Adventures WorldRace SethBarnes Sponsorship Giving

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Read this on my main blog here
Along with the other students in the media ‘track’ at G-42, I recently took a trip to Holland with Dutch author, pastor, filmmaker and musician Herman Haan. Like I said in my last newsletter, we spent a week creating stories, making plans, practicing writing, visiting churches and hearing him teach. We spent a day writing a short story with Herman at his home. I thought I’d share… 

Click for Part 1 
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They sat in folding chairs, sandwiches in their laps, chips leaning on their legs. They chewed in silence only for a second. 

“I like it here. I like music, writing it and composing it and listening,” said Adam. “It’s always smart to have a backup plan, I think. I do like music.” 

“How was your time working this morning?” the old man asked. 

“Good. I dreamed about music and playing in front of so many, being an inspiration for younger musicians. I wonder if Bob Dylan worked in a warehouse. I bet he did, probably when he was my age. Did he go to college? I’m sure he needed to make money before making it big. It probably helped him get there. I was born here and I’ll die here, against my will. I know it looks like I’m movin’, but I’m standing still. Every nerve in my body, is so vacant and numb, I can’t even remember what it was I came here to get away from, don’t even hear, the murmur of a prayer, it’s not dark yet, but it’s gettin’ there. I love his writing. And then it was time for lunch.”

“That’s good,” said the old man. Thwick. Whirr. 

“How was your morning? What did you think about?” said the boy. 

“Hunting.” The old man threw the bread crust in the trash and walked to the bottles and stickers. He finished the bottle he started before lunch. The rubber belt brought him another bottle and he applied a sticker with directions for applying soap on the back and warnings against consumption on the side as he always had, the logo middle and front. He heard footsteps. The boy walked behind him, but it was not the sound of the boy’s tennis shoes and farther away. Heavier and quicker, there was authority in those steps. He placed the sticker on a new bottle and turned around. 

A man in a suit-jacket leaned on a crate of boxes and spoke to the warehouse boss. The old man had not seen him in weeks. He looked at his boss and the man in the suit-jacket while they spoke, and his boss smiled and turned to the old man. He pointed to him and together they walked his direction. His boss spoke first. “I didn’t know you were a writer!” 



“I’m not,” replied the old man. 



The man in the suit stepped forward and offered his hand to the old man. “You’re not a writer?” he asked. 



“I work here.” 
“Is this not your novel?” He reached into his blue suit jacket and pulled out a small book. There were thin pages and no pictures on the cover, only large . letters in unadorned font. Inside that jacket pocket was not an assemblage of pages but a setting long forgotten, left behind in a time he had also forgotten. Now there was no other action than recollection. “Where did you find that? That’s my book.” 



“Mark Neagle, president at the university. It is such a pleasure to meet you, sir. A couple years ago, we found your book, and have been trying to find you. The adventures you’ve had – such a life! And every year we have a night to celebrate distinguished alumni. Tonight, we would like you to be our main honoree.” 

The old man’s arms started to tremble inside his blue coveralls. Thwick. Whirr. He looked at his boss. “Take off the rest of the day to get ready. I think it will be a big night for you.” 

They both shook his hand and walked out of the warehouse. The door closed and again it was just the old man and Adam. He held the book with both hands and Adam looked over his shoulder at them. He looked at the book too and he thought his hands looked tired but not worn or old and wrinkled like the book. He flipped through pages and they stared at the pages while Adam spoke.

“Old man, you lived in Africa.”

“I was not much older than you.”

“You lived many adventures.” The old man was silent and looked at the book once more before handing it off. Adam read three pages and then paragraphs from the middle and paragraphs near the end. 

“Africa,” he said.

“Yes,” said the old man

“Lion hunting. Fighting for independence in Angola. You lived this and wrote this?” asked Adam.

“I was not much older than you.”  

The old man wore a dark blue suit and a watch that hadn’t donned his wrist since his wedding day, and also the last time champagne touched his lips and the champagne was poured for him, and there were many in attendance including Neagle and the president wore a blue suit, too, and asked the old man to join him on stage. 

The story the old man wrote and the story of the old man had spread through the city and the room stood to applause at once and the stairs he climbed were of red carpet. Neagle told him when he reached the stage that this would not be his last award he will receive for his book.



“Never has there been a man more deserving of such honor. I just want to apologize for taking so long to do it.” The old man spoke to the audience with passion and when he cried so did they and he laughed and they laughed too. Thwick. Whirr. They were inspired by him. Everyone wanted to shake his hand and most asked when they would be able to purchase his book but he didn’t care about that.
Adam was there, too. He had never desired to play music for the rest of his life like that night. And he wanted to hunt and fight and he couldn’t wait to learn from the old man, to be just like him. The old man was alive and felt passion and his jaw ached from the laughter and from smiles he returned to those shaking his hand. There were other alumni honored that night. They were inspiring and he was one of them, he was with them.
 





At the end of the night, Neagle thanked him for living his life and together they talked and finished champagne. He knew from this night on they would be friends and the friendship would be great. He lived a great life, too, and together they shared stories of adventures and moments difficult to forget. Thwick. Whirr. Then it was time to leave.
The old man put his award in his blue coveralls and walked out the door. He said goodbye to Adam, it was a short walk home, the air was warm and sunset lit his way.



He opened the freezer that lay on the floor in his garage, stacked inside with dinners for weeks. The television was on while his dinner spun in the microwave, and he was thankful for today. It had been a good day. A day like tomorrow will be and he was tired, not from today, but for tomorrow, and he switched the television off earlier than most days.
He laid his head on the pillow. Lights from the street entered his window and through his blinds and shone onto his blue coveralls, nicely laid out for tomorrow over the chair near his bed. His head lifted to look at them. He thought about them, and about himself. Worn every weekday for decades. His room was dimly lit like the warehouse. He thought about what he told Adam, vibrant and impressionable, in many ways such a boy. 



“Don’t think about it. Pretend you’re doing something else. Then, your days will be over.” He was ready to close his eyes. There was nothing he had to do.