It started with darkness. Eyes closed. Air like lifeblood sucked in at slow, even intervals. Any thoughts occupying the front and back of my mind were cleared, not pushed down. There’s a difference.

For instance, I was cleaning my house when Meredith called about Dad’s hunt. I’d come across old items I didn’t need any more, like the sweater I bought that never fit but I held onto for the day I lost enough weight; the stack of accounting books covered in dust in my office; the drawer of assorted electronics, half of which had no other half to attach to, a quarter outdated, and the other quarter extra HDMI cords. I could’ve folded the sweater and put it in a plastic tote in storage under my bed. I could’ve dusted the books and made a bigger pile with other books I’d never read but was holding onto once I found love and got a house and a library with a rolling ladder. I could’ve relocated the electronics to another drawer in my house that I would forget about in a month. 

            I didn’t. I garbage-bagged the sweater up with other clothes I never wore. I boxed the books up. The electronics went in three plastic shopping bags. 

            If you’re reading this at any point, not just during spring cleaning season, put the book down and spend an hour or two decluttering your living space, and then come back for the comparison to mind decluttering. 

            Thanks for coming to my Fender Talk. 

            Back to the darkness. Eyes closed. Breathing slowly. Clearing thoughts so I was present with the questions I needed answers to. It wasn’t entirely black. There were traces of light on the periphery, curved in the distance like a horizon. With my head emptied, my chest rose. I know I’m ready to proceed when I ask myself, “Are you ready?” and there’s a yes, a flicker in my heart that makes me smile the way it tickles.

            From there, “Should I continue Dad’s scavenger hunt?” 

            The flicker became a flame, filling my chest. 

            “Should I go straight to Paul?”

            Another flicker. My chest expanded.

            “How should I approach him?” 

            Close-ended questions produced flickers, a guide through a spiritual flow chart. Open-ended questions swam in my gut, waiting for intuition to guide the ship to port. The focus on my stomach produced a grumble and ache from lack of a real meal. I let it pass, and asked again, “How should I approach him?”

            It felt like I held a Nintendo controller in my hands. I smelled plastic and tasted honey-roasted peanuts. My fingers were slick with mouth slime from sucking the honey-roasted residue. Music that Paul let me pick played. “Your Dad doesn’t see the big picture, Buck. I’m afraid he never will.”

            My stomach silenced. Smooth sailing.

            “Am I missing anything?”

            A strong burst like a red alarm exploding in my chest. A warning sign flashed proceed with caution. 

            I slowed my breath. 

            “Should I be worried?”

            No flicker. 

            “Should I be present?”

            Two flickers on either side of my chest, one leaning into the other in a stabbing motion.

            “Am I missing anything else?”

            A car horn honked once, twice, and held its honk for an extended wail. I breathed and pushed it aside. The flickering in my chest subsided. No. 

            Time to move on. 

            We each have a whole wide world inside of us. Rarely do we speak to it. And when we do, it’s often during extreme situations, during panic attacks and emotional breakdowns and moments after you get a call from the doctor to come in to discuss your test results. It’s not when you’re living the high life again, when you’re celebrating a promotion with colleagues, when you’re excited to be on a trip designed by your father, learning about your father, and yourself, exhilarated by it. 

            That whole wide world was why I stopped after driving over the floating bridge into Seattle. The ten hours from Big Sky went by in a blip of jerky and tunes and singing along at the top of my lungs. I felt James Brown good. In the past I’d have a blast riding the wave and unexpectedly hit a coral reef. It happens. But I wasn’t prepared, and I panicked, and it’s hard to swim when you’re panicking. I’d drown in my thoughts and emotions and be useless for a day to a week. 

I owed it to myself and to Dad to not let that happen. I might’ve been singing “Invisible Touch” loudly, but it didn’t hide the feeling in my stomach that something was waiting for me. Maybe not Shelob at the end of The Two Towers, but something sinister. I checked in.

            And opened my eyes. 

Zooming out from the black showed a pale blue marked with precisely spaced black dots. Pulling back on dark orange and yellow letters revealed the title, “A Boy and His Blob”. In black lettering above the title, “David Crane’s” and to the side, “Trouble in Blobolonia”. Zooming out further showed the gray cartridge held in my hand with Seattle at sunset wondering what in the world the guy with closed eyes holding the Nintendo game in the air was up to. The note on the back held Paul’s address.

            If anyone in the city had asked me, I would’ve answered truthfully, “Going to see about a friend.”