The Collection

courage, I decided to take the chance. I locked the door of my motel room, shut the curtains, sat down in front of the desk, and wrote on a blank sheet of paper: 'I am black.'

My hand did not change color as I finished the last arm of the k. Neither did my other hand. I rushed to the mirror: neither had my face. God, the joy, the sheer exquisite rapture with which that simple sentence filled me! I danced around the room like a madman. I wrote all night.

I still write prolifically to this day and have actually had several fiction pieces published in assorted literary maga­zines under various pseudonyms. I have six unpublished novels sitting in my desk drawer.

But I am not a snob. I write anything and to anyone. Once a day, I make it a point to write to a business and complain about one of their products. You'd be surprised at the re­sponses I get. I've received free movie passes, free ham­burger coupons, several rebate checks, and a huge amount of apologetic letters.

And of course I have several pen pals. They are the clos­est thing I have to friends. My best friend, Phil, is a convict in San Quentin. He murdered his brother-in-law and was sentenced to life imprisonment. I would never want to meet the man on the street, but I have found through his letters that he can be a deeply sensitive individual. Out of all my pen pals, he best understands what it is like to be isolated, alienated, alone. I also write to a middle-aged woman named Joan, in France; a young single girl named Nikol, in Belgium; and a small boy named Rufus, in Washington, D.C.

I have not told any of them the truth.

But how can I? I do not really know what 'the truth' is myself.

The first experience occurred when I was twelve. At least, that's the first instance I remember. We were playing, my cousin Jobe and I, in the unplowed and untended field in back of my grandmother's farm. We had just finished a fu­rious game of freeze-ball tag and were running like crazy through what seemed like acres of grass, racing to the barn. The grass was tall, almost above my head, and I had to keep straining my neck and jumping up to see where I was going.

I did not see the rock I tripped over.

I must have blacked out for a few seconds, because I found myself lying on the ground, staring at an endless for­est of grass stalks. I stood up, stunned and hurt, and started walking toward the barn where I knew Jobe was waiting, a self-satisfied winner's smile on his face.

I must have hit my head harder than I thought, because I kept walking and walking, and still did not reach the clear­ing and the barn. Instead, the grass kept getting thicker and taller, and soon I was lost in it. I did not even know in which direction I was traveling.

With the bump on my head still throbbing and with my heart starting to pound at the prospect of being lost in the grass, I decided to call for help. 'Jobe!' I cried loudly, cup­ping my hands to my mouth to amplify the sound. 'I'm lost!'

I heard Jobe's older, mocking laughter from an indeter­minate direction.

'I mean it!' I called. 'Help!'

Jobe giggled now. 'Yeah,' he called back, 'the barn's a tough one to find.'

By now I was ready to burst into tears. 'Mom!'

'She can't hear you,' Jobe said. He paused. 'I'll come and get you, but you'll have to pay the price.'

'I'll pay!' I cried.

'All right. Say, 'I'm a yellow belly, and I give up in womanly defeat.''

I was desperate and, with only a moment's hesitation, I cast my pride away and shouted out the words. 'I'm a yel­low belly, and I give up in womanly defeat!'

A minute later, I heard Jobe crashing through the weeds. He came through the wall of grass to my right. 'Come on,' he said, laughing. I followed him to the bam.

That night, as I undressed for my bath, I discovered that the skin on my stomach, instead of being its normal peach pink, had somehow turned a dark and rather bright yellow. I was baffled; I didn't know what had happened. Perhaps, I thought, I had accidentally touched some type of chemical dye. But the yellow color would not come off- even after a full ten minutes of hard scrubbing.

I did not tell my parents about this, however, and a few days later the color simply faded away.

I had no other experiences for almost ten years.

I was a history major in college. Midterms were over and, after nearly a full two weeks of nonstop studying, I decided to accompany some newfound friends and some recently ac­quired acquaintances to a club in Long Beach to hear the Chico Hamilton Quintet, the current musical sensation among the college crowd. I sat there in my shades, rep tie in place, smoking my skinny pipe and listening intently in the fashion of the day.

After the set, one of the others at our table, a student named Glen whom I barely knew, took a long, cool drag on his cigarette and looked up at the departing musicians. 'Crap,' he pronounced.

I could not believe what I'd just heard. 'You're joking,' I said.

He shook his head. 'Highly overrated. The music was banal at best.'

I was outraged! I could not believe we had heard the same group. 'You know nothing about music,' I said to him. 'I refuse to discuss it with you.'

Glen smiled a little. 'And I suppose you're a music ex­pert?' he asked, addressing his cigarette.

'I'm a music major,' I lied.

And I was a music major.

As simple as that.

My whole life shifted as I spoke those words. I remem­bered the myriad music courses I had taken and passed; I re­called names, faces, and even particular expressions of piano teachers I had studied under. I knew details about peo­ple I had not even known existed minutes before. I knew what the band had just played, and how and why.

I looked around at my companions. Doug, Don, and Justin, the three people at the table I knew best, were glar­ing at Glen. 'That's right,' they concurred. 'He's a music major.'

They were serious.

I did not know what was going on. I retained a full mem­ory of my 'previous life,' yet I knew that it was no longer true. Perhaps it never had been. And I knew that whereas a few minutes ago I could have recited the names of all the battles of the Revolutionary War and the outcome of each but could not have played the piano to save my life, now the opposite was true.

I slept fitfully that night. I woke up still a music major.

I decided to check my school transcripts to find out ex­actly what was going on. I went to the Office of Admissions and Records, got my files from the clerk, and took them over to a booth to study. I opened the folder and looked at the first page. The words typed there stunned me. I was officially en­rolled as a music major with an emphasis in piano composi­tion. I had never taken more than an introductory history course.

This can't be happening, I thought. But I knew it was, and something in the back of my mind made me push on. I looked up; the records clerk had turned her head for a mo­ment. 'I am a history major,' I said to the transcripts in front of me.

The music classes were gone.

And then I knew.

Of course, the first feeling was one of power. Incredible, uncontrollable, unlimited power. I could be anything. Any­one. And I could change at will.

But that disappeared almost immediately and was re­placed by the more penetrating feeling of fear. Could I con­trol this power? If so, how? If not, why not? Would it eventually fade? Or would it get stronger? Did this power or curse or miracle change only me, or did it change my im­mediate surroundings, or did it change the entire world in which I lived? Could I alter history? What exactly were the implications, ramifications, and all the other -cations of this? A million thoughts voiced themselves simultaneously in my mind.

A test, I thought. I need to test this out. I need to make sure this isn't some type of elaborate hoax or psychological mind game being played on me.'

First, I tried thinking of a command. I am a giraffe, I told myself.

Nothing happened.

Well, that proved something. To effect a change, the statement had to be said aloud. I was about to speak the phrase when I stopped myself. If I said, 'I am a giraffe,' and actually became one, it was quite possible that I would per­manently remain that way. A giraffe cannot speak. I would not be able to say, 'I am a human being,' and