It’s sunset and we’re on the lanai watching geckos take the leap.
The Bohemian and I have slowed down enough to notice. This parade of little lizards, sticky-toeing their way from the rooftop to the edge. Because of lighting, their delicate three-inch bodies are only shadows through the clear, corrugated overhang stretching out above us.
We see the front two feet grip while a gecko head peers over the side, poised to make a four-foot jump to the puakenikeni tree below.
At first, we are uncertain.
“It looks like that gecko’s going to jump…”
“Nah…”
“Oh, yeah, I think so,” says the Bohemian.
Birds chirp. The sun slips lower. We watch the gecko, its head peeking over, moving slightly side to side. Then, just like that – airborne. One small, free-falling body drops through the air, landing on an open leaf in the tree below.
“No way!”
What ensues is a procession of geckos, one after another, inching up to the edge and then dropping. Some hardly hesitate, just leap. Others linger at length. One creative soul approaches the rim upside down, then launches with a twist and lands it.
For creatures known to have an adhesive grip, the Bohemian and I are privy to witness them in complete let-go. No feathers here, their mid-air hurls seem to go against everything we know about their nature.
We humans aren’t much different. We all teeter on the edge of something. Life gives opportunities to face fears. To test the waters of the unfamiliar. We decide how far to leap.
And who knows. We may think we’re all just gecko-toed, wall climbers. But really, maybe we can fly.
“I need a jump. I’ve got the cables. Would you mind?”
This was a few weeks ago at my house, with my neighbor, where there were three cars in the parking lot but only mine would start.
The story went that my neighbor’s car keys were missing. He thought his wife must have them, but she was at work and he couldn’t get through to her on the phone. He had a plan B. He’d been storing his friend’s car, who was traveling, and he pulled the car cover off and climbed in, only to find that the battery in plan B was dead.
I had the time and was happy to help get my neighbor back on the road. Besides, it had only been the week before when I’d come out to my own car to find the battery dead. (The embarrassing result of one mother’s scattered state, combined with two nine-year old boys, the rolling up of electric windows, and a key left engaged in the ignition).
My personal AAA rescue came in the form of a mother in a white mini van with four kids in tow, and her portable jump-start kit. She explained that she had to bring her kids because it was now summer vacation, and with a less-than-whispered aside, stated that “they’re driving me crazy.” Eight eyes peered at me from inside the van, though most went quickly back down to their hand-held electronic devices.
Used to the actual tow-truck and a guy in work boots answering my triple-A call, this mom in flip-flops with “Hilo” tattooed near her breast, was the most unusual car call I’d experienced. But she got me started and was gone within ten minutes.
The jump-start for my neighbor took about the same time and soon I was lowering my hood and he was off down the road.
So yesterday, while working at the home of one of my clients, one of his house guests knocks on the door where I’m sorting paperwork.
“I’m wondering if you could help me out.”
He proceeds to explain that he has lost the keys to the car he’s been borrowing. He must have dropped them somewhere in the bamboo leaves, but so far all searches have turned up empty. So he’s been using another friend’s car in the meantime. But that car’s parking lights don’t shut off, so its battery is now dead and he would greatly appreciate it if I could give him a jump. He’s got the cables.
Again, I have the time, and take a pause. Pull my car up to his and in about ten minutes, his car is running and I’m closing my hood.
It’s only later, around sunset, as the Bohemian and I are together eating green papaya salad that these string of battery-jump-start incidences weave through my mind.
“What do you think about the fact that within a three-week span, two people came to me with stories about how they lost the keys to their car, and when they went to use an alternative, in both instances, the second car’s battery was dead?”
The Bohemian raises his eyebrows and nods his head. “Hmmmm.” (The man has perfected the ambiguous nuance of the ‘hmmm’, and in this case it held the tone of something like, “yes, that is curious”).
“…and then they came to me asking for a jump.”
Again, the Bohemian nods, with a look of “interesting…”
“I’m not trying to put a big meaning on it. But it does seem a bit odd to me that I would experience such similar stories – and in such a short span of time. Not to mention that I, myself, was in need of a jump not long ago.”
The Bohemian agreed that, yes, a theme of some kind was present.
And the poet in me searches for symbols.
Batteries as a power source.
No energy, renewed energy.
In need of rescue.
Reciprocating the rescue favor (twice).
Keys left engaged too long.
Keys simply missing.
Plan B.
Plan B needing more energy.
The layers of meaning could be endless.
Or, plainly seen.
Car batteries lose their juice. It’s good to have jumper cables and a friend (or at least a AAA membership).
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