Odd Couple (Short Story)

I have shared my head with many stories. This is not unusual, and I think you'd be hard-pressed to find anyone who believes that it is. I've found some who will argue that telling stories is what makes us human. Stories are, according to that theory, the defining characteristic of our species, Homo narrans. “Storytelling man,” they call us.

So it is probably not even freakish that I have been sharing my head for as long as I can remember. My stuffed animals had biographies and destinies. My earliest drawings had captions that ran onto the back of the page. Some of the captions filled most of that space, too. Once my handwriting became marginally legible, my parents realized that the writing was of a higher and more passionate quality than the drawing. I may not have been the only child ever to wish my parents would stick his pictures to the refrigerator backside-out, but I think I was the only kid I knew who actually convinced his parents to do it.

I do not ever remember restricting myself to output, either. When I was not busy creating stories, I would take in those created by others. I learned to read at the age of three, and took to it immediately and voraciously. Before that, I watched more television than is considered healthy, a habit that persisted after I learned to read and write, and which has found its way into all the cracks in my day when my eyes weren't up to reading I did not have any of my own ideas to develop. In my head was room enough for all these stories–only and always stories.

For a very long time, I did not share my head with any characters. It made me a very prolific and very mediocre writer. To date, I have only shared my head with one character. He was–or is–a daredevil. In the first draft his name was 'Crash,' if you can believe that. The story and the character both needed a working title, and I was always a fan of Bull Durham. There was a lot of Knut Hamsun's Hunger in the story. My reading had taken on a somewhat Scandinavian flavor at the time. By the time I finished a re-worked first draft, I had acquired a temporary habit of listening to an alternative radio station as I worked, and the novel grew into the title Jumper. The character's name, I guess, is Jon.

Sharing my head with a character–seeing the world in his words, thinking about what life would look like to someone outside my experience and immersed in something else entirely–invigorated my writing. My long-suffering friends, who had tolerated my stories, attempting to read them and responding (if they succeeded) with the shortest possible reviews–“cool,” “nice,” and “I like it” were the favorites–began sending me lengthy reviews to discuss things like “voice,” “tone,” and “character development.” A friend who used to work in the publishing industry helped me put together a synopsis, and a couple of agents were interested.

I awoke on the morning of December 27^th, 1999 to the earliest of the a late-morning sunrise in my window, prospects of my time-devouring hobby becoming a life-defining career in my outlook, and a loud, insistent voice.

“Sup?” the voice asked.

I immediately recognized it as a very informal version of the already-colloquial greeting “what's up?” I did not immediately recognize the voice. In fact, I just assumed I was imagining it. The TV was off, as was the radio, and the rest of the apartment was small enough that a glance at the TV and the radio was more than enough to confirm that I was alone. This explanation was seemingly confirmed when I spent a slow morning reading, a long shift as a line cook at a middling family restaurant, and then came home to correspondence from my contacts in publishing, all as usual. I heard nothing out of the ordinary.

December 28^th passed much as the previous day had, with two major differences: the earliest of the sunrise was obscured by low clouds, and the voice asked a follow-up question.

“Sup,” it said again as I awoke. Then, an hour later, while eating some toast and reading a somewhat absurd novel about soda advertisements, it asked “What's up, man?”

On December 29^th, I heard the voice three times–“sup,” as I awoke, “what's up man,” later in the morning, and “what are you doing?” on the way to work. I felt the last was a valid philosophical question, given the circumstances.

I had the 30^th off. True to the pattern, I heard the voice four times. I woke up to “sup.” I had my breakfast with a side of “what's up man?” That day, I was asked “what are you doing?” twice: once while reading and once while writing.

Soon, the voice grew less philosophical and more direct. “Why don't we go out and do something?” it asked. “Why don't you forget about submitting this book for rejection and take some real risk?” It also found a novel two-word review for my hobby-slash-purpose in life: “you're boring.” Then directness gave way to insistence, admonishing me to “get off my ass” and “live once in my life,” and calling me things like “virgin,” “pansy,” and “basement dweller.” Once, the voice sang that song “Take This Job and Shove It” repeatedly during my shift at the restaurant, starting with the old Johnny Paycheck tune and then moving to the punk rock version from the 80s and then the rap with Marky Mark guesting. The accent wasn't right for the country song and the artist formerly known as Crash wasn't much of a rapper, but it got the point across.

I had figured out who the voice was long ago, of course. I just didn't know how to shut it up. Ignoring it was impossible. It was too close to me. I couldn't even keep my mind on the TV. Trying to get any writing done was utterly hopeless. One time I threatened to burn its book, and it responded by saying “lighting fires in the house could be interesting. I say go for it!” I could only assume that anything the voice would do was a bad idea. Knowing that character was enough for me. I didn't want or need the risk to life and limb that actually being him would entail.

Finally, I decided to go skydiving. I figured if old folks do it for their anniversaries, it can't be as dangerous as it sounds. “Alright,” the voice agreed. “That's more like it. Still not my kind of fun, but at least it's actually fun. It's a start, anyway.” It was certainly expensive.

It worked, though. When the day finally came, the voice had enough respect (and sense) to let me listen to the instructor explain how to wear the pack and use the parachute. I have since read that some skydiving instructors will actually push first-time students out of the plane if they get nervous, but of course I had someone much closer to home to do that job for me.

And then, in freefall, I felt nothing. I heard nothing. I thought nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

What wouldn't I give, over and over, to feel that again? Absolutely nothing.

Since then, I haven't cut my writing back to absolutely nothing, but I haven't written much. Just this and telephone messages. As you can see, this took me thirteen years, and even that was like pulling teeth.

I'd much rather be out doing something.