Modern Rising in Crescendo.

He imagines the Road like this: curved around mountains and glaciers and ditches with rivers, lakes, and avalanches cutting through them out of sight out of mind. No one ever knows where their destination is, but really who are they kidding? Every Road ends up at the same place, but from that same place, there are more roads that lead out of it. No one is ever in one place for very long.

He hears the current, fully-functioning generation complain about lack of this and lack of that and what to do and how did they get here? What is the purpose of Life? They're in their 20s. They're considered adults, so why don't they feel like they are? They're nothing like their parents and perhaps that provides most with a sigh of relief, ignoring the fact that their parents were settled in a career by the time they were 27. Half of the current yuppies are either in graduate school, or considering it to prolong the inevitable disappointment that they didn't get where they wanted to go. Most of them are still struggling to find temp jobs. How soul-stomping is Modernity?

His Road. Straight. Narrow. Ok, a little crooked. Lots of trees for scenery. At a mountain now. It's nice. Simple. 

His name's Jack. He's 26, considered barely tolerable in the appearance department by expectations of fashionistas--being vertically-challenged with a rather large, crooked nose, signs of adolescent baldness, and the beginning of a beer gut from the college years, decently settled into a routine of accounting and occasional party nights when he feels he can't take the monotony of adulthood. By the way, his place in his parents' basement is a dump too. He just never bothers.

A lake. Small. Meaningful. Just enough.

Here's Jane. She's 29, fits the high expectations for women's appearance in fashion magazines--long legs, big chest, small waist, long L'oreal-ad-worthy hair because she's worth it, and a decent wardrobe. She's got a decent job, and has moved out out of her parents' house because they've decided to sell it and move to the countryside where there'd be ample room to hunt and garden or something like that. She didn't know, and she didn't care. She's excited about her own place, decorated just the way she liked it: modern. To be honest, she didn't really know what that meant, but she knew that once she got comfortable there, she'd know, and everything would fall into place.

Somewhere along the way, Jack met Jane. If you asked him how they met, five years down the line from now, he'd tell you he forgot. In truth, he couldn't have forgotten a moment of it because it was like a fairy tale. He the frog, and she the lovely princess who's dropped her ball of gold into the pond. Except it wasn't so much a ball of gold as it was her cell phone on the subway on the way to work. And it wasn't so much a fairy tale as it was a nightmare. But he preferred not to dwell on it.

The Road curves. Left, then right, then sharp left. Trees are becoming sparse.

Jane would have forgotten the little details. Like how her slip felt smooth on her that day, or how the strong wisp of Bvlgari Aqva floated through the recycled air of the subway car. It was a pleasant smell, and she rather liked it, but if you asked her what stood out, she could only tell you that the man was balding, short, and chubby. He reminded her of a dwarf of sorts. Fortunately for him, he had been wearing a suit that day--on his way to a job interview--and that was all she could remember before the incident.

Darkness. Tendrils of it. Grabbing him at the throat warning him. Don't go any further it's not a good idea. Not a good idea.

It was a brief encounter, but Jack could tell you the--albeit cliche--details. The way her hair fell like an angel, or how her tailored suit was a raspberry pink shade, accentuated by a lovely red silk scarf. She didn't have on stockings that day, but her legs were smooth, or at least looked smooth, and he could feel himself heat up as he handed her the cell phone. He could bet those legs were as soft as her hands. He could imagine running his hands down her legs and then up to her inner thigh, and he could imagine the look of uncertain pleasure on her face as he reached even higher. And then there was a shrill scream. To his horror, at least when he awoke out of his daze, he was caressing her legs. He could tell you of the strong, sudden, masculine waft of Bvlgari Aqva, and the hairy knuckles that connected with his jaw, and the slow, painful, descent into warm darkness.

It was a favorite story to tell of theirs: how they met, how he saved her from a disgusting creature of a human being, and how he walked her to her company doors, and how they exchanged numbers. It wasn't difficult for them to fall in love--he was an extremely powerful and rich corporate, and she a magazine editor for a fashion magazine. A high-powered, highly-envied, and highly-attractive couple. They were married within half a year, and living in an expensive condo overlooking New York City.

His Road ends about half a mile east of Her Road. His Road is out of sight out of mind. Her Road is engraved always constant always a bitter memory.

How funny, this modern rising in crescendo, to forget the details of importance. It was important that her mother had called her that morning, droning on about how she was worried about Jane living by herself, causing Jane to be late for her daily trek to work. That there was a scuff on Jane's heels that day, from having taken a detour through a patch of grass as the city was repaving the sidewalk. That she had made it into the subway car just as the doors were sliding shut. That she was positioned where she was, between a pleasant old woman and Jack, the sexually-harassing dwarf. That the scent of Bvlgari Aqva had the ability to put everyone in the car in a trance-like state. That, because it was summer, her clothes and hair clung to her skin like moist snake skin, the way that sweat feels after a night of vigorous and passionate love-making. And it was, of the utmost importance, that, when Jack handed Jane her phone, she didn't thank him for it.

Walls.

Let's break down some walls.

You're sitting in a cafe, alone, going over some editing work you agreed to take on, without much forethought. Just more work. As if you didn't do enough at work already.

Soft music in French, one that echoes into your eardrums, brings you to a temporary Nirvana, where you're floating on music notes and scales. You watch as the treble clefs float by. You don't understand a word that's being sung, but it feels nice, down to your hair follicles, the way heat does after a long walk in the snow. Helps erase the tension that's settled permanently into your shoulders. Even the Daoist masseuse commented on the chi-blockage resting in the pressure points there and in your upper back. You could only smile at her sheepishly and say that it was an occupational hazard.

A group laughing in a chorus of farm animal guffaws snaps you out of your Nirvana, and you observe them for a while. They were Asian--of course they were; what were you expecting in Asia?--young Asian men, perhaps in their late twenties. You could never tell with Asians. Being one, born in the West, you constantly get asked if you were ten years younger than you actually were, despite wearing a miniskirt and tubetop. Now that you've returned to your roots, you realize that you couldn't tell their ages either. Not that it mattered.

You are single, employed, independent, financially-secure, and don't need no man to fuck everything up. At least that's what you tell your girlfriends back home. Who needs a man when you've got everything you need?

But humans are hardly ever that simple.

Let's break down some walls.

You wonder, as you continue to watch these boys from the corner of your eye, why and when you changed your perspective on true love.

Little girls were taught, by way of romantic Disney adaptations of fairy tales, that there is nothing better for a woman than to find that Prince on a white horse who'd whisk her away from some unfortunate life calamity and give her her happy ever after. You were no different. In fact, that's all you could think about during hours of math and history (what's the point of history anyway? You were taught Columbus discovered America, only to have your middle school teachers tell you what a dick he was, and still continue to celebrate his honor with Columbus Day). You wanted to be Belle, Aurora, Ariel, to be beautiful and have that special person to reach out, confirm to you that you were, indeed, beautiful, and that they'll give you the love you feel is lacking from your world.

You didn't realize--stuck in your fairy tale fantasies--your parents' marriage falling into a dark place filled with nights of frightful hallucinations. Your mother fucking random men--bringing you along on the pretense that she was going to meet an uncle, and baby, stay in the living room. You didn't understand why you went to see that uncle so often, when Daddy was at home, sleeping, because he had been working overtime.

Don't call him your father!

After Daddy found out, your mother was a smoking wreck; constantly shrouded in smoke. She smoked--for stress, she said--and it choked you. Her guilt was laced in the smoke, and it found revenge in your lungs. You felt it seeping into your skin, into your hair, into the deep weaves of the fabric of your clothes. You went to school with guilt laced into your smile, your eyes, and the deep grooves of pencil on paper. Her guilt became yours. You soaked up all the guilt, and she remained stubborn--I don't know what you're talking about! You're paranoid!--and passive. It didn't affect her. She continued to see that uncle, that uncle with the gun hidden in the Christmas sweaters in the closet of the master bedroom. She told you to keep it a secret as she stuck it in her purse. You kept it. Because you loved her. Because you thought she loved you.

Months later, she shot herself.

Even then, you held onto the idea that is was the life calamity your Prince would save you from. You waited through adolescence, making up imaginary friends to keep company in that big, dark house alone; through puberty, pushing those imaginary friends away in efforts to be normal; through the first few years of college because you were convinced that you'll turn into a beautiful swan. You buried yourself in books and writing little romance stories to keep the hope alive.

And one day, you met him. Sitting across the table from you in some theater class or other. They warn you about this kind of man--especially this kind of man majoring in theater--but fairy tales don't, and you figured that you couldn't be that unlucky to run into a villain so early on in your story. It's still early, you told yourself.

Little did you know, villains are far more common than Princes.

He was your first. It was--looking back on it--passionate, frenzied, and dammit, you had no idea what the fuck you were doing. All you knew, staring wide-eyed at your calendar, was that your period was late, and he was nowhere to be found.

God fucking dammit.

He told you to abort. But you felt strongly against abortion. If others chose that road, good for them, but you couldn't. You wouldn't.

He called you stupid, called your beliefs stupid, and walked out of the door. Just like that. Simple, clean, and guilt-free.

He'd tell you he'd regret losing you later. That losing you taught him a lot about love. But by then, you knew they meant nothing, and gave him the middle finger.

You left the country when you graduated.

The relationship you had after Pretty Boy and during which you decided you were leaving the country was significant to you, but it hurt too much to dwell on.

He broke up with you. He'll never tell you why.

In your dreams, days before the break up, he was sleeping with the female friend that gave you dirty looks whenever you were together. You felt sorry for her, but now you hated her. In a cloud of bitterness, you hoped the two assholes were happy together.

In the rebound stage, the last stage before recovery, you--without admitting to it until now, two years later--fell in love with a boy several years younger. You hated how he wore a suit, but couldn't own up to his responsibilities You hated those sideburns he grew into muttonchops. You hated his arrogance. You hated his foul mouth. You especially hated his blatant disrespect to women. But you loved the way he held you tightly at night. Made sure you ate when you were busy with work. And he never smoked in front of you because you told him how much you hated it.

Walls up.

The boys at the table stand, laughing heartily, and leave the cafe. None of them caught your eye. The music can no longer soothe the prickling at your chest.

The job you have now is unfulfilling. You feel overworked, under-appreciated, and it gets in the way of your passion and dreams. This is only temporary, the way fairy tales and stories are only temporary. The way Life is temporary. The way happily ever after is temporary--shrouded in guilt, lies, mistakes, and smoke. You wonder how the princesses fared in a royal, domestic life, when they sang and dreamed of adventure and love.

You smile. Perhaps they were envious of you, your freedom, and your independence. They were reading your stories and dreaming of travels and comfortable cafes.

You saw him again last year. He took out a cigarette and lit it in front of you as if he were a grown man. And he didn't give a fuck.

Average.

A is for Average

Bennett is of average height for a spiffy, young man of his late 20s. He has an average job that gives him average income and average satisfaction—which is better than none at all. He has an average girlfriend named Mindy, who is average in bed. He likes her, but the “spark” that fairytales sell doesn’t exist in their, overall, average relationship. The only thing that’s unaverage about Bennett is that he’s as hairy as a clogged drain. Mindy nicknames him her Teddy.

            They get married, have two average-looking children with average intelligence in an average house. Their children grow up, get married to average spouses, and Mindy and Bennett settle into old age, and die average deaths. What is an average death? Perhaps from old age, and illness due to deteriorating immune systems. But who cares? In the end, they’re dead, and that’s pretty average.

B is for Barely Average

Now imagine Bennett of average looks and intelligence on his way to an average day of work, when, unaveragely, he has to take a new street to work. Not out of spontaneity, as the street he usually takes is going through some construction, and he is taking a necessary detour. A blind man stops him at the light and asks for a cigarette. Bennett doesn’t smoke, so he says he’s sorry, and drives away as the light turns green.

C is for Complicated Averageness

The detour is unnecessarily complicated, and Bennett’s lost. He’s never been to this part of town before, and now he’s hopelessly late for work, but he refuses to call in sick and take an opportunity to take a day off from work. He likes his job. It is decent, with decent pay, and he works with decent people. Being lost doesn’t mean he has an excuse to bail out on work. He has an unaveragely strong morale about his responsibilities.

            He calls the office, explaining the situation. They manage to talk him back to the main road. One his way out of that seedy part of town, at the last spotlight to safety, familiarity, and freedom, a blind man is at the intersection, making his way across the street. Bennett waits patiently as the light turns green. He waits to make sure the man crosses the street safely. The man’s foot touches concrete, and he turns and gives Bennett a friendly wave before continuing his journey.

            Bennett goes to work, unable to identify the feeling the man left in him. He finishes work early, goes home to Mindy and makes passionate, unselfish love to her, which soothes her lonely, and recently feeling abandoned, heart.

            Life eventually ends average.

D is for Disastrously Un-Average

Returning to Bennett’s complicated detour, the blind man isn’t a man. It’s a beautiful woman with long, dark hair, a straight nose, and a mouth with full lips.

            Bennett is immediately taken by her. After all, due to his dedication to his work, Mindy packs up their teenage children and returns home to Ohio to live with her parents. Being a man who respects his wife’s wishes—unaware that she only wanted him to chase after her, just like in those average romance movies—he continues life in that average house by himself.

            Thus, this encounter with that pretty girl is a relief. He sets on his blinkers at the light and helps her across the street. He introduces himself—Bennett, 32, marketing assistant, would be honored if he could walk her across the street—takes her hand and helps her. She thanks him with a smile and continues on her way.

            They never see each other again, and Bennett eventually dies a painful death due to pancreas cancer; his last moments remembering the softness of the mysterious blind woman’s hand.

E is for Exceptionally Un-Average

Let’s say that ending D is too gruesome, and that it’s too assumptive that the first and only meeting with the beautiful girl was the cause of Bennett’s pancreas cancer.

            Bennett returns to the light to find that, at 8:30 every morning, the girl is there. So every morning, at exactly 8:30, Bennett is waiting for her.

            There is hardly any time for them to have a decent conversation, so Bennett invites her to a café in the area. He discovers that her name is Anna, and she tutors blind children at a church nearby.

            After a couple of months of paradise, Bennett asks her to marry him.

            She says yes.

            Three years of marital bliss, Anna tells him that she used to be married to a man named Jason who left her for a woman who could appreciate his manly physique. She asks Bennett to, please, develop the film taken during those years.

            Bennett promises he would.

            Instead, he throws the roll of film in the back of his truck, and gives her photos from his own failed marriage in panic when she asks him for the developed photographs.

            A year later, Anna is diagnosed with leukemia and passes away.

            Bennett has nightmares for months afterwards, and it’s always the same one. He’s surrounded by fire, and Anna’s voice looms over him like the smoke that’s suffocating him with his own guilt. In the fire are pictures of Anna in compromising, sexual positions with her ex-husband, Jason, whose face Bennett couldn’t see, but had the body of an Olympic swimmer. In the end, Bennett is burned alive to Anna’s malicious laughter.

            He tries to find the film, but can’t.

            Eventually, he goes crazy. He babbles at his psychiatrist appointments, and one day, overdoses on his medication on accident, and ends up living out his guilt, in whatever way that may be.

F is for Freedom

Too much, and perhaps indicates too much religion for some’s taste, no?

            Anna’s ending is the same: she passes due to leukemia.

Fate is fate. We cannot change it.

            Bennett feels guilty. He finds the roll of film in a box of Anna’s possessions, questions how it got there when it should have been in his truck, and realizes that before Anna had been hospitalized, she had cleaned out his truck. He goes to develop the film only to find pictures of Anna holding up paper that said “I love you, Bennett. Thank you.”

            Bennett cries for months. Loses some weight, bald spot becoming more distinct, and he begins praying to a higher power—God—but doesn’t know if he really believes in an all-knowing, all-creating, all-powerful God. He begins to search for other options and settles comfortably with a branch of Zen Buddhism and starts meditating. He never reaches Nirvana, but he lives an honest, charitable life, and regardless of whether or not you believe in karma or an afterlife, he feels content and thinks of Anna often.

            He dies a quiet and peaceful death, and somewhere, beyond logic, he and Anna meet again; all is forgiven, and this is where the story ends. If you are quite unhappy with the religious undertones (or perhaps, not so subtle) of his life journey, it’s safer to stick with option A, or write your own. For now, this is his, and this is as average as it gets.