The Long Wait
It was a night quite like none other; a time quite distant and remote. Yet the familiarity of it all remained. Isolated on some rough dust-and-cake piece of land in the middle of nowhere, waiting for nothing in particular, yet waiting nonetheless. We've all been there, but who can say it gets any more familiar each time? That the place. That foreign and strange land of desolation.
The scene was quite a mood setter. Off the five-layered tar street, on the ancient cement sidewalk, sitting on some wooden bench was me. The sign, my only friend that dark night, told my purpose—route 64, it said, once every hour. And the rain came tapping away off the brim of my twenties-style Dick Tracy hat. No, I didn't quite have the yellow suit, but it was quite a cookie-cutter out of some magazine. Then again everything is nowadays.
Wet as I was going to be, late as the bus ever was, there was still the issue—the question, rather—of what to do. Those kids were at it again, racking up frequent flier miles to and from the digital world. I follow them here and there, watching them do their little adventures with their loyal "digimon." Hey, if it pays, that's what works, right?
They are quite a mystery, though, and the situation they are in. Why does the fate of the world always rely on kids? It's like saving the world is some rite of passage, just a part of growing up. Then again, maybe it is what makes a man a man, a woman a woman. Some challenge in life to mark the passage—might as well be saving the world, eh? And then there's faith. As if faith is truly enough. It's like some cartoon, I tell you, watching these kids go around, always triumphant in the end. But good always is. I'd explain that, but that's another issue altogether (philosophical stuff).
My name is Parker, and that's what they call me—detective Parker. There I said it. You know me—the typical single, male, 30-year old detective figure who dabbles into shabby business occasionally, who keeps his own strange code of ethics and such, and who hides behind a mask of stoicism, ultimately bottling up emotions until some hot, sexy female comes to tame me. Yeah, that's me. And this is your typical 20s, mystery-man, detective-novel introduction. You saw it—the hat, the rain. Most definitely the rain. Not quite the same without it.
Well, there it is in blunt truth, they way its supposed to be. I'm no pretender of new-age tact or style—all those avant-garde-loving, ultra-nonconformists are just fakes anyway. Like some say, we're all just re-inventing the wheel. That's history—the endless repetition of events. Well, I'd better get back to the story.
Who hired me? Don't know. Never do, these days. Perhaps its better that way. If I did, I'd be dead, and this Parker prefers to be alive. Haven't had too much contact with my contractor lately, but I've started to take a personal interest in this little mystery, which keeps me going long enough between paychecks. Exhilaration is better than coffee any day, but more expensive, if you know what I mean. Don't ask me what that means—I don't know. It just sounded cool.
So these kids—what the heck are they? Some "chosen" kids out of millions. Not true, I think. Chose any kids, and they'll turn out the same way. These kids are what they are because they were chosen; they were not chosen because they are what they are. Well, and the fact that they live at convenient distances. But that's implicitly understood in the choosing process.
Let's start at the beginning. I've got time. Bus won't come for another hour, probably. It does that Friday nights. Carl's a nice, hard-working guy, don't get me wrong, but who can help these things on Friday? Well, I'm digressing again. Tell me next time I do. The beginning. Yes. Tai, leader of the digidestined. His digimon, Agumon. Quite a character, huh? Always fussing about himself, and always joking. Typical joker-who-needs-to-learn-responsibility character. Well, not quite. It isn't as strong in this one. More like a guy who just needs to grow up. Does he? Maybe. Not many people ever do grow up completely, if you ask me. Well, in a nutshell, he gets to make all the decisions because he is the most assertive of the bunch. Matt is more passive, and the others are acquiescent, including rational Izzy and Joe, whose opinions don't matter most of the time anyway.
Matt, now, is more of a mysterious figure. I see him as just another silent guy who turns the babes on. The more mystery and conflict, the more sex appeal. Forget Tai and Sora, it's about Matt and whoever he hooks up with. You need a guy like this in their bunch. The digidestined without him is like a classic fantasy story without elves. Gabumon always ends up being the best buddy that snaps him back into reality whenever he gets on a trip of self-pity. Loyalty is of the utmost importance to digimon.
Then there's Sora—sweet, atheletic, and agreeable. Always caring for others, but never caring about herself. What's there to say? Once again, the digimon is the catalyst for epiphanic episodes. She finally resolves the conflict with her mother over their relationship. The rest—you know them—Mimi, the ditzy pacifist; Izzy, the emotionless and engrossed computer nerd; Joe, the meek, rebellion-in-a-bottle hypochondriac who has age but no authority; T.K., the loyal brother and optimist out to prove himself; Kari, the one of endless faith who "somehow" knows all.
Yeah, well, that's them. The digisdestined. To tell you the truth, I used to think that those stereotypes didn't exist. Just the media, I told myself. Then I moved to the west coast. They're everywhere, I tell you. It's all a self-fulfilling prophecy. They are that way because they are treated that way, and they are treated that way because they are that way. There I go again. Don't ever ask me for my opinion on things—you don't want me to get started.
Anyway, I'm beginning to care less and less about them. Who gives about some punky half-teens saving the world with their digital friends who were arranged for them? I never cared for blind-date setups. But when it comes down to it, you gotta do what you can to bring in the bread.
So here I am, talking to no one, waiting for a goddamned bus which never arrives on time. I'm wet. I'm cold. But I don't care. There's life out there, waiting for me. A life I may not enjoy, but a life nonetheless. It calls like a bitchy wife in bed, complaining about her sex life because menopause is just around the corner. Yup. That's life. Another of those arranged things.
There's the bus, then, coming to take me away. You, I'll see some other time. For now, there are greater things than idle chat. I go home now, but tomorrow, the same digidestined to watch over. I'm beginning to think that I shoulda become a doctor like good old momma said.