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To: Professor Mark Wallace
Professor Yuan Yuan
Professor Dawn Formo
From: Blaine H. Mogil
Date: April 25, 2014
Rip Van Winkle in the Twenty-first Century Part I
The year was 2013, and it was on the dark evening of the sixth day of November. I was
driving with the windows down—the cool night air washing over my face—and after a year of
reading, researching and writing, I had an epiphany. The creative story that follows had finally
been fully drafted the week before, and now it struck me—the story written unwittingly draws
heavily from issues that have troubled me about American politics, American history, and the
vanishing freedoms and personal liberties here in the United States. The story that follows is not
my story, but one that traces its origins back to my awakening from a political and intellectual
slumber on September 11, 2001.
I was born in a dominantly white, middle class neighborhood into a highly conservative
Republican family in which acceptance of the status quo was not only a norm, but an aspirational
ideal seen as an essential milestone in achieving the American Dream. Thinking wasn’t
discouraged, but thinking progressively, thinking creatively, thinking counter to any accepted
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norm was radical and was to be avoided at all costs or else the communist dominoes would be
unleashed, toppling the American way of life and unraveling the very fabric of American culture.
It was in this state of inculcation as a privileged white, middle-class American male that
I remained passively for my first forty-three years. Along the way I picked up one true friend,
ironically a subversive, left wing, progressive liberal with whom I argued relentlessly and often.
It was the foundation of our friendship—we could argue and still and be great friends. My best
friend Mike tried to convert me with his ideas about social justice, equality of opportunity and
the importance of unions in protecting the welfare of the working class from the greedy, profit
minded capitalists. And while my heart knew his radical ideologies were driven by a progressive
desire to improve the greater good of the nation, my will had been forged in the fires of the Cold
War. I had been indoctrinated as a staunch defender of the status quo.
My defense of the status quo began to melt away when I got an unexpected call from my
sister-in-law, early on the morning of September 11, 2001. While the news she shared about a
plane crashing into the World Trade Center struck me as unbelievable, it was also too creatively
far-fetched for her to fabricate. By the time I got to the office half an hour later and confirmed
the horrific news, I called my wife to share the what I had learned, and voice my fear that we (the
United States) would be going to war, and how a potential military action might possibly be
against a country or organization who had nothing to do with the attack. As to whom the
administration would make the scapegoat for the attack, I could not guess. I feared how those in
the administration would spin this heinous attack, who they would blame, and how they would
go after them guns a-blazing. Perhaps I was stereotyping President Bush and his administration. I
was still a staunch Republican. However, President Bush’s political approach to conflict
resolution reminded me of old Wild West movies when the new sheriff and his posse arrive in
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town with loaded guns and itchy trigger fingers. Further, his impatient unwillingness to wait for
a diligent investigation into the events on September 11, 2001, along with his reckless approach
to consider any larger issues that led to the attacks, caused me to reconsider my allegiance to the
party. My belief that the United States was about to become embroiled in an unjust war was,
sadly, the most prescient moment in my life.
President Bush made a quick move to war, without waiting for formal congressional
approval. His divide and conquer approach to winning support for his war against Iraq, a once
staunch American ally in the Middle East, was elucidated clearly in his post-9/11 speech on
November 6, 2001, in which he announced, “You’re either with us or against us.” This message
carried a warning to not only our enemies, but to our allies, to the legislative branch of the
United States government and to the American people. This statement signaled to all, a
forthcoming, overreaching increase in government power which would soon be granted by the
Patriot Act, which decisively and negatively impacted First Amendment rights by tearing down
privacy laws, impeding free speech and casting aside habeas corpus.
I was now driven to go beyond the news to find answers as to what caused the
perpetrators to strike against us, as well as what motivated our leaders to invade and bomb Iraq. I
ended up reading dozens of books on the attacks from various expert sources. I also headed back
to school, knowing that I needed to improve my intellectual knowledgebase, and expand my
available research tools and critical thinking skills to better understand the sometimes senseless
world in which we all live.
I had no idea where to focus my studies. My Mira Costa College English 200 professor
shone a light on both my academic and career paths with a comment on my final essay. This
essay was a short treatise on the United States Empire titled “Divided We Stand, United We
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Fall.” The professor gave me the highest possible score for the essay and added the comment, “I
can’t wait to read your published work.” That was the moment I knew that writing would be
central to my future career. After transferring to California State University, San Marcos, as a
literature and writing major, several faculty members encouraged me to pursue teaching in the
field, much as my wife had been doing for some time.
I had my confidence sufficiently bolstered in the master’s program to pursue teaching in
the field of rhetoric and composition. It is this potential future as a teacher that has become one
of the central foci for this thesis. Although I have travelled many roads in order to find my way
to a thesis that best reflects my passions, and speaks to the future I envision for myself, my
inspiration was found in our shared national past. The inspiration that sparked this thesis arose
from a re-reading of Washington Irving’s classic American tale of “Rip Van Winkle.” I sought to
re-imagine Rip Van Winkle’s odyssey in the modern era in order to share my concerns about
history and politics, and bring these concerns to light in a college composition classroom. The
idea of using the original tale, and the following fictional journey of Rip’s grandson, to teach
composition students inspired new thoughts on pedagogical approaches to teaching in the
twenty-first century college composition classroom. I imagined these, or similar texts, as one
component in building a cooperative learning community, one that can blur traditional
disciplinary boundaries. By simultaneously teaching a shared text in multiple courses such as
history, philosophy, sociology, political science or more, there is a potential to improve the
learning experience for students and better prepare them for careers in the highly competitive
twenty-first century global economy.
I read Washington Irving’s tale of “Rip Van Winkle” again, for the first time since
President Nixon was sworn into office. The story was suggested to me by one of my professors.
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It was a great lead. I took a quick read, and in only a day I found many of the themes I wanted to
explore in this thesis, particularly those of a political and a historical nature. I found the story
itself was rich in thematic threads, character development, and a blend of history and fantasy
(which is what I feel politicians and historians have too often done). The wealth of thematic
threads caused me to pause and consider the potential for incorporating the tale into a crossdisciplinary learning environment. I found that the story moved quickly (good for the modern
student’s short attention span), and it was enchanting (good for engaging students). It was from
this fresh reading that I knew my thesis would, somehow, revolve around the classic Washington
Irving tale.
My recent reading of “Rip Van Winkle” was in preparation for a new career as a college
rhetoric and composition instructor. With my now greater breadth of life experience and the
depth of knowledge gained from my scholastic work in the field of literature, the story appeared
very little like the child’s tale I recalled through the foggy lens of nostalgia. While considering
the story through various critical lenses, there came to light a broad range of thematic threads
within the densely packed tale, including threads of politics, history, meta-history, capitalist
economics, folklore, myth, sociology, epistemology and more.
Bridge to the Creative
I was struck by the manner in which Washington Irving created such a rich story, with so
many varied thematic threads, which provides the reader with myriad ways to examine the text. I
wondered what Washington Irving would have written had he lived in our era. Yet, no matter
how much research I did on the man, on his work, on his politics, or on his career, I knew that
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imagining how he would view modern America would prove fruitless. Though I could not
imagine what stories he would write, based upon those themes he incorporated into the tale of
“Rip Van Winkle,” I did have a reasonable idea as to what themes might concern him today and
what issues he might focus on in the twenty-first century.
Would it be possible for me to imitate his work with enough distance to avoid
plagiarizing? Would it be possible to borrow from Irving’s tale of “Rip Van Winkle,” as he had
borrowed from the German folk tale of “Peter Klaus?” Irving’s tale was written so close to the
progenitive story that some of his contemporary critics “very noisily accused (Irving) of
plagiarism” (Young 609). Daniel L. Plung states that “critics should have been studying Irving's
emendations to the Peter Klaus legend,” (68) and when they “recognize he was not plagiarizing,
but was building upon a solid foundation, then they can begin to understand what gives "Rip Van
Winkle" its truly autochthonous character” (Plung 68). In the story that follows, there should be
close and evident connections to Irving’s story, yet a sufficient distance of originality.
Neither in the story nor in the book of stories, does Washington Irving make any claims
himself to the historical authenticity of the “Rip Van Winkle” tale. Instead he uses an alter ego
by the name of Geoffrey Crayon to tell a series of tales or “sketches” including “Rip Van
Winkle” and “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” in the anthology titled The Sketch Book of
Geoffery Crayon, Gent. Irving uses the Crayon character to establish a foundational claim to the
veracity of the tales included here, and he testifies thusly to the veracity and authenticity of “Rip
Van Winkle.” Irving adds another layer to substantiate the historical accuracy by basing such
claims on the work of Irving’s fictional historian Diedrich Knickerbocker, of whom Crayon
testifies to Knickerbocker’s unimpeachable methodology and reliance on first hand interviews,
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for Knickerbocker “found the old burghers, and still more their wives, rich in legendary lore so
invaluable to true history” (Irving 43).
Irving’s character and alter ego Geoffrey Crayon goes further to establish the credibility
of the “Rip Van Winkle” story by referring to Diedrich Knickerbocker’s earlier work A Dutch
History of New York, which was “little questioned on its first appearance, but has since been
completely established, and it is now admitted to all historical collections as a book of
unquestionable authority” (Irving 43).
Could I faithfully render a modern tale that spoke to similar concerns as those that
concerned Washington Irving, particularly those of the unreliability of history? After all, the
issues he addressed in the story of “Rip Van Winkle” were many of those issues with which I am
concerned today: politics, liberty, epistemology, and engaging readers—and challenging them to
think.
At a La Jolla Writer’s Workshop some years back, I had a private reading of the
beginning work on my first novel with a renowned and widely published author. He suggested
that I consider the Mary Poppins “spoon full of sugar” approach to writing. He told me no one
wants to ingest the dry, boring details of all that is wrong in the world today, it’s too depressing.
He suggested that if I want to make a change in the world by inspiring readers, then do it through
literature. Plant seeds. Let the reader consume the story joyfully, yet let the message be
subliminal, let the ideas be sublime. These are not the exact words or ideas presented to me, but
they are the concepts I took away from the conversation.
This manner of thematically rich and inspirational writing, and the manner of writing I
wish to undertake here, is one that encourages the reader to think about the meaning and the
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implications of what they have read. If successful, the story will stay with the reader, and affect
the way they think about the world around them.
As a writer, I am less concerned about what readers think, only that they do think,
critically. The story that follows is a piece of literature that I would like to incorporate into my
classroom to these ends. With my modern writing of a continuation of the “Rip Van Winkle”
story, this is precisely what I wish to accomplish. I want the reader to engage. I want the reader
to wonder. I want the reader to think. I want the reader to see connections. I want the reader to
begin to feel that they too, are connected to the story, simply because they read it—it has become
part of their life experience, and hopefully it will inspire them.
For me, Washington Irving and the story of “Rip Van Winkle,” have become a significant
part of my life experience. The man and his tale have inspired me to think, to write, to go further
in my work, and to pass this all on to my readers. But, what approach should I take if I so boldly
look to build on the “Rip Van Winkle” tradition?
One salient point I want to incorporate into my thesis is Irving’s multilayered approach to
storytelling. The connections between the author and the narrator affect one another. Together
they can connect to the reader, effecting how the reader will come to interpret a story and its
sundry themes and elements.
My story, as so many stories do, had to begin with a protagonist. So who could I recruit
to volunteer for the job as protagonist? As it turns out, the volunteer was in the original tale, and
he was too young to say no to the request. In the original story, Rip Van Winkle returns to town,
sees his son, and meets his daughter with her newborn son, Rip’s grandson. How could a
newborn refuse such a starring role? And how could a mother say no to such an opportunity for
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her child to become a star? And so, I have cast this child as the protagonist in the role of Rip Van
Winkle, III, or Trip Van Winkle.
I moved forward with imagining Trip’s timeline. I would have him follow in his
grandfather’s footsteps. Based loosely on the original story, as Rip wakes up after the end of the
American Revolutionary War, this places Trip as a baby in the late 1770’s. I decided that Trip
should sleep a little longer than his grandfather. Trip begins his journey by sleeping through the
entire nineteenth and twentieth centuries, awakening in New York City on September 11, 2001.
Many of the thematic threads I wished to explore in this story intersected on this day, when
history, politics, war, family, philosophy, and religion intersected and exposed the connections
between them—or exposed their connections to anyone willing to invest the time and effort to do
further reading and research. Therefore, it seemed a logical place to begin the tale.
As a writer, I would like to think that I am in control, and the stories I write are the result
of my diligent craftsmanship. Outside of my mind, and in the real world, I find that stories write
themselves, or rather, once I begin to understand the characters in my mind, they showed me the
story. That holds true with the story of the twenty-first century Trip Van Winkle.
The primary responsibility I maintained as a writer was how to structure the story. As
Trip clued me in to the story, it became obvious that other characters must share his journey,
otherwise the story would have no point. So others joined at various stages during the
development of the tale: Sally was the bride he lost before the event-his sleeping and slipping
through time; Fianna is the women who introduced Trip to the twenty-first century, and later
became his wife; Danny was Trip’s biggest fan, after Trip published his biography disclosing his
life in the eighteenth and twenty-first centuries.
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Still there was someone else, someone who would become a key to fully enriching this
new tale. I asked Trip, and he didn’t know. I imagined on my own, and found no answers. I read
my own tale, and found the other protagonist. He was there all along. His name is Doctor
Broderick Carver Jefferson. Doctor Jefferson began as an antagonist. But that wasn’t right. Both
he and Trip told me so. Next, Doctor Jefferson became Trip’s foil. That held true to the end of
the story to some degree.
Suffice it to say that the story now had two protagonists, and they were fully on board
with the project. It became important to consider their independent timelines. Harkening back to
Washington Irving’s original tale of “Rip Van Winkle,” the timeline was an indispensible
structural element. Rip’s sleeping through twenty years was central to the tale. Growing up
reading post-modern science fiction, I found that non-linear timelines created an engrossing
dynamic in many of the books I enjoyed. One of my favorite authors, Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., used
both extraterrestrial space and non-linear time in the book “Slaughterhouse Five” to tell the story
of Billy Pilgrim. In crafting the tale of Trip Van Winkle, I wanted to develop my own approach
to a timeline for this story that shared the type of captivating dynamic found in post-modern
works such as Vonnegut’s. I came to imagine an interesting approach to the timeline that became
a cornerstone in the story. Much like Irving’s timeline, the story would not work without it, nor
would the story be much worth telling.
At times in life, I’ve felt as though my life is going in a different direction from everyone
around me. I’ve often thought of myself as a salmon, always pushing upstream and against a
strong current. This notion, combined with my appreciation for non-linear timelines from postmodern science fiction gave me cause to think at length about the temporal trajectory of the two
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protagonists. I knew their paths would cross in the physical world, and there was a clear point in
time, and more than a serendipitous reason for their meeting.
I could not shake the feeling that our first protagonist Trip would never fully resign
himself to life in the twenty-first century. He had too much of his life invested in the eighteenth
century, and in the end, his bright hope for life in the new millennium is extinguished. Doctor
Jefferson on the other hand, was born into a world of progress, of liberal ideals, and to a mother
who taught him that the world could be changed—for the better.
It was at this point that I realized the two protagonists were headed in opposite directions.
It made perfect sense that their timelines and storylines should as well. I felt this spoke clearly to
the transient nature of life, and how our interactions can have profound impact on one another.
And I shall now leave you to begin reading the tale of Trip Van Winkle with the hope his story
captivates your imagination as he takes his place in the twenty-first century, lecturing on First
Amendment and free speech rights at Columbia University in New York City.
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Part II
Rip Van Winkle – The First Amendment
Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it—George Santayana
January 17, 2014, 5:15P.M. Inside the Roone Arledge Auditorium at Columbia
University
Standing in front of the capacity crowd at the Roone Arledge auditorium at Columbia
University in New York City, center stage in front of the mahogany podium, Professor Trip Van
Winkle cast an adoring gaze back at his wife Fianna. She was eight months pregnant with their
first child. She appeared relatively comfortable to Trip as she wiggled back into a soft black
leatherette stacking chair. He smiled, watching her right foot gently dancing on the floor. He
knew how much she was looking forward to what would be one of their last evenings out
together before their newest family member arrived. It was early in the evening, and soon it
would be time to head out for an intimate dinner at Fianna’s favorite French restaurant La Tarte
Flambée. Through the western window, Trip saw the evening weather settling in, eerily. The
light outside had already transformed from cloudy grey sunlight to the yellow pall of artificial
street lights. The solemn light cut through the misty fog riddled night, mischievously splashing
the shadows of bushes, trees and people strolling by onto the walls of the campus buildings and
across the concrete walkways. He hoped the weather’s somber mood wouldn’t dampen the
delightful evening ahead. Trip was ready and excited, looking forward to taking Fianna to a
romantic dinner—the moment his lecture on free speech concluded.
The enormous red haired young man in the blue Columbia University letterman’s jacket
stepped up to the microphone to speak, standing center stage and two steps below the stage level.
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Trip cast an askance look at the young man and then at the spot where the bright red fruit had
exploded onto the surface of the bright maple stage, flung by the young man before the lecture
began. The young freshman spoke only to offer a public apology to the Professor and the two
thousand plus audience members packed tightly into the venue. Trip graciously thanked the
young man for his apology and smiled. The freshman turned to step away from the microphone
to allow the next in line to have their say, taking away with him the one prominent and potential
threat for the day.
The Professor’s temples ceased their throbbing. The sweat covering his forehead and
upper lip evaporated, and the anxiety that had all of his senses in a heightened state of alert was
quelled. From out of the shadows of the Goliath red haired freshman, a diminutive man stepped
forth. Trip saw the small statured man as strained by a harsh life, timeworn by the elements. The
man’s hair was a tousled sandy brown, with his face shrouded in a month old hoary beard that
framed his weary face. The man stepped forward and staked his position at the microphone, on
the floor just below center stage. His stubby and calloused fingers, wriggling on the end of his
clammy hands, wrestled with the mic stand, bringing the microphone down to his level. He
grasped the microphone like a vice.
“Welcome.” The professor spoke cordially to the man now standing before him. The
greeting was tinged with Trip’s relief that this event would conclude soon.
“Thank you for allowing me to speak, Professor Van Winkle.” The man spoke
respectfully, with a strong raspy voice that crackled. The voice was accompanied by an equally
harsh and unpleasant aroma. From ten feet away, the odor made Trip choke up a bit. The foul
aroma triggered Trip’s imagination—that the man had lived a life of excess, consuming more
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cigarettes, coffee and cheap whiskey than any one man should. The man’s voice sounded to Trip
as though it had been tempered and shaped on the anvil of lifelong hardship.
“What may I answer for you?” Professor Trip Van Winkle queried from his elevated
position on the stage next to the lectern, all the while smiling amiably.
“My question is, Professor, why won’t you let me talk?”
Trip noticed that the man’s tension from the chokehold he had on the microphone. The
chokehold was tenacious. No one would possibly wrest it away from him. “I’m sorry? I’m
confused, please go ahead, what can I do for you?”
“You could let others hear my voice. I mean, I just want what everybody wants—to be
heard. To have a place to speak, speak freely—and openly. But you—you denied me…”
Frustration breached through the man’s composed surface. Trip looked around the auditorium.
The crowd was alert to the man’s dynamic emotional change—they were immediately re­
engaged by the man’s dramatic shift from cooperative to confrontational. Trip saw security
guards, stationed around the perimeter, now talking on their shoulder mounted two-way radios.
“You took my voice away from me. Here, today, in front of this captive audience, you preach
about the importance of free speech and how everyone should be heard, while on your blog, and
in your forum, you act as the gatekeeper to free speech, deciding whose voice lives and whose
voice dies. And, you—you killed my voice. I had—I have—important things to say!”
“I’m afraid I’m still a bit unclear, do I—should I know you, my good man?” Professor
Van Winkle offered forth a verbal olive branch.
“Of course you should. I’m David Jon Scotus. I’ve tried contributing to your blog and
forum for months now, but you’ve moderated me and all of my important input into oblivion.”
Trip could see and feel the man’s rising agitation. Trip realized that he did know the man, or
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know of him—by his manifestos—a series of rants about how the individual could no longer be
heard over the white noise of those with power. The rants were so heavily laced between thick
layers of expletives and hate that any potential value they carried was lost. The vulgarity
overshadowed any potential significance of his submissions, and the coarseness added nothing to
the conversations about free speech on the blog or forum.
“Yes, Mr. Scotus, I do recall your many contributions. What can I do for you?” Trip
asked as he watched the man release his chokehold on the mic stand and stuff his hands deeply in
the front pockets of his shoddy long tan overcoat.
“Not a damn thing. I just came here to educate you. For example, do you know why the
forefathers wrote the Second Amendment as they did?” The man tilted his head as he sneered
mockingly at the professor.
“Yes, they...”
“Be quiet. That was a rhetorical question—now it’s my turn to talk!” Trip, the crowd, and
the security guards all excited at the flaring of the man’s anger. Out of the corner of his eyes,
Trip could see the security guards. They were moving in from the perimeter of the venue,
making their move towards Scotus, who was now visibly shaking from the shoulders down. His
head jerked as he spoke haltingly. Trip felt a presence suddenly near to him. Trip’s biggest fan
and now self-appointed body guard, Danny, made a precautionary move closer to Trip.
Trip watched Scotus’ anger grow, now with spittle projecting from his cracked and
twisted lips, and a handgun in his right hand. “The second Amendment follows the First
Amendment as insurance. The Second Amendment guarantees our First Amendment rights when
nothing else can.” Trip found himself standing numbed by fear, in the crosshairs of the gun
Scotus had pulled from his pocket. Danny quickly bowled Trip over, full force, knocking him to
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the floor. As he was being tackled, a disbelieving Trip heard Scotus fire one quick round and
then another. Trip put both hands out to break his fall onto the hard wood floor. He heard
screaming, and the guards yelling at Scotus not to move a muscle.
In falling to the floor, Trip rolled over, facing Fianna. Danny rolled down between Trip
and the mad man. Trip didn’t see either bullet, only the horrific result. He watched helplessly as
Fianna’s eyes, face, and mouth all screamed out in pain as her voice failed. Her expression
shrieked silently, desperately calling out for help. Trip was paralyzed with fear, as all around the
venue pandemonium erupted. Trip, too, helplessly reached for, and cried out to Fianna. Still
clutching her baby, she slipped from the chair and crashed hard onto the unyielding stage floor.
Trip’s life was crashing; his past—already gone, his present—shattered, and his future—
possibly denied. He watched helplessly as the EMTs rushed to Fianna’s aid. Trip prayed for
Fianna to a God in whom he had little remaining faith. He watched in shock as the EMT’s
attended to her aid with the greatest passion and compassion, but Trip knew that for now her fate
rested in their hands, and ultimately in God’s.
January 16, 1987 – The Jefferson House in Selma, Alabama
“He’s here!” Marvin yelled from out front to Broderick, who was in the kitchen cobbling
together some lunch. The sun was shining bright through the daisy adorned white kitchen
curtains that kept the kitchen bright and warm against the brisk wintery Alabama weather
outside. Broderick could hear the slapping sounds of his twin brother Marvin’s sneakers against
the concrete steps that led up to the iron barred front door of the family’s red brick home in the
outskirts of Selma.
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“Who’s here?” Broderick always enjoyed toying with his slightly older brother.
Broderick knew that their mother had arrived, bringing with her a longtime friend, Hosea
Williams. They arrived right on time, to gather up Marvin to join Mr. Williams in the civil rights
march in Forsyth, Georgia the following day. She had been talking up a storm, of late, about the
civil rights march from Selma to Montgomery in which she had walked side by side with Mr.
Williams in nineteen sixty-five. These stories, and others about the power of free speech, were
central to her disciplined nurturing of the two boys. She fully indoctrinated the young boys into
the idea that when enough people rise together in one voice, they can carve out a path to
freedom, justice and equality. It was not simply a concept to her. It was a reality by which she
had lived and defined her life.
“Come on little man, you know, it’s Mr. Williams. Now get your skinny behind out
here!” Marvin always led the way. Broderick, the younger (by thirty-five minutes), happily
followed nearly every one of Marvin’s leads. Marvin was the closest thing Broderick had to a
father figure. Though the two knew how to give and take with each other well, when Marvin
gave a command, well…Broderick usually went along without any hesitation and without a
complaint.
“I’ll be right there.” Broderick set lunch aside, and headed out to welcome, and pay his
proper respects, to the Civil Rights hero. As he walked outside, his mother Lesha and Mr.
Williams were getting out of the family car. It was a practical and well cared for burgundy 1976
Chevrolet Caprice Classic station wagon. Marvin was already excitedly shaking hands and
introducing himself to Mr. Williams, with whom he would spend the next two days, travelling to
and from Georgia for the march. They would be marching together, calling for an end to
Forsyth’s long standing tradition of keeping their county a racially purified lily white.
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“Broderick, get over here!” Marvin couldn’t keep his excitement in check. “This is
him…Mr. Williams—Mamma marched with him in sixty-five, now it’s my turn…and you can
still come, if you’d just leave the studying for two days. Come on, say hi. You have to come too.
It won’t be the same without you. Mr. Williams, I’d like you to meet my little brother,
Broderick.”
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance young man. Broderick, is it?” Mr. Williams
extended his strong right hand, forged in the never ending struggle to bring racial equality into
the twentieth century.
Broderick reached out to Mr. Williams, accepting the handshake with all due respect.
“It’s an honor to meet you Mr. Williams. Our mother has told us so much about you…your
work, and most of all the march you led, with her at your side to Montgomery in nineteen sixtyfive. She has had nothing but praise for you, and I’d like to thank you for all you’ve done for the
cause.” Broderick was humbled in the presence of someone he knew to be a great man, a man
who exuded a powerful presence, filled with passion and undying patience.
Broderick smiled and turned to his left. “Welcome home, Mamma. Is everyone staying
for lunch?”
Lesha smiled, “No, Shugah, I’ve to get Mr. Williams and your brother to the bus station
right away, and then get back to work. Are you sure you’re not going along with your brother?”
She smiled, but Broderick could see in her smile that she would be quite pleased if he stayed
home. She had told the boys how worried she was about the potential for violence on the march.
After all, violence was a big part of the Selma to Montgomery march twenty-two years before.
She shared with them her worries about the possibility of violence in Georgia, but Mr. Williams
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made a promise to keep close tabs on Marvin and make sure Broderick’s big brother returned
safe and sound.
“I’m sure, Mamma. I’ve got to keep studying for the SAT and I’ve got to do well—my
whole future’s riding on it.” Broderick knew that Marvin would ace the test. Marvin had an
eidetic memory and everything he needed for the test was already recorded in his mind. For
Broderick, if he didn’t study hard, he might not do well enough to get into whichever college
Marvin did. He wanted to make sure that wherever Marvin went to school, he’d get into as well.
Broderick couldn’t imagine what it would be like to go off to school without his brother at his
side. They had big plans to become doctors, and open a small practice close to home. Broderick
would do everything he could to make sure their future worked out according to plan.
It only took a few minutes for Marvin to grab his faded blue duffel bag and load it into
the back of the wagon. Broderick felt like he was sending his brother off to war, and tried to give
Marvin the type of big hug that made Marvin uncomfortable in public. Marvin turned the hug
into a half a hug and a hand shake.
“You sure you’re not coming, Little Man?”
Broderick smiled wide. “I’ve got my own work to do. You take care of yours. We’ll
knock this SAT out of the park when you get back. Have a great trip, be safe—I’ll be waiting
here for you with Mamma.”
“I’m gonna make you proud, Brody. I’m gonna make a difference. You’ll see. Take care
of Mamma while I’m gone. You’re the man of the house now.”
With everyone settled into the car, and the cushy oversized red leather seats, Broderick
stood in the driveway and exchanged smiles with the three. He watched his mother back away,
taking the two men to make history. Mr. Williams and Marvin were off to battle, where they
Mogil 20
would march, sing and raise their voices as one, to demand equal access to one of the last all
white communities in the nation—a county that continued to hold on to their nightmarish dream
of white purity and supremacy—the goal of these two courageous men was to alter the course of
Forsyth, Georgia’s future history. Broderick felt the anxiety that had sometimes accompanied his
separation from Marvin. He didn’t feel good about staying home. He felt worse about Marvin
leaving. Broderick had a nagging fear that this could send their two destinies diverging.
Marvin hollered out from the back seat window to his brother as the car pulled away.
“You be good, Little Man, your big bro’s gonna’ make some history!”
“You be careful Marvin-I love you man!” Broderick smiled wide watching his brother
blush. There was little he liked more than to use the ‘l’ word to embarrass his big brother, who
never felt comfortable enough to use the word. While Marvin was away, Broderick wanted to
think about his brother, but he was too busy to worry too much—he studied diligently and
awaited Marvin’s safe return.
January 17, 2014, 3:15P.M. Inside the Roone Arledge Auditorium at Columbia
University
Returning to the relative safety of the stage, Trip smiled to Fianna. He closed his eyes,
and took in a quick breath. It had been months since Trip had spoken to a completely docile
crowd. After finally giving in to going public with his story three months ago at the request of
Fianna, and with the encouragement of his psychologist, Trip’s modern world would never be
the same. Since coming out, he had experienced the best and worst in people, with far more of
Mogil 21
the latter than the former. They all foisted their opinions upon him, while few ever considered
what the event or its revelation meant to him, the only one who had experienced the event.
Trip had slipped through time, as his grandfather before him, Rip Van Winkle. This event
had caused Trip many struggles in the decade since he had lost his world, and landed in a strange
new millennium world. His struggles to adapt to a twenty-first century life were never ending.
He mourned the loss of his eighteenth century world. He had lost nearly all of his faith in God
before the event when He took Sally. Trip lost much of his belief in science, which could not
explain the event itself. But, science and religion agreed on one thing – the event couldn’t have
happened. Physics said it was impossible, and the Church said it was not a miracle, both in their
own way denying Trip’s lived reality.
Trip kept a personal journal, painstakingly recounting his past, and reconciling his
present. But his story…his story read like his grandfather’s story, which most people saw as a
pure fiction. But Trip knew better about his grandfather’s tale, and more than anyone, about his
own experience slipping through time. For now, he could only focus on the task at hand,
lecturing on Free Speech and First Amendment rights to an audience filled with those who used
reason to deny his story, alongside the few who somehow found the faith to believe him.
The prospect of speaking to the now docile crowd proved rather discomfiting,
particularly in light of the riled up nature of this same audience when he first arrived. Maybe the
tomato was a godsend in settling the crowd. Still, he felt like a seventeenth century Quaker in
Boston. The hair on the back of his neck stood tall, and was wet from nervous perspiration. He
knew a swig of fine spirits would calm his nerves. It always did. He reached into an inner pocket
of his coat, gently caressing the brandy filled silver flask crafted and given to him by Thomas
Jefferson for his service as a staff member. The contents would help the back pain, but he had
Mogil 22
been warned earlier not to mix alcohol with the pain meds. So instead, he reached into another
pocket, pulling out and quickly downing a handful of tropical Tums ultras. At least these would
help settle his butterfly filled stomach.
He glanced down at his grandfather’s ornate silver pocket watch, now alarming that
3:30P.M. had arrived. It was time to speak. He stood stolid, with what confidence he could
muster. The insistence of the watch was enough to get him to open up and begin speaking, but
his survival instincts would keep his typical candor and frankness in check.
Trip glanced back to his right where Fianna sat. Her perfect posture and tentative smile
helped settle his nerves. She gracefully comforted their expected son with her soon to be
motherly hands, reminding Trip why he was here, today. Her boots were presentable again,
thanks to Danny, but on the stage floor the tomato red stain remained. The stain would require
more attention later. For now, it lay brightly broken in two, reminding Trip how suddenly and
unexpectedly worlds can change, something of which he needed no reminder. Not after two
centuries had vanished overnight.
“A long, long time ago, and not very far away, a group of rebels gathered to launch an
assault on the imperial forces of an empire that refused to hear their calls for fair and equitable
representation of grievances. Taxes had been long levied upon the rebels, yet there was no quid
pro quo representation forthcoming from the empire’s overlords.” Trip could see faces in the
crowd alight and connect with the intentionally misleading pop culture reference he used to grab
their attention. Thousands of eyes brightened to mark their engagement.
“The overtaxed and unrepresented rebels’ cries for equity and justice were silenced by
practices that denied fair recompense both here, and at the empire’s home base thirty-three
hundred miles away. The diverse range of rebel forces found sufficient common ground with one
Mogil 23
another upon which to stand against the empire. They banded together, and rose up united to
fight a savage war against the empire to earn their freedom and autonomy—and in the process
they formed a new democratic republic. No, this is not another Star Wars episode. It is the story
of the foundation of these United States of America.”
Trip rustled through his notes. “Our forefather’s brilliance in drafting the First
Amendment of the Bill of Rights, establishing free speech, free assembly, and the free practice of
any religion of one’s choice, was in allowing future generations to amend the Constitution to
address issues the forefathers knew they could neither envision nor imagine.”
Trip was becoming animate, and he began his normal back and forth teaching pace across
the front of the stage. “Over the past two hundred years, times have changed, people have
changed, technology has changed, priorities have changed, and so has the very notion of free
speech.”
Trip felt the comfort one feels when one’s voice is heard, when the listeners are hanging
on the next word. He continued, “While I’ve no doubt that many of you here today could easily
finish the Star Wars quote ‘Luke, I am…,’” and the audience completed the phrase with ‘your
father’ in unison, without missing a beat. Trip smiled and continued with “I fear that many of
you may not be able to finish founding father Benjamin Franklin’s quote about freedom quite so
readily, as he said, ‘those who would trade their freedom for security…,’” and Trip’s
expectations were met. Only a handful of attendees could finish the phrase with ‘deserve
neither.’
“Free Speech, as conceived by our founding fathers, was restricted to wealthy, land
owning, white males, yet the content of what they were permitted to say was largely unrestricted.
Over the past two hundred years, while freedom of speech has expanded to nearly all citizens,
Mogil 24
restrictions have been imposed on the content of our speech and on our ability to freely
assemble. This is due to legal restrictions as well as socially constructed restrictions imposed by
concepts such as political correctness. This new era in which we live restricts free speech and
free assembly in ways that our founding fathers could never have imagined. But with what I
know about their positions on free speech, they would rise up again to fight those who have
impinged upon our rights of free speech and assembly today.” Trip felt the crowd setting aside
their opinions of Trip’s personal tale as they united in the hopes of discovering truly free speech.
“I’d like to share with you a recent event where one man’s notion of free speech, in the
form of burning a holy religious book, ignited debate about where the boundaries on free speech
lie, and whether ever greater restrictions should be implemented.” Trip signaled to have the
lights lowered, and have a scene from the April 3, 2011 broadcast of the television program
‘Face the Nation’ ready to play on the massive screen behind him.
“On July 12, 2010, Florida Pastor Terry Jones announced on Twitter that he planned to
burn copies of the Koran on the ninth anniversary of the September 11, 2001 attack on the World
Trade center. Jones proclaimed that this was his right as a form of free speech. The
announcement sent shockwaves of anger throughout the Muslim world, and generated threats of
retribution against America and its citizens—if the pastor carried out his personal version of free
speech in burning the Koran. However, Jones capitulated at the 11th hour after President Barack
Obama, General David Petraeus, Secretary of State Hilary Clinton and Secretary of Defense
Robert Gates all spoke out against the book burning, warning that the event would only inflame
the hostility of the very people Jones sought to intimidate. Perhaps Jones saw the legitimacy of
concerns voiced by those in power. For the moment, he sacrificed his own free speech in burning
the Koran for the greater good of the United States. Yet, in April of 2011 Jones followed through
Mogil 25
with the burning, which resulted in protests, and the death of eleven in Afghanistan, including
seven United Nations staffers, all as a result of Jones’ burning of the Koran, or as he stated, his
free speech.”
“In the wake of the Koran burning, some in power felt compelled to stand against such
unrestricted free speech. Let’s take a look at the discussion about this matter following the holy
book burning. On April 3, 2011, United States Senator Lindsey Graham appeared on the CBS
television program Face the Nation. Let’s watch a clip from the Bob Schieffer interview:
BOB SCHIEFFER: I want to get to this Afghanistan thing. General Petraeus today
condemned the actions of this Florida preacher, who-- who burned the Koran. You heard
what Senator Reid said.
SENATOR LINDSEY GRAHAM: You know I wish we could find some way to-- to-- to
hold people accountable. Free speech is a great idea but we’re in a war. During World
War II, you had limits on what you could say if it would inspire the enemy. So burning a
Koran is a terrible thing. But it doesn’t justify killing someone. Burning a bible would be
a terrible thing but it doesn’t justify murder. But having said that, any time we can push
back here in America against actions like this that put our troops at risk we ought to do
it. So I look forward to working with Senator Kerry and Reid and others to condemn this,
condemn violence all over the world based in the name of religion. But General Petraeus
understands better than anybody else in America what happens when something like this
is done in our country. And he was right to condemn it. And I think Congress would be
right to reinforce what General Petraeus said.
Mogil 26
“The proposed limitations on free speech that Senator Graham is alluding to, suggesting
that legislation be drafted to curb to specific forms of free speech if it is offensive in some
quarters, flies against the unfettered freedoms our founding fathers considered essential to a
vibrant democracy. The First Amendment of the Bill of Rights is unambiguous. ‘Congress shall
make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or
abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to
assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.’ Yet some of our elected
officials are suggesting exactly that—the legal prohibition and abridgment of free speech. This
type of impingement on our freedom to speak our minds is nothing new, as we shall see.”
Professor Van Winkle brought the discussion closer to home.
“Free speech, free assembly, and the right to petition the government to redress
grievances are inextricable interconnected freedoms. They were drafted to avoid the potentially
autocratic rule from which our forefathers fought to extricate themselves. Generally speaking,
petitioning the government can be accomplished by freely assembling and speaking freely. For
example, if we were to all exit this building and gather together to hold this lecture on public
property here in New York City, let’s say City Hall, for example, what might happen?”
“As it turns out, we would probably not be allowed to carry on this event in front of City
Hall. There is a limit of three hundred people gathering there according to city code. We could
do it elsewhere, in Central Park for example, but we’d need to apply for a permit in advance
since we have over one thousand participants. Regardless, the city of New York offers
significant obstacles to free assembly and free speech before we even roll out of bed in the
morning.” Trip could feel a strong connection with the audience—they were engaged, and
appeared to have forgotten about their concerns with Professor Van Winkle’s personal narrative,
Mogil 27
and began interacting enthusiastically with the lecturer. The audience had a new focal point upon
which to train their angst, the city of New York.
The lecture moved beyond the confines of New York to focus on landmark court cases,
along with laws and policies that limit free speech and assembly, including the Federal
Communications Commission’s continuing censorship on television and radio broadcasts. Such
censorship traces its roots back to Puritan morals and precepts as well as federal and local
legislation—handcuffing the spirit of free speech as protected under the First Amendment.
Trip carried the lecture on to the landmark case of Shenck v. United States, which
established that free speech could become felonious if the context of the speech posed “a clear
and present danger.” It was in the opinion written by Supreme Court Justice Oliver Wendell
Holmes, Jr. which famously stated that “The most stringent protection of free speech would not
protect a man in falsely shouting fire in a theatre and causing a panic.” The irony was not lost on
Trip, as the last he wanted to do today was say anything that would cause a panic here, today.
“Those who have written these various civil and criminal codes, at both the federal and
state levels, along with those who have adjudicated these laws, have shown an utterly blatant
disregard for founding father Benjamin Franklin’s cautionary advice on security and freedom.
They have indeed traded away individual freedoms for security. And as Franklin said then, and
would likely remind us again today, we therefore deserve neither. So as you leave tonight, and
go back home, go to work, or go to class, remember that creating a democracy founded upon the
rights of free speech was a revolutionary act. Can it be accomplished again? If, so, who will lead
the charge? The light side of the Force, or the dark side? Freedom, or Security? We must choose
one.”
Mogil 28
Trip closed on a lighter note, about recent legislation enacted by the 112th Congress of the
United States under H.R.347, which criminalized public protests when a person or persons
gather(s) to “knowingly, and with intent to impede or disrupt the orderly conduct of Government
business.” “And now I’d like to leave you with a moment of zen. You can’t think about free speech,
free assembly and government without thinking about Congress. Let’s take a look back at a recent act
of Congress.” He quipped, “Those in the 112th Congress enacted this First Amendment busting
legislation, only to later assemble peaceably with the intent to impede and disrupt the government by
shutting it down in the following term. In the next election, will we hold them accountable for
violating the very law they wrote?” The audience laughed and applauded, closing the lecture on a
peaceable note before Trip began taking questions from the audience to close out the lecture.
Danny stood near Fianna, watching over the Van Winkle family, smiling and applauding
the success of his idol’s lecture. Trip walked over to comfort Fianna who still sat anxiously—
ready to enjoy the intimate dinner that awaited with Trip. He took her hands, placing a loving
kiss on her forehead, and offered the baby a reassuring rub before taking questions from the
audience. Trip asked how she was doing, concerned about the general physical and emotional
discomfort that had accompanied her third trimester, and asked if she thought the lecture went
well. She reached up with a loving touch to his face, and her bright green eyes smiled into his.
Trip turned to Danny and thanked him for attending, and for attending to Fianna. He
shook the young man’s hand in gratitude. The hard part was over. Thirty minutes of wind down
questions would leave the Van Winkles free to their own lives.
Mogil 29
January 17, 2014, 6:15A;M; Doctor Broderick Carver Jefferson’s Apartment on West
127th Street
Doctor Broderick Carver Jefferson knew that his mother was always to bed by 9:00 and
up by 4:30 in the morning. She had always told him that wasting sunshine was wasting one of
God’s most precious gifts, and that he should never waste one drop of the good Lord’s sun, nor a
moment of the dear Lord’s time. His mother had taught him well how to make the best use of
every moment with which he was blessed. Those moments include calling home to his mother
every Wednesday morning before work, and every Sunday evening after Church. He would
religiously call his mother to chat—about how the week was going and what was on the agenda
for the next week. Today, he hesitated to call. It was an anniversary call. His motivation to call
waned, washed over in the renewed guilt he felt for the loss. At the end of every call home, he
rarely committed to honor his mother’s request for him to return home to Selma, Alabama for a
proper visit, leaving him washed ever deeper in guilt. This only served to compound his
hesitation to dial.
His beloved mother, Lesha, would have understood if Broderick hadn’t called today, but
she would worry nonetheless—or perhaps all the more. Making the call right now, early in the
morning at six fifteen, would allay his mother’s longstanding and relentless worry about
Broderick’s well being. On the rare occasion in the past when Broderick had called his mother
later than normal, he would always hear the distress in his mother’s voice. He never wanted to
cause his mother needless worry.
Mogil 30
His commitment overrode his hesitation, and he pressed the number one on his phone.
“Good morning Mamma, how’re you feeling this fine morning?” Broderick knew that this
morning never was fine, nor would this morning ever be fine.
“Broderick Carver Jefferson, it’s so nice to hear your voice. There’s no better day to hear
you voice than today, and that makes this morning most fine indeed. How are you doing today,
Shugah?”
“All things considered Mamma, I’m doing just fine. But more important, how are you
doing?”
“God gives me the strength to carry on every day. He just gives me a little more strength
today. But I’ll make it through. I’ve been thinking though. It’s about time.”
“Are you sure Mamma? You’ve said every year since…that you wouldn’t be able to.”
“Yes, Shugah, that’s all true, but my heart’s telling me it’s time. Mr. Williams visited
every year for thirteen years, but when he passed in two thousand…well, I don’t know if anyone
else has paid Marvin’s memorial a proper visit. It’s been twenty-seven long years since they
killed—they hanged my baby out like he was nothing but dirty laundry. I owe him this.”
“But Mamma, you visit his grave every week…”
“Yes, son, but that’s where he rests, safe in the arms of God. The Forsyth Memorial
marks that moment my baby took his last earthly breath. He marched for us…he marched
because of me.” Doctor Jefferson could hear the pain in his mother’s voice, and feel the pain in
his own heart. “I miss my baby. No one else could ever know my pain. Not even you, Shugah.”
Broderick took a moment to pray for his mother, and brother. “No, Mamma, you’re right.
I can never know your pain, and you can never know mine. He took our future together to the
grave with him. I hate what he did, but…I still love him more than I can say. And, I can never
Mogil 31
blame him…he did what he had to do, and I respect that. I respect and love him for doing what
he had to do, but still I hate that he’s gone.”
“I’m gonna go Shugah.”
“You’re hanging up?”
“No, Shugah. I’m gonna go. To pay my respects to my son, to your brother. Can you take
time today, and come join me? I’ll be there by two this afternoon. I could use you by my side.”
“Mamma, if I’d known…maybe I could’ve made arrangements, but we’ve got people out
sick, and…”
“I understand, Shugah. I understand. But, I’ll be thinking about you too. I’ll say hi to
your brother for you, like I do every Sunday.”
“Mamma, you know I wanna come.”
“Yes Shugah, I know. I know.”
“I love you Mamma. Be safe. Tell Marvin I love him—he’d like that.”
“Yes, I think he would. I love you too, Shugah. I’ll call you tomorrow night when I get
back home.”
“I love you mamma. I’ll be home to visit just as soon as I can.”
January 17, 2014, 2:45P.M. Inside the Roone Arledge Auditorium at Columbia
University
Professor Trip Van Winkle peered out from behind the star spangled curtain into the
confines of the auditorium from stage right as his pocket watch chimed once, marking 2:45. The
sold-out great hall was filled with Trip’s fiery supporters and fired up denouncers. No matter
Mogil 32
where he appeared lately, the most zealous admirers and admonishers converged. The throng of
two thousand plus was swiftly spiraling down the drain of the behavioral sink. The clashing
between young coeds, faculty members and the zealous public at large was coming to a boil, the
flames of passion stoked by the auditorium’s dry, hot, forced air. Winter coats, pea coats, rain
coats and jackets were strewn about as nearly everyone had stripped down to their fighting
clothes.
As Trip pushed back the sateen curtain and stepped on stage, he barely got the toe of his
damaged burgundy wingtip loafer planted before his presence began sparking the psychological
kindling of the audience. His heart raced, pounding like a steroidal hummingbird. He
instinctively leapt on stage, taking point behind the massive mahogany lectern, fashioned by a
colonial Dutch master craftsman. It reaffirmed Trip’s timeless connection to New Amsterdam.
He felt protected here, shielded from whatever fate might come his way. His palms were sticky
wet. He placed the back of his right hand on the podium’s desk top and felt its smooth polished
calm. He wiped dry his left hand on his coat and caressed the shining silken surface of the
podium, causing it to squeal with delight. Placing his hands on the timeworn artifact, this
centuries old relic, cast him back to a more serene time—for a brief moment.
Standing silently, surveying the arguing audience, Trip watched as guards separated
quarrels, pair by pair. Trip’s nerves were on edge, and his sweat glands unleashed. He reluctantly
removed his jacket, which had given him a feeling of security. The idea of sweating profusely
throughout the lecture was disconcerting, but he was more concerned about having the freedom
to move about freely and dryly. Trip was unwilling to trade this liberty on stage for any
perceived security the coat provided. Danny took coat backstage, passing Trip’s wife Fianna, as
she ambled on stage. She stepped past the curtain, walking with all due caution to a chair
Mogil 33
reserved for her, between two of Trip’s fellow professors. She greeted Trip’s fellows with her
typical charm. She settled in far away enough from Trip at center stage to be out of the
audience’s line of fire. Trip moved from the security behind the lectern to help her settle into the
comfort of the black leatherette armchair.
Trip returned to his spot behind the lectern at center stage, now with Fianna safely seated
back near the curtain, one white star of the American Flag bedecked curtain hovering overhead.
Fianna had expectedly arrived on time for the lecture—she was never late. He admired her
impeccable punctuality, a trait that contributed to her great success as a reporter for the BBC’s
New York office, but for now she was on hiatus for the biggest event in their lives. He glimpsed
right and caught her bright and reassuring smile, and smiled back. Even with the comfort of
Fianna’s presence, Trip’s concern about his family’s welfare was his central focus. Looking back
to the dissonant audience, his nervousness heightened.
Try as he might to control it, his jittery nerves were making his right upper eyelid flitter
and flap—not blink mind you, but a quick distracting flicking, just enough to divert ones gaze
from his steel blue-grey eyes, eyes preoccupied with fear and caution. He watched over the
crowd with one eyelid dancing.
Trip’s automatic and primeval need to scan for potential threats was triggered by fight or
flight response. The calls were coming, the frequency greater, and the threats ratcheting up from
empty hate filled rhetoric to prurient death threats. With each succeeding text message, each
email, each phone call, the tension and panic latched barbed talons of fear deeper into the
professor’s psyche. The messages had first begun with dissention such as “Liar—you’re hurting
everyone with your deceit—you’re a fraud!” The threatening tone of the communications grew.
The pedestrian demands such as “Go back wherever you came from,” had escalated into “I wish
Mogil 34
you would die,” and as of yesterday they reached the fevered pitch of “I’m going to kill you. And
you WON’T see it coming.”
Trip considered the threats empty. He told no one else. He saw it as his burden to carry.
After all, he thought that since he opened his life story to the world in his autobiography two
months earlier—that ten of his fifteen minutes of fame had already elapsed. He thought that if
another month passed, that he, Fianna and the baby could focus on the life ahead and the story
that catalyzed his brief celebrity would recede forever peaceably into the maw of oblivion.
After Trip’s unforeseen journey, slipping two hundred plus years forward through the
streams of time, he found himself compelled to keep track of time out of the very real fear of
losing another two centuries. Trip’s clock watching compulsion was barely overridden at the
moment by the impending lecture on free speech and by the series of escalating threats he had
received over the past several weeks leading up to today.
Now standard fare at any event where he spoke, several uniformed and armed guards
were stationed around the margins of the venue. EMTs stood hidden behind the curtain in the
wings, prepared to provide any assistance needed.
Trip’s eyes panned left and right, from front to back. All he could see was disharmony.
He looked down and pulled on his watch chain to retrieve the eighteenth century ornate silver
Dutch alarm pocket watch with the champlevé dial, with his grandfather’s initials inscribed on
the back, RVW. These initials were of the man for whom Trip shared his name, Rip Van Winkle.
The name Trip was in honor of his grandfather and reflected well his place as the third in the Rip
Van Winkle line. Trip held the time worn timepiece, and thought fondly of his grandfather and
the world he left behind. The pocket watch now chimed once again, this time urgently, marking
the arrival of 3:15P.M., marking fifteen minutes until the lecture began.
Mogil 35
Trip paused for a moment when he saw the towering young man standing deep in the
right field seats. The enormous red haired, apple cheeked student wearing the Columbia Blue
letterman’s jacket appeared to be no threat. He stood out of the crowd as much for his gargantuan
stature as for his tranquil demeanor, much like a vacated lighthouse in the eye of a burgeoning
hurricane. He stood silently and blankly, intently staring Trip down.
The moment Trip’s eyes resumed scanning, away from the red haired youth in the
letterman’s jacket, the young man coiled back fully, and launched an overripe tomato the size of
a grapefruit at Trip. Trip caught a glimpse of the warbling high velocity projectile out of his right
eye and froze in time.
Time lapsed for Trip as he watched the speeding fruit began to split in flight, with bits of
seeds and flesh exploding from within, pushing hard against the resistant air just prior to
reaching terminal velocity against the stage floor—violently ripping the fruit apart into two
halves, leaving a massive blood red stain across the stage terminating fifteen feet to the
professor’s right, with blood red bits covering Fianna’s black leather boots below the hemline of
her ebony silk dress. One fringe seed of the large fruit went rogue and landed squarely between
Fianna’s pregnancy swollen breasts, coming to rest on the forehead of Fianna’s cherished Saint
Gerard Majella, dangling at the end of a roped silver chain, posed praying on a silver pendant—
quietly watching over Fianna and the unborn child.
Everyone, everything, in the room was motionless. A shocked and terrified Fianna
instinctively embraced her child. Mouths gaping in disbelief abounded. All eyes in the room,
filled with either schadenfreude or invectiveness, synchronously swiveled and stared down the
culprit with all due incredulity.
Mogil 36
Professor Van Winkle was the only animate object in the auditorium apart from Danny, a
Columbia University sophomore. Danny was Trip’s biggest fan and as of today he became Trip’s
self-appointed guardian. Trip saw Danny rush backstage, and return with some clean white
cotton towels, and help Fianna clean and freshen up. Trip looked over at his wife and she offered
a weak smile that signaled her displeasure yet assured Trip that she would be alright. As Trip
stepped forward and down the two steps away from the safety of the stage, he strode towards the
rightmost aisle. Trip offered a nodding smile of reassurance back to Fianna and gave Danny a
smile of thanks. He strode towards the back of the auditorium where the strong armed hulk was
still standing motionless and vacuous. Trip stood dwarfed by the mountainous young man.
The professor sized up the young man who, as Trip approached, fell into a shamefully
slouched stance, his head rested on his chest and his shoulders rolled forward and down. A Saint
Christopher’s medal, shrouded in the patina of a lifetime working in the gym and on the field,
conspicuously fell forward directly in front of the professor’s eyes.
“Why?” Arms crossed, Trip craned his neck in order to look up into the eyes of the young
man.
The young man stood sullen and silent, his eyes hidden behind eyelids slammed shut by
shame.
“Why…why did you do it?
“I don’t know.” His shoulders shrugged, and his large frame began to shrink.
“Are you sure? What were you thinking, right at that moment—the moment when you
picked up the tomato to bring here? You must have been thinking something?” Trip worked his
head to the right, mirroring the young man’s movement.
“I guess I was mad. I don’t know.” The youth averted Trip’s gaze.
Mogil 37
“Mad? Why? At me?” Trip’s eyebrows pulled in and down—quizzically, his anger at the
attack yielding to intense curiosity.
“Yeah. You.” The young man looked Trip square in the eye. His eyelids retracted, but his
ire did not. “You keep telling the same lie, over and over, like if you tell it enough everyone will
believe you.”
“And you know that I’m lying, because…?”
“What do you mean?” The bewilderment oozed from his expression.
“Why is everything I say is a lie?
“Well, it can’t be true. You couldn’t have slept that long. Nobody sleeps 200 years. And,
there’s no such thing as time travel. Your story can’t be true. Besides, everyone says it’s a lie.”
The young man’s eyes flamed as he locked his gaze with Trip’s. Blood rushed into the young
man’s burning cheeks and brow.
“Everyone?” Trip, feeling the young man’s rage blossoming, felt the need to defuse the
rancor and vitriol.
“Yeah, everyone I know, everyone I believe.”
At this point Trip had a fair idea of who the young man believed—the religious radio and
television personalities, the secular scientists, and the politicians—anyone with a voice and either
a strong religious faith or scientific surety. Many on both sides had closed their minds to
anything so inexplicable, whether their mindset was devoted to God or their own empirical
observations. Trip could not blame those for judging him without knowing him. Many of his
most intimate friends had turned away when he revealed his life story. Now, here in the
auditorium, Trip knew that he could no sooner turn this young man’s mind around than he could
turn back time.
Mogil 38
“Just a couple of more questions for you, would that be alright?” Trip, staring deep in the
eyes of the youth, offered a white flag smile.
“I don’t know. Sure, ok.”
“You know why we’re here today don’t you?”
“I don’ know. Yeah, Free Speech and the First Amendment.” Reticently came the
answer.
“Good, do you believe in the First Amendment? In Free Speech? ” Trip led the letterman
through the questions with a velvet hand on the reins.
“I dunno, yeah, I guess so.” The natural pale was returning as the rage dissipated.
“Then, would it be all right with you if I speak freely to everyone here today?”
A shrug combined with eyebrows forming a deep v pattern. “Are you gonna keep lyin’?”
“Do I have the right to lie?” Trip’s voice evinced tranquility, and the young man’s whole
body began to settle.
“I don’t know. Yeah, I guess so…but you shouldn’t!” He glared at Trip intently.
“I agree with you completely—we have a right to say what we want, and that we
shouldn’t lie. So we have that in common. May I go back up front and speak to everyone who’s
here today to listen?”
“I dunno…yeah…sure…can I stay too?” His meek words defied his stature.
Trip gave the young man a warm smile that made clear “I wouldn’t have it any other
way.” Looking around at the now docile audience, tranquilized by the moment, lapsed back into
a convincing semblance of humanity, Trip motioned for them to take their seats as well.
Mogil 39
January 17, 2014, 10:15A.M. An Emergency Services Examination Room at Columbia
University
“Well I’ll be darned! Are you the Rip Van Winkle?” Doctor Broderick Carver Jefferson
laughed aloud, looking skeptically at Trip. The excitement in his robust voice let everyone know
unequivocally how thrilled he was to finally have his chance to confront the man he had been
obsessively talking about for the past two months, or as he called Professor Van Winkle, the
twenty-first century huckster extraordinaire.
“The third, yes, but please call me Trip.”
Doctor Jefferson glanced down at the patient’s chart. The notes indicated that the nurse
had already provided the patient with some Ibuprofen and cold compresses for the pain. The
doctor looked up at Trip who was shivering, a common side effect of the chilly examining room.
“I see the nurse has given you something for your pain?”
“Yes, she has.”
“Well then, I’m Doctor Jefferson. It’s truly a pleasure to meet you.” And though the
statement was sincere, it didn’t disclose the underlying reasons for the doctor’s pleasure. He had
hoped to meet Professor Van Winkle at some point since reading his biography multiple times.
Doctor Jefferson wanted to confront the professor and challenge the preposterous claims he
made about being born in 1776, falling asleep in 1799 and waking up in 2001. Doctor Jefferson
thought that the story of Trip Van Winkle’s odyssey was far less believable than either Homer’s
or Kubrick’s.
Mogil 40
The doctor stood over the professor, who looked up from his prone position on the hard
tan exam table and gave the doctor a grimaced smile. “I have to ask, for purely scientific reasons,
of course…” the doctor paused.
“Yes?” Professor Van Winkle replied with a well constructed smile.
“Are you serious? Are you trying to fool everyone? Even P.T. Barnum, who claimed
there’s a sucker born every minute, knew there was a limit to fooling people.” Doctor Jefferson’s
expression did little to hide his incredulity and utter disbelief in the tale of the professor’s two
hundred year sleep. “You sure have crossed the line—you know, from harmless huckster to
deleterious con man.” The doctor felt someone needed to call the man and his fantastic story to
account. He hadn’t seen anyone else do it, so he acted on the notion that somebody had to act as
judge and jury.
“Pardon me?” The professor replied and his face flushed fuchsia with indignation, in
spite of the frequent judgment of the veracity of his story. “Look doctor, it really doesn’t matter
to me one whit whether you believe me, my story, or not. I’d just be pleased if you could keep
your opinion private for now, particularly at this moment when my need for your services is
quite pressing. Could you please, for the love of God, set this aside for now? I have a speaking
engagement in a few hours, and I desperately need this back and knee pain relieved.”
“Yeah, sure. Why not?” The doctor turned his attention back to Trip’s medical chart,
thinking about how to best approach the man he had waited for so long to give a piece of his
mind. He would have considered Professor Van Winkle’s story harmless if it were marketed as
the obvious fiction it was, or even offered with a believe it or not approach. The fact that the
story of falling asleep in the eighteenth century only to awaken in the twenty-first century was
being marketed as non-fiction grated too harshly.
Mogil 41
“So I see you slipped and hurt your lower back getting out of a cab.”
“Yes. I fell and my lower back landed squarely on the bottom of the cab’s door sill.”
“Hmmm, that must have been painful. You look uncomfortable. Are you able to sit up so I can take a look at your injury?” Doctor Jefferson. cautiously helped the professor to an upright,
seated position and asked him to remove his shirt, offering up a dressing gown. The two
exchanged amicably mutual small smiles, and the professor put on the gown.
As Doctor Jefferson began examining the professor’s lower back, he took a mocking jab
at the professor by facetiously mentioning, “I’ve got famous relatives too, you know.”
“I’ve no doubt.”
“You know, my uncle’s a very successful businessman. You may have heard of him,”
proudly declared Doctor Jefferson, unconcerned with obscuring the distinct undertones of
derision. The upturned curling at the edges of his mouth did little to hide the doctor’s contempt
for the professor’s duping of America. Doctor Jefferson continued with the examination of Trip’s
lumbar region, checking for evidence of any serious injury, while in his mind, all the evidence he
needed regarding Trip’s story was accounted for.
“You don’t say.” The professor’s reply to the doctor resonated with a lack of interest.
Doctor Jefferson watched Professor Van Winkle’s grimace, likely a result of sudden,
sharp pain. The doctor heard the visitor chair screech. He looked over at Danny, who was sitting
upright and forward in the molded black plastic chair with one foot missing off one of the shiny
chrome legs, quietly fidgeting, his brown leather hiking boots tapping aggressively and
nervously on the floor. Danny’s face radiated brightly. The doctor could tell that the young man
was intently focused on the tête-à-tête between him and the professor, as though he was the
professor’s secret service bodyguard.
Mogil 42
“Yes, perhaps you’ve heard of him, George Jefferson? He lives up on the East Side.” The
doctor didn’t even try to hide the snarkyness of the remark, nor was he concerned about failing to
keep from snickering.
“No, I’m afraid I don’t know of him.”
Another chair screech and the doctor turned to see Danny’s ears flush blood red, shooting
to full attention like a pit bull whose owner is in trouble. “That’s just mean, Doctor!” rebuked
Danny. “Can’t you treat this fine gentleman with a little respect, even if you don’t believe his
story? It’s one thing to have fun with someone, and another to make fun of them.” And then the
young man, barked at Doctor Jefferson, “Just do your job, man!”
Trip turned to settle Danny. “This isn’t unusual Danny. People treat me this way rather
often. There are times I really can’t believe the story myself.” Doctor Jefferson caught the
solemnity in the professor’s eyes and mouth as he turned his head away and whispered “And
there are often times…times when I wish it never happened.”
Between Danny’s ire and Trip’s melancholy, Doctor Jefferson found himself arrested in
the moment, and turned his sights inward. Not normally one quick to judge, not typically one
prone to assuming extreme positions, he realized he was acting overzealously. The last thing he
needed was to bring the anguish of the anniversary of his brother’s death into work. Doctor
Jefferson was simply out of sorts. He realized that he was lashing out, and that was out of
character with his typically judicious nature, and acting without his typically professional
etiquette. He backed down immediately and offered forth a sincere apology for his
unprofessional and inconsiderate manner.
“Professor Van Winkle, I’m really sorry,” the doctor answered with genuine humility. “I
was out of line and unprofessional.” He was repentant and apologetic, for his actions, but not for
Mogil 43
his disbelief in the professor’s outlandish story. “I’ve read the book, I’ve read the story, and it
just flies in the face of everything I know to be true, scientifically speaking that is.” Encountering
the supernatural up close and personal can rattle steel nerves and wash away all courtesy and
decorum in even the best of people. Trip accepted the apology.
“Look, are you doing alright?”
The professor lightly nodded and smiled, easier than before.
“I don’t see anything immediately of concern, but I’m going to get you into Radiology to
get a good look at your back. It’ll be a few minutes before we get you over there, so try and
relax. We’ll talk again after I see the images.” The doctor left the two men in peace and moved
on to the next patient.
January 17, 2014, 6:15A.M. The Van Winkle Apartment
Throughout the village, the brilliant light of white-hot flashes pranged off of windows
that insulated the sleeping from the rumbling barrage that followed, the collective voice of the
old gods,’ despondently wailing along their inescapable journey into oblivion, a begrudging
acknowledgment that their fleeting presence would soon be forgotten at the birth of a new day.
On this early morning, before Trip’s afternoon lecture on Free Speech and the First Amendment,
the tired voices bellowed desperately, rattling windows, dishes and souls, all in the hope of
leaving a lasting impression of their waning existence.
The booming voices shook some villagers awake, while the comforting nightglow
spooked away the fears the voices manifested in many of the startled east villagers. Trip sprang
out of the consoling comfort of his bedsheets, standing at full attention in sweat drenched
Mogil 44
undergarments, his toes digging deep, trying to gain a foothold on the present. His bare toes
curled tightly, grabbing at the luxurious goldenrod threads in the handcrafted Dutch rug beside
the bed. The next volley of lightning and thunder smashed against the frost covered window and
reflected not Trip, but a phantasmic image—his grandfather—returned in a flash, saying nothing,
offering only a smile to Trip from his grizzled and gaunt face, and his now toothless grin.
For Trip, this was not a haunting, but a loving visit from beyond the grave. There were so
many things in this new world for Trip to doubt, but some great beyond and nether spirit world
were unequivocal certainties. The flash of light ebbed quickly away along with the specter of
grandpa Rip, subsumed by the enveloping darkness.
Even with the heartening image of Grandpa Rip manifested in the window, the
disquieting thoughts of death threats continued rolling about in Trip’s mind, leaving no
possibility of returning to sleep. Trip walked somnambulant into the kitchen, guided by storm
flashes creeping ever closer and closer. He fumbled about in the kitchen for the pitcher handle
and a glass into which he could pour himself a spot of cleansing spring water. The pristine water
flowed coolly beneath his palate, refreshing his tongue, quenching his thirst and quelling his
thoughts—thoughts about the escalating threats to his life which he shared with no one—threats
that pranced about on the surface of his mind.
Returning to the bedroom, one last flash of lightning revealed another in bed. Too tired to
think, he pulled the covers over himself and fortuitously fell fast to sleep. Trip dreamt of his
bride Sally, lost two centuries past, and their child, whom Trip never knew. It seemed but only a
moment before he was jolted—reawakened, now with the full morning sun streaming in through
the bedroom window. The voice of a gentlewoman followed.
“Trip? Are you awake? You were having the dream again.”
Mogil 45
Trip rubbed his eyes and turned to see the charming woman, curvaceously pregnant with
child, calling to him.
Fianna rose early for work and now called for Trip to get up. “Sally…again. I know, I
understand, but I need you here, and now—and so will our child. And now, you have to get
going. You said you have to finish prepping for your lecture today.”
Trip still had half a mind wandering back in an eighteenth century dreamland. The other
half was just now sauntering into the twenty-first century. His bedmate’s bright red hair was
shrouded in the sun’s golden glow. Her ivory skin glistened in the radiant golden morning sun.
Her dark black attire was accented by brilliant gold jewelry and accompanied by an
inconspicuous silver Catholic pendant, watching over the child, a charm she had worn since they
got the news of the baby. She continued to urge Trip to get up and ready for the lecture. But he
heard nothing.
He was too transfixed on the passion in her voice and how her lively morning state made
his heart skip a beat as it leapt into his throat. Before he had another thought crawl into his
conscious mind, she gave him a kiss and headed off for an 8:00A.M. ultrasound. She called back
her goodbye to Trip as she waddled from the room and out the apartment door.
Trip was left with another fragment of a dream of Sally. Trip had not seen her for too
long. Ten years, or two hundred years seemed the same. His heart beat melancholy thinking of
her, although as time went by—her memory, her fair face, her fair skin, mesmerizing emerald
eyes, and the flaxen hair that shrouded her divine charms—slowly faded into the sleepy recesses
of Trip’s mind. All that remained clear and present was the memory of their child’s birth, but
then no more, and if he knew little else, he knew he would never, could never, see her—or their
child—again.
Mogil 46
This dream world began to wash away as Trip began to fully awaken. The woman who
had departed this morning was his wife now, pregnant with his child, but she was not a mere
replacement for Sally, no—she was someone new, and again someone very special. Trip thought
that if his entire world had been disposed of by God, the creator had made a valiant effort to set
things right with his second wife. Trip knew that finding great love once in a lifetime is rare, but
to find it twice—unheard of. This new love was all that kept Trip’s faith in God alive.
Where Sally had always kept her place, his new wife was empowered and dynamic.
Where Sally was demure, his new wife was outspoken, bold, even brazen. She worked hard to
replace injustice with justice and compassion. Where Sally was reserved, his new wife was brash
and brilliant—beholden to none.
Trip was to guest lecturer today on the First Amendment and free speech at Columbia
University at the behest of his old chum, Professor Benjamin A. Huntington. After all, Trip was
an aide to Thomas Jefferson’s staff in multiple capacities, and Professor Huntington was among
the small faction of intellectuals who believed Trip’s recently revealed story of sleeping through
the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Reality had become a burden to Trip, for his disclosure
two months ago of his otherworldly trip from the eighteenth to the twenty-first century had
created a firestorm of controversy stoked and fanned by the media. Trip’s tale, as recounted in
his autobiography, had created two camps, a small group of supporters and the large camp of
denouncers The tale had fired great passion within both camps. For the past two months, the
raging firestorm was burgeoning. Trip hoped it would soon burn itself out.
As he stepped outside, the cold and bitterness assaulted him in mind and body.
Aggression abounded. The pace of the city was confounding. No one seemed to give any respect
Mogil 47
or appreciation to the sun for having shown up today—just one more overlooked blessing. Trip
hailed a cab, and he dove in for the certainty of warmth.
“Where to?”
“Columbia College please.”
“You meaning Columbia University don’t cha pal?
Trip had to gather his thoughts, University? No college…but then again that was
then…now…now…yes, of course. “Indeed good fellow, to Columbia University please, and you
can let me off at Amsterdam and 118th if you would.”
“Yeah. You got it.”
Trip was on his way, rifling through the lecture notes in his hand, and his mind was still
fighting for a sense of sensibility in the now. The notes were helping, but the conversation on the
radio seemed only to distract. That is, until he heard his wife’s voice on a public service
announcement, “This is Fianna Kearney Van Winkle for NPR news.” Her voice shocked Trip all
the way back into the present.
After arriving at Columbia, Trip hastily snatched up his belongings and stumbled out of
the cab. Fianna’s voice had wiped the eighteenth century out of Trip’s mind. As he stepped out
from the cab, Trip looked around at the disarray of the storm’s aftermath. He knew he should
exercise extreme caution today. With the lecture now looming only hours ahead, his focus on
matters immediately at hand had been pushed aside. It would have been a battle to keep his
balance even on a good day with such grand distractions as the threats. Trip stepped out from the
shiny yellow taxi, right foot first. Firmly planting his foot squarely on the ground, he
inadvertently stepped onto a patch of black ice. His freshly polished burgundy leather wingtip
loafer slipped toe first into the curb face, forcing his right knee to buckle. He plummeted
Mogil 48
backwards and down, the small of his back landing squarely against the bottom doorframe of the
taxi. With the pain radiating outward and the wind knocked completely out of him, there was no
way to respond to the cab driver’s repeated and ever more insistent demands for payment. Trip
could hear the driver, still sitting in the warm comfort of his cab, but the driver made no move to
offer assistance for one so obviously and painfully in need.
Two passing university students stepped in and offered Trip their assistance. They helped
Trip to his feet. His knee now wonky, the young men helped Trip keep his balance as he hobbled
to a nearby bench, delicately nursing his throbbing knee and trying not to think about the searing
back pain. If nothing else, the enveloping cold may have been keeping the back pain checked
somewhat. Grimacing, Trip yelled from the bench to the cabbie “how much?”
“Twelve fifty,” the cabbie yelled back.
“Here’s twenty. Keep the change” returned Trip, somehow managing to get the money
out of the pocket of his full length dark blue wool overcoat and the response out past his pain
clenched teeth. The driver jumped out only long enough to grab his money, then drove off.
One of the students asked Trip if he was going to be okay. Trip nodded, but his face, still
contorted from the pain, said otherwise. The taller of the two students who had helped Trip to the
bench reached out to Trip and put his hand on Trip’s shoulder to get his attention, “Mister, we’ve
got an emergency services unit here on campus, I can call for you.”
Trip waved him off, “I’ve got to get to Roone Arledge—auditorium. I have a speaking
engagement this afternoon.”
“I thought it was you, I knew it!” The shorter and stockier of the two young men was
nearly giddy, flushed with exhilaration when he connected the face to the man, this injured man
he had idolized for the past two months. He turned to his friend and struggled to get the words
Mogil 49
out, “Rudy, this…this…this is him, you know…this is…wow! I can’t believe it. Rudy, Rudy!
This is…”
“Yes, I am…”
“Rudy, this is Professor Trip Van Winkle! We gotta get call EMS and get him fixed up
for the lecture this afternoon. I can’t believe this. Wow! Right here, right here. It’s a pleasure to
actually meet you Professor Van Winkle.” And the young man shot forth his thickly gloved hand
for a formal handshake while Rudy called EMS. “My name’s Danny, and I can’t tell you what a
thrill it is to meet you. Wow! Professor VW! Can I get your picture? I gotta get this on
Facebook.”
Trip couldn’t refuse the help offered by the enthusiastic young man, but the pain from the
injury was too great for a photo op. “Maybe later, young man, after I get some medical
attention.”
“Danny, call me Danny, Professor.”
Trip had a solid fan base, and an equally robust base of critics. As fans go, Trip could tell
Danny was among the most passionate. Trip listened to Danny recount Trip’s story to Rudy, and
the original story about Trip’s grandpa, all while waiting for the ambulance. Trip also listened to
Danny tell several stories about Trip since the time of his awakening. Trip felt like he had just
met his future biographer. But Danny told Trip, “I really wanna’ know more about what
happened before you fell asleep.”
Trip got more than he bargained for in his new found friend Danny. At least the young
man did most of the talking without the need for any response more than a head nod or a groan.
Trip got to hear his whole story recounted by someone else, and this was in its own way, a bit
disconcerting. Trip was both comforted and concerned that Danny knew so much about him. It
Mogil 50
worried Trip that the fanaticism was so overwrought, but his concern was mitigated by the
apparent sincerity Danny exuded.
Danny asked if the two young men could join Trip for the short ride in the ambulance.
Trip offered no objection. So when the ambulance arrived to pickup up Trip, Danny and Rudy
rode along, and Danny told one last story, about Trip’s rocket ride to fame after the release of his
autobiography.
Trip said thank you and goodbye to Rudy, who quietly stepped out of the ambulance and
excused himself as he headed off to class. Danny leapt from the ambulance the moment it pulled
up to the Emergency Medical Services building. Trip was rolled in on a gurney, following
Danny. It wasn’t long before Doctor Jefferson arrived to tend to Trip, and get him ready to get to
the lecture on time.
January 17, 2014, 11:35A.M. An Emergency Services Examination Room at Columbia
University
On the morning of the lecture, as noontime approached, Doctor Jefferson returned to
exam room three after Trip’s visit to the Columbia University Medical Center Radiology and
Imaging Department. Doctor Jefferson rejoined Trip and Danny, and reiterated his apology and
acknowledged his overreaction. He noticed that Danny huffed with a healthy and youthful
skepticism at his contrition and offered Danny a conciliatory nod. “Everything looks good, no
broken bones and no significant DJD. You are, however, showing some soft tissue inflammation
in your lower spine. I’m going to set you up with Meloxicam for the inflammation and Percocet
to help you with the pain. It’s probably going to take a week or so for you to get back to normal.
Mogil 51
You’ll want to follow up with your regular physician next week. I’m having the nurse email
copies of the X-rays over to your physician for his records.”
“Thank you” Trip answered. “By the way doctor, you’re welcome to come to the lecture
today, as my guest. It begins at 3:30.”
“I appreciate the invitation, I’ll see if I can sneak over and take a listen—but my shift
doesn’t end ‘til 6:00 this evening.” As the doctor took one step for the door, he stopped and
turned back. “You know Professor, I was just thinking…”
“Yes?”
“It’s almost time for my lunch break. Are you hungry?”
Leaving the exam room together, a long silence followed Doctor Jefferson, Trip, and
Danny to the hospital cafeteria, still festively festooned with diverse holiday decorations:
Christmas, Kwanzaa, Passover and the Chinese New Year. After the three men had gotten their
meals, Doctor Jefferson led them to a secluded table in a far corner of the bustling lunchroom.
Heads turned and fingers pointed towards the doctor’s guest, the big celebrity on campus, yet
admiring smiles were mixed with scowls even in such a joyously decorated environment. The
doctor was struck how one man, Trip, could evoke such dissidence in a room filled with the
ornamentation of multicultural belief systems coexisting in peaceful harmony. They settled down
with standard issue brown plastic lunch trays stacked with hearty, steamy nutrition. The doctor
watched as Trip squirmed, trying to find comfort in the hard molded blue plastic chair, held
tightly together by a bright chromium web.
The doctor waited for Trip to find his comfort before asking “How’s the back doing?”
“Good…a little better, thank you.” Trip let out a small sigh as he modestly smiled and
nodded.
Mogil 52
They sat together isolated, eating like monks in silence, spoons clinking against bowls
filled with thick, creamy tomato bisque and forks dishing up Asian chicken or Cobb salads. The
doctor looked up from the warm comfort of his basil flaked bisque and realized he was
outnumbered. But whatever fantasy Trip and Danny could possibly offer, he knew he had
science on his side. He watched Danny watching out for Trip, who was blowing on his hot soup.
Dr. Jefferson felt Danny’s wary eyes monitoring him. The flesh on the doctor’s back quivered,
roused by Danny’s combative expressions and his defensive body language.
Danny broke the silent cordiality with an unrestrained vigor and unfiltered thought found
more often in youth. “So, doctor, how come you don’t believe Professor Van Winkle? Why do
you think his story is made-up? I can’t understand why anyone wouldn’t believe him. It makes
no sense. I mean, you don’t know him like I do. If you got to know him, you’d believe.”
The doctor focused exclusively on Danny, who paused, intently looking for some kind of
reaction that wouldn’t surface. Danny took a bigger, and lower swipe, “Is this some kind of race
thing? Would you believe Trip if he was black, or maybe if he was family?”
“How dare you! You think I’m a bigot young man? You know nothing about me. Why
you’ve got quite the…” Doctor Jefferson stopped himself, deeply offended by the shocking
accusation, holding back what he really wanted to say. His eyebrows jumped, allowing his eyes
to open to a maximum aperture. His nostrils flared and flexed threateningly as he leaned in
towards Danny, fixing his gaze on the young man’s stare. “I know you’re young, uninformed, so
I’ll let that pass, but this is not about race, and I’ll not allow you to goad me. This is not about
anything other than science. The story doesn’t pass muster, simply because it can’t—it’s
implausible, impossible. So tell me, why…why do you believe him?”
Mogil 53
“I don’t know…I’m not sure what I think, but there must be some reason that you don’t
trust him, you don’t believe his story—he’s not a liar.”
The doctor felt an intrusive, defensive aggression as Danny fiercely squinted, then drew
his lips tight as his ears glowed crimson and rolled forward.
Trip was visibly disconcerted by the young man’s adversarial bent. The doctor
vehemently watched as Trip cast a glance of disillusioned amazement at Danny’s accusations.
“Look doctor, I think what Danny is trying to say, what he’s trying to point out…is not an
attempt to impugn your character, but to say that you’ve prejudged my story, and by extension
my character, and unfairly so. Isn’t that about right, Danny?”
“Pretty much. He thinks he knows all about you, but he doesn’t—he can’t.” The doctor
watched Danny retreat as the young man leaned back into his chair, arms folded, shutting down.
But Danny’s reply to Trip did little to keep the doctor from heating up. “What do you
mean I can’t know? Are you saying I’m incapable of knowing? Am I intellectually deficient,
impaired? Is that what you mean?”
The doctor’s irascible state escalated with each question Danny posed. “Well, no, I didn’t
mean any of that. I meant no one can know, no one can ever know what they haven’t
experienced themselves. Everything you know about Professor Van Winkle is second or third
hand chatter. You never met him before. I was there in the exam room this morning when you
introduced yourself to the professor. It was obvious that this was the first time you met him.”
The doctor took an intellectual step back. All three relaxed a bit, failing to notice that all
the surrounding tables had filled, tipping the balance of patrons to their corner of the room. They
were taking this opportunity to listen in on the doctor’s conversation with Professor Van Winkle
Mogil 54
either for his fame, or infamy. The intrigued listeners at the surrounding tables were full focused;
the only other conversations were quiet ones about Doctor Jefferson, Trip, and Danny.
“Then tell me, young man,” the doctor asked strategically, seeing Danny’s defensiveness
easing “since you know the professor so well, how long have you known Professor Van
Winkle?”
Danny cheeks blushed rose red, and he meekly answered “I met him this morning, right
after he slipped and hurt his back.”
The doctor laughed blithely, reflecting back on Danny’s charges in light of this
revelation. “So how much better do you know the professor? Ten minutes better? An hour
better?” The mood at the table was becoming modestly convivial as the doctor had successfully
countered Danny’s incursion.
“That’s not the point. I know a lot more about him than anyone.”
Now the doctor was intrigued and leaned in for the juicy bits. “Do tell.” The doctor tilted
his head in preparation of the forthcoming enlightenment.
Trip chimed in, “Danny, that’s probably not true. I think my wife may know a thing or
two about me to which you’re not privy.” The doctor chortled discreetly while Trip smiled
respectfully to him.
The doctor watched with unblinking eyes as Danny’s blush deepened to scarlet. “You
know what I mean, professor. I founded your fan club after you came out with the story and
created a fansite dedicated to you and your story. I’ve read your book and I’ve studied your
story. Some things you claim in the book can’t be proved, and other things can’t be easily
disproved either. I know we just met today, but I believe you—I believe in you. I…look
doctor—I respect Professor Van Winkle for sharing his story, and nothing I’ve seen, read or
Mogil 55
heard makes me think that he’s lying. No one can prove whether his story is true or not, but I
have faith in Professor Van Winkle.”
“Fair enough, Danny. Then perhaps you know more about the professor than I do, and
maybe some of what you accused me of is true, but I’ve read Professor Van Winkle’s book as
well, and that is a first-hand account, isn’t it?” The doctor turned to Trip who nodded his
affirmation. Turning back to Danny, the doctor continued, “I’ve read it more than once, and the
real issue is a simple epistemological issue…and the story can’t possibly be true. This is a matter
of science, not speculation. No one sleeps for 200 years, or disappears for 200 years, and then
suddenly reappears. It just can’t happen, and whether Professor Van Winkle’s story is true…or
I’m right that it’s patently false, the fact is that I think his story is either a brilliantly played hoax,
or that Professor Van Winkle is a total whack job. I think he’s peddling this fiction like it’s
history—just like a snake oil salesman. And it’s my prerogative to decide for myself. Isn’t it?”
“I disagree with what you say,” Trip rejoindered, “but I will defend to the death your
right to say it.” The doctor noticed Trip’s smile.
“Pardon me? Voltaire, is it?” The doctor asked, recalling Voltaire’s commentary from an
undergrad philosophy class. The personal prerogative to speak freely had struck a chord with the
doctor as an undergraduate. The quote spoke to the heart his core values, the topic of the
professor’s afternoon lecture. Doctor Jefferson was beginning to think that maybe the two were
on the same page, perhaps just on opposite sides.
“Yes, Voltaire. And yes, it is your prerogative to say what you think or feel, but you are
so set in your adamant opposition to the potential veracity of my story that you may not have
considered a third option.”
Mogil 56
The doctor knew he was being led, but he saw no hidden agenda or trap setting. The
doctor was starting to get the sense that maybe Trip wasn’t a huckster after all, but the story…the
story still was implausible. “A Third option?” Ridges furrowed across the doctor’s brow, and his
right eyebrow stood to full attention as he pushed his chair closer to Trip.
“Yes, you propose that I’m lying or I’m a whack job, as you say. The third option—is
that I’m telling the truth.”
The doctor began to chuckle again. While looking Trip squarely and scientifically in the
eyes for the first time, the doctor stopped laughing. He caught a glimpse of sincerity in Trip’s
eyes. Doctor Jefferson leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, and then he raised one hand to
stroke his smooth cleft chin pensively as he mused “Well, so let’s just say for a moment I’m
open to considering option three. So, what then?”
“Imagine for a moment that you sit down, you dream an endless dream, awaken, and your
entire world has vanished, turned to dust, buried under all the generations that have since come
and gone, footprints of your world washed away by time and nature—New Amsterdam giving
way to… to… this. Or better for you, New York giving way to something else."
“Are you asking me to imagine, this… fairytale, this fantasy, as some reality? The doctor
held steadfast in his unwillingness to open his mind to the possible truth of the third option,
which led to Trip to sigh deeply and pensively, pausing to think for a moment. Watching Trip,
the doctor saw him smile brightly, suddenly upbeat.
Trip invited the doctor in with, “Sure—sure, why not?!”
“Why not?! Heck it doesn't make sense at any level—Napoleon Hill said ‘Whatever the
mind can conceive and believe, it can achieve’—you might conceive, and even believe, that you
Mogil 57
somehow lost 200 years—but the mind, the body–time–doesn't work like that. If anyone/thing
could find a way to fast-forward 200 years, well by God…well maybe, they would be God.”
“If you believe in God, then you must believe in the miraculous. Maybe what happened
to me was a miracle; maybe it was the working hand of God. For all that’s good in the world, I
have no scientific explanation as to the cause, but with God as my witness, I’ve lived the effect.”
The implication that a divine event and science may be compatible gave the doctor reason
enough to pause and reflect upon his own faith. A devout Baptist, the doctor often tended to
compartmentalize his daily world of science apart and separate from his lifetime devotion to
God. But now, put on the spot, he had no answer, no response, no reaction, only a thought about
whether he could be sitting before a man who has lived a miracle. The doctor exhaled fully.
There was a palpable release of tension at the table, and the doctor’s posture and expression
relaxed. Even Danny’s guard was receding. The blossoming crowd squeezed tighter and closer,
causing tables to overflow, and others pulled chairs into the aisles. The crowd drew attention to
itself. More people wandered over out of sheer curiosity. The impromptu audience scooched
stealthily closer, anxious to hear what may come next.
“You’re using my faith as a weapon against me. But, if I believe in God and the
miraculous, and I do, then as much as science wants me to deny your experience, I really can’t
do so off-hand. But I still can’t buy in as a scientist either. Now, I can’t judge with certainty that
you’re lying, that I leave to God. But, I’m also no closer to believing something for which there
exists no evidence or viable scientific explanation. I’ve at least seen photos purporting to be of
Bigfoot, Nessie, ghosts and UFO’s, and I’m unconvinced about these. What evidence can you
offer to support your claim?”
Mogil 58
“I have only my experience. But please, let me share with you what my awakening was
like. I was lost, in space perhaps, but in time for sure. I awoke under the tree where I had fallen
asleep, but cupid’s arrow was now seven feet above the ground and a patch of flowering white
daisies spread before me where I had just laid Sally to rest.”
The doctor was captivated by Trip’s sorrowful voice. He could see the weight of Trip’s
loss in every aspect of his being.
“I stood in utter amazement and complete disbelief, captivated by this megalopolis into
which I had awakened, hardly noticing the throngs of people running frantically, chaotically. I
focused on the most amazing structures—towering to the very heights of heaven like the Tower
of Babel or Jacob’s Ladder.”
The doctor watched Trip’s anguish blend with elation—he saw a glow in Trip’s face, as
Trip recounted his alleged first encounter with a twenty-first century New York City. “My first
thought was that I was finally home, that I was in heaven. Then someone rushing past bumped
me hard and I toppled to the ground. I was facing south and even from this vantage point, I saw a
great plume of smoke rising, followed soon after by a colossal explosion—like the voice of
God.”
Doctor Jefferson watched Trip pause to catch his breath. The surrounding audience was
entranced by the tale and began to swell with emotion, flushed with memories of that fateful day.
Even the bitterness of ardent disbelievers began to fade as they remembered the indestructible,
though at times forgotten, bond of community the city felt in the wake of the September 11th
attacks. The doctor had seen enough PTSD victims after 9/11, and could see it in Trip.
“Someone came to me and offered a hand up—a porcelain skinned gentlewoman. The
sun shone from behind, casting her in a warm golden glow, like a Madonna. Her smile…”
Mogil 59
The doctor watched Trip drift off into some nostalgic place—somewhere between the
greatest despair and most wondrous hope, leaving silence to carry the conversation.
After a moment of respect filled silence, “Professor Van Winkle?” The doctor gently
nudged Trip on the shoulder, “Please go on, if you can.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Where was I?”
“The gentlewoman, I believe.”
“Oh, yes…yes. She saved me…she saved me utterly. Although she had merely helped me
to me feet, her warmhearted smile, and a transcendent glow in her pleasant touch—made me feel
safe at a moment when no one should feel safe. Our meeting must have been preordained—our
destiny manifested. She was there to meet me, to be my guide in this new world after the loss of
my prior life and world, and right at the moment her world was unknowingly crumbling. She
found out later that day that her fiancé had fallen with the towers.”
The doctor was now moved by the story brought to life. A look of great loss crossed
Trip’s face as he placed both hands over his heart. The doctor did not see this as some maudlin
attempt on Trip’s part to create an emotional response in the audience, but rather to keep the
shards of a broken heart from tearing out from Trip’s chest.
Danny was moved to tears, and the doctor’s eyes felt Trip’s pain. The doctor and
audience connected and could sympathize with Trip somewhat better. They had all lost someone
on September 11th. On that day, Professor Van Winkle had lost everyone he had known. The
doctor still held on to reason with his scientific skepticism, but as his empirical grip loosened, his
faith picked up the slack.
“The gentlewoman didn’t know the fate of her fiancé at that moment. I couldn’t begin to
imagine that my Sally was two centuries gone—both of us having our loved ones ripped away.
Mogil 60
She asked if I was alright, and I found no words—my world gone, the love of my life gone, my
child…my child—I never met, as Sally died in childbirth and as the midwives took the child, my
child…who I never saw, never knew, as I took to laying Sally to rest. And still, this
compassionate woman offered hope where none should exist.”
Doctor Jefferson remained focused on the tale, although his sight was blurred as tears
pooled in his eyes without releasing. The doctor began to see Trip with a modicum of wonder
rather than utter disbelief.
“I really can’t explain the impact of such an event to anyone. No one has ever
experienced the complete loss of their world, with everyone they ever loved—gone, forever.
Even my grandfather awoke to find me and my parents. Am I making any sense?”
“You know Professor…”
“Please, call me Trip.”
“You know, Trip, I can’t imagine, as much as I can’t believe…but, I’ve suffered a complete loss. I couldn’t feel it more than I do today. It’s been twenty-seven years since…” The
doctor now had to catch his own breath, and he felt a connection to Professor Van Winkle when
thinking about the loss of his own brother, Marvin. “My twin brother. Marvin. We were close,
real close. He had to go…I stayed home. He never came back.” The doctor paused, working to
maintain some composure.
“I’m so sorry, did he…?”
“He went to a civil rights march in Georgia, following in our mother’s footsteps. He was
going to make history. He did make history, just not like he imagined.” The words came
deliberately, cautiously. “All anyone knows is that sometime after the march, he vanished. A
Mogil 61
couple of hours later, someone found him—lynched, hanging from an oak tree on the county
line.” Tears that the doctor held on to tightly now trickled down his cheeks.
“I am so sorry for your loss. I had never considered, never imagined…that anyone could
experience so profound a loss without experiencing…I can’t really compare your loss to mine.
Nothing—no one—could ever replace what, whom, I lost…but what, who, I have found in this
new world is so great…our losses may be different, but who’s to say one loss is greater than
another? Still, having lived through my experience often seems no more than a figment of my
imagination—but it’s not. Forgive me my self-obsession, please.”
“It’s really alright, professor…”
“Trip, please.”
“It’s really alright, Trip. Maybe for the first time, I’m beginning to realize I can’t
compare my own little world of experience to anyone else’s. I can’t really discount or judge
yours, even if I still find it unbelievable. Not any quicker than I can wrap my mind around
Marvin’s experience. I loved him so much—and thinking about it now—yeah, I lost my whole
world too. The pain…it’s inexplicable.” Doctor Jefferson and Trip found themselves both
thinking about life and experience as more than a series of recounted events on a sheet of
paper—everyone may experience powerful life events, great joys, great pains, but the details, the
individual response all depends on which side of life’s mobius strip you are.
Doctor Jefferson felt that the conversation had run a course that left him and Professor
Van Winkle nearer each other on that strip, as their intimate conversation demonstrated. After a
short time the doctor came back to Trip’s conversation. “By the way Trip, when you were telling
your tale, you mentioned Cupid’s Arrow, what was that about?”
Mogil 62
“It’s something I carved on a tree when I was courting Sally. It was the day of our
engagement. We were picnicking on the south lawn of the campus of Columbia College. I was
studying politics and ethics. I was smitten with Sally, and I carved our names in the tree out of
pure folly. When I was attending school here in 1797, Sally and I were…” Doctor Jefferson
searched the corner’s of his mind to find logic and reason in the professor’s story. He watched
Trip’s face blanch, and Trip looked as though his life force had nearly vanquished. Trip buried
his face deep into his palms.
Recognizing Trip’s excruciating pain, the doctor asked, “Trip, are you going to be okay?”
Trip nodded lightly “I’ll be…I’m alright. Though so long ago, it’s still so fresh in my
mind, and my heart.”
The doctor’s ears were open, even though there was still no clear entry point to his closed
mind.
“Well, I had carved the arrow through a double heart in celebration of my engagement to
Sally. Our two hearts were as one—this was a tribute of my undying love for Sally. I’m sorry. I
really can’t talk about this anymore right now. I need to get to the auditorium and meet my wife,
she’s to be there by three, and I need to clear my head to prepare for the lecture.”
Doctor Jefferson stood to bid Trip and Danny farewell. “By the way Trip, did you carve
anything else on the tree?”
Trip grinned, “Find the tree, you’ll see,” and lifting his hand to say goodbye, he and
Danny parted the crowd on the way out.
Dr. Jefferson was by no means convinced of the veracity of Trip’s tale. Where is the line
between truth and fiction, Doctor Jefferson began to wonder, or does one even exist? The doctor
nodded and offered a parting handshake of respect to Trip.
Mogil 63
“Perhaps we can pick up this conversation later. Maybe you can meet my wife then, too.”
“I look forward to speaking with you again, and meeting your charming wife.”
Sept 9, 1799 – A Small Dutch Village outside of New Amsterdam
The seventeenth century was soon to be laid to rest in the history books, while the
prospect of expanding frontiers and prosperity for the new nation in the eighteenth century
awaited with open arms. Trip Van Winkle and his family looked forward to the great possibilities
the future held. But for now, the early delivery of their first child held their future in abeyance.
An autumn chill had settled in on this prodigious September morning, as Trip impatiently
marched outside the modest Van Winkle homestead, wearing down the tread on his shoes. He
paced back and forth in anticipation of seeing his future child.
The Van Winkle house was a modest wooden building resting on the edge of the old
village and the ancient forest. It was accented with a yellow Dutch brick base and roofed with
ruddy brown shingles made from the local Dutch Elms. It was soon after sunrise that, inside the
home, the most skilled midwife in the county, accompanied by two assistants, attended to Trip’s
wife. Trip’s wife was eight months pregnant with their first son, and in the throes of a premature
delivery. The child’s fate was uncertain, and rested in the hands of the midwife, and ultimately in
God’s. The likelihood of problems arising from a premature birth were well known to Trip.
While he knew nervous pacing would provide no help in the birth, he had faith the prayers he
offered to God while he paced would not go unheeded. Sally’s screams came progressively
closer and closer, and the pain more evident as the howls tore from her hoarse throat.
Mogil 64
And then came silence, followed by the sound of new life crying, with the newborn
taking in its first breath of the New World. Trip stopped near the front door, listening to the
clamoring that ensued. The midwife and assistants were bustling about, chattering excitedly and
exceedingly fast. Trip’s heart plummeted into an already queasy stomach. He eased nearer the
door to listen more intently.
The hubbub rose and the movement within accelerated as the three women attending to
Sally shuffled about. Sally’s screams from the birth pains had suddenly ceased, and Trip could
hear no other of her sounds. The silence that followed Sally’s cries was foreboding. Trip could
not believe in his mind what his heart was saying.
He knew, without knowing, that Sally had not survived the delivery. He felt her
departure, carried away on the chill breeze. She had given her life for her son, for Trip’s son. The
midwife came out to tell Trip, and by the expression of loss borne upon her face, upon her
posture, and upon her waning energy told the tale. While one of the young assistants tended
Sally, wiping away signs of the event that took her life—making Sally clean and presentable, the
other young assistant woman was sent with the boy to find a wet nurse, for Sally would deliver
the lad only—her maternal work was done, her eternal work begun.
Trip had shared Sally’s pain during the delivery, and now the pain was his to bear alone.
Whirling within his dizzied mind were the blessing and the curse—the heavenly joy of a
newborn son and the abysmal misery of losing his wife—and the prospect of laying his dearest
love to rest, never again to see her smile, embrace her womanly charms, or to smell the scent of
her golden tresses.
But his responsibilities demanded stoicism. They also demanded immediacy in dealing
with matters at hand, and he must find time to grieve later. But later was a time he now
Mogil 65
considered a vile and empty place, one where his son would remind him every moment of his
loss. It was a future he was ill-prepared to step into.
This was not the first mother the midwife had lost, but Sally was a dear friend to her. Trip
asked the midwife to lead him into the house to be with his wife. The forlorn midwife bowed her
white bonneted head and stepped back inside, and Trip followed. Trip had made but one
decision. He would take her to rest under their tree, and he would do so on the morrow, one day
into a dreaded future.
Trip left the village in the wake of his wife’s demise. He rode slowly atop his
Narragansett Pacer, Gunpowder, alongside the reverend who rode with the undertaker, whose
carriage carried the most precious cargo. Sally’s body soon to be laid to rest, her soul already
bound for its proper Heavenly reward of eternal life. Trip’s wide brim straw hat fell down over
his face for much of the journey, as his head hung low, chin resting on his chest. His heart beat a
melancholy rhythm, barely enough to sustain his own life, and he cared little whether the next
beat would come, for the only hope he held for the future was to rejoin Sally in Heaven.
Thoughts of the son he had yet to see ebbed in and out of his mind, painting thin stripes of joy
across the black mask of pain.
After a day on the road, the group approached the south lawn of the Columbia College
campus. Trip pulled up on Gunpowder, dead in his tracks. The wound opened wider. He thought
of the place he would to lay his love to rest. But now the thought of finding the engagement tree,
and seeing the two hearts and cupid’s arrow, tore at his heart once again, causing it to throb
inconsolably and unreliably. The good reverend turned to Trip from his seat on the carriage
Mogil 66
bench and reminded Trip of Sally’s newfound heavenly reward and how she would be there
waiting for him, all in due time. For now, a most solemn duty awaits.
Trip was too anguished to go forth. He pulled the horse’s reigns away, hard to the left,
but Gunpowder refused. Trip reluctantly pushed forward astride the horse that had once carried
Trip and Sally together to the engagement tree. The group arrived at their destination. The tree
was surrounded by a field of white and yellow daisies. Sally would have chosen no other place
above this for her eternal rest, living in the afterlife amongst the flowers she had so dearly loved
in life.
The three men laid her coffin into the ground, leaving a small dirt mound amidst the field
of flowers. There would be no headstone, only the carving on the tree. Trip thanked the two men
and released them to return to the village. He would say his own goodbye, returning when the
time was right. And so he sat next to his lost love, began to weep as he said goodbye, and fell
fast to sleep at her side.
January 17, 2014, 5:35P.M. Emergency Services at Columbia University
There was no trauma center on campus, but there was also no time to transport Fianna to
a trauma center without first stabilizing her—right now. Doctor Jefferson had gotten the advance
word by radio, and he was waiting with trepidation just inside as the emergency room doors
opened. Doctor Jefferson watched Danny jump from the ambulance, making way for Trip and
Fianna. Trip stepped down alongside the gurney, holding his wife’s trembling right hand, while
her left hand was still clinging on to, and protecting their unborn child.
Mogil 67
Doctor Jefferson was speechless. He looked at Trip with the deepest expression of sincere
sympathy. A sullen Danny thanked the doctor for being there. The EMTs provided the doctor
with a quick update, as they pushed Fianna out of the dark night and into the sterile lights of the
emergency room. Doctor Jefferson checked her vitals, relieved at her relative stability, but he
knew things could change in an instant. He waved the paramedics on to the already prepped
operating room. He told the head nurse to get Fianna in and prepped, stat. The anesthesiologist
was ready and waiting inside. Doctor Jefferson stopped at the doors leading back towards the
operating room and turned back to Trip, both men sharing the unspoken pain of the tragedy.
“My God Trip, I am so very sorry. But there isn’t much time.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your wife has lost a lot of blood, she’s stable right now, but…”
“But…but what?” Trip’s insides wanted out. His nerve endings were firing randomly and fiercely. The déjà vu moment weighed heavily upon his shoulders, and his soul.
“You have to give me a decision—right now.”
“Whatever doctor, what do you need? What can I do?”
“In such a case…”
“Yes?”
“If it comes to it…”
“Yes…?” Trip’s veins filled with ice shards, freezing and slicing at him like razors from the inside.
“If we can save only one, do we save you wife or your child?”
Trip lost control of his lower body, his knees buckled and he began his descent. The
doctor helped lower him into a nearby chair. “My God!”
Mogil 68
“Trip, I’m sorry, but there is no time. I need an answer before I go in, and I have to go
in—now.”
Trip was white as a ghost, his blood frozen. His mind was offline. “Save Fianna-Save our
Baby-Save them both. Please Doctor, I beg of you.”
“I’ll do my best, but still-I have to know…if I have to choose one, who do I save?”
“I can’t lose my Fianna-I can’t lose my wife—not again.” He didn’t blink. “Fianna, save
Fianna.”
The doctor nodded with what little reassurance he could, and he turned and rushed for the
operating room.
Trip said to no one, “What did I just do? What did I do? Did I just sentence my child to
death?”
It was 7:30p.m, the sun had long since set, and the darkness outside forced its way into
the waiting room. Danny sat silently nearby after his elbow was patched up, a small bone chip,
and a short blistering bullet trail to mark his brave deed as Trip’s bodyguard. Danny prayed
while Trip paced frantically.
Doctor Jefferson entered with his head down and his cheeks sullen. Trip knew, Danny
knew, and anyone seeing the expression knew that all was not well. From beneath the darkness
in Doctor Jefferson’s face came a flicker of light.
“Trip, we did everything possible, everything we could, but in the end…”
Trip stood tall.
“The damage was so great, the loss of blood so profuse…”
Mogil 69
“But, there is one positive thing to report.” The doctor’s face bore a theatrical mask of
comfort and sorrow, a disturbing blend of mourning smile. “Your son is alive and well. I cannot
express the depth of my condolences on the loss of your wife. I am so deeply sorry.”
“Trip, is there anything I can do, anyone I can call, for you?”
“There is no one.” Head down, he shook Doctor Jefferson’s hand.
“Would you like to see your wife, to say goodbye?”
Doctor Jefferson helped Trip, in a state of shock, on a slow march to post-op to see
Fianna. No words were spoken, just a final kiss goodbye placed by Trip, with the most tender
love, on the forehead of his love.
After the devastating shift end, Doctor Jefferson could not process the loss—the
immediacy, the intimacy. Two hours in surgery, saving a newborn child and losing its grievously
wounded mother. After consoling the mourning husband and father, and trying to process the
event himself, Doctor Jefferson walked out of the Emergency Room as the hands of time swept
past nine o’clock and whisked the doctor out into the city night—darkness below, glittering city
lights overhead, shining like a crown of heavenly stars. Instead of heading out, as usual, to dinner
with a friend or colleague, he chose to wander away pensively from the confines of the
emergency room.
On the campus, two diverging walkways offered a lighted path to the city streets. The
doctor chose instead to wander into the darkness between them. The cool, calm, silence and
melancholy offered to him by the crowned branches of the trees, well suited the man in search of
quiet reflection. What could he have done differently? How could he have saved Fianna? The
Mogil 70
doctor knew that whatever the answers, that when he returned, his world would never be the
same, nor could it.
As Doctor Jefferson meandered along under the trees, the veil of darkness mixed with
shimmering beams of moonlight, which sliced through openings in the trees and their branches.
He thought about how far, too far, this one angry, unhinged man went to be heard and the
incalculable price of the man’s wrath. Doctor Jefferson reflected back on how earlier today, he
too had been intolerant, judgmental, and disrespectful. He now felt partly culpable for Fianna’s
death—not for any lack of effort or skills medically, but for his participation in the problem—
getting swept away in the hateful media firestorm denouncing Trip and his tale. The doctor had
succumbed to the fear-mongering. He had been part of the problem, but as he strolled under the
canopy cover, he vowed a permanent change to his life—his mind was beginning to open. He
committed to reserve judgment—until he had enough data to make any judgment. It’s the way he
should decide—as a scientist. The hardest part would be to have faith in people, particularly in
light of the day’s events. His Christian beliefs demanded that he forgive, and lead with
compassion and understanding—and hope, and he would honor those beliefs.
His first opportunity for change came rushing towards him into a clearing between the
trees—a short, portly old fellow, with thick frazzled salt and pepper hair, and a brilliant white
beard. His clothing was of an early colonial Dutch manner—a tattered bright red coat with
golden stitching, a plain moss green textile jerkin wrapped about the waist—ornate brown
breeches with a floral motif, of ample volume, decorated with rows of buttons down the sides,
hose bunched at the knees and spatterdashes below—all topped with a three cocked beaver hat.
He carried with him an ancient wooden bow, and a quiver of slender arrows, with magnificent
Mogil 71
red and yellow rooster feathers glinting under the moonlight, across his back. He silently
motioned to the doctor to follow.
The doctor, still wearing his white smock and badge, didn’t consider the nature of the
man’s request. He instinctively followed, assuming the man would lead him to someone in need
of medical care. The man ambled quickly away with an awkward gimp across the south lawn of
the university campus through dark ways between the trees, lit by shards and shafts of the full
moon’s light. The doctor had to hurry to keep pace, just shy of a full sprint. When they reached
the place, a mystical, mythical place, no trace of the city remained. The odd fellow pointed to the
patch of daisies, four by six foot. The doctor stared for a moment, lost in wonder, mesmerized
and enchanted.
When he looked up, the portly short statured old man had vanished without a wisp or
trace. A glint of moonshine caught the doctor’s eye as it reflected off a recessed sleepy hollow
seven feet above the ground on the massive Dutch Elm tree. The illumination was brilliant and
the doctor saw the two hearts, cupid’s arrow and RVW loves…Sally. The discovery rocked the
doctor and he floated down to sit, marveling, bewildered, by the plot of daisies before him that
should never have been there, particularly during this chilly time of year. But then again, Trip
should never have been here, not now, unless…divine miracle or inexplicable scientific event?
And as cold as the night was, as dour as his temperament, the knowledge that perhaps
Trip had told no lies cut some chill off the doctor’s soul. And it was with this new finding, and
the doctor’s introspectively inspired change of heart that the emotional whipping of the day had
finally brought the doctor to take a seat at the base of the tree and slip away into a tranquil sleep.
Mogil 72
January 17, 2084, 10:15P.M. Under the Engagement Tree, outside of Columbia
University
Officer VdubV, a tall, burly, New York City police officer, stubbed the toe of his black
leather jackboot and nearly lost his balance. Had he stubbed it on something immovable, like a
tree root, he would have most certainly fallen. But what he hit moved, and it was far softer than a
tree root.
Not wishing to reveal himself to anyone, Officer VdubV trained his pistol light on the
ground rather than pulling out his bulky police issued, hand held streamlight. He was shocked to
see the old man. The officer’s first thoughts were that the man must be dead, after all, the
proximity sensor should have told him that someone was here, but it didn’t. Since the sensor
operated using power from the human nervous system, the sensor always shuts down within a
few hours of death. He reached down his hand and, pushing aside the man’s long grey beard,
grabbed the man’s throat. Nothing.
There should have been a vocal monitor implanted on either side of the old man’s larynx,
but there was nothing. How could they monitor him, his speech, without it? Maybe he’s from
some third world country still holding on to the dangerous notion of free speech. Officer VdubV
tried shaking the man in the tattered smock with his free hand, keeping the light of his fully
automatic Colt pistol trained on the man, and at the ready. The old man made a snorting noise as
his mouth opened in a sleeping yawn, letting out the foulest halitosis the officer ever
encountered. Officer VdubV thought to himself that the old man smells of death.
He shook the old man again, who this time opened his eyes, which shut again quickly as
he raised his arms to shield his eyes from the blinding light.
Mogil 73
“Who are you? What are you doing here? Where’s your vocal monitor? Why are you out
this late? It’s three hours past curfew. You know what that means, don’t you?” Office VdubV
was patient by any standards, and dangerously too patient for his role as a career patrolman.
The officer’s rapid fire questions simply bewildered the old man in the once white
smock, now stained and tattered by time and the elements. “Where am I? Who are you? What do
you want? What time is it? I’m starving.”
“Are you really going there? Asking me questions? You don’t ask me questions, you
answer my questions! You’re either crazy or…hell, I don’t know.” The officer was as curious as
he was diligent, but under the circumstances, with the missing vocal monitor, the absent
proximity sensor—it just didn’t make any sense. This man couldn’t possibly have made it past
all the surveillance, all the way to the middle of Manhattan, undetected and unapprehended. Had
anyone gotten a visual on him, without a corresponding position marker from the old man’s
vocal monitor, the old man couldn’t have made it here. At the very least there would have been
an all points bulletin issued for his arrest.
Officer VdubV was now acting overly cautious because he wasn’t supposed to be there
either. He had snuck away from his beat after reporting an unknown noise in the darkness to his
station dispatch. He was actually trying to take cover under the trees, away from all of the
monitoring microphones and cameras, to sky-pi with his girlfriend on a black market wrist-let
over the pirate-net, or as it’s more commonly known, the p-net. The p-net could not lock out
surveillance completely, but it did operate without tracking capabilities, and it utilized
unbreakable megabit encryption. The p-net wasn’t there for strictly nefarious reasons. It also
provided a safe haven where private conversations could take place unmolested. It was the last
bastion of free speech in America.
Mogil 74
The p-net was an untouchable domain and its powerful encryption shielded its users from
the law, but its existence was outside of the law, in a realm publicly condemned as outlaw
territory. Homeland Security Forces, or HFS, portrayed the p-net as an evil underworld inhabited
by pirates and hackers and ip thieves. This ghost realm was really inhabited by those who
yearned to be heard, and communicate with others, unmolested. Even the power elite utilized the
p-net for their own purposes, personal and professional. For those in power, the p-net provided
the ironclad security of plausible deniability they demanded. Yet the p-net gained users, even as
the public broadcast announcements repeatedly declared, “the pirate net is where the truth is
turned into lies.” The broadcast was always followed by details on the fines and prison time
associated with being caught on the p-net. HFS ads ran everywhere portraying the doom that
awaited users of p-net to a life sentence in Alabama or Georgia, the two great prison states. But
the fear of punishment was insufficient to keep many people off the p-net, especially those who
valued freedom of speech over their own potential security.
Although the old man didn’t appear to pose a threat, Officer VdubV didn’t discount the
possibility that someone knew about the various ploys the officer used to talk to his girl in
private. The old man could be a plant, attempting to catch him illegally communicating on the pnet.
“You know damn well you don’t ask police officers questions! Who sent you here?”
“What? What do you mean?” The doctor was still groggy and disoriented.
“I said, who sent you here?”
“No, I think I got that, but what do you mean by ‘You don’t ask police officers
questions?”
Mogil 75
The officer looked in the old man’s eyes, now settling in to the renewed sensation of
light. He looked genuinely confused to Officer VdubV. “You really don’t get it, do you?
Everyone’s inculcated from the time they say their first word, to watch your words and use them
judiciously. After all, you’re only allocated ten million. You go over the limit, and well, you
know. And besides, the last thing you want to do is question authority. You’re acting like this is
news to you, like you don’t know all this.”
“No, I don’t know. All I know is I came out to think about a patient I lost, a new found
friend’s wife, and I fell asleep here. So maybe you could be a little more helpful, because I have
no idea what you’re jabbering on about.”
“Going over the ten million word lifetime limit is a death sentence. Not having a vocal
monitor—is a death sentence, and you don’t seem to have one. Why not?”
“A vocal monitor? What time is it? I’m really famished.”
“Look, we’re not going anywhere until I figure you out. What’s your angle? Not calling
in right away puts me in great peril. Just tell me why I shouldn’t take you in—right now.”
“I don’t know what you want to hear. I’ve told you everything. I fell asleep here, I woke
up here, but nothing that you’re telling me makes any sense.”
Officer VdubV couldn’t discount the look of confusion on the man’s face, and he
couldn’t just let a man die without knowing why he should. If the department knew what he was
doing…Officer VdubV had taken risks before, but on people he knew. This was different, in so
many ways.
“Can you stand up?” The officer reached down again to offer the man help getting to his
feet. It took a while. The man reached down to his lower back and he grimaced from the effort.
He reached for the sky.
Mogil 76
“You don’t have to put your hands up.”
“I’m just trying to get my back muscles to break free. They feel like they’ve been locked
up for a long time.”
“Ok, but let’s get back to the questions—who sent you here?”
“Why all the questions? This is a free country, isn’t it?” And that caused the officer even
greater concern.
“Free country? I’m sorry, now you’ve got me confused. Do you think this is Norway, or
Finland? This is America, land of the secure and home of the protected. You know, it’s like they
always say, those who would choose freedom over security deserve neither.”
“Are you sure it’s not ‘those who would choose security over liberty deserve neither’?”
“That’s very funny wiseguy, and makes no sense.”
“Look, I really need to eat. It feels like I haven’t eaten in a hundred years.”
“We’re not going anywhere, or doing anything, until you tell me who sent you.” Officer
VdubV was willing to give the old man the benefit of the doubt, but not without some assurance
that the old man wasn’t part of a sting.
“Look officer, no one sent me here. I ended my shift at the campus medical center,
walked out here, fell asleep, and you just woke me up. That’s it. Honest.”
“So what’s your name? That’s an easy enough question.”
“Doctor Broderick Carver Jefferson. I work at the Columbia University Medical Center.
Look at my badge—here, see?”
Officer VdubV didn’t get the joke if there was one, Columbia University? So he played
along and cracked back, “I get it now. You’re South American. That explains it.”
Mogil 77
“Very funny. No, I work right here at the university.” The doctor pointed out into the
darkness in the direction he thought the university was.
“No, those buildings—over there” pointed the officer in the same direction, “are the re­
education center and termination processing center. So you’re saying you work at the RAT
center? Which one—the REC center, or the TPC center?”
“The what or the what?”
“You really don’t know, do you?” Officer VdubV could not shake the feeling that the
doctor just dropped out of the sky, he couldn’t fake the massive confusion that kept building on
his face, or could he?
“All I know is that I’m hungry, and confused. Maybe after you get me something to eat,
this’ll all make some sense.”
“Well, I’m all in on this now, and there’s no turning back—I’m already in too deep.
We’re going to have to get moving. How fast can you move?”
“Don’t insult me. I may be a little stiff, but I’m only forty-five, and in great shape.”
The officer almost chuckled at the notion. He took a quick photo of the doctor and
showed it to him, and the doctor’s shocked reaction provided further evidence of the old man’s
disbelief of—everything.
“Holy spirit of Jesus, that’s not me! Whoever that is, is older than tarnation. I don’t get
this—that can’t be me—but I sure do feel like that. I guess we’re going to have to find out how
fast this old man can move.”
“I’m still going to have to figure out what to do with you. Because if I take you in—
that’s it.”
“That’s what?”
Mogil 78
“Like I said, no vocal monitor—death sentence. And for me harboring you—maybe the
same. My record’s pretty clean, but…I really don’t know.”
The doctor turned away from the officer to try and gather his thoughts, but Officer
VdubV hastily grabbed the doctor’s shoulder tightly and snatched him back—face to face.
“Hey, don’t turn away like that. That’s the quickest way to end your life when an officer
is talking to you. We’re trained to shoot first, security always.” The officer spoke with
compassion rather than confrontation, believing at this point that the doctor posed little direct
threat. “Look, I have to make a couple of quick calls to get us to my place. Hang tight for a
minute, and we’ll go get you some food.”
“Thank you officer.” The doctor’s stomach grumbled a mumbly thank you as well.
The officer tapped the wrist-let. “Honey, not tonight. Tomorrow.” The doctor heard the
woman bemoaning “Why not?” The officer said only “Problem. Love you,” and ended the call.
“Just another call for cover or else we’ll both end up…well, just hold tight.” The officer
tapped the device again. “Dex.”
Dexter answered back. “Again? What now?”
“Cover me?”
“Why?”
The officer sent Dex the picture of the doctor. “That’s why. I’ve gotta get him to my
place, and then figure out what to do.”
“No way! You know what’ll happen if I get caught. We have a deal—emergency only.
This ain’t no emergency.”
“It is an emergency—only I’m not sure how. Not yet. Look, I’m the one taking the real
risk—for me it’s death for harboring an unknown, for you—house arrest, and locked off the grid
Mogil 79
for a year for aiding. It’s not like you work on the main grid anyway, so really you’ve got
nothing to lose. On top of that, you’ve got the gear to cover us. Besides you owe me.”
“Yeah, yeah—I owe you. I love this whole bottomless debt thing we got going here. You
save my life one damn time and…give me two minutes, then run like hell. I can get you five
minutes of surveillance cover—max. Can you get this guy home in less than five minutes?”
“If I have to carry him, I will. Just do it.”
“I’m on it. But, you gotta move in two. Some day you’re gonna owe me.”
“Yeah, I’ll owe you—thanks Dex.”
The two men began moving right on the two minute mark, hustling but not quite running.
The officer’s streamlight got them through the trees quickly and safely. Dexter’s bot covered
their escape. The bot was an automated program that worked by feeding a one minute loop of
captured data into the surveillance system five times into all the local cameras and microphones,
covering the officer and doctor from the point of departure to the officer’s flat a block away. The
bot would show nothing and sound nothing, for the city is always silent after curfew.
The dash to sanctuary was rather uneventful. The officer’s flat was only a long block
away and the trees and RAT center provided most of the cover while Dex’s bot did the rest. The
8:00P.M. curfew meant the streets were clear, and if someone had been out, that would have
been a whole other problem. The officer knew they had made it clean. Otherwise Federal Police
or HFS agents would have nabbed them before they made it inside.
The doctor’s eyes were finally adjusting to the light. Inside, the small flat was sparsely
decorated, a kitchenette with a small black metal table with two matching chairs, a rugged brown
vinyl sofa that spanned one wall, and a work desk with an slim, empty frame and a keyboard
Mogil 80
stenciled onto the desktop. The few lights were all recessed and hidden behind high dispersion
glass. The doctor placed his hand on his grumbling stomach and took a seat at the kitchen table.
Officer VdubV slid open the black refrigerator door in the kitchen wall, revealing a modest
selection of edibles.
“Would you prefer something sweet? Or maybe a protein smoothie?”
“Anything, please. I don’t think my stomach’s going to be choosy right now.” The
doctor’s stomach growled once again in affirmation. The officer turned towards the doctor with
one hand holding a plate with the remaining piece of sheet cake from his parents fortieth
anniversary party, and the other with holding a bottle of sparkling water. He hoped this would
hold the doctor over for a bit.
Officer VdubV looked the doctor in the eyes and put his finger to his lips, and quietly
said “Hold tight. I’ve gotta check in, and you have to keep silent. Got it?”
The doctor nodded, already busy inhaling the sweet vanilla cake and washing it down
with the water.
Using the two-way, the officer called in, “Ops, this is Vdub, come in please.”
“Roger that Vdub, what’re you doing at home? Over”
“Mother nature. Over”
“Alright, you’ve got 15. Over”
“Roger, over and out.” And he switched the radio off. He again raised his hand in front of
the doctor’s face and put his index finger to his lips. The doctor remained focused on eating, but
nodded to the officer who walked across the room, opened a door, which turned on a light and
fan to create some white noise. He then proceeded to take a seat at the desk, and the empty frame
Mogil 81
filled with the image of a computer screen. The doctor could hear tapping on the desktop as the
apartment walls, ceiling and floor were soon littered with pin point purple lights.
“We’re good now, but I still have to figure out what to do with you.”
The doctor took a deep breath and the last swig of water from the large glass bottle
labeled Golden Silence Waters. “Why don’t you just let me go home now? It’s really not far
from here.”
“That’s not an option. You can’t be out after curfew. And you can’t be here, or even be
from here, really, not without the proper monitoring gear—you’re a ghost to the system. By the
way, where’re you from anyway?”
“I live on 127th street between Malcolm X and Madison. And why can’t I be here?”
“You can’t be here, because I’m harboring you, and I’m not ready to die, or worse.
You’re a free vocal, and you’re facing a death sentence of your own. I don’t know how you
made it so far on the island without getting caught, and it’s partly because of your wild luck that
I’m sucker enough to help you. I’m taking a huge risk. I don’t believe you, but I get the sense
that you believe what you’re saying.”
The officer began to pace a circle around the small flat.
“You said you live where? 127th?”
“Yes, between Malcolm X and Madison.”
Officer VdubV stepped up his pacing.
“But you said you live near here, didn’t you?”
“Yes, maybe ten or twelve blocks.”
The officer abruptly stopped and plopped hard in the chair across the table from the
doctor. Officer VdubV cocked his head to the right.
Mogil 82
“Either you’re lying, or else I don’t know what.”
“Why would I lie?”
“Well there’re no such streets. At least not now. There used to be a 127th street, but hell, that was when I was a kid. Thirty years ago everything above 125th was razed, to make way for
the RAT centers, the re-education center and termination processing centers—they cover the
whole north end of the island.”
“Officer, when exactly is now?”
“It’s about 9:30P.M.”
“No, what’s the date, the year?”
“You really don’t know? Really? Ok, it’s November 24, and tomorrow is Thanksecurity
Day.” The officer looked the old man straight in the eyes, looking for anything that could help
explain how the man got here, but there was nothing—the doctor looked, scared, dazed and
confused.
“Thanksecurity Day?”
“I’m starting to get the feeling that you really don’t belong here. Thanksecurity Day, the
day honoring American Security, a day free of speech.”
“Officer, what’s your name? I sure don’t seem to know much of anything right now.
Nothing makes sense. But I’ve seen your eyes before—but I’ve never seen you, that I know.”
“Officer VdubV. Why?”
“No, doesn’t ring a bell. Is VdubV your first or last name. Aww, it doesn’t really matter.
But your eyes, that’s one thing I know for sure, I’ve seen them before.”
“Not possible, we’ve never met. I’d remember.” Officer VdubV leaned back, putting
some distance between them.
Mogil 83
“VdubV? That’s a name like Will-I-Am, or India.Aire, isn’t it? Like the big hip-hop
stars.”
“Hip-hop stars? Will-iam, India-aree? Never heard of any of that.”
“Nevermind, but is VdubV an abbreviation, or something else?”
“Yeah, it’s my handle. It’s what they called me at the academy. Everyone had to have a
handle and VdubV is mine.”
“So why? Why’d they tag you with that?”
“My last name is Van Winkle. I’m the fifth in my family line.”
Officer VdubV thought the doctor was having a heart attack, or a stroke. He’d seen kids
react like this to designer drugs like extasy cubed. The old man was there, but he wasn’t—he was
nearly catatonic.
“Doctor Jefferson,” Officer VdubV snapped his fingers in front of the doctor’s stunned
face. He tried to bring the doctor back and rouse him at the same time by taking hold of the old
man’s shoulders, “Doctor, what’s happening to you?”
“My good God almighty, it can’t be. You told me it’s November, but what year?”
Officer VdubV watched as the doctor’s face as it morphed from confusion to despair,
“It’s 2084, why?”
“You’re Rip Van Winkle?”
Now Officer VdubV was flabbergasted, “How do you know that?”
“I delivered your father. I had to choose—between saving your father or your
grandmother. I let her die—I had to let her die, I couldn’t save her, but I saved your father.”
“Now you’re starting to worry me, Doctor Jefferson, if that’s what you are, who you are.”
Mogil 84
“But your eyes, you’re Trip Van Winkle’s grandson, aren’t you? You have Trip’s eyes,
your father’s eyes.”
The officer’s jaw nearly unhinged, it dropped so hard and fast. “Trip Van Winkle? He
was my grandfather, I’m V, Rip Van Winkle, V. But you couldn’t know that. You couldn’t be
here. You can’t be here. Grandpa told me about it, and about you, years ago, before he passed—
grandma, the bullet, her death. But now you’re trying to tell me that you’ve just had the whole
‘Rip Van Winkle experience?’ Unbelievable, and to think I trusted you. Or else you’re just
playing me. What, exactly what’s your game here?” Officer VdubV was now angry, and shaking
badly.
“I have no game. But I wouldn’t believe me either. I didn’t believe your grandfather until
now. You may only come to believe it if ever happens to you.”
“My grandfather’s story—it’s all hogwash. And least of all, you can’t have—they never
did. Not grandpa or his fabled, fictional grandfather, the ‘Rip Van Winkle.’ The stories are all
just fairy tales. How did you know who I was? You’ve gotta stop whatever game you’re playing,
Right now!”
“Well officer VdubV. I get it. I understand the rejection of your family tales. I was right
there with you, once, long ago…not long ago—both spiritually and intellectually. Perhaps one
day, you’ll find the truth. But for now I know I’m a problem you don’t need.” The doctor smiled.
“What are you smiling at?”
“I was just thinking how only a little while ago, I was where you are now. Then you
woke me. The final puzzle piece, you…you found me, in the dark. I can empathize with you,
officer. I know you’re not ready to believe—anything. But what do I do now? I have no vocal
monitor. I’m not ready to die. My world is gone, and I’ve got nowhere to go. Maybe it’s time for
Mogil 85
me to leave. But my world, my time, is now buried and gone, lost to history. All I want is to live
free or die.”
“The dying part is easy. Living free isn’t.” The officer’s face was contorted by too many
emotions for anyone to make out any of them clearly.
“So I have just one question for you, my new found old friend. Can you get me out of
here?”
“Where do you want to go?”
“Anywhere I can live free.”
Officer VdubV was hoping he’d wake up soon. This dream was going badly. But he
knew. This wouldn’t end well until he disposed of the doctor. So he tapped again on the wrist-let
and rang Dex again. “Dex?”
“Yeah-you safe?”
“Maybe, can you deliver a package for me?”
“To where?”
Officer VdubV turned to the doctor. “You have a choice to make-and you have to make it
right now. Sun or Snow?”
“What do you mean?”
“You wanna’ live in the sun or the snow?”
“Frankly, I never liked the cold…”
“Dex…?”
“Yeah.”
“The package is going to Columbia.”
“Roger that. Have the package ready in five. Courier’s on the way.”
Mogil 86
Officer VdubV breathed deep. “Well doctor, five minutes, and you’re on your way to
freedom. Before you go, I have to ask was any of my grandfather’s story real? Or was it all just
some crazy fantasy?”
The doctor smiled. “It’s all too real for me. You may just need to wait and decide in your
own time.”
There was one swift knock on the front door, and handshake, and a goodbye. “I hope you
find what you want doctor.”
“And you as well, Rip.” And the doctor jumped in the waiting ride, leaving this world,
his world, behind.
Mogil 87
Annotated Bibliography
Irving, Washington. The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Esq. A New Edition ed.
London: John Murray, 1834. 43-72. Print.
Even here, in an early printing of the 2 volume set of tales, there is no
mention of Washington Irving to be found. Yet, how can one doubt that this
was his handiwork? After all, it has been well documented over the past two
centuries. Hasn’t it? I believe this is Irving’s way of throwing a stone in the
waters of history, unsettling the sediments and mucking the presumably
clear streams of history. Is it possible that, like the tale of King Arthur, time
will permit this series of stories to become accepted in some circles as nonfiction? No one can say with any certainty. That is precisely what I believe
that Irving felt about history, that veracity was subservient to authority. If
the author was credible, then too so shall be the story.
His disregard for the status quo, and his successful attempts to further
thought and discussion on the matters of history, politics and other broad
reaching topics have endeared me to the author. His stories, and the manner
in which he brings literature to every man, woman and child, makes me
admire him all the more. Though the choice to read “Rip Van Winkle” was a
Mogil 88
calculated dart throw at a map of American Literature, it hit the mark with
me.
Plung, Daniel L. ""Rip Van Winkle": Metempsychosis and the Quest for SelfReliance." Rocky Mountain Review of Language and Literature 31.2 (1977):
65-80. Print.
This article reinforced that adage that there is nothing new under the sun.
On a philosophical level, there is an argument to be made on both sides, but
in terms of human language the argument can easily tip in favor of the
nothing new argument. Plung presents many of the historical underpinnings
and original stories from which Washington Irving brought the story of “Rip
Van Winkle” to life. After reading and re-reading Plung’s article and Irving’s
tale, I’d come to conclude that Irving had plucked the healthy bones of many
old tales, and by dressing them up in uniquely American colors, his tale
became an original.
This article also gave me the idea that I too, could work from the bones of
Irving’s and others work to create a new story, a new millennium relative to
Irving’s and others. Over time, and through working and re-working the
story, the new tale came to (in my opinion) stand on its own, while still
honoring the works that came before.
Mogil 89
Young, Philip. "Fallen from Time: The Mythic Rip Van Winkle." The Kenyon Review 22.4
(1960): 547-73. Print.
This article brought to light information about the origins of the Rip Van Winkle story
before unbeknownst to me. The notion that there is nothing new under the sun may seem
little more than a whimsical adage, it applies in the case of Washington Irving’s tale with
great relevance. Irving was aware of, and unabashedly appropriated the German tale of
Peter Klaus for not only the structure of the Rip Van Winkle tale, but much of the detail,
and indeed the essence of the Klaus story found a way into Irving’s tale altered little. And
though the Van Winkle tale heavily borrows upon the German tale, the number of related
antecedent tales that follow similar plot and story lines is long and wide spread, much
like stories of the Great Flood.