Chapter One

I have a theory, Mom. I have a theory that in this world there exists neither good nor bad emotions. I remember learning in school that the hypothalamus in our brain decides what we consider good versus what is bad. Therefore, nothing and everything is both good and bad. Mom, I’m going to suck out every sentiment in life. I’m going to live two lives to the fullest for the both of us. I’ll leave the rest up to the hypothalamus.

A lot of people ask me if it was hard growing up without a mom. At first maybe it was, but I honestly didn’t know how it felt any other way. My mom died while delivering me, her first child, so needless to say, we didn’t get to know each other a whole lot. No, I don’t have any survivor’s guilt, but days like today make me think about her more than usual. You see, for me, I am celebrating my 24th birthday today. For my dad, he mourns the 24th anniversary of his wife’s death.

My dad never recovered from my mom’s death. I guess I don’t blame him. Maybe that’s the real reason he named me after her father, Noel. After her death, it was just the two of us. I try to let him know that he did a good job. After all, I’m an above average human being: went to college, never got arrested. I wonder if he talks to my mom still.

I can’t remember exactly when it started for me. Maybe around 4th or 5th grade; you know, the time in a boy’s life when he needs his mom the most. One day I just started talking to her as if she was in the room with me. Since I only had a few stories from my dad about what my mom was like, I’ve spent the majority of my life now molding an image of who I think she was. In my head, with the help of pictures surrounding my childhood home, I see my mom as a beautiful, jet-black haired woman with bright blue eyes. She’s kind, but stubborn. Most importantly, she’s a great listener. Admittedly, with another year older, I’m now within three of my mom’s resting age. I wonder how that image will change, but I guess I can cross that bridge later.

I’ve been talking to my mom a lot recently. Whenever I’m stuck, I either talk to her or go to the library. Whenever I can’t figure out what exactly it is that I’m doing, I like to pace aimlessly amongst the stacks of books. For some reason, when I look at the book titles, it reminds me that at some time, the thoughts buried between the pages once consumed the minds of their respective authors. For me, this is the purest form of stimuli. All the human brain needs is to see a title for it to create an entire world almost instantly. I saw one today called The Floater.

Without picking up the book, I imagine it being about a man no different than you or I. He probably wasn’t always a floater; you know, the kind of person that lets the earth spin beneath his feet without the passage of time. No, there was a time that his feet were cemented to the ground, submissive to the moment. But something changed deep inside the man. Now, he has the luxury of watching those human statues pass below him, wondering what holds them to the ground; who it is that holds them to the moment.

Anyways, I really got myself stuck this time. It’s been three months since I quit my job and moved to a new city. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t hate my last job; but at 24 years old, I just expected that I was supposed to feel something. People only pray for those in pain, but if I’m being completely honest, pain is something you can overcome– there is a final outcome for better or for worse. But how was I supposed to overcome waking up every day expecting to feel some validation that I’m doing something even remotely right? Looking back on it, I probably just needed a vacation. I probably didn’t need to move to a new city in search for an inspiration that doesn’t exist. And what’s changed? I’m still pacing libraries that seem to remind me that I’ll always take myself with me wherever I go.

It’s been like this ever since my senior year in college; well, I guess if I’m going to be exact, it started the week before I moved back to school. I had the dream internship that summer. Atlas Laboratories was known for their position as innovation personified. Like mine, it was every engineering student’s dream to work for them. I knew that I would work there ever since my sophomore year in high school when I read about an experiment where they designed a --- where ----. It wasn’t the scientific feat that impressed me, but I remember watching an interview with the CEO, Paul Salazar, where a reporter asked him, “who cares if --- ? why did you waste money focusing on --- instead of sourcing that for ways that can actually improve human lives?” For the past eight years his response has stuck with me. In response to, “why did you?” Salazar answered, “because I can.”

Once I heard those three words, I knew that I was going to one day work for him. No other company on the planet invests millions of dollars just to explore the founder’s fantasy and whim. In order to make this dream a reality, I spent the next four years reading all of Salazar’s books, including “” and “”. I studied classical engineering in college while pouring over any science fiction book I could get my hands on, hoping to develop a creative mind. You see, truth be told, I didn’t want to just work for Paul Salazar. I wanted to be Paul Salazar. I wanted to explore endless creativity that no desk job would ever offer me. When I first got that internship, I was certain that I was one step closer to making that a reality.

Atlas Laboratories flew me out to San Francisco for the summer and housed me in an apartment overlooking the bay. On the first day of my internship, I left my new studio apartment at 5:30 in the morning. Some people call it compulsive, but I refuse to be late for anything. I’ve learned that there is nothing so satisfying as extreme punctuality. I had just arrived in San Francisco the day before and didn’t have time to explore the area. Growing up just outside of New York, I was familiar with public transportation, but didn’t want to risk the chance of being late. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but I was already starting to sweat. My apartment was at the top of a hill which meant that I had to walk down the hill and up two others just to get to the train. In New York, we just call it the subway, but here it’s called the BART, or Bay Area Rapid Transit.

The BART took me away from the city, about a twenty minute ride north east. Over the years, I have learned to always bring a book with me. Due to my punctuality problem, I’m often left with a lot of time to kill. Some people use this time to get to know the stranger in front of them at Starbucks, or scroll through their Twitter feed, but I find it much safer to hide behind the wall of the front cover. I once saw that Paul Salazar read ten books a month. I’m not there yet, but it was the 15th of June and I already had four under my belt. I was reading a book by my favorite author, Charles Dion, in which the main character, a sixty year old man named Don, is greeted by a genie dressed like Abraham Lincoln. He tells Don that he has three tries to decide which major historical decision he would want to never have happened. The trick is that he gets two previews of what his new world would look like, but on the final try, his decision is final. Right now, he is about to make his first decision when I opened the book.

Don thought and thought on what his first event would be. Being a humanitarian, he decided to pick an event that affected the most people.

“Ok, Genie, my first wish is for Adolph Hitler to get into art school. This way, hatred and spite would never enter his heart.”

The genie, with a sad look on his face, proceeded to show Don a preview of what his new world would look like with Adolph Hitler as a prominent artist in 1920s Germany. The scene shifted and Don found himself in a massive room with twenty foot ceilings. It was not quite morning, but the first few signs of sunlight could be seen in the distance. With no lights on, it was just Don and the genie.

“Why did you wish for something that happened over one hundred years ago to be changed? Don’t you know that these changes could erase your own existence?”

“Genie,” responded Don, “it’s not my life that is important. Why is my life more valuable than any of the Jews that were killed by one man?”

“You have much to learn still, my friend. Come, the sun is rising.”

As the sun rose into the room, a beautiful light cast on the golden walls. A noise was heard, the door opened, and in came a man holding a leather case with a woman following him.

“Don’t worry, they can’t see us,” said the genie.

The man, roughly twenty-five years old, directed the woman in the middle of the room while he sat down behind an easel. He opened his leather bag, pulled out some tools, and began directing the woman on how to stand. “Chin up, now down, back up a smidge, ok now hold that position.”

After about a half an hour, Don grew impatient and walked behind the artist to see the painting. Horrified, Don grasped for the wall behind him, missed and fell down. Immediately, the scene ended and Don found himself in his own home.

“Well, what did you see?” asked the genie.

“Impossible! I.. I saw his painting. The girl! But she was clearly beautiful! But... in the painting she wore rags, her face beaten. And… and across the top, written in what looked like blood, read ‘Blame the Jews.’ What kind of man…”

“Exactly the kind you wished for,” interrupted the genie. “You see, once Hitler was accepted into art school, he excelled and impressed the entire country with his skill. So much so, that one day he was approached by the National Socialist German Workers’ Party, where he was asked to be the director of propaganda. Don, we all have a part to play in history; and we will play that part one way or another. One decision by one man does not determine a generation. I encourage you to think about this more before your next decision.”

I put the book down and checked my phone. I still had another half hour and a ten minute walk before I had to be at the office. I went into my phone and searched for the nearest coffee shop. I have this “problem,” so to say, in which I forget to eat during an important moment. I don’t know why, maybe it’s nerves, but for some reason my stomach stops telling my brain to feed it. The first time this was really an issue was during my seventh grade science fair. I had spent the whole year testing the growth of plants using different fertilizers. The big day came where I was to present in front of judges. I remember waking up that morning feeling so anxious and excited. I skipped breakfast and ran out of the front door towards my school a couple of blocks away while my dad shouted “good luck” from the front porch.

I never did get to present that day. Due to my lack of food and all of the nerves playing tag in my stomach, I fainted during fourth period and had to spend the rest of the day in the nurse’s office. Ever since, I made it a point to always have something in my stomach on a big day. I walked to the nearest coffee shop, called Golden Gate Café: Coffee and Tea Room. I’m very particular with where I buy my coffee. With a new city and a clean slate, I was certainly in the market for a new coffee shop that I would soon regular every morning before work. It had to be just right. And it’s not just the quality of the coffee that I look for; it has to have that special aura: not too loud, not too quiet; somewhere you can have a conversation and still read a book.

I walked into Golden Gate Café with high expectations. The walls were rustic brick with a wooden interior design. There were tables and booths lining the wall. My favorite part was an upstairs loft with reading chairs and plenty of outlets and desks. The morning rush was pretty busy, but I eventually made my way to the front of the line. Now, I have one rule when it comes to trying a new coffee place: the first order has to be a medium black coffee. Since the atmosphere had already proven worthy, I needed to know that the coffee matched the ambiance. I am a firm believer that a coffee shop is only as good as their medium black coffee. If this simple order isn’t the best drink I’ll have all day, anything else on their menu is immediately discredited. So, I ordered my drink, along with a double chocolate muffin, and took an empty barstool by the window. I had fifteen minutes until work.

Good morning, Mom. Today is the day. It’s strange to look back on the moments and decisions that led me here. Maybe the genie was right: maybe a singular choice cannot change one’s life. It’s times like these, though, that really make me think. How the hell did I end up alone in San Francisco? How did I end up at this window in this coffee shop? Life really is a sum of small decisions made every day. It’s impossible to trace any effect by one cause. Hell, not even Tolstoy could do it. If I wanted to trace the decision that led me to sit by this window, I’d have to trace the decision that led me to this coffee shop, to California, to Atlas Labs, to engineering school. These motions trace back to you, Mom, and to your decisions. Why’d you want a child? Why’d you want to marry my father? What if you were still here? Would I still be at this window?

I’ve heard it’s dangerous to look back like I am doing now. I’ve heard that looking back can turn you into a pillar of salt. As a kid in bible school, I used to think the salt was the important factor; I now see that it’s the pillar. When we look back, we are cemented to the past. You can’t run away from the fire that is your history when you stand a pillar on top of a hill, waiting for the flames to reach you. The only decision we have in life is to keep running. I’ve passed many pillars on my marathon so far. I pity those pillars. I better get moving. I will not be late. Love you mom, I’ll see you soon.