The Son God

I’ve had my head in the clouds since early memory. I feel safe up there. As a result, people find it hard to get my attention. It’s not that I don’t notice you, I just sense that what’s going in on my head is far more interesting than what’s happening in front of me. Reality is a waste of time. I’d rather sit back and daydream. 

I know there are plenty of fun things a twelve-year-old could be doing with his summer: making friends; playing baseball; saving the planet; riding a bike.

Oh. Did I squeeze saving the planet in there? Oops. Well, I am, you know. Which is what this story is about: Saving the planet, one good daring-do at a time.

Let me explain: I like the easy life. The no-frills enjoyment of a good book. The mind-pulsing vibrations of a good tune. The lackadaisical sway of a backyard hammock. That’s the way this kid rolls. And if you don’t happen to roll that way, too. I get it. It’s differences that make the human race. 

Take my parents, for instance. I do love them, the poor dears. Commuting to and fro on that dreary bill-paying-highway to retirement. At the dinner table I’d often hear their horrid tales of the outside world. The world in which they sweat and toil. They have managed to bring the art of family-time to a whole new low. It became so dreary at the dinner table that I would fend off entire conversations by imagining they were both neanderthals, pounding the table with tree limbs, demanding I eat my mammoth cutlet, and sputtering words at each other like:

Not like new boss!

Why not like?

I say, ‘look in eye, not in boob’. He say he like boob better. Arrrgh!

Dumb neander-guy. Me kill!

Lick dish clean first. 

Arrrgh!

And when visitors ask why I never leave the house, I point to my parents. There, but for the grace of God, go I, is what I tell them.

It’s why I’ve never wanted to leave the house; except in my dreams. In my dreams I could soar to new heights and avoid things altogether.

Then, one night, something magical happened. 

It was a voice from above. I’ve often read of such occurrences, but I never believed they were real.

It came out of nowhere and filled me with a sense of wonder . . . and frustration.

“Jason, don’t forget to brush your teeth and say your prayers! I’ll be up in a minute!”

Wait! No. Not that voice. Hang on a moment.

“Give me a minute, Mom! I’m recording my journal!”

Geez. They’re so damn intrusive. 

As I was saying,  it all happened last night. I was in the midle of my nightly prayers, when a ghostly voice from above made me shiver.”

You’re doing it all wrong, said the voice.

What?

Praying. Prayers are fine if you’re a doer, but do-nothings like you need to get up on your feet and get busy doing. Did you really just pray for more cheesy doodles in you life? I think you’re ready to make you mark on the world. You’re needed out there. 

What do you mean calling me a do-nothing? I do plenty. It’s called thinking. Some of the greatest minds in the world have helped to shape the world simply by sitting at their candle-lit kitchen tables, thinking great thoughts, and producing life-inspiring works of art.

I’m afraid that’s not what the gods have in store for you, kid. Not yet, anyway.

How can you say that? 

I’ve read your journal. Talk about biased reporting. Once in a while you have to look at things from the other person’s point of view in order to gain perspective. Your journal’s one big parent-trashing rant. Neanderthal goons? Knuckles-on-the-floor schleppers? What you need, young man, is a good dose of summer camp. Go out and get human. Make friends with the friendless. Get kissed. Kiss back. Climb a mountain. Swim a lake. Write a poem that’s not about your parent’s not stocking enough cheesy doodles in the cupboard. Show the world what you’ve got. Because you’ve got what it takes to inspire others. But on the outside, not here in your room. Give life a chance. Think bigger thoughts than artery- clogging snacks. You could help save the world with one small daring-do at a time. What say you, kid? Deal?

How could I refuse a voice that took the time to talk the talk with me. Out of seven billion souls, a voice representing the gods chose me to go on a mission. What else could I say.

Deal, I said.

Jason’s dad placed the megaphone on the attic floor, and sat back in the thread-bare wing chair that was his own dad’s favorite. 

Dad, you would have been proud of me. Jason never knew what hit him. 

Photo courtesy of Wiki Commons: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Category:Fathers#/media/File:

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