The Road to Amistad

by Ken Dickson

  Frank appeared successful and sophisticated with his meticulously styled blond hair and impeccably fitted suit; however, despite years of hard work getting his journalism degree and a moderately successful career, he hadn’t, in fact, strayed very far from his street roots as evidenced by the riff-raff surrounding him. Aside from family, the reception was a veritable “Who’s Who” of local criminals. Fraud, extortion, prostitution, illegal gambling, drug dealing, theft and especially money laundering were well represented. Although Frank avoided being drawn into their various lines of work, all of them, with the exception of Willy Lemm, afforded Frank interesting opportunities that he could not pass up.

  As the mariachi band came alive, Frank gazed across the room at Willy and his perpetual sidekick, Antone Williams. He never figured out what they saw in each other, but they were inseparable. The oddest team he’d ever seen, they were a complete contrast to each other. Willy was short, pale, gaunt, and shifty-eyed; Antone was tall, dark, muscular and focused. Willy’s wild hair made it seem like he’d just gotten out of bed; Antone wore his hair in neat, tight corn-rows. Willy blew a good chunk of his illegal income on drugs, strippers and prostitutes; Antone generally avoided drugs, invested his money wisely and had an attractive woman (or women) hanging off his muscular arms at a moment’s notice—free of charge.

  Although Willy was the last person in the room with whom Frank wanted to associate, he and Willy shared a secret so dark that if Willy knew, he’d drive a knife through his heart without even blinking—right in the middle of this celebration. For that reason, Frank made a point of knowing what was going on in Willy’s life by using his broad network of friends and acquaintances to secretly keep an eye on him. Of all the crooks in the room, he was the only one with whom Frank went overboard to remain in good standing. Sometimes, he wondered if he did so because of guilt over what happened, but guilt wasn’t really a part of his extensive vocabulary. He did it for self-preservation, and he felt no shame in knowing that.

  Most of the lawless reception guests fancied themselves as legitimate business people and treated each other with respect. Willy and Antone were the exceptions. They were thieves—the lowest form of criminal. Given the chance, they’d steal from anyone in the room and because of that, no one trusted them or sought their company. Frank, on the other hand, was always looking for a chance to bolster his standing in Willy’s eyes. Sensing a perfect opportunity to do just that, he picked up two fresh glasses of champagne, put on a smile and joined them.

  “Gentlemen, I’m glad that you could make it. Have a drink on me,” he said, holding out a glass to each of them. Antone nodded and accepted one.

  “I hate fucking receptions,” Willy sneered and then grudgingly accepted the remaining glass.

  “Do your best not to ruin Mia’s day. You’d really piss off Jose, and that could be bad for business.” Jose was critical to all of the shady players in the room. He was the cement that held their empires together, and Willy and Antone were no exception.

  “Humph,” scoffed Willy. “I can’t wait until the day I find his replacement. He’s too fucking greedy.”

  “We all have our faults, but he does have the biggest heart of all of you jokers. I’ll bet you a Franklin on that. Antone, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you dressed so sharp. Why no date tonight?” Dressed all in black, he wore a brand new sport jacket and shoes so shiny that they must have come straight from a shoe store box.

  “Just because I didn’t come with one doesn’t mean I won’t leave with one,” he replied, grinning slyly.

  “I don’t doubt that. Willy, I’m glad that you put on a fresh shirt for the occasion. It would have been nice if you’d stepped it up a notch.”

  “Watch it, you’re treading on thin ice,” growled Willy, glaring at Frank through eyes so bloodshot that it nearly made Frank’s eyes water just to look at them.

  “I should mingle. You gentlemen have a great time.”

  “Whatever,” replied Willy. Antone raised his glass to Frank and nodded.

  “There’s something about that son-of-a-bitch that rubs me the wrong fucking way,” Willy muttered as Frank turned to walk away.

  “He’s harmless—just watching his back.”

  Relieved that formality was finished, Frank scoured the room for a smiling female face. It didn’t take long to find one.

  Chapter 4

  AWAKENING

  It was March 1, 2012, eleven months since I checked myself into Desert Hope and lost ten inches of my colon; nine months since my release from the Gracewood high security psychiatric unit and one month since my cardiologist, Dr. Cree, discontinued my court ordered medication after it immobilized the atrium of my heart and nearly killed me.

  Over time, I got used to how that medication made me feel and convinced myself that my depressed life was “normal.” However, when Dr. Cree abruptly terminated the dosage and flooded my body with saline solution to detoxify it, my shackles dissolved, and my new life began.

  Without medication throttling my thoughts and emotions, they were free to soar—and soar they did. Within days, my positive mood swings bordered on the outrageous. To prevent my poor wife from worrying, and to avoid a police escort back to Gracewood, I kept my heightened experiences to myself. After a few days of ecstasy, my mood stabilized, and I arrived at my new normal.

  It didn’t take long for me to recognize that this new normal was very familiar. I was once again separate from my ego and its baggage, but with one additional caveat. I wasn’t acutely disabled. I was one hundred percent functional, and as far as I could tell, normal. To give you an idea of how I felt, imagine that your mind is on the verge of exploding from your troubles, you are paralyzed with fear over something, or you feel worthless and unloved as you sit in a dark room wishing you were dead. Picture all of that vanishing in an instant, leaving the pristine mind of your childhood self, yet to experience any of the things that led you to where you are today. Envision the peace, solitude and bliss of that unspoiled mind. Beyond that, imagine what you could do with such an empty slate—that’s what it’s like. That’s my life every day.

  This sounds like a miracle, and believe me, it feels like one. I’ve often wished I could proclaim my good fortune to the world, but who would believe me, a former crackpot? I’d end up involuntarily committed again and medicated to the point of catatonia before I could yell, “Stop!” The reality is that I must hide this gift, both to protect myself and to prevent my loved ones from distress. Talking about it invariably leads to conflict, especially with my wife. I didn’t realize this until recently, but before I started censoring myself, she was a gnat’s eyelash from divorcing me on multiple occasions.

  I desperately wish that there was someone—anyone—I could talk to about this secret. I hope that someday I’ll meet another person like me. I can almost imagine the relief and joy I’ll feel to discover that I’m neither insane nor alone.

  Chapter 5

  JUST LIKE ME

  I remember many patients and staff from my stints in hospitals and psych wards in 2011, but lately, two of them occupied a disproportionate number of my thoughts: Emma and Jessie. These two women were as different from each other as day from night. Emma was a recreational therapist who engaged patients with games and crafts. She befriended me at Gracewood, and I interacted with her nearly every day for weeks. She was the definitive highlight of my stay there.

  Jessie, on the other hand, was possibly the most messed-up woman I ever met. Of course, I only saw her once for a matter of minutes at the PDC, a psychiatric holding facility catering mostly to sufferers of schizophrenia, alcoholism, drug addiction, or homelessness. We were there at the same time, awaiting transfer to other psychiatric facilities as soon as beds opened. I wouldn’t even have noticed her had she not made such a fuss. At the time, I desperately needed sleep, and her sobs and wailing were key factors in it eluding me. I made my way to her side to comfort her, if only so that I could better focus on counting
sheep. Thankfully, I succeeded in calming her. Inexplicably, those few minutes were sufficient to engrave her on my heart.

  One byproduct of my prior mental illness is that I’m much more cognizant of cues from my subconscious. In this case, it was pestering me non-stop to find these two women, or at least that was my interpretation—you never know for sure with the subconscious. Perhaps they were just random thoughts, and I was wasting my time. In any case, I approached the task with more zeal than such an impractical mission warranted.

  It’s darn near impossible to find people when you only know their first names and what they look like. I had zero success with Jessie, but I did catch a lucky break with Emma on March 10, 2012 when an Internet search for local recreational therapists revealed a LinkedIn account. There, I found her full name and a profile photo confirming her identity. Thrilled, I immediately sent her a message: “In May and June of 2011, I was a patient at Gracewood. You were the only one there who treated me like a normal person. I very much appreciated you taking me under your wing and especially enjoyed tending the gardens with you. You made a real difference in my life, and I will never forget you. I hope that we can be friends on LinkedIn.”

  While I waited for a response from Emma, I brainstormed a way to find Jessie. The next day, I recalled a question that she asked me while I tried to calm her at the PDC. It was one of the most unusual questions anyone has ever asked me: “Are you Caspian?” I figured that was as good a place as any to start. I posted an ad on Craigslist, first in Missing Connections and then in Men Looking for Women. “Are you looking for Caspian? We met at the PDC in May of 2011. You were very distraught and mistook me for that person. I comforted you and promised that you’d meet him someday and that when you did, your life would be perfect. I’ve always wondered how things turned out for you. If you find this, please reply and include something that only you and I would know so I can be sure that it’s you. I hope that you returned to good health and that we will meet again.”

  I heard nothing from the LinkedIn message or the Craigslist ad but remained optimistic. When the Craigslist ad ran out on April 28, crossing my fingers, I reposted it one more time. A day later, I received this reply:

  “I can’t begin to tell you the difference you made in my life. I can hardly believe it myself. I thought you were Caspian when you sat in that old recliner next to mine, and that’s the image of you in my mind, but now I remember your real name. I’d love to meet you again and talk. I have so much to tell you. Send me an email or call me, and let’s get together. I hope to hear from you soon. In case you’ve forgotten, my name is Jessie.”

  I was stunned. I’d hoped to receive a reply, but it was such a shot in the dark that I didn’t really expect one. I wrote back immediately.

  “I’d love to hear about your life and what you’ve been up to. Let’s find a place to meet. I look forward to seeing you again.”

  She replied a short time later. “Do you like Asian food? There’s a YC’s on Indian Bend by the 101. I work near there. Would you like to meet for lunch this week? 11:30 works for me any day.”

  I wasted no time replying: “I know the place. How about tomorrow?”

  “Okay. I can’t wait to see you again. It’s funny that I saw your ad on Craigslist. I rarely go to that site, and I’ve never visited the missed connections section before. Out of the blue, I had a strong urge to do so. Perhaps it was destiny.”

  I wondered about that myself. What were the odds that a year after we met she’d see that ad? Uncertain as to why, I thought about her anxiously the rest of the day. On Monday, April 30 at 11:10 a.m., I headed north on the 101 and exited at Indian Bend. I drove west for a short distance to the McDonald’s where I turned right, drove straight toward YC’s and parked the car. YC’s is a Mongolian barbecue restaurant where you fill a bowl with meats, vegetables, noodles and sauces and have them grilled on a large natural gas-fired grill. By luck, I assembled a perfect combination of ingredients the first time I ate there and have enjoyed that same recipe ever since.

  I stood in front of YC’s and as I waited, thought of Jessie. It puzzled me why I would go to such extremes to see her again. I’d never even had a conversation with her and only vaguely recalled what she looked like. I couldn’t even remember what she wore. Aside from her hair, there was nothing particularly memorable about her, but that hair was something else. It was long, heavy and prone to hiding her face like a curtain, opening only with a brush of her hand and falling right back into place without its aid. I saw her face only momentarily. It was so puffy from crying that I couldn’t even tell you for certain if she were fat or thin. My guess is that she was a little on the heavy side. If not for that hair, I doubt I could recognize her.

  Just then, a throaty rumble followed by the revving of a V8 engine prior to engaging the clutch caught my attention. As a pre-teen, I rebuilt lawn mowers and dreamed of the day I’d build my own car. As a teenager, I overhauled my first car engine, and as an adult, I built a handful of V8-powered high performance cars, fulfilling a lifelong ambition. I couldn’t miss the sound of a V8, and this one’s modified exhaust clearly allowed it to breathe. Someone appreciated power, and the same rich sound that was part of my DNA.

  Scanning for the source, I noticed a late model pearlescent blue Dodge Challenger RT with darkly tinted windows crossing the parking lot. It pulled into a parking place about twenty-five yards away, and I watched curiously to see the driver, imagining it was someone like me—an older man seasoned in the intricacies of hot-rodding.

  Surprisingly, a woman stepped out, closed the door and proceeded in my direction. She was fairly tall and striking, reminding me of a fitness instructor or athlete. She wore a red sleeveless ruffle-front top, which accentuated her toned shoulders, black business slacks, comfortable sandals, and walked with an air of confidence. As she grew closer, I noticed that she wore no jewelry and little or no makeup. Most striking of all was her hair. It was long, straight, and a rich caramel color accented by red and gold highlights. It shimmered with a seeming life of its own as it bounced with each step she took. I remembered that hair, but it was dull and lifeless the last time I saw it. It was Jessie’s hair.

  As she drew near, she opened her arms invitingly as if I were an old friend. I felt a sense of relief seeing her improvement since the PDC, and even though I didn’t make it a habit to hug women I barely knew, I welcomed her hug as if I really were an old friend. As we hugged, calmness overcame me. For a moment, I lost myself in its unexpected comfort.

  Eventually, she stepped back to look at me with keen, observant eyes, devoid of the redness and swelling that obscured them at our first meeting. That’s when I noticed her most attractive feature: her smile. It was a smile that you couldn’t invent—one that had its roots not in the mind, but in the heart.

  “My God, look at you. If not for your hair, I wouldn’t ever have recognized you.”

  “I’d like to say that I’m taking better care of myself these days, but it’s more than that. You changed my life that night you sat next to me.”

  “It was nothing, really. I was just trying to help.”

  “You don’t understand, but I guess that shouldn’t surprise me. I’ve yet to meet anyone who does. I’m thankful, regardless, and glad that you found me. I thought I’d never see you again.”

  “Did you ever find Caspian?”

  “When I met you, you made my life perfect. As far as I’m concerned, you’re all the Caspian I need.”

  “Confused as ever, I see, but I guess worse fates could befall me. Shall we eat?”

  “Yes, I’m famished.”

  I held the door for her and then followed her into the restaurant. I couldn’t help but notice as we assembled ingredients into our bowls that her tastes were more toward sweet, whereas mine tended toward spicy. As we ate, I let her do most of the talking in between forkfuls of our own specially designed meals. I learned that she went from the PDC to an all-women’s unit at Gracewood. We must
have been within fifty yards of each other the entire time I was there, and neither of us knew.

  Her life miraculously improved after our encounter at the PDC, and she left her old life behind. I didn’t pry, but I got the impression that her former life wasn’t pretty. I was pleased to learn that my comforting her that fateful night appeared to be the impetus behind her metamorphosis. Since then, she’d found a new job, nicer apartment and bought the Challenger.

  “Speaking of your car, what’s the deal with the high performance exhaust? That thing looks brand new. I’ve never heard of anyone modifying the exhaust on a car still under warranty.”

  “I bought it used just after the warranty expired. My dad is a Mopar guy from way back. The two of us installed some upgrades. I’m free of addiction now, but I allow myself one vice—horsepower. I gained close to fifty with those mods.”

  “You’re a gearhead?”

  “Somewhat. You don’t grow up around a Mopar nut and gearhead brothers without a little rubbing off.”

  According to her, she was unhandcuffed at the moment, which was her way of saying that there was no man in her life. She seemed perfectly happy with herself and her life, and I didn’t get the impression that she was looking for anyone. The most wonderful thing to hear was her description of that life. It seemed that everything was proceeding in positive directions with small miracles around every corner and joy in each day.

  I walked her to her car after we finished lunch. “That’s sure a gorgeous car—one of my favorites. I like your style.”