The Book of Harold Read online

  “Why am I here?” The mantra mixed itself up, each footstep and breath making the phrase skip and rearrange. “Why am I here?” became “I’m here. Why?” and slowly became “I’m here.”

  “I’m here” was true. It couldn’t be argued. I repeated it. Breathe in—I’m. Breathe out—here. Beddy would have been proud.

  Then the words left. For a while I was walking without asking why. My feet had blisters and my legs felt knotted, but walking had a comforting kind of consistency. I didn’t have to worry about what to do or where to be. I was here and I was walking. One foot, then the next. Follow those before you.

  That night we slept in a graveyard. I listened to the others breathing. Sloppy, natural breathing. If you get lonely enough . . . I was lonely. And knowing that Harold and Shael were only tombstones away, close to each other, made me all the more lonely. But I was there. Here. In the lonely. Not trying to escape. In a graveyard, not trying to pretend that I wouldn’t someday be lying below the grass instead of on top. I breathed. Smells of soil and trees. I was lonely and glad and here.

  Burial

  Early that next morning, I dug a hole and buried my credit card, my cell phone, and my watch. I had a little service and made a tiny tombstone from tree bark.

  Shape

  The next few days were cool and sweet. The Texas winter air was clear and had a chill that made the sky seem higher. There was less pine now, more oak, and the land rolled slightly, unlike the strict flatness of Figwood.

  I could feel the journey, the walking, changing me. Changing all of us. Even Harold. He called us driftwood. Pushed along, floating, tugged by the tide, our edges worn smooth by the waves. Losing our softest spots until we each had a different shape.

  Shaped by the walking, shaped by the others, shaped by Harold.

  Harold shaped us by listening to us. You talked differently because of how he listened. He had the uncanny desire to understand what you were trying to say. And you found your words meaning more because his listening honored them. Words rose to the occasion.

  He walked in the same way, soaking in sounds and smells. The world itself wanted to be better because of Harold’s willingness to experience it. Life shimmered around him because someone was finally paying attention, someone was getting it.

  He’d say, “You could drink the air today.” Or “Look at all the curves. Clouds, stones. Corners are rare in nature. Corners rarely last.”

  He believed rabbits had secrets they would tell no one. He believed the true saints of the world were tollbooth workers who smiled. He said the only way to be forgiven is to forgive.

  Sometimes he’d sit and watch the air. Under a tree, perhaps, or against a building, hardly blinking, and then he’d say, “Dust floating. That’s it. That’s it.”

  I walked near him during those clear days, and it felt good. Steps felt good. Being with the others felt good. The world seemed to have order.

  Which is real? The connection I felt those days or the isolation that came later? Opposing realities. Either life has value and I’m connected, or I am alone and mean nothing. One must be an illusion. How is it I’ve known both?

  Value

  “Do you think life, in itself, has some kind of value?” Beddy asked.

  “If something is valued, it’s valuable. If something is loved, it’s lovable. We make it so,” Harold said.

  “That seems backwards,” Gilbert said. “You love something because it is lovable. Not the other way around.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Harold said. “But my guess is the road goes both ways.”

  What Shaped Harold

  Shael waited until she believed we were asleep. She crawled from her sleeping bag into Harold’s. I laid there listening to their whispers, their pushed sighs, her breaths high and full.

  I don’t think Harold really loved Shael. Not like she loved him, at least. He never needed her. He never needed anyone. What Harold loved was her sadness. He’d gaze at her, wanting the beauty of her hurt.

  Why did he find sadness beautiful? Why did beauty make him cry? His own sadness was so like joy, or maybe awe, that the two got confused. If you were near him, that sadness would find a way into you, like a slow punch to the chest. You couldn’t say exactly what the sadness was or why it was, but it was a sadness richer than all the happy moments of your life.

  Shael’s hurt was hollow, a need. Harold’s was overflowing. I suppose that is what drew them together.

  Two Mirrors Dancing

  At night we talked. Sometimes we had food, sometimes a campfire. We would sit and listen to all those noises the country makes after the sun goes down and ask Harold questions. What is God? What is salvation? What is life? More often than not he would turn the questions back on us. What did we think? We’d pull at ideas, stretch words, talk in circles, and confuse each other. It was a wonderful confusion. But we never found answers.

  Harold once said that the questions we had asked were all the same. And that it was the same question the world had been asking for a billion years. Not just humans asking, the whole world. “And if there were an answer,” he said, “do you think it could be spoken?”

  Harold and Beddy would hit on a discussion that would leave the rest of us behind. They would jump from thought to thought, and I couldn’t keep up or catch the rhythm. Irma would hum along. Gilbert would grunt and throw in a few words. Shael would occasionally ask a question. But mainly it was Harold and Beddy.

  One night, under a large oak tree, we watched as the two threw ideas back and forth as if they were as hot as the campfire coals—holding a thought for just long enough to singe the fingers.

  “So we reflect God, right? Made in His image, so polish the glass and bounce the sun. It’s not us, all the light is from the same source, right? We’re God mirrors,” Beddy said.

  “Who can tell who the mirror is? Who can tell who leads, who follows? Both?” Harold said.

  “Yes! Yes! God mirrors us and we mirror God!” Beddy jumped to his feet.

  “Yes! ‘Forgive us as we forgive others.’ How can God love your enemy if you refuse? And if you love your enemy how can God do less?”

  “Okay! I see.” Beddy hopped and paced around the rest of us. “But wait. Here’s the question. If one reflects the other, two mirrors dancing, two reflections, then what’s real?”

  “The light that jumps between them.”

  Beddy laughed out loud and dropped down to the ground, sitting with crossed legs. He shook his head and looked up at Harold, smiling. “It’s all talk, isn’t it? Doesn’t mean a thing.”

  “It’s all we’ve got.”

  It was running downhill, the two of them stumbling from idea to idea, tumbling through thoughts, pausing just long enough to catch their breath, nod and smile, and sip the tea Beddy made on his camping stove. “Yeah, yeah. It’s like pain,” Beddy said. “Oh man, don’t let me lose this pain.”

  The next morning, while rolling up our bags, I asked Beddy what he meant by pain.

  “I hurt. You know? I see the sky or the trees and I start hurting,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “It’s like frustration, this pull in my rib cage, and I can’t even voice it. But this frustration is everything I was made for, you know?”

  I nodded.

  “And the worst thing is that it ends, your heart stops breaking. You go out and have a beer or watch a movie, and the pain ends. Sometimes you can’t even remember it.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But not for Harold. It’s like he’s always there, at that heartbreak place, but kind of beyond it. It’s like he’s at peace with frustration.”

  Gratitude

  One morning, well over halfway through our journey, Harold offered me an apple. I accepted.

  “Aren’t you going to say ‘thanks’?” he asked.

  “Sure, thanks,” I said and raised the apple to my mouth.

  “I didn’t grow it,” he said. I lowered the apple. He smiled. “A tree did.”

&
nbsp; “I should thank a tree?”

  “And the sun and rain that helped.”

  “Okay, thanks tree, sun, and rain.”

  “And the worker who picked it and washed it,” he said.

  “Okay. I thank them and the truck that carried it, and the store that stocked it and you for handing it to me.” I took a bite, chewed for a moment. He stared at me. I stopped chewing.

  “Blake, you enjoy so little because you are grateful for so little.”

  Harold was grateful. You could see it in the way he ate—slowly and with focus. You could see it in the way he walked, the way he listened. It was a real gratitude. A thankfulness for each little thing.

  I simply consumed, usually without a thought. But after a while I tried gratitude. I took my time, used Harold’s system. I held a bread roll in my hand and worked at being grateful for the grain, wheat, even the heat that baked the bread. This helped. Made me more aware. But it was the hunger that came later that taught me to be grateful for food. It was cold that made me grateful for clothes. It was loneliness that made me grateful for others.

  Arousal Day

  Some days while walking, I hated the sky. It put sun in my eyes, wind in my face, and denied me my God-given right to air-conditioning. It was nearly winter, but in Texas heat holds rank over the seasons. It drained me. So I was all for it when one Sunday morning, nearly three weeks out of Figwood, Harold led us into the Woodville New Life Church, the Reverend Ben Patterson presiding. The place was clean and smelled of paint and had, oh glory, air-conditioning.

  The ceiling was high and white with thick wooden beams like you’d find in a ski lodge. A few red and green veils and some artificial holly hung from the beams. On one of the side walls was a nine-foot-tall statue of Christ on the cross, his ribs pressing out against his skin, his eyes gazing up with the faintest trace of eyeliner. We walked in just as a service was beginning and sat in a long wooden pew four rows from the back. There were little cushions by each person’s feet, so it wouldn’t hurt if we chose to pray.

  The other parishioners—with babies and grandparents and finely shaped haircuts—peeked at us over their hymnals. We were, to be perfectly honest, a mess. I was wearing the same jeans I had been wearing for three days. The one other pair I had was no better. My hair was flaring up like a rat-torn bird’s nest. I kept trying to push it down, but it wouldn’t stay. The others looked just as bad.

  The service opened with a prayer and a few announcements made by an elderly man with a wide tie.

  “Remember, tomorrow night the high school youth group will be hosting a pancake dinner to raise money for their upcoming Christmas ski trip. It will be held in the gym and starts at six. And we still need volunteers for the Samaritan Soup kitchen which is now open only on Thursdays.” He glanced at us and left the podium.

  The choir director, a young man in a white robe, took his place and invited the congregation to stand and join him and the choir in singing. Gilbert wouldn’t sing. He sat with his arms crossed like an upset child. Harold, Beddy, and Irma stood and sang with sincere enthusiasm. I couldn’t tell if Shael was joining in or just mouthing the words. I sang, but quietly.

  After a few hymns the congregation was told to sit down and the choir director announced that it was better to give than to receive. Two men started passing gold-colored plates up and down the pews as a teenage girl took the stage and belted out an off-key rendition of “From a Distance.” At our pew, the collector hesitated before handing us the half-filled plate. He stood there, smiling nervously and watching our hands like a mother hawk. Irma dropped in a dollar.

  Soon Pastor Patterson began his sermon. I recognized the minister. Not the man himself, but the type. Balding on top, cut close on the sides, big, white smile, wide-open eyes. He reminded me of my high school girlfriend’s youth leader. I’m sure that even during the most mundane of conversations, he would nod as if hearing some fascinating, heart-wrenching confession. I imagine he wore pastel button-down shirts and looked awkward in shorts. I’m sure he was kind, gentle, tidy, possibly married with several children, but often mistaken for a homosexual.

  “Paul tells us that we are the body of Christ.” He gathered the congregation with his eyes. “So be as Jesus was. Act as he did.”

  Harold turned to me and grinned, “What a mad world that would be.”

  “And Jesus loved people because the people are the body,” the minister continued. “Rich or poor,” he smiled, aiming his eyes in our direction. “Clean or dirty,” another smile, “employed or currently unemployed.” He took a sip of water. “So even if you’re not adding anything of worth to society, you are of worth to God. And he can help you turn around.” Now he was looking just at us. “You can kick that narcotics habit you may or may not have. You can find a new life with a new home and a job.” He smiled so big I thought his cheeks would split. In fact, I was hoping they would split.

  “Ah shit, Harold, let’s get out of here,” Gilbert whispered.

  “Don’t you disrespect this house,” Irma said.

  “I’ll wait outside.” Gilbert stood up and shuffled passed us, grumbling under his breath.

  “And we are all members of the body of Christ,” the minister continued. “Some are eyes, some are arms, some—”

  “Who’s the penis?” Harold said. The people in front of us squirmed. The minister didn’t seem to hear.

  “Should the eyes say, ‘I’d rather be a foot?’ Each of us has a different role in the body of Christ.”

  “I want the penis role,” Harold said even louder.

  The minister paused. Then chuckled awkwardly.

  “Harold!” Irma said, grabbing his arm.

  “Sir,” the minister slowly placed his palms together. “If you can’t control yourself, you’re going to have to leave.”

  “You’d cut off part of the body? You’d castrate God?”

  “All right sir, you’re disrupting this service. You need to leave.”

  Harold jumped up on the pew. “I have come to disrupt services!”

  People stood and backed away. Mothers pulled their children close to their sides. Shael muffled a laugh.

  “Please, Harold!” Irma pulled his pant leg. Harold looked down at her and smiled. Two men took a few steps toward us, nodding at each other.

  “Your body is not all yours. Your life is not all yours. I give you a gift,” Harold raised both arms to the ceiling. The two men, their eyes wide with surprise, stopped their approach. One dropped his hand to a pew to balance himself. I couldn’t tell what was happening to them, but then it happened to me. Blood rushed to my crotch like it was the center of a whirlpool. I quickly folded my hands over my lap to hide the rising. Dozens of faces were blushing, men and women. The minister quickly maneuvered himself behind the podium and stared at the choir director sitting near by. The choir director stared back and crossed his legs. From the front row, an ancient man in a wheelchair softly squealed, “Jesus!” I turned to look at Irma. She was flushed, beads of sweat dotting her upper lip. This was an act of God.

  “God has a new word,” Harold said, his own pants popping forward. “It is the same as the old word.” He pointed to the crucifix hanging on the sidewall, and I could swear that as we watched there was a slight swelling under the purple cloth painted around his waist.

  “Praise the Father, Sons, and Holy Cock,” Harold said. He turned and left the church, leaping along the tops of the pews.

  An Introduction to Haroldism

  Arousal Day

  One of the most intimate of celebrations during the Festival of Wanderings is Arousal Day. Every December 9, Haroldians ponder the miracle of their own bodies. The ritual can be done alone, with a partner, or with a community of believers. Participants sit naked and study their own genitals and erogenous zones without physical contact. The act almost always results in erections (the penis, the nipples, or the clitoris) and other signs of stimulation. After a time of self-appreciation, partners or communities often move on to exa
mining each other, again without physical contact.

  The observance of this day can take place nearly anywhere: bedroom, bathroom, a park for those living in a warmer climate, or at participating Waffle Houses.

  In some traditions the sexual tension is built upon until it snaps. The final result of the ceremony is sex. But many Haroldians prefer to keep the ritual chaste. In such cases, the ritual ends with the uncorking of a bottle of white wine by a predetermined participant. At the sound of the pop, all present don a simple robe and complete the evening with a glass of the white wine and occasionally some cheese.

  It is important to note that there is no shame in performing this ritual on your own. As Harold himself is quoted as saying, “There is that of God in each of us, therefore masturbation is the highest form of worship.”

  Reverend Patterson

  Gilbert hated churches. He distrusted all things organized except businesses. Businesses, he felt, were honest. Their goal was to make a profit, and they didn’t pretend otherwise. Churches were less transparent in their aims and he didn’t trust that.

  While walking from the Woodville New Life Church, Gilbert told me he went to confirmation classes as a child. I told him I found that hard to believe.

  “Shit yeah! I was thirteen and my father had me show up to each and every hour of all the classes. The final assignment was an essay. Write my own statement of faith. It was the best goddamn thing I ever wrote.”

  “What was it?”

  “It was titled: ‘Why I Don’t Believe in God.’”