ftp.wwiv.com/ftp.wwiv.com.zip/ftp.wwiv.com/pub/BBS/DF9501R.ZIP/DFA

Text File | 1995-01-01 | 21KB | 457 lines

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TRAVELS WITH LESLIE
  by Leslie Meek
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         (Editor Note: Leslie's adventures will be
         (serialized in future issues of DREAM FORGE.)

The Adventure Begins, Part 1;
Friday, August 5, 1993
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  ATLANTA, GEORGIA -- A friend once told me that life is nothing
but a series of lovers and changes.

  One ex-lover was enough to set in motion all kinds of changes for
me, so I left a little town in Missouri a day or so ago.

  A good, good friend that goes by the handle of "Soft Touch" on a
Computer Bulletin Board (BBS) suggested that I needed to get away. I
took the advice because, more than anything else, I need to find
myself.

  Traveling the country to find oneself may not make much sense.
I am bound to be my own passenger, no matter where I go. It doesn't
make much sense to spend hundreds of dollars in phone bills so you
can spend hours sharing typewritten lines with strangers on a BBS,
either. But logic plays a small role in affairs of the heart.

  So here I am.

  I've decided to travel alone throughout this country of ours for a
while to discover who this 25-year-old woman is. Hopefully, I'll
learn to fall in love with her again.

  My friends on the BBS got me started in the right direction.
People like Jeni, Kelly, Luger, Telshaya, Aosc, Sounder, Skywalker
and others who cared for me until I could start caring for myself. I
thank them all and hope that they will find some evidence in these
accounts that their handiwork went to a good cause.

  There is a larger, more selfish reason for posting these
accounts of my travels. I have an idea that the best way to get to
know myself is to let strangers see who I am. These writings are my
way of knocking down the wall that separates me from other human
beings. If my failed relationship was anything, it was a union of
secrets and unspoken deceits. It is time the secrets are exposed to
the light of day so that I can get a clear, crisp look at them. This
way, they can be forgotten and I will be free to begin my life again,
honestly.

  I drove all night to get to my first stop, the "hub center" of the
South.


  Atlanta is a huge city with skyscrapers that pierce the thick,
humid air. It doesn't seem like much of a playful city but for those
who are not "all business" there seems to be plenty to do.

  What did I do on my first day in this giant metropolis?

                               *  *  *

PASSION
=-=-=-=

  It was so much different, now that the passion was gone.

  She lazily cast her huge, yellow eyes toward the muscular body
that lay sleeping a few feet away. Someone else had appointed him
her lifelong mate but she considered the very real possibility that
she could have done worse, if it were left up to her. A long time
ago, when such decisions would have been her's alone, she was wild.
Her veins pulsated with the scorching blood of youth and her body was
marred by wounds of experiments gone sour. Now, the scars had long
since healed and she was secure.

  Yes, she could have made a worse choice back then.

  She sighed and took in a large breath of the thick, southern air.
Now she knew she would be provided for. She would always have food
to eat and a roof over her head; the violence and uncertainty of her
past was gone forever. But she was thousands of miles from home and
the contented snoring of her mate nearby didn't comfort her soul.

  She stared at the man in her life and yawned.

  Perhaps it would be different if they lay together in the country
they had both come from, where uncertainty was the only element you
could be certain of and a meal or warmth or love came only after
winning. Captive now in a sphere that knew no losers, she knew she
would never have to try again.

  That made her sad. It robbed her of the very ebullience of life.
She wondered, as her eyes remained fixed on her mate, if he really
understood why he would never get laid.

  Without passion, lovemaking becomes a different thing; a series
of rhythmic motions devoid of both rhyme or direction. This was
something she simply would not become a part of. She had decided that
on this one issue of freedom she would make her stand. She knew that
she would win. The wise and powerful men, who had made all the other
decisions for her, would lose. For even now, she still possessed the
ultimate inherited right of womanhood. She could still say, "no."

  Reluctantly, she turned her head from her mate to the people to her
right.

  The Bengal tiger expected to see the typical crowd. Her huge,
yellow eyes scanned past clawing children and lecturing parents,
flashing cameras and whirling camcorders and stopped suddenly on a
single pair of brown eyes. The cat's eyes traveled no further. Her
eyes fixed on the beautiful woman with flowing golden hair not too
much lighter than her own.

  The cat had to admit that, although human, the lady was an
excellent example of womanhood herself. But this was not what held
the tiger's attention.

  The human stared right back into the cat's eyes. Then she
shouldered a camcorder, forcing the tiger to study the one brown eye
not occupied by the viewfinder.

  The crowd around the pretty lady with the pony tail stood back
in awe, their eyes darting from beauty to beast like so many crazed
ping-pong balls set loose within a high-speed blender. The murmur
common in all crowds faded into a pregnant hush; a sound similar to
that of an audience anticipating the last crescendo of a fireworks
show. The spectators could literally sense the intensity between the
woman and the cat. Even the children stopped their jabbering in
mid-sentence -- watching.

  Behind the plexiglass that separated crowd from cat, the tiger
had become accustomed to silence and was not innately equipped with
the exclusively human ability to pick up "vibes." If she were able to
judge the mood of the crowd, she would have considered it trivial.
She relied on a far more sensitive and valuable sense as she studied
the lady with the camcorder. The sense is given only to predatory
cats as part of a gift package called instinct, so no human term
exists to describe it.

  The cat stared deeply into the exposed brown eye and behind it
found a friendly soul.

  The first and most essential demand on the survival instinct was
now satisfied. Yet the tiger could not help but sense that there was
more to see. There was something in the brown eyes of this particular
young woman that made her different. The cat continued to stare,
pulling from deep within her all the senses she possessed.

  The lady stared back at the magnificent animal. Her left eye
could see all of her in full, glorious color and her right eye saw
the scene transformed electronically into a lifeless, black and
white image. The lady thought about how small and unimportant the
two-dimensional view-finder made the tiger look. She felt guilty
that she was recording the animal's majestic gestures on something
as plastic as video tape. Her heart suddenly began beating faster as
the huge cat stared at her. She fought to hold the camera steady.

  Her breathing began to come in large sighs as she felt a deep and
unexplained remorse lingering in her chest. It was more than just the
thick Atlanta air. She felt a sudden and strong bond with this wild
animal and, at the same time, she wanted to cry. What was it that
was bothering her?

  The lady did her best to hold the camcorder steady as the Bengal
Tiger literally stared directly into the lens.

  A woman with a curator's uniform on rushed to join the astonished
crowd. Her eyes joined the others in the blender and she began to
feverishly scribble notes on a legal pad. The scientist was shaken
and confounded. She did her very best not to miss a thing.

  A spectator said, almost in panic, "Look at that tiger stare at
her."  The crowd behind the lady grew as others, seemingly responding
to an unspoken rumor, came from everywhere. It was much like the way
gamblers swarm to a dice table that begins running against the house.
Nobody knows how they find out so quickly. "Unbelievable," another
spectator whispered.

  Suddenly, in her caged world, the tiger's wild instinct paid
another dividend. She kept her eyes locked on the lady until she was
sure. Yes, the cat thought, that was what she sensed in the lady . . .
that is what she saw in the eyes.

  That same moment brought to the lady an understanding of why she
felt so uneasy. She understood her heartbeat now. Her breathing and
that unexplained feeling that lingered in her chest were signposts of
sorrow. The lady felt sorry the animal was captive and no longer wild
. . . no longer free.

  The huge yellow eyes remained glued to the lady; not to seek any
other secrets, for the Bengal tiger knew all that she needed to know,
but to rejoice in her discovery.

  Deep within the brown eyes of the lady, the cat saw passion.

  The tiger smiled the only way tigers can smile. To the crowd it
was a roar so they leaped back from the thick plexiglass. Slowly at
first, then all at once, the crowd dwindled off toward less
mystifying exhibits. The curator continued madly writing notes. And
the lady lingered.

  Soon the male tiger awoke and walked toward the plexiglass for
a drink of water. The male was within inches of the lady as she
continued to video tape. Suddenly, the blonde stopped shooting the
male and stared into the huge yellow eyes of the female. "Don't
worry," the lady's eyes seemed to say, "your secret is safe with me."

  Some time later, the lady unshouldered the camcorder and started
to walk away. She paused and locked eyes with the female cat. But this
was a different kind of stare.

  "Please, don't let it happen to you," the huge yellow eyes told
the lady. "Always live your life with passion. Don't let those close
to you make plans that sacrifice that special gift."

  The lady's eyes watered, but were silent.

  "Never, never, never give up the hunt," the huge, yellow eyes
continued. "Never accept security over the opportunity to win or
lose. Passion requires losses to grow and your spirit will never be
free without victories. You cannot win or lose unless you hunt . . .
unless you challenge the world around you. In your world, it is not
the gazelle that's the prize but the dollar. And happiness is the
human warmth you seek and must win."

  The lady sensed the cat was not through, so she flicked away a
tear and waited. "If someone else brings the prize to you," the huge,
yellow eyes finally said, "you become like me and the passion is gone
forever."

  The lady abruptly turned and began walking away. After she had
walked a few paces, she turned and looked back over her shoulder at
the magnificent tiger. Her deep brown eyes said only, "Thank you,
friend."

                               *  *  *

  Months later, the curator continued to review the notes she
took that afternoon at Atlanta's Zoological Garden and could only
scientifically conclude that the encounter between the woman
spectator and the Bengal Tiger was unexplainable.

  She was also never able to explain why two perfectly healthy
specimens of Bengal Tiger, hand-picked by experts to procreate,
never mated.

                               *  *  *

August 8, 1993
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  SMITHSONIA, GEORGIA -- In just about every little roadside diner
across America sits an older, talkative guy. They sit on a stool at
the counter -- never at tables or booths. They have plenty to say to
those who are willing to listen, but they never speak unless spoken
to first.

  Those first words are usually a stranger's last.

  They told me later that "Pops" was a nice enough guy with many
good things to say. The locals knew all of his stories and confirmed
that they were pretty much the way it was, although the facts changed
a little on each retelling.

  "A young lady has got to be careful traveling," he said. "Things
are different today."

  I estimated him to be in his 70s. He avoided my eyes, studying
instead the coffee cup in front of me.

  "Kids today don't know where they're going, so it's hard to know
when to stop. They don't know if they got to where they're headed
when they're there."

  The waitress didn't need to be asked for a refill. The cup was
automatically kept brim full. It was a service of the house . . .
the least she could do for a stranger willing to listen. Maybe she
considered it unwise to interrupt the conversation by asking.

  "It's dangerous out there," Pops continued. "You could end up
hookin' up with the wrong fella'. Man's gotta have a purpose and a
direction. He's gotta have something himself so he don't want what
someone else has got."

  I tried out one of my best forced smiles. I am twenty-five
years old. When I was 18 I used to fool people into thinking I was
twenty-one. Now, to most, I'm just a "kid." His assumption that I
was on the road to find any man -- good, bad or indifferent -- was
even more bothersome. It took me out of my story.

  "Take my daughter now, she was different. That girl had judgment,
she did. She took out of here more than ten years ago with a guy who
was going places. She's up in New York now livin' it up with the
Yankees."

  I have done a lot of traveling. Enough to know that Pops had
detected my Midwest accent and that he was not talking about the
baseball team. I wondered if it was obvious to him as well that this
was my first trip alone.

  "She didn't know what she wanted but she knew how to spot someone
who did, that's for sure. Don't hear from her but I know she's got
money."

  Pops went on and described his daughter. Apparently, she has
hair the same length and shade as mine. She was a little taller and
not as shy. She, too, had pretty eyes but hers "wondered more." He
did a poor job of hiding the pain he felt when he explained that his
daughter was not much of a listener and that she had her own ideas
about life. His forehead formed wrinkles when he hurt.

  "She's where she wants to be, that's a fact. She knew how to
pick 'em. I hope you have the same luck. Girl like you doesn't need
to start running around with a horse thief."

  I asked for directions for where I was headed. I wanted to get off
interstate 16 and take the side roads. A lonely highway seemed the
perfect place for me. He was happy to comply.

  "Lot's of hard working people down around there," he said.
"You'll see their farms from the highway. Work 'em day and night.
Some good men on that land. Lot of them need a wife around."

  Abruptly he got up to leave. "Good luck to you, young lady. Just
keep your eyes open, you'll find a fella' knows where he belongs."

  I watched him walk out to a beat up pickup truck and drive off.
I finished my coffee and left the money on the counter.

  "Hope he didn't bother you much," the waitress said, raking the
bills toward her.

  "Not at all," I smiled again. "Interesting man. He left kinda'
fast."

  "Takes off at the same time everyday. Lives up near Wheeler
Heights. Lonely little place on about ten acres or so."

  "Yeah, he seemed kinda' sad."

  The waitress started to walk toward the cash register, then
paused in her tracks. "Sad story. Lost his wife a while back. She
was pretty as a picture. Big part of his life."

  I paused, trying to think of how to ask about what happened. The
waitress understood.

  "She was much younger. Left him for another man."

  I sighed and shook my head. It did seem strange that he did not
mention his wife during our conversation.

  "Like I said, sad story," the waitress said. People up in Wheeler
still talk about that couple. Say it would have turned out different
if they ever had children."

                               *  *  *

August 9, 1993
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SAVANNAH, GEORGIA -- I was just a stone throw's away from
a nightmare.

  This small little city or large town was a sanctuary for me
just as it has been throughout history for travelers with a greater
purpose than mine. You can taste the history in the air and there
is a lot gaiety and irreverence in the tourist shops along the
waterfront. For now I felt safe.

  Just a few miles north in the state of South Carolina was a
resort area known as Hilton Head Island. It was there almost
precisely two years ago that my life was suddenly and, up to this
point, irrevocably changed. What happened there began the cascade of
shame I live with today. I can only picture the beach there through
lenses streaked with tears.

  Savannah is just plain outright fun. It hides no shame. More
than anything else, Savannah is forthrightly and proudly Savannah.
Visitors here are expected to internalize this feeling and
immediately join the locals in celebration of how it is now; but most
tourists remain enthralled with how it was.

  Savannah boasts a rich and colorful history and my mind wandered
back in time as I walked the streets today. Horse-drawn carriages
passed me on cobblestone streets. Ancient Victorian houses line the
streets into and through downtown. Old brick storehouses lined the
waterfront and I caught myself fantasying being "shanghaied" for a
long voyage on an old sailing vessel.

  Upbeat, jumpy jazz seemed to be in the background wherever I went.
It doesn't seem to ring out from any particular nightclub -- it's
just always there. I didn't hear any rock and, even more startling
in this day and age, not a note of country.

  Still locals will talk about today. They brag about the Cardinals
and ask if you've been to a game yet. Confusing for a girl from the
Midwest, who immediately thought of St. Louis and the place she was
running from. They were talking about the Savannah Cardinals, of
course, a double A minor league affiliate.

  I left the downtown area and drove to the ballpark. The drive
took me along small streets lined with huge Magnolia trees. The
branches canopied over the street so I was in shade most of the way.
The stadium was an old, cement structure located in the middle of a
city park. It was so tiny that every car in the parking lot was
vulnerable to a foul ball.

  I walked a few short blocks to a grocery store and bought a
bottle of wine, some Monterey Jack cheese and some sour dough bread.
I carried the stuff back to the park and found a tree far from the
crowd. I relaxed and tried to take my mind away from the past.

  It wasn't long before I was taking three sips to every nibble
and I dozed off. The nightmare didn't stalk me while I slept
underneath the branches draped with Spanish moss. When I woke up,
I felt like I had awakened from an unforgiving past; but the
exhilaration vanished once my head cleared and I began to think
again. I looked south past the empty parking lot and pictured the
terror of an early morning two years ago.

  Somehow, I wish I could find the way to put the past aside as
easily as the natives in Savannah and beat on today's drums. Unlike
a fine wine, fear does not become more mellow with aging. It grows on
you until it becomes you. Sooner or later you come to realize that
the only way to deal with fear is to face it. You can't go around it
and you can't tunnel underneath it; but you can hold your breath and
walk through it. This is what I will have to do tomorrow, or the next
day, or maybe the day after that.

  But today I felt safe. Savannah's past was one I felt comfortable
visiting and its people have a lot to teach people like me about days
like today.

  I gathered up what remained of the food and wine and headed for
my van . . . .

  Just a stone's throw away from a nightmare.

                              {DREAM}

Copyright 1994 Leslie Meek, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
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Leslie has been searching and in her travels relates to us what she
has found so far. Warrensburg, Missouri is where the travels have
begun and there is no telling where her search will end -- if ever.
Perhaps leaving was her fist step to realizing -- she was *there* and
already knew. She's eager to hear from her readers and can be reached
via: U'NI-net's Writer's Conference and regularly logs onto  Crackpot
Connection (816-747-2525). She likes to chat, if you catch her online
-- tell her Rick said, "Hi!"
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