The Passion of Jazz and Other Short Stories

making so much noise that Doug had forgotten to find which path to turn on. He felt bad now that this made him look like he did not know the path, even though he had biked it dozens of times.

  Doug walked back to Karen from one of the side trails. They stood in the midst of several trees, away from any clear path. The animals making the “Graa” noises sounded closer. Doug gave Karen a hug.

  Karen said, “Please, don’t. That’s okay.”

  “I was just trying to comfort you.”

  After inspecting all the side trails, they decided that one appeared to lead down out of the woods. It was a small trail right at the center of the dead end. The trail led to a stile, and they climbed the steps and found themselves in a large field belonging to a farm. Doug walked downhill, almost slipping on the mud but standing on grass and weed patches to hold himself back.

  ”Use the weeds,” he called out to Karen, who followed him fifteen feet behind.

  They made it through the field and ended up on a road. The road had a signpost, right, Whitstable, left, Canterbury, 2 km. Even if Canterbury was a ways away, they were glad to at least have some sense of direction. On the sidewalk under the streetlights, Karen could see her brand new black pants, completely soiled by dirt at the knees.

  As they walked down the road, Karen called her parents in California by cell phone, to ask them if they could locate the street they were on on internet maps. After a few minutes, they still could not find the street, but Karen trusted the signpost. Karen then tried calling Robert in Parkwood, the student village behind the University of Kent where they lived. She hoped he could give directions or call a taxi, but he did not answer, he must have been asleep.

  They kept walking down the sidewalk, and Doug tried to reassure Karen, saying, “You know, they say nothing bad ever happens to writers. It’s all just material for a story.”

  Karen said, “But I’m not a screenwriter. And I don’t write horror stories!”

  After walking another half hour, Doug recognized the road as it wrapped behind Parkwood. Doug knew a shortcut on a brief trail that led into the back units of the village. But Karen wanted to go all the way around by street.

  “No more shortcuts,” she said.

  “I’m absolutely sure about this one,” Doug said, pointing to a housing unit. “Look, you can see Parkwood from here. If you take the road it’s going to be an extra half hour.”

  Karen assented and they walked across a small grass field into Parkwood. They each parted for their housing units. It was 4:30 a.m.

  Doug and Karen saw their friends in the morning. They had been scared, but their nighttime hike made a good story to tell. “You wouldn’t believe what happened on our way back from Dublin,” Doug would say.

  The story may have created a bond in the relationship between Doug and Karen, but it did not necessarily make the relationship any better.

  Sleep

  I went to St. Andrew’s Church late one afternoon in hopes of finding advice about my psychosis. Of course, I did not have awareness that I was experiencing psychosis. Like a typical schizophrenic, I thought my delusions of the devil chasing me and the color red signaling danger to me were real. So I thought the logical thing would be to talk to a priest or someone at the church who knew a lot about the devil’s ways and how to counter them.

  But when I reached the church, the doors were locked and no one was there. I saw flyers posted on the doors and windows about a bible study class later in the week. These flyers were all the color red, which in my altered mental state I thought symbolized that demons had already taken over the church. I looked at the church walls and began to hallucinate. The dots of stucco appeared to move before my eyes, changing first into a horned devil’s face, then morphing to spell, “Jesus is dead.” I looked in one of the black windows and saw in the reflection smoky pale white light, like an evil spirit.

  I thought I had a duty to rid the church of these evil spirits. I went to a nearby restaurant, ordered an iced tea, and asked for a pack of matches. I returned to the church and lit a match, putting it to each of the red flyers. I took paper from a trash can and wood from nearby trees, scattered them around the church, and lit them all on fire. The orange flames of the fire slowly spread, then in an instant snapped up and over the entire church, sending the whole building up in blazes.

  I walked away and got into my car. I was so focused on my delusions, I did not even notice a video camera mounted on a lamppost in the parking lot. It filmed me as I left the scene in my car.

  The detective that came to my door the next morning told me the video camera had recorded me setting St. Andrew’s on fire. A simple database search of my license plate number led him to my address. The cop next to him handcuffed me and sat me in the back of his police car. I thought maybe they were going to reward me for cleansing the church of demons, the whole arrest process was just an outward procedure they had to follow to mislead any demons who might be watching and following me.

  But the procedure did not appear to be ending soon. Instead, I found myself booked into county jail. A deputy fingerprinted me and took my clothes. I showered, then put on an orange jumpsuit. Another deputy led me into a 9’ by 12’ cell with just a toilet, sink, bed, and desk.

  I found myself alone in my cell. Minutes passed. I thought I saw writing on the cell walls and door. Similar to the church stucco, the dots and markings on the walls appeared to arrange themselves into the words, “Jesus is dead,” and other demonic messages. I could not tell what messages were actually written and which I hallucinated, the whole experience felt so strange.

  A deputy came with a piece of paper and stuck it through the crack at the edge of my door. I looked at his eyes, trying to figure out if he was possessed. I could not tell, but he glared at me with a harsh, unbending frown and said, “Hurry up and take it.”

  I walked to the door and took the paper. The deputy marched off. The paper read, “Charges: Arson. Arraignment: August 25th.” Today was August 3rd. My first court date was twenty-two days away.

  I felt overwhelmed by the length of time I would have to wait to find out anything in court. What would I do? Sit here in my cell and stare at the messages on the walls? I also felt stunned that I had been charged with arson on paper, but my delusions still persisted that this was just a game, a necessity, before my demon-destroying greatness would be recognized.

  I went and sat down on my bed. Being on a bed was ironic—given the demonic thoughts jumping around in my head and the shock of being in jail, the last thing I wanted to do was sleep. I wanted to talk to the good guys, those on God’s side, whoever they were. I noticed the number seven on my cell door and assumed Cell Six was next to me. I put my mouth to the door crack and called out, “Hey, Cell Six.”

  “Yeah,” a man’s voice said.

  I was unsure what to say next, wondering whether he was good or evil, whether he knew who I was, what I had done to the devil.

  He said again louder, “Yeah?”

  I finally asked, “What’s your name?”

  “Eduardo, you?”

  “Jeff.”

  “Hi Jeff, you got any cigarettes?”

  “No.”

  “Thought you might have had some on you when you came in. How long you going to have to be here?”

  “I don’t know. This paper says my arraignment is on the 25th. It seems so far away, especially when all I have is a bed to lie on to keep me busy.”

  “The system is messed up like that. It takes weeks, even months, for each court date. Most people just sleep away their time.”

  I laughed nervously, not ready to comprehend that sleep might have to be my primary activity. Eduardo continued, “At the arraignment, they’ll formally charge you with whatever you did, but they could continue that court date too, move it over to the next week. What did you do, by the way, kill somebody?”

  “I, I hope not,” I said, taken aback by the seriousness of the sugge
stion that I could have killed. The man did not appear to know about my battle with the devil, so I said, “I tried to save a church.”

  “Yes, but what was your crime? Ah, never mind, you don’t have to say. My crime is murder.”

  “Oh,” I said, shocked that I was placed next to a murderer. I falsely thought I had done a good deed by burning the church, and in jail I still did not know this thinking was a delusion. But I did know I did not feel like talking to a murderer.

  Luckily, he himself ended the conversation, saying, “Well, it’s morning, time to get some more sleep.”

  I did not yet agree that morning meant sleep, so I tried watching the TV in the dayroom through the window on my door. I hoped maybe the news would mention the giant forces of good and evil doing battle, and the happenings at the church. But it just showed stories of robberies, local star students, and rain storms. I grew tired of watching TV, it provided neither useful information nor entertainment. I went back to my bed and found I had no one to talk to, no interest in TV, and nothing of interest in my cell. So I gave in to a forced acceptance of the limitations of a jail cell, or a means of mental escape, or maybe both. I introduced myself to what would become a much bigger part of my life while incarcerated: I laid down and went to sleep.

  I awoke at noon—or what I assumed was noon, since there were no clocks in the cell block—to the key