Epilogue

The word anti-climatic seemed too tiny a word to describe what he was living and feeling at the moment. Depending on which part of the last week he thought about he would either smile, or laugh or cry.  He missed Amina. At the same time he hoped for her happiness. He noticed that he had formed an attachment to her. But not the one most people, or he himself would expect. He was not in love with her but he very deeply connected with her.  He never had a brother or sister but he imagined that this must be what it is like to grow up with a close sibling. Would he ever see her again? He had the silly notion of exchanging Christmas and Thanksgiving cards and laughed, out loud while waiting for a plane at Charles de Gaulle, at the ignorance of sending a Christmas card to a Muslim or a Thanksgiving card to a non-american. But it was ok.  He’s sure she would have accepted both with affection and maybe a slap for his lack of cultural awareness.

The various transportation modes from Geneva, through Paris all the way back home were background noise to what was going on in his heart.  When his mother died, he worked at relating to women as a medical prescription. He related to the girls and women around him as something he had to do. He did not do it as diligently as he should have. About a month before the big meet, the one that would determine his future he stopped talking to any female.  The competition was fierce, he knew it would be and thought he had prepared for it. But something was just a tiny bit off.  He dropped from first to third, but that was enough to get into a top college.  His next bout could keep him in third or drop him to somewhere below fifth.  That would be the end of his scholarship hopes.

Some little kid was circling the auditorium calling out “Mommy, mommy where are you?” It was starting to get on his nerves.  He was trying to focus on his opponent but kept wishing that someone would just shut the brat up before he did. Just as he was losing ground he heard, “Shut up. Buck up. Get the job done.” in his mom’s voice. It sent chills through his spine but he snapped to obedience bridged, twisted and reversed position with his opponent for a pin. He was in! He was in! A scholarship was sure to be his. But he miscalculated. A win only kept him in the top 10, seventh to be exact.  He was disappointed. He and his dad walked to the car like they were going to a funeral.  His dad wanted to say something, anything but he could not come up with words of hope.  Ten years ago, he would have told his son to rework his plan and get back to work.  But now, he recognized the scars that kind of approach left on his own psyche.

If the frickin mother of that damn brat would have just taken care of her kid. Jeez, how irresponsible.

What do you mean?

I had a hard time concentrating with him wandering around calling for his mother.

What are you talking about?

You know that kid at the meet. During the last bought I had against Czya.

Dad spun the car around like a scene from an action movie and headed for the hospital.

Where we going?

I want to the doc to look at you right now.

Why? I’m fine. I’m tired, really hungry and a little sore.

Dad was very persuasive and succeeded at getting the doc to examine Brian.

Brian, how long have you been neglecting my instructions for your recovery?

What do you mean? Brian looked at the floor.

You know exactly what I mean. Now quit wasting time and fess up.

Just a little while.

How long is a little while?

Maybe a month or six weeks.  He looked at Dr. Bennet then looked at his dad.  Hey! Why am I here anyways?

You didn’t tell him why you brought him in? Dr. Bennet looked at dad.

Uhh, no. I didn’t want to freak him out.

Freak me out. what would freak me out?

Brian, your dad told have me the 1 minute version of your last bout.   There was no lost kid.

What?!  I heard him!  I SAW him!

Dad produced video, handed it to Brian. The doctor took it away.  And decided to hold it in front of Brian and hit play.  You could hear the crowd, the wrestlers’ grunts, cheers, and the slap of skin on the mats. But no little kid.

You didn’t record the sound dad. And you were too focused on me to see the kid.

The doc rewound it a little further. You could hear the MC announcing Brian and his opponent’s name.  Dad had moved closer to the mat and you could see the whole mat from corner to corner.   Brian’s faced flinched and contorted in anger and frustration and disbelief and then he vomited into the trash can.

How could that be? I heard him.  Right before mom told me to shut up, buck up and get the job done.

I’m sorry Brian.  As men in modern society, we’ve lost the rituals that help us integrate the fighter in us with our emotions. Many men bottle up their emotions to such an extent that it shortens their life directly or indirectly.  You must expose the wound that was the result of someone so close to you being ripped from your life.  It’s like removing a bullet, cleaning the wound and changing the bandages regularly.  Then you must apply the therapy.  You stopped the therapy and your heart objected.  If you want to reach optimum performance, you must deal with the wound.

I thought I had.

Senior year played out as expected.  He graduated and went into the military.  He threw himself into that.  As soon as college was paid for he left and threw himself into school.  Graduated and found himself a job. Then he fell in love, married and then she was gone.  The pain he felt seemed familiar. It was like losing mom but ten times worse. He feared another delusional episode like the damn brat so he forced himself to socialize but it felt ‘mushy’. He hoped the trip to Morocco would do something. He wasn’t sure what. He wasn’t sure if he hoped for re-connection or resolution.

The taxi dropped him off at his apartment building and forced him back to the now. He paid the man, went upstairs threw what little he had to show for the trip and dropped on the bed. He didn’t even bother to undress or get under the covers. He just pulled the other half of the bedspread on top of him, taco-style.

Two days later, his cousins Becky and Tom persuaded the landlady to let them in. They found him in exactly the same position he was when he dropped on the bed.

Oh dear Lord in heaven, he’s dead! panted Becky.

You don’t know that.

Brian, Brian. Tom said softly.

Brian! Becky said a little louder and patted his calf.

Brian unrolled from the taco, leaped up in bed, both fists ready for a fight. His eyes were wide and they were searching wildly but not focusing on anything.   Becky screamed.

Shut up Becky. Brian it’s us. You’re ok.

You shut up Tom.

Go make some coffee.

Who made you the boss. I have just as much right to be here as you do!

Brian was still in fighting stance on top of the bed. Tom took Becky by the shoulders and put her right in front of Brian. Brian started to slow down a little and focus on Becky but he still looked menacing. Becky slipped from Tom’s grip.

I’ll go make us some coffee.

Hey Brian.  How was Morocco?

Brian finally completely refocused and plopped down cross-legged on the bed as if exhausted.

What are you guys doing in my apartment? How did you get in?

Your landlady let us in.

Why?

Everyone was worried about you.  You’re like 5 days late from your trip.  We called your landlady a few days ago and she said you had returned.  We tried calling but no answer. Becky came by once and knocked. Your dad called me yesterday. So we decided to come with more persistence to see if you was alive or dead.

What?  What time is it.

10 in the morning.

I slept for 14 hours! Wow. But that’s no big deal.  Why’s everybody freaking out?

Well, school starts tomorrow and we thought we should investigate in case they had to find a replacement real fast.

School doesn’t start until Monday. It’s only Friday.

No ‘cuz. It’s Sunday morning. We’re missing church because of you.

Brian, half laughed, half growled. You’re lyin’

Tom just shook his head patiently. Then he looked at his arms, felt his face and looked at his legs and stopped at his shoes, still on his feet.

I got home Friday night. Oh my God! I’ve been asleep for more than 2 days.  The recollections of the last week, his mom and Deb came back to mind. Dr. Bennett’s words ended the flash back with “You must deal with the wound.”  He took a deep breath and smiled.

Well, now I know why my stomach hurts. I’m starved. I’ve been in these clothes for almost five days. Let me take a quick shower and I’ll take y’all to breakfast or lunch or both.

I’m so relieved. said Tom

Well I’m pissed. I missed it. And I just went through the trouble of making coffee and now we’re to go out.

You can stay here and drink it, if it’s important you. Brian said as he closed the door to the bathroom.

By Tuesday he was back into the routine of school and daily life. He had never thought to, or bothered to unpack from the trip. The new, small travel bag he bought in Cadiz was still on the floor between the door and the wing chair where he left it.  And it would have stayed there for who knows how long but for the letter.  On Wednesday of the third week he received a letter from Oasis Productions, in New York.  It contained a check for 98 thousand dollars and change.  It was a paycheck. The gross amount was higher but after all taxes had been taken out, 98K was left.  He was sure it was sent to the wrong place. But his full name and address were right there.  He called the company to find out why he received it.  The secretary passed him to accounts payable.

You don’t know what you did for us?

I’ve never heard of your company.

Was the after-party that good?  She laughed.  The only note I have here is for services rendered in Morocco.  I suggest you cash it quick.

Why is that?

The owner is liquidating and we’re going to be shut down or sold. That check may not be good in a week.

Brian hung up.  He smiled at Amina’s generousity.  He was hangin’ out with a super rich chick and he didn’t even know it.  As his eyes wandered around his apartment he saw his bag and decided it was time to unpack.  He took a couple of push pins and pinned the djellaba to back of his closet door. He was shocked to find something under the robe. He immediately called his pastor and made an appointment. He could come right now if he wanted to. He raced over.  Mrs. Roberts made some coffee and produced some banana nut bread, which she placed on the dining room table. What’s on your mind son? said the pastor.

Brian went through the whole adventure from bookstore to parting kiss. The pastor asked him to skip over some of the detail when he was describing the dance scene.  He noticed both of them were getting a little excited or embarrassed he couldn’t tell. “Sorry, sorry”.  He ended with the check.

So, what’s the problem? What do you need from us?

Now that I’ve spilled my guts, I don’t know.

Are you ok? Do you feel guilty about something?

Brian’s eyes searched from side to side, reflecting his inner investigation.

I was dealt a blow I didn’t know how to handle when my mom died.  When Deb died, I knew what to do, but I didn’t see a reason to do it.  Life seemed tepid and gray.  I prayed that the trip to Morocco would provide something.  I don’t love my mom or Deb any less. But I realize that my heart has grown bigger and I have room for Amina and others. Maybe even a new love.

That’s great Brian, Hazel said taking his hands in hers.

George slapped him kindly on the shoulder, “That’s healing son. That’s growth.”

But you don’t look satisfied. Something is still unresolved. Said Hazel.

Brian reached into his messenger bag and pulled out a thick book and placed it on the table in front of them. In large black letters it said “Python”. Hazel recoiled just a bit and said, “Yuck. I hate snakes.” George read the subtitle then look at Brian then back at the book then back at Brian. He did this 2 or 3 times and then said, like he wasn’t sure what to say.  “Are  you considering changing careers?”

I found another journal.