“Trust,“ he pleaded with heartfelt sincerity. “I make offer, no can refuse—no take American money, to end of day. What say?“

While we weren’t sure what to believe after our last experience, Greg and I both agreed that we had nothing to lose since we did not have to pay him until the end of the day.

“Trust,“ he reiterated with a nod, this time.

“Okay,“ Greg finally agreed.

With a grin that extended from ear to ear, he rushed to open the door of his cab, and bade us to have a seat. Only after he, himself, had gotten into the cab, did he ask us where we wanted to go.

As we struggled to communicate to our cabby, the desire we both shared to purchase a nice gift for that special someone back home, he pointed to the ring on his finger. “Eh?“ inquired our cabby.

“Jewelry!“ I exclaimed, in answer to the charade our hearts had played on us.

“Yes!“ rejoined Greg. “What an excellent idea!“

So did our cabby, with the unanimous approval of his fare, take off for parts unknown.

Suddenly, it struck me how much Life is like a game of charades, in which we’re forced to find the Word hidden within Her images, both real and imaginary, to avoid giving flesh to His nemesis, Instinct. In our inability to interpret the language of the body, are we driven to act instinctively, to live out what we see rather than what we hear. For we’ve never been taught how to listen to ourselves or seek the counsel of our own faculties. Lured by the attractiveness of Life’s images, we let the multitude, rather than the One Voice, interpret them for us, preferring to live as our animal ancestors have always lived, under the tyranny of Instinct. In our failure to realize that She must be obeyed, one way or the other, are we forced to live out the charade instead of the truth.

As I refocused my attention onto a more visible band of the spectrum of consciousness, I found my self getting out of the cab, with Greg, in front of a small jewelry store. Inside, I quickly honed in on a gold ring upon which was mounted a star sapphire. Trying it on my baby finger, I just knew it would fit Mary. When I asked the shopkeeper how much it cost, I balked at first.

“Twenty dollars,“ he finally said, “no lower.“

“That’s a bargain,“ piped up Greg. “You could never buy the same ring at that price, back in the States.“

“You think not?“ I asked, hesitatingly.

“I know,“ added Greg, “for gold’s much higher back in the States.“

“All right,“ I muttered as I reached into my pocket for the money. “I’ll take it.“

“I sure wish I could be there,“ I rambled on, “to see the expression on her face when she tears into this package and feasts her eyes on a ring—it’ll blow her mind.“

Greg just smiled, as if to say he agreed. Having selected a beautiful gold necklace for his wife, he proceeded to pay for it.

“Hello,” I yelled out rather sheepishly. “Is anyone here?” Having received no response, I spun around to leave and turned right smack dab into the pockmarked face of this big ole fat man, all dressed in black, who seemed to have popped up out of nowhere.

“Who’re you?” I demanded to know, whereupon he pulled out a large butcher knife from behind his back and, with a smile, held it up to my face. Scared to death, I took off running as fast as my legs could carry me. Round ‘n’ round the amphitheater I ran with this madman at my heels. For no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake ‘m.

As the amphitheater grew larger ‘n’ larger with each round I made, I found my self racing around a structure, the size of a football stadium, complete with those who’d come out to see such sport. And as the burgeoning crowd chanted, “Kill! Kill! Kill!” over ‘n’ over, in a deafening scream, I was overcome with the hopelessness of ever getting out of this place alive. Then I spotted a small slit in the wall of the amphitheater, through which I knew the Fat Man could never pass. Giving my legs everything I possibly could, I began to outdistance the Fat Man as I made tracks for this narrow gate. Alas, not even I could fit through such a narrow opening. Trapped, I turned to face the Fat Man, as the crowd whipped itself into a frenzy for blood, screaming louder and louder, “Kill! Kill! Kill!” Just then, I remembered the sword. Drawing it forth, I drew a gasp from the crowd, for just as I held it up with both hands, the Fat Man came crashing down upon it to his death. Having pierced ‘m through the heart, I let go of the sword in time to see the Fat Man slump to the ground with a butcher knife stuck in his chest. Standing there, all drenched in blood, I screamed hysterically, as the crowd swooped down on me like an angry mob upon a murderer whose just been caught red-handed. Boy, was I ever relieved when they lit into the Fat Man instead. As they took back those parts of themselves, which had kept the Fat Man alive, all these years, I watched ‘em tear the flesh off his carcass, like birds of prey on a fresh kill, till there was nothing left but the gray shadow of a demon, the first of the three I’d coughed up.

There were many thoughts and feelings freed from the tyranny of the Fat Man, that day, far too many for me to recount. Cheering wildly, they grabbed hold of me and threw me up over their heads as their liberator. After carrying me back and forth in front of the narrow gate through which I tried to escape, they finally released me, but not before every one of them had come forward and embraced me. As I walked back through the narrow gate of my own shadow, I watched them all disappear into the great light at the other end of the tunnel of vision, for I had just freed a very small part of humanity from the demon known as Brute Force.

On the other hand, he did possess a few, more admirable qualities, even though his tyranny tainted them too. Having always provided us with the food and the clothing we needed, and a roof over our heads, he once told me that was all he had to do when I confronted him about how little time he spent with his children. For he seemed to have a better relationship with the neighborhood toughs—parodies of the youth he never outgrew—than he did with us. Having bought what few friends he had, for the most part he failed to ever buy his way into our hearts with all of his bravado. Instead, he scared us off. He was so totally incapable of relating to us in any other way but this macho-man style of his, that it was difficult for us as children to see the tenderness, my mother saw in him, beneath all the callousness of the mask he had donned so long ago as a child, himself, in the service of his country.

While he was enamored by the images of the manhood he had acquired in the military, they also haunted him. Many a night was he awakened in his torment by the images of combat from his past and forced to relive them in his dreams. In his sleep he would shout out the vivid detail and horror of his experiences, till mom roused him from his nightmare. Obviously, he was tormented during the day too, by these haunting memories as evidenced by the incredible amount of alcohol he consumed to numb the terrible pain they must have caused him. For he suffered a life of quiet desperation and utter loneliness.