Deliver Us from Evil: (The Refrain)

By Ron Williams

Informed by recent news headlines about the U.S. Postal Services ongoing economic crisis, this story details the work-a-day activities in a postal facility, as its workers struggle to provide reliable customer and delivery services in competition with the rise of the Internet. The focus is on one well-meaning postal worker combating a malicious manager's antagonisms, while battling his own inner demon.

Hector Soto, a U.S. postal worker with a fifteen-year career as a mail carrier, abruptly fi nds himself dismissed from duties by a manipulative manager rumored to be having an affair with his wife, Myra. When he confronts Myra, a violent exchange ensues and she bans him from their home by court order.

Now brooding in his rental apartment, he reminisces through his collection of diaries he began as a boy abused by his domineering father, when his only friend and confi dant had been a G.I. Joe action fi gure. At first, his G.I. Joe (his alter ego) had spoken to him in his thoughts, until, one day, shockingly it materialized to advise him face to face.

Joe faded from Hector's life when he became a teen, but has returned, inducing hallucinations and urges of murderous wrath. Soon Joe materializes as a ghostly phantom warrior, taunting Hector with Myra's infidelity and her conspiracy to take his beloved daughter from him. Despite Hector's efforts to resist, he finds himself succumbing to Joe's dark counsel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 14, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469194721

Ron Williams

"IT TAKES ONE TO REALLY KNOW ONE AND TO REALLY HELP ONE TO RISE AND SHINE!" 35 years + Experience = approximately 25 years with Significant Levels of A & D (4 times in those facilities and beyond), 10 years of a Recovery via Amazing/ Proven Tools came across, and Additional key elements provided due to what I Learned and what I Wrote about (through 59 years (now) of Life). The Book makes it clear, Experience trumps education in understanding sufferers and what it really takes to truly Help; "Professionals" likely can be misleading... What I learned and wrote about Saved my Life. My Son would have been on a similar route as well unless I caught him after graduating College. And now, to see the Power of this Self-Help Book in the hands of Two People in their 20s in my apartment complex, and the Positive difference it has made in a relatively short time period, Really Blew Me Away and Validated Everything About the Book's Effectiveness and Why I Wrote It! It Absolutely Humbled Me and Beyond... So Yeah I say again, in a "True Self-Help/Self-Select Book" Form, There Cannot Be Anything Better! Oh, I have included (2) Videos in the Look Inside Or Purchase Book tab, both in the same Hollywood setting :); don't call me Ronny De Niro :). And Please, We are talking about a Book here and not the ability of the Author to Act, nor for the Author to be part of a Popularity contest :); it is Hardly what this is all about...

Book preview

Chapter 1

Lingering rays of the setting sun beam in through the picture window facing the street, casting a brilliant curtain of light across my humble studio, illuminating traces of cigar smoke and dust particles drifting in the air. But half the room is left in smoky shadows. In the shadows is where I sit, squirming in this creaky old swivel chair, crouched over this old oak desk, struggling in vain to contain my burning rage and frustration. I remove one of the two Glock 9mm’s from the desk’s drawer. My fingers tingle holding it as I admire its simplicity, knowing that when I can no longer bear my despair, I will use it like morphine to remedy my pain. For now, I must abide until I have eradicated the malignancies conspiring against me… even as their wicked deception continue to infect my afflicted heart and mind, and my troubled soul.

Abruptly, another jarring utterance, deep and hollow, garbles from the shadows to torment my weary mind, resonating from deep within the center of my brain:

So, what’re you gonna do, you stupid fuck, just sit there spinning on your ass, wallowing in self-pity, recording in your little book that your life is reaching critical mass? Remember, I tried to warn you?

Startled, I nearly drop my pistol and try to yell, but my voice is hoarse, Ave Maria, Joe!

You haven’t forgotten, have you? You haven’t forgotten my coming to you when you were that scared little boy—to protect you? Well, I’m here again, to protect you now, if only you’ll trust me.

How can I trust you, Joe? I know what you’re capable of. I shove the pistol back inside the drawer and push it closed with my knee, then take up one of my spiral notebooks lying on the desk. I try to write, but the ink from my pen doesn’t flow uniformly onto the page; the words appear overly drawn, barely legible. Granted, my eyes are blurred, burning from cigar smoke and from downing so much Scotch whiskey. My hand, clammy from wiping cold sweat from my brow, is even more unsteady than my agitated thoughts—frightful, mixed-up thoughts—uncontrollable surges of love and sorrow, hate and rage, all rushing like jagged driftwood on the waves of a flooded river.

Lovingly, I stare at the framed photograph on the desk, of my beautiful wife, Myra, and our precious daughter, Jessie, and looking at their beautiful smiles, my tearful eyes overflow, making it even more difficult to record the painful events of the last two days. A feeling of futility lifts me from my creaky chair and carries me to my bed to unwind. The bed, that’s provided by my new landlord, has a futon mattress but no headboard, only the large colorful print of the Golden Gate Bridge hanging overhead. I incline back into the bulky pillows propped up against the wall at the head of the bed, and I run my fingers over the spiral notebooks scattered about, each of them containing the diaries I’ve written since childhood, when I was first impassioned to register my fears in written form, as a way of purging the awful dread I suffered from my Papi’s cruel authority.

When my fingers find my very first diary, recorded when I was just ten-years-old, I open it and reflect on that very first entry:

Papi really actin’ crazy tonite. He drunk again. I hear him out in the livin’room screamin’ and cursin’ at Mami somethin’ terrible, and I hear him hit her. Then I hear Mami shriek, then begin to weep. He really scare hell outta me when he like this. He get drunk and get mad ’cause he can’t find a permnent job. He hate the jobs the ’ployment office send him on every day. Some days they don’t send him nowhere ’cept home. They say he don’t have ’nough skills. But Papi say it is ’cause of his poor English. He stop at the licker store before he gets home. Oh-oh! He’s callin’ me."

As I sit here reviewing my journal, I don’t know how, maybe from the Scotch whiskey I’ve been drinking all afternoon, but I remember it as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. I was doing my English vocabulary homework, sitting at the small table in my cramped room in our poorly-painted apartment housed in a badly maintained building on 2nd Street and Avenue B, on New York City’s lower east side, one in a series of such rundown buildings Papi had always managed to find, from which we’d eventually be evicted for his not having paid the rent, and we’d be forced to move into another neglected tenement.

That evening, Papi called me from the living room, his voice loud and husky. and I was so goddamn scared my heart pounded in my chest like a kettledrum. My sweaty hands trembled as I went to my bed and grabbed my plastic GI Joe lying among several of my GI Joe comic books. Joe was the spirit that dwelled in that eleven-inch-long action figure, my invisible friend, my only real friend and confidant, had been my invisible friend, my only real comrade and confidant, had always answered me when I asked him questions, and he always gave me the best advice.

Joe wore camouflage fatigues, with a minature .45 pistol and holster on his waist, and he held an M-1 rifle with fixed bayonet. If I wanted to I could make his head turn and his arms, wrists and hands move in separate actions, could even make him kneel, sit and crawl, or do anything a soldier need to in battle. Joe had black beard, and the eyes in his brown plastic face were always opened, watching out for me.

I gripped Joe tightly and held him out in front of me, staring at him, and pleaded, Joe, please don’t let Papi scream and holler at me, and don’t let him hurt me. Joe, d’ya hear me?

I heard Papi bellowed again, Hector! Git your ass here, ahora! and my whole body trembled. Even the walls seemed to shudder.

Then, I heard Joe say, Don’t worry, buddy, I’ll be with you.

Papi yelled again, Git out here! Ahora!

My fingers clutched Joe tightly as I opened my bedroom door then crept down the hallway toward the living room, clinging to the dull-green walls. When I eased into the room, no air was wafting in through the two opened windows facing the street, only the pulsating Latin rhythms and the wailing voice of La Lupe blaring from somewhere in the neighborhood. On a wall between two windows hung Mami’s sorrowful plaster of Paris Jesus on a wooden across. Mami was curled up on our faded blue couch sniveling, her jet-black hair mussed, fallen over her golden face, her mascara blotched beneath her eyes and lipstick smeared over her lips.

When she saw me standing there, she combed her hair back with her long fingers, then took a lit Winston from a yellow plastic ashtray on the arm of the couch, that was already overflowing with cigarette butts. She took a long draw from it. Then she said to Papi, Why you messing with the boy, he in his room minding his own damn business? I even told him to stay outta your way ’cause you having such a hard time.

Papi roared at me, Maricon, come over here and act like a man, goddamn it, not a scared chicken! Holding his muscular arms across his chest, he chuckled. Otherwise, I’ll make chicken soup outta of you. He laughed. Sopa de pollo, he laughed again, then impatiently commanded, Venga aqui! Get over here bendejo sissy.

I just stood there, paralyzed with fear.

I won’t tell you again! he growled. Coño, you think I playing?

Now, I went to him right away, nervously holding Joe out in front of me like a cross of protection, or a magic wand. Papi towered over me like a giant, wearing a sweaty T-shirt and suspenders, his eyes glassy and bloodshot. His skin was wet with perspiration, and he stunk of cheap wine. I wished I could’ve just made him disappear.

Your Mami say some muchachos chase you home! he growled. Es verdad, you let some boys chase you home?

I nodded almost imperceptibly, my eyes gaped wide, afraid he was going to hit me, and stammered, Y-Y-Yes sir.

What kinda son I got? he roared, his eyes widened, his teeth grinding, the veins in his temple throbbing fiercely. A goddamn coward, that what you are? Suddenly, a hard, calloused hand slammed against one side of my face, then against the other side, then again repeatedly, each time Papi blaring, That’s what you are, a goddamn coward! At first, his stiff whacks hurt only my pride, but continued blows began to really burn my cheek, and I start to cry.

Leave him alone, Mami screamed. Why you pickin’on him all the time? He no responsible you can’t find steady work. Not enough you take it out on me?

Callate, mujer!

What kinda big man you are? Mami exhaled a column of smoke toward Papi. You let the world beat up on you then come home and beat up on your family?

Mind what you say, mujer, I the man of this house! I do what I want. Papi’s eyes then fixed on me like an animal stalking prey, his hand poised to strike me again. This my son, and I gonna make a man out of him… if it kill him.

He my son, too! Mami yelled, and I won’t let you mistreat him!

Papi yelled back furiously, Shut up, mujer! Our son is sissy. Look at him cryin’.

He no sissy, Mami defended, he just a scared, gentle boy. I’m his mother, and I won’t let you abuse him like you do me. I only put up with your abuse ’cause I know how broken and hurt you are… and ’cause I know you try your best for us. Mami squashed out her cigarette in the yellow ashtray then pushed up from the couch and went to a wooden shelf on the wall between the living room and kitchen, where a plaster statue of Mary of the Miraculous Metal stood robed in white, her eyes closed in an expression of supreme serenity, her head inclined forward, her arms outstretched, and her foot resting upon the head of a serpent. On one side of the statue sat a burning white candle in a glass jar, on the other side a water-filled glass turned upside down on a saucer. As she always had whenever she was troubled, Mami took a cigar from the shelf and lit it, then blew smoke over La Virgen Marie, while praying quietly in Spanish, asking her for protection and guidance.

All the while, Papi stood over me like a grizzly bear, watching her. Then his jaws tightened, his teeth clenched, and that vein in his temple became almost as large as those veins in his muscular arms. Then he punched me in the chest full force with the butt of his hand, and I stumbled backwards, tripping over rubbery legs as I vainly reached back to break my fall. I slammed to the floor on my ass. More startled than hurt, I quickly rolled over, then stood up and backed away, with Papi lurching toward me. My arms were frozen at my sides as I continued to back away sobbing, until I hit the thick wooden-framed doorway to the hallway.

I wanted to turn, to run to my room, but I figured that would only enrage Papi even more, and my door had no lock. Somehow, I managed to raise my arms, and I held Joe out in front of me, pointing it at Papi like a weapon, and I remember, in that desperate moment I just wanted him to have an agonizing heart attack and die.

But in the blink of an eye, Papi snatched Joe right out of my sweaty hands, like a Praying Mantis seizing an insect; it happened so fast, I did not immediately realize that I was standing there robbed of my protector. I stopped crying, as I glared at Papi with hate-filled eyes, expressing at that moment what I felt in my heart. His thick fingers were wrapped around Joe, squeezing the plastic figure as if to strangle it, then twisting it in his strong hands, all the while staring back at me, and smirking, Your Mami wants you to grow up and be like her, someone who can’t take care of yourself, needin’ someone to protect you and provide for you.

Mami screamed, Nooo! I want him to grow up and be a better man than his father, who can’t even find a steady job. I want him to get an education, don’t you? Or you fraid he’ll grow up and be somebody great… somebody not like you, tough, very tough but a failure?

That’s when Papi’s fingers tightened around Joe, then his hands jerked downward, splitting Joe completely in half at the waist, the snapping sound sending a chill up my spine. Papi stood rigidly, staring vacantly at the pieces, half in each hand. Then he looked at me, waiting for my reaction, his eyes blinking, trying to conceal feelings of regret.

I took the pieces from Papi’s hands, struggling to hold back tears as I mourned Joe silently. The timid part of me cautioned me not to speak, but the hurt part of me was so pissed, I screamed at him, Look what you did! I hate you, Papi! I hate you!

At that moment I saw something I’d never seen before; I saw terror wash over Papi’s face, his eyes staring past me, at something behind me. Then, in a flash, something unseen, something powerful, slammed against his chest so hard it knocked him to the floor. In utter confusion, I look down at Papi writhing, grimacing, grasping over his heart with one hand, and with the other reaching up at me. His lips moved as if to speak, but no sound escaped. Terrified, I bolted down the hall and into my room, slamming the door behind me.

I sat there on the side of my bed, half expecting Papi to barge in at any time. My face quivered and my hands shook as I tried to fit the pieced of Joe back together, futilely holding them in place. Joe? Joe, are you there? I waited for my protector to answer, but when he didn’t, I called him again, repeatedly, Joe, are you there? Have I lost you forever? Finally, I sighed with grievous disappointment, resigning myself to the inevitable.

Sadly, I lumbered to my window then partially rolled up the shade covering it and looked out at the neighboring building’s brick wall, only a few feet away. I breathed in deeply the hot summer air and stood listening to the night sounds—jazzy brass music, blaring sirens, and the murmur of a million voices.

But those sounds didn’t prevent my ears from catching the kindly utterance from behind:

Don’t worry, buddy boy, the voice had said, reaching from across the room. I’m right here with you. The voice had mere startled me, but when I spun around what I saw shocked me. I gawked in disbelief, pointing at what seemed to be a real, life-sized, GI Joe dressed in camouflage fatigues and matching cap, black boots, and with a holstered .45 pistol on his belt. He was sitting in my chair at the small table, holding the notebook papers with my English homework. His brown skin wasn’t plastic and, when he winked at me, his dark eyes seemed as real as mine.

Don’t you recognize me, buddy? he asked.

I was speechless, wondering if I was really seeing what I thought I was, and if so how it could be.

He smiled warmly and spoke calmly, Relax buddy, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m here to help you, like I always have; only now you can not only hear my voice, you can see me.

Holy shit! Joe!?

He nodded, smiling broadly.

Uh… w-where’d you come from?

Where do you think? From you!

That’s impossible.

It’s not for me to convince you I exist, if you can’t convince me I don’t? By needing me and believing in me, you have created me. My voice, that voice you have heard, came from a part of you that has the answers to all your questions. Didn’t I give you the correct answers to that surprise math test Mrs. Lantry sprang on your class last week? And didn’t I warn you that pretty Rosaria, who sits across from you in English, who has the hots for you, already has a boyfriend, one who’d get his buddies to beat up on you? And when you asked me how to avoid fights, what did I say?

You, you told me that if I made friends I’d have allies? I knew Joe was right, remembering that his voice in my head had told me all those things, and I tried to relax, even worked up nerve to approach him with my hand outstretched. Holding my breath, I touched his forehead and fingered his coarse beard. Then I felt the warm pliable muscles in his arms.

So? What d’ya think? he said. If you can see me, you can feel me. I’m just as real as that broken plastic doll of yours, he chuckled.

Yeah, more real! I exclaimed, finally exhaling the breath I’d been holding in. I backed away to broaden my eyeshot of Joe. When I sat down on the side of my bed I pushed the pieces of my broken GI Joe aside, having decided they were of no more use to me. I had the real Joe now. But I still wasn’t sure what to make of him, as he stared at me with a deeply concerned scowl, like he was looking into me, maybe through me, because somehow I felt his presence inside me, moving my thoughts around in my head, examining the feelings behind them.

You’re real pissed off with your Papi, aren’t you? You’re so pissed off, you’re not afraid of him anymore.

My face quivered again as my blood began to boil, and I growled, I hate him!

You don’t really hate him, do you? You hate the way he sometimes treated you and your Mami.

I really hate him. I hate how he hurts my Mami and makes her cry. I hate that I’m not strong enough to protect her.

Hmmm. When your Papi was a kid, his old man used to beat him and his Mami too, and talk tough, and ruled their house with an iron fist. So your Papi believes this is the way to be the man of the house, especially since he’s so angry with his own miserable fate.

What’s fate?

You know what fate means.

I had an idea what it was but I wasn’t sure, so I shook my head.

It means how things turn out in your life. Your Papi didn’t get a good education—Hell, he hardly got any education at all, as a poor boy in La Perla, a rough section of Puerto Rico. But he fears you’ll grow up and be more successful than he is, and that it will make him feel even more of a failure. He feels cheated by life, and he takes it out on you. But you needn’t fret, your Mami knows secret things.

I still hate him, I insisted, pursing my lips.

So what’cha you gonna do about it Joe growled, spend the rest of your life pouting and brooding? You gonna let that hate make you into a hateful person, keep you from waking up tomorrow and going to school, keep you from getting your education so that you can grow up and do better than your Papi? Joe was waving my homework papers at me, antagonistically, as if pointing a critical finger. Are you gonna let your hate keep you from being a better person than your Papi? What about when you grow up and get married and have children of your own? Are you gonna be hateful and mistreat your family, too?

I knew Joe was right, I knew I didn’t want to be anything like Papi. And when I shook my head in agreement, Joe smiled and his eyes glazed over. Suddenly, I felt exhilarated, like I had a purpose, a mission to one day have a family of my own, a family to love and who would love me.

Just them, there was a knock at the door. Then I heard Mami’s voice outside, and she sounded alarmed, Hector! Hector, tu okay? I have to go to hospital with your Papi, he hurt bad. Okay?

Still holding my homework, Joe stood then came to me smiling encouragingly, then in a flash he vanished right before my eyes, and the papers with my homework drifted like feathers to the floor.

Chapter 2

When I look over at the statue of Mary of the Miraculous Metal sitting on the four-drawer dresser near my bed, I’m reminded of Mami and of her inner strength, and how she had always tried to protect me from Papi. La Virgen Maria, with her expression of supreme serenity, her arms outstretched, a serpent underfoot, is the only momento I still possess that had belonged to Mami. It’s as precious to me as it was to her, and, like my dear Mami, I keep a white candle lit beside it.

Joe had taught me those many years ago, when Papi had provoked such fury in me, to always temper my anger, to convert it into something positive, something that would work for me and not entangle me in turmoil.