Birthday Wish

Brent Mason led a small life.

It was not a failed or insignificant life, only a small one. In the mornings he would go to work, and in the evenings home again. Saturday he made a trip to the grocery store collecting the things on the list he had prepared the night before. On Sunday he would go to church. Antioch Baptist, four blocks from his apartment, a distance he would walk, weather permitting, otherwise taking the car.

On Monday, his very cyclical life came full circle and began again, following the same course.

His life had not been completely absent of success. He had done well for himself in college, having made the Dean’s List on three occasions while earning his bachelor’s in political science. Following school, he worked a short stint at a local library before accepting a full-time position as a bank teller and had since ascended to the lower rungs of the management staff.

In his youth, Brent had been inclined to take up new hobbies on a regular basis in hopes of finding his talent. His mother had often spoken on the subject, saying the Bible taught that God had given everyone a certain gift — some small greatness that made each individual special in some way.

He sought out his gift with great tenacity.

The hunt began on a local baseball diamond where, at the age of nine, he joined a children’s league playing shortstop. When it became apparent to him that retrieving grounders had not been God’s gift to him, he requested a position in the outfield. Having similar success with pop-ups, he made the decision to abandon sports after two full seasons, and try his hand at the arts.

Even in his boyhood he had some understanding that a clock was someplace, ticking.

His Ozzie Smith posters were replaced with Jack Kirby reproductions, which he looked to for inspiration while creating his own sketches. In a few short weeks he lost patience in trying to make his hand produce the images that were so vivid in his mind, but always appeared rudimentary and flawed by the time they were transferred to the page.

After a substantial effort to persuade him to give the piano a try proved unfruitful, Brent’s mother agreed to pay for guitar lessons.

Mr. Kirby then joined the Wizard in the hallway closet, clearing the necessary wall space for his Buddy Guy and Stevie Ray Vaughan posters — his mother mildly objecting to the latter on the grounds that he seemed a rough character.

Things continued on in this fashion throughout his childhood. Brent’s efforts became a standard topic of discussion at family functions, where relatives would smile, asking what new project he was working on this time. He earned the nickname Jack, as in jack of all trades, a name his grandfather had tagged him with.

So far as matters of the heart were concerned, Brent had truly fallen for only one woman, Katie, whom he had met his freshman year of college. He often reflected on the memory of her, imagining where life might have taken the two of them had a wedding been orchestrated.

He would have liked to have made a run at being a husband and father, and felt confident that he would have been a fine fit for both roles, though matrimony had not been in the cards for the two.

The cause of their separation had been difficult to summarize. It was not a single calamity, such as a sexual indiscretion on the part of either of them. Instead it was a lot of small things that gathered over time and, when taken up together, amounted to too much to overcome. At least this had been her explanation upon leaving him.

Brent sometimes blamed himself for having waited too long to propose marriage, believing firmly that such opportunities carried with them an expiration date and the idea had soured while he stood idle.

There had been other relationships since, but none of much substance. Brent felt he had invested too much of himself in his relationship with Katie only to see it fall short of the aisle, and had no interest in being involved in another such gamble. So, he resigned himself to the comfort his routine provided.

There are several milestones buried within the structure of each year which encourage people to assess where they are in life, and if necessary, to make the proper course corrections. One such day had arrived for Brent. On the evening of his 28th birthday, after having thanked several relatives for the well wishes offered in their phone calls, he reclined on the sofa, listening to the Robert Cray record he often played.

Watching the ceiling fan as it twirled above him, Brent reflected on his life. The miscalculations he had made along the way always seemed to claim more of his attention than his mild successes.

Regardless of her intentions, the scars and insecurities Katie had left him with remained always, reminding him to never trust too heavily in his own judgment.

On this particular night though, Katie occupied only a bit of Brent’s thoughts. He could not recall a single occasion during his childhood in which he had stated, or even conjured the thought, “I want to be a bank manager when I grow up”. Of course, when making such proclamations children do not consider the responsibilities adults invent for themselves to have.

His grandfather used to say, “It’s only in youth and old age that people make lofty wishes for what they will be, or should have been. The time between is spent saying, yes sir, and wondering when you’re prostate will pop.”

Even so, Brent wondered about what his legacy might be. That thing which would last beyond his lifetime, reminding everyone, or at least someone, that he had once lived. As it was going, the word legacy was far too large for him.

He found himself wanting desperately to find that small greatness his mother had spoken of. As he continued his forced march through life however, he became more inclined to believe the idea was one of those things parents tell their children because this is the way the world ought to be, rather than the way it truly is.

As he became hypnotized by the swirling fan, his eyelids became heavy, until he fell asleep. When morning came he woke, returning to his routine, having all but forgotten his concerns from the night before.

They were not likely to be revisited until Christmas.