When the student is ready the teacher appears.
When the student is truly ready the teacher disappears. – Laozi
I love it when I get my ass handed to me, it’s so instructive! – Flying123
Hero, n.1 A fool, properly motivated.
a. Said fool, fortunate.
Hero’s Dictionary
Sometimes silence is the gift we all need most; sometimes the real gift is having something taken. Peratae Bogomil
Hitch Hereafter
Christopher was in a good deal of pain. Not a lot mind you, not the worst, for say what one likes about the state of palliative care the drugs are beyond reproach. Still, the pain was not to be trifled with, although neither was Christopher.
All things considered, it was a life of satisfaction, gratification, and accomplishment. He enjoyed himself immensely living it. His only regret was the impending sense of loss attendant to, well, everything. He comforted himself with the knowledge that this too, this feeling of loss, would itself be lost – along with pain not to be trifled with.
His last hours of time, a time that included his family, friends, loves and losses, are left to him and his, a span of time, whether it was long or short, joyous or filled with melancholy, are for him and his, sacred and necessarily shrouded, as is for nearly all who go before us.
And so we leave Christopher, our eye turned inward.
This is what happened next.
As the pain at last ended, Christopher would have experienced surprise at the realization of its end if it were not for the overwhelming sense of fascination which nearly superseded all else. Not only was there continuation, there was synthesis, a sense of removing a shoe that was too tight, a sightless seeing experienced through a grounded encapsulated love which transcends and includes all varieties of existence.
He saw his life, from his first inhalation to his terminal exhalation, a great blowing out that is entwined with a sublime taking in, all of it acceptable, necessary, and complete.
And then he was in the bar.
The bar was not large but neither was it small. Not all the chairs were filled but in those that were sat people in earnest conversation, one speaking, another in rapt attention. He sat in a small booth; perhaps enough for four if everyone was friendly and Christopher noticed his hands resting comfortably in front of him, his left gently wrapped, forefinger and thumb around a glass tumbler, three fingers full, two perfect cubes of ice halfway submerged in what could be none other than Mr Walker’s Amber Restorative. With a wry smile, it occurred to him how aptly he had named it after all. In Christopher’s right hand – a cigarette, just lit, the smoke wafting its way luxuriously upwards towards a ceiling he could not quite resolve.
It seemed like a fine idea, so he took a long, sensuous, drag on the cigarette – relishing the glow and crackle, letting the gray smoke fill the air in front of him. Seeming an idea finer still, he tipped a slower sip from the tumbler.
Both magnificent. Better than any other, in fact.
And then she came in.
All conversation in the bar ceased.
It was not a hostile silence. Quite the contrary, every face beamed rapt attention, utter appreciation, and unbounded affection.
He immediately understood why. She was, quite simply, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She trickled her way through the bar, making eye contact, sharing a quiet word or two, laying a hand on a shoulder, then moving on. Christopher did not take his eyes off her, no more than any other, but that did not keep him from taking another drag from his cigarette and another sip of his whiskey.
She flowed with a diaphanous grace, her attire both impeccably modest and impossibly alluring. While she did not at all resemble either, there was something that reminded him of both his wife and his daughter.
That was when she noticed Christopher, rooted him with her attention and slid her way towards his booth like a summer stream.
And sat across from him.
At which point conversation in the bar resumed as if nothing important at all had just occurred.
Christopher held up his glass to her, rattling ice against itself and the clear glass. “Not Perrier. So it’s hell for the atheist after all.” Christopher said with his customary dryness.
She laughed, causing every bit of his quantum foam to quiver in delightful response.
She slid a book across the table to him. “Open it.” She said.
Before looking at it, Christopher asked, “Any particular page?”
“Your choice. As always Christopher.” She replied.
He looked down and saw “The Quotable Hitchens from Alcohol to Zionism” Ed. by Windsor Mann. Taking his left hand off the glass he used his thumb to start rifling through the pages of the closed book starting at the end and moving towards the beginning. He stopped a third of the way, then began again, as if shuffling half a deck of cards. Once again he paused, then began anew. Attempting randomness a final time, his thumb between the pages, he opened the book and looked down.
And read:
My own opinion is enough for me, and I claim the right to have it defended against any consensus, any majority, anywhere, any place, any time. And anyone who disagrees with this can pick a number, get in line and kiss my ass. (debate at University of Toronto, 2006)
Beside the quote, tucked neatly into the binding, impossibly thin, was a small slip of paper with the familiar deep notch indicative of a ticket pulled from a dispenser.
Printed on it was the number one.
“You’re up.” She said with supreme good humor.
As Christopher’s laughter poured forth it mixed with hers, finally forced to admit that women are indeed damn funny.
