When I was an undergraduate, I started off as a general mathematics and science major. The university I attended allowed you to take a certain number of these courses, along with all the other required stuff, to get an associate degree in math and science. That was my first degree. All you had to do was apply for it as you progressed toward your four-year degree, and they happily handed you an A.A. Degree. I took everything from physics and astronomy to trig and calculus. Oh yeah, all students (regardless of major) were required to take two writing classes offered through the English Department. My story begins in one of those classes.
I wish I could remember this poor professor’s name, but I can’t. Through the luck of the draw, I ended up in her writing class. I had just turned 18, and I was ready to conquer the world. The problem is I had no use at all for verbs, nouns, or proper sentence structure.
On the first day of class, she had us write out a paragraph or two on why we were in her class and what we hoped to learn. I wrote that I was there because “the man” made me and that I sure hoped I wasn’t going to learn anything. I went on to explain that mathematics was so much more beautiful and elegant than convoluted language, and that I was wasting everyone’s time by sitting in her stupid class when my time would be better spent learning more math.
Guess who she called out on the second day of class? She walked into the room and immediately said: “Who is Ryan-Tyler N. Mason?” Oh Crap. I admitted that I was the culprit, and luckily another guy immediately started applauding as she read my short paper to all the students. He was an older man (probably late 20’s), so I let him defend me. He went on and on about what a waste of time this class was to an engineering major.
I was thinking about this today on my run as I was listening to a playlist that contains song after song of a certain group that is nowhere to be found on my list of favorite bands. I was thinking of their singer and how much she has changed my life; I was thinking about all the turns I have taken on the road from “Who is Ryan-Tyler N. Mason?” to today; I was thinking about my old professor, a woman who would not believe that I am reading a book of essays let alone writing one. As I ran mile after mile, I was wondering if I will ever see Athena again; I was wondering if she really understands all she has done for me; I was wondering if she realizes that meeting her was the singular magical moment of my life. Contrary to popular belief, I am not an idiot; I know that she simply doesn’t care. Isn’t it funny how knowing that (something I suspected a long, long time ago) doesn’t turn down the knob on my inspiration meter? Another mystery that I have no answer for; I find myself at a total loss to even form the proper question.
As I approach 50, it almost seems like I am just starting out on the path I was always meant for. I have no idea if that is true or not, but it sure feels that way. I know that the final draft of the novel I have been writing will be done soon. I just need a little nudge, and then the work that I have in the can will become a finished product.
Sadly (and I do feel sad), this is the last essay in a volume of essays I have written about Athena. I was sure that the first essay about her would be the last. It is simply called the “Athena essay” in my special “Athena” folder on my desktop. After I wrote a second essay about her, I decided that I could include an “Athena” section in another book I am writing. After the third, fourth, and fifth were written, I realized I wasn’t going to slow down. OK, I thought, I am writing a book of essays about Athena, the same Athena I met only once and might never see again. Pfffttt, that really doesn’t surprise me at all. In fact, if a masked cyclops with a machine gun busts through my front door demanding a strawberry pop tart, I am just going to calmly tell him that I am plum out.
So here it is, the last chapter in a book about the elusive Athena from Athens; destroyer of mp3 players and (apparently) breaker of hearts. Actually, my heart is anything but broken; I smile way too much when I think about her to have a broken heart. The thing is, I just can’t bring myself to change that sentence, I like it too much to mess with it.
Olive and I were sitting on my front porch, drinking a few beers the other day when I told him that I was relieved that I had finished a book about Athena. I told him that my biggest worry, my only real concern since I met her, was that I didn’t want to be sitting on that same porch 20 years from now wishing I had done more to get her to go to lunch with me. I feel satisfied that I have gone above and beyond what any normal human being would do. I will sleep well tonight, knowing I will have no regrets when it comes to this extraordinary situation.
That brings me to the man, The Big Texas King Snake himself, the individual who somehow managed to get his incredible nickname into the title of an essay about Athena. I think it is time to introduce everyone to Mike.
I met Mike back in the summer of 1986 at Harvard. I was housed in one Leverett Tower while he was staying in the other one for the summer school session. When I first heard his thick Texas accent, I wished I had one of those translators that the characters on Star Trek always seem to carry. I mean, think about it, how many times did some dude meet a chick from a different species and found he wasn’t able to communicate with her? Didn’t happen much, did it?
Mike and I became instant friends. I remember the exact moment I knew we were going to be friends for the rest of our lives. One day Mike came up to me and said: “You’ve got to hear this!” We sat down as he reached for his notebook. He was taking a music theory class, and the professor said something that day that befuddled Mike. He turned to the proper page and then said, in that deep Texas drawl, “Listen to this crap! This is what the professor said in class today: Bach reached the pinnacle of contrapuntal achievement yet with an aesthetic eye toward simplicity.” He was laughing so hard he hardly made it through the quote. He then said, “Damn son, we don’t talk that way back in the Big D. Isn’t that something? That there is some real bull.” I bring up that quote whenever I talk to him. In fact, I have been known to send e-mails containing only that quote. Does anything else really need to be said? Unlike Descartes, I think not.
Mike is also the primary character in one of the funniest real-life scenes I have ever witnessed. One day, a fine summer day in Cambridge, Mike and I stopped at a corner convenience store. Mike picked up a coke and headed up to the register. I was right behind him with my diet coke and a bag of chips. Mike placed the coke on the counter and reached for his wallet. As the cashier rang him up, he casually asked Mike if he “wanted his tonic in a sack.” Mike said nothing; he was stunned beyond recognition. He had a notion of what a sack was, he was pretty sure the guy meant a bag, but he had no idea at all what the heck tonic was. It was one of the funniest damn things I have ever seen. Mike didn’t know what to say. He didn’t even say, “what the hell are you talking about? ” he just started shaking his head and repeating, “yep, yep, yep.” When we left Mike’s coke was in a bag. Once outside, I told him, “Welcome to New England.” I also told him that the first time I went into that store, I also left with my tonic in a sack.
Mike is a very good guy, and my admiration for him has only grown over the years I have known him. There are many reasons for this, but I want to tell everyone one thing in particular about Mike that inspires me every single day. You see, Mike is an actor out in Hollywood. He has been out there many, many years. Casting call after audition after extra-role after limo job after…you get the idea. Mike is pushing 60, and he is still at it, he hasn’t given up on his dream. He knows that big break is right around the corner.
I have seen Mike on a bunch of TV programs, and that is always a thrill. He had one long scene on The West Wing that was really cool. The thing is, those roles might just pay the bills; they certainly don’t make anyone wealthy, or even comfortable.
Mike keeps saying that he is not ready to give up; he likes what he is doing too much. He is one of those guys whose dreams are going to die with him. His mother recently got sick, and Mike brought her out to Hollywood so he could take care of her while he keeps chipping away at that elusive role that will get him discovered. I hope you all are beginning to admire Mike as much as I do.
He has some great stories. If you ever meet him, ask him about the time Jennifer Aniston was going to leave Brad Pitt for him. That is a tale worth listening to. You might also want to ask him about the time he made Oliver Stone laugh by telling him, “I don’t know anything, I just drive the car.” Now that I think about it, he has enough stories to write his own book. All he has to do is ask, and he has himself a ghostwriter, no remuneration necessary. Hearing all those stories is payment enough.
Besides being an actor, Mike is also a classically trained guitarist. After you hear a couple acting stories, you can ask him about the time he saw Jimi Hendrix or what it was like to see one of the few shows that The Sex Pistols were able to put on before they inevitably imploded. A few months ago, I called him, and we talked for nearly three hours about nothing but my favorite guitar, the Fender Telecaster.
I hope that one day 15 or 20 years from now Mike joins the boys and me on my front porch. We are going to do nothing other than laugh and reminisce about all the good times. One thing I can say for sure, neither Mike or I are going to talk about regrets. I think we both have already done more than enough to ensure that is not going to happen.
In a last minute decision, I have decided to end this essay, and the book, with a last letter to Athena. I guarantee it is the last one I am ever going to write her. Here goes…
Athena,
I am writing one last letter for a couple of reasons. I have omitted a few crucial details about our one and only meeting. I have decided to go ahead and tell you exactly what happened when you introduced yourself.
Do you know that watches actually run slower near massive buildings? They do, in increments much too small for mortals to detect. My guess is that you do know that because I am still not entirely convinced that you are of, or from, this world. Apparently, there are things other than dense mass that can warp the fabric of space-time. Bright sparks and force of personality can also slow down the ebb of time; it can grind the flow to the point of stillness, to unexpected and inconceivable calm. These things I know, I have experienced them. Slow-motion became a meaningless concept when you said, “I’m Athena” and I was near to hear it; such a concept as “slowed down motion” is still much too fast for what I experienced.
I heard the word “I’m,” and then something happened, not something but “THE” thing. You looked up from my shoes, and then everything froze, I mean everything. I am sure that the earth stopped spinning even though I have no math to back up my claim. Time became meaningless, so I have no idea what you saw, heard, and felt in the moment it took me to experience a lifetime. Decades of waiting and wondering, years of honing the skill of patience; month after month of knowing that I was going to say “OK, what the hell was that all about?” as I found myself ready to die: all of it, every single instant collapsed as the vibe voice said “This is it…she is the one. She is the one you have been waiting your whole life to meet. Pay attention; she is the one.” It took no time for the message to be received, time instantaneously became a foreign concept to me; it simply meant nothing.
Writer’s write, or at least they should write, because they are compelled to. It is up to every single individual to determine how much of themselves they are willing to expose to the readers, mostly people who don’t know them and are likely to remain anonymous. I have decided to give up a little more of myself. All this is for you Athena; I hope you find just a little inspiration in it.
My brother Terry sent me a text the other day. He said that Nuggets of “Wisoom” was one of my best essays and that I didn’t really want to see you again because things could only go downhill. He said that you certainly served your purpose, that meeting you has changed me in unimaginable ways. All the evidence is in the sentences and between the lines of the paragraphs that, mysteriously, sometimes seem to be written through me and not by me.
I want you to know that I understand completely what Terry was saying, I really do. The thing is that I am one of those guys who believes that, at its core, life is a bunch of random bullshit that happens to us, and then we die, and we are dead for a long, long time. I bet your purpose in my life is the same as mine in yours, one of coincidence and randomness, ultimately signifying nothing.
So Athena, was meeting you a “watch this” moment? Of course not, such things are nothing more than wishful and hopeful nonsense. There was no Supreme Fascist that looked over at his minions and said, “Hey guys watch this,” as I rushed over to meet you. There is no cosmic gag reel that documents the slapstick pain and agony of humans as we all grind our way through our daily lives. There is no one to get mad at if we find ourselves in extreme circumstances, and there is no appeal for redress. Meeting you, while the biggest epiphany of my meaningless life, was nothing more than a brief stop on a tour bus for you. As I glance over at my special bookshelf, the one your CDs will remain on for the rest of my life; as I look over at all the Vonnegut and Gould books; as I sit in stunned silence as I realize how hard it is going to be to give up and say goodbye; as I struggle to maintain my composure…the only thing that comes to mind is “So it goes…”
Postscript
Last November, I was supposed to go out to Hollywood to see Mike and get the lay of the land. I have several scripts in my possession, all based on short stories or novels I have written. We were going to pitch and then pitch some more. I was talking to Mike at least five days a week about our plans.
One day I Skyped Mike, and he didn’t answer. Same with the next day, and the next. I tried calling him, and texting him. No reply at all. Mike ghosted me. Why? I haven’t the foggiest notion.
Is Mike all right? I have no idea. Is he lying in a ditch somewhere? I hope not. Did he somehow meet with foul play? Did someone disappear him for unknown reasons? Mike’s whereabouts, like many things in this volume, will remain a mystery. I have no idea where he is, and I have no more leads. He has no family I can contact. He is simply gone, fate unknown.
