An empathic pop of cosmic camaraderie

138.

Absolving myself of any presumptuous crime in thinking for one-second that I found the rock, and not other way around, I settle back into my favorite overstuffed chair, actually a small couch, and ceremoniously untie the packet’s sealed flap.

With a certainty bordering on arrogance, I set the parking brake on my ego for what should be more of the same ol’ same old. With clandestine stealth Mr Secret Agent get a crib of credible compost on the Senator and ensure that Her Majesty is returning quantifiable and actionable intel. La dee dah, la dee dah. The entertainment factor is always magnified when the complementary close routinely and delicately mentions my rapidly deteriorating adherence to standard operating protocols and roguish attitudes, usually something like, try not to break too many rules in the accomplishment of the assignment and have a nice day. What chaffs my butt is that I know that Julie plays a part in the crafting of this language. It offends me in the same way that my football coach used to ask me nicely to throw with a touch more accuracy, ending with the supposedly humorous advice of reminding me that the guys wearing different color uniforms are not on our team. Fucking hysterical coach, thanks.

But what the packet contains, in advance I advised myself to recall that we had both put our lives on the line for its safe return, shatters both my illusion of heaven and the threat of everlasting hell.

It contains only three words.

In the screaming font of forty-point bold impact, it simply says:

CONTINUE YOUR PRACTICE.

Resisting a knee-jerk response to puke, I consider the possibility that both TOM and Julie are being blackmailed by Satan. What the actual fuck is this? She KNEW all along? She was playing me in a cheap charade as I came as close as you can get to exchanging point-blank nines with a cornered felon? The fire spits an exploding ball of resin in agreement, sing it brother!

I am aghast, appalled, irritated, offended and embarrassed. I cannot believe what I am reading is the sum of our intelligence. This is what we know and represents our current strategy? Although the line of succinct spiritual wisdom has long been a ‘very serious running joke’ between the three of us, this is a bit much and the timing way off. Maybe it’s code, I rationalize. Perhaps I should drop lemon juice from an eye dropper and hold the page to the firelight. I stare into the fire seeking divine inspiration, rational translation and perhaps even a glimpse of enlightenment, but this time the flames are silent.

But then I get it. It is supposed to be funny. TOM’s instructions were basic and simple, follow my lead and take a few days of R&R to recharge. Revitalize and rejuvenate. We all know the plan and our individual responsibilities. What better way to ensure restorative success by sampling the most iconic of all inter-office memorandums? Continue Your Practice. That is all we do. It is woven into the very fabric of our mission statement like the leather patch on the back of a pair of Levi’s 501s. It is my calling card, my mantra and my middle name. TOM and Julie know this better than anyone. They are reminding me that the paths of forgiveness and redemption are the same two-way street. That despite the seriousness of our jobs, there needs to be offsetting measures of laughter and merriment to counter the overload of relentless stress. If you sleep every night with one eye open eventually you will either go blind or go insane. At this point we have too much invested in each other for loss of sight or sanity. It also occurs to me that the packets may have contained uniquely different messages for each of us, hence potentially answering the question of why Julie was so adamant about getting them back before they fell into the wrong hands. If true, what did Harlan’s contain? Obviously, sending inside jokes to your legal counsel is not the most professional approach, and certainly not the serious and staid style of TOM, or Julie for that matter. I applaud their creative effort but still wonder if my appreciation and laughter is in ‘getting it’ or ‘getting it wrong.’

I sip the Shiraz and silently toast the genius behind the communication.

“Well played you magnificent rascals,” I hail as the fire once again salutes the special occasion with an empathic pop of cosmic camaraderie, “nicely done.”