What On Earth Have I Done?

by Robert Fulghum

  71

  Breakfast

  Common table salt is sodium chloride. One atom of sodium plus one atom of chlorine. It is the product of a reaction between hydrochloric acid and sodium hydroxide. (Thank you, Mr. Science.)

  Fancy boutique table salt is the very same stuff, just different in size and purity and additives. Simply said, it’s all sea salt. Either mined below ground from deposits laid down by ancient oceans, or else collected from evaporation ponds—with slight color and flavor differences depending on what is left in it—remnants of soils and algae and minerals and stuff.

  Still, salt is salt, chemically speaking.

  So then, you might ask, why do I have so many kinds of salt on my kitchen shelf? There’s Kosher salt, fleur de sel from the Camargue region of France, black salt from India, fossil salt from Utah, and pink salt from Hawaii. I’m a sucker for salt.

  Why? Answer: Poetry. Romance. Mental travel.

  Just this morning I shook a tiny spoonful of Mediterranean sea salt over my scrambled eggs. Made me think of a trip I once made to the French town of Aigues Mort for the annual gypsy festival. The salt-drying pans are nearby.

  In the same spirit, I used brown eggs, not because they differ from white eggs on the inside, but because brown eggs are beautiful. The coffee beans I ground came from Ethiopia. And the water I used to make the coffee is Evian—out of springs fed by French glaciers. The cream in the coffee was from cows that graze the Skagit River Valley in the Pacific Northwest. The orange juice was squeezed from mandarins just in from Japan. Irish butter. Lemon marmalade from Spain. And a shot of seven-star Metaxa brandy from Greece. (Good for the blood, my Cretan friends say.)

  Sitting at my breakfast table I traveled the world this morning. My mind was beyond the horizon when I got up to go about another day.

  Oh sure, the ingredients were a bit pricey, but it was cheaper than going out for breakfast. Above all, I set off into the dreary rainy day in a lovely mood, digesting memories that are salted away and preserved in mind and body and soul.

  72

  The Last Stages of Life and Why

  a Limited Opportunity for Lion

  Hunting Shapes Mine

  In the Hindu tradition the fourth and final stage of life is the time to give away your possessions and wander around as a naked holy man. Or live as a reclusive hermit. In other words, when you’re old and in the way, get out of the way. Not a bad idea, but not my style.

  Quite by accident, an African approach came calling.

  Having run out of anything to read, I browsed a neighbor’s bookshelves one night and found a huge volume on the Maasai—the African tribe living astride the Kenyan-Tanzanian border. Exhaustive text and pictures and illustrations. A late-night read. What I found was inspiring.

  In the Maasai tradition, the final stage of life is that of Senior Elder. I quote: “Admired and treated with great deference by all younger persons, the Maasai Elder looks forward to an old age not of isolation and fear but of continuing involvement in the life of the people.” Yes. Better idea.

  Furthermore, I learned that if I were a Maasai Elder, I would have plenty of cattle by now. Several wives would do all the work, including keeping the house tight and cozy by regularly smearing fresh cow dung over the walls.

  I would wear elaborate beaded jewelry, coat my head with red ocher paint every morning, and decorate my ears with beads and bones. Around my shoulders would be flung a red-and-black blanket, with a red-and-white plaid sarong and a lion-skin toga to complete the outfit.

  I would carry a white walking staff as a sign of peaceful intentions, and hold a fly whisk made from the tail hair of a wildebeest as a sign of leisure. Once in a while, on special occasions, I could wear my lion-mane hat or my ostrich-plume headpiece.

  At all the dances and celebrations, I would be the honored guest, being the first to receive the best honey beer, the choicest cuts of barbecue, and the first gourd of hot blood from the sacrificial bull.

  In the evenings I would gather with my fellow Elders to tell stories and discuss issues important to the tribe. The young would gather around us, knowing we are the conservators of Maasai legend and lore. The wisest among us would combine the qualities of a spiritual leader, diviner, keeper of the rituals, and healer. When we Elders sat together under a tree, the tribe would look at us and say, with pride, “There, in those fine men, is the heart and soul of the Maasai.”

  When I became feeble and infirm, my extended family and the tribe would feel honored to care for me. And when I died, they would wrap me in my finest red blanket, carry me some distance away, and simply leave me to be eaten by wild animals. No fuss, no bother, no problem.

  The Maasai Way.

  Of course, the Maasai are primitive savages. So some say.

  In our culture it so much more civilized to be ware-housed in an extended-care facility playing bingo, watching TV game shows, living in pajamas and old bathrobes, eating baby food, and being taken for rides to the mall in a little bus.

  With no invitations to sit in the front row at the dance of the young maidens? Not even an ostrich feather head-dress or a cup of hot blood?

  As far as managing the final stages of life goes, the Maasai are way ahead of the Hindus or us. So say I. And I’m thinking of applying for Senior Elder status in the Maasai.

  But, alas, I note that a requirement is to have killed a lion first to prove one’s worthiness. There’s always some fine print. Not a lot of lions in my neighborhood. And if I got caught stalking around the zoo with a spear . . . well, no. For lack of a handy lion, I am shut out of the Maasai Way and will have to figure out a better Way of my own.

  73

  Sock Epiphany

  The missing sock experience.

  “The washer ate one of my socks,” we say.

  Or “There must be a miniature black hole in the dryer.”

  Or “One of my socks escaped during the night.”

  There is another way to look at this.

  A visiting friend transferred my laundry from out of my dryer onto the folding table, sorted my clothes, found one sock left over, and exclaimed,

  “Look! Your dryer made an extra sock for you. When it makes another one, you’ll have a new pair. You’re not behind, you’re ahead!”

  ________

  Oh.

  Well. Yes. A new view of the mysterious workings of the dryer.

  Now I approach it eagerly anticipating spontaneous conception.

  I need one more brown sock.

  74

  Secret Agent X

  and Mothers’ Day

  My host for a speaking engagement had lodged me in a high-end hotel: The Ritz. The concierge desk was attended by two alert young men in frock coats, with the crossed keys of their profession pinned to their lapels. Sleek as seals—handsome Italianate faces right out of an Armani advertisement. Earnestly eager to assist in any way I might require.

  But my need was mundane: a new leather band for my reliable old wristwatch. And a new shoestring for my shoe. If I had wanted to buy a new Ferrari, the concierges could have helped me right away. If I had wanted a private jet to take me to Dubai, no problem. If I had needed a table for ten to honor a Grand Duke, done. Have my mink coat cleaned in an hour? Of course. And tickets for any opera in the world—piece of cake.

  But a watchband? For an old watch? And a shoelace?

  One moment, please. Consultation in English, Italian, and French—search of computer, Rolodex, and telephone books. Nothing.

  A third character entered the quest: The classy young blonde female front-desk manager, who has been monitoring the situation. “Marcel,” she calls, raising her eyebrows. Marcel looks up. “X?” she asks. Marcel nods, “Ah, oui, but of course. X.” He writes a few words on a piece of paper and passes it to her. He turns to me. “Please wait a moment, sir. Have a seat.”

  Meanwhile, the young woman smiles at me, makes a phone call, writes a note, and passes it to Marcel, who glides over to my chair. There are two
addresses and a small map on the piece of paper.

  “What you wish is nearby. Shall we send someone for you or shall we make an appointment? Would you like us to arrange a car and driver to take you?” If I had replied that I wished him to carry me piggyback, he might have. But it was a nice day, and I walked.

  When I returned with my new watchband and shoelace I noticed that the concierge desk was vacant, so I felt free to ask the young woman at the front desk, “I don’t mean to pry into professional secrets, but I’m curious. Who did you call on the phone for consultation? What did you mean when you said ‘X’ to Marcel?”

  “Promise not to tell,” she said.

  “I will be discreet,” I said.

  “When all other information resources of the concierge desk of the Ritz Hotel fail, we call my mom.”

  “Your mother?”

  “Yes, my mother. Agent X.”

  “She’s a retired schoolteacher, lives nearby, knows everybody, and is out and about in the world. We have not stumped her yet. I never realized how much my mother knew until I got this job. She’s better than Google or Yahoo or Craig’s List. Occasionally the hotel thanks her by inviting her to spend a night as our guest. I think of her as job security. We all refer to her as Secret Agent X. My mom never lets me down.”

  Happy Mothers Day to Agent X—and all her sister agents.

  75

  Bizarre Thoughts

  “Ever have any bizarre thoughts?” asked the doctor.

  So begins the title essay of the book The Second Tree from the Corner written by E. B. White, published in 1935. That book and White’s Charlotte’s Web sit side by side on my shelf of classics—books to be reread from time to time. Part of the pleasure lies in revisiting their author. White ranks high on my list of people I wish I had for a next-door neighbor.

  The essay continues: “He was about to say ‘Yes’ when he realized the next question would be unanswerable. Bizarre thoughts, bizarre thoughts? Ever have any bizarre thoughts? What kind of thoughts except bizarre had he had since the age of two?”

  My mind does weird things. For example, some nights when I’m half asleep I hear the doorbell ring. Ding-dong. Ding-Dong. And I don’t have a doorbell. But it seems so real that more than once I have stumbled out of bed and downstairs to the door to see who’s there. Nobody. Again.

  Here’s the really bizarre part: Imagining who it might have been. What did they want? Wondering if I slept on the couch close to the door would I catch them the next time they rang?

  On the way back to bed the music starts again. For the last three days the jukebox in my mind has been playing the 1978 pop tune “Y.M.C.A.” by the Village People. I didn’t turn it on. I can’t turn it off.

  As I sleepily climb the stairs in the dark, one part of my mind is muttering to another part: “Stop it, stop it, STOP IT!”

  You, too?

  I know I’m not alone. There’s a relentless flow of twisted mental traffic popping through the raw meat between the ears of the most normal-appearing people. We get used to it, filter it, repress it, or ignore it. But seldom discuss it.

  Sometimes I see the slightest fleeting smile cross the face of someone during a dinner-table conversation, and I know: A bizarre thought just sparked through their inner cave like the collision of quarks in a particle accelerator.

  So why not ask? “Ever have any bizarre thoughts?” has become my party inquiry. When the small-talk and white wine and mystery nibbles have dulled the senses, and the glazed look that accompanies unfulfilled expectations clicks into place, I’ve asked.

  The inquiree usually snaps to full alert. What? And I repeat the question—with an explanation, and a promise to tell them a bizarre thought of mine in return. Without exception, an uncontrollable grin appears. And we’re off to the races. Exceptional samples:

  The surgeon who wondered what human flesh might taste like.

  The chairman of a board who imagined what all those attending a meeting might look like naked as they sat around the big table.

  The minister who had an urge to begin a sermon with a dirty joke.

  The nice housewife/mother who wished she had some magic mushrooms to put into her family’s morning pancake mix.

  The real-estate agent who considered burning down the house of a nasty client.

  The schoolteacher who thought about showing up in class dressed like the Madonna.

  The retired barber who makes speeches to Congress when he takes walks alone in the evening.

  The woman who imagines what she would do if an Angel of the Lord appeared to her like they used to do in the Bible.

  And this is just the tame and harmless stuff. There’s worse.

  Bizarre.

  Makes my hearing doorbells seem trivial.

  Of course, their confidence is assured by my agreeing from the outset to share a bizarre thought of my own. If I tell, they’ll tell. It’s my impression that the interchange adds a dimension of amused conspiracy to a dull occasion. “Normal” includes weirdness. Most of us just keep it to ourselves. A psychiatrist told me that most of us are crazy. Sanity only means we keep the craziness under control.

  People like Robin Williams and Whoopie Goldberg and Phyllis Diller make a living off having bizarre thoughts in public. And we wouldn’t laugh at what they say if we didn’t recognize the loonyness loose in ourselves.

  It may be that my ritual inquiry regarding bizarre thoughts will limit the number of party invitations I receive. “Don’t invite him. He’s a nut case.” But maybe not. There’s a fruitcake on the back shelf in most of us. There are no fences on the funny farm. Have any bizarre thoughts? Welcome to the party. What music are you playing?

  Excuse me, but I have to stop now.

  My doorbell just rang.

  It might be the Village People.

  76

  Zoo Story

  Once upon a time, far away, but not so long ago, a woman gave me three wishes. I was not surprised. I think of her as a fairy godmother because much of what she does has a quality of magic about it. She gave me the wishes on a Sunday morning, in the city of Prague, in the Czech Republic.

  Placing three carefully folded pieces of yellow paper in the palm of my hand, she said, “Choose one. That will tell us where to go today.”

  The one I picked said, “To the Zoo.”

  Wonderful! We went.

  The Prague Zoo is unique because in 2001 a great flood washed much of it away. Many animals were lost, or died, or escaped. It’s not your usual zoo. But there’s a new beginning, constructed around the survivors. Many of the new facilities still have no animals in them.

  “Don’t worry,” said my fairy godmother. “There will be animals. We will imagine them.” And that’s how I saw a saber-tooth tiger, a mastodon, a unicorn, a satyr, and a dragon. Also my first pterodactyl.

  That evening, when I was emptying out my pockets, I found the other two wishes. I opened the first one. “To the Zoo,” it said.

  And you’ve already guessed the third wish.

  Yes. “To the Zoo.”

  Fairy Godmothers play by their own rules.

  Otherwise I would never have seen all the animals.

  77

  The Names That Remain

  My task for the next two days: Organize my address books—bring order out of the chaos of names and numbers. I was going to do this last year. And the year before that. Not having a cell phone, not owning a Blackberry, and not using a computer except to write words, means holding onto data with cryptic pencil-scribbling in little black books and inserting little scraps of paper and business cards until I have a fat paper sandwich, not an address book. Not even a rubber band holds it flat now. Time to clean house.

  In reviewing this mess I am reminded how much of my life is lived relating to a passing procession of people who come and go by happenstance, not design. Neighbors, business colleagues, fellow travelers, members of clubs, and tradesmen.

  Some names are mysterious—Who is this? Why are the
y here? I ask myself. So many of these names can be crossed off—actors on the stage of one’s life who have a few lines, play a small part, and go offstage never to return.

  Also noted is the restlessness of my friends and acquaintances for many of whom I have a long string of changing numbers and addresses—along with additions of cell and fax numbers and e-mail addresses, making an indecipherable chaos of my little black book. (What will be added next? Personal global positioning satellite coordinates?)

  I will not throw the used books away, a decision inspired by a friend who thinks of his little black books as personal history. He has eight of his from as far back as his college days. Once in a while he reads through them. He says I take up several pages in his book because I’m such a transient.

  I wonder how many other places my name and numbers are recorded? And I wonder if there are those who will review their books and files this year, find my name, and eliminate it as no longer being on their stage in their play: “Forget him, whoever he was . . .”

  And I wonder about those whose names will never appear in my records because I just missed meeting them by not being at the same dinner, by living a block away instead of next door, or by not being at a parent’s meeting or by changing plane or train reservations or whatever ad infinitum.

  The friends who might have been but never were.

  I miss some of them.

  I wonder if they miss me?

  And there is that everlasting mystery: This man on page 9 is my long-time good friend, and this other man on page 12 is my long-time good friend, but they don’t particularly care for each other and probably aren’t in each other’s little black books. Odd.

  Thanks to the plus side of life’s friendship lottery, there are those whose names have been in my book for years beyond remembering. Their many numbers may change, but they remain to play primary roles in my life year after year, wherever they are. Not so many names, really. And less, as age and disability and death remove them from the active list.