Heaven and Hell... a short story

      Life as a gangster is in itself a paradox. It’s easy to love a gangster and it’s easy to hate one. In a way I think it is very liberating for people living inside the matrix to see someone who opposes the status quo. Who can not only see the hypocrisy evident in our leaders, but stand strong in resisting assimilation to that system. It is easy to argue that in a world where the leaders are greedy, and where they do not present themselves honestly, that gangsters are in a way on a higher moral ground. For at least they acknowledge what they are, so they do not carry the weight of hypocrisy on there shoulders. Add to this the fact that most gangsters come from humble beginnings, and usually carry in there hearts some tragic childhood experiences. Whether it be growing up without a father, or watching a family member shot and killed. To grow up in a house with drug addict parents, or to have been beaten. To live this life allows the gangster to take on the role of the underdog. The underdog who has become a champion of the ghetto. The gangster transcends the role of victim and assumes the role of the victor. I think for anyone from the ghetto, who has felt overwhelmed by this life, and feels powerless to change there fate, the gangster represents hope, that there is a way out.

I think it is equally as easy to argue against the gangster. If you are raised with structure, and have spent your entire life playing by the rules, the gangster represents chaos. If you believe in this social structure, that one should follow the rule of law, then to have someone who would steal what you have worked so hard to acquire, makes them an easy target for disdain. Also from an outside perspective, to watch a drug dealer feed off of there own people so that they can make a little cash must make the fact that those same people idolize them seem a little ironic. Add to this the fact that most people in our civilized world are not violent, the violent aspects of a gangsters life can be quite intimidating, and can push there victims into the arms of the authorities as a safe haven.

As a gangster, I didn’t share either of the above perspectives. The truth is that my life had become at a point, intolerable and I thought about ending my life. I thought deeply about this, standing with cold serrated steel pressed against the veins of my arm wanting to end a life that had tormented me for the majority of my 19 years on this earth. I had been raised poor, I had lost my family, I had lost my faith in god and all that remained what a bitter misery that persisted day in and day out. For a moment death seemed to be a welcome escape from the daily struggle of living, an end to the incessant pain and suffering, but then that moment would pass. Death was so final. There was no victory in death, just a concession that life was too difficult or that I was to weak.

I think in a way we all have little justifications for the way that we are. The way I reasoned it in my mind, is that if I wanted to die anyways, then I would do whatever I wanted to do, with no fear of the consequences. In this way I tried alleviate myself of the role of victim. So I began a life of crime that spanned nearly 20 years. What began as an armed robbery, turned into drug dealing and drug smuggling. Prison taught me how to be strong, and since I did not care if I lived or died I became fierce in a way only a man who does not fear death could be. Of course people are constantly evolving. For although I began as an angry and jaded child with no hope, I had evolved into a fairly successful gangster. I had a crew behind me who would die for me. I had cash in hand, and although my 20’s were a constant cycle of prison and freedom, I had made it to a point where I learned how to keep my freedom. My 20’s I had taught me how to mask my pain with drugs, my 30’s taught me how to confront that pain and process it, so I no longer needed the mask. Eventually I reached a stage where I cared if I lived or died.

I began to ask myself deep questions, such as, “What is the meaning of my life?”. I also wondered, “Is my lifestyle good or bad” and, “what is right and what is wrong?”. I began to see the difference between justifying an action, and honestly assessing  my life and asking if I’m walking the best path. I noticed how common it is for someone to alleviate themselves of the responsibility of there own actions, not by denying that those actions are wrong, but by showing that the people pointing out those wrong actions also have wrong actions they have not taken responsibility for. Therefor the world has dissolved into a place where you do not have to be righteous, so long as you can show that your accusers are not righteous either.

As I developed a stronger conscience I began to see the futility of this attitude, and thus began to ask these deeper questions. One question I began to ponder is what is the difference between heaven and hell. I had began to read many different religious perspectives, but had not found an answer that truly satisfied my curiosity. A friend had told me of a wise tai chi master who lived high up in the redwoods in northern California. He told me that it was difficult to reach but that if I were able to find him he would answer one question of my choosing. Old habits die hard and my newly formed conscience did not prevent me from placing my 9mm in a holster behind my belt just above the tailbone, but violence was not in my mind and this was more from habit than anything else. I packed a backpack with a camel pack full of water, a light tent, and some food stores and began the long hike.

When I arrived at the mountain I saw a small shack. It was neat but did not have the pomp of a great temple of china. There was no gong and no shrine of buddha, just a simple neat shack. As I approached the door it swung open. A short old man sat in a corner, legs crossed. There was small fire going behind him and he motioned for me to sit. He was staring at me intently as if looking through me which made me a little uncomfortable and my instincts immediately put me on guard. I did not want to feel vulnerable or let some one read me. My mask went up but I tried not to show what I was thinking. I sat down across from him on a pillow on the floor.

“You have a question for me?” He more stated than asked.

“Yes, I heard you are a wise man and I was wondering if you could explain to me the difference between heaven and hell?” I asked him honestly.

He looked at me in silence for a moment and his gaze began to turn sinister. I was taken back, and immediately returned his stare. ‘I don’t think guy wants to go sinister with me,’ I thought.Then he spoke.

“I see through you, you foolish idiot!” He shouted. “You are so naive I doubt you could find a way to load a clip into your own pistol!” 

I was immediately  filled with anger. I walked all this way just for some old man who does not know me, to disrespect me! Unbelievable, but I had something for this old man. I could drop him here in the woods and no one would ever know the difference. It’s not the first body I’ve buried. I pulled my 9mm from its holster, anger and rage coursing through my veins. Blind fury over took me as I swung the pistol towards him. 

At that moment with a smile and a peaceful disposition he held up one finger and said, “That is hell.”

I stopped, frozen by his smile, and more so by his wisdom. At that moment I realized that I would not have been able to understand this concept if he had not taken me to that feeling. I realized that the majority of my life I have been living in my own hell. I looked at him spell bound. His peaceful face. His eyes now so kind and wise, I dropped to my knees with the deepest reverence for this wise old man. Tears began to well up as I grabbed his hand to thank him and he smiled at me and said, “That is heaven.”