What are those things that you have seen that you were not quite sure of? Not sure what they were so you chalked those things up to only what you could explain.
Seen a ghost? Only a trick of light. Seen a UFO? It was that neighbor kid shooting off model rockets. Seen what might be a large fairy? Well, maybe that’s just the result of your overworked, all business – no play, family second life, that leaves little time for your spouse and children to develop a proper and healthy emotional bond with what should be the alpha prime of their lives but just turns out to be an alcohol stenchfull nightmare that would be a great source of income to any of the nine local psychiatrist who they themselves drink more than you.
Like I said, it happens to most all of us.
So, just like most of us, I have seen those things. And, as a structural engineer, I tend to lend my wild thoughts to logic and reason. In the Immortal words of Dennis, Mac, and Charlie, “Reason will prevail.”
I have seen those things. Those strange things. Those things, that for those brief fleeting moments, fill your mind and heart with wonder. A wonder so glorious and joyfully lined with mystery and awe, a little part of you has to die as your logical, sober self explains to you why your amazement and wonder is unjust and irrational.
I once saw a dead rose bush floating above a busy intersection. Logic kicked in, reminding me of the times I have seen the small remnants of tumble weeds that same exact size and shape that float in the wind as if held up by invisible strings.
I have seen floating, bright lights off in the distance, descending ever so slowly on that far away horizon. Convinced I am seeing the third coming of Christ, I shout to my family to come see, only to have my big brother, the space geek, remind me I’m looking at some common celestial event.
Then there was that time I was sure I saw a giant deer, at least 100 feet tall, walking through the valley. That time, like many others, I knew it was only a hallucination brought on by my extreme and constant sleep deprivation.
As I said, I am a structural engineer. However, I am not a very good one. At least compared to my colleagues, I am not. The only thing I excel at, which should be the staple of any and all good engineers, is my problem solving. It is true that I can problem solve most issues when it comes to a big project. But I lack the vision and drive that my peers seem to have. A creative spark which I feel I must have been born without. They see what is grandoluous. I see what is practical. And that is why, when there is a problem with their flamboyant and obscene designs, they come to me to fix the unfixable.
So, with such a logical brain, it would only make sense that when I was presented with an absolute impossibility, I would eventually break down and have to accept the in-obvious. God bless it.
I had graduated top of my class. Well, top half of my class. Side note: no one tells you they include those who dropped out and failed in the class rankings. I landed myself a three figure a year job and married an amazing woman all within two years of my graduating. My wife and I had two beautiful children, a girl and a boy, and a humble home in the outskirts of town absent the white picket fence.
Happy children. Playful dog named Drools. Barbecues once a month with the neighbors. Always playing the happy busybodies. I worked Monday through Friday, eight to four, and she volunteered at the community center when the children were in school. The wife and I were happy, I thought.
It seems she mistook my drinking, excessive as it may have been, with alcoholism.
Now, to this day, she will tell you, I genuinely get smarter when I drink. I discovered this my first year in college. Alcohol causes me to focus. Like a laser or an Ansel Adams picture, when I am drunk, I am smart.
However, logic always seems to trump emotion.
And so, that is where this story starts to go downhill for me.
You see, as part of my problem solving technique, when my peers would come to me with their “structural integrity” issues, I would lock myself away in an outbuilding on our property. There, I would have a bottle of scotch or tequila and an endless playlist of prog-rock. I would often spend days locked away trying to solve the problems needlessly brought about by my peers and their stupid obsessive pursuit of the avant garde.
It was on one of those nights, as I walked out to my private thought chamber with a bottle of liquid knowledge in one hand and a laptop in the other, that I saw that one thing I could not explain.
With a full moon casting its bright white light, I emerged from under the shadow of my house and the large oak that leans over it. Then, right in front of me, another shadow emerged from the shadow of the oak tree. It was the shadow of a tiny man, no more than a foot tall. The shadow did not walk out, it flew out. I knew whatever was casting this shadow was either directly behind me or further up into the tree, but judging by the way it moved and how its legs lazily followed the rest of its body, I knew it was flying.
I knew I had to look back to see what was casting this shadow, but my logical brain refused to look away from this impossibility that was right before me. Perhaps if I had looked back, I would have seen two birds love making mid air, as I imagine birds do. But no, I could not turn around. So there the shadow moved in an odd manner liken to a cat trying to figure out a new sound behind a solid wall. For no more than what felt like 10 seconds I examined that shadow as I assume the caster examined me. Then it left.
And the most peculiar thing followed: I went about my night as if this event had not happened. I continued to my conundrum cave convincing myself that what I had seen was explainable, though I had no explanation. And as mentioned before, I had always had a valid answer to those previous encounters. But this was different, I wasn’t tired, I wasn’t drunk (yet), and there was no wind or drones or any other causation than what would have made this possible.
Regardless, I went on with my night. And the next day went as any other day. Followed by a typical week, into a typical month, into the worst year of my life.
That following year, my father invited me and my brother to celebrate his 60th birthday on a short cruise to Alaska. Just the boys. I really did want to go. Even my wife, desperate to see me take a break from work, begged me to take this vacation with my dad and brother. But I just had too much to handle at that time. Vatican Vinny was trying to build a hip new cathedral themed water park and he needed my “know-how” to impress his investors. So I ultimately had to decline “boys week out”.
During their vacation in Alaska, my father and brother took a ride on seaplane to visit one of the largest glaciers in the world. The idea was that they would board a seaplane at whatever port the cruise ship docked at and that plane would land them closer to the glacier where the cruise ship could not go. As I am told, this is a very common and popular activity.
However, what the pilot was not aware of on this occasion, is that just moments before he landed his plane, a large portion of the glacier had broken off and fell into the icy sea. The pilot landed his plane on the water as he had done hundreds, if not thousands, of times before, and began his taxi to the near by rocky shore. Still hundreds of yards from shore, the plane was met with the resulting tidal wave from the glacier break. All 11 people on-board were killed.
There was even a YouTube video. As the time of me writing this, its up to nearly 2.3 billion views.
Now, obviously I was devastated by the loss of my family. But my logical mind assured me, that statistically speaking, I would become a statistic one day. I was hurt and I was sad. I went to the funerals and I recited the eulogies. I was heartbroken. But apparently not enough.
The wife, God bless her, seemed to take offense to my lack of grief. Now, in hindsight, I can see what she might have been complaining about, but at the time…
She somehow found it appalling that I wasn’t breaking down in tears on a daily basis. She seemed more hurt by my lack of emotional display than she was by the passing of my family. No matter how I explained it to her, I was a cold and emotionless robot. Judging on her reactions, she seemed to be the expert on emotions. So maybe she was right.
Of course I don’t believe this is the sole reason she left me. But of all the criticisms, it all came back to how I would never make myself “emotionally available”; whatever that means.
She left me shortly after my family had died in Alaska. She took the kids. Left me with Drools, the dog. I was again devastated and my world was crushed but as before, I didn’t display the emotion. I packed it down where it should go and again reminded myself of the statistics.
So back to work I toiled, the same as before, locking myself in my wonder workshop, trying to solve the needless problems of my peers. Day in, day out, the same ole task of making the impossible work by just simply applying the simplest of logic to those decadent designs of other engineers. But I guess I was too good.
My work load began to get heavier and heavier as the news spread about how I could fix any of these problems. Other engineers from other countries began to solicit my help. More and more problems I had to solve. I couldn’t bring myself to turn down any of these jobs. I love to problem solve. I love to fix the unfixable. So I allowed myself to work for complete strangers. I became the household name of engineers the world over.
More work led to more problems to be solved. Which led to more drinking to solve those problems. Which led to erratic sleep conditions. Which led me to fall behind in my work for the first time ever.
I began to miss deadlines and I had to start turning down jobs. I was my own boss so I never had to worry about being fired, but now I was being overlooked. Potential clients took their business elsewhere. My closest friends in the business began to question my ability to work the magic I was known for.
Then, just as my work world was crumbling beneath my feet, I was blindsided with a killing blow from my ex-wife. Not only was she demanding more alimony, she was demanding the house be sold. This news was brought to me via a letter from her attorney. And he is a damn good attorney.
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Maybe if she had seen me then, when I was absolutely emotionally, physically, and spiritually destroyed.
Not to be undone or unmade, I raised myself by my bootstraps and set off to solve the most unsolvable problem of my life, being as it were, my life. Its all mathematical. Its all just one big formula. I convinced myself in that instance that this would all be solved soon. All I had to do is grab that bottle of tequila and slave away in my thinking theater.
That’s all I had to do, just go to my daily data den and delve into those dastardly dilemmas that brought all this dispute and dissent.
And as I walked to that ((man cave)), I again emerged from the shadow of my house and that oak tree that hung over it. It must’ve been what we call fate because the shadows were in the same exact position as they were that night I saw the shadow of the little flying person. And the moon was just as bright, making its surreal white glow.
I paused, maybe by extinct, and waited for that flying figure to return. My pause became a conscious wait. A waiting for what I assumed was a mystical sign to return.
Then, it hit me, the most logical thought I had all year: what in the world was I thinking?
There is no way I saw what I saw that day. There is no way I saw a little flying person. There is no way that I let myself passively accept such an impossible happening.
That must have been it! My life was falling apart because I was no longer assured as I was in my logic. That one moment of question must have led to all this trouble. How else to explain my year of decline?
As a problem solver, would I have let my marriage just fall apart because of a simple death in the family? As a logical man, would I not realize that maybe, just maybe, the death of my father and brother should’ve been mourned? As someone who is slave to the statistical, would I not know how absolutely futile it was to accept so many unsolvable jobs at once?
I let myself fall into this demise. I let myself play emotionless as the wife and kids walked out that door. I let myself be made the fool as my reputation was ruined. I let myself believe it was all my fault. I let myself believe that everyone else was being illogical and irrational when the answer was now right in front of me.
There it was, the reason for all my degradation. The now obvious solution to fixing this un-fixable riddle. It was that stupid oak tree. That was the reason for my problems. It had to go.
I went to the shed and grabbed the chainsaw. It had a short blade on it and the oak tree was at least three feet thick. No problem, I was ready to chop away at this tree.
I tried to fire up the chainsaw but it wouldn’t start. Clogged carburetor. I dismantled the chainsaw and soaked the carburetor in diesel fuel. Logically, since I couldn’t cut the tree down at that moment, I decided to tie it off to as many anchors as possible to make sure it would not fall on the house. I went to bed and let the carburetor sit over night.
The next morning I awoke with great anticipation. As soon as that tree was gone, my family would be home.
I went out to the shed and reassembled that chainsaw. I fired it up without issue and that bladed chain spun with such a vigor it seemed tree hungry. The slack in the chain was set perfect.
I took that mechanical solution to that organic problem, set my feet sturdy, and moved in for the killing slice.
As that spinning flesh ripper neared the tree, the chainsaw stopped. I pulled the cord over and over to get it to start again. Nothing. As I walked away, still pulling the cord, it started again. I ran to the tree, chainsaw running, as a child with scissors, and lunged at my macaroni project. Again, it shut off before I could cut.
I tried and tried. The chainsaw wouldn’t start, I would try to cut, and it would die. Frustrated, I started the chainsaw and cut down a tree on the neighbors property to prove the saw worked, but as soon as I returned to that oak next to the house, it would die.
I thought “Screw it, we’re going old school.” I went to the shed and got out my axe. The axe blade was factory sharp because I never used it; I always had a chain saw.
I lined up my fist chop on that tree, brought my destructor back behind my head, and swung at it full might. There was that vibrant pain that comes from hitting a baseball bat against a brick wall. All the shock was in my arms. I looked down to see that the axe was backwards and I hit the tree with the blunt end.
I knew I had lined up my shot perfectly with the sharp end, but I also knew I had been having less than full cognizant thoughts lately.
I relined the shot, giving extra care to the blade now facing the tree. I even gave gentle taps into the tree making sure the blade would stick a little.
Now that I was sure, I brought it all back with a fury that would only be matched by the aggressive vengeance I used to throw the axe into the tree. But before I could swing it back to the tree, I felt the axe go light, and my car alarm went off. I turned around to see the axe head stuck in my windshield.
I was done.
I broke down on my knees in front of this stupid tree. I yelled and sobbed for the first time ever. I was confused like I have never experienced. I physically shook as I screamed at the tree “Why wont you just go away?”
A voice answered, “Because I wont let you.”
Have you ever thought: “What the hell was that?” Of course you have, you’re a human. Have you ever investigated that thought and found the answer was more disturbing than the question? Most likely not.
The voice that answered me, was the same thing that had cast that shadow a year or so prior.
There he was, a little flying man, just as the shadow I saw had suggested. He, I guess, hovered there, swaying as if he were in a shifting tide. No more than a foot tall, just like the shadow, sizing me up like I was him.
“You’re real,” I said, “I didn’t hallucinate you.”
Him, “No, not anymore than I hallucinated you.”
Me, “Who are you, I mean, w- what are you.”
Him, “I am me. I mean, I am one of us.”
I was running my brain on full overdrive trying to justify what I was seeing.
Me, “Where did you come from? Are you an alien?”
Him, “Why would you just assume I’m not from here? Why would you just assume that because you haven’t ever seen me, that I am from a different planet?”
Me, “Are you from a different dimension?”
Him, “I- I don’t know, possibly. I mean, we don’t really know.”
Me, “’We’, so there’s more of you.”
Him, “Of course, how else would we reproduce?”
Me, “Reproduce?? Who created you??”
Him, “Created m… Who created you?”
Me, “I don’t know.”
Him, “Exactly! What makes you think I know?”
Me, “I don’t know. I guess I just figured, I mean, well, being something I haven’t seen before, that maybe you would know more than me. I mean, like are you a leprechaun or something.”
Him, “I don’t think leprechauns can fly.”
Me, “So, like, you’re a fairy.”
Him, “Fairies have wings. I don’t have wings. And, I’m pretty sure no one likes to be called a fairy.”
Me, “So fairies and leprechauns, they’re also real, like you?”
Him, “First of all, it’s a little weird that your fist thought, upon meeting a new intelligent being, is, ‘Hey, why not ask about a bunch of other fairyland creatures?’. Second, what makes you think I would know anything about leprechauns or fairies?”
Me, “I just figured, since, you being, you know, something extra special fantastical yourself, that maybe you would know a little something about where other myths come from.”
Him, “Oh, so since I am ‘fantastical’ then I should already know all the other ‘fantastical’ creatures?”
The questioning and answering volleyed in this manner for hours. As it turns out, I can be kind of rude. Maybe my wife was right. Here is a brief summary of what I learned about my new acquaintance:
His name is something I couldn’t pronounce so we settled on calling him “Jim”.
This is not the first time a human has met one of Jim’s kind. There has only been a few encounters between humans and Jim’s kind but humans have referred to Jim’s kind as: Whispers, Influencers, Mind Makers, and many other names that I could also not pronounce. Jim wouldn’t tell me why or where these names came from.
Jim has lived in that oak tree that hangs over my house since before the house was built. He told me that he his family also lived nearby in the surrounding trees. I was assured that his kind wasn’t so great in number that you could find them on every street corner but also assured that communities like the one living around my house were not uncommon.
Jim and his kind could become visible and invisible at will. They are constantly watching us and our actions. Jim told me that when they are invisible, which is pretty much all of the time, only their shadows can be seen, and only on clear nights with a full moon.
I was most surprised by Jim’s lack of anger about me trying to destroy his home. Obviously I was curious as to why he had stopped me. Thousands and thousands of trees are cut down everyday, obviously there has to be Little Flying People living in at least some of those trees that have to be displaced. I asked Jim, as politely as I knew how, why he chose to stop me from cutting down that one oak tree that hung over my house.
Jim told me, “You are something of a curiosity to us. What you don’t understand is that we have an ongoing working relationship with most people, whether or not they know it. You, Jarred, are an oddity to us. Your mind works in a wonderful fashion that is super strange to us. We hold your kind in high regard. And even though I could have let you chop down my home and chip it to pieces, I decided I would rather meet you first.”
Me, “But how did you stop me?”
Jim, “Y’know, it isn’t often that we reveal ourselves to humans. It is few and far in between that we take this risk. It is a calculated risk. It is always vigorously debated if we should even do it. However, when we do finally meet and reveal ourselves, it is a custom that we celebrate with our chosen human. We should first have a celebration.”
How do you turn down an invitation to a party with a whole race of creatures you’ve never even knew possible til that day? That is not to say I would want to. No way. My excitement was fully invested, for the first time ever, in a social function. The catch being: it had to be hosted at my house. Obviously I wasn’t going to fit in there invisible tree homes.
My favorite part? Jim told me his family usually had ceremonious ‘wine’ in store but their alco-stash had been lost to one of my neighbors removing what he thought was a rats nest behind a shed. I was told that the Little Flying People wine was closest to tequila. I had tequila. I had lots and lots of tequila. We were gold.
Until the night of that ceremonious celebration.
When that night had begun, I was not ready. I had anticipated more Jims. More slow and soft spoken, well mannered Jims. And, for the most part, Jim’s family was just that. Save a few obnoxious uncles we all have, Jim’s family was very pleasant… to begin with.
I had situated my house like I remembered my wife doing before she left. Just as if we were having a spritzer with the neighbors welcoming a new family to the community. A few vegetable trays with chips and dip. Two liter bottles of soda accompanied by a pile of plastic cups sitting on a small dinner stand awkwardly positioned in the worst possible corner. Of course there was an old 1970’s style ice container next to the sodas with the brownish opaque lid that didn’t quite fit the bucket and plastic tongs that could only grab one cube at a time. Just like my wife had prepared so many times prior.
As my little guest began to arrive, I could not help but sit and gaze in wonder at this historical event. Man and little man communing. I figured my inability to not stare would have made Jim’s family uncomfortable but I guess they knew it was to be expected. Its not every day you see two asses with one head.
Jim floated to my side, “Jarred, I got to apologize. When we first met, or rather, when I first revealed myself to you, I was trying to be extra mysterious. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to play the dark mysterious stranger. I figured I should tell you now before you start to realize we are just like you. Not you specifically, but you big people”
A Little Flying Woman spoke up, “No, we’re not all just like you. We’re not all a bunch of phallogocentric fascist!”
A Little Flying Man yelled back, “Don’t listen to her! She has Little People Penis Envy!”
I was afraid to reply. This wasn’t the first time I was brought from the outside of a family to the inside of their joke. Still, you never know, being an outsider, if the ramblings and jokings might be real.
Jim put his tiny hand on my shoulder, “See, just like everyone else you know. We all have our own opinions, and emotions, and games. And as far as living as a little person, there’s nothing else like it. That’s why I choose to be what I am.”
I inquisited, “Choose? What do you mean you ‘choose’?”
Jim, “I used to be a taxidermist. Maybe that’s why I’m so clever with the hair splinters.”
“Hair splin… Are you the one who sewed hair into my feet??” I asked.
Jim kinda chuckled, proud of himself, “It’s a game we play. We sneak into one of your homes, and we see who can sew hair into your feet without any of you waking up. Man, it is a thrill. I’m the only one who can sew in, out, in, and out. Most of us can only get it to go in once.”
That didn’t make me feel anymore comfortable. There I was, an ambassador for my giant kind among this miniature minority. What I would say or not say next could surely affect the future of their relations with us humans.
I chose to be the observer, limiting my responses to chuckles and an excessive use of the inquiry “huh?” to pretend I didn’t hear what these Little Flying People were asking or saying which would most often lead them into speaking their own language to each other. This was presumably so they could discuss amongst themselves the best way to ask me a certain question.
And, by the way, there is no way to legitimately describe how annoying the Little Flying People language is. It is worse than nails on a chalkboard. Worse than an old lady coughing into her bedpan.
The best way to describe their language is to imagine a pig, a full grown pig, trying to chirp like a bird. Like I said, there is no LEGITIMATE way to describe it. The closest sound I can think of is a crow squawking swine.
And so our little soiree continued on late into the night. I sat there in an uncomfortable anxiety when I saw that no one had even touched the vegetable tray or the chips and dip I put out. Should I have put out something else? Should I have bought all organic snacks?
Sensing my social fear, Jim reassured me his family only eats the bark off of trees and that the alcohol I provided was more than enough of a kind gesture.
The alcohol? That’s right! Those bottles were going quick. And quick even for normal size people. I couldn’t even imagine what mass effect it would have on The Little Flying People.
I began to monitor the crowd. I was searching for the beginning of those tell tale signs of alcohol poisoning. There was no way these Little Flying People could handle that much tequila. I would not have the first Little Flying People death be on my hands.
I scanned that rumpus room. There was arguing and bonding. There was romantic jousting and fist fighting. Everyone seemed fine. Still in disbelief, I had to break the seal.
After I had returned from the bathroom, I hit that special kind of drunk when everything becomes crystal clear. If the crystal was stained with dried whiskey.
I returned to a debaucherous scene. “Suicide is Painless” was playing on the radio and the scene became surreal.
There they were, the full fairy family of Little Flying People in my house celebrating life and family. There were those who were fighting and arguing over absolutely nothing. There were those crying on each others shoulders proclaiming how much they loved one another. There those dancing little jigs in the air. There were those singing the songs on the radio out of key and obnoxiously loud.
Then, those who were fighting began to cry and bond over trivial matters. Those who were crying on each others shoulders were now holding each others hair back as they vomited outside. Those dancing the jigs in the air were still dancing the jigs in the air but now more inebriate and less coordinated (this actually upset me since they were knocking over pictures of my family). Then there was me, singing way out of tune with my new Little Flying People friends when it all suddenly hit me.
This, this right here. This is the emotional display I was missing from my life.
I turned to Jim and poured out my soul, “This is exactly what my wife was talking about. This is the emotional response she always wanted from me. Sure the fighting with eachother is barbaric and pointless but it brings about a bond I’ve never had with my family. The fighting is illogical but those two are closer to eachother than I’ve ever been to my brother.
“And those crying in the corner. Why?? There is no reason to wallow in self pity. There is no reason to expose your weakness to another family member but there they are, two sobs bonding on a whole-n’other level that I couldn’t possibly fathom.
“And its obvious that none of you can sing but it doesn’t keep you from singing out your heart and soul, and yelling these songs off key. You don’t care about what others think of your poor singing. You don’t care what they think of your lack of timing.”
Jim began to reply but I was too excited and I cut him off.
Me, “I see it now. I see why you are here. Whether you are real and you came to my side to show me the righteous path back to my family, or you are just a figment of my depleted imagination brought on by a few semesters of required psychiatry; you have come to save me from that dark vacuum of my chronic despair. You have come to lift me out of the muck and the mire. You have come to save me from my own thoughts of destruction and dissonance. You have come to show me the illuminated path of redemption. You have come to be my saviour…”
Jim, put his tiny paw like hand on my shoulder, looking me dead in the eye, and replied,
“No, we just wanted to get fucked up.”