Invitare

By Xlibris US

Invitare
Compelling, intriguing, and thought-provoking, Invitare is an exception read that will definitely captivate many seekers of truth. Written by Thomas R. Napton, this book shares the concepts formulated by the inquisitive and creative works of Jacques Breen. This piece invokes a sense of awareness about life in the hearts and minds of its readers. Reaching beyond the mundane experiences of humanity, this provocative and insightful read shares a myriad of wisdom through one man's invitation to a new life called Invitare. This story is shared through the life of a brilliant reporter named Rales Tobin who works for the New York Times. With immense journalistic talent, he inherits a huge house, a car and enough funds in exchange for continuing the mission of the late Jacques Breen. Rales is appointed to publish Breen's materials which contain very profound and transcendent truths about life and the awakening of humanity. In the process of rummaging through the series of documents,
files and materials that contain compelling insights about the existence of mankind, Rales begins to put together a whole new discovery.
Enriched with ideas, this book creatively introduces unique and sublime concepts about life and how God is real in a world of counterfeit dogmas. Engaging, this literary masterpiece sets a creative tone of dialogues that lead to a
stimulating realization. Turning the pages of this read is like the gradual undressing of the true meaning of life. Stimulating, moving and riveting, this exceptional read will etch an indelible mark into its reader's subconscious.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 14, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469162997

Book preview

Copyright © 2012 by Thomas R. Napton.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2012902253

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-4691-6298-0

                Softcover         978-1-4691-6297-3

                Ebook              978-1-4691-6299-7

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 copyright owner.

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

110718

To my wife, Carol; Mother Agreda; and those who dream with their eyes wide open.

I T’S A NEW Y

ork minute past 6:00 a.m. At least that’s what the annoying alarm on my cell phone signals. What a distinctive noise to wake up to. I finally found a shrill yell that sounds like a Bronx cheer. No way could I snooze through that blaring racket.

It’s a New York Monday, same as the last one, except a week later, so it must be new. Although there are Mondays when I feel like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day, endless repetition, wondering if Alzheimer’s wouldn’t be a blessing, I have to get my act together. Rev the engine up for an early-morning stare down with my editor. My name is Rales Tobin. I am a reporter for the New York Times.

As I kick the covers off and slither onto a faded carpet, I wish I drank coffee or some other brassy lubricant for the mind. But I hate the stuff. A lifetime curse that left the rest of my family thinking I was adopted as they wantonly consumed gallons of the brew on a daily basis.

I irked my family even more when I would cleverly comment, Hey, Dad, my approach to coffee is close to your missing a putt, telling your thirty handicapped golfing cronies, ‘It was a good miss!’ Such mental jousting at either his golf or the family’s coffee addiction brought nothing but derision and suggestions that I am from another planet, typically with a smirk and sly smile, especially from Mom. Great memories. I can choke myself up thinking how much I miss them.

Multivitamin, cereal laced with 2 percent milk, and a banana or some type of fruit are my usual fuel. Of course, the typical activities of shaving, showering, and selecting from my sparse wardrobe seem so automatic that I don’t remember any of these steps in my morning’s hasty routine. This blur just happens until I use the formula the mirror and the feet. I look in the mirror, say my prayers, knowing I have no one to convince this day but myself, and look down at my feet, knowing that’s where I am. Not two steps back or three steps forward, but right there, right where my flat feet are planted. A reality check that works even if I’m in a blue funk. My brother, Denis, would grin wide if he could see my festive engine check each morning.

I leave my charming (a Tribeca euphemism for small) flat (760 square feet to be exact, which may sound like a closet, but at $2,500 a month rent, this is my empire), lock the three locks that so far have kept me safe, and take the noisy old elevator down three flights to a worn-out lobby with skid-marked tiles, bruised paneling, faded eyebrow windows letting the sun squint in, and flabby, squeaking doors welcoming the morning’s rush hour. Down the steps, now the insane fun begins. Thank God it is a nice day. Yesterday the weather slammed everyone trekking through the streets. An angry wind swirled through the venturi of the building canyons, stinging each of us with blast-furnace heat. Today the weather is on holiday, urging me to join the throng of city dwellers on the curb, where I yell like a howler monkey, realizing my whistle is anemic, finally hailing a cab.

Arriving at the New York Times Building at Eighth Avenue and Forty-First Street, I pay the fare and stand for a second to admire this newest addition to the New York skyline. Its grand opening on November 19, 2007, was captured by renowned photographer Annie Leibovitz, who had documented its two-year construction. Designed by architect Renzo Piano, it has been heralded as the best new building in town in decades. It is indeed full of technological wonders, invisible to most, except for the hush of a seamless interface of electronics that captures the pulse of the word in this data-hungry world. Oh yes, I should mention that this building is owned by Forest City Ratner Companies. I kind of enjoy this name as it suggests—oh, the heck with that, I just like the name.

I push my way through the hurried crowds swarming the sidewalk and enter the lobby, greeted by the security guard who knows me well enough to yell out, Hey, Rales, have a great day! I salute him, scan the elevator bank, finally darting into a waiting car to feel the sardine squeeze with too many others jammed in, but all smiling, as we accommodate our little excursion to employment. My floor arrives; I excuse myself, push from the back of the car to the opening doors, and head toward my work station where I fake conformity as I slide into the day’s wonderment.

I still have not lost the awe I first felt working for the Times. It is never just a job, although I have basically done the same thing for fifteen years. Harkens back to what my father urged: Accept whatever assignments come your way. Go ugly early! Don’t fake cleverness or try to be important. If the right people are watching, they will know your worth.

I do remember headier days. Just out of the Arthur L. Carter Journalism Institute at NYU in Manhattan. Head full of mush, ambitious to build a career that Professor Trendwall had nourished, I tossed my mortarboard into the air and raised hell that night with my study groupies. I paid dearly with a hangover that seemed to last for a week.

At least I didn’t do drugs like some who seemed to string out with a variety that challenged most chemists and would have scared the hell out of any doctor. After a test, usually garnering top grades, these hopped-up geniuses could not tell you which room the test was given, much less the building. But they got the grades. I wondered what the future held for them and for me. Wondering who had started down life’s streets with the right road maps in our brains. Of course, we all know the answer to that. Who knows? Quoting Professor Trendwall, The proof will be etched on your tombstones, slabs of granite trying to prove you mattered to someone other than yourselves.

Enough of this melancholy crap. I am still scattering the cobwebs when I look up and see the editor seated in his glass-paneled office. It’s strange how things are organized in his office and our workstations now. What used to be a jumble of paper, typewriters, files, in/out baskets is now a sterile environment ergonomic design experts called the office of the future. We plebeian worker bees still have dividers or workstations, but we now have desks designed to house computers, discs, flash drives, and interface with all the electronic magic built into this new environment. I imagine designs will change as we evolve away from desk—or even laptop computers to iPads or similar tablets and cell phones, which for the most part are really minitablets. But I will leave any redesign to the ergonomic experts who are making their rounds again.

We work, watch, and wait until beckoned, or we dare seek an audience offering a headline that pluses up the editor’s bonus and occasionally makes our tradecraft career. But I have to admit; this rarified atmosphere urges everyone at the Times to maintain high ethical standards under the constant internal and external scrutiny so pervasive today. There are no shirkers or wantabes at the Times, at least I don’t see them. Sure, there are some real prima donnas, but aren’t we all, given a chance? Want to make my day? Have the editor grab my piece for a headline, feature, or column story that will be quoted nationwide or, in today’s electronic streaming, worldwide.

Okay. Game on! I rattle to myself. Let’s see what will happen today. I grab my iPad and head to the editor’s office. Interesting, two other reporters who are fairly new to the Times are heading the same way. I have not worked with either one, so this appears to be an intro and working session with the boss. I smirk as I see both have their iPads and coffee cups and either are smiling or are sprouting stress-fractured lips. I can’t see their eyes as they talk with each other, so we’ll just see how this pans out.

As I knock on the editor’s door, I introduce myself to my two associates.

Hi, I’m Rales Tobin.

Both blurt out at once, Hey, Rales.

The taller one, with surfer-dude blond hair almost closeting his slightly protruding ears, a clean-shaven, jutting jaw, looking all of twenty-five, in a monogram polo shirt and khaki pants, sporting a wedding ring, continues, We know who you are, great working with you. We’re NYU too.

They each hold up their right hands sporting NYU rings.

Apparently the leader of the two, the taller one, speaks up, My name is Kari Tinch, and my buddy is Lanier Small.

Lanier Small is not small. Unlike his taller buddy who has a good build, Lanier is built like a bowling pin, and his clothing and attempt at a combed head of dried-out brown hair suggests he is like me, a bachelor who is not a fashion plate. He too is neatly shaved but has a twitch, doing an Elvis lip thing that hints at his nervousness.

The editor, John Ployhar, calls out, Come in.

He continues to sit behind his desk, pecking away at his computer. Reading glasses on his nose, he has the look he wants to maintain. He is a Yaley! Probably six feet three, razor-cut black hair with a hint of gray at the temples, chiseled jaw, slender build, great shirt and tie, brandishing a Cartier Tank watch, a slender gold wedding band, and a Phi Beta Kappa ring; and if he stands up, one would see expensive trousers and Nunn Bush wing tips. At least that was what he always wore, so I guess nothing should have changed. His bearing, his demeanor, create the right statement as editor of the Times.

Let me digress a little, he urges, leaning back in his chair. "Our world, especially in our new building, allows us to stream electronically, spiking the electronic nerve, wiring us all together in this cybercafe. You know as well as I do that almost every thought can instantly be shared, messaged, reviewed, edited, assigned, printed, eTexted, etc., for our waiting world. However, you have heard in my staff meetings my constant encouragement to everyone, top to bottom, get off your backsides, and walk the talk. Don’t sit in your work station or office all day without pressing the flesh, making rounds, staying alive and fresh, swayed by a purely digital handshake.

My battle cry, Ployhar whispered in almost pleading tone, "don’t just rely on our electronic jungle to get things right. Never, never be afraid to challenge a story. Our unity of purpose is to protect the reputation of the Times and also the integrity of our sources, assuring a worldwide audience that believes in us."

We need to interact, he continues. "We need face time as the old-timers used to say. I have taken my own words to heed as I have called you three to my office.

Okay, if we’re through with the introductions and my little sermon—Ployhar shifts back to his serious boss intonation—I want to make this quick.

John Ployhar always wants to make things quick, obviously on his terms. Twenty-two years at the Times and prior servitude, working his way through the ranks at ABC News, and finally returning to the paper world in Chicago allowed him to define time. Speed it up, stop it, or ignore it. John’s call. His time is our time, unless we are naive enough to think otherwise and we quickly find out how wrong we are.

Larry and Lanier, do I have your names right?

Ah, no, sir, my name is Kari, K-a-r-i, he says, spelling it out in a droned monotone.

My apologies, got it, is Ployhar’s snapped reply. I want you two to cover a story at the UN. You can pull up the details and fetch your UN press passes from the assignment editor. This is a big story. That’s why I am assigning both of you. I also want you to know you’ll be on my radar, not just the assignment editor’s. So I want to see you when you get back here. Questions?

Kari answers for both, No, sir, thank you. We’ll get right on it.

"All right, that’s all. You can head out to your lockers. Get your pinstripes on [casual, which for most means absence of a tie, with polo’s becoming more the routine, is now acceptable on the Times floors, unless your day requires business attire], I have some things to go over with Rales."

Lanier opens the door. As he and Kari leave the editor’s office, they turn and wave to me.

We’re looking forward to working with you, Rales, Kari says with a toothy grin.

I smile at them, cradling my iPad, standing by to see what my assignment will be.

Sit down, Rales, Ployhar says in a disarming way.

This is a first. I have never been asked to sit down before. I can feel my sphincter muscle tighten.

Rales, Ployhar says with an emphatic gesture, "relax, this is not an assignment meeting, at least not a typical assignment meeting as I just had with Kari and Lanier. I also did a little preaching, not for your sake but for theirs. With you present, I gave extra emphasis to the new guys, letting them know my message applies to everyone at the Times."

Ployhar leans forward, smiling. "Those two boys may be in for the day of their young reporting lives. I met yesterday with a couple of my colleagues at the UN and was told some startling news. It appears there is a real probability the UN could relocate to Brussels and become de facto part of the international tribunal there, further endorsing the World Court’s and NATO’s legitimacy.

"I was strongly urged to cover today’s vote with reporters who would fade into the tapestry, so the Times could singularly break this story as our headline. If this possibility is confirmed, I expect to banner it Sunday. I know you have a great feature on water rights—he taps his iPad and brings my article up, Aqua Fear"—"which should give it plenty of play as we expect the response to the UN headline to generate about a 15 percent increase in readership for the Sunday edition.

By the way, he continues, you know my trust in you not to mention this UN story to anyone.

I nod in agreement, pleased with his confidence.

He continues, I know you have to clear your ‘water’ article with the assignment desk first, but let’s pretend that’s a done deal. He smiles approvingly.

"Now back to you and why I asked you to stop by this morning. I received a phone call that will take you back to your trip out to Colorado Springs a year or so ago. An attorney in Princeton, New Jersey, named John Sutherland called to say he is probating the estate of Jacques Breen. He requested that you come to his office to go over Breen’s trust. He went on to say he decided to call me first as you had covered Mr. Breen as an employee of the Times, and he wanted to clear it with me for you to take time off to attend to this matter."

I sit straight up in my chair, trying to grasp what my editor has just said.

I sputter, Did this attorney—what is his name, Sutherland—did this attorney say anything more? Was he more specific about why he wants me there?

Ployhar answers my question without even looking up from his computer.

No. That was all he said.

He then looks over his glasses and says, I decided to let you be the reporter and write this story about yourself. Let me know when you pull this together. Here is Sutherland’s phone number. Any other questions?

I continue to sit staring at my editor, almost speechless. I don’t know enough to ask anything else.

All right, get things squared away with the assignment desk, and I’ll see you when you get back.

I didn’t need to read any more into his comment: this meeting is over. I rise quickly, almost knocking the chair over, fumbling for the doorknob, leaving his office, my head reeling, wondering if I had just been Breened again as I had been in Colorado Springs.

When I return to my workstation, I fall into my chair, trying to absorb what has just happened. Kari and Lanier startle me as they rush by, decked out in their obvious newly tailored suits. Hope you got an assignment as exciting as ours, Rales.

Yeah right, I think to myself as I flash a determined smile, wondering what I have gotten myself into with Breen and now with his attorney. My brow is wrinkled, and I am sweating, wondering if it shows, knowing the old rubric Never let ’em see you sweat.

I have some things to clear up before making that call. To be honest, I have to gather my thoughts about Breen and the encounter with him that has changed my life more than any other story or person I have ever covered. It still bothers me that it bothered me, and now this bothers me even more. Where is my mirror when I need it? I have to find my focus. I am a professional after all. Calm down, I tell myself as my brain traces back to the world of Breen and the SETI Convention at the Broadmoor.

My cell phone chimes, bringing me back to reality. It’s the assignment editor. Damn, I forgot to stop by her office.

Hi, Terese. I pray that my voice does not give away the trauma drama in my brain.

Hi, back at you, Rales. Aren’t we supposed to talk? What about that article you are supposed to send my way on water rights? Is it ready for my review? We are targeting a Sunday feature spread.

Yes to both, was my emphatic reply. I’ll be right over.

I quickly bring up my article I had titled Aqua Fear, send it to Terese, grab my iPad, check to see if I need to bring something else, decide not, and head toward her office. My heart is beating way too fast. It is good her office is across the floor from my workstation, gives me time to think. My mind’s racing. I still cannot get my editor’s comments out of my mind about Breen and my impending call to Sutherland. Come on, one thing at a time.

I try to walk slowly as I head to Terese von Possner’s office, nodding to other reporters as I pass their workstations.

Her name had intrigued me when I finally asked her about it a couple of meetings ago. She related that her grandfather had been a Prussian officer assigned to a campaign in Ceylon when he met her grandmother. She had laughed and said, "I almost got a dot but convinced my family that my way in this country would be better served if I were to defer such a religious custom," although she had said she greatly appreciated the symbolism. She continued that her parents were first generation from India.

I knock on her door.

Come in, she says.

What a combination, brains and beauty. Her disarming looks could fool you as her kick-ass approach assures schedules are met. I remember Breen talking about his friend, Joe Hyams, who had been a real star for the Times in Europe. Joe had lamented that the world of journalism, like so many professions, was male dominated. But now women are taking on any and every role.

What a stereotype. If Terese were a man, she would be called tough but fair. But as a woman, she is—well, she just is held to a different standard. Some of the old-timers will not admit it, but I think they are uncomfortable with her strength. I love it.

Reminds me of NYU. When I was there, the classes were full of us guys; now it is about even with women not only competing but seemingly ending up with some of the top positions in journalism, as Terese had won with her abilities and skills here at the Times.

Whoops, she is apparently wondering why I am standing here, not engaging in the points she had called me on. This was not the right step with her. Like the editor, time is money, and she can spend it as she wishes, not me.

Okay, I said. First, I was just told about a strange situation where I have been requested to travel to an attorney’s office in—

I know all about that, she quickly cut me off. Let me know what it is all about after you have talked with the attorney.

Second, my article, I have titled Aqua Fear, was sent to your iPad.

AQUA FEAR

by Rales Tobin

D RINKING WATER IS liquid gold. I’m not talking about alchemy, although I may be suggesting it. If you have a history bent, you will know from earliest writings of Sumer, or preceding recorded history, and even in the biblical Genesis days of creation, humankind, or for that matter, most land and airborne creatures have sought out water. Whether to drink, bath, or in humankind’s case, to use for a variety of industrial or commercial purposes, water is life. More than wind and fire, water is life. We are composed of it, and without it, we will die, or perhaps morph into some strange creature more akin to the aliens we conjure up from outer space.

Water within us, the so-called milieu interieur, in which cells are bathed, provides cells with the raw materials to function. This water within us accounts for about sixty (60) percent of our body mass. Water also cools our body with sweat, circulates oxygen, and provides fuel to our organs. It takes away waste products via the blood and filters us through our ingestion, digestion, and excretion systems.

How we use water has been studied since Hippocrates, but a dramatic recent example is taking place at the United States Army Research Institute of Environmental Medicine (USARIEM). Its mission is to protect, sustain, and improve the performance of the warfighter. A tactical component of this performance is hydration, which is seen as an integral part of the modern fighting solider. And this same research is viewed as equally applicable to the rest of us as we realize how water impacts our mouth, heart, bloodstream, limbs, brain, skin, and other vital organs such as the kidneys.

We have all heard the necessity of drinking water on a daily basis. Our size and activity level affect our water requirements, as does the climate we live in. An easy test is monitoring urine color: light is okay, dark means you are most likely dehydrated. But don’t overdo it. If you have any questions about your specific water intake needs and requirements, see your doctor.

However, a turning point is about to occur for the most important segment of water that nourishes us: drinking water. To the unsuspecting, to those who think we will have all the drinking water we can ever use, look out! Some very smart prospectors see drinking water as a commodity play. Sooner than you think, you and I will find out if the bets they are hedging will pay off. And although this potential drinking water drought may be an impending worldwide phenomenon, with only three percent of the earth’s water considered fresh, this essay focuses on the conterminous United States, Hawaii, Puerto Rico, and the US Virgin Islands (hereinafter the USA).

The concern is not our lakes and rivers, nor our giant reservoirs that house billions of cubic feet of drinking water. It also does not include cities like St. Petersburg, Florida, and Santa Barbara, California, that ironically are nestled up against the Caribbean or the Pacific and have built desalinization plants, nor the multibillion dollar bottled-water industry, all targeting our insatiable thirst. Instead, I am raising the specter of a more sinister plot by some very wealthy investors who seemingly are just doing landgrabs but who really are assuring their dominance of some of the USA’s primary aquifer that provides a substantial source for our drinking water.

We face the stark reality, as Charles Fishman so poignantly illustrates in his seminal work The Big Thirst, that our drinking water may be in shorter supply than we dare realize. And worse, beyond the challenges Fishman admonishes us about, this life-sustaining resource may be held