레이블이 Universities in Fort Lauderdale Florida인 게시물을 표시합니다. 모든 게시물 표시
레이블이 Universities in Fort Lauderdale Florida인 게시물을 표시합니다. 모든 게시물 표시

2013년 12월 4일 수요일

About 'fort lauderdale universities'|Psychiatrist Fort Lauderdale







About 'fort lauderdale universities'|Psychiatrist Fort Lauderdale








RALEIGH,               North               Carolina               -               Tom               Mendelson               sighed,               put               down               the               unwelcome               letter               from               Castine,               Maine               and               grabbed               his               baseball               glove.

He               then               ambled               out               the               door               of               his               one-bedroom               apartment.

His               tiny               apartment               was               located               out               in               the               sticks               off               of               Capitol               Boulevard               in               north               Raleigh:               as               in,               North               Carolina,               of               all               places!
               It               just               seemed               so               surreal               at               times.

Here               he               was,               working               as               an               electric               pallet               jack               operator-slash-warehouse               receiving               clerk               for               a               computer               board               manufacturer               -               without               benefits,               and               being               paid               through               a               temporary               employment               agency.

For               $7.50/hour!
               If               Tom               ever               saw               that               Delta               Airlines               ticket               agent               he'd               run               into               in               southern               Maine               -               the               one               who'd               told               him               without               blinking               an               eye               that,               hands-down,               the               single               best               East               Coast               location               for               jobs               (particularly               for               "older"               workers,               like               Tom)               was               in               Raleigh-Durham,               North               Carolina               (which               turned               out               to               be               two               totally               separate               and               unrelated               cities,               more               than               15               miles               apart…)               -               …if               Tom               ever               ran               into               that               guy               again,               well:               He'd               say               something               foul.
               
               It               wasn't               that               Raleigh               was               such               a               bad               place,               per               se               (even               though               it               was               hardly               a               mecca               for               pro               sports               or               entertainment;               but,               then,               neither               was               Maine).

It               was               that               it               felt               so               foreign.
               For               starters,               it               was               completely               landlocked,               except               for               some               lakes               as               you               headed               further               north               toward               the               Virginia               state               line;               and               Tom               was               an               oceans               kind               of               guy.

Secondly,               the               accents               -               the               nasal               twang:               the               "Thank               yoo!'s"               young               cash               register               girls               always               said               to               you               as               you               walked               out               the               door               of               their               establishments               -               made               him               either               laugh               or               cringe,               depending               on               his               mood.

And               then               there               were               the               foreboding               differences               in               politics               …               at               least               from               what               Tom               was               used               to               in               South               Florida               and               Maine.

Raleigh,               word               had               it,               was               the               most               openly               liberal               city               in               North               Carolina,               if               one               could               believe               that;               yet               "liberal"               or               not,               he               found               the               politics               in               Raleigh               very               Southern               Baptist,               very               Pro               Tobacco,               very               white               -               and               very               This-is-God's-country,               a               phrase               he'd               heard               voiced               a               lot.
               As               near               as               he               could               tell,               Raleigh-Durham               got               its               distasteful               liberal               reputation               due               in               large               part               to               Research               Triangle               Park,               which               was               the               East               Coast               version               of               central               California's               Silicone               Valley.

"The               Triangle,"               located               northwest               of               Raleigh               and               across               I-40               from               Raleigh-Durham               International               Airport,               employed               a               lot               of               Yankees               whose               companies               had               moved               them               down               there…perhaps,               kicking               and               screaming.

Regardless,               Raleigh               kept               its               southern               feel.

No               one               had               ever               confused               the               place               with               Albany,               Framingham               or               Fort               Lee.
               But               the               region               was               very,               very               green.

Pine               trees               sprouted               up               everywhere,               suggesting               there               were               1,000               of               them               for               every               person;               and               living               in               the               Raleigh/Durham/Chapel               Hill               area               wasn't               a               prison               sentence.

Three               major               universities               (North               Carolina               State               [just               outside               downtown               Raleigh];               Duke               in               Durham;               and               just               down               the               road               from               there,               UNC               in               Chapel               Hill)               served               as               cultural               focal               points.
               Still               -               Tom               probably               would               have               stayed               in               Maine               had               he               ever               found               work               up               there.

But               that               economy               now               looked               nearly               bankrupt.
               Most               of               the               money               from               his               parents'               will               was               now               either               gone               or               tied               up               in               the               house               he'd               bought               (a               bit               too               spontaneously)               in               the               central               Maine               coastal               town               of               Castine,               where               he'd               hoped               to               roost               and               launch               his               writing               career.

But               that               never               materialized.

(He               had               long-since               graduated               from               seminary               in               Bangor               with               his               graduate               degree,               therein               meeting               the               conditions               for               inheritance               in               his               late               parents'               will.)               Chief               stumbling               block:               The               ideas               Tom               promoted               in               his               submitted               articles               ran               into               open               resistance               from               editors,               a               fallout               of               his               sympathy               for               things               "New               Age."               (Didn't               he               know               the               New               Age               was               …               over?)
               Whatever               the               1990s               were               going               to               be               about,               he'd               quickly               come               to               realize,               they               wouldn't               be               including               speculative               metaphysics.
               Tom               also               learned               he               had               a               "non-discriminating               audience;"               so,               no               market.

Serious               philosophers/theologians,               on               one               hand               (i.e.,               those               affiliated               with               universities/seminaries),               rejected               anything               perceived               as               New               Age               out-of-hand;               meanwhile,               incredibly,               most               New               Age               publications               weren't               interested               in               Issues               of               Discernment               (as               his               professors               at               Bangor               Theological               Seminary               used               to               call               them),               which               is               what               he               thought               mattered.

Tom               believed               in               many               so-called               paranormal               experiences               (he'd               had               plenty               of               his               own               in               childhood),               yet               he               always               hesitated               to               attempt               to               interpret               them,               for               lack               of               information.

But               for               reasons               he               couldn't               fathom,               almost               everyone               else               he               encountered               nowadays               insisted               on               either               pat               explanations,               or               blowing-off               metaphysical               scrutiny,               labeling               it               meritless.

(As               to               the               former,               Tom               couldn't               help               noticing               the               countless               casually-applied               characteristics               of               "God"               commonly               voiced               as               fact,               in               both               A.A.

meetings               and               in               church.)               When               it               came               to               spiritual               beliefs,               it               was               either               feast,               or               famine:               you               were               a               true               believer,               like               a               Christian               -               or               a               functioning               atheist.

In               America,               particularly               of               late,               Tom               realized,               there               remained               very               little               room               in-between.
               Human               philosophies,               almost               everywhere,               had               become               dualistic.
               
               "Do               you               want               to               be               right?

Or               happy?"               Tom's               late               former               A.A.

sponsor,               Walter,               once               asked               him               during               a               long-distance               call.

Tom               responded               that               he               didn't               understand               the               question               -               why               couldn't               he               be               both?

"Because,"               Walter               explained,               "alcoholics               who               tend               to               focus               on               what's               right               or               wrong,               end               up               going               back               to               the               bottle."               Well;               why,               Tom               asked?

"Because               everything               we               do               is               in               extremes,"               Walter               said.

"We               have               to               learn               a               new               way               to               get               through               life."
               The               point               Walter               had               attempted               to               make               -               beyond               suggesting               that               people               who               were               non-issue-oriented               were               happier               -               was               that               recovering               alcoholics               often               clung               to               an               either-or               focus               when               rebuilding               their               lives,               which               for               the               sake               of               recovery               was               a               no-no.
               Put               another               way:               alcoholics               often               viewed               life               dualistically.
               Tom               had               grown               to               agree               with               that               view.

Thus               it               troubled               him               when               he               saw               society               embracing               dualism.

So:               was               society               addicted?
               And               if               so               -               to               what?

Was               addiction               even               possible               en               masse?
               If               it               was               …               could               society               hit               bottom               the               way               an               addict               does?
               "Life               isn't               about               black               or               white,"               Walter               often               said               about               dualism.

"It's               about               learning               how               to               navigate               through               the               gray."
               Sadly,               Walter               had               died               of               prostate               cancer               three               years               back.
               
               Here               now,               today,               as               he               stepped               out               of               his               apartment,               Tom               was               doing               his               best               not               to               view               the               contents               of               the               letter               he               just               left               behind               on               his               dining               table               as               strictly               negative,               strictly               wrong:               that               was               too               "either-or."               But,               he               realized,               shaking               his               head               -               he               was               struggling.

The               letter               was               from               the               young               couple               who'd               been               renting               his               house               in               Castine.

They               told               him               that               by               the               end               of               the               month               they'd               be               forced               to               relocate               "due               to               a               sudden               death               in               the               family."               Fact               was,               there               were               few               jobs               to               be               found               in               the               state               of               Maine               these               days               (much               less               anywhere               near               serene,               but               isolated               Castine)               -               and               the               husband,               a               carpenter               by               trade,               was               probably               unable               to               find               steady               work               up               there;               just               as               Tom               had.

Regardless,               Tom               was               now               left               to               pay               the               mortgage               by               himself               until               his               Castine               realtor               located               another               renter,               which               she               likely               would:               jobs               or               no               jobs,               coastal               Maine               was               a               popular               place               for               people               with               money               to               visit.

But               until               then,               Tom               had               to               fork               over               two               separate               monthly               housing               payments               -               here,               and               there.
               
               Unexpectedly,               a               wet               muzzle               worked               its               way               into               Tom's               hand               -               and               he               awakened               from               his               thoughts               to               find               himself               standing               on               his               front               lawn               with               his               next-door               neighbor's               dog,               Melvin,               dancing               in               front               of               him               in               search               of               more               petting               and               attention.
               "You               got               your               ball?

Or,               should               I               get               mine?"               a               familiar               voice               called               out               from               the               next-door               apartment's               bedroom               window.
               Tom               glanced               toward               the               window,               then               into               his               empty               glove,               and               then               back               again               -and               smiled.

"Yours,"               Tom               said.
               "Be               right               there,"               Vincent               Morgan,               a               black               man               in               his               mid-30s,               called               back.

"Want               me               to               grab               a               beer               for               you               on               the               way?"
               Vincent               was               kidding.

He               knew               better               than               to               ask               Tom               such               a               question.
               Tom               raised               an               eyebrow.

"Thank               you               -               no,"               he               said.
               "While               you're               waiting,"               Vincent's               voice               shot               back,               "feed               Melvin               for               me,               will               you?"
               "No,"               Tom               repeated,               flatly.
               He               knew               Vincent               was               joking               again.
               In               fact,               Vincent               had               already               disappeared               from               his               window.
               
               "Better               you               feed               that               dog,               than               I               find               him               goin'               through               my               trash               cans               again,"               a               man's               voice               interrupted.

It               came               from               the               front               yard               of               the               apartment               on               the               other               side               of               Vincent's.
               Glancing               over,               Tom               saw               a               meaty,               glowering               white               man               in               a               cutoff               sweatshirt,               jeans,               and               boots               standing               there,               sneering.
               "'Scuse               me?"               Tom               responded,               unaware               anyone               had               been               standing               there,               much               less               listening               in               on               his               conversation               with               Vincent.
               "Oh,               I               think               you               heard               me,"               the               glowering               man               grinned.

He               waited               for               Tom's               eyes               to               meet               his.

Once               they               did,               the               man               turned               and               strode               back               toward               the               pickup               truck               parked               in               his               driveway.
               It               was               a               big               dually               -               "dooley,"               with               one               pair               of               tires               matched               up               on               the               inside               of               an               outer               set               of               tires               next               to               them               in               the               rear,               as               if               it               were               a               large               rig;               an               affectation               popular               with               countless               truck               owners               in               the               Deep               South               -               replete               with               lakes               pipes               and               rebel               flag               stickers.
               Its               bright               red               hood               was               raised.
               
               "Who's               the               friendly               neighbor,"               Tom               asked               Vincent,               after               the               latter               arrived               carrying               his               baseball               and               glove.
               In               Tom's               43               (mostly               racially-segregated)               years,               Vincent               had               become               one               of               his               rare               black               friends.

In               the               month               or               so               since               Tom               moved               into               the               small,               isolated               and               aging               complex,               he'd               paid               little               attention               to               his               neighbors.

He               was               just               there               in               Raleigh               to               work.
               But               he               met               Vincent               early               on,               at               the               corner               ballfield               on               the               other               side               of               the               street.

They               were               both               avid               baseball               fans,               and               both               long-time               followers               of               the               Atlanta               Braves.

Tom               enjoyed               the               Dale               Murphy-led               Braves               of               the               80s.

Vincent               liked               the               current               team,               a               contender.
               
               "Don't               know               what               his               name               is,"               Vincent               said,               peering               over               his               shoulder               toward               the               truck's               owner.

"I               call               him               the               Beer               Keg.

He's               a               dumb               bully,               a               redneck.

Talks               big,               likes               to               make               threats."
               "Isn't               that               what               rednecks               do?"               Tom               asked,               attempting               a               joke.
               Vincent's               eyes               hardened.

"S'pose.

But               I               see               the               politicians               lining               up               more               and               more               with               this               kind               of               guy,               and               so               he               struts               around               like               his               shit               don't               stink               …               Anyway               -               he'd               best               not               screw               around               with               my               Melvin."
               Melvin               gazed               up,               and               joyfully               wagged               his               tail.

Both               humans,               who               were               looking               his               way               now,               were               clearly               talking               about               him.
               Tom               frowned               sympathetically               at               his               friend's               comments.
               Vincent               then               felt               obliged               to               explain.

"The               guy's               threatened               to               hurt               my               dog               if               I               don't               leash               him.

But               out               this               way,               there's               no               leash               laws,               so               I               figure               we               got               our               rights.

Piss               on               the               dude."
               Tom               shrugged.

"What               kinds               of               threats               has               he               made?"
               "Just               words,"               Vincent               said,               squinting.

"Just               talkin'               trash."               He               then               sighed.

"You               were               gonna               show               me               how               to               throw               a               Phil               Niekro               knuckler."
               
               Tom               nodded,               and               then               took               the               baseball               from               Vincent.

To               illustrate,               he               pressed               the               tips               of               his               three               middle               fingers               on               his               right               hand               into               the               ball's               seams.

With               those               knuckles               raised,               his               thumb               and               small               finger               gripped               the               base               of               the               ball               underneath.
               "I               don't               know               how               Phil-Niekro               this               grip               is,               but               you               don't               throw               the               pitch.

You               kind               of               push               it,"               Tom               said,               as               he               demonstrated               with               a               shot-put-like               arm               motion.
               He'd               taught               himself               the               pitch               as               a               teenager               while               playing               sandlot               baseball               in               Fort               Lauderdale.
               
               After               a               few               tosses               back               and               forth               in               Tom's               front               yard,               Vincent               was               unimpressed.
               "Your               pitch               doesn't               do               anything,"               he               said,               frowning.

"When               does               it,               you               know.

Hop?"
               "'Hop?'"               Tom               said,               feigning               confusion.
               "A               knuckleball               hops               to               the               plate,"               Vincent               said.

"That's               why               pitchers               learn               to               throw               it.

The               pitcher               throws               -               the               ball               hops.

The               batter               swings,               the               batter               misses               …               What               am               I               missing               here?"
               "My               knuckleball               doesn't               hop,"               Tom               said.

"It               just               …               floats."
               "It               floats,"               Vincent               repeated,               amused.

"Like               a               balloon?"
               "Yeh.

Like               that.

You               can               even               count               the               seams               as               it               lobs               in.

Like               a               slow-pitched               softball,"               Tom               said.

"But               it               doesn't               do               anything               else.

It               just               looks               neat.

That's               why               I               never               pitched."
               
               *               *               *               *               *
               Behind               the               wheel               of               his               car               (the               only               one               in               the               region               with               red-lobster/white-plated               Maine               tags,               apparently),               Tom               was               lost               in               deep               thought               once               again               while               driving               into               town.

Into               Raleigh.
               It               was               now               more               than               a               decade               since               Tom               had               taken               a               drink               of               anything               alcoholic               (including               cough               syrups)               -               but               he'd               come               to               recognize               he               still               tended               to               behave               squirrelier               than               most               people               he'd               met               at               A.A.

meetings               with               similar               lengths               of               sobriety.
               For               some               time               he               couldn't               figure               out               why,               because               he               no               longer               wanted               a               drink.

But               his               casual               spiritual               "growth"               wasn't,               it               sometimes               seemed               to               him,               all               that               it               maybe               could               have               been.
               He'd               taken               all               of               his               New               Age               meditation               tapes               with               him               from               Maine               (the               ones               by               "Lazaris"               were               his               favorites),               but               oddly,               he'd               rarely               bothered               to               set               enough               time               aside               to               benefit               from               them.
               The               question               was               why.

Tom               believed               in,               say,               life               beyond               the               physical               world               unequivocally.

But               it               was               an               intellectual               belief.
               And               that,               he               knew               from               recovery,               was               inadequate;               even               a               lie.

His               emotions               needed               to               "believe"               in               it,               as               well,               somehow               -               and               apparently,               they               didn't.
               Another               thought               had               occurred               to               him,               too.

Because               he               lived               alone               and               had               a               history               of               not               making               friends,               either               in               Maine               or               Florida,               he               avoided               social               risks               -               like               making               an               effort               to               meet               new               people.

So               he               was               slipping               back               into               (gasp)               self-absorption!
               Yes,               he               went               to               occasional               A.A.

meetings               in               Raleigh.

But               -
               It               just               wasn't               the               same.

There               was               all               this               "Jesus               talk"               -               and               despite               his               seminary               past,               Tom               was               decidedly               not               a               Christian.
               Still               -               so               what?

Protestant               religion               was               the               nature               of               the               locals'               culture               here               in               North               Carolina               -               as               Judaism               often               was               in               South               Florida               -               and               as               Catholicism               was               in               Maine               …               So?
               So               what.

So               he               opted               to               pass               on               Christianity               -               who               cared?
               No               one               invited               Tom               to               Raleigh.

He               moved               there               on               his               own.
               His               getting               to               know               Vincent               was,               truth               be               said,               an               accident.
               So,               maybe,               when               he               wasn't               looking:               he'd               switched               addictions!
               
               No               maybes               to               it:               the               Porky               kid               had               evolved               into               a               fat               adult.
               (Some               clues:               he               tended               to               hoard               his               food               when               he               ate;               and               he               couldn't               seem               to               stop               eating               way-way               too               much               when               he               was               alone.)
               He               worked               hard               these               days               thanks               to               his               new               shipping/receiving               job,               so               the               extra               calories               often               burned               themselves               off;               lots               of               them               did.
               But               clearly               not               all.

Besides,               weight               wasn't               his               only               "issue."
               He               was               lonelier               than               he               realized;               and               he               longed               for               romance.
               (...And               then               there               were               the               mood               swings               …)
               So?

So:               all               of               the               above               is               what               led               Tom               to               begin               attending               a               different               kind               of               Twelve               Step               meeting               upon               his               move               to               Raleigh.
               Which               is               where,               in               fact,               he               was               heading               -               right               now.
               
               In               his               present               mood               (which               took               hold               shortly               after               he'd               left               Vincent               and               then               showered),               Tom               was               feeling               very               self-critical.
               So               the               locals               spoke               with               a               slight               twang               in               these               parts.

So?
               
               *               *               *               *               *
               "Haah,               Tom!"               a               familiar,               chirpy               voice               called               out               from               inside               the               meeting               room.

"Praise               be,               it's               good               to               see               ya'!

Come               on               in!"
               "Hi,               Clara,"               Tom               smiled               in               return,               as               he               stepped               inside               the               Methodist               church's               reading               room,               the               site               for               this               day's               meeting.
               "Oh,               you               come               here               and               give               Clara               an               ol'               hug!"               she               waved               back               at               him,               urging               Tom               to               come               join               her               at               her               end               of               the               table.
               So               far,               there               was               only               Clara               and               two               other               women               present               for               today's               meeting.

Of               all               of               the               Twelve               Step               groups,               this               drew               the               least.
               Always               Few               liked               being               with               people               too               fat,               or               too               skinny.
               Still,               it               was               early               yet.
               Tom               walked               over               to               Clara,               whose               arms               were               open               in               a               waiting               embrace.

He               then               leaned               over,               and               they               engaged               in               a               lengthy               hug.
               "I               needed               a               hug               today,               I               think,"               Tom               whispered               (maybe               a               bit               too               patronizingly),               as               he               began               to               pull               away.

"Thanks,               Clara."
               "Oh,               no,               baby!"               Clara               beamed,               sitting               back.

"Thank               ye-ew!"
               
               *               *               *               *               *
               Full               Physical               Manifestations               were               extremely               hard               to               execute;               but               once               accomplished,               they               were               usually               free               of               complications.
               That               was               seldom               the               case               with               PPMs,               ironically.
               For               all               of               her               training               and               experience,               Tawker               Hunt               couldn't               always               control               how               she               came               across               to               her               target               subjects               during               these               Partial               Physical               Manifestation               states               (i.e.,               PPMs).
               During               her               time               voyages,               the               target               subject,               or               witness               (the               individual               being               visited               back               in               parallel               time               [parallel               time               itself               being               a               separate               issue]),               had               as               much               to               do               with               a               time               traveler's               manifested               appearance               as               the               voyager               herself.
               Among               an               array               of               finite               resources,               Jane               Roberts'               Seth               material               from               the               late               20th               Century,               though               at               times               flawed               (it               was               channeled,               after               all),               provided               as               many               practical               insights               as               any.
               
               Such               peculiarities               in               the               act               of               performing               PPMs               were               routine.

Throughout               the               recent               recorded               history               of               the               phenomenon,               Tawker               realized,               negotiating               the               shift               into               the               semi-physical               world               (as               the               medium               for               such               a               complicated               transfer               of               both               consciousness               and               manipulated               energies)               was               problematic               for               almost               anyone               attempting               it               to               do               it,               to               say               the               least               -               particularly               for               physical               world-rooted               personalities               like               Tawker               …               (Not               all               forms               of               consciousness,               researchers               at               The               Plant               long-since               realized,               for               instance,               were               rooted               in               such               strict               material               world               "universes.")               How               many               early               time               voyagers               underwent               all               of               the               correct               psycho-physiological               changes               only               to               "show               up,"               in               the               designated               (parallel)               past,               in               front               of               the               correctly-designated               witness               …               only               to               appear               in               some               unintended               and               outrageous               PPM?!

(This               commonly               meant               unintentionally               "coming               on"               to               such               witnesses               as               a               salivating               demon               with               red               eyes,               say;               or,               as               a               blinding               and               personalityless               …               light!)
               A               similar               glitch               occurred               at               death,               as               well.

Such               was               the               nature               of               reality.
               
               But               Full               Physical               Manifestations               were               glitch-free,               in               that               respect.

The               only               problem               was:               manifesting               in               full               "material               world-like"               form               required               enormous               concentration               and               focus               on               the               part               of               the               voyager,               and               could               not               be               held               for               lengthy               periods               of               time.
               (Tawker               intended               to               change               all               of               that               one               of               these               days               -               and,               soon.

Her               romantic               future               depended               on               it.)
               
               In               any               event               -               Tawker               knew               that               in               order               to               appear               as               a               night               vision               in               Tommy               Mendelson's               past               back               in               1961               (she               dared               not               push               the               envelope               any               further               with               him,               at               that               age),               it               would               have               to               be               as               a               PPM.

She'd               therefore               have               to               interact               with               the               then-14-year-old               on               largely               his               terms,               not               hers.

And               she               would               need               to               add               some               psychic               "window               dressing"               -               like               maybe               an               old,               soothing               tree               and               a               shimmering               grassy               field               (in               his               terms),               as               a               backdrop;               all               in               addition               to               attempting               to               remind               Tommy               of               one               of               his               favorite               TV               stars.
               
               Yet               young               Tommy,               from               his               witness               end               of               the               interaction,               would               have               to               manage               most               of               the               rest               of               it               on               his               own               -               like               "changing"               Tawker               into               a               man               (not               that               difficult               of               a               transformation,               as               sex               and               its               urges               don't               exist               beyond               the               realms               of               full               physicality).

And               he               would               pull               this               off               not               only               unconsciously,               but               unknowingly.

That's               what               witnesses               did.
               
               All               Tawker               would               have               to               do,               as               his               visiting               "Night               Vision,"               was               go               along               with               him.
               
               She'd               have               fun               with               it,               of               course.

You               had               to               have               a               sense               of               humor               in               order               to               pull               off               a               successful               PPM,               particularly               with               an               adolescent               from               such               a               gentle,               innocent               setting,               who               could               be               easily               alarmed.

Why,               she               might               even               "dye               her               hair               red;"               or               something.
               
               What               might               have               made               all               of               this               confusing               to               the               founding               time               theorists               of               another               era               was               that,               in               Tom's               North               Carolina               frame               of               reference,               Tawker's               visit               had               already               occurred               nearly               three               decades               earlier!
               That               Tawker               had               no               such               recollection               in               her               conscious               frame               of               reference               was               not               a               bother               (her               own               time               of               origin               was               a               parallel               physical               future;               she               hadn't               yet               traveled               that               far               back               into               Tommy's               parallel               past):               for               she               was               only               "now,"               in               fact,               getting               around               to               doing               it.
               One               simply               accepted               such               paradoxes,               she               calmly               understood.

One               had               no               choice,               actually               -               which               itself               was               a               paradox.
               The               nature               of               reality               was               teeming               with               paradoxes,               she'd               been               taught:               little               wrenches               tossed               in               there               to               remind               one               that               the               physical               realms               one               "lived               in"               weren't               entirely               …               real.
               
               One               purpose               of               Tawker's               voyage               into               Tom               Mendelson's               past               was               to               help               nudge               him               into               a               "wakeup               call"               in               1990               North               Carolina.
               But               she'd               simultaneously               have               to               plant               a               "marker"               connecting               that               moment               in               time               with               Tom's               North               Carolina               present.

To               make               it               work,               she               had               to               give               his               memories               from               1961,               and               his               motivations               to               recall               them               in               1990,               simultaneous               "bumps."               Details,               details.
               The               point               of               the               1961               theatrics,               in               his               terms,               was               for               him               to               experience               something               absolutely               unforgettable               -               something               that               he'd               remember               clearly               and               passionately,               well               into               his               adulthood.
               It               was               the               stuff               of               Awe               and               Wonder,               which               was               conspicuously               absent               in               43-year-old               Tom               Mendelson's               life.
               Absent               not               only               in               his               life               -               but               in               just               about               everyone               else's               around               him.

It               was               time               for               Tom               to               recall               much               of               that.
               And               to               top               it               all               off:               it               was               time               for               Tom               to               remember               her.
               
               *               *               *               *               *
               Young               Tommy               Mendelson               initiated               the               deeply               psychic               event               by               waking               up               early               during               that               summer               morning               of               his               fourteenth               year               thinking               (however               subconsciously)               how               great               it               was               to               be               a               kid               -               who               lived               near               a               clean               public               beach,               and               got               to               watch               great               TV               shows               like               The               Rifleman               and               Maverick.

He               often               heard               the               themes               from               those               shows               -               especially               the               latter               -               replayed               inside               his               head.
               Which               is               how               Tawker               Hunt               transformed               into               Bret               Maverick.
               Replete               with               red-tinted               blonde               hair.
               
               She               "heard"               the               tune               Tommy               was               singing               in               his               head:               "…Who               is               the               tall,               dark               stran-ger               there?

-               Ma-ver-ick               is               his               name…"
               Figuratively               speaking,               she               then               playfully               "flipped               on"               her               PPM's               "psychic               lights"               -               which               illuminated               her,               the               tree               behind               her,               and               the               shimmering               grassy               fields               behind               all               of               that.
               Tommy               Mendelson               then               did               something               that               would               later               prove               to               astonish               him:
               He               sat               up               on               his               elbows               in               bed;               and               watched               the               images               form!
               
               Tawker               Hunt,               who               knew               going               in               that               Tom               Mendelson               was               going               to               one               day               be               the               love               of               her               life               (somewhere               down               the               road               known               as               time),               now               floated               above               the               end               of               Tommy               Mendelson's               bed               in               the               dark               of               his               bedroom               along               with               the               rest               of               the               jointly-conjured               scenario.

When               she               looked               down               at               him,               she               almost               broke               out               in               the               giggles!
               He               was               gaping               up               at               her               from               his               bed!
               (He               looked               so               cute               -               and               so               innocently               …               enraptured!)
               Using               Tommy's               help,               then               -               Tawker               "smiled"               back               at               him               with               her               eyes.
               He               "helped"               her,               by               hoping               she'd               smile               at               him               with               her               eyes.
               
               And               in               a               silent               burst               of               love,               she               communicated               this               message               to               her               future               beloved:
               
               ............…YOU               OUGHT               TO               SEE               THE               EXPRESSION               ON               YOUR               FACE!
               
               Quickly               thereafter,               Tawker               psychically               shattered               her               "Bret               maverick"               alter               ego               (and               all               of               that               which               appeared               behind               her)               into               tiny               little               airborne               puzzle               pieces.
               Which               quickly,               then,               dissipated               into               nothingness.
               
               Young               Tommy               Mendelson               was               left               alone,               in               the               dark,               propped               up               on               his               elbows.
               
               *               *               *               *               *
               As               43-year-old               Tom               drove               his               car               back               to               his               apartment               after               his               Twelve               Step               meeting               in               1990               Raleigh,               North               Carolina,               he               had               a               sudden,               sharp               recollection               of               a               strange               event               from               his               childhood:               the               pseudo-image               of               TV               cowboy               Bret               Maverick               inexplicably               appearing               in               the               dark               above               his               bed,               utilizing               its               own               "light;"               and               hovering!
               Then:               Just               as               abruptly               and               unexpectedly,               he               flashed               back               to               an               encounter               he               had               with               that               peculiar               (but               lovely)               girl               outside               his               dormitory,               back               in               Bangor,               Maine,               some               nine               years               ago,               who               …
               
               And               in               a               sudden               grasp               of               yet               another               distant               recollection               -               Tom               pulled               his               car               harshly               out               of               traffic,               to               the               side               of               Capitol               Boulevard;               and               stopped               just               short               of               a               road               construction               barrier.
               
               He               turned               off               his               ignition.

Dust               from               behind               the               no-longer-skidding               tires               began               to               then               pass               over               the               trunk               and               roof               of               his               car,               and               drifted               away               into               a               sunken               work               zone               beyond               the               concrete               barrier.
               
               She               existed!

It               wasn't               his               imagination;               or               drunken               tremors!
               
               The               girl:               the               one               back               at               Durty               Nellie's               lounge               adjacent               to               the               Intracoastal               Waterway               in               Fort               Lauderdale,               when               Tom               got               drunk               back               in               the               mid-70s               …               after               another               awful               day               of               carpet               cleaning!
               ..........-               It               was               the               same               girl!
               ....................(               -               She               was               REAL!!)
               ..........-               The               same               girl               as               THE               ONE               HE               MET               IN               MAINE!!
               
               ....................What               in               hell               …               HAS               BEEN               GOING               ON               IN               MY               LIFE?!

Tom               shuddered.
               
               *               *               *               *               *
               Once               back               on               the               road,               and               continuing               on               to               his               apartment,               Tom               found               himself               flooded               with               a               litany               of               forgotten               memories:               of               dreams               dating               back               to               high               school               and               college;               of               baseball               games               played               as               a               youth;               of               activities               with               old               friends               on               the               beaches;               of               a               deadly               illness,               miraculously               cured;               of               his               tour               in               the               Navy;               of               the               death               of               his               parents;               of               psychic               flashes;               of               …               prophecies!
               And               all               this               time               -               Tom               thought               his               memories               had               been               fried               due               to               overzealous               alcohol               consumption.

So               much               for               that               plausible               explanation!
               Think               again,               Tom               told               himself:               Your               memory               capacity               is               just               fine.

And               if               that's               so               …               then               what               caused               you               to               forget               so               much?
               
               *               *               *               *               *
               As               Tom               pulled               his               car               into               the               thin               driveway               in               front               of               his               apartment,               Vincent               Morgan               dashed               toward               it               from               his               front               doorstep,               waved               frantically,               and               followed               it               until               it               came               to               a               stop.
               "Tom..!

Tom!!"               he               cried               out.
               "Vincent?

What               on               earth,"               Tom               said               through               his               open               window.

"What's               wrong?"
               "I               think               the               Beer               Keg               …               He's               taken               Melvin               somewhere               -               and               he's               going               to               do               something               to               him!"
               Tom               climbed               out               of               his               car               and               rolled               up               the               front               window               as               he               stared               at               Vincent,               whose               features               were               taut               with               dread.
               "What               do               you               mean               -               he's               taken               Melvin?"
               Vincent's               voice               shook               as               he               let               out               a               tense               breath.

Then               he               pointed               over               his               shoulder               toward               the               Beer               Keg's               yard               -               where               Tom               failed               to               see               anyone               outside;               only               the               truck               was               in               the               driveway.
               "He               came               out               a               few               minutes               ago               and               walked               over               to               my               place,"               Vincent               said               hurriedly.

"He               told               me               it               was               time               to               take               out               the               garbage.

You               know;               trash               talk.

Then               he               grinned               and               just               turned               his               back               around               like               he               likes               to               do               -               and               he               left."
               ...Trash               talk.

Vincent               was               so               upset               he               failed               to               recognize               his               unintentional               pun.

But               he'd               had               good               reason               to               fear               for               his               dog.
               Tom               glanced               over               toward               the               two               garbage               cans               sitting               out               in               front               of               Vincent's               apartment;               he               noticed               one               of               the               lids               had               been               knocked               off.

Nearby,               some               of               the               trash               that               had               been               contained               in               that               can               was               strewn               around               Vincent's               front               yard.
               Then,               gazing               over               toward               the               same               location               in               front               of               the               Beer               Keg's               apartment,               Tom               observed               that               both               of               his               garbage               can               lids               had               been               knocked               off,               as               well               (one               of               the               cans,               in               fact,               was               on               its               side).

And               even               more               trash               was               fluttering               here               and               there               on               the               big               redneck's               property.
               From               experience,               Tom               realized               Melvin               had               been               into               the               cans,               looking               for               whatever               it               was               that               some               dogs               pursue               in               trash               cans.
               "Tom               -               come               on,               man!"               Vincent               pleaded,               now               shaking.

"I               really               think               that               this               time,               he's-"
               POW!!

came               a               loud               cannon-like               report               from               the               far               side               of               the               Beer               Keg's               apartment,               causing               both               Vincent               and               Tom               to               flinch.
               
               POW!!

the               noise               repeated               again.
               
               Then               there               was               only               silence.
               There               was               still               no               sign               of               the               bully               (or               Melvin)               anywhere.
               
               "Oh,               Tom!"               Vincent               cried,               his               eyes               watering.
               
               Then               the               Beer               Keg               appeared.

He               strutted               out               from               behind               the               far               side               of               his               apartment,               which               was               adjacent               to               an               empty               field.

He               was               carrying               a               large,               limp               animal               by               the               nape               of               its               neck.
               That               animal,               whose               fur               was               soaked               with               blood,               was               dead.
               It               was               Melvin.
               
               The               Beer               Keg               then               walked               directly               toward               Vincent's               open               trash               can,               holding               Melvin's               body               in               one               hand               high               above               the               front               lawn.
               
               "You               God-damned               asshole!"               Vincent               shrieked,               starting               to               dart               toward               the               bully               -               but               then               he               suddenly               sank               back,               as               if               unsure.
               Tom               couldn't               see               the               guy's               gun               (probably               a               shotgun)               anywhere               in               sight.

And               the               redneck,               out               here               anyway,               appeared               unarmed.
               As               the               Beer               Keg               approached               Vincent's               open               can               -               maybe               30               yards               away               now               from               Tom               and               Vincent               -               he               began               to               grin;               and               paused               just               long               enough               for               Vincent               to               make               eye               contact               with               him.
               Briefly,               Vincent               did.

Then               Melvin's               killer               continued               his               short               march               toward               Vincent's               open               can,               a               big               trash               container               with               wheels.
               Once               he               arrived,               he               raised               Melvin's               body               up               over               the               opening               with               his               beefy               pro-wrestler-like               arms               -               and               then               let               it               drop.
               ...Thwmp.

Melvin's               limp               remains               flopped               into               the               garbage               can,               out               of               sight.

Except               for               the               tip               of               one               rear               paw.
               The               bully               never               took               his               eyes,               meanwhile,               off               of               Vincent's               -               at               any               time.

It               was               a               cold,               calculated,               and               vicious               performance.
               All               that               remained               was               the               bully's               punch               line.
               
               "Guess               he               won't               be               going               through               anybody               else's               garbage               again               -               will               he,"               the               Beer               Keg               hypothesized,               as               his               eyes               passed               back               and               forth               between               Vincent's               and               Tom's.
               
               Then,               predictably               -               he               casually               turned,               and               began               to               walk               back               to               his               apartment.
               By               now,               a               few               neighbors               from               across               the               street               had               walked               out               of               their               houses               to               watch               this               scene               conclude               -               drawn               there,               no               doubt,               by               the               sound               of               two-rounds-worth               of               fired               scattershot.
               
               A               squeal               of               rage               shot               out               from               Vincent's               throat               -               and               he               tore               off               after               the               swaggering,               slaughtering               monster.
               "Vincent!"               Tom               called               out,               afraid               for               his               friend's               safety.
               The               neighbors               said               nothing.

They               just               watched.

Like               Tom.
               
               Once               Vincent               pulled               within               leaping               distance               of               the               Beer               Keg's               broad               back,               he               attempted               to               jump               up               on               the               large               man's               shoulders.

But               the               bully               simply               moved               his               chunky               left               arm               around               behind               him,               and               swatted,               as               if               popping               an               annoying               bee.

Vincent               fell               back.
               "Get               lost,               ya'               little               piss               ant!"               the               Beer               Keg               grunted               from               over               his               shoulder.

He               couldn't               be               bothered               to               turn               around.
               Vincent               collapsed               in               an               impotent               heap,               on               the               unmowed               grass               between               his               front               yard,               and               the               behemoth's               -               not               that               one               could               really               tell               where               one               scraggly               lawn               ended,               and               the               other               began.
               "You're               going               to               jail,               shithook!!"               Vincent's               voice               wailed,               as               the               former               simply               opened               his               front               door               -               and               stepped               inside.
               Tom               finally               began               to               run               toward               his               friend,               but               Vincent               was               already               up               on               his               feet,               lifting               his               fallen               garbage               can               lid               up               off               of               the               grass,               and               then               stumbling               over               to               place               the               lid               back               o               n…
               Vincent               gazed               into               the               opening               of               the               garbage               can               containing               his               pet               dog's               body               -               and               then               fell               to               his               knees,               broken-hearted.
               
               Absently,               he               clumsily               replaced               the               lid               on               top               of               the               can               as               tears               poured               down               his               face.
               "Melvin!!"               he               sobbed.

"Oh,               my               God               -               my               God!!"
               
               *               *               *               *               *
               Hours               later               -               after               he'd               driven               Vincent               to               a               nearby               branch               office               of               the               Wake               County               Sheriff's               Department               to               file               charges               against               the               Beer               Keg               (one               Randall               K.

Thomson)               for               the               murder               of               his               loving               pet,               and               then               returned               him               to               his               apartment               (Vincent               didn't               own               a               car;               not               a               working               one,               anyway)               -               Tom               was               flat-out               drained.

Exhausted.
               The               day               had               been               incredible               so               far.

And               it               wasn't               over               yet.
               A               neighbor               just               down               the               block               loaned               Tom               a               shovel,               and               Tom               headed               over               to               the               woods               behind               the               short               right               field               fence               at               the               ballfield               across               the               street,               where               Vincent               and               Tom               often               took               turns               shagging               flies               -               while               Melvin               once               playfully               looked               on.
               
               Tom               recommended               that               Vincent               get               a               couple               of               large               trash               bags               with               ties               to               put               his               pet's               body               in,               and               to               double-bag               the               remains.

But               after               Vincent               brought               the               bags               outside,               it               quickly               became               obvious               he               was               in               no               emotional               shape               to               do               the               balance               of               the               work               alone.

So,               while               Tom               held               the               doubled-up               bags               open,               Vincent,               turning               his               strained               face               away,               upended               the               can,               and               the               dead               body               slid               down.

Tom               then               closed               the               bags               quickly               and               tied               them               up               to               enclose               the               stiffening               (and               already               smelly)               remains.
               Then               Vincent               insisted               on               carrying               the               bagged               remains               while               the               two               of               them               walked               over               to               the               two-foot-deep               grave               Tom               had               dug               on               the               edge               of               the               woods               well               behind               the               ballfield               fences.

Vincent               carefully               laid               his               pet's               body               into               the               hole,               and               Tom               immediately               began               to               bury               it               by               hurriedly               shoveling               in               the               dirt               he'd               just               dug               out               of               it               within               the               last               hour.
               Vincent               thanked               him               for               digging               the               grave,               and               Tom               squeezed               Vincent's               shoulder               once               tenderly               as               the               two               of               them               looked               at               the               fresh               mound               of               dirt.

They               then               silently               returned               to               their               respective               apartments.

Vincent               waved               thanks               to               Tom               as               he               entered               his               front               door,               where               he               began               to               cry               once               again.

At               the               gravesite,               Vincent               had               told               Tom               he'd               planned               to               call               his               parents               living               across               town,               and               for               Tom               not               to               worry               -               he'd               be               okay.
               Once               alone,               Tom               then               glanced               two               doors               down.

There               was               no               sign               of               the               Beer               Keg.

The               cops               said               they               would               file               charges               of               some               sort,               and               pay               a               visit               to               the               son-of-a-bitch.
               
               So               finally               -               that               was               over.
               
               Tom               rummaged               through               his               pockets               for               his               front               door               key,               and               found               it.

But               not               before               turning               both               pants               pockets               inside               out               in               the               effort.

He               temporarily               placed               the               shovel               behind               the               shrubs               next               to               his               door,               so               Vincent               wouldn't               have               to               see               it               sitting               out               there.

Tom               had               planned               to               return               it               to               his               accommodating               neighbor               tomorrow,               per               their               arrangement.
               Almost               immediately               upon               crossing               the               front               threshold               of               his               apartment               (such               as               it               was),               Tom               thought               he               heard               …               whistling               (!).
               He               had:               someone               inside               was               whistling               softly,               thinly;               inside.
               The               melody               sounded               like               the               opening               measures               to               the               old               Maverick               TV               show               theme.
               Then               it               abruptly               ended               (barely               into               the               second               stanza).
               As               if               "the               whistler"               realized               Tom               had               just               returned               home.
               Silence.
               
               "Oh,               man               -               what               now!"               Tom               muttered               aloud               to               himself.

He'd               only               just               thought               of               that               very               tune               today               after               his               Twelve               Step               meeting,               when               he               was               parked               on               the               side               of               the               road,               remembering               childhood               incidents.

And               that               was               the               first               time               in               years               it'd               even               crossed               his               mind.
               This               just               couldn't               be               a               coincidence.
               
               "Who's               there?"               Tom               called               out,               as               he               tentatively               began               to               walk               into               his               living               room,               the               largest               room               in               the               small               unit.
               
               Off               to               one               side,               in               a               thickly               padded               old               chair               (which               came               with               the               furnished               apartment,               and               was               angled               away               from               the               setting               afternoon               sun               at               the               opposite               side               of               the               room),               Tom               saw               what               appeared               to               be               a               man               in               a               fancy               dark               cowboy               outfit               out               of               the               corner               of               his               eye.

The               figure               was               sitting               in               the               chair.
               
               Nervously,               Tom               swiveled               in               place,               and               stared               at               the               chair               in               which               this               figure               appeared               to               sit               -               and               there               was               a               brief               …               flicker,               or               something               like               that               …               and               then               the               cowboy               was               gone;               only               to               be               replaced               by               a               young               woman               in               maybe               her               early               30s!
               The               young               woman.
               It               was               her!
               
               It               was               …               "Talker"               Hunt!
               
               "Hello               there,               big               boy,"               stated               Tawker,               adding               a               welcome               smile.
               The               only               thing               was               -               she               was               transparent.

Tom               could               see               through               parts               of               her               body!
               "You're               …               you're..,"               Tom               began,               sputtering.
               "Magnificent?"               Tawker               said,               raising               one               (limpid)               eyelid.
               "…You're               not               all               there!"               Tom               gushed.
               She               frowned               for               a               moment               -               and               then               looked               back               up               at               him,               her               eyes               twinkling               (however               transpicuously).

"I               get               that               a               lot,"               she               said.

She               then               closed               her               eyes               -               there               seemed               to               be               another               ripple,               or               whatever               the               effect               was               -               and               her               body               solidified.
               Sort               of.
               Ms.

Hunt               didn't               actually               appear               to               have               any               mass.

Her               rear               end               seemed               to               hover               ever-so-slightly               above               the               chair               seat               rather               than               actually               "sit"               in               it.

It               was               as               if               the               woman               defied               gravity.
               Or               was               weightless               in               some               way.
               The               overall               effect               remained               unsettling,               regardless.
               
               "Better?"               she               asked.
               Tom               nodded.

If               he'd               have               answered               "yes,"               he               would've               lied.
               "You               remember               me               finally,               I               take               it,"               Tawker               continued.
               Tom               again               nodded.

"But               I               have               no               idea               why,"               he               said.

"I               still               remember               that,               um.

When               we…"
               "Kissed,"               Tawker               said.

"The               word               is               kissed."
               "Yes,"               Tom               blushed.

He               then               sighed,               and               gazed               over               Tawker's               image               more               carefully.

"Are               you               a               ghost?

That'd               explain               a               lot."
               "We've               already               had               this               discussion               more               or               less,"               she               said,               unwilling               to               mask               her               perkiness.

"The               answer               is               still               no."
               "Then               you're               a               …               what?"
               "A               moderately               enlightened               and               nicely-balanced               individual."
               "No,"               Tom               said,               looking               away               briefly.

"I               mean               -               what               do               you               do?

Besides               visiting               me               once               every               decade               or               two?"
               "Good,"               she               said,               now               tilting               forward.

"You               remember               all               of               that."
               "Talker"               tilted,               he               noticed;               but               she               still               wasn't               sitting.
               
               "I               only               began               remembering,               earlier               this               afternoon,               some               of               what               it               was               you'd               said               to               me               at               Durty               Nellie's               back               in               1976,"               Tom               said.

"And               then               only               in               splotches.

I               remember               you               in               Maine               better."
               "Well,               of               course,               you               were               intoxicated               at               Durty               Nellie's."
               "Yeh.

So               why               did               you               join               me               that               night               in               Fort               Lauderdale?"
               "I               joined               you,               because..,"               Tawker               began,               with               a               trace               of               impatience               -
               "-And               why               did               you               call               me               your               beloved?"
               Tawker               Hunt               then               experienced               a               rare               moment               for               her:               she               was               temporarily               speechless.
               "Thomas,"               Tawker               began               slowly.

"Other               than               maintaining               a               certain,               oh,               calculated               distance               from               you               all               of               these               years               -               I've               been               very               up-front               with               you               otherwise.

I've               never               lied               to               you,               and               I've               never               attempted               to               withhold               the               strong               affections               I               have               for               you               -               which               were               reciprocated               on               both               of               those               occasions,               weren't               they?

The               greater               truth               is,               whether               you               understand               them               or               not,               your               feelings               for               me,               even               now,               are               every               bit               as               strong               as               mine               are               for               you               -               only               you're               loathe               to               admit               that.

But               the               day               is               coming               when               you'll               not               run               away               from               me               and               what               I               represent               like               some               terrified               child               catapulted               out               of               the               bowels               of               The               Congo               -               and               that               day               is               coming               a               lot               sooner               than               you               think.

When               it               does,               I'll               take               your               hand               -               at               least               figuratively               -               and               you'll               take               mine,               and               we'll               talk,               we'll               listen,               we'll               plan,               we'll               wander,               and               we'll               generate               a               great               deal               of               impact               on               others               until               we're               numb               with               the               melodrama               of               it               all               -               and               only               then               will               we               leave               the               physical               plane               in               search               of               far               more               creatively-engaging,               far               more               sensuously-subtle,               and               far               more               meaningfully-substantive               …               you               know,               in               the               greater               scheme               of               things               …               Pursuits."
               These               last               words               lolled               off               of               Tawker               Hunt's               lips               like               silicon.
               She               was               having               fun.
               
               And               somewhere               toward               the               conclusion               of               her               flamboyant               and               vivacious               run-on               sentences,               Tom               Mendelson               got               a               hard-on.
               Still,               he               managed               to               keep               his               wits               about               him.
               "Okay,"               he               said,               adding               a               conciliatory               smile.

"Sounds               good."
               "Yes,"               she               said               softly.

"It               does."
               But               Tom's               cosmic               paramour               had               an               additional               purpose               for               being               there.
               
               Tawker               "tilted"               back               in               the               chair.

"One               morning,               many,               many               years               ago,               while               you               were               attending               college               in               Boca               Raton,               you               awoke               from               some               powerful               dream               images.

You               got               out               of               bed,               and               looked               up               a               word               in               your               dictionary."
               "How               did               you               know               that?"               Tom               chuckled,               after               a               pause.
               "It's               all               in               the               memoirs               you               haven't               written               yet.

Remember?

I'm               afraid               my               meter               is               now               ticking,               so               we               need               to               move               along               here               -               do               you               recall               the               word?"
               "Yes.

Well,               no.

I               remember               the               experience,               not               the               word,"               Tom               said,               reaching               deep               into               his               past.

"Oh,               no               -               wait               -               yes,               I               do               remember.

It               was,               misanthrope."
               "Yes.

And               its               definition?"
               Tom               squinted.

"Something               like               …               a               hater               of               humankind."
               "Not               something               like,"               Tawker               said.

"Exactly               like.

I'm               here               in               part,               this               day,               to               let               you               know               you've               just               encountered               one               such."
               Tom               gawked               back               at               her.

"You               mean               -               the               Beer               Keg?"
               Tawker               nodded.

"The               murder               of               your               friend's               pet               had               very               little               to               do               with               the               animal               -               other               than               him               functioning               as               a               mirror               of               his               owner               -               and               almost               everything               to               do               with               your               friend.

That               violent               individual               hates               your               friend."
               "I               don't               get               it,"               Tom               said.

"The               guy's               a               racist.

Racists               hate               people.

So               what?"
               "It's               not               about               race,"               Tawker               responded               firmly,               "even               though               the               neighbor,               it's               true,               detests               black               people               for               the               most               part,               as               well."
               Tom               frowned.

"I'm               afraid               I'm               still               not               following               this."
               "The               neighbor               hates               innocence,               because               in               his               world,               it's               not               there,               and               so               he               sees               it               as               a               delusional               affectation               in               others.

But               it's               that               same               innocence               that               could               save               him,               if               only               he'd               embrace               it               -               but               he               never               will,               because               he's               terrified               of               appearing               weak               …
               "The               decades               to               come               will               be               rife               with               human               beings               isolating               themselves               away               from               one               another,               partly               out               of               fear,               and               partly               out               of               a               relentless               and               numbing               competitiveness,"               Tawker               said.

"The               America               you               think               you               know               will               change               so               much               in               fifteen               years               that               you,               yourself,               will               compare               it               to               a               "didactic               Twilight               Zone               episode."               Postal               service               workers,               downsized               employees,               racists,               stalkers,               day               traders               -               you               don't               know               that               term               yet               -               terrorists,               both               foreign               and               domestic,               and               even               elementary               school               children               will               literally               storm               their               places               of               work               or               study,               or               play,               guns               a-blazing.

They'll               commit               murder,               like               blank               automatons.

Not               just               once.

But               many               times.

No               one               will               understand               it,               not               completely               -               for               these               are               terrible               insanities,               these               events.

But               they               all               grew               out               of               little               insanities               -               which               this               current               decade               you're               in               will               nurture.

At               the               core               of               these               events               is               a               twisted               perspective               on               the               purpose               of               what               it               is               to               be               human."
               Tom               could               only               manage               to               stare               at               her.
               "My               time               here               now               is               elapsing               very               quickly               for               me               …               I               encourage               you               to               remember               the               word,               "misanthrope,"               and               to               contemplate               its               deepest               meanings               ...

Don't               ignore               your               Biblical               past,               either.

Begin               making               some               efforts               to               get               in               touch               with               that.

It               may               help."
               "Jeez,               I               forgot               you'd               brought               that               Biblical               stuff               up               before!"               Tom               said,               rolling               his               eyes.
               "Yes,               I'm               not               surprised,"               agreed               Tawker               Hunt,               tenderly.

"But,               I               really               must               go,               now               -               I               apologize               -               I'm               running               completely               out               of               gas               here…               I'm               sorry,               my               beloved,"               she               said,               with               a               smile               -               adding               an               knowing               wink.

"We'll               talk               again               soon               …               we               will               …               Very               soon               …"
               
               Before               another               word               was               exchanged,               her               image               dissipated               -
               Then               it               blended               perfectly               into               the               nothingness               of               the               shadows.
               
               Nothing               remained,               including               her               slight               illumination.
               Tawker               had               evaporated.
               
               "Jesus,"               Tom               whispered,               toppling               into               his               couch.
               
               It               was               yet               one               more               outlandish               day               he'd               have               to               try               to               make               some               sense               out               of.
               
               #               #               #






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