ANGELS IN THE CITY

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From: "Mark"<mark-schrib@hotmail.com>

To: "Luther"<luke.doc@quikcom.net>

Subject: JOHN'S PHONE CALL

Date: Sun, 2 Jan 2000 14:12:33 -0700

Luke:

It's a gray, rainy Sunday in old Manitou Springs. Mass is out and the winter afternoon stretches before me--a quiet time to respond to your recent email. First, let me assure you how I cherish the prospect of more frequent missives between us. (A happy distraction from the freelancing grind.) Now that you've dispensed with the medical clinic, and discovered "being online," welcome to cyberspace, old friend. I believe this was one tool Mat never acquired a taste for, although he did use a computer in his tax consulting. And John has never progressed even that far! Strange how he's avoided technology so long while living in L.A.; I should think the church press room quite savvy along those lines. But--here I'm onto the subject of John, and it was really Mat I meant to commence with--and pay my respects to.

I gathered from your message that you were aware of some, but not all, of the tragic details surrounding his death. Luke, it breaks my heart that he should have departed this world in such a brutal manner. As you know, he had retired from the accounting firm several years ago. Well, for some time he had been volunteering as a tax consultant at the public library. The evening of December 23, after closing hours, he was readying things for the upcoming tax season, transporting boxes of forms to the trunk of his car, when he was accosted in the parking lot. It seems there was a meeting hall across the street that accommodated, among other things, AA meetings. An ex-convict (and heroin abuser), who had apparently been in the hall, approached Mat and demanded money. What then ensued is not exactly clear. But it culminated in the reprobate stabbing Mat in the chest with a screwdriver, taking his wallet and car, and leaving him for dead. By the time Mat was found and transported to the hospital, it was too late. He died on the way in the ambulance. That such a generous and compassionate man should meet with such a fate is outrageous. I tell you, Luke, there is no justice. How I mourn for our old comrade. The funeral was modest, I gather, and held there in L.A. Which brings me now to John.

I don't suppose you are aware that John moved permanently to L.A. following the bankruptcy of his fish hatchery. He had become quite involved in the Self-Realization Fellowship movement--whose world headquarters is, in fact, in L.A.--and he took a job there in their publishing division. He proofreads, I believe, and does janitorial maintenance. (Perhaps you remember when we all were still students at the university so long ago, he had inquired about, and toured, the Saint Mary's Monastery, contemplating even then a monastic commitment.) The Fellowship seems to have suited him well, I've surmised from his infrequent communications, usually a card and letter at Christmas. I knew that he and Mat were in touch there in L.A., but I had no idea how profoundly Mat's death would imprint upon John's very being. No idea until the sudden, and unexpected, phone call from him New Year's Eve.

John was never one to betray tender emotions at the outset, and on this occasion, while lamenting Mat's death, he seemed stoic--that is, initially. We exchanged particulars as to what we each respectively knew. Then John detoured onto another subject, which I took to be mere circumlocution in an effort to conceal his grief, a subject that at first seemed to hold little relevance. Yet I sympathetically and patiently lent him my ear.

He related how awhile back he'd obtained an apartment within walking distance of the church grounds. It was a second floor, one bedroom, with a view of the parking area, definitely low end of the rental scale. The tenant population, he explained, seemed to be as diverse as they were poor. Several Mexican-Americans, a Russian national, an older Laotian woman in the unit beneath. The building walls were thin, which tended to preclude both privacy and secrets. In the evenings he was often privy to the odors of fish and fried rice and on weekends, from the end apartment, to guitar music and boisterous Spanish voices. As he settled in, he developed a speaking acquaintance with some of the residents, especially the Laotian whom he'd frequently encounter in the laundry and in the hall.

One evening she invited him in for a meal, expressing an eagerness to learn more of his church activities. A bit guarded at first as to her fuller intentions, he was quickly put at ease when he deciphered that her granddaughter, Lin, was coming to the States and would be joining her soon. She seemed anxious that Lin and John should meet right away, and he took it that she simply wished to secure for Lin a benevolent fatherly influence. He concluded the evening by offering, upon Lin's arrival, to provide her with a tour of the church grounds.

Not all the residents, however, proved to be quite so congenial, especially the occupant of the end apartment, Carlos. Upon any chance meeting with the tall, lanky Mexican on the stairs or in the parking lot, there always seemed to be whiskey in the air. Any exchange was curt and icy. Not so, however, with a certain compadre to Carlos named Rico. He was short and broad-shouldered with a rough, swarthy complexion, and he always carried a deck of cards in his Chevy Impala along with two dice. There was the sense that upon making a new acquaintance, Rico's first assessment was how much money that man had in his pocket. Then, how much of it Rico might transfer into his own. He liked to boast of his "connections." And he never passed up an opportunity to pitch one thing or another to John--some particularly potent marihuana, a good horse at the track. Both these men had other rough companions of an equally unsavory bent, and women visitors with all the paint and glitter of streetwalkers.

The days passed and one evening John heard the excited chatter of women's voices in the hall--followed by a knock on his door. Upon answering the knock, he discovered standing before him a shy girl of about eighteen with dark cropped hair and delicate cheeks and lips--Lin--and standing beside her a radiantly smiling grandmother. That moment would mark the beginning for John of both joy and great pain.

John did, indeed, fulfill his promise of the grand tour of SRF. He walked Lin beside the landscaped pools and beneath the peaceful shade trees. He showed her the printing operations and how they created the sublimely beautiful calendars. He took her through the quiet rooms of meditation displaying Yogananda's portrait. She seemed eager to learn, polite and grateful, always quick with a warm smile. One evening he even introduced her to tennis, and his modicum of skill combined with her abundant energy made for an exhilarating match.

It wasn't long before she enrolled in some practical nursing classes and took a part-time job at Pizza Hut. He'd greet her hurrying in and out, books under her arm, or wearing her pizza uniform, always mindful of some schedule. But it was a source of no small concern to John when one morning Lin seemed to be in a particular rush, and Rico offered her a ride in his Chevy Impala, and she accepted. That Saturday night, John saw her going into the end apartment amid the loud music, laughter and clinking glasses. He didn't know when she came out. However, his misgivings grew only stronger when the next weekend--late Sunday afternoon--Lin passed him in the hall barely speaking. It was obvious to him that she was attempting to conceal some compromising fact--some form of inebriation perhaps?

John made it a point the next evening to wait on the stoop for Lin after she got off work. She was surprised to see him, but reacted cordially, and allowed him to accompany her to her door. He had hoped to take her out for a Coke, perhaps, and then to caution her gently about the nature of things. But the hour was too late, and so he broached the subject, unadvisedly, there in the hallway. He explained that the mores of Carlos and Rico were not the mores for a lady. That their activities were questionable at best and not conducive to the wholesome path her grandmother wished her to follow. As he finished, he reached out his hand and touched her cheek in an intended paternal gesture. But she bridled and pulled back, glaring at him. Then opened the door and went in without saying good night.

Later on that night, he heard raised voices below, the contentious tones unmistakable. The argument raged for a while, then all at once Lin's voice blurted out in English: "The old man upstairs--he wants to sleep with me too!" And with those words John's shock was twofold--that she could have so misinterpreted his intentions, and that she'd spoken in English inviting the inference that she was aware he was listening and wanted him to hear. In a surge of regret, he perceived how pitifully everything had gone awry.

The disturbing trend only accelerated in the ensuing days, much to John's dismay. First Lin stopped carrying books, and then the pizza uniform disappeared, as she gravitated more and more toward her new-found associates, Carlos and Rico. They introduced her to some of the women in their circle, and increasingly Lin's attire began to display a more streetwise flair.

The Saturday before Christmas produced a particularly raucous revelry in and about the end apartment. In the wee hours John was drawn to the window by breaking glass and shouting in the parking lot. He could make out Rico and Lin standing apart from the crowd. Rico was forcefully arguing some case and all John could make out clearly were the words "a thousand dollars" uttered in a feigned incredulous tone. Then Rico reached out and felt Lin's small breasts like a shopper selecting fruit. "A thousand dollars!" he repeated, and shook his head. Lin made no protest or reply, but simply stared down at the asphalt.

On Tuesday, John had been given the day off, so he made no effort to rise early, having time to squander that morning. When finally he pulled back the shades to greet the sun, a shocking scenario met his gaze. There below in the parking lot was Rico's Chevy Impala, the front end pulled up tight against the lot wall, the rear window facing the complex. Strangely, white sheets were draped inside like curtains along the side windows. Occupying the interior John counted three persons, and then to his horror he recognized who they were and what they were doing. It was Lin, Carlos and Rico. Lin and Carlos were in the back seat together, both wearing only white silken robes gaping open in the front. Carlos was positioning himself above Lin while Rico--knees on the front seat, facing backward--aimed a video camera toward the pair. Rico was saying something, motioning with his hand, and Carlos edged his midsection toward Lin's face. It was then that Rico glanced out the back window and saw John staring down from above. In a threatening gesture, or perhaps one of mockery, he aimed the camera up at the distraught John and began shooting. Burning with embarrassment and shame, John abruptly turned away and jerked the shades together.

For the next two days John avoided everyone in the complex, going to work early and coming home late. It was late that Thursday evening when the phone call came bringing the stunning news, through a mutual friend, of Mat's death. But that was to be only half the blow. The next morning the radio brought additional news of the police discovering a naked female body in an alley a block away. Overhearing the Russian talking in the hall confirmed John's worst apprehensions. It was, indeed, Lin they'd found, prostrate on the cold gravel, her young throat ripped open, her life's blood pooling beneath the dumpster.

The double tragedy left John reeling and unable to venture from his apartment all that day. Christmas Eve could provide no balm for his inconsolable state. He retired early and slept fitfully, waking again and again to the sounds of Lin's grandmother weeping in the darkness below. Sometime in the early hours he rose and paced the floor, stopping by the living-room window. Looking out into the night, he detected what appeared to be a lone figure standing motionless in the lot. A closer scrutiny revealed it to occupy the very space where Rico's car had been parked that awful day. Then, his unbelieving eyes identified the facial features as none other than those of Lin. She was wearing that same white silken robe, standing facing the complex, looking imploringly up at his window. He gasped, and no sooner had he done so, than another figure materialized beside the lot wall behind Lin. Immediately he recognized the countenance of Mat, standing clothed also in a white silken robe. As John watched in awe, Mat's misty likeness began to walk slowly across the parking space and up beside Lin. She, seeming to turn slightly, acknowledged his presence. Then gently he reached out and took her hand and began leading her back to the wall. They both turned and stood together a moment, side-by-side, facing John's window. There was then apparent, as he described it, an inner glow in both that commenced to grow in intensity and beauty. An aura, as it were, of glory. As John watched, the rays of light emanating from them assumed a character that could only be defined as "angelic." In that moment, with the light filling his vision, John felt the lifting away of his guilt and torment. And an altered state of quiet peace set in. Then, just as suddenly, like a motion picture fade-out, the light softly and slowly diminished to blackness. They were gone--leaving only the blank, dark wall. And John weeping by his window. "Don't you see," John said to me then. "Our dear brother achieved in death what I had failed to do in life. He protected her and guided her home." And what could I respond, Luke? Who am I to question? I love John and desire only what's best for his soul.

After hanging up the phone, I--for the first time I can remember--sat in abject silence as the calendar turned over and the new year slipped in under the door. Luke, we are old men and our time is passing. We were born in hard times and we've seen wars and rumors of wars. We've seen the coming together and the falling away. We were young once with convictions that we could make a difference, and we sang the songs of youth as our spirits marched in step. But now we are witness to the proverbial sands of change shifting from beneath our feet. And I fear this is more, Luke, than a mere triumph of the Philistines. We may be nearing, dare I say it, the long-feared victory of the very Devil himself.

Today in Mass I gazed upon the prepubescent alter boys, their Reeboks thumping back and forth below their vestments. I searched the smooth and naive faces for some prophecy of light. Have they the merest notion of what challenges lie before them? And, more to the point, are they equal to the task? As the clock's hands click forward, our candle to extinguish, we can hope, Luke. We can only hope.

Your loyal and devoted friend,

Mark

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