I left the Army exchanging my camos for a uniform consisting of a white vest, black slacks, and a clip-on black bow tie.

I got the job from my commanding officer whose family owned a home on the shore of Lake Tahoe. He made an introduction to the GM of a five-star resort situated along the magnificent lake who put me to work as a combination busboy, barback, and maintenance man charged with unplugging clogged toilets and mopping up the vomit from drunken patrons. I also performed room service including late-night cocktails, scrumptious meals, and when asked, delivering prophylactics under strict rules issued by the GM,

“See nothing, hear nothing, say nothing!”

Having my arms elbow deep in human excrement and vomit was a better gig than getting shot at and removing the flesh of my buddy pasted to my face like a freaky facial.

I needed a job for the summer because the GI Bill was putting me through city college which would begin in September.

The job included a bed inside a dormitory and two free meals per day thrown together by the chef with leftovers into a palatable, but often times unrecognizable, stew or food loaf covered with gravy.

Working at beautiful Lake Tahoe was a perk. It was summertime. The cool breeze and beautiful sunsets were magnificent. I’d stare out into the grand lake and imagine seeing the invisible line denoting the state boundary between Nevada and California.

I’d come to learn later in life it’s the invisible lines which pack the greatest punch as we traverse life.

I learned a lot that summer about the wealthy and those who prey upon them. Snooping society gossip columnists offered us gratuities for salacious information about our guests but my moral compass pointed towards confidentiality although my wallet pointed towards “broke”.

I met a beautiful college sorority sister who was kind to a down on his luck war vet. She was wearing a classy bathing suit, diamond tennis bracelet, and sunning poolside.

Like the diamond bracelet, her eyes sparkled with happiness and youthful optimism. I’m certain she was her father ‘s pride and joy.

“I’d like a word with you, waiter.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m your poolside attendant, Ma’am.”

“You’re not the typical college kid I find working here.

” You’re a man-boy.

“You’ve lived a life.”

“I did a tour of duty in Afghanistan, Ma’am.”

“My name is Kay.

“I have a tip for you.”

“Thank you, Ma’am.

“You’re very generous.”

“Here’s another, tip.

“You know this old saying better than anybody,

‘When the going gets tough, the tough get going!’”

She was a society girl and out of my league. One evening, I delivered champagne on ice to her cabin. I developed a keen sense about people in the Army and I didn’t trust the handsome guy with Kay.

I suspected he had a dubious past witnessing his adroitness with handling the syringe and heating the heroin into a liquid on a spoon meant for Kay’s delicate forearm.

“Don’t do it, Kay!

“I’ll get you out of here and away from him.”

“You’re in over your head, waiter.

“I’m aware of this resort’s confidentiality policy regarding employees.

“If you want to keep your job forget what you saw here and get out!

“You’ll find a one-hundred-dollar bill inside her purse.”

“You take it like all the rest, pusher!”

The needle pierced the vein with blood from her petit arm pushing back up into the syringe only to be flushed back into the vein along with the poison making her a slave to the next fix and a life of ruin.

“Thank you for your chivalry ‘man boy’ but I need an escape and asked for itttt….”

It was a string of words I’d never forget.

I hoped she would awake from a bad trip, learn a lesson from a wrong choice, and never see him again. I made many bad choices including driving down a narrow street hiding an IUD. I watched my buddies following behind me within the caravan disappear into “pink mist”. I prayed Kay’s life wouldn’t be blown to pieces.

Time passed quickly. I met my wife in law school. She became a district attorney and I scraped up a job as a public defender. Like the invisible line in the lake, there was an invisible line placing us on opposite sides of the justice system.

We were married at the Tahoe resort where I previously worked. We stood on the dock and stared out into the magnificent lake underneath the bright moon and I looked for the invisible line.

“I met a society girl when I worked here in the summer before college.

“She was kind to me.

“It disturbed me when I delivered champagne to her cabin and watched her boyfriend provide her first fix of heroin.”

“I wonder what happened to her, darling?”

“Theres a fine line between happiness and misery and I saw Kay cross the line into a life of despair.”

I saw old gray men who may have been my fellow employees still toiling away on the same jobs. They remained on one side of a line in the social hierarchy which I managed to stumble over. Our beautiful baby was conceived that evening.

My job required I defend anybody including drug dealers whom I detested. As I gained seniority within the public defender’s office, I attempted to be selective about those I defended.

I was visiting a client who was incarcerated at the county jail. We were separated by a glass pane and spoke through a speaker. As I was finishing our conversation, I heard a familiar voice but couldn’t place it. The woman was frightened.

“Please get me out of this jail.”

“I’ve made a plea deal with the DA.

“You’ll pay a fine and be placed on parole for one year.

“I’ve been your family’s attorney for many decades and I watched you grow up from a beautiful young woman into an addict appearing older than her age.

“You’ve crossed the line into the criminal justice system too often and left your parents no choice but to disinherit you.

“Your parents filed a restraining order against you preventing any future contact by you with family members.

“I wish you luck and hope you’ll get your life together.”

“Tell my family, I’ll always love them.”

My wife gave birth to a beautiful daughter who grew to became a scholar-athlete. A friend gave our daughter a “sleeping pill” laced with fentanyl. Our baby overdosed and died.

Our daughter’s death destroyed our marriage. My wife’s work was prosecuting drug dealers and I defended them creating an invisible line named “resentment” leading to divorce. My wife remarried and had another child, a beautiful daughter. I don’t see or talk to my former love. I hope she’s happy and no longer blames me for our daughter’s death.

I live alone and, perhaps, that’s my penance. I went through a period of self-hatred for defending drug dealers but my therapist helped restore my sense of self-worth for defending poor people being prosecuted on bum wraps. I provided many vulnerable clients a second chance for a good life.

I retired from the public defender’s office but wanted to stay busy. I opened up a sole practitioner law office specializing in criminal law.

I was approached by a big shot lawyer seeking a seasoned but affordable criminal defense attorney to defend a once “shining star” of society which crashed and burned like a meteor.

My one room office was eerily quiet until an anorexic woman walked into my life. She had the remnants of a sparkle in her eyes which I recognized in a kind young woman sunning herself in Lake Tahoe.

Kay was a ghost of her former self. I recognized opiate addiction. Her wardrobe resembled thrift store bargains thrown together.

She was on bail and facing a second-degree manslaughter rap accused of murdering her husband who abused her for decades.

Kay crossed the line from a life of privilege into my world of defending the frightened, incarcerated, and destitute.

“How did you make bail?”

“I pawned the last of my grandmother’s jewelry I kept secret from husband for a rainy day.

“The pearls resembled tears from my grandmother’s eyes as big as rain drops.”

A string of pearls reminded me of Kay’s words to me as I watched her receive the fix. She married the punk providing the first fix and he bleed her inheritance dry.

Kay’s bail was put up by a handful of friends who cared enough to write a check but not be seen in public with her. She sat shivering still struggling with sobriety after a life of heroin addiction.

Kay had fallen in with the wrong crowd as a young woman, and in particular, the wrong guy whose good looks and charm allowed him entry inside Kay’s heart. They married. Her husband paid for a ring with his proceeds of a smalltime heroin pusher who began consuming his own product while taking Kay down the path of ruin as an addict. I’d seen co-dependency before but this was one of the worst cases.

Kay was repeatedly beaten by her husband to tap her society friends for handouts and charity. The beatings became worse including a broken nose and strangulation in her second trimester. She broke free and struck him down with one bullet to the head inside a skid row flophouse. Kay suffered a miscarriage inside the tawdry bathroom as police knocked down the door.

I calmed her by laying out a self-defense strategy and channeled Kay’s miscarriage into my grief over losing my daughter. I mounted a defense with my heart and mind working in tandem like a well-oiled machine. Kay would prevail or I’d work pro bono defending her right up through final appeals.

The jury returned a “not guilty” verdict. Kay met me outside the courtroom.

“I want to thank you for defending me.

“In decades past, I’d say ‘bill our family accountant’ but the few friends I have left set up a ‘Fund Kay’s Defense’ online coffer.

“Please accept it as payment in full.

“I’m broke.”

“Don’t you remember our conversation many decades ago at the pool in Lake Tahoe?

“I didn’t have two nickels to rub together and you told me,

‘When the going gets tough, the tough get going.’

“I never forgot your kindness and advice.”

“I don’t remember.

“I’ve forgotten my youth but if we met, I’m happy I was kind to you, and grateful you became a defense attorney which led to our reunion.

“Judging from the press gathered outside, I suspect my misfortune will be your good fortune with a growing law practice.

“Good luck and thank you.”

I motioned for a familiar deputy to escort her discretely out of the courthouse and into an uncertain future.

I felt a cold chill at my back and turned to find my ex-wife.

“I’ve been following this tragic case of a life ruined by addiction.

“You mounted a brilliant defense and I know you had our darling daughter in your heart guiding you every step of the way.

“I still remember you speaking of Kay on the dock at Lake Tahoe.

“Did you ever find the invisible line?”

“It disappeared just now.”

I worked construction jobs up and down California with my wife. We lived frugally, finding the least expensive apartment next to the construction site, and denied ourselves luxuries to save money. My wife, Ping, was planning for the future which included starting a family.

Ping is of Chinese ancestry. She’s a brilliant civil engineer and businesswoman. We met in college. She’s been a loyal wife following me from job to job working my way up the construction career ladder beginning as a contractor remodeling homes and graduating to helping build multimillion dollar industrial buildings.

I was the winning bidder for the build of a lifetime to construct the dock high, 100,000 square feet warehouse building for trucks delivering the intermodal containers from the railroad hub which was nearby.

This warehouse and others like it would provide twenty thousand jobs, create new home development, and provide millions of dollars in tax revenue.

Inside the warehouse, local people desperate for employment, would remove the goods from the containers and ready them for trucks to pick up and deliver to stores throughout the Western United States.

The construction site is located about two hours from Los Angeles, two hours to Vegas, and near the Interstate 15 freeway connecting the cities of Southern California with Las Vegas. The freeway passes through the Mojave Desert with few offramps and even fewer people.

Unbeknownst to those speeding along this desert stretch of Interstate 15, the barren desert serves as a hub for two major railroads transporting goods like a major artery whose failure would present itself like a stroke upon the economy.

The warehouse would firmly establish our family construction business and would be the first of many more projects to follow.

We decided to use the earnings from the project to purchase our dream home and Ping would become a stay-at-home mom which was her desire.

We decided to live on site in a RV. It had all the comforts of home and we were able to tap into the electrical pole and a water line already in service. I installed a septic system which would be pumped out and removed at the completion of the job.

After dinner, we’d sit around a fire pit and gaze up into the stars. The flames leaping about provided a warm, comforting embrace within the dark barren desert. It was our practice to read fairy tales to our unborn child with the belief our voices would become familiar to our baby.

Strange occurrences would happen unexpectedly day or night. Despite no wind or earthquake reported by the USGS, the RV would shake. When the wind blew, we heard the faint music of a flute riding the wind as if sending us a warning.

I was placing stakes in the ground as boundary markers when I came upon a patch of dense chaparral and cleared it in order to place my stake. I found a weather worn wooden marker resembling a tombstone. I could only make out a partial description of something written in Chinese calligraphy.

It was customary to notify officials whenever artifacts are found as lengthy archaeological examinations must be completed always delaying, and in some instances, preventing construction from proceeding.

When bodies are found, it’s necessary to notify the police who summon the coroner, and another type of investigation will postpone construction. The cost and construction timeline of this project would suffer by any investigation. My clients would not tolerate any delays.

I decided to take a shovel and dig into the ground to discover what might lay below this faded tombstone hidden by chaparral for decades.

I found the remnants of a termite eaten box which concealed a long-braided lock of hair, a wood flute, glass mirror, and a bag of rice.

I photographed the contents and placed a wooden cover over the grave. I replaced the chaparral to camouflage the burial.

Our dilemma was saying nothing and completing the mega warehouse on time or turn it over to the authorities who would stop construction pending an investigation. If we chose the latter, I’d be fired and word would spread throughout the industry that I was a “troublemaker”. I’d have no choice but return to replacing roofs for a living.

Ping investigated the history of the property by checking the library but found nothing. The city permit office performed a customary check dating back hundreds of years and found no permits or documents relating to any buildings on the site.

The former ownership of the ten-acre site was a trust representing a California family with roots dating back before statehood. The trust sold it to my client who would build the warehouse and lease it to a large logistics tenant eager to occupy the building.

In many California towns, there is a family-owned Chinese restaurant handed down from generation to generation. “The Elm Tree” was a Chinese restaurant inside a brick building with a shuttered rooming house from frontier days on the second level.

The family opened the restaurant at the end of World War Two. The interior was traditional for a Chinese restaurant including red and gold wallpaper with a smiling Buddha greeting visitors at the door. Ping and myself visited with Norton and Emma Chang, brother and sister, whose parents founded the establishment.

We sat and enjoyed dinner with them but we didn’t share my discovery. Norton and Emma recounted stories told by their parents.

“Tens of thousands of Chinese immigrated to California during the Gold Rush to work on the Transcontinental Railroad during 1863-1869.

“Some of the workers were children.

“They lived in harsh conditions and were subjected to racism.

“The railroad connecting these parts with Los Angeles was completed in 1850.

“We call the railway the ‘Raging Dragon’ because it roars with the din of boxcars hurtling along the track’s day and night causing the ground to tremble.

“Imagine only dirt roads and nothing but vacant desert land around these parts.

“There were no towns, no courts, no newspapers, nothing but a camp of immigrant Chinese railroad workers toiling day and night seven days a week.

“The local economy consisted of mining and agriculture.

“The Caucasian property owners, mine workers, and outlaws seeking refuge in the high desert harassed and stole from the Chinese railroad workers who were making no more than twenty dollars per month.

“Your property has always been a vacant lot for as long as we can remember.

“You might consult a Feng Shui expert who is very well known.

“She goes by the name,

‘For Good Feng Shui, Call Sandy Shi.’”

Sandy was a hippie driving a vintage Volkswagen camper. She was an attractive, slightly built woman, who led an interesting life as a professional photographer, world traveler, writer, and Feng Shui consultant to the “rich and famous” but wasn’t the type to “drop names”.

Sandy wore comfortable black silk pajama style clothing accented with beautiful jade and gold necklace, bracelet, and rings. She wore her silver hair in a long-braided ponytail. Sandy preferred high performance sneakers.

“I can see from your blueprint all of the entrances to the warehouse face South!

“Prosperity flows through entrances facing North, Northwest, and Northeast.

“I’m feeling very bad vibes about this land.

“Something terrible happened here.”

We walked to the gravesite, I removed the camouflage and opened the deteriorated wooden box.

“The tombstone is Chinese.

“I think the name may be ‘Ling’ and he was from the Guangdong province of China.

“Many of the railroad workers immigrated from this province.

“Judging from the wooden flute, broken mirror, small bag of rice, and the long-braided hair resembling the ancient Chinese male hair style of ‘Queue’ or what Americans call a pigtail, all of this belonged to a man.

“The front and sides of his head would have been shaven and this long Queue would have hung low on his back.

“The mirror and rice are included to ensure the deceased could find the afterlife and be fed.

“I recommend you not move forward with this project.”

“Our future is dependent upon the success of this project.

“I’m pregnant, Susie.

“We want you to find the truth about this property.

“We’ll do the right thing but must be certain.”

“Your request is outside my normal services but I appreciate your circumstances and will attempt to guide you.

“You must trust my methods, however, as they may appear unorthodox.”

“Tell us more, Susie.”

“I will make a potent tea for us to consume made of ancient Chinese herbs with mind expanding capabilities which may reveal the history of this land and the life of Ling.

“We’ll consume the herbs blended inside a tea, sipping it under a clear sky with a full moon in front of a raging fire.”

“I’m uncomfortable, Susie.”

“Don’t be fearful of nature’s gifts and the wisdom of the Chinese medicinal practices, Brent.

“I’ve been experimenting with these psychedelic herbs since my student days at Berkeley in the sixties.

“Since Ping is pregnant with a baby girl, she will not drink the tea.”

“We didn’t know the sex of our baby.

“How did you know?”.

“I don’t have an answer, Ping.

“I just received a ‘vibe’.”

I got a call the following day from my clients who were anxious to “break ground” and ordered me to schedule the earth moving machinery which would forever disturb the land.

Ping was impressed by Susie and demanded we schedule with her immediately.

Susie arrived the following evening bringing with her a full moon and clear night with a slight breeze stoking the flames from the fire pit.

“I’ve pulverized Chinese seeds named ‘Langdang’ and ‘Yungshi’.

“The herbs enable us to communicate with spirits, see devils, and drive away evil.”

“I’m a beer after work kind of guy, Susie, and don’t do drugs or smoke pot.”

“It’s a very low dose, Brent.

“I’ll place the pulverized seeds which are a powder into a pot of hot tea and will let it steep and become infused with the psychedelics.

“To achieve maximum benefit, it will be necessary to:

“First, create a stress free and relaxing environment.

“The evening desert is perfectly silent except for the sound of the breeze whipping through the chaparral and occasional howl from a coyote.

“Ping can make comfortable beds including pillows and warm blankets from the reclining lawn chairs which she will place facing the firepit.

“Second, we must all have clear intentions and focus our minds on our objective which is to discover the history of this land and Ling’s identity.

“Third, research has shown that those who approach the experience with a positive and optimistic attitude are likely to have positive outcomes.”

“I’m still nervous, Susie.”

“I enjoy rice wine and hit my bong before ingesting the psychedelics.

“Others take a sedative or a stiff drink to relax.”

“I’ll take a shot or two of my celebratory whiskey, Susie.”

Susie and I sat sitting upright in lawn chairs. I felt a comfortable buzz overtake me after a couple of whiskey shots.

“Stare at the flames dancing about and attempt to find lost souls.

“Hold my hand, Brent.

“You and I will take this journey together for better or worse.

“Let’s begin.”

I was a young boy playing inside the crowded Chinese tent city with my sister on the construction site almost two centuries ago.

Our father, Ling, was a widower and accomplished flutist. He was the representative for the illiterate immigrants to the Caucasian railroad foreman who feigned attention and never passed on the requests for provisions made by Ling nor his cost savings construction advice honed from laying tracks in China.

Father organized teams of workers with experience in different occupations to provide necessary services to the hundreds of workers. He made certain the food rations were equally distributed and organized a central kitchen for food preparation. He was voted the honorary mayor of the tent city.

In the middle of the night as the camp slept, a vicious hoard of property owners, miners, and desperados attacked the camp with knives, hatchets, and guns. Father told us to stay inside the tent as he went to persuade the mob to disperse. He was butchered before our eyes. My sister and I ran from the tent and into the brush as the Chinese were slaughtered.

The assailants disposed of the bodies by placing them in a pile and cremating them.

A drunken party ensued into the night as the flames grew taller reaching into the night and the fire would have been seen for miles. Nobody came to the rescue and nothing of the bodies would remain except dust to be carried off by the wind.

My sister and myself were determined to bury the memory of our father. We were too young to carry or drag his lifeless body without detection so we gathered a knife, mirror, bag of rice, his flute, and a wooden box. I ran to my father and cut off his long-braided hair. We dug a grave with our bare hands, placed his hair, mirror, flute, and rice into the box, buried it, and ran into the desert towards an uncertain future.

I became conscious finding a moist towel on my forehead. Susie and Ping were already up and about talking about child rearing.

“How are you, darling?”

“There was a terrible massacre on this land, Ping.

“We watched our father murdered by an angry mob who burned the bodies of the Chinese railroad workers.

“I held my sister’s hand and we ran into the desert together but I can’t remember anything more.

“Where’s my sister?”

“There is no sister, dear.”

“Please allow him to vent his emotions, Ping.

“The experience is still too real for him.”

“Where did you go, Susie?”

“I was with you all along, Brent.

“I was your father, Ling.

“I experienced the unspeakable horror through Ling’s eyes.

“I felt his love for you both and his devotion to the community.

“You were named Yong (Brave) and your sister was named Mei (beautiful).

“Ling died with love in his heart despite the hatred all about him.

“The souls of the dead remain forever at this place and the property is doomed for failure.

“I recommend you abandon the project as harm may come to those who inhabit the warehouse entombing the souls beneath its foundation.”

“We’ll be sued for breach of contract by walking away from the project, Susie.”

“How do you feel about moving forward, Brent?

“I’m willing to suffer the consequences which are nothing compared to those who lost their lives at this place.”

“Without mentioning our association, I’ll bring this to the attention of my friends at the Asian Pacific Law Center who will place an injunction upon this property preventing any disturbance.

“A fence will be placed around the property and teams of archaeologists and historians will begin a comprehensive study of the property.

“If your client contests, in about five years of litigation and bad press, they’ll pay to make this property a memorial park.

“The lawyers will get you released from the construction contract by your inability to complete your obligations called ‘Frustration of Purpose’.

“Go and live your young lives happy, healthy, and prosperous.

“These poor souls will remember your generosity and provide you good fortune in ways you can’t imagine.

“One last thing.

“Remove the septic tank before you leave!”

“If you know of somebody who needs a contractor, new roof, or even a fence built, please have them call me.

“I’ll take anything.”

In the ensuing months, I came to learn Susie didn’t have to “drop any names” because I was hired by her clients to build Feng Shui correct mansions for celebrities and tech moguls up and down the state.

Three years later, we returned to the property for the dedication of a memorial park honoring Ling and the Chinese workers who were murdered. It was a beautiful ten-acre park named,

“The Queue Memorial State Park”.

A granite memorial was placed at the northern entrance to the trailhead. It was inscribed with the history of the massacre including Ling’s valiant efforts to organize the workers and recognition of the Chinese railroad workers who completed the railroads throughout the state.

The memorial park preserved the desert landscape but gently included a winding walking path, benches, and drinking fountains for those to appreciate the indigenous flora and wildlife.

We were reunited with Susie, Norman, and Emma. Knowing Susie’s influence, it was no surprise the press corps was reporting the dedication which insured the politicians and railroad executives were in attendance.

We were pleased to introduce our daughter, Mei, and son, Yong to our friends. Susie asked us all to hold hands as she recited,

“We are the circle of life, formerly strangers, now family, who came together to create this beautiful memorial park symbolically muting the din of ‘The Raging Dragon’ and preserving the memory of lost souls who shall be honored throughout the ages.

“I’m feeling a strong vibe that Ling is grateful to Ping and Brent for serving as loving parents in memory of his children.”

Suddenly, a desert breeze swept through carrying the faint sound of a flute.

Victor grew up inside a trailer park with dilapidated trailers packed together like tuna in a rusty old can. His grandmother’s trailer smelled of cleaning supplies; the scent she brought home from cleaning offices overnight. She raised Victor alone after his mother abandoned him for a life as a hippie drifting from commune to commune.

She knew he was different: not able to speak, withdrawn, unable to tie his shoes, write his name, never learning personal hygiene and unable to feed himself. Schools labeled him “retarded” and wouldn’t enroll him.

In the corner of the trailer sat a dying black-and-white television with bent rabbit ears. Victor sat cross-legged inches from the television screen, mesmerized by flickering images while the picture rolled and the sound hissed. His grandmother couldn’t afford a sitter to supervise him while she worked. Victor didn’t require supervision because the television and a transistor radio kept him engaged inside a world, he felt safe.

The components of a broken transistor radio were Victor’s playmates: a ferrite rod antenna wrapped in copper; a small oval loudspeaker; and the tuning capacitor. Other friends included the compact circuit board, cylindrical transistors, and striped resistors.

He spread the radio components across the floor. His grandmother gave him a wooden puzzle set of familiar geometric patterns. Victor preferred triangles because they had a base and stood upright like he was signaling the need for steadiness.

Victor built faces with the components of the radio; two round capacitors became eyes; a curved wire became a mouth sometimes bent upward, flat, or dipped into a quiet sadness; the loudspeaker formed the body; the ferrite rod antenna became a spine; and copper coils became hair. He placed a small transistor perched on top like a hat, tilted just enough to suggest the figure was attempting to say “hello” with a tip of its hat. Victor used components the way other children handled crayons.

His grandmother described his component constructions to his pediatrician,

“He always places a mouth on the triangles.”

The pediatrician suggested,

“I believe these triangles are Victor’s only way of communicating his feelings.

“Children like Victor require around the clock care and will never amount to anything more than grown toddlers.

“As he grows into manhood and you become frail, there is no alternative but to have Victor committed to a state hospital where retarded children are cared for and live out their lives.”

*

The intake office at the Junction State Hospital smelled of antiseptic and urine. The intake social worker, Joanie Greenstreet, watched Victor closely as he rocked in his chair, eyes drifting toward the ceiling.

“This is the worst part of my job.

“It’s best you slip out of the room with no goodbye, so Victor isn’t aware.”

Victor’s grandmother left her grandson forever.

*

Junction State Hospital was built in 1940 on state land inside the countryside, out of sight, and out of mind where the paved road with sidewalks and streetlights gave way to a narrow dirt road leading past the locked rusting gates of the hospital resembling a haunted mansion.

The hospital was for children who did not speak; rocked incessantly; banged their heads against walls; screamed at sounds no one else could hear; and couldn’t feed or bathe themselves. They were children with autism before autism had a proper name; Down Syndrome; Cerebral Palsy; learning disabilities, and genetic conditions doctors didn’t understand.

Their care required around the clock attention, which was beyond the financial resources for most families. The parents were convinced by medical providers “long-term placement”; “specialized supervision”; and “they’ll be safer” were the only alternative.

Fathers hurriedly carried suitcases inside and left quickly while mothers cried openly and others didn’t cry, having lost the ability. Many parents never came inside choosing to hand their child off to an attendant from the car like dropping a package marked “No Return Address” into a mailbox.

As the children matured inside Junction, they roamed the narrow hallways, heard keys, and came accustomed to the smell of disinfectants, feces, and urine. They quickly learned which staff were gentle and which were not.

When they died without family, there was nowhere for them to go except for an undignified cemetery on the hospital grounds.

*

Victor was placed in a ward with boys suffering from mild to severe disabilities. Some were cunning and feigned friendship, sitting next to Victor on the edge of his bed only to touch the portable television he brought with him which he hid under the bed. His radio components were confiscated, thrown away as “choking hazards” which eliminated the safe and kind world which might shield Victor from for the horrors of the ward. He erupted into violent fits requiring sedation and restraints at times. Victor refused group activities and meals if it meant leaving the TV behind.

*

Joanie Greenstreet was a young post-doc psychologist who tried to help Victor adjust but couldn’t reach him. She offered to keep the television safe inside her office, but Victor wouldn’t allow it to be taken from him.

The hospital’s chief psychiatrist was determined to permanently medicate Victor and subdue him into submission, but Joanie pleaded for more time to reach Victor explaining,

“I see something special inside Victor, Doctor Spencer.

“I need more time to reach him.”

“You supervise a large ward of boys demanding your attention and making Victor a ‘pet project’ isn’t fair to the others, but I’ll give you a limited amount of time.”

*

Doctor Spencer’s words dusted up Joanie’s memories of a failed marriage to a man whose family tree spawned several babies with “Down Syndrome” and, when she became pregnant with his baby as an undergraduate, he demanded she receive Amniocentesis testing.

The results came back showing the genetic markers for a baby with Down Syndrome.

“You’ll have an abortion, dear, and we’ll try again.”

“I’ve been reading babies born with Down Syndrome can lead productive lives, dear.”

“I won’t stand for you delivering a freak of nature.

“Choose an immediate abortion or a divorce!”

Joanie’s decision to acquiesce to the abortion created a fracture in the marriage which led to divorce. She finished college earning a bachelor’s and master’s degree in social work determined to assist families and those afflicted with developmental disabilities.

*

Joanie motivated Victor to attend group meals by permitting him to bring along his TV. She collected broken transistor radios from sympathetic staff members which permitted Victor to return to a familiar, safe place within his mind, inside the privacy of her office. Victor trusted Joanie.

*

After months of their meal routine, Joanie was optimistic Victor could avoid permanent sedation when he agreed to leave behind the television underneath his bed when going to meals. One evening after dinner, Joanie escorted Victor to his ward. The television was on top of his bed and the knobs and rabbit ears were broken off accompanied by a perverse chorus of laughter and giggling from the boys inside the ward.

Victor screamed while rocking back and forth managing to break free from Joanies embrace. Three staff members subdued him with plans to administer a mind-numbing sedative. Joanie wrestled the syringe from the attendant. She held Victor tightly until he settled down.

Joanie tucked Victor into bed and sat beside him all evening. She recalled a small shop inside town.

“Nakamura’s TV & Radio Repair”

*

Joanie obtained a day pass to have Victor accompany her to the repair shop. They carried the broken television inside the shop smelling of dust and warm metal cluttered with old TV sets and radios.

Kenji Nakamura was an old man with a pocket protector loaded with pens, pencils, and tiny screwdrivers. He flipped the television around, removed the back, and stared inside.

“It’s all vacuum tubes.

“Even if I could find the parts, the cost of repair is more than buying a refurbished set.

“For ten dollars, I’ll sell you a reconditioned set including a remote control.”

Kenji held Victor’s hand, guiding his forefinger to the blue button pressing the remote. The television jumped to life with a crystal-clear screen. Victor was mesmerized by the ability to command the television.

“You’re holding a magic wand.”

Kenji leaned into Joanie and whispered,

“Why don’t you buy it for the kid and take it with you?”

“I have a plan in mind which might be breakthrough therapy for Victor.”

*

Victor collected pop bottles from every trash can and sometimes absconding with half-filled soda pop bottles he found on desks. Staff members collected bottles from home and placed them inside a collection drum within Joanie’s office. Victor’s daily collection showed a work ethic with a goal in mind which impressed Joanie and Doctor Spencer.

*

After months of collecting bottles, Victor placed a soda pop bottle inside the collection drum. He pointed to a ten-dollar bill Joanie taped to the bottle collection drum reminding him of the monetary goal.

“You’ve collected five hundred bottles according to my tally.

“Let me hold your forefinger to the calculator.

“Let’s press five, zero, zero.

“What is the price paid for each bottle, Victor?”

Victor practiced tracing the number two and cent sign for weeks and traced the number and cent symbol with his finger in the air.

“Let’s press the letter ‘X’ which will multiply ‘500’ by two cents.”

Joanie held Victor’s forefinger to the calculator’s equal sign. “10.00” glowed in red. He ran to the ten-dollar bill taped to the collection drum, tore it off, and proudly handed it to Joanie. Victor tugged on Mrs. Greenstreet’s arm as a non-verbal signal to immediately leave for Kenji’s shop to purchase the television set.

*

Kenji proudly handed Victor the television.

“Why are packing boxes strewn about?”

“I’m retiring because transistors have put me out of business.”

He handed Victor a tattered and faded blue three-ring binder.

“These are my notes including everything I learned in the Army Signal Corps and repairing TV’s and radios for twenty years.

I want you to have it.”

Victor opened it carefully as if understanding it contained magic. The pages were filled with precise pencil drawings including circuits, pathways, and transistors including handwritten notes. Victor studied the first diagram, and his breathing changed, catching Kenji’s attention.

Victor’s finger lifted and hovered above the paper before touching, following and tracing the circuits pathway. His finger shifted slightly and to a different point and found a shorter path and tapped it once. Victor looked towards Kenji as if speaking in a non-verbal communique only the two would understand. Kenji felt something stir in his gut.

Victor placed his finger in the air sketching an invisible correction knowing he mastered an improvement to the diagram. Kenji wrote on the page what Victor was inscribing in the air with his finger pencil.

“Is this what you see?”

Victor traced the path with his finger on Kenji’s diagram. He tapped it once. Kenji understood Victor was not reading the circuits like a map but inventing shortcuts for the pathways allowing the signal to flow quickly and flawlessly.

“Victor knows the signal’s destination and devised a better way for it to arrive.

“I hit a wall with my intellect, but Victor doesn’t see a wall.

“He intuitively devises pathways over, under, and around my wall.

“Permit him to study the binder, Joanie.”

“You believe he understands it?”

“I believe he understands what it wants to become.”

Joanie carefully turned the pages finding detailed handwritten drawings of electronic circuitry including images of tiny boxes with legs resembling metal insects.

“What are these images, Kenji?”

“Tiny transistors replacing vacuum tubes and the future of electronics.”

“Are you certain you want to part with your life’s study?”

“I’m not parting but handing the baton off to a new generation who will usher electronics into the future.”

*

Joanie set up a desk, lamp, and chair inside her office for Victor to study. Joanie watched as Victor sketched transistors and circuits. Kenji’s binder began to fill with pages of original study intuitively devised as if constructing the triangular figures he adorned with radio components. Kenji organized his study as if he were providing Victor with a light to follow discovering new pathways Victor would provide to the signal.

Victor watched television with the binder open on his lap. The screen glowed, and so did the pages of the tattered blue binder. Nobody except Victor knew there were two signals inside; a signal guiding him through the world as it was, and the other signal showing him what the future of the world could become.

Joanie invited Doctor Spencer to review the blue binder with her. He turned each page with fascination.

“A TV repairman and Victor put this together?”

“The original work was a gift from Kenji Nakamura to Victor, but the newest pages are Victor’s original scholarship.”

“I developed a rudimentary knowledge of electronics by reading Popular Electronics as a young man.

“The original scholarship resembles a ‘paint by numbers’ directional guide for Victor to follow.

“Victor owns this?”

“Yes.”

“Small computer companies are sprouting up which will change the world.

“They’ll want a peek at this work but, before they do, I want to consult with a patent attorney.”

*

Victor and Joanie sat as the attorney explained the importance of protecting the blue binder with patent applications. Victor was distracted mimicking the finger gestures of a secretary striking the keys of a typewriter.

“I’ve prepared a retainer agreement but given Victor’s diminished mental acuity, he’ll require a guardian’s signature.”

“Doctor Spencer will sign.”

“I’m also preparing a trust for the benefit of Victor.”

“Why is that necessary?”

“Stand by and find out, Joanie.”

*

Vigorous attempts to locate Kenji led to an obituary about his burial at Arlington National Cemetery.

Negotiations for purchasing the blue binder followed quickly after filing the patent applications with the potential sale price reaching into the millions of dollars.

“If Victor will agree to sell the blue binder, he can build a home suitable for his special needs with round the clock care and retain a sizable estate for himself.”

“You must make Victor understand the value of his intellectual property or in time, others may improve upon Victor’s innovations, and the blue binder will become worthless.

*

Money meant nothing to Victor because his world didn’t comprehend what it could buy, control, or influence. Victor refused to look at renditions of new homes because the small bed inside the ward with his black and white remote-controlled television was home.

Joanie never attempted to influence Victor to sell the blue binder. She made gentle suggestions as though placing electronic components on a workbench and trusting his hands to assemble them. She hit a nerve when she mentioned,

“…kindness is its own reward like a gift from Kenji to you of the blue binder allowing you to carry on his study.”

Victor understood Joanie to mean the signal’s pathway design was finally completed. Kenji provided him with a compass to follow along transistor trail, and Victor understood currents moving through copper also move through people. He knew currents went where it was guided, and money was a current. Victor found the inspiration to provide others with the happiness he found inside a smiling electronic triangle built with components.

*

Doctor Spencer retired from Junction State Hospital and devoted his retirement years to pioneering the burgeoning field of neuroscience. Doctor Spencer made a visit to Victor before leaving the hospital forever. He came upon Victor sitting with Joanie as he designed improved pathways inside the blue binder.

“I’ve spent my medical career learning how signals move through the brain and become interrupted requiring people to live inside Junction State Hospital.

“Big electronic boxes called ‘computers’ are helping us to understand why pathways become distorted and the signals are lost inside the brain.

“Your blue binder can help us build smarter computers and show us how to repair twisted pathways and confused signals.”

Victor turned his attention back into the pages of the binder not noticing Doctor Spencer and Joanie had left the ward. Doctor Spencer left behind a framed photograph of himself, Victor, and Joanie, taken not long after Victor arrived at the hospital. The photo was a reminder of the first day he didn’t feel alone but happy like the smiling triangle wearing a hat.

*

Joanie returned to her office from morning rounds to find the blue binder on her chair with a smiling component triangle inscribed with a letter,

“I”

Doctor Spencer explained the notation was an engineering abbreviation for the term “sustained current”.

*

Joanie retired but Victor remained enjoying quiet happiness watching his television illuminating darkness. The framed photograph of Joanie, Dr. Spencer, and himself was hung near his bed. On his nightstand, a vacuum tube gifted to him by Kenji remained reminding Victor that it once provided the glow behind a television screen creating light, but now, he felt like he gifted the same glow creating light to others made possible by the advances within neuroscience leaping from the pages of the blue binder.

*

Institutions like Junction State Hospital were replaced with group homes providing home-like environments and patients transferred elsewhere. Victor didn’t moan the loss of familiar people because he lived within the circuitry of his mind where the signals resembling Joanie’s quiet voice and Kenji’s patient hands remained.

Victor was the last to be buried within the hospital cemetery. Junction State Hospital was replaced by a new state college. The neuroscience institute created a scholarship for underprivileged students studying electrical engineering named:

The Blue Binder Scholarship

Although the hospital was forgotten, Victor remained broadcasting a signal comprised of memories including love passing like currents between human beings.

Victor Kline

1958–2014

He could not live in the world as it was,

so he quietly helped build the one that came next.

Every day at three o’clock as the afternoon sun fought through the dusty windows and the high school down the street let out, a teenage girl would slip quietly into the boutique. She never spoke, never bought anything, just wandered to the same rack and lingered over a particular black dress. Minerva watched her, recognizing the weight of grief in the girl’s eyes she knew too well.

The girl would lift the simple black satin dress off the rack and wrap it around her as if embracing somebody very special.

After a few moments with the dress, the girl returned it to the rack and quickly left the store without a word spoken with tears streaming down her face.

*

Minerva used her late husband’s life insurance money to buy a little boutique she’d admired for years. The shop sold consignment women’s clothing and served as a sanctuary for Minerva to pour her sorrow into something tangible, to help women and girls find joy in clothing and accessories. The shop was a fragile haven built from a life including love, loss, and longing. Every shelf, every dress, every faded photograph tucked behind the register was a thread in the tapestry of her survival, but a lump found during a breast self-examination ignited anxiety which weighed heavily upon her.

Each morning, Minerva opened the shop, she was certain the lump was a “call” to “fold her hand” as the world felt like it was determined to break her.

*

One afternoon, as the bell tinkled above the door announcing a customer, Minerva looked up from her ledger. The girl was there again; her gaze fixed on the black dress. This time, she hesitated, then approached the counter, clutching the black dress including a second, almost identical dress but in a different size.

“Could I try these on?”

“Of course, dear.

“The fitting rooms behind me.”

A few minutes later, the girl emerged, the black satin dress draping heavy over her small frame. She looked at her reflection in the mirror, then turned to Minerva, uncertainty clouding her face.

“How does it look?”

Minerva stepped closer.

“May I ask, why this one?

“It doesn’t seem to fit you properly.

“I believe the black cotton dress will fit you perfectly.”

The girl hesitated, her fingers twisting the hem of the satin dress.

“My friend and I… we wanted to dress up and go to the prom together.

“She was killed in a hit-and-run accident.

“I can’t stop thinking about her.

“This black satin dress… it’s the only thing she tried on here.

“It’s all I have left of her.”

Minerva’s heart clenched. She spoke as if embracing the girl, her voice soft.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.

“Loss is a heavy thing to carry.”

The girl’s eyes shimmered with tears.

“I just… I wanted to feel close to her again.

“I thought maybe, if I wore the black satin dress, I could remember what it felt like to laugh with her.”

Minerva nodded, her own memories surfacing including her daughter’s laughter, a husband’s steady presence, and the ache of their absence.

“I can only imagine the emotional trauma you’re suffering, but please, allow me to share my sorrow with you, and together, we might lessen our heartache and move forward, stronger.

“I lost both my daughter and husband.

“Once, my world included a loving husband, Paul.

“He was a hard as nails career Marine whose stern exterior hid a heart that beat for his family.

“Marrying Paul provided me an opportunity to escape the role of only daughter to dysfunctional parents rooted inside a small town offering no prospects for self-fulfillment or escape.

“Marriage to Paul included a patchwork of military bases and hurried goodbyes, of late-night phone calls and the constant ache of uncertainty whether he’d be called to war.

“I learned to be strong; to pack up our life at a moment’s notice, but I also learned to find beauty even inside environments built for war.

“I found work inside clothing stores wherever we landed because I was drawn to the way fabric could transform a person, and how a simple dress could make a woman feel alive, special, or different even for one occasion.

“I apologize for tearing, but you remind me of our daughter, Emily, the light of my life.

“Emily’s spirit was wild and restless, her laughter echoing through the cramped military apartments and purring inside my heart.

“Emily drifted away to somewhere unknown inside her mind as if being pulled by currents I couldn’t fight including Paul’s ’tough love’ and frequent physical admonishments also inflicted upon me.

“The phone call came on a cold November morning: Emily was gone, lost to a fentanyl overdose on a bed inside a stranger’s home.

“The grief rolled over me like a tidal wave, relentless and suffocating.

“Paul tried to be strong, but the loss hollowed him out like no weapons he’d ever known.

“Less than a year later, his heart stopped forever, leaving me with nothing but memories and the silence of an empty house we purchased after Paul retired.

“Some days, the memories are all that keep me going.”

The girl looked up, surprised.

“Does it ever get easier?”

“Not easier, but you learn to live with the pain of loss.

“I’ve learned kindness helps stitch the pieces back together.”

The girl glanced at the price tag, her face disappointed.

“I can’t afford both dresses.”

“You don’t have to.

“These are my gift for you.”

“But… why?”

“Because I know what it’s like to need something to hold onto.

“Giving is the only way I can heal.”

Tears spilled down the girl’s cheeks.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,”

Minerva carefully folded the dresses and placed them inside a gift box including a pink ribbon adorned with small hearts around the box.

“Promise me you’ll remember the good times and let yourself laugh again, when you’re ready.”

The girl nodded, clutching the box to her chest.

“I will.

Thank you.”

Minerva watched the girl slowly leave the shop and turn towards her before exiting. She mouthed the words,

“I love you.”

The girl left and the slight spring in her step signaled to Minerva signs of hope flickering in the ashes of her sorrow, and although Minerva didn’t get her name, she instinctively knew it was a brief encounter with her beloved Emily which gave her the final contact she desperately needed.

*

The doctor diagnosed Minerva with metastatic breast cancer. Minerva remembered staring at the ceiling in the doctor’s office, feeling as if her body was telling her the fight against grief was soon to be completed and she could join Emily and Paul in the afterlife.

The hardest blow came when the doctor informed her,

“The treatments will include a double mastectomy surgery, chemo, and radiation.

“If you want a chance of beating the cancer, it will require your complete devotion to rest and recovery.

“You won’t be able to keep up with the demands of operating the business.”

*

The words echoed in her mind as she stared at the racks of dresses, the sunlight struggling to pour through the fabrics mirroring the tears behind the black veil Minerva wore at two funerals and today, a struggle for her own life. Closing the shop felt like losing another piece of herself.

She lingered by the window, watching the sun dip below the horizon. She thought of her daughter, husband, all the moments lost, and the memories that remained. In giving the girl those two black dresses, Minerva was reminded that even in the depths of loss, kindness could stitch together the torn fabric of a broken heart. She had hoped to hear the familiar chime above the door open one final time and reveal the lovely girl. Minerva knew she was off chasing her own life which would reveal twists and turns. Minerva prayed the girl would be guided by kindness and knowing loss and misery is universal.

Recalling the happiness in the girl’s face carrying both dresses helped Minerva find the resolve to survive. She turned the sign on the door to “Closed,” knowing she would never open it again. But as Minerva locked up, she felt, for the first time in a long while, that she was not alone and would confront her illness head on with a newfound resolve to live.

“Where’s Momma?”

“Passed out cold from her morning fix.

“My gang members are lookin’ for a score and think there’s money inside a storefront full of old pianos.”

“How’s your gang going to steel a store full of pianos?”

“Those are Steinway pianos and handmade from the finest woods, metal, and copper.

“We’ll bust ‘em apart and sell the salvaged metal and wood.

“Get your ass over there and scope out the inside of the store for me.

“You have until the end of the week or I’m throwin’ you out on the street.”

*

I never expected to find friendship in the most unlikely place, a dusty old piano store on Whittier Boulevard in an East Los Angeles barrio.

I stepped inside, greeted by the musty scent of wood and rusting metal. The store was quiet, almost sacred, and I was drawn to a black grand piano in the corner. As I pressed the keys, their voices rang out clear, strong, and unexpectedly comforting.

Suddenly, a head popped up from behind the piano.

“What are you doing here?”

“I just came into look around, Sir.”

“I’m Saul Bernstein, the store’s owner and a piano tuner by trade.”

“I’m Lupe Jimenez.”

“Do you play the piano?”

“No, but I’m curious about all these pianos.

“Do you sell them?”

“I run an orphanage for Steinways.

“These orphans are used, broken, abused, and seldom sell.

“They have souls and require a home just like people.”

“Where do they come from?”

“Some were rescued from burnt out homes, piano teachers with arthritic fingers who could no longer teach, and some from great performers who passed away.

“I gave them all a name.

“The gold grand Madame is ‘Goldie’.

“’Red’ was owned by a famous singer songwriter who used it in his longstanding Las Vegas act.

“The others are called ‘Blackie’, ‘Ginger’, ‘Mira’ and ‘Rose’.

Saul showed me the intricate insides of the Steinway, explaining how each string and key were crafted from beautiful wood and metals.

The Steinways, he said, had personalities and stories including joy and tragedy just like lives. I watched as Saul spoke to them, dusted their keys, and shared memories of their former owners. In those moments, the store felt less like a place of business and more like a House of Worship.

Saul beckoned me over to “Goldie”, his hands steady as he opened the lid to reveal the intricate strings and hammers inside.

“Tuning a piano isn’t just about tightening strings.

“It’s about listening to what each note wants to say.”

He pressed the key, and a slightly sour note rang out.

“Hear that?

“It’s off.

“Now, watch.”

He placed the tuning hammer on the pin and gently adjusted it, his ear close to the strings.

“You don’t force it.

“You coax it, like you’re persuading an old friend to sing again.”

He invited me to try. My hands trembled as I fitted the hammer onto the pin. Saul guided my fingers, showing me how to turn just enough, then play the note again.

“Now, listen for the waves resemble a beating sound.

“When the waves slow down and disappear, you’re in tune.”

I listened, adjusted, and played the note. The sound grew clearer, steadier. Saul smiled.

“That’s it…

“You’re tuning not just the piano, but learning patience, care, and respect for the instrument.”

Saul became my mentor and friend. He taught me how to tune pianos, how to listen to the subtle differences in sound, and how to care for each instrument as if it were alive.

His passion was contagious, and I found myself returning day after day, eager to learn more.

*

My uncle pressed me for information, convinced the Steinways were worth a fortune if stripped for their materials. Torn between loyalty to my family and my growing affection for Saul and his Steinways, I invented stories to delay any plans for theft. Each day, the risk grew, but so did my resolve to protect the store and the friendship I’d found there.

The bell rang above the doorway one day and an ominous looking man with arms of steel, full of tattoos, wearing a red cap embroidered with “Ace” approached the counter. I witnessed that look of desperation in a man’s face many times before and feared for Saul’s safety.

“Where’s Saul?”

“Saul is over here tuning ‘Blackie’.

“How may I help you?”

“I’m Ace Menendez.

“You sold me a piano on an installment plan for my little girl.”

“I seem to remember you and a friend came in a big truck and picked up the piano.

“Is the instrument out of tune?”

“No, Sir.

“I’ve come to apologize for being three payments behind and ask for more time to bring the account current.

“My trucking business hauling shipping containers is suffering due to the strike at the port, and all the truckers in the neighborhood are struggling financially.

“It would break my daughter’s heart if you came to repossess the piano.

“My wife and I fear that without the discipline and love for the piano; she’ll fall victim to the crime elements in our poor neighborhood.”

“When you’re ready to settle your account, just stop by.”

“Thank you, Mister Berstein.

“You have a big heart.”

“Tell that to my family wanting me to sell this joint.

“Vaya con Dio’s, Ace.”

I came to learn, Saul, ever generous, offered installment plans and low interest rates, caring more about the music and joy the Steinways brought than about profit.

He lived a sparse existence upstairs with only a cot, hotplate, while surviving on canned food, crackers, fruit, and his love for the Steinways sustained him.

Saul shared stories of the Steinways he tuned over the years, each with its own history and quirks.

“Every piano has a soul.

“And every tuner leaves a little piece of themselves behind.”

With each lesson, I grew more confident not just in tuning, but in myself. The shop became a place of transformation, where the music we coaxed from the old Steinways echoed the changes happening within me.

Saul watched as I gripped the tuning hammer, my knuckles white with concentration. I turned the pin, but the note wavered, stubbornly out of tune. Frustrated, I pressed the key again, harder this time, as if force would tune it into harmony.

“You’re fighting the piano.

“It’s not about strength.

“It’s about finesse.”

He took the hammer from me and demonstrated his movements slowly and deliberately.

“Hear those waves?

“That’s the sound of disagreement between the strings.

“Your job isn’t to overpower them, but to guide them into agreement.”

He handed the hammer back.

“Try again, but this time, breathe.

“Turn the pin just a hair, then listen.

“Let the sound tell you what it needs.”

I followed his instructions, turning the pin more carefully, my ear tuned to the subtle changes. The waves slowed, then faded. The note rang true.

“Remember, tuning a piano is a conversation, not a battle.

“If you listen, the piano will tell you when it’s ready.”

Saul wasn’t just teaching me about Steinways. He was teaching me patience, respect, and how to listen, not just to music, but to the world around me.

“Let’s tune ‘Mira’ who I rescued from a closed piano bar.

“She was soaked in decades of spilled booze and witness to trashy cocktail bar conversations.”

Saul watched as I struggled with the tuning hammer, frustration tightening my grip. The note wavered, refusing to settle. He gently placed his hand over mine, stopping me.

He took the hammer and demonstrated, his movements calm and precise.

“Tuning a piano is like tending a garden.

“You can’t yank the weeds or drown the flowers.

“You have to be patient, gentle always giving each note what it needs to grow strong and true.”

He struck a key, letting the sound linger.

“If you rush, you’ll miss the moment when the music is ready to bloom.

“But if you listen, really listen, you’ll hear when everything comes into harmony.”

He handed the hammer back to me.

“This time, treat each string like a seed you’re coaxing to life.”

I breathed, relaxed my grip, and turned the pin with care. The waves in the sound slowed, then faded. The note rang clear and bright.

Saul smiled.

“With patience and respect, you help the piano find its voice and your own along the way.

“Life is much the same.

“Sometimes, you can’t force things to happen.

“You have to listen to what life is telling you, make small adjustments, and trust that, with time, things will come into tune.”

I realized Saul wasn’t just teaching me about tuning a piano. Saul taught me how to live a life of harmony.

*

The next time my uncle pressed me for information about the store, I remembered Saul’s advice.

“You have to listen to what life is telling you, make small adjustments, and trust that, with time, things will come into tune.”

I paused and listened to my conscience. I could make small, careful choices to protect what mattered. I lied telling my uncle that the store was under CCTV surveillance including a silent alarm system, a warning that steered him away without confrontation.

*

When I struggled at public school, frustrated by lessons that never seemed to stick, I recalled Saul’s metaphor. I stopped blaming myself for not learning as quickly as others. Instead, I adjusted my approach, asking for help, taking breaks, and celebrating small victories. Gradually, things began to make sense, and my confidence grew. I was told I could earn a scholarship to college to study music. I wanted to share the good news with Saul.

After school, I ran to the store and found Saul on his knees gripping his chest. I phoned for help. The paramedics told me Saul suffered a heart attack and invited me to ride to the emergency room with them. Saul gripped my hand and smiled.

“I’m as tough as piano strings.

“I keep a card inside my wallet with my family emergency contacts for the hospital.

“Remember what I told you,

‘…every tuner leaves a little piece of themselves behind.’

“I hope a little piece of me is left behind inside you, Lupe.”

The doctor informed me Saul passed away, and the family was on its way. He handed me the keys to the store saying Saul had instructed him to place them in my possession.

Saul took a big piece of me with him to the beyond and the fate of the Steinways hung in the balance. I faced a chorus of doubts and obstacles, remembering,

“Don’t force, listen.”

*

I reached out to the community, listened to their ideas, and coordinated efforts with patience and care. I was told to visit the neighborhood parish and speak with the priest who took me to a school for developmentally disabled children.

It was a room of beaten up, out-of-tune, upright pianos with eager students stridently following the teacher’s instructions. Others simply tried their best, pounding on the keys.

“Piano music is a miracle and enables these learning-disabled children to find joy and a sense of accomplishment in playing the piano.

“I’ll make inquiries with fellow priests, and we’ll pray for a home for Saul’s Steinways.

“The logistics of moving those heavy Steinways may be insurmountable.”

I learned to trust the process, and to believe that, with time and care, even the most troublesome moments could come into harmony like Saul’s garden metaphor.

*

Night had fallen over Whittier Boulevard, the streetlights flickering outside the dusty windows of the piano store. I stood inside the store, surrounded by the silent witnesses of my transformation, Saul’s beloved Steinways.

My uncle’s voice echoed in my mind, his demand clear:

“Tonight is the night!”

The gang was waiting. All I had to do was unlock the door and let them in.

I gripped the tuning hammer Saul had given me, its weight familiar and comforting. Memories flooded back about Saul’s gentle guidance, his stories, the metaphor he’d shared:

“Tuning a piano is like tuning your life.

“You can’t force harmony; you have to listen, make small adjustments, and trust that, with patience, things will come into tune.”

My heart pounded. I could betray Saul’s legacy, give in to fear and loyalty to my uncle, or I could honor the music, the lessons, and the hope these Steinways represented.

I closed my eyes and listened to the notes from each piano signaling my decision. I imagined more children, their faces alight with joy as they played the rescued Steinways. I remembered Saul’s faith in me, his belief that I could choose a different path.

With trembling hands, I locked the door from the inside and dialed the police. As sirens approached, I stood by the Steinways, ready to face the consequences of my choice.

The gang sped away, but I remained, surrounded by the instruments that had given me a second chance. In that moment, I understood Saul’s lesson fully,

“Sometimes, the hardest notes to tune are the ones inside us.

“But with patience, courage, and a willingness to listen, even the most discordant life can find its harmony.”

*

Without Saul, the piano store no longer felt like a happy orphanage for rescued Steinways but a dark, soulless, graveyard. His family, overwhelmed by grief and unable to afford to move the Steinways, decided to dismantle them for scrap. The thought of those beautiful instruments, each with its own story, each witness to Saul’s kindness being destroyed was unbearable.

Desperate, I remembered Saul’s lesson:

“You can’t force harmony; you have to listen, make small adjustments, and trust that, with patience, things will come into tune.”

I reached out again to the community and anyone who might care. The parish priest had found a network of schools inside Mexico in need of pianos. Word spread, and soon a group of

neighborhood truckers led by Ace volunteered their time and their trucks. The plan was bold: we would transport the Steinways to poor schools in Mexico, where children with learning disabilities and limited resources could discover the joy of the Steinways.

*

On moving day, a procession of battered trucks lined up outside the store. Men and women from the neighborhood, some who had never set foot in the shop before, worked together to carefully load each piano. The journey was long and uncertain, but the spirit of Saul’s generosity guided us.

The Steinways found new homes in schools where children’s laughter and music filled the halls. I watched as students, many barely able to speak, some communicating only in sign language, sat at the old Steinways and played with wonder and delight. The instruments, once gathering dust, now sang again.

After betraying my uncle and the gang, I couldn’t return home. The priest arranged for me to move into a parochial school with boarding facilities run by a nunnery.

*

Years passed. I grew up carrying Saul’s lessons with me. Eventually, I returned to one of those schools, this time as a teacher. On my first day, I walked into a classroom filled with the very Steinways we had rescued. Their familiar shapes and worn keys greeted me like old friends.

“Hello, class.

“I’m Ms. Jimenez, your piano teacher.

“I was once a young person like you sitting in front of a grand piano called a Steinway.

“Don’t fear it’s size or complexity.

“Make it your friend, trust it, and it will take you on a journey into happiness you can’t yet realize.”

I realized that Saul’s legacy lived on inside me, not just in the music, but in every child who found their voice through these instruments. The harmony I had sought for so long was engrained inside my soul and spilled into the lives of those who needed it most.

And in the quiet moments, when the sun set over the schoolyard and the last notes faded, I would whisper a thank you to Saul, knowing that, together, we had tuned not just Steinways, but futures.

“With patience and respect, you help not just a piano, but your own life, find its voice.”