Non-Story

“So, what’s it about?”

Thomas cocked his head slightly, “What’s what about?” He had not been paying attention to the conversation for a couple of minutes now. Instead, he had been focusing all of his attention on the new red-haired waitress. She had her hair in pigtails and wore a tight t-shirt that didn’t quite reached down to her waist, exposing a well-defined midriff along with an eye-catching belly-button ring.

Thomas and his friend Matt, the one that had asked the question, had been coming to the Walnut St. Café for two years now, and every waitress (never a waiter) had come with a short shirt and a pierced belly button. This fact alone was why both Matt and Thomas continued to come to the café long after graduation, when caffeine was no longer required to fill the gap between last night’s party and today’s classes.

Matt sighed, shaking his head in frustration. “Your story.” He paused for a moment, waiting for Thomas’s eyes to shift from the waitress back to him. “The one that you’ve been wasting all of your time on. The one that you were worked on instead of going to Jeff’s party.”

Thomas finished pouring the second creamer into his coffee before replying. “Oh, right. It’s, uh…well, it’s...” Thomas cooled his drink by blowing on it while he tried to find the words.

Glancing one last time at the redhead, he answered, “Well, it’s not exactly what you would call a story. I mean, it is a story – characters, fiction, dialogue – all that. What I mean to say is that it’s not what you’d call a story.” He placed the emphasis on the word “you,” dragging out the word to drive his point home.

The Walnut St. Café was one of those cozy, hole-in-the-wall establishments that were better known for ambience than flavor. From the halogen lamps to the used books lining the walls to the ceramic kittens arranged on the mantel over the faux fireplace – every detail was meticulously planned to make the patrons feel like they were in someone’s home.

The walls were a faded beige, artificially scuffed and marred to exaggerate their age. Old, worn couches were littered about, carefully placed to maximize conversation. It was, in fact, on one of these couches – a blue and green striped one – that Thomas and Matt held their conversation.

Finding the words, Thomas finally answered, “Not a lot happens in it really, it’s just about two guys sitting around talking. Kind of like we’re doing now.”

Matt let this sink in for a moment. “So it’s about a couple of guys sitting around a coffee shop? That sounds boring.”

Thomas shook his head. “No. They’re not at a coffee shop. They’re at a bus stop.”

“Still sounds pretty stupid.” It was now Matt’s turn to blow on his coffee. After taking a sip, he added, “I thought you wrote sci-fi stuff, anyway.”

“Well, it’s at a bus stop in the future.” Ignoring the scowl this answer brought to his friend, Thomas continued, “They’re talking about bus schedules.”

Matt set his coffee down. “You’re kidding, right?” Thomas’s sheepish grin was a clear enough answer. “You’re not kidding…Holy crap, dude. That just sounds god-awful. Why would you think that anyone wants to read that? Nobody wants to read about two guys talking about bus schedules in the future.”

“Well,” Thomas answered defensively, “they’re actually talking about literature.”

“What?”

“Yeah, the bus schedules are a metaphor for literary conventions.” Thomas took another sip, letting the fact sink in. “It’s really self-reflective about the nature of writing and the role the speaker plays in the voice and tone of –“

Matt cut him off before he could finish. “You’ve already lost me. I’m not even reading it, and you’ve already lost me. Nobody in human history has ever wanted to sit down and waste their time, reading about two guys sitting around a coffee shop—”

“Bus station.”

“—bus station, talking about literature.”

“Hey guys. Can I get either of you anything?” It was the red-haired waitress that Thomas had been ogling earlier.

“N-no. We’re good.” As always, Thomas’s stutter acted up when speaking to women. Matt let himself smile at his friend’s discomfort.

“Okay, then. Well, let me know if you change your mind.”

She began to walk off when Matt stopped her. “Actually, there is something you could help us with.”

“Yes?”

“Well, my friend and I were having a discussion, and we were hoping an outside opinion would prove useful.”

The waitress wore a coy smile. Even though she was new, she was already used to being hit on by customers. “Sure. What do you want to know?”

Cocking his head slightly and in the most serious tone he could muster, Matt asked, “Do you find bus schedules interesting?”

“That’s your question?”

“Yeah.”

She allowed herself a slight laugh before responding. “No. I don’t find bus schedules interesting.”

Matt nodded his head briefly in agreement. “Fair enough.” He continued with the serious tone he had used earlier. “Now, what if I told you that the bus schedules are a metaphor for literature? Would you have the same answer?”

The waitress’s confusion was obvious on her face. “Um. I’d still say that they weren’t interesting.”

Matt smiled “Thanks.” He turned back to face Thomas.

“That’s it?” the waitress asked.

“Yeah. Thanks again.” As she walked away he smiled at Thomas. “ See, I told you.”

Thomas had been much less entertained by the exchange. Staring Matt straight in the eye he said, “You’re a dick.”

“What?”

“You didn’t have to embarrass me in front of her.” Thomas’s face was a slightly flushed, showing how upset he was.

“Dude, she didn’t even notice you. If anything, she thinks I’m the weird one.”

“Whatever.” Thomas shifted his focus to stirring his coffee.

Matt allowed his friend a couple of minutes to calm down. When he was sure that the storm was over, he continued, “Is the bus at least cool?”

“Huh?” Thomas pried his gaze back from another waitress, a brunette this time.

“The future-bus, does it come flying in? Or is it driven by a robot or something?”

Thomas’s sheepish grin returned, “Well, it’s not that kind of future. It takes place three months in the future.”

“What?”

Thomas nodded to make it clear that he was serious. “Yeah, that’s one of the things I was playing with. See, the story is about you in the future.” He pointed at Matt when he said “you.”

“The story is about me?”

Thomas corrected him. “Not you, you. The reader, you. Every reader. It’s about everybody. Anyway, I wrote the story in the future, but at a defined point in the future so everything is in the future imperfect tense. In other words, every time I use a verb I –”

Matt raised his hands, stopping him. “Dude. Stop. No. You’re done. You’re done. I am not going to hear anything more about your stupid future but not future story of two guys sitting at a bus station.”

Before Thomas could respond, Matt continued. “It’s a story. In the future. If you do a story in the future, you either have robots, lasers, or space travel,” he said, counting off the options on his fingers. “I don’t even like this crap, and I know that. You write a future story about technology going crazy or the perfect society going down the toilet or something like that. Sci-fi is all about picking a trend that’s going on today and then running that concept into the ground. You don’t write a story about bus schedules.”

Thomas’s annoyance was starting to show, his words biting as he answered. “I told you when we started this conversation that it wasn’t what you would consider a story.” Again he dragged out the word “you.” Crossing his arms, he continued “I didn’t write it for you, anyway. I wrote it to make money.”

Matt’s voice raised in pitch as he asked “How are you going to make money off of a stupid-ass story like the one you just described?”

“Well, I was going to try to sell it to one of those literary journals. They eat this crap up,” he explained. “They’re all about self-reflective writing, and if you sprinkle in a few college lit words – intertextual, juxtapose, interlocutor – they’ll be throwing money at you.”

Matt’s tone showed that he was quickly losing interest in the conversation. “Whatever, man. It’s still a crappy story.”

After sitting in silence for a few seconds, he added. “You know what you should do? You should apologize to your readers at the end. You should make a new character that represents the reader.” He pointed to a man sitting at a table nearby. “Like that guy.” Matt’s finger ticked slightly to the right as he added “or her.”

The man was rather ordinary in appearance. He was of average height and average weight, wearing common clothes that one would find anywhere. His skin was a light tan that made it difficult to tell his race. His hair was in a popular style, and the color seemed to shift depending on how the light hit it. The woman that Matt had indicated was seated next to him, and oddly enough, matched the same description.

“You should have one of your cyborg bus passengers from three weeks in the future, turn to the reader character,” Matt turned his body away from Thomas to the couple now collectively designated as “the reader”, making it difficult to tell which of the two he was addressing, “and your character should say something to the reader, like, ‘I’m sorry. I have no business writing. I am not the least bit entertaining. I lack both talent and skill, and I sincerely apologize for the verbal suckage that I have just forced upon you.’”

Matt turned back to face Thomas. “Or something like that.”

Thomas sat still for a moment, his eyes focusing on the almost empty cup of coffee in front of him. With a sigh that conceded defeat he murmured, “Yeah, you’re probably right.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out some change, and dropped it on the table. Standing up from his chair, he paused, his eyes again resting on the last few sips of coffee in his cup.

“On second thought,” he said as he scooped up the change, dumped it back into his pocket, and downed the last of his coffee, “screw ‘em. Screw ‘em all.”

Thomas then walked out of the café with his middle finger extended, passing by Matt, the red-haired waitress, and the average couple – the readers.