Secrets and Waffles

Secrets are powerful. And nauseating. They weigh you down. Sometimes they are waffle irons pressing on you from every direction with so much force and heat you can’t breathe. Marks imprinted on your life that leave you forever changed and scarred. 

My whole life has been a constant barrage of secrets. Unbeknownst to their owners, their deepest treasures of knowledge leak out to me. A steady drip, drip, drip creating my own personal torture method. That is when I am careful. The little kid with his finger plugging the hole in the dam. Watching each single drop run down my hand and drip onto the ground. Sometimes I get distracted. That is when my brain is flooded. People’s insecurities, darkest thoughts, and ideas they would never let leave their mouths all stream through my wall of protection, pressing on me like a waffle iron. 

Let’s be clear, I don’t want their secrets. Not knowing people’s inner thoughts is my theoretical heaven. A place I am not sure exists, but I really hope it does. I might have friends in that place. Not here. Not when you know as much as I do. People are scary and weird and horrible. How do you trust anyone when they can never lie without you knowing? 

My first time experiencing a crystal clear thought was first grade. Before that, I only sensed the strongest of emotions from those near me. One day at recess, I observed my classmates using the slide. My goto activity at the time. Seeing all the other kids land and then take off running back to the top hypnotized me. A steady stream of pure joy soaked into my brain. Then, this one girl. You know the type. Always dressed up, hair always cute, and always being praised by the teacher. She screamed with pure joy. Her feet hit the ground. Instead of taking off and running, she paused for a moment. Her eyes looked me up and down as I sat there. What is wrong with that kid? So weird! She took off as I stared into her over-styled cutesy hair trying to make sense of what happened. She resumed her thoughts of fun and gave little thought to me after that day. That moment, which only existed in her mind for one second, helped to shape my core beliefs on people in this world.

Those early years had occasional interactions like this. Stray thoughts here and there. Almost always with the same theme. What is wrong with that kid? So weird. Six years old is too young for someone to feel like they are in a waffle iron. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Even that perfect girl, who ended up with a nice career as an elected official and beautiful nuclear family.

The words ‘I love you’ were constantly uttered in my home growing up. Sometimes they meant it. Their thoughts betrayed them on occasion. What is wrong with this kid? So weird. No kid should ever know their parents unfiltered thoughts about them.

One day I sat in front of our large television with action figures spread out on the floor in front of me. I loved my action figures, but hated violence. I always imagined complex emotional relationship drama between my muscular heroes. I was about to play out an intense argument when a singular thought from behind me stopped me in my tracks. Could I love a gay kid? 

I continued to move around my figures. The drama had paused between the two heroes. I listened and let the thoughts flood my head. He is so immature. So weird. He is in middle school for christ’s sake. When will he stop playing with dolls? He has shown no interest in girls. I don’t thing he even has any friends. Probably is gay. 

I tried to stop the stream of thoughts, but as I now know, it is so much harder to plug the hole when the water is streaming inwards. Probably love… Wrong… Grow out… A man…

So I sat there staring blankly into my action figures and their paused drama. Moving them around so my own father would not realize I knew he was there. 

My mother had different thoughts. Or at least they hurt in a different way. The words she said always seemed encouraging at best and being excuses for who I was at worst. Most of her thoughts towards her son started with ‘maybe.’ Maybe he will mature. Maybe he will be happy alone. Maybe he will get smarter. Maybe he will get better with people. Maybe he will find friends later in life. Maybe someday I won’t feel so judged by people who say they love me. That day would not come until they each passed on. 

During the worst school years I only had one place of solace. We lived in a small town. When I say small, I doubt you can picture the smallness. One church, one bar, one post office and two small parks was what our town offered the residents who decided to call this place their home. During the evenings with decent weather, I would lie and say I was going to hang out with some other kids in town. In reality, no other kid in town would ever hang out with me. So I went down to the smaller of the two parks that was on the edge of the town. Sitting on the bench with no one around for blocks, offered me a break. I could take my finger from the dam and not drown. Not be pressed into a waffle. 

The further I am from people, the more emotion their thoughts need for me to feel them. Once in a while, my restful night would be disturbed by one of the houses near the park. A married couple, younger than my parents, would regularly get in disturbing fights. I am sure the neighbors heard the noise. First, their waves of anger would disturb me. A warning shot of the violent and hateful thoughts that always followed. The aftershocks varied from fight to fight. Most times waves of sorrow and regret followed the main event. Other times the couple made up in ways that made me immediately pack up and run home. 

Identifying an individual person’s thoughts is similar to picking out a particular smell at a large meal. Everyone’s thoughts has its own feel or sensation. That girl from first grade, I later identified her thoughts as cinnamon. Such a sweet smell for a such a sour girl. One boy in my small class of twenty-five, his thoughts were such a pleasant sensation, I would sit near him when I could. It felt like a cool fall breeze, complete with the smell of autumn. He ended up a mid-level manager at some company in a nearby town. I thought about applying there once, just because I missed the feel of his thoughts. 

My parents thoughts were always hard to describe. The best way I could try to help you understand the sensation is to say my mother’s thoughts were like tasting the color green while my father’s thoughts smelled like freshly dug up dirt. When their thoughts converged in just the right hurtful way, it was like being pressed into an old moldy mud waffle. 

One day late in my high school years, my dad and I were home alone. The smell of the fresh dirt from his thoughts suddenly changed. The cracked dirt from the midwestern plains after weeks of no rain and relentless heat. I peaked out into the TV room to see him gasping for air and clutching his chest. I took two steps toward the phone to call 911. Then I froze. I don’t want to die. Not here. Not alone with him. Panicked piles of drought ridden dirt overwhelmed me. My dad looked at me. Help me. Then he lost consciousness. I sensed him for the next half hour or so, the smell of dirt slowly drying out. I tried to really focus on him and get into his thoughts. Then the feel of dirt slowly faded away. A dust pile taken away by a small breeze. Only then did I make the call and report that I found my father unconscious in our house. 

My mother took his loss hard. It changed her thoughts and how they felt. Gone was the taste of green. Gray was her new color and it lasted the rest of her life. I think most people would have some guilt. I knew too much. 

After a wasted year in college, I grudgingly moved back to my small town, moving into a low-income apartment a block from my childhood home. The only time I ever left was to head down to the park that got me through my childhood. I picked up a telemarketing job that I could do from home. It was enough money to live on and helped keep my thoughts quiet. Sometimes I would get bored and try to communicate with the mice who visited. It worked about as well as talking to the stars. 

I would check up on my mom sometimes. I wouldn’t ever go talk to her, but by reaching out my senses to check for that familiar taste of gray soaked in sadness. I picked up thoughts and rumors of her drinking and constantly being at the bar. 

One day a customer got really angry with me. My apartment filled with the smell of dandelions. Without following my script, I hung up on them. From that moment on, every phone call created a sensation.  

My last week on that job, a curious thing happened. I had to call people for a survey about some political figures. One question even asked about that perfect girl from my first grade class. Somehow this one guy, who sounded like he never made it out of high school, agreed to answer the questions. When certain names came up in the survey, it seemed to trigger this guy. Each response came back louder and angrier than the previous one. The sensation of rubbing my fingers on metal started overwhelming me. I could taste it in my mouth. I pushed hard to try and plug the growing leak. A few thoughts started to seep in. Why did I agree to this? Those anti-American extremists are behind these rigged surveys. At least he speaks American. 

As I sat in the work room of my house, a low-lit tiny room with only a few generic framed posters on bland khaki walls. A couple of mouse traps lay in two of the corners, mouse poison in the other two. I created a complete picture of this guy. A large and strong man, who probably struggled with his weight. I guessed he was diabetic, and the only exercise he got came from his job, which he was probably good at. Plumber? Electrician? Construction? 

The hateful thoughts continued to flow from this guy. Another picture formed in my head. I pushed on the thoughts that streamed through the hole in the barrier, desperate to stop it. The stream of racism and ignorance continued. I pushed harder. My thoughts now wanted this guy to shut up. The words we both said out loud conveyed little of this. I continued to read survey questions and he continued to share his answers. In my head I repeatedly screamed ‘This needs to end!’ as this guy. I pushed on the flow of thoughts as I continued to mindlessly read questions and mark answers. Harder and harder. 

“Hey,” the guy said breaking my thoughts. “I said are we almost done?”

“Sorry. Yes, sir. Just a couple more questions.” 

“Good, this thing needs to be done.”

We finished the survey and I hung up the phone and logged the results of that survey. Before I dialed up the next number, I had to wonder if my thoughts somehow broke through into his mind and helped end that torture.

Throughout the rest of that week I kept experimenting. I found that the key was to let their thoughts flow into my mind first, establishing a connection, then push like hell to reverse that flow. It wasn’t successful every time, but as the week went on I got better at it. I convinced a few people that they needed to eat and some to cut our conversation short. One lady sounded like she would be attractive, and I convinced her to give me her number. I never did call her though. 

The next step was a face to face conversation. So I went somewhere I had never gone before. I drove over to the next town and visited one of the local bars. I didn’t have a plan. Sitting at the bar by myself seemed like a good first step. I reached out to see if there was any interesting thoughts. Maybe I could do this without even talking to someone. Like trying to find a single raindrop in a storm, I danced around various thoughts from the people in the bar. Then I found a good candidate. I hate that guy. I am going to mess him up. I let more thoughts flow. Most of them just as dumb, and some more violent. After establishing the connection, I envisioned the push back through the barrier. ‘I need to go home.’ Over and over again. Pounding the large thought through the small hole. After only a couple minutes, the guy got up and left. 

I sought out another target and skipped through people’s minds like a pebble over water. Why am I still trying? I sunk into that mind. The smell of rain flooded my brain. Not the glorious smell of rain people often talk about, but the smell of rain near a lake with a horde of dead fish on the shore, wet death. She walked up to the bar to order another drink. The feel of the rain encompassed me so much so I actually tried to wipe it away from my forehead. She ordered a vodka soda. The alcohol of sadness. Endless thoughts of depression poured down on me. Focusing, I tried to push a singular thought back through. I watched her face through a mirror in back of the bar and her brow scrunched in confusion. She got the bartender’s attention and changed her order to my favorite dark beer, telling him the craving for it came from nowhere. I sipped my drink for another few minutes and went home. 

The next day I called my mother on the phone. I invited her over for supper, and told her I missed her. The smell of gray indicated she was surprised and a little annoyed that her plans had to be changed, but she accepted. 

When she arrived I had supper ready. I made the only meal that was acceptable for guests. The steaks were medium, the vegetables were warmed up, the potatoes were baked, and so was I. Two bottles of my mother’s favorite red wine sat on the table ready to be served.  

Her nerves were apparent even without my talent. The resentment was a different story, she kept that well below the surface. I thanked her for coming and we had a nice meal. We finished the first bottle and she asked if we should open the second. Of course, I agreed, but asked her to follow me. I grabbed two glasses, the wine bottle, and walked out the door towards the park. 

We sat on the bench, my bench, the most reliable part of my life. I poured each of us a glass and looked up into the sky. As she took her first sip, I asked her if she blamed me for my father’s death. She told me no, but her thoughts disagreed. I asked her why see didn’t seek help for her addiction. She told me she was looking into it, but her thoughts disagreed. I asked her why she didn’t try to get me help during my childhood, as it was obvious I needed it. She told me that her and my dad talked about it, but her thoughts disagreed. 

She asked me for a refill of wine. I of course took her glass. I reached my hand into my pocket and pulled out a pouch of crushed up mouse poison. I poured it into her empty glass. I poured the wine next and then swished it around to mix it all together. I held it out to her. Her eyes went wide as she stood up and started to back away. I pushed hard on the barrier, imaging the gray being pressed on all sides. 

She stopped and looked at the glass. After sitting back down I could see the fear in her eyes. Calmly, I told her that she was never there for me. I know she didn’t hate me, but she sure didn’t seem to love me, which is more than I could say about my father. I pushed again, squeezing down on the grayness of her thoughts. She apologized to me and told me she loved me, but her thoughts disagreed. A tear escaped from her eye. Fear took over every part of her thoughts. I pushed again on her thoughts, then held out the glass. She reached out and grabbed it. After she drank the entire glass, I told her that I had watched dad die. I stood there and did nothing because I hated him. I didn’t hate her, but I didn’t love her either. I pushed again and she leaned her head on my shoulder. We stayed there for hours. I stared up into the stars. Eventually her breathing stopped. Sometime in the middle of the night, I got up and walked back to my apartment. 

I like the idea of justice. Out in the world I wonder if I can find any.