Tall Tale

I was awakened by a loud pounding. I opened the front door; and there, standing in the entryway, was the entire U.S. military — every single branch: the Army, the Marine Corps, the Navy, the Air Force, the Coast Guard; even the Space Force — all at once, they raised and aimed their weapons at me. 

“Whoa, wait a minute,” I said; “can’t we talk this out?”

“You’re scum, Bryan Ray,” said a tough, confident voice amid the mass of armed forces; “there’s nothing to talk about. On the count of three, we fire: One… Two…”

“Guys, please, hold on,” I said, not daring to put my hands down (I had raised my arms instinctively); “will you at least allow me to offer a gift of goodwill?”

There was a tense silence. Then that same voice shouted: “What.” — And, after a few seconds of silence, it shouted: “What is the gift.”

I motioned with my hands, still in the raised position, and said: “I need to step aside quickly, so that I can retrieve it.”

There was another silence. “Alright: go,” said the voice; “but move fast.”

So I dashed over to the closet where I keep all my marching-band instruments, and I dragged my full-sized concert harp over to the doorway. The U.S. military did not look pleased. 

But then I began to play upon the strings with my fingertips, trying my best to instill each note with beautiful emotion. 

The music emanating from the instrument soothed the armed forces, apparently; for they allowed me to finish my song, which lasted almost seven European minutes.

When I stopped playing, there was no applause — only silence. 

“Are we good?” I asked the multitude of uniformed fighters. 

After a tense pause, the voice said: “Affirmative. Yes. We are good.”

“Then you liked it?” I said.

And the voice answered sternly: “It was nice.”

So I became friends with the U.S. military. That’s the effect that music can have upon honest actors: it can create an instant and lasting bond. The U.S. military and I began to spend time together, discussing topics of concern and sharing our respective interests. They even introduced me to the FBI, and, later, to the CIA (then eventually to all their subgroups and satellites). What I learned is that these intimidating organizations consist of regular individuals — albeit extremely intelligent and disciplined — who have similar cares and hopes as the average citizen. We’re all simply trying to contribute to the advancement of humanity.

Think about it: You just want to sit peacefully in your living room and practice your harp; but the nations of France and Germany keep attacking you. You can’t just ignore the fact that your front window got smashed last night by one of the French bombs… And now the U.K. wants a piece of the action — THEIR spies are trying to influence YOUR spies before YOUR spies have a chance to influence THEM. — It’s sheer madness! So you occasionally need to push your harp aside and pick up your government-issued firearm; aim at the soldiers overseas who have a different color of uniform, and… well, pretty soon, you will be able to return to playing. 

If foreigners would stop attacking us in our living room, the whole world could become a beautiful land filled with music. 

It’s puzzling, when you think about how everything works, tho. I mean, if you’re the Leader of the Universe, you’ve got to decide whether it’s better to devise a different plan when you’ve already got a perfectly good one that works extremely well, or… I can’t even imagine a better alternative.

§

At this point, I had an argument with your father — that’s where things took a turn for the worse. That guy is MEAN. I tried to use the same soothing techniques on him that worked when all the U.S. military forces confronted me, but he wasn’t having it: 

He stood up and gave a long speech proving wrong all the points that I had previously tried to make, and then he ordered me, in conclusion, to go commit suicide. 

I yelled back (for I was angry, now) that I am against the idea of a person taking his or her own life: for the LORD God dictated a statutory law prohibiting self-slaughter.

Then your dad shook his head — his nostrils were flaring; his eyes were wide: he was irate — he reached over to the coffee table that was nearby and clutched with his hand the large stone that happened to be resting there; then he hurled it at my head (thankfully, I dodged and it missed me) as he roared the command: 

“Do it, NOW”. 

So I left the scene and hastened in the direction of the six-lane highway, which I remembered from my days at the insurance firm. (I was employed as a lawyer who dealt with accident claims, in a former existence.) I climbed onto the bridge overlooking the busy road and leapt into the passing traffic. 

Here’s the rub: I landed in the bed of a large truck that was carrying silken shirts. I cried when I got there; then I bounced out of the truck and landed on the highway safely, without breaking any bones or receiving a single injury — not even a scratch. (My guess is that the U.S. military protected me.) I looked left & right and noticed that vehicles of all shapes & sizes were whizzing past. This was a dangerous situation. Then I remembered your father’s demand: My job was to kill myself, by any means necessary. So I immediately began to dart back and forth like a confused squirrel (altho, in my case, instead of attempting to remain alive, I was actually trying to get myself squashed to death — for, you see, in this same situation, squirrels react exactly as I myself did, yet they’re trying to AVOID injury; thus, the moral of this parenthetic admission is that artistic intention matters); but neither cars nor trucks would have me. Every place on the congested freeway that I scrambled to just happened to be vacant of any passing motor-coach; and then the instant after I stepped away, a speeding vehicle would roar by: a near miss. It was like Spacetime Itself was protecting me: I simply could not get flattened.

§

So I shuffled back to your father in dejection. I opened the door to his office and said “Bryan Ray, reporting for punishment, sir.” And I saluted stiffly.

“Bryan Ray, the famous author?” said your dad. Then he rapped his meaty hand upon the desk. “I thought I told you to kill yourself.”

“I tried, sir; I swear, I tried my best,” while admitting this, I began to break down in tears; “I found a six-lane highway during rush-hour and leapt off the bridge, just like the fellow does in your boy Kafka’s short text ‘The Judgment’, but my own story refused to conclude. The automobiles kept zooming past, in mockery of their author: not a single one had the courage to perform the hit-and-run that was requested of them. — You MUST believe me: I think the problem is that our emperor made me invincible.”

Your dad now rose from his desk and tapped his chin with his middle finger. After a spell, he said: “Could it be that you yourself are THE CHOSEN ONE?”

I made the same face that babies do when they eat something sour: “Christ? Not me: I hate Messiahs.”

Then, after what seemed like thirteen American minutes of consecutive thinking, your dad woke up and a lightbulb appeared above his head: “Did you ever, by chance, befriend the U.S. military forces?”

“Oh my God,” I placed my hand over my heart, “yes! they showed up at my house this morning — I won their trust by playing a song.”

Your father seemed taken aback. “You’re not joking? You serenaded the entire U.S. military? Including…”

“Yes!” I shouted (a little too eagerly, due to pride), “even the Space Force!”

Your father looked flabbergasted. Apparently he’d never met a character that he could not persuade to commit suicide.

“Well,” he murmured, “the U.S. military is indeed a handy friend to have on your side. They’ll make ANY story fantastic. It’s almost cheating, when you think about it. However, I don’t begrudge you for attracting their good graces. Would you like your old job back?”

At this point, I smiled: “I would LOVE that, sir.”

So I lived out my days in contentment, working for your father.