Chapter 2 — Minneapolis
Time has passed. I grew up and forgot all about my Teacher.
I had more important business to attend to now. I had a job writing for the local newspaper. I liked it. I would get called to the hot scenes, and fairly enjoyed the adrenaline rush these tasks came with.
The danger called me, or maybe I searched for it. I felt like an adrenaline junkie. If nothing happened for a week, I started losing interest in life. But I picked the right place. Our city was full of creeps, murderers, and corrupted authorities.
I moved to Minneapolis when I was a teenager. My innocent years of childhood in the fields got interrupted by dad’s death. I was ten. About that time, as I now recall, the visits of my inner Teacher stopped.
My new neighborhood was different from our farm. Kids on the streets entertained themselves with daily basketball and occasional battles. First, the battles were ending with a few bruises and black eyes. As we grew, so did our toys, and once in a while bullets took the lives of my friends.
My hood taught me everything. With my boys, I learned the best paths to get lost in the city. There was a huge stadium a couple blocks away, and an open market three blocks south from there. Most try to run into a narrow valley. Amateurs. Four of us always knew to get into the most crowded space. There, you are invisible. Pick up a new hat, and “Boom!”, you are a new man dissolved into the crowd, impossible to spot among thousands of drinking fans too preoccupied with the screens to notice your heavy breathing.
That was a long time ago. Only one of my mates is still alive, and I haven’t talked to him in ages. Destiny took us apart. After Daren’s death, we hardly kept in touch. He was the youngest. We never talked about it. Others have done that for us.
There were protests and riots. Local shops were set on fire, people got arrested. I didn’t care. I went numb. I couldn’t feel the pain, I couldn’t feel anything.
But I still had the instincts of a hound. Unlike most, I noticed fear in people’s eyes. I knew what fear smelled like and followed that stink. Scared people always led me to the scene, like it was magnetic and they couldn’t escape.
I started taking pictures, first with my phone, then with a borrowed camera. It allowed me to stay further away unnoticed. Pictures turned into stories. Stories about children being abused, dealers paying off to the cops, assaults, violence and mistreatment.
I started mailing my stories to the local newspapers. I rarely heard back, but I didn’t care. One day I saw my first story on the pages of The Free Press and found a check in the envelope. Then there were more. Six months later The Minnesota Daily offered me a part-time position at minimum pay. I accepted.
I didn’t send all of my photos. I never gave away teenage robberies. They reminded me of myself. I simply watched them hiding in the dark, while taking in my dose of nicotine under the tree. Most of them would get caught anyway. Stupid kids, they had no idea how to hide.
I got a hold of an old radio and hacked the cops’ frequency. Hunting became easier.
— Why are you here?
That voice. I knew it. I haven’t heard it in a long time, but I recognized the tone.
— Teacher?
— Why are you here? — he repeated.
I took another drag, dropped the rest and moved towards my loft.
It was raining, and I felt its freezing slaps on my face. I felt the questions rising inside but suppressed them.
— Not a good time.
I need a beer. A six-pack will do. The gas station is around the corner.
One down, five to go! Dark porter is my favorite. Weird choice, some say, but I enjoy it, and most importantly it does the job — no shame, no voices, simple and pleasurable empty.
The rain stopped. I took a seat on a bench in the park. My place’s across the street, but I love the smell of the fresh grass. It reminds me of the farm I spent most of my childhood on. There was a lake nearby. I used to hide in the bushes by the water, laying on the grass, stargazing. Nothing can compare to this after-rain smell.
I lit up a joint and took a deep inhale.
— Oh, the healing herb. What would I do without you?…
— Why are you here?
— God dammit! Can I just enjoy this fine blunt? Do you mind? It’s god damn good. I’ll tell you. Look its’s “THE Honeycomb”. Two perfect octagons of hash inside rich fresh soil-grown indica pats, perfectly rolled in a cone-shaped tobacco leaf. See?
He didn’t say anything but I felt his smirk.
— How are you feeling?
— Honestly, quite annoyed. — I replied impatiently.
He smirked again. I exhaled knowing this conversation is not over.
— OK. Go for it. Go ahead, I’m listening. Tell me how I’m misusing my precious life, how lucky I am to be alive and how I should be grateful for what I have.
— I missed you! — he said after a long pause.
Silence.
— I missed you too. — I answered looking down.
I felt tears about to drop from the corners of my eyes. I shook them off, but another set followed, and I simply let them drizzle on the asphalt below.
There were no more words, not even thoughts. I just felt his presence for a while, then got up and slowly walked home. Right before the door I stopped and looked around. Not to search for dangers, but to notice the beauty of this little neighborhood I called “Home”. I heard sirens far away and the rumble of cars two streets behind, but this space was quiet, and only a homeless dog sleeping by the door looked up at me with anticipation.
— It’s Ok, love. Go back to sleep.
I smiled and turned the key.
