Tangents
They say that I’m a bad story teller, because I tend to ramble on and on in all sorts of strange directions that have nothing to do with the story I’m trying to tell. I mean, I guess it does happen a lot, so I’m going to try to keep my tangents here to a minimum.
You do know what a tangent is, don’t you? I guess I had learned about them in geometry back in high school, but I’d forgotten until now. It’s a line, you see, that touches a circle at a point but is completely outside the area of the circle itself, sort of like this line of thought right here, which is completely outside the realm of the story I’m trying to tell. Do you see what I mean? I haven’t even begun telling the story yet, and I’ve already drifted off on some bizarre tangent. Anyway:
Once upon a time, there was a—you know, if you think about it, this is pretty redundant. “Once” is essentially a contraction of “one time”, so “once upon a time” means “one time upon a time”. I mean, why not begin with—how about we begin like this: There was once a penguin sitting on an iceberg. . . or . . . There was at one time a penguin sitting on an iceberg. This implies that the penguin is no longer sitting on the iceberg . . . but if I were to say there once was a penguin, this implies that the penguin itself no longer exists, suggesting a tragic ending. Though not necessarily, as the penguin could’ve died of old age, which is possible as penguins have a shorter life span than humans. I could’ve asked my father about this . . .
See, my father used to go on expeditions through Antarctica—penguins live in Antarctica you see so—many people think they live at the North Pole but they don’t, they live down south. Polar bears live at the North Pole. Penguins live—you know, penguins don’t actually live at the South Pole. Nothing lives at the South Pole—it’s too cold. They live around the edges of Antarctica. My father would often encounter them during his expeditions, so he knows a lot about them.
You know, my father went on all sorts of expeditions. His last one—I mean, his most recent one, not . . . not his last one ever, necessarily—on his last one, he traced the path of the Shackleton expedition. You know about that, don’t you? The Shackleton expedition? Now that must have been one hell of an adventure. The Shackleton expedition was an expedition to be the first men to set foot on the South Pole, and they failed. Their ship became trapped in the ice and they had to trudge across the Antarctic landscape until they could get help. The amazing thing though . . . the truly amazing thing is that no one . . . no one died. They went through freezing cold weather, frost bite, starvation, tremendous cold, and not just a little bit of chilly, but constant never ending cold, and they all lived. Every single one of those men. They all lived. They must have been incredibly lucky. Really incredibly damn lucky. One of those men, encouraged by his luck in the Shackleton expedition, signed up to fight in World War I. He was shot. Killed. Guess that’s what happens when you take advantage of God’s luck, or grace, or whatever the hell he bestowed upon the Shackleton expedition.
Anyway, I’ve really drifted off on a tangent now. So, back to my story.
The penguin, sitting on the iceberg. He was quite an agreeable penguin, and everybody liked him. He had that sort of penguin grace and penguin luck that allowed him to avoid being eaten by the leopard seals. He would often spend his days swimming through the Antarctic waters, hunting for fish.
You know, luck is a tricky little bastard, really. Sometimes you’ve got it, and then just when you think you’re okay, it leaves you and wham! you’re dead. I . . . well I’ve had fairly decent luck I suppose, better than some people I guess. I mean, I haven’t had anvils dropping on my head or anything like that, so I guess I’m not really that unlucky. But I haven’t pushed my luck, you know, so I wouldn’t really know how lucky I may or may not be unless I were to put myself into a risk situation like the Shackleton expedition, or like what my father did.
I mean—my father . . . I’ve mentioned him before by now, haven’t I. He did all sorts of crazy things. I told you he went down to Antarctica, but he’s done more. He climbed Mt. Everest once, hiked with polar bears in Alaska once, and several times went trekking through Antarctica for various reasons. I guess he did these things because he could. Sort of to show the world that it was possible, and that he could live. Spit in the face of God, I suppose. Sorta like Hey God! Here I am on the top of Mt. Everest! One wrong step and I could tumble all the way down that mountain! And what’re gonna do about it, huh? Yeah that’s right, try an’ kill me, I dare ya! Well, I suppose he didn’t really say that, but I like to imagine that he did.
He went through adventure after adventure my dad did, almost getting killed several times. In his hike through Alaska, he got on the wrong side of a polar bear once. Almost got his chest ripped open by the bear’s powerful claws. But he lived. Only got a nasty scratch on his arm and plenty of stories to tell his kids. While climbing Mt. Everest, he almost got crushed by a falling boulder. It missed though. Just barely. So he lived. Almost got frostbite once. But lived. He had plenty of near misses in his travels, but he always lived. He was lucky. Like the Shackleton expedition, which kept experiencing catastrophe after catastrophe, he was lucky and he lived. Until one day, like everyone else, he didn’t. He died. He had pushed God a little bit too far, you know, pushed his luck until God could take it no more, at which point God said this little bugger has escaped death way too often, it’s time for him to kick the bucket, and so he did and he died. My father that is, not God of course. God doesn’t die. Takes the life of so many, but never himself.
You know how my father died? He was in Antarctica, tracing the path of the Shackleton expedition. The shoelace on his boot got caught on a rock, or a chunk of ice or something (guess it was ice, there’s not a whole lot of rock down there, just ice,) and he fell. Down a hill, he fell. Crushed his head on the bottom. He tripped on his shoelace. Tripped. On his shoelace. Survived a bear, survived falling boulders, survived frostbite, hunger, painful gashes in his arm, and how did he die? He tripped on his shoelace.
That’s what happens when you take advantage of God’s luck, or grace or whatever the hell my dad had for a while.
I’m sorry, I . . . I’ve really blown it now, haven’t I. Off on a tangent, as usual. It wasn’t long ago, you know. My dad’s death. It wasn’t long ago. I haven’t been able to focus on one thing for the last month. I don’t know what I was thinking when I decided to tell a story today. I’m not in the right mind for that. I should try to finish it though, shouldn’t I.
The penguin . . . . the penguin on the iceberg. You wanna know how the story ends, he dies, that’s how the story ends. The penguin dies. Everybody dies in the end, after all, often in the most meaningless and idiotic ways.
