Will

WILL

WHEN WILLIAM BILLION WAS IN THE THIRD GRADE, many of his friends, during class, would sit at their desks drawing in slow detail the fantastic automobiles of their dreams: Fords and Chevies and sports cars; the fins, chrome, rims, dash, and flash. Will's classmates would fill their notebooks with these images, page after page after page. And at recess time, they would gather out on the playground and exchange the drawings, and gawk and marvel and long for the automobiles of their future. Will shared none of their enthusiasm.
He remembered, too, a few years previous when many of these same friends would spend their Saturday mornings buying model airplanes--or ships or race cars--and then fill their afternoons assembling and gluing them together and decorating them with decals and stickers and paint. Again, Will found nothing of interest in these miniature replicas of reality.
Later--beginning in elementary school, but continuing on through junior high and high school--he played sports--was even quite good at baseball and basketball. But the drive for winning--the "thirst for victory," his coaches had called it--never quite took hold. Once, for example, in a championship basketball game, with the score tied and the game racing to a close and the crowd in a frenzy, Will fouled his opponent intentionally--not to stop him from scoring, but simply because he was tired from all that running up and down the court, and he needed a rest, and no one would call a time-out, and he knew that the only way he'd be able to catch his breath was while his opponent was shooting free throws.

* * * * * * *

Will had a spot on his back that always itched. His earliest memories included that itch on his back; he could not remember a time of it ever not itching. The itch itself was just beyond the stretch of either hand. Whether he was trying to scratch it from aboveB-over his shoulder-Bor from down and around and under his arm, he could never quite reach it. It was not in the very center of his back, but rather a little to the right of his spinal cord, up high-Cbut not quite high enough for him to be able to scratch it himself. For as long as he could remember it had always itched. He could not remember a time of it ever not itching.
But, like most things (though not all things), he got used to it-Bthat is to say, he learned to live with it. He found that he could, at timesB-when he really put his mind to it-Bforce it out of his consciousness-Bnot altogether, of course-Bbut enough so to get by. He was still aware of its presence, but he could deal with it and go on living a fairly normal and productive life.
One day a friend bought him a back-scratcher. The first time he used it, he thought he had died and gone to heaven. Scratching the spot that before had always been out of reach-Bthat he could relieve only by rubbing ineffectively against the corner of a wall or occasionally finding someone else to rub it for himB-became almost orgasmic. And what made the enjoyment all the more pleasurable was that when he would begin to scratch the spot, the itch would then come alive--would start to move about and spread around all across his back. Will discovered that he could scratch these too. The original point of sensation was still the key, central spot, but by scratching it, he found a whole new range of possibilities to be explored and satisfied.

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The finch is a birdB-a small flying, feathered creature-Bthat sings. In other words, the finch is a songbird that flies through the air with the greatest of ease.

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The first five years following his public education in his native land (the United States of America), Will owned five cars. He never had them for long; he kept losing them. He=d drive to the mall, or out to the airport, or even just to school (he took three semesters of college courses before dropping out), or to work, or wherever, and then forget where he had parked his car--or that he had driven at all--or that he even owned a car. Then he=d take the bus home or bum a ride or, just as often, walk. The first car, his parents had given him as a high school graduation present, but when he lost that one, they said they=d never buy him another. So, because Will at this time still thought he needed a car, he bought the next four--used clunkers that weren=t worth that much to begin with--and then--it almost seemed methodical--he=d forget about them. Privately, though, he wondered how anyone could ever keep track of such a bulky and cumbersome thing in the first place.

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Ants are beautiful, noble creatures that have walked the face of the earth for a very long time. Not individually, of course, but as a species.

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When Will hit puberty, he hit a growth spurt as well. In one year, he sprouted four inches; the following year, he added another five. His voice changed too; it deepened. Hair appeared on his upper lip, under his arms and between his legs, under and across his chin, all over his lower face. He shaved. And his feet, it seemed, would not stop growing. Buying shoes became an impossible task; Will=s feet simply would not fit into his shoes. He=d outgrow them by the time he got home.

* * * * * * *

Fish: When Will was not wishing that he had wings to fly through the air, he was hoping that one day he would have gills and fins so that he could swim through the water with a greater clarity and ease.

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William Billion could not stand reading; he did not like books.
Actually, that=s not entirely true. Here=s the truth: He used to love reading, and he used to love books, but. . . .
No, that=s not true either. Let=s try this one: He used to read a lot. . . .
That=s better, but still not wholly accurate. He didn=t actually read a lot, and he certainly didn=t love to read, but he read some. He used to read some.
No. Let=s try one more:
He used to read a little. To put it into perspective, he did read, but not very much. It was around the time he dropped out of collegeB-that=s when he gave it up almost entirely. Reading couldn=t hold his interest. But that=s not true either. It did hold his interest, but not in the way it was supposed to. He just didn=t love reading. He didn=t hate it, but he didn=t love it either. His friends gave him books that they said he would loveB-that everyone lovedB-but even these, the ones they said that he wouldn=t be able to put downB-he put down.
There was something almost philosophical about it. Almost. But not quite. That may be the key distinction. He=d put the books down not because they didn=t hold his interest. That was the thing: they did hold his interest. But he did not want them to hold his interest. It was a matter of discipline, not philosophy. William Billion would begin a bookB-or a story, or a poem or play, or even just an articleB-an essayB-and right at the point of its highest interestB-at the climactic moment of the pieceB-he=d put it down. He=d return it to the library. He=d give it to a friend. He=d sell it. He=d get rid of it. He=d destroy it-Bsometimes with his teeth: the molars and the canines.