Random

by Lesley Choyce

  There are birds in the trees. I’m glad this planet has birds. They sing and caw and make strange noises. Some are pleasant, some not. If I can’t think of anything else to be and if I fail at managing a health food store, I may become an ornithologist. Spend my life studying birds. Do some people actually get paid for this?

  Someone phones you up to go bowling and you say, “I’m sorry, I can’t go bowling today. I’m flying to Zanzibar to study the white-breasted gumple bird.” I made that bird up, sorry. Don’t know what birds fly around Zanzibar but I will find out.

  Or you are at a party. I mean, I am at a party and I am twenty-nine and still kind of nerdy, but women find me attractive. This is fantasy, I know, but it’s my fantasy. And I’m drinking ... what am I drinking? I’m drinking a glass of red Chilean wine. No, I can’t see that. I am drinking a beer imported from Holland. Okay. And a very attractive woman with an accent (Dutch, French, Czech?) sidles up to me and asks what I do for a living. “I’m an ornithologist,” I say. “My research concerns the mating habits of the finches.” And she becomes very interested in me. We have a totally hot thing that develops and she says she wants to fly to Zanzibar with me. So we ditch the party and fly to Zanzibar.

  Suppose my life goes like that? It could, I know. I’m not ruling anything out. In a random universe, anything can happen.

  I read somewhere that civilizations destroy themselves quite quickly (relatively speaking) as soon as they reach a technological stage of creating weapons of mass destruction. As you may know, we have already reached that stage. On other planets, as you might probably guess, civilizations have come and gone once they figured out how to set off theta-radiation bombs or time collapsers or mass media mindmelters or what have you. We have our arsenals of nuclear, biological, and chemical weapons. A touch of plutonium can go a long way, they say. Release some into the atmosphere and wipe out millions.

  I have yet to learn how to mourn for my parents. How does a person mourn for the death of millions? Or the death of everyone on the planet. Who does the eulogy? Who sends flowers and Hallmark cards? Who inherits what?

  The meek, according to the Bible, will inherit the earth. I’ve read the Bible, on my own, without the churches or Sunday schools. Maybe the mind-melting gases end up killing off everyone but the meek. People like Dean. Nothing left of human life on earth but Deanworld. And birds. I want the birds to survive. Crows, blue jays, cardinals, sparrows, finches, penguins, puffins, magpies, whiskey jays, juncos, swallows, doves (in the meekful Deanworld, there will be a plethora of doves), and ducks. A world of ducks without hunters.

  I am back. Further into the forest now. I stopped to pee on a plant and hope that my urine will be nourishing for it. It was some kind of fern. Very ancient in design, I believe, and very cool. I am not following any trail now but just randomly walking and talking about whatever comes into my head. Will recently gave me a little pep talk about digital diary talking, said that I should “let it flow.”

  So I am in the pathless forest. It’s not big enough to really get lost in and there is trash here and there, signs that others have come here to—do what? The evidence suggests drink beer. Drink coffee from paper cups. Eat hamburgers? Smoke cigarettes. Have sex. Yes, there were at least two condoms. So maybe it was sequential over a long period of time or maybe someone, possibly even someone from my own school, a guy with a weird plan, said to his girlfriend, “Hey, I have an idea. Let’s go out in the woods and have a beer, then drink some coffee from Tim Hortons, eat a couple of Wendy’s hamburgers, smoke cigarettes, and then have sex.” And presumably, according to this scenario, the young willing female said, “Wow. Cool. What a great idea.”

  If that really happened, then there probably is no hope for the human race.

  Moving on now. Walking through very tall ferns that have not been pissed on by me. The trees—oak, I think, and maple—are tall here. I am beneath their canopy. I feel protected. It is a warm day, but not hot. Everything is green. Green is good. Remind me that if we destroy earth and I am left all alone in a runaway space capsule and God presents himself in the form of a small stowaway dove and God asks me to invent a new planet, remind me to say I want lots of greens and blues. Blue sky. Green leaves. My hope would be that God-the-dove would not reply, “It’s been done before.” No, if some things were lost, we’d have to figure out how to create them again. Re-creation. Not recreation. But it’s funny that it is spelled that way.

  I stop to touch the rough bark of an oak tree and notice that there is a small highway of ants going up and down. I don’t think ants are as annoying as most people think. I rather like ants with all that energy and ambition. One is carrying a leaf that is three times larger than he is. An ant with ambition.

  Some say I lack ambition. That I haven’t found my “purpose in life” yet. When your parents die at twelve, it really throws you off. Not that I had a purpose back then. I just had a life that sort of made sense. Mom. Dad. A bike. I really liked riding that bike on the sidewalks. A sled. Favorite TV shows. Did I ever tell you that I get physically ill if certain rerun TV shows come on? I do and I know why and I steer way clear of them. I won’t name them. I can’t even do that without nausea. But then, I suppose, I am not the first or last person to be nauseated by television. I read in the paper that the viewers of television are on the decline. Could this possibly be because the quality of TV programs is so bad? But this is not a rant about TV.

  I’d prefer an oak tree to a TV any day. An oak tree would make an excellent companion. Quiet. Dependable. Unwilling to gossip or get involved in cyber bullying. Allowing ants to crawl from forest floor to sky. Producing leaves and helping to create oxygen. Imagine having a friend who could do photosynthesis. At the proverbial party, introducing him. “Hi, this is my friend Oaky. He can convert sunlight into energy and, instead of farting, he gives off oxygen. He’s got great roots and lots of strong limbs. And he never complains or makes annoying comments.”

  Oaky, thanks for letting me hang with you for a while. Time to move on.

  In fairy tales, people get lost in forests. Then good or bad things happen to them. Right now, you could probably say I am lost. Sort of. I don’t really know the way back but I am confident that if I keep walking, I will come out somewhere. This is not the Northwest Territories or anything, where if you got lost and decided to walk in one of several perfectly wrong directions, you’d hike maybe a thousand miles before you bumped back into civilization. No, this is not like that. This forest has been whittled down and, in my lifetime, may even be gone, I am sad to say.

  Did it ever occur to you that we are all headed in the wrong direction? Civilization, I mean. We are kind of like in the Northwest Territories and have said, I think I’ll walk in that direction. And it’s the wrong one. Hah. Sometimes I think we are all lost. Not just me.

  There’s no trash in this part of the forest and the trees are closer together. The leaves above keep out the sun. It is womb-like here and I sit down on a cushion of star moss that is very soft and welcoming. I allow my mind to clear and grow peaceful. My voice, as I speak, seems to be coming from somewhere else, not from me, but I find that rather interesting as well.

  What I’m feeling, I suppose, is rather primitive. This is what people used to feel in a forest. Native people, older people. The forest as home, as sanctuary. This feels so different from school or sitting in front of a computer. I realize now I am looking for something here. And I’ve found something but it’s not easy to explain.

  I feel connected. That’s it.

  Connected. A good word if ever there was one. Because when I was twelve, once I’d lost them, I felt totally disconnected. And part of me has ever since. But there is a thread to things ...

  A thread. A thread to things? Where did that come from? That’s one of the funny things about me. Despite my beliefs, I keep trying to connect things. I keep trying to have things make sense. This happens when I let my guard down. Like now.

  And I know this is all gibberish
and, if you are listening, you are wondering if it is time to just give up on me. Am I insane? Am I just blathering? Is this going anywhere?

  The answers are Yes, Yes, and No. So there. Shoot me.

  When a tree dies in a forest, it eventually falls over and starts to rot. Moss and fungus and ferns and other plants start to grow on it—along its trunks and limbs where it has fallen. After a while, you can’t see the rotting wood of the tree, just the outline of the tree in the plant life it is sustaining. How cool is that? In dying, you aid in the growth of other life. What a grand idea. It would be nice if humans could do that in some form or other. I’m being philosophical here. I don’t just mean plant a watermelon on my grave, because we all know that when you die, you get pumped with chemicals that preserve you. But preserve you for what?

  No, I mean that when you die, maybe you leave some meaning behind. Your life has meant something that other people can build on. Some beautiful thing. Some life-sustaining thing. Maybe I should start my own religion.

  But I’m not that ambitious.

  By now, you will have noticed how positive the influence of the forest is on me: birds, ferns, trees, ants, mosses. They do seem to have something to teach. I almost wish that Gloria was here to share this ... whatever this is.

  But then I wouldn’t be alone and it’s the alone thing, here in the woods, that is putting me in a good place. Like the doctor gave me the following prescription: “Take two hours in the forest and call me in the morning.”

  My guess is that it is three o’clock in the afternoon. A Saturday afternoon. Ever notice that we have names for everything? Even days of the week. Times of day. The past, present, and future. We have a habit of dividing things up into little parcels and then naming them. If we name a thing, does that give it meaning?

  Now, you have to keep in mind that, right now, I am a boy in a forest speaking into a digital recorder. If there was anyone else out here—and there may well be, but I can’t see them—they would, of course, hear me rambling on with all that I have said to myself. And I would be considered by them as a lunatic and they would carve a wide berth around me. They might report to the police about a crazed teenage boy talking to himself in the forest. Some might think me dangerous.

  And I may well be talking to myself since there is no real guarantee that anyone will actually listen to this. That’s part of what gives me the freedom to explore. That single perfect person, my prime audience, may never hear it. It may all be an exercise in absurdity. It may mean nothing at all.

  But I will not give up my mission—which is to explore the random universe.

  At this moment—and I know it will not last—I like where I am. I like what I am doing. I like who I am and I have released myself from the past and the future.

  For the moment, for the time being, I have set myself free.

  I think the word for that is emancipation.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  My cell phone rings. It’s 11:30 at night. It’s Gloria. “My dad just left,” she says. “They had another argument about me.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, not really knowing what to say.

  “I tried to talk to my mom but she was so angry. She locked herself in her bedroom. I don’t know what to do.”

  I could tell Gloria was in panic mode. “Do you want me to come over?” I had never done such a thing in my life, but Gloria seemed desperate.

  “No. I don’t want to be in this house right now. I just want to go ... somewhere.” Her voice trailed off. I didn’t like the sound of it.

  “Come here, then,” I said. It was not at all like me to take charge.

  “I’m scared.”

  I thought about Gloria out there in the dark, walking more than twenty blocks to get here. “I’ll wake my dad. We’ll drive over and pick you up.”

  “Will you do that?”

  “Yes. He’ll understand.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I wasn’t sure at all. This would freak out my father. Both my parents would think they were intruding on someone else’s personal family affairs. “Yes. Hang tight. We’ll be over. Write a note and leave it for your mother. Tell her you are okay. Tell her you were scared and leave our phone number.”

  There were a few seconds of silence. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Okay.”

  I knocked on my parents’ bedroom door and my mother mumbled something, so I opened the door and stepped in. It was dark.

  “It’s Gloria,” I said. “She needs a place to stay tonight.”

  “Why? What happened?” my mom asked.

  “Parents had a fight. Her dad left.”

  “Shouldn’t she be there with her mother?” Mom asked.

  “Um ... I think she’s scared. She’s been depressed.”

  “Might not be so good to get involved,” Dad said.

  “She needs me,” I said.

  “Oh,” he replied.

  “Dad, can you drive me?”

  My mom started to say something like, “Are you sure?” but Dad was already out of bed. “I’ll get my clothes.”

  Gloria had the porch light on and was standing inside the door when we pulled up in her driveway. As soon as she saw us, she was out of the house and walking toward us. I got out of the front seat, opened the back door, and got in the back seat with her. My dad stayed perfectly silent.

  I held her hand on the drive back. She said, “Thanks for coming,” but then fell silent.

  When we arrived home, my mother was awake and sitting at the kitchen table. “I’ve made up the spare room,” she said.

  Then I suppose I floored all three of them. “She’s staying with me,” I said. In my room, of course, but I didn’t have to say it.

  Gloria looked shocked. My parents’ jaws dropped the way you see them do it in movies. Their sixteen-year-old son had just told them he was going to be sleeping with a girl in his room. Yet no one said a word as I led Gloria by the hand upstairs to my bedroom, closed the door, and locked it.

  When the door was closed, Gloria said my name out loud. The formal one. “Joseph?” I don’t know what the question part was because she didn’t say any more than that, but it was one hell of a question. And then she kissed me. I tasted the salt on her lips from where the tears had fallen.

  Here’s the thing. I had a flashback of how alone I’d felt after the news of my parents’ death. I don’t think I had ever or will ever feel so alone again. I was horribly afraid. My vision of a future—any future—had disappeared. I felt totally abandoned. I imagined myself sliding down a steep slope to a dark, dark place. I desperately wanted someone who cared for me to help me and not ever leave me alone again. But that someone had not been there. Now I was Gloria’s someone.

  “I’ll sleep on a blanket on the floor,” I said. “You take my bed.”

  She nodded, sat on the edge of my bed, took off her shoes, and let one fall to the floor. We both jumped. And then gave each other a look.

  “Sorry about your parents,” I said.

  She shrugged. Then she got into bed with her clothes on and watched me.

  I tossed a blanket on the floor, found a spare pillow and another blanket in the closet, and lay down there. It was much harder than I’d expected. And I’d forgotten to turn out the light. When I got up again to do so, Gloria said, “I need you to hold me.”

  I turned the switch off and we were in darkness. Then I walked to the bed and got in with her. We were both fully clothed. I put my arm around her and held her.

  And we both fell asleep.

  We rather fouled up the use of language by referring to sex as “sleeping” with someone. Sleeping together, fully clothed, or not, is an amazing thing. Guess what? I had never slept with someone before. No one. The circumstances were not great but the sleeping together was wonderful. I liked her warmth. I liked breathing her breath. I liked the fact that we could kiss. I liked her body next to mine and, yes, I did get somewhat aroused.

  But thi
s was not about sex.

  This was about caring.

  There was a phone call in the middle of the night. One of my parents must have fielded that one. No one woke us up.

  You might think that when we woke up the next morning, we might have been surprised to discover we were in bed together. But we weren’t. We were very cool. Gloria was leaning on an elbow looking at me when I first opened my eyes. She was smiling. I had never seen her smile that way. Ever.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  I just smiled back at her.

  So we got up, rumpled clothes and all. We went downstairs. My dad had left for the store but my mom was there. She made breakfast for us and talked about the weather. There were no questions about last night. “Do you want me to drive you to school?” she asked. “I phoned my office and said I’d be in late.”

  I looked at Gloria. She shook her head no.

  “We’re taking the day off,” I said. “What do you call it? A mental health day?”

  My mom smiled. “Gloria, I talked to your mother. She was upset you left but she knows you’re okay.”

  Gloria nodded.

  And then we ate breakfast. And Gloria washed the dishes. And my mom left for work. And we were alone.

  “Now what?” Gloria asked.

  “Now I take you to one of my favorite places on the planet,” I said.

  “Can I brush my teeth first?”

  “Sure.”

  “Can I use your toothbrush?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I report all this to you, realizing how sentimental and goofy romantic it must sound. I remind you that I am not a knight in shining armor and that it may actually be you, Gloria, who one day hears all this. But if it is you, it will be many years in the future. And I don’t know how our lives will have turned out. Or it could be some stranger who listens to this decades down the line and finds it a bizarre and curious artifact of a human life. In fact, I’ve dipped back into this diary and noticed many inconsistencies in what I report.