LIFE OF MY STORY

I was at the library today when I saw him through a glass door. He was a small-statured, late 20-something-year-old dressed like a dirty college student. In that instant, I thought to myself, “What a douchebag.” When I stood up, so did he… for he was me. I was looking at my reflection. Ryan - 0, Life - 1.

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It’s 8 something in the morning and the bus is nearly empty. I’m tired and my eyelids close. “Is he a puppy or a full-grown dog?” The guy behind me is yelling into his cellphone. I want to strangle him. “KARATE?” Now the guy in front of me is on his cellphone and he’s more obnoxious: his speaker phone is turned way up and the person on the other end sounds like a muffled megaphone. Sure, I could have said something. But they’re middle-aged. Isn’t 30-40 years enough time to learn courtesy? So f*ck you both. I decided instead to record your outbursts and translate them as best as possible.

I made a new friend and tonight was our first get-together. Since we were meeting for the first time, I expected myself to malfunction. Normally when I meet a new female (even on friendly terms such as tonight), I feel snot dangling from my nostrils. It’s never there, so I’ve chalked it off as a nervous mind trick. Tonight was different. As we sat at the bar, I began to drool. For no good reason, my mouth produced excessive saliva. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but I have to use the bathroom,” I said. In the bathroom, I put a paper towel in my mouth as if it were a sponge. After making my way back, I could barely focus on our conversation. I worried that the excessive drool could be a sign of infection and wondered if my breath was bad. Bad breath is usually a tell-tale sign of being sick, so I discreetly breath-checked. It smelt of dirty asshole and diapers. I couldn’t believe it. The smell was rotten like old food in a dumpster. Could I be that sick? I checked behind me. There he was: a heavyset, hygienically-impaired man eating steak and breathing heavily. I’m in the clear; it’s just a stinky person, not my breath. My new friend continued to talk through my eccentricities. Relieved, I reinstated eye contact, opened my mouth and slowly made my way down to the straw. I overshot the straw, which went directly up my nose, touching close to my sinuses. I reversed slowly like a school bus. Somehow she experienced none of this. Not my drool. Not the ass smell. Not even the disappearing straw. But now that she can read the truth, will she spend our next meet-up waiting for me to malfunction?

I stopped by my grandparents house after work to drop off a battery. Like usual, they were about to eat and offered me a plate. I couldn’t eat too much because I was headed to the gym. “Will you at least eat these damn mushrooms? I’m allergic,” My grandfather protested. “Ask him what happens if he eats mushrooms,” my grandmother insisted. So I played along, expecting a benign and dated joke. “Why not, Papou?” I asked. “It’ll make the head of my dick fall off,” he responded. Zing!

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As I walked briskly down a mostly empty street in Manhattan at midnight, I approached a homeless man laying on the sidewalk in front of a church. I maintained my hustled stride and greeted him with a genuine but hurried “hey buddy, how are you tonight?” His response made me smile. “Slow down” he said, “you already know how to dance.”

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Someone named Paul Ling left a comment on Omar’s Short, Business Class. The comment read something along the lines of, “Interesting content. I’d like to discuss something. Call me. Paul Ling.” Below this message, Paul left his phone, fax and email, which was a Goldman Sach’s email. Could this be someone who believes Life Of My Story has investment potential? I couldn’t resist calling, but expected an automated message urging me to try new skin cream. I couldn’t have been more incorrect as to what I was expecting and what I actually got. Here is the following conversation I had with the person on the other end:

Me - Hello, my name is Ryan Wetter and I think you left a comment on my website with this number?

Him - Websites? A’int nobody messin’ round on no motha-fuckin’ websites.

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Me - Is Paul Ling there?

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Thank you for whoever posted that comment. I was expecting a recorded advertisement at best. But you actually included a phone number for what sounds like an angry, older gentleman. This deserves a Clay Davis. Websites? A’int nobody messin’ round on no motha fuckin’ websites. Sheeeettttt!

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There’s this guy at the gym. At first glance, he looks like a typical douche. Good-looking, tan & is constantly making conversations. When he’s not running for mayor, you can find him in the boxing section, hitting the speed bag for hours on end. “What’s his story?” I asked a friend of mine. I pictured him tanning after his workout. He flirts with the girl at the salon and takes her out to a rave on Saturday night. On Sundays, he gets together with a large extended family. He and his fellow kin dance to house music while waving glow sticks and drinking Rebull. I couldn’t have been more wrong. “That’s Speed Bag Scissorhands,” my friend said. “Speed Bag who?” I asked. “Yeah, Speed Bag Scissorhands. He has a website.” It was impossible to resist the urge. Speedbagscissorhands.com. This was not a gym-douche. This was something special. This man, who in my eyes was nothing more than your typical gym-tool just last week, is now my biggest hero.

I ordered a sub from a sandwich shop.  The guy behind the counter making the sandwich was not wearing gloves.  As he put on the seasonings and spices, I could see the lettuce between his fingernails.  His hairy knuckles glided through the onions.  When he was all done with the sandwich, I didn’t say anything.  I just took the sandwich with me.  When I got home, I gave it to my brother, who won a bet and made me go out and get him a sub in the first place.  Bon appetite.