Radically Happy

Continued from Hector Protector

I get off the bus at the last stop, still shaken by Hector’s sacrifice.

The world is black and white, like Kansas in the Wizard of Oz. I enter an old but not quite abandoned movie studio.

Theater

There are no voices, but I hear a soft whirring. I follow the sound.

I see him.

He is sitting dead center in a screening room.
All alone.
Reviewing silent films.

Movies about me.

The story of my life.

Director

I enter.

Earnest: Um, excuse me?

He does not speak.
Perhaps he cannot.

He turns to look at me, smiles gently, and pats the seat next to him.
As if he’s been expecting me all along.

He is younger than I expected.
Early twenties.
His face is serious, intent.
But still boyish.

I sit down.

We are watching the movie of my earliest memory.
The one named EggBoy.
Which I used to call nurture
But now name codependency.

I look at the Director.

Earnest: Is that when you split off from me? To hold the pain of not being emotionally validated? Is that why you, and I, live like spectators in my own life, instead of pursuing authentic intimacy?

Director cocks his head, as if considering the question for the first time. Then shrugs, stands up, and motions for me to join him in the projection room.

Projections

There are sections.

The area near the front, where the actual projector is, is hot and noisy. I move back to where the films are kept. It is like a video store, except giant reels instead of cassettes.

The Non-Fiction section is surprisingly small. Most of the memories must be in storage. Perhaps this is because I don’t dwell much in the past. Or am dissociated from it.

Perhaps this is because I don’t dwell much in the past. Or am dissociated from it.

There’s a ton of New Releases. All the many projects and plans that fill my waking thoughts, from the micro-plans to make coffee to the mega-plans to save civilization.

There’s a well-curated area for Childhood Dreams, a cleverly organized (if sprawling) Professional Development, and a beautiful chapel housing Worship Songs and Spiritual Encounters.

I look at the Director, who has been silently following me around. Observing.

Earnest: There’s one more section, isn’t there?

He smirks at me knowingly.

The Sanctum

Surprisingly close to the front, there is a dark alcove that appears empty.

Looks can be deceiving.

At the back is a dark curtain that blends into the walls. Behind that, double doors with an imposing lock.

But the key is in the lock. It always is, no matter how many times I tried to throw it away.

But the key is in the lock. It always is, no matter how many times I tried to throw it away.

The Director gestures me in. His eyes are merry, but his smile is sad. Or is it smug?

Inside, it is surprisingly tasteful. There’s a decent amount of genuine romance, and even a section on emotional and psychological development.

But then it goes quickly downhill. From sheer escapist fantasy to X-rated, and worse.

I head towards the darkest corner, dragging a reluctant Director with me.

We stop before a Satanic altar, covered with horrific symbols. And possibly blood.

He stares at me in terror. I wonder whether he misread my intention. Or guessed correctly.

Earnest: Give me a hand. I need to find out what’s hiding behind.

He wants to argue with me; but, he has no words. So — as usual — he complies with my wishes.

The Opening

We put our shoulders to it, and shove. Despite its imposing appearance, the altar is light, even shoddy. We move it easily.

Behind it is a circular tunnel, about three feet high. I gesture for Director to lead the way, but he gestures violently in refusal.

Then something amazing happens.

He talks from his pocket a small, golden key, and presses it into my hands. Then he lays his hands on me and prays a silent blessing, his mouth moving through no sounds come out.

Then he gives me a hug, and departs.

I stare at the key. It is smaller and brighter than the one we left in the doors, yet I still wonder if it’s the same one.

I shrug and crawl into the tunnel, feeling the urge to stay and hide in The Sanctum slowly dissipate. To be replaced by a growing fear of what lies ahead.

At last I reach a round door, whose keyhole was sealed with wax. Taking a deep breath — and mouthing my own silent prayer– I break the seal, turn the lock, and open the door.

A voice speaks:

“I was wondering when you’d show up!”

I am stunned.
Not by the words.
But because…

I recognize the voice!

To be continued