Anonymous Confession

August 31st, 2013

Confessions

He was writing at his computer because she said, “Write!”  He didn’t want to disappoint, and – as she noted – “You owe me!  Big time!”  He knew that was true.  Besides, she was giving purpose to his existence.   He decided to compose a very short story, as if it were a Faberge egg or a tiny finely-faceted ruby.  It was almost sundown.

The story began….
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Once upon a time there was a man in search of something, but he didn’t know what.  Arriving at a tavern, he decided a bit of icy stout would make him feel better, so – sitting in a corner – he ordered one.  The buxom waitress looked him over.  She said, “What do you do?”  He answered, “What I’m told to, normally.”  She grinned.  “Then write me a short story,” she said, “and I won’t charge you for your beer.”  She glanced over her shoulder.  “What he doesn't know won’t hurt him.”  She was obviously referring to the tavern owner.

“If you bring me a pen and paper, you’re on,” the sweaty traveler said with a smile.  “Oh, what should the story be about?”

She scrunched up her eyes as she made up her mind.  “I know!  Write me a story about a man – like you – who is wandering and comes into a bar – like this one – and asks the waitress – like me – to write him a story.”  He stared.  “You mean a story inside another story.”
“Yes! Oh, and the story should include a conversation just like this one, too!”

He looked at her.  This was a strange request!  He thought of mirrors reflecting mirrors like a barbershop from his childhood, the series receding into a misty distance.
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Suddenly a loud noise slammed into the world.  The sun had set.  He was still at his computer.  He stared at the screen, words inside of words…. He heard hammering on the door.

“You had better be writing, mister.  I’ve been waiting for you, patiently.”  That was a lie, but he kept quiet, only saying, “I’m putting together a matryoshka nested doll set of stories for you, sweetie.”
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It was only then that he realized that it was all wrong!  He wasn't at any computer!  He was dreaming all this! He was actually not a writer, and had never been a writer!  He was simply a man sleeping in a tent, up in the woods, and his entire fantasy had been the product of the altitude (or something).  He opened his eyes and realized that the moon was silently glowing outside the tent.  There was no one within miles.  No demanding woman.  No waitress.  Simply the pine boughs and needles waving in slow motion, images on the nylon.  An Indonesian wayang shadow puppet theater show… .

Before dozing off he said to himself: “When I return to civilization, I need either to find a bossy female who insists that I write stories for her – or perhaps a waitress in a mountain tavern.  He thought of Scheherazade, writing a story a night for the sultan.  And that’s how he fell to sleep, as the sound of the wind in the trees played out – with no audience to hear it.  Who knows what strange tales might emerge from the brew house in his head as he lay traveling through time in the hours before the arrival of the dawn sun….
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Perhaps there never was a man in a tent dreaming.  The sun and the pines never speak.  They keep their secrets.  Perhaps I haven’t written this.  Perhaps we are all dreams – or tales told to the trees by pine bark beetles.  One would need to scour the forests to find the dreamer.  I can’t tell you where.  Somewhere.  Maybe.