Birthday

There is one day each year when the people born on that specific day have the ability to transform any other person into anything they wish. They can only do this once each Birthday, and only on that day, which happens to be coming up very soon, a few weeks from now, in fact. The transformation wears off the following morning, the only stipulation being that the transformed person must get home before sunrise. If they do not make it home, that person will remain in whatever form they have become for the rest of their lives. This is a kind of Purgatory, but a short-lived one in the grand scheme of things. The poor people who fail to get home spend the next 364 days suffering their position, but thankfully, when the next Birthday comes, they lose all memory of their lives before and spend whatever time they have left with only the consciousness of their new form.

Some people caught in this scenario spend their last year mourning for the life they will soon forget. Others take advantage of their position, and spend their time getting used to their new forms. They retain their ability to communicate for this period as well, which is nice so they can properly say goodbye to their loved ones.

Few people are aware of the Birthday. Those that are aware tend to gather together in small groups and discuss among themselves what each of them would like to be, and then they take turns turning each other into birds or snakes or stalks of rhubarb or whatever, assuming they’ve worked out a way to get themselves home by the end of the day. And none of them talk about this to anyone not celebrating the Birthday; to discuss it with an outsider is considered a major taboo, and anyone caught talking about it is shunned from future Birthday parties.

While most celebrants use their power for good, there are of course a few who use their power for evil. One Birthday celebrant was an important figure in the automotive industry (his name will not be revealed). He was rather annoyed with a certain union leader who then disappeared without a trace in the mid-1970s. That union leader is now, in fact, a mulberry bush somewhere east of Telegraph Road in an upscale suburb of Detroit.

There were two friends who were born on Birthday, and they always spent their Birthdays together. David always wanted to be a dog, a different breed each year, and so Jon would turn David into the shape of whatever breed David wished. Jon enjoyed being amphibians and reptiles, and David would turn Jon into whatever creature he wished. As with all the other celebrants, David and Jon were wise enough to make sure they would be able to get back into their homes before the following morning so they would not remain a dog or amphibian or reptile for the rest of their lives.

David had installed a pet door into his house, which allowed him the freedom to come and go until bedtime without the hassle of doorknobs. David’s other friends, none of whom were aware of David’s gift, often asked about the point of having the pet door, because David did not own an animal. (David did, at one time, have a dog, but he had to get rid of it following one Birthday for reasons not discussed in polite society.)

Jon was less creative with his plan of entry. He had a sliding glass door in the back of his house, and would be sure to leave it open wide enough to allow entrance for whatever sized creature he opted to be on any given year. Thus, if he were going to be a Gila monster, he would leave the door open wide enough for a Gila monster to pass through. If he were to be a tree frog, obviously the door could be more closed. It was a simple plan, but it worked well enough as far as Jon was concerned.

Just over one year ago, David and Jon had a minor disagreement over a rather sensitive political topic regarding what rights a woman should or should not be allowed to have when it comes to reproduction. And with most disagreements on this issue, theirs escalated into something a great deal more than “minor.” David felt very strongly that it was no one’s business but the man and woman involved in each case, while Jon believed that conception meant life, and all life was sacred. David agreed that all life was sacred, but he believed life didn’t begin until the first breath was taken outside the womb. This viewpoint was tearing Jon apart, and so decided he was going to do something to set David straight.

When Birthday came, David and Jon met in their usual Birthday meeting spot, deep in the woods behind the local community college, a place where people seldom passed.
Jon arrived first, just as the sun was peeking through the trees. David arrived shortly after, still trying to decide whether he wanted to be a terrier or a beagle.

“Happy Birthday!” he greeted Jon. “What do you think for me this year? Beagle or terrier?”

Jon looked at his friend and said, “You are a viable fetus,” and David immediately became a fetus, lying on the dirt beside an elm tree.

“What the hell!” the fetus yelled at Jon. “What the hell did you do to me? What have you done to me?”

“Turned you into a fetus,” Jon said to the fetus.

“You sonofabitch!” cried the fetus.

“Don’t worry,” said Jon with a smirk. “You’ll be just fine. You are a precious life. Don’t you see? You are living and breathing, even though you aren’t completely gestated.”

“You sonofabitch!” cried the fetus again.

“Just trying to prove a point,” said Jon. “Just want to you realize what life is is all. Even though you aren’t fully developed, you’re alive. You see?”

“But it’s Birthday, Jon,” moaned the fetus. “I could be a fucking brick and still be alive right now. What the hell does that prove? Nothing! I’d be alive no matter what because I AM ALIVE. And how the hell am I supposed to get home now? I’m screwed, Jon. Screwed!”

“I’ll get you home, don’t worry,” said Jon. “I’ll get you home.”

“You ruined my Birthday,” said the fetus. “How’d you like it if I did this to you, turned you into something you didn’t want to be? This sucks, okay? This really sucks.”

“I’m sorry,” said Jon. “There’s always next year. Don’t take it so personally. I just want you to see that I’m right and you’re wrong about when life begins.”

“Yeah, well you’re a fucking maple tree, how’d ya like that?” spat the fetus.

And before the fetus realized his mistake, Jon became a 35-foot tall maple tree.

“Oh, this is just great,” said the maple tree to the fetus. “Now what are we gonna do? I was going to carry you home before sundown, and now we’re both stuck here. We’re going to be stuck here forever.”

The fetus was silent. The maple tree continued to speak. “I can’t get home like this. I’m rooted to the ground here. And you, you can’t even crawl home because you haven’t yet developed the muscles for it. What were you thinking?”

“I’m sorry,” said the fetus. “That was a mistake. I was pissed, didn’t think. Sorry.”

“’Sorry’,” said the maple tree, sarcastically. “Right. That fixes everything.”

As you might expect from a story such as this one, no one came along before the sun went down that night. The following morning came and went and neither the fetus nor the maple tree had much to say to each other. They were both resigned to their new forms, neither of which allowed for much mobility. The maple tree felt a tickle when a gust of wind rattled its leaves, while the fetus felt nothing but the occasional bits of dirt that blew across its body.

As the weeks passed, the maple tree began to feel very self-conscious about itself. It realized that it could live for a couple hundred years, barring any massive expansion by the college that might infringe on the woods. The idea of living for hundreds of years was overwhelming enough for the maple tree, but it had also realized that, once the next Birthday arrived, the fetus’s lifespan would be extremely short. Less than a few hours, probably. This saddened the maple tree because the fetus had been its friend.

The fetus spoke very little to the maple tree. It too knew its days were numbered. Its moods changed from moment to moment, sometimes feeling guilty and wishing it had not been so vindictive, but other times being downright pissed that the maple tree would live a good, long life while it, the fetus, wouldn’t last a day past its next Birthday. In these moments, the fetus would lob insults at the maple tree. “I hope someone comes along and drills a bunch of holes in you and takes all your sap,” the fetus would say. Or, “I hope someone makes a nice fire out of you someday.” The maple tree just sighed in response. The maple tree didn’t blame the fetus for these mood swings. It knew how difficult it must be to be a fetus.

Now you are probably starting to feel really sad about the imminent death of the fetus, but don’t worry. Because, you see, just yesterday, I went for a walk in the woods, and was I ever shocked to find a fetus lying on the ground next to a maple tree.

“Oh, thank Christ!” cried the fetus. “Mister, please, you’ve got to help me.”

Hearing words come out of a fetus is a pretty upsetting thing, I can tell you. A blaspheming fetus isn’t something you run across every day. And I, with no knowledge of Birthday at all (I was born, thankfully, a Libra), screamed so loud my throat hurt for two weeks.

“Mister, it’s okay, really, but you gotta help me, okay? What day is this?” the fetus asked me.

I told him.

“Okay, there’s still a few weeks to spare, that’s good. You’ve got to get me to a hospital, okay? Get me to a hospital before the end of the month. If you do that, I’ll have a chance, but you gotta get me there, okay?”

“What are you…? How are you…?” I stammered.

“When were you born?” the fetus asked me. “What day?”

And then, the maple tree behind me yelled, “DON’T YOU DARE!”

“Jesus!” I yelled, spinning around. “What the hell is going on here?”

“What does it matter now?” said the fetus to the maple tree, ignoring my question. “In a few weeks, I won’t remember any part of my past. I won’t remember my Birthday any more than you’ll remember yours. Our lives as we knew them are over. What should we care now about being shunned?”

The maple tree was silent for a moment, until it finally sighed and said, “Okay. Tell him.”

And so the fetus told me everything. It told me about Birthday parties, transformations, and everything. When the fetus finished the story, the maple tree spoke. “You should help the fetus,” it said. “Take it to a hospital. I’ll be fine here. If the fetus has a full life, then we’ll both be okay. That’s good. That’s right. Please help the fetus.”

I took off my shirt and knelt down beside the fetus, wrapping it up snuggly, cradled it carefully in my arms, and started away. “Wait,” said the maple tree. I paused, turning back. “Good luck,” it said to the fetus.

“And you,” the fetus replied. “Maybe we’ll meet again some day.”

“Maybe,” said the maple tree. “Maybe we will.”

I carried the fetus to my car and drove with it on my lap to the hospital. The fetus sang along with the radio, but said very little to me. It whispered another thanks as we pulled into the parking lot, and reminded itself it would have to keep quiet once we got inside. I took the fetus into the emergency entrance and the nurses and doctors came running. The police were notified. I gave a statement, not saying anything about the Birthday of course, or that the fetus could talk. I told them I was walking in the woods and found the fetus and that’s it. And then I went home. They promised they’d find the fetus a good home, if it survives. That it would get the best care, the best treatment possible. They said they’ll let me know, but I suppose they’ll forget. In the end, everyone forgets and focuses on their own lives. A maple tree will just be a maple tree, perhaps growing taller, but always a maple tree. A fetus may become a child, if it is lucky. And I will grow older, each year thankful not to celebrate a Birthday.