Going up the hill in Arizona, Oswald could not get Bill out of his mind. The sheer size of the man and the high voice. He wondered about differences in the species. Not the mega-differences that led to wars and hatred. No. The massive differences that exist between one and another at the closest range. God. He thought of his ex. We are different and similar, he thought.
It was late at night when he got to Seligman. It was cold. A frigid wind cut through his Good Will jacket.
Back in the eighties, coin phones were more common than now. He found a glassed-in booth at the end of the main drag. He called his ex collect.
"What in god's name are you calling me collect for," came the censorious voice of his once-beloved spouse. "Are you broke again?"
"I was just wondering about our differences," Oswald said. "And how we could have gotten along for many years and then fallen apart so precipitously."
"You ought to know the answer to that," said the ex.
"What?" said Oswald.
"It was you fault. You're to blame. Why are you calling me? It's over."
"You wanted it to be over," Oswald said.
"Who wouldn't?" the ex said. "Driving all over the country. With that woman."
"There's no woman," Oswald said.
"Well, there was." Oswald heard the phone click. He wondered if it would be as cold in the car as in this booth. She was right, Still, it wasn't his fault, They were both to blame.
He tried to figure out at what point either of them could have prevented the outcome. The car was visible from the booth. There was already a crust of snow on the hood. And there on the other side, unmistakably, was the hulk of the man he thought he had left in Tucumcari. He walked out.
"Bill," he said.
"You're not gonna sleep in this up here," he said.
"Nope, I'm going to Kingman and turning right. With luck I'll make Boulder City by sunrise."
All of this was Oswald's effort to avoid discussion of what explained Bill's apparent pursuit of him. One does not leave I-40 and go to Seligman at random. Bill must have followed the green Mercedes.
Oswald felt a trace of fear. But he agreed to meet Bill at a truck stop at the Kingman junction where he would be turning north.
Frangoulis and Theodorakis are joined by musicians, including two bouzouki players, and a very large audience that is completely familiar with the words. The audience joins in at Frangoulis' prompt.
This is my very favorite Theodorakis melody. Those who know Theodorakis only for his "Zorba" music are in for a treat. When I was in Athens in 1966, for a short period of study with Constantinos Doxiadis, I knew nothing of Theodorakis. But about five years later, my friend Irene Vassos sang "Sto perigiali" to us. I have never gotten the tune out of my mind.
Later, when Irene joined our group to form a travelling company performing "New Rain", I learned to pick out a …
Stephen C. Rose (1936-) was born in New York City and raised there. He currently lives there. He was educated at Trinity, Exeter, Williams and Union Theological Seminary. He served in the Student Interracial Ministry in Nashville. He founded and edited the prize-winning Renewal Magazine in Chicago and studied with C. A. Doxiadis in Athens. His first books "The Grass Roots Church" and "Who's Killing The Church" established him as a prominent critic of American Protestantism and American religion. He was and remains a civil rights activist. He has interviewed and done in depth pieces on Saul Alinsky and Martin Luther King, Jr. He won awards for editorial courage and for two documentary films. He has written and published many songs and musical works including "We Are All Americans". During the late 90s and early 2000s he worked for UN agencies, most recently editing CHOICES Magazine at UNDP. Since 2000 he has written several books for distribution via K…