart as the insect grew taller. The roof of the room suddenly blasted skyward, as if it were the second stage of a rocket.
Trevor was so terrified his heart nearly stopped beating. Blanca had told him the resistance knew very little about the aliens due to the group’s limited resources. Trevor imagined no amount of training or preliminary briefing could have prepared him for what was happening before his bleary eyes.
The Confessor-turned-insect continued to grow past the height of the former ceiling. Trevor stared upwards just as the giant creature’s claw reached down to pluck him out of the cell, chair and all. He turned away, unable to look at the monster’s bulging eyes and chewing mandibles. He felt certain the Mantis was preparing to eat him alive.
Looking down from the twenty-foot high vantage point in the giant insect’s grasp, Trevor saw a honeycomb of cells on the ground similar to the one he had occupied seconds ago. On either side, a straight rock face soared hundreds of feet from a makeshift pine wood floor. It was hard to make out more details in the bluish-gray light emanating from a source somewhere above them.
Trevor figured the interrogation installation had been carved out of a massive cavern somewhere underneath the city. A huge construction crane positioned in the middle of the complex plucked the triangle-shaped roof off another interrogation cell with its multi-story steel arm. Another poor soul was about to be scared further out of his or her wits, it appeared.
Trevor thought of Blanca again. It was impossible to keep her out of his mind for more than a few minutes since the time he had met her. How could she have done this to him?
“The girl isn’t a double-agent, as you suspect,” the giant Mantis said. She will be arrested soon after she leads us to more members of the resistance.
How could the creature know he was thinking of Blanca?
“To answer your question, I can read a human mind when I get in the same room as one. Your thoughts during our session have revealed most of the useful information you have to offer. This final stage of the interrogation process makes any remaining secrets as easy to suck up as fresh meat off a dry bone.”
All of the nerve-endings in Trevor’s body went numb. “I’m glad Blanca showed me I was working for a race of alien monsters instead of what I thought was a multi-national energy corporation.”
“You are the monster,” the Mantis said. “The Conglomerate will soon be well established in every country of this world as more of us arrive. In ten years, it will no longer be necessary for us to transform into human form. The human race will cease to exist.”
Trevor heard his bones cracking as the creature’s claw closed around him.
He screamed.
“Shut up.” The harsh voice came from far away.
Trevor’s eyes opened. The first thing he saw was the gray ceiling of his solitary jail cell. He rolled off the bunk bed and sank to his knees on the cold concrete floor. The smell of disinfectant and urine filled his nostrils. He moaned.
“Shut up, goddammit.” The guard appeared on the other side of the bars dressed in a gray shirt and olive pants. His right hand rested on the .38 revolver strapped to his waist.
All of the colors in this hellhole are drab, Trevor thought. It seemed like a lifetime had passed since he had taken to wearing bright colors shortly after meeting Blanca. After a year of dating, they had decided to marry. He had never been happier in his entire life.
“Quiet down and go back to sleep,” the guard said. “You make any more noise an’ I’ll call the shrink back in here to shoot you up with sedatives. You’re gonna’ learn to settle down and do your time quietly, if it takes a fist in the teeth to teach you how. You got that?”
“Yeah,” Trevor croaked.
The guard stepped away. His boots made a hollow echo down the concrete and steel corridor.
They had placed him on suicide watch. He had tried to hang himself with a belt. They stripped his cell of anything he might use to end his life. Padding protected the walls of his eight by ten foot cell. He had no such protection against the recurring nightmares and the memory of the accident. That night replayed in his mind like an endlessly looping horror film.
They had gone out with some friends to celebrate the latest job offer. He remembered Blanca pushing back her silky red hair and laughing gaily all night long. They drank and ate at the South Beach bar and restaurant until two o’clock in the morning. The hours swept by and the drinks went down without Trevor taking much notice. When the time to leave arrived, Trevor was too embarrassed to admit he was higher than a kite.
At first, Trevor thought an animal crossing the road had hit the front tire when he heard the thunk on Blanca’s side of the car. Blanca turned to him, wild-eyed. He had never seen the pedestrian jaywalking across the deserted street. Trevor had been speeding through the residential neighborhood to make it home in time to get a few hours of sleep before his nine A.M. job interview. He never made it to the interview.
The victim was a man in his early thirties, the father of three children. His wife was waiting for him across the street at the front door of their home when the accident occurred. She told the police exactly what happened. The man died from a brain hemorrhage on the way to the hospital.
He had dreamed about a career in architecture from boyhood. After completing Architecture School with honors, he had received job offers from the top firms in Miami. He looked forward to bringing beautiful buildings and bright, creative children into the world with the passion he felt for his work and his soul mate, Blanca.
Now, all he had to look forward to was a fifteen-year prison sentence. After the accident, Blanca wanted no part of him. His future as an Architect looked dim at best. What firm worth its salt would hire an inexperienced, middle-aged man with a felony record?
One careless act. One night of celebration. A single, poor decision. The lives of six people tragically altered forever. If he had the chance, Trevor would gladly change places with the man he had accidentally killed. But now, it was too late for remorse.
David Gittlin has written three feature length screenplays, produced two short films, and published three novels. Before quitting his day job, he spent more than thirty years as a marketing director building expertise in advertising, copy writing, corporate communications, collateral sales materials, website content/design and online marketing.
Heart Banter by David Gittlin 