Peter's Gift

Peter was gifted. Peter didn’t know what his gift was, but his family was absolutely positive he had a gift. At the age of 8, his parents took him to a prestigious university, where they ran several genius-tests on him. The results came back and proved without a shadow of a doubt that Peter was special. He had a knack or talent or ability of some sort or other.

All the scientists read over the test results and nodded.

“Definitely gifted,” they all said.

That was good enough for his parents.

They rushed him home to celebrate without even asking what talent he had, exactly; which was good because the test results didn’t show it and none of the scientists could interpret the results anyway. The scientists had all been pretending for years and years that they were able to understand the results of their experiments to impress each other, but in reality none of them could, and only the lucky ones were able to read anything at all.

“I knew you had a gift, Peter. ‘Gifted.’ That’s what I said when I first held your little genius-head in my arms. ‘Gifted,’” His mother said, sighing happily.

“That’s my boy. Way to have a talent, son,” His father said, refusing to touch him.

They held parties and barbeques in his honour, inviting all of the neighbourhood neighbours, who were too polite to ask anyone outright what his gift was, but not too polite to whisper secretly to each other and say they didn’t think he was so great.

When he was 10, Peter tried to tell his father that he loved him, whereby his father interrupted him with a surprise parade through the town, and a celebratory month-long circus.

As he grew into his teenage years, Peter had become used to people telling him enthusiastically what his talent might be.

“Maybe you’re gifted at memorizing Peter! Have you ever tried memorizing? Do you remember things that other people don’t remember?” asked his Aunt Claire, chirpily.

“Maybe it’s music! What? You already tried that? Well which instrument Peter? There are dozens to choose from! We’ll go through every one of them if we have to!!!” offered his music teacher Mr. Bacumba, desperately.

“Maybe you’re like a love machine or somethin’ with the ladies. A little Don Juan De Sexo,” suggested his alcoholic uncle George, drinkingly.

Peter never let people’s suggestions bother him.

He always simply replied, “Maybe.”

As he grew into his twenties, his notoriety became bigger and fatter.

People had heard a lifetime of hype, and when they finally met him, they were overwhelmed.

“Oh. My. GOD! He looks just like I thought he would! Karen, look at his face. Doesn’t it just SCREAM gifted?!”

“Look at the way he sits son. That’s how a genius sits.”

Peter didn’t mind the normal people.

He did however, mind the important people.

There were people who wanted to use his talent to make them powerful, or rich, or even rich AND powerful together at the same time.

Peter would be walking along, signing autographs and taking hand-written journals with hundreds of pages detailing suggestions of what his gift might be, when all of a sudden, he would be pulled into a van and driven away.

He would then be taken to meet with the president, who wanted him to invent a gamma bomb, or a rock star who wanted a new number one hit, or a writer who couldn’t think of a weird short story to post in his blog.

All of these amazingly powerful and influential people only wanted more power and influence, Peter saw. He would always say, “Let me think about it,” and they would let him go back to his life of almost.

Then, when Peter was in his early thirties, his father had a heart attack, right in front of him.

“Oh Jesus Pete, it’s the ticker! You think maybe your gift is to stop death? Don’t touch me.”

After saying this to Peter, his father instantly died.

Peter curled up into a ball on the rug near his father, and for a day and a half, he rocked back and forth, hugging himself.

Then the police showed up.

After asking him for autographs, they told him how sorry they were that stopping death wasn’t his gift.

Then they carried away his stiff father, and Peter went into his father’s basement and urinated on his father’s antique toy train collection.

 

The End