The Words in Red
The Broken Man at the Well

We had arrived in the city of Mar-a-Lago without an invitation. Still, a crowd met us as we entered the city gates. Word of the Teacher’s travels spread quickly in those days.

We were weary from the road, but the Teacher took the time to greet the crowd. He promised them a gathering in the morn, after his students and he had refreshed and rested.

A few students, Darwin, Chen and Tyson, went to look for lodgings. The others explored the market. I accompanied the Teacher along with, Sagan and Mandela. We went to locate refreshment and food. The Teacher ask a citizen who was passing by a few questions in private. We waited patiently until the Teacher turned to us and announced, “Follow me to the well.”

Upon entering the “The Well Bar and Grill” as the overhead sign announced, we were met with stares, but also with the aroma of drink, smoke, spice and roasted lamb. A host led us to a table. Beer, wine and spirits were on the menu, as well as dishes with names I could not pronounce.

The Teacher told us to order as we wish and asked for spice tea, for himself. I requested a dark beer while the others ordered wine. The waiter asked if we wished for chips and salsa. The Teacher scanned our faces then nodded and said “Yes please, thank you.” But he never consumed any.

Upon returning, the waiter gazed at the Teacher and said “Don’t I know you? You look familiar, but I don’t think that you have ever been in here before. How is that?”

The Teacher smiled. I have always loved his smile, full of compassion and joy. He spoke to the waiter in a friendly tone, “We have never met, but you know me, I am your brother.”

The waiter laughed “Yeah, well my old man was known to get around, hell, we just might be brothers.” The Teacher laughed with the waiter.

We had just begun our meal when the commotion broke out. Bouncers were carrying a man towards the door. The intoxicated man was swearing and kicking but the bar’s security forces were stronger. They carried the drunkard outside and into the street.

Brother Mandela said “Teacher, this may not be an appropriate establishment for you? I apologize that you have been exposed you to such vulgarity!”

The Teacher then rose from his chair “Brother Mandela, my beloved student, for this reason have I come. I have an appointment with that man.”

I rose to follow the Teacher but he held up his hand, nodded his head to us and said “Sometimes I must speak face to face, in order to be understood. Sometimes the wounded will not openly ask for healing. Such is this time.” Then he smiled and turned toward the door. He always smiled.

We all looked at each other, our expressions filled with worry. Sagan said “He will be fine. Don’t worry about him. The Teacher knows what he is doing.”

Sagan, who had been with the Teacher from the beginning, understood him more than any of us. Still his words did not calm my nerves.

In a few moments we heard cursing and shouting from outside. I hurried to the door. I stood on the building’s wooden porch and saw The Teacher standing near the drunkard out in the street. The man had his back to the Teacher. He cursed, waved his arms and demanded to be left alone.

I heard my beloved Teacher say “I will leave you, if that is your wish. But I do not believe it is what you really want.”

The drunkard spun around to face his tormentor “How the fu.....?” He stopped mid-sentence when he looked into the Teacher’s eyes. He took a few quick breaths and was shocked at the sight of the man whose piercing dark eyes looked into his.

He spoke in a calmer tone. “How can you know what another man wants? You don’t even know me...do you?

The Teacher’s words were sincere and calm. “Yes, I know you. You are my brother.”

“Ha! I’ve never seen you before. How much have you had to drink buddy?” The man asked.

“I only want to ask you a question.” The Teacher said softly.

“Well, I don’t have any money, if you’re taking up donations. I spent all that I had in there.” He waves his hand toward the door through which we was just carried.

“There is nothing that I want from you, my friend. But there is something that I want for you.” The Teacher replied.

“For me? Ha-ha damn, you’re a strange one. Well I hope it’s a bottle! Cause that’s all I’d be interested in.” The man was no longer angry, he was curious. He seemed to replace the Teacher different from other men, and yet, he did not know why.

“A bottle, is that it? Is that what you want, that would make you happy and content?” The Teacher’s face remained calm and peaceful.

“Look buddy, you seem like a real nice guy, I don’t know what you want me to do, I think that we’ve wasted each other’s time long enough.” The man appeared not as intoxicated and belligerent as he was a few moments earlier.

“I only wanted to tell you about a door to your life.” The Teacher said.

“A door? What the hell are you talking about?” The drunkard stammered.

“There is a door to your life, it can only be unlocked from the inside...”

The man interrupted “Look buddy, there’s been a lotta damn doors in my life.” The man looked at his feet and continued. “... I’m a veteran, I served in the war.” He raised his head to look into the Teacher’s face. “I’ve walked through doors that many never could. I’ve seen some awful shit...terrible things.” He lowered his head again “I’ve...I’ve done things, things I’m not proud of. It was war. But I served, I served damn well, that I did.”

The Teacher replied “Wars are evil, it is unfortunate that you are still fighting yours.”

“Wait a minute buddy, I’m a patriot, and I love my country. When the call came to serve, to defend our land, our way of life, I stood up proudly. I enlisted willingly. That’s what men do, we defend and protect.” The man barked.

“I do not mean to disrespect your service and courage.” The Teacher’s eyes searched the eyes of the other. “Wars are waged by kings and rulers over land, resources and for greed. As if the world was not big enough for us all. Yes, wars are evil, and those who wage them are evil. A king goes to war but his countrymen pay the cost. They pay it in taxes and in the blood of their sons and daughters.”

“Yeah...I guess you’re right, I’ve seen a lot of bluh ...” The man seemed to struggle with a memory. “Uh...I’ve paid a price. I’ve paid with every nightmare, I’ve paid...”

The Teacher interrupted this time “With every bottle?”

“Damn you! Who do you think you are to speak to me that way?” The man’s face became red. “Don’t you try to tell me how to live my own life? What are you? A priest? A holy man? You think that you know what it’s like to walk in my boots?”

The Teacher answered in almost a whisper. “You are a prisoner, I only wish to set you free.”

“I’ve never been a prisoner, I would die before I let that happen.” The man regained his composure.

“Look, I know you mean well, but can’t nobody fix me. I’ve been this fucked up for years.”

The Teacher’s voice was compassionate. “There is a door to your life, you can unlock it. On the other side is what you want.”

“What I want? And what do I want?” The man searched the Teacher’s face.

“This is the question that I wanted to ask you. What do you want? What do you want right now, in life?

The man shuffled his feet again. The Teacher said “Only you know the answer to that question.”

The man stared off in the distance for a moment. He offered a weak laugh which turned into tears. “Yeah...maybe I do... So what, are you gonna carry me through the door.”

“I cannot. It can only be unlocked from the inside, and you must...” the Teacher placed his hands on the man’s shoulders. “You must walk through it, none can carry you. You will replace what you want.”

“What I want? Damn, you know what I really want?” The man began to sob. “I want my life back! I want the nightmares to go away! I want the voices of my slaughtered comrades to stop screaming at me! I want to wash this stain from my hands, from my thoughts, I don’t want to hurt anymore, I don’t want to keep living with this way!” The man lowered his wet and sorrowed face. He was a broken man.

The Teacher’s compassion burned in his countenance. He wrapped his arms around the man and held him tight. The man buried his face against the teacher’s shoulder and cried. The Teacher cried with him.

Later that evening, reclining on a park bench with the Teacher in private conversation, the broken man opened the door to his life and stepped through it. The Teacher greeted him on the other side. That man, Crawford, joined the caravan the next morning as we departed from the city. He was sober, clean and clear of mind for the first time in months. The Teacher walked beside him for many miles.