Extra Special

"It's a funny thing about birthdays." he said without preamble.

I was on the red line to the airport on my way to a red-eye flight to a meeting that everyone thought was a waste of time when he made his way up the car and sat down next to me.  The one thing I hate about mass transit is random weirdos who want to talk to me.  So of course, he chose me.

But I was bored and he seemed harmless.  "How so?" I asked, feigning interest.

"Well, it's funny how not everyone has one," he said, looking at me expectantly, as if to gauge my reaction.

I chuckled.  Oh lord, the people you meet on the proletariat chariot.  "Well that can't be true.  They exist don't they?  They have to have a birthday."

"Well, you would think," he said, "but things can get complicated when you're dealing with irrational math."  He was still staring at me a little too intently.

"Oh, of course, math ruins everything," I said good-naturedly.  There was no reason not to humor him and by god that was tweet-worthy. "It's just that I've never met anyone without a birthday before, so I haven't thought much about it."  I grinned, "And I certainly haven't done the math."

"Ah, you jest," he said, grinning widely, "but you would be surprised.  You strike me as someone who doesn't think of birthdays much anyway, would you say that is true?"

I paused.  "I suppose?"  I admit, I was a bit taken aback.

"Well," he said cautiously, watching me, "that's because you don't have one."

I sat there for a few seconds, processing that statement, and then laughed.  "Oh don't I?  Of course I do.   You know, I think I might have misheard you earlier, did you say you were good at math or meth?"

"Meth?" He held up a finger, "One second, please," and fished a curiously shiny smartphone out of his pocket and typed rapidly with his thumbs.  He squinted at the display and then looked at me, "Ha, no not meth." he squinted at the display again, "You can tell by how good my teeth are."  He gave me a big, toothy grin to demonstrate.

"Ah, well that proves it!" I affirmed, glancing at the arrival time.  We were 2 minutes away from the airport.  Saints be praised.

He noticed my glance.  "Look, I know you think I'm crazy.  And I promise I'll leave you alone if you just answer this question:  What did you do for your last birthday?"

Finally, a chance to exit this conversation gracefully.  "Well, that's easy, I . . . " I trailed off.  What had I done?  Was it drinks with Steve and Emily?  Or had my sister made me a cake?  Wait, maybe I had gone to see my parents?  I honestly didn't know.  I never thought about birthdays much.

"You can't remember, right?"  He cut off my objection, as if reading my mind, "And I can tell you, it's not just because you're not the kind of person who remembers birthdays.  Can you even tell me when it is?"

I sat there thinking, and realized with some consternation that I could not.  The MAX had pulled into the airport station, and I started rustling around getting myself ready to leave, avoiding his eyes, trying my damnedest to remember my birthday.

"You can't, can you?" he said, not unkindly.  "Look, I know you have a few minutes before your flight leaves, and I know you think I'm strange, but can I buy you a drink at the bar to explain?"

"Well . . . " I hemmed, I was pretty sure I just wanted this conversation to end, strange gaps in memory notwithstanding.

"I get it:  this is weird, and you're upset that you can't remember your birthday.  But aren't you curious why you never think about your own birthday?  Have you ever wondered why no one else ever asks when yours is?  Have you ever really looked at the birth date on your driver's license?"

Ah, of course, this would settle it.  We left the train car, and stopped on the side of the platform.  I pulled out my wallet, flipped it open, pulling out my license with impatience.  "You see?  It's . . ." I trailed off again.  It was blank.  The part labeled "Birth Date" was just empty.

The strange man who was ruining my evening let it sink in and then quietly asked, "Do you want to know why?"



We sat in the hotel bar, sipping on beers and now I was the one looking at him intently.  He didn't belong here, but I couldn't tell you why.  He was just odd.  He had a mild accent that I couldn't place.  His breath smelled like metal.  His clothes looked like he'd picked them up in the props department of a high school theater.  And, I don't know how I didn't notice it before, he appeared to be slightly out of contrast with everything else.  Although that could have just been the lighting.

"Wait, what?" I said.  He had been speaking to me.

"I was saying, that I thought you should know:  you're not special."  He sipped his beer again.  "I could tell your imagination was starting to run away with you about all the wild implications of this conversation and the things about me that must seem odd to you and I wanted to let you know before your hopes got too high, that you're not special and this is not the start of some grand hero's journey."

"Okay," I said, "then what am I?"  I'll admit, at this point I was still convinced he was mentally ill and homeless, and had convinced myself I was just a little tired, disoriented and confused.  This birthday business would all make rational sense in the morning.

"Ah, what you are is interesting.  What I am," he said pausing to enjoy another sip of his beer, "is the guy whose job it is to tell you you're not special."

"Dude, look," I said, impatient, irritated, weirded out and ready to leave.  I started to get out of my chair.

"Okay, okay, I will get to the point.  Please sit down, I promise I will only take a few more minutes of your time."  he sipped his beer appreciatively and waited for me to settle.

"What you ARE," he said, staring at me again with his curious gaze, "is an anomaly.  Due to a series of circumstances beyond our control, in the course of a saving this and other universes, the series of events leading up to your birth were nullified." He said this matter-of-factly, like he'd said it a million times before, in a frank but kind manner.

"Well, that explains it." I said, trying hard not to roll my eyes.

"Well," he said, smiling ruefully at me, "it really does, but I don't blame you for what you must think.  Extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence, yes?  I could prove it, I really could.  I could pull out a few devices that do things you would not believe." He patted his jacket pocket, "But, unfortunately, I am forbidden.  It would create too many other problems."

"I see," I said, not really seeing.  "But, you know, I exist right?  How can I be here if you 'nullified' my birth?

"Astute question," he nodded, as if expecting it.  "You wouldn't understand and I'm forbidden the specifics, but I can give you the broad strokes."  He paused, stroking his beard and putting the words together.  English was not his first language, even though he spoke it well.  "We detected an event upstream, further upstream from when we are now, which would ultimately threaten this and other universes downstream and . . . neutralized it.  An explosion occurred in the course of doing so, obliterating the circumstances leading up to your conception.  But, as I mentioned earlier, the math governing these kinds of things and those kinds of explosions are, well, irrational."  He laughed momentarily at this, like it was an old, inside joke, before noticing my expression and becoming serious again.

"So, a localized explosion governed by irrational math removed your birth from the timeline and shuffled in new events from nearby universes.  The consequences of this are unfortunate.  You exist, but have no birthday.  You will never be interested in your birthday.  It will be hard to remember this conversation a few hours after I leave this table, because it concerns your birthday.  No one will ever ask about it, no one will throw you a party, but you will never care.  You will never make a dent in history.  How can you?  You were never born.  You will always be more forgettable than the people around you, which, I can tell you is both a good and a bad thing.  And if, somehow, you end up remembering this conversation with any clarity downstream and attempt to change your fate, you will find your efforts profoundly unrewarding."  He paused, and leaned forward earnestly.

"I know this is a lot to take in.  I don't expect you to believe me.  But it's our fault and we thought you should know.  We are sorry about your birthday.  And we wanted to explain, and present you with this token, expressing our extreme apology."  With that, he fished a small, curiously dusty card out of his pocket and slid it across the table at me.

I picked it up.  "This just says 'food'."

"That," he said sincerely, in his strange accent, "will buy you 100 currency units of food at your local food dispensary.  I would suggest a cake, but I don't think you'd know what to do with it, due to your anomalous nature."

He waved, the waiter over, brandishing a curiously shiny credit card.  "So, that is all I came to say.  Do you have any questions before I go?"

To be honest, I was unsure whether to laugh in his face, walk away or what.  It was all ridiculous except . . . except I still couldn't remember my last birthday.  Or any birthday.  I couldn't even remember talking about it.  But one thing nagged at me.

"Well, even if i were to believe what you say is true, and I don't, wouldn't being a temporal anomaly without a birthday make me at least a little special?  I mean, that's the craziest fucking thing I've ever heard."

"To be honest," he said apologetically, "this kind of thing happens all the time.  So no, I'm sorry, not really.  And even if it did make you special, from a certain point of view, the side-effects of being an anomaly will make sure you don't live anything resembling a special life.  I'm sorry.  But!" he hastened to add, "that doesn't mean you can't fall in love, and have a nice quiet, happy and unassuming life, you just don't get a birthday.  Or make any meaningful impact on the universe.  If I were you, I would take comfort in the fact that you won't miss it anyway and that somewhere out there another you is enjoying two birthdays."

I didn't.

He signed his receipt, returned his curiously shiny card to his wallet, and caught the waitresses's attention before she left.  "Miss," he said, "What kind of beer was that again?  We don't have it when I come from."

"That was an Extra Special Bitter," she said with a servers smile before heading back to the bar, looking back at him quizzically when she finally processed the "when."

The strange off-contrast man, in the stage clothes, with the odd accent and metallic breath downed the last of his beer, plunked the glass down on the table and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.  "Extra special indeed!" he said with satisfaction, before glancing guiltily in my direction. "Sorry," he said.

He shook my hand, wished me well and finally left me in peace.  I sat there for a few minutes, nursing the last of mine contemplatively, before finally pulling out my phone.

"Mom, what can you tell me about the day I was born?"