I blow out street lights.
I don't mean to. It's not like I carry a slingshot or air-rifle and take potshots to amuse myself while waiting for a bus. I just walk along and watch the lights go out — sometimes accompanied by a quiet little "fizzle-pop."
Nor does it happen all the time, otherwise Toronto Hydro would surely have caught up to me and I'd be doing five to ten for interfering with public works. The truth is, I can go for weeks, sometimes even months, without witnessing a single streetlight "shuffle of its mortal coil" (a phrase particularly apt for incandescent lights).On the other hand, it's not unusual for me to inadvertently assassinate as many as three lights in the course of a half hour walk.
The first time was in my teens. It was in the late fall or early winter of 1969 and I was coming home from my girlfriend's place. I lived in Malton at the time and was walking down Morningside Drive when suddenly there was a little popping sound. I looked up just in time to see a fading glow in the lamp directly above. Although I didn't attach any importance to the incident, it stuck in my mind because it had never happened before.
Ah, but that was then.
The next light was roughly a year later, once again directly above my head. Having a vague sort of interest in science and statistics, I set about determining the odds. Several hours spent with a slide-rule (no hand calculators back then) brought me to the conclusion that I'd be wise to pursue a career that did not involve science or statistics.
Over the next few years the phenomenon continued intermittently. It was still happening when I moved out of Malton shortly after a gas line exploded outside my home and blew up the central shopping district (an incident I still say I had no part in), but around 1978 it stopped. For ten years the only lights that blew were the run-of-the-mill household lights and I pretty well forgot about the matter. Then, in 1988 it started again with a vengeance. By 1989 I had racked up an even half-dozen street lamps and decided it was time to start establishing some rules to this game.
Rule number one: I can only count lights which blow out either directly above me or one lamp post away.
Rule number two: I have to be able to see the dying glow.
Rule number three: lights which show a tendency to go out repeatedly, or have some obvious physical cause for expiring (such as a gas main explosion) don't count.
Over the past ten years I can confidently state that, like some sort of cockeyed Dr. Kevorkian, I have been present for the deaths of over 57 street lamps.
When I was younger I looked for an emotional pattern, Did it happen when I was angry? Happy? Sexually frustrated? Sexually satisfied? As I got older I looked for more mundane explanations. Maybe it happened to everyone but they just took it in stride, although nobody I asked could recall having been under a street lamp when it blew out. (Nor was it simply that they didn't notice, since they would invariably comment if they were with me when it happened. "Hey, look at that. The light just went out," they'd say. "Huh, imagine that," I'd answer and change the subject.)
So it isn't psychic, but neither is it a shared urban experience. What's left?
Damned if I know.
There's certainly nothing I can do with it. Putting out street lamps seems completely devoid of any positive benefits — except maybe to drug dealers and other criminal types.
Furthermore, my own special ability comes with subtle, psychological drawbacks.
The first, and most obvious of course, is the fact that I get blamed for every light that blows anywhere near me. I am of the opinion that only streetlights are in danger from my destructive emanations and any other form of illumination is perfectly safe. This distinction, however, is often overlooked by those who know me. If I visit a friend's house in which the bathroom light dies three days later, it's a safe bet I will get the blame. But while I feel this is distinctly unfair, it causes me no undue distress.
Well, not quite true. A light blowing out when I'm depressed, for instance, acts as a confirmation of my internal darkness; whereas when I'm feeling happy it just reminds me that "this too shall pass."
My main worry, however, is what will happen when I die. Like most people, I draw much of my spiritual guidance from popular movies. I know that to ensure a happy afterlife we're supposed to "go to the light."
But what if, just I get close, I blow it out?
