Omaha
Max Mountain cared for two big houses, across the street from his—an old Victorian Stick, divided into a duplex, upstairs and down, at 4623 NE 19th and a Portland Four Square on the corner next door, at 1904 NE Going. He’d lived at 4623, once upon a time, in the downstairs apartment with Clarissa, his ex-wife, and Jason, their first child, twenty-something now and birthed on the very spot Max stood that Saturday morning, coffee mug in hand, listening to his old friends, Donna and Sam (owners of both) describe problems with the upstairs drain.
“Somehow… black toilet water gets in the tub when someone runs the kitchen sink during a shower, I think? River?!” She called out for her son, “Sam? Is he here?”
“I think…” her husband Sam appeared from the kitchen, drying his hands on a dishtowel, “the bathroom sink drains into the tub somehow, is what River told me. He hasn’t been sleeping.”
“But it’s black and stinks really bad. How does that come from a bathroom sink? I think it’s the toilet,” Donna looked to Max for adjudication.
“Naw, it’s two separate lines. So… it does go down, eventually? Can I see?” Max remembered Jason told him River was diagnosed with schizophrenia but refused medication, until he broke into a house one night and got arrested, following voices in his head directing him to a magic crucifix on the nightstand next to where a couple were sleeping with their baby. They called the police and he hid in a closet. Police had to drag him out, he thought they were dragons. Finally Agreed to take medication and said the right things to get out of the hospital but stopped taking it soon after. Jason said nobody their age liked him.
“I’ll go see,” Sam peeled off down the hall.
Max and Donna followed along, Max saying, “Drain line’s inch and a half galvanized, prob’ly half clogged. Oughta take the whole thing out… needs two inch at least. Tub’s plumbed straight into a hairpin, if I remember correct. Shoulda replaced it back when the ceiling was open, tucked it up in. Don’t know why we didn’t.”
The door stood ajar when they got there, clothes picked up off the floor and bundled on the bed by Sam, now outside, calling after River.
“You have to tear it up again?” Donna asked as Max knuckle rapped the ceiling for studs. He repaired it years ago, after plumber’s made holes looking for a leak, which Max finally found and fixed—a lead pipe end, bent up but not capped, dripped when a full tub drained but not if only faucets or the shower ran. Embarrassed by his mud job now, he was at least pleased with the opportunity to correct old mistakes—corner lines not straight, tape seams visible and little holes from air bubbles dotted the ceiling. Donna and Sam had a lot of anxiety around money, even though they made plenty. Max figured doing it on the weekend would motivate him to work quick, didn’t want it dragging into next week.
“Yeah, no choice really. Everything’s up there—tub, kitchen sink, vanity,” he pointed out the locations of each, “All run thru that ninety, you see coming out the ceiling and down the wall, turns two inch ABS in the basement. We need to cut it all out and go two inch the whole way. I’d say… four hundo… maybe five… prob’ly more… a lot more if you want that down pipe inside the wall,” Max knew it would be more like a thousand, all said and done—holes cut, pipe removed, new pipe installed, five fixtures joined, holes patched, mudded back, sand and finish paint… thank God for hot mud. Jason maybe would help for cheap… eat up the whole weekend though if he did it alone, “Probably a thousand, by the time it’s painted. If you want me to do all that… materials included.”
“A thousand? My Goddess, Max. These old houses… we’ll find it somewhere, I guess. Do what you got to do. Savannah’s going nuts having to be around her parents so much, using our bathroom. Won’t even go up if there’s black stuff in the tub, won’t clean it, says it’s not her fault—she didn’t plug it. Marley’s staying with a girlfriend till it’s fixed. I don’t know what they’re afraid of…”
Savannah, one year older than Jason, went to community college nearby and lived in the upstairs with her girlfriend Marley, a student at PSU. Savannah, Jason, River and Chloe—Max’s daughter, two years older than Jason, all grew up in the neighborhood and went to Grant High School. Marley also went to Grant but lived in Laurelhurst. Sam came back in, shaking his head, “He’s gone, left. Poof! Never moved that fast getting up for school. Told him he had to get out of bed because Max was coming in to look at the ceiling and he just went, got on his bike and rode off, didn’t eat any breakfast, still wearing pajamas, I think.”
“He doesn’t wear pajamas!” Donna waved him back to the kitchen, “Go on Sam. We’re s’pose to be there at ten. He’ll be alright. Finish the dishes, clean up. I’ll handle this.” Sam lowered his head and left. When he was out of earshot, Donna said, “River’s fine. Everyone needs to relax.”
“So… it’s a go then?” Max asked.
“Is there a choice?” Donna hated how much money it took to keep up old houses.
“You could pay a drain service to snake it out again. Be about two-hundred I’d guess.”
“No… you do it… all, if you got time. Thanks so much Max. Don’t know what we’d do without you,” she patted his arm and ran off to help Sam get ready for their gentrification study group.
“Donna? Max?” Harmony, a young woman from next door, called from the big front porch, where she stood watching her housemate Kate wrestle a goat back into its pen.
“You rang?” Max emerged and watched awhile the comic match, as chickens darted in to snatch insects stirred up from the shuffling of feet and hooves.
“Sylvester says no dice, keeps jump’n ship. Doesn’t like the ladies, I guess. What’s up?”
“Ugh… plumbing on the weekend. No big… whatever, need the money. What’s up with you?”
“Mercury’s in retrograde and… don’t hate on me please? Downstairs toilet’s plugged again. I didn’t do it! Potluck tonight for disaster planning… forty-five people. I’m just the messenger.”
“W-T-F! Third time this month! You all on a special diet over there or what?” Kate slipped, fell and got dragged a few feet, as Sylvester tried to bolt. Hens darted in and out, snatched startled insects flushed from bark chips. Kate rolled and got leverage when he went to his knees, choked by the twisted leash. She grabbed his collar and endeavored to drag him in.
“Right? I don’t know. Same person, so… maybe? She’s doing a six month cleanse. I know that.”
“What’s she eat’n, clay and sand… with glue in it?” Max recalled previous clogs, having to pull the toilet and how hard turds held together in the yard, even when hit with a high pressure hose, reduced to little mounds at most, a mini mountain range of shit peaks, he had to bury. Never seen anything like it.
“Maybe! Clean her right out, huh!”
“Or get stuck and build up! Torture the likes of us, when it does!”
Side by side, happy not to look each other in the eye, they joked and laughed at the goat show. Harmony liked Max. They’d gone on a date the previous weekend but hadn’t talked since. Max felt uneasy about it, wasn’t sure what he wanted, felt bad for not calling. He liked Harmony but she was half his age and size, a strange mix and headed into her Saturn return. Max, six foot six, two-hundred and forty-five pounds, was a mountain of a man. Harmony, five-three, one-hundred and ten, a little pixie faerie. He needed some help but Harmony was not it, “Hey, Dan around?”
“No, he works Saturdays at the market now. You know that. We stopped by and saw him on our date. Why? You need’n some help? Anything I can do?”
Their eyes met, “Yeah, replace that toilet.”
Harmony scrunched up her face, “No way!” Stuck a finger in her mouth as if to throw up, “What a mess. They tried and plunged it. Kate thinks something’s stuck in the pipe.”
So cute, the faces she makes… Max thought, lump in his throat, urge to pick her up and give her a big bear hug… let go, “It’s not the pipe. Clogs in the toilet, believe me, I know. Toilet’s been there twenty years though… why’s it clog so much now?”
“You’re the plumber,” she looked up wide eyed and expectant, like he should know.
“Maybe something fell in off that shelf above it, you all got so much shit on? Gonna replace it… not go’n through all that again. It’s got a weird hitch in the trap. Don’t tell Donna… hey, who’s that?” A tall, striking woman, emerged from the back door of Harmony’s house, what everyone called The Goat House—a name Harmony hated. Long blonde hair bundled atop her head, gray hooded sweatshirt, black tights over well defined legs, barefoot, teacup in hands, she stood, eyes closed, in a patch of sun.
“That’s Satori… Kate’s friend… all hush-hush, nobody knows she’s here.”
Max, intrigued, sensed Harmony’s unease, “What does she do for a living?”
“I don’t know… not plumbing! Teaches yoga, I think. We’re not supposed to tell anybody, might upset her peace.”
Harmony did not like Satori, Max could tell. Did not like anybody getting special treatment and probably wouldn’t like this, “I want to meet her,” he trotted down the ramp and hopped the fence, climbed timber tie raised beds and crossed both yards with giant strides.
“What? I… need to talk to Donna,” Harmony hollered after, “Hey! Call me! Let’s ride bikes!”
Max waved but didn’t look back. Air thick with buck scent. Kate, bent over, catching her breath, gate latched, goats penned, “Hey, Max!” She waved as Max reached The Goat House steps. He waved back and said, “Hey, Kate.”
Satori watched him bound across the yards, intrigued by his grace and power… very large. She stood firm in tadasana, as he crested the steps and crossed the back deck, a symphony of creaks and groans from the boards beneath as he passed, to where she stood, warming her hands with a cup of hot tea.
“Hi, I’m Max… I take care of these houses. Live over there,” he indicated back, over his shoulder with a thumb but stayed her piercing gaze—eyes an intense green. Six feet tall and strong, Max could feel it in her handshake, “I hear the foundation of civilization’s clogged?”
“Satori… yes… you’ve been mentioned as who we’re supposed to call… nice to meet you. The foundation of civilization?” She laughed, like she knew what he meant, wasn’t what he said, “Got a closet auger? I could snake it.”
“Yeah… but… y’ ever seen one a them work, for shit?”
“No,” she laughed, noting a sense of recognition and shared experience, “Everyone seems to have ‘em though. That and a plunger, steeped in brown by the time we get there.”
“You a plumber?” Max asked.
“Yeah, with my dad, awhile, back when. Long enough… before I hit the road. He always called it ‘brown’ or ‘true brown’—Empty out that brown, Omaha,” she imitated him, “Omaha is my given name—where I was conceived. Satori is… spiritual.”
She said that in a way gave Max pause, like something was not divulged that should have been… there are difficulties… she feels guilty… Focus… he told himself, Get ‘er done! You don’t have time for this… “Want to make some money? The old-fashioned way? Forty an hour? Help hold and clean up? Know it’s a long shot but hey, could use some experience with the brown about now. Tear’n up a bedroom ceiling, cut’n out the galvy, put’n back ABS, five fixtures. And here… big bowl of brown, just off the kitchen, party planned. You a part a all that? Plan’n for disaster?”
“No, look’n for an out in fact. I’ll assist… could use the money.”
“No prob. Back me up. I got all the gear you need to keep clean. Shall we?”
Satori ran in and changed her clothes, put on overalls, packed up everything she had there and put it behind the porch couch, not knowing why, just had a hunch it was time to go.
Max crossed Harmony on the way to get his tools, “So… you find out what she does?”
“Yeah! Plumbing!” Max couldn’t resist, “Go figure? Use to work with her dad, gonna help me at Donna’s so I don’t have to blow the whole weekend. There’s a stroke of luck, huh?”
This set Harmony off. A deep dark familiar sense of loss. She knew it was irrational. They only had one date, didn’t even kiss but she felt threatened by Satori from the moment Kate showed her her picture on the Yogaflow website and said she was coming to stay with them. Harmony was like—I don’t want her here… but couldn’t say it, somehow knew she would catch Max’s eye and Harmony would get short shrift. She bit her lower lip and resisted the urge to do or say anything would jeopardize their potential relationship, “That’s great Max. Glad you found some help,” gave him a hug, “Hope it goes how you want.”
Back at Donna’s house, they rolled out, unloaded stuff from Max’s van and started in River’s bedroom… Sam was supposed to clear out but forgot, went looking for River instead. Satori suggested an old trick her father used and spread a drop cloth over stuff on the bed, strapped it to the frame and tipped it all against a wall, out of their way. Max made holes and cut out sixteen feet and five fixture drops, of galvanized pipe, with a cordless grinder, throwing sparks into the ceiling. Satori held an extinguisher in case of fire and caught the pipe pieces when they dropped. Sure enough, once cut, the pipe showed half closed in some spots, looked like arteriosclerosis. Liquid black crud spouted out the first cut but Satori caught it in a bucket, every drop. Max cut the ABS to size, as she held steady the pipe, dry fit the run and joined with a Fernco flex coupler to each fixture drop, which gave him wiggle room in tight spaces. He had to cut out more lathe and plaster to tie on at the tub. Satori stood on a chair and vacuumed dust. Max marked the black pipe, pulled it apart and glued up, both of them in respirators, fans pointed out the window. Finally sent her to turn on the faucets in the upstairs apartment, shined a light and checked for drips. All dry, they hung drywall and started applying tape and mud. Max kept hyper-focused, wanting to get it done. Ear protection on and respirators, they didn’t talk much. Satori had good instincts, anticipated where he needed her to be and knew what everything was. Max felt they could get it done that day and to that end, didn’t waste any motion, used twenty minute hot mud for the first two coats; had all four holes patched and ceiling primed by three o’clock. Whence they packed up and headed next door for the toilet job.
During a short lunch, they got onto the subject of hoops and Satori revealed she had played basketball in high school and college, as Omaha Witherspoon, her given name and mentioned an accident which curtailed her career but led to yoga and meditation. This brief conversation piqued Max’s interest, having a similar experience which led him to shamanism, wanted to know more about hers but never got the chance, as towards the end of the job, while he tightened bolts on the new toilet, some time around dusk, she disappeared, after going outside to clean up stuff. Not alarmed so much as disappointed, Max charged for the hours, thinking she would come back but she never did. No one at The Goat House knew what happened, only that her stuff was gone. Max found out months later that she ran into a college friend from down the block, who happened by while she was cleaning up, a man named Tom Brown, recently moved in around the corner with his mother and sister, NE 20th and Going. She tended him a long time through a bad back, apparently, two blocks away. Took many walks in the neighborhood, yet Max never saw her, which he found very strange.
It was Tom’s first walk outside, beyond occasional trips to his truck to check on his guns and entertain thoughts of—Could he kill himself with one? Pain from his herniated disc (if that’s what it was?) tolerable enough to walk now, without holding his breath, prompted him, that sunny spring day, to pass by his truck and test his range. He headed west on Going, every move made at the pace of tolerable pain, nothing but the next step and (in)decision—could he do another and another and another… and still make it back? In order to avoid curbs, he turned left, down 19th towards Prescott, determined to circumambulate the block at least once but for some reason looked right before he did and there she was… standing on the sidewalk, staring at him, mouth open, his dear friend from college, long lost contact—Omaha Witherspoon, best women’s basketball player ever at Knox College, so far as Tom knew. Did not follow Knox much beyond graduation but Omaha was such a dominant player and way ahead of her time, he doubted her marks would ever be eclipsed. A year behind Tom in school but his twin in work ethic, she spent way more hours in the gym than anybody else but him. They engaged in hundreds of one-on-one battles, often full court, if they had it to themselves. She never beat him. Came close once, when Tom was injured. But he refused to lose and used weight, height and strength to back her down and score. Bodied up, blocked all her shots until he won. At the Academic All-American Awards banquet her junior year, she thanked him by name, said his fierce competition and refuse to lose attitude was infectious and made her a much better and far more physical player than she would otherwise have been.
They had an intense sexual affair during mini-term his senior year. Got permission from the school and coaches to stay in the dorms and use the gym, between Christmas and the resumption of classes—when school more or less shut down. They would workout for a long time in the morning and then go have sex at various places on campus (her idea), anywhere warm and private, had keys to the gym, pool, training room, hot tubs. Neither of them wanted others to know about it (at first), didn’t want the distraction on campus in season. Agreed it didn’t mean anything and they were just messing around, as friends. Tom, okay with this at first, was sort of seeing someone but these encounters quickly became the most exciting times (off the court) in Tom’s life and he did not want them to end. They had a quality he never felt again, a physicality akin to their on court competition—the way she pressed against him, eager to explore all possibilities and him able to reciprocate and stay present, where with others he hadn’t. When classes resumed however, after a short visit home (Tom stayed at school), Omaha said she had to concentrate on basketball and schoolwork and stop spending so much time with him. Tom had no plans any different and, in the thick of his season too, went along with but soon regretted it, missed her so much and feared a chance like that might never happen again. Tom, drunk at a party one night, spoke of regrets to a mutual friend that they weren’t in a relationship. The friend told him she was lesbian… but he never saw her with anybody. It wasn’t that hard to let go… just put up shots and spend more time in the weight room but he always felt something was unfinished between them.
And now… near thirty years later, there she was, in Tom’s darkest hour, standing on the sidewalk, more or less the same, beautiful as ever. Big black ball cap, on backwards, holding up her hair, elbow high rubber gloves, white five gallon bucket and big yellow sponge, overalls on, barefoot. Once she recognized him and knew he knew who she was, she dropped the sponge, peeled off rubber gloves and ball cap, poured out what was in the bucket, turned off the hose and ran towards him, as if he were her lost little kid. Tom stood, quivering, incredulous, wished he’d brought his cane, embarrassed to feel so feeble before her beauty and grace… felt exposed, a fake, bowed his head and leaned against the concrete wall but it hurt so bad he had to stand back straight on shaking legs, hands fumbling about for support.
“Tom?” She approached cautiously and laid a hand on his cheek, now splashed with tears, “Tom… you’re hurt?”
He nodded, ashamed, knowing he had nothing to be ashamed of but ashamed nonetheless… of his condition—grown man crying in public, and her… stark reminder of what he was no more.
“Do you live near?” She asked. He could not respond, could not risk even a sigh or sob, it hurt that much. But his eyes said it all. Barely able to breathe, she bent and he put an arm around her shoulder and started home. Kept close to the wall so his right hand could counterbalance her slow and deliberate steps. She helped him walk the block and a half home, as he fought back tears of pain and disillusionment, confusion, shame and the inability to speak on top of everything heaped, like corpses in a plague. At the basement door she went first, backwards, and held his hands, so he could focus on each step. Halfway, she put her hands on his hips and his on the rails, to further steady their awkward descent down the steep stairs. Tom, back spasming, heart beat wild, blinding white light in his eyes, thought he was going to pass out but made it back to bed without further damage. The spasms subsided and he later considered the expedition a miracle, as Omaha stayed and cared for him a long while. But, right about then… the pain and fear that he would always be useless, weak and unhappy, was so great, he could not even believe what just happened, much less imagine the difference it would make in his life.
Tom tucked in… Satori returned for her bag. Walked around the block a few times until it was fully dark, darted onto the porch and grabbed it without incident. She disappeared often like that, without a word. Didn’t know why exactly, it just felt right. The world is fluid, anything can happen at any time. Bag in hand, she skipped back to Tom’s, feeling like a little kid… had to lay low for awhile, things getting out of hand… and now she had the means and a place no one would think to look…
Upon return, she almost collided with Constance, Tom’s mom, coming up the steps. They met way back when she and Teri visited Tom at Knox once. Constance recognized her right away. They shook hands and chatted, briefly. Back then, Constance secretly wished Tom would marry her and have kids, thought they made a perfect pair, seemed to enjoy each others company and had a lot in common. So long ago… yet here she was, in his hour of need, helping him get back on his feet, so selfless and loving. The Lord moves in mysterious ways…
“My name is Satori,” she reminded anybody who tried to call her different. At first, Teri danced around and found a way to never say it, hated the pretense of spiritual names, “Like you’re better than everybody else?” Tom’s mom felt it unnatural, even offensive to use names from other cultures and thought kids should not change the names they were given at birth and Christened with, out of respect for their mothers, at least, but liked her nonetheless, hoped they might still find happiness, blamed to some degree her own failure with Fred, for the kids’ poor record in relationships. Didn’t know how they were going to do anything without jobs, though.
Satori helped Tom establish new routines, modified his room with rails and grips and step stools; washed, shaved and fed him. Got the right medications, plant based pain and inflammation relief; set up systems for proper hydration and ordered supplements; made acupuncture appointments and introduced him to Aisha Harlow—the best healer around there she knew of, clinic on Alberta Street. Got him on the Oregon Health Plan, just in case he needed blood tests or imaging. She also did a great deal to relieve his mother and sister Teri’s fear they might come home and find Tom dead one day, unhappy as he was. Fred’s suicide, a story they fell all over themselves to tell and make sure Satori knew they felt Tom’s problems stemmed from unexpressed grief and his refusal to talk about it with anyone.
So good with the kids, she never turned them away, dropped what she was doing to look at something or listen to their stories. Sally would do yoga with her, every posture, amazed Teri, who always complained she had the attention span of a flea. Justin, the sixteen year old foster kid, lived in the room next to Tom, out of the blue, confessed to Satori one day that he stole the freezer money—six-hundred and some dollars and wanted to make it right. The money went missing when Constance, Teri and the kids were in Indiana, at Tom’s father’s funeral. Justin said he found it while looking for Otter Pops, Tom said were there. Tom took the initial rap, said he used it on the project and would pay it back, so Satori helped them work out an agreement in writing, hush-hush, without violating probation. Tom was afraid he spent it on drugs and had them stashed in the basement. Never learned how Satori found out in the first place and Justin would not talk about it further when Tom asked, like they had some non-disclosure agreement. But he always paid on time and looked Tom in the eye and never lied to him again… so far as he knew.
Tom mused thus, dawn of their second week together, while Satori (he preferred Omaha) slept on a blown up mattress, alongside his too short bed—firmed up now, thanks to her, with pieces of plywood inserted between mattress and springs and furnished with pillows and rolled up blankets to prop arms and legs and hips into pain tolerable positions for sleep. Still couldn’t believe she was there… tending, teaching, reestablishing relations between the outside world and him. Same freakish force of nature she had been on the basketball court (and in sex) but now all kindness, compassion and wisdom. A radiant jewel of effortless action, seemingly immune to the trips and traps of social contrivance or pitfalls of ego pessimism. Even hit it off with Teri, who would normally not suffer another woman more beautiful than her in the house. Constance, repeatedly assured Tom that Satori staying and eating whatever and whenever she wants and using the bathroom upstairs, was no problem, “She is welcome to make herself at home. You guys seem to be getting on alright?” Would drop hints, like this, oversell the welcome, insist she should not be sleeping in the basement though, was a bit embarrassed, “We could move Sally in with Teri. She’d love that. Satori could have her room?” Sally would scream, “I want to sleep with Satori!”
“Surprised she hasn’t hit on you yet,” Tom said, through the door, later that day, as Satori brushed her teeth at the utility sink, beneath a blown up picture of Teri, CHS cheerleader, she’d found and hung in place of Bo Derek, as a joke. Tom hadn’t noticed until then and could tell by how she tossed her head and laughed that Teri already had passed herself off as lesbian and done with men, thinking that was probably her best chance to fuck Satori.
“She did,” she mumbled, “Said I cud sweep on her Cawifownia King, a wot betta an’ wawma dan in da mowdy basemunt on Tom’s Thuhmawest,” she spat, “And all that, after I told her I sleep great in the basement, love being near you again. She probably hears me go upstairs to sit, thinks I’m cold or you’re snoring or something.”
Tom laughed until it hurt. The thought of Teri coming down the steps and seeing Satori sitting, cross legged on the couch, draped in a gauze shawl, was too much. He imagined her sleeping with Teri and getting up at 3 a.m…To go where? Downstairs? For two hours? To sit on the couch? Alone? Two hours? In the dark? Doing what? At 3 a.m.? Just sit? On the couch? Not go down and see Tom? In the basement? Not masturbate? Or check your phone… even once? Wonder if your car’s okay? Check the doors, make sure they’re locked? Get something to eat? They bantered back and forth thus until Tom had to stop, laughing hurt so much. Remembered how mad he got in the past when Teri had sex with his friends.
“Tell me about your accident,” Tom changed the subject, caught his breath, embarked upon a shift of position and more refreshments.
Omaha worked as a painter for Knox College in the Summer of 1984. Part of a three person crew painting exteriors on what were called out-houses—big old houses the college owned on or near campus. Upperclassmen formed (sometimes themed) groups based on seniority and applied to live in them during the school year but during the summer they were rented out, to summer workers mostly, sometimes new staff without housing yet. Omaha lived in Stayt House that summer and worked on, “the one just west of it… Willets? Maybe, I don’t remember… not the Malaysian house but the one between them? I think it was Willets. Anyway, brilliant Tuesday morning, late August, the 23rd, I believe; painting partners both gone, back to school already. They didn’t go to Knox. Anyway, I was working alone and for some reason, maybe it was all that was left? I decided to paint detail up under the eaves, the little whoop-de-doos? It’s that old Victorian, Violet, four colors? There I was, painting away up under the eaves, twenty-some feet from the ground, a sidewalk below and bushes. On a ladder, this big old wooden thing, had no rope so I set it up… you know how I was? Everything a test, could I do it myself? Stepped on the first and maybe even the second rung to get the ladder high enough, you know, pushing it up, lunge and lift? It took all I had and didn’t get completely latched, I guess. The hook that holds it let go or broke. No one knows… the insurance company probably does. I lay there for twenty minutes, face down, broken bones, on a sidewalk, left arm out and right under, like this” she demonstrated, “feet landed in a bush, head in the grass and I lay there unconscious. Broke my right forearm, both bones, compound fracture, dislocated elbow, both wrists and a number of bones in my hands. Cracked off the iliac crest of my right hip. Concussion and internal bleeding from kidneys meant they couldn’t do surgery right away.”
Tom winced in pain as he fumbled for a pillow that fell off his bed. She helped him get situated again and asked, “You want something? Is this too much?”
“No! Yeah! A beer and some snacks and keep going! I just jerked when the pillow slipped.”
She ran upstairs, “Two!” He shouted and winced, as pain shot down his legs.
Satori returned with two beers, some ginger-lemon tea and an assortment of snacks Tom liked, including, barbecue ruffled potato chips and Little Debbie Oatmeal Pies. She went on, “Remember that guy—Suke? Played softball with you? I think? He found me, between the houses, face down, motionless but responsive. I talked but couldn’t move… felt the press of grass on my face and thoughts to get up… but couldn’t find my arms or legs. He called 911. I remember talking to the ambulance men but not seeing them. First thing I remember seeing was a doctor, I had been to once, met us at the emergency room door, looked like Columbo. Remember that show? Is that what it was called? Columbo? Peter Falk, right? Anyway, I open my eyes and there’s Columbo—frumpy raincoat, greasy hair, holding up and signaling, with his Styrofoam coffee cup, the attendants to stop. He bends over the rolling gurney and says, eyes tiny little slits, he says, “Don’t worry young lady. We’ll get you fixed up right quick!” Then waves his cup for them to continue on and that’s all I saw of him. Strangest part of the whole trip… indelibly stamped, the clearest thing. Not in the least, however, did I get fixed up quick. Intensive Care for four days, internal bleeding from kidneys and my arm needed surgery, elbow dislocated, hip broken, I had to be immobilized and drugged. My whole family assembled. Critical condition, they called it, could not be put under until the bleeding stopped. It took four days and lots of gas pains, unable to move or drink water. Tormented my mother with pleas for a drink, as time and again she explained why at most I could suck a wet wash cloth with tiny ice chips in it. On the fifth day the bleeding stopped and they put my arm back together with a steel plate and screws. Said I could go home when I walk again. Two days later, after learning to walk with a cane and a lot of pain, I went home and started rehab.”
“I never heard that. That’s fucked up. Did you sue them? You didn’t miss the season… you were All-American junior and senior year, right?”
“You were… wherever… not writing letters, remember? Said you weren’t ever going to write again, after doing so much in school. Never understood why you always took writing courses? No… yeah, I started the first game. Nobody else was very good on our team. I played bad the first few but got back in the groove and finished about the same, a few less rebounds. Best thing ever happened. The gift that keeps on giving. Why I’m here now.”
“What do you mean… me not writing letters? Hand me another beer and… the green stuff?”
“Edamame.”
“What the fuck, eh?”
“Edamame, a.k.a. soy beans? You from the Midwest or what?”
“No. Pass the barbecue chips. Man, Little Debbie never tasted so good!”
She set him up and continued, “Okay Tom, about this part… I’m very selective… not… uh, interested in… judgment, as they say. Okay? I don’t care about anybody’s assessment as to the validity of my experience. Rather not cast my pearls before swine, if you know what I mean? It is what it is… has a lot to do with why I’m like this, no doubt… broke and homeless. Ha! Just kidding, I mean like why I…” she felt shy, even with Tom, feared his criticism, “enough said.”
Tom nodded, squinted his eyes and said, “You want me to sign something? A waiver? Non Disclosure Agreement? Continue!” Tom wanted to hear, didn’t know why she would hesitate.
“Tom… I know. I knew, soon as I saw you, before I even realized it was you. I am here to transmit healing, open the gates to your own well being or kick some fences down if needs be. I don’t want to upset you… you’re guarded, hard for me to read, maybe don’t want to hear… given what you’ve been through. It wouldn’t be good for your nervous system… to, uh… feign belief or keep up appearances—I guess, is what I’m trying to get across. I’m not trying to convince you of anything or say my experience translates to yours, okay?”
“Jesus Satori! You’re kill’n me over here, with the suspense! Will you just get on with it? You’re dominating the competition, as usual, and what happens next? There’s no judgment ‘tween us…”
Her smile lit the room. He had said that to her, way back when… she first asked to kiss him… felt again and knew his heart was true… wondered what might have been… if they…? Scooted closer, took his hand and continued, “Well, okay then… Ram Das came to Knox, spring of your senior year. Do you remember or know who that is? You didn’t go… your team won 3 on 3, if I remember correct and the party started before you guys even left the gym. You, Baxter and Willy G… right? A most unlikely victory.”
Tom nodded, “We did exceed expectations. Willy G was unconscious!”
“Yeah, I’d say! Anyway… Ram Das did a program that day I was interested in, started at 2 and thought I would miss because of the tournament. My team also won and then got roped into cleaning up. Coach sent me with the AV stuff over to Fine Arts, microphone and a couple of speakers. Once in the building, I heard laughter from Harbach Theater and was like—is that still Ram Das? Still going… after four hours? I set down the AV stuff and entered the first foyer. Could hear muffled laughter and his voice tenor but not quite understand what was said, stepped up and pressed my ear against the double door crack, thinking I would make up my mind whether or not to stay with a short listen but went blank, soon as I did… did not lose consciousness or faint, just went blank… best way I can say it. When I came back around… had no idea where I was or how long I’d been or even what happened? But never felt so sure that something important did and took note of it. Still standing, sideways to the double door, staring into black space, nothing came. It took a minute to re-orientate, no alarm or panic, per se, eventually realized the way out, returned the AV stuff and headed for the bookstore.”
A chill shot up Tom’s spine and he was reminded of a similar thing happened to him, when he found out his father was dead and went blank staring into the sink, “I saw something about Ram Das and LSD, on OPB. Wasn’t he at Harvard with Timothy Leary?” Remembered when they did LSD together, first time for both of them, spring term her sophomore/his junior year. A tradition, Trip Club would gather, drop and dress together from a collection of clothes passed down through the years, attend as a group the Beta House ‘Go to Hell’ party—costumed as someone or something you want to go to hell. Tom went as the Chicago Bears, wore a Walter Payton jersey, with shoulder pads and orange stocking cap, to which he attached a team picture. Very unpopular and someone swiped the cap, first thing in the door but they didn’t stay long. Everyone tripping wanted to be outside, wandered around campus mostly, laughing like mad until the sun came up. Omaha went as Walt Disney, a fairly stunning likeness, won first prize in fact—a brass spittoon. They were allowed to skip the main entry maze of black plastic, patrolled by the Devil and his assistants, who popped in and out, did unsavory things and scared the shit out of people. Willy G, senior Beta maze designer, who was also Tripmaster of Trip Club, treated them to an alternate entrance made special for the tripsters that year—a spiral maze lined with thousands of teddy-bears glued together you had to crawl over, thick coated (all but their eyes) with colorful latex paints, lit by black and strobe lights of various intensity. The upper part of the passage was a revolving panoramic overview (rescued from a children’s museum in Peoria) of a long wagon train stretched out across the plains, big black dust storm on the horizon altered and backlit to look like a mushroom cloud. It took a lot of concentration to negotiate teddy-bear tunnel with that thing turning around and casting weird shadows, like wagon trains rolling by but was over before you knew it. They both wanted to go back through but never did. A stunning visual experience… it popped often into Tom’s head and did then, along with pangs of regret, never getting to see it again, that night passed so quick. No one even took a picture.
“Yeah, Richard Alpert, went to India, got a guru and became Ram Das. Amazing man—Still Here Now, title of his last book. I believe he had a stroke and wrote it. Anyway, I went straight to the bookstore and they had all his books on display. I bought The Only Dance There Is and Grist for the Mill. Read The Only Dance There Is three times that summer, cover to cover. Indescribable what it felt like. Made so much sense, as if it was written for me, the perfect blueprint, perfect preparation for what happened next. Number one message? Our interpretation of what’s going on, the difference between what we wished would have happen and what did? In large part equals suffering. He called it up-leveling your predicament. Eat what’s on your plate, update your views in necessary and creative ways, expand your understanding with and through what actually happens, rather than resentment based on projections of what didn’t. You can’t always get what you want but you can always want what you get! It empowered me to transform, open a whole new realm of engagement—expansion of awareness and relief from the ravings of desire. The teacher within, present without a doubt, took over. When I woke, in intensive care, hooked up to tubes and strapped down so I wouldn’t move? Felt a lot like being in the foyer, between those double doors. No fear, no pain, no regrets, no separation… first thing I did was engage my heartbeat, slow it down with focused deep breathing. Got it down to 48! From 61 when I started! My mind felt empty, one pointed. No separation. Not one thought of where I was or why? Like a baby, just playing with whatever appeared. First person in was my aunt, looked like she’d seen a ghost, asked if I knew who was she? What happened? I laughed, of course I knew who she was! Everybody was like that—How can you be so happy? You’re an All-American smashed to bits before her senior year. It was uncanny but I never questioned it. Never became self-conscious or depressed. It was all so perfect. Went to my parents’ house for a month of visualizations, deep dreams and healing. Then back to school, rehab and the gym. No one believed I would play that year. My surgeon said it was a miraculous recovery. Knocked a couple points off my free throw percentage, probably. Elbow started clicking when I shot free throws, of all things, had to have another surgery after the season. Yoga saved me. First time I did it, I said, This is it! Life’s a lot better with!”
Tom pulled himself to a seated position on the edge of his bed, felt challenged by otherworldly references and said, “Jesus! Sounds like an ordeal! How did I never hear this?” Felt compelled to move about. Reminded him of religion, “I gotta move around. Go on, go on,” he shuffled about, arms up, steadied himself with the joists above. She handed him a cane.
“Tom, I filled my hours with focused attention and concentration on mind-body integration and wellness. Always on, always here-now with what’s needed to recover and rebuild myself and a clear outline of what’s not. The process never stopped, even in sleep. Still goes on and I somehow knew exactly what it was and avoided what it wasn’t. Goal? Starting lineup, first game, November 30th, my twenty-first birthday. I tried so many different things—Let the wound direct the healing, I kept hearing—They’re one and the same. Probably came from Ram Das or Gary Isaacson, remember him? Taught Humanistic Psychology? All you had to do was show up? And yet he exposed us to so much that was rare at the time, especially in the Midwest. He’d been to Esalen, way back then. Helped me visualize and imagine millions of doctor ants marching through my body, fixing me up. We did hypnosis—helped remember the accident… sort of.”
“You remembered it?” Falling… hitting the ground?”
“Not really. It filled in pretty quick, though… bits of sensation here and there but none of falling or hitting the ground. Grass pressed against my face, attempts to move, unable to locate my limbs. No pain, just peace, sense of eternity… a lot like the foyer in fact, ear to the double door crack,” she demonstrated how she lay in the grass, one ear to the ground, “The pain came in rehab. The shape my arms were in after six weeks in a cast? Blew me away. Wow! Worst part of the experience, when I saw what I had left for arms to handle a basketball with? Ugh! In rehab though, Ms. Obsession met her match. I hated it, had a high pain tolerance and pushed until sick, three two-hour sessions a week. Hardest thing I ever did… only time I’ve thrown up, not from being sick. My physical therapist told me it was a matter of pain tolerance, as to the kind of progress we could make towards full mobility and the intense physical training necessary to get back in shape by the first game. They told me I might always walk with a limp. I never believed… never even thought about it really. Can’t say it was heroic, I stayed pretty close to now and what’s next? Tried not to make mistakes. Looks like you’re moving better? Less pain?”
“Long as I got a ceiling,” Tom did feel better, rose up on his toes. Still… a long way to go.
“Pay attention to your feet. Stand in your body,” she commanded, rolled off her chair and into a plow, “It’s all there but needs attention to activate the interface.”
Tom knew what she meant and yet didn’t, when she spoke like this. Always seemed to indicate something he couldn’t see. Stand in your feet? Where else is he going to stand? Ground yourself in the earth? What did that mean? Get into your body? Where else was he? The pain—undeniably different though, in the way he thought about it at least, since she appeared, without a doubt. No longer separate, not a screaming out of control kid you want to hit and make shut up, banish from the room, insulate, move away from. Felt like an attitude adjustment, if nothing else but it worked.
“Satori?” Teri called from the top of the stairs, as her brood descended the basement steps, “Somebody wants to say goodbye!” Tom felt vibration in the ceiling, the lights flickered.
Satori rolled out of the plow and in one motion, to her feet and standing smiled at him, “Tibetan rollout, it’s called. You’ll do it one day. How’s the flexibility in your ankles? You never had bad sprains, did you?” She said, backing towards the door, “Don’t worry… I got this,” and left the room to meet them. Tom thought about getting back in bed but decided to sit on the couch instead, had not done much sitting up yet. Recalled, in doing so, Don Duchano, Eleanor’s blind friend, who looked like Colonel Sanders, from his visit to Castle Manor. Sat like that, on the edge, hands folded over his cane, wide spread legs, staring straight ahead. Surprised at how dignified he felt, spine straight, chin lifted.
“Tom?” Teri peeked in, as Satori said goodnight to the kids. They all gave her hugs, kisses and handmade gifts, even Dale, who was twelve and staunchly indifferent to most adult humans. Satori spent hours with him, looking at stuff, even though she didn’t like computers, “Attention to a child is like sun to a growing plant,” she said when Tom marveled at how she could do it, “He needs someone to be interested in his things,” Tom had not engaged much at all with Dale, hated video games and did not watch TV. Video games seemed so diminished, compared to Tom’s youth. How you could call it any kind of reality or take it serious as something to invest time in, he never knew. When Tom was his age? It was nonstop running around, pushing the limits, people’s yards you weren’t supposed to be in, tackle football, riding bikes, throwing snowballs at the cemetery man in his outhouse, getting chased through the dark woods by Donnie Dickman, constant fights over when you have to come in, rain or shine.
“Tom? Knock, knock!”
At that instant—Tom realized the screaming kid everyone wanted to shut up… was Teri. Pain shot through his nervous system, like someone took it by an end and jerked. Embarrassed so often by her throwing fits as a kid, he resented and hated it, thought something wrong with her. Now however, he saw how much she was like that pressure cooker thing on top that rocks and hisses, lets off steam? For all of them… Any uncontrolled expression for Tom was a sickness or better be… crying, raising his voice, slumping, sighing… were not tolerated by his father or mother either, to be fair, when he was younger. Any deviation from the norm, even contorting his face or a change in voice, invited correction and/or punishment. Teri was the only one who got away with outbursts and they had to be big enough for all of them to feel.
“What?” He felt a rush of compassion for her… and himself—living in a pressure cooker as kids.
“Guess who I saw at Freddy’s last night?” She stepped into the room but stayed half behind the door, as if he might throw something at her, which he often did, “Why are you sitting like that?”
Tom took a deep breath, did not want to hear it and did not understand why Teri felt compelled to report every sighting, every rumor about anybody he ever knew? “Teri,” he held up a hand, “I don’t want to hear anything about Cindy or related to Cindy, her family or Maya or yoga or anybody who knows them. Okay?”
“Okay… but you’re in avoidance and it won’t help if you don’t face reality. You gonna stay in Mom’s basement your whole life? Hiding?”
“Depends on how long I live, I reckon. Thanks for the analysis. Your insights are so…”
“Mo-om!” They were interrupted by little Stevie screaming, “Sally stepped on Tigee’s head!” Teri ducked back out the door, took control of the situation and herded them upstairs to bed. Satori returned, presents in hand and… different… Tom could tell… something shifted, while she was talking with the kids. Somber, he saw someone he didn’t recognize… the years between them… and it made him sad because now he would make the effort, where before he hadn’t.
“Satori I…”
“Tom I…” they said at the same time.
“You go ahead,” Tom said, lying back down on his bed.
“Okay. This is hard to say… but I’ve got to leave. That’s why the kids made me gifts. I was saying goodbye to them. I… I know I should have told you first but… like I said, it’s hard.”
Out of left field… “What?” This threw Tom, “Why?” Tears welled up in his eyes, back tight, chest constricted, he took a deep breath and tried to relax.
“I will leave a number you can text… I don’t talk on the phone or listen to voice messages much but I will respond to texts… some. Keep it short, not personal, only to do with practice or diagnostics. If we need to talk, it can be arranged, just ask. What did you start to say?”
“Oh, it was nothing. I don’t even remember…” As a kid, Tom loved Bubble Pops and once he got one that was hard all the way through and at the end there was nothing to chew on but a short stick… that felt like this—no long lasting flavor-burst center, anticipation of the coming attraction… nothing there… emptiness.
“Oh come on, Tom. I told you mine.”
“Yeah, told me you’re leaving… instead of… what? Just disappearing?”
“Yes… instead of just disappearing… like I showed up… just appearing. Because I love and care about you. I don’t pretend to this with everyone.”
“Only with me?”
“No, not only with you. What is this about? I didn’t say how long I would stay…”
“Why did we have to stop? Back at Knox? Why did you stop making love with me? I mean I know I went along, didn’t know what I wanted but… is there any chance… could we?”
Satori realized then, Tom was in love with… the past… her, “Tom… I’m sorry—I never said I’m sorry then and I should have. Nice as it was, it was strange. You’re the only man… I’ve known. And that was a wonderful time… but the longer it went on the more it felt… not right and I… I didn’t know how to say it—I’m lesbian, Tom. I didn’t know… and it wasn’t like something you broadcast or risked everyone knowing, back then. I was curious and it felt safe to explore with you… at college… no one around. Wish I could have expressed these things but… I’ve always just figured people are better off without me and disappeared when that becomes clear. I don’t know why… it just happens and seems right, in retrospect. I’m not who I was then. Us being together would not… be what you think.”
“I… love you, Satori. I want… whatever. It’s not happen’n. Sorry I asked.”
“Tom, dear friend… this has been such a refuge for me, one on one with you, peace and quiet… no agenda but healing. I am grateful our paths crossed. You and your family… there is so much that’s genuine here,” she started to cry, “the way everyone’s welcomed me and opened their hearts, made me feel so proud. Justin…”
Tom shifted positions and stood again, “I’m sorry. Really… you okay?”
“Yes, fine… just how it goes—answer the call or shit gets stirred up, trouble starts and it gets worse the longer I wait. People start wanting things. Never fails… I have to answer in ways and operate within structures I don’t do well with and am blinded by, in some respects, lose track of what little sense of a self I have. Others schedule and communicate for me, run interference so I can… do my thing. It has to be this way. I’m not making any sense.”
Tom did not understand. Satori was clearly a special human being but she didn’t seem… “I love you Satori… I want to get to know you better, play one on one some more,” he had to try.
“Tom, you are so sweet but… I can’t… do that.”
“Why?”
“I told you… not interested in men.”
“But I’m not men and the first experiment… went so well. What didn’t you like?”
“I don’t like this conversation. I’m going to sit,” She went to the corner where she kept her meditation pillow, lit some incense and sat, facing the wall. Tom, very tired, went to bed.
When he woke, around dawn, she was gone. Air mattress deflated, sheets in the washer. No note or text… just malingering thoughts of what might have been…