Story: Someone Else

How far must you go to escape from yourself?

NOTE: I’m bringing this piece that I wrote, narrated, and published almost a year ago out of the archives for everyone to enjoy. I’m also honoring the 30% discount for paid subscriptions.

Dear Reader,
I’ve been on a bit of a short story bender of late and this week I have a new one for you. I’ve often wondered what it would feel like to be someone else. I think that’s part of why I write. We are, all of us trapped or free inside the confines of our own skulls depending on the luck of the draw with our DNA and the environment in which we are born. This story explores the possibility of being able to escape our own consciousness and explore someone else’s. Just a warning, there’s some explicit/derogatory language that was important to convey character.

What I love most about publishing my work in this way is the possibility for it to be a conversation between us. Putting a piece of writing out into the world can feel like putting a message in a bottle and tossing it into the sea. If you stumble upon this vessel and read my note, join me in the comments so I can get to know you and what this story made you think or feel. Also, if you’d like to become a paid subscriber, you can get 30% off if you sign-up before June 30th. Your support is not just a way to make this work practical for me, it’s also a strong signal to me that it has value to you. Use the link below, and thanks for being here.

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“You’ll feel like a different person,” she said.

I’ve wanted nothing more since I was eight years old. By the time I graduated from high school, I’d had more therapists than teachers. I’ve read a municipal library's worth of self-help books. I’ve meditated and medicated. I’ve even tried something where you have to scream into a small box three times a day. So, there’s no question that I will visit the place April scribbled on the back of the program after the funeral of our mutual friend.

On the walk home, I searched for a website, which is not something I normally do while walking because it makes it much harder to count my steps, avoid stepping on cracks, and pass oncoming walkers to the left. But I was inspired. There was no website. I tried several different queries and spellings, but the only results for “Meander” were dictionary definitions and some tiny town somewhere in Wyoming. I was frustrated, but not deterred. I had an address.

This morning, I called in sick, took a shower, and ate my standard breakfast— a half cup of millet, one link of vegan sausage, and a cup of parsley tea. By 8:15 AM I am on the train. I avoid the train or any public transit at all costs, but it’s out of the question to take a taxi. Cars are the single biggest driver of climate change. But there was no other way today. It would take me all day to walk to this address. With my headphones, gloves, and mask I feel reasonably insulated and secure until the car starts filling up with commuters. I make myself small and close my eyes. Fortunately, I don’t have to change trains and I don’t need to obsess over missing my stop because I’m traveling to the end of the line. By the time the train reaches its termination, I’m alone again except for a homeless woman slumped in a seat at the opposite end of the car.

The platform is above ground which is a blessing. I welcome the open sky when I step out into the morning air and pull off my mask. It is 1.3 miles to the address from the train station and the walk takes me down a quaint main street with little curiosity shops and a bakery that’s producing the most amazing smells of things I can’t eat. I pass a woman sweeping the stoop of a delicatessen. She looks up and smiles. I try to smile back but I’m not good with eye contact. After three-quarters of a mile, I reach the end of the sidewalk and I’m in a neighborhood of traditional two-story homes with expensive electric cars parked in their driveways.

After passing a park, the houses get smaller, the cars older, and the lawns less like golf courses and more like abandoned lots. I’m not too worried. I traveled this route virtually last night from my computer, so all the landmarks seem familiar. I know I’m close though I have no idea what the actual building for Meander looks like because there was a delivery truck parked in front of it in the images from the mapping website.

The little blue, pulsing dot on my phone tells me I’m at the right address, but this can’t be right. I expected the place to be residential but there’s no indication that this is a place of business. The front yard has a weathered cedar fence that is barely containing the lush explosion of vegetation that climbs its posts and hangs over its rails. There’s a stand of sunflowers that nearly reaches the eve of the old craftsman-style house. There are dozens of folk-art sculptures fashioned from recycled metal and found objects. There is a concrete bird bath busy with customers and on the large front porch a symphony of wind chimes ranging from tiny metal spoons to massive bamboo tubes. When a small breeze kicks up, they produce a rolling crescendo that sounds like a convention of fairies riding atop a herd of bell-laden cows on a hillside in the Alps.

I tentatively step up to the front gate which is hung beneath a wooden arbor completely overrun by a bramble of pink and red roses in full bloom. Beneath their shade, attached to the top rail of the gate, I see a small copper plaque with the word “Meander” embossed in an ornate, cursive script. Hanging on a wrought iron stand to the right of the gate there’s a brass bell the size of a teacup. I finger the leather strap of the beater that hangs from the bell, afraid to pull it. I have pursued so many crazy things in my life to find peace. Why am I hesitating here? How can this be any worse than the medium whose cramped apartment reeked of cat urine? I am tired of hoping. I am tired of disappointment. I release the strap without ringing the bell and I’m turning to go when someone speaks.

“Hi there, were you looking for something?”

The gentle voice comes from below, somewhere in the garden to the right but I can’t see its owner until she stands. Her long gray hair is in a single braid hanging over her shoulder, and her round face has wrinkles that radiate from her smile. She wears a faded t-shirt with a logo worn beyond recognition and an ancient pair of jeans that hang loosely on her small frame by a cinched leather belt.

“Um, I was looking for Meander? A friend gave me the address. I tried to find a number or email but…”

“Oh, we don’t do that stuff, but you’ve come to the right place. Welcome.”

She opens the gate, and I step inside. I don’t want to sound dramatic, but something shifts in me when the gate latches behind me. I can’t describe it except to say that I take her hand when she offers it. As a policy, I don’t touch other people. And just like that, she is walking me around the garden which is so much bigger than it appears from the street. There’s a tangle of blackberry and raspberry bushes along the boundary of the fence, and she offers me a small, chipped pottery bowl to pick them as we walk. I start to tell her that I don’t do well with fruit or really any kind of sugar, but instead, I find myself reaching for a blackberry so ripe and heavy, it falls into my palm leaving me no choice but to put it in my mouth. The flavor, dark and sweet fills my senses, and I don’t hear half of what she’s pointing out on the tour. When we’re on the front porch in the shade, I discover that my fingertips are stained purple and blue and the bowl I thought I’d been filling is empty.

“I’m glad you enjoyed those,” she says. “Here, why don’t we sit?”

She gestures toward a couple of chairs and a porch swing. I don’t know that I’d ever sat on a porch swing. I get dizzy easily. But when she takes one of the chairs next to it, the old swing seems like the best place for me if we are going to talk. When I sit on the cushion and lean back, it rocks, and my feet are off the ground. I am weightless, floating. Her questions come in what feels like a cadence with the swing and so do my responses. I don’t hesitate, stutter, or equivocate in the way I always do. Words flow between us as an exchange of air.

“What is it you want most?” she asks.

“I don’t want to be me.”

“Why don’t you want to be you?”

“Wait, are we starting? Is this it? Don’t I need to pay you or fill out some forms, or…”

“No, we don’t do all that. Now, why don’t you want to be you?”

“Because I’m a mess. I am broken and I’m tired.”

“Why are you a mess?”

“Because I want too much. I need too much. I think too much, and I worry all the time that I’m not enough.”

“I see. That sounds miserable. I can see why you would want to be someone else. What kind of person do you want to be?”

“Someone who has none of those things I just said.”

“Okay. Okay, if that’s what you want, I can help you.”

“How do you mean? I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to understand. You just have to confirm that this is what you really want.”

I pretend to be considering my response but there’s no question in my mind.

“Yes, I want to be someone else.”

Like a cat, she moves to sit beside me in one fluid motion without ever disturbing the trajectory of the swing. She takes my hand in hers. Her hands are soft and warm. I look over into her eyes. They are the color of sea glass and full of an intensity that holds my gaze. I begin to cry. I sense she is smiling but her face doesn’t change. I feel a warmth radiating out from my chest up into my head and down into my groin. I’ve never done drugs, but if it feels anything close to this, I may change my policy. With each swing, I have the sensation of dropping lower to the ground, and yet my feet never scrape the floorboards. Are my eyes closed now? They must be because I’m seeing a kaleidoscope of colors and fractal shapes morphing and dissolving and reforming in a series. I can’t really feel my body. Not the crampy, gurgle of my bowels, the constant dry mouth, or the uneven racing of my heart. I am disembodied until suddenly, I’m falling backward. Or is it forward? I can’t tell. I only know that I’m falling into complete blackness away from the pulsating light.

The fuck am I doing on a porch swing? Right, hippy-dippy lady. I get up too quick and feel a little woozy. Damn. Must’ve been some good shit. Gotta watch out for those old hippies. What time is it? I look down at my wrist but my watch ain’t there. Oh well, was a piece of shit anyway. I walk down the steps, through the overgrown junkyard, out the rickety gate, and down the road without ever looking back. It’s lunchtime somewhere and I’m hungry. I find a deli on the main street, and I walk in. I don’t pick up a menu but instead, walk straight to the counter.

“Hi, how you doing? I want a pastrami on rye with spicy mustard. Make sure you slice it real thin.”

From the cooler by the register, I grab a tallboy from some craft brewery, pop the tab and take a long pull. The girl working the register eyeballs me. She has some great tits, but she’s probably a dyke – hairy armpits, permanent scowl, you know the type. When the sandwich is ready, I’ve finished half the beer. I burp loudly before paying Ms. Sunshine. I leave her an extra bill then give her a wink and I take my food over to sit by the window so I can check out the talent in this strange little burg.

This place is Snoozeville, U.S.A. In the five minutes it takes me to scarf down the sammy and finish my beer, I clock nothing but a doughy housewife pushing a stroller and a black lady postman. But the sun is shining, and I got no place to be. It could be worse. I leave my trash on the table and head out to find some amusement.

Out on the sidewalk, I hear some tunes from a storefront a few doors down, so I walk in that direction. It’s a funky little vinyl shop and they’re playing some righteous Parliament so I step inside. There’s an uptight-looking college fuck on a stool behind the counter flipping through a stack of records like they’re made of fine China. I say what’s up, but the little prick doesn’t even look at me. I stop at the “This Just In” bin and start looking through what they’ve got. I pull out a copy of the Stones “Sticky Fingers” and a Garth Brooks greatest hits album that’s still in the shrink wrap. I’ve never heard of the rest of the crap. I move on down the aisle, stopping a few times to pull out something that looks interesting.

“Can I help you with something, man?” college fuck asks.

He’s refiling the records I pulled out and I can just tell he’s got his panties in a bunch.

“Uh no friend, just browsing. You know, like people do,” I say.

“Well, could you please put the albums back that you’re not interested in purchasing?” he says.

“Maybe I’m interested in all the ones I left out,” I say, turning around to face him.

He doesn’t say anything. I pull out a couple more records and toss them on top of the bins between us. I think he stops breathing when I hold up an original pressing of John Coltrane’s “A Love Supreme.” I toss it on the pile I started.

“You want this record?” he asks, raising his little college fuck eyebrow over his college fuck wire-rimmed glasses.

My hand is getting itchy. I clench and unclench my fist. I shake my head, still looking down at the bin in front of me. Does he need a lesson today in manners? I think maybe he does. I’m ready to give him one, but all the sudden my stomach starts to hurt, and I feel like I can’t breathe. Am I pussying out or was that pastrami past its expiration? I take a deep breath, set my jaw, and turn around to provide some instruction but something’s wrong. I’m not looking at college fuck, but old hippy-dippy lady. Wait, what’s she doing here?

“Have you had enough, or would you like some more time?”

I’m swaying back and forth, feeling like I might fall. I try to steady myself on the record bins, but my hand passes right through them, and I fall back.

And swing forward.

“Have you had enough?” she asks again, holding my hand.

I blink at her, trying to focus. All the cells in my body feel spread out across the far reaches of the universe and with each pendulum swing, they contract until again, I’m a solid thing with a mouth to speak.

“Yes, yes I think I’ve had enough,” I say.

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You Be Me For Awhile and I’ll Be You

I borrowed this line from one of my favorite Replacements songs. I tend to think a lot about empathy and how to better cultivate it for myself and how to inspire it in my kids. Here are a few open-ended questions to hopefully kick off a discussion…

• Have you ever wanted to be someone else, if so why?

• Have you ever felt physical pain in response to someone else’s pain?

• What’s one thing you do to feel more connected to others?