An Endless Walk
Written by Adler S Walt
– Begun 3/11/17 –
“A hero or a hooligan, well that part’s never clear.”
It was the cold night of Purim, 5777, the full moon was huge and it was brick as shit. That means harshly cold in the Ebony peasant vernacular. I knew that were I so inclined there would be multiple places to fete and masquerade, but I was conserving my finances, and hording up my comfortable sleeps on the big Queen sized mattress made in Brooklyn.
The safe house wasn’t so bad, except for no drinking which annoyed me and the German intelligence officer greatly. She never admitted to being such but this is what my associate Alan Medvinsky told me, and he knew about such things. We co-habituated the domicile, a medium spacious loft on the third floor of Broadway across from the J & M above ground rail line and, I can’t say any more precisely where; I can’t tell you; it’s a safe house.
The man who set up this little shop was none other than the infamous small time publisher and writer Sander Hicks, who for a lesser intellectual was wild eyed and somewhat muscular, and vigorous from being straight edge, being Zen and believing that “God is Good”.
He took me in when the safe house before got too, hot.
Natasha Salzano, that was just her passport name; Natalia Khiterova had fled almost overnight back to Russian Federation and left me and poor confused Tanya Drozdova, basically squatting a lovely grand place on Eastern Parkway with the rent supposedly 8,000 plus dollars in arears. I made off with a fancy mirror and my gear in almost the dead of night.
A couple things about a good safe house, it’s hard to find. And, frankly the Russians have too many rules and idiosyncrasies. Like if you live with a woman and you keep leaving the seat up, or water on the floor after you shower; a god fucking or not fucking or two, some talk it out and you can be socialized. In a safe house; whoever is on the lease is the boss.
So Natasha’s whole thing was always “touching her stuff” which was all over the place, but even a slight movement of the cutting board, or moving the walk in storage closet around; she’d flip. She was tall and bleached, she was stern. She claimed she had gotten a Masters in International Communications, but who knew.
She left Tanya and I with a flat where the rent hadn’t been paid in months, the land lord was threatening to evict us; and she took off back to Russia. There was Mongol in her, I could sense it and she never smiled but the now defunct safe house on Church & Eastern Parkway was really quite luxurious for my tastes. She had basically turned the entire living room into my room and with it came actually really, really nice stuff which incrementally she sold, and the Mirror well I guess I stole. Her last words in an email were, “calm the fuck down you’re acting like a stupid fucking American! Everything is gonna be fine!”
And I didn’t pay her last month’s rent because Tanya said she’d just rob it and leave us high and dry anyway. But if one day I bump into her in Russian and she has a tough guy kill be over $735, well, that’s life.
Sander Hicks had written and gotten published two books on 9/11 Truth and was maybe the figure head of that rabble band of conspiracy theorists and anti-Semites. Anti-Zionists, excuse me. His first book was that the government did it, the second was that the Saudis were in on it too and after a recent trip to Iran, well his third book is about the Zionist angle, which I’m sure will go over great here and get rave reviews.
Moving on, it was so damn suddenly cold. It had been jeans and t-shirt weather in March. It had been the most limp, listless Winter ever, or maybe I was still traumatized by the two year Winter of Boston and the Blizzard of 2010. Shudder, anyway there I was about to deploy and never even got to wear my tough, beige winter coat I bought second hand, cause it looked like something Elena wears, a little less yellow. I haven’t heard from her in over a year. She visited my father for dentistry and maybe it was November on my way to meet David Smith in DC for a palaver and she called me or I called her advice about the negotiations. I pulled my white Honda Civic into a truck stop and she was so sweet and precise.
“Do not let them talk you out of your intellectual property making token gesture of collaboration, this is business not a movement. You have to be less Communist.”
And really I never heard from her again, like someone maybe her conscience ordered her not speak with me. I tried quite hard to break that, get friendship or something. No dice, legally speaking I’ve left her 33% of this new shell company if I’m killed in the coming deployment. I’m rambling my existential fist world concerns to my lap top, I’m comparing gear I’ll expropriate with a fabricated credit card; about 2,000 worth. Maybe I’ll even get a new lap top. If anyone manages to rob me on the road from Erbil to Qamishlu, well it would be a good haul.
Sanders is out first every night, Brit and I are night creatures. Once I was fired from my slave job about three weeks ago I immediately reverted to my preferred biological clock, wake up at 1 to 2pm go bed at 5am to 6am; I just like working at night, less witnesses? I’m sitting at the big long wooden table Sander built; he’s a carpenter by trade, like my man Jesus was. It’s pretty ok this safe house, even if we can’t drink. I think Brit does heroin in her room or at the very least smokes dope on the roof, she’s great.
We were imprisoned in a detention facility in 2013, now the year is 2017. She had handed me her email address on a green paper with a Walt Whitman quote, ” “, well anyway many years later like six months ago I found it and when Sander subdivided the loft into three room I social engineered her in, but she was my second choice. I’d really wanted to live with Erin Moore who is dark and fun and can cook her ass off, but frankly Sander sketched her out too much. The subdivide room was also not such steal ever for $600 USD, and maybe a little firetrap hazardous.
The thing about a safe house is that you don’t tell anyone where it is, you don’t have your name on it, you pay cash and don’t sign anything, and everyone in it is super hero in their own mind. How do I say that again, the people living in a safe house are gypsies? The people living in safe houses, like me have something to hide? Or for people just too unstable in credit and finances to sign a lease. It could be a number of factors.
But, Brit was supposedly German intelligence, Sander a well-known brilliant crack pot; undisputed leader of a 16 year effort to uncover 9/11 Truth; most things seemed to tick back to that. His father is famous IMF economist. He single handedly helped push an unauthorized biography on George W Bush to market via his printing house, and then that man “killed himself” and that seemed to weigh on Sander, and behind the hippy Zen retreats, the walls of books that he had in fact read, he was always reading, behind the chirpy banter was a killer.
I say that still having shared Rosh Hashanah with him, that means Hebrew New Years; and we cooked for each other the cuisine of vegetarian poverty goulash, and yes once he threatened to throw me out, and yes like Natasha he was a tyrant, but I played several times with his dorky little scientist son, he was precocious, I don’t mean to talk so much shit, I’m working on it. I’m in shit talking recovery!
Sander Hicks was a zealot, and about ten years my senior was in many ways what I worried a failed version of myself might look like complete with child and broken marriage. Fuck, I just did it again. I like him, he likes me, and he’s really not a bad guy in fact, he’s a hero of this story I’m about to tell.
I am one to think every other high powered person living in the darkness is whore, killer or spy. It’s true. It’s baseless. God only knows what they whisper about me back in the station or worse, the home office. They probably just say I’m crazy.
So this plane is gonna take off from an airstrip on the south coast of Brooklyn near Queens border and it’s gonna fly me to Cuba, and pretty much I’m gonna sit on a beach and meditate after a meeting with Cuban intelligence about my training system and how it works.
And then I’m gonna fly back to Brooklyn, and trade tropical white linen clothes for Spring in Russia clothes and I’m gonna fly to Finland then Moscow and check into the hotel Metropol to meet my new editor and confidant Polina Mazaeva, who I’ve never met but have written to for six months and seen naked many times, more on that later. And she will take me by the trains to Nizhniy Novgorod, check me into a hotel with an Irish Pub, a Sushi restaurant and Strip Club, all a New Yorker really need, and we’re gonna be working on a few things.
A translation of book about Haiti into Russian, a joint collaboration called Endless Walk which you are now reading; and how we can pose as a family with her seven year old Son Yazan and secure work visas for Dubai, in the heart of the United Arab Emirates. And then, we fall in love.
But mostly my heart is col, but I still know how to talk soothingly to a woman and I am governed by both the Code of the Haitian Gentleman, Hebrew tribal law and the desire to be a good communist; so whatever happens between is of course, or course based on consent and mutual admiration for the work of the other. She is talented singer, a painter and really too much and artist for Russia’s third biggest city she should be in Moscow, London or New York; her son has her pinned down though and wages are low in Russia. She make her pittances as graphic designer. They pay her jackbumsquat, which is gibberish for fucking nothing.
And I’m looking forward to May Day in the Capital and Victory Day in Nizhniy, which according to my research survived the Mongol hoard invasions nicely, combatively speaking. Those savage fucking Mongols.
And then I’ll load into a plane at GOJ Nizhniy fly to Istanbul, then provided I am not arrested and detained, head into Iraqi Kurdistan as we like to call it; Erbil City. And wait for Roj Zalla my colleague and fellow card carrying D/U associate to arrive a week later so we get to Sulymania, contact the resistance and be smuggled into Syrian Kurdistan, over the border into the Rojava free zone. It’s very exciting to me anyway, I’ve wanted to see all these places for years, but for two years I’ve been an ambulance slave. My operational budget is a lot leaner than last time, I am trying to get a good price for my car, but all the prices have sucked; I did too much damage to it using it like an ambulance. $2650 is the best price so far for a no-frills 2009 Honda Civic with paramedic plates and 58,000 miles, which Brit says is low, like I only drive in circles in this dark city rat race, with a two year little exile in Boston.
So there I was making a procurement list and seeing how I could raise a little cash here and there without breaking too many laws, and safe house, the high ceilings with pipes running across was so quiet only the pitter patter of my key board, and, Sander was asleep since 11:43pm and Brit was out not long after and I just felt compelled to get my inventory logs sorted, my deployment budge square, file the logs; transcribe some poems I found in a little note book to Elena, send them to her, no response. Svetlana her confidant messaged me on the book face that she did wish me luck, I pretended Elena was there with her watching me type.
Tonight, just after midnight the man who helped the most to train me as a paramedic Mikhail Kreminizer messaged me. His wife had just died, would be cremated in the morning.
You have to understand this man is tank. A big Russian-Israeli storm trooper who used to torture people, may or may not be a Mason, has killed man with his bare hands and now operates an ambulance in midtown Manhattan trying to save his own soul which he barely believes in.
After the secret police broke up our attempt to hold the 9th Congress of the Association & Union in North Brooklyn, after they raped my Liana and tortured me for 5 weeks until the underground could force my ransom; after we bombed the five Strip clubs on Victory Day, after we kidnapped the Satmar Rabbi, well I was too hot for a lot of people in 2016 and Michael had to distance himself from me and withdraw his orbit of protection, which was as vast as he is tall.
“Yulia is dead”, he wrote.
“She and I never had that great writing are collabo moment yet.
So much lifetime left I guess.”
“She died on Tuesday.”
I’m so sorry.”
No that’s horrible. I’m so sorry Michael.
I know how much you loved her.
Yup. Just came from NJ. She will be cremated tomorrow.
I remember maybe two summers ago we were on the phone and I was so manic, and we were talking about her illustrating my book.
Well. That won’t happen.
Not in this life, no.
In the world to come maybe she will be willing.
I’m so sorry.
I’m going to get some rest. Good night buddy.
I’m leaving the states April 12th.
I’m sure maybe you prefer suffering in silence.
But if you’d like to hang out.
I’ll come to where ever you are.
She loved you so much.
We’ll see. Where are you going?
Cuba, Russia, Iraq then Syria.
I leave on the night after Passover.
That’s what they say
I have a good team.
Only reason I’m alive so far.
Good night my friend.
I told him;
I’ll try and get you to see more than usual.
I do not feel your pain, but I know it like I know my own face.
And he didn’t reply because he doesn’t have to pretend to be strong, but I felt a small cry in me, this man had patiently precepted and apprenticed into paramedicine, my secondary trade, but first love trade; he had shown me how to put IVs in the dark with feel, while in a moving vehicle at high speeds, he’d talked me through heart blocks, and my own blocked heart over Daria, and always treated me like an Israeli, not an American even though I’m really from here, wink. He taught me how to interrogate traffickers with the EKG monitor, how to start or stop the human heart, he was patient with me, he didn’t have to take that time I was on the black list I’d never be allowed on a good truck, a 911 truck again.
I felt this great knot of sadness because Michael Kreminizer suddenly had nothing to live for and not fearing god or devils; his self-destruction was frankly inevitable.
You have to always be ready for suicide watch dealing with out kind, dealing with high energy people, empaths, bipolar ones, bonobos; whatever. We feel too much and frankly get a little self-destructive which is why so many join the service and why so many die off the job where no one can see it happen.
Michael is hard. And maybe he killed so many people he has to stay working to balance it out, but I know, I know he loved her, loves her so much. And this could be the one thing. I have to stop. Stop, the archangel won’t die tonight or tomorrow, and you haven’t even seen him in a year? Two years? Three years? Four years? Stupid time, like a lot of people he said he’d be my reference, but worried about me. And didn’t have time for the hootenanny I get into. He called me Chechen once, ‘cause he could read into me and see my past lives.
I felt so sad, like I hadn’t been sad in so long and I thought about Elena. What would I do if she took me back and we made a life and then died?
Suicide rates are actual low in Israel. And I was born in Trinidad and Michael was born in Lithuania, but we’re both Ivory. We’re both paramedics. We’re both parapsychologists. We’re both a lot crazy. We both love Russian woman. And he’s the size of a killer robot made of steel from the future, but this could kill him. If anything could, this could.
“One by one having fun tonight, if she only knew what I did for life, it’s a endless walk of dreams versus nightmare.”
Don’t leave me alone.
We were sure looking off the safe house roof, the city visible 5 miles out, the evil stack house of Woodhull hospital within rocket range and the tallest city project on Myrtle Ave, the sniper nest in days to come, we were sure it was jeans and t-shirt day, because Brit Tully and I were wearing jeans and t-shirt, well I was.
Brit almost always wore black and on top a black overcoat which had seen its prime days some time ago, like my ideals. We were smoking some of her American Spirit dark greens and I hadn’t slept in 24 hours. And it was real nice out for mid-March it had never gotten cold in December, January or even February.
“They are conserving the weather machine for when it matters,” Brit said, and I agreed.
Let’s talk about Chanel Chantal Rossi, shall we.
I apologize for not responding sooner. As you can imagine, I was quickly drowned in work once I got back. Your letter touched my soul in so many ways. First, your awareness and choice of words and how you articulate them together, are mesmerizing. You are a truly gifted artist with strong depth.
The journey you are about to embark on is one of great respect and inspiration. I know you will touch many lives, however slight, but most likely grand as you have done so far, and I am sure of that. Without knowing you in a material physical aspect (as in only speaking with you for a brief 30 seconds), you have already impacted my life in which I will never forget.
With that being said, I would love to be your pen pal and hear all about the moments you experience. I have so much respect for you, people like you are those who make a difference in our world for the greater good. Even if it is to put a smile on a strangers face.
Send me your address,
We will be hand-writing letters to each other very soon.
Such is the hard work of studying law, and surely it will be daunting but you will persevere). Your words are quite kind and make me feel quite appreciated. It is a very complex task ahead and it makes me glad you will allow such correspondence. Although after 12 April I will be abroad more a year or more and with often a wholly unreliable postal system, we can alternate pen and email as you see fit, and of the letters you send to the address below can be pony expressed or scanned and sent. Any art I make out there, same route. Cuba and Russia will be short wonderful extremes before I get into Iraq in late May and soon after North Syria; a place called Rojava.
I make drawings, and paintings, I make long rhyming poems and I’ve written 5 novels, but I suppose it just makes me very happy to have a chance to put my mind before a stranger and see yours as you reveal it. As said the idea of you was a strange magic, but I long to know the actual you as well and make you the subject of my art. It will also be surely relieving to sometimes hear of Boston, and your woes of scholarship, and your loves and losses and all. I thrive on the attention of strangers and can only be well informed via their impartial critiques. But, as stated, you were fascinating to me.
My permanent address is:
140 Nassau Street #7c
New York, NY 10038
Best wishes, Happy International Woman’s Day. I look forward to our exchange.
Words cannot describe, the appreciation I feel. I’ve always felt as if I was maybe underestimated by my looks and at times maybe overestimated in this judgmental society we live in. Everything is based on how you look and not what you offer as a human.
You made me feel like although that does come into play, you made me feel much more than that with eyes beyond the physicality of objects of this world with your attention to detail. It is not the mere creation of technique, but what it intends to portray with the story it wants to tell.
I am so thankful to the universe for that day, in so many ways, and one being our casual, brief and meaningful kindle.
Funny story; my over protective brother thought I was giving you my phone number & got a little mad. I explained to him and told him it was okay, he trusts my judgment. And to be honest… it was your old-school way of a note pad and pen that really played well with my instinct. I am an old soul too.
I love candles, how did you know?
I cannot wait and look forward to hearing about your future endeavors.
You will be receiving something from me by early next week 🙂
Again, THANK YOU!