Day 17 - Mishap Misapprehension

Mishap Misapprehension 

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

“And the kids drink too much and all they do is think about sex...” The parents worried about the wrong things.

“I don’t know, if I had met the right person maybe I’d be working in Chicago and never would have moved to Los Angeles.” The wrong things were blamed or the wrong import given.

“I don’t blame them. I mean, if I were younger I would probably think they had failed or weren’t trying or something. But yeah, life is hard. I totally get what they’re doing. Low energy, steady job. It’s just enough. We all have to think about insurance and saving for retirement. I get it. I do.”

The wrong judgment led to the wrong assessment which led to the wrong resolution. There was no lesson learned, no new application attempted, because the parameters were misidentified in the first place.

 

 

“I always thought my father would have said something. We didn’t really have money for college. All he had ever known was that store. He probably thought that was it. For him. For me. I mean you were always going to go to college, that’s just the way it was.”

“Yeah maybe. Really my dad was a little jaded because he didn’t get to stay in school and get a PhD. He had to work. So yes, we were all going to go to college, but really he wanted us to have the chance to try things because he didn’t get to. So we all had a lot of freedom to pursue whatever we wanted. Not that that was a great idea. But it felt like he respected our choices or something. At least at the time. Now I kinda wish I had studied something more practical.”

“Well none of us used our degrees. If we had been smart we would have tried to publish something or create a small business but get the school to pay for it. We could have called it a class and tried to prove we were learning something.”

“That… would have been so smart. I didn’t even think about that sort of thing.”

“They had all the tools – printers, computer software. There was the campus newspaper. We could have started something and proven we could do it. Really, I learned more working at conventions trying to talk to sales reps than I did in that entire last year of college. We were in it, right in the middle of things. That’s what we should have been taking advantage of.”

“Yeah I never met anybody good at college. Well, one or two people really made something of themselves. I probably blew it with them. But most of the people were…”

“Poor.”

“I… what?”

“That’s how I felt anyway. I felt poor. My friends were poor. That’s why they liked me. We were all in the dorms and you go to know the people on your floor, but it was easy to be friends with someone like you. The rich kids? The ones that were going to make it? We were in the dorms and they had their apartments and frats and they networked with other rich kids who had contacts who were going to get them jobs someday. We had no chance.”

“I hadn’t thought about it that way, but I can see what you’re saying.”

 

 

Some people think there is one path, one chance, one way to get to where you want to go. I like the what ifs. The moments of choice and doubt where it could go either way, work out either way. I like the inflection point. Take it, twist it, make something new, and see where you end up.

You can drive yourself mad, all day, too many choices. Infinite options. You can get lost if you’re not careful.

The truth is, there are very few moments that matter. Very few people you are going to meet that are going to change the course of your life. Once or twice if you’re lucky. All those other what ifs are just a matter of degrees. You’re pretty much born into it nine times out of ten. No one is going to build it or make it or change it for you. You probably can’t either. Not for yourself. Not for someone else.

 

 

“Really when you think about it, you’re about to embark on a whole new adventure. Very few people are going to have a chance to do what you can do. You’re single. No kids. You’ll sell that house and get that inheritance and then you can really go anywhere and try anything. So I’m actually really excited to see what happens to you.”

Day 16 - They Took That Which Was Special

They Took That Which Was Special 

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

The repetition turned his days into a blur. He could blink and a week might be gone. His existence was set to default mode with hobbies and habits simply part of the cycle of the day. One activity lead to the next but there was no greater meaning that the continuation of the cycle.

He knew where to find people. He knew what they were doing. Always. It was a repetition of its own. Bar, restaurant, coffee shop, meal, drink. A constant loop where one ending had already begun the next cycle. Perhaps the weather could change or a different sport for a different season. But the people remained predictable as ever.

He had never met someone so boring. He thought he was boring. He thought the people he knew were boring. But she was the most boring person he had ever met. She didn’t have an opinion. Or a single thought. She could repeat, recycle and repeat. He had heard it all before. And she couldn’t even add an ounce of energy to make it sound interesting.

Was it rote memorization? Training and practice would at least imply that there was some effort being made at some point in the process. Or something worse? Somehow it was the blind recycling of words she had heard before, shuffled in an attempt to sound human, but with no understanding of context or application?

There was a series of photos that had become popular. He wasn’t sure a human had been involved at all. They said you could type in all the correct keywords and style clues and that the algorithm could produce a better final product than a thousand hours of actual human effort.

She loved the photos and could talk about them at great length and explain why they were different and what the hidden imagery meant and what secrets of life and understanding could be gleaned from studying them.

She sounded like a press release.

He wondered if he pried her mind open if he would find an original opinion, or perhaps just the average of a dozen different algorithms. What was the current hit TV show? The best movie of the year? The song of the summer? The latest creation from fashion week? Add it all together and the algorithm could almost sound like something.

He had read that there were brainwave scans that could determine what parts of the brain might light up in response to different stimuli. What you were afraid of might expose your political or religious beliefs. The right electric pulse, the right level of chemical, or the wrong pH balance might be mistaken as having a personality.

If he plugged himself in, could the algorithm make him interesting? Or those around him? What if he cut the right part out? Or added the proper scar tissue? Would he suddenly be the life of the party? Could he create one of a kind masterpiece?

What had they done to her? She could nod and agree and spout common sense or conventional wisdom. But she couldn’t run in the rain and break her favorite dish or glue it back together into a million new pieces of priceless art.

What was left, deep down, hidden inside? Was there anything there? You couldn’t just be the sum of averages, could you? Consensus of the masses; rebooted and reissued with a shiny new package. And what if the algorithm was wrong? What secret had been lost? And where did originality lay?

Could any of them be new again? Would the pills or engineering or modified nutritional balance allow that?

He had to wake up early for work the next day. He asked if she was ready to leave and interested in going home with him. Her face formed a smile and she said the correct words in proper response. They were a perfect match. The algorithm made sure of it.

Day 15 - Is this it?

Is this it?

Matthew Fischer

And so it goes. And so it is. And so it went. My father left a note. He left instructions. “When I go...” A laundry list of things and items and valuables. Where to search. What to look for. What book had been hollowed out and had drawer had a fake bottom, and all the wonderful things that could be hidden there. Except that none of it was true.

My father left a list, but really he left a lie, a joke, a comedy of errors. A code number for a record that was missing from the shelf. A signed manuscript in the back of a closet that turned out to be empty. A misprinted coin that had yet to be found. It was unimaginable to think he was playing a trick or prank. Inconceivable. A prank from beyond the grave? It would be the most insulting thing a father could do in death. It would never be clever or funny. It would just be torture.

Perhaps my father had been losing his mind and forgotten what he had or hadn’t sold. It was just a list he forgot to update. Would that be a tragedy? Perhaps not the worst thing in the world. Sad, but forgivable.

Perhaps some thief had been there first? If so, how would they have known? Who could have been after my father and why? A lonely old man with his lonely old hobbies and collections of things no young person had ever heard of or wanted. He would have been a horrible target. And yet, it was possible.

One thing. I dug a hole in the back yard next to a pear tree. One thing he left. One thing that was true. In a way. Partially true.

He buried a jar. Why? What was the point? An empty jar. A pinch of dust or dirt or ash in the bottom. What had it been? Anything? Did he think he was burying something important? He made it abundantly clear that I was to find this jar. That I was to protect its contents. That this, above all else, this single item was the most important item I could find. I could throw out anything else – toss it, leave it, burn it, whatever. Do anything to any of these items, but find that jar. Find it. Dig until I found it. Save it and keep it safe.

He thought he had something. Something of great importance. What was he doing? What had he left me? A great big cosmic joke. On me or on him? Either way it was so small and sad. Was that it? All he was now? All he amounted to? All that would be left?

There was one glimmer that caught my eye. The sunlight struck the dirt covered jar, and for a moment I saw a rainbow. What’s that word, quartz or prism or something like that? The jar looked like pretty standard boring glass. No special carvings or design. Was there such a thing as antique class? Could a jar have been owned by someone famous? Or come from some special city or point in history that would make it so different, so special? It looked so ordinary. Just plain glass. But if that were it, why did think it was something different?

His worthless junk was going to go in the trash. Or maybe a donation somewhere. Or an estate sale. But the jar? Maybe I should clean it. Put it on a shelf somewhere. It was the last great mystery my father left me. Maybe I could cremate him and put his ashes in it. If he thought so much of this mysterious item, then perhaps it should be his eternal home.

I couldn’t help but think there was something important I was missing. Something magical. Maybe I shouldn’t have opened it. Or dug it up at all. I should have left it under that tree and let someone decades or centuries later find it.

What was it dad? What were you trying to tell me? Why couldn’t it be easy? If this is how I would always remember you by, why couldn’t it have been something like a clear message of love or respect or admiration? But no. A dirty jar. The least I could do would be to wash it off and see if I could do something with it to remember him by.

Day 14 - Treasures Buried

 Treasures Buried 

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

Once upon a time the entire life force of a pocket universe had manifest in a bundle of energy and Randall had trapped it inside a jar using a very basic spell powered mostly by belief. Randall didn’t know what to do with such power. He knew someone would be able to do something with it. It could be put to use. It would be cherished, valued, appreciated. It meant something. It had to mean something. The real trick would be in convincing others. It looked like a jar with some ashes in it. The ashes didn’t even sparkle or do anything special. But if they know, if they could open it and know what to do, then the jar could reveal the secrets of the universe.

Randall buried the jar because he knew it was important and he knew he wasn’t the one to handle it. But he saved it. He was responsible for it. And he would someday need to pass it on to another.

Randall’s son Dan had no ambitions. Not proper ones anyway. Randall and Dan never agreed on what was important or necessary for a good life. Randall didn’t think he could trust Dan with such an important secret. He was afraid of what his son might do, what he might try if he had access to such power.

As the years went on, Randall still wasn’t sure if he should share his secret. Once a year he would dig up the jar and take out a little dust, just a pinch, and try to cast a spell, try to change the world. Every year came and went and every year was the same and the world continued on and nothing special occurred. Randall mistrusted his son, and the two existed at arm’s length and never grew close. And every year the level in the jar dropped just a little bit and there was a little less magic in the world.

Dan realized his father was getting older and that things like health and happiness were fleeting. He wanted to make amends and build a friendship while there was still time. A long time ago he had seen his father digging holes in the back yard and he never knew why. His father was cagey at the time and later denied that any of it ever happened. Once, Dan had secretly dug his own holes but whatever his father was hiding had been moved and re-hidden.

How could he ask his father to reveal this secret? His father had kept it for a lifetime so Dan thought it must be large and important. There were no signs that his father was secretly a rich man, so Dan knew it wasn’t that. Perhaps it was dark and dirty and would ruin their relationship. He couldn’t imagine his father had ever committed something so heinous that he would need to hide it, but he couldn’t be sure. And if it was so bad, why keep the evidence?

Time slipped by and Dan had no answers. His father was a private man who tended to his business in quiet solitude. Dan had his own life to build and certainly didn’t feel the need to share every element of it with his father. Still, he wondered, what secrets did is father have? If only he could start the conversation the right way. If only he know the questions to ask. If he could bridge that gap, if he could find a connection, he was sure there was something of great importance that the two of them could share.

Randall’s bones had begun to ache. Arthritis and muscle loss and age were taking their tolls. Yard work made his heart race and he was out of breath after organizing his tools and carrying out a bag or two of mulch and seeds. He wouldn’t be able to cut his own grass or trim his trees much longer. But he had a job to do, a jar to find. He was sure he knew where he had buried it last spring. But he had dug the hole and couldn’t find it. Maybe he was misremembering. Or maybe someone had found it and stolen it. He tried to think, tried to remember – just how much magic was left in it. What would happen if that was unleashed, out in the world, somewhere beyond his control? He had spent so much of life trying to protect it, to keep it safe; unsure of whom he could tell or trust. He had bared such solitary burdens. If only he could remember what it had been, if only he could be sure of where it was now. He didn’t have much time left, but he couldn’t leave this one job unfinished. If he was to leave the world, he couldn’t leave type of power unattended, unaccounted for. If nothing else he had to find it and destroy it just so no one else could abuse it.

Randall forced the shovel down and begun another hole. His heart was beating too hard. He was already sweating. He had so much to do, to take care of. He had hardly begun and yet he could feel just how close to the end he really was. If only he had made other choices. If only he had done everything different. His heart hurt. He had to sit, to catch his breath. Just for a minute. Just to slow down and relax. Just for a moment. Then he’d get back up. Then he’d get back to work. Miles to go and then get it done. In a minute. He’d do it in a minute. Once his breath slowed and he stopped sweating so much. If only there had been someone else.

Day 13 - Buried Treasure

 Buried Treasure 

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

Daniel didn’t mind helping Joshua clean out his father’s house. Randy Williams had an open house policy to all his children’s friends. There were large weekend dinners and family gatherings the third Sunday’s of every month. Daniel always called him Mr. Williams as a teenager and kept the habit up as a young adult. As a teen Joshua resented how friendly his father was and how many of his friends embraced his father. No teen finds it cool to hang out with his family and it made it far worse how well his father got on with his friends. Years later it would be a blessing. As an embarrassed, thin-skinned, nervous teen, it was the last thing Joshua needed.

Joshua seized the responsibility from his family, wanting it, hating it, resenting in and loving it all at the same time. If his father was looking down from somewhere on high, Joshua wanted to prove he could take care of things and do it right. And having something to passive-aggressively hold over his family didn’t hurt either. He could play martyr if he wanted and remind them years later just how much work he had done. Or if they cherished him for it, then he could bathe in the glory of their adoration. Someday he might need to discuss all of these conflicting emotions with a therapist. But that was a someday problem.

Joshua tried to give Daniel anything he wanted. “I can’t pay much, but you can have whatever you want...”

There was no good answer to that. Daniel liked Mr. Williams, but he had no real need for his possessions. It was a fun house to visit when he was younger – full of music and movies and games. But they weren’t his hobbies or habits.

“If you don’t take something, I’ll have to throw it out…”

Clothes didn’t fit. The knickknacks were the wrong ones. Daniel eventually settled on a few CD box sets of bands from the 1970s and some framed Hitchcock movie posters. He could probably dig a CD player out of a box in his closet and he did enjoy Vertigo enough.

When the old man lay on his deathbed he tried to tell Joshua a secret. Joshua didn’t know how to listen. Or maybe his father was losing it and talking nonsense. The previous few years had hard ones – physically and mentally. There wasn’t much left of the man who had once been. Randy tried to talk about the things he could have done, should have done. He spouted random half-finished thoughts about life and love, full of clichés that sometimes passed for wisdom. Joshua tried to comfort him, but didn’t really possess the skill-set to set his father’s mind at ease. You can only say ‘it’s alright, dad’ so many times before the words ring hallow, and Joshua had always been a little too self-involved to have much more than a basic cursory empathy for others.

When his father said ‘buried treasure’ Joshua’s ears picked up. This was something interesting, something worth hearing and remembering. But Mr. Williams wasn’t making much sense and he wasn’t explaining things clearly.

Joshua had thought about telling his siblings about this final conversation. He thought about telling his good friend Dan. But that nagging itch in the back of his mind prevented him. He wasn’t being selfish, he told himself, he just wasn’t indulging the ramblings of an old man. But there was that itch. That special passion his father had, that look in his eyes that made Joshua suspect there was some truth to it.

Something was hiding in that house. He was sure of it. He had heard stories about hoarders – hidden valuables behind a pile, under another pile and past that other pile. Survivors of the Great Depression hiding money in books, mattresses, or under floor boards. His father could have hidden something anywhere. Stocks or bonds or certificates, folded up, stuffed in an envelope. He just had to open enough things.

Or maybe his father literally meant buried treasure. In the back yard. Under a tree. Next to the fence. A bush growing on top, to hide the spot.

He could spend his life opening boxes and books, or digging holes. Somewhere there was something. Something that meant something to his father. Something that had value. Something that would make it all count, make it all matter and mean something. Something special, somewhere, that could fill the hole in Joshua’s heart.

One Stop Town

One Stop Town

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

Robbie was twelve when his father taught him about guns. I had had one too many beers with his father Tom one too many times for me to trust him to pass on such important lessons. I remember when Tom’s older brother Jim had bought a keg of beer and then told me and all my friends to form a circle and for two of us to start fighting. Dumb fourteen and fifteen year olds and even dumber older brothers. Jim sat in a lawn chair and protected that keg full of shit beer, but we all sure took our turns in the ring. I can’t remember what that beer tasted like, but I remember the look my best friend gave me after I threw a half-hearted punch and struck him in the chest. Dave was pissed and his punch would be anything but half-assed. Ten years later the movie Fightclub became a thing and suddenly parents were scared as the media filled them with paranoia. We all just smiled and nodded and remembered our once upon a time of being well ahead of the curve. None of us looked like Brad Pitt. Of course none of us had an imaginary friend bent on inspiring chaos and destruction.

Robbie had studied Judo and Karate, knife fighting, and Krav Maga. He was also one hell of a pitcher on his little league team. Tom had a gut. A leftover from of an age when one drink too many was a nightly habit. What was Robbie training for? What was he going to achieve that Tom never would? I wasn’t sure I wanted to live in a world where a twelve year old needed such skills. I certainly wouldn’t last long if that’s what things came to.

There were thirty-six people in my graduating class in high school. There were thirty-eight of us when high school began. One kid flunked. One had dropped out and was working at the ice cream shop where we’d all hang out on a Saturday night and try to get free cones. Tom had pointed out that half our class was cousins or second cousins or something far too closely related. I didn’t count, but I got his point. When he got Michelle pregnant at sixteen I didn’t do any digging. I doubt he did either.

Tom had three kids now. Jim had five. I was afraid to go watch football at their place on Sundays. Jim still owned that lawn chair. Still living in his parent’s place. That chair in the exact same spot. I didn’t want to see that chair. I didn’t want Jim to hand me a beer. And I sure as hell didn’t want to see what would happen if Tom and Jim pushed their kids into the circle the way they used to push our friends. Robbie would probably kill somebody and then I’d have to live with that shitty memory along with all the other shit memories stuck in my head.

A Knock upon My Window

A Knock upon My Window 

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

And so a knock came upon my window. But perhaps a bit of context first. I was at my computer minding my own business.

Next door I could hear some sort of worker, set about his back yard work. They had working for days. Maybe they were building a new patio, or fixing the old one. The fence was tall and I wasn’t that nosy, but I could hear their noise all the same. Things started a little early in the morning for my taste, but we all have a difference of opinion on when the day begins and there was no home owners association to complain to. And being a non-nosy neighbor, I was also a non-confrontational one. I figured it would only be a few more days anyway.

It was trash day and I had heard the truck making its way one direction down the street, picking up barrels as it went. It had one of those mechanical arm things that occasionally crushed a barrel if not lined up properly. I had lost my green recycling barrel once when perhaps the machine ate it. Or maybe a neighbor stole it. Either way, I was accustomed to hearing noises coming from up and down the street.

I was at my desk, drinking my morning coffee, minding my own businesses when I heard a THUMP!

And so my mind raced. Had someone broken in? Had my neighbor’s workers crashed something into the fence between our properties? Or had the trash truck dropped and broke someone else’s trash barrel? Preferably not my own.

I grabbed a knife, because yes, I kept a knife in my desk drawer. If someone had broken in, I was prepared to make a fool of myself as I poorly attempted to defend my home.

I found no hostile invader.

I peeked out several windows, trying to get an eye on my fence. Trying to see down the street at empty trash barrels.

Nothing seemed in disarray.

I relaxed. I put the knife down. Still, though, I had heard something. Perhaps out back...

The moment I stepped out the sliding door, I saw it. Down on the concrete patio, a mere 10 feet away, laying right outside my window – a dead hawk. Motionless. Still. Legs in the air. If I hadn’t known that my patio was normally empty, I might have thought it a statue or some sort. Incredible. Like it had always been there.

I went inside. This would be a headache. I had dealt with dead mice in the garage. I had handled a dead bird in the gutter. But this hawk was big. I didn’t think I could just throw it in the trash. Had my trash been taken yet? Maybe I could get in out in my trash barrel before it began to stink or rot. Still though, I probably needed gloves and maybe a box or at least a trash bag.

When I got back outside, the hawk had turned its head and was looking at me. Apparently not dead at all. But maybe it was paralyzed.

Animal services assured me that this sort of thing happened all the time. All the time they said?! What nonsense. What insanity. What was a hawk doing diving bombing my patio as if there were food to be had? Maybe there had been a rodent. Or some other bird to do battle with. Whatever. My window was no prey. Surely the hawk could tell that.

The internet told me to collect it and make it feel safe. Perhaps let it rest in a cardboard box. Animal services told me to leave it alone in case it got defensive and attacked me. Score one for animal services. I left it alone.

Check back, they told me. It was probably stunned and momentarily unconscious and in a half hour or hour it would spread its wings and fly away. Maybe it would dive bomb my house again. Or maybe it would be smarter than risk another neck snap.

Later I peeked out the window and it was standing. I thought to grab my camera. I wished I had remembered sooner and got a shot of it on the ground. Of course, when I thought it was dead, I never would have wanted a photo of a dead bird. But now, now it was of interest.

When I returned it was too late. The hawk was gone. I had missed my chance.  A mark remained on the window where I could make out where its head hit, a few random feathers still stuck to the glass. What good was that, though? Nothing interesting for others to see when I told the story.

Someone told me later that hawks are messengers and it was trying to deliver an important sign. What sign? Was it a vision? Was this my spirit animal? I was told that a trouble in my life had not yet passed, and the crash symbolized some coming fate. What would that be? I didn’t realize I was having troubles or that they could get worse. I thought I just had a strange moment and a story to tell. I didn’t realize some impending fate was due.

The hawk got off easy. The hawk had woken and was gone. My anxiety and paranoia remains.