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And So, We Begin
“A long, long time ago, there once was—”
“No! No! No!” Sebastian’s booming voice interrupted me. “If you say a long, long time ago, it sounds as if I am very old. Please, Amicus, can you not begin with something else?”
“Yes, of course, whatever you wish.”
“Ah, good.” Sebastian breathed a sigh of relief.
“I shall begin again. Hum, hum.” I paused to clear my throat. “Once upon a time, there was—”
“Oh, no, no, no. That will never do.” Sebastian interrupted me again. “Every story begins like that. once upon a time. Phooey! It sounds as though I am dead!” He winced. “Dead? Indeed! I shudder to think of it.” And right then he stood up and did a little dance, moving his arms up and down, which I assumed was a shudder. When he was all through, he sat back down in his chair and wiped the fur across his forehead, damp with perspiration.
“I see your point,” I said. “Perhaps you could be so good as to give me a hint as to how you would like your biography written.”
“Yes, indeed, I most certainly could,” he responded, “but if I did that, then I would be interfering, and I have never considered myself to be an interfering koala. Besides, dearest Amicus, you know as well as I that the art of the written word is something that escapes me. Why, everyone knows that koalas don’t write, and just because I am a Belgian koala, should that make a difference? . . . Certainly not!” he answered himself.
“Perhaps, I could begin with a description of something,” I suggested.
“A description? . . . Yes, that would be a good idea, and rather imaginative. What would you describe?” he asked me.
“I could describe you.” I waited for a response.
“Yes, I like that. Of course, if you set about to describe me properly, that might take days, even weeks, and you know, dearest Amicus, I am not what one would call a patient koala. Perhaps you could begin without beginning at all.”
What an amusing idea, I thought to myself, wondering how I might begin writing a story without beginning at all.
“A long, long time ago, there once was—”
“No! No! No!” Sebastian’s booming voice interrupted me. “If you say a long, long time ago, it sounds as if I am very old. Please, Amicus, can you not begin with something else?”
“Yes, of course, whatever you wish.”
“Ah, good.” Sebastian breathed a sigh of relief.
“I shall begin again. Hum, hum.” I paused to clear my throat. “Once upon a time, there was—”
“Oh, no, no, no. That will never do.” Sebastian interrupted me again. “Every story begins like that. once upon a time. Phooey! It sounds as though I am dead!” He winced. “Dead? Indeed! I shudder to think of it.” And right then he stood up and did a little dance, moving his arms up and down, which I assumed was a shudder. When he was all through, he sat back down in his chair and wiped the fur across his forehead, damp with perspiration.
“I see your point,” I said. “Perhaps you could be so good as to give me a hint as to how you would like your biography written.”
“Yes, indeed, I most certainly could,” he responded, “but if I did that, then I would be interfering, and I have never considered myself to be an interfering koala. Besides, dearest Amicus, you know as well as I that the art of the written word is something that escapes me. Why, everyone knows that koalas don’t write, and just because I am a Belgian koala, should that make a difference? . . . Certainly not!” he answered himself.
“Perhaps, I could begin with a description of something,” I suggested.
“A description? . . . Yes, that would be a good idea, and rather imaginative. What would you describe?” he asked me.
“I could describe you.” I waited for a response.
“Yes, I like that. Of course, if you set about to describe me properly, that might take days, even weeks, and you know, dearest Amicus, I am not what one would call a patient koala. Perhaps you could begin without beginning at all.”
What an amusing idea, I thought to myself, wondering how I might begin writing a story without beginning at all.
Someone’s hand was pounding on my chest. A light shined in my face. I heard people talking frantically. I couldn’t see them. My eyes were closed. I wasn’t sure if I was dreaming.
“Open your eyes! Miss? Answer me!”
My mind was spinning, spiraling. I felt as if I was drowning. I couldn’t breathe. Thoughts appeared like pictures on a screen from a slide tray. A pool. Dog. The ocean. A boat. Splashing water. Bikini. Birthday candles. Cake. Laughter. Tears. I’ve heard that your life flashes before your eyes in a split second. A split second, not a lot of time and perhaps all the time in the world.
“Morton, the-se are your hou-se keys.” It was my cousin, Clive. “Do you understand me?”
My lips were pulled apart and a thick gritty paste, cold and bland, poured through me.
“Swallow this or we’ll have to pump your stomach.” An unfamiliar voice. “It’s charcoal.”
“I’m le-aving your k-eys wi-th the nur-se.” I heard a ringing sound dangling above me. “I ha-ve a da-te to g-et ba-ck to.”
Clive spoke to me as if I were a young child, enunciating each syllable. Every word very carefully. Slowly. “Be- sides, yo-u look li-ke yo-u’re in goo-d han-ds.”
More liquid was forced down my throat. “She needs to sit up!”
“I can’t get her skirt off!”
“We’ll have to cut it!”
That much I understood. “Please don’t cut my skirt.”
“She sounds okay to me.” Clive’s voice.
Someone forced my skirt off. My bottom was touching the cold table. Thong underwear. How many people could see me? How many people were out there?
“Stop spitting up the charcoal!”
“What’s her name?!”
“Morton,” Clive told them. “Mason?”
“Morton! M—O—R—T—O—N.”
“Morton! MORTON! Can you hear me?!”
“Swallow, Morton, or I’m going to have to pump your stomach.”
“Stop spitting it up!”
“Swallow, Morton. That’s right. Keep swallowing.”
My mind was like a fog rolling across a landscape, grey and quiet. The spiraling had stopped. No more colored pictures. I lay on the cold table, eyes closed tight. I could feel tears roll down my temples to the back of my neck.
I was still alive.
“Open your eyes! Miss? Answer me!”
My mind was spinning, spiraling. I felt as if I was drowning. I couldn’t breathe. Thoughts appeared like pictures on a screen from a slide tray. A pool. Dog. The ocean. A boat. Splashing water. Bikini. Birthday candles. Cake. Laughter. Tears. I’ve heard that your life flashes before your eyes in a split second. A split second, not a lot of time and perhaps all the time in the world.
“Morton, the-se are your hou-se keys.” It was my cousin, Clive. “Do you understand me?”
My lips were pulled apart and a thick gritty paste, cold and bland, poured through me.
“Swallow this or we’ll have to pump your stomach.” An unfamiliar voice. “It’s charcoal.”
“I’m le-aving your k-eys wi-th the nur-se.” I heard a ringing sound dangling above me. “I ha-ve a da-te to g-et ba-ck to.”
Clive spoke to me as if I were a young child, enunciating each syllable. Every word very carefully. Slowly. “Be- sides, yo-u look li-ke yo-u’re in goo-d han-ds.”
More liquid was forced down my throat. “She needs to sit up!”
“I can’t get her skirt off!”
“We’ll have to cut it!”
That much I understood. “Please don’t cut my skirt.”
“She sounds okay to me.” Clive’s voice.
Someone forced my skirt off. My bottom was touching the cold table. Thong underwear. How many people could see me? How many people were out there?
“Stop spitting up the charcoal!”
“What’s her name?!”
“Morton,” Clive told them. “Mason?”
“Morton! M—O—R—T—O—N.”
“Morton! MORTON! Can you hear me?!”
“Swallow, Morton, or I’m going to have to pump your stomach.”
“Stop spitting it up!”
“Swallow, Morton. That’s right. Keep swallowing.”
My mind was like a fog rolling across a landscape, grey and quiet. The spiraling had stopped. No more colored pictures. I lay on the cold table, eyes closed tight. I could feel tears roll down my temples to the back of my neck.
I was still alive.