Yet Untitled. Welby Thomas Cox, Jr.

T-H-I-S L-I-F-E T-O T-H-E B-I-K-E-R M-R, H-A-M-I-L-T-O-N, WHERE ARE YOU GOING!”

      Dear god, Hamilton thought. It’s him, I must be in the Majors!

      Then the motion became more profound; and the blurring; the birds, the peace, the tranquility were replaced by intense pain; confusion and movement, everyone moving quickly, before him. So much pain… and the fire, the heat beneath him, and now, the heat and the fire was also coming through the windshield, and steam was billowing behind it from enjoined engines on a sultry September morning.

      Hamilton thought he saw a helmeted alien glaring into the smashed windshield.

      “AQUA…WATER!”

      The alien, now more focused… was an angel in the uniform of a cyclist…she produced an orange flask. Hamilton tried to take it, but his arms were gone. His eyes communicated the pain and the need for the lifesaving liquid. (Surely you have the same need.) And the water was now on his face, running coolly down his forehead; he opened his mouth and swallowed… blood!

      Now Hamilton was sick. And a fireman was pulling off the door. And someone was spraying the engine. And then once again the comfort of the netherworld!

      He was back at the platform with all the signs pointing off in directions to Africa, China, England and Ireland, and there, near the pole, on the side of the platform sat a man from India with his legs crossed Indian style. He was wearing a grand turban on his head with a great jewel in the middle. Near him stood an American Indian in full Indian regalia. He had his arms crossed and his feather headdress sat atop his head like a crown vested in all the history of a civilization once proud, once powerful, once in touch with all…even nature… over which it had prevailed. Hamilton approached the chief.

      “How!” Hamilton said lifting his arm in an animated gesture of friendship, the kind he had seen so many times in the movies….and had wanted to immolate.

      “Heil!” The Indian swung into a Nazi gesture… resembling the Indian gesture for peace but was far more pronounced and disciplined.

      “No sir!” Hamilton said, “it’s not heil…it’s how!”

      “I know how, dip-shit! I just need a chance!” The Indian spoke with a most incredulous look, on his face. It questioned the moment and infinity…as well!

      “Wait a minute; that is the oldest racial joke. I remember it from my childhood!” Hamilton said.

      “Get on down the road, you honkey redneck. This is my territory and that’s no joke!” the Indian chief said to Hamilton.

      “Go on over there and harass Gandhi. I got no more time for you. I’ve given you all I’ve got…and you gave me trinkets and a pup tent in return!”

      The Indian never changed his stern look or his position.

      Hamilton moved over to the end of the platform thinking to himself that the chief must have been only a representation of some deep seeded guilt or hostility, or even an aggressive distrust for anyone wearing feathers. After all, the Tribes did get the casinos, and hadn’t Monaco done well with Casinos? He addressed the man from India who did not bother to get up from his position on his little rug.

      “You are not really Gandhi. He died sometime in the early part of the twentieth century?”

      “No, no, the chief says that all Indians look the same to him…you know, if you have seen one Gandhi…you’ve seen them all! I am DT Patel!” the man said to Hamilton.

      “Yes, and what is it that DT stands for?” Hamilton asked.

      Patel jumped up, threw his arms skyward and began to sing,

      “If you’re alone and life is making you lonely you can always go, DT! I know a place where the music is loud and the lights are low, DT!” Patel resumed his position.

      “Petula Clarke!” Hamilton shouted.

      “No, DT Patel!” the Indian said.

      “I sure hope I didn’t offend Crazy Horse,” Hamilton said.

      “He had, in short, an excellent eye for a shot, with bow or arrow, and loves exercising it!” DT Patel said.

      “Surely it would not matter here among the deceased that is to say, if Crazy Horse did in fact, go on the war path!” Hamilton said. “Wouldn’t that be some form of double jeopardy…I mean…how can you kill someone twice, isn’t it true that once you are dead…you’re dead?”

      “Oh that wasn’t a description of the Chief. That was how Catherine F. E. Spurgeon saw William Shakespeare as published in 1935. Just a bit of trivia to add to this sterling conversation.” DT Patel said.

      “Goodness. The Minors is a frustrating place.” Hamilton said.

      “For most the desire for goodness proves infinitely frustrating!” advised DT Patel.

      “I have always tried to be good, to do the right thing by all. I wish that I had put more energy into it, as I did with business.” Hamilton said.

      “We are all primarily aware of what we want to be, therefore the majority of us maintain a persona while living out lives of someone else, unable to live with the compromise of just being ourselves… for to do so, would be to accept that we are mainly… inadequate. This is what Hollywood has sold each of us since we were children!” DT Patel said.

      “I never had a problem liking myself or even being glad that I was who I was. At times I did try to see myself in a normal two parent family with other siblings… but, I guess if there was a single thing I missed most was that I was never sent out into the world with a purpose, you know like a Jesus Christ, Ignatius Loyola, St. Francis of Assisi, Mother Theresa or,” Hamilton paused, “Gandhi!”

      “The only purpose in life is to matter, to count, to stand for something individually and to have it make some difference that we have lived at all!” DT Patel said. “As the song goes Mr. Hamilton, Oz never did give nothing to the tin man that he didn’t already have. You have asked for a purpose. It isn’t too late. You have done much for many through your schools, and that is a blessing upon you. But, there is more that you can and will do…if you are to come again to a life of deeds… Goodbye, Mr. Hamilton,” DT Patel said.

      LIFE IS ALTERED

      The auto accident took his life in a way. Thad Hamilton survived… but he was never the same person; the accident had a multidimensional impact on Hamilton. It changed forever all that Thad had been taught, what he knew to be the truth and the goals and ambitions of a wealthy man well into his prime. The accident itself was only a catalytic converter for what Hamilton knew he must do. Something corny…a change of life event… all that he knew and felt told him that he should not be here in this life among the normals… but, should instead be chasing fly balls or Sarah in the Sky…whatever it is that they do in the Minors. In all his life, he had never truly believed that there was anything more to life than what it is that we have been dealt…and then it is left to the survival of the fittest to cut and slash your way to the top. In the end… a few friends gather and comment on how good you look…: (what a wonderful life you had… hoping you had sufficient insurance and estate for the family you’ve left behind… and, then the visitors leave you to the eternal function of pushing up grass on some hillside spot). That’s all there is to it…or so Hamilton had thought.

      What began on that beautiful September morning would manifest itself in a major way thirteen years later to the very day, and Hamilton’s new found zeal, patience and humanistic dedication to the words of D.T. Patel…to make a difference… would play a role in changing the world as well!

      Thad’s recuperation from his physical problems went fairly well. His recovery, except for soft tissue damage, took less than a month. After a week in the hospital, it was discovered that a kidney stone had been dislodged by the accident, causing blood to appear in the urine. Strange, Hamilton thought, that you could have a malady resting inside an organ for years and then an ever so slight adjustment could wreck such havoc.