I Am the Messenger Quotes

No real career.

No respect in the community.

Nothing.

I’d realized there were people everywhere achieving greatness while I was taking directions from balding businessmen called Derek and being wary of Friday-night drunks who might throw up in my car or do a runner on me.

“Something is going to happen at each of the addresses on that card, Ed, and you’ll have to react to it.”

I think about it and decide.

I speak.

“Well, that’s not real good, is it?”

“Why not?”

“Why not? What if there are people kicking the crap out of each other and I have to go in and stop it? It’s not exactly uncommon here, is it?”

“That’s just luck of the draw, I guess.”

You’re a dead man. I hear his voice again, and I see the words on my face when I get back in the cab and look in the rearview mirror.

It makes me think of my life, my nonexistent accomplishments and my overall abilities in incompetence.

A dead man, I think. He’s not far wrong.

He has sex with her and the bed cries out in pain. It creaks and wails and only I can hear it. Christ, it’s deafening. Why can’t the world hear? I ask myself. Within a few moments I ask it many times. Because it doesn’t care, I finally answer, and I know I’m right. It’s like I’ve been chosen. But chosen for what? I ask.

The answer’s quite simple:

To care.

“Are you some kind of saint or something?”

Inside, I laugh. Me? A saint? I list what I am. Taxi driver. Local deadbeat. Cornerstone of mediocrity. Sexual midget. Pathetic cardplayer.

I say my final words to her.

“No, I’m not a saint, Sophie. I’m just another stupid human.”

I want to take that world, and for the first time ever, I feel like I can do it. I’ve survived everything I’ve had to so far. I’m still standing here. Okay, it’s a crummy front porch I stand on, cracked to shithouse, and who am I to say that the world isn’t the same? But God knows that world takes enough of us…

How many people get this chance?

And of those few, how many actually take it?

“You know, they say that there are countless saints who have nothing to do with church and almost no knowledge of God. But they say God walks with those people without them ever knowing it.” His eyes are inside me now, followed by the words. “You’re one of those people, Ed. It’s an honor to know you.”

The father speaks with a sincerity that’s hypnotizing. Not about God, but about the people of this town getting together. Doing things together. Helping each other. And just getting together in general. He invites them to do that in his church every Sunday.

I hope for a moment that they both understand what they’re doing and what they’re proving.

I want to tell them, but I realize that all I do is deliver the message. I don’t decipher it or make sense of it for them. They need to do that themselves.

My only worry is that every time I’ve wanted something to go a certain way in all this, it’s gone the other, designed perfectly to challenge me with the unknown.

Four globes to brighten up the Tatupu house this year. It’s not a big thing, but I guess it’s true—big things are often just small things that are noticed.

Lua and Marie are holding hands.

They look like they’re so happy, just inside this moment, watching the kids and the lights on their old fibro house.

Lua kisses her.

Just softly on the lips.

And she kisses back.

Sometimes people are beautiful.

Not in looks.

Not in what they say.

Just in what they are.

“You know, Ed, we’ve been living here close to a year now, and nobody—absolutely nobody—has ever lifted a finger to help or make us feel welcome.” He drinks. “We expect no more these days. People have enough trouble getting by on their own…But then you come along, out of nowhere.”

Maybe I truly am shedding the old Ed Kennedy for this new person who’s full of purpose rather than incompetence. Maybe one morning I’ll wake up and step outside of myself and look back at the old me lying dead among the sheets.

It’s a good thing. I know.

But how can a good thing suddenly feel so sad?

But will it end with this? I ask myself. Will it let go of me? Already, I know that all of this will stay with me forever. It’ll haunt me, but I also fear it will make me feel grateful. I say fear because at times I really don’t want this to be a fond memory until it’s over. I also fear that nothing really ends at the end.

“It’s the person, Ma, not the place. If you left here, you’d have been the same anywhere else.” It’s true enough, but I can’t stop now. “If I ever leave this place”—I swallow—“I’ll make sure I’m better here first.”

Usually, we walk around constantly believing ourselves. “I’m okay,” we say. “I’m all right.” But sometimes the truth arrives on you, and you can’t get it off. That’s when you realize that sometimes it isn’t even an answer—it’s a question. Even now, I wonder how much of my life is convinced.

“There’s only one thing I want.”

“What’s that, Ritchie?”

His answer is simple.

“To want.”

“And why?” He pauses, but he doesn’t move back. “I did it because you are the epitome of ordinariness, Ed.” He looks at me seriously. “And if a guy like you can stand up and do what you did for all those people, well, maybe everyone can.”

“I’m looking for this,” I tell her. I wave my hand at both of us. “I’m looking for you and me, together.”

And Audrey only crouches down. She kneels with me and places her hand on mine to make me drop the papers.

“I don’t think it’s in there.” She said softly. “I think, Ed…I think this belongs to us.”

And that’s when I realize.

In a sweet, cruel, beautiful moment of clarity, I smile, watch a crack in the cement, and speak to Audrey and the sleeping Doorman. I tell them what I’m telling you:

I’m not the messenger at all.

I’m the message.