I've Been Chosen

Mornings I walk through Brunswick Forest where I enjoy the magic of a summer day. The limitations of yesterday are forgotten and my surroundings are an earthly paradise. The lagoons shine like pools of silver, rabbits dart in and out of the rhodendrons, and as far as the eye can see contented dogs lead their administrative assistants along the trails.

I walk with purpose and assurance because I'm fully engaged in my new role of Extra. Remember the recent discussion with Ms. Wonder about my purpose in life? If you missed it, I'd look it up if I were you. But if you're short of time, the gist is that I'm not the star of the show. I'm not even the humorous best friend. I'm simply an extra who is asked to do nothing more than show up on time and perform the prescribed activities.

Many of you, my followers that is, are asking why I no longer collect soul vessels. I understand your concern, what with the prophecy in the Big Book of Death about the Underworld Darkness getting all uppity and rising to take over the Above. 

Yes, it's an alarming prophecy, I'm not denying it, but things got so out of hand with so many soul vessels going uncollected, that I finally had to face the truth; the job is far too big for the few of us that are left.

Once I accepted that we were all doomed and nothing to be done about it, I became depressed like the dickens and my anxiety levels equaled that of the cat in the adage. I'm sure you feel it too.

I spoke to my therapist about it and now she's depressed. And Princess Amy makes it even worse. Every time I check in with her, I find her with eyes the size of dinner plates, wringing her hands and shouting, Run for your life!

Fortunately, I found an article in Vanity Fair, written by P.G. Wodehouse, my virtual mentor and spiritual guide. The article, entitled, The Physical Culture Peril, concerns the mistake of valuing physical reality over spiritual.

I suppose that's what the piece is about. I haven't actually read it; I skimmed it and read the pertinent parts. Mr. Wodehouse, or Plum as his friends call him, convinced me to order a small, illustrated booklet that would provide instructions for escaping the peril mentioned above.

After reading the booklet, an event of synchronicity led me to Christoper Moore's book, Dirty Job, where he described the activity of the main character. That description introduced me to the true role that I'm meant to perform.

And now I'm a different man. Little by little I have immersed myself into the new job. Now I smile at everyone I meet and offer a hearty Good morning. 

If I’m addressed by someone on my rounds, instead of trying to get away as quickly as possible, I listen attentively and make courteous replies, in short, I’m agreeable as all get out. And although I don’t make a habit of it, I've been known to slap backs and shake hands. I feel better for it and so do they.

There are exceptions. Aren't there always? Not everyone is appreciative of my new behavior. Some people ignore me or give me hard looks and, naturally, my new behavior has lost me a few friends.

And so there you have it. The full gist of the thing. My new calling and I like it.

Isn't it incredible how these metaphysical principles are manifested? I mean, the book, Dirty Job, was the source of my mistaken belief that I was a Soul Merchant. Now that same book has shown me that in fact, I'm Born to be Mild. And that's why I have dedicated myself to spreading goodness and light everywhere I go.

Will it save us from the prophecy in the Big Book of Death? No. But it makes me and the people I meet feel a little bit better about darkness taking over. We still may one day find ourselves wishing that we were dead but at least now we can hope for a good day for it.

The Extra

"Are you going to be downtown this morning for the filming of Merv? They're on Castle Street I believe."

Ms. Wonder and I were having coffee on the lanai but I wasn't my usual chatty self. I suppose my feelings were oozing out.

"Not planning on it," I said. "Too muggy. And it's a Christmas movie--hard to get in the spirit when the heat index is 100 degrees."

"Southport should have some cooling offshore breezes," she said. "The Summer I Turned Pretty is there this week."

Now, I don't need to tell you that I usually look forward to the warm-weather filming schedule for popular television shows, like Turned Pretty and I get excited when I know there's a movie being filmed in the area. I enjoy hobnobbing with crew members on location. You know, get a few candid photos, and maybe pick up a bit of celebrity gossip that I can post on social media.

You may think it's nothing to get excited about but for me, it's a reason to get out of bed in the morning. There are other reasons, to be sure, but I'm specifically referencing the 6 AM de-bedding, not the 4 AM or 2 AM. Completely different reasons and generally not all that exciting.

"I won't be going to Southport either," I said. "I don't want to drive Highway 87--too narrow--and Highway 211 is being widened from 2 lanes to 4 all the way to Long Beach."

She gave me a look accessorized by tight lips and lacking not the smallest sign of an eye twinkle. A moment passed between us when I thought it likely that I could be bitch-slapped in about 3 seconds.

"Have you forgotten what I told you at breakfast?" she said.

"Of course, I have," I said. I saw no reason to deny something that could easily be proved in court. I do often forget. Life in the suburbs with its lack of mental stimulation has caused my natural attention deficit to reach a stage where it borders on mad cow disease.

It was difficult to identify the look she gave me now. It was something I might expect to see on the face of Island Irv when trying to persuade him to become an accessory to the fact in some scheme I'm plotting.

I thought I should continue the conversation and hope that she cooled off before hotting up to the point of leaking at the seams.

"The weather is just way too hot and humid along the Carolina coast," I said, "and although our fine old metropolis is buzzing right along with summertime festivals, hoards of vacationing hominids, and the ubiquitous film crews, it's just too much to deal with."

"Look, baby," she said, "I know how much you love hanging with film crews and keeping your social media public updated. But your interest has gone flat lately. The good that you know you should do, you do not. What'sup?"

"You know," I said and it probably sounded like a plea for help. "Schopenhauer says.... At least I think it was Schopenhauer but possibly Shakespeare...that all the suffering in the world can't be mere chance. The Universe must intend it."

"Yeah, I know who spews that asbestos into the air," she said and she patted my arm lightly as she said it, "Princess Amy can't find anything to bitch about so she's practicing chair yoga and can't be bothered with you. Sounds like the perfect time to get yourself knee-deep in life and bump into some opportunity."

"Well, of course, you're right, Poopsie," I said. "You always are. But it's hard to churn up interest and motivation out of, what's the term, thin air?"

"Don't churn up anything," she said. "Just go, make it happen, Data. Engage!"

"I love it when you say that," I said and I meant it with knobs on.

"Look," she said, "I know that you consider yourself something of a local reporter at large, an arts and culture blogger, but I think you're missing a wonderful opportunity."

This piqued my interest no small amount. "You do?" I said. "What opportunity?"

"Think of yourself as an extra," she said. 

"A movie extra?"

"Sure," she said, "don't you see? You're someone important to the production, like an extra. In fact, you're necessary. The shooting would stop if the extras weren't there. Their presence in the film is what gives it believability, makes it real."

"Hmmmm," I said, "and I meant it to say that she'd interested me strangely, like the feeling you get when Superman sneaks into the phone booth and comes out with an attitude that says, I'm gonna get all up in there. She had captured my attention and the old cogs were whirling."

Now when I say the cogs were whirling you must remember that when a man with my attention span is plunged in thought, the machinery just whirrs for a while, and then that's the end of it. Suddenly everything gets quiet with little to show for it.

Wisely recognizing that nothing was to be expected from my musings, she continued.

"Extras don't have speaking parts," she said, "and their acting ability isn't important, but they must perform their roles precisely and on time, just as the stars of the film. Without the extras, there's no movie, no television story."

"That's me," I said. "I'm an extra!" 

"That is definitely you," she said.

"Excuse me, Poopsie, I'm due in Southport. The Christmas episode for Summer I Turned Pretty, Season 3 is planned for the next few days and I don't want to miss the decorating of Main Street."

"My extra!" she said and I could feel the pride in her voice. Made me feel good.