Station Master-book (excerpt)

True Lies

 

“And the free shall set the truth”?

Obviously confused, he shook his head which rubbed the raw skin of a tortured neck against a starched-stiff upstanding collar, actually more of a tunic, stylishly accenting the white-white custom tailored snug fitting coat with buckled-brass long sleeves; flecks of crimson spotted the self-safety designed apparel as hamburger red meat, now scabbed and healing, screamed in protest at the harshness of the scraping. The injury, “they” had pronounced, was self-inflicted; the truth, he knew, was that the bastards had tried to hang him. “Ha! ha!” He snickered through the pain in bittersweet momentary enjoyment of a slight victory, “Unsuccessfully!”

“And free is true.”

Damn! That catchy line could be so---so elusive an obsession when right on the edge of his brain. Once, he could concentrate; no more. The effort made his head hurt. When the green suits came to sting him, then sweet relief coursed through his dehydrated blue veins like warm sunshine streaks shafting through overhead cloud-cracks following an ocean squall.

Against his will, his wild, roving eyes saw it again. That small mirror in the white wall. He forced a conscious decision NOT to go to it---not, this time. All previous visits had ended in frustration; he refused to be suckered again. But? No! His once steel resolve had deserted him.

It beckoned him, cajoled him, seduced him. He tried to look away but the seductress’ power pulled his betraying eyes to its reality like the sirens of the islands luring too long-at-sea sailors to flirt their ships onto the rocks and destine them to twenty fathoms of Davy Jones’ locker in some far-off recess of his obfuscated mind; something, he thought, from Greek mythology; Homer and the Odyssey; or, some such? His head ached.

His only respite from the overpowering harsh glare, that little square, calling, waiting, begging to just once more reflect his face. Please! Come! You’ll like it---this time. I promise. Come and see. It’s cooing pleasant-soft as mourning doves upon the cherry branch.

The temptation became too much, too intense, and he relented, hating himself for the weakness, even as he plodded, once more, toward his tormented challenging nemesis.

An image of a gaunt face of some sixty-odd years met his stare. Unshaven, salt and pepper stubble-beard showed shadowed-scrubby from translucent skin hanging loosely on sharp, pointed bones. Why? He wondered, did not the shards puncture the eerie semblance to penetrate the covering. But, No! No streams of red blood rivulets nor crimson droplets did stain the alabaster facade. Only the ghoulish-pale, cheap Halloween mask showed, betrayed by incongruent soft, intelligent blue eyes---kind in nature. The garish scene as surreal to a surreptitious observer as might be---What?…Modern art? Perhaps? The eye of the beholder!?

Once he could decipher the most intricate code, see the obvious answer to an ominous riddle, solve a baffling enigma. Mathematical equations whipped through his mind like a thistle seed loosely bound within a screaming-howled tornado, the formula always coming out the other side in perfect understanding of genius clarity, impervious to intellectual logic-challenge.

He had learned one of the secrets: “Think outside the box,” the in-the-know repeatedly advised. That was the lie. The truth: There is no box! He could let his mind go, where it wanted, where it needed to be, without restrictions, especially, any self-imposed paradigm parameters. Some called it “genius”. His ego was too grounded to allow belief in such a fabrication; and, he was too smart for that self-delusion of faux celebrity self-aggrandizement.

Then, one day, as he reveled in new understanding, something happened. An avalanche let go as tons of unhindered cold snow cascaded helter-skelter across the steep slope of his brain-synapse; a run-away freight train came down the track, unabated in gathering speed headed for the end-of-track buttress known as a Hayes bumper buffer; a speedy sports car missed dead man’s curve at one hundred and sixty, shattered the pathetic guard rail and tried to fly. The inevitable result decimated all resemblance of rationale. He remembered none of it, not even his name. He existed in his world; ate, drank, slept like others he had once known. If existence was life enough for the ignorant masses, then it must surely be important quality that mattered, most.

“And the truth shall set you…”

A sob stabbed though his mouth as he desperately wanted to cover the hideous face reflected in the glass with his hands, but, they seemed reluctant to oblige. Crystal blues searched downward along arms too long, seemingly never-ending, like looking down parallel railroad tracks, eternal beyond the distant horizon.

A joke? A fluke? What? An irrelevancy?

Why were his arms so long that he could not see the hands attached? Yes, they proved unresponsive to obey his command to fly to cover his face; many things did not seem to work as he thought they should; nothing was as it was meant to be. But, the hands ought to be there---at least…visible! Hands? Unresponsive? Temptingly understandable? But---Missing!? Intolerable!

And the white coat sleeves---too long. Then, bright flashes. Silver? No. Bronze. Buckles? My God! No! Buckles! Restraining his arms, secreting his hands. He sobbed.

Oh! Of course. Calm reason slowly returned, along with slow, normal, rhythmic breathing---in…out…in…out… He fought down the panic threatening what he considered to be his “normalcy“. And, what did such “tradition” entail? Simple---humble…Agreement of collective?

A flash of lucid rationale. The Hospital? Yes! The hospital---Oh!…Help me! Somebody! Help me! But---No! If “they” come? They will surely further restrain me. Truly! I fear!

“And the help shall tie you down?”

Slowly, the glazed blue orbs again focused on the small hard glass in the soft white wall. He stumbled closer on unsteady legs, nearly losing his balance. But, no. The supports were sure, strong. His feet. That was it. His feet wavered, sinking into the soft padded leather. Struggling to gain purchase on the unsteady surface, he could feel the cool smoothness against his soles through thin, white cotton socks. He gave a slight shiver.

Again, the hospital. He smiled---or…thought he did; then wondered: Why?

His face against the mirror now, he could discern tiny black wires in a diamond grid pattern embedded in the reflective glass. For a full twenty minutes he studied the slick surface without seeing his image therein.

“Why?” he wondered, “place miniature diamonds within the shiny glass of one small mirror? Why? Was there a code, a riddle, an enigma to determine?”

It seemed he should be able to answer that query, but, the fog was impenetrable.

“And shall ye be free of truth?”

Drool escaped the corner of his open mouth as he had so intently stared and forcefully pressed his face against the cool glass; preoccupied in wraithlike snatches of torturing thought.

Tap! Tap! Then, a pause. Then: Tap! Tap! Ah! The “signal!?”

Had he really heard some faint whispered hint? His eyes flickered; listening intensified.

The soft padding of his cell serviceably deadened all sound, even his own bellicose screams. The protests seemed to end inside his head, just where they had been born, collapsing upon their own tortured existence like cake batter folded upon itself, not like the ever-expanding ripples on the surface of a placid lake, dancing in cadence to reach some yonder distant shore. In those rare moments of exhibited frustration, his mouth opened to scream, emitting no sound.

“And the free shall set you true.”

Tap. Tap.

There it was again. Softly. Like whispered love tenderly caressing an eager ear. Sweet!

He abruptly stepped back from the mirror as cold stainless steel touched his toes. A small horizontal door at floor level slid open to deposit his “magic” food tray, the third, and final, of the day. The errant “truth” of the conclusion flashed white lightning shards; he wondered: Why?

“And the…what?”

He could not recall what was on his mind to think; the sight of the food made him salivate; he determined to be---desperately hungry.

Six white crackers, without salt, thinly spread with some yellowish elixir poorly representative of butter, a small banana sliced into bite-sized pieces, two carrot sticks and a pint bowl of water awaited.

His fitted white coat made any dietary polite mannered-practice difficult. No! Impossible!

Quickly, on his knees, utilizing his shoulder as the third leg of a farmer’s cow milking stool for balance, he planted his face in the tray to scarf down the food and slurp thirstily the tepid liquid from the cold stainless steel vessel solidly attached to the platform so that he could not spill its contents. Long experience had taught him not to tarry, but to eat rapidly, for all too soon the “magic” tray would vanish through the dragon’s hungry mouth at the floor beneath the mirror, from where it had only just appeared. He obligingly buried his mouth in the offering, swallowing the morsels whole.

“And the truth shall…”

Swallow. Fast, now. Quickly. Finish the water. Panic teased, was stalking.

That familiar faint whisper, announcing the returning angry dragon opening its hungry mouth to withdraw the tray, sounded. Like a dog too long in the hot sun, he hurriedly lapped at the warm liquid. Oh! So, good! So, good.

He had not finished when the tray slipped away and the dragon laughed.

He rolled on his side, weary with the effort of trying to eat under such horrid conditions. Curling into a fetal position, he heard anguished animal moans from somewhere within the confines of his cage, eventually realizing that they were his own tortured laments at a lowly existence without human quality.

“And shall the truth set you freely?”

The elusive thought refused to come into cognitive focus, much as he strained to see it clearly. Somewhere in the obfuscated recesses of a once brilliant mind, the sense of that axiom waited to be revealed. And, waited.

A glaring beam of two suns hampered his attempt to sleep. Twelve feet above the padded floor, four florescent bulbs, two in each fixture, harshly lighted his supine body, entering his eyes even through tightly clamped lids.

A surreptitious escape plan flittered at the far expanse of his clouded mind. He would use the bed as a makeshift ladder, prop it against the wall, climb to the suns in the sky and slip into the void between the ceiling and the outside roof above it…and, what? Escape? Yes! Free at last of truth! of purgatory! hell!

But, there was no bed; no…nothing! Not even---hope. The straight jacket restrained his movement so much that his muscles cramped. Once a week he was released from his dapper white coat with the extra-long sleeves sporting brass buckles for a luxurious five minute shower. Then, back to the horrible confines of the smartly tailored forty-two regular and returned to his domicile under constant observation, albeit clandestine, through the little square spy-hole glass.

In his rare lucid moments, he had correctly surmised his circumstances, only to lose them as quickly as they had come. He lived deprived of human dignity; depraved of mental clarity.

Once, strapped to a gurney, flat on his back on a sojourn to the shower, the green man had left him by a large plate glass window. Somewhere in the constant fog, the ritual prompted excited anticipation of the expected weekly treat and brief sanity prevailed. In the far distance he could see skyscrapers and knew he was near a city of substantial size. Before he could contemplate the location, the guard returned. His mind went to the luxury of the promised shower even before his body arrived and he forgot the experience of reality.

“And the un-lie will free the soul.”

Almost asleep, his tortured reverie was interrupted by the entrance of green suit through the secret door in the wall holding the mirror and behind which lived the angry food dragon. A tiny stab in his bicep brought on the peaceful blackness. Another day had come and been and gone and reinvented itself as a clone of every yesterday’s preview of tomorrow. The demons were tethered as neither truth nor lies triumphed when the concocted elixir of a powerful array of a mind altering and controlling pharmaceutical cocktail-prescription was administered. When the drugs took control, his existence was as good as any other life might be found in existance.

Then, he slept, briefly; the peace soon subsided as a recurring cold-sweat nightmare stalked his slumber until it found purchase to come full throttle into surreal reality in an obfuscated, sick mind. If the tortured madness did not relent, the exacerbated phenomena would drive him---“?”

“The lie will devour you!”

Two ducks paddled side by side on a gray-blue pond surface near a stand of brown cattails. Mallards. The hen, of a natural mottled tan and beige plumage and a smaller, refined version of her mate. He, a large albino drake, his bright orange bill ostentatious against the monarch’s stark white head, the paleness continuing to the curled king feathers at its tail. Together in species, yet separated by her evil demonic stain.

“And the truth shall set you free.”

The hapless inmate was the drake. His soul was pure as the white mallard in the dream; the hen remained an enigma, unfathomable to his demented mind, forever.

Outside the one way mirror spy glass, a balding, slicked back, dyed black, gray haired doctor with a beak nose precariously supporting un-rimmed spectacles above a thin mustache more gray than black and a “V”-shaped meticulously trimmed beard, for a distinguished appearance, scribbled copious notes on paper held tightly to a silver clipboard. His lips moved as he wrote.

“Um-hm!” he muttered, observing his unsuspecting, tortured ward.

His thoughts slipped to the upcoming dinner where he would be awarded yet another accolade, a tribute, an honor, a trophy to excellence, along with just one more parchment paper to frame and add to the myriad achievements adorning his palatial office wall. He was born to success, he had decided. And that was the truth. Brains always showed! And, the degrees, awards and trophies displayed the “un”-truths best of all.

His comely blonde understudy eyed him surreptitiously, gently, but not obtrusively, rubbing against him closer than was necessary. She would share his swank condo before the year was out, then, live as she fully deserved. And, she would clean him up; some new tailored foreign-sounding name silk suits and a shirt without wine stains and ties devoid of gravy spills, and, polished shoes. Oh, and socks that matched, at least, a pair of the same shade. Of course, too, several closets of appropriate wardrobe befitting her new-found and---deserved… position.

She smiled. All things in their own time. She would plan---and…wait. Patience! And…Mink!

The good doctor, who lost his intended and expected concern for the patient’s welfare while mentally practicing his acceptance speech, seemed innocently unaware of her presence. Not to notice her physical body nor inhale that intoxicating perfume would have rendered him as demented as the inmates---or…dead! He was naively unaware that she was moving in.

His day in the sun was important, necessary; each of them. The psychiatrist would never psychoanalyze a scarred personality which would gather like-minded cronies to present awards to one another. Oh! No! God (if there was a God) forbid! Perhaps that Academy Award tribe was deserving of such scrutiny, but not the “real” elite. He and his erudite colleagues were worthy of, were entitled to, such ostentatiously elaborate bling-bling guano acclaim. Amen!

Were the walls man constructed in the physical as confining as those imagined in the mental?

“And the truth shall set you free.”

A passer-by on the road in front of the state hospital might absently take notice of the manicured green expanse of lawn dotted with tall stately oak and wide shading maple trees among dark evergreens lending definition to a glaring starkness of the white buildings sporting gaping shadow-holes covered with heavy black restraining steel bars. A few did; most passed as oblivious to the enclave as they were to life, itself. For those aware, what transpired within those forbidding walls was not to be too deeply contemplated; the realized thoughts could be most upsetting in the ordered lives of significant people. No time to be bothered; each one’s own life was a treasured mission even if the eventual destination remained undetermined, the directions, erroneous, at best; maybe, even---worthless as a once brilliantly acclaimed mind flown somewhere---demented…South!

Besides, these important individuals had important places to go, “Royal-elite” people to see, important things to do. No time, nor desire, to see reality. Could it possibly be true that the inmates were running the asylum? Did the bars keep the lunatics in, or, the crazies out?

And, too, the fast food burger joint on the next corner beckoned lunch; delicious, if not nutritious, nourishment from the dollar menu.

 

“And the truth shall set you free.”

Epilogue

 

 

 

Christmas Day dawned crisp and clear as light stole away the ebony night. Slowly, a small, dim, cold, whitish orb ascended in the pale eastern abyss. By mid-morning the sun’s masquerade of promised warmth provided no hope of comfort in a pure frigid cerulean sky. Yesterday’s hint of a warming Chinook after the cold front had entered and deposited new snow, had departed overnight as a new high pressure area settled across the landscape. Christmas Day was born, lived, and would pass.  The uncle arrived with his family and Grandma. Other relatives and friends came to visit; another adventure unfolded. Amber was hitched to the sleigh adding fanciful delight to the day’s events in reminiscent reflections of yesteryears. Bapa had attached the bronze sleigh bells to the harness which he had purchased at an Amish village years ago. The adventurers’ sled riding on the hills and ice skating on the frozen pond were enjoyed by one and all; Z. Tyler put on an Ice Capades display to rival the professional traveling troupe. When tingling fingers and toes required thawing and rosy cheeks burned deliciously, the ice cubes retreated to the warmth of the farmhouse where a feast of Nanny’s Christmas delight was shared. At last, dusk overtook the day, then night ushered in silent respite as peace covered the earth. The farmstead lay quiet under the watchful sentinels of tiny blue-white faceted-diamonds on a black velvet canvas.  Yesterdays were saved memories; tomorrow, the promise of even better times. Those remembrances are the keys to tradition built on love of faith, family and freedom. And, “Someday?” Well, that’s today, right now…Right now! Do not wait for that elusive “wanting” to perhaps arrive, delivered in a planned package of perfection to be opened and at last experienced and enjoyed; it may not ever appear. Or, it may show up in a form neither anticipated nor recognizable. Today is all-important! Please live it, experience it, push it, challenge it, cherish it, enjoy it.  Celebrate the gift with living, laughing, loving.  Like Christ‘s birth, each new day is the best---Christmas Magic! So be it. Amen? So it is. Amen!

 

Merry Christmas!

 

(Note: Taken from a story: Christmas Magic included

in the book titled: Christmas Treasures, a trilogy of

holiday Eves by Carl Schuler---Amazon books)