Something

Nick would be the first to admit that it was a temerarious maneuver. And he was lucky that he wasn’t dead. If pressed to disclose just why he had dashed across the road, at that time, with so much traffic rushing both ways, he would have a hard time explaining.

He just knew that it had to be done.

Nick wasn’t a desperate man. He felt no depression. He was not suicidal. Quite the opposite, in fact. But Something came over him, during his run to work. Something compelled him to dash across Queen Street, just before Spadina. Something had convinced him that neither the westbound Streetcar, nor the Idomo Furniture truck were going to strike him down. Something had whispered over the pounding of his ear buds, and told him that he had to cross! Now! Don’t think! Just do!

And so he did.

And despite this incredibly bone-headed maneuver, Nick had lived to sit at his desk and ponder this Something. It had bothered him for the rest of his run to work. It nagged him on the elevator ride to his floor. It nooged him as he washed himself in his office shower room.

And as he sat at his desk, staring at his computer screen, he suddenly realized the answer.

He did it because he was bored.

That Something was his sense of adventure. That tiny little swashbuckler that he had buried and forgotten about, back in a time that he couldn’t even remember. Somehow this madcap mercenary had busted out of its coffin and burrowed out of those layers of responsibility and balanced life-style that Nick had worked so hard to lay on top of it.

And now it was trying to kill him!

Nick stood up and walked out of the office. Pacing helped him think better. He walked up and down the common area, outside his department. He leaned over the railing, nearby, that overlooked the building’s atrium, twelve floors below.

A piece of his brain was trying to do him in. How does one deal with this? Should he talk to a psychiatrist? Perhaps he should call some sort of help line. Or google his condition and find an online forum of people with similar conditions.

He stared at the long, narrow lighting track that stretched out across the atrium. Perhaps, if he stepped over the railing and walked across it to the other side, he’d find a solution to this problem.

For some reason, this made sense to him. Nick took off his shoes and swung on leg over the railing. He would be the new Blondin! He would wow the office drones below by performing death-defying stunts, high above the marble floor! Tomorrow, he would bring his bike, and ride across no-handed!

He was almost one whole limb over the railing when he realized what he was doing.

“Stop it!” He snarled to his brain. “I want to fucking LIVE!”.

And suddenly he got it.

This Something, this romantic little rogue, wanted the exact. Same. Thing!

Nick’s brain wasn’t trying to kill him. It was trying to bring him back to life! The layers of responsibility and balanced life-style were all well and good, but they had brought Nick’s sense of play to an almost total halt. These moments of madness weren’t madness, but a reminder. Life was not supposed to be one, long, satisfying routine. It was supposed to by messy. Full of disruption. A complete and utter failure at achieving normality. Nick took a deep breath, drew his leg back over the rail, and slipped on his shoes.

From now on, he will listen more closely to his Something. He won’t let it take the wheel, completely, but he will definitely let it throw the map out the window, from time to time, and tell him where to drive. He will let his Something pick the stations on the radio, and sing along to whatever songs it chose.

This Something was not his enemy. In fact it was his best friend.

And it was Something had been sorely, sorely missed.



Jim Out.