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| Sebastian (age 5) and Kevin |
For Part One of this two-part
post, I'd just like to tell you a story from my childhood. It's a true
story; it's not factual, but it's true. What I mean is, the story sort of
happened; all the constituent parts did. But if a fact checker with a
time machine were set loose on it, she'd have a field day.
Nevertheless, I maintain that it is true... perhaps truer than a strictly
factual rendering would be. It may include things that, if they didn't
happen on that given day, nevertheless give better insight into the character
actions or perceptions than would come from a strict and tenacious dogging of
the facts. And though this story isn't so much an example of it, some of
these stories, these nonfactual-yet-true stories, work to shape us in a way
more profound and fundamental than anything that lands too near objective truth. But
more on that tomorrow; in the meantime...
There was a day - it
was the middle of summer, and my best friend Kevin and I were packing up my
suitcase with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches... and copper
wire. I’d had enough of life under a repressive power and I was
ready to wriggle out from beneath its thumb.
I was heading off; I was
starting fresh; I was striking out on my own; I was five.
It was tyranny that I was fleeing,
and chief among my grievances were the nigh daily spankings to which I was
subjected. I could concede that they were not entirely capricious...
it was true that I could be a holy terror: there had been the incident of “X
Marks the Spot”, wherein I’d used a can of spray paint to turn our living room
(and our dog) into a map to buried treasure; and no, I wasn’t entirely innocent
in the “Kitchen Campfire Experiment” that left a spot of scorched and bubbled
linoleum which had to be replaced.
But the punishments had grown
tiresome, and as the number of wooden spoons that had been broken over my
tender behind surpassed that of the candles on my birthday cake, I resolved
that I had an inalienable right no longer to suffer such despotism. And
so, I was running away, with my best friend Kevin, some tasty provisions, and a
little red suitcase full of wire.
The wire, so my thinking went, was
made of copper. Something else that’s made of copper, and much more
useful in everyday exchanges, are pennies. Pennies are money, and
so, copper wire (which is ever so much brighter than a penny’s copper), must be
worth a considerable sum. And money, especially a considerable sum
of money, would be useful as one began one’s trek out into the great, wild
world.
The masterful plan included visiting the houses in our
neighborhood, seeing if housewives and retirees might be interested in buying
these beautiful, shining, slender metal rods, and thus providing Kevin and me
with a cozy little nest egg, just enough to get our feet under us - maybe bus
fare to Milwaukee, or a down payment on a house in the Hampshires.
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| Suitcase Full of Copper, Value: ??? |
The trouble was, these were my
neighbors; they knew me. And likely, they could see my brilliant
plan revolving above my head in midair, like a thought bubble in the Sunday
comics. And, if I knew anything, I knew they would use any means
available to grown-ups in order to thwart it – grown-ups don’t think very highly
of five-year-olds buying houses in the Hampshires… it just isn’t
done.
Obviously, I couldn’t risk discovery - Kevin would have to be
the face of the operation until we made it out of my neighborhood and out
across Remington Avenue, onto the streets of strangers.
Five houses down, we chose our first
mark: Mrs. Standish. Hiding behind her shrubbery, we held a quick
consultation and pep talk - we would remove the sandwiches from the suitcase
for the sake of better presentation; I’d keep them in a pile at my feet, remaining
behind cover, concealed from view; Kevin would knock at the door, give the
sales pitch I’d taught him, all about the usefulness and obvious value of
copper wire, and when he opened the case and held it up like a platter,
offering Mrs. Standish an array of semiprecious metal for her own personal
pleasure, she was certain to buy at least half a pound of the stuff.
I peered through the shrubs as he
approached the door and rang the bell. All seemed to be going well, until
suddenly, in the midst of his spiel, I saw him turn toward my hiding spot and
gesture; Mrs. Standish looked as he pointed and gave me a little wave. I
ducked back into the greenery and waited for Kevin to return.
When he
did, I learned there had been no sale, and so he had thought she might be more
receptive if she knew he was affiliated with me, not just another five-year-old
making the rounds in her neighborhood selling copper wire.
She wasn't.
We
soldiered on... two more houses, two more hiding spots, two more
rejections. During our fourth attempt, it happened; not a sale, no… something
awful had come for us. Kevin stood on the porch waving at my hiding
place out by the street; I was crouching lower when I heard it: my
name (first, middle, and last) shouted from just a few feet behind
me.
I turned around, very slowly, and there was my mom sitting in the
car, come to detain us and carry us off for extraordinary rendition. Mrs.
Standish had called once we left her house; she just said, "Your son's
in my yard; he's trying to run away again."
Back
we rode and into the house we went; Kevin claimed diplomatic immunity and soon
enough his dad came and whisked him away. I didn't have that luxury, so
instead, as the latest wooden spoon snapped against my backside, I focused with
a laser's intensity on that house in the Hampshires. Maybe I was too young to be running away for
good? Maybe… maybe when I was six.
Sebastian Faust is an avowed heretic, armchair theologian, and a self-styled canary in the coal mine of pop culture. He lives in Nashville with his dog Watson, a service dog trained in growling at hipsters. You can't follow Sebastian on Twitter because he doesn't understand technology.
You can, however, follow On Pop
Theology on Twitter @OnPopTheology or like us on Facebook at www.facebook.com/OnPopTheology.
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