Eckhart Tolle Moments

The motorcycle pops a wheelie and shrinks to a pip in the distance, rounds the curve of the fountain in the town square and disappears. “He’s got me,” says Jack. “Can’t catch him now.”

We are plopped on the bed in our bedroom playing Super Mario Kart Wii- revisiting some of our old games rather than buy new ones, in a concession to financial economy. The game allows you to run Time Trials, and saves a “ghost” of your best performance, which you or other people can then race against later on.  As Mario Kart was the first game we ever got for the Wii, and we have had it for some time, the ghost of himself that Jack is racing was recorded when he was significantly younger, and also much more in practice with the game:  a strange, digital echo from a happier time.  He is unable to beat it, or even to match it, and thus is learning the interesting lesson that getting older doesn’t automatically mean he’s getting better at everything he tries.

I, for my own part, have discovered after a few hundred Internet races that my skill rating of 6200 is accurate, and isn’t going to change much;  I beat people ranked lower than that, consistently, and get beaten by people higher than that, consistently, no matter what I or they do.  “’He?’” I say, leaning back against the mound of pillows piled against the headboard.  “It’s you. You’re racing yourself.”

Jack grins.  “Yeah,” he says, twisting the wheel back and forth.   “I know. Curse you Older Me!” he cries.

“Younger You,” I reply, picking up my chai from the nightstand.   I hold the warm cup against my chest, cradled between my hands, and stare over the rim at the screen.  “It’s Younger You.”

“But the Mii is older,” he shoots back.

It takes me a second to realize what he’s talking about before I understand.  The Mii, the virtual avatar he made when he was younger, looks older: it’s medium height, and has a knit red cap.  The Mii he is racing with now, on the other hand, looks younger:  he ditched the cap, and made it shorter, because he figured out that changing the height of the Mii changes the cars you can select when you race.  Ironic.  “Yes,” I say, nodding.  “You’re right.”   I take a sip of the chai.  “Either way, you’re kicking your own butt.”

His brow wrinkles.  “Wait…” he says, plowing down the straightaway.   “… But if I’m kicking my butt…” he begins, gesturing with the wheel to the TV screen, “…then who am I??” he finishes, gesturing to himself in outrage.

My eyes snap wide.  I stare at his back, then glance at the walls nervously, as if they might cave in.

The ghost crosses the finish line.   Jack kills the race rather than run it out.   “Eh,” he says, tossing the wheel onto the bed.  “Let’s do something else.”

“Sure,” I say, sitting up.

Must not be his path either, I think.