Driver, T. C. (11 page)
“No” he said again “My name is Chubbie's Ed, with an S.”
“Ok Chubbie's Ed.” I said, somewhat confused. Ed was head of an American Christian Motorcycle Association from Philadelphia on an around the world poker run to save the Liberty Bell. The Liberty Bell was being sold at auction next month. It was hard times back in Philadelphia; the city was half empty. They had lost a lawsuit brought by the ACLU, gay pride and the Osoma administration. The city went bankrupt. It had something to do with the term brotherly love, a Jewish feast and a new mosque. The whole lawsuit sounded crazy to me. Osoma had been shot
at in Philadelphia and slightly wounded by flying glass. Washington, D.C. was now a ghost town with troops around the mall protecting Osoma's family. The wrath of almighty God was turning on the Israel-hating, Bible defiling, earth worshiping, humanist, fascist, socialist voter fraud friendly Osoma administration. Talking to Ed about the fall of my beloved America was depressing as hell. I understood now more about the 'Jewish Exit' paperwork! American Jews were flooding to Israel, many thousands each month; running for their lives from Osoma. As I entered Ed's room, the maid was very courteous and obeyed my polite commands.
After a shower, a snack (some really good chili) and some new found clothes (of Ed's), I listened through the door as police, or troops, opened my door down the hall and rushed in. Through the peephole, it looked like four of them in all. Not exactly a SWAT team! How insulting! No respect! At least I knew now that I was being hunted. Yes, I was on the run, just as I had expected. I wondered just what the whole deal was. Why is it so often in this life, one doesn't even know the basics. Starting out again on foot, I now had some local currency; about twelve thousand U.S.
In dollars was hidden about my body. The police were still searching my hotel. I was heading east for no other reason than stubbornness. During my hitch-hiking and walking, I met many wonderful people. I started feeling like a tourist; clothes do make the man (ha-ha). It felt good to have money. Money is empowering. I could eat at small diners.
I kind of missed those soup vendors of Thailand. Some of the Indian food was very good, but one of the main spices they so often use was not my favorite. It stung my nose (ha-ha). Often rides were offered to me, but none were going very far, it seemed. I spent two nights in small bed and breakfast type places. The signs would say 'Hotel', but they were just private homes with rooms added to the sides. Most nights I was still camping with my same trusty wool blankets. I now had new sheets. My backpack was stacked high. It was real fancy with a lightweight frame. Many of the locals also carried bundles, so I figured I looked Indian. I tried my best to blend in and wore a scarf like I saw others do. Many rode mini-scooters or bikes. I was looking to buy one used, if I could. While traveling I just kept moving at my steady slow pace, always staying off the main roads.
The second 'hotel' I stayed in was modest even by local standards. It had a very small sign, so I almost missed the place. I was tired and worn out from my day’s journey. The lady of the house waved me in near dusk. This behavior was very rare and bold for a woman in India. I was glad she did, for the rattle and splatter of a coming thunderstorm was upon me. I ran as quickly back to her door as my tired, old body would allow. This family had only two rooms added to their house. She put me in the room next to them. At dinner, I noticed that my plate had three helpings to their one. Her two school-age kids were very polite; their mother very strict and also a Christian. I claimed I wasn't feeling well and did not feel much like eating and retired to my room. She opened an inside door so that I didn't have to brave the storm raging outside. By not shutting the door completely, I could see the family from my bed. Just as I suspected, her two kids divided up the rest of my dinner; which, of course, had been cooked for them anyway. This woman prayed at the table; she was in some kind of distress. Her man never did show up. I slept dry and warm, 'Blessed by the Best', and thanked God for the day. I had a large print King James Holy Bible given to me by Pastor Steve's assistant, Pastor William and his wife, Cathy. We had talked for hours about the old man dying; about becoming a new creature in Christ Jesus. I wondered if I could ever be like William and Cathy. Could
I really become Holiness like they were? Oh, how I longed for that type of faith! Kneeling by my bed like I saw the woman's kids do, my thoughts went back to the hotel blast. What was my life all about? Questions flooded my mind. Then the presence of the Lord filled the room. I could not speak; I could not move. I was frozen, paralyzed and still. I was aware of each section or room of the house, but I was also back at the old hotel, before the blast. I was about to say hello to the Giant, but he stepped aside and the heavens opened. I feared not speak or look toward the light! I was not worthy to be before the Lamb! My Giant bowed to his knee and was silent.
YOU ARE CORRECT, CORNELIUS! YOU WOULD HAVE DIED IN THE BLAST! MY ANGEL STOOD IN THE WAY! I HEARD YOU BY THE STILL WATER! YOU ARE MINE, CORNELIUS! I....AM....YOUR GOD!
“You mean I'm Holiness, praise God!” I wanted to jump up and down, but was not allowed to. I was held motionless at the side of the bed.
CORNELIUS!
“Yes, Lord?”
THE MONEY YOU HAVE BELONGS TO THE WOMAN! HER PRAYERS ARE THE REASON YOU ARE HERE! SHE IS MY DISCIPLE, MY FRIEND! PUT THE MONEY INTO HER HOLY BIBLE WHEN YOU TAKE LEAVE OF HER HOUSE COME MORNING THIS
DO IN MY NAME, SAYEST YOUR GOD!
I understood the commands of God not just by hearing or seeing, but by both, and yet more. This was a total, peaceful understanding. “So shall it be, Lord! Your will be done on this earth as it is in heaven!” I then heard Pastor Tommy Mute, from back on the ship say “You can't out give God, Cornelius!” I wanted to put in a good word for my Giant and tell God what a good job he was doing, but my prayer was over. I was now able to get up, although barely. Becoming Holiness; hearing from God had taken all my strength. I could hardly lift the covers. Praising God would have to wait until morning. I fell asleep, knowing I was Holiness. In the morning, I jumped out of bed and cleaned up. What a day! A blessed life! A wonderful day it would be! Praise God! The woman fed me breakfast and we said our goodbyes. I felt some change in my pocket and turned my backpack sideways to squeeze back through her door, placing the coins on top of her Holy Bible. The cash was already in the book of Ruth. “A tip for your kindness” I said, tipping my hat. She smiled and said we were both 'blessed by the best'. As I headed out her door once again, I was broke in man's eyes. But now, I was Holiness and I was the richest man in the world.
I continued on my way, sleeping by the roadside and getting fewer rides. One ride I did get was in a red Isuzu pick-up truck just like the model on the dam face overlook in Africa. What a life of blood and killing I had lived! Yet, I was still allowed to become Holiness! Thank-you Jesus! The Lord's Prayer was my constant chant. The Lord had forgiven me so much! Reciting the prayer kept me in time with my walking stick.
After the seventh night, I started down a narrow country road. There was not much on this road, only fields and forest, no traffic at all. I had nothing to eat. I was not beside the still water anymore. Soon I drew weary, but pushed myself to go on. The sun was near its noonday high when I heard a car approaching from behind. This road had been deserted, I had thought. This car slowed down, but did not pass me by. A horn then sounded twice and the car pulled up beside me as I walked. It was a brand new 1964 light blue Ford Galaxy, driven by a nice looking Asian woman about my age. She shouted at me while hanging out
of the car's window.
“Where you go, Joe?” I was glad to get into her car being worn out, tired and hungry. This nice Vietnamese lady glanced into the rear-view mirror and said. “You American, right? You walk like Joe. Believe me, I know.”
My blending in was not that good, maybe, I could not think of anything to say. I finally spoke up, saying “You drive fast, like Mildred my old Mother-in-law did back home.” One forgets just how really big these old '64 Galaxy's were, I thought to myself. I silently watched the scenery fly by as the woman kept the 'hammer down' for the next few minutes and miles. We soon approached an estate with kept grounds that would make the Queen of England blush with envy. The old, but new, 1964 Ford pulled under a covered circle entrance at some type of resort or hotel. Vintage American cars were parked around the circle. This Vietnamese lady started barking orders and checking off phones as if they were clipboards. Servants waited in line to be checked off. She told one young man to empty the circle of cars and bring in the next ones. Evidently, they rotated cars in some chosen order. A Pontiac GTO parked close to us was sported up. Not original like the others. As I walked inside, I admired it. The GTO was 'mighty fine' as my son, Shawn, back in Virginia would say.
This woman, called simply Karla or K-one by servants, walked us through the mansion and out the back courtyard into an office building; or maybe it was a hotel. Everyone we met spoke to her. She was showing me off as if she had won a prize for finding one first; 'Look, I find an American Joe'. Then in the elevator, we talked. She said “Smile for camera, Joe. Yes, you really do walk like a Joe.”
On the sixth floor, K-one led me down a hallway into a large, empty room. Twenty-four flat screen TVs were placed around the walls. Each T.V. was about two hundred inches with six on each wall. All sets were tuned to American football. Each had wireless earphones hung on the wall. I started watching some games. I noticed that six sets on one wall did not have as sharp a picture as the others. All of the others looked to have the same amazing 3-d picture quality. As I walked around the room, I saw teams I had not heard of before. One game was a Harlem team playing a Portland, Oregon team. One was a Richmond, Va. team playing a Nashville, TN. team. After watching football for some time, say about forty minutes, I heard a voice from behind me.
“So, you are an American?” I turned to see a tall, young, Indian man, very well dressed, a boy, really.
“Yes” I said. “I hear it shows.”
“Of course” the boy said. “What do you think of my football games? We have what you call soccer, too.” He then waved away the two men standing behind him with a slight hand gesture. These men looked like nothing you'd want to play with. If you know what I mean! This young man, or boy, had power. He seemed born to it; like a King, I thought to myself.
“No, I'm not a king” he said, “Although my uncle does own this Province. I understand you were found walking up my driveway. Good for you. You picked the right road. My uncle can be a cold and stern man.”
“Sir, I've been out of touch for some time now” I said. “But I don't know any of these teams, and can you read minds?”
“Yes, I can read minds, but not very well. And it is very impolite. Please accept my sincere apology” he made another hand wave, this time with a slight arm twist. “The system is off. Your thoughts are your own. You have my promise of that fact.”
“My God,” I whispered out loud. By his lack of expression, I knew he was telling me the truth, because I was thinking about chocking the tall lanky punk and his big
tough guys did not show up again.
“My name is Jediah Emin Patel, Cornelius, of the sons of Ammond. Welcome to my home. Yes, we know your name; we have you on file. We have facial recognition software on the camera in the elevator.
It is old technology now, but is still useful. So you’re a pilot, one of ours even. Are you here on a rogue mission, Cornelius? My uncle's people say you are trouble. I have not yet approached him on this subject. We like to keep experienced pilots, like you on staff. We can discuss your future after dinner, if you wish. Do not be afraid for your life, Cornelius. No one, not even my uncle can reach you here. You are my guest. Welcome to the house of Patel, my friend!”
“These games are digital 3D, virtual reality” said Patel. “Not 'real games' at all. But in a sense, they are as real as you and I.
If you give me four hundred hours of a football player and his stats, we can put his digital player into our system. We can even scan, or test you. Put in your skill level, body shape, size, wind, knowledge; many factors. Would you like to be in our system?”
I stopped him, saying “Not right now, thank-you.”
He then mentioned his 'eighth floor' games that put one into the game from the football player point of view. Eighty percent is controlled by your own movements, size, and speed and skill level. These games were played while you wore a helmet and were suspended inside a three-ring gyro harness.
“This will be the biggest thing since sliced bread” said Jediah.
“But right now, it is too expensive to bring to market. Cornelius, your heads-up flight training in the B44 used part of the same software.”