This is the aforementioned “diesmbodied scene.” Like all writers, I feel like it works and it’s an abomination depending on my mood and caffiene levels. At least it’s somewhat coherent and more than a social media post. Enjoy!
IDENTITY
Everyone has their thing.
In New York it is varied and interesting. When you make the biennial trip to the small town your parents retired to and see the same handful of people that have been assigned to be your holiday friend by their parents who are friends with your parents the pool of what people could possibly be obsessed with is far more limited and mind numbing.
There is Guy Who has Seen Animal House 30 times, the Lady Who Claims She Saw Chris Farley the Night He Died, Mr. Knows Trivia About Celebs Before They Were Famous.
The list is endless. Literally. And this is the one time you can use the word without risk of being corrected. Every single thing in the world - no matter how trivial or obscure - has one person in the same world that is obsessed and makes that the one thing core of their identity. Even worse than the former star high school quarterback that never left his hometown and continues to live as though the the local diner regulars are his homecoming court there is that person who - possibly by accident - was in the middle of what they perceive as some major cultural landmark moment and will not stop talking about it and manage to weave it into the fabric of everything they say or do.
The friend group is used to it. You are used to it but every time it grates on your soul in an indescribably way. The typical nails on a chalkboard analogy doesn’t cut it for this one. They offer polite smiles and nods when the story starts up. Like one of those teddy bear toys from the 80’s that had a cassette player built in so kids could listen to the same bedtime stories and fall asleep while mom had a Riunite on ice and watched Johnny Carson.
You are not used to it. You don’t smile and nod. Not this time. Not when the story starts up for the umpteenth time. You are no longer the “new friend”. The honeymoon period of Well that’s just how these people are around here is over. The bloom is off the rose.
You don’t have the patience for it. Not this time. Not again. You interrupt I saw Willie Nelson at Aunt Martha’s Pancake House in 1987 with your big city voice and your big city accent. You finish the story word for word. You pay for your drink and you leave. The warmth from the bridge you left in flames offsets the flush in your cheeks from the 4 Old Fashioneds you just pounded.
You expect you will hear about this from your parents because you are visiting them in the real estate equivalent of a John Cougar Mellencamp song. You walk back to your hotel. During the walk you run through all the scenarios that would be a believable reason to go home, to your real home early. You settle on a work emergency that only you can handle. You know it is bullshit but that is the beauty of no one knowing exactly what it is you do.
You call your folks and explain with a word salad of buzzwords and official sounding acronyms that regretfully you must leave tomorrow and are heartbroken to have to miss the holidays. You end the call and look into the mirror. You practice your acceptance speech for the Oscar you surely deserve after that performance.
You make a note that visits to your folks will be quadrennial rather than biennial going forward. You find your favorite sleep meditation podcast and press play. You pull the covers over your head because you forgot to turn off the lights before laying down and it is too late now to get back up. You try to will yourself to fall asleep since you have an early flight to catch.
I'm glad you're writing again.