“Vanity of vanities,” saith the Preacher, “Vanity of vanities; all is vanity.
What profit hath a man of all his labor which he taketh under the sun?”
--Ecclesiastes 1:2-3

A Question Without Answer

The stars have never made sense to me. I am told that people used to gaze up and see pictures in the dots across the sky, but such is lost on my simple, modern mind. Even now, in my old age, I sit outside every night and watch the sky, and I’m still unable to tell one star from another. It’s nice in a way. Every cloudless night I see deep space as though I had never seen it before, again vulnerable to all the awe inspired by such grandeur. I wouldn't trade it for anything.

This has been my tradition for years. When I was a young man and living with my parents, I would climb out my bedroom window every night to stargaze. The incline was not terribly steep, and I grew to be comfortable on the rooftop. It was serene and yet deliciously uncontrolled. No chains of social structure bound me during that time; I was absent from the rest of the world. Moses found peace on the mountain away from Israel and came away with his face radiant, so it was with me on the roof. Often times, I was more rested after sitting out than after sleeping.

Still, the sky was not the only reason that I sat atop the roof every night. I liked the solitude and the view and the thrill of being up high, but that alone would not have been enough draw me out when the night was cold and the wind was blowing. There was also Mordecai, a dark, lean boy who was about the same age as me. He would often climb the lattice on the side of my house and join me, just sitting, thinking. He didn’t talk much, and I didn’t talk much, but I came to consider him my best friend.

Mordecai Johnson was an anomaly. First, and most obviously, was his name. Every year at school, I heard it butchered a new way by a new teacher. Noticing that he was a bright but reserved boy, teachers loved to draw him into pointless conversation. He was asked almost every year if his family was Middle Eastern (they weren’t), if he was Jewish (he wasn’t), and if he knew anything about a famous Cubs pitcher that bore the same first name (he didn’t). One teacher, who was a bit slower than the rest, asked if “Cai” was an acceptable nickname, in the interest of convenience. My friend gave an emphatic ‘no.’

Mordecai also delighted in playing the devil’s advocate. Most teachers learned to let him say his piece and correct themselves accordingly. Our sophomore English teacher didn’t learn. I remember Mordecai wasting many an English class simply because the teacher couldn’t defend her position on whatever topic she chose for the day. Once, Mordecai debated the moral of some short story until the last five minutes of class, at which point he switched sides and explained to the teacher why her position was right but her reasoning was wrong. For about two days, my entire class hailed him as king.

At the heart of the matter, however, Mordecai was different because he wanted to be. He cultivated an intellectual sort of coolness that made him a foreboding presence in the classrooms and among his peers, even though they found him fascinating. He assumed an air of confidence that even I thought was simply pride, at times. When one layered his gift for burning sarcasm atop the other images he made himself into, it is not hard to see why I must have been his best friend, too. I often wonder…but one should not wonder too much while writing. In any case, I am reminded that even the coldest people are more naïve and simple minded then we assume them to be. And indeed, they are. Forgive me, Mordecai.

So I return to my perch atop the roof--a place I’ve returned to at many points in my life. The night that comes to my mind now was one in early fall. I was in my junior year of high school, just starting the process of looking for a college and considering what I was to do with the sudden, unplanned years of my life. As usual, the stars held no answers, but that was okay. In my mind, they were simply a constant; always unattainably beautiful and otherworldly, like little holes in the curtain between earth and heaven. They are unmarred by humanity, and blissfully, we have no way to them.

Mordecai joined me later that night. As was the custom, he said nothing. For a long time we simply sat, but I couldn’t avoid the occasional glance his way. I soon saw that something wasn’t right. Mordecai’s posture was off; he was hunched over rather than leaning back on the slope of the roof, and he was looking down, scrutinizing the shingles. He looked unsettled, even nervous, and that sight unsettled me, too. Finally, I asked him if something was wrong.

Mordecai just looked at me, then at the sky, and then, in a low voice, he replied, “I don’t know.” He looked as though he wanted to say something else, but he gazed down at the roof’s speckled grey shingles again. Discontentedly, I settled back. I was growing cold, but I couldn’t slip back into my room. Beside me, Mordecai sighed.

“Cameron…” He said, trailing off into silence. I turned to look at him, though I couldn’t see well in the shadowy streetlights. He seemed to be struggling with something, like he couldn’t decide what to say, or if to say it. I relaxed and looked off into the distance, concluding that my friend was simply in a dark mood, as he was from time to time. My surprise, then, was enormous when I heard him ask, “Do you think a crazy person is capable of considering the idea that they might be crazy, or is acknowledging the possibility contradictory to the entire supposition?”

He was completely sincere. I knew he was sincere. Considering his tone, though, and his bizarre word usage, could anyone blame me for laughing? “I’ve been telling you you're crazy for years,” I replied.

I shouldn’t have teased him. Mordecai shook his head in self-disgust and climbed down the lattice. I scrambled down after him. Unaccustomed to the layout of my dark yard, I tripped at the bottom of the lattice and had to run to catch up with Mordecai, who was already a long way down the street. “Oh, c’mon,” I complained, as I came up beside him. He ignored me. “I didn’t mean to joke, really, the opportunity was just there. You’d have done the same thing. Sure, I think you’re a bit odd, but you seem sane enough. Is that really what’s bothering you?”

“I don’t know,” he said vacantly, probably wishing he’d never said anything at all.

“You must have some idea,” I coaxed a bit, partially because I was his friend, but mostly because I was still cold and wanted to go home. He didn’t respond, but walked passed his own house. I continued to walk with him. “Mordecai?” I asked again.

“Everything is meaningless.”

I stopped walking in surprise. “Why do you say that?”

He stopped walking, too. “I don’t know.”

I was growing annoyed with his answers, or lack thereof. Couldn’t he recognize a willing listener when he saw one? “No one can help you if you can’t say what’s wrong.”

A familiar sardonic lilt came into his voice as he replied, “If you will recall, I didn’t initiate this conversation.” He turned away, and then sighed and turned back. With less vitriol than previously, he said, “Go home, Cameron. I don’t want to talk anymore.”

So there was nothing I could do. Mordecai continued on to his house, and I went home, leaving my friend to deal with whatever was tormenting him.

888

I think I must have known that “go home, Cameron” was not the end of our discussion. At school, Mordecai still seemed unapproachable to most people. No one else would have noticed a difference in him, but I was accustomed to the subtle changes in his face. I knew how to guess what he was thinking. I could tell that he was tired, unfocused. It might have occurred to me that something was truly wrong with him, but then, I was seventeen. I was immortal, and as far as I was concerned, he was immortal; anything that was wrong with my friend could be solved between the two of us, I was sure.

Mordecai didn’t talk to me again for eight months. He refused, I was busy, I forgot. I was worried about him, sure, but worried only until my next distraction. With schoolwork and a job and college plans and my more sociable comrades, my focus was taken. Some nights that year, I went to bed without sitting outside. In June, though, when all was calmer, I resumed my steady schedule of watching the sky.

It was July when Mordecai joined me atop the roof again. Neither of us said anything for a long while. He just looked up, while I tried to hide the fact that I was watching him. He was no longer hunched over, but looked every bit a strong, normal teenager. I was almost satisfied. Perhaps he was okay. The problem, whatever it was, resolved itself. Then he spoke.

“Cameron?”

“Yeah?”

“Remember when I asked you whether or not I was insane?”

“Yeah.”

“I am.”

We lapsed into silence. Crickets chirped and cicadas droned on through the warm night as it received this revelation without reaction. I studied his face in the dark trying to judge his sincerity, and once more, I found it absolute.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because the world would not be facing overpopulation if every person had the same sort of thoughts I do.” His tone was bitter; like an artist unappreciated, I thought.

“The fact that you view life differently than most makes you insane?”

“By definition,” he said, “If opinion determines reality and I am in the minority, I must be incurably delusional.”

I stared at Mordecai, vainly attempting to follow his logic. “Opinion doesn’t determine reality,” I said vaguely, “Reality is reality. It just is.”

“Nothing ‘just is.’”

“When I talked to you last time, you said you didn’t know what was bothering you,” I said, trying to reach a level where we could understand each other. “Do you still not know?”

“Everything is meaningless.”

“You said that before, and I still don’t understand!” I exclaimed in frustration.

Mordecai smiled through the darkness, but the expression twisted unnaturally on his face. “You want to know what I mean?” he said softly, with a hint of irony. “Do you realize that in one year, you and I will no longer be living off of our parents? You’ll be in college, I’ll be wherever, but we certainly won’t be here. We’ll both work for the next fifty years and very likely be unhappy with our jobs, both accumulate debt and pay it off with interest, both pay our taxes yearly, both endure crises, and eventually, we’ll both end up in some small, white room surrounded by machines and soft humming noises, while certain parties wait for us to die. And then we will, most definitely and unchangeably. And what then, Cameron? Then we’re done, whether one of us contributed to humanity’s goal, whatever it is, or not.” He laughed a shaky laugh, like one on the brink of terror.

He took a deep breath and continued. “It’s just…here I am, trained to follow a set of rules, but whoever was in charge of that training most conveniently forgot to teach me how to be content! For some reason, I am a member of the most advanced society in history, and I find that I don’t give a damn!”

Mordecai’s voice was still vibrating oddly by the time he got to his final words, but not with laughter. I know now that it was despair that shook his voice, but I was an ignorant teenager and terrified by his slight show of emotion. I had no response. We sat in absolute silence until Mordecai left and I climbed back through my window. I fell asleep almost instantly.

I went to find Mordecai moments after I woke. We very seldom saw each other during the day, but I knew I had to find him. Walking down the misty street, I didn’t even know what I was going to do. I still wonder what I meant to do. I couldn’t find him.

888

I still don’t know what happened to Mordecai Johnson. His parents eventually noticed his absence, they called the police, and the police looked for him. I told everything I knew, but he was never found. I suppose he’s still on a missing persons list, somewhere off in Washington, but everyone I know believes him dead. Me, I don’t know. I don’t like to think about it anymore.

And so, I guess I should have a point to this story, scrawled in a journal I’ve treated like my life’s work. I don’t have one. I’m just a bothered old man struggling with the things that bothered old men struggle with. I still don’t know what I should have done for Mordecai. Lied to him, perhaps? Told him the world was worth the kamikaze effort every person is expected to offer? I couldn’t. Even if it had occurred to me, I couldn’t.

I will say this, though: It’s been a lonely fifty years.

Still, I watch the sky.

Please tell me what you think.