This story came to me after a visit to the cemetery near my house. I saw the name “Olander” on a headstone, and I knew that it would show up in a story soon!
Olander Johnson wanted to make something of himself. But every time he tried, it ended in disappointment. He’d start with a wonderful idea, full of anticipation, excitement, and promise. The light in his eyes would reflect the light coursing through his body at the thought of finally–FINALLY–finding the one; the one ultimate great idea that would launch him into happiness, fulfillment, peace. Everything he’d always wanted from life. The idea would be so profound, so easy, so life-changing that it would just flow from him, guiding him until it came to fruition. No struggle. No work. Just a satisfying challenge that he’d always known would come to him eventually.
So there he sat at his kitchen table, a basic wood contraption with rickety peg legs that wobbled every time he went to stand up or sit down. His head rested in his hands. His shoulders drooped toward the table as he eyed a tiny crack that had appeared years ago in the table top. His eyes had traversed the crack a hundred times, a thousand, he decided. He could just stay here until his feet grew roots, pushing ever so slowly through the vinyl floor into the plywood and, eventually, into the foundation of his miserable house, the earth below, holding him there for all eternity.
Poor Olander. He had nothing. Did nothing. Said nothing. Just lived his life day to day, surviving only because his heart continued beating and his lungs continued breathing.
Someone put him out of his misery!
Sorry, Olander. That’s not what your life is about. You’re just an old man, destined to die without making any meaningful impact on the world. Nothing exciting or life-changing, or even remotely interesting will happen to you.
“Well what kind of story is that?” Olander sighs and looks up at a crack on his ceiling.
What kind of story, indeed. Boring. Monotonous. Tedious.
Make something happen!
A cloud, white and puffy, floats by his house.
Well, that’s nice.
Only he doesn’t see it on account of his roof. It blocks the view.
Then I’ll just go outside.
He couldn’t do that. You see, outside isn’t a very friendly place. It’s—
Inside isn’t so friendly either.
He starts to push himself up from the table. The four legs wobble, and then buckle under the weight of his two knobby hands that he’s placed on the table top to help himself up.
No! Don’t go outside! It’s—
It’s better than nothing.
At that moment, the table collapses. Finally, after thirty years, the table has regressed to a pile of firewood. He catches himself on his hands and knees.
What’d you go and do that for?
His knees ache from the fall, and the vinyl is cold against his bruised palms.
Stop it. Just talk to me!
He shuffles to one side to sit on his bony butt and assess his injuries. But, of course, he’s not seriously hurt. That would be something when his life is nothing. He sighs. Hangs his head.
Hey, I’m talking’ to you! Why’d you topple my table? I thought nothing was supposed to happen in this dumb life of mine.
Olander can’t go outside now—
Oh yes I can. I’m getting up. See? My feet still hold me. I’m not dead yet. I—
Despite his slow shuffle past the kitchen sink and counter toward the entryway, Olander can’t go outside. He’ll never eventually never eventually neveventually
Stop it!
He’ll eventually get there.
No, he won’t. Nothing, and I mean nothing—.
His heart My heart beats strong and loud, so loud I can hear it in my ears.
Heart attack! Olander smiles up at the ceiling again and begins to take—
No. No heart attack. I’m still walking. Past the dishwasher that’s broken for years.
Suddenly, it starts spilling water from the bottom of the door. The water oozes out in front of him, pooling slowly across the floor. He pauses. The floor will be too slippery now. Falling again could be the end of him. So, he can’t, won’t walk to the entryway now.
Look! I’m sitting. Here’s a towel from the drawer. See? It soaks up the water.
The puddle is too big for his measly, fraying towel. It’s drenched within seconds.
I have a whole drawer of them to dump on the water.
The pile makes a slopping sound as it falls from the drawer. After a few minutes of vigorous wiping—
The floor is dry now. I won’t take chances with you. I’ll just scoot across the floor. See? You can’t make anything happen to me now. I’m scooting. Laughing! I haven’t scooted like this since I was a child playing crab. Who ever saw an old man scooting across the floor just to get to the door to show you I WILL go outside. Even though—no, because—you don’t want me to.
Olander makes it to the door. He smiles up at me.
Who says nothing ever happens…
He mumbles to himself as he reaches for the doorknob, turns it…
Wait! Don’t!
I’m going. The knob is sturdy. My hand is steady. The door’s unlocked. This house…this house is a prison. I must—
Olander! No! It’s—
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