You can skip this Mothra-sized rant and go directly to the story, if you want to. But then you might miss something important! Well, you probably won't. But you might!
This is not a sequel to "Ain't That a Kick in the Head?". To everyone who specifically asked about a sequel (and especially Cryptic Dreams who really specifically asked, in a very nice note, by the way) I regret to inform you there is very likely not going to be a sequel to "Ain't That a Kick in the Head?". While it might be fun to write a sequel, I haven't the foggiest idea what I'd put in it, and so I'm going to leave the story as is, dangling plot line and all, unless some phantasmagorically brilliant inspiration suddenly sneaks up and thwaps me in the head. If you are disappointed in any way, I'm terribly sorry, but that's how it is.
(And now you can shout "How?! HOW can you DO this?!?!" at your computer and check the phone book for hiring ninjas to pelt me with water balloons and safety darts. Or grab a soda and some string cheese. Whatever you like)
And now that you have your soda and string cheese, let me explain some things: "Ain't That a Kick In The Head?" was the first long maybe-I'll-actually-show-someone story I ever wrote, and I'm actually quite satisfied with the ending. I wanted it to have kind of a non-final, un-overly-schmaltzy "and so they rode off into the sunset together and probably lived happily-ever-after" feeling. It worked for Indiana Jones, didn't it? You the highly intellectual reader can imagine for yourself what comes next. Hey, they sat in a tree, there was kissing, and you know as well as I do it's followed by love, marriage, a baby carriage.....yada, yada, yada. Star-crossed, unrequited love and all that jazz. It's not meant to have an ideal happy ending. It's meant to have a hopeful one, with a side of possibilities and a nice big bucket of maybes a la carte.
Well, that's enough spiel. If you've suffered this far and still feel like reading, you have my undying gratitude. This is meant to be sort of a companion piece to "Ain't That a Kick in the Head?" Not a sequel, mind you...more like a slight continuation of the story. It isn't exactly sweet, or funny, or poignant or anything, either...just sorta...thoughtful. Yeah, sounds really exciting, I know. But I hope you enjoy it anyway. If you do, feel free to tell me. If you don't, feel free to tell me in a polite and constructive manner. Or don't say anything at all. Again, whatever you like.
And now, the part where I say I do not own Hey Arnold or anything related to it, because Craig Bartlett and Viacom worked that all out somehow and didn't invite me to the contract-signing party. How rude. Also, a couple of lines near the end of the story may sound familiar; they're a slight paraphrase (only because the original verse says 'man') of 1 Corinthians 13:11. It's the same chapter with the snazzy, well-known verses about love.
And now, the story itself. Huzzah!
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"Pardon?" I glanced up from the sundae, jolted out of a reverie by the hazy impression that someone had spoken my name. Admittedly, several minutes had passed since I'd last paid attention to either the ice cream or to the person sitting across from me in the booth. I don't usually become so absorbed in thought that I begin to tune everything out completely, but, well, it was late, and it was quite understandable that I might have a great deal to ponder over. Blinking, I forced myself back into the waking world. "What was that?"
"You didn't hear me? Something heavy must be on your mind."
"I'm terribly sorry. Could you repeat it, please?" I said.
"I just asked if you believe in fate." He paused, eying me and my sundae. It was only about halfway finished--a misshapen glob of ice cream and syrup melted together in a sticky, swirling mess that threatened to ooze over the side of the dish. Needless to say, it wasn't the focus of my thoughts at the moment. With a smirk, he lifted the spoon from his own bowl--long since emptied--and scooped out a lump of chocolate and vanilla from the dripping dessert in front of me. "But first, tell me," he said good-naturedly, " whether you believe in other people eating your food while you stare at the table."
"Oh...no, go ahead." I pushed the dish over to his side of the booth. "I don't particularly want any more."
"If you're sure." He didn't wait around for further encouragement on my part, launching a full-scale attack on what remained of the mountain of frozen dairy. "I'm surprised. You love Slausen's caramel sundaes; I've seen you polish off three of these in one sitting," he added, wiping away a milk mustache.
I'm afraid I blushed slightly, then. "Well, it is almost eight-thirty. It's a little late to be eating sweets," I reminded him.
"That depends on your definition of 'lateness'. I say any time is a good time for a caramel sundae. Anyway, you haven't answered my question. Do you believe in fate?"
"Why do you ask?"
He shrugged. "No real reason. I guess I'm just curious. It's sorta one of those standard questions everyone asks sooner or later, for the sake of hearing an opinion on the subject. Like if I asked you how you'd commit the perfect crime. Everyone's got a different answer, and nobody can really prove whether they're right or wrong. It's interesting sometimes what kind of responses people will come up with."
"It isn't so simple as all that," I protested. For some reason I suddenly felt the need to be detailed or perhaps stubborn in answering, but in a way the question seemed to me one of subtle importance, not to be skimmed over as mere whimsy. "Fate, karma, destiny...whatever you prefer to call it...I find it preposterously limiting, providing only a form of confinement at the most."
"How do you mean?"
"I think the very concept of predestination," I responded quickly, "the notion that we are not in charge of our own lives but rather subject to a particular, rigid, unalterable order set out from the beginning, is absurd. It's like saying that nothing one can do will alter the course of history, that certain things will happen regardless. If such is the case, where then lies any hope for the future? Where is the reason for waking up each morning and striving to improve the world for personal benefit, or that of others, in some small way? If every facet and aspect of human life is set in stone before we are born, doesn't free will cease to exist? "
The spoon hung suspended from his fingers halfway between ice cream and mouth and a slightly surprised expression crossed his face. He raised an eyebrow incredulously. "Didn't know I was starting a philosophical debate. Sounds like you've thought about this a little more than most people," he said, returning to his business with the sundae. "Would'ya mind giving that to me again...the condensed version?"
"I believe the idea of fate suggests that a person has no command over his own life, that people are not directly responsible for their actions and free will does not affect anything."
"I should've known you'd say something like that," he said with another grin. "Figures you'd have a long, wordy, practical answer."
"I beg your pardon?"
He scraped away the last drops of melted cream, setting the empty dishes aside and folding his hands on the tabletop. "Don't take any offense. I just meant that you read a lot more into the question than I thought you would. Anyone else would have stuck with 'yes' or 'no'."
"I have a tendency to overanalyze things..." I quietly began.
"No, don't apologise for honest opinions," he interrupted. "You're a bright girl; you can't help overanalyzing and that's one thing I like about you. I should challenge you with something really thought-provoking. What's the sound of one hand clapping? Or: How many pickled peppers did Peter Piper pick?" he said in a teasing tone.
"One peck, of course. Although...technically, it is impossible to grow pre-pickled vegetables...so perhaps it is a trick question...in which case the answer would be Zero."
"Told'ya you were bright. Now then..." He casually settled back into the booth cushion, eyes half-closed, with that almost stereotypical air of fatherly concern one might expect from a grey-bearded psychiatrist. Steepling his fingers, he raised an eyebrow and said in mock-seriousness: "Et seemz you haff sometingk on your mahnd. Tell me, fraulein, vaht ez zee prahblim? I ahm lezsteningk."
I tried (with success) not to laugh. Of all the nauseatingly bad German accents, his had to be the absolute worst.
"Zee clock ez rrruningk, so I enseezst vee staht zee sesshon..."
"Please, that's quite enough," I said, holding up a hand. " I can't possibly discuss anything even remotely important in an ice cream parlor after dark...not if I have to sit with Dr. Freud."
Sitting up, he said in his normal voice: "Sorry. Just wanted to make you smile. What's bothering you?"
"It's hard to say, exactly. There's this nagging little thought in my head, telling me that perhaps we made the mistake yesterday of trying to push events along too fast. Perhaps we ought to have left things as they were."
"Oh...Left things alone at the reunion, you mean."
"Yes. I can't help wondering if something was ruined from the moment we opened our mouths. Perhaps the whole idea of 'getting reacquainted' was misconstrued from the beginning and we shouldn't have tried to change that..."
"Hey, the whole idea of 'relationships' , period, has been misconstrued, as you say, since the dawn of time. And I, for one, am glad we took a chance. Whatever you'd guess tonight was worth, for better or worse, I somehow think this little date/non-date evening was a long time in coming."
"In other words, the basic scenario would have eventually come to pass, no matter what was done or said yesterday?"
"Probably," he said with a shrug. "It always seemed to me like something that everybody secretly expected and wanted to happen. Maybe we even expected and wanted it to happen. So it might not have worked out. That's life. At least we won't be left wondering 'what if?'"
"Then you would attribute this to mere...fate?"
He grinned, noting the slightly perturbed look on my face. "Not all of it. Just the date/non-date part in general. That reminds me; which one was it supposed to be, anyway?"
"A date or a non-date?"
"Yeah. I never figured that out."
"Neither did I. I think there was some misunderstanding involved," I answered with a smile. "Maybe it turned out to be a little of both. Or maybe nothing special happened today. Who knows for certain?"
"All I know is any day that ends with a good friend sitting across from me, and about a gallon of caramel sundae in my belly is special enough." He patted his stomach contentedly and glanced at his watch. "I guess we'd better get home. One of us could use some beauty rest, and it obviously isn't you. Come on, let's go." We rose to our feet. "By the way, thanks for agreeing to go out for ice cream, even though you weren't hungry" he said.
"Any time. Thank you for inviting me."
Slowly, we headed toward the front entrance of the parlor. He gave my shoulder a light nudge with his elbow. "So," he said, "do you believe in fate, or not?"
"I thought we had already resolved this."
"Nope, you artful dodger, you. You gave me your personal definition of fate, but you never really answered the question. It's simple. Yes or no. "
I sighed. "Not so simple. Do I believe that I actually have little or no control over my life because my entire existence has already been mapped out ahead of time? No. Do I believe that some things are not coincidence and occur for reasons that may not be immediately clear? Well...yes, sometimes."
"Okay, I agree so far. But do you think that some things happen just because they should? Because they're meant to be?"
We were standing before the glass doors at the entrance and I paused to consider his inquiry. Before I could reply, the doors swung open with a tinkling of bells, and we were greeted by two familiar faces framed in blond hair.
"Gerald! Phoebe, hi! What are you doing here?"
My best friend snickered at those words and rolled her eyes. "They're picking out Halloween costumes. Why else would they be in an ice cream parlor?" she ribbed him. "Criminy, you ask the dumbest questions, sometimes."
"Here's another one. Why don't I give you the honor of paying for both our ice creams?"
"Because I'd insist the whole meal be on you. Literally," she shot back on her way to the counter.
"Ice cream isn't a meal..." I began, but Gerald stopped me. He winked and nodded his head knowingly toward our friends, now perched on the swiveling bar stools and engaged in what appeared to be a heated discussion over whether it was truly necessary for Slausen's to offer three separate flavors of vanilla when something as important as Maple Pecan Rocky Road Fudge Ripple Crunch had been shockingly overlooked.
"Have fun, you guys. See you later," he called to them, leading me through the door amidst an answering chorus of 'good night's and 'see you's. Arnold and Helga waved to us from the other side of the plate glass window and then quickly resumed their discussion. As we were now on the outside of the parlor, it was impossible to still hear the conversation being held at the bar stools. That didn't matter, though; the muted expressions on their faces told me that neither regretted the other's company, and watching them, I couldn't help but smile myself.
Gerald put an arm around my shoulders as we strolled down the sidewalk together. "Whew," he interjected after a moment of silence. "Are we sure those are the same two birds we saw having an arguing contest over in the park half an hour ago?"
"I'm as taken aback as you are. After that display, seeing them in the same room together would have been unexpected enough, but seeing the two of them willingly spend time together so soon is almost mind-boggling."
"Well, whatever they were mad about, they seem to be over it." He chuckled softly and turned to me. "Still sorry for interfering in your friends' personal lives?" he asked.
"Somewhat. Anything that may or may not happen between them really isn't our business, you know."
"Yeah, I know. That's why I thought it better if we didn't stick around just now when they showed up. But it's kinda fun to make it our business sometimes, isn't it?"
"I suppose," I admitted. "Then again, it's very likely we had nothing to do with it at all."
"We can't take the credit if destiny's to blame," he kidded.
I opened my mouth to comment, but thought better of it. Instead I asked him, "What do you think? Do you believe in fate?"
He pondered that for a few seconds and then he nodded, giving my shoulders a friendly, affectionate squeeze with his arm. "I believe that some things happen just because they should. Just because they're meant to be," he replied simply.
I said: "I think so too."
Glancing back, I could still see the light shining through the plate glass window of Slausen's, and just barely discern the shapes of two people sitting on their stools, eating ice cream and laughing. An endless row of electric lamps stretched around the sidewalk and kept it lit, but most of the nearby buildings and windows were dark, shut up for the night. Only the glow of the parlor window cut through the darkness as if it were a beacon guiding lost ships into harbor. It gave off a soothing effect I had never noticed before. Suddenly, that tiny room at the end of the block seemed to be the warmest, safest place in the city, shutting out the grinding gears and exhaust fumes of trucks driving down the streets and the whizzing and screeching of cars on the overpass. Suddenly I had that slightly sinking feeling one gets when one is on the outside looking in, so to speak, and I had the ghost of a notion that perhaps I was missing something, or had missed it already but might still find it if I searched hard enough. For a split second I longed to be back in the ice cream parlor, this time to let myself be completely at peace and not think or worry about what went on outside the walls, to let the world and its cares pass me by. I almost wished I could stop time and savor the moment--that feeling--for a little longer. But time stops for no one. The world continues to spin and stars burn with the light of a thousand years ago and life, steered by fate or not, plods forward step by step like old acquaintances walking home, leaving the soft brightness and calm of the parlor window behind. Such is the nature of things, as we must all eventually awake from our fantasies into reality.
When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I thought as a child, I reasoned as a child...
Even though I have always been a practical person, as a little girl I was filled with idealistic dreams about the future, what I would someday be and do, where I would go and what would become of me. Most of my fantasies, naturally, involved hopes for whom I might marry, hopes for my own love and happiness and for that of my friends...hopes that my dreams would become real.
But when I grew, I put childish ways behind me...
I suppose I know better, now. Some part of me still pines for the fantastic dreams of my youth. I am far from being old and am hardly wise beyond my years, but have aged enough to understand how un-fairy-tale-like life truly is. I do not think it possible to achieve the kind of unconditionally happy endings we so often seek in childhood, for utter joy must have utter sorrow to be measured against, and every ending seems to be but the beginning of something else. Yet, I do agree that some things are genuinely meant to happen and some fantasies come true, if for no other reason than that they should.
Gerald's arm was still around my shoulders, forming, as I imagined, a sort of strong, protective barrier to shield me from the darkness. That idea comforted me, somehow. His presence was no fantasy. Nor was the budding camaraderie of the two people in the ice cream parlor. I looked back at the window one last time. Fatigue was winning me over and a sleepy delirium had quite possibly conquered the lucidity of my thoughts, but it seemed like the yellow glow of the window was also keeping me safe, as if nothing bad would ever happen so long as the light and I could see each other.
Perhaps there was some validity to my youthful dreams and the friendship I shared with Gerald would in time develop into something deeper. Perhaps a similar future awaited our best friends as they laughed together over late-night dessert.
And perhaps not.
None of us would know for sure until we got there. Either way, the journey had been worthwhile so far, and I could patiently await the next bend of the road.
I then realised that in some way, for some reason, I had managed to stumble upon one of those rare and inexplicable moments in which everything is beautiful. I was happy. Three people I cared about were happy. I could almost taste caramel on my tongue and in the cool air, and I found myself smiling in the knowledge that at this particular moment, however brief, all was right with my little piece of the world.
The arm gave me another light, friendly squeeze and the person belonging to it broke the silence nonchalantly. "So Phoebe," he began, "...would you still say that nothing special happened today? Because that's a real shame..."
"No, I think I was wrong," I said with a shake of the head and a laugh. "Something did."