An Unfinished Story...
Don't have much this week. Just the beginning to an unfinished story, that I edited too many times. Enjoy!
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My name is Walt Kovetsky. When I was thirty I wrote a book that helped a lot of people. I’m currently reading it, and it doesn’t seem to be helping me at all, but they gave me a Pulitzer for it in 1978, so it must have helped someone. Right now I’m sitting in a coffee shop involuntarily listening to some bonehead babble on about his life to a disinterested friend. He hasn’t taken a breath since I sat down.
“My grandma smoked a carton a day, not a pack dude, a carton—Her sister never smoked, she’s 104, and went rollerblading with all of her 100 year old friends on her birthday—my brother asks me to borrow money all the time—my father is really really smart, like really smart—.” The other guy’s sitting across from him, his leg restless, nodding and smiling.
“Yep—Oh my god, no way—my father—Oh—well ya—totally.” I wonder if this other guy knows how rare it is to live till a hundred? It is very fucking hard. There aren't just a handful of hundred year olds in every old folks home or neighbourhood in every city across this country. It is very hard to live that long. You have to be lucky. And rollerblading? Does this fool expect me to believe that his really really smart father let his aunt rollerblade when her bones are essentially as strong as a toothpick? Rock and roll my friend. Someday you’re going to die, your last words are going to be a lie, you’re going to realize it and try to say something true before it goes black, but your voice will weaken and you’ll be too late. My god that’s dark. Here's the thing: I don’t wish this babbling prick any harm. I just wish he would talk less I guess. And though I believe that I’m probably right about everything I just said, you don’t know how much that hurts. Believe me, I know how egotistical it is to say such a thing, but hear me out.
Years ago, I could have helped this man. He could have found solace in my book. That’s what the book was about, not lying to yourself. Human beings are the only mammal on earth that partake in the luxury of lying to ourselves. Most of us are not hungry enough, or sick enough, or scared enough, and what happens is that our problems become abstract. These are the problems we lie about. This guy beside me, his Aunt is probably 90, his grandmother probably died at 80 from smoking a pack and a half a day, which by all means is a little impressive, in an extremely mundane way. Maybe his father was too smart to relate with him as a growing kid. Maybe he found comfort in his boring aunt, and makes up little facts to tell everyone about her because there’s something weird about a 25 year old being best friends with his 90 year old great aunt. Either way, I can deduce that he is lying about something simply by the amount that he is talking. I used to talk a lot too. People would come to me and look at me like an alien and expect me to say something that helped them. So I would say the first thing that came to my mind. It was usually a passage from my book, or an inspirational quote from one of my heroes, which of course is lazy, and a load of shit, but it seemed to work— it seemed to relieve some tension from their eyes and I was glad I could help. I still can’t believe they never noticed me wiping my nose, or the bourbon on my breath, but like I said, we humans know how to lie to ourselves.
My problems were abstract. I spent most of my time travelling the world promoting my book. My life was supposed to be easy— board a plane, take a sleeping pill, wake up when it landed —flag a taxi, drive to a hotel—check in, have a drink, eat something, fall asleep— wake up, have a coffee and prepare myself for a day of speaking and signing. The hard part was finished. I had written the book that sent millions around the world flocking to me with adulation and hopes of guidance. All I had to do was keep my head attached to my body. That sounds pretty easy right?
One night I woke up on a red eye from Chicago and I thought that I was dying. I was sweating, my hand was numb and my heart was beating a mile a minute. I begged the flight attendant to land the plane. I announced that I had accidentally ingested some cocaine before we took off—that I was running on very few hours of sleep and that I would probably die. My last memory before fainting is looking around at a plane full of horrified passengers, one remarking “Hey! Isn’t that the lie guy?”
When I woke up on the tarmac, my hand was no longer numb and my heartbeat had slowed down. There was a general feeling of nervous energy shooting through my body, but I knew that I was in fact, not dying. A paramedic was standing over me, looking down with the remnants of a smile. I could tell he knew who I was.
“Have you ever had a panic attack Mr. Kovetsky?” You can imagine my shame. I looked up at him like a newborn baby.
“Does it look like it?” I replied. He raised his eyebrows.
“No sir, it does not. How much cocaine did you “accidentally” ingest?” I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t muster the energy—no tears, no sound. Just a pathetic man chopped down to hell. I think you can fill in the blanks, but for interest sake I can tell you the story with newspaper clippings.
SELF HELP GURU UPROOTS PLANE WITH ANXIETY SPELL is actually a pretty damn funny headline if you ask me, damaging, but funny nonetheless.
SELF HELP GURU RUMOURED TO HAVE SUBSTANCE ABUSE ISSUE is a little more damaging, and just as funny.
SELF HELP GURU REPORTED MISSING BY WIFE was not damaging at all by that point, and not funny.
WALT KOVETSKY CHECKS INTO REHAB. Dare I say a comeback story?
WALT KOVETSKY AND WIFE RUMOURED TO BE ON THE OUTS. That was all she wrote. I watched myself disintegrate in the morning paper. The world detached itself from me one clipping at a time. I couldn’t even whimper, it was too damn funny. Rock and Roll Walt. Rock and Roll New York Times. Rock and Roll Margo.
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No live stream in the app this week but we’ll be back on it next week, stay tuned for details.
- Brett