Hysteron Proteron (his’-ter-on pro’-ter-on): Disorder of time. (What should be first, isn’t.).
I had gotten lost again. I wasn’t functioning. I got on my bicycle and rode off. I said goodbye to my mother and stuffed my ham sandwich into the tool bag hanging from my bicycle’s seat. I would feed it to the ducks when I got to Bella Park somewhere beyond the city limits.
I knew something was wrong when I passed a large sign that said “New Jersey, The Garden State.” I had started out in New York, not far from Newburgh. I didn’t see any gardens. Maybe the sign was a joke. All I saw were mountains, rocks, trees, and a river. “Ha, ha. Very funny” I said to the sign. If I was in New Jersey, I was the most lost I’d ever been.
Then, I saw him. He was twisting a small tree branch around in his ear. He was wearing avocado green down puffer pants and a rainbow-colored sarape. His shoes really caught my eye. They had wings on them!
He looked pretty old.
I asked, “Is this really New Jersey?” He said, “Everybody asks that. You must be lost. So am I.” I took out my ham sandwich and started eating it. I said, I get lost all the time. Somebody always finds me and brings me home. My nickname is ‘Missing.’ I’ll just sit on that log over there and wait for somebody to find me.” The man started laughing. “It’s not going to happen. Once you enter New Jersey, you’re lost forever. This is not the New Jersey. It’s the New Jersey invented by Thomas Edison in the last days of his life—it was an anniversary gift for his wife. You end up here randomly when you don’t know where you’re going and you’re in or on a wheeled vehicle. Actually, there is a way out. You may have noticed that my shoes have wings.”
I was scared to death. I tried to get back into New York, but I couldn’t. It was like the border had become a trampoline turned on its side making me bounce off of New York every time I rushed it.
The man was wearing, in addition to all the other crazy stuff, an adult size baby backpack. He told me to climb in and he would take me home. “But you’re lost too,” I said. He told me he was just trying to create some kind of rapport with me so I would calm down. He was lying when he told me he was lost.
He pulled a hat out of his serape. It had wings! He strapped it under his chin. I climbed aboard the baby backpack. He looked down at his feet and yelled “Fly” and the wings on his shoes and hat started flapping. We slowly took off like a helicopter and then soared over fake New Jersey. We met with turbulence as we crossed into New York. My bike was tied by a piece of rope around the man’s waist. He had to be careful that it didn’t get it snagged on a tree or a tall building.
When we got to my house we landed gently. I untied my bike and rode it up the driveway. I thanked the man and he flew away.
Nobody believes this story. They tell me it’s bullshit and insane and not worth listening to. Even though I show them the feather I pulled from the man’s shoe, they look at it and say I pulled it from my pillow or one of my chickens.
My father knows an ornithologist at the college where he works. After weeks of begging my father finally took the feather to school and showed it to him.
He was shocked. Its description was identical to ancient descriptions of the feathers on Mercury’s sandals. He couldn’t confirm the connection to Mercury, but he said, given the feather, my story sounded like I may have met Mercury.
I keep the feather by my bed in a small leather-covered box. After my trip to fake New Jersey, I stopped getting lost.
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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