Armando and Pea

ARMANDO and PEA

A  Life After Death Novel

by

DONALD M. STAUFFER

CHAPTER ONE

HER EYELIDS WERE HALF-closed and fluttering.

I see a cold dark cloud over your head, she said, her voice guttural and vibrating. It's an o-o-omen.

I circled one hand over my head. The air felt warm.

Ma'am, I said, I don't feel anything cold.

You will, she murmured Be patient. Omens take time.

Her voice again rose and fell in broken English.

Now I see a black hand clutching your heart, she said.  Tighter. Yes, tighter. I see it. Now you see it. And feel it, too.

First my head and now my chest.  She's working downward.

I was getting suspicious..

She sat across from me at a small wooden table. It was strewn with odd-shaped objects. On a side table two incense sticks burned, their rising smoke was over whelming the room with sweet nauseous perfume. For an added effect, the old woman was wearing a T-shirt with printed stars and planets on it. The garment smelled of incense and sweat. Between her sagging breasts, a hand-painted eye peeked out at me.

Getting edgy I said, You're right. About the hand.  I reached into the breast pocket of my jacket and clutched my wallet. Near my heart.

Yes, she said, nodding. I knew you would.

She picked up another odd object and started rubbing it, humming to herself.

Excuse me, ma'am, I said. The unknown?

She stopped. She appeared irritated at yet another interruption.

Your news ad, I said. 'I contact the unknown'. Was that a misprint?

Her eyes opened fully.

Glaring at me, she slapped the object onto the table.

I was close to the contact, she said. You stopped it. You must be patient.

I stood up and pulled out my wallet.

She saw it. Her glare now became a soft warm pillow.

Please. Sit, she said, dripping syrup. The source of the unknown is so near.

She began circling one hand over her own head and slowly began pulling down an unseen force. Chanting softly to herself, she rubbed the force field onto her face, smearing black eye shadow onto her cheeks.

How much? I said, tapping my wallet. Your ad said first consultation is free.

Yes, yes, free she said, visibly becoming defensive. Free is for local people. You're from another country. Unfortunately, there is a traveling charge.

"Uh-huh. How much?

Now all business, she said, To wave off the dark clouds and remove the tight hand, two hundred dollars. US currency. We can use the ATM at the corner.

I slapped my wallet closed and shoved it into my pocket.

Sorry, I said. My traveling charge was cancelled this morning.

I turned and pushed through the hanging curtain beads.

But, she said, voice now pleading. The dark clouds. If you leave, there will be a curse on you. Wait! Fifty dollars!

Outside on the narrow lane, I muttered, Everybody has curses for me. Out of the same curse book.

The evening tropical rain was light.

Hawker stalls on both sides of the alley were still busy steaming noodles, egg tarts and stinky fish.

Neon illuminated the trash on the street.

From  my briefcase, I pulled out the newspaper covered with psychic ads. This I held over my head.

On board the plane I mumbled, Another phony. Third today. Waste of time.

The guy next to me was snoring. His mouth was open. His breath smelled of stinky fish.

My wife, the wondrous Sara Pea, was solace.

For your peace of mind, Pea, do keep searching.

Soul mates sense frustration.  Or, at least tolerate it.

CHAPTER TWO

BETWEEN LECTURES AND heading toward the staff office, I was wading through a jungle of bleary-eyed students, bumping and circling one another in a tribal dance to get to their next lecture on time.

I was shortly to endure two students who had consultation appointments with me. Also slipping and sliding between adolescent bodies was Professor Paul Bixby, a long-time philosophical combatant of mine from the psychology department.

Pea! he shouted. I must speak to you! The lounge?

I twisted between several backpacks.

Can’t, Bix, I shouted. Consultations.

He yelled back.

Thirty minutes?

I nodded.

I suspect he had discovered a new tidbit of questionable philosophical insight and was anxious to debate me.

Four minutes later and in the staff office, the two students were seated before me, fidgeting and mentally squirming; their brains ablaze with new challenges and insights.

The latest generation of firebrands.

Now in my mid-thirties and an avid student of philosophical research, I was confident I could answer most of their questions.

My confidence, however, was waning. There was something seriously missing in my life. .I kept wondering why we humans search for a reason for living, for love, understanding and wisdom, yet continually smother it with anger and fear.

For answers, I had been studying mindfulness, meditation, unseen dimensions and the true nature of reality. The internet was glutted with opinions, each discrediting the others.

Student Chadney Bellwether sat before me, fumbling through his cell phone notes, his hands trembling, and his breathing shallow.

Seated next to him, intense Hermione Nusskind slashed viciously at the pages on her Tablet, searching for her prepared questions.

I waited patiently. I needed to stretch this interview.

Anything to irritate Bixby.

Chadney’s voice wobbled.

I wasn’t clear on your perdurantism theory, he said.

Uh-huh, I said, nodding.  Clarity can be illusive.

Same questions. different day. But, thank god, they're thinking.

He wiggled.

Yeah! That’s what I thought. Clarity. Uh-huh.

More notes and fumbles. Pages up, pages down.

Umm, he went on, did you mean objects are parts endusties?

Entities are now endusties. Oh, well.

I rolled my head back and forth, as if giving his question great critical analysis.

Yes, I said. The perdurants do believe objects are a series of parts in time, I said. Yes.

Yeah, I found that too, he said, brightening. 'Uh-huh. Parts. Umm, great."

I smiled slightly.

He struggled more.

Okay, he said. Isn’t it possible, Professor Pea, these endusties could be parts of a video game?

That one caught me by surprise.

Video game. Parts. Hm-mm...that's different.

Ahh...yes, I said, nodding slowly, as if I really knew what I was talking about. I'm well aware of the video game theory.

I am such a liar.

Yeah, Chadney said, grinning. You know, like in different locations. All the parts struggling with each other in a symbolic clash.  Uh, uh, lots of laser gun play. Explosions. Action. You know, a video box game.

Indeed, I said, my voice rising. The clash theory. Yes. Symbolic. Quite likely so. Though, not all physical clashing. I said. There should be some mental clashing too. Don't you agree? Good versus evil? Cause and effect. A morality clash?

He nodded slowly, now looking confused.

I tapped my head, professorially. The clash theory will require more contemplation on your part, Mister Bellwether. Extraordinary thinking so far.

Yeah, he said encouraged. I'll definitely check out mental clashing, too.

I glanced at the clock on the wall.

Stretch more.

Hermione was brilliant, pesky and forever challenging me. She had finally found her notes. She looked up her eyes dark and penetrating.

Professor! she demanded. I really can’t decide about something you told us about. Just thinking about it is making me sick to my stomach.

I grimaced. Miss Nusskind. Please don’t throw up on my desk. It’s messy.

She stared at my desk for a moment. All right. Okay. This is it, she said, her eyes flashing. I can’t decide what I am. According to your lecture on determinism. I may live and die, and that’s it. Period. Or, I may be a physical being. Or a mental being. Or, both. Or...maybe neither.  I mean, I am really confused.

I nodded, feigning concern.

So which is it, Professor Pea? she said. I asked Yoshi in class. She doesn’t know either. Although, she leans toward being a mental being. But, my boy friend wants me to be physical.

Good move for him, I said, under my breath.

So...um...your lecture is freaking me out, she said, throwing up her hands.

Yeah, Chadney said. I’m really mixed up on that one, too. Physical or mental. Personally, I I'm mental. You know. Video games.

I sat staring at them, reflecting back to my own philosophy arguments as a student.

Good god, Pea! They're seekers. Give them something to hold onto!

All right, I said finally. Don’t be confused. You're both in good company. Scientists and philosophers have been debating the mind-body question forever, arguing whether objects exist or don’t exist in space-time; whether we are physical only or spiritual, I said. Frankly, they're as clueless as you are.

And, pissed at each other’s opinions.

Hermione said, Okay. But do you have an answer? I need to know. I need an A in your class.

Yeah, Chadney said. Me too. A good grade. My dad will kill me if I flunk out.

I tented my fingers on my chest, a common professorial move.

I do have an answer, I said.

They leaned forward.

However, I said. I reserve my opinion.

They slumped.

Enough time for Bixby.

I’ve supplied you both with a list of opinions. Review them. This course is a mental exercise. Choose an opinion that fits you best and present it to me.

Oh, great, Chadney said, shaking his head. Now I gotta choose something.

Hermione said, Yes...but what about on your final test? Do I just guess the right answer?

I smiled broadly.

Relax, Miss Nusskind, I said, smiling. There is no right answer. The test will be an essay. Convince me you know the subject. Then, you both may get an A. I grinned. Or...not.

They looked at each other, hope shaken.

I glanced at the clock again.

My, my, I said. Look at the time.

They both did.

Time does flit. Metaphorically speaking, I said.

I stood up.

They stood up.

Hermione, please don’t throw up over this. It’s untidy.

I signaled her a thumbs-up.

And Chad, damned good analogy. Clash games. I’m impressed.

They gathered their back packs and walked out, whispering.

I sat back down and stared at their chairs for a long time.

Really, Professor, I muttered. They want answers, I give them gibberish.

Damn it, Pea. You're really screwing up this life.

I glanced down.

I had doodled a name on my note pad.

Armando.

What is that?

CHAPTER THREE

FOR THREE YEARS I HAD been adjunct professor teaching ethics at another university. I'm a great fan of morality and ethical people; but society seemed to be less so every day. It was depressing me.

As an answer, I gave up teaching and started a private consulting business. Pea's Ethical Standards for Business Growth.

Getting building the business was patchy, but growing. However, it was not satisfying. Soon, I hungered for my true love: teaching.

A university advertised an opening, Meditative Mindfulness. I didn't know much about it, but found out the subject was becoming increasingly important for personal and business reasons; and hopefully, for me to salvage a few young souls.

I boned up on the subject, submitted a syllabus, was interviewed, accepted as an adjunct professor and classes began. Students enrolled, I was happy again; a chance to enlighten new souls.

Enlighten them? About what? I wasn't sure.

Meditative Mindfulness, I quickly discovered, was not an easy concept to force feed to the cell phone crowd. It required innovation and off-beat humor to break through their electronic obsession. 

The first part of my course was Business Ethics for Well-balanced Leaders. This I knew about.

The second was Philosophical Discussions for Mental Health. A challenge.

In the lecture hall, I easily did the first part; but away from the classroom, and in consultations, I kept receiving questions from students about the second part, for which I had no clear answers. The one that came up most often: What is the meaning or purpose for life? Why am I living and always angry? Why not just get rich? Won't that make me happy?." 

Increasingly, I became convinced society was reducing into an alienated morass. Some were seeking answers, but suffering in silence; eventually erupting into violence and terrorizing.

I concluded we are being spoon-fed propaganda every day by big money; forcing us to become scared, angry, and numb.

I thought meditation would help people get in touch with themselves; to adopt a closer bond with the natural world. To engender love.

That became my main goal: to love one another, not spread fear.

A worthy cause. A worthy challenge.

But, how best to do it?

I kept unconsciously doodling a name.

Armando.

Who is Armando?

This name was beginning to taunt me.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE AUDITORIUM WHERE I lecture seats two hundred people.

Eighty-nine of the seats were filled today, and approximately one third of those students were enrolled in what they thought would be a ho-hum, easy three credits course. They were not entirely wrong, except I continually coaxed their young brains into dark rooms they had never entered before, challenging them to look beyond themselves, rather than stare at endless array of anonymous faces on their media devices. Some students appeared stunned at having to actually think.

After the lecture was over, I returned to the staff office to face a one-on-one consultation.

On tap was Coswell Riley, a regular.

He was one of my homegrown, egocentric sophomore combatants, completely full of himself, loaded with new management theories coursing through his rich-daddy veins. He strutted about campus spouting his newfound knowledge.

He was also the son of the Chairman of the University Board of Directors, Riley Reynolds; which in Coswell’s mind granted him special privileges.

He sat on the chair opposite me, one chubby leg draped over the arm of the chair, exuding defiance of everything not himself.

Professor. I’ve got this problem, Coswell said, feigning confidence. I don’t understand what your damned course is about. Really. I mean, it’s called meditative mindfulness. Plus, what-the-hell, metaphysics? Come on, I wouldn’t take your damned course if I didn’t need the fucking extra credits, he said. And, a good grade, Professor. Really, what has meditation got to do with mindfulness, whatever that is?

I waited, knowing he would answer himself.

I mean shit, he said. Mindfulness is something big-ass companies are talking about now. I read about that. But, what good is it? Can I use that to get rich? Like my daddy? I don’t think so.

I said, nodding slowly, Some companies are, yes, seriously talking about it.

I waited again.

All right, he said. As a business manager after graduation, yeah, sure, okay, I’ll use mindfulness on my employees, he said. I mean, I’ll tell ‘em, ‘Be mindful of this or that.’ Big deal.

Ah, I said. You have a business plan.

I mean, take my daddy. He’s successful. Rich. Self-made. But, does he use mindfulness in the company? Hell no. He just knows how to make money.

By conning people.

Indeed he does, I said. 

Me? I’m going to take over the business some day soon, he said. "Daddy’s