For the first time in a long while, I found myself out of work. In the beginning I took it as an opportunity to catch my breath and get my professional bearings straight. As I searched for new opportunities I spent time with my kids, did projects around the house, and worked on my health. But as days turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into months I began to get nervous. I had many interviews, and many rejections. I had time on my hands in plentiful amounts, but no clear destination. I began to feel like a wanderer in a strange and daunting place. And as my time of unemployment grew, I began to feel lost, and a creeping self doubt became a constant companion. Wandering has always been hard for me. Well, “always” is a strong word. I think as a very young boy I could wander. I remember lazy summer days, the cuffs of my jeans filled with burrs and stickers. My pockets stuffed full of interesting rocks, or string, along with the Old Timer pocket knife my dad gave me. The purpose that filled my heart was to see what was over the hill, at the top of the gully, or across the canal. With dirty hands and mussed hair, I climbed trees and jumped down draws into shallow rivers of runoff from the snow. I felt safe in that space. Ambling through hot days and star-filled nights, knowing my folks were at home, there was dinner on the table, and books and comics to read by my comfortable bed.
I don’t know when I exchanged my pocket full of magic beans for cold, hard cash. I can’t remember the exact date, and I don’t think it happened all at once. I gave up a few beans to take a summer job, to get enough money to go to the movies or buy a couple of Big Macs. Then life thrust its hand into my pockets and took a few more.
Maybe more than a few.
I was flying down the newly paved road in our neighbourhood. The steep incline was thrilling, and the thin skateboard under my sneakers vibrated despite the smooth new layer of asphalt beneath its wheels and trucks. I carved big S-shapes back and forth across the road. Mailboxes flew past in a blur, and I was laughing for the sheer joy of the speed. My hair streamed back behind me; helmets were not even a consideration in those early days of the ’70s. I knew, with the surety of youth, that I wasn’t going to wipe out, that no cars would suddenly appear, that a boy hurtling down a steep road was as impervious to harm as a young Hercules. I shot out of the hill, cutting across the road and into a driveway, letting my momentum carry me down the sidewalk. Friction on my wheels bled the speed from my wild flight, and I eventually had to push, my foot boosting my flagging momentum. I was eager to get home, have a snack, see my brothers, and tell them about the truly excellent ride I’d had on the way.
But I could see from a block away that something was wrong. People were running up to my house and back again. Our neighbour’s old Ford pickup was at the curb, doors open. My oldest brother was being carried into the truck, the leg of his jeans torn and soaked in blood. It was on his hands too, and his face was terribly white. My neighbour’s face was frozen in a rictus of fear, all the colour drained away down the cords of his neck.
“What happened, what happened?” I yelled as I abandoned my skateboard and sprinted to the truck.
“I’m okay, Jonny. Mr. Pope is going to take me to the hospital. Tell Mom.” The door slammed closed and they sped away. I watched, numb and uncomprehending. Tears streamed down my face. Mrs. Pope had her arm around me, but I couldn’t really feel it.
“Matt is going to be all right,” she was saying. “He just cut himself on the bumper of our car.” My eyes followed her pointing finger by default. I saw their old Chevy, the colour of pale green I would later associate with port-a-potties and mental hospitals. The old chrome bumper was dripping red, the rust spots camouflaged by the spray and spatter of my brother’s blood. How could this be? We don’t get hurt; we don’t bleed beyond the scrapes and cuts that come with a boy’s life. Yet my mind kept re-playing the scene, unrepentant and real. Matt’s pant leg soaked through. Blood everywhere, more than I had ever seen. How could one person bleed so much and not die?
The question pulled more tears from me, and I cried in earnest.
The comfort and kindness of neighbours held me up until my parents arrived. My brother came with them, his knee stitched and heavily bandaged. And the grown-ups were right: Matt was okay. He carried a thick, twisting line of scar tissue forward, but he healed. Our wounds eventually close, mended, leaving their marks. My skateboard gathered dust in the garage for the rest of that summer. I had learned a terrible secret, a lesson in danger that lived close, that simmered in the very pot we ate our eager, savoury summer meals from.
That lesson only gained power later, a few summers on, as my brother’s life drained away completely. The rules of loss sank deep into the soil of my being, far deeper than anything else that had penetrated my young psyche. No one is safe. We all get harmed in this life, this tale told by our unreliable narrator. And even when you think you’re safe, that is probably a thin veneer over a yawning chasm.
Step
Carefully
The magic beans left to me had lost much of their lustre. I traded them for lotus leaves, and that kept the monsters and demons away for a while. After that, I don’t recall wandering into hills and valleys in carefree adventure. I knew that when things get bad, they can get unbearably bad. I traded my Seven-League Boots for something more sensible and sought safety in being part of big things; organizations and companies that could weather storms and shelter me from the harsh light that shines down on the good and the wicked alike. That became long chapters of my life.
The problem with that kind of safety is that chapters inevitably end. Life changes as we age and grow, and the thread of our narrative takes unexpected turns. When that structure is pulled down around us, when our enemies lay the land barren, sowing it with the salt of our own tears, what do we do? I dithered. I wanted safety and was unwilling to put on my old sneakers and venture into the hills; not wanting the scrapes, the thorns, the falls. I had forgotten the thrill of jumping downhill and splashing through rivulets of cold snowmelt—the joy of speeding along a path, wind in my hair, laughing at simple exhilaration. In the forgetting there is a great loss, a diminishing of the spirit that is agony itself.
Reaching into my pockets, I hope to find a magic bean or two among the crumbs of lotus and the ragged tears in the cloth of me. I am reminded of Shel Silverstein’s invitation that has followed me down the corridors of my life:
“If you are a dreamer, come in
If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer...
If you’re a pretender, come sit by the fire
For we have some flax-golden tales to spin.
Come in!
Come in!”
Closing my eyes, I can almost feel that wind on my face, hear the growl and scrape of those wheels as my arms fly out and, once again,
I
Fly
With over 20 years of leadership experience in the games industry, Jonathan Warner is a storyteller and seasoned studio leader passionate about crafting compelling narratives. His work has reached millions of players worldwide, and he is proud to have been nominated for a BAFTA for Toy Story 3: The Game. Jonathan is continually driven by a love for storytelling and a curiosity for new challenges in the gaming industry. He lives in British Columbia, Canada with his wife, daughters, and dog.
