Safety Lamp

by Aral

He listened. He listened to the wind, to the grinding of his tires over the pavement, and to the constant upbeat sounds from his CD player. Together, the cacophony was hypnotic. Left turn, straight. The occasional street light would illuminate the left side of his body in a sickly orange glow. Right turn, straight. The sounds of nighttime, the rattling of branches in trees and the never-changing winds of the southern plains, urged him to slip into a deep sleep. Left turn, straight. He ignored them. Tomorrow was the beginning of the end: his last day before his last year of his life in Carrollton. The thought didn't thrill him. Don't get him wrong, he was excited to leave home. Home was boring. There was nothing here he wanted to stay for. Right turn, straight. Why, then, did he have that horrible feeling in his gut? He wished he knew.

His neighbors were sprinkling. Not the neighbors themselves. Their sprinkler systems were on. A stray leaf was blown past his face as he walked the curved gravel walkway to his house. 1216. Home. The lights were all off save one. The floor lamp in the living room behind his fathers red recliner. That was the safety lamp. Going out of town? Better leave a lamp on. Gonna be home late? Better leave the lamp on. Hailstorms? Better leave the lamp on. Our lamp was powerful. It kept away burglars, rapists, and Mother Nature. Mom thought this was good.

"Ever since I started leaving that lamp on, our house has been disaster-free!" Even the soothing voices of our mothers can sometimes cause us pain.
"Mom, you haven't gotten malaria since I've been born. Doesn't that mean something?"
"Don't be silly, you know I was vaccinated for that years ago."
"Right mom."

She meant well, he knew. He took shelter from her in his room. It was a cave. A hovel. A yurt. Actually it was too cubic to be a yurt. Or a hovel. Or a cave for that matter. He'd have to look into that. Posters of movies he'd never seen, places he'd never been, and events he hadn't witnessed covered his walls. A tie rack, an old desk, a bookshelf, a dresser, and a nightstand lined his walls. Each one was a different shade of wood. None of them matched. There was a clock. And he swore that more often than not, he would look at it at exactly 12:34. He thought it was weird. His clothes both clean and dirty were strewn about the floor. His computer was the only thing he bothered keeping clean in his shelter. He would converse with the outside world, write his thoughts, listen to music, and occasionally visit pornographic web sites. But could you blame him really? He kicked off his cheap Wal-Mart flip-flops as he hurled himself onto his bed. He bounced once and settled as his mattress recovered from the impact.

Just when he got comfortable, the phone rang.

"Hello?"
"Looking to see the world? Then have I got a deal fo-" a recorded message?
"Fucking robot." He hung up. Bored, he called a friend.

"Hello?" answered the friend.
"Hey." He responded.
"Yeah so what's new?" asked the friend. He paused for a moment of quick contemplation. Nothing was new. He didn't remember the last time something truly new had happened in his life. He resented that.

"...Nothing." He replied.
"I've got shit to do." Informed the friend.
"Will it take a while?" he inquired.
"It won't not take a while." Quipped his friend.
He laughed. "Don't be stupid."
"It's my nature." His friend explained.
"Whatever. Call me later." He concluded.

He gave up on his quest for activity and resigned to read himself out of existence. He read a lot; all sorts of things. When life was extra troubling he would drown in a good science fiction novel. When he felt particularly lost he would become entangled in philosophical texts like The Art of War or Utopia. Lots of times, when he deemed his existence cheap and meaningless he would repent by reading a classic. Tonight he chose a classic, The Old Man and the Sea. He read about the swelling oceans, an old man's struggle, millions of fish, the sun, waves, the scent of brine...clouds...the sleepiness...

He woke, not recalling his dreams. This was not unusual. He needed to get out. Out of his head. He occasionally over-thought himself to hysteria. He had a headache. One of those slow, throbbing headaches that only hurt badly if you moved or took a breath. Doing both at the same time was killer. He managed.

A tiny silver stream of water flowed down his unshaven chin, parting and swerving around stubble like a slalom skier. He shivered reflexively. Gulping down the rest of the water he thought about his day. Today I went to school. I pretended to learn about all sorts of non-engaging subjects. I spent some time with my friends. I drove around, I ate, I watched TV, and I chatted online. He realized, then, that his life lacked any form of uniqueness. It was bland and vanilla. He was the Calvin Coolidge of twenty-first century society. He had no hobbies or ambitions. I have a cookie-cutter life.
What, I hear you wonder, is a cookie cutter life? You know how when your mom makes cookies she takes the dough, flatten it out, and cuts a shape from it? All of those shapes are identical and were made from the same basic genetic material. His life was no different than the vast majority of other American teens. He would never be one of those creative people. He wasn't beautiful. He wasn't especially bright. Yet on the other hand, there was no reason he shouldn't be. He was, after all, still cookie dough.

Why then, had he settled for an ordinary lifestyle? He suddenly remembered a quote he had heard from a teacher many years ago. "When God gives you a gift," she had said, "He also hands you a whip." Fear. The fear of rejection, the fear of failure. Perhaps he had a well of undiscovered talent yet was too cowardly to see it. Maybe he had a muse but was too frightened to notice.

"Hun? Dinner's ready. Come get it before it gets cold!"
"Mom, do you think, honestly, that I'm a creative person?"
"Of course, dear. Remember those Lego castles you used to make?"
"Mom I was following the instructions."
"Oh. Well you certainly had creative ways of knocking them down once you built them."
"I tripped, Mom, that doesn't count."
"Oh. Well...Are you going through one of those 'what is the meaning of life?' 'Who am I?' phases?"
"You could say that."
"Are you worried about how you are going to turn out when you are older? Whether or not you will be successful? Stuff like that?"
"You could also say those things."
"Honey, nobody knows how they are going to turn out until they're older. It isn't a thing one can predict. The best and brightest youths sometimes go astray, and some duds in high school turn out to be late bloomers. All you can do is keep living. Find things that make life meaningful. Keep reading those books you love. Enjoy your friends. Enjoy the good parts of high school, even if they are few and far between. And most of all remember that there comes a time in your life when you will have to determine whether happiness is worth risking your life for. Whew. I think that is everything, so eat."

Mothers have a way with words. She was right. I wolfishly devoured my food. There was no time for eating. I had so many other, more important things to attend to. I had been living my life like my family's safety lamp. Any time anything even remotely dangerous came along I would put up my shields of blissful ignorance and ride out the storm. I mourned for the opportunities I had lost but at the same time looked happily toward tomorrow. A storm has passed, and the following dawn is crisp and bright yet heavy with the smell of yesterday's rain.