38
HAPPY 38TH, Brian Greene! Birthdays are memorable events and in my life they mark points on the tape where I can rewind and remember. The number 38 has a special meaning for me because it will always be more closely affiliated with a needle-nosed jet, not a birthday. But that's a self-defense mechanism because if I reflect back on my 38th year, I descend into a very dark place, right after I buy another t-shirt.
One month after turning 38, I was caught in two very nasty autobahn pile-ups. Although I wasn't crunched, I spent several hours sleeping in my car on the autobahn in the middle of freezing fog on the way to Munich. Hours after the Polizei had scraped the metal off the concrete miles away, men in green leather tapped on my window and told me it was safe to continue on. That happened twice in 30 days because on the autobahn, there are no accidents, only crashes.
Two months after turning 38, I was logging an average of 290 miles per work day and working 23 days a month. This was an insane schedule and one that would cause my car to finally belch its displeasure at having clocked up 300,000 miles on its original engine. Although I have owned several BMWs since that original California Beemer, none have been configured with the same efficient mix of hand-powered amenities as the first 320i that I parked in my driveway.
Three months after turning 38, I ended up carrying a full load of cigarettes, motor oil and whiskey in the boot of my car. I could procure the stuff free of any sales tax, excise tax or VAT. This meant I could barter for things--even in Germany. That boot full of stuff paid for hotel rooms and car maintenance across the former East Germany and the Czech Republic several times a month.
Four months after turning 38, I had a series of near head-on collisions on the autobahn at night. This happened because I was routinely traveling on stretches of road that people used to commit head-on suicide. To this day, I don't know how I avoided being obliterated by crazed drivers traveling in excess of 100 mph on the wrong side of the road with their lights off at night.
Five months after turning 38, I watched a deep romantic relationship blow up and die from across the Atlantic. You learn from the throes of major depression.
Six months after turning 38, I was handcuffed by American security forces. The incident that sparked the handcuffs now forms part of a standard disavowal document used in scripts for movies such as The Bourne Identity.
Seven months after turning 38, I was pestered by the same security forces while the German border patrol and local Polizei couldn't be bothered by the little games. Through my 38th year, I could still enter and leave Frankfurt airport by displaying a green card the size of a credit card instead of showing a passport. That card also worked at Heathrow.
Eight months after turning 38, I realised that I was a transient living off the grid, moving from one flat to another every three months and reducing personal property during every move. I felt like a safe house orphan. After my third move, the only electronic gear I owned was a 386 laptop, an oscilloscope, a Texas Instruments scientific calculator and an alarm clock. I had no television or telephone.
Nine months after turning 38, I entered a hibernation phase and started thinking about heading west and into a place where Germans talked about peace and serenity. I started looking at pictures of the place where my Irish cousins lived and wondered if I could drive on the left with my steering wheel on the left too.
I wish Brian Greene the happiest year ahead and I might actually start writing about my 38th year since several colourful episodes from that time in my life actually could be adapted to fill in the very first chapter of how Jason Bourne decided to give up his dogtags for another profession.
