Embedded. Marc Knutson

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СКАЧАТЬ to my room, I found the stairs to be a bit more of a challenge. Just as I placed my left foot on the fourteenth floor landing and began my natural left turn toward my room, I saw a figure darting away from the door to my room and quickly bolted down the hallway towards the other staircase.

      I tried to pursue him, or it, but it was too fast, and I was too full. My door appeared to be secure. No sign of a break in. I slowly unlocked and opened it. A slight creak that could be heard from Jerusalem to Rome, pierced my ears—well, there goes the element of surprise! An initially quick glance around the semi-darkened room revealed no present intruder. Working my way to the drapes, I was able to retract them in a quick fashion spilling light into the darkness, but I was thankfully alone.

      The door had closed by itself as I wandered over to the closet to get my bags when there was a knock at the door. “Not again.” I murmured aloud. “Who is it?” Like I really expected to get an answer.

      There was another, more forceful pounding. I sidled up to the hinge side of the door again and called out, “What do you want?” I barked.

      “I am looking for Steve Stanton.” By his strong accent, I knew he was a local, but I couldn’t imagine what he could want.

      “It depends. What do you want?” I hoped I was convincing him that I was a rough, tough guy even though I wasn’t convincing myself.

      “You have forgotten something at the breakfast table; I have brought it here for you.”

      I quickly scanned the room trying to imagine what I could have forgotten. “What is it that I forgot?” I asked.

      “An envelope with a letter in it,” Was his reply. I didn’t remember taking any letter with me. He continued, “Sorry, I should tell you that it hasn’t officially been handed to you yet, in case you were wondering.”

      I was wondering.

      “Okay, give me a second.” With that, I slowly opened the door to see a huge, middle-eastern man standing in the hallway, wearing what I would say was the cleanest and the whitest garment in all of Judea. His hair was neatly trimmed, as was his beard, but his face was deadpan serious. “Mr. Steve Stanton?” He asked.

      “Yes, I am Steve Stanton,” I replied with words that were dripping with curiosity.

      Pulling his right hand from behind his back, it revealed that he indeed had an envelope. I saw no markings at all on the outside of the envelope and questioned, “Are you sure that is for me?” I asked, but not receiving it in my hands.

      “Yes,” he said and dropped the envelope in my hand. Immediately he said, “You’ve been served,” turned and walked away.

      “What is this, a summons, or a subpoena,” I jokingly asked as he briskly strolled down the hall. Just as he started down the steps, he gave me a quick glance, shook his head and disappeared. I was in the same position I was when he handed it to me.

      “Herod has had enough of me now, so he’s suing me huh?” I yelled down the hall, tossing in a sarcastic chuckle for effect. Turning toward my room again, I began to open the letter.

      Well, it was indeed an official document, but it wasn’t from King Herod. It was a court document, too, but it was announcing my marriage dissolution with Susan.

      I knew that she had been unhappy for some time now, but I thought we had been getting through so much of it together. I read down further, hmm, states that her grounds are for “Irreconcilable Differences,” and that the defendant was not financially providing adequately, or to a level that she was accustomed to. The rest of the terms were perfunctory. The judge even noted that “since the respondent did not notify the court within the allotted timeframe, it is hereby considered dissolution without contest, and is herewith granted.” With an added twist of my wrist, I tossed the envelope and petition onto the bed, walked to the window. As I looked outside, I chuckled aloud in an incredulous, half-question, half-statement tone, “I’m divorced now?”

      I spent the next few minutes shaking my head and staring at the splendor and glory of Jerusalem without really seeing it at all. My head was spinning through a cavalcade of memories. So many special moments with Susan and now there will be no more.

      2

      Sandstorm! There is perhaps nothing worse, or more excruciatingly annoying, than having road dirt and gritty particles collecting on your teeth. Nevertheless, such was the windy way as I left the city limits of southern Jerusalem, heading for Bethlehem. The road was littered with cracked pebbles and dry, dusty well-trodden Israeli soil. The rains had withheld themselves from the Middle East for many months, and the whipping dust made us pay for the lack of water. All I could think of was my morning shower, like, why did I even take one? The sweat line along my forehead was forming dust cakes, and my parched mouth regretted that I hadn’t finished all of my orange juice at breakfast. I couldn’t seem to form enough spittle to eliminate the mud clods that were forming in my throat. Breathing through my nose had almost become impossible as the passages were filling and closing shut, and the measly rag I had hastily tossed around my face didn’t seem to offer the filtering that I had expected of it. The sun was high overhead beating down on the road and its travelers. Inwardly I scolded myself for not getting on the road sooner, or even simply waiting for later in the day when the sun was lower in the west. Nevertheless, I was miserable, and just wanted to get to a Bethlehem hotel, re-shower and start my day over again.

      The never-ending cavalcade of sand grit was conspiring to blast off the outer layer of my forehead, and with the wind howling past my ears, I hardly looked up as I walked. But in all that external violence swirling around me, I could sense that a fellow journeyman was nearing me from behind. Westerners are always told to be on alert when alone in the Middle East. Moreover, weather conditions didn’t alter the danger or the warning. If someone was coming up on me, I had better be on guard, despite the conditions.

      “Are you going to Bethlehem?” came the voice from the nearing stranger, speaking at a volume level just slightly louder than the surrounding howl of the wind.

      I pretended that I hadn’t heard him, and kept my head down, looking forward, and clutched my laptop. I was not going to allow my computer to get stolen by some highway hooligan. I thought that I had left Jerusalem by myself. I hadn’t noticed anyone else on the road with me at all. Then again with all the swirling dust that suddenly found itself airborne, anyone could have entered the road undetected. I felt that I had carefully paced myself from other fools like me trying to get to Bethlehem in a windstorm. Yet somehow this man has caught up to me.

      “Say,” came the voice again, it had grown louder, indicating that he was coming up on my left side. I threw a slight glance over my shoulder, being careful not to turn my face and its covering totally sideways to the cross-cutting wind, so that it wouldn’t catch an edge and rip the wrap off my head.

      “Are you headed for Bethlehem?” he repeated. Now he was along my left flank, and looking directly at my face. He didn’t seem to be bothered by the blinding sand. I found it interesting that he didn’t even have a wrap around his face, as was called for by the conditions. Amazingly, the wind had diminished to a slight breeze and afforded us an opportunity to speak without having to yell.

      “Yes,” I responded in a hesitant tone. Being on my guard, I didn’t feel comfortable enough to greet him with a pleasant “good-day” СКАЧАТЬ