Before I came to the Jungle, I lived a pretty average life in a pretty average western city. I spent most of my free time at a Library that served beer and had silent films and yeast to put in your popcorn. They hosted a left-winged movement of people who camped in front of their local federal buildings for a reason that escapes me now. 

I had become inspired by this happening, it seemed like a genuine grass-roots movement against all of the corruption in our country that I until recently thought I had been alone in seeing. I connected with my local sect of the movement.

We would wear sashes that symbolized solidarity. We would eat pretzels, drink, speak, and write clever letters that we would blast the city council with. We felt drunk and high like the founding fathers of our great nation must have.

      “It is becoming increasingly apparent to me that all of what the heroes of our country have fought for over the last couple of centuries, the liberties, rights, and dignities, are being perverted behind the backs of a duped and pacified general public that have fallen asleep at the wheel of democracy.

 Though in our slumber, some of mankind has remained awake and took lady liberty behind the bushes and out of her copper green twat, came the corporation, the bastard child of freedom. “Corporate Person-hood” means that corporations are humans like you and I, and that their money is equal to the same freedoms of speech I have to write you now.

Now it seems that some of man is waking up, and he has started a movement, I’m sure you’ve seen some of us sleeping in the doorway to your work in protest and I hope it has got you thinking.

As a man now waking up to what I myself have squandered in my apathy I am asking you, my elected officials, to do your duty as moral people, to uphold and protect what so many have given so much for and to at least recognize in your hearts that it was not for this.”

The mayor responded with a handwritten note

“Get a job.”

–The Mayor

I was not a complete misanthrope. 

I sustained a failed relationship with my high school sweetheart for years. 

Things had come to a point where it was either going to fall apart or we were gonna get married. It had been decided by the both of us, in order to save our relationship, we would move in together. She wanted me there for her in all the ways one can be there for another that are not just physical, but still, I was checked out. I had retreated on all fronts. We both became more and more sloppy with our cheating on each-other. The end wearily crept at our heels.

Later, my mother and my fiancé had discovered that I was developing plans to leave town forever. I’d take my guitar and my obscure songs that I spent all my time writing, pack my belongings in a gig bag and I’d be off to wherever music would allow me to go. I was bombarded with accusations that I was throwing away the life my mother had given me; the life that my girlfriend insisted on completing. Both women cried in each other’s arms and declared that counseling was the only answer for all three of us.

For a while, my brothers and I stood together in solidarity, and I think it worked as well as it did initially for the sole reason that people would drink enough to tolerate each other’s foolishness. Only after a few cold beers was it enjoyable to talk to my comrades all night long about marches and permits for marches and coordinating with the local police and taking turns guessing how many people we could fit in a three-foot by eight-foot “free speech zone” (Twenty-four, we found out).

Within a few weeks, it was becoming apparent that the revolutionaries were tired and though they were very skilled at pointing out all of the problems of the world and who to blame for them, they seemed to be too beat to put forth the effort that it would take to carry out their carefully discussed and meticulously plotted plans of action. My brothers and sisters that were not poor and hungry were set on working with the city, most of the lot were terrified of stepping out of line, some even threatened to condemn me if I misrepresented their movement to the city. I was too radical for supposed radicals.

 It was football season and everyone at work was wearing their favorite football jersey at the grocery store.

I had earned a nickname I grew to resent. I was christened this moniker during a conversation my bosses and I were having about cell phones and their nefarious implications.

“I’ve got a new name for you! Jungle Jim!” 

I chuckled politely for too long.

“You don’t want a cellphone Jim, go live in the Jungle, please.” Said a co-worker.’

I couldn’t save money at all. I was immoderate and munificent with every paycheck I slaved away for. Gambling had become therapeutic and the prospect of winning my way out soothed me.

The movement was adamantly against corporations, then the movement became a corporation. It happened pretty much like that.

This meeting was held in a bar, instead of the library, I remember. One of the revolutionaries that was on his way to play a game of pool happened to bump into me. The guy briefly told me about the changing of (more rightly the becoming of) a business. As I passed through the back door to the brightly lit pool room, the art that was displayed on the lime-green walls made me involuntarily scoff; it was a gallery of unframed, wrinkly, grainy photos of homeless people that someone printed out and had stapled to the library walls.

I wedged my way through the crowd to take a seat in the main room where the general assembly was being conducted. It was the last weekly meeting I would attend.

I found everyone holding hands in a circle with their heads down. I was very concerned to see that no one was drinking beer. 

As I was taking a seat, The head facilitator began chanting in a low emotionless voice: 

“We do not feel angry feelings toward anything”

 And in unison the rest of the cult of revolutionaries regurgitated the same insane statement without even thinking of what it meant to them. They seemed to forget they were all gathered together in the first place because they were angry.

For the first time since I had joined the movement, I used one of the silly hand signals my comrades would demand used.

 I walked to the middle of the room, I raised my hands above my head, and I formed a cross with my arms. The chanting continued. Some of the lower people on the totem pole. would steal a one-eyed peak during the chant, not at me but at the leaders to see if they were looking at me. After about ten minutes of me standing with my arms crossed above my head, the meeting started. No one paid any attention to me., A short and spotty, box-shaped college student facilitator who appeared to be a neither gender, cleared their throat and started the meeting by explaining the rules about hand signals. The facilitator stressed that you only ever make an X with your arms if you’re willing to walk away forever from the group and that if a member makes this signal, all others must stop immediately and address the issue at hand.

I left the Library and I took the road by the Truckee River on foot. I tore my solidarity rag off as I arrived at the river and intended on casting the thing in the raging winter waters, but rather just balled it up and slipped it into my pocket. I gripped it hard and in a malevolent stupor met the year’s first storm with my head bowed and my neck in throbbing pain.

There was this dream that I had that had been reoccurring for years. 

 I am running through a bustling Metropolis and it’s eerily silent and everything is sepia-toned.

I can’t find anyone for miles and there are abandoned cars everywhere. Finally, I come upon two men pulled over near a cafe. 

They’re idling in a cherried-out old Buick. I go to ask for their help but before I can talk, both of their mouths drop and they begin to scream and they start pointing at me. 

The two men exit the car and start coming at me pointing and screaming. Soon others come out of the buildings and join them in pointing and screaming and they chase me to a dark tree-line.

For some reason I am wearing in-line roller skates and I keep hurtling myself faster and faster into the forest. The screams at my back lesson but the darkness around me grows.

I get to the same idling Buick in the forest. It’s under a half-moon-blue streetlight, parked near a chain that says “Private Property, Beware of Mountain Lions and Me!”

I open the door to the car and sitting with hands on the wheel, is a skinned man, only it’s the opposite. He is just his skin and everything inside of its body had been sucked out of his face. The skin-man chokes on his banshee-like scream and begins to wiggle himself out of his seatbelt then shimmies towards me with rapid seizure-like convulsions, like the morbid offspring of a night crawler might have.

I dressed in my blue cotton robe and ventured down the hallway of my new three-bedroom rental, following the awful sounds to my guitar-player/roommates door. On the other side, I could hear him having sex with my girlfriend. They were both panting heavily and could clearly hear Baby’s all-too-familiar shrieking and moaning.

I poured a glass of water, ate peanut butter from the jar with a spoon, and went back to bed. It’s a shame the band ended because I found solace in the cathartic effort of composing songs that were imbued with my thoughts. It became an addictive passion, alas it was no anchor in the failing world.

The band broke up shortly after my roommate and my girlfriend hooked up and my dreams of running away from society went from a fantasy to a possibility that night. I got dressed, and went for a walk and found my way into a casino.

The casino was full of lifelessness; everything that wasn’t the living dead in the lightless trap could be considered the plain dead, and since the bubble busted a few years back, the casinos had been almost completely emptied. Fewer people could afford to travel, and most would sure as hell find a better use for their money than pissing it all away in a gloomy casino. The majority of the people I saw in the golden-walled, red-carpeted palace were old and haggard, seemingly taped-together cocktail waitresses whose bodies failed to form to the black, skintight, coat-tailed, showgirl work uniforms. The girls exuded the same sterility from their hollow eyes that could be heard in the form of robotic beeping and electric buzzing of the slots at every corner. While I was playing a slot called “King-tuts something” I thought, “What now?” 

There was a girl that I had worked with at the grocery store for years who I was absolutely in love with. I was already codependent on her but she had a boyfriend.

I had to tell her that I love her. That was all that was left for me in society. 

I would write a letter, or a speech, or maybe I would see if I had any talent at writing love songs. I thought of many different ways and ideas to tell her how I love her in the past but I was not a strong writer and I was too shy. How would I find the words to tell her I loved her? The more I planned and contrived the moment in my head, the more strained my feelings toward telling her became. Fear had begun to turn on the desire to express my love to her. As quickly as the idea had entered my mind, it left.

“BUFFALO!!” Screamed the slot machine that I sat at.

I was so deep in thought when it hit that I had no idea how much I had bet or what I had actually won. I was confused and bedazzled by the machine as it flashed and chimed. For half an hour, it yelped and beeped and danced with colors and lights.

The whole ordeal of getting my winnings took a little under a year. They only gave me ten grand on my way out of the casino, and I was told that I was to receive the rest of the winnings over the next year.

Even though I had wizened up enough to keep my mouth shut about my far-left agenda and my contempt for society, the name Jungle Jim never went away at my job. It was an on-going joke that one day I was gonna get so fed up that I was gonna end up living in a jungle somewhere as a savage. It was irony or destiny, or it was something but that’s just what I did. 

I went and I lived in the jungle.

I would find a quiet spot where my money would go far, where there would be no more movements and no more disappointing relationships. No more crushed dreams and apathetic eyes. No more processed foods and boxed-in ways of thinking. I would be a one-man force of nature that would thrive, living off the rich lands of South America. There’s was just one thing left to do.

All life’s choices can be distilled down to either a brave choice or a cowardly choice.

On my way out of my last shift at the grocery store, I exited by detouring through Sophia’s checkout line. I handed her a letter and dashed away in a hurry, and I never saw her again.

Did she open the letter? I hope not, but probably so, if she did it would have read:

“I finally found the words to tell you I love you, good-bye.”

Struck by lightning, that’s how I felt when I had earned my precious fortune at the casino the previous year. The captain’s voice blurted over the intercom and tried to reassure the passengers and myself our guaranteed safety. He told us that the left engine that had erupted into a cauldron of shrieking white fury had less of a chance of exploding than the plane had of being struck by lightning, which happened immediately after he spoke. The captain retracted his previous statement to clarify what he had meant. The captain said, “We are all going to die!”

Maybe part of my subconscious had realized I was destined for greater things and that I was to survive the ordeal because I was completely dispassionate and calm as the plane violently roared towards the dense jungle below.

The cabin rocked noisily and jerked back and forth. My calmness did not last long though. Fear set in but I had also become excited, sexually.

“This is life!” I thought. I had never felt as alive as I did that day, in retrospect. 

I quickly climbed over piles of scattered luggage and splattered food trays and slipped on a greasy cheese thing. I was determined to go down with a bang. I headed toward first class searching for some company, and people with money were usually hotter than those without. I pulled back the blue fruit punch-stained curtains, I remember thinking of clever last words but being at a complete loss.

There she was, a breathtaking golden-haired angel, clad in a snow-white sundress. She was sitting with her back to the window and her arms round her legs rocking back and forth and crying. I had seen enough. I climbed with all of my might toward her while the plane was leveling out at a forty-degree angle. When I finally made it to her, she paid no attention to my arrival, her face was pale, and her eyes stared through me. I found the perfect last words just then, an answer for everything. I noticed the smell of feces as I neared the damsel. Looking down, I saw a little brown stain on her white sundress and realized the smell was because she had emptied her faculties. 

“Gross!”

She didn’t hear me.

I couldn’t have found better last words if I had an entire lifetime to decide. It is very unfortunate that those weren’t my last.

I missed my arm and eye immediately; I felt that I was a horrible disfigured monster that could no longer compete genetically with the rest of the free world. My idea of being a one-man force of nature that could combat and harness the powers of every element at my disposal had died 

"Me? Me of all people!?” I sobbed, “This could not happen to me!” I would have screamed out-loud if I could, “Something is wrong!” I wanted proof of God so that I might take my grievance to the bastard and rub his nose in it. I wanted to demand from him that there must have been some mistake and that he was obligated to correct it.

Near to and looking over the grim and gaping display of twisted metal and the charred and bent cadavers of folks of every sort sat our tepee. It could not have been any closer to the quicksand that the plane rested on as it was treacherous. 

I learned that solid soil in that part of the jungle was rare. I also learned that I was surrounded by the same quicksand the plane had impaled. For miles and miles, there were thick mahogany woods, horned bushes, and many creeks and rivers, all of which were founded in or surrounded by brown and gray quicksand. I was on a mound of blush-brick bare clay earth that bore what was left of me from the quicksand. The mound was approximately one-half acre in diameter and almost perfectly oval, nothing grew in the brumal clay, though vivacious green roots scanned its sides. No matter how hot and muggy the jungle made the day, you could always burry your feet in the cool chilled earth for some relief if you felt up to the digging, I miss that. 

         The tepee was disappointing and lacked any aesthetic appeal to me in the sense that it looked exactly like—down to the colorful hand paintings of horses and the animal skin it was made of—what I would have expected a tepee to look like, and it even had a dream catcher in it.

The first few days in the jungle was only a formless memory because of the intense pain the cauterization of my wounds entailed. I vaguely remember the burning in my throat from the steaming hot liquids that were routinely being forced down it. It’s funny how I am barely able to recall the memory of the pleasing sounds that were produced by the birds of paradise that surrounded me during those arduous first few days. I have no memory of the gamboling birds that crooned ardently to one another for a chance to procreate and the mating dances they would instinctively perform, which I would later grow to love and even fancy, at lolling times of delight that the birds existed purely and only for my own personal entertainment. I was aloof to the gorgeous scenery of lush nodding trees that swayed passively in the confused gold and green wilderness. I paid no mind to the trickle of the tropical breeze that caressed the leaves of the trees that surrounded and protected our mound; trees that bore a dozen different tropical fruits that would soon become a staple in my diet. The crimson velvet passion flowers danced waiting for my caretakers and me to make tea with, and the emerald suede pineapple guava berries hung heavily, but not with despair, and all to my complete ignorance. The only memory I can now recall vividly from those early days of disaffiliation with the ending world, save for the constant stone-smell of rain was the malady I endured from my infected wounds. Even in my subconscious, I focused entirely on the prominence of pain and not the subtleties of beauty; it is in my nature to make these terminal mistakes

“Feubr auury – Ferary – Februauuruuy – Fregrehairy.” I coughed. My caretakers had been away for too long. I was beginning to worry about everything. It was a cool jungle night. I lay in the tepee helplessly, and my mouth was like fly paper that only ever knew moisture in the form of vinegar carelessly spilt on it longer ago that anyone remembered. 

For no reason in particular, I chose a tongue-twisting word to start learning how to speak again. I chose a word that I had never had very much luck pronouncing properly even at my physical and mental peak as my very first word to conquer the road to being able to explain to the real people of the real world that they are in fact disfigured and should be so lucky to experience such a unique way of existing.

A plan began to hatch in my mind for what I would do if ever I made it home. I obsessed on the thought and plotted out every possible scenario. I was terribly worried about the money I had won from the casino. My heart sank when I realized my pants and luggage with all my worldly belongings were missing and that I had been clad in a rag that resembled a loin cloth. I could not truly rest until I knew what had become of the money. If I still had money (if it was no more, I would be no more, it was decided), I would make it home anyway possible and do whatever I could to fit into society and to make more money (happiness) and to live a normal life. I was no longer picky and reserved about selling out artistically, professionally or culturally. I was ready to drop any moral that may prevent me from having a normal, maybe even moderately successful life in a heartbeat to anyone who would give me (a cripple like me) a chance at fitting in. I thought half in a coma of agony, “I’ll settle with not being noticed. I’ll play covers in a cover band. I’ll work forever, I’ll marry someone safe and with money.

It had been since the previous morning that I had seen my caretakers, and it was now late in the afternoon of the next day. It was hot and damp. The gnats had made their presence permanent in my life and were getting the very best of me in my weakened state. I could no longer ignore the weak signal of the urgent and violent spasms of pain that my shrinking stomach was sending to my unreceptive brain.

 “Where were they?” I thought. “What were they going to do next?” I had no idea what those two mysterious men were capable of and didn’t want to find out. I had begun to think they were nursing me back to life in order to sell me as a one-armed one-eyed gimp slave. 

  I settled in my mind with the conclusion that they were planning to ransom me for money using bits of my remaining body as leverage for their sick scheme until their shallow demands were met. I had been wearing very nice clothes when I first arrived, I could have been thought to have been rich or important by the Indians who stole me from my grave. Most of my tan suede jacket had melted to the remnants of my right arm, and my shoes, which were squared at the front, had disappeared into the murky jasmine green jungle or perhaps into the quicksand. The only article of clothing that remained from my old life, though burnt and tattered, was my 99% solidarity rag from the social justice movement that betrayed me. It seemed that my caretakers had rescued it with me and had wrapped it around my head as an eye patch.

The flap of the tepee had been left open. I peered out past the curtain of fruit trees that shrouded our mound of clay. I could see the husk of the plane and noticed that it was actually sinking. The left wing of the plane that recently extended; from my stationary view, the height of the bottom branches of the tree line it rested in front of had clearly sunk to be level with the tallest horned bushes it was near.

    Without any more thought to what the Idians might do to me if or when they might return, I closed my eyes and fell asleep.

Waking and seeing what the Indians were doing I yelled out, “You FOOLS!”  “Don’t you know what that is?” “Don’t you know what you’re doing, that’s a Federal crime!” I stood up for the first time since the crash and made an attempt at a mad dash but failed when my legs gave way. I fell at the Indians two feet begging. 

    The final nail through the coffin was struck, life was over. I yelled, pouted, pleaded, I cried for mercy and begged for compassion. I promised the hunters more money than the amount of the remaining cash they had not used as fuel to entice the dwindling campfire to stop. Ninety thousand dollars really made that fire dance.

The Indians had apparently returned sometime during the day from a journey to the hunting grounds. It was the engaging smell of roasted jungle opossum the hunters were preparing that begged me awake. My caretakers would later explain to me that they knew a way through the mud and where to hunt and that they would climb down the reaching arms of the jungle that bore us the fruit for our feast. Then they would lead each other down to a hidden, treacherous path of solid clay and mud, where they had set up a sort of a balancing zip line of tree vines that hovered over the path; they would use this to steady their delicate footing on the unsafe road to the hunting grounds.

There was nothing to continue; no life or love to look forward to. Anything that enticed one of my bodily senses to function was a curse. “Kill me,” I thought. My body was in ruins, my fortune disintegrated, and my ego in tatters. Even a monotonous, prescription drug —induced slavery sounded like the Promised Land to me at that point.

Not even blind and raging blame could comfort me anymore (though it certainly works for me now). I could no longer lock myself away in a fragile shell of confusion. Distaste did nothing to promote any comfort in my mind. I was a tree, the grass, the breeze, the gnats surrounding my face, a spectator with no flesh or bounds of selfish goals and with nothing to be selfish for. I had no presumptions about what life needed to be or what I rightfully deserved.

I lay still at the feet of those two awesome, dark, strangers, with their eyes smiling and imploring mine to see the love they were trying to share. They reached out a long steady arm each and with their firm rugged hands sat me on a log. The older looking one, Shooshi, while laughing, reached out one of his massive hands to shake. I would have returned the gesture if I had a hand to give. He had deliberately gone for my missing arm. When he saw that I was unable to shake, he pulled away quickly and pointed at me with his tree-branch finger, shot a contagious smile at me that grew steadily across his churlish old face, and said “Gotcha!” followed by the disruptive laughter of both men.

Takumat gave me a red clay plate with many tender cuts of jungle opossum; they gave me the butt piece and the legs. The dish was garnished with passionflowers and scattered pineapple guava berries. Takumat poured for me in a clay goblet what I began to fondly call “jungle juice.” 

He handed it to me and said, “Do not keep too sober a state of mind Jim, you risk finding God.” 

The liquid Takumat gave me was surely a wine made of the bounty of the collected fruits that rained daily onto our mound from the encompassing arms of our tree protectors. The smell of fermenting fruits was never absent from the heavy air, and there were always flies buzzing about but was worth the inconveniences because the wine actually tasted great and was exactly what I needed to cope with whatever hell life is or is trying to be. 

I began to speak with my rescuers for the very first time—which I called that night and now my guardian angels—over my first solid meal in over a month as all three of us tossed the jug about and heartily drank to each other’s health. What luck to drink with company. It made no sense to me, and still doesn’t - to discover that both men spoke a great deal more than just broken bits and pieces of English like I had first thought. 

Though there was an exceptional language barrier between my friends and I at times, both men were highly intellectual beings and seemed to understand everything I said. Sometimes they would speak to one another in a foreign tongue that I could not understand, and other times they would operate in what I called “grunt mode,” acting like cavemen in speech and body language.

Sometimes my caretakers would speak like an immigrant who had just learned English, but what I found that makes no sense at all is that whenever Shooshi or Takumat would express their philosophies or speak broader concepts with more than just a few words, both of their accents changed from being deep tribal grumbles to having a familiar and soft western accent. I never asked for an explanation for why they spoke my language even better than I did at times. I was done questioning every little thing that made no sense, which was the greatest relief I have ever known. I did wonder what was in that cabin though...

Within two or three generous swigs of jungle juice, my caretakers and I were laughing hysterically and giving cheers. I told them both how much I truly loved them and begged for their forgiveness. I called them saints for having mended a poor old wretch like me back to such a standard of health; they only laughed at me and begged of me to sing. They had shown interest in what they called my “craft” after hearing my explanation of wanting to be a singer in my old life. I told them that if I ever made it back, I would try my hardest at it and would do whatever it may take to make it as a singer. It took a great deal of begging and pleading and jungle juice for them to get me to sing my song. I told them it was called Shed A Tear.

Beg your pardon,

I wasn’t listening.

All the horror

Of the things I’ve seen

I think I know what to fear

It’s the end shed a tear

I was surprised to hear the lightness of my voice in all of its strength. My voice had never sounded so rich to me before. It must have been the lack of smoking and the passionflower tea or the building confidence and security I was beginning to find in the presence of my new friends. I could see in the eyes of my guardians that my song was captivating to them. They seemed eager to hear each word. I could hear every part in my head, the lamenting cello, a bellowing but careful bass, and the weeping of a viola. I could hear an entire symphony building through each phrase, and I am sure that they heard it to. I cleared my throat and continued.

I’m a monster and so are you

We’ve done more than

We could ever undo

I think I know what to fear

It’s the end

Shed a tear

I loved the hunt

Now I’m on the run

They’ll have my head for

The things I’ve done

I think I know what to fear

It’s the end shed a tear.

I held the last note and let it fade with my slowing vibrato into infinity to become some other, never-resting form of energy. A tear swelled from my eye. I tried to blink it away, but I began to cry uncontrollably. My friends held me with open and loving arms. I felt as though I had released all of my negative energy and harmful thoughts to the world. No longer was there a bitter taste to life; it had been replaced with a pallet for all of the flavors the world had in store for me. 

A new boundless respect and appreciation for life and my ability to still be a part of it, whatever I looked like, was born that day through the grace and respect of two absolute strangers. It is incredibly embarrassing to revisit this memory now, but that night I drunkenly cried and begged for Shooshi to share the answer of being content and happy with me for he seemed to have all the answers that I, as an exploited-from-birth westerner, was without. 

The old man told me, “A truly cursed life is a life that believes that being content is being happy, Jim.” 

I replied by saying that at least I was happier alive than I would have been dead. Without a word, I could tell that Shooshi disagreed. He put his hand over the shoulder of my good arm and looked out into the jungle at the last debris of wreckage and knocked over trees that the quicksand hadn’t swallowed. 

He could see I was concerned with the sight. Shooshi smiled and said tenderly to me, “Death is true satisfaction, for you are no longer fruitlessly looking to be satisfied, Jim.”

Every time the man opened his mouth, he seemed to have some ancient wisdom for me that would provide days of philosophical reflection for my restless but occupied mind. 

Shooshi continued by saying,   “I do believe you will be happier here than you ever remember being in the short amount of time we have together Jim, for man is at his best when he is surviving and at his worst when he is thriving.”

*To Be Continued*