LIFE OF MY STORY

Roughly 3 minutes and 3 seconds into Bruce Hornsby’s The Way It Is, Bruce whispers “that’s just the way it is.” So did I. But since I was wearing headphones, I said it out loud to the amusement of 3 men sitting beside me.

My sister’s hair is wet at breakfast. “Don’t go outside like that,” says my grandfather, “It’s damp nasty out!” What a perfect name for a female rap artist. I imagine her as the Ol’ Dirty Bastard of Skeezers.

I’m in line at Marshalls when the woman next to me leaves her elderly mother with the cashier. “Don’t worry,” says the cashier, “I’ll babysit!” I imagined myself in her chair. Every wrinkle earned with age. And now she has to put up with this shit.

I’m watching The Missing with my grandmother who’s narrating her experience of the movie for me.

Carrie Holmes and I are eating at The Starving Artist in Ocean Grove, NJ. Our meal was done and I need to pee. At the urinal, I get the following text message from Carrie: “Hedwig told me you fart in your sleep a whole lot.” Naturally when I return, I announce, “Who in the world is Hedwig?” Carrie’s face turns the color of strawberries. Sitting beside us is a young family. The father stares at me curiously and says to his daughter, “Sally, that man is talking about your owl!” Smooth move, Carrie. Way to text me the product of an eavesdrop.

We’re sitting at Barnes & Noble, me and a friend. I’m trying to read the The God Delusion but I’m distracted by a man on my left who seems to be reading his own novel. Curious, I walk over and ask who authored the book he’s holding. “Clive Cussler,” he answers. If this man wasn’t Clive Cussler in the flesh, than I’m far too focused on Doppelgangers. But if Clive Cussler sits at the Barnes & Noble in Hazlet, New Jersey looking to get laid by flashing a self portrait found on the back cover of his novels, good for Clive Cussler.

I’m walking between two bars in Asbury Park, NJ when I’m stopped by a stranger. “My name is Czar,” he says and extends his hand. I accept and reciprocate with, “Mine is Ryan.” His accent is foreign and his costume screams Mugatu. I wouldn’t be surprised if Zoolander was the in-flight movie on his way to America. “How long have you known Tracy?” He asks. “I don’t know Tracy,” was my answer, “But I’ll never forget you, Czar.” And with that, I went on my way.

I’m sitting shotgun as we drive through South Philadelphia. Half my body is hanging out the window because I’m looking at the buildings. A group of young black women wearing backpacks walk by. We meet eyes so I wave. “Who you waving at? Get your body back in the car Predaphile.” First time hearing that word; I should’ve paid attention in class.