The Art of the Eavesdrop, Part Two
Something extraordinary happened to me the other day. I decided to write a post to let everyone know exactly what happened. It was confusing; I remain astonished.
My story begins at The Red Cat Café, one of Iroquois County’s finer dining establishments. I was sitting alone in a corner booth. I was wearing my homemade headphones, Mozart blasting through the wires leading to my ears. I had in front of me a draft of a novel I am trying to finish. I guess it was the tenth draft of this project. I remember thinking that I might be getting to the point where the novel was not getting any better; it was simply becoming slightly different. For me, that is the hardest thing about writing, knowing when a novel is done, knowing when the draft I am working on should be the finished product.
I was deep into a sentence. It didn’t sound right to me; there was something about the cadence that seemed off. When that happens, the best thing to do is rewrite it and get on with your life. Almost always, that means that I chop it up; one long sentence becomes two or three smaller ones. I was busy trying to make such a decision when I felt someone walk toward my table. When I looked up, I saw a figure sitting across from me.
“Hello.”
“Man, can’t you see I am busy. As you know, this work is important.”
“Trust me; I know its value.”
“Then why are you disturbing me? Some might think you a bit rude.”
“I suppose, but we need to talk. I have a request.”
“I don’t do requests. You know that.”
“I understand. I am asking you to set a meeting. That is all. I will make my intentions known to the other party.”
“The other party? Are you serious? Your level of respect is about ten rungs below where it should be.”
“Are you going to do it or not?”
“If I do set this meeting, I want you to know I am doing it only out of morbid curiosity. I am not in the business of doing you any favors. You are becoming more of an annoyance than anything else.”
“Not much I can do about that.”
“You are correct. You ready to meet right now?”
“I was hoping you would say that.”
Have you ever been in a situation where you can predict precisely what is going to happen? Perhaps a couple of your friends come together. You know what the conversation will be about based on their personalities. You might even be able to predict the sentences. How about if two people come together as a couple, and you know the relationship will be a slow-motion train wreck? Ever seen that? I knew exactly what was going to happen, but I set the meeting anyway.
The next day I was back at The Red Cat; this time, I had my computer out on the table. I had decided that the novel I was working on, which was creating more problems for me than it was going to solve, needed to be put away for a while. That is another common strategy. I always try to let projects sit before they near publication. I am in no hurry.
One moment I was alone; the next, I was joined by Buford Lister. Once again, he sat across from me. He looked disheveled and disoriented. If I didn’t know better, I would think he had been up all night working on some project or working on the beginning of an epic bender.
“Is he coming? Did you set the meeting?”
“Set it yourself. You are a powerful man. You have lots of money; I am sure you could buy a meeting if you really wanted one.”
“You know I can’t do that. He would never, ever take a call from me. That is just the nature of reality.”
“Your reality, mine is much different. I would have thought you would know that.”
The old man became more and more agitated as he reached into his green backpack, removed a large can of beer, and started to drink.
“Sir, excuse me Sir, but you can’t drink that here. What made you think you can bring your own beer into this restaurant when we sell it.”
The server looked the old man over, her disgust growing stronger with each passing second.
“Young lady, just put the corkage fee on my tab.”
“What’s that?”
“Ahhh, go ask a manager. I don’t have time for this nonsense.”
“Miss, Buford Lister here is referring to the special relationship he has with The Red Cat. I haven’t seen you before, so I know you must be new. When did you start?”
“I have only been here for a few days.”
“Just go have a chat with a manager; they will explain what you need to do. And if I may, we are expecting a guest. You will recognize him by his pork pie hat and checkerboard Vans.”
“What is a pork pie hat?”
“OK, just keep a lookout for the shoes.”
As she walked away, I could see Ryan-Tyler N. Mason approach. I quickly moved to an adjacent table to give the two men some privacy. I didn’t want to hear this; I was too embarrassed for Buford Lister to listen to what was about to happen. I did, though, record it.
BL: Good to see you. I am glad you agreed to see me.
The transcript reveals around 30 seconds of uncomfortable silence.
RTNM: So, what do you want?
BL: I wanted to talk to you; I need to speak with you about a couple things.
RTNM: I am listening.
BL: I want a do-over. I want to do the whole thing again, but I want to do it right.
RTNM: Good luck with that.
BL: Please, I am not one to beg, but I will beg if you make me. You have it in your power to…
RTNM: Unbelievable. Truly astonishing. What makes you think I can do this? Not that I would, but what makes you think I have that kind of power? You are surprisingly clueless.
BL: I am certainly not clueless; I am desperate.
I remained silent. At this point in their conversation, I had predicted the content and their individual word choice with 100% accuracy. I ordered a celebration size beer, room temperature, and settled in.
RTNM: Are you, the great Buford Lister, telling me that you have regrets? Are you trying to say that you want me to make you young again so you can be famous for being a world-class mathematician instead of a ridiculous poker player? Good luck.
BL: I know you can do it. I am humbly asking for some help.
RTNM: Perhaps you are looking to change your personal history. Would you like to go back in time and lock a particular gun cabinet, thereby saving the life of your young wife?
BL: Please, help me.
RTNM: You don’t get it. The only reason you are of interest to anyone is because of the things that eat at you every day of your life. It is your tragic and conflicted nature that allows you to live. If you were a happy person who had lived a fulfilling life, no one would care.
BL: That is not true.
RTNM: It most certainly is.
At this point, I was ready to go home. My beer was empty, and I was becoming embarrassed for both of them. I decided to intervene.
THE WRITER: All right, enough of this nonsense. You both are confused and ignorant. I will try to enlighten you. Sit back and listen. There is a person called the author. That is usually one person, but it doesn’t have to be; people do collaborate. After that, there is someone called the implied author. You can read my books, but you don’t ever really learn anything about me. You only learn what the implied author allows you to know. Then, of course, is the pen name, the nom de plume, the writers’ quintessential mask. You, Buford Lister, while you may be asking a legitimate question, are asking the wrong person. Your salvation is not to be found in Ryan-Tyler N. Mason, nor is it to be found in me.
RTNM: How is that a legitimate question? He is asking to be made young again. He wants his story changed. He wants a second chance. No one gets a do-over simply because they ask for it.
THE WRITER: Possibly. As for you, your problem is specific to people in your line of work. You have no clue how easily you can be replaced. You might walk out that door and be mauled by a bear, the one who just made its way out of the woods and is walking down the middle of Main Street. If some type of tragedy were to befall you, life here, in this universe, would go on seamlessly. No one would even take a second to mourn your passing. I can’t think of a single person that would care.
RTNM: Well, I don’t…
THE WRITER: You don’t what? You don’t agree with my analysis of the value of your life? Tell me, what exactly are you going to do about it? I’ll sit right here while you do your worst. Go ahead, I am waiting. C’mon, conjure up something good.
RTNM: I am trying, but I can’t think of anything. I’ve got nothing, nothing at all.
“Oh, my gawd! Look, it’s a bear!”
The patrons turned to look out toward Main Street. Sure enough, there he was, a young adult brown bear walking down the middle of the street like he owned it. Within moments, groups of townspeople came running out of the buildings to hurl objects at the critter. Batteries, stones, cans of food, whatever they had. The bear picked up speed, rounded a corner, and was gone.
“Someone should call the police.”
“In all my life, I have never seen a bear in this town.”
“Well, now, I have seen it all. A bear walking down Main Street.”
The people in the café were in no mood to settle down and go back to their meals. After all, they had just experienced something highly unusual. Even though the authorities knew that young adult male black bears were coming in from Pennsylvania, they didn’t necessarily want that fact to become common knowledge. The bears were not aggressive, and if left alone, they wouldn’t pose any problem.
THE WRITER: Well, you should probably head on out there to make sure that bear is safe. We wouldn’t want any of the locals to hurt him, would we?
RTNM: You have got to be kidding me.
BL: I’ll go.
THE WRITER: You will do no such thing. Listen closely, Buford Lister; in your life, you have been through the pit of Hell and back. You have had several terrible things happen to you. At this point, having you get attacked by a bear would be gratuitous. It would be totally unnecessary, it would serve no purpose, and it would tend to make people very angry.
BL: Why’s that?
THE WRITER: People like happy endings. They do not want to see a man suffer most of his life only to endure more pain at the end. People live off hope. Human beings believe in redemption. They have to; without the belief in a brighter future, many would give up. They would die long before they are dead. So, you, Buford Lister, can remain seated. You, Ryan-Tyler N. Mason, can go check on the bear. Take a good look around, see if anyone will tell you which direction he went. We really want to keep that bear safe.
RTNM: Sure.
As he left, I turned my attention back to Buford Lister. I took a good look at him. He was getting old, his body had started betraying him years ago, but I knew that wasn’t his biggest concern. Any mathematician will tell you that their most productive years come when they are young. The phrase “aging mathematician” is never used in a positive context. An old mathematician like Buford Lister can spend a lot of time lamenting their declining mental abilities. That is simply the way of the world.
BL: What’s going to happen to him, to RTNM?
THE WRITER: I don’t care. I’m sure he will search for the bear. Maybe he will find it, and perhaps he won’t. It really does not matter. These stories are about you and your more or less tragic life. More catastrophic at the beginning, I think, than at the end, but that remains to be seen. I can not predict the future.
BL: So, there is nothing you are willing to do for me?
THE WRITER: You still don’t get it; there is nothing I can do for you. Think about it this way, use a simple rule- “I can’t do something for you that I couldn’t do for myself.” Think about that before you approach me in the future.
It is time to go, that unwelcome intruder, that nasty interloper, has just shown up, and I am in no mood to deal with more nonsense today. Do us all a favor, when you come across an Omniscient Narrator, run for the hills. Those things have no respect for anyone’s privacy.
