LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

inviting and gratefully received, not suffocating; the temperature close enough to match the skin, so that the experience was one of gliding smoothly through the fluid, with just the slightest resistance to the pull of each stroke.

      The lilt of sitar and zither music was felt, but not heard. Emotions were experienced without fear, surprise without fright. Dramatic of course. He had always been dramatic, even showy. But not here. Not now. But in this place the drama felt deserved and fully earned—even reasonable. Reasonable to believe he was dead. But he had committed no crime, was guilty of nothing. All the evidence was in Ben’s head and heart, at his lips, and almost able to be verbalized. But he could not speak or distinguish between what was his brain, his hands, his thoughts and touch, or the ability to feel.

      ~~~~~~~~~~

      July 27, 2009

      10:06 pm

      The two EMTs worked quickly. They twice attempted, unsuccessfully, to wake the victim. Peter quickly read from the wallet in his left hand, “Benjamin Geller, 190 lbs, 5’11’, 1948 … 61 years old, Ft Lauderdale.”

      “Mr. G! Mr. G, can you hear me?”

      His eye twitched and with a dry mouth, he asked, “Who are you?”

      “You can call me Max and this is Peter,” said the senior tech. Max’s hair was prominent, even in Pompano Beach’s downtown darkness. Prematurely gray, it looked almost white under the street lamps. “The stress of the job,” the doctors had said, with some “genetic history” thrown in.

      As they leaned over the victim, Peter—having only been on the job six months—deferred to Max. A quick shake of the head by one and a nod in agreement by the other confirmed that—although Peter was a strong, well-built 6-footer—the two of them were definitely going to need help to stabilize, extricate and move the 275 lb. man from behind the steering wheel.

      ~~~~~~~~~~

      July 27, 2009

      10:40 pm

      “Mr. G? Mr. G, can you hear me?” repeated Max. “You have to be strong. You have to stay calm. Try to relax and trust us.”

      “Max,” asked one of the two other EMTs that had now joined them, “have you determined the extent of his injuries, yet?”

      “Yes, I have,” Max answered without elaborating, and motioned for Peter to follow. “But not here. And the rest of you, not so loud. He may still be able to hear us. Peter, let’s step over there. Sometimes, when we think they’re unconscious, they can still hear. Let’s not scare him unnecessarily.”

      While discussing the victim’s status, Peter and Max are suddenly interrupted by Boogie shouting loudly, from 10 feet away.

      “I can’t move!” yelled Boogie, momentarily left alone.

      “Please try and stay calm,” said Max, quickly returning to Benjamin Geller’s side just as he lapsed into unconsciousness, again.

      Gently, Max asked, “Mr. G? Mr. G, can you hear me?”

      ~~~~~~~~~~

       July 27, 2009

       10:40 pm

      “Mr. G? Mr. G, can you hear me?”

      The words arrived as total whiteness, everywhere at once. They couldn’t be heard, but they were felt. It was a pressure in his head, a change in temperature on his ears, an extra pounding within his heart. A bubble without substance, surrounding his feelings. He was both inside of it and simultaneously a part of its structure—looking at it, but without really seeing it. It was devoid of sound, yet filled with emotion.

      “Mr. G! Mr. G, can you hear me?”

      Boogie Geller ignored the blackjack dealer— annoyed by her interruption to his concentration—while trying to decide to hit, double down or unnecessarily risk splitting the fives, with the dealer showing a ‘four’ and 10s coming, as the shoe turned strongly positive.

      “Mr. G! Mr. G!” louder.

      Boogie yelled out to no one in particular, “Just a minute!”

      “That’s one possibility,” said the attractive cocktail waitress with the knowing smile, as she efficiently removed a goblet of Merlot from her tray of drinks and placed it on a coaster to his left, deftly accepting the $5 chip from the balding man at the $100 table, while avoiding his smoldering hand-made Helix cigar.

      The Pit Boss, pretending to adjust Mr. G’s playing rate and up-date the comps, signed out and took a short, furtive glance at the dark silhouette reflected on the small screen. Adjusting a brightly colored tie, the Boss turned from the monitor, rose, and walked slowly past Ben reminding him, “Mr. G, it’s time!”

      “Time for what?” asked Boogie, rising quickly, intending to follow the Boss.

      Instead, Boogie stopped unexpectedly and turned around. From behind him, in a sing song, but commanding voice came, “Time for everything. Time for nothing. Time for show. Time for tell. Time for ‘Show and Tell.’ It’s your choice.”

      “What’s with the riddles and attempts at bad humor?” Boogie asked snottily of the new voice.

      “Because, Benjamin ‘Boogie’ Geller, that’s why you’re here.”

      “I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean—and how do you know my name? —But no … I’m here to try and make some money. Or at least get even.”

      “How much is some money?”

      “I don’t know … ten—, or 15 thousand.”

      “And ‘Get even’ for what?”

      “The way life has treated me,” Boogie said caustically. “But I’ll settle for just today’s losses.”

      “Well, either of those scenarios could be considerably more than you expect.”

      “You know—how about tellin’ me where I am and what the HELL is that last remark about ‘scenarios’ mean?” shouted Mr. G in frustration.

      “WE DO NOT USE THAT LANGUAGE HERE,” thundered through Ben Geller’s tissues and neurons. Maybe it was the 4 glasses of Merlot on an empty stomach, but he felt like he was going to throw up.

      A long moment of utter silence. And realization … Or at least the possibility of where he was and the seriousness of it all. A small and extremely frightened voice that once belonged to a much younger Benji Geller came out with, “Yes Sir.”

      “Thank you for your attention and attempt at a change of attitude, but it’s not necessary to call me ‘Sir.’ ”

      “Then what should I call you, S—” said Ben somewhat meekly; looking down at his hands and hoping the verbal slip went unnoticed.

      “You may call me Amaterasu, Bhagawan, Chaacs, Dumnezeu, El Shaddai, F’sahg, Gospod, Hera, Imana, Jumala, Kwoth, Leza, Mulungu, Ngai, Ormuzd, Perendia, Ra, Shen, Tengri, Ualare, Votan, Waqa, Xwede, YHVH Tzva’ot, or Zikhle Zin … You may have heard of me.”

      “What happened to Q?”

      “Even James Bond films need a tune up!”

      “You have GOT-to-be-kidding!”

      ≈ Hmmm. Some of The Chosen People have been known to pronounce it GOTT, thought GOD ≈

      

      “You’re getting close, but most Westerners just spell it with a D,” said GOD playfully. “OK. Tell you what! Let’s make it easy! How about calling me Max?”

      Looking into the distance, a long silence was followed by a pondering … “ ‘Max’ ?”

      “Yes?

Скачать книгу