Blogger's Note: I'll be 40 in just over a week. I cannot believe that I will be 40. I'm not sad or depressed, but I think I'm reflective. I've been considering the possibility that maybe I could have made different choices. If I could do it all again, would I? Should I?
My grandparents ranged between about 65-90 when they passed away and considering some of the life choices I've made and some of the shit I've done, I think 80 is a reasonable, if not optimistic, goal. Which would make 40 the halfway point, if I'm healthy... and lucky. Over the hill, indeed.
Compound the whole experience with the fact that I attended a funeral this past week, and I surface from this stagnant reminiscing only to discover a stark reminder that we are mortal. I'm rolling the dice every day: driving to work, walking outside, plugging up my phone. What if it did suddenly unravel? What if today was it? Did I accomplish what I wanted to accomplish on this planet, in this life?
I suppose if I died today, I could be happy with the life I've had. I have tasted love and sadness; I have touched earth and sky; I have listened to songs and silence. But, I could have done more. I could have seen more.
I have discovered a medium from which I can breathe. I consider that maybe I should have opened this window sooner, but it was stuck. It couldn't open yet. It wasn't ready to open yet. And I didn't even have the means to open it.
The well of writing, or any art, is filled with knowledge, wisdom, love, and, especially, experiences. Had I the skill to write before now, what would I have written about? Only recently have I discovered enough life to draw from. I have felt the shadow of loneliness; I have walked through the muck on the bottom. And I have sang from mountains in the joyful arms of my friends and family.
I don't want to walk away from this coffee shop today feeling sad or depressed. I want to trudge into the second half of my life with a plan, with goals, with a fever. I want to finish writing today and set my fire ablaze with a conviction to face tomorrow with my guns blazing. I want to rip a silent-but-deadly one and blame it on the weird-looking lady sitting next to me. I want to douse my passions with kerosene in front of anyone that dares to mock my conviction; I want to scream when I'm 40 and when I'm 50 and when I'm 60 "How about me now bitch?"
And, some far, far, far away day, when my candle does indeed flicker and die, I want one sad hymnal to trance the audience with just 5 minutes of sadness. It will be one last, indulgent prank on my friends and family. After the last dying breath of languishing gospel fades into sniffling remembrance, I would like Chumbawamba's "Tub Thumping" to be turned up so loud that it vibrates the pews or the chairs or the earth. Everyone will be looking at each other thinking for a brief moment of "can you believe that?". Then, they will remember me. And what will they remember about me? Will they celebrate my life by remembering my good intentions or my mistakes? What footprint have I left in my travels that will be heralded? If any? What should I have done differently?
Is my inspiring reflection tugging my heart to write or is it a strained segue prefixing some silly prose? Or maybe a little of both...
I stared at my laptop screen for quite some time before I finally decided that I'd had enough. I couldn't seem to find anything to write about, and I didn't feel like trying. I grabbed my coat and packed up my equipment. I loosed a silent-but-deadly one, gave the weird-looking lady next to me a disgusted look, and walked into the January afternoon with my hood pulled over my head and my coat zipped to my chin. I decided to go for a downtown stroll before I went home. Perhaps the open air would liberate some magical idea buried deep in my psyche. I locked my valuables in my car and proceeded to saunter down Jefferson Street.
An arctic chill carried on the north wind invaded my winter attire and persuaded me to take shelter. The first place I happened across was Whaler's Catch. The bar looked inviting; and, a nice, frosty mug of beer might be just what I needed.
I found a comfortable spot at the bar and ordered a tall Foster's. The lunch rush was dwindling, and the bartender was doubling as a busser. He was trying to dutifully converse with me and help out his co-workers. I tried to assure him that I was fine, that he didn't need to worry about me; but, he seemed genuinely concerned about my satisfaction.
I stared at the prismatic light that spattered the wall through a whiskey bottle. It would cheerfully bounce at each passing footfall which I found joyful.
"Cold day, isn't it?" Mr. Polite spoke.
"Sure is," I politely responded.
"Good day for a cold one. Wish I could join you," he continued as he wiped off a booth behind me.
I smiled. I didn't want to be rude and I wasn't questioning the man's conversational ability, but I was really just wanting to enjoy the silence.
"I'm getting too old for this shit," he smiled as he returned to his post behind the bar.
"Tell me about it. I'll be 40 next week," I revealed.
"Oh, yeah?" he said, "you got big plans?"
"I don't know," I chuckled. "My wife has big plans for me, but I don't know what they are..."
"Oh, boy," he said as he took my empty mug. "That could mean trouble. If you want some advice, you'd better say you like it no matter what. You want another one?"
"Sure, why not. One more." I leaned on my stool to retrieve my billfold from my back pocket. "My wife's birthday is a couple of weeks after mine. I like it that way, because I can gauge how much I should do for her by how much she does for me."
He laughed and sat the now-full mug in front of me. "Yeah, that is convenient."
A quiet stretch of time elapsed then, and I considered my wife's birthday for a moment. In all the excitement of my fortieth birthday approaching, I decided that I should focus a little on her celebration. What should I get for her? Where might we go? When I left here, I might hit some of these downtown shops to see if I could find some unique gift that she'd never expect.
I was feeling cheerful after two, large mugs, and I tipped Mr. Polite rather generously when I paid the tab. I dreaded the cold chill that was about to sting me, so I decided to hit the first store I came across.
The large, restaurant door thudded closed as I hurriedly strolled toward Broadway. Just half a block into my journey, I noticed an open wrought-iron gate that proudly introduced "Brick Alley" to pedestrians. "Brick Alley" appeared to be an inviting sidewalk nestled between two antiquated buildings. A soft tendril of steam was escaping from a grate in the path. I was compelled to go there, despite the fact that I knew the route to be off my plotted course.
I looked both ways before entering, and no one was to be seen.
Sunlight had been detoured by the buildings' substantial size, and I was in the heart of the alley's shadow before I noticed a grimy shop window and a seasoned, "WE'RE OPEN" sign hanging in the door. I had never noticed this shop before, and I found the odd location intriguing. A delightful jingle from an overhead bell accompanied the rusty, creak of the door hinges as I entered.
Dusty antiques lined the shelves, and the first thought I had was that I wasn't going to find anything for my wife's birthday here. No one was around, and I wondered for a moment if I was supposed to be here. And that's when I heard it.
Something was humming a charming little tune, and I wanted more than anything to find the source of this song. I walked carefully through an aisle of shelving, scanning the odd collection for the origin of the sound. I moped past Samurai swords and African masks and eerie skulls until, at last, I came to an unmanned counter in the back of the store. A box with holes cut into it sat there; and, as I inched closer, I became certain that the sound was coming from there.
I looked around to be sure that no one was in sight. Unless someone was watching me through the beaded curtain that hung over a rear doorway, no one was around.
I lifted the lid off the box. Rising slowly from inside, a furry ear twitched. A brown and white patched creature slowly rose out of the box, humming the song that had so entranced me. I petted one of its pointed ears. It seemed to smile as it cocked its head, gently swayed, and continued humming. My wife had been wanting another dog as a companion to the crazy one we already owned; I wondered if she would like this thing just as much.
I heard someone clearing their throat. A hand parted the beaded curtain, and an elderly, oriental man slowly emerged. He had a long, gray mustache; he tugged at the end of it with one hand. "That is Mogwai," he said as he approached the counter.
"I've never seen anything like it." I stared at the creature. The lapse of silence nudged my beer-filled bladder into urgency. "Hey man, do you have a restroom here?" I asked.
"No, you go outside by dumpster. That's what I do," he suggested.
"Ok. I'll be right back," I told him as I quickly ran outside to relieve myself behind the dumpster there. The bell jingled again as I ran back inside.
"Whew," I said. "So tell me about this thing..."
"Mogwai does not like bright light; you must never get him wet; and, you must never, never, feed him after midnight. Oh, and if you have a pet, he likes to open the door and let it outside," the mysterious man said.
"Oh, fuck that," I said. "We have this dog that will just keep running if he gets outside. It takes me an hour to get that mother fucker when he gets loose. I hate that shit." I quickly replaced the lid to the box, much to the disgruntlement of the Mogwai. It quit humming and gave me a dirty look as I shoved its head back inside.
"What else you got?" I asked as I inspected a skull that was staring at me from its dusty perch.
"That's bong. Weed goes right here," he pointed at one of its eye sockets.
"What's this?" I picked up a mechanical-looking box that had one, red button on the top.
"That is time machine," the sage man explained. "Simply push button, and think of time and place you wish to go. You can visit the past for ten minutes, so plan ahead wis..."
His words began to fade after I pushed the button. I could feel myself being pulled into a tunnel of energy. The old man's words were vacuumed from me. "When you get back, you will need to sh..." was all I caught before they faded completely.
I was spinning uncontrollably into a vortex. I felt certain I was going to be sick, so I decided to choose a place and time quickly. Eleven Point River in Missouri during the summer of 1991 was the first thing that popped into my head. I could feel myself being sucked into an opening in a whirlpool of energy. Just when I thought I wasn't going to be able to take anymore, I was standing on the bank of the river where I would go canoeing every summer.
"Oh shit!" Someone behind me shouted out; he appeared to be taking a leak. It was a young kid with a redneck mullet that reached down to the middle of his back. He quickly pulled his shorts up and turned to see who was standing behind him.
When our drunken eyes met, they widened at the dawning revelation that we were looking at ourselves. "You're me!?!" Mullet-Head exclaimed.
"Duane, you ok??" I heard someone call from beyond a wall of reeds and brush. I took a step so that I could see through the weeds. Damon, much younger than I ever remembered him being, was standing on the bank of the river. Swimming in the water, Brett, Jeremy, Aaron, Boogie, and Dennis were floating on the pads that were supposed to be used to sit on. Three canoes had been pulled onto the sandy bank. Brett splashed Damon by hitting the surface of the water with the flat of his paddle. "Fuck you, man! You're getting water in my beer!" Damon complained.
"Well, jump in!" Bret mocked.
"You ok, Duane?" he shouted again.
"Yeah!" I answered for Mullet-Head who was standing there in shock.
Bret splashed him again and cackled deviously. "Oh, fuck it," Damon said and then jumped into the water.
I felt a hunger like none I had felt in a long, long time. I wanted nothing more than to join them. I remembered this day so well. I was overdressed for the weather, so I started peeling off some of the clothes that I was wearing. I stood there in my jeans and a white, tee-shirt, remembering the words of the old, Asian man. I only had ten minutes. I felt panicky for a moment, trying to decide what I was going to do with such a short amount of time.
"I'm bald and fat!" Mullet-Head said. "...and I wear glasses!"
"Fuck you, Mullet-Head! At least I don't have to jack off to the lingerie section of the JCPenny's catalog anymore, skinny boy." I flicked the cigarette he was smoking out of his mouth and took the beer from his hand. "Smoking will kill you and you're too young for that."
"Fuck you man!" he complained, but wouldn't make eye contact.
I took a drink from the Keystone Light. It was mostly full and still cold, so he must have just taken it from the cooler. I felt sick with nostalgia from the taste of that beer and the sounds of my friends' intermittent shouts of "Fuck you, man!" and "Your momma!" The river lapping softly against the bank calmed me into mental clarity, as it always did.
It felt just like home.
"Are you from the future?" Mullet-Head finally produced a coherent statement.
"Yeah," I said. A couple of minutes had surely already elapsed. I needed to get to business. What was I going to tell him?
The first thing that popped into my head was to tell him not to get married so young. I opened my mouth to say just that, but then I thought about DJ, my oldest son. I couldn't imagine a life without him in it. I suddenly realized how careful I had to be. I could fuck up a lot of shit if I wasn't.
"Well, tell me something, man... who wins between Bret Hart and Mr. Perfect at SummerSlam?" Mullet-Head asked.
"Seriously, man? Of all the mysteries of the future, you want to know about fucking wrestling? Wouldn't you want to know who wins the World Series or the SuperBowl? Or what stocks to invest in??" I wanted to tell him that he'd grow out of his love for professional wrestling in just a few years, but I figured what was the point? I remembered how much I loved wrestling back in those days.
"Ok, well, what stocks should I invest in?" he asked.
I was about to give him a list of the successful companies that came to mind like Google or Starbucks or IBM, but I started to think about my wife. What if he made so much money that he never worked in a buffet? What kind of future could there possibly be without Joanna, Roman, or Amelia? I held my tongue.
"Well, what do you do for a living?" Mullet-Head asked me.
I was stumped for words yet again. I could tell him to stay in school, but wouldn't that be the same situation? What if I had taken the perfect road? What lessons would I have learned? What kind of scumbag might I turn out to be if I had made all the right choices without learning any of the lessons that I've learned?
Suddenly, I felt this overwhelming desire to not say a fucking thing. Could my life be better? Sure. But it could also be a helluva lot worse. I remember the punk that was staring at me. I remember feeling like I knew everything. And then feeling like I knew nothing. And then finally coming to the realization that I was neither smart nor stupid. I didn't know everything, but there were a couple of things that I knew pretty well. He was going to have to go through those phases himself. I wanted to cushion him from the pains he'd be feeling, but then he'd never the learn the lessons that came from them.
I sighed and just focused on the river. I listened to my old friends yelling and cursing and splashing. If I could have explained who I was, I would have just jumped in there with them. Jeans and all.
"Go get me a beer, and I'll tell you everything you'll need to know," I told him. He gave me a cautious look, but finally started down to the canoes where the coolers were.
"What's wrong, fag?" Dennis shouted at my younger self as Mullet-Head opened one of the coolers.
Mullet-Head stammered, grabbed a beer, and shouted back. "Fuck you bitch!"
"Where you going?" Jeremy shouted after Mullet-Head. He paused, trying to think of an excuse.
"I gotta shit," he responded.
"Well, don't wipe with poison ivy!" Aaron offered. The crew laughed, but Mullet-Head didn't seem to mind. He was glad they were accepting his excuse.
When Mullet-Head returned, he handed me a beer and sat beside me on the bank. We watched our friends swimming in that cold, spring water. Finally, Mullet-Head spoke, "well?"
I popped the beer and just sat there, ignoring him. I tuned him out and watched the world. I wanted to stay longer. I was sure that as soon as I got back, I'd think of a thousand things I should have said. But all I wanted was to just enjoy the moment. If Mullet-Head didn't continue doing stupid shit, then what would I write about when I was 40? That dumb ass gave me all kinds of material.
"Well??" he pressed.
I grabbed my coat and my shirt. I could feel a tug. My time was almost up. I wanted to cry. I didn't want to go yet. I wanted to taste that water, drink the rest of this beer, yell "Fuck you, bitch" at my friends.
Finally, I thought of the one thing that I always wished I would have gotten done when I was younger.
"Orthodontia!!!" I yelled as I was being pulled back into that vortex, spinning out of control back to the present. But the only thing he heard was "Ortho...", as I tumbled wildly.
I stood on "Brick Alley" putting my shirt and coat back on and needing to shit so badly I wasn't sure if I was going to make it to the nearest restroom. I felt my teeth with my tongue and thought, 'yeah, still crooked.' I didn't have time to sulk; I needed a bathroom.
As I started off toward Whaler's Catch, I looked up to where the store had been. The door wasn't there. A brick wall that supported one end of the building next to me held no hint that a store had ever been there. As I started to jog away, I noticed something white in the clump of weeds next to me. I bent over to pick it up.
It was a roll of toilet paper. "I tried to warn you" had been printed around it. I thought about sprinting to Whaler's Catch. I spotted the dumpster and looked at the roll of toilet paper in my hand. Suddenly the decisions of my life seemed rather trivial.
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