Reflections
Published in Issue 18 of SLAB: The Sound & Literary Art Book
THE BRIDGE
"Let go!" she screamed and tried to pull away, but I held her tight. I had taken her by surprise.
"Let me go!" she screamed louder and tried a different tactic. Her body went completely limp. We both might have fallen except for the support of the railing between us. I lowered my center of gravity. My heavier mass more than countered the weight of her petite form.
"Please, let me go!" she pleaded, but no strength was left in her then. I held her as though her life depended on it because it did. She surrendered entirely, leaving her fate in the arms of a complete stranger.
"It's my fault,' she said, sobbing uncontrollably. "It's all my fault." I could not see her face. My chest was against her back, and her musty, dark hair hung over her face. I. She was young, dressed in UGG boots, blue jeans, and a gray hooded sweatshirt. One foot dangled over the edge of the pedestrian walk that extended beyond the railing of the George Washington Bridge. I had her securely positioned. Although I had no clue what she was going on about or the pain that had driven her there. She was not so heavy, but I felt the immense weight of her despair, and it was like nothing I'd previously known.
"This is not your day to die," I said gently, placing my cheek close to hers. "That's why I'm here." It was a chance encounter. I just happened to be passing by, but my words were sincere.
So, I held on to her. On that blustery afternoon while being buffeted by a stiff autumn wind. My abandoned bicycle leaned against the railing behind me. I heard the rush of traffic speeding across the bridge, commuters anxious to be wherever they were going. One-hundred and eighty feet below, the mile-wide Hudson River flowed unimpeded without care. The New York City skyline was barely visible to the south through the low-hanging clouds. It may as well have been a million miles away. Still, I held on to the desperate young woman. I would hold on as long as necessary. I knew cameras constantly monitored the bridge. I knew the watchers were watching. Eventually, someone would come.
2. THE WHO
The incident on the GWB was in the Autumn of 2010. The season before, I sat with a dear friend who lost her fight with cancer at age 35. These events were unrelated. Still, the fact that I could save a stranger's life but do nothing as my dear friend passed away was an irony not lost on me. Already coming to terms with having aging parents, circumstances forced me to consider the fragility of life in a different light. It was an unsettling time, and I again found myself in an existential search for meaning.
"Who am I," I pondered aloud as I looked in the mirror. Roderick Van Priestly was my name, but what's in a name? My father, McCoy, and grandfathers, Crestin and Gradice, wanted me named after them. Mercifully my mother refused. Her son would have a name of his own, and it would be a strong one. She dubbed me Roderick, like the actor Broderick Crawford, but without the B. I liked my name, but it was always problematic. People lacked the endurance to get through a three-syllable name. They took liberties and shortened it to Rod, Roddy, Rodney, and even Rick. I had to put up with this when I was a child, but by the time I reached adulthood, I'd had enough. I couldn't stop people from calling me whatever they wanted, but I didn't have to answer.
A reporter from the Musician's Exchange reviewed my band, The Position's performance at CB/GB's. They wrote, "Priest's tenor voice soars over complex musical changes that might make lesser vocalists cringe." Seeing my moniker printed in the newspaper solidified it for me. It was a good stage name, short, easy to remember, and no one could mess it up. That's when it became official. No more of this "Roddy stuff," I informed my friends.
A woman named Billie once told me her personality had been hardened because she was stamped with a boy's name. She'd hated it. I asked her why not change it or use a nickname? In her culture, she explained, it was not permitted. I would not go through life with a name I hated. I also believe addressing a person by their chosen name is a matter of respect. What one prefers to be called reveals much about their character.
I researched the meaning of my name once, and this is what I found. Roderick means "great ruler." Van means "of or from." Priestly means "the priest's garden." So, Roderick Van Priestly literally translates as "The great ruler of the priest's garden." At first, this seemed silly. However, upon further reflection, I have come to think otherwise. Many circumstances are out of our control, but one has to play the cards they are dealt. So, the proper focus must be to manage the variables within our circle of influence. One's state of mind, care of the physical form, the people with whom to associate, and management of work and creative spaces are ours to cultivate. This domain is the fertile soil in which our dreams will grow. From such a perspective as this, I can say how appropriate I am "The Great Ruler of the Priest's Garden." If I am the Priest, the environment I create within and without, and the relationships I nurture are my gardens.
"What's in a name," I said with a shrug. "Priest is what I am called. By any other name, I am still me." At that moment, I had to acknowledge I was weary of the struggle. I would have preferred to be free names and labels. I wanted to be somewhere where I could forget names, faces, routines, and responsibilities.
A few weeks later, I was facing my own life-and-death battle.
3. THE FIGHT
The globe at the top of the stairs, marking the subway station's entrance, was still dark. It stood quietly at its post, a cool silhouette against the early evening sky. All I wanted then was to walk the final block to my apartment building, ride the elevator to the top floor, close the door and leave the city's noise outside. However, this was a fleeting thought because the situation unfolding before me required my immediate attention.
"Hey!" shouted the young thug in an oversized ball cap. "Why'd you push our friend?" He did his best to sound menacing. He wasn't, but he had imposing friends, three of them to be exact, who were, at that moment, fanning out to flank me. They all had hands tucked into pockets as though reaching for knives or handguns. Such exaggerated gestures were probably a bluff, but I couldn't take that for granted. I kept a wary eye. I recognized the ruse for what it was. The instigator's accusation was not worthy of response since it was one of the young thugs' so-called 'friends' who'd shoved me from behind in the jostle to get through the station's exit.
Having no interest in escalating the situation, without a word, I turned toward the stone stairs that led up to the street and toward home. Suddenly, two more thugs burst out of the station's doors, and I found myself boxed into the corner of an L-shaped landing at the bottom of the stairs.
"You have got to be kidding," I said, although not amused. There was no reason to get into a fight when one could simply walk away. That's what I taught my self-defense students. However, walking away just then was no longer an option.
There was a gate in the fence at the corner of the landing. The chain that secured it did not hold it tight. Hoping to gain a tactical advantage, I slipped through the gap and into the courtyard beyond. I planned to thin out the group and quickly put down the first few before I got surrounded again, but I underestimated my nimble opponents. Without the slightest hesitation, they rushed through the gap right behind me.
"You have got to be kidding," I thought again as I parried the first punches. I'd fought multiple opponents in training many times. Those young fools were determined but untrained and disorganized in their eagerness to land a punch. Using this to my advantage, I circled as I back-stepped to keep them stumbling over one another. I didn't counter but fought defensively, cautiously holding back, keeping an eye out for weapons that might appear. Surprisingly, there were none. The thugs would lose their nerve, I suspected, once they understood I was no easy victim. Again, I'd misread their determination because they only grew more resolute, pressing harder and whooping with excitement.
An arm slipped past my guard and grabbed a handful of hair. My head was yanked sideways. Immediately securing the wrist of that limb, I hopped and swept away my opponent's leg with mine. As that body hit the ground and scrambled away, I saw it was the instigator who'd made the challenge in the first place. I was beginning to dislike that one. I threw more bodies to the ground. They rebounded quickly, and a couple even managed to slip behind me. Just as I was thinking things were getting out of control, it was the instigator himself who provided a welcomed distraction.
From the corner of my eye, I saw movement. A large chunk of stone sailed toward my head. Ironically, I was the only one who saw it and easily dodged the missile. Still, a couple of my attackers were not so lucky. It clipped one directly in front of me on the shoulder. A thud and yelp from behind meant the brunt of it connected there. I seized the opportunity and lashed out hard, launching my own barrage of kicks and punches. Within seconds, my opponents turned tail, slipped through the gate, and fled up the stairs and out of sight.
It all happened that quickly. One moment there was the ordinary, uneventful evening commute, and the next, I was caught up in a furious street fight. I wasn't angry about it. There had been no time for that or any other emotion to sink in. I was unharmed, and nothing had been taken. A handful of shocked bystanders stood gawking at me from a distance, but none said a word. I shook off their dumbfounded stares, smoothed back my hair, shouldered my bag, and turned toward home.
As I reached the street at the top of the stairs, to my surprise, a familiar figure in an oversized ball cap stepped out to block my way.
"You messed up, mister," said the instigator with a smug expression. I glared at him, wondering how this one had come by his newfound courage. He and his cohorts had just lost the previous round. I later understood when I saw what was coming across the street. A sense of dread washed over me. Apparently, the group I'd battled was on its way to meet a much larger group on the basketball courts. Now a very dangerous-looking mob was headed my way.
"Maybe they'll let you go," the instigator said mockingly, but I knew that wasn't going to happen. They had no intention of letting me walk away. They were, however, hoping I would run.
Two thoughts came to mind then. The first was a lesson from my early training.
"If you get involved in a street fight, "Grandmaster used to say, "you never know who may join in."
Here was the perfect example of such a scenario. The second lesson Grandmaster used to give went something like this.
"If you are certain conflict is unavoidable, the surprise is your best option. Take the initiative."
Exploding into action, I slammed a fist into the cocky mug beneath the bill of that baseball cap. The following two or three thugs went down fast, but the hoard swarmed over me, and I was caught up in a wave of flying hands and feet. I took a measure of satisfaction in knowing the instigator was out of the fight.
There was no sound. No pain. No emotion. It was like watching a movie with the sound turned down. Instinct and adrenalin-fueled me. I moved faster than I could have imagined, doing what I had trained to, although never having been put to such a test. There were no individuals, only one writhing creature with dozens of stinging appendages. I parried without pause and countered continuously with my hands, feet, elbows, and knees. With every limb I caught, a thug was thrown to the pavement to trip up another desperate attempt to slow the roiling tide. I must have seemed invulnerable to them, but I knew I wasn't. Time was not on my side, and luck was bound to run out.
There was one, a head taller than the rest, pacing anxiously behind the front line. It was apparent he was planning to charge. I knew getting knocked down in the middle of that mob meant my fight would end beneath a hail of stomping feet. The tall one came in hard and fast through the next opening. Even with several hands pulling at me, I managed to slam the heel of my boot squarely on the breastbone of that charging form. Above the cacophony of grunts and groans, some moron ironically yelled.
"Oh shit! He knows Karate!"
That kick had saved me for the moment, but it was not without a cost. Under the weight of grasping hands and someone tugging relentlessly at the bag still slung across my torso, something in my right knee popped as my foot returned to the pavement. Then I was brutally yanked off my feet. Unable to free myself from the shoulder strap, I went for the ride, driving an elbow into the face of the fool I flattened as I rolled backward and up to my feet.
I was trying to break bones then and inflict as much pain as possible because there was no other hope of stopping that momentum. I looked for every opportunity, but there was none. Any remaining trace of civility dissolved in that wild melee.
In the distance, there was shouting.
"Stop it! I'm calling the cops!" This meant nothing to me. The way I saw it, the police couldn't possibly arrive in time to do anything but inspect a crime scene. One way or another, my fight would be over long before any cops showed up.
A tremendous roar alerted me that someone was charging in from behind. Already pressed to the limit, I tried to angle myself to intercept. To my surprise, I recognized the six-foot-four, night stick-wielding figure as Williams, the security guard from my building. Williams entered the fray swinging with abandon. The sheer force of his charge disrupted the mob, and at last, there was room to breathe. I bent forward, gasping for air, and saw a smallish man in a transit uniform step up to take a stance between Williams and me. Just like that, we were a force of three against the wild-eyed mob.
A wire trashcan from the street corner sailed in and clanged onto the pavement. Williams stopped it with his foot, hoisted the thing, and hurled it back in the direction it came with another roar. The mob broke apart but quickly regrouped and began to creep closer again. Gratitude for the courage of my new allies was overshadowed by a deepening sense of remorse. Williams and the transit worker were brave to come to my aid, but the mob was not about to relent.
The atmosphere was so tense it could have ripped apart from the strain. Just as the fighting resumed, the night erupted with lights, sirens, and screeching rubber on asphalt. Vehicles materialized out of thin air. The mob scattered in every direction. Cops in cars and on foot sped off in pursuit. Guns and nightsticks were drawn, and loudspeakers were blaring. The cavalry had arrived.
Pandemonium took on a semblance of order. An officer with a notebook stepped up to take charge.
"Who is the victim here," he asked? Williams pointed to me. The officer stared, frowning.
"Weren't they trying to hit you? You don't look hurt."
"Yeah. They were trying." I looked myself over. It was true. As far as I could tell, there was no blood, and my clothes weren't torn. The cop eyed me suspiciously, clearly not appreciating the harrowing ordeal I'd been through. I shrugged into the doubting expression and said,
"Guess I'm hard to hit."
"Hmmm…" the officer replied, questioning the transit worker, who began explaining and gesturing excitedly.
"Damn! Williams said calmly, although visibly shaken. "That was crazy! I expected them to run, but they weren't going to stop."
"No, it didn't seem like it. Thanks, man. I owe you."
"All I knew was someone was in the middle of that pack of dogs. I wasn't really thinking."
"Well, like I said, I owe you. You're my hero today."
An officer came to question Williams, and I, realizing my hands were still clenched, let out a long sigh and surveyed the scene. Red and blue lights flashed across young thugs on the ground in handcuffs. Others were being led away to squad cars. Shadows moving on the pavement caught my attention. It was not quite dusk when the fighting began, but now the globe at the station's entrance glowed an emerald green against the night sky.
"Sure you're not hurt? The cop with the notebook had returned.
I shook my head.
"So, just to be clear, you are refusing medical attention?"
"I don't need it."
The officer jotted that down in his notebook.
"You'll have to come with us to the precinct," he said, motioning to the patrol car's backseat. "You need to make a formal statement."
"You have got to be kidding," I said for the third time that evening as the patrol car cruised past my apartment building. My arduous day was not over yet. My home was still a long way off.
4. THE WHY
During those first five years in the city, I barely stepped foot off the island. Energized by the chaos, intrigued by the possibilities, and hungry for the future, I was forging a way for myself. There were hundreds of auditions, gigs, recording sessions, and performances. Before long, I had a cover band called "What Da Funk." I was fronting a rock band called "The Position." I sang and danced in an off-broadway musical called "Going Back Home" and wrote for another band called" One Blood." I was living the life. The highs were high, and the lows were many. I was on the move twenty-four hours a day and seven days a week. It was what I came here for. Eventually, on the verge of burnout, the big city novelty lost a bit of its luster. The relationship became somewhat of a love/hate affair. The fight with the gang was the last straw. For my sanity and peace of mind, I was forced to pause and ask, "Why am I here? "Finally, with only a tent, sleeping bag, journal, and backpacker's guitar, I left for the mountains in search of insight, inspiration, and adventure.
5. PASSING THROUGH
So there I was, in the High Peaks Region of the Adirondacks, having arrived by coach thirty minutes earlier. The watch on my wrist said quarter-to-three. I sat on my backpack impatiently waiting. Things moved at a snail's pace when I was out of the city. I sighed, contemplating the very concept of time. What did it really mean, that system of relating sequential events as past, present, and future? I fantasized about where I would go if I had a time machine and could travel forward, backward, and elsewhere. However, from a quantum perspective, everything is here and now. So, no matter where I went, there I would be. I took a deep breath to re-center myself in the present, remembering I was exactly where I needed to be to do what I had to do.
When the car finally arrived, it was not what I expected. It said "Jimmy's Taxi" on the door, but it was not shiny or yellow. It was a scrap of an Impala, the same model my parents owned when I was in high school, only theirs had been white and spotless. This one was matte black with patches of gray primer paint all over. It was a bodywork project, a work-in-progress. Ironically, the vehicle sported an impressive set of sport rims and fat racing tires. They didn't belong in a car like that, but I didn't care what it looked like as long as it could get me where I needed to be. I had no time to dawdle.
"Pop the trunk," I prompted as I stepped off the porch of Amy's Diner. The driver, who wore a pair of iridescent shades wrapped around his shaved head, stuck a large, hairy forearm out of the window and poked a thumb toward the rear. It clearly indicated he had no intention of getting out to help.
"Gotta pull the cord."
A cable hung from the hole where the trunk lock was supposed to be. I pulled. The lid clicked open. After tossing my gear in, I moved to the passenger's side and slid into the back seat. From my new vantage point, I could see the cabby, Jimmy, I presumed, was not just a big man. He was, in fact, huge! Wedged in behind the steering mechanism, his enormous body filled a seat that literally buckled under the load, with a bit of Jimmy pouring out around the edges. No doubt the big man had been sitting in that seat for years. The fusion of man and machine was nearly complete.
Once the destination was confirmed, Jimmy eased that big old Chevy away from the curb and onto the street. I was doing calculations in my head. The taxi would take me eight miles up the mountain to the trailhead. From there, I would proceed on foot. The map showed the nearest campsites were about two miles in, over fairly rugged terrain. That was where I needed to be before nightfall.
I took in the sights as we cruised past the modest-looking homes at the edge of town. We crossed over a two-lane bridge that spanned a wide creek and passed an equestrian training center on the right. There was a tiny airport another mile or so on the left. A small plane lifted off the runway in slow motion and banked steeply to the west, its fuselage glistening like an orange flame in the late-day sun.
Shortly afterward, the Impala turned onto a narrow, winding road that we would follow to the end. That's when Jimmy hit the gas. Maybe because he understood my waning daylight dilemma, or perhaps he took to those backcountry roads like a bat out of hell for the fun of it. I suspect it was the latter. It wasn't that he exceeded the speed limit by so much; he just didn't slow down for curves. He drove as though he knew that road, as well as he knew the backs of those massive hands on his steering wheel. Although the car's suspension was too mushy to inspire complete confidence, Jimmy had his vehicle under control. So, I settled in for the ride. Honestly, I was glad for the chance to make up for some lost time. I rolled down the window to let some of that "lived-in" smell out.
That car was like a time machine. I found myself reminiscing about my high school days, driving my parent's 1975 Impala around to parties, dances, and drive-in dates that sometimes ended up in the back seat. Inwardly, I smiled while holding on through another of Jimmy's white-knuckled swerves. Then I did something I'd rarely done in my parent's car back in the day. I buckled up for safety.
"Yeah, I can pick you up on my way back to town," the cabby said into the radio's handset.
Fat tires gripped the pavement as we careened around an s-curve. Through a break in the trees, the rooftops of Placidton could be seen down the mountain, already several miles away. Around the next bend, a white farmhouse came into view. A red-painted barn, a tall silo of piled stone, and horses on a hill surrounded by a split-rail fence. It looked like a scene on a dime store postcard.
We continued onward and upward, bumping across a single-lane bridge and over a few rolling hills on the patched, potholed, and crumbling asphalt. An Impala wasn't meant to be a high-performance car, but I wasn't about to tell my driver that. At least Jimmy put two hands on the wheel when the road got rough.
Eventually, the car slowed. The pavement ran out, and the hum of asphalt became the crunch of gravel. The wind rushing through the open windows died down, and trees closed around us as we penetrated deep into the mountain forest.
Eight miles later, and possibly in record time, the taxi reached the end of the road.
"This is far as wheels can take you," Jimmy said.
"That was quite a ride."
"I figured you were in a hurry."
I hopped out and pulled the cord to open the trunk. When I dropped my backpack on the side of the road and noticed the still-seated Jimmy casting me a curious look.
"Gonna be dark soon," he said. "Sure, you know what you're doing?"
"Pretty sure," I replied confidently while fishing out a twenty.
"Looks like rain," the big man said without looking at the sky. "Been rainin' up here off and on for a month or so."
"Really," I said, handing him the bill. That information was news to me, but I didn't let on.
Jimmy shrugged, stashed the cash, and handed me a business card.
"Keep that in your pocket," he said. "I got two other drivers. If you call, someone will come. Course, you gotta find yourself a phone first. Cells don't work up here."
I nodded my thanks.
The engine revved, and the would-be race car lurched into a high-powered U-turn. Fat tires grabbed dirt and gravel as the car came back around. The big man paused, saluted, and the Impala sped off toward town. Through the settling dust, I watched the red taillights flash as Jimmy eased into a turn, and a realization suddenly dawned on me. I had just said goodbye to my last chance for a change of heart. From that moment on, I was on my own.
That evening, I made camp at the first suitable able site I could find. At the crack of dawn, I headed deeper into the forest. By the third day, when I could no longer see, smell, or hear humans, I was deep enough. In a grove of birch and pine, I pitched my tent on a ridge overlooking a pond whose mirror-like surface reflected the surrounding seven peaks.
There were two sunsets that evening, one in the sky above and its perfect reflection on the pond. For each of the next seven days, I climbed to at the top of a different peak to lift my head above the clouds. At I sat beside the star-filled pond and pondered the magnificence of the cosmos. I fasted for many days and endured torrential rains, wild animals, freezing nights, and an unexpected snowstorm. When, at last, there was nowhere left to turn and no more masks behind which to hide, the self turns to face the self.
6. THE WHAT
Perhaps it is not necessary to climb mountains to contemplate the mystery of life. Still, I can think of no better place to rise above perpetual clamor and angst. When, at last, the noise of humanity falls away, I can hear the subtle whisper of the wind in the sacred space between my thoughts. Every year, I take my annual solo sojourn into the wilderness in the first week or two of August. I look forward to these excursions with both excitement and trepidation. While the mountains are beautiful and lush, they are also harsh and unforgiving. I strip away the layers of persona I have worn and discover what is underneath. It is the most challenging thing I have ever done, but it is also, by far, the most rewarding.
When I become disenchanted with the world, I want nothing more than to escape. Ironically, in my solitude, I feel more connected to the whole of humanity than ever. There I can find my perspective and ask the most important questions of all. Who am I, why am I here, and what do with the time I have?