The Movement

By Laurence Joel Joy

. . . Mamud came forward, pulling out a pistol. It was a 38. Joel slowly took the weapon, holding it sideways, staring at it intently as if he were studying it. It felt heavy, as if fully loaded. Mamud looked firmly into his face. His militaristic features more pronounced than ever. If he comes to the gate tonight, as he often does during these shortened days, that will be the time to silence him.
He shook his head slowly. Unlike at Rajneesh, he had a hateful look toward Mamud. At that moment, he realized that he never liked Mamud. Since his first day here, when he was so rudely frisked by him outside the city gates, he had a fearful contempt of the man. And Joel, Ill be with you. His words gave him no comfort. But he hadnt expected that. If he couldnt go through with it, Mamud would do the job.
It was dark by now, the sun setting so early in November. Milo would probably be at the gate within an hour.
Listen Joel. Added Rajneesh. Well testify on your behalf. You did it out of self-defense. You got into an argument with Milo. He assaulted you. You shot him out of fear for your own safety.
Mamud affirmed Rajneesh words. Joels eyes went slowly from Rajneesh to the floor.
If the evil press, and the wicked lawyers crucify you, your sacrifice will be supreme! Said Rajneesh. Blessed are you when men speak falsely against you, reviling your name as evil. For great is your reward in Heaven.
Blessed are you Joel! Proclaimed everyone in unison.
As the Inner Circle slowly rose to leave the room in sadness, each one hugged Joel tightly as if for the last time. Sheila could not hug him, but turned her face away from him in his hour of need. As they filtered out, Rajneesh quietly called for Mamud to stay for a few moments.
Once outside, Sandu put his arm around Joel. Both men walked slowly, saying nothing. Sheila walked a ways behind, beginning to emotionally distance herself from him.
Suddenly, Sandu stopped. Jo-el. Wait here for me. Joel nodded weakly. His eyes were dim and cloudy. I need to ask Rajneesh one more thing. He was the only one in the group who had reservations about this mission.
Joel stood motionless in the cold deathly dark night, looking into the threatening skies. He was all alone, much as he had been before this all began. He felt so lonely. He was totally lost. Tears began to flow again. Oh God, he prayed quietly into the darkened sky, I feel so lonely. Im scared! I thought I would find your presence here, but now Im not so sure anymore. Please be with me tonight. The words came so childlike, sincere. He hadnt prayed such a prayer since he was an innocent child.
As Sandu headed back up to the Upper Room, he heard voices. Damn! Ive got my listening device on. It must be Mamud and Rajneesh. The Upper Room had been bugged earlier this summer. He could barely hear the conversation.
Rajneesh: Whether Joel kills him or not, hes not to return.
Mamud: Of course.
Rajneesh: Joel will be framed for the murder. Just so he doesnt have the possibility of implicating me, his life must end.
Mamud: No response.
Rajneesh: Well make it look like a fight between the two ended both of their lives. No witnesses. No problems.
Mamud: He believed your speech about being a martyr instead of a patsy.
Rajneesh: I like him, but hes gullible. Our agenda must move forward.
Mamud: Yes Master.
Rajneesh: Are you sure Milo wont be armed tonight?
Mamud: (laugh). The only thing in his arsenal is a silly Bible. I doubt if that will stop my 38.
Sandu quickly rushed back downstairs, hoping no one had seen him lingering near the Upper Room. Joel was sadly and prayerfully waiting for him to return with Mamud.
Sandu appeared first. His face was ashen. He was overly anxious, sweating profusely. He hugged Joe

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 9, 2009
• ISBN: 9781462820214

Laurence Joel Joy

Laurence Joel Joy has been involved in and studied about various facets of religion, cults, and the occult since 1982. A former short-term missionary to the Caribbean, who later worked for World Vision International, a famine relief organization, and Focus on the Family, a non-profit organization dedicated to the preservation of traditional family values, he has grappled with the issues that create the need for humans to seek alternate forms of spirituality to find a deeper meaning to life. He resides in Bakersfield, California.

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Copyright © 2009 by Laurence Joel Joy.

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.

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

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

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www.Xlibris.com

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Epilogue

If you can meet with triumph and disaster

And treat those two imposters just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you’ve given your life to, broken

And stoop to build them up with worn out tools,

Yours is the earth and everything that’s in it

And—which is more—You’ll be a man, my son.

—Rudyard Kipling

Dedicated to those who earnestly sought truth and love

and were deceived.

Special thanks.

Terri Lynne Gibson, whose faith, hope, and love inspired me through the weary days. She helped bring a cleansing to my soul.

Lynn Joy, my mother, for her hours of proofreading, editing,

reproofs, and encouragement.

Lorraine Skora, my sister, for her listening ear in my moments of discouragement. She had been born with a gift to make me laugh,

lighten my load, and lift me up.

Arthur Laurence Joy, my grandfather, who unknowingly paved the way for others to find healing and faith in Christ. His name is written down in the history books of heaven. He will never be forgotten.

Pastors Rollo Entz, Dana Hofseth, Ken Johnson, and Doug Posey,

who all modeled the life of faith in their own unique ways.

Rose Balog, whose unconditional love and encouragement, saved me

in my early years. Without her, this book would not have been possible.

Violet Vedena DeBerry, my grandmother, who exhorted me

to be a positive believer in a world of negativity.

Neil DeBerry, whose passion for a working model of

Christian living has given me much food for thought.

Last but not the least, the Lord Jesus Christ, who was the epitome of

Truth and who started the greatest movement the world has ever seen.

Chapter 1

All rise, the Honorable Alfred T. Munch presiding.

Joel Thomas rose unsteadily to his feet along with his lawyer Roger Samply. His day of dreaded reckoning had finally arrived.

As the court went through its perfunctory motions, Joel sat quietly and sullenly, his mind numbed as he reviewed the methods and madness that had led to this courtroom. He knew his chances for an acquittal were not good. The people of the state of Oregon, particularly the community known as The Dalles, were keen for retribution. They demanded justice for the nearly one thousand of its citizens who had been poisoned nearly two years earlier.

The bench, the judge, the flags, and the seals loomed over the courtroom. In Joel’s mind they seemed large, gray, cold, and hard. He looked up at Judge Munch. He was a portly middle-aged man with a huge head like some prize pumpkin with sloped shoulders that surely must tire from the weight. His harsh, cold eyes squinted when he spoke. Joel wondered ruefully if humor ever crossed his stern features. Munch struck him as a no-nonsense magistrate who seldom let a trial go longer than it needed to. He held every aspect of the legal proceedings under tight control. The appearance and mannerisms of this judge caused him to unconsciously sink lower into his chair, his head bent, fearfully anticipating the verdict.

Roger Samply, sensing his client’s fear, leaned toward his hunched figure.

Remember, he whispered, you had a good character witness in Pastor Milo Johnson. Just the mention of his name caused him to glean some measure of hope. How thankful he was for his beloved friend.

Joel nodded, but felt no renewal of energy. His mind regressed to quickly review the situation. The largest communal experiment in U.S. history had failed and was no more. Sandu and Mamud were dead. Sheila and Puma had fled the country with their whereabouts unknown, though they were thought to be somewhere in Europe. Finally Rajneesh, the infamous leader of the cult. He was captured and detained while fleeing the country. However, the more serious charges of conspiracy to attempted murder were dropped due to insufficient evidence. He was convicted of obstructing justice and tax evasion and was forced to pay a heavy fine and leave the country never to return.

The State of Oregon versus Joel Louis Thomas, recited the court clerk. The middle-aged woman, with the bouffant hairdo, her voice cool and confident, momentarily grappled with the papers handed to her from the bailiff.

We the jury, in the above and titled defense, find Mr. Joel Louis Thomas guilty of conspiracy to poison patrons at the Shakey’s Pizza at The Dalles, Oregon, with the intent of bodily harm.

His head lowered farther as tears formed in his eyes. Cheers erupted in the gallery. He turned to see Pastor Milo Johnson who also had tears in his eyes. He knew the just decision had been handed down but not necessarily the right one.

Judge Munch allowed the jubilation to continue for a few minutes. After the courtroom settled down, he began to speak.

Mr. Thomas—then a long pause—I do believe that you are an honorable man who was seeking to find truth. Unfortunately, the perverted truth in which you found yourself aligned to eventually led you to break the truth of law in which you were subject to in the state of Oregon. Concurrently, I do believe that you, and many others like you, were brainwashed by this religious lunatic to commit crimes that you would not ordinarily, under any other circumstances, commit or even contemplate. Nevertheless, you were and are a responsible adult with relatively free will, and based on that fact you were rightly found guilty of the crimes that you’ve been herein charged.

Judge Munch, a practicing and devout Mormon, continued his comments:

Whenever men seek to find salvation or truth in a man or institution, rather than in God, all forms of evil lurk right around the corner. I am sorry you had to find this out the hard way. May this decision be a lesson to you, and to others, that conscience, law, and the grace of God reign supreme in our universe, not a mere mortal man.

Tears streamed down Joel’s face as the gavel fell. It was a bitter decision salted with grace and hope.

Eighteen months is a very light sentence. smiled Joel’s lawyer.

Light to everyone except the person serving it.

Sorry, he apologized. I’m not trying to be flippant.

I know. He smiled as he shook his warm elderly hand. You’re right, it could have been much worse.

With the evidence against you, the best I could do was to gain leniency. Look at the positive side, you’ll have plenty of time to think, write, and prepare for your new life after prison.

He laughed cynically. Yeah. Whatever life I can possibly live after this fiasco. I’ll definitely have to leave Oregon. I’ll never be able to walk down the street without people pointing and whispering.

Roger nodded his head in sympathy as he put a hand on his shoulder. Not only was he a good lawyer but a kindly old southern-born gentleman as well.

Just then, Pastor Milo Johnson appeared at the door of the holding cell. Roger motioned into the tiny window for the correctional officer to let him in.

Milo entered the cell radiant as usual, but little joy was evident in his eyes. His face was handsomely tan with a pinkish hue shining through. Without saying a word, he reached for Joel, hugging him long and strong.

You’ll be fine, brother, he proclaimed confidently. You have many people praying for you now.

Joel choked up but did not cry. Milo spoke to him like a benevolent father would, giving him the kind of love that he tried to find in Rajneesh. However, unlike the Bhagwan, Milo’s love and concern was genuine.

I hope so. He waned. I just feel so bitter and angry at Rajneesh, Sheila, Puma, and a few others. How could they have lied to me and set me up to take a fall?

Joel, listen to me, he cautioned. You must let go of all that stuff and truly forgive those people no matter what they did to you.

But I’ve lost everything because of them—my good name, my home, my money, and now my freedom.

You’ve lost nothing that can’t be replaced and you’ve gained a new family, a new spirit, and a godly perspective.

But how can I truly forgive them?

I forgave you.

Joel’s eyes turned to the floor.

Remember. You came within a pull of the trigger from ending my life. I dropped all those charges against you.

He nodded, but his eyes mirrored the skepticism and resentment that remained inside.

Christ has forgiven us for all we did to him. We must forgive others who’ve wronged us.

I did nothing to Jesus.

Oh yes, you did, he said, raising his voice, almost in anger. All those years you rejected his ways and lived selfishly, you were unknowingly driving those nails and spikes into his hands and feet, and crying crucify him, we have no king but Caesar.

Maybe, he answered slightly confused and bewildered. He’d never heard someone talk about the consequences of sin in such a context.

Even so, he replied compassionately, the grace of God forgives you for all that and any future sin you may commit, but you must forgive them or else your sins will not be forgiven. Despite this terrible situation, the seeds of God’s grace and love were planted into your life. Rajneesh may have meant it for evil to you, but God used it for good.

Let me think about all of this later.

Okay, he agreed, aware that he was still a new believer.

A loud tap on the little square window startled the men. They slowly rose from the concrete table, realizing their time was up. Milo hugged him again as a long-lost prodigal son.

Once they left and he was taken back to his cell, he lay down on his small flat mattress, staring at the cold blank gray ceiling. How did I end up here? he thought. When did this strange journey begin?

Chapter 2

Did you get that vase? she faintly called out. You know, the one my mother gave us. Her eyes were flat and lifeless. Her voice trailed off.

Uh, yeah, I did. It’s wrapped in a blanket on the front seat of the truck.

That’s it then, she sighed. The melancholic tone in her voice had become tinged with anger.

Joel Thomas was loading the last of his wife’s belongings into her red Toyota pickup, the last few loads down the stairs feeling as heavy as his hardened heart. This weekend would be unlike any other weekend. Joel and Rose Thomas had decided on a divorce a few weeks earlier, and that final terrible day of separation had arrived. To make matters worse, it was raining, making the end of their relationship that much gloomier, a fitting tribute to a once promising marriage that had now gone astray.

As he lifted up the tailgate and tightened down the last rope, his mind could not fathom why this all happened. They had a storybook courtship, a big beautiful wedding, and a love and respect for each other that was as rare today as a tornado in California. Yet that dream beginning was now a nightmare of empty hearts and broken dreams.

As she closed the door of the truck and gave one last long glance at him, he could not help but think how truly beautiful she was. For a brief shining moment, he thought he saw a flash of love in her eyes, the bright shining look he had seen so many times years before. But like a brief summer thunderstorm, it came and went. It was truly over. She backed out of the driveway, drove down the street, and never once looked back.

Half soaked, he made the long, slow climb up the steps to the house. Each step of his foot made a thud, with each footstep feeling heavier than the previous one. Once inside, he crumpled onto the floor in the half-empty house, sobbing uncontrollably.

I feel so empty inside, he cried out between sobs. I can’t go on! Oh god! Why did this happen?

When the tears would come no more, he lay there and wondered if Rose was crying at this moment. He quickly realized that she had cried herself cold months before. No, her heart was now closed and callused. She was moving onto a new life, the life with him now distant in her rear-view mirror.

As he lay there with both hands on his forehead, he began to think about the past eight years with her. He first recalled the early years, days that were carefree and fun. The times they went out to dinner. The outings to the beach or park or zoo. The long drives up the coast filled with deep talks, and the romantic walks on the beach. He smiled when he thought of those frequent occasions they’d played tennis, racquetball, and miniature golf. How he would often let her win just to see her jump for joy, knowing how competitive she was.

He remembered the first time they had met through a mutual friend. He was a young real estate appraiser in Los Angeles, she a freshman at UCLA.

Their first date was a tennis outing. He picked her up at her dorm on campus. As he drove up, she spotted him excitedly and came bounding over in her tennis outfit. He could not help but smile at how cute she looked with her hair in ponytails, all dressed in pink.

That first night together was simple but memorable. He liked the way she moved. The way her ponytails would bounce from side to side. Her infectious self-depreciating laugh when she muffed a shot. The way her sanguine personality shone through her eyes. In fact, tennis hardly seemed to matter; they just relaxed and enjoyed each other’s company. It was truly a magical time.

Though they had both dated other people, this relationship, from the very beginning, had that air of permanence, a feeling that this was the one and only.

As he lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling like it was a big TV screen showing the highlights of his life with her, the tears began to flow steady and strong again. The thoughts of those happy days made the pain of this moment regrettable.

Brrinng. Brring. The sudden piercing of silence shocked him, as if he’d been zapped by static electricity. He wearily answered the phone, wondering how long he had been reminiscing and crying.

Hello, he answered sheepishly, trying to mask his quivery emotions.

Hi, Joel, it’s Bill.

Bill? he quizzically intoned. His mind was sluggish.

Bill . . . Bill Newberry. Your lifelong friend. You okay?

Oh . . . Bill. Sorry, buddy, he responded as if coming out of a trance, embarrassed that he’d not recognized the voice of his longtime confidant.

You okay? Bill inquired again. You sound kinda shaky.

At first, he tried to put on his game face, to be his old funny, witty self so as to not let on about his crumbling emotions. But Bill had known him since childhood and could easily recognize the counterfeit gaiety.

Joel, it’s okay. I know what’s happened.

Wha . . . what do you mean, Bill? his voice cracking again. He was still trying to hide the emotion in his voice.

Joel, I talked to Darlene this morning. She told me the whole story.

Oh, he sighed deeply.

Darlene was a mutual friend of both Joel and Rose who was also a casual acquaintance to Bill.

I wanted to call and be a listening ear. I knew you’d be having a rough time.

Thanks, his voice was barely audible, tears trickling down his face again.

Where ya at?

On this cold floor in this cold house. God, I hate it here now.

Is Rose completely gone?

Yeah, the weight in his voice sounded as hopeless as a rusted anchor. I moved out the last of her stuff a few hours ago.

Joel. Do you want me to fly down for a few days to be with you?

No, Bill, he instantly responded. That would be too much to ask. He knew that Bill had been up in Oregon for only a few months and was just settling into his new life. Another trip back and forth would be a tiresome burden.

Nonsense, Joel. It can be arranged and financed very easily. I have brothers and sisters here who’d gladly give the okay.

He was forceful in his decline of Bill’s generous offer. No, Bill. I appreciate your concern. The phone would be just fine to keep in touch during this time.

At that moment, he thought how strange it was that Bill referred to these people in his little Bible study group as his brothers and sisters.

One of Bill’s goal’s in life was to create true biblically based Christian communities throughout the West, which he saw as secure safety nets for those who fall in this selfish secular world. In his mind, a church without accountability, or sound discipline, was a waste of time and worthless. At times, he would try to convince Joel of its merits, but Joel saw it as too constrictive of a lifestyle and at times judgmental of others. In Bill’s church, not all were welcome, and only some were invited. Though they were good friends, he had never been personally invited. In fact, he had observed too many of Bill’s fellow Christian brothers and sisters leave the fold broken and disillusioned. That is the last thing he wanted to experience at this time in his life.

Okay, Joel. Whatever you feel is best, his voice trailing off with an air of disappointment.

You know me, Bill. I’ll bounce back. I always do, he responded with a little self-sufficient sunshine in his voice, even if it was contrived.

Bill knew differently. He had dealt with enough people in Joel’s situation before. He knew that left to himself, he would self-destruct into himself. To Bill, a person self-absorbed and self-pitying was about the worst sin possible.

All right. You take care. If I hear any news that you are slipping into anything destructive, I’ll be down on the next flight, whether you want me to or not.

I’ll be okay, the short-lived sunshine now gone from his voice. Thanks so much for calling.

Goodbye, friend.

As he hung up the phone and pulled himself off the floor, he noticed that the house was nearly dark, the only light coming from the lamp in the hallway. He looked out the large window in the living room. It was dusk. He had forgotten how quickly it gets dark in February. Now, as he stared at the last sliver of light on the horizon, he prayed that the darkness, which had set in his heart, would find a glimmer of hope.

Chapter 3

After taking a few days off to regroup his emotions and replenish his energy, Joel threw himself back into his work as a real estate appraiser. In the 1980s, real estate was hot in Los Angeles. With record refinances and housing prices going through the roof, he had all the work he could handle and then some. However, though he worked longer hours than he had in the past, he seemed to be getting less done. His work lacked the precise quality and professionalism of the past few years. He would wrack his brain at night trying to understand the dilemma. He felt he was doing his usual best, but several times he had to be called into his boss’s office to rectify some critical details that were missed in an important appraisal.

Joel. Would you please come into my office? There was concern in the voice of his boss, Steve Smith. I need to go over this appraisal with you.

Yes, sir, he quickly replied in frustration. I’ll be right in.

He must have heard this same request a dozen times in the past two months. He could scarcely recall being called into Steve’s office a dozen times in the past two years.

Hi, Steve. Is there a problem? He smiled cheerfully as he entered the room, though his eyes belied a tension that could not be concealed.

Yes, Joel. Please sit down. Steve motioned with his hand toward the chair in front of his desk. We need to talk.

Joel sat down tentatively as if the legs on the chair might somehow collapse.

It had been a little more than two years since he had gone to work for Steven V. Smith and Associates. In fact, the main reason he had gone to work here was because of the man who sat across the desk from him. He genuinely liked and respected his boss, a rare benefit in this competitive world, a perk that he greatly prized.

Joel—then a long pause, umm, how have you been doing these past couple of months?

All right, he half believingly responded, not wanting to be probed further.

You sure?

Yeees, I think so, he answered with a wide-eyed expression, the right side of his mouth had a slight tremble.

No major problems at home? Health doing okay? You know, any major stuff going on that might affect you?

Joel knew that Steve knew nothing about the final split with Rose nor about the pending divorce. He knew there had been problems, but in this day and age, who didn’t. In fact, he had told only one other associate at the office.

Well, I’ve just gone over this appraisal for B of A. I feel like you could’ve gained our client a higher appraisal for this property. You know, with so many refinances in our area, the banks and lending institutions are siphoning off some work to independent firms like us. We have a great reputation; I’d like to keep it that way.

Of course, Steve.

Joel, it looks like you took the first three comparables off the data sheet and went through the motions. You could have dug deeper and found a few properties that sold higher and more recently.

In real estate appraising, you acquire the market value of a home by finding three similar properties in the nearby vicinity that had sold recently. These are called comparables. Then you calculate the medium among the three comparable properties to come up with an accurate price for your client. The trick is to be creative in finding the highest comparables, which can mean the difference of several thousand dollars.

Joel’s eyes gazed down to the floor, his shoulders slumping forward. Sweat spots were now evident near his armpits. His nice, crisp, blue dress shirt began to look rumpled.

You’re right, Steve, he finally admitted. I’ve been going through a lot as of late.

He could feel his boss’s eyes riveting into him as he momentarily raised his eyes toward him, then back to the floor.

I can tell.

Joel lifted his gaze and met Steve’s eyes. However, it’s nothing I can’t handle.

What happened?

He paused painfully. Rose and I are getting divorced.

You’re kidding, he quickly blurted out, snapping back into his chair as if an invisible hand had pushed him backward.

No. She left a few months ago. We haven’t spoken since. The divorce is now just a mere formality. The marriage has, in reality, been over for a while now.

I’m sorry to hear that. You must be going through hell!

Sometimes. His response was quiet, eyes looking to the floor again. He felt ashamed.

Steve replied with a quizzical look on his face. When I saw you at the Christmas party, you both looked so happy together. This is pretty shocking . . . and sad.

Looks are deceiving. His voice was full of bitter anguish. We may have looked tight as a drum, but at that time we were coming apart at the seams. We had our game faces on.

Is there anything I can do? Steve’s voice was kind and fatherly, his chin resting on his right hand.

Not unless you’re the Wizard of Oz who can give me a new heart.

At that moment, Joel thought, How like Steve. He was that uncommon boss who genuinely cared about his employees. This was a rare gift in the workaday world of the ’80s, a decade already being described by social historians as the me generation. Refreshingly, Steve was a throwback to another time. He was a hippie-turned yuppie. He had traded in his beads and sandals for a suit and tie. The only visible evidence of his past life existed in his longish hair, which he sometimes put into a short ponytail. Joel thought it was his social-conscious past that made him the caring man that he was today. He could be tough at times but at the same time, put his long arms around you, with a big grin on his face, and say half jokingly, I love you, man.

An awkward silence fell upon both men. It lasted only seconds but seemed much longer. Suddenly, as if a car horn went off, Steve’s intercom came alive with the voice of his secretary. She sounded tired and concerned.

Yes, Carol, I’m kinda busy.

It’s Mr. Johnston from B of A. It sounds important.

Steve rapped his fingers on the desk as if he needed a drink and a quick decision. Put him through, Carol.

In an instant, Mr. Johnston had Steve’s undivided attention.

Jack. Good to hear from you. What can I do for you this morning? A hint of anxiety belied the smile and the laid-back posture.

Though Joel could only hear Steve’s end of the conversation, he could tell that this was not a call for a tennis date but a pressing discussion about a mutual client. In fact, all the work Steve was graciously granted from B of A was very important to him. Steve’s mannerisms made it obvious that this call was going to take a while and be very meaningful. He stood quietly to leave, giving a half-raised goodbye, his face still flushed with embarrassment.

Excuse me, Mr. Johnston.

Joel, wait. His hand just covering the receiver in time as he spoke his name. Tennis tomorrow morning.

Joel nodded quickly as if his head was one of those bobble-head puppy dogs in the rear window of a car. He quietly left the room as Steve returned to give Mr. Johnston his full attention.

That night, Joel surprisingly slept like a baby. As he rose at the crack of dawn, he could not help but smile, whistling a tune or two as he prepared the morning coffee. Playing tennis was always fun, and he enjoyed the friendly competition with Steve. The exercise always made them feel good physically and ready for the mental strain of the day.

He arrived at the courts at 7:00 a.m. right on time. As usual, Steve was already there, stretching out near the net. Steve always used the tired old cliche that the early bird gets the worm. I guess at least for him, he always got the better warm-up.

Walking through the parking lot to the courts, he noticed Steve’s brand-new gold Volvo station wagon. How like Steve, he thought. A car that reflects his work ethic: solid, safe, secure. He believed in disciplined work habits and staying with proven methods. He did not like big risks or insecure ventures. In fact, he had started his real estate business out of his home with only one employee. He didn’t want to grow too fast until he knew he had several secure contracts. When he got the B of A account, he knew his time to expand had come. Now he had his own office with several appraisers under his wing.

As he opened the gate, the clunk of the metal latch brought Steve out of his yogalike posture, and his pregame verbal mantra. He played for fun but always dearly loved winning. Sometimes for Steve, the court was a modern-day version of a gladiator pit surrounded by a metal chain-link fence, with the only barrier separating the combatants a three-and-a-half foot nylon mesh net. He wondered which Steve would show up today: the polite Borg or the determined Conners.

Hey, Joel, he sang out with a big, broad smile. You’re here. Great!

Yeah, sure am, he shot back enthusiastically. I’m ready to kick some major boss’s butt.

Ha ha. I’m feeling pretty strong and focused this morning, he proclaimed confidently. How ’bout you?

Slept great last night and my tennis elbow feels pretty good.

Steve popped up on his feet as if he had springs in his Nikes. Sounding like some swaggering wrestler, he said, Let’s rummmmble!

As Joel took his side of the court to warm up, he seemed to relax more. Steve’s attitude and jovial disposition gave no hint of stress from the previous day’s conversation with Mr. Johnston. Maybe, he thought, the call was not as important as it appeared. Great. Now we can play some tennis and forget about any pressing problems.

As usual, Steve broke out into an early lead, taking the first set comfortably. With his expensive graphite racket and his professional tennis lessons to boot, he usually broke out of the gate a winner. However, as the second set got underway, Joel’s more youthful athleticism and overall power advantage began to slowly take control of the match, this in spite of using an old wooden Stan Smith’s autographed Wilson racket. He used to chide his boss because the name Smith was on the handle of his racket. He used to kid him about borrowing Steve’s famous brother’s racket to play him. However, they both laughingly knew that Steve was about as related to Stan Smith as Joel was to the Maharishi Yogi.

Damn, Joel. You keep hitting it to my backhand side! he yelled in an unusually spiteful tone. It kind of shocked him to hear Steve use any profanity at all.

Of course I did, he said half jokingly. Your backhand shots are like the Mississippi: long and wide.

On the very next shot, he attacked the net but instead of Steve trying to hit his usual spin lob over his head, he hit a vicious ground stroke right at him.

Thump! The ball ricocheted off Joel’s temple. Down he went to the asphalt. His wooden racket flung out of his hand, skidding across the hard court.

Oh geese, winced Steve. You all right?

He lay there seeing the proverbial stars. Steve quickly climbed over the net to help his fallen tennis adversary, anxiously kneeling by his prone body. He helplessly watched him lying on his back. Finally, his eyes fluttered open with Steve’s reddened face obscuring the bright blue sky.

I’m sorry, man! he quickly apologized.

I need some water! he gasped as if he was a fallen soldier on the battlefield.

He quickly went to the sideline, retrieving their water bottles.

Thanks, he replied with narrowed eyes, brain fuzzy. Are you crazy? he blurted out in anger as his senses cleared.

As he thoughtfully took a few guzzles of water, throbbing pain began to emerge on the side of his head.

What was that all about?

Steve looked like a gentle golden retriever that had displeased his master. I’m sorry. That was a frustration shot.

Over the game? Irritably, he rubbed his throbbing temple, sounding more like the boss than the employee.

No no! It’s about B of A.

He now understood his uncharacteristic play and attitude. Steve was competitive, but he was no John McEnroe.

I was expecting your lob, he quizzically stated with a sad smirk on his face.

Yeah, I know, he sighed. Are you hurt?

Naw. The only thing hurt is my pride, ego, and self-esteem.

That’s all, huh. He smiled.

They both chuckled with Steve’s hand resting on his fallen real estate comrade’s knee.

As he helped a groggy Joel to the sidelines, he could not help but notice the new gray hairs starting to emerge around his temples. For such a young man, it seemed foreign and out of place. He realized how tough this past year had been on him. Sympathetically, he put his arm across his shoulder to comfort his friend. Unfortunately, he hoped what he was about to tell him would not send him reeling down further.

Let’s sit over here in the shade.

Sure, Steve, he replied, feeling tired and defeated. The early morning enthusiasm was now gone.

They sat against the fence, using the green mesh netting to shade them from the warming sun. Both men sat spread legged, thoughtfully drinking from their water bottles. Steve slowly began to speak.

As you well know, I talked to Mr. Johnston yesterday.

Uh hmm, he murmured back.

Mr. Johnston is concerned about the quality of our work, and rightly he should be. He has the largest, most prestigious bank in our area. The man is our biggest and most important client.

Joel looked down at his near empty water bottle, waiting. A red welt was now evident on his temple.

Well, he told me that for our company, my company, to keep his business, I would have to take you off all of B of A’s accounts.

But, Steve.

Wait, just listen.

I told him some things you were going through. He seemed sympathetic and understanding about your situation and how distracting it must be. He’s no jerk, Joel.

I know, he said, as he downed the last gulp in his water bottle.

He believes that you should take a six-month leave of absence from working on any of his accounts.

He pounded his water bottle into the court. But, Steve.

Hear me out. I wholeheartedly agreed with him.

You did! He raised his voice with a wide-eyed look of astonishment.

Yes, I did. I feel it’s best for B of A and best for you too.

But, Steve, there’s not enough work from the other accounts to keep us all working!

Steve furrowed his brow. This was the hard part of what he was going to say. He took a long hard swig from his bottle. His throat had become suddenly parched. He looked to be in pain.

Yes. You’re right about that, my friend.

Well, what are you saying? I’m fired?

A V formed between his eyebrows and the bridge of his nose. No! he replied in a melancholic tone of voice. You’re too good a man for me to do that. Joel, for your own good, I want you to take a leave of absence and find yourself.

Find myself! he yelled in a belligerent tone of voice. How do I do that while I’m going broke! He scooted a few feet away.

Joel. Don’t worry. I’ve decided to give you a good severance package and to officially put you on temporary laid-off status so you can collect unemployment benefits.

Oh great. How long will that last me? he responded bitterly, flinging his empty water bottle across the court.

It should see you through a good six months. Hopefully, you can find some answers about yourself, he replied, trying not to smile at Joel’s angry reaction.

I can just see it now, he replied sarcastically. I’ll just sit on some beach with a bunch of other unemployed bums and stare at the ocean of what-ifs! What a fine and dandy time that will be.

Steve’s smile broadened at Joel’s attempt at self-pity. No, find yourself, not lose yourself. Find some answers about who you are and where you came from, most importantly, my friend, where you want to go. Find out what your heart and soul are missing.

That’s easy, he shot back disgustedly as if flinging a verbal dagger. It’s missing a woman in my bed and a good shot of Jim Beam.

Steve was laughing now. He found humor in his sarcasm.

Steve. Please give me one more shot. He held his arms out with his palms facing upwards.

No! This is for your own good. Don’t waste this valuable time drinking or whatnot. Find some answers.

Where, the Dionne Warwick’s Psychic Friends Network? he sighed in disgust.

No, that’s ridiculous. He smiled. Real answers! The kind that doesn’t cost $2.99 per minute.

"I haven’t a clue