Snapshots of Life, and Other Disasters (Part VII)

What does it matter to me, if I be the author of my destiny,

when others have editorial control? – Ken O’Siris The
Book of Black Days

“You are the author of your own

life,” he pontificated, pausing briefly,
better for dramatic effect, before he con-
tinued “and someday you will learn to
take responsibility for what you have
written.” He fell into silence, caught his
reflection in the mirror behind the
counter, quick check, every hair was in
place, his teeth were perfect.

At this moment, I was feeling grow-

ing annoyance at the conceit, his con-
ceit, that I, or anybody else, cared as
much as a fat rats ass about his tedious dissections of the problems he imagined the world
to be made of, and his endless complaints about the dysfunctional beings that he thought
it, exclusively, populated with.

He was wrong; we did not care, to some it was amusing, true, a dark existential joke. I
had been trying to ease myself slowly into the latter group, but so far this effort had not
been rewarded, so mostly I found him annoying.

Noticing the new metaphor, not one of his standard tricks, I was beginning to feel my
annoyance sliding slowly towards … what? Not exactly amusement, but my interest was
peaked; anything new in his conversations, was a rare occurrence.

As the snide little voice, from within had whispered “This can’t be an original
thought.”

In the pseudo-sophisticate, know-it-all persona, he clothed himself in, there was no use
for originality. Originality would have defeated his purpose; an original thought would
have proved him to be an impostor because anything unfamiliar tended to confuse his
chosen audience, who if forced to think, might fail to see his brilliance.

Maybe, I thought, this was not him; he had been body-snatched by aliens, part of some
incomprehensible psychological test.

“No, he read, or heard it somewhere; his is not an original mind” the voice whispered,
with a tone that chided me for my trip into fantasy.

Shall I forgive myself for allowing the luxury of a brief smile, at his expense, in re-

© B. W. Reed (1998, 2005, 2007, 2009 and2010)

sponse to that small, snide, voice? True, in retrospect, it was a mistake; had he not caught
sight of the offending smile, as he momentarily turned from the mirror, it all would have
been different.

Without that brief glance, we might have finished our lunch without me having to en-
dure anything more than a few more glib comments, voicing his “profound
disapproval” of the way I had handled my life.

But it’s over and done with, beyond my control forever. Instead I watched as his anger
built up, a pressure cooker hell bent on exploding. There was much that he could ignore,
but having the fact that others did not take him seriously thrust into his awareness, was
the one thing he would not let go unpunished.

I had broken his “One Commandment”; I had publicly, others might have seen, made
him aware that I did not take him seriously. I had smiled, not at one of his jokes, but at
him ... I was laughing at him and not with him.

I could see the conflicting emotions tugging him in two directions: Should he allow
this slight to go unpunished, or risk showing me the strength with which this brief smile
had struck, hurtfully, at the very core of his being.

“Excuse me” he said, standing, heading towards the rest rooms. I guess he needed
that moment alone, to straighten this dilemma out.

“Heading for the Land O’Mirrors” the voice said; “Never a mirror he didn’t like.”

“Shut up”, I said aloud, while secretly agreeing with the suggestion of his egotism …
he was an atheist because he couldn’t stand the thought of any competition.

Other diners were looking in my direction, hungry for a treat, for some free some en-
tertainment during lunch like we had provided too many times before.

I was left alone with to my thoughts, wondering how all of this had come about. Had
we really been friends, when now all I saw, when I looked at him, was some cheap cari-
cature of the person I had known, one built of his worst qualities.

This view had crept upon me so slowly, that at no time could I have said “It began
here.” One day I knew our relationship had become wrong, and had been wrong for a
long time. Not a very satisfying situation, I saw nothing that I could take back. Done be-
fore either of us had been conscious of its start.

He was back, a caricature of the God of the old testament, ready to thunder and rain
wrath down upon this unrepentant sinner, me, struggling to maintain an illusion of digni-
fied bearing.

“I hope he doesn’t blow a gasket,” the voice was back, gleefully.

© B. W. Reed (1998, 2005, 2007, 2009 and2010)

 Probably, not as dignified as he had hoped; in the rest room he had zipped the tail of
his shirt through his fly, and it led him back to the table, waving up and down in a slow
rhythm, making a lie of all his imagined dignity.

A waitress laughed, pointing in our direction, and more laughter from a few other
tables. He was totally unaware; I wondered how long before someone would point it out
to him.

He reached table, all his actions a deliberate show of dignity. Moving his chair out, de-
liberately. Smoothing a napkin across his lap, deliberately. Each action, studied, but ulti-
mately failing to project its intended attitude of calm.

“He’s really pissed”, the voice chortled gleefully.

“If you had paid attention, listened to the plot outlines that I’ve offered you,” his
voice barely audible, “we could have made something of your life. We could have
turned your failures around.”

"This, I had been offering you, a happy productive life, just as you’ve always
wanted. I offered you this help, not because of any self-interest, but because I had
thought you worth the care.”

“Well that is over, just as I choose care, I choose not to care. As all your actions
have shown that you do not appreciate what I have offered, I do not have the time to
waste with you any longer. It’s really all the same to me.”

“Some day it will become clear to you what it was that I had offered, what you
choose not to accept. And on that day, a day you come crawling back, you will not
find me. The last laugh is mine, always has been.”

“You are incapable of writing a life worth living.”

All the while the volume of his voice had been rising, becoming at last loud enough to
guarantee that everyone would hear.

More laughter, we were once again providing entertainment for others, free of charge.

Rising from the chair as deliberately as he had sat, leaving his lunch unfinished, stiff-
ing me with the check, he imperiously exited, the other diners snickering at his shirt tail,
still waving the way clear.

I have not seen, or talked with him since.

Of course he is wrong. We are the author of our life, and others are the authors of their
lives, but what we have written is not separate, each is a part of the whole composition.

By our choices we write a life, but by these very acts we also edit the whole. It is a

© B. W. Reed (1998, 2005, 2007, 2009 and2010)

grand collaboration of which each is blind to the overall plot, and yet hopes that all that
will be written for the best.

I should, as the voice constantly reminds, be happy that he is gone from my life. No
longer must I deal, daily, with his petty attempts at control, his shows of power. It is my
choice to listen or not, to change or not.

No longer do I listen, as he tells me to look within to find the changes I need, “They
cannot, nor is it possible for them to come from others,” as at the same time he re-
minds me that what I want, or desire, is of no importance.

Now it is my chosen destiny to go through life without his editorial presence, and if, as
he said, “I am incapable of writing a life worth living”, still I will do the best that I
can.

Yes, maybe all true, but I will miss our friendship; it was ours for too short of a time.
There is a hole in my life, a hole that might be bearable if it were to heal, finally becom-
ing the scar of some long ago unpleasantness. Instead, I obsessively poke at it; it fills with
the toxic puss of a snide little voice, and oozes the blood of my regrets. I wonder, is it this
way for him?

“Probably not” says the voice.

© B. W. Reed (1998, 2005, 2007, 2009 and2010)