Mirror Box

Detour.

From the time one is born, they are beset with expectations, positive and negative. The son of a king is expected to take the throne and bare the weight of the crown while the bastard son of a hopelessly drunk and violent mother is expected to run out on her just like his father did. Most fall somewhere in the middle; I might have been closer to king even, not that it matters now. If expectations were archery, I missed the bull’s eye, the target and the haybale it was posted on. Maybe I’ll be unearthed in the neighboring forest, or in a wounded duck that was flying past, but this too doesn’t matter. I was a disappointment. Not that it bears mentioning. No one really brags about meeting expectations.

I came from a borderline upper-upper-middle-class home. I hesitate to use the word rich, but many people wouldn’t show that reluctance. There was a room in my house called, The Library; the pool and kitchen both had islands, and my bedroom was the size and shape of a tennis court. Unfortunately, my parents were self-made, and every luxurious thing around me became a source of pressure as I reached adulthood. My parents were both professionals and, likewise, it was expected I would be. I might have followed my father and run a telecommunications company or my mother who was a therapist to celebrity clientele, but I didn’t have a head for business, or for heads. Instead, they pushed me a into field that would give me the proud title D-R. By process of elimination, I chose dermatology. I found the other forms of medicine too intrusive, bloody, or vile.

The Disappointment’s Prayer by Orson Rainier:

Lord, grant us the power to disappear.

Let us pass through this day and all days

Unhindered and unnoticed, free to live our lives.

Make us slight of frame, so we might fall through the cracks

And vanish from thine sight.

Amen.

I wrote this prayer in my sophomore year of highschool after my father told me I was a disappointment because of my lackluster performance in student government. Basically, he forced me into the race for class president, and I refused to hang a single banner or do my speech. For over one month’s time, I recited this prayer daily before school and, for the first time in almost ten years, I woke up with The Disappointment’s Prayer on my lips. At 3:15am, trembling hands rising to heaven, I found myself kneeling beside the bed and whispering the ancient verses to my self.

That morning, I gave the first of three, big explanations I was soon to make in this period in my life: the third, how I came to lose my hand; the second, a private matter with my girlfriend; the first, and the one I would take care of that morning, why I quit medical school to work in a lamp store. The explanation for all three boiled down to a brief natural law that stated, (Ch.1) Entropy is Universal, but this was unlikely to satisfy anyone except my self. For my parents and girlfriend, the explanation would require considerable amounts of fluff.

3:16am and I was dragging my feet towards the computer desk in the corner of the bedroom. I clicked the power button, and a blue circle of the PC illuminated the predawn. A white shirt and tie were draped over my black, ergonomic chair. I put them on diligently but remained nude from the waist down. I pulled a blue ballcap over the tangle of my curly, brown hair. I adjusted the flatscreen monitor and camera; then, I practiced smiling as the computer loaded. While the online call connected, I repeated the phrase, Good morning, Dad. testing the emphasis on each syllable, from the exuberant GOOD MORning, DAD! to the accusational "good MORning...Dad."

For two years, my father had lived on opposite coasts. If my parents had ever bothered to divorce, they never told me, but for a time their relationship and our relationship (his and mine), had been long-distance. This meant that our clocks were set three hours back and, since his only free time was before he went to the office, any face-to-face, one-on-one, man-to-man talks had to be done through a webcam, and very early.

His image popped up, and I put on the scratchy, foam-padded headphones. He had the same bald head, blond, bushy eyebrows and the tense upper lip that rose like the crests of two waves. He was wearing a shirt but no tie, which earned me one point in our private, psychological war.

Good morning, son, he said as if giving me permission to speak.

Hi, I answered, perky, pretending I’d been up for hours.

How’s your mother?

Excellent, working long hours. And you?

Fine, same here. Your email said you have something important to tell me. Are you in a bit of trouble? Do you need anything?

No, sir.

How is Cynthia (my girlfriend)?

I haven’t seen her in two weeks, but...good. I actually had something to say about medical school.

Go on.

I quit medical school.

The beauty of my father’s argument style was that he never raised his voice. Even when irate and merciless, I’d never heard him yell. He didn’t need to. In a battle of words, my father could sever your arm with a deep sigh.

He winced bitterly, sighed deeply, and started the bombardment. Son, you did complete two years already and your marks have been outstanding. Are you finding it too difficult now?

Not really.

Is it too easy? Are you bored?

Not at all.

Did you find a career you’re more interested in?

Um...

Or do you just need a break?

Um...

Are you going back?

I don’t think so, I managed.

Are you going to pay me for the two years of school?

Can I answer you later?

He sighed again, lopping off my other arm, and said, Son, I’m a person of enterprise by heart and it hasn’t left me with a lot of patience. This direct and demanding attitude might be good for business, but it hasn’t made the perfect father. Tell me what’s going on.

Well, I was unhappy with my field and was getting very depressed by it.

Ok, he nodded, stern but consoling.

It seemed like there wasn’t much use in it.

Right.

People are falling apart and there’s not much I can do to prevent that.

He was silent, unblinking.

And I don’t want to spend my life telling hopeless virgins not to pop their zits.

He sighed a third time, Son, your reasons are your own, but you can’t live in our house forever. You need to do something. What will you study now?

Nothing, I have a job. I’m selling light fixture at a store near the mall.

You don’t need six years of university to sell lamps... He grumbled and paused. He had nearly yelled and turned a shade more red.

We breathed deeply at our individual desks, waiting for calm to return. My father was staring directly into his camera, psychological effect. I averted my eyes from both him and the camera.

Ok, he said. You can have a year off, to rest. Did you want to travel some more?

No.

If you do, tell myself or your mother and we’ll send you somewhere. Ok?

I was silent.

Son, I have to go work, but let’s be very clear, he was leaning inward. You will enroll next year. Do you agree?

Nothing.

Tell me you agree, so I can get ready for work.

I relented, Fine, next year.

I’ll talk to you soon, Son.

The window went black, and the screen read Call Ended in white font. I hung the headphones over the monitor and shut down the computer. I drooped my head and loosened my tie. There was a final, defeated whirr from the PC, and the loneliness of the dark room pervaded.

I DID MENTION THAT I lose a hand in this story, or perhaps you’ve already forgotten. As the protagonist and author of this story, it doesn’t comfort me to think you may already be forgetting the important details. But I urge you to be patient; if it helps, imagine a poor, one-handed typist punching keys letter-by-letter while his stub sits uselessly across his lap. To make it worse, I lose the right hand just below the wrist, and like most world citizens I was born right-handed. Being forced to use my left has only slowed things. I often pause to consider how this change has affected my brain, if there’s been any mental rewiring, but I can no longer think about these things practically.

It wasn’t my intention to drop a bombshell like amputeeism, and then minimalize it by instead talking about an uncomfortable exchange with my father. I’m aware of how extraordinary it is to lose an appendage, at least within the individual life, and when it appears in the story, it shouldn’t surprise you. But, in this age of enlightened conflict, limb loss is an issue we’ll increasingly have to deal with. In a world of seven or eight billion people, there’s bound to be friction. Friction leads to sparks, and sparks lead to ignition and combustion. People will die, certainly, but those standing at a middle distance might just lose their hair, a foot, and a thumb. A day may come when limb loss invokes no more sympathy than a bad haircut.

Still, don’t let me distract you. I didn’t lose my hand in a war, and this isn’t the world’s story. It’s my story. And yours, if you choose to see it that way.

I’d been given a year’s reprieve from my responsibilities when I asked for a full pardon. Though I might have been enthusiastic for a compromise, it troubled me and I didn’t return to sleep. I couldn’t be bothered trying. Instead, I took a series of long showers and watched a clay-animated film about Halloween. When it was over, I dressed, had oatmeal with coffee and drove to (Ch.2) Let There Be Light Lighting Emporium.

This would be my fourth shift at LTBL and my first shift as a retail salesman, instead of a trainee. Despite the humble and thankless nature of the position, I was anxious to prove myself on the salesfloor. Because of my generous allowance, I’d never needed a job before. So, this was my first my attempt at regular, hourly wage, day-to-day employment and I still took pleasure at the novelty. I looked forward to seeing my customers and dealing with their complaints; every time I punched my timeclock card, I felt like an angel getting its wings. More than an honest living, it offered a connection to the productive world; I was cog learning to spin on my center.

The manager and owner, Reggie, noted my enthusiasm, nodded approvingly and I imagined the word assistant might be buzzing around his ear. Reggie was a sturdy man in his forties. He was short with his chest always out and stomach tucked as if his torso gave a continuous, military salute. His skin had red and brown freckles, like he was sunburnt and tan simultaneously, and short, silver hairs were spread thinly across his dome. Reggie’s personality matched his outer show of pride and strength.

On the first day, I asked him about the name Let There Be Light, and what he gave me was this Biblical history of the universe, also the first paragraph of the first draft of the company’s mission statement:

Genesis 1:1 states that, In the beginning was the word...This, the first line ever uttered, tells us that at the birth of the existence there was time and there was a universal language. While it would be blasphemy to infringe upon God’s right to the merger of time and perfect, ethereal communication, thereby becoming gods ourselves, it is the goal of our lighting emporium to continue God’s work by obeying his first and most important command to the universe, Let There Be Light.

Let There Be Light Light Emporium vows to sell the newest and highest quality products at a rate...you get the idea.

Naturally, the language of the first draft was toned down when he applied for a loan, but the soul of his vision remained. After reading the mission statement, I asked him if the first verse of the Bible didn’t establish all writers as gods and heretics, and each book as the creation of a universe. He thought it was a convenient argument for writers and expressed his good fortune at never having to convince a writer that they aren’t God; he said, you have to pick your battles. Besides, all words are within The Word. Until The Word replicates itself from within, thrusting us into the impossible loop that is infinity and forcing us to view miniature selves live out the lives we already lived, we’ll have to content ourselves to existence in linear time and the faint echoes of our past and future. Then I admitted, I didn’t know what the hell he was saying. Reggie told me not to worry; if customers came to me with these questions, I was to page him over the loudspeaker.

The emporium was converted from a warehouse, easily making it the largest light store in the city, and the design for the store was uniquely Reggie’s. The scene inside the store struck me as bizarre but familiar, and much later I discovered it was tied to reincarnation.

Observe.

Every soul belongs to a group of souls that represent the people closest to them throughout their many lives. As a soul lives out its incarnations, it will meet the same people repeatedly though the relationship may not be the same. Which means, your best friend may become your guru and your present uncle could be your future wife. Between death and rebirth, and before moving towards their next life, there’s said to be a phase where these familiar souls reunite, clustering together like bunches of illuminated grapes floating through the vacuum of space. The design of the salesfloor was similar to my image of spiritual, postdeath-prebirth reunification. The clusters of lights were divided by their type, be they: flood lights or black lights, desk lamps or lava lamps, motion sensors or colored halogen bulbs. Each individual light was a slight variation of its neighbor. Amidst every cluster was a square of carpet and a moderately comfortable chair, which acted as the proving ground, and what happened within the testing ground depended highly on the type of lights.

On that fourth morning, I was scheduled to arrive an hour after opening. My car was consistently the nicest in the lot and I parked it beside the mudbrick wall at the end just to be inconspicuous. As I marched toward the store, I put on my beige sleeveless vest with a nametag that read ORson because they didn’t have any lowercase ‘r’s. I unfolded my wallet and took out a timeclock card. When I thought of these cards, my mind went back to great heavy sheets and factory whistles from black and white films. The modern ones were small, the size of a business card. The doors slid open for me and I walked in to find the gray box in front of the registers. I slid my card into the slot, and it responded with a no-nonsense thump.

I walked the aisles, curving like the path of a river until I spotted Reggie in a cluster of soft lights. I waved to salute, and he waved me to come towards him. His section was decorated with white carpet and currently an occupied, skyblue yoga mat. Reggie was assisting someone, an older woman that maintained an athletic figure. She was on her hands and knees, facing Reggie but with her eyes closed. I stood attentively by the cluster entrance.

Holding a golden lamp shaped like a carafe, with an unshaded, white bulb, Reggie told her, With your eyes still closed, I want you breathe deeply, slowly arching your back downward like a bow and lifting your head heavenward.

She obeyed him. As she arched her head and neck upward, the soft, white light spread across her face like sunlight on the lunar surface. We watched in silence for a moment, gauging her expression.

Without opening her eyes, she said, It’s comforting enough, but it still doesn’t give the same feeling as natural light.

Yoga should certainly be done in white light. It gives a purer field for any chance, subconscious images to be projected on. I did tell you already that sunlight isn’t the ideal. In fact, looking at it for any amount of time will blind you. Besides being too powerful, it casts a hideous, yellow shade over everything. If Earth were lit by a white star, there would be greater color and indeed peace in the world.

The woman raised her upper body and sat on her calves, looking cross but not opening her eyes.

Let’s just try a lower wattage, if you’re still unhappy we’ll try a tinted lampshade, too. Unscrewing the bulb and turning my way, Reggie said, One second, Mrs. Hoffman. Orson, good to see you. I’ll give you a briefing when there’s a lull, but you’re on standard lamps #3 for now. Think you can handle it?

Yeah, I’m ready.

Then get over there, first break is at 12:30. He turned to the woman crouching on the yoga mat, and I walked away.

As a new clerk, I had expected something basic. My cluster of lamps belonged to the short and squat variety that you would put on your nightstand, reading beneath its light, putting the book down and telling your wife good night before you fell asleep. In training, the manager explained the critical importance of these lamps. The last thing many people do during their day-to-day consciousness is switch off the lamp, and the final act must carry a symbolic significance. The first main category is the knob and turning it, according to the manager, expresses that there will be a continuation, though this day is done. However, it has the dual function of expressing human fragility because there is a click as we turn the knob that breaks the electrical circuit leading to the light, and a slight chance or twist of fate could prevent a reconnection to the living world. The pullchain is a symbol of accomplishment, and pulling the chain is in announcement of pulling your own weight within this world, in a way, announcing that you’re somebody...to be noticed, or reckoned with, I don’t know, but someone of notable existence.

I asked the manager about the stick switch, where you push a tiny, black rod just below the light, and he told me there was no poetry on it. But they keep one in stock in case anybody asks. I went further and asked about the lamps with switches in the cord, but he warned me against fostering that level of detachment unless I really despised humanity and its goal. But we kept several in stock, all the same.

In this lamp cluster, there was a cloth recliner and a nightstand to recreate the domestic scene. The salesman seated the customer, put a book in their lap and told them to read. The salesman tested a variety of lamps and lightbulbs until the reader found one they were comfortable with. Very often, the customer was out of touch, blind to their level of comfort, so the decision would be based on the speed at which they read a page. I had a stopwatch handy.

The shift went well. I sold 23 lamps in 6 hours. 3 above quota.

The book in my section was A Mysterious Stranger by Mark Twain, and I found time to read the introduction during my shift. It was his last book and written after his young wife and a few of his children had died of tuberculosis. Of course, Mr. Clemens was advanced in year and, lamenting that his family died before him, became embittered. As Mark Twain, he wrote the book as an attack on humanity and the unfortunate realities we create for our selves. The book was considered morose, it’s unpopular, unknown to the casual reader and isn’t carried in all bookstores. In short, if you’re looking for Huck Finn and Jim floating on the Mississippi, look elsewhere. Interested, I took the book home, planning to replace it the next day.

As I pulled into the driveway, I pushed the button of the garage door remote clipped to the visor and saw that my Mother’s sedan was already parked inside. This meant she, like me, had come home directly from work, which was unusual; it was a subtle deviation and I wasn’t immediately comfortable with it. I parked beside her, took off the beige vest, clicked close on the remote, and stayed in the car for a few moments, gripping the steering wheel with the motor still running. Only the dim light of the garage door opener glowed above me, casting silhouettes of the metal shelves, tool bench and piles of clutter, as the world gently vibrated beneath me. After two minutes, my mother opened the doorway connected to the house and held it for me. I cut the engine and went to her, slouching slightly and grinning bravely, trying to look like I was trying not to look sullen. She was clearly unhappy, but there’s nothing like a fake suicide attempt to let people know how far you can be pushed on a given day. I kissed her on the cheek, as I passed, but she didn’t react.

I walked through the kitchen, opened the stainless-steel refrigerator, and took a bottled raspberry smoothie. I walked through the dining room and its chandelier that cast pinpoints of light over the walls. I entered the main foyer, decorated sparingly, and sat on the centered, wooden steps. I turned to look on my mother who’d followed me and took a sip of the tart smoothie. With a firm physique, fashionably thick glasses and a short, sleek and black (dyed) hair, my mother had often been described as pretty for her age.

I’ll repeat that my mother was a professional therapist, she rehearsed her arguments and even unrehearsed our argument style was particular. If I wanted control of the discussion, I had to take it early.

I sold 23 lamps today.

Orson, I spoke with your father. Now, I could be very coy and nonchalantly ask you how school was today, but I have reason to believe you didn’t go to school.

I acknowledge your maturity in not being coy and respect your authority in your role as mother. Not out of default, but because of that high level of respectability you choose to show.

She responded, You say that you have respect for me and my authority, but I witness a reluctance to come to me when there’s an important decision to be made. How are we going to be close as a mother and son if you shut me out?

I recognize that you want to remain close and my silence has hindered that, but I showed that hesitation only because I was afraid of disappointing you with my decisions.

Orson, would you like to tell me what’s going on?

I slowed down, "Mom, I quit