Fiction Fragment Friday
Sometimes my installements have a deeper meaning, sometimes they grow organically from a phrase, and sometimes they are justwriting to ensure that I wrote for the week. Which one was this story? Well why does something have to be just one thing?
“You ever have a moment when you realize you don’t even know who you are anymore?”
I held up the bag of food in front of me. “Uh, I’m the delivery guy. You ordered Mexican food.”
“No, no, no. See, that’s your job, but who are you? Are you your job? No, I don’t think so.” The stranger was getting uncomfortably close as he examined me. No part of him seemed capable of staying still for more than a fraction of a second.
“Are you going to take the bag?”
He grabbed his food from my hand and tossed it behind him into a recliner just inside his front door.
“See, I don’t know who I am anymore.”
“Like amnesia?”
“No, no, no. I know who I was and what I’ve done. I just don’t know who I am. I used to be a theoretical physicist. Then I got fired. Am I not one anymore because no one pays me to be? That doesn’t seem right.”
I was starting to go from weirded out to concerned for my own safety. Was I dealing with someone who had snapped after being fired?
“I used to read a lot,” he said as he continued without waiting for a response. “Oh, and I enjoyed long car rides. I don’t have time for any of that these days, though.”
“You might have more time now if you lost your job.” I said it trying to offer a bit of hope, but realized instead it was probably the most insensitive thing I could have said.
“But do I even want to anymore? That’s the question my boy and I don’t know the answer.”
I pointed past him to the chair. “I need to take a picture of the food to prove I delivered it.”
“Need. See now, that is so much more simple. We know what we need. Or do we just think we do? You need to take a picture. Why? Because you need to get paid. Why do you need to get paid? So you can afford to eat.” He chopped one hand into the other moving to the left like he was counting. “Picture, paid, food. Logical progression.”
“Yeah… So can I get that picture?”
“Sure, sure, sure go ahead.” He stepped to the side so I could grab the picture with my phone. The moment I stepped past him, he leaned in right next to my ear.
“But what do you like to eat? Is that part of how you define yourself?”
“Not really,” I said, trying to lean away and almost falling over.
“Dude, what is your problem?”
“I already told you,” he said, tilting his head as he stared at me. “I don’t know who I am.” It was a whisper I could barely hear.
I had my picture, and he had already put in the tip, so I knew my money was secure. My reason for being polite was gone. “You’re the crazy guy who lives on Wilson Street that’s who you are. I should have known better than to take this delivery.”
“But you did, didn’t you? Why I wonder. Is that part of who you are?” He stood up straight and rubbed his chin for a minute. “Am I crazy? I don’t feel crazy. Are we what others define us as being or what we decide we are? Can you choose who you are or is it an inherent part of you?”
I pointed toward my car with my thumb. “I’m just gonna go now.”
“Think about what I’ve said. Think about it while you can. While you still know who you are.” He yelled after me as I ran to my car.
The interaction haunted me for the rest of the night. I couldn’t decide if I had been scared, angry, or just confused. Perhaps it was a bit of all three. Yes, I was definitely the kind of person who would feel all three.