Issue 37: A Non-Christmas Carol

My buddy Conner asked an important question to our guys’ group message the other day, “Where do babies come from?” Just kidding. What he really asked was, “When was the last time you were excited to get up? Like going to bed and you can’t wait to wake up for what you’re doing the next day?” Honestly, last night fits that description because our guys group is having our annual gift swap tonight and I’m very excited to give my gift. But before last night, it had been a while since I was last really excited to get up.

Because my brain is often less creative and imaginative than I’d like to believe it is, I have recently found myself asking a similar question to the one Conner posed, only in a more boring way: “Why have I been hitting snooze more often than ever before?” There was a solid 18 year period of my life where my alarm would go off and I would kick my foot up like the Tennessee Vols drum major running down the field. The rest of my body would follow and I would immediately begin my day with energy and exuberance.

Sure I’m older, I go to sleep later than I used to, and I’m not in as good of health as I once was. But I also used to wake up most mornings excited for what the day might hold. I wasn’t eager to try and learn geometry at 8 AM, but life was full of surprises and “what if?”. I’ve found I have written a good bit about those years of being able to wake up early full of energy, aka my middle school and teenage years, in previous issues. It seems those are the years I return to when I want a true measure of a human experience as if my adolescent self is a moral and philosophical North Star.

It’s a silly thought, I know, but I often find myself wondering what my teenage self would think of my life right now. This is obviously not an original thought to me. It seems to be proverbially asked by people in some state of discontent. Maybe it’s because so many important decisions are made while still in the stage of life many would call “youth”. You make most of the biggest decisions in your life, the ones that’ll determine its trajectory for the next decades. I decided on what has been my career path at age 23, I decided the city where I now live at age 19, and I decided who I married at age 24. If my teenage self could see the results of all those decisions, what would he think?

It isn’t as cut and dry as being disappointed in the outcome of all those big decisions. Because, ultimately, I think my teenage self would be proud of many aspects of my life. I have a nice house with a fun and crazy dog, I have a job I enjoy going to, and most importantly of all, I married my best friend and love her more and more every day. While those are all successes in my eyes and teenage me’s eyes, there is still the curiosity of what if? Maybe it’s just the fact that I’m somewhat down the road in decisions rather than standing at the fork. There is excitement at the fork. Schrodenger’s cat where you get to have all paths until you ultimately choose one.

Or maybe that’s not it at all. Maybe it’s just that later in life you get so lost in the weeds of complications, compromises, and the completing of to-do lists that the memory of what you thought you wanted when you were young is often your only clue to who you really are. It’s like an ice core sample from centuries ago, before the idea of pollution could corrupt the virgin sky. The great author Herman Melville kept a quote from Schiller over his desk: “Stay true to the dreams of thy youth.” Whether this advice worked out for Melville depends on your interpretation of success. He left behind one of the most original and fascinating works of literature, but ended his days stuck in a crappy day job he hated.

Speaking of classic works of fiction, it’s that time of year where we all go to sleep at night expecting to be visited by three ghosts who show us our Christmases past, present, and future. I wouldn’t mind a visit from three less holiday centric ghosts. Maybe they might have some answers for me. As anyone who has tried to buy me a Christmas gift this year knows, I’m not the kind of guy to wait around and just hope I get what I want, I go get it. With that same life philosophy in mind, we aren’t going to wait around for three ghosts to visit me. I’ve got this bag of peyote here and we are going to find these ghosts ourselves. (For legal reasons and because my parents, grandparents, and pastor read these, I am not actually doing drugs. It’s called fiction.)

*Insert those harp-type sounds that old movies used to indicate someone was slipping into a dream state.

*Beep *Beep *Beep
What is this I see coming towards me in the sky like some sort of Santa’s sleigh with headlights? It looks to be a blueish gray 2004 Acura TSX. My first car! I thought her long since passed away. When I abandoned her at the Team One Toyota Tent Event Sale in Rainbow City, AL, I thought I was essentially selling her for parts. The Acura, as she was cleverly named, was a legal adult, had over 200,000 miles on her, and would barely start some days. Yet here she is gliding towards me through the sky. The Acura comes to rest about 30 feet away from me perfectly parallel parked across the street and it is now that the picture in my mind’s eye zooms out and I see that I am standing just outside the doors of the Mellow Mushroom on Main Street downtown Franklin, TN.

I open the driver’s side door and sit in the familiar seat which is positioned as low as it can go. Like a Tesla whose computer chip is my very soul, The Acura effortlessly glides forward, driving itself towards five points and the entry point of downtown Franklin (or DTF as we used to call it while texting. Clever, I know.) As we move slowly toward the turn that leads to my childhood home, I can’t help but look around. The streets are not decorated for Christmas like I might have expected when conjuring up ghosts of the past, but rather it seems to be summer. I look down and am wearing my Pressure Washing and Sealing by Seth t-shirt that is too tight and jeans that are too loose. To my right I have to double take as I see The Shoppes on Main. This store used to be a staple of the shopping trips I would take with my dad and brother every Christmas season to find something unique for Mom before they were closed due to ever increasing rent.

As The Acura drives itself, I find myself not knowing what to do with my hands. It is a disconcerting feeling sitting as a passenger in the driver’s seat of a car you logged so many miles and hours in. With nothing else seeming to make sense I run my hand through my hair only to be greeted with the old familiar feeling of bangs. This is somehow more of a cementing in time experience than anything so far. We are clearly in the days of too much hair on my head and not enough on my face.

Charles Dickens did a good job writing “A Christmas Carol” but I must say, having Jason Aldean’s “Wide Open” album softly scoring my version of the ghosts is a perfect touch by the peyote. Well done. As we turn right past the Starbucks and make our way down Hillsboro Road towards the High School, I recognize I have no particular destination for this drive. It is the opposite feeling of when you realize you’ve been zoned out while driving for a few minutes, but are somehow still headed in the right direction. When was the last time I drove just to drive? No place to go, just enjoying the ride.

We’ve passed the school and the Williamson County Rec Center. I know in about 2 minutes I’ll be nearing Fieldstone Farms. Maybe I should just drive by and see if Brenden is home. If so, maybe we can call up Lucas and Keith and Dante and Guha and get a few games of racquetball going. I’m sure Mom and Dad won’t mind if I just go to Mickey Roos and get an order of Texas cheese fries for dinner. Instead, I cut through the neighborhood and go to the back, take a left, and head back towards my house. I think I’ll hop on the Natchez Trace for a while. The AC is starting to go out so it really must be summer. Maybe I’ll roll the windows down for a bit.

“The Truth” is the song I now hear. We must have been driving for a while as I know this song means the CD is almost over. I haven’t accomplished much, and my ghost car hasn’t spoken a word, but I have noticed something. The truth is I don’t really miss High School. I don’t wish to go back to when the most weighty and difficult circumstances were what my crush of the week thought about me. But like a drive with nowhere to go, I was, and still am, happiest when I was doing a little bit of everything, and not taking any of it too seriously. Maybe that is what makes me a writer. It’s the willingness to accept that doing nothing at all can be a great use of time and silly little thoughts may be more important than we give them credit for and our to-do lists may be less.

The hallucination is beginning to wear off and the peaceful easy feeling is being replaced by a deep aching. Something in me hurts the way it hurts to read a journal you may have kept at 17 where you are reminded of who you used to be, and who you thought you would become. Because each time you read it, you enter into the same headspace that visiting my hometown just put me in. You are reminded of where you come from, the accent you may have lost, the friendships you’ve outgrown, the little hourly jobs you used to hate, and what you’ve left behind…

I jerk awake and find myself laying down on the loveseat in our den. Poker Face is on the TV and Niki is washing the dishes. I must have dozed off during this episode and had the strangest dream. “Everything alright?” I hear Niki ask from the kitchen. Only, it doesn’t sound like Niki’s voice and it doesn’t seem to be coming from the other room. I look down and see my dog Hazel looking at me with her head cocked to the side. But, there’s no way… right?

“I said, is everything alright?” This time I am almost certain that it came from Hazel. That peyote was powerful… “I’m ok” I say in the general direction of my dog realizing how odd it might look. “Well, I have something to show you.” Hazel says from her mind to mine. She trots up the three stairs that lead to the kitchen from the den and behind Niki who doesn’t seem to notice either of us or the wild trip I’m on. We made our way through the house and into the sitting room. Hazel sat by the front door beckoning me to open it. I guess my mind allows for cars to fly and dogs to talk, but not have thumbs capable of opening doors.

I open the door and walk out onto our front porch. We make our way to the front yard and I notice that where our neighbors Dale and Angie’s house should be now stands a modern art deco style house. It is a mixture of white and black with large windows and strange sectioning. I love it. Through one of the large windows I see a man with his back towards me making himself a drink at a beautiful stand alone bar table. Hazel walks up to the front door of this house and says, “Open.” I don’t even protest because at this point it’s like in for a penny in for a pound. I open the door and walk in fully expecting the man to turn around and lose it on me though he doesn’t seem to notice.

The man pours some whiskey from a decanter into a shaker, adds a squeeze of lemon juice and some simple syrup. Then he goes to the fridge, cracks an egg and adds the egg white. A whiskey sour. My favorite. Finally, after pouring the drink into the glass and adding some bitters, the man turns around and I find myself face to face with my own face. Yep. You didn’t see that coming did you? This is the ghost of my alternate present. I look pretty good too if we’re being honest. In better shape, nice house, and making a good drink. What am I supposed to learn here? Does this mean I should have stuck with my original plan in college and become a nurse anesthetist? Made a lot more money and had a cooler house?

Aside from me slightly judging alternate me (we are going to start referring to alternate me as Seth 2) for wearing what appears to be a silk pajama set, I am pretty impressed by what I see. Seth 2 turns on the TV and fires up the show Ballers. Nothing wrong with a man chilling and watching TV. This is a version of me teenage Seth would be very happy with. In shape, successful, impressive. I realize this is the kind of Seth that might still wake up with a spring in his step. He is important. He is admired. He sleeps on what appears to be a Tempur-Pedic (I am snooping through the house despite Hazel telling me to stay focused.)

Is this why I’m more sluggish than ever? I am not the success I thought I’d be? Then Hazel says something weird even considering the circumstances, “Run into him.” I ask for clarification and she again says “Run into him.” So, I run right at Seth 2 and do my best linebacker impression. Only instead of colliding, it appears I enter into his subconscious. Welcome to Inception (I know it’s not the same but you get the point.) I feel his feelings and hear his thoughts parallel to my own. He is proud of himself. He is content. There is a longing for more though.

“I have everything I want but nobody to share it with.”

It seems I am the same no matter the timeline. I am a man who is meant to be part of a whole. Teenage me would have claimed to be self sufficient. I would have told you I would be someone who might go into business for myself. I might move somewhere just to explore. I am independent. I was wrong. I step out of Seth 2’s mind and back into my own and know, without a doubt, I am meant to have somebody and to be somebody’s. I am my own man with my own goals, my own successes, my own failures. But I am happiest and most true to myself when I am a husband. When I am part of something bigger than myself like my faith. I am meant to be a piece of a picture, not a portrait.

Hazel barks and I realize I no longer hear her speaking. She runs out the still open door of Seth 2’s house and I chase after her. I run out onto the street and am no longer in my East Ridge neighborhood. I am now running down the sidelines of a soccer field holding a clipboard. In front of me a bunch of children seem to be running aimlessly with a soccer ball somewhat the center of attention. There is a little girl in goal and I instinctively know her to be my daughter. A whistle blows signaling the end of the game. Niki walks up and says, “Good game coach.” with a wink and a kiss. We all walk to a minivan that I somehow feel proud to drive. Looking in the rearview mirror I see a few wrinkles around my tired eyes that weren’t there this morning.

We drive past Outback and my daughter asks if we can eat there because “We won and we deserve it.” I laugh and say, “We have food at home.” Something I hated hearing as a kid. I look over at Niki who gives me a look insinuating “Good call.” I feel the feeling of disappointment in myself for needing to save a little and eat at home. I wanted to be the kind of dad who can give every wish and dream to my family. My mind follows this thought back to my own father who gave up a major career move to be the dad who was there for all of my sporting events and was home each night. Would I have given that up to have had every gift I ever wanted? Absolutely not.

Future Seth is there for his family and that is what is important. That is what will be remembered. A second thought will not be given to Outback because dad was there to coach. We pull up to a red light and I stop and look over my shoulder at a little girl who looks a little like me and a lot more like Niki. Thank goodness for that. I am proud. The car behind me honks as the light must have changed when I wasn’t looking. The shock startles me back into reality as I find myself back in the den again. I ask Hazel, “What’s up” she does nothing. I look outside and see my current car and past that Dale and Angie’s house. I am back to reality and I don’t care what teenage Seth would think about my life. I am happy.