Chapter 2

Before I continue the tale of Warren Spicks, I must address a certain philosophical issue concerning time. The concept of eternity will weigh heavily upon a mind; the sheer immensity of it when compared to human mortality will keep one awake for hours at night. To imagine one’s self as eternal, or at least, eternally conscious is nigh impossible. Never-ending consciousness strikes the mind as colossal in a sense of impossibility. But then, so does its opposite: the ending of consciousness, to cease to exist. Both ends of the spectrum are incredibly frightening to the human mind.
And so I assure you, that as every mortal has contemplated his or her mortality, so did Warren Spicks that night. While he had no looming thoughts or feelings of imminent death, he found himself wondering which extreme he might arrive at upon the adventure of death. He wondered that if time should be circular, he should be able to manage the thought of infinite or unlimited revolutions in a finite or limited realm. He would never have told anyone this, knowing for certain that ninety percent of them would condemn him (or at least mention to his parents) his explorations into “new-agey Buddhist teachings.”
His Christian background taught him life eternal—which scared him almost as much as nonexistence after death. Of course, if it were heaven, perhaps he would be too distracted by experience to notice any passage of time. But hell! That he couldn’t reconcile. Eternal punishment, suffering, and agony? Eternal! He almost wished for non-existence across the board than pleasure for some and anguish for others. Certainly there had to be some sort of middle ground. Some place where time had meaning after death, for time only makes sense with a beginning and end thrown in there. Eternity is meaninglessness.
So of course he struggled to sleep, pressed into his bed by the thoughts invading his mind. But one by one, he banished the thoughts from his mind, concentrating on the present instead. He figured the only way to live was to ignore those musings on eternity and rather worry about what he would make himself for breakfast tomorrow morning when his family had taken off for their various destinations. And then he planned out his day on World of Warcraft: perhaps he would level his troll shaman a bit in the morning, then maybe group up with his guild in the afternoon with his Paladin. He had yet to snag the last Karazhan key fragment. And then perhaps he would get some honor in the battlegrounds or perhaps farm some gems to cut. And so musing on this alternate reality, Warren Spicks managed to forget time and sleep.
Another facet one might find intriguing about Warren Spicks was his sheer independence. While he made no objections to group interaction and indeed enjoyed laughing with others, he made no complaints (as did his brother) to being left alone for extended periods of time. And so waking to a silent house, making breakfast alone, and trodding back upstairs to the computer room hadn’t a single effect upon him: he knew his Dad was probably an hour into his trip (placing him near Durango) and his mother and brother likely only a half-hour in (probably just passing Chama). So he opened up World of Warcraft and logged onto his blood-elf pally to see which of his friends might be online.
Now, because of the fact that Warren had a mother, his hearing had become quite attentive to sounds occurring outside the gaming world. So when he heard the garage door open slightly, he promptly left the computer and ran downstairs to see if his father had forgotten something or if his brother had convinced their mother to let him kayak a bit first before leaving. Upon entering the garage, however, he found not one of his family members, but a figure in the shadows, rummaging through his father’s tools. When Warren flicked the light on, he found what seemed a homeless man, perhaps just a few years older than he, with blonde dreadlocks, a ragged Hawaiian t-shirt hanging across bony shoulders, long-baggy khaki cargo-shorts, held in place on his narrow hips with a simple brown leather belt. He wore flip-flops, held his father’s concrete saw in one hand, and pointed a nine millimeter at Warren with the other. The hobo’s eyes seemed dark, mixed with fear and recklessness.
Warren raised his hands, his eyebrows bristled with a wary confidence. “You could just ask, you know.”
The hobo stooped to pick up a hatchet, while keeping the pistol leveled at Warren. Then he squinted. Bit his lip.
“You need anything else? I’m sure Dad won’t miss it ‘till August.”
Then he clicked on the safety and pushed the gun into the back of his trousers. He looked back to Warren once more, mouth hanging halfway open. Warren waited for him to speak—the stranger seemed to be weighing his options.
“If you tell me your story, I won’t call the police,” Warren offered.
“You wouldn’t have time for that,” the hobo declared and bent underneath the halfway-opened garage door. “If I were you,” he said glancing back to Warren, “I’d come with me and get the hell out of here.”
It was Warren’s turn for surprise. “What have you done?”
The hobo raised his eyebrows and stuck out his lower lip. “Me? I? No, I just figured I’d loot the place before it burned. You, well. If you stay here, you won’t live long enough to see it burn. Which it will. Shame, too. This is a nice place. Although…though I would have added a little something to that entryway. It’s too…bold. As it is anyway. Maybe a little portico or something to mix up that big white wall.”
“Mom was going to plant lilacs there.” The hobo bit his lip again and scratched at his chin with the hand that had been holding the pistol.
“Yeah. Yeah that could work.” He shrugged. “Well too late for that.”
Warren’s eyebrows detected a hint of truth to this wanderer’s words. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“What do I mean? Well haven’t I stated it simply enough for you? They’re going to kill you and burn your house to the ground.”
“Who is?”
“Trivial question; I ask you, does it matter? I say you’re going to die. If I were you, I’d take a little more interest in saving my own skin.”
To say that Warren was confused, would do him an injustice. First off, he could not imagine in the first place anyone who might desire him physical harm much less his very life. Secondly, while he did not doubt the sincerity of this hobo (though possibly his end designs) he found it difficult to lavish his trust into rash action. He found himself inclined to dismiss the hobo as cracked, call the police, and have the fellow put away. But there was no lie in his eyes. This nomad’s words rang from him as truly as an injusticed five year old. This tension within him kept Warren silent as the hobo glanced from side to side, stepping backward.
“Well then. Good luck with the afterlife. Adieu!” he nodded, halfway bowed, and turned towards the pine forest.
“Wait!” Warren called after him. The hobo looked over his shoulder, but didn’t stop walking. “Where are you going?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere I suppose. Away from that doomed house, that’s for sure,” the hobo shouted back.
Then something in Warren’s mind must have clicked: he had three days. Why not take a little adventure? He could certainly hitch-hike back within that space of time from wherever this hobo was headed. And his looming prophecy of death hadn’t lifted its shade from Warren’s mind.
“I’ll come with you,” he yelled back at the hobo. “Let me grab some stuff.”
The hobo scratched his chin, eyes darting from the house to the road and back. He glanced at his watch.
Warren raised his eyebrows and nodded. “Let me grab my Nalgene and my pocket knife.” The hobo cringed and checked his watch again.
“Hurry!” he shouted after Warren and ducked into some oak brush.
While Warren could be quite reluctant to make decisions under pressure, once the decision was made, he executed the ramifications of the said decision with precision and great speed. So when he ran back into the house, he located his pocket knife and water bottle quickly, placed a 911 call, grabbed his sunglasses and green flannel jacket, slipped on his shoes, and ran out the front door, smacking right into a barrel-chested man in a red and black striped polo shirt. Several others stood behind him, armed with what he thought were automatic rifles. The big man in front grabbed his shoulder with an iron hand.
“Just where are you off too in such a hurry?” he said. Warren’s right eyebrow lifted. The voice did not match the size of the man clutching his shoulder in one hand.
“I…”he stammered a bit, “am. Leaving?” Chuckles rumbled through the group of men. Warren looked at them, praying that some of his brother’s wit was in his genes as well.
“Why would you want to do that? This is your place, isn’t it?” Warren glanced wide-eyed from man to man; how he wished he could use a “here’s your stupid sign” joke.
“Nope,” Warren began, hoping something would strike him. One of the men in back sneered. “I work for the C.I.A and was just bugging this house here. Have fifteen more to do today. Take luck,” he finished and tried to squirm out of the iron grip on his shoulder.
One of the men rolled his eyes. “Right. Like you work for the C.I.A.”
Warren half smiled, half winced. “Here’s your sign.”
The big man in front pushed the muzzle of a particularly nasty-looking rifle into Warren’s chest, and at once he regretted the joke and swallowed with difficulty.
“I don’t care who you are or what your doing here. This house was marked for burning by the boss and so we’re going to burn it to the ground. And lucky you will have a front row seat.”
A frightening threat, considering his predicament, to be sure. Yet all Warren could think to himself was, “’front row seat?’ are you serious? How cliché.” And while the cronies spread out around the house, Warren searched the bushes for any sign of the armed hobo—but found nothing. His mind fled to his ponderings on time after death—something so imminent now, as his hands were forced behind him and he felt himself being cuffed. The muzzle of the rifle stuck now in the middle of his back—which, under different circumstances, might have somewhat tickled.
But after being tied to a kitchen stool and watching the arsonists thoroughly wet the place with gallons and gallons of gasoline, Warren Spicks sighed and the reality of his dire circumstance set in. Here he was, about to face a fiery, suffocating death—but five minutes earlier he had laughed to himself about such an absurd probability. Whoever that hobo was—angelic messenger or demonic trickster—he had warned him. He found it somewhat amusing that he had been so quick to judge, somewhat sad that he had been so slow to believe. What good was all of this hindsight? He hung his head and breathed a punctuated sigh.
One vested man gave him a slap on the arm on his way out, calling the place clear and ready for fire. Warren blinked; his eyes already watered from the fumes of the gasoline. He heard a crash through the living room window—there was the starter flame. He quivered, watching the flames leap around the house. He heard a second crash upstairs. Warren knew it wouldn’t take long.
Now, in ordinary circumstances—despair would be a fitting descriptor for such a situation. But I have already told you that Warren is no ordinary personage, and a rather strange sort of fellow. And while he sat in this early burning prison, the hobo, who had removed himself upon sighting the group of arsonists to a tree high above the place and had watched with extreme curiosity the events below.
Because I have never had the opportunity to meet this strange fellow, I can only guess at his thoughts. But he must have found something of interest in Warren, for after counting the full number of the cronies standing out front, admiring the roaring spectacle, he managed to climb onto the backside of the roof and to break in through a window. He skipped downstairs, winked at the incredibly shocked Warren Spicks, cut his bonds and led him out the back and into the forest.
Of course there were a many great thoughts all rushing upon Warren at a time, but he somehow managed to thank his savior no less than fifty-four times and even tried to kiss his hand—of which the hobo would have none, but rather insisted they move on further. Warren finally obliged him and turned his attention to the path of the future.
“So where are we headed?” Warren asked.
“That thicket over there.”
“What? Why?”
“Do you always ask so many questions?”
“No, I…its just…why this oak brush? Do you plan to hide here or what?”
The hobo bent down and pulled the concrete saw and hatchet from their hidden location. “Any more questions, my dear Dr. Watson?” Warren furrowed his eyebrows and spread his arms.
“Fine. Lead on, Dr. Livingstone.”
The nomad grinned. “So Watson, tell me; what did you think back there, when faced with death?”
“Um. First, it’s Warren. And I don’t know…” he trailed off.
“You don’t know, Watson? Surely it left a credible impression on your mind.”
“Well. I suppose I dreaded the thought of the end.”
“Mmm. But what did you think of the end, is what I asked you. Not how you felt about it. When presented with the end of absolutely everything you know, what did you think?”
Warren was silent a time as they wandered through a spacious pine forest, clustered with thickets of oak brush, with pine needles cracking underfoot. “I suppose I thought—all in the space of a few seconds, you realize—that it really didn’t matter if I died. The universe would still spin, stars would still shine, the oceans would still rise and fall to the tides, calves would still be born, and grasshoppers would still have their legs picked off by little boys.”
“So you came face to face with insignificance and meaninglessness, did you?” the hobo shuddered. “Now there’s a frightening thought. At least for an intellectual.” He surveyed the tree canopy above him for a moment. “But say you aren’t insignificant.”
“What do you mean?”
The hobo sighed and rolled his eyes. “Your question was: ‘how do I reconcile myself with death?’ and you answered that the greater meaning of life was more important than your own life’s meaning. A noble and somewhat selfless, though mildly depressing and fairly irritating, conclusion. You see, Watson, my question was rather similar to yours. Is my life more or less meaningful to the world than yours? Not a hard question to answer yourself, really. Mine is more meaningful, because right now, it matters one hell of a lot to me. But I could empathize with your situation, and should I have been in your shoes (thank heavens I wasn’t) my last seconds would have mattered more than anything in the world. So I figured if I saved you, my life would continue to be more meaningful to anyone than yours…as I would remove the time contingency from the crux of the question.”
“So,” Warren sighed, dropping an eyebrow, “you saved me to make your life more meaningful to you.”
The hobo smiled. “I think he gets the picture. You see, if I had never met you and rather walked by the street as they burned the house I would have had no cause to save you. But since I had offered to save you in the first place, I had already sympathized with you…and to betray that sympathy would be to acknowledge that your last seconds of life really were more important than those same seconds of my life. So I had to save you, you see?”
Warren nodded. “Yeah, I get it. So I was more significant to the world, but only because of the time restraint on my life.”
“But! Our meaningfulness to the world is measured in full only at the end of our lives. I of course took a little risk in saving you back there, that by saving your life, you would use that time to become more significant to the world than I would ever become. But since we both survived, I think I have solidified my position over you.”
“And how’s that, Livingstone?”
“Well my dear Watson, when people in history books will write of all the great things you will have accomplished they won’t fail to mention how I saved your life. And if it hadn’t been for me, all those great things would never have happened. Making me, therefore, much more meaningful to history. Plus, you owe me one now. And so when my life is on the line, you will come to my aid and make sure that my meaningfulness to the world will continue on as long as it can.”
“I suppose I don’t have a choice in the matter,” Warren said, smiling.
“Nay. But isn’t that the easiest way?” the hobo asked.
“I would have to agree, Livingstone.”
Now, these two took to each other rather well, or, at least from Warren’s perspective, they had. Despite the hobo’s fierce allegiance to himself, Warren felt like this was a sort of person he would get along well with. Rarely did their conversation slacken, and even when it did, the hobo would ask another semi-philosophical or theological question of Warren and upon hearing his answer (usually unsatisfactory and trite at first) would clarify and push Warren to deeper methods of thought. And so they continued walking into the forest, chatting lightly between themselves of various “ologies”: cosmology, ontology, epistemology, theology, etc. Warren had dabbled in many, but knew only enough to get himself into trouble. So surprised was he at the hobo’s knowledge and skill with reason, that after an hour’s worth of walking, he realized he hadn’t a clue where they were. And without thinking, he asked “Livingstone” where they were.
“Oh don’t worry. We’re still in Colorado.”
“Yes, but we should have crossed…one, two…three roads by now?” We are headed west? Yes. Look at the sun behind us,” Warren spurted.
“Indeed? Huh,” was all the hobo said for the moment. “But must you be so concerned about our precise location? You yourself have said you don’t know where we’re going—in fact you mentioned it some twelve or thirteen times now.”
“Well I was just trying to figure it out…I mean, we should be over by Martinez canyon now.” Warren was craning his neck to look around the pines. The hobo just nodded and let him search.
“Just tell me. Do you know where we’re headed?”
“Ahh, now there’s the right phrasing of the question. Do you need to know? I think not. We’re having just as good a time as if you did. But do I know? Oh yes. I know exactly where I’m headed. So I suppose my question in return for you would be this: are you okay with that?”
Warren’s eyebrows remained fixed in an ambiguous stare. His tongue played on the inside of his cheek with the inquiry. He supposed that he did owe his continued life to the hobo’s intervention and decided that, if nothing else, this would make for an adventure. But of his family? They would come home in three days and find the house in ruin and what would they assume then?
If nothing else, he could give the hobo a day and a half and then return to his place to wait for his parents. “Yeah,” he said and paused half a breath, “I think so.”The hobo smiled. “Then we have some ground to cover today while it’s still today. Now tell me, do you also believe that Newton was a fool?”