A Thomas C.

Flynn Story

Written By Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn

Copyright © 2006 Marvin Thomas Cox
DBA: Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn
All Rights Reserved

Walking In The Shoes of Madness by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 1

 Walking In the Shoes of Madness
A Thomas C. Flynn Short Story
Written By Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn
Copyright © 2006 Marvin Thomas Cox
DBA: Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn
All Rights Reserved

The madness swept over him in waves now, frequently as not drowning out any
semblance of reality; its presence an all-encompassing darkness prevailing irresistibly over his
mind; a world of warring shadows and fleeting images of what used to be. Behind his
despondent eyes loomed a vast pool of oblivion where upon occasion you might detect an
indistinct flicker of light, indistinguishable in that if one could actually peer into the human
mind you might wonder if you had seen anything at all. Yet, for a moment, seemingly so
intense that the interior of the cranium illuminated with a hint of genius, purpose, and
possibly more … Hope … But, no, whatever you thought you had seen was gone and you were
left wondering if you had seen anything at all while you quickly looked away lest the contagion
afflicting this poor soul should overtake you as well.
Ah but it has, as that momentary look into his eyes has taken you captive, having
shanghaied you upon a journey into the world of a madman’s mind. A world where jungles
are as dense as they are dangerous, desert mirages are realities eagerly sought after, and deep
crevasses and canyons resound while rivers of pain and torrents of fear, worry, and doubt
make their way towards the cold murky depths where they coalesce into what is now all he
knows himself to be. You are along for the ride … Wherever the road may lead … Whatever
the future may hold …
Madmen inhabit the earth in significant numbers, though their presence rarely noted
unless, of course, they are famous for vile acts of murder or mayhem. Otherwise, the average
madman himself is seldom, if ever, seen. He may reside among us in the same community;
sometimes working at the same job; perhaps even living next door. We, in our higher plane of
cordial bliss, assume they are all locked up securely somewhere out of sight … Out of mind. It
is we who choose to not see them. They are invisible because we have cloaked them with
invisibility, sweeping them beneath the carpet of our consciences as one kindly covers the
dead—not so much for the sake of the dead, but for the sake of those forced to look upon
them.

Walking In The Shoes of Madness by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 2

 ____________

Let us now meet our Klingon friend, who lives his life hidden behind the cloaking
device we have bestowed upon him. His invisibility has rendered him what’s his face or
what’s his name to most. Even to those he considers his friends, those who actually know his
name, he has always been a bit odd, but they have been impressed over the years—perhaps
with a pinch of jealousy—with his talents and abilities, and a confidence which, to them,
bordered on arrogance. They could not help but take note that he fanatically gave his all to his
every endeavor and, despite those who might secretly hate him for it, reaped success. Shane
Lipinski exhibited all the appearances of a man having his life together, his ducks all in a row.
That is, until the day they all noticed … The change. Something was different. It had
always been there looming in the distance; something elusive which they could not quite put
their fingers on; something which made him different, in an inexplicable way, from
themselves and others; something which they could not quite understand or pin point. Now,
jangling alarms were going off within their heads signaling a warning that something indeed
was most definitely wrong.
He had always changed jobs quite frequently over the years. Though that had come to
be considered a no-no in today’s society, to his friends it seemed that he was focusing on what
was truly important in life—that being money—and with each job change came an increase in
income for their job wandering friend. Whenever it might look as if he had reached the end of
his employment rope, low and behold, he would always land a job better than the last.
One day, he did not land that new job … An undeniable sign that something had
changed …
Unknown to them he had been desperately pushing a very large boulder up an ever
increasingly steep hill for these many years. Appearing to be audacious and conquering the
world to those outside, inside he had been growing weary for quite some time and the boulder
of success had long since begun to roll back down the hill upon him—overtaking him for all his
friends to see and, of course, the small-town in which he lived. As the scent of blood coursing
through the sea will draw sharks for miles around, or the smell of blood in the air draws
wolves, the vultures of a small community gather hungrily with ravenous eyes to feed
impatiently upon those who have fallen maimed or crippled. Gossip is their feast and they
feed well upon it reveling in its filth—proud of their catch and greedy for more. Keenly they
sense death is near and await its every throe. Let the feeding frenzy begin! The most energetic
of vultures are, of course, always those you believe to be your friends ...
What his friends presumed to be audaciousness and arrogance was in reality a simple
defense mechanism deployed to deter those who might destroy what little confidence he had
in himself. He had fought desperately to live up to the status quo; be what everyone expects a
man to be; work hard, earn a living, and support a family. They were unaware of the fact that
essentially he was damaged goods and had been most all his life.
In today’s modern terminology, he was dysfunctional—the byproduct of a
dysfunctional family. The many ingredients which had contributed to the molding effects of

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his environment, had begun with the divorce of his parents when he was but a toddler—they,
themselves, dysfunctional offspring of dysfunctional families. Both parents having
remarried to different people, he had been raised from the age of three by his mom and step
dad—another dysfunctional soul as like attracts like—who had spent their years together
fussing and fighting, with numerous separations, near divorces, and moving—always moving.
Always moving always meant a change in schools, a change in friends.
Change had been a certainty in his life; lurking within the shadows of any semblance of
stability. At one time he could recall thirty-three different addresses—various rent houses and
stays with relatives—he and his parents had lived at from the time he was three or four years
old, until he was eighteen. Now time had erased much of this memory, with only twenty-three
remaining addresses he could honestly jot down. It had never entered his mind that some of
this might rub off on him; maybe affect him in later years. Much like the road noise that you
continued to hear in your ears long after arriving from a trip back in the days when cars and
pickups were not quite so well insulated, it seemed, though his childhood days were over, he
was still in the process of moving with his parents deep within the recesses of his mind.
The final product: Shane was a compulsive worrier. There had always been something
to worry about every day of his childhood. He worried incessantly. He simply did not know
how to stop. Unconsciously over the years, he had acclimatized to always having something to
worry about and living his life in a series of do or die situations. He hated those situations, but
many times it was he, himself, who helped to create them, feeling within an uncontrollable
urge to move.
Over the years, he had learned to fear two words intensely: Mental Illness and
hereditary. There were four letters as well which caused him to cringe at the very thought of
speaking: MHMR. (Mental Health and Mental Retardation). All of these things seem to have
a certain stigma about them, most especially within the confines of a small-town.
It had crossed his mind on occasion that you received friendlier looks if folks thought
you had an STD (Sexually Transmitted Disease), than to have them know that you were an
MHMR patient. It seemed that most people enjoyed thinking about sex quite a bit more than
they did Mental Illness. Something about the term mentally ill frightened people. How well he
had come to understand this, now that he himself was wearing the shoes of Mental Illness and
walking in them within his own mind.
He had not had a clue what his mom had lived with, having always assumed she was
faking her condition to get attention. She had passed on some years ago. It was too late for
apologies now, and he lived with deep regrets as to how he had treated her. He had never even
taken the time to do any reading or research to try and understand the symptoms of her
illness, or what she might be going through.
Redundancy had quickly become repetitive in nature, as the small-town vultures
viciously strewed the tasty morsels of their victim to the four winds of the community.
Working odd jobs when and where he could, he found that having worked hard all his life—
when tallying in all the frequent job changes—now was equated with not having worked at all.
It struck him as extremely cruel that the business world of today set a higher value on lazy
clock watching unmotivated-employees, whose only attribute was showing up regularly for a
paycheck for five to ten years, over someone who would seek to profit their employer with
honest, self-motivated, hard work. Truly, America had changed, and the days of the much-
appreciated drifting worker had long since passed. He had not been in one place long enough
to notice. He was still moving—living helplessly in the past.
If you factored in the whispered words mentally ill, or MHMR, now you had a whole

Walking In The Shoes of Madness by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 4

'nother ball game. Pour in the magic ingredients of self-medication with alcohol or drugs, as
is common with many mental illnesses, and that will set the vultures of any small-town,
anywhere, at the very pinnacle of ecstasy—within a hairsbreadth of loosing their own minds
from the sheer pleasure of savoring each, and every luscious, deliciously marinated and
seasoned, beak full.
Of course, his vulturous friends eagerly desired to give him their kingly advice in
seizing the moment of realizing he was now at the lowest point in his life—pummeling advice
that someone never having experienced blindness might insensitively offer to a blind man
without possessing the slightest inkling of the very real reality of living in a world of total
darkness, all the while pecking and scratching for newer, juicier, information as the chickens
in any pen will peck at another if it has but a speck of blood on its feathers; pecking away at
the sight of blood until the unfortunate fowl drops dead in its tracks; a gaping hole eaten into
its body.
In his attempts to get a handle on his illness and regain control of his life once more, he
had come to realize that the, feigned medicine, of caring advice his friends were feeding him
was worsening his condition. Often times, he would be having a decent day until stopping in
to see one of his friends, to only find himself discouraged and depressed upon leaving. He had
enough of that in his life already. There had been times recently when he had remained in bed
for days on end, sleeping, not wanting to face the world. He had no need for more. He dreaded
seeing them, and avoided talking with them as often as possible.
His hometown had suddenly become the prison in which he lived, not only trapped
within the confines and agonies of his mind with a wife and children struggling to understand
what he was going through, but now paranoia, like a virus, had overtaken him and the pecking
whispers of the vultures seemed to be echoing in everyone he saw. Shame had become his
name; shame because he could not be like everyone else; shame because he could not be what
everyone else expected. To ease his inner pain, Shane began to play a little game— with
himself. He called it: Shame’s Game.
It was only a game, or so he told himself, simply innocent fantasies of imagining ever
newer and diverse ways of doing himself in 1—a sweet repose from his war of worries. He
knew, somewhere deep inside, that this fixation with dying had its beginnings long ago and its
roots in never being able to grasp or hold onto happiness. Happiness was elusive—always out
of his reach. Each new job, new hobby, or new habit in his life had always been an attempt at
being happy. Others found happiness, but not him. He had thought that he had found it a few
times, but something within him would rise up and push the happiness away as if to say, “This
is something you can’t keep … It’s time to move on.” When Groundhog Day came out at
theaters, he felt as if he had already lived the movie for much of his life, and he was tired—so
very tired.

____________

In desperation, he had turned to religion, visiting several local churches. In seeking to

simplify his life, he soon discovered that seeking the Creator of all that is and will ever be
could be quite complicated. God was said to be all powerful and all knowing. Folks said He
was every place, even in space, at the same time. This baffled Shane, immensely, in

Walking In The Shoes of Madness by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 5

wonderment of how God could have been everywhere at the same time, in the same instant,
and yet somehow He managed to tell every flavor and variety of religion a different version of
who He was and what He expected from mankind. Shane was mentally ill, but he was not
stupid. He could reason for himself, even if his mood swings often got the best of him.
If half of what religious people said were true, it stood to reason that God was pretty
damned old. Maybe He'd developed Alzheimer's. Alzheimer's had to have come from
somewhere. One thing was for sure: God had an insecurity complex. Because, even after
creating all that is and will ever be, He did not feel appreciated and recognized for all of His
accomplishments. Another thing: If religion could be believed, clearly God was a narcissist
and the originator of the terminology big I and little you.
Shane had seriously begun to wonder if religion, and its various renditions of God, were
just some sick joke played upon those gullible enough to be duped into believing a bunch of
magical fairy-tales and ritual observances—that, coincidentally, always tended to lighten one's
pocketbook. Why would God need money? What did money have to do with worship, except
that men do tend to worship money? Perhaps, religion's leaders needed money and giving to
God was just a clever front used to fleece the sheep.
He could not help but wonder how a God who didn't need food or sleep could possibly
need to be worshiped. How could it possibly be that a person's lack of belief in God could
affect Him. Would God cease to exist if no one believed in Him? Did God exist only because
we believe in Him? If that were the case, would it not be man, in fact, who created God?
So, who really did create the Universe? Who, exactly, was responsible for Shane's
existence, miserable as it had become? There had to be a true Creator out there some where—
there had to be! And so, Shane sought that true Creator in fervent prayer. For lack of a better
term, he continued to call him God.
He prayed for healing that simply did not come, not healing for his Mental Illness
alone but, healing in his spiritual walk, to be the man he believed himself called to be. To both
pleas, he had received no reply. Of course, religion said that God does not always answer every
prayer with a yes. Of late, he had questioned whether any God answered any prayers at all—
anymore.
Obviously there had to be a Creator, of some kind, or else there would be no existence,
but where was the true evidence of a personal—one on one—God? And why did He seem to be
angry more often than happy? It seemed that happiness eluded even God. If true, then, Shane
knew he didn't have a chance in hell of ever finding happiness—or so it seemed ...
No … God was far too busy creating new galactic works of art to take any interest in
doing any touch up or repair work on His creations outside the realm of the masterpiece
category. God made time, created it, but He did not have time for Shane. Obviously, God
could not control time, if He could not make time, after having created time.
A bit of paranoia had brought him to a grandiose conclusion: Time was a Frankenstein!
Wasn't Frankenstein named after his creator, Dr. Frankenstein? Thus, it had to be that God is
a Dr. Frankenstein. God is a doctor that has no time to heal. He specializes in monsters like
Hitler, but has no time to help the working class, mentally ill, average Joe struggling to make
ends meet.
All the whirring of all the gears turning and grinding in seeking answers of
understanding had now brought Shane to the brink of sheer mental melt down, as more than
ample seasoning for too much reasoning upon the illogical mental conditioning of man's
organized religion. Shane had arrived at the point of saying, “Fuck it all!”

Walking In The Shoes of Madness by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 6

 ____________

“Life's a bitch and, then, you die—not near soon enough!,” had become Shane's motto.
This line of reasoning usually ensued when he made his regular appointment to the
MHMR office. As is so often the case with small towns, this small-town was not quite up with
the times, new millennium or not, as though the date 2006 meant absolutely nothing to city
officials, much less city planners. Shane consoled himself in the fact that there even was an
MHMR office in this, Podunk2, Texas, small-town, where Mental Illness was a word always
whispered behind hands that sought to conceal gossiping lips.
It came as no surprise, upon his first visit, to find the MHMR office located in a
building along with various other medical doctors, dentists, and practitioners. So a special
treat was in store for those who entered, as they received the privilege of sharing the waiting
room with other patients, each with appointments and doctors of their own. Somehow, the
privacy clause which protected MHMR patients from others knowing they were nuts had long
since been nullified by simple and logical deduction. Clearly this small-town considered
HIPPA to be a Yankee form of the word hippie, rather than a law passed in 1996.
Patients are people, though not always treated as such, and people in general are not
stupid. On the contrary, given time, even the dumbest of us would take notice of which nurses
or employees work for which doctors, after all it is human nature—worse still, it is the
vulturous nature. While all eyes watched attentively, the nice lady—who so obviously worked
for MHMR—would come to the doorway and call your name, and bingo: Everyone instantly
knew you were an MHMR patient. From that time forward, you were not looked upon quite
the same. You were sinfully, nakedly, visible. Normal folks now saw you whether they desired
to or not, and not was what they desired. Privacy had become an idiot’s illusion. If you
believed it, that in itself was evidence you were mentally deranged.
One fellow in particular, as chance or karma would have it, always seemed to be there
when Shane made his monthly visit; always staring with an angry look of disgust. This fellow,
Bill Payne he had heard his name called, would get up from his seat and move as far away
from him or other MHMR patients as possible—increasing the discomfort level in the air
immensely by the very act of doing so.
Many times, he had prayed that Bill would stop coming, find a different doctor
somewhere else, move away, anything but sit there and stare at him every visit to the MHMR.
If he was seeing a dentist, just how many teeth could the man have?
In disgusted desperation he had offered up one final prayer, “Please, if you won’t heal
me, at least let this jerk know what it feels like to walk in my shoes. Maybe then he will stop
staring and mind his own damned business.”
Shane felt he was paying for his sins—paying for the hateful and selfish way in which he
had treated his own mother—and obviously, to him, God was sending Bill to punish him for
his wickedness. How long would he have to pay? He knew he deserved forever—and then
some.
It was on his next visit, as he was asked about his spiritual life, that he learned one of

Walking In The Shoes of Madness by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 7

the many symptoms of his disorder was termed as: Religious connotations3. Even in his
desire to be a good man, he was doomed to be consistently inconsistent, because his religious
zeal was simply a product of his cycles of mania—a delusion of his elevated state of psychosis.
This new knowledge literally took all the wind of hope out of his sails. Never had it entered his
mind that part of his psychosis was due to years of ingrained mental conditioning by the
sorcerers of religion. While his logical mind had concluded man's organized religion as
bullshit, his emotions continued to be ruled by the very false hope, guilt laden, lies he sought
to be free of, while recognizing that some one or some thing had to have created all of
existence. Regardless, Shane's life had never looked so bleak …

____________

Just when the ship of his life seemed becalmed upon a dead sea, he landed a job. An
aluminum recycling plant was located just outside the city limits. He had applied there several
times without any result. The company suffered from a heavy turn over of employees, and
Shane was sure that out of shear desperation and lack of other applicants they had given him a
shot working in production on the midnight shift. The wages were not at all what he had
grown accustomed to over the years, but it was steady work. He had heard that the company
usually ran a skeleton crew during the night and that, at least, would allow him to not have to
deal with so many other people. He worked best when he worked alone.
Several months went by and, to everyone working at the plant, Shane was doing a really
bang up job. He appeared as if he liked the midnight shift, and he seemed to get along well
enough with the other guys he worked with. He was giving it his full one hundred percent
effort just like he had done with every job he had ever had.
As a few more months went by, the picturesque atmosphere at work began to darken,
with storm clouds gathering. It was happening again. Shane could see the cycle was about to
repeat itself … Not so much the cycle, but him—always him—always moving. It always
started with the manner in which he fanatically gave his all to everything he did. Sooner or
later, those you work with will begin to resent your well intended efforts beyond the call of
duty, especially if it falls into the category of being beyond what they themselves are willing to
contribute for the good of the company.
More times than he could remember, it seemed he could always count on at least one
individual to, eventually, develop a nasty hatred or resentment of him. This had been Shane’s
life since grade school. Every year, and in each new school he had attended, there would
always be that divinely designated person whose assignment for the entirety of the school year
was to make Shane Lipinski’s life miserable. Perniciously singling Shane out, he would
relentlessly hound him without mercy. Being the new kid in town was not all it was cracked
up to be. The new kid does not belong. From the first breath, some children are often born
with the propensity for being the cruelest of creatures. The new kid always seemed to bring
this latent talent to the surface as though one were awakening a sleeping bear. Being the new
kid on a continual basis fed his acquired appetite for worry—truly his worst enemy. He was
beginning to get that old familiar feeling once again. It usually triggered the move.
No one could possibly be a harsher critic of Shane, than Shane himself was. This was

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the great unknown driving his self-motivation in all he did to the maximum degree of
extreme, expecting nothing less than perfection from himself. Criticism from others rang forth
in his ears and dampened his heart as crescendos demanding—“More power Scotty, I need
more power”—far and beyond the utmost all he was already giving in his attempts at
perfection, at happiness, and at pleasing others—his overloaded warp engines already pushing
him at full velocity. Their well intended criticisms served as a powerful magnifying glass,
focusing ever so sharply and crisply on every detail of Shane’s unattainable goal, destroying
his beleaguered confidence in himself and his need to be a valuable employee to any company
he worked for. There had been times in the past when he had outright quit jobs, because he,
himself, did not feel he was doing his best at his position.

____________

... The incident came as no surprise, though his ever fiber had hoped against it ever
happening. It would have been nothing big to most folks, just a little disagreement, where one
of the men on his shift had made a wise crack about him being a brown-noser. Shane had
tried to take the comment in a friendly manner, and had even responded jokingly that the guy
was full of shit.
This brought about an angry response from his coworker. “You act as though you own
stock in this company or something. You’re the shift foreman’s personal little shadow!”
The entire confrontation lasted only a few minutes. His coworker was over his expletive
venting of personal frustration, and within a short while, to him, the whole episode seemed
quite trivial. He knew Shane wasn’t really a brown-noser, but with Shane working as though
he were killing snakes, it caused everyone else on the shift to look bad unless they also picked
up the pace …

____________

… Several days later, Shane was still upset, living out in his mind the disagreement
with his coworker. Having taken every word to heart, he felt that this must be what all his
coworkers thought of him. He had gnawed upon it night and day, like a dog with a bone, since
it had happened. He could think of nothing else. Common sense told him to let it go, but he
simply could not get it out of his mind. It might take a few more days, or another week, before
his mind would be able to turn it loose. After all, just because you're paranoid, does not mean
that someone is not out to get you. A little paranoia can be a good thing—at the right time.
If not, like a stuck record, he would keep playing the entire scenario through his mind
over and over again—dissecting it piece by piece, word by word, motive by motive—in
beating a dead horse until in the end he simply wouldn’t be able to think or care anymore. It
would be time to crawl in the car with his mom and step dad and move on to a fresh start
where things would be new and without problems, without worries, at least for a while.
As men peer out through the bars of their prison cells, to have it sink in at last that

Walking In The Shoes of Madness by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 9

there is no escape, he knew in his heart of hearts that this could not be. There would be no car
packed full of belongings, no parents moving once again, because death had finally conquered
their moving ways—but not his.
Employment wise, he was traveling a mountainous road with its precipice a dead end,
the road he traveled much too narrow to turn around and much too hazardous to back down,
with the warning sign ahead an ominous foreboding of the deadly depths below ...

Trapped ...!
This feeling had always caused Shane tremendous mental duress, to the point of melt
down. Something had to give. Because, his mind had already entered the process of melt down
—having reached critical mass—months ago. The circuit breaker within his mind, carrying the
high amperage current of all his pent up worries, was ready to trip, and he knew that when
that happened he would cease, entirely, caring about anything or anybody, as his mental
survival instincts took over. Surviving to Shane meant moving, moving away from anything
or anybody that caused him this unbearable anguish.
Before he had swallowed his pride, facing the truth, and admitting to himself that he
needed psychological help, booze, drugs, or both had been his avenue of escaping the
impending threat of mental meltdown. With medication over time, he had calmed the desire
to use alcohol or drugs to treat his symptoms, but no prescription drug is without side effects
and his medications seemed to leave him empty, dead, and emotionless inside. Outwardly, he
gave those who wished to believe he was well that appearance, but inwardly the raging
machine of worry continued to fester. Pills treat symptoms, but they do not have the power to
heal the mind. Shane had given up praying for that. He had given up praying at all ...
His only solace was playing his game. It had become an addiction, a frightening rush
that set him free from the storm brewing in his mind, if only for a short while. If you play a
game long enough, one day the game will beat you. Shame’s Game had evolved into a new,
more terrifying edition. Shane knew it was The Final Solution. Sure, to let things go this far
was ridiculous, against everything that he believed, and absolute shear madness, but someone
had once said, “fatigue makes cowards of us all”. Fatigue had wrung Shane out like an old
dishrag, and hung him over the sink of tears to dry—leaving him fixated upon his own pain,
unable to think of family or friends ...
A few days more went by, and his coworkers knew something was wrong. They really
enjoyed giving Shane a hard time. He usually made them all bust a hump to keep up with his
work pace, but now he was not the same. His interest in his work seemed to have suddenly
vanished. At lunch breaks, he would go off alone and eat his meal. No longer was he a threat
to his coworkers. They did not have to worry about him making them all look bad or work
harder. Something else, he had stopped talking. One of the guys had even commented to the
others, wondering if he was doing drugs again or back on the booze. Though they would never

Walking In The Shoes of Madness by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn Page 10

tell him so, they had come to respect his work ethic. He made them jealous all right, but it was
a good jealous that made them better, harder workers. Recently, the plant manager had
complimented their shift for its increased productivity. Now he was letting them down. They
did not know whether to be concerned, or angry. Their feelings were a mixture of both.
A calmness poured over him as the hurricane raging within quieted with the
approaching eye of the storm—madness waited for him there. It had to be madness, what he
was about to do, it must be. Shame’s Game had now become Shane’s master and the fantasy
begun as a game now viciously attacked and annihilated all opposition to its ultimate mission
—“Resistance is futile”. Possessed by his own creation, he finished his lunch and returned to
his production duties.
Within the Aluminum Recycling Industry, part of the process of recycling aluminum
involves melting the scrap to be recycled in large furnaces or kilns. There are different types of
furnaces used in Recycling plants, such as Reverb, Rotary, and Holding. Shane’s plant had one
of each. A Rotary furnace resembles a Ready-Miix Cement truck without the truck attached. It
rotates and mixes as it melts the scrap in the same fashion that a Ready-Mix truck thoroughly
mixes its load of cement. A Reverb furnace is a box shaped furnace with a door-enclosed
opening on one end for scrap loading purposes and a door-enclosed opening on one side for
the removal of impurities, called dross, which float to the surface of the scrap aluminum when
it reaches its molten state. A Holding furnace is simply what its name implies, a furnace used
specifically to hold readied molten aluminum at the proper temperature for casting.
One of Shane’s duties involved removing the dross from the surface of the molten
aluminum in the Reverb furnace. This task required the aid of a forklift with a special tool—
called a Dross Rake—attached to the forklift's carriage. The past few weeks he had not given
his all to this task, but tonight was a special night and, after opening the Reverb door, he
skimmed the surface of the molten aluminum immaculately, dragging it off and into the dross
buckets which were set in front of the Reverb furnace door.
Aluminum has a melting temperature of 1218 degrees. When the temperature reaches
1380 degrees it is ready to pour up into molds and cast into, what the recycling business calls,
sows and ingots. Upon reaching this optimum temperature, it is no longer the innocent cool
looking silver metal used to manufacture your kitchen pots and pans. At this point, it has
taken on a life of its own, having absorbed all the energies pumped into it by the furnace fires.
On this night, it ever so seductively beckoned to Shane with its silvery-red-glistening
appearance—shimmering before him … A Pandora’s Box of evil in its purest form—one
hundred thousand pounds of pure molten evil.
Normally, when finishing this task, he would close the Reverb door and park the forklift
with the rake resting upon the plant floor, while going about his other duties. This was not a
normal night. Resting the rake upon the dross bucket in front of the Reverb door with the
forklift engine continuing to run, Shane stepped from the operator’s seat, around the side of
the forklift mast and up, onto the forks and the rear section of the rake.
For a brief moment he stood there, gazing at the cavernous opening of the furnace with
its natural gas fueled fires of hell blazing within its mouth. While he removed his heat
resistant jacket, he could see the molten aluminum there, waiting, churning, inviting him for a
swim.
All was quiet within his mind. When had that happened last? He had no memory of it.
What do zombies remember anyway? He could have easily passed for one of the zombies in
the old black and white movie, Night of the Living Dead. As he began his first steps towards
The Final Solution of Shame’s Game4, he never recalled the steps he took walking the eight-

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inch pipe of the rake and the distance between the forklift and the opening of the Reverb door
…
He had never really learned to swim, having always been afraid of water. Strange things
can go through a man’s mind when he is about to die, and this thought brought a smile to
Shane’s face as he dove headfirst into the inviting waters of the molten aluminum waiting
there to engulf him. His clothes had begun to smolder and catch fire only seconds before he
jumped, though he had never noticed, his face beginning to blister before he ever entered the
molten abyss—a swim to remember. An old commercial from his childhood played in his mind
—“Take the Nestea plunge” …
… Over the ages, fantasies received their illusionary name because of their alluring and
elusive nature, because if, and when, they come true they are never quite what you expected,
never able to deliver the happiness your imagination has promised, as the honey you have
longed to taste turns to gravel in your mouth. In reality, fantasies tend to be, merely, well
dressed lies decorated by the lavishness of your own mind—as it was, also, with this fantasy.
Shane had fantasized that death would come instantly. He was not far from wrong. He was
leaving this world to escape the unbearable pain.
For that brief moment while his eyes burned from their sockets, his face frying like
bacon, he felt as if all the pain and misery in the universe had washed over him—engulfing
him in its sweet caress—followed by nothingness as his brain came to a boil, quickly roasting
inside his skull. Molten aluminum now raced down his throat, and into his lungs and
esophagus—cooking him thoroughly from within while the rest of his body received the same
overwhelming warmth without.
In a short time there would be nothing left of him but bones, perhaps. Given enough
time, there might be nothing left at all. This had been his last wish: To disappear without a
trace; his coworkers—after noticing him missing and closing the Reverb door—assuming that
he had walked off the job and quit. Curses would fill the air, because they had to finish the
night short handed …

____________

… While the molten aluminum popped and sizzled, continuing to cremate his body,
Shane suddenly realized that he could hear a voice calling softly in the distance, “Shane, Shane
Lipinski.”

____________

When he awoke, he sat there for a moment, very still, before taking a deep breath. He
could smell the over powering scent of the chlorine used to draw the impurities out of the
molten aluminum and, something else, something nauseatingly repulsive. It was faint, but it
was there, the aroma of burning flesh—his flesh.
Tears had begun to stream down his face long before he ever opened his eyes, as he
realized that this had all been only a dream, not an irreversible reality. He had simply dozed
off while awaiting his monthly MHMR appointment, dozed off while playing Shame’s Game, a

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game that had become virtual reality. The ending sucked. He knew. He had just been there,
only moments ago. Never again!
As the MHMR nurse called out his name once more, he stood up and, as he did so he,
inadvertently looked into the eyes of Bill, his monthly waiting room enemy. Tears were
streaming down Bill Payne’s face, as well. Shane had not been the only one napping, nor had
he been the only one taking, “The Nestea plunge.” A man shanghaied travels where his captor
leads. Having completed his journey, the angry stare had melted from Bill’s face, and an
incredulous look of contrite humility had taken its place while they looked into each others
eyes, the question marks there communicating to them both the impossibility of what they
each knew had happened. Could it be, they had both had the same dream? The stench, which
wafted and intermingled unpleasantly within their nostrils, answered that unspoken
question.
“Would you like to have a cup of coffee some time,” Bill shakily offered as they stood
there, each drinking in what had just transpired. “Perhaps, we have more in common than we
thought.”
Choking back tears of relief, Shane put his hand out for Bill to shake, answering, “Sure,
why not”.
As their hands joined, a friendship kindled. Healing began to flow, repairing old
wounds, old worries, things inherited and things acquired, as the years of anger and
frustration which had imprisoned them both was banished to its rightful place of perdition. It
was not anything you could see with the naked eye, but it was there, deep within the hearts
and minds of two men who had reasoned within themselves that they had nothing in common
except, perhaps, unanswered prayers.
Promising to meet with Bill for coffee early the next morning, Shane slowly followed his
MHMR nurse from the waiting room and down the hall to his appointment.
“Are you all right?,” she asked.
Tears continuing to flow he stopped and, turning to face her, replied, “Lady, I’ve never
felt better in my life ...”
… Pondering upon what had happened, Bill—struck with a sudden idea—approached
the receptionist and asked to reschedule his appointment with his dentist for another day. He
had decided to venture out to the cemetery and visit his father who rested there.
Bill’s Dad had suffered from Mental Illness, committing suicide when he was but a small boy.
He had harbored bitterness and anger towards his Dad, or anyone claiming to be mentally ill,
since his fathers’ passing. He had prayed for understanding, more times than he could
remember, as to how anyone could do what his father had done, but the answers had never
come, until today—only a dream ago.
A nightmare he would forever remember had brought him peace and understanding,
and had delivered him from the eventuality of following in the same path as his father, ending
up in his fathers’ shoes, while Bill had just spent a little time walking in the shoes of madness
…

____________

… The sky over the lazy small-town rumbled that day without a cloud in sight as the

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true Creator of all that is and will ever be chuckled at those creatures who accused Him of
never answering prayers. The sky rumbled once more with His chuckle fading into the
distance, while He returned to creating new galaxies and solar systems upon the canvas of the
Universe, having taken a momentary break from His labors, in this galactic neck of the woods,
to enjoy His favorite pastime of a few rounds of golf. It was a good day. He was pleased in
having made it, finishing up well under par by skillfully putting a few uninhabitable planets
into black holes, and having set a couple of mistaken men straight on Who and What He was.
He seldom interfered in the affairs of man. Doing so was not His style. And, He often frowned
upon man's invention of religion. But golf? What a splendid game!

(Written January 12th, 2006)

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