He chose an empty seat beside a rugged looking Army man with a scar across his lip and thick dark hair, wearing a khaki shirt and trousers.
   "So you sit with me," the Army man said in a gravelly voice. He pulled a pack of Camels from his shirt pocket and lit one by flicking his thumbnail over the red and blue head of a wooden match. Didn't offer a cigarette to Terrence. His hands were like freshly dug potatoes.
   "It'll be rough ya know. Autumn '44 ain't no country picnic, even if the war is leavin' Italy. They're still tryin' to hang on wherever they can. Mussolini's up there somewhere in them hills. Montecatini maybe, who knows? But we'll find him, don't worry, we'll find him." Smoke drifted out of his nose as though his lungs might be permanently smoldering. 
   "But, uhm, wasn't Rome already liberated in the Spring of 1944?" Terrence remarked. "Yeah, but that kinda shit's easy. Artillery, whole friggin' divisions rollin' along. Tanks. That's velvet pie. Ya could use one of them new flame throwers if ya wanted. Fry the friggin' Krauts right in their burrows."
   "F_fry them in their b_burrows?"
   "Bunker Barbeque."
   "Uhm, provided you can get close enough to use the thing."
   "Who said it wouldn't be dangerous? That's the whole ticket. It's why yer here, ain't it? To go one on one?"
   "I'm not sure yet."
   "The game is diggin' 'em out one at a time, Buddy ... Ya don't ever live better than when yer so close to dyin' ... No one'll beat ya up this time though."
   "I hope not, I abhor violence."
   "So ya got punched in the head and the mugger took yer wallet, that's why ya want to face it now, ain't it? Believe me, them new flamers are the cat's ass. The Nazi's howl is like a Wagner opera." He pronounced the composer?s name WAGner.
Terrence gulped, corrected, "VAHGner."
The soldier took a deep drag from the cigarette. Smoke clouded his voice. "You'll love it, Buddy, there's fun if ya get off at my stop with me, better than a table grade woman." The virile offer was tempting.

Terrence looked around, opted to move near the little blond woman. As he sat beside her he realized she was only a young girl. Soft, supple looking. She could have been sixteen, had fine yellowy hair and a light fragrance like wild rose.
   "Hello," she said, her voice musical, her eyes possessing a kind of blue sheen. "Are you getting off when I do?"
   "I, don't know yet. I don't even know your name."
   "Melinda, some of my friends call me Lin, but I don't like it's immature."
   "You're not very old."
   "But I have experience," she replied quickly, "I can do sex like any grown woman."
Terrence gulped openly while furtively studying her body, noticing her small breasts, the feathery down on her arms, knew she was a natural blonde. How would she look without clothing? Downy, he expected.
   "Do, do you, uhm, have an idea?"
She touched her skirt and it seemed to ride up higher. "Yes. We have an opulent room surrounded by a glass partition, a circular bed. You and I upon it, satin sheets. Candles glowing. An audience in the half light. They watch our performance."
   "Oh ... I've, never considered this before, I mean, doing it in front of people, especially with such a young person like yourself."
   "You DO remember that older woman you went with that time? How she teased you afterwards?" The scarlet humiliation still coloured him, lingering in his peripheral consciousness whenever he looked at a pretty girl.
   "I didn't think you'd know about that."
   "I am aware because it helps us. You'll have no sex problems with me. I have trained in Paris, Montemartre, working out of that little caf?east from the Moulin Rouge."
   "As a, a prostit ..."
   "Fille de joie. Some of our audience will be people you know, perhaps the little typist you see once in a while. She'll be enthralled with what you do to me, wish it was her."
Terrence's pulse rate quickened. Heat flowed into his cheeks. He worried about his blood pressure again. Terrence slipped into a daydream for a moment before jerking awake."Excuse me. Perhaps I'll be back," he uttered. She gave him a further glimpse of a golden thigh.

Terrence then sat beside a swarthy man with thick ruddy features and disheveled hair, who had on a striped tweed suit and reeked of garlic.
   "Look," Terrence said, trying not to inhale, "I don't think I want to chat. I need to gather my thoughts."
The man's accent was Italian. "So they are STREWN in the aisle as confetti? Is okay with me. I see life, however, as MUSIC. The notes do not FLOAT to the ground. Once they are streaming through the ether, there is not way to stop them. When you hear such capriccio, you CANNOT go back, you have already experience it ... So why try to avoid this pleasure?"
Melinda, watching them from her seat, repeated absently, "Pleasure?"
The Italian ignored her or did not hear. "Accept this harmony of thought as it arrives _ sometimes in a hush, as a Chopin chording," he emitted a portamento hum, "other times in a clatter of emotion as in one of Tchaikovsky's violent moments."
Terrence tried to turn away from his strong odour.
The afficionado led an imaginary orchestra. "Why try to avoid such noble pursuit?"
The soldier mumbled under his breath, "Noble shmoble."
The music man continued, "It can slide imperceptively into one's awareness, as Grieg can do with his most delicate melodies."
The soldier interjected, "WAGner for chrissakes, pound the shit out of it." He dropped his cigarette, ground it out with his polished boot, lit another match with his nail, watched it burn, snubbed it with his bare fingers and grinned at Terrence.

The Italian offered, "We two would work on this, ah, music of life. Musica vita. We write a notturno, si? The world NEEDS nocturnes now. Chopin had but nineteen. Do you know the result of this, uh, collaborazione? World fame. Symphonies performing YOUR music. The Aristocracy of Consonance bending to welcome you."
Terrence thought of his little electronic keyboard. "It wouldn't be anything like my Casio."
   "Which you keep in your room and play with earphones so Mama will not hear? Ha. You must have VISION my boy."
Terrence spoke, trying for a little proudness, "But I CAN play waltzes and rumbas on it. And Hawaiian. It keeps its own rhythms you know." The headset allowed him to play it raucously without anyone hearing except himself.
The composer retorted impatiently, "We depart at once for Lago di Como, in the North of Italy, where concerti can be berthed in verde solitude."
   "Italy? I almost took a holiday there last year."
   "We'll create like madmen, our piano will reverberate across the emerald lake until EVERYONE comes near, drawn magically by the lushness of our song. We write an erotica together. Pavarotti will sing it."
   "Luciano."
   "We must exit soon."

Terrence went and sat hesitantly beside a large muscular black man.
   "It goes like this. You start with tennis. You win the first point, so it's fifteen love. You go on to four Grand Slam victories in a row ... But you don't come back, see? This is the REAL game. The tennis world is waitin' but now you're on the roster of the New York Yankees. Ruth, Mantle. But I don't think you should start with baseball, you played that once. Remember?"
Terrence's mind imaged his attempt at baseball. "It was a long time ago but I suppose you already know. The ball hit my head, I had a concussion on home plate. Uhm, my mother was very upset."
The sharp voice continued, "THIS time your bat is light as a piece a straw, you SEE the stitchin' on the ball as it leaves the pitcher's fingers. You'll get a hunderd homers in one year in the Show. What else could ya ask for?"
Terrence tried feebly for a joke, "Two hundred?"
The sportsman evidently didn't hear. "This maybe; you go on to ice hockey, you're on a team what's never done well. You dazzle 'em, see? Gretsky stalled at ninety-two goals. So what d'ya think?"
   "Think? Of ...?"
   "Of YOU gettin? that hunderdth goal . You STAND there with the puck behind your own net, POINT to the opposite goal, like Ruth pointed to the grandstand, the crowd'll go nuts. Every camera in the sports world is on ya. You skate out as the other team tries to catch you. Wow."
"Wow."

The Italian interjected, "So what is creative in this?"
The sportsman with the light in his eyes didn?t hear. "You then go to Formula One auto racing. What's the record for straight wins? Fangio still have it? Jim Clark? Senna? Maybe you'd win EVERY race. What else is there?"
   "Football?"
   "Yeah. They'd be tryin? to sign ya by then, but ya only opt for the one year contract. Run back punts. Throw loopin? touchdown passes, John Elway style. Whatever you want. Five magnificent years. Glory like nobody else has ever seen." He stared meaningfully at Terrence.
   "I'm just three stops from here, Man ... The one thing about glory, is that you CAN take it with you ... Reach for it. You can have it all if you'll get off with me."

Terrence moved to yet another seat. A bulky man slumped against the wall of the bus, a black leather patch over one eye, dressed oddly in a coarse, loose-fitting tunic. Scarred hairy arms, one of which draped along the back of the seat, making Terrence nervous of his intent. A crude gold amulet hung from a thong around his neck.
   "You would have great choice this time, Terrence. Your people date the time as 206 BC, after my trek through the Alps. We were at the gates of Rome. I am Hannibal of course. I threw a spear over the wall, no Roman dared come out to accept my challenge. The little baby Caesars inside were shaking with fright, taking the EASY way out with jeweled daggers to their own chests."
Hannibal paused to spit on the floor. "The Senators with their stentorian orations debating who would chase me away. I regret it took so long to get back to Africa to face Scipio Africanus at Zama." He fixed a single-eyed stare toward Terrence.
   "I read about that in history class once."
   "You could change it all for me, perhaps go in over the wall, you'd be sacking Rome long before the Visigoths or the Huns. You'd be right there at the height of Roman power, riding your elephant in victory into the coliseum, they would send up blood sacrifices to their gods. Such as they are." He spat again, a vile green liquid.

   "Thumbs up to Terrence! Son of Hasdrubal. The conquering, newly proclaimed, Emperor of Rome!" They dreamt together a moment, allowing the wondrous ideas to saturate.
   "I, I was, going to visit Rome. If I had gone on that holiday to Italy."
The soldier coughed, trying to steal attention. Hannibal was still watching his illusion. "And today, chiseled forever into the magnificent 'Arch of Terrence', on the Appian Way, your very own history."
   "The life of ... Terrence?"
   "Yes, history CAN be altered. My stop is coming up. Will you step off with me?" He peered at Terrence with his dark wild eye. "It is an opportunity, my friend, to be savage, what every man lusts for."

In confusion Terrence changed seats again. Found himself near a tall man dressed in black with chased platinum hair. His face very white, had the look of a cadaver. A large hawk nose. Piercing steel gray eyes.
   "What is your deal?" Terrence asked in a braver tone than he intended.
   "Deal? Hah. I make no deal." The words were like a bad taste.
He raised his large head and stared down the long nose at his seat-mate. "You believe I offer a deal, because I am here in black? What am I? A salesman of greed? The foul friend makes DEALS but he has no monopoly on wearing black."
He huffed and glanced out the window although Terrence could see nothing but darkness.
   "I, am an ANGEL, a seraph taking your human form. I needn't be seen only in white." He gestured with his arms as if to present himself. "I offer you turmoil and trouble," he gazed at Terrence a moment until his eyes took on a silver glint, "but what battles we could fight."
"Battles?" Terrence swallowed hard.

The angel with the long head smiled, raised his pewter eyebrows at Terrence. "Yes, bloodshed. That surprises you?"
   "I'm not sure what you're taking about. It, uhm, sounds, dangerous."
The angel bristled a moment with impatience before settling himself down. "I could install you into the inner circle as Terriel, a Warrior Angel. That IS an exalted position even if archangels are only second up." He adopted a superior attitude. "There are nine levels of angels, you know, and every one has a specific task. Lucifer disputed his, is now a fallen angel. Hah. His folly ... but oh what fun we have. Stalking, skirmishing at every turn," he spoke slowly as if savouring delicious words. "Oh the brilliant clashes." He then broke into a wide aluminum smile.
   "We would be fighting the very Devil himself?" His own words caught in his throat.
   "Truly a magnificent challenge my friend. I would give you Raphael, Uriel and uh, Gabriel as cohorts. It would not be like going down in history, of course, as Genghis Khan, or my friend two seats ahead, Hannibal, for instance ..."

Hannibal turned and glared at the angel. "Friend? I have my own gods, none of them yours." He spat defiantly.
The angel was irritated. "I beg your pardon. IF, you don't mind, I believe I have the floor." He huffed at the Carthaginian before turning back to Terrence. "As I was saying before that heathen interruption, his is an earthly history, I offer you the chance to write it at a higher level, a history of the Seven Heavens. Written by we angels. It WILL be discovered within five thousand years ..."
Terrence was intimidated under the stern glare of Hannibal and the glinting stare of the angel. "What of this challenge, boy? Is this nota good offer? A DEAL if you like. I promise you a sword of fire."
Terrence was flustered, couldn't answer.
Hannibal did, "You see? Savage, exactly what I said."
The angel turned his eyes only, said, "DO you mind?"
Melinda commented to Terrence, "I DON'T mind being taken with strength is that is what you like. I am familiar with the Marquis de Sade too. I am no vanilla girl."
Hannibal reasserted, "MY offer is real, not a smoky figment by an imaginary character."
The soldier erupted into a series of strangulated coughs.

The angel was getting exasperated. "Did I interrupt you people?"
The African's temperature was also rising. "YOU people interrupted the course of history!"
The seraph began to lose his temper, "Shut up, or I will dissipate you!"
Hannibal retorted, "Then I'll just come back as Hitler."
The soldier rose to this challenge. "Fuckin' okay with me, Buddy."
The angel turned his attention back to Terrence, trying reason. "Pay them no heed, my son. You hesitate, but one must work one's way up to Seraphim, mustn't one? Through the levels of Powers and Virtues etcetera. These are grades of angels, you see. We can't possibly start you out as a six-winged Seraph right away then, can we?" Terrence didn't reply. "Well? Can we?"

Terrence was shaking with indecision. He arose, moved forward in the rumbling swaying flying bus, clutching at the chrome grab handles.
The angel called after him, "Forget the sports deal, Terrence. That IS a pact with the Devil, you notice he only offered you five years?" Terrence stared out the window.
   "Uhm, does anyone else see those grassy green hills? The olive trees?" No one answered. "Some sort of gray stone castle there, on the horizon." He pointed into the oblivion. And above the castle Terrence saw a silver biplane arcing through a powdered sky.
He heard the girl-woman's ethereal voice. "My stop is just two forward, Terrence. Come with me."
   "Is that music?" Terrence thought he heard a rhapsodic melody. And the scent of June lilacs wafted to his nose.
The rugged Army man rasped beneath his smoke, "What can she give ya but crotch pheasants?"
Melinda quickly answered, "The gratitude of women, the envy of men. Fantasies go with me. And sexual passion."
The soldier countered with his best weapon, spoke low in confidence, "It's house ta house fighting in Grosetto, live to die. Let's do it, Buddy." He lit another match and held it up. The sulphur overpowered the lilac.
The sportsman offered, "The World Cup. Soccer, now there's a real sport, or if you like singular, how about the hundred meters, flash it in nine flat, put the records out of reach."
The angel, with diamond clarity, announced, "Alright then, I'll make you a full Dominion, that is of the sixth level, responsible for Jupiter." His teeth gleamed of pearls.

The Italian composer's thick breath wafted forward, "A complete symphony, Bellissimo!
The angel laughed derisively, "As if YOU could match the power of Gabriel's horn."
Hannibal jumped in, "Then let's hear it! I have two good ears."
   "I can make statues cry, and crosses bleed!" The Angel's teeth sparkled one at a time.
Melinda commented, "Sex is the driving force of man."
The Italian disagreed, "Not to be true, creativity is."
The solder had his own slant, "I hate ta spring this on you assholes, but killin' each other is where it's at."
The Italian was incredulous, "You would have us believe THIS is our purpose?"
   "Nature's way Musicman, there's too many of us. Can't ya work that out?"
   "Ridiculous!"
The angel smiled a serene, liquid smile at Terrence. "We'll always have room for you in the Fourth Heaven, my son."
Hannibal asked, "Have you ever ridden an elephant, Terrence?"
The sick soldier emitted a trailing cough, looked upward. "Our purpose is to advance mankind. You can count the individuals who have done this on your fingers, Buddy. I don't know how long I can hold on for you, Terrence." He gripped his chest as though in pain.
The sportsman asked, "Have you ever ridden a wave of popularity, my friend? Sports heroes are revered everywhere. Brains are out! Basketball's in!"
All the riders called out simultaneously, "Come with me!"

Terrence said weakly, "I need to think."
Terrence stood at the front of the bus, looking back at the other riders, who stared forward with hopes that he would rejoin them, stay on until their particular stop, exit at their particular world. The driver watched them all in his mirror, ignoring the road.
The magic bus stopped and Terrence got off.
The other riders lapsed into agitated argument. He heard snatches of their simultaneous talk.
   "There's looting too, war is fun ..."
   "Get rich ..."
   "It is the passion of women that men seek ..."
   "We two could change the shape of the future ..."
   "No! Music is truth, as only music can be ..."
   "Everybody loves a champion ..."
   "Rome MUST fall!"

Only the clarity of the angel's voice seemed to emerge above the clatter, "POWER, is everything."
The pulsing orange glow of the bus and its buzzing sound dissipated as it moved off up the street.

Terrence walked right into Fred Carter, his next door neighbour, who always seemed to ask a million questions.
   "Terrence. How are you?"
   "Fine Fred, just fine." He tried walking on but Fred persisted.
   "I was just talking to your mum, she said you're acting odd lately, staying in your room. Thinks your job is getting to you. Do something else, Terr'. How do you stand that huge accounting office year after year? You're only a number there. What happened to the Italian holiday you were going on? I don't know why you don't buy a car, your driving instructor survived, why take the bus all the time?"
Fred's reverberating speech seemed to come out of a tunnel and Terrence believed he heard something new in the voice, a whisper. Distant drums.
In a moment he answered, "Yes, Fred, why indeed? Why NOT step off toward a new destination? Into a new life."

Terrence walked home, now with a confident stride, entered his front door and announced boldly, "Mother, I'm home and I'm going away to Italy to create music."
His mother's disjointed voice came from the kitchen or upstairs or the basement, firm and quick, and indisputable, "No you're not."
He quietly closed the door to his room. Someday Terrence would make a decision about what to do.

Until then, he'd ride the bus.

f i n i t o

performed on stage by the Spin Cycle Players .  Vancouver BC 

© RC Westerholm