Val Dumond

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The Self Story
by Val Dumond
©2006

Some European writer friends and I were discussing American literature one day, when one noticed that we Americans seem intrigued with personal stories, whether told in memoir or in fiction. When I got home I looked at the New Books shelf at the local bookstore and yes, there they were: "How I ...," "My trip to (wherever)," "Traveling with (whoever)," "a novel based on real life," and "the third novel written by an author that reflects her personal history."

Look at literature from the past, said one of my friends, and you'll find imagination, drama, humor, history, and the "what if" stories. Writers know that the "great" Hemingway, the driven Poe, and poor old Steinbeck and their cohorts explored their experiences in their novels, no matter how they protested their work was fiction. (Forget Chekov. We all know he was bedeviled.) When the self-help craze kicked in a few decades ago, everyone wanted to help everyone else.

Now look at Shakespeare. His plays tell the stories of the human condition, explore characters, and delve into fantasy. Where did Shakespeare learn the idiosyncrasies of kings and jesters? Where is a 21st Century Shakespeare? Why are Americans so self-absorbed?

Not willing to accept these viewpoints without question, I here present a totally fictitious occurrence with characters unlike anyone I have ever met. While I do not pretend to be a Shakespeare, I have to trust my imagination and jump off the cliff of experience to make it work. But here goes.

Once upon a time (what? too trite?) there lived a young woman who had fallen in love with a young man (okay, now we're too trite!) Let's make her a woman of a certain age and let's make him a very poor beggar who she encountered at a freeway exit one rainy Tuesday afternoon.

"Hey, how's it going?" she calls to him from her dry warm car.

"Can you spare a couple of bucks?" he holds out his hand.

"Why?"

"Cause I'm cold and broke and I have a wife and three hungry children at home."

"Why aren't you working somewhere?"

"Can't. Have a bad back."

"Yet you stand out here in the rain all day. Can't be very good for your back."

"Somethin' I have to do." The man pulls back his hand for a moment and sticks it in his pocket.

"Don't you qualify for state aid?"

"Whass that?"

"Help from the state government. You know, welfare."

"Won't accept welfare. That's demeaning. Just a couple of bucks? Some change?"

"Tell you what. Here's a pen and paper. Write down your address and I'll bring around some food for your kids."

"Why would you do that?"

"Because I hate to think about children being hungry. Can't your wife work?"

"Naw, she takes care of the kids while I'm out here."

"Sir, don't you think it would be easier for you to take a part-time job in some hamburger joint where you can stay dry and pick up some money at the same time?"

"Aw, that's for sissies. You have to have guts to stand out here with your hand out."

"So you're not complaining?" "Do I sound complaining.

No, I'm just doing a day's work."

"Write. I'll see that your kids are fed - today."

"You're too kind. Here's my address. But don't be surprised."

The woman pulled her car back onto the road and drove into the next hamburger joint she saw. As she waited in the drive-thru, she looked at the piece of paper the beggar had returned to her. On it was written the address in a very upscale neighborhood across town. She looked at it again. Could there be a mistake?

"Your order, ma'am?" whined the voice behind the window.

"Uh, oh, can I have a cup of black coffee please?"

"No trouble. Be just a minute."

The woman paid for the coffee and placed the cup gingerly in the car cup-holder. She turned the car back toward the exit, parked as close as she could, and walked over to the beggar.

"Here, it'll keep you warm."

"Thanks. Why'd you come back?"

"I saw where you live. And I'm not going to deliver food to that address. It would embarrass us both."

The beggar smiled a broad grin that looked toothy until the woman noticed black gum covering some of his teeth. Then she noticed the edge of skiers' warm undergarments peeking out from his shirt under the warm jacket. The ratty hat on his head once was a trendy '70's porkpie style.

She sucked in her breath. He sipped the hot coffee.

"You're warmer than I am," she said.

"Guess so."

"And you're richer than I am," she continued.

"Maybe."

"Then what the hell are you doing out here on the side of the road with your hand out?"

"Look lady, we all have reasons for what we do. It so happens that I'm a writer, a very well-paid writer. I'm working on a book right now that has a beggar character as a major player. I need to know what this guy feels like, how he reacts with people, how people react to him. I need to know what makes a beggar tick. And the only way..."

"...is to come out here and play the part." The woman tossed back her head and laughed, just as a car pulled up. The driver rolled down the window.

"Don't encourage these guys, lady. They'll just take you for every cent you have. Watch your purse. Better than that, watch your back."

"Thanks, dude," the beggar told him.

"Yes, thank you," said the woman. "I'll certainly be careful. Wouldn't want this poor fellow to think I cared."

The driver put his car back in gear and tore off.

"And that's only part of what I'm experiencing," the beggar confided. "Hey, you said you cared." Now he smiled.

"I'm looking forward to your book. Send me a copy." She slipped a card into his hand and returned to her car.

"My! the things you can learn talking to people," she muttered to herself.

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