PERMANENT RECORD

© Randal W. O’Rourke

 

            Each of us has been cautioned time and again since we were 13 or 14 years old.  But few, if any, heed these warnings, or fully realize their implications.  I was, at one time, part of the ignorant mass wandering through life totally oblivious to the fate awaiting me, in spite of others repeated attempts to raise my consciousness.  Even our potential saviors couldn't completely understand the consequences of neglecting their own message:

            GIVE CAREFUL CONSIDERATION TO YOUR ACTIONS; ALL OF THIS GOES ON YOUR PERMANENT RECORD.

            I would like to report that my enlightenment came through years of soul searching.  A seemingly endless quest for the meaning of life and man's relation to the universe.  The truth, however, is that my knowledge of the spiritual world was gained quite by accident, and, in a much more earthy fashion.  The unlikely catalyst for my experience in the great beyond was what I had believed to be a package of pre-processed beef by-products.

            Lunchmeat.

            I had gone to bed early one evening with an empty stomach.  Not my first choice, considering I lived next door to a six-foot, blonde, Scandinavian airline hostess.  But, being a single father with impressionable young children in the house my options were limited.  Almost as soon as my head hit the pillow I entered that state which can best be described as narcoleptic limbo.  A no man's land between waking and sleep.  A semi-conscious condition where nothing seems to exist.  If you have never experienced this timelessness, might I suggest a weekend in Enid, Oklahoma.

            A deep sleep eventually overtook me, only to be interrupted about three hours later by what sounded like thunder.  But, as I rose to check all of the windows in the house to insure that no furniture or carpet was ruined by the ensuing storm, the hideous roar was repeated.  Now, being fully alert and in control of my faculties, I quickly realized the source of the rumbling was not overhead, but beneath my nightshirt.

            There must be a mention, at this point, of the fact that I rarely, if ever, remember my dreams.  Yet, on this occasion the images in my head of a cold-cut safari were still so vivid I could almost taste it:  Upon sighting and approaching my prey, I lunged toward it armed only with a double-bladed butter knife loaded with mustard. The yellow wound only angered the beast. It's cries of pain and rage had provided the bellowing beneath my ribs.

            Jarred to full consciousness by these pangs of hunger, and knowing I would not rest until they were satisfied, I began a quest for some real food.  After a thorough search of the contents of the kitchen, I made a sandwich out of what I thought was pickle loaf, which had been wrapped in foil and shoved to the back of the refrigerator.  I headed for the family room with this concoction, took three bites, about the same number of steps, and dropped dead in the hallway.

            My Methodist upbringing had not even come close to preparing me for what I was to experience next.  All my life I was told stories of bright lights at the end of a tunnel.  Of Saint Peter at the Pearly Gates.  Of family members who had passed before me, greeting me with their arms outstretched in a gesture of welcome. 

            But, instead of loving relatives, or Saint Peter confronting me with the moral atrocities I had committed against mankind and nature, I found myself face to face with my old high school superintendent.  His head was tilted back just enough to provide a glare from the lower half of his bifocals.  A chill ran down my spine until it reached my bladder and left a mound of icicles around my feet.  I had seen this look before.

            When I misbehaved as a small child my father never found it necessary to resort to any form of corporal punishment.  The first time I tested the limits of his patience, and saw him peering at me through those divided lenses with an icy stare previously witnessed only by Haitian villagers performing a whirling dervish, I realized I didn't want to be around if he snapped. 

            Never that threatening while he was alive, in the time since he had departed Mr. McMurphy had somehow managed to duplicate this look and found time to perfect it.  He was waiting impatiently, sucking on his false teeth, arms folded across his chest, clutching my high school transcript.  I have never seen, and can never hope to see, a truer study in the art of intimidation.

            I waited with baited, not to mention my last, breath as he parted the pages of this incriminating manuscript.  The pages turned faster and faster until my adolescence seemed to pass before my eyes like the flip animation panels on an old deck of Popeye cards.  Eventually the scene cleared to a smooth picture of me talking Henry Burgoyne into attempting to juggle an entire family of live hamsters in freshman General Science.  Before the third hamster had hit the floor, the action switched to Old Lady Fernwhistle's English Literature class where I tried to explain the means by which Captain Ahab subdued the great white whale in John Steinbeck's "The Pearl".  It was obvious, by the look on her face, she was aware I hadn't even read so much as the back cover of the book.                                        

            For awhile, I kept up hope that a cosmic error had been committed, and I was accidentally reviewing the life of some other poor soul. On and on they went.  Haunting visions of intense personal humiliation.         

            Nope.  No mistake.  These were obviously MY high school years.  Always one to indulge in a little healthy introspection, I was beginning to find this more than a little excessive. 

            Though it seemed an endless procession of my most embarrassing moments, all this had transpired in a matter of only a few seconds.  Fortunately, my fall had been jarring enough to awaken my son.  Not realizing what exactly had stirred him, and feeling famished himself, he rose from his bed and headed for the kitchen.  En route he stumbled over my lifeless form lying in the hall.  Upon attempting to question me on the whereabouts of the science project he had left in the fridge, he realized the seriousness of my condition.  Always a devoted and quick thinking child he dialed 911, immediately after ordering a large pepperoni with extra cheese.

            The paramedics were able to revive me at the scene and my son insisted on making the ride with me to the hospital, his pizza having already arrived a few minutes ahead of the ambulance. 

            Aside from some muffled chewing, blended with the sirens, the majority of the trip was silent.  I took advantage of this time to take a hard look at my recent experience and my life in general.  I decided there were three basic lessons to be learned from my journey to the Great Beyond, and asked my son if he would like to hear them. 

            "Mmph, mmph" he replied. 

            Confronted with his obvious enthusiasm, I imparted to him my following newly found wisdom. 

            1. My high school years were much more important than I had ever thought.

            2. My high school years were much more miserable than I had ever thought.

            3. If you live next door to a six foot, blonde, Scandinavian airline hostess, never settle for going to bed with an empty stomach!