The Making

By J. Eric Booker

WARNING--INTENDED FOR MATURE AUDIENCES ONLY. Living a life of poverty and headed for nowhere, Jeb Maruso, a.k.a. "The Solstice Slayer" chances upon a mysterious book that changes his life forever—one that promises him not only the secrets to self-transformation, but also the very secrets of the universe. The promises seem to hold true, as Jeb gains heightened intelligence and powers that motivate him to write a fantasy story, which rapidly becomes a #1 best-seller. While traveling abroad and enjoying his fame and fortune, however, he learns of a series of ritualistic murders in and around his hometown—and the killings mirror those committed by the villain in Jeb’s novel! As Jeb tries to track down the brutal killer, he unwittingly becomes his own worst enemy. The plot twists and turns until we find Jeb facing his biggest challenge yet: convincing his jurors, and his readers, that he is not the killer himself. Through an astounding array of colorful characters and scenarios, both human and metaphysical, author J. Eric Booker takes his readers on a most thrilling ride. THE Making... is a spell-binding mystery of epic proportions!

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. Eric Booker
• Release date: Feb 3, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310650482

J. Eric Booker

Born in the middle of a vast desert on a military base in California, Author J. Eric Booker began his life with a fiery passion for books, even before he could read! He loved it when his mother read to him. That passion never stopped throughout his youth, nor his adulthood. He has read all kinds of books, his favorite authors being Stephen King, Frank Peretti, Anne Rice, James Patterson, Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman, J.R.R. Tolkien, William Shakespeare, Kristine Cayne, and many, many more. These great authors not only inspired him, yet a couple of them (Stephen King and Tracy Hickman) taught him through lessons and workshops how to become the creative author he is. He began writing in January of 2000, and so far, he has 4 published, as well 2 more full-fledged stories that are nearly ready to become books. The final story in his Epic Fantasy Trilogy is now for sale!

Book preview

THE MAKING…

J. Eric Booker

Smashwords Edition

Copyright J. Eric Booker, 2004.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Booker Enterprises Publishing Co.

THE Making…

Publisher's Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or, are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

ISBN 1-58982-058-4

Booker, J. Eric, THE Making…

Dedication

I wish to dedicate this work to God, my greatest inspiration. I also wish to dedicate this work to all those inspirers, helpers, fans, friends, and family that helped in the making of this book, directly or indirectly. Thanks, ya’ll!

Preface

Shortly after I decided to write a book, an idea that had entered my mind in January of 2000, I approached a friend with the idea, hoping to gain that person’s approval and support. I was met with the response, It’ll be a cold day in hell before you ever write any book! Although I was a little surprised and daunted at the cold reply, I approached another friend with the same idea and received a far warmer response (Awesome—write it! or something to that effect).

With this friend’s encouragement, I began the unbelievably arduous task of doing something I had no idea how to do. It showed, as I was saddled with the vagaries of amateur writing; but as I pushed myself harder, including studying the English language in-depth, my story began to acquire the look and feel that I had envisioned when I had undertaken the challenge.

Within this very story are intertwined the elements of good and evil; reality and fantasy; ancient writings, modern-day problems, and futuristic ideas. My hope is that the reader will feel the thrills and the fears, the hopes and the disappointments, the joys and the sorrows derived from the experiences of Jeb Arthur Maruso, an infamous ritualistic serial killer. While my fictional character awaits the execution of his death row sentence in a jail cell, he only then claims that he is innocent, and that the real killer is still on the loose, waiting for the right time to strike again! It was on Dec. 21st, 2002 that he was lethally injected.

There are two possibilities with respect to Mr. Maruso’s final claims: Either he is indeed the killer, a diabolical mastermind who will use his writings to convince the unsuspecting of his innocence; or he is a victim of the real killer, a would-be hero trapped by his own good intentions and naiveté, a pawn in the ultimate game between good and evil.

Of course, from these two possibilities springs a third: that Jeb is destined to be, ultimately, the hero that he has always aspired to be! As the story unfolds through the eyes of the condemned man, via his diaries and other electronic recordings, it is up to the reader to figure out which possibility is the truth…. In other words, this book can technically be classified: WHO-DUN-IT? MURDER MYSTERY.

As a word of caution, I would like to inform the reader that the opinions expressed in various parts of this book—in particular, those found in the fictional textbooks Magick: The Forbidden Fruit and The Day of Judgment, which contain ideas culled from various authentic sources including internet websites—are not the opinions of the author.

At one point, I had considered omitting them altogether, for fear that the mere effort of wading through the rather dense text would detract from the story’s cadence.

Alternatively, I considered including these informational passages at the end of the story, as appendices footnoted in the general text, which would give the reader the option of referring to them at their leisure.

In the end, however, the passages were left alone, as they already occupied logical positions within the story—but if the reader chooses to skip past them and return to them later, I will not take offense.

Finally yet importantly, remember that this book is a work of fiction, meant to be enjoyed only by MATURE AUDIENCES—18+!

Bon Appétit…….

~~ Plato, Phaedrus 272 ~~

Socrates: The fact is, as we said at the beginning of our discussion, that the aspiring speaker needs no knowledge of the truth about what is right or good… In courts of justice no attention is paid whatever to the truth of such topics; all that matters is plausibility… There are even some occasions when both prosecution and defence should positively suppress the facts in favor of probability, if the facts are improbable. Never mind the truth—pursue probability through thick and thin in every kind of speech; the whole secret of the art of speaking lies in consistent adherence to this principle.

Phaedrus: That is what those who claim to be professional teachers of rhetoric actually say, Socrates.

Chapter I

The Beginning and The End

Somewhere within this infinite universe, one of the countless yellow suns out there spat out a ball of fire the size of a baseball. As this fireball continued to fly further and further away from the sun and its brilliant light, millions of different lights began to sparkle from all around, the lights of other stars, brighter and brighter—only seconds later, the last of the fire dissipated, revealing a silver-colored orb.

This orb’s speed did not decelerate yet accelerate; and within a minute, it had already left behind what appeared to be an isolated, one-planet solar system.

Soon, the orb was moving at a speed far greater than that of light, passing countless solar systems, the light from their individual stars appearing and disappearing within its visual field in the blink of an eye.

Within moments, the entire galaxy was left behind in the pitch-blackness of space, but the orb soon passed another bedazzling galaxy far off in the distance. Some of its stars appeared to be near enough to touch, while others were barely visible amidst the stunning array of colors spread throughout—ravishing reds intermixed with forest greens, and splashed together with magentas and midnight blues—but the orb did not pause to admire the beauty of this galaxy, continuing only in its predestined direction forward.

The orb’s speed accelerated yet again, and it passed by an endless stream of heavenly bodies. Finally, it approached a swirling conglomeration of solar systems, with a dizzying array of stars, planets, asteroids, and other forms of cosmic debris, a concoction known to its inhabitants as the Milky Way galaxy.

Only then did the orb slow down as it penetrated the outermost realm of solar systems within the galaxy; and its speed continued to wane as it moved toward the center of the galaxy. Finally, about 28,000 light-years away from the galactic center of the Milky Way, the orb encountered a small but brightly lit solar system with nine planets orbiting a massive star.

In the farthest reaches of this solar system, the orb first passed by a small, dark, and seemingly neglected planet with several smaller moons orbiting around it—a forlorn little family that seemed to be lost, 2.7 billion miles away from its paternal sun.

Several colorful planets were then passed, but the orb continued forward until it drew near to the third-closest planet to the star—a colorful sphere of blue-green, with overlying patches of a feather-like white substance and with a lonely gray moon orbiting nearby.

As the orb neared the outer atmosphere of the planet, an orbiting device came into view, carrying with it the sounds of millions of simultaneous transmissions. Suddenly, the orb was sucked into the device and sent hurtling through a tubular-spiral realm, a seemingly chaotic realm composed of a barrage of split images and sounds amid a background of ultrasonic waves and white noise. Within a split second, the orb focused upon a blur of lines that began a television broadcast, carrying a news reporter and his message:

"This is Tom Skillings with ZYX news, live from Tel Aviv. Over the past twenty-four hours, more than four hundred Palestinians and one hundred and fifty Israelis have been slain in massive rioting that is now reaching epic proportions; despite the United Nations’ continued involvement in the Middle East, each side seems to be more solidly entrenched against the other, with the number of protestors growing every day in this war-torn land and within the United States. The protestors are decrying the deployment of more than 7,000 U.N. troops, including 3,000 U.S. soldiers, now stationed in an undisclosed location in Israel.

Israeli Prime Minister Mordecai Shalem, Arab League of Nations Spokesperson Mahommed Skallar, the Secretary-General of the United Nations, and the President of the United States are all working around the clock to find a resolution to this ever-growing crisis and to take yet another step toward reestablishing peace. We’ll have more details about this developing crisis as it evolves. Once again, live from Tel Aviv, this is Tom Skillings, ZYX News….

The transmission faded, and the orb moved out of the rectangular box from which the images and sounds had been emitted. Two guards dressed in sheriff’s uniforms sat staring at the television. The invisible orb then soared out of the room, out of the guards’ tower, and over an enclosed prison courtyard, where four armed guards led a dozen handcuffed inmates towards the main prison cellblocks.

Moments later, the orb entered a maximum-security building known as Death Row and passed down the main hallway, through a solid wall at the end of the hallway, and into the back of a small portable radio.

The following transmission could be heard: Welcome to Chicago’s number-one radio talk show, The Vaughn Ness Show! And here he is…Vaughn!

Hello, Chicago! Vaughn began. Good morning and welcome to The Vaughn Ness Show! There’s no time to waste on today’s show, as I have on hold at this very moment a caller who claims to know the dark and secret truths about the world-renowned author and ‘twenty-first-century peace philosopher,’ Jeb Arthur Maruso!

Morning, Vaughn—you’re the bomb! the caller greeted, with enthusiasm typical of Vaughn’s callers.

Thanks, my man! But tell me something: Jeb Maruso hasn’t been found guilty just yet, and you’re already judging him—

But he is guilty! the caller interrupted. And I have proof!

So…tell me what you think should be done with the man, if you are indeed correct?

To be honest with you, Vaughn, I think the sooner they fry Jeb Maruso, the better it will be for all of us! I mean, look at everything he’s done—murdering at least forty-two people during his three-year reign of terror, ruining the lives of countless others with his diabolical treachery! I mean, can you—

Now hold on a minute, Vaughn interrupted. None of that stuff’s been proven yet! How can you judge the man without knowing him first? Jeb Maruso is, after all, a best-selling author as well as an esteemed and recognized diplomat for his ‘Twenty-first Century Progressive Peace Plan,’ which has saved thousands and possibly millions of lives! I mean, what could possibly be his motive to so savagely murder those people?

"Power, Vaughn! Look carefully into this man’s history, and you’ll see exactly what I mean! Now, check this out—yes, it’s sad but true that in his youth, both of his parents were tragically killed in an automobile accident—yet that very traumatic experience left a permanent scar in his heart, one that eventually corrupted both his mind and his soul!

"In high school, at age sixteen, young student Jeb is expelled for drugs. He proceeds to lead a very abusive lifestyle that leads to poverty, and he becomes desperate, like a worm on a hook! He deludes not only himself, but everyone else, by first proclaiming himself to be a student seeking the ‘progressive philosophic truths of humanity,’ and later claims to be a ‘Master who has found the greatest mystery of the universe!’ But what Jeb doesn’t tell us about is his ‘pact with the Devil,’ one that would bring him power in exchange for innocent souls! All of a sudden, he becomes a successful entrepreneur, a successful author, even a successful diplomat to the world! His desire to dominate the world creates the Beast—six, six, six—that was prophesied in the Bible. He intends to make us his slaves, in one fashion or another, in order to accomplish this! And, as Jeb says within his Black Journals, ‘There will be plenty of deaths to go around, and countless souls shall be ours to suckle upon forever and ever with my Master!’ Vaughn, all that I have said is true—I swear to it!"

After a short pause, Vaughn answered. "Black Journals? The Black Journals haven’t even been authenticated, yet you’re already quoting its words like scripture! Everything you’ve said will need to be proven first in a court of law—after all, it’s possible that Jeb Maruso might have been framed. I’d like to think that what his defense lawyer submitted, what was printed in the Times yesterday, is true—and I quote: ‘My client is completely innocent of the forty-two counts of murder that he is formally charged with. Jeb Arthur Maruso is a victim of the Solstice Slayings, as we all are! Of this, I am convinced, and I will continue to prove it to the court, beyond the shadow of a doubt!’"

The caller interjected, But his plea will soon change, Vaughn, so that his ultimate goal may be fulfilled! You see, Jeb Maruso needs to ensure that there exists no possibility for a life sentence to be administered, for he believes that he is the Beast prophesied in Revelations and that he will rise again after his execution!

Now that is entirely your superstitious interpretation of it, unknown caller! Again, all of that has to be proven.

Come on, Vaughn! He was even in Rome, proposing his ‘Twenty-first Century Progressive Peace Plan’ for the Middle East—a plan that will soon fail, I can assure you of that! If you take a good look at all the unusual things he’s done in his life, you will see that he fits all the requirements of the Beast! He aims to start wars and the rumors of wars, and he will blaspheme the name of God to accomplish this! ‘Six-six-six,’ Vaughn, I’m telling you, all the way!

How is it that you know all of this, sir? Where did you get your information? Oh, and while you’re at it, why don’t you tell us your name, so that we can be assured that you’re not a fake?

Answer number one: By studying the Bible and equating its prophecies to today’s turbulent times! Answer number two: You may simply call me ‘The Messenger!’

Vaughn answered angrily, Now that’s not a name—who are you, damn it?! The sound of a click could be heard, followed by silence. He hung up…I can’t believe he hung up! Folks, you can’t believe everything you hear or read. I think this guy is a quack! We’ll be right back to discuss that possibility, or anything else you’d like to discuss—but now, it’s time for a commercial….

In another room in this same wing of the facility, two guards sat at different tables, one inspecting a laptop computer and the other reading from a newspaper. On the front page appeared this blaring headline:

* * *

Chicago Times

September 22, 2002 Ed.

TRUE SOLSTICE SLAYER CONFESSES

In a surprising twist yesterday morning, Jeb Arthur Maruso flew into a rage while testifying in court. In what amounted to a self-confession, Maruso raved, I am your Solstice Slayer, and I am guilty of…three hundred and thirty-three counts of murder in only three years! The guilty verdict was reached only twenty minutes later, as was the sentence to death by the judge, for the best-selling author and former Nobel Peace Prize candidate.

Article written by Victor Roberts

* * *

The guard who had just finished reading the article next looked over at his comrade, and said, Yep, Charlie….just like my preacher predicted he would, Jeb Maruso changed his plea. A couple weeks ago at church, he said that Jeb was heavily involved with the occult and performed satanic ritual sacrifices, believing that he was stealing people’s souls! My preacher said that the Holy Spirit directly told him that the guy needs to be executed in Israel, the Holy Land, so that he can’t come back from the dead and become the Antichrist! I don’t know what to think, except that if Mr. Maruso wants the death sentence, he’s got it now.

Good, replied his comrade, as he completed his final check on the laptop computer. The bastard deserves it—and not a quick death, either, but a very slow and painful execution, like he gave to his poor victims! What I don’t understand is why Warden Higgins is allowing him to have this computer, and why he wants us to keep it all top secret—there’s something creepy about this guy, and I’d just as soon not have anything to do with him, except for pulling the final switch myself! But orders are orders, right? The first guard nodded his head in silent agreement.

Finally… The guard closed the computer lid, and a soft clicking sound emanated from the computer as it locked securely shut. I’m done! He nodded to his comrade and they exited the room. After passing through two checkpoints, they turned down another hallway filled with cell doors. At the ninth door on the right-hand side, they stopped and turned.

The first guard called out, Open cell block 352. The lock securing the iron-barred door clicked, and the door then opened. Entering the cell cautiously, they observed the prisoner closely while setting the computer down carefully at the near end of a thin mattress. They then slowly walked out of the cell, facing the prisoner at all times. The guards finally called out, Close cell block 352, and the door slammed shut, sending a loud ringing noise caroming down the hallway. They then turned and walked down the hallway, returning to their quarters without a moment’s waste.

In the cell sat a man in a green correctional uniform that contrasted with his thin, pale skin. He sat motionless, except for a flicker of his eyes toward the computer. Slowly, he slid down the mattress and grasped the computer with both hands, bringing it to rest upon a small table that sat next to his bed. He gingerly opened the lid and waited for the computer to boot up. Once it was ready, he moved the small rubber button located on the keyboard until the cursor rested on the audio-word processing program, and clicked Enter. When the blank screen appeared before him, he commenced to speak, and his words appeared on the computer screen exactly as they were spoken….

* * *

Greetings. My name is Jeb Arthur Maruso, a.k.a. The Solstice Slayer! I’m sure that by now, most of you have heard of me. You may have read about my arrest in the newspaper several months ago, discovering in the process all that I’ve been accused of. Or maybe you’re just one of millions who watched my murder trial on television, inevitably witnessing my breakdown, confession, and condemnation to three hundred and thirty-three murders, though only accused of forty-two!

And if you don’t watch TV but attend church every Sunday, you may have heard about my Satanic plot to deceive, dominate, and destroy the earth. But what they will tell you is not always true, because stories, rumors, and gossip about me have spread like wildfire. Meanwhile, my image, my reputation, my true being continues to be sabotaged and altered for the consumption of the angry masses!

Have you seen this month’s cover of World Times Magazine, with my mug shot and the words The World’s Most Detested Human Being pasted all over it? If you haven’t, then let me tell you what it said about me: the corporate world deems me insane; the martial arts world entitles me Poisoned Dragon; the Jews label me Azazel, or Fallen One; the Christians consider me the Antichrist; the Muslims declare me the Shaitan, or Satan; and even the Occult world condemns me as an outcast!

In other words, I’m someone that the whole world, it seems, wants to see dead. However, as there are two sides to every coin, it is my sincerest hope that after reading this, you will indeed find everything that I say to be true. Most of you will remember me as Jeb Arthur Maruso, aspiring entrepreneur; world-renowned author; twenty-first century progressive peace plan artist; spiritualist; killer. However, flipping over to the other side of the coin, the select few of you who are reading this will learn that I am really just myself—Jeb Arthur Maruso, Friend!

After starting with a brief description of my early years, you will be able to read in chronological order, saved onto this very computer, the journals of my past! You will also find footnotes, comments, and other critical information that I shall be adding, in the form of my Recollections from Death Row. Simple enough to figure out what it means?

Now you will most likely ask, How did he obtain this computer while rotting in his prison cell? The answer is simple: This is the laptop computer on which I had later saved these files, after having transferred them from my desktop computer. That computer was confiscated and used as evidence against me in court. Since I have already been convicted and sentenced, and since there is no hope for appeal, and therefore no hope for my release, suffice it to say that my obtaining access to these old files poses no threat to anyone, and therefore the implications of my possession of them are nil.

Another question you may ask is, Why would I waste my time reading this? The answer, once again, is simple. While I have been cast as a sick man, a wealthy psycho who murdered people while pretending to be a god in his quest for absolute domination, I wish for you, the reader, and indeed for all people to know the truth. In order to do that, rather than making yet another verbal argument in my defense, I hope to let my testimony speak for itself.

Thus, I present to you my side of the story, my true accounts of the last three years, compiled from my own carefully transcribed tape recordings, notes from old personal journals, and computer entries—a real-life, day-to-day testimony of the events that transformed me from a wanna-be into a somebody, and finally, into a piece of garbage! Of course, it will all be over by the time you begin reading this—for, you see, my execution takes place in two months, thirty days, fourteen hours, and thirty-three minutes, at which point in time I am to be lethally injected to death—and in the end, if you read between the lines, and you still believe me to be a manipulator, a rapist, a madman, a ruthless killer, a stealer of souls, and an evil mastermind, then let my ashes be dispersed as far as the four corners of the earth, along with everything else associated with my name, so that my image may never ever be conceived of again!

Here, I will conclude this introduction and compile my tragic saga, so that ALL will be in ORDER for the MAKER—as I AM the mAKING….

* * *

It all started, of course, with the pain of being born. Little did I know how much more pain was in store for me, for I would never have come out otherwise! I was born and raised in a lower-class family, consisting of only my parents and my older brother, Peter—we were informed early on that other family members were no longer alive. When my parents were alive, they paid very little attention to Peter and me, except when they felt the need to implant the doomsday philosophy from the Biblical Book of Revelations into our heads. They were always so busy with their devotional activities that they ignored us to the point of neglect.

As a child, I was essentially a loner, playing by myself and daydreaming my way through each painfully lonely day. Peter was always at a friend’s house and spent as little time at our house as he possibly could. To occupy myself, I engaged in various creative activities—reading, writing, drawing—and at the age of nine, during my summer vacation, I even tried writing my own short story, about a family of unicorns that had a horseshoe stolen from them. This particular horseshoe had magical powers, one that protected the unicorns from danger and even created plenty of hay for them to eat. One particular unicorn bore a special mark, the sign of a hero, and was given the task of retrieving the stolen horseshoe.

After writing four pages of the story, I read it excitedly to my father when he came home from work; but as I finished reading it to him, he ripped the papers from my hand and called my mother into the room with anger in his voice. When she arrived, he shoved the papers into her face and exclaimed, What kind of garbage are you allowing these kids to read while I’m at work?! You should read this stuff that Jeb wrote—it sounds suspiciously like the work of the Devil!

At that, I grew angry, and with tears flowing from my eyes, I screamed, It’s not garbage! It’s my story, Dad! I spent a week on this project!

But where did you get this information? From school? my father asked, while my mother read through it hurriedly.

Dad, it all just came from my head! I just made it up! That’s all, I answered, wiping the tears from my face but carrying some desperate hope that he might possibly be swayed.

And that’s exactly how the Devil talks to you, son—through your head, not your heart! My father glowered at me and continued, Now, I want you to burn this stuff and promise your mother and me that you will never write this kind of garbage ever again!

My mother stopped reading and answered softly, I agree with your father, Jeb—what has gotten into you? You’ve been behaving so irrationally over the last month or so, going into conniptions over little things like washing the dishes or taking out the garbage, and saying, ‘No’ when it’s time to go to bed! I agree with your father—I think that you should burn this. This work contains new-age materials that are surely the work of the Devil—and finally, you should pray to God for forgiveness of your sins.

No, Mom! I screamed, fresh tears filling my eyes. I won’t burn it—my story is not evil; it’s good! It’s about a hero fighting against evil!

Now that’s enough, Jeb! my father screamed. Go to your room—now! I went to my room in a huff, slammed the door behind me, and cried my eyes out, periodically screaming out in frustration. Peter was gone, as usual, so the room was all mine. Within ten minutes, I had already cried myself to sleep.

It could have been ten minutes, or ten hours, later—I don’t know—but suddenly, and from out of nowhere, a flock of people barged through the door and into my bedroom! Without saying a word to me, the elders of our church began chanting Jesus’s name repeatedly while approaching my bed, where I was just waking up from the noise. My initial alarm turned into terror as they began to lay their hands upon me, still chanting like zombies! I tried to escape, but it was futile. As I tried to get up, I was immediately restrained and laid back down upon the bed; the harder I struggled, so much the harder became their hold on me.

Finally, one man emerged from the pack, and this man happened to be our minister, Henry Collins. My parents came forth to stand on either side of him, just before he placed his hands upon my head and prayed, Oh God, our Father, release this poor boy from the atrocity that pervades his body! Oh Jesus, our Savior, allow the Holy Spirit’s power to manifest in me and allow me to remove the demon that has occupied Jeb’s mind! Jesus…oh Jesus…oh Jesus…. The rest of the group followed suit, crying out His name, their voices rising with each passing moment like the wailing of banshees.

I tried again to escape, but the more I struggled to break free from them, the harder they held me down, until I eventually passed out from sheer exhaustion. Even in my dreams, I could hear them congratulating each other as they shuffled out of the room. That very experience frightened me so much that I didn’t try my hand at writing for quite some time thereafter.

Life continued in uneventful fashion for the next couple of years, as I avoided the scrutiny of my parents out of fear and loathing for their paranoid reactions to anything even remotely controversial. When I was eleven years old, Peter, then eighteen, was accepted under an athletic scholarship to the State University of Illinois. Several of his classmates were also accepted, and they all decided to room together. What finally convinced my parents to let Peter go was his promise to be a good Christian, to go to church every Sunday, to study hard for his degree, and to make them proud one day.

Unfortunately for my parents, however, they never got to see that day—for, shortly after my twelfth birthday, they perished in an automobile accident while on their way to their usual Wednesday night church service (I had been left at home only because I hadn’t finished the dishes in time). This detail went unnoticed by me until I was old enough to understand the concept of irony.

As for Peter and me, since our parents had no life insurance and no will, and since we knew of no family members to fall back on, we knew that I was in trouble! Peter was on scholarship at college, but he was barely able to cover rent, food, and transportation for himself. Based on our circumstances, the court deemed that he was not in a position to care for his little brother—and I was subsequently placed into a foster home, in a new town, with no knowledge of anyone. Peter was able to visit every other weekend, and thus, a fragile connection was maintained.

My loneliness and isolation in my new town were compounded by my small stature, and problems surfaced in my new junior high school. My classmates began to tease me, perpetrating acts of cruelty and derision meant solely to embarrass me and to enforce their superiority over me. I was harassed constantly, but instead of retaliating, I simply began to withdraw into a shell of isolation.

Somehow, I survived the daily insults and the depression that defined my junior high school experience, and I made it to high school, where a whole new world opened up before me—a world no less cruel but one full of new possibilities. During my sophomore year, a fellow classmate introduced me to marijuana, and from my first drag, I loved it! But to keep the supply coming, I began to steal money from my foster parents.

Only two months passed before I was caught by a teacher, who happened to spot me trying to transfer a bud from my pants pocket to my jacket, which was located in my wall locker. After a reprimand and a second chance, I was caught again, but by a different teacher (I wasn’t very smart in those days).

Unfortunately, I was given no leniency the second time, and I received a short suspension and was forced to undergo drug counseling, with the promise of immediate expulsion should I be caught a third time. During the second semester of my junior year, I was indeed caught a third time, and I finally struck out, in more ways than one—first, I was kicked out of my foster parents’ house; second, I was expelled from school; and third, with no one else who would take me, I was assigned to a juvenile correctional facility.

During my first year in juvie, I did nothing of any correctional value, except to take GED classes or go to the library and read old paperback copies of mystery and suspense novels—my only way of escaping from my doleful reality. That first year, Peter didn’t come to visit me once—but just three days before my first anniversary there, he came waltzing back into my life, bringing along his girlfriend, Christine. Christine was a very cute blonde, in my opinion, and her clothes and attitude reflected a moderately wealthy upbringing. Needless to say, I was impressed at Peter’s choice in women!

During his visit, we mainly talked about our lives over the past couple of years, but toward the end of the visit, Peter surprised me by happily announcing that he was going to be a father! I remember my mouth hitting the floor at the realization that my older brother had actually had premarital sex, and that he dared to boast about it—our parents must have rolled over in their graves! I said nothing, as the shock on my face was evident; but within moments, the smile was back as I congratulated both of them.

Just before they left, Peter turned around and suggested, Listen…why don’t you come and live with us for a little while, until you can get yourself stabilized? I could see that this was something that Christine wasn’t too happy about, however.

Peter, she hissed, in confirmation of my thoughts, we can’t afford to take in Jeb now—especially with the baby!

No, Christine, Peter responded, it’s my duty to get him out of here. After all, Jeb suffered the worst from Mom and Dad’s death, and he is my little brother! I wanted to help him years ago, but I couldn’t…maybe now, I can! Christine’s face appeared slightly flushed, but she kept silent.

Despite misgivings on my part, I agreed to move in with them, into their cramped one-bedroom apartment. I slept on the couch.

It would not be very difficult to believe that problems surfaced almost immediately during my stay there. Naturally, my laid-back approach to such things as personal hygiene and orderliness clashed with Christine’s meticulous, compulsive nature, and many an argument concluded with me getting up from the couch and taking a long walk outside to clear my mind. After one such argument, which occurred after she discovered a small plastic bag of marijuana that I had stashed in an end table in the family room, I decided that it was time to look for my own place again…and I hadn’t even been there a month.

As I had paltry means, I had no choice but to head back to juvie once again. Peter was sad about my departure, but Christine’s ready agreement to my proposition only strengthened my belief that it was the best course of action for me.

Once back at juvie, besides recommencing my GED classes, I started working in the kitchen, and I kept myself busy by working twenty hours a week there. By my eighteenth birthday, I had to leave and get a place of my own. I had saved up $691 by that time, and the cheapest place I could find was a halfway house with rent at $80 a week.

Even to stay at the halfway house, I needed some source of income, however meager. I applied for jobs at several places in town without success. I didn’t have a high school diploma; I didn’t have training; I didn’t have experience. Despite having no credentials other than my GED, however, I was hired as a store clerk at a Kwikee Food Mart after passing only a written test. From the thirty hours a week that I worked on the six-to-midnight shift, I made enough money to pay the rent, to buy food and small pleasures, and to buy an occasional shirt or pants. I was usually broke by the next pay cycle, however, and was thus unable to escape what appeared to be a vicious, never-ending cycle of poverty.

Though my neighbors weren’t the most-friendly sort, they always had access to marijuana for a really cheap price. Several times a month, after getting off work at midnight, I recall seeing police officers with their trusted K-9s searching the premises for drugs or seizing a suspect for questioning. Therefore, I was always careful with my stashes, hiding them underneath a small rock on the far end of the parking lot. Such was the care with which I protected what was, at that time, my most valuable asset.

And this is where my story of transformation really begins, on a typical Wednesday night several years later right after my twenty-first birthday, still living in the same temporary house, still living with the same temporary job, and still living with no future—or so I thought….

* * *

The date was June 16, 1999, and it was a very hot and humid Wednesday night. Three buddies of mine—Jesse, Terence, and Mickey—had all decided to stop by ten minutes before my shift was over, and with an unusual level of excitement in their faces, they asked me if I wanted to party hearty. Mickey pulled out a small bag with green buds covered with crystals and purple hairs, and I needed no further enticement!

Out of the corner of my eye, I suddenly noticed my replacement, Hal, walking in from the back of the store. I quickly gestured to Mickey to put the bag away; just after he had quickly stuffed the bag back into his pocket, I saw Hal look first at him and then at me in a funny way, yet he said nothing.

All right, guys, I’ll be out in fifteen, I called out to them as they walked back out the front door.

Ready? asked Hal as he walked behind the register.

Yeah, let’s do it, I answered, and we proceeded to close down my register. Hal began to hum a chipper tune as the registers ran through, giving me an indication that everything was cool. After my closedown procedures were completed, I ran out to Terence’s Vancouver, and we took off in more ways than one—smoking chronic and drinking a full gallon of seven and seven! Sometime during the night, I blacked out from the intoxicating mixture, with no idea when or where….

When consciousness was first restored the next day, the first thing I could feel were my temples slightly beating. As I opened my eyes to see where I was, I was surprised to discover myself back in my room, in my bed! I first wondered how I had gotten there, what with the rule against visitors after midnight being strictly enforced.

After a few seconds of thought, I determined that I must have staggered back to bed on my own—after doing many other things that I would never remember. I then felt something cold and sticky between my fingers—ugh! Immediately after that, the nauseating smell of vomit wafted up my nose—I looked around and realized that I was drenched in the stuff; it was all over my hands, my arms, my T-shirt, my bed.

The nauseating smell began to make my stomach feel queasy, and I sat up in bed to rip my T-shirt off. That was a huge mistake, as the slight throbbing in my temples abruptly transformed into a massive pounding in my brain! A vicious cycle ensued, as the smell of vomit wafted up my nostrils yet again, causing me to retch. In response, my temples pounded even harder, and I stumbled out of bed and over to the dresser to retrieve the bottle of aspirin lying on top of it, while simultaneously ripping off my shirt, wiping myself off with it, and tossing it into the corner.

Once the bottle was in my hands, it took still another minute to open the childproof top, with the pounding in my brain intensifying with each passing moment! My head felt as if it was going to explode, and I instinctively stumbled back into bed, praying, Oh God, please stop this headache! Or just kill me now and get it over with! With a final, desperate twist, the bottle miraculously opened and I reached into it with trembling fingers for the aspirin tablets; I gulped down a handful, not bothering to count, and lay back down, waiting.

A few minutes later, just when my headache was starting to recede, the alarm went off! The blaring noise that emanated from the confounded appliance set my headache to screaming again.

Ah! I growled, slamming my fist down on the clock and causing the casing to crack—but the noise, the music from what had been my favorite heavy metal station, persisted. I pounded the clock again, shattering the console and silencing it once and for all!

I then attempted to relax again and to allow the aspirin to do its job. Eventually, the headache did recede, but now my stomach sounded a new alarm, growling and telling me that it was time to eat! I glanced instinctively at the shattered alarm clock.

Oh well, I muttered under my breath. Guess I need a new one….

With the diminishing of my headache, my nostrils were able to detect more keenly the lingering smell of vomit, and I decided to rid myself of the smell once and for all. After getting out of bed, I ripped the sheets off and tossed them on top of the shirt. I had no personal bathroom in that place, so I headed over to the public one to get cleaned up. After I had finished taking my shower and drying off, I threw my clothes on and combed my hair. Returning to my room, I threw my dirty underwear and pants onto the ever-growing pile in the corner.

They can be washed later, I thought, and I headed to the elevator and took it down to the lobby. I walked to the local McBuck’s and got into the line nearest the door. Glancing over into the adjacent line, I hungrily noted that there were two fewer people in it, and I hopped over, just barely beating out an old woman.

As I was starving, I deflected any possible guilt by looking up to the menu on the wall, but on their way there, my eyes were caught by a brilliant sight that held me frozen in wonder—a Hispanic female cashier and food-server with long black hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, revealing a face of perfect beauty, with doe-brown eyes, silky-smooth skin, and strong curves!

The nameplate on her shirt read Nina. As I stared at the nameplate for a few moments, her soft voice startled me back to reality.

Can I take your order? Her sexy Hispanic accent confirmed my thoughts about her ethnicity.

Sure, I replied. My heart was pounding hard within my chest, but my outward composure betrayed nothing.

Um, I said with a longer than expected pause, trying to focus on the menu; my eyes were drawn back to her time and again.

Are you okay, sir? she asked seriously, squinting slightly with her left eye.

Uh, yeah, yeah…I’m fine, I said, after regaining my composure. Can I have the egg, bacon, and cheese bagel with a coffee, please?

She started to laugh—a pleasant laugh, like gentle waters flowing down a stream—and while attempting to stifle that melodious laughter with her hand, she asked me, Don’t you know what time it is? I found myself laughing, too, but I didn’t know why.

No, I said, trying to stop laughing. What time is it?

She stopped laughing and leaned over the counter. It’s almost three in the afternoon. She gestured with her thumb at the clock behind her. Instead of looking at the clock, my eyes strayed to her small, delicate hands and fingers, with white nail polish and a silver, diamond-shaped bead in the center of each fingernail.

Oh, I muttered in embarrassment. My cheeks must have been blushing, as I was feeling rather flushed and hot! The first thing that came to my mind was to ask, What do you recommend?

She giggled and replied, Sir? The menu is on the wall, too.

Attempting to hide my embarrassment, I looked down to stabilize myself once again. When I looked back up at her, I could see that she had been observing me. Our eyes remained locked on each other for a long moment, and everything else was forgotten. No longer was I at McBuck’s in McCurrn, but alone with Nina, in our own private world, communicating our deepest desires through our facial expressions alone.

Strange, I remember thinking to myself. What’s a beautiful girl like this doing here? She could be anywhere she wanted! She could easily be a model….

Just then, a voice materialized from behind me and interrupted my little fantasy. I was abruptly snapped back to reality, as if awakening from a strange dream.

Are you going to order or what? It was the elderly lady that I had cut off, and the shrillness of her voice caused my headache to resurface.

Without looking back and trying to remain polite, I asked, Hold on for one second, okay?

Hold on for what, Christmas? she shrieked sarcastically.

I shouted over my shoulder, Yeah, why not? My headache was definitely back now. I looked down at the counter and breathed deeply for a second.

Well! she shrieked even louder. Excuse me if you’re not going to order!

Listen, lady, I hissed, slamming my hands on the countertop and turning on her with a sudden fury. I’ll be done in a freaking second! Realizing that my headache would literally explode if I didn’t regain my composure, I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I began to feel better, except for the sharp stinging in my hands.

Fine, then, concluded the old lady. I’m just going to go in this line! She then shuffled into the other line and mumbled to herself amid the sympathetic customers. By the time I looked back up