Read Online Awake Asleep Dreaming Dead by John Siwicki - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Siwicki
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don’t get what you mean?
Of course you don’t understand. It’s hard for me to comprehend, but this tree—you—me, and everyone’s the same. All the same. It’s just that some of us get to choose the time and place of our departure. Trees can’t.
I don’t get it. Departure? But, well, I guess we’re the same as trees in some way, but different in other ways. I don’t think people are trees. Anyway, what are you doing here? This guy looks familiar to me, Sam thought. But why?
No, they’re not, people and trees are exactly alike, and made of the same simple and basic stuff. There are a few exceptions. A few special ones; the big old Sequoia in California, and cedars in Japan on Yaku Shima. Those trees have lived a long time, and for thousands of years, but people aren’t around that long. Only their memories live on if they do something great.
How old are you? Sam asked. I know this old guy, but just can’t place him.
I don’t really know.
You don’t remember? You look like you’re about in your sixties, Sam said to be kind, but thought, This guy’s at least seventy-five, or eighty.
Not as old as this tree, the man said. Not as old as a Sequoia. They live to be thousands of years old, and are filled with glory and history.
Glory and history, this is crazy. Why did I stop? Just make the best of it, I guess. What’s your name, Sam asked.
What’s yours? he roared back.
Sam.
I’m Tom, he said, then grabbed Sam’s hand, and jerked it like a pump handle.
It’s the barber, Sam thought. He ran the shop where my studio is now. I wonder if he remembers me.
You don’t seem happy. What’s wrong?
What’s wrong? he barked, repeating the question, then walked over next to Sam and looked him square in the face. I don’t know why I’m here. That’s what’s wrong, and you don’t either. He turned, and stomped back to the tree.
There’s nothing wrong with getting old, Sam said. Do you remember how you got here?
I’m an insignificant grain of sand, and most everyone’s in the same boat, Tom said. We can count the few great people who have done anything momentous on our two hands. Imagine, out of the billions of people in the world, and only two handfuls that do anything significant. How does that happen? Why is that? Why? Do you know?
Wait a minute, Sam said. I’m sure you’ve done something to make the world a better place. We all have a purpose here. Just have to find out what it is.
Tom looked at Sam. Is that right? What have you done to make it better? Why are you here? What’s your purpose?
Well, Sam said, then paused. I started a business, a studio, I take pictures.
Tom snorted like a racehorse, and asked, How’s that helped anyone?
I’ve traveled a bit, Sam said.
Oh, yeah? Where? Tom asked, pointing his finger at Sam. Well—? Tell me . . . you don’t know jack-shit!
You ask a lot of questions, Sam said.
You’ve made my point.
What point?
That you’re an insignificant speck of nothing blowing in the wind! People are a bunch of zombies. I didn’t tell you to stop here. Tom walked around the tree. You did that on your own. Go ahead . . . and . . . leave. I’m not stopping you. Get the hell out a here!
No, you didn’t. I stopped because I thought you needed help. Do you need help? Can I do anything for you? Sam said. His voice vibrated in waves of anger, like a bubbling spring, ready to blow, then thought, I hope he says no, so I can leave. I always liked the barber, but now . . . I don’t know. The guy’s an asshole.
He stood there with his back to Sam looking at the tree, then turned sharply like a soldier doing close order drill, and asked, Got a camera?
A camera?
Yeah, a camera, he barked. You said you were a photographer? You have one, right?
Yeah, sure, I have some cameras in my car, and one right here in my phone. Sam aimed the phone at Tom. Want me to take your picture with it?
Camera in your phone, Tom snarled, waving his hand, and shaking his head in
Of course you don’t understand. It’s hard for me to comprehend, but this tree—you—me, and everyone’s the same. All the same. It’s just that some of us get to choose the time and place of our departure. Trees can’t.
I don’t get it. Departure? But, well, I guess we’re the same as trees in some way, but different in other ways. I don’t think people are trees. Anyway, what are you doing here? This guy looks familiar to me, Sam thought. But why?
No, they’re not, people and trees are exactly alike, and made of the same simple and basic stuff. There are a few exceptions. A few special ones; the big old Sequoia in California, and cedars in Japan on Yaku Shima. Those trees have lived a long time, and for thousands of years, but people aren’t around that long. Only their memories live on if they do something great.
How old are you? Sam asked. I know this old guy, but just can’t place him.
I don’t really know.
You don’t remember? You look like you’re about in your sixties, Sam said to be kind, but thought, This guy’s at least seventy-five, or eighty.
Not as old as this tree, the man said. Not as old as a Sequoia. They live to be thousands of years old, and are filled with glory and history.
Glory and history, this is crazy. Why did I stop? Just make the best of it, I guess. What’s your name, Sam asked.
What’s yours? he roared back.
Sam.
I’m Tom, he said, then grabbed Sam’s hand, and jerked it like a pump handle.
It’s the barber, Sam thought. He ran the shop where my studio is now. I wonder if he remembers me.
You don’t seem happy. What’s wrong?
What’s wrong? he barked, repeating the question, then walked over next to Sam and looked him square in the face. I don’t know why I’m here. That’s what’s wrong, and you don’t either. He turned, and stomped back to the tree.
There’s nothing wrong with getting old, Sam said. Do you remember how you got here?
I’m an insignificant grain of sand, and most everyone’s in the same boat, Tom said. We can count the few great people who have done anything momentous on our two hands. Imagine, out of the billions of people in the world, and only two handfuls that do anything significant. How does that happen? Why is that? Why? Do you know?
Wait a minute, Sam said. I’m sure you’ve done something to make the world a better place. We all have a purpose here. Just have to find out what it is.
Tom looked at Sam. Is that right? What have you done to make it better? Why are you here? What’s your purpose?
Well, Sam said, then paused. I started a business, a studio, I take pictures.
Tom snorted like a racehorse, and asked, How’s that helped anyone?
I’ve traveled a bit, Sam said.
Oh, yeah? Where? Tom asked, pointing his finger at Sam. Well—? Tell me . . . you don’t know jack-shit!
You ask a lot of questions, Sam said.
You’ve made my point.
What point?
That you’re an insignificant speck of nothing blowing in the wind! People are a bunch of zombies. I didn’t tell you to stop here. Tom walked around the tree. You did that on your own. Go ahead . . . and . . . leave. I’m not stopping you. Get the hell out a here!
No, you didn’t. I stopped because I thought you needed help. Do you need help? Can I do anything for you? Sam said. His voice vibrated in waves of anger, like a bubbling spring, ready to blow, then thought, I hope he says no, so I can leave. I always liked the barber, but now . . . I don’t know. The guy’s an asshole.
He stood there with his back to Sam looking at the tree, then turned sharply like a soldier doing close order drill, and asked, Got a camera?
A camera?
Yeah, a camera, he barked. You said you were a photographer? You have one, right?
Yeah, sure, I have some cameras in my car, and one right here in my phone. Sam aimed the phone at Tom. Want me to take your picture with it?
Camera in your phone, Tom snarled, waving his hand, and shaking his head in
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