Mogil 1

To: Professor Mark Wallace

Professor Yuan Yuan

Professor Dawn Formo

From: Blaine H. Mogil

Date: April 25, 2014

Rip Van Winkle in the Twenty-first Century

Part I

The year was 2013, and it was on the dark evening of the sixth day of November. I was driving with the windows down—the cool night air washing over my face—and after a year of reading, researching and writing, I had an epiphany. The creative story that follows had finally been fully drafted the week before, and now it struck me—the story written unwittingly draws heavily from issues that have troubled me about American politics, American history, and the vanishing freedoms and personal liberties here in the United States. The story that follows is not my story, but one that traces its origins back to my awakening from a political and intellectual slumber on September 11, 2001.

I was born in a dominantly white, middle class neighborhood into a highly conservative

Republican family in which acceptance of the status quo was not only a norm, but an aspirational ideal seen as an essential milestone in achieving the American Dream. Thinking wasn’t discouraged, but thinking progressively, thinking creatively, thinking counter to any accepted Mogil 2 norm was radical and was to be avoided at all costs or else the communist dominoes would be unleashed, toppling the American way of life and unraveling the very fabric of American culture.

It was in this state of inculcation as a privileged white, middle-class American male that

I remained passively for my first forty-three years. Along the way I picked up one true friend, ironically a subversive, left wing, progressive liberal with whom I argued relentlessly and often.

It was the foundation of our friendship—we could argue and still and be great friends. My best friend Mike tried to convert me with his ideas about social justice, equality of opportunity and the importance of unions in protecting the welfare of the working class from the greedy, profit minded capitalists. And while my heart knew his radical ideologies were driven by a progressive desire to improve the greater good of the nation, my will had been forged in the fires of the Cold

War. I had been indoctrinated as a staunch defender of the status quo.

My defense of the status quo began to melt away when I got an unexpected call from my sister-in-law, early on the morning of September 11, 2001. While the news she shared about a plane crashing into the World Trade Center struck me as unbelievable, it was also too creatively far-fetched for her to fabricate. By the time I got to the office half an hour later and confirmed the horrific news, I called my wife to share the what I had learned, and voice my fear that we (the

United States) would be going to war, and how a potential military action might possibly be against a country or organization who had nothing to do with the attack. As to whom the administration would make the scapegoat for the attack, I could not guess. I feared how those in the administration would spin this heinous attack, who they would blame, and how they would go after them guns a-blazing. Perhaps I was stereotyping President Bush and his administration. I was still a staunch Republican. However, President Bush’s political approach to conflict resolution reminded me of old Wild West movies when the new sheriff and his posse arrive in Mogil 3 town with loaded guns and itchy trigger fingers. Further, his impatient unwillingness to wait for a diligent investigation into the events on September 11, 2001, along with his reckless approach to consider any larger issues that led to the attacks, caused me to reconsider my allegiance to the party. My belief that the United States was about to become embroiled in an unjust war was, sadly, the most prescient moment in my life.

President Bush made a quick move to war, without waiting for formal congressional approval. His divide and conquer approach to winning support for his war against Iraq, a once staunch American ally in the Middle East, was elucidated clearly in his post-9/11 speech on

November 6, 2001, in which he announced, “You’re either with us or against us.” This message carried a warning to not only our enemies, but to our allies, to the legislative branch of the

United States government and to the American people. This statement signaled to all, a forthcoming, overreaching increase in government power which would soon be granted by the

Patriot Act, which decisively and negatively impacted First Amendment rights by tearing down privacy laws, impeding free speech and casting aside habeas corpus.

I was now driven to go beyond the news to find answers as to what caused the perpetrators to strike against us, as well as what motivated our leaders to invade and bomb Iraq. I ended up reading dozens of books on the attacks from various expert sources. I also headed back to school, knowing that I needed to improve my intellectual knowledgebase, and expand my available research tools and critical thinking skills to better understand the sometimes senseless world in which we all live.

I had no idea where to focus my studies. My Mira Costa College English 200 professor shone a light on both my academic and career paths with a comment on my final essay. This essay was a short treatise on the United States Empire titled “Divided We Stand, United We Mogil 4

Fall.” The professor gave me the highest possible score for the essay and added the comment, “I can’t wait to read your published work.” That was the moment I knew that writing would be central to my future career. After transferring to California State University, San Marcos, as a literature and writing major, several faculty members encouraged me to pursue teaching in the field, much as my wife had been doing for some time.

I had my confidence sufficiently bolstered in the master’s program to pursue teaching in the field of rhetoric and composition. It is this potential future as a teacher that has become one of the central foci for this thesis. Although I have travelled many roads in order to find my way to a thesis that best reflects my passions, and speaks to the future I envision for myself, my inspiration was found in our shared national past. The inspiration that sparked this thesis arose from a re-reading of Washington Irving’s classic American tale of “Rip Van Winkle.” I sought to re-imagine Rip Van Winkle’s odyssey in the modern era in order to share my concerns about history and politics, and bring these concerns to light in a college composition classroom. The idea of using the original tale, and the following fictional journey of Rip’s grandson, to teach composition students inspired new thoughts on pedagogical approaches to teaching in the twenty-first century college composition classroom. I imagined these, or similar texts, as one component in building a cooperative learning community, one that can blur traditional disciplinary boundaries. By simultaneously teaching a shared text in multiple courses such as history, philosophy, sociology, political science or more, there is a potential to improve the learning experience for students and better prepare them for careers in the highly competitive twenty-first century global economy.

I read Washington Irving’s tale of “Rip Van Winkle” again, for the first time since

President Nixon was sworn into office. The story was suggested to me by one of my professors. Mogil 5

It was a great lead. I took a quick read, and in only a day I found many of the themes I wanted to explore in this thesis, particularly those of a political and a historical nature. I found the story itself was rich in thematic threads, character development, and a blend of history and fantasy

(which is what I feel politicians and historians have too often done). The wealth of thematic threads caused me to pause and consider the potential for incorporating the tale into a cross- disciplinary learning environment. I found that the story moved quickly (good for the modern student’s short attention span), and it was enchanting (good for engaging students). It was from this fresh reading that I knew my thesis would, somehow, revolve around the classic Washington

Irving tale.

My recent reading of “Rip Van Winkle” was in preparation for a new career as a college rhetoric and composition instructor. With my now greater breadth of life experience and the depth of knowledge gained from my scholastic work in the field of literature, the story appeared very little like the child’s tale I recalled through the foggy lens of nostalgia. While considering the story through various critical lenses, there came to light a broad range of thematic threads within the densely packed tale, including threads of politics, history, meta-history, capitalist economics, folklore, myth, sociology, epistemology and more.

Bridge to the Creative

I was struck by the manner in which Washington Irving created such a rich story, with so many varied thematic threads, which provides the reader with myriad ways to examine the text. I wondered what Washington Irving would have written had he lived in our era. Yet, no matter how much research I did on the man, on his work, on his politics, or on his career, I knew that Mogil 6 imagining how he would view modern America would prove fruitless. Though I could not imagine what stories he would write, based upon those themes he incorporated into the tale of

“Rip Van Winkle,” I did have a reasonable idea as to what themes might concern him today and what issues he might focus on in the twenty-first century.

Would it be possible for me to imitate his work with enough distance to avoid plagiarizing? Would it be possible to borrow from Irving’s tale of “Rip Van Winkle,” as he had borrowed from the German folk tale of “Peter Klaus?” Irving’s tale was written so close to the progenitive story that some of his contemporary critics “very noisily accused (Irving) of plagiarism” (Young 609). Daniel L. Plung states that “critics should have been studying Irving's emendations to the Peter Klaus legend,” (68) and when they “recognize he was not plagiarizing, but was building upon a solid foundation, then they can begin to understand what gives "Rip Van

Winkle" its truly autochthonous character” (Plung 68). In the story that follows, there should be close and evident connections to Irving’s story, yet a sufficient distance of originality.

Neither in the story nor in the book of stories, does Washington Irving make any claims himself to the historical authenticity of the “Rip Van Winkle” tale. Instead he uses an alter ego by the name of Geoffrey Crayon to tell a series of tales or “sketches” including “Rip Van

Winkle” and “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” in the anthology titled The Sketch Book of

Geoffery Crayon, Gent. Irving uses the Crayon character to establish a foundational claim to the veracity of the tales included here, and he testifies thusly to the veracity and authenticity of “Rip

Van Winkle.” Irving adds another layer to substantiate the historical accuracy by basing such claims on the work of Irving’s fictional historian Diedrich Knickerbocker, of whom Crayon testifies to Knickerbocker’s unimpeachable methodology and reliance on first hand interviews, Mogil 7 for Knickerbocker “found the old burghers, and still more their wives, rich in legendary lore so invaluable to true history” (Irving 43).

Irving’s character and alter ego Geoffrey Crayon goes further to establish the credibility of the “Rip Van Winkle” story by referring to Diedrich Knickerbocker’s earlier work A Dutch

History of New York, which was “little questioned on its first appearance, but has since been completely established, and it is now admitted to all historical collections as a book of unquestionable authority” (Irving 43).

Could I faithfully render a modern tale that spoke to similar concerns as those that concerned Washington Irving, particularly those of the unreliability of history? After all, the issues he addressed in the story of “Rip Van Winkle” were many of those issues with which I am concerned today: politics, liberty, epistemology, and engaging readers—and challenging them to think.

At a La Jolla Writer’s Workshop some years back, I had a private reading of the beginning work on my first novel with a renowned and widely published author. He suggested that I consider the Mary Poppins “spoon full of sugar” approach to writing. He told me no one wants to ingest the dry, boring details of all that is wrong in the world today, it’s too depressing.

He suggested that if I want to make a change in the world by inspiring readers, then do it through literature. Plant seeds. Let the reader consume the story joyfully, yet let the message be subliminal, let the ideas be sublime. These are not the exact words or ideas presented to me, but they are the concepts I took away from the conversation.

This manner of thematically rich and inspirational writing, and the manner of writing I wish to undertake here, is one that encourages the reader to think about the meaning and the Mogil 8 implications of what they have read. If successful, the story will stay with the reader, and affect the way they think about the world around them.

As a writer, I am less concerned about what readers think, only that they do think, critically. The story that follows is a piece of literature that I would like to incorporate into my classroom to these ends. With my modern writing of a continuation of the “Rip Van Winkle” story, this is precisely what I wish to accomplish. I want the reader to engage. I want the reader to wonder. I want the reader to think. I want the reader to see connections. I want the reader to begin to feel that they too, are connected to the story, simply because they read it—it has become part of their life experience, and hopefully it will inspire them.

For me, Washington Irving and the story of “Rip Van Winkle,” have become a significant part of my life experience. The man and his tale have inspired me to think, to write, to go further in my work, and to pass this all on to my readers. But, what approach should I take if I so boldly look to build on the “Rip Van Winkle” tradition?

One salient point I want to incorporate into my thesis is Irving’s multilayered approach to storytelling. The connections between the author and the narrator affect one another. Together they can connect to the reader, effecting how the reader will come to interpret a story and its sundry themes and elements.

My story, as so many stories do, had to begin with a protagonist. So who could I recruit to volunteer for the job as protagonist? As it turns out, the volunteer was in the original tale, and he was too young to say no to the request. In the original story, Rip Van Winkle returns to town, sees his son, and meets his daughter with her newborn son, Rip’s grandson. How could a newborn refuse such a starring role? And how could a mother say no to such an opportunity for Mogil 9 her child to become a star? And so, I have cast this child as the protagonist in the role of Rip Van

Winkle, III, or Trip Van Winkle.

I moved forward with imagining Trip’s timeline. I would have him follow in his grandfather’s footsteps. Based loosely on the original story, as Rip wakes up after the end of the

American Revolutionary War, this places Trip as a baby in the late 1770’s. I decided that Trip should sleep a little longer than his grandfather. Trip begins his journey by sleeping through the entire nineteenth and twentieth centuries, awakening in New York City on September 11, 2001.

Many of the thematic threads I wished to explore in this story intersected on this day, when history, politics, war, family, philosophy, and religion intersected and exposed the connections between them—or exposed their connections to anyone willing to invest the time and effort to do further reading and research. Therefore, it seemed a logical place to begin the tale.

As a writer, I would like to think that I am in control, and the stories I write are the result of my diligent craftsmanship. Outside of my mind, and in the real world, I find that stories write themselves, or rather, once I begin to understand the characters in my mind, they showed me the story. That holds true with the story of the twenty-first century Trip Van Winkle.

The primary responsibility I maintained as a writer was how to structure the story. As

Trip clued me in to the story, it became obvious that other characters must share his journey, otherwise the story would have no point. So others joined at various stages during the development of the tale: Sally was the bride he lost before the event-his sleeping and slipping through time; Fianna is the women who introduced Trip to the twenty-first century, and later became his wife; Danny was Trip’s biggest fan, after Trip published his biography disclosing his life in the eighteenth and twenty-first centuries. Mogil 10

Still there was someone else, someone who would become a key to fully enriching this new tale. I asked Trip, and he didn’t know. I imagined on my own, and found no answers. I read my own tale, and found the other protagonist. He was there all along. His name is Doctor

Broderick Carver Jefferson. Doctor Jefferson began as an antagonist. But that wasn’t right. Both he and Trip told me so. Next, Doctor Jefferson became Trip’s foil. That held true to the end of the story to some degree.

Suffice it to say that the story now had two protagonists, and they were fully on board with the project. It became important to consider their independent timelines. Harkening back to

Washington Irving’s original tale of “Rip Van Winkle,” the timeline was an indispensible structural element. Rip’s sleeping through twenty years was central to the tale. Growing up reading post-modern science fiction, I found that non-linear timelines created an engrossing dynamic in many of the books I enjoyed. One of my favorite authors, Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., used both extraterrestrial space and non-linear time in the book “Slaughterhouse Five” to tell the story of Billy Pilgrim. In crafting the tale of Trip Van Winkle, I wanted to develop my own approach to a timeline for this story that shared the type of captivating dynamic found in post-modern works such as Vonnegut’s. I came to imagine an interesting approach to the timeline that became a cornerstone in the story. Much like Irving’s timeline, the story would not work without it, nor would the story be much worth telling.

At times in life, I’ve felt as though my life is going in a different direction from everyone around me. I’ve often thought of myself as a salmon, always pushing upstream and against a strong current. This notion, combined with my appreciation for non-linear timelines from post- modern science fiction gave me cause to think at length about the temporal trajectory of the two Mogil 11 protagonists. I knew their paths would cross in the physical world, and there was a clear point in time, and more than a serendipitous reason for their meeting.

I could not shake the feeling that our first protagonist Trip would never fully resign himself to life in the twenty-first century. He had too much of his life invested in the eighteenth century, and in the end, his bright hope for life in the new millennium is extinguished. Doctor

Jefferson on the other hand, was born into a world of progress, of liberal ideals, and to a mother who taught him that the world could be changed—for the better.

It was at this point that I realized the two protagonists were headed in opposite directions.

It made perfect sense that their timelines and storylines should as well. I felt this spoke clearly to the transient nature of life, and how our interactions can have profound impact on one another.

And I shall now leave you to begin reading the tale of Trip Van Winkle with the hope his story captivates your imagination as he takes his place in the twenty-first century, lecturing on First

Amendment and free speech rights at Columbia University in New York City.

Mogil 12

Part II

Rip Van Winkle – The First Amendment

Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it—George Santayana

January 17, 2014, 5:15P.M. Inside the Roone Arledge Auditorium at Columbia

University

Standing in front of the capacity crowd at the Roone Arledge auditorium at Columbia

University in New York City, center stage in front of the mahogany podium, Professor Trip Van

Winkle cast an adoring gaze back at his wife Fianna. She was eight months pregnant with their first child. She appeared relatively comfortable to Trip as she wiggled back into a soft black leatherette stacking chair. He smiled, watching her right foot gently dancing on the floor. He knew how much she was looking forward to what would be one of their last evenings out together before their newest family member arrived. It was early in the evening, and soon it would be time to head out for an intimate dinner at Fianna’s favorite French restaurant La Tarte

Flambée. Through the western window, Trip saw the evening weather settling in, eerily. The light outside had already transformed from cloudy grey sunlight to the yellow pall of artificial street lights. The solemn light cut through the misty fog riddled night, mischievously splashing the shadows of bushes, trees and people strolling by onto the walls of the campus buildings and across the concrete walkways. He hoped the weather’s somber mood wouldn’t dampen the delightful evening ahead. Trip was ready and excited, looking forward to taking Fianna to a romantic dinner—the moment his lecture on free speech concluded.

The enormous red haired young man in the blue Columbia University letterman’s jacket stepped up to the microphone to speak, standing center stage and two steps below the stage level. Mogil 13

Trip cast an askance look at the young man and then at the spot where the bright red fruit had exploded onto the surface of the bright maple stage, flung by the young man before the lecture began. The young freshman spoke only to offer a public apology to the Professor and the two thousand plus audience members packed tightly into the venue. Trip graciously thanked the young man for his apology and smiled. The freshman turned to step away from the microphone to allow the next in line to have their say, taking away with him the one prominent and potential threat for the day.

The Professor’s temples ceased their throbbing. The sweat covering his forehead and upper lip evaporated, and the anxiety that had all of his senses in a heightened state of alert was quelled. From out of the shadows of the Goliath red haired freshman, a diminutive man stepped forth. Trip saw the small statured man as strained by a harsh life, timeworn by the elements. The man’s hair was a tousled sandy brown, with his face shrouded in a month old hoary beard that framed his weary face. The man stepped forward and staked his position at the microphone, on the floor just below center stage. His stubby and calloused fingers, wriggling on the end of his clammy hands, wrestled with the mic stand, bringing the microphone down to his level. He grasped the microphone like a vice.

“Welcome.” The professor spoke cordially to the man now standing before him. The greeting was tinged with Trip’s relief that this event would conclude soon.

“Thank you for allowing me to speak, Professor Van Winkle.” The man spoke respectfully, with a strong raspy voice that crackled. The voice was accompanied by an equally harsh and unpleasant aroma. From ten feet away, the odor made Trip choke up a bit. The foul aroma triggered Trip’s imagination—that the man had lived a life of excess, consuming more Mogil 14 cigarettes, coffee and cheap whiskey than any one man should. The man’s voice sounded to Trip as though it had been tempered and shaped on the anvil of lifelong hardship.

“What may I answer for you?” Professor Trip Van Winkle queried from his elevated position on the stage next to the lectern, all the while smiling amiably.

“My question is, Professor, why won’t you let me talk?”

Trip noticed that the man’s tension from the chokehold he had on the microphone. The chokehold was tenacious. No one would possibly wrest it away from him. “I’m sorry? I’m confused, please go ahead, what can I do for you?”

“You could let others hear my voice. I mean, I just want what everybody wants—to be heard. To have a place to speak, speak freely—and openly. But you—you denied me…”

Frustration breached through the man’s composed surface. Trip looked around the auditorium.

The crowd was alert to the man’s dynamic emotional change—they were immediately re­ engaged by the man’s dramatic shift from cooperative to confrontational. Trip saw security guards, stationed around the perimeter, now talking on their shoulder mounted two-way radios.

“You took my voice away from me. Here, today, in front of this captive audience, you preach about the importance of free speech and how everyone should be heard, while on your blog, and in your forum, you act as the gatekeeper to free speech, deciding whose voice lives and whose voice dies. And, you—you killed my voice. I had—I have—important things to say!”

“I’m afraid I’m still a bit unclear, do I—should I know you, my good man?” Professor

Van Winkle offered forth a verbal olive branch.

“Of course you should. I’m David Jon Scotus. I’ve tried contributing to your blog and forum for months now, but you’ve moderated me and all of my important input into oblivion.”

Trip could see and feel the man’s rising agitation. Trip realized that he did know the man, or Mogil 15 know of him—by his manifestos—a series of rants about how the individual could no longer be heard over the white noise of those with power. The rants were so heavily laced between thick layers of expletives and hate that any potential value they carried was lost. The vulgarity overshadowed any potential significance of his submissions, and the coarseness added nothing to the conversations about free speech on the blog or forum.

“Yes, Mr. Scotus, I do recall your many contributions. What can I do for you?” Trip asked as he watched the man release his chokehold on the mic stand and stuff his hands deeply in the front pockets of his shoddy long tan overcoat.

“Not a damn thing. I just came here to educate you. For example, do you know why the forefathers wrote the Second Amendment as they did?” The man tilted his head as he sneered mockingly at the professor.

“Yes, they...”

“Be quiet. That was a rhetorical question—now it’s my turn to talk!” Trip, the crowd, and the security guards all excited at the flaring of the man’s anger. Out of the corner of his eyes,

Trip could see the security guards. They were moving in from the perimeter of the venue, making their move towards Scotus, who was now visibly shaking from the shoulders down. His head jerked as he spoke haltingly. Trip felt a presence suddenly near to him. Trip’s biggest fan and now self-appointed body guard, Danny, made a precautionary move closer to Trip.

Trip watched Scotus’ anger grow, now with spittle projecting from his cracked and twisted lips, and a handgun in his right hand. “The second Amendment follows the First

Amendment as insurance. The Second Amendment guarantees our First Amendment rights when nothing else can.” Trip found himself standing numbed by fear, in the crosshairs of the gun

Scotus had pulled from his pocket. Danny quickly bowled Trip over, full force, knocking him to Mogil 16 the floor. As he was being tackled, a disbelieving Trip heard Scotus fire one quick round and then another. Trip put both hands out to break his fall onto the hard wood floor. He heard screaming, and the guards yelling at Scotus not to move a muscle.

In falling to the floor, Trip rolled over, facing Fianna. Danny rolled down between Trip and the mad man. Trip didn’t see either bullet, only the horrific result. He watched helplessly as

Fianna’s eyes, face, and mouth all screamed out in pain as her voice failed. Her expression shrieked silently, desperately calling out for help. Trip was paralyzed with fear, as all around the venue pandemonium erupted. Trip, too, helplessly reached for, and cried out to Fianna. Still clutching her baby, she slipped from the chair and crashed hard onto the unyielding stage floor.

Trip’s life was crashing; his past—already gone, his present—shattered, and his future— possibly denied. He watched helplessly as the EMTs rushed to Fianna’s aid. Trip prayed for

Fianna to a God in whom he had little remaining faith. He watched in shock as the EMT’s attended to her aid with the greatest passion and compassion, but Trip knew that for now her fate rested in their hands, and ultimately in God’s.

January 16, 1987 – The Jefferson House in Selma, Alabama

“He’s here!” Marvin yelled from out front to Broderick, who was in the kitchen cobbling together some lunch. The sun was shining bright through the daisy adorned white kitchen curtains that kept the kitchen bright and warm against the brisk wintery Alabama weather outside. Broderick could hear the slapping sounds of his twin brother Marvin’s sneakers against the concrete steps that led up to the iron barred front door of the family’s red brick home in the outskirts of Selma. Mogil 17

“Who’s here?” Broderick always enjoyed toying with his slightly older brother.

Broderick knew that their mother had arrived, bringing with her a longtime friend, Hosea

Williams. They arrived right on time, to gather up Marvin to join Mr. Williams in the civil rights march in Forsyth, Georgia the following day. She had been talking up a storm, of late, about the civil rights march from Selma to Montgomery in which she had walked side by side with Mr.

Williams in nineteen sixty-five. These stories, and others about the power of free speech, were central to her disciplined nurturing of the two boys. She fully indoctrinated the young boys into the idea that when enough people rise together in one voice, they can carve out a path to freedom, justice and equality. It was not simply a concept to her. It was a reality by which she had lived and defined her life.

“Come on little man, you know, it’s Mr. Williams. Now get your skinny behind out here!” Marvin always led the way. Broderick, the younger (by thirty-five minutes), happily followed nearly every one of Marvin’s leads. Marvin was the closest thing Broderick had to a father figure. Though the two knew how to give and take with each other well, when Marvin gave a command, well…Broderick usually went along without any hesitation and without a complaint.

“I’ll be right there.” Broderick set lunch aside, and headed out to welcome, and pay his proper respects, to the Civil Rights hero. As he walked outside, his mother Lesha and Mr.

Williams were getting out of the family car. It was a practical and well cared for burgundy 1976

Chevrolet Caprice Classic station wagon. Marvin was already excitedly shaking hands and introducing himself to Mr. Williams, with whom he would spend the next two days, travelling to and from Georgia for the march. They would be marching together, calling for an end to

Forsyth’s long standing tradition of keeping their county a racially purified lily white. Mogil 18

“Broderick, get over here!” Marvin couldn’t keep his excitement in check. “This is him…Mr. Williams—Mamma marched with him in sixty-five, now it’s my turn…and you can still come, if you’d just leave the studying for two days. Come on, say hi. You have to come too.

It won’t be the same without you. Mr. Williams, I’d like you to meet my little brother,

Broderick.”

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance young man. Broderick, is it?” Mr. Williams extended his strong right hand, forged in the never ending struggle to bring racial equality into the twentieth century.

Broderick reached out to Mr. Williams, accepting the handshake with all due respect.

“It’s an honor to meet you Mr. Williams. Our mother has told us so much about you…your work, and most of all the march you led, with her at your side to Montgomery in nineteen sixty- five. She has had nothing but praise for you, and I’d like to thank you for all you’ve done for the cause.” Broderick was humbled in the presence of someone he knew to be a great man, a man who exuded a powerful presence, filled with passion and undying patience.

Broderick smiled and turned to his left. “Welcome home, Mamma. Is everyone staying for lunch?”

Lesha smiled, “No, Shugah, I’ve to get Mr. Williams and your brother to the bus station right away, and then get back to work. Are you sure you’re not going along with your brother?”

She smiled, but Broderick could see in her smile that she would be quite pleased if he stayed home. She had told the boys how worried she was about the potential for violence on the march.

After all, violence was a big part of the Selma to Montgomery march twenty-two years before.

She shared with them her worries about the possibility of violence in Georgia, but Mr. Williams Mogil 19 made a promise to keep close tabs on Marvin and make sure Broderick’s big brother returned safe and sound.

“I’m sure, Mamma. I’ve got to keep studying for the SAT and I’ve got to do well—my whole future’s riding on it.” Broderick knew that Marvin would ace the test. Marvin had an eidetic memory and everything he needed for the test was already recorded in his mind. For

Broderick, if he didn’t study hard, he might not do well enough to get into whichever college

Marvin did. He wanted to make sure that wherever Marvin went to school, he’d get into as well.

Broderick couldn’t imagine what it would be like to go off to school without his brother at his side. They had big plans to become doctors, and open a small practice close to home. Broderick would do everything he could to make sure their future worked out according to plan.

It only took a few minutes for Marvin to grab his faded blue duffel bag and load it into the back of the wagon. Broderick felt like he was sending his brother off to war, and tried to give

Marvin the type of big hug that made Marvin uncomfortable in public. Marvin turned the hug into a half a hug and a hand shake.

“You sure you’re not coming, Little Man?”

Broderick smiled wide. “I’ve got my own work to do. You take care of yours. We’ll knock this SAT out of the park when you get back. Have a great trip, be safe—I’ll be waiting here for you with Mamma.”

“I’m gonna make you proud, Brody. I’m gonna make a difference. You’ll see. Take care of Mamma while I’m gone. You’re the man of the house now.”

With everyone settled into the car, and the cushy oversized red leather seats, Broderick stood in the driveway and exchanged smiles with the three. He watched his mother back away, taking the two men to make history. Mr. Williams and Marvin were off to battle, where they Mogil 20 would march, sing and raise their voices as one, to demand equal access to one of the last all white communities in the nation—a county that continued to hold on to their nightmarish dream of white purity and supremacy—the goal of these two courageous men was to alter the course of

Forsyth, Georgia’s future history. Broderick felt the anxiety that had sometimes accompanied his separation from Marvin. He didn’t feel good about staying home. He felt worse about Marvin leaving. Broderick had a nagging fear that this could send their two destinies diverging.

Marvin hollered out from the back seat window to his brother as the car pulled away.

“You be good, Little Man, your big bro’s gonna’ make some history!”

“You be careful Marvin-I love you man!” Broderick smiled wide watching his brother blush. There was little he liked more than to use the ‘l’ word to embarrass his big brother, who never felt comfortable enough to use the word. While Marvin was away, Broderick wanted to think about his brother, but he was too busy to worry too much—he studied diligently and awaited Marvin’s safe return.

January 17, 2014, 3:15P.M. Inside the Roone Arledge Auditorium at Columbia

University

Returning to the relative safety of the stage, Trip smiled to Fianna. He closed his eyes, and took in a quick breath. It had been months since Trip had spoken to a completely docile crowd. After finally giving in to going public with his story three months ago at the request of

Fianna, and with the encouragement of his psychologist, Trip’s modern world would never be the same. Since coming out, he had experienced the best and worst in people, with far more of Mogil 21 the latter than the former. They all foisted their opinions upon him, while few ever considered what the event or its revelation meant to him, the only one who had experienced the event.

Trip had slipped through time, as his grandfather before him, Rip Van Winkle. This event had caused Trip many struggles in the decade since he had lost his world, and landed in a strange new millennium world. His struggles to adapt to a twenty-first century life were never ending.

He mourned the loss of his eighteenth century world. He had lost nearly all of his faith in God before the event when He took Sally. Trip lost much of his belief in science, which could not explain the event itself. But, science and religion agreed on one thing – the event couldn’t have happened. Physics said it was impossible, and the Church said it was not a miracle, both in their own way denying Trip’s lived reality.

Trip kept a personal journal, painstakingly recounting his past, and reconciling his present. But his story…his story read like his grandfather’s story, which most people saw as a pure fiction. But Trip knew better about his grandfather’s tale, and more than anyone, about his own experience slipping through time. For now, he could only focus on the task at hand, lecturing on Free Speech and First Amendment rights to an audience filled with those who used reason to deny his story, alongside the few who somehow found the faith to believe him.

The prospect of speaking to the now docile crowd proved rather discomfiting, particularly in light of the riled up nature of this same audience when he first arrived. Maybe the tomato was a godsend in settling the crowd. Still, he felt like a seventeenth century Quaker in

Boston. The hair on the back of his neck stood tall, and was wet from nervous perspiration. He knew a swig of fine spirits would calm his nerves. It always did. He reached into an inner pocket of his coat, gently caressing the brandy filled silver flask crafted and given to him by Thomas

Jefferson for his service as a staff member. The contents would help the back pain, but he had Mogil 22 been warned earlier not to mix alcohol with the pain meds. So instead, he reached into another pocket, pulling out and quickly downing a handful of tropical Tums ultras. At least these would help settle his butterfly filled stomach.

He glanced down at his grandfather’s ornate silver pocket watch, now alarming that

3:30P.M. had arrived. It was time to speak. He stood stolid, with what confidence he could muster. The insistence of the watch was enough to get him to open up and begin speaking, but his survival instincts would keep his typical candor and frankness in check.

Trip glanced back to his right where Fianna sat. Her perfect posture and tentative smile helped settle his nerves. She gracefully comforted their expected son with her soon to be motherly hands, reminding Trip why he was here, today. Her boots were presentable again, thanks to Danny, but on the stage floor the tomato red stain remained. The stain would require more attention later. For now, it lay brightly broken in two, reminding Trip how suddenly and unexpectedly worlds can change, something of which he needed no reminder. Not after two centuries had vanished overnight.

“A long, long time ago, and not very far away, a group of rebels gathered to launch an assault on the imperial forces of an empire that refused to hear their calls for fair and equitable representation of grievances. Taxes had been long levied upon the rebels, yet there was no quid pro quo representation forthcoming from the empire’s overlords.” Trip could see faces in the crowd alight and connect with the intentionally misleading pop culture reference he used to grab their attention. Thousands of eyes brightened to mark their engagement.

“The overtaxed and unrepresented rebels’ cries for equity and justice were silenced by practices that denied fair recompense both here, and at the empire’s home base thirty-three hundred miles away. The diverse range of rebel forces found sufficient common ground with one Mogil 23 another upon which to stand against the empire. They banded together, and rose up united to fight a savage war against the empire to earn their freedom and autonomy—and in the process they formed a new democratic republic. No, this is not another Star Wars episode. It is the story of the foundation of these United States of America.”

Trip rustled through his notes. “Our forefather’s brilliance in drafting the First

Amendment of the Bill of Rights, establishing free speech, free assembly, and the free practice of any religion of one’s choice, was in allowing future generations to amend the Constitution to address issues the forefathers knew they could neither envision nor imagine.”

Trip was becoming animate, and he began his normal back and forth teaching pace across the front of the stage. “Over the past two hundred years, times have changed, people have changed, technology has changed, priorities have changed, and so has the very notion of free speech.”

Trip felt the comfort one feels when one’s voice is heard, when the listeners are hanging on the next word. He continued, “While I’ve no doubt that many of you here today could easily finish the Star Wars quote ‘Luke, I am…,’” and the audience completed the phrase with ‘your father’ in unison, without missing a beat. Trip smiled and continued with “I fear that many of you may not be able to finish founding father Benjamin Franklin’s quote about freedom quite so readily, as he said, ‘those who would trade their freedom for security…,’” and Trip’s expectations were met. Only a handful of attendees could finish the phrase with ‘deserve neither.’

“Free Speech, as conceived by our founding fathers, was restricted to wealthy, land owning, white males, yet the content of what they were permitted to say was largely unrestricted.

Over the past two hundred years, while freedom of speech has expanded to nearly all citizens, Mogil 24 restrictions have been imposed on the content of our speech and on our ability to freely assemble. This is due to legal restrictions as well as socially constructed restrictions imposed by concepts such as political correctness. This new era in which we live restricts free speech and free assembly in ways that our founding fathers could never have imagined. But with what I know about their positions on free speech, they would rise up again to fight those who have impinged upon our rights of free speech and assembly today.” Trip felt the crowd setting aside their opinions of Trip’s personal tale as they united in the hopes of discovering truly free speech.

“I’d like to share with you a recent event where one man’s notion of free speech, in the form of burning a holy religious book, ignited debate about where the boundaries on free speech lie, and whether ever greater restrictions should be implemented.” Trip signaled to have the lights lowered, and have a scene from the April 3, 2011 broadcast of the television program

‘Face the Nation’ ready to play on the massive screen behind him.

“On July 12, 2010, Florida Pastor Terry Jones announced on Twitter that he planned to burn copies of the Koran on the ninth anniversary of the September 11, 2001 attack on the World

Trade center. Jones proclaimed that this was his right as a form of free speech. The announcement sent shockwaves of anger throughout the Muslim world, and generated threats of retribution against America and its citizens—if the pastor carried out his personal version of free speech in burning the Koran. However, Jones capitulated at the 11th hour after President Barack

Obama, General David Petraeus, Secretary of State Hilary Clinton and Secretary of Defense

Robert Gates all spoke out against the book burning, warning that the event would only inflame the hostility of the very people Jones sought to intimidate. Perhaps Jones saw the legitimacy of concerns voiced by those in power. For the moment, he sacrificed his own free speech in burning the Koran for the greater good of the United States. Yet, in April of 2011 Jones followed through Mogil 25 with the burning, which resulted in protests, and the death of eleven in Afghanistan, including seven United Nations staffers, all as a result of Jones’ burning of the Koran, or as he stated, his free speech.”

“In the wake of the Koran burning, some in power felt compelled to stand against such unrestricted free speech. Let’s take a look at the discussion about this matter following the holy book burning. On April 3, 2011, United States Senator Lindsey Graham appeared on the CBS television program Face the Nation. Let’s watch a clip from the Bob Schieffer interview:

BOB SCHIEFFER: I want to get to this Afghanistan thing. General Petraeus today

condemned the actions of this Florida preacher, who-- who burned the Koran. You heard

what Senator Reid said.

SENATOR LINDSEY GRAHAM: You know I wish we could find some way to-- to-- to

hold people accountable. Free speech is a great idea but we’re in a war. During World

War II, you had limits on what you could say if it would inspire the enemy. So burning a

Koran is a terrible thing. But it doesn’t justify killing someone. Burning a bible would be

a terrible thing but it doesn’t justify murder. But having said that, any time we can push

back here in America against actions like this that put our troops at risk we ought to do

it. So I look forward to working with Senator Kerry and Reid and others to condemn this,

condemn violence all over the world based in the name of religion. But General Petraeus

understands better than anybody else in America what happens when something like this

is done in our country. And he was right to condemn it. And I think Congress would be

right to reinforce what General Petraeus said. Mogil 26

“The proposed limitations on free speech that Senator Graham is alluding to, suggesting that legislation be drafted to curb to specific forms of free speech if it is offensive in some quarters, flies against the unfettered freedoms our founding fathers considered essential to a vibrant democracy. The First Amendment of the Bill of Rights is unambiguous. ‘Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.’ Yet some of our elected officials are suggesting exactly that—the legal prohibition and abridgment of free speech. This type of impingement on our freedom to speak our minds is nothing new, as we shall see.”

Professor Van Winkle brought the discussion closer to home.

“Free speech, free assembly, and the right to petition the government to redress grievances are inextricable interconnected freedoms. They were drafted to avoid the potentially autocratic rule from which our forefathers fought to extricate themselves. Generally speaking, petitioning the government can be accomplished by freely assembling and speaking freely. For example, if we were to all exit this building and gather together to hold this lecture on public property here in New York City, let’s say City Hall, for example, what might happen?”

“As it turns out, we would probably not be allowed to carry on this event in front of City

Hall. There is a limit of three hundred people gathering there according to city code. We could do it elsewhere, in Central Park for example, but we’d need to apply for a permit in advance since we have over one thousand participants. Regardless, the city of New York offers significant obstacles to free assembly and free speech before we even roll out of bed in the morning.” Trip could feel a strong connection with the audience—they were engaged, and appeared to have forgotten about their concerns with Professor Van Winkle’s personal narrative, Mogil 27 and began interacting enthusiastically with the lecturer. The audience had a new focal point upon which to train their angst, the city of New York.

The lecture moved beyond the confines of New York to focus on landmark court cases, along with laws and policies that limit free speech and assembly, including the Federal

Communications Commission’s continuing censorship on television and radio broadcasts. Such censorship traces its roots back to Puritan morals and precepts as well as federal and local legislation—handcuffing the spirit of free speech as protected under the First Amendment.

Trip carried the lecture on to the landmark case of Shenck v. United States, which established that free speech could become felonious if the context of the speech posed “a clear and present danger.” It was in the opinion written by Supreme Court Justice Oliver Wendell

Holmes, Jr. which famously stated that “The most stringent protection of free speech would not protect a man in falsely shouting fire in a theatre and causing a panic.” The irony was not lost on

Trip, as the last he wanted to do today was say anything that would cause a panic here, today.

“Those who have written these various civil and criminal codes, at both the federal and state levels, along with those who have adjudicated these laws, have shown an utterly blatant disregard for founding father Benjamin Franklin’s cautionary advice on security and freedom.

They have indeed traded away individual freedoms for security. And as Franklin said then, and would likely remind us again today, we therefore deserve neither. So as you leave tonight, and go back home, go to work, or go to class, remember that creating a democracy founded upon the rights of free speech was a revolutionary act. Can it be accomplished again? If, so, who will lead the charge? The light side of the Force, or the dark side? Freedom, or Security? We must choose one.” Mogil 28

Trip closed on a lighter note, about recent legislation enacted by the 112th Congress of the

United States under H.R.347, which criminalized public protests when a person or persons gather(s) to “knowingly, and with intent to impede or disrupt the orderly conduct of Government business.” “And now I’d like to leave you with a moment of zen. You can’t think about free speech, free assembly and government without thinking about Congress. Let’s take a look back at a recent act of Congress.” He quipped, “Those in the 112th Congress enacted this First Amendment busting legislation, only to later assemble peaceably with the intent to impede and disrupt the government by shutting it down in the following term. In the next election, will we hold them accountable for violating the very law they wrote?” The audience laughed and applauded, closing the lecture on a peaceable note before Trip began taking questions from the audience to close out the lecture.

Danny stood near Fianna, watching over the Van Winkle family, smiling and applauding the success of his idol’s lecture. Trip walked over to comfort Fianna who still sat anxiously— ready to enjoy the intimate dinner that awaited with Trip. He took her hands, placing a loving kiss on her forehead, and offered the baby a reassuring rub before taking questions from the audience. Trip asked how she was doing, concerned about the general physical and emotional discomfort that had accompanied her third trimester, and asked if she thought the lecture went well. She reached up with a loving touch to his face, and her bright green eyes smiled into his.

Trip turned to Danny and thanked him for attending, and for attending to Fianna. He shook the young man’s hand in gratitude. The hard part was over. Thirty minutes of wind down questions would leave the Van Winkles free to their own lives.

Mogil 29

January 17, 2014, 6:15A;M; Doctor Broderick Carver Jefferson’s Apartment on West

127th Street

Doctor Broderick Carver Jefferson knew that his mother was always to bed by 9:00 and up by 4:30 in the morning. She had always told him that wasting sunshine was wasting one of

God’s most precious gifts, and that he should never waste one drop of the good Lord’s sun, nor a moment of the dear Lord’s time. His mother had taught him well how to make the best use of every moment with which he was blessed. Those moments include calling home to his mother every Wednesday morning before work, and every Sunday evening after Church. He would religiously call his mother to chat—about how the week was going and what was on the agenda for the next week. Today, he hesitated to call. It was an anniversary call. His motivation to call waned, washed over in the renewed guilt he felt for the loss. At the end of every call home, he rarely committed to honor his mother’s request for him to return home to Selma, Alabama for a proper visit, leaving him washed ever deeper in guilt. This only served to compound his hesitation to dial.

His beloved mother, Lesha, would have understood if Broderick hadn’t called today, but she would worry nonetheless—or perhaps all the more. Making the call right now, early in the morning at six fifteen, would allay his mother’s longstanding and relentless worry about

Broderick’s well being. On the rare occasion in the past when Broderick had called his mother later than normal, he would always hear the distress in his mother’s voice. He never wanted to cause his mother needless worry. Mogil 30

His commitment overrode his hesitation, and he pressed the number one on his phone.

“Good morning Mamma, how’re you feeling this fine morning?” Broderick knew that this morning never was fine, nor would this morning ever be fine.

“Broderick Carver Jefferson, it’s so nice to hear your voice. There’s no better day to hear you voice than today, and that makes this morning most fine indeed. How are you doing today,

Shugah?”

“All things considered Mamma, I’m doing just fine. But more important, how are you doing?”

“God gives me the strength to carry on every day. He just gives me a little more strength today. But I’ll make it through. I’ve been thinking though. It’s about time.”

“Are you sure Mamma? You’ve said every year since…that you wouldn’t be able to.”

“Yes, Shugah, that’s all true, but my heart’s telling me it’s time. Mr. Williams visited every year for thirteen years, but when he passed in two thousand…well, I don’t know if anyone else has paid Marvin’s memorial a proper visit. It’s been twenty-seven long years since they killed—they hanged my baby out like he was nothing but dirty laundry. I owe him this.”

“But Mamma, you visit his grave every week…”

“Yes, son, but that’s where he rests, safe in the arms of God. The Forsyth Memorial marks that moment my baby took his last earthly breath. He marched for us…he marched because of me.” Doctor Jefferson could hear the pain in his mother’s voice, and feel the pain in his own heart. “I miss my baby. No one else could ever know my pain. Not even you, Shugah.”

Broderick took a moment to pray for his mother, and brother. “No, Mamma, you’re right.

I can never know your pain, and you can never know mine. He took our future together to the grave with him. I hate what he did, but…I still love him more than I can say. And, I can never Mogil 31 blame him…he did what he had to do, and I respect that. I respect and love him for doing what he had to do, but still I hate that he’s gone.”

“I’m gonna go Shugah.”

“You’re hanging up?”

“No, Shugah. I’m gonna go. To pay my respects to my son, to your brother. Can you take

time today, and come join me? I’ll be there by two this afternoon. I could use you by my side.”

“Mamma, if I’d known…maybe I could’ve made arrangements, but we’ve got people out

sick, and…”

“I understand, Shugah. I understand. But, I’ll be thinking about you too. I’ll say hi to

your brother for you, like I do every Sunday.”

“Mamma, you know I wanna come.”

“Yes Shugah, I know. I know.”

“I love you Mamma. Be safe. Tell Marvin I love him—he’d like that.”

“Yes, I think he would. I love you too, Shugah. I’ll call you tomorrow night when I get

back home.”

“I love you mamma. I’ll be home to visit just as soon as I can.”

January 17, 2014, 2:45P.M. Inside the Roone Arledge Auditorium at Columbia

University

Professor Trip Van Winkle peered out from behind the star spangled curtain into the

confines of the auditorium from stage right as his pocket watch chimed once, marking 2:45. The

sold-out great hall was filled with Trip’s fiery supporters and fired up denouncers. No matter Mogil 32 where he appeared lately, the most zealous admirers and admonishers converged. The throng of two thousand plus was swiftly spiraling down the drain of the behavioral sink. The clashing between young coeds, faculty members and the zealous public at large was coming to a boil, the flames of passion stoked by the auditorium’s dry, hot, forced air. Winter coats, pea coats, rain coats and jackets were strewn about as nearly everyone had stripped down to their fighting clothes.

As Trip pushed back the sateen curtain and stepped on stage, he barely got the toe of his damaged burgundy wingtip loafer planted before his presence began sparking the psychological kindling of the audience. His heart raced, pounding like a steroidal hummingbird. He instinctively leapt on stage, taking point behind the massive mahogany lectern, fashioned by a colonial Dutch master craftsman. It reaffirmed Trip’s timeless connection to New Amsterdam.

He felt protected here, shielded from whatever fate might come his way. His palms were sticky wet. He placed the back of his right hand on the podium’s desk top and felt its smooth polished calm. He wiped dry his left hand on his coat and caressed the shining silken surface of the podium, causing it to squeal with delight. Placing his hands on the timeworn artifact, this centuries old relic, cast him back to a more serene time—for a brief moment.

Standing silently, surveying the arguing audience, Trip watched as guards separated quarrels, pair by pair. Trip’s nerves were on edge, and his sweat glands unleashed. He reluctantly removed his jacket, which had given him a feeling of security. The idea of sweating profusely throughout the lecture was disconcerting, but he was more concerned about having the freedom to move about freely and dryly. Trip was unwilling to trade this liberty on stage for any perceived security the coat provided. Danny took coat backstage, passing Trip’s wife Fianna, as she ambled on stage. She stepped past the curtain, walking with all due caution to a chair Mogil 33 reserved for her, between two of Trip’s fellow professors. She greeted Trip’s fellows with her typical charm. She settled in far away enough from Trip at center stage to be out of the audience’s line of fire. Trip moved from the security behind the lectern to help her settle into the comfort of the black leatherette armchair.

Trip returned to his spot behind the lectern at center stage, now with Fianna safely seated back near the curtain, one white star of the American Flag bedecked curtain hovering overhead.

Fianna had expectedly arrived on time for the lecture—she was never late. He admired her impeccable punctuality, a trait that contributed to her great success as a reporter for the BBC’s

New York office, but for now she was on hiatus for the biggest event in their lives. He glimpsed right and caught her bright and reassuring smile, and smiled back. Even with the comfort of

Fianna’s presence, Trip’s concern about his family’s welfare was his central focus. Looking back to the dissonant audience, his nervousness heightened.

Try as he might to control it, his jittery nerves were making his right upper eyelid flitter and flap—not blink mind you, but a quick distracting flicking, just enough to divert ones gaze from his steel blue-grey eyes, eyes preoccupied with fear and caution. He watched over the crowd with one eyelid dancing.

Trip’s automatic and primeval need to scan for potential threats was triggered by fight or flight response. The calls were coming, the frequency greater, and the threats ratcheting up from empty hate filled rhetoric to prurient death threats. With each succeeding text message, each email, each phone call, the tension and panic latched barbed talons of fear deeper into the professor’s psyche. The messages had first begun with dissention such as “Liar—you’re hurting everyone with your deceit—you’re a fraud!” The threatening tone of the communications grew.

The pedestrian demands such as “Go back wherever you came from,” had escalated into “I wish Mogil 34 you would die,” and as of yesterday they reached the fevered pitch of “I’m going to kill you. And you WON’T see it coming.”

Trip considered the threats empty. He told no one else. He saw it as his burden to carry.

After all, he thought that since he opened his life story to the world in his autobiography two months earlier—that ten of his fifteen minutes of fame had already elapsed. He thought that if another month passed, that he, Fianna and the baby could focus on the life ahead and the story that catalyzed his brief celebrity would recede forever peaceably into the maw of oblivion.

After Trip’s unforeseen journey, slipping two hundred plus years forward through the streams of time, he found himself compelled to keep track of time out of the very real fear of losing another two centuries. Trip’s clock watching compulsion was barely overridden at the moment by the impending lecture on free speech and by the series of escalating threats he had received over the past several weeks leading up to today.

Now standard fare at any event where he spoke, several uniformed and armed guards were stationed around the margins of the venue. EMTs stood hidden behind the curtain in the wings, prepared to provide any assistance needed.

Trip’s eyes panned left and right, from front to back. All he could see was disharmony.

He looked down and pulled on his watch chain to retrieve the eighteenth century ornate silver

Dutch alarm pocket watch with the champlevé dial, with his grandfather’s initials inscribed on the back, RVW. These initials were of the man for whom Trip shared his name, Rip Van Winkle.

The name Trip was in honor of his grandfather and reflected well his place as the third in the Rip

Van Winkle line. Trip held the time worn timepiece, and thought fondly of his grandfather and the world he left behind. The pocket watch now chimed once again, this time urgently, marking the arrival of 3:15P.M., marking fifteen minutes until the lecture began. Mogil 35

Trip paused for a moment when he saw the towering young man standing deep in the right field seats. The enormous red haired, apple cheeked student wearing the Columbia Blue letterman’s jacket appeared to be no threat. He stood out of the crowd as much for his gargantuan stature as for his tranquil demeanor, much like a vacated lighthouse in the eye of a burgeoning hurricane. He stood silently and blankly, intently staring Trip down.

The moment Trip’s eyes resumed scanning, away from the red haired youth in the letterman’s jacket, the young man coiled back fully, and launched an overripe tomato the size of a grapefruit at Trip. Trip caught a glimpse of the warbling high velocity projectile out of his right eye and froze in time.

Time lapsed for Trip as he watched the speeding fruit began to split in flight, with bits of seeds and flesh exploding from within, pushing hard against the resistant air just prior to reaching terminal velocity against the stage floor—violently ripping the fruit apart into two halves, leaving a massive blood red stain across the stage terminating fifteen feet to the professor’s right, with blood red bits covering Fianna’s black leather boots below the hemline of her ebony silk dress. One fringe seed of the large fruit went rogue and landed squarely between

Fianna’s pregnancy swollen breasts, coming to rest on the forehead of Fianna’s cherished Saint

Gerard Majella, dangling at the end of a roped silver chain, posed praying on a silver pendant— quietly watching over Fianna and the unborn child.

Everyone, everything, in the room was motionless. A shocked and terrified Fianna instinctively embraced her child. Mouths gaping in disbelief abounded. All eyes in the room, filled with either schadenfreude or invectiveness, synchronously swiveled and stared down the culprit with all due incredulity. Mogil 36

Professor Van Winkle was the only animate object in the auditorium apart from Danny, a

Columbia University sophomore. Danny was Trip’s biggest fan and as of today he became Trip’s self-appointed guardian. Trip saw Danny rush backstage, and return with some clean white cotton towels, and help Fianna clean and freshen up. Trip looked over at his wife and she offered a weak smile that signaled her displeasure yet assured Trip that she would be alright. As Trip stepped forward and down the two steps away from the safety of the stage, he strode towards the rightmost aisle. Trip offered a nodding smile of reassurance back to Fianna and gave Danny a smile of thanks. He strode towards the back of the auditorium where the strong armed hulk was still standing motionless and vacuous. Trip stood dwarfed by the mountainous young man.

The professor sized up the young man who, as Trip approached, fell into a shamefully slouched stance, his head rested on his chest and his shoulders rolled forward and down. A Saint

Christopher’s medal, shrouded in the patina of a lifetime working in the gym and on the field, conspicuously fell forward directly in front of the professor’s eyes.

“Why?” Arms crossed, Trip craned his neck in order to look up into the eyes of the young

man.

The young man stood sullen and silent, his eyes hidden behind eyelids slammed shut by

shame.

“Why…why did you do it?

“I don’t know.” His shoulders shrugged, and his large frame began to shrink.

“Are you sure? What were you thinking, right at that moment—the moment when you

picked up the tomato to bring here? You must have been thinking something?” Trip worked his

head to the right, mirroring the young man’s movement.

“I guess I was mad. I don’t know.” The youth averted Trip’s gaze. Mogil 37

“Mad? Why? At me?” Trip’s eyebrows pulled in and down—quizzically, his anger at the attack yielding to intense curiosity.

“Yeah. You.” The young man looked Trip square in the eye. His eyelids retracted, but his ire did not. “You keep telling the same lie, over and over, like if you tell it enough everyone will believe you.”

“And you know that I’m lying, because…?”

“What do you mean?” The bewilderment oozed from his expression.

“Why is everything I say is a lie?

“Well, it can’t be true. You couldn’t have slept that long. Nobody sleeps 200 years. And, there’s no such thing as time travel. Your story can’t be true. Besides, everyone says it’s a lie.”

The young man’s eyes flamed as he locked his gaze with Trip’s. Blood rushed into the young man’s burning cheeks and brow.

“Everyone?” Trip, feeling the young man’s rage blossoming, felt the need to defuse the rancor and vitriol.

“Yeah, everyone I know, everyone I believe.”

At this point Trip had a fair idea of who the young man believed—the religious radio and television personalities, the secular scientists, and the politicians—anyone with a voice and either a strong religious faith or scientific surety. Many on both sides had closed their minds to anything so inexplicable, whether their mindset was devoted to God or their own empirical observations. Trip could not blame those for judging him without knowing him. Many of his most intimate friends had turned away when he revealed his life story. Now, here in the auditorium, Trip knew that he could no sooner turn this young man’s mind around than he could turn back time. Mogil 38

“Just a couple of more questions for you, would that be alright?” Trip, staring deep in the eyes of the youth, offered a white flag smile.

“I don’t know. Sure, ok.”

“You know why we’re here today don’t you?”

“I don’ know. Yeah, Free Speech and the First Amendment.” Reticently came the answer.

“Good, do you believe in the First Amendment? In Free Speech? ” Trip led the letterman through the questions with a velvet hand on the reins.

“I dunno, yeah, I guess so.” The natural pale was returning as the rage dissipated.

“Then, would it be all right with you if I speak freely to everyone here today?”

A shrug combined with eyebrows forming a deep v pattern. “Are you gonna keep lyin’?”

“Do I have the right to lie?” Trip’s voice evinced tranquility, and the young man’s whole body began to settle.

“I don’t know. Yeah, I guess so…but you shouldn’t!” He glared at Trip intently.

“I agree with you completely—we have a right to say what we want, and that we shouldn’t lie. So we have that in common. May I go back up front and speak to everyone who’s here today to listen?”

“I dunno…yeah…sure…can I stay too?” His meek words defied his stature.

Trip gave the young man a warm smile that made clear “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Looking around at the now docile audience, tranquilized by the moment, lapsed back into a convincing semblance of humanity, Trip motioned for them to take their seats as well.

Mogil 39

January 17, 2014, 10:15A.M. An Emergency Services Examination Room at Columbia

University

“Well I’ll be darned! Are you the Rip Van Winkle?” Doctor Broderick Carver Jefferson laughed aloud, looking skeptically at Trip. The excitement in his robust voice let everyone know unequivocally how thrilled he was to finally have his chance to confront the man he had been obsessively talking about for the past two months, or as he called Professor Van Winkle, the twenty-first century huckster extraordinaire.

“The third, yes, but please call me Trip.”

Doctor Jefferson glanced down at the patient’s chart. The notes indicated that the nurse had already provided the patient with some Ibuprofen and cold compresses for the pain. The doctor looked up at Trip who was shivering, a common side effect of the chilly examining room.

“I see the nurse has given you something for your pain?”

“Yes, she has.”

“Well then, I’m Doctor Jefferson. It’s truly a pleasure to meet you.” And though the statement was sincere, it didn’t disclose the underlying reasons for the doctor’s pleasure. He had hoped to meet Professor Van Winkle at some point since reading his biography multiple times.

Doctor Jefferson wanted to confront the professor and challenge the preposterous claims he made about being born in 1776, falling asleep in 1799 and waking up in 2001. Doctor Jefferson thought that the story of Trip Van Winkle’s odyssey was far less believable than either Homer’s or Kubrick’s. Mogil 40

The doctor stood over the professor, who looked up from his prone position on the hard tan exam table and gave the doctor a grimaced smile. “I have to ask, for purely scientific reasons, of course…” the doctor paused.

“Yes?” Professor Van Winkle replied with a well constructed smile.

“Are you serious? Are you trying to fool everyone? Even P.T. Barnum, who claimed there’s a sucker born every minute, knew there was a limit to fooling people.” Doctor Jefferson’s expression did little to hide his incredulity and utter disbelief in the tale of the professor’s two hundred year sleep. “You sure have crossed the line—you know, from harmless huckster to deleterious con man.” The doctor felt someone needed to call the man and his fantastic story to account. He hadn’t seen anyone else do it, so he acted on the notion that somebody had to act as judge and jury.

“Pardon me?” The professor replied and his face flushed fuchsia with indignation, in spite of the frequent judgment of the veracity of his story. “Look doctor, it really doesn’t matter to me one whit whether you believe me, my story, or not. I’d just be pleased if you could keep your opinion private for now, particularly at this moment when my need for your services is quite pressing. Could you please, for the love of God, set this aside for now? I have a speaking engagement in a few hours, and I desperately need this back and knee pain relieved.”

“Yeah, sure. Why not?” The doctor turned his attention back to Trip’s medical chart, thinking about how to best approach the man he had waited for so long to give a piece of his mind. He would have considered Professor Van Winkle’s story harmless if it were marketed as the obvious fiction it was, or even offered with a believe it or not approach. The fact that the story of falling asleep in the eighteenth century only to awaken in the twenty-first century was being marketed as non-fiction grated too harshly. Mogil 41

“So I see you slipped and hurt your lower back getting out of a cab.”

“Yes. I fell and my lower back landed squarely on the bottom of the cab’s door sill.”

“Hmmm, that must have been painful. You look uncomfortable. Are you able to sit up so

I can take a look at your injury?” Doctor Jefferson. cautiously helped the professor to an upright, seated position and asked him to remove his shirt, offering up a dressing gown. The two exchanged amicably mutual small smiles, and the professor put on the gown.

As Doctor Jefferson began examining the professor’s lower back, he took a mocking jab at the professor by facetiously mentioning, “I’ve got famous relatives too, you know.”

“I’ve no doubt.”

“You know, my uncle’s a very successful businessman. You may have heard of him,” proudly declared Doctor Jefferson, unconcerned with obscuring the distinct undertones of derision. The upturned curling at the edges of his mouth did little to hide the doctor’s contempt for the professor’s duping of America. Doctor Jefferson continued with the examination of Trip’s lumbar region, checking for evidence of any serious injury, while in his mind, all the evidence he needed regarding Trip’s story was accounted for.

“You don’t say.” The professor’s reply to the doctor resonated with a lack of interest.

Doctor Jefferson watched Professor Van Winkle’s grimace, likely a result of sudden, sharp pain. The doctor heard the visitor chair screech. He looked over at Danny, who was sitting upright and forward in the molded black plastic chair with one foot missing off one of the shiny chrome legs, quietly fidgeting, his brown leather hiking boots tapping aggressively and nervously on the floor. Danny’s face radiated brightly. The doctor could tell that the young man was intently focused on the tête-à-tête between him and the professor, as though he was the professor’s secret service bodyguard. Mogil 42

“Yes, perhaps you’ve heard of him, George Jefferson? He lives up on the East Side.” The doctor didn’t even try to hide the snarkyness of the remark, nor was he concerned about failing to keep from snickering.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t know of him.”

Another chair screech and the doctor turned to see Danny’s ears flush blood red, shooting to full attention like a pit bull whose owner is in trouble. “That’s just mean, Doctor!” rebuked

Danny. “Can’t you treat this fine gentleman with a little respect, even if you don’t believe his story? It’s one thing to have fun with someone, and another to make fun of them.” And then the young man, barked at Doctor Jefferson, “Just do your job, man!”

Trip turned to settle Danny. “This isn’t unusual Danny. People treat me this way rather often. There are times I really can’t believe the story myself.” Doctor Jefferson caught the solemnity in the professor’s eyes and mouth as he turned his head away and whispered “And there are often times…times when I wish it never happened.”

Between Danny’s ire and Trip’s melancholy, Doctor Jefferson found himself arrested in the moment, and turned his sights inward. Not normally one quick to judge, not typically one prone to assuming extreme positions, he realized he was acting overzealously. The last thing he needed was to bring the anguish of the anniversary of his brother’s death into work. Doctor

Jefferson was simply out of sorts. He realized that he was lashing out, and that was out of character with his typically judicious nature, and acting without his typically professional etiquette. He backed down immediately and offered forth a sincere apology for his unprofessional and inconsiderate manner.

“Professor Van Winkle, I’m really sorry,” the doctor answered with genuine humility. “I was out of line and unprofessional.” He was repentant and apologetic, for his actions, but not for Mogil 43 his disbelief in the professor’s outlandish story. “I’ve read the book, I’ve read the story, and it just flies in the face of everything I know to be true, scientifically speaking that is.” Encountering the supernatural up close and personal can rattle steel nerves and wash away all courtesy and decorum in even the best of people. Trip accepted the apology.

“Look, are you doing alright?”

The professor lightly nodded and smiled, easier than before.

“I don’t see anything immediately of concern, but I’m going to get you into Radiology to get a good look at your back. It’ll be a few minutes before we get you over there, so try and relax. We’ll talk again after I see the images.” The doctor left the two men in peace and moved on to the next patient.

January 17, 2014, 6:15A.M. The Van Winkle Apartment

Throughout the village, the brilliant light of white-hot flashes pranged off of windows that insulated the sleeping from the rumbling barrage that followed, the collective voice of the old gods,’ despondently wailing along their inescapable journey into oblivion, a begrudging acknowledgment that their fleeting presence would soon be forgotten at the birth of a new day.

On this early morning, before Trip’s afternoon lecture on Free Speech and the First Amendment, the tired voices bellowed desperately, rattling windows, dishes and souls, all in the hope of leaving a lasting impression of their waning existence.

The booming voices shook some villagers awake, while the comforting nightglow spooked away the fears the voices manifested in many of the startled east villagers. Trip sprang out of the consoling comfort of his bedsheets, standing at full attention in sweat drenched Mogil 44 undergarments, his toes digging deep, trying to gain a foothold on the present. His bare toes curled tightly, grabbing at the luxurious goldenrod threads in the handcrafted Dutch rug beside the bed. The next volley of lightning and thunder smashed against the frost covered window and reflected not Trip, but a phantasmic image—his grandfather—returned in a flash, saying nothing, offering only a smile to Trip from his grizzled and gaunt face, and his now toothless grin.

For Trip, this was not a haunting, but a loving visit from beyond the grave. There were so many things in this new world for Trip to doubt, but some great beyond and nether spirit world were unequivocal certainties. The flash of light ebbed quickly away along with the specter of grandpa Rip, subsumed by the enveloping darkness.

Even with the heartening image of Grandpa Rip manifested in the window, the disquieting thoughts of death threats continued rolling about in Trip’s mind, leaving no possibility of returning to sleep. Trip walked somnambulant into the kitchen, guided by storm flashes creeping ever closer and closer. He fumbled about in the kitchen for the pitcher handle and a glass into which he could pour himself a spot of cleansing spring water. The pristine water flowed coolly beneath his palate, refreshing his tongue, quenching his thirst and quelling his thoughts—thoughts about the escalating threats to his life which he shared with no one—threats that pranced about on the surface of his mind.

Returning to the bedroom, one last flash of lightning revealed another in bed. Too tired to think, he pulled the covers over himself and fortuitously fell fast to sleep. Trip dreamt of his bride Sally, lost two centuries past, and their child, whom Trip never knew. It seemed but only a moment before he was jolted—reawakened, now with the full morning sun streaming in through the bedroom window. The voice of a gentlewoman followed.

“Trip? Are you awake? You were having the dream again.” Mogil 45

Trip rubbed his eyes and turned to see the charming woman, curvaceously pregnant with child, calling to him.

Fianna rose early for work and now called for Trip to get up. “Sally…again. I know, I understand, but I need you here, and now—and so will our child. And now, you have to get going. You said you have to finish prepping for your lecture today.”

Trip still had half a mind wandering back in an eighteenth century dreamland. The other half was just now sauntering into the twenty-first century. His bedmate’s bright red hair was shrouded in the sun’s golden glow. Her ivory skin glistened in the radiant golden morning sun.

Her dark black attire was accented by brilliant gold jewelry and accompanied by an inconspicuous silver Catholic pendant, watching over the child, a charm she had worn since they got the news of the baby. She continued to urge Trip to get up and ready for the lecture. But he heard nothing.

He was too transfixed on the passion in her voice and how her lively morning state made his heart skip a beat as it leapt into his throat. Before he had another thought crawl into his conscious mind, she gave him a kiss and headed off for an 8:00A.M. ultrasound. She called back her goodbye to Trip as she waddled from the room and out the apartment door.

Trip was left with another fragment of a dream of Sally. Trip had not seen her for too long. Ten years, or two hundred years seemed the same. His heart beat melancholy thinking of her, although as time went by—her memory, her fair face, her fair skin, mesmerizing emerald eyes, and the flaxen hair that shrouded her divine charms—slowly faded into the sleepy recesses of Trip’s mind. All that remained clear and present was the memory of their child’s birth, but then no more, and if he knew little else, he knew he would never, could never, see her—or their child—again. Mogil 46

This dream world began to wash away as Trip began to fully awaken. The woman who had departed this morning was his wife now, pregnant with his child, but she was not a mere replacement for Sally, no—she was someone new, and again someone very special. Trip thought that if his entire world had been disposed of by God, the creator had made a valiant effort to set things right with his second wife. Trip knew that finding great love once in a lifetime is rare, but to find it twice—unheard of. This new love was all that kept Trip’s faith in God alive.

Where Sally had always kept her place, his new wife was empowered and dynamic.

Where Sally was demure, his new wife was outspoken, bold, even brazen. She worked hard to replace injustice with justice and compassion. Where Sally was reserved, his new wife was brash and brilliant—beholden to none.

Trip was to guest lecturer today on the First Amendment and free speech at Columbia

University at the behest of his old chum, Professor Benjamin A. Huntington. After all, Trip was an aide to Thomas Jefferson’s staff in multiple capacities, and Professor Huntington was among the small faction of intellectuals who believed Trip’s recently revealed story of sleeping through the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Reality had become a burden to Trip, for his disclosure two months ago of his otherworldly trip from the eighteenth to the twenty-first century had created a firestorm of controversy stoked and fanned by the media. Trip’s tale, as recounted in his autobiography, had created two camps, a small group of supporters and the large camp of denouncers The tale had fired great passion within both camps. For the past two months, the raging firestorm was burgeoning. Trip hoped it would soon burn itself out.

As he stepped outside, the cold and bitterness assaulted him in mind and body.

Aggression abounded. The pace of the city was confounding. No one seemed to give any respect Mogil 47 or appreciation to the sun for having shown up today—just one more overlooked blessing. Trip hailed a cab, and he dove in for the certainty of warmth.

“Where to?”

“Columbia College please.”

“You meaning Columbia University don’t cha pal?

Trip had to gather his thoughts, University? No college…but then again that was then…now…now…yes, of course. “Indeed good fellow, to Columbia University please, and you can let me off at Amsterdam and 118th if you would.”

“Yeah. You got it.”

Trip was on his way, rifling through the lecture notes in his hand, and his mind was still fighting for a sense of sensibility in the now. The notes were helping, but the conversation on the radio seemed only to distract. That is, until he heard his wife’s voice on a public service announcement, “This is Fianna Kearney Van Winkle for NPR news.” Her voice shocked Trip all the way back into the present.

After arriving at Columbia, Trip hastily snatched up his belongings and stumbled out of the cab. Fianna’s voice had wiped the eighteenth century out of Trip’s mind. As he stepped out from the cab, Trip looked around at the disarray of the storm’s aftermath. He knew he should exercise extreme caution today. With the lecture now looming only hours ahead, his focus on matters immediately at hand had been pushed aside. It would have been a battle to keep his balance even on a good day with such grand distractions as the threats. Trip stepped out from the shiny yellow taxi, right foot first. Firmly planting his foot squarely on the ground, he inadvertently stepped onto a patch of black ice. His freshly polished burgundy leather wingtip loafer slipped toe first into the curb face, forcing his right knee to buckle. He plummeted Mogil 48 backwards and down, the small of his back landing squarely against the bottom doorframe of the taxi. With the pain radiating outward and the wind knocked completely out of him, there was no way to respond to the cab driver’s repeated and ever more insistent demands for payment. Trip could hear the driver, still sitting in the warm comfort of his cab, but the driver made no move to offer assistance for one so obviously and painfully in need.

Two passing university students stepped in and offered Trip their assistance. They helped

Trip to his feet. His knee now wonky, the young men helped Trip keep his balance as he hobbled to a nearby bench, delicately nursing his throbbing knee and trying not to think about the searing back pain. If nothing else, the enveloping cold may have been keeping the back pain checked somewhat. Grimacing, Trip yelled from the bench to the cabbie “how much?”

“Twelve fifty,” the cabbie yelled back.

“Here’s twenty. Keep the change” returned Trip, somehow managing to get the money out of the pocket of his full length dark blue wool overcoat and the response out past his pain clenched teeth. The driver jumped out only long enough to grab his money, then drove off.

One of the students asked Trip if he was going to be okay. Trip nodded, but his face, still contorted from the pain, said otherwise. The taller of the two students who had helped Trip to the bench reached out to Trip and put his hand on Trip’s shoulder to get his attention, “Mister, we’ve got an emergency services unit here on campus, I can call for you.”

Trip waved him off, “I’ve got to get to Roone Arledge—auditorium. I have a speaking engagement this afternoon.”

“I thought it was you, I knew it!” The shorter and stockier of the two young men was nearly giddy, flushed with exhilaration when he connected the face to the man, this injured man he had idolized for the past two months. He turned to his friend and struggled to get the words Mogil 49 out, “Rudy, this…this…this is him, you know…this is…wow! I can’t believe it. Rudy, Rudy!

This is…”

“Yes, I am…”

“Rudy, this is Professor Trip Van Winkle! We gotta get call EMS and get him fixed up for the lecture this afternoon. I can’t believe this. Wow! Right here, right here. It’s a pleasure to actually meet you Professor Van Winkle.” And the young man shot forth his thickly gloved hand for a formal handshake while Rudy called EMS. “My name’s Danny, and I can’t tell you what a thrill it is to meet you. Wow! Professor VW! Can I get your picture? I gotta get this on

Facebook.”

Trip couldn’t refuse the help offered by the enthusiastic young man, but the pain from the injury was too great for a photo op. “Maybe later, young man, after I get some medical attention.”

“Danny, call me Danny, Professor.”

Trip had a solid fan base, and an equally robust base of critics. As fans go, Trip could tell

Danny was among the most passionate. Trip listened to Danny recount Trip’s story to Rudy, and the original story about Trip’s grandpa, all while waiting for the ambulance. Trip also listened to

Danny tell several stories about Trip since the time of his awakening. Trip felt like he had just met his future biographer. But Danny told Trip, “I really wanna’ know more about what happened before you fell asleep.”

Trip got more than he bargained for in his new found friend Danny. At least the young man did most of the talking without the need for any response more than a head nod or a groan.

Trip got to hear his whole story recounted by someone else, and this was in its own way, a bit disconcerting. Trip was both comforted and concerned that Danny knew so much about him. It Mogil 50 worried Trip that the fanaticism was so overwrought, but his concern was mitigated by the apparent sincerity Danny exuded.

Danny asked if the two young men could join Trip for the short ride in the ambulance.

Trip offered no objection. So when the ambulance arrived to pickup up Trip, Danny and Rudy rode along, and Danny told one last story, about Trip’s rocket ride to fame after the release of his autobiography.

Trip said thank you and goodbye to Rudy, who quietly stepped out of the ambulance and excused himself as he headed off to class. Danny leapt from the ambulance the moment it pulled up to the Emergency Medical Services building. Trip was rolled in on a gurney, following

Danny. It wasn’t long before Doctor Jefferson arrived to tend to Trip, and get him ready to get to the lecture on time.

January 17, 2014, 11:35A.M. An Emergency Services Examination Room at Columbia

University

On the morning of the lecture, as noontime approached, Doctor Jefferson returned to exam room three after Trip’s visit to the Columbia University Medical Center Radiology and

Imaging Department. Doctor Jefferson rejoined Trip and Danny, and reiterated his apology and acknowledged his overreaction. He noticed that Danny huffed with a healthy and youthful skepticism at his contrition and offered Danny a conciliatory nod. “Everything looks good, no broken bones and no significant DJD. You are, however, showing some soft tissue inflammation in your lower spine. I’m going to set you up with Meloxicam for the inflammation and Percocet to help you with the pain. It’s probably going to take a week or so for you to get back to normal. Mogil 51

You’ll want to follow up with your regular physician next week. I’m having the nurse email copies of the X-rays over to your physician for his records.”

“Thank you” Trip answered. “By the way doctor, you’re welcome to come to the lecture today, as my guest. It begins at 3:30.”

“I appreciate the invitation, I’ll see if I can sneak over and take a listen—but my shift doesn’t end ‘til 6:00 this evening.” As the doctor took one step for the door, he stopped and turned back. “You know Professor, I was just thinking…”

“Yes?”

“It’s almost time for my lunch break. Are you hungry?”

Leaving the exam room together, a long silence followed Doctor Jefferson, Trip, and

Danny to the hospital cafeteria, still festively festooned with diverse holiday decorations:

Christmas, Kwanzaa, Passover and the Chinese New Year. After the three men had gotten their meals, Doctor Jefferson led them to a secluded table in a far corner of the bustling lunchroom.

Heads turned and fingers pointed towards the doctor’s guest, the big celebrity on campus, yet admiring smiles were mixed with scowls even in such a joyously decorated environment. The doctor was struck how one man, Trip, could evoke such dissidence in a room filled with the ornamentation of multicultural belief systems coexisting in peaceful harmony. They settled down with standard issue brown plastic lunch trays stacked with hearty, steamy nutrition. The doctor watched as Trip squirmed, trying to find comfort in the hard molded blue plastic chair, held tightly together by a bright chromium web.

The doctor waited for Trip to find his comfort before asking “How’s the back doing?”

“Good…a little better, thank you.” Trip let out a small sigh as he modestly smiled and nodded. Mogil 52

They sat together isolated, eating like monks in silence, spoons clinking against bowls filled with thick, creamy tomato bisque and forks dishing up Asian chicken or Cobb salads. The doctor looked up from the warm comfort of his basil flaked bisque and realized he was outnumbered. But whatever fantasy Trip and Danny could possibly offer, he knew he had science on his side. He watched Danny watching out for Trip, who was blowing on his hot soup.

Dr. Jefferson felt Danny’s wary eyes monitoring him. The flesh on the doctor’s back quivered, roused by Danny’s combative expressions and his defensive body language.

Danny broke the silent cordiality with an unrestrained vigor and unfiltered thought found more often in youth. “So, doctor, how come you don’t believe Professor Van Winkle? Why do you think his story is made-up? I can’t understand why anyone wouldn’t believe him. It makes no sense. I mean, you don’t know him like I do. If you got to know him, you’d believe.”

The doctor focused exclusively on Danny, who paused, intently looking for some kind of reaction that wouldn’t surface. Danny took a bigger, and lower swipe, “Is this some kind of race thing? Would you believe Trip if he was black, or maybe if he was family?”

“How dare you! You think I’m a bigot young man? You know nothing about me. Why you’ve got quite the…” Doctor Jefferson stopped himself, deeply offended by the shocking accusation, holding back what he really wanted to say. His eyebrows jumped, allowing his eyes to open to a maximum aperture. His nostrils flared and flexed threateningly as he leaned in towards Danny, fixing his gaze on the young man’s stare. “I know you’re young, uninformed, so

I’ll let that pass, but this is not about race, and I’ll not allow you to goad me. This is not about anything other than science. The story doesn’t pass muster, simply because it can’t—it’s implausible, impossible. So tell me, why…why do you believe him?” Mogil 53

“I don’t know…I’m not sure what I think, but there must be some reason that you don’t trust him, you don’t believe his story—he’s not a liar.”

The doctor felt an intrusive, defensive aggression as Danny fiercely squinted, then drew his lips tight as his ears glowed crimson and rolled forward.

Trip was visibly disconcerted by the young man’s adversarial bent. The doctor vehemently watched as Trip cast a glance of disillusioned amazement at Danny’s accusations.

“Look doctor, I think what Danny is trying to say, what he’s trying to point out…is not an attempt to impugn your character, but to say that you’ve prejudged my story, and by extension my character, and unfairly so. Isn’t that about right, Danny?”

“Pretty much. He thinks he knows all about you, but he doesn’t—he can’t.” The doctor watched Danny retreat as the young man leaned back into his chair, arms folded, shutting down.

But Danny’s reply to Trip did little to keep the doctor from heating up. “What do you mean I can’t know? Are you saying I’m incapable of knowing? Am I intellectually deficient, impaired? Is that what you mean?”

The doctor’s irascible state escalated with each question Danny posed. “Well, no, I didn’t mean any of that. I meant no one can know, no one can ever know what they haven’t experienced themselves. Everything you know about Professor Van Winkle is second or third hand chatter. You never met him before. I was there in the exam room this morning when you introduced yourself to the professor. It was obvious that this was the first time you met him.”

The doctor took an intellectual step back. All three relaxed a bit, failing to notice that all the surrounding tables had filled, tipping the balance of patrons to their corner of the room. They were taking this opportunity to listen in on the doctor’s conversation with Professor Van Winkle Mogil 54 either for his fame, or infamy. The intrigued listeners at the surrounding tables were full focused; the only other conversations were quiet ones about Doctor Jefferson, Trip, and Danny.

“Then tell me, young man,” the doctor asked strategically, seeing Danny’s defensiveness easing “since you know the professor so well, how long have you known Professor Van

Winkle?”

Danny cheeks blushed rose red, and he meekly answered “I met him this morning, right after he slipped and hurt his back.”

The doctor laughed blithely, reflecting back on Danny’s charges in light of this revelation. “So how much better do you know the professor? Ten minutes better? An hour better?” The mood at the table was becoming modestly convivial as the doctor had successfully countered Danny’s incursion.

“That’s not the point. I know a lot more about him than anyone.”

Now the doctor was intrigued and leaned in for the juicy bits. “Do tell.” The doctor tilted his head in preparation of the forthcoming enlightenment.

Trip chimed in, “Danny, that’s probably not true. I think my wife may know a thing or two about me to which you’re not privy.” The doctor chortled discreetly while Trip smiled respectfully to him.

The doctor watched with unblinking eyes as Danny’s blush deepened to scarlet. “You know what I mean, professor. I founded your fan club after you came out with the story and created a fansite dedicated to you and your story. I’ve read your book and I’ve studied your story. Some things you claim in the book can’t be proved, and other things can’t be easily disproved either. I know we just met today, but I believe you—I believe in you. I…look doctor—I respect Professor Van Winkle for sharing his story, and nothing I’ve seen, read or Mogil 55 heard makes me think that he’s lying. No one can prove whether his story is true or not, but I have faith in Professor Van Winkle.”

“Fair enough, Danny. Then perhaps you know more about the professor than I do, and maybe some of what you accused me of is true, but I’ve read Professor Van Winkle’s book as well, and that is a first-hand account, isn’t it?” The doctor turned to Trip who nodded his affirmation. Turning back to Danny, the doctor continued, “I’ve read it more than once, and the real issue is a simple epistemological issue…and the story can’t possibly be true. This is a matter of science, not speculation. No one sleeps for 200 years, or disappears for 200 years, and then suddenly reappears. It just can’t happen, and whether Professor Van Winkle’s story is true…or

I’m right that it’s patently false, the fact is that I think his story is either a brilliantly played hoax, or that Professor Van Winkle is a total whack job. I think he’s peddling this fiction like it’s history—just like a snake oil salesman. And it’s my prerogative to decide for myself. Isn’t it?”

“I disagree with what you say,” Trip rejoindered, “but I will defend to the death your right to say it.” The doctor noticed Trip’s smile.

“Pardon me? Voltaire, is it?” The doctor asked, recalling Voltaire’s commentary from an undergrad philosophy class. The personal prerogative to speak freely had struck a chord with the doctor as an undergraduate. The quote spoke to the heart his core values, the topic of the professor’s afternoon lecture. Doctor Jefferson was beginning to think that maybe the two were on the same page, perhaps just on opposite sides.

“Yes, Voltaire. And yes, it is your prerogative to say what you think or feel, but you are so set in your adamant opposition to the potential veracity of my story that you may not have considered a third option.” Mogil 56

The doctor knew he was being led, but he saw no hidden agenda or trap setting. The doctor was starting to get the sense that maybe Trip wasn’t a huckster after all, but the story…the story still was implausible. “A Third option?” Ridges furrowed across the doctor’s brow, and his right eyebrow stood to full attention as he pushed his chair closer to Trip.

“Yes, you propose that I’m lying or I’m a whack job, as you say. The third option—is that I’m telling the truth.”

The doctor began to chuckle again. While looking Trip squarely and scientifically in the eyes for the first time, the doctor stopped laughing. He caught a glimpse of sincerity in Trip’s eyes. Doctor Jefferson leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, and then he raised one hand to stroke his smooth cleft chin pensively as he mused “Well, so let’s just say for a moment I’m open to considering option three. So, what then?”

“Imagine for a moment that you sit down, you dream an endless dream, awaken, and your entire world has vanished, turned to dust, buried under all the generations that have since come and gone, footprints of your world washed away by time and nature—New Amsterdam giving way to… to… this. Or better for you, New York giving way to something else."

“Are you asking me to imagine, this… fairytale, this fantasy, as some reality? The doctor held steadfast in his unwillingness to open his mind to the possible truth of the third option, which led to Trip to sigh deeply and pensively, pausing to think for a moment. Watching Trip, the doctor saw him smile brightly, suddenly upbeat.

Trip invited the doctor in with, “Sure—sure, why not?!”

“Why not?! Heck it doesn't make sense at any level—Napoleon Hill said ‘Whatever the mind can conceive and believe, it can achieve’—you might conceive, and even believe, that you Mogil 57 somehow lost 200 years—but the mind, the body–time–doesn't work like that. If anyone/thing could find a way to fast-forward 200 years, well by God…well maybe, they would be God.”

“If you believe in God, then you must believe in the miraculous. Maybe what happened to me was a miracle; maybe it was the working hand of God. For all that’s good in the world, I have no scientific explanation as to the cause, but with God as my witness, I’ve lived the effect.”

The implication that a divine event and science may be compatible gave the doctor reason enough to pause and reflect upon his own faith. A devout Baptist, the doctor often tended to compartmentalize his daily world of science apart and separate from his lifetime devotion to

God. But now, put on the spot, he had no answer, no response, no reaction, only a thought about whether he could be sitting before a man who has lived a miracle. The doctor exhaled fully.

There was a palpable release of tension at the table, and the doctor’s posture and expression relaxed. Even Danny’s guard was receding. The blossoming crowd squeezed tighter and closer, causing tables to overflow, and others pulled chairs into the aisles. The crowd drew attention to itself. More people wandered over out of sheer curiosity. The impromptu audience scooched stealthily closer, anxious to hear what may come next.

“You’re using my faith as a weapon against me. But, if I believe in God and the miraculous, and I do, then as much as science wants me to deny your experience, I really can’t do so off-hand. But I still can’t buy in as a scientist either. Now, I can’t judge with certainty that you’re lying, that I leave to God. But, I’m also no closer to believing something for which there exists no evidence or viable scientific explanation. I’ve at least seen photos purporting to be of

Bigfoot, Nessie, ghosts and UFO’s, and I’m unconvinced about these. What evidence can you offer to support your claim?” Mogil 58

“I have only my experience. But please, let me share with you what my awakening was like. I was lost, in space perhaps, but in time for sure. I awoke under the tree where I had fallen asleep, but cupid’s arrow was now seven feet above the ground and a patch of flowering white daisies spread before me where I had just laid Sally to rest.”

The doctor was captivated by Trip’s sorrowful voice. He could see the weight of Trip’s loss in every aspect of his being.

“I stood in utter amazement and complete disbelief, captivated by this megalopolis into which I had awakened, hardly noticing the throngs of people running frantically, chaotically. I focused on the most amazing structures—towering to the very heights of heaven like the Tower of Babel or Jacob’s Ladder.”

The doctor watched Trip’s anguish blend with elation—he saw a glow in Trip’s face, as

Trip recounted his alleged first encounter with a twenty-first century New York City. “My first thought was that I was finally home, that I was in heaven. Then someone rushing past bumped me hard and I toppled to the ground. I was facing south and even from this vantage point, I saw a great plume of smoke rising, followed soon after by a colossal explosion—like the voice of

God.”

Doctor Jefferson watched Trip pause to catch his breath. The surrounding audience was entranced by the tale and began to swell with emotion, flushed with memories of that fateful day.

Even the bitterness of ardent disbelievers began to fade as they remembered the indestructible, though at times forgotten, bond of community the city felt in the wake of the September 11th attacks. The doctor had seen enough PTSD victims after 9/11, and could see it in Trip.

“Someone came to me and offered a hand up—a porcelain skinned gentlewoman. The sun shone from behind, casting her in a warm golden glow, like a Madonna. Her smile…” Mogil 59

The doctor watched Trip drift off into some nostalgic place—somewhere between the greatest despair and most wondrous hope, leaving silence to carry the conversation.

After a moment of respect filled silence, “Professor Van Winkle?” The doctor gently nudged Trip on the shoulder, “Please go on, if you can.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Where was I?”

“The gentlewoman, I believe.”

“Oh, yes…yes. She saved me…she saved me utterly. Although she had merely helped me to me feet, her warmhearted smile, and a transcendent glow in her pleasant touch—made me feel safe at a moment when no one should feel safe. Our meeting must have been preordained—our destiny manifested. She was there to meet me, to be my guide in this new world after the loss of my prior life and world, and right at the moment her world was unknowingly crumbling. She found out later that day that her fiancé had fallen with the towers.”

The doctor was now moved by the story brought to life. A look of great loss crossed

Trip’s face as he placed both hands over his heart. The doctor did not see this as some maudlin attempt on Trip’s part to create an emotional response in the audience, but rather to keep the shards of a broken heart from tearing out from Trip’s chest.

Danny was moved to tears, and the doctor’s eyes felt Trip’s pain. The doctor and audience connected and could sympathize with Trip somewhat better. They had all lost someone on September 11th. On that day, Professor Van Winkle had lost everyone he had known. The doctor still held on to reason with his scientific skepticism, but as his empirical grip loosened, his faith picked up the slack.

“The gentlewoman didn’t know the fate of her fiancé at that moment. I couldn’t begin to imagine that my Sally was two centuries gone—both of us having our loved ones ripped away. Mogil 60

She asked if I was alright, and I found no words—my world gone, the love of my life gone, my child…my child—I never met, as Sally died in childbirth and as the midwives took the child, my child…who I never saw, never knew, as I took to laying Sally to rest. And still, this compassionate woman offered hope where none should exist.”

Doctor Jefferson remained focused on the tale, although his sight was blurred as tears pooled in his eyes without releasing. The doctor began to see Trip with a modicum of wonder rather than utter disbelief.

“I really can’t explain the impact of such an event to anyone. No one has ever experienced the complete loss of their world, with everyone they ever loved—gone, forever.

Even my grandfather awoke to find me and my parents. Am I making any sense?”

“You know Professor…”

“Please, call me Trip.”

“You know, Trip, I can’t imagine, as much as I can’t believe…but, I’ve suffered a complete loss. I couldn’t feel it more than I do today. It’s been twenty-seven years since…” The doctor now had to catch his own breath, and he felt a connection to Professor Van Winkle when thinking about the loss of his own brother, Marvin. “My twin brother. Marvin. We were close, real close. He had to go…I stayed home. He never came back.” The doctor paused, working to maintain some composure.

“I’m so sorry, did he…?”

“He went to a civil rights march in Georgia, following in our mother’s footsteps. He was going to make history. He did make history, just not like he imagined.” The words came deliberately, cautiously. “All anyone knows is that sometime after the march, he vanished. A Mogil 61 couple of hours later, someone found him—lynched, hanging from an oak tree on the county line.” Tears that the doctor held on to tightly now trickled down his cheeks.

“I am so sorry for your loss. I had never considered, never imagined…that anyone could experience so profound a loss without experiencing…I can’t really compare your loss to mine.

Nothing—no one—could ever replace what, whom, I lost…but what, who, I have found in this new world is so great…our losses may be different, but who’s to say one loss is greater than another? Still, having lived through my experience often seems no more than a figment of my imagination—but it’s not. Forgive me my self-obsession, please.”

“It’s really alright, professor…”

“Trip, please.”

“It’s really alright, Trip. Maybe for the first time, I’m beginning to realize I can’t compare my own little world of experience to anyone else’s. I can’t really discount or judge yours, even if I still find it unbelievable. Not any quicker than I can wrap my mind around

Marvin’s experience. I loved him so much—and thinking about it now—yeah, I lost my whole world too. The pain…it’s inexplicable.” Doctor Jefferson and Trip found themselves both thinking about life and experience as more than a series of recounted events on a sheet of paper—everyone may experience powerful life events, great joys, great pains, but the details, the individual response all depends on which side of life’s mobius strip you are.

Doctor Jefferson felt that the conversation had run a course that left him and Professor

Van Winkle nearer each other on that strip, as their intimate conversation demonstrated. After a short time the doctor came back to Trip’s conversation. “By the way Trip, when you were telling your tale, you mentioned Cupid’s Arrow, what was that about?” Mogil 62

“It’s something I carved on a tree when I was courting Sally. It was the day of our engagement. We were picnicking on the south lawn of the campus of Columbia College. I was studying politics and ethics. I was smitten with Sally, and I carved our names in the tree out of pure folly. When I was attending school here in 1797, Sally and I were…” Doctor Jefferson searched the corner’s of his mind to find logic and reason in the professor’s story. He watched

Trip’s face blanch, and Trip looked as though his life force had nearly vanquished. Trip buried his face deep into his palms.

Recognizing Trip’s excruciating pain, the doctor asked, “Trip, are you going to be okay?”

Trip nodded lightly “I’ll be…I’m alright. Though so long ago, it’s still so fresh in my mind, and my heart.”

The doctor’s ears were open, even though there was still no clear entry point to his closed mind.

“Well, I had carved the arrow through a double heart in celebration of my engagement to

Sally. Our two hearts were as one—this was a tribute of my undying love for Sally. I’m sorry. I really can’t talk about this anymore right now. I need to get to the auditorium and meet my wife, she’s to be there by three, and I need to clear my head to prepare for the lecture.”

Doctor Jefferson stood to bid Trip and Danny farewell. “By the way Trip, did you carve anything else on the tree?”

Trip grinned, “Find the tree, you’ll see,” and lifting his hand to say goodbye, he and

Danny parted the crowd on the way out.

Dr. Jefferson was by no means convinced of the veracity of Trip’s tale. Where is the line between truth and fiction, Doctor Jefferson began to wonder, or does one even exist? The doctor nodded and offered a parting handshake of respect to Trip. Mogil 63

“Perhaps we can pick up this conversation later. Maybe you can meet my wife then, too.”

“I look forward to speaking with you again, and meeting your charming wife.”

Sept 9, 1799 – A Small Dutch Village outside of New Amsterdam

The seventeenth century was soon to be laid to rest in the history books, while the prospect of expanding frontiers and prosperity for the new nation in the eighteenth century awaited with open arms. Trip Van Winkle and his family looked forward to the great possibilities the future held. But for now, the early delivery of their first child held their future in abeyance.

An autumn chill had settled in on this prodigious September morning, as Trip impatiently marched outside the modest Van Winkle homestead, wearing down the tread on his shoes. He paced back and forth in anticipation of seeing his future child.

The Van Winkle house was a modest wooden building resting on the edge of the old village and the ancient forest. It was accented with a yellow Dutch brick base and roofed with ruddy brown shingles made from the local Dutch Elms. It was soon after sunrise that, inside the home, the most skilled midwife in the county, accompanied by two assistants, attended to Trip’s wife. Trip’s wife was eight months pregnant with their first son, and in the throes of a premature delivery. The child’s fate was uncertain, and rested in the hands of the midwife, and ultimately in

God’s. The likelihood of problems arising from a premature birth were well known to Trip.

While he knew nervous pacing would provide no help in the birth, he had faith the prayers he offered to God while he paced would not go unheeded. Sally’s screams came progressively closer and closer, and the pain more evident as the howls tore from her hoarse throat. Mogil 64

And then came silence, followed by the sound of new life crying, with the newborn taking in its first breath of the New World. Trip stopped near the front door, listening to the clamoring that ensued. The midwife and assistants were bustling about, chattering excitedly and exceedingly fast. Trip’s heart plummeted into an already queasy stomach. He eased nearer the door to listen more intently.

The hubbub rose and the movement within accelerated as the three women attending to

Sally shuffled about. Sally’s screams from the birth pains had suddenly ceased, and Trip could hear no other of her sounds. The silence that followed Sally’s cries was foreboding. Trip could not believe in his mind what his heart was saying.

He knew, without knowing, that Sally had not survived the delivery. He felt her departure, carried away on the chill breeze. She had given her life for her son, for Trip’s son. The midwife came out to tell Trip, and by the expression of loss borne upon her face, upon her posture, and upon her waning energy told the tale. While one of the young assistants tended

Sally, wiping away signs of the event that took her life—making Sally clean and presentable, the other young assistant woman was sent with the boy to find a wet nurse, for Sally would deliver the lad only—her maternal work was done, her eternal work begun.

Trip had shared Sally’s pain during the delivery, and now the pain was his to bear alone.

Whirling within his dizzied mind were the blessing and the curse—the heavenly joy of a newborn son and the abysmal misery of losing his wife—and the prospect of laying his dearest love to rest, never again to see her smile, embrace her womanly charms, or to smell the scent of her golden tresses.

But his responsibilities demanded stoicism. They also demanded immediacy in dealing with matters at hand, and he must find time to grieve later. But later was a time he now Mogil 65 considered a vile and empty place, one where his son would remind him every moment of his loss. It was a future he was ill-prepared to step into.

This was not the first mother the midwife had lost, but Sally was a dear friend to her. Trip asked the midwife to lead him into the house to be with his wife. The forlorn midwife bowed her white bonneted head and stepped back inside, and Trip followed. Trip had made but one decision. He would take her to rest under their tree, and he would do so on the morrow, one day into a dreaded future.

Trip left the village in the wake of his wife’s demise. He rode slowly atop his

Narragansett Pacer, Gunpowder, alongside the reverend who rode with the undertaker, whose carriage carried the most precious cargo. Sally’s body soon to be laid to rest, her soul already bound for its proper Heavenly reward of eternal life. Trip’s wide brim straw hat fell down over his face for much of the journey, as his head hung low, chin resting on his chest. His heart beat a melancholy rhythm, barely enough to sustain his own life, and he cared little whether the next beat would come, for the only hope he held for the future was to rejoin Sally in Heaven.

Thoughts of the son he had yet to see ebbed in and out of his mind, painting thin stripes of joy across the black mask of pain.

After a day on the road, the group approached the south lawn of the Columbia College campus. Trip pulled up on Gunpowder, dead in his tracks. The wound opened wider. He thought of the place he would to lay his love to rest. But now the thought of finding the engagement tree, and seeing the two hearts and cupid’s arrow, tore at his heart once again, causing it to throb inconsolably and unreliably. The good reverend turned to Trip from his seat on the carriage Mogil 66 bench and reminded Trip of Sally’s newfound heavenly reward and how she would be there waiting for him, all in due time. For now, a most solemn duty awaits.

Trip was too anguished to go forth. He pulled the horse’s reigns away, hard to the left, but Gunpowder refused. Trip reluctantly pushed forward astride the horse that had once carried

Trip and Sally together to the engagement tree. The group arrived at their destination. The tree was surrounded by a field of white and yellow daisies. Sally would have chosen no other place above this for her eternal rest, living in the afterlife amongst the flowers she had so dearly loved in life.

The three men laid her coffin into the ground, leaving a small dirt mound amidst the field of flowers. There would be no headstone, only the carving on the tree. Trip thanked the two men and released them to return to the village. He would say his own goodbye, returning when the time was right. And so he sat next to his lost love, began to weep as he said goodbye, and fell fast to sleep at her side.

January 17, 2014, 5:35P.M. Emergency Services at Columbia University

There was no trauma center on campus, but there was also no time to transport Fianna to a trauma center without first stabilizing her—right now. Doctor Jefferson had gotten the advance word by radio, and he was waiting with trepidation just inside as the emergency room doors opened. Doctor Jefferson watched Danny jump from the ambulance, making way for Trip and

Fianna. Trip stepped down alongside the gurney, holding his wife’s trembling right hand, while her left hand was still clinging on to, and protecting their unborn child. Mogil 67

Doctor Jefferson was speechless. He looked at Trip with the deepest expression of sincere sympathy. A sullen Danny thanked the doctor for being there. The EMTs provided the doctor with a quick update, as they pushed Fianna out of the dark night and into the sterile lights of the emergency room. Doctor Jefferson checked her vitals, relieved at her relative stability, but he knew things could change in an instant. He waved the paramedics on to the already prepped operating room. He told the head nurse to get Fianna in and prepped, stat. The anesthesiologist was ready and waiting inside. Doctor Jefferson stopped at the doors leading back towards the operating room and turned back to Trip, both men sharing the unspoken pain of the tragedy.

“My God Trip, I am so very sorry. But there isn’t much time.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your wife has lost a lot of blood, she’s stable right now, but…”

“But…but what?” Trip’s insides wanted out. His nerve endings were firing randomly and fiercely. The déjà vu moment weighed heavily upon his shoulders, and his soul.

“You have to give me a decision—right now.”

“Whatever doctor, what do you need? What can I do?”

“In such a case…”

“Yes?”

“If it comes to it…”

“Yes…?” Trip’s veins filled with ice shards, freezing and slicing at him like razors from the inside.

“If we can save only one, do we save you wife or your child?”

Trip lost control of his lower body, his knees buckled and he began his descent. The doctor helped lower him into a nearby chair. “My God!” Mogil 68

“Trip, I’m sorry, but there is no time. I need an answer before I go in, and I have to go in—now.”

Trip was white as a ghost, his blood frozen. His mind was offline. “Save Fianna-Save our

Baby-Save them both. Please Doctor, I beg of you.”

“I’ll do my best, but still-I have to know…if I have to choose one, who do I save?”

“I can’t lose my Fianna-I can’t lose my wife—not again.” He didn’t blink. “Fianna, save

Fianna.”

The doctor nodded with what little reassurance he could, and he turned and rushed for the operating room.

Trip said to no one, “What did I just do? What did I do? Did I just sentence my child to death?”

It was 7:30p.m, the sun had long since set, and the darkness outside forced its way into the waiting room. Danny sat silently nearby after his elbow was patched up, a small bone chip, and a short blistering bullet trail to mark his brave deed as Trip’s bodyguard. Danny prayed while Trip paced frantically.

Doctor Jefferson entered with his head down and his cheeks sullen. Trip knew, Danny knew, and anyone seeing the expression knew that all was not well. From beneath the darkness in Doctor Jefferson’s face came a flicker of light.

“Trip, we did everything possible, everything we could, but in the end…”

Trip stood tall.

“The damage was so great, the loss of blood so profuse…” Mogil 69

“But, there is one positive thing to report.” The doctor’s face bore a theatrical mask of comfort and sorrow, a disturbing blend of mourning smile. “Your son is alive and well. I cannot express the depth of my condolences on the loss of your wife. I am so deeply sorry.”

“Trip, is there anything I can do, anyone I can call, for you?”

“There is no one.” Head down, he shook Doctor Jefferson’s hand.

“Would you like to see your wife, to say goodbye?”

Doctor Jefferson helped Trip, in a state of shock, on a slow march to post-op to see

Fianna. No words were spoken, just a final kiss goodbye placed by Trip, with the most tender love, on the forehead of his love.

After the devastating shift end, Doctor Jefferson could not process the loss—the

immediacy, the intimacy. Two hours in surgery, saving a newborn child and losing its grievously

wounded mother. After consoling the mourning husband and father, and trying to process the

event himself, Doctor Jefferson walked out of the Emergency Room as the hands of time swept

past nine o’clock and whisked the doctor out into the city night—darkness below, glittering city

lights overhead, shining like a crown of heavenly stars. Instead of heading out, as usual, to dinner

with a friend or colleague, he chose to wander away pensively from the confines of the

emergency room.

On the campus, two diverging walkways offered a lighted path to the city streets. The

doctor chose instead to wander into the darkness between them. The cool, calm, silence and

melancholy offered to him by the crowned branches of the trees, well suited the man in search of

quiet reflection. What could he have done differently? How could he have saved Fianna? The Mogil 70 doctor knew that whatever the answers, that when he returned, his world would never be the same, nor could it.

As Doctor Jefferson meandered along under the trees, the veil of darkness mixed with shimmering beams of moonlight, which sliced through openings in the trees and their branches.

He thought about how far, too far, this one angry, unhinged man went to be heard and the incalculable price of the man’s wrath. Doctor Jefferson reflected back on how earlier today, he too had been intolerant, judgmental, and disrespectful. He now felt partly culpable for Fianna’s death—not for any lack of effort or skills medically, but for his participation in the problem— getting swept away in the hateful media firestorm denouncing Trip and his tale. The doctor had succumbed to the fear-mongering. He had been part of the problem, but as he strolled under the canopy cover, he vowed a permanent change to his life—his mind was beginning to open. He committed to reserve judgment—until he had enough data to make any judgment. It’s the way he should decide—as a scientist. The hardest part would be to have faith in people, particularly in light of the day’s events. His Christian beliefs demanded that he forgive, and lead with compassion and understanding—and hope, and he would honor those beliefs.

His first opportunity for change came rushing towards him into a clearing between the trees—a short, portly old fellow, with thick frazzled salt and pepper hair, and a brilliant white beard. His clothing was of an early colonial Dutch manner—a tattered bright red coat with golden stitching, a plain moss green textile jerkin wrapped about the waist—ornate brown breeches with a floral motif, of ample volume, decorated with rows of buttons down the sides, hose bunched at the knees and spatterdashes below—all topped with a three cocked beaver hat.

He carried with him an ancient wooden bow, and a quiver of slender arrows, with magnificent Mogil 71 red and yellow rooster feathers glinting under the moonlight, across his back. He silently motioned to the doctor to follow.

The doctor, still wearing his white smock and badge, didn’t consider the nature of the man’s request. He instinctively followed, assuming the man would lead him to someone in need of medical care. The man ambled quickly away with an awkward gimp across the south lawn of the university campus through dark ways between the trees, lit by shards and shafts of the full moon’s light. The doctor had to hurry to keep pace, just shy of a full sprint. When they reached the place, a mystical, mythical place, no trace of the city remained. The odd fellow pointed to the patch of daisies, four by six foot. The doctor stared for a moment, lost in wonder, mesmerized and enchanted.

When he looked up, the portly short statured old man had vanished without a wisp or trace. A glint of moonshine caught the doctor’s eye as it reflected off a recessed sleepy hollow seven feet above the ground on the massive Dutch Elm tree. The illumination was brilliant and the doctor saw the two hearts, cupid’s arrow and RVW loves…Sally. The discovery rocked the doctor and he floated down to sit, marveling, bewildered, by the plot of daisies before him that should never have been there, particularly during this chilly time of year. But then again, Trip should never have been here, not now, unless…divine miracle or inexplicable scientific event?

And as cold as the night was, as dour as his temperament, the knowledge that perhaps

Trip had told no lies cut some chill off the doctor’s soul. And it was with this new finding, and the doctor’s introspectively inspired change of heart that the emotional whipping of the day had finally brought the doctor to take a seat at the base of the tree and slip away into a tranquil sleep.

Mogil 72

January 17, 2084, 10:15P.M. Under the Engagement Tree, outside of Columbia

University

Officer VdubV, a tall, burly, New York City police officer, stubbed the toe of his black leather jackboot and nearly lost his balance. Had he stubbed it on something immovable, like a tree root, he would have most certainly fallen. But what he hit moved, and it was far softer than a tree root.

Not wishing to reveal himself to anyone, Officer VdubV trained his pistol light on the ground rather than pulling out his bulky police issued, hand held streamlight. He was shocked to see the old man. The officer’s first thoughts were that the man must be dead, after all, the proximity sensor should have told him that someone was here, but it didn’t. Since the sensor operated using power from the human nervous system, the sensor always shuts down within a few hours of death. He reached down his hand and, pushing aside the man’s long grey beard, grabbed the man’s throat. Nothing.

There should have been a vocal monitor implanted on either side of the old man’s larynx, but there was nothing. How could they monitor him, his speech, without it? Maybe he’s from some third world country still holding on to the dangerous notion of free speech. Officer VdubV tried shaking the man in the tattered smock with his free hand, keeping the light of his fully automatic Colt pistol trained on the man, and at the ready. The old man made a snorting noise as his mouth opened in a sleeping yawn, letting out the foulest halitosis the officer ever encountered. Officer VdubV thought to himself that the old man smells of death.

He shook the old man again, who this time opened his eyes, which shut again quickly as he raised his arms to shield his eyes from the blinding light. Mogil 73

“Who are you? What are you doing here? Where’s your vocal monitor? Why are you out this late? It’s three hours past curfew. You know what that means, don’t you?” Office VdubV was patient by any standards, and dangerously too patient for his role as a career patrolman.

The officer’s rapid fire questions simply bewildered the old man in the once white smock, now stained and tattered by time and the elements. “Where am I? Who are you? What do you want? What time is it? I’m starving.”

“Are you really going there? Asking me questions? You don’t ask me questions, you answer my questions! You’re either crazy or…hell, I don’t know.” The officer was as curious as he was diligent, but under the circumstances, with the missing vocal monitor, the absent proximity sensor—it just didn’t make any sense. This man couldn’t possibly have made it past all the surveillance, all the way to the middle of Manhattan, undetected and unapprehended. Had anyone gotten a visual on him, without a corresponding position marker from the old man’s vocal monitor, the old man couldn’t have made it here. At the very least there would have been an all points bulletin issued for his arrest.

Officer VdubV was now acting overly cautious because he wasn’t supposed to be there either. He had snuck away from his beat after reporting an unknown noise in the darkness to his station dispatch. He was actually trying to take cover under the trees, away from all of the monitoring microphones and cameras, to sky-pi with his girlfriend on a black market wrist-let over the pirate-net, or as it’s more commonly known, the p-net. The p-net could not lock out surveillance completely, but it did operate without tracking capabilities, and it utilized unbreakable megabit encryption. The p-net wasn’t there for strictly nefarious reasons. It also provided a safe haven where private conversations could take place unmolested. It was the last bastion of free speech in America. Mogil 74

The p-net was an untouchable domain and its powerful encryption shielded its users from the law, but its existence was outside of the law, in a realm publicly condemned as outlaw territory. Homeland Security Forces, or HFS, portrayed the p-net as an evil underworld inhabited by pirates and hackers and ip thieves. This ghost realm was really inhabited by those who yearned to be heard, and communicate with others, unmolested. Even the power elite utilized the p-net for their own purposes, personal and professional. For those in power, the p-net provided the ironclad security of plausible deniability they demanded. Yet the p-net gained users, even as the public broadcast announcements repeatedly declared, “the pirate net is where the truth is turned into lies.” The broadcast was always followed by details on the fines and prison time associated with being caught on the p-net. HFS ads ran everywhere portraying the doom that awaited users of p-net to a life sentence in Alabama or Georgia, the two great prison states. But the fear of punishment was insufficient to keep many people off the p-net, especially those who valued freedom of speech over their own potential security.

Although the old man didn’t appear to pose a threat, Officer VdubV didn’t discount the possibility that someone knew about the various ploys the officer used to talk to his girl in private. The old man could be a plant, attempting to catch him illegally communicating on the p- net.

“You know damn well you don’t ask police officers questions! Who sent you here?”

“What? What do you mean?” The doctor was still groggy and disoriented.

“I said, who sent you here?”

“No, I think I got that, but what do you mean by ‘You don’t ask police officers questions?” Mogil 75

The officer looked in the old man’s eyes, now settling in to the renewed sensation of light. He looked genuinely confused to Officer VdubV. “You really don’t get it, do you?

Everyone’s inculcated from the time they say their first word, to watch your words and use them judiciously. After all, you’re only allocated ten million. You go over the limit, and well, you know. And besides, the last thing you want to do is question authority. You’re acting like this is news to you, like you don’t know all this.”

“No, I don’t know. All I know is I came out to think about a patient I lost, a new found friend’s wife, and I fell asleep here. So maybe you could be a little more helpful, because I have no idea what you’re jabbering on about.”

“Going over the ten million word lifetime limit is a death sentence. Not having a vocal monitor—is a death sentence, and you don’t seem to have one. Why not?”

“A vocal monitor? What time is it? I’m really famished.”

“Look, we’re not going anywhere until I figure you out. What’s your angle? Not calling

in right away puts me in great peril. Just tell me why I shouldn’t take you in—right now.”

“I don’t know what you want to hear. I’ve told you everything. I fell asleep here, I woke

up here, but nothing that you’re telling me makes any sense.”

Officer VdubV couldn’t discount the look of confusion on the man’s face, and he

couldn’t just let a man die without knowing why he should. If the department knew what he was

doing…Officer VdubV had taken risks before, but on people he knew. This was different, in so

many ways.

“Can you stand up?” The officer reached down again to offer the man help getting to his

feet. It took a while. The man reached down to his lower back and he grimaced from the effort.

He reached for the sky. Mogil 76

“You don’t have to put your hands up.”

“I’m just trying to get my back muscles to break free. They feel like they’ve been locked up for a long time.”

“Ok, but let’s get back to the questions—who sent you here?”

“Why all the questions? This is a free country, isn’t it?” And that caused the officer even greater concern.

“Free country? I’m sorry, now you’ve got me confused. Do you think this is Norway, or

Finland? This is America, land of the secure and home of the protected. You know, it’s like they always say, those who would choose freedom over security deserve neither.”

“Are you sure it’s not ‘those who would choose security over liberty deserve neither’?”

“That’s very funny wiseguy, and makes no sense.”

“Look, I really need to eat. It feels like I haven’t eaten in a hundred years.”

“We’re not going anywhere, or doing anything, until you tell me who sent you.” Officer

VdubV was willing to give the old man the benefit of the doubt, but not without some assurance that the old man wasn’t part of a sting.

“Look officer, no one sent me here. I ended my shift at the campus medical center, walked out here, fell asleep, and you just woke me up. That’s it. Honest.”

“So what’s your name? That’s an easy enough question.”

“Doctor Broderick Carver Jefferson. I work at the Columbia University Medical Center.

Look at my badge—here, see?”

Officer VdubV didn’t get the joke if there was one, Columbia University? So he played along and cracked back, “I get it now. You’re South American. That explains it.” Mogil 77

“Very funny. No, I work right here at the university.” The doctor pointed out into the darkness in the direction he thought the university was.

“No, those buildings—over there” pointed the officer in the same direction, “are the re­ education center and termination processing center. So you’re saying you work at the RAT center? Which one—the REC center, or the TPC center?”

“The what or the what?”

“You really don’t know, do you?” Officer VdubV could not shake the feeling that the doctor just dropped out of the sky, he couldn’t fake the massive confusion that kept building on his face, or could he?

“All I know is that I’m hungry, and confused. Maybe after you get me something to eat, this’ll all make some sense.”

“Well, I’m all in on this now, and there’s no turning back—I’m already in too deep.

We’re going to have to get moving. How fast can you move?”

“Don’t insult me. I may be a little stiff, but I’m only forty-five, and in great shape.”

The officer almost chuckled at the notion. He took a quick photo of the doctor and showed it to him, and the doctor’s shocked reaction provided further evidence of the old man’s disbelief of—everything.

“Holy spirit of Jesus, that’s not me! Whoever that is, is older than tarnation. I don’t get this—that can’t be me—but I sure do feel like that. I guess we’re going to have to find out how fast this old man can move.”

“I’m still going to have to figure out what to do with you. Because if I take you in— that’s it.”

“That’s what?” Mogil 78

“Like I said, no vocal monitor—death sentence. And for me harboring you—maybe the same. My record’s pretty clean, but…I really don’t know.”

The doctor turned away from the officer to try and gather his thoughts, but Officer

VdubV hastily grabbed the doctor’s shoulder tightly and snatched him back—face to face.

“Hey, don’t turn away like that. That’s the quickest way to end your life when an officer is talking to you. We’re trained to shoot first, security always.” The officer spoke with compassion rather than confrontation, believing at this point that the doctor posed little direct threat. “Look, I have to make a couple of quick calls to get us to my place. Hang tight for a minute, and we’ll go get you some food.”

“Thank you officer.” The doctor’s stomach grumbled a mumbly thank you as well.

The officer tapped the wrist-let. “Honey, not tonight. Tomorrow.” The doctor heard the woman bemoaning “Why not?” The officer said only “Problem. Love you,” and ended the call.

“Just another call for cover or else we’ll both end up…well, just hold tight.” The officer tapped the device again. “Dex.”

Dexter answered back. “Again? What now?”

“Cover me?”

“Why?”

The officer sent Dex the picture of the doctor. “That’s why. I’ve gotta get him to my place, and then figure out what to do.”

“No way! You know what’ll happen if I get caught. We have a deal—emergency only.

This ain’t no emergency.”

“It is an emergency—only I’m not sure how. Not yet. Look, I’m the one taking the real risk—for me it’s death for harboring an unknown, for you—house arrest, and locked off the grid Mogil 79 for a year for aiding. It’s not like you work on the main grid anyway, so really you’ve got nothing to lose. On top of that, you’ve got the gear to cover us. Besides you owe me.”

“Yeah, yeah—I owe you. I love this whole bottomless debt thing we got going here. You save my life one damn time and…give me two minutes, then run like hell. I can get you five minutes of surveillance cover—max. Can you get this guy home in less than five minutes?”

“If I have to carry him, I will. Just do it.”

“I’m on it. But, you gotta move in two. Some day you’re gonna owe me.”

“Yeah, I’ll owe you—thanks Dex.”

The two men began moving right on the two minute mark, hustling but not quite running.

The officer’s streamlight got them through the trees quickly and safely. Dexter’s bot covered their escape. The bot was an automated program that worked by feeding a one minute loop of captured data into the surveillance system five times into all the local cameras and microphones, covering the officer and doctor from the point of departure to the officer’s flat a block away. The bot would show nothing and sound nothing, for the city is always silent after curfew.

The dash to sanctuary was rather uneventful. The officer’s flat was only a long block away and the trees and RAT center provided most of the cover while Dex’s bot did the rest. The

8:00P.M. curfew meant the streets were clear, and if someone had been out, that would have been a whole other problem. The officer knew they had made it clean. Otherwise Federal Police or HFS agents would have nabbed them before they made it inside.

The doctor’s eyes were finally adjusting to the light. Inside, the small flat was sparsely decorated, a kitchenette with a small black metal table with two matching chairs, a rugged brown vinyl sofa that spanned one wall, and a work desk with an slim, empty frame and a keyboard Mogil 80 stenciled onto the desktop. The few lights were all recessed and hidden behind high dispersion glass. The doctor placed his hand on his grumbling stomach and took a seat at the kitchen table.

Officer VdubV slid open the black refrigerator door in the kitchen wall, revealing a modest selection of edibles.

“Would you prefer something sweet? Or maybe a protein smoothie?”

“Anything, please. I don’t think my stomach’s going to be choosy right now.” The doctor’s stomach growled once again in affirmation. The officer turned towards the doctor with one hand holding a plate with the remaining piece of sheet cake from his parents fortieth anniversary party, and the other with holding a bottle of sparkling water. He hoped this would hold the doctor over for a bit.

Officer VdubV looked the doctor in the eyes and put his finger to his lips, and quietly said “Hold tight. I’ve gotta check in, and you have to keep silent. Got it?”

The doctor nodded, already busy inhaling the sweet vanilla cake and washing it down with the water.

Using the two-way, the officer called in, “Ops, this is Vdub, come in please.”

“Roger that Vdub, what’re you doing at home? Over”

“Mother nature. Over”

“Alright, you’ve got 15. Over”

“Roger, over and out.” And he switched the radio off. He again raised his hand in front of the doctor’s face and put his index finger to his lips. The doctor remained focused on eating, but nodded to the officer who walked across the room, opened a door, which turned on a light and fan to create some white noise. He then proceeded to take a seat at the desk, and the empty frame Mogil 81 filled with the image of a computer screen. The doctor could hear tapping on the desktop as the apartment walls, ceiling and floor were soon littered with pin point purple lights.

“We’re good now, but I still have to figure out what to do with you.”

The doctor took a deep breath and the last swig of water from the large glass bottle labeled Golden Silence Waters. “Why don’t you just let me go home now? It’s really not far from here.”

“That’s not an option. You can’t be out after curfew. And you can’t be here, or even be from here, really, not without the proper monitoring gear—you’re a ghost to the system. By the way, where’re you from anyway?”

“I live on 127th street between Malcolm X and Madison. And why can’t I be here?”

“You can’t be here, because I’m harboring you, and I’m not ready to die, or worse.

You’re a free vocal, and you’re facing a death sentence of your own. I don’t know how you made it so far on the island without getting caught, and it’s partly because of your wild luck that

I’m sucker enough to help you. I’m taking a huge risk. I don’t believe you, but I get the sense that you believe what you’re saying.”

The officer began to pace a circle around the small flat.

“You said you live where? 127th?”

“Yes, between Malcolm X and Madison.”

Officer VdubV stepped up his pacing.

“But you said you live near here, didn’t you?”

“Yes, maybe ten or twelve blocks.”

The officer abruptly stopped and plopped hard in the chair across the table from the doctor. Officer VdubV cocked his head to the right. Mogil 82

“Either you’re lying, or else I don’t know what.”

“Why would I lie?”

“Well there’re no such streets. At least not now. There used to be a 127th street, but hell, that was when I was a kid. Thirty years ago everything above 125th was razed, to make way for the RAT centers, the re-education center and termination processing centers—they cover the whole north end of the island.”

“Officer, when exactly is now?”

“It’s about 9:30P.M.”

“No, what’s the date, the year?”

“You really don’t know? Really? Ok, it’s November 24, and tomorrow is Thanksecurity

Day.” The officer looked the old man straight in the eyes, looking for anything that could help explain how the man got here, but there was nothing—the doctor looked, scared, dazed and confused.

“Thanksecurity Day?”

“I’m starting to get the feeling that you really don’t belong here. Thanksecurity Day, the day honoring American Security, a day free of speech.”

“Officer, what’s your name? I sure don’t seem to know much of anything right now.

Nothing makes sense. But I’ve seen your eyes before—but I’ve never seen you, that I know.”

“Officer VdubV. Why?”

“No, doesn’t ring a bell. Is VdubV your first or last name. Aww, it doesn’t really matter.

But your eyes, that’s one thing I know for sure, I’ve seen them before.”

“Not possible, we’ve never met. I’d remember.” Officer VdubV leaned back, putting some distance between them. Mogil 83

“VdubV? That’s a name like Will-I-Am, or India.Aire, isn’t it? Like the big hip-hop stars.”

“Hip-hop stars? Will-iam, India-aree? Never heard of any of that.”

“Nevermind, but is VdubV an abbreviation, or something else?”

“Yeah, it’s my handle. It’s what they called me at the academy. Everyone had to have a handle and VdubV is mine.”

“So why? Why’d they tag you with that?”

“My last name is Van Winkle. I’m the fifth in my family line.”

Officer VdubV thought the doctor was having a heart attack, or a stroke. He’d seen kids react like this to designer drugs like extasy cubed. The old man was there, but he wasn’t—he was nearly catatonic.

“Doctor Jefferson,” Officer VdubV snapped his fingers in front of the doctor’s stunned face. He tried to bring the doctor back and rouse him at the same time by taking hold of the old man’s shoulders, “Doctor, what’s happening to you?”

“My good God almighty, it can’t be. You told me it’s November, but what year?”

Officer VdubV watched as the doctor’s face as it morphed from confusion to despair,

“It’s 2084, why?”

“You’re Rip Van Winkle?”

Now Officer VdubV was flabbergasted, “How do you know that?”

“I delivered your father. I had to choose—between saving your father or your grandmother. I let her die—I had to let her die, I couldn’t save her, but I saved your father.”

“Now you’re starting to worry me, Doctor Jefferson, if that’s what you are, who you are.” Mogil 84

“But your eyes, you’re Trip Van Winkle’s grandson, aren’t you? You have Trip’s eyes, your father’s eyes.”

The officer’s jaw nearly unhinged, it dropped so hard and fast. “Trip Van Winkle? He was my grandfather, I’m V, Rip Van Winkle, V. But you couldn’t know that. You couldn’t be here. You can’t be here. Grandpa told me about it, and about you, years ago, before he passed— grandma, the bullet, her death. But now you’re trying to tell me that you’ve just had the whole

‘Rip Van Winkle experience?’ Unbelievable, and to think I trusted you. Or else you’re just playing me. What, exactly what’s your game here?” Officer VdubV was now angry, and shaking badly.

“I have no game. But I wouldn’t believe me either. I didn’t believe your grandfather until now. You may only come to believe it if ever happens to you.”

“My grandfather’s story—it’s all hogwash. And least of all, you can’t have—they never did. Not grandpa or his fabled, fictional grandfather, the ‘Rip Van Winkle.’ The stories are all just fairy tales. How did you know who I was? You’ve gotta stop whatever game you’re playing,

Right now!”

“Well officer VdubV. I get it. I understand the rejection of your family tales. I was right

there with you, once, long ago…not long ago—both spiritually and intellectually. Perhaps one

day, you’ll find the truth. But for now I know I’m a problem you don’t need.” The doctor smiled.

“What are you smiling at?”

“I was just thinking how only a little while ago, I was where you are now. Then you

woke me. The final puzzle piece, you…you found me, in the dark. I can empathize with you,

officer. I know you’re not ready to believe—anything. But what do I do now? I have no vocal

monitor. I’m not ready to die. My world is gone, and I’ve got nowhere to go. Maybe it’s time for Mogil 85 me to leave. But my world, my time, is now buried and gone, lost to history. All I want is to live free or die.”

“The dying part is easy. Living free isn’t.” The officer’s face was contorted by too many emotions for anyone to make out any of them clearly.

“So I have just one question for you, my new found old friend. Can you get me out of here?”

“Where do you want to go?”

“Anywhere I can live free.”

Officer VdubV was hoping he’d wake up soon. This dream was going badly. But he knew. This wouldn’t end well until he disposed of the doctor. So he tapped again on the wrist-let and rang Dex again. “Dex?”

“Yeah-you safe?”

“Maybe, can you deliver a package for me?”

“To where?”

Officer VdubV turned to the doctor. “You have a choice to make-and you have to make it right now. Sun or Snow?”

“What do you mean?”

“You wanna’ live in the sun or the snow?”

“Frankly, I never liked the cold…”

“Dex…?”

“Yeah.”

“The package is going to Columbia.”

“Roger that. Have the package ready in five. Courier’s on the way.” Mogil 86

Officer VdubV breathed deep. “Well doctor, five minutes, and you’re on your way to freedom. Before you go, I have to ask was any of my grandfather’s story real? Or was it all just some crazy fantasy?”

The doctor smiled. “It’s all too real for me. You may just need to wait and decide in your own time.”

There was one swift knock on the front door, and handshake, and a goodbye. “I hope you find what you want doctor.”

“And you as well, Rip.” And the doctor jumped in the waiting ride, leaving this world, his world, behind.

Mogil 87

Annotated Bibliography

Irving, Washington. The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Esq. A New Edition ed.

London: John Murray, 1834. 43-72. Print.

Even here, in an early printing of the 2 volume set of tales, there is no

mention of Washington Irving to be found. Yet, how can one doubt that this

was his handiwork? After all, it has been well documented over the past two

centuries. Hasn’t it? I believe this is Irving’s way of throwing a stone in the

waters of history, unsettling the sediments and mucking the presumably

clear streams of history. Is it possible that, like the tale of King Arthur, time

will permit this series of stories to become accepted in some circles as non-

fiction? No one can say with any certainty. That is precisely what I believe

that Irving felt about history, that veracity was subservient to authority. If

the author was credible, then too so shall be the story.

His disregard for the status quo, and his successful attempts to further

thought and discussion on the matters of history, politics and other broad

reaching topics have endeared me to the author. His stories, and the manner

in which he brings literature to every man, woman and child, makes me

admire him all the more. Though the choice to read “Rip Van Winkle” was a Mogil 88

calculated dart throw at a map of American Literature, it hit the mark with

me.

Plung, Daniel L. ""Rip Van Winkle": Metempsychosis and the Quest for Self-

Reliance." Rocky Mountain Review of Language and Literature 31.2 (1977):

65-80. Print.

This article reinforced that adage that there is nothing new under the sun.

On a philosophical level, there is an argument to be made on both sides, but

in terms of human language the argument can easily tip in favor of the

nothing new argument. Plung presents many of the historical underpinnings

and original stories from which Washington Irving brought the story of “Rip

Van Winkle” to life. After reading and re-reading Plung’s article and Irving’s

tale, I’d come to conclude that Irving had plucked the healthy bones of many

old tales, and by dressing them up in uniquely American colors, his tale

became an original.

This article also gave me the idea that I too, could work from the bones of

Irving’s and others work to create a new story, a new millennium relative to

Irving’s and others. Over time, and through working and re-working the

story, the new tale came to (in my opinion) stand on its own, while still

honoring the works that came before.

Mogil 89

Young, Philip. "Fallen from Time: The Mythic Rip Van Winkle." The Kenyon Review 22.4

(1960): 547-73. Print.

This article brought to light information about the origins of the Rip Van Winkle story

before unbeknownst to me. The notion that there is nothing new under the sun may seem

little more than a whimsical adage, it applies in the case of Washington Irving’s tale with

great relevance. Irving was aware of, and unabashedly appropriated the German tale of

Peter Klaus for not only the structure of the Rip Van Winkle tale, but much of the detail,

and indeed the essence of the Klaus story found a way into Irving’s tale altered little. And

though the Van Winkle tale heavily borrows upon the German tale, the number of related

antecedent tales that follow similar plot and story lines is long and wide spread, much

like stories of the Great Flood.