The Callahan Chronicals

In 1971, after seven years in college, with that magic piece of paper clutched triumphantly in my fist, the best job I was able to get was night watchman on a sewer project in Babylon, N.Y. guarding a hole in the ground to prevent anyone from stealing it. God bless the American educational system!

Shared joy is increased; Shared pain is lessened.

How do you learn to be a telepath, Jake?” Marty Matthias asked. “Hell, Marty, Callahan’s been training us for years! Now we’ve got to start figuring it out for ourselves, that’s all. To approach telepathy, you start with empathy and crank that up as high as you can. You care about each other. You feel each other’s joys and pain. You make each other laugh, and help each other cry. You work hard at trusting each other, so that it’s safe to dismantle the fortress around your ego. You forgive each other anything that stands between you, and you try to bring out each other’s best, you work very hard at hosing all the bullshit out of your head so that it’s clean enough for guests, silencing all the demons in your subconscious so that it’s quiet enough to hear somebody thinking at you, and most of all you find ways to make that work so much fun that you keep on working. You stick together and love each other and keep growing.

If we have to, we can all go to Hell together—maybe there's a group rate.

Now he is gone. Gone back whence he came, and we are all the poorer for it. But I refuse to say that we will not see his like again. Or his love again.