Introductions in Order Fortunately for you Mr. Henry Ker’s story is quite a wonderful reality to entertain; even with all the details and unanswered questions, even with all the true unknowns it is better than any omniscient omnipotent story or fairytale, yes even the stories that are purposefully limited and beautiful or end in disaster without a happy ending. As Henry, my old friend, is quite right in that even the limited stories are limited only to the author’s desire, since there is nothing beyond his desire to write what he has not decided to write. Such an author answers all questions he desires to answer and willfully leaves unknown that which he did not care to know. Yes that is, I believe, how Henry himself summed up the situation of fiction and even nonfictions in a letter he sent me. Surely this story is different since what is left unknown is truly unknown and what was not desirable to write will still be written. Although Henry was always somewhat clearer in letters then in his speech the latter is not entirely clear to me even in the letter. In any case, I am afraid in recounting Henry’s story I will not be able to escape the fact that the reality will not appear to the reader as it did to Henry at the time. Indeed, even in spite of my drawing from his own recounting of events, the task is severe. But I shall certainly not seek to include things unknown to Henry that are known to me without being clear to you that that is the case. In the end my task is rather easy, as keeping people interested in a story is not so depended on the writer as the actual story itself. Henry himself noted “people love realism and a recounting of reality…. And if it is a bit extraordinary it always interests others, since to them life seems all too often, very ordinary. It even gives them hope; even if I can open their eyes to the great excitement of their daily walk to work, they will be interested.” The story of Mr. Ker is a fairly modern and recent series of events in the America of the limitlessly advanced 21st century; Henry himself being a seemingly limitless young “all American”, prodigious in his studies and standout in his athletic performance throughout school. During this time his looks were not far behind his all American qualification; sporting wavy blond hair and a prominent facial structure on top of his six foot plus athletically cut body. Early on he nurtured the idea of being the best, or one of the few best, at something (but what American, what human does not nurture such an idea). In fact, as he often admitted, his life was quite disinteresting until he fell in love. So then I either must introduce the characters that surrounded our love drunk friend or get to the part where he drinks from a potent well that for once intoxicates him. The truth of the matter is there would be no story to tell if Henry were it not for two of his friends he met at the university. These young men were not perhaps as “all American” as Henry, though in a somewhat romantic sense they lived life with the type of zeal that the great country of immigrants has always appreciated and claimed as its unifying characteristic. And at this point I should warn you, although I myself am a sort of enthusiastic aesthete, the type who loves beer and women and smoking, smoking simply because people have begun to stick their noses up at it. I also, of course, love the idea of the strong and the young and the beautiful ones partaking of what can kill them and conquering it….. that is, what young people do when they smoke, they say “I am untouchable” and they are, until they become old, but who wants to think about that. Well, you get the point. Maybe not? But the point is when one lives in a society of calculated and depraved moderation, and one sees one who lives with thoughtful and patient passion, well I cannot help but appreciate that, even though my personal passions are rather pathetic and menial and the opposite extreme of one’s typical white collard calculatedly depraved moderation. Yes my color is white enough, but I hide it and embrace those less hypocritical but equally sad sorts who embrace the anthem of ‘drunken drugged and done till death!’ So then, I must warn you I am going to begin by telling you about a few young men that were passionate, patient and if not patient then courageous! Friends that lived, to live and talk about the things most people are afraid to live and talk about. They were first and foremost religious and philosophical, and of course political, and psychologically interested, and now of course you might put the book down, but do not fear for I am neither religious nor political, and as for the characters in our story, these mediums come to bloom in relation to what everyone has always been talking about. In fact, often one of the first things a person asks another after meeting them, ‘What do you do with your life?’Yes these young men were very interested in that and also of course- love, since it became very obvious to them as it does to all at a certain age, that what they wanted in life was to love and be loved. Tim Baxter sat in his room laughing but he was the only one in his room. Tim was a solitary individual and yet he was energized by the presence of others. This particular night he sat in his room alone as his flatmates pretentiously listened to music and chatted it up with a group of greedy and blasé girls. This particular night, as was the case most nights, Tim preferred to sit alone and drink vodka with only the company of his book. “Stop being such a prig Tim, come down and meet our friends,” shouted his flat mate from the bottom of the old wooden stairwell. As fate would have it Tim eventually ran out of ice and warm vodka would not do, so he had to go down stairs. Upon getting to the bottom of the creaky stairwell Tim found his friends and their lady friends sitting around in the family room. Tim smiled politely to the girls, as was his manner, all the while thinking to himself whether or not his flat mates knew a single attractive looking girl. After filling his snub glass, he proceeded back through the crowd up to his room and pulled the half gallon of vodka back out of his bottom right dresser door. All the while he was still complaining to himself as to whether or not any attractive girls would ever happen to wonder within a remote radius of his existence. “Clearly not if Larry Moe and Curly have anything to do with it” he mused. “But who am I kidding, of course there are, there are thousands of beautiful smart girls my age. It’s simply that all the ones I meet happened to be in relationships ranging from dating to marriage.” Tim’s thoughts wandered back to a night he meet some of his older friends for dinner during his sophomore year of university. Naturally the room was dimly lit, the floors, dawning an old and rustic wooden finish; the ceilings, arched making up a setting that was genuinely the very definition of 1st class. In walked the strapping young Tim with a countenance radiant with excitement. He greeted his friends at the table and then was introduced too two females and two males, both groups of which were a few years older as were his upperclassmen friends. The glow on his face dimmed as he was struck by the reality that he was invited to a party of couples. What was worse was that other than his two friends from English class, who were engaged, the rest were all married. So there he sat across from a beautiful and extremely married women. Tim said nothing. He was polite as he sensed a strange attraction to and from this young and newly married women. She was an athletic, elegant, and authentic blonde with freckles on her face scattered mildly around her nose. Her eyes were deliberately avoiding Tim’s, and then when her husband left the table to use the restroom she started the conversation. But I must defend myself and note: Henry too knew the intimate details of the story I am telling of our mutual friend Tim. Of course, the woman was, for her part, completely in the clear in her action, as she simply started a conversation about what Tim studied in college. Tim went on to explain his interest and declared major in history and sociology. “Yes well…” he continued dejectedly since he knew the response coming which had only come 100 times before, “I am a history major.” He began his prepared defense, “Though I am unsure what I will do with it, I really enjoy it and it is very hard work, in fact a very hard major. So few students actually pass the intro class at my university.” He ended his statement with a defeated tone. To tell the truth, Tim was not defeated. He simply did not want to seem a fool in others minds, though in his mind his decision was much more purposeful then those very same others could ever conceive. The young Mrs. X sensed his dejection. In her judgment she decided he was no moper, just as well, she could not exactly lay a finger on what he was. Perhaps, she thought, “he is possibly arrogant,” and thus perhaps she guessed his false dejection. With great sincerity Mrs. X replied “why that’s great I think. You know I just graduated with a degree in literature and I feel my opportunities are so numerous.” And so the conversation continued. Tim, had he lived in a different day and were she not married, would have offered her terms of engagement or to her father, or whoever, and that very night to be sure! But alas he did not and what is mor, she was married and our dear Tim was most likely one of the most moral men in his country at that time. In the least, he was so moral we could not help but suppose it of him in the greatest sincerity spiced with a bit of spite. So upon her husband’s return he started a conversation with this attractive and strong built young man, who was in fact not as intelligent as his wife, but he was, Tim sensed, a “good man” and thus he felt some sense of consolation for the girl whom he loved. The truth is, Tim and the young women had seen each other before. Our ‘very moral’ Tim devoured her with his eyes upon there last collision and she did not dislike it. In Tim’s defense, he had no idea she was married, and he sickened us with that clarifying point when he explained this all to us with the most disgustingly honest innocence. Of course, Tim (the young saint) would not have looked twice had he seen the ring. I would hazard the guess that when Tim burned holes in her with his eyes, he probably did not move past a purely aesthetic and ethical longing. I have to suppose this, as he was so ridiculously innocent; A man who knew so much of the world at such a young age. Who was so powerful, should history spit out a great event and yet who was when it came to women, so honestly believing of the most pure and romantic dreams that are far too good to be lived out in this world. But the last is my opinion, and this is Henry’s story… so then…. As Tim glanced into the eyes of the young wife, he could see the momentarily torn young women had in fact left her thoughts wander to a place where she envisioned her life if she had held out and remained single a bit longer but the glimpse, the notion, dare I say frivolous fancy, would have crushed her if she continued upon it and thus in an instant, she took her eyes from Tim turning to hug her husband and finally sealing her insecurity with a kiss of feeling. Though it seemed her feelings were anything but unified, it nonetheless was a kiss of feeling, as if in spite of herself, not in spite of Tim…. but herself. That very night Tim Baxter went home and being the religious man he was, before laying down in his bed, prayed for the young couple that they would be happy and strong. All the while as Tim prayed to the Christ he fought viciously against, the seemingly self spawning thought of Mrs. X’s husband’s death and her being left single, falling into one another arms, walking through life in a perfect fit…… not the typical jimmy rigged union that is about as close as being the uniting of separated halves as would be the marriage of a pig and cow.. Tim came back to himself sitting in his chair with the cup of vodka and melted ice in his hand. He could take the memory of the dreadful diner with Mrs. X no further, “after all,” he rationalized to himself, “there were many such women who were of one spirit with me and yet separated from me by the very religion and the very God I trusted to restore me. After all, only two such women is two too many.” Indeed even two such women were far too many for the tender heart of Tim. Tim had enough of these troubling thoughts so he laid face down on the floor of his completely dark room as the shades swung in the wind from the open window and a poor man’s street light put off a soft glimmer. Tim laid prostrate listening to Mozart until he was ready to sleep. In the morning He woke up with a slow ease, made a large breakfast for himself and a fresh glass of coffee and then…and then he joined the Army. After some months of training, Tim was stationed in a far away country. Within six months of his term in the foreign country Tim was shot and killed. By now of course I am assume you realize that even the names listed are not accurate nor was Tim necessarily in the Army per se. Two months prior to his death Tim was often frequenting the streets of the country he was stationed in. What he encountered in the dark was utter darkness, absolute depravity. However, Tim did not care initially as he viewed all people as depraved by nature, and so he saw them as simply doing evil for evil, and thus what concern of it was his. Surely it was not his problem but theirs. Mr. Bassinger always thought that people, who rejected the idea of a God and a moral code given by that God, were not worth the effort. One night as Tim crept about smoking his all white cigarettes, he stumble upon a place of young girls and young boys and seemingly rich men speaking languages from all over the globe. The short of it is that, Tim’s indifference was brought to a halt, although he cared less about the men’s self condemning actions; he did care about the innocent children, who needed protected and a fair shot at life. Perhaps you are unfamiliar with Baptist type men like Tim. America is still full of religion and no doubt you encountered something of the sort once or twice, but Tim, as he was taught to do since childhood, began to contemplate all he had read in scripture. He was left with two conclusions. The first thing Tim wrote in his journal was that he could either attempt to convert the evil men and care for the young people as best as he could, or he could stand up for the defenseless! The women! And children! The poor and the oppressed! Yes a wonderful sounding notion which all in this century would applaud. Tim continued to exegete the scriptures in the protestant tradition handed down to him. He concluded these oppressed were the people most probable for inheriting eternal life and that upon a successful military career he could finish his degree and enter politics using politics to end these poor children’s plights, all the while bringing the men to trial and justice. As Tim continued to reason, he remembered the teaching that Christ was judge and all were sinners and yet God allowed and expected governments to uphold a standard of justice. So then, Tim had resolved what he would do and thus the next day he proceeded to tell and thus convince his five closest friends stationed with him of his decision. “It is all clear to me what I will do. So very much does not make sense, and my judgmental and indifferent attitude is probably anything but Christ like, but it does not matter now, as I see my purpose as a Christian, as an American, as a man. Where my actions will leave me?.... With the church or my country or with God… I do not know, but did I need scripture to tell me to defend the innocent and the helpless! Even if the cost is unknown, and I bring judgment on myself……..those children need salvation here and now, today and not a second later! Do not misunderstand me! I am not a hero nor do I have a hero complex……I……. I simply have lost all hope for my own happiness, so it is easy for me to give what little hope I have left to them” Tim and his 5 comrades proceeded to enter the hell holes the next night and gun down all the patrons and owners. They continued their unauthorized raids again and again, going in and out of hiding. They killed the men, or hogs, as Tim preferred to refer to them, and set the women, girls, and boys free. They ‘liberated’ and hid them away at various mission type organizations. One evening, Tim, who went about his “business” without any fear , for he had no true care whether he lived or died, as he saw death in his final hope as the most certain peace, one evening Tim was shot dead. He was shot by a small gun of a very American diplomat. It seems Tim’s brigade had stumbled upon a favorite spot of certain important officials who were prepared, realizing it was only a matter of time until these rogues arrived. For this particular American official it was a personal matter as he was certain Tim and company would have taken him alive so as to make a statement to the world of the severity of the problem, and also vindicate their rogue behavior in the process. This seemed the only logical end to the Diplomat, as simply stopping to frequent those places did not seem to be a consideration, and certainly that would have been Tim’s action had he found him there. The aid to survive in hiding and continue the campaigns became scarcer, and a ‘find’, such as this official, resided in the back of Tim’s mind as the last remnant of any hope for himself here and now. We humans are so odd…… Tim had found himself in that foreign country because he had lost all hope for his being able to endure the life before him. And then, while standing on deaths front porch, he finds such an idea in his head… as if he had forgotten the life of loneliness which he believed providence would force upon him.
Posted on: Tue, 29 Oct 2013 03:15:29 +0000
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