People collect memories like seashells from a shoreline. I’m no different.
I’ve got a story, big as a shell you hold to your ear and swear the Atlantic Ocean is in your hand. A “You’ll never guess who I met last summer in Chicago” type of story.
At a casual gathering of co-workers over happy hour drinks at the place down the street, I see it. My time has come. I pulled the tale from my pocket and unfolded it. They’ll eat it up! Shock and awe and glee over my celebrity sighting.
But then, just as I open my mouth, Devin, this kid from accounting, starts telling his own story. Something about a few weeks back in a pizza joint on Bowery.
“I saw my dad, who I haven’t spoken to in a decade, there in line. Ordering a pie. I only knew it was him because who else gets a pizza with only mushrooms and pineapple, then pepperonis on the side?
Who else talks with such gravel in their voice that you wonder if this man’s vocal cords were the victim of some drive-by shooting? Who else wears carpenter jeans with holes wide enough to slip the legs of an abandoned child through? Who else pays with money kept inside their worn boots, knowing that is the place least likely to be ripped off by muggers?
Who else, in such a mental state, refers to every sympathetic cashier as Bobo, some childhood friend that may or may not have been imaginary? Who else
shuffles their feet in a way sweet to unknowing bystanders but annoyed me to the point I pretended I didn’t know the man? Who else has a tattoo of a rose dotted with yellow letters on his arm, a representation of my mom who he loved once, but left him for a man thirty miles away? Who else could this man be: unshaven, unconcerned with the world, and not knowing his own flesh and blood was right behind him?
The accountant had us. He was only three months into the job. Fresh out of college. But he was slick. He was a storyteller. The whole thing should have just perplexed me. But instead, it made me mad. Here I was, three years into my role, the chief marketer at the firm. How is this trust fund punk better at telling stories than I am?
He continued.
And so he paid for his pizza with those wadded-up bills. I wasn’t sure what to do. What do I even say? I left when I hit eighteen. I never looked back. This man wouldn’t even recognize me now. Even if he did he surely hates me.”
We all stared at the young accountant, desperate to no longer hang from this cliff. “So what did you do?” asked Gloria, our eager receptionist, taking another swig from her glass of wine.
“Well, when he turned around to leave, I just said, “Hey, Dad.” And he looked up at me, and stared for a few seconds, tears welling in his eyes. A stupid grin hit his face and he asked me if I wanted his pepperonis. I choked up. He knew those were my favorite part of the pizza. He hated them. But he still ordered them on the side, always for me.”
Everyone loved it. They oohed and ahhed and all that crap. A few of the women wiped tears. I waved the proverbial white flag. I knew my story, the one about the time I shared a cab with Bill Murray, wasn’t quite as punch-worthy. It doesn’t hold this emotional edge. Not here. Not now. So I put the story away for another time.
I caught up with Devin a few months later. We’d pass in the hall from time to time, a brief nod of acknowledgment. Neither of us caring much for the other, but also neither of us having a reason not to.
We happened to be at the same bar. Me with a friend, Devin alone at the bar, watching a basketball game. Sixers-Knicks. The second quarter had just started. Embiid already had three fouls.
I came up beside him to order beers for my friend and me.
“Hey man. What’s up?”
Devin nodded. “What’s up?”
”Not much. Just catching up with an old friend.” I motioned back to Matt, a roomate from college I hadn’t seen in a few years.
”Cool, man.” He looked back at the TV. I stood waiting, not saying anything for a minute or two. Then the urge hit me.
”That was a wild story you told a while back.”
Furrowing his brow, he tilted his head and glanced at me, silent.
”The one about seeing your dad at the pizza place?”
He took a drink from his beer. “Ah, yeah.” He smiled.
”You keeping up with him now? Talking more?” I didn’t really care, but I just couldn’t get past the crazy coincidence of him in the same place as his dad whom he hadn’t seen in forever.
”Actually,” he said as he drank deep again from his Sam Adams. “I made it all up.”
He laughed abruptly. Like he didn’t think I’d be offended. As if anyone can spin up a story like that and pass it off as sincere then pull the rug from beneath all of us so casually. But it wasn’t all of us. It was just me. Alone at the bar with him.
“Oh.” The bartender handed me the drinks. “Wow.” I didn’t give myself away, I don’t think. Maybe my cheeks got red. I wanted to punch him. I wanted to draw back and crush his glasses, the ones he said were Tom Ford. Said they cost him $350. Was he lying about that too?
Of course, I didn’t do that. I didn’t do anything. I just said, “Alright, well, have a good night.”
”Yeah, man. You too.”
Over the next few weeks, I ran through my own story. Meeting Bill Murray was interesting, but sharing a cab with him was even better. Wasn’t it? I doubted myself. The truth was on my side, but I needed more firepower. A bigger name. Taylor Swift? No one would believe that. Maybe an author. Jonathan Franzen? Taylor Jenkins Reid? I’d have to figure out how many co-workers were readers. I decided I’d stick with Bill Murray. Likable guy. But not too far-fetched that it would be inconceivable I rode in a cab with him. I knew what I’d do. I’d fudge the date a bit. By a few weeks. Months. But that’s all.
This is what I’d do. I’d tell them about sharing an Uber with a well-known actor. They’d all stop, these co-workers of mine, and hold their drinks steady while waiting for me to namedrop. I’d say Bill Murray to little fanfare, a few people murmuring “Oh, that’s cool.”
But then I’d tell them the date it happened: February 3rd. I’d pause. They’d shrug. I’d wistfully hold out my hands. “Don’t you know what February 3rd was?” They’d look at each other, half guessing the day, half wondering why they should care. That’s when I say it.
“Groundhog Day.”
So there we are, I think it was mid-November, and I’m sitting in the booth with five others from the office. More come in. We move to a back room with a long table. There must be close to a dozen of us. I’m halfway through a Guinness when I get everyone’s attention.
“So…I’ve got a story.” They all look at me. Everyone’s in a good mood. The holidays are getting close. The weekend even closer. I bounce my eyes from face to face.
“Hey, where’s Devin?” I asked. Gloria, the receptionist we all genuinely liked, spoke up. “Oh, that’s right! I don’t know if you guys know.”
”What happened?” Steve, the sales rep we all pretended to like centered his coaster and put his beer back down.
”I heard Devin put in his two weeks today. He got a gig at a bigger firm. Merkin and Goss.” We all looked at each other with shock. “Whoa. They pull eight-figure accounts in all the time,” Steve said. I began to like him less.
Gloria nodded in agreement. “I heard he’ll be making twice as much there. Plus their bonuses average twenty-five grand each year.” I finished off my Guinness, then folded my story neatly and tucked it back in my pocket. Figuratively, of course. I didn’t actually write it out. I spent enough time memorizing it. Reciting it, even. I know the words to emphasize. The dramatic pauses. And in a flash of anger, told them the truth.
“You know, he lied to us.”
”What do you mean?” Priya, the graphic artist was the first to ask. “When did he lie?” Steve added.
”The story about his dad. In the pizza place. With the pepperonis.”
A few groans. A few glances around. Seconds later, Steve spoke up. “C’mon, man. No one’s gonna lie about something like that.”
Gloria, whom I was also beginning to like less, looked at me. “I think it’s disrespectful to even think that he’d make up that story. You should be better than that.”
I swallowed. I knew my face was red. The tension at the table was thick. I picked up my bottle and tapped it a few times. I tilted it slowly in her direction. “You know Gloria, people don’t like you as much as you think. I’m not surprised your husband left you.” She gave me a shocked look. Steve put his hand on my shoulder “Bro, what are you doing?” Priya gave me a cringe face and looked away. I excused myself to the restroom. I bypassed the men’s room, then walked outside, already making up my mind. I’d put in my two weeks’ notice tomorrow.
But I didn’t. I called in sick instead. Said it felt like the flu. Lied about having a fever. I played video games all day, ordering in a foot-long sub from Geno’s for lunch. I texted Jenny to see if she wanted to go out to dinner, acting like I forgot all about what I did to her back in the summer.
“R U serious?” is all she texted back.
I binged some mediocre show on Netflix before finally going to bed. Scrolling through my phone, I saw Devin’s post about his new job. How excited he was to join a “winning team” and “get the bag he deserved”. He shared a photo out at some other bar, some people I didn’t know surrounding him. I could swear Jenny was in the picture in the back, holding up a glass. It’s hard to tell.
I tapped the like button, then tapped it again. “Screw it,” I thought to myself. I went to his page and tapped “remove connection.” Putting the phone on the nightstand, I turned over and lied to myself out loud. “That feels better.”