TMWNW: Chapter Two.

Tommy.

“Great, chuck a kids name on me. How about while we’re here, we cross out Billy, Danny, Toby and Jimmy at the same time. Idiot.”

Jim.

“Wow, I totally wasn’t expecting that. Clearly you have a monopoly on all the inspiration in this particular area.”

Christian.

“You’re going for allegory or you’re equating me to some kind of Wrestler. Either way, you’re an idiot.”
Fine, why don’t you pick.

“Winston.”

No.

“Why the hell not?”

That’s my name.

“Exactly.”

That doesn’t work. People will read this and think it’s autobiographical. Winston’s the author, and look at that, Winston’s the main character! I wonder where he got that name from!

“Then don’t put your name on the front of the book, genius. My name’s Winston.”

Winston sat down.

“Now give me a life.”

A life?

He throws his hands up in exasperation.

“God damn you’re stupid. Here I am, thinking we’re making progress, but it turns out you were faking me out the whole time. I was going to say this is like talking to a rock, but at least rocks have something on the inside, Jesus Christ.”

He stands up and begins to pace back and forth, one hand tapping his forehead, the other hand gesticulating like a piano player on Ritalin. Brow furrowed, he begins to murmur to himse-

“Shut up.”

Sorry.

“You were almost passable for something beyond a sack of stupid for like two seconds, and then you drop a bomb like ‘piano player on Ritalin.’ Seriously, some people try to make terribles like that, and they can’t even come close to what you’re spewing out naturally.”

Suddenly, he stops pacing and looks up, eyes alight.

“I got it buddy boy.”

Got what?

“A past.”

The scene dissolves.

The Man Who Never Was.

Once upon a time, long, long ago, in a place far, far away, there was the man who never was. He never was because he wasn’t. To talk about what he did would make no sense, because by doing, he would be. Therefore we must talk about what he didn’t do. Perhaps what he didn-

“Seuss.”

…

Er… I’m sorry, what?

“I said, it sounds like the opening for a Dr. Seuss book. “I would not like green eggs and ham,” and all that junk.”

There is a small man staring at me. Expletives float out of him like odour comes off of a fat man; they settle like dandruff flakes arou-

“God damn that’s terrible. You went from the world’s stupidest Seuss to the world’s stupidest similes. I can pull that out of my crack and it’d probably sound better.”

I’m sorry.

“Damn right you’re sorry. If I was you, I’d be perpetually sorry too.”

Right. Sorry.

Silence.

So… Um…

“What do you want, hemming and hawing up there? You’re not a god damned horse.”

Sorry, but… W-who… are you?

“Me? Not a clue. According to you, I never was.”

What?

“Seuss or not, I’m the man who never was.”

Sorry, but that makes no sense.

“No shit Holmes! So you tell me why you made me.”

Or didn’t make you.

“Shut up.”

Right, sorry. OK. But… well, if you’re the man who never was, then you technically don’t exist.

“Where are we.”

Sorry, what?

“I said, you idiot, where are we.”

Uh…in my mind?

“Alright, so you’re not deaf and blind. Just deaf, ugly and stupid.”

Hey now.

“I’ll lay off the obvious, princess; look, think of it this way. Things that exist all have one thing in common: matter. If I exist in your mind, then I’m not matter, I’m a thought. Therefore I can still be the man that never ‘was,’ because I’m not existing yet, I’m just… here.”

That makes sens-

“The problem, however, is that I don’t want to be the man that never was.”

Sorr-

“And don’t say “Sorry, what?” again. We can pretend you’re not an idiot, but you constantly apologizing seems pretty counter-intuitive.”

OK, sorr-

“GODDAMNIT“

…

“Jesus Christ that took awhile. As I was saying, the problem is that I want to be the man that was. So get me out of your empty head and make me exist.”

How do I d-

“You do this by actually putting me down. If I’m in your head, I’m nothing. If I’m in the world, I’m something. Make sense?”

So I… write you?

“Genius.”

How?

“Give me a name.”

Enter Front-Stage Left.

Prep. Stand. Brush. Breathe. Think. Breathe. Head up. Breathe. Enter.

A multiplicity of faces, facing me, but not seeing me. They say that stage lights are created with the intent of making the audience disappear. Sort of an ostrich moment; I can’t see you, you can’t see me. Helps the nerves; destroys the retinas.

Stop. Stand. Look. Breathe. Wait. Think. Breathe. Head up. Breathe. Prep.

In reality, I’d much prefer to give you my life, but my soul is a very private matter. Handle gently. I’m that mystery object, swimming in a sea of protective S’s; styrofoam: designed for life’s little scrapes, but hardly adequate for reducing the pain caused by severe retina burning. God damn that thing is bright.

Clear your throat. Be sure to breathe. Don’t die, or I’m out of a job.

Right.

Begin.