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TALKING TO MYSELF
Back to the future
Like so many of us, I feel there's nothing better to do with free time than to stare out the window. In the quiet recesses of the night, as I gaze out of my window, straight into the window of my neighbor, I realize I am wasting time that could be spent talking to Brady As A Child. I could change my life. I could right the wrongs of the past, and make a fortune. There are so many things I would tell the small, wide-eyed specter of my youth. Well, why don't I? Childe Brady appears before me. Looks like he just came from soccer practice.
BRADY: Hello there, Brady.
CHILDE BRADY: Hello.
BRADY: How are you?
CB: My mom told me not to talk to strangers.
BRADY: I'm not a stranger.
CB: You sure are!
(Kids can be so cute.)
BRADY: Would you like some candy?
CB: (taking some) Okay.
(Even as a child, I had the ability to gauge people's trustworthiness.)
BRADY: Sucker!
(I grab the young me, put him in a headlock, and throw a couple of kidney punches. It is important to teach the young me not to be so trusting, as it will save some serious pain in the future. I decided against giving a noogie*, as I don't want to do anything that might result in me growing bald.)
CB: Ow! Ow! Ow!
BRADY: If you cry, I'll beat you up.
CB: You are really immature.
(He's right.)
CB: How old are you, anyway?
BRADY: Twenty-five. Almost twenty-six.
(Yes, Gentle Reader, my birthday is soon approaching. April 4. Take note.)
CB: Holy Moley!
BRADY: How old are you?
CB: Ten. Almost eleven.
(I have no comment on this. What can I say? "That's a good age?" "So young, so young?" "How's that case of the cooties treating you?")
CB: Tell me, Older and Dashing Brady, what is the future of my life going to be? Fast cars? Beautiful wife? Great kids? Recognition for being the premiere veterinarian in the land?
BRADY: Uh, no car, still single, no kids, and unpredictable job habits.
CB: I turn out to be a drifter?
BRADY: Sorry, kid.
CB: Glad to see you still have a full head of hair.
(Yeah. You don't know how close you came, Childe Brady.)
CB: What am I working so hard for?
BRADY: Hmm. That's a good question. One you will have to answer for yourself. But now, I must go….
The scene fades. But then I realize that I am actually still sitting in my darkened bedroom, and I still have 20 minutes until my clothes are finished in the dryer. I also realize that I didn't tell Childe Brady anything of value. In fact, it was kind of depressing. So once again, I summon my youth, conjuring up the pale image of the pale child I used to be. Before I had to wear glasses.
BRADY: Hey, it's me.
CB: Uh-huh.
BRADY: Wellll…. Let's see. How's everything?
CB: Fine, I guess.
BRADY: Good, good. Listen, there are some things you need to watch out for.
CB: Should you be telling me this?
BRADY: I don't know. Maybe not. Maybe you need to learn these lessons…. In eighth grade, you really should ask Elke out and not be so damn chicken about it.
CB: Elke? That's a name?
BRADY: Yeah, she'll be cute. But you'll screw it up somehow. Just like you blew it with Allyson in second grade.
CB: But I wasn't attracted to her.
BRADY: Well, you are now! In retrospect! Do you know where she is?
(Next time I do this, I need to go back to a younger version of myself. Before I augment my child-like cluelessness with impertinence. Though I know that as a kid I was out of it enough that Childe Brady will never remember my advice.)
CB: But I like Heidi now.
BRADY: I know, I know, and she's a nice girl. But guess what, nothing's going to happen, and you won't ever see her again after eighth grade. Besides, how well do you know her? You like her mostly because she's the only left-handed girl you know! Sure it's cute, but it's not the basis for a relationship!
CB: Why are you so bitter?
BRADY: I'm not, really. Well, maybe a little. I should go.
CB: Agreed. But the only thing you have to say to me from the vantage point of fifteen years hence…
(Wow, what a vocabulary on this kid! So very, very, very smart and ahead of his peers.)
CB: Is not to screw it up with a couple of girls?
(Oh. And he's rather observant. A little bratty, I daresay. Maybe I should pants him or something.)
BRADY: Well. It's not just… Well. Look, just don't be a jerk. You should bet on the Yankees in the late nineties. Invest in Amazon.com. Learn to play an instrument. And remember the difference between "it's" and "its." And for God's sakes, stop melting Star Wars figures. They'll be worth a lot of money someday.
CB: So you are telling me to do these things, but how do you know that if I did ask these girls out, it wouldn't be a terrible and embarrassing experience that would ruin my future even more than my current track already seems to have done? And are you telling me you have never regretted dating some of the women you have gone out with?
BRADY: Well, there have been some awful duds…
CB: Then don't tell me who I should ask out. You're no expert.
BRADY: Whom you should ask out. All right then, just don't go out with Huberta.
CB: You went out with a girl named Huberta?
BRADY: Well, just once…
CB: I don't need to hear anymore. Quit meddling with the past. And I like melting Star Wars figures.
(Childe Brady gives me a swift kick to the shins and dissipates before my eyes.)
Well. That didn't go at all like I expected. I'm sure there was so much that I should have said, but he didn't really seem to want to hear it. That makes me wonder how my life has changed. To my delight, I realize that I have not ever gone out with a Huberta, so the little imp must have remembered, probably upon the shock of meeting her. On the other hand, I find that I did not invest in Amazon, which I think is Childe Brady trying to spite me. Very clever. As I wonder how my life has and will change, a new apparition appears, and suddenly I am confronted by the sight of myself at eighty years old. I am dismayed to see that Olde Brady makes house calls in his pajamas. He glares at me intently.
BRADY: Hello, Old Man. How are you?
OLDE BRADY: What?
BRADY: How are you, sir?
OB: What? Speak up, you idiot!
Apparently, not only will I be hard of hearing, I'm a real cranky pain in the ass. Still, I help him to sit.
BRADY: Tell me, what wisdom do you have to impart? And how long have had this apparent drooling problem?
OB: Why didn't you take better care of yourself, you dolt!
BRADY: Let me take your cane…
OB: No!
There is a brief struggle in which I am able to pry the cane from the old codger's hands. I must confess, though, he is surprisingly strong for his age, and probably could beat any number of Gentle Readers in an arm wrestling contest. I look at the cane.
BRADY: Wait, you're faking it! You don't need this cane! You're using it for sympathy, and for….
The top of the cane unscrews to reveal a hidden, tubular flask.
BRADY: Just as I thought.
OB: I can't believe that you would rough up an old man. Mercy!
("Mercy," as you know, is a phrase used by old people.)
BRADY: Hey, if Childe Brady did listen to me, maybe the course of history has been altered.
OB: What? Why are you musing out loud?
BRADY: Are you rich? Did you track down Allyson from second grade? Sell off the Star Wars figures?
OB: What the hell are you talking about?
BRADY: Listen, I just want advice.
OB: You'll never remember it anyway, you nitwit.
He was right. I have already forgotten what he went on to say. Something about flossing every day, and staying out of California in the 2020s. And though I could not really change the past, and my future is obstinate and crotchety, I figure I did all right and will do all right. After all, I make it to eighty, feisty and self-confi -
OB: You're not even listening right now, are you?
With that he gives me a swift kick to the shins. He takes his cane and saunters off, muttering to himself. As I rub my legs and watch him recede, the thought that comes to my head is, "My, what a magnificent head of hair he has. I sure am glad I didn't give Childe Brady that noogie*." Just wait, though. I've stopped flossing.
By Brady Richards
022001