The most important thing about holding hostages is to not turn your back on them.  I wish I’d remembered this.

Imaginary Keith not only gave me the slip, but somehow snuck the car keys, then drove to Best Buy and bought a TiVo.  He is smiling and excited and seems to be holding no grudge about his previous predicament.

I am finding it hard to keep a stern face.

I was thinking the other night about all of the things that slip through my life that are real but seem so unreal.  Things that I’ve seen with my own eyes, yet even at the moment of seeing them, begin immediately to surround themselves with doubts and questions.  Things that slip by so quickly, that even knowing they were real, I am left wondering because of the briefness I was exposed.

One time long ago, when Imaginary Keith was just a boy, he found himself sledding with his brother and a friend on a snowy hillside in Iowa.  A sunny, bright day.  A day after a storm, where the only thing showing against the blue sky is the intermittent cloud of your own breath and a handful of large, fluffy white clouds tumbling slowly along in the storm’s wake.

And on that day, now so long ago, Imaginary Keith had felt the need to look up into that sky.  Something pulled at his attention, and he remembers, even to this day, the pressure and bulk of his coat and many layers of clothing as he leaned back his head so that his eyes could reach whatever it was that called for his attention.  He remembers breathing slowly, so that the mist from his breathing wouldn’t be in the way.  He remembers a thick, gray, wool mitten coming up to shield his eyes from the sun as his eyes made the adjustment, going from the blinding snow white of the hillside to the deep, warm blue of the sky.

And on that long ago day, standing there on the top of that small hill, Imaginary Keith’s eyes found themselves resting on what appeared to be the front end of a large airliner, poking out from the clouds.  A large rounded shape, silvery white, sticking out slightly from behind a group of the large, puffy white clouds that hung low in the sky just over their heads.  Imaginary Keith sat and stared at the object, thinking that it looked like the nose of an airliner, but realizing at the same time that it didn’t move.

First in a low voice, and then louder and louder, Imaginary Keith called out to his brother and the friend, telling them to look up.  Something is up there, he said, knowing that they would look up and they would all see it.  Imaginary Keith took his eyes off of the object once, to see why his brother and the friend did not respond or say anything.  Only five or six feet away, surely they had heard him.  Surely they would want to look up and see whatever it was he was yelling about.  But when Imaginary Keith looked over at his brother and the friend, they were just standing there, silently staring straight ahead.  Imaginary Keith, looking straight at the two, told them to look up.  He pointed and motioned with his head.  He repeated himself, but the two boys just stood there, staring blankly at him.  They didn’t talk, they didn’t move, and they didn’t look up.

Imaginary Keith looked back up and the object was still there, poking out from behind the cloud even a bit more then before.  He watched it sitting there, wondering what it could be, knowing all along what it was.  He stared at it for maybe thirty, forty seconds, and then the object, silently and smoothly, slid behind the cloud in one quick motion and was gone.

And just as quickly as the object was gone, Imaginary Keith’s brother and the friend came back to life.  Suddenly they were talking and laughing and moving around, getting ready to head back down the hill.

Why didn’t you look up, Imaginary Keith asked them.  Why didn’t you say anything, he asked.

And the two boys just looked at Imaginary Keith like he was crazy.  What are you talking about, they said, then jumped on their sleds and disappeared down the hill, leaving Imaginary Keith to stand there all alone, thinking about what had just happened. 

But while a boy standing all alone on a hill might know what he has seen, he really has no idea just how hard it will become to separate real from unreal later in life.  He has no way of knowing that this is just the first of many things that will appear before his eyes and then disappear, leaving him to stand there wondering.  He has no way of knowing if he is better off for having seen the object, and now believing it, or whether it would have been better to be one of the other boys, staring blankly into nothing.

The beautiful thing with imaginary friends is that when they disappear for awhile, no one asks questions.  No one wonders where they’ve gone or when they’ll be back.  When an imaginary friend goes missing, it never becomes a federal case.

That’s the difference between imaginary friends and family.  With family, everything is a federal case.  There are no little problems.  No little disagreements, no little differences, no little solutions.  In a family, headaches hang on coat hooks just like hats, and everyone walking by is expected to reach out and grab one.  No one walks out the door without one.

Hey!  Hold on!  You forgot this!

What was I thinking?  Thanks.  Oh wait, I already have one.

That’s okay.  Have another.

Aspirin, it’s sometimes forgotten, was invented because of family. 

My own imaginary friend, Imaginary Keith, has been presiding over a Supreme Family case involving three goose eggs in an incubator.  Two African geese eggs, to be exact.  The proceedings seem to have gone on forever over the custody of the soon-to-hatch goslings, and until a decision is made, emotions in the courtroom run high.  It is almost positive that repurcussions from the decision will be felt for years, and Imaginary Keith’s head throbs from the hours and hours of arguments presented to him.  Every headache hat in the place has been taken off of its hook and pulled down tight onto his head. 

All eyes are on him as everyone anxiously awaits the exact moment his resolve will break.  Bets have been hedged.  Caution thrown to the wind.  Anything that will snap the old man.

Facts of the case (as Imaginary Keith understands them):

1. A certain person (Grammy) receives three unwanted African goose eggs from a friend.
2. Grammy then places the eggs in incubator, even though it is known she doesn’t want any geese.
3. Grammy begins the enticement of animal-lover grandson with stories of cute baby goslings.
4. Overly excited son pushes case quickly through wishy-washy Mother courts
5. Same son passionately argues goose egg case with Imaginary Keith
6. Imaginary Keith retreats to chambers in search of aspirin.
7. Imaginary Keith returns to court to deliver eloquent speech on family problems
8. Court is adjourned.  Further arguments are promised every 20 to 30 minutes until eggs hatch.  Fifteen minute spacing once hatched.

A reading from this morning’s goose egg hearing transcript reads:

Son: Dad, no one wants the geese except me.  African geese are very mean and lonely.  That’s why you have to have more then one.

Imaginary Keith: Why would you want three mean geese wandering around the farm?

Son: They wouldn’t be mean to me because I’d raise them.

Imaginary Keith: Here’s the deal.  Why do three goose eggs have to become my problem?
Imaginary Keith: Why would Grammy hatch three eggs that she doesn’t want?
Imaginary Keith: Why do I have to have the same discussion day after day about the same three eggs?

Son: Dad!  She saved them.  They’re eggs from a mom AND dad goose with babies already inside!  You can’t just throw eggs like that away.  You can’t just kill baby geese.

Imaginary Keith (losing ground): well, no, I suppose . . .

Son: Throwing those eggs away would be like standing around with a spear killing puppies.

Imaginary Keith: What?!

Son: You wouldn’t do that, would you?

Imaginary Keith: What?!

Son:  I didn’t think so.

Imaginary Keith: I really don’t think . . .

Son:  Approach the bench?

Imaginary Keith: You’re already leaning on it.  Let’s hear it.

Son:  Three geese dad.  Three little geese.  What’s the big deal?  And you don’t even live there, so I don’t see why . . .

Imaginary Keith: Careful.  I’m still the dad.  Remember that?

Son: Dad?

Imaginary Keith: Yes

Son:  Why are you wearing so many hats?

Imaginary Keith:  Recess!  Five minute recess!

Imaginary Keith still lives here.  It’s a fact.  And I’m as curious as everyone as to why he hasn’t been talking.  Could it be his dreams?  Can dreams have the power to silence? 

This morning I sat on the edge of the bed, watching my friend as he dreamt about hitting someone on the head with what looked like a bowling pin.  The sound of the pin connecting solidly with the stranger’s head made me wince.  But whoever it was he was hitting just kept coming on strong, and it was then that I saw that Imaginary Keith was trying to protect someone.  He was giving it his best, swinging away with that bowling pin, and as I looked closer, I could see Imaginary Keith cringe each time the pin made contact.  My friend has never been much of a fighter.

Eventually Imaginary Keith just grabbed the hand of the mysterious someone (a woman at this point) and took off running, dropping the bowling pin so he can concentrate on both escaping and some serious mathematical computations that he has begun to perform in his head.  Just what are the odds that they will escape, he thinks.  And what are the odds that the woman would actually have been attacked?  As they race through the streets, dodging people and jumping in and out of buildings, Imaginary Keith does the math.  He arrives at an answer just as the two of them jump a second story balcony rail and fall into a grassy area.

.25%, he thinks.  Not even a 1% chance that this will end badly.  Why are they running?  Why was he hitting someone on the head?

Imaginary Keith stops dreaming after that.  My friend may dream randomly, but he usually wakes like clockwork.  It’s 6:00 a.m.

“Keith?  Was I dreaming?”

“Yes you were Imaginary Keith.  You were on the run.”

“I can barely remember.  Did I get away?”

“You didn’t have to.  There was nothing to run from in the first place.”

“But I think I was scared.  I can still feel it.”

“Yes.  But it’ll pass.”

“Keith?”

“Yes?”

“I wish she wasn’t dead.”

When I picked up the phone the other night and reached back across twenty five years of silence, I had no idea what waited for me on the other end.  Time moves so slowly we cannot see ourselves growing grey, yet passes so quickly that the transformation is almost sudden.  It is one of the paradoxes that makes time such a mystery, and one of the reasons that life can feel like a dream.  I sometimes think it is my own mind, an uncrossable bridge, that spans the gap of this paradox.  That it is only in thinking that we lose sight of understanding.  In a dream, time is meaningless, and it is only after we awake that things become confusing and we find ourselves trapped on one side of the paradox.

“Keith, do you think it was an accident?”

“I don’t know what to think.”

“She was too smart.  I think she knew what she was doing.”

“I know.”

I just wish I could have seen her.  I had something I always wanted to tell her.”

“I know.”

A list was made of the people who I might have called that night.  The night I began poking at things with sticks.  It was a good list, made by a friend, that somehow added to the mystery and the fun.  Life, let’s admit it, is a guessing game.  Everything from mindless entertainment to higher education revolves around the concept of learning or relearning something hidden from us.  Babies play peek-a-boo at the same moment that scientists try to unravel the universe, but take away time and they are surprisingly the same game, a way to lose ourselves in the excitement and complexity of discovery.

“Imaginary Keith, what would you have said to her?  It’s been so long.”

“I know.  But I always thought that the moment I saw her I would know exactly what to say and how to say it.  That it would all come to me when we were face to face.  I don’t know.  I think I wanted to apologize to her for being the way I was back then.”

“Oh.”

“But I don’t know what I would have said.  How does one even begin to apologize for being a boy?”

“I don’t know.  I don’t think you have to.”

“You don’t have to.  But maybe sometimes you should.”

If I ever decide to attend a high school reunion, it would be to visit with three people.  In my mind, the others might only be a distraction.  Everyone except the three seem to have had little meaning to my life, and it is hard to imagine how this could have changed in twenty five years.  Maybe I am wrong.  But of all the people in my class there were three who did have meaning.  Three who had an enduring impact.  Cindy S. and Scott W., both of whose names made it to the list, and another girl, Valerie, whose name did not. 

Funny, almost, that it is Valerie’s name that was left off of the list.  Valerie - the girl who returned to high school after leaving early and attending college for a time.  The girl who seemed to pass quietly through life, would become valedictorian, and who I would date for a time my senior year.  The same girl who once told me to stop the car in the middle of a desolate, backwoods road, so that she could push back against her rigid, moral Church of Christ upbringing.  So in the dim moonlight, on a small bridge above an even smaller creek, the two of us drew close and slowly danced.  An innocent but important act in my mind, a sin in hers.

“What was she thinking about as we danced that night?  Do you think she remembered it, Keith?”

“I’m sure she did.”

“For so long I was always sure it meant more to her, that dance in the moonlight.”

“I know.”

“But now that she’s gone, I’m not so sure anymore.  Now I’m the one left remembering.  I’m the one left to wonder.”

As I listened to the news of Valerie, and heard the story told as Valerie’s own mother had told it, I heard a story of sadness and mistake.  A woman who ended up, somehow, as a person who drank too much.  A woman who somehow made the mistake of drinking so much that she accidentally falls asleep in her car, parked in the garage with the motor running, before she has a chance to open the garage door.  But those are the mother’s words, repeated to me by yet another.  Words that seem to only say that there is no way for a mother to be able to understand what has happened to her only daughter.

But as I listened, I could only wonder.  How could she do it?  What turns had her life taken that led to that garage, where she sat looking for the strength to end?  As I listened, I couldn’t help but think that Valerie passed from life in exactly the same way I remembered her living it, dying so quietly that twenty five years would pass before I would hear the sound.

One day Imaginary Keith’s friend, Big Charlie, began taunting him about work.  Really just friendly banter, as friends are prone to do on occasion.

“We don’t all have it so easy, you know.  Not all of us can move a few rocks around, call it poetry, and get paid for doing it.”

“It’s not quite so simple.” Imaginary Keith replied.  “Being a gardener is hard work,” and then added something clever, like, “Decorating with boulders is an exacting art.”

Big Charlie scoffed.

So Imaginary Keith, armed with the knowledge that Big Charlie was a religious man, struck back with a dangerous, but awkward and unwieldy weapon - a Bible story.  He gripped the unfamiliar object firmly with both hands and jabbed it at Big Charlie’s chest.

“I can’t believe you’re scoffing,” he said.  “Perhaps you’ve forgotten the story of Jesus.”

“What?” Of course Big Charlie hadn’t forgotten about Jesus.  But nothing intrigues a religious man more then a Jesus story.  Nothing gets a religious man panting for breath quite like telling him that he’s forgotten about Jesus.  Imaginary Keith spun the Bible story in his hands, wild west fashion, hoping he looked calm and efficient.

“Well, I don’t know a whole lot about Jesus, but I do know one thing.”

“And what would that be?” Big Charlie asked.

“What I do know is that when Jesus rose again, and had not yet ascended, that devout and faithful Mary was out looking for him.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, everyone knows that she found him soon enough, but what everyone seems to have forgotten is that she didn’t recognize him because he wasn’t quite in his earthly form.”

“I know that.”

“Yes, but what you don’t quite seem to know is that Mary, seeing Jesus standing there in all his glory, mistook him . . . are you sure you want to know this.”

“What?”

“Mary mistook Jesus, of all things, for the gardener.”

“I knew that.  There’s nothing new about that.  Don’t try telling me that just because you’re a . . . “

“Hold on a second.  Have you ever given any thought about the first thing Jesus did when he was resurrected.  I mean the very first thing.”

“Huh.”

“Well, the very first thing Jesus did when he came back to life was move around a giant stone.  Just like me.” Big Charlie’s mouth is drooping a bit, like a kid witnessing his first Sunday School lesson.  The one where the devil is cut out of red felt and the angels are cut out of white.  And the teacher keeps jumping the red devil around the felt board, and every eye follows every move while the white felt angels make their countermoves until it all stops and the Sunday School teacher suddenly scares the hell out of the kids by imitating a big, booming voice of God.

Well, maybe his mouth isn’t drooping that much.  Imaginary Keith is no Sunday school teacher.

“It’s important work, Big Charlie.  It’s obvious.  You of all people should know that.”

“I don’t think . . . “

“He may have even stopped and done a little weeding before getting back to business.  That’d be just like Jesus, to lend a hand with the weeding.  But don’t quote me on that one.  I’m only guessing.”

In his dream Imaginary Keith steps between some bullies who are picking on some sort of handicapped kid.  The kid talks slow and has an arm so badly misshapen that it could only happen in a dream.  The kid’s arm looks more like a catapult then a human limb, but in a non-functional sort of way.  As I sit on the edge of the bed, watching Imaginary Keith dream, I can’t help but think.  Nature can be cruel, but imagination always plays trump.  Imaginary Keith, in his dream imagination, has cut the poor kid no slack.

I watch Imaginary Keith square up, ready for a fight, telling the boys to back down.  But emotions are high and the bullies don’t back down, and soon Imaginary Keith is being pounded.  The kid with the catapult arm has slipped away somewhere, but the pounding continues.  Imaginary Keith, champion of the small and weak, is really getting walloped.

At first, I find myself thinking that it’s a shame that we can’t be safe in our own dreams.  A real shame that our days insist on following us into our nights.  Wouldn’t it be restful, I think, if our actions during the day were completely separate from our actions at night?  Wouldn’t it be easier if our minds were split in two - the day mind not knowing of the night mind, and vice versa?  Wouldn’t that be better?

But then, as I watched the bullies continue to pound on poor Imaginary Keith, I couldn’t help but wonder what it is that the president dreams about.  What happens to George at night?  Does his day follow him into the night, or has he somehow figured out a way to separate the two?  Which side of the pounding is he on when he dreams?

No, two separate minds wouldn’t be restful at all.  It’d be too much like looking the other way, which never, ever works.  I’ve tried it, but something always slips in.  No, we need our days to follow us into the nights.  We need to face ourselves.  We need to toss and turn and wake up sweating, desperate for a way to change. 

Ironically, I don’t think we’ll ever sleep until we somehow wake up.

Hints of Imaginary Keith’s dream were still on his face as he slowly ate a bowl of oatmeal this morning.  Hints of being a prisoner of war and watching people die slowly from dysentery, starvation, and neglect as they all think of an impossible escape.  Hints of his job in the prison camp, which was to toss one book after another up to another prisoner on a high platform, who would then turn and toss the book back down into a big fire, kept alive by the unending supply of books.  In Imaginary Keith’s eyes, I can see the part of the dream where he risks his life to hide a dictionary, so that he has something to read later, when his shift is over.  I see in his eyes the pain as the prison guard finds the book and rips off the cover, throws it in the fire, and then hands the book back to Imaginary Keith.

It’s sort of hard to imagine, but if you can picture Borders being turned into a gulag you’re halfway there.

In the end, none of it matters, as both prisoners and guards see that they have been labeled expendable - a large bomb, as big as a truck, is seen sitting next to the burning pile of books.  No one knows where it has come from or how it got there, but everyone in the dream knows exactly who it was that put it there.

The timer on the bomb is ticking down, and at first glance, shows just under three minutes until detonation.  There is no where to run.  Even if the prisoners had the strength, there is no time to get far enough away.  In Imaginary Keith’s eyes, I can see the part of the dream where he runs his hand over the dictionary, feeling for the missing cover.  I can see him focus in on the book, blocking out the madness all around him, until he collapses to the ground.  And then I see him open the book, and watch as his finger slowly moves down the page, searching for a word he doesn’t even know he is looking for.

Imaginary Keith is no man’s man when it comes to the dentist.  His theory has always been run.  Run fast and run hard.  Don’t let them catch you.  Run until you’re out of breath.  Whatever you do, don’t stop running.

But Imaginary Keith has put on a few pounds these last few months and isn’t quite as quick on his feet as he used to be.  And he was no speed demon to begin with, so his running theory doesn’t hold much wind.  Imaginary Keith doesn’t hold much wind.

But like I said, he’s no man’s man when it comes to the dentist.  So the least I can do is provide excellent around the clock care for him until the Novocain wears off.  And with strict instructions from the dentist not to do any chewing for a minimum of four hours, he will need to be watched like a hawk.  So like I always do for my friend, I have called in a team of nurses whose sole job is to see to it that Imaginary Keith is kept comfortable and hydrated while he recuperates. 

That’s Agnus on the left.  She’s the one with the demure smile and holding the fan.  Next to her is Ruth Ellen, seen here reaching for Imaginary Keith’s pulse or something.  And then there is Ruth Ellen’s sister, Birdie, who specializes mostly in pillow fluffing.  I’m not sure she’s a real nurse, but she comes with the team so I don’t say anything.  Finally, the woman who you see preparing to rub a little ointment onto Imaginary Keith’s numb lips is head nurse Esther Olsen.  Esther says very little, and rules the roost with a firm but gentle Norwegian hand.

I usually like to keep my eye on Agnus.  Her enthusiasm for Imaginary Keith is at times almost uncomfortable.  I can’t actually say that she’s ever acted unprofessionally, but then Esther has never left her and Imaginary Keith alone in the same room.  If you ask me, I think it’s for the best.

Dear Technical God,

What’s all the excitement about gmail accounts?  I keep reading about other people’s excitement but seem to know nothing about them.  Why is everyone so excited?  Should I be too?  All I know is that it’s some sort of google thing, which causes a real dilemma.  How can I ask google to tell me the answer when it’s something of theirs.  Wouldn’t that be like asking the dentist if you have a cavity?  Of course he’d say yes.

So, you see, without google, my faith in you is once again restored. 

So if you care even one tiny bit about a technological sinner like me, you’ll give me some sort of sign.  Something to help me see my way.  Something that will make everything clear about gmail.  Maybe something slick like flash animation, only way faster and easy to understand.  Maybe something that would look good even with a slow, dial-up service.  Could you do that for me?

Whatever you do, don’t think you need to test this renewed faith of mine by crashing my computers.  That would be just plain mean.

Faithfully yours until something better and faster comes along,

Imaginary Keith

Today is suppose to be the day that I fire up the clown car and drive around the street in a small, one-man parade.  Someone will bring me my slippers and microwave yesterday morning’s coffee for me so that no noise is made and wakes up the reason for the day.  Crowds will gather along the curb, waving and smiling and all shouting in unison, “Happy Father’s Day, Imaginary Keith!” I will wave and smile back, then throw out handfuls of good fatherly advice that I keep in a grocery bag tucked between my legs, the edges carefully folded over so as to avoid paper cuts.  This in itself is good fatherly advice, so I occasionally hold up the bag for all to see.

My own father holds his own parade, somewhere in the heart of Costa Rica.  I imagine his new children gather around his feet and pile up papaya or mango or whatever it is that falls off of the trees down there.  But I can also imagine that the little half-brothers know nothing about Father’s Day, and that they just run around screaming the same as every other day.  It is quite possible that their knowledge of Father’s Day is as limited as my knowledge of Costa Rican produce.  Or Costa Rican children for that matter, even the one’s that have fallen from the same tree as me.

When the parade is over, my son has boldly proclaimed that he will take me first to brunch, then later a movie, then even later, dinner.  Eating and a movie.  I can’t complain.  Gifts that even I would buy for myself - how can I go wrong?

Yesterday, us two boys bought a couch and loveseat at a garage sale, so today will also be spent with all of the cleaning and rearranging that is necessary when you drag two giant things into an apartment.  The two couches are like us - one big and one small, oddly colored and shaped, unlike anything we’ve ever seen, and begging to be loved.  Last night we each took our respective places and grinned at each other like we’d somehow snuck aboard a space shuttle ride with enough candy bars and juice boxes to keep us comfortable all the way to the moon and back.

When the little man wakes up, which should be very soon, we will again assume our positions, begin grinning, and see where the day takes us.  The first stop will of course be breakfast, where my belly will surely swell with french toast and fatherly pride.