Maturity, Part Two
by George Zidbeck
An all too common admonition to young ones
from adults: "Oh, grow up."
Nothing at all wrong with such advice,
but adulthood doesn't deliver maturity by virtue of aging. Nor does
everyone fit the ideal role model. Fully mature persons desire to
speak from an honest base, to accept responsibility for their acts,
and to strive in a selfless manner to make the world a better place
for everyone. Nevertheless, mature individuals do not huddle en
masse — leaving no space for ne'er-do-wells, misfits, grifters,
scoundrels, and no-goodniks of multiple backgrounds and persuasions.
To each age, criminals attach.
In
Part One last month, I introduced myself when caught in a serious
felony — picking the pocket of a man in San Antonio, Texas while
stationed in Fort Sam Houston. I was 19, and had just returned from
a one-month furlough in California. For those who didn't read the
last month's issue of the slocoastjournal.com, I suggest you scan
that tale to get a grip on the circumstances leading to my arrest.
For now, know that I fully confessed to the criminal act, but
desired to be freed from jail. To that end, I had a friend try to
arrange for the victim to drop the charges and thereby have me make
full restitution for his loss. Such was done.
Yes, my status as a free man induced a temporary state of euphoria.
However, returning to the workplace, I faced not only a fistful of
my barrack's buddies, but four high-rank enlisted men and about
eight officers from Lt. to Lt. Col. Additionally, one male and two
female civilians complemented the military staff. No question but
what all of them knew of my incarceration. And yet no one made any
comment or questioned me.
It didn't matter. Strangely, I had the fleeting recollection of Bill
Dorgan, my boyhood friend — sporting a feigned smile — bounding
down into our play area three days after his baby sister died. Still
emotionally grieving, he wanted the group to get on with the usual
play activities. I had a similar feeling. I wanted to get back into
the office routine and banter within my workstation crew. But, the
onus of what I had done clasped onto me as if my psyche had been
punctured with hundreds of porcupine quills.
I worked in a large office that offered extension courses to
military personnel worldwide. As a low rank enlisted man, most of my
duties related to simply mailing the lessons out and sorting the
returned tests for the officers to grade other officer's efforts and
master sergeants grading enlisted texts. Beyond my simple duty of
mailing ‘students' packets of new lessons, me and other lower ranked
enlisted staff also recorded the grades on 5" X 7" file cards.
While on such a filing assignment three days following my return
to work, the office world dissolved. I had no body; no sense of
living or breathing. Nevertheless, I felt total identification with
a steel ball bearing at the top edge of a cone that suddenly spirals
downward — accelerating as it approaches the cone's bottom. Time
has no meter, no colors apply, nor are sounds audible. And yet I am
that steel ball cascading ever faster, faster, faster . . .
Just before reaching the end of the cone, it opens suddenly to let
the accelerating ball transform itself back into my human form. Yet,
I stand naked in a shadowy space not marked by any walls. The cone
has disappeared. Confusion heightens my nudity. Suddenly, a line
forms in front of my toes. And a soft, neutral, asexual voice that
yet commands my attention speaks, "Before you is a line. Simply step
over into the other side and you will be free from any worry
henceforth. One simple step and you will enter a world of perpetual
insanity."
No tick-tocking; no patter of office voices intruded. Standing there
jaybird naked before that symbolic line in the sand, no clue
suggested I had one second or an eternity to ponder the option. I
did not confront any entity ethereal or surreal that suggested I had
to answer that option with my human voice. Besides, what human
language applies to such a mystical setting and challenge?
Therefore, my larynx did not form any words, but I felt overwhelmed
in sensing that my whole body responded with the knowledge that I
did not want to step across that line. Not from any syntax — or by
lips and tongue — do I recall speaking, but for sure deep in my
corporeal center, the following phrase eked out: "To hell with
everything past!"
No sooner thought than done. In a quickened eye-blink, I am back at
my desk. No puffs of smoke; no clamoring of bells; no image of me
riding down a New York City boulevard in a ticker-tape parade; just
me sitting with pen in hand recording scores. I scanned the room
where ten other people sat at desks. Nobody looked at me.
Strange.
Had I not undergone an unusual experience that must have captured
everyone's attention? I guessed not. I still felt transfixed by that
bizarre vision of my staring at that line of insanity prepared to
welcome me into another world free of worry. And I still hadn't
understood my answer of "To hell with everything past!"
The statement, it soon seemed to me, offered a solution, a
description to stabilize my disequilibrium. In effect, I had been
given a new slate. That exclamatory sentence cleansed the past,
literally purging the wrongdoing that had taken place a few days
earlier.
Now, get on with your life George Zidbeck, and
never/ever steal another person's property for your own gain as long
as ye shall live. Yea, verily, verily, I say unto thee: To hell with
all that befell you in the past.
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