two fundamentalists.

Two men walk into a bar. The bartender looks at the first man and sighs. "Yes, we do serve beer here." 

The man looks around, sad. He sees people drinking wine, of course, but also beer. Laughing and smiling and raising their glasses. He looks down in disgust. 

"And," the bartender continues, looking at the second man. "Yes, we do serve wine here." 

The second man looks around and sighs. He sees people drinking beer, of course, but also wine. Laughing and smiling and raising their glasses. He looks down in disgust. 

Both men leave the bar, leaving the bartender to mutter something under his breath. 

Each of the men give one another a final stare with a mean look. "I'm sorry you will never appreciate the flavor of beer," the first man says. 

"And I'm sorry you will never appreciate wine," the second man says. 

A final glance of judgment is thrown out before they return to their homes where their wives welcome them with beer, to the first man, and wine, to the second. 

They both sit at their respective tables in their respective houses and, of course, say a prayer before eating. 

The first man says, "Dear God, thank you that we have tasted beer. Thank you that we don't drink wine. And thank you that someday, everyone will drink only beer and that the evil people drinking wine will see the truth." 

The second man, in his house not too far away says, "Dear God, thank you that we have tasted wine. Thank you that we don't drink beer. And thank you that someday, everyone will drink only wine and that the evil people drinking beer will see the truth. "

Yeah, pretty silly story, right? 

short story. five.

There was no prison. There were no guard towers. There were no fields. There was no fence. There were no dogs. There was no spotlights.

Just a city, like the cities I had always seen as a kid. Like the cities that had always been presented to me as the places I needed to go. 

Skyscrapers. Cars. Houses. Employees. And the promise of more. The promise wasn’t explicit but it was there, because it was always there. The more glowed, attractive, and enchanting compared to the momentarily dull forest. 

I noticed the men and women walking toward the city. If Dixon hadn't grabbed hold of me I would have been taken away like a leaf in a stream back from where I had just come from. 

“Whoa,” he said. “You don’t want to go back there.” His gripped me stronger. “Glad you made it though.” His smile was as wide as my confusion.  

“I’ll be home soon babe,” Someone said next to me. 

“It’ll pay off someday.” Someone else. 

“I’ll eventually be back." Someone else. 

“We’ve got to try.” Someone else. 

“I know it’s hard but that’s where our dreams are.” Another voice. 

“What,” I managed. “Wait. What?” 

I stared again at where I had just come from. Or thought I had. And wondered why it wasn’t there. 

“Where are you going?” I asked. “Wait, that’s not what you think…” 

They ignored me, just as I always had ignored the similar voices. 

“Dixon.” 

“I know man. I know,” he said calmly as more people continued to walk toward the city on all the sides of us. “Well I suppose I don’t know, actually. I only know they’re seeing something different than we are.” 

“But…” 

“I know. I've been sitting here since I left, waiting for you and trying to figure it out." 

“We’ve got to tell them.” 

“There’s no use in that,” he answered. "I've tried." 

“No,” I yelled. “Our friends. The ones celebrating right now. They can do it! It’s not what we thought. It’s easier. I mean.” I stopped and looked around at the woods, the trees, the flowers. The air was warmer and covering me. I had barely noticed. I fell to my knees and began to laugh and cry and wave my hands in the sweet freedom all around me. 

“Would you have listened?” he asked. 

“Well I might have.” 

“Nah,” he let go of me and turned his back. “They need that prison for now. Eventually it’ll get so bad, they’ll leave too. Until then, my friend…” he waited for me to turn around. “Until then, we’ve got things to do. People to see. We’ll be here for the ones that come, just like I was for you. But, until then, well… remember you have a family. And friends. And something to finally do.” 

Years earlier, when the addictions were as young as I was, I had been on vacation with my family to Maui. We were all body surfing and having a good time in the sand, in the foam, in the sun. Until that one wave got me. It was all going according to plan until that thing took my feet and sent them over my head in all the ways that our bodies are not supposed to bend. (Well, unless you've been in yoga for a while.) I'll never forget the sound of my back cracking, amplified by the water and my fear, that my picture was going to be in the newspaper the following day: father, husband, paralyzed on vacation with his family. 

Needless to say I made it. 

short story. four.

It was oddly familiar, as though I was watching the same movie, but I was the main character this time.  They were watching me. I was the one entering into the tunnel, smelling the shit, about to be covered in it and crawling to what I hoped, was freedom. 

The goodbyes were what they always were: quick, sad, to the point, and exciting. Little did I know how exciting, from that vantage point, up to that instant. It already seemed like a success just to experience the freedom of deciding to pursue freedom. 

I dropped into the darkness and stood there for a moment, trying to gain my composure without being able to see anything to help me. The toilet was placed in its spot above me. I heard the bolts attach again. I imagined them all leaving the room, headed back toward their cells. 

Much to my surprise, the smells weren't nearly as bad as I had imagined. Maybe, even, non-existent. The streams of waste that I had imagined weren't there either. The metal felt much smoother, even, as I moved my hands and knees across it as fast as I could, desperate to swim in more liberation.

Freedom is its own drug and one worth taking hits off of. 

The distance went much faster than I had imagined. I could see the light ahead, creeping in around the cinder blocks that someone had removed for us years earlier, at least according to the stories. They fell out with just a slight touch and revealing the open field in front of me. Wide open. Wild. Unconfined. Freedom. Whether it was adrenaline or peace, I don’t know, but I felt eerily calm, and powerful. Fear vanished. I imagined the eyes watching through their cells above me, probably wondering why I was taking too long. Below, though, I wasn't sure that too long existed. But still I was motivated to reward their patience.

The show was on. 

I emerged from the wall, replaced the cinder blocks I had removed - so as to not give away our secret - and started to run. 

Don’t ask me what came over me. I’m not sure I could explain it. I didn’t weave. I didn’t move back and forth. I didn't s-curve. I didn’t even really run as fast as I could. I didn’t need to. Something had changed. 

Actually everything had changed. I was comforted. The field felt small. The towers felt far away. The spotlights felt imagined. The dogs were silent. There was only the cheers of the audience above me, though they were far too away to hear. 

I kept going, with a bounce in my step that I hadn't felt in years. I raised my fists in the air for them, signaling my confidence. I almost turned around but that felt arrogant with snipers on the horizon. I just kept moving toward the wall, although I couldn’t see it either. Only the forest. Only beautiful freedom. 

And then I fell to the ground as Dixon had. Not because I was shot but because I was no longer afraid of being shot. I laughed out loud and did snow angels in the grass, in full view of the guard towers that were not shooting at me. It was bliss and I soaked in as much as I could before eventually getting to my feet and running the last distance into the woods, through a wall that had probably never existed. 

It was then I stopped to look back at where I had come from. When I saw it, my gasp was as audible as the voice of Dixon.  “Yeah, not what I expected either.” 

short story. three.

The fence seemed more like a hurdle for Dixon. He was on it and over it in the blink of an eye, long before the first dog reached the bottom and began jumping at the air with its white teeth. I might have imagined sparks coming out from it but Dixon seemed fine, standing there on the other side. 

What did it feel like? 

Relief. Inspiration. Excitement. Jealousy? Grief. I was in the wave again, this time not being tossed but riding it to shore my hand out in front of me, smiling. My friend had made it. What did that kind of freedom feel like? What was I going to do without him? Could I make it? I imagined he was riding a similar wave, although without the jealousy. He wasn't the kind to gloat but I knew he was feeling damn good. Who wouldn't be? I imagined fist pumps and maybe a middle finger back in our direction. Not at us, but at the system holding us. 

I lusted after the feeling too. 

Cheers filled the space around me, as did, I assumed, all the same emotions as I felt. If Dixon could make it, we could to, right? There was life again. Inspiration. How many more did we need to see get across to know we could? How many more had we heard of, read about over the years? 

But as the days moved on, we convinced ourselves that Dixon was faster than us. He was stronger. He was more convicted. He was more courageous, powerful. He was. Better. Who was I to think I could be like Dixon? Not me. Not the addict. 

No, not that addiction.

The other drugs.  The bed. Sure it was like a brick. But, I had a blanket. The security. Sure the guards liked to take out their own frustration on my back at times, but they also protected me most of the time. The food. Sure it tasted like shit, but I could count on it being put on my plate. Every day. The warmth. The roof over my head when it was raining outside. The known. The known is a powerful force. It doesn’t have to be good - just consistent enough to be addicting.  

And, there was the chance of a bigger bed. Some got it. Maybe even a cell with a television. On Sundays some of us got two helpings. Bonuses. Extras. I could achieve them.  If I was caught trying to escape, and somehow managed to live, I’d never get that cell. Not that meal. Not the television I saw others with. I’d give up so much. But, what did I have anyway? Dixon was gone. Someone had to be next. 

And, one night, on a night that was much like the one Dixon had told me he was leaving, I told my friend. I could see the wave pass over him. I knew exactly what he was feeling and, at that moment, I knew what Dixon had felt. I wasn’t able to contain the smile as well as he had. It crept out of every part of me because I knew I might make it and the taste of that was too much to hold in. 

24 hours later I would find out. 

short story. two.

The bars were cold to the touch, as they usually were but I barely noticed. In fact, I’m not sure I noticed much of anything except the faintly lit field far below us and the towers standing tall on each side of it. And the dark woods beyond. 

Where are you Dixon? 

Though it was rare, we had seen enough of the escapes to know the general timeline. I couldn't put it into minutes but I could feel when the time had passed where we should see whomever it was attempting to make the escape. I expected to see my friend's silhouette earlier than I did. The anxiety was a quickly forming army inside of me, attacking my hopeful resistance to it. 

“Where is he?” someone in a cell muttered next to me, voicing what we were all thinking. 

“Shut-up!” someone else answered, voicing the comfort of ignorance when faced with adversity and anxiety. It was the resistance to giving words to fear. 

Shit. C’mon man! 

“I don’t feel good—“ someone else. 

“Shut-up!” someone else. 

“But—“ 

“Just—“

“He’s going to make it. Just give him a second. He takes his—“ 

“There he is!” 

There he was. Running. That little bastard was running faster than I had ever seen him run. He had said he was a track star in High School but he had never had the chance to prove it - not in the small spaces we were always held. But there he was, flying like a leopard in the darkness toward his prey. 

The spot lights came fast, shining down on the field, reminding me that he was the prey in this scenario. I could hear the first bark of the hounds somewhere in the distance. 

“Shit - the dogs are out!” Someone. 

“No shit.” Someone else. 

“All of you!” I yelled. “Just watch. It’s Dixon. He’s got this.” I wasn’t sure if I believed it, but I hoped he could somehow hear my words or feel my energy from my observation post high above him. He has to have this. For all of us. 

Time slowed to a standstill like it always does when the stakes are high and when life is felt. The spotlights perused the empty spaces for a moment before attaching to his body - illuminating the shit still clinging and dripping off of him. But even from my vantage point I could see his smile. I smiled too. 

It's not that we really care about the characters in the movie. Or the book. Or even the teams in the game. It's that we care about us. And we hope we can win too. In that moment, we were all Dixon. We felt everything we assumed he felt. We rooted for him because we were rooting for ourselves. We hoped for him, because we hoped for ourselves. 

He weaved his way back and forth as a few shots rang out, missing badly, unless they had been aiming for dirt and grass that expressed its discomfort at being shot by jumping into the air. 

“C’mon Dixon!” Someone else. There was hope in all of us. For all of us. 

“He’s going to make it!” Someone else. 

Sometimes it's amazing how quickly we go from despair to hope as human beings and what, or who, helps us get there.  

There was nothing slowing him down. In fact, he was performing like every good running back we had ever talked about: he was getting stronger in the fourth quarter. Faster in the final minutes. Defenders were dropping like flies. The lights were having a  hard time keeping up, even as the dogs appeared on the horizon, their teeth glaring in the moonlight. But, they didn't have a shot. Not at his pace. 

The fence had to be only a few body lengths away. There was a tangible energy and exhilaration that embraced us all and wrapped itself around every part of my being.

He was going to make it. 

And then he fell. Instantly. Crumbling like a mannequin whose strings had been cut from above. If there was a puppeteer up there, he, or she, obviously didn't give a damn about Dixon. That show was over. My soul collapsed as quickly as his body had. My hands, still clinging, somehow held me up, staring at his motionless body even as the dogs drew in on it. 

Silence reigned. Anticipation was suffocating. We knew he was dead but we didn’t know it like we were about to. 

And then he was on his feet again. 

The silence ran away in the face of the cheers that erupted from the cells. 

short story. one.

Dixon and I had been behind bars for seven years the night he told me he was leaving. 

Years earlier, when the addictions were as young as I was, I had been on vacation with my family to Maui. We were all body surfing and having a good time in the sand, in the foam, in the sun. Until that one wave got me. It was all going according to plan until that thing took my feet and sent them over my head in all the ways that our bodies are not supposed to bend. (Well, unless you've been in yoga for a while.) I'll never forget the sound of my back cracking, amplified by the water, and my fear that my photo was going to be in the newspaper the following day: father, husband, paralyzed on vacation with his family. 

Needless to say I made it. 

I wasn't sure I was going to be able to say the same thing that night. I could almost hear my back cracking as the wave of emotion swept me up and almost out of the cell. Unfortunately, the steel bars were there and my head cracked into them, sending another wave of pain through my skull. 

“Damn,” was all I could muster. 

“I can’t take any more,” he answered, feigning sadness but only for me. I knew he was excited. I could see it in the dark eyes, doing the tango even while his mouth was trying to contain the joy. I figured he could taste the air that we all wanted to breathe. I could sometimes too, if I imagined it hard enough. 

I broke the facade - for him - and gave him the huge smile he was holding back. “Damn,” I repeated. “I can’t wait to watch. When are you going?” 

“Tomorrow.” 

“Damn.” One more time, just because there was nothing else to say and sometimes that word expresses it all. 

We had all seen the routine numerous times. The field was wide and long. Intentionally. The guards in the towers - with their rifles - could plainly see whomever risked running across their field. There was a forest about a hundred yards away but even for the world’s best sprinter that was numerous seconds. And the snipers only needed one or two to take their shot and a life with it.  

The field was after the tunnel. We all knew where the tunnel started, it had been dug under a toilet years earlier. We had seen numerous others lift the entire thing up and head into the tube. If you want freedom, they say, you have to go through the shit. That was literal for us. 

Word was that the tunnel was about 50 yards. A lifetime of crawling and puking in the clouds of filth. Hands and knees. Aching. Cutting yourself on old, rusted metal and opening up wounds that bacteria couldn’t wait to jump through and start breeding. If anyone got out, it was with an infection. 

After that hell, and exhaustion, the field started. Despite the lack of energy, you had to find a reserve somewhere. And lots of luck or blessing or whatever you want to call it. You prayed those snipers were distracted or that their guns were jammed, although that was like praying for rain in the midst of a drought. 

If somehow that miracle occurred, there was also the wall. It was twelve feet high, full of electricity and armed with barbed wire on its top. Not to mention the dogs that patrolled on a regular basis and were much faster than most humans. And meaner. And they could jump too. 

You get the point. You might wonder why anyone would ever attempt it. Only because we had all seen it done. It was possible. 

My pulse was all I could feel looking at Dixon that night. I had known him for seven years. We had talked about everything from kids to gods, from college football to cancer taking his best friend. We had talked about joy and pain and everything in between. I knew him maybe better than anyone. I was going to miss the hell out of him whether he made it or, god forbid, he didn’t. 

But, if he made it, maybe there was a chance I could. At least, that’s what we always told each other. He was putting that to the test before me. But, in a sense, we were that night. 

Maybe, I thought, squeezing him tight for the last time, tears streaming as fast as my heart was beating, that I might be able to squeeze him again. 

“I’m going to miss you,” I managed. 

“Not for long,” he smiled. “I’ll see you out there.” 

His courage was contagious. I felt like he might make it. Damn. Could I? 

We had all been through it before. We helped him into the hole beneath the toilet, holding our breath and tears back, and watched him disappear into the unknown. We put the toilet back, so the guards wouldn’t notice, and waited to be locked into our cells for the evening. 

We each had a window facing out toward the field. On first glance, one would assume the nice prison architects put in the windows to be nice, to give us some daylight. But, it only took a few days to realize that wasn't the case. They were there to remind you every day of what was no longer yours. To torture your soul with what “could be”. To tempt us into life, if we weren’t too busy trying to survive in the meantime. 

I never thought I’d see Dixon try to make the run through that window. But, I was about to.