Trying to Help My Pal

By Dan Fleshler

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“I’d rather confess to murder, because murder isn’t pathetic,” my old pal said, as I chomped on my omelet. The tiny diner smelled like failure and had a Walker Evans vibe, with worn-out brown counter seats and chipped white walls. It was near the city bus tour company where he’d been ensnared as a full-time guide, after realizing that none of his new plays would be produced outside of his friends’ living rooms or his own mind. 

Lately, I learned, he was having imaginary iPhone conversations, talking to no one in crowded trains, noise-riddled bars and restaurants, even during strolls in the fog and rain, when passersby caught momentary snatches of chatter. People close enough to eavesdrop heard snippets from his stillborn comedies and remarks like “That’s not true, baby girl,” and “People won’t forgive you for doing them a favor.” He laughed at jokes no one was delivering, pretended to offer comfort to a needy son, insights into real estate in Baku, and instructions to a broker about “a move involving arbitrage.”   

Three teenage girls nibbled on sandwiches at a nearby table. They were private school kids, all wearing the same uniform—white blouse, black skirt—who had been earnestly discussing homework before my pal joined me.  It wasn’t clear if they were listening to him, but all of them kept quiet even after he shut up, chomped on his own omelet and waited for me. 

How could I help him? As a graphic designer for an ad agency instead of a man setting the art world on fire, I didn’t have anything useful to say about his sad grabs at mattering.  I thought about sharing a story and trying to prompt the camaraderie that can arise when depressives compare notes:  at a party the previous week, I’d invented a potential buyer and announced he was showing “serious interest” in my latest hand-blown glass sculpture.  But that was just run-of-the-mill dishonesty, not nearly sad or fraudulent enough to comfort my pal. 

After mulling it over for a few minutes while twirling my hash browns with a fork, I attached my cell phone’s earbuds and pretended to call my exterminator.  I loudly berated him, depicted “an army of ants” along with “water bugs as large as apples” that he’d failed to demolish. Then I cursed at him and demanded that he come back. 

My pal grinned and said, “Thanks!” and I answered, “Actually, that felt pretty good!” and one teenager grimaced but the other two giggled and I knew they were grateful for our words and the chance to retell this anecdote, so I told my pal we’d done a good job, cheer up.