Date: Mon, 6 Feb 2006 16:15:02 EST
From: PointGuardMo@aol.com
Subject: SandLot Investment Company Part B

Standard Disclaimer:  This is a mostly fictional portrayal based on mostly
purely coincidental  artistic license taken with a factual accounting of some
brief events that may  involve potentially explicit language and possibly
graphic gay sex. If you are  underage and/or offended by such, please exit now.
You can email your  critique to me at _PointGuardMo@AOL.com_
(mailto:PointGuardMo@AOL.com)

SandLot Investment  Company
Part  III
by
Christopher Robin
Readers Comments from  Initial Posting:
*  *  *     *  *  *
Most  certainly worth the read. Ingeniously written. Different, refreshing.
Absolutely  full of passion. I can not at all tell the age of you , the author.
 I love  that. What an incredible story.  I can not wait until the next
installment.  Although if they are all that lengthy, I can be patient.
-  dvldog
*  *  *     *  *  *
OMG!  I cried off and on thru that whole thing! It was W O N D E R F U L! I
really  HOPE that that wasn't the end?!? Thanks for writing AND sharing it ..
strange as  it may sound, in a way it has changed my thinking ..
-Hugs,  Jack
*  *  *     *  *  *
Thank  you for entertaining me with your posting of "The SandLot Investment
Company".  I really enjoyed the story and appreciate the time and effort that
you put  in to it. I look forward to reading more of your writing in the
future.
-Thanks, David in Colorado
*  *  *     *  *  *
Definitely  the strangest story I have ever read on Nifty, but I liked it a
lot.
-Jon,  Salt Lake  City
*  *  *     *  *  *
great  story....altho i will tell you i got a little confused with chapters 2
and 3,  but then i figured out from where you were writing. clever! anyway,
wish i could  find someone like david/robert!!! thanks for sharing via the
nifty  site.
-randy,  san juan capistrano, california
*  *  *     *  *  *
This  is the first time I have written to an author about a story on Nifty.
Chris's  school assignment story and the way you continued the primary story
moved me to tears as it all unfolded. Thank you for such a strong  story.
-Sincerely,   Eric
*  *  *     *  *  *
You can't end the story there!!!  please!!! take it from a guy who fiddles
with words too.. you have a gift. a  very rare gift.  you captivated me from the
start.  words really fail  me now, about this story.  except, YOU CANT END IT
THERE! The boy with the  brown hair, and wire rimmed glasses?? oh my god..
great touch!!! literally sent  shivers down my spine!
-Bear Hugs,  Jim
*  *  *     *  *  *
Incredibly different and original.  Couldn't believe I found it on Nifty.
-Jack
*  *  *     *  *  *
Great  job. Hope there is more to the story.
-Bob
*  *  *     *  *  *
Sandlot  is a jewel.  Thanks for sharing it with us.  I hope you have many
more  to come. The imagination in SandLot is a bright spot on nifty.
-ciao,  Bill
*  *  *     *  *  *
Chapter 4
Hi Guys,
It's me again, Chris.  It's been quite a while since I wrote  anything to
you guys or added to my story.  Maggie showed me where she wrote chapter 3 and
how she used my email  account to post the story on nifty.  Neither one of us
liked the way all the formatting was lost in  translation.  I mean, she said
she  read the instructions just like I did; neither of us, it seems, could
figure out  what we were supposed to do. I guess part of the problem is our version
of Word  maybe doesn't match up to the instructions or something. If any of
you guys  might want to help us out with some tips, well, you should know, we'd
love you  for it.
Anyway, Maggie is a pretty good  story teller, huh?  She told me she  called
Captain Mueller and he gave her the part on what it was like down there  on
SandLot  Island last summer, plus  she and my Dad have always been tight.  So,
yeah, I think she did real good on her homework, if you know what I  mean,
besides, she's pretty good at describing what other people are seeing so I  was
especially glad she had offered to help me out.  I just wish we could get the
formatting  cleaned up.
I do have to tell you, though, I  think Maggie got a little carried away
there with her last scene. I mean, it's  true Trey and I really did hit it off
right away and that mirage thing, well  that was real too. It's just that well, I
wouldn't really ever say, you know,  that I was going weak in the knees on
account of his "captivating smile" or  "dark brown puppy dog eyes".  She  was
getting all carried away on that part is what I figured and she had already
posted the story before I could make her change that part. I mean what do
expect, after all, she's a girl.  Its okay, I mean I guess I really do like Trey
in a way that is kind of  different than I usually like most people; guys, I
mean. Maggie says we have  this connection, me and Trey, and I guess she's
mostly right about that.  She also says "he's so sweet", but I  just think he's
about the nicest friend I could imagine having, especially since  my uncle is
gone. I do catch myself becoming kind of uncomfortable whenever we  are
wrestling around, or just doing horseplay, and well, I don't want to spell  it out
here, you know, but I find that interesting, don't you?  Maggie said it was like
we were  introduced by uncle Robert and I'd already sort of figured that out
myself.  I'm not that smart when it comes to  things that are out of this
world like that but I guess I can't argue with what  happens right before my own
eyes.
Anyway, the reason I decided I  would add to the story of the SandLot
Investment Company is on account of two or  three different things that happened.
The first one is that I went down to Florida for Thanksgiving with all  the
staff down there and that was, well, I don't know how to describe what it  was
like.  I mean, if I said it was  great, that would be true, but it would only
describe it maybe 5% of the  way.  It really was like falling  into the swimming
pool and feeling the comfort and exhilaration of the water as  you plunge
beneath the surface, come back up and float there. Only instead of  water, it was
like sort of taking a swim in love. I mean this sincerely, it was
indescribable.  My friends down  there, the ones I've known for some time and even some
of the newer guys, well  it was like they could reach out and caress my soul.
I never felt anywhere near as close as  that to my friends up here, not like
that, well, maybe except for Trey, but  that's different.  It was amazing,
really it was, and I don't care if someone does think I'm crazy.  Maybe I am,
but all I'm doing is telling  you exactly how it was, best I can.
I'm sorry for getting sidetracked  all the time.  I think I got that  from
you-know-who, but what I was going to tell you is that when I was down  there, I
found Uncle Robert's Journals.  They were locked in the safe in his study and
I don't think they've ever  been read by another living person. So anyway, I'
ve been reading some of them  and what I have read so far really and truly
blows me away. I decided that a lot  of it would go good with this story if I
sort of shared certain parts of what he  had written down.
I guess he was keeping a journal  ever since he was only ten years old.
There are over a hundred books and it's all in his writing and since he  didn't
have the best handwriting, well, it takes me a while to get going.  I think
after a while I'll probably get  use to his style and it'll be just like it was
him reading and it'll go  faster.  I don't mind though, not  one bit, because
the way it is now, I guess it's like I get to spend some more  time with
Uncle Robert, even if I can't really reach out and touch him in a  physical way.
I said there were two or three  reasons I was thinking of continuing with
this story and his journals was  one.  Another reason is, I guess you  could say,
I'm learning the business.  The markets are really interesting to me and I go
by the office here  every chance I get so I can watch what's going on and
maybe learn something  new.  I've started spending more  time there than I guess
I ever spent working on the  farm.
I did play football this past  season and I'm back on the court now for
basketball.  We were eliminated in the regional  championship in the football
playoffs but the only reason is because Tyler  Watson, you may remember him, he's
our defensive leader, middle linebacker, and,  well, he got his knee bent six
ways to Sunday on a play in the district game and  we ain't got anyone as good
as Tyler when it comes to making sure the defense is  firing on all positions.
Anyway, we had almost 400 yards passing in that  regional game, another 168
yards rushing, scored 56 points and still lost by a  field goal.  It was a
great game and  all, but sometimes you can do everything right and if you don't
have a Tyler  Watson on the field with you, it just won't be enough.  He felt
bad, I guess, not that it was  his fault or anything, so we gave him the game
ball. We all signed the ball and  wrote a message to him on it that said, "We
missed You." He gave us a hard time,  but I think he really liked that.
I know, I was getting sidetracked  again.  I guess I just got too much  of my
uncle in me, but anyways, I was saying I was learning the business.  There
are two aspects of the business  and they are equally important.  What we do and
Why we do it.
What we do is trade over 1,000  highly liquid equities on the New York,
American and Nasdaq stock exchanges and over 50 futures contracts on the
commodity exchanges in New York and Chicago.  We also have traders in options, bonds
and currencies but I haven't got that far along yet.  Still, all of it mostly
works the same  way.
There is what is called an  electronic trading platform.  It  allows you to
see real time every single trade as it is happening on the  exchange, just like
you were right there on the exchange floor in person, and  then you can
either jump in or not.  There are basically two different approaches to use in
trading and they  have to do with how you make your decisions on whether you want
to buy or  sell.  One is called fundamental  analysis and the other is
technical analysis.  These are the most common, though I've  heard there are others
like throwing a dart at the stock price report pages of a  wall street journal
tacked up on the wall.  I don't really recommend that latter approach, though I
've been told a  lot of times it works about as well as what most people do
in trading the  markets, sometimes better, seriously.
So once you have your analysis  approach to help you make the decision as to
what and when to trade, you have to  determine How you will trade.  You  can
trade discretionary, meaning, you personally make the decisions on when to
pull the trigger one way or the other based on your observations at the time, or
you can system trade by letting a computer do all the trigger work for you.
We  can do both, but almost all of our trading is done in the systems  style.
So anyway, all this transaction  information, price and volume, comes into
the trading platform and we program  our computers to do instantaneous analysis
and immediately either generate a  buy, sell or stand aside signal.  It's all
automated.  I've  been learning the programming part.  It was all Greek to me
when I started but now I know about inputs,  functions, variables, assignment
statements, loops, operators, conditional  statements, reserved words,
nesting, and arrays and how to write a procedure.  Matt tells me I'm just getting
started and I figure he means I've still got a  whole lot to learn. I can do four
different types of procedures but the strategy  type procedure is the only
one that makes money. The procedures I've done so far  aren't very
sophisticated, maybe a few dozen lines of code each.  The real ones, running real time,
some  have several hundred lines of code and it all happens in the blink of an
eye.  We use technical analysis for  timing and then the other three types of
procedures help us do statistical  analysis so that's how we decide what, when
and how much to either buy or sell  of this or that. The only fundamental
analysis we do is on what's called the  macro picture, i.e., the big picture.  If
we are in a bull market for something, we use the bull market  procedures,
vice versa for a bear market or if we are going  sideways.
That's it.  That's what I've been learning in the  business so far.
Now the other part of the business  is Why we do what we do.  I am sure  you
know that there's a lot of people in the world who are not very fortunate,
and other times, people, who otherwise would be doing well, sometimes fall on
hard times.  Most of the people,  hundreds of millions, even maybe more than
three billion of the people on our  planet don't have much of a chance at
getting by.  They do everything they possibly can  just so they and their families
can survive in the most meager of  circumstances.  That's all they have  and
likely will ever have. You may find this hard to believe, but millions of  those
people, eighteen million is the World Bank's number, mostly kids, will die
every year just from poverty.  In  our country, opportunity abounds, but in
most places in the world, people are  not so lucky, for whatever reasons.
Sometimes people have opportunities but because of other things, like  physical,
mental or emotional problems, or even some disaster or something, they  fall on
hard times too.
There are,  relatively speaking, a few people around  the world who devote
their entire careers to just helping these various types of  people in need.  I
guess they're  some of our most inspiring heroes, once you get to know some of
them and some of  the things they do.  At SandLot  Investments, we have about
a dozen full time staff people who each are assigned  to one of these groups,
like the ICRC for example.  Our person, guy or girl, looks at all  the
projects their organization is doing and the ones where we can help, he or  she
recruits a team and we at SandLot fund them and their project until they are
done, then we just start the process all over again.  It just keeps going and
going, kind of  like the energizer bunny.  Our  person on that team will average
between fifteen and twenty projects each, at  any given time. Anyway, that's
why we have SandLot Investments, to support, as  best we can, the efforts of all
those heroes.
We don't have any investors and we  don't manage anybody else's money.  When
my uncle first got started, he would put over 60% of his net profits  into
the SandLot Trust Fund and over the years it has grown and grown into this
massive amount of money. Today, still over 60% of our profits stay in this  fund.
We do more and more projects  every year.  Now this is what I find
distressing;  one of the greatest  organizations I now know of is the United Nations
Children's Fund (UNICEF).  Last year, two-thirds of their funding  came from
world governments and the other third came from private donations.  Now, SandLot
is not that big right now, but even so,  if you added up everything we spent
on  these various projects this past year alone, it would be more than 25% of
all  worldwide private contributions to UNICEF last year. I'm not saying this
to make  SandLot sound great or anything, it is to me, but the reason I mention
this is  so you will know how relatively little support the world's greatest
heroes have  from the most privileged in our society.  It's really baffling,
at least, that's how I see  it.
I thought of something else, and I  figure you might too, so I might as well
mention it.  We could empty the trust fund tomorrow  and help out a lot more
people right now, tomorrow night, but what then?  We wouldn't have any capital
to trade  with, so after that, we'd be back to square one, starting all over.
No, the plan is, since this is a  perpetual trust, we will continue doing
more and more projects and growing the  trust, and given the growth trajectory we'
ve maintained for the past 5 years,  well it will only take us another forty
some-odd years to be in a position for  SandLot to always be there for any of
these organizations, on any continent, any  and every time they need us. That
could be in my lifetime.  There ain't anything else I could ever  dream of
doing that I would even consider.  Now I understand why Uncle Robert spent so
many hours in the office down  there when he was still alive.  I  told you before
that Gramps and my Dad said Uncle Robert was a dreamer; well, I  think now
that I know more, I would rather say that he was a  visionary.
The numbers of those people in  need continues to grow but there will come a
point, mathematically, when we will  hit the inflection point.  When we  get
to that marker, the numbers of those in need will finally start declining,  but
only if we continue to increase the support we give to the efforts we are
presently engaged with. Right now the curves are still headed the wrong way, but
 the day is coming, and will hopefully come sooner rather than later, where
we  will see a change in the way those numbers stack up.
Supposedly, a visionary is one who  has foresight, some would say, pursuing
the unrealizable, the impossible  dream.  Well, you should know, I've  looked
at the numbers on both sides of the ledger, so to speak, and I don't  think
Uncle Robert's dream is impractical at all.  I mean, you've got to have faith,
right?  I mean, if you want to move mountains?  My uncle had faith, I know
that.  My friends working down there in Florida right now have faith, unshakeable
faith, and now I have faith too.  It's really quite contagious. Ain't that
great?
Finally, the third reason why I  thought I ought to continued writing the
story is that Maggie and Trey  "absolutely loved it".  Personally,  I don't know
anything about what makes a good story or a bad story, but they're  really
interested so I'm going along with them.  They did make me agree that we could
only read what each other had written after it was posted.  No editing allowed
within our little  click so that way it would be as honest an accounting as
possible of what was  unfolding around us, at least in our own respective
eyes.
Trey has started working on the  next chapters. He said he didn't know when he
'd get finished with them but when  he does he'll post my letter to you guys
as a way of introducing what he's  recorded. I am sure that when he does get
through writing his version of events,  I'll be about as nervous as you can
imagine as I read the first installment  presented by the brown haired boy in
the wire frame  glasses.
Later  Guys,
Chris

SandLot Investment  Company
Part III  Continued
by
Trey  Simmons
Chapter 5
He was just sitting there, seemingly  unaware of the presence of the many
faces and voices clattering on around him,  that boy I had heard so much about
for so many months.  He would pick at the food in front of  him, occasionally
looking up when someone asked for his attention, nod a  response as he willed
himself to display, at least, yet mostly, a half-hearted  interest to the
interrupter, and then go back to rearranging the vegetables on  his plate. It made
me feel so sad, distressed even, with a gnawing emptiness,  strong and deep
within my own soul,  just sitting there among these people,  mostly strangers to
me, not being able to go over to that boy and lift him out  of what seemed,
the sinkhole of all miseries.
Robert Alexander had, on numerous  occasions, and without any expressed
invitation from me, rendered my feeble  brain senseless as he'd wax on and on,
excitedly inundating me with an  encyclopedia of the many features, facets, and
perhaps, the entire historical  record of his young nephew. That boy, as far as
I had ever been told, did not  have even a single fault in the world, not that
his uncle mentioned, at least  none that I recalled. I had seen the pictures,
hanging prominently in the family  room at the Harbor Beach estate, but, and
I can honestly reveal this now,  looking at a picture of that boy sitting
there, just at the next table over, is  far from the effect one receives when
confronted with the living, breathing,  real life version of the authentic model.
It really did necessitate an  inordinate marshalling of my normally abundant
self-control for me to deny the  overwhelming impulse to rise from my chair
and present myself as a savior to the  blond haired godling, sitting there just
beyond my reach, lost in his  loneliness.
Six long forgettable weeks have  elapsed since my parents uprooted me from
the Mecca of my paradise on the southeastern coast  of the sunshine state.  I
had,  involuntarily, been relocated to what I have accepted as a concentration
camp in  this heartland twilight zone, far away from the easy living and loving
that had  graced the only other fifteen years of my existence. Finally, after
the  seemingly endless torture of my recent isolation, here in the so-called
show-me  state, I sat within "spitting distance" of, quite probably, the only
link I  would ever find in this place to the world of life and love I had
been force to  abandon at the beginning of this suffocating  nightmare.
Those terrible days were almost  certainly coming to an abrupt end, and I was
hoping without further adieu, as I  frequently, in these moments, found
myself,  fascinatingly, preoccupied with the side  profile of the sun drenched boy
sitting there, seemingly, almost within inches  of my touch.
It would be less than candid of me if  I declined to confess that my
wandering mind stimulated some sensations in my  anatomy which are, oftentimes, best
left not described, at least in polite  company. It seemed the better part of
wisdom, at the moment, and in the absence  of a cold shower, to perhaps take a
walk, and so I slipped the confines of the  gathering there on the lawn and
set out to explore the well-trodden path leading  just beyond the big red barn.

*  *  *     *  *  *
I stood on the banks of the little  creek straining in the dimming light,
unaided by the scattered fireflies, to get  a full picture of this land which had
spawned not only Robert Alexander, but the  boy back there that had been the
object of my undivided attention for the last  two hours.  I'm guessing that
that  field on the other side of the creek was soybeans and the one over from
it, I  knew was corn.  I'd heard the locals  in town talking about harvest time
and I knew that season would be starting any  day now.
The creek was maybe thirty feet wide  on average, some places a bit more. I
couldn't tell anything about the depth but  just down the bank there was an
area that looked to be a swimming hole.  There was an old tire that hung from a
rope tied to a tree branch which hung out over the center of the creek.
Looking back at the farmhouse, it was, I  guess, about two-hundred yards from where
I stood and the barn was almost  exactly in the middle.  I noticed  that my
folks were talking with Chris and his father as they walked back toward  the
house and so I figured now was a good opportunity to present myself to the  only
other person in fallout range who could relate to a refugee from the fort
down south.  My rise in discomfort  having dissipated, I headed back up the path
toward the barn, wondering if maybe  I should be wary of snakes or something.
Just as I got far enough up the path,  right as it weaved itself passed the
barn, I saw Chris running hard in my  direction.  I immediately thought I  must
be in danger, being a stranger in this place.  There was something here that
I hadn't  been warned about and now I was in mortal danger and my rescue was
likely going  to be mistimed, given how hard he was running.  I don't know why,
but I just froze on  the spot. Now, I have been training in self-defense
since I was seven years old,  but the snakes we were taught to defend against didn'
t slither along the ground  in the eve on a farm in some remote town barely
noted on a map. I knew I was  under the influence of panic but it was going to
take a few more breaths before  I could regain my composure.  Chris  had
stopped running and was now walking almost leisurely, directly, towards  me.  Maybe
it wasn't so bad, I  thought; maybe I'd survive to see another sunrise after
 all.
I took his outstretched hand as we  shared introductions and the moment he
touched me, the panic completely  disappeared.  It was in an instant.  I was
thinking of conversation but the only thing I could muster was an apology  for
not having said hi earlier.
I was really quite embarrassed to have  experienced a panic reaction to
something unknown.  I guess extreme sports doesn't do too  much to prepare you for
your worst fears, in my case, that being snakes in the  grass, the real kind.
I wanted desperately to make a good first impression but  I'm sure my face
must have been crimson in color as we chatted and began the  walk back toward the
farm house.  He  wanted to go into town for some ice cream and the thing I
liked most about that  was, finally, my long agonizing solitude in this outpost
of civilization was  about to end.
He was very warm and friendly, not  just the good natured farm boy; his smile
was sincere and when his arm landed  around my shoulders as we continued
walking, I felt like I'd found my very own  savior, not that I still didn't
harbor secret thoughts of offering similar  services to my new found best friend
here, this blond, bronzed jock with the  unearthly deep blue eyes.

*  *  *     *  *  *
That night he took me for a spin in  his gun barrel gray, rocket powered
coach, and when I say spin, I'm not speaking  metaphorically; he hit the
accelerator maybe a tad too much when we reached the  main highway and though we had
started toward town, we immediately found  ourselves facing in the other
direction, laughing like we were still convinced  we had the world by the tail.
I did have a great time that night. It  was like I had finally made it back
home.  Chris could talk a mile a minute, reminding me a lot of his uncle in
that  way. Occasionally, a friend, classmate or some well-wisher would stop at
our  table to offer him a greeting, mostly ignoring me.  He was polite with
every one but he  never missed a beat with whatever he was going on to me about.
I can't remember half of it; all I  remember is the music of his voice as he
went on and on, making me feel like I  was the most important person he'd ever
met, at least, the most important person  in that little farm town, right
then, that night.
When he finally said goodnight and  dropped me off at my house shortly after
Perkins ice cream parlor closed, I was  on top of the world and my folks can
vouch for that.  I won't say anything here that will get  me into trouble but I
do think you should know that when I finally crawled under  the covers that
night, I was relieved and that's with a capital Relieved.  I was looking
forward to tomorrow for  the first time since leaving the fort for this wilderness,
that day, these long,  long six weeks ago.

*  *  *     *  *  *
The next morning I was  awaken as someone ripped open the drapes in my
bedroom and allowed the beaming  rays of sunshine to fill my otherwise peaceful
slumber chamber.  Squinting, I reached for my glasses on  the nightstand and then
found myself greeting the morning, special delivery from  the smiling blond
boy from the farm just outside of  town.
"Hey sleepyhead, how  late do you sleep around here?  We've got to get a
move on or before you know it, the day will be gone  and the cows will be coming
home," teased the smiling  Chris.
"We don't have any cows, I don't  think," was all I could think to mumble,
while trying to block the sun from my  eyes.
"Well, neither do we, but that's what  my Gramps used to always say if I wasn
't up before the sun.  I thought we'd go into the city today;  maybe do some
shopping.  I need some  clothes for school on Monday and I think I want to
upgrade my wardrobe.  I figure you're just the consultant I  need."
"I need to grab a shower first," I  said, trying to figure out how I could
get to the bathroom without embarrassing  myself.  I had woken with the usual
morning wood, but something Chris had no way of knowing is that I never sleep
in  any night clothes, not a stitch.
Chris turned back to the window and  was looking out at the garden my mom had
just had to plant shortly after our  arrival here in this hotbed of
horticulture, even though, I have since learned,  the season for planting had, at that
time, long since passed. I used this moment  of his distraction to slip out of
my bed and over to the open closet door where  hung my bath robe.
"Nice butt," came the words that sent  a flood of hot blood rushing to my
face.  Without thinking, I craned my head over my left shoulder to look at my
behind and in so doing twisted my body just enough for him to see more than I
had planned.
"And full of excitement, too," he  said, grinning ear to ear as my eyes were
reflexively drawn to the boy standing  there just beside the large window. He
appeared to be inspecting the fifteen and  one half years of my physical
development, now on prominent display for all  visitors as I stood there in my
favorite suit, the kind not on sale at any store  I was aware of.
"Good dream," I lied, as I hurriedly  donned the shield of my bathrobe. "I'
m going to grab a quick shower and then  I'll be ready," I said, walking
toward the door, suppressing the urge to ramp to  full throttle in my dash to the
privacy of the adjacent  bathroom.

*  *  *     *  *  *
It's been over a month now, since that  night under the stars, when that
striking blond boy with the deep blue eyes  walked into my life, wearing his ever
present smile, at least in my company.  He's probably the most popular kid in
the entire high school, an apparent  achievement that is hard for me to
believe he ever aspired to, though I'm  certain he would now readily delegate it to
another.  From the first day of school his local  friends found themselves
forced to adjust, rather abruptly, and acceptingly, to  the expected appearance
of the two of us, side by side, on most, if not all  occasions when either of
us were in public.
He commands the celebrated football  team here, the offensive side, from the
pocket of protection he frequents, to  launch an aerial assault on the
regional rivals of my newly acquired  classmates.  The post practice hours  after
school, once almost exclusively my gift, have, in the last couple weeks,
increasingly been stolen by my father and his colleagues at the SandLot office  here
in town.  Brad Cutler has been  teaching Chris the technical side of SandLot;
programming computers and trading  various instruments, both subjects that
have yet to capture my interest.  Lisa Hall has commandeered another  substantial
portion of his time, formerly shared with me, as she indoctrinates  him on
all the logistics and operations the company pursues with various relief
organizations.
Today, we had finally found a few  hours to be alone together in what I was
certain was the first occasion in well  over a week. It was a seasonably warm
afternoon, that Sunday in early October,  as Chris and I laid there, basking in
the fading heat of the autumn sun there on  the bank of the creek down at the
swimming hole.  We had been here a few times before;  swimming, wrestling,
swinging from that old tree and dropping down into the cool  branch water. I
found a large amount of pleasure in our times out here, in the  middle of
nowhere, just him and me, and I guess the birds and bees, though I  never had any
problem with the bees. A couple times, earlier on, we had actually  gone skinny
dipping, but now that the air wasn't nearly as warm, we'd taken to  wearing
trunks, not that I ever complained about being too cool.  I took my cues from
him and never  complained, for the truth is, I was abundantly grateful to have
someone to spend  time with out here in this remote settlement on the outmost
reaches of  civilization's frontier.
I guess, I was feeling some tinges of  frustration in regards to my "bosom
buddy", as we are frequently described; He  seems to be slipping away from me,
not much, but enough so that I did notice  that something inside of me often
feels a longing for his presence, when he's  not there. I have my defense
classes and I've added another instrument to the  tool box of my musical interests;
but nothing I find, to otherwise occupy  myself, seems worthy of the
comparison to the rise in my soul when in the  company of my best friend.
"What are you thinking about?" softly  asked Chris, turning onto his side to
look at me.  He used his right arm to fix a prop for  his head and laid
there, slowly studying my eyes, offering me the gentle  sincerity of his loving
smile.
I glanced at him, saw the eyes, held  the contact for a moment, then looked
back to the patch of harmless clouds  floating overhead in their ocean of blue.
"I was just thinking, you're working  too much. At least, that's what I was
thinking," I answered softly, glancing  again into those warm tender pools of
mesmerizing affection as they held their  steady stare on me for a moment
longer.
His let his eyes fall to the small  space of earth that separated us as we
laid there on the grassy slope of that  creek bank, "I'm sorry," he whispered
apologetically, then returned to my eyes,  wincing as he spoke slowly and just
a bit louder, "it's just that there is so  much going on and so much that
needs to be done."
"Yeah, but you're a kid," I argued,  "You should finish being a kid before
you become a workaholic.  I figure you'll have plenty of time  later in life
to spend working yourself to death."
In the most tender expression I'd ever  seen from him up to that point, he
reached out with his left index finger and  softly touched my lips. I was
immobile, holding my breath even, feeling the  feather-like touch of his gentleness
as I looked into his eyes. There was a  surreal beauty there and it seemed to
mask some sad remoteness, something well  hidden deep behind those lens which
now glistened more than  before.
"One of these days," he whispered,  "I'm going to make it up to you," he
said, promisingly, before taking his finger  away from my lips and placing it
back down by his  side.
I swallowed a couple times and  returned to my study of those floating
pillows moving across the afternoon sky  in their journey to some place off to the
east. He rolled off his side and again  laid on his back, joining me in my
seemingly fascination with those puffy  patches of white gliding along some unseen
highway suspended there a mile  overhead.
I knew what was in my heart; I was  almost certain I knew what was in his.
If only I could safely bridge that last short gap, I was convinced the  reward
would be well beyond addictive. The truth is that sometimes the smallest
cleft can only be traversed with a colossal leap and, in this moment, the  ability
to perform a feat such as that, seemed to be the only thing lacking in  his
athletic prowess.
I made up my mind, right then, right  there on that creek bank, beneath the
autumn sky, I would wait. I guess there  might be even more in my heart than I
suspected, because the truth is, I  couldn't imagine ever wanting to be with
anyone else, ever, in the world, not  like we were here, and not like I hoped
we would one day be. I found myself  treasuring that promised future as the one
thing I could claim which could  surpass the sum of the values of all other
things I had ever  known.

*  *  *     *  *  *

As the days turned into weeks, and  football season morphed into basketball
season, he took to spending even more of  his free time, outside of school and
his sports, over there on Concord Street,  immersed in a world very foreign to
me. He did seem to have me penciled in to  his grinding schedule at least,
for a few hours, a couple nights a week, but  mostly I wanted more and didn't
much understand what was standing in our  way.
We were always together at school and  I never missed any game he had, but
our time alone, just him and me, and maybe  those birds and bees, seemed to have
all but evaporated.  We'd go out to dinner, sometimes to the  movies, and
even on a couple occasions, bowling, but there was always a crowd  and the
entertainment I was looking for is best enjoyed in private.
He never denied me the splendor of his  smile and more often than not, he
tease me a bit, in an intimate sort of way,  suggesting that perhaps he knew more
about my weakness than he'd previously  revealed.  I loved those occasions,
the ones where he really did seem to be having so much fun. It was then, on
those times, when he seemed most alive and unencumbered with all the goings-on
over there on Concord  Street.

*  *  *     *  *  *
Thanksgiving, the small staff at the  SandLot office in town locked the doors
and headed south to spend the holiday  with family and friends in the place
where we had previously called home.  I went with my folks to stay with my
Nana, my mom's mom, and Chris' parents were joining him at the Harbor Beach
property.  There would be the usual company holiday  dinner Thursday evening at
the peninsula estate but Friday, he had promised, I  thought maybe threatened,
to take me for a spin in the ocean in one of the  Lightnings. As that fateful
day rapidly approached, I had found myself  remembering that spin he'd taken me
on the first night we'd met. Those thoughts  did little to ease my growing
apprehension, not that I'd ever consider saying no  to being alone with my blond
haired friend.

*  *  *     *  *  *
Cruising along the waterway, which has a 5 mph  speed limit, he switched on
the silent mode for the exhaust and I thought perhaps, he would take it easy,
us not  being real racers or anything even close.
In recent years I had spent much of my  leisure time in pursuit of the
ultimate thrill in extreme sports, but racing  boats had, thus far, never made it
onto my agenda.  Even though he had taken a driving  course two summers ago, I
mostly viewed my pilot here as a rookie at best, and  on that score I figured I
was being generous. I was concerned that tackling the  ocean waves at high
speeds could be a bit even beyond what I considered  extreme.  He assured me
that the  waves this November morning were well below the limits of the
Lightning, though  I'm not sure I was convinced.
As we  left the waterway speed zone, moving out into the Atlantic, he
switched off the silent exhaust mode and  motioned for me to get up. He hit a switch
that lowered the bottom cushion on  our two bolster seats and the helm was
changed from sit-down to stand-up  operation. With no time to waste, the
Lightning came up on plane quickly and  effortlessly. I had this striking  sensation
that we had been lifted right out of the water, as we sped along the  tops of
the white crested waves at what the gauge indicated was 30 mph. Reaching  what
I assumed was a suitable distance from the coastline, he turned the  Lightning
south and glanced over at me and made another throttle  adjustment.  In
seemingly less time  than I had to take a breath, the speed gauge jumped to 50 mph.
Again, he looked  over at my rigidity, this time giving me this sort of lazy,
evil grin.  With his left hand, he pointed to the  throttles, and he held his
forefinger and thumb a couple inches apart as a sign  of measurement.  I
figure this meant  we had that much throttle left and as his hand dropped back to
the throttles, I  thought to myself, "Hang on, son." But even as that thought
was translating into  action, the sound of the engines jumped an octave and I
was literally pushed  into the seatback behind me by the acceleration as
Chris pushed the throttles to  the stops.
My ears were filled with the seductive  sound of pure power as the engines
roared. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched the needle  dance upward on the
speedometer, 60, 70, 75 mph, until it hovered just above the  black 8 on the
dial.  Chris again  glanced across, and this time we were twins with big grins
plastered across our  faces. We were one with the Atlantic as we  raced along
at eye-watering speeds.
You can call the Lightning a  performance sport boat or an offshore racer,
but one thing I figured out pretty  quick that November morning; this is a grin
machine.  Pack the cockpit with the grouchiest  people you know, and they'll
be laughing and giggling moments after you peg the  throttles.

*  *  *     *  *  *
We returned to the estate shortly  after lunch and after a quick bite he led
me through the stately library to what  had been Rob's private study.  There
was a large safe in the corner behind the desk, which any casual visitor would
 have guessed to be just another of the many walk-in closets found throughout
the  immense house. Mahogany bookcases lined the inside walls of the
safe/closet, and  on the shelves were quite a number of sea green books, all identical
in  appearance.  He explained that  within those binders was a manuscript
that Rob had meticulously maintained, each  page penned in his own hand, covering
virtually his entire life, documenting  countless events and thoughts as he
deemed worth recording.
And though I wasn't near as fascinated  with his marvelous discovery as him,
I did have to concede that it was,  nonetheless, an amazing accomplishment,
readily recognizing the commitment it  would take for anyone to assiduously
pursue such an effort. After about two  hours of looking through his new `
Priceless Treasure', I finally decided to ask  a question that had been on my mind for
quite some time.
"Can I ask you a personal question?" I  asked.
"Sure, anything, I'm running a holiday  clearance sale on answers this
afternoon, couldn't sell them for ten cents last  week but I can let you have as
many as you want for, oh, make me an offer." he  looked over to me. He was
smiling.
"Did you ever talk to your uncle  about, uh, personal things, like what's
right and what's wrong and stuff like  that?" I asked.
"Yeah, lots of times, why? Something  bothering you?" he asked, laying his
book down. He rolled the chair back a bit  from the desk, propped his feet up,
rested his elbow on the arm of the chair and  brought his hand up to provide a
support for his  chin.
"Well, you know there's like a lot of  gay people who work for SandLot down
here and I guess many of them were hired by  your uncle.  So, I was wondering
if  you guys ever talked about stuff like that." I was trying to be
diplomatic,  realizing this could be a mine field.
"Not directly, no. Is there something  in particular about that on your mind?"
 he asked, pushing me to get away from  diplomacy.
"How do you deal with all this stuff  the preachers back home are  saying,
like who's going to heaven and who's going to  hell?"
"Well, I guess, some of them mean  well.  Others are just, well, in the
words of the great teacher, they are hypocrites, a den of vipers, snakes, your
favorite kind," he said, winking at me, "they worship the god of lies. Some are
 just blind and don't know it. They read the sacred scrolls and think somehow
 this makes them religious.  The  scrolls say that they will be forever
seeing but never perceiving; they will  always be hearing, but never understanding.
 It's really sad.  The spirit which they worship, the  spirit which they
carry inside them is the same spirit of those who demanded the  execution of the
great teacher."
"I don't understand. What do you  mean?" I asked.
"Well, I think there's two types of  people that fall into the category you'
re really talking about, those that  demean gay people.  One group, I  would
say is ignorant.  They don't  know any better.  The ancient texts  say that the
letter kills but the spirit gives life.  This ignorant group is the letter
practicing group. They also fall into the forever seeing, never perceiving,
always hearing, never understanding group.  The second group, the snakes, they'
re into religion for selfish reasons,  earthly reasons, like greed, selfish
ambition and they come up with things to  teach to get people to follow them
instead of encouraging people to follow the  truth.  In the words of one of the
ancient writers, they exploit people with stories they have made up. He just
calls these people false teachers and we most certainly have an abundance of
them in the world today, especially in our country. Now having said that, I
think it's quite possible, even probable that there are just as many gay people
as straight people who have no interest in the truth, percentage wise, I
mean.  So, I don't you should discriminate one way or the other just because some
is  gay."
"How do you deal with it? I mean how  do you know what's right or wrong?"
"That's a tough question.  This is what I can tell you and mind  you, for
all you know, I could be as blind as anyone else.  It's important for me to know
that you  don't think I have all the answers, not even that many. If you
really want to  know the truth you have to seek it out on your own. I don't mean
that we can't  discuss things and I shouldn't tell you what I think or vice
versa.  I mean you have to find the truth for  yourself. I know it sounds like I'
m just repeating myself. My uncle said if it  wasn't inside you, there was no
way it could be the truth, and that's what I  pretty much believe. So, I'm
reluctant to say too much because what I believe  and what you believe can be a
bit different and still both of us can be  right."
"No that's fine; I understand, I just  want to hear what you have to say," I
said, trying to encourage him to  continue.
"I can give you a list of enough  things that I think are wrong that you'd
be convinced I don't think anyone is  without fault.  The truth is that's
exactly right.  There are no degrees  of being right or wrong, not in spiritual
terms, human, yes, but not spiritual,  at least not that I have learned. One of
the ancient writers, the one who was  the teacher's best friend, said if
anyone says he never does wrong, that person  is a liar and the truth is not in
him. So, if we're going into the judging  business, we're all guilty.  I think
that's why the teacher as well as some of those ancient writers say, don't
do  that.  Don't get into the judging  business or you'll probably end up just
making it impossible for yourself."
"Okay, but still, how does that help  you decide what is right or wrong?" I
asked, trying to dig a little  deeper.
"The ancient writers said that one man  considers one thing sacred, another
man considers another thing sacred, but each  one should be convinced in his
own mind. But if you doubt, you have a serious  problem because whatever you're
doing is not something you believe in and that  makes it wrong. He goes on to
say that everything is permissible but not  everything is beneficial. That
same writer says on a personal level, everything  is permissible for him, but he
will not be mastered by anything and I think  that's the key. I guess, I see
us as having two natures, a human nature and a  spiritual nature.  The human
nature  is mostly instinctive and driven by desires that are just in the genetic
code,  maybe with some environmental influences from generation to
generation.  The spiritual nature is something that  transcends time and space.  The
human nature will pass away but the spiritual nature will endure forever. So, I
guess what I basically believe is that we have to make a choice between whethe
r  our master is something in the human nature or something in the spiritual
nature. That's it."
"So that would be like choosing  between lust and love?"
"Yeah, I think so. Of course, there  are many other things in the human
nature that can enslave us, like maybe greed,  jealousy, selfish ambition,
drunkenness, hatred, things like that.  There are many things about the human  nature
that we have to watch out for if we want something different," he paused  and
gave me a quizzical look. "Don't you find it interesting that hatred is just
an expected part of human nature? It's wild, isn't  it?"
"I assume you always try to do the  right thing?" it was a question and I
waited to see what he would  say.
"I'm not perfect, not like you," he  winked, smiling mischievously.
"No. I'm serious," I said, yet  appreciating his playfulness.
"I think everything for me is  permissible, but I won't be mastered by
anything. What's more, the scrolls say  that the entire scared texts can be summed
up in one command, `love your  neighbor as yourself'. Also, one of those
ancient writers said that love covers  over many, many wrongs.  So, I'm not
worried about being wrong as much as I want to avoid enslavement to things I'd
consider selfish for myself and I want to live a life motivated by love, genuine
love for others."
"Thanks," I  said.
"For  what?"
"For  sharing."
"Well there is one other thing we have  to be careful of. We should never do
anything that causes someone else to get  side tracked in their pursuit of an
understanding of the truth and that's why I  don't usually feel comfortable
talking about stuff like this.  The sacred texts tell us that we should  make
every effort to do those things which lead to peace and mutual  encouragement
between people who may otherwise tend to disagree. Now, here's the  tricky
part, sometimes when you get into discussions like this it's human nature  to
become conceited, even provoking and envying each other so the scroll  writers,
being wise and all, advised that whatever you believe about these  things, you
might be better off keeping between yourself and God," he smiled.
"Well, thanks anyway.  I don't think you'll get into any  trouble with what
you said. I mean, unless the room is bugged," I said,  returning his wink.
That was pretty much the end of our  conversation and he went back to reading
his uncles manuscript while I pretended  to be just as interested. I did
persuade him to take me for another exhilarating  spin in the ocean later that
afternoon, not that that particular argument  required much exertion on my part.
Chris loved the ocean and what's more, he had an unquenchable appetite  for
speed, the swift kind, be it cars, boats or the sports he played back in our
little farm town.  The only area  where velocity didn't seem to matter with the
lovely blond boy was in getting to  where I'd like for us to be, a place that
often seemed quite distant at the pace  he seemed to have chosen.

*  *  *     *  *  *

That one day, the Friday  after Thanksgiving was all the time I had with
Chris while we were in Florida. I had made the  Thursday evening dinner, earlier,
with all the staff, our family, as it is more  widely accepted, but even then
Chris had seem to be swamped as the demands for  his attention had seemed
endless. I had promised mom I'd spend Saturday with  Nana and the rest of our
family, though a few of my old friends did stop by,  mostly expecting my company
for a bash that night. I guessed I had changed a  bit, since moving to the
frontier and if I hadn't been aware of it before, my  old friends made sure I
noted it now.
It wasn't that I talked  different, though I had picked up a handful of
expressions that had them highly  amused; it was more that the party animal spirit
had somehow faded away, back  there in the land of corn and soybeans, sometime
when I just wasn't paying that  much attention. I even passed on a couple
date invitations that once upon a  time, to have had either, I would have willing
pledged all my worldly  possessions. I think the real reason I said no to my
friends of old was somehow  I just didn't see my new friend in that circle and
I wasn't going anywhere  without my new friend, even if it was only in
spirit.

*  *  *     *  *  *
Nothing changed when we  got back to Missouri, except maybe now, I was
competing  for attention with not only basketball and Concord Street, but the newly
discovered  "priceless" journals of Robert Alexander as well. Chris was
consumed with  studying those books; and consumed and study are well chosen words.
He didn't just read them; he was taking  notes.  I still got my two "dates"
most every week, though they were "chaperoned" so I don't have any stories
to  tell that might ought to best remain private.
The last day of school  before I was to return to Florida on Monday, this
time for Christmas  vacation, he did something quite unexpected. It was after our
win on the court  on Friday night, a game that had been one of the more
exciting. Before he left  for the locker room, he requested my company, formally,
mind you, as his guest  at a prestigious Italian establishment in the city for
the following evening.  The entire nature of our little three minute
conversation there in the middle of  the court, between the game and his shower, seemed
awkward for him in a school  boy sort of way. Of course, I was rather more
than interested, though I had, by  now, developed sufficient control over my
imagination to inhibit delusions of  ecstasy. Still, I went home that night with
a genuine smile on my face, the kind  that is not erasable.
We rode in the spider to  our rendezvous in Kansas  City for this private
dinner, just the two of us and some  fine Italian cuisine in a rather formal and
private setting.  As we finished our dessert, me, my  Tiramisu, him, the
imaginative one, chocolate mousse cake, he began to hem and  haw so I knew
something was up, well, at least, now, I was certain. I just  didn't know what to
expect, so I wasn't going to hold my breath, at least not  too much, not so as he'
d see anyway.
"Uh, it's only 53 more  days until your 16th birthday, huh?" he sort of
asked, I  guess.
"That sounds about  right. I wasn't really counting, I mean, I haven't been
counting every day, just  most days. February 6th, Why?"
"Well, we'll be in  school then and, uh, well, I was thinking, maybe, uh, I
could, uh, um, you know,  uh, well, I just wanted to do something, maybe for
your birthday, I mean if you  wanted? And we could? So that's what I wanted to,
uh, say, only I know it's  sounds confusing as hell, at least to me it does,
so I'll understand if you tell  me just to get you a tie or something."
"No, that's fine,  really, what'd you have in mind? I'm easy" I said,
somewhere between smiling and  laughing, becoming about as nervous as he was and
not doing a whole lot better  at hiding it.
"Well, here's what I was  thinking and if this isn't a good thing, uh, you
should tell me,  okay?"
I nodded, more than  once, actually, several times. You might say I was
eager, that is, if you wanted  to be pretty much right on the money.
"Well, I have to fly  down next Friday for the company Christmas party and
then I'll come back right  after that, because we have the tournament next week,
plus my parents want to  stay here for the holidays. So I can't leave again
until Wednesday, but I don't  have anything between then and Tuesday after New
Years when school starts back.  So I was wondering if you could maybe do
something during those few  days."
"Sure. I haven't made  any plans and since it's you, I'm sure the folks won'
t mind. What did you want  to do?"
"Have you ever been  camping?"
"As in tents? Stuff like  that? No. But there's always a first time for
everything;  right?"
"Are you  sure?"
"Yeah, I'm sure. I'd  love to go camping. I've never done it. Is this going
to be like wilderness  camping or are we going to be in a cabin or  something?
"
He sat there, just  looking at me, almost studying me.  I tried to relax as
the seconds passed and then more seconds  passed.
"I have this island," he  said softly, not speaking with certainty, just
telling me what he was thinking.  "There's nothing on it. I mean, no people, no
development.  My uncle bought it before he died.  I thought we could take the
yacht over  on Wednesday as soon as I can get there and then stay until New
Year's Day.  I mean, there really isn't anything on  the island. It's totally
private to me and well, I just thought, you know, your  birthday will be soon
and I wanted to be able to do something special for you.  We can take supplies
and the yacht will be close by, but it's just going to be  us on the island, I
mean if you want to go?"
"I want to  go."
"Cool."
We didn't talk anymore  about our upcoming camping trip. We bantered back and
forth, about basketball,  about school, his work, my music, my being able to
take him with my karate any  day of the week, his willing to bet the farm I
wouldn't make it past round  one.  We'd never been so silly, and  we were both
wearing those smiles that you just couldn't hide, even if you did  try.
By the time we were in  the spider headed out of KC, I'd already forgot how
many more days it was until  my birthday, but Wednesday week was only 11 days
away and I wasn't sure wearing  a smile for 11 straight days wasn't going to
get one of us, me, at least,  nicknamed the joker.

*  *  *     *  *  *
We were in the comfortable study there  at the estate getting ready to go
aboard the Sea Stallion.  Captain Mueller seemed pretty pleased to  finally be
able to take the beauty out for a spin.  His wife was traveling with him and
they  planned to make a few port calls between our drop off and pick up times.
Chris had a satellite phone so if we  were to need anything we could call
anytime.
Chris had been studying me since he  arrived from the airport and I was
biding my time until he decided to "spill the  beans". As I sat there beside the
desk, him behind it, he reached for my hand  and gently took it in his,
bringing me to full attention and sending shivers  down my spine.
"I have to tell you something," he  said, ever so softly.
"Okay," I half-said, suddenly all  ears.
"I would never, never do anything to  hurt you," he whispered very slowly.
His eyes were pure sincerity and more, so  much more.
"Uh, I think I know that," I said,  speaking not much louder than him, not
much fast  either.
"I have a lot of responsibilities," he  said, speaking very low, very soft,
and very slow, still holding my hand, and  looking into my eyes, "and they're
not something I don't want, because they're  unbelievably important, and so
most of the time I know you're disappointed that  I work a lot.  I'm sorry,"
he  whispered, "but only because it disappoints you.  I have to do what I do.
I think it's who I am and who I will  always be.  I just don't want you to
ever get hurt and I know I couldn't bear it if I was the one to hurt  you."
"I love you," I whispered. It was  reflexive. I didn't plan it and my eyes
were definitely full of excess liquid as  I sat there staring into his.
"I know and I love you," he whispered  back. "So these next few days on the
island are for you and you only.  What ever you desire, I want you to be
happy, but I would never want you to get hurt.  I'll probably never have much of a
 private life, only when I'm on the island.  Can you understand?"
"I think so," I whispered, nodding my  head. I had the strangest sensation
that there was no world, nothing that  existed outside the connection between
him and me in this moment. We were on a  plane all to ourselves and I was
spellbound as I swam in awe amid the affection  of his beautiful blue eyes.
"Are you okay?" his voice was so  gentle; I was hypnotized.
"Yeah. I'm good," my words were more  breath than sound.
He stood from his chair, there at the  desk, and as he lifted my hand, my
body joined him standing there, all of its  own accord.  He gently drew me to
him, our eyes never leaving the other, I was in a trance, his face was moving
towards mine, his lips touching mine, I felt faint, I took a chance, he
answered  and we kissed a kiss to be remembered for long enough and then some.  When
after, what might have been many  light years, had passed, I found his eyes
again looking into mine and I was  still in a trance. He smiled so soft, so
lovingly.
"I'll always love you," I felt his  words on his breath, barely hearing the
sounds; "I could never not love you,  ever."
"I know," I whispered back, still  mesmerized.

*  *  *     *  *  *
Chapter 6
It was on Friday afternoon, the week  of my birthday, just an hour before
school was to be dismissed for the week that  we were all summoned to a school
assembly in the old auditorium.  The new construction was now complete  and Mr.
Barnes, our principal, had decided we'd have a little decommissioning
ceremony before bidding that final farewell to the place which had witnessed so  many
graduation exercises, school plays, concerts and the like, and of course,
our twice monthly school assemblies, for all these many  years.
We all piled into the auditorium after  the 2:10 bell, each trying to find a
seat.  Chris sat to the left of me; I was on the outside aisle.  As Mr. Barnes
walked to the microphone  there in the center of the stage, I turned to
Chris, "are you working this  evening?"
"Yeah, I've got some reports I want to  look at after practice and I
promised mom I'd be home early tonight. I'll  probably just spend some time with
them this evening, probably read some  more."
"Any chance you could come over in the  morning?" I asked, hiding my
disappointment. "I'd like to spend some time  together with you too, and, you know,
sort of talk for a  change."
"Sure, I'd like that too.  I'm sorry I've been so busy.  I guess I've been
missing hanging out  with you too.  It's just that  there's so much to do.
Anyway, as soon as I get going in the morning, I'll come  over and we can have
the whole day," said Chris, then winking, suggestively  added, "the whole
night too, if you insist." He was smiling and making eyes at  me, being about as
playful as I'd seen him in the last few weeks, a sight that  would always
trigger my grin mechanism, as I figure he well  knew.
I punched him on the arm as the  principal began speaking and the auditorium
grew  quite.
"Some of you know who Robert Alexander  was," said Mr. Barnes, "and if you
don't, well, just ask your moms and  dads.  I doubt there's many, if any,  who
didn't know Rob or know about him." he continued,  looking at us with a kind
of  professorial expression, studying us, maybe to see if he could tell what
we were  thinking or even if we were thinking. He went on, speaking in a low,
thoughtful  tone, as if remembering something with some difficulty. "Rob and I
were students  here together, a time, long ago, during that period when
primitive life was  first forming on this planet, right after the ice  age."
Laughter filled the auditorium.  He had spoken those words with the  utmost
sincerity and reflection. It wasn't so much that what he said was funny;  it
was how he said it. He was absolutely believably serious. He set you up and  the
punch line was all in the delivery.
"This will be our last assembly in  this old auditorium," he said, looking
around the old box shaped room, it's  four-hundred plus seats now filled to
overflowing.  "I can remember sitting in here, right  beside my friend Rob, when
we were your ages.  Next week, our new facility, provided  for in one of Rob's
gifts, is where we'll be meeting from now on.  Since we don't have Rob with
us anymore,  I thought maybe we'd try to coax his nephew, our own Chris, into
maybe saying a  few words on this occasion.  Chris?"
Chris looked at me, sitting in the  seat to his right, winced, as he slowly
got up from his seat and climbed over my  legs to reach the aisle.
I watched my friend as he slowly  walked toward the stage, ignoring the many
pairs of eyes following his every  pace down the aisle.  Chris climbed  the
steps and walked over to the where Mr. Barnes stood near the  microphone.  He
stood there for  several long seconds, looking at us, him looking deep in
thought, us wondering  what he was going to say.
"My uncle was a very special man," he  finally began, still looking deep in
thought. "I've been privileged beyond  anything remotely imaginable to have
not only shared his companionship for most  of my life but now I have the
journals he kept ever since he was in the fourth  grade, up until the day before he
was killed," he paused as the faces of, I  suppose, just about everyone in
that old auditorium, faded to a more somber  expression.
"Uncle Robert committed his life to  helping others, whether it was
scholarships for students here or facilities for  the school or so many other things
that it would be impossible for me to list in  the short time we have.  That
being  the way it is, I want to, instead, tell you briefly who the real Robert
Alexander was, the one I knew and loved beyond measure and the one who wrote
daily in a journal from the time he was only ten years old until the day before
 he was taken away, just weeks before his forty-fourth  birthday."
"My uncle was on a mission with his  life.  You couldn't begin to know or
understand who he was without knowing and understanding that mission.  So that
is what I want to tell you  about, if you'll give me just a few minutes," he
paused for a few seconds and  let silence again settle in the old auditorium.
"By far the most frequently  unfulfilled human rights in our time are social
and economic ones, such as  everyone's right to a standard of living, adequate
for the health and well-being  of oneself and one's family, including food,
clothing, housing, and medical  care," he said, gazing intently into the
audience. He continued, "In one of  Uncle Robert's journal entries, there was a
clipping from the World Bank which  said, that because extremely poor people are
often physically and mentally  stunted due to malnutrition in infancy, unable
even to read and write due to  lack of schooling, and much preoccupied with
their family's survival, they can  cause little harm or benefit to the
politicians and officials who rule them.  Such rulers have therefore little incentive
to pay attention to the interests of  the poor and will cater instead to the
interests of agents more capable of  reciprocation, including foreign
governments, companies, and tourists." He  stopped talking again for a few seconds, just
looking out at us from up there on  that stage.
"The World Bank estimates that one  fifth of all human beings, 1.2 out of 6
billion, live below the international  poverty line, which it currently defines
in terms that corresponds to about $82  per person PER YEAR at market
exchange rates. This means that on average, the  global poor can buy as much per
person PER YEAR as we can buy with $326 in a  rich country or with $82 in a poor
country. These are the poorest of the poor."
"The World Bank provides statistics  also for a more generous poverty line
that is almost twice as high, $130 per  person PER YEAR. 2.8 billion people are
said to live below this higher poverty  line. This much larger group of
people, nearly half of humankind,  can then, on average, buy as much per  person PER
YEAR as we can buy with $518 in a rich country or with $130 in a poor  one."
"Now I want you to think hard about  this and try to see it in terms that are
most real to you. If your parents only  had $518 to spend on you, for food,
clothing, water, healthcare, school  expenses, electricity and housing for an
entire year, what kind of conditions do  you think you would live in?"
"Imagine no one in our town had any  more money than that to budget for each
member of their family for an entire  year, every year. What sort of condition
do you think our town would be  in?"
"The consequences of such extreme  poverty are foreseeable and extensively
documented: 790 million lack adequate  nutrition; one billion lack access to
safe drinking water, over 2.4 billion lack  basic sanitation, and approximately
one billion adults are illiterate. More than  880 million have no access to
basic medical care. Approximately one billion lack  adequate shelter; 2 billion
have no electricity." His voice hit a faltering note  and the thought struck me
there, sitting in my seat, that these were not just  numbers to him.
"Fully one third of all human deaths  are due to poverty-related causes, such
as starvation, diarrhea, pneumonia,  measles, and malaria, which could be
prevented or cured cheaply through food,  safe drinking water, vaccinations,
rehydration packs, or medicines. One quarter  of all 5 to 14-year-olds work
outside their family for wages, often under harsh  conditions, in mining, textile
and carpet production, prostitution, factories,  and in agriculture." His body
language conveyed the burden of a great weight;  his voice was almost mournful
as he laid it all out for us there in that crowded  assembly.
Leaning into the microphone, he  continued, whispering in a soft voice,
seemingly filled with so much regret, "In  just the time that you and I have been
alive to reach this point in our teenage  years, well over 250 million people,
mostly children, have died from  poverty-related causes."
Not a sound was heard at that moment  in this historic old room.  His gaze
had fallen to somewhere on the floor, just there in front of the stage.
Finally,  after some moments of growing discomfort, he cleared his throat a couple
times,  swiped at his eyes and continued speaking, now in a voice, more normal,
yet  still edged with sadness.
"I've been told that of all the people  that have ever lived in the history
of the human race, 40% of us are alive  today.  That means the total number
of people who ever lived on this planet across all time is around fifteen
billion and six billion of us are alive right now."
Chris, again, fell silent, biting his  lower lip as his eyes slowly surveyed
the faces of all of us sitting there in  his audience.
"I guess, as far as I know," he  swallowed, "most of us in here go to one of
the churches here in town with some  regularity.  You may not know this,  but
the latest scribes of the ancient scrolls mostly wrote in the Greek language
that was popular in that day.  They  didn't have the word church.  That  was
something we got from the translators.  The Greeks, and therefore that last
group of writers in the sacred texts,  about two thousand years ago, used the
word, ecclesia, which simply means  assembly." As he said the word, he had
stretched out his hands to either side,  seemingly pointing collectively to all of
us sitting  there.
He lowered his hands and continued,  "It is said, there will come a day, when
each and everyone of us, all the people  ever to have lived, will have to
stand in a great assembly with everyone else  and face God to answer for what we
have and have not done while we lived on this  planet." Again he paused,
scanned our many faces, and then continued, slowly  shaking his head.
"Most people have no clue who God  is.  It's pharisaical, some of the
images, the religious leaders and teachers of scripture, draw for their
increasingly gullible parishioners."
"One of the writers in the ancient  scrolls clearly had the prescience to see
this development because he warned  that there would come a time when some
men would not put up with sound learning;  Instead, he said, to suit their own
desires, they will gather around them a  great number of teachers to tell them
what their itching ears want to hear.  They will turn their ears away from the
 truth, he said, and turn aside to myths."
"Now some of our wisest men today are  theoretical scientists.  These great
thinkers and learners are some of the pioneers on the frontier of all our
known  knowledge. Their discipline defines the total universe as the summation of
all  particles that exist and the space in which all events occur.  Just as a
crime detective can trace the  origin of a bullet from the holes in a wall,
these scientist can tell us a lot  about the universe."
"One of our more modern writers,  writing shortly after the turn of the last
century captured the concept of the  universal mind, of which we are all a
part."
"There is, without a doubt, much that  we do not yet know, and some of what
we know, we do not yet fully understand,  but I am convinced, beyond any doubt
in my own mind, that each of us, me, you,  and all these people suffering out
there; we're all connected to each other."
"We need each other and if we ignore  this need, it's frightful to
contemplate what our fate, indeed the fate of the  entire universe, may one day be."
His voice was becoming  stronger.
"This same writer in the ancient  scriptures proclaimed that it is `in God
we live and move and have our ever  being'," he paused and no other sound
could be heard in this theater at that  moment, just stone cold silence."
"That's clue number one," he declared.  "Elsewhere in those sacred scrolls,
and on many occasions, we are told that `God  is in us'.  Even the name
given to  the greatest teacher of all time simply means, `God with us'.  That
same teacher declared that if you  saw someone hungry and gave him nothing to
eat, it was the same as denying food  to the teacher himself, same for someone
thirsty, homeless, sick, naked or in  prison. The golden rule, which we all know
by heart, is the final clue.  I mean, seriously, my friends," he was  raising
his voice, almost shouting. "Are we so willfully blind that we cannot  add
two plus two and see the writing on the wall? Those people starving to death
out there tonight; they can not be ignored, not forever.  We either face them
now or their spirits  are going to haunt each of us, you and me, for eternity,"
he yelled the words  out, emphasizing each one, "THEY-ARE-GOD!"
The pregnancy of his pause sucked  every last ounce of any remaining comfort
from those of us sitting there in his  audience. I figured we all knew we were
completely exposed, to ourselves, to  each other, and most definitely to that
boy up there on the stage, which we all  loved and admired so damned much,
showing us all the passion in his  heart.
We were all rich, well beyond rich in  relation to all those statistics he'd
just rattled off. What's more, rarely, if  ever, did any of us seriously
contemplate the true condition of those less  fortunate than ourselves. Somehow, we'
d been able to apply the golden rule in a  way that didn't include us ever
seeing ourselves as those most in need. We had  no understanding, no empathy, no
love or relationship with any of them and I  presumed, consequently, no love
or relationship with God. I knew from my own  experience that we mostly turned
our heads, ignoring the horror, and yes, the  pain of those sad, sad pictures
that occasionally interrupted the otherwise  entertaining images and sounds
coming from our television screens. I guess I'd  always thought those pitiful
people, kids mostly, were just being exploited for  some charlatan's
fundraising effort; now, I couldn't avoid facing how easy I had  come to be able to turn
away and not allow myself to really see, with any  understanding, the horror
of those, mostly, ghoulish  scenes.
Chris' voice dropped to something  barely above a whisper as he leaned close
to the microphone and, with a face of  agonizing and unbearable sorrow, fixed
his eyes on those of us sitting there in  that auditorium.
"I was hungry," he pleaded, briefly  patting his chest with his fingertips
and speaking in a soft tone dripping with  anguish, "and you gave me nothing to
eat," his head shook a little, seemingly  with unbelievable sorrow, as he
paused again, his face slowly drifting to the  other side of the room, increasing
agony growing in his every feature. The  moisture,  appearing suddenly on his
 cheeks, shimmered as it reflected the glare of those stage  lights.
"I was thirsty," there were tears now  rolling down his cheeks as his body
let go some gentle sobs, "and you gave me  nothing to drink."
It was obvious that Chris was feeling  a pain of such depth, the mere act of
witnessing his struggle was opening hearts  around the room right then, there
in that dimly lit audience. It was as though  he had completely transformed
himself from the beautiful blond boy we all loved  so very much into one of
those incredibly mournful images that we frequently hid  from any sight.
I, too, was losing it. I couldn't even  come close to holding back the tears,
now staining my own cheeks.  I could hear the sniffles all around me  and I
knew I was far from alone. There were so many people in that room crying  right
now it was like we were all seeing, not the Chris we thought we knew, we
were seeing Chris as those little kids, all those starving, helpless people out
there gazing back at us, seeing us each where we sat and they were pleading;
and  we knew we had failed them, somehow, everyone. It was a haunting
spectacle. I  wasn't sure I'd ever again be able to force it from my brain, at least
not  anytime soon.
"I was a stranger, homeless," he  whispered, shaking his head and crying
openly, "and you did not take me  in."
"I needed clothes," he said, sounding  hopeless, desperate and totally
helpless and his breaths were short as his chest  heaved with emotion, "and you did
not clothe me." His entire body seemed to beg  for an answer to the question,
"Why?"
"I was sick," he was struggling  mightily to keep going, "and you did not
look after  me."
"I was in prison," he whispered  softly, "and you never came to visit me."
In my mind, I could see all around me  for as far as space extended what
looked like the faces of those fifteen billion  souls, every other single human to
have lived, asking me,  Why?
As he finished speaking, he just stood  there, looking through us.  Not a
soul moved in that auditorium. No sound was heard above the soft crying of the
many students sitting there feeling the same emotions as that boy standing  up
there, frozen in place, right where  he was when he said his last word. We
weren't listening to just Chris any more.  The voice I heard, I think the voice
many, maybe most of us heard, right then,  right there, in that old
auditorium, piercing deep into our hearts, was coming  from the faces of those millions
and billions of desperate people, men, women  and children, from around the
world asking, pleading, in unison, "Why?"  It was a cry that echoed in my mind
and  turned my entire self image to disgust. I was more sick with each passing
tick  of the clock and I was hoping that voice would go silent, once again.
It was the  voice of that great teacher from long, long ago. As I gazed at my
beloved friend  standing there on that stage, I knew it wasn't so much that I
was hearing the  anguished words he spoke; I was listening to the voice of God
and I knew my  whole world changed in that instant. I'd never again be the
same.
Mr. Barnes took a step as though he  was moving to the microphone but Chris
raised his hand to indicate he wasn't  finished so Mr. Barnes hung back.  Once
again, the student body, sitting there in those seats with me, found
themselves watching the beautiful blond boy there on the stage and waiting with
wonder for what he might add to his, thus-far, heart wrenching  remarks.
"I want you to close you eyes, if you  will," said Chris in a soft
encouraging tone.  "Just as you sit there, close your eyes  and chase all thoughts from
your mind." He waited for several seconds in the  silence as most of the
sniffling was fading from the  audience.
"Picture in your mind the person you  cherish most of all in the whole world,"
 he continued, speaking slowly and in a  soothing tone. "Get as vivid an
image of that person in your mind as you can  possibly manage." Again he waited.
"Now, I want you to imagine that  person in the circumstances that we've
been talking about.  That person that you love so dearly is  starving, no food in
many days and he or she is begging you for food.  What are you going to do?"
he  waited.
"The same person is thirsty, no water  to drink. Trapped because of a storm
or something, been without water for days  and you know, because he or she has
been calling you on the phone begging for  your help.  This is the person you
love above all others.  What will  you do?  What lengths will you go to  in
trying to get water to the one you love so  dearly?"
"The same person is sick, this person  you can't imagine living without. He
or she needs medical attention.  Will you help or will you ignore the  sounds
of his painful crying? What will you do?"
"Your special love has no place to  live, no shelter from the rain, cold or
dangers from either the weather or the  mean streets?  Will you send them on
down the road because you just don't have room for them to stay even in your
garage?"
"Your precious love has been  arrested.  Will you abandon him or  her now?
What if you believe the  person is guilty? How strong is your love for this
person?  Is your love stronger that his  mistake?  Will you forgive? Will you
visit him in his prison?" Again, he waited.
"I'm confident that most every one of  you would do anything possible,
perhaps even give your own life for the one you  cherish above all others.  This is
 what I want you to understand if you can try.  That is exactly how you and I
should  strive to treat every other living human being on this planet, as
though we  loved them the most. In so doing, you put yourself squarely on God's
side and  the suffering you help to ease will be counted on your behalf as a
treasure  deposited in heaven, where its value will never decline.  You can be
rich beyond your wildest  dreams, rich in a way that will stretch across all
time, before and after, and  even beyond. Remember this moment, if you choose,
every day for the rest of your  life and at every opportunity you find to be of
service to someone in need." He  paused for just a moment.
"That is who my Uncle Robert was and  is and will be for all eternity. The
most common thing that is said about my  uncle is that he taught people how to
love," he finished speaking, walked  straight to the steps, down off the stage,
crossed to the outside aisle and  headed towards me.  As he made it  about
half way down the aisle, applause started, students began standing, the
applause grew louder, Mr. Barnes was applauding; I think every single student  was
now standing. I scooted back so he could return to his seat past my clapping
hands, and the applause continued."
Mr. Barnes stepped to the microphone  and said softy amid the applause, "
Thank you, Chris. School is dismissed." And  the applause continued.

*  *  *     *  *  *
John Alexander knocked, then slowly  opened the door, "Chris, are you awake?"

"Huh? Uh, yeah. What is it Dad?" said  Chris, rubbing the sleep from his
eyes.
"Matt's on the phone.  He says, it's important.  He really needs to talk to
you," said  John, handing the cordless to his son.
"Hello," said Chris, speaking into the  receiver.
"Chris, we have a situation here at  the office.  I think I'm going to  need
some direction on this one."
"What is it? What's the matter, Matt?"  said Chris, moving to sit upright on
the edge of the bed, his feet landing on  the floor.
"Sheriff Rollins called me at home  this morning, said there was a
disturbance down here.  Well, I came on down and there were over  forty students from
your school in the parking lot outside the front door.  It looks like they were
camped out there  overnight. Anyway, they all want to sign up to do something
to help you out in  what we've been doing in the SandLot Investment Company.
What do you want me to  do?"
John watched as Chris sat there on the  edge of his bed, not saying anything
now, his mouth slightly agape, his eyes a  bit glazed over.
"Chris?," asked Matt, on the other end  of the line.
"Call Jack in Florida. Tell him that  we're putting together a team of
students to go to Sumatra in Indonesia to build homes for the  Tsunami survivors
this summer.  Tell  him we'll need some folks from Habitat for Humanity to
supply some trainers  right away.  Get a list of the  supplies we need for training
and get them expedited in.  Call the school board and tell them what  we're
doing.  Tell them, there is to  be no publicity.  Then, for each  student that
signs up, have Lisa call their parents and make sure there's no  problem. Tell
Jack we need logistics for, how many students did you  say?"
"Well, there looked to be about forty  or so when I first got here, but there'
s several new ones showing up this  morning.  I guess we've gotten  another
two dozen since I've been here."
"Okay. Right. Tell Jack, we need a  logistics contractor mobilized first
thing Monday morning.  The outfit will need to be flexible  until we get the full
picture finalized.  Matt, the reports I was looking at last week said they
still had  eighty-thousand people homeless just in and around Sumatra.  Tell  the
parents and students we're going over there and pitch in.  Call Shauna in New
York.  This is her project. Tell her, if it's  possible, I'd like her to fly
out right away and take charge of kicking off this  entire operation. She'll
know what to do better than us.  Anything  else?"
"I'm sure there'll be a million other  things, but the important question is
answered.  We'll make sure the right people are on  board to make this
happen.  Thanks  Chris. Are you coming in this morning?"
"Actually, I was going to meet  Trey.  He had something he wanted to  talk to
me about."
"Trey's down here, Chris.  He was at the head of the  line."
"Okay. Yeah, I'll see you in about an  hour," said Chris as they exchanged
goodbyes.
He clicked off the phone and turned to  look at his Dad, silently standing
there near the bedroom  door.
"Your mother and I are planning a long  vacation this summer," John said
softly. "Think we could get a ride with you  guys?"

*  *  *     *  *  *
I was thinking about that February  afternoon, just at the end of that school
day, back then, when our student body  was washed over by that cosmic wave,
the one unleashed by my celestial playmate.  He was lying here now, right
beside me, on these pristine sands, here in our  favorite harbor, on this, our isle
of Eden.  We had set our sails for this port, right when that final bell
rang,  initiating this magnificent week we call spring break. It was to be the
only  time we'd have here, between now and sometime well past the coming summer,
a  time to be filled with the service we planned to offer, at a place, almost
exactly, on the other side of the world.
I finally had all the time I desired  to be alone with him, this companion of
my dreams, for his office was just  across the hall, there in the building on
Concord Street, and most evenings it  would be one of us turning out the
lights and locking the doors, sometimes him,  oftentimes me. Our activities there
in the suites of the SandLot offices were  not something that could not be
discussed in polite company, but the better part  of humility required that we be
discreet. Remembering that one little speech  that fateful Friday, seemingly
ages ago now, I realized he had literally swept  me completely off my feet and
as I now made my home in the heavens with him, I  knew my feet would never
again touch the earth of my birth.  I guess, I could say, I had always been
lost, but now, I am found.
There were many things we didn't know,  and other things we didn't
understand, but what we knew, and what we understood,  and what we were learning, was
just enough for our spirits to celebrate our  kinship with the angels in
heaven. It was a foreign celebration to that I had  known in my youth, my days at
the fort.  Our celebration was in giving of service to anyone and everyone we
encountered.  That teacher, so  revered by Robert Alexander, and now by us too,
my own godling and me, once  said, that if you desired to be great in the
kingdom of heaven, you could reach  your goal, but only by becoming the humble
servant of all humankind.  That was our quest, his and mine, now  and until we
reach that great assembly, for the final  time.
I rolled onto my side so as to again  survey the wondrous loveliness of my
cherished partner as he lay there on the  sands, no fig leaves obstructing his
beauty.
"How many houses do you think we can  build if we are there for the full ten
weeks?" I  asked.
"The record time for one house by  Habitat here in the U.S. is three and
one-half hours but  they had a crane and everything prestaged and probably about
200 people. I guess  it'll depend on how many people end up going with us, how
long they're willing  to stay and if we'll be able to mobilize some heavy
equipment.  I'm guessing right now, but if we can do  a sort of staggered
assembly line, someone excavates, next the foundation, then  framing, the roof and so
on, well, if we can get going, and we've got enough  people, we might be able
to complete one house a day after maybe the third or  fourth day.  So, if we'
re lucky,  maybe between 60 and 70 houses for the entire project, again,
contingent upon  the number of people and a few other variables. I'm figuring we'
ll probably  spend about 500-700 man-hours per house."
"Wow, 60 out of 80,000. It doesn't  seem like we will even be making a dent,
huh?"
"Actually, that's the number of  homeless people around Sumatra, so figure
the  real number of houses needed is between twenty and thirty thousand.
Besides, we  won't be the only ones doing this.  Last spring break, there were over
8,000 college and high school kids,  just here in the U.S., building houses
for  habitat.  All total, the entire  worldwide program has built a little over
100,000 homes since it got  started.  Remember a journey of a  thousand miles
begins with a single step."
"Yeah, okay, but we got to get at  least 60 houses so we will have made a
couple steps on that thousand mile  journey."
"I think that's a good goal to shoot  for, but it'll take some long days,"
Chris said, then, cocking his head to the  side and giving me this very
questioning look, as he quizzically studied my  eyes, "I didn't think you thought a
kid should be spending all his time working  cause he was going to have
plenty of time later in life to work himself to  death?"
"Yeah, well, some things change, you  know. I mean, I never expected to hear
the voice of God speaking through my best  friend either.  Something like
that,  you know, kind of makes you forget all the stupid stuff you might have
thought  before. Just out of curiosity, how much money will this  take?"
"Well, we'll have costs for travel,  living expenses, materials, supplies,
tools, equipment, and land, among other  things. I figure when we add
everything up, we'll probably only be able to  spend, at most, five million, maybe not
even half  that."
"That's not really that much money is  it?"
"At the most, it will probably be less  than 2% of what SandLot will spend on
projects this year. Still, this will be  one of the biggest, if not the
biggest, projects the company has ever done, in  this short amount of time.
Volunteers are usually what are hard to come by.  If we wanted to build more houses,
money  isn't the obstacle; it's finding the workers, the  volunteers."
"Will these be the only houses SandLot  helps to build this year?"
"No. Shauna usually has about twenty  projects going at any given time.  Some
are just a small number of houses, but some are larger.  Pakistan is larger.
I think they've got people building all  year long there; so they'll come
close to hitting fifty houses on that project  this year.  Again, it all just
depends on how many workers are available. Afghanistan will probably be close
to  fifty as well."
He raised himself into a sitting  position and brushed the sands from his
back, "I think it's getting cool," he  said, furrowing his brow just a bit,
looking around paradise harbor, this place,  only ours.  "We should probably go
back to the shelter and get warm," he said, giving me one of those grin
starting  smiles.
"Yeah. We should go get warm," I  grinned.

*  *  *     *  *  *
We stood on the tarmac, my hand in  his, as we watched the arrival of the
C-130 cargo plane bringing us another full  load, 42,000 pounds of supplies, some
of what we would need for the next five  weeks. We were half-way through our
project here on the fifth most populous  island in the entire world, and we
were running a good bit ahead of our original  target.  We all had a quick
celebration late last night, well past the witching hour, as our inspector put
the seal of approval on the fiftieth house we've finished in the first half of
our summer in this  mountainous province of Aceh, here on the northern tip of
Sumatra. Aceh guards  the entrance to the most important sea-route of Asia,
Malacca Strait. Almost all traffic over sea  between West and East passes this
sea lane, and Aceh has been a most popular  land for Arab and Indian merchants
for centuries.
Most of our group, eighty-nine strong, works at least twelve hours every
day, seven days a week.  There were  at least a dozen of us who were pushing
eighteen hours on average each day and I  was never absent from my place at the
side of my partner, whether he was  sweeping floors, pulling electrical cables,
running pipes, hammering nails,  collecting trash or helping to prepare one of
the meals for our crew.  We were a four-handed operation,  whatever our
assignment, and when we crawled into our sleeping bags in the wee  hours each
morning, I'm sure we snored in unison.
We were standing beside the huge Sikorsky CH-53 heavy lift helicopter  that
would take the handoff from the Hercules C-130 and ferry us back up near  the
point of this magnificent island so we could rejoin our friends and
co-workers, just in time for the evening meal.  I don't know when we started holding
hands like this. We had spent a day in Pusan, South  Korea on the trip over and
I guess seeing so  many people there walking down the street, hand-in-hand,
regardless of gender,  just as natural as you please, made it seem like that was
just the way things  were suppose to be.  We were not the  only ones, in our
ever increasingly proficient construction gang, that went  about often with
hands clasp to some one or the other of our band of merry  homebuilders.  We had
seventy-two  students and seventeen parents from our little farming community
back in the  states deployed here in our desire to make a difference.  We had
all become very close to one  another, working almost in synch, perhaps a
result of the two months of thrice  weekly training we undertook before
mobilizing for this effort, the main event,  as we had often called it back then.
We had made quite a few friends, here in these mountains, with a growing
number of the members of this Moslem community.  The joy in the faces of a small
family,  leaving the shelter of their hillside tent to move into their newly
built house  was a gift unmatched by any I had ever before received.  Several
of the local teens and even many  of the children frequented our worksites,
often pitching in to lend a hand, for  hours on end, coming back day after day,
and joining our new found practice of  handholding as we shared the labor that
brought families into a new home, a  labor of love.
"One day, I am going to fly on an aero plane too," said Kahlid Jarrar as
the eight year old boy stood in the open hatch of the giant helicopter watching
the Hercules taxi toward us.
"Of course you are," said Chris, dropping my hand and abandoning my side  as
he stepped over to Kahlid.  The  small little boy climbed from his perch
there in the bay of that big bird onto  the shoulders of my blond friend, without
hearing the slightest invitation or  making any such request.  It was a
common sight around our camp, Kahlid riding the shoulders of Chris, more often
than not.  Sometimes I was the  honoree, permitted to carry the little prince
from here to there, but most  often, Kahlid was at Chris' side, handing him the
next nail or holding a dust  pan, even stirring the mortar.
Kahlid had been orphaned in the disaster that swept this part of the  world
that fateful day, the one right after Christmas back in 2004.  He had survived
on handouts for many  long months, but now, he had found a new home, at least
for a time.  Every evening, mostly in the very early  hours of the morning, as
I crawled into our tent, the one I shared with Chris,  there he'd be, this
little black haired carmel-colored boy, asleep in his own  cozy bag right where
he'd first place it, snuggled between ours.  Most mornings, I'd wake to his
twinkling  eyes and grinning smile as he'd always rise first and greet his two "
roommates"  with gifts of hot steaming coffee, brought from our little "
chuck wagon" there  at the camp.
I guess I'd fallen in love twice now, since leaving the world of my
childhood down there at the fort about this time, now a year long past. I was  already
dreading the day I knew was soon coming when we'd have to say our  goodbyes
to the little prince as we returned to the states and our next year of  school.
 I wasn't certain I'd handle  it very well.  I had lost a big part  of my
heart to that boy, that little bundle of questions, awe, giggles and love.  He
was our shadow and where ever we went, I'd always be looking around to see
that he was there.
I knew it was going to crush me, probably him as well, when we'd  eventually
part. I just wasn't sure about Chris and how he'd react.  He seemed to have
become tougher these  past several weeks, in an emotional way, but his love for
that little boy  inspired every single member of our traveling construction
ensemble.
One morning, I guess it was about three weeks ago now, I had woken a bit
early and caught Kahlid holding a cup of coffee in each hand, squatting on his
sleeping bag in between us. Bending down, he gently kissed the still sleeping
Chris on the cheek, then sat back down on his sleeping bag, holding the travel
 mugs, one in each hand, as he waited for us to awake.  It was the most
precious moment, the  most innocent picture I think I had ever seen in all my life.

I watched Kahlid sitting there now, on  Chris' shoulders, bending his head
down to just the right side of Chris' face as  the two chatted on undisturbed by
the roaring engines of the Hercules as it  taxied to a stop a few yards away.
 They were lost to the world as they excitedly talked on and on,
occasionally one pointing to something out on the air field, other times, the  other
doing the pointing.  When the  pilot killed the engines of the C-130, Chris,
reached to remove Kahlid from his  shoulders but the boy didn't want to go.
"I have to help unload the plane,"  gently explained Chris to the little
boy.
"I will help you then," said Kahlid,  accepting Chris' assistance as he
climbed from his saddle.  The two walked over to a forklift and  Chris settled
into the truck, helping the little boy up so he could stand just  beside the
seat. As Chris started the engine and moved toward the opening rear  hatch of the
giant Hercules, the little fellow again locked his arm around  Chris' neck,
looking very focused and ready to go as he was going to help Chris  transfer the
pallets to our waiting helicopter. I couldn't help but laugh as I  stood
there watching, feeling all for the world like it just couldn't get any  better
than this.

*  *  *     *  *  *
While almost every parent in our  entourage would have jumped at the chance
to take the little prince home, it was  well known that the government here had
blocked foreign adoptions because of the  outbreak of predators that had come
preying on these precious and vulnerable  babies. A week before our depart
ure, Chris' mom finally succeeded in finding a  local family that was willing to
provide at least a foster home for Kahlid,  though when so informed, he was
none too pleased with the idea.
"I am going home with Chris.  He's my brother now.  Tell them Chris. I will
be your brother  and live with you and Trey," he said as John, Sara, Chris and
I sat at the  picnic table informing him of his new home. The tone in his
voice and the  expression on his face was one of total expectation.  He had
evidently sometime long since  decided just how it was going to be and this change
in plans did not at all meet  with his approval.
"They're a good family," said Sara,  radiating gentleness, as she sought  to
soothe the little boy sitting across  the table right there beside her son. "
They're loving, kind, and very  friendly.  They have another little  boy
almost your age.  You'll have  your own bed; You'll be able to go to school and you
'll have someone to play  with."
Kahlid scooted closer to Chris,  wrapping both his arms around his "brother's
" right arm and held on tight.  "Chris, tell them, I must go home with you
to your house," he repeated with  emphasis, looking up into the face of my best
friend, fully expecting his  instruction to be carried out.
Chris, gently unwrapped himself from  the increasingly confused little boy,
stood up from the table, reached down and  scooped up Kahlid in his arms and
walked away toward the other end of the camp,  not saying a word, as we watched
the two disappear somewhere in the rows of  tents.
The truth is, since being informed two  days ago by his mother of her success
at last, Chris had barely said a  word.  He mostly just nodded and he  kept
his jaws set tight. I knew how he felt; I pretty much felt exactly the same
way, the only difference being, I hadn't buried the love of my life in the near
recent past as had my best friend.
When the two came back, some long  minutes later with Kahlid riding in the
saddle, it was obvious both had been  crying, though they made an effort to hide
the evidence from us.  Chris helped the boy to dismount and  they both sat
with us again at the picnic table.
"Chris gave me a cell phone.  I can call him anytime," said the very  sad
little boy, his eyes fixed on the table top, joined there with those of my
friend. "Thank you Mrs. Sara for helping me to find a home," he said the words,
but it was an effort.  Chris didn't  believe him, I didn't believe him and I'
m fairly certain neither did either of  Chris' parents. "But Chris is still
my brother, even if I can't live with him,"  the boy said, still looking at
the table. I could see Chris press his jaws  together even tighter and I had to
look away.
Kahlid would spend one more night with  us and then his new foster parents
would come tomorrow morning to take him to  his new home.
Not a single member of our camp was  anxious to leave but we had already
delayed our departure three days past that  scheduled, acquiescing to the
consensus of just one more house, then one more,  and another, finally forced to break
camp after we had completed house number  ninety-two and gained ten times
that number of new friends.
Many of these new friends had come out  for our camp's farewell dinner
earlier today and as the only remaining campers  now left, Chris and I said our
farewells to the circle of people still standing  there at the landing zone.
Kahlid  had spent the day, mostly riding in the saddle, though, we'd been denied
the  pleasure of any of his smiles.  When  he did finally make his dismount,
Chris bent down and our little prince wrapped  his tiny arms around my friend's
neck and held on for some time, gently sobbing  into the blond boy's shoulder.
We climbed into the helicopter and  fastened our seatbelts without Chris once
looking back at Kahlid, standing there  in front of the crowd as our new
friends waited to see us off.  His new foster father stood just behind  him,
gently holding the boy's shoulders, one with each hand. Beside me, Chris,  stared
straight ahead, jaws clinched tight and I could see the strain in his  eyes,
even with only my side vantage.  The aching I felt in my own chest and the
tightness in my throat, I was  sure, was likely magnified by some challenging
degree for Chris, as he had been  the one Kahlid had trusted most out of us all.
To break that little boy's heart was  something I was certain would create a
pain I wasn't sure Chris could, for long,  endure.
As the pilot lifted off, I looked back  out the window, watching the little
boy standing there, holding his cell phone  close to his chest, tears streaming
down his cheeks and I too had to look  away.
"Chris?" I asked, seeing the strain in  his face, holding back the flood
threatening my own  eyes.
"It'll be all right," he gasp past the  hurt, and I knew we needed some
time, both of us, just to let the initial ache  pass a bit before we could really
talk about that or anything else for that  matter.
As the rotors whirled overhead and the  pilot headed south for our rendezvous
with the eastbound jet, I reached for  Chris' hand and squeezed it tight.  He
clutched mine even tighter and as our summer building camp faded in  the
distance, we held on fast to each other, the pulse of our hearts pounding as  one,
as we shared the pain of our success.

*  *  *     *  *  *