Another Jim Walter Original Story

The Wall

Paul noticed that his shadow stretched halfway across the street. He would have to walk a little faster, he decided, if he were going to get to his usual spot in time to watch the sun set over the river. Down Sullivan Street, under the Second Avenue bridge and then out to the small, treeless park where the river rounded a gentle bend before passing through the middle of town. Paul began this little ritual not long after he moved here. Almost every evening after work, he walked out this way—to replay the activities of the day, to make plans or decisions—big and small, or just to think about things. Sunsets in the park made him feel at one with the world even, or perhaps especially, when nobody else was around.

Traffic was light on Sullivan tonight for a Monday, Paul thought to himself. It was already dark under the bridge, but as he passed the high concrete retaining wall and emerged on the other side to finish his walk out to the bank of the Maubequot, the clear sky overhead was a deep azure. To the west, where the clouds were, it gradually intensified into a burnt orange and then quickly to a fluorescent yellow near the horizon. As Paul approached, he saw a male figure silhouetted in the brightness, standing and facing the river, inches from the spot where Paul usually stood. Carefully watching his step as he neared the river’s edge, Paul took a place six or seven feet away and looked out straight ahead toward the sun.

The newcomer turned his head in Paul’s direction. "Nice evening," he said and turned back to the sun. Paul returned without moving, "Yup, it sure is." Each in his own way, the men surveyed the silent, fiery close of another day. Paul took to looking straight up and then slowly tilting his head back down toward the horizon to scan the subtle changes of color in the sky. The man on his right at first had his head bowed and his eyes closed. Then, he raised his head to level and slowly swiveled it from right to left as if measuring the panorama for some reason.

"It really makes you think, doesn’t it?" the man said.

"How’s that?" Paul inquired. "Whenever I see the sunset, I wonder about who made such a thing," he said. Paul then asked, "What thing?"

"The sunset, of course," he responded. "It’s so huge and all encompassing. It’s overwhelming. I mean, the sun brings us light and warmth and lets us do what we do every day. Then, at the end of the day, it leaves and offers us a beautiful show—all the colors, all the nuances of light. Finally, it changes everything—from light to dark. Where would we be without it? I say thanks and pray every day at sunset that the sun will come again to bring tomorrow to us all."

"So," said Paul, "you worship the sun."

"No, no. Don’t get me wrong. I’m no pagan," he explained. "I believe that there is something out there that created the sun, and the earth, and everything else. How could it be otherwise? These things couldn’t have just happened, of course—all together, all at the same time. Everything’s here so we people can enjoy it. So we can experience the joy of the color and the..."

"The fact that it’s happening to all of us at the same time. We all can see the same thing, right?" Paul interrupted.

"Yeah, that’s right. By the way, what’s your name?" the man asked. "I’m Paul," Paul told him. "And, what’s yours?" "They call me John. It’s a common name for a common man."

"It’s nice to meet you, John," Paul said, extending his hand. "Did you know that the Egyptians worshipped the sun? And the Aztecs and others?" Paul asked as John grasped his hand and pumped it heartily.

"Sure, anybody who’s been in school knows that." John let Paul’s hand go. "But they believed in false gods and performed human sacrifice and all that. They never knew any better."

"Any better than what?" Paul inquired.

"Any better than they did. I mean, they put all of their belief in the actual, physical being itself. The sun was god. The corn was god. The water was god. They had to touch it first and then gave each thing a certain power. Basically, they let the common things around them rule their lives. They weren’t advanced enough to believe that something that they couldn’t see made all these things and brought them to the people so they could have them and use them and receive life from them. Those people had no faith."

"I see," Paul said, keeping his eyes fixed on the setting sun. "There are some people who look up at the sunset and, thanks to science, they know that the Earth revolves around the sun and rotates to create the sunrise and the sunset. That there is water vapor to make the sky blue and to make the clouds and to refract the light into all the bright, beautiful and various colors we see. Not only that, they know that all these things would be here, doing what they do, whether we are here or not. Isn’t that a form of faith?" Paul asked, turning toward John.

"Well, yeah, I guess it is," John admitted. "And where do you stand in all of this anyway?"

"I’m not a scientist," Paul answered, "but I accept that what the scientists have learned pretty well explains it." "Then why, if you’ve got it all figured out, do you come out here, day after day, to watch the sun go down?" John asked.

"Wait a minute. How do you know I come here a lot? "

"Heh," John said, chuckling, "Because I’m here, too. Maybe you just never noticed me up the river there. Or across over there. Or down toward the train track closer to downtown," he said, quickly moving his pointed finger to each new spot. "I’ve seen you."

A little annoyed, Paul asked, "Why are you watching me? Are you some kind of stalker or something?" John shot back, "Hey, I told you. I come here to pray. Nothing more. Nothing less. Are you a praying man?"

"Me? No, I wouldn’t say that, no. I don’t really think it’s right to be selfishly asking for something all the time," Paul said a little sanctimoniously. Not taking the bait, John answered with a simple "I see."

"So," John asked, "What is it that you come here to do?" Paul first hesitated and then responded, "If you have to know, I like to walk and I come here to think and to feel a kinship with the rest of crea—I mean, the rest of what’s here all around me. I’m an art director at an ad agency, but I also do some painting and drawing on the side. I come to try to get an idea where the color comes from and let images come into my mind. And, to get..."

"Inspiration, right?" John stated assuredly.

"Right," Paul conceded. "To get inspiration."

"Sounds a little bit like praying to me," John challenged.

"Yeah, I guess it could. If you have to put it that way. Yes, it could."

"So, why did you happen to be right here tonight?" Paul asked, "You’re standing right where I usually stand."

"I was curious about you and I told myself tonight, I’m going to find out about this guy," John confided. "Well," Paul said, "are you satisfied with what you have learned?"

"I suppose I am," John informed him. "But also a little surprised. I guess I expected someone who comes here for the sunset as often as I do would pretty much have the same view of things. I guess that’s not so, but you seem like a decent guy."

"It’s a pretty big world; there’s plenty of room for all of us, don’t you think?" Paul intoned and then added, "I hope you’re not disappointed."

In the dimming light that was left in the west, John then looked Paul in the eye and said, "Nope. In fact I like it better this way. Makes things more interesting."

Paul agreed.

As the last vestiges of light rays from the setting sun were now gone, Paul and John started instinctively to make their way back toward the Second Avenue Bridge. "Since you found out what I do, let me ask you what you do" Paul asked innocuously.

"I’m the head of night security at the National Bank building downtown," John informed him. "I’m on my way home to grab a bite to eat and then get downtown to start my shift."

"Security, that’s kind of dangerous work, isn’t it?" Paul surmised.

"Not to me, it isn’t. I just make my rounds and sit and watch half a dozen TV monitors all night. I can see just about everything that goes on there. Usually it’s not much." John answered. "But, what I do get to see is the lengths that people go to just to protect what they own. I mean, all the safes and locks and bars and cameras and everything."

As they started up a steeper part of the hill leading back to Sullivan Street, Paul replied, "Yeah, fear will drive a man to do some pretty strange things. Just look at all the car alarms and home security systems and insurance policies that people buy year after year. No offense to you, though. I know that your job depends on it. Come to think of it, the company I work for makes half its yearly revenues promoting products like that." Paul began to laugh and then continued, "Wouldn’t it be something if we could all make a living based on what we believe in instead of what we fear? But then again, but that would make us all ministers or priests or something, don’t you think?"

"Yeah, it could. Either that or else we’d all be salesmen," John returned. He paused to think a moment and said, "And then that would bring us right back to where we are now." Both men laughed out loud at the idea as they set foot on pavement for the first time since they left the riverbank.

John and Paul continued up the sidewalk and under the dark expanse of the Second Avenue Bridge. Traffic was down to an occasional car buzzing by. Near the midway point under the bridge, the two slowed their walk down to a stop. John declared, "I’m going to cross over here so I can get on home before work. It was a pleasure to meet you and talk to you tonight. We might not see eye to eye on everything, but I enjoyed hearing about things from your perspective. It’s different, but it’s not crazy, like some people."

"Thanks, John, I guess. Whaddaya say we meet here again tomorrow night around, say, 7:30? I know I’ll be here and I’m pretty sure you will be too."

"That sounds fine to me," John declared.

"Good," Paul said and extended his hand to John.

Just then, a large dark sedan thumping with music squealed by them in the near lane. Through an open window on the passenger’s side someone yelled out, "Hey you faggots. Why don’t you go back to Key West!" and threw something straight at them. John ducked and Paul jerked his head away to the left just in time to hear the projectile whiz past a few inches from his ear. The can of Diet Dr. Pepper hit the wall behind them with a wet thud, slid straight down the wall and rolled back down the embankment and onto the sidewalk. The pitch of the pavement kept the can rolling until it hit a small rock, bounced into the street, rolled into a storm drain and disappeared with an empty, tinny clink.

"You okay?" John asked.

"Yeah, I’m okay, but it just missed me!" Paul said.

"Kids," said John in exasperation. "Did you get the license number or anything?”

"Naw," said Paul, "All I saw was a bumper sticker."

"Well, as long as you’re all right, I’m heading over now."

"Okay, be careful," Paul said as they shook hands. "I’ll see you tomorrow."

"I’ll be here," John promised. "See you tomorrow."

The next day, as the noise from his sander died away, John flipped up his goggles and pulled the dust mask off his face and down around his neck. The minute particles of sawdust that his sander had sent up into the air looked like tan smoke in the sunbeam that poured through the only window in his little shop. I’ll finish this cabinet tomorrow. Time to put these tools away and take a walk by the river, he reminded himself. He stowed away the wood putty, the power sander, and the other gear. Slapping and rubbing himself on the chest, arms, and thighs to get rid of the dust, John let himself out of the house and locked the door behind him. He then strolled briskly down to Sullivan Street and followed it to where it ran under the Second Street Bridge.

Close to the middle, John saw his counterpart staring at a strange dark parabola that ran down the retaining wall near where he and Paul were talking last night. "Hey, John, what do you make of this?" Paul asked him. John looked at the wall and then at the bunch of cut fresh flowers at the base of the wall. "Nice flowers. I wonder why somebody would just toss them here like this," he said.

Paul speculated, "Maybe they’re a remembrance for some traffic fatality nearby. You know, like they do along the roadsides? The State DOT has a problem with that, though."

"Yeah, well the government doesn’t like a lot of things we do, but that shouldn’t keep us from doing them," John said.

Paul nodded, took in a breath and announced, "Let’s get down to the river before the sun leaves us behind."

They dodged a couple of cars as they crossed Sullivan Street. When they got to the other side, Paul stopped and said, "Just a minute." He looked back across the street and exclaimed, "Uh-huh. Now I get it! That’s where that hooligan tried to clock us from that car last night. He must have thrown a can of something at us. We heard it hit the wall. Remember?"

"I sure do," John concurred, "But it’s more than that now. Look. Don’t you see it?"

Paul scanned the wall and shook his head. "Yes, my gosh, I think I do," he commented.

"It’s a sign," said John.

"It’s a stain," Paul retorted. "That’s probably beer or soda or whatever on that wall. How can you call it a sign? Whoever threw that can at us last night wasn’t trying to anoint us. They wanted to scare us, or worse. They thought we were fags, remember?"

"You’re right. You’re right. They didn’t have the best of intentions for us. And it probably is Coke^® or something all over that wall. But if that image can move someone to take the time and effort to put a bunch of flowers nearby in commemoration, then it’s more than that. There’s something inside each of us. God works in..."

"I know, I know," Paul interjected. "I’ve read the Bible too."

As they walked on to the opening of the bridge and turned the corner toward the river, they both saw immediately that the sun had already set while they had been talking. They looked at each other and shrugged. Then, without speaking, they turned around and headed back up Sullivan and into the darkness under the middle of the bridge. As they prepared to cross the street on the way back home, Paul broke the silence with, "You know, I guess it’s cool to leave those flowers there like that because they’re natural and bring beauty to the place and someone is using them to express what is inside himself. To me, life is all about expression, you know. Is that what you meant by ‘something in each of us’?"

"Yeah, sort of like that," John said. They crossed Sullivan and parted.

"Too bad we didn’t get to see the sun tonight," Paul said over his shoulder.

"Yeah, but we saw a different kind of light here this time. See you tomorrow." John called out.

"Sure," Paul called back, "Tomorrow. By the way, I remembered what that bumper sticker said: ‘God is Awesome.’ Goodnight."

The following day, both men hit Sullivan Street at the same time. They greeted each other and started under the bridge. At the site of the image on the wall, they noticed something new: the flowers had started to wilt, and now on top of them, there was a short candle flickering in a small glass cup at the base of the wall. As they passed by, they noticed someone had neatly written "Mary, pray for us" to the right of the image. But there was no one else around. Without lingering, they walked on to the opening of the bridge and turned to trudge on toward the river. "You know, I’ve been thinking about what you said last night—about something being inside of us and how this is a sign," Paul began.

"Uh-huh," said John.

"I think that what we call god is what is in all of us. Because we are all one, we each have a little godness inside," Paul stated, walking along in the cool green grass of the park.

"Interesting for you to say that. Of course God is in all of us. God is everywhere, in all things, at all times," John said, hardly masking the pleasure in his voice. "I’ve been waiting for you to understand and admit that. I knew I was right about you."

"Now, hold on John. Hear me out here," Paul said contentiously. "What I mean is, when we are looking for the meaning of life, we start from the premise that we are not god. Even though the notion of a god comes from within, we always put god outside ourselves. As if we couldn’t possibly be god. Like it’s some sort of sin or something to believe that we are. I’m saying that we are part of one great, I don’t know, universal something-or-other. It couldn’t be what it is without each and every thing within it."

"In a way, that’s what I’ve been telling you," John said. God made us all in his image and created the earth and the heavens and what you call the universe for us to live in and be in. He is in everything and everything goes along according to His plan."

Paul stopped in his tracks about ten feet from the river’s edge. "Now, that’s where I need to explain something," Paul declared. "When we are looking for a god in order to make sense of what our lives mean, we always look outside ourselves. We keep this god apart from ourselves—in other words—whatever it may be, it’s not us. That way, we have something to ascribe all power to. It’s something that we can blame when things go badly and praise and thank when something good happens. You might call it a lack of faith, but I call it a lack of responsibility."

As they walked the last few steps to the river bank, John confessed, "Paul, if I didn’t know you and how sincere you are about all this, I’d say you were a kook. That’s just what I would expect to hear from some starry-eyed New Ager who keeps candles and crystals all over the house and believes that dolphins swim in the sky out west. They can’t prove that any more than I can prove to them that there was a Garden of Eden."

"New Ager, huh? Why the need for the labels?" Paul returned, a little testy. "Once you call something a name, it carries a stigma. And that stigma is what people react to—without thinking more about the idea behind it. It’s like it becomes a code word. It’s not really fair and it prevents any further thought or communication. A barrier, not a bridge. And hey, if you want to see candles, stop by any cathedral." The two stopped and sat with their feet dangling over the riverbank.

Looking out over the river, John said, "Whoa, I think I hit a nerve there. Sorry, I was just thinking that the term would give you an idea of what I was talking about. I didn’t think it meant that much, or that people were so sensitive." "Some of us are, I guess," Paul responded. "Anyway, I didn’t mean to snap at you, I just wanted to let you know where I stood. I feel comfortable telling you these things somehow. I don’t usually talk much about this stuff."

"That’s okay, man. Besides, ‘to forgive is divine’."

The two sat silently, looking out to the west and swinging their feet back and forth in the open space over the river. A jet passing in the distance drew a straight white line across the darkening sky. They looked at each other and smiled in satisfaction as the sharp line softened gradually into a long feathery wisp. "Another beauty," Paul remarked. Once the red sky turned dark purple, they both scooted back from the edge of the bank and picked themselves up to return home.

On Thursday, John arrived under the bridge first and was jolted by what he saw on the wall. The petition to Mary had been scribbled over and replaced with a chilling message: "Worship something real" and a pentagram. Looking all around the area, but not finding any perpetrators, John climbed up to the wall and rubbed his finger over the satanic sign, smearing a thin trail within it. Shoe polish, he said to himself. How is that ever going to come off? He turned and started down the small slope between the wall and the sidewalk, stepping on and then slipping in the smashed remains of the flowers that had appeared on Tuesday night. Regaining his balance, he looked up to see Paul coursing up the sidewalk to the site.

"What’s new?" Paul asked as he took the last few steps to where John was now standing.

"I’m starting to lose my patience with people coming to this place," John answered. Paul looked up at the wall and shook his head slowly.

"Looks like there’s another point of view among us," he said benignly.

"That’s not just another point of view, Paul. That’s evil. It’s the devil himself," John argued.

"Don’t get too worked up about it, John. This place is public and there are all kinds of people out there. The more you stew about it, the more power you give it. What you resist, persists. Forget it and it will go away. We’ll bring something tomorrow and see if we can get it off the wall, if it’ll make you feel better," Paul assured him.

"I know what you’re saying, Paul, but bothers me that this thing has attracted such a dark element. Can’t they just leave well enough alone?" John lamented.

"Yeah, that’s one way to look at it. On the other hand, it’s just another set of beliefs being expressed by somebody else. To them, what we think is probably just as abhorrent, Paul explained.

"Yeah, but we were here first," John shot back.

"John, think about it. Isn’t that way of thinking just going to escalate this to maybe dangerous levels?" Paul asked.

"Sometimes you’ve got to fight for what you believe is right!" snapped John, pounding his fist into his other hand.

"Hey, why don’t we go have a look at something we know is going to please us both? C’mon," Paul cajoled, putting his arm around John’s shoulder.

As they sauntered out to the park, Paul spoke up, "It’s like I was telling you before—about where we look for our god. When we start by looking outside ourselves and to other people, we just don’t find it. We don’t see the similarities. All we see are the differences. And when you throw in all the physical, cultural, psychological, and intellectual differences we have, you’ve got one healthy rationale for fear and hatred."

"I see what you’re saying, Paul. And that’s why I say that God is out there, above us all, watching us—watching over us. He knows that He made us different and that we sometimes make mistakes and hurt each other while we are on Earth. That’s why, in the end, there’ll be a judgment and a place for us to go when we die." John explained.

"It’s comforting to know that we have a place," Paul conceded, and then continued, "It’s nice to think there’s a heaven."

Enlivened, John piped up, "There’s a heaven all right, but not everyone’s going to make it there. We’ll all get what we deserve."

"I see," Paul said.

"Look there!" Paul said excitedly, pointing at the sky overhead. "The moon’s almost full tonight. I forgot it was going to be out by this time. We’re at the end of another cycle."

"It’s a beautiful sight," John declared, "God must be pleased."

"Well, I know I am," Paul said. "Let’s get going."

As they made their way back toward the bridge, John said, "I’m almost afraid to come back here tomorrow. What if those Satanists come back and trash everything that’s there?"

What if they do?" Paul countered. "What would be lost? A stain on a wall? Some burned out candles? What’s going on here isn’t physical; it’s on a higher plane than that. This place is just teasing out what we have within us. And that can’t be destroyed. It’d be a shame to see the place ruined, but it wouldn’t be the end of the world..." Paul stopped suddenly and said, "Sorry, bad choice of words. Anyway, we’re coming here tomorrow to do our part to make it better. Bring something to put the trash in and I’ll see about getting that scrawling off the wall."

"When do you want to meet? asked John.

"Can you come a little early? How’s 6:30?" Paul offered.

"Sure. No problem." They bade each other good night and drifted off to their homes.

Typically on Fridays Paul left work, for him anyway, early. Today was no different, except this time he had a mission. He grabbed a small can of mineral spirits and an old rag off the shelf in his workroom. Then he put them into an old paper bag and turned out the light. Stepping carefully down the stairs to the lobby, Paul left the building and turned toward Sullivan Street. At his place closer to the edge of town, John grabbed a new trash bag from his workshop and set out toward the street to begin his trek toward the area under the Second Avenue Bridge.

They met up on the street a few blocks away from the bridge. Paul noticed that the traffic was awfully slow, even for a Friday afternoon. "I see you were serious about getting that bit of blasphemy off the wall," John began.

"I told you I was," said Paul.

"Good," John said, "I’ve got something for the trash. Let’s go down and see what we can do." As they closed in on the bridge, they heard the strains of a familiar song. The closer they got, the stronger the melody of "How Great Thou Art" entered their ears. In the distance, John and Paul saw something that heartened and mystified them at the same time: a crowd of six or seven had gathered at the site and the people were standing in a circle. Each had his arms crossed in front of him and was holding the hand of the one on either side. They were singing with sweet abandon. There were lots more flowers around now and as the two got closer to the action, they noticed that the pentagram was gone, along with the words that went with it. Once again, Mary was being called on.

"Wow, would you look at that," Paul exclaimed. "This has really had an impact!"

"It’s the power of God, I tell you," John answered back. "A call to the faithful."

John walked up to the site singing and nudged his way into the circle with the others. There was a beatific smile on his face that Paul couldn’t ignore. Paul hung back, but noticed himself humming along with the tune. As the group began "Onward Christian Soldiers", Paul’s attention drifted away and over to the traffic that was slowly passing by on Sullivan Street. Half of the passersby honked their horns to cheer the singers on and waved with opened palms. The other half were heckling the singers with shouts of "Freaks!" and "Stay out of the streets" and "Why don’t you save it for church?"

Out of nowhere, a reporter from the local daily rushed up the sidewalk followed closely by a photographer. The photographer stopped every few steps to aim and shoot. Once down Sullivan Street and then, turning quickly, once up the street. Then two shots of the singers near the wall. Then, carefully sliding between the cars crawling by, he set up on the opposite side of Sullivan for his wide shot. The reporter, pen and notebook in hand, moved swiftly toward the singers. Leaving his bag on a bare spot just off the sidewalk, Paul moved in toward the activity, staying several paces back.

"What’s going on here? What brings you here under this bridge?" were the first two questions she asked. One of the singers explained, "It’s a miracle. Mary has come to be with us!" He then pointed to the image on the wall. Another flash went off from the camera. Another in the group added, "It’s a blessing on us all. God wants us to know He’s here with us. Come and see." The reporter climbed up to the wall to look closely and touch the image that had everyone so excited. Immediately, she stepped back down to the sidewalk and turned to John. "This looks more like an act of vandalism to me and...it’s all sticky. What’s your name and what do you know about this?” she inquired loudly.

"My name’s John, and all I know," John told her, "is that it’s brought good people together and that’s okay with me."

"Thanks," the reporter said and then turned to another in the group of singers.

Paul reached out and grasped John’s arm. "Let’s get down to the river," Paul pleaded. "This is getting just a little bit too public for me."

They made their way across Sullivan and were crossing the grass toward the riverbank when John asked excitedly, "Did you see that back there? Did you feel the power?"

"Yes, yes. I was there. Remember?"

"How can you deny the power of God now? You saw what it stirred in those people."

"I’m not denying anything, John. I just think that people bring what they have inside of them and that makes things happen," Paul explained. "I have to tell you, though, that I got a little nervous when the media showed up."

"Don’t worry my friend," John said, "That’s just part of it all. You can’t keep the good news from spreading."

At the river’s edge, they stood looking out over the horizon. It was a good twenty minutes before the sun would set, so Paul sat down on the bank and then lay on his back in the grass looking up into the blue sky. John followed suit. "When did you develop your thoughts about God?" Paul asked, staring straight up.

"Whoa, that’s a good question. When I was a kid, my mother took me to church and I learned all about God and everything, but I can’t say that I had developed my own thoughts about Him. I was just going along with everyone else there. I thought it was the right thing to do," he said. "In fact, when my father left my mom when I was nine, I was convinced that there was no God. I mean, how could a loving God let my father leave my mom alone to raise four kids? Those were the hardest and loneliest times of my life, until way later. I was bitter and hostile for a while, but then I got over it and just started living from day to day. Then, much later, I got married to Hope and we had a daughter, Becky. When I looked into Becky’s eyes, I started to think about God again. What a precious gift, I thought.

“Anyway, one night, there was a bad storm. The power was out and rain and lightning were everywhere. I was waiting for them to come home from the supermarket, so I could take the car into work. I got a call that they had both been killed in a wreck three blocks from our house. A car had plowed into them at an intersection where the traffic light was out." John paused to take in a deep breath and compose himself, then continued, "I lashed out, blaming everything and everyone for taking away my family. I was in misery. Then, one day, somebody from work took me to church with him. As I talked to some people there and listened to the pastor there talking about God’s will, I realized that this is all part of His plan and who was I to question the Almighty. Since then, I’ve been following His will for me, and I have to tell you, you sound a lot like I did before I went to that church. I guess that’s how I can relate to you so well."

Paul squirmed in the grass a bit before he spoke, "I’m sorry, John. I didn’t have any idea you had been through so much. I hope you can understand."

John answered, "Hey, if you don’t live it, you can’t give it. I understand that. But, what about you? Where do your ideas about all this come from?"

"My story’s a lot simpler, I guess," Paul began. "I went to church just like you did when I was a kid. I grew up going through all the motions: Sunday school, confirmation, the junior choir and dressing up every Sunday morning. It was just what you did at the time. Then, I went to college. I took a few anthropology courses and studied comparative religions. I got a more objective view. I saw a lot of the similarities religions had with each other and I stopped believing in absolutes. Later on in life, I realized that we all have to have something to hold on to, to help explain it all. Or, at least, to back ourselves up when we get to the point where some things are just unknowable." Paul took in another breath and ended with a bit of a sigh, "I don’t want to put myself into a category necessarily, but if I had to, I’d call myself a spiritual mongrel. I’m a mix of Buddhist, Taoist, Sufi Muslim, Christian and Hindu. I like the detachment of Buddhism, the idea of reincarnation and, especially, the Golden Rule."

John sat up in the grass and said warmly, "Well, let me tell you that you didn’t turn out so bad, Paul. Anyone who could tell that story as fluently and as honestly as you did has got to be a true believer in something. And I can respect that."

"Thanks, John, that’s important to me," Paul said, "And I’m glad that you can make room for it in the way you see others. That’s all I’ve been trying to get you to do."

"Well, as you see, you didn’t have to try very hard. Look, it’s almost dark now. Let’s go see what’s happening back under the bridge."

The two made their way back up to the overpass and on to the makeshift shrine. When they arrived, it was deserted. Just a few candles flickered in the darkness, giving the image on the wall a sense of movement. "Something important happened here today," John said.

"Indeed it did, John, indeed it did," Paul returned. "What do you think we’ll see in tomorrow’s paper?"

"Oh, probably a few sentences about some religious fanatics having another one of their visions down under a deserted bridge," John opined.

"But we know better, don’t we?" Paul said and added, looking around him, "Oh, just one thing. I left a bag with some mineral spirits in it around here somewhere. I need to get it and take it home." John looked around in a few places and concluded, "You won’t find it here in the dark. We’ll come back tomorrow and you can get it then."

"Yeah, okay," Paul sighed. "I just hate to leave it lying around." The two ambled away from the site and back toward their homes.

John woke up with a start. He remembered that paper bag Paul was so concerned about and wanted to get down to the site and pick it up— just to ease his friend’s mind. At around eight, John was zipping up his dark blue jacket as he departed from the house and made his way over to Sullivan Street. As he passed the newsstand on Orchard, he made a mental note to stop on his way home to check the Post for the article he hoped the reporter would write.

Once on Sullivan, John was stopped by a uniformed police officer standing next to a bright red wooden street barricade. "You can’t go down there today. Sullivan’s closed," the officer informed him. "Why not?" John inquired angrily. "Take a look for yourself," the officer said. John took three steps farther down the street to get a better view when the officer grabbed his sleeve and turned him around. "Not from there. From back here!" he ordered, pulling him back to the barricade. "Nobody else is getting down in that area."

Paul bent down to pick up Saturday’s Post in front of his doorstep. He brought it inside and sat down at the kitchen table. He took a sip from his coffee cup and leafed through the paper until he found what he was looking for in the local section. The headline read: "Image of Mary Appears Under Second Avenue Bridge." There was a picture of the singers in front of the image on the wall and a cutline identifying them as "a gathering of the faithful." The four column-inches devoted to the story told the who-what-when-where-why. Paul relaxed and said to himself, "Could have been worse."

He looked up at the clock; it said eight-thirty. Drawing in a short, quick breath, Paul grabbed the paper up again. He rifled back through to the article and ran his finger down the lines until he found what he was looking for. The last line read: "Reverend Ralph Dobkins has scheduled a prayer vigil for 10:00 Saturday morning." "Damn! I’ve got to get down there right away," Paul exclaimed aloud. He ran into his bedroom, threw on some clothes and rushed out the door.

Paul began loping down the street toward Sullivan, passing house after house, springing over curbs and sending the neighborhood cats scurrying this way and that. When he got to Sullivan, he turned the corner and slowed down to a trot once he saw what was up ahead. The street was empty and a block or two down there was John, standing in the middle, talking to a city cop.

When he got within earshot, Paul heard John passionately telling the police, "But you’ve got to let me go. There’s something important down there I need to pick up." Once Paul caught his eye, John yelled out, "Paul, come here!" and then told the officer, "This guy can explain. He was there too." Paul stepped up and opened his mouth to tell the cop why they were there, but the officer cut him off before he could get a word out. "I don’t care what you might have down there. There’s a huge crowd gathering under the bridge and we don’t like the looks of it. We expected a couple hundred people here tops, but this thing just mushroomed up on us. The Fire Department is already in place down there, but the call for police reinforcements is still going out. We’ve got to keep the way clear for them. Why don’t you both go home? You can come back later on when this all dies down and we issue the all clear."

"Sure officer, fine. We’ll do that. Thanks." Paul said, taking John by the shirtsleeve and backing away slowly. "We’ll come back later."

Once they were well back up the street and heading for Second Avenue, John asked, incredulous, "Paul, we need to be down there. What are you doing?"

"Never mind, just stay with me." The two took off for Second Avenue and headed up the bridge. When the slope of the bridge slowed them down, Paul told John in panting breaths, "We’re going to go in the back way...from the other side of the bridge...like we do when we come back from the park." They stopped at the top of the bridge to look at the spectacle below. They saw what must have been two or three hundred people spilling out of each end of the street under the bridge. The people were milling around, all trying to see and hear what was happening within. Paul yelled, "C’mon. We’ve got to get a better look."

They crossed the bridge and jumped down on the other side where the crowd was a little thinner. The crowd got heavy around the two fire trucks that were positioned on the street about a hundred feet away from site of the image. John and Paul plunged into the throng and slithered and elbowed and pushed their way around the trucks and past a large group of people carrying signs "Jesus is Lord" and "Stop Abortion Now" and "Terri Shiavo Was Murdered". When they couldn’t push their way any farther, they stopped to get their breath. Paul was trying to get John’s attention over the chants of "Rights for the unborn!" and "Stop the murder now!" At the same time a large group of others up the street were countering with "My body. My choice." and "Get the President off my deathbed!" At the top of his lungs, Paul shouted, "we’ve got talk to some guy named Dobkins and explain to him what happened to us. Maybe we can keep this thing from turning into a full-blown riot!

"Dobkins? I know him," John shouted back, "He was the pastor I told you about. The one who got me on my path. That’s him up there speaking now!" The two pushed and prodded and shoved their way up the street until they had reached the inner circle around the makeshift podium which consisted of a microphone and two large black public address speakers on huge tripods set up on the sidewalk below the image. Half a dozen candles illuminated the image from the bottom and the speaker towers wobbled as the crowd around them shifted about.

Dobkins had already stepped away from the microphone and was accepting a bottle of water from a follower by the time John and Paul reached him. "Pastor Dobkins. Pastor!" John shouted frantically. "My friend Paul and I have to talk to you. We don’t want to see any trouble or anyone getting hurt out here today. We know the truth behind the image on this wall and we want to share our story with the people out there." Dobkins smiled at them and said, "So, you know the truth about this, do you? Well, I’ll show you the truth. Look out at that crowd. There’s your truth."

Paul surveyed the crowd from the podium and saw waves of faces: some silent, some shouting. Many of the people were carrying signs for everything from freedom of speech to pro-life to separation of church and state to prayer in schools. There were vendors throughout the crowd selling bottled spring water, votive candles, small vinyl American flags, and plastic crucifixes. Out of the corner of his eye, Paul noticed a phalanx of police in full riot gear lining up on the outer fringe of the crowd up on the north side. Then Dobkins spoke again. "There must be a thousand faithful out there ready to hear the good news. And I’m here to deliver that news, so you’d best back away right now or I’ll have you dragged out of here on your heels."

Just then, a man in a dark suit stepped up from behind and told Dobkins, "Sir, the governor is on the phone in your car and he wants to talk to you. He says he’s got some talking points for you to use here today. We shouldn’t keep him waiting." Dobkins turned away abruptly, followed by the man in the suit. They entered a black SUV on the street nearby.

"C’mon. Now’s our chance," Paul said and led John toward the podium. After having watched Dobkins walk away, two large men stepped in front of Paul and John from either side of the microphone, blocking their way. Paul piped up, "Pastor Dobkins had to take a call from the governor. He’s asked us to keep the crowd warm until he gets back." The two men looked at each other and then backed away without speaking. "You go first," Paul said, putting his arm around John’s shoulder and leading him up to the microphone. John turned his head to whisper in Paul’s ear, "I’m not very good at this."

"You’ll be fine. Just tell your truth," Paul advised.

Clearing his throat, John began, "Everyone..." The boisterous crowd was still drowning out John’s voice. "Everyone, please..." Half of the crowd was now hushed and focused on the nervous man behind the microphone. A few random hecklers were still shouting out catcalls. "Everyone. Peace be unto you." A large part of the crowd responded in unison, "And also with you." "Everyone, my name is John and I am a believer..." A huge roar went up from the crowd. Signs were swaying and shaking and then the din died back down slowly. "And I am here today with my new friend Paul. Now, Paul doesn’t believe like I do..." The crowd groaned and booed its disapproval, except for a few whistles and calls of "Yeah, go Paul" from the fringes of the crowd. Paul looked to the south end and watched a second line of riot police form off the back end of the fire truck. John continued, "But he is a good man. And we are here to tell you how this image appeared on this wall..." A great, bellowing "How?" rose up from the crowd. "And...to prove to you all that there is a way to agree with each other and respect one another and meet each other half way..."

Just then, a loud voice interrupted, calling out: "That’s a big lie. There is no middle ground!" From about twenty yards out in the crowd a can came hurtling toward the podium. John ducked and Paul jerked his head to the left as the can whizzed past his ear. The can hit the image on the wall squarely in the middle. The impact blew the top of the can off and sprayed the immediate area. Flames exploded up from the base of the wall and everyone between the wall and the podium began to scream and run amok.

As if this were a signal to attack, the groups carrying signs charged at each other, punching and kicking and clobbering each other with their fists and their signs. The noise pounded its way into Paul’s ears as he saw people around him with their clothes ablaze drop to the ground to roll while others around them scrambled and slammed into each other to get out of the way. The speaker towers crashed to the ground with a sickening crunch and more painful shrieks from the people in their path. Firefighters from the truck not far away leaped off, grabbed their hoses and wedged their way through the crowd on their way to the wall using the force of the water as a battering ram. They quickly dowsed the wall of flame and then turned the hoses on the people nearby, first to put out the fire and then to herd them back away from the wall. Paul was knocked down to the ground and punched down the hill and onto the street by the powerful blast of water. Drenched and reeling, he struggled to get to his feet and frantically looked around him for any sign of John anywhere.

John crawled over and covered a crying burn victim with his jacket. Both of them were soaked now and John stood up to find someone else who needed help. Immediately, both his arms were seized from behind and someone shouted, "Here he is!" in his ear so loudly it hurt. In an instant, a police officer behind a face shield clubbed John across his neck and followed him down as John collapsed to the ground. Quickly John’s arms were wrenched behind his back and shots of pain streamed up his arms to his shoulders. He heard the two quick clicks of the handcuffs as he was roughly hoisted back up to his feet and half pushed/half carried through the teeming crowd and into a waiting police van.

Amongst all the uproar, Paul heard a car engine start and rev up on the street. He snapped his head around to watch the black Escalade roll slowly out from under the bridge as two lines of police held their clubs out in front of them in both hands to push the crowd back on each side. Once the car had passed through, the police lines formed a wedge and forced their way back under the bridge and into the melee. Just then Paul heard a loud bang and looked over a short distance away to the middle of the crowd. A thick, wide cloud of white smoke spread outward and upward. People were doubled over, coughing and hacking and pleading for help. The first whiff stopped Paul’s breathing and then he started to cough uncontrollably. His eyes stung and his vision blurred. He collapsed on the ground into a fetal position and rolled in pain until someone in a t-shirt that read: "This is what democracy looks like" hunched down near him. She held up his head and gently poured cool water from a plastic bottle into his burning eyes. "Are you all right? Here, put this wet cloth over your mouth and nose and try to relax," she yelled. "It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay."

The lines of crowd control had plowed into the people from points north, south, east and west, successfully drawing and quartering them into manageable groups. Members of the National Guard jumped out of their huge trucks and helped to subdue the shrieking masses and drag them to an area away from under the bridge. Paul was still coughing and held the cloth tight to his face, trying to calm down. The young woman looked up and gasped. A huge man in a green uniform tore away Paul’s cloth and put an iron grip on Paul’s upper arm. He seized the young woman in the same way and jerked them both up quickly from the ground. "You two are outta here," he spat out at them and hauled them all the way out from under the bridge and threw them into the back of a waiting personnel carrier with a green canvas stretched over the top. "Where are we going? Where are we going?" the woman yelled. "Shut up. Just sit down and shut up" was her only answer.

She and Paul sat and pushed themselves to put their backs against the sides of the truck. As more and more people were piled into the truck, they were squashed together like commuters on a Japanese subway. Then Paul felt the rumble of the engine on his backside and the bottoms of his legs. In a minute they were pulling away. As the truck bumped and rolled its way up the street to the holding center, in his mind Paul played an image of all the vitriol and rancor and pure hostility that the day had brought from both sides. And he wondered what had happened to his friend John. He was doing such a great job up there, Paul said to himself.

For the next five or six hours, the Police Department and the National Guard rounded up the people who had shown up under the bridge that morning. While a few of them were booked on felony charges of mayhem, assault with a deadly weapon and inciting to riot, most of them were charged with disorderly conduct and trespassing on public property and were released from the detention centers in a day or two after paying or promising to pay a $250 fine. Some of the unlucky others got out on bail or were otherwise waiting for their court dates. The police had sealed off the area with barricades and yellow tape. A few investigators prowled around looking for evidence. One picked up a small scorched tin can, decided it was nothing, and tossed it into a trash bin on the edge of the street. By sunset, the area under the bridge was deserted.

John insisted on using his one phone call to contact his lawyer, a member of his church. The lawyer, Lucas Matthews, was there to advise his client as soon as he could enter the building the next day. In the YMCA gymnasium quickly made over into a temporary courtroom, John appeared with Lucas before the magistrate to hear the charge before him: inciting to riot. When asked how we pleaded, John spoke up, "Not guilty, your honor. But I am guilty of trying to commit peace." Matthews took his client aside and chided him, "This isn’t a good time to cultivate a sense of humor, John. Listen, there are so many of you that have to go through the system, there’s a good chance we can plead this down. Just be quiet and let’s see what I can do." John slumped back in his seat with a sour look on his face. Anger stirred within him as he thought of how disappointed he was in Pastor Dobkins and the cynical way he had played with the truth in front of the crowd yesterday.

At the Gerald P. Otis Juvenile Detention Center Paul made bond early in the afternoon and as he was lining up to take back his personal effects and process out, he looked for the young woman who had been so kind to him during the riot. When he finally found her, he crossed the room to take her hand and say thanks. "I appreciate what you did for me out there yesterday," he told her. "No problem," she said. "You showed a lot of guts to be up at that microphone. You were doing the right thing. And anyway, I know you’d have done the same for me."

Paul looked up involuntarily as he heard a loud voice say, "Next!" When he looked back down, the woman had disappeared back into the crowd. Paul threw the plastic bag containing his belongings over his shoulder and walked out of the Otis Center to freedom.

Sullivan Street opened again on Monday. When Paul heard the news from the tiny black and white TV in his office, he looked over at the clock. It was six-fourteen. Immediately Paul shut down his computer, turned off the television and left work behind. He took the stairs down to the lobby and strolled out past the security desk just as he did every night. But then he stopped. He turned around and approached the guard behind the desk and asked, "Excuse me, but what’s your name?" A little puzzled, the guard answered, "Wayne, sir. Can I help you?"

"No, Wayne, no thanks. But you have a wonderful night, okay?" Paul said with a sincere smile.

"Thanks. You too, sir," Wayne said, scratching his head. Then, Paul turned away and walked out through the double glass doors and out onto the street.

Paul looked up to the sky and then started walking west. He caught Sullivan Street about six blocks up and walked briskly toward the bridge, scanning both sides of the street every few seconds looking for a glimpse of John. The only living souls around were rolling in either direction in their cars on Sullivan Street. When Paul reached the Second Avenue Bridge, he stopped short and peered into the dim light underneath. He saw nothing and no one. He turned to look behind him back up Sullivan, but there, the street told the same story. Excited, yet apprehensive, Paul continued his walk under the bridge. The grass between the sidewalk and the retaining wall had been burned away, now just patches of brown and black scorched into the ground. The stale stench of smoke and tear gas hung under the bridge like a malevolent ghost silently keeping watch over the area. The wall was completely bare now, probably scrubbed clean by the fire hoses, Paul imagined. The echoes of the chants and the screams and the sirens passed through Paul’s mind. He also heard John’s message to the people once again.

Still finding no one around, Paul emerged from under the bridge on the other side and turned to complete the last leg of his journey to the bank of the Maubequot. He stepped out to the edge of the river and looked directly overhead into the deep blue sky. Tilting his head down toward the horizon, Paul watched the colors brighten from blue to orange to yellow. Then Paul let his head hang down until he was looking at his feet in the deep dark grass. He closed his eyes and thought of John. He gave thanks in advance for John’s safe deliverance from Saturday’s violence. And he wished him peace.

Paul opened his eyes and tilted his head back to level and he then scanned the horizon starting from the left. As he slowly swiveled his head toward the right, his eye caught a tiny figure across the river lit from the back by the sun’s bright glow. The figure waved his raised arm back and forth in wide, slow sweeps. A warmth welled up from within and a smile crept over Paul’s face as he slowly waved back in return. Believing his voice could carry all the way across the water, Paul said softly, "Nice evening."