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The Servant
at the Bottom of it All In Chaparral, New Mexico, at the Desert Rain Community, standing out front, I can see the land in all directions: as far as my eyes can see. This is because the community sits lower than all the land around it. However, I cannot see immediately around me because of the giant mesquite bushes that prevent me from seeing across the street. Four thirty comes around asking me, “Why are you still a servant here--doing tasks the community can do without?” “Two to four o’clock” are most interrogating and humiliating, when they compare me to “twelves and fives” that celebrate their arrival to freedom. I have no clear answers to give or defend myself with a sloppiness like, “Don’t despise small beginnings,” or, “I didn’t’ fight to get here, it must have been God.” Five relieves me of my duties and encourages me that tomorrow is a new day. As I head uphill, west on Quitman towards War Road, I rise above the mesquite, and clarity comes quickly. Once on the elevated highway, I feel the ease of a paved road guiding me into good memory with one quick look back at the disappearing cloud of dust I left on the dirt road behind me. All is clear, and I understand the whole valley, now… I was a boy with unbelievable basketball talents and a dream of the NBA with all the wealth that it promised. With a drug habit and an over cocky attitude, I soon found out I didn’t have what it took. But youth and fire will find something to burn, and it did. I put down the basketball and picked up a musical instrument, particularly the piano. However, I still hadn’t put down the crack pipe, and soon landed in a rehabilitation hospital. I soon realized the business sides of basketball and the music industry couldn’t be conquered with cocaine, and I hadn’t made it through school past the 7th grade. The only wise decision left to prosper me at that point was in the drug industry. Dealing drugs kept me high and made me money: the amount a man of my talent deserved, of course. This dead end road ended quicker than the others; and a lot messier at that. The fruit of my labor: Jail time, probation, fines, community service, and a teenage girlfriend pregnant. Eventually, I got a hard working job in a plumbing supply warehouse where I worked sixty hour weeks unloading trailers of tubs and toilets. I never complained, and I began to do well. I had three boys and a girl in seven years, moved into a new house on the east side of El Paso, Texas. It was a gated community with our community clubhouse in the middle, a weight room and a swimming pool: all brand spankin’ new. We were the first family to move in, but when the rest started, they sure moved in fast, and haven’t stopped yet. Before long, I found myself running with the big dogs: in need of bigger cars, better clothes, and although married, more women. My hard work had earned me raises so far, but as warehouse manager, I could go no further in that field. I’d have to go in as salesperson or office manager, but without a head for business, that wasn’t going to happen. A great uncle of mine use to say, “To be a success in this world, you have to talk like a lawyer, fight like a boxer, and run like a track star.” I say that lawyers, boxers, and track stars aren’t born, they’re made, and the last I looked in the mirror, I was none of these. If I’m honest with myself, I never will be. I’m a thinker, a daydreamer, and a storyteller. I don’t make money off of any of these, but a content heart is better than retirement. All my ideas on the top fell through, and now, here at the bottom, all that’s left is “a servant.” “That’s right, ‘two to four o’clock’, I’m a lowly servant, and glad to do stuff this community could do without.” -Jacob
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