Stan Michels, a six-foot-two varsity football captain, sat by the university's lake, attempting to read to prevent the sun from going down; he thought that he could slow time by entering another world. As long as he could trick his perception on time to make it seem like the day was slowing, he would be satisfied. But something revolutionary happened to him that week; it added some new things within his soul – but in return, it took away much greater and more important things. He wished to be smarter, a genius in fact, and he would do anything to get it. Only just a week ago, he sought out a shaman. He paid for a great change; he asked for brains, something that had always made him self-conscious.
If you sold your soul to the devil, would you remember?
He was waking up in that moment, surprising himself, with eyes squinting up at the bright white of the sun. Somehow, the details in that old proverb of selling your soul for something in exchange, just like they say Mr. Johnson did to gain mastery of the guitar, there is fine print to read, and most of it goes ignored. He felt small, almost weightless, sitting in the grass, rubbing his eyes to clear them from the hazy glaze.
In his mind's eye, the people around him (the few hanging around the lake) were not separate from each other but had a shared force, or substance that connected like a gelatin rope from one person to another. And he could see this now, as he sat up looking around. The beauty of the aura in the spring air and the surroundings; it breathed with syncopated jazzy rhythms and glowed like an opal in a low opacity; an otherwise hidden scene was now on full display with this new outlook on life.
He was beginning to be aware of his own body; his legs felt thin and appeared puny; along with his arms and torso, all a meager build than that of the once athletic and strong body he had just had only minutes ago.
And yet, with this surge in empathy and feelings of goodwill, through the picture-perfect day, there was this bleak overcast hanging above him like a tomb made of ice. He began to understand that with a better view of the world, with all the minor and major symbolisms and answers that he had to offer, within society and of oneself, there was something with greater or equal value that had to be, or had been traded in its place. This unconditional love for everyone came about at the precise moment when our clocks on earth began their omniscient countdown.
Was it too late?
"I am becoming like stone," He mumbled under his breath while a gaggle of geese passed honking, without paying mind to his presence.
"My whole being, down to my cells and atoms, has become solid. Paused at a standstill, a bumper-to-bumper rest of my entire physical being. It happened slowly, like water slowly forming into ice. My body and mind and even that metaphysical self have been transforming for years, in a loop that plays back previous incarnations of age, and now it has apexed and finalized to a form not unlike a boulder. I would get out, but there's no place to go. Always remember that whatever we've learned from our past cannot be applied to our future, but only used to avoid or go headlong towards the possibilities. The next season to pass could contain a few possibilities, both from inside and outside of our being, but it cannot be forced to change to our will...right?"
How that haunting death never truly leaves, lying deep within the wash of the mind, the body, the soul in earth's tides. Like a jaguar being idle, ever so creeping, watching, studying our every move. Brief attacks of sadness pierce our hearts and our whole being when we least expect them. We should strive to never let the enemy take control of our own happiness. We forcibly ignore the negative, pushing it down so deep it comes out like spittle from an ancient volcano that makes us believe we're not in control. But to react or not, that is our last resort; it can be that which saves or breaks us in this mortal world. To not allow a split second to decide our entire life's path. We are faster than that.
Part of the problem is that we acknowledge there is a problem, yet still proceed without evaluating the problem further...
R. Crumb, Untitled (Crumb Hanging on Woman’s Leg), 2007. © R. Crumb
He took a drive downtown. You have to pay a veteran to park under the road. The hustle is real in the city. The crowded streets are a tell that this place is buzzing with emotion and differing states of well-being. The sky never cleared, but the muggy heat had swelled and now humidified this area of the city most. It was ripe for bursts of anger and frustration – not from pure hatred but from the atmosphere, creating a boiling point of displeasure.
He began walking from the first street and started on the grid path without a specific destination in mind. The first store was a liquor store, where he bought some water for the first leg of the journey and a pair of wide-lens sunglasses that hid his eyes. Inside the shop, there was quite a lot of foot traffic. People pretended to shop just to take advantage of the perfectly working AC. When he got to the drinks in the back, he could feel the full attention of every person in there, eyes without faces. He lowered his look and went to pay, ignoring the bodies that stood around, seemingly in a catatonic state. There was a worn-out hundred-dollar bill crumpled on the floor. He picked it up.
"Hey, boy!" A baritone female voice came out from behind the chip aisle, a large shoulder and head floated down the aisle, and towards the front counter. "That's my money, punk!" This was a shout, but with a hidden scratch of unconfidence...and was there a hint of tease?
He looked up and saw this dominating presence of a woman standing in front of him. Her lumbering Amazonian frame almost shadowed him entirely, like some puny runt of a rooster under a Tyrannosaurus. With the menacing threat in her voice clearly heard behind her gritted teeth, he nevertheless took the challenge to argue his innocence and combat this brutish beauty.
"Well, finders keepers." He said softly.
"Fuck you! Give it here." She grabbed his lapel and lifted him up a foot off the ground.
"I found it, right here on the ground." Pointing to a dirty tile floor with wrappers, dried-out gum, old receipts, dust, and spent cigarette butts.
She subconsiously looked in the direction he pointed, noticing quickly that he put the filthy bank note into his mouth. Lifting him further up, her massive arms stretched above, she began shaking him like a piñata to get the last bit of candy that wouldn't come out.
"Quit...shaking... me, dammit!" He let out a cry for help.
"Give me back my money!"
The bill was spat out, splat right on her face.
She shook her head to remove the soggy hundred and proceeded to toss him out of the store before robbing him of his own money from his pocket. He tumbled across the sidewalk, bewildered, shocked, and in love. He looked back over his shoulder at her, standing in the doorway of the store with crossed arms and a grin on her pretty face while waving the cash at him. Like some bully robbing the nerd of lunch money. Not only did he lose the money, but his dignity was lost; he felt this now, unlike before, when his confidence was maxxed.
He was defeated, and with the newly acquired logical and reasoning mind of his, he knew he was not the Heisman winner that he once was. After a beat, he got up, brushed himself off, and began to walk away before feeling the strong grip on his shoulder from someone behind him. Stan turned around, seeing it was her! She grabbed his hand, hurting at first, but loosened when she was aware of his frailness. She flashed her beautiful smile and walked away, with him dragging along.
End.
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