Solemn Tales from the Scribe

By Terry Cruise

Joseph is no anomaly to the post modernism world of: no truth, no certainty, and no God. Leading him to self-destruction which we see so common in the early 21st centuries idea of man. His conscious will be constantly battling between being selfless or selfish. This struggle will lead him to a land far from his town and to a realm far from our own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Aug 3, 2017
• ISBN: 9781483471563

Book preview

it.

CHAPTER ONE

Lust for Society

Y ou just had to keep digging, didn’t you, Alex? The plan was so simple. Another sip of the spiked Coke reaches my lips, as the audible sound from the TV continues. All Hillary had to do was open a jar of pickles, and the White House would be all ours: mine and hers. We had this all worked out. This went all the way up to Vlasik. But, you couldn’t leave it alone, could you? With your twisting, and your popping, and your poking your nose where it shouldn’t be. You blew the lid right off our pickle can. You just couldn’t stop, could ya? It stops now, because I am afraid this little game is over, Alex. Now that you had to open your big mouth, I have no choice but to kill these pickles. The man on screen pulls out a nine millimeter airsoft gun from his black suit. The juice of these pickles are on you, Alex Jones. The man aims at the pickle jar. He pulls the trigger. The glass jar pops and the juice comes running down the black stool. The new world order sends its regards.

I chuckle as my eyes glance away from the TV.

I love late night shows, I tell the bartender.

You don’t get it, do you, Joseph? After his comment the bartender lowers his brown eyebrows. The wrinkles across his forehead make him look discerned, while his chubby cheeks begin to have a slight pigment of red.

What are you talking about? I become somewhat defensive after his reaction to my comment about the late night show. The last gulp of my drink enters my throat. I slam the glass drink down on the oak bar waiting for a response.

Do you watch, Alex Jones? Dan asks me. He takes my glass and empties the ice from my glass.

Should, I? I ask sarcastically.

Do you know humanity is on the brink of its extinction? Do you know every day you have been brainwashed by what you watch and listen to? The late night guy is sending a death threat to Alex Jones. And you just laugh, not having a clue that our country has been hijacked a long time ago by evil people, the bartender tells me frustrated.

Are you done with your rant? You honestly think this late night comedian is evil? I ask, somewhat disgusted. The bartender rolls his eyes.

No, Joseph. There are people in higher places. People who want to see our constitution, and God pissed on! I am done talking to you. You are clueless, Joseph. I am closing the bar soon, the bartender announces as he washes an empty glass behind the bar.

The bartender is a middle -aged, heavy-set man who appears to be in his late fifties by the coloring of his grey hair and wrinkles across his forehead.

Whatever, Dan, give me one more drink of Jack and Coke? I say, slurring my words.

All right, but this is your last drink, Joseph. You should probably call someone for a ride home, he says, looking at me with his old stern brown eyes.

Grumpy’s Pub is nothing special: made of pine with a brown stain finish on the beams that support the roof, the pub sports. White stucco walls with black industrial pipes running across the ceiling. The only decorations consist of old signs scattered across the pub.

The bartender hands me my closed tab with my final glass of Jack and Coke. Soon finishing my drink, I place my card in my wallet and then my wallet in my front pocket and begin to stumble toward the bar’s exit.

You coming back tomorrow?

I don’t want to come back, but I probably will, though I don’t admit this out loud. The thought depresses me.

What a man does for the cheapest drink of whiskey; I go as far as to listen to a man’s conspiracies. But, what if this man is right? Is there evil people controlling our society? Is it true that this society is designed for me to be Godless and alone? My mind wonders as I stumble slowly to the bar’s exit.

I walk outside and feel the cool ocean breeze on my face, which almost immediately sobers my intoxicated body. Walking a block down and pulling my keys from my pocket, I approach my car. As I begin to juggle my keys to find the correct one to unlock the car door, I hear feet shuffling towards me.

Joseph, what are you doing out this late? Drinking no less! It’s Tuesday, a familiar voice utters.

I look up noticing my good friend and coworker, Charlie. The first thing came to mind is to reply with a question.

What are you doing here so late?

I worked late again, so my wife and I decided to get a babysitter and spend some time alone over dinner. Now come with me so I can give you a ride home. I will ask my wife to follow us in your car.

He grabs the keys from my hand and clinches my shoulders to establish a firm grip in order to keep me from falling. We walk to his car, which is parked about a half a block away. As we approach it, he opens the door, helping me in the back seat. Closing the door behind him, Charlie walks to the driver’s side, opens the door, takes a seat, and closes the door beside him. He looks at the passenger. I assume it is his wife, but all I can see is the back of her head and the car spinning due to my drunkenness.

I need to take my friend home, can you drive his car back to his house for me? Charlie asks her.

Umm… Sure, I guess I can do that, what is his address? the women asks, looking confused.

I’m not sure of his address, just follow, Charlie responds.

Umm… Okay. She sounds irritated.

Charlie drives over to my car and drops her off. He waits there while looking in the rearview mirror. Just after the headlights from my car peer through his rearview window, he begins to drive.

Where is your house, Joseph? Charlie asks.

It’s in the GPS system.

Charlie begins fidgeting with the GPS system in the center counsel of the car. Okay, I am assuming it is the address book saying home. Is that right?

Yeah.

He enters the home address. Okay, here we go, Charlie says faintly. The car slowly begins to move forward on Locus St toward West Main St.

As we continue down the road, first on Palmer Avenue and then right onto Lakeview, the car remains silent. I close my eyes realizing how ridiculous this is.

Where are the kids? Charlie breaks the awkward barrier of silence.

They’re at their grandmother’s house, I answer in a whimpering drunk voice.

Your kids have been at their grandmother’s house for two weeks. Isn’t that a little too long, Joseph?

I assume he knows the answer, and he knows that I know it.

Just take me home.

The car turns right onto Lt Hauser Lane. My white porch light shines as soon as I hear the tires hit the gravel driveway. The white door and wooden shingles along the house reassured myself I was at the right house. Charlie turns off the car and hands me the keys.

Thanks, Charlie.

I am going to see you at work on time, right?

Yeah, I’ll see you at 8:00 a.m.

I said this, knowing very well it will probably be the same as other recent mornings, and I would most likely be late.

After climbing out of the car, I stumbled to my front door, and gave a thank you wave to Charlie and his wife, I take my keys and once again juggle them in order to find the correct one that will unlock the front door. After several moments of fidgeting, I enter the house and stumble my way to the bedroom, first making sure my alarm is set before I fall onto my bed, passing out as soon as my body hits the mattress.

*

BZZZ…6:30 a.m… another morning’s slumber stopped by the sound of my alarm buzzing in my ear. Over the past two weeks, I have learned how to master the exact time to wake up, so having my alarm set to wake me at 6:30 a.m. is completely unnecessary. But every night before I go to bed, I tell myself to check the alarm, verifying that it is set for 6:30 a.m. hoping to get up and make myself breakfast before leaving for work. Day after day the result is the same, me pressing the snooze button.

BZZZ BZZZZZZ.

The alarm now going off again, this time at 6:59 a.m. I roll out of bed as I have every previous morning since my wife’s accident. My temples throb with the beginnings of a huge migraine, probably from the alcohol I consumed after not eating dinner the night before. I begin to walk into the bathroom and my wife pops into my head. I miss her; I only wish I had told her how much I love her prior to her car accident, three weeks ago. Now it doesn’t matter. She lies in a coma with her mind dormant, not able to hear my subtle regrets. Every day since the accident, I have visited her at the hospital after leaving work, and today will be no exception.

While brushing my teeth, I decide I am not going to stop by Gumpy’s Pub, after visiting her. I begin to think about how I can pick the kids up from school, as well as see my wife. As I put on my blue jeans and T-shirt, I make a promise to myself to leave work early, visiting my wife first before picking up the kids from school. I look over at the clock. The time has quickly passed, and it is now 7:40 a.m. I know that work is at least eleven minutes away without bad traffic. I realize I am probably going to be late once again.

It is a little cooler this morning; I can feel the cold air outside as I put on my windbreaker while running to my car. It is a typical drive on my way to work, down Wood Hole Road. Even though I’m running late, I only drive five miles over the speed limit. I have always been a cautious driver, regardless of how late I am. Once in a while when I’m driving down Wood Hole Road, people shake their heads when passing me. When they do, I begin to wonder what they are probably thinking and saying to themselves about me.

A typical Asian driver following the speed limit and not really knowing how to drive.

I think how stupid they are to stereotype me. Little do they know that I have never received a ticket nor been involved in a car accident. Stereotypes are stereotypes, but at least I’m not like some people I know, who just listen to country music and watch football all day. As I am thinking about stereotypes and car accidents, I am reminded of my wife being in a coma, so I try my best to avoid the thought.

Stepping out of my car, I realize the outside air has warmed up making it a typical summer morning in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. Even though the sun is shining bright, there is still a somewhat chilly feeling in the air. Soon, it will warm up from the noon rays heating up the black pavement. But the weather is beside the point. I am again late for work. I continue to walk fast in order to save the little time I have from being too late. The time is now being five minutes past eight and soon to be ten minutes past by time I arrive at my office.

When approaching the Woods Hole Oceanic Institution building, I experience a feeling of satisfaction, for being a part of one of the global leaders of ocean exploration. The exterior of the building looks simple, a three story brick building with white trim windows. Walking through the glass sliding doors to go inside. I nearly collide with a biologist, and I realize the room is filled with professionals, all trying to understand the ocean and its complexity.

As minds exchange different ideas throughout the various departments in the building, I move to the very back where the boldest project has been ongoing for over a year. Through the hallway and into Smith laboratory facility, I see the 6.5 diameter titanium sphere. As a pilot, marine mechanic, and engineer, I have been selected to spend 12 hours inside this titanium sphere to install everything inside Alvin. Charlie and I placed everything inside the mock sphere, but this can only give you a good idea of how everything is going to fit.

You’re late, for the third time this week Joseph. Charlie sounds irritated while he examines the mock sphere.

Sorry I’ve just been having a hard time…

Charlie stands up straight and looks at me, this time with frustration.

"Stop right there. I don’t want to hear it. You’ve been riding this excuse and setting up pity parties for yourself since your wife’s accident. You need to snap out of it, Joseph! You’ve been having your kids stay at their grandma’s for too long and your kids need you! You have been coming to work late almost every day with what seems to be a hangover. We are supposed to have the manned submarine upgrades complete in five weeks, so we have got to get everything in this sphere done in a timely manner before dive season!

Wait one second, Charlie. Did you say gammit? I try to change the subject to make the conversation more lighthearted.

My wife is trying to make me stop cussing for the kids. Charlie’s posture suddenly looks less stiff, less frustrated.

I pause, trying to come up with words and a tone to explain how I feel. You know, Charlie, you just told me to quit having a pity party for myself, but you don’t get it. I don’t have someone telling me to watch my language anymore. Imagine not having that Charlie, not having a wife being able to tell you what to do when it comes to those little things, a life without your greatest companion that you have had for the past eight years. So your wife is trying to make you stop cussing in front of your kids, I don’t blame her, but in my opinion, saying gammit sounds real stupid when you’re at work and not around your kids.

Charlie raises his shoulders. Hey, I’m trying to break a habit!

You know what? Gam you, gam you and all of your made up words, Charlie! I smile.

Charlie has a slight smirk on his face, showing his teeth, which look bright white due to the color of his lips and dark complexion.

He smiles back. Come on, Joseph, that’s enough. Stop using my word to mock me.

But do you understand what I’m saying, Charlie? My wife helped me in many ways! She helped me slow down on my drinking and all the other bad habits I took up during my college years.

Now feeling more and more depressed, I work to hide my tears.

Aw, okay. I feel you. Come here, let’s group huddle. Charlie opens up his arms and walks over, enveloping me in an awkward hug.

I will help you make it through this difficult time, but it is so important for the two of us to focus on getting this project done.

I was able to hide my emotions that were about to escape me.

Okay, let’s get going. I’ll do my best to focus on the task at hand. But before we get started, I want to let you know that I made the decision this morning to pick up my kids today after visiting my wife, and by the way, you must admit that the gambit word does sound pretty awful.

Good, I’m happy to hear that you have decided to pick up your kids after visiting your wife, because they need you. They have not only been without you but also without their mother, On the other hand, I like the gammit ranting you did, it reminded me of the sense of humor the old Joseph had.

We exchange a smile and I feel better suddenly.

I hear footsteps walking into the facility.

What were you two doing a minute ago?

I can tell it is Sam asking by the tone of his voice, it is very distinctive. He has an out of shape kind of voice, due to his weight and heavy cigar smoking.

We had a group huddle.

You mean a duo huddle, Charlie. It can’t be a group huddle because there are only two of you, if I didn’t know any better, I would think the two of you like each other, Sam said with a wink and a smirk, showing below his red colored mustache, not because he likes men, but because of his weird since of humor.

You’re probably right, boss, I said, as the both of us begin to climb up to the hatch to get inside the titanium sphere.

Oh, and by the way, I not only saw your duo huddle, but I heard your conversation from the echo in the bay. Charlie’s right, Joseph. Both of you know that you need to get this shit done. As project manager, WHOI is on my ass, and gosh gammit… I don’t have to say that stupid word because I’m divorced.

I snicker at Sam’s last joke.

Very funny, Sam, Charlie said now with a slight irritation behind his words.

All right, Sam, you can trust us. All joking aside, Sam then looks at me.

Speaking of trust, I don’t know if I can trust you two anymore to meet your deadline. You, Joseph, have been late three times this week and Charlie has had to cover your ass during every meeting.

Hey, don‘t worry, we will have everything in this sphere by the deadline, I reply.

Okay, Joseph, I will take your word for it, Sam answers as he walks away, leaving the lab.

*

After three hours of installing the floor with Charlie the titanium sphere begins to feel confining.

I got to get out and have a smoke, before we try and put the wire harness inside the hatch, Charlie confesses.

Okay, I’ll follow you out.

Charlie climbs out of the 19 ½ inch hatch and I follow. Seeing Charlie step out of the office, with a cigarette in one hand, I decide to follow him.

Once outside, standing on the boardwalk and he lights his cigarette using his right hand to block the ocean wind from defusing the flame. Charlie puckers it between his lips.

Joseph, I’m black.

So what’s your point, Charlie? Obviously, I already know this, so I’m not sure why he is telling me what I can see. Race has never really mattered in our friendship.

My entire life society has tried to tell me what a black man does. A black man is lazy, a black man leaves his baby mama, a black man has dreads, a black man is a criminal and a black man doesn’t love God.

Charlie blows smoke from his nostrils, as I look out at the bay seeing the Ship Knorr take off to explore new leagues of the deep ocean. The inspiring ocean looks endless, until it joins the skies horizon. It makes me wonder what still is yet to be seen. Charlie‘s smoke enters my nostrils, bringing me back to the present and his voice.

Society tells me not to be an engineer in the United States Navy. To not do what I am even doing now: upgrading one of the most advanced manned submarines in the world. My entire life society tries to tell me to just be a nigga. Joseph you know what kept me together, he points his finger at me with his cigarette in between his index finger and middle finger. My family kept me going. I need this man, more than you know. I want to prove that society is wrong. I need your help to do that.

I want to help, I say.

Do you? he asks me. "Because you’re about to screw things all up for yourself and us. I know you’ve been through a tough time. No one should go through what you’ve been through.

Yes, you love your wife, and this is a very difficult time for you, I understand that. Don’t let your family down. Don’t let me down."

I don’t want to let anyone down, but I’m not sure how to say that. I just know I can’t go on with the way things are.

I’m drowning here, I say. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to handle any of this.

Charlie exhales a long plume of smoke. I know you haven’t gone to St. Patrick’s, or any other Catholic Church, but maybe you need to. Maybe God can help you.

Charlie takes another drag off his cigarette tosses it into the ocean, and without another word walks away, heading back inside.

*

After several hours inside the titanium sphere installing the wires, it is now 3:00 p.m. and I had promised myself to leave early enough to see my wife and pick up the kids.

Charlie, I’m leaving now I have listened to what you’ve shared with me today, and I promise you I’ll finish the interior of the titanium sphere that is needed by end of the fiscal year.

All right, Charlie answers in a tone of disbelief, while rolling his eyes.

Reaching my Toyota Corolla, I quickly get in and drove to the nearby Falmouth Hospital with a sense of urgency, which I really didn’t understand. Day after day, I drive there in this way, and once arriving at the hospital, I go to my wife’s room, and find there is no changes in her condition. She is still lying in her hospital bed, unconscious, with her eyes closed and a slow steady sound of her heartbeat coming from the heart monitor. Her long, black hair, frail hands, stubby nose, and beauty mark near the bottom of her left lip reminds me of sleeping beauty waiting for her prince to wake her up. I reach for her frail hand and clutch it in mine, wishing she would wake up. After sitting with her for a while, I begin to talk to her, pretending she is listening to everything I have to say about our son and daughter, the stuff going on at work, and my struggles without her.

I get no response. She lies there silent seemingly dormant to every word.

After my one-sided conversation with my wife, I realize the time is now 3:45 p.m. I decide it is time to leave the hospital to pick up my kids. Upon arriving at their school, I can see them waiting patiently for their ride home behind the gated parking lot, looking as cute as ever. Oblivious to my depression and struggles at work, they are too young to understand. My son is five and my daughter, seven. All they know is their mother is in a deep sleep at the hospital. They believe she’ll wake up, and I haven’t disabused them of this notion. Sometimes, I wish my mind was that of a child, naïve, full of trust, and believing in miracles. It would be easier for me if I had more faith like I once did.

My kids are excited to see it is me picking them up from school. After hugs and kisses, I help them into the car. After placing them both in their appropriate car seats, I decide to stop on our way home to pick up something to eat. Being the first evening together in a while, getting something to go, will give us more time to spend with each other.

After going through the drive thru and reaching our four bedroom, two and a half bath home, my daughter and son become temporally entertained with their happy meals. After only twenty-five minutes of playing with their toys and finishing their happy meal, they quickly become bored and want to watch a movie. I turn on the Wii U console and television so we can watch one of their favorite Disney movies’ on Netflix, before going to bed.

After the movie ends, I help the kids prepare for bed. After saying good night to my son, I go to my daughter’s room. There she is lying in her bed, looking upset.

When is Mommy going to wake up? she asks me. I miss her.

A tear slips from her brown eye. She reminds me so much of her mother with her black hair and almond-shaped eyelids.

Hopefully, she’ll wake up soon, Magdalene, I say, as I brush her long black hear through my fingers trying to comfort her. Looking down to her clasped hands, I see a band of beads: a rosary.

Where did you get those? I ask.

My wife and I hadn’t gone to church in years, nor did we ever talk about God to her.

Grandma told me if I pray with these, Mommy will wake up. She tries to keep herself from bawling. As her lips quiver, I feel anger growing. Why did my mother say that? It’s a dangerous thing to say because it might not be true.

When I was little, your grandmother’s words about faith convinced me to use the rosary, but it doesn’t always work, I say, thinking about the time I did pray. About all the times my prayers went unanswered. Magdalene, you can’t put your full trust in a pair of beads. It is more important to have trust in the doctors, as they will hopefully be able to fix the problem with Mommy, I say softly as I pause and ruffle her hair. Now get some sleep. I give my daughter a kiss on her forehead.

Magdalene nods her head and settles onto her side to sleep. I stroke her hair, comforting her. Her tears subside as she falls asleep.

Good night.

I leave Magdalene’s room, and I can feel my cell phone vibrating in my side phone holster. It is ten and I have no idea who would call me this late. I look at the phone ID; it displays a number not in my contact list, so I put the phone back in my holster. I continue to get ready for bed, as a buzz alerts me to a new voicemail. I climb into bed, exhausted I tell myself to check the phone after I close my eyes just for a minute.

*

I casually roll my body in bed as my eyes slowly open. I feel so energized. I look at the window and I notice the sons glare is stronger than it normally is in the morning. Wait, I forgot to set my alarm. I look at the alarm clock hoping I didn’t waste too much time. My heart stops…

Oh shit, it’s 7:45. My body pops out of bed like toast in a toaster. I rush to wake the kids. After scrambling to their school, dropping them off and driving back to my driveway. I sit in my