“Could you be more boring, Roy?” She was sitting at a table for two when he came in. He chuckled and pretended to recoil. “Ha ha and all but I’m serious,” she said. “You have been the beneficiary of so many advantages, starting at birth, continuing through your schooling and your jobs, all of which elevated you with their prestige and elevated you further with the false sense that you had earned them. So you get that head start and you do what? You write and then record these long thoughtful pieces about…about what, exactly? You present back to people what they already know and in doing so simply confirm the shallowness of both those people and of yourself. Bedpans, Roy. Bedpans. You know, there are those who go to bat for you. You are skilled, people say. Lyrical, they say. Fluent. Do they mean fluid? Whatever. None of it’s true. You have had endless opportunities to skitter out, stiffen up, stop, stall, or sink, and I can only assume that’s why you have eventually learned to float. But float is the best I can say. I listened to one of your recent pieces. I don’t know what depressed me more, the manicured style and obvious insights that dominated it or the few impotent leaps into what you must think represent a riskier brand or writing and thinking. Let’s even get to the matter of your body. You’re an inch or two taller than an average guy, Roy. Did you really think that gives you something special?” He shook his head. “No, no,” he said. “I’m Alan.” She wasn’t fazed. “It still applies,” she said. “I’m sure of it.”
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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