Everyman and the Past

John Everyman, your past is an invisible self. He walks with you. Forever at your side.

I knew a man in conversation with his Past. Always. Obsessed. When he woke in the morning, he would turn away from his wife to the one in bed with them. His Past. He would start his day-long pestering of Mr Past. Blah, blah blah, he’d go, while she examined her fingernails.

I have an idea of what his Past looked like. Same build as him, short and chunky. A big mop of unruly black hair. Broad shouldered in a heavy coat, hands deep in the pockets, the head down, trudging on, yes, trudge, trudge, trudge. Miserable. This self he had attached to was battering him daily with endless questioning, unending complaints. What did the Man want of his Past? He wanted it to be different. Go with that girl, not the one who became his wife. Why did he have to have that bad boss? And if only he had not done this thing or that.

But the Past would shake his head, palms out in exasperated honesty. “I can’t change. It is not in my nature. All this yittering on you do? What the hell?” said Mr Past. “What the hell?”

The man would hear but continue. “It is because of my parents. If only they…”

One day the man was in his back garden with his family watching the clouds gather in the sky. A distant rumble. Approaching thunder. It reminded him of a storm that hit the beach when they were on holiday. A memory of his adolescence.

He turned to his Past, got right in his face: “Look I want to go there. I want to take back what I said to my Dad…”

The Past was truly sick of this. “Get off me John Everyman!” He yelled and pushed Everyman wildly in the chest. He staggered back. “Wha?” said Everyman. Shocked, surprised, almost stunned.

“I can’t take you back there,” said The Past. “I can’t change anything.”

“Wha?” He had never seen his Past so angry.

“Look ahead of you.”

“Wha? Wha?”

“Look!”

The man turned and saw someone standing there. “Why he looks just like you.”

“That’s right. Miserable sod eh? The same hunched shoulders. The same hands in pockets. That’s Mr Future. Yours.”

“My future?”

“Yes, your Mr Future.”

“He looks even sadder than you.”

“Yep, that’s what going to happen to you given your current karmic capacities.”

“Huh?”

“Now look around you…”

“Wha… wha…?”

“Look around yourself. Look at the present. See over there. It’s your wife June. Humming as she works in the garden. I know, I know. You always think would have been better with Sharon? Are you sure? Look at her, John Everyman. She is a beautiful woman. And has been very patient with you. You haven’t lost her - yet.”

Truth be told, this obsession with his past seemed to his wife as if he had a mistress, or a secret life. It did not make him much fun to be with. He knew that.

“And look, there’s your kids.”

His attention drawn to them Everyman barked a parental command: “Jeremy stop throttling your brother!”

“Sorry Dad,” yelled Jeremy and began kicking his younger sibling instead who squirmed out of the way.

“See...” said the past, “two beautiful children. Boys!” He paused at more yelling and a new wrestle. It looked rough. “They are always a handful. But aren’t you lucky? There is someone else I want you to meet.”

John Everyman turned and was startled to see the image of himself, John Everyman, except the face was clear-eyed and smiling, a confident, almost mischievous rise to the eyebrow, a healthy glow to his skin. “John this is Mr Present Time. Present this is John.” As was now the custom they bumped elbows.

“Hi,” said John. Mr Present Time looked him squarely in the eye. Warmth.

“We should be good friends,” said Mr Present Time.

The man turned to Mr Past: ‘You mean, I could look like him?”

“Well yes. If you take his advice. If he is the one who gets your attention. And not me.”

Everyman looked Mr Present Time in the face: “How do we start?”

“Hmmm,” Mr Present Time wondered. ”You do realise that you can control your mind?”

“Huh?”

“You are the one in control of your mind.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Every time you think of Mr Past it does not mean you have to keeping thinking about him. Think of something else. Go and talk to someone. That is a better dialogue to have than the one you have been doing with yourself.”

“I see.” John Everyman looked at his new friend Mr Present. But a bit puzzled. He had not got it.

Mr Present Time decided to get a bit theatrical: “Would the person in charge of John Everyman’s mind please put up their hand.”

John Everyman blinked at him.

Mr Past whispered to him, “Pssst John, put your hand up!”

So, he did. “Oh, um I get it. Ok. I am responsible for my thoughts. I am the one. Where do I start?”

“How about with your wife?”

The Past agreed: “Mostly definitely!”

“Why don’t you go over,” said Mr Present Time, “talk to her, ask about what she is doing there in the garden – listen for a bit – really listen – ask her about it – but make sure you listen - then tell her how much you love her.” Mr Present frowned at the expression on the man’s face. “You do, don’t you? You do love her?

‘Yes, yes, I guess I do.”

Mr Past was shocked: “What do you mean guess?” he spluttered. “I know you. I remember all things.” With a little nod he forced a daydream on Everyman. It was a very private thing – what led to the making of those babies and the like. Everyman saw himself as if on a screen. He recalled how wonderful it was the way she accepted him. And still did. Always accepting him. After all the fuss, the bother (and gifts) he’d had to ply Sharon with - even for a coffee. Here was June just wanting him.

“I do… I do love her…” He looked over at June. “I do love my wife,” he breathed. “Okay. I will do what you say. Wait for me.”

“No..no…” said Mr Present. “I am always with you. It is my nature. Here, let me give you my face.” And he did. John Everyman took on the face of present time.

He started to walk towards his wife when a dreadful howl went up. It was the younger brother, a shriek of pain followed by hard crying. The wife looked up too.

“I will get it, love…” he said.

She was startled. The tone. The way he said “love”. It touched something. There was almost a tear forming.

“Jeremy,” said John Everyman as he walked off down the yard. “I am going to bloody murder you! Your brother is just a little fella…” Then he stopped. “Thanks Mr Past,” he said over his shoulder. “I did not think I could learn from you. How about that?” Then he turned again. “Jeremy, come here or I’ll skin you alive…” Well, he wasn’t becoming perfect.

The wife looked at the