The Face of God, is the first book of the series called The Chronicles of Milyi Dom. It was written in 2018 (and copyrighted). Initially, I thought that it would be a stand-along book. However, there are now eight books in this series. The following is a two chapter excerpt from the beginning.
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JFK Blvd, looking SE toward 19th Ave overcrossing.
Calvin crashed down the embankment to the left of the bridge. |
Chapter
One
Golden Gate Park, San Francisco
“You okay, mister?”
I looked around then slowly took stock of where I was.
I lay on my back in the midst of a bramble of leaves, vines and other
botanical detritus. My bike was somewhere further afield.
“You okay?”
I refocused on the voice and the face as well as the
fact that this person was talking to me. I looked up into the eyes
of a young teenager, a lad of barely thirteen, a youth who wore an
oversized football jersey of a local school and a Pittsburgh Pirates
baseball cap. That seemed strange, but I could not put my finger on
why.
“Yeah, maybe,” I eventually answered, finally
remembering that I had tumbled down from the street above, sailing
over my handlebars and sliding down a twenty foot embankment.
“That was some trip. You were flying!” The lad
spoke excitedly. “Can I help you up?”
I finally stirred and began to right myself. “Do you
know where my bike is?”
“Yeah, it went all the way down the hill onto JFK
Boulevard where a car smacked it.” He was rather animated in his
description, flailing his arms around for emphasis. Watching him
almost made me dizzy again. “Car doesn't look too good either.”
I lay back down.
This wasn't good. That bike was my set of wheels, my
ticket to earning money—in fact in the pouch lashed to the frame
were the latest set of documents that I was delivering.
I was a courier.
It was the mid 1980s and I lived and worked in San
Francisco, the prized gem by the Bay along the Pacific Ocean. I was
almost thirty and making a fair amount of money delivering important
documents between businesses during the workweek. That my bike had
been run over by a car meant that my livelihood was threatened.
“You feel okay, man?”
The lad was touching my arm.
“No. My bike is gone,” I replied. “That
sucks—big time!”
“Lemme go call my dad. Stay right there.”
Suddenly the youth was gone and I was left to
contemplate what I was to do. I figured that maybe a police report
would be in order since a car had run over a bike. Of course, there
was the car on the road above that swerved in the first place,
clipping me and sending me down the embankment to the street below.
I had been hauling hard north on 19th Avenue through the
Golden Gate Park just before the John F. Kennedy overpass. The car
to my left swerved into me, clipping my front wheel sending me over
the sidewalk, just missing the cement railing, through the
undergrowth, then down the embankment to where I lay, befuddled and
bereft of my bike.
I partially sat up as I heard the distant wail of
sirens; I wondered if that would be for me. Being in a large city,
there were always sirens sounding somewhere; it was a high level of
hubris to assume that the attention was coming for you. And that
proved true: The siren was not for me, but it went whizzing by a
couple blocks north of where I lay. Below me the traffic snaked
around the car that probably ran over my bicycle. Above me the north
bound traffic continued on unabated in its pre-rush hour frenzy. I
was surprised that the only person that had noticed me was this young
teenager—but now he had disappeared. The rush of traffic continued
unabated on the street above me, as well as below me in spite of the
problems my bike had caused.
By then I had become aware of feeling tired and thirsty.
If I had my bike, I could have had access to my water bottle. But
now? I had nothing. I lay back down against the embankment and
closed my eyes.
“Right here!”
The voice interrupted a deep state of quietness and
perhaps sleep.
“Are you okay?”
I looked up into the face of the youth who had addressed
me earlier. He still had the Pirates baseball cap on—that's it,
most folks around here would have had a Giants hat or some team
closer to home. But he sported something from back east? Odd. Next
to him was a man, perhaps in his late forties or fifties—I
immediately assumed that this was the youth's father that he went off
to find, although I don't know how he found him so quickly.
“Don't worry, we have the police coming to report this
and there's an ambulance to take you to check you out. How are you
feeling?”
The man's face seemed rather close to mine; I began to
feel a sense of claustrophobia wash over me. I turned and tried to
sit up then felt his arms behind me, steadying me into position.
“Thanks,” I said.
“What happened?”
“Got clipped and ended up here.”
“Jeremy saw most of it. I'd say you're lucky that
nothing's broken.”
I thought about that for a few moments. It really was a
spectacular tumble—vivid in my mind's eye, that's for sure.
“Yeah, you're right,” I finally said.
“What's your name?” he asked.
“Calvin.”
We made small talk over the next ten or twenty minutes
in which I found out that his name was Martin Lombardi and he was a
doctor with a small practice a few blocks over. That was why his son
was able scurry off to find him so quickly. Although quickly may
have been relative. It was now after five and I know that I started
my trip north before two. Time wasn't adding up correctly for me
yet.
Jeremy found my Walkman a few feet from where I sat and
I was surprised that it was still in working condition. The
earphones were a little worse for the wear, but still usable. If
only my bike had weathered the accident as well.
“You know, I don't see the ambulance yet,” Martin
finally said. “And I see that the disabled car has limped away.
Are you good to go?”
“I have no transportation,” I answered. “Can't
get home.”
“Can I help you tonight?” he asked. “I mean, it's
the least that I could do.”
When I hesitated, he added, “And it would be cheaper
than going to the hospital to be checked out. Plus, I am a doctor.”
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| A view of Golden Gate Park along JFK Blvd |
Chapter Two
A Walk in the Park
I awoke the next morning with a stiff neck, a sore back,
and an awful bruise on my thigh—spectacular colors were already
forming under the skin. I also realized upon showering that I had
scrapes and abrasions in places that I didn't think had been touched.
I ached.
Yet I was quite thankful for Dr. Martin Lombardi and his
son Jeremy as well as Mrs. Lombardi who took care of me and fed me as
good of a meal as I had eaten in several years. Maybe even since I
had left home.
Yeah, there was that. I usually didn't go thinking
about home on a regular basis, but something about the home-cooked
meals and the hovering, brooding attention from Mrs. Lombardi
reminded me of my early childhood before things went sideways.
Something else that reminded my of my childhood was the
extensive collection of science fiction that Dr. Martin had in the
spare bedroom. I saw many classics and old favorites: Kurt Vonnegut,
H. G. Wells, Isaac Asimov, Ray Bradbury as well as authors I had
never heard of before. I picked up Asimov's Pebble in the Sky
and thumbed through the pages, recalling with pleasure the hours
spent discovering new worlds, hidden futures, and lurking dangers.
I finally remembered the pager in my pants pocket and
saw that I had several numbers that had been trying to get my
attention over the previous fifteen hours. I borrowed their phone
and contacted my employer but instead of concern or compassion I
received an ear full of berating since I had lost the documents and
had contacted neither the client nor my boss. I was fired on the
spot.
Life sucked.
It was mildly ironic that Jeremy was listening to his
stereo in the other room and I hear the singer belting it out,
“Shout! Shout! Let it all out!” Yeah, I wanted to shout.
After breakfast Dr. Martin said he had an old bike that
I could use till I got things back to normal. He also had found my
bike—my very mangled bike—and the pouch with the documents was
still attached. I knew that I should finish the delivery regardless
of its tardiness so I thanked the family once again then left.
Pedaling through the Outer Sunset District, the air was
cool and thick with fog. I loved the feel of the moisture kissing my
face but I was still a little off my game that morning. I reached
the Golden Gate Park and decided to walk a long, slow stroll through
the Park, under old trees, past joggers, and curiously dressed
morning strollers. One man in a brightly colored rainbow tee-shirt
passed me with his large, personal stereo hoisted up on his shoulder,
blaring out Prince who was singing about a Raspberry Beret.
I reached the address in the North Panhandle District
mid morning as the fog parted. There was little to say: I was late,
but the documents were delivered. I retained a signature as a bit of
insurance in the event that my now, former employer would come back
to haunt me.
However, as I left, I recalled a slip I had received in
the mail several days before: A slip that said I had a package being
held for me. Being free from work duties now, I decided to drop my
borrowed bike off in my flat then walk over to pick up this
mysterious package. I was hoping that walking slowly would help ease
the discomfort from my bruises and stiff muscles. So many times in
high school I heard coaches tell their players, “Walk it off;
walk it off!” I really hoped there was something to that.
It was then that I began spiraling down into a bit of
morose introspection. I had a love-hate relation with my name ever
since Junior High when we briefly studied European history. There
was some religious chap named Calvin several hundred years before and
suddenly I was mentioned by everyone but for all the wrong reasons.
I hated the faux attention thrown my way.
It became worse as the years progressed. A fashion
designer stuck his name—Calvin—onto everything and
suddenly I was associated with jeans and underwear. I hated that. I
hated anything that pointed toward me that wasn't me. It was a false
notoriety and a spotlight of attention that I severely disliked. I
was happy when the novelty of the name diminished.
I had a small room in the Western Addition really close
to Japantown, just a block or so away from the Post Office. I
brought my knapsack with an apple, some crackers, and a can of soda
since I thought to have a quiet afternoon in the Park. I also
changed out the batteries in my Walkman.
The package, however, surprised me. It forcibly
reminded me of home for the third time in just a few hours. Grandma
Hazel, according to the writing on the package, still lived in the
same house back east where she had lived in for at least the previous
fifty years. There in the package I found a handwritten letter in
elegant cursive along with a very old family Bible.
Calvin,
I
want you to know that it took some effort to find your address, but I
hope that you are doing well. I was going through some stuff in the
office bookshelf and ran across this old Bible. It belonged your
Grandpa Cal and before that, his father. I know that you and Grandpa
Cal were close once and he considered you to be a very special
grandson. This has his family history back four or five generations.
I think as his namesake, you should have it to have an idea of where
you came from. I also hope that you might read it because reading
the Bible has given me great comfort during many dark nights. I
figure that you don't want to hear a lot of preachy stuff, but facts
are facts, and you know that I faced a lot of dark nights.
Anyway,
I would love to hear from you sometime. With much love and prayers,
Grandma
Hazel.
And suddenly everything that I was trying to ignore was
thrust back on me. I didn't want to think about it right then—I
had my own troubles to sort through now being unemployed. I folded
the letter, slipped it into the pages of the old Bible them stuffed
it all into my knapsack. I would decide later what to do with it.
The sun was shining brightly where earlier it lay hidden
by the famous fogs of San Francisco. Yes, the sun was bright, but my
mood was more suited to a dark, morose, taciturn atmosphere of
swirling fog. I sat down at a picnic bench under a large tree and
tried to focus on a newspaper that someone had left there. The
article on page three caught my eye briefly: “Shuttle Passes
Laser Test With Flying Colors.”
I read a little then put the paper down. The “Laser”
test had to do with the so-called “Strategic Defense Initiative”
which would protect against enemy nations sending bombs our way. I
wasn't too sure about that and most of the people that I talked with
thought it was a stupid idea.
I folded the paper up and began eating my apple. It gave
me a chance to stare across the grassy area under the late June sun.
I purposely left my Walkman in my knapsack and just watched life
unfold around me. Several joggers were on the trails and sidewalks.
A particularly lovely young woman with long brown hair caught my
attention. Being 1985, most people—especially women—had hair
that was puffy, extending outward in all directions—ranging from
lion's manes to fluffy cotton candy. This young woman's hair,
however, hung stick straight from a pony tail. I knew that I should
break out of my isolation and start dating again, but the reality of
being freshly unemployed put an immediate kibosh on any such ideas.
Instead I knew I would remain just as a roommate in college laughed
about me: “You're a library dictionary, Paine—looked at when
necessary, but never checked out.”
Unfortunately, it was true and even more unfortunate
that many at the small gathering laughed at that joke too. I
withdrew from college before the end of that semester. I moved
nearly as far west as practically possible a short time after that.
I finished up the apple and tossed the core into a can,
stuffed the newspaper in my pocket, then started walking along the
main street in the Park. There were a number of visitors and
tourists around but nearby there were very few. I smiled at a couple
pushing a baby stroller, then waved at a young boy showing off on his
bike. For some reason I recalled a bitter moment in my early
childhood when I had waved at an older teen, but he purposely snubbed
me and laughed with his friends at how immature and young I was. I
didn't want to do that this young boy.
I reached the spot where I had flipped over my
handlebars and skidded down the long embankment. For some reason it
didn't seem as steep as it did the day before as I lay trying to
collect my wits. I could still see the marks where I slid as well as
skid marks in the street where, I assume, my bike was destroyed. But
there was nothing else to see and nothing else to be done.
I sprinted across to the north side of the street and
turned back toward my place. Walking slowly, I was deep in thought.
However, I was pushing the pressing thoughts of my Grandma and
needing to find a new job from my mind. Instead I brooded over being
nearly thirty, without work, and without a girlfriend. It suddenly
came crashing in on me at that moment that I didn't even really have
any real friends of any depth: None that I could turn too if things
got really bad.
In the distance the young female jogger I saw earlier
returned on her run toward me. The thought went through my mind that
perhaps I could be at this same spot every day to smile at her. I
wondered what she'd look like in a raspberry beret. She passed by,
however, with the barest of recognition.
I walked on and tried to keep from spinning downward
into a cycle of despair. I had done that before; in fact, despair
had swirled all around me during the time that I had moved west.
Breathing deeply, I looked up and saw the sunlight streaming in
through the trees. It was mid afternoon and a sea breeze began
pushing the air gently from behind me. I knew the fog would be
returning soon.
I was feeling worn and tired and a little bit light
headed so I stopped and pulled out my crackers and soda. It was
exactly what I needed. I sat on the grass just off the sidewalk
eating my snack and watching the procession of humanity parade past.
Three men walked by with a degree of aplomb. Two women jogged past
with an air of indifference. A pair of older women shuffled by,
uncaring and unconcerned with anything else around them. The guy
with his stereo came by blasting out “Dancing in the Streets.”
I thought if any place could pull that off for real, it would be
here in San Francisco—right here in the Park.
I finally felt strong enough to attempt traversing the
distance back to my abode. However, my steps were much slower, as
though I were still under the influence of the accident. Perhaps I
tried too much activity too soon after the incident. But I had
always been active—I was in shape and I didn't like sitting idly
with nothing to do.
In the distance I heard a song playing over someone's
stereo system; I could just make out the tune and a hint of the words
to recognize "The Power of Love." I felt a wave of
sadness that I had no such power working for me.
Slowly I plodded back to my flat. Step by step each
footfall grew harder and more labored. As I reached the “Panhandle”
of the Park, I grew tired again and had to stop; I sat down on the
curb and tried to catch my breath.
At that moment a car, a bright red Lamborghini, drove by
west on Fell. Its license plate, a vanity plate, struck me as
nonsensical: OKCAHA. I tried saying it out loud: “O-Kay
Ca-ha!”
I sat on the sidewalk for several minutes trying to look
alive and not too vulnerable. Thus I was surprised to hear someone
call out to me and even more surprise that it was the car with the
odd vanity plate that I had seen several minutes before.
“Are you okay?”
I shook my head.
“Need a ride?”
That seemed like a wonderful thing so I nodded.
Shortly after I was in the front seat of a Lamborghini,
traveling east on Oak Street toward my flat. “It used to be my
Daddy's car,” she explained almost as an apology. “He didn't use
it much so he gave it to me a couple of years ago.” That would
explain why someone so young would have such an expensive car.
The license plate? Yes, I asked her about that. Turns
out she was Russian and her name was Oksana. The license plate held
the letters that looked very much like the Cyrillic letters that
spelled her name in Russian. My mind glazed over a little at the
explanation, but she was very nice and friendly—something that had
been missing from my life over the previous few years. Ever since
the event.... yeah, well, I still didn't want to face that. She
mentioned something about religion but I ignored it. That was
something else I didn't want to face.
“Calvin,” she said, “give me your number; I'll
call you later to see how you're doing.”
It was more of a command, but I appreciated someone
taking an interest in me. I also appreciated that she was very nice
and quite nice to look at too. Her hair was golden, professionally
styled: More like a princess than the party flounce and bounce.
“Get some rest now, okay?”
I nodded and thanked her again.
“I'll be praying for you, Calvin.” She waved and
smiled; I was left with a happy sort of excitement that pushed all
the other negativity out of my day. No one had ever asked me
for my number before! And she had a Lamborghini! She had a
beautiful smile. Her comment about praying for me seemed so
home-like and friendly—vastly unusual within the big city. It did
remind me briefly of home before I quashed those memories again.
Oksana had let me off on the corner of Fillmore and Eddy
just a little ways from my place. I slung my knapsack over my
shoulder and, with a little more of a spring in my step, I walked a
short block to my dwelling. Some neighbor was playing their radio
extra loud. I knew who; she always played the music loud in the
afternoon—but this time it was okay. I thought that REO
Speedwagon's “Can't Fight This Feeling” was a nice touch even if
I didn't know what feelings they were supposed to be.
I was surprised then to see a toy truck—something like
I played with in my childhood—on the sidewalk a few hundred feet
before my front door. It was odd since I didn't know of any children
that lived in our building nor in the immediate area. But leaving it
in the middle of the sidewalk where someone could trip over it was
not a good idea. I stooped to pick it up as a bright flash rocked my
sight. I was momentarily disoriented and staggered a step or two
forward. The toy truck remained in my field of view although the
rest of the street disappeared. My world reeled and my mind exploded
at the new sights before me. I was certain that my earlier accident
had played tricks with my mind and there was a logical explanation to
this. There had to be! However, the noise of the city and
the sound of the neighbor's radio had vanished.
Instantly.
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| Along Fell St, looking SE into the Panhandle Park |
