An American Gospel

By M.T. Daffenberg

After serving his country and earning a philosophy degree, an Iraq war veteran struggles to support his family in recessionary America, pushing him closer and closer to the brink of suicide, when a murdered girl, cancer and a nursing home miracle come together as a message of hope.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9780985050467

Book preview

Lydia.

I

It’s about will.

He told me this after it happened. With an addendum a few seconds later.

And action, of course. Without action, will is meaningless.

He didn’t say this immediately after. He told me this outside the room, in a teaching tone, mentor to student, like it was some fact of the universe very few knew. And I wondered exactly to what He was referring.

The hall was hot and dry. And smelled of stale urine. The only other person who could have heard Him was Hattie. She sat next to the wall, one of her hands hooked over the handrail, her thin legs pulled in, crippled, her other hand gripping a soft, cotton handle made just for people with awful arthritis. She looked stiffly brittle in her hospital gown, and like a wrinkled child, too small for her wheelchair.

I simply stared at Him in silence. He grabbed the carpet scrubber, which was parked right by the door to Albert’s room and wheeled it down the hall, singing, "I can see clear-ly now the rain is gone, boom chk, boom chk-a, boom chk, boom-chk, I can see all obstacles in my way, boom chk, boom chk-a …" And on past the nurse’s station, up the main hall toward the north wing. He hit notes, His voice was okay, He wasn’t great, but He wasn’t bad either. And as He passed Vera, one of the residents walking in her walker, she smiled at Him.

It was New Year’s Eve, the middle of the day, but the window on the fire door at the end of the hall was darkened, ice around the exterior edges, spotted by hazy frost, heavy snow falling fast outside. The dismal, cold images were counterweighted by the sparkling green and red and metallic garland that framed it, and the cardboard cutout Santa Claus that hung beneath it.

I thought about Albert Hansfeld, Santa’s beard bringing me back to him. How I had prepared myself. How I had known. How I had seen all the signs from my experiences here at the nursing home. Hell, the only thing he was missing were the death rattles. I thought they were next. But I was wrong. He intervened. At least that’s what it seemed like. I hadn’t bought in yet.

But I couldn’t deny what I had just perceived.

It was a good thing I wasn’t the only one there, for no rational, thinking being would have believed their own senses in a case like this—evidentiary support was needed, others with senses that detected the same things I did. No one was ever convinced by sole witnesses who reported this kind of thing. I think of UFO’s, poltergeists, Bigfoot, Chupacabra—these, like miracles, are things that generally have very few observers at any one time.

Thank the gods for the others who were there. Thank the gods I wasn’t one of those lone claimants. Two housekeepers were there. One nurse was there, RN. Two aides were there. He, the Floor Tech, was there. Every one of us saw that miracle performed. Saw it. Witnessed it. That’s what we did. We witnessed it.

But not all believed what they witnessed.

The nurse believed. She was already religiously slanted: wore a rosary, said she’d pray for you just as a morning greeting, let everyone know when it was National Prayer Day. She was sure it was a miracle. She even thought He might be The Savior returned.

One aide believed. It was the very event she witnessed that converted her. No real religion in her life before this. She believed in a god, but never thought about it. Then, it was almost like she was a disciple of Him. She adored Him. Not like some high school crush, more like some sort of universal brotherly love. She and the nurse had never really spoken to each other before, yet afterward they became members of the same church and were emphatically best friends.

The other aide denied everything she saw—a broken psyche reaction in my opinion. I mean, she denied the witnessing of an event everyone else in the room affirmed. Bothered by talking about it, she started looking for a new job.

One of the housekeepers, a middle-aged Mexican woman named Lettie, believed. She was terrified in that room, witnessing that event. Later she told me she had been paralyzed with fear, she couldn’t move. But then she was in awe of Him—another disciple, making the total three, three women who adored Him, three women who believed.

There was the resident, Albert. He lived another few weeks when he should’ve been dead that day. He loved telling that story, the story of his big comeback, the story of his miracle, or rather, His miracle. Though, the real miracle was the aftermath. An estranged daughter had not seen him in over twenty years, but when she heard what happened, she came immediately and they made up. She even took a hiatus from her work and was there when he went on hospice for the second time and actually did die. Albert never smiled and laughed so much as he did those last weeks with his daughter. And when his daughter let me know he passed, I looked in on him to say goodbye and swore I saw peace on his face instead of the usual ghoulish appearance of dying people.

There were two kinds of reactions in this regard to a loved one becoming debilitated to a state of nursing home need, at least from my observations at the one I worked. Some people showered their close ones with love, daily visits, special holiday outings, sweet tasting candies and sweet smelling plants, and all the love they can handle. Then, there was the other kind, hard to describe because I never saw that kind. They ignored their close ones, never visited, no phone calls, no presents or treats, and most important, no love. Albert’s daughter had gone from the latter to the former all because of one person.

The Floor Technician—that’s Him of course. He performed the so-called miracle.

And there was the other housekeeper—me. I never believed it was a miracle, but I never denied what I witnessed, either. I convinced myself there had to be a rational explanation: a feat of nature not often seen; an amazing sequence of events with connections unknown to us but possible; a rare, hopeful coincidence … uh, hell, maybe sunspots? Global warming? Aliens? There just wasn’t an answer for me. Not at this point, anyway.

The first words spoken in that room after He performed His miracle were, Who the hell are you? I said that.

After I spoke, which was preceded by a roomful of mouth agape silence, Lettie wept, not moving except for an occasional spasm in her chest.

And the unbelieving CNA, Trish, then said, Whaaaaat the fuuuuuuck? in a slow, drawn way, quietly, the opposite of how one normally uttered that phrase.

And Albert said, Watch yer mouth, lil’ lady. I’m hungry, when’s breakfast? Why’s everybody standin’ round here starin’ at me for? It was 12:45 on a Friday afternoon and he hadn’t opened his eyes, said anything, nor eaten since the Wednesday before. The feeding tubes to which he was connected since then had been removed just hours earlier, though he still had his nasal oxygen hose hanging from his ears, the buds up his nose.

The Floor Tech and I were the only ones laughing.

The nurse, Betty Marie, pursed her lips in a tight grin, creases of age emanated from her mouth, her glassy eyes dripped slowly.

The converted aide, Janie, had a strange look, a barely there, half-smile, her forehead wrinkled in question marks about her eyes, like she was confused but happy, maybe pensively joyous. Or just plain dumbfounded.

Upon hearing the news of the miracle, like any workplace it spread fast, the Mexicans in the kitchen immediately believed he was The Savior. In Spanish, they all called him Miguelito Angel. His name was Michael.

Since we shared primary monikers, I knew the root meaning of his name. It came from the name Micah el. Micah meaning he who is like God. The el is a title, similar to mister, meaning of God. There was a time when I used to tell people this, tell them that my name said it all, that it explained my big ego. Michael, literally translated, means he who is like God, of God. How could I not have a big ego? But I later found out my interpretation was slightly askew—the name is actually interrogative. He would teach me that. And much more.

There was a small circle of nurses that laughed at all of us behind our backs. Another set took us seriously but dismissed that it was any sort of miracle. And the rest sort of believed the story, but needed something else to become hard believers like those first three women.

But before you read Michael’s story, there are a few things you need background on first.

I guess I have to go back to the first week of December, back to before my wife was diagnosed with cancer, back to when I wanted to kill myself.

II

I sat on a park bench, leafless tree branches hanging over my head, thin tendrils reaching down for me. I exhaled and watched the water vapor of my breath wisp around in the wind, and then I looked up to the clouded ceiling, up through the creepy fingers of the tree, to watch the grand exhalation of the world move above me. But it wasn’t moving. It was still, like a real ceiling. And as I stared, the clouds closed in on me, pressuring me.

I looked at the amber, opaque prescription bottle in my hand, the white cap distinct against the dying colors of late fall and the maroon of my winter coat. My lips were chapped.

Two months earlier a young girl had been murdered here. Her remains were found in the woods, burnt. It was some crime of opportunity for some inhuman being who had a life worth nothing to nobody. It came out later that he was in Section 8 housing and on Illinois’ version of food stamps, the LINK card. Most of this guy’s adult life had been and will be supported by taxpayers of the state. And he had the gall to murder somebody. A nineteen-year-old girl. College student, art. From the newspaper articles I read, she seemed to be pursuing what she loved and I wondered how important that was in one’s life.

It seemed epically important to me. It was part of the reason I sat in that vacant park—vacant of people, vacant of leaves, vacant of life—holding a bottle of OxyContin, debating how many it would take to go to sleep in this uncomfortable, first week of December cold.

December. My birthday was a few days away. I would turn 40. It felt over. I gave a shot, definitely not my best, but a shot, and the miss had left me feeling a failure, a loser, worthless, like the murderer. But at least I wasn’t on welfare.

I evaluated my life. Quickly. At his execution, Socrates said something like, the unexamined life is not worth living. Well, what he failed to tell you is that sometimes the examined life is not worth living, either. I thought of who I wanted to be and who I was. I wanted to be something instead of nothing. I was a housekeeper at a nursing home. I was nothing.

Since I had deduced I was nothing, after taking Socrates’ suggestion, I decided that I would make nothing a reality. It was nothing to me; I have no religious affiliation. I don’t believe in any sort of deity and have no toleration for those who think morality is more than our natural urges to exist, to survive. Something was either wrong with me, or with society, because I think it’s safe to say there is nothing natural in killing oneself when in perfect health. Physical health. Now, mental health was different.

I often questioned the validity of clinical depression. Really? Your brain can be defective and force you to think counterproductive thoughts, thoughts counterproductive to the only real point in life which is to survive? And what is the point of surviving? Eh, questions for the philosopher. And that’s when I started tracking my life, and how I got to this park bench, because I was one of those philosophers—my degree was in philosophy. Another dimension to my depression.

When I started college, I was around twenty-seven, fresh out of the Navy. It seemed everyone believed college was key to decent employment, to a future where you’re not riding a register or wearing keys on your belt or steering a mop or asking if one would like fries with that.

So I steeped myself in academia, stayed at the school all day, worked on the school newspaper, hung out in the library always researching something for a class or for myself. Military service taught me to appreciate my educational opportunities.

Morality, the nature of knowledge, linguistics, logic, big issues of life itself, all explored in philosophy. I loved the intellectualism, the immersion into a group who always wanted to talk about these matters. It was great for someone like me because most people get easily annoyed talking philosophy. Like ordinary animals, most people cannot intellectually handle the deeper questions of life.

I excelled the first two years—straight A’s. But sometimes things lose their color, their brightness, their luminescence and my grade point average slipped to a B over the last two years. Within a year after graduation, I married Lara. I loved her and she was one of the only women I had known who could match my level of intellectual curiosity and analytical thinking. She had two kids from two previous husbands, and I loved them, too—the kids that is. She called me lucky number three.

I had high hopes that my degree, even though it was in philosophy, would carry me into at least a tolerable job. I had a naïve assumption that people who hired wanted intelligent, reasonable, quick learning, college-educated employees—qualities I had strived to get.

I, as many of you can see, was an idealist.

The reality was most people didn’t want smart people working for them. I had my assumed reasons, but they sounded like sour grapes to most, even myself occasionally, and who knows, maybe they were. It just seemed a lot of jobs were mechanical, robotic, repetitive and un-intellectual and most people who hired for these jobs didn’t want a smart person because that smart person might prove themselves better and then steal the hiring person’s job. I also believed that when one saw philosophy as a major on a resume, they instantly saw the phrase, smart-ass instead. I had doomed myself because of my desire to learn and be intelligent. It’s true that happiness and stupidity go hand-in-hand.

I struggled to find any decent work, drowning in a pool of ugly industrial factories and prison-like warehouses. I couldn’t get the jobs I wanted, and I couldn’t get the jobs I didn’t want but paid decent, so I ended up in a job I hated with low pay. I sensed an injustice somewhere.

My first job after receiving my degree was clerking at a convenience store. Minimum wage, shit work. It was over forty hours a week but still considered part-time—some strategy the corporation had hatched that saved them money somehow.

Lara and I rented a small apartment that was more than we could really afford. It was two bedrooms, us in one, Coral and Johnny in the other. My esteem took hit after hit. Every time I brought home my paycheck, every penny was gone to bills, rent and food. Our checking account was constantly in arrears and there was never money for extras. We just weren’t making ends meet, so Lara and I decided to go to the welfare office to see if we could get some help, legitimate help. We didn’t need much, just some extra money for rent and to ensure groceries, just until I got a real job. This was before my jaded view on welfare. This was before I was disgusted at all parties involved with that department: the politicians who voted shit like that into law, the jerks who managed your account at the office, and the people who took full advantage of working taxpayers of Illinois. Not to mention whose partial fault it was for the perpetuation of the welfare department—business owners who didn’t pay their full-time employees reasonable wages. Their dissociative greed pushed us that much closer to the left-wing agenda. Ironic because I didn’t think most business owners saw this. Most of them would have considered themselves right, politically speaking, yet their actions betrayed their very own political philosophy. Too many people worked full-time hours and were still on some kind of government assistance. Want the state to cut back on welfare? Pay your employees a livable wage.

This was the kind of blind ignorance and wholehearted selfishness that really made me desire an end. This was the kind of primitive, simple mode of thinking that had me sitting on that bench in the cold holding a bottle of pills that should be used for pain-killing or partying, not terminating.

I stared off into the woods where that girl’s remains were found—Bobbi the art student. I traveled back years looking for a benchmark in my mind, a place to go to in order that I might know the foundational reasons I was there, on that bench, in that park, with those pills, wondering about a dead girl I never knew.

III

I’m a writer.

That’s what I told people. I was a writer. Sometimes that felt like a half-truth. I was a clerk.

I worked third shift the first four years at the convenience store. The memories are fuzzy at best. I didn’t do well staying up all night every night.

Part of the store was a deli and I was responsible for making anywhere from fifty to a hundred sandwiches in a night. So, three hours of my shift would be a terrible tedium, something like this:

Five pairs at a time, lay out the bread on the wooden sandwich board—wheat, white, multi-grain, dark rye, light rye. Next, slather mayo on each slice. Then, lettuce, tomato on one side, cheese on the other—American, cheddar, Muenster, Swiss, provolone. Lastly, the meats—Polish ham, oven-baked turkey, roast beef, pastrami and salami.

The sandwiches were placed in the cooler for the lunch rush the following day. Once I finished making them, usually around two or three in the morning, I’d serve the exiting bar crowd. No matter the day, I would have at least three or four drunks around this time come in for anything from aspirin, to bottled water, to all sorts of munchies, including some of the sandwiches I had freshly placed. I was getting to know these drunks. In a college town on the non-college side of town, they’re quite regular.

Hey, duuuuude! It was one of those drunks coming in on a Thursday night. Actually, Friday morning. I had seen him many times before in the store late at night, tipsy.

Here he was again, off-balance. His face was sweaty. He had a large kidney of a birthmark swimming on his right forearm. And there was what looked like silver and white paint dried in cracks, spider-webbing on both his hands. His jeans were dirty and shared the same dried paint stains.

Good morning, I said, friendly enough, as I walked to the register to wait for him to make his free-market selection, and put his powerful, earned dollars to use. I wondered if he had a decent job, a job he liked to do, a job that paid him enough so he didn’t have to even think about government assistance. Of course, I guessed he was some sort of painter. Because of how the paint appeared, and the colors, I further estimated he was an auto-body guy.

For whatever reasons, I had a thought process like that with almost everyone who came in. I had one of the lowest jobs on the food chain, so I wondered where others’ links were. He grabbed one of my sandwiches, ham and provolone on dark rye, a single-serving-sized bag of chips, and one of our bucket-sized fountain drinks.

You’re always here, man. You work every night or something?

No, but I work like forty to fifty hours a week.

"Oh… I thought maybe