The Noticer Returns

by Andy Andrews

  Baker nodded as the old man continued. “Son, you just stated that a life without debt would be extraordinary. An extraordinary life is a destination. In order for you to arrive at that chosen destination at some point in the future, it is critical that you choose the correct pathway to begin that journey. There are many pathways from which to choose, but only one pathway will lead to the destination you desire.

  “It is a paradox for the ages. How we think determines how wisely we choose; yet, at the same time, we are able to choose how we think.”

  Jones stood and motioned for Baker to join him. I stood, too, and followed the direction of the old man’s bony finger. He was indicating a huge ship several miles away out in the bay. It was easily spotted from our hill. The high vantage point yielded a perfect view.

  “It’s a container vessel leaving the Port of Mobile,” Jones said. “Where do you think it’s going?”

  “I don’t know,” Baker answered. “I guess it could be anywhere.”

  “Yes, it could be anywhere,” Jones agreed. “I’ll tell you what, though . . . I’ll bet the captain knows exactly where.”

  Baker nodded and smiled at what seemed like an offhand remark, a joke. But it was no joke, as Jones was about to make clear.

  “You see,” Jones said to Baker, “before that ship ever left port, the captain knew without any doubt exactly where he was headed. But to have any hope of reaching that destination, he was required to make a specific decision before he pulled away from the dock. It was the answer to a very simple question: In which direction do we head?

  “There are shipping lanes to the east, west, north, south, and every variation of those four directions that crisscross the globe. But let’s say the captain of that ship intends to reach Sydney, Australia, without delay. Well, from Mobile, Alabama, there is only one choice. And with all the variables of weather, foreign conflict, fuel, and delivery agreements, he needed to make a wise choice, and that choice had to have been made before the journey began.

  “Baker, you are at the beginning of your journey to a worthy destination that you have chosen. You must now place yourself on the correct path to that place. How will you choose to think at the beginning of your journey?

  “Will you choose to think, ‘Oh, my situation is horrible; I can’t even get a loan’? Or will your perspective be, ‘Knowing that I would rather live an extraordinary life sooner rather than later, I will choose to be grateful for my current situation. Fortunately my current situation is one in which I can learn discipline and be trained to live in such a way that will prepare me for the very future I have chosen’?

  “If you can see this situation in its correct form, you will understand that you have been given the advantage of a head start. You are favorably positioned in a game that must be won before receiving the reward of an extraordinary life.

  “Most people will play that game while doing constant battle against the temptation of debt and the easy road it seems to offer at the beginning of the journey. But you, my friend, will not have to fight that fight.” Jones grinned and punched Baker lightly on the shoulder. “Consider yourself blessed, young man. You couldn’t get a loan if you had to!”

  They laughed a bit as Baker became comfortable with the idea of a new thought process. He was excited despite the fact that he felt strange doing a one-eighty on some things he had assumed were true his entire life. Or maybe the change in direction was the very reason for his excitement. After all, Baker thought, the road I chose years ago surely didn’t end well.

  “When you learn to live a disciplined life financially,” Jones added, “you are able to live your life as one who leads others to the knowledge of how to sail above the rough seas created by economic conditions or a family member’s health . . .”

  “Or the weather,” Baker said.

  “Or the weather,” Jones repeated before moving closer to the trunk of the huge oak tree. “Come over here, you two,” he said to us, and of course, we did as he asked. Experience had taught him that changing location in the middle of a time of learning would often cement the lesson in the mind of a student. Even a small move was often enough. “My old bones can’t stay in one place too long. Big tree, ain’t it?” He patted the huge trunk, we agreed, and he continued.

  “Fellas,” he said, “here’s a word to remember: value. It’s a concept not often understood. Most people equate value with money, and money does have value. But the highest value—the most important value—is the value you create with your life and how you use it for others.

  “Here is a good example. Baker, I know you are curious about Jack Bailey. When I met Jack . . .” Jones paused and looked at me. “I met Jack a short time after I met Andy. Jack was a lot like you are right now, Baker, in that he was just beginning to create the life he enjoys today.

  “You see them as wealthy, and I certainly understand why, but the Baileys, and people like them whom I most admire, do not obtain their senses of self from the things they have. Their worth is in who they have become. But get this . . . who they have become—their personal and business reputations—have been greatly shaped by how they create value for others. And these folks are able to do even more for others with the things they have.

  “Baker, the man you become will be determined by the value you provide for others—those whom you meet on the road to who you are becoming. Great or small, your legacy will be judged one day by the quality and amount of value you were able to contribute in the lives of other people.

  “Therefore, you should work hardest on yourself in order that you become more valuable. Not for yourself, of course, or as an exercise in ego, but that one day you might find yourself valuable enough to possess the power to lead others to an understanding of the true value of their own lives.”

  With that, Jones looked at the sun and said, “Gotta go.” He quickly shook our hands, walked up the steps of the old house, opened the door, and walked inside. Baker and I looked at each other with our eyebrows raised and chuckled as we shook our heads.

  We stood and talked for a while about our backgrounds and families. I encouraged him about his current situation and told him a couple of my Jones stories. About fifteen minutes had passed, and Baker was about to say something when he glanced at his watch. “Oh, no!” he exclaimed. “I’m late to pick up my wife.” He shook my hand quickly and said, “Nice to meet you.” As he trotted away, he called out over his shoulder, “Hope to see you soon.”

  I stood there under the tree and watched him as he walked toward town, finally rounding a corner several blocks away. Only then did I turn to gaze thoughtfully at the house Jones had entered a while ago. An appointment? What kind of an appointment does one have in a house, especially one that old and in such disrepair? I wasn’t sure and would not even hazard a guess. It bothered me that I couldn’t or didn’t want to guess, and I wondered if my imagination was gone altogether. That would explain not coming up with a story for my book.

  In addition, I recognized that, evidently, I had developed a degree of strange pride in the fact that Jones had helped me all those many years ago. He had found me. He had chosen me. And I had done okay. Now, all of a sudden, I find out he helped Jack Bailey too? Wow! Jack Bailey was big time. Wealth, influence . . . as far as I could see, the man had done way more than “okay.” I had met him on a couple of occasions, and there was no doubt that Jack Bailey was as great a guy as you would ever want to meet. So why did I feel so deflated?

  I walked back to the car and officially announced my depression to myself. In addition—and this was somehow scary—for the first time ever, Jones had given me horrible advice. Terrible, useless, ridiculous advice. Write a book and structure the whole thing around a story of normal, boring, everyday life? Yeah, right.

  With that in my mind, I turned around and walked back to the old house. I wasn’t sure why . . . Perhaps I needed another conversation with Jones. Maybe I was hoping he would give me a specific answer regarding my book. For whatever reason, though, I was
oddly compelled to see Jones.

  Right then.

  Fourteen

  I climbed the steps and, not seeing a doorbell, simply knocked. An old man—not the one I was looking for—came to the door, opened it about a foot, and stared. Before I could say a word, he scowled deeply and began to close the door.

  Suddenly I heard my friend’s familiar voice. “Andy?” His call came from the back of the house, barely reaching me from around the man who was shutting the door in my face.

  “Hey, Jones!” I said, half-yelling into the narrowing opening. The man stopped pushing the door but looked at me with what I assumed was his nastiest expression. I stood there, and so did he. Nothing happened for several seconds, but then my old friend came into view and moved up behind the man.

  “It’s okay,” Jones told him, and slowly, the man opened the door and stepped aside. With a motion from my friend, I stepped inside the old house, keeping an eye on the guy who looked as if he would love to tear me apart.

  Jones turned with a motion of his head, indicating I should follow. I started to do just that, but the man still at the door, still looking as angry as anyone I’ve ever seen, said, “Wait.” So I stopped and waited, though for what I had no clue.

  Fifteen seconds passed, then twenty. At what I figure was the thirty-second mark, Jones came back into the room. He stopped, looked at me, and seemed to assess the situation before turning to the man and saying, “Yes, Darrel. It’s him. Now come on.”

  Jones left again. I didn’t move because the man had not moved. My mind was racing. I had no idea what I had gotten myself into.

  When he spoke, he asked, “You are?”

  My instinct for self-preservation was urging me to yell, “No, I am not!” and run as fast as I could from this house that was becoming crazier by the moment. Instead, I calmly put the onus back upon my scary host. “Are what?” I asked.

  “You are the author?” he clarified. “The one who writes the stories?”

  “Yes sir,” I responded, figuring that must have been what Jones had just confirmed for him. “Yes sir,” I said again. “I guess that’s me.”

  Once more I waited as he stared at me. Finally he slowly nodded, and the scowl eased a bit. “She loved your books,” he said, and a tear tracked down his old cheek. He made no effort to wipe it from his face. He stepped toward the doorway into which I had seen Jones disappear and as he passed me, quietly said, “Please . . .”

  I followed him down a short hallway, past photographs as old as the house, and into a tiny room. Jones was in a chair in the corner. I could see him around the man’s shoulder though the rest of the room was still blocked from my view. Jones was smiling as if we were watching children sail homemade boats in a park. The man, however—Darrel or whoever he was—moaned softly when he entered the room and, after only a few steps, fell to his knees.

  I stopped immediately and stayed where I was. Darrel was less than five feet away, on his knees with his back to me. Jones remained in the corner chair and was facing my direction. Between the two men was a bed holding an old woman who lay quietly with her eyes closed.

  For some reason, with my first glimpse of the scene before me, I thought of the story all of us hear as children. I saw the hero. Stalwart and enduring, the prince was right in front of me, kneeling beside the bed of the woman who was to him the most precious ever created. And now, still so in love after all these years, the prince—with every fiber in his being—was willing his sleeping beauty to wake up . . . wake up immediately and leave this place so that they might live together, happily ever after.

  But this was not a fairy tale. Darrel was old, yes, but he was also physically worn out. I had seen that in his eyes and on his skin and in the way he moved. And the woman, quite simply, was dying. I could see that she was alive at the moment, but the room smelled of death. What was Jones doing here? What was I doing here?

  Darrel looked up, across the bed, and fixed Jones with a stare. I could not see his face, but I could feel his anger. “You keep coming back,” he said.

  Jones smiled gently and nodded. “Yes, I do.”

  “Even though I have cursed you,” Darrel said. “Even though I have not asked for your help, you keep coming back,” I heard him say. Then, a question: “What do you want from me?”

  Jones tilted his head and said, “I have never wanted anything from you, Darrel. But there has been so much I have wanted for you.”

  I saw Darrel’s head turn slightly. He was looking at the woman. “She always liked you.”

  “She has been a wonderful wife for you,” Jones said, and the man sobbed.

  “Everything’s over now,” Darrel said.

  I was listening intently, watching everything. When the man on his knees in front of me said that everything was over, I saw Jones’s eyes narrow slightly. “Why would you believe that, Darrel?” he asked.

  “Because she is dying!” he bellowed. “She will soon be gone. Gone! Dead!”

  I was startled when the man yelled, and now he was really scaring me. This was getting out of control. I was about to back out of the room when Jones stood, reached across the woman, and touched Darrel on the arm. Darrel looked at my old friend and was instantly calm, quiet. It was weird.

  Jones looked at the woman but spoke to the man. “Would you like to know the truth, Darrel?” he said. “Would you like to know what she is experiencing . . . what is really happening right now?”

  “I don’t know if I do or not,” he answered in a trembling voice.

  Well, I thought, that is as honest a reply as you’ll ever hear.

  “I believe you do want to know,” Jones said. “You need to know.” Then Jones looked at me. “And I wanted you to hear this too. I want you to write about it . . .”

  I nodded but was uneasy. What was this? In the past Jones had barely acknowledged that I write. He had never suggested a topic. The one time I had asked for advice, I didn’t get it. Now he actually has something he wants me to write? What might this be? What truth?

  Suddenly I wasn’t sure if I wanted to hear this or not either. I looked at the woman on the bed, and I saw my mother. I don’t mean that she looked like her. The woman in front of me was much older than my mom, who had been only forty-two when she died. But the smell of the room and the helpless anger inside it were exactly the same. Many nights I had lain awake on the floor in my mother’s bedroom. Hour after hour I would listen to her cough, but it was not her coughing that frightened me. No, I dreaded the silence I knew was coming. I dreaded the moment when the coughing would stop.

  “Darrel,” Jones began, “you think that your sweet wife is at the end, but that is only a lie you have believed. Because your fear has grown, you believe her fear has become greater . . . which is another lie. You believe she is experiencing something bad that gets worse until there is nothing at all. That, too, is a lie.

  “Here is the truth, Darrel. She is not at the end. She is at the beginning. Her fear has not become greater; it has become less and less until now, her fear is gone altogether. And she is not experiencing something bad that gets worse until there is nothing at all . . . she is experiencing something incredible that gets better, until there is everything.”

  Jones looked down at the woman and lightly touched her head. “Before this woman was ever born, when she was warm and snug inside her mama’s belly, she kicked and twisted, moving this way and that. For months she struggled. She became uncomfortable. She longed for more freedom and began to sense that the world she inhabited was not where she ultimately belonged. She did not know what was on the other side of her struggle, but she was getting ready to experience something new and wonderful that in her wildest imaginings could not be described. Darrel . . . she was getting ready to breathe.

  “And when she finally drew that first breath, it was clean and fresh and like nothing she had ever felt. She took another breath and another—and all around her, loved ones and friends cheered in a joyous celebration of her arrival.”

&n
bsp; Jones looked closely at the woman’s face. “Look at her now, Darrel,” he said. “For many years this dear child was happy and content in this body. But for some time now, she has struggled. She has become uncomfortable. She has begun to long for freedom from the pain of this body and has sensed that the world she inhabits is not where she ultimately belongs. Even now she does not fully appreciate the reality that is waiting on the other side of her struggle, but she is preparing to experience something new and wonderful that in her wildest imaginings could not be described. Right now . . . right this minute . . . she is getting ready to breathe.

  “And when she draws that first breath, it will be clean and clear and fresh, like nothing she has ever experienced. She will take another breath and another and another; and all around, her loved ones, her family and friends, will cheer in a joyous celebration of her arrival.

  “Do not be afraid for yourself, Darrel. You can make the same journey one day—you can join her if you choose to do so. And don’t be afraid for her. She is fine. Remember . . . she is getting ready to breathe.”

  After a time of quiet Jones slipped out of the room, and I followed, leaving Darrel alone with the woman. He was still on his knees with his upper body on the bed. He held her hand and was peacefully asleep.

  It was a serenity he had not felt in a long time. Somehow Darrel’s mind drifted easily through the years as he dreamed of the past he remembered and a future he had never allowed himself to imagine.

  Fifteen

  Sealy loved Baker, and she was well aware that her thinking and her choices had also contributed to the mess they were in. No, Sealy reminded herself, this is not a mess we are in. This is a mess we are working our way out of. Then, to herself, Sealy repeated the words Jones had suggested she make her own: I am choosing to think differently. I am choosing to see my situation with perspective. When I find perspective, I establish power over my current circumstances.

  She and Baker had talked themselves to sleep almost every night lately, and one of the constant themes was their thinking. More than a couple of times, Sealy had heard Jones discuss the way people think. Then Baker had spent a whole day with Jack Bailey, an incredible man Jones arranged for Baker to meet. Baker had told her that Jack Bailey also talked about how folks think.