Stars in Broad Daylight

By Robert Samson

When, at age 39, the author is diagnosed with a life-threatening illness for which there is no cure or treatment, he joins his best friend, Claire, on a vision quest to New Mexico, where, at The Light Institute – a pioneer in past-life regression therapy – he relives a harrowing past-life in a Nazi concentration camp that illuminates the dark fate joining that lifetime with his current one, sowing the seeds for a broader personal inquiry into the spiritual meaning of suffering.
That age-old dilemma sends him to modern-day Germany, into the arms of a great Indian avatar, known as “Mother Meera.” She gives him the courage to forge ahead in his search for a cure, motivating him to undertake an experimental, highly-sought-after therapy in Italy. In due course, he is compelled to let go of everything he thought he knew and surrender to the terrifying path his life has put him on. Although he is shattered on every imaginable level, the transformation he undergoes opens the author to an ecstatic vision of wholeness that quite literally changes his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483565460

Book preview

Acknowledgments

CHAPTER 1

February, 1989

You could say it started on that bleak day in February when the sky was like talcum and a fierce wind blew in off the Hudson, sending whirlwinds of debris spiraling down West 23rd Street. It was bitter – much too cold to snow – forcing me to wrap my woolen scarf high around my chin. I sprinted up the greasy subway steps two at a time, heading west towards Ninth Avenue. I was late…late for an appointment I’d just assume have missed altogether, that being the third time I rescheduled, canceling last-minute the other two.

The wind blasted my face and stung my uncovered hands, already red and raw from acetone. I plunged them into the hip pockets of my bomber jacket as I turned up Ninth Avenue. The mammoth brick hulk of the London Terrace Apartments stood to my left – a virtual fortress anchoring the last habitable block of west Chelsea. Beyond that was a no-man’s land of warehouses and factories that would one day morph into the new SoHo when the old one had lost its edge, becoming just another annex of Madison Avenue.

The Chelsea Clinic sat back from the street behind a concrete park that had, long ago, become the day parlor for the homeless, jobless and permanently retired. But on that day there were only pigeons on the wooden benches; even the bums had taken refuge in the shelters, much as they mistrusted them.

As I climbed the steps to the front door I caught a glimpse of the venerable sycamores; their naked fragility echoed the queasiness in my gut. I thought about bolting, knowing once I went in there was no going back. I stood there in suspended animation for several seconds…Looking back on that moment it was morbid curiosity more than anything else that lured me inside.

The place reeked of disinfectant…chipped paint and cracked linoleum. I took a seat in a waiting room overlooking the park, appointed with mismatched plastic furniture. I counted five others: a homeless woman of indeterminate age with her laundry cart of movable treasures; two twenty-something gay boys gibbering in Puerto Rican; a fifty-something leather queen and a Black dude sporting an Afro, drinking Ripple from a paper sack. I felt my foot starting to cramp in my motorcycle boot. I leaned over to take it off when I heard my number called. The voice was unapologetically listless. Down the corridor to your left, first door on the right.

They all turned in unison to check me out…I found myself staring into the dull blue eyes of the homeless woman. What you gawkin’ at? she cackled, clawing the air above her head. I could’a had you in my glory days.

I bet you could, sweetheart, I grinned, swiveling away.

The gay boys whistled at my ass as I walked down the corridor. I felt wet under my armpits.

Better not take off my jacket I thought as I opened the cubicle door.

Mr. Samson?

Yeah, I grunted.

Please have a seat, said the woman behind the dented metal desk in a baggy green nurse’s smock. She had faded red hair the color of Rustoleum and a sallow complexion…Mr. Samson, you’re–

–You can call me Robert, I cut in nervously.

You’re here for your HIV results, she said in a hushed tone.

I barely nodded.

Looking down at an open manila folder, she paused to take a breath. Your test came back positive, she said gravely. I’m very sorry.

I slouched, unable to speak…I felt numb and flushed, the windowless cubicle closing in on me as sweat dripped down the inside of my t-shirt. She sat there motionless. I lifted my chin for a better look at her and all at once the space between us telescoped until all I could see was a miniscule red head suspended in space, like a lollipop.

"Are you all right? she asked, leaning forward.

The dread in her voice jerked me back to myself. I’m fine…why?

Does this come as a shock to you? she asked, resting on her elbows.

What the hell do you think?

She looked stunned, sitting upright…I felt sorry for her.

Sorry, I whispered…Is the test ever wrong?

She shook her head. Rarely…We can repeat it if you like.

What’s the point?

You’re thirty-nine and healthy–

"Yeah…For how long?

Are you asking me how much time you have left?

I stared at her without responding.

It varies from person to person…

I felt like vomiting.

Would you like some water?

No thanks.

I tell all my positive clients to do everything in their power to remain healthy…diet, exercise, plenty of rest…Stay away from drugs and alcohol. Do you smoke?

I shook my head.

The only approved treatment for HIV is ‘AZT.’ Do you have a doctor?

I shook my head again.

I can recommend one if you like, hoping for a chance to be useful.

The words spewed out of me, undigested…Sorry…I know you’re just doing your job and all, but I have no intention of dying from this thing…And I sure as hell am not taking ‘AZT.’ That shit is poison! I announced adamantly.

Why do you say that? she asked, leaning closer.

Because everyone I know who took it is dead now…That’s why.

She paused for a breath…What kind of support do you have?

You mean like friends?

Friends and family.

I have a few close friends…Otherwise it’s just mom and me.

Where does your mother live? noticeably relieved for the change in subject.

Florida.

No siblings?

A younger brother. He died of MS a year ago.

Your poor mother, she frowned, removing her glasses to rub her eyes.

I’m sure as hell not laying this on her.

I get it, she said, replacing her glasses. We’re funded for three follow-up sessions…Would you like to schedule something?

I didn’t respond, lost in the memory of my brother’s soul-crushing death.

I’m here to help…if you let me, she said, folding her hands on the desk.

I need time, I said, shifting in my chair.

I know it’s a lot to digest, she said, looking directly into my eyes for the first time. Take my card…Call me anytime…I mean that. I’ve written down the names of three excellent doctors.

Thank you…Are we done? I asked, folding the slip of paper and cramming it into my back pocket.

We are, she replied wearily, noticing I hadn’t taken her card…extending her hand across the chasm of the desk.

I shook her hand and walked back into the waiting area. Only the leather queen was still there and a good-looking blonde guy who looked vaguely familiar…suddenly recalling we had tricked about a year ago…

What’s his name? Aussie guy, used to work at the diner. Beautiful body; skin like a baby’s butt…We cruised one another for a month ‘til I caught him one night when his shift was over and dragged him back to my place…It was fall; the smell of rotting leaves…Great sex…a zipless fuck…What’s his name, damn it?

He caught me staring at the quarter-sized, purple lesion in the center of his forehead. I immediately looked away; all I could think about was getting out of there.

A blast of arctic air pummeled me as I opened the door and a skeleton with purple blotches on his cheeks hobbled in on crutches, barely grazing my forearm. I froze…

That isn’t me! Not me! Not me! repeating it like a mantra all the way down West 23rd Street.

I caught a glint of the setting sun on the river. The streetlights had already come on as the nine-to fivers began returning home from their day jobs. I stopped in a pizza joint on my way to the train. I wasn’t hungry, but I needed something to fill the void in my gut. I grabbed the pizza and a Diet Coke and descended the stairway to the E-train…The only thing anchoring me in the moment was the pungent taste of garlic on the roof of my mouth…At Fourteenth Street I transferred to the A, glad to be sheltered from the killer wind; sit still for a spell…I closed my eyes and tried not to think about anything, allowing myself just to free fall.

I conjured up an image of the sky arching overhead like a translucent blue dome. I was eight; summertime in the Catskills: the magic moment just before sunset. I sat on a swing all by myself, pumping furiously, trying to climb as high as possible…faster, faster; higher, higher, hell-bent on escaping the grip of gravity…I never quite made it.

I smelled the metallic odor of steel against steel as the train pulled into West 4th Street. A bunch of people got on and off. I didn’t notice anyone in particular; just the sound of a boom box playing Billie Jean, and then the train went black.

Out of the midst of the darkness I flashed on the time I flew a kite with my dad…How we kept adding spools of twine until it soared so high it practically vanished; how I kept pushing him to add more to see if we could launch it into space, like a rocket…How dad reeled it in when he ran out of twine…I remembered staring at the torn tissue paper and ragged tail with a melancholy feeling that haunted me…I still don’t know why.

I saw the sign for the Canal Street Station and remembered how often I walked those sidewalks in search of wire mesh or powdered pigment for my wall sculptures. I liked it there; it was another one of those in-between places joining SoHo and Wall Street. You could get just about anything there, most of it dirt-cheap.

Canal Street wasn’t hedged in like the rest of Manhattan; it breathed; kept a rhythm all its own. Best of all, it led somewhere…somewhere magical, somewhere numinous, somewhere over the rainbow: the Brooklyn Bridge – so much more than stone arches and steel catenaries, hell yeah!…the embodiment of beauty and strength…and audacity!

I barely heard the conductor announce Chambers Street, Broadway, last stop Manhattan. An Arabic-looking man eating a hotdog and two Hassidic Jews got on and sat opposite me. The train doors tried to shut but convulsed in the process, leaving a six-inch gap. After several tries the train lurched forward, going momentarily dark as it dove beneath the East River.

I saw the red-haired woman in my mind’s eye, her lips forming the word, positive. How could I be fine one minute and terminal the next? It had to be a mistake; tests weren’t always infallible.

But I knew it was no mistake, as the conductor’s voice crackled over the intercom, High Street, Brooklyn and a few more people got on.

Almost home…I hope Claire is there…Please be there, Claire!

The train pulled into the Jay Street Station and I exited, gripping the handrail for support, all the way up to the surface. The wind bit my cheeks and the tops of my ears. It was only a ten-minute walk to the loft and I was freezing already. I tasted garlic and wondered what the hell I was going to eat for dinner. I knew there was nothing in the fridge.

Maybe Claire will be up for some take-out.

I looked up into the dark night sky. It had cleared enough to reveal a pale crescent moon and a few faint stars. I heard my boot heels on the cobblestones, reminding me how much I liked that sound. I jogged down Jay, taking a sharp left on Front Street, the rusted steel underbellies of the Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges looming directly overhead, christening the neighborhood with the acronym, DUNBO: down under the Brooklyn overpass.

It was a neighborhood of late nineteenth and early twentieth century commercial lofts – not as distinguished as the ornate cast iron buildings in SoHo that had recently been discovered by artists in search of cheap rents and large, light-filled spaces. My loft was in a seven-story building on Water Street, zoned strictly commercial, so all of us were living there illegally. Although the area was deserted at night, the herculean presence of the bridges overhead made our building feel sheltered and protected.

I reached into my hip pocket for the key. A jumble of buzzers surrounded the metal door jamb on both sides, their tangled wires snaking up the green brick façade, disappearing through barely cracked windows.

By the time I climbed to the sixth floor I was winded. I maneuvered my way around a pallet of sheetrock abandoned in the middle of the hallway (someone new moving in?) and knocked on Claire’s door at the far end…No answer.

Shit Claire, where are you?

I unlocked the door next to hers and cranked up the thermostat on the big ceiling-mounted gas heater. The place was an igloo. Two long walls of double-hung, industrial windows that met in the corner made it feel like the prow of a ship. I peered out at the monumental granite tower of the Brooklyn Bridge in the foreground with the inky blackness of the East River just beyond that. The colossal twin towers of the World Trade Center thrust out of the mayhem of lower Manhattan, the entire shimmering metropolis spread out before me: everything I ever wanted – so close, so utterly unattainable.

I felt the old familiar rage welling-up, before I could take a few deep breaths as I’d been cautioned to do a zillion times – who the fuck wanted to? – I dragged a wooden stool to the center of the voluminous space.

Seven years! What the fuck do I have to show for it?

Schmoozing and ass-kissing dealers and curators, year after year; not one scintilla of interest – rejection after rejection…Did it discourage me? Hell no! – just the opposite, spurring me on to one creative triumph after another, each piece bigger and more complicated until they literally outgrew my old space in Hell’s Kitchen and I was forced to relocate to the Brooklyn waterfront.

And for what? What the fuck was I hoping to accomplish?

I stared at an eight-foot spiral of translucent fiberglass, embedded with plaster bones cascading towards a fetus of fired clay in the center.

No one’s even into this shit!

It was the early 80’s, when cynicism reigned supreme in the New York art world – a reaction, no doubt, to all the hype of the Reagan years that saw junk bond dealers trading in junk art that doubled in value overnight, only to collapse in auction when the frenzy subsided at the close of the decade. It was a season of irony; a conspiracy of the politically correct and the disenfranchised. You were in only if you were out, meaning ethnic minorities and women with agendas.

My work didn’t fit into either category; the most common reaction being mild bewilderment. Dude, what planet are you from? But I kept steeling myself with the hope that sooner or later someone would get it; that eventually collectors would hunger for real food after all the fast food that had passed for art in the cynical 80’s…It never happened.

I thought about my recent meeting with Paula Cooper, SoHo’s reining Mistress of Minimalism – a meeting two years in the making. Thinking about it now made my jaw lock.

I walked over to a piece in progress: a swirl of wire mesh and hydrocal. Without thinking, I grabbed a sledgehammer off the floor and delivered two forceful blows. The metal armature buckled, sending chunks of plaster careening to the far edges of the space. Tears welled-up in my eyes…

What has it all been about?

My rage incited deeper rage, and the festering boil spewed out its toxic poison. I’m so sorry to have to inform you your test came back positive.

My tears turned to sobs as I moved on to an ultramarine, heart-shaped piece and knocked it off the wall with one fell swoop. The brittle resin cracked in half, as I let the sledgehammer rip, sending shards of fiberglass in every direction. One nicked my forehead, over my eyebrow. I tasted blood…Blood that was supposed to be the source of life all of a sudden had become contaminated…It made no sense.

I moved robotically to Solar Wind, an intricate piece composed of a stylized African mask carved out of mahogany, with wind-blown hair made out of a flattened, wire-mesh garbage can I found on the street. A small glass window behind the face gazed out onto a pellucid golden spiral. Of all my work that was by far the most precious. It spoke of surrender and redemption; of suddenly being uplifted by a mysterious, blissful presence, close enough to see right out the window. Although it was an earlier piece, it was the germinal vision for all the others.

I crouched under its weight, allowing it to rest momentarily on my shoulder…and then I let go, watching it crash to the floor to the sound of disintegrating glass and splintering plastic. The great yellow spiral cracked into pieces that I reduced to powder with three more scathing blows. All that remained intact was the delicate wooden mask, now detached from its metal armature. I picked it up and stared into its half-open eyes, tears streaming down my face…

What am I here for? What do you want from me?

My skin was tingling. I felt exhausted and liberated, as if suddenly released from some awful, terrible burden…My stomach growled.

I walked over to the makeshift kitchen – nothing more than a slab of butcher block on two beat-up sawhorses with a mini-fridge below and a toaster oven, blender and hotplate on top. I eyeballed the contents of the fridge: a bowl of half-eaten tuna, a jar of pickles, some mayonnaise, some wilted lettuce, two green pears and a half-empty jug of carrot juice. I ate the tuna out of the bowl with some Triskets I found next to the mattress. As I swigged the last drop of carrot juice there was a knock at the door. I knew it was Claire.

Shit! I don’t want her to see the place like this…

I wasn’t ready to tell her…I breathed deep, trying to compose myself. I walked to the door and opened it abruptly. She peered in from the dimly-lit hallway; the little she eye-balled generated a quick succession of emotions that rolled across her face like waves: horror…confusion…sadness. I pulled her into a bear hug before she had a chance to say anything.

What’s going on? she asked, stepping across the threshold.

Claire… I sighed heavily, looking down…then up into her eyes.

Are you all right? Is that blood on your face?

It’s nothing…Just a nick, I said, looking down again.

Just a nick? What the hell happened in here? craning her neck to peer in.

Sweetie, can we talk tomorrow? I asked sheepishly.

I’m worried about you. How did things go with Paula?

All will be revealed tomorrow. I promise…Why don’t we meet for lunch?

She hesitated, registering my reticence, my obvious discomfort. Tell you what, she said, plucking a tissue from her purse, pressing it to my forehead…Meet me tomorrow at The River Café, my treat. How’s one-thirty?

You’re on, girl! forcing a smile as I leaned over to kiss her on the mouth. She drew me closer; squeezing me so tight I could barely breathe.

See you tomorrow, frowning as she turned to leave. Promise me you’ll be careful.

I promise, I said, closing the door.

I collapsed onto the mattress, relieved she hadn’t pressed for more details. The loft was still ice-cold. I put the kettle on the hot plate. Then I tore my clothes off and crawled under the comforter, waiting for the water to boil.

Claire was the only person in the world I could really talk to. I loved her like a sister. We met two years ago, discovering we were both born under Taurus, one day apart. We became instant soul mates and co-conspirators; both artists, non-religious but deeply spiritual – though, truth be told, she was more than a few steps ahead of me in that department, constantly dragging me to lectures at The Open Center on lower Broadway.

I drank the tea and thought about the red-haired woman for the umpteenth time…What did it mean to know you were going to die? I was only 39. This was no philosophy lesson; this was a living, breathing virus feeding off my lifeblood! devouring the minutes between this one and the last…I wondered if I was ready to tell Claire…One step at a time, I repeated to myself…See how we feel tomorrow.

I was thrilled and relieved she invited me to The River Café. At least it was something to look forward to…I set the mug on top of the filing cabinet, turned off the gooseneck lamp and succumbed to the bliss of unconsciousness.

CHAPTER 2

I rolled over, squinting to see the face of the alarm clock: 8:20 AM…

Better get my ass out of bed if I’m going into the city.

I could see my breath it was so fucking cold! I pulled the sheet up over my head and focused on what I would wear to The River Café, something warm enough for a trip to the city. I had a dull headache. Climbing off the plywood platform, I grabbed a terrycloth robe and cranked-up the heater full-blast, shuffling over to the rust-stained toilet.

The muted morning light revealed the full extent of last night’s carnage: shards of glass, twisted chunks of hydrocal ripped from their metal armatures, jagged slices of fiberglass, perforated styrofoam and splinters of plywood…everywhere!

I spotted the mahogany mask face-up on the wooden stool where I left it. Tiptoeing through the minefield in my bare feet, I snatched the sole survivor of seven years of work and carried it over to the long wall of windows. Fog obscured the city, last night’s blizzard having sputtered to a flurry. I could barely make out the outlines of parked cars above the drifting snow…I stared at the features of the partially-abstracted face, waiting for it to stir me…

I don’t have time for this now, carefully leaning it against the brick wall under the windowsill.

I walked over to the closet and pulled down a turquoise linen shirt and a pair of herringbone trousers. I found a cashmere pullover in the filing cabinet alongside some flannel boxers. Stepping into my scuffed-up motorcycle boots, I threw my shaving kit and workout clothes into my backpack, grabbing my bomber jacket…slamming the door behind me, double-locking it from the outside.

The snow was knee-high to the door, forcing me to carve a path all the way to the station. By the time I got there my boots were soaked clear through the leather soles. The train was empty, it being Saturday and the city still crippled from the storm. All the way over I kept flashing on the red-headed woman…

Exiting at Chelsea Station, I decided to treat myself to breakfast at my old-favorite haunt. The Empire Diner, on the corner of Tenth Avenue and Twenty-Third Street, was a Deco jewel box of black glass and polished chrome that the staff incessantly Windexed to a toxic gleaming shine. Open twenty-four-seven, it was last call after the leather bars on the waterfront kicked everyone out. I capped-off many an unsuccessful night at The Eagle with early morning pancakes at The Diner.

I sat by the large plate glass windows, gazing out at the sea of whiteness. The snow had frozen, transforming everything into a glistening confection of meringues and cornices…Out of nowhere, the red-headed woman intruded on my reverie…

Was there time to start over?

I watched a man in a red woolen cap carrying a kid on his shoulders, laughing exuberantly…

How long had it been since I felt happy for no reason…recalling the countless hours spent alone in my studio, welding iron and carving wood; sculpting clay and molding rubber; casting fiberglass until I could literally taste it. Sure I loved it, but where had it gotten me..? Maybe it deserved to be tossed in the dumpster.

I looked down at my hands…Did it all begin and end with this body or was there more to me? Did anything survive the disintegration?

I imagined telling my mother, immediately overcome with such visceral dread I started sweating…Impossible! Complicated as our relationship was, there was no way in hell I could dump this on her; certain losses just couldn’t be born.

Twenty years ago my father died of lung cancer eight months shy of her fiftieth birthday. Six years later her second husband died a month after they retired to Florida. My younger brother died of MS barely a year ago. I was all she had left; the only thing standing between her and a bottomless pit.

A waitress with spiky, blue-black hair came by to take my order, tempting me with the house special breakfast: breaded pork chop with biscuits and gravy, eggs and grits. I decided I’d better leave room for lunch, ordering a toasted bagel with bacon and eggs over easy. The strong black coffee left a bitter taste in my mouth. I asked for more cream; she put it down with a well-rehearsed indifference. I ate ravenously…After my third mug of coffee I waved for the check.

A blast of wind sealed the heavy plate glass door shut, taking three tries to push the damn thing open. There were hardly any cars on the street and the sidewalks remained unshoveled, so I trudged down the middle of 23rd Street all the way to the Y, directly across from the legendary Chelsea Hotel.

The locker room smelled of mildew and Pinesol. I changed into my workout clothes and took the elevator up to the weight room: a large open space with high ceilings and clerestory windows. Registering the familiar clang of iron as I walked in, I spotted Kevin over at the bench press.

Ah, Kevin…If marble could reincarnate Kevin was undoubtedly David, so uncanny was the resemblance: same noble brow and chiseled nose, same pouty lips and helmet of curls. We dated for a year, but I broke it off a month ago. Hailing from Abbeville, South Carolina, Kevin had done everything in his power to scrape the mud off his boots and lose the Southern drawl, but the redneck in him kept rising to the surface. In the end he wasn’t David after all, but a sweet southern hick, disinclined to pondering anything deeper than which Polo tie to wear to work. I lost interest. While the breakup had been amicable, he kept his distance whenever he saw me.

Need a spot? I joked, sneaking up behind him.

Actually I do, he replied nonchalantly.

How are you? I asked with genuine interest, positioning my hands on the iron bar. One, two, three… Kevin pumped the barbell as I counted. Seven, eight…push it! c’mon man, give me two more, push it up! I mock-commanded, helping him on the last rep.

He paused to catch his breath. Real good…Crazy at work, as usual…And you?

Okay…you know, life of the struggling artist.

How’s that going? he asked, feigning interest.

Not so good at the moment, I admitted, noticing a cute Puerto Rican walking through the door. Seeing anyone?

Too busy, he said…Do you wanna do one?

Sure, I said, switching places with him. I did ten reps without any help from Kevin. So, what’s happening tonight? Anything going on? I asked, feeling the burn in my pec muscles.

You don’t know?

I shrugged.

Closing party at ‘The Saint,’ he snapped, as if it were a coronation.

Wow! End of an era, huh?

Kevin didn’t respond, picking up my subtle tone of mockery. After an awkward lull he mumbled, Gotta keep going, channeling his annoyance into the following set, pumping out ten more with no assistance from me.

Good set, I grinned, looking at his face upside down. Even from