Free Chapter from "Embracing the Gray:" Mercy in Mathere Valley

People tell me this is one of the more powerful chapters in Embracing the Gray. When it was initially published as part of my blog in 20067, it garnered more views than any entry I've ever composed. I know it was one of the hardest pieces I've ever written.

I met a little girl in Kenya twelve days ago. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to get her out of my mind’s eye: agonizingly shy, utterly quiet, and a countenance void of expression. She wasn’t even four years old, but she was all alone…

Having criss-crossed every time zone on the planet in my humanitarian work and having spent time in all but one continent (Australia), I’ve seen my share of intense poverty.

I’ve seen it in the muddy tidal plain undercutting the stilted shacks in Guayaquil, Ecuador… the stifling heat rising off the packed streets of Chennai, India… the putrid odors of waste that permeate the old slaughterhouse district of Arusha, Tanzania, known as the Hyena Zoo… the dense conflagration of suffering that is City de Sol on the bay at Port au Prince, Haiti… the seemingly never-ending wave-after-wave of squatter barrios surrounding the world’s largest metropolitan sprawl (over thirty million) in Mexico City… the rotting bamboo and child sex-trade of Bangkok’s red light district… These are just some of the epicenters where the downward cycle of poverty churns into a deep vortex. It’s as if the underground reservoir of Hell is breaking through the surface in certain areas, and everything within miles gets sucked into its hopeless realm.

Even though I have developed the ability to experience it, I have never grown used to it. The intense odors of open sewers, rotting refuse, charcoal pits, and yes—even decaying flesh—burns the eyes and nostrils, often bringing me to the brink of nausea. And always to the verge of tears. But I soldier on, usually because I am leading a group of less-experienced observers, and I try to keep a stiff upper lip and an even keel so as to keep everyone’s attitudes up.

But none of this background prepared me for the Methere Valley slum of Nairobi, Kenya.

Can you imagine 700,000 people crammed into an area the size of downtown Nashville? Approximately two miles in length and one mile wide. The lot on which my Tennessee home sits is 50’ x 150’. That same space in Methere Valley would house 100 dwellings and close to 500 souls. Over two-thirds of the population is under the age of fourteen, and there are at least 100,000 orphans there due to the forty-percent HIV/AIDS infection rate. Estimates are that one person dies there every six minutes.

As we navigated those streets with no names and even ventured back into the myriad narrow walkways (usually no more than two feet wide), we were told by our Compassion International guide, Moses, to watch out for “flying toilets.” Since there is no plumbing in Methere, people often relieve themselves in plastic bags and simply toss them out their window. If you’re not struck, you can certainly run the risk of stepping into untold millions of these literal fanny packs that are scattered everywhere and hanging from jagged tin roofing. Gullies have been dug between every cluster of shacks, and they all dribble urine, excrement, and waste water down toward the Methere River, which has long been choked with every sordid swill that mankind can create.

We were fortunate to be visiting during winter season in central Africa. Temperatures had been quite pleasant at seventy-five degrees each day, yet there were still abundant flies and mosquitoes everywhere in that breezeless valley. One could only shake his head wondering what it must feel and smell like when the heat index rises to 110 degrees: the humidity so thick that there is a constant brown cloud hanging over the dank slum.

There was nary a tree or shrub. Not one of us saw even a single blade of grass. Everything was variations of brown… from the rusted metallic scraps that made up most of the housing, to the rutted, constantly muddy pathways. Everyone’s limited wardrobe even had a brown tint due to the soiled water it was washed in.

I’ve said before that Compassion International’s child development centers are often akin to a beacon of light on a darkened shore. This was never truer than with the project we visited here. This church school is literally life-giving for the 390 children who are sponsored. They receive their only balanced meal of each day. They are blessed with a school uniform and the only pair of shoes they own. They are given malarial medicines, anti-retroviral treatments for HIV/AIDS, vaccines, vitamins, and regular health and dental check-ups. They receive additional tutoring to assist with their public education. These children know they can’t skip their regular school and still be part of the sponsorship program, so there is a zeal for education in this place. They receive additional skill training in areas like baking, carpentry, and even computer technology, to give them opportunities to find employment beyond their otherwise bleak futures.

They have a safe haven for recreation—an actual playground the size of two tennis courts. It’s the only open space of this type in this quadrant of the slum. It is sanctuary in the truest sense of the word. A shelter where kids are allowed (and encouraged) to be kids. There’s even a Scout program where boys and girls are learning disciplines and earning merit badges. What pride this group exhibited as they marched for us and demonstrated their teamwork! Other children sang for us, danced, put on skits, and recited dozens of Bible verses loaded with God’s love, hope, and redemption. The scripture is definitely a “living word” in this context, I can assure you.

Amidst all the ceremony and celebration, I noticed this tiny girl for the first time. She was pensively taking it all in. While other children were sprinting, jumping and gleefully punctuating the air with joyous laughter, this muted munchkin stayed anchored in a doorway to one of the classrooms. The orange knit cap and green jacket she was wearing were too large for her, accentuating her small stature. She had cocoa skin, and her big egg-white eyes with coal black centers showed much about her observant little mind.

When they broke us up into groups to play various games, I noticed her again across the courtyard—a silent sentry at her post. Expressionless, but obviously intrigued. Still waters run deep; I began wondering what she might be harboring.

While we were lead around to the various classrooms, the assembly hall, the kitchen, and the bathrooms (this is the only place the kids can actually take a shower), my eyes kept drifting back to the waif who was all by her lonesome. As we were given snacks of cookies and orange Fanta, I excused myself and took some over to her. After much prodding, she eventually grasped a cookie but was hesitant about the drink. My efforts to communicate with her fell on seemingly deaf ears, although our gaze did connect a time or two.

Over the years, I have heard that one of the worst side effects to the scourge of AIDS in Africa is the ridiculous belief that the only way for a man to rid himself of the disease is to have intercourse with a virgin. Since nearly every girl of menstruating age has been with a man, they have now begun raping younger and younger girls, hoping to be “cleansed” of this curse in the process. I can think of no more sordid or cruel lie from the pit of Hell than this. If people think there is no real evil in the world, they simply have not seen the effects of this malicious untruth in action. According to what we were told; in any given week, some of these sweet kids could have actually been raped on their way to the project. Moses told me that with awareness and better security, it is now happening to just a few each week… it used to be much worse.

Could this be what had happened to this innocent child? I asked one of the teachers about her. Shaking her head, she said, “This precious one has experienced way too much. She’s an orphan living with her older cousins. We’re pretty sure she’s been raped; she has most certainly seen too much horror for someone her age to process… That is why she is so quiet. We just try to be patient with her and love her.” We were then interrupted before I could ask more. It was time for the closing ceremony and goodbyes.

Hundreds of children gathered in a huge circle around the edge of the playground. Our group of seventeen American radio professionals was interspersed along with other Compassion staff. I convinced my little friend to take my hand and join me. The project leader stood in the center and began singing a chorus on which all the children joined in. It was one of those addictive African melodies with an accented backbeat. Within moments, we were all repeating a joyous dance step in cadence. One by one, he grabbed various ones of us from the visiting party to join him in free form expressions of dance in the center. All the children, the parents, and the teachers, were cheering at our clumsy choreography.

When the leader came to get me, I hoisted the little girl into my arms and proudly strutted into the dancing core: swaying, spinning, and dipping her. We were all singing with abandon and grooving in this communal act of acceptance and worship. I never heard my precious cargo sing, giggle, or even coo. But as we were getting on our bus, one of the teachers told me they had seen her smile for just a fleeting moment—for the first time since she’d become part of the project (had gotten a sponsor) six months before.

I bent down to say my goodbyes. I had been trying to converse with her numerous times during the day… with no results. I told her again, “My name is Mark. I want to pray for you, sweetie. Can you please tell me your name, so I can pray for you?”

Finally, she parted her lips, and I heard the faintest of squeaks.

I leaned in close and said, “Could you say that again, please?”

“Mercy. My name is Mercy,” she whispered.

I cried in my hotel room the rest of that evening as I searched my Bible for some solace.

But in your great mercy you did not put an end to them or abandon them, for you are a gracious and merciful God. (Nehemiah 9:31)

Do not hold against us the sins of the fathers; may your mercy come quickly to meet us, for we are in desperate need. (Psalms 79:8)

He has shown you, O man, what is good. And what does the LORD require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God. (Micah 6:8)

The LORD has heard my cry for mercy; the LORD accepts my prayer. (Psalms 6:9)

# # #

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We Believe So Well

As our conversation swells

And our patience somehow lingers

And accusing fingers shout about
 insensitivity

Don't we oscillate so well

Within our fundamental boundaries

While fiery foundries melt us down

And kill tranquility

But we believe so well

Don't we tell ourselves

Don't we take exclusive pride

That we abide so far from hell?

We might laugh together

But don't we cry alone

For the ashes and the dust

We've swept beneath the Holy throne

As our hidden candor dies

And our realism falters

And the altars of our hearts close up
in insecurity

We believe that all is well

We perceive ourselves as unshaken

While standing on the precipice

Of what will never be

But we believe so well

Don't we tell ourselves

Don't we take exclusive pride

That we abide so far from hell?

We might laugh together

But don't we cry alone

For the ashes and the dust

We've swept beneath the Holy throne

Written by Mark Heard © 1984 Kenwood Music

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sZW2HLxpMy0&feature=related

"Waiting is a dry desert between where we are and where we want to be." Part 2 of Henri Nouwen Quotes

Some more of my favorite quotes from Henri Nouwen. Let me know which ones resonate with you.

The real "work" of prayer is to become silent and listen to the voice that says good things about me. To gently push aside and silence the many voices that question my goodness and to trust that I will hear the voice of blessing-- that demands real effort.

Emit gratitude as though it was done.

We fail to see the place of suffering in the broader scheme of things. We fail to see that suffering is an inevitable dimension of life. Because we have lost perspective, we fail to see that unless one is willing to accept suffering properly, he or she is really refusing to continue in the quest for maturity. To refuse suffering is to refuse personal growth.

Aren't you, like me, hoping that some person, thing, or event will come along to give you that final feeling of inner well-being you desire? Don't you often hope: 'May this book, idea, course, trip, job, country or relationship fulfill my deepest desire.' But as long as you are waiting for that mysterious moment you will go on running helter-skelter, always anxious and restless, always lustful and angry, never fully satisfied. You know that this is the compulsiveness that keeps us going and busy, but at the same time makes us wonder whether we are getting anywhere in the long run. This is the way to spiritual exhaustion and burn-out. This is the way to spiritual death.

Praying is no easy matter. It demands a relationship in which you allow someone other than yourself to enter into the very center of your person, to see there what you would rather leave in darkness, and to touch there what you would rather leave untouched.

Compassion means full immersion in the condition of being human.

Forgiveness is the name of love practiced among people who love poorly. The hard truth is that all people love poorly. We need to forgive and be forgiven every day, every hour increasingly. That is the great work of love among the fellowship of the weak that is the human family.

Peace is first of all the art of being.

Praying demands that you take to the road again and again, leaving your house and looking forward to a new land for yourself and your [fellow human]. This is why praying demands poverty, that is, the readiness to live a life in which you have nothing to lose so that you always begin afresh.

Somehwere we know that without silence words lose their meaning, that without listening speaking no longer heals, that without distance closeness cannot cure.

We need to be angels for each other, to give each other strength and consolation. Because only when we fully realize that the cup of life is not only a cup of sorrow but also a cup of joy will we be able to drink it.

God, who is the Creator of the Universe, comes to us in smallness, weakness, and hiddenness.

Theological formation is the gradual and often painful discovery of God's incomprehensibility. You can be competent in many things, but you cannot be competent in God.

A waiting person is a patient person. The word patience means the willingness to stay where we are and live the situation out to the full in the belief that something hidden there will manifest itself to us.

In solitude we realize that nothing human is alien to us.

As long as we continue to live as if we are what we do, what we have, and what other people think about us, we will remain filled with judgments, opinions, evaluations, and condemnations. We will remain addicted to putting people and things in their "right" place.

It is tragic to see how the religious sentiment of the West has become so individualized that concepts such as "a contrite heart," have come to refer only to the personal experiences of guilt and willingness to do penance for it. The awareness of our impurity in thoughts, words and deeds can indeed put us in a remorseful mood and create in us the hope for a forgiving gesture. But if the catastrophical events of our days, the wars, mass murders, unbridled violence, crowded prisons, torture chambers, the hunger and the illness of millions of people and he unnamable misery of a major part of the human race is safely kept outside the solitude of our hearts, our contrition remains no more than a pious emotion.

Hope prevents us from clinging to what we have and frees us to move away from the safe place and enter unknown and fearful territory.

True hospitality is receiving the stranger on his terms, and asserts that it can be offered only by those who have found the center of their lives in their own hearts.

Waiting is a dry desert between where we are and where we want to be.

For most of my life I have struggled to find God, to know God, to love God. I have tried hard to follow the guidelines of the spiritual life—pray always, work for others, read the Scriptures—and to avoid the many temptations to dissipate myself. I have failed many times but always tried again, even when I was close to despair. Now I wonder whether I have sufficiently realized that during all this time God has been trying to find me, to know me, and to love me. The question is not “How am I to find God?” but “How am I to let myself be found by him?” The question is not “How am I to know God?” but “How am I to let myself be known by God?” And, finally, the question is not “How am I to love God?” but “How am I to let myself be loved by God?” God is looking into the distance for me, trying to find me, and longing to bring me home.

Dear God,

I am so afraid to open my clenched fists!

Who will I be when I have nothing left to hold on to?

Who will I be when I stand before you with empty hands?

Please help me to gradually open my hands

and to discover that I am not what I own,

but what you want to give me.

And what you want to give me is love,

unconditional, everlasting love.

Amen.

Thoughts on any of these?

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"Utterly mesmerizing," "courageous," "staggering," and "vivid" have been used to describe the memoirs of Mark A. Hollingsworth's popular blog that are now transformed and expanded into Embracing the Gray. Through international as well as internal travel, he wrestles with and even celebrates the uncertainties of his still unfolding life. In turns both profound and profane, you'll experience the unforgettable characters and tales from his family, the music biz, and fellow pilgrims among the poor. As his fans have said, it "processes the what-ifs of life" where "demise and redemption walk hand in hand." A reader with serious doubts who seeks to avoid the path of bitter cynicism will inevitably find a voice in these pages that will resonate heart, mind, and soul.

Embracing the Gray: A Wing, A Prayer, and A Doubter's Resolve, has received 97% Five Star reviews on Amazon.com. The other 3% are Four Stars.

Described as a Renaissance man, Mark A. Hollingsworth considers himself a citizen of the world. He has traveled to fifty-one countries as a manager of rock bands and an advocate for the poor in developing nations. He has been published in two dozen magazines ranging from Billboard to National Lampoon, and his blog has had over 60,000 readers in the past five years. Mark resides in Nashville, Tennessee.

Honored to be part of documentary, "Gold Record: Fifty Years of Hockey in Nashville"

I was honored to be interviewed for the terrific one hour documentary on the history of pro hockey in Nashville entitled, Gold Record: Fifty Years of Hockey History in Music City. The portions where I reminisce include the rowdy times at Nashville Knights games in the mid 90s, as well as reflections on the rabid fan base (including the crazed inmates of infamous Cellblock 303) at Predators’ games since 1998.

Here is info from the official press release:

Leading into Tuesday night’s Nashville Predators game vs. the Vancouver Canucks, the Preds flagship TV station, FOX Sports Tennessee, will debut the one-hour documentary “Nashville Predators Present: Gold Record – 50 Years of Hockey History in Music City,” at 6 PM Central Time.

This special takes a look back at the history of hockey in Nashville, beginning with the Dixie Flyers in 1962 all the way through to the present day Nashville Predators. The show features interviews with Dixie Flyers captain Ken “Red” Murphy, South Stars owner Larry Schmittou, Knights radio broadcaster Steve Carroll, current Predators Chairman Tom Cigarran and country legend and hockey aficionado Barbara Mandrell, among others. Fans will travel back in time to Municipal Auditorium, the original home of hockey in Nashville, by way of vintage footage and rare photos. This all encompassing look at hockey in Music City will air on Fox Sports Tennessee several times over the next 6-8 weeks.

“Gold Record truly highlights the history and passion Nashville has had for hockey of the last half century,” Nashville Predators Executive Vice President Chris Parker said. “It is a tribute to all the teams, players and fans who came before the Predators and laid the foundation for the support we have received over the last 15 years. We are sure that hockey fans and all sports fans in general will enjoy the program!”

Here is the airing schedule so far. All times Central:

• Tuesday, February 7--6 PM leading into Predators vs. Vancouver Canucks game.

• Tuesday, February 7--10 PM following Predators post game show after Predators vs. Vancouver Canucks game.

• Thursday, February 9--10 PM (following "Predators Snapshot" after Predators vs. Ottawa Senators game.

• Saturday, February 11--10 PM
• Tuesday, February 14--10 PM following post game show after Predators vs. Chicago Black Hawks game.
• Sunday, February 19--9 PM following post game show after Predators vs. Dallas Stars game.
• Saturday, February 25--11 AM
• More airings to be announced for March and April.

I am grateful to director/producer Scott Osborne for seeking me out and other fellow Section 303 rowdies like Kurt Andress, Laurie Dishman, and Brian Binkley for our participation. I waxed nostalgic for over an hour, and I know that many others gave long testimonies to the long-sufferings and joys of being hockey fans here in Tennessee that were edited for running-time purposes.

Additionally, there is plenty more archival footage to be had of the various franchises that have graced the Municipal Auditorium ice sheet in the 60s, 80s, and 90s, as well as of the Preds at Bridgestone for the past 13 seasons….so, who knows? Maybe there will be a Volume Two and Three!

Should you get to watch it, or have seen it already (every Predators season ticket holder was sent a copy as a Christmas gift), let me know what you think. I’m sure those of you who are hockey fans will enjoy this fun skate down memory lane.

"The spiritual life does not remove us from the world but leads us deeper into it," and other Henri Nouwen Quotes (Part 1)

Internationally renowned priest and author, respected professor and beloved pastor Henri Nouwen (1932-1996) wrote over 40 books on the spiritual life. His books have sold over 2 million copies and been published in over 22 languages.

Nouwen felt called to the priesthood at a very young age. He was ordained in 1957 as a diocesan priest and studied psychology at the Catholic University of Nijmegen in his native Netherlands. In 1964 he moved to the United States to study at the Menninger Clinic. He went on to teach at the University of Notre Dame, and the Divinity Schools of Yale and Harvard. For several months during the 1970s, Nouwen lived and worked with the Trappist monks in the Abbey of the Genesee, and in the early 1980s he lived with the poor in Peru. In 1985 he was called to join L’Arche in Trosly, France, where people with developmental disabilities live with assistants. A year later Nouwen came to make his home at L’Arche Daybreak near Toronto, Canada for the final ten years of his life.

Here are some of my favorite quotes from Henri. Let me know which ones resonate with you:

You don't think your way into a new kind of living. You live your way into a new kind of thinking.

Ministry means the ongoing attempt to put one's own search for God, with all the moments of pain and joy, despair and hope, at the disposal of those who want to join this search but do not know how.

Much violence is based on the illusion that life is a property to be defended and not to be shared.

God loved you before you were born, and God will love you after you die.

When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares.

One of the tragedies of our life is that we keep forgetting who we are.

When we are securely rooted in personal intimacy with the source of life, it will be possible to remain flexible without being relativistic, convinced without being rigid, willing to confront without being offensive, gentle and forgiving without being soft, and true witnesses without being manipulative.

Joy does not simply happen to us. We have to choose joy and keep choosing it every day.

In the past I always thought of gratitude as a spontaneous response to the awareness of gifts received, but now I realize that gratitude can also be lived as a discipline. The discipline of gratitude is the explicit effort to acknowledge that all I am and have is given to me as a gift of love, a gift to be celebrated with joy.

Resentment and gratitude cannot coexist, since resentment blocks the perception and experience of life as a gift. My resentment tells me that I don't receive what I deserve. It always manifests itself in envy.

The real question is: how can I live so that my death will be fruitful for others?

Christian life is not a life divided between times for action and times for contemplation. No. Real social action is a way of contemplation, and real contemplation is the core of social action.

The soul of the artist cannot remain hidden.

His (Christ's) appearance in our midst has made it undeniably clear that changing the human heart and changing human society are not separate tasks, but are as interconnected as the two beams of the cross.

Christians should put survival of the planet ahead of national security...Here is the mystery of our global responsibility: that we are in communion with Christ- and we are in communion with all people...The fact that the people of Nicaragua, Guatemala, El Salvador, Russia, Afghanistan, and Ethiopia are our brothers and sisters is not obvious. People kill each other by the thousands and do not see themselves as brothers and sisters. If we want to be real peacemakers, national security cannot be our primary concern. Our primary concern should be survival of humanity, the survival of the planet, and the health of all people. Whether we are Russians, Iraqis, Ethiopians, or North Americans, we belong to the same human family that God loves. And we have to start taking some risks- not just individually, but risks of a more global quality, risks to let other people develop their own independence, risks to share our wealth with others and invite refugees to our country, risks to offer sanctuary- because we are people of God.”

The spiritual life does not remove us from the world but leads us deeper into it.

Let us not underestimate how hard it is to be compassionate. Compassion is hard because it requires the inner disposition to go with others to place where they are weak, vulnerable, lonely, and broken. But this is not our spontaneous response to suffering. What we desire most is to do away with suffering by fleeing from it or finding a quick cure for it.

Here we glimpse the mystery of God’s incarnation. God became human not only to act among us but also to be the recipient of our responses.

The great spiritual task facing me is to so fully trust that I belong to God that I can be free in the world--free to speak even when my words are not received; free to act even when my actions are criticized, ridiculed, or considered useless.... I am convinced that I will truly be able to love the world when I fully believe that I am loved far beyond its boundaries.

While my friend always spoke about the sun, I kept speaking about the clouds, until one day I realized that it was the sun that allowed me to see the clouds.

In this crazy world, there's an enormous distinction between good times and bad, between sorrow and joy. But in the eyes of God, they're never separated. Where there is pain, there is healing. Where there is mourning, there is dancing. Where there is poverty, there is the kingdom.

The world is waiting ... for new saints, ecstatic men and women who are so deeply rooted in the love of God that they are free to imagine a new international order.

As long as I keep running about asking: "Do you love me? Do you really love me?" I give all power to the voices of the world and put myself in bondage because the world is filled with "ifs." The world says: "Yes, I love you if you are good-looking, intelligent, and wealthy. I love you if you have a good education, a good job, and good connections. I love you if you produce much, sell much, and buy much." There are endless "ifs" hidden in the world's love. These "ifs" enslave me, since it is impossible to respond adequately to all of them. The world's love is and always will be conditional. As long as I keep looking for my true self in the world of conditional love, I will remain "hooked" to the world-trying, failing, and trying again. It is a world that fosters addictions because what it offers cannot satisfy the deepest craving of my heart.

When we become aware that we do not have to escape our pains, but that we can mobilize them into a common search for life, those very pains are transformed from expressions of despair into signs of hope.

More to come...

Thoughts?

The Spaniards and Mexicans Motel

While managing Petra, I contracted to have several thousand large posters manufactured in Indianapolis. In order to get them to the band in time for an important Chicago gig, I decided to drive to Indy from Nashville one evening so I could get them early the following morning, then deliver them to Chitown for the merch set-up the following afternoon.

Due to some delays getting out of Tennessee, and then construction slow-downs cutting through Louisville, I ended up in Indiana’s capitol much later than I had intended. I drove around to several motels in the downtown area with “No Vacancy” signs glaring into my bleary eyes.

Finally, while trolling the backstreets and bowels of the warehouse district where the print company was located, I found a Best Western with dozens of eighteen-wheelers parked outside. That was kind of curious, since most long-haul drivers don’t use motels, opting to snooze in the bunks inside their cabs at rest areas and truck stops. But it was a fleeting thought, and sensing fortunate in being able to grab the last remaining room, I settled-in my second floor unit. It was replete with expected sundry cigarette burns, wheezing AC wall unit, stained carpeting, and that funky odor-blend of stale tobacco, B.O., and cheap disinfectant that I have come to expect of flea bag lodges like these over the years. None of this mattered for I was exhausted, and crawled into the concave queen size bed at 1:30 AM, looking forward to five hours of sleep before rising for my 7:30 pick-up time at the manufacturer. I descended into deep R.E.M. sleep within just minutes.

I’m guessing it was about half an hour later when a muffled sequence of screams from several doors down awoke me out of my slumber. At first, I was so disoriented that I wasn’t sure if this was some element of a nightmare that had startled me into consciousness…but within moments, I realized a man was in some sort of pain. I sat up on my elbows, running my hand through my hair, and blinking myself awake as I tried to gather my thoughts. What should I do? This sounds pretty serious. Had someone broken their leg in the shower and was agonizingly trying to crawl across their floor to dial for an ambulance? Were they having an appendicitis attack? The commotion subsided for about a minute, and I began to feel that things were working themselves out.

Suddenly, the shrieks began again. I sat up on the edge of the frayed bedspread, feeling some sort response was in order. Pulling on my jeans and a shirt, I opened the door and peered down the balcony towards the anguish about two addresses away. Another painful yelp convinced me to walk down and see if I could be of assistance. Upon reaching the door, I heard a muffled second voice involved---perhaps it was a wife or girlfriend trying to lift the fallen loved one. I knocked on the door. All activity got quiet for about ten seconds. I knocked again, tentatively asking, “Is everything alright?” and then was reprimanded firmly with a, “Leave us the hell alone! Go away!”

I continued to stand there, breathing-in the thick, nocturnal summer heat mixed with diesel fumes and some unidentified factory stench. Feeling like a doofus, I decided I was not needed, and returned to my room, and hunkered-down under the sheets.

Only a minute had passed when the commotion began again. But it was eclipsed by new agitated howling which began in the room right next to mine on the other side. I could distinctly hear a man being struck by something blunt, and he was grunting and shuddering under the blows. Had I registered into brawl central for the Hoosier State? Were they handing out fightin’ whisky with every room key? More bellowing, and accompanying punches. Once again, I left the bed, this time going to the wall and banging it. “Hey! Keep it down in there, or I’ll call the front desk!”

There was silence for a moment, then more calamity with the accusation, “See what you have brought on us? You will pay for this!” followed with more bashing, and even the sound of a piece of furniture breaking amidst miserable howls.

I grabbed the phone and dialed zero. As the unheeded rings piled one on top of the other, yet another round of storm trooping began in the room immediately above mine! Now there was a trio of imbroglios happening simultaneously, and the upstairs event definitely featured a woman wailing. Finally, on about the fifteenth ring, the phone was answered.

“I’m in room 217 and I want to report some crazy crap going on in 215, 221, and I think in 317 right above me!” I hollered.

There was an awkward pause.

“Do you hear me?” I roared…only to get a perturbed, “Well, you checked into this place, you should’ve known what to expect!” then *click* *bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz*

Incredulous, I slammed the receiver down. “What kind of whacked joint is this?” I mumbled under my breath.

The first group was back in full throat now. The group next door now featured some harsh accusations and crying along with the continued pounding. And then I heard something very strange beginning overhead—the cracking of a whip, along with agitated squeals.

Just as it was beginning to dawn on me that I had checked-in to Licentious Lodge, a fourth oppression began in the room right next to my headboard. This was the most audible of the bunch. More berating language, the sound of flesh being struck repeatedly, followed by a series of ,“Stop! Don’t!....Don’t!.....Stop!.....*shrill scream*….Don’t stop!...Don’t stop! Oh….yes! Don’t stop!!”

I laid back sideways on my bed, pulled the pillow over my face. “I am in a freakin’ S&M mad house!” I lamented to anyone who might hear my plight.

In the cacophony of corporeal punishment going on around me, I decided to call the police. Upon finally getting a grumpy officer on the line, I told him where I was and what was transpiring. Battling to hear him over the auditory agony in surround-sound, I was, once again, to my dismay, told with a disdained chuckle, “Buddy, you should know what that place is all about.”

“Well, isn’t there a slight possibility that amongst all of this torture and woe that just something might be a tad illegal?” I countered.

“As long as they are in their rooms, there ain’t a thing we can do about it. Good night,” and I was dispatched with a hang-up a second time.

I then pulled out the phone book and called every hotel listing for that area I could find. In the midst of distressed squawks during blissful beatings, jubilant genital injuries, rapturous penitent pillaging, and various other deviant delights, I was repeatedly told there was a huge convention at the RCA Dome, and every hotel within 30 miles was booked solid.

I’m no prude, but these aberrations on the bumping of the uglies was a bit more than this Presbyterian pastor’s kid could handle. I mean, I’ve put up with wall mates in apartment complexes banging the gong and vibrating the rafters. I’ve seen (as well as partaken in) rockin’ of the proverbial back seat of a Chevy and steamin’ the windows—but that was just good ol’ coitus between a lovin’couple. What was going on here was oppressive. I felt I had fallen deep into Abaddon’s abyss, hearing the tormented misery of those so self-loathing and shamed that they had given themselves over completely to this libidinous lunacy. For all I knew, there could’ve been a snuff film being produced there that night, that’s how morbid it all sounded.

With the management and law enforcement turning a blind eye, I knew there was little I could do. These folks had given themselves over to their perverted explorations in affliction. Unfortunately, they were impinging on my ability to rest.

For the next hour I attempted to acclimate myself to the strange blend of delirious debauchery surrounding me. A few times I chuckled at the sheer absurdity of it. But mostly, I wavered between prayer and repugnance. I mean, sweet fancy Moses, how screwed up do you have to be--how dissatisfied with your life—to want to suffer through what should be such a caring, pleasure-giving partnership? How can it somehow be euphoric to have your testicles in a clamp? How can it be intoxicating to have your nipples nearly pulled out of their sockets? How are repeated punches to the groin or allowing your pubic hair to be set aflame deemed some sort of hanky-panky hobby? Since when is scorn combined with anal chafing considered an aphrodisiac?

When a fifth escapade began in the room below me, I had reached my fill. I gathered my belongings, walking down the balcony to the stairwell. As I passed each room, I heard some other scatological version of choking, humiliation, and euphoric abasement featuring guys and gals in various combo platters…maybe even some critters thrown-in for good measure. I believe my ears even discerned an invertebrate screeching.

Requests for a refund were summarily dismissed by the night manager. I was too weary to even try and fight it. Besides, there was enough guilt-ridden acrimony going on in that square block to fuel nine levels of Hell—no need for me to add any more.

I shuffled out to my dusty AMC Hornet that was sandwiched between two hulking semi’s. Apparently, this was the main gathering point in Indiana of all sexually frustrated drivers who needed to be scourged or felt obliged to inflict some sexual rage upon someone else. I couldn’t get off that property fast enough.

Locating the warehouse where my pick-up was to take place in a few hours, I pulled into the loading dock and dozed inside the cramped back deck of my hatchback before sunrise. Once it became light, and industry began to lurch into motion, I couldn’t entertain slumber any further. So I found an Awful House and pacified my plight with all twenty-seven essential starches and loads of maple syrup.

As I downed my final flapjack, I began to chuckle about a Steve Martin routine from his Let’s Get Small album. As a naïve comic, he was approached by some sexually “liberated” sickos and asked if he enjoyed S & M. He blurted out, “Why, sure…I LOVE Spaniards and Mexicans, and all Latino peoples.” I bowed my head, feeling an odd mixture of shame and amusement with it all. If I could’ve found a cathedral I think I would’ve gone to a confessional and asked forgiveness for laughing at these poor saps. But I would also plead for some sort of penance to perform to eradicate these raw, warped images from my mind.

Decades have passed, and I can still hear that frenzied freak-fest. One of the men kept yelling out that quaint epithet “Who’s your daddy?!” Whenever I hear it now, I still visualize it as “Hoosier Daddy!”