The following is the original short story on which the film is based.
“Oh what tangled webs we weave,
when first we practice to deceive!”
- Sir Walter Scott
Monday, December 8, 1997
This morning I went to Denny’s. I walked because in
The waitress, whose name is irrelevant, brought me a cup of coffee and then asked, “So what can I get for ya, Bubba?”
Although I was careful not to indicate it with my facial expression, I was mildly befuddled. Why would she assume my name was Bubba? I thought about saying, “My name is Odie Dingleburger. Why would you be under the impression that it’s not?” But being an intellectual of sorts, I was able to answer the question for myself; I had read somewhere that Denny’s tries to give back to the community by giving paying jobs to people with special needs. My waitress obviously suffered from delusions. I felt sympathetic towards her retardation so, in an effort to avoid confusion and quite possibly her own psychotic suicide, I decided to go along with it.
“How did you know my name was Bubba?” I asked her convincingly.
“Lucky guess?” responded the challenged waitress.
“Of course it was,” I assured her.
Looking down at the menu, I began making “hmm” sounds to indicate to her I was thinking. Of course, this was also a false indication. I wanted the Grand Slam, and I knew it. But I kept up with my little act because, unlike most, I have compassion for the mentally-ill.
“Let’s see,” I continued, “uhh…gosh I don’t know…maybe…no…I guess I’ll go with the…umm…the,” At this point, I took a deep breath, portraying the general stress associated with decision making. Finally I allowed “Bubba” to make up his mind.
“The Grand Slam,” Bubba decided.
The waitress smiled, obviously pleased with me, and wrote down something on her notepad. I never actually got a look at the pad, but I’m pretty sure that she wrote my order down in her own preconceived code. Most likely, her use of code was a result of another one of her bizarre delusions. She must have thought UFOs we’re watching her on satellites, and she didn’t want them to know what I ordered. Even though my Denny’s waitress was a delusional lunatic, she still cared about the privacy of the customer. To be honest, I find comfort in that.
Sometimes it’s just easier to lie to people than to tell them the truth. After all, the truth hurts and, as any one of my many friends will tell you, I am NOT a hurtful person.
After I finished my breakfast, I made sure to sign my bill with the name Bubba Dingleburger because it’s important to be consistent when dealing with the mentally ill.
I took the bus to the office.
It’s hard for me to tell people what I do for a living because it is so extraordinarily complicated and important. Time and time again, I’ve attempted to explain my position to my plethora of friends and each time, my explanation has proved itself useless and a waste of everyone’s time. So to keep things simple, let’s just say I spend a lot of long, painstaking hours in a dark cubicle doing things that, to most, is beyond comprehension. It’s so complicated in fact that sometimes I don’t even completely understand it myself.
My favorite part of the office is Clementine because I am in love with her. She has the cubicle adjacent to mine. She’s very nice, pleasant to look at, and from what I understand she has a lot of friends. Needless to say, as anyone will tell you, we have a lot in common. We’re so alike, in fact, that I have seriously considered confessing my love to her. If I did confess to her, I would tell her in a passionate and romantic fashion that would surely make her realize her mutual feelings for me.
“I can’t do this anymore,” I would say to her, my eyes burning with feeling.
“What can’t you do?” she would ask innocently.
“I can’t keep living a lie!”
“What is it, Odie? Please tell me!” she would beg.
For a second, I would look away, perhaps at a sparrow outside a nearby window. Then I would slam my fists against the wall and spin around to face her. “I love you Clementine!” I’d blurt out, “I love you and I want your luscious, succulent body!”
Immediately, she would clutch her bosom and softly utter something along the lines of, “Oh Odie!” Which I would then follow with an equally passionate, “Oh Clementine!” and from there we would eventually move on to making sweet, fervent love at her place.
Time and time again, I’ve replayed this scene in my head, sometimes even in slow motion. But alas, all this would be impossible. I say this because, as a result of a series of consecutive misunderstandings, my beautiful, red-haired Clementine has come under the misconception that I am married with a set of identical twin daughters and a beagle named
With these first weeks of December just flying by, I fear the Christmas season. Since Clementine and I are both very sociable people with lots of friends, there is a good chance we will end up being at some of the same Christmas parties. I’m going to have to pay someone to act like my wife. I’m a little worried because finding a woman who looks exactly like the one in the photographs I have at the office will probably end up being very expensive. As for my twin daughters, I might be capable of getting away with hiring some homeless children or orphans, possibly even a stray dog to pose as the rest of my family.
Usually at the office, I tend to drink large amounts of water. Being well hydrated enables me to go to the bathroom as often as possible. The more I have to pee, the more I can bond with my beloved Clementine. Here’s how it works. On my way out of the restroom and back to my desk, I always have to pass by Clementine’s cubicle to get there. Whenever I saunter by, she almost always gives me a friendly wave or occasionally even a perky “How’s it going, Odie?” to which I respond with a follow-up wave or a nonchalant, “Not bad.”
I have to be careful and stay focused when this exchange of small talk takes place. Today, Clementine waved at me and I accidentally responded by saying, “Not bad.” It was a thoroughly awkward experience for everyone.
Wednesday, December 10, 1997
Today, I feel mediocre. I’m battling some mild depression. I get like that from time to time. Still, a part of me wonders, “What’s the problem, Odie? You have no reason to be depressed! You’ve got a great life, lots of friends, an important job, etc.” But the other part of me still feels like I’m missing something. To tell you the truth, my life has always felt like it was missing a piece. It’s like a defective jigsaw puzzle with a thousand pieces. I’ve just fit nine hundred and ninety-nine pieces, together and when I reach into the box for the final piece of the puzzle, the box is empty. My thousandth piece is missing.
Today at the office I watched Clementine through the small hole in my cubicle wall. Watching her long slender fingers typing briskly on her keyboard, I couldn’t help but wonder if maybe she’s my thousandth piece. I guess I’ll never know for sure until I have her in my arms. Something must be done about my nonexistent family.
Saturday, December 13, 1997
This morning I saw an ad in the Chronicle which made me question my destiny, not to mention my entire sense of self. The ad was for some kind of talent agency. The headline was written in all capital letters so, of course, it caught my eye.
“WERE YOU BORN TO BE A HOLLYWOOD ACTOR?” asked the ad.
The question has stuck to my cerebral cortex like a piece of double-sided scotch tape will stick to your fingers. Could it be? Was I born to be a big time
I can’t help but think back to my childhood, those happy elementary school days full of laughter, finger painting, hot dogs at the ball park, and even – yes – I remember it quite vividly now: the school play. I, the young Odie Dingleburger, had the lead role in my school play! How could I have forgotten such a pivotal point in my childhood? I starred in the Lankly Elementary production of From A to Z! I portrayed the vowel “E,” which is, as any mildly intellectual person could tell you, the most frequently used letter in the English language! I cannot remember whether or not the play was a musical, but, if it was, I’m pretty sure I had to sing one, or possibly, even two solos. Regardless, I gave a fantastic performance. The theater just came naturally to me.
Was this ad placed in the local Chronicle by the Lord himself? Is it a sign? Is the
I’ll have to sleep on it.
Sunday, December 14, 1997
Last night, I went to sleep a man. This morning, I woke up a thespian. Once I marry Clementine, maybe I’ll quit my job, and we’ll move to
As if life couldn’t be any greater, I have more good news! I think I’ve come up with a way to make myself seem available to Clementine. Here’s the “scene,” as they call it in
I enter the office, an expression of sadness and mourning on my tear-stained face. Slowly, I enter my cubicle and sit down. Upon doing so, I see a picture of “the wife and kids” on my desk. I break down, crying. Clementine, who as you know occupies the cubicle adjacent to mine, will hear my heart-wrenching sobs. She’ll run to me, taking me into her arms.
“Odie! Odie, what is it? What’s wrong?” Clementine will say.
“My family…a drunk driver,” I will mutter, as if I am lost in the great blue sea of my own emotions. Finally, I will pull myself together. “A drunk driver ran over my family last night!”
“Oh my god, Odysseus,” she’ll whimper, “I’m so sorry!”
Then we’ll probably hug for a long while, during which time I will be able to sniff her beautiful, red hair. If everything goes as planned, we might even end up making sweet, fervent love at her place.
Monday, December 15, 1997
This morning, I woke up knowing today was going to be the day. So what if Clementine thinks you have a wife, kids, and a dog, I told myself. You can’t let a minor detail like that get in the way. It’s time for you to confess your love to her once and for all.
I dressed in my best dress shirt and made sure to put on a lot of deodorant. I even rubbed some on my neck. It’s a good thing too because, the minute I saw her, I started sweating like a pig.
After debating over how to tell her, I decided to do it during one of our routine conversations on my way back from the men’s restroom. If I drink enough water, I’m usually able to go at least three times during the course of the day, so there would be plenty of opportunities to tell her.
Usually, when I walk by the first time, she always asks me how I’m doing, the second time we just exchange friendly but meaningful waves, and the third time she just gives me one of her beautiful smiles. The first two trips were a bust, and I just kept walking. During my lunch hour, I forced myself to chug eight paper cones full of water so I could have just one more chance. It worked, and an hour later, I was in the restroom. When I finished, I took a deep breath and set out on my third trip back to my desk. As I nonchalantly approached her desk, I remember hearing a voice in my head saying, Come on, Odie Dingleburger, you can do it! What have you got to lose? It’s now or never! I was determined.
As usual, she smiled, but this time, instead of smiling back and moving on, I forced myself to stop. She looked at me with her beautiful green eyes and said, “Hey!”
“Hey.” I responded in a deep, masculine voice.
“How’s it going?” She asked me for the second time that day.
“Not bad.” I responded almost automatically.
For a moment, we both stood there, gazing directly into one another’s eyes. It was magical, almost as if we were making love with our eyes. You could have cut the desire with a knife.
Finally, Clementine looked down, breaking our gaze. “Do you need something?” she asked innocently.
I was about to say, “Yes, Clementine, I do. I need your love! I need you in my arms! You complete me!” But much to my chagrin, I chickened out at the last second.
“A pencil,” I told her dully, “I’m all out of number two pencils.” She handed me one. On my way back to my desk, I placed the pencil under my nose, and the faint scent of Clementine’s flowery perfume entered my nostrils.
The rest of the day was spent smelling my new pencil.
Tuesday, December 16, 1997
Debbie, the receptionist, is incompetent. Allow me to explain.
I was standing by the snack machines, trying to decide what to purchase. I had narrowed it down to the raisins versus the cheese balls. While I was debating my course of action, I overheard two of my fellow employees chatting by the purified water dispenser. I wasn’t eavesdropping, because only people who are desperate for social interaction eavesdrop. I am not desperate for social interaction; therefore, I was not eavesdropping. I was merely listening in on a pertinent conversation.
“Are you going?” the fat one who they call Esteban asked.
“I don’t know,” Karen responded, “A Christmas party at an Indian restaurant just doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me. I’ll probably just stay home for this one. ”
“Yea, I still haven’t decided,” said Esteban.
“Besides, the invitation says they’re not even serving alcohol this year.”
Invitation? I asked myself. What invitation? I didn’t get an invitation! Where’s my invitation? Immediately, I pressed the change-return button. I could make that purchase some other time; right now I had more important business to attend to.
First, I checked my email; two pieces of spam and a newsletter. I even checked my recently-deleted mail folder, just in case I had accidentally overlooked it. Naturally, I found nothing, I’m not that careless. I began to wonder if maybe my email wasn’t working properly. I logged onto my own personal email and sent an email to myself, which I received seconds later. I was running out of answers.
I approached my superior, Kurt Kerosene. He’s a real decent man, if you subtract the fact that he’s a bit of a racist and almost never speaks in complete sentences.
I found out he was in a meeting, so I stuck my head into the conference room and asked with great poise, “Kurt, could I have a quick word with you?”
“Excuse me,” he said to the other people at the table as he got up out of his seat. He took me aside. “Kind of in the middle of something here, Odie,” he told me in a hushed tone, clearly unaware of the situation at hand. “Chinamen, Dingleburger,” he continued, “Big time potential clients. Came all the way here from Shanghai. Can’t this wait?”
“I don’t think so, sir.” I told him earnestly.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said turning back to the Chinamen. “Stepping out for a moment. My apologies.” I followed him out the conference room door and into his office.
“So?”
I took a deep breath. “Sir, there’s been some kind of mix-up.”
“Mix-up?” he asked.
“Yes sir.”
“What kind of mix-up?”
“Well, sir,” I began, “Now, mind you I’m not pointing any fingers here, this is clearly just a clerical error.”
“What is it, Dingleburger?” he sputtered, “Out with it!”
“Sir, I haven’t received my invitation to this year’s Christmas party.”
“Your invitation?” he asked.
“Yes sir, I never received it.”
A funny smile appeared on Kurt Kerosene’s face. “You’re pulling my fucking leg, right?” he asked in disbelief.
“No sir! I really have not received it.”
Kurt Kerosene’s face turned dark purple, and a large vein appeared on his forehead. He was as appalled as I was, muttering something about a “fucking retard,” obviously referring to his secretary, Debbie, who I later found out was the dolt responsible for this whole mess. He stormed over to his desk and pushed a button on his phone to call her.
“Yes, Mr. Kerosene?” responded Debbie with ridiculous perk.
“I’ve got Dingleburger here. Panties all in a twist. Hasn’t received his fucking party invitation. Get in here and take care of this, I got Chinamen to deal with!”
“Oh sure thing, Mr. Kerosene,” blabbed Debbie.
Kurt looked up at me and said, “There.”
I told him it was okay and that everybody makes mistakes.
He stared at me for a second, probably in admiration, and then left without another word. I understood his frustration. Some people are just so incredibly incompetent these days, people like Debbie.
Wednesday, December 17, 1997
This morning, I arrived at my cubicle to find my personal Christmas party invitation waiting for me on my desk. I am very lucky I caught Debbie’s mistake, as it is just around the corner! My invitation reads:
Dear Employee,
On behalf of Millhouse Enterprises, you and immediate family members are cordially invited to join the entire office for a celebration of the holidays at our annual Bakersfield branch holiday party, on the twentieth of December from 8-11pm.
This year’s merriment will be held at Ali’s Hindu Palace. Beverages and Indian food will be available to all employees, compliments of the company. Please note, as a result of past incidents, only non-alcoholic beverages will be served this year. We hope to see you there.
Happy Holidays,
Kurtis Kerosene
On my second trip back from the restroom, I ever so casually asked Clementine if she was planning on being there. She said she would be! I almost jumped in the air with joy but decided against it. In three days, somewhere between the hours of eight and eleven, I will stand under the Hindu mistletoe and confess my love to Clementine, my sweet, radiant angel of love.
Friday, December 19, 1997
Today was spent awaiting tomorrow. I bought some new loafers and a bottle of EZ Tan. When I got home, I stripped down and applied the entire bottle.
While waiting for my skin to dry, I watched a rerun of I Love Lucy. She was working at a chocolate factory. She kept making ridiculous mistakes and screwing up everything. Maybe someday they’ll make a new show called I Love Debbie.
Sunday, December 21, 1997
I arrived at Ali’s Hindu Palace at eight-o-clock last night.
We had a large room to ourselves. Some of the female staff members had brought in some red and green streamers and a metallic, miniature Christmas tree. The ambience was mediocre at best, but then again, I had been to such a large number of parties that my expectations were higher than most.
Right away, I scanned the room, imperturbably of course, in search of my Clementine. I spotted her standing around talking and laughing with a group of co-workers. My chest grew tight as she inadvertently took my breath away. With her long red locks blowing from the ceiling fan above and the fabric of her casual red dress lying softly on her lightly freckled skin, she looked like an angel.
Returning to reality, I looked down to discover the stimulating effects such beauty can have on a man. Embarrassed by my rather obvious display of attraction, I hurried to the men’s room before anyone noticed. Sitting in a stall, I waited for my male urges to subside. I couldn’t talk to Clementine in that state. My protuberance would be a rather inevitable distraction for the both of us. I had to stay focused. There would be plenty of time for whoopee once Clementine found out we were in love.
Regaining control of my natural male urges, I left the stall, calmer and more collected than before. Again, I scanned the room for you-know-who, hoping to be lucky and find her alone somewhere. My eyes moved across the entire party. My Clementine was nowhere to be found. I began to panic. Had she left all ready? Had I missed my only chance to tell her how I feel? I wondered if she had been looking for me too and, when I wasn’t anywhere to be found, decided there was no point in staying and went home.
Desperate, I walked up to Debbie and asked her if she had seen Clementine anywhere. “I have to return the coat-hanger she lent me,” I told her, knowing Debbie was way too incompetent to understand something so complicated as love.
“I gave her my lighter a few minutes ago,” she blabbed, “So she’s probably up on the roof.” This made no sense to me at all, but then I remembered I was talking to Debbie. I decided not to thank her and found my way up the stairs.
I stepped up onto the roof to find her, looking out over the city and smoking a cigarette. I didn’t know she smoked. Regardless, I let out a sigh of relief. We were alone at last.
I called out to her, “Hey.” She turned, and our eyes met.
“Hey Odie,” she responded. The hardest part was over.
“Real nice night for a holiday party,” I continued, strolling over to stand next to her.
“Yea,” she responded in agreement. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a pack of Camels. “You smoke?” she asked.
I fished through my mind for an answer to her question. “I quit a few years back,” I decided.
“Oh,” she looked down at her cigarette, ashamed, “That’s noble of you.”
“Well, let me tell you, it was no picnic,” I continued, “Used to smoke six packs a day, easy.”
“Six packs?” she asked in amazement, “Odie, that’s like a hundred and twenty cigarettes!”
“Yea, I was hooked. Sometimes I’d smoke them two or three at a time.”
“You’re lucky you didn’t die!”
“Almost did a couple of times,” I told her, “Finally, the hospital sent me to rehab.”
“For cigarette addiction?”
“Yeah, I’m happy to say that’s all behind me now,” I said, “I’m a changed man, Clementine.”
“Well, I think it’s great that you were able to turn your life around,” she said.
“That’s very kind of you to say,” I said.
Clementine returned to looking out over the cityscape. We stood there, side-by-side in sweet silence. A gust of wind blew across the roof. From inside the restaurant, the band began play a soft Indian melody. This was my chance. Everything was perfect. It was now or never. “You look quite elegant tonight,” I whispered. She glanced over at me for a second and then returned her gaze to the city lights. Assuming she didn’t hear me, I spoke again, louder this time. “You look quite elegant tonight.”
“You just said that,” she told me.
I looked down, embarrassed but determined. “I didn’t think you heard…the first time,” I muttered.
“I should probably go back down,” she said, “Debbie needs my help.”
She turned to leave. “Wait!” I cried out in desperation. Before I could think twice, I heard myself speak the words I had been trying to say for the past month. “I love you,” I said aloud.
“What?” asked Clementine.
My heart was on fire as I felt the passion building up inside of me. As the music of our love came to a roaring crescendo, I leaned in, my lips yearning for hers. For a split-second, we kissed. It was a brief yet meaningful kiss, ending rather quickly when Clementine turned her head to the side and took a step back. Losing my balance, I fell to the ground. Clementine glanced over her shoulder. The coast was clear. She looked down at me, her green eyes opened wide, as if to say, “Not here, Odysseus, someplace more private.”
Realizing what she was implying I told her, “There’s a motel just across the street. I’ll meet you in Room 119.”
Clementine continued to stare down at me in silence. I could tell our lip-lock had flustered her. I told her I understood how she felt. “Falling in love so quickly can be frightening at first,” I said. On that note, Clementine left me without another word.
The rest of the night was spent sitting naked on the edge of the vibrating bed in Room 119. I waited for Clementine until five-o-clock this morning when I ran out of quarters.
I had a taxi take me back to my apartment around six. As I watched the sun begin to rise, I wondered if Clementine really loved me like she had led me to believe. Women are so complicated. One minute you’re kissing passionately on a rooftop and the next you’re sitting, naked and alone, on a vibrating bed.
I asked the taxi-cab driver if he’d ever been in love.
“Once,” he told me, “But I let her get away.”
“What happened to her?” I asked.
“Moved to
“So what do you do now?”
In the rear view mirror, I saw the driver’s sad, cold eyes staring off into space. “I live with my mother,” he mumbled.
When I got home, I looked up Clementine’s address in the white pages.
Clementine Merrifield
I have to talk to her. I can’t let her go to
Monday, December 22, 1997
Last night, I took a taxi to Clementine’s house. Based on the events of last Saturday, it was obvious we needed someplace where we could talk alone, and she could confront her subconscious feelings for me, without any distractions.
The cab dropped me off in front of a quaint, one-story, stucco house surrounded by a little wooden fence. The lawn was freshly cut, and the sides of the house were lined with little flower beds. It was exactly the way I imagined her place of residence would look. For a moment, I wondered how she is able to afford a place like that on our salary. She must be a very wise spender. But Clementine has always been very smart for a woman, so this didn’t really surprise me.
I opened the gate and walked up to the front porch. With both feet planted on the welcome mat, I took a deep breath to calm myself down and rang the doorbell. No response. I walked around to the back and checked to make sure her car was in the garage. It was. I figured her doorbell was defective. Realizing this, I couldn’t help but shake my head. If she had a man like me in her life, that problem would have been fixed a long time ago. I approached the back door and tried knocking. Still no response.
At this point, I heard a sound that made my heart jump. A female scream followed by – yes it was – someone crying out in pain. Clementine was in trouble. I could sense it. Immediately, I popped into male-defender mode. Danger is never an issue when you’re in love. I had to save my darling Clementine; Odysseus Dingleburger to the rescue!
Finding it unlocked, I quietly opened the back door and, hugging the walls, moved cautiously into the kitchen. I scanned the room promptly. The coast was clear. For a moment, I thought about calling 911, but I knew by the time the cops arrived, it would be too late. Odie had to be the hero here. Odysseus Dingleburger had to be Clementine’s knight in shining armor.
I began rummaging through cabinets and drawers. I needed a weapon. Finally, I found a large butcher knife. Rolling up my sleeves, I grasped the handle tight in my hand and prepared myself for the worst. I was going to kill her attacker if I had to. My heart was pounding in my chest. I wondered if I was really capable of killing a man.
I slipped out of my loafers, and I tiptoed into the living room. From behind the far bedroom door came another blood-curdling howl. He was probably torturing her first, the sick bastard. Time was running out. The element of surprise would be crucial.
Raising the knife high over my head, I charged across the room, toward the bedroom door. A thunderous sort of war-cry burst from within me. Knife in hand, I busted into the room, yelling madly, “CLEMENTINE!”
What happened after that is all a blur, but I still remember what I saw; not blood, not a grotesque murder scene. No, what I found was more horrifying than anything I could have possibly imagined. Lying naked on the bed, legs hoisted high in the air, was my Clementine and mounted on top of her I saw the attacker – Kurt Kerosene, in the flesh.
At that point, I stopped dead in my tracks. Clementine saw me and screamed. Kurt Kerosene looked over his shoulder. The color drained from his face, and his eyes almost popped out of their sockets. Clementine continued to scream as Kurt Kerosene dismounted. They both scrambled to cover up. My vision went blurry as tears began to fall down my discolored cheeks.
“YOU SICK PERVERT, I’LL KILL YOU!” Kurt shouted at me, pulling up his pants. “RIGHT NOW, DINGLEFUCK!” he continued, “I SWEAR TO GOD!”
Clementine grabbed at him, “HE’S GOT A KNIFE! KURT, DON’T, HE’S GOT A FUCKING KNIFE!”
I looked down at the carving knife in my hand. I tried to explain. I tried to tell them, “You don’t understand, this isn’t how it looks! I was trying to save you, Clementine! I’m your knight in shining armor!” But when I opened my mouth, nothing came out.
I remember dropping the knife, and the next thing I knew I was running out the front door with Kurt Kerosene chasing after me. I made it halfway down
An hour later, I woke up in an ambulance, handcuffed to a stretcher.
How could Clementine do this to me?
I wonder if I will ever be able to forgive her.
Tuesday, December 23, 1997
Kurt Kerosene is a horny and incompetent little prick. In fact, if you looked up “prick” in the thesaurus, you would probably find his name. My nose is broken, I lost a molar, and my left eye is too swollen to see out of. All of this is his fault, not Clementine’s. He manipulated her, probably got her drunk first, and I’m not ruling out date rape either. Why else would Clementine willingly give herself up like that?
My life seems to be built solely on misunderstandings. None of which are my fault. Even so, the humiliation is almost unbearable. I wonder if I will ever leave my apartment again. Maybe I’ll just wear a paper bag over my head for the rest of eternity.
Wednesday, December 24, 1997
Christmas Eve has been spent alone this year. I hung a few ornaments on the coat rack by the door. Afterwards, I watched It’s A Wonderful Life on TV. I’ve always felt like that movie was made just for me; as if Clarence, the wingless angel, was speaking directly to me, when he spoke to George. “Remember, Odie,” he would seem to say, “No man is a failure who has friends.” I used to find comfort in that.
I feel asleep trying to envision what my world would be like if I had never existed, like Clarence had shown George in the movie. In my dream, I went to Denny’s and saw an empty booth. I boarded the city bus and saw an empty seat. I went to the office and saw an empty cubicle.
A nonexistent man, I sat down at my empty desk. Everything felt the same without me. The air still smelled of pencil shavings. You could still hear the sound of fingers typing away at keyboards, the hum of the copy machine, the gurgle of the purified water dispenser, and soft murmurs between co-workers. Unwilling to accept this similitude, I stood up and peered over my cubicle wall. Through the conference room window, I saw Kurt Kerosene, the conniving bastard, still yapping at Chinamen in ridiculous fragments. And I saw Debbie at her desk, still drowning in her own incompetence. I knew some things never changed, but surely a certain someone out there needed me. I bent down and peered through the hole in the wall, and there she was, Clementine’s delicate fingers typing away the hours as if it were just another day. “You’re wrong!” I wanted to shout at her through the wall. “It’s not just another day, Clementine! It’s an Odieless day! How can you act as if nothing has happened, as if our love never existed?” The tears finally began to flow. The diamond engagement ring on Clementine’s finger answered the question for me. I slumped to the ground and crawled under the desk, hugging my knees.
I’ll always love her, but she’ll never love me back.
I’m lonely. I have no friends.
I’m a failure.
I can’t blame Clementine. I can’t blame Kurt Kerosene, either. I can’t even blame Debbie. My life isn’t built on misunderstandings. My life is built on lies. My lies.
It’s A Dreadful Life.
Thursday, December 25, 1997
Clementine Merrifield
Dearest Clementine,
Hi.
I’m writing to you on Christmas morning with hopes that you’re having a merry one. Last night in a dream, I experienced a personal revelation; actually, it was more of a realization. Basically, I realized that I am a pathetic sack of lies. I lie about myself to everyone I meet. I’ve even lied about myself to myself on more than one occasion. Yet what pains me the most is knowing I have lied to you, Clementine. In fact, I would even go so far as to say that eighty-percent of our day-to-day conversations have been a pack of lies. This might come as a shock, but chances are, it doesn’t.
So, I’d like to start by apologizing for my former self and proceed to correcting every lie I can remember telling you since the beginning of our relationship. I’m not going to waste anytime making excuses, but nine times out of ten, it was to impress you.
I do not have a wife, twin daughters, nor a beagle named
I was never a member of the Peace Corps, although at some point in my childhood I was a Boy Scout.
Three times each workday, I force myself to go to the bathroom, so I can have an excuse to exchange small talk with you or merely just to see you.
I am not a diehard Barry Manilow fan. I do not know him personally. He did not sing at my wedding. I don’t even particularly like his music.
I was never in rehab for severe cigarette addiction. I have never struggled to quit smoking, mainly because of the fact that I have never actually smoked a cigarette.
I am madly in love you. I think about you constantly. I even managed to convince myself that you loved me back.
During a conversation, you once asked me, “Odie, what are you looking at?” To which I responded, “You have a fly on your blouse.” As you looked down at your chest, I told you, “Oh never mind, it just flew away.” The fly I spoke of was, in actuality, nonexistent. You were wearing an exceptionally low-cut blouse that day, and I couldn’t help but gawk at the symmetry of your breasts.
And finally, I never told you about a certain hole in the cubicle wall that we both share. At several instances over the course of a day, I would peer through this small opening, watch you type on your keyboard, and fantasize about making sweet, fervent love to you, usually at your place.
I am lonely. I am perverted. I am a love-sick buffoon.
I thought I was like a puzzle with nine-hundred and ninety-nine pieces laid down. You were supposed to be my thousandth piece. I thought if I could just hold you in my arms, I would be complete. But now, I step back and look at the puzzle again to find hundreds of other pieces scattered all over the place.
Please allow me to apologize for any pain I’ve caused you. Tomorrow, I am leaving
Forever Yours,
Odie Dingleburger
Friday, December 26, 1997
Today I went to Denny’s. I went alone because, for the time being, that’s what I am. I walked into the familiar restaurant with my suitcase in hand. Earlier in the morning, I had packed some clothes, a toothbrush, and my entire life savings.
When I sat down, the waitress brought me a fresh cup of coffee. Placing it on the table, she looked down at my suitcase and then up at me.
“Well if it isn’t Bubba!” she said, “Where you goin, Bubba?”
I looked up at her and smiled.
“It’s Odie,” I told her, “My name is Odie Dingleburger.”
I’m leaving my apartment. I’m leaving my cubicle. I’m leaving Denny’s.
I’m going out in the world on a search for the truth, picking up pieces along the way. Hopefully, once I’m all put together, I’ll know where I belong. It could be as far from here as