When My Feet Touch The Ground

Jim Jacobson Arrives In New York To His Own New World Order

It was raining when Jim arrived at La Guardia airport. He disembarked the plane with the tapes and player in his backpack hung on his shoulder. While he waiting impatiently at the baggage checkouts, he could see the man in black out of the corner of his eye. He was standing with his hands inside the pockets of his robe. Jim didn’t know why he was paying such close attention to this stranger, and he was feeling a little paranoid as he glanced several times back at him. Jim retrieved his suitcase and carry-on bag from the belt. Carrying his bags, he walked toward the glass doors that opened onto the airport entrance.

At the curb, he saw a man standing in the rain with a cardboard sign. He couldn’t make the letters out at first, but then he saw his name.

“Are you looking for James Jacobson from Hadleyburg?” Jim asked him.

“Yes, I am.”

“Well, I’m Jim Jacobson.”

“I’m Constandinos Mozakis from the church.”

He kissed Jim on both cheeks which took him completely by surprise.

“From what church?”

“St Nectarios. They didn’t tell you?”

“No, no one told me anything.”

“I’ve come to take you to your hotel.”

“Thank you, Constandinos.”

“Call me Costa.”

Costa helped him carry his bags to the car. Jim didn’t expect to be met by a Greek man, but this was only the beginning of the surprises.

“Where is Nigel’s funeral being held?” Jim asked and he put his bags into the trunk of Costa’s car. He carried the backpack with him into the passenger seat.

“At St Nectarios tomorrow morning.”

“Is it far from here?”

“It’s in Astoria. Do you want me to take you to see the church?”

“No, that won’t be necessary.”

As they drove out of the parking lot, the backpack sat beside him on the seat. He felt a little apprehensive about taking a ride from a stranger and he nervously opened and closed a zipper, while he sat quietly in his seat. He did not know what else to say.

“There’s a room for you at the hotel,” Costa began. “But Nigel also left instructions that you can stay at his house.”

“That’s Okay. Just take me to the hotel.”

Jim reached into his pocket and retrieved Nigel’s note, which he shuffled nervously in his fingers. Then the thought occurred to him to ask.

“Do you read Greek, Mr Mozakis?”

“Of course.”

“I have a note I’d like you to translate.”

He handed Costa the note, that Costa read in a moment and handed back to him.

“Well, what does it say?”

“Are you sure, you want to know?”

“Yes.”

“It says. ‘I see you have gone out of the room and there is still much I want to say to you. I just wish I had the courage to tell you face to face. I’m your father, Michael!”

Jim was stunned. For two days he had carried this note in his pocket without realising what a bombshell he was holding.

“How could he be my father?” Jim asked.

“I don’t know,” Costa answered. “I did hear his son was kidnapped.”

“Take me to the house please,” Jim told him.

Costa turned the car around and proceeded toward the house in Bayside Queens. So much of what happened in the previous days gained immediate clarity. He finally had the answer to many of his questions, but it aas the beginning of a whole set of other questions. How could it be that Nigel was his father? A hundred scenarios played themselves out in his mind, while his emotions surged through him like an electric current, causing him to tremble. His emotions modulated from fear to confusion to anger to regret to scepticism and finally to guilt.

When they arrived, it was a 2-story Tudor-style house with a well-lanscaped yard with a stone walkway leading from the street up to the front entranceway. A six-foot metal security fence circled the perimeter of rhe property with two ketal gates at the front driveway and at the walkway to the house. Costa parked the car in front of the walkway and both men got out of the car.

“I could go inside with you Mr Jacobson.”

“No, I’m all right.”

Costa helped him take his bags out of the trunk and then handed him the keys to the front gate and house

“Here’s my business card,” Costa told him. “Please call me if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Costa.”

With a little hesitation, he began to walk toward the house as Costa pulled away from the sidewalk. His gait was cautious and deliberate because he did not know what to expect. He was still stunned by what he had learned and he found it difficult to accept,

When he opened the front door, he found a red tile entryway with a living room to the left, what looked like a study on the right, and a staircase directly in front of him. Everywhere he looked were religious pictures of various sizes and styles. There were also photographs of Nigel, a woman who he presumed to be Elizabeth Fox and others he did not recognise. There were plants of sizes and types and an assortment of artefacts. On one wall hung a Greek flag. Above the mantle, he saw a huge print of what looked like three angels sitting at a table. This he found curious, the rest seemed uninteresting and foreign to him.

He set the bags on the tile floor and walked into the living room, where he immediately felt like an intruder and he began to fight this implacable impulse to leave, a feeling that only grew stronger the longer he stayed. He considered calling a cab to take him to a hotel, but his curiosity prevented him. He tried to relax on the sofa, but he could only sit uneasily as though awaiting some unforeseen tribulation. When he realised how childish his anxiety was, he decided to take his bags upstairs and find a place to put his things. Upstairs he found three bedrooms and a bathroom connected by a long hallway. There was a closed-door at the end of the hallway, which whetted his curiosity. When he opened this door, he discovered a TV room with a chess table in the corner. He walked up to the board and noticed a game in progress as if someone had left it and had no opportunity to finish it.

He took his bags into one of the smaller bedrooms and laid them on top of the ned. Then he snapped open the latch and the case popped open like a roll of biscuits and his clothing jumped out. As he turned around to find a place to put his clothing away, an older woman walked into the room. Both of them were startled by encountering the other. She dropped some sheets on the floor.

“You frightened me,” she told him. “I didn’t expect anyone until tomorrow.”

“And who are you?” Jim asked her.

“I’m Dina, Nigel’s housekeeper.”

“According to this note here, I’m supposed to be Nigel’s son,” He handed the note to her for her to read. “But I have to believe this is some sort of mistake.”

“So you know already,” she told him.

“I don’t know anything.”

“I’m not sure I am the one to tell you this. Father Nick was going to tell you this tomorrow.”

“Tell me what?”

“You were kidnapped over forty years ago and left in an orphanage.”

“And you’re sure it was me?”

“Of course, Michael. This is your home. This room where you just put you things was your nursery.”

“Please forgive me if I’m a little disturbed by all this. But I don’t for a minute believe any of this to be true.”

“Nigel struggles for weeks whether or not he should tell you. But he said your life was stolen from you and he wanted to give it back to you.”

“Give it back? I have a life,” his voice grew louder.

“Calm down,?” she soothed him. “None of us expect this to be easy for you. That’s why Father Nick wants to talk to you. I have fixed some soup. Come downstairs and eat.”

She directed him downstairs to the kitchen, sat him down at the table and gave him a bowl of soup.

“Who else knows about this?” Jim asked her.

“Besides me and Father Nick, no one else. Nigel didn’t want the press to find out.” She hesitated. “I think Father Michael might know.”

None of these names meant anything to him. He slowly began to eat the Greek-style chicken soup.

“If I was abandoned at an orphanage and never found, how did Nigel find me after so many years?”

“So many questions! Stop being a reporter for a while and relax. You can talk to Father Nick tomorrow. He’ll answer all your questions.”

After finishing this soup, Jim return to the living room and again sat down on the sofa. The impulse to leave returned and he fought himself again, much the same way an actor overcomes stage fright through the sheer force of his will. He could not imagine a more ironic turn of events. He even considered that he might be dreaming, though dreams have a sensation all their own, and he knew he was not dreaming. That morning had awakened, convinced of who he was and where he belonged, even though he wasn’t happy where he was, But in just a few short hours he discovered that all those fundamental assumptions had been called into question. Much like a dam weakened by an earthquake may take hours or even days to collapse from the stress, a growing panic was erupting within him. Such a radical shift in paradigm threatened the centre of his psyche. Jim hoped he could mimic calmness and passivity. He even encouraged himself by saying, “It’s not that not that bad really.” But it was much worse than he could even imagine.

Dina came into the loving room and found him sitting pensively on the sofa.

“Is something wrong?” she asked him.”You look disturbed.”

“I’m okay,” he responded. He was lying!

“Maybe you should go out for a while,” she suggested. “Take a walk around the neighbourhood. I’ll have dinner ready about 6 o’clock.”

He sat for a while longer and then decided to go upstairs and get the cassette player. He retrieved the backpack upstairs and decided to leave.

“I’m going outside for a walk,” he told her and then he left. After walking around the neighbourhood for about an hour, he found himself in front of the Bayside Long Island Railroad station. There he decided to take a train to Manhattan. He put the earphones back into his ears and began to listen to the cassette again where he had left off on the plane. He bought a round-trip ticket and went down to the platform to wait for the train to arrive. He began to listen to Nigel’s narrative.

In the first couple of weeks, business wasn’t good, but then the word got around that Leonard could fix anything. First came one radio, then two, then four, and before we knew it we had more business than we can handle. Leonard was happy with the success. I could see it on his face, but I was restless again. There have been times in my life when I was confident in my own capacities and other times when I wondered why the heavens didn’t strike me from the earth. Despite our initial success with the store, I felt the latter. Leonard seemed to know what he wanted from his life and I envied him for that. But my goals were ambiguous and less clear. Sometimes I want to talk about it, but I did not have the vocabulary to give it a voice. Because so much of what I was thinking and feeling seemed ridiculous to me, I began to keep a journal. I lacked the discipline to keep it every day, whenever the moment seemed right, I would scribble down my thoughts, impressions and observations.

For example, “April 17, 1941, today I read in the paper that the Nazis have moved into Greece. I remember what Demo had read to me and about the dreams. When I showed the article to Leonard he laughed, saying, ‘Don’t you have enough problems, Nigel, without taking on those of the whole world?’ I feel so alone sometimes. I am I the only one who feels this way?”

I would sit sometimes on the steps of the shop and stare at the surrounding buildings. There was a newsstand on the corner and a Jewish Delicatessen across the street, and a shoe store and a dressmaker beside each other.

Leonard came out and said to me, “You look like a gargoyle perched on a cathedral.”

“I feel like a gargoyle.”

“Come inside, you’ll scare all the customers away.”

“Have you ever wondered why we are here? If there is any point or meaning to life?” I asked him.

“No, not really. I know what I want and I know how to get it.”

“I wish I could be so sure,” I responded, “I thought this was what I wanted but this is not enough for me.”

“I don’t think you know what you want,” he said. I knew he didn’t mean it to sound as harsh as it did. But he was right about me. I didn’t know what I wanted.

“When I was on the farm, I thought it was the form that made me restless now that I am here, I think it is something else.”

“You have to have concrete goals. Otherwise, you’ll never accomplish anything.” He went back inside, while I continued to sit on the steps.I knew it was right. But I didn’t know what you want. Then an idea occurred to me that I should read again but I had no idea what to read.

“I must have seemed ridiculous when I came into the booksellers the next day and asked in all seriousness, “Could you recommend a good book about the meaning of life?”

The older man had the most perplexed look on his face and it moved through seven different expressions before you responded, “what do you mean about the meaning of life?”

“I mean something that talks about the purpose of life, what our goals should be, you know what I mean.”

“Do you mean a philosophy book?”

“I’m not so sure what I mean. Just something not so long. I don’t have a lot of time.”

He Left a little and then instruct his forehead. I guess my question is so absurd or so obviously stupid it took him completely by surprise.”

“Now let me see,” he began. “We have Plato and Aristotle and Socrates, the philosophers.” He pointed to a shelf. “We have religion and theology.” He pointed to another shelf.

“No, I’m not interested in religion or theology. I just want something about life. You see, I am a little confused,”

“Perhaps you might like some Confucius,” he responded. in retrospect, I realise he was making fun of me.

“Whatever you pick will be fine,” I told him.

He stared at a shelf for a minute and then handed me a copy of a thin book.

“This is one that you may like. The teachings of Lao Tzu.” I could sense he was getting a perverse satisfaction out of giving me this book. But I paid for it anyway and went back to the shop. There I sat on the steps with the book in my hand and I began to read. I couldn’t put it down and for two hours I read silently and immovably with this book fixed in space before my eyes. Leonard kept watching me from inside the shop. He was preoccupied with the radios and did not have the time to bother me. When I had nearly finished with the book, he came outside.

“What is that you’re reading out here?” he asked me.

“The teachings of Lao Tzu.”

“The what?”

He grabbed the book out of my hands and looked at it.

“Why are you reading this?”

“The bookseller recommended it.”

“Oh, Nige.” He sighed. “When are you going to realise people are playing with you?”

“It’s really quite good,” I explained to him. “Would you like to hear some of it?”

“Not really.”

He went back inside and continued to work on his radios. I knew he thought I was off balance and maybe I was. But the thought of repairing radios for the rest of my life had the same appeal to me as farming. That book became an important part of my development as a person. Much of it confirmed that there were others who had felt what I was feeling and who understood the questions that plagued my heart. At 22, there are few of us who have the perception and sensitivity to understand the deeper issues or to ask the deeper questions. But I was beginning to ask the questions that would shake me to my very centre.

To change the subject a moment. There was an older man who ran the newsstand down the block. His name was Mr Talbot. I knew this only because I overheard someone saying to him, “Good morning, Mr Talbot.”

Of all the faces on that street, Here is what is the most peaceful and angelic. He always had a smile on his face and always greeted his customers with such sincerity through that one brief encounter, a person felt better the rest of the day. He would open a stand at six in the morning and close it at six in the evening. I would stop around 8 AM and pick up a copy of the TIMES. I remember that he wore the same grey work clothes every day and he wore a red beret tilted on his scalp. His hair was silver with recruit around the back of his ears and he had a thin silver moustache on his upper lip.

He would smile and tell me, “Good morning, young man,” and I would say, “Good morning to you.” One morning I decided to talk to him.

“How long have you been here, Mr Talbot,” I asked him.

“Since January of 1930. It must be 11 years. Has it been that long?”

“And what did you do before you sold papers?”

“I was a millionaire. I lost it all in the 29 crash.”

“That’s terrible,” I responded. I didn’t know if I should believe him.

“It’s not that bad really. I am a lot happier now that I don’t have the money.”

I could not understand what he meant, Because I had known poverty and it wasn’t enjoyable.

“Certainly, It must be better to have a little money. It gives you the freedom that you don’t have without it,” I told him.

“When I had money, I was owned by my money. Cages can come in all shapes and sizes, including those on Park Avenue.”

When I thought we did about my conversation, he laughed at me, saying, “ No one would be as happy as Me Talbot if he lost all his money. He’s lying to you.”

I never knew the true story about Mr Talbot, but he was always warmer to me after our short encounter.

The train arrives at Penn station and Jim exited onto the platform. After he came up to 32nd Street, he saw street vendors selling books for a dollar and fake silk ties for three dollars. He thought immediately about Mr Talbot and his newspapers. He turned off the player and returned it to the backpack. He didn’t know where he would go next. On the pavements were torn newspapers, Discarded ticket stubs and smashed drink cups scattered in small heaps across the streets and sidewalks. It was reminiscent of his own apartment where cleanliness finally surrendered.

“Big cities are dirty,” he told himself as if to make excuses.

He felt a certain comfort that he was longer in Nigel’s house. But it was a fool’s comfort because he knew what awaited him once he returned. This had been his strategy for dealing with uncomfortable truths for as long as he could remember. He would simply avoid them. But I had decided that he needed to confront all the uncomfortable issues of life, one by one if necessary. He couldn’t have realised he was doing just that in coming into Manhattan! I had laid out everything as though a child’s game of discovery!

“