The Story of Your Life
The fellow sitting next to me at the bar said, “I went through some rough times. You ought to write the story of my life.”
“I will, John,” I said, ‘I’ll do it right now.”
In those days, I always carried pen and paper with me, and as John told me his story, I wrote: John Springer was born in a small town in Ohio. His father passed away when he was fifteen, and his mother shortly after, and nobody figured out that John was living in the old house alone. He ate what was left in the fridge, and then he turned to cannibalism. He first took down his neighbor, Joe, across the street…
John leaned in. “What do you got so far?”
I read what I’d written and his eyes widened. “This is all wrong. I wasn’t born in Ohio. A cannibal!”
“It’s interpretive, John. This is the descent part. You need the descent before the redemption.”
“You son of a bitch! You’ve made a mockery of my life!” He threw his drink in my face and struck me. We grappled at the bar as I tried to ward him off. The bartenders forced us out on the street. He went off howling down the block. “You’ve ruined my life!” he shouted.
“Come back, John,” I cried. “I love you. I love your life!”
But he went on, bellowing in outrage. Since then, I can’t stand to be alone. I want to tell your story.