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Life: n. A cosmic joke in which pain and laughter are the setup, and death is the punch line.
The Oxford English Dictionary
On October 22, 1980, Harvey Einsam was born to Julie and Douglas Einsam. Julie was a secretary in a nearby high school, and Douglas sold sports equipment. They were poor and struggling, but happy. When Julie first laid eyes on her son, so the
story goes, she got the overwhelming feeling that he was destined for greatness. Harvey, this feeling told her, would rise above the lot that his poor upbringing would undoubtedly give him. Harvey would be a writer. People yet to come would know his name and study his words—he would be featured on reading lists, recommended in book clubs,
and the phrase "Einsamic" would be coined.
Harvey’s mother, however, had made two mistakes. First, she grossly overestimated the general public’s interest in literature. Second, Harvey was only destined for one thing: firm and unwavering mediocrity. Both staggering success and abysmal
failure were beyond her son, who would simply pass through his life with a soul-crushing adequacy. He would receive sixth place in every contest he entered, learn to play eight songs on the guitar, and get waved to by most but spoken to by few. The apex of Harvey’s fame would be on October 22, 1989, when the mailman remembered his
birthday. Harvey would not have art. Harvey would wear ties and sell boxes.
Harvey, with his dry voice and hollow eyes, grew up in the Einsam’s cramped row house, most of the time blending in perfectly with the water damage on the walls. But he also grew up hearing his mother talk of his so-called destiny, and this
famous writer was something Harvey desperately wanted to be. But talent is a lottery, and Harvey had already lost in terms of writing. The only thing approaching talent that Harvey possessed was a slightly above average spelling ability. That is, not so far above average that he might win the National Bee, but good enough so he never had
to look up how to spell "Massachusetts."
His family and friends were supportive of his efforts. He would give them copies of his works, which they would promptly throw on their coffee tables and return to him two weeks later. "All it takes is perseverance," his sister told him. "If
you set your mind to it, you can do anything." This was, of course, bullshit. A goat could cobble together a shoe better than Harvey could write a great novel—and Harvey had the advantage of hands.
And yet, throughout his life he would keep trying. He would, over the course of 30 years, fill up reams and reams of paper—but every story was the same. His position as the never-failing champion of the status quo is best shown through his
short story "A Boy and his Dog," written at age ten. In this story a young boy named Charlie gets a puppy named Pickles, and they love each other. One day, Pickles is hit by a car but is relatively unharmed. The boy and the dog then share an ice cream cone. ("Pickles," Harvey said in explanation, "is supposed to be Jesus, I guess.") Every
other story Harvey would write would follow this model: the protagonist almost has a conflict, but then with a sigh of relief everything is fine. There was no struggle, there was no change.
In college, Harvey became desperate. He sought his muse at the bottom of a bottle, but when he got there he was drunk and the bottle was empty. He sought his muse in the love of a girl named Emily, but only found a beautiful human being and a
wonderful wife. In Emily, Harvey saw the passion he was so sorely missing. In Harvey, Emily saw kindness and calmness. She couldn’t be his muse, but sometimes she would sit with her arms around her knees and wonder why.
Harvey’s life, unlike his stories, was not without struggle and suffering. The greatest trial came in late June of 2013, when Harvey and Emily lost their son quite suddenly. He was six years old and was struck by a taxi. To say that there is
greater pain in the universe would be a lie, and to describe it would be impossible. The only thing to say is that Harvey and Emily would both, somewhere deep, be silently crying forever. Emily would lean on the furniture and stare blankly at something far beneath the floor, and Harvey put all of his reams and reams of writing into the
bedroom closet. In time, they found each other again. Harvey went back to selling boxes, and Emily went back to teaching.
For about a year after his son’s death, Harvey tried desperately to write the suffering out of him, but it was impossible. He simply could not write the ending that he needed. He could not write that the boy was hit by a car, and people walked
by and touched the wood as they put him in the ground. In 2014, Harvey stopped writing.
This, I should note, is typically the spot in a story where there is some kind of deus ex machina. The protagonist has strived and suffered and failed, and here is when God intervenes. We could say something like this: "the maid Harvey hired
for a month was actually Kurt Vonnegut’s niece, and when she discovered Harvey’s hidden trove she sent it to her uncle, who was so enthralled he pushed to get it published." The End with a spiraling question mark.
But there are a few problems with that ending. First, if Kurt Vonnegut had a niece we would hope that he would make sure she never had to clean someone else’s house for money. Second, in real life, God lives so far away He cannot hear us when
we call. And so, if this is the ending that you want, stop reading.
At a reasonable age, Harvey sagged like a heavy load and died of something tragic but unremarkable. At his funeral his family cried and drew their hands across the casket as they put him in the ground. The wound of his loss, of course, would
never heal—but the skin would grow over. On days when the weather would make that old wound ache, Emily would put on pajamas, go into the closet, and read her dead husband’s terrible fiction.
That’s what happens, and this is how it ends. |