Even the bench was chilly. I sat, butt compressed between red painted slats, feet and ankles on fire. I’d broken both at work over the years and again off duty and was paying the price for it. The trees, dressed in warning yellow, little signs dancing along their branches in the breeze, let everyone know they’d be falling soon.
I had a notebook crammed in the waistband of my pants riding against my lower back, bent cover colored in television static. Just like your television screen when it’s on the fritz. Looks like a bunch of ants fighting to me, but astrophysicists and other scientists tell us it’s the remnants of the universe’s creation. Those covers are now the remnants of my personal big bang, the lined pages between them a new universe, or universes.
One I made myself, possibly the same way stars and galaxies form, including our own dust mote ideas and gassy beginnings compressed over time by thoughts that wouldn’t stop even if I’d missed out on coffee in the morning. Humble beginnings took shape from ideas into letters, into worlds, mine to mold, into… into whatever I wanted. It was the possibilities that came along with it my mind raced with. Creatively and personal. Of course, there was a massive amount of self-doubt and still is. I’m sure there always will be, but I’m learning to deal with it. One word stood out, shining brighter than most others.
Pos-si-bil-i-ty.
Noun
plural noun: possibilities
- thing that may be chosen or done out of several plausible alternatives
Thanks for the help Google.
It has worked that way for me throughout my life. Things fell into place with just the right click and the puzzle pieces formed a picture of what I really wanted. Unforced and consciously unbidden sometimes and not entirely accurate at others. We won’t go into my subconscious mind just yet, or what little I know of it. I still have to lure you in with some type of false sense of security. Who am I kidding? Cats or bats, we all have a head full of them. (It’s what we do with them that counts.)
It was time, or my time at least. Lists were already being made about who could or would get promoted. I continued to sit right in front of them, shoveling whatever was on the menu into my gob. Not one thought passed around the table about what it meant to talk about someone as though they’re already gone and how much they’d profit from you leaving.
I’d been a firefighter and up the ranks for 21-ish years. A Captain for 17 and worked in other higher ranks as well. (We will get more into careers and crazy stories later too.) I had seen administrations come and go, and the overall culture was changing. Young firefighters bring a young point of view. No doubt I was the same way in the eyes of those who were in my shoes back then. I understood what they were talking about now. Hindsight and experience teach hard lessons.
It felt right. I had to admit it. Apparently, they knew before I did. Although, I didn’t know what it meant, how much depth there was in terms of change. Ones that I had been around long enough to see or others I had personal experience with. That morning though, I was just sitting, my imagination making turtle shells and humped backs of whales out of rocks. Ringed in moss that drifted back and forth in ankle deep water like hair.
I’ve always had imagination. I think has grown into a good one, if not over-active, it’s been my constant companion and one thing I can always depend on. Way before the static bound notebook, I wrote stories as we all did in school. When the hallways seemed immense, smelled like crayons, glue, and mimeo ink overrun by young petri dishes with snotty noses and unwashed hands. Ah… the smell of future poor decisions, and good too, I suppose.
I digress…
The stories I wrote (I thought) were entertaining. They had it all. Action, suspense, heartbreak, and certainly interesting, full of characters you couldn’t help but fall in love with. The underdog superhero who just so happens to be a toilet. The sad tale of a spaghetti noodle who didn’t want to be eaten and last but not least, the return of a hind smelling deviant who had to be chased away.
I had a thing for “The Return of” format. I guess I had a thing for experimental fiction. A make up your own backstory? Could be. Like I said, entertaining. Except my parents. They got the phone calls and had to sit, knees drawn up, only the center section of their ass balanced on the polypropylene hot seat in the meetings with school officials who had questions about my keen storytelling.
My family (besides my mom and dad) thought this was absolutely hilarious. I scored more laughs than scowls or looks of concern. I even got good grades on them once they saw them for what they were; innocent imaginings of a beginning author. My uncle, who’s nickname for me (he had one for everyone) gave rise to the villain known as “The Hindsmeller” howled till his face was red. He was very proud.
I didn’t realize then how much power words had, or have, that took time. I realized it a little later, when Watership Down was the first proper book I couldn’t put down at around 11 and again much, much later enjoying the view I told you about from a park bench. Looking out at the prospect of a very early retirement. And possibly a new career. My breath spiraling out into the chill.
The ankles and feet are doing much better now. I may not run like I used to, but I have big plans in mind. The writing I’ve done since I picked up that first empty composition book I found on my bookshelf still fits between those covers, although now they’re much smaller and hidden beneath the keyboard I write this with. Oh, I still use the bigger version too. For ideas, lines I come up with, characters and places. The computer just cuts down on the hand strain and finger callus. It certainly saves shelf space.
No matter what tools I use, my imagination is still there, albeit a little more refined, and the world is my oyster. I’m sure you’ve heard or even said it yourself. “Maybe someday.” Well, this is my someday, or Sumday rather. They all should add up to something. Right? You coming? It’s an open invitation. Maybe that’s why I always like the “return of” format. Maybe I knew even then. This one. The one you read right now. Would be mine.
It’s a long road full of adventure and potholes, a lot of twists and turns. Some I’ve already taken. Humor, travel, a relatable life, a lot of crazy stories and whatever else comes to mind. Like I said, I have a good imagination.
Have a seat, join in, and we’ll get to know each other a bit and remember.
We can’t get called to the principal’s office any more…
