I was in prison. Not with iron bars and constant walking guards. This place was like a tiny little village in Mexico or Central America, or maybe even South America. The walls were aged white stucco. We stayed in what would have been a large commons room. Along the walls of the this great open room they had built little cubicles with a chicken wire fence where iron bars would be. There was a little chicken wire gate that was never locked from the outside, but it had a little hook latch that we could lock for our own privacy. It was a tall room. High enough to have a walk way above the first tier of cells. That walk way lead to a second layer of cells. Each cell had a wooden roof of rough hewn slates. Over the widely space slats what a layer of sheet metal. Then open air, and floor or the ceiling of building above. The center of the room was a maze of walls, and loose straw couches. The maze was no problem to solve; it was simple on purpose, but it gave us dens of inequity.
I'd fallen in with a group of Americans, we were all Americans come to think of it, but we didn't labor on that fact. Each of us knew that we didn't belong there. Yet, we never mentioned our charges of crime, nor did we ever talk about our defense attorneys. We just knew we didn't belong there. We talked mostly about escape plans. And we talked about each other.
Who ever knows what someone else truly thinks about you? So nothing was said about me. There was a skinny little guy, a neurotic coward of guy. Everyone else wore classic Papyion white prison third rate cotton. He wore a red t-shirt, almost a night shirt on him, and he wore a beanie. What wanted to be ruler of his own country. And until the peasants of that country come to him and ask him to be their ruler, he's settle to rule over himself and the only red shirt, and the only hat in the place.
We had a guy from the 70's disco babe chasing machine guys. I was talker to the old man of the group one day and I said, I don't like disco jock over there. The old man looked up at me, as if from a book of Chekhov short stories. I like the guy, he said, because the author takes a sympathetic view of him.
And the old man was in our coup. He seemed content, even serene, as if he felt down deep inside that, this too shall pass. He was older than he let on. At least that's what we thought out of respect for his attitude in life and for his vanity.
There was also a beautiful black woman with us. She sang little rhythmic ditties all day, of two none words, like “mone – wa”. All I could think about was what a great lover she would be. Her face as rich as wedding cake icing. Her songs were so heart felt they flowed out of her like sunlight falls onto your skin. The glorious high notes that took you to a place where all was glory to the highest. And low notes that took you hand and then hugged in a way that all the fears that bring on the night never had a chance to exist. And then there was the rhythm of her song. It was as if everyone that was good would always go on and on, effortlessly, and you'd be one with her subtle changes. Changes so perfect that you'd know that this new change was nothing more than a different part of the same rhythm. Ah, to have here around.
One day, Lee Majors joins our group. Now, we were going to escape for sure; we had a real live Hollywood Hero on our side. Truth was: he'd escaped before, got caught, and was brought back here. We will escape soon boys, and when we do avoid the church. Avoid the church at all costs. Evil is there.
During our days, we might make some impracticable crafts. Instead of weaving baskets, we'd weave birds. Even a sow's ear. Or we might hang out outside. Either way, we never saw any guards. Although we knew they were watching the prison walls. Some people had been killed trying to escape.
Today, we were outside. There were several little buildings in this abandoned village. Some had walls around their yards. All the buildings had the same hot tin roofs. I saw the black woman sitting on a wall, singing. I headed that way. When I reached her, I saw that several members of my coup had climbed onto a little shack and were leaping for the top of the wall. They were barely missing the top. Come on man, you can do it. And then you could help the rest of us over. Looking over the feat, I thought I could manage it. But I knew I'd get shot once it became apparent that I could escape. I shook my head no. Then the old man jumped for it, missed and fell. He landed on a pipe and seriously hurt his back. The black woman stopped her singing and yelled for me to go help him. I scrambled over to him. He was unconscious. The black woman came to our aid. She and I decided that we had to get him to a hospital. The prison had no help to offer. Dead, or incapacitated prisoners were cheaper to deal with here. The group helped to fashion a gurney which the woman and I drug off toward the some mythical hospital on the outside. She was all songs after she alerted me. And as we drug him off together, I sang my own two syllable non-words.
Without a thought about the guards we drug him across the the prison yard. It wasn't until we were well beyond the walls that we realized we were free.
We were in a land of large, wind swept cypress trees, eucalyptuses trees, grass as tall as your waste and as wasted as youth. The air was so sweet that it picked us off our feet. We were flying. Flying to the hospital to heal our friend. The sweet air had brought him too. He was flying too and he wheezed that he was alright now. Not this time we thought, as we flew on with him in tow.
We stopped at the first noble building. We landed like ducks on a pond. And she and I drug him closer to the building. Looking at the huge building of white stone I stopped and said, Now, this is a “real church.” A “real church” white dove landed in my hair and then flew off to door. We followed.
There was an elderly white woman standing post outside the door. She held a thick book in her arms. The old woman didn't look at us. She asked us, what's wrong; is there anything I can do to help you?
We started bullshitting her; we didn't want her to know that we were escaped convicts. She stopped our stories cold by announcing that she was a healer, retired now, but she could heal us just the same if only we would be honest. Then she turned and looked into our hearts. She said the old man has been suffering from arthritis in his back for years. The black woman replied in earnest, oh no, he fell on his back just today. And that's why we brought him here.
The old man spoke through his pain and embarrassment, she's right. I never told anyone because I didn't want you guys to razz me.
Shocked and encouraged by her insight I asked if this place was some kind of underground railroad. Could they give us sanctuary until a safe passage was prepared for freedom?
The singer grabbed my arm and whispered a warning, Lee Majors warned us to never come here.
Maybe it was her touch that set off the idea, whatever, the old healer and I said the same thing at the time. He'd been here before, was set free, and returned on his own accord because he couldn't handle complete freedom.
I looked past the healer; the church door was open and I saw a day care inside. I heaved tears. And the healer looked at me and said, Yes, you can get out; if you are honest in your heart.
And then I saw this prison as a metaphor for my life. I'm always in places I don't want to be. The nodded to me. She whispered, take the first step; there's only one.
I shook my head no. I can't leave my friends behind. They are too scared to come here.
And then I woke up.
Fool, I cried. The only way to help them is from the other side.
It's impossible to explain the rightness of this dream. Because you had to have been there to know that the air can be so sweet to lift you off the ground. And a building can be more than you could possibly imagine God to be. And only in the land beyond can whispering an honest admission will gain you eternal freedom from yourself. And only in my dreams do I see that for a brief, unreal moment I have been to other side, and that maybe if the Lord's willing and the creeks don't rise, I can give you hand to see it to...
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