The New Season of 24

[from www.automatoncity.com]

I titled this blog “The New Season of 24″ for two reasons: 1) it’s an accurate summary of what I wrote, and 2) I was hoping that I could maybe steal some of Jack Bauer’s leftover advertising on television.

And now [in deep narrating voice], the new season of…24.

When I was a sophomore in high school, I made an off-hand remark about dying at 24.

I said it to a girl online, back when the internet was all that I had after midnight on the weekends, and she was curious about why I had sold myself short on life. Literally. And I didn’t think much of it at the time [I say a shit-ton of nothing, much of which I forget right after saying it, especially as a teenager], but she brought it up to me in later conversations.

Initially, it was just a statement that hung off-center on the back wall of my mind, but I began saying it more and more as the years went on. And it evolved into different ways of acknowledging areas of my life that needed change. For example, when I was a teenager, it was a car crash because I drove fast. In recent years, it’s been diabetes, because I eat junk food almost daily and rarely exercise.

But it all goes back to my sophomore year, when I said something I didn’t mean and it turned into what could one day become a self-fulfilling prophecy.

I mean, I get some credit for trying to follow through with something, right?

In the remaining days of my sophomore year, in history class, girls were asking me where I thought I’d be at 30. I suppose they were expecting a well-planned answer, like their life goal list [married by 26, a thriving career by 28, a kid or two by 30].

I shrugged and said, “Well, I’ll probably be dead at 24, so I’m not really sure.”

This was greeted by empty stares and a cold cough.

They didn’t buy it and I didn’t smile afterwards. So the faint cracks of uncomfortable roaming eyes challenged the lingering sound of nothing. Even a pinpointed age of death was a bit macabre for my humor then, which was usually a lot of swearing, sex jokes, shocking phrases and perspectives. Also, these girls were still sending me prayer e-mails, so they clearly didn’t see the gap of interests between us.

The girl I originally told my prophecy to asked me how I knew I’d die at 24.

I told her that I didn’t. It was just a gut feeling, like a small crush.

She told me that’s not what a crush was.

Well, it’s crushing, I said.

She laughed. And then told me to never talk about it with her again.

So I didn’t.

Or I didn’t at least until we were 21 and drinking wine in a hotel room.

“Why do you think you’ll die at 24?” she said, sipping the red wine and wipping the thin layer of lipstick off of the glass.

“Why do you think you’ll live to see old age?” I said, drinking my wine much faster than her.

“That’s different. You seem so sure,” she said, almost purring the question.

“So do you.”

“What do you know that I don’t?” she said, stretching her arm across the bed and crossing her legs.

“I know when the end is coming.”

She paused, and said, “No, you don’t.” And then closed her eyes and took a large, thoughtful sip of her wine. She opened her eyes and stared at me. With a sly grin and suspicious eyes, she mumbled, “Or do you?”

I smiled, and we moved onto something else.

Over the years, I’ve brought up the prophecy as random off-hand, under-the-breath remarks, never to further conversations, but often to just keep reminding myself that I only have so long.

Well, I turned 24 on Sunday.

And I’m not dead.

But I think this would be a fine year to pass on to the great unknown. I’ve often considered suicide on lazy summer days, when I’m usually in a bathing suit and sunglasses, born out of an intolerable heat and a generally intense curiosity of what lays beyond.

When I’ve considered suicide, it’s usually with a generally apathy curiosity.

What if I committed suicide right before 25, just to keep the legend true? I don’t mean that to be depressing or off-putting. Say I threw a party. Why not throw myself a funeral party? Again, it would be lively, and I’d be in a good mood, and all of my family and friends would try to talk me out of it, put me on watch, cry without conviction, et cetera. But in the end, I would just say, “I’m really too interested in knowing if there’s anything else after this, and I’d like to be in the prime of my youth when I go.”

Why couldn’t I be right? Nobody has any argument against it. I have no reason to really believe that I’ll die at 24. But does anyone have a solid string of challenge points against it? No one knows the future. So really, I’m just about as right as anybody. It was just a notion that stuck with me. But damn, what if 25 really is the massive beginning to a spectacular end?

I remember my friend Ryan telling me that 25 was the year he saw as perfect. We were sitting on the patio of a large house in the hills and he spoke of traveling the world on a grand ticket. He’s a geography major and avid traveler, so I trust him to actually do it. We were only 22 at the time, so 25 seemed far off enough to have faith in the quarter-century turn of magnificent events.

“At 25, you have the resources of time, money and connections. You’re cultured enough to take in the world and educated enough to understand it. You’re in prime physical condition and your sex drive is going strong, And it’s just a few years off from settling down,” he told me in paraphrases.

I sipped my beer and settled into my large coat across the table, considering this.

“It could truly be the end of the world,” I thought. And in the bleep of an instance, I borrowed a cigarette and thought, “But then again, I might be dead by then,” and sparked the lighter for a long inhale.

It was cold that night on the drive home, as I had the driver’s window down, considering what Ryan had to offer at 25.

But 24 was the promise, wasn’t it?

Well, everything’s the promise if you’re the one speaking.

Because I had always told myself 24 was a big deal, I considered all the wild things I could do to celebrate for my w4th birthday. But in the end, on Saturday, the night before I turned 24 and began my mysterious parade of a promised fatal year, I just wanted to enjoy a casual night out with my girlfriend.

Since I figured making it to 25 would be the ultimate celebration, I decided to just go quietly into 24.

My girlfriend took me to dinner, where we had some appetizers and shared a gourmet pizza. I had a whiskey and we people-watched. We caught an action film and left the theater shortly after midnight. It was finally my 24th birthday.

On our way to the parking lot, she asked me what it felt like to be 24. I shrugged, providing the usual response anyone has shortly into their birthday. Nothing changes, nothing seems different. And this may have been a letdown for me. I don’t know what I expected.

Sure, in true self-fulfilling prophecy fashion, I would’ve liked a grim reaper of some sort appearing in flames, laughing and pointing at me, saying, “You will be dead within the year.”

And then my year of grand living for a grander death would begin.

But with no demon characters to skulk the land, march up my street and drink my spoiled milk, I’m not sure there’s going to be much chain-rattling.

I might just live to be 25.

Maybe I will live long enough to have the resources of time, money and connections, and be cultured enough to take in the world and educated enough to understand it, possibly being in prime physical condition with my sex drive going strong, only a few years off from settling down.

Or I’ll be dead within the year.

Ah, to be alive as a (possibly) marked man…