Abney Park's The Wrath Of Fate (3 page)

Had I ever felt happy and secure? What would I say to this child, if I could respond? I worked a job I hated. After years of working for someone else, building someone else’s dreams for them alone to enjoy, I had elevated myself to the position of
guy who sits in a cubical doing something with a computer.
At least, that is the best way I could describe it to my eight-year-old self.

I angrily typed a reply. I did not think for a moment it would actually go back in time, but I just could not let that little boy have the last word, summing up my failures and fears so succinctly. It was really just me venting in the first way that came to me:

Dear Little Boy,

I’m doing my best up here, but it’s REALLY hard. I have to pay ALL these bills that I never make enough money to pay. I have to buy clothes I hate, so I can wear them to a job I hate, and I have to buy gas to keep my car running while I fight gridlock on the way to the job I hate. I even have to pay for parking at the job! All of these things add up to more money than I make, which means I now owe banks money for buying things (like lame cars) that I had to buy, just to go to the job so I could try to earn the money to give to the banks!

Being an Astronaut is silly, there are like maybe ten in the whole world. Being a pirate is dangerous, and illegal, and cruel, and it does NOT mean you have a cool old pirate ship, and a sword – pirates are not really like that anymore.

No, I am not something cool, I’m just doing my best to stay afloat, but I’m slowly sinking, and it sucks, and although you hate your home and family, I miss my childhood!

-    Robert Brown

I was pissed, bitter, sad, my eyes stung, and were filling with tears. I pulled the lever and the words vanished. Then I felt a tinge of guilt: how depressed would any little boy get if he received
that?

The screen was black now, I supposed the machine turned off, so I stood up to walk out. This whole exchange had left me angry and depressed. I walked to the door, and stood there a second asking myself if I was going to regret walking away from all these memories. Then I heard a “
shunk-chiing!”

Instantly a shiver raced down my spine. I turned and saw a new note had appeared on the screen! I walked quickly back and sat down again. The note read:

Dear Mr. Brown,

That can’t be what life is like! It doesn’t make any sense! You’re lying! You suck!

Why would you work a job you hated, so that you could only barely afford to live a life you hate?! Adventures are free! Indiana Jones never even had a wallet that I saw!

I would NEVER live the life you’re describing! There is no way I would let that happen to me after so much bad has already happened.

You lie and I hate you.

-    Robbie

My eyes widened, and my mind raced,
Wait a second, I think I might remember this! Didn’t I get a couple of messages from this machine when I was a kid? I told dad, and he took me to talk with a guy at his work, who asked me a lot of questions about my parents’ impending divorce, and if my father hit me? Dad told me not to talk about Samuel.

The screen glowed green, waiting for a response, but this time it scared me. I didn’t believe this was happening, yet at the same time I was red-faced angry and sad. I hated myself, and I wondered if all those deeply scarring emotions had led me to invent that this had all happened.

The screen glowed green, waiting for a reply.

I sat quietly for more than an hour, replaying memories from my childhood, wondering when my life had gotten on this horrible track, and how much longer I was going to stay on it. I didn’t believe my dreams were remotely possible any more. I couldn’t remember anything I still enjoyed, or if I had any dreams left.

I had nothing positive to tell this little boy, but I was not going to hurt him again. I would not respond until I had better news, and that meant I had to make better news happen.

This reminded me of my band, the only dream left. The band was just forced to turn down a great concert eight hundred miles away because we couldn’t afford to get there, and we couldn’t take the time off work required for the drive. I was tired of making excuses and hiding from life. I reached into my pocket, and pulled out my phone.

“Look, it’s not just about the day job thing. Hold on, I’m gonna three-way call Kristina and Traci, they need to be in on this,” Krzysztof said. He was our bass player, and a damned good one, but his investment in the band was not huge. He and his wife Traci had their own band prior to this one. They only set it aside to join my band, so “someone else could handle the bullshit”. It might seem glamourous, but running a band is not easy.

“Hello?” Kristina answered. Kristina was my wife. Well, recently my wife, although she had been my keyboard player and friend since she was a teenager.

“Hey, Kristina, this is Krzysztof, and I’ve got Robert on the line. We are talking about the show in Salt Lake City.”

“I thought we had decided we couldn’t play it?” Kristina replied.

“Well, Robert thinks we should…” Krzysztof started to say before I interrupted.

“Hey, It’s me,” I said “I’m sorry, but I had a change of heart. I think we have to stop saying no to everything that isn’t completely comfortable. We are saying no to nineteen out of twenty shows. All we end up playing is the same bar in Seattle over and over again,” I said. “We can’t make new fans by playing to the same fans over and over.” What I wasn’t saying was
We can’t give up our tiny lives for something better if we aren’t willing to work harder at it. You have to do more to get more!
I know everybody else had stopped trying for something more, years ago, seduced by the comfortable placation of a nine to five job. However, my recent letter from myself had reinvigorated my discontent.

“We just played Chicago,” said Traci, who had joined the call.

“That was a year and a half ago!” I snapped back, trying not to sound desperate and regretting the speed at which I retorted.

“Sixteen months. Don’t exaggerate,” Krzysztof said, defending Traci. “You always exaggerate everything,” Things were starting to heat up a little.

“I wasn’t exaggerating, I was rounding up. At this rate we are talking about one show every two years! How are we supposed to get anywhere with only one show every two years!?!”

I think they could hear the desperation in my voice, and Kristina came in with a sympathetic tone. “Aw, honey, you are somewhere now! We don’t need to be big rock stars to be proud of ourselves.” She was trying to make me feel better, but this wasn’t working with me. In fact it was making things worse. Compromising my self-definition felt like the last step before I submitted to having a mediocre life. “Besides, we are going to lose money on the show! The plane tickets will cost more then they are offering to pay us. We can’t
afford
to play the show!” This band was getting too spoiled with their daily incomes to do the ‘play for free’ gigs anymore.

Then I had an idea, “If I can get us to the show for free, will you do it?”

“How?” Everyone asked at almost the same time.

“Leave that to me, I know a guy that can help.”

We hung up, and I turned back to the Chronofax, ready to type. Then I stopped, and I thought,
No, I’ll respond when I have something better to report.

AN ILL-FATED VESSEL

Some years after we last saw him, the old man in the herringbone coat sat on the bucking bench seat of a 1903 Knox: a turn-of-the-century flatbed truck normally used for delivering produce. Along side him sat the driver in a page-boy cap and goggles. The driver’s scarf kept brushing the old man’s face. This happened with almost enough frequency to change his mood from one of excitement, to one of annoyance.

The Knox was first in a line of trucks. There were eight trucks in all, and their flat open beds were piled high with wooden crates. Jutting from the tops of these were copper pipes and massive, straw-packed glass orbs. The trucks wound their way around the streets of London toward the shipyards.

They arrived at a newly constructed wall and gate, large enough to completely hide the dock from the view of anyone walking on the street. Standing by the gate were four sailors of unequal size, poorly shaven, tanned to the color of old leather, and uncomfortable in their ill-fitting uniforms.

Noticing the man in the herringbone coat, the largest of them spoke, “Piss off, you! You’ve got the wrong address. You can’t bring your groceries down here!”

“I am Doctor Calgori. I believe your captain is waiting for me,” said the old man standing up in his seat,

“Oi, we do knows you! We knows him!” said the smallest of the sailors while elbowing the largest. “Lemme fetch the captain, and we’ll see what he wants us to do with yoose.” With that he slipped through the gate.

The largest of the sailors then stepped around toward the side of the first truck and tipped one of the crates precariously over so he could see inside it. “Is this where you’ve got your magical contraptions, Doctor? ‘ow’s about giving us a little magic whiles we waits?”

Doctor Calgori scrambled clumsily out of the truck, “Careful with that, my good man! It is not magic. Those orbs are both delicate and expensive! I have no idea where we could acquire another on such short notice! I had them especially made to my exact specifications, and lacking even one would unbalance the…”

At this point an orb rolled out of the box and popped like a giant light bulb at the feet of the sailor. As it burst, the pink gas that was inside it formed a small cloud just two feet off the ground, surrounding the sailor’s waist. The cloud began to rain, a tiny bolt of lightning cracked like a whip, and struck the sailor in the knee. In his fright, he leapt backward into the chest of his enraged captain, who had walked quietly up during the commotion, and watched the whole scene unfold without uttering a word.

“Buffoon!” the captain exclaimed with a look of disgust on his face. He swung his cane and struck the sailor in his left eye. The brass t-shaped cane handle sunk deeply into the sailor’s eye socket. The captain then removed it with both difficulty and disgust.

“You cretin!” he continued to roar even as the stricken sailor fell to his knees in pain, grasping his face. “I don’t know whether to call you a liability, or a Punchinello! This equipment is worth more than your life!” He raised his cane again to strike.