Becoming the Story (2 page)

“I understand,” Lenny nodded. “You are
entitled, in fact, to believe anything you wish. You have earned
that right, and we are tolerant here. Are we not?” Lenny waved
beckoning hands at the audience, which burst into dramatic
applause.

“What is
that
supposed to mean?”

“Well, it is all a little alien to us. In
our millennium we are always kind to each other. When someone, for
example, complains of
ennui,
we try to comfort and
entertain
them as best we can. This show, for example, is
therapeutic because it is
entertaining
. And funded by a
non-profit organization dedicated to combatting ennui, “EES” or
“The Ennui Eradication Society.” Why do you think our chairs are so
high? Studies have shown that frequently changing perspectives
amuses people. They are also a bit wobbly to evoke the primitive
emotion of fear, even though falling is no real threat to us. And
the chairs in the audience – as you can see – are arranged in a
lovely spiral.”

“So
boredom
is your worst problem? No
wars? No one disagrees? Without arguing, without struggling, how do
you
learn
?” Max clamped his arms on the edge of the chair
and looked up, but the harsh lights forced his gaze down again.

“Incredible how, despite the misery and
hopelessness of a severely limited life span, this creature
rationalizes
the need for conflict. As you can see, too,
pre-sentient creatures are easily riled. Despite that, we should
all remember to treat him with compassion.”

A murmur of agreement followed and a
smattering of polite applause. At the sudden sound the baby let out
a soft wail.

“Pre-
sentient?”
Maxwell said. “Is
that how you view us?”

“Forgive me,” Lenny said, “but your
intellect and sensory capabilities are severely limited compared to
ours. You are less evolved. For example you are capable of seeing
only a short color range. Just as we do you see colors like yellow,
red, and blue. But you are unable to distinguish aber-moorish and
flu-escent. To you, having no frame of reference, they would be
impossible to describe.”

Maxwell frowned and opened his mouth to
speak, but no words came.

Lenny continued. “Of course, I mean no
insult. Members of your species are among our ancient ancestors
just like our piscatorial predecessors and for that we are all
grateful to you. But back on point: What do you think is the best
thing we can do for Baby Josie, aside from finding a cure for the
disease of mortality appropriately delicate for her fragile
cells?”

“Well,” Maxwell leaned toward the audience,
“you could
start
by treating her with
respect
and not
pity. You could love her, play with her, and teach her that her
short life on earth is a gift. Let her know that she may suffer at
times, but that she will learn from it and that there will also be
joy. And do not
ever
treat her like a freak. She is
not
an atavist, she is a baby. She was
not
born to
soothe your boredom, nor is she is a pin cushion. For the love of
God,
stop
poking her with needles and making her cry for
your amusement.”

“How, then, should we amuse ourselves?”

Maxwell looked around. “This show is an
outrage. For a species so evolved, you are a bunch of idiots. Fuck
this place. Fuck your
ennui.”

“My
goodness
.” Laughter rang out from
where Lenny was sitting. “I am
so
glad that we decided to
have you on our show. You are, quite simply, a delight. Audience,
do you agree? Is he not the most entertaining guest we have ever
had?”

Cheers exploded from the audience. “But,”
Lenny said, “I think he is more than entertaining. His visit has
been educational. In our time, most everyone knows too
much.
Maxwell here has
proven
that even for us, life can be an
adventure, full of discovery. And Max makes another excellent
point. Folks, we have
no
reason for ennui. None, whatsoever.
New horizons of knowledge exist, if only we can dust off our
curiosity and explore them.

“Furthermore, I believe we may be poised on
the brink of a revolution,” Lenny continued. “And it began in such
a surprising way, with Baby Josie and the wildly popular holo-vids
of her being injected with needles and crying. Given her primitive
status, she is an unlikely savior for those of us gripped with
ennui, but that is what many have called her, facetiously, a
savior.” Lenny chuckled. “And I must say, I agree.”

“Regrettably, the talking portion of our
show is now coming to an end. In a moment the holographic
pyrotechnics will commence. But to remind all of you suffering from
ennui of how spectacular your lives are, allow us to leave you with
a final image of hope.” He motioned to the nurse at the bottom of
the stage and she looked up expectantly. “If Baby Josie would
perform for us one more time.”

“There is no more room on her neck,
Lenny.”

“No problem. I hear that the tender skin
around the eyes is especially sensitive.”

Maxwell was standing, legs apart and
shoulders hunched, as the nurse headed toward the bassinet with her
needle primed. He marched toward the bassinet until the stage hand
blocked his progress. Max stopped, turned his head, and set his
gaze on the laddered chair in the front of the stage, the one where
Lenny sat.

“Wait.” Max strolled back to his seat beside
Lenny. “I answered
your
questions. Now I have a few for
you.”

“Questions?” Lenny turned toward Max with an
amused expression. “Why of course. Hold off a moment Nurse. Our
recently exhumed artifact is curious about
us.”
He chuckled
and stared down at Max. “Curiosity is celebrated here. But time is
running out, so ask quickly.”

Max circled the chair as he spoke. “How can
you endure a life so vacant, you are compelled to jab a baby with
needles to distract yourselves from it? How do you love? How can
you
bond
over your mutual boredom?”

“Fair questions,” Lenny frowned. “Indeed,
the ennui epidemic is a terrible scourge. I am afraid I have no
good answers for you, other than the spectacle of Baby Josie and
the warmth her beautiful tears has brought into our lives. What
else do you wonder?”

“I wonder why your intelligence never made
you
wise
or good, and why you thought you knew so much, you
stopped asking questions. I wonder why you are wasting your
immortality on silly
talk
shows. And I wonder,” he looked
down, “how such an advanced species could build such a poorly
designed
chair
,” Maxwell said. He rattled one of the wooden
supports. “And,” Maxwell lowered his voice, “I am wondering if you
are as immortal as you say.” Max grabbed hold of two of the legs
that supported the tall chair and, leaning forward, he shoved them
and the chair toward the audience.

“Hey, wait, no,” Lenny said. “Max. This is
highly inappropriate.” The chair wobbled and bucked as it slid and
screeched along the stage, with Max moving one side forward, then
the other. It scratched the stage with the resistance of wood
against wood, and squeaked in places as Max fought its weight. Max
stood back, then leaned in and pushed the full force of his heft
against the chair.

The chair went over. As it toppled, Lenny
flung out his arms in unbalanced circles and tumbled out of his
seat into the crowd, a complex blur of flailing limbs, knocking
against one of the chairs in the audience.

The chair that Lenny fell on toppled too,
and the one behind it teetered and collapsed, setting off a
magnificent clattering procession of chairs knocking over chairs. A
chorus of gasps and screams erupted. Movement passed through the
audience in a great spiraling wave that was almost beautiful.

But Max did not stay to see. He grabbed his
office chair by an arm rest and, pushing it, rolled it toward the
back of the stage. Behind him the stage hand and nurse were still
staring, dazed, at the debacle, but when the stage hand saw where
he was headed, he unfroze and his eyes widened.

The stage hand put his massive bulk between
Max and the bassinet, and as Max went forward, the man grabbed Max
by his shirt.

Max wrenched away, lifted his chair, pulled
it back, and swung it as hard as he could at the stage hand,
knocking him backward and into the gasping nurse. The stage hand
did not cry out but, struggling to regain balance, he stared at Max
in amazement.

Before the stage hand could fully recover
his senses, Max gathered the bundle of baby from the bassinet, her
weight warm and soft. He pulled her close against his chest as her
fists latched onto his shirt.

“Come on,” he whispered as he headed toward
the door. “No more needles.” The down of her hair felt soft against
his chin.

The baby babbled as he moved behind the
curtain toward the doors in the dressing room that led outside. As
he made his way into the alien streets he could hear, behind him, a
terrified cry, “The atavist is gone!”

In the darkness Max hurried as fast as he
could without dropping Josie. There were no streetlights to guide
him, but the full moon cast a silvery haze into the mist. The
white, luminous particles reminded him of falling snow.

As he ran, he remembered the day he lost his
trail and could imagine that his new life had picked up where his
old one left off. Once more, he had to find a way to safety. But
this time he would not fail. Before, he had no purpose. Before, he
had no path.

But he was on a road this time, and roads
led places, even dark ones.

He knew there would be many more to cross.
But he would cross them, all of them, no matter how dark or
treacherous, to keep Josie safe, the hopeful, squirming weight of
her, the whole of humanity vibrant, warm inside his arms.

Be
Human
They called him “Alf the Calf.” 

But not for long, he hoped. Alf set his
palms flat on his desk, careful not to touch the test until ordered
to begin. The guidance counselor, standing in a cloud of perfume
near the whiteboard, gave him a tight smile.

He tried to smile
back, but smiling was hard for Alf. He always
worried that his mouth would make the wrong expression. But he had
always wanted this, to be 
someone
. It was about time,
too. He was eight, and so far his life had been unpromising. There
was the matter of his sunken nose, a hollow, a dip, where the
defining line of bone should be.

He was bow-legged, too, and his jeans never
fit quite right, always baggy in places, and too tight in others.
Hence, the nickname.

When he was around, frowns appeared, the
kinds of scowls you would expect of someone who has just eaten a
whole lemon in one bite.

But he was unable to tell himself that
the rejections were due only to his looks. A boy in his class named
Mack must have weighed 200 pounds, but he was always joking and
everyone loved him.

But Alf was afraid to tell jokes. Afraid he
would shut down, lose his train of thought mid-way. He was too
conscious of his flaws, and always confused, especially by the
doe-eyed girls with silken hair who seemed too pretty not to be
nice, unless they had a good reason.

But now he had hope that he was not just a
lemon. He had written a story that was, the teacher said, beyond
his years.

He read a lot, books that were beyond the
grasp of most kids his age. He lived in the library, seeking to
escape into other worlds. Alf thought of books that way: like
planets, each inhabited by a separate mind. The teachers said his
use of metaphors indicated a talent for abstract thinking that
eluded many seventh graders; and that his depth of emotional
maturity was highly unusual for an eight-year-old.

There was talk of promoting him two grades
ahead, where maybe his nose and legs would not matter anymore. The
other kids would know he was smart and would like him. Best of all,
he would have a reason now to snub those who had snubbed him.

But the rule was that, for him to be moved
ahead, he had to score exceptionally high on the test. No one
said the word “genius,” but Alf knew. Knew that
everything pivoted on the number that went with that word.

He sat at the round table in the office of
the guidance counselor, just her, him, and his dad. The best thing
about his new status was how his father was treating him
differently. His dad had always 
tolerated 
Alf like
an old piece of furniture he had promised to never give away, but
that had changed.

Alf suddenly found himself being showered in
gifts: brand new books with crisp glossy pages, giant hardbacks
with bright colorful photographs of animals; a junior chemistry set
in a box the size of a small television, full of vials and magnets;
a microscope; puzzles; and even an elaborate magic kit with trick
boxes and two-faced cards.

His father and the counselor both were
looking at him, eyes shining with approving expectation. Alf rested
his forearms on the round pinewood table as he gripped his
sharpened number 2 pencil, but like a worm it had a life of its
own, trembling and squirming in his fingers.

What if he failed? What if he
was 
not
 extraordinary? Not a genius? That
word, 
genius
, a word edged in gold leaf, a word that
glowed with power and richness. If he was exposed
not
to be
one, everything would go back to the way it was before.

He would return
to 
Lemon-hood.

The more he thought about it, the more his
worm of a pencil squirmed in his fist. He ordered it to relax and
it almost did, until the guidance counselor pulled a large-faced
watch from the pocket of her caramel hip-long cardigan and set the
alarm.