Dennis Pitocco, Publisher & Editor-in-Chief of BizCatalyst 360° read a pre-pub version of my next novel, The Book of The Wounded Healers, and wrote a beautiful foreword. He also invited me to share some chapters (selected by my first readers).
Backstory: Ben Matthews is a mathematical linguist studying spontaneous languages at Columbia University in New York City. Recently home from committing himself to a northern New Hampshire psychiatric center, he spends a relaxing late-May day bonding with his son, Jiminy, at South Street Seaport.
They’re watching a juggler when the East River to Brooklyn and beyond becomes a white sand desert. A sirocco wind raises waves and whips ice cream wrappers, crumpled napkins, visitor guides, ticket stubs, and other ground-level trash intown.
Three creatures, their images shimmering in the heat like a mirage, walk across the sand towards The Battery and TriBeCa South. Ben is knocked down and loses track of Jiminy as people race to safety.
The desert fades away, the sirocco recedes, and the three creatures walk up to Ben. The one in front says, “We are Healers from the Land of Barass.” It points to the one on its right. “He is Cetaf, who cries for his own pain.” It turns to the one on its left. “This is Jenreel, who tends to his own needs. I am Beriah. I will tell you how I feel.”
The creature offers Ben its hand. “We are Healers from the Land of Barass.”
All Ben can think of to say is “I’ve lost my little boy.”
Beriah helps him up. “Then you must find him.”
Ben, aided by The Healers from the Land of Barass, embarks on a quest through Manhattan and learns he’s lost much more than his son, and finds much more in himself.
Chapter 19 – Home Runs
Weehawken Street.
What are we hawking?
What are we hocking?
Well, I’ve seen a wee hawken. Show me a big hawken.
Weehawken, yes-in-deed, weehawken, ’bout-you-and-me, weehawken, ’till-you-come-back-to-me.
I feel we’ve traversed this island enough to qualify for an inner-city summer-time slalom gold medal. Heading northwest, Weehawken levels where it meets West 10th and some kids are playing stickball. It is the first time we’ve seen a group of pure, unadulterated kids playing by themselves and enjoying it, settling their disputes and laughing at their game. I want to join them.
Beriah smiles at them. “The young ones.”
The Healers stop and watch, not doing anything other than smiling. As the game goes on, there are some minor scrapes and bruises, but no problems, no complaints that last more than a minute, no anger or aggression.
One boy. No, one youth, Jiminy’s age and build and color and complexion, slightly smaller than most of those playing the game, takes his turn at bat. The ball comes at him and one of the older boys shouts, “Come on, boy, hit it!”
He does. A powerful blow sends the ball skyward and over the reach of all but Cetaf who lets it get away. The kids are cheering and screaming as the boy runs the bases. Both teams cheer him on. The older boy who called the runner “boy” calls to Cetaf, “Hey, mister, can you get us our ball?” and Cetaf runs down the hill all smiles and rumbles as the buildings quake with his footfalls.
I walk up to that boy, the one who called the younger child “boy” and take his arm to make him face me. “Why did you call him ‘boy’?”
The older boy’s face shows fear and I’m glad. “That’s his name, mister, Boyd.”
I let go. “Boyd,” I repeat in a world gone silent. “Boyd. I’m…sorry.”
The older boy and the others surround me, fear gone, concern and compassion firmly in place. The older boy calls out to me, “That’s okay, mister. Hey, you wanna play?” The other children nod me on. Cetaf tosses the ball and it bounces off my head. All the children laugh and, after a moment, so do I. Cetaf is covering his mouth with his right hand, his eyes are wide in an expression of surprise and laughter. “Oops.”
The Healers watch, listen, and encourage all the children, all of us, as I sweat and remember and am taught this childhood game. I try to enforce rules but am usually voted down, a congress of progress if ever there was one. We play until dark until the children are called home.
Walking up West 10th as streetlights come on, Beriah asks, “Did you find your little boy?”
“No, no. I told you before, he’s safe. He’s with my probably by-now ex-wife. Is that what you mean?”
Cetaf doesn’t answer. At least, I don’t think he answers. He watches the children and smiles. “The young ones, the ones who teach us. Those who are capable of living in the instant while being in touch with eternity.”
Beriah stands beside him. His gaze goes from where I played with the children to me and back. “You can’t ask others to respect what you can’t respect yourself.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It doesn’t matter what you’re called. That doesn’t make you what you are. It is what you reference yourself as that makes you what you are.”
Ah, yes. Boyd. “Listen, I spent my childhood being told I would grow up to be a ‘colored man’, the early years of manhood learning not to be ‘Colored’ but to be ‘Black’. Then I was ‘African-American’ for a while and then I was ‘Black’ again. I was a ‘Black Man’ for about a week and now they’re telling me I’m not ‘Black’ or even a ‘Black man’ but I’m ‘a man of color’. Is that what you’re talking about? Because I thought that kid called the other kid a ‘boy’? Is that what you mean?”
“If it is, let that young boy work it out. If it’s not, then what about you, Ben? You have to decide if other people’s labels apply.”
Another game of stickball is forming under the streetlights. The older boy comes out with a box of sandwiches, fruit, and Kool-Aid. He places it at our feet and says, “Here, my mom said you guys were probably hungry. We’re gonna start another game soon. You guys wanna play?”
I nod and pick up a sandwich. “Soon as I finish. Thanks.”
The boy smiles and runs back to the others. “Hey, he’s gonna play again.” They start arguing about whose team I’ll be on.
Beriah offers me one of the napkins from the box. “Well, Ben?”
I wipe my mouth and wash down the sandwich with a big draught of watermelon pink Kool-Aid. “The hell with you all,” I shout to the city. “I’ve got enough to do just to be me.” I run into the game surrounded by echoes of my laughter.
(one line space)
In this life we are allowed to know three things about others; 1) what they’ve been, 2) who they are, and 3) where they’d like to be.
The first gives a Why to the second. The first and second give a Why and How to the third. The only ones we can never know are When and If. When and If are two sides of the same coin. “If” because everything changes, “When” because we never know when change will occur.
How others stand and carry themselves, their physical message and sense of self-presence in the world, tells you what they’ve been. How they interact with you and others – how they change from when you spy on them alone to when they’re communicating, when and how they work in a crowd – tells you who they are. Knowing what’s happened in their lives can help you understand why they are who they are. How they treat themselves and you when they interact with you – how they behave and honor themselves and others when they’re communicating – tells where they’d like to be. If you know what they’ve been and who they are, it can explain why they chose to go where they chose to go and the path they chose to get there.
I’ve marked the passing of my life in portraits of pain and sorrow. The gravitational pull of my past has disallowed me flight, kept the ship close to shore for fear the seas are darker, deeper than could be imagined.
But I am learning to laugh.
It is the ability to laugh at one’s past, not be victim to it, which truly sets us free.
