Monday, September 18, 2023

I Believe in You



“I Believe in You”

Jonathan T. Jefferson

Wednesday, August 30, 2023

        The cool flow of air, accompanied by calmness, swept up ghost-like from Schoharie Creek as it meandered through the Catskill Mountains. Tuesday found me lying in bliss on a large pockmarked gray stone on the edge of the creek. I was supposed to be gathering up the nerves needed to do the deed. The rays of the pale-yellow sun, briefly allowed to peek through the soft white smokiness of the clouds, only bit gently on the skin. The whiteness which was stolen from them more than a few times this summer by the reddish-tan hues cast southward by historic fires in the Canadian forests, were welcomed and distracted me.

        Today, overnight thundershowers swelled the reflecting waters enough to cut off my access to that same relaxing stone. Yesterday, I succumbed to the urge to stand barefoot on the smooth multicolored rocks of various sizes below the waves. Now, despite the heaviness of my burdens, I was content to absorb the natural splendor of the environment from a new vantage point, several feet above a slope in a parking area that provides respite for passing motorists and access to fly-fishers. Inhaling deeply to soothe my internal organs with ashe-free oxygen, cleansing the olfactory nerve with a perfectly balanced mix of flower-scented aromas, and feasting my eyes on unblemished panoramas, was more than sufficient to gather the strength for what I planned to do.

        Shamefully procrastinating for two days was predictably giving way to greater resolve. A short stroll around this picturesque rest site would ‘seal the deal,’ I returned to my cream colored SUV, drove to a designated trailhead, and began my vision quest into the wilderness. No food, water, compass, or timeframe would accompany me on this journey. Most importantly, no promise of direction, revelation, or survival…

“Don’t nobody know my troubles but God.”

Natural Blues - Moby

        Trampled down thatches of weeds and gravel caught each impression of the half-inch black rubber soles on my hiking boots. The loud, but soothing, trickling of the stream filled my ears from the right, while less peaceful sounds of passing vehicle tires on pavement came from my left. A mid-sized blue car entered the parking area one hundred yards ahead of me. It drove toward me on the half-circle of crumbling blacktop that served as the turn off. I tried to appear inconspicuous as the driver slowly cruised by. From the periphery of my left eye, I saw who appeared to be an elderly woman behind the wheel.

        Alone once again, I returned to the task of silencing my thoughts, opening my senses to the beautiful surroundings, and listening for what the universe might want to convey. Upon reaching the west end of the turn off, I spun around. The blue car that passed me minutes earlier was parked three hundred yards away at the east end. Its occupant, who I could now see was an old man, was walking towards me. Judging from his appearance and awkward gait, I grew weary. What was this white-haired man, wearing a long white sleeve shirt and white pants, doing? To make it clear that I was not to be bothered, I entered the trees close to the creek to stand just out of sight. To my relief, before I disappeared, the old man turned back toward his car.

        Hugged by the branches of trees while standing on a flat rock, solitude enveloped me, and the old man was briefly forgotten. Emerging from that silent embrace of fauna, sure that I was now the only soul around, I did a double take when from only a few yards away the old man was approaching me, saying something I could not understand.

        “Excuse me?” I asked. The expression on my face showed that I did not hear what he just said. I noticed the wrinkles of time on his face, so many that his age could not be counted.

        “Are you okay?” he repeated. The rumble of his voice gave me the impression of a gentle summer storm approaching. Normally, as is the case for most people, I would have replied, “fine,” but something about our exchange demanded honesty. I shrugged slowly to indicate that the weight on my shoulders felt impossible to carry.

        “You appear troubled,” he said bluntly. It was clear to me that he knew his statement was indisputable.

        “I like the silence here by the creek.” I replied. “I’m kinda on a vision quest to find answers.”

        “Do you want to talk about it?” He asked, opening his arms wide as though an eagle were about to take flight. His gesture was warm, like the unspoken offer of comfort from a grandparent to a child with a scraped knee. I shook my head side to side weakly to turn down what was sure to be his wise counsel.

        To counter any hint of ungratefulness, I said, “I’d like to let the universe guide me.” He shook his head up and down with understanding.

        The old man began to walk away, and then he stopped and asked, “What’s your name?”

        Once again, I did not respond with my usual, “Jon”, I said, “Jonathan.”

        “I’m going to include you in my prayers tonight Jonathan. I too trust the universe to bring me answers. That’s why I come here for my daily walks!” He exclaimed with gusto while raising his eyes to the sky.

        “Thank you.” I responded with the most sincerity that I ever felt while saying those words.

        The old man continued with his walk toward the west end of the turn off. It was only ten yards away. Heading back east, he walked past me again and said, “I believe in you, Jonathan.”




September 18, 2023

Sunday, June 27, 2021

Flight to Lima



Flight to Lima

J.T. Jefferson




        Those incessant screams are enough to make me want a drink, and I’ve been a teetotaler for all of my forty-seven years, Valarie thought while fighting the urge to cover her ears.

        “How childish would that look?” she whispered into the air. A middle-aged Hispanic woman pressing the palms of her hands against her ears as if she were an eight-year-old child blotting out the sounds of an accordion. The infant’s screams reverberated off the Mexico City International Airport’s rafters. Valarie prayed, and said, “God, please don’t let that baby be on my flight to Lima.”

        Valarie had survived her share of mothering. She had no children, and was never married, but being the oldest of five siblings came with parenting responsibilities. Both her parents worked two jobs to provide her and her siblings with a comfortable life. They were raised in Mexico City and attended private schools. Valarie saw the work that went into supporting a family and wanted no part of it.

        Teaching history at a local public high school afforded Valerie opportunities to indulge her passion for archeology. During school holidays and summer recess breaks, she visited ancient Mayan ruins throughout Mexico and Guatemala. All the guides at the ruins were multilingual and usually spoke English to accommodate the majority of the tourists. Valarie enjoyed going into more depth with the guides in Spanish, their shared language.

        This trip to Lima was the first leg in her long dreamed of exploration of Peru and the ancient Inca civilization. She was especially excited about touching the stones of Machu Picchu. All of that awaited her if she could survive the cries of that baby.

        Valarie was grateful that her brother, Guillermo, was a pilot for Aeromexico Airlines. This gave her discounted flight privileges reserved for the families and friends of airline employees. Valarie took full advantage of this benefit, and the stamps of many nations on her passport were proof of that. Being on standby status was the only drawback to discount tickets. Full-fare customers were seated first, and if there was space on the plane, standby passengers were seated by priority-ranked order. Guillermo had worked for Aeromexico for a dozen years, so Valarie was sure she would get an unsold seat.

        “Valarie Hernandez to Gate 52 please,” an airline employee called over the terminal’s P.A. system. The announcement was first spoken in Spanish and immediately repeated in English.

        Valerie smiled as she watched the mother try to comfort her baby by rocking the child in her left arm, while simultaneously struggling to screw the cap on a bottle of formula with her right hand.

        One of the many prices people pay for sex, Valarie thought. She stood, stretched out her slightly plump five-foot-three-inch body, grabbed the handle of her red carryon suitcase, and rolled it over to Gate 52.

        Another perk to being related to an employee of Aeromexico was the empty first-class seats that were allowed to be filled by those with employee discount tickets. Today, for this five-hour-and-forty-six-minute flight from Mexico City to Lima, Valarie was assigned to seat 1A. As soon as she stowed her luggage in the overhead bin, and before she could adjust her seat for maximum comfort, a male flight attendant asked if she would like something to drink. Looking at the eight-ounce bottle of water in her cup holder, Valarie said, “I’m fine for now, thank you.”

        Relieved she was not bumped from this flight due to it being sold to capacity, Valarie began to relax while the remaining passengers boarded the plane and took their seats. She checked out the in-flight entertainment options. To her surprise, many classic movies and television shows were available to watch: One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest starring Jack Nicholson, the original Twilight Zone series hosted by Rod Serling, and Alfred Hitchcock Presents. The mere thought of sitting back and enjoying a movie or two made her hungry. Lunch would be served as soon as the plane reached its cruising altitude, so Valarie took a peek at the menu placed neatly in a gray net attached to the wall in front of her.

        The last group of passengers to board the plane included the woman with the agitated baby who had been screaming in the terminal. Seeing them, Valerie was thankful that the baby was now ravenously sucking on the nipple of a bottle of cream-colored formula. That sight caused Valarie to turn her attention to the lunch menu in her right hand. With the index finger of her left hand, she began scanning the list of meal options. Her long, pointed red fingernail stopped on the only vegan dish being offered, Vegan Enchilada. Valarie thought it sounded delicious.

        Moments after the lighted seatbelt signs were turned off, the flight attendants began going from row to row jotting down the meal choices of passengers seated in first class. The process was a bit cruder in the economy section of the cabin. Two stewardesses pushed heated carts through the aisles and offered each passenger one of two choices: chicken parmesan or spaghetti and steamed vegetables. Back in first class, Valarie ordered the vegan enchilada and a can of cranberry juice.

        The steward who took Valarie’s order also phoned into the cockpit and began writing down whatever he was being told over the phone. Sitting in the front row gave Valerie an idea of what her brother’s work environment must be like. Since the pilots’ door remained locked during flights, there was a two-way hatch alongside the cockpit door that allowed food and drinks to be delivered to the pilots safely. Valarie wondered if there was a bathroom in there as well.

        Thank God for first class, Valarie thought, as she slowly chewed her last fork full of enchilada. She had poured the remaining few sips of cranberry juice from the can into a glass. She swirled the bright red juice in the glass, pretended it was fine wine by giving it a whiff under her nose, and swallowed a gulp to wash down her lunch.

        “Delightful ,” Valarie said so quietly that no one seated nearby heard. At home, lunch was always followed by an hour-long nap, planned or unplanned, so Valarie decided to wait on watching a movie until she awoke.

        Before long, Valarie was jolted awake by the all-too-familiar wailing noises. From somewhere back in the economy section, the infant was at it again. For Valarie, fingernails scraping a chalkboard would have been preferable to that baby’s cries. The passenger sitting next to her in seat 1B appeared to be fast asleep. How could anyone sleep through this noise? Valarie wondered. Perplexed by the absence of movement around her, she unbuckled her seatbelt to stand up and have a look around.

        There was no movement anywhere on the plane. No flight attendants roamed the aisles, no one was standing to stretch their legs, and no one was heading to or from the bathrooms. Valarie noticed that two of the flight attendants were seated in their pull-down seats, and they slumped over each other as though they had passed out from too much alcohol. The baby screamed again, and Valarie headed down her aisle in the direction of the baby’s cries. Valarie was also beginning to realize that people were slumped over in every seat.

        “Hello, wake up! Can anybody hear me? Wake up!” she shouted in a shaky voice.

        Valarie found the baby lying in the aisle near the back of the cabin. The infant’s white face had turned pink from the work of her mighty vocal cords. Yellow vomit coated the white bib, and her pudgy arms reached up reflexively toward her mother. Valarie knelt on the floor and began rubbing the baby’s belly with her right hand and shaking her seated and dangling mother with her left hand. The mom’s body felt cold and clammy. Valarie jerked her left hand away and stared at the mother’s body. The chest did not rise and fall. No breathing sounds escaped from her mouth or nose, and her skin was ashen.

        “Oh, God!” she blurted out. The other passengers seated around the baby’s mother looked similar. “Everybody’s dead!”

        Valarie picked up the now cooing baby and hustled back to the front of the cabin. She held the baby against her with one hand and banged on the cockpit door with the other.

        “Help! Help! There’s been an accident. Everybody’s dead!” she shouted as she hammered away at the door.

        From the right side of her peripheral vision, Valarie saw a piece of paper slide down from the two-way hatch alongside the cockpit door. The paper landed on a small counter littered with similar pieces of paper. Looking closely, Valarie could see that they were meal check-off sheets. The flight’s captain had chosen chicken parmesan, and the co-pilot had the spaghetti and vegetables. Reading the other sheets, Valarie found only one with a different meal choice. Circled in red, for seat 1A, the meal choice was vegan enchilada.

        The realization of their predicament was numbing. Valarie carried the baby over to seat 1A and slowly lowered herself back into the seat. The baby’s huge black pupils stared up at her without blinking. “Can you fly this plane?” she asked the baby. The baby smiled at the gentle sound of Valarie’s voice. Ignorance is truly bliss, she thought .

        Valarie began humming a lullaby to keep the baby soothed as she stood up and placed the baby in the seat. She continued humming when she opened the overhead bin above them to retrieve her cell phone from her carryon bag. The large black smartphone made her smallish hands look tiny. She turned it on by pressing a side button with her right thumb. In a few moments, the phone’s screen came to life. Maybe Guillermo can figure this out, she hoped.

        Using the WhatsApp feature, Valarie sent a message to Guillermo. She communicated with her siblings with the app to avoid getting lost in anyone’s long list of texts or full voicemail boxes. She typed, “HELP!”

        “What’s going on?” Guillermo replied.

        “Flight AM46 to Lima is in trouble,” she responded to him as specifically as possible. She did not trust the app to keep them connected while she was in flight.

        “What do you mean?” he asked.

        “The food was poisoned. I was the only one who ate the vegan dish, and there’s a baby alive as well,” she typed her answer with tears welling up in her eyes. A tear landed on the phone’s screen, and she watched it drip down.

        “Did you say there’s a baby alive? Does that mean everyone’s dead?” he asked.

        Not wanting her brother to think this was a sick joke, she typed, “YES! YES! YES!”

        After a long pause, Guillermo replied, “The Peruvian authorities are aware of a problem. The pilots had not reported in as required. The plane is on autopilot, and will fly beyond Lima and over the Pacific until it runs out of fuel.”

        Valarie wanted to type, I love you, but their connection was lost. She looked away from the phone to the baby now sleeping in seat 1A. “You won’t sleep for long, will you?” she whispered. Valarie walked back to the baby’s mother to get the bottle of formula. Upon returning, she stood at the food counter littered with the slips of meal choices.

        “This time, I’ll choose the spaghetti and vegetables,” she said with a coy grin. Before putting the meal into a knee-high oven, Valarie placed a small portion of vegetables into a blender used for mixing drinks. “That bit will be for the baby.”

Wednesday, January 29, 2020

My Lunch with Ron and Stephen



My Lunch with Ron and Stephen



       On a recent Sunday, the usual dread of returning to the workday grind was absent. Replacing it was a giddiness last felt in my spirit on a Christmas Eve when I was a child of about seven years old who still believed in Santa Claus. Dimples on my cheeks appeared as bookends to a broad smile that revealed thousands of dollars’ worth of dental work. “Oh, I can’t believe this! I really, really can’t believe this!” my internal voice repeated.
       A small handsome Hispanic boy, who was being practically dragged onto the down escalator by a frantic young woman, smiled up at me as I exited Penn Station onto Eighth Avenue. He must have seen the child in me as I skipped by. In November, my birthday will mark half a century, but on this January morning, I am a kid on his way to a candy store.
       Taking the “3” train to 14th Street would have been the quickest way to get to The Butcher’s Daughter Juice Bar & Cafe on Hudson Street, but the walk down Eighth Avenue would calm my nerves. Since the age of 15, anxious excitement has triggered head-splitting migraines for me. Exercise releases those calming endorphins that are desperately needed when having lunch with two American icons: titans in their respective industries. “Deep, slow breaths, Jon. Deep, slow breaths,” I coached myself while my feet placed Madison Square Garden farther behind me.
       The Butcher’s Daughter doesn’t take reservations, so I planned to arrive 30 minutes early for my noon lunch date with Ron and Stephen. Hopefully, I could secure a table and bullshit with the waiter or waitress until my guests arrived. Even now, in his mid-60s with male pattern baldness leaving only a curtain of red hair around his head, Ron still looks like Richie Cunningham from Happy Days and Opie Taylor from The Andy Griffith Show. On first sight, only millennials and younger see Ron as a renowned director and producer. Today, I look forward to sharing with him how growing up middle class in Queens during the 1970s and 1980s was reminiscent of the 1950s Milwaukee of Happy Days. There were tree-lined streets that cast shadows on single-family homes with late-model Detroit steel automobiles in every driveway. My childhood summers were spent on a farm that harked back to Opie’s Mayberry and its more “innocent” times.
       “Oh my God! There is so much I want to talk about. I hope I’m not struck dumb with awe when I meet them.” An elderly Asian man with white slip-on sneakers looked at me questioningly as I approached 23rd Street. I realized my last statement was spoken aloud. If my brown skin could blush . . .
       As I waited to cross the next street, I discreetly placed my nose next to my left armpit and took a sniff. “Still fresh and clean,” I sung out while the blinking white walking symbol gave the all clear. Midway between 22nd and 21st streets, my legs began to shake. A wave of emotions nearly paralyzed me. Nervous sweat tingled beneath the surface of my skin. “No, please, no,” I whispered through trembling lips.
       My subconscious was reminding me of the extraordinary impact Stephen King’s novels have had on my life. After struggling to read until fourth grade in 1980, I was motivated to read Pet Sematary in 1983 when I saw the book on my mother’s night stand. That summer, while at my family’s old rundown farm in upstate New York, I completed the scary tale; my first novel. From that point forward, until her passing in 1999, I read every Stephen King novel published as soon as my mother had finished. It became our tradition. Every Mother’s Day, birthday, and Christmas, I would present my mother with Stephen’s latest offering. My mother and I were both captivated by horror stories. Years before Stephen King novels entered our lives, my mother would attempt to coax me into behaving by telling me fables about awful creatures who carried away naughty children.
       Gathering myself as I neared the intersection that gently curved from Eighth Avenue to Hudson Street, I reflected that voraciously reading novel after novel prepared me for the four college degrees I eventually earned. During the nearly 20 years since my mother’s death, I have kept up with just about all of Stephen’s books. However, as my eyes grow weary, audiobooks have become my go-to version.
       There is one author who I still turn pages to read. Secretly, I think Joe Hill now edges out Stephen as my favorite writer. I met Mr. Hill in Manhattan during a book signing for The Fireman. I asked him to write “I can’t wait to read your wicked shit.” on the inside of my copy. He was unaware that my “wicked shit” is an homage to Stephen, and it is the first and only novel I have completed.
       Nearing the entrance to the restaurant, I decided not to share with Stephen that I have a flame for another author. There were more pressing issues that I wanted to discuss with Ron and Stephen. Subjects that were worthier of their time.
       The Butcher’s Daughter’s interior appears as an elegantly repurposed barn. A short chipped white ladder hangs on a wall with potted leafy green plants on its slats. Each table is made of polished wood that could double as a large butcher’s block. As a party of four got up to leave, I hustled over to stake my claim on the table. A hefty black waiter looked at me, his eyes shifting to the dirty dishes in front of me. “It’s fine,” I said. “My friends are running late anyway.” It was just a little lie.
       Table secured, I had about 20 minutes to focus my thoughts. From Stephen’s tweets, I knew that he was appalled by the dealings of the current White House and much of Congress. His recent novella, Elevation, honestly illustrated the pointlessness of judging people by their differences.
       Once upon a time in the United States, citizens spoke proudly of being the world’s “melting pot,” liberating Europe from Nazi fascism, and tearing down the “iron curtain.” Many now ask, “What is this country coming to?” Fear and hate are at all-time highs. Fear of black people trying to live ordinary lives, fear of Muslims, fear of Hispanic immigrants. Men who abuse women being rewarded with lofty positions, and mass shootings being perpetrated by white men in suburbia: not by Muslims or blacks.
       Stephen’s critical political tweets, essay titled “Guns,” and voluntary discontinuation of the sale of his story Rage are evidence of a person who cares about his fellow man. And I cannot think of a human condition that has not been filmed by Ron. I had no doubt that they would provide pointed insight to my urgent question: “Where are our better angels?”
       I will share with Ron and Stephen this truth. In the early 1970s, a Harlem-raised African-American couple with eight children living in Queens bought an old farm in rural upstate New York. Each summer, until 1985, their children played with white farm children as earthy as Huckleberry Finn. They engaged with a burgeoning Amish community, and everyone treated them with respect. This happened in a unique place in the American tapestry. Hammond, New York, is no bigger than Mayberry. I was the seventh of those eight children—everyone knew my family, where we lived, and probably our frailties as well. Sharing with neighbors in times of abundance, and caring for neighbors in times of need, was simply part of being human. Hammond provided me with the most wonderful experiences of my life, which are memorialized in my memoirs. If I were to pitch our story for a television series, I would simply ask, “What if the Waltons were black and on Little House on the Prairie?”
       A yellow cab pulled up in front of the picture window. I was surprised at my calmness upon seeing his gruff red beard and partial red halo as Ron leaned in toward the driver before turning for the entrance. As soon as the cab pulled away, and before Ron entered the restaurant, a black Suburban took the cab’s place. A tall, lanky white man in his early 70s stepped out from the rear door of the Suburban. He wore simple glasses and had mostly gray hair with hints of black fading fast. It was Stephen. I took a deep breath and a sip of the water that the waiter had placed before me. “It’s time for lunch.”


1/14/19


Jonathan T. Jefferson is a lifelong New Yorker, and author of:
Mugamore: Succeeding without Labels — Lessons for Educators
FriesenPress 2013
Echoes from the Farm
FriesenPress 2017

I Believe in You