You know I like a good story. I’ve built my life around them, and the characters I’ve created follow me everywhere. That motorcycle I see when I pull out of the way of an oncoming car on La Fayette?
Looks a lot like the one Joel buys in my third novel. That lifeguard at the neighborhood pool who never takes his whistle out of his mouth?
Reminds me a lot of James, circa 1991. The labyrinth I walked last week at a bed and breakfast?
I know that’s going to end up somewhere.
Everywhere I go, everything I do, comes back to the stories I write. I can’t imagine my life without them. I’m always writing stories, even if they’re only in my head, even if they’ll never be something you’ll see on Amazon. I can’t help but think of the story behind every person I see: the guy beside me right now at Pacha, jiggling his shiny-belted shoe and typing away on his Mac; the guy on the other side of the partition, breathing open-mouthed and wiping his glasses with his thumb; the obnoxious guy who’s taking business calls and scarfing down oatmeal, an inexplicable choice given that it’s already 87 degrees at 10:30 in the morning. They all have stories, and what I don’t know as fact I’ll make up.
That’s just what I do.
The night before last I was driving home with The Boy, returning from a visit to my mother’s. As we exited from 183 to Mopac I groaned: backed up traffic and emergency vehicles, which meant The Boy would be late getting in the bath or–knowing him–he’d be skipping a bath altogether. I’ll exit Steck, I thought, and just take Shoal Creek all the way south. Easy enough, and as I crept toward the exit The Boy, who’s fascinated by destruction in all its forms, chattered away about what might have happened. Then in my rearview mirror I saw a fire truck approach. But I didn’t hear a siren, and when I looked ahead I could see that the wreck in front of me wasn’t a fender bender. I was looking at a flipped SUV, its front end smashed flat.
The window was covered with a sheet.
The rest of the way home I tried to listen as The Boy, oblivious to the meaning of that sheet, talked about wrecked cars and how cool it was to see a car flipped on its top. Boy, I finally said, We don’t know exactly what happened back there, but I bet it was awfully scary for whoever was in that car. Oh, I don’t like when people get hurt, he informed me, I just like to see the damage. He’s literal, matter-of-fact, a scientist. When he was five we went on a hike in western Pennsylvania and he took over one hundred photographs of the damage to the forest from a lightning storm. Take him to a beach and he’ll stand on the bank, pretending to be a forecaster announcing the arrival of a category five hurricane.
Oh, but I’m not the same. I think about the story of those people. Of the driver of that SUV, of the person who witnessed the accident, of the police officer who had to deliver the shitty news.
Every day I receive emails from Scott Noelle, progressive parenting guru. My reaction to his gentle reminders of alignment or appreciation lists depend on my mood; sometimes they inform my entire day and sometimes–like on the days The Boy awakens me with a shriek because the demon has devoured his favorite football–I find myself muttering, Dude, fuck off.
A few weeks ago, Scott Noelle’s email reminded me that every time I speak I’m telling a story. In his words:
You tell a story when someone asks you, ”How’ve you been?”
You tell a story whenever you chat with your friends about how difficult or easy it is to parent your child.
You tell yourself stories when you recall good or bad memories, worry about tomorrow, anticipate fun, etc.
I just returned from vacation, the one I concocted a few months back when I decided that flying to Southampton to see my brother and Nancy Goat and then renting a car and driving a good eight hours west to see my father in Pennsylvania–this after the whole Second Grade Dropout/Orthopedic Nightmare Spinal Fusion Surprise/Let’s Sell Our House and Move into a Haunted Mansion–sounded like a good way to wrap up the summer. The trip wasn’t easy. In fact, I’m more than a little worn out. But on the flight home I decided to make a mental list of everything that had gone right, instead of cataloging everything that had gone wrong.
The Boy got to hang out in the cockpit of the airplane while everyone was boarding, and mess around with the brake.
The pool in Southampton was beautiful and cool.
We ate fabulous lobster here.
We celebrated Nancy Goat’s birthday with a delicious, if deceitful, cake.
We stayed at a beautiful bed and breakfast in Pennsylvania, built in 1856.
The grounds of the bed and breakfast were picturesque. There was a swing
overlooking rolling hills and a farm.
And in the room at the top of the house I jumped up and down a bit when I discovered this door separating the bedroom from the bathroom.
I visited the book store my aunt runs
and found to my delight a brisk business for such a small town.
And most importantly, the weather was blissfully cool, no small treat given that Austin has seen almost seventy consecutive days of temperatures over one hundred. Going to be a hot one, said the woman checking us out at the grocery store in Pennsylvania as we loaded up on supplies for a cook out in the forest, Eighty degrees today. Lady, that’s the temperature in Austin, I told her, At five o’clock in the morning.
Lately when I’ve been asked how I’m doing I’ve said something along the lines of I need extensive therapy or I’m just about ready to be committed. But now I’m thinking that maybe it’s time for me to tell a different story. So the next time someone asks about my well-being I’m going to say, Who, me? Why, I’m fabulous.
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And if this weather doesn’t fucking change I’m taking my story to Denver.
Copyright © 2011 Jennifer Hritz hritzontheedge All Rights Reserved
