A unicorn.
There’s a lobster.
Hundreds of shapes. One at a time. Was this the fireworks show? I wasn’t complaining, but . . . then the sky exploded! A huge parade of shooting stars lit up the sky, creating intricate patterns that were less like individual shapes and more like master canvases. Seeing them this close, speeding across the sky just above our heads was . . . it was . . . I don’t have the words. Unimaginable? Indescribable? Unfathomable? None of those explain what was happening above us. Or how I felt.
Wait. Transformative. Even if I hadn’t just sat at a table with who I thought was God, it would be impossible to deny this existence or universal energy. Maybe these shooting stars were just part of the universe, something explainable as a natural happening at the intersection of time and environment. Something explained away by science that happened because of a provable equation. But in this moment, I chose to believe in something bigger. I closed my eyes and whispered, “Thank you.” A prayer. Was this faith?
When I opened my eyes, I gazed around at others in their chairs as the show continued. An old habit. I always liked watching the reactions of others. It didn’t matter if I was at a movie, baseball game, or holiday parade, I would try to figure out what people were thinking or experiencing.
Is the boy here? Where is the boy?
There! A few rows below me and a few seats to my right sat the boy with the faded Minor League Baseball hat. The logo was turned toward me. I couldn’t see his face. I had no idea how he was reacting. But as people instinctively hooted and hollered, pointed, and shrieked, he seemed to sit completely still. No gestures. Totally motionless. Maybe he’s blind. Is that why he isn’t reacting to the fireworks? Is that why he didn’t respond to my attempts to introduce myself earlier? Yeah, idiot, because not being able to see would affect his ability to hear you. I could still be a total dick, apparently.
In between starbursts, I asked Mort what he thought about the boy’s lack of response.
“We all have our own experiences, Erik. Don’t try to interpret his through your eyes.”
I got defensive. I tried to protest and explain that I wasn’t suggesting that he was doing something wrong. Just the opposite. I was convinced that there was something bigger going on with that kid. He just didn’t seem right. I explained to Mort that I wanted to help him, not judge or blame him.
Mort still wasn’t having it. “If he needs help, he’ll ask you for it,” he said with a stern and completely confident it’s-not-about-you tone, as though he was telling me to back off.
Okay, dude, fine. I get it.
As the stars continued to race across the sky, I couldn’t take my eyes off the kid. What was it about this damn kid? I wanted to get up from the universe’s most comfortable chair and get closer.
In my focus on the boy, I hadn’t noticed that Fate was now standing in front of this theater. Was he now going to lecture us? Was he going to make a presentation? I looked around to see if God was outside with us, but I didn’t see him. The stars had stopped shooting.
Fate spoke. “I want to show you something.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
On her first day, a new nurse cares for a premature baby. Twenty-eight years later, and after having moved across the country, the nurse is caring for another baby. The mother was the original baby.10
Fate introduced the start of a movie, and after the opening credits and titles, we saw a young girl walking down a sunlit, deserted street in what appeared to be a pretty rough neighborhood. Graffiti covered the outer walls of houses. Thick, black bars protected the doors and windows. Cars were parked on the sidewalks. Some were up on blocks. Weeds were landscaping. The girl was in her early teens, and she had a spring in her step that didn’t quite fit with the scenery. She wore a hoodie and jeans and was listening to music through headphones. She sang along to old Eminem lyrics. Does anybody else know they are Eminem lyrics?
Fate paused the movie. “Do you know the story of Thurgood Marshall?” No response, which was either the result of confused silence or none of us knowing. “He was a United States Supreme Court Justice and civil rights leader. When Thurgood was fourteen, as he walked through his neighborhood, he found a law book in the street. The book had no business being there. It was completely out of place. Thurgood picked it up, started reading, and, well, the rest, as they say . . .”
I thought that was an unbelievably cool story. What were the chances? How did that book get there? Without thinking about my surroundings or the last several hours of my experiences, again, I was going to say it was one of the coolest experiences of my “life.” But this wasn’t life. Not anymore.
I love it when things like that happen. The words were barely in my head when the light bulb went off. Fate put that book there! Just like Fate put Jeanie in Mort’s way. Why did I think finding that book was so awesome but was upset that Mort’s story had “changed”? Maybe I felt like this removed some of the randomness of a lifelong romance. It wasn’t just by chance. It was, in fact, fated. Like being punked, but better. I was getting a better grip and thought that both instances of Fate’s power were undeniably cool. He was God’s court jester. Not to make fun of people. Not to make fools of people. But to help them. Mort needed Jeanie, and Fate made it happen. This satisfied God.
Behind his mask, I can only assume Fate was laughing at me and thinking, “Of course that’s what I did, dumbass. Haven’t I made that abundantly clear by now?”
Fate explained, “This girl is not much younger than Thurgood was when he found his law book. And it seems to me that this girl could possibly use a nudge in a new direction. In front of you is a keypad with three buttons. If you push A, she will find a book like the one Thurgood found. If you push B, she will find a biography of Wilma Rudolph, and if you push C, she will find a biography of Nina Simone.”
We looked around, trying to read each other with our eyes as if to ask, “A? Are you picking A? I’m thinking C. Don’t pick A.” Was Fate really leaving this kid’s, um, fate, up to us? Were we really going to have this kind of potential impact on this kid? Could we really help dictate her future? It was exciting to think about. I was trying not to judge this kid’s life, but if I were being honest with myself, it didn’t look like the choices offered much in the way of hope.
Lawyer and activist?
Great athlete?
Musical artist?
What did I want for this girl I knew nothing about? At one time or another in my life, I wanted all of these things for myself. Well, maybe not a lawyer. Who wants to be a lawyer? Taking on anything that required extra school wasn’t exactly in my wheelhouse. But pro athlete or artist? Those were the dreams of my childhood and adulthood. Especially artist. That one was still my dream. Right up until the end, I harbored those not-so-secret dreams of writing for a living. Or just creating for a living. Anything. I wanted to leave something behind. Not a legacy. I didn’t care about that, but art that stood the test of time.
I pushed the button for C and prayed for everyone else to do the same. I had always wanted that for myself, and I had also long thought that if I ever had a kid of my own, that’s what I would want for them. An openly creative life that gave them the opportunity to explore and express feelings through words, mixed media, or music. Or through any other kind of art, for that matter. Once, while applying for a job, the hiring manager said to me, “You’re really kind of an artist, aren’t you?” It was the single greatest compliment I had ever received—even if it meant not getting the job since he saw my artistic spirit as a weakness and not an asset. The artist’s life seemed to be full of feeling. Pure of heart. Contentment. Awareness. Full of heaven on earth. Even in its struggles. Authenticity through art was worth the struggle. Worth the pain.
So, yeah, I pushed C.
Fate was back to his playful ways. “I’ll go tally the votes,” he said.
I figured the votes were probably tallied automatically, but he wanted to create some drama. Kind of like cutting to commercial at a crucial moment. This was his cliffhanger. As he stepped away, the angels broke into the “Final Jeopardy” theme music. Of course, they did. When Fate came back, he didn’t announce the winner. He just said, “Watch.”
The girl continued her carefree stroll down the street, rapping platinum-worthy lyrics about drugs, guns, more drugs, and . . . drugs. Lo and behold, she tripped over a book. It was, not surprisingly, completely out of place. She picked it up and started flipping through the pages. We couldn’t see which book it was. We couldn’t see what she was reading. We had no idea if it was the law book or the Nina Simone biography. We were all on the literal edge of our seats. Even Blondie, who found her way onto the seat next to me where Mort once sat. What happened to Mort? We were yelling and barking at the screen as though it were the Rocky Horror Picture Show. Obviously, not everyone was hoping for C. According to the hoots and hollers, this vote was going to be close, but most seemed to want her to become a lawyer. Probably because of the stability and . . . oh, shut up already.
I thought about all of the years when I would answer anyone who would ask, “What do you want to do with your life?” with “I want to be a writer. If I could make a living doing anything, I would write.” But I tied “the living” to money. If only I had figured out that the earned living came from the doing—not the money. Earning a living isn’t about the earning. It’s about the living.
Then I’d go back to my life of shoulds and supposed-tos. I’d go back to my life of perceived responsibilities. Responsibilities, I convinced myself, required so many sacrifices and compromises that they became excuses for not writing. My life where risk wasn’t sweetened by reward, as Thoreau wrote, but instead was met by doubters and naysayers. The life in which I didn’t have the strength to realize that it wasn’t a risk to write for a living; the real risk was not writing.
I used to think of “risking my life” as something that involved death. I was wrong. I only now truly understood that I was risking my life by not fully living it. According to my terms. Every day that I wasn’t a writer or an artist, every day when I didn’t say what I needed to say, every day that wasn’t driven by love, passion, and gratitude was a day that I risked my life. It was a day when I was already dead. Just like Ira said. I may have appeared to be alive on the outside, but I was dead on the inside. I figured this all out on the day I died. That day was filled with love, passion, and creativity. That day was filled with a run on the mountain, making love to Jess, and writing in my hidden café. I was fulfilled. I was alive. I didn’t earn a dime. I earned something far more valuable: I earned my self-respect. I earned a living.
Oh, how I wanted this kid to learn this lesson early and to be an artist. She had a great voice. Maybe she’d be a rapper herself. Even though the book was already in her hand, I kept pushing C the way a little kid keeps pushing a crosswalk signal. Maybe if I just pushed it a few more times . . .
The girl closed the book, leaned back on the hood of a broken-down car, and looked up at the sky. Was she looking at us? Did she know that we had just delivered her the choice of a new path? Was she visualizing her music career? She closed her eyes. Was she praying? What was she thinking? I wished Fate or God would translate the moment for us. I was desperate to know which book was in her hand.
“You’ve just participated in a powerful event,” Fate broke the tension with the return of the monotone delivery. It was right for the perceived reverence of the moment. Still, someone yelled, “Which book is it?” Fate looked in the direction of the would-be heckler and said with complete sincerity, “It doesn’t matter.”
This caused immediate confusion, disappointed groans, and a few “What do you mean, it doesn’t matter?” responses from the crowd.
