Chapter 2: Adolescence

"Well, Noeel", my father said, "how do you want to make a living?"

I sighed. It was not the first time the question had come up. And in the past few months, my father's face had become sterner and sterner when he repeated it. And indeed the question was becoming more and more urgent. I was seventeen, I had dropped out of school and was not exactly doing anything to ensure myself a future.

The burning of the FAQ had proven to be some kind of turning-point in my young life. I had never written anything like that again, though I had often tried. But somehow I could not get anything done. I was grumpy and short-tempered. My parents had even dragged me to a psychologist once to find out what was wrong with me. He diagnosed me with a long Latin name and gave me pills. I sold the pills in the schoolyard and bought a Tolkien book from the money. I felt as if I was waiting for something big, something decisive to happen, a sudden twist of fate. It was a romantic dream. Unfortunately it refused to come true.

My father was, sadly, not a very romantic person. "Well, you can't expect me and your mom to feed you through all life", he bellowed beneath his proud moustache. "You have to learn something."

"I want to be a Tolkien scholar", I answered. "I want to read and write about this wonderful author. There is so much new material coming up right now. Christopher Tolkien has just published the 'Book of Lost Tales', part two, and it totally changes some things we had taken for granted about Middle-"

"-And how will that fill your belly?" my father interrupted. "Nothing against a hobby, but a man needs a job. And that are two different things. I have been filling out forms for thirty years now. Do you think that was what I wanted to do? Of course not! But I grinded my teeth and did it anyway, and this is how I was able to buy this house for you and your mother. And sometimes I just wish I would get a little thankfulness back from you."

I rolled my eyes. "Dad, you're building a strawman", I said. "I never said I didn't respect you. It's just that I haven't decided yet what I will do, see?"

"You've been telling me that for months now", my father snorted.

"Well, yes", I replied, "it's a decision for a lifetime, isn't it? I can't just start something and later discover it isn't the right thing for me. Besides, if you just give me another month or two, I will write an essay about how Galadriel-"

"Enough of that now!" my father exploded. "Noeel, if you're not gonna do anything, I'll do it for you. I will talk to an old friend of mine. He's a salesman for traffic lights, and he sometimes takes apprentices. It's a good job, and a safe one. People will always need traffic lights."

"But I don't want to be a salesman", I protested. "You can't just decide this over my head. I'm not a child anymore!"

"Exactly my point", my father said, with an expression that made it very clear the discussion was over. I turned around angrily and left the room. "Where are you going?" my father called after me.

"To Baggy", I replied, and it was the truth.

***

I found Baggy behind his computer. A new one, still miles away from our modern machines, but definitively a big step forward. He was playing a game, in which he was a little round thing chased by several square things.

"Oh, dammit", Baggy said as his round thing was cornered and eaten, then he looked up . "Hi, Noeel", he said. "Wanna play a round?"

"Not in the mood", I said and told him of my father's plans.

"Ouch", Baggy said when I had finished. "What are you gonna do now?"

"Listen, Bags", I said. "I have no intention at all to become a salesman. No. We have to get back to work. We have to finish what we started."

"What are you talking about?" asked Baggy, frowning.

"The FAQ!" I urged him. "We need to write it. Now. If we work night and day, we will be able to finish it in two, maybe three weeks."

"But why?" asked Baggy. "Why the sudden hurry?"

"Because we have to sell it!" I exclaimed in distress. "Find a publisher. Print it. Put it up for sale. I have to show my father that I can make money from Tolkien. I have to prove to him that scholarship pays. If we fail, I'm gonna be a salesman for the rest of my life!"

Baggy fell silent. He was still in school, right on course to his final exam. He was not a very motivated student, he seldom did more than absolutely necessary, but he did not do less either. Apparently, the fire had not changed his life as it had mine. He still did visit alt.fan.tolkien with me, but I had noticed a certain shallowness in his contributions, an unwillingness to delve deeply into an analysis. Maybe he was getting bored. Or maybe I had simply surpassed him in skill and knowledge. What he wrote for the group reminded me of the work he did for school: adequate, but hardly brilliant.

"Please, Bags", I begged. "I can't do it alone. I don't have enough time. You must help me!"

I could see the emotions in Baggy's face. I could see the struggle between his desire to help me, to aid his best friend in the moment of emergency, and his inborn laziness and sluggishness. Finally he spoke. "I can't do that, Noeel", he said with a soft voice. "I'm sorry. It's just that I'm not that... fascinated with Tolkien anymore."

"What kind of idiocy is this?" I asked, utterly confused. "How can one be not fascinated by him?"

"Don't get me wrong, I still like his books", Baggy said. "But isn't there more to life than Tolkien?"

I sighed and said: "If you're in love, then say so without ado." For that I would have forgiven him. I remembered the good times I had with Bombadillia - of course we had long grown out of our relationship - and I still knew how love could twist a teenager's mind, making him take seemingly unreasonable decisions.

Baggy looked puzzled. "Love? Oh, no. That's not it. I have, if you need to know, developed an interest in the writings of Marx. You know, communism, revolution, the whole stuff. Very interesting. I want to read more of him, and you know, his books are much more complicated to read than-"

I could not believe my ears. "That is it?" I exploded. "You're letting me down - me, your friend - for some outdated ideology?"

"Noeel, please", Baggy said with a pained expression. "It's much more complicated. Try to understand!"

In this second, I felt something dying inside of me. Something disappeared and left nothing but a hard, cold lump in my stomach. "There's nothing to understand", I said and was frightened by the icy sound of my own voice. "If that is what you want, then so be it. You go back to your Marx, and I go and do whatever my father asks me to. From this moment, our friendship is over. Gone. Finished."

I turned around and stormed out of the house. "Noeel, wait!" Baggy shouted, with a voice as if he was close to tears, but I did not stop. I slammed the door behind me and walked back home. I kept my word and did not speak to Baggy anymore for two full years.

***

It turned out the old friend of my father really needed an apprentice, and so I started my training as a traffic light salesman. I must admit that, after I had been over the initial shock of getting up early every morning, it really was not as bad as I thought.

My foreman, the old friend of my father, was an elderly guy named Fred Sylmarillenfaycker. Despite the name, which hinted at old Elvish nobility, he was the most dwarvish-looking man I've ever met. His beard was grey and of great length, woven into complex patterns. I have no idea how much time he spent daily with beard care, but I bet it must have been a lot of work. Mr. Syl, as I called him, spoke with a very grave, low voice. When he laughed, it sounded like an old wooden door opening for the first time in centuries. I would have joked that Mr. Syl had even fewer hertz than Baggy's first computer, but he would not have gotten the joke, for he was a very old-fashioned guy who did not care about modern technology. But, below his grumpy and menacing hull, Mr. Syl was a very kind and friendly man. He taught me much, and I think fondly of him today.

And I repaid the friendliness. I discovered I had a natural talent for selling stuff, and as soon as I had learned the basic techniques, I became really good. Soon I knew everything about traffic lights. I knew which shades of red light went best with which shapes of the small men on pedestrian traffic lights. I knew the ideal length of the light periods for every type of three-way, four-way and five-way crossing, to ensure a seamless traffic flow. And I learned to let my left eye glow red and my right one green, a very effective trick to impress customers.

Soon I started experimenting with new thoughts. Instead of standing around at one street corner all day, hoping that someone passing by would buy my stuff, I stayed in my foreman's storehouse and listened to the radio. Whenever I heard of an accident somewhere in the town, I packed my cart loaded with blinking traffic lights and ran to the site of its occurrence. And there were many accidents in this town, mostly because of all the aggressive orcs. While the people were still agonizing about the bumps in their precious cars and the blood was still warm on the sidewalk, I explained to them with loud voice that this accident would never have happened with proper traffic lights installed. And almost every time I sold a complete set. When the winter took the town in its icy grip, when the white shroud of snow covered the blood stains on the city's crossings, I had a small marketing idea. I took one or two dozens of streetlights and hung them on a pine which conveniently stood just outside the storehouse. The pine, glowing in a soft light, soon became the wonder of the street and the talk of the neighbourhood. I had invented the christmas tree.

I spent two years as Mr. Syl's apprentice, and I have to stress once again that all I learned from him was put to good use later when I became a prophet. There really is hardly a difference between selling a traffic light and handing out enlightenment. Both are designed to guide mankind safely through the perils of life.

It is hardly surprising that I, still an impressionable teenager, idolized the old Syl and wanted to be just like him. So, for the first time in my life, I let my beard grow. Of course the facial hair I produced could not even approach the mass and dignity of the old man's one, but still after two years I started to look somewhat like these Taliban guys you see so often on TV nowadays.

The second winter fell upon the town, and there came an evening when I and Mr. Syl were sitting in the storeroom, listening to the radio and having a cup of tea. We did this quite regularly now. On these days Mr. Syl often uttered sayings of great knowledge and deep wisdom.

"This tea", grumbled Mr. Syl slowly, "is very hot." It was not one of these days.

"I agree", I said nonetheless and lifted the cup to my mouth. But suddenly, the voice from the radio gripped my attention.

"Good evening, and welcome to our Wacko of the Week show!" it said. "Today we feature a young guy who has a unique opinion about the long-dead author of fairy tales, J.R.R. Tolkien. His-"

"I would not say my opinion is unique", another voice interrupted him. A voice I recognized instantaneously, even though I had not heard it for a long time. "Bagronk?" I gasped.

"His name is Elvis Presley", the announcer started again. "Good evening, Mr. Presley. How was it up there with the aliens?"

"Um... boring", said Baggy's voice. "Anyhow, my opinion is not unique. In fact, as a Marxist, I am convinced that with the rising level of class struggle, millions of people will start to see the truth and agree with me."

Mr. Syl looked at me sharply. "You know Elvis?" he asked with a surprised voice. Then he looked at the radio sharply. "The aliens have converted Elvis... to a Marxist?" he asked with an even more surprised voice.

"The Elvis one always was Bags' favourite latex mask", I explained.

Baggy's voice continued. "I think Tolkien had some thoughts that can only described as racist", it said. Take, for example, his description of orcs. They are slandered and depicted as somewhat lower beings. Tolkien was an evil man, filled with rage and hatred towards what he saw as 'lower races'..."

In that style it continued. I will not bore you, dear reader, with the full transcript. Let me just say that Baggy had adapted a style he since has perfected: an utterly pompous and annoying way to speak, patching holes in his knowledge with half-truths and amateurish assumptions. It was painful to hear - and even more painful was, of course, how he slandered every single book of Tolkien, every book that had given us so much joy as kids. What had driven Baggy so mad in this short time I cannot say. But in this hour I lost all hope that we two could be reconciliated again. From now, we would be mortal enemies. This I swore silently, while Baggy heaped abuse on Tolkien until the announcer finally cut him off. "That was our Wacko of the Week", he said cheerfully, as if one of the nastiest desecrations of history had not just taken place in his office. "Tune in next time, when we'll have a man who runs around with cucumbers sticking in his nostrils!"

Slowly I rose from my chair, a determined look on my face. "He will pay for that", I hissed. "I'll take a week or two of vacation, Mr. Syl. I will find Bagronk and make him retract these statements. I will not rest until Tolkien has been avenged!"

"If you must", grumbled Mr. Syl. "But bring me an autograph of Elvis, while you're at it."

I grinded my teeth and left.

***

"Mr. Quickley?" the nurse asked when I put my pen down. It was the second day after my awakening in the hospital. "There is a visitor for you. A Mister-" She finished the sentence with an unrecognizable cluster of consonants, like someone who tries to cough while he is eating cornflakes.

"Who?" I asked and frowned.

"A Mister-", the nurse said and repeated the sound. Then she collapsed. A paramedic rushed in, diagnosed her with acute larynx knots and carried her away.

My visitor, the man with the dangerous name, walked in. He was older now, of course. His hair showed streaks of grey, and his belly had expanded a little. But the face was still the same shade of green, and I recognized him immediately. I stiffened. What did my worst enemy want from me? Did he come to resume our old struggle? Was he here to gloat over my weakened state? "Hello Baggy", I said, trying to sound as relaxed as possible.

Baggy smiled. "I have another name these days", he said softly. "Don't you remember? I call myself Bqggz now."

"Bwg... bgq..." I tried. A sharp pain in my larynx stopped me.

"Remember, it is pronounced Bee-qyoogts", said Baggy. "Really easy. I have no idea why it causes so much trouble for some people."

"Well", I said and coughed, "I have to take your word for it. What kind of idiotic name is that?"

"You really have amnesia", Baggy murmured. "Did you forget everything? The Great Belgian Sound-shift of 2003? Your own angry letters to me, on how I dared to change a name which originated from Tolkien's books and was therefore sacred? Nothing left?"

"Afraid so", I said, frowning.

"Well", Baggy - no, I will call him Bqggz now - started to explain. "It all started when I visited Belgium some time ago, and tried to send you an e-mail. The keyboard had a French layout, and therefore my usual typing of 'Baggy' resulted in the production of 'Bqggw'. Later, the 'w' was substituted for 'z' in an analogy to the older Czech Sound-shift, which routinely replaced-"

"Stop it, Bqggz", I growled. "I'm not in the mood for that. Just tell me what you want, and then sod off. Please."

Bqggz looked hurt. "Well, I just wanted to drop by and see how you're doing. After all, I saved your life. I carried you out of your weird temple-thing after you were knocked unconscious. It was really dangerous. There was fighting everywhere."

"Oh", I murmured. "Well, tell me one thing. Are you still doing your communism stuff?"

"Why, yes", Bqggz boasted. "Of course I do. Don't tell me you forgot that too. My organization, the Bolshevorks, has members in dozens of countries. A true International. I can bring you a few leaflets if you like."

"No, thanks", I said. I got up from the bed where I had been sitting. My head was already spinning from all this new information. I went over to the window and opened it, inhaled the fresh breeze with the faint smell of gas in it. Yesterday evening, the protesters down below had tried to set the hospital on fire, and its walls were still soaked with flammable stuff.

"I just wanted to see", Bqggz said, "if the... the impact on your head had any lasting consequences. You were pretty much overdoing it before. All the rambling, the preaching, the babbling... I am positively surprised on how coherent you are today. Three years ago, we could not have had this conversation. You would have started to hallucinate halfway through."

"Would I?" I said.

"Yes, and you would have yelled at me for desecrating Tolkien. There was always just Tolkien, Tolkien, Tolkien for you. Obsession, I'd call it", Bqggz said. "What about that? Has it subsided?"

I frowned again. I remembered my futile attempts of yesterday, my attempts to submerge myself in the book. "I'm... not sure", I said. "I'm really not sure."

Bqggz gave me a thoughtful glance. "Well, I'll be going now", he said. "If, maybe, you finally arrive at accepting that Tolkien was an abominable liar and racist-"

I stirred. The faint echo of anger shot through my head. I know I was supposed to jump onto Bqggz and strangle him for these impious words. But I couldn't. All I felt was a great weariness.

"-then maybe we can go somewhere for a beer and have a talk", Bqggz continued. "Revive our friendship. Forget what's happened between us. Or, rather, I will forget it. You apparently already have."

I nodded. "I'll think about it", I said, and Bqggz turned around. "Wait... one last thing", I said as he walked through the door.

Bqggz stopped and looked over his shoulder. "Yes, Noel?" he said.

"Thank you", I said. "For saving my life."

Bqggz frowned. For a long while he just stared at me, deep in thoughts. "You really have changed", he murmured.

"Oh", I added, "and one really last thing."

"Yes, Noel?" Bqggz repeated.

"Someone has written something on your butt with some sort of chalk", I informed him. "It reads: 'Hello Master, I hope you're fine. If that orc man annoys you, I'll kill him'."

Bqggz snorted and wiped with his hands over his behind. The words were reduced to a little cloud of dust that slowly settled on the hospital floor. Then he left. I sighed and took up my pen again.

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