here was something terribly wrong about it. The way it all unfolded so easily, no laboring. Good things happened with much difficulty, you anticipated the bumps. That was obvious, and when they came along you were ready. The bigger the bumps, the sharper the turns in the road the better. But when all ran smoothly, when not the least bit of commotion arose during the process, everything following into place, that was the worst thing that could happen.

It was all strictly logical. It was pity, of course, that he felt no satisfaction from his good fortune. He rather wished his success had come after months of hard work. Not like this. He preferred acts of self-sacrifice. Pain, anguish, disappointment. The three obstacles that popped up everywhere were the familiar road signs. Yet this door had flung wide open for no reason. So easily had it come his way his fortune began to depreciate, gather from various sources a dull finish.

If there had been some warning he could've taken measures to protect himself. Precautions were not easily obtained. He would have managed to drum up a few. In the back of his mind, the world was a dangerous place, where events overturned the plans of almost everyone. Conspiracies were rampant. Plots to derail, besmirch, clobbered every member of the human race at a time when they least expected it.

He had observed first hand the way plans never ran smoothly. Hopes were dashed routinely. The days never were fertile ground for much goodness. You came to the future, that altar and expected the worst. Sacrifice, the loss of one's momentum, the dread of knowing perhaps what one had yearned for was not meant to be. Was undeserved. Unreachable for unexplainable reasons things were not meant to be.

The implication, of course, were large, unwieldy. The province of misfortune was everyone's domain. Disappointment bred in people coarse manners, scowling faces. The sad abasements of a small life. The humbleness of one who had a depleted bank account, clothes long out of fashion, an car more than a few years old, always going too long between haircuts, pets eating the cheapest food on the market, and that awful feeling that grows inside the middle class who squander what little chances life presents. The indifference of the world to their dreams turned against them, and inside them, usually around the midriff depositing a layer of fat. It jiggled when they walked, made their clothes fit tight.

If at some point, he had figured it out that would've appeased him. Though no hint of solution had come. He was happy. For all practical purposes, it was none of his business. Meddling in success might foul things up. But no the more he meddled, the more he prodded and heaped consternation on the problem, the more success came forth. Derived of some mechanical connection to his skepticism, a chain reaction, a reflex. The thing was shockproof. Nothing could break it down.

An illustration of this principle came when he stopped going into the office. His customers called him up at home. The business ran itself. The more he left things alone the more money the business made. This of course was ludicrous, impossible. How could it be? Yes, it was a good idea to make and sell light bulbs. His plant was producing and packaging over a thousand gross a month. Light bulbs. The business was incredibly successful. People from all over the world were placing orders. He couldn't produce enough of the light bulbs.

And it was such a simple idea. Glow in the dark light bulbs. That was what the world needed. The world still in the dark ages need to shed light on things. A gimmick. His light bulb was not much different than all the other light bulbs. It was the phosphorus that made the little bulbs glow. Night lights. Was that all the world wanted? The glow soft and faint even when you didn't turn it on. Something for nothing. Or at least the promise of something free. Gratuitous. Generous, clever, resourceful.

That millions in dollars should result from a ball of glass astounded him. A cylinder of glass that screwed into a lamp socket gave off a cool shimmer in the dark like the eyes of some beast watching. He chuckled to himself. He thought so little of the idea he had shelved it for years. Even when the product had come out he had not budget a single penny for promotion. But it caught on. People snapped up the bulbs and screwed them all over their houses. It gave a lovely light, yes, and with it came the sense of knowing they would never quite be in the dark, even if the bulb was not switched on. Thomas Edison would've liked that.

The eyes of the beast watching. He liked that. When they ran the television commercial the beast was a man wearing a furry Big Foot suit. His nephew Pete. And Pete would dance around the living room, waving to the camera. Big Foot was the life of the party. A fellow who liked his beer and pretzels. In one commercial, Big Foot was hiding in the closet, munching on a hot dog. In another, he was lying on the beach while three lovely girls fed him corn chips.

Redundancy. That was the power of the glow in the dark light bulb. People were somehow comforted by the idea. Solace was part of the packaging. Mexicans, Canadians, French, Italians, Chinese, they were all terribly taken by the light bulb. It had worked its rather bleak magic on countries all over the world. The bulb was hottest in Japan. The Japanese couldn't get enough of them. It was though the light bulb made life easier. Somehow eased a troubled world.

Depleted its reservoirs of despair. The bulb being the eater of doubt. Clear thinking, that was what the bulb supported. Right living, clean living. Seeing things as they really were. Or at least that was the advertisement copy. The foolish line of thought that made of its silliness a philosophy. The coy words that the consumers swallowed. The bulb being the savior of a dark world. A light in the wilderness. A flame in the modern world.

(from Dream Forge)

© Ernest Slyman