Jack Of All Trades

Jack of all trades and a master of none. Is it funny or mortifying that my name happens to be Jack? Fitting or fated for failure? Either way I seem to be pathetically and hopelessly remedial at absolutely everything. Isn’t everyone supposed to be good at something? I guess God glitched when it came to me. Just ask the dusty keyboard, scuffed rollerblades and stacks of “How to” books that have come to my apartment to die. My mom thinks I’m a hoarder. At this point she probably thinks I don’t even touch the gear I pick up, but the sad truth is that everything I touch dies and takes a piece of my sorry soul with it. 

Every little thing I think might bring me an ounce of joy turns into another reminder of my inadequacy. Skateboarding left me with scraped knees and an even more scuffed ego. Painting was an even sadder attempt. I signed up for a “beginner” class at the community center not realizing that it was targeted at highschoolers. I was 27 at the time. By the grace of God everyone seemed to collectively commit to ignoring how starkly out of place I was. One of the silver linings of the midwest: an outwardly kind social code. This relief lasted until a week later when my mom called to tell me that a woman named Sandra from church has a 14 year old daughter who was also in the class. Sandra recognized me walking to my car when she was picking up her daughter and assumed I must have been the instructor. 

“Imagine how silly I looked when I had to tell her that not only did I have no idea what you were up to at a juvenile arts and crafts class, but that I was certain you had never drawn so much as a stick figure in your life!” she fussed over the landline.

“I have drawn a stick figure before ma, give me a little credit”, I lied. “They don’t advertise those things well enough! Excuse me for trying to broaden my horizons.”

“The only thing you’re broadening these days is your poor mother’s anxiety! I just don’t understand why you’re so hell bent on ‘finding your calling’ or whatever it is. If you are meant for anything it will find you, that’s how life works. Stop trying so hard; and for the love of christ give me a heads up next time you get involved with something that might make me look like the mother of a child predator. At least give me that courtesy Jack.” With the click of the receiver my artist’s journey came to an abrupt and humiliating end. 

So I donated my art supplies to the kids at the community center and spiraled into a familiar puddle of existential dread before deciding that my mother was probably right. Maybe I was trying too hard. I needed something easy. A simple activity that I could enjoy without any skill or risk of embarrassing myself or my mother. That’s when it hit me! By “it” I mean a bird and by “me” I mean my third story window. Birds! What could possibly be safer and more low key than birdwatching? I was absolutely elated. How could I possibly mess this one up? Foolproof! I thought, but the northwoods had never met a moron like me.

That next Saturday morning I sprung out of bed feeling like Cinderella. The morning practically lifted me out of bed by its own animated force. Everything was fresh. The glow of the sunrise was just starting to pour through my bedroom window and the birds outside seemed to be calling me by name; if you consider crows to be worthy of the title “bird”. I was ready to have my magical experience and no small detail was going to ruin it for me. Looking back I should have taken the murder of large black birds gathered outside my window as some sort of bad omen. I, nonetheless, proceeded with everything but caution. 

I slipped into my new hiking boots that I purchased the day before, certain that the high price tag would be worth it this time, and packed my backpack with some bird-watching essentials. I printed off a field guide from the internet to help me identify the countless different birds I was bound to see. Luckily, I was able to dig through my old boy scout gear to find my old binoculars. They were a bit too small for my grownup face and one of the lenses had a small crack through the center but they would work! I threw them in the front pocket of my backpack and hit the road. 

I had carefully picked the state park for my outing to be just far enough out of town that optimal bird sighting was likely, but not so far out of town that no one would find my dead body if worse came to worst. I took my first steps onto the trail, breathed in the crisp morning air and paused. Waiting for a birdsong to prompt my first real “birder” moment. I held my breath in anticipation and practically passed out waiting to hear something. There wasn’t a single whisper of a chirp. Not a caw or a tweet or even a flutter of wings in the distance. Refusing to be discouraged so early on in my adventure I chalked it up to still being so close to the main road near the trail and ventured deeper into the woods. I must have walked for over an hour before I saw her; a beautifully subtle female cardinal. There was a rustle above me in one of the birch trees and I might have missed her if it weren’t for that beaming red beak. I reached for my binoculars in my backpack but the sound of the zipper scared her. She flew away straight down the trail and I followed her. 

Before I knew it the sun was dead in the center of the sky and I had no idea where I was. I couldn’t hear any birds or the hum of the main road anymore and my feet hurt. I sat down on the leaf-covered ground and pulled off my boots to find fresh, raw, bleeding blisters on both of my heels. I was so excited about seeing some birds that I completely forgot that new boots need to be properly broken in before going on a full-on hike. At that point it was less painful to walk in my socks. With one problem slightly solved I immediately encountered another: I was starving. A loud rumble from my stomach alerted me to the fact that I had also forgotten to eat before I left my apartment. I pulled out my cellphone to check the time. It was already past 3pm. I was more lost than ever and I hadn’t even thought to pack a snack. 

As I looked at the phone in my hand, contemplating calling for help, I realized that I had absolutely zero service. At that moment my blood went cold. I felt my pressure drop in my veins and the last thing I remember hearing before blacking out was the sharp caw of a crow.

I woke up later that night in the ER. A park ranger had found me unconscious, one mile from the trail entrance. He pulled me onto his state park vehicle and got me to the hospital where I was greeted by my less than joyful mother.

“Why did they find you in your socks Jack?!” 

“I’m fine ma, thanks for asking” I replied, still foggy. 

“Are you finally done with these silly pursuits?” she asked, “At this rate you’re heading straight for the grave! What the hell were you doing out there by yourself anyway?!”

“I wanted to see some... birds” I admitted, sheepishly. 

“You almost killed yourself for a bird! I cannot believe…” she continued to spiral into a full force guilt trip, the kind that only a mother can deliver and I accepted that she was right; what is meant for me will find me. In the meantime my new hobby is avoiding the surveillance of my mother at all costs.