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Accommodations
by John T. Mason

Forty naked men sat squeezed, three deep around a pit about three feet wide and five feet long. We sat in cool, wet grass. I reached above to feel the canvass ceiling just inches from my head. Without glasses-we were told not to wear them because of the heat-I strained to see the murky figures across from me. I felt disoriented and alone. Most of all I was afraid of embarrassing myself in front of other men. Off to my right near the entrance sat Joseph. Behind him a little moonlight shone through the flap crease. I estimated that I would have to negotiate six or seven bodies to make my escape. I could hear my breathing. To be outside alone seemed even more frightening.

I could see a glow on a blissful face as he blew on the sage. Joseph had written a book on nature-based, in-the-woods, spiritual, life-affirming subjects. Tall and thin, a man about fifty years old, I imagined his taking delight from his herbal teas, berries and beans. I hated him. The aroma of sage filled the room.

The flap opened. Now I realized why the huge fire had been tended all that day. A way was cleared for a pitchfork device that held a pulsating, red-hot football shaped stone. All eyes opened wider, like animals in the dark forest, drugged by the dancing red light. The pitchfork man made ten visits before the flap was closed. Joseph reached down, began chanting something, and poured water over the stones. The heat made us gasp for air.

I felt that I was going under . I could hear my whimper between breaths. "Oh, God, how long will this last? What was I doing here? What was I going to find out about myself?" It was too painful to concentrate on the chanted words. There was meaning there, but not for me. More stones arrived. More water. "Jesus, I just want to survive." I was sitting in a puddle of my own sweat; my fingers had turned to prunes. The steamy pit seemed to move up from the ground. I could hear voices joining in the chanting. Did I hear my own voice? Counting prunes: one, two, three, four, five, four, three, two, one, two. What was I learning about myself? No military secrets were safe with me. I would gladly tell all. My essential cowardice, my private humiliation made public. My flight from the bully. And then I heard myself, "Oh, this heat. I don't think I can make it." Quiet. No scornful words, no laughing. Across from the pit came a voice, "Thomas, you're OK, man, you'll make it." I cried with gratitude. I breathed. I continued.

Suddenly, it all stopped. The flap opened and we crawled quietly out into the comforting night. Each of us found a space to lay our naked bodies on the luxurious, cool, wet grass. Each looked up at the bright full moon. It was glorious. Without my glasses, it was as though I saw the stars and moon from under water. Not far from where I lay, I heard a voice say to me, "Thank you, Thomas, I could not have made it without you." I would not drown. I took a deep breath. I was not alone.

 




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