When I was a kid, I was obsessed with sports. They governed a vast majority of my free time, and gave me something to shape my personality around. While I did gain an identity through this obsession, I ultimately felt very isolated in my love for sports. I attended a small Quaker school, populated by free spirits who would much rather climb trees or hunt for bugs than organize a recess Rose Bowl. Most of the neighbors my age were similarly disinterested. At the time I lived in grad student housing provided to my father, a Ph.D. student at Penn State. The children of scholars wanted to read and play pretend, and while those were certainly activities that interested me, they could not fulfill my desire for ruthless competition. To scratch my football itch, I sought out a group of older boys to join in their games of two hand touch. The graduate housing complex was organized in several ovular rings of rowhomes, with a large rectangular lawn in the middle of each ring. These lawns functioned well as stadium analogues. In the evenings, these boys, who I assume were maybe only 2-3 years older than me, would gather on the lawn and begin to draft each other into teams. They would then go on playing until it became too dark to see properly, and the winner would be declared based on the score at that time.
One day, I convinced another neighborhood kid, Eli, to come with me to ask the boys if we could join their game. Eli was tall for his age and lanky, with spiky dirty blond hair and glasses. Eli’s dad was a huge baseball fan, so he had some level of knowledge and interest in sports. We approached the boys, likely accompanied by one of our mothers (I don’t entirely remember) and they reluctantly agreed to let us join them. The boys split us up onto opposing teams and designated us as the linemen. This was an effective way of including us while still keeping us out of their way. I began on offense, so my job was to protect the Quarterback from being sacked by Eli. We lined up across from each other, and the boys fanned out on either side of us. I took a deep breath and my lungs filled with the scent of cut grass. A sunset glow tinted the windows on the apartments behind Eli’s wiry frame. Then there was an infinitesimal yet infinite moment. Everyone paused for a beat, ready to spring into action. “Hut… hut… hike.” At the signal I leapt forward, making contact.
Seconds later, I stood there frozen. Eli had run back to his apartment, crying, followed by one of the older boys. The rest milled around, shaking their heads. One continually tossed the ball up in the air and caught it himself. Eli’s glasses lay on the ground, thankfully intact, but violently departed from his face. My eyes remained fixed to them for a brief eternity. Eli no longer wanted to play, and with that the older boys kicked me out, and I went home.
I’d like to see all the money I’ve ever made
Piled up in the form of $1 bills
I’d like to see all the clothes that have ever adorned me
The beautifully garish, and the hideously garish
I’d like to see all the trash I’ve ever produced
If only I could snap my fingers and make it vanish forever
I’d like to see all the water I’ve ever drank
Spilt into some large lake, or perhaps a small sea
I’d like to see all the animals I’ve ever eaten
And thank them, and apologize
I’d like to see every plant I’ve ever grown
And smile like a proud parent
I’d like to see every word I’ve ever written
Compiled into organized volumes
I’d like to see all the hours I’ve wasted
And feel really bad about it
I’d like to see all the tasks that I’ve failed
And kick myself over it
I’d like to see all the friends I’ve ever had
And give them big hugs
I’d like to see every person I’ve ever kissed
And ask them if they liked it
Wouldn’t like to see my future though
May that always remain a mystery
Metaman lives in a regular house in a regular suburb in a regular city in a regular country. Metaman has a wife named Deb who was regular for everything except for her notably half shaved head. Deb did not always have such a kooky haircut but one day the Author needed something to be different about her so he made her shave half her head. Metaman noticed this. Metaman notices everything because Metaman knows the Author.
Not personally of course but Metaman knows he's there. Sometimes when work is slow Metaman likes to close his eyes and picture the Author in his head, hunched over a laptop in the dark writing his every whim. Metaman then thinks about how the Author also placed the fantasy of himself in his own head. Metaman gets a headache and takes two ibuprofen.
Metaman is forty one years old and works at the DMV because the Author believed it was funny for someone to work at the DMV. Metaman does not think it is funny for a man to work at the DMV. Sometimes Metaman thinks the line at work is sooooo long for no reason and then Metaman has to remind himself that reason is the Author. When a customer comes to his window with the wrong form Metaman looks at him and thinks, why were you written to have the wrong form? You have never had the right form in your life. The customer just stares at Metaman with glazed eyes. Metaman thinks of how this customer has no name. Metaman stamps the wrong form and says next.
One time Metaman was at a party and another faceless man said "It's like everything happens for a reason or something" . Metaman thinks yes, and the reason is the man hunched over the laptop in the dark writing every detail of this, putting these thoughts in your head and the words in your mouth and giving you headaches whenever you think of it. The faceless man asks Metaman if he agrees and Metaman says sure.
Metaman sees the Author wherever he goes. The weather changes only when it needs to. People say things that were slightly too specific than they should be. His dog died on a Tuesday, only three days after Metaman had been feeling a little too happy for a little too long. Metaman asked the veterinarian "was that necessary?" And the veterinarian replied "was what necessary?" Because the veterinarian is and has only ever been a veterinarian.
Deb does not believe in the Author. Deb asks Metaman "Darling, if someone was writing your entire life as a story, why on earth would they make you work at the DMV?" And Metaman thinks that's exactly why they would and continues to drink his non-alcoholic beer which he has no interest in or desire to taste
Metaman's friend is Michael. Michaels are always there for him. Michaels are transient in form. But they're always Michael. Metaman likes to say "Hi Michael" and listen to his responses. Sometimes Metaman says "Michael, I'm having a hard day" and Michael listens, no matter if he has a big mouth or a small mouth or no mouth that day. Michael always listens and it's never confusing for anybody. Metaman thinks the best thing about Michaels is how they understand what it's like to be made and remade and remade again over and over. Metaman likes how Michaels are always different but always called the same name.
Metaman told Michael about the Author and Michael was not surprised for he had an Author of his own. Metaman asks Michael "Does it bother you that you never decide how you get to be?" But Michael says nothing and only listens because that's what Michael is supposed to do. Metaman looked at his hands for a long time because Michael had none to look at.
So this is what Metaman does now. He gets up and he goes to the DMV and he stamps the wrong form and wonders if one day there will be a right form. He kisses Deb on the bald side of her head. He cried when his dog died and then stopped crying because he could tell the Author wanted him to stop. He sits with Michael on Sunday afternoon and talks and talks and talks and Michael always just listens. He is aware that he is loved in a strange way by someone he will never meet and who is watching him right now to see what he will do.
Metaman smiles, and he waves.