A Story About A Man Nobody Cares About

Any Title One Can Give To A Story About A Man That Nobody Cares About

         Hi. My name is Jack. It’s a boring name, I know. I can’t tell you how many people I’ve met with the same name. Usually, in stories, people named Jack get to be the men – the true heroes. Not me. I’m just as boring as my name. There are some Jacks that you remember – Jack the Ripper, not that you’d want to be him; Jack Nicholson, who wouldn’t want to be him; Jack Daniels, not too much of him or you’re in trouble – and then there are the Jacks that you meet and never remember if they’re a Joe, a Jack or a John. The forgettable faces. I’m a forgettable face. Notice that I didn’t say that I had a forgettable face, because when you have one, that’s all you are – one out of a million, a part of the crowd, a forgettable face.
         Most people don’t know what I’m talking about because they have at least one defining feature, whether it’s a mole on your face, sparking blue eyes, a Cyrano de Bergerac-esque nose, or an obnoxious laugh. Lots of people think they are ordinary, but they don’t understand the upset of being a forgettable face. Nearly all forgettable faces commit before they get to have a mid-life crisis – commit suicide that is. Mousy brown or dirty blonde hair, nothing extraordinary; soft, muddy brown eyes; average or largish nose; somewhat thin lips – this is a forgettable.
         They never get called back by girls or guys they give their numbers to. People have to guess four or five names before hitting theirs. It’s a nightmare getting a job without anything to remember them by. Their life – my life – is a boring, loathsome, undistinguished abyss that drags them in deeper every time someone says “Sarah, right? Oh. Linda, now I remember” because they always know that whoever it was didn’t remember, they probably just saw someone mouth the forgettable name over the forgettable shoulder, trying to give a hint.
         So, you thought your life was bad? Your dad beat you? Your mom hated you? At least they remembered your name when they were screaming at you. At least they remembered that you existed. My name is Jack. It’s a boring name, I know. I’ve led a boring life so far, so I guess it fits. I’m thirty-five. I live with my wife who is just as forgettable as I am. Her name is Susie. We barely talk to each other, but I guess I love her as much as someone who won’t ever be remembered will love. We have no children. We never talked about having any, I think it was just a given – we didn’t want to pass on her dirty blonde hair and thin lips, my largish nose and our muddy greeny-brown eyes. Anyhow, even if we did have children, I think that they would probably just commit, like most of us do.
         I myself came very close last year. I had just paid what I guessed was triple for an hour with a young, beautiful prostitute named Anchoret (she said I could call her whatever I wanted, but I just asked her name instead). She had bright, icy, calculating blue eyes that only showed any emotion when I opened my wallet, and a curtain of silky jet black hair. Everyone I know would be surprised if not disgusted by the fact that I bought myself a whore, but what was I supposed to do – go see a shrink? I have no friends, and I can’t talk to my wife. I could dish out cash that I can’t really waste for a therapist, but what is a therapist anyways but someone to direct your inner monologue at. If people were smarter, and didn’t pay as much attention, therapists would be completely useless (except for prescribing medication) because people would just go talk to a wall.
         Anyhow, I figured a whore might be cheaper, and more realistic, than some shrink. Like I said, I have nobody else to talk to, so why not a stranger? Now, if I give you a chance, you’ll ask me why I didn’t just go talk to somebody on the subway if I wanted a stranger. Don’t be so naïve. If someone you’d never seen before, a forgettable, just came up to you and tried to talk to you, you’d throw him a dollar and walk – as quickly as possible – away. That’s all people want nowadays – money, so they expect that’s what everyone else wants.
         I just wanted someone to listen to me, so I could go off myself. I’m a forgettable. No one had really listened to me my entire life. I thought that if I paid this lovely young girl that maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t be completely forgotten. Even her name was unique – Anchoret. I told her about my boring life, my boring job – she asked if I wanted to have sex; I told her about my boring family growing up, my boring wife – she started to undress; I told her that I didn’t want to be boring anymore, I told her that I was going to kill myself – she froze.
         She put her clothes back on, and I apologized for upsetting her. She looked at me with her harsh eyes.
         “Why?”
It was a simple question – three letters, one syllable.
         I had no answer for her. I simply shrugged. I thought about telling her my theory about forgettables – the people you never remember, who never really mean anything – but I had never said it out loud before and I was afraid she would laugh.
         "Why?” She asked again, an ounce of concern seeping into her ice crystal eyes. Hookers are people too, you know. Well, sometimes they are.
         “Because I have no reason not to.”
I didn’t even know if that was the motive. Maybe it was a lie. I had a wife – wasn’t Susie something to live for? No… Not really.
         “Just because you have nothing to live for doesn’t mean you have a reason to die.”
I guess it was true. How was I supposed to know? I’d never really had a life.













**(This little blurb is just to say that writing.com wouldn't allow me to use the full title, so I stuck it up there at the top--not that you couldn't have figured that out on your own. The only reason I'm making a fuss about it is that it was the inspiration for this story--which may change/be added to soon. I saw it on a chalk board somewhere and this came out of it. Just thought I should mention it.)