CHAPTER SEVEN
Stuff That May or May Not Be Important
I’m pretty sure there are intelligent alien beings living among us. They live on another plane of existence, though, and we can’t really detect them except with our minds. They are responsible for much of the unexplainable stuff that goes on out there. Lost socks, for example. Unlike our expectations, the invisible aliens are not highly intelligent. Just because you live on another plane of existence doesn’t mean you are ultra-smart.
They are, however, better at bridging the barrier between our physical world and their world. They can pick up our television broadcasts, and this has convinced them not to invent their own version of TV. Their best scientists, however, after decades of research, devised a method for stealing socks from our world.
That’s where your socks go — one at a time, never by twos. They have been unable to develop a means to transport two socks at a time to their world. If ever someone comes up with an accidental match, those socks are highly prized possessions in the other world.
It is not a mirror universe or anything like that. There is no version of “you” there. The inhabitants are not happier or sadder than us. They have their own version of ice cream and they have holidays — one even commemorating the first time a sock was ever transported across the void to their world. They know the name of the man in our world who lost the very first human sock to them. And that man is somewhat famous in a nebulous sort of way over there.
Much of what we do is inexplicable to them. Much of what they do is inexplicable to us. Some day we will devise a way to communicate with them, but we may save them a lot of grief if we don’t. Humans have a way of screwing up “first contact” really badly. Which is why all truly intelligent aliens — amongst us or out in space — try to keep their distance and maintain a low profile.
Not long after the egg phase, I got the idea in my head that I should commit acts of random generosity. I should do good deeds. If possible, I should do them without anyone knowing that I was doing them. My “victims” would be people who were down and out, especially losers.
I made the mistake of discussing this with my sister while her friend Jake was over.
“You want to do what?” Jake asked, tugging at his earring.
“I told you my brother was weird,” Lilly said.
“We live in a very predictable world where people tend to look out for number one. I want to mess with that.”
“But why would you want to do something nice for other people?” Jake asked. “Everything sucks. It’s a well-known fact. Life is about trying to get away with stuff. That’s why we are here. It’s like a game that has certain rules. You’re messing with the rules.”
“I know. That’s the point.”
Lilly tried to defend me. “He’s seeing a shrink.”
“His name is Dave,” I added.
“Dave told my kid brother he should smoke.”
“He’s a wise man,” Jake said approvingly.
I hung my head, feeling a certain amount of shame. “It didn’t work out. I just wasn’t a smoker.”
“You have to give it time,” Jake said. I could tell he genuinely felt sorry for me and my failure at smoking.
So it was Saturday and I was trying to figure a way to commit acts of random goodness. I thought of phoning Darrell to come along but I was not sure he was ready for this. It might not work out at all, so I figured I would go it alone for a while. Where to begin?
All I could think of was mowing lawns. Two doors down lived Mr. Sheldon. Gus Sheldon. He was downsized when one bank bought another bank. He ran into some personal slippage after that. Wife left him to work in a casino in Las Vegas. Then Gus settled into a job doing people’s taxes at H&;R Block, but he started drinking on the job. Then came a job working nights at a Quick-Way. He drank there, too. Now he just drank at home and slept in late.
So I mowed his lawn with our mower and he woke up around noon to see that someone had cut his grass while he slept in. Later, I would learn that he thought he did it himself while he was tanked and couldn’t remember. Afraid that he might do it again and maybe cut off his toes or something, he put his lawnmower out for the trash. He wasn’t interested in lawn care anymore anyway.
I know my mother would have liked the random kindness business. She used to give her paintings to sick friends until she discovered that giving away homemade pies worked better. Even if they didn’t eat it, people cheered up when my Mom delivered a pie. Not everybody “got” my mother’s paintings. She was pretty far out there.
Because of my mother and the pies, I decided not to give up. There were other acts of random kindness. I sent anonymous compliments to people by e-mail. Darrell showed me how to do this so no one would know it was me. I told ugly girls they were pretty. I told losers they were admired. I would always be very specific, nothing generic.
I tried in vain to do some nice things for people at the mall, but somehow it just didn’t feel right there. I told one of my classmates, Julie, that the shoes she was about to buy in one store were actually ten dollars cheaper in another store. She just gave me a dirty look.
I opened the glass mall door for a woman carrying two heavy bags, but she walked through without acknowledging me at all. I even cleaned up the scraps of paper on the floor around the money machine. That was what brought the security guard.
“What do you think you’re doing?” the uniformed guy asked. You could tell he’d watched a few too many cop movies.
“Tidying up,” I answered.
“There’s no loitering allowed in the mall.”
“I understand the need for rules,” I said.
“Good. Then you’ll understand why I have to ask you to leave.”
“No problem.”
I was going to offer to buy him a cup of coffee but I’d lost confidence.
I told Lilly about my efforts.
“How do you get into this stuff?” she asked.
“You’re such a dork.”
Then she went into one of her well-rehearsed acts of exasperation for an audience that wasn’t even there. “My brother is such a dork,” she said to herself in the mirror. Lilly often talked to herself in the mirror when she needed to express an important thought. “He is like so not-there.”
I didn’t take any of it personally. I waited for her to turn around.
“Nice outfit.”
“This old thing? I hate it.”
“It looks good on you.”
“Oh pa-lease.”
“What are we going to do about Dad?” I asked, changing the subject.
“What is there to do? He’s invisible. Not on the radar at all. He is who he wants to be. Why should we intrude on his coping mechanism?”
“Maybe he shouldn’t be invisible.”