Imaginary Outing with a Hero
There are a few stories I want to share with you today. A brand new CNF piece in CRAFT by Kelly Luce, called “Mary Ruefle Drives Me to the Dentist”, Diane Goetsch’s wonderful prose poem, “Bowie”, and “Imaginary Chinese Takeout with Lydia Davis” (by myself) which appeared in the anthology Flash Fiction Funny (edited by Ton Hazuka).
Having read Kelly Luce’s CNF piece in CRAFT yesterday and feeling deeply moved by it, I have again been thinking about how when we touch on our relationship with our heroes, and by reaching out to them in some imaginary way, we can access territory that is often otherwise hidden.
Creativity is a shy rabbit, and it often needs careful, indirect coaxing. Right now, with the stress in the world hitting a high pitch on a daily basis, many of us could use a hero to talk to. I know I could.
It amazes me how through such a projected connection— what is both dented and strong inside ourselves may become universally relatable.
In contrast with the other stories shared above, my own hero story (below) is a metafictional exercise, much lighter in tone. In a way my story is about the weird world of hero worship in and of itself. When I wrote it, many years ago, I was immersing myself in Lydia Davis’ work, and thought it would be fun to write about an imaginary personal experience directly with the author while channeling her style. I was also aware of the pedestal I was putting Davis on, which is why everything in the story feels so embarrassing to the narrator.
I would love for you all to try a hero story of your own. Below are a few different ways you may wish to approach this:
-Write the story as if you’re taking a journey with a hero as in Kelly Luce’s piece.
-Write a story about identifying with a celebrity-hero during a crucial turning point in life, as in Diane Goetsch’s David Bowie poem.
-Try something light and funny, as in my own story about hanging out in Lydia Davis’ house and feeling unworthy. If literary, and to make it more fun, you can try writing it in the style of the hero.
Paid subscribers: feel free to post your story in the comments section for others to read and comment on. I can’t wait to read your stories.
My Imaginary Chinese Takeout With Lydia Davis
by Meg Pokrass
A strange smell is coming from Lydia Davis’s dog, our Chinese-takeout food, or me. Lydia is talking very brilliantly about her former mother-in-law and not making sense in a very lovely way. I could listen to her not making sense for hours.
I’m guessing she does not smell what I am smelling as her face seems calm. I hope she will continue talking about relatives to take my mind off the sulfurous air issue. It is probably coming from her dog. But it would be rude to assume anything, to say anything at all.
I can taste banana in my mouth though I have not had a banana in years and we are not eating bananas.
When we finish eating, it gets very quiet, and she sighs. Her dog sighs too. Then I sigh. We are an orchestra. And the smell seems gone.
I suggest we open our fortune cookies and Lydia agrees. As soon as she opens hers, and doesn’t read what it says to me, I excuse myself. I am suddenly shy about what mine might say. She would not tell me what hers said, which may be why I got shy about mine.
In Lydia Davis’s bathroom I am sitting on her toilet, unable to pee. I imagine my fingers dangling in a bowl of warm water. My muscles are tense and nothing is going to make it come out.
From the safe perch of her toilet, I memorize the names of her personal-care products, which are lined up on her bathroom shelf, watching. Lydia’s personal-care products have the same names as the ones I use, which is strange, because I am broke.
There are so many things not to say to her when I return. I hope the smell is still gone. I hope I can figure out what not to say.
The View from Here
Vanessa is driving me to see the eye doctor. He will look into my eyes and make the scales fall from them. She on the other hand is very clear-eyed. Partly, it’s her youth, partly it’s her outlook. We drive down a dirt road where there are pigs on one side and sheep on the other. I ask Vanessa if she has rescued any dogs lately. "Only the wounded fox," she says. "I should have released him into the woods by now but the dogs have adopted him. They’re a pack. Can’t mess with that." Vanessa knows how to roll with the punches. One time, she ran after a boy stealing her bicycle, overtook him on foot, but then gifted him the bicycle after hearing his desperate story. Listening to the retelling makes me want to cancel the eye doctor for a chance to re-frame the halos I see around streetlights, colors faded like old tapestry, my wraparound sunglasses; but I need this procedure. I need to see what Vanessa sees. I remember when her heart stopped in the OR, and then started up again. She told me she just had to see what happens next.
Meg, I loved all these pieces, and I love the one of yours about Lydia Davis, it really captures the moment of being dropped into your hero’s environment, the intimidation it can bring, even things you have in common, how they seem more human than god-like.
In An Imaginary Diner With Philly Joe Jones
The waitress tops off Philly Joe Jones’ coffee, his suit squeegees the leather booth as he leans against the wall. He’s got dark circles under his eyes, and I wonder if it was a good idea bringing him here when he should be at home sleeping.
I want to ask him about drumming with Miles, and Chet, and if Bill Evans is as serious as he looks on all those album covers, but I decide to let him lead the conversation, the way he does on the bandstand, then I wonder if that’s asking too much. He’d just finished his last set at 3:00am, and here we are, watching the sunrise.
Philly Joe sees my fingers rolling rudiments, laughs, picks up a spoon, and taps a loose feeling pulse against the saucer, saying it’s the only rhythm I need to know, it sounds like someone saying: “shut-the-door-shut-the-door-shut-the-door.”
I want the same honest wrinkles in my clothes as his, thinking I should’ve worn something more casual, wondering if I look like a poser with my unmarked drumsticks, while his look like they just made a trip to the sawmill. His dapper eyebrows raise, his rag-doll eyes roll back talking about music, as if they were lovers, not a one-night stand, but a vow he took to love ‘til death do they part.
A one-note whistle in his nose plays faster, he’s about to doze. He raises his hand for the check, pulls out his wallet, we both carry the same amount of cash; hardly any. He tells me how he used to drive a cab, but got fired for stopping in the middle of the street whenever he heard a hard swingin’ band coming out of a club.
I stand on the sidewalk, hoping he hasn’t felt this was a waste of time, watching to see if he looks back.