“So then I says, ‘Whaddya mean no more chocolate glazed donuts?’ And the guy, he says, ‘We’re out.’ So I says ...”
Yet another harbinger of old age to come: the brutally banal stories his older friends enact for him. Everything — everything — becomes a Shakespearean opus, replete with character descriptions, action narratives and detailed dialogue. Doesn’t matter how mundane the story — waiting in line at DMV, setting up a dentist appointment, getting the morning toast to the perfect shade of brown — they all merit a full-scale, one-person production.
At what age does this recessive bard gene kick in? Are we born with it and await its ill-fated debut as we get old?
Or is it that younger folk have so much good shit going on that they want to get right past the mindless daily rituals as fast as possible so they can tell you about this hot man or woman that kind of smiled at them at the coffee shop, or this potential job opportunity that will take them to Australia, or this bike-to-hike-to-rock-climb thing they’re locking in for a month sabbatical.
He guessed that, when you run out of those kinds of worthwhile stories, you have to transfer your storytelling skills to the coffee shop line you had to wait on.
Thank God he’s not there.
As a professional writer who gets paid for imagination and storytelling, he has to choose his spots for tale regaling. If he were to ramble on about misplacing a dry cleaning ticket to his younger clients, his work would dry up. Release an unabridged diatribe about leaf blower noise from the landscaping crew next door, and those young, back packing, rock climbing clients would give him that confused/glazed/pitying look as they politely nod their heads, wondering if this yawn fest will ever end.
Kind of like the look he gives his older friends now as they pontificate on the troublesome traffic lines at the drive-through donut place.
He sees his storytelling future, and it ain’t pretty.