The one who has to tell it

I wanted to share a few of these golden little moments in my life with the handful of readers I have here, because I know you will appreciate them more than anyone else could.

Almost a year ago, I was sitting in the lobby of a Domino’s Pizza a little after two AM. An assistant manager at another store, I had made a few mistakes in my short career as a pizza slinger. The first was that I let my coworkers realize I was dependable and responsible. The second was that I then befriended some of them. I had just finished my closing shift at my store, and was waiting for the keys for this one. For reasons still unknown to me, I had become the reliable manager. I paid the price by frequently covering shifts for others. No one else would do it. And what would middle America do if they couldn’t order pizza?

“A woman, especially, if she have the misfortune of knowing anything, should conceal it as well as she can.” – Jane Austen

As I was waiting for one of the less responsible managers to finish his closing shift (I had completed mine quickly, he was behind schedule) I was working on one of my novels. I was scribbling the minute handwriting I use when I have to write long hand, in an effort to save paper. Really, it’s an effort to save my sanity. If I wrote larger, the same scene might take up a few pages. And I might just lose my mind if I ever lost a page of it. While I was writing away in the poorly lit lobby, one of the insiders (someone lesser than the manager, but not a driver) approached me. He asked what I was doing, then why I was doing it. The result was the following exchange-

"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Writing," I answered. I didn't even bother to look up.
"Is it hereditary?" he asked. He told me my brother (who works at his store) does that too.
"He does?" I asked. I knew he was often struck by flights of fancy, but I've never noticed him writing. Not like I write, anyway.
"Not that I’ve seen, but it seems like something he'd do," he said. I smiled, and went back to my page.
He would not be pleased. He continued, "So what are you writing?"
"A story," I answered.
"Why?" he asked. I shrugged, and my pen paused.
"It needs to be told."
"And you're the one that has to tell it?" he asked playfully.
I smiled up at him, "Yes."

It’s one of my favorite little moments of my life, because it felt good to be recognized as a story teller. A few weeks ago, I was discussing my desire to be a writer with my mother, and how wonderful it would be if my only responsibility were to write. No day job, no nine to five. A sharp mind and a wounded heart have made me view the world with a more critical, cynical eye than I used to. I said the following to my mother –

“It just seems like we live in a world where we are all just numbers. Just statistics. We use our social security number to identify ourselves on every important piece of paper. We might as well have barcodes on the back of our necks. That’s all we are in the grand scheme of things. When the people who knew us are dead, too, we are just numbers. Maybe that’s why I like writing. I may not ever be more to history than a pop culture question in Trivial Pursuit, but at least I will have a voice. I will have words in a world where only numbers matter. It gives me a little bit of control over how the world will remember me.”

She got kind of teary eyed and chuckled, that sort of mom-ish gesture I’m sure you’ve all seen or done yourself, and told me it was beautiful and that I should write it down. So I did.