Last of the Autumn Rain

Mission Statement

In writing this novel, it is my intention to create a contribution to society that will make a difference. Although this is a work of fiction, it offers real-life scenarios I personally experienced or was privy to which need to be addressed in real life, in particular, mental well-being. The world can be incredibly cruel during life’s journey. Too often, individuals find themselves in a situation where they need help, but personal resistance and negative societal stigma preclude reaching out for help—something essential to overall health and quality of life.

I write from two perspectives which have personally affected me and completely changed my life: My best friend committed suicide and my ex-boyfriend broke into my home and tried to murder me. When I originally sensed/witnessed behaviors not in conformity with responsible living in both relationships, I repeatedly reached out to each respective family for support and guidance. Mental state affects how we think, feel, make choices, and act. My concerns to family were met with a closed door. No one wanted to admit or accept that anything was amiss or acknowledge that mental instability is a disease, necessitating counseling and treatment to understand and cope with thoughts, feelings, and behaviors. Sweeping all under the rug which was considered a burden or an embarrassment appeared to be the best solution. This thinking yielded catastrophic consequences when recognition, acceptance, and procurement of professional assistance could have offered hope where there previously was none.

There is a continuing need to integrate mental health care into primary care in everyday living. The abuse of drugs, alcohol, idolizing money, and/or acquiring more “stuff” to fill life’s voids or cover the pain of the past and present, exacerbates mental health conditions. The mental health crisis in this country affects all levels of the socio-economic strata. Society is in need of strengthening public health awareness and advocating for transforming healthcare systems and policy responses.

The characters’ dialogues in the novel represent the viewpoints of the victim, the perpetrator, family, friends, and general members of a community, including one character holding a position of trust in the legal arena. The reader may learn from the struggles presented and see the perceived truth from all sides in the hope of recognizing in real life any alarming signs to develop the “salt” to step forward and say something.

The fictional character of “Julie” is an example of the type of person we toss out of our lives. It is easier to disregard her and pretend she doesn’t exist than it is to attempt to correct a valid point to be addressed: society frequently writes off the mentally ill. Most often, it is more a case of conscious arrogance and ignorance, rather than unintentional neglect.

Allow this read to serve as a poignant reminder of the importance of addressing mental health issues openly, seeking help, and providing support to those in need. Meet the breakthrough which merges the misunderstood with those who have given up understanding. Don’t rob yourself of the opportunity to be a catalyst for change.

Chapter 1

“The Perpetual Thirst For Power”

Friday Night, 11:47 p.m.

September 2, 1983

Sinatra’s Oyster Bar

Milwaukee, Wisconsin

As if in slow motion cinematography, the spiked tip of my friend Candice’s 4" snakeskin stiletto lodged in a tiny space between the glass tiles on which she danced. Rockin' it in her paisley spaghetti-strapped shirt and satin slip skorts, she failed to notice her heel split the inlay covering the effervescent circulating water flume. Her low-cut top complemented her flawless breasts. She was the perfection of the '80s. Her on-fire sex appeal was a magnet. Tonight, she proved unstoppable until…

In a matter of seconds that ominous crack created by her 4" stiletto fragmented. The fissure spread into a huge malevolent spider web weaving throughout the waves of love, sweat, and testosterone of the 500+ hyped-up patrons. Clueless, the clubbers continued busting a move on the plexiglass slates suspended over the retired Olympic pool-sized mine shaft. Oblivious, they indulged in the ambience of synchronized colored lights, blinking on and off to the beat of the music. The scene resembled a colossal dazzling board game. Jammin' tunes literally vibed to the crowd as an aphrodisiac, enhanced with plentiful cocaine keeping the party hardy. The playful DJ pressed a button emitting fog, wind, snow, sunrises, sunsets, making ordinary people feel like superstars.

Suddenly, in those ghastly succeeding moments, the glass floor tiles - like deadly dominoes, one by one, separated and caved in. Startled dancers plunged into a tangled mess of surging electrical wires and strobing fuchsia, lime green, and blood orange illuminants below the crystal disco dance floor. A scattered jigsaw puzzle of tiles fanned across the water. Bubbles rose and bodies sank, flailing in the deep electrified water.

Watching from the rainbow-printed vinyl platform, I cast a glance around the mirrored landscape. Massive bars of light reflected onto the dancers. I managed to spot my friend bravely treading water. Although not the greatest swimmer, she still navigated her way to the edge. I rushed forward, shouting to her encouragingly,

"Candice, come on! You can make it!"

Bodies convulsed and jerked about in the high voltage mix. The once outlandishly bright orbs weakly lingered, hanging on for dear life until finally dying a slow death, concluding with a pitiful climactic shower of sparks. Ear-splitting shrieks and chaos ensued. It was supposed to be a night filled with classic retro music to send bar hoppers home with a song in their heart, a bounce in their step, and hope in their soul. Instead, madness erupted in a horrific contagion chain of spasms, nasty sizzles, and stunned screams of pain as life ended. Partners died mid-stroke trying to escape the aquatic death chamber. Long straight hair frizzed into afros. Short curly hair charred, turning to powder. The dazed DJ slumped over unconscious in his booth, sliding across the control panel engaging a switch which released streamers- blue, purple, pink, silver and gold. The garland popped with glittering confetti and transparent heart-shaped balloons that rained down on the scorched, dying socializers. An assault on the senses. Icing on a burnt cake.

Dead bodies in melted polyester slowly submerged, bobbled back up, and then silently floated. Above the sickly scent of chlorine and diluted aftershave, rose the nauseating odor of fried flesh, vomit, and despair. One terrified survivor swam amid the carnage and luckily was pulled to safety. It was not Candice.

It would take tedious endless hours for the coroner's office to remove the blackened distorted bodies. I wished for the rest of my days that I had not been pummeled into consciousness from my muddled drugged state to see Candice - smile frozen, eyes protruding, bobbing about in the water to the throbbing funk of Thelma Houston's 1976 hit, Don't Leave Me This Way. The warped vinyl album mindlessly revolved on the DJ's sound system's record player, looping in the lyrics, Don't leave me this way. I can't survive. I can't stay alive.

~

It was a Friday night, September 2, 1983. I lost my best friend, Candice Wentworth, in a roadhouse pub in Milwaukee. Not because of arguing. Not because of abduction. Nothing like that. She simply died. I will miss her.

Candice stood tall and beautiful with rich auburn hair - bubbly and successful. A real firecracker who set off sparks of happiness, vitality, and pure appreciation of life. She was everything that I am not, except at this point, alive. Her existence snuffed out at the young age of 32, Candice's death put me into a blue funk. Now I am traveling back home to my old life in Trenton, New Jersey.

Death is an anomalous bird with multilayered feathers. Everyone seems to synchronize the date of death - be it of a friend, loved one, or stranger - with the date of an important historical event. How many times have you heard someone say a parent passed the night before Christmas, or the loss of a child occurred on Easter, creating the vision of a tiny tot flying across the horizon on the wings of an eagle?

The passing of my precious friend coincided with the 200-year anniversary of the end of the American Revolution. Candice went out with a bang, just like the last shot of the war. But no muskets or firearms were involved in the war's ending or in Candice's death. Nevertheless, there was certainly a KABOOM with a twist - sending off sparks until they fizzled out. Reminds me of the proverb Matthew 26:52: …you live by the sword… you die by the sword. Candice entered the world as a firecracker and insisted on leaving the same way.

Ironically, with the constant advancement of science and medicine, we, humans, behave as though we have some control over our fate. And we do…sometimes.

I am not sure what I believe or do not believe about control over our individual destiny, but I do know there are only four ways to die: homicide, suicide, accident, and natural causes. Given all four are tragic, I think causing the death of another (homicide) is the most powerful over which there is total control and real life satisfaction, a result of intellectual monomania. Murder is intertwined with having a conscience…or lack thereof. The existence of a conscience is closely aligned with religious beliefs. If you believe in God, you most likely follow the school of thought that there is an inner voice that tells you right from wrong. For a being who has not a hardened heart, this internal guide functions as a scalpel poking the viable fiber of the emotional soul, either nudging it ever so slightly, or giving it a shove-and-dig during decision-making.

For those who develop a heart of steal, silence is a heavy stone. The inner voice is smothered, slowly passing away until extinguished. In its place roosts decaying silence, suppressing the voice of reason. The perfection of this process is remarkable, considering how seamless its progression and its definitive result.

Tuesday

September 6, 1983

Four Days After The Catastrophe

My Apartment

Milwaukee, Wisconsin

For now, the only Truth I know is I am not looking forward to the drive back to New Jersey. It feels so abrupt and undesired. I am a creature of comfort who hates unexpected change. Dragging my feet, I start packing my belongings into a rented U-Haul. Milling around, having nostalgic thoughts about Candice, my feet feel like my shoes are weighed down with lead…or is it my conscience? Naw, that light went out when I was born into this world.

I have to force myself to focus on the task at hand - packing up and loading the U-Haul.

Chapter 2

“Breaking Into A Man's Work World”

Wednesday

September 7, 1983

Five Days After The Catastrophe

Milwaukee, Wisconsin

I love Wisconsin. I am sad to leave. I moved to the badger state two years ago to take a job as an insurance underwriter for The Walden Company. That’s where I met Candice. Their financial package and career advancement potential proved too good to turn down, even though it was far from home.

The Walden Company sprouted up as a fresh enterprise. When a corporation is in an infancy stage of becoming a rising star, latching onto the ladder of success is easier than trying to secure a horizontal ascent in an already established male-dominated corporate community. Those were my thoughts at the time. The insurance underwriting industry, as a whole, is male-dominated. Although statistics say that more women than men are employed in insurance underwriting, the reality is that men hold the highest paying positions.

The Walden Company was started by a woman named Angela Bell. Her story interests me because for the past 20 years she worked for a large established firm and never made it to an underwriting management position despite her experience and certifications. She said the company reeked to high heaven of male fossils who saw their firm as a men's only country club. Women were there to serve. So she decided to start The Walden Company.

Walden has a formal mission and vision clearly focused on taking the male domination out of the insurance industry and offering growth opportunities for all employees. Hierarchies and silos were eliminated, and personnel were not pigeonholed into roles that kept them stuck in certain positions in specialized departments of what lingered on to be forever. Moreover, Angela Bell hired women and men of all colors, ethnicities, and genders.

It was a joy to work in a company so different from the typical bureaucracy, especially when it came to the dress code. Since The Walden Company is an insurance underwriting organization where most borrowers never see the underwriter, the dress requirements are quite lax. I could let my colors shine. Unfortunately, my shyness robbed me of the glow. Interestingly enough, another worker donned what I wish I had the courage to wear: Candice Wentworth. She and I later became the best of friends.

Immediately drawn to Candice for her outgoingness, I was captivated. She would sometimes put pink streaks in her auburn hair. Other times, she leaned toward a gentle gothic look. I seemed quite dull by comparison in slacks and a polo shirt. She radiated through the door, exotic in a flowing skirt and hoop earrings. It made her popular, as co-workers looked forward to oohing and aahing over her attire each day.

From the beginning, I knew I would be thrilled with my new job. Loved everything about it. Angela was determined to innovate. Remember, we are talking about an industry that mainly involves risks, statistics, and amortizations. It’s dry stuff and seemingly boring, unless you are like me and think calculations and statistics and what-ifs that drive the real world are pretty cool. Angela encouraged her employees to interact with customers whenever possible, and to collaborate and establish career goals. She also asked our opinions. She expressed genuine interest in what her workers thought about solutions to various business challenges. Best of all, the staff socialized together. Yep, my kind of company - competent, but sassy.

I hate leaving the best job I have ever had and returning to New Jersey. But things are way too complicated now to stay.