The problem was, I could never say no, not to anyone. I even struggled with saying no to my cat.
My life reflected my assertiveness deficiency. At age 26 I was deep in debt from lending money to desperate friends. My schedule was cluttered with activities I dreaded. As a result, I was having trouble sleeping at night and seeing a therapist I could not afford. My life was going to hell.
However, one night something changed me. Tired of tossing in a pool of sweaty tangled sheets, I extricated myself, got up, gathered my plush pink bathrobe from my closet, and crept into the living room where the fireplace was crackling. I had found that watching a fire could make me sleepy.
I sat on the carpet and watched the flames dancing and listened to the crackling of the logs and the embers popping, and enjoyed the warm smoky fragrance that was the essence of autumn to me. I had half closed my eyes like a drowsy cat when a sudden noise jarred into alertness: the fire spoke to me. “Please,” the voice came from the grate, a strained and husky male voice.
I opened my eyes wide and stared at the flames, thinking I must have misheard, but the voice came again. “Please, I say.” This time the voice sounded like it was coming from above the fire. I blinked. Was it the smoke speaking to me? I must have fallen asleep after all; clearly I was dreaming.
As I willed myself to wake, the smoke, with its ghostly tendrils, appeared to resolve into a pair of wispy legs and feet, and when I angled my head to see part way up the chimney, I could actually see a smoky torso with sinewy curves and a head with lips, nose, and eyes looking down at me, a grey apparition whose face was filled with anguish.
With a sharp inhalation, I pushed myself away from the fireplace and tried to stand, but the smoke from the chimney spoke to me again. “Do not fear me.” The voice sounded strained. “I have been waiting so many years for someone, anyone to listen. To hear my voice. To see my form. How delightful it is that already you hear and see me. Only those who are desperately in need of sleep can know me.”
Palms pushing against the carpet, I was still backing away. In my flustered clumsiness, I had not yet succeeded in standing, but suddenly curious, I relaxed my effort. “Who are you? What do you want?”
The man made of smoke smiled sadly. “You have already given me something I want. Just by listening and responding to me. In doing so, you have made me real. But I do have an urgent request: I need you to help me become more real.”
I looked at him from the corners of my eyes. “More real? What does that mean?”
The entity sighed wearily. “I was a prince once. I was transformed into smoke by a jealous enchantress. She cursed me, made me voiceless and invisible, turned me into a wisp destined to be born and reborn in fires scattered all over the world at different times in history. To undo her curse, I must be seen and heard. But even that is not enough to make me whole again.
“Anything – or anyone – real must produce consequences. You must take action as a result of speaking to me. That way I can exist inside your actions. If others act as a consequence of your actions, I will become even more real. When anyone so much as speaks of me, my bones will become more solid. If enough people react to me through you, I will finally become so real, I can walk out of this fireplace, no longer dependent upon its fickle flames for my life, and I will emerge not as a figure made of smoke but as flesh and blood – a free man.”
I stared at him with the tense uncertainty so characteristic of me in situations like these. Usually people only made requests involving money or my presence at a particular unpleasant event like a fund-raising rally. Or they would ask me to volunteer at a square dancing gala. Being asked to help someone become real was a first. With a sigh I remembered what my therapist had said. “You know Christy, you do not have to commit right away. You can give yourself time before making a decision. You know, think about it first.”
She was right. I needed to get more information before plunging a darkly mysterious smoky entity into the solid world of reality. “So, um, specifically, what would you want me to do?”
“It is quite simple,” he said. “I want you to tell others you saw me and that I spoke to you. Oh yes — and that I am a god. And that I have told you inscrutable truths about the meaning of life, and that they should obey my rules or be punished. Please.” He gave me another look of anguish that reminded me of the painting The Scream. “You must help me.”
Score 1 for my therapist; I was glad I had not committed to help him yet. This was definitely a request worth considering before entering into a what my therapist called a “verbal contract.” However, the look of anguish was getting to me. “Um, so what kinds of rules?” I asked.
“Well, every day at 5:00 P.M. your friends must stop everything they are doing and light five candles and chant my name five times, one for each candle. Preferably they should kneel on a prayer mat made of goat hair while saying my name. But I do not have a name just yet, so you will have to name me. If you name me, I will exist even more than I do now. Please. Give me a name. What will you name me?”
After a moment of hesitation I decided that giving him a name could not do much harm. “Smoky?” I ventured.
“No, no, no,” he shook his wispy head vigorously. “Much too obvious. Something bigger and more important sounding. Something like – if I may make a suggestion – Omar the Supreme? Of course, I cannot name myself. Any name I give myself will be invalid – unless you authorize it of course. My suggestion was just a nudge, you see.”
“Okay,” I shrugged. “Omar the Supreme it is. But why should I do this for you, Omar the Supreme? It sounds like you want me to start a cult, and well, I would really…prefer not to.” There! I was making brilliant progress. I had done it. I had not said no exactly, but at least I had stated a preference. That was a start. Definitely promising.
\”Oh, must you even ask? Fire is no place for a man. Fire – as you can imagine – is so very…hot. Worse, I barely exist. Do you know what it feels like to only kind of exist? To have barely a toehold in reality – if that? To depend on consequences carried about by others? I have not had a happy life. My very being depends on fire – something so ephemeral in itself. But – if you tell stories about my visiting you and get people to do things because I said to do them – why then I shall matter. I shall have consequence. I shall exist in the world of reality. I shall inhabit the ever-flowing stream of cause and effect, weaving myself into the very fate of your world until the end of time. I shall be more than smoke, more than a wisp.”
“Okay,” I said. The word was out of my mouth before I could bite it back. I had a crestfallen feeling; I was disappointed in myself. I did not want to do what Omar the Supreme was asking; every cell in my body was resisting it. Yet – as always – I had done the predictable; I had committed.
\”Splendid,” Omar clapped his smokey hands, but being made of gas, they made no sound. “Now. You might want to get some paper and a pen so that you can take notes on my credo.”
“Your credo?”
“Oh yes. Credo. A credo is a statement of belief. Credos are good because they get wars started – and if you could start a war for me, that would be great. If armies fight wars over me, I shall become more powerful than ever. What greater consequence is there than bloodshed? For someone to think so much of you, they are willing to die on your behalf? My vibrant existence will echo down the long corridors of history. Hundreds of years from now people will still be speaking of me.”
\”But um…\” My heart was beating rapidly.
“Okay, get your pen ready. The first item in my credo is that no one with blue eyes should be trusted as they are demon spawn created by the dark god Beezak to usher the world into the third dimension of hell.”
“Huh? But my eyes are blue.”
He gave me a look of patient understanding. “Actually yours are more of a green with a blue tinge. But no worries. You can add that the untrustworthy eyes have to be a pure blue like the sky on a sunny day. The goal here is to stir up contention. Get people squabbling and afraid of each other. Divide them into warring factions.”
“But Sir…,” I said, “If I may say so, I dislike wars.”
“Please,” he grunted. In a hoarse, tortured voice he said, “The heat. The loneliness. And no one to acknowledge me. It is all too much to bear. You must help me, dearest.” His smokey cheeks were pulled down by his anguished frown. “I am sure that if you could start a war for me, the smokey puffs and tendrils of my legs and feet would ossify, and around them the skin of human flesh would grow. I would have mass and a definite form. Please, do not confine me to this hell of partial-existence. Let…me…walk. Let…me…breathe. Free me from the heat of the flames.” He was gasping asthmatically. “Share my credo.”
How I wished I had stayed in bed. For a moment I watched him as he writhed in apparent agony, bending over and clutching his sides as if suffering from an acute attack of appendicitis.
“Okay, okay,” I said. “I will help you. Just…just…wait here. Just wait here a second. Okay?”
Gratitude beamed on his face, and he smiled at me. I went into the kitchen and found a plastic bucket in the wooden cabinet beneath my kitchen sink, which I filled to brimming beneath the running faucet. When I returned, his gaze landed on the bucket. His eyes widened with fear and his smile vanished instantly. “Please, no,” he said.
\”I cannot bear to watch you burn,” I said. “I hereby release you.” I pulled my hands back and with an abrupt forward motion I tossed the water into the fire. His smoky form fell apart as the water hit the logs with a steaming splash, leaving nothing but a pool of wet ashes that appeared darker than before.
I stared at the fireplace for a moment longer. Oddly I missed him a little. However I did not leave until I was absolutely sure he was gone. When I was satisfied, I went back to bed, and this time I slept as if on a bed of clouds. When I woke I wondered if I had dreamed the man of smoke. But whether I had or had not, he had been real. Kind of. Just like he said.
I knew he was kind of real because he had consequences. For the first time in many years I had denied a request. My immense satisfaction in doing so was likely to make non-compliance easier forever after. And I had learned something: A dream, a breath, a wisp was sometimes all it took to make you feel more assertive – or start a war.
However, I later realized that I had failed in an important respect. I had never exactly told the smoke man “no.” But thanks to him, one day, when I am feeling extra brave, I will. I am sure of it.
Progress takes time.
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