Anything is a Dangerous Word

Dear Unborn Child,

I am writing this letter to you just in case I don’t live long enough to tell you some important things at the appropriate time and/or age. I have forced your mother to SWEAR that she will present this letter to you, UNEDITED, and without qualification. Hopefully, she kept her promise, but it wouldn’t surprise me if she didn’t. If you find any grammar or spelling mistakes, you will know that your mother has tampered with this letter. This is a surefire test, as your old man had a firm command of the English language, and your mother says, “supposably” on a regular basis. (She’ll swear she doesn’t say it, but she does... I promise. And we all know dead Dads never lie.)

I want to discuss adulthood with you, my dear fetus. Well, really, since this is a letter from your deceased father, I guess, “discuss” is a poor choice of words. I want to TELL you about it.

Chances are, you will have been raised to believe that you are a, “winner.” An achiever. Exceptional. Your teachers, parent(s), coaches, therapists, counselors, pastors (god forbid! I told your mother never to let you inside a church!), and relations will all tell you that you can do ANYTHING you want with your life. They will tell you that you can achieve ANYTHING if you put your mind to it. ANYTHING. ANY. THING.

“Anything” is a dangerous word, kiddo. You can achieve MANY things if you put your mind to it. You can, and will, do A LOT of things that others cannot, IF you put your mind to it. I can’t/won’t/wouldn’t/couldn’t dare to guess what those things might be. You COULD invent the flying car (which would be awesome, and would qualify you for boundless pride and love from your dead father). You COULD find a cure for a horrible disease (not as cool as the car thing, but still pretty good). You COULD end up working a desperately boring job in a colorless cubicle farm, chained to a desk for 10 hours a day with an hour long commute on either end, and a measly 1/2 hour break for a fast food lunch, praying to any kind of god that you could just go home to get blasted off your gourd 7 nights a week. These are just a few of many options.

Unfortunately, that last option is, statistically speaking, the most likely. I’m no futurist, but information services jobs are likely to be pretty ubiquitous by the time you reach career age, and unless your mother hits a jackpot (which would be a long shot, since she never played while I was alive), or married some rich bastard after I died (she’s such a whore!), it’s unlikely that you were able to go to a good school, and so, you will probably take hold of the branch that is closest to the ground, so to speak.

Sure, there are a thousand other things you could do. You could become a coach at a government-run middle school in a depressed city. You could work a trade. You could become a teacher... But, no matter what the adults in your life tell you, you will most likely NEVER be a professional musician, a published author, or a professional sports player. Sorry... that’s my fault, really... I didn’t pass you the greatest genes.

Believe it or not, your old man took a shot at two out of the three of the above... and failed. Surprisingly enough, unmitigated focus, determination, training, talent, and education are not enough to put you on top of the pile. There are, after all, a couple of million other kids who do what you do, and they do it better. Even if they don’t, there’s always someone who’s better connected, or someone who’s willing to sink lower to achieve what you want. The shrinking world of global information being what it is, their chances of hitting the big time have increased exponentially, while your chances have decreased significantly........ more like... OVERWHELMINGLY.

You might make it. And, by all means, you should try. But, you probably won’t. You’ll aim, you’ll shoot, and you’ll miss. And it’s going to suck when you do. Matter of fact, it’s going to sting like a motherf****er. (Didn’t know your old man had a bad mouth, did you?) THAT is what life is. Life is NOT, as you have been trained to believe, an even flow of happiness with the occasional speed-bump of sadness and pain. And, don’t get me wrong, it’s not the polar opposite either. For those who live in industrialized countries (at the time of this writing) it’s day after day of mindless drudgery punctuated with minor flecks of sedate contentment. (I won’t get into what it’s like for the rest of the world... but trust me, you have it made by comparison!)

For example, the happiest times of my adult life have largely taken place on Sunday afternoons... at home, on a cheap couch, sitting next to your mother, drinking watery light beer and staring at a golden sun lying low in the Western sky. That’s it. That’s the best I’ve got. Sure, I’ve had moments of professional achievement, but they come quickly, without warning, and they go even faster. And, thanks to the fleeting and predominantly negatively-focused nature of human memory, they’re quickly obscured by my much more frequent professional failures. For the lovachristmas, even if you DO invent the flying car, some smarter, quicker, younger bastard is going to steal your ideas and build a faster, cheaper, better-looking one.

Over time, you’ll come to realize that you’re holding on to the tiniest thing as a source of hope and motivation...  a thing you never expected. A thing so unimportant that it could never matter to anyone but you. That’s it. That’s all there is to live for. You grab onto those things whenever and however you can, and you try and string a few of them together to make a life.

Real success only comes to those who are doing what they love as hard as they can for as long as they can. And, said success almost always comes out of left field. If you try for success, you will fail. But, if you try to do what you genuinely love to do, and only that, you have a much better chance of meeting that ONE important person, or being at that ONE important place at that ONE important time. So, do that.

Like I said, you’ll shoot, and you’ll miss. But you might hit something else that’s better than you ever thought it could be. And that is why you should definitely take a shot. Supposably.

-Your Dead Dad

Back to the Murder

c.1956

Hitch’s round hand, his sweaty fingers, carried a glass of sherry across his belly, and set the glass upon the armrest of his antique velvet wingback chair. The vapors of Hitch’s breath slowly evaporated from the glass. “I’m quite sure,” Hitch muttered in his droll Essex accent, “that you will leave this place tonight, utterly unsatisfied, and soon.” Hitch pulled a stub of a cigar to his lips and inhaled with a shallow breath. The smoke left his mouth and hung in the air, as if trapped in place by his threatening words.

Grace stepped an inch closer to Hitch’s chair, and then turned toward the flames, unwilling to abandon the warmth of the massive hearth, and the steadying support of the thick oak mantle where she rested her hand after setting down a crystal wine glass. “Come now, old boy, don’t be cross with me,” she chided, her voice soft and alluring, as intricate and fragile as a snowflake, floating through the cold, melting into the heat of the fire.  

Hitch raised his heavy eyes from the ornate stone fireplace to the ancient portrait that hovered above the mantle, cased in a thick golden frame. The painting was somehow darker than the room that surrounded it, in color and in theme... a depiction of a murder of crows, gathered loosely along a craggy branch, overlooking a dark countryside. Purple moonlight gleamed in their dark eyes, and reflected from their untidy feathers. Grace watched the old man’s eyes, followed them to the painting.

Hitch shriveled his muzzle, piling wrinkles against wrinkles on the rolling surface of his basset hound face. The thick hoods above his eyes twitched against his cheeks, and Grace was unable to determine if they were barely open or barely closed. She grasped her glass again, and started to speak, afraid that he might have drifted off into a cat nap... a practice that Hitch’s inner circle had grown accustomed to. She whispered, “I... hope...”

Hitch grumbled loud enough to give Grace a start, to let her know that she had interrupted what was sure to be a great man’s great soliloquy. “Do you know...” he said, “why I favor birds in my work... and particularly the Corvus Corax? The Common Raven to you and I?” There, on that moment, on the strength of a question mark, Hitch hung a heavy pause, expectant, dangling flirtatiously, begging Grace to dare... dare to answer the question which should not be answered, dare to wallow with the great man in a puddle of his own greatness. She, however, being a woman of age, being a woman of the world, a woman who had been invited into the shadows of many a great man, knew better, and raised her wine glass to her thin lips, unwilling to embrace  the goading pause.

“It is because,” Hitch continued, “they are beings of... purpose. That purpose may be judged differently by those of a mind to do so. Some would say noble, others nefarious. But they are not, as is so often mistaken by the casual observer, beings of... intention. It is... I’ll grant you, a subtle, but critical difference.” Grace ran her finger in slow circles around the edge of her glass. “Yes, quite subtle.”

Hitch’s eyes refused to unlock from the steady gaze of the Ravens above him. “Their glare... is hypnotic, don’t you think?” he said. Grace allowed a small smile to reach the corner of her mouth. “Oh, not especially.” She invited a wave of cold air into her lungs, held it there for a single moment, a thankful prisoner, and released it against its will. “You know, Hitch, I think that, somehow, it is you hypnotizing them.”

Hitch pulled his thin, pointed legs underneath his seat, where they seemed to hang, detached from his globe-ish belly. “My dear, I’m afraid you have afforded too much credit to the old man seated before you. You see, I too am a painting. I am the subject, the colors, and the strokes guided by many unsteady hands.”

Grace’s forehead fell forward a small way as her eyes tumbled down into her Montrachet. She and the old man were dancing, circling the room, pushing each other into many directions, locked together at the hands and waist, always moving, never reaching a destination. And, after many an awkward tune, Grace had grown weary of the dance, and frustrated with her partner, a forceful, unyielding, single-minded leader, always willing to step on toes if one should fall out of step. Hitch murmured on, “I am not quite the sorcerer... possessed of dark powers that my... painters... imagine me to be.”

Grace returned her glass to the mantle, straightened her back, and carefully prepared for the last waltz. She spoke with the insistent and reassuring tone of a mother who knew best. “Nonsense. I simply refuse to believe that you are anything less than an all-powerful deity that holds invisible strings above our heads,” Grace flitted her hand above her head with a flourish worthy of a ballerina, a movement so delicate and full of charm that it was powerful enough to claw Hitch’s eyes away from his murder scene. Grace took careful note of this fragile victory, as she continued, “Van Gogh, god rest his tortured soul, painted the starry night... but the starry night in turn paints everyone that gazes back at it. Don’t you think?” Grace leaned her head toward her bare shoulder, her blond bob leaned with her.

“Perhaps.” Hitch acknowledged, as he firmly gripped his sherry glass and swished some of the warm golden liquid down his throat. Grace spoke again. “It changes the world around it. The patrons who sacrifice their wealth to be near it, the crowds of people who travel the world just to have it in their view. Whom, may I ask, holds the real power in this relationship?”

Hitch shifted in his chair and snorted quietly. His eyebrows raised high on his furrowed forehead. “My dear, I must tell you that I find our conversation nothing short of arousing and wonderfully engaging. However, I pray you, don’t be so coy. I’m too old for all of that, I’m afraid. Come along, say what it is you came here to say.”

Grace drew her hands behind her gown, and placed them at the small of her back. She stepped forward, closer to Hitch’s throne. Hitch tilted his head backward, and looked down his nose at the woman before him. “Very well,” she said, “I’ll say this as plainly as anything can be said. How will that suit you?” “Very well,” he replied. “I...” she hesitated, and a crack in the fire popped right through her thoughts. “I...” Hitch’s nose sniffed at the air impatiently. Grace composed herself and continued, “I want out.”

“Out of what, precisely?” Hitch replied, with a wise smirk, which seemed to belong more to a misbehaving teenage boy than a man of advanced years. Grace spun around and leaned against a bookcase, exasperated with Hitch. “Out of the role. Out of the film. Out of the contracts, the studio, the business, everything. Out.”

Hitch placed a long finger against the side of his face, pushing the skin to either side of his digit, and partially obscuring one of his eyes. His breaths grew long in length and interval. His eyes floated back toward the murder, back to the dark night before him. His folded bottom lip fell open, long before air issued from his mouth, or sound was created by his lungs, tongue or damp lips. “No,” he said.

Grace’s eyes fell with her demeanor. She had lost the desire to dance long ago, and now she had been robbed of the energy, the ability, and the will. “Hitch...” she said, all at once full of sadness, and youthful desperation. The old man shrugged each of his shoulders in a jerky wave of successive motion, brought about, perhaps, by age, and of remaining seated for too long, or perhaps from a cold indifference to the discontented beauty that was about to beg his mercy.

He had given her much over the years, and asked for little more than a different gesture or emotion in a scene of forced movements and invented feelings. Besides, it was not he who had asked these things of this woman... this child... it was the camera. The all-seeing eye. The machine of gears, light, and film had made the unforgiving requests... Hitch was nothing more than an additional mechanism working in tandem with it. He was a translator. Its mouthpiece... a feature he felt it sorely lacked.

Hitch closed his eyes and in the dark there, as usual, he found pictures. Colors, shapes, and movements. At this particular moment and in this particular place, he found old pictures. Images of this elegant girl, golden-haired, poised, demanding of no one, but beneficiary of everyone. He saw laughter. Terror. Sadness. Moments, days, years. “Hitch.”

The pictures faded, and he was startled to consciousness, but did little to show it to Grace. He had been resolute before, confident of his position. Now, he was sad, wishing to return to the scenes hidden behind his eyelids. This issue that she laid before him seemed irrelevant now, because even if he could let her go, even if there were no other forces pulling on his joints, his muscles and his bones, guiding him through his work, forcing him toward a destination, he would never let her go, not willingly. They had one more film. They had one more chance to be together, one more chance to spend months in the same rooms, sets, and parties, to walk among friends and acquaintances, to give a fleeting impression that in another time... under different circumstances, his arm could be around her waist, and it would not be considered the gesture of a friend, the warm touch of a father figure. He could never let that escape. “There are some things, child, which even I cannot bring about. You must believe me on this. More than that, you must accept it.”  

Grace wiped a tear from her eye. Hitch dug his hands into the armrests of his chair and struggled against his considerable weight and aching body to bring himself to his feet. He plodded toward the door. Grace heard his heavy steps and turned to call after him. She was about to raise her hand, try to pull him back from across the room, but he stopped short of the door, if only by a foot. Hitch reared around slowly, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and waddled back to Grace. He handed the cloth to her, and she smiled with a supernatural warmth as she lightly pulled it from his hand.

Hitch, one of the most powerful men in his world, and in Grace’s world, felt impotent in her presence. He burrowed his hands into the pockets of his trousers, and cleared his throat. “Gracie...” Hitch hesitated, again distracted by his own thoughts. His rationality, his inner logic, struggled to wade through unmerciful waves of memories. Memories of Grace. He found himself carried against his will, floating in tides of emotions that crashed these thoughts against the front of his mind. He could keep his footing no longer.

Hitch snapped himself to the present, to the conscious, and found Grace gazing at him with a thankful smile, holding his handkerchief before him. Hitch snapped the handkerchief from her, and crammed it into his breast pocket. “Very well, child. Child...” Hitch angrily grasped the handkerchief again and wiped his forehead. And once again, he stuffed it into his pocket. “This is foolish. You know it, don’t you?”

Grace’s lips parted. She had never been so unsure of what to say. She couldn’t risk a yes, and she dare not chance a no. Either choice could lead to disaster. She had faced a proposal of marriage from a prince, and navigated the situation with casual elegance, but she was lost amid a business discussion with this lumpy old man. “I... I don’t...”

Hitch’s eyes burned. He felt a redness wash over them. “Have it your way. It’ll never last, and you’ll regret all of this” he hissed. Grace’s head shook slightly, but she prevented herself from letting it become any more than a shudder. Hitch suddenly grabbed her by the shoulder and pushed her across the room. She let out a faint shriek. With the other hand he tore at the doorknob and threw the door open. Light poured into the room and Grace winced, partly from Hitch’s over-tight grasp, and partly from the harsh light that dug into her eyes. He barked, “there now, you’ve got just what you wanted, haven’t you? Now off with you! And when you come crawling back to grovel before me, after the divorce, after the mirage has faded, remember this moment, and understand then why I tried to stop you now.”

Grace wrested herself from Hitch’s grip, pulled her long blue glove over her elbow, and stepped into the cavernous foyer. She struggled to find composure in the face of this angry, bitter, dejected troll who stared through her with passionate hatred. “We all make choices, Alfred. I wish I didn’t have to choose between you and... him. But... I believe we don’t make choices once and then move on. I believe I will have to make this particular choice every day for the rest of my life. Every morning, I will wake, confronted by the consequences of this conversation. Every night before I fall asleep, I’ll be forced to watch this film over and over as though it were a reel stuck on a projector in an infinite loop. And every time, Hitch, every... time.” Grace stabbed at the air with her fist. “Every single time I make this decision, I will make the same choice. Every day from now until my death I will choose him over you. A thousand times him. And a million times, I will reject you, and for me, it will sting less and less each day. I simply can’t wait for the day when I can barely remember your face... your pouty little pudgy mask, and I say to myself, ‘what a small man he was.’”

Grace watched her words sink deep into Hitch’s ears. She turned away from him and stormed through the foyer toward the massive English oak doors, her heels clacking against the marble, echoing throughout the cavern. She thrust the door open with great effort, left it swinging on its hinges, and flitted down the mansion’s steep steps in what must have been less than a moment, but to Hitch felt like an age, and then, before he could breathe again, she was gone... evaporated, stolen by the night.

Hitch remained firmly planted in the doorway of his library for a long while, outlined by the flickering firelight, one arm at his side, the other bent at the elbow, his hand in front of his paunch, his fingers rubbing together. His face was long, empty. He stepped backward into the shadow of the darkened room, and gently closed the door with a quiet click of the latch.