I've been busy. Too much so, I'm afraid.
I have Escher-esque nightmares
about houses with no hallways. Rooms
indiscriminately opening onto rooms without warning or logic. Front doors opening into bathrooms which lead
capriciously to a basement on one side and a kitchen on the other. Stairways to bedrooms with doors to other
bedrooms and living rooms with attic hatchways in walls and closets that deposit
me onto a street corner blocks away. Admittedly interesting. But no
hallways. None.
Therein lies the dark perversity which
makes the dream a nightmare. At least for me. I need hallways. A well-ordered existence requires
hallways. Everyone knows that. They are
indispensable elements in the very fabric of all the cogent universes. Clearly defined neutral zones providing for
smooth and gradual transition from one place or state to another. Calming muted little havens where one can
decompress and refocus briefly on the way to being thrust into a next reality.
A few weeks ago, I was scheduled to
be sitting in a local diner sharing evening munchables and a tall pilsner with
two friends and a guy I’d never met before.
The two friends are twins. Yes.
Female. Identical. They think in
tandem and finish each other’s sentences.
I’m told it’s a twin thing. So far as I know, geographic proximity isn't an
operative factor. It still works at
fifty miles. I haven’t tested anything
further, though I’ve read about a theory that under certain circumstances two
particles in different parts of the cosmos can be so closely related that they
behave in precisely the same way at precisely the same time. It’s called quantum entanglement. The story was in all the papers. The twin thing is sort of like that.
I was
running late, which in my reality actually means they had been unfashionably
early. Upon arrival, I surveyed the diner from a safe vantage point just inside
the door. I spied them in their
booth. The twins were already happily entangled,
busily finishing each other’s sentences and thinking in tandem at the guy and
the waitress and anything else within range.
The guy’s body was smiling and nodding, but his eyes had that wild and pleading
look of someone who’s just realized his assigned customer service
representative only speaks Croatian.
I hovered…just beyond
range…momentarily. I was buying
time. It had been a long day. My brain was still picking through the
details and trying to smooth down the frangled edges of my last nerve. I had successfully dodged all incoming calls
from Stress, routing them through the phone tree to my assistant, which was standard
operating procedure. That’s what I pay her for and it usually works out quite
well. But she had just emailed me a callously
reasonable memo demanding a fat raise and a vacation. Damn.
Now I had to be social. Without time to pass through my sufficiently
muted and calming metaphorical hallway. My
inner child was already wincing and twitching in response to that grinding
noise one only hears when forced to manually shift paradigms without a clutch. I found myself mentally scrabbling for
confirmation of some next clear step along this immediate critical path.
Don’t get me wrong. I really do like the twins. Time and conversation with them is always
entertaining and never boring or predictable.
Rather akin to a social exercise in chaos theory. The only essential preparation for encounters
with them arises from the fact that they are part of the rare and little
understood sub-species homo sansibubblis.
Intensely relational, these beings have no personal bubble and are in most
instances innately devoid of any awareness that personal bubbles exist at
all. Whatever rumors they may have heard to the
contrary have been summarily dismissed as backward and baseless pseudo-science on
a par with belief in a flat earth or the mythical planet Nibiru. All space, in their multiverse, is indisputably
social space. Any other arrangement would be a blatant ontic profanity. Again, it’s a twin thing. I’ve believe it stems from having been forced
to share a womb. Clinical investigations
are said to be forthcoming.
The guy seemed harmless enough at
first glance, in a bemused and bewildered sort of way. And I felt for him. Plus I was hungry and it was time to eat and
be pleasantly interpersonal. My assistant
and my schedule both said so.
Smiling, I hung up my coat and promptly
skirted the edge of the event horizon, feigning a need to visit the restroom. Once
there, I checked my mental inbox.
Unfortunately, no epiphanies. And
I like epiphanies. Oh well…on to Plan B.
I hid in a stall. Not for long,
mind you. I didn’t want to be
anti-social. Just long enough to breathe
deeply and count to seventeen. Ten
doesn’t work. Seventeen did.
When I reached the booth, there was
a pilsner mercifully waiting for me. I already
knew I would order a gyro, but the twins only paused briefly mid-sentence to
greet me before going back to a topic I don’t recall, so I pretended to read
the menu and played with the silverware as I joined the guy in his smiling and
nodding. The tactic was remarkably effective… until the
waitress asked for my order and the guy excused himself to the restroom. About the time I was realizing that there are
only so many ways one can play with dinnerware without causing bodily injury, I
also realized that the twins had stopped talking. I could feel them tandemly thinking at me as
the guy returned. It broke my
concentration and I narrowly avoided impaling myself with a precariously
balanced dinner fork. I returned the utensils
to a socially appropriate arrangement and cautiously looked up.
Chloe, the twin seated across from
me, smiled in a not altogether disarming fashion while Candace, the one sitting
next to me sighed and squeezed my arm not altogether reassuringly.
I lost track of which one was
speaking almost before they started. I
think they take turns breathing.
“So before you arrived we were talking with Phillip (aka “the guy”—I knew he must have a name) and we were telling him a
few things about you…”
“Nothing terribly personal, mind you, and of course only the good parts…”
“but with a few details thrown in, just to add some texture to the
conversation…”
“and we had to leave out any really
juicy parts because you won’t tell us
about those either…”
“which you must admit is heartless and patently unfair because we tell
you everything…”
“even though we know there are some things you won’t understand because
you’re a man…”
“but you’re our friend so we tell you anyway because that’s what friends
do…”
“and when we tried to explain to Phillip what you do for a living we
couldn’t…”
“because every time we ask you about it you say, ‘Let me give you an example’… and then you tell us a story…”
“but when we tried to do it
every example we gave made it sound like you do something different…”
“and it seems like you must do different things at different times…”
“so we decided that either we still don’t understand what you do or you
don’t…”
“and since you probably do because it’s you who does it...”
“Could you try to explain it again?”
“Please?”
“And it’s OK. You can take your
time. You always do.”
“He always does. He’s quite
pensive.”
“And slow.”
“Well, that too.”
I glanced at “the guy”. He made
brief eye contact that said, “Hey, you’re on your own, dude. At least they’re not thinking in tandem at
me.” Then he went back to playing with
his dinnerware. Apparently I was on my
own.
“So you don’t like my stories?” I asked.
“We love your stories,” they replied. “But they don’t answer our
question.”
“Are you sure?” I continued. “Or
is it that they don’t give the sort of answer you’re expecting?”
“Each story seems to give a different answer to the same question,” Chloe
protested.
“Why do you think that might be?” I inquired.
There was a moment’s silence.
“She thinks you’re a spy,” Candace said in a carefully hushed tone.
The guy stopped playing with his steak knife. His face remained impassive but his eyes
darted from one twin to the other, then to me.
“I’m not a spy,” I stated flatly.
“That’s exactly what a spy would say,” Chloe countered.
“I drive an old Kia and live in a
tiny house in a tiny town…”
“It all makes perfect sense now…”
“…I get up every day and I take my
son to school and then pick him up in the afternoon…”
“You maintain an appearance of
being passably normal and blending in…”
“… and go to church and play music on the weekends…”
“…doing all the fairly normal
things associated with fairly normal people…”
“ I’m a single dad. I’m busy…very
involved with my family…”
“all of which is very convenient and makes for a very convincing cover…”
“I have a small business. I work
out of an office in my home. That’s not
unusual.”
“I’ve seen your office… full of computers and electronics and piles and
piles of notes and diagrams…”
“Some of my projects are a little more complicated than others…”
“Then there are the maps! What’s
up with the maps? And time zone charts…”
“…and some involve clients in other states…even other countries… ”
“You work very odd and irregular hours…”
“Phone conferencing and Skype make it possible to juggle schedules and
meet with people anywhere in the world. When we meet and the amount of time I
spend with each depends on their needs…”
“You’re always meticulously vague about who you work for…”
“I have relationships with a wide variety of different individuals and organizations…”
“…and you’re carefully evasive about what
you do for them…”
“…sometimes researching, writing, consulting…sorting through a lot of
concerns. Specifics vary from client to client…
“You never give any specifics…”
“…and details are kept strictly confidential.”
“The evidence all points in one direction!” she summed up. Quivering intensity overshadowed her
attempted whisper and poured like a wave all directions. She may as well have been standing on her
seat banging the table with a shoe. All
conversation had stopped in the booth behind us. “There’s no point in denying it,” she
continued, “ although I know you have to deny it otherwise you wouldn’t be a
very good spy, which I’m sure you are.”
“You’ve been working on this for a quite a while haven’t you?” I asked.
“Weeks,” the guy offered with
dispassionate casual certainty.
“I’m convinced,” the waitress
stated emphatically. “You sound like spy
to me.”
“Not helping!” I told her. I
wasn’t sure how long she’d been standing there, gyro in hand, listening and
watching with growing cautious interest.
The thought occurred to me, “Marvelous. She’s planning to hold my food hostage until
I confess!”
I
looked at the sandwich. With
longing. To my great relief, she
surrendered it willingly. Then proceeded
to tidy up, removing any already accumulated debris from our table along with
all—now evidently extraneous—knives.
This she did quickly. As she
bustled toward the kitchen, I could hear her talking, more to herself than to
us, “Not a problem. Live and let live,
you know. We get all kinds in here. Seen pretty much everything. Got no idea why they always sit in my section…but…”
I took a deep breath and tried
to steel myself for another attempt.
“I know it’s hard to understand
exactly what I do. That’s because it
doesn’t fit neatly into any one category.
It really depends on who I’m working with and what they want to accomplish.
I may change hats several times during
any given conversation.”
“But you’re not wearing a hat,” Chloe protested.
“It’s a metaphor,” I
replied. “Mostly…I listen. Then I ask questions based on what I
hear. Then listen again. I help people clarify their specific goals,
some short term and some long. We talk
about challenges, obstacles, strengths and strategies for getting to where they
want to go and becoming what they want to be.”
“In its simplest form, I guess I
would say I help people understand who they are, what they are, and why they do
what they do. Then I help them determine
who and what they want to be and why. If
something about their life or situation isn’t working the way they want, we
look at how to change it.
Effectively. And we look at how
to map out a plan that’s broken down into reasonable steps that can actually be
accomplished. In the process, we also try as much as possible to account for
any roadblocks or landmines they might encounter along the way.”
“He’s being metaphorical again,”
Candace stated. “Or at least I hope he
is.”
“Have you ever had to shoot
anyone?” Chloe asked in a hush.
I sighed and began counting to
seventeen in my head.
The guy just smiled and said, “I
think we need to go.” He then stood and
began to put on his jacket. Chloe and
Candace did the same, with minimal protest.
“It was nice meeting you,” I
told him. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to
hear more about you.”
“That’s no problem,” he replied
amiably. “I actually found the
conversation entertaining. Besides,
there’s not much to tell really. I’m
semi-retired. Still work once in a
while, only when I want. I consult on
a broad range of security related issues, mostly with large multi-national
corporations and small third world countries.
Confidential. Like you.” With that, he turned and headed for the door.
“He’s a spy,” whispered Chloe
and Candace as one. Then they followed.
The smell of the earth freshly turned for planting. Putting in a crop and tending it till harvest. Rebuilding engines on tractors long past their prime. Nursing calves, lambs, goats, even piglets that wouldn't make it otherwise. Taking in strays. Barn cats. A three legged dog. Milking the dairy herd of neighbor layed up for almost a year by a heart attack. Finding 20+ years of farmhand work for the developmentally disabled grandson of an old friend of his father. Raising food and giving it away to family, friends and friends of friends who were struggling. Giving tractor and wagon rides and rabbits and puppies and smiles to a gaggle of nieces and nephews and random neighbor kids. Teasing. Joking. Laughing. Gentle and kind. Patient. Quietly loving and practically caring. Courageously hopeful, and incurably curious. Always trying to understand, yet fascinated with mystery. 
