Now I Get Bit. Snakelike Things Appear

I was born. I live in a village in India…
“Very clever Mr. Shaman. Why don’t you just tell them you came from between your mother’s legs and get a little more specific?”
“Golem, you said that to a guy in a bar in the outskirts of Tokyo once. I can’t repeat that here. I think it was after you answered the question about a million times.”
“Here you go … putting words in the mouth of a guy that isn’t finished yet. I haven’t hardly started speaking, and you have me saying bizarre things in bars. The next thing you’ll tell people I sang karaoke for free drinks.”
“You did Golem and one day you will remember it, but for now, slither on down a bit further beneath the pages. You are going to mess up the emotional structure of the story.”

I, like my father, was destined to be the next generation of snake charmers as my ancestors were. It was a fate my government decided for me. My ilk had blood on their hands, spilled by those in power. There were those in India untouchable — I thought not in your land. I thought in your land people controlled their destiny as much as fate allows. I see now those days are gone.

My father saw I knew a lot about snakes when as a kid I could get them to come out of their pots and pose without playing.
He didn’t know how I did this, but he was an old man, and on some days didn’t want to play his flute. He had some problem with his mouth. I cannot now recall exactly what the English term for his condition is. He may have been lazy. That is what I thought at the time.
On those days I sat beside him with a pot for money — I got the snakes out of the pot when customers inquired.
I don’t remember which customer it was that said to my father that I was a shaman in the making, but obviously, it got my father in a mood of contemplation.
Sitting in the Indian sun made me often in the evenings ill and unable to accomplish anything worthwhile, father was contemplating fate and figured he was about to give up work so when the village shaman and self-anointed mayor made an unexpected trip and stop and asked to see his son, he acceded. He may have known the reason. Knowing things is a family tradition.
As I remember … it is long ago, I don’t have a picture from start to finish — he brought and carried in his hand a large pair of dice. As soon as I saw them I knew the reason. What’s more, before he opened the door, I knew that he was coming.
He entered the room, he wanted to leave. He opened his hand.
From where my father was sitting, he couldn’t see the two cubes; I said six and four as if it were conversation. He threw the cubes at my feet in a disdainful, hurried manner. The two dice ended up, of course, on the floor, and on the surfaces pointing towards heaven were the numbers six and four. I had the feeling that he could have changed those numbers if he had been of mind, he let each die roll as a die will roll and my numbers came up the way I planned them.
He gave me a queer sort of look.
Don’t think I was elated.
He turned once again towards the door. He looked like a fly in a coke bottle looking for a way out of a sticky situation.
I saw the tale he wanted told, and didn’t see an advantage in telling it — other than to get me out of a very hot sun, and put distance between me and my father’s cobras. I never did like them.
I agreed to be sold to this man, though now I wouldn’t call him that. There was an indemnity. Forget the details; sit right back, enjoy the tale. It is the tale of a lost crew and a ship not yet wrecked but taking on water. I know you want to know if the ship will go under or not, sorry, I can’t tell ya.
Let me mention that my mother was a Jew, without religion and of mixed origin. My father was Muslim, but had once been baptized in a church. It wasn’t defining. I guess I will be accepted in your country now. I have no God to claim for my religion. Those words on your money. Tell me what they mean — One Nation Under God. It looks to me like that is better than what I see now. What are you to be?

“Come on man, I told you before, it’s things like that that make people mad. Political comments in a book. I’m having enough problems with Jack putting words in my mouth and making me out to be a fool, and now you’ve climbed a pedestal.”
“Listen Golem, you haven’t come alive yet, you can’t start popping up here and there and commenting on things. People aren’t supposed to know that I can communicate with you. Especially Jack. He’s got a plan to piss off the democrats first, and then the republicans. They’ll all be pissed at the end of chapter three. He wants them all mad … says it will bring some things to the surface that have been buried in souls and bothering them. He thinks it might be better if they all get mad and start working things out before it’s too late. Golem, there were two mass shootings in the last seven days. Who the fuck cares who is mad and who isn’t.”

There is something at this point that calls out for some attention. I am a bona fide shaman now. It’s a mystic thing … yes, but all you need to know for now is that I know your thoughts — excuse me for assuming so, but would it be better if I lied, and spied you as you read from somewhere in your head. In fact, I know the thoughts of each character in the story.
Forgive me if I mix up who is telling what. I am striving to keep all the points of view allocated to their rightful owners. I can tell you it isn’t easy for a shaman—more difficult because I am one. How can someone who knows people’s thoughts keep people separated? Hopefully, none of them will sue me if on a rare occasion I give away one of their thoughts to another.
The state of affairs is of inferior quality, one of the characters in the tale is more than one character, or — and at this point — I cannot be certain, there is only one character in the tale. The problem is that the guy has a lot of personalities if that is the case. The whole thing is untenable, and if I had not been looking in the window for some time now, I don’t think I would believe a word of it.
As for me, I certainly never would have chosen to tell the tale if it had not been cast at my feet. It is a double indemnity that ties me to it. One could be paid back, the other is more obscure. I’m fairly certain I could faithfully tell one side, but taken as a whole — as a two-sided coin, it’s a tale that is taxing; even with occasional air conditioning — I think I would be better off in the hot sun with the snakes.
You see … those iga … snakes in pots are easy to predict; I knew they would come out and how to coax them. To tell the truth, I was not a perfect shaman, I cheated a bit, and kept a mouse in my pocket just in case, on a cold day, the snakes did not always heed my call. I cheated a bit but, until now, was not bitten. In complete honesty, I might also add that most times when we take the lids off the pots the snakes come out to see the sunshine. And when I think about it, if I were in a pot and trapped in a place where the sun don’t shine, and someone took the lid off, I’d jump quicker than lickity spit on a griddle. I’d split the scene in the middle.
Now I get bit. Snakelike things appear. I can only tell it the way it happens. There isn’t any way to do that without getting bit. Things come after me. I’m a pickle in a jar in the new deli on the corner; unable to escape until a random customer chooses me, and even then I’ll be devoured. That’s the reason I stay in the jar — other than to see what happens — to try and keep from being eaten alive. Hopefully, when the tale is done, any borrowed funds can be repaid, and I can get back to my native sun.