Angels at the Eastport Bridge

Angels at the Eastport Bridge

MacIntyre

Copyright © 2011 Robert Tane MacIntyre

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ISBN: 978-1-4525-3844-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4525-3846-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4525-3845-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011914857

Printed in the United States of America

Balboa Press rev. date: 9/07/2011

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

CHAPTER 54

CHAPTER 55

CHAPTER 56

CHAPTER 57

CHAPTER 58

CHAPTER 59

CHAPTER 60

CHAPTER 61

CHAPTER 62

CHAPTER 63

CHAPTER 64

CHAPTER 65

CHAPTER 66

CHAPTER 67

CHAPTER 68

CHAPTER 69

CHAPTER 70

CHAPTER 71

CHAPTER 72

CHAPTER 73

CHAPTER 74

CHAPTER 75

CHAPTER 76

CHAPTER 77

CHAPTER 78

CHAPTER 79

CHAPTER 80

CHAPTER 81

CHAPTER 82

CHAPTER 83

CHAPTER 84

CHAPTER 85

CHAPTER 86

CHAPTER 87

CHAPTER 88

CHAPTER 89

CHAPTER 90

EPILOGUE

To my daughter Tayana,

Whose heart makes the world a better place, with a kindness to go noticed by all.

. . . . and to Mary

a teacher of true courage, with eyes to inspire a wandering soul,

and a beauty unmeasured by Angels.

In appreciation to Franny,

another great and kind soul whose existence has made this world better for her being, and who helped me get off my duff.

. . . . and a special thank you to Stacey Galvin,

the friend I’ve never met, who talked (wrote) me through much of this.

This was written with the following people in mind:

Ed McIntyre

Deb McIntyre

Brother David Mitchell

Brother Charlie Delve

May Angels follow you and protect you always.

In fond memory of

Crazy Carl Van Matre

Franz Klimpacher

Moitcha Prader

&,

Tosh

who left us too soon in far away places that did not deserve their attentions, and who provided lessons to all Warrior Poets.

ANGELS AT THE EASTPORT BRIDGE

By MacIntyre

God’s Symphony is everything. The lives we live, the realities we feel are but a glance of the vast Universe. The grip of Symphonic Strings is inescapable, for any creature of conscience as it is felt in each grain of sand and in every star. It holds all knowledge, from the definition of now, to the hopes of will be, and far into the mists of once was.

The Symphony

OPENING

Maybe it is that God controls everything, the all of Human fate, every breath and thought, tide and glance. Maybe, it is all left to chance, but human instinct and history would have belief in God controlling only the spin of the wheel, instilling free will in all creatures, allowing them their own creative potential, to return energy and life back through the Universe. This has been the debate of a voiceless mentality, causing intellectual confrontations among the ‘too sure of themselves’, and even more arguments among religious leaders who gladly discuss subjects of an infinite nature with finite minds, coming to absolute conclusions of an infinite variety.

This may be bad form, as we can honestly say that it has never been a good idea to place limitations upon God or the Universal threshold, as such will always develop complications and stop creativity. This exercise only provides guilt an unbelievable moment over productive conscience, and will often frighten people to the point of wearing paisley shirts.

Anyway, this is all very unimportant. What has been determined to be important is the telling of a tale, of a story where guilt, conscience, free will, and fate, came together to mock a town meeting, so existence might become a little bit livelier for some local people in some moderately sized boroughs in the beautiful state of Maryland.

Now, everything, everyone, all stories and events no matter how intricate in appearance, have at their core, basic, simple elements, revealing the truth of their nature and this tale is no exception. To find the message in any story it must be simple in body and approach. Since I have been charged with the task of relaying this song, this message, I will only say that it comes from my own perspective and in all honesty, my perspective comes from many angles, from many people and beings, from many places and times. I’m confused too.

Now, as the story would be told, and retold, in most homes and taverns around the Chesapeake for many years, it was too easily called coincidence. True, it began at a certain time with a certain person, in a certain situation, accompanied by an incredible series of events, people, Celestial beings, lawyers, homeless schizophrenics, ghosts, God, junk food, and small deviations in Time and Space, with waving definitions of good and evil, all coming together in a perfect harmonic mix… but coincidence?

Although this perspective appears convoluted, the story is simple, and when all pieces are laid out, it is plain to see where it all began. It started with one single Human by the name of Tane MacGregor; One single, officially insane, homeless, dust rag of a man, who occasionally caught glances from passing strangers as he swung his feet rhythmically from the draw bridge over the calm waters of Spa Creek. As it was said, MacGregor was seen as the glue, the string binding all the events and beings which created a rather remarkable occurrence in the soft, beautifully adjacent, scenic towns of Annapolis and Eastport and, in particular, about the small Eastport Drawbridge over Spa Creek, spanning and dividing the two.

CHAPTER 1

FAT MAN FLYNN

Why is it, those who readily beg for mercy, are usually the last to give it? As it is, those who cannot trust cannot be trusted, and those who cry foul, are usually the first to injure out of fear of being injured. It would then follow, that creatures of this nature would grasp every negative thing, all negative argument, and act in kind. What is the course for these prepared types? They automatically seek power and the control of everything, out of their own fear of not having any control or power, acting to provide justice and compassion for themselves by denying it to others.

Therefore, it is best to be made aware of those who seek power, who seek control. Those grasping for power, never waiting to accept it, are to be carefully observed.

WARRIOR POETS

Michael Fat Man Flynn was in a quandary. He knew nothing came easy in life, but he had been presented with a problem and a solution in one package and this made him cautious and suspicious. Everything made him cautious and suspicious. He was a suspicious fellow, an untrusting person that, as it is with those who do not trust anyone, could not be trusted by anyone. He was living the obsession he had begun many years ago to ‘Be someone’ and, as is the case of those with strong fantasies and no imagination, of great ambition and no capabilities, obtained the ultimate prize for those with blind sincere self serving intent. He sought, and obtained, public office. Flynn was the Mayor of Annapolis.

Taking his thick, short, fingers over the papers set before him, he reviewed the petition by many of those supposed business and community leaders over the bridge in Eastport to have their own separate town. Strange collection of people, He thought. It was almost as if, over the past few generations, the weird and off center of the human population in Annapolis and surrounding area had migrated their way across the Eastport Bridge. Every artisan and craftsman, every writer, painter and boat jockey, seemed to want to call the place home. Now they wished to be called the Maritime Republic of Eastport and have self rule, autonomy from Annapolis. No way to understand that.

Their desire to incorporate and become separate from the city of Annapolis did have some appeal for him, the snobbish city council, and some potentially generous developers, but the ramifications were a potential political tar pit for his stubby dinosaur legs. He would be careful here. Yes, a most cautious man. If possible, he would ignore it.

However, thinking on it again, he knew this was not an unusual petition. He had seen the likes of it several times before and so had his predecessors. Once every couple of years its twin, or cousin, would be sent here with a copy going to the Governor’s office at the State House. Each year, he would get a call from the Governor asking just What the hell is this? and placing any initiation, or decisions, at his feet. He knew the process. If by a miracle he and the town council approved this move, the State representatives would disapprove the action, politically damaging him, and would simply throw the decision back into his face. They would see no potential benefit to a disassociation with the south side, at least, not in the same way as he. Should they turn the request down again, it would be him alone, a large portion of the voting populace would hold responsible for standing in the way of this action.

He also knew there was no money to be made presently on that side of the bridge. There would be no development dollars and payoffs to expand his ‘Docksiders’ because of certain historical edicts and city ordinances restricting such new construction or development. As long as Eastport was considered a section of Annapolis, cute new river front condos, theme restaurants, and professional offices, would only be a dream as nothing could evict the trash that owned some very desirable property there, or break down strongly supported historical edicts. There would be no wrecking ball put to those old handed down houses, which pissed him off as they smiled smugly at him each time he drove past.

Still, there was hope. His mind began a familiar fantasy about getting some of these ordinances changed, or taking a machine gun to the members of the Maryland and Annapolis Historic Societies with their ever present nasal voiced, slick hair, liberal arts degree, paid for by the taxpayer, legal lobbyists. Snapping back to reality, he realized such a thing would never happen. It was as if Eastport was protected by some stroke of bad luck. His gun would probably jam.

Many shared the Mayor’s thoughts and attitudes. Annapolis had always looked upon that side of the bridge as separate, as if Spa Creek had been the dividing line for taste, class, money, affluence, sailing shoes, sweaters tied about the neck, Navy football, Trickle Down patronizing and condescending Reaganomic mentality, mundane historic societies, and under baked sour dough bread wrapped around goat cheese and alfalfa sprouts. East Puerto Ricans is the misdirected name given to the inhabitants of the lower side of the creek, because Eastport is actually south and west of the city. He always chuckled under his breath at that slur.

Wouldn’t that be something though, He thought to himself and spoke aloud.

What’s that Mike, Answered a startling and unexpected voice from behind causing him to bump his knee sharply on his desk. Flynn had not noticed Raymond Orson Gant, Chairman of the Annapolis City Council, President of the Annapolis Savings and Loan, head of the Maryland State Bar Association, owner of about a dozen real estate companies, half of the buildings and Marinas in and around the city, and maximum creep. This was a fellow of influence and power and his real claim to fame was the claming of everything, and one of the things he claimed as his own personal reserve, a thing of possession, was the town of Annapolis. Go figure. Flynn saw him as a smoky fellow upon whom his eyes could barely focus, and who sometimes frightened him to death.

Gant’s home was among the elite, the rich and strong of Wall Street and Capitol Hill, and was an important member of many secret societies, whatever they may be. He was a man who could easily be imagined sitting next to Newt Gingrich, the Governor, or at the privileged right hand of the Devil, across from the guy who invented Pop music, the Macarena, cellophane on individual cheese slices, and flies. A man who provided the silent machinery for Flynn’s political campaign and who the Mayor genuinely hated as he put his hand out for a warm handshake and ass kissing smile.

Great to see you Mr. Gant, Mayor Flynn immediately noticed that Gant had completely ignored his greeting and already had his hands on the petition, reading it as if he had picked up an amusing comic book, with a jelly smudge. I was just commenting on that petition from those weirdoes in Eastport.

Ignoring the Mayor further, Gant spun the papers about in his fingers rather deftly like he had been practicing a small juggling sideline. As the papers continued to bounce about in his hands as if they had recently acquired the fear of catching fire, Gant looked out through an amazingly clean window, observing people under umbrellas, with crew neck sweaters moving orderly around State Circle.

Waiting for Gant’s next word, Flynn sucked a cube of air through his front teeth. This gesture always annoyed Gant. He also noticed the Mayor always kept one hand in his pocket like he might be looking for the balls he lost just before the last election. You could say he didn’t like the Mayor much. You could say, he didn’t like anyone much. Actually, he didn’t like or dislike people so much as he simply gave them little or no thought other than they were usually in his way or giving him a continuous headache. However, this Mayor was at least better than the last for Gant’s personal agendas. Thank God for pliable, eager morons, he thought.

Drumming his skinny fingers from his free hand on the windowsill, Gant looked pensive. As a devious benefit crossed his mind, his dancing fingers stopped suddenly as if they had found something innocent to stab, coincidentally causing the sheltering birds to flutter away and risk the bad weather. Damn birds. He thought. Gant hated anything that could fly, anything, of ‘so called’ natural beauty. Most of the things people thought to be ‘naturally beautiful’, Gant believed to be annoying and messy. Damn birds, He said out loud.

What’s that Mr. Gant?

Nothing, Gant looked up. This is an opportunity Mayor. I think it should be given some serious thought. Maybe I’ll speak with the Governor. Gant was simply speculating aloud, leaving that casual thought hanging in mid air for the Mayor’s thick brain to process. However, anyone knowing him at all would understand that he had already surgically processed this scenario completely to his clear personal advantage, seeing a wonderful outcome. Trouble was no one knew him. He was merely sending his chosen and unconscionable attack dog ahead with his wishes without a whistle.

Now, it is best to mark Gant as a cautious man too but, in obvious contrast to Flynn, he rarely reveals what he thinks are, unnecessary social skills or respectful pleasantries. He never felt he needed them, because he answered to no one. Also in contrast to the rotund Mayor, he was slight of frame wrapped with tight, pale, yellow skin covered in a delicate coating of anonymous mean. In fact, he would rarely be noticed anywhere if it weren’t for his sharp feral eyes and poisoned tipped nose. Most people found him uncomfortable in presence and appearance. The Mayor found him most intolerable, right up until the time his mind bumped into the unemployment line. Then employment lines like, He’s not such a bad guy once you get to know him. sneak out and betray his soul.

Not saying another word, and without the courtesy of a goodbye, Gant left the Mayor’s office and headed out through the office door with his clean black suit bristling through its frame. His five foot-seven inch form seemed to duck under the doorway. As he left the petition obviously behind with his silent orders stamped all over the damn thing, the Mayor noticed the faint smell of oily smoke and felt a chill. Totally confused, Flynn stood in his office with only a clenched fist full of anxiety for company.

The resulting silence found him wondering about Gant. This man who had come to him during his first mayoral campaign with offers of help, influence, cash, and personal attention to their agreeing agenda for the city’s future and what he heard Gant say was the Endangered Status Quo. This is a man who walked about more like the Mayor than the Mayor, the arrogant little twit. Flynn was always much braver when alone and thought this when he may have found a gonad with his hidden hand.

Actually, having been in office for two years had washed away a lot of his naiveté about who Gant might be, and educated him into the status quo of Gant’s personal profits and influence. Still, it was the ‘what’ that struck a small match in the tiny hearth of his intellectual curiosity. This flame was quickly extinguished however, when his assistant came through the door acting like she had caught a shiver by a passing ghost, looking about as if she were being stalked by an invisible mad Chihuahua.

Mayor, may I have a word with you? She said looking back over her shoulder uneasily at the ‘Gantly’ disturbed air that seemed to curiously swirl before her eyes.

Staring at Jennifer was the standard reply he often gave to her when he was annoyed but knew he had to listen anyway.

You have an appointment today at two, with a Dr. Jacque Chantz concerning conditions at Crownsville Mental Hospital. Your wife called to say she’s at her mother’s… and Chief Walker is on the phone. He wants to know what he should do about all those strange reports he has been getting concerning the Eastport Bridge.

CHAPTER 2

TANE MacGREGOR

Could it have happened that God’s creation, God’s plan, became greater than imagination, even larger than God?

Lost Circles

It is said life occurs at the first moment of awareness. No one is truly alive until they become aware of themselves in their conscious and subconscious reality. Aware they exist, and are both separate and connected to all things within their sensual range of comprehension. Separated, for the sake of identity and connected for a place in life’s scheme in order to provide a purpose, a motivation to continue with energy. Growth and development may begin the first time you question your reality and put its balance to the test.

There is a reflective thought, which echoes of life becoming stronger in the testing of this balance. The more centered the scale, the more life flows until a personal progression, a spiritual birth occurs. It is difficult to confirm the truth of this, but as true as can be, Tane MacGregor felt more balanced than a ballet slipper on a pinhead when he awoke and became aware of himself in a rain slick alley on the Annapolis side of the small Eastport drawbridge one fateful, cold, slippery evening in April. Tane was alive and awake and, as many will refuse to disagree, as insane as a water buffalo on a bike. The damn man spoke to Angels, and occasionally to God. More importantly, he believed, they spoke to him.

Now, early in his life, Tane could not have told you exactly who was speaking to him, but he knew these conversations had begun more than thirty odd years before, leading him cold, hungry, and previously confused to a small alley, near Spa Creek, where the predawn mist filtered the bridge’s lights to cast a shadow over his memory; a memory that tried to return him to ‘once was’.

A lifetime, a cloudy lifetime ago, he heard the voices of Angels and listened intently to their counsel, as they delivered messages from the Universe, of life trapped within Time and Space, of souls seeking individual expression through painful journeys, and of gentle caresses from God’s heart. For Tane, these Angels would weave songs of such contemplative beauty as to make aging elephants weep, and homeless men on distant street corners laugh and curse as they raised their fists to the heavens, pushing his fresh, young, promising genius over the edge of perceived insanity, to a life of wandering and wondering.

By appearance, his situation may have been considered tragic, but one would have to ask if any of us, even a genius, with such great promise as Tane MacGregor, would make the conscious decision to view the mysteries of the universe first hand, even if there was little, or no, possibility in understanding them? Would Einstein, Sagan, or Charles Delve, have given up everything just to be in Tane MacGregor’s shoes, to listen to the sounds and rhythms of the cosmos through the voices of Angels, real or not? Could they have had the patience, the endurance? Who among us would be willing to run the easy risk of a difficult insanity?

THE MESSAGE

He had waited so long and many years passed as he listened to the complicated simplicities of bending melodies and flowing thoughts. He waited and waited, shutting out all outside distractions to focus and decipher, to understand the voices, the sounds, the visions, and the touch; oh yes, the touch! He waited patiently for the understanding he knew would come, if only he could just open his mind and heart wide enough, and expand the sight of his soul, the voices and sounds would come together and carry meaning, and justify his tortured faith. If he was vigilante enough, maybe even his Angel would return.

This patience was a true and hard road, a hard life, and a painful obsessive stretch of spirit, but one note, one clear thought would easily provide the meaning for his existence, the purpose for carrying the enduring lonely ache in his heart, and the answer to all his questions. So he listened. He listened, and listened, and listened, and waited. With time passing and taking its toll, leaving him more alone and studied, he waited still. He waited like no Human before and experienced loneliness like no creature on this earth could imagine. He became a cold rock floating in lightless space, a solitary figure, with no thought of action or desperation touching his mind and heart. A dusting statue, a creature of stone and tears, as was said by some of those who took more than a few seconds to look upon his light, as they watched him sit silent and motionless beneath the Eastport Draw Bridge. Soft tears, rolled under long, uncombed locks and across a dusty beard, to fall gracefully in front of an unmoving stare.

Yes, tears would flow. They would flow each time it rained, but not the tears of lonely, dark desperate depression, nor sadness. If asked and understood, Tane might have explained his tears as those of a blest man, but such questions always carried the accompaniment of pity and explanation. He had no time for such triviality. They were simply society’s disregarded traffic noise and he wore no ears for the lyrics of man and machine. Nothing outside of the beauty and love heard from the sounds and songs meant only for him ever awakened his scattered mind, and when they were not there, he wept in quiet contemplation over empty loneliness.

Oh, but the songs came! Distant melodies made their way to him through the maze of his limited mind to strike the harmonic chords of his starving soul. He listened diligently, and gradually learned to hear more deeply, more clearly. With the passing of time and patience, Tane was able to take in what no Human before had ever grasped. Hearing the birthing of bright suns and fresh worlds, and as the breezes from the Chesapeake touched his weathered face, he experienced more than life. He felt the death of Time and Space in the crying of infants on cold clear nights, and the clear spark of life under ceramic moons. Subtle changes in the universal scheme became his timepiece, and revealed themselves in the dirt filled creases of bricked covered alleyways and in the strained, reddened eyes of those who sought refuge.

Then, through the story of Heaven and Earth, he glimmered. Through the rhythm and rhyme of wings being pushed against air, he saw chaos unleash its fury upon the innocence of man. Revealed to him for the first time was the Heavenly plan, where the trumpets of Angels and their focus of destruction, caused Time and Space to become a mentoring friend to accompany the love he carried for his own insanity. Out of the madness of this message, and while the songs became clearer with their melodies never ending… God spoke.

From every part of life, from each particle of dust and ray of light, came the reverberating messages intended for the blest few. Leaning back his dirty, hood covered-head, he brought back memories of yesterday and long ago. He recalled boyhood memories of hearing these same songs through the swinging trees on the rivers of the Chesapeake, and through the sterile walls of the state mental institution when, as a man, they presented themselves to his patient delight during any particularly rainy evening. It mattered not where he was when they sang, for all places became heaven to his listening soul and wandering attentions, as Time and Space drew down infinitely to the ‘here and now’.

He remembered each time, as their sweet flirtations began, the burdens of many lifetimes lift from his heart and the sands of the ages pour over his motionless body, soothing a raging, frustrated mind. As time moved forward, the messages left more questions and fewer answers. He recalled eternity parading before him, while he remained motionless in a motionless room, in a motionless institution, which housed his body. With no meaning other than a soft touch, these thoughts, these songs, provided little for his starvation and the passing years strained his patience. He found himself staring at the edge of his endurance with no light, no brake to keep him from tumbling through insanity’s final curtain. Though he could hear, he still, could not understand.

However, on that fateful day, everything changed. Without warning, it happened. In an echo filled alley of overflowing trash receptacles, and water straining the creases in the pavement, light broke through the raining mind of Tane MacGregor. Here, and at the very time when he felt most abandoned by his focused patience and induced isolation, he was awakened. There were no heralding of trumpets or voices from on high, just the lowering of eyes from the raining heavens and a simple, joyous, gasp as one might find in mothers upon finding their children safe after a storm. Celebration was found in the first complete, clear song in over thirty years and the joy found in the accompanying message that began, You have not gone unnoticed. You will be free.

As the songs continued and the forces moved to place man’s events into meaning and order, Tane finally understood he had been prepared for a higher purpose, by a higher power and he had been freed to move toward his destiny. He could take action toward his purpose because of his recent freedom, courtesy of the State of Maryland and the Crownsville State Mental Hospital, providing him legitimate walking papers. New legislation initiated by the State declared they would no longer finance his stay, and with no one to protest or object, he was released with the frozen condescending smiles of doctors and orderlies trailing the back of his State provided overcoat. He may not have been nuts or rich enough, but God in Heaven, he was now free enough.

Now, many such homeless people had such origins and Tane had immediately assumed this wandering role. Gathering himself about the town with its limited outdoor resources and well kept trash cans, his life became one of friendships with alley cats and alcoholics, street dogs and incoherent stumble bums, mice and rats, and his company was rarely sought by passing strangers in fashionable garments and collectable stones.

While entombed in various institutions he felt little need to serve penance, but did ignore the natural comforts offered by normal society in order to become less distracted, to hear his Angelic messages. All of Tane’s attention had been focused upon listening and watching, to hearing and seeing the human spirit and life’s song through the acrid smells of side streets and from those forgotten by us all in our efforts to pursue the symbols of acceptance by our peers.

Homeless, he found home among creatures of varying legs and condition, all with God’s impossible to ignore songs and messages. Human refuse spoke of life teaming within its confines. Alley cats and street dogs cried out life’s poetry and its amazing capacity to survive, and the heart of God could be felt in the wet bricks of old abandoned buildings and broken glass which sheltered his brothers and sisters holding their own lonely quests and bonds. You have not gone unnoticed, you will be free!

Finally, Tane understood, and for this blessing, he thanked God for such good fortune, and his freedom. Freedom! Free from social moorings, free from locked doors and barren walls, and free in spirit. His time was ‘now’ as he slapped and rattled passed the glancing quick double takes of those with little compassion, real purpose, or ‘self-understanding’. In Tane’s heart there was an almost arrogant pity for those who shielded themselves from God’s light, from the voice of God and Angels, from what he now understood. He felt himself the most privileged of men.

Life became the rain, showering gifts and blessings in which to be soaked and reveled, and harsh, judgmental stares from under tilted umbrellas were merely directional beacons, guiding his purposeful journey down the streets toward God and understanding. He danced and spun with his face to the raining sky, and rejoiced in life, for nothing else mattered. The messages were so clear now. There was nothing else, and his voice, howled back.

Covering the town with his footsteps and holding onto the intricacies that only speaking with God and Angels can create, a deep, simple, more important message came, causing him to sigh while the eyes of varying alley creatures glowed in his direction. He now knew what he must do and it made him quietly ecstatic. As it would be, he was finally given to his purpose in life and the following cataclysmic events would be meaningless and insignificant in comparison with the good he would achieve for himself and mankind.

Better still, Tane knew he had been instructed to do the one thing he had always wished to do, and the thing about which he had dreamed since he was a boy. He would not turn from this most important task, for the world would change and his soul would be saved upon accomplishing the mission those songs sang. Completely relieved and understanding he was never really insane, and with the accompaniment of an Angelic chorus, Tane set out upon his purpose. He would find a way to make the Eastport Drawbridge go up and down as much as possible… Nutty bastard.

CHAPTER 3

DEVON MORGAN

It was merely life’s coin toss and the terrible parking logistics in Annapolis which caused Professor Devon Morgan to turn into that small alley to witness a ragged, homeless man dancing, laughing, and splashing about, shouting loud nonsense to the heavens like a four year old boy discovering his first mud puddle. The fact that Devon recognized his oration to be fluctuating from English to an ancient Gaelic tongue while the bedraggled man spoke sincerely to the dripping ivy provided his second amusement. The third was his recognition of the dirty, bearded face of an old childhood friend, as Tane MacGregor turned and stared hot and glassy, yelling like a drunken Shakespearean actor, It’s clear! Ha, ha, it’s perfectly clear! My God, it was there all along! Finally, finally! Oh my God, those poor damned souls!

Then, turning and taking note of Devon, he looked into the perplexed Professor’s face, tapping his index finger to his chin, and spoke calmly as if Devon had just stopped by for tea. Dev, how the hell are you? Really missed you man! With this, he reached over and gave the professor an incredibly warm, sloppy, dirty hug, and kissed him square on the forehead. Looking down into his eyes and with another moment of pure lucidity, he said, Don’t have an umbrella do you? Kind of crazy to be standing out here in the rain, don’t you think? Then, looking madly through his pockets like he lost his pocket watch, Tane quickly said, Look, I’d love to talk, but I have to run!

Following this was a surge of electrical energy sending this vision of the night laughing and running as graceful as ‘Nijinsky the Cat’ away from the St. Johns professor. Devon’s last vision of Tane MacGregor was of him crossing the Eastport Bridge with his water soaked overcoat flying behind like the dirty cape on the back of some homeless super hero. The last sound he heard was the wind whistling past his ears and through the newly budding trees. The fragment of solid reality remaining was MacGregor’s unmatched wing tips slapping a diminishing, watery, beat over the bridge’s rise and out of sight into Eastport leaving him incredibly alone with his own echoes and a soft, What the… ? escaping his lips.

Standing next to his trusty Volvo station wagon with the rain softening his neck, Devon realized anyone observing this scene would easily, and quite understandably, know they had just witnessed a possible hallucinogenic episode by any one of the numbered street people in their quaint little town. However, Professor Morgan had the one connecting factor, which made him come to a most different conclusion, that something was afoot here not meeting the eye. For you see, though Tane MacGregor had left the alley, his Angels had not and were still sitting on the wet stone wall swinging light feet, somewhat transparently rustling water from their wings, staring at him, and kicking cans into his already twisting mind. Curiosity, in this case, did not overcome fear even though his eyes refused to let go of the scene. What motivated Devon to fumble like a madman with the keys to his car was the perceived fluttering of those wings through the trees after a quick snap of lightning as he was abandoned by a delusion of his own. This occurred along with the faint sounds of the first four notes of the Hallelujah Chorus, that did not sing Hallelujah but, Tane MacGregor and the hint of one of those flying fantasies saying, Son of a Bitch! as a tree branch cracked.

With more frequent and distant lightning, and as the freakish early spring storm gathered speed, he was left alone in a dark back alley world with a newly scratched car door and more water in his pants than the rain could have provided. Then, there was the prayer that someone, or some thing, other than his dwindling mental stability could provide witness to this event. Not a chance, Dev.

REFLECTION

Whipping off his wet clothing and stumbling through his living room and into his study, Devon thought of a thousand questions he was going to ask himself the moment he poured the stiffest Bourbon possible. A touch of ice, thank you. He would remove his car from the lawn tomorrow.

He had seen Angels! Maybe, if that’s what they were, for he had no reference. When he finally relaxed in his favorite robe, and with his head resting heavily, comfortably, on the arm of his overstuffed couch, he did not question as much as search his memory. He was searching for the face in the alley and for anything that might make sense of his encounter. He had seen several Angels and one dirty, wet, homeless madman! . . . Maybe.

Now Professor Morgan had come upon one piece of wisdom about belief systems, which did not necessarily pertain to his some thirty odd years of academic study into ancient cultures and languages. He knew, when confronted with the solid reality of something to which you previously did not believe or thought possible, you were presented with two alternatives in thought. The first was reevaluating your entire life and its structure. The second was facing the fact that you were insane as a rodeo clown chasing a giraffe, either permanently or temporarily as the case may be. As tired as he was, insanity looked more comforting, as it seemed a less frightening, and a less time consuming route. He was efficient.

His drive home had been a fog filled continuous muttering to himself that he had seen Angels! Angels! Or something, but whatever! It had its appeal even if no one would ever believe him. The appeal was the realization that he had witnessed, and was part of, a most unusual and interesting event, even if it may prove the demise of his own sanity. This thought intrigued him because the good Professor had not lived a terribly intricate life. The life of an educated and academically respected man, but not the life where anyone would find his like in the books and papers he read, taught and loved, and definitely not the life of a man who witnessed Angels in alleys talking to homeless people. This was definitely a complication.

His was the life of schedules and appointments, of planning and ordered mediocrity, creating the case of one who forgot to live the adventures he would have dreamed because he took life most seriously. More often he would spend his time reading before experiencing, researching before doing. Devon was a responsible man. A seriously organized fellow, a dedicated and educated man with obligations that always rose above his personal desires for speculations on the hedonistic and risk filled fronts of life. Devon was as sane and sober as the numbers on a calculator and even though he did not wish to regard himself as boring, he was.

Now here, he found himself in a room full of bound books, thick maroon carpets, Lansing fireplace, and due to his ordered and planned life, he was forced to doubt his own mind with questions about his mental and physical health. In his present life, logic and practical thought ruled his hours, and upon completing all of his responsible academic and personal tasks each day, he would discover himself staring at the oncoming evening wondering where the time had gone just in time to plan the following day’s activities. His accepted lot in life created a void in his imagination and limited social interaction, but provided a pillar for those who depended upon his teaching and wise counsel.

Now, it wasn’t the fact that his slightly graying brown hair was rarely combed, or his tweed jackets never quite fit, or even that his ties were too short for his shirts with knots bigger than his head. It wasn’t that he always sought comfort and quiet, in the company of those intellectual colleagues who would inevitably confirm his life choices as he bounced from building to building on the campus of St. Johns. It was only in the known quantity and quality of his talents and unrealized potential that you found clues for his often, mundane outlook, and contradicting personal potential.

Boredom, and a boring lifestyle, is often dictated by combining personality elements, which have little interaction with each other, much like oil and water. In the case of Professor Devon Morgan, it was the combination of remarkable intelligence and talent without the ability to simply look up. For whatever reasons, he lacked motivation. Mixing amazing personal potential without triggering imagination just allows the sleeping volcano of possibilities to lay dormant. It was almost as if someone forgot to tell him how incredible he really could be

This was a chosen life. Devon often noted how he envied, and rather respected, those who dropped immediate concerns and pursued life’s freedoms and dreams, and always intended to do the same, but… . Now a new situation, a possibility, maybe an opportunity, had surged through his undiscovered intentions and was knocking like an irate neighbor whose power tool he had forgotten to return. Why this event occurred could not be answered, but he had to admit, nothing could have moved him to change and create new thoughts for his waning middle years as the scene he had previously observed. No longer did he have to worry about looking up. Possibilities had flown down.

The scene in the alley alone was worth hours of delightful thought, and this delight seemed to be acting upon him like a small tremor, oh let’s say, about a three point nine. Maybe not enough to go terribly noticed, but something had awakened him from a self induced sleep. An intolerable curiosity was being created, and he knew no matter how true or imaginary his vision may have been, he would never be the same again.

He had seen Angels, and that face! That damned unforgettable face. He knew it once. He knew it when it had promise, less dirt, less hair, and fewer years. Damned Tane MacGregor! Here was a childhood best friend that simply went away. The genius of Northeast High School, and later Harvard legend, who claimed rightfully the I.Q two points above Mount Everest and a flair, a charisma, as to charm the pants off history teachers and cheerleaders, now found speaking in ancient Gaelic tongues to Angels in trashed filled alleys. The guy Devon Morgan had always wanted to be, until now.

LOST FRIEND

As he refilled his glass with an overly exuberant splash, he remembered his friend and how, when in school, it was said Tane’s future was secured, written in stone. His was a future of dynamic promise, sure to contain greatness, with achievements to match the sum of ‘bigger than life’ people that went before into history’s pages, a legend.

Yes, Tane’s history was believed etched indelibly, and measured by standards few could imagine. With the ability to speak fluently any language within the simple study of weeks, Tane was considered an incredible communicator. Devon, himself, was influenced into academic studies of language and communication because of his young friend’s great interest, his obsessive desire, or need, to understand, to communicate and listen. Tane was almost completely, consciously, and obsessively absorbed with any form of communication with total focus upon the natural senses, or the medium through which one obtains knowledge and information.

What motivated this, Devon could not say, but while taking a deep swallow of reality Tane’s words came falling back upon him. These words, seemed to make more sense now than they did to a boy, who was too young to understand and who was more intrigued with the presence of his friend than his nonsensical and unusual thoughts. In his early days of college, the statement of The medium is the message came through. All of his studies, all of his experience, seemed to simply return to those words of wisdom sometimes found on the bumpers of paisley painted VW Micro Buses as they careened around campus in the early seventies.

Kicking off his shoes and unfastening an already loosened tie, Devon recalled, for the first time in years, memories of Tane and his smiling demeanor and focused intellect, which created a virtual glow about him as a boy, carrying over into adolescence. Always listening, always watching, always tuning in, his constant annoying questions when alone in the woods and rivers of, Did you hear that? and Can you feel it? came back to him in their unnerving form.

You know Dev, I betcha’ the trees, the river, maybe the wind, could talk to you if we could just listen hard enough. They’re speaking even now, I’m sure of it.

I don’t get you. You always talk like this. Who’s talkin’ to you now? What are you hearing?

Heck if I know, but I wish I did. I really wish I did.

What are you trying to figure out? What are you listening for?"

You know, that’s a good question.

Tane would often frighten him with such seemingly out of the blue conversations, just as if he were receiving some distant communications. At the time, those statements had very little meaning to him, but as time and personal age set upon him, so did the wisdom and rightful feeling of Tane’s surprising wonders and observations.

So, it was natural for Devon to wish to be more like Tane. Not because of his easy demeanor and sharp blue eyes contrasting soft red hair on a continuously smiling face, but more so from his actions. He recalled a time when Tane actually stood between Devon and the potential violence of his incredibly abusive father, using words and gestures to reach inside his old man’s clear, explosive anger, calming him in the most undetected and sincere way. His father, who at the time seemed so large and invincible in his anger and rage, became like soft clay in Tane’s young hands, with Tane’s words. It was something he wanted to learn to do. He wished to find a way to live, a way to escape and protect himself. Yes, Devon wanted to become like his friend, the boy wonder, the boy strange, of Magothy Beach, who spoke to him of mysteries and wonders and who could calm the oppressive demons in his life while speaking with trees. With this thought, Devon found himself laughing out loud once he made the contents of his glass disappear and the ice strike his upper lip.

Had he not known Tane’s friendship personally, it would have been very hard for him to believe such a person could exist, because he found it impossible to describe him to anyone outside of his circle. When he would speak the words, they sounded more of a make believe legend than an average kid growing up sweating and playing under the Chesapeake sun but, in reality, Tane never caused anyone to believe he was anything but the typical kid next door. However, Devon never knew anyone like him and never met anyone close to him since.

Then, reality set in. As time passed, Devon discovered most people’s lives often became a mundane, creeping, trickle of a stream, with the occasional rain to swell the meaning of existence. Except when in Tane’s presence, he honestly never thought his life would be much different, but subconsciously anything was possible, even a world of wonder for someone like himself, who had set upon a path and pattern of survival over creativity with the influences of an abusive father in an abusive world. When in his company, Devon was somebody. When alone, he never answered possibility’s knock. When alone, he would return to the exposed reality of being a frightened, limited, restricted soul, at the mercy of negative influences and a world full of wrath.

As the room began to take on a ‘bourbon colored’ glow, Devon saw how his recent meeting with Tane revealed the ignored gaps in his life, the things missing since his friend went away. When Tane held influence, when he was in Devon’s life, there was always the feeling of protection, and he was always in the light of learning in his world of laughter and fun. Pastor Godwin, at his family’s church said it was, as if Tane had been touched by something higher. Touched by God was what his fairly religious mother said before she passed away, encouraging him to, Always listen for God’s voice and follow his counsel.

Thinking back now, Devon remembered Tane’s mother kindly and recalled her gentleness when visiting their home. Her kindness and grace was something he rarely experienced in his own home as a boy, where rage filled negatives about his inadequacies and shortcomings were abundant from an over bearing, self involved father and frustrated mother, both of whom viewed the world through the dark glasses of an abused upbringing and an alcohol soaked mind. With Tane’s mother, there was always the feeling of welcome, laughter, and cookies, and acceptance without guilt-ridden bonds. In his world of quick reflexive reaction and negative reinforcement, the MacGregor house became his escape.

He also remembered her sudden illness and slow decline. It was during this time when he thought Tane might not be the kind, selfless person he believed him to be. Devon knew, or at least thought, Tane was close to his mother. Yet, when she passed away, two days after Tane’s fourteenth birthday, he barely saw a ripple of sorrow cross his face. No emotion and almost no reaction whatsoever if Devon recalled correctly. At her funeral it was as if Tane, and in fact, the entire MacGregor family, had put Mrs. MacGregor in a cab for the airport with simple and affectionate good-byes, full well expecting to see her a few days later. This impression never left him in his assessment of Tane and the MacGregor family. At the time, he thought them oddly cold.

Although Tane carried the nature and energy of his mother, he moved more in the cloth of his father, old man MacGregor. A large man of few words and constant smiles, whose manner and physique Tane inherited as if his genetic makeup were carbon paper. With a rarely used Highland accent, Ian MacGregor arrived in the States back in 52’ with a young wife and new son tucked in a pocket. A giant fellow who moved slowly and gently, Tane’s father never spoke cross words and was of the type that could rarely harm a fly.

From his mother, Devon deduced, came Tane’s personal strength and mental endurance. From his Father, he gained solid looks and an easy demeanor. From both, he received kindness and a faith in the goodness of human nature. Devon thought him to be the positive composite of both parents’ strength, grace, goodwill, and kindness. In reality, he thought them all fools. In Devon’s opinion, they were naïve.

Now, of course from this, there was an envy of Tane. Envy, but not jealousy because Tane never betrayed their friendship or misused his personal resources for personal gain. There were no insecurities or mistrust of others and he seemed to contain little fear, like there was no need to prove him self in ludicrous ways to those who would hold unobtainable standards over his head.

Also, Tane had the rare combination of characteristics to trigger these gifts to productivity. He was curious and passionate in his desire for discovery, and he knew how to listen, and listen he did, constantly, to everything and everyone. Devon recalled mountains of conversation where Tane would listen to his ramblings as if they were the only food in life, with an interest to make him feel important, intelligent, and accepted, and according to Tane, he was. He missed that.

Swallowing deeply, he remembered how he felt there had been nothing outside of Tane’s range with him believing that all things in this world had a message; all people had their own songs, and how he found patterns of life in these simple, deep communications. With this, and the love provided for him by an environment most of us would never have noticed or related, Tane moved people and objects as easily as the wind tosses autumn leaves. He truly was a great communicator, for Tane received all that people and nature could send, and returned it in an ordered and clear form for all to see and understand. His friendship became a solid bond for Devon in those early years, and unknowingly, gave him hope for his own future.

Then there was nothing. The world called, the world changed, and after both young men departed to separate colleges with promises to stay in touch, the weekly calls and letters from his friend ceased just days after their respective graduations. There followed month after month, then year after year, of silence and the memory of Tane became a small flame in the back of Devon’s mind as he continued his survival in life. No more was ever heard from his friend. Each day, each week, he would seek Tane.

The initial hole this created in Devon’s universe was a major burden and life’s meaning twisted and filled with little substance or sense. He became a lonely soul and walked the Earth without questions and was amazed at himself. He was amazed at his ability to deflect and ignore such an obvious situation. As he reflected upon those days of confusion, Devon could only recall the hinting, small rumors of a breakdown, of an episode, where Tane’s genius and spirit removed his mind from this world. A rumor he was afraid to, and did not, investigate. A rumor from friends saying he had gone insane, something too impossible to accept, for to believe it would have meant the world was insane, unforgiving, futilely useless, cold, and barren, without meaning or reason. A rumor so impossible, he had to run away forgetting and placing all guilt in the lead lined section of his mind. A rumor confirmed this very evening. When Tane disappeared, Devon had no idea where his friend might be or how to reach him and life began to pull him slowly away to other destinies. Though he rarely asked, he always wondered about his friend’s fate.

Returning to Maryland from college, Devon found firm roots in his academic and career pursuits, which landed him as a respected professor and later, department head at St. Johns. Still, each day was tempered by at least some thought of Tane until the days passed into callous forgetfulness. With his thoughts touched by Tane’s influence, Devon held too tightly to his own concrete foundation, by the cement shoes provided by his own fearful chemistry. His own weakness and fear gripped him and concern for his own welfare took center stage. Time created a void of convenient apathy, and that void placed his own welfare above any further thoughts of his lost friend.

Years passed and Devon never married, nor did he have any type of sustained relationship outside of his academic pursuits, because all such interactions now seemed pale and dull against the hidden memories, against the foggy life full of possibilities he once thought was real. With so much dependence upon Tane for the energies of life, his loss resulted in the sudden struggle for survival over any creative life scenarios, over any such intimacies. He had secured himself from the world and kept it at bay by surrounding himself with books and pursuits.

It is understandable, that a loss of this magnitude would result in a total loss of faith or in the sedation of memory. Devon moved to forget, because he still desperately needed to believe. He needed to believe the energy he felt and touched in his early life was found everywhere and not just in Tane’s persona, and because of this, he did not pursue Tane’s fate, never more inquired of his few remaining family and friends. The last remnants his friend held in his conscious disappeared the day he read Tane’s father’s obituary in the Bugle several years later. He didn’t call. He didn’t go to old man MacGregor’s funeral.

After this final turn of the wheel, Devon never sought his own potentials and allowed his friend to become a myth, an unconfirmed smoke filled legend in the back pages of his mind. As sudden and new priorities took precedent, he moved away from thoughts of his friend’s welfare to the thoughts of career and solitary existence. He remained alone with his own personal understanding of tragedy and lived life by mundanely placing one foot in front of the other, never looking back. Never looking back for fear of seeing where life’s cold snow and harsh wind had erased any meaningful footsteps, any real proof he had ever existed, and how he lost the lessons taught by a shining, forgotten friend.

Now here, out of the wilderness of a distant thundering guilt comes Tane, wearing the full, solid, foul smelling, water soaked overcoat of reality, having conversations with creatures out of the unexplored sections of ancient books, making him think he may have stepped out of his reasonably comfortable life and onto another planet.

What in God’s name had happened to Tane? How did he get here? Why was he here? He said to his ice cubes and neatly stacked books. Big question, but the real question of what had happened to Devon Morgan would be asked later with more concern and more Bourbon, but for now, he needed to figure a way to find MacGregor again. He didn’t have to worry.

CHAPTER 4

THE INTERVIEW

Ignoring the intricate will cause simplicity to knock you down.

Warrior Poets

Upon reviewing all of the applications set before him, Ted Wills decided if he had any sense at all, he would ignore the one on top of his pile, authored by the man who sat directly in front of him. It was an odd situation and this was an odd man, and normally he would not have given this applicant a second thought, with him having little or no experience with this type of job. However, his scores were the highest recorded, i.e. perfect, on any of the tests given by the Public Works Department and he was now certified. He also seemed to have some strong connections with some officials at the State House and was outrageously pleasant.