The Reconciliation

It was an exciting time. Mankind landed on the moon for the first time. There was also a war, unrelated. Oh, and I was born. I grew up. Ranch life was the best, despite the asthma. Alfalfa, pines, and manure rolled up with the air. I grew up more, got over the asthma. For the first time, Star Wars was on the big screen. Mom was not impressed. Dad moved us. I changed high schools. I was not impressed. Dad and Mom had no connections. I was a nobody. Already disqualed for astronaut or fighter pilot duty. Enlistment was my choice. U.S. Air Force for life. Dad was not impressed. Turns out, I had a lot of life to go.

Used to be, freedom was a given. The Iron Curtain rusted and crumbled. The worst was behind, better days ahead. There were renewed signs. Men found new ways to squabble. The world grew sophisticated and connected. Email and electronic files were poised to replace paper, never happened. Stealth was a thing. A pair of towers fell. Many died then, and because of, since. The first of my innocence ripped away. A chunk of freedom forever cast aside. An act of God? The cowardice of man? Perhaps some of both. Turns out, oil and sand don’t mix.

The mysterious marble Stones were ignored eight ways. The pot was stirred. Speed begat greed. Greed became the currency of choice. Few asked “should we”. Most bent a head, averted the eye, and charged forth, regardless. And their lies were the crook of things, and of reason. No time to heed. The Greatest generation peaked, then waned. I feel left behind. Cast aside. Forgotten. Family drifted. Vices took their toll. Inevitable, though it ought not have been so.

The two sides railed. The elite shouted. The Joes atrophied. The masses swelled. As the government aged, the clever sieged. They amassed, leveraged. The Janes forever mired in the crevasse. I care less with every birthday. Choose a side they demand. Choose or face cancellation. The flag passes hands. Still they shout. Few listen. Lies spread. Life redefined. Blame and deception the weapons of choice.

It’s the next century. Fifty is, ironically, the new thirty. I anticipate fifty years of shitty life. Back in the day, thousands fled to the new world. The taste of freedom. It would come at great expense. I would flee this drowning new world, this swamp, but that there is no further refuge. The scourge of scum and villainy is pervasive. The cancer spreads. For the first time, I pray for the rapture, the cleanse. Perhaps there is truth to ancient tales, of floods great and fires hot. I’d be hard pressed to blame Him for starting again.

Maybe it is the way of man. This I have come to believe, always two there are. Good and evil. Light and dark. War and peace. Black and white. Life and death. A circle, neither there nor here, just now. Color, after all, is just color. Look back. Look around. There has never been peace. It is nothing but hope. It is all we have. I am losing faith that hope is enough.

Let’s go to Mars, they say. Starship by the hundreds. Mankind must build the stars if we’re to survive each other. A glimmer. A spark. Dare one hope? It’s feeble at best. Humans are fragile and space is, unforgiving. Yet pioneers blaze forth. I wish them lucks. Maybe the elite will follow and leave the Earth to us schmucks. I will not go to the stars. Oh that I was young. I’d join the space force. Imagine the adventure. Beware. If fiction is future, Mars and the stars are but the next fields of couture. Lust and greed, forever partners with adventure and exploration. Man will drag his ills with him. I’ll stay put, thank you. Obscure and anonymous. Minding my own and praying for the magnanimous.

But what of the future? Of jobs and service, of us as liables? Does it rely on A.I.? Should we? Surely our salvation. Better. Safer. More efficient. Likely, more dangerous. Artificial life, created by man, flaws and ambitions and all it transitions. Will it be like us, only more capable but less culpable? And irony of ironies. Our lasting hope of likelihood, or, our inevitable livelihood? Go, I say. To each his and her own. Build the stars, your dreams. But go with peace and choice, forget your presumptions. For that is the crux of all things. You are not my keeper, nor I yours, and have no wish to be so. I’ll be all right. You needn’t fuss. Just go.

Then the implausible. The unthinkable. The quest for control and the grab for power. The great reset. Born of an epic tantrum. A new age of slander and the sad disregard for humanity. For the first time, I am unemployed. The anger. The shame. Savings burned. I may smother while dependent on big brother. I’m a leper. At the mercy of spite and deceit. The Fathers are turning down under. I am certain they would turn their backs, over the plunder.

2020, what a shit tear. Pandemic, the second reckoning of a lifetime. More freedoms lost, discarded. We are no longer a free people. Were we ever, really? Retrospect, uncertain as the future. Privacy is extinct. Unemployment peaks. The new norm? The state is watching. Big tech is deciding. Have you chosen? Comply or else, it seems. There is no choice. No freedom. Even hospitals are a risk. You’re a label. They can’t yet police your thoughts, but if they could...

The fiat is dying. Still, the printers run non-stop. Step in line or suffer. Fear of missing the boat, the train. Fear of losing control. They’re quick to assert. They know best, ya know. You, you can’t know. For the first time, cryptos offered hope for the masses. But nope. Regulators butt in, big corp jumps the gun. Can’t have that. I’m kept unemployed. Fears come true. In a way, relief. Off the grid, clear of thy bidding. The bennys dried up. I pick and choose. No one cares. Chalk up another homeless veteran stat. Drifting. Car life. Hey, better than a box or a bridge on the rocks.

Some years later, my favorite park bench, miles from neon and towers. A man occupies my place. I pause, hesitate. I take a step back. It’s mine. My place, not his. The sun rises. Late spring. What does he want? He talks, swaggering, swearing. To whom? Himself? No, on the phone, an implant. He looks at me, taps his wrist. A watch maybe.

He scoots to one end. “I’ve been waiting.” I approach and sit, soaking the morning sun, my peace, nourishment. Mornings are magical, each a new start. “Who are you?” I trust him not, but my defense is as close as my pocket. He speaks his name. I stare, it means nothing to me. “The governor,” he amends. “Failure,” I reply. He considers, laughs. He does not disagree. I don’t like him. He smells, not of drink or body, but artificial, chemical. Cologne.

“Why are you here?” I’m suspicious. I ask, my hand goes to my pocket. His mouth opens, but nothing comes forth. He stumbles. He knows not what he says. He licks his lips. “Why are you here?” I look at him, precisely cut hair to polished shoes. A cross is pinned to his tie. He is soft, manicured. No threat. “No one cares,” I say. I remove my hand to scratch my chin. People haven’t cared for far too long. Including me. “That is why I’m here. To witness my failure, our, failures.” He abruptly stands, “Take care.” He walks away, his dark suit flowing well around him. I watch him go. I want to forget, reject his overtures.

But then he stops, turns back. “Here. I meant to leave this for you.” I make no move to accept the small box. He sets it at the end of the bench. I say nothing. I wait. He shows me a tight smile, the polite kind you offer strangers, and leaves. I look at the box, similar in size to an old hardback book. I can’t figure him. What was it he couldn’t say? An apology? Was this gift some form of atonement? He came alone, no proof or witness. Humility? Too late he sees the light. For that is the heart of man, as did the son of man, sacrifice and humility. We all know the story. Too many choose to ignore it.

In the end, I pick it up. I open it. I look back, he is nowhere in sight. Inside I find a photo, faded and creased. A uniformed man, young. Clean, happy, strong. Yet familiar. Next, a little black book, worn with age and use. The first page reads ‘This is my Reconciliation.’ At the bottom, a scribbled and illegible signature. All but the last few pages filled in. Each page an event. Each facing page a judgement, truth or lie. I set it aside to read later and return to the box. A blackened silver coin, engraved with a cross, sits atop a stack of bills. The cash was museum quality, crisp, Washingtons through Franklins. Twenty thousand worth. Has the man given up? Perhaps he hopes it’s not too late. Time was when I could have, no, would have used that kind of money. Not for smokes, or drink, or feel goods. Rather food, fuel, shoes, and a blanket. Cash, the dollar, fiats worldwide have died. Years ago. Gross mismanagement, broken principles, short sighted and selfish. Turns out, paper ain’t cryptos. I keep it for fire starters, it burns green. Not quite insult upon injury. Just bad luck timing I glean.

I’m a man out of time. I did my part. I served my kind. It goes unnoticed. It is the way of things. Time is moving swiftly now. History, it’s lessons drown in the wake of progress. The cycle repeats. What can one do? Wish, hope, pray. Eat, lift, run, sleep. One has only oneself. It was only ever so. The only unique is you, your soul. One stands out, alone, strong and erect. Or fades to a blur in the crowd, weak and meek. Decide or abide. Different than family or teams. Embrace it now for next century, mankind will be one entity, not biological, but machine. A new cog in time and space, racing along forward, forever the struggle.

We are all of us nobody, in the sea of morass. The moral decay of humanity. The humiliating hubris of our collective nepotism. This third rock is unimaginably ancient. Old stones must tell a story but ignorance and obstinance shrouds the path. Travel the globe. Visit the evidence. Today, even technology cannot duplicate victories of the ancients. I may never know. History is lost to time and suffrage. The Word, the Books, the megaliths, the stained glass, some of each yet survive. Arrogance ignores. Anything goes. Irony abounds.

The first time, and the last time, I hope there is life after human-form death. I have fifty plus years to wait, to discover the undiscovered, the unknown. Faith is a must, for all else is just lust. But I wonder. Would the path have been better without the apple? A park. Children playing. A fleeting innocence. Utterly unfair and savagely inevitable. Yet, the epitome of ironies, hope and faith is all that there is. Maybe the answer is out there, awaiting discovery among the stars. But is that the first time, too? Or merely the next cycle in the great expanse?