2001-09-28 - 11:15 a.m.

hi jason.

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Everybody�s got their stories. We all have a lifetime of stories, stories we�d love you to hear, if you�d just listen, listen and understand. You�d see that my life has been dramatic, it has been important. My stories are not forgettable, my life is not insignificant, you would think me exceptional if only you would listen. We all need people to listen.

Only nobody seems to listen any more. Everyone competes to get their own story out there, to catch the quickly shrinking audience. It�s an audience of people who don�t really want to hear your story because it�s not about them. To care about your story is to admit that your life has value and is worth thinking about at the expense of my life and my stories.

I try to listen. I try to give other people�s stories my attention, but like everyone my mind wanders, I start thinking about what I�m thinking about, about what concerns me, and then the story has been told and it�s been wasted, it hasn�t lived because it hasn�t had an audience, and a story must have an audience to come to life.

All my life I�ve been one of those people to whom stories are told. You tell me your story, I nod my head, say, yes, that�s interesting, perhaps even take notes, and you, I hope, are satisfied. You ask me about myself and I say, aw, well, I don�t know about that, I�m just doing my thing, you don�t want to worry about that. I have no faith in my life, the value of my stories, so I throw the attention back on you.

But now I stand up to the mike, I knock my hand against it, I say excuse me, I have something to say, I must have something to say if I'm demanding your attention like this. I do think my life, my story, has value. All those questions you�ve been asking me, I�m ready to answer them now, or take a crack at them. I�ve been coy, I know, I�ve made myself mysterious, made you think I have something important to say. I�ve left you all hanging, wondering just what it is that I�m hiding, what it is I have to say, what the mysterious story is behind the wall I have built up around myself.

Well, now that I have your attention, now that I�ve called attention to myself, decided that what I have to say is worth your time, I must say it. There is something I must say, there must be something, otherwise why would I have been hiding myself all this time. So here it is, the mystery of my life, the reason you should all continue to pay attention to me, the reason my life is valuable, just a minute, if I could just find my notecards� they were right in this pocket� no no wait don�t wander away, I need your attention, I need that even though I don�t know why, why any of you should still listen to me, why you shouldn�t scatter off and think your own thoughts instead of reading my trite words. I know if you just stuck around maybe I could remember what it was I was trying to get at all along�

And the voice falters, the faith wavers, and I scramble in search of other people�s stories to tell; I just can�t believe in my own stories.

-

But Marius has stories to tell. As we drive from here to there, headed to Kinko�s to make copies or to the pet store for more dog food, he tells what happened to him this week.

I was headed out to Stella�s one night, he says, and I yell to these two guys to check out my video list. One guy says, hey, my buddy here�s the drummer from Godsmack. I say shit, dude, the drummer from Godsmack? He nods and the other guy says yeah, I�m gonna have some people over, have a real sweet party, see if we can get some chicks to come out.

So we get some people, even find some chicks we know, and we go to this guy�s place, name�s Dan, and it turns out he�s rich, got this nice penthouse apartment. And man, we partied all night. I was wasted, we were all wasted, I didn�t get home till the next morning and there were still people there.

Next day I get a call from Dan. He tells me he�s been robbed. A thousand backs, some fancy jewelry, a nice car, all gone. He knows it was the Godsmack guy.

Turns out he wasn�t the drummer from Godsmack at all. We went out and bought a Godsmack album and the drummer didn�t have his name, didn�t look anything like him. He was just making it up.

So he called the police, and they found that the guy had used his credit card to buy a whole mess of food and booze that morning at a store. Lady at the counter described the guy so they knew it was him.

Funny thing is, I told my buddy Micky what happened, and he knew what I was talking about right away. The guy had ripped him off too, got himself invited to his house cause he�s the drummer from Godsmack, and somehow the guy got some of his money.

You�d think this guy would be smart. But yesterday Marius got this message on his machine. It was the guy saying hey, you remember me, the drummer from Godsmack who was partying with you this weekend. He says he wants to hang out and leaves his number.

So what�d you do I ask, you gave the number to the Dan, call the police? No, I don�t know, Marius says. What am I gonna do, rat the guy out cause he called me up to hang out?

-

He�s got lots of stories, fragments of his life thrown out as we drive along of sit down at a bar, half-told stories that give a hint to this man�s life, give a hint to the drama and the suffering but somehow can�t make it make sense, don�t explain how he got there or where to go from here. Offhand as we drive, he�ll tell me about the time he sold the masters to all his videos for drugs, or the time he wound up in jail for driving away in a girl�s car. I�ll ask him more about it, but he�s already back in his own world, flipping through the Reader in search of where the kids are.

One day we�re having a drink at the end of a long night of video sales. �Did I ever tell you about Vinny?� he asks.

He doesn�t talk about Vinny much. Vinny was a great guy, a great salesman. The two were partners, and even though Vinny was ten years older, they were great friends. He was there when Melvin was a pup, and when the sky was the limit on their growing sales. They�d be out on the town selling videos every night and just raking it in hand over fist. They were gonna be rich.

Then one day Vinny fell in love with a 15-year-old girl. Marius tried to tell him, stop it, man, don�t do it. She�s fifteen, you�re thirty, man, that�s not cool. But he was convinced they were in love.

Of course, they got caught. Her parents found out. He went to jail, and when he got out, they told him he couldn�t see her any more. But he was defiant, he was in love, and they wouldn�t take it. Marius said don�t be crazy man, it�s not worth it, but he wouldn�t listen.

And one day they found them dead. They drove out beyond the city one day, all the way to where the buildings gave way to fields, and ended their lives together.

That�s a story for you, he says. Crazy shit. And he trails off again, looking around the bar for girls to hit on. I want to ask him more, get some details, get him to explain this guy Vinny and how he could do this. But I guess that�s all I get.

But Vinny doesn�t go away. Once I hear about his story, I feel like I�ve explored another section of his brain, pieced together a bit more clearly what makes him tick. Each story does that, helps you understand a bit more about a person, not just the substance of the story but the quiet afterward, the silence that tells you that he doesn�t forget entirely. From then on, when you see him staring quiet out the window or smiling and as he scratches Melvin�s neck, you wonder if he�s thinking about Vinny.

One day we�re driving through the suburbs, coming back from picking up dig food and photocopying catalogs, and we drive right past a cemetery. Vinny�s buried in there, he tells me. I�ve always wanted to visit him one day, he says. I really should.

But we don�t. Instead, he directs me to pull over at the bar across the street. It�s midafternoon; the place is nearly empty.

�Hey, man, how you doing,� he says to the bartender, trying to immediately get on his good side. �I�ve been here before.�

He wants the bartender to recognize him, even though he knows he won�t. Marius wants to explain why he�s here, get him to sanctify this moment, but he can�t. He can�t understand what this visit to this bar means to Marius, he can�t remember the fateful day, years ago, when he stopped in for a drink while his best friend was being buried across the street. He just nods a polite hello and puts our drinks on the bar.

Marius explains. There was a whole group of us, he says, we were freaking out. The night before, we just got totally wasted, we couldn�t handle it, we were too sad. We just partied and partied and drank and drank because we didn�t know what else to do. And then the next day was the funeral, and we were all there at the church all busting up. Then we all got on the procession to the funeral to bury him, but a couple people in the car we were in had to go to the bathroom, so we decided to stop in here on the way. And we were so busted up, we were so out of it, we needed a drink, needed something, so we decided to get a drink. I knew we shouldn�t do it, I mean, I was a pallbearer, man, but we did, we came right in here, in this little corner bar, and had a drink while they buried him across the street. We stayed here for a while, long after the burial was over, we let the moments tick by and tried to forget it, bury it within us, but we couldn�t. Somehow it keeps bubbling up to the surface, it never goes away.

And now here he is again, years later, at this random bar. He wants it to make sense, put an epilogue on the story and lay it to rest. But this bar, this bartender who couldn�t care less, this random afternoon telling stories to his driver, it seems so pale and meaningless. It isn�t what it should be and I�m no Vinny.

No sense in staying here. Melvin�s waiting for us in the car. We don�t even bother finishing our beers.

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