As you might expect, I've never had a 21st birthday before. From what I can tell, it's essentially the beginning of 10-year milestone birthdays. Here's what I think will happen:
Someone will come to my door, realizing that I am an inexperienced drinker and partier. He will be dressed all in black and wearing dark sunglasses. He is not Johnny Cash, though I'm sure he would help. I've watched "The X-files," so I ask him what clandestine government organization he's from. He tells me he is from a group known as Helping Americans Live Lives Made Amusing, Relevant and Kindred.
"There are certain things you need to identify yourself as 21-years old," he says. From under his arm he produces a shoebox containing everything. He hands me a beer mug, a champagne flume and a martini glass. Then, he provides enough alcohol to impress Dean Martin. One poster of an attractive woman in a bikini, and one poster of a Ferrari follow. Party supplies complete the deal.
I smile at the truth and absurdity of it all. "Enjoy yourself," the man says. "Have a great birthday." I close the door behind him and begin the rest of my 20s.
The night before I turn 30, I anticipate another visit. Sure enough, the man dressed in black comes to my house. This time his voice echoes sarcasm as he reaches in his box.
"Congratulations, Mr. Wallace, you're no longer cool. Here's your collection of smooth jazz CDs, and these are the keys to your Saturn."
He smiles and shakes my unoffered hand, leaving the keys in it, and finishes his spiel before I can talk. "You are no longer 'hip' or 'with it,' though you will use those terms. And from now on, everything you like will be considered 'kitsch.' Nick at Nite is channel 42, and you'd better hurry up and have kids. You're not getting any younger."
I am less amused with his honest barbs, but I take them with reasonably good humor. "Happy birthday anyway," he says as I close the door. I pop a Sade CD in my changer and live my 30s.
A few days after my 40th birthday, I again meet the familiar visitor.
"I have to confiscate your smooth jazz. Here are your new CDs, which are the ones you listened to back when you were 21. They are now called 'classic rock.'"
I look on, surprised. He produces a set of keys as he did a decade before. "These are to your minivan, which you will use to take your kids to soccer practice," he tells me. I grin. The kids are 5 and 7, just beginning to show an interest in sports.
"I also have a spare tire for you, but it doesn't go with the car."
I close the door in his face. I've had it with the overweight and over-the-hill jokes. "Happy belated birthday," he yells, muffled through the door. I put on the Dave Matthews Band's greatest hits compilation and slide gracefully into my 40s.
He returns as I begin to gray around my temples. It is my 50th birthday. In the fourth decade of his appearance, I realize he will always visit me. Again, his shoebox greeting bears the witty insights and gentle sarcasm that is his hallmark.
"I'm not confiscating any CDs this time," he says. "Now I'm here to adjust your stereo so it can't be turned up too loud." I know there are other jabs coming, and he wastes no time.
"You now think that 'The Lockhorns' cartoons are funny." Then, he digs deeply into his box and produces a letter and a rubber glove. The letter is from the AARP. That I get. I hold the glove up and cock an eyebrow at him.
"Prostate exams," he says matter-of-factly, the corners of his mouth slightly upturned.
"Prostate exams," I groan. This guy's quite a card. I make an attempt to salvage the day. "Don't I get a mid-life crisis angle? How about a convertible?"
"Sorry," he said, genuinely. "I don't pick the sentiments."
I see him off. "Happy birthday, old timer," he says.
As he walks away I ask, "You're not from any secret agency, are you?"
"No, I'm not."
"Then who sent you?"
He turns around and smiles widely, with an implication that I should have known. "People who care enough to send the very best."
I think for a moment, staring at the man from H.a.l.l.m.a.r.k. "Tell them to include money next time."
- David Wallace can be reached over
e-mail at davidmw@umich.edu.
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