Rock Writers’ Guild

Bill Snyder became aware of his surroundings as the rays of the morning sun filtered through the leaves of the ancient elm tree that blanketed the northeast corner of the Boston Common casting an abstract silhouette upon the statue of Crispus Attucks. There was’nt any width or depth nor height to Bill’s exsistence anymore, as to gage what was reality and what was’nt. He just drifted from one shadow into another. Just different shades of gray blending together into a collage of events that he did not seem to have any control over anymore. As the cobwebs melted, the throbing pain of an absessed tooth jolted him back into reality.

He sat upright on the marble bench he had been lying on and became aware of the pedestrians as they diligently passed him, all oblivious to his situation. The distance that separated them was of a different dimension and could not be mesured by inches or feet, but rather by a spiritual wall built high on fear and shame, viewed with disdain and mistrust from the outside world, obscuring Bill and giving him anonymity and safety.

All the goals and aspirations he had once held in his youth had been smashed and bloodied and torn from his hands by the circumstances of life. His dreams lay just out of reach taunting him and egging him on. Like a prize fighter who had run out of time. Battles lost and scars deepened but the will goes on out of sheer stamina.

He stood up and surveyed the bushes that were planted alongside him looking for the demon that had left him behind in this condition. Finding an empty bottle with just enough wine in the corner’s to help deaden the pain and give him enough life until he could panhandle the price of another bottle. It seemed to Bill that he had been walking on the fringes of insanity for a long time now and only the drugs and alcohol had kept him from falling head first into the pit.

“Heres to the edge”. Bill said out loud to Crispus who stared back at him in stony silence as Bill drained the dregs of the bottle directly onto his throbbing tooth. It no longer seemed strange to Bill that the only friend he had left was this granite statue of a black patriot killed in the Boston Massacre of 1770.

Bill tossed the empty wine bottle under the elm tree and stumbled towards Tremont Street. The citizens of Boston were aware of him now as they glided towards the curb to avoid him, annoyed by the distraction he was causing as he slipped into their uniformed exsistence.

“Got a quarter,” Bill muttered, the words dry and unfamilar, as he approached two men walking towards him. They shook their heads no in unison as they sidestepped around him without slowing their pace.

“Hey man got a quarter? Its been days since I had a meal ,” Bill lied as he zeroed in on a baldheaded man who slipped Bill a dollar without making eye contact.

“Hey thanks alot,”Bill called after him as he stuck the bill into his pocket. His tooth starting to throb again as if in anticipation of the relief that was coming.

Joe Rossi was greeting at the door which was typical for a friday or saturday night. He was an astute business man with political clout, a mover and shaker in Northend politics. He instantly recognized Liz and Bill and rolled out the red carpet.

Bill Snyder loved the attention accorded him. The recognition of being assoiated with powerful people like Jim Kelly and the influence and stature of being known around political circles as affilated with the Sullivans served to bring an aura of respectability and success. Better then being known as a denizen of the counter culture, Bill pondered, thinking of John Kelly’s backsliding reputation. Hippie Beads, long hair and sit ins were not on the golden boy’s agenda. Expensive automobiles, fine clothing and political appointments, that’s what Bill Snyder’s fortunes were made of.

Liz Kelly wore a black chiffon dress, low cut and revealing, a double strand of pearls graced her delicate neck. Bill was mesmerized by her genteel beauty. She was enchanting amidst the soft glow of candle light that encircled her. Her eyes, shielded behind designer glasses sparkled and danced like emerald fire flies. A mural of a Venice canal unfolded behind her, transporting them onto another continent and into another time.

“I love this restaurant, its so charming and romantic!” Liz Kelly exclaimed, her delicate complexion flushed with excitement.”I just adore the murals and statuary, they are so authentic. Liz was bubbling over with enthusiasm, eager to share some exciting news, and Bill had sensed the electricity the moment she had gotten into the car.

 ”After I graduate from Wellesley in June,” Liz grined,”I’m going to Rome for advanced studies at the prestigious Vatican Art Institute. I will be studying the Italian Renaissance period, frescos, mosaics and painting restoration.”

“Rome? for how long?”

“Six months, its quite an honor, Monsignor Rizzo called my mother this afternoon with the news.”

“Six months! I could’nt live six months without you!” Bill exclaimed. “The Vatican! Wow! How did your mother manage that one?”

“Oh I don’t know,” Liz smiled. “I imagine it has something to do with that brand new dedication plague with my grandfathers name on it. You know the one that graces the new wing of the Cardinal Cushing hospital.”

“Your grandfathers name is plastered on public buildings, parks, bridges and street signs all over Boston.” Bill said, with undertones of sarcastic envy.

“Yes I know, he was a very important man.” Liz replied, missing Bill’s jibe completely.

“I am so excited.” Liz gushed “imagine working in the Vatican museum, being surounded by Raphael’s and Michelangelo’s”. 

Bill Snyder visited a lot of graves that weekend and stood at his final destination. The Sullivan family crypt at Forrest Lawn in Brookline. Is this what becomes of us? Bill thought as he circled the white limestone building. Dust, a pile of bones and a memorial plaque to serve as a reminder to future generations that we once existed. Our name on all the signposts, bridges, parks and buildings does not make us anymore important than anyone else. It just serves to point out our vanity and need to be remembered. What has been left behind determines what has grown there. Does man have the moral authority to decide which is more valulable . A garden of weeds or a stand of oak, both are equally important for Gods final purpose and should be measured by his yardstick and not mans.

A seed can be planted in the darkness, but a mans soul cannot prosper in the shadows. Only Gods sunlight and rain can nourish it and make it blossom. Its Gods decision what a mans ultimate purpose should be, But its mans choice whether he stays in the shadows or moves into the sunlight and fulfills it. In the final annalysis, Bill pondered, all things have purpose. When the tide comes in and washes the beach clean, does that mean a footprint has never been there?

Obsession, it starts as an idle thought, not overwhelming but subtle like a gentle scent of hibiscus carried on a soft summers breeze. It surounds me completly, stiring longings that had been buried and forgoten. Remembering the good times and forgeting the past. The obsession returns coming silently like a ghost out of the mist. Birthing my imagination into fantasys of the finest linens, I ache once more. Although I know its forbiden fruit causing me to die a thousand times over, no longer the sirens call I resist. I tumble into my lovers arms to die once more.

Midday. The sidewalks of Montague Street teemed with people streaming from office buildings, escaping mailrooms, cubicle farms and corner suites in search of a satisfying lunch. Business still buzzed in frenzied conversations over BlackBerry’s and between clusters of suits. Others left commerce at their desks, laughing with friends and hoping to get a good seat at their favorite eating place.

Maria heard none of this. She was heedless of the traffic noise, the jostling of the crowd. Only the faint sea breeze from the East River several blocks away kept her focused. Passersby couldn’t see the sullen eyes hidden behind sunglasses. It’s easy to hide in a crowd, thought Maria, No one should know who I am.

Maria had secluded herself in her office the entire morning. Hours past unnoticed as Maria’s sole fixation was the view the floor to ceiling windows afforded her. An unobstructed vista of the Promenade, the river and lower Manhattan beyond spread out before her. The executive suite was a symbol of her success, but it brought more. Like her father, a hard bitten garment district worker, Maria was cold, ruthless and unfeeling. “Maria, you do what you have to do to make it,” Papa had said, “Don’t let them hurt you. Don’t let them use you.” Maria listened. The lying and the deceit became part of the game to protect what was hers, procure what she wanted. A little partying, a few lines, a little dalliance here and there added thrill to convention. More risk, more life, she reasoned.

             As Maria’s hazel eyes pondered the river, dark thoughts plagued her mind, as they had for the last three of her thirty-four years. The parties, the con games, the indiscretions, all left her numb, lifeless, dead. Her husband and children didn’t know her any longer. Was it all worth feeling so diminished, so empty? Was it really possible for someone to sell their soul? What have I done? Madre de Dios, what have I done?

She shook her head as if to clear it. But the path before her was plain. The decision was made. Maria rose from her leather chair and left the office tower. She never looked back.

              Maria headed toward the Promenade. The cold, watery embrace of the East River waited at the pier’s edge, far below street level, away from the inquisitive eye. Nameless wanderers may see, but would not mark her passing. Good, thought Maria, No grave, no headstone, no one will mourn…

               Mama…Within one block of descending to cheerless bliss, Maria stopped as if shot, looked about as if she heard something. Nothing. Still, a vague memory, resurrected by one more primal, found life in Maria’s mind.

“Mama… I can’t…do this…to you,” Maria said aloud. Turning, she doubled back, retracing her own footsteps, toward the business center. Maria pushed her dark brown hair back and hastened her steps as if to outpace an unseen pursuer. Was this another miscalculation, a case of injudicious intuition that would only add to the misery? She thrust the thought aside.

Maria slipped down Henry Street and followed the narrow sidewalk. Boutiques and bistros gave way to residences. She was grateful for the cool shade cast by row houses and trees along either side of the street. Near the end of the block, amidst lush copse of hickory and oak in a tiny courtyard was a church. Built of dark, ruddy, stone bricks of varying size, it stood taller than any structure nearby, a guardian of all that was held sacred by her patrons. Maria faced the church’s weathered, iron gate. This is a place for only good and decent people, she thought, I don’t belong here. Maria had seen this place before and noticed the signs: “First Presbyterian Church” and “Open for Prayer and Meditation.” Neither the signs nor the building so much as piqued her interest in the past. Now, something inexorable had brought her to an end and drew her to ponder the posted invitation.

          Maria looked at the formidable structure. Ivy clung to the outer edges and corners and extended nearly a third of its height. Although it was a warm day, Maria trembled. She wanted to turn and run but felt rooted to the concrete pavers. She pushed open the gate. It swung easily against her touch. Gazing at the aged oak doors at the top of the steps, it reminded her of the times that her mother had taken her to mass as a small child. Mama was fervent and prayed the rosary daily. Maria had watched Mama closely. Although they had nothing, Mama always found reason to smile, even through the tears. “Always trust in God, chica,” Mama had said, “Remember to pray always.” Maria loved her mother but never found a place for her mother’s faith. Then, God had seemed distant, irrelevant, even unreal. Now, as she stood in her own private hell, Maria wondered if Mama could have been right. “Oh, Mama, why didn’t I listen?”

            Yet here she stood in the sun dappled courtyard. The wind sighed through the leaves. Sparrows Maria didn’t hear before now sang in sweet accompaniment to an unfamiliar but gentle prompting. “Maria, do what you have to do to.” “Always trust in God, chica.” The words rushed unbidden from the past with the force of the convictions and love with which they were spoken. Two disparate voices from polar fields conspired to speak to her as one. One voice. A voice greater that the sum of its ethereal parts whispered wordless volumes and touched her. “Is there a way out of the mess I’ve made?” There it was. Maria finally admitted it. She found the one who had brought her so low –herself. Strength welled up from the edges of her life. Even this place spoke to her. Its very age, marked by hardy ivy, the wind and rain swept doors, the beaten iron, and the imposing stone façade spoke of – something, Maria had no name for it - that transcended time and bared her pitiable attempts to mitigate it for a moment’s pleasure, a broken crock of useless things. No longer did Maria see utter despair. She felt the stirrings of something here that had become totally foreign to her: hope.

              This was not a Catholic church. Maria didn’t care. There was something here. Maybe a priest would help. Was there a priest here? Was anyone here? She didn’t know. I have to do this, she determined, I know this is right. Maria stowed her sunglasses and pursed her lips. She took a deep breath, mounted the steps and went inside.