I was born dead. I can't remember it, of course, but I've been told the story enough times that I have a false memory, viewed in third person through a fish eye lens. The camera is high in a corner -- not that the walls can be seen, just the circular spotlight on the main event. It's all inky shades of red, green, and black, mounted on guerneys of chrome, and I suspect the whole production was co-directed by Tim Burton and Danny Boyle in the style of a classic Dick Tracy strip. Very stylish.
My next memory after that is also not mine, although I could swear it is. I am walking home from my grandmother's, smearing grainy white paste on the back of my left hand to dull a bee's sting. This never happened; I've never been stung by a bee. My mother says it's actually her memory. Neither of us can work out how it was transferred.
My first real memory is of my grandfather, the schizophrenic pianist whose name I share. He suffered from flattening of affect, which roughly translates to an inability to express emotion. He was a consciencious objector who went to war with Hitler, and although he worked as a semaphore man, he never got over the killing. Instead, he stared out the window at an empty carport, surrounded by mountains of colored yarn.
When I hugged him, he gave me Hershey's Kisses to say what he couldn't. I'm the only kid in the Rasor/Stott clan who can recall him, because my next memory, at three years old, is his funeral. During the service, Scarlett and I danced in circles 'round the open grave. She was one and doesn't remember. It was a beautiful day.
Valancy almost died yesterday. Her car was forced off the highway and into a ditch; it went into a 360 degree spin across four lanes of traffic. The road is black with her spiraling tire marks, and the screeching halt of a car that came over the hill to witness. Four full rotations before she pulled out at 40 mph and got to the side of the road. She has race car driver reflexes, born of a video-gamer's lineage.
She's fine. Doesn't even have whiplash. We're getting the car checked on Wednesday. The sole lasting effect is the large hole I tore in my much-abused trousers later that evening.
"I can fix this!" I say, unconsciously quoting my Frankensten mocumentary.
"No!" groans whiskied Val, "let it die! You'll bring it back, but you'll bring it back wrong!!!"
We've been talking about kids lately; she thinks she'll have one in three years, when she's twenty five. She'll be through with Japan by then. Of course, the schedule could shift -- later if she goes to law school, earlier if she doesn't go to Japan. I just like to keep abreast of these things so that I can plan for them.
I don't particularly want to have kids of my own, although I don't not want them; I just don't seem to have that particular biological imperative. I really think I'd rather take a laissez-faire, hands-off approach to the whole thing. At the same time, I have remarkable genetics that should be passed on for the greater good of the human race. Voicing this concern, I asked The Parents whether they'd like me to have a kid now and give it to them to raise; Mom is four square in favor of the idea, but Dad is torn. "Let me think about it," he says. "We're still remodeling the house."
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