The Two Swords, Part 3

by Benedict Herrman

The countryside passed by peacefully as I drove west, the copses of trees and agricultural fields punctuated by towns and cities with boringly identical franchise businesses. What happened to individuality, I wondered, yet I stopped for some better coffee at a chain store even as I cursed the loss of independent, family-owned enterprises. The day drew on into evening and I decided to take a motel that night so I could have a bathroom and a hot shower, both amenities the back of my van seriously lacked. I hadn’t thought that out too well. I pulled the van into a decent hotel — another chain, dammit — and went inside to register. I found my room, lay down and slept for an hour, then showered, shaved and started scrolling through local restaurants looking for a decent steak. Pickings were slim, but the word “Angus” popped up, and it was local and not a fast-food chain, so I decided to give it a try. It was either that, or Wally’s Chinese Food.

The little restaurant was as dark as a cavern inside, with little faux candles flickering on each white-clothed table. I ordered a glass of cabernet and a filet and glanced around the room as my eyes adjusted to the dim light. Almost deserted on a work night, I realized — just two other couples, older folks, probably retired, sat talking quietly. A woman sat alone a few tables away from me staring at her drink, late 40s, early 50s, wearing too much make-up and an outfit that said, pick me up. I had no desire for company, but something in me said otherwise. I caught her eye and gestured to come over. She took a breath, smiled automatically and sat down uncomfortably, adjusting her chair to cover her nervousness. I introduced myself and waited a moment while she decided what was next.

“Marsha,” she said finally, extending her hand. “Dave,” I replied, both of us very obviously omitting our last names. “I’m just passing through; thought I’d try this place. Is it any good?” She nodded.        “Steaks are decent, but the well drinks are watered. You’ll be okay with wine, though,” she replied. She waited a bit, unsure of herself, clearly nervous, hoping to take a cue from my next move. Then, her insides were revealed to me as clearly as if I had cut her astral body open with the mysterious sword I’d been given. I knew she was divorced, her husband of 24 years suddenly leaving her for a younger woman, her son still recovering in a far-off Veteran’s Hospital outside Washington from brain injuries from an IED in Afghanistan. Distraught, confused, and heartbroken, she’d begun to crawl into a bottle and soon would make a permanent home there. She felt used, bitter, and so severely disappointed with life that thoughts of suicide had been entertained more than once, and her courage to continue on flagged every night she went home from a bar or this restaurant alone. I said nothing for a moment, then some other voice did the talking for me.

“You’ve had a rough time of it, haven’t you, Marsha?” I said quietly. Her eyes moistened a bit, then hardened. “What do you know about what kind of time I’ve had?” she countered defiantly, her eyes flashing. “You a mind reader?” Her sadness and anger bled through her words, and she closed her eyes, turning away for a moment to hide her embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” she continued. “I…”

“It’s all right,” I replied, holding up a hand. “I didn’t mean to insult you. Your eyes tell me you’re in pain, that’s all, and…” She laughed bitterly. “You’re right, of course,” she admitted. “I didn’t realize it was so obvious. Most guys are just looking for…” She didn’t need to finished the sentence. My wine came, a rich, red cabernet from a popular California vineyard I’d read about.

“How long ago did your husband leave you?” I asked, already knowing the answer. Again, her eyes flashed, this time in confusion and… something else. “How do you…” she began, but she could see I knew. “Three years and a few months. Ran off with a young neighbor woman down the street widowed by the war. “A blonde” she said, shaking her head. She finished her drink in one gulp and signaled the waitress for another one. “Classic. The bastard couldn’t even be original,” she said, fighting back a tear. “Why am I telling you this?” she said, to herself as much as to me. Then the door slammed shut on her feelings and she was back in control of herself. “If I know you, you’re just hoping for a quick blow job or a nice hot fuck and then you’re off, right?” Marsha raised her eyebrows suggestively, but it was painfully artificial. I looked at her, saying nothing, letting the silence speak for me.

I have to admit now that I was surprised at my own actions. There was a time, I’m now ashamed to admit, when I would have taken full advantage of the situation and done exactly what she said, but not now. I was different, and I knew the outcome of this conversation was not of my making. I shook my head slowly and looked her in the eyes.

“Marsha, you’re at crossroads, and you must now make a choice,” I said, feeling my voice was no longer my own. “If you continue drinking, you will die of liver failure in seven years — bloated, yellowed from jaundice, and alone.” Her eyes widened, as if she knew I’d touched on her deepest fear. “Or, you can stop now and put alcohol away completely. There’s no middle ground anymore.” It was the certainty in my voice that frightened her, as if I was reading the book of her life after it had been lived. “Whether you kill yourself with alcohol or the pills you keep in your bathroom medicine chest next to the deodorant makes no difference,” I continued, “The effect on your Life Path will be the same.” It was at that very moment that the waitress arrived with her drink, a piece of timing not lost on either of us. “Choose now,” I said. Her hand reached automatically for the glass, then hesitated.

“What am I supposed to I do?” she cried. “I don’t see… what can I do? My life here is gone, and everything reminds me… every day is a reminder of what my life was. My husband, my home, my…” The poor woman finally broke down and wept, tears spilling down her face, the release she needed from her pain slowly giving her broken heart a taste of peace. “How the hell?” she muttered after a moment. “I don’t even know you, and here I am crying like we’ve known each other for years.”

“Your son needs you,” I said in barely a whisper. “Move so you’re near his hospital in DC and be with him. Your love will help him recover more of his function than if you don’t, and he will help you rediscover your capacity to love.” Marsha felt the truth in my words and stared at me again.

“How did you know my son is in the hospital?” she asked, this time genuinely afraid. “I never mentioned anything about him. Who are you?” I didn’t answer, but instead sat quietly. My dinner came, but I waited. Moments passed, but I didn’t eat, and Marsha didn’t touch her drink. Time seemed to slow, then stop as the choice within her spoke of two very different outcomes. Finally, she stood up, leaving her drink untouched.

“I suppose I’m going home alone again,” she said, a wry grin playing across her lips. I nodded. She laughed; the first time I’d seen a real smile from her. “You know, the doctors said he’d never recover full use of his faculties. The damage was too great. I didn’t think my being there would make any difference, and when he first went in, he didn’t even recognize me, so…”

“So you never went back,” I replied. “The healing he needs will come from your love and your attention. Talk to him, read to him, let him hear your voice. It will eventually make a difference. Be patient. He will never recover completely, but he will recognize and talk with you, and the healing you both need will come.” Her eyes brightened, a glimmer of hope easing the pain.

“I don’t know who you are,” she said, “and I have no idea how you know about my son —but I know what you’re saying is true. At any rate, it gives me hope for something, and I haven’t had that for a while.” She looked at me once again, smiled and said suggestively, “Are you sure there’s no way I can thank you?” I smiled and shook my head. She left the restaurant. I finished my dinner, my wine, and her drink, paid the bill and left.

This scenario repeated itself in little towns, big cities and even tiny villages as I drove west. I’d stop somewhere for a meal or to take a motel room for the night, and I’d meet someone whose personal, painful story invariably revealed itself. Words came out of me that were the right ones, though I often wondered who was speaking. There was a diabetic dry cleaner in Wisconsin who was about to lose a foot, a school teacher who was in denial about her rape in Wyoming, a young girl in Montana being bullied by her peers, an old gay man slowly dying of AIDS, a successful concert violinist in Spokane who couldn’t have children, a wealthy developer who used his money all his life to keep from having to feel the loss of his parents in an auto accident. I didn’t see the swords anymore, they were a part of me, exposing the silent, hidden inner landscapes of those I met as I headed towards Seattle on Interstate 90.

It was raining as I got to Snoqualmie Pass. The grey mists were so low, I couldn’t make out the rugged mountain peaks and forests, but I pressed on, determined to hit town before nightfall. I was excited about seeing Seattle — it was the furthest west I’d ever been, and the prospect of being in another large city with all the conveniences I had in New York was appealing. An abundance of good restaurants, first run films, live theatre all beckoned enticingly to my city sensibilities. Descending from the summit, I was grateful that it wasn’t winter, as I’d heard stories from folks around Spokane about the horrible pile-ups during blizzards. I pulled into a rest area, but before I could get out of the van, a familiar feeling of unconditional love and acceptance swept over me as it had in my New York home. A voice emanated from the air itself saying only, “Portland.”

Seattle was about an hour away as it was and the evening was coming on. Yet another three-hour night drive in the rain wasn’t terribly inviting, but my ‘instructions’ were clear, so when I got to Interstate 5, I turned south towards Oregon. I eventually came to the bridge crossing the Columbia River on the north end of Portland and started heading towards town, not having a clue as to what was next. A well-lit shopping mall parking lot offered a place to stop and think, and though I expected the same disembodied voice to give me instructions, nothing was forthcoming. I rubbed my sore eyes and tried to sleep in the back of the van, but the rain pummeled down noisily on the metal roof making sleep impossible, so I drove off aimlessly, letting the wheel take itself where it wanted to go. I turned left, right or went straight without purpose or plan for 20 minutes or so until I got completely lost somewhere on the east side of the Willamette River that bisected the city.

“What the hell am I doing?” I muttered, hoping for a reply from whatever creature had guided me here. “What am I doing here?” I shouted. “What the fuck do you want with me? I’ve done everything you’ve told me to do! I don’t even know where I am!” The air was silent, and I hit the steering wheel in frustration and glanced outside my vehicle. It had stopped raining and there in the dim street light I saw a man curled up behind a dumpster inside an alley. He was covered with cardboard to try to ward off the rain, and he wore a dirty, ripped brown hoodie that obscured some of his face. I got out of the van and walked carefully over to him, trying unsuccessfully to avoid the alley’s legion of puddles. I bent over him, not wanting to touch him but realizing I needed to check for a pulse. It was weak but noticeable, and I could see he was still drawing breath. Rolling him over revealed he was lying in a pool of his own vomit, and his bruised and battered face had been bloodied, no doubt, in a street fight. His story immediately flowed into my mind — a closet alcoholic for many years, he bounced from one minimum wage job to another until he eventually lost his little apartment and began living on the street. A broken marriage, two kids who loved him but felt powerless to help their dad, the rage of an abusive father, the shame of his lack of control and descent into madness all swirled within him as he lay unconscious in a cold, wet alley in Portland.

I knew I had to get him to a hospital emergency ward. I somehow got him onto the mattress in the van and my GPS led us to the nearest ER. I ran inside and yelled for help and they came out with a gurney. As they wheeled him in, I sat in the waiting room not knowing what else to do and eventually fell asleep on the sofa.

“Mr. Glauer?” someone said, shaking me awake. “Mr. Glauer?” A young woman in a light blue uniform was shaking me gently so I struggled awake and sat up. “How is he?” I asked. “Do you know his name?” she asked. “Are you a relative, or…?”

“No,” I replied, “I found the poor bastard in an alley. Couldn’t just leave him there.” I related the story again as I had to the admitting clerk when I first brought him in. The woman nodded and made a note on her pad. “How is he?” I asked again.           “You’ll have to talk with the doctor,” she said with finality and walked off. She turned back towards me as she walked and added, “I’ll let him know you’re awake.” She disappeared behind a door and I stretched, yawned and thought about coffee, but the clock showed it was almost 3:00 AM — too early to start the day, so I sat and waited until a doctor came out from the ward. He saw me and walked over.

“You’re David Glauer?” he inquired, lowering his mask. “You brought the homeless fellow in?” I nodded. “I’m afraid his injuries were too severe, and his liver was virtually non-functional from excessive alcohol use. I’m sorry, he didn’t make it. Did you know him?” I shook my head, telling the same story yet again, and the doctor nodded and thanked me for bringing him in. “I’m sorry, I have to get back,” he said, indicating the ER, and left. I walked out of the ER entrance and drove off. I found a motel and called it a night. What a completely fucked way to die, I thought as I closed my eyes. Alone in an alley, bleeding and sick, and if I hadn’t come along, he’d have died there in a pool of vomit without even his own name to put on a marker.

In the morning, I showered, shaved and found a little place for breakfast, but the image of that homeless man on the ground in the alley stayed with me. A life is a life, isn’t it? Why do some folks wind up leaving this world in a big, soft bed surrounded with family and friends while others wind up in an alley, puking their guts out? I tried to shake it, but last night’s experience had burrowed into me and made a home. By that time, I knew I had been guided to that alley in order to get that man to the ER, but — was that the reason I was sent to Portland? Nothing was making sense, and though even the coffee was decent and the meal pleasant, I felt unsettled, like there was more I had to do. When the waitress came by and poured another cup, I asked her if she knew where I could volunteer to help homeless folks. She shrugged and said no, but then came back after asking her manager who recommended an organization a few blocks down the street. I thanked her, finished my breakfast and wandered over to their office.

The next day I was ladling out hot chicken soup into paper bowls and making bologna and cheese sandwiches on white bread in a shelter. Lines of homeless folks paraded past me every day, their stories written on their faces or spoken to me later as we sat and ate together. I volunteered for the lunch shift three days a week, spending the rest of my time looking for an apartment. I found a two-bedroom in a nice, quiet area and traded in the van for a used Honda wagon. Buying furniture for this new place felt precarious — I didn’t know how long I’d be there, or what my purpose there was. The voice said, “Portland,” and I followed it. It came to me that I might be losing my grip on reality, but — and I say this with the full understanding of how weird it might sound — it didn’t feel that way. In fact, I felt more in touch with reality than ever before.

I took my free time to explore Portland, a small town by New York standards but it had an active artistic community. Little galleries were always popping up like mushrooms, and local theatre, film, and dance projects were flourishing. I learned Portlanders had a strong sense of civic pride, embracing light rail and green spaces years before many other similar-sized cities. I fell in love with a bookstore called Powell’s, which turned out to be the largest new and used bookstore in the country. I spent hours there, finding some first editions of Kingsley Amis tucked away in the stacks. I spent plenty of money there, and was pleased to see there were copies of my three books available, both new and used, but looking at them felt like a brief glance backwards into another life.

After I’d settled in, I increased my volunteer time to five days a week and donated some money to buy an alternator for one of their trucks. A few weeks later I sprung for a decent printer (there were jokes about going back to cuneiform tablets) and made a few suggestions about reorganizing the office space to be easier to navigate, and soon found myself elected to the board. I thanked everyone and told them the story of the dying man I’d found in an alley and how that had propelled me towards my work at the shelter. Heads silently nodded in recognition. I felt accepted and valued for what I was doing, and an unaccustomed feeling of belonging crept up on me. I found that I was looking forward to going there every day in a way I hadn’t experienced before.  I was ‘Dave’ and not David Glauer, Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist, and though my lack of a day job was somewhat mysterious (I just said I didn’t want to work anymore) no one put any pressure on me other than wanting me to show up on time to ladle out soup. Suddenly, at 47 years old, I felt for the first time a modicum of what can only described as contentment.

Sharon showed up to volunteer some time on the soup line a few months later. She was bright and attractive, funny in a quirky way, and made easy conversation with the people waiting in line for food. I found myself glancing at her more than I should while trying hard not to. She noticed, but rather than ignore me, she suggested we have coffee after our shift… she knew a little place that made their own croissants. Strange to feel nervous at my age around a woman, but I was. After my divorce, I put love, romance and sex in a bottle, sealed it up tightly and cast it into the sea, embracing loneliness as a penance for not being good enough once again and poured myself into my work as a way to stave off anger, grief, abandonment and pain. Highly intuitive, Sharon picked up on my feelings and asked questions that drew me out gently without feeling judged. I could also see her story in the way in which I had now become accustomed. Widowed four years ago, hers was also a childless marriage, but unlike mine it was by choice. Instead, they adopted two little girls that were now seven and ten. Her husband, Dick, was killed in an accident — an inebriated trucker slammed his 18-wheeler into the unfortunate man’s car and sent it end over end down into a deep ravine. The insurance settlement kept Sharon from financial concern, so she spent time helping on the soup line while her daughters were at school. Unlike most people, she had grieved but also wisely accepted what she could not change. Two brief relationships had gone nowhere, and currently she said she was neither looking nor avoiding.

“Yet you invited me for coffee,” I said smiling. “Coffee is coffee,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “Then how about dinner? Friday?” I couldn’t believe I was asking her for a date. I had been a monk for so long I assumed that was how I’d leave this world. “Hmm, that’s usually when I’m abducted by aliens,” she replied, “but I’ll see if I can reschedule.” We laughed. “I keep my abductions to once a month now,” I said, playing along. “Too tough on my tennis game.” “You play tennis?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Well, not since all the abductions,” I answered. “The elbow experiments… it just isn’t the same…” We laughed again.

A few months later we were talking about moving in together. Before I committed to that, I had to tell her my story because I felt it was only right that she knew all about me. I took a deep breath and plunged in — the Pulitzer, the newspaper, the books, the Light Being, and the sword. I was petrified she’d write me off as a loony and bolt, but she just sat there and listened. I finished my tale, let out a long exhale and waited.

“Do you see this entity now?” she finally asked. I shook my head. “I can’t call it up,” I answered, realizing how weird this all was. “It came unannounced, gave me the sword, and… I started seeing at people’s inner landscapes, I guess you’d call it.” “Can you look inside me?” she asked, testing. “I’ve told you a lot about me, so…”

“Yes,” I admitted, “I can. Your mother and father loved each other deeply and stayed together through a series of financial difficulties which you didn’t know about because they didn’t want to worry their kids. Your father’s auto parts store was on the brink of insolvency because, like many small businesses back then, he only accepted cash and the occasional trade. If it wasn’t for his brother, your uncle Steven, who talked him into taking those ‘new-fangled’ credit cards, your Dad would’ve gone under. Instead, the business revived quickly, and he could afford to send you to college. Two years at Michigan State, then a transfer out to the University of Oregon to get away from a man who stalked you after you won some kind of contest.” Her eyes watched me carefully as I spoke, her head nodding in confirmation of everything I was saying. “Not a beauty contest… it was… something to do with literature, I believe?” She nodded again and started to speak, but I held up my hand.

“You met your husband at college,” I continued, “in a German literature class… Brecht, I think, right?” She nodded, her eyes wide now. “You were dating someone else at the time, a football player, who you didn’t really love but the sex was fun. You smoked some weed at a frat party, drank way too much beer and, as the saying goes, embraced the porcelain god. You broke off that relationship the next day, cleared your head, and started going out with Dick. You were hesitant at first and didn’t jump into bed with him right away, which he respected. You liked that he felt that way, and one thing led to another until he proposed to you by hiring one of those airplanes that fly around trailing a banner. He had it fly over the field where you were having a picnic at precisely 12:00 noon. “Marry Me, Sharon!” it said, and he got down on his knee and offered you an engagement ring, which you accepted. Shall I go on?”

“No, no,” she replied, catching her breath, “I believe you. How do know these things? I haven’t mentioned… no one else knows. Well, a close friend knows about the banner proposal, but she lives in Eugene.”  “The sword is a part of me now,” I said quietly. “If there’s nothing to say, I don’t say it, but sometimes, there’s a message to be given, or money to give, or… I don’t know, it varies. Everyone’s different. You’re the only person I’ve told this to. I’m hoping you won’t run away screaming.” To my enormous relief, she laughed.

“This is hard to believe, of course,” she began, “but if it’s part of the man I love, then I accept it.” She paused. “You will let me know if you get another visit from this thing, won’t you?” She smiled but her voice was serious. I agreed. A year later we got married at lunchtime at the soup line. The reception followed, with soup, bologna and cheese sandwiches and a special cake. Our guests were our fellow line workers and the homeless.

One night not long after the wedding, we were both visited by the Being (even to this day, I don’t know what to call it). Sharon saw it, too, floating in the living room before us. She yelped and cowered behind me at first, but after I said that this was the entity I had encountered before, she relaxed, but only a little. She sank into the couch, shaking.

“What have you learned?” The Light Being asked me, its ‘head’ cocked to one side echoing its query. “We are all damaged, aren’t we,” I replied, “all members of the walking wounded?” The Being said nothing, waiting for me to finish my thought. “To criticize others is to damage one’s Self, isn’t it?” A feeling of love and warmth flooded the room again as I spoke my words, and Sharon felt it, too. “Who are you?” she asked timidly, not having experienced this before. We both heard the sound of gentle laughter but her question went unanswered.

“So, then,” came the reply, “hold out your other hand.” I did so, and another sword, shorter this time, more like a dirk, appeared in my palm. I held the two, my hands moving them in a kind of dance as the Light Being spoke its final words to me. “This is the Sword of Integrity. Use these two together, for alone, neither are sufficient to change your path, nor the path of others.” Perhaps it was my imagination, but I felt the creature smile as it gradually faded from sight. The swords both vanished, becoming a part of me. They were already contained within my wife, I knew — one of several reasons we were guided together by fate, or magic, or… I don’t know. All I know is that it happened.

In another year, we both realized we wanted to do more than serve soup. Remembering the homeless man I had taken to the ER, we bought an aging two-story five-bedroom home in southwest Portland, fixed it up, and turned it into a hospice exclusively for the homeless called Haven House. We obtained a few community grants and some assistance from the county and city governments, so we make ends meet. That’s all that matters… keeping the doors open so those whose lives have been lived in poverty and turmoil can exit this world in comfort and dignity, not lying in an alley face down in the cold rain.

This story is the last I will pen. I have no interest in journalism anymore, except to tell this story, as I have been asked to do so many times. I can’t tell you what to think, nor do I care about your religion or whatever other belief systems you’ve adopted. This is the truth, so if you understand this, then I have done my job. The Light Being that came to me and changed the course of my life is still somehow around me, but as I don’t see it anymore, I assume I don’t need to, nor do I know what to call it. When I do tell the story, some people call it an angel, some people call it a spirit guide, and some just call me crazy. All I know is that what I used to call success was an illusion, and that my life’s path was altered, or perhaps more accurately, set aright by this experience. I also know this — when you see another person, no matter how different they seem or whatever their station in life, know that in reality, you are seeing yourself.

The End

Above: Gray steel sword on ground during daytime, by Ricardo Cruz on Unsplash