Shoulder the Sky

by Lesley Choyce

  Darrell was my tutor. At first we were pretty adolescent about it all. Eggs placed on the chairs of less favoured teachers. Eggs placed on fluorescent light fixtures in classrooms, hair-triggered on their perch, sure to drop if anyone so much as slammed a door. A more subtle approach to in-school egg activity was a simple egg with a pin hole or two placed in the back of a teacher’s desk drawer or perhaps in an unlucky locker. Eventually the egg would rot and the smell would be sulfuric, odoriferous, and downright diabolic. Eggs rolled down the aisles of buses to be squashed by the feet of third graders.

  When the work crew came to begin to clear the woods behind the school for a new shopping mall, we smeared eggs on the windshields of trucks and dozers. Later we would learn that smearing cheese on car windows was another way to wreak havoc with the so-called civilized world.

  We never threw eggs at people. We had our limits. We did pitch a couple dozen eggs at cigarette billboards and the signs of a few wrong-headed hopeful candidates in an upcoming election.

  The Egg Man and I kept our identities nicely concealed. The school authorities were well aware of the “egg problem.” There had been small editorials railing against us in the local paper. Rotten eggs were turning up all over the school. There was talk of having to close the school for fear of harmful health effects.

  And so Darrell and I decided one day, walking home from school, that our egg careers were over. We had become egg junkies and enjoyed the thrill of revenge on a world gone mad, but it had gone far enough.

  As mysteriously as the egg raids began, they stopped, except for a smattering of copycat egg vandals who were quickly caught, and then punished by their humiliated parents.

  Dave knew what we had been up to but he said he had sworn some oath that he could never rat on one of his clients. I think he got some kind of second-hand satisfaction from our insanely juvenile deeds. But he was disappointed when I told him that I did it all without malice. As my mother would have said, “It was just a phase I had to go through.”

  My father didn’t know that I was the subject of the anti-egg vandal editorials, and Lilly didn’t care. She had her own stash of anger. She had garnered a monopoly on all the anger available in our family.

  I went back to being even more normal than I’d been before. I slept well at night and dreamed of flying. When I woke in the morning I was neither happy nor sad to see the new day. Raining or sunshine, it all pretty much meant the same to me. Darrell went back to trying to hack into Microsoft. We communed at lunch over the triviality of life. I did well in school. I missed the feel of a perfectly formed egg fitted into the palm of my hand and that was about it.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Stuff That May or May Not Be Important

  I’m pretty sure there are intelligent alien beings living among us. They live on another plane of existence, though, and we can’t really detect them except with our minds. They are responsible for much of the unexplainable stuff that goes on out there. Lost socks, for example. Unlike our expectations, the invisible aliens are not highly intelligent. Just because you live on another plane of existence doesn’t mean you are ultra-smart.

  They are, however, better at bridging the barrier between our physical world and their world. They can pick up our television broadcasts, and this has convinced them not to invent their own version of TV. Their best scientists, however, after decades of research, devised a method for stealing socks from our world.

  That’s where your socks go — one at a time, never by twos. They have been unable to develop a means to transport two socks at a time to their world. If ever someone comes up with an accidental match, those socks are highly prized possessions in the other world.

  It is not a mirror universe or anything like that. There is no version of “you” there. The inhabitants are not happier or sadder than us. They have their own version of ice cream and they have holidays — one even commemorating the first time a sock was ever transported across the void to their world. They know the name of the man in our world who lost the very first human sock to them. And that man is somewhat famous in a nebulous sort of way over there.

  Much of what we do is inexplicable to them. Much of what they do is inexplicable to us. Some day we will devise a way to communicate with them, but we may save them a lot of grief if we don’t. Humans have a way of screwing up “first contact” really badly. Which is why all truly intelligent aliens — amongst us or out in space — try to keep their distance and maintain a low profile.

  Not long after the egg phase, I got the idea in my head that I should commit acts of random generosity. I should do good deeds. If possible, I should do them without anyone knowing that I was doing them. My “victims” would be people who were down and out, especially losers.

  I made the mistake of discussing this with my sister while her friend Jake was over.

  “You want to do what?” Jake asked, tugging at his earring.

  “I told you my brother was weird,” Lilly said.

  “We live in a very predictable world where people tend to look out for number one. I want to mess with that.”

  “But why would you want to do something nice for other people?” Jake asked. “Everything sucks. It’s a well-known fact. Life is about trying to get away with stuff. That’s why we are here. It’s like a game that has certain rules. You’re messing with the rules.”

  “I know. That’s the point.”

  Lilly tried to defend me. “He’s seeing a shrink.”

  “His name is Dave,” I added.

  “Dave told my kid brother he should smoke.”

  “He’s a wise man,” Jake said approvingly.

  I hung my head, feeling a certain amount of shame. “It didn’t work out. I just wasn’t a smoker.”

  “You have to give it time,” Jake said. I could tell he genuinely felt sorry for me and my failure at smoking.

  So it was Saturday and I was trying to figure a way to commit acts of random goodness. I thought of phoning Darrell to come along but I was not sure he was ready for this. It might not work out at all, so I figured I would go it alone for a while. Where to begin?

  All I could think of was mowing lawns. Two doors down lived Mr. Sheldon. Gus Sheldon. He was downsized when one bank bought another bank. He ran into some personal slippage after that. Wife left him to work in a casino in Las Vegas. Then Gus settled into a job doing people’s taxes at H&;R Block, but he started drinking on the job. Then came a job working nights at a Quick-Way. He drank there, too. Now he just drank at home and slept in late.

  So I mowed his lawn with our mower and he woke up around noon to see that someone had cut his grass while he slept in. Later, I would learn that he thought he did it himself while he was tanked and couldn’t remember. Afraid that he might do it again and maybe cut off his toes or something, he put his lawnmower out for the trash. He wasn’t interested in lawn care anymore anyway.

  I know my mother would have liked the random kindness business. She used to give her paintings to sick friends until she discovered that giving away homemade pies worked better. Even if they didn’t eat it, people cheered up when my Mom delivered a pie. Not everybody “got” my mother’s paintings. She was pretty far out there.

  Because of my mother and the pies, I decided not to give up. There were other acts of random kindness. I sent anonymous compliments to people by e-mail. Darrell showed me how to do this so no one would know it was me. I told ugly girls they were pretty. I told losers they were admired. I would always be very specific, nothing generic.

  I tried in vain to do some nice things for people at the mall, but somehow it just didn’t feel right there. I told one of my classmates, Julie, that the shoes she was about to buy in one store were actually ten dollars cheaper in another store. She just gave me a dirty look.

  I opened the glass mall door for a woman carrying two heavy bags, but she walked through without acknowledging me at all. I even cleaned up the scraps of paper on the floor around the money machine. That was what brough
t the security guard.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” the uniformed guy asked. You could tell he’d watched a few too many cop movies.

  “Tidying up,” I answered.

  “There’s no loitering allowed in the mall.”

  “I understand the need for rules,” I said.

  “Good. Then you’ll understand why I have to ask you to leave.”

  “No problem.”

  I was going to offer to buy him a cup of coffee but I’d lost confidence.

  I told Lilly about my efforts.

  “How do you get into this stuff?” she asked.

  “You’re such a dork.”

  Then she went into one of her well-rehearsed acts of exasperation for an audience that wasn’t even there. “My brother is such a dork,” she said to herself in the mirror. Lilly often talked to herself in the mirror when she needed to express an important thought. “He is like so not-there.”

  I didn’t take any of it personally. I waited for her to turn around.

  “Nice outfit.”

  “This old thing? I hate it.”

  “It looks good on you.”

  “Oh pa-lease.”

  “What are we going to do about Dad?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “What is there to do? He’s invisible. Not on the radar at all. He is who he wants to be. Why should we intrude on his coping mechanism?”

  “Maybe he shouldn’t be invisible.”

  “Martin, you’re the one with the wise-ass shrink.

  What would he say?” she asked.

  “He’d say that Dad has to get mad at something.”

  “Great. Then he’d start yelling at us like he used to.”

  “He didn’t yell that much.”

  “Not at you. You’re such a dork. You never got into trouble.”

  “I tried.”

  “No one thinks like you do, Martin. You’re on your own little planetoid. The Moon of Martin.”

  “It’s who I am.”

  “Martin. Face it. We have a weird family. All families are weird as soon as you get to know them. We’re no different.”

  “Except that we lost Mom.”

  “Why did you have to bring that up?”

  “Sorry.”

  I turned to leave.

  “Come back here,” she said. Suddenly my sister was giving me a big hug. She was crying but pretending not to be. “Martin from the Moon. My little brother.”

  Quote of the Day

  “I’ll be damned if I’ll let any old nebula get in our way.”

  Captain Katherine Janeway,

  Star Trek:Voyager

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Meaning of Life

  For those who need something new to agonize about: some scientists occasionally worry that something really catastrophic will happen if all of the planets line up on the same side of the sun. You know, they’re all spinning around in their own orbits and there’s a kind of balance. But about once every thousand years, say, they end up on the same side of the solar system and all in a straight line. Something weird could happen.

  The great thing about getting serious about worrying about catastrophes that are of a solar system proportion is that you can stop fussing with dumb little worries that clutter up your life. Suppose the scientists say that next Thursday all the planets will line up on the same side of the solar system and we might experience earthquakes, increased solar radiation, firestorms, and waves that are two hundred feet high crashing against the continent.

  This all sounds pretty wicked and you decide that the problem you have with your chequing account or those new shoes you can’t afford or the fact that you haven’t changed the oil in your car for several years — well, they all seem kind of trivial.

  If you are a kid in school and believe the world will be destroyed next Thursday, the odds are you will stop doing your homework. You won’t give a rat’s ass about the math test next Friday because it will all be smoke and rubble by then.

  So you maximize the amount of happiness you can cram in between now and next Thursday. You’re convinced there is nothing you can do to save yourself, your family, or the pet turtle you named Will Smith.

  The conclusion here is that, for the right people, catastrophes, or even belief in catastrophes, can be a great way to improve your life. If the catastrophe does not happen, you have to backpeddle a little and cope with the mess of things not done until the next predicted catastrophe comes along. But you will have created a grace period in which you will have stopped fussing and allowed yourself to be the happy human you are capable of being. Keep well informed through the media about potential sunspots, meteor showers, volcanic activity, odd migration patterns of birds, and threats from intelligent deep-sea creatures.

  “What the heck is going on? I can’t find my car keys. Does anybody know what happened to my car keys?”

  I had not been awakened by the sound of my father’s voice in a long time. Invisible and silent had been his style. It was good to hear his voice. I climbed out of bed and stumbled down the stairs.

  “Martin, do you know where my keys are?”

  “I’ll help you find them.” Somehow, I always knew where the lost car keys were.

  “I always keep them hanging up here by the refrigerator. Always.”

  “I know. Did you have any breakfast?” Sometimes I worry that my father is not taking care of himself.

  “I don’t have time. I’ve got a meeting with Product Development in twenty minutes. And I can’t find my darn keys.”

  Ever since my mother died, my father stopped using swear words. When she was alive, he was a bit foulmouthed for a father. He was a nice guy, don’t get me wrong, just a big fan of four-letter words. Now he only used “heck” and “darn” and other replacement words — like “schist” — that came close to sounding like the real things. This was a kind of tribute to her.

  I saw the keys to the van. “Here, Dad. They’re here by the toaster.” I knew they were there even before I looked. Or rather, the other Martin, Martin number three, knew. And that made me feel a little spooked.

  But my dad was happy. “Thanks, Martin. You saved the day.”

  He almost gave me eye contact but he turned quickly. “Remind me to get an extra set of keys made for the van.” He was doing that father rushing around bit, slurping coffee from a cup, spilling it, and getting his arm stuck in the sleeve of his suit jacket.

  He was just about out the door when he turned. “Martin?”

  “Yeah?”

  He looked at his watch. “Later.”

  The door closed.

  The van, which my father now started up and backed out of the driveway, was a family decision. Back before we knew my mother was sick, there was this plan to drive it all over North America — on weekends and during the three weeks my father had off in the summer. Lilly was not in favour of the plan unless Jake could come along. “When hell freezes over,” my father used to say. My father and Jake never got along.

  My mother had maps of all the states and provinces. She really wanted to go to Alaska. She said she would do all the driving. I wished I were old enough to do some of the driving. I wanted to drive my family to Alaska — but not with Jake along.

  Every time I got into the van now, I thought of my mother driving us to Alaska. My father would be reading the map and we would be in the Yukon somewhere, lost. When we stopped for the night, my mother would set up an easel and do a painting of a moose or a mountain. My father would cook supper over an open fire. I liked to think that all of this was happening right now in some sort of alternate timeline or parallel universe. My family is lost on a small back road in the Yukon. I can smell the shish kebab my father is cooking. There are mosquitoes the size of model airplanes but they are not biting. My sister is doing her nails. I am thinking about fishing. My father and I talk about going fishing, but we never really do it because we don’t like having to kill fish.

  “Holy shit!” my parallel father suddenly scree
ches out loud. One of the model airplane mosquitoes has bitten him on the neck. The shish kebab stick he had been wielding goes flying into the wilderness and probably lands on a moose turd the size of a squashed basketball.

  After school I had to go for my visit with Dave. He had this once a week thing going. I never fully decided if I liked the idea of counselling. But I liked Dave and he was unconventional. All the kids at school knew I was going to the weirdest shrink around and some of them started asking their parents if they could go for counselling too, but most got turned down because Dave was fairly expensive. Three trips to Dave or a new TV set for your room? a parent might ask. Parents didn’t want other people to know that their kid was going to a shrink, anyway, especially one who was recommending things like smoking as a cure for what ails you.

  Dave always believed in the tangential approach. “I like to vector in, aim for the perimeter of the problem, not the bull’s eye,” he’d say.

  “Today we do that word association thing,” he said when I got there.

  “I’m in.”

  “Dice?” he said.

  “Gambling.”

  “White?”

  “Snow.”

  “Horses?”

  “Jupiter.”

  “Christmas?”

  “Avalanche.”

  “Water?”

  “Desert.”

  “Ink?”

  “Paper.”

  “Window?”

  “Opportunity.”

  “Table?”

  “Knife.”

  “Family?”

  “Robots.”

  “Car?”

  I almost said “keys,” but something stopped me and I didn’t know what. Without thinking I put my hand in my pocket, still thinking about car keys. Car keys in my pocket. But it didn’t make any sense.