Odd Little Angel Dude

I know I've been whining.  I'm as sick of hearing it as you are.  It's a pointless endeavor.  It functions as a last resort when all other venues, and connections, have been denied.  

On days I have nothing to whine about, like today, I make an attempt at living.

When my mom was dying she said she had no idea how many vibrant colors were in the world. She said she could see them now, as they were meant to be seen. She had cancer to thank for that, I suppose. Knowing she was seeing the world with no future at stake with her in it, allowed her to see it for real. I've read comments from others who were dying that said the same.

That means we either know the deeper hues are there, but settle for half their potential. Or it means we aren't conscious, most of us, when we're living.

When my mom said she'd never seen any color on anything, the way she was seeing them now, she said it with a hint of regret.

There may be another way to do things.  

There may be steps I could take instead of whining.

I don't know.  

I can't see them if they're there.

Going Postal

It's rare that I get mail, real mail, anyway.  So when I heard a knock on my door two nights ago, I was surprised to see a courier standing there. He was a small fellow, maybe four feet tall (I swear), and parts of his body were so thin they appeared translucent.  He was dressed in a pale blue shirt & short ensemble, and he had newspapers wrapped everywhere else but on his face.  
He looked like a decoupage project I did in kindergarten.

Whenever he moved the smell of fresh ink rose behind him.

When he spoke, he spoke in whispers, with his gaze firmly aimed anywhere but on my eyes.   

"Hello, Patrick", he said, "I have been sent here to speak to you.  Do you have a moment?"  

"Sent?" I said. "Who sent you?" 

"It's no secret that you've been frustrated lately, perhaps even despondent. You need not be," he said.   "I am here, Patrick, to correct an egregious, and unfortunate wrong that occurred. I'm here to give you the life you were intended to live, the life you were made for." 

"Super," I said. "Who the fuck are you? For real." 

He looked down and read the paper on his left arm. He said nothing. 

"Are you a singing telegram?" I said. "Or maybe I'm being Punk'd. I'm being 'Punk'd' aren't I?" 

More reading, but on the right arm. 

"A Dwarf Indian Chief? An Oompa Loompa? A Lollipop kid? No?"

He paused and considered all three. He didn't allow himself to get sidetracked by my suggestions, however. To prove it, he tilted his head back, and shouted 'COURIER HERE!  DELIVERY FOR P. MCANERNEY!  COOOURIER HERE!   
Are you P. McAnerney?'

I nodded my head, cautiously. 
He paused briefly, and asked if he could come in after he had already entered, and was standing on my couch.

"DELIVERY!" he squawked again, "Deeee-livery for Peeeeeeee McAnerney!"

"That's getting old," I said as I shut the door. "We already agreed that's me. I'm right here. Stop shouting, please."

He stood silently with his hands on his hips.

"Dude, who you are?" I said. "Where's my delivery?"He stepped off the couch, and approached me. 

"My organization wanted me to give you this," he said, and extended an empty hand toward me, where he kept it, and formed a fist.  When he opened it, an envelope appeared.    

"They want you to read this, Patrick, and they want you to make a decision."

Sign Off

I reached out and took the envelope with my thumb, and  forefinger.   I pulled the lip back,  and removed what looked like a baseball card.  On the front were pictures of me that shifted like a hologram from one moment in my life, to another. He spoke before I could look at the back.

""Read it," the Courier said. "Read the words it contains, and then read them again.  Read it as many, or as few times as you'd like.  Just be certain you understand them.  If, when you are done,  you find the small print content to be agreeable, I'll record you're consent with a signature, and we'll be done."

"And if I don't agree? If I don't sign?"

"You have 24-hours to consider things. I'll leave you with them, and return tomorrow," he said. "Any questions?"

"Yeah. I live 51-years of my life quietly consenting to whatever comes my way, and things go smoothly. I vent for a handful of months, and I get a baseball card with an ultimatum to shut me up?"  

I shook my head in disbelief.  

"Listen," I said, "I'm sorry if my frustration interrupts your cable reception, or if my anger, and hurt, make you, and your people, uncomfortable. I am. Oh, and you can go fuck yourself."

 He stood still, and took a long pause.  His skin started to change color, to darken, and every inch of his body began to ripple like water disrupted by a fallen stone.  Then there was light, like a flash on a camera, and it was over.

"Patrick," he said.  "I'm not here because you are angry, or because your complaints have become a disruption.  I'm here because you are stuck."   

He turned to walk out, but stopped himself at the door.  He turned back to face me, and when he did, his eyes were on mine.   

"And Patrick," he said.  "You are my people.  All of you are.  That is why I am here."

Then he turned, and walked out.

Back To Reality

I sat down, and looked at the card again.  The hologram still played across the front. There's me with my Dad at a Stanford game the year we moved, and then one of a family trip to Lake Tahoe as a boy, then one with my own sons, and so on.

The back was blank. As I was trying to figure out what I was supposed to read, the card grew warmer. It began to vibrate, as if a low voltage electrical current was passing through it. I could feel it come to life as words came into focus, paused on screen, and faded back out. It went like this...

'Hello.  Let's begin, shall we?'

This image will appear whenever a transition in your narrative occurs.

It will be followed by a brief outline to explain the identified complaint while offering a proposed solution.

Speak the word stop to pause presentation.

Say question, if you don't understand something, followed by your question.

We have investigated your complaint, and identified the following:

The life you have been living isn't yours.

• You were delivered to the wrong family, with an incorrect alignment of personal circumstance, and personal attributes.

• You were routed to the the family 'McAnerney' surname, a family hinting at oddities since arrival in Ohio. 

• You really didn't stand a chance.

• Please accept our apologies.

You were meant to go to Mack, and Ernie, a lovely homosexual couple who taught Linguistics at UC Berkeley, and lived in a rustic cabin on Muir Beach known for the love, and laughter produced by the throngs of family, and friends, who met daily to share communal meals.

'You will be happy to hear that the boy who inadvertently took your place won the Nobel Prize for Literature at age 29, and the Pulitzer Prize for nonfiction at the ages of 24, and 27 before that.

''When asked how he had accomplished so much, so early, he replied, "I had the most loving people as parents, in fact, my ability to trust myself grew out of the trust I always knew they had in me."

He famously concluded with, "Don't EVER doubt that God has a plan for each of us, and that the people in our lives, are the ones we chose to assist us."

He did not mention that the people he he 'chose' to assist him were the ones meant to guide me.  He did not mention I had been raised by his chosen clan.  He did not mention me.

Conditions

I thought about what I just read, and said "Question".  The card cleared, and the word 'ask' appeared.

"If I agree to reboot my life, will I accomplish the things he did, and follow his general path, through his experiences, but as my own?"

The card cleared, and the word 'Yes' appeared.

I was giddy.  I walked outside to the porch.  I could smell jasmine, and mint.  I sat on the steps, and prepared to press the button to agree when I thought of something.

"Question," I said.  "If I agree, what happens to the memories I have of the things I experienced in this life?"

The screen cleared.  

"Vanish" appeared.

"And to the people I know?  What happens to them?"

The screen cleared.

"Vanish" appeared again.

"Completely?" I said.

"Vanish" blinked once, and grew darker.

I put the card back in the envelope, and sat on the porch until daylight replaced the night sky, which had been aglow with more stars than I'd ever seen in my life.

Sign Here

It was about mid-day when the blue dude reappeared.  His translucent skin was sparkling with light, and the words that covered him were shifting frantically, like ticker tape.

"Wow," I said, "look at you.  You're like a firework display."  

"The words can not realign unless they are realigned in consciousness," he said.  I tilted my head. "Huh?" 

"The words I wear tell the story of every human life that was ever lived.  Each story is written before a soul is chosen to enact its events. If an individual imposes free will upon their story, however, their story is rewritten, as are those that intersect with it. Every choice made by One alters the fate of Many," he said. "What have you decided about the mistake that was made in your life, Patrick?  How many lives will you alter?"

I bowed my head, then lifted it until my eyes met his.  I stared at the blue dude for more than a moment before looking away again.

"It's tempting," I said, "to lay claim to the life you say I was intended for.  It's tempting to erase the life I lived, instead.  Especially if I won't suffer from the memory of it, and if the people who composed it wouldn't have been.  It's tempting....."

 "Your decision?" he said. I turned my head, and looked him in the eye.  "One," I said.  "I'm going to alter one life." 

 His skin flashed in a blinding burst of light. The words written on him stretched wide in each direction, then snapped back into just a paragraph. His complexion cooled, and he looked at me, smiling.
 "Whose life will you alter?" he said. 

 I smiled back at him, and thanked him for coming.
 I told him he wouldn't hear from me again no matter what arose to challenge me. 

 "That's up to you," he said, and turned to walk away.   He paused, then faced me again.  

 "By altering the one life that you did, Patrick, you

allowed a thousand more that were already rooted, to grow."   

"By the way," he added.  "A Nobel Prize, or Pulitzer, have little effect on the real world of most making their way through it.  Three sons who will become three decent men is a far greater, and more useful, contribution." 

 "Thank you," I said.  "This life I have, this life I never dreamed of, is the one I would choose. Where do I sign?"  

"DEEEELIVERY," he shouted, "DEEEELIVERY ACCEPTED BY PEEEEEEEEE MCANERNEY!" 

And the blue dude was gone.