Ransom Planet

The first time I met Chris, he was wearing spandex socks, shorts, shirt and gloves. He was wearing a bicycle helmet and racing shoes, with the clip-in thingies on the bottoms. He also had on some cool-guy sunglasses. His hair was bleached. He had a pirate-hoop earring in each ear. And, if it weren’t for the bicycle helmet, he’d have been wearing a backwards baseball cap.

Fast forward 13 years and nothing’s changed. Oh sure, he isn’t wearing the spandex out in public so much anymore, but he acts like it. You see, the thing about spandex is that even while you’re sitting still, you feel like you are in motion. And Chris, having worn the stuff for so many years, has literally conditioned himself into operating as if he is in a perpetual slink.

This isn’t a story about the “Spandex Life and Times of Christopher David Kent”, that was just an essential backdrop to help us better understand that part of his upbringing so that plainer, more observable facts don’t get taken out of context and misinterpreted. For example, when I tell you that Chris is living a double-life. One where he is a sensible, even-keeled peer by day, but by night he is a carousing, loose-tongued socialite. Now, you might think ill of his character having heard this duality. But, what you should be thinking is – spandex.

Chris can not sleep. He can’t do it. The world is too big and exciting for him to go wasting 1/3 of it, supine. He is an honorary, inaugural member of every social networking web-application from hip and trendy Facebook to stale and moldy MySpace. I know what you’re thinking. Oh, man, he cruises those ’sites looking for chicks. But, you would be wrong. You should be thinking – spandex.

Chris can’t turn people down. He has an oversized heart in that convexed little thorax of his. He sees networking as an opportunity to be available to people that need help- they that need an ear to listen and a shoulder to cry on. Literally. Chris thrives off of human drama. If not his, then someone else’s. And I know what you’re thinking. Oh, he wants to gain an emotional edge on people so that he can take advantage of them. Get a-hold of their deepest secrets, leveraging their fears against them for his own gain. But, you’d be wrong. What should you be thinking? That’s right. Spandex.

See, spandex does not absorb liquids. It wicks them away. What better to cry on then something that won’t stain because of your tears? (This is Chris’ line of reasoning, not mine. But, if you must know the man, know his intentions.) Furthermore, Chris is ready and willing to cry with you. Again, spandex. Those who have ever worn the stuff, know what I’m talking about. It gives you the creepiest sensation on your skin that, voluntary or not, your body reads “irritant” and activates the various leeching faculties with which your body is equipped. Tears are just ONE of the manifestations of the body’s reaction to the spandex-dermis antogonism, a.k.a “spandermal antipathy“.

And, this is my point. Chris suffers from Acute Spandermal Antipathetic EchoPsychosis. Meaning, though he is not currently wearing spandex, his body reads its presence all the same. It is very similar to PTSD. And, for many years, misdiagnosed as such. But, when Chris is out on a boat paddling the wrong way, or laughing inappropriately loud in public, or kicking a soccerball to that guy instead of to me, or riding a bike uphill instead of down, or maintaining two separate identities in the same town, or staring at me from behind a small office plant – I don’t think: “this guy is frickin’ weirdin’ me out.” I think: spandex.

As the saying goes, “A rose by any other name, is not a rose.”

This is also true for people. Now, the story here requires some background information with which readers may or may not be privy. The short version is this: Jon Holmen, currently MIA somewhere on the Eastside, was prone to whimsy. Thus understood, he would often latch on to a particular whim and cling to it as if it were God-breathed. Jon was introduced to a new, young pole-vaulter, self-described as ‘full of vim and vinegar,’ by the name of Eric Collins. Jon had recently taken, on a whim, to calling people by their last name. He hollered, “Hey Conners! You’re up.” I quickly looked at him, waiting for the correction. It never came.  Not wanting to draw attention to our fearless leader’s mistake, I quietly leaned in and whispered, “it’s Collins.” Jon shrugged. Once something took root in the shallow soils of Jon’s brains, it clung their for dear life. But, his, is another story.

Thus, Conners was born. Emerging, as it were, from the chrysalid of his youth, shedding the name adorned him by his Rentonian parentage. Doey-eyed and sleepy to the ways of the world, Conners came forth blinking at the cruel rays of enlightenment that bore down upon him. Eventually, his slick, oiled hair, once so mundanely en vogue in the hallowed halls of Renton High, was dried by the warmth of Reason and trimmed by the guiding light of Utility.  And so it was, Conners became self-aware and assayed himself among the shallow trenches and shallower pits that was the SPU Track & Field team.

Over the years, Conner grew in stature both socially and self-importantly. He read books on his own. He learnt how to ride a bike. He even found himself gainful employment. But above all else, he was a man for the Ladies. He had a silver tongue and an easy manner that afforded him many an invitation into their presence. And it was while in their presence that the façade was most easily brocaded. However, as a host, he had much to learn. And HERE is where our story begins:

Conners and I were at home, 4109, escaping the heat of Freemont’s afternoon sun, when a mutual lady-friend happened by. It was appropriate to invite her down in the coolness of our residence as there was no honor to be questioned while in a company of three. ‘Below decks’ as it were, we passed the time with idle chat such as was comfortable for the lady. We formed a perfectly symmetrical triangle of communication; I, seated upon the edge of my bed, Conners sitting cross-legged on the floor at 45º and the lady seated at the third vertex, comfortably on the edge of Conner’s carefully made bed, with both feet flatly grounded upon the floor.

There came a natural and slight pause in the conversation, as is wont to happen from time to time in civil discourse, and we all breathed freshly. Conners, arms resting on his splayed knees, resembling a meditating buddha, flatulently emptied his alimentary canal. Much to my surprise, I assure you. And, it appeared, to his own as well. He immediately head checks the lady, to see if she were wary of his transgression. She was. Their eyes met. Locked. Conners sat silently, staring. I heard the phone herald me from upstairs.

“I’ll get it,” I said, leaping from my repose and blitzing the exit.

I am not proud of myself, to leave a lady indisposed to a silent tête-á-tête with a flatulent mute. But, the phone DID ring. I don’t remember who it was, but I do remember that one time Conner’s own father had called for him. He politely asked for ‘Eric’ and I politely informed him ‘no such person here by that name’ and we disconnected. The phone rang again immediately which sparked some faint memory that Conners had once been called ‘Erik.’ I let him answer that time.

When I returned to the cool atmosphere below, the air had dissipated sufficiently to warrant my intrusion. But still as thick as a garden full of souring roses, thorns and all. And there they were, like gargoyles, captured souls in stone. They sat as I had left them. Pupils dilated. Faces stern. Postures locked in fearful paralysis.

“So, what’d I miss?” I rubbed my hands together in mock anticipation of some exciting thing.

You can probably guess that Jeff wore suspenders, bow-ties and rainbow colored caps as a child. You might even guess that he buffed and polished his own shoes. But what you might not have know was that by age 8, he had more letters behind his name than most doctors- A.D.D/A.D.H.D., O.C.D., I.E.D., S.A.D. – to name a few. He was also a somnagiggler (giggling in one’s sleep) and a faciobrasionist (scratching one’s face) whilst playing at ‘Raid On Fort Knox’ on the VIC20.

These peculiarities enabled Jeff with a certain kind of freedom, manifested as a harsh disregard for self-preservation, that put him in situations that were beyond reason. He did not care for his own well being, he cared about the challenge at hand, the goal, the proverbial prize. In essence, as a child, he was an over-complicated version of the carrot-pursuing donkey. And, his older brothers were all to happy to play the role of carrot-danglers. Why? Because, Jeff would pursue that carrot over cliffs, over fiery coals, through the jaws of death just to prove that it was a carrot if that was in question.

Sometimes, well, often, I would play basketball with some neighborhood friends after school. But, my starting point was always from the couch, where I was catching reruns of “Good Times” and “Welcome Back Kotter.” Jeff would be otherwise engaged, in some private torment of his own in the loft, scratching the capillaries in his cheeks when a break between levels of ‘Fort Knox’ would allow it. Looking around, I would realize that my shoes were ALL THE WAY UPSTAIRS. In hindsight, it’s kind of funny that I would be so lazy on the initiation of a physical activity like basketball, but as the saying goes, “When one can, one does.” I called Jeff.

“Hey Jeff!”

“What.”

“Hey, I was wondering, I can’t remember, but, uh… are you fast? I can’t remember.”

“Yeah. I’m the fastest kid in my class.”

“Oh, cool. Do you think you could run from here to upstairs, say… MY room, and back in less than 10 seconds?”

By this time, the carrot has been dangled, and Jeff has already paused the VIC20 and is drying his sweaty palms on the thighs of his slacks. “Yeah,” he says.

“Alright. I’ll time you, okay? Ready, set…. wait-a-minute! How will I know if you went all the way up to my room? Hmmm… I know! Why don’t you bring something down here, um, like my basketball shoes, okay- unless you think that will slow you down?” I raise my eyebrows with just enough doubt to seal the deal.

“No. It won’t”

Jeff can almost taste the ß-carotene, his mind drools at the prospect of arriving in the living room, shoes in hand, before the final count.

Over the years, I have conducted a lot of these experiments with Jeff. That’s why I didn’t pursue a degree in Behavioral Psychology in college – I had already learned it all at home. And, it is with no small glimmer in my eye, that I watch Jeff follow in my footsteps. He loves to conduct his own little private tests. He has learned how to construct his own mental-carrot-dangling-apparatuses to great effect. And, he appreciates the tutelage that I afforded him, evidenced by his eager application of the same psychology to those under his guiding hand.

I believe these early-aged accomplishments are what made Jeff and admirer of the human condition- the eternal struggle between Man and the Carrot within. And, like all admirer’s, he chose to experiment with the elements native to that ethereal landscape of The Will to see if any synergies are to be had. Sometimes you win, and sometimes… the carrot just dangles.