SURVIVAL IN BOCA RATON 

                                 By Leon Berger

        Harry adjusted his chair and examined his reflection in the mirror.  He grimaced at the red rimmed eyes, the welts and insect bites on his face. He opened his mouth and moved his head to make sure it was his reflection he was looking at.  The features didn’t look familiar but it was his face.

          He blamed himself.  Poor planning.  He had underestimated the challenge for survival.   Long ago he acquired his field craft in the jungles of Panama.   He knew his physical stamina was unusual for a man his age and each year he proved it to himself by conceiving a challenge that tested his mettle.  This time, however, he underestimated the difficulties and his faulty planning had cost him dearly.

          He was obsessed with the necessity to prove his self-reliance by contriving and resolving difficult situations.   His wife Lois humorously went along with what she described as his “egocentric vanity coupled with a Peter Pan complex.”

           The idea came to him while he was exploring a lush, undeveloped area of

•           At the time, it seemed so simple.  All he would need would be his Swiss Army knife, an eight-oz. bottle of water, a book of matches and a tin cup.  A few tea bags would be a good idea too.   In addition, something to read.  Two days of isolation in the park could be boring.                                                                                                        

  Lois was taken aback when he told her what he was contemplating. “Is it legal to stay overnight in the Park? Is it safe?” 

           “Legal or not, nobody will know I’m there.  The area is quite isolated and I’ll take pains to avoid detection.  As for safety, I’ll have my cell phone and you can drive by each morning at 10:00 o’clock. I’ll call you if I need assistance.”                                                             

             His ‘adventure’ began the next day.  The sky was overcast and there was a slight breeze.    The park was deserted where Lois dropped him off and when he kissed her good bye, he murmured “I’ll see you here tomorrow at 10:00 a.m.”    Walking through the underbrush to the location he had staked out previously, he felt excited and invigorated. It was ‘man against nature’ and he felt the confidence cultivated by years of challenge and victory.

          The area was secluded and overgrown providing the privacy he required.   An unexpected shower sent him scurrying to the shelter of overhanging tree limbs, dampening his clothes but not his spirits.

          Time for some tea.  To his dismay, the matches were damp and would not ignite.  How could he have forgotten the waterproof container?  Oh, well, the greater the challenge, the greater the victory.  He looked about and saw there were sufficient implements for starting a fire without matches.  With the use of his shoelace, he fashioned a bow and drill and labored for an hour trying to start a fire.  The wood was too wet.  It was then, for the first time, that he had doubts about the wisdom of his adventure.   His arms and shoulders ached.  He was completely exhausted and decided to do without the fire.

           To his dismay, his perspired body attracted hordes of mosquitoes.  Adjusting his clothes offered some shielding but his hands and face needed protection.  A coating of mud would take care of that problem.   Plenty of water in the bromeliads to mix with dirt, but the water should  be filtered even if it could not be boiled.  He cut a piece of cloth cut from his shirttail but the fine weave of the cloth didn’t permit the passage of the water.  He had decided to keep the bottled water for drinking purposes and to use the plant water for a mud pack.  Using the cup as a mortar and a stick as a pestle, he ground down the insects he could see and mixed some soil from the ground, coating his face, neck and hands.

          The sun had gone down and he was getting cold.  He tried to conserve his body heat by removing a sock, cutting a slit to enlarge the opening and stretched it over his head.  Despite his discomfort, he laughed aloud as he visualized his ludicrous appearance, but his amusement was short lived, for his mud encrusted face was crawling with insects. In panic, he scraped the mud from his face and hands, sinking to the ground, feeling foolish and depressed.

          It was a miserable, cold and sleepless night, with strange unidentifiable noises mixed with the sound of traffic from Military Trail.  He positioned himself sitting with his back against a tree, eyes wide open, frightened by the deep shadows and strange noises.

          It was a relief to see the sky lightening and he waited impatiently for the 10:00 o’clock rendezvous.  Promptly at l0:00 a.m., Lois pulled up to the area as he staggered out of the brush.  She was startled by his appearance and sensing his mood decided to keep quiet.

          He barked at her: “Take me home.  I’m okay, all I need is a hot bath, a stiff drink and a chance to catch up on my sleep.” 

           The next day she listened patiently while he explained:  “I underestimated the challenge.  I should have brought mosquito netting, matches in a water proof container, a can of Sterno, a tea strainer and a few other odds and ends.”

          “Are you going back again?”

           “No, I think not.   I think white water rafting is more my style.”

                                                                                                              mud

   THE  MESSAGE

                  by Leon Berger                       

 It was precisely one year ago, exactly this very same hour that I saw an  ad in Fortune Magazine that changed my life.  The advertisement was cryptic and seemed silly so I ignored it and turned the page.  Or at least I tried to ignore it until curiousity drew me back to the ad.   The precise wording of the ad went like this: ´To the individual with curiousity:You can perform a ritual in your home that will clarify your thoughts and direct you to the pathway of solution.  No obligation.  One time communication only.  Write “Physio”, 
P.O. Box 880093, Boca Raton, Florida

I could not resist any longer and decided to investigate the unusual message.  Fixated with a growing curiosity, I wrote requesting more information. Eighteen days later I received a reply.  In my mailbox was an envelope without any postage affixed and no return address.  The envelope and the message was handwritten, each letter, each word clearly defined and strikingly beautiful. I still have the letter for it is the only evidence I have of my experience, and I quote the unusual message verbatim: “The area of your home that contains an oblong, hollowed-out receptacle which receives heated fluid from an overhead construction is surrounded on three sides by a yellow flowered movable drape.  Replace this screen with one of all white substance and comply with the following directive: 

     “Disrobe completely and enter the hollowed-out receptacle, placing a rubber insulation pad under both extremities. Open the valve that controls the flow of the fluid and adjust the temperature so that it coincides with your internal structural temperature.      “Direct this flow to the encasement that houses your control mechanism.   Secure the white drape so that you will be confined and isolated in the enclosure and as the vapor surround you, close your viewing ports and consider your dilemma.  The solution will be provided.”  It was signed “Physio.”  The terminology used was weird and obviously, somebody was playing a joke on me.  I was puzzled, because I didn’t tell anybody I was going to answer Physio’s ad and yet the writer knew that the shower curtain in my home was indeed a yellow, flowered plastic.   I checked the

    I am a writer currently experiencing ‘writer’s bloc.’  My ‘dilemma’ was that I had created a particularly thorny, threatening situation for my fictional hero and could not logically extricate him.  I was stymied to a point of desperation.      Feeling foolish as I disrobed, I carefully stepped into the shower, standing squarely on the bath mat and made some minor adjustment to the temperature of the water.  The light reflecting off the white curtain was blinding, forcing me to close my eyes, and as I stood there with the water cascading off the back of my neck, a languid feeling of isolation engulfed me.  I felt insulated from all external stimuli as I visualized my literary dilemma.      Amazingly, a flow of ideas penetrated my consciousness, simplistic but practical.  The solution, which now seemed so obvious, was unique and clever.  Was this a coincidence?  Were there physiological benefits from the hot water increasing circulation to my brain?  Was it my focus of concentration?  Had Physio created some self-hypnotic technique that stimulated creativity?      Happily, I opted in favor of Physio’s mystical message, gaining confidence as I explored new literary vistas.  My days and nights are filled with feverish writing, relying on Physio for ideas and energy.  I am hollow-eyed from lack of sleep; I am emaciated for I have no appetite.  I have secluded myself from my friends.  I create and write day and night.  I shower frequently, asking the same question that remains unanswered:  “Should I…must I share this secret of my increased productivity?” 

I am loathe to do so even though my instincts tell me until I do I will have no peace.  I am prepared to pay the price, any price, for writing is now my number one passion.                   

                                            ALMOST A HERO

                                                          By Leon Berger

     Flight 727 out of FLL, scheduled to leave at 3:30 p.m. was ‘delayed’’ and Henry had two hours to kill.  He soon tired of watching the peculiarities of fellow travelers, amused by their various shapes and bizarre clothing, decided instead to read a story by Roberto Bolano which was featured in the August 8^th issue of the “New Yorker.”

     Bolano ‘s previous works had  fascinated Henry.  Having seen his picture on a book jacket, he dressed in a similar fashion: faded blue jeans, bush jacket, dark glasses and a Yankee baseball cap tilted rakishly over a lean face grizzled with a two day stubble. In truth, Henry’s appearance belied his real nature, that of a cautious and introversive husband whose globe trotting was limited to infrequent trips to

     The constant bothersome noises in the terminal interfered with Henry’s concentration.  He put down the magazine and sat quietly for five minutes, eyes closed.  Bored and hungry, he decided to check out the food court.  The odors of grilled kielbasa were irresistible. Against his better judgment he ordered the foot long sausage lathered with mustard and relish, counter-balancing the tray with a frosted Bud.  Half-way through the meal, the bubbling and growling that  issued from deep within his gut attracted  the curiosity of fellow travelers  within a 10 foot  radius.

     Two hours later, 15 minutes airborne, uncomfortably settled up front in business class, Henry unbuckled his safety belt and staggered to the lavatory, obtaining immediate but partial relief.  As he sat there, he examined the narrow confines of his haven, marveling at the many passenger comforts crowded into the claustrophobic space.  The counter and sink were spotless;   tissues, towels and soap dispenser were full.  “What’s this…?”  He shook his head in disbelief for behind the soap dispenser, resting on a tissue, gleaming in the fluorescent light was a full upper denture. “Hard to believe, but some poor schnook is back in his seat without his teeth”    Amused, he determined that he would restore the teeth to its rightful owner. 

     Exiting the lavatory, the wrapped denture in his pocket, Henry approached the Flight Attendant.  “Hi.  Listen, somebody forgot their denture in the toilet.

Could you make some kind of announcement over the inter-com?”

     She stared at him coldly.  “No, I can’t do that; it would only embarrass the passenger.”

     “Can I leave it with you?”

     “No,  I have no provision  for lost items.”

     “Okay, what should I do with it then?”

     “You can put the teeth back where you found it or turn it over to Lost and Found when we arrive at O’Hare.”

       “I would like to speak to the Captain.”

     “That’s not possible.  I suggest you go back to your seat; you are creating a disturbance.  This is an official warning.”

     Henry, momentarily speechless, muttered ‘thank you’ and went back to his seat. The total absurdity of his conversation with the attendant didn’t sit easy with him and the more he rehashed the conversation the more determined he was to return the denture to its owner.  It should be quite simple. The owner of the teeth was undoubtedly a male, assuming a female would have checked her appearance before exiting the lavatory.  So Henry, despite his intestinal discomfort, decided to undertake the humanitarian task of locating a man with sunken cheeks.  With growing excitement at the challenge, Henry stood up. If the attendant didn’t approve, so be it.

      First Class was no problem as he scrutinized the occupants who were dozing or involved with their computers. No sunken cheeks.  The occupants in Tourist class required more careful scrutiny since the light was dim and passengers more numerous.  The cabin noise diminished as the passengers observed Henry working his way up the aisle, examining each male face.  The Flight Attendant, chatting with her male counterpart, was unaware of the growing consternation of the passengers.

      Row by row, Henry progressed up the aisle and when he reached row 22, he sensed victory for the passenger occupying the window seat, seemingly engrossed in reading a newspaper, had the important criteria he was looking for: sunken  cheeks. The man, unkempt and scruffy, continued to read as Henry, a smile on his lips, called out “Sir.”

     No response.  Henry called out again, louder:   “Sir.”   The man ignored him and continued to read.  Was this man deaf?, The tension in the cabin was palpable as Henry, this time leaning over two cowering passengers, attempted to tap the fellow on the shoulder.  Suddenly, unexpectedly, the man jumped up, muttering excitedly as he tried to escape from his seat.  Henry, startled, jerked back, tripped over his own feet, fell heavily, hitting his head on the arm rest of the seat across the aisle.  The cabin was in an uproar as Henry blacked out.

                                                  ******************

    “Henry, wake up.  Wake up, Henry.”

    Henry opened his eyes, confused by his surroundings, unable to comprehend  why an I.V. drip was attached to his arm.  Standing at the foot of his bed, smiling,  was a muscular, heavily built stranger.

      “Who are you? What is this place?”

     “I’m Detective Sommer.  You’re in a hospital with a slight concussion.    Do you remember what happened?”

     Henry closed his eyes; his head hurt. 

     “Yeah, I think so.  I found some false teeth and I was trying to find the owner.”   Suddenly, he remembered.  “What the hell was wrong with that fellow?  His cheeks were sunken.”

     Sommers, no longer smiling:   “Yeah, that’s the story the attendant told me but I had to hear it from you.   The teeth didn’t belong to that gentleman. His cheeks were sunken because he hasn’t had a square meal in two weeks. He bolted because he is an illegal from

       No charges were filed against Henry.  The airline preferred to drop the matter rather than explain how a passenger with crudely forged documents was able to board the plane as a passenger.  The teeth were returned to the airline and Henry’s bush-jacket, wrinkled and soiled, hangs in his closet, suitable attire for the June trip to