Jason sat down on a crumbling well curb. Whatever his error, the connection was gone and no amount of wizardry could bring Janna back from the grave. Then suddenly there was an uncertainty coming from the depths of his soul, a question that had been with him from the minute he had located the devastated village. He’d never lost contact with her, not once in all his time alone in space. It was that single element that kept him sane and free of loneliness. Her presence in his dreams made his waking hours in space an easy thing to endure. She had been with him every step of the way and knew that he was drawing near, that his journey was coming to completion, and he would soon arrive. He was here now, and in Jason’s heart he was confident that she would find him. He made his way across the cobblestone streets calling out her name. He searched the village, knowing every twist and turn like the back of his own hand. Again, Jason called her name, his voice echoing back to him from the empty buildings and green mountainsides. Exhausted, he finally sat down by a crumbling fountain and cried. Never in his adult life had he cried. Never had he accepted defeat. He had conquered every obstacle that had come before him. He had spanned distances believed impossible; he had invented a new math and new discipline just so he could arrive at this one spot in the universe. Now he was here without answers, without a solution, and no itinerary to follow. He had failed, not only himself but also her, and that one thought brought him to the deepest reaches of despair and loneliness.
“Jason wake up!” a voice called to him.
He stirred from his slumber and blinked at the sun. He wasn’t sure where he was. Then he remembered. He had made camp in the deserted village unwilling to go back to the ship or leave the planet. That night, for the first time in his life, he had not dreamed of Janna, and his lack of dreams had somehow confirmed his deepest fear.
“Jason?” the voice came again.
Yes, he had heard a voice call his name, and he wasn’t dreaming. He shook his head to clear the sleep from his mind and then raised himself to a sitting position. An aged woman sat across from him. Even at her extreme age she was beautiful, her green eyes clear and bright in the morning sun. She smiled at Jason, and then looked around sadly at the village. When she turned back to him she said, “I grew up here as a child. Some of the happiest moments of my life are from the time this village was still a viable chapter in our planet’s history.” She observed Jason with a look of curiosity, and then shook her head as if she could not believe what she was seeing.
“Our family was the last to move into the city to the east. Sadly, after our departure, a large part of my heart remained here. Over the years I told stories of my childhood, and eventually, at the urging of others, I began to write about the time I spent here as a young girl. Numerous children all over the planet have read about my experiences here, many, of whom are now adults with children of their own,” she told Jason. “My grandchildren were especially enchanted with my stories. They grew up listening to an old woman reiterate the years of her youth spent in this village. The stories remained the same until my granddaughter of five confided in me about a boy that visited her in her dreams. She even described him down to his socks. I suppose because my tales of the village were so strong in her mind, that when she dreamed, she came here to meet him. When she awoke, she would tell me about the boy and their adventures, and I began to write about them. “Soon, what had begun as a child’s book became a book for all ages, grown men and women began to look forward to the next tale of the small girl and her friend from another world.
Over the years as my granddaughter grew older, the stories grew in scope. She would tell me what was going on in her dreams, and I took notes. Every year or so, I would publish another book describing how this boy strove to build a spaceship and make his way across the vastness of space. “Then yesterday she begged me to take her to the village, she said that you would be here looking for her.
How I could have listened to all her stories about you and fail to believe is beyond me, but I told her to hush. I said that you were only a dream and nothing more. “My beloved granddaughter is the light of my life, heart of my heart, and the very essence of everything that keeps my heart beating. When she did not sleep last night, I finally told her that I would take her to the village. We set out long before the sun rose and traveled all night until we arrived at the clearing with the strange vessels sitting in its center.”
“She is here! Janna is here?” Jason asked excitedly.
“Yes, she is just down the path. I guess she couldn’t abide the thought of not finding you here, so she sent me ahead to make sure you were. And I have found you, just as she had predicted.”
Jason quickly stood up, looking down the path. With anxiety pushing at his every nerve, he told Janna’s grandmother, “Please excuse me if I seem rude, but I need to go to her.”
Go young man, do not wait for my old bones,” the old woman replied.
Jason sat out at a rapid gait, but slowed to a walk after the first bend. When he rounded the corner, he found her sitting on a large flat bolder alongside the path.
Her hands were folded in her lap, her eyes downcast as if in prayer. Jason stopped and simply stared at her for a long while before he spoke her name. “Janna?” “Bright eyes?”
At the sound of Jason’s voice, Janna turned around and saw him standing there in the path. She jumped to her feet and stared in wonderment. “Jason, is it really you? Tell me that I am not dreaming.”
“My precious Janna, you are as beautiful in real life as you have been in my dreams. Actually, even more beautiful, and so alive.” With arms opened wide, he took a step in her direction, and she ran to him, throwing herself into his arms. She kissed his face and neck, and then gently worked her way to his lips. She pulled him close, holding him tightly, afraid that if she let go he would disappear into the morning mist.
Turning Fourteen
At the magical age of fourteen, the desire to drop a frog down a girl’s dress or chase her with a garden snake still has its appeal. However, turning fourteen changes everything. The very thought of chasing a girl with a garden snake, while bent on scaring her witless, is more scary for him than the actual deed would be for the girl.
Yes, seemingly overnight, something happens to him, something different and difficult to put a finger on.... although most fourteen-year-olds would sure-as-shootin’ like to try. All thoughts of frogs have fled now, (well, not totally, but mostly.) Still, most fourteen-year-olds are not sure what they’re supposed to do with girls, or to them, and there’s still that vague, but forbidden instinct to find a frog. So, consequently, it all becomes very awkward and confusing.
When a boy is fourteen, he’s living in the rapidly fading twilight of his childhood. And for a moment, he might yearn to, one last time, go back and visit all those places that were once so very special to him. All the way back to that wonderful childhood world where a simple stick could change into a straight shootin’ and powerful rifle with which he could fend off marauding Indians, or a swash-buckling sword to ward off that horde of pirates that just landed on his turf.
Then he hears a soft whimper and looks down. There, sitting at his feet, is little “Itchy Boy” his trusty K-9, anxiously awaiting his next adventure. The fourteen-year-old suddenly slips back to a time when Itchy Boy could upon a simple command, become Rin-Tin-Tin. Together they (the imposing Ranger and his magnificent K-9), would set out to rid the Great Northwest (his freshly mowed back yard) of all marauding riffraff.
Yes, for a fleeting moment the fourteen-year-old re-lives a world that he will reluctantly say good-bye to because his fourteen-year-old body and mind just don’t fit there anymore. So, with one final backward glance, he steps quietly into a strange new world. This is the point in time where you might find your normal four-teen-old sitting quietly, staring into space. Likely, he’s contemplating a sunset with a lost look on his face. Look closely. You might see a hint of a smile when the setting sun turns the western sky into a newborn wonderland. He is seeing it all
with an entirely new perspective and has not yet decided how it will fit into his approaching tomorrows.
The above is merely a quick glimpse back into time. The following is a summation of how my own life proceeded from my early teens to adulthood.
*
My best friend was Humpy, his real name was Duane. However, because of his love for the song “Humpy the Camel,” we, his friends, called him Humpy.
Humpy was a big, awkward, four-teen-year-old kid. Because of his size, it was easy to see him as a bully, but instead, he was a good, kind person with a big heart. Most importantly, though, he was a kid. Like me, when Humpy and I first met, he had yet to succumb to the call of puberty.
Why people become friends is still a mystery to me, and as I think back upon the friendships I have enjoyed over the years, I often wonder if we really pick our friends at all, or if some divine spirit chooses who our friends will be long before we meet. If that is the case, then whatever or whoever that divine spirit might be, it definitely has a sense of humor and belonging. My friends have never come easy or often. Moreover, Humpy was no exception.
The first time that we met was at a teen dance. It was here, that I attempted to break a bottle over Humpy’s head, and for some reason no longer remember. Well, to be honest, I did break a bottle over his head, whereupon, he turned around and stared at me for the longest time, and then said: “You shouldn’t have done that!” I didn’t wait around to see what he might have meant by that ominous, profound statement. I did what all sane people do when faced by a man-sized boy that you have just broken a bottle over his head does. I ran as fast as my short legs and small feet could propel me along.
I thought I was safe because the dance was in Alamogordo, New Mexico, and I lived in Tularosa, which was twelve miles north. I suppose it’s a natural assumption for a kid to believe when going to a dance in a different town, those attending are all from that particular area. I had never seen Humpy before that day, so I took it for granted that I would never see him again. However, that was purely wishful thinking on my part and not even close to a rapidly advancing reality.
Three days later, I was hanging out at the local Tasty Freeze when I just happened to look up in time to see Humpy lumbering down the street. Unfortunately, he saw me, too. Therefore, I did what all sane people do when faced with a much larger and stronger opponent and not a single ally in all my ballpark. And alas, no visible means of defense. I stood up, looked him in the eye and ran! It’s times like this that a boy will learn a few lessons he can benefit from later in life.
Lesson 1: When in a panic situation, do not panic!
Lesson 2: When fleeing from a larger and stronger opponent, know your escape route!
There are other lessons to be learned as well, such as: Thirteen-year old girls still thrill at an occasional frog being dropped down their collars. (Although I doubt you could ever get one to admit it). On the other hand, fourteen-year-old girls have lost all sense-of-humor when it comes to cold, slimy amphibians making contact with their skin. What was acceptable at thirteen is clearly no longer tolerated.
Lesson 3: Things change, and you must be willing to change with them or be prepared to be slapped… very hard!
Another of life’s lessons is that girls learn how to slap really hard at an early age. So unless you are prepared for an excruciating amount of pain and temporary blindness in one eye, leave that frog alone!
But back to the problem at hand: Humpy, and not a very happy Humpy, is yet to be dealt with. So ignoring life-lessons one and two, I panicked and ran into a blind alley between White’s Auto Store and the Movie Theater. I stood at the dead-end alley feeling like James Cagney in one of those old gangster movies. So great was this feeling that I almost shouted out. “Come and get me, coppers!”
But I was fourteen, not thirteen, and logic was trying its damnedest to take root. Logic can be very annoying at times because it can bring up small facts such as, ‘That boy is really big!’ You have no place to go! And last, but not least. “Pain really sucks!”
Humpy rounded the alley and stood at the only exit. His size blocked out the light coming from that end of the alley and his shoulders seemed to scrape the sides of the building. The remaining part of my thirteen-year-old imagination was working overtime and had transformed a normally big kid into a really big kid! One with long hairy arms, big bulging eyes, sharp-pointed teeth and drool dripping from his chin as he asked, “ Why did you break a bottle over my head?”
I answered as any boy might answer when faced with a question he was totally unprepared to answer, “I don’t know!” As quickly as Humpy had turned into the lumbering and hairy monster, he changed back into a fourteen-year-old boy when he said, “Well, don’t do it again! That really hurt!”
Humpy, after all was a kid, and as of yet hadn’t learned to punch other kids in the face just for satisfaction. For that matter, neither was I that kind of kid. The coke bottle? Well, that was a pre-emptive strike and had nothing to do with gratification. Somehow, at the time, I believed it to be a good tactical maneuver. Any satisfaction that I might have derived was short lived when Humpy turned around and informed me quietly that I had made a tactical error. How, and a better question yet, why, did I make such a bad judgment call? Well, you see, it has to do with fourteen-year-old girls, dances, budding puberty and just plain stupidity.
And now, more of those pesky little lessons for life and living. They go like this:
Not everyone that you speak to tells you the truth. And, not everyone you believe is your enemy is your enemy.
I had bad Intel and even worse advice from other fourteen-year-old boys. Oh, give me a break! I was fourteen and not too bright.
Humpy forgave my tactical error and didn’t beat me to a bloody pulp, which I was eternally grateful for. Instead of beating out my brains he decided to be my friend. Maybe I hit him with that bottle harder than I thought...
Girls would come and go but Humpy and I remained friends over the years. It always seemed that I was the one doing the talking and Humpy the listening. At an early age, I began spinning tales and loved adventure, and above all, I loved to explore undiscovered places. Humpy loved the stories and the adventures I managed to talk him into.
The desert was a great place for us because we could expend great amounts of energy and do little or no damage to our environment. We did however rearrange things a bit; for example displacing a cactus or two, putting .22 bullets in a few beer cans and splitting a few rocks. We had room—lots of room, which is what kids need. We built our forts, chased rabbits, explored small caves in the foothills and did the things that boys do. It was my-long winded stories and my love for adventure that kept Humpy around….and in trouble.
Humpy and I were the first of our small gang. It would be several months later when the tall, skinny, fourteen -year-old girl with the short blonde hair and buckteeth came along. Because of the buckteeth, she also had a mouth full of metal, which was supposed to correct her problem. She arrived in school amidst the hecklers and cruelty that only children really know how to dole out. And this was how Humpy found her, huddled at one end of the school ground against a fence, crying her heart out. Like Poncho and the Cisco Kid, we came to her rescue…and then we were three.
Yeah, we were the village’s “Three-Pac”: Humpy, Olive Oil (Karen) and me. Later, “Jimmy, the Red Man” came along, and then Louie ... but that is another story.
I need to tell you something about Olive Oil. She grew out of her skinny arms and legs as well as her buckteeth, braces and corn silk hair. By her senior year, she filled out in all the right places and had blossomed into a beautiful girl. I would like to say that I ended up with the most beautiful girl at the prom, but it was Humpy that captured her heart. Since that first day when the big, lumbering Humpy sat down beside her and offered her a shoulder to cry on, Olive Oil had developed a permanent spot for him.
But let me tell you a bit more about Humpy and some of the things that I did to him over the next
eight months. As I said, we weren’t bad boys, but we were boys, and had a world full of desert for a back yard.
East of Tularosa, not far into the foothills, there’s an age-old dumping ground. At one time, it was referred to as the “City Dump,” and was full of broken clothes dryers, refrigerators and busted furniture. Now, the dump is gone, the trash hauled away or buried, and only the glitter of tiny glass shards glimmering brightly in the sun marks the spot where a city dumped its garbage for over a hundred years.
Humpy and I found a particular interest in the dump and spent hours sorting through the broken television sets with their single cataract eye glaring blindly out at the world; old wringer-type washing machines; broken toys; rusty cans; snuff bottles and Prince Albert tobacco tins. It was in this dump that I shot Humpy. Yes, I shot him! I aimed, pulled the trigger, and almost had a stroke. Humpy and I had carted an old break-open, twelve-gauge, single shot, shotgun to the dump with the intention of shooting tin cans. We took turns tossing cans into the air and shooting them skeet style.
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