A story I wrote for our mother many moons ago. I found it saved in a folder of hers as I searched for birth certificates and the like to register her death. The wonders of technology allowed me to digitalise her printed copy. I did have to remove some references to old technology but otherwise, it is only lightly edited. At the time of me writing the short story, Janice, our mother, expressed a dread of death, mostly because she didn’t like the idea of everything going on without her. Maybe her dread inspired the story. I am pleased to say that as she aged, her dread dissipated and when her time came, she was ready to let the world continue to turn without her. Caroline
Spilt sunlight of the setting sun washing into steel grey water blinded Jack as he took the bend a little faster than recommended and ploughed into an oncoming aggregates truck. It killed him. Dead. He found it strange to play back the moment and not feel pain. He had thought all the time he was alive, that dying hurt. Jack had spent years trying to ensure the longest possible life, both for himself and others as a health Guru to the masses. His body was intact, a small mark in the centre of his temple indicated the cause of his death. At the autopsy, the pathologist had a strong desire to write, ‘Blinded By The Light ‘ in the box asking for the cause of death. It would he felt, have been the most accurate statement, the rest was just detail.
For Jack, shaking off the weight of the body was like getting rid of a hangover, it felt odd being detached from life, odd, but free. Free to be. Not to do anything particular, to just be part of the pattern of everything. He likened life before death to one of those sixties-style lava lamps, bright orange gloopy stuff that shed a tear occasionally and travelled through viscose fluid gathering other gloopy bits along the way before rejoining the mother Gloop, becoming part of the mass. He enjoyed bringing his life experiences to mind from the perspective of death. He could feel them in real-time.
Being born as Jack had been interesting. He remembered now how much more of a shock being born into something always was, that moment of terror experienced when moving from the known state and environment to the unknown. The forgotten land of life. He wondered why he liked to try it so often, whilst knowing anyway that it allowed him to experience as if for the first time, creation. He had a Baskins and Robbins style, many opposing flavours mixed with emotional syrup. He couldn’t avoid dipping into life, and each time he did, he became life.
Jack flavour, had been a light heady, lemon sorbet life with moments of complete clarity, allowing his light to shine. He had shone brightly. Television lights had enhanced his inner glow. A microphone had ensured the flow of motivational words. Lycra had raised world awareness of his physical prowess. Thousands, every day, stretched to his tune, danced to his music. A lot of his success had to do with timing.
His first 10-minute slot was just before 6.30 am. This caught the busy ones. Those who had previously risen early to produce a lull before the family rush learned to start their rush earlier. A 10-minute slot every forty minutes was broadcast live every day until 9.30 am. Technology broadened and so did his audience.
Jack junkies could find him everywhere. The television, the radio the internet. Factories and offices began to open their doors to staff outside of working hours Some piped his slot through in-house speaker systems, while others insisted on the use of headsets. Telephone call centres throughout the land raised efficiency standards 10-fold when they put Jack on the Line.
Everybody could have a piece of Jack. Except for Jack of course. There was no peace for Jack. Jack had become indispensable to the fabric of his society. People woke to Jack, they breathed and stretched oxygenated their blood through activity, and drank 8 pints of water every day.
The results were amazing – several major pharmaceutical companies suffered short-term fall out of course, mostly those producing “anti ” type medication. You know the kind of thing ..anti-depression, antihistamines anti fat, anti-smoking, anti-behaviour, anti-adrenaline. Once Jack had upped the anti, the rush was high. The anti-jack movement was well funded at the outset but promoting lethargy was tough to do with any vigour. Once the drug companies began to invest in TV stations and understood the advertising revenue available to them from the time around ‘Our Jack’ spots. The anti-jacks became rather subdued.
Weekends were slightly less hectic for Jack. He fell into his weekend broadcast-free space at 9.30 am on Saturday and rarely reappeared on screen or air until his only evening show on Sunday. On Sunday evening Jack set the goals and pattern for the coming weeks’ health activity. Menus and shopping lists were uploaded onto his website ensuring a late-night shopping rush at supermarkets throughout the land. In the world of Single living, Jackpacks, a box containing the entire week’s nourishment and uplifting home spa treatments, were on auto-order for delivery on Monday evenings.
Restaurant culture changed drastically, many peeled away into oblivion – McJacks survived of
course. Wholemeal rolls for their Big McJacks proved a runaway success. Back to the Jack-free place. It became just that. From 9.45 am on Saturday to 5.45 pm on Sunday- Jack was free, kind of. There was family of course, a wife whom he loved dearly. ·Yes, there was always a wife. Not necessarily always the same one, in fact not always his wife. But a wife nevertheless. Wives were deemed healthy, a good thing,and helped an awful lot when it came to the children of which there were several. He couldn’t always remember which ones were his, it happens when you have a little run-on wives. On the whole, he didn’t see that as a problem.
Everybody loved Jack who knew him, often the degree of knowing equated to the degree of loving. That meant Jack was loved superficially by millions, and they count. Jack was loved deeply by very few, mostly family and some friends and they also count. Jack was loved the most by Jack and that had been what counted the most.
Jack shone his light on his love of life and living and helped all whose lives he touched, to choose to shine too. Recently, in his free time , responsibility for all the Jackness had weighed heavily with him. His commitment to Health Now! as a principal had prevented him from making recordings of his ‘jackpot spots ” He had started to feel edgy, he remembered worrying about what would happen if the unthinkable
should happen, death. He became caught in an intellectual deceit. Perhaps it was OK to make recordings to be played after he was Gone…just to keep everyone going –just to keep him going, after life.
A longer life was what he had started to look for, particularly as his hair started to thin. He lived by his principles of breathing, oxygenating and eight pints of water a day. He exercised and toned, limbered, and honed muscles and tendons into perfection He ate well, he played well, he presented his image
Well, as one who would last. The only thing he missed out on was Why.
The real Jack in Jack had got shy. The one who had always known, that the sun was the
flip side of the moon, that day followed night, that fear followed fright, was
hiding behind Joe Public Jack.
In moments of stillness, the real Jack reminded him of what he should do. He
looked for rainbows in showers and found them. He breathed the salt air of the
sea and touched reality. He stood on a hilltop and yelled to the stars, I am me!
and laughed with warmth in his heart, when he heard his echo reply… “I know!”
Poor Jack . The bigger that Public Jack grew, the less space there was for his
truth to shine through. Some thought him slightly lack lustre but still busted a
gut to keep thin, still waged the war with him at the foreground of their lives
.
The houses were paid for, his children were schooled, when Jack started to
realise tomorrow had finally arrived. His audiences were shrinking, not
because they didn’t like him or preferred someone else. It was just that their
sun was rising. Thirty years of healthy living had born new ways, a nation
where children aged eight, took care of the food that they ate. Where parents
exercised their rights to regular mealtimes and Sunday walks or
stayed late at the Gym with their mates and television was thought second rate.
People lived as a norm at the level that Jack had set. His aspirations had been
fully met. He felt quite self-satisfied and enjoyed a warm inner glow, quickly
followed by a moment of doubt. Who was Jack now? Who could really know, but the life that lives on after death, the fire and spark of his soul. It had
chosen the lemon sorbet flavour, tangy and fresh to wake up the taste buds of
man. Jack had enjoyed it all so much which was, the whole point.
As he drove home from his last ever Sunday show, Jack-on-the-Box had taken the high road
across the moor and silently shouted to the sun in the setting sky,”Is there
more lord? Is there more?” In that moment, he heard the word “Yes! and
began to remember, through the mists of experience, what he had missed. As Jack
peered to see his way, the granite lake came into view and the shaft of sunlight
split the sky apart. Turning the corner, Jack was truly blinded by the light and
smiled as he slipped more easily into the death after life, into the one. Now he
knew why he had screamed at birth and cried for months. He had missed this
state of togetherness with all that has ever been, being a minimal element, not a maxi-man.