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So in fact I did decide to do some writing today, and have spent the whole day on it, and rather than deal with the whole my-novels-are-in-Word-and-also-quite-possibly-more-complete-in-a-hard-drive-far-far-away-so-I-don't-feel-like-wrestling-with-them-in-WordPerfect issue, and in honor of Billy's birthday, I decided to write The Autobiography of Billy 'Arrison that was bouncing around in my head the other day. I'm going to share it with you. It is five pages long, so I'm going to make a cut to it (aren't I talented):
*****
A Little About Me and Why I Want to Study in America
I was born on 25 May, 1978, the product of first my father’s midlife crisis then second my mother’s extreme guilt complex (and because I am halfway decent at maths, I’m willing to suggest that their marriage was the product of me). Apparently they had been quite the swingers at one time, believe it or not, and in 1977 my Dad was dealing with the breakup of his first marriage and a severe nostalgia for the long-lost sixties when he discovered my Mum, young, beautiful, free, fun... I do not know exactly what sort of fun they were HAVING, but I do know that my mother is now a complete (and rather anxious) straight arrow, and is always looking sideways at me when she says, possibly more intensely than most mothers do, “Do NOT use drugs!”
I don’t really know if it is any fault of my Mum’s, but I WAS born... different. Some of my earliest memories are of strange people asking me questions about pictures and toys and people and life, and them taking all sorts of notes, and then talking quietly to Mum about “we’re not really sure; we’ll just have to keep watching; you know all children develop differently, Mrs. Harrison,” while I wandered off to see if they had any Superman toys, all the while hearing all of this, because I did have particularly good hearing. I think this translated in their notes as “extremely sensitive to loud noises.”
Years later my cousin Dhani enlightened me to some of the meaning behind these experiences. I think we were about ten years old when he told me, “You’re really not like they say, you know.”
“I’m not like what?” People said a lot of things about me after all. In this case I was thinking of a particular true something my sister had taken to saying about me, but I’ll get to that later.
“Autistic. I’ve seen autistic kids at my school and you’re not like them at all. Well almost at all. My mum says your mum says the people at your school just don’t understand about autism and they should really be putting you in special classes and things and my dad says that’s crazy because you’re not autistic at all, you’re Incredibly Gifted, it’s only unenlightened people can’t understand YOU, and I said, ‘Are you talking about William Henry?’ and they changed the subject. But you’re not, I think.”
“Oh.” I let this sink in. “I think I shall have to go ponder this for awhile.” Which probably convinced Dhani to change his mind, but was true, and I researched it thoroughly. Which also probably looked suspiciously autistic. And there were some similarities, I could see, between myself and a mildly autistic person, at least on the outside. Extreme sensitivity, for a start. Odd single-minded interests (at least when I was younger). Social ineptness...oh dear, I’ll get to more about that later. But the part about physical clumsiness was completely off, as I always know exactly where every part of my body is in relation to the rest of the world and can control it accordingly (They tried to put me in a football league once, but because I absolutely never missed the ball even when logic plainly said I should’ve, and because I never lost my balance, and because the ball always went exactly where I wanted it to go even if that was very far away–and I was only a very small boy for my age you know– people started asking awkward questions, and I told my parents firmly I did not want to play anymore, and that was that). And I at least HOPE that I do not lack a sense of humour, but I don’t really know, comparatively.
So what WAS it about me that was so different then? This is hard to explain, because what seems perfectly normal to me is incomprehensible to almost everyone else. Basically, there is much more to the universe than the average person can experience with their basic five senses. I, for some reason, CAN. Mystical types might go on about auras and spirits and psychic powers, but it’s really all just matter and energy, interacting, and I’m attuned to it. The universe is fascinating, and there’s an awful lot to study, and maybe that’s why I came across as odd to other people. I was always looking at things that weren’t there. To their eyes, anyhow.
It might have been that I remained just like this, simply odd and possibly autistic, had I not discovered Superman. Superman was strong and tough and good, he was always saving people, and best of all, he could fly. And when I was four or five, I wanted nothing more than to BE Superman. It was just a matter of learning how, I thought. I’d seen Indian mystics levitating on television, and decided it only needed to be taken one step further. The mystics learned to levitate through meditation, and I knew where I could learn THAT step: from my Uncle George.
You see I was often shuttled off to play with Dhani, in effort to socialize me I suppose, and his dad was a devoted student of the Yogic Lifestyle of India (in fact he was world-famous for it, though I didn’t find that out until later), so I asked him (one of the times after Dhani had run off to complain to Aunt Livvie that I wouldn’t play anything but Superman again) to teach me to meditate. Uncle George asked me why I was asking, and I said, “So I can learn to fly like Superman.”
“Hmm. Then perhaps you should use ‘I can fly’ as a mantra.” Looking back I’m pretty sure he was humouring me. But I did anyway.
From then on I spent every moment I could practicing my meditation, and once I got really good I could move on to levitation and then on to flight; but something odd happened before I could get there. I began, in my meditative state, to see the intricate twisting of matter and energy make sense. I began to see how it fit together. I began to see how I could affect it, how I could USE it. That was how I figured out how to levitate, and then to fly, but I ended up figuring out so much more: how to move things without touching them, how to lift things that ought to be much too heavy for me... how to kick a football exactly where I wanted it to go, for that matter. My meditation practice had channeled my sensitivity into a true superpower. I HAD become like Superman.
I’m sure you think that’s fantastic and thrilling, but it’s frightening too, especially for an awkward kid like me. I wanted to do what was right, but when the boys at school are pushing you around and your baby sister won’t stop crying and your mum keeps dragging you off to the psychiatrist’s and your dad keeps sending you off to football practice quite against your will, it’s tempting to resort to... to drastic measures. But what I could do was so much worse than what any other kid would do, and that’s a sobering thought. My collection of superhero comic books began as soon as I learned how to read, and everyone assumed this was simply a further extension of my Superman fixation, but truly I was looking for guidance. As I’ve gotten older I’ve become most attached to Spiderman, actually– okay, perhaps it is because I relate to Peter Parker, but it’s also because he is always dealing with the “great power comes with great responsibility” issue. To be a superhero, you have to know how to be a hero. That’s a whole lot harder.
And so we come to the Billy ‘Arrison bit. It was June of 1986– I had just turned eight – and we were in London on holiday just in time for the Queen’s annual birthday celebration (her birthday is actually in April but she celebrates it in June– I have always found this confusing but my parents say that’s just one of the perks of being royalty. I really don’t see what the difference is); so there was a huge carnival right outside the palace, and I had all my own birthday money with me, and had gotten off by myself to a tent where a very talkative Cockney man was selling costumes, INCLUDING SUPERHERO COSTUMES. Which of course I had always wanted, so I picked a yellow one with a bright red cape and brought it up to the man. “THAT’S a bright ‘un there,” he said, pointing to the costume, “it’ll make the ladies notice yeh.”
“I was thinking, because yellow is the color of sunlight, that it would convey a sense of positive energy, sir,” I said, carefully counting out my birthday money. “Also it would protect against being hit by cars or airplanes in the dark.”
The costume man guffawed. “‘Twould, won’t it? What do they call you, boy?”
“William Henry Harrison, sir.” I stared at him, trying to figure out what was so funny.
“Willum ‘Enry ‘Arrison,” he repeated, giving me a serious look. Looking back I think he was imitating me. “They call you that, do they? They don’ call you Billy?”
“No, sir, they call me William Henry.” I put the exact cost on his table and tried to walk away, because loud people always made me feel uncomfortable.
“Right then, Billy ‘Arrison. Watch out for aeroplanes.”
I slipped around the back of the tent, took three deep meditative breaths to calm down, and then looked for a suitable place to change into my new uniform, as I thought of it. No sooner had I done so than a scream rang out. It seems that one of the hot air balloons floating above the place had caught fire and was now roaring down right toward a crowd of people. And I knew that I was probably the only person there who could stop it from crashing. So, well, I did. I saved the people that were on it and got the balloon safely into a nearby reflecting pool.
Then I ran and hid, listening to the crowd reaction, and slightly afraid that I’d done something wrong. Among the general roar of the crowd, a loud Cockney voice stood out. “That was Billy ‘Arrison, that was! Sold ‘im ‘is outfit meself!” This passed from person to person until I heard it whispered everywhere. I changed out of my costume, rolled it up tightly, and shoved it as deeply as I could into a bag.
I spotted my dad and quietly slipped up beside him. “Now THAT was some excitement,” he said, seeing me. “Did you catch any of that, William Henry?”
And yes, of course I had. Quite literally. I didn’t tell him that, though.
And so, rumours of my greatness– or at least, Billy ‘Arrison’s greatness– spread. I suppose I didn’t help matters by continuing to rescue people whenever I had the chance, so that the rumours continued. Eventually there were stories of Billy ‘Arrison rescuing people in places I’d never heard of, let alone been to recently. And– this I found out right away, collector that I am– someone even created a Billy ‘Arrison comic book. A couple years later my half-brother P.J., who was at university and therefore had access to a lot of obscure things, found a copy and decided it would make a perfect gift for his comic-collecting little brother with the same name.
“He even looks a little like you,” P.J. said. A little? The young man on the cover looked exactly like me, except older and more well built. Which didn’t take much, mind you, but I was only ten.
“They made a comic book about YOU?” said my little sister.
I tried to look very engrossed in the comic so as not to have to answer that. Luckily my mother is in the habit of talking for me, anyway. “No, Betsy, this is only a comic book. It’s pretend.”
“No it’s not,” said Betsy. “Billy ‘Arrison really does save people. Mostly around here. Charlotte says her sister said she saw him once. And he’s also really William Henry.”
I buried my nose in the first page. The comic book had turned the hot air balloon incident into a flaming dirigible from which I personally rescued Her Majesty herself. There also appeared to have been an earthquake shortly after from which I rescued the entire Manchester football team and a Ukranian diplomat. This was amusing enough to keep me from showing any emotion when Mum said, “Even if Billy ‘Arrison DOES exist, he is most definitely NOT your brother. There are a lot of William Harrisons in the world, Betsy; it’s a very common name.”
“Right, and this one is about OURS.”
I felt amused enough to jump in confidently here. “Anyway, look, Betsy, it says here he was raised by flying squirrels. See?” I held the page out to her even though she was only four years old and couldn’t read.
“But you weren’t.” She stared at me. “They just made that part up.”
The rest of the family laughed and continued on to a new conversation. But I didn’t feel quite so amused anymore. Betsy kept staring at me through narrowed eyes. This wasn’t just an innocent preschooler’s misunderstanding. This was a very observant preschooler understanding everything perfectly.
This, I admit, was the one time I slipped over into the Dark Side. I followed Betsy to her room and slammed the door. Without touching it. She jumped. “Listen. You will NOT say ANYTHING to ANYONE about Billy ‘Arrison EVER AGAIN.”
Yes, I was threatening a four year old. But she didn’t give me much time to feel guilty about it. “If you hurt me I’ll tell Mum. Everything. About your costume and sneaking out to rescue people and that you float in your sleep.” I didn’t know that, actually. I’m still not sure if it’s true. “And I’ll bite you. THEN I’ll tell Mum. Put him DOWN!”
I had her stuffed dog Frankie floating above her head. I sent it gliding around the room. “She won’t believe you, you know. She didn’t believe you tonight.” But she might start to if you keep on about it, I thought, which is the problem.
“She will if I make sure she sees it.” Betsy glared at me. “And then I’ll bite you again.” This was apparently the one thing I seemed defenseless about.
I finally felt thoroughly stupid. It was all a circular argument after all. And she WAS four years old. I caught Frankie and held him out. “I’m sorry Bets. Look, I won’t hurt you. I was just...” scared was what I was, but I didn’t really want to say that “...concerned. Can we just keep this between you and me? It will be Our Secret.”
She grinned. It struck me as a particularly evil grin, but she said, “Okay, Billy. You be nice to me, and I will keep your secret.”
“I was thinking more OUR... right then.” It didn’t seem quite as safe a deal as I wanted it to be. But to this day, as far as I can tell, she hasn’t told a soul. She keeps holding it over my head, but she hasn’t ACTUALLY told anyone.
In fact I’m pretty sure she’s the only one in the world who knows the truth. To everyone else (except possibly Uncle George, who having taught me to meditate probably couldn’t help noticing how quickly I mastered it, and so instead believes me "Incredibly Gifted and Misunderstood"), I’m still odd, spacy, possibly slightly autistic William Henry. And to tell you the truth, for a long time I was so preoccupied mastering my gifts and rescuing people and collecting comic books that I really didn’t care, or even notice. But lately– I don’t know, a year or so ago maybe– I’ve started to wonder. It’s strange, when the people who are nice to you talk down to you, like they’re not quite sure you’re going to understand. And the people who aren’t nice... well, long ago they’ve ceased trying to beat me up, since I kept managing to somehow get out of every scuffle completely unscathed; but the glares, and the mutterings, the spontaneous calls of “Freak!” ... I don’t know. It starts to wear at you. And the in-between people, the ones that would never outright be cruel, but.... I do wonder. I wonder what it’s like to be treated like, like a NORMAL kid. To have people who honestly like YOU, exactly as you are. I don’t know if that’s even possible for me. I certainly don’t think anyone around here will ever manage to... to see the Billy behind William Henry, I guess you could say.
Anyroad, that is why I want to go to America for college (although in America it’s still considered part of high school). Maybe far, far away from home I can finally stop being William Henry the Freak and just be, just be William Henry the William Henry, I suppose. Maybe not, but I’m certainly not going to find out by staying here.
And that’s it. That’s the full, complete, true story, the one that I will NOT turn in to the Student Exchange people. That one I suppose will say something about wanting to broaden my horizons and so on. But THIS one, put down here for you today, is the Truth. I’ll just hang on to it until I think someone needs to know.
-----William H. Harrison,
23 July 1994
****
Basically it's the first part of his story, right up to the start of The Adventures of Ian Schafer et al-- in which Billy finally makes friends, falls for a girl, discovers that he does indeed have a quite good sense of humor once he lets it loose, and generally Gets a Life, not to mention has the adventures that are the basic plotline of the book. So in other words, if you want to know what happens next, you have to wait until I finish that book. Which, by the way, takes place ten years after it does, because though in MY head the book takes place during MY junior year of high school (fitting with the dates in this autobiography), for a real published book I'm updating it to take advantage of current technology and whatnot (so I can have working class teenagers who carry their own cell phones and a school newspaper with digital cameras), so real people don't have to know about the dates in my head. (The parts about Uncle George won't really show up in the published book, either, so I don't have to worry about matching dates to real people, either). Okay, just had to share because I'm a dork and spent all day on this so I have to do SOMETHING with it. Also now you know who I'm talking about.
