One of the companies I worked for while I was on the road was owned by an old Swede named Ed. He was a cigar chomping hard-case, big as a house and an absolute Einstein with machinery. He was also an alchoholic and had mood swings that were unbelievable. During the five years I worked for him I quit three times and he fired me twice. When he fired me, he'd end up finding me and convince me to come back to work for him. He did the same when I quit.
    Considering the mischief and havoc that I and the rest of his crew could wreak, it's no small wonder he drank so much. We worked our butts to the bone for him, he paid us well and he'd line us up in front of the job shack every time a prank of ours got out of hand and lecture the dickens out've us, threaten to fire us and then send us back to work.
    Not only were we prone to mischief, we tended to be a wee bit uncouth. It wasn't at all unusual for one of us millwrights to stand on a high beam and moon all the boilermakers a few floors down. Once when Big Mike Kincaid was hooking up a drain line, Bobby Blue climbed topside and pee'd down the pipe. Needless to say, Big Mike chased Blue halfway across the jobsite. When the old swede caught wind of what was going on he damn near shit a wheatie. Another collective ass chewing ensued shortly thereafter.
    And on the subject of excretement . . . . .the old Swede went completely ballastic every time he'd go to the head and find shit on the toilet seat. I'm not real crazy about having to clean up after someone that can't aim their ass, but the old swede was damn near obsessive about it.
One morning he lined us all up and informed us that he was gonna "shit can" (we all struggled not to giggle as he was lecturing, but it did seem a fitting pun) the next son-of-a-bitch he caught leaving shit on the toilet seat. None of us had the balls to ask him how he intended to determine who the culprit was. Oklahoma Earl and I were sitting out front of the job shack eating lunch later in the day and Earl started laughing. "What's so god damn funny, Earl?"
    "Aw, I was just sitt'n here wonder'n how the hell the old Swede's gonna figure out who the sloppy shitter is! Balls on a hen! He ain't got no x-ray vision, does he?"
About that time a plan started to formulate in my devious mind. I knew Earl loved peanut butter. He'd buy a jar of of it and a loaf of bread and make peanut butter sandwiches every morning before he left the motel for work. So I asked him. "Hey, Earl! You got any peanut butter stashed in your truck?"
    Earl pondered for a moment. "Yea, I think there's about half a jar under the seat."
    "Mind if I take it?" I asked.
    "Help yourself. I ain't sure it's still good, but it prob'ly is."
    I thanked him, grabbed the jar out of his truck and stashed it in my tool box. Then I watched and waited. I knew Ed would be making the rounds of the job site by mid-afternoon. And he ALWAYS stopped to take a shit on his way back to the job shack. I've never seen anyone more regular than he was. I swear, he must've mixed Metamucil with his Jack Daniels.
    There he came. Striding along, chomping on his cigar, scowling and shouting occasionally when he saw something that pissed him off. I made sure he saw me go into the head. I had the peanut butter jar hidden in my overalls. I slammed the door, opened the jar and smeared just the right amount of peanut butter on the toilet seat. Then I cracked the door open just enough to keep an eye on him.
    Sure enough! He was about twenty yards away, watching the door to the head like a big-ass bird. I jammed the jar into my butt pocket, opened the door and marched back to work. I was about half-way up the scaffolding when I heard him bellering. Right on cue, he hollered at me to get my ass down to the ground and come over to the head.
    I walked up to him, an innocent expression on my face. "What d'ya need, Ed?"
    "Jesus fuck'n Christ! Can't you aim your ass any better than this?"
He gestured toward the toilet seat.
    I stepped past him and peered at the seat. "Damn. I don't think that mess is mine, Ed." (I knew that'd send him over the edge, and it did.)
While he was standing behind me bellowing like a fog horn, I reached down, scooped up some peanut butter with my finger and tasted it. "I'll be damned, Ed, it IS shit!"
    It was the first time in all the years I'd known him that he was absolutely speechless! Damn wonder he didn't fire me.

Somewhere deep in an ocean
Far from air and light
Just beyond my line of sight
Emotions of fear and hope
Shattered dreams taking flight

Somewhere on a distant ridge
Riders cold and dark
Chills to the bone
Night sounds all around
Set to a heavy tone

Images surfacing like surrealistic foam
A cold moon far from home
Quiet clouds scurrying through the sky
Sillouettes of time and substance
Marching slowly by

Somewhere deep in the desert
Heat and dust and sand
A thousand setting suns
Souls burned by fate’s heavy hand

Somewhere, slowly striding
Always moving, always riding
Shards of screams and trails of tears
Remnants of a past no one hears

A single solitary man
A quiet aura of strength and love
High on the wind a lone white dove

Through it all walks the one
Who carries the magic of the sun
And the pull of the tides
On which a mystical ship glides

The healing man

    I met Phyllis on a warm San Francisco afternoon. It was my day off work and I was in cruise mode. There in front of the St. Vinnie’s Store was a gorgeous black woman and a slender young guy trying to stuff a huge recliner into the back of a Nash Rambler. I reached out and grabbed the back of the chair with both arms and lifted it into the Rambler. It wasn’t so much that the chair was heavy, just awkward to handle. “You are a strong man!” She declared. “I don’t know what I’d have done without your help.” Her smile melted my heart and the hip huggers she was wearing added an extra dimension of heat..
    I gave her a shy country boy smile. “Glad to help ya. You gonna be able to unload this thing?”
    "I never thought about that! I . . .I’m not real sure . . .” Her voice trailed off.
    “You live close by? I don’t mind help’n get this thing unloaded.” I’d have carried that recliner all the way up Battery Street if she’d asked me to.
    “I live a couple’ve blocks from Lafayette Park over in Pacific Heights.”She hesitated for a moment. “Where ARE my manners. My name’s Phyllis.”
    “Nice to meet ya, Phyllis. I’ll help get your chair home if you don’t mind give’n me a ride back to my place. I live just off Highway 101 over on Jackson Street.”
    I climbed into the front seat of Phyllis’s funky old Nash Rambler and we were off in a cloud of blue smoke, the clatter of the valve lifters tapping a rhythm as we rolled across the city. The more I listened to Phyllis’s voice and basked in the glow of her smile the more I was attracted to her. We arrived at her apartment and I silently thanked the gods that she lived in a ground-floor apartment.
    It didn’t take long to carry the recliner inside and plunk it down in Phyllis’s tiny living room. She squealed with pleasure and clasped her hands together as she surveyed her new acquisition. “That’s perfect! It’s exactly what I wanted! Thanks for helping me. The least I can do is fix you a cup of tea or some coffee?”
    “Tea’s fine.”
    Phyllis disappeared into the kitchen. Her apartment was small and tastefully furnished. It was warm and comfortable and I felt very much at home. We shared conversation until early evening. Suddenly Phyllis jumped to her feet. “Oh no! Just look at the time. I’m gonna be late for choir practice.”
    It was a wild ride across the city as Phyllis weaved her way through traffic. She turned the corner, came to a stop in front of my building and scribbled her phone number on a scrap of paper. “You’ll call me sometime, won’t you?”
    A few days later I did. She seemed happy to hear from me. I invited her to see a movie with me. After the movie we walked for awhile and stopped at an all-night diner for pie and coffee. Over the next few weeks we spent more time together. Within a few months I was spending my days off sleeping at Phyllis’s apartment and Sunday mornings I’d accompany her to church. Me, a free-spirited, longhair maverick, half Italian and half Native American sitting in the back row of a southern Baptist church. It wasn’t the preaching I went to hear. It was the down-home gospel music. Phyllis and her sister sang in the choir and they were awesome.
    Before long Phyllis was sitting in with my friends and me when we jammed blues at some of the neighborhood clubs. Her voice gave our tunes an added dimension of appeal. Her body brought my hormones to life and gave making love a new dimension. Then Phyllis took me home to meet her family and I encountered the angry face of racism. Hatred for someone they didn’t yet know. Other than my ethnicity, that is.
    Phyllis and I tried to ignore the facts. We avoided her family when we were together. I found myself wondering if it was possible for them to quiet their hostility. Eventually the only answer was a tearful good-by. I cared deeply for Phyllis. Maybe that’s why I chose to say good-by. I had no wish to come between her and her family.
    It was a cloudy Sunday afternoon when I rode out of the city, eastbound on Interstate 580. I was on my way to the New Mexico desert. There had to be an answer somewhere in that vast expanse of sand, sagebrush and spirituality. It was there on a 1949 Harley Davidson motorcycle that I found myself wondering how many years it would be before we finally choose to just . . . . put down our guns.

    Gino awoke with a start. He could hear the sound of a truck approaching. He peered out the crack in the barn door and realized that someone would soon arrive. He grabbed his battered suitcase and slipped out the door into the darkness. A hundred yards away he crouched behind a tree, careful to remain out of sight. A few minutes later an old farmer walked onto the porch and into the house. As soon as the lights came on Gino made his way across the field to the highway.
    The wind swept across the flat land and the cold cut through him like a knife. Gino shivered slightly as he leaned against a highway sign and lit a cigarette. After all these years Gino still had a fear of darkness. His years in prison had enforced the fear. He stared up at the sky, watching the clouds scurry across the horizon, obscuring his view of the moon. His attention was diverted as he noticed headlights rapidly approaching. A 1949 Mercury Hardtop pulled to a stop next to him and the passenger side door opened. Almost as if by instinct, Gino climbed in and sat down. He slammed the door shut and glanced over at the driver. His eyes widened as he peered at the man behind the wheel. "James Loren? Aren't you James Loren?"
    "No, my friend. My name's Vincent."
    Gino shook his head in amazement. "Damn! You look just like an old friend of mine. Hey! Thanks for stopping. How far you goin?"
    Vincent smiled slightly. "As far as you need to go, Gino."
    Gino sat ridgid in the seat, fear coursing through his veins like ice water. "How d'you come to know my name?"
    "Sorry, Gino. I didn't mean to startle ya. Me and James Loren crossed paths awhile ago and he spoke highly of you."
    The explanation seemed plausible. Gino took another drag on his cigarette as he contemplated the man's words. Vincent held out a thermos. "Pour yourself a cup of coffee if ya like."
    Gino unscrewed the lid and poured it full of hot liquid. He took a sip and smiled. "Damn! That's good! I've never tasted coffee quite like this."
    "It's a special blend," Vincent explained. "An elixer of the gods, you might say."
    They rode on in silence. Gino finished the cup of coffee and leaned back in his seat. A peaceful, easy feeling settled over him like a warm blanket. The music on the radio washed over him like a soft wind and he fell asleep. The sound of a train whistle far off in the distance startled Gino awake. He sat bolt upright in the seat and stared out the window into the darkness. There in front of him was an old train station with a boarding platform in front.
    Vincent smiled. "We've reached our destination, Gino. This is as far as I can take you." He handed Gino a crumpled piece of paper.
    Gino looked perplexed. "What's this?"
    "It's your boarding pass, my friend. A boarding pass for the Hitchcock Railway."
    Before Gino could respond, he felt himself drifting into a sea of darkness. He felt no fear. Just a sense of peace. A sense of peace he hadn't experienced in many, many years. A sleek, black locomotive pulled into view, pulling seven rail cars behind. It came to a stop next to the boarding platform and a tall, elderly conductor stepped down from the train. He smiled politely at Gino and held out his hand. "I'll need your boarding pass, sir."
    Gino stared in disbelief. "Is this what you need?"
    "It is. Please come aboard, sir. We're about to depart."
    Gino stammered nervously. “But . . . I . . uh . . . where am I going?”
    The conductor smiled slightly. “That sir, is entirely your decision.”