The Transitioning: An Emotional Journey for the Nomadic Mind

By Mitchell Newton-Matza

This book comprises of several short stories. This is the authors first published book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503549838

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Copyright © 2015 by Mitchell Newton-Matza.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2015903529

ISBN:      Hardcover            978-1-5035-4982-1

                Softcover             978-1-5035-4984-5

                eBook                   978-1-5035-4983-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 02/05/2015

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Contents

The Night A Visitor Came To St. Veronica’s

Snow

Groping At The Stacks

The Library Book

A Railroad Crossing

The Ring Companion

Miserere Nobis A One Act Play

The Forest Of Cremona

Vlad At The Gates

Witnessess To The Origin A Novella

Part One The School

Part Two Looking And Talking

Part Three Grocery Shopping

Part Three Saturday

Part Four The Joys Of Being Annoying

Part Five Singing

Part Six Linear Motion

Part Seven Fog

Part Eight On Their Own

Part Nine Stars

Part Ten Linear Discussions

Part Eleven Go Ahead

Part Twelve Faces

Part Thirteen Thinking

Part Fourteen Onward

Chief And The Image Buster

Carlita’s Dinner Date

The Monster In The Lake

The Lightning Of The Morning

Chief And The Image Buster

Closing Eyes

THE NIGHT A

VISITOR CAME TO

ST. VERONICA’S

A rainy Tuesday night. A little windy, but picking up. Just perfect. Somewhat warm, but I’d still wear a jacket. I always reveled in this sort of weather. It was something of the it was a dark and stormy night sort of feeling. Nothing symbolic here, just a love for strange weather. Nor was it symbolic for this particular evening. The two just happened to coincide.

Tuesday night was Youth Group night over at St. Veronica’s. I was raised Catholic, but was straying somewhat during my high school years, the time of this evening. I didn’t go to church very often, nor did I participate in the many seasonal rites of passage. I fell across this group through Mike, my sister’s boyfriend at the time. He suggested checking it out at the organizational meeting. Though Mike and my sister never returned to the group, I wound up staying. That way I was still keeping my ties with the Church while enjoying pleasant evenings of discussion and light-hearted fun.

We weren’t particularly a Bible study group, for we rarely, if ever, discussed scriptures. We often discussed social and moral problems, played games, joked around, ate pizza, or simply socialized. The group was run by Father Johannes, a nice young priest who knew how to keep our interest week after week. In all there were about fourteen of us who consistently showed up, another six or so who came whenever the spirit moved them (which wasn’t very often, quite thankfully). Each week we met in the rectory basement, and it was there we tackled whatever earth-shattering problems that happened to come our way. Mostly with little regard. Solving the world’s problems was not for us. Looking back, I think we preferred ridiculing them.

I didn’t see any lightening flashing right before I left. Too bad. It would have made for an interesting walk. It was 6:30, and that gave me about ten minutes to get there and twenty minutes before the meeting to circulate and distribute obligatory greetings.

As soon as I stepped out onto the porch a gust of wind hit me. It was wonderful. Though I was lucky not to need my umbrella at the moment, the turbulent air would more than provide for an enjoyable stroll. Watching the tree tops sway, I wondered what it must be like to constantly endure the harshness of nature; unprotected, vulnerable, yet permanent. Crossing the vacant street, I hoped for the wind to continue, and for a full-blown storm to watch when I got home.

The wind began to pick up as I walked. Swaying in the strong breeze, the trees occasionally dipped down in an attempt to touch me. Not knowing which trees were good and which were bad, I swatted each one away. I was to have none of the nonsense while enjoying a good blustery night. If they wished to fight me later I would consent. I had other things to consider at that moment.

It is amazing how many cars appear when I want to cross a street. Waiting for what seemed to be a good convoy to pass, I crossed a major avenue and entered a block whose street lights had been knocked out by the weather. It was here that I would have to be on my guard. Not only were the evil trees prepared for me, but only experienced travelers like myself knew what lurked in desolate gangways and in the shadows of old factories. If one was not too careful, they might confront what they feared most. Not monsters. Not psychotic killers who never die and keep re-appearing in film after film. No demons waiting to take possession, except the one already inside. They thrived on nights like this. But so did I.

For some reason, the street grew longer and darker with each dwelling I passed. After what seemed to be half a block, I saw that I had in fact gone by only two houses. Looking down to the sidewalk, I saw the problem. The little bastards stretched the concrete blocks. Each one was at least fifty feet long. At this rate I’d never get to the meeting. Not to be intimidated, I grabbed between the cracks and pulled them back. As I stood up, a gust of wind hit me in the face. It almost threw me off balance. I staggered forward. Why couldn’t every night be like this?

The wind whistled between the houses, and in the sound there were hints of whispers. Whispers saying to hurry up. Whispers saying to slow down. Whispers saying to hold still. Whispers saying to come in to the shadows. Whispers saying……

I turned the bend in the street. I normally don’t believe in looking back, but in doing so I saw the street was lit as usual, the power obviously restored by the utility company (this sort of thing really did happen quite often. Most people don’t like it, but I always thought it was funny). I turned back around and continued on with my walk.

The rest of the walk was uneventful. The other street had too many other pedestrians on them, all scurrying around to get inside before THE BIG ONE hit. They’d step over the branches which suddenly fell in front of them (if they’d only knew!), fumble with their keys, and slam the door shut, firmly securing it from the dangerous outdoors. I turned my attention from them back to nature. The wind and distant faint flashes of lightning was far more interesting than yuppies afraid of a little inclement weather.

After crossing a few more streets, I found myself staring at the steeple of St. Veronica’s. It was one of those beautiful old neighborhood churches, the kind which always made one feel at home. Looking at my watch, I saw that it took me seven minutes longer than usual to arrive. It was that damn sidewalk bit. Or at least I hoped I remembered it that way. My fellow group members were assembled in the small courtyard, attempting to sink a few baskets before the meeting. My friends saw me approach and called out to me.

Yo! Think fast!, Jerry yelled as he threw the basketball my way. Snatching it out of the air, I dribbled it for a few steps then attempted a shot at a ridiculous distance. The wind shifted and drove it straight into a puddle, splashing Jerry.

Well, I can’t say I didn’t ask for it, Jerry said as he looked down at the water spots covering his ankles. I probably would have gotten soaked on the way home anyhow.

I wonder if we’re even going to meet tonight, said Katherine, a cute high school freshman girl. If it’s going to storm maybe we should call it off.

It doesn’t matter to me, I pitched in. It looks like it’s almost here anyway, so maybe by the time we’re finished it will have all passed. Damn it anyway. I was hoping it watch it from bed.

We tossed the ball around for a few minutes and then headed inside. The basement had a low ceiling, old brown paneling, and a small kitchen was attached, separated from the rest of the room by a serving counter. The chairs were already set up, indicating the meeting was still on.

Taking his chair, Jerry joked, Hey, M, you’re such a hot basketball player you make my pants all wet! Nobody handles balls like you.

Just ask your girlfriend, I retorted.

Jerry laughed and referred to me by a term which cast serious doubt on my sexual preference4 (oh, how little did they know who I really wanted to be!). The other people laughed at the whole exchange, although I think Katherine was a bit embarrassed. Leaning over to alleviate her blushing, Jerry said Don’t mind him. His mother sniffed glue while pregnant with him.

Yours went to a proctologist to get you out, I replied. I guess that’s why your mom says she always knew you’d be a pain in the ass from the moment you were born.

The snickering continued. The door opened and Angela came in. Angela was a high school senior like myself, although she went to an all-girls Catholic school while I spent time (so to speak) in the public system. She was taller than the other girls, slim, long brown hair, and a pair of brown-rimmed glasses which really accentuated her face. She wasn’t the prettiest girl around, but she was cute in so many ways. I always had an attraction for her. I watched her walk down the short stairway and take her seat. She had on a gray sweatshirt and jeans that fit her figure nicely. Not skin tight, and not baggy. As far as I knew she had no boyfriend, which suited me just fine. She got along well with the other kids, as I did, but we both seemed to go our own ways within the group and outside of it. Maybe that’s why I liked her more than anything. She seemed to be like me. How much like me I would never know for sure, although I knew I sure seemed to be like her in a way I could never admit to at the time.

I tried to keep my eyes on her without the appearance of staring. As I said, these people were my friends, but had they noticed my fixed attention I would have never heard the end of it. Angela presented her greetings to the others and then turned to me with a smile. Hello, M. How are you?

Oh, just fine. And I’m enjoying this fine evening.

"I was thinking of you today in school. We’re reading Steppenwolf by Hermann Hesse and it reminded me of how you used to try to get me to read it first. I’m beginning to wish I did."

I know. But you never did like to pay attention to me anyhow, I joked, with a touch of flirtation in my voice. But that’s okay. You think of me in class and all it is how I used to bug you.

Come on! That’s not fair!, she protested. You should know better than that.

Should I? We made eye contact continuously throughout each meeting. Being too shy to make any sort of additional contact, I kept my thoughts of her to my fantasies. These were not always sexual, but simply one based upon a young person’s crush. At first I noticed several of the girls in the group, but Angela eventually won my undivided attention. It especially occurred one night during a discussion on relationships. After making a comment that women never needed much money because they had men to spend on them (pardon my chauvinism – it really was unintentional), Angela remarked Spend money on me! This could have meant any number of things. I chose to take it as a form of approval. All I had to do was to get the courage to ask for her phone number and (dare I try?) possibly a date.

I hadn’t had many experiences with girls at that point in my life. I was simply too shy. Plus, for a long time I was considered to be a raging geek, not to mention a weirdo who was obviously hiding something. Or, at least that is what I was told. I was just different, and paid the price time and time again. In my senior year I began to overcome that barrier. But Angela was so different from the others that I honestly had no idea how to approach her. I used to imagine us arriving first at the meeting. We’d be in the basement, and our conversation would drift from the previous meeting to each other.

I’ve always been meaning to tell you, Angela, I would comment, that, well, I like you a lot, and, uh, well, I would, uh, like to see you sometime. (Remember that I had no idea at the time how a couple would approach each other. I assumed it always started like this.)

She’s blush prettily and look at me from above her glasses. You have no idea how long I’ve waited for you to say that.

You don’t have a boyfriend, so you?, I would nervously ask. She would shake her head.

No. Nobody ever cared for me. I guess I’m too weird.

Don’t say that. Don’t. If anyone’s weird around here, it’s me.

You’re not weird. You’re unique, she would say firmly. I’d love to be with you.

Our hands would slowly reach forward and meet. Hers were as soft as I imagined. We pulled each other closer. Our hands slowly moved up the arms. Her face reached forward and her lips pushed gently against mine. It