Guidance

Travis Sharpie sat there in Mr. Girello's  cramped, stuffy guidance office with both hands pressed against his forehead, fidgeting wildly, while Mr. G opened the door a crack so that others waiting in the open area conference room could hear what was going on. On the wall he looked up at a poster of three bright young undergrads striding arm-in-arm across some well-manicured college campus. Slumping over in his chair, Travis stared down at his shoes and dithered with his shoelaces.

-I've got nowhere to go, he lamented. Nobody wants me. I can't get in anywhere. My grades are so messed up. My test scores are in the toilet. None of my top five schools will accept me...I've got no scholarship...No offers...What have I done? What have I done, Mr. G.? Why didn't somebody tell me two years ago that I'd have no chance. Now all I can do is go to a stupid on-line school... 

Girello leaned back in his chair slowly,  calmly, rocking back and forth, staring at the wall behind the his visitor with a look of confident, masculine, self-satisfaction. Here at last was the mighty Trav Sharpie, humbled, abased, brought low - the same insolent wunderkind who so joyfully had wreaked havoc with teachers and administrators for years at a time, the one who knew how to violate the dress code in every particular, the one who had so gleefully destroyed computer equipment, trashed cafeterias, subverted bus rides, made a point of sliding down stair railings and raiding faculty lounges just to spite the administration; the cad who wrote graffiti on bathroom walls and left odd paraphernalia like cactus plants and blow-up dolls in other people's lockers, the unruly derelict who made a point of always mocking his English teachers relentlessly for their frumpy, frilly attire and needlessly unimaginative hair, the oaf who cursed in mock Spanish, mock Russian or mock Mandarin during math exams to confuse his instructors, the provocateur who filibustered for non-existent constiutional rights or defended the great villains of history until his teachers sent him out, the wise-guy who broke test tubes and depleted fire extinguishers during science lab, who fake vomitted and feigned panic attacks during midterms and finals week - he was finally walking out the door - but he would not be holding his head up high. Nothing pleased Mr. Girello more than the sight of this now overripe hooligan - bumping up against the hard wall of adult responsibility. This was cosmic justice at work. Cases like this served to clarify - if nothing else- that cosmic justice did in fact exist.

- I'm sure you'll figure this out as time goes on, Trav...It's not like we didn't try to warn you. 

-  Yeah - sure - you people said this and that - but you didn't stop me from crashing and burning like this! 

- Well - like I say,  I'm very sorry that it has come to this - but sometimes (like they say) you have to hit rock bottom to get yourself on a better path. I hate to say I told you so... 

 - I've got nothing Mr. G. I'm done. Just stick a fork in me! 

- Now don't say that. There are plenty of things you can do in life - it's just going to take you a few years longer than everyone else (heh, heh, heh) to get straighted out, that's all. You're going to need some adult ed and remedial classes at a local community college - maybe some personal counseling. You know it's still only February - I can give you some referrals... 

And with that big, bad, annoying Travis began sobbing uncontrollably while the sound carried out into the large waiting area. The other students were incredulous - with big smiles appearing on their faces. This was one of those I-can't-believe-I-was-there-in-the-same-room-when-it-happened experiences that they would doubtless tell or text their friends about. The "incident" would spread like wildfire. T.S. would never live it down. And with that Girello glanced outside - somewhat annoyed by the smiles and giggles. His mood changed back to one of grim determination....

- I'm very sorry Tad...Travis that is...but I've got some other customers waiting...  

It was oddly cathartic and entirely customary for him to watch, year in and year out, as various seniors, one by one, virtually crawled out of his office - realizing their mistakes and missteps - after four years of naysaying and resisting his advice. Soon afterwards, Mr. Girello could be seen frenetically pacing back and forth, while Ham Palumbo  sat sullenly, staring at the college posters on the wall - all of happy undergrads on idyllic campuses, comfortably ensconced into newly formed peer groups, surrounded by stately brick buildings, immaculate walkways and lush vegetation.  Ham was another one of those typical sophomores at a deceptive crossroad in life, having to make a big decision on whether to "get serious" about his future or continue on a path of aimless drifting and "creative destructive" lethargy.

-I'm looking at a set of statistics that I want you to hear....

-Okay.

-What if I were to tell you that taking everything we know about you, your background, your family situation, your peer group, your test scores, and your progress in school thus far - we could predict just about everything that is bound to happen to you over the next 30 years....You'd say I was crazy. Am I right?

-No offense, Mr. G. You're a smart man and all, but that does sound a little far-fetched.

-Good. Good. I knew you wouldn't like what I'm saying, but just listen for a second. Just listen.

Ham could see Mr. Girello grabbing his clipboard and scanning the paperwork for salient numbers; it was at such times, that he reached for a comment totally off-topic just because it seemed the right thing to do at the time.

-That girl in the poster. Did she go here? I think I know her sister.

-What? Now just listen for a second. Forget that girl in the poster. She's been on this wall for the past 10 years. What I want to tell you Ham is that we know all about what will happen to you after you walk out of this building. Can you wrap your mind about that for a second? We know what will most likely happen to you.

This had Ham laughing: "No you don't - heh, heh, heh."

-Yes. As a matter of fact, we do.

-What do you know really?

-Ever heard of Leibniz, Travis. The famous German philosopher? 13th chapter of the Discourses on Metaphysics? Ever hear of Baron d'Holbach (ha, ha, ha) or Spinoza or B.F. Skinner or any of those other great determinists from years gone by?

-Huh?

-No - of course you haven't. If I had more time, I'd show you this book I bought on those guys...Oh...Why do I even bother with such extra-curriculuars? What I want to mention is this guy Leibniz who had this notion that if we understood enough about what defined a given person, place or thing or an event - we could predict with certainty everything that would ever happen in the future to that same entity. Do you believe that?

"Do I believe what?

-Do you believe me when I tell you that we can predict the future?

-My future? That would be awesome if you could - but - do you see - like good things happening to me?

-If I were to tell you that with 95% accuracy we already know the following about you and your life story...That unfortunately, as things stand now, you will not be famous, you will not earn over a million dollars a year at any time of your life, or anything approaching a million dollars, that you will not earn a college degree, you will not become a professional of any kind, or join a country club or win awards, or be interviewed by the media or appear on television or radio or create your own website, that you will never live in a large house or a mansion....

-Whoa there Mr. G. You're really laying it on thick.

-Just listen for a second. You are about to walk out of here, thinking of yourself as a totally free entity who can create your own reality at the snap of your fingers. But the truth is that:  A.) You will walk out of hear in three years time and will apply to a local community college program. B.) After one-year you will drop out and take a low-paying job with some local box store or outlet, based on a friend's recommendation. C.) A year after dead-end career path, you will find yourself co-habitating with your girlfriend, someone you have met on the job. D.)  One year after that you will find yourself a parent-in-waiting, although no marriage plans have been set.

-Wait. Wait. Wait. Mr. G. This is weird, okay. That's not me. You can't sit here and tell me that my life is going to pan out just like that.

-Oh but I can. The statistics tell the story. The door is closing shut on your life, my man, unless you act now to reverse the situation.

Still distracted by various external stimuli including the fake flowers on the table, the bowl of mints and the mysterious stack of red files, Ham suddenly blurted out yet another seeming non sequitor:

- Hey, Mr. G. Wouldn't it be neat...If you could like...go back... say 40, 50, 60 years... and just sort of, like find a person who went to this school...and see how they did and what happened to them after high school and then go find out if they had children or not, and see how those kids turned out and if they had kids...look at what happened to them. You know like track certain families and follow them from one generation to the next. That would be cool - wouldn't it?

Suddenly Mr. Girello's face broke out into a loud and sustained grin, accompanied by a rapid nod of the head in the affirmative direction, a clasp of the hands together and an low-pitched, but unmistakable grunt of joy.

- Ham, my friend, you have just put your finger on my life's work. I am in the process of doing this very thing you speak of - on a scale that has never been attempted at this school at least, something that no guidance counselor  has ever done before.

- Because like - after you had traced things back a couple of generations - you could like - make predictions - it would be all scientific - I guess - Wouldn't it?

- Ex-act-ly! Exactly! Exactly.

Girello was on top of the world to have found a student who actually got him talking about the one topic he enjoyed more than anything - the mapping out of necessity as it applied to human beings and human behavior - what some might call sociobiology via statistics. He was on a high of sorts for the next several hours. He decided to eat his favorite tuna salad sandwich with extra crunchy potato chips at 11:00 a.m. instead of noon. He even allowed himself a strawberry soda from the vending machine. His first visitor, after lunch, unfortunately, was not so receptive to his big ideas.  Fiona Webber - a  troubled sophomore who wore a dark cloak and ruby red shoes was having none of it. It was one of those "don't even try to get near to me" cases. Don't try to know me. Don't offer any help or advice. Don't waste your time.... She was already chanting such lines before Mr. G. even had a chance to over-awe her with his macho inflections.  

- This office is quite dumpy. I don't see the jar full of lollipops for your compliant drones. -

- Alright there Fiona. Let's get to know each other a little better. I've pulled your file as you may know. I'm looking at your most recent test scores here. Oh yes...Well, well, the grades have been slipping...Oh dear. I see that you are a quick-witted girl...an opinionated young lady who doesn't appear to suffer fools gladly... The good news is that I'm here to offer you some helpful advice...Ya see, I've actually been around the block a few times. I can offer you some, good, solid pointers if you'd only put your 'rebel pose' on hold for a second. 

- Don't bother. You might as well cut to the chase. How do you propose to bribe me into submission? You: the male overlord using not-so-subtle weapons to intimidate a young girl... 

- Now. Now. Let's not get melodramatic all of a sudden. 

- My apologies to your sensitive ego and all... it's just that I don't believe in your world, your guidance, your system of morality, your brand of rationality...Your decidedly old school MALE view of the world...that permeates the hallways around here, the very air we breathe... Your staff along with all the teachers here are not role models for ME...they do not have anything of value to impart aside from dreary anecdotes from their narrow lives. 

- Young lady...I'm going to put 90% of the rhetoric you've been spewing on hold for a sec - just to ask you a simple question:Were you listening to what just happened in here in this office of mine? Did you see that overgrown little tadpole, Trav Sharper crying his eyes out and moaning with regret? And now you're going to tell me that I don't have a leg to stand on, that I don't have the right to call YOU out on some of your glaring deficiencies?

- STOP RIGHT THERE! Fiona was shouting and pulling on her hair.

- Am I going to have to watch you break down and cry two years from now? C'mon Fiona. You've got TIME to turn this thing around. Are you just gonna sit here with that ridiculous smirk on your face and try and defend you sorry record here thus far? 

- Stop, she said, this time more calmly. Don't try to reach me. I don't want your help. 

- Fiona. Look. You're grades are slipping. Your mannerisms are becoming more and more eccentric based on what your peers have been telling me. 

- Spies. Narcs. Great. That's just wonderful of you to conduct surveillance on us helpless sophomores! 

- Fiona. We need to make an intervention with you - before it's too late. You may not believe it - but we want you to be happy. Yes, happy. 

- You and I are as far removed as two species of space aliens. What  would someone of your ilk know about MY HAPPINESS? 

- Well - actually - I have files and cabinets full of DATA on what makes for a happy and successful life after people leave this place. So - YEAH - I know a thing or two about your happiness. 

- You know nothing about what happiness is for me or for others like me. What you call happiness is something I would shun like the plague. Not everyone pursues the same goals in life, I mean, isn't that obvious?  

- I hate to rain on your diversity parade - young lady - but I happen to know for a fact  that most of us humans share the same goals in common.... 

- Happiness differs like DNA. Don't talk to me about MY HAPPINESS. It has nothing to do with you!

-Just listen for a second. You can rant and rave all you want, but I've got the stats on this...Most people rate the following as necessary ingredients of true satisfaction: love or companionship, a family with children, productive work, a good career, friends, health, financial stability, a senses of community in that order... 

I'm going to scream. Look Mr. G. Everyone pours something different into those categories. Okay? Those words mean different things to different people! You want some kind of wretched, cookie-cutter, one-size-fits-all mode of contentment. It's not real. 

Oh but IT IS REAL, young lady. I build my career on.... I stake my reputation on these facts and figures. I am right and you are .... you are young and inexperienced in these matters. 

- You are a SLIMY Trog! I dismiss you. Begone. You do not EXIST! You are detritus, white noise!

- What did you call me? What did you just call me? 

- You are a Trog - just like all the other Trogs in this building. And if you don't let me out of here, I'm going to scream! - 

Girello momentarily stunned by the unexpected and indecipherable insult he had received was caught off guard, unsure whether to laugh or retaliate. But by then Fiona had begun to scream. And scream. And scream. The fish in the fish tank outside swam haphazardly around the tank. Agnes, the guidance secretary rushed over to see what was wrong, but Mr. G. just waved her off.

- Okay. Whatever. You may leave, Fiona. Get out. I'm done with you. We'll talk down the road... I have no doubt... I'll get the kleenex ready... 

****

Meet The Grown-Ups Involved

Another bright sunny afternoon, part of a typical workday commute, finds a middle-aged man and a mature, if somewhat younger woman, cozily ensconced together driving homeward down a country road right outside the main drag of town, past what the man calls the frozen emblems of sheep and cows on the soon-to-be dying family farm. The man, as usual, intense, distracted, brooding upon the upcoming holiday, sarcastically yearning for other, more obscure official respites (Flag Day, Arbor Day) the woman, upbeat, frenetic, smiling, humming a song quietly to herself, happy to be in the carpool absent two of its regular members...  The man lanky and uncomfortable, mildly disgruntled and part-way resigned to fate, the woman, impulsive, chatty at times but also thoughtful,  at ease in her own skin, [A perfectly detached observer of this mundane scene no doubt would notice the apparent stark contrast raised by divergence of gender - with the old stereotypes about male and female coming into play - but perhaps these two were so very dissimilar as glaring externals would indicate...] She was inexplicably glad to be alone with him, sharing the non-eventfulness of their not-implausible ongoing friendship that still had yet not blossomed into romantic involvement - and he, happily griping to her in anticipation of those intimate, pensive pauses that long drives engender...the usual complaints about getting old and tired, bemoaning his fleeting job security and the lack of respect, the general anonymity, being stuck in a rut, and blah, blah, blah. The woman however is looking out the window at a group of boys trudging along, each one with a stick in their hands, hovering over some small, squirming, unidentified sentient creature - perhaps a cat, perhaps a squirrel. And somewhere in the midst of their always rambling, half-mundane, half-philosophical conversation the woman observes:

"Did you hear that Donny Constable - our local drive-by artist - got arrested for what happened the other day...You know, he was caught pilfering auto parts..."

"I'm not surprised..."

"And it was weird because he didn't understand why...it's like he thought he was doing someone a favor."

"Ha. That's what they all say!"

"And little Ned. He was caught vandalizing - spray-painting - oh I forget what business it was..."

"There must be something in the water that these boys are drinking..."

"Oh good. You see the same pattern developing here. These aimless males running amok."

How strange that such playful, half-contentious banter could revive John's spirits - could fend off for another hour the onset of an ongoing malaise. He appreciated the strange, uncalled-for optimism lurking beneath even her highest pitch of concern. It was odd that so attractive a woman, could somehow be unattached - currently single, single for the long-term - openly flirtatious yet entirely wholesome and well-mannered. And yet - he had made no move to confirm her affections, had rather remained happily transfixed by their weird carpool friendship - as it bounced along from month to month. Was there ever a time to stop for coffee or a bagel or find a reason for some ridiculous errand that they both could perform? No doubt, yes...yes in fact they found themselves shopping together on a few occasions, but nothing ever progressed passed a certain juncture. Propriety preserved and heightened an almost unbearable tension that seemed to be channeled into their lively extended conversations.

"It's an old story of male adolescence...but thankfully, Martha, we're witnessing only a mild form of its greater excesses."

"But you know, John,  it occurs to me that men are the more dangerous vessels in our society..."

"Vessels - you say?"

"You know - vessels, repositories, sponges...

"You mean vessels - as in crucibles, conduits?"

"I mean vessels of mischief and mayhem..."

"As opposed to what exactly - Martha?"

"What I mean - John - is - you know... there's a difference between men and women..."

"Oh that. Well...I see...ah ha...uhm...well, Martha... that is...very..."

"Ha. Ha. You're tongue-tied."

"Yes, well, I seem to agree with what you're saying here. I'm somewhat relieved that you acknowledge this great unheralded truth...please continue..."

She was looking at him now the way passengers in cars often look at drivers without drivers being able to reciprocate...It was a long affectionate glance taking in his wrinkled attempt at spiffy dress shirt with large belt, corduroys and some type of comfortable desert shoes. Just the sight of him made her laugh - but there was somehow a deep admiration there, as if to represent a stamp of approval from her heart of hearts as to his lowly, underpaying career-path - a calling that she shared with him and perhaps excelled, at due to her reservoirs of patience, kindness and generosity and an impressive background in psychology, sociology and anthropology. He enjoyed the way she always seemed on the verge of laughter even when making serious conversation. The car felt bigger somehow, more spacious and comfortable. And he allowed himself momentary glances at her newly styled hair and green shoes. As it happened she was wearing an eclectic array of green all in one outfit -  green cotton sweater unconsciously paired with green cotton socks, green bracelets, green earrings. Make a mental note - he thought. Green her favorite color...

"No - really - I'm actually quite interested in what I have a feeling you're about to say..."

"I know it sounds kind of obvious, John, but you have to admit: men are the destructive ones - and why is that you men should be the killers, the fighters, the violent, creepy, problematic types..."

"And don't forget to mention: the warriors, the builders, inventors, protectors, defenders of -"

"Yes. Yes. Now don't get all insecure on me here."

"Okay. Okay. We men are the ones who kill and destroy, who pillage and plunder and vandalize more and commit those other more unmentionable crimes...who pull wings off of butterflies and set abandoned houses on fire... and dip ponytails into ink wells and...."

"You're not trying to be sarcastic are you?

"No no - I appreciate your honesty - really."

"But it's true. Men are the more destructive creatures..."

Though he had known her in this strangely casual capacity for some years now, he could not help but reflect on certain gaps in their friendship. What exactly were her feelings about men, and what kind of history did she have with them? Did she come from a big family - full of brothers and uncles? Had she entered into an early marriage that ended badly? Did she privately recoil in horror from the onerous habits of the foolish, uncouth, backward, boorish male slackers and hooligans that she counseled every day? He knew of at least two siblings - sisters apparently - and possibly one brother - but little mention of prior relationships. Never thought to pry past a certain point.

"I have a theory myself about all this stuff... But just so's I understand you: men, you're saying, commit the bulk of the crime - we kill,  maim,  torture, pillage, plunder, stalk, assault, threaten, harass, extort, lie, cheat, steal...Oh what am I missing here?"

"Now you're sounding like my sister..."

"It's okay really. I'm not going to even try to defend my fellow neanderthals ... But may I ask one simple question. Where is the incentive for all this chaos? Who encourages it, who applauds such behavior?"

"What? Are you expecting some magic word?"

"And who is it that is always egging men on in these endeavors? Who is it? Huh? Huh?

"I don't know what you're getting at....Other men I guess...."

"I mean who are the enablers that look the other way so often or actually get excited by said destruction?"

"Peers...miscreants... other criminals...sociopaths...insane people?"

"Nope. Wrong answer."

"What are you getting at?"

"I don't want to have to say it..."

"So -?"

"So we men must be punished, or rather have been punished by way of the by universal guilt emanating from the now irreversible late-historical consensus...there's no running away from that"

"I think you're misunderstanding . It's not a criticism. We have to take stock of the fact that men are the carriers of evil...it's almost like we expect them to do a certain amount of damage. It's not a complete and total shock to us. We see it coming. It's just that we have to allow for that burden to some extent - without making excuses for it."

"Thank you."

"Your Welcome."

"But as for women...they don't carry a similar burden?"

'Oh - it's different with us...but that's another matter..."

"What I mean, Martha dear, is that they too are linked to all this male-driven chaos."

"Yeah...so...what's your point..."

"Well this brings me to my freight train theory of men."

"Freight train theory?"

"Or if you like the cheetah in the jungle theory."

"I'm completely lost."

"Well - what if by some sort of insane biological script - women were fascinated by (notice I don't say approving of, but fascinated by) a certain type of male with a pronounced single-mindedness."

"O-kay."

"Just think of a freight train moving across the prairie. A cheetah sprinting across the jungle. A caveman with a stick marching into danger."

"Oh no. I hope you're not going with this where I think you're going."

"I'm saying there's something about these wild risk-taking tendencies that aren't completely negative - that hold others spellbound."

"Be-cause..."

"Because it's like watching that first person dive off the cliff..."

"I really think you should consider - helping out with that club again. They could really use your guidance you know."

"You want me to re-live my nightmare of a few years back?"

"No. It would be different this time."

"I'm not the same man. You seem to forget. I'm lucky to have still had a job after that fiasco..."

"Well. The situation is even crazier now, isn't it? I mean with those college kids involved."

"Yeah. I mentored those guys. They're my responsibility...even now, I guess."

"That's what Ron thinks."

"Oh great, one more reason for Ron to be on my case."

"Now don't get all flustered by this. I think you're still a great mentor. I mean, you're almost sort of a de facto clandestine guidance counselor."

Awkward Silence.

"This just reminds me of how I can't take this time of year...It makes me think of my paltry faith...and how unable I am to join in the celebrations..."

"Watch it!"

"What?"

"Are you okay? You're driving like a lunatic..."

"I saw it..."

"One thing we don't need is a dead squirrel..."

"Um...it was a cat. I'm a cat lover. Don't worry....I ran over a cat once...and I don't want anymore guilt."

"I bet those boys are up to no good already." she says.

"Oh sure, those derelicts, the usual crew." the man replies.

"Are they poking something with those awful sticks?"

"Someone needs to make another intervention..."

"It just proves my point...about men... that is..."

Specimens

As Miles recalled, the first time he saw Edward was while walking along a stretch of posh stores and upscale bakeries in that well-known getaway town/enclave whose name I can't recall....he was decked out in brightly clashing shirt and pants with his beautiful mother and handsome brother in tow or should I say he was giving his beautiful mother and handsome brother (so perfectly in-sync color-wise) some competition with his own attention-grabbing wardrobe... that cap and scarf of his for example...the high-end sneakers.. etc. Well, it seems that Miles and Edward struck up some random conversation about one of the store-front mannequins, and were both commenting on the sad posture of the torsos in relation to one another - the first with clashing plaid and stripes, the other with the tight dress shirt so poorly draped over it and a hideously oversized tie drooping down over the pants, the absurd backdrop of palm trees and parrots or some such nonsense, which led to first a fit of laughter and secondly a wildly spontaneous, yet erudite discussion of Art and the rudiments of good composition...an extended tete-a-tete dragging on for some 20 minutes while Edward's mother and brother disappeared to buy sunglasses (almost as if to match Edward's own inimitable pair, one might be tempted to say);  and Miles pulled out his red notebook and proceeded to show Edward some of his etchings (so cliche I know but oh so spontaneous); it was all going quite swimmingly when Edward said out of the blue for all to hear hey, then there,  my good fellow, my goodly young artist, you are so uhm, just so.... refreshing-delectable! (he always said that)  not like the other bores and poseurs and tedious freaks we meet in these parts...oh can we take him home with us Mums, just for a tour of the grounds...I have no one new to talk with about...you know...my new favs, Bonnard, and Matisse...those champions of color ...oh can we Mums, can we? He is obviously the real McCoy - let me show him your statues...those prints of you on the beach... while his mother, all smiles, treating it half-seriously at first, looked the frumpy-if-half-amusing stranger up and down, and smiled because her son was smiling, thinking to herself, well he doesn't seem to know who we are (what's up with that?) but oh well, I guess...you can show him the garden sculptures for starters...Oh the sculptures, the sculptures, my Mums is always bragging about her precious feminine "forms" you see they were made FOR her they're based ON her form...ha..ha.ha....No - my dears I have some special paintings in mind to show our young artist. You have such an exquisite sensibility about you...I would guess an artist or a writer. ...You DO call yourself an artist don't you? Miles smiled self-consciously and looked around to see if anyone were trying to have him arrested. A researcher, he said calmly. Oh don't call yourself a researcher - how drab. Now I'm tempted to cancel the whole thing! Ha, ha, ha. Well, Miles had to explain, yes an artist, sure... but also an investigator, a collector of forms if you will.  I am looking for SPECIMENS, he explained inscrutably. You might say - AESTHETIC SPECIMENS.  Each type take together forms a mosaic that is necessary to finish the puzzle, for lack of a better metaphor... Edward was of course momentarily thrilled, entranced, intrigued but after the conversation ends, strangely enough, he had forgotten all about the use of the word SPECIMEN - never suspecting that what such a term may have connoted....Well, the before the sun had even moved an inch in the sky, the two aesthetes were sitting down to a catered lunch outdoors near the pool back at Edward's place - back at "the rolling estate" as they called it - with Miles scarfing down a specially-prepared tuna salad sandwich on whole wheat with endive lettuce and freshly-fried potato chips and Edward sipping expresso and picking away - like a little bird - on a mediterranean platter with all the fixings (dolma, tzadziki, hummus, fresh pita, etc.) Miles found himself staring off at the ocean across the vast expanses of lawn and garden and landscaped hills - noticing, cherishing the absolute sense of privacy that the property afforded - as if an entire morsel of coastline had been cordoned off to help form one large edifice of art. He was suddenly drowsy and dreamy - his face mesmerized by a rush of sensations - mostly centered on the garden labyrinthine path that housed an amazing collection of sculptures - feminine forms all somehow - according to Edward - inspired by the same woman.  I don't mean to rush lunch, so to speak, but may I sample those statues you had mentioned before? Oh - my dear - what a polite relic you are. May I this, and shall I that? and please sir, just a few more chips? Ha, ha, ha. I was hoping to give you the tour myself - but I fear I may disturb your private reveries. Now don't you go developing any crushes - mind you! Ha, ha. ha. I will leave you sir to these - your investigations, but after a given modicum of time, we must discuss. There is much more to show you...You are not averse to painting I hope - or to sketches....Oh - no, no, no! It's just....there is something about your description of this collection that caught my attention - that's all. The fact that they all refer to my Mums - is that it? Well what can I say? She's the lady who launched a thousand ships as we say. Ha, ha, ha. Don't imagine for a second that SHE'S the ONLY one in our family who has ever inspired an artist. No my dear...you will discover....if you look hard enough...that I too have become muse to an artist or two...There is no doubt in my mind...But Miles, at this point, giving in to his absent-minded preoccupations, was already rising out of his seat, literally being pulled in the direction of the garden and the sculptures....

*

And so it happened (the next morning, in fact) that young Edward, who had been sauntering across the grounds of the estate with his typical side-to-side hither and thither glances, draped in silken robe and slippers preparing for a "dip" in the heated pool near the garden before breakfast, carelessly grasping his foamy expresso, waiting for Kyra and Kay - his de facto courtiers - to catch up with him,  barking orders at Roger, the still-absent, but officially hired household servant, waiting for his audience to go on about what a "mess" the art show had been last night,  a complete "waste" of time really, and how "beastly" rude certain otherwise attractive fellows had been, as usual, oh yes, my dear, and the pieces so "tired,  pompous, derivative, predictable" - enough to make a person want to scream, want to scribble all over the canvas, and besides you can't find reliable curators these days who want to soil the arena with their plebeian interests, not to mention those "imbeciles" who pass for caterers (does anyone know what it means to throw a good party?) ...but oh well at least Theodore was there, that incomparably "exquisite" artist/demi-god, who was gracious and perfect as usual and who not only smiled at everyone, but greeted them warmly, regaling them with "amazing" anecdotes and really very edifying "little lessons" on Matisse and Bonnard... this same Edward, the privileged, aesthete and sensitive connoisseur of all things beautiful, was startled to find a rather drab, frumpy, long-haired, middle-aged diminutive figure in a wrinkled suit, hopping nimbly along the garden path (more to avoid injury on the uneven stones than anything else),  approaching in a sort of rodent-like manner with jerky leaps and bounds. At first Edward thought he was having another of his bizarre hallucinations such as had afflicted him more of late due to a change in the medication he had begun to control his high-strung moods, but now the figure was coming into focus and with him another, slower, equally frumpy companion, a woman perhaps with short hair and apparently some kind of business suit, the pair of whom offended Edward by their apparent mockery of formal attire. These ridiculous functionaries were oddly corporate, dronish, like cubicle-dwellers,  therefore staid and stoical enough to rule them out as stalkers or out-and-out crazies.  As goes without saying, Edward was not amused and proceeded to ignore the strangers for as long as possible, until they had sidled up beside the others, pretending to listen to his ongoing narrative, without any sense of being interlopers on someone's private property - without appointment, without portfolio.  The reptile in the wrinkled business suit seemed to be fiddling with a shiny, golden business card; the woman had a tablet and pen and was busily taking notes.  Finally Edward began staring them down. This produced an awkward smile from the scaly gentleman and no response whatsoever from the short-haired woman. Well. Well. Well. "A pleasure, sir. You must be Edward." "Enchanted.... and you all?" "I apologize ...your mother made this appointment on our behalf." "Ah. You want to see my mother...That can be arranged....Darling Mums! They're here for you...those people." "Oh - well - actually - sir we're quite happy to make your acquaintance. It's you we have come to see about our "project." "Projects, projects. How do they involve me? Landscaping projects, gardening projects, flower arrangements, pool cleanings...What is it this time?" "None of the above, sir. we're working on a project for the archive..." "Ah. You're with an archive? And you need my cooperation? You mean money - of course." "No sir. Well - we're here to begin our studies..." "Oh my...well... look here my dears. I'm getting a little creeped out by this already. I have no idea what this archive project of your is all about -" "I assure you sir, this has all been approved ahead of time." "By whom?" "By your amazing mother, sir. You see...we are here to perform certain investigations - all for the sake of a good cause." "Charities. Charities. I should have known. What are you then - artists?" "Well you might say so - I like to think of it as our work - our investigations..." "And how am I involved in all of this? Well - we'd be studying you in part? Studying me?  Just what I need during this fragile phase of life." "What - are you making a documentary of my life or something?" "If you like, you can think of it as that... You make a fine specimen...." "A specimen - huh? A fine specimen of what per se?" "We are here to find out about you - how you came to be yourself. You're not delving into my -----" "Your  ------- ?" "My ----------------- how shall I say _________" "Your preferences, sir?" "Yes. That's a good way of saying it."
"Well - everything's on the table for us. We take a holistic approach. I assure you, with your complexity of character, you make an outstanding specimen."

Later - after the strange frumpy man had left, a woman appeared from the garden wearing a robe and slippers similar to Edward's and strode on elegantly toward the pool.  Morris and Bea - as usual - were somewhat dumbstruck by her presence, by her sheer physical beauty and statuesque posture, her elegant dark hair and porcelain skin, the full almond-shaped eyes, the high cheekbones and the serious ethereal stare, the long legs so typical of a fashion model. When Edward saw her he nearly screamed:

"Darling - oh darling why? Why do you send these strange creatures to torment me?"

The woman laughingly replied: "Darling? What creatures, darling?"

"You know darling - those awful frumpy people and their nefarious research. ... something about I'm a worthy specimen....darling....what is the meaning of all this?"

"Oh darling - I knew you'd be surprised..."

"Surprised? Darling - Why not just hire a stalker? Why not just lure some riff-raff off the beach to come follow me around all day...Darling I won't. I can't. I will not submit myself to this crazy intrusion on my privacy...This crazy scheme of yours, darling, whatever it is....  I'm too busy for starters and-"

"Oh Darling - it's for a good cause. And you'd be perfect."

"For a good cause - darling...yes that awful man said I'm a perfect specimen!"

"Yes he likes that word, I know. It's all very scientific..."

"I don't care about science mother. And neither should you. We have given our souls to ART..."

"They are artists - darling. Think of them as starving artists. They have a strange art to be sure - a blend of art and science and anthropology as they like to say - for their archive project."

"What is this blasted archive mother? Who are these pod-people???"

"My dear...they are meticulous collectors. They go about looking, researching, acquiring..."

"They are intrusive pod-people - scaring away all the fun..."

The Craziest Gathering

[A Gathering]

The open field was suddenly filled with dutiful young scavengers spreading out in all directions, meticulously uncovering various objects, natural and otherwise, berries, gourds, vines, rocks, twigs, discarded junk  - in search of hidden signs and wonders. R.J. was in front as usual accompanied by the giddy twins, K.C. and J.B. and the ever-serious, somewhat silent Sarah beckoning upward to the sky as if soliciting an otherwise unscheduled celestial intervention. Murmurs could be heard from among the flock... "Here's a weird shape..." "This leaf is magical..." "Hey...there's a shape on these rocks..." "Listen for a voice..." "This glass-color is unprecedented!" "I think I may have something here...." "Look at my find..." "I feel a presence here." "A portal for the spirit..."  R.J. was beside himself with glee. "Gather up anything that looks significant, my fellow prophets and seers..." he chortled, "however small it may seem, everything here is relevant and what we gather from this little 'harvest' of ours shall be used as evidence..." As if on cue, little groups hurried on into the adjoining woods, working themselves into a frenzy of delirium. Youthful shrieks, yelps, laughter,  barking of orders and instructions, panting, out of breath explorers. Sarah meanwhile was walking in long deliberate steps around a strange crevice she had spotted, followed by her two "servants in waiting" as everyone called them, the dutiful twins.  Everyone wanted to impress R.J. and Sarah. The twins were like quality-control inspectors overseeing the day's discoveries. "R.J. look at me. Look what I found." "R.J. I think I may have something here." "Sarah - uh - does this measure up?" And R.J. patiently having to remind the novices that it wasn't so much about the external findings as it was the honing of interior powers, the opening of the soul to the "hidden possibilities" The best action is receptivity...Gelassenheit... What's the goal other than that? Nothing left to do, nothing to be done.  Better to avoid "conventional dronish chores" that lead to dead ends, that give rise to despair. The twins couldn't help staring at the spectacle of it all as it unfolded. What other club had this much fun? (Well perhaps many other clubs, indeed, but to those involved in this unusual foray, conventional ideas of "fun" and "recreation" were quite beside the point. The real question was: what other club had such "inklings" of "uncanniness" to fall back upon?) Sarah - the serious mystic - was clearly about to have one of her many revelations. Simon was due for some sort of communion with a higher dimension... R.J. was giggling at regular intervals while the twins kept him up-to-date on who was finding what. The old soul looked on half-amused, half-incredulous. So this was the prophecy club on one of its typical excursions. This was what people did on their free Saturdays to keep from falling into despair, to maintain their faith in the spiritual side of things, the only rule of the club being that one could not be a strict materialist. Belief in a higher dimension was the prime directive, emanating from a shared acknowledgement of the sacred hen-kai-pan. Inspecting the internal dynamics of this motley bunch, the old soul, more than the rest, had noted that about a third of the members were restless introverts or non-social climbers looking for a sense of belonging, another third had a romantic interest in metaphysics or the supernatural,  and perhaps another fifteen percent were focused on finding an alternative to the drab mainstream; that left a strong remnant of a minority of true-believers also known as the "ascetics," "heavy thinkers" or "beliefniks" intent upon making the club a last-ditch bulwark and countervailing force to the relentless (or as some would say: already-victorious) onslaught of secular humanism in America; neither were they deterred in any respect from advancing this self-declared "radical agenda" against the Tide despite the freewheeling, carefree, sometimes whimsical tendencies of R.J., Katie-K.  and the twins. The ascetic-minded members sought to demonstrably forego certain pleasures, to set themselves against the typical teenage stereotypes - to shun popular music, fast food, designer clothes, jewelry, electronic gadgetry or any indulgence that could link them with the vast majority. When the club had first started, the inner sanctum had spent long hours hammering away at a charter that everyone could agree upon. After much lobbying and parsing of various doctrines and quotations, it was Simon who came up with a line that took the others by surprise. "Our mission" he had said was "simply to rescue people from the hell of their own making on a case-by-case basis and thereby to fight against the materialist denial of the higher dimension as our ultimate destiny and goal." This pronouncement was seen as at once all-encompassing in a theological sense, but also specific enough to unite the members into a common mission. Despite the strange coalition and the uneasy tensions housed within, the club members were united in their shared perception of themselves as an embattled, somewhat marginalized, albeit growing institution. Their nemesis in all of this was the ever-expanding Free-Thinkers' Consortium - the yin to the Prophecy Club's yang - made up of the usual crew of atheists, agnostics, skeptics, naysayers, science geeks, mockers, poseurs, hedonists and disgruntled, embittered refugees from organized religion...The tension between the two factions had been rising gradually because of several incendiary incidents involving would-be prophets and seers on one side and activist skeptics on the other. F.G. was concerning about the escalating skirmishes; R.J. seemed to be excited by them. And of course, given his last encounter with Veronica - it was clear that he was being heavily recruited for some reason - perhaps to be a high-profile "convert" to the free-thinkers, perhaps to become a double agent of sorts, perhaps to be Veronique's special confidant. And would was to be made out of that last, unexpected, mysteriously silent display of affection she had left him with? It was clear he was having big doubts about the club about the people in the club, about everything surrounding the club - but something was keeping him loyal in a visceral way. He reflected back upon a conversation he'd had with one Simon on a windy November day. Simon was going on about the "horrors" of the past day's news cycle -  executions by the drug cartels, gangs of pirates on the Liberian coast, human traffickers targeting women from Eastern Europe,  elderly patients being locked in warehouses and forgotten, teenagers in Chicago being charged with murder and mayhem, children neglected or forced to work in seedy dens making high-end clothing... That's why I'm in this club, he said. To deal with the horror - the absolute terror of life on this planet. You really think it's that bad? I mean how much evil have you seen up close? Oh I've seen. I've seen too much. That's why I joined. What have you seen really? I am privy to some shocking information...Yeah?

The wildflowers on this particular day were intoxicating. The twins began collecting samples (violet, yellow and fuschia)  holding them in bundles and leaving trails as they scampered, at this point, lost amid the charms of the endless blueberry field that seemed to extend eastward toward the shoreline and westward ended in woods and the horizon...The flowers became the focal point...many were commenting on the technical names for the specific colors, on the inner shapes of the flower petals, on the length of stems,  on the textures and fragrant smells - as if these were part of a revelation they were yet to received. Only Sarah held back while the others tossed samples back and forth, laughing, trading, exchanging souvenirs. Sarah had that sudden serious look on her face such as oracles and dream interpreters assume during moments of irrevocable insight. She seemed bemused by the flower-gathering and yet her mind was elsewhere as if to say that all this was indeed child's play compared to what she and her unrelenting stare were focused on. She seemed to be staring into the distance as she spoke, looking briefly at Simon and then at no one in particular. It is better that I say this now, perhaps, while we are all gathered here...out in this, our sacred field, our hidden field...Many prophets in ages past were said to have disappeared for days at a time and to have communed with God or the higher powers, were said to have been taken by God for days, months or years at a time....And to some of you, although at first it may sound contrived, it has been disclosed to me that one of us will soon disappear for a time, but that we are not to grieve or panic, that this too shall yield a fruitful harvest of the sort that R.J. has been telling you about....One of us will what? - Yes...it is troubling to hear at first, but it shall of a certainty come to pass that one of you, one of us, rather, will be called to commune with the higher Spirit, for a time...only when this happens, you must not panic, nor shall you tell any adult person or go to the authorities, but this shall be...