He’s…quite on the heavy side.
Two pairs of eyes, one observant, one skeptical, stared back at each other in silence. The Average, sitting quietly in the tarnished wooden rocking chair, scanned his latest “project” apprehensively. What he found…was not very encouraging.
“Well,” he cleared his throat, “hello.”
The round mass of boy slouching indolently in the seat across hardly reacted. “Hmph,” he grunted not-so-warmly.
“Very nice home you got here. Fascinating how I can finally see some stuff from the 21st century that’s not sitting in a museum today!”
The Average was rewarded with no reply. Ask for his name!
“Uhh, anyways, what’s your name?”
“…Hubert.”
Quick, find something to pique his interest! “Hubert, how long have you had this rocking chair; it’s in good condition…”
“I don’t know. Great grandpa must’ve bought it in 2002, I guess, ‘cuz Dad says it’s celebrating its 112th birthday this year.” Suddenly, Hubert grinned, and his generous belly swelled with pride. “It’s my favorite. When Gramps was still around, I remember cooking stuff for him all the time ‘cuz he never did anything but sit in that chair.”
He…cooked?
“You used to cook for him?”
“Yeah.”
“What did you cook?”
“Simple stuff. Oatmeal, porridge, mac and cheese from a box…”
The Average’s hopes plunged. It really was simple stuff; anybody could do that with instant food. “Do you still cook for him?”
“He’s dead.”
“Oh. Sorry…”
“Whatever. I cook better junk now.”
“Hmm? Like what?”
“Seafood, pasta, Chinese, Indian, Persian…What does it matter to you? Aren’t you supposed to find some special thing about me or something?”
“Yes…but I’m interested in your hobbies.”
“Got none.”
“What about cooking?”
“Not a hobby. That’s something I do ‘cuz Mom can’t afford instants.”
“But…do you like it?”
“Sure, it’s fun, but I suck…”
Bingo.
“Hubert, where’s your kitchen?”
Hubert blinked cautiously. With difficulty, he rose from his chair, and lumbered past the ancient, peeling walls into a dowdy kitchen. The Average gaped in surprise at the sight of the rusted stove-and-oven set wedged in the corner.
“You know how to use a stove? And an oven?”
“Yeah, so?”
“Hubert, what about your iCuisine robot?”
“I’ve heard of them. Overpriced hunk of metal. iCuisine’s can’t make scrap.”
“So you cook everything by scratch?!”
“Doesn’t everyone do that?”
“Only professional chefs cook like that today!”
“Are you mocking me?”
“I’m serious, Hubert. You should explore more exotic foods made outside of Alabama. Here, let’s both cook a fish platter. You with your kitchen, me with my iCuisine. We’ll see how well each one turns out.”
“A challenge?”
“No. I just wanna see what happens…”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the world of the 22nd century, things hadn’t changed as drastically as fiction once portrayed. People still walked, nobody knew how to hover yet, and vacations to outer space were still impossible. But there were solar cars, complex housing, and robots. Global warming was being treated, energy saved, and cures for illnesses sprouting everyday.
Unfortunately, to the surprise of many, the spirit of each passing generation was declining at an exponential rate. For some reason, children of the future were losing hope – schools attempted to instill ambition and confidence year after year – but low self-esteem ravaged young minds like wild fire across the globe. Communities began to suffer from lack of contributions from their maturing citizens, so finally, one group took a step.
They named themselves The Elders. Usurping the government, they ruled the continents and launched “The Average Project.”
He was their first successful experiment. He was nameless, being nothing more than a project, but he existed, and that was all that mattered. Genetically altered from birth, he became average. He had skills, but only minimum. He was created to forever be “nothing special.”
The Elders taught him how to socialize, how to pry into a client and pluck out their gift, because everyone had one, everyone…but him. As soon as he was old enough, he was assigned a mission for the rest of his childhood until he turned thirty. He was to tour the world, give sight to the blindness of insecure peers, and secure the future.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Welcome to The Elders. Calling for what purpose?”
“Report assignment.”
“Wait one moment.”
The Average sighed, slumping on a suspended couch in his mobile “house-car.” Inside, the iMaid had clearly done its job, as every nook and cranny shone, clean and spotless. Tired and lethargic, The Average gazed blankly at the lifeless radio sitting in his palm. Abruptly, it buzzed to life.
“Assignment status?”
“Assignment complete. Awaiting detail report.”
“You are now being transferred to detail report. Please begin at the beep. You have ninety seconds. Beeep.“
“Good morning, Elder Thompson. It’s me, The Average. Assignment #9,807 complete. Hubert Nink of Montgomery, Alabama, age fifteen. The two of us had a cook-off so he would realize his unusual talent in the kitchen. Like I predicted, my mediocre skill with the iCuisine hardly compared with his natural efficiency with food. I’ve successfully convinced him to join a cooking organization conveniently located near his town, and have strong faith in him. Awaiting Assignment #9,808. Signing out, The Average.”
Identifying the verbal command, the radio automatically ended the recording. “Thank you. Please come again.”
The Average leaned back and looked at the ceiling. That familiar sense of anxiety and dread seeped back once more as he recalled the one word that had haunted him for nine years…DISPATCHED…
He had nowhere to go and no goal for the future, yet he feared the number thirty. What was the meaning of “dispatched?” What would happen to him when he turned thirty?
That’s funny…I usually don’t get so sleepy after an assignment…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A thin-lipped cloaked figure bends over a stack of manuscripts, furiously scrawling down notes. A small child of seven skips cheerfully to his side, greeting him affectionately.
“Hi Elder Thompson!”
“Hello, now resume studying your social notes. You’re very distracting.”
Disappointed, the boy immediately dulls, and is about to depart, when something comes to mind.
“Elder Thompson?”
“What?”
“What’s my future?”
He stops writing. Straightening, he leers at the child. “Future? Now where did you hear that nonsense?”
“A girl. Hannah, Assignment #2,482. Today, she asked me what my future was.”
“You’d like to hear the truth?”
The boy instantly brightened. “Yes?”
“Your future…does not exist.”
“What?”
“You have no future. Your only purpose in life is to show others what their futures are. That’s all. Other than that, you are nothing. You make no difference to this world.”
“I don’t? But is there a way I can?”
“No. You can’t make a difference, foolish boy. It’s impossible. Now leave, I’m busy.”
“Wait. What about when I’m done touring, when I turn 30?”
“You will be…dispatched.”
“Dispatched?”
“Go!“
The boy left.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Average paused in front of the milky, tilted marble house. Reluctantly, he rang a doorbell for the 9,808th time, sending a low chime resonating through the halls.
“Coming!”
The door creaked open as a brazen girl’s face peeked from behind. What the…
“Hannah?” he cried incredulously. “Assignment #2000-something?!”
“I hook up a fake appointment so I can see you again, and all you can say is ‘Hi Assignment #2000-something!’?!”
He chuckled. “Sorry, it’s just I’ve never seen the same client twice. How’d you do it? The Elders should’ve been able to catch this!”
She winked slyly. “I moved to Alabama a while after you helped me out nine years ago. Then old Hubert starts crowing about how he got to meet the famous Average and how he wants to be a chef now, and I’m thinking, The Average?! I gotta meet him again! So I temporarily changed my name to Hilary, persuaded my parents to send in an appointment request, and here you are!”
“You haven’t given up on caricatures, have you?”
“Of course not! Thanks to you, I’ve been practicing at caricatures and cartooning, and two holographic newspapers have requested my artwork already!
“Wow! That’s great, Hannah! But since you apparently don’t need any counseling, why’d you wanna see me?”
“Why not? I give you credit for giving me something to do with my life, instead of feeling sorry for myself everyday. Now I have a future to work towards, and I can actually make a difference by improving our world today with my gift!”
“Credit? I’m not worth anything, Hannah. I’m just The Average. People use me as a comparison, that’s all. Since I’m so average, others can distinguish their own talents when judged against my inability. Clients help themselves, I don’t help them.”
Hannah snorted. “There you go, being all modest. Whaddya mean you’re not worth anything! You practically made an impact on my miserable life, and now I can proudly sign my name at the bottom of each cartoon I create! Lemme ask you, how many assignments have you completed so far?”
“9,807.”
“There. You’ve made a difference in the lives of 9,807 future adults. You’ve given each of them a purpose, a life, a future. You did it, not them, you.”
“I’m nothing. I’m a nobody. I don’t even have a name. How could a nobody possibly make a difference?”
Hannah, six years older than The Average, towered over him. Rolling her eyes, she growled, “Fine. I’ll give you a name. You’re Avery now.”
Confused and shocked, The Average, now Avery, groped wildly for an excuse. “But, but, what about me, as an individual? I can help others as The Average, but Avery can’t do anything. He’s genetically impaired.”
“Ok, so you don’t naturally start out with a talent, but you can certainly practice.”
“Practice? Practice what?”
“Practice a skill, dum-dum! Choose a skill and practice. Practice hard, and if you want it bad enough, it’ll become a talent. So what kinda skill do you like?”
Avery stared blankly, clueless. What’s she talking about? He blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Writing?”
“Fine. Then write.”
“Write what?”
“Keep a journal or something. Just practice writing and get it good.”
“But how’s a measly journal gonna make a difference?”
She stared. “It will. Your thoughts, your feelings, your life. It will make a difference.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Later, back in his house-car, Avery stared at the holographic keyboard and the blank screen of his computer. The screen matched his head – empty. Write about my feelings? But The Average has no feelings…does he?
He typed:
Hello. I am The Average. Do I have feelings?
Chewing his nails, he contemplated, and hesitantly added:
Yes. I think I do. But why do The Elders tell me I don’t?
He paused again.
Because they say my life is my job. A job has no feelings. Therefore, my life has no feelings.
They also say I have no future. I can’t make a difference. But Hannah says I can. She says by helping others, I’ve made a difference to the world. And even as Avery, not The Average, I can still make a difference by writing stuff like this.
He paused awkwardly, then typed:
How does this make a difference? How does defying The Elders make a difference? Is it because I’m trying to prove I’m not just a project? That I am a person too, that I have a gift?
But I’m genetically impaired. How could I have a gift?
Perhaps my gift goes beyond tangible skills. Perhaps my gift is in my head. Perhaps…my gift is perseverance. Perseverance, determination, and the undying desire to make a difference despite what, or who, I am. The Average can make a difference. In the world, through others, and by the dynamic power of his own heart, which is outside of physical and genetic impediments…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Avery and The Average cooperated, typing furiously the rest of the evening. He spilled out every detail of his life, and the thousands of questions he once believed were expected to be left unanswered. Eventually, when Elder Thompson came to check up on him, he peered over his shoulder in mild curiosity.
“What’s this?” he inquired. “What are you doing?”
The Average secretly smiled. He said:
“Making A Difference.”
