He whom life fulfills,
Though he remains a child,
Is immune to the poisonous sting
Of insects, to the ravening
Of wild beasts or to the vultures’ bills.

From Verse 55
 Tao te Ching

There is a quality of ‘no-time and no-place’ to these days.

First thing in the morning I sit in bed and read from the Tao te Ching. Then I open the gift given to me by the doctor. Each time I pick the book up I hear his voice kindly say, “I don’t want you to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

In chapter eleven I learn about:

Your Own Decompression Chamber

Every one of us needs a quiet room inside his own mind __
a quiet center within him,
like the deep of the ocean that is never disturbed,
no matter how rough the waves may become upon the surface.
This quiet room within, which is built in imagination,
works as a mental and emotional decompression chamber.
It depressurizes you from tensions, worry, pressures,
stresses and strains, refreshes you and enables
you to return to your work-a-day world
better prepared to cope with it.

It is my belief that each personality does already
have a quiet center within, which is never disturbed,
and is unmoved, like the mathematical point
in the very center of a wheel or axle which remains stationary.
What we need to do is to find this quiet center
within us and retreat into it periodically for
rest, recuperation, and renewed vigor.

One of the most beneficial prescriptions
that I have ever given patients is the advice to learn
to return into this quiet tranquil center.
And one of the best ways that I have found
for entering this quiet center is to build for yourself,
in imagination, a little mental room.
Furnish this room with whatever is most restful and
refreshing to you: perhaps beautiful landscapes, if you like
paintings; a volume of your favorite verse, if you like poetry.
The colors of your walls are your own favorite “pleasant” colors,
but should be chosen from the restful hues
of blues, light green, yellow, gold.
The room is plainly and simply furnished; there are no
distracting elements. It is very neat, and everything is in order.
Simplicity, quietness, beauty, are the keynotes.
It contains your favorite chair. From one small window
you can see a beautiful beach. The waves roll in upon the beach and
retreat, but you cannot hear them, for your room is very, very quiet.

Soon I hear roommate D. He will be getting his coffee and he will be yelling across the room using his morning voice. He struts around in sleeveless undershirt and boxer shorts, a joint held tightly between his teeth. His tone is surly and demeaning. He is often upset. Today his rant is about how things are changing. He is upset that with the university so close ‘those people’ are moving into his neighborhood. He speaks loudly, “Where are these people coming from? Why don’t they go back home and go to their own schools? Why are they moving in, coming here and acting like they have a right to be here? Who are these people? They don’t belong here! They aren’t welcome!” He takes this anger at ‘these people’ out on K. He barks at her,  “Get out here! I’m hungry! Get my breakfast!” When she steps into the room he mocks and belittles her, saying, “And look at you! Why don’t you do something with yourself? Go put your face on. Do it now! You think I want to look at you like that?”

I cannot see her, yet I can feel how she shrinks.

As my body heals Medicine Man invites me to ride along while he makes deliveries. The Friday pattern is set, familiar side streets that team with activity. At the small house, the peephole opens, closes. We step inside greeted like friends, a kiss on my cheek. Ignore the dogs, Brace, and Bullet. Water glass on the table in front of the brocade sofa. I sit and watch, acknowledged with nods and grins. I watch the beautifully dressed men around the table negotiating the purchase. The dogs erupt, aggressively bite at the floor, spin in tight circles. Peephole opens, closes, the command is given. Sphinx pose. Like clockwork, midnight pimp-of-the-week enters followed by different white girls, my age or younger. One week I recognize someone from high school. She is oblivious, as are they all. I wonder what could have brought her to this. The Man in Charge pulls me close, his spicy scent weaves into the fiber of my clothes, he breathes a hot message into my ear, “You always have a place here. Don’t you forget that.” I smile and pull away. He drags on the joint that Medicine Man has just lit, laughs, blows the smoke into my face, and remarks on the quality of the product. Large stacks of cash are piled in front of me. Man in Charge slides a stack of bills toward Medicine Man, tap, tap, tap the edges against the table, wraps them tight with a paper band, then deposits them into the leather case.

Saturday night Medicine Man circulates among the green rooms at La Cave, Public Music Hall, the Grande. I dress up and sit beside rock stars. Ice clinks into metal shakers at the private bar, smoke hangs thick in the air. The white powder is brought out along with a single edge razor. The ‘snow’ is carefully set onto a small mirror separated with the blade so that a line or two can be pulled through rolled-tight one-hundred-dollar bills into this nose then that nose all around the room. When the glass square slides in front of me I simply send it to my left ignoring the content.

I enjoy being backstage. I have a love of theatre since second grade when I volunteered to paint the scenery for the school play. Somewhere inside of me the dream of being an artist/stage-set designer lies in wait. I am invited to sit stage right. I watch the dynamic play of rock bands perform to sell-out crowds. Off-stage in the same magnificent auditorium where Jimi Hendrix smashed his guitar last spring, I sit in a folding metal chair ready to rejoin the party after the performance.

Back at the apartment Medicine Man introduces me to a new guy. I am ready to meet the woman who wants to hire me to help her in her shop. First, he wants me to run an errand. I will be going with this fuzzy-haired, funny guy some years older than I. He wears baggy khaki shorts, plaid camp shirt, red bandana, gray Birkenstock sandals. He laughs aloud, he bounces when he walks.

I climb into his blue compact car and we drive across town. We will travel from the apartment in Little Italy near University Circle on the east to the airport on the far west side. Medicine Man has told me that Tuesday and Friday are the big days each week. FunnyMan tells me that he has long been doing this trip alone. He likes the fact that I am here to help him. He laughs, saying, “You are so innocent looking. You make me look much more natural.” He guffaws, adding, “It looks like vacation time. This will be a walk in the park.” He pulls into space far away from the terminal doors, yanks a backpack out of the backseat and puts it on. As we walk the sprawling lot, he pretends we are together, putting his arm around my shoulder. He hugs me close and instructs, “Walk through the door with confidence. We go directly to the baggage claim, down the stairs, lower level.”  We banter heading down then move directly to the slowly revolving carousel.

After a few minutes, he spots his target, moves in swiftly, lifts, and pulls two hard suitcases off the belt. One is a hound’s tooth pattern in shades of brown and the other is plain tan. He sets them at my feet. I nonchalantly lift one, he the other. We retrace our steps making small talk, acting natural. Back at the car, trunk open, cases side by side. The backpack is tossed into the rear seat, and before he turns the key, I ask if he could take a bit of a detour. We are just miles from the house where my family lives. Everyone will be away at work or school. I hope to find a cardboard box with my favorite clothes purchased during my dress shop days, maybe even my paisley robe. I am guessing that everything was moved out of the neighbor’s attic when I did not come back following my day at the lake.

We drive twenty minutes, turn down Lincoln Avenue. It seems like another lifetime that I rode my bike and walked Tippy up and down this street. I glance up the second driveway from the corner where F lives. When I was thirteen Mom encouraged me, “Don’t act so shy.  He just wants to take you to play Putt-Putt. He drives such a nice car, that brand new Corvette.”

I ask FunnyMan to pull into the backyard, hoping Mr. & Mrs. aren’t sitting next door at their table by the window. I move quickly onto the back porch. The house key hangs inside the broom closet. I unlock the kitchen door and step inside. Tippy is lying on his bed in the corner. I kneel on the floor; he slinks submissively over to me, his feathered black tail sweeping the tile. It has been such a long time since we have been able to spend time together. Flashes of our walks in the woods, birdwatching, following the tracks of rabbits and raccoons. I hug him, inhale his dog smell, kiss his hard-silky head. He nestles against me. My best friend.

I wonder where mom would have put my things. Probably in a box in the basement. I head down the steep steps and look around. No sign of anything that belongs to me. Back upstairs I step into the dining room, just to quickly look around. I used to live here. As I turn to leave I notice a brown manilla envelope propped up near the phone stand. It looks deliberately placed, waiting for me. My heart leaps when I see the return address.

I reach into the junk drawer, grab a piece of paper and a pencil to write a note. It says: ‘Hi, just want you to know I’m okay.’ I put the paper in front of her radio back in the corner under the cupboards. I know that she will turn WCLV on as soon as she begins preparing dinner. I can picture her reading my words. I imagine her carefully folding the paper into quarters with great focus. Open the cabinet under the sink, pull the trash container out, gently slide my words into the brown paper bag destined for the curb. She will not say a word about my having been there. I hug Tippy tight and kiss his head goodbye, pick up the large brown envelope, lock the backdoor, hang the key on its cup hook, dash back to FunnyMan’s car.

At the apartment, I watch. Everything happens around the kitchen table. The suitcases wait. Medicine Man arrives, FunnyMan unlocks them while under watchful eyes D. inventories the contents. I see the neat arrangement of several compact blocks of grass wrapped in muslin, the thin cotton fabric is stained green/brown from the moisture of the fresh-pressed flower buds and leaves. The fabric is stamped with insignias and emblems. Nestled among the large blocks are smaller rectangles wrapped in white paper tied with thin white string. Each bar has a paper seal stamped in red ink. Filling in the remaining spaces are small rolled waxed paper bags, also tied with white string. These are filled with white powders. The three of them sort and package according to Medicine Man’s direction. Plastic baggies for the grass, rubbers for the powders, plastic film containers for cut cubes of hash. The scale measures as orders are filled. Samples are lit. Good mood.

At day’s end, I sit in my quiet room. I have saved the best for last. I take the brown manilla envelope from the floor where it sits beside my two books. I stare at the writing. I recognize that hand. I remove the contents.

I read:

Here, in these pages …

lies my gift to you, Donna.  

Alice B. Twitchell