THE PSEUDONYM OF GOD

"What gift should I send you, sonny?" Mom's voice on the phone seemed off again: distant, soft, if not melancholic. Even though we were talking about my big birthday, apparently, the fortieth. "Apparently" isn’t a figure of speech. I've banned myself from thinking about age, so successfully that I often hesitate when filling out various forms. Any number over thirty looks suspicious to me. I avoid mirrors, shave by touch. Nearsightedness is also a plus. And if some dreary phiz glimpses back in the reflection, well, that's my older brother. I’ve always wanted an older brother.

"Hi there," he peers at me like hasn't seen me for ages.

"Good as always. But what about you?"

"Sick..."

"With what?"

"A bit of everything."

"Quit drinking. And stuffing your face. And get some plastic surgery already. Your cheeks hang like Saint Bernard's."

"Screw you!" He turns his back and leaves.

And let him scram. That's not the kind of brother I dreamed of.

"Sonny" isn't from mom's lexicon. She must have mellowed out in retirement, couldn’t stand mushy talk before. "It's easy to babble about feelings," she'd say, "but what really matters are actions. Only actions." And she certainly took plenty of actions with me. I've spent half my life on self-fix.

"A watch," I replied on a whim, "with a mechanical winding. They don't have those here, everything's on batteries. But maybe you still have some there."

I knew right away where it came from. Years ago, my parents gave me a watch as a uni graduation gift. I wore it while teaching at my first school, but before I started at the second one, I lost it, probably on a trip to Banff. By then, the working need for it was gone. Every teacher has a perfect sense of time, even a former one. Although I don't think there are former teachers, just like, for instance, former spies. In a way, a teacher is also a spy. Sometimes I wake up at night, knowing it's 3:33 or 4:44. No point in checking, confirmation makes me sick.

Woe to the child born into a family of perfectionists. My dad, an introvert, only sought to improve himself, while mom tried to perfect everyone around. A "B" in any subject was considered an anomaly at home and warranted meticulous analysis. Even for "As" I wasn't praised—they were seen as expected and normal. "Set higher standards for yourself," my mom would repeat, "remember that. Higher standards for yourself."

With a sigh, she'd talk about the remarkable children of her colleagues and friends. Alex, a "straight-A" student, on track for top school honors. Tanya, a promising musician with perfect pitch, entering the conservatory. David, who masters Russian and Mandarin, aiming for a future in diplomacy. Mike, a brilliant surgeon, invited to a top research institute in Switzerland but didn’t go. Good for him; he is not running from the challenges of a local public hospital. Zach, the neighborhood jack of all trades, ready to help day or night. I couldn't measure up to any of them. The inferiority complex was hammered into my head with six-inch nails.

In seventh grade, I realized it was time for a change. First off, I'd had it with the music school. Guess who enrolled me there. Mom would pale with pride when I disgustedly performed for tipsy guests, or at another annual concert, wooden with anxiety and a new suit. Oh, those hated concerts...

Over the years, the workload at both schools grew heavier. Friends rarely dropped by; always busy, I became unpopular. The spotlight was on the puck-shooting and punch-throwing masters. Trendy clothing, designer gear, and romantic achievements also counted. Violin playing didn’t even make that list. Or rather, it was in the negatives. One day, I said enough—for the first time.

Then I went downhill academically. A long-term war with our math teacher ended with two "C"s on my final report card. I snuck out of prom with my friends, quite a few drinks inside us, to smash her windows. Too bad we missed—she lived on the fourth floor. Ironically, I now earn my bread and sausage doing stats.

Around the same time, I began to dabble in alcohol; later at uni, dove into this hobby with risky enthusiasm. I crashed in friends' dorms for days, skipped lectures, teetered on the edge of expulsion. I often forgot my girlfriends' names, but they didn’t seem to care. Sure enough, I mixed with God knows who. One of my flings, a party nut from the rural town of Foxhollow, had a typical barmaid name—Betsy, or maybe Becky, I don't remember. The town intrigued me, I even went to check it out. Betsy's (or Becky's?) dad, thinking I was a suitor, plied me with moonshine to the point of amazement. Upon return, I gloatingly announced to mom that I'd marry Becky.

As a senior, I avoided home for weeks, guarding a construction site at night. After graduating, I picked a teaching spot at the far end of nowhere. It seemed that only distance could heal the agonizing relationship with my parents. And perhaps time. That's exactly how it worked out.

Before long, I realized that direction matters as much as distance. I sobered up, came to my senses, moved to Vancouver. Got a second degree with distinction, then enrolled in a PhD program. I gave mom a call to fill her in.

"That's good," she said. "How are you doing with money?"

"Wait, mom, you aren't getting it. I was the only honor student in a class of forty. The competition for postgrad was insane..."

"So what?" Mom interrupted. "That's how it should be. You're my son."

In my whole lifetime she surprised me twice. The first occasion was when she found out our family was moving abroad. After years of struggling to land a stable academic job in Canada, I accepted a tenured research role in New Zealand. Breaking the news to mom, I was ready for her disappointment, for words like "quitter" and "softie." Her response caught me off guard. "Go where you can make a difference and do it soon. I've got your back with money or any paperwork if needed." My wife and I exchanged puzzled glances. Then mom added, "Academia in this country is flush with incompetence and political scheming. But there... God willing, you'll find what you’re looking for."

Just before that, the university where mom worked in the Chancellery faced a major leadership shake-up. A bunch of cocksure corporate suits coming to power was like a trauma incompatible with life. Big talk, ambitious projects, countless meetings, destroying what used to work, scapegoating. Optimization and restructuring, that is, replacing the smart with loyal mediocrities. The brightest ones fled first, unwilling to wait for the acceleration from the backside. Mom was about to retire, but the new leaders persuaded her to stay on a bit longer. They needed a few seasoned staff to enlighten them on what they were leading. Mom knew she was being used as a band-aid, but didn't care anymore.

The second surprising conversation happened twelve years later. We were having dinner at a café on Rio San Moise. Mom was reminiscing about people from the past. One got married, another divorced. The third went up, down, then gone. I asked about the exemplary kids of her former colleagues. You know, those Tanya, David, Zack... Alex.

As it turned out, Alex, a cavalier of two honors degrees, the pride of a top Canadian business school, got caught in some dodgy financial dealings. Shunned by the industry, he bounced from one temp job to another, then started his own business and failed, barely paying off debts. He’s now running a car wash owned by his former classmate Victor, a bully and flunk, now a respected man and philanthropist.

Tanya, a conservatory graduate, went through three happy marriages. She used to sing at a high-end restaurant, was an uptown star, had a blast, with all the side effects. The nightlife ages you quickly. Now, she’s performing on cruise ships, at corporate events, and banquets. Even sings at church sometimes.

David didn't become a diplomat: the competition was too fierce. He worked as a conference interpreter, gave private lessons, sold teaching aids. Nowadays, he escorts wealthy teens around Beijing, helping them learn the language in a relaxed way. Occasionally, runs out to grab beers for them.

And Zack? Still the ultimate handyman. The neighbors can't stop raving about him. He fixes stuff, helps out, solders, welds... you name it. But no one knows what he really does for a living. Word around is he gets paid in envelopes.

I couldn't resist it.

"So, Mom, am I still worse than them?"

"Why are you bringing that up?" Mom asked, staring into her drink. "Of course not. I just thought you could do more. But life has a way of placing people where they belong. Outside pressure is senseless. You did everything right." She gave my wife a grateful look.

"We," my wife said.

"What?"

"We did everything right."

"Yeah, sure. Sure."

It was getting dark. Warm lights flickered along the canal. Restaurant female laughter fluttered out, shadows of waiters moved. Through the black oil of the water, three gondolas glided to the pier. The gondoliers called to each other in tired voices. I thought about how important it is for parents to live long, until the time when both they and we become wise. When it's too late to prove anything, take offense, count mutual debts. And all we want is to forgive and love, if we haven’t forgotten how.

Needless to say, mom sent the watch out beforehand. But... the big birthday had come and gone, the toasts quieted down. The empty champagne bottle got filled with cigarette butts. My gift kept traveling. Then suddenly, Mom calls. The watch has come back. The package is stamped "addressee not found."

"Mom," I say, "just scan and email this to me, then send the parcel again. Can you handle the cost? I’m happy to cover it from here."

"Don’t fuss. Let’s double-check the address."

Mom sends the watch again. And... it's the same story down to the last comma. The scan arrives, the stamp under our address reads "addressee not known."

"Bloody jokers... I'll sort you out now..." I muttered, scrolling to find the New Zealand Post's contact numbers. After about ten minutes of robotic voices and classical piano music, I ran out of known swear words and invented a few new ones. Every time the robot asked a question, I repeated: "I demand a personal meeting with the senior manager."

"He's away on a business trip," a sympathetic female voice finally cut in.

Really? Where on earth does a post office manager go on business trips?

"I want to meet with the deputy. He has a deputy, right?"

"Right. What do you need a personal meeting for?"

"That I'll discuss with him or her."

"I am to document the reason..."

"Fine. To complain about the appalling service of your facility."

"Just submit a complaint form."

"I've done that three times," I lied. "What's going on? Why are your managers hiding from customers?"

"Will tomorrow at ten suit you?"

At five to ten, I stepped into the elevator of a glass-and-concrete high-rise. The elevator was glass too, offering a glimpse into the floors I passed. On each level, clerks labored hunched over in small transparent cubicles. Perhaps the interior designer intended to highlight the openness and honesty of the staff. A sturdy man in a relaxed open jacket, no tie, stood up from behind his desk. Amiable, slightly fleshy face, no-fake smile. I've lost the inspiration to make a scene.

"Thomas," he said, extending his hand.

"Max."

"Please, take a seat. What can I do for you?"

As I explained, I laid out the printed scans in front of him. Thomas studied each one carefully.

"Incredible," he finally said. "Once is rare, but twice in a row... You haven't changed your address lately, have you?"

"Nope," I handed him the electricity, phone, and water bills. "And the mailbox is secure. Plus, why would anyone steal a notice if they get nothing without an ID?

Thomas massaged the back of his head and neck.

"It's quite weird, anyway. Okay, we'll investigate and let you know."

He glanced at his watch—a fancy one, mind you. That settled it for me. I flashed a chummy grin and said,

"I'm not interested in your investigation."

The deputy manager raised an eyebrow.

"What do you want then?"

"Compensation, of course. For the hassle and expenses. Five hundred bucks should cover it."

Thomas shook his head.

"No, that's not how we do things here. We're not a private company, and..."

"I understand, but..."

"Listen..."

"No, you listen. Our family is ordinary, you could say poor: no big shots or deputies. And, you know, sending packages back and forth is kind of pricey for us. Because your service works like a... mess. Now, the moral aspect. My mom is seventy (I added her four years). She posted me an anniversary gift, and you guys returned it twice. Twice! It’s stressing her out, and at her age..."— my voice broke—"do you get what can happen?"

New Zealanders take such rhetoric to heart. Thomas looked like he’d just swallowed a bad oyster. "Hang on..." He rummaged through a drawer and pulled out a sleek card with the New Zealand Post logo and a barcode. "How about this?" he said, sliding the card across the table. "It's a hundred bucks' worth of postage credit. You can send whatever you need anywhere in the world, free of charge. And I'll personally keep an eye on your package. It'll be hand-delivered by a courier for your signature."

The watch turned out to be quite basic, more so than I expected. No frills on the dial, just 3, 6, 9, 12. A small ship and an airplane in the middle. Leather strap. My buddy Mark, a plastic surgeon who owns a Rolex collection, would be embarrassed to wear it even in private. But I like it. After all, it's crossed the ocean five times.

Sometimes I wonder: was there any meaning in these flights across the world? Or was it just a mistake, a chance? But chance is the pseudonym of God, as someone wise said. Why did mom’s gift so stubbornly avoid me? Why a watch, of all things? A cunning little gadget that steals our time. Steals our life. I'm reminded of my favorite Stephen King story... Okay, suppose I have a split personality and destroyed both notices myself. But I want to understand why. Why would my alter ego need it?

No answer.

The watch still lies in my nightstand by the bed. Once a year, I wind it up. Its ticking is soft, if not melancholic.

Max Nevoloshin: Teacher, psychologist, university lecturer and researcher. Author of novels and short stories. Lives in Australia.