LJIdol Week 23 - Intersection / If you don’t live it, it won’t come out of your horn
To be honest, when the latest envoy from another world flew past me at the sidewalk cafe, I paid it little mind. A bird made from flowers, complete with a skull-shaped head and black flame coming out of its eye sockets - it barely even registered. Sure, something so clearly otherworldly out in public was a little odd to see, but by then not only had I seen and heard of stranger things, I also knew its arrival would have nothing to do with me. While the lives of others were destined for adventures in far-off lands with magic and strange creatures, mine was one filled with banality and consistent boredom. I had come to terms with this, having skipped through the stages of grief long ago and arrived at a persistent state of acceptance. At least, I thought I had.
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As a young boy, I had hunted exhaustively for a way into another world. I was an only child, and while my parents tried their best to provide what I needed, they never stood a chance. It was clear from their inability to understand me, and their skin color, that I was adopted. We lived in an all-white neighborhood, and I never really fit into the local crowd with my dark skin and untamable hair. I had no real friends and the stories of children being kidnapped, which were aimed at scaring us into being careful, only made me more reckless. I wanted a way out of my boring existence. So when the word got around that children were being whisked away by mythical creatures for fantastic adventures, I began a passionate research project into finding my way to join them.
Rumors abounded, mostly uncorroborated of course. Many of the “selected” children refused to speak of their time away, fearing dire results if they didn’t deny everything outright. Others spoke so freely that it was hard to believe what they said. But I took in every scrap of information I could gather, and I tried everything to be next.
“I found this hat on the ground, and when I put it on, I was teleported to another realm.” After fifteen abandoned hats and three trips to the doctor for lice, I gave up on that one.
“They snuck in through my bedroom window, bound me in magical rope, and flew me away.” Several sleepless nights laying like a mummy on top of my bed and a removed window screen led to another trip to the doctor for medicine to battle a cold and insect bites, and my parents moving me to an interior bedroom.
“I walked through a doorway I had passed through a hundred times before, but suddenly I was somewhere else.” For a month, I tried every doorway I could find, going in and out, forward and backwards, until I was caught drawing a red X on the bathroom doorframe at the grocery store.
“I was approached by a strange creature.” “She ate a slice of cake that she said tasted like a hamburger, then passed out.” “I walked into the space between the walls in my house.” “He closed his eyes and jumped into the lake.” “I followed my dog into a hole behind the laundry.” There was nothing I wouldn’t try, I even got a job pet-sitting for the neighbors after I heard about that last one.
Eventually, the doctor bills and the run-ins with local merchants and the visits from nosey policemen became too much for my parents, and they sent me off to boarding school. While I was there, they adopted three special needs dogs to take my place. My parents stopped visiting me after that, claiming to be “overburdened” with their new “babies”.
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Though it landed mere feet away, the grotesque flower-bird ignored me, as I presumed it would. But I was quite surprised to see it go towards another lone figure at a nearby table. Specifically, it jumped up onto the table of another adult patron, and that was different. I tried to force myself to pay it no mind. What did such things matter to one like me? Still, if they were approaching adults now, perhaps there might yet be a chance that I might one day be similarly approached? The remote opportunity for something new after all these years made me turn and watch, but the conversation was stilted and hard to follow. A cacophony of fractured voices came from the creature. It reminded me of a television where the channel is constantly changing, and of the dissonance of the common room at McKinnon’s.
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If anything, boarding school was even more isolating. Apparently, McKinnon’s Home for Troubled Youth was the epicenter of the “selection” process. If you didn’t have a story of abduction, walking into a fantasy realm, or being the hero in some underworld adventure, you were a no one. In an attempt to fit in, I tried making up a story of my own, something grand with pirate elves and dwarven priests. But I never could make it believable. I hadn’t lived it, so I couldn’t make it come out of my mouth properly. Writers say you should write what you know, and I just didn’t know anything.
The other students realized my lies right away, and I took to eating alone in order to avoid the mocking from my classmates. I got used to doing most things alone. And I decided, if the other worlds were going to ignore me, then I would ignore them as well. And I became, outwardly at least, a denier. Fake it ‘til you make it, they say, so I did. And eventually, my denial became my truth.
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It appeared that the conversation was not going according to plan. The man at the table was clearly irritated by the flower-bird’s arrival, and the creature seemed unable to convince him that the meeting was an important one. There was something about his sandwich as well, but I couldn’t really make out the details. It was an odd situation, as usually such creatures were less interested in persuasion than in kidnapping. I wasn’t sure how this escalation would play out, but it seemed like the creature might well have to go home empty handed. Maybe this man would avoid his destiny where children could not.
--
In the end, escaping my apparent destiny of becoming homeless at eighteen had not been easy. But I was motivated, and I was lucky. Eventually, I got out of both McKinnon’s and from under the thrall of the other worlds. I shut out the noise and I studied hard and I took out loans and I went to an in-state college. I started off majoring in music but switched after a year to economics. Much like my failure in making up stories, I just didn’t have the background for music. Charlie Parker once said about jazz, “If you don’t live it, it won’t come out of your horn.” He might well have been talking about my whole life. I had no experience to draw from. I have a knack for playing intricate music fairly well and singing in perfect pitch. But the feeling was never there. Crisp, clean, pure, and totally bland. And so, after a long talk with my supervisor, I moved over to numbers and formulas. Static truths that required no emotional context, just memorization and implementation. And careful study of trends and divergences, leading to a Ph.D. and a job with the Department of Commerce in the Bureau of Economic Analysis, where I received a bronze award for five years of perfect ratings, a perfectly boring accomplishment.
Of course, the more I focused on finding the inconsistencies in numerical data, the more I started seeing inconsistencies in reality as well. They were so obviously out of place, but always clearly intended for someone else to see. The rat that stood on its hind legs and saluted as a young boy walked by in the street. The leaves from a tree breaking free and swirling into a miniature tornado to caress a young girl’s cheek. An old oak door vanishing from the side of a building as the beams from a passing car alight upon it. A chicken appearing out of nowhere in the middle of a rainstorm, remaining perfectly dry as it looks around the yard, then disappearing again. A cat riding a sea turtle across a lake towards a solitary boy fishing in his canoe. Twins looking upward and then switching places in an instant. Three children sneaking back into a house they just entered with their parents a moment before. I began to see them everywhere, at an increasing rate.
As Al Michaels wrote, “You can’t make this up.” But these stories were never mine. And I never got more than a glimpse of the beginnings or the ends. A colleague who thought I had an overactive imagination once suggested I write it all down, make a fortune as a young adult writer. But there was no real plot, no substance. I hadn’t lived it, and so it wouldn’t come out of my pen (or my keyboard). Instead, I went about trying to ignore it all, and live my own rather humdrum story. At least it was mine, and I tried to make the best of it.
Not surprisingly, my social life did not improve with my career. Numbers became my closest friends as I couldn’t really relate to other people. By the time I realized that no one was talking about their otherworldly adventures anymore, I had already missed out on the social training that is expected of an adult. And so, I spent my days buried in work, and my evenings buried in books. And my free time, well, everyone needs to eat. That’s how I ended up at the café that day, alone and re-reading “Equality and Efficiency: The Big Tradeoff” by Arthur Okun and his metaphor about the rich, the poor, and a leaky bucket.
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When the conversation ended, the man stormed off, leaving the flower-bird seemingly stunned and downcast. Alone and miserable, it was like looking at an emotional picture of my past. With a skull for a face. And black flame. Whatever, who was I to judge? I was no looker myself. And the poor creature didn’t seem to know where to go next or what to do.
I don’t know why I did it. I am not good at talking to strangers. In fact, I generally avoid it altogether. But I felt drawn to this creature in a way I couldn’t explain. Like we already understood each other even though we had never met. I invited it over for a drink, and it accepted. Its voice was normal now, if a bit androgynous sounding, and sad. We talked about growing up, and change, and disappointment. And the trouble with using mirrors as portals. And adventure. And danger. And buckets. And as we talked the rest of the world just melted away.
And my adventures in Rr’k began.