Talk to Mike Grotsky on the Fictionville blog
Sal got off the bus in Jerusalem. He walked aimlessly for a while, taking in the feel of the ancient place. He had his pack and thought to look for a room.
“Are you on the lam?” a voice asked.
Sal turned to look into the man’s shaded face. There was that question again. ‘Are you on the lam?’ The steelworker in Cahuita had asked him the same thing. It turned out that it was the steelworker who was on the lam then, marlin fishing trying to find that adrenaline kick he’d been withdrawing from since 9/11. Was he on the lam this time? Everyone was on the lam when you got down to it. Most people just didn’t know from what. Or they didn’t want to know. So he agreed that he was.
“Need a room?” the man asked.
Sal nodded and the man turned and led him through some alleys without a word. Sal followed his back and saw that the man was dressed entirely in black, even his socks had not a speck of color. This was the Middle East, yet the man was pale as an undertaker. But he was drawn to follow him, as he had been with Don Xcremento, the first shaman to initiate him into ancient practices. That journey had required a descent, physical and emotional, into subterranean realities. Sal felt his senses becoming more alert. If he’d had a tail it would have stood up.
The man led him into an apartment which had almost no furniture or rugs. The walls were patched with plaster and some wires hung from the walls on rusty nails. The place was dim. They sat down, cross-legged on the floor. The man started rocking and making a humming sound from deep in his throat. He rocked from side to side, eyes closed, as little by little Sal found the sound beginning to buzz in his own throat. The humming had something of a growl to it. Once it had started in him, Sal found that he could not turn it off. The man kept on, growling, chanting, humming. Sal followed, feeling a vibration start to move up his back, along his spine. Everything became suddenly bright and a light went off in his head. Sal passed out and lay down on his side.
When he woke he was lying on a bunk bed, a couple of feet from the ceiling. There was no one in the room, a light was on, outside it was dark. Two devotees came into the room. They looked at the light.
“Who put the light on?” one said.
“Why would someone do that?” the second one answered.
“Now we’ll have to sleep with it on” the first one complained.
“Maybe someone will come and turn it off” he added.
Sal watched them from the bed, feeling as if he was trying to speak a foreign tongue. The two men looked up at him. “Who’s he?” one of them asked. The other one shook his head.
“Maybe he can turn it off” he suggested.
“That would be something” his friend agreed. “Why don’t you ask him.”
“Hey mister” the first one said to Sal, “can you turn the light off?”
“No, wait a second” number two interrupted before Sal could answer, “if he’s up there he must be passing, then he can’t do it either. He can’t touch anything.”
“That’s true” the first agreed. “He can’t even get down from there. So it couldn’t have been him that turned it on.”
“Is that right, mister?” called out the other.
“Don’t ask him!” corrected the second,” he wouldn’t know. And if he did, he couldn’t tell.”
“Sorry, you’re right” his colleague agreed. “We better just leave him alone. They may come for him at any time.”
“And I wouldn’t want to get in the middle of that” said the first.
“Let’s git and leave him to it, eh.”
And they went back out the door, leaving the light on and Sal on the bunk, somewhere this side of meditation.