Birthdays

BIRTHDAYS
THE MAN WHO LOVES PROVO spent each of his decade birthdays differently. Yet, in an odd way, they were all the same.
For example, his tenth birthday was spent scowling half the day in the principle’s office at Mt. Pleasant Elementary School for a deed he’d long ago forgotten. His 20th birthday found him in jail for resisting the draft. He was married during his 30th year, one of the happiest--yet, at the same time, saddest--periods of his life. The week of his 40th birthday he wandered and explored an isolated side canyon off the Dry Fork of Coyote Gulch in the Escalante--alone--and buck-naked--for 48 straight hours, a goal he’d had for at least a half dozen years. And on his 50th birthday he found himself once again in jail, this time for "defacing" public and private property.
When his 60th birthday rolled around, he thought to himself that he just might bicycle up to Salt Lake City, from Provo–-a distance of some 40 miles.
* * * * * * *
On Joe Pancake’s thirteenth birthday the century plant down the street from his home in Glendale, California, burst into glorious bloom. For years the giant yucca-like shrub had quietly occupied the enormous brick planter beside the driveway of the Davis home. The neighborhood kids had pretty much ignored it, except when chasing balls that may have landed in between its big, long, fleshy leaves. But then, with the sudden appearance of the center stalk–-thrown up, it seemed, almost overnight--followed shortly afterward by its colorful plumage, the entire neighborhood–-the kids and adults alike-–took notice and gathered around the plant--not so much to look, as to watch.
In the evening many of the parents brought their children together in their living rooms to read about the strange, new plant in the neighborhood. They went to the library; they went to the dictionary, to the encyclopedias; some even bought books on native plants of the West. And there they devoured the information about the new, exciting thing that had entered their lives: that its Latin name was Agave americana; that the Indians had used it for food, beverage, fiber, soap, and medicine; that today tequila is made from the juice of the Mexican species; that it matures and flowers in anywhere between ten to twenty years; and that it then dies. They gathered again back outside, where the plant was growing, and they talked about it some more, and shook their heads, and asked each other how long it had been there, and who had planted it. But the Davises just said that it was there when they had moved in, ten years earlier.
After the blossoms had dried up and fallen to the ground, to everyone’s surprise, the plant did not die. It continued to live throughout the rest of the summer. It survived the winter too, and its leaves, long and pointy and thick, looked as healthy–-healthier–-than ever. In the spring, a new stalk did not appear, but the plant lived on still. The next year was the same. And the next. Contrary to what the books and the articles had foretold, the century plant did not die.
Joe Pancake moved out of the neighborhood when he was nineteen years old. Over the next several years he occasionally thought about the century plant and the giant stalk that appeared one day, and the beautiful blossoms, and the fact that the plant had not died as predicted. When he mentioned the story to friends, they would inquire about it, ask questions about it, ask if he had ever been back after moving away, if he ever planned to visit the place again. Joe always answered, No, that he was not intending to return. But after awhile, as his twenty-sixth birthday approached, he thought more and more about returning to his old neighborhood to see if the century plant was still alive. And if, thirteen years after its first blooming, it would blossom out again.
He pulled into town two days before his birthday, drove slowly up the dead-end street where he had grown up, and looked at all the houses, noted the changes--noted the samenesses-–and then came to the Davis home. They had moved away, of course, and another family, with young children playing in the front yard, now occupied the place. But the century plant was still there. No center stalk issued forth, but he stopped his car nonetheless. He sat in his car for a long while before getting out. Then he walked over and stood for a moment, feeling something he had never felt before–-or perhaps it was something he had felt before, but could not put a name on it: more than a memory.
He got back into the car and drove off.
But he returned two days later, in the afternoon of his birthday. And there it was: the thick trunk jutting skyward, up from the center of the plant, and the long, thick, pointed leaves spreading outward below in contrast. It seemed every bit as big as it had thirteen years before.
Joe did not stay for long. But he did vow to return again, in thirteen years, to see for himself where this plant–-and he--would be.
* * * * * * *
Lulu Toast ignored most of her birthdays. To be sure, her mother and father gave her parties when she was younger, and she enjoyed them thoroughly. But by junior high school, when she was old enough to know about indifference, she had learned to live with anonymity. Besides that, she didn’t like rituals--or, anyway, other people’s rituals that were thrust upon her. She had her own, certainly--some voluntary, some not--but they did not coincide with birthdays: She had begun menstruating on a day between her twelfth and thirteenth birthdays; and she commemorated this day each year. She began shaving her legs between thirteen and fourteen; the first time she had sexual intercourse, she was seventeen and a half; she moved out of the house at eighteen; fell in love for the first time sometime after her twentieth birthday; and had her children--two of them--during her twenties. But her birthdays came and went, just as she liked them: no fanfare, unlike the events of her life that really meant something to her.
* * * * * * *
Rachel Krakatoa remembers very clearly the Christmas Eve she turned ten. It was her birthday, as usual. Her parents let her stay up after the small party they’d had for her, after the Christmas Eve celebration that followed, and even after her four-year-old sister, Annie, had gone to bed. They had bought for her–-her sister--a swing set--something she had been asking for since her own birthday, back on Halloween.
And so, on Christmas Eve, with her mother in the house wrapping the final gifts under the tree, Rachel was deemed old enough to be allowed to go outside into the Christmas air with her father and to help assemble her sister’s present.
However, midway through the job something went wrong. Mr. Krakatoa couldn’t get a certain part to fit. He tried and tried--and kept trying--but he just couldn’t get it right. He muttered under his breath; he sweated; his anger rose. He swore. Rachel heard the words, at first soft, but nevertheless tense: "Damn thing," he said. Rachel became curious. Then, abruptly, the words exploded in a rage: "Goddamn it!" The part still wouldn’t fit. "Son of a bitch!" And then again: "God damn it!" Rachel Krakatoa had never before heard such passion come out of the mouth of her father, and she suddenly became frightened--very frightened--too frightened even to run into the house to get away from the anger and to find safety and solace--or an answer--under the Christmas tree.
* * * * * * *
The Man Who Loves Provo began his bicycle ride up to Salt Lake City, as planned, on his 60th birthday. It was rougher going than he had expected. By Lehi, sixteen miles north of his starting point and just before the climb up the Point of the Mountain, he was already tired. This aging stuff is for the birds, he said to himself. But he kept pedaling, drank his water, ate his raisins, and somehow made it up to the top, where he stopped, panting heavily and looking out over the Salt Lake Valley: Lone Peak and the Wasatch Range on the east, Kennecott’s huge open pit copper mine to the north and the west. Sweat poured off his forehead and crept down the creases of his face. He looked down the road toward Salt Lake City, still a long way off, but at least knowing that the downhill part of the ride into the valley would be easier than what he had just been through.
* * * * * * *
On his thirty-ninth birthday, Joe Pancake returned, as he had promised, to his old neighborhood. It was all still there, a quarter of a century after he had chased balls into yards: the houses, the street--though it looked to have been resurfaced since his last visit; and there, still in its same spot by the Davis’s former home, was the century plant. This time he arrived the day before his birthday, and when he got out of his car to walk over to the plant, he took more time. He stepped up onto the little brick wall at the curb and looked down into the center of the plant. It looked ripe and ready to burst. When he returned the following day, his actual birthday, the stalk had thrust itself upward a full fifteen feet. Overnight. Joe didn’t stay--he just drove past--but he remained in town for a few days, each day driving slowly past the thing from his past. The last day–-the day before he was to leave and return home--he saw the huge blossoms open and spread outward.
* * * * * * *
The birth of Lulu’s first child, a boy, Columbus Max, began in a state of fear. She woke up--rather, she was waken up--in the middle of the night by a tremendous roar in her abdomen. Silent, of course, but it seemed to contain a power that could shake the world. Joe was still asleep, dreaming inconsequential dreams, and although she was frightened by this new power within, she decided to let him continue sleeping. When, at dawn, he began to rustle, she spoke, in a falsely calm voice: "Joe, I think I’m in labor."
Later, at the hospital, with the birth approaching and her mind moving rapidly in and out of memory, she traveled to new and distant places. But later still, at the actual moment of birth, it all seemed like deja vu.
* * * * * * *
Rachel Krakatoa felt that she had never really ever had a genuine birthday. Sharing one’s own special day with another--with something else--even with Christmas Eve--is not a birthday. Not for a child.
And so the following year, on Christmas Eve, on her eleventh birthday, she finally expressed her frustrations, her confusion, her own anger, over the lack of a real birthday. The family all got together and listened and talked. Finally, a solution was found: in the future they would observe her birthday on her half-birthday, on June 24.
Rachel’s outlook on life changed immediately. Her countenance lifted; her hair took on a new luster; her teeth looked whiter. She began counting the days. All through the remainder of the school year, through the winter and spring, she looked forward to the summer--but not in her usual anticipation for the vacation. Now she had a birthday to look forward to: her first real birthday--a day all her own, one that she could embrace to herself and not have to share with anyone or anything else.
The Big Day approached; her parents and sister made plans. And then, almost before she knew it, it was upon her. She went to bed the night before excited–-more excited than she could ever remember--ready to wake in the morning to claim her day. She slept restlessly, but eventually found a calm that, in her subconscious self, she believed to be happiness.
The morning dawned. As she rolled over from her half-wake slumbers and opened her sleepy eyes, she was surprised to find that she felt nothing; there was no magic for the special day she had been waiting for. She looked out the window of her bedroom to the leaves of the maple tree in the yard and knew inside that it was not really her birthday. It was all just pretend.
* * * * * * *
It seemed impossible, but the bicycle ride down from the top of the Point of the Mountain toward Salt Lake City was as difficult as the ride up. The Man Who Loves Provo could not explain it--could not even understand it--but there it was: Even though he should have been coasting downhill, he found himself pedaling just as hard as he had on the ascent--his legs aching, his lungs stinging. It seemed to take forever just to get to the bottom. And once there, he pulled off to the side shoulder to rest and to drink from his water bottle. The Man Who Loves Provo’s breathing finally steadied, but the perspiration continued to flow. He looked to the north and Salt Lake City; then he turned and looked back up the hill he had just bicycled down. Each way looked equally daunting, equally foreboding, equally unfair.
* * * * * * *
Two days before his fifty-second birthday, Joe Pancake returned to his hometown. He drove around and around looking for his old home; he drove around for hours looking for his street, for the century plant. But he could find nothing, nothing that resembled his past. He tried and tried, but nothing looked familiar. The houses were gone; the street was gone; the century plant was nowhere that he could see. The city seemed to still be there, but maybe it was gone too.
* * * * * * *
The birth of Lulu’s second child, Molly, was nothing like the first. She had thought that once she had been through the birth experience, she would know what it was like, would know what to do the next time--would be an old pro at it. But it was nothing at all like Columbus’s entry into the world. The only thing alike was the similar feeling of deja vu.
* * * * * * *
The problem was: If you celebrate your birthday on your half-birthday, how many candles do you put on the cake? Rachel Krakatoa had turned eleven years old six months earlier; she’d be twelve years old in another six months. What do to?
Rachel didn’t know; her parents didn’t know; and certainly Annie didn’t know. The fortunate thing was that they still had a couple weeks to figure it out. It was a neighbor, who said in a passing conversation that you might want to just cut the candle down the middle and stick it on the cake like that: half a candle, cut length-wise.
But how to do it?
Another neighbor, in another passing conversation, said, Why not take it down to the bagel shop? They’ve got a machine there that slices the bagels in half; maybe they could do it. But when they went to the bagel store, the people there said they couldn’t; their machine had been set up to cut bagels, not candles; the machine was set at a certain thickness, and it couldn’t be reset to the candle’s needs.
So they went next to the corner grocery that had a delicatessen where you could slice cheese and meats at different thicknesses. The person behind the counter looked at Rachel and her mom a little oddly at first, but when they brought out the candle and showed her that they were serious, the grocer took it in her hands and looked at it carefully, measured it on the cheese slicer, and said that she thought she could do it. She made the adjustments, and with the ease of experience, cut the candle lengthwise, perfectly.
And the best thing about it all: they now also had a candle all ready for the following year’s birthday party.