That Old Man's mumbling reminded me of family, it reminded me of faces I used to know and people that used to think they were important to me, and vice versa. It was Saturday morning, sititng with that Old Man--it reminded me of pancakes. It reminded me of pancakes and the experience of nothing.
Being 10 years old is important. Ten year olds occupy a strange space in human existence. Most do not want to be considered kids. Yet, both the world and the 10 year old know they still are. This is different than a 13 year old. The world knows the 13 year old is still a child, but the 13 year old has forgotten this. At ten, the world becomes a bit different. It goes from a safe workshop to a changing landscape. At ten, the world used to be just a place you accepted--a given that could not be questioned. It is a place--the place--the only place--where you eat dinner when told, take a bath unwillingly, play as long as you possibly can before the street lights come on, and listen to your parents--because even though you tell you them you don't have to, you and your parents both know you have to. This is different than a 13 year old. A thirteen year old has to listen to their parents, but the 13 year old has forgotten this. At 10, you are not a teenager. Your body has not changed into an awkward, alien entity. It has yet to betray you. Hormonally, not everything has kicked in yet; not everything. So, the angst of teenagehood is absent. The existential questioning--the endless quest for finding one's self--defining oneself--making oneself--creating oneself--has in most cases yet to begun.
Yet, you are a not a child. You have gone from medieval serfdom--enslaved to a framework of existence which not only goes unquestioned, but is ingrained so deeply that you wouldn't know how to question it with ideas like freedom and liberty even if you wanted. Yet, the Pubescent-teenage Enlightenment quest for freedom, autonomy, and most of all, will, has yet to dawn. Yes, this is truly a time of transition. And, with all historical transition, there is upheaval.
I remember this upheaval. It didn't hurt. No, it wasn't pain. It was something deeper; something more because it signified the utter nothingness of it all. Maybe all 10 year olds don't have this upheaval. Maybe they play baseball, dress up Barbie and ride bicycles to the park. I did those things too. But, I remember the experience of the nothing. Maybe this upheaval explains the coffee-shop and everything that happened there. Whatever. I remember it in my bones.
I remember sitting in my parents suburban home on a Saturday morning in the middle of summer. The California sun--not the heat, that is different--blanketing us. Days and days of sunshine stretched in the days before and the days after. I couldn't remember seeing a cloud for days, months, forever. Only the sun--blaring, looking, gazing. It was summer. I was a child. It wasn't like the end of the week signified all that much. It meant dad was home. It meant we might have to do something as a "family". But, I was a child. Nothing changed that much. Summer weeks meant dad went to work. Mom took us bowling with other suburban wives and their children. Mom took us to Newport Beach to boogie board and build sand castles. We went swimming. We threw waterballoons. We played until dark--baseball in the street, hide and seek in the bushes, water pistols in the yard.
Saturday's were a bit different. Maybe dad would mow the lawn. Maybe we would go see Nana in L.A. Maybe we would go to the park. But, one thing was for sure. Saturday's meant pancakes. I remember waking up each week to the smell of batter and bacon and goodness. Dad let us flip the some of them. "Wait until you see the bubbles," he said patiently "then flip them real quick." This was the culmination of a child's existence. We filled our plates high with pancakes and bacon. We covered our food in butter and syrup. We drank orange juice and made jokes about the Transformers or talked about what to put on our Christmas lists. My family was together--my little brothers and I in our pajamas. The front door of our modest suburban home open to allow at least a glimmer of that blanketing mother Sunshine in the house. It was great. I could feel it in my bones.
Then, it happened. The first time was a bit disconcerting, or rather, uncomfortable. It didn't hurt. No, this wasn't pain. It was more akin to a metaphysical enema--strange and extremely violating--than a cosmic torture device. See the difference? It was more the experience of experiencing nothingness. That has to be uncomfortable, especially to a kid. I remember sitting in the family room, the house now somewhat quieted. Dad in the back. Mom on an errand. Brothers watching the TV in another room. The table still a mess with the remnants of our family feast. The lights still on in the kitchen despite the blanket--the endless layer of Sun-Being--beaming down outside, inside, wherever there was a was. Sitting now, quiet. It all melted away. All of it. The things remained--the familiar trappings of our home--my home--my world--the world. They stood still. But, they evaporated too. Not the "they", more the force or the idea or the thing or the reason or the purpose or something that made them what they were. I didn't understand it. But, I saw the world evaporate--the tables and chairs turned into wood and nails. The kitchen floor--something I never saw because of how familiar it was--stood out as an ugly baj tile. My face, still smeared with butter and batter crumbs, felt heavy and rubber. The windows seemed to allow in an eternal amount of sun--the sun seemed to cancel out everything. There was nothing in face of the everything that was the sun. There I was, 10 years old, at the height of happiness in the childhood world I had been given--and it all became so clearly meaningless. There was no point. The weeks would go on. School would start. I would look forward to the weekends. Then summer would come. Eventually I would grow old and be done with school. Then I would have a job like dad and never have a summer again. I would be rich maybe or famous or a professional athlete. I would own lots of houses or cars. I would be happy. I would then die. The sun would remain, the world and the universe wouldn't care. None of it--the struggle of the weeks--the laughter at the beach--the trips to Disneyland--the pancakes on Saturday's with my family and my happiness--none of it mattered. I saw all of this in an instant. I saw the things in my house collapse in front of me into an endless abyss. I saw the true nature of it all come forward all at once--the absurdity of trying to be happy. I saw this. Or, it saw me. I don't know. It was depressing, even at 10. I tried to think of other things--of unhappy things that were not nice, that were bad. I thought of drugs and curse words. I thought of gangsters and bad people. Maybe these would disrupt my world enough to stop the nothingness from staying there. I hated it. No matter where I went the sun blared and on that Saturday revealed the end of the world for me. I could feel it in my bones.
After a moment, I stirred myself into action so I didn't have to think or feel or something. I watched TV with my brothers or played outside, I don't remember. After that day, I didn't feel special. I didn't feel like I knew something other people didn't. And, as long as I ignored it or kept moving or kept having fun or something, it didn't bother me. I didn't think about it. I also didn't tell anyone.
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