Dancing on a Razor. Kevin John White

to belong.

      It all came in a rush—painful, hurting me—and that night, deep in my heart, a fierce determination was born, a determination born of desperate loneliness and longing. I listened even closer, straining, using every sense I had to determine from whence this laughter had come. It seemed closer than I thought at first, yet still distant—a trick of the wind perhaps?

      I was very bold as 10-year-olds go, so it was nothing for me to decide I was going to find these voices—that I would find them, and I would very boldly say “Hello” to them, and I would play my guitar for them and sing to them, and they would all like me, and we would all be friends. We would laugh and talk and play together as friends do. All this I determined to do that same night, for I was 10 now, and I was very brave.

      As I pulled myself away from the window I quickly formulated a daring plan of escape. I must be silent as an owl feather, for my brother lay fast asleep in his bed, and should I wake him he would tell me I mustn’t go outside or I would be in terrible trouble again.

      I was often in trouble for going out when I shouldn’t, as I had a tendency of not coming back. There were many times I had to be fetched home again (sometimes by helicopter). I meant no harm by it. It just turned out that the places I needed to go were often quite far away, and there always seemed so much to do when I got there.

      By the time I finished dressing, I had become a “Green Beret,” “Special Forces,” “Black Ops,” “Military Commando,” and so executed my plan with the greatest precision. Just as in the tales I had read (which were many), I quietly knotted together my sheets, blankets, and pillowcases (in that exact order) and tied my makeshift rope to the radiator (whom I was terribly fond of, for even unprovoked, he would suddenly hiss at me quite fearfully and very unexpectedly and could spit and growl wonderfully like some terrible ill-tempered beast). Then, with the other end tied around my guitar and already out the window, I slipped over the sill, through the window, and, silent as the shadows, was down the side of the house to crouch in the soft wet grass below.

      I quickly untied my guitar and, pausing only long enough to sling it across my back, was swiftly out of the backyard, across the alley, through the neighbour’s yard, and onto the moonlit road beyond.

      It was glorious! I was mesmerized by the size of the night and, stepping into the middle of the street, felt that familiar thrill of freedom rush and tingle through me. With my heart pounding lightly, I paused and, feeling the night wrap itself around me, remembered once more the wildness in my soul. I was almost feral again, scenting the cool of silver dewfall, sensing the mood of the world that night, listening hard into the dark—and then, suddenly satisfied, l became nothing more than a whisper among the shadowy protection of the great spreading oak trees lining the sides of the road.

      I had heard them when I paused—the laughter and the voices. They were still carried to my ears on the cool night breeze, beckoning me forward.

      With my guitar tight on my back, I slipped quietly up the street, always in the shadows, my bare feet making no sound on the still warm asphalt. I had now become a “Great Warrior,” trained since childhood always to move with grace, speed, and great stealth, as do all creatures of the wild, and truly, that night, I had become a wild thing indeed.

      As I moved quietly, unseen by all but the moon, my brother the wind would often bring news of them to me, so I knew to walk with my face towards him, always intent on my goal. It did not occur to me that I might not find them. I simply focused and did, always. That was the way of things for me. I would find them no matter what.

      After a time, however, it seemed that among so many streets and houses the wind became confused and began to falter. I could no longer hear clearly the laughter of those voices. Often, I had to pause much longer to wait for snatches of sound, of conversation, and then chase after them. I would cut to another street, and then another, and then back again, climbing over fences and through yards. I would often have to backtrack two or three times and, with a rising fear chasing hard after my heart, head up still yet another street, venturing farther and farther, and hearing less and less.

      Up and down I walked, desperately searching, but no matter which road I took or how hard I listened, I could never seem to draw any closer to those now fading voices, until after a time I could hear them no longer, and I found myself alone on the empty road with only the streetlamps for company.

      I had to stop then. I couldn’t listen—it hurt to listen—anymore. I wanted to call out, to cry to them, but I knew they couldn’t hear me any more than I could hear them. I was alone, and all that I had felt before came crashing in like some great black wave. My heart ached. It ached so much for the companionship of I know not what or whom. Inside me was only a dark and frightening hole, empty where there should have been a great bonfire with cheery friends, and laughter, and sparks twirling and dancing, spiralling upward to greet the stars, who would look down upon them so tolerant and kindly, flattered by their brave ambition. There would be laughter and friends and just … somebody.

      I walked again, very slowly, my guitar keeping time, thumping my back as if to console me. All of my 10-year-old boldness and bravery had vanished, just as those voices in the wind had vanished. Just like a part of me had vanished, and my heart was cast down inside me. I was alone. Again.

      I really don’t know exactly how to describe what happened to me as I walked slowly back home that night, but I must try, for what happened changed my life, changed everything … forever.

      As I walked, it was as though I heard a voice gently yet very powerfully speak my name and say, “Kevin, I want to talk with you.” I was startled by its clarity and impact, and I clearly remember faltering to a halt and listening, questioning … “What?” almost shocked, but in so low a voice I could scarcely hear it myself.

      For a long moment there was nothing. The whole world seemed silent. I was just about to start walking on when I heard it speak again, very clearly, still gentle, but somehow even more powerfully than before.

      “Kevin, I want to talk with you!”

      For another long moment I could hear nothing. Cautiously I whispered, “Who are you?” but deep down inside of me, I already knew. This time the answer came almost immediately.

      “I am God, Kevin, and I want to talk with you.”

      I didn’t know it then, but that voice was the one voice I would come to long for, had already yearned for, more than any other voice in the whole world, for my whole life and, I know now, beyond even life’s end.

      I began to walk again, but this time, it appeared I wasn’t alone. Of course, then came the inevitable questions. I feel myself smiling now, almost with tears in my eyes, because so many of those questions I still ask to this very day, 45 years later. (Oh! And also, because talking to him is like talking to an answer, and a question, and a great big magnifying glass with a wonderful sense of humour all at once.)

      “How do I know you’re really God?”

      “Because I have just told you so.”

      “Well, what I really mean is, how do I know that I’m not just talking to myself?”

      “Do you really believe that, Kevin? Besides, I’m the one who started this conversation.”

      Then came the kind of trying to trick him, and trying to think of something he couldn’t possibly know, or trying not to think about anything at all, then, thinking-about-something-totally-different-really-really-fast, and then thinking about something different entirely while asking him to tell me what I had been thinking about when I’d thought about something really fast while trying very hard not to think about what I had just thought—before. Which he quickly pointed out was just plain nonsense and really rather silly as he was God and already knew everything about me. I had to concede the point.

      Stymied but still quite suspicious, I slowly began my long walk home as we continued our conversation. I also remember feeling a slowly growing acceptance of this odd new inevitability and somehow feeling as if I remembered this voice from before—from another time.

      I’m so glad now that I was still young