Doors

By Paul Quintanilla

Positive and negative, negative and positive, the two competing forces within Carlton Phillips. This is a novel about how he is violently rocked by these forces. And finally surmounts them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Dec 3, 2017
• ISBN: 9781387415823

Book preview

Doors

DOORS

THE INCREDIBLE INNER WORLD OF CARLTON PHILLIPS

A Tale of the Paranormal

by

Paul Quintanilla

Revised 2013

Lulu Press

2008

Copyright: Paul Quintanilla

ISBN: 978-1-387-41582-3

TOWARD A NEW MILLENNIUM

Life is like playing a violin solo in public and learning the instrument as one goes on.

Samuel Butler

The Beginning

The fires of the night warded off the encroach of the forest. A thick entangled junglelike forest. Animalfilled. Creaturefilled. Spirits free and loose in the night. A crowd so thick any sensible man would not venture from his safe and comfortable house into it at night: keeping his eye on civilized and secure things. For the thick woods would swallow him up if he went far into their secret mysterious tangle. Yes, better to look upon the reassuring sights of many man-made things within the house. Things stripped of all the willful free spirits.

But Mr. Phillips was born deep in the tangle of the forest, in the junglelike thickness of nature's great ravenous encroach. In the realm of the wild and among spirits dancing in the night air. The great roaring camp fire a dull competing light against night's overarching black. And the knowing shaman, a bearded man in coveralls, blue denim and faded: bare footed, gnarled handed, broad shouldered and tanned by the day and sun, exhorted the gods. All the gods. The One and Mighty if He is there. The Almighty Bearer of Darkness on the one hand and of Light and Knowledge and Reason on the other, balancing, balancing always. Never letting one fall. And the shaman oversaw the entrance of this new human spirit in a tiny human body into the world, a tiny bud, a future blooming, another human ego, spirit, soul, large or small.

But the shaman knew this spirit would grow to be large. And the shaman knew it would go on a lifelong quest: a search for meaning. And seeing it he didn't speak to the father or mother. Nor did he tell them what he saw. For his heart filled with awe and fear and dread when he beheld the tiny child. For both the dark and the light were stamped onto his flesh, in the afterbirth. And having seen it tossed the afterbirth into the fire where it quickly burned. And the baby looked whole, new, like any other healthy newborn child.

Only the shaman knew. And he feared influencing the adventure the child would soon be on. For he was wise enough not to interfere. Positive. Negative. The two in the air balanced in the hands of the Great God. And if lucky the child might some day know the Face of God? Unlocking a mystery the shaman had always only hoped to master, unable in his honest humility to claim that pride. For he didn't even know if there actually is a God.

But the Shaman trembled, for the negative (black) aspect had been stamped large. A great painful struggle someday would surely ensue. Day and night, darkness and light: the two opposing forces. Yes, the child had been marked to be a great player. That had to be so. For the Master of Light and Darkness himself had stood watching within the forest's nearby shadow as this child entered the world.

The First Door

Once aboard the crowded elevator Mr. Phillips would quietly descend to the street, unnoticed, unremarked upon, another middleaged executive who appeared somehow distant and unrelated to the other passengers aboard the car. And in this quiet manner he would cross the large crowded lobby of his towering office building out onto the avenue entering into that fixed nightly neighborhood migration: the rush hour. Merely another well dressed executive walking along the street with a silver handled cane smartly poking the way forward: his tie a silk flourish, his lapels expressively wide and flat projecting power, his hair cut short in the standard executive manner. For now Mr. Phillips would take his customary evening stroll: one among many who calmly, slowly strolled along the broad and busy boulevard: past the five star hotels, numerous large gourmet restaurants and elegant shops, taking in what he saw, all the sights. Concentrating unobtrusively upon the faces and postures and moods and subtle expressions of joy, pain, hope, grief and happiness on all the people quickly passing by. Gaging what he saw as if he were somehow monitoring the mood and state of all these people out on the street: a kind of sensitive gage of the human soul on a late urban afternoon: a man searching out much deeper things. And though well dressed and quite distinguished in appearance nobody ever seemed to notice Mr. Phillips. He had that most peculiar characteristic: of remaining invisible in any crowd, though logically he should have stood out. For any quick scrutiny, no matter how brief, of his outward appearance should have revealed that he was not in the least ordinary. That he stood out.

Considering he had spent the entire day in his busy office it might seem reasonable now to assume that he would simply desire to go home. After all, most of the people on the street were tired after a long hard day at work: and this desire to quickly get home was the great driving impetus of the nightly rush hour. But possessing an unusual degree of native energy Mr. Phillips' walks were frequently long, extremely long, lasting well into the deep of night. Nor did he often remain within the safe and secure neighborhoods one would associate with such a man: often wandering far afield into areas of the city those as well dressed and prosperous as Mr. Phillips would never be seen in. Dark unlit dangerous nooks which appeared abandoned and empty at night but which hid the human predators lurking there. But as he calmly walked along through these dark nighttime streets the eyes of the drunks, prostitutes, drug addicts and criminals he passed by merely swept over him, with neither focus or sight, as if he weren't there. As if somehow his presence hadn't registered. And no thief lurking in these black shadows ever plotted how he might snatch the wallet or silver-handled cane from such a prize.

But that would be late at night, when these nocturnal creatures emerged. When that lawless nocturnal dance respectable executives and their wives and friends thought little of would intensify. Each wretched individual life engaged in a maddened desperate pursuit merely to survive. When predators preyed upon each other leaving Mr. Phillips alone as he calmly wandered through their midst. For following his impulses and curious leanings, obeying an inner sense of direction which guided him on, he easily intuited which parts of the city might most gratify his curiosity that night. What he sought. And in that manner time passed: in that manner he wandered far afield entering many forbidden parts of the city.

Now it was past ten o'clock and calmly circling a dark dismal plaza, far from his office, he quickly gaged and examined the various nodding addicts and mumbling drunkards with twisted smiles lying there. Those who were still conscious and those who had passed out. A foul, filthy odor marking the place: as if all these people were a mere human litter, a fetid stinking fungi which had sprouted from the asphalt and cement: castaway human refuse possessing a deep foulness and filth even Mr. Phillips kept his distance from.

But his face remained unmoved, cool, sober, quietly reflective and perhaps even the trace of a smile could be discovered in the thin middleaged lines surrounding his mouth and eyes. None stared back. None even seemed aware he quietly stood there. And with a certain finality now, still exploring, still seeking, Mr. Phillips left the circular and abandoned - abandoned by all stable and well off people - plaza to its drug addicts and drunks to continue on into a large nearby park.

This large, sprawling green space was much like Central Park in New York, occupying several hundred acres, with many diverse landscaped areas. And much like Central Park was often abandoned late at night for it would become a dangerous place to be in: and the wooded corner Mr. Phillips entered into now was ironically known to the city as the Love Nest.

This intimate wooded area was the meeting place for those desiring dangerous and furtive physical encounters of every variety, most often sexual. And it may have been the most dangerous place in the park. But Mr. Phillips boldly entered, calmly strolled along, following the long black asphalt path into a tangle of thick woods and shrubbery. His nose keenly poised he sniffed out the scents he had expected and searched for, and seemed satisfied with the subtle spices he found in the air. In this Mr. Phillips had a very keen nose, and could smell and identify the source and cause for nearly any scent no matter how exotic or rare. And as he calmly walked along, indifferent to the promise of spring's sweetness in the air, his alert ears picked up the faint hidden moans and cries of pain and ecstacy which emerged out of the dark tangled shrubs. Another person walking by may not have heard all these whispering barely audible sounds. Another person may have only heard his own beating heart as he quickly attempted to reach the exit gate on the other side of the park. But Mr. Phillips calmly paused now and stood silently on the path, beneath a pale moon, listening and sniffing and taking in the atmosphere all around him. And he appeared satisfied.

For a place so dangerous the dark actually felt velvety and soft, regenerative and alive in its indifferent stillness. Contradicting, Mr. Phillips thought, the nature of the night. Is it possible, he wondered, for that positive daytime force to also occupy the late night? Even here, where dangers lurk large? For the night has its own consistency, its own black character. Not for nothing did our European ancestors attribute evil to the night, fearing it. For the sun is the carrier of optimism, Mr. Phillips coldly reasoned, while the night remains forbidding and heartless.

Mr. Phillips moved on, leaving this tangle of shrubs with its unique set of scents and sounds, drawn now toward the broad moonlight. And entered into a wide flat abandoned field, a very dangerous place to be in at night. For here the city's street gangs often met in the deep of night to engage in enormous fights. Nor did the police ever intrude or arrive except in great strength, prepared to make war. For the gangs could often be quite large. And no well dressed prosperous businessman with a thick wallet tucked within his suit jacket come anywhere near this spot at night.

But beneath the pale moon Mr. Phillips calmly walked out into the middle of the broad field surveying its empty expanse: and as he walked over the rough earth, knotted with beaten grass, once again detected its different scents, mostly of dried blood. And could even identify the race and age of the blood's vital living source. Numerous Puerto Ricans, blacks, Dominicans, whites, even an Asian or two had left their bloody trail over this flat open expanse of park. And mixed into that blood the sharp scent of gun powder spiced the flat dull brown odor of the decaying blood. A cocktail which thrilled through Mr. Phillips' sensitive nostrils as he grasped the numerous tales of anguish and pain which accompanied this deep history of violence. He stood now beneath the moon, a dark solitary figure alone on the center of a flat large abandoned field. A field quiet and motionless and still in the growing late night. The night air was touched now with a cool spring breeze and with it now brought the scent of numerous approaching men. Absorbing this Mr. Phillips' senses instantly thrilled and sharpened with a fierce happy anticipation. And off on one distant edge of the field he saw them come. Perhaps thirty or forty of them, all brown skinned: all armed and doped up and some even quite drunk: all worked up and crazed and ready to fight: on they came, boldly, confidently onto the open moonfilled field. And with a thrilling rush of excitement Mr. Phillips rooted them on, anticipating all the violence, the blood, the senseless agony and pain. All his concentration had become intensely gathered and sharpened now as if he had waited all his life for this one solitary moment, and he fully lived it now.

The men entering upon this moonfilled field of combat didn't notice Mr. Phillips. They in fact appeared totally unaware of him. And now as he calmly walked away to make way for their quick approach another large group of men entered upon the field. These were white and like their brown counterparts were doped up, heavily armed: some were quite drunk. All were extremely excited and prepared to fight. Now the thick atmosphere of blood and violent excitement had almost overwhelmed Mr. Phillips as he felt the approaching dark red climax of blood. And discretely he took a lonely aloof spectator's position on the side of the field as the two groups quickly approached each other. The crack of a pistol firing abruptly shattered the night's moonlit silence. Deep yells and the two groups rushed instantly commingling. And Mr. Phillips' concentration tightened as he closely watched. The scent of blood and gun powder - oh, delicious sharp cocktail - rose in the air. And mixed into that cocktail masculine sweet scents of brown and white sweat enhanced by a cheap florid cologne and the scents of rubber, cheap cottons, metal sharpened by sweat, fear and an electric violence filled Mr. Phillips' nostrils. Men shouted, even screamed, there were more gun shots. It all lasted no more than a five full minutes, like a sharp climax: a quick eruption permitting all the pent up puss of violence to erupt mightily out. A compact violence composed of pain, fear, hate, madness, the determined passion merely to prevail. A delicious concoction, ah yes, and eager connoisseur that Mr. Phillips was he coldly gaged it all: balanced and carefully weighed it and compared all its unique aspects to long established standards. The broad deep night air remained shattered, quickly collecting again into its broad universal tranquility, as the two opposing gangs finally left the field, carrying their wounded. And once they were gone Mr. Phillips went out to the center of the place of combat to inspect the remains, searching it as if inspecting the surface of a newly warm mattress where the lovers had embraced. Examining it for traces.

The blood was fresh and bright and he softly touched it, still warm, sweet, delicious, slick and meaningfully poignant. It was the blood of one of the young brown skinned men and it offered a hint of the tropics, of numerous hot urban tenement nights, the spices of gun fire and even traces of sex. For Mr. Phillips could tell the man had had sex not too long before the conflict. And he could tell by tasting the drop of blood that the woman had been beautiful. Ah yes, quite beautiful, a keen delight to be with. For the blood had been sharpened and enriched by the man's powerful excitement. He sniffed the crushed grass and violated air for more delicate traces and soon found them: hints of squalor, poverty, crime, sex, drugs, and alcohol. Yes, Mr. Phillips had a keen interest in such things though he cared little for any unique individual. His form of connoisseurship concentrated only on the larger issues, the soul of humanity: its well being, overall health, degrees of happiness and pain, sanity, its current state. For he believed that the crushing weight of daily existence could at times weigh much too heavily on vulnerable human beings. That they often became overcome by fear and pain and anguish and uncertainty. And that because humanity had reached a point of development in which the whole world had come into play humanity's moods could actually affect the entire planet: even its remotest corners. Would the world collectively go mad? For there were times when the human race seemed to lose its collective mind. Yes, Mr. Phillips was keenly interested in these cycles, and was searching now for signs of the next.

*

Yes, the stakes had become extremely high. And connoisseur that he was Carlton Phillips closely watched humanity's shifts, mood swings, and overall development. How did he feel about the outcome of this colossal game?  He was, in truth, ambivalent. For if the human race destroyed itself the game could no longer continue. And he would have to accept the consequences like anyone else whatever they were. But he enjoyed following the game, closely observing the shifting colossal tides of conviction, faith, madness, and violence which brought so much needless pain and misery to the world. And he related to the numerous exercises of power he saw all about him. This he fully believed in. Not money, not success, and certainly not in artistic creativity. But in power. The most vibrant and life thrilling elixir in the world.

Why? Because power promises immortality. Power holds off the inevitable moment of death, or rather appears to. For in that experience of transcendent superhuman power death seems to cease to exist. Death is momentarily swept away. And a brightness and glory fill the air as if forever. Mr. Phillips knew it is for that reason that those who seek power seek it. For that elixir of everlasting being: as if the whole of the universe had opened up with a brightness and clarity which even promised its immortality. What's more power, not its responsibility but the sharp thrill of enjoying power, removes the pain of being from life. Here is its narcotic quality: its optimism, the great white light it brings, the end of death, and its total affirmation of one's deepest self. A self surely rising far above the broad gray mass of common humanity. A self which can do no wrong. Or fall into misdirection. Nothing enlarges like power, Mr. Phillips reasoned, and escaping the demotic gray dust of commonday humanity would be worth killing for. Yes, it is that seductive and addictive.

So Mr. Phillips could relate to those who sought power. And he believed everyone seeks it. Those, he thought, who didn't were somehow lacking, deserving whatever might come to them. And like a common reed bending to a high wind deserve to be brought down by power. If they whine, if they groan, if they ever talk of justice and fairness their whines and groans were merely the complaints of the deserving weak. No, power is a great force, an irresistible force, one which indiscriminately sweeps over the entire Earth. And it is in this universal striving to achieve power that Mr. Phillips found his highest satisfaction.

*

As the dawn began to arrive Mr. Phillips found himself once again out on the Southside Docks: one of his favorite parts of town. For the old romantic seedy air of this neighborhood was especially entrancing: its redbrick streets, the habitual early morning wet on the old cobbles when they were washed and scrubbed down and the mist poetically dissolving from a cool early dawn gray eventually to a bright sunshine. Only the fishermen, those very few who remained, and several wholesale produce dealers stoked up the predawn silence and calm with all their affirmative life and activity. Other than that these streets would be deathly quiet. But as Mr. Phillips arrived this early morning