Impulsively, I grab the first blank page of the notebook and rip it out, pretending I hate what’s written on it. Wadding up the blank paper functions on a cathartic level. It opens up the reality that I can just tear out a page and start over, and that seems to be all the motivation I need.
But as my pen begins to scrawl across the fresh page, I change course and make a full-on commitment: I’m going to write from the heart. My secret person can just love it or dump it. And, no matter what mess I create on this page, I will not tear it out. This page is going to just be a reflection of me. Messy, scribbly, unedited me.
I’ve got a page and a half of restless script before I stop for a breath. I’ve detailed the arduous process of how I set out to overcome my karaoke fear, live without regret and take on the challenge. I also include the neurotic way I Googled and studied and prepared for my debut and how all of that articulated planning gave way to the utter feeling of freedom and release as the crowd cheered me on. How free I felt, like I was floating. I’ve detailed things I thought I wouldn’t share with my secret person, like the tripping hazard, the blue eyes and strong fingers of that one guy, and the absolute need for Martin to be onstage with me. I still remember the firm grip Martin had on my hand as we took our ridiculous bow, like our lives were permanently connected by that grip, and I can still feel the flex of his backmuscles in my grasp when he hugged me and told me he was so proud of me and loved me. I never want those memories to stop playing over and over in my head. Some of these details are left out of my writing, but Martin is there for sure beside me, smiling big, in my retelling.
“I want to thank you for the adventure,” I write. “This may sound silly, since I don’t know you, but I couldn’t have done this without you. For some reason, I find myself driven to be a braver, different me because there’s someone out there rooting for me, my anonymous cheerleader. It’s a weird sensation, but I’m thankful. So, thank you for the adventure.”
And then it occurs to me: my secret person said they would “write back.” There’s a dead-drop location for the notebook so I can get it to my secret person, but then they will, I guess, write their own response and return it.
I’m writing frantically again: “It’s time for your challenge! Tell me about yourself. And I don’t mean your name or who you are. That’s too basic. I want to know something about you that you would only share with me, your anonymous friend. Dig deep for something big, nothing that I would know by meeting you, but something hidden deep inside that drives you to be the person you are, the person who would start an adventure for someone like me. I dare you to take that risk with me.”
I stare at the words. As much as I want this page to represent my truest me, I feel like I’ve crossed into new territory. Like the words on the page are manufactured on one level, but also the purest form of my desire. Maybe this journal, and this person, have unlocked a version of me that I’ve always wanted to be released. I close the book and set down my pen. I suppress every urge to re-open the cover and read through what I’ve written to make sure it sounds right. I am slowly becoming the new, unedited me. I feel like the real me is there on that page and now it’s my secret person’s move. The ball is in their court.
I tuck the notebook back into the envelope and open my GoodWord app to memorize the details about the dead-drop and how to get this notebook back to my secret person.
The dead-drop plan is nothing if not perfect. And, I feel like a secret agent. Here’s the plan: The lost and found at my gym downtown. I create some of the details myself, but the plan’s a good one. After my workout, I hand my envelope to the clerk and say, “I found this over by the squat rack,” and ask them to place it in the lost and found. Simple. I have scribbled out my name on the outside, so they won’t look me up by name in their system and call me. Then, eventually, my secret person will come claim it. It’s creative if nothing else and nobody would ever know it’s not a workout journal or something. I do find myself making prolonged eye contact with the clerk, like she knows something, and I intuitively scan the ceiling for surveillance cameras because they, for sure, will eventually know who my secret person is. But, the mystery intrigues me and I’m just enjoying the secrecy of the moment. I walk to my truck sweaty and happy after that workout.
It’s the weekend before my GoodWord app beeps again and I’ve got more instructions. It just keeps getting more and more creative. The journal, for all I know, is still at the gym, or gone forever. I haven’t seen it since, and there has been no message about it. I’m surprisingly not wondering about it. And so, my app offers me a new challenge, thankfully less dramatic than public singing this time!
CHAPTER FOUR
It’s the only thing I can think of. It’s not the best idea, but I’m going for it.
My GoodWord task this time is to “be a kid again.” Seems simple, so I’m trying not to overthink it. I’ve been asked to do something that makes me feel like a kid. The only things that come to mind that are truly kid-like activities involve food with my grandma, who is no longer living. Or watching TV on Saturday mornings with my Dad, or things I wished I could do as a kid, like eat a twenty pound bar of chocolate, but now seem repulsive. So, I’m settling on the park. My goal is to go sit on the swings. It won’t take long. I can say I tried and then I can move on with my life, being a better person because of it.
At least that’s my thinking when I get here.
Byhere, I mean the Letter Street Park not far from the downtown market. They have the largest swing-set I think I’ve ever seen, probably because it dates back to before playgrounds were Darwin-proof and sterile. I figure as an adult, I’ll be better off with a bigger swing. After trying to make peace-of-mind small-talk with the few moms naturally protecting their kids from the creepy-grown-man-who-wants-to-swing, I’ve been having a great time. I find myself swinging and remembering all the stupid things we used to do on a swing. I remember the tree swing at my grandpa’s house which hung from a branch that wasn’t exactly level, so it was always off-kilter. I remember tying up the outside swings so you could swing in the middle one ina circular orbit until, of course, your mom, or someone’s, yelled at you. I remember swing races where you’d have to start from a full stop and try to be the highest swinger first just by foot-kicking and body-thrashing alone. I always won that one! And, I remember jumping out of the swings, and that one time my shirt caught on the chain and I jumped free of my clothing. And got in lots of trouble.
The good ol’ days.
I’m astounded at how the gravity shift from the weightlessness at the top of each swing, to the heavy pull at the bottom, over and over again, somehow changes me. I feel so relaxed and carefree. I watch the blue sky appear and disappear behind the surrounding trees, now blazing red and orange and yellow in the early fall afternoon. I have an overwhelming sense of nostalgia mixed with a surge of sadness when I think that most kids have replaced this feeling with something digital.
I’m not alone on the swings. There’s a kid on the swing next to me, maybe ten years old. He’s kind of a nerd, I prejudge. Wow. I am being a kid again! I keep pedaling, um, or whatever this leg-pumping is called to get higher and higher, and the highest. What if I swing all the way around the top pole! Would that be legendary, or terrifying? I’m lost in my imagination.
Then, from somewhere deep in my soul I get the dumbest idea ever: I could play kick-off-shoe! That’s the game we used to play on the swings where we loosen the laces on our shoe, swing the highest you possibly can and kick off your shoe at just the right moment so it flies the farthest. There was a day when I was awesome at this. Perhaps because my feet were always bigger than my competition.
As a thirty-year-old, I discover that it’s way more perilous to untie shoes while swinging, so I actually stop to untie my sneaker. Then, swinging as high as I can, with shoes barely hanging on and laces flapping, brings back every training cuefrom all the official playground practices I attended: Don’t kick at the top of the swing, it goes too high. Let your shoe dangle from the bottom of the arc. Turn your body slightly to favor the leg you’re kicking. Use your upper body as leverage. And, most importantly, hold on to both chains tightly.
I’m right-footed, so that seems like the most natural place to start. I pump as hard as I can from the back of the swing, and halfway up the forward swing, I fling my foot as hard as I can.
Holy crap! My shoe is gone! It flies in a perfect arc between the gap in the trees, maybe seventy-five feet and lands ten feet from the low fence surrounding the dog park. It sure pays to have thirty-year-old feet!
I am electrified. With a little more oomph and a tiny bit of precision, I can totally get my other shoe into the dog park! I know it! I pump up my swing to get my greatest momentum again.
“What are you doing?” I hear from the next swing over. The kid is swinging and looking at me back and forth.
“I’m going to get my shoe in that dog park!” I declare.
“No way. Not possible,” he grunts.
“Watch me.” I think I’m breathing hard, but mostly I’m drawing the trajectory and calculating the physics of it all in my head. I’m also remembering how the left-foot kick is always different since it’s my non-dominant foot.
I notice that the kid is pumping way higher too. I also see that he’s leaning over dangerously to untie his shoe, without a worry in the world. I momentarily wonder if I’m being a terrible influence, but quickly resolve that this kid is at least not playing a first-person shooter game on a screen somewhere.
“Let me go first,” he hollers, breathing harder.
I say nothing. I just watch and keep pumping higher.
