Child Support by Zack Reeves (classic literature books txt) 📖

Child Support
Zack Reeves

I step off of the bus into a crowded Philadelphia street corner.
I receive no strange looks, shocked glances, or terrified stares. No one faints or cries. Not a single soul recognizes me.
You’d think that God stepping off of a bus would cause more of a stir.
Oh, sorry. Guess I should explain myself a little better than that.
See, every couple of years I like to check in with you people. It’s a lot like a mother checking up on her child who doesn’t call, except I usually don’t send care packages or cookies or anything like that. Last time I went to London. I think that was in 2007. Around August. I remember the leaves most of all. They were gorgeous.
Something the preachers won’t tell you about me: Of all the things I’ve made, you’re not my favorite. Really, you’re not even my second or third favorite. (Sorry.) But what is my favorite, my most glorious creation?
Colors.
Every time a leaf changes colors, I get giddy like a school girl. I relish the subtlety of the change so that when it’s finished, you don’t even notice that it’s been happening. You can’t. I know, because I made you that way. They giggle and get all excited when they change.
Sometimes I come down here just to look at the colors. I once spent six years lying in a field staring at the sky in what is now Mombasa. I had the most ridiculous amount of work to do when I got back, but it was totally worth it. The blues, the oranges, the reds! Galaxies formed and died in front of my eyes. Brilliant. Times like that you really have to pat yourself on the back and say “Well done, sir.”
But enough of that. Back to today. Things to accomplish.
It’s about 5 P.M. and I’m walking down the sidewalk. I feel the unfamiliar brush of human contact as rush hour walkers make their way down the street en masse. We are sheep, driven in herds by an unseen shepherd. There is no happiness to be found within the herd. We have merged into one being making a path to the other side of town. We are simple.
Finally, I break from the mass and spy a young man sitting on the sidewalk, braving the crowds and playing a guitar. He is softly singing a beautiful tune that I don’t recognize at first. Noticing me hovering on the edge of his vision, he looks at me and gives me a nod and a smile while singing “Love arrives safely, with suitcase in tow, carrying with her the good things we know: a reason to live and a reason to grow, to trust, to hold, to care.”
I wander over to him and sit, closing my eyes and letting the music run through me. It is a pretty story of Love and Hate personified, being apart from each other for too long, but Love bridges the gap with her patience and kindness. It is a long song, but worth the length.
Finally, he hits the ending note (Bb Major) and smiles as he leans back into the wall of the abandoned general store. His features are more or less unremarkable, until you look into his eyes. Deep and brown, they suggest more than one can initially see on first glance. They suggest a love for this music.
“That was fantastic,” I offer after a moment of silence. Silence being relative, of course, to the crowd bustling beside us.
“Thanks. Know it?”
“Nope.” I really do, but I feel like humoring the boy.
“It’s called The Ballad Of Love And Hate, by The Avett Brothers. You should check them out.”
“I’ll definitely do that. Do you write your own stuff?” I already know that he does, but also that he will refuse to play any of it for anyone. He wouldn’t play it for his closest friends, let alone a total stranger.
“Yeah, but I don’t really play it out here, where people can hear. People want to hear what they already know. That’s how the world works.”
“Why write songs if no one is going to hear them?”
“It’s more of a personal, therapeutic thing for me. I write to help me get through emotional stuff. I’m like a druggie… with less needles. Whenever something starts to hurt, I have to get the guitar and write something down. It’s a real addiction, I think.”
I can tell he means what he says.
“I understand. Why play on the street though? Why not a coffee joint or a concert hall?”
He chuckles and answers, “Because life is real out here. People ain’t dressing up to see a band or to get a latte; they’re dressing up for life. They do so because they have to. I want to be where the action is.”
“Good point. Got any more songs?”
“Plenty.”
He croons out a calming rendition of Old Crow Medicine Show’s “Wagon Wheel,” smiling every time he sings the chorus. I sing along and harmonize with his voice. For three minutes and fifty-two seconds, we are lost within our own worlds.
I can’t stay here for long, though. I bid him farewell, pick up my backpack, and disappear into the roaring crowd. My face and voice will linger in his mind for maybe a couple days. He’ll forget, soon. They always do. A couple months from now, he will look back upon this exact moment and wonder who I was and where I came from, and why I was so curious about his songs. Then I will fade from his conscious mind forever. Years away, he’ll get a record deal with Warners Bros. I’ll smile.

FACT:
I don’t expect you to think of me one hundred percent of the time.
Even fifty is a stretch.

People will forget, and I’ll forgive them for it. Not in that forgiven-so-you-can-get-to-heaven kind of forgive. More like a friend that pisses you off and then bakes you rice crispy treats to make up for it forgiven. I’ve gotten used to it.
I let it go. Walking down the street, I see a local café (with that fancy accented e, I love that) that no one seems to feel like frequenting. I wander inside and order a plain coffee. The café owner is a battered shell of a man, spiteful and angry. His leathery skin is barely stretched over his bones. He brews me up a cup and then moves to the other side of the room.
“Not one for conversation?” I inquire.
“Son, I’ve been doing this longer than you been alive. I don’t have to explain myself to anyone. If you don’t like it, you can leave.” He means those words.
I take the hint and keep to myself for a few minutes, sipping my coffee. I look around the café. It is filled with vintage paintings, a couple (fake) Picassos, and the first dollar earned in a frame behind the counter. Underneath it, a sign reads: First dollar, 1983, coffee.
Thinking about his comment, I laugh to myself. Longer than I’ve been alive? I don’t even know how long I’ve been alive anymore. What can I even consider alive? I remember a beginning, but it seems like one of those memories you have from when you were four and all the details are blurry. I remember explosions. I remember chaos. I remember discovering that I had the power to bring it into order.
The initial confusion wore off sometime in the first thousand years, after realizing that I was not alone. There are Others like me. Surprised? Most would be. I’m not really sure how many Universes there are, but it’s a very, very large number. And to take care of that many entities, it takes a lot of patience.

ANOTHER FACT:
If nothing else, I am patient.
(Not always kind.)

It takes an unimaginable amount of patience to take care of you people. I can’t imagine the others who have more than one planet to take care of. I can barely take the strain of one.
Suddenly, the owner snaps his head in my direction.
“You gonna be here all night, or what?”
I check the clock on the wall. 9:35 P.M. What happened? Did I wander off into some kind of supernatural daydream? I’ve been in this café for more than two hours now, far longer than I expected.
Maybe I’m losing grip on my own reality again. I thought I could do better this time. The Others warned that this happens occasionally, when one stays in a tangible form for too long. You start to feel what the humans feel. It’s what happened to me in London two years ago, and it’s what I’m in Philadelphia to correct.
I drop a five dollar bill on the counter and make my way outside, turning left and hugging the wall along an alleyway that would get me to her new house quickly. It is dark and terrifying, but my daydreaming has cost me the luxury of dilly-dallying. I am daunted at the prospect of arriving at this woman’s door. She has not seen my face in two years, and surely doesn’t expect to see it ever again. She requires closure, however, even after all this time. I am here to bring it to her.
Her husband will be confused and possibly angry or jealous. I’ll have to deal with that, but I won’t harm him. I’ll also have to endure as his wife makes him understand that this man is the one, the one who created our child.
A one and a half year old, named Lydia Jane. I never got to see her alive in this mortal form, and I am more nervous than I have ever been. She will watch and not understand that two years ago, a man that wasn’t daddy fell in love with mommy. She will not understand the longing that two people can feel for each other in less than three months. She will not understand the pain that mommy felt when this man left, suddenly in the night. She will not understand that daddy isn’t really daddy.
But perhaps someday, she’ll understand.
I look up at the sky and it is a deep green. Something inside me screams that’s not normal, but I disregard the voice. I know what’s happening, but I can’t deal with it right now. I’m losing touch once again. I’ll correct it when I’m done here, and make sure that no one remembers the day the sky was green. For now, I simply need to hurry. Time’s running out.
Turning a corner in the alley reveals a mass of black clothing and tattooed skin, barely visible against the dark brick building. There must be at least six of them. I begin to walk faster. If they try anything, I will simply alter the current reality. They’ll find themselves in a pet store or a Denny’s, coked-out and confused. It’s not the best solution, but it’s all I’ve got right now.
As I near them, they begin to circle around me. I clear my throat and begin walking even faster, hoping to clear the alleyway before they can make a move.
Too late! The gang has me trapped. I close my eyes and send them to another time and place, wondering where and when they could be going.
“Somethin’ funny, kid?” My eyes burst open.
“Hey Johnny, think this kid’s a wise guy!” One