Saturday, 7/31/10 - The Story

"How dare you?" It had been a bad day and from the sound of her voice on the phone it was about to get a whole lot worse. "You bastard!"

"Den, what's the matter?"

"Don't you whats-the-matter me - as if you didn't know! How could you?"

"It's the story, isn't it?"

She mimicked him in an accusing falsetto, "It's the story isn't it?" Then, as if all of the air had gone out of her, she whispered, "How could you?"

"Den, it's not about you."

He hadn't finished before she started, "Debi? You named the bitch in the story Debi. Odd coincidence that my name just happens to be Deni -- one letter -- very inventive!"

"Deni..."

"Oh, so now I'm 'Deni', huh? Don't you mean Debi?"

He could hear her on the other end of the phone slamming things down. Nothing had shattered yet but that was probably because she was calling from her home phone and the things within reach of her desk were not fragile.

"Do you know how I found out? Do you?" He left the question alone. "My mother - the woman you said that you liked so much - called me in tears wondering what she had done to deserve to be called a 'three headed dog'. You called my mother a dog!"

"Den, it's just a story. It's not about you or your mother or anyone. It's fiction!"

Again, she mimicked him, "'It's fiction.' If it's just fiction then why use my name and why include my episode with the new blue dress?"

"I just picked a name for the character. OK, it was a bad choice but it had nothing to do with you. And what episode are you talking about? What blue dress?"

"You made fun of me buying that dress on eBay. I like that dress and it was a bargain!"

"There was nothing in that story about eBay or a dress."

"Oh, you were smarter than that, you disguised it as a teapot but I knew what you were talking about."

A couple of best sellers had piqued public interest in anything he wrote. His publisher had been looking for ways to capitalize on his instant notoriety and strongly suggested that he contribute one story to the syndicated literary column called 'Shorts'. He had reluctantly agreed.

His short had been published this morning in all of the major papers and on several well-read websites.



The story hadn't been out for an hour before his phone had started ringing. His first call, before 6am, was from his neighbor.

"Do you know who called me at six o'clock this morning to complain about this story? Jack. My neighbor, Jack. Do you know what he said between all of the expletives? He said that he was going to sue me for telling the world that he skinny dips every morning. He accused me of watching him. You've seen Jack; he's easily 350 pounds. Why would I wake up early to sneak through the yard and peek at him? But you want to know what's worse? You read the story, there's no skinny dipping in the story! There's no pool, no lake, no bathtub. Heck, there's no water in the story - it's set in a desert! Where he got that from, I don't know."

"You just made that up about Jack. He never called you!"

"No, I didn't make it up, he did call. And, do you know what happened when I went out for breakfast? Emily refused to serve me. She asked why, if I hated their establishment so much, did I bother to eat there. Couldn't get a haircut either because Carl thought the story was about him. The cashier at the grocery looked right through me."

"Well, that's what you get when you write bad things about people. I hope you're happy Mr. I-got-a-book-on-the-NY-Times-bestseller-list."

"Deni, the story wasn't about you. It wasn't about Jack or the waitress or the barber or the cashier."

"So, then, who was it about?"

"Me. The story was about me."