Pull any random stranger off the street, and there one finds a story. Such was the familiar adage of any newspaper editor back in the halcyon days of that print medium.
In the spirit of this concept, The Ocalan has taken the next step quite literally by penning the story of a random person simply going about his or her business. So, we bring you “Everyone Has a Story.”
As the aroma of that cheap perfume reaches me, I immediately enter a time warp followed by the emotions that accompanied me that particular day, the day my girl dumped me 35 years ago. Out of nowhere that ever-annoying “Baby Baby” by Amy Grant starts to echo in my mind, yet no one else in the room seems to hear it – the moment of that breakup has forever fused that hated song to that peculiar fragrance, and here we are re-living it again, pain and all.
The scent and song of a moment that accompanied a trauma thought buried deep, suddenly triggers that same nausea as in some Pavlovian experiment. Such emotional recall I had not experienced in quite some time. Then, attempting to interview complete strangers for this magazine, a similar flashback of insecurities grabbed a hold of me as though I was once again back in my twenties.
The department is called “Everyone Has A Story” and usually I find someone eager to share theirs. For this issue, I decided the story should belong to a woman if only because every profile was about a man, and I didn’t want this to read like some men’s journal. It seemed simple – it wasn’t.
For a twenty-something male walking up to a single female in order to strike up a conversation, that was fear. Fear greater than public speaking. Fear greater than a pending deadline. Fear greater than the flashing red and blue lights behind me on the highway. In this endeavor there was always the very real possibility of abject humiliation. You were constantly afflicted with a tongue that would trip you on the way to your desired destination. Rehearsing the words beforehand so you would seem glib, smooth and confident, usually created something akin to Oliver Goldsmith’s famously tongue-tied Charles Marlow.
Here I am today, a middle-aged man, a publisher who has interviewed thousands of subjects ranging from untouchable celebrities to the most pedestrian of civilians, and married with four children, feeling that same anxiety again. Anxiety not because I was single and looking for a date – the goal could not have been any less intimidating to a woman – but because I was looking for a story.
Perhaps it would be best to bring my wife along. She could act as a wingman, much like my old college buddy whose lack of self-awareness allowed him to approach anyone in any situation. It could be at the library, in the aisleway of a football stadium, or even standing just outside the door of a ladies’ room – he didn’t care; the guy was Superman and whatever bullets they fired at him just bounced off like beach balls.
Any trip to the downtown square will inevitably result in meeting interesting people, so that’s where I start. I notice two young ladies and a young man on the corner – perhaps the guy creates the perfect buffer that will allow me to strike up a conversation with one of the ladies! But, they are laughing and dancing, carrying on as teenagers so I must assume that’s what they are. Even looking at them makes me the creep I am trying not to be, so I move on without saying a word.
Where can I avoid the underage lady to find one used to having a stranger strike up a conversation out of nowhere? Yes, the bar!
I casually walk into a quaint Irish pub on the square and behave as though I’m a regular. The old, bearded fellow at the door makes a funny comment to me, but I can’t hear him with all the voices rehearsing in my head. I find a chair at the bar with several open seats next to me – I think to myself, “Who wouldn’t want to take the seat next to that fellow?” Then, Eureka! Two ladies enter – definitely not teenagers – and sit next to me, leaving a gap of one open stool. For the next 10 minutes, rehearsals in my head seem to prepare me for the moment.
“Excuse me, but…” stop right there. Does anything pleasant ever follow the words ‘excuse me?’ Scratch that. “You don’t know me, but…” oh, that’ll never work, either. She’ll have already completed that sentence in her head before I finish: “… would you like me to administer a personality test on you?” Or “… I’m running for City Council and would like to count on your vote.” Or, worse yet, “…I know I’m older than you, but I’ll bet we have a lot in common.”
The result is a rolling of the eyes and turning of the shoulders. So, I resort deep into the playbook: “I’m a writer and I’m not sure if you’ve seen my magazine, but I do a regular article on a random person I meet and I’m wondering if you’d let me interview you for a story?”
Note to self: This approach doesn’t work.
“I don’t think so. Thanks, anyway.” The shoulders definitely turn, and maybe the eyes rolled; I didn’t get a good look.
“Well, here’s my card, so if you change your mind, please feel free to call me.” Please do not call. Never, ever, ever call me!
I leave the tavern $17 poorer and still without a subject. Perhaps the bench in front of the theatre will be a good stakeout position – the prey I seek will eventually meander past. If only an elderly couple were to come by, I’d have my female subject and the male buffer for that natural comfort zone. Damn, I'm smart!
The minutes pass and only a middle-aged woman walks by, staring at the “Walk of Champions” bronze plaques on the ground. Must be an out-of-towner. Upon getting to the corner, she stops, turns around and slowly reverses direction – she’s definitely lost, and what a great opportunity for me to break the ice with something that needs no rehearsal!
“Excuse me, ma’am, can I help you? You look a little lost.” Bingo! Not creepy at all; in fact, very gentleman-like.
“Yes, what’s there to do here? I’m from Pensacola and just checking things out,” she says, probably lying.
“Well, things pick up later in the day, but you still have some cafes and restaurants and of course a gallery down the way. You can hear music down the block at The District – that’s pretty cool; and in that direction is Bank Street, which is open air and has good entertainment.” Spoken like an innocent local with absolutely no intent to harm.
“Okay. I’ll try them. Thanks.”
Time to pounce. I hand her a copy of a recent issue: “I know this may seem awkward, but I publish this magazine and at the moment I happen to be on assignment. I like to interview a random person on the street and get their story. Would you mind sitting down for an interview to be featured?”
No enthusiastic response, but not a ‘no.’ Eventually she agrees, thinking it might be fun, but I still sensed some apprehension.
“So, what’s your name?” Always a good way to start.
“Z.”
Come again? “Z? Is that really your name or just a nickname?”
“Well, most people can’t pronounce it, so I just say Z.”
Lord, help me. I can’t write a story about “Z” – the credibility of the entire publication will go down in flames as everyone thinks I’m just making this up. “Well, let’s try the full name, anyway, along with the last name.”
She’s getting frightened, I can tell. “Well, I’d rather not give out personal information like that.”
She got me. I was next going for her address and social security number. I explained that she’s not in trouble, but I need a name to make this story real. If not, I won’t kidnap anyone over a story.
“Sorry, then.”
“G’bye Z.” I’m sure there’s a ledge somewhere with her full name on it.
Time to leave the downtown square for greener pastures. Where can I find a female that almost has to talk to me? Let’s try a small bar across town.
As soon as I walk into this watering hole, I can tell I am in the right spot. Three people at the bar and a thirty-something laying whiskey down. Bartenders usually listen to the patrons – surely this one will appreciate the role reversal.
After one drink, I let her know I’m a writer and looking for a random person’s story. She gives me details of her life that are writing its own Odyssey. She was once a prison guard, now runs a business and tends bar a couple nights a week for fun.
I take her a copy of the magazine and promise to be back for the interview next week.
“Okay – I’ll just talk it over with my fiancée first.”
Shot down... in a blaze of glory! That sentence told me everything – this wasn’t going to happen. The next week I showed up as promised and I received the answer I already knew: “I love the magazine, but I don’t know if a story on me really fits.”
Now, I suppose everyone is an editor. I’ll be the judge of that, Miss. “Oh, a great story is a great story. Let’s write it!”
“Me and my fiancée don’t think it’s a good idea at this time.”
Scratch the friendly male buffer idea.
I had stumbled upon a cruel realization. I was a confident writer and publisher who had interviewed thousands of subjects, yet could still only approach a strange woman with the same lack of confidence of his 20-year-old self. Eventually that 20-year-old overcame those fears and landed a wife, or maybe just lucked out.
As a 50-something, I realized my fears were just mine, but on the other side of those encounters the women had fears of their own, which I now understood. So, I went looking for a story to fill three pages in The Ocalan and, instead, found my own story – a story nearly 40 years in the making, and one I discovered to still be unfinished.