Majestic and Magical Sedona

I turn left on the two-lane road leading to the town of Sedona.  The world outside transforms into something much different than the one I am accustomed to. 

Towering red-rock Mountains appear unexpectedly.  The striped hills are radically different from the ordinary-looking mesas overlooking the surrounding terrain.  For the first time, the advertisements promoting this area ring true.  I get the distinct impression there is something special here.  There is suddenly hope the three thousand mile plane ride and the hotel suite awaiting my wife and I will prove to be a wise investment after all.

Sedona is a spiritual spa for die-hard vacationers as well as world-weary travelers searching for a way to resurrect their lives from an assortment of disappointments and failures.  I am not here to seek advice from healers, psychic or life counselors.  I am here to discover the heart and soul of this city out of time without the help of a tour guide.

Sedona is amazingly clean.  There are no signs of litter in the streets or sidewalks, no unsightly garbage dumps to mar the town’s bright aura.  The buildings, homes and streets all look brand new.  Most of the architecture is a sort of southwest modern with earth tone colors alternating with pastels.  It seems as though a beautiful, uniquely designed church abides on every street corner.  No two homes look alike, yet no building seems out of place.  There is an underlying unity of design but not at the expense of individuality. 

The single-story adobe-style homes at street level and the larger mansions in the mountains have no bars on their yawning windows.  They all look expensive, probably worth hundreds of thousand dollars each upwards into the millions.  Incredibly, you don’t see gates in front of the winding driveways.  There are no traffic lights clogging the two-lane road running throughout the town.  Instead, they have what the locals call “round-a-bouts.”  Here, the visitor finds an honor system where vehicles yield to the one reaching the four-way intersection first.  Anyone who doesn’t obey the code is sure to be a tourist.

I spend most of my time here in art galleries and walking around slack jawed, agape at the rock formations, multi-colored mountains, and fiery sunsets.  I feel “buzzed” every waking moment.  Even shopping, which I normally hate, feels like an acid trip.  The town itself, I think, is one huge energy vortex.

Young people flock here as if drawn to the area by the magnetic power of the town’s famous energy vortexes.  Many of the transplants have fled small towns where they grew up throughout the west to taste big city life.  After living in places like Houston, Phoenix, and Santa Fe, they search for something else.  They find it in Sedona, where small city values couple with new vistas of financial and cultural opportunity. 

Everyone you meet here seems to be from somewhere else.  Heaven is likely to be quite similar, come to think of it.

The idea came to Becky Straw and Jody Landers, Co-Founders of the Adventure Project, from members of their organization, known affectionately as “The Tribe.”  One week before World Water Day (March 22^nd) blog writers proposed a challenge to raise $10,000 in one day by promoting The Adventure Project’s latest initiative: repairing broken water pump handles in northern India.  The anticipated results of the initiative are twofold.  By bringing wells that have fallen into disrepair back into use, 300 more people per month (3,600 per year) will have access to clean water.  In addition, the initiative will provide training and jobs to enable unemployed people to lift themselves out of poverty.

A Pump Mechanic Rides to Her Next Job

Becky thought the tribe members might be able to recruit 50 bloggers to promote the fundraising effort.  Jody, an eternal optimist, suggested 100 bloggers.  One week later, 137 bloggers had signed up to participate.  As the final seconds of World Water Day elapsed, the amount raised reached $11,390.  Donations are still rolling in, by the way.  All funds collected go to WaterAid, a charity that takes a unique approach to providing the poorest communities with potable water.

“It all came together like magic,” Becky reports.  She asked her friend and colleague, Nicole Skibola, to find a company that might be willing to provide matching funds to the promotion.  In her role as a “Social Innovation Strategist” with Apricot Consulting in New York City, Nicole works with corporations to create and execute effective programs for social change.  A former attorney, Nicole also serves as a “Social Enterprise Advisor,” for the Adventure Project.

Nicole e-mailed a list of her friends and business contacts in an effort to locate a matching funds sponsor.  Kathya Bustamante’s name happened to be on the list from a position she previously held with UBS.  Kathya, among other interests, now volunteers for TPRF as Manager of the Fundraising Team.  Kathya  recognized a common thread between both organizations:  “Clean Water” and “Dignity.”  She forwarded Nicole’s request to decision makers at TPRF.  Within twenty-four hours, TPRF committed to providing up to $10,000 in matching funds.  “Awesome,” Nicole commented in an e-mail to Becky and Kathya, “the fastest foundation response in history.”

Northern Indian Woman

One final footnote—Although TPRF agreed to provide up to $10,000 in matching funds, we surprised the girls by cutting a check for the full amount of the funds raised on World Water Day: $11,390.

“Your response was so amazing and so responsible,” Becky said about TPRF’s participation.

*Photos courtesy of Esther Havens for The Adventure Project

The Starbucks I now regularly inhabit is not your everyday Starbucks. Management recently retrofitted the place with long tables, benches actually, with stools and a strip of electrical outlets underneath to plug in battery cables.  Droves of people come here, not just to chat and caffeinate, but to do WORK! This includes college-students doing real, actual homework, not wasting time on Facebook.  Freelance, self- employed, and independent contractor types also hang out here.  These people, like myself, are hard at work, despite the distractions of noisy conversation and often-times idiotic, piped-in music.  I find this phenomenal and wonder,”Why do we come here?”  Many, if not all of us, are surely not homeless. 

I can only speak for myself.  I come here to overcome loneliness—to make some sort of connection.  And I’m happy to report that my new strategy is paying off.  I’m writing my novel on a regular basis, slowly but surely. 

Now that we may have some insight into the reason for the overwhelming success of the Starbucks chain, I would like to come to the point of this piece.  Many years ago, I began listening to Prem Rawat speak about an inner experience of peace and contentment.  At the time, I did not have to go to Starbucks to be around people.  I had a full time, good-paying job, a girlfriend, my parents and cousins to surround me.  Yet, something was missing.  

Mr. Rawat’s message of peace captivated me in a way nothing had previously.  I followed up on his promise to reveal a source of peace and contentment within myself.  I practiced the techniques of what he calls Knowledge, and, to make a long story short, I have not been in the least bit disappointed.  Well, perhaps that statement is not entirely true.  I had the idea shortly after receiving the techniques of Knowledge that I would not need anything else, including people.  To make another long story short, that idea turned out to be foolish and a bit funny, now that I look back on it. 

But there is a point here, somewhere.  Oh yes, here it is:  I need outer connections—with colleagues in my chosen profession, with friends and family, even Facebook connections. Thanks to the experience of Knowledge, I’ve learned that I need something else.  I need a connection with myself for my life to be complete.  I’m not going to put a name to what I’ll call “myself,” because I’ve learned that names are insufficient to describe it.  I will just say this:  I was looking for a missing piece of the puzzle of my life.  Prem Rawat helped me to find it.  Now, I feel my life is complete.  It is full, not stuffed with things on the outside, but from within.  And my connections on the outside are more fulfilling, because I am a more full and complete person, with more to offer to others.

To know what I am doing in life, I must first know myself.           

To cultivate wisdom, I must read the book of life in my heart. 

By cultivating harmony within, harmony will permeate every aspect of my life.

If I sincerely seek joy, peace, and love, these qualities will take root in my soul as surely as the sun rises every day.

Take my right knee, for example.  It’s falling apart.  The cartilage in the joint has moved out.  Arthritis has moved in.  The good news is that I’ve found a skilled surgeon who can repair my knee with an artificial joint.  Still, I must not allow this newfound hope to obscure the lesson available to me from this latest brush with nature. 

As I watch my body deteriorate, I must constantly remind myself that no matter how much I exercise, eat right, think positively, love my wife and daughter, and take care of my 88 year-old mother, I am not getting any younger.

The time to be happy is right now.

The thing is, I don’t want to settle for just a little happiness.  I want to be really happy.  I want to, believe it or not, live in joy.  It’s something I’ve put it off for long enough.

About twenty-five years ago, a friend introduced me to a teacher who helped me to find joy within myself. 

To be perfectly honest, I haven’t taken full advantage of the opportunity.  You might say I’ve been playing a game of hide and seek with my capacity to feel joy for most of my life.  

In a sense, I’ve made of habit of putting my happiness on hold by making other things in my life more important—like my desire to write ten best-selling novels, or to sell my latest screenplay to Miramax Studios, or to make a quarter-of-a-million dollars in real estate commissions in a single year.  It’s not that these pursuits are unworthy goals.  The problem is, I made them the number one priority in my life, rather than making peace and joy the number one priority. 

Don’t get me wrong.  I’ve experienced more than my share of joy, peace, and love in my life, thanks especially to the unique inner experience my teacher revealed to me.  It just could have been more consistent.  My teacher has taught me that happiness is an art.  I want to become an accomplished artist in the field of happiness.

I only hope this moment of clarity lasts.  From now on, I’m determined to harvest every last droplet of joy that comes my way…before my left knee gives out.

Visit: www.opg.org        Browse: www.tprf.org

Like most great discoveries, I found Jean Shepherd purely by accident.  Sunday nights after my 10:00 PM bed time presented a daunting challenge until Jean came along.  I wanted something to keep my weekend party swinging.  I was deathly afraid to close my eyes, because an instant later, the sun would be pinching my cheek.  It would be Monday morning, the beginning of another week of Junior High School. 

The situation was not unlike the premise of the Sci-Fi flick “Invasion of the Body Snatchers.”  If you saw the original 1950’s movie or the remake, you’ll know what I mean. I needed to push Monday morning as far from me as my sleep-deprived brain would permit. My pre-Jean Shepherd strategy involved rock and roll music played quietly on a radio underneath the covers, so my parents wouldn’t know I was up way past my bedtime.  One night, while switching from one rock and roll station to another, I found “Shep.”

The experts at the time might have called it “experimental radio.” Whatever it was, I had never heard anything as intoxicating as the smooth jazz of that voice, the one that put an arm around my shoulder and whispered, “C’mon pal, I got some cool places to take you to,” while actual Ragtime Jazz played in the background.  

When I first tripped over the threshold of this new world, the silky voice in the night was talking about cigarette coupons.  It told a story about two friends who “made the same dough,” yet one of them had a new TV, and a boat, and a Ford Mustang, and a vacation home in the country—all purchased with cigarette coupons.  It soon became clear to the guy who smoked the brand without coupons that he had missed out on a big opportunity.  Of course, Shep pointed out, the guy who smoked Wonkies was dying of cancer, but it didn’t matter, because he had been smart enough to get the boat, and the car and the vacation home—all for FREE!  He had enjoyed a lifetime of smoking Wonkies, and now his family could use the boat and the other goodies after he died. 

The background music swelled.  The voice kept talking. It swept me away. I lay there listening to the radio, staring at the speaker in the middle, my hand on the back panel making sure the big tubes inside were not over-heating.   I felt like a five-year-old kid attending the circus for the first time with his Dad.  The world outside was crazy as hell but I had it made in the shade, hypnotized by another one of Jean Shepherd’s stories. Monday morning had disappeared over the horizon—miles and miles and miles down the road.

Fast-forward two decades. I’m a young man in the working world, fortunate to have a good job and loving relationships to sustain me. Something, however, hasn’t changed. I still need a place to go away from the pressure to perform on the job and all of the other “Monday morning” aspects of life. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was looking for until I found it, courtesy of my teacher, Prem Rawat. It is a place of peace, harmony and contentment hidden deep within the recesses of my heart.  As I’ve learned, you can never truly escape Monday morning — not even Shep’s late night talks could keep it from coming. But I can access that refuge within me anytime, anywhere. And I’m very grateful to have found it. 

It’s something like tuning to the right channel on the radio.

Optimism

My optimistic attitude is based on the belief that at the very center of the universe in which we live there dwells a loving kindness that cares about our happiness and well being.

When I choose to believe and to feel this way, life becomes easier. 

Through the eyes of optimism, I see the world as a place full of endless possibilities to express myself positively.

The trouble is there is a voice in my head that tries to convince me otherwise.  I suspect I am not the only person who hears this derisive, discouraging voice.  The only difference between most of us in this regard, it seems to me, is how we deal with this voice.

I used to believe the discouraging voice in my head was a friendly voice.  I believed it was there to warn me not to try things I couldn’t or shouldn’t do.  It has taken a lot of growing through painful experience to learn the critical voice was not my friend most of the time.

On the surface, it would seem an easy task to learn the difference between healthy self restraint and the paralyzing fear engendered by an over abundance of self criticism.  Perhaps the messages a person hears as a child from parents and teachers makes a difference in the way they respond to their inner critic.  A strong self image provides a safe haven from the twin sirens of doubt and fear.   

I have found it helps to express your fears to a friend or to a mental health professional to get an objective view of your thoughts as they relate to accomplishing goals.  Most fears, when expressed out in the open, prove to be phantoms made of irrational thinking. The dream in your heart needs to be nurtured with positive, reinforcing thoughts in order for it to manifest into a concrete reality.  It takes a persistent, consistent effort to escape the prison of the jailing voice of discouragement.

Being optimistic is an act of loving yourself and your possibilities.  It is an act of flying above the clouds of doubt. 

Personal fulfillment and the joy of helping others flow from the fountainhead of optimism. 

An attitude of optimism leads to an active life of freedom.

Opportunities for growth and prosperity surround us constantly.  Smile. Open your heart and embrace these gifts as they come your way.  The loving force at the center of life beckons you to become your highest, happiest, and best self.

Visit: www.wopg.org

Blood trickled from the corners of Trevor Hartigan’s mouth.  His awareness flickered from the pain coursing through his broken fingertips to the oppressive heat in the room, to the crooked expression on the interrogator’s ugly face.

“If you lie to me again, you’ll beg me to kill you after what I do next,” the Confessor snarled, baring his nicotine-stained teeth.

Trevor’s spine ached from about a half-hour of confinement lashed to a straight-backed wooden chair.  The duct tape wrapped tightly around his upper body dug into his back and chafed the skin on his abdomen.  It seemed he had been sitting in this tiny dungeon for hours.  He cursed himself for whatever carelessness had landed him in this predicament.  He suspected it was the girl.  He had let down his guard in a moment of weakness.  Blanca had to be one of their spies.  He worshipped her, had asked for her hand in marriage, and she had betrayed him.

He focused on the gap between his tormentor’s chipped front teeth.  The gap reminded him of a missing board in a white picket fence.  He imagined crawling through the hole in the fence to freedom.

“Save your energy and kill me now,” Trevor said in a low voice. 

The pain in his body only served to sharpen his mind and resolve.  He carefully hid this fact with every word out of his mouth, every subtle gesture.  He had to convince the Confessor he was telling the truth.

“I’m a professional, Hartigan.  I’ve seen every trick in the book.”  The Confessor picked up a scalpel from a row of surgical knives glinting on a steel tray next to Trevor.  “You’ll tell me what I need to know or I’ll cut out your eye.   I want the names of your confederates.”

Beads of sweat ran from Trevor’s forehead.  He blinked reflexively to keep the moisture from stinging his eyes. 

“I’m a loyal citizen of the Conglomerate, Brother Confessor.  I’ve been falsely accused by inferior minds jealous of my position.”

“You are a traitor and a fool, Hartigan.  You enjoyed wealth and privilege as the Conglomerate’s Master Architect.  You had the opportunity to design buildings that would have lasted for centuries.  Your fame would have spread around the world.  You threw it all away when the girl convinced you to join the resistance.”

The Confessor ripped off his cowl.  His head began to transform into the head of a Praying Mantis.  Long, spindly legs sprouted underneath the Confessor’s navy blue robe.  The garment burst apart as the insect grew taller.  The roof of the room suddenly blasted skyward, as if it were the second stage of a rocket.

Trevor was so terrified his heart nearly stopped beating.  Blanca had told him the resistance knew very little about the aliens due to the group’s limited resources.  Trevor imagined no amount of training or preliminary briefing could have prepared him for what was happening before his bleary eyes.

The Confessor-turned-insect continued to grow past the height of the former ceiling.  Trevor stared upwards just as the giant creature’s claw reached down to pluck him out of the cell, chair and all.  He turned away, unable to look at the monster’s bulging eyes and chewing mandibles.  He felt certain the Mantis was preparing to eat him alive.

Looking down from the twenty-foot high vantage point in the giant insect’s grasp, Trevor saw a honeycomb of cells on the ground similar to the one he had occupied seconds ago.   On either side, a straight rock face soared hundreds of feet from a makeshift pine wood floor.  It was hard to make out more details in the bluish-gray light emanating from a source somewhere above them. 

Trevor figured the interrogation installation had been carved out of a massive cavern somewhere underneath the city.  A huge construction crane positioned in the middle of the complex plucked the triangle-shaped roof off another interrogation cell with its multi-story steel arm.  Another poor soul was about to be scared further out of his or her wits, it appeared. 

Trevor thought of Blanca again.  It was impossible to keep her out of his mind for more than a few minutes since the time he had met her.  How could she have done this to him?

“The girl isn’t a double-agent, as you suspect,” the giant Mantis said.  She will be arrested soon after she leads us to more members of the resistance.

How could the creature know he was thinking of Blanca?

“To answer your question, I can read a human mind when I get in the same room as one.  Your thoughts during our session have revealed most of the useful information you have to offer.  This final stage of the interrogation process makes any remaining secrets as easy to suck up as fresh meat off a dry bone.”

All of the nerve-endings in Trevor’s body went numb.  “I’m glad Blanca showed me I was working for a race of alien monsters instead of what I thought was a multi-national energy corporation.”

“You are the monster,” the Mantis said.  “The Conglomerate will soon be well established in every country of this world as more of us arrive.  In ten years, it will no longer be necessary for us to transform into human form.  The human race will cease to exist.”

Trevor heard his bones cracking as the creature’s claw closed around him.

He screamed.

“Shut up.”  The harsh voice came from far away.

Trevor’s eyes opened.  The first thing he saw was the gray ceiling of his solitary jail cell.  He rolled off the bunk bed and sank to his knees on the cold concrete floor.  The smell of disinfectant and urine filled his nostrils.  He moaned. 

“Shut up, goddammit.”  The guard appeared on the other side of the bars dressed in a gray shirt and olive pants.  His right hand rested on the .38 revolver strapped to his waist.

All of the colors in this hellhole are drab, Trevor thought.  It seemed like a lifetime had passed since he had taken to wearing bright colors shortly after meeting Blanca.  After a year of dating, they had decided to marry.  He had never been happier in his entire life. 

 “Quiet down and go back to sleep,” the guard said.  “You make any more noise an’ I’ll call the shrink back in here to shoot you up with sedatives.   You’re gonna’ learn to settle down and do your time quietly, if it takes a fist in the teeth to teach you how.  You got that?”

“Yeah,” Trevor croaked.

The guard stepped away.   His boots made a hollow echo down the concrete and steel corridor.

They had placed him on suicide watch.  He had tried to hang himself with a belt.  They stripped his cell of anything he might use to end his life.  Padding protected the walls of his eight by ten foot cell.  He had no such protection against the recurring nightmares and the memory of the accident.  That night replayed in his mind like an endlessly looping horror film.

They had gone out with some friends to celebrate the latest job offer.  He remembered Blanca pushing back her silky red hair and laughing gaily all night long.  They drank and ate at the South Beach bar and restaurant until two o’clock in the morning.  The hours swept by and the drinks went down without Trevor taking much notice.  When the time to leave arrived, Trevor was too embarrassed to admit he was higher than a kite.

At first, Trevor thought an animal crossing the road had hit the front tire when he heard the thunk on Blanca’s side of the car.  Blanca turned to him, wild-eyed.  He had never seen the pedestrian jaywalking across the deserted street.  Trevor had been speeding through the residential neighborhood to make it home in time to get a few hours of sleep before his nine A.M. job interview.  He never made it to the interview.

The victim was a man in his early thirties, the father of three children.  His wife was waiting for him across the street at the front door of their home when the accident occurred.  She told the police exactly what happened.  The man died from a brain hemorrhage on the way to the hospital.

He had dreamed about a career in architecture from boyhood.  After completing Architecture School with honors, he had received job offers from the top firms in Miami.  He looked forward to bringing beautiful buildings and bright, creative children into the world with the passion he felt for his work and his soul mate, Blanca. 

Now, all he had to look forward to was a fifteen-year prison sentence.   After the accident, Blanca wanted no part of him.  His future as an Architect looked dim at best.  What firm worth its salt would hire an inexperienced, middle-aged man with a felony record?

One careless act.  One night of celebration.  A single, poor decision.  The lives of six people tragically altered forever.  If he had the chance, Trevor would gladly change places with the man he had accidentally killed.  But now, it was too late for remorse.

The early morning sun glinted off the pond and the side view mirror of my grandfather’s 1953 Plymouth sedan.  The reflected light was so bright I had to squint to see.  My stomach rumbled.  I thought of the roll beef my mother had packed for lunch.  The roll beef and Kaiser roll sandwiches wrapped in wax paper sat in a brown paper bag next to my grandfather.  We had found one of the only shady places to sit in this tiny corner of the Essex County Reservation.  We had the pond all to ourselves.

“You said we would have a better chance of catching fish if we got here early.  I think you were right, Pop-Pop.”  I always called my grandfather Pop-Pop when I wasn’t calling him Zeda.

“The water is cool near the surface in the early morning,” Pop-Pop said.  “Fish like cool water.  They go deeper in the pond as the sun rises and the water near the surface gets warmer.”

“I hope we catch a lot of fish,” I said.

“A good fisherman is always patient, tateleh.  It is important to remain patient in any situation and twice as important when you are waiting for a fish to bite.”

I wasn’t used to sitting still for very long.  It was almost magical, however, how calm I could be when spending time with my Zeda.  I found everything that came out of his mouth interesting.  I loved the way he played the role of different characters in the stories he told.  He could do anything he put his mind to.  Right at the moment, he was fishing with one hand, reading from a small book in the other, and talking to me.

Something big crashed into the mirror of the pond’s surface.

“Pop-Pop.  I think a meteorite just fell.  We learned about them in school yesterday.  The big meteor comes into the atmosphere and breaks up.  Then smaller pieces fall out of the sky.”

“It’s not a meteorite, bubaleh.  The fish are happy.  They freulich in the water and jump out when the spirit moves them.”

“Wow,” I said.

There was a second splash about a hundred yards away.  “There goes another one.  I’ll bet they all start jumping now.”

“They aren’t going to make it that easy for us to catch them,” Pop-Pop said.  “Fish have more brains in their Kuphs than the average person gives them credit for.”

“If fish were stupid, it wouldn’t be fun to try and catch them, right Zeda?”

“Correct,” my boy.

“Could we go fishing every day before school and on the weekends too?”

“Well, we could go on any day during the week, but not on Saturday.  Saturday is for the mitzvah of observing Shabbas—something your parents seem to have forgotten, ankeleh.”

And so it went, back and forth between us the rest of the morning, until it was time to eat our delicious roll beef sandwiches.  We didn’t catch any fish that day.   I can’t say I was disappointed.

Darren glanced upward, shielding his eyes from the blazing sun.  Nikki, lying on the pink towel next to him, rose on both elbows.  She screamed.

More birds pelted the beach.  A few hundred yards to the south, it was raining seagulls.  “It’s coming this way,” he told the hazel-eyed beauty. 

“Head for the water.  It’s the only safe place,” he shouted. 

They raced towards the incoming tide, extending their long, lean bodies over the surf.  The couple pummeled the aqua water with furious crawl strokes, side by side.  When they were far enough from shore, Darren pulled up, treading water.  Nikki’s head broke water just as a wave rolled over her.  She came up coughing and spitting water.  Darren reached out.  She flattened her curvaceous body against his hard torso, encircling his neck with long, slender arms.

Thunder rumbled.  The waves grew higher.  Darren watched in disbelief as the storm of falling seagulls engulfed the Canyon Ranch Spa and Hotel.

“The ‘Millennium Predictions’ are coming true,” Nikki gasped.

The seagull storm swallowed up the hotel.  The bird-cloud mushroomed towards the sleek concrete and steel skyscraper to the north.   The sky darkened.  A  squall rippled towards them from the macabre scene unfolding on the shore.

Darren held her tightly.  “I’ll always love you, even if the world ends.”

Nikki pushed away from him with a wild-eyed expression.

“Cut,” the Director yelled from the filming platform six feet behind them.

The computer-generated effects Darren had spent hours studying the night before dissolved on the screen of his imagination.  The newly built Canyon Ranch Hotel gleamed in the South Florida sun, perfectly safe as a dreamer waking from a nightmare in a comfortable bed.

He had been lost in the moment.  He had made it all real.  Instinct and a script two revisions old had taken over.

Darren smacked his head with an open hand.  “Sorry.”

“You’re supposed to say, ‘I thought we could change the future,” the pot-bellied, bearded Director said.  He pulled off his black sunglasses and glared at Darren.  A gust of wind rustled his mane of graying hair.  “Let’s take it from Nikki’s last line, then we’ll break for lunch.”

“Soften your expression,” Nikki told him.  “You look too serious.”

One of the benefits of working with your real-life girlfriend was honest feedback.

They sat at a table for two in the crowded Spa restaurant, next to a picture window overlooking the beach.  Darren munched on an under-sized grain burger with sprouts and raw carrots on the side—no dressing.  Nikki played with a small bowl of whole-wheat spaghetti topped with a hint of marinara sauce—hold the parmesan cheese.

Darren reveled in the few moments of leisurely time they shared before the long night of shooting ahead of them.  Two days of bad weather had thrown production behind schedule.  The production crew had to squeeze six days of shooting into three.  The Director expected actors and crew to stay fresh and energetic, despite the hectic schedule.

Nikki had piled her long red hair in a bun atop her head.  She wore no makeup, only a thin layer of moisture cream for protection.  Darren had met countless beautiful women in his acting career.  Nikki was different from all of them.  She wasn’t self-absorbed, and she wasn’t petty, as most of the women he knew tended to be.  She read voluminously between acting roles, and was a fine painter.  She could be intellectual and sophisticated or simple and playful as a happy child, depending on her mood. 

She had stolen his heart shortly after they met at a wedding party eight months ago.  There was only one problem.  It haunted Darren day and night.

“There’s something we have to talk about, Darren darling.  It’s been on my mind for the past few weeks.”

He felt an ache in his heart.  He knew the issue had to come up eventually. 

“Not now, Princess.”

“It makes me feel like your daughter when you call me that.”

“I can’t help it.  I believe you’ve come to me from some enchanted land, or sprung up whole from a ponderous book of fairy tales.”

She stopped smiling.

“What’s wrong?” he said.

She appeared to be grappling with what to say next.

“Let’s agree to hold off all serious discussions until the film wraps,” he said.  “Until then, we should endeavor only to amuse one another in the few private moments the stingy Director allows us.  Now, stop nibbling at your food.  Eat up.  You need your strength.”

“You eat your grain burger.

“It has no taste.”

“Use your imagination,” she said.

Darren took a bite.  “Mmmm.  He picked up the remaining piece of grain burger and admired it as if it were the Hope Diamond.  “Remind me to ask the chef how they make it taste like dried corn stalk compost.”

He watched her turn and gaze out the window.  The surf was up, reaching with long fingers, almost up to the concrete foundation of the hotel.  The sun had disappeared behind late afternoon clouds.  He noticed her mood remained somber. 

“If you insist on being serious, you might as well tell me what’s on your mind.”   He felt the ache in his chest again.

She sighed deeply.  “These past eight months have been much more than I ever expected, my love.”

“There’s no reason to believe the next eight months won’t be even better,” he said in his best imitation of a well-known motivational speaker.

He had imagined this painful moment too many times.  “I’m concerned about the age difference,” she would say.  “What will happen when we get older?”  No matter what he said in response, her words would mark the beginning-of-the-end their relationship.

“I fell in love with your humor before I fell in love with you,” she said, instead of the dreaded words he had anticipated hearing.

“And you’ve been dying to confess this to me but you didn’t know how,” he improvised.

“Don’t make this into another game.”   Nikki kept staring at him with a horribly solemn expression. 

“I’m not from this world,” she said.

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t hear you correctly.  The acoustics in here are awful.”

“Please try to believe what I’m about to tell you.” 

“It’s perfect, sweetheart.  Who offered you the role?”

“I’m not trying out a character, Darren.”

“Can’t we just be ourselves with the little time—“

“—I am being myself.  Listen to me.”

He stared into the depths of her searching eyes.  Nikki lowered her voice.  “There are about a million of us scattered in every country of your world.”

Chills ran through his body.  “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the events depicted in ‘The Millennium Predictions.’  I’m talking about a decision you have to make.”

“You’re telling me they changed the script again and didn’t tell me.  They’ve cut down my role.  That bastard who calls himself a Director doesn’t like me.  That’s it.  Isn’t it?

She stared back at him, perfectly still.  “I’m not talking about the movie.”

“You can’t be an alien.  I’ve kissed every inch of your body.  Every part of you is perfectly, beautifully human.”

 “Calm down.  We’re attracting attention.”  She placed a hand over his.  “We have the same origin.  Our ancestors seeded the galaxy with our kind millions of years ago.  It was a grand experiment to observe how civilizations develop in different environments.  The endeavor was also intended to insure the preservation of our genome.”

He sat there in stunned silence.

“We thought we could blend in and help your civilization grow in a more constructive direction—until recently.  We’ve determined your problems are too severe.  It’s too late for our help.  Your civilization is a failed experiment.  Our work here is finished.”

“But—“

“—Hear me out, Darren.  Some of us, like me, have formed strong relationships while we’ve been here.  We’re allowed to take one person back with us.”  She held his hand tighter.  “I want you to come with me when I leave.”

“Nikki, please, this isn’t funny.  You must stop it now.”

“I’m not joking.  I understand how overwhelming this must be for you.  I’m asking you to be strong.”

“You’re asking me to give up everything and pop off into space with you somewhere.  Why can’t you stay here with me?”

“Your civilization will most likely destroy itself,” Nikki said.

“How can you make a statement like that and sound so sure of yourself?”

“To put it in simple terms, we can chart the future of a civilizations based on socio-economic, environmental, birth rates, art, scientific measurements and other factors.  Our predictive model comes from thousands of civilizations we have studied.”

Darren strained to wrap his mind around what she was telling him.

“What if you get tired of me?”  The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.  His composure was melting like a sandcastle at high tide.

“Don’t be insecure,” she said.

“I’m twenty years older than you.”

“It never occurred to me.  The average life span of my people is two hundred years.  A twenty-five year difference in couples is quite common.”

“But I’m not going to live that long.”

“You will once you begin taking the bio-agents we’ve developed to stay young. You’re at the height of your powers, Darren.  I’m offering you the chance to stay that way for at least another five decades.”

“It sounds too good to be true.  For all I know, you’ll put me in a cage five minutes after boarding your ship.”

“Darling,” she said with a gleam in her eye, “we’re vegetarians, not meat eaters.”

He smiled, despite the feeling of utter uncertainty.  “Do you think we can last a hundred a fifty years together?”

“Wouldn’t you love to try,” she said, deftly lowering one eyelid.

He leaned close to her.  “Do they need actors on your planet?”

“Yes, my darling.  You’ll have time for at least five different careers in the dramatic arts if you get bored.”

“Look at me, sitting here thinking only of myself while you’re telling me the end of the world is at hand.” 

“There’s nothing you can do about it.”

“Can’t your people warn us in some way?”

“The warning signs are everywhere.  Only a handful of people heed them.”

“There has to be a solution.”

“There is, darling Darren.  Come with me.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

It’s not that complicated, my love.  You have no children.  Your parents are gone.  And you’re an only child.”

“I’ve taken a lot of chances in my life.  But this…I need time to think.”

“I understand completely,” she said.  “We’ll talk again after the film wraps.   In the meantime, don’t say a word about this to anyone. It could jeopardize my safety.”

“That’s the last thing I’d ever do.”

She looked at him with an intensity he had never seen before.  “We can do this, darling.  I know we can if you give it a chance.  You’re the perfect man for me.” 

He squeezed her hand, kissed her, and walked out of the restaurant on unsteady legs.

The woman known to Darren as Nikki turned to watch the sunset through the picture window.  The orange sun plunged into the ocean surrounded by a bevy of pastel pink clouds.   

Darren was perfect, she thought—bright, handsome, hardy, talented and most importantly, virile.  His sperm count ran off the charts.  She had tested it herself with a kit hidden in her dressing trailer.  It was a miracle the man hadn’t accumulated a brood of children inside or outside of marriage.  She guessed it was due to his exemplary character.  He didn’t believe in having children if he wasn’t going to be there for them as a proper parent. 

It was ironic that Darren was destined to father thousands of children though he didn’t know it yet.  He was going to be on the star ship with her one way or another.  Preferably, Darren would decide he couldn’t live without her and leave voluntarily.  That way, she could break the news to him gradually during the journey to his new home.  He would have time to adjust to the idea of becoming an alpha breeding male for her dying race. 

She regretted lying about the nature of her mission and the prospect of her lover living another hundred and fifty years.  Even with the bio-agents, the strain of steady breeding would shorten Darren’s life span considerably.  But there were much worse fates in the universe than sleeping with gorgeous women like herself who possessed brilliant minds and a multitude of fascinating professional abilities. 

The new job came with an array of attractive benefits.  Aside from his conjugal duties, Darren’s schedule would include a healthy chunk of time in a classroom to avoid his becoming a conversational bore.  Good conversation before mating improved the conception rate dramatically. 

To avoid psychological problems, Darren would continue his career in the dramatic arts on her planet as she had promised, under careful supervision of course.  She might even be his “girlfriend” for a while to make the transition smoother. Yes, Darren would adjust and eventually thrive in his new role.  His qualities of optimism and flexibility almost guaranteed it. 

The more she thought about it, the more good ideas came to her for selling the new role to Darren.   When you sat back and added it all up, she believed he was a lucky man.  This was especially true, considering his slim chances of survival on the sordid, troubled world he would soon be leaving behind.