How to Go Through Hell

Bang!

Hallelujah Livingstone’s first day in this place was about to begin; and he figured his only way out was to be sent someplace worse.

Bang!

“A-a-a-w-w,” Hallelujah groaned, at 6:03am, and rolled his 6-foot-6-inch frame over on the two-inch thick slab of rubber that covered his metal-framed cot.

Bang! Bang!

“A-a-a-w-1! . . . What in the blazes is that?!”

The guards, aides, nurses, counselors, and blood-hounds were arriving for duty and letting the heavy, double-metal doors slam behind them, giving an electric jump-start to any sleeping soul within fifty feet of the seventh floor’s entrance.

And Hallelujah, who was known by most as “Stone,” now hated to wake up – at any time of day, in any way. It meant that his brain – or something - would start up again with all of that “You’re no good . . . Look at the mess you’ve made of yourself . . . you’re life – everybody’s life . . . You never cared about anybody but yourself.” And he wouldn’t be able to shut it off for the next 15 hours – not for a second.

“You evil trash,” it started. And Stone cringed in pain.

“Good morning, Mr. Livingstone!” a cheerful, bright and gangly young man, of no more than 20 years, smiled from Stone’s doorway. “Breakfast is in the Community Room.”

“Look at that!” Stone’s brain attacked, sounding like something other than his brain. “That kid has a real job. A responsible job . . . And here you are – 26 years old and still can’t support your pitiful self. You oughtta be ashamed.”

Stone glanced at the young man – an aide on this floor – and quickly noticed his ring.

“How do like that?!” mocked Stone’s miserable brain – or something. “That kid is married . . . and you’ve never kept a woman for more than two dates . . . Because . . . you just don’t . . . CARE . . . about anybody! . . . Do you, sociopath?!”

Stone grabbed his head and pushed his hands frantically, over and over, through his dark, shoulder-length, red hair.

“No!” he groaned. “No, blast it,” but he believed what that sound in his brain was telling him.

“Easy, Mr. Livingstone,” the young aide comforted. “It’s not the best breakfast in the world, but it’s not that bad.”

Stone twitched and jerked his head to the left. His eyes darted. His right hand went frantically through his hair again. “I’m sorry,” he said to the aide, “I wasn’t yelling at you.”

Stone didn’t want breakfast, but the life that had once flamed inside of him was in no mood to break the rules. The fire wasn’t extinguished, but it was down to a few smoldering embers. He stumbled raggedly to the community room and ate - slowly – trying to distract himself, hardly tasting the hash of oatmeal, cup of applesauce, and bacon.

And 20 egg-dreary minutes later, Stone stumbled back to his room, dropped to his bed, and thunder exploded in his doorway, roaring, “Hal— a-a—L-u-u-u— yah!! Livingstone!!!” It boomed Wildman. It beamed and howled and soared. “My goodness! ‘Hallelujah Livingstone.’What a name that is!” the obvious lunatic yelled. And Stone jumped to his feet with a thousand volts, unable to say a word.

“Ezra Eliot Loleko,” the power-plant of madness blasted away to Stone; with a big, wild, barrel-lunged laugh. “That’s my name!”

Everything about this man blazed out loud. He was blowing up all over the place. All “Yes! Yes! Yes!” He filled the doorway with neon and looked 7-feet tall in Stone’s eyes, but he was actually the exact same 6’6” as Stone.

“Ezra Eliot Loleko,” the giant roared. “How in the world did I get a name like that? . . . Well, my ma was a part-time English professor,” he sped on, answering his own question, “and my old man was a joker, who hated school, but ended up teaching because it gave him all the time in the world to do what he really loved – howlin’ out loud in a country-punk band.”

“Huh?” Stone grunted a nearly-panicked laugh.”

“Yes! Yes!” Ezra raved. “My ma was an English professor and my dad sang – if you could call it that – in a country-punk band,” he rambled and raged. “Sounded like a screaming coyote, but I loved it . . . So, I ended up getting named after three dead poets.”

“Ezra Pound and T.S. Eliot,” Stone quickly responded, much to Ezra’s delight,” And, uh-umm—”

“e.e cummings! – Ezra Eliot, e.e. - Nuts, ain’t it?” Loleko cackled.

“W-what are you?” Stone shakily managed to ask, overwhelmed by the raging ball of fire.

“H-a-a-a-a!” Ezra boomed with glee. “I’m just like you, Brother Livingstone!”

Ezra was locked up in this place just like Stone, but he was the freest man Stone had ever seen. The truth is; he wasn’t locked up at all. He couldn’t be locked up . . . And Stone would have been locked up even if he was free to roam the most wide open prairie in the land.

But Ezra Eliot Loleko was, indeed, a lot like Hallelujah Livingstone.