The Man without a Story

Maybe it’s just my nature, or the way I look, but people loved to tell me their stories. I just seemed to be made for people to talk to when they needed to share some part of themselves they thought was hidden or forgotten. They always shared it with me. Just my nature…

It didn’t start that way. I was always the shy one. Ask my wife – she had to ask me out when we first met. It was the reason why I chose to work in the one department of the company where I could spend the most time alone: the library. Only the occasional tour for visiting clients or someone doing a rare search would bring anyone down there. For me, that was perfect. I would not have to worry about gossip or changes around me unless the business went very badly. I got peace and quiet and a paycheque. My wife understands this. She said that I found the right work.

Anyway, you were asking about why I suddenly chose to become the instrument for the tales of the masses. Ha, ha. Sorry. I did not choose at all. It just happened. One day, when I was waiting for the train like usual, a young woman looked at me. Not that I mind young women staring at me during rush hour, but still, it was odd. I usually am not the kind of person to attract young women (ask my wife). But she looked at me…and she began to talk. Fortunately, the train was delayed and the other commuters probably thought that we were old friends. Didn't look too strange, I think. I just stood there, and she told me everything about herself. I learned about her life before moving to the city, how she never got along with her family (reason why she was here), and how she enjoyed working with children of a primary school on the other side of town. And then, just like that, she stopped, the train arrived, and she got on, completely ignoring me as if she had not just told me her life story. No embarrassment or explanations for any of it.

If I were a smart man, I would not have told my wife about this first talk. No, not talk. I did not say anything (two to tango, right?); but as I said, I am not a smart man. At first, she did not believe that a young woman would start a conversation with me for no reason; of course, she also did not believe that I could start a conversation with a young woman for any reason. But when I explained what happened, she blamed me, of course. Always the man’s fault when a random woman shows interest that was not expected. She did warn me that some people out there are just crazy and may try to take advantage of me with their “sob stories” about how they had no money, no family, not a chance in the world. And that was that. She stopped talking to me about the whole thing. Maybe I had the opposite effect on her? Anyway, she never said to stop. And I never thought it would happen again.

Should I bother to point out that it did continue? Everywhere I went, I heard more stories. I would go for a run in the park before work and on weekends – wife’s advice – and end up hearing stories from new mothers and dog walkers when I was trying to catch my breath. Usually, it was the same story again and again: fears about their children’s or dog’s health; worries about their partner’s job/fidelity/health, etc. Again and again with this. In the food court at work, a lady who cleared garbage, wiped down tables, and put away trays told me a very sad story about how she emigrated without her family and found it difficult to live in a “new world” (tempted to make my own lunches from then on); and at the library, a client on a tour of the library suddenly stopped in front of my desk and explained why he never wanted to have the job that he had (office manager) and simply caved in to parental pressure to stay away from the arts. Fortunately, I had witnesses for that one (my boss and one other secretary who left her mouth open for the whole speech). And it kept going and going…

So, you might think that I was bored with all of these storytellers sharing their lives with me, coming out of the blue with their tales without giving me a chance to breathe. No, not really. It was easy to be what they now tell me is called an “auditor” (my wife likes the word). I have a natural ability for listening that many other people do not seem to have. I heard a lot more about colleagues, clients, managers, food servers and all of the regulars on the bus, train and metro. It was only my wife who kept her stories to herself (always a mystery to me). I have to wonder about that, even now.

Anyway, I guess I better get to the big moment that changed everything for me and led me to you. It was in a place just like this one. Much more crowded and maybe less formal, of course, but still quite a nice place. If you ask me now why I went in there, I could not tell you why. Something compelled me to step inside instead of heading straight home from work that day. And something else must have made me sit down beside that man; it must have been fate. Anyway, he was a sad-looking guy, a little run down and maybe beaten up by life. If you asked me what he did for a living, I would not be able to guess (not a skill I possessed). And then, the saddest thing happened; the thing that never happened in all of the other encounters and talks I heard over many months. He turned to me and said only one thing:

“I have no story to tell.”

So sad; really, really sad. I had this complete stranger staring at me without a story and I did not know what to say to him. I could not even just buy him a coffee and leave (that would have been a little rude, and he already had one growing cold in his hands). I was stuck for the first time with someone who had nothing to tell me. So, what did I do? Well, I did the one thing that I thought would help:

I gave him my story.

Friends did not understand this; work colleagues thought that I was crazy when they heard about it (some of their office gossip – which I did hear – was that they were surprised that I even had a story to tell). A fair joke. And I must say I did surprise myself when I began to talk. It took me over an hour to get as far as my high school years, and another hour to finish at the moment where I ended up with my wife, the job, and the ability to listen so well that people wanted to share their stories with me. The look on the man’s face was one that I would never forget. There was such joy there. He thanked me, near to tears, and almost danced out of the café after he shook my hand off.

Only one who really understands what I did was my wife. I made jokes about her before, but I really do know now that she loves my sad self. I told her that when you see someone with nothing, you have to give them something, even if it is personal. And – big surprise! – she understood. She knew about me hearing all those other stories and said that I had more than enough for any one person. She is right, of course. And she does seem happier than I have ever seen her before. Do you think that’s because I lost – sorry, gave away – my story? That is my guess. I don’t mind. I have a lot of stories that need to be shared. Now, if I could just get her story…

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You can find more poems, stories, and articles by Kendall Defoe on my Vocal profile. I complain, argue, provoke and create...just like everybody else.

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