Cloak and Dagger

By Ed Staskus

   Frank Gwozdz kept his eyes fixed on the middle of nothing. He wasn’t minding his own business even though it looked that way. He wasn’t tall or short. He wasn’t thin or chunky, either, except when he wore a bulletproof vest, which made him look chunky. He was able-bodied enough, although he was near-sighted. The closer something was to him the better he saw it. When he had to, he wore glasses to see far away. He read the Cleveland Plain Dealer every morning except Sundays when there was too much of it. There was hardly anything about him likely to draw anybody’s attention, even though he kept his hair not-too-neat and didn’t shave too often. When he was in a bar, at the bar with a beer in front of him, a Lucky Strike smoking itself at his elbow, nobody gave him a second glance. 

   He  was a Cleveland Police Department detective. He worked out of the third floor of Cleveland’s Central Station at E. 21 St. and Payne Ave. The Central Station had been in business for fifty years. It had replaced the Champlain Street Headquarters long ago. When it did the Cleveland Plain Dealer reported, “The minute the new station opens, the ancient Champlain Avenue mausoleum of crime and rats which has been functioning as a police headquarters for perhaps twenty-five years too long will start to crumble before the wrecking engines.” Fifty years later the Central Station was in the same boat, overflowing with crime and rats.

   Frank looked at the bottle of beer in front of him. He took a short pull. It was getting lukewarm. It didn’t matter to him. It was only there so he could sit beside it. He loosened his already loose tie and the top button of his shirt. Mitzi Jerman was working the bar. She asked if he wanted fresh peanuts. “Thanks, but no,” he said. He hadn’t touched the bowl at his elbow. It was still full of old peanuts. The bar didn’t serve food, just peanuts, pretzels, and pickled eggs. He hadn’t touched anything, yet, although he might if the two men he was watching stayed long enough. He was getting hungry. He knew the man with jug ears doing all the talking had worked the numbers game for Shondor Birns before his boss was blown up. He thought the other one had probably been up to the same thing. He wondered why they were near downtown and not the near east side where the Negroes lived. That’s where their bread and butter was at this time of night. 

   Jerman’s Café was on E. 39 St. and St. Clair Ave., although it wasn’t actually on any street. It wasn’t a storefront like most corner bars, and it wasn’t on a corner, either. It was on the ground floor of a house. It was set back from St. Clair Ave. with a parking lot on the side. If a drinker didn’t know the bar was there he might end up high and dry. It opened in 1908 when a Slovenian immigrant and his wife opened it. It had lived through World War One, the New Deal, World War Two, and the 1956 Cleveland Indians World Series win when the celebrating didn’t stop for days. It stayed open as a speakeasy during Prohibition, not missing a beat. Mitzi’s uncle smuggled booze from Canada during those years, making the run across Lake Erie in a speedboat by himself. Mitzi’s mother and father hid the rum and whiskey with neighbors whenever Elliot Ness was on the rampage.

   After cleaning a table with a wet rag Mitzi came back to where Frank was sitting and parked herself in front of him. “Working tonight, young and handsome?” she asked, drying freshly washed glasses with a bar towel. Frank wasn’t exactly young anymore, just like he wasn’t exactly handsome anymore. He took her sweet talk in stride.

   “I’m working right now,” Frank said in a quiet voice.

   Mitzi had been born upstairs in the apartment above the bar. It was where her parents lived all their working lives. She slept in the room she had been born in. There was a piano and a juke box in the bar. A pool table was at the rear, ignored and lonely. Mitzi watched baseball games in living color on a TV set placed high up on a wall. She was a born and bred Tribe fan. Her dog Rosco slept at her feet. The bar Frank was sitting at was oak. The ceiling above him was zinc. Mitzi served Pabst, Stroh’s, and Budweiser on tap.  Everything else came in a bottle. Frank fiddled with his bottle of Anchor Liberty Ale.

   One of the men at the back table snapped his fingers. Mitzi threw them a look. They were looking at Betty, the neighborhood girl who worked nights for Mitzi. She was an eye-catcher. Many men wanted to hang their hats on her. Mitzi sent Betty to their table. They ordered two more glasses of Pabst and gave her a pat on the behind for her trouble.

   “Are you working those two bums?” Mitzi asked.

   “I only work bums, and it looks like they are the only two of their kind in this place right now.”

   “Is anything going to happen in my place tonight?”

   “Not if I can help it,” he reassured her.

   “Are they the Jew’s men?”

   “Yeah, Shondor ran them, at least until lately. They’re not pulling any Dutch act about what happened to him. Those two are on the go.”

   Shondor Birns had run the numbers game for years, until he was blown up a few months earlier on Easter Saturday outside of his favorite strip club. “SHONDOR BIRNS IS BOMB VICTIM” the Cleveland Plain Dealer headline trumpeted the news. The strip club was Christie’s Lounge, where Shondor Birns spent the evening drinking and ogling naked girls bumping and grinding. When he was good and drunk, he staggered out to his Lincoln Continental parked in a lot across from St. Malachi’s Catholic Church. As soon as he turned the key in the ignition a package of dynamite wired to the ignition came to life. He was blown in half, his upper body catapulted through the roof of his car. Some of him landed in the parking lot. Some of him was sling shotted into the webbing of the surrounding chain link fence. The rest of him disappeared. Celebrants at the Easter Vigil rushed out of the church when the explosion rattled the stained-glass windows.

   The numbers man had been arrested more than fifty times since 1925 but was hardly ever convicted. He had killed several men, but no charges ever stuck. He ran a theft ring. He ran the vice game. He became Cleveland’s “Public Enemy No. 1.” When he got into the protection racket many small businessmen discovered they needed protection. 

   “He was a muscleman whose specialty was controlling numbers gambling on the east side, keeping the peace among rival operators, and getting a cut from each of them,” was how the Cleveland Press, the city’s afternoon newspaper, put it. “He was a feared man because of his violent reaction to any adversary.”

   Shondor Birns was always blowing up about something. After he was blown up what little was left of him was buried in Hillcrest Cemetery on April Fool’s Day. When the last shovelful of dirt topped him off he was officially gone. Nobody promised to keep his grave clean. Everybody forgot about him. His mug shot was taken down from the top row of the big board at the Central Station. Somebody else was going to take his place, although the new man’s picture wasn’t on the board, yet. The squeeze wasn’t going to stop with Shondor Birns gone. The next boss was already taking care of business. Frank would find out who that was soon enough.

   When the two men at the back table got up and left, Frank got up and left, too. They got into a red Plymouth Duster. He wasn’t going to have any trouble following it. He got into his Ford Crown Victoria. The dark blue car wasn’t much to look at, since it looked like every other unmarked police car in the country, but no other car was going to outrun it if it came to a chase. The Duster drove to E. 55 St. and turned on Euclid Ave, When it got to Mayfield Rd. it turned again going up the hill to Little Italy. They parked behind Guarino’s Restaurant and went in the back door. Frank parked five spaces away, near the entrance to the lot.

   He turned the car off. He was hungry but didn’t go inside right away. He thought about going home. Nobody had assigned him this shadow job. He had taken it upon himself. He could go home anytime he wanted to but he didn’t want to go home. He wanted to see his boy but didn’t want to see his wife. Sandra had been getting unhappier by the day since the day she had stopped nursing their son. That was three years ago. She was miserable at home and had taken to drinking. Frank threw away every bottle he found hidden somewhere, but he never found the last bottle. He could smell it on her breath every day when he got home.

   She was eleven years younger than Frank. He knew marrying her was a mistake but at the time he hadn’t been able to control himself. She had become spiteful and patronizing. She complained about him being a policeman. She complained about his unpredictable hours. She complained about his pay and how he dressed. When he tried to explain the dress code behind being a plainclothes man, she was snotty about it, calling him “you poor dear man.” 

   They didn’t kiss anymore, much less talk. She complained about the housework, even though she did less and less of it. She had started to neglect their child, leaving the boy with a teenaged babysitter those afternoons when she went to the Hippodrome Theater.

   “What’s at the Hippodrome?” he asked.

   “The movies,” she said.

   “What’s showing today?”

   “I’ll find out when I get there.”

   The Hippodrome had the second largest stage in the world when it was built in 1907. It was in an eleven-story office building with theater marquees and entrances on both Prospect Ave. and Euclid Ave. in the heart of downtown. It hosted plays, operas, and vaudeville, at least until the movies took over. After that it was all movies. It became the country’s biggest theater showing exclusively big screen fare. A new air conditioning system pumped in cold water from Lake Erie, keeping everybody cool on sweltering summer nights.

   Frank followed her there one day on the sly. She went to the Hippodrome but didn’t go to the movies. She went downstairs to the lower-level pool hall. She walked to the back and through a door marked “Private.”

   “What’s behind that door?” Frank asked one of the pool players.

   “The boss is behind that door,” the pool player said.

   “Would that be Danny Vegh?”

   “Naw, this is Danny’s joint, but Vince runs the place,” the man said. “Why all the questions?”

   “No reason, just curious.”

   “If you want to see Vince, you don’t want to right now. He’s got a woman in there and it’s going to be some time before they finish up their business.”

   “Thanks pal,” Frank said. “How about a game of nine ball?”

   An hour later and fifteen dollars the worse for wear, Frank gave up. His wife was still in Vince’s office. The door was still shut tight. He walked out and up the stairs to Euclid Ave. He crossed the street, leaned against a light pole, and lit a Lucky Strike. Sandra walked into broad daylight a half hour later. A car pulled up to the curb and she got into the front seat. Frank followed the car to their home in North Collinwood. The car pulled into the driveway. His wife got out and went in the front door. The car drove away.

   “Son of a bitch,” Frank muttered. It was looking like she was a wife and mother gone wrong, gone over to monkey business. She had promised him at the altar far more than he was getting. He wasn’t getting any of her love. There was no mistake about that. He could kill her for what she was doing, except for the boy. Stanley deserved better than a whore for a mother. He might kill her for that reason alone. There was more than enough room in the backyard for an unmarked grave. He could plant poison ivy to memorialize the spot.

   Frank’s stomach grumbled. He was dog hungry at the end of a long day. He hadn’t popped even one peanut into his mouth at Jerman’s Café. He could eat at the trattoria and keep an eye on the two collectors at the same time. He got out of the Crown Victoria, locked it, and walking across the brick patio went into Guarino’s. The restaurant had been around since before the 1920s. A Sicilian family ran it then and the same Sicilian family ran it now. It had been redecorated in a Victorian style in 1963, but the décor didn’t affect the food. Mama Guarino led him to a two-top table. He ordered veal saltimbocca. The waitress brought him half a carafe of chianti. He took his time eating, making sure his wife would be asleep when he got home.

   He had always thought there was nothing more romantic than Italian food. He wasn’t feeling romantic tonight, but leastways the food was good. He took a bite of veal and gulped down a forkful of angel hair. No man could love a cheater and not pay the price for it. Things fall apart when they’re held together by lies. His thoughts grew dark. He filled his wine glass with relief and drank it slowly. His thoughts were dark as the bottom of an elevator shaft.

Excerpted from the crime novel “Bomb City.”

Ed Staskus posts monthly on 147 Stanley Street http://www.147stanleystreet.com, Made in Cleveland http://www.clevelandohiodaybook.com, Atlantic Canada http://www.redroadpei.com, and Lithuanian Journal http://www.lithuanianjournal.com

“Bomb City” by Ed Staskus

“A police procedural when the Rust Belt was a mean street.” Sam Winchell, Beyond Books

Available on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0F1LM1WF9/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2MYAQAOZIC2U9&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.hTm7BGbiQbSe5ZapFwYPPfcwOpTe-Vdg6VLE4aGyTyk.Z0R-VNBWWEcvKcNaO9LdCOUnNIOOXgvYkRS_FXiXuHk&dib_tag=se&keywords=bomb+city+ed+status&qid=1742136726&sprefix=bomb+city+ed+staskus%2Caps%2C84&sr=8-1

Cleveland, Ohio 1975. The John Scalish Crime Family and Danny Greene’s Irish Mob are at war. Car bombs are the weapon of choice. Two police detectives are assigned to find the bomb makers. It gets personal.

A Crying of Lot 49 Publication

Going Heavy

By Ed Staskus

   In the year 1120 after the First Crusade captured Jerusalem for Christendom, massacring the Jewish and Muslim population, a new monastic order was created to assist and protect caravans making pilgrimage to the Holy Places. But, unlike earlier monastic orders, the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, or Knights Templar, was different. They weren’t interested in withdrawing from the world.

   Christian monasticism had always been a devotional practice. The basic idea of the practice, even today, is withdrawal from the world. It is similar to Pratyahara, one of the forgotten limbs of yoga. Pratyahara literally means, “gaining mastery over external influences.” It is firmly grounded in the same tradition. Christian monks lived ascetic, often cloistered lives, dedicated to worship.

   The Knights Templar, however, was a military monastic order, among the most skilled fighting men of the Crusades. In 1177, at the Battle of Montgisard, 500 mounted and armor-plated Knights Templar, backed by only a few thousand ground troops, defeated the Muslim Sultan Saladin’s army of more than 26,000.

   Although arms and monks may seem like strange bedfellows, they are not. In the 13th century St. Thomas Aquinas, the influential Roman Catholic scholastic philosopher, wrote, “A religious order can be fittingly established for the military life, for the defense of divine worship.” In the 16th century the monks of the Shaolin Temple battled Japanese pirates, who had been raiding their Chinese coastline for decades. In the 17th century Christian monks acted as shock troops during Europe’s Wars of Religion.

   Buddhist monks have not hesitated to join the likes of fundamentalist Christians, Hindu nationalists, Muslim radicals, and ultra-Orthodox Jews in advancing their religious views at the point of a gun. Since they have all the answers, it is questionable whether they have any faith, the kind of faith that implies there might be a mystery at the heart of things.

   Yoga has long been perceived as being built on several core principles, among them non-violence. “The first yama, ahimsa or non-harming, which asks us to embrace non-violence at the level of speech, thought, and action, is truly the cornerstone of yoga as a way of life,” Rolf Gates wrote in his book “Meditation From the Mat.”

   Both cornerstone and culture, it is a behavior essential to the yogic lifestyle. “Practicing ahimsa is a way of cultivating an attitude of kindness, gentleness, and forgiveness in all situations,” said Heather Church, an Adjunct Teaching Professional at Ohio University, where she teaches yogic philosophy.

   But, in a country that possesses 50% percent of all the guns on the planet, even though it accounts for only 5% of the world’s population, according to the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime, and where more than 20 million people practice yoga of some kind or other, according to Yoga Journal, it was inevitable that guns and yoga would one day become bedfellows.

   In the brave new world of today’s yoga, some are taking a different tack at tackling the issue of violence, eschewing self-restraint. Rather than, for example, trying to live what Jesus or the Buddha taught, they are taking an Old Testament approach. The Pentagon has hired ‘Yoga Defense Contractors’ to deal with changes in basic training, combat readiness, and issues such as PTSD. On a personal level, others are meeting the problem head-on by arming themselves. 

   “I’ll be damned if some religious extremist decides in his twisted head that he thinks he’ll clean the world by popping off some godless hippies and decides to walk in and spray some bullets into my studio with my students,” Cheryl Vincent wrote in an op-ed piece for Elephant Journal.

   “You better believe I’ll be packing,” she said.

   When yogis pack pistols their accuracy is generally better than most, making them daunting adversaries. Writing in Women’s Self Defense Weekly, which offers advice such as “Less-Than-Lethal Defense Options” and “The Neck Grab and Throat Punch,” Laura Simonian pointed out that the best-kept secret about yoga is that “it helps your shooting.”

   She added it was “great” for mental strength, core strength, balance strength, and breathing control strength, all leading to an aim that is true. “I bet you didn’t know all those core conditioning boat, crow, and warrior poses were benefitting you in more ways than flexibility and mental well-being,” she said. “Yoga can actually aid your shooting.”

   Shooting guns takes focus and concentration. “Yoga’s Zen-like quality can be applied to shooting guns in a lot of ways,” said Deirdre Gailey, a yoga teacher and vegan chef in New York City. “I like to shoot guns.”

   Female participation in shooting in the United States has grown rapidly in this century, according to the National Sporting Goods Association, leading to pink pistols and purses with holster slots. It was once said Samuel Colt made all men equal. Now women are catching up.

   Brandon Webb, who trained Laura Simonian on bolt-action rifles, described her as a “natural born killer” and explained that he has “definitely witnessed firsthand the positive effects yoga has had on my own shooting.” Laura Simonian trained with a Glock 34 handgun, as well. Although its longer barrel results in a slightly slower draw time out of the holster, it is still used by some as a concealed weapon. No one should try messing with yoga girl Laura once she’s got her handgun in her hand.

   Gallup Polls consistently reveal that protection is the top reason Americans own guns, followed by hunting, sport and target shooting, and 2nd Amendment rights. Gun owners say that having a gun makes them feel safer. The NRA argues that if more law-abiding citizens had guns everyone would be safer from gun violence.

   “You see peace and tranquility in the country and I see the ‘Blair Witch Project,’” Texas novelist Ruth Pennebacker writes in “Yoga and Guns.” Danger can be real or it can be in the eye of the beholder  “You see cows and horses and I see lethal rattlesnakes ready to strike. You see friendly, down-to-earth farmers and homespun families and I see the two murderers from In Cold Blood.’ A gun. Shooting lessons. Sign up now. Before it’s too late.”

   But, a study in the Southern Medical Journal found that owning a gun is 12 times more likely to result in the death of a family member or guest than in the death of an intruder. The more guns there are the more shootings there are. That is why in countries with few guns there are few shootings. It is the protection paradox: the risks of gun ownership often overshadow the benefits.

 “Every shotgun and rifle in my family’s gun safe is brimming with stories,” writes Babe Winkleman in “The Sportsman’s Guide.” For many people the joy of owning guns is entwined with the joy of hunting. “I wonder where those walnut tress grew for my rifle stock. Was there ever a deer shot from the very tree that grew the wood for my deer rifle?”

   Although more and more people in the United States live in cities, hunting has expanded in the new millennium.  Some tramp through fields and woods because “doing things outdoors is healthy,” says Dan Ashe, director of the Fish and Wildlife Service. 

   Some hunt because it is a rite of passage, growing up in families that have always hunted, and passing their knowledge down. Writing in “Buddhists With Guns,” Justin Whitaker, a Buddhist scholar, noted that he and his sister, a yoga instructor, grew up in rural Montana and were introduced to guns early in life. “I think I skipped the ‘you’ll shoot your eye out!’ bb-gun that many friends were getting and moved on to a pump-action single shot pellet-gun around the age of 8.”

   Others hunt to harvest their own food. Millions of Americans go hunting, shooting squirrels, pheasants, turkey, and deer, among other wildlife.  Eating animals is an instinct, although old-school yoga eschews eating meat. Sri Pattabhi Jois, progenitor of Ashtanga Yoga, recommended not eating it because, “It will make you stiff.” 

   Most people who practice yoga today eat animals, but are sometimes sensitive about the issue. “When the rare occasion does arise for me to indulge in animal food, I do so with great respect and meditation on the sacrifice of the animal,” said Jerry Anathan of Yoga East in Cape Cod.

   More than 150 billion animals are killed every year for food, both in slaughterhouses and forests. That is a great deal of butchery, no matter how you slice it or how much anybody meditates about it. It may be that’s the way things are, but whether that much bloodshed aligns with yogic values is an open question.

   Shooting guns is enjoying a renaissance in the United States. 35 million-and-more Americans participate in formal and informal sport and target shooting, surpassing all earlier estimates of the sport. “Firearms sales are way up, so it’s really no surprise that more people are enjoying the shooting sports than ever before,” said Steve Sanetti, president of the National Shooting Sports Foundation, based in Newtown, Connecticut. “AR-style rifles are rugged, accurate, fun to shoot, and they’re here to stay.”

   Fun on the mat and fun at the range sometimes vibrate on the same plane. “Shooting guns and doing yoga on the same day was the biggest ‘You got chocolate in my peanut butter!’ moment I’ve had so far in my life,” wrote Patton Oswalt in The New York Times. “I was one with my target, and my target was bliss. Namaste. Lock and load.”

   Guns are the “new yoga” CBS News reported. However, instead of rubber mats and foam props, parts of the new yoga include high-velocity metal projectiles. “Although it is usually hard to hear over the racket of gunfire, shooting a gun can be “just like yoga – meditative,” Caitlin Talbot recounted in an article in Elephant Journal

   In the same way that consciously relaxing your body, focusing your thoughts and your gaze, and breathing evenly are the basic tools of meditation, so are they the basic tools of shooting, too. When shooting a gun, the fewer muscles in use the steadier the shooter’s position will be. Focusing on the task at hand puts the shooter in the zone, making their efforts effortless. Lastly, shooters use breathing cues, relaxing on each expired breath as they squeeze the trigger.

   It’s just like yoga, except you don’t want to be on the wrong end of a gun. It’s not like being on a yoga mat, where any end of the mat is the right end. At least, until recently, when Mattthew Remski observed in “Should Yogis Want Their Guns Back”, that his yoga mat “sometimes smells like gunpowder” and that “authentic peace seems to thrive on the juice of authentic violence.” 

   Many gun enthusiasts, industry spokesmen, and the NRA cite the 2nd Amendment as justification for the right everyone has to keep and bear arms. Owning guns is framed as a fundamental right, although they seemingly never defend the merits of gun ownership without referring to the amendment, as though guns in and of themselves are only signifiers, not actual things.

   The hue and cry is made despite the wording of the amendment itself, which is, “A well-regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.” What Thomas Jefferson seems to have meant was that the right to possess firearms exists in relation to the militia, not in relation to teenagers possessing Sig-Sauer 9mm handguns, Bushmaster semi-automatic rifles, and Izhmash 12-gauge shotguns, and then using them to shoot and kill grade school children in Newtown, Connecticut.

   Until this century all federal courts, liberal and conservative alike, agreed that the 2nd Amendment did not confer gun rights on individuals. However, in 2010 the Supreme Court ruled otherwise in a 5 – 4 decision, affirming a fundamental right to bear arms. Now that many of the arguments about who can have a gun – there are no federal laws requiring licensing to own a gun – have been settled, the Supreme Court might in the next few years try resolving the question of whether or not the Supreme Court should be held to a Code of Ethics.

   Gun aficionados from Rush Limbaugh to Arnold Schwarzenegger applauded the decision. “I have a love interest in every one of my films – a gun,” said the Terminator. Guns can be testy lovers, however. “The recoil from a .357 Magnum can really do a number on your chakras,” said one of the shooting yogis in “Higher Caliber, Higher Mindedness: The Story of YoGun”, an award-winning short film from SofaCouch MovieFilms.

   As yoga has matured in the United States, it has begun to embrace the notion of gun ownership. “Yoga is starting to become more associated with the cultural right wing and promoting Ayn Rand,” writes Carol Horton, a former political science professor and certified Forrest Yoga teacher.

   “Until all governments disarm, the people have a right to bear arms,” argues Avananda, a self-styled philosopher yogi and registered Yoga Alliance teacher. The argument is the same as the abridged 2nd Amendment photo-shopped on the front of NRA headquarters: ”The right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.” Like the NRA, many prefer the amended version of the amendment.

   Michelle Comeaux Howard, a yoga teacher and mother of two in Mission Viejo, California, has argued that only by being armed can we successfully defend ourselves from being victimized. “I believe strongly in our Second Amendment rights because there will always be crime and I want to exercise the right to protect myself and my children in the event we were to become victims of a home invasion or if someone ever attacked us in public.” She believes all “law-abiding” citizens, including her, should be allowed to legally carry a concealed weapon.

   Non-violence is one of yoga’s self-restraints, but it is being pushed out the door at the same time as gun control is coming to mean being able to hit your target. But, maybe old-school yogis today have it wrong about ahimsa, and what is really old-school are yogis toting the monkey. Back in the day many believed you could get more with a kind thought and a gun than with just a kind thought.

   “From the fifteenth century until the early decades of the nineteenth century, highly organized bands of militarized yogins controlled trade routes across Northern India,” writes Mark Singleton in “Yoga Body.” Yoga exercise, or hatha yoga, was a kind of boot camp or military training, keeping them in trim for the wear and tear of guerilla warfare. As Birgette Gorm Hansen writes in “Wild Yogis,”an article in Rebelle Society, yoga back then “was a bad ass practice.”

   After putting down the Mutiny of 1857, the British colonial government of India began to systematically disarm the sub-continent’s population, and in 1878 introduced the Indian Arms Act, forbidding almost all Indians from possessing firearms of any kind. Although not specifically targeting yogis, it effectively ended the marauding of the armed yogi gangs, who threatened both princely states and British economic interests.

   They were forced to lay down their guns and turn to showmanship as a livelihood. In the meantime, they kept yoga exercise alive into the 20th century, when in the 1920s Krishnamacharya, the father of modern yoga, took up the mantle and revived the practice of hatha, crafting it to become the booming posture practice it is today

   Nowadays, modern yoga studios preach breath and exercise to keep us fit and healthy, sprinkling in concepts like Dharana and Dhyana to keep a few of the other limbs of yoga alive. But, back in the day, yogis were keeping the peace by going heavy. Maybe yogis armed to the teeth in the here and now are just getting back to the real roots of yoga. 

   After all, even the Dalai Lama, arguably one of the most peaceable men on the planet, when asked by a schoolchild at the Educating Heart Summit in Oregon what he would do if someone came to his school with a gun, replied, ”If someone has a gun and is trying to kill you, it would be reasonable to shoot back with your own gun.”

Ed Staskus posts monthly on 147 Stanley Street http://www.147stanleystreet.com, Made in Cleveland http://www.clevelandohiodaybook.com, Atlantic Canada http://www.redroadpei.com, and Lithuanian Journal http://www.lithuanianjournal.com

“Cross Walk” by Ed Staskus

“Captures the vibe of mid-century NYC, from stickball in the streets to the Mob on the make.” Sam Winchell, Beyond Fiction

Available on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CRPSFPKP

Late summer and early autumn. New York City, 1956. Jackson Pollack opens a can of worms. President Eisenhower on his way to the opening game of the World Series where a hit man waits in the wings. A Hell’s Kitchen private eye scares up the shadows.

A Crying of Lot 49 Publication