Michael was my friend. Michael died saving my life.
Michael row the boat ashore ... sister help to trim the sails … the River Jordan is chilly and cold … chills the body but not the soul … the river is deep and the river is wide … milk and honey on the other side …
I can only hope that Michael has found his milk and honey.
This is the story of Michael.
Michael and I grew up together. We went through grade school together. Then on to high school, where together we stayed. Neither of us wanted to pursue a “higher” education, so we decided to travel to broaden ourselves, as the terminology was in those days. At that time, we thought good would always win out over evil. But we were yet to be taught our lessons of the real world. Evil does sometimes triumph over good.
Michael James was six feet tall. He had straight blond hair and blue eyes. The bluest eyes I ever did see. If limpid means clear, as I think it does, then Michael’s eyes were limpid pools of blue. The color was that of the sky, perhaps a little lighter, with flecks of yellow throughout the irises. Upon meeting Michael for the first time, one was taken aback by his eyes. They did not bore into your soul—they lit up your life. Then there was his smile. I had known Michael for many years and I don’t think I ever saw him without that shit-eatin’ grin on his puss. That grin, and its persistence, was amazing, given the fact that Michael suffered from a skin problem. He had large red patches on his skin, including his face. They came and went. I thought the name of the disease was psoriasis, but of that I am not certain.
Michael had no mother. She died when he was quite young … before I knew him. He had no siblings; he was reared by his father, which is probably the reason I am alive today. By that, I mean he was raised to be a man. He was taught “The Code” of real men, which is: You do what you have to do.

Michael row the boat ashore …

Though we both had the travel bug, my case was more pronounced than his. During the summer between our junior and senior years of high school, I took off and bounced around the country while Michael held down the fort, so to speak. When I returned to finish my last year of school (at that time I still bought into the myth that you needed at least a high school education to survive in the world), I regaled Michael with tales of my adventures.
Well, after hearing what a wonderful world awaited us out there, Michael could not wait to hit the road. He wanted to leave immediately, but seeing as how I had just come in from a three-month run, I prevailed upon him to wait a few months and allow me to at least try to get my diploma. He said he would wait, but he did not … or he could not. Within six weeks of my return, Michael was on the road.

the River Jordan is chilly and cold …

Michael was hip, and the only place for a hip guy to migrate in 1968 was San Francisco. And that was the end of Michael’s roaming. He fell in love with the city. I endured my senior year as long as I could, but two weeks short of graduation I said, “The hell with it!”, stuck out my thumb and headed for San Francisco to rendezvous with my friend.
When I arrived, I didn’t know where Michael was living; however, I knew if I hung out on Haight Street long enough, I’d see him. It took less than two hours.
This will tell you something about my friend Michael: He always had a place to live out there, and never paid rent. People were always asking him home, and once there, he just moved in. They were always glad to have him. And when I would hit town, he’d take me to wherever he was living and tell me to make myself at home. The person who actually owned the domicile never looked askance when he brought me through the door. They all loved Michael, and any friend of Michael’s …

it chills the body, but not the soul …

For the most part, Michael stayed in San Francisco. I, however, could not stay in one town for more than a few days. I was like a pinball, rebounding from coast to coast, and from Canada to Mexico. While on the road, I was alive. While on the road, I interacted with humanity and had to live by my wits. I loved being on the road. Because of Michael’s reluctance to leave San Francisco, I had two homes, one on each coast. My mother’s in Miami, and wherever the hell Michael was staying at any given moment in San Francisco.
On one of my forays to San Francisco, I was introduced to Linda, the love of Michael’s life—his soul mate. They had met at a Clint Eastwood marathon. A movie house was playing the three Sergio Leone films. You know, A Fistful of Dollars, For a Few Dollars More, and The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly … non-stop, twenty-four hours a day. Michael had a bag of Red Acid, and in 1969, what girl wouldn’t swoon toward a man who was into Clint Eastwood and had a bag of LSD? It was love at first sight.

sister help to trim the sails …

Now that Michael had himself a woman, he got his own digs. Every time I hit town they were living in a new place. It wasn’t always easy to find them, but somehow we would always meet up on Haight Street. I stayed with them on Geary in the Tenderloin. We stayed south of Market in the low rent district, we stayed across from Golden Gate Park, and at the end, we were again in the Haight-Asbury district.
One thing I must tell you about Michael so you can get a sense of the man. And yes, he was a man; though we were the same age, he was a man, while I was just a kid. I think Michael knew he did not have much time in this world. He could not wait for anything. Back then, we were doing acid all the time. Normally, you would swallow a pill and wait for it to take effect. But not Michael. The twenty minutes or so that it took was just too long for him. He had to shoot the acid into his vein to get off instantaneously. Of course, Linda and I would have to follow suit or there would be no peace. And in those days, I just did not have it in me to stick myself with a needle. Michael did the honors.

the river is deep and the river is wide …

The last time I came into San Francisco and saw Michael and Linda was in 1970, it was July. They were living in the Haight. It was a crummy neighborhood; the Summer of Love was three years gone by then. All the shops on Haight Street were boarded up with sheets of plywood, and the denizens of the street were the leftovers from that long-ago summer.
True to form, it was not his own apartment Michael took me to; he and Linda were living with a guy named Bobby. Bobby was a likable enough fellow. He just didn’t know bad men when he met them. Bobby had set up a “drug” deal to buy two pounds of marijuana. Nowadays it seems ridiculous to term buying two pounds of pot a drug deal, but in those days that was heavy shit.
It was my first night in town and we were sitting in Bobby’s pad smoking a joint when Michael told me he was going to be a father. I looked over at Linda; she was radiant, and she was also blushing. I was just about to say something appropriate when the door crashed open, and two guys burst through the entrance. They were the assholes that Bobby was supposed to buy the pot from.

Michael row the boat ashore …

Only one of them had a gun, but that was enough for us. When told to lie on the floor, we did so without protest. One of them said to Bobby, “Where’s the cash?”
Bobby answered, “In my pocket.” The guy covering us with the gun told the other guy to get the money. Bobby, trying to be helpful, reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. Then it seemed like a lot of money, but now, as I look back on that night, it couldn’t have been more than $500.00.
As soon as the money was in the asshole’s hand, the other one with the gun walked over to Bobby, placed the gun to the back of his head, and killed him. Upon hearing the shot, Michael and I looked at each other and knew that we were next.

the river is deep and the river is wide …

Before I could think of anything to do, Michael bounded to his feet and rushed the guy with the gun. When I saw Michael go into action, it released me from my paralysis, but not soon enough to help Michael. He took a bullet to the chest. While Michael was being shot, I picked up a lamp from a table and smashed it over the gunman’s head while his partner stood frozen in place.

it chills the body, but not the soul …

The man with the gun went down hard and the gun fell from his hand. All this went down fast; in a blur, I did not have time to think. I picked up the gun from the floor while the other guy still stood frozen. Obviously they were not professionals, though, at the moment, that did not enter into my thinking. I aimed the gun at the one standing and shot him dead with two shots. Then I turned to the one on the floor. He was moving and about to get up when I put a bullet into his head.

sister help to trim the sails …

By the time the second one fell to the floor, Linda was bent over Michael. I dropped the gun and went to them. He looked at her and smiled, then he looked at me and said, “Get her out of here.” We both, Linda and I, said at the same time, “No!” Then Michael died.

Michael row the boat ashore …

It took me a full minute, which at the time felt like an eternity, to make a decision. I grabbed Linda by the arms and pulled her into a standing position. She was numb. I told her we had to get out of there; that this was a drug deal gone bad, and there were dead bodies—four of them! I told her prison was no place to have a baby, and Michael knew that. That is why he wanted her out of there.

if you get there before I do …

I told Linda to collect everything of hers and Michael’s that could identify them. I had the presence of mind to wipe the gun clean, but not to pick up the cash lying on the floor. Linda could have used it; she had a baby on the way. I took Michael’s wallet. He had never been arrested so I knew they couldn’t identify him by his fingerprints. After I had Michael’s wallet, and while Linda went about collecting her things, I took the time to vomit all over Bobby’s carpet. It was, after all, the first time I had killed. We left Michael and never looked back. Though it wasn’t actually Michael we left, only the body that housed that wonderful, brave man.

tell all my friends I’m coming too …

Linda’s folks lived in New Jersey, so I hitchhiked with her to the East Coast. She was in a state of shock, and because Michael’s last words, though not implicit, were to look after her, that is what I did. After getting her to her parents, I stayed in the Northeast for the next seven months. I kept moving, but would drop in to see her every few weeks. Seven months later, when the baby was born, I was there. I was there for my friend Michael. It was a boy and I was asked to be his godfather.

milk and honey on the other side …

Once Linda had the child, and I knew she was in the good hands of her parents, I said good-bye. And while still on the road, I dropped in to see Linda and my godson every few months.
There are three human beings extant on this earth because of my friend Michael James … I am one of them.

Michael row the boat ashore . . . Hallelujah!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jRv-fgfLFTk

They are always with me. At times they appear out of the ethereal mist, and other times they speak directly to my mind. I wish they would leave me to myself … but that they will not do. No, first I must do their bidding.
They come in the night and stay until the black sky fades to gray. When the stars have left the sky and the clouds to the east turn pink, I am allowed my rest. But I ask you, what respite can a murderer have? At their behest, I have killed again this night. And I will continue to kill until they go back from whence they came.
I remember the first time they came to me. It was a little over a year ago, and since then I have killed twenty-nine people. Please do not think me insane. I assure you these beings are real and not immanent. At first, I, too, thought myself demented and delusional when they stood before me, telling me they came to save the human race, and to accomplish their mission, certain people must die. They explained that the demise of the race was not impending, but if action was not taken, and taken soon, it would be too late to set things on a course to ensure the continuance of mankind.
You are probably wondering, if you do not think me crazed, why they cannot do their own dirty work. That is a very good question and one I have asked of them. They, of course, are not of our time and space. They appear—when they appear—as diaphanous specters; they cannot manipulate physical matter. Thus, I have become their instrument here on earth. Where or when they are from, I do not know. And why, out of all the billions on this planet, I was chosen, I know not. But it has been a long night and I must sleep. I will continue this at a later date, and continue it I shall, for I want there to be a record of my actions and the reasons for them.
I am back. It has been two days since my last entry in this journal, and tonight they had me kill again. That makes thirty people—thirty innocent people … men, women, and children—I have dispatched from this world. Yes … I am sorry to say they have had me kill children. However, I was told that after tonight there would be no more need of my services. The human race was safe for the foreseeable future.
I refer to my tormentors as they or them because I do not know what they call themselves. Their form is vaguely human … two arms, two legs, and a head of sorts atop a torso, but their gossamer appearance precludes calling them human.
Tonight’s victim was a man in Moscow. I was directed to him and given his name. I then set about their business. I was told that his son, yet unborn, would one day invent something that would cause the death of billions. Being told the purpose for this particular death was a departure from the norm. I had never been given rhyme nor reason for any of the others. The man’s name and the names of the other twenty-nine, including where and when they died, are in the addendum attached to this missive. I remember every one of my quarry.
I guess I should have mentioned this earlier, but my victims were scattered around the world. I do not know how they did it, but one minute I was in my room behind a locked door, and the next minute I was standing in a foreign locale with the name of that night’s victim swirling through my brain. Then into my mind came the place I could find him or her in the city, town, or hamlet.
Now, the thirty-first person will die. They, at last, have left me to myself. I am now free to end this the only way it can be ended—with my death. I’ve been saving and hiding my medication for quite a while now; there is enough to kill me three times over. May God have mercy on my soul.
I affix my hand to this document this 3rd day of June in the year of our Lord 2019.
Signed,
Francis Fitzgerald

• • • •

When Dr. Allen had finished reading the above, he turned to Dr. Harris and said, “Interesting, but why have you brought it to me? We both know that the man was a certified, delusional schizophrenic. How long have we had him here at our institution?”
Dr. Harris hesitantly answered, “He’s been here at Oakwood twelve years, sir.”
“Well, there you have it. It’s too bad he took his own life; it doesn’t help our reputation any, but these things happen.”
“Yes, sir. However, there is something I think you ought to know.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve taken the liberty of investigating a few of the names on Fitzgerald’s list. It’s taken me three weeks, but I’ve verified eleven of the deaths and their time and place. They all correspond with what Fitzgerald has written.”
Dr. Allen straightened in his seat, glanced at the papers in his hand, then looking Dr. Harris in the eye, forcefully said, “Preposterous! If there is any correlation, he read of the deaths in the newspaper or heard of them on the television.”
“Excuse me, sir, but Fitzgerald had no access to newspapers. He was denied them because they would agitate him to no end. And the only television he had access to was in the day room where the set is perpetually tuned to a movie channel.”
“That still does not give credence to this fairytale,” said Dr. Allen, waving the Fitzgerald papers in Dr. Harris’ direction.
“No, sir, it does not. However, there is one more thing I think I should make you aware of. My sister is married to a Russian physicist, speaks fluent Russian, and lives in Moscow. I called her about the last name on Fitzgerald’s list. She made a few calls for me and it turns out that Fitzgerald was dead before the body of the man he mentions was discovered. And just one more thing, sir. The man’s wallet was found in Fitzgerald’s room. I have it if you’d like to see it.”
Turning a color red that is not in the regular spectrum, Dr. Allen shouted, “NO! I DO NOT WANT TO SEE THE DAMN WALLET!” Handing the Fitzgerald papers to Dr. Harris and with ice in his voice, he said, “Burn these, burn them now. And if you value your position here at Oakwood, you will never speak of this matter again … to anyone. Do I make myself clear?”
Dr. Harris accepted the papers with a meek, “Yes, sir,” and walked out of the room. When he was in the hall and by himself, he muttered, “I’ll be goddamned … the old bastard is afraid.”
But Dr. Harris did not burn the papers. He placed them, along with the wallet, in his desk drawer and locked it. He had some thinking to do. As he started on his rounds, a quote of Shakespeare’s kept repeating itself in his head. “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

Every culture has its own creation myth. Ours is that the world was created in six days and the first humans were Adam and Eve. The Apache Indians have Changing Woman who was impregnated by the sun and gave birth to Nayé Nazghane, Slayer Of Monsters. The Norse people have Odin and Ymir … the Ancient Greeks, Gaia. But I would like to tell you guys how we really got here, and why. If you like, you may call this Andrew’s creation myth.
Long, long ago, in a place of no time and no space, existed an entity. As far as The Entity knew, It just WAS, and always had been. Before the universe we inhabit existed, before time existed, before space existed, It WAS. Within The Entity were the powers of creativity and It knew of their existence, but the ways to produce them were unknown to It. The entity existed in a State of Being, but without a means to find an expression for that Being.
We were within Its dreams, and while still within Its dreams, It gave us consciousness. The Entity felt pressure from us, the conscious but still only probable selves who found ourselves in a God’s dream. To release us would give us actuality, but it would also mean losing a portion of Its consciousness—a portion of Itself. With love and longing, It let us go. We exploded in a flash of creation.
We were still in a place of no time and no space. Therefore, we created time and space. We created our universe and many other universes and dimensions. But I will speak only of the universe we inhabit.
We populated what we had created with a portion of ourselves. We created the stars and the planets. Because we existed in a place of no time, the eons upon eons that it took for the cosmic dust to congeal into stars and for the planets to cool was less than a day to us.
To paraphrase the Bible, we looked upon what we had created and saw that it was good. However, we were not done with our creating; after all, that is why we separated from our brother—we are the expression of Its Being.
Once the planets had cooled enough to support life, we created their ecosystems and injected a portion of ourselves into them. We started the process called life.
After countless millennia, the life forms on the various planets were at a stage of development that we could dwell in them and experience the physical realm. Because we are of this star system, of the planet known as Earth, I will speak of the events that took place here, although similar things took place on other planets, in other star systems.
Once we had life up and running, we would inject ourselves into the various animal life forms to feel the sensations known only on the physical plane. The warmth of the star upon the bodies of those we inhabited, to run through the tall grass, to feel the caress of wind upon our borrowed bodies, would thrill us to no end. Sometimes we would reside in a giant tree and experience its being for hundreds of years. Time meant nothing to us. We were gods. However, over time, we stayed on the physical plane for longer and longer periods; we did not leave to go back to our place of No Time. We did not go home. We had eaten of the forbidden fruit.
Because time meant nothing to us ... because we tarried too long in the bodies that we had brought into existence … some of us soon found that we could not extricate ourselves when so desired. In a time long forgotten, we had become mired in the physical. This was the fall of mankind as metaphorically described in the first chapter of Genesis.
The portion of us who stayed in our place of no time came to the rescue of those who could not return. They tweaked the DNA of an animal that today is known as Neanderthal Man. After many, many generations, what was once an animal was ready to house those stuck in the physical. From then on, we would inhabit only that creature. We had created human beings.
Thus started the process of returning home. The entity that gave us existence loves all that we have created down to the least. It celebrates the dearness and uniqueness of each consciousness. It is triumphant and joyful at each development, of each individual. It revels and takes joy in the slightest creative act of each of us.
Every life we live is a step closer to home. Each life—when completed—is a gift to our brother, our creator. Our experiences allow It to BE. Our creative acts are the expression of Its Being. Genesis states we were made in our creator’s image. Yes, we were. We are creators also. It’s what we do.
We cannot help but create. We create every moment of our existence. We create music, we create stories and call them books, or movies, or perhaps songs. We create art … we create while at our daily jobs. We create fine meals and not-so-fine meals. We create love and we create hate. Every choice we make during every day of our lives is an act of creation. Choosing to turn on your computer is an act of creation. Deciding to get out of bed in the morning is an act of creation.
We are all a part of the entity we call God, not apart from It. We have no choice but to create. It is in our being. So, as long as we are creating, why not create a better world starting with that little corner of the world that we each inhabit? You’d be surprised. All those little acts of creation add up, and the next thing you know, you’ve created a universe—a universe of love.