Jonathan M.A.Ghaffar

PREFACE: A few months ago, a good friend of mine, Rashid Arshed, gave me a short description of a story idea he had that he wanted to see what I could do with it. His principal desire was for me to inject "lots of emotions" into his framework of an idea. This is actually the essence of what any writer wants -- and should be able to do -- with any idea he or she has or receives from someone else. This is why it represents a very good writing exercise or assignment; it's whole purpose is to get you, the writer, to emote.

And so I took it as a challenge, a writing assignment if you will, like when I was taking creative writing classes back in the mid-1980s to late '90s. . . I wanted to prove to myself (more than anyone else) that I could still crank out a reasonably cogent and emotionally / dramatically satisfying short story, as it had been a long while since I'd written a short story.

The rest of my portfolio (at: JonathanMAGhaffar.blogspot.com) was the result of a lot of the creative writing I'd produced in the time-frame listed above, plus a lot of Islam-related items I'd produced since accepting Islam Ahmadiyyat in January of 1994. Most of those items were more journalistic or persuasive writing in nature, with only a few prose pieces rooted in passion -- the ecstasy and the torture of the soul kind. . .

And so I hereby throw down the literary gauntlet to all my fellow writers out there who would like to see what they can come up with from the story idea shown below. But if you take up this creative writing challenge, I ask only that you postpone reading my entry ("Dear in the Heedlights") until AFTER you have completed your entry. That way you will be safeguarded against any undue influence of my words upon yours.

And lastly, being a writer, I would love reading your take on the subject matter outlined by Mr. Arshed, so please forward me a copy of your entry. (My email is: JonathanMAG@Gmail.com or you msg me on FaceBook @Jonathan Ghaffar)

And if you give me permission, I will post it on my blog and disseminate it via FB and my email list of subscribers & friends. If you are shy in that respect, and only want me to read it but not redistribute it, I will of course honor your wishes.

And if you wish to give me feedback on "DitH" I will accept it in hopes that it will improve my writing. God Bless and Godspeed. I don't say "Good Luck" because the craft of writing has nothing to do with luck, and everything to do with effort.

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A Short, Short Story [idea & summary by Rashid Arshed]

Keywords of the Essay: Corona Virus, lock-down restrictions, Environment / Atmospheric change (disappearance of pollution), Nature (respect or lack of it), man’s greed and industrial onslaught. End of Corona Virus and return of normal (abnormal) life.

Summary: I was driving on a highway into the 3rd month of Corona Virus when lock-down restrictions were somewhat lifted. I saw a pack of over a dozen of deer standing along the highway in bewilderment looking at the passing sporadic cars. The Highway must have been completely deserted during the early weeks of the virus due to legal restrictions and the fear of the virus. The deer and other wild animals must have thought that no human being would ever venture here again and they were free to cross the highway and roam about as they wished. But after the restrictions, the returning cars put a lid on their hopes.

[When the restrictions were lifted the cars were zooming in the parkway like before. . .]

(This essay needs to be injected with lots of emotion. – Rashid Arshed)

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"Dear in the Heedlights"

by Jonathan Ghaffar

(story idea by Rashid Arshed)

It had already been three months since the Corona-virus lock-down, and I was pretty much fed up and feeling like a sardine in a tin with nobody with a key to let me out – even if it was just to eat me and put me out of my misery. “Death would be a sweet release,” as Mark Knopfler would say. . . And so I was understandably depressed by all this, being locked up at home while having to work from home at my day job as a junior book editor at Simon & Schuster. I was in a cabin-fever funk that even Mark’s awesome guitar and song lyrics could not free me from.

To torment me even more (because of the Stay-at-Home mandate) with the pollution level in the atmosphere at near zero, the air quality outside was better than I’d ever breathed before. During the lock-down, my only contact with the outside world was the open window of my attic study/office where enticingly clean and fragrant fresh air wafted in a steady breeze from the west straight through the attic. I could almost hear the wind in a sing-songy ten-year-old girl’s voice: “Nah-nah-nah-nah-nah, you can’t come out to play. . .”

To match the sounds of the wind and Mother Nature, there was the spectacular view of the world outside – the crispness in the air, the green of the trees and the grass, the puffs of white clouds daubed across an azure blue Van Gogh sky – all this was a delight to my senses and a reminder of what I was only an observer of and not a participant in. The springtime colors were more brilliant and vibrant because of my self-isolation, the fiery magnolia and cherry blossoms the pinkest I’d ever seen, the birdsong in the nearby elms the most beautiful of symphonies.

The rebel in me finally screamed out in defiance. Screw this! I’m gonna break ALL the rules and bust outta this prison!

I jumped up from my chair, grabbed my keys, and fled down the stairs and out of the house like they were on fire. I yanked up the manual garage door to free my equally imprisoned steel steed, my beautifully restored ‘68 Shelby Mustang – the poster boy for hospital zone noise and speeding violations and a wanton, unrepentant, gas-guzzling polluter of the environment. A thin layer of fine dust had settled on the windows and body during the past three months of neglect. I couldn’t take her out like that! I quickly dusted her off, climbed behind the wheel, jabbed the key in the ignition and cranked over the 351 Cleveland motor.

There was the brief, irritable growl of an ogre being roused from sleep, then the angry staccato rumble as the eight cylinders caught fire with a vroom-vroom of my foot on the gas pedal – the entry music to an old Hippie’s muscle-car heaven. I’d missed that sound for many months now, and it was the sound that drowned my guilt over my rebellious teenage jail-break. Screw it! I’m outta here! . . .

I drove through the deserted local streets, and then hit the on-ramp to the nearly empty Parkway, which used to be bumper-to-bumper before the outbreak of Corona-virus. Now the pristine blacktop made me feel like I was in a post-apocalyptic Sci-Fi movie and the car-free highway was all mine forever – at least until I ran out of gas or the Walking Dead got me.

It wasn’t long before I was traveling through a wooded area. I could see a sign up ahead with the word “Slow!” and the image of a deer and a curved arrow indicating a sharp turn ahead. I slowed down to 25, and as I rounded the turn, I saw a small herd of a half-dozen deer on the side of the highway, watching me as I passed slowly by. Perhaps they intended to cross the road, but then heard the rumble of my approaching Mustang and decided against such foolishness.

At that moment a flurry of thoughts flashed through my mind: did these easily-frightened creatures become emboldened with the lock-down and its resulting disappearance of potentially deadly traffic and take to crossing the road without caution? Did the novelty of having almost no cars on the highway during the last three months make them think that the most dangerous of all species – humankind – had suddenly and inexplicably vanished from the face of the Earth, never to return?

If I were a deer, I could certainly see how they might think that, even if only wishfully so. It wasn’t as if we were doing anything for them except accidentally running into them on roads like this all over the country, or shooting them in the woods just so we could mount their antlered heads as trophies on our living room walls.

As I motored on, my mind was still fixated on that family of deer. I remember seeing a grizzled old stag, his 12-point antlered head held high, still fearless and proud as the patriarch. His mate stood regally beside him with four young ones of various ages and sizes sheltering behind them, their curious faces peeking out to see what all the noise and fuss was about.

They had no idea a pandemic was sweeping across the land, killing tens of thousands, and causing the most crippling shutdown of the country and its economy – of the entire planet, in fact – in well over a century. Not even the 9/11 attacks had affected America as drastically and severely as the Corona-virus pandemic – not even the Great Depression or World War II.

I didn’t know it then, but those deer would show up in my dreams all the following week, giving me more food for thought than I thought possible to even have an appetite for. I would come to call these early morning dream chronicles my “Dear Deer Dialogs.” The first one woke me up at ten-after-four in the morning, the sky still black with just the crickets chirping outside.

* * *

Dream Log – 1st Dialog; Monday 4:10am. . .

I’m driving through the wooded area not far from my home. This time, as I approached the “Slow! Deer X-ing, Sharp Turn Ahead” sign, I pulled the car off to the shoulder immediately after rounding the turn. The deer family was there waiting patiently for me. I felt this pressure, an anxiousness in my heart, a restlessness I couldn’t put my finger on, only that I felt an urgency to speak with them – as nonsensical as that is – but an urgency so intense that when I greeted them with a friendly wave, it didn’t faze me in the least when the patriarch stag said in a deep baritone, “Welcome. . . We have been waiting for you. There is much we need to discuss.”

“I’m sorry I’m late.” I replied apologetically, “I had some work I needed to finish up.”

The old stag nodded his head sagely. If he was clairvoyant I would not have been surprised, any more than the fact we were having a conversation. Ah. . . the power of dreams.

I stopped about six feet away from them – correct social distancing, you know – and sheepishly waved at them again. “So. . . How are things going with you guys these days?”

The patriarch seemed to grin slightly, as if amused at my concern, then in a serene voice he said, “It has been the most wonderful time ever. It has been the most peaceful a time we’ve ever known in our lifetime. I am sure this is how our ancestors must have lived before humans came to our land. This is what we have heard over the years from our elders, who passed down to us the history of the before-time. . . And what about you?” the elderly deer inquired sincerely.

“It has been the most terrible time for us ever in our lifetime. . . I believe we are being punished for all the sins we have committed for the past several hundred years at least.” I didn’t tell him about the virus, nor could I bring myself to name him and his kind specifically as some of the victims of any of our specific sins. Nor did I go into detail of how mankind had destroyed nature in general to satisfy its own selfishness and greed. I didn’t figure he was completely blind to the nature of man’s interactions with nature and which side had fared the worse. I don’t think he was much interested anyway, considering he had no ability to affect the outcome either way.

When people bring up the maxim that “Mother Nature always has the last word,” that truism never guarantees the salvation of the individuals within nature’s abode. There are still winners and losers there too. More losers than winners by a long shot, I would hazard to guess.

We stood staring at each other in an awkward silence. . . And then I woke up.

* * *

The next morning, I reviewed my Dream Log from the previous night, marveling at the “Alice in Wonderland” quality of it all. I had never in my life had a dream where I was having a conversation with an animal that could speak and understand English. I was actually looking forward to the end of the day and the onset of sleep. I also wanted to see if my deer family would be there waiting for me in real life, so I got in my car and took another drive down that long highway. I rounded the “Slow! Deer X-ing” hairpin turn, but alas, there was no deer family to be found. This only increased my sense of anticipation for my new-found nocturnal musings and adventures. Was my life so banal and meaningless that a family of talking deer was what I had to hold onto for a sense of purpose? I wondered if this was a sign of nuttiness on my part. Deer me!

* * *

Dream Log – 2nd Dialog; Tuesday 2:17am. . .

This time there was no driving – I just found myself standing by the side of the road past the hairpin turn and the “Slow! Deer X-ing” sign. But I was all alone. A wave of panic swept over me. I didn’t know what to do or how to proceed. I thought maybe this was a test of some kind, and that maybe I should say a little prayer of forgiveness or humility or something. Never having been a regular attendee in any House of God since I was a young boy, I concentrated on the “or something” part. I closed my eyes and did my best to think humble, reverential thoughts.

I heard a rustling sound and opened my eyes to see the patriarch stag emerging from the woods. My gloom disappeared as though the elder deer were a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day. A moment later, after the elderly stag had surveyed the surroundings and looked behind him, the rest of the clan came out of the cover of the trees and joined him. I wanted to run over and give them all a group hug, but I figured this might spook them. I think they must’ve picked up on my exuberance, because they all spread out a bit and came closer as a group. It felt like a group hug, deer-style. It was enough for me. I smiled a “thank you” to whichever deity might be on duty.

The patriarch gave me a small curtsy-like bow and said, “There’s been more traffic than usual today, so we decided to wait back in the trees. To be honest, we haven’t had many friendly encounters with your kind outside of petting zoos, and that’s not exactly a lot of free-willed fun for us. You understand. . .”

I nodded my sympathies and gave them a palms-up apology for my ill-mannered species. “I totally understand. You can’t be too careful these days anyway. We humans can be. . . uhm. . . unpredictable at best, and downright hazardous to your health most of the time. . . I wish I could say otherwise, but our human-deer track record doesn’t exactly reflect well on us.”

This time the younger members of the family ventured forth; two young males; one with nubs for horns, the other was a few years older, sporting a rack of four-point velveteened antlers. Next to them were two females, again one younger than the other. It was hard to guess their ages, whether they were the equivalent of preteens, teens or young adults, but I saw open innocence in the eyes of the females and in the younger male – the other male had a glint of something in his eyes – distrust? Resentment directed squarely at “The Man” – literally? . . . If there was the deer version of Bob Dylan, I was sure this male “teenager” had been listening to all of his albums.

I waved a hand in the direction of his family. “We have not been formally introduced, so allow me to start. My name is Yusef. . . Joseph Khan. I’m 34, recently divorced, no kids. I work for a book publisher. . . That means I read books sent in by writers who want us to publish their books. Not sure how much of this means anything to you. . .”

My voice trailed off and I feared I’d crossed over some unspoken dreamworld line into a realm and subject that was off-limits. The old stag made what I took to be the deer version of a chuckle and replied good-naturedly, “Hey, we’re just deer, OK? There’s still much that we can discuss, even though we are different species. There are more important things besides work. . .

“Allow me to introduce myself and my family. . . I am the elder, the leader and patriarch. My name is William. . . This is my beautiful wife Anne and the mother of our four children. . . Behind her are my daughters, Isabella and Patrice, and my sons, Theodore and Arthur – he insists that we call him Arterial now. Kids today.” I had to laugh at that. Kids anywhere!

Three of the “kids” came up and nuzzled me with friendly affection. The fourth, with his four-point antlered head tilted sideways, had to be “Arterial” – he hung back and snorted at me in a clear show of disdain. His mom glared at him and gave him a swift kick to his posterior for being rude to a guest. He took his punishment as a badge of honor in a world run by “The Man.”

One of the patriarch’s daughters, the older one, had a bright white star-shaped flourish on the fur of her chest, and she seemed to want to make up for her brother’s insolence. She came up to me and pressed her forehead into my side and said in a sweet melodious voice, “I’m Isabella. I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Khan. Don’t mind Arthur – he’s just going through a phase. . . the ‘I’m a total jerk’ phase. Whether he’ll ever grow out of it, I dunno. . . But the rest of us like you just fine.” She looked up at me with smiling eyes that sparkled with intelligence and just a hint of mischievousness. I stroked the top of her head, hoping she liked it. She seemed to, leaning into my caress. I bent down to give her a long hug that I hoped was appropriate.

While still at eye level, I said, “I would very much like to give you a special name, so that you’ll always remember me. I don’t know if we will ever meet again. . .”

Isabella glanced over at her parents, who both nodded their assent, then she turned back to face me. “I would like that. Very much.” she said, with a blush in her voice. I had no trouble thinking of a name that warmed my heart. “I would like to call you. . . Pappu. . . is that OK?”

“By all means, but what does that mean?” she asked.

“It means. . . charming.” I said wistfully, blinking back tears as I remembered my favorite niece from back home – my sister’s child. She would’ve turned 11 this month.

As we kept chatting about her likes and dislikes, the younger daughter and son came up to get their share of affection and human attention. . . And then I woke up.

* * *

The day passed without me being consciously aware of me being in it. I’d forced myself to read about 50 more pages of a merely so-so detective thriller by an obviously well-connected nobody who (judging from his prose) seemed destined to remain one – unless he suddenly and I mean overnight suddenly absorbed, via literary osmosis, the narrative abilities of Dashiell Hammett, John D. MacDonald or James Lee Burke. Since the first two were long dead, there might be some hope via channeling or maybe a séance. Other than that, I wasn’t holding my breath. But somebody in upper management at Simon & Schuster must have a son or nephew claiming to be an Author with a capital “A” and so I became the lucky bastard/junior editor who drew the short straw and had to wade through his tiresome and cliché-riddled verbosity.

Needless to say, I was looking forward to having an adult conversation – with talking deer no less! Oh what a brave new world of dreams that has such deer in it! . . . Time for bed!

* * *

Dream Log – 3rd Dialog; Wednesday 3:42am. . .

This time it was I who found myself in a thick copse of trees and dense undergrowth, looking out at the highway with cars zooming by at an alarming rate of speed. I ran into the open and began waving my hands wildly above my head. “Hey! Slow down! There’s a family of deer here. You might hit one of them by accident! For God’s sake, slow down!” But nobody seemed to see me or pay attention to a crazed madman waving his hands in the air and yelling at them.

“You should know they don’t care. They never care about anybody but themselves, and they sure as hell ain’t gonna slow down. You should know – you’re one of ‘em.” These last words dripped with such accusation and venom I knew who had spoken before I turned around.

“Hey. . . Arterial. . . How you doing? So where’s the rest of the family? Everyone OK?” This last question was filled with a sudden surge of fear I could not disguise as cordial concern. The young deer picked up on it and gave me a contemptuous snorting laugh that said all that he needed – or wanted – to say. He continued his scornful reproach of me and all of my kind.

“You may have fooled my parents and those airhead ‘everything is wonderful’ retards I have for siblings, but I’m wise to you, pal.” Funny how you can call someone your “pal” but know he’ll never be one – a name you think means something positive but is really an insult.

I stared back at him and tried not to get defensive. I tried to remember what it was like being his age and not having my rose-colored glasses on anymore because life had crushed them into broken shards at my feet. The Cat Stevens classic “Father and Son” began playing in the back of my mind. It actually helped me regain and retain my composure as I forged ahead.

“Yeah, I know. . . Been there, done that, got the T-shirt, buddy. I know.” I was hoping he believed me, or would at least cut me a little slack and hear me out. I didn’t wait for him to get up another head of steam or reload his machine-gun mouth with more judgmental ammunition.

“I just saw on the news these amazing before-and-after pictures of smog-free cities and crystal-clear rivers and lakes where human pollution had gone away. . . because we weren’t being our usual polluting asshole selves. I guess it shows Mother Nature can heal herself pretty quickly – if we’d just get out of the way and let her. . . Hey, I’m all for it. Makes me optimistic that maybe things can turn around before it’s too late. Hope so. Second chances and all that. . .”

It wasn’t just a plea on behalf of the environment and its worst enemy species. This had become personal. I just didn’t know why particularly. I just felt that it was and that I wanted this “angry young man” to not see me as just “the enemy.” Maybe compromising at “frenemy.”

For a long moment he just looked at me, no scorching comment or tirade perched on the tip of his tongue waiting to leap over and throttle me into submission or an early grave – like the Corona-virus wasn’t already threatening me with that on a daily basis. I refocused my sight on my ideological adversary and realized that by agreeing with his position I was effectively robbing him of his weaponry. I knew he was scrambling for higher ground and a better retaliatory strike.

I wasn’t about to give him that opportunity. “You realize, don’t you,” I pressed on, “that you represent the most important necessary element of change in any species?”

The sudden look of confusion on his face was hurriedly covered over with false bravado. “Yeah? And what’s that, smart guy?” He said it like he already knew the answer but we both knew that he didn’t. I didn’t rub it in to score a point on him. Instead, I crouched down to his eye-level and gave him a look of genuine admiration and smiled as warmly at him as I could.

“Because you question. Everything. And that’s what allows the new generation to come into its own with their much-needed new ideas and fresh perspectives. It’s true that if you let the older generation get stuck in the safety of their beliefs and assumptions, that safety can quickly turn into quicksand and their potentially false assumptions can become mental cement.”

I saw a new light dawn in his eyes. He’d heard something from “The Man” that he could actually relate to. I was like an old white Republican who’d dropped an F-bomb in a rap battle.

“Of course,” I said, “there is something to be said for the wisdom of your elders. They have been there, done that, and got the T-shirt. So you need to give them a fair hearing as well.”

This time the upstart teen laughed without the usual scorn or sarcasm wrapped around it.

And then, again, I woke up to find myself in my regular hum-drum world and life. I saw the time on the clock – 3:42am – and grabbed my pen and notebook off the bedside table.

* * *

For some reason I didn’t dream the next night. Maybe I did, but it wasn’t deer-related, so my brain didn’t record it and wake me up so I could write it down. But that in itself caused me to wonder and question the validity of my experiences thus far. Was I getting some strange “inspirations” that I wasn’t reacting to appropriately? Was my receiver not tuned to the right frequency? Was I failing in my role as a “disciple” in a religion I didn’t know I’d signed up for? Did I miss the important memo with the last-minute instructions and guidance from the Big CEO in the Sky? . . . I didn’t know. Worse, I didn’t know what I didn’t know I was supposed to know.

I thought it might be my diet. After 10pm I never usually eat anything before bed, but I remembered that last night – my first dreamless one – I had gluttonously consumed a whole pint of Ben & Jerry’s “Chunky Monkey.” Not like me at all. I blamed the Ben & Jerry’s and vowed to resume my usual night-time before-bed lifestyle choices. So I did push-ups instead. It worked.

* * *

Dream Log – 4th Dialog; Friday 1:58am. . .

I was in my car, driving on the sun-dappled road not far from the “Slow! Deer X-ing” sign, when I heard a siren and saw the lit up red-and-blue flasher bar atop a Forest Service SUV. I pulled over, rolled down my window and waited. A ranger in a tan Smokey-the-Bear hat and matching uniform exited his vehicle and left it idling, and then crunched his way through the loose gravel strewn along the camber until he got to my car. Off came the Aviator shades. I half expected it to be Jackie Gleason but no luck. A thirty-something Hispanic with the name tag “Alonso Reyes” peered into my car and then looked squarely at me as if I’d just robbed a bank.

“Afternoon, ranger. Was I speeding? Haven’t seen a speed limit sign for awhile.”

“No, you weren’t speeding. But there’s a real sharp turn up ahead, ‘bout half a mile or so. Can I please see your license and registration, sir?”

I opened the glove compartment and started rummaging for the requested items while I continued talking. “Sure thing, officer. . . And yes, I’m familiar with that sharp turn. I always slow down just before the sign. Always keep an eye out for wildlife. Would hate to hit anything. Kill it, you know. I’m an animal lover.” I almost felt stupid saying that, like it was unmanly to care about helpless creatures you could easily kill while driving a heavy all-steel-bodied ‘60s muscle car like mine.

The ranger nodded as I handed him what he’d asked for. He stepped back a bit and gave a cursory glance at my driver’s license and registration, then handed them back. He took another step back to better admire my classic Mustang. “And you wouldn’t wanna mess up a fine beauty like what you got here over some dumb deer gets caught in your headlights and just stands there waitin’ to get run over. . . Be a damn shame. . . This a ‘69?”

“A ‘68. . . Restored Shelby but with a 351 Cleveland and a four-barrel under the hood.” I had no idea what I’d just rattled off like I was a seasoned grease monkey, but it always got an appreciative nod and an envious smile from whoever was asking. If it kept me from getting a ticket today, I’d be happy. But now I was curious. “So. . . What occasions the stop, officer?”

The ranger stepped back up to my window and propped his suntanned arms on the door. “Glad you asked that. . . Seems we’ve had a few reports of someone in a classic Mustang parked up a ways past that sharp turn I mentioned. . . Seems he was hanging out with a bunch of deer.”

The forest cop made it sound like an organized crime meet-up, only the mafia were deer. I tried not to smirk – it all seemed so ridiculous and unbelievable. But when you’re in a dream, you almost never know it, and in dreams the weirdest things can happen. The ranger concurred.

“Kinda weird, if you ask me. And it’s also a clear violation of the U.S. Forest Service’s anti-fraternization between humans and local wildlife ordinance, which would include deer – any number of, any size, male or female. And they can carry ticks with Lyme disease, you know.”

I didn’t know, and frankly, I didn’t care. All I did care about just then was that I may have missed a meet-up with the local deer mafia, with whom I had grown inordinately fond of and emotionally attached to, if only in my admittedly weird and apparently illegal fraternizing inter-species dreams. What can I say – I aim to misbehave. I gave the ranger a deprecating smile and raised my hands palms-up in the universal gesture of helplessness.

“I like deer.” I said in my own defense. “Are you gonna arrest me for that?”

The ranger’s previously congenial grin faded into a stoic ‘all-business-now’ frown.

“Son, I don’t believe you’re taking all this with the requisite gravity that it deserves. Do you not understand that it is we humans who are at the very top of this world’s food chain and ‘survival of the fittest’ hierarchy of who all’s in charge of things on this planet? God said so!”

Ranger Reyes was looking and sounding more and more like Jackie Gleason with every passing second and with every word he spoke. He was becoming a redneck right before my eyes.

I was momentarily flummoxed for words, with no response immediately presenting itself. After a few fish-faces, all I could come up with was a feeble, “But officer, they’re only a family of deer. Cute deer. A cute little deer family. . . I have nothing against them, and I hope they have nothing against me.” I held back that one tiny piece of information that would most certainly get me locked up in a room with padded walls: “And we have these wonderful little chats together.”

Yeah. That would go over real well. I kept silent and waited for the cop to do his worst. He took out his citation booklet and started scribbling something. I waited for the nightmare to end so I could get back to my business. I heard the ripping sound as he tore off the ticket and handed it to me. “No need to sign. This is just a first-warning notice. I find you out here again. . . fraternizing with the wildlife. . . I’m not gonna go so easy on you. Understand mi amigo?”

Ranger Jackie stepped away from my car, donned his Aviators, pointed a fat finger at me and intoned, “You best remember YOU are in charge, not them. Don’t make ME be ‘in charge’ of what happens to YOUR tree-huggin’ deer-lovin’ sorry-ass excuse for a huMAN being. Are we clear on that? . . . WE ARE IN CHARGE AROUND HERE – And you can thank GOD for that!”

He didn’t wait for my response as he turned crisply on his boot heels and harrumphed his way back to his SUV, climbed in and put it in gear, and peeled off down the highway. I sat there behind the wheel, listening to the ringing silence of his departure, which was thankfully replaced by the soothing sounds of nature. I decided not to risk continuing on to my deer meet-up spot in case someone in a Smokey-the-Bear hat was waiting for me in the trees. . . And then I woke up.

* * *

This latest dream was the strangest one yet. I was frankly at a complete loss as to how to process it. But I wrote it all down as quickly and accurately as I could in my Dream Log, and told myself when I woke up again in daylight, maybe it would make more sense. But I wasn’t holding my breath on that one. But I did feel strangely. . . elated. . . to still be breathing.

To be honest, I could now appreciate what it must be like to be a “deer in the headlights.” You’re suddenly ensnared in twin blinding lights that transfix you and freeze you in your tracks. You don’t know what’s causing the lights or why they keep getting bigger and more blinding, and the next thing you know. . . you’re in deer heaven. Or hell, if you’re in the deer mafia. . .

I realized it wasn’t right for me to make light of deer getting caught in some car’s headlights, especially in the light of my recent conversations with my new-found deer family. They had names, nicknames even, at least for one of them anyway. I felt this tug of emotion in my chest that told me I wanted to have a special name for each one of them. Even “Arterial” – he needed an extra special moniker that would, hopefully, herald a better and clearer direction in his young tumultuous firebrand of a life. “Father and Son” indeed. We start off as the latter only to become the former, only to see the whole process repeat itself. Such was the tragic comedy of life. I was beginning to see that it didn’t much matter if we walked on two legs or four.

* * *

Dream Log – 5th Dialog; Saturday 4:10am. . .

Traffic was heavier in the late afternoon as people headed home or somewhere else, and I knew I was risking being spotted by Ranger Reyes or some nosy Orwellian Gestapo-minded motorist, but I had to check on my deer family. I rounded the hairpin turn and our round table gathering spot came into view. I pulled over, backed my car as far back and out of sight from the road as I could and cut the engine. A few cars went whooshing past. No cops, thank goodness.

I looked into the woods but I couldn’t see any of my friends, not even back in the undergrowth. I was about to give up and go back home when just the head of the matriarch peeked through the dense foliage of the treeline. I smiled happily and gave her a wave.

“There are too many cars. You’re going to have to come to me, OK?” She disappeared out of sight. I got out of my car and headed to where I’d last seen her. I took a last glance at my car’s blazing cobalt blue exterior and wished I’d invested in a camouflage paint job. Oh well, I’d just have to risk the stormtroopers. I headed into the dense forest of trees.

I was expecting to find the entire family waiting for me, but it was just the mother. She was absently nibbling an overhanging leaf as I came crashing into the small grassy glade where she stood waiting. She stopped chewing and said, “There you are. Good. We don’t have much time. There’s so much you have to know. Find a girl, settle down. If you want, you can marry.”

Where had I heard that advice before? Certainly not from my parents. They would do the finding, I would do the marrying, and all of us together would do the settling down. All together. In the same house. Forever. And in that moment of realization, I saw my whole relationship with Eileen Donnelly, my fiery, red-headed Irish Catholic now-ex-wife laid out before me like a Cliff Notes outline of how not to succeed at rebelling against your parents and their cultural and religious road map of good intentions for your future – the paving stones to Hell as far as I was concerned. That was ten years ago. Was I any wiser ten years later? I wish I could say “yes” but if I was being honest with myself – always the hard part with introspection – I couldn’t say.

What I’d learned the hard way was that there was no rainbow at one end with a pot of gold at the other, because as everyone knows who’s ever tried to find the end of a rainbow, it can’t be done. You can only see the rainbow when you’re far away from it. And then only after it has rained. So all you get is wet and there’s no pot of gold to buy yourself a lifetime supply of umbrellas. Not even one for that rocky, rainy road of life that we all have to tread, often alone.

Anne was watching me, back to leaf nibbling as she waited so patiently for me to come to terms with myself. And that’s when the second epiphany struck me. (I was starting to feel like Mike Tyson’s sparring partner.) My deer family was the reflection in the mirror of my life that I was afraid to contemplate or consider having another go at – for fear of another crushing failure.

And then came the knockout blow: the reason I didn’t want kids – which was the real reason Eileen left me, even after I’d converted and married her in the Church – it was because of my Pappu. I had loved her like she was my own daughter, and the thought of having a daughter of my own and then having something happen to her. . . losing her. . . I wasn’t brave enough to face that possibility. To chance it. . . I saw for the first time that my fear of sorrow and loss had kept me from having the joys of love and laughter – and children – in my life. The tears were running down my cheeks before I was aware that I was crying.

Anne came up to me then as I wept, nuzzling my hand as she leaned her body into mine, offering her strength to give me comfort and hold me up in my moment of emotional surrender.

And then I woke up.

* * *

I stopped dreaming about talking deer after that. I still took to driving past the hairpin turn, hoping to see my dear deer friends again, but I never did. I guess they had served their Freudian angst or Jungian purpose in my collective unconscious self-examination in those stultifying and suffocating early months of the Corona-virus lock-down. Funny how a worldwide pandemic can stir the most private internal conflagrations of the soul. Perhaps that was ultimately the real point of it all. . . It was our forced reflection on what truly mattered in life.

What threatens our mortality is what can also threaten our morality as well – especially our complacency in taking it for granted or thinking we possess any in the first place. It isn’t until we are forced to put it to the test that we learn to what extent or in what amount that quality we call moral courage actually resides within us.

We shouldn’t be too surprised to learn we are all a quart low when it comes to courage, or that we are too often cowards to one degree or another in facing up to the challenges of the heart and the trials of life. The one thing that Corona-virus has done – if it doesn’t kill you – is to give you the time to put the ol’ SUV of the soul in the shop for a check-up, a tune-up, and a much needed balancing and rotation of all four tires, to better grip whatever road you’re on.

Only, for the most part – while the owner of the garage might be named Krishna, or Moses, or Jesus, or Buddha, or Mohammad – we are still the ones who have to open the hood and turn the wrench. We are the mechanics of our own selves. We may have a manual that works well enough in guiding us to determine where the knocks and pings are coming from, but we are still the ones who have to get our hands dirty and demonstrate the answers to the questions by how we choose to live our lives and express our love for others. . . and for ourselves.

It is the testing of our bravery, demonstrated by the choices we make while transfixed in the headlights of tragedy, that shows us the fleetingness and fragility of our bravery and our lives. And no one really ever has a choice except, as John Prine sang, “to go on out and do the best you can.”

Like I said, I didn’t have any more talking deer dreams, but that’s not to say I didn’t have another dream about a deer caught in the headlights. It just wasn’t the four-legged kind. It was the two-legged kind. It was – you guessed it – me. And no one was more surprised than me. . .

I found myself standing in the middle of the road just past the hairpin turn – a metaphor for the unexpected trials of life? I dunno – but there I was. Night had fallen, a foggy gloom had welled up out of nowhere, and I could hear a car approaching and see its headlights sweeping across the woods on the far side of the road as an older, European two-door sedan rounded the curve.

Naturally, my brain was screaming at me to get off the road, but I couldn’t move, couldn’t get my legs to listen. But it wasn’t because I was paralyzed with fear – I felt no fear at all. In fact, I was perfectly calm, almost giddy with anticipation as to what would happen next. Where would I end up? I really wanted to know. . . And it didn’t feel like a death wish, like I was giving up. . . I knew I wasn’t.

So I just stood there like a happy idiot, as Jackson Browne would say, my mind half-yelling, half-laughing at me to get ready to get blind-sided like a happy idiot. But I wasn’t laughing and I wasn’t afraid anymore. I could recognize the metaphor now, as though I were outside of myself, watching me not being afraid anymore of new challenges that life – or God – had in store for me. I smiled at the knowledge that I had finally made room in my life for God, even though I was fuzzy on the details of Who exactly that was. But it was a start, an open door. . . And so I waited and watched as the sedan straightened out in its lane, its headlights boring into me. I closed my eyes. . . And then, just like that, I was sitting in the passenger seat.

A beautiful dark-haired woman wearing a headscarf was driving what looked like an older BMW 2002, the early-to-mid ‘70s model. She was holding the wheel left-handed with a firm, confident grip, her right hand resting warmly in my left, our fingers intertwined. She glanced at me and smiled, giving my hand a loving squeeze, then her eyes went back to the road ahead. The fog had lifted and the car’s headlights played across an empty highway that seemed to stretch on forever, straight and true. Her left hand returned to the wheel as she concentrated on her driving.

I looked down at my left hand and was surprised to see a silver wedding ring on my third finger. At that moment I heard an odd gurgling sound coming from the back seat. I craned my head around to look. An infant dressed all in pink with a pacifier in her mouth was making the gurgling noises. She smiled at me with her eyes and kicked her feet up and down in her baby chair. I already knew what her special name was.

And then I woke up. . . Once again.

* * *

A couple of months later, after the lock-down had eased up a bit, I returned to my regular daily drive back and forth to my office at Simon & Schuster in New York City. I had held firm in my refusal to sign off on the hapless wannabe “Author” – no matter who he was related to – and thankfully, someone higher up on the editorial board respected my integrity and concern for the company’s reputation, and I wasn’t given the boot. In fact, I was promoted to full-fledged editor.

And the person they hired to fill my old junior editor’s position? She was a stunningly beautiful woman with light olive skin and dark brown hair named Ayesha Marie Chandler. Being a devout Muslim convert, she always wore a head covering whenever she ventured outside her home. And she drove a very nice classic car – a 1974 BMW 2002 Tii Alpina with dual Weber carbs. . . For some reason, I just knew we were going to get along fine.

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