PERCEPTIONS OF THE GREEN NOTEBOOK
The "At Last!" Edition, Copyright 2009 by Marc Roman
Published by Smashwords.
Any semblance to real people, places, things, or events, is entirely coincidental.
Dedication:
To Robyn, for saving my life, for saving my very soul . . .
I sat in the corner of a flea market bookstall, passing the time amongst cracked volumes and torn paperbacks that surrounded me with an unknowable comfort. None were of particular rarity or demand, but all provided glimpses of times passed and hopes forgotten. Old science fiction books mingled with historical works, and romantic tales shared their ways with comics, as magazines opened themselves upon former bestsellers. I randomly chose a few books to play a little game with that I had known since I was very young. One can often tell the age of a book from a whiff of its ruffled pages. The pleasant smell of slowly decaying paper and fading ink filled my nostrils as I guessed the age of the first book.
“1997,” I said to myself as I looked at the appropriate page. 1996. Close enough.
“1975,” I thought as I breathed in the odor of the next one.
Copyright, 1892. Eighteenth Printing, 1970.
Still within the range at least.
“Third time’s the charm,” I said in a quiet voice while flipping through the third volunteer.
“2001.”
Wrong.
No date.
There was no information page at all, and no sign that there had ever been one. I looked at the cover:
Perceptions of the Green Notebook
By the look of its spine, the book was still in fairly good shape. It didn't look like the kind that was made to last, yet it had stood the test of time, or at least that of torture from careless readers. I glanced at random passages, and read a sentence or two from each. They were simple, yet inspired my curiosity. An untrained mind had written the lines, and it is this that sold me on the work. I approached the dealer to make the purchase.
“Fifty cents,” the merchant said as I reached for my wallet, “and a complementary bookmark.”
I accepted the bookmark graciously and placed it somewhere in the middle of the book. I never used bookmarks, at least not real ones. I prefered old store receipts or remnants of notepads that were just the right size. It felt right to mark my place this way.
I spent another hour or two at the market, looking through used toys and games. I even found an old software package I had wanted for years. Satisfied, I sat down at an inevitably sticky bench to savor some buttery popcorn, and carefully began to read the book I had bought:
Perceptions of the Green Notebook
“Odd title,” I thought, and stopped. For some unknown reason, I had the greatest urge to read the book out of order, something I had never done before. With this unforseen change of style, I turned to a random page:
*** PERCEPTION XV: The Universe ***
Not only do I exist within the universe, but I also consist of it. I am part of the universe, and by extension, I am the universe. Since I am trying to understand the universe, does this mean the universe is attempting to realize itself?
Can I realize you within me?
“Huh,” I said to myself, although the concept was nothing new. I had thought the same thing from time to time, but it was a tad refreshing to see it in print. I randomly chose a couple more entries, a poem and an essay. They were short, but entertaining. It was about this time that I finished my popcorn, and took that as a sign that I should leave. I drove home, slowly growing anxious to further read the book.
Unfortunately, I fell victim, along with many other motorists, to the passing of a train. The trains here tend to be long, but I had hope that this one would be brief. I sat for a couple of minutes before realizing that what I wanted to do at home could be done right then and there. I shut the car off and applied the parking brake. While other drivers honked and yelled, I welcomed the warm solitude of the book:
*** PERCEPTION V: 18 Speed Reality ***
Summer’s heat is over
Autumn is gone.
Winter has been surpassed,
But Spring need not come.
I hated riding my bicycle to work in the Florida heat, with drivers who cut you off just to get into their own driveways! My shirt would be soaked and my brakes would smoke. By the time I got there, it was as if I never showered, and the way home was just as hazardous, but somehow shorter. Even in torrents of rain, the ride home was smoother, but this was nothing new and had come to mind before.
I was riding to work on a rare, chilly morning, when my knees began to ache terribly as I panted up the hill I traversed every day.
“Walking this is better!” I said aloud as I dismounted and continued upwards. Near the top, I got back on and looked forward to the downhill stretch. I achieved high speed in a short time with little energy spent, but the signal light changed too soon, and I had to relinquish all momentum as I skidded to a halt. My knees felt disappointed at this all too common event. A few minutes later I arrived at my job, panting as usual. Since this position required a lot of standing, I knew that soon enough my feet would hurt terribly more than my knees.
I spent the entire day in endless contemplation. Something in the back of my mind, like a taunting fairy, kept beckoning me to look at it, but would run away whenever I tried. I was so preoccupied by this sensation, that the normally boring and frustrating time spent at work was over before I knew it! This was somewhat of a relief, but the impending journey home crushed any semblance of a good mood. I clocked out, got my bicycle, and left for home. It was storming, but I was prepared and had a poncho. Too bad I had never seen one that covers a cyclist’s legs. With my lower extremities soaked, I reached the hill.
I would always pedal for the first part of an upward climb, since the effort is about the same as on a flat surface, and then get off and walk about halfway to the top. Somehow, my knees weren’t whining this time, and I reached the top with surprisingly little effort. Then the wind came with a vengeance, making the ride down tougher than the ride up! I battled against the gale, and almost lost my balance, as that fairy in the recesses of my mind chimed loudly. No words, just thoughtforms from that primordial soup where ideas are born. I stopped the bike near the end of the slope, and stayed frozen as my intellect translated what my subconsciousness had concocted.
Uphill and downhill are the same, are they not? said a voice from within.
“That’s ridiculous!” I said to myself out loud. "Isn't it obvious?"
Isn’t it obvious? the voice repeated.
I shook my head in disbelief, and finished riding home.
The next day was bright and clear, and hot. Once again I had reached the hill. An egotistical urge challenged me to disprove what I had argued with myself about the day before. Sure enough, right as rain, the upward trek was hell and the downward travel was heaven. I arrived at work with an air of smugness and kept it all day. That evasive sprite did not rear her head, not even once.
The way home was once again under the rule of some rain deity, and this time I had been caught by surprise. I fumbled for my poncho, and as I neared the hill, that mental pixie returned.
Isn’t it obvious?
I stood there, feeling a little puzzled.
“What in the world's wrong with me?" I asked myself aloud. "Since when do I argue with myself?”
Egomania ran through me as I quickly decided to pedal the entire way upwards. Again the ride was smooth. I pedaled downhill. The wind blew as if on cue, and I stopped just short of the bottom.
Isn’t it obvious?
I rode home in a state of perplexion that had inherited a bit of fear and disgust. That night, I had broken sleep as I tossed and turned with thoughts of the hill.
The next morning was my day off, yet I couldn't help but ride to the hill. An elusive elf in the forest of the human psyche had refused to let me sleep, so I had decided to settle this mess once and for all.
I rode up that hill as fast as I could, while trying my best to ignore the inflamed tempers of my aggravated knees. I rode down just as determinedly, but did not stop to take advantage of gravity. I did this several times, and was soon out of breath. As it turns out, I was at the bottom of the hill on the workward side this time. Once again, the voice could be heard:
Isn’t it obvious?
I got off the bike and slumped to the ground from fatigue, but also from the shock of revelation. The unicorn of enlightenment stormed through the grasses of my newfound knowledge, and drank from the stream of my soul. It all seemed inconsequential now. It is, once you can see it. I helped myself onto the bicycle and rode home, knowing that nothing could ever obstruct me anymore.
***END***
The passage was surprisingly short. As I started to turn to another section, I heard a bicycle bell. A woman had pulled up next to me on her street bike, trying to get my attention.
“The train has passed,” she said, pointing behind herself to the backed up traffic. “Hurry before they start honking at ya."
“Thanks,” I replied as I released the parking brake and started the car.
"You're welcome," said the cyclist as she effortlessly rode off.
If all of us rode like that, I thought to myself, we wouldn't need cars!
Not long after getting home, I read more of the book. I could have read throughout the night, but I had learned my lesson about going to bed too late. I made a compromise with myself, and decided to read just one more section before settling in to sleep:
*** PERCEPTION XXV: Kindergarten ***
MAIN CHARACTERS:
Max - 24 year old white man
Greg - 81 year old black man
Rosa - 22 year old hispanic woman
SETTING:
Early morning in a barren desert
Max: (Walking slowly with a shortness of breath): How long has it been? Maybe it’s about time I gave up. (Stops suddenly and stamps foot angrily.) No! To give up now would be never to have begun! Aaah! I’m so tired! (Spots a rock, sits on it for a rest.) What now, huh? No one to talk to! I went east, one friend went north, another south. I hope it works out for them. No one to talk to! (Puts both hands on his forehead, puts head down, and shakes it from side to side.) Well, I might as well get back to work. (Crouches on ground. Sifts through the sand and finds a silver, iridescent, dodecahedronish sphere. Places the sphere in a small sack.)
Greg: Hey! Don’t do that here! Sure, they may like it, but someone like you should be gathering closer to the wall.
Max: (Looks up in surprise.) Huh? Who are you? Oh, never mind. Just leave me alone.
Greg: (Looks at Max continuing the work. Waits a few seconds, crouches to Max’s level, and speaks.) You can’t fill it, you know.
Max: (Angrily.) I KNOW! (Has a look of deep thought on his face, then speaks calmly.) But there’s nothing else to do.
Greg: Yes there is. Work closer to the wall.
Max: The wall?! (Gets up quickly.) The wall? You mean, I’m here?
Greg: (Standing.) Not quite, but close. Can you see it over there? (Points toward a distant spot).
Max: No.
Greg: Neither can I. But I can feel.
Max: Have you worked on it’s edge?
Greg: Yes. And, you know, you don’t collect as much, but the work is harder.
Max: I had heard rumors.
Greg: C’mon. I’ll take you there. Oh, and by the way, the name’s Greg.
Max: I’m Max. Are you sure we should go there? Wouldn’t they be angry?
Greg: Well, they wouldn’t be too angry. As long as you’re collecting, all is well, so it is said. Coming this far, you know that’s not true. If all is well, I don’t think we’d be here.
Max: I . . . I think I’ll stay here. (Resumes gathering.)
Greg: No! You didn’t come this far for nothing! Let’s go! (Grabs Max’s arm and starts to walk. Max gets up with little resistance, grabbing his sack.)
Greg: Oh no. You still have a sack, don’t you? Well, at least it seems to have shrunk a little.
Max: Is that good?
Greg: Of course it is! Look at mine. (Shows his verysack.) I don’t have to work so hard for them.
Max: But what do you do then? Everyone I’ve known who has done their work for the day just keeps right on collecting.
Greg: I take breaks.
Max: Breaks? Won’t they know?
Greg: Of course they know. You don’t know how many times I’ve wanted to just gather and gather and gather. Anyway, we have no time to waste. Let’s keep moving.
(Both walk in silence. After a while both sit down for a rest. Both begin sifting for spheres. They find one each, pick it up, look at it, and then toss it. One of the spheres hits/drops nearby a well dressed, rich looking man who is ecstatic in his collecting. He looks at the discarded sphere with glee and puts it in his humongous sack. Both Greg and Max hear the man’s cries of glee and look at him.)
Max: Not much anybody can do for him.
Greg: You’re probably right. It’s kinda hard to quit collecting when you’ve collected so much.
Max: Can’t help everybody.
Greg: You can at least try.
Max: (Spots two other people.) Hey Greg, look over there. (Points.)
(Both can see a woman and a man sitting, levitating spheres, and talking.)
Max: I’ve seen that before. Stuck in talk. Can’t rely on just that. After all, don’t they still have sacks?
Greg: Yes, albeit small ones. Just as small as mine, but that doesn’t matter.
Max: (Spots a woman collecting and points towards her.) Look.
Greg: What? (Looks in the direction Max is pointing.)
Greg: Her bag’s almost as small as yours. Hmm. Looks like she’s going to take a break.
(As both continue to watch the woman, they see her take a sphere out of her sack. As she stares at it, it starts to levitate and spin. She is startled and it drops to the ground. She picks it back up and stares at it again. Once more the sphere levitates and spins.)
Greg and Max: (Simultaneously.) Let’s go.
(They both walk over to her. Too engrossed in watchng the sphere levitate, she takes no notice of the two until they are within conversation distance, and is then startled. The sphere drops to the ground.)
Rosa: Who . . . who are you? Oh no! I didn’t do anything! Honest I didn’t!
Greg: It’s alright. Me and Max did that trick long ago.
Max: That’s right.
Rosa: You mean, they don’t know about the levitation?
Greg: Of course they know, but you’ve still got your sack, right? Don’t worry, they won’t bother you.
Max: (Interjecting.) Not if me and Greg can help it.
Rosa: (Looking at Max.) Thank you. Thank you very much.
Max: Sure. You’re welcome. Would you like to come with us?
Rosa: Where?
Max: To the wall.
Rosa: The wall? Really?
Max. Yes. It’s not every day that me and Greg get further company, you know.
Greg: Max is right. Besides, all you’d be doing here is collecting. You’re not cut out for that sort of thing. By the way, name?
Rosa: Rosa.
Greg: Yes . . . Rosa.
Rosa: Wow. I never thought I’d run into people like you two. Whenever I stop to think about what I’m doing, you know, collecting, everybody just tells me not to worry about it. I’d be honored to travel with you. (Gestures towards Max.) Can you help me up?
Max: Huh? Sure. (Helps Rosa up.)
Greg: Let’s get moving.
(After a long walk in silence, the party stops.)
Greg: Hmm. I could have sworn the wall was right around here. Oh no, couldn’t be.
Max: A false wall?
Greg: (Sighs.) Yes. Oh well. It’s not too bad. One has to take risks in searching for the wall, and it seems that this one was a trap. Having you two as company must have saved me.
Max: Is that good?
Greg: I guess so.
Max: Maybe it’s not good. Maybe we’ve clouded you, and therefore you can’t feel it anymore.
Rosa: Maybe.
Greg: Maybe.
Max: Maybe there is no true wall. Maybe all who’ve breached it have gone through false ones.
Rosa: Max, don’t give up hope. I’m sure the three of us will find the true wall someday.
Max: I’m not giving up. Although collecting is difficult to stop, it really doesn’t solve anything, and traveling with you two does. Besides, when I was a little younger, I could’ve sworn I’d actually seenwall.
Greg: (Half believing.) Oh, really.
Max: It was but for a brief time. It could’ve been a false wall, but maybe not.
Rosa: Can you recall what it looked like?
Max: No. I think if I could, I wouldn’t be here right now. I’d have either gone through the real wall or a false one.
Greg: Why do you keep mentioning false walls? Sure, they exist, but we must take that chance.
Rosa: I think Greg is right. I had heard about false walls, but even those who had apparently gone through false ones had abandoned their sacks. Isn’t that what we’re trying to do?
Max: Yes, it is, but I just don’t want to be trapped in illusion.
Greg: Aren’t we trapped right now?
(Silence as Max looks at Rosa and Greg. Greg has a serious expression on his face, and Rosa places her hand on Max’s shoulder in a gesture of encouragement.)
Max: Which would be a deeper and more inescapable level?
Greg: You have a good point, but like I said without taking risks we won’t get anywhere. Let’s keep going.
(The three continue their walk. Max wears a face of deep contemplation. After a while Max spots a particularly interesting sphere.)
Max: Whoa! Wait a minute! Get a load of this one! (Stoops to pick it up.)
Greg: (Quickly blocks the attempt as Rosa holds Max back.) No! Don’t do it! We must find the wall! If you pick that up now, who knows how long you’ll be stuck here!
Max: I’m sorry! I couldn’t help it. It seemed to call to me.
Rosa: It’s OK. Me and Greg are here. We’ll help you.
Greg: Rosa’s right. We all need some help now and then.
(They resume walking. Max gives the sphere one last glance, and then a quick shake of the head as if to snap out of a trance. After a long while, Greg bumps into something invisible.)
Greg: Ow! W . . . wait a minute! This is it!
Max: What?
Rosa: Yeah, what?
Greg: It’s the wall!
Max: (Feels around.) There’s nothing there!
Rosa: (Feels around.) Wait. Greg is right!
Max: (Tries again.) I still don’t feel it. Are you sure it isn’t just another false one?
Rosa: Two out of three.
Greg: Max, how can you be so doubtful? Without risks, how are we ever going to find any wall at all?
Max: I can’t help it. Is it worth it?
Greg: In any case, I think it’s about time I made my stand. (Throws his sack to the ground.) Rosa? You with me?
Rosa: why not? (Throws her bag which is now smaller than Max’s to the ground. One sphere rolls out.)
Max: Hey!
Greg: (With much joy.) I can SEE it! There it is! C’mon! (Gestures to both Rosa and Max, then starts to go through the invisible wall.) Hurry! Both of you grab my hand!
(Rosa grabs it with her left hand. Max grabs it with his right hand. His left still clutches his sack.)
Greg: C’mon!
Max: I’m trying! What’s butter to you is steel to me! I can’t breach it!
Greg: Keep trying!
Rosa: (Rosa is partway through the wall.) Come on, Max! You can do it!
Max: I’m trying!
(Rosa looks at Greg through the wall, then looks at Max. Rosa looks back and forth at Greg through the wall and at Max., who at this time is frantically trying to get through the wall. His hand still clutches his sack, and Rosa looks at him with concern.)
***END***
That night, the sandman came quickly, with a sack full of curious dreams . . .
***************************
As much as the book began to intrigue me, I did not read it constantly. It seemed fun to leave it alone for a few days, and then read an entry or two. It was like the ultimate cliffhanger that no movie or television show could surpass. I wondered when it would end, which was actually a little silly, since I was reading the book out of order. The print was rather small, though, so there was still a lot of ground to cover. It must have been someone’s life work, for it felt like it would take quite a while to read. But anyway, the book came with me wherever I went, whether I actually read it or not. I came to understand materialism a bit better since acquiring it.
It was a Tuesday, almost a month after purchasing my little compendium. I was waiting in the car outside of the elementary school my sister’s daughter went to. She was a bright child, almost too much so to simply be in the third grade, but even I knew that intelligence and wisdom were not always the same thing. And that I learned on my own. Anyway, it was too early to pick her up, but I think this was done on purpose, since it gave me a legitimate excuse to read the book. Once again I blindingly chose a page to start reading from:
*** PERCEPTION XIII: The Lollipop Syndrome ***
Everyone believes I'm just the elementary school custodian, but that just shows how
little people know. I see what others do not, and am often left wondering if ignorance
really is bliss.
It was a cool autumn afternoon. The sky was accented by clouds of the lightest gray,
which meant recess would not be canceled. The anxiousness of the entire school left as the
time came. Moses could not have parted the waves of children as they poured into the
playground. Soon the sounds of kids belittling each other became nothing more than a mass
of noise. I stood by the supply shed resting on a shovel as I watched them play, and my
eyes wandered to the far edge of the playground.
Two boys, presumably in Kindergarten, were out there in the tall grass. They stood
rigid and stared at each other intensely. One of them held a lollipop, the kind given by
teachers for good behavior, while the other had nothing but hands that repeatedly opened
and closed. As if on cue, the skies grew dark, and the grass swayed in the wind as it began to
drizzle. The two generals waited as each tried to guess the others move, and then I saw
it.
Knights on mighty steeds came down from the heavens, and great battleships formed in
the clouds. Terra cotta warriors rose from the mud and took sides as the rain began to
feel like gunfire. The wind howled with many voices from the past. I could hear Hitler
and Stalin shouting orders. Caesar had his hand on one child's shoulder as Napoleon stood
confidently next to the other. Tokugawa waited patiently while Alexander demanded action.
I couldn't watch this spectacle any longer, and quickly turned away as Nobunaga ordered
the rifles of soldiers to fire.
When I dared to look again, the victor stood triumphantly with prize in hand, while
the other sat crying and covered in mud. The storm cleared as quickly as it had come. The
piercing rain soon felt like celestial sobs. I realized no one would see more in this than
just soiled clothes and reddened faces.
I looked down at my shovel as it slowly dug into the earth, and I wept.
***END***
Suddenly, I heard the cries of children as school was out. I hid the book out of my niece’s view as she skipped up to the car.
“How was school today?” I asked.
“Fine,” she said happily as she got in and then added, ”Can we get some ice cream?”
“Sure,” I replied as I started the car and tried to think of the nearest parlor. I turned around in my seat like many do in order to back out of a parking space. I jammed on the brakes as a kid ran past without looking where he was going.
“Good God!” I exclaimed, “That could’ve been really!”
I turned to look at my niece, who sat there beaming at me with the knowledge that ice cream and candy were in the near future. She was oblivious to what had just happened. Just then I heard someone shouting not too far away from us.
“You watch where you’re going kid, or you’re gonna get hurt!” came the voice of an older man.
“Oh yeah? Well you’d better just stick to your orange sawdust, you old geezer!” came the reply.
With the way clear, my niece and I went out for ice cream.
***************************
Two months had passed since I first bought my paperback buddy, and I was still far from finishing it. The time between reading passages became longer and longer, even though my expectations grew steadily larger. And although there were parts I didn’t like or agree with, I was rarely disappointed. It was simply fun finding it all out. The book wasn't all just stories, either. There were essays, poetry, and even humor, with one passage becoming relevant at the cinema, when I had a little too much soda to drink. Darn those three hour long movies!
*** PERCEPTION XXXI: How to Rate a Public Restroom ***
The Flush System
I despise public restrooms, for there are so many users who leave them in such apalling conditions. As a way of comically showing my disgust, I have come up with a restroom rating system. Movies are often rated using the 5 star system, with more stars meaning a better movie, but in the Flush System the opposite holds true, for the dirtier a toilet, the more times you need to flush it:
1 flush: Fairly clean, if not immaculate. Good luck finding these.
2 flushes: Slight odor, maybe a floor stain. Includes many restaurants.
3 flushes: Odor, stuff on the floor, and possible lack of toilet paper. Grocery and retail stores are typical suspects.
4 flushes: Obvious odor, stuff on the floor, a definite lack of toilet paper, and almost certainly an unflushed toilet. Examples include hole in the wall eateries and bars.
5 flushes: Stench, unavoidable stuff, especially on seats, no toilet paper, unflushed toilets all too common. Culprits include mall restrooms, bus terminals, and gas stations.
***END***
It had only been worth a slight chuckle when I first read that. Anyway, while washing my hands, the book came out of my pocket, and nearly fell on the dirty floor! It was then that I decided to invest in a book cover, preferably plastic.
***************************
I love chocolate. I had had some at the theater, though they really do charge too much for it. It's my number one treat, though the book was slowly becoming a contender. Anyway, I was dying for some one day, and pulled into the parking lot of a convenience store. I found my favorite candy bar, and took my place at the end of the line. It was a long one, since it was lunch hour, but instead of growing impatient, I simply took out my favorite book:
*** PERCEPTION III: A Matter of Convenience ***
One night, Kyle drove to the local convenience store for some candy of the sort that was only found there. It was a quaint little treat, some sort of cream filled chocolate with a sweetness that seemed to touch the soul. It even had a peculiar name, Contemplation.
“Rather fitting for such an interesting sweet treat," he said to himself.
“Yes, it is,” said a woman who had just approached him. She was about five foot nine, with dark hair , dark clothing, and extremely pale yet uniform skin. One might have considered her as undead, were it not for the air of liveliness that could be seen lying underneath a thin veil of calm.
“Do you come here often?” asked Kyle. He was always a straightforward man with intellectual inclinations.
“Just for the chocolate,” the woman said in that classic, playfully seductive tone.
“I like to eat them quickly,” Kyle said.
“I prefer to savor them,” replied the woman.
And that was all the two needed to know. They each grabbed sizable amounts of the confection, and walked towards the counter. An older man at the register turned to face them.
“And how are you folks this fine evening?” said the cashier.
“Not too well, actually,” said Kyle.
“That’s what the chocolate’s for,” said the woman, speaking for herself, to the cashier.
“Had too much Contemplation, but never enough, eh?” said the man. The two purchasers remained silent while the joke sank in. Neither found it funny.
“Don’t take it so hard,” said the man, “for in the center lies the source.”
Kyle and the woman made a quick glance at each other.
“And do youthem?” asked Kyle.
The man looked at him with playful seriousness: “It has quite a lovely wrapper.”
The woman offered a brief, somewhat sarcastic chuckle.
“It’s almost closing time,” said the cashier, as he began to ring up the woman’s candy first. Kyle looked out the store window at his car, quickly lost in thought as he waited for his turn. By the time he looked back, his chocolate had already been paid for. The woman was at the door, smiling, and waved goodbye as she opened it to leave.
To Kyle’s surprise, there was nothing but whiteness outside, a sort of cream color. As he started to mouth what his eyes had witnessed, the woman exited, laughing joyously as she stepped outside. Kyle stood there agape as the night returned with his car in plain view . . . but the woman gone!
“It has quite a lovely wrapper,” the cashier said.
***END***
Before I knew it, my turn at the register had come. As I payed for my chocolate, the bell near the entrance door went off, and light from outside shone ever brighter through the opening doorway. It was intensely white, and all encompassing and soothing. It was the kind that made you want to stay outside and play, or least just relax and soak it in. I waited until the door was closed again before proceeding to exit it myself.
I ate the candy bar as I drove to the beach, having been influenced by that inviting light. I wasn't dressed for such an outing, but I figured I could simply sit at an outdoor bar or something. The sun kept its promise, and shone down warmly while revelers made the most of the sand and waves. Some people enjoyed a nice little barbecue and a cold one, or just lay out in the sun getting a tan. I heard children laughing as they made sandcastles, and I could see three figures walking along, collecting shells into small sacks. I turned away from the idyllic scene, took a sip of a ginger ale I had purchased, and pulled out the book.
But what I read next destroyed all happiness . . .
*** PERCEPTION XCVIII: A Better Place ***
Humanity had finally turned to total chaos, leaving the entire planet nothing but wasteland. Absolutely no life remained besides ourselves, and not even the oldest among us could remember the sight of a butterfly, or the smell of a rose. No one escaped the horrors of war, not even me. My parents had died in a surprise attack, which left me at the mercy of the Warlords. I was drafted against my will, placed in a mixed unit of women, men, and children with minimal training. Wars of attrition were commonplace, with no time for proper instruction. This left many units extremely vulnerable, including mine.
It was a fairly fresh unit, with many gaps filled after the big battle at Tralsia. I had already been with it a couple of months as a cook, when our new commander, Dutch Wilkinson, arrived. He was a twelve year old boy, and a gifted tactitian who simply needed more experience. Rumors had it, though, that he was extremely hotheaded and prone to rage. Soon after, we also received our new medical officer, Ms. Loretta Lang, a stunning red haired woman of about nineteen who was determined in her work, but knew little more than first aid. The seasoned members of our troop looked down on these two, but knew that many such souls had proven their worth before. Even Friendly Jake, the head technician, didn’t hold Wilkinson too highly, and showed respect to Ms. Lang only because he knew I had eyes for her. Unfortunately, my eyes would soon see her no more.
Weeks had gone by since Commander Wilkinson was put in charge of our detatchment, and soldiers confessed to me that he was too hard on the troops. They took part in a rapid succession of skirmishes, which left me pretty busy keeping everyone fed, including Ms. Lang, who would often sit away from the rest of us. One day I decided to admit my attraction, so I hurriedly gave everyone their rations and sat down next to her. She didn’t flinch, nor did she give any signs of pushing me away, although her body was obviously tense. I decided to eat my meal until I felt the moment was right. After a couple minutes I decided it was time.
“Umm. . . Ms. Lang?” I asked, and soon heard a faint sniffle. She turned to look at me, and I found her face covered with tears. She looked me straight in the eyes and at once my arms moved to envelop her. She welcomed the embrace and put forth a torrent of crying which soon left her body limp and at the mercy of mine. Then it dawned on me that the others might be watching. I looked up, and found no one but Jake, who was standing at the entrance to the mess hall in a nonchalant pose. With his eyes, he told me everything I needed to know. I simply gave him eyes of complete gratitude. From then on, I sat next to Ms. Lane at almost every meal, but we never talked. She never gave me a defensive air however, and in time she would take my hand into hers and simply squeeze. It wasn’t love. That I knew. But whatever it was, I was more than happy to have been a part of it.
Months went by, and soon we were in the unsteady peace of a stalemate. This did not alleviate our tensions though, for we knew that a stalemate was the worst thing that could happen. Ms. Lang had proven to be an excellent doctor during this time, and had saved the life of Friendly Jake, which of course earned her the respect of the entire unit. Even Commander Wilkinson, in spite of still being a hotheaded little brat, respected her now. But Ms. Lang, no, Loretta, continued to hold my hand at mealtimes, and I could see that whatever she was suffering from was only getting worse. One evening she held my hand so tightly that I thought it was going to drop off. My heart was beating stronger than any wardrum as I realized something was about to go terribly wrong.
A sudden explosion, sounding like it took out half of our munitions, was quickly followed by many more throughout the base. Gunfire, unlike any we’ve ever heard, came screaming through the mess hall, taking out the entire kitchen. Everyone scrambled for defensive postions. I started to get up but was held back by Loretta’s grasp. She looked at me with the most pleading of eyes as she handed me a rather small bound volume, presumably a diary, and spoke.
“Please,” she begged from the depths of her soul, as a shell found its mark, and burst her head into a million bloodied pieces, much of which landed on me.
I stood there in complete shock. I knew what war was. We all did. In this day and age, it wasn’t something that happened to only some of us, but to all of us. War was something horribly real planet wide, not just on vid monitors or radio transmissions. But I was just the chef, and had not really seen battle firsthand. I had lost my parents to these wars, but never felt what I was feeling at that moment. Mom and Dad had become nothing but death reports, whereas Loretta was a lump of matter that only moments ago had begged me about something I had yet to understand.
“Joseph! Get down!”
I felt the weight of Jake slam me to the ground as rounds whizzed just past my ear. Jake dragged me to a safer place, grabbed me by the shirt collar and yelled down my throat.
“What the hell’s the matter with you?!” he screamed, “You could’ve been killed!”
“Wha?” was all that came from me.
“Dammit, Joseph! This is war! I don’t like it either, but I’m not about to see my friends get slaughtered so easily!”
“But, Loretta. . .” I stammered. Jake seemed to calm down somewhat, then spoke.
“We can’t do anything for her anymore. She ain’t here. YOU are! Now get up! Here’s a small rifle I’ve been saving for a time like this. I hope it sees you through.”
He thrust the weapon into my reluctant hands, and made sure my grip was firm with a squeeze so much like Loretta’s that I couldn’t resist. Jake stared at me, and I could see the tears he was holding back.
“Now go,” he said, “I must see if any vehicles are battle worthy. Good luck . . . Joseph.” Jake left for the vehicle bay without another word.
I managed to sit up, and leaned my back against a nearby wall. Bullets were flying everywhere, but I didn’t care. I wanted to die, but I did not know why. I wanted to throw the gun away, but Jake somehow fused it to my hands, which had become hot from holding it. I had felt this way with guns during training. I was terrible. I always missed the targets, and other skills like martial arts were a complete farce. I had no knack, but the warlords needed soldiers. They were short of chefs, and since I had always been a talented cook, they decided that instead of throwing me to the dogs I was to prepare them. I went to cover my eyes with my hands, as tears held in too long made their presence known. The gun rubbed against my forehead as a book soaked up my sobs. A book.
With gun still firmly held in one hand, I carefully opened the book Loretta had given me. It was a children’s volume, filled with pictures of the imagination. The first one was of a rabbit frolicking in some rolling grasses, with the tile printed above it. Betty Bunny and the Better Place, it said. Intrigued, I started to read the book:
Betty Bunny raised her head.
A bullet found her.
Now she’s dead.
Fortunately, there were no graphic images to follow this. There didn’t need to be.
“Joseph!” came the voice of a fellow troop member.
“Huh?” I said as reality took over. I hid the book in my pocket.
“Get your ass up and over here NOW!” It was Dutch Wilkinson, our commander. He stood in a way one would like to associate with a heroic statue, but the meaning such bronze work conveys could not be applied to him. He was a blood soaked, battle drunk little boy with a rage all his own.
“Sir?” I asked with the vain implication that I would like to sit this one out.
“You heard me, dammit!” Dutch screamed. “If you don’t get over there with the others, and start unloading that clip into the enemy, I’ll see you hanged!”
“Yes sir!” I yelled in a way I hoped would hide my reluctance. He gave me a quick look of contempt and stormed off towards the others, kicking a fallen enemy’s head along the way. I gathered myself together and ran after him.
Everyone was firing like mad. Occasionally one of ours would get struck in the face and fly backwards, spraying their vital fluids over their comrades. Each time one fell, another replaced her or him, and sooner than I would have liked it was my turn. As I readied my rifle, I carefully showed my head. Immediately, instinct told me to duck. Fortunately I obeyed, but still got a smoking trail of melted hair along my now searing scalp. Self-preservation forwarded the motion that I should head for the hills, but CEO Commander Wilkinson dismissed it with a steely gaze and a ready trigger finger. I resumed my position, and as if by fate, caught the enemy leader right in my sights. It was a sure shot. There would be no miss.
If I shoot, she’ll be dead, I thought to myself as I envisioned Loretta, but if I don’t shoot, I’ll be dead.
The muzzle of Dutch’s gun pressed painfully into my back. I held back tears as I closed my eyes and pulled the trigger. There was a bang, some recoil, and the shriek of someone dying.
The fighting suddenly ceased. Apparently, the enemy leader had been slain, likely by me. Dutch pulled me down with astonishing force for a twelve year old, and gave me the most evil grin as he turned to our remaining people and spoke.
“Joseph has proven himself today by taking out the enemy leader,” he announced much to my displeasure. “Too bad the hero’s feast will have to be cooked by the hero himself.”
Everyone laughed at this quip except Jake, who wore a less than joyous expression. When the laughter reached its peak, Dutch forced his elbow into my side as if to add insult to injury. It was with this act that my own rage tore free of its bonds, and a wrestling move we were taught in boot camp actually worked. Dutch was lying face down on the ground, groaning in pain as a trickle of blood could be seen escaping not only his nose, but his chest as well. His gun had accidently gone off!
“I didn’t mean to hurt him!” I said to myself as I ran. Almost everyone was in complete shock, and those that weren’t I could feel aiming their guns at me. I stopped running and stood there waiting to be mowed down, but no shots came. I dared turn to see at a short distance Jake holding back women and men with just the force of his personality. Once again his eyes told all. I gave him a look of thanks and started running again. It wasn’t long before even Jake couldn’t hold the mob back, and he actually became their leader. As he shouted my name with convincing bloodlust, I turned a corner and hid in some wreckage produced by the attack. He actually led the people away from me, and when I deemed it safe enough, I fled for the great unknown.
Several days had passed since my escape. I lived on scraps of food found in trash bins and drank from puddles of mud. I was dizzy from illness, which made travel extremely difficult, and the radiation count continued to rise as I got further from the center of the local excuse for civilization. I had to stop from time to time for rest, and I looked at the book that Loretta had given me with eyes that could not focus. Eventually, I could not walk any further and lay down alongside a collapsing wall. I took the book out of my pocket and tried hard to read it:
Betty Bunny, with eyes so sad,
Said “Why must people be so bad?”
I couldn’t read any more. I was exhausted. I used my remaining energy to place the book back in my pocket, and quickly succumbed to the siren's song of sleep.
I awoke drenched in darkness and gloom. It was very late at night, and the sky was filled with the heaviest of rainclouds. I reached for the book to assure myself it wasn’t wet and got up to seek better shelter. There was an abandoned shed a short ways off with the door rusted halfway open. I went inside and found a small stool to sit on. I held the book clear of any potential rain as I read it:
“Worry not little Bunny,”
Said a voice just like honey.
“Stay a while here with me,
A little boy of three.”
“Who are you?” asked Betty,
with ears standing straight.
“I am your friend,” said the Boy,
“Here in heaven,
Where you are now.
You need fear no more,
For you are safe by far
From all aflictions,
From all pains.
You need not suffer
Ever again.”
Just then, I was grabbed by two armed men and led outside to face the horror of what I knew must come. The warlords were fanatical about war, but were even worse when it came to punishing treason. No one escapes the horrors of war. No one. They led me to the wall I had slept against not long before and pinned me to it. Dutch, having apparently survived his accidental injury, emerged from a small crowd of soldiers. A firing squad consisting of children that were no doubt picked by him lined up for my execution. It was at this point I knew what to do.
“May I have a last request?” I pleaded.
“If you must,” came the unexpected reply.
I searched the crowd with my eyes, and found Jake off to the side trying to hide his disdain for this event. He must have sensed my gaze, for he looked straight at me. Once again, we silently told each other all. He approached me, and with eyes hazed over by tears I gave him the book.
“Please,” I begged.
Jake took the book and stood back.
“Betty Bunny . . .”
“Ready!”
“. . . with eyes so sad,”
“Aim!”
“Said ‘why must people be so bad?’”
“Fire!”
***END***
With just one story, the book had destroyed my happiness. I looked out at the beach, hoping for a reprieve. People were scrambling for shelter, accidentally smashing sandcastles as they went. Unexpected rain clouds were looming overhead, and the heavenly time was abruptly over. I did not read the book again for a very, very long time.
***************************
A good year passed since I last read the book. I had been so horribly depressed from that one forsaken tale, that I turned to comedy before my case became clinical. Movies, tapes, CDs, television, any form that comedy took, I drank deeply from. Why that story hit me so hard I do not know, but I drowned my sorrows in laughter instead of beer. Besides, beer always left a bad taste in my mouth anyway.
Finally, however, I returned to the book. I took it down from the shelf I had placed it on and blew off months of dust, causing Armageddon for the microorganisms that must’ve thrived there. I sat down and humored myself with the first page that caught my attention:
*** PERCEPTION XXVIIII: Silly Things of Note ***
Actual Street Names:
Belcher Road - Beer anyone?
Stall Road - Avoid during rush hour!
Dumb Words & Phrases:
“The Bomb”- Since when is a bomb a good thing?
“Phat”- Obesity without a spell checker.
“Tight”- The less blood circulation the better?
“Yo”- Just the string.
“Bad”- No wonder youth are confused!
“Cool”- Popularity has a temperature?
“Hot”- See cool.
“Gnarly”- Twisted.
“Groovy”- Consisting of grooves.
“Tubular”- Made of tubing.
“Rad”- Requires a Geiger counter?
“Sweat like a pig”- They no longer need the mud?
Silly poem:
Have you ever had the power
To make a minute last an hour?
I had it once,
But it’s use was fairly cheap,
For I made a minute last an hour
Just to get some extra sleep.
*** END ***
I felt better for having read the book again, even though the particular selection wasn't very funny. I no longer liked the book as much as I did before, but somehow I think that was the intention, so that I wouldn't get too attached to it. The whole reason I got into the book in the first place was because I needed it. It was an escape from a dissatisfying life, one that I really haven't alluded to, but a particular story from the book expresses my sentiments well enough:
*** PERCEPTIONS XXXIII: The Time Resolver ***
A small boy, no older than five, stood quietly by a post outside and to the left of the entrance to a small town general store. A cool autumn breeze met the boy’s hair as he played absent-mindedly, and rather unsuccessfully, with a plastic yo-yo shaped like a car tire. After a short while, he grew tired of the toy and stared off into space, seemingly lost in thought. A man approached, hesitantly at first, but with slightly greater confidence as he drew near. The boy noticed the man’s approach and turned to look at him. The boy showed no fear, just curiosity.
“Hello,” said the boy in that innocent yet cautious way some children do.
“Are you happy?” asked the man in quite an honest fashion.
“Yes,” replied the boy.
“Would you like to always be happy?”
* * *
That was the dream I’d have for so many nights of my life. Me, Jack Holden, meeting my younger self from so long ago, telling him what to avoid, what not to do, to change my own life forever.
I thought it would always be just a dream, but it actually came true! Just not in the way I expected . . .
* * *
It all started one day as my R.E.M. state reached it’s peak, about seven or eight in the morning. The dream I had was unclear to me when I awoke, but it left me with a weird feeling. I had had dreams like this before, albeit quite rarely, but this one felt decidedly different.
I eventually forced myself out of bed, and grudgingly walked to the bathroom. I relieved myself, and then gratefully took a shower. For some reason, whenever I had grossly insufficient sleep, my morning shower would soothe and relax me to the point that I could happily go back to sleep, but also could invigorate me so much that if other people felt the same, the coffee industry would go out of business.
As I shampooed my hair, a strange sensation came over me. I felt that I had helped someone. Tremendously. Just last night. But how could that be? After all, it was not like I had stayed out all night, though I had in fact stayed up a little late. Was it persistent leftovers from the dream? Sometimes a dream can do that to me, make me feel emotions that aren't justified once I'm awake.
Hell, I thought, couldn't have been any weirder than any other dreams I’ve had.
I have always had weird dreams, but then I suppose so has everyone else. Sometimes they were just the mind entertaining itself, other times prophetic to the point of becoming true but only for minor life issues and experiences, and still other times were simply the mind pondering one’s problems. But this time felt different. Very different. I shook my mind of this train of thought and dried myself off. I proceeded to eat, then reluctantly got dressed. I always preferred staying naked whenever I was home, since clothing can sometimes feel too constricting. Soon enough, I headed off to work.
When I arrived, I expected to meet up once again with crabby old Beatrice. Beatrice was an elderly lady, probably in her eighties (or even nineties!) who worked in the same department store I did. She was the meanest, downright rudest, and absolute most incorrigible person I’d ever met. She hated everyone and yelled at customers so much that I wondered how she had ever kept a job in her life. Today would be different.
“How are you today, Beatrice?” I asked as sincerely as I could ever possibly manage, but instead of the usual insanely crotchety response I normally received, Beatrice turned to face me . . . and SMILED!
“I’m doing just wonderfully, Jack!” Beatrice said and then returned to her work of arranging the new signage for the season. The smile alone had taken me aback, never mind her simple sentence, but it’s what I discovered a little later that truly left me in shock and daze for the rest of the day.
How in the world, I thought to myself, could Beatrice, of all people, be happy?
I decided to ask a fellow coworker about it while on break.
“What do you mean?” replied my coworker incredulously as she stirred her coffee. “She’s always been that way.”
“Always?!” I asked with completely unhidden astoundment.
“Always! She’s the nicest person I’ve ever worked with in my life!” she exclaimed while holding her coffe mug as if it were a trophy.
I sat there, at a complete loss for words. My acquaintance stared at me intently before speaking.
“Dude, what's the matter with you? You been smoking something?” she asked as her eyes seemed to scrutinize my soul.
“Of . . . of course not!” I managed to say after tripping over my own tongue. “When have I ever like that?! Look, I know we don’t reallyeach other, but you know me better than that!”
“Well,” she replied, “maybe you’ve just been under a lot of stress or something. You’ve seemed out of it lately, what with the mad rushes of customers we've had."
“Yeah, I suppose,” I said, just to end the conversation. At that point, it was time to return to work. I asked a couple more people about Beatrice throughout the day, but with better tact. Sometimes Beatrice would look at me as she passed by, her expression that of simple gratitude. I felt completely weirded out. I was so glad to leave work when the time came.
Once home, I ate the usual: cheap macaroni with marinara sauce, but sometimes with mushrooms if I could afford the luxury. It’s sad to say, but even a fast food menu was sometimes too pricy for me. After eating, I played an old video game, a classic that most kids would never hear of, but certainly was more than just poorly planned eye candy. I decided to take another shower, which was rare for me, since I almost exclusively took them during the morning, or whenever I happened to wake up. None of these measures, however, could completely fight off my preoccupation with the strangeness of the day. I slept fitfully, but dreamed.
* * *
It was a dreary, cloudy day God knows where. A little girl with legs covered in mud stood on a lone dirt road, weeping. She looked up to see an old woman staring at her, overflowing with her own silent tears.
“It’s OK,” the woman said to the girl as if she was her own daughter or grandaughter. “Mommy and Daddy love you very much. They aren’t angry with you at all! They were just scared for you, that’s all.”
“Really?” replied the girl.
“Really,” said the old woman with a confidence rarely heard from anyone.
“Now run along home before it rains again, OK?”
“OK . . .”
“And don’t worry, they won’t punish you.”
“OK.”
And with this, the little girl ran as fast as she could, apparently to the south. As soon as she was out of sight, the old woman walked up to a young man who had been standing a fair distance away, but who bore full witness to the scene.
“Thank you," the woman said.
“Thank you . . . Jack.”
* * *
I woke up with a fright, and sat bolt upright in complete and utter shock. This had been no dream, at least not by any definition I had ever known.