The sight of the professor studying a racing form still seemed strange to Terrance. He witnessed this same scene many times during the past year, yet he still found it difficult to believe. It simply didn’t fit. A former renown and respected professor in the Department of Religious Studies at the same university from which he, Terrance C. Butler, graduated a year ago this past May, 2002, reading a racing form while riding in his Jeep Cherokee as it sped down the interstate between Kansas City, Kansas, and Lawrence, Kansas, fit none of the scenarios he might have imagine.
He enjoyed these trips to the track with the professor because when the professor rode along it meant they held a winning ticket. The professor took great pleasure in coming along to cash in their Pick Six tickets. Today they headed home with a sizable amount of winnings in their pockets. If Terrance’s memory served him correctly, they had made five trips together during the past year since he entered upon this arrangement with the professor.
Each trip resulted in another much-needed infusion into Terrance’s nearly empty cash coffer. Today, his share of the winning ticket amounted to thirty-one hundred dollars. Ten percent of the winnings belonged to him for carrying the professor’s bets back and forth to the track.
It didn’t happen every day or even weekly for that matter. The professor wouldn’t bet on any Pick Six offered daily through the simulcast betting facility in Kansas City. He watched and waited until he believed his chances of picking the winners of six consecutive races looked best. He followed the daily results of all the horses running at a particular track, and when the right combinations came together, he made his move. That’s where Terrance came into the picture. He carried the bet to the track and made himself available to take the professor back to the track on those occasions when they won. Today they enjoyed their biggest payday so far—thirty-one thousand dollars.
Terrance interrupted the silence. “Are you sure you’ve only been doing this for the last couple of years?” he asked, with more than a hint of playful distrust evident in his voice. “You’re awfully good at this to be so new at it. What do you do with all the money you win? You haven’t taken a vacation since I moved into your garage.”
“It’s a garlow, not a garage,” responded the professor as he perused the form, “and I make good use of the money we win. I take great enjoyment in the many civic opportunities afforded me during this period of my approaching dotage. And no, I have not been at this very long, much to my profound disappointment. I shudder to think about all the good I could have done with the money I may have won.”
“I guess I can understand giving money to your favorite charities, you being a religious person and all,” responded Terrance, “but don’t you keep any of it?”
“First of all, I’m not necessarily a religious person. I taught religious studies, and there is a difference. And I have no need for the money. My wife and I are amply provided for. We have a wonderful home, good health, good friends, and sufficient funds to live on, so why hoard it? Many others in the community can use our help, and I, and my wonderful wife are only too happy to do what we can to assist them. We have had this conversation before if you will but recall.”
“I recall,” said Terrance. “But, I don’t see how you can say you’re not religious. You do more to help people than most of the other so-called religious people I’ve met. If you’re not religious, then what are you?”
“Like the Buddha,” replied the professor, “‘I am awake.’ Or, I suppose in the parlance of this ‘New Age,’ I am simply a spiritual entity aware of his oneness with the universe and my fellow man. Whatever others want to call me is all right with me if they will stay out of my way and let me do what forty-five years of teaching has taught me. Simply stated, my basic and most important purpose as a human being is to help others.”
Back in Lawrence twenty minutes later, they approached the rear of the professor’s residence, a stately one hundred year old, three-story wooden home situated on a large shaded lot a few blocks from the university. Terrance rented the apartment above the garage right off the alley behind the house. Religious discussions with the professor always invigorated Terrance, and he often prattled on and on about some aspect of one of the many areas that make up the field of religious studies.
“So, you don’t believe in all that stuff about praying and kneeling and asking for forgiveness and so forth?” asked Terrance in a tone of voice that reflected a person seeking confirmation more so than knowledge.
The 1997 Jeep Cherokee slowly came to a stop in the parking space along side the garage. Neither occupant appeared inclined to move, pending the conclusion of another of their seemingly never-ending conversations regarding this subject.
“Did you listen to any of my lectures when you attended my class? Surely you didn’t pass the course, did you? I’m sure we’ve been over this many times before. My official response to questions regarding prayer is that continually resorting to making pleas to a supposed vindictive and potentially malevolent entity created by our ancestors, apparently frightened by events they couldn’t comprehend, who subsequently proceeded with all manner of attempts to pacify this entity through sacrifices and rituals, is totally inconsistent with contemporary science and advanced intelligence.”
“Then tell me, what were you doing there at the counter while the guy counted out the thirty-one thousand dollars? You sure had a big smile as you looked up at the ceiling mumbling something. What was that all about?”
“What do you think I was doing?” answered the professor, an impish gleam in his eyes. “I was giving thanks. What do I really know for sure about anything?”
As the professor exited the Cherokee laughing, Terrance glanced at his watch and realized he needed to hurry to avoid being late for work. Without bothering to go inside his apartment and pick up his mail, he backed out and headed off to his place of employment.
By 3 p.m. he should already be at his cubicle located in the farthest corner of the editorial section of the local newspaper. He, along with several young staffers, wrote articles on any number of subjects of community interest. Or another way to put it, he wrote on anything that never had an opportunity to come anywhere close to the front page. Social events, charitable events, supermarket openings, graduations, street closings, anybody riding anything through town going coast to coast for any cause, he was your man. But if the subjects held any possibility of approaching an excitement level of maybe one point five on a scale of twenty, they went to the gray-beards or rather, the more seasoned scribes. Anyway, they never got to him.
Only twenty-four years old and already his life and his work bored him. He worked at the paper strictly for a paycheck. By saving his money, he hoped to enroll in law school next year. He refused to accept the inevitability of working at some meaningless job for the rest of his life like so many people he knew were either doing or preparing to do. Life offered more than that, and he intended to grab as much of it as possible. Right now though, making a living took priority, and this job served a purpose.
His parents had told him all along, as soon as he graduated from college and had his Political Science degree in his hand, they expected him to start making a living. He, more than once, expressed his desire to attend law school, which is why he graduated with the Political Science degree, but that didn’t seem to resonate with them. So for the time being, he scribbled lines for the local newspaper’s gossip section while figuring out a way to attain the law degree he considered essential. This job served a short-term purpose until he found another way. If the professor ever hit one of those million dollar Pick Six cards instead of the small ones, all his problems disappeared. His ten percent share would more than cover the cost of law school. That’s what’s needed, he figured, one big deal to come through so I can get going with my life. A big break awaited him somewhere; he knew it.
Terrance’s watch read 3:10 p.m. by the time he finished parking the Cherokee and raced though the employee entrance hoping not to be seen coming in late again by any of his supe
rvisors. His file already contained two official warnings relating to this very subject. One more and he might expect some type of formal discipline. He didn’t give a crap, except he did need this job for now. His luck held, as he saw not a single person interested in a skulking young man scurrying around the partitions while making his way to the farthest corner of the still busy pressroom.
“Well, okay then,” said Terrance as he sat down in his ergonomically designed, keyboard pounder’s chair and pulled up to his cubicle’s desk. Six-foot high partitions faced him on three sides, all brimming with shelves, slots, hanging files, drawers, and of course, one of the most sophisticated computerized work stations ever made available to the working world. It did about anything imaginable—as long as it pertained to things that made the company money—like work. No personal e-mails, no chat rooms, no anything that didn’t have something to do with the job title. To attempt to use these amazing machines for one’s own enjoyment constituted grounds for immediate dismissal. With this thought nowhere close to his present consciousness, he hurriedly set about checking his personal e-mail inbox. Hey, it’s just a job after all. It’s not as if I expect to be around long enough to get a gold watch.
Terrance completed his e-mail correspondence and determined he should begin to display some semblance of job interest. Upon review of his personal project’s schedule, he verified that all his current writing assignments were complete and awaited the right opportunity to be used to fill a hole in the back part of the paper on a slow news day. Ah, it’s good to feel needed, he reflected as he began to review the new assignment file on the computer monitor.
At times, Terrance had no reason to talk in person with any of his supervisors or his fellow workers for days at a time. He only needed to look at the assignment file, find his assigned snoozer subject, review the background information available along with any comments from the individual assigning him the project, and get to work. “What torture awaits me this day?” he asked as he scrolled down the screen.
Automatically scrolling to the bottom of the weekly assignment sheet, he failed to find anything directed to his attention. Maybe they already fired him? Were they aware of his lack of punctuality all along? “What a bummer,” he mumbled while scrolling back to the top of the screen to make sure. With a mixture of surprise accompanied by relief, he found his initials TCB prominently displayed on the first line at the top of the page. He never made the top of the page before. What caused his editor to bestow this honor upon him now? Possibly, he’d been a bit hasty. Maybe they did recognize the untapped talent lying right beneath the surface concealed by the undisguised dullness inherent in all the writing assignments dumped upon him so far. Excited, he placed the cursor on his initials, left clicked the mouse, and waited for the machine to reveal his future.
Recognizing his editor’s laconic style, he hurriedly scanned the text.
TCB (Terrance Carl Butler) DROP EVERYTHING. NEED THIS ASAP. PLANNING TO RUN PIECE IN THIS SUNDAY EDITION—LOCAL SECTION LEAD STORY. FILES FULL OF INFORMATION ON THIS GUY. HE’S BEEN INVOLVED IN EVERY FORM OF COMMUNITY SERVICE LAST TWENTY PLUS YEARS. DIED YESTERDAY/HEART ATTACK. ESPECIALLY NEED EARLY BACKGROUND. GET COMMENTS FROM FRIENDS, NEIGHBORS, CO-WORKERS, ETC. FUNERAL IS SATURDAY. BE THERE! COUNTING ON YOU! GET BUSY! TOM.
Scrolling down the page, Terrance saw the attached obituary from yesterday’s paper. “Mr. Joseph D. Right died unexpectedly at his home last night from an apparent heart attack. Mr. Right, fifty-one years old, was director of the local North Side Homeless Shelter for a number of years as well as a longtime volunteer and coordinator of a number of other community and civic projects. Funeral arrangements are pending.”
His heart sank into his chest—another glorified obituary piece. He’d never heard of this guy. “So, he ran the local shelter; how hard could it have been to make soup?” Plus, they expected him to attend the funeral. He really needed to get some money and get into law school. Surely, he could do better than this. He sat there staring at the computer monitor for sometime while mentally reviewing his prospects regarding life, love, and the all important, pursuit of happiness. He reluctantly admitted that things didn’t look too good at this moment, especially, if he must continue to sit around manufacturing enough boring information to allow him to write dull pieces about soup kitchen managers.
Soon sanity prevailed, and he began to organize his thoughts around the job at hand. He saw it all very simply. In the end, it’s all the same crap, just a different day’s ration. It’s all about sucking air. You either did, or you didn’t. You either lived, or you became fertilizer, and if living appealed to you, you better be in the game. Unless of course, you became one of those pathetic millions of living, yet comatose, people who choose to sit around forever holding their breath scared out of their wits over the prospect of having to be engaged in life while, ironically, praying to stay alive forever. Not Terrance, he envisioned himself as a player.
CHAPTER FOUR