Christopher Cassavella<\/p>\n
Joe tells me to close my eyes.<\/p>\n
I do.<\/p>\n
Then Joe tells me to picture someone who is plain-faced.<\/p>\n
I say, okay. Eyes still closed, I picture actor Mark Ruffalo.<\/p>\n
Joe says there\u2019s a firm rule in place for whomever I have just pictured. The rule is they have to be zany or they have to do something zany or that something zany has to happen to them. He tells me I get to choose which of these scenarios I like best and then gives me the gift of adding in all the zany <\/i>details.<\/p>\n
Okay, I say.<\/p>\n
Make sure it\u2019s all very unlikely, he tells me. Make sure whatever happens they —<\/p>\n
I fucking got it, I say.<\/p>\n
I choose choice three: something zany happens to them. I picture my plain-faced Mark Ruffalo becoming a homeless leper and traveling around America, desperately trying to convince people he\u2019s actually Mark Ruffalo. He forces his autograph on people, begs for scraps of food, and loses a limb in every state.<\/p>\n
I have everything pictured, I say to Joe.<\/p>\n
He says for me to keep picturing whomever I\u2019ve made up and to now add a few people into the scenario like some family of my plain-faced person and maybe throw in a couple of strangers he\u2019s met through his zaniness. Now, Joe says, we have a good set of characters and they\u2019re talking to one another and this is extremely important because this equals dialogue, and dialogue and what\u2019s happened to my plain guy (Mark Ruffalo) births a byproduct called conflict. The outcome of this conflict leads to a moral, a lesson, a truth. Finally, Joe says, picture your plain guy either smiling or crying at the end of all the mishap and then add in some other obtuse element. I picture my Mark Ruffalo crying and holding a grapefruit.<\/p>\n
Then Joe tells me to open my eyes.<\/p>\n
Now, after all that, he says, the viewers, the readers, the listeners, me, have all been entertained and come away with some meaning which relates to their life. We\u2019ve just made up a story, Joe says. Simple shit to do, he claims. Every story that has ever been made follows this exact formula.<\/p>\n
Of course, this is just his theory. Joe has a lot of these awful things. Another theory of his concludes a handsome man has never once gone bald in the history of the world. My favorite of his theories, though, states people actually live forever because the time before your birth and after your death aren\u2019t time at all, time is only a thing when you\u2019re living. It\u2019s the only theory of his that might be true.<\/p>\n
\u201cThink about it,\u201d Joe goes on. \u201cName one story where some sort of zaniness doesn\u2019t play a major role. Or a story where something highly unlikely doesn\u2019t happen. All surrealist writing, all that horror bullshit, sci-fi, is crap. That\u2019s easy to write. Give me a book where nothing at all happens to anybody, that has no dialogue and has no description, that\u2019s the book I want to read. I should try to write it. It\u2019d be a challenge and nobody has the cojones to take it on.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m sure there are stories where crazy things don\u2019t happen but I can\u2019t think of any off the top of my head.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIf this was a story, I\u2019d take out a gun and hold this restaurant up.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cLower your voice.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cEverybody would panic. Maybe I even kill a person or two. Then throw in some suspense, some boring outcome and there you have it. And because it will cause conflict and entertain whoever is watching or reading about me doing this thing it will get their mind off their terrible existence which is the very definition of entertainment. And if the story is successful enough they\u2019ll learn a thing or two and maybe see the world a little differently. But I wouldn\u2019t do any of that because this is real life, and nothing in real life ever happens.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOkay, so I guess we should add that to the pile of stupid things you\u2019ve said? Things happen all the time.\u201d I don\u2019t know why I argue with him. But then, interestingly enough, I think: dialogue.<\/p>\n
\u201cHappens to who? To people you don\u2019t know, right? To people you\u2019ve read about online or saw on your tv.\u201d He leans back in his chair. \u201cWho knows if those assholes exist? I don\u2019t even know if ninety-nine percent of the world exists out there. The Pacific Ocean might be a gag, all those little Russian villages across the world with their fucking matryoshka dolls fitting inside one another might just be someone having a good laugh on us, having us think the world is this big place when it\u2019s not any bigger than what our eyes can see. What\u2019s ever happened to you? I can\u2019t think of anything ever happening to you. I know nothing has ever happened to me. I\u2019m proof with a heartbeat that nothing ever happens to anybody.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMy grandmother just died a few months ago. You knew that.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNope. Doesn\u2019t count.\u201d He shakes his head.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat? It was awful for me and my family. My mother couldn\u2019t even get herself to go to the funeral.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo offense, but that\u2019s no big deal. People die all the time. People are dying as you eat your fourth slice of pizza. There\u2019s nothing zany about death.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cShe got hit by a bus. Some kids pushed her wheelchair into the street. That\u2019s not zany enough for you, asshole?\u201d<\/p>\n
At this revelation, Joe is quiet. Grandma Venton didn\u2019t actually get hit by a bus. I guess you could say it was the clock that hit her. But Joe doesn\u2019t know this. Joe sits across from me, thinking of ways to tune his theories so they\u2019ll sound like truth.<\/p>\n
After a few more minutes and another slice of pizza we\u2019re about ready to go. I get up and tell Joe I have to take a quick piss and tell him to figure out the tip for me. Once we leave I wouldn\u2019t mind going to get drunk. A friend like Joe promotes the intake of alcohol. When I\u2019m five beers in and at peace with his voice, the theories actually sound interesting.<\/p>\n
I pass through the crowded restaurant, full of smiling people, full of brick oven pizza enthusiasts, full of tourists, and full of chatty kids who hide olives in their mother\u2019s purses. It\u2019s warm. It\u2019s quiet. It\u2019s a cozy place right in Times Square. Forty-Third Street. .0000001 of the world. .0000000000000000000000000001 x infinity of the universe. Interestingly, I think: setting.<\/p>\n
I\u2019m taking a leak in the bathroom when Joe barges in. He\u2019s holding my coat and a slice of pizza.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe\u2019re going.\u201d<\/p>\n
I shake the last drip out and say, \u201cAll right, give me a second.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWe\u2019re leaving and we\u2019re not paying is what I mean. It\u2019s my new thing. I don\u2019t pay for food in restaurants anymore. If I told you before we ate, you would\u2019ve never came out with me.\u201d He shakes his head and wrinkles his nose. I\u2019m not sure if it\u2019s because there\u2019s a bad smell in the bathroom or if he\u2019s just getting more pretentious as the days go — pardon the pun — down the toilet.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, we\u2019re paying,\u201d I say. \u201cI\u2019m not doing that to them here. I\u2019ll pay for the two of us, can\u2019t be more than twenty bucks for a pie and two sodas.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI just can\u2019t let you pay. I haven\u2019t paid for food in three months. Here\u2019s your coat. Let\u2019s go.\u201d He takes a bite of his folded \u2018za and stares at me.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy? Why do you do this all of a sudden?\u201d As I put my coat on, I decide I don\u2019t want to hear Joe\u2019s latest theory. \u201cNo, tell me later.\u201d<\/p>\n
I reach into my pocket for my wallet. It isn\u2019t where it should be.<\/p>\n
Joe is holding it and smiling. \u201cI\u2019m not giving this to you,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe\u2019re not fourteen. We can\u2019t be doing shit like this,\u201d I say, \u201cjust give me the money.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNot a chance,\u201d he says. \u201cI swear to you, there isn\u2019t a thing you could do to get me to hand it over.\u201d He begins to walk out of the bathroom.<\/p>\n
I can\u2019t believe we\u2019re actually going to do this. But I think: conflict.<\/p>\n
\u201cCome on, Joe,\u201d I plead one last time, \u201cthis is stupid. Let\u2019s just pay.\u201d<\/p>\n
He shakes his head and I know he cannot be reached. He is the dead person behind that cheery voicemail. As he opens the bathroom door, from behind us comes a voice.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou ain\u2019t really gonna leave without paying, boys?\u201d says this voice.<\/p>\n
It\u2019s the plain voice of a man, and it\u2019s coming from inside one of the stalls. We can hear the stall door unlatch. I\u2019m not sure if Joe is as frozen as me because terror gets an A+ at making you forget about everybody else in the world.<\/p>\n
The stall door swings open. I feel like this stall door swings opens slowly, like slow motion is employed here for the benefit of people that aren\u2019t me or Joe.<\/p>\n
I watch as the man steps out. I find my eyes to be useless, only able to stare at his boots.<\/p>\n
Uninterestingly, I think: suspense.<\/p>\n
His boots are black and muddy. As my eyes go up, slowly, they scan unimportant details <\/i>like his tucked-in checkered button-down, the tattered wool peacoat, a belt buckle that is in the shape of Texas, but then I see he\u2019s missing a hand. In the hand he still has, he\u2019s holding his once-attached hand. Finally my eyes reach his plain face.<\/p>\n
Of course it\u2019s . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mark, fucking, Ruffalo.<\/p>\n
At least I think it\u2019s him . . . his face is dirty and pale. He has a big, ugly bruise over his left eye, and most of his hair is missing, and in the places he does have any left it\u2019s very long and white.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou two planning to dash and dine?\u201d he says.<\/p>\n
Joe comes forward and says, \u201cI think it\u2019s called dine and dash.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t give a fuck what it\u2019s called!\u201d he says. \u201cThrow me the wallet. And then lock the door.\u201d<\/p>\n
Joe does as he\u2019s told. Mark picks up the wallet and shakes his head when he sees how scrawny the numbered bills are.<\/p>\n
\u201cAll right, then,\u201d he says. \u201cYou boys know who I am, right?\u201d He takes turns looking to me and Joe.<\/p>\n
\u201cI think so,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
Joe says, \u201cNo. Should we know you?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSeriously? You\u2019ve never seen one of my movies? I\u2019ve been in a lot of them. I know you\u2019ve seen some. 13 Going on 30<\/i> was a decent one, I was a chubby little kid in the beginning of that one. How about that one where I played a brain doctor on Shutter Island? Or do you need me to fucking prove who I am? I will. You\u2019ll see.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, Mr. Ruffalo. We\u2019re sure it\u2019s you,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
Joe, being an asshole, shrugs.<\/p>\n
Mark doesn\u2019t notice Joe\u2019s shrug. \u201cGood to hear that, because I really am him. You really don\u2019t want me to prove it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d I say. \u201cIt\u2019s you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAll right, good. So, who\u2019s got the pen?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cA pen?\u201d I say. \u201cOh, I have one, in my coat pocket.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, take it out.\u201d<\/p>\n
I listen to him. With the pen in my hand I hold it up.<\/p>\n
Mark inspects it. \u201cIt\u2019s red?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
\u201cI prefer black or blue. Even green is all right by me.\u201d He shakes his head and mutters something to himself. \u201cYou know something? It\u2019s fine. Red ink is okay. Who wants to go first?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cFor what?\u201d Joe says.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy autograph. Which one of you wants it first?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNot me,\u201d Joe says.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat? Why not?\u201d Mark says.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t ask anybody for their autograph. And I won\u2019t accept it, neither,\u201d Joe says.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cJoe, not now,\u201d I say. \u201cJust take his fucking autograph.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, I can\u2019t accept another human being\u2019s signature. I won\u2019t allow myself. No offense, I\u2019m sure you\u2019re whoever you say you are, but I don\u2019t need another man\u2019s autograph.\u201d<\/p>\n
By now my mind has settled and it\u2019s started thinking a little better. I think: just a big coincidence, right? But this is much too zany <\/i>to be some stale coincidence. This is all just a little too like the scenario I made up in my head back at the table before.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m not happy to hear that. Usually, people just take it. But I don\u2019t want to get all nuts like that big green guy I played. How about something to eat? Could you do that for me? I\u2019ve barely eaten anything in days. Last thing I had was half a grapefruit. If you do that for me, we\u2019ll be even.\u201d Mark says.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat I can do,\u201d says Joe. \u201cWe still have some slices left on the table.\u201d As Joe leaves the bathroom he mouths, \u201cWho?\u201d to me.<\/p>\n
Mark and I look at each other. \u201cWhat about you?\u201d he says. \u201cI\u2019m signing something for you. What do you want me to sign?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou could sign this, here.\u201d I give him a pamphlet I was handed when walking to the restaurant.<\/p>\n
\u201cGood.\u201d He smiles as he scribbles his name down with the only hand he has attached anymore.<\/p>\n
I take the autograph and thank him.<\/p>\n
Joe comes back with two cold slices and gives them over to Mark. He places his unattached hand on the floor and eats in a hurry.<\/p>\n
\u201cCan we go?\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou really want to leave?\u201d He thinks about it. \u201cSure, I guess you could. I thought we\u2019d talk about some of my movies. But okay, have fun dashing and dining. Don\u2019t you dare sell that autograph, though!\u201d He laughs, but I know he is serious.<\/p>\n
Joe and I leave the bathroom. We have to leave without paying, because Mr. Ruffalo has my wallet. Outside on the street, I tell Joe that was all too close to the scenario I made up in my head before.<\/p>\n
\u201cA coincidence?\u201d he says.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t think so. I made most of that shit up when my eyes were closed. The long hair, the missing limb, begging people for food. I\u2019m telling you it was almost exactly how I pictured it all. I mean, it was the same fucking guy.\u201d<\/p>\n
Joe is silent as he ponders what I\u2019ve said. \u201cThat is pretty zany, then. I still never heard of him though. An actor?\u201d He shakes his head. \u201cMaybe my initial theory about nothing ever happening in life isn\u2019t right.\u201d Joe says. \u201cUnless . . .\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cUnless what?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, I think we just learned coincidence is another gimmick of story.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBut this isn\u2019t a story,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
Joe looks at me. He opens his mouth, \u201cJust entertain the idea we might be in a stor — \u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d I say. \u201cNo more of your stupid, fucking theories tonight. At least not until we\u2019ve had a few beers.\u201d But then interestingly, I think: plot twist.<\/p>\n
Joe shrugs me off.<\/p>\n
I find myself walking along beside him. I am smiling and holding Mark Ruffalo\u2019s autograph on a Chinese take-out pamphlet.<\/p>\n
CHRISTOPHER CASSAVELLA<\/b> is a recent graduate from Kingsborough Community College where he received his degree in Liberal Arts. Currently, he attends Brooklyn College. Some of his short stories have appeared in Buffalo Almanack<\/i>, Tincture Journal<\/i>, and Front Porch Review<\/i> and are forthcoming in Bartleby Snopes<\/i> and Fabula Argentea<\/i>. He lives in Brooklyn, NY, with his four cats.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Christopher Cassavella Joe tells me to close my eyes. I do. Then Joe tells me to picture someone who is plain-faced. I say, okay. Eyes still closed, I picture actor Mark Ruffalo. Joe says there\u2019s a firm rule in place … Continue reading