This story appeared in the May 1997 issue of 'Creatio ex Nihilo', an online publication.
I've put up with your interference for long enough. I think it's time we parted company. Really. I appreciate the help you gave me when I was a child, but I think it's time I ran my own life.
Remember when we first met, back when I was seven-years-old? Mom had bought me a Superman costume. I'd been reading a lot of super-hero comic books and, since I had the costume, I decided to see if I could fly like my hero. I knew I couldn't fly to the moon or to Mars, but I thought I could at least fly over the house and around the neighborhood. I was about to leap out of my bedroom window when you appeared in the room, almost scaring me to death. I'd never seen a ghost before.
It was strange, seeing you, yet also being able to see through you. Also, I'd never seen a boy so banged and bandaged up before. Lying there in your translucent hospital bed, with a cast from your toes all the way to your neck, you almost didn't have to say a word to convince me not to jump out of that window.
"It's a bad idea, Joe," you said. "Don't do it." Suddenly, I knew that I couldn't fly, wouldn't fly. You were "living" proof that I couldn't.
I immediately climbed down off the window sill and approached you, hoping to find out exactly who you were, and why you looked so much like me. Of course, you were more circumspect in those days and you disappeared, before I could get close to you.
For a long time, I didn't believe in you. Months after that incident, when I thought about myself in that Superman suit, ready to fly through the air and land hard on the ground, I remembered you as a figment of my imagination, an embodiment of latent common sense. I stopped buying comic books altogether, because I didn't want to read any more of those dangerous lies.
You really were reasonably well-behaved in those days. You restricted your appearances to situations which posed an immediate threat. Take the second time we met, for example. I was nine-years-old and ready to cross Crescent Street without even thinking about looking both ways. You showed up with your neck bent at an impossible angle, all bruised and bloodied.
"Watch out for the traffic, Joe," you shouted. I stopped dead in my tracks, mostly because you'd scared me into paralysis much like a fox scares a rabbit. A truck, weaving back and forth like its driver had consumed a few too many early morning cocktails, jumped the curb and nearly hit me where I stood. If I'd been in the street as planned, I would have been hit.
I wanted to thank you, but again, you disappeared as soon as the truck had passed me by. That appearance was justified. Do you understand what I'm saying? I really needed you at that moment.
I needed you when I was ten and you convinced me not to go on that rafting trip with Timmy and his dad. The accident which broke both of Timmy's legs was something I was glad to have avoided.
It was a lot easier for me to prove to myself that you were right in those days. The choices you helped me not to make kept me breathing, kept me healthy. I will be eternally grateful for the advice you gave me at twelve, at fifteen and seventeen. When I started college though, you began to involve yourself in the minutia of my life. That was when you first became a decidedly unwelcome visitor.
Remember when I was eighteen and in love with Jo-Ann Stephens from my freshman English class? I thought the girl was perfect with her long, blonde hair, pert little nose and haughtily sexy personality. I wanted to date her so badly, I couldn't sleep at night. It took me weeks to work up the courage to pick up the phone and dial her dorm-room number. Don't get me wrong, I know you were correct in that instance. As I realized as I got to know her a little better in my sophomore year, Jo-Ann was bad news. The point is, I would have found that out on my own, without your help. I didn't need you to appear just as I was about to dial her number, with pronouncements of romantic doom. I didn't need to see those images of a ghostly Jo-Ann, telling me that she couldn't see me anymore. I didn't need to hear the sound of her potential voice, telling me that I was just a boy and she needed to date men. That scene must have come from several months in the future, after I had enjoyed her company for countless dates. Yes, I avoided a broken heart, but I also missed what probably would have been a memorable relationship.
Let's face it, your advice was always sound on a practical level, but you deprived me of so many adventures, I can't help but be resentful. In my junior year, you stopped me from taking a great course in Advanced English literature. You showed up just as I was filling out my course list for the semester, with a transcript from the future, showing that I'd earned a 'D' in that class.
"You'll never get into law school with this grade on your record, Joe," you said. I should have put my foot down, right then and there. So what if I'd gotten a 'D' in that class? I might have learned something worthwhile, read some interesting material. Grades aren't everything, you know. And being a lawyer isn't the best thing in the world, either.
That brings me to my next complaint. Remember the time I wanted to change my major to meteorology? I was really interested in the subject. I thought it would be fascinating to learn how to predict snowstorms and hurricanes. Then you had to show up, looking like you were thirty or thirty-five. You had to tell me that I couldn't make a living with a degree in meteorology. You had to show me that hypothetical future apartment in the poor neighborhood, with the cockroaches crawling over everything. The fate you wanted me to avoid might not have been so bad. Sure, I wouldn't have been able to buy a Mercedes Benz like I'm driving today, but I might have been happier. I might have been a more interesting person to know.
You stopped me from going to that Muddy Waters blues concert in my second year of law school. You appeared in a ghostly jail cell and told me that I was going to be arrested for drinking and driving if I went to the concert. I protested. I said I wouldn't drink a drop of alcohol, if only you'd let me go to the concert. You wouldn't relent. You told me that Freddy was going to be the one doing most of the drinking and that I'd be arrested along with him, regardless of whether I had a drink or not. You told me that I wouldn't get a job with a top law firm if I had that incident on my record. So, I didn't go to the concert and Muddy Waters died a year later without me ever getting a chance to see him perform. All for the sake of a big job in a stuffy law firm. The funny thing is, I never wanted to go to law school in the first place. I wasn't that concerned with money or prestige and I certainly didn't find the law very stimulating on an intellectual level. You forced me to go to law school.
Look, I don't mean to cry over things that can't be changed. Ultimately, I was the one who made the decisions in my life. I was the one who decided to get the law degree and the fancy job and the fancy condominium. I listened to you. The thing is, I should have known better then and I certainly know better now.
You really outdid yourself when you convinced me to end my relationship with Marie. I'll give you some credit, at least you let me date her. We had a lot of laughs and playful evenings together, saw more than a few interesting concerts, plays and movies. I really thought I wanted to be with that woman for the rest of my life. I was about to go shopping for an engagement ring and had planned how I was going to ask her to marry me. Before I could act, you appeared again, this time looking like you were at least fifty-five years of age. You showed me an image of Marie at fifty-five, all fat and unattractive, losing her hair. It was enough to turn the stomach of any twenty-eight-year-old man. On your advice, I didn't ask her to marry me; I broke off the relationship. But listen buddy, looks aren't everything. The things a man can't stomach at twenty-eight often become tolerable at a more advanced age. It's true, she wasn't destined to age well, but we might have had a successful marriage, nevertheless. We might have shared dozens of wonderful experiences, had two or three great kids . . . who knows? Instead, I'm a bitter old bachelor, and I share my life with no one but you.
All of which brings me to our present situation. Tomorrow, I am going to turn in my resignation to the firm. I don't like working there. The job is incredibly boring, I hate my boss, and I simply refuse to spend another day in that place. You can sit there, looking like you're sixty years old, and show me all the eviction notices you want. You can show me those potential bankbooks with the super-low balances. You can conjure up hundreds of rejection letters from future potential employers. I don't care. I'm not going to listen to you, this time. I'm not. You can just pack up your ectoplasm and get out of my home. My future without you may not be perfect, but you know what? I'm willing to take my chances.