Storytelling for Week 2: Flick's Joyride

"You're adopted." 

Those were the first words that Flick heard out of his mother's mouth after she had sat him down in the living room. It's hard to predict how someone will react to such a statement; adoption brings to mind questions of ownership and origin. Flick, however, was nineteen, and the words didn't seem to phase him. 

"I want to meet him."

"It's complicated."

"I don't care, Clementine."

She hated when he called her by first name. It was a pet peeve of hers that Flick had learned to utilize for his benefit. 

"Fine. We'll do it next week, then. Just don't call me Clementine." 

~~~

Next Wednesday morning, they left for the city. As Clementine drove, she could not keep her thoughts from wandering. She thought of Flick's adoptive father, her late husband, and how his presence might have helped mitigate the guilt she felt as a single parent of a young man. The deceased's birthday was next month, and Clementine and Flick always went to the cemetery to leave a bouquet of sunflowers. It was one of the few things they consistently did together. 

They parked in front of an opulent skyscraper and disembarked upon the immaculate, nearly reflective, sidewalk. As they walked toward the entrance, the doorman prepared to block their way, but upon seeing Clementine's face, his confidence seemed to retreat and force him to make way for the mom and her sun. The duo arrived at the front desk at 8:56 a.m. on the dot. 

"He's here to see Paul." 

The receptionist flashed a look of understanding and motioned to the security guard to take Flick to the express elevator. Flick's guide leaned in and pressed the button for the top floor.

"You might want to brace yourself. It's a pretty quick ride for newcomers." 

Flick soared through the floors as the lift accelerated toward the sky, and he wondered if he'd end up amongst the clouds when the doors opened. 

Ding. The ride was over sooner than Flick had expected. 

The elevator opened up to blinding light. Tall, crystal-clear windows let in so much sun that Flick swore everything was covered in a film of twenty-four caret gold. A man in an impressive purple suit sat behind a desk at the end of the room, and the sun seemed to be rising over his left shoulder--a purple hillside. He stood up and looked down at the ornate clock on his desk. 

As if the clock timed its motions to that man, the second hand slammed straight up seemingly in response to the man's gaze. 

It was 10 o'clock. 

"So, you're my biological father?"

"As certain as the sun rises every morning," the man answered. "I'm Paul, but you can call me Dad if you want. I supposed I owe you something after all this time." 

"Well, that's not necessarily important." 

"Nonsense. Follow me." 

A stomach turning trip in the elevator down to the building's basement brought them to Paul's private garage. Flick could not believe what he saw. 

Here, the author of this story must admit that any words he chooses to use would not do justice to describe the splendor of the vehicle. The four-wheeled machine looked like it ran on pride and gave off glory as its exhaust. Flick tried to guess the engine's horsepower, but only exorbitant numbers came to mind. 40,000? 400,000? He was convinced this was something of myth. 

"You said you owe me something, right? How about letting me take that for a ride?"

The color drained from Paul's face.

"I would love to, but it's much more difficult to handle than you imagine."

"Come on, Paul. I'm your son."

The man in the purple suit seemed to share the same pet peeve with Clementine. 

"Here are the keys. The valet will show you how to exit the building. You have until noon. Be careful; the stick shift has a mind of its own at times."

Needless to say, Flick's ride didn't last long. Twenty minutes later, a cop stuck him down with a ticket with lightning-speed efficiency. Paul, paralyzingly embarrassed by his foolishness, locked himself up in his office for the day. 

Perhaps children don't always live up to their parents, he thought.

An exaggerated version of Flick's joyride in the city. Wikipedia Commons.

Author's Note: I decided to add a spin to Ovid's story of Phaethon and the Sun. The first time I read through the story, it evoked the consequences of the scene in Ferris Bueller's Day Off in which the parking attendants take Cameron's dad's Ferrari out for a ride while Ferris and his friends spend the day in Chicago. Therefore, I placed Flick as my representation of Phaethon as a character who lacks a strong relationship with his father. For the sake of originality and the rapport I wanted to create between Flick and his biological father, I made Clementine Flick's adoptive mother rather than his biological one. The rest of my story follows the hubris of Phaethon by creating an analogy of between Apollo's chariot and the car that Flick takes out.

Bibliography
Ovid's Metamorphoses 
Edited by Thomas Kline
2000

Week 2 Reading Diary: Ovid I

For my first Reading Diary, I delve into the first books of Ovid's Metamorphoses in Unit Ovid I.

Deucalion and Pyrrha: This story makes me think of some sort of mixture of the account of Noah's Ark and the story of Genesis in the Bible. After all, the surface of the Earth is destroyed because of a god's anger, and the flood involves the escape of a duo--that is, Deucalion and Pyrrha. I would even say that the scattering of Pyrrha's mother's bones evokes Abraham's attempted sacrifice of his child at the order of God.

Io: Is there anything more common than rape in Greek mythology? In any case, this story brings to mind the question of what makes someone human. Can Io be considered a human in her animalistic form? Maybe it comes down to the ability to identify oneself, as Io did for her father.

Phaethon and the Sun: I LOVE the explanation of the etymology of "phaethon" in the introduction. My dad's a journalist with quite the penchant for etymology, and it's rubbed off on me a bit. I'm starting to notice a pattern in these stories in regard to the conflict between logical warnings and promises. Just as Juno only calmed down after Jupiter swore Io wouldn't be a source of pain, Phoebus was forced to let Phaethon drive the chariot after having sworn to grant him what he wanted. As Phaethon prepares to ride, I enjoy how Phoebus offers an explanation that fits with how the Greeks viewed their world in regard to the rising and setting of the sun. Interestingly enough, the distance between the Earth and the Sun is important in ensuring a inhabitable temperature, and the described consequences of Phaethon's veering off course certainly is defendable. With the death of Phaethon, a series of transformations commences, one of which reminds me of the Forest of Suicides in Canto XIII Dante's Inferno. For example, when Clymene tries to remove the bark from her daughters, she ends up wounding them.

Callisto: I like the redemption of Callisto in this story. At first she's sent away by Diana for the shame of carrying a child and eventually is turned into a bear. Jupiter's response is to place them in the heavens as a way to save them from death. However, it might be too much to say that Jupiter felt that he was to blame.

Semele: Once again, we find an example in which a god is bound by a promise thus introducing a problem in the story. Poor Semele couldn't have known the consequences of her request. On another note, I find Jupiter's 'pregnancy' interesting because it might reflect ideas of how gestation worked at the time of the writing of the story. To be honest, it reminds me of how male seahorses carry offspring to term!

Echo: I find it interesting how simple disagreements between gods can become, in a way, statements on fundamental observations in life. Something as innocent as what Jupiter said needed to be tested over the course of years to reach a verdict. Plus, these explanations for natural events seem so mechanical, and I don't mean to assign a negative connotation to that. Rather, I could say that they make logical sense.

Narcissus: The comparison of Narcissus' features to features of the Olympians seems to be a salute to their perfect form. The quote "What I want I have. My riches make me poorer" draws out the paradox between the relationship of love and beauty. If one is of perfect form, how could they ever be satisfied with anything less? And for Narcissus, love for the perfect form literally becomes a reflection of himself.

Pyramus and Thisbe: I immediately thought of Maximillian and Valentine from The Count of Monte Cristo when I read "So they talked, hopelessly, sitting opposite, saying, as night fell, 'Farewell,' each touching the wall with kisses that could not reach the other side." The scene evokes the conversations Maximillian and Valentine shared across the garden wall outside Villefort's mansion. As a point of contrast, however, dramatic irony exists in Ovid's story whereas in The Count of Monte Cristo the reader believes Valentine dies of poisoning.

Mars and Venus: As short as this story is, it reminds me of some novellas in the Decameron in which one character puts another to shame in return for being wronged by the second.

Perseus and Andromeda: Once again, there's an explanation of origin when it comes to where certain species of serpents came from. I must say that I'm a bit surprised by how nonchalant Perseus seems to be when it comes to taking Andromeda as a prize and placing her parents in a position where they cannot willing refuse his offer.

Perseus and Medusa: Man, Ovid has a very way of slipping those explanations for parts of nature as he does with coral in this story. Once he states it, he moves on. My only complaint about this story is its lack of suspense. From the beginning it seems that it's presumed that Perseus will be victorious.