Team Ancestor
The first caveman to duck a mauling was cheered by elegant offspring as he tucked in his guts, non-existent Victorians who were not yet but now could be. Every other Neanderthal on the velt was likewise trailed by one long line of possibilities, hunters with chipped spears and hulking wives being cultivated by tea-sipping, self-obsessed parasol-holders with strands of familiar DNA.
It’s a good way to make a room feel crowded, the thought that we are never alone, that with every street we cross safely and person we say goodbye to a thousand future humans wink in and out of existence, the chorus of parasitic could-bes from which they stepped forward still applauding or catcalling, rooting for the branch that might eventually sprout them. They have bullhorns and kazoos and oversized maracas.
My great-grandfather was an engineer on the St. Paul. As the ship approached New York City on March 16, 1896, his captain scrawled the words “He has given entire satisfaction” on a piece of paper, folded it into quarters, and handed it to the man who had been so badly burned in a boiler explosion that he had to be put ashore. Six weeks later, the captain and eighty-three other stalwart men met a triangle that sings to ships, that collects grandchildren, that makes people like me not anointed just the dripping ghost of a close call.
We were the rats that day, Team Sibley/Charnley/Allen—the go-get-’em squad that felt threat through the deck, a salty withdrawal, and pushed our good and steady engineer toward the boiler room while the other not-yets got caught dreaming, leaned over the rails thinking this is the life.
We are all lousy with destiny.
Brand New Monster
LCA Flickr
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