The Affable Gentleman Who Brought Chaos to Unsuspecting Consumers
Fiction
New Reading Program Converts Creativity to Clean Energy
If you’re in the market for a seasoned life coach, I’d like to introduce you to Don. After all, the point of life is not to be an irritation. You’d like to experience the “wholeness,” but you can’t remember the password to your nonfungible tokens at the moment. Your teenager is dating an Artificial Intelligence, the cat has to get to its spa appointment, and your social feed is neither social nor nutritious. Don gets it.
Be prepared to be happy. That’s Don’s motto. It’s not a guarantee, but that’s the chance you take when you’re in Don’s program. His approach to personal growth is ingenious. You may feel small, even insignificant. Yet, all-in-all you’ll value the fresh perspective, the glimpse at eternal bliss, and the all-natural goodie bag.
Don’s a thoughtful man, from humble beginnings, his imagination was so-so. Then one rainy day he shut off his tv, took a deep breath, and opened a series of interesting books. In a matter of time he emerged as the creative genius we’re talking about today. It wasn’t overnight.
Don was employed by a full-service ad agency, but he wasn’t one of the creatives. He worked downstairs in terms and conditions, with dotted-line reporting to sales. T&Cs had become a lucrative source of income at the agency and Don ensured they were properly organized and updated. His fluency with Roman numerals was a quiet source of pride.
Don had a roomy office with cinder block walls painted a soft beige. No windows, but he had brought in two lamps that he’d found at the flea market with Bella. They were interesting conversation pieces and offered a warm, cozy glow. However, other than his custodial chum, who’d stop for a chat and empty the bin, Don didn’t get many visitors down there.
“Everyone is busy,” he reminded Bella when she asked about the lamps.
Occasionally, after new business pitches, Don was invited upstairs on his coffee break to pick something good from the leftover snacks. Forty-two floors up in the Creative dept, he marveled at the expansive vista and the comfortable cafe seating. Sitting there amid the hubbub, with an eclair and a cup of tea, made him feel like a pop star, he told Bella.
Claude, the head creative, considered Don a milksop. It was his habit to stop by Don’s table when there was an audience. He’d always “compliment” Don’s tie clasp, haircut, or eyeglasses, etc., just to get a few laughs out of everyone.
Don always took it graciously, but it was too bad they never had a proper conversation. Don had a lot of respect for Claude and his position. “What comes first Claude, creativity or imagination?,” is what Don wanted to know.
Don wasn’t swanky. But he was no tatterdemalion. He kept himself politely groomed. His gray suit was always pressed, he had a nice belt, comfortable sox, and every Sunday night he’d shine his cordovans.
For many years, Don would get into the office early. He’d bring a sack lunch and work straight through so he could spend evenings with sweet Bella. Don loved hearing everything about her day.
She was bright, resourceful, and active in the community. Her days were chock full. Invariably at 5:30, Bella would make her patented mad-dash out the door and home to their comfy flat. Generally, she could put the kettle on, set the table for evening tea, and flip her shoes off before Don turned the doorknob. Just a lady of leisure she pretended, but one time he caught her lying on the sofa reading a magazine upside down. Reading magazines, menus, can labels, shop signs upside down became their private joke.
Sometimes, if Don got home first, he’d welcome her home like he was her butler, with slippers, and a champagne cocktail made with ginger ale.
“That’s all fine and good Carson, but where’s madame’s big hug,” she’d usually say.
One evening Don got home first, and raced to prepare the dinner, and the cocktail, and the slippers, and waited silently in the foyer, holding his breath. And he waited. And waited. Until his silence was broken by the faint ring-ring of his landlady’s telephone and a faraway conversation that sounded troubling.
When his landlady’s door opened and he heard her walking down the hall his only thought was “please don’t stop here, please.” When he heard the soft knock he wilted a little.
It was sad news of course. On her way home from the council meeting, Bella had been unexpectedly run over by a trolley car. Everyone did everything they could, but Bella’s warm light went out at 5:32 pm.
After a matter of time, Don resumed his duties remotely.
Don sure read a lot of books. Always traditional books with paper molecules. Think of an author and Don read him. He read in the morning while he ate his Cheerios, shoveling in new ideas by the spoonful. He read while he pressed his trousers. This man was thriving on a diet of high-quality information bits. It did wonders for his outlook.
He imagined Kilgore Trout, Buddha, Ivan Ilych, Pomona, Pip, Pooh, and Anne of Green Gables. He met the intriguing Gregor, a traveling salesman in Prague, who awoke from troubled dreams to find that he had been transformed into an enormous bug. Ovid’s opening line: “let me sing to you now about people who turn into other things,” kept him up until dawn broke.
The authors’ imaginations were tickling Don’s to venture out. And, little by little, Don found himself far beyond the limits of his own imagination. Soon, creative juices were trickling through his capillaries and into his fatty tissues.
Your brain needs about 20 watts to do all your thinking. That’s just enough to power a Christmas bulb. Now think about Don’s brain. His neurotransmitters are firing idea molecules like Pachinko balls. That bundle of electrons that we think of as “Don” was undergoing some exciting new changes at the cellular level.
Don’s pursuit of gardening was inspired by a book Bella’s sister suggested: The Well Gardened Mind. She had made a good case for the mental health benefits of nature and tending plants. A number of studies have shown that houseplants can lower anxiety and blood pressure, decrease stress, and increase concentration.
“There’s evidence of a garden’s ability to console, too,” she told him.
One sunny morning during wash-up at the sink, Don spotted the first runners of his new strawberry vine curling from his armpit area. He couldn’t help chuckling when he imagined Claude’s reaction. Don was no braggadocio, but his creativity was becoming embarrassingly obvious.
You can see how professionally awkward it might be if Don, from terms and conditions, were to casually pick a plump, juicy strawberry from his privy garden.
Yet, a subtle nod of respect from Claude wasn’t beyond the imagination. It kept Don going.
Don was enchanted by nature and suspected that there was a complex intelligence keeping everything clicking. He wondered how new patterns came into being. Birds, microbes, frogs, celebrities, etc., all have the exact same ingredients: electrons and quarks. Wind has electrons. Does Earth dream? Is there a kind of imagination working in nature that’s just like ours?
Don’s personal garden flourished through the seasons, which bore no relation to the usual rotation around the sun. By channeling his divine sparks he created a variety of unusually small, fresh fruits. While he preferred the easy accessibility of vines and little bushes, he experimented with tiny carrots, yams and even created a small bag of peanuts.
Recently, late one evening, there was a heated exchange with Pierre-Simon Laplace, the 18th-century mathematician. An interesting thought experiment was proposed. Pierre claimed that the universe was stable and predictable and that, as a result, mathematical analysis could help us understand the cosmos in its entirety.
“Au contraire, Pierre. Perhaps I can imagine the equation for a mathematical mouse,” Don acknowledged. “But what about creativity, Pierre? Is there a formula for that? Is there an equation for Bella that you can share, Monsieur?”
That’s when it hit him. His future was in restorative nature products. Everyone is looking for predictability and stability, but habits have a dull density. “A little more chaos is what we need,” said Don. “That’s where imagination lives. Chaos isn’t the enemy, it’s the nursery of new ideas!”
He devised an exacting reading list. Time was of the essence.
At this point, we may get in touch with things that precede any capability of verbalization. That is if Don hadn’t begun sharing his fresh insights in the terms and conditions of the Alexa Smart Grill — one of the agency’s hottest clients.
You’ve seen the ads. The Alexa Smart Grill features nano-tech cooking, a 62” plasma display, and a virtual connection to your cerebral cortex. It’s not cheap, but it anticipates your perfect steak and provides comforting advertainment while you’re outside in the backyard. As you can imagine, its extensive terms and conditions required an unusual proficiency in Roman numerals.
Terms and conditions are like the Mariana Trench, they’re unfathomable. Anyone can write them or agree to them, but nobody reads them. Nobody can. Unless there’s a big class-action suit at hand.
Standing before Superior Court, the Audubon Society claimed the Alexa Smart Grill’s nanobeams were killing the birds. They presented evidence from ornithologists and dissatisfied customers. The value of birds is still being contested. Nevertheless, the agency’s expensive legal team wasn’t sweating. Until someone read Don’s revised terms.
Whereas Section X previously absolved the executives, their heirs, beneficiaries, and chums from any damages whatsoever, and wherefore, it now said none of that. Section X was entitled: “Repression of chaos results in an inhibition of creativity,” in which Don outlined his suggestions for the perplexed 21st-century consumer.
Actually, Don had made his revisions on a Tuesday, days before legal discovered anything. On Wednesday evening he had prepared a plate of nibbles, opened a bottle of Becherovka, and sat down to read Chaos, Creativity & the Cosmic Consciousness. By Saturday, Don made a significant new crop rotation. His creative genius was reaching its crescendo.
Now you’re probably thinking, how does this guy know so much about Don? Is he qualified? Is this a joke? Perhaps you’ll be interested to know this: I tasted Don’s fruits.
I had no strawberries or peanuts. I suspect the landlady ate those. I was dispatched to Don’s flat by the agency to catch him in flagrante delicto. The class-action suit was picking up international attention. Although the public was rooting for the agency and its hot clients, word was starting to leak on Section X. My job was to put an end to the story. With no one the wiser.
I arrived at 7:30 a.m. expecting to catch Don at breakfast. It was upon entering the bedroom that I discovered his creativity in full bloom. I’m only an amateur mycologist, but anyone could’ve seen that the bed was covered by mushrooms. Psilocybin mushrooms to be specific. The food of the gods.
Magic mushrooms were the midwife of humanity a million years ago. Psilocybin has greased the evolution of our nervous systems. One taste of Don’s magic mushrooms and your brain turns into an antenna for Mother Nature’s mind. Compassion starts playing on the big screen. Self-help for humanity. It was the most creative thing Don ever came up with. And the last.
You see, mushrooms are more like us than plants. They don’t eat sunshine. They feed on organic matter. In this case, Don.
But, he left a sticky note: Help Your Self Consumers. It’s Fun Gus!
Do not ask me how he knew my name was Gus. That’s just Don. He’s the best. He’s everything you imagined in a life coach.
