Travels with Ernie

By Robert Livingston

Travels with Ernie is a story about a newly retired newspaper reporter, Robert Samuels, who is involved in a violent car crash. Regaining consciousness, he finds himself in a strange room with peculiar properties. It is able to read his thoughts, as does the unfamiliar man before him for whom time and place can be manipulated in compliance with Samuelss most hidden desires. The stranger, who refers to himself as a case manager, provides a guide, a long-dead journalist, Ernie Pyle, for the adventure awaiting Samuels.

The story is a kaleidoscope of many themes all tied to Samuelss desire to find redemption and, if possible, salvation before he dies for the choices of inaction that he made in his life. Together, the three travel to unusual places, each locale a heartbeat in Samuelss ethical struggle to advocate for social justice, where he, by his own failure to act, compromised the moral life he wanted to liveOkinawa in the Pacific; Gila River Indian Reservation in the Southwest; Seligman, Arizona; Lone Pine, California; Bly, Oregon; and Albuquerque, New Mexico.

Along the way, Samuels encounters forgotten figures in American history, each related to his redemptive struggle to live an ethical lifeRalph Lazo, Fred Korematsu, Iva Toguri, Charles W. David Jr., Captain Henry T. Waskow, Rabbi Alexander Goode, Angel Delgadillo, Ben Epstein, and Professor Peter Irons. All have a story to tell, which possibly will exonerate Samuels from his self-imposed sense of historical guilt.

Samuelss religious faith, such as it is, will be challenged by events, past and present. In the end, he is trying to make sense out of the chaos of life and the absurdness of human affairs. As such, it is a story that embraces us all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9781532036750

Robert Livingston

Robert Livingston was a high school history teacher in Los Angeles for thirty-seven years. He taught U.S. History and Government, Economics, and Comparative Religions. In retirement he joined a local Kiwanis Club and supervised three high school Key Clubs. He has written four books, each of which explored America's racial history in the military and in our national pastime. He has written extensively on the causes of World War I and the reasons behind Japan's attack at Pearl Harbor.

Book preview

PART I

NEW FRIENDS

He who learns must suffer. And even in our sleep pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful wisdom of God.

Aeschylus

Father of the Greek Tragedy

523 BC – 456 BC

CHAPTER 1

OH, GOD, PLEASE HELP ME.

SAN FRANCISCO – JANUARY 23, 1995

Thinking about it now, the entire situation was absurd.

Robert Samuels just wanted to get home and go to sleep. It had been a long day. He had no idea that the past — the war years — were going to intrude leaving the comforts of a warm bed a shaded memory. He had no idea that, so many years after WWII ended, he was about to reenter the tragic conflict.

It all started out on a chilly, foggy night at the Great Highway, which ran north-south in a parallel track to the Pacific Ocean at the most westerly stretch of San Francisco.

At exactly 9:40 p.m., John Sharkey, a twenty-three year old high school dropout and pot addict with a criminal record as long as the Great Highway itself, broke into a late model Oldsmobile, hot wired the vehicle, and then sped off toward Geary Street. There he made a screeching sharp right turn before heading to a Chinese chop shop he knew south of Market Street where the Bay Bridge was anchored on the City’s side. A lifetime loser, Sharkey thought he’d finally made the perfect heist — car for cash, cash for cannabis.

As usual, he was wrong.

Unfortunately for him, a mounted police officer, a youthful Harrison Jones with a western flair for crime busting, who was about to end his nightly patrol along the beach, saw the entire affair, and then, spurring his gallant steed forward, charged after the Olds. It was no contest. Though the horse tried, he was no match for Detroit’s horsepower. The officer, however, radioed in the incident, and a few minutes later a black and white squad car took up the chase, siren singing, lights flashing.

Without knowing it, John Sharkey with his scraggy beard, and squeaky, clean-shaven Harrison Jones had set in motion random puzzle pieces that would quickly come together most unexpectedly.

A few minutes earlier, Mrs. Sandra Marshall, a senior in good standing with AARP, walked into her living room to remind her husband to put out the rubbish for the next day’s pickup. Instead of finding him locked into the latest USA Today crossword puzzle, she found him sprawled on the carpet gasping for air, apparently suffering a heart attack. She quickly dialed 9-1-1 and was assured an ambulance would speed to her home at 327- 32nd Avenue. As she waited impatiently for the paramedics, her husband, now feeling a bit better and apparently okay, asked her what seven letter word beginning with z might work at 27 down?

Mrs. Marshall, a dedicated pacifist due to her Quaker upbringing, almost became a murderess upon hearing her husband’s query. How dare the old fool scare her half-to-death! Still, she decided not to cancel the ambulance. The ashen pale pallor of her husband dissuaded her. Unknowingly to her another slice of randomness was set in motion.

Sandwiched between these two events, a fire broke out at 1570 Anza Street in the second story of a well-worn Victorian flat. Much later it would be determined that newlyweds, Margie and Thomas Wicks, sparking with youthful vigor, had indulged their sensual needs and made mad love. Sadly, they ended their romantic romp with a smoke, and then, taxed by their exertions, they had fallen asleep. One of their cigarettes, it was conjectured later by officials of the fire department, slipped out of the ashtray and fell into a wastebasket that somehow tipped over and ignited their carpet, which had heavy alcohol stains incurred during a rather rambunctious wedding party the night before. A neighbor, Miss Judy Anderson, soon noticed smoke billowing from the couple’s apartment and immediately called the fire department. A hook and ladder rig was dispatched from Station 77 in the outer Richmond District of the City. With engines running full out and sirens blaring in the cool night air, the fire engine rumbled down moisture-slicked streets.

Unwittingly Miss Anderson had placed another obscure chunk of improbability in play.

While these separate and disparate events were fast occurring, Robert Samuels, unaware of what was occurring, was starting up his old and loveable 57 Buick Regal at George Washington High School, which was located at the corner of 32nd and Geary. Even though he was not an under-the-hood kind of guy, Samuels adored the old beast, even if he was a mechanical moron when it came to maintaining a classic." Long as a football field and heavy as a tank with grillwork reminiscent of prison bars, the Buick was his surrogate mistress. Samuels lavished considerable time and money to maintain the eight purring cylinders and the 300 plus horses that stampeded beneath the metal work when he stomped on the accelerator. Clearly, it was a love affair between man and car.

His wife of many years, Lynn, and the other love of his life, was certainly aware of this relationship between man and machine. She indulged both, since it was innocent enough. She was, of course, curious when she heard her husband speaking in soft and soothing tones to the old Buick. At those times she had to admit, she felt a stab of jealousy, which eventually caused her to fall into spasms of laughter. After all, what harm had been done. The man was simply cuddling with his car. Of course, on more than one occasion, she did wonder if the Buick ever responded in kind?

Unfortunately, this man-machine love affair would end tonight. Unresolved painful memories too long repressed, much like tectonic plates crunching against each other and shaking the planet’s mantle, were about to push aside Samuels’ last emotional defenses leaving him vulnerable to that which he wish to forget. Or so he would later tell himself.

As he was about to shift into drive, Samuels thought about the evening’s events he had so enjoyed. For the twelfth straight year, he had attended an Awards Evening at his old high school, and, as a reporter of considerable merit working for the San Francisco Chronicle, it had been his privilege to present again Awards in Journalism to two outstanding students. He always got a kick out of doing this. He enjoyed acknowledging potentially new blood in the profession. And tonight had been especially poignant, since he was now 65 and one day officially into retirement. This was the last time he would give the award. Another Chronicle reporter would take his place.

Before releasing the emergency brake, Samuels paused again to consider what the future might hold for him. In his mind the world had simplified itself to three things: a birthday party and retirement gathering yesterday, the ceremony this evening, and tomorrow a cozy, if not boring entry into senior citizenship. His time for journalistic adventure and investigative reporting was at an end. Almost absolute predictability and repetitiveness in his life beckoned him, he sadly thought out loud — read the paper in the morning, take a walk, check the business channel for his equity investments, putter in the garden, and take his wife to an ‘early bird’ movie at the REX. And somewhere during the day, he would read another biography of a great American."

Behind the veneer of all these activities was, of course, the one thing Samuels really wanted to do. He wanted to write another book. The book… A final effort to make amends by setting the record straight. Writing it had been on his mind for months, perhaps even longer, a quiet stirring of his thoughts when awake, and somehow lurking in his dreams, a constant reminder that he must get at this unfinished business. But did he have the courage to write this book? He knew who the main characters were. No question about that. Samuels knew what they had done. He felt their insistence that he get on with the project. No more stalling, the voices said. No more excuses. Still, a certain reluctance kept him from sitting down before his old Underwood, inserting the blank white sheet of typing paper, scrolling down, and then typing the first line — Thinking about it now…

He assumed that he would begin the next morning. He knew it was time. How wrong he was in assuming anything.

Pulling slowly out of his parking place, Samuels started down the steep hill heading toward Geary Blvd. and the short ride to his home on Lake Street near Mountain Lake Park. As he did, he shifted into neutral to let gravity tug at the big Buick figuring he would literally float down the street and then across the intersection before the light turned red. He always delighted doing this in the past. His timing had always been perfect. He always made the light. He loved the feeling, traveling without the rumble of the engine, just letting the weight of the vehicle carry him forward. That was for Samuels a sort of freedom, where he broke the bonds of earthly physical laws and ended, at least for a moment, all ties to the known world.

He had done it many times before and always without a hitch. Tonight, however, there would be an unexpected change. There would be a hitch. Perhaps it was the alignment of the blinking stars and the orbiting planets casting mystical dust earthward to very faintly interfere in human affairs. Or was it the brilliant full moon, a hefty chunk of cheese dangling in the sky and clinging to the heavens, that was the cause of all that followed? After all, the lunar body, which was usually obscured by patches of whisker-like fog drifting in from the Pacific, was, at least for a moment, quite visible. As might be expected, many people thought such a moon caused madness or at the very least various forms of unusual human behavior. Of course, what happened next might simply have been because the gods on Olympus or wherever they gathered to influence human affairs were bored and needed a little action to liven up things.

Whatever, it was, it was a night when coincidence collided with chance, and the unexpected and inexplicable emerged to change Robert Samuels’ life.

No matter. As Samuels quietly glided down the street, the bright green light suddenly turned to amber and even more quickly to red. Very unusual, he thought aloud, I’ve never seen the light change this fast. Responding to the glowing crimson danger, he clamped down hard on his brakes, locking the full weight of his almost 200-pounds into the effort. It took him a moment to realize the brakes were not responding. Try as he might, the brakes refused to slow the Buick. Shifting into low gear, he hoped greater engine compression might slow the Buick and minutely it did. Still, he realized, he would be entering the intersection against a red light faster than he would have preferred and with little control over the vehicle. He found himself hoping aloud that Geary Street would have slack traffic at this time of the night. A guy could hope, he said to no one in particular.

What occurred next could not have been predicted.

Flying eastward on Geary at over 60-mph, the stolen Olds entered the same intersection with the police cruiser in hot pursuit. The hook and ladder fire rig, traveling northward on 32nd Avenue at high speed did not slow down when it entered the intersection. The ambulance pushing westward along Geary and encouraged by a green light accelerated. And so Robert Samuels’ 57 Classic Buick Regal, whether driven by the fates, or merely the plaything of a mechanical failure, entered the intersection at just the wrong moment.

The collision was horrendous.

According to the only witness, a slack-eyed old fellow who had downed one too many on the way home, the Oldsmobile was first into the intersection, where it was immediately struck by the fire truck, and which, because of its greater weight, catapulted the hijacked car high into the air before it landed with a screeching thud on Samuels’ Buick. A fraction of a second later the Buick was whacked by a bright red ambulance as it tore into the first collision on a 9-1-1 mission of mercy. The trailing patrol car, though it tried desperately to avoid the accident, was unable to stop in time and plowed into the mass of torn and twisted metal essentially sandwiching Samuels between first responders. Gas tanks were sliced open in jagged, twisting cuts, and leaking fuel threatened to ignite. A few moments later the fuel did, even as a series of additional bizarre events occurred.

A ladder on the fire truck broke loose and flew through the air only to crash into the window of the First Rate Dry Cleaners, which advertised One Day Service. Once inside the establishment, the ladder, propelled by uncompassionate laws of physics, slammed into the mechanism holding newly cleaned and ironed shirts, dresses, and suits before impaling itself into a stoic unisex mannequin. Garments were, of course, ripped from their moorings and thrown in every possible direction. Fortunately, no one was hurt. The owners, Vietnamese refugees, exhausted from work, had gone home earlier than usual. But without question, the store was a first rate mess.

The multi-vehicle collision worked its strange ways on the ambulance, too. The impact of the accident caused the back doors of the rescue vehicle to open and somehow the wheeled stretcher inside was released from its restraints. Like an Olympic toboggan on its final run for the Gold Medal, the stretcher hit the street with a bang and took off. Lurching this way and that way, it burst over the sidewalk and, disrupted by the curb, flew upside down into the local See’s Candy Store’s front door. Crash! Bang! The front door collapsed. Inside the store, the stretcher careened into the chocolate wonderland before coming to rest against the far wall where a picture of kindly Mary See, the founder of the multi-store chain of candy outlets, seemed now to glare down at the intruder. Perhaps it was the splattering of soft centered delights on the picture and the utter candy carnage that altered Mary’s usual motherly gaze. Whatever. For the curious bystanders, who quickly appeared on the street, savoring the now freed delightful candies seemed fair given the way they had been so rudely awakened. It was, as many later admitted, the sweetest accident on record.

The police car was not exempt from weird things caused by the crash. The flashing red light on the cruiser broke off and skidded across the pavement before lifting itself into the air for a remarkable landing in the doorway of an adult video store proclaiming the Hottest Films in Christendom. For some inexplicable reason, the flashing red light continued to flash for a few minutes, suggesting an image of a truly red light area in the Richmond District. A rather large poster in the store’s window advertising Debbie Does Dallas glowed in the light’s reddish reflection before the light dimmed and finally went out. The convergence of porn and police was problematic, of course, but there it was, the City’s finest and Hollywood’s best, attached at the hip, so to speak.

As to the frail humans involved in the crash…

The resulting fire was severe and threatened all the occupants of the crash. However, though dazed and banged about with bruises caused by the impact, the relatively uninjured firemen quickly doused the flames with fire retardant foam before any gas tank exploded, and, after opening a nearby hydrant, poured a torrent of water on anything still hot and glowing. Even as they did this, an effort was made to extricate the obviously injured drivers and passengers. To this end, a number of local folks scrambled out of their comfortable abodes to assist. Contrary to the beguiling urban legend of disinterested and uninvolved citizens, Good Samaritans were very much in vogue this night. And, of course, professional first-responders converged on the accident from every corner of the compass.

Rescuing people proved extremely difficult and in the case of John Sharkey unnecessary. Poor John had been thrown from the Olds and, after colliding with an unyielding lamppost, went to wherever car-snatchers go in the great beyond. One thing was for sure. He had finally broken his drug addiction.

The two folks in the ambulance were severely injured. The female driver and her male companion each suffered concussions and numerous cuts from shattered glass. But, thankfully, their airbags deployed on impact and protected them from worse injuries. Once other rescue vehicles arrived, they were taken to the local Kaiser Hospital where a triage system was implemented. The fact that they had left the same hospital earlier in response to a 9-1-1 call was not lost on those who considered irony the highest dimension of human development.

The police officer was also protected by front and side airbags in his car. They deployed as expected in the collision, and, along with his protective body vest, this combination warded off potentially life-threatening injuries. True, an arm was broken and a knee shattered, but excellent emergency assistance limited even greater damage. The officer would survive.

As to Robert Samuels… He was trapped. On the passenger side, the police cruiser had buckled the Buick’s doors, locking the two vehicles in unhappy vehicular matrimony. On the driver’s side, the ambulance had accelerated into the Regal with little concern for his pride of ownership. Without a side air bag, Samuels took the full impact of the collision. The stolen Olds landed upside down on the Buick before skidding forward to obscure the front windows and hood. Then, pushed and shoved by the hook and ladder rig, the whole mess screeched ahead, a jumbled mass of broken glass and twisted metal, and sharp projecting edges stabbing at the night’s air. Flattened steel-belted tires added to the mosaic, as did headlights dimming, then flashing again, only to once more lose their luster and to quietly fade away.

The once beautiful, highly polished Buick now looked like the wreck of wrecks one would find in a graveyard of mangled cars with little more than their rusted, burned out skeletons to remind anyone of their former glories. Inside his car Samuels was imprisoned, constricted on all sides by bent and bleeding metal and savaged by terrible injuries. One thought emerged in his mind before he passed out:

Dear God, I’ve seen this before. Kamikazes! Oh God, please help me!

An hour later, firemen used the jaws of life to finally free an unconscious Samuels from his vehicle. He was quickly transported to the same hospital where the ambulance personnel had been taken, and where still others would go for treatment. After a posthaste review of his life threatening injuries by the attending physicians, he was prepared for major surgery.

Robert Samuels first hours of retirement had come to an end. And that should have been the end of his story. Too many injuries… Too near death to be saved… Just another vehicular fatality… But this was not to be the case, at least not yet. Samuels had not made his peace with too many unfinished obligations of the soul. The heavenly stars above were aware of this and conspired to grant him a temporary reprieve to work out his destiny. They were not immune to the human drama. They wanted to hear his story.

CHAPTER 2

YOU HAVE A HERO, DON’T YOU?

Robert Samuels opened his eyes with some difficulty. It was as if they had been sealed with wood glue after being coated first with a glaze of shimmering silver dust. It took a moment for his reluctant retinas to kick in with any clarity. As his vision cleared, he saw he was in a small room painted in a dull, steel gray color, which definitely reminded him of the U.S.S. Aaron Ward, the destroyer he had served on during World War II. But how could that be? Okinawa was so long ago. April 1945…That island carnage he had swept from his mind. Hadn’t he?

He checked himself and found that he was sitting in an inexpensive plastic chair, minty-green-colored, the type used in school cafeterias or in backyards, especially when the BBQ was broiling New York steaks and juicy corn-on-the-cob. In front of him was a wooden desk, apparently very old given the nicks and scratches on it, and the discoloring caused by too many varnish applications. For some reason, the desk reminded him of his elementary school days when Mrs. Ball, his stern sixth-grade teacher, would summon him to her to review his latest attempt at mathematics. What was this desk doing here? Was Mrs. Ball, reincarnated and with her red pencil, about to critically critique his calculations again? The question jabbed at him.

Seated at the desk now, however, was a man of indeterminate age with a face etched, it seemed, by all races and ethnicities, creating an unusual blend of facial reflections, and a kaleidoscope of human emotions suggesting on the whole gentleness, if not sympathy for the man sitting quietly before him. Or so perceived Samuels…

Where had he come from? Samuels would have sworn the man was not there a moment earlier.

Ah, Robert, you’re with me now.

With …

Robert, may I call you, Robert? Samuels is so formal, don’t you think?

Who…?

Good. Robert it will be. Always good to settle that question early on.

Where…?

Who? And where? Good questions? Always the same queries… Trying to make sense of things. Curiosity… Seeking answers…

And?

You’re with me.

Who are you?

Oh, I’ve been called by many names. I think in your case, Robert, how about C.M. given your inclination for initials. Right, Mr. P.?

Mr. P. That was the moniker his colleagues at the San Francisco Chronicle had foisted on him after he won a Pulitzer Prize for his award winning book, The Miracle of the Fifth Chaplain, over a decade ago. The story had touched the hearts and minds of millions of readers. How could it not? Four chaplains who gave up their lifejackets so that other men could live. A story of bravery at sea and devotion to a loving God in the unforgiving waters of the North Atlantic, almost within sight of Greenland late in 1943… But the book also delved into the mystery of a possible fifth courageous man who saved nearly 100 drowning soldiers that terrible day. Considerable debate and controversy occurred as to the identity and actions of this fifth chaplain, who was an African-American.

The initial had stuck. Truth be told, Samuels liked the nickname. It set him apart from other reporters at the Chronicle. Mr. P… It got your attention. But how did this person standing before him — whoever he was — know about it? And what did he want? And more to the point, what was going on?

C.M.?

It has a nice ring to it, Robert, don’t you think?

Standing for?

Cosmos Manipulator.

The news reporter in Samuels bucked at this heavy-handed claim causing him to say perhaps a bit too hastily, No, I don’t think so.

You don’t, do you. Well, what about Creative Manipulator?

Awkward. Doesn’t seem to suit you.

It doesn’t, does it? And how would you know. We’ve just met.

Reporter’s instincts.

Of course. Well, what about Creature Manipulator? Do you like that better?

Please, enough with the ‘manipulator’ stuff.

Testy, but if you insist.

I do, Samuels responded abruptly. And where am I? What’s going on? A name would be nice.

Case Manager, Robert. How does that grab you?

Case manager, Samuels thought. Better. But again questions flooded furiously for answers. Am I a case? If so, what kind of case? And what is this man managing? Where was this room? Why am I here? So many answers needed.

Fine, Samuels replied with a bit of discord in his voice. You seem to be running this show.

Good. Nice to have that out of the way… As to running the show, I plead guilty. It’s sort of my DNA.

Are you a social worker? Samuels asked, dismissing the off-the-cuff remark straightaway.

Well, not exactly.

Meaning?

I dabble in the social setting, if you wish to know.

Dabble?

Interact. And that’s all you’re going to get out of me, so let’s move on with your own insistent dabbling.

Are you a physician? an impatient Samuels shot back unwilling to be silenced.

Well, sort of, I think. I mean I’m in the healing business if that helps.

Is this room in a hospital?

One might say that.

Well, thought Samuels, it either is or isn’t a hospital. Perhaps he was on a hospital ship. That would account for the steel-gray color. But why all the oblique answers to simple questions?

So this is a hospital?

In a manner of speaking, yes. That’s what an emergency room is, isn’t it?

Why am I here?

"Don’t you know? Surely, you remember the crash.

Crash. What crash, Samuels thought? And then the lights went on. He remembered, shuddering as he did so. An avalanche of images and sounds assaulted him and a spasm of fear went through his body. Oh, my God, he thought… Could I be dead?

C.M., was I killed? he blurted out not sure he wanted an answer.

No, Robert, you survived, sort of.

Sort of?

Try to understand. It was quite a crash. The hook and ladder fire truck came barreling into the intersection, siren blaring, flashing lights flashing just as the police car zoomed into the picture in a mad chase after the kid who stole the spanking late model Olds. And, of course, there was the ambulance responding to the urgent call from the frantic housewife whose husband was having gastric indigestion, not a heart attack. Now, if your brakes hadn’t decided to take the night off, you wouldn’t have been invited to the party. As I say, it was quite a crash.

How could this guy know all this, Samuels thought? Such details. Had he been there? An unseen witness… Had he read newspaper reports? Had he heard radio and television announcements? The police report… Maybe that was it. Perhaps he knew someone in the SFPD. Always good to have inside sources…

Still, C.M.’s replay had thrown Samuels for a loop. Once more, he saw the unholy three vehicles, each following what seemed like predetermined orbital paths as they flew into the intersection, pedal to the metal. And he felt more than saw his insignificant efforts to sit on the brakes, to keep his lovely Buick from plowing into the coming maelstrom. Then the crash…

I was injured?

Oh, yes. Very much, I’m afraid.

Serious injuries?

Very. And I’ve already pointed that out, Robert.

But I survived?

Barely.

Bandages. I’m not wearing any. Surely, if I was severely injured, there would be bandages, wouldn’t there? Come on. Level with me, C.M.

Naturally. And you might refer to me with a modicum of respect. After all, I am your Case Manager

Where are they?

What?

The bandages. What else?

Well, Robert, you really don’t need them in this room. Anyway you’ve been cleaned up a bit. I must say the surgeons were remarkable.

Surgeons?

Certainly, you didn’t expect to escape the crash without a few belts to the old head, did you?

But I’m okay?

Time will tell. Always so many questions… Well, you were a newsman… In time all your questions will be answered. But first thing first… Go ahead and ask.

I need to know.

You do, don’t you, Robert.

Yes. How did I get here?

Well, you sent out a request.

What?

Perhaps the term ‘appeal’ is a better choice of words.

I don’t remember.

You will. Trust me on that. Now let’s skip the C.M. bit. Let’s get on a first name basis. What do you think? How about Tony? Yes, I like that. Just call me Tony. I guess I saw too many Tom Mix movies. Loved his horse, Tony.

You want me to call you Tony because you liked a horse’s name?

It has a certain flair, don’t you think?

Tom Mix, Samuels thought, the silent film cowboy who rode through Hollywood’s version of the West in the 1920’s and into the hearts of love-stricken female hearts, and adventurous boys, who dreamed of drilling the bad guys in a shoot-out on Main Street in front of the Last Chance Saloon.

Bigger than life, Mix and his horse, Tony, anticipated Roy and Trigger, and Gene and Champion and the talkies. A man and his horse with his saddle, bedroll, Winchester rifle, Colt revolver, and rope riding the range, embracing solid old-fashioned values — truth, justice, and fairness. Was that what this Tony was about, Samuels asked himself? Have I fallen into a B-Movie? Who was writing the script? Who the hell is directing? And, if I had, who were the bad guys? Would I be in a quick draw shootout? Or was this guy, Tony, just playing with my banged up brain cells??

Okay, Tony. Have it your way. Now am I dead?

Hardly. If you weren’t killed, how can you be dead?

You seem to answer all my questions with questions, Tony.

Yes, I guess I do. Nasty habit I’ve picked up over the eons. Habits are so difficult to break, don’t you think?

Hell, there you go again.

Robert, I must ask you to refrain from using that word.

Again?

No, hell.

Samuels nodded or shrugged, or maybe he did both. It really didn’t matter. He felt he was on a conveyer belt of words and unanswered questions, as if he were baggage at the airport just going around and around on a carousel just beyond the reach of any claim ticket, leaving him stranded, a journalistic nomad unable to practice his craft, or even to leave San Francisco International. Somehow impending retirement — and maybe the crash — had confined him to this purgatory of dashed hopes and fruitless questions. And he wasn’t even a Catholic.

Robert, please note that in this room, we really not into theological concepts, especially ones claiming that the wicked will be punished after death, a so-called location where only the evil reside. You know… What the Greeks called Hades. It gives us goose bumps just thinking about such a condition of torment and misery. So please refrain from using that term again. Okay?

You said ‘we’ and ‘us’?

Oh, I’m afraid I did, and now you want the plural spelled out. Can’t blame you, though. You had sharp ear. Always into details, weren’t you?

And why are you speaking of me in the past tense, Tony?

Don’t jump to conclusions, Robert. You did retire on your birthday a day before the accident, did you not?

Okay. Score one for you. Now, who are the ‘we’?

My colleagues. My associates.

There’s more than one of you?

The position — make that the responsibilities — are many and shared.

You’re angels?

Robert, why do you insist on believing you died. Angels, my word… Do you see wings on me, or a halo shimmering around my head? Do I look like some immortal, spiritual being who is a messenger of God delivering candy-coated messages of goodness, beauty, or kindness? Angel, indeed.

I…

Another thing, Robert, just to clear the air about hell… Can you imagine the bookkeeping involved if we Case Managers had to keep track of everyone’s acts, if not their Heinz-variety of salacious thoughts leading to acts never actually committed? We have hardly enough time now to keep up with our case load.

Jesus, C.M., I’m not concerned about your job description and workload. I just want to know what’s happening to me.

Tony, Robert! I must insist you refer me as such. Another thing. We avoid using that particular name in a profane manner. The same with Siddhartha and Mohammad… And, of course, Abraham and the gang… They did their best, but you know …

Know?

People get confused. They take a sage’s message and suddenly they hold absolute truth. They claim they’re saved. Human nature, I suspect. But I ask you, saved from what? Next thing you know they’re fighting with dissenters, doubters, disbelievers. Before long, wars break out in the name of some truth. Pretty soon only mangled bodies and a sea of blood covers the landscape. Very ugly… But you know this already as a reporter and as a student of history, don’t you?

Holy Moses, I don’t need a history lesson, Tony. I need answers.

I think you do. More than you may think. But on another point… I assure you Moses may not have been as holy as you think. There were good reasons why he didn’t lead that motley crowd of stiff-necked rabble into the ‘land of milk and honey. Did he ever test my patience! Wouldn’t talk unless it was to complain. Thankfully his brother, Aaron, was around."

Around and around… Questions answered with questions… Unresponsive responses… Sidetracked answers… Where was all this Q and A going? Samuels had to ask…

Tony, you said you’re my Case Manager, right?

Right.

Why you?

Why not me?

Damn, you’re doing it again.

We avoid that word, too, Robert, unless you referring to a block of cement holding back the Colorado River.

Christ, what can I say?

Avoid titles.

Fine. Now, why you? Why are you my Case Manager?

If you must know… In my spare time, I like to read. Wonderful way to keep up on things… Anyway, I checked out all your books. All the ‘miracles’ at Okinawa, Pusan and most recently, the Chaplains.

I’m impressed. You show excellent literary insights, Samuels answered a little too smugly.

Oh, it’s more than that.

You will explain, won’t you?

Well, I felt kin to you. Call it a bonding if you wish. Your books had a certain spiritual nature.

I thought we weren’t into religion.

"Did I say that?

You suggested it.

A little clarification.

Which would be welcomed.

"No sarcastic remarks, Robert. Remember, you’re in my house, or office, whichever term you feel most comfortable with. Or on your old ship as you first thought. As to religion, it’s no big deal here in this room. We’re what you might call a ‘equal opportunity’ enterprise.’ Earthly faiths — theologies, philosophies, dogmas, and saintly scriptures — are not that important here. What concerns us is what we call ‘spiritual essence.’ Your books radiate with this. Perhaps I can put it this way. Though a reluctant theist and an avowed weak-kneed agnostic, you still fastened onto that which transcends mainstream religion. You, I’m afraid, are guilty of having a very spiritual nature — of desiring to be ‘saintly even in the absence of a God.’ If I may exaggerate, you would be right at home in Camus’ The Plague, though a little out of context. So to speak, you have fallen away from the conventional tree of wisdom, institutionalized religion and its rigidity. You are beyond, it seems, the popular notion of salvation in this matter. No biblical verse can save you. You will not, as you’ve already discerned, find what you’re looking for on Sunday. And for that matter, Friday and Saturday… You are a weekend renegade. I could say ‘I’m sorry about that but you’d know I was fudging. Right?"

How does this guy — this Tony — this Case Manager — know all this about me, Samuels asked himself. I’ve only shared these thoughts with my wife, and then only after some Chardonnay. Damn it, what was going on?

Robert, your language.

You read my thoughts?

Only what you share with me.

Then I am dead? I must be.

So persistent to die. What am I going to do with you? For the last time, you didn’t die. Dying, yes. Dead? No. You’re still with the living. Got it? Anyway, after calling in a few chips, I laid claim to being your Case Manager. And here we are.

But if I’ve fallen from the grace of God, I’m a lost cause. You’re wasting your time with me.

Did I mention God? I don’t think so. As to your fall… Well, think of it this way. You fell. That’s true. But upward much to my eternal joy.

To say that Samuels was confused barely described his situation. He felt like a man in the desert seeing one mirage after another, never able to find substance. There was nothing to cling to. Reality kept slipping through his fingers. What did Tony mean, falling upward? How can that be possible? Had Newton been banished? Had the apple gone astray? Samuels needed to know more. He persisted with his questions.

Tony, I must be direct. Are you God?

What an intriguing question, Robert?

And?

Perhaps in time that question can be answered.

"Let me say it another way… Is there a God?

Well, that is being direct.

And?

I’m not at liberty to divulge the answer at this time according to my Guidance Manual.

What manual?

This one.

Where the table had been absolutely bare a moment ago, a large book now appeared as if out of nowhere. The book was so large and presumably heavy that it needed a cradle like ones seen in a library. The cover, though obviously very old and worn, still shimmered in the light. Tony touched it adoringly.

Where did that come from?

It’s always been here, Robert. You just needed a few minutes to see it.

And God?

You’ll need a few more minutes before we tackle that one.

Evasive.

Realistic.

Fine. A few more questions.

Only a few? We are making progress, aren’t we?

Am I dreaming all of this?

Instead of answering the questions, Tony opened up his Manual, gently turning the pages before finally stopping.

Dreaming. You want to know if all of this is a dream?

Yes.

Well, I checked with the Manual. I get so confused when it comes to that particular question. Everyone, you know, asks it. It seems to be the universal thing to ask. Sort of the DNA of near-death experiences… And with all the human possibilities — consciousness, unconsciousness, mediation, deep sleep, repressed experiences, disguised thoughts, visual images, a torrent of sensations, the imagination, fantasies …

Enough, Tony. Am I dreaming?

"One more moment. I’m rechecking the dream section of the Manual. Got it.

Dreaming occurs when you’re sleeping. Are you asleep, Robert?"

I don’t know.

Fair response. But if you are sleeping, why not just pinch yourself and wake up?

That’s it. That’s all the Manual states?

Well, I didn’t say the Manual was perfect.

Truthfully, Samuels didn’t know if he was dreaming. He didn’t feel like he was. Still, he might be dreaming? If so, would a stern pinch awaken him? Why not give it a try. Nothing really to lose… Might just feel a slight sting, a minor irritation. But if he awoke, what would he awake too? Surgeons desperately working on him… His wife hovering over him, tearfully watching his body connected to a host of life-saving wires, tubes, and electronic gauges. Perhaps it was best to play along with Tony, who refuted all claims to his possible death in the accident, at least for now. Maybe this was best. Samuels only knew he was talking with Tony, whom he concluded, was a reality, the nature of which was still to be determined. He decided to try another approach with his horse lover Case Manager.

Tony, you wanted to be my C.M.?

Without a doubt.

What does a Case Manager do?

That should be obvious. He manages cases. I already told you that.

I take it we’re in this together. I’m the case; you’re the manager.

Very true. Connected at the hip as they say.

And for some purpose other than to keep you busy, Tony?

Ah. Your reporter instincts are finally working.

And that purpose?

Training.

Training?

I’ve been on the job forever. I’m getting a little old for this stuff. I need help. I’m always looking for new blood, if you’ll pardon the expression… More youthful folks to assist me… What I call a Guide. That’s what I need.

That’s why I’m here?

To a degree, yes.

Nothing else?

I didn’t say that.

This is like a job interview? To be a Guide?

Confirmation of what I already decided to do if you agree, Robert. No need to decide now. Soon perhaps.

You’ve got to be joking.

Not in the least. I am always in need of a new Guide. It’s a very good position, I assure you. Most Guides find a great deal of personal satisfaction in their work. I think you might be perfect for the job.

You’re kidding, Tony, aren’t you? I don’t even know what you’re talking about!

You will in time, Robert. And by the way, do I sound like I’m kidding.

Samuels knew in his heart that Tony wasn’t kidding and that led to other questions.

I repeat, Tony. I don’t even know what a Guide does.

You’ll learn, Robert. A little patience.

Can I reject the offer, Tony?

Of course. You do have free will even if you have no choice about it. Oh, how I do love that line, Robert.

But…

It’s a really good offer, Robert. Check the Help Wanted Ads. I’m sure you’ll reach the same conclusion.

Tony, did I have to die to take this job?

Again, this obsession with death, Robert.

That’s not an answer. Is death a prerequisite for the job, Tony?

It’s a factor, one of many, Robert.

Then I must be deceased.

Do those who have passed talk? Are we talking, Robert?

Yes, Tony, we are.

Well, then?

I could be talking to myself.

An internal conversation?

Yes.

You made me up out of whole cloth. Robert?

Yes.

Well, if so, you certainly created an interesting dialogue.

Didn’t I?

Still, we are jabbering and it’s getting late.

Late for what?

To meet your Guide.

I thought you managed my case.

I do.

So?

You still need a Guide, someone to show you the ropes, so to speak.

You can’t.

Too many cases. It’s more efficient for me to use a Guide from time to time to save time.

But you have, it seems, all the time in the world.

Not an infinite amount and you certainly don’t.

What was Tony getting at talking about the finiteness of infinity? That made no sense, Samuels thought. And if time ran out, what happens? He could see how fruitless it was to pursue questions about death with Tony. Maybe, he thought, it was time to let go of his obsession, as Tony referred to it. If he was dead, he reasoned, so be it. If not, eventually he would be. It was simply a waste of time to continue fussing about something he had absolutely no power over.

Tell me about my Guide.

He’s your hero.

Hero. What was Tony talking about? A lifetime as a reporter and a heavy dose of cynical human behavior combined with the copious forms of human depravity, had all but extinguished Samuels’ sense of a hero. True, an occasional individual arose to display heroic characteristics, but such moments were less and less frequent.

I have no heroes, Tony.

"Are you so