A PATRIOT DIRGE: The Hammer of Fate

Fighting a Hurricane
Love and Free Choice

She called from Seattle. She had taken an apartment. In her occupation, moving was a frequent necessity. She wanted Roy to join her. He did not hesitate to agree.

When he arrived at the airport, he expected Amy to greet him. Instead, he found a man bearing his writing pseudonym. A dark skinned man with glimmering black hair a little longer than fashion, he introduced himself as Ravi and explained that Amy had been detained. He smiled when Roy’s face registered alarm.

"Not that kind of detention," Ravi said.

They drove to a neighborhood in the University area where Ravi gave him a quick tour of a modern, spacious and tastefully done apartment. It had a woman’s feel to it with the presence of a man – not what Roy expected. He was shown to the guest room, relatively sparse with a large bookshelf, desk and a framed photograph of Bob Dylan, Michael McClure and Allen Ginsberg circa 1965. The accommodations were not what concerned him, however. He was here because he could not deny a burning desire to see Amy at least one more time.

He fell asleep, dreaming a maze of gray, stone alleys where Amy appeared and disappeared in lighted windows and darkened doorways, awakening some time later to the smell of roast beef. He shook the webs from his vision and descended the stairs, where he found a man and a woman sitting down to dinner. They introduced themselves as Fagin and Karin, the couple in residence and his hosts.

The mystery grew. Where was Amy? What was her role in this equation? Was this where she lived or only a shill?

They shared a meal over wine and delicate conversation. There was little they could tell him except that it was not a hard life. The risks were there but they were not a constant presence. They were allowed to live their lives for the most part pursuing whatever their dreams entailed. Fagin was a musician and poet while Karin was a photographer and performance artist.

Roy excused himself and went for a long walk along the tree-shaded streets of two-story townhouses and apartment buildings. He sat on a park bench to breathe the cool evening air and watch the birds, gophers and squirrels go about their business. There was little question in their little lives. A squirrel did not choose between nuts. It consumed them. A crow did not wander the highways looking for Don Juan. It went where the weather was warm and the food plentiful. It was only the human life form that extracted such drama from daily existence.

He thought about Amy and wondered why she chose to withhold her presence. Was it the equivalent of a bribe? If he did not go along with their plans, would he ever see her again? He was startled at how that thought suddenly ached.

He became aware of being observed. Looking across the parkway, he caught the eye of a large man with a full beard who tipped his cap. Soon he was surrounded by a group of men, none of whom was familiar yet he was not alarmed. He understood that this was his welcoming committee. He understood they were Amy’s Seattle comrades. He was here to win their approval.

A stout man with a thick neck, shaggy hair and a lumberjack hat wanted to know where he stood. Roy understood the question but he did not know how to answer. He remained uncertain, stymied by conflicting emotions.

The large bearded man, one boot on the park bench, lit up his pipe and proclaimed with a good natured chuckle: "Well, I guess Amy’s going a bit cheap these days."

Roy felt the temperature in his face rise. If it was meant to stir his passion, it worked. He felt as if he was on trial. If he was unwilling or unable to defend the honor of a woman and a comrade, he was not worthy of admittance into their exclusive club.

"Well, then," he replied, not allowing another thought, "I accept."

They looked around before one of them, an imposing black man with heavy eyes, asked: "You accept what?"

"Amy," he replied.

The mood instantly shifted to celebration, hand grasps and back slaps. Roy was in and Amy had a match.

It was as if the entire event was choreographed. They piled into an old Dodge van and drove to a corner pub where Amy and the other women were waiting. As if on cue, a pair of fiddlers played a crisp jig, the patrons clapped along, and a bright-eyed woman sang.

"You came around," said Amy smiling.

They embraced and Roy surrendered all misgivings. Amy was the core and center of his being now. She would become his mentor, protector and confidant. He gave her his faith on the code of honor, asking only for the warmth of her embrace in return.

Within hours, they were coupled in a ceremony born of heathen traditions. Two circles were formed, the outer moving clockwise, the inner counter clockwise, while Amy and Roy were thrust into the center. There they gave their oath, their pledge of loyalty beneath the glowing light of a harvest moon.

The party moved to the home of their hosts where the mood gradually became more subdued. Amy and Roy excused themselves and went upstairs to anoint their newborn union in the fountains of desire.

It was a dream. It was a dream more beautiful than anything he had encountered on this dull earth. It was a moment of paradise, a moment so pure it remains in the spirit eternal, crystallized in the psyche, beyond life itself.

One can no more describe the unity of flesh than one can a unity of spirit, except by their signs and symptoms. When consciousness can no longer distinguish spirit from flesh, when the dance of dreams finds comfort within the body, when self is no longer apart from other, then the moans and natural lotions and scents and sweet salt tastes of love are marked by eternal bliss. Heaven on earth. Faith for nonbelievers. Prayers of the devout. Amy and Roy.

The mythical monk atop the mountain was right: You cannot find love; love can only find you.

JACK RANDOM IS THE AUTHOR OF THE JAZZMAN CHRONICLES (CROW DOG PRESS) AND GHOST DANCE INSURRECTION (DRY BONES PRESS). THE CHRONICLES HAVE APPEARED ON THE ALBION MONITOR, PEACE-EARTH-JUSTICE, THE NATIONAL FREE PRESS, PACIFIC FREE PRESS, LEFTWARD, DISSIDENT VOICE AND COUNTERPUNCH. SEE RANDOM JACK: WWW.JAZZMANCHRONICLES.BLOGSPOT.COM.